REINING IN HIS HORSE, HE TURNED TO CATCH VOSPER’S … AND HELPED THE ORDERLY TO REMOUNT.—Page 137.
The story of Colonel McNeill’s rescue is the story of a ride for life which finds a close parallel in the deed for which Lord William Beresford gained the V.C. in Zululand, as will be told hereafter. The colonel was returning from Te Awamuta, whither he had been sent on special duty, with two orderlies, Privates Gibson and Vosper, both of the Colonial Defence Force, when a body of the enemy was descried some distance ahead. Despatching Gibson to the nearest camp (at Ohanpu) for assistance, he rode a little way up the road to the summit of a hill to reconnoitre.
As McNeill, with Vosper by his side, trotted on, unsuspecting any ambush, keen eyes watched them from the thick ferns that bordered the road, and presently some fifty Maoris sprang out to intercept them. The moment the natives appeared the two horsemen wheeled and galloped back down the hill. They got a flying start, but an unlucky step into a hole brought Vosper’s horse to his knees, sending his rider head over heels into the ferns.
Then the colonel did a plucky thing. Reining in his horse, he turned to catch Vosper’s, which was galloping in the opposite direction, and leading it back helped the orderly to remount. He was just in the nick of time. A few seconds later, and the Maoris would have been on them. As it was, only a mad gallop at top speed carried them clear out of range of the bullets that whistled round them.
Vosper spoke nothing but the plain truth when he said that he owed his life entirely to his colonel; for he could not have caught his horse, on foot as he was, and the Maoris would have made short work of him.
The New Zealand War was brought to a close in 1864 by General Sir Trevor Chute, who broke the Maori power and stamped out the rebellion. Four or five years later there were renewed disturbances, massacres of settlers and raids upon outlying farms, but these were isolated cases. Since 1870 the natives have been content to live peaceably under the British rule.
In 1864, a few months before the Maori chiefs gave in their submission, a memorable fight took place near Tauranga, Auckland, memorable for the disgrace which it brought upon a British regiment, and for the act of heroism which gained the V.C. for an Army surgeon and a bluejacket. The story of it is as follows.
On the peninsula of Te Papa, in the Poverty Bay district of East Auckland, the Maoris had entrenched themselves in a very strong position. They had built a long stockade along the narrow strip of land connecting the peninsula with the coast, at Tauranga, with rifle-pits extending almost the whole length. This formidable fort was known as the Gate Pah, because it commanded the entrance to that region.
The natives chose the place for their stronghold wisely. The Gate Pah was guarded by great swamps on both sides, which rendered a flank attack impossible. The assault must come either from the front or rear. Fully alive to the difficulties of the task, General Cameron proceeded to attack this position on April 28th with a force of infantry (the 68th and 43rd Regiments) and two hundred seamen from the warships off the coast.
While some of the Naval Brigade and the 68th Regiment (the Durham Light Infantry) stole round at night to the rear of the stockade, the artillery the next morning opened fire in front, pouring shot and shell unceasingly for eight and a half hours into the pah. The Maoris responded at first with a brisk rifle-fire, but after a time this stopped. Dead silence reigned over the stockade, as if most of its inmates had been killed. Believing this to be the case, the 43rd Foot (the Oxfordshire Light Infantry, known popularly as “the Light Bobs” and “the Fighting Forty-third”) moved forward with a number of bluejackets to carry the place by storm.
That the fight was practically over seemed evident from the ease with which the troops drove out the few Maoris remaining in the pah. But the wily natives had laid a subtle ambush, to the success of which a regrettable accident contributed. As the Oxfordshires and the naval men followed up the pursuit in the gathering darkness, the detachment sent previously to the rear began firing into the medley of Maoris and British. Considerable confusion was caused, and both the 43rd and the sailors were ordered to retire.
This was done promptly, the troops regaining the shelter of the stockade. Here they had no fear of danger, for the place was apparently deserted, and only the fugitive Maoris, who had rallied, menaced them. They wandered about the pah in careless disorder, some even laying aside their rifles, when suddenly from the ground beneath them a whole host of native warriors appeared, rising like apparitions in their midst. In cunningly concealed holes and rifle-pits, covered over with branches and pieces of turf, the Maoris had awaited the coming of the pakehas.
Before this mysterious ghostly enemy, who fell upon them with rifle and war-club, the soldiers and sailors fled in wild confusion. A perfect panic set in, and every man sought to save his own skin.
It is difficult to locate the blame in instances of this kind. British troops and British officers have been seized with panic before under the stress of great excitement, and the same thing will probably happen again. Human courage is, after all, an uncertain quantity; an admittedly brave man has more than once failed at a critical moment through lack of nerve or some less explicable reason and turned coward. Was there not the well-known case of a lieutenant-colonel (his name is charitably concealed) in the Indian Mutiny, whose conduct Sir Colin Campbell characterised in a vigorous despatch as “pusillanimous and imbecile to the last degree,” before dismissing him from the service? This officer had a distinguished record, but a momentary weakness led him to surrender an important position without cause and blasted his whole career.
In the panic that set in when the hideous tattooed faces of the Maoris rose up so uncannily from the depths of the earth the slaughter of our men was terrific. Officers and privates alike fell easy victims to the well-armed natives. Then it was that Assistant-Surgeon William G. N. Manley, R.A., and Samuel Mitchell, captain of the foretop of H.M.S. Harrier, won glory for themselves by a gallant rescue.
Commander Hay, of the Naval Brigade, fell badly wounded at the first discharge, and lay groaning in the middle of the pah. All were in full flight, but seeing his officer helpless on the ground Mitchell ran to his side, picked him up in his strong arms and bore him outside the stockade. Here he found Dr. Manley, who oblivious to the bullets that fell thickly around, bound up the commander’s wounds. That done, he and Mitchell conveyed the dying man back to camp.
