Would that such had been the case with Surgeon Home! He and his party had gained shelter for the time, but none could say how long it would be before the horde of sepoys would storm it. The most daring of the mutineers had already ventured out into the square to kill those of the wounded whom they could reach and to fire through the windows of the house.
The heroes of what became known afterwards as Dhoolie Square were, besides Home, Privates McManus, Ward, Ryan, and Hollowell. These gallant fellows, but for whom the whole company must have been massacred, formed part of the military escort. Patrick McManus, who was an Irishman of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was a noted shot. Taking up a position immediately behind one of the pillars of the archway, he coolly fired shot after shot until a number of sepoys had fallen victims to his unerring aim. The rest of the rebels retreated before his rifle and sought shelter within the houses.
McMANUS NOW RUSHED OUT, ACCOMPANIED BY PRIVATE JOHN RYAN … AND CARRIED IN CAPTAIN ARNOLD.—Page 98.
This pause afforded an opportunity for rescuing those of the wounded who lay within reach. With his deadly rifle in his hand, McManus now rushed out, accompanied by Private John Ryan (a Madras European Fusilier), and carried in Captain Arnold, who had been shot in both legs. A second time they ventured out, and in the rain of bullets they drew upon themselves succeeded in dragging another poor fellow from the slender security of his dhoolie to more certain safety. But their errand of mercy was in vain: though neither of the rescuers was hit, Arnold and the other wounded man (a private) were struck again and again, both dying soon after.
Private Ward, a 78th Highlander but a Norfolk man by birth, had a little previously saved the life of Lieutenant Havelock. The dhoolie in which the young officer lay would have been abandoned had not Ward, by force of blows, compelled the native bearers to carry it behind the pillars of the arch.
Inside the house that sheltered Home and the others the surgeon was hard at work attending to his wounded, most of whom were in worse case than when they started on their journey. If he stopped in his task it was only to snatch up a rifle and take a shot at some sepoy who was within sight. With consummate daring the rebels braved McManus and crept up to the window of Home’s room. One man, whom he shot with his revolver, was no more than three yards away from him at the time.
So some hours wore away. Then the sepoys, furious at their ineffectual attempts to get at their prey, brought up a large screen on wheels, with thick planks in front, and with this shut off what was apparently the little garrison’s only exit. It was their intention to fire the roof and burn the Englishmen in their trap.
There was another door at the side of the house, however, and while the flames crackled and the choking smoke filled the rooms, Home and all the able men with him seized hold of the wounded and made a dash through this across the square to a small shed that appeared to be empty. They reached it, but only half a dozen were in a condition to handle their rifles. The remnant that had struggled through with them could hardly raise themselves from the floor.
The shed being loopholed, McManus and his comrades Ward and Ryan, together with another 78th man, named Hollowell, were able to keep the sepoys at a distance. They could not prevent, however, the ghastly murder of the wounded, who still lay in the dhoolies at the farther end of the square. One after another the unfortunate men were shot or bayoneted as they lay, only one (an officer of the 90th), it is recorded, escaping by a miracle.
All the rest of that fearful day, and throughout the night, the brave surgeon and his handful of men held their fort against the swarms of mutineers who surged again and again to the attack. In the darkness they heard the sepoys tramping about on the roof, but a few well-aimed shots put these daring spirits to flight. The lack of water was now keenly felt, some of the wounded suffering terribly for want of it. Moved to desperation by their piteous cries, and hoping to secure a safer position, Home and a private at last stole out into the square and made their way to a mosque some yards distant. They obtained some water, but a vigilant sepoy espied their movements, and the plucky pair only just got back to the shed in time.
“The terrors of that awful night,” says Dr. Home in his account of his experiences, “were almost maddening: raging thirst, uncertainty as to where the sepoys would next make an attack; together with the exhaustion produced by want of food, heat, and anxiety.”
But morning saw them still alive, and with the daylight came the welcome sound of rifle volleys, unmistakably British. Ryan, who was acting as sentry at a loophole, sprang excitedly to his feet and roused his comrades with the shout, “Oh, boys, them’s our own chaps!”
And a few minutes later into the corpse-strewn square swept a column of redcoats, driving the sepoys before them in wild confusion. With Home leading them, the heroes of Dhoolie Square gave as loud a cheer as their feeble voices could raise, and flinging open the door of their refuge, rushed out to greet their rescuers.
Surgeon Home (he is now Sir Anthony Dickson Home, K.C.B.), and Privates McManus, Ward, Ryan, and Hollowell, all received the Cross for Valour for their splendid devotion and bravery; and never, surely, did men deserve the honour more. To have held something like a thousand rebels in check for a day and a night, and to have protected as many of their wounded as they did, was a feat that they might well be proud of.
CHAPTER XIII.
INDIA.—THREE BRAVE CIVILIANS: MANGLES, MCDONELL,
AND “LUCKNOW” KAVANAGH.
On the 8th of July 1859 an interesting announcement appeared in the London Gazette to the effect that her Majesty the Queen had been pleased to declare that Non-Military Persons who, as Volunteers, had borne arms against the Mutineers, both at Lucknow and elsewhere, during the late operations in India, should be considered as eligible to receive the decoration of the Victoria Cross, subject to the rules and ordinances, etc. etc.
Under this new clause Mr. Ross Lowis Mangles, of the Bengal Civil Service, Assistant-Magistrate at Patna; Mr. William Fraser McDonell, Magistrate of the Saran District; and Mr. Thomas Henry Kavanagh, Assistant-Commissioner in Oudh, were gazetted, for distinguished services rendered at Arrah and Lucknow.
The defence of Arrah, a town in the Shahabad District of Bengal, about thirty-six miles from Patna, was one of the most thrilling incidents of the Indian Mutiny. Here for a whole week a dozen Englishmen and a small body of Sikhs, shut up in a two-storeyed house, successfully kept off over two thousand sepoys until a relief force came to their rescue. One young lieutenant of the Southern Mahratta Irregular Horse, with a few sowars at his back, might storm a seemingly impregnable fort strongly garrisoned by mutineers, and kill or capture every man of them, but reverse the positions and a very different story was told. The history of the Great Mutiny contains many instances of a mere handful of Englishmen holding their own against tremendous odds, as was done at Arrah.
