THE ESCORT CAME SWINGING UP THE ROAD WITHOUT A SUSPICION OF DANGER.—Page 53.
The lieutenant and his companion were ready at the instant. A hasty glance at their weapons satisfied them that these were in order, and moving a bit nearer to the roadway they waited until the escort approached.
In the dim light they perceived that the Russian soldiers in charge of the bags numbered five. It was heavy odds, but the prize was great. They could not dream of drawing back. The escort came swinging up the road without a suspicion of danger, and just as they passed the spot where a clump of bushes provided secure shelter out leapt the two Englishmen with cutlass and revolver.
The cold steel did the work effectively; a pistol shot would have raised the alarm. Three of the soldiers were cut down in the surprise attack, while the remaining two yielded themselves prisoners to these redoubtable assailants. As quickly as possible prisoners and mail-bags were hurried to the water’s edge, where a boat lay in readiness for them.
In half an hour’s time the despatches were being examined in the captain’s cabin on board the Arrogant, their contents proving to be of the utmost importance. Bythesea had captured the details of certain extensive operations planned against the Baltic fleet of the Allies and the army in the South. Such a service was worthy of the highest honour, and both the lieutenant and Stoker Johnstone received the Cross for Valour for that desperate night’s work.
Down in the South, in the Sea of Azov, which the map shows us to lie just north of the Black Sea, our Bluejackets were doing splendid service in the latter months of 1855. The towns of Genitchesk and Taganrog were shelled with great loss to the Russians, but as they moved their stores farther inland the occasion arose for individual expeditions which aimed at destroying these. The story of the fleet’s operations in this quarter, therefore, resolves itself into a relation of the several attempts, successful and otherwise, to harass the enemy in this way.
That the task of setting fire to the store buildings was attended with tremendous risk was proved over and over again. One or two daring spirits, including a French captain, were caught and shot by Cossack patrols. But there are always men to be found ready—nay, anxious—to undertake enterprises of so desperate a nature.
Wellington had the renowned scout, Major Colquhoun Grant (whose adventures in the Peninsula teem with romance), doing wonderful “intelligence” work for him; and to come to more recent times, we may call to mind Lord Kitchener’s daring journey through the Soudan in 1884, disguised as an Arab, for the purpose of learning what were the intentions of the various tribes with regard to Egypt.
In the Crimea such men as Lieutenants Day, Buckley, Burgoyne, and Commerell acted as the eyes and ears of their commanders, and volunteered for those little jobs that so infuriated the Russians when the red glow in the midnight sky showed them where stacks of forage and other stores blazed merrily.
Day’s V.C. was awarded him for a most valuable piece of work. His ship was stationed off Genitchesk (frequently spelt Genitchi), in the north-eastern corner of the Crimea, and it was deemed necessary to reconnoitre the enemy’s lines to ascertain the full strength of the Russians. For this dangerous service the young lieutenant volunteered.
Accordingly, one night he was landed alone on the Tongue, or Spit, of Arabat, at the spot he had chosen whence to start. Cossacks, singly or in small companies, policed the marshy wastes, but Day wriggled his way between their posts and eventually got close to the Russian gunboats. The dead silence that prevailed misled him as to the numbers thereon, and convinced that the vessels were deserted he returned to report the facts to his captain.
The next day circumstances induced him to suppose that he had been mistaken. He decided to make a second journey without loss of time, and one night very soon afterwards saw him again on the Spit. Day soon discovered that large reinforcements had arrived on the mainland, and at once made haste to return to his ship.
The long detours he was now obliged to make, to avoid contact with the Cossack sentries, led him through quagmires and over sandy stretches that severely tried his endurance. When he reached the shore at last, well-nigh exhausted, nearly ten hours had elapsed since his start, and it is not surprising that, having heard shots fired, his comrades had given him up for lost. He got back after a most providential escape, however, and made his report. But for his discoveries an attempt would certainly have been made to seize the Russian boats, in which case the result must have been disastrous.
Lieutenants Buckley and Burgoyne distinguished themselves by landing near Genitchesk at night and firing some immense supplies of stones. With the seaman, Robarts, who accompanied them, they were nearly cut off by Cossacks on their return, and only a fierce fight enabled them to escape. All three won the V.C. for this daring piece of work.
Lieutenant Commerell (afterwards Admiral Sir J. E. Commerell, G.C.B.) performed a like action later on the same year, which gained the V.C. for him and one of his two companions, Quartermaster Rickard.
Their objective was the Crimean shore of the Putrid Sea, on the western side of the Spit of Arabat. They accomplished their task successfully, setting fire to 400 tons of Russian corn and forage, but were chased by Cossacks for a long distance. In the helter-skelter rush back for the boat, about three miles away, the third man of the party, Able-Seaman George Milestone, fell exhausted in a swamp, and but for Commerell’s and Rickard’s herculean exertions must have fallen a victim to the enemy.
Making what is popularly known as a “bandy-chair”, by clasping each other’s wrists, the two officers managed to carry their companion a considerable distance. A party of Cossacks at this juncture had nearly succeeded in cutting them off, but the sailors in the boat now opened fire, while Commerell, dropping his burden for a moment, brought down the leading horseman by a bullet from his revolver. This fortunately checked the Cossacks, who were only some sixty yards away, and by dint of half carrying, half dragging Milestone, the plucky lieutenant and quartermaster eventually got him to the boat, and were soon out of reach of their pursuers.
The foregoing deeds of derring-do worthily uphold the finest traditions of the Royal Navy. How more largely still was the “First Line” to write its name in the annals of the Victoria Cross will be seen in the succeeding pages.
CHAPTER VII.
PERSIA.—HOW THE SQUARE WAS BROKEN.
Among our little wars of the last century that with Persia must not be passed over here, inasmuch as it was the means of three distinguished British officers winning the V.C. These were Captain John Wood, of the Bombay Native Infantry, and Lieutenants A. T. Moore and J. G. Malcolmson, of the Bombay Light Cavalry.
The war originated in the persistent ill-treatment of British residents at Teheran, and in the insults offered to our Minister at the Persian Court, Mr. Murray. No apologies being forthcoming, diplomatic relations were broken off early in 1856. In November of the same year, after fruitless attempts had been made to patch up the quarrel, Persia revealed the reason for her hostility by violating her treaty and capturing Herat, and war was declared.
Herat from time immemorial had been subject to Afghanistan, and as, from its position on the high road from India to Persia, it formed the key of Afghanistan, it was long coveted by the Shah. He laid violent hands upon it in 1838, but the British Government made him withdraw. This second insolent defiance of our warnings could not be borne with equanimity; a force comprising two British and three native regiments was despatched from India to read the Persian monarch a lesson. Sir James Outram commanded the expedition. The capture of Bushire was the first success scored by the British troops, and it was in the attack on this coast town in the Persian Gulf that Captain Wood gained his Cross.
At the head of a grenadier company