Not content with having done that duty, the brave surgeon returned voluntarily to the pah and coolly set about tending the wounded. They lay there in heaps, alas! and he had all his work to do to get them removed to a place of safety. The fire which swept the stockade is said to have been terrible, yet not a scratch did he receive the whole time, and he was the last to leave the pah. Both Dr. Manley and Mitchell were awarded the Cross for Valour some months later, for the heroism that in part redeemed the Gate Pah disaster.
As for the Fighting Forty-third, whose colours bore the names of Corunna, Badajoz, Vittoria, and many another famous fight of the Peninsular War, the memory of that night of panic rankled deep in their minds. They swore a solemn vow that the next time they came to grips with the Maoris the enemy should remember it. It was at Tuaranga that they got their chance, on June 21st of the same year, and on this day one of their officers, Captain Frederick Augustus Smith, won the Cross for leaping into a rifle-pit and routing a number of the Maoris single-handed.
This made the second V.C. that the 43rd won, by the way, the first having been given in 1859 to Private Addison for saving the life of an officer in India.
CHAPTER XVII
IN ASHANTI BUSH AND MALAY JUNGLE.
It is a big leap from Maoriland to West Africa, but it is there, to Ashanti, that we must go to see how the next Crosses on the roll were won.
Ashanti, as the map shows, is in the Upper Guinea district, immediately inland of the Gold Coast. Seventy thousand square miles in extent, it is thickly covered with forests of mahogany, ebony, and other valuable hardwood trees, except where it is given up to vast mangrove swamps that are no good to anybody. Its people are pure negroes, thick-lipped, flat-nosed, with woolly hair and projecting jaws. They are a savage, cruel race, fetish-worshippers like most of the tribes in West Africa, who have been notorious for the revolting form of their religious rites.
Until the custom of making human sacrifices was put down with a strong hand by Great Britain, Coomassie, the capital, was as much a City of Blood as was the ill-famed Benin, a very different place from the town of to-day, with its wide, regular streets and stuccoed houses painted red and white.
With this country of Ashanti we have come repeatedly into conflict from the early days of last century, when trading stations became established on the coast. The Dutch, too, found their way thither with the same object in view, and out of the rivalry between them and us trouble arose that came to a head in 1872. In that year the Dutch traders who had established themselves on the Gold Coast were bought out by us, their possessions being transferred to this country in return for some land concessions in the island of Sumatra. To this arrangement King Coffee of Ashanti took exception, as he lost thereby certain annual tributes which the Dutch had hitherto paid him, and by way of showing his resentment he carried off several missionaries and attacked our allies the Fantis.
It was necessary to bring King Coffee and his turbulent subjects to reason, so in September 1873 Sir Garnet Wolseley was sent out to Ashanti with an expedition. The task was no easy one, for before Coomassie was reached the troops had to fight their way through the bush, and the African bush is not to be treated lightly, with its tangled masses of vegetation, dark belts of forest, rivers and morasses. Moreover, the campaign had to be completed before the hot season came on, when the terrors of pestilence and fever would have to be faced.
That Sir Garnet Wolseley did accomplish the task set him is a matter of history. By February of the following year King Coffee was forced to make peace, one of the terms being that he should discontinue human sacrifices.
In this five months’ campaign four Victoria Crosses were won, and of these the first two fell to Lieutenant the Hon. Edric Gifford (the present Lord Gifford) and Lance-Sergeant Samuel McGaw of the 42nd Regiment. The latter earned his distinction at the battle of Amoaful, the first victory of any consequence, when the Ashantis were completely routed. At that engagement McGaw led his company through the dense bush in splendid style, himself fighting all through the day, although suffering from a very severe wound received at the commencement of the battle.
Lord Gifford’s Cross was won for a long series of useful services rendered to his commander, though more particularly for his exceptional bravery at the taking of the town of Becquah on February 1st, 1874. At the beginning of the campaign (his first taste of active service, by the way) he organised a body of scouts, loyal natives who knew the country well and could be relied on. With this little band he ranged ahead of the army, hanging upon the enemy’s skirts, so to speak, and ferreting out their intentions by means of his spies. It was dangerous, highly dangerous, work, for it meant thrusting himself almost into the very arms of a foe who showed no mercy in war.
“It is no exaggeration,” says the official account, “to say that since the Adansi Hills were passed he daily carried his life in his hands in the performance of his most hazardous duty.” With no other white man by him, Lieutenant Gifford captured many prisoners, and the information he was able to procure for his chief was naturally of the utmost value.
If he carried his life in his hand while out scouting there is no doubt that he did the same at the taking of Becquah. Gifford and his scouts were through the stockade and into the town some time before the troops stormed it, and were in the thick of the fighting throughout. Of that day’s work, as well as of the scouting in the bush, Sir Garnet took full note when sending his despatches, and the young lieutenant of the South Wales Borderers saw himself duly gazetted.
Major Reginald Sartorius (now a Major-General) is another V.C. man who gained his decoration in far-off Ashanti. At the attack on Abogoo he bravely risked his life to save a wounded Haussa sergeant-major who had fallen under a heavy fire; and he is also famous for a most plucky ride through the heart of the enemy’s country to establish connection between the main body and Captain Glover’s column.
The name of Sartorius, it may be mentioned, is like that of Gough in figuring twice in the honoured list of V.C.’s, and in each case it is two brothers who have thus won double distinction. Major-General Euston Henry Sartorius received his Cross for an exploit in Afghanistan, mention of which will be found in the next chapter.