When news came of the outbreak at Arrah and the predicament of the white residents there, a relief expedition was hastily organised at Dinapur under the command of Captain Dunbar. It was destined to fail in its mission, but it was a gallant and notable attempt. The force comprised four hundred men, drawn from the 10th and 37th Regiments, with a sprinkling of volunteers. Among the latter were Messrs. Ross Mangles and McDonell, whose intimate knowledge of the district made them invaluable as guides.
All went well with the expedition in its journey up the Ganges and, on landing, it marched several miles without serious molestation. But when within a few miles of Arrah it was obliged to pass through a thick piece of jungle in which the sepoys had laid an ambuscade. Darkness had fallen as the soldiers pushed their way through the maze of trees and dense undergrowth, and the murderous fire that suddenly broke out threw them into confusion.
All through the night the unequal fight went on, but the loss on the British side was so heavy that when morning dawned the surviving officers saw it would be impossible, or at least unwise, to continue the advance. Captain Dunbar, unfortunately, had been among the first to fall. Very reluctantly, therefore, the order to retreat was given, and the little force, still firing on its foes, slowly fell back. Other sepoys had arrived on the scene in the meantime, and the exhausted soldiers now found themselves compelled to run the gauntlet between two lines of fire. In these conditions something like a panic at last set in; the ranks broke up in disorder.
“But, disastrous as was the retreat,” says one account, “it was not all disgraceful. There will always be acts of individual heroism when Englishmen go out to battle. It may be a soldier or it may be a civilian, in whom the irrepressible warrior instinct manifests itself in some act of conspicuous gallantry and devotion, but it is sure never to be wanting.”
In this instance it was the civilian who rose to the occasion. Early in the engagement Mr. Mangles had been hit by a musket ball, but the shot had luckily only stunned him. Quickly recovering, he lent a hand in helping the wounded, and on the retreat commencing he played an active part in beating off the sepoys. With a number of men round him to reload and supply him with muskets, he shot sepoy after sepoy, the sure eye and hand which had made him a noted tiger shot not failing him in this hour of need.
The especial act for which he was awarded the Cross, however, was the gallant rescue of a wounded private of the Hampshires (the 37th Foot). At the man’s piteous appeal to his comrades not to leave him there helpless to be hacked to pieces by the sepoys, Mangles nobly rushed to his side, bound up his wounds, and then lifted him on to his back. With this heavy burden the brave civilian trudged on among the others.
It was rough going for the greater part of the six miles to the river, the ground being very swampy, and overhead was a broiling July sun. Despite these disadvantages, and the fact that he had not slept for forty-eight hours, Mangles bore the helpless private the whole of the way, only stopping now and then to place his charge on the ground and take a pot-shot at the pursuing rebels. “I really never felt so strong in my life,” he used to say afterwards in referring to this incident. When the waters of the Ganges were reached he plunged in and swam out to the boats with his now unconscious burden. Then, when all the survivors were aboard, the flotilla started on its sad return journey.
Mr. McDonell all this time had been ever to the front, assisting the officers to keep the men together. An excellent shot, like his fellow-magistrate, he accounted for many a rebel ere the river-side was reached, but he did not escape unscathed. A musket shot had lodged in his arm.
In the wild rush for the half-dozen country boats moored close to the river bank, McDonell gave no thought to himself. There were several men very badly hit, and it was not until he had seen these safely over the thwarts that he jumped in and cast the mooring adrift. He was the last man aboard his boat, which was crowded with thirty-five soldiers.
Out into the stream they floated, but now a fresh danger faced them. The rebels had removed the oars from the boat and lashed the rudder tightly, so that the little craft was helpless. To their horror it began to drift back again to the southern bank, on which the sepoys were clustered in joyful expectation of emptying their muskets into the boatload of sahibs. Something had to be done at once, or they were doomed.
To show his face above the gunwale was to court instant death, but McDonell took the risk. With a knife in his hand, he climbed outside on to the canvas roof, worked his way to the stern and with a few deft slashes cut the ropes that held the tiller fast. Bullets pattered all round him as he lay outstretched there, and one passed clean through his helmet, but he was otherwise untouched. Having regained his seat safely, he steered the boat and its precious freight to the opposite bank, where they landed—three men short. The sepoys’ fire had not been all in vain.
While, as I have said, both Mangles and McDonell received the V.C. for their bravery on this occasion, it is a remarkable fact that the former’s exploit would have passed unnoticed by the authorities but for a happy chance. The private whose life he had saved and who had passed some months in Dinapur Hospital before being invalided home, had told the story of his rescue to a surgeon. This worthy noted it down at the time in his journal, and just twelve months later made the true facts public.
It was only in March of last year that Mr. Ross Lowis Mangles died at his home in Surrey, where, after long service in India, he had settled down to spend the remaining years of his life.
Of the three civilians who have won the V.C. “Lucknow” Kavanagh is the most famous. The story of his daring journey in disguise through the rebel lines in order to act as guide to Sir Colin Campbell’s relief force has been told over and over again, but one can never tire of hearing it. It thrills our pulses now as much as ever it did.
Thomas Henry Kavanagh was an Irishman in the Indian Civil Service. At the time the Mutiny broke out he held the post of Superintendent of the office of the Chief Commissioner of Oudh, and took up his residence in Lucknow. Here with his wife he played no mean part in these fateful months before and after Havelock and Outram had fought their way to the aid of the Residency garrison, taking his share of work in the trenches or at the guns as required.
Early in November 1857, Sir Colin Campbell, marching with a large army to the relief of Lucknow, got as far as the Alumbagh. To save the General from having to make the perilous passage through the narrow streets and lanes which had cost him so many men two months earlier, Outram by means of a native spy sent plans of the city and its approaches to Campbell, and suggested the best route to be followed. There was still the danger, however, of some dreadful blunder being committed, and Outram expressed a wish that he were able to send a competent guide.
This coming to Kavanagh’s ears, he promptly went to Outram’s Chief of Staff, Colonel Robert Napier,[2] and volunteered his services in this capacity. The colonel stared at him in blank astonishment, as well he might, for of all men in Lucknow Kavanagh looked to be the one least suited to play the rôle of spy. He was a tall, big-limbed man, with fair complexion, “aggressively red hair and beard, and uncompromisingly blue eyes.” To transform this healthy specimen of an Irishman into a native seemed an utter impossibility.
