Ernest Shields (buried 1901)

Kindly shared with us by Calvin Shields

Sadly Ernest was almost certainly an alcoholic as his military records show. His widow Hetty died in 1911 when she fell down the stairs while carrying a lighted oil lamp. Their daughter Edith, had mental health issues and, as an orphan, spent some time in Poor Houses and eventually died at the age of 17 in the West Sussex Mental Asylum It was a cruel world.....His son, my grandfather, was one of the first troops to land in France in 1914 and he fought the whole of WWI only to be killed in 1928 near Afghanistan when he was 35. I never knew him but I managed to get into the border area of Pakistan and Afghanistan in 1990 and found his grave in an overgrown forgotten graveyard (I wrote an account of my Grandfathers's (Percival Ernest Shields) life for my family which I copy below. I must say that it is factually correct. For example, the description of Heene Cemetery is from an OS map of the area dated 1895 which showed the cemetery surrounded by greenhouse with a wind-pump in one corner. The description of Kimberly Terrace is also from the same map). Kasauli May 1893 The heat was relentless. The Loo was getting stronger, blowing from the south west as dust devils pirouetted across the parched vast plains of north west India, in a shimmering fandango they vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was May 1893, the Monsoon would soon arrive The land rose to the north in Himachal Pradesh as the plains gave way to the foothills of the Himalayas. Garrisoned Hill Stations were established at these higher elevations so that Europeans could escape the debilitating effects of the summer heat. The snow capped mountains provided a majestic backdrop to these patches of little England. Kasauli was regarded as an inferior Hill Station. It’s elevation was only 6,000ft compared with the nearby, far grander and cooler Simla at 7,500ft It was stifling in the small gloomy Garrison Hospital. The hubbub of hawkers, buffalo carts and horses could be clearly heard and the temperature outside was already in the mid 90’s. It was the 10th May, a strong, healthy baby boy with bright blue eyes had just been born. A man in the uniform of a Sergeant Bandmaster of the 5th Lancers was looking down at him. He was of shortish stature, weather beaten, with a large droopy moustache and striking grey eyes. His complexion was beginning to show the signs of alcoholism so common among the European community. He was the boy's father, Ernest Shields. At his side was his daughter Gladys an energetic little two year old girl more interested in chasing a chit-chat than looking at her new brother. His wife Hetty, holding the snuffling baby close to her, lay on the bed covered in sweat, exhausted. Living in the cauldron which was India did not suit her well, she looked frail and older than her 25 years. A month earlier the family had left the suffocating fly-blown Garrison town of Meerut on the newly opened North West Railway to Kalka. The line had only been open for two years and mercifully it cut the travel time from a week to just a few hours. The remaining 16 miles to Kasauli on uphill twisting tracks were by cart which took more than 12 hours. The surrounding hills were covered in clouds and large monsoonal drops of rain were falling as the small band of people entered Christ Church. The temperature had dropped noticeably and when inside they could hear the steady drumming of the rain on the corrugated-iron roof. The vicar had to raise his voice to be heard and he duly baptised the little boy Percival Ernest Shields. It was 19th June 1893. England December 1897 Ernest stood on the heaving prow of SS Simla peering into the gloom trying to make out the shoreline. The cacophony of screeching seagulls above him meant they had to be close. He pulled his greatcoat closer to him as silvery drops of rain dripped from the peak of his hat and were swept into the void by the freezing wind. He felt uneasy. His hernia from years ago was giving him trouble , maybe it was affected by the cold and damp. He reached into his pocket and took a long swig of rum from a flask. He had spent some time in hospital recently because of gastric problems caused by alcoholic excesses. His health was failing, he was only 41 years old. After 11 years in the heat, humidity and squalor of India coming home could only be beneficial. Ernest found it difficult to regard England as home, as he had spent so much of his life abroad. He only had vague memories of his early childhood in the crowded little terrace house in Brewer Street in Woolwich. When he was eight the family moved to Malta with his father’s battalion