Next on my list of Ashanti heroes comes Colonel Mark Sever Bell, a distinguished Engineer officer of many campaigns. The battle at Ordahsu in January of 1874 saw him in the very fore-front of the British line alone with a working gang of Fantis, digging a trench. A severe fire from both front and rear played upon them, and—what is said to be an almost unparalleled incident in warfare—they were not protected by a covering party.
The Fantis, to whose qualities Miss Kingsley has paid high tribute, are not warriors of the first order, however faithful they may be as servants; and that Lieutenant Bell (to give him the rank he then bore) got them to work in such circumstances was due solely to his fearless and courageous bearing. When he came in from the trench it was to receive the generous compliments of his chief, Colonel Sir John McLeod, who had considered his chances of getting back alive extremely slight. The V.C. followed at the latter officer’s recommendation.
Although it is not strictly in chronological order, I may note here that in 1900 there was again trouble in Ashanti, which resulted in two more V.C.’s being won. Of these one went to Captain Melliss, of the Indian Staff Corps, and the other to Sergeant (now Captain) John Mackenzie, of the Seaforths.
Mackenzie’s gallantry was most marked. At the attack on Dompoassi in June he found the fight progressing too slowly for him. He had been working two Maxim guns under a hot fire (being wounded while doing so), but the enemy held their position as obstinately as ever. So to “finish the business” the sergeant volunteered to clear the stockades, and at the head of a body of Haussas he charged boldly upon them. The blacks followed his lead with spirit; before their headlong rush the Ashantis fled into the bush, and shortly after Dompoassi was ours.
Just a year after the Ashanti trouble there was an outbreak in the Malay Peninsula which called for a punitive expedition. The little brown men of Perak, own brothers to the head-hunting Dyaks of Borneo, had to be taught the lesson that Great Britain will not tolerate outrages upon her subjects.
With the column that marched up through the jungle upon the Malay strongholds was Major George Nicholas Channer, of the Bengal Staff Corps, who had joined the Indian Army just too late to take part in the suppression of the Mutiny, but in time to see service in the Umbeyla campaign of 1863. Both here and in the Looshai country a few years later he showed himself a dashing leader of native troops, and the 1st Ghurkas were by no means ill-pleased when they learned that he was attached to them for the Perak expedition. Major Channer, for his part, was glad of the chance of seeing another fight, though he little guessed that it was to afford him an opportunity of winning the V.C. and covering himself with glory. Yet such proved to be the case.
On its way northwards the force eventually reached the Bukit Putus Pass, the most difficult part of the journey to be traversed. All around was dense jungle and impenetrable forest, in which a host of Malays lay in wait to harass the troops. How numerous were the enemy could not be ascertained, nor how strong were their defences, and it was important that information on these points should be obtained or the column might blunder into an ambush. Major Channer was selected as the officer best fitted to procure this intelligence, and with a small party of his wiry little Ghurkas he struck off one day into the wilds.
Making a long detour, he worked his way round to the rear of the enemy’s position without any mishap. Here he found that the Malays were strongly posted in a solid log-fort, loopholed on every side and surrounded by a formidable bamboo palisade. As he peered at it through the trees a number of black forms flitted busily to and fro, showing that the fort was well garrisoned.
Channer had learned enough to see that the troops would have considerable difficulty in carrying the position, and might well have returned to make his report. But he was not content with merely having done so much. He determined to make a closer inspection to discover, if possible, where was the weakest spot in the defences.
At night, therefore, leaving his men hidden within call in the jungle, he crept stealthily up through the long grass to the outer stockade. All was still, for the Malays had mounted no guard on that side of the fort. Raising himself cautiously to his knees, he peeped between the bamboo poles and saw that the garrison was all intent on cooking its supper. At once a daring idea came into his head. Quickly dropping back into the long grass, the major wormed his way towards the spot where his faithful Ghurkas were waiting and beckoned them to join him. Then he explained that he intended to take the Malays by surprise and rush the fort.
The Ghurkas were gleefully ready for a job like this, and at the word followed him noiselessly to the point in the palisade whence he had observed the unsuspecting Malays. A quick scramble over and the whole party were inside. The first man who offered resistance Major Channer shot dead with his revolver. The rest stood aghast at the unexpected spectacle of a white officer in their midst, and before they could recover from their astonishment the Ghurkas in their neat green uniforms and little round caps were among them, using their keen kukris with deadly effect. The surprise was complete. The Malays, ignorant of the numbers of their assailants, abandoned the fort and fled precipitately into the jungle.
A message to the main body soon brought up the troops, when the fort was destroyed, leaving the way clear for the march to be continued. But for Major Channer’s bold attack the fort would have had to be carried by a bayonet charge, as it was secure from the big guns, and much loss of life must have been caused. His act, therefore, was one of the greatest service to the expedition.
The gallant major, who got his Cross a few months later, afterwards served with considerable distinction under Lord Roberts in Afghanistan, and commanded a brigade in the Black Mountain (Hazara) expedition of 1888. He died at his home in North Devon only at the end of last year, a General and a C.B.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW SOME AFGHAN CROSSES WERE WON.
The war which broke out in Afghanistan in 1878 and lasted two years was of a far more serious nature than the campaign in Ashanti which I have just dealt with. It was at bottom a struggle to assert our supremacy on the Indian frontier, where Russia was beginning to menace us, and on its result hung the fortunes of a large part of Asia. Before I tell of how several notable V.C.’s were gained in the hill-fighting round Candahar and Cabul it is necessary to say a few words about the war itself, in order that we may properly understand the situation.