But Kavanagh persisted that he could get through to the British lines. He would be disguised, of course and his knowledge of Hindustani and local dialects was perfect. He persisted more strenuously still when, on his being ushered into Outram’s presence, the General refused point blank to consent to his going. After much arguing, he at length persuaded Outram to listen to his plan, and extorted a half-hearted permission to make the attempt. It remained for him to convince his chief of the impenetrability of his disguise.
Kavanagh has told us in his own account of the adventure, how the same evening (Nov. 9th), with face, neck, and arms blackened with lamp-black, his red hair hidden beneath a cream-coloured turban, and the rest of his person disguised in the silk trousers, yellow koortah, or jacket, white cummerbund, and chintz mantle of an irregular native soldier, he sauntered with sword and shield into Napier’s quarters.
The experiment was an immense success. Seeing what was evidently a budmash (a worthless fellow) thus insolently thrusting himself upon them, the officers present bade him begone, and a very pretty squabble in low-class Hindustani ensued. In the midst of it Sir James Outram entered the room, and having sufficiently tested his disguise Kavanagh made himself known. To his joy, no opposition was now raised to his plan.
Half an hour later, with the native spy Kunoujee Lal, who was returning to the Alumbagh with a letter from Outram, he bade good-bye to his friends, forded the river Goomtee, and started on his perilous mission.
“My courage failed me,” he confesses, “while in the water, and if my guide had been within my reach I should perhaps have pulled him back and abandoned the enterprise. But he waded quickly through the stream, and, reaching the opposite bank, went crouching up a ditch for three hundred yards to a grove of low trees on the edge of a pond, where we stopped to dress.”
His confidence having returned, Kavanagh went boldly forward, tulwar on shoulder, and even dared to accost a matchlock man near a hut with a remark that the night was cold. A little farther on they were pulled up by the officer of a native picket, and Kunoujee Lal, acting as spokesman, explained that they had come from Mundeon (“our old cantonment”) and were making their way to their homes in the city. This satisfied the sepoy officer, and they passed on with no little relief.
Recrossing the river by the iron bridge, they safely negotiated the streets of Lucknow, though the place swarmed with sentries and armed men, and issuing at last from the city on the other side, breathed more freely.
“I was in great spirits when we reached the green fields, into which I had not been for five months,” says Kavanagh. “Everything around us smelt sweet, and a carrot I took from the roadside was the most delicious I had ever tasted.”
A wrong turning now led them astray into the Dilkusha Park, where the rebels had a battery. Much against his companion’s will, the daring Irishman insisted on inspecting these guns, and Kunoujee Lal was in considerable trepidation until after two hours’ weary tramping across paddy fields and canal cuttings they regained the right road.
At two o’clock in the morning, after several alarms from suspicious villagers who chased them some distance, they stumbled upon a picket of twenty-five sepoys on the outskirts of the city. Kavanagh was for the bold course of going up and questioning the men, but Kunoujee Lal lost heart and threw away the letter entrusted to him for Sir Colin Campbell. Kavanagh kept his still concealed in his turban.
The picket was in some alarm at their approach, but it proved to be fear lest the pair were Englishmen from the Alumbagh camp, only a mile or two in advance of them! With this cheering news, the two spies pushed on, a friendly sepoy having put them on the right road on hearing that they were “walking to the village of Umroula on a sad errand, namely, to inform a friend that his brother had been killed by a ball from the British entrenchments at Lucknow.”
A nasty tumble into a swamp, which washed the black from Kavanagh’s hands, was their next most serious contretemps. For some time they waded through it waist-deep, having gone too far to recede before they discovered it was a swamp. An hour afterwards they stole unobserved through two pickets of sepoys and gained the shelter of a grove of trees, where Kavanagh insisted on having a good sleep. Kunoujee Lal, by no means assured that they were out of danger, kept a fearful watch, but nobody came near them save some flying natives, who stated that they had been pursued by British soldiers.
Kavanagh having been roused, the two went on once more. Another mile or so was traversed, and then (it being about four o’clock in the morning of the 10th) the welcome challenge “Who goes there?” rang on their ears. It was a mounted patrol of Sikhs. They had reached the British outposts.
Two men of the patrol guided Kavanagh and his companion to the camp, where they were immediately conducted into the presence of Sir Colin Campbell. When he learned that Kavanagh had come through the rebel lines, the Commander-in-Chief could not find enough words to express his admiration. “I consider his escape,” he wrote in his despatch, “at a time when the entrenchment was closely invested by a large army, one of the most daring feats ever attempted.”
For his part, Kavanagh paid a generous tribute to his fellow-spy, Kunoujee Lal, who had displayed wonderful courage and intelligence in their trying journey. When they were questioned, it was the native who did most of the speaking, and he always had a ready answer for the most searching interrogation.
The news of Kavanagh’s arrival was signalled to Lucknow by means of a flag from the summit of the Alumbagh, and Outram’s mind was set at ease. In due course the plucky Irishman guided Sir Colin into the city, being present through all the fierce fighting at the Secunderabagh and the Moti-Mahal, and further distinguishing himself by saving a wounded soldier’s life. Nor does this close the tale of his adventures, for he passed through many exciting experiences in rebel-hunting ere the Mutiny was suppressed.
Kavanagh lived to wear the Victoria Cross for twenty-three years, dying in 1882 at Gibraltar. His Cross was presented by his son to the N.W.P. and Oudh Provincial Museum at Lucknow, while the tulwar, shield and pistol he bore on his journey, together with other articles of his disguise, are preserved in the Dublin Museum.
[2] Afterwards Lord Napier of Magdala.
CHAPTER XIV.
INDIA.—SOME OTHER CROSSES OF THE MUTINY.
The full tale of the Crosses of the Mutiny (do they not number one hundred and eighty-two in all?) is a long one, and cannot be told here. But before bringing this chapter of V.C. history to a close I must tell of yet a few more and the manner of their winning, for they call to mind deeds which we ought not willingly to let fade from our memories.