and three years later transferred to Quebec in Canada for four more years. He had joined the Royal Artillery on his return to Woolwich in 1871 at 15 years old. He took another swig of the rum which he now could hardly taste, slowly turned round and looked past the front mast and single funnel belching smoke towards the stern. The wind was now behind him and the rain drops were streaking across his face. They had come along way. After a short respite in Kasauli the 5th Lancers had descended down to the dusty plain to Muttra Garrison on the Jumna river not far from the Taj Mahal. They spent other four years training and manoeuvring and their turn-out and discipline on parade was used as an example for other regiments of both the British and Indian armies. On August 5th 1896 Edith Marion was born in Muttra. She was his favourite but she was strangely listless and distant at times. In July a cholera outbreak had claimed the lives of many of his comrades, and although he had re-enlisted once, he decided it was time to leave the service. He said his farewells and left India on the SS Simla heading for England. Trouble was brewing in South Africa with the Boers for a second time and the 5th Lancers departed for Durban on the "Clive" in February 1898. Heene Cemetery, Worthing, 18th February 1901 The winter wind blew noisily through the leafless trees surrounding a small cemetery in Heene near Brighton. A small group of people surrounded a coffin being lowered into the ground. A smattering of snow started to fall The young boy stood with his arms stiffly at his side. His black double breasted jacket was too big for him. He wore no tie and his black shirts collarless. His hair was neatly parted to one side. Motionless he stared uncomfortably into the middle distance. He wiped a snowflake away which had tickled his nose, he was 7 years old. His sister Gladys had a black band in her hair, her dress was covered in a fine black gauze. She was staring at the coffin with tears in her eyes. Little Edith was similarly dressed but was not showing much interest in the proceedings. Hetty stood, emotionless dressed in a long black skirt with a black high collared neck blouse buttoned to the top. Her hair was drawn back into a tight formidable looking bun. She was looking pale and grim. It had all been so promising for Ernest. He was a good musician and had been selected to attend the prestigious Royal Military School of Music at Kneller hall in 1887 and had become a well respected band master in musical circles. His departure for India changed all that. Maybe it was the effects of the inclement weather, the poor diet, the loss of a child or most probably the alcoholism. For three years after his return to England he had difficulty in finding work as a labourer, and as the drinking increased, he caught pneumonia and died from heart failure 5 days later. "Dust to dust" was being intoned by a whiskered vicar as the coffin finally disappeared from view. The sleet laden wind capriciously danced in the branches as two crows noisily flew from their perches in the trees. Percy looked over the small group towards a milky sun fleetingly glimpsed between the snow showers. It glittered off the glass of the nurseries which surrounded the graveyard, glancing off the snowflakes in an ethereal pirouette. He could hear the clanking of the wind pump on the far side of the cemetery wall. He had fallen and cut his right eye a few weeks before and was subconsciously rubbing the scar. A portly avuncular man had his arm round his mother consoling her. It was his uncle Charles Cain who had married her sister Emma. Charles was a baker and confectioner who lived in a pub called the Green Cross Inn in Ansty near Cuckfield. They had no children and they had offered to look after Percy until he was old enough to go to the Duke of York’s Royal Military School in Chelsea, London. It had been agreed that Hetty and Gladys would live with her older sister Ann, married to Charles Harris in 2, Victoria Road, Brighton. Poor little Edith would live with her Grandfather John Hobden at 47, St Dunstan’s Road, West Tarring. Percy’s childhood had come to a premature end. He would miss playing with his sisters in the meadows near their house in Kimberley Terrace. He would miss the hustle and bustle of all the new houses being built along his road. He would miss the steam trains racing along the tack which ran close to their house. He would miss his mother. The crowd silently filed past the grave, some throwing sticky clay on top of the coffin some wiping noses on handkerchiefs others rubbing hands vigorously against the cold. Percy followed his aunt and uncle to an uncertain future.