Trouble over Afghanistan began very early in the nineteenth century, but Great Britain maintained a firm hold over the country and its Amir until the advent to the throne of Shere Ali Khan. This turbulent ruler was a very go-ahead monarch indeed. He organised a splendid army, well-drilled and well-equipped with modern arms, and spent some years in military preparations which could have had only one object—the ultimate overthrow of British influence in that part of the world.
That Russia and Russian money was behind all this has been made very clear. The go-ahead Shere Ali went ahead so far that he made overtures to the Muscovite Government and received a Russian mission at Cabul. When Lord Roberts reached the capital after his victorious march he found, he says, “Afghan Sirdars and officers arrayed in Russian pattern uniforms, Russian money in the treasury, Russian wares sold in the bazaars; and, although the roads leading to Central Asia were certainly no better than those leading to India, Russia had taken more advantage of them than we had to carry on commercial dealings with Afghanistan.”
Our first move was to establish a British mission at Cabul, but this met with failure. Then Shere Ali, after abdicating in favour of his son, Yakoub Khan, conveniently died, and our prospects improved. A mission, at the head of which was Sir Louis Cavagnari, was received at the capital, and all seemed to be going well when the civilised world was startled by the news that Cavagnari and all with him had been massacred.
Without any loss of time, Lord Roberts (then Major-General Frederick Sleigh Roberts) started from India with an army to avenge this atrocity. After some stiff fighting, he reached Cabul and deposed the Amir. There were left, however, a number of minor chiefs who continued to stir up trouble. Of these the leading spirit was the ex-Amir’s brother, Ayoub Khan, who inflicted a defeat upon us at the battle of Maiwand and proceeded to invest Candahar.
Upon this followed Roberts’ historic march from Cabul to Candahar which won him a baronetcy and a G.C.B. In this descent upon Ayoub Khan he utterly routed the Afghan leader and quieted the country. A new Amir, Abdur Rahman (nephew of Shere Ali) was now installed, with the necessary proviso that Afghanistan should have no foreign relations with any power except the Government of India, and the British army was withdrawn.
The first V.C. of the campaign was gained by Captain John Cook, of the Bengal Staff Corps, for a singularly gallant rescue of a brother-officer. It was during the month of December 1878, while General Roberts was on his way to Cabul, whither he was escorting Cavagnari’s mission. There had been several encounters with the Afghans, for the latter had shown themselves hostile all along the line of route, and a decisive engagement was fought at the Peiwar Kotal, in the Kuram district. (A “kotal,” it may be explained, is the highest point in a mountain pass.)
At this fight a slender column was detached from the main body and sent round to force a position in the Spingawi Kotal, where the enemy had entrenched themselves. The attack was made at night, and although, through the treachery of some Pathans with the column, the alarm was given, the Afghans were driven out.
Side by side Highlanders and Ghurkas, who had been good friends ever since they fought together in the Mutiny, charged up the steep rocky hillside, through a forest of pines, and carried one stockade after another. As the enemy broke before them, Major Galbraith, Assistant-Adjutant-General to the force, was suddenly attacked by a powerful Afghan. The major’s revolver missed fire when he aimed, and it is more than probable that he would have been shot down at once had not Captain Cook rushed to his rescue.
A blow from his sword having diverted the Afghan’s attention, Cook threw himself bodily upon the man and closed with him. They struggled together thus for some little time, locked in a deadly embrace, the Afghan endeavouring vainly to use his bayonet and the captain his sword. Then, gripping his opponent by the throat, Cook fell with him to the ground, only to have his sword-arm seized by the Afghan’s strong teeth. Another roll over gave the latter a slight advantage, but only for a moment. At this critical juncture a little Ghurka ran up and shot the fellow through the head.
Captain Cook was decorated for this exploit on the Queen’s Birthday in the May following, at a grand parade at Kuram, but he did not live long to wear his Cross. He died of a severe wound twelve months later.
In March of 1879 a gallant little action was fought near Maidanah of which scant mention is made outside official records. It may be fittingly recorded here, as it was the means of bringing distinction to a young captain of Engineers who now writes himself Lieut.-General Edward Pemberton Leach, V.C., C.B.
Leach was out on survey duty in the Maidanah district with an escort of Rattray’s Sikhs under the command of Lieutenant Barclay. While thus engaged a body of Afghans appeared in close proximity and endeavoured to cut them off. The Sikhs having fallen slowly back, under orders, the Afghans became more bold, and in still larger numbers pressed nearer. Then there was a sudden rush, a volley, and Lieutenant Barclay fell shot in the breast.
To get the wounded officer back to camp in safety was Leach’s first thought. The Afghans must be kept at a safe distance. With all the Sikhs, therefore, save the two or three needed to attend to Barclay, he formed up and charged with bayonets fixed straight into the oncoming enemy.
They were a score or so against a hundred, but desperate men take desperate risks. Leach himself was immediately attacked by four Afghans, two of whom he shot in quick succession. The third grappled with him, but another shot from the unerring revolver settled him, and the captain turned to meet his fourth assailant. He was not a moment too soon. The Afghan had slipped round to attack him from the rear, and as Leach’s left arm went up in defence it received on it the blow from an Afghan knife that was aimed at his back.
A slash from his sword laid the Pathan low. Then wounded as he was, with blood streaming fast from his arm, the captain dashed on into the mêlée, and gathering his men together for another fierce charge sent the enemy tumbling backwards in confusion. But the little company was not even then out of danger. The retreat led them along a narrow rocky road, from the sides of which the Afghans continued to pepper them, and a last charge was necessary to scatter them. Fortunately, just after this a cavalry troop, attracted by the noise of firing, came up and relieved them.