I would like much to dwell, did space permit, on Lawrence’s heroic stand at the Lucknow Residency; to tell of Lieutenant Robert Aitken of the Bailey Guard “Post,” who won the V.C. many times over in that six-months’ siege; of brave Commissioner Gubbins; and of Captain Fulton, the garrison engineer, who had a countermine for every mine that the rebels drove under the British defences, and to whom the dangerous game of sepoy hunting above and below earth was “great fun and excitement.” They were gallant fellows all, and the record of their exploits is truly an inspiring one; but I must hurry on to the taking of Lucknow, and to the story of the V.C.’s gained in that last desperate struggle for supremacy.
When Sir Colin Campbell started on his march to the relief of Havelock and Outram he had an army of only some 4700 men, but in this force were picked regiments such as the 93rd Highlanders, the 9th Lancers, Hodson’s Horse, the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and the 53rd Foot (the “Shropshires”), together with some squadrons of Sikh cavalry and two regiments of Punjab infantry. The famous 93rd were Sir Colin’s special favourites. They had been with him in the Crimea, and had formed the “thin red line” which had so successfully routed the Russian cavalry. “You are my own lads, Ninety-third!” he said, addressing them at the parade at Buntera, “and I rely on you to do the work;” to which the stern-faced Highlanders, mindful of what had been done at Cawnpore, responded with a mighty shout.
How well the 93rd acquitted themselves is to be read in any history; what is of particular interest here is that they gained no fewer than seven Crosses in the Lucknow fighting.
Four of these belong to the fierce assault on the Secunderabagh, the first and most formidable rebel position to be attacked. When the artillery had made a breach in the face of the fortress wall there was a race between Sikhs and Highlanders to be the first in. Accounts differ as to the result; some say a Sikh won the honour, being shot dead instantly; others a Highlander, who suffered the same fate. However that may be, it is pretty certain that Lance-Corporal Dunley of the 93rd (Archibald Forbes writes him down an Irishman) was the first man of his regiment to reach the goal and get through alive.
Behind him streamed Highlanders and Sikhs, tumbling in with bayonets fixed, before which the sepoys fell in scores. There were upwards of 2000 rebels in the Secunderabagh, and but three or four, says Lord Roberts, dropped over the wall on the city side and escaped. Every other man of them was killed. The carnage that took place within the courtyard almost passes description.
In the first terrible rush, which resolved itself into a series of personal combats, Private P. Grant and Colour-Sergeant J. Munro distinguished themselves by saving the lives of two officers. Grant saw his officer in difficulties with a crowd of sepoys whose colour he had captured, and rushing up cut down five of the rebels. That was not the only sepoy ensign taken that day, for Private D. Mackay secured one after a fierce contest and bore it triumphantly away.
Dunley, Grant, Munro, and Mackay were elected by their comrades as most worthy to be decorated when their regiment was singled out for distinction, and each duly received the V.C.
There was a Punjabi Mahommedan, by the way, Mukarrab Khan by name, who in this same Secunderabagh fight earned the V.C. as much as did any man. Lord Roberts, who was an eye-witness, tells the story of his bravery. The enemy, he says, having been driven out of the earthwork, made for the gateway, which they nearly succeeded in shutting behind them. But just as the doors were closing Mukarrab Khan pushed his left arm, on which he bore a shield, between them. A sword-cut slashed his hand, whereupon the dauntless Mahommedan, withdrawing his left arm, thrust in his right, and had his other hand all but severed at the wrist. He gained his object, however, for he kept the doors from being closed until his comrades rushed to his help and forced them open.
It was an act of heroic devotion, and it is satisfactory to know that Mukarrab Khan was awarded the Order of Merit, which is the Indian equivalent of the V.C., and carries with it an increase of pay.
At the taking of the Shah Nujeef, on the same day, the 16th of November 1857, Sergeant John Paton, of the 93rd, did a daring thing, which added another V.C. to the regimental record.
The Shah Nujeef was a mosque built over the tomb of an old king of Oudh, a massively built structure with loopholed walls, and the guns of the Naval Brigade, under Captain Peel, were unable to make a breach. As night was fast coming on, Sir Colin Campbell determined to make a bold effort to carry the place by storm, and called on the Highlanders to follow him. That the 93rd would have scaled the walls of the mosque though half of them fell in the task need not be doubted, but fortunately they were not called on to do so.
Soon after the order to advance had been given, Sergeant Paton came tearing down the ravine with the news that he had discovered a breach in the north-east corner of the rampart, close by the river Goomtee. “It appears,” says Forbes-Mitchell of the 93rd, who records the incident, “that our shot and shell had gone over the first breach, and had blown out the wall on the other side in this particular spot. Paton told how he had climbed up to the top of the ramparts without difficulty, and seen right inside the place, as the whole defending force had been called forward to repulse the assault in front.”
A detachment was promptly sent round to this point with the sergeant as guide, and an entrance to the position effected. But the sepoys, finding themselves thus taken in the rear, gave up the fight and fled with all speed.
The other two V.C. heroes of the Highlanders were Captain Stewart, who headed a splendid charge against the rebel guns at the position known as the Mess-house; and Lieutenant and Adjutant William M’Bean, who at the onslaught on the Begumbagh Palace bore himself like a paladin of old, and was seen to slay eleven sepoys single-handed. M’Bean was a mighty figure in a corps wherein every man was a doughty fighter, and the tale of his exploits is a notable one. An Inverness ploughman before he enlisted, he rose to command the regiment which he had entered as a private, and died a Major-General.
I have mentioned the Naval Brigade in connection with the attack on the Shah Nujeef. Peel’s gallant bluejackets, whom we last met doing great things at Sebastopol, had been hurried to India from their station at Hong Kong, immediately news arrived of the outbreak of the Mutiny; and after smelling powder at Cawnpore and other places they accompanied the relief army to Lucknow.
Right up under the frowning walls of the mosque did they run their useful 24-pounders, as coolly as if “laying alongside an enemy’s frigate,” to use Sir Colin’s own words. But the guns were not powerful enough to break down the masonry. Despite the obvious hopelessness of the task, however, Lieutenant Young and Seaman William Hall (a negro, be it noted) fearlessly stood by their gun, reloading and pounding away at the wall under a most deadly fire, and only desisting when the order eventually came to fall back. They both got the V.C. for that gallant action.
The other Crosses that fell to the Naval men in the same fight were won by a young lieutenant whose name still figures on the Active List as Admiral Sir Nowell Salmon, G.C.B., and Boatswain’s Mate John Harrison. These two pluckily volunteered to climb trees that overlooked the mosque walls and reconnoitre the rebel position, at the same time picking off the sepoys with their rifles. A mark at once for the rebel sharpshooters, who quickly espied them, both men drew upon themselves a heavy fire, but though they were wounded they accounted for several mutineers ere clambering down from their perches, and secured valuable information for their commander.
In the taking of Lucknow young Lieutenant Henry Havelock, son of the famous General, played a prominent part, leading a storming party that captured a palace close to the rebel citadel, the Kaisarbagh. But he had won his V.C. before this, at Cawnpore, where he captured a rebel gun in the face of an appalling fire; and at the Charbagh Bridge, Lucknow, while serving under his father.
His action at the latter place was characteristic of his impulsive bravery. Neill, who held a position by the bridge, would not move to “rush” the sepoys and their guns without orders from Outram. Wheeling his horse, it is said, young Havelock rode off in the direction of the General and his staff, but soon after turning the bend in the road he galloped hastily back to trick Neill into taking action. Giving a salute, he said, “You are to carry the bridge at once, sir!”
Taking this to be an order from the General, Neill gave the word to advance, and Arnold of the Madras Fusiliers led his men forward in a gallant charge, being shot down almost immediately. A storm of grape swept the bridge clear, and Havelock found himself the only officer—and almost the only man—standing there alive. With a wave of his sword and a shout to the rest of the Fusiliers whom the guns had checked, he led a second charge, and this time the bridge was won.
Young Havelock’s gallantry in the Indian Mutiny marked him out for a distinguished career, and he did not disappoint those who prophesied thus concerning him. As is well known, he became in after years Lieutenant-General Sir Henry Havelock-Allan, Bart., K.C.B.
Among the many other pictures of the Mutiny that present themselves vividly to my mind is one of a young Fusilier officer swimming the river Goomtee in plain sight of any sepoys who might be upon the farther bank, and audaciously climbing up the parapet of a rebel battery. It had been shelled by our troops, but with what success was not known. He stands there on the wall signalling to his impatient comrades that it is abandoned, but it is some time ere their officers will let them follow where he has led. The Highlanders and Sikhs get across the river at last, however, and with a laugh at the discomfited sepoys who have been vainly trying to “pot” him from an adjacent battery, the young officer—Butler by name—hands over his captured position to the new-comers, and swims back to his own regiment.
That was a V.C. exploit, and it holds the imagination as much as does that which won the decoration for Ensign Patrick Roddy of the Bengal Army. The scene of Roddy’s achievement was Kuthirga, and the date September 27, 1858. At the close of an action with a rebel force at this place some of the cavalry were kept at bay for some time by a determined sepoy subadar of a revolted regiment, a tall, powerful fellow. This man knelt alone in the middle of the road and with musket at shoulder covered his enemies.
While his sowars hung back, afraid to face that gleaming barrel, young Roddy did not hesitate. Spurring his horse, he charged straight upon the rebel subadar, who firing at close range brought down the ensign’s horse. Roddy had some difficulty in freeing himself from the stirrups as he lay on the ground, but ere the sepoy could get really to grips with him he managed to draw his sword, and in the tussle ran the fellow through the body. Sir Hope Grant had had occasion previously to remark on the young ensign’s conspicuous bravery, and he took care that this special feat was fittingly rewarded.
Mention of Roddy’s hand-to-hand combat reminds me of the great fight between Sapper Sam Shaw, of the Rifle Brigade, and a white muslin-clad Ghazi, at Nawabgunge. It was after the sharp action at that place in June 1858 that the fanatic was seen to enter a grove of trees. A dozen men hastened in pursuit, but Shaw was easily the first, and coming up with his man he engaged him with the short sword that sappers carry.
A Ghazi at best is a dangerous fellow to tackle, and a Ghazi wounded and at bay, as this one was, might well have made Sam Shaw hesitate before venturing to attack him alone. But the sapper was not a man to think twice of danger, and in he went, sword against tulwar, until after several minutes’ fierce hacking and thrusting he saw his chance to close, and finished the affair with a mighty lunge.
It was a great fight, as I have said, and Sapper Shaw well earned the V.C. he got for it. But against his decoration he had to put a terrible slashing cut on the head from that keen-edged tulwar, a wound that came very near to ending his career then and there.
Last on my list of Mutiny V.C.’s come Lance-Corporal William Goate, of the 9th Lancers, and that popular hero, Sir Evelyn Wood, whose names still figure in the list of surviving recipients of the Cross for Valour.
Goate had just been three years and a half in the Lancers when the Mutiny broke out. His regiment was stationed at Umballa at the time, and proceeded at once to Delhi. After the fall of the old Punjab capital he was at the second captures of Cawnpore and Lucknow, taking part in some of the fiercest engagements of the campaign, and it was here—at Lucknow—that he performed the deed of valour which won him the Cross.
On the 6th of March—a blazing hot day, it is recorded—there was a bold sortie from the rebel lines which a British brigade was sent to repulse. The 9th Lancers was one of the regiments ordered to charge, and away they went, neck and neck with the 2nd Dragoons, for the enemy who had taken up their position on the racecourse. The sepoys broke before the onset of the cavalrymen, but the latter at length had to retire owing to a heavy fire from artillery and battery.
In the ride back Major Percy Smith, of the Dragoons, was shot through the body and fell from his horse. Corporal Goate was close by, and springing to the ground he quickly lifted the major on to his shoulder and ran with him thus alongside his horse. The major was a heavy weight, however; Goate found himself lagging behind with several of the enemy close upon him. Clearly he couldn’t get away with his burden, so he determined to do what he could for himself and the major. Placing the wounded officer on the ground, he sprang into his saddle and rode at his foes.