Captain Leach was promptly awarded the Cross for Valour for his bravery, but though he had succeeded in saving the party from certain annihilation, his satisfaction was clouded over by one great sorrow. Poor Lieutenant Barclay died soon afterwards from his wound.
The next V.C., the story of which I have to tell, is that of Lieutenant Hamilton,—“Hamilton of the Guides,”—whose brilliant career was cut all too short at Cabul in the massacre of Cavagnari’s ill-fated mission. Having joined Brigadier-General Gough’s force, which was keeping clear the line of communication between Jellalabad and Cabul, Lieutenant Hamilton saw plenty of fighting with the hill-tribes in the vicinity. At Futtehabad, in April 1879, there was an engagement with a considerable body of Afghans, and in this fight he made himself conspicuous.
At the moment that the scale of victory was turning in our favour, the Guides, led by their beloved commander, Major Wigram Battye, charged into the Afghan ranks. Battye fell shot through the heart at the first volley, and the leadership devolved on Hamilton, who led them on, more fierce than ever. In the mêlée that now ensued Dowlut Ram, a sowar riding by the lieutenant’s side, was bowled over and instantly threatened with death from three Afghan knives. Wheeling his horse, Hamilton cut his way to the fallen man’s side, dragged him from beneath his dead horse, and carried him off right under the enemy’s nose.
For this act he was recommended for the Cross, but to everyone’s disappointment it was not awarded him. Only after he had fallen beneath Afghan swords at Cabul, five months later, was his heroism acknowledged. Then followed the tardy announcement that had he lived her Majesty would have been pleased to confer the honour of the Victoria Cross upon him.
Hamilton’s end was an heroic one. Early one September morning in 1879 the Residency at Cabul in which Sir Louis Cavagnari and his staff had taken up their quarters was attacked and fired by the Afghans. The only defenders of the place were the Guides, a mere handful of men under Lieutenant Hamilton’s command. Soon the building was stormed, and Cavagnari with his suite brutally massacred. Hamilton alone remained, the last Englishman left alive in Cabul.
Driven from room to room, he and his men at last reached the courtyard to make their last stand. In vain did the Afghans call on the Guides to join them, saying they had no quarrel with men of their own race. The Guides were loyal to the oath they had sworn. As one man they formed up behind their gallant leader, dressed their ranks, and flung wide
Then with a cheer out they dashed at the horde before them, in the mad endeavour to cut their way through. It was a forlorn hope. The enemy closed round them like a dark sea,
How Hamilton himself fell was learned afterwards from the Afghans, who could appreciate such dauntless courage as his. They said he fought like a lion at bay, sweeping a space clear around him with his sword; and it was only by the reckless sacrifice of a few of their number, who threw themselves upon him and were shot or sabred, that the rest were able to pull him down. Then a dozen knives buried themselves in his body, and all was over.
The record of the Afghan War teems with heroic exploits, but only a few more can be touched on here. There was, for instance, the gallant rescue of a wounded Bengal Lancer at Dakka, by Lieutenant Reginald Clare Hart (now a Lieut.-General and K.C.B.). “I am going for the V.C. to-day!” he said to his brother-officers on the morning of the engagement; and he won it, after running some twelve hundred yards under the Afghan fire to pull the disabled sowar out of a river bed.
At about the same time Captain O’Moor Creagh with a detachment of one hundred and fifty men held off fifteen thousand Afghans who attacked him near the village of Ram Dakka; a brilliant feat that was only equalled by Captain Vousden, of the 5th Punjab Cavalry, who some time later charged into a body of four hundred of the enemy with simply twelve sowars at his back, and dispersed them!
There were Crosses for both these brave captains, just as there was one for Captain E. H. Sartorius (brother of the Ashanti hero) for a dashing charge which cleared a strong force of the enemy from the Shah Juy hill at Tazi.
Mention of Sartorius recalls the somewhat similar deeds which gained a V.C. for a distinguished major of the 92nd Highlanders, who is now the popular Field-Marshal Sir George Stewart White, G.C.B., etc. On his Cross two dates figure, October 6, 1879, and September 1, 1880. The first denotes the action at Charasiah, where the Afghans were defeated, much to the chagrin of the treacherous Amir Yakoub Khan, who had laid plans for the complete annihilation of the British army.
There was a hill to be taken, on which the enemy had mustered in large numbers, and at the word of command two companies of the “Gay Gordons,” with Major White at their head, breasted the slope and raced up. The major was easily first. Leaving the rest to follow, he tore ahead and bearded the Afghans single-handed, shooting their leader dead with his revolver. This act brought him high praise from General Roberts, who went over the ground with him next day and noted the difficulties that had to be encountered.
On the second occasion Major White was with his Gordons at Candahar, assisting in the rout of Ayoub Khan. At an important stage of the battle a desperate stand was made by the Afghans at the Baba Wali Kotal, and it became necessary to storm the position, or the wavering enemy would have time to rally.
“Now, 92nd,” cried their leader, “just one charge more to close the business!” The Gordons answered with a shout, and accompanied by the 2nd Ghurkas and 23rd Pioneers they streamed up the hill to carry it with bayonets. As always, Major White was well in front. He was the first to reach the guns, the next man being Sepoy Inderbir Lama, who placed his rifle on one of them and exclaimed proudly, “Captured in the name of the 2nd Ghurkas!”
That charge did “close the business.” The Afghans broke and fled, and the troops went on to capture Ayoub Khan’s enormous camp with his artillery, thirty-two pieces in all, among them being found two of our Horse Artillery guns that had been taken at Maiwand in July.
I cannot close this chapter without telling how Padre Adams won his V.C. The only clergyman to have received the decoration, he stands in a unique position, although, as I have said already, at least one other Army chaplain deserved it.