“I shot the first sepoy who charged,” he says in his account of the incident, “and with my empty pistol felled another. This gave me time to draw my sword, my lance having been left on the field. The sepoys were now round me cutting and hacking, but I managed to parry every slash and deliver many a fatal thrust. It was parry and thrust, thrust and parry all through, and I cannot tell you how many saddles I must have emptied. The enemy didn’t seem to know how to parry.”
So our brave corporal (he was only a little more than twenty, mind you) “settled accounts with a jolly lot,” and was still hard at it when some of his comrades came to his assistance. In the fight his horse had carried him some distance from where the major lay, and when the rebels had been forced back he went out again to look for him. Poor Major Smith was found after a long search, but it was a mutilated corpse that was brought sadly and reverently back to the camp.
Sir Colin Campbell and Sir Hope Grant had seen Goate’s gallant attempt at rescue, and after the action there was a cordial handshake for him from both the veterans, with many compliments upon his pluck that filled the corporal with just pride.
The scene of Sir Evelyn Wood’s principal exploit was the wilds of Sindhora, near Gwalior. It was at the close of the Mutiny, when the rebels had been split up and only kept the fires of rebellion burning in detached districts. After a fatiguing pursuit of some mutineers one day, news came to the young officer’s ears (he was a lieutenant in the 17th Lancers then) that a potail—a loyal native named Chemmum Singh—had been carried off by a band of these marauders. With a duffadar, two or three sowars of Beatson’s Horse, and half a dozen sepoys of the Bareilly Levy, he started off promptly in pursuit.
The mutineers were discovered at night in the jungle, twelve miles away, preparing to hang their captive. Creeping up unseen, Lieutenant Wood and his few followers sprang upon them from several points at once, firing a volley and shouting as if they had a whole company behind them. This was enough for the rebels. They took to their heels incontinently, and before they could rally and discover the numbers of their assailants Wood and his men were riding swiftly back with the released potail.
That daring adventure, together with a very notable rout of rebel cavalry at Sindwaho a little earlier, was sufficient recommendation for the V.C., and the honour, though slow in coming, was eventually bestowed upon him.
It is curious to note how persistently the authorities refused to recognise Evelyn Wood’s valour. In the Crimea, where as a middy he served with the Naval Brigade, he was singled out for distinction for his bravery at the Redan assault; but his claim was ignored, despite the strong protests of his commander, Captain Lushington.
His subsequent career, after he had abandoned the Navy for the Army, should be well known to every British boy. There has not been a war since the Mutiny in which he has not played a leading part,—witness the Ashanti, Zulu, Transvaal, and Egyptian campaigns,—and to-day there is no finer soldier in the service than the ex-Sirdar of the Egyptian army, Field-Marshal Sir Henry Evelyn Wood, G.C.B.
CHAPTER XV.
IN THE SIXTIES.—CHINA, JAPAN, INDIA, WEST AFRICA,
AND CANADA.
The principal war in which we were engaged in the sixties was that waged against the Maoris in New Zealand, but that demands a chapter to itself. For the present I will confine myself to some of the smaller campaigns of the same period which yielded several notable V.C.’s.
Towards the end of 1859 trouble broke out afresh with China, immediately after the conclusion of what is known as the Second Chinese War. Sir F. Bruce, the British Commissioner, while sailing up the Pei-ho to Pekin to ratify the treaty just made with the Emperor, was fired upon by the Taku Forts at the mouth of the river. No apologies being forthcoming, an expedition under General Sir James Hope Grant was despatched to teach the Chinese a salutary lesson.
The expedition, which was strengthened by a French force, was ready to begin operations against the Taku Forts by July 1860, but owing to the swampy nature of the country around them a halt had to be called while the engineers set to work to make roads. These were completed by the middle of August, and then the attack commenced in real earnest.
Under a heavy fire from the Chinese gunners English and French vied with each other to be the first to cross the ditches in front of the forts. Scaling-ladders and pontoon bridges were requisitioned, but the delay in placing these in position galled a number of our men to such an extent that privates and officers alike plunged boldly into the water and swam across. The first to reach the walls were Lieutenant Robert Rogers, of the 44th Regiment, two Lieutenants of the 67th, E. H. Lenon and Nathaniel Burslem, with Privates John M’Dougall and Thomas Lane. Up through the embrasures they all clambered, Burslem and Lane being specially noticed as they knocked away a portion of the wall and enlarged the opening sufficiently to enable them to scramble through, just as did Dunley at the Secunderabagh fight.
Where they showed the way their comrades quickly followed, the while some of the French with ladders vainly attempted to climb the walls. At the head of the 67th Regiment came Ensign Chaplin, bearing proudly the colour which he was determined to plant first upon the fort. He had hardly gained the ditch, however, when a bullet struck him in the arm, making him drop the standard. There was a brief pause while he bound a handkerchief tightly round his wound, then on he went again, colours raised aloft.
A French regiment of infantry was pressing forward at the same time, and Chaplin playfully called to their colour-bearer to race him to the fort. The challenge was promptly taken up. As soon as the breach was clear the ensign dashed for it, and by strenuous effort forced his way inside. Before him were Chinese riflemen and pikemen, but he cut his way through them with his sword, and hurried on to his goal.
Suddenly a second bullet caught him, making him stagger, at which a private clutched at the swaying standard pole.
“Hands off!” cried Chaplin vehemently, for he saw that the French colour-bearer was now close behind him. And, pulling himself together gamely, he made a last spurt for the summit, which he reached well in advance of all others. In a moment the flag was planted, amid a ringing British cheer; then the brave young ensign was seen to fall. A shot in the leg had brought him down at last.
Seeing him prone on the ground at their mercy, the Chinese made a rush for him, but they were luckily too late. The 67th swarmed up the hill, and Chaplin was rescued to survive that engagement and many others, and wear on his breast the Cross for Valour in token of his gallantry. At the same time that he was gazetted the names of Rogers, Lenon, Burslem, M’Dougall, and Lane also appeared, the V.C. having been bestowed upon them for that bold dash at the breach.
The obvious similarity of the incidents makes it unnecessary for me to more than just refer here to the deed for which Midshipman D. G. Boyes and Captain of the After-Guard Thomas Pride, of H.M.S. Euryalus, won the Cross. Their vessel formed one of the fleet under Vice-Admiral Kuper which was sent to Japan in 1863 to demand reparation from the Mikado’s Government for certain outrages committed. At the attack on Shimonoseki Boyes carried the colour of the leading regiment, with Pride as one of his colour-sergeants (the other fell mortally wounded in the thick of the fight), and was almost the first to get inside the enemy’s stockade. That the middy ran a terrible risk is evident from the fact that the colour he carried was pierced no fewer than six times by musket balls.
Out in the Indian state of Bhotan in 1865 an act of remarkable daring was performed, which brought the V.C. to two distinguished engineer officers, Captain (now Major-General) William Spottiswoode Trevor and Lieutenant James Dundas. In that year war broke out with the independent Bhotias, originating in a quarrel over frontier territories in Assam, and a British force under Major-General Sir Harry Tombs, V.C., the hero of a little outpost skirmish at Delhi, already recorded, was despatched to restore order.
On the 30th of April a sharp engagement at Dewangiri, down in the south-east corner of the little hill-state, resulted in the Bhotias being driven out of their position; but a remnant of them, some two hundred in all, obstinately barricaded themselves in a strongly-built, loopholed blockhouse. This little fortress, standing at the summit of a rocky path, was the key to the position, and it was essential that it should not be held to serve as a rallying-point for the routed enemy.
Turning to his Sikhs, General Tombs asked them to make a dash for the walls and carry the place by storm, but, courageous fighters though they were, they looked at the rows of deadly loopholes and stood still. They only waited for a leader, however. With an “officer sahib” at their head, the big, black-bearded Punjabis were ready for the most forlorn of hopes. And they followed with alacrity when, at Tombs’ call, Captain Trevor and Lieutenant Dundas showed them the way.
Taking the path at a rush, the two officers gained the wall of the blockhouse unscathed, and though from every loophole came the crackle of a rifle they began to scramble up the wall. The latter was fourteen feet high, no mean obstacle to surmount; but they got up at last, the captain leading, and found themselves on a level with the roof of the blockhouse. Between the top of the wall and the roof was an opening not more than two feet wide. Through this was their only chance of getting inside, and they took it.
Head foremost they wriggled in through the narrow hole, one after the other, and dropped like snakes from the thatch into the midst of the surprised garrison. At the first discharge of muskets both of the intrepid officers were wounded, but the Sikhs thronging in behind them quickly finished the business. Within a few minutes the blockhouse was swept clear.
The following year, 1866, saw us involved in trouble with a West African tribe in the Gambia district. A punitive expedition having been organised under the command of Colonel D’Arcy, the Governor of Gambia, the kingdom of Barra, in which the turbulent tribe resided, was invaded. One of the first actions in this campaign was the assault on the stockaded town of Tubabecolong, and here Private Samuel Hodge, of the 4th West India Regiment, behaved with such gallantry that he became the second man of colour to receive the V.C.
When the little force reached the town, Colonel D’Arcy called for volunteers to break down the stockade with axes. Hodge and another pioneer, who was afterwards killed, answered the call, and plied their axes bravely in the face of the negroes’ fire until a breach had been made. Through this the regiment struggled, but the negroes had been reinforced, and so strongly that they were able to beat the besiegers off for a time.
Colonel D’Arcy relates that he found himself left alone in the breach with only Hodge by him. Here he kept firing at the negroes, while the big West Indian, standing coolly at his side, conspicuous in his scarlet uniform with white facings, supplied him with loaded muskets. After a little time the rest of the men re-formed and came once more to the attack, whereupon Hodge went ahead again, breaking a way for them through the bush-work defences.
To give his comrades a better chance of storming the place, he at last ran round to the principal entrance, drove off such of the negroes as thrust themselves in his path, and forced open the two great gates which had been barricaded from within. Through these the West Indian Regiment charged with their bayonets, and when they emerged at the other side of the smoke-enveloped village they left some hundreds of negroes dead and dying in their wake.
Colonel D’Arcy had done great deeds of valour that day, deeds which were suitably recognised later by the merchants of Bathurst, who presented him with a sword of honour, but he modestly disclaimed the praise due to him. To Private Hodge, he said, belonged the chief honours of the attack, and at the close of the action, before the whole regiment, he saluted the proud pioneer as “the bravest man in the corps.”
By a curious coincidence it was in the same quarter of Africa that, twenty-six years later, the third coloured man to be decorated won his V.C. This was Corporal William James Gordon, also of the West Indian Regiment. His act of special gallantry was to save his officer (Major Madden) from certain death at the storming of the town of Toniataba, on the Gambia. Gordon thrust himself between the major and the enemy’s rifle barrels as they were suddenly poked out of the loopholes at the officer’s back, receiving a bullet through his lungs that went within an ace of killing him.
The other notable Crosses of the sixties were awarded for deeds of bravery that necessitated the issue of an additional Royal Warrant to cover deeds performed not in action but “under circumstances of extreme danger, such as the occurrence of a fire on board ship, or of the foundering of a vessel at sea, or under any other circumstances in which, through the courage and devotion displayed, life or public property may be saved.” By this special provision a brave Irishman, Timothy O’Hea by name, a private in the Rifle Brigade, was awarded the V.C., together with Dr. Campbell Douglas, and four privates of the South Wales Borderers, then styled the 24th Regiment.
O’Hea’s exploit was performed at a railway siding between Quebec and Montreal in June 1866, while he was acting as one of an escort in charge of an ammunition van. To everybody’s alarm a fire broke out, enveloping the car in flames and smoke. Inside were kegs of powder and cases of ammunition, which, did they ignite, would cause a most terrible explosion.
While the others hesitated O’Hea snatched the keys from the sergeant’s hand, opened the door of the van and called for volunteers to bring him water and a ladder. The latter was quickly procured, and standing on this the plucky private emptied bucketful after bucketful upon the burning wood. It was a touch-and-go business, as the tongues of flame shot out every now and then, coming dangerously near to the powder kegs, but O’Hea stuck to his post and he fought the fire under.
Though the Rifle Brigade has fourteen Crosses to its credit, won in the Crimea, in India, and in South Africa, I rather fancy that not one of them was gained in circumstances of more deadly peril, and his comrades were well pleased when Private Timothy O’Hea’s name went to swell the proud list of V.C. heroes. O’Hea, it may be added, met with a sad fate in after years. He was lost in the Australian bush, and never heard of again.