The Rev. James William Adams, B.A. (to give him his full title), was attached to the Cabul Field Force and marched up to the Amir’s capital with the troops when they went to avenge Cavagnari’s death. Liking to be always at the front when any fighting was going on, he acted as aide-de-camp to General Roberts on several occasions, making himself very useful. It was in this capacity that he was accompanying Roberts when, on December 11th, 1879, the main body of the force encountered Mahommed Jan’s army near Sherpur and, owing to a miscarriage of plans, was obliged to beat a temporary retreat.
In the retiring movement some of the guns were in danger of falling into the Afghans’ hands, so a troop of the 9th Lancers, with a few of the 14th Bengal Lancers, made a gallant attempt to hold the enemy in check. The charge was brilliant but disastrous. Men and horses went down like ninepins, many of them falling into a deep ditch, or nullah, in which one or two of the guns had already come to grief.
Seeing a wounded, dismounted man of the 9th staggering towards him, Adams jumped off his charger and tried to lift the poor fellow into the saddle, but the animal, a very valuable mare, took fright and bolted. Still supporting the lancer, the chaplain helped him on his way to the rear, where some of his comrades took him in charge.
Returning at once to the front, Adams observed two more men of the 9th in the ditch who were in difficulties. Their horses had rolled over on to them, and they were struggling vainly to get free. The advancing Afghans were now pretty close, and General Roberts called out to the chaplain to look after himself; but the “fighting parson,” as his men called him, was a true hero. Leaping down into the ditch without a moment’s hesitation, he splashed his way through the mud and water to the lancers’ rescue. A few strong pulls of his brawny arms (he was an unusually powerful man) quickly released the imprisoned men, and he had them safe on the top of the bank ere the first of the Afghans had reached the nullah.
Padre Adams had long been the idol of the men to whom he ministered, and there was general rejoicing in the Army when his name in due course appeared in the Gazette. There was keen regret, too, some years later when he bade farewell to the service he loved, and returned home to settle down in a peaceful Norfolk rectory.
It seems only the other day that his tall well-built figure was to be met striding along the lanes round Stow Bardolph and Downham Market, and it is hard to realise that nearly three years have now passed since death took “the V.C. parson” from our midst.
CHAPTER XIX.
MAIWAND.—A GUNNER’S STORY.
The one disaster of the Afghan campaign of 1878-80 was the defeat of General Burrows’ force at Maiwand by an army of 25,000 men under the leadership of Ayoub Khan himself. It had been expected that the Amir would follow a certain route on his way to Ghazni and Candahar, and Burrows had been warned to be on the look-out. That the British general failed to stay the Amir’s progress when the two armies came into conflict at Maiwand was due to the smallness of his force, which numbered less than 3000 men; to the desertion of a large number of native levies; and to the fact that the native portion of the brigade got out of hand soon after the fight had started, and impeded the British troops.
Continuing his march after this signal victory, Ayoub Khan proceeded to Candahar and commenced the siege of that city. How he was speedily followed by General Roberts and in turn defeated has been already told.
The battle of Maiwand was fought on July 27th, 1880. Early on the morning of that day Burrows’ brigade, including the 66th Regiment, “the Green Howards,” and some Royal Horse Artillery, and encumbered with a large number of camels, baggage waggons, camp followers, etc., moved out from the camp at Khushk-i-Nakhud. This position was about forty miles from Candahar. The Afghan army was to be intercepted at the village of Maiwand, eleven miles away.
Riding with the guns of the Horse Artillery that summer morning were two men, Sergeant Patrick Mullane and Gunner James Collis, who were destined to win no little glory in the somewhat inglorious fight. They were by no means the only heroes of Maiwand, for many stirring deeds were done that day; but the slaughter was terrific, and of all who earned the honour of the V.C. only these two survived.
As an example of the courage displayed by the British troops the story may be told of how, when our native infantry broke and fled before the Afghan attack, the 66th Regiment was left alone to receive the onset of the enemy. Such a small body of men could do nothing, however valiantly they fought, and very reluctantly they obeyed the order to fall back. Following up their advantage, the Afghans now pressed them more closely. In among the doomed soldiers leapt the white-robed Pathans, stabbing and slashing with their long knives until they succeeded in breaking up the men into small parties, who could be more easily cut down.
Towards the end of the day a little company of the 66th, officers and men, gathered together for a last stand in a little village some distance from Maiwand. Surrounded by a yelling horde, they fired volley after volley, but the return fire of the enemy gradually thinned their ranks. At length, so it is recorded, ten privates and one officer alone remained. Back to back stood the brave eleven, determined never to give in, for the honour of the regiment and their country. And one by one they dropped where they stood, until, it is related, but one man remained erect, facing his foes undaunted. One man against some hundreds. Then the Afghan rifles spoke out once more, and the last of that stricken remnant fell with a bullet through his heart.
But it is of Mullane and Collis that I propose to speak here, and of how they won their V.C.’s. After the fortune of the battle was decided and the stricken British brigade commenced its retreat to Candahar the Royal Horse Artillery made many gallant attempts to beat off the pursuing Afghans. Indeed, but for the masterly way in which they worked their guns, the losses on our side must have been considerably greater than they were.
Sergeant Mullane stood by his gun on one of these occasions, and after a round or two had been fired helped to limber up smartly to follow the force. As the gun moved on a driver was seen to fall. The Afghans were tearing after the fugitives at full speed, and the wounded man lay directly in their path.
Only a daring man would have ventured to turn and face that fierce oncoming crowd; but “Paddy” Mullane was that man. Racing back to where the driver lay, he lifted him up in his arms and, being a big strong fellow, quickly carried him out of the enemy’s reach. It was a narrow squeak, however; as he turned with his burden to make for his comrades, the nearest Afghans were within a few yards of him, and one or two wild shots whizzed by his ears.
The next day, while the retreat continued, Mullane performed another gallant action, which was duly noted on his Cross. Most of the troops, and particularly the wounded, suffered terribly from thirst in the glare of the sun, and it was impossible to obtain drink from the hostile villages they passed through.
At last Sergeant Mullane could stand the cries of distress no longer. “I’m off to get some water,” he announced briefly to his comrades, when they neared another village. And, doubling to the nearest houses, he managed to procure a good supply, with which he ran hastily back, while the infuriated villagers peppered him hotly. Fortunately for him their marksmanship was none too good, and not a shot struck him, though several went so close as to make him realise the risk he had run.
Of how Gunner Collis bore himself in that retreat from Maiwand we have been told in his own words, and I cannot do better than follow the account he gives. He was limber gunner, he says, in his battery, and when an Afghan shell killed four of the gunners and Sergeant Wood, only three were left to work the piece. Taking the sergeant’s place, he went on firing, but was soon almost borne down by panic-stricken fugitives, who threw themselves both under and on the gun.
On the native infantry and cavalry breaking up in confusion the guns limbered up and fell back at a gallop for some two thousand yards. Here another two rounds were fired, but again the order came to retire, for the enemy were advancing rapidly. A mounted Afghan even caught up with the gun on which Collis sat and slashed at him fiercely as he passed. The sword cut the gunner over the left eyebrow. As the Afghan wheeled and rode at him again Collis raised his carbine, and at about five yards’ range let drive. The shot struck the sowar on the chest, causing him to fall from his horse. In doing so some money rattled out of his turban, and Collis relates that Trumpeter Jones, R.H.A., jumped off his horse and picked it up.
Dusk now came fast upon the fugitives, and having stepped aside at a village to try and secure some water, Collis lost his gun. He accordingly attached himself to No. 2, sticking to it all the way to Candahar.
By the wayside, as they went along, lay many wounded. As many of these as he could the gallant gunner picked up and placed on his gun. He collected ten altogether, every one a 66th man, except a colonel whom he did not know. Presently the wounded began to beg for water, and like Mullane, Collis could not bear to hear their cries without making an effort to satisfy them.
At a village near Kokeran, the next day, he made a dash for some water, which he was successful in obtaining. Here, he records, he saw Lieutenant Maclaine, of the Royal Horse Artillery, and he was almost the last man to see him alive. The lieutenant was captured immediately afterwards, kept a close prisoner by Ayoub Khan, and eventually found lying with his throat cut outside the Amir’s tent at Candahar, after the Afghan leader’s flight.
A second journey for water becoming necessary, Collis set off again for the village. He was returning with a fresh supply when he beheld some ten or twelve of the enemy’s cavalry approaching the gun. The gun went off, and, throwing himself down in a little nullah, Collis waited until it passed by. Then, with a rifle which he had obtained from a 66th private, he opened fire upon the Afghans, in order to draw them from the gun and the wounded.
Not knowing how many were concealed in the nullah, the Afghans halted and answered his fire. They fortunately failed to hit the plucky gunner, but from his vantage he scored heavily against them, killing two men and a horse. From a distance of three hundred yards, however, they came pretty close to him, and he must have been discovered had not General Nuttall arrived on the scene with some native cavalry and made them turn tail.
“You’re a gallant young man,” said the General. “What is your name?”
“Gunner Collis, sir, of E. of B., R.H.A.,” answered the gunner in business-like fashion, and the details were promptly noted in the General’s pocket-book.
Then Collis hastened after his gun, which he caught up with after a five hundred yards’ chase, and after running the gauntlet of the enemy’s fire for several miles farther, went safely in with it into Candahar. He arrived there at seven in the evening, having been marching for a whole night and day since the battle.
There is yet another brave act to be recorded of Gunner Collis, which contributed to gain him his well-earned Cross for Valour. While the garrison under General Primrose were besieged in Candahar, anxiously awaiting the arrival of General Roberts’ relief column, various sorties were made upon the enemy. On one of these occasions, in the middle of August, Collis was standing by his gun on the rampart of the fort when Generals Primrose and Nuttall passed in earnest conversation with Colonel Burnet.
Hearing one of the former say that he wished he could send a message to General Dewberry, who was fighting away out in the village, the gunner stepped up to Colonel Burnet and touched him on the arm.
“I think I can take the message, sir,” he said, giving a salute.
The officers were doubtful about allowing him to go on so dangerous an errand, but after a little hesitation General Primrose wrote a note which Collis slipped into his pocket. Then, a rope having been brought, the gunner was lowered over the parapet into the ditch, about forty feet below. He was fired at by the enemy’s matchlock men as he slid down, but luckily they were too far off to aim accurately.
Reaching the village safely, he delivered his message to General Dewberry, and, dodging the enemy, returned to clamber up the rope. While half way up the Afghans tried to “pot” him again, and this time a bullet came close enough to cut off the heel of his left boot.
At the instance of General Nuttall and Colonel Burnet, General Roberts recommended the brave gunner for the V.C., and much to Collis’s surprise it was presented to him on July 28th, 1881.
CHAPTER XX.
ZULULAND.—THE DASH WITH THE COLOURS FROM
ISANDHLANA.
At the same time that the war in Afghanistan was being carried to a successful issue serious trouble was brewing in South Africa. The Zulus under Cetewayo, who had long been restless, now threatened to overrun Natal and the Transvaal, and precipitate a general revolt of the black races against the white.
To go into the whole history of the quarrel would take too long, but it may be said that the grievances of the natives arose out of long-standing feuds between them and the Boers over the seizure of land. The immediate cause of the war was a dispute over a strip of territory extending along the left bank of the Tugela River into Zululand. To this piece of land the Zulus obstinately asserted their right, and their claim was upheld by a Commission which was appointed to inquire into the matter.
After the annexation of the Transvaal by Great Britain in 1877 Sir Bartle Frere had been sent out to South Africa as High Commissioner, and unfortunately for everyone concerned he now strongly opposed the arbitrators’ award. Regarding Cetewayo as a dangerous enemy, as a cruel, savage monarch whose power it was necessary to curb, he withheld the award for several months, in the course of which time the Zulu king nursed an ever-growing resentment towards the British.
In this interval Cetewayo, who set himself to follow in the steps of his uncle, the famous chief Dingaan, perpetrated many atrocities which showed him to be a bloodthirsty tyrant. When he was remonstrated with for his cruelties he insolently answered that the killing he had done was nothing to the killing he intended to do, a reply which was taken as a warning that the Zulus looked forward to “washing their spears” in the blood of white men.
A raid into Natal to recapture some native women who had fled thither for protection, and the subsequent murder of the captives, increased Sir Bartle Frere’s determination to take strong measures against Cetewayo. Accordingly, when the award was announced to the king it was accompanied with an ultimatum that the vast Zulu army must be disbanded and certain objectionable practices discontinued.
Cetewayo, looking over his impis, which numbered some 50,000 warriors—all well drilled and well armed—laughed at the proposal. His army had measured itself against the white men already and with no little success. So the thirty days of grace allowed him passed unheeded, and, war having been declared, a British force crossed the Tugela into Zululand.
Lord Chelmsford, who commanded the troops, divided his little army into three main columns. One marched to an important station in the Transvaal; another to a position near the mouth of the Tugela; and the third—the invading force—to Rorke’s Drift, on the banks of the Buffalo River, thence to cross over into Zululand. It was to this last column that the great defeat at Isandhlana befell, a disaster which filled all England with consternation when the news of it arrived. And to it belongs the story of how Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill made that desperate dash to escape with the regimental colours of the 24th that won them everlasting fame.
How the disaster occurred is soon told. Although advised by Boer veterans well versed in Zulu warfare as to the necessity of laagering his waggons every evening and of throwing out scouts well in advance, Lord Chelmsford preferred to adopt his own tactics. He was an experienced and brave officer, whose record of active service included the Crimean, Indian Mutiny, and Abyssinian campaigns, but he now made the fatal mistake of despising the enemy before him.
After one or two successful skirmishes with the Zulus, the little force of about 1300 men marched up through the country, crossed the Buffalo River, and encamped at the foot of a hill known to the natives as Isandhlana, “the lion’s hill.” Here the tents were pitched but no laager formed; no proper precautions taken to guard against an attack.
This was negligence enough, but worse was to follow. Two small reconnoitring parties who were sent out on January 21st were alarmed by the sight of a large body of Zulus not far away. In some haste they sent to the camp for reinforcements. On receipt of this intelligence Lord Chelmsford got together several companies of the 24th, some mounted infantry and a few guns, and at a very early hour the next morning started out to meet, as he confidently supposed, Cetewayo’s main army. A body of Zulus was encountered and repulsed, but they did not form the larger portion of Cetewayo’s impis. While the British commander-in-chief was thus decoyed from his base, an army of 20,000 Zulus was hastening fleet-footed round the hills, to swoop down upon the doomed camp.
At Isandhlana only eight hundred men had been left. These comprised a handful of Mounted Infantry and Volunteers, seventy of the Royal Artillery with two guns, and some companies of the 24th Regiment and the Natal Carabineers. This puny force was under the command of Colonel Durnford, R.E., who had been hastily summoned thither from Rorke’s Drift.
Lord Chelmsford marched out at about four in the morning. Five hours later the advancing Zulu impis were sighted by the watchers at Isandhlana, and an urgent message was despatched to the front. This message the General disregarded, his aide-de-camp’s telescope having assured him that the camp was unmolested.
Not everyone, however, shared this optimistic opinion, for Colonel Harness and Major Black, believing the messenger’s story to be true, started back to Isandhlana on their own account, taking four companies with them. But, to their grief, they were peremptorily recalled. Had they continued their journey they would have been in time to witness the end of the death struggle which was even then in progress at the camp; though it is doubtful if they could have done anything to save their comrades.
Eight hundred against twenty thousand. What chance had they?
By noon the crescent of the Zulu army had enveloped the camp. Drawing closer and still closer in, the ringed warriors, the cream of Cetewayo’s fighting men, armed with assegai, knobkerry, and rifle, burst upon Durnford’s little company as they hastily tried to form a laager with the waggons. Durnford himself was in the thick of it, encouraging the troopers, placing a gun here and ordering a charge there. But it was all in vain.
Before the fierce fire of thousands of Zulu rifles, and before the host of assegais that hurtled through the air, the redcoats and the Basutos of the Native Contingent went down like corn under the sickle. They fought well, as desperate men will when driven to bay; but while they fired and reloaded and fired again behind them came the right horn of the overlapping Zulu army to strike at them in the rear. That, and not a panic-stricken flight, accounted for the many assegai wounds which were afterwards observed in the fallen men’s backs.
There were numerous deeds of valour performed that day, of which some account has come down to us from the Zulus themselves. The 24th, the South Wales Borderers, a regiment with a famous record, knew how to die, and officers and men accounted for many a dusky foe ere they themselves were borne down.