Dr. Douglas and the four men of the 24th Regiment referred to—Privates Murphy, Cooper, Bell, and Griffiths—earned their distinction at the Andaman Islands, in the Bay of Bengal, in May of 1869.
A small expedition had been sent thither to ascertain the fate of the captain and crew of the Assam Valley, who, it had been reported, had fallen victims to the natives. The graves of the unfortunate men were found on the Little Andaman, but when the search party returned to the shore they found themselves cut off from their ship by a tremendous high-running surf.
Their predicament having been observed, Dr. Douglas with the four privates named manned a gig and pulled in to their rescue. The first attempt to get through the breakers half swamped the boat, but a second attempt enabled them to save five men. On the third and last trip the remaining twelve members of the party were safely got off.
To read the bare official account of the affair is to gain but a poor impression of the bravery displayed by Dr. Douglas and his helpers. For a proper understanding of the daring nature of the deed one must have seen the immense surf rollers thundering on to the beach, and have appreciated the very slender chances of living through the boiling waters that a man would have if capsized from a boat. It was no ordinary rescue, and all five nobly earned their Crosses.
CHAPTER XVI.
NEW ZEALAND.—FIGHTING THE MAORIS.
The years 1860 to 1865 witnessed a very stubborn war in New Zealand between the British and the Maoris, the original natives of the country. Many causes combined to make this war unduly long. In the first place the importance of the outbreak was underestimated, and the small force already in the islands was considered strong enough to cope with it; secondly, it was forgotten, or overlooked, that the Maoris, although incorrigibly lazy in times of peace, were a race of born fighters, to whom war was almost the chief end of existence; and thirdly, there was the difficult nature of the country itself, with its many forests and swamps, and miles on miles of dense, tangled bush. The odds were all in the Maoris’ favour at the outset.
For many years we had been at peace with the natives, a treaty having been signed by which we bound ourselves to respect the chiefs territorial rights. By 1860, however, a good deal of friction had arisen over purchases of land by the colonists, it being claimed by the Maoris that some of these transactions took place without the full consent of all the parties interested.
Especially was this the case in the transfer of a piece of land at Taranaki, in the Northern Island. It was only a small plot that was in dispute, but the Waikato tribe who claimed possession would not be pacified, and made a desperate resistance when an attempt was made to oust them. Their success in repulsing the few British troops sent against them incited the tribe and their friends to proceed still further. Old feuds were now revived, and the insurrection at Taranaki quickly spread into a general movement against the colonists, which in turn resolved itself into a wholesale rebellion of the Maori race.
In the fighting that ensued twelve Victoria Crosses were gained, mostly for gallant rescues of wounded men struck down in the bush or in the pahs, the native palisade-fortified villages. The Maoris have always been exceptionally cruel to their prisoners in war, and the knowledge that a fallen foe would receive no mercy at their hands spurred our soldiers to make every effort to save a wounded comrade.
One of the first Crosses to be won fell to Colour-Sergeant John Lucas, of the 40th Regiment (the South Lancashires). Early in 1861 he was fighting up in the Taranaki district, near to the Huirangi Bush. During one afternoon, while out skirmishing, he and his party were suddenly subjected to a terribly fierce fire from a hidden enemy. Men began to drop quickly as the bullets pinged across the ravine, and Lieutenant Rees fell badly wounded.
The officer having been carried to the rear, Lucas stood guard over the other wounded, towards whom the Maoris, breaking cover for the first time, made an ugly rush. The colour-sergeant had several rifles at hand, and adopting savage tactics, he got behind a tree, only showing himself to neatly “pot” an enemy. It was one man against a hundred; but, like Private McManus in “Dhoolie Square,” he made himself properly respected by the natives, and he held his position until a reinforcement arrived to relieve him of his charge.
A more exciting experience fell to the lot of a sergeant of the York and Lancaster Regiment (the old 65th) two years later. While in action with a large body of Maoris both his superior officers, Captain Swift and Lieutenant Butler, were wounded, and the duty of withdrawing the little force devolved upon him.
Sergeant Edward McKenna, who had a strong strain of Irish blood in him, showed himself the man for the occasion. The district was a broken and rugged piece of country near Camerontown, and swarmed with Maoris. If he wished to save his officers’ lives and the lives of the whole detachment, he had to act boldly.
Accordingly, leaving Corporal Ryan and three or four men to protect the wounded captain and lieutenant, and relying on the main body of the troops soon finding them, he went slap-dash at the Maoris on the hill in front of him. The charge scattered the natives to a safe distance. Then, night coming on, McKenna and his party camped in a convenient spot in the bush. Very soon, however, this position became unsafe. So back along the bush path they trailed, firing at their invisible enemy as they went, and having some other wounded now thrown on their hands.
Owing to the darkness and the intricacies of the bush, the sergeant eventually lost his way, and, as he said afterwards, there was nothing to do but to sit down and wait for daylight. So all through the night they squatted on the ground, McKenna mounting guard with ears alert for the faintest sound of an enemy; but fortunately none came. And in the morning he had the satisfaction of leading his party back to camp to report that only one was killed and two were missing out of the thirty-eight men he had manœuvred so skilfully.
Sergeant McKenna received a warm word of commendation in the despatches from General Cameron, the Commander-in-Chief, for that piece of business, together with the Victoria Cross, the same honour falling to Corporal Ryan, whose devotion to Captain Swift, however, failed to save that gallant officer’s life. Several of the others who figured prominently in the affair were rewarded with the Distinguished Conduct Medal.
Two very brilliant individual exploits that I may note here won the V.C. for Major C. Heaphy of the Auckland Militia, and Lieutenant-Colonel (afterwards Major-General Sir) John Carstairs McNeill, of the 107th Regiment.
Major Heaphy was engaged in a skirmish with Maoris on the banks of the Mangapiko River, Auckland, when a wounded private tumbled into the midst of a party of natives concealed in a hollow. Without a moment’s hesitation the major leaped down after him. Though wounded himself, with a dozen shot-holes in his clothes and cap, he stuck by his man, and in time got him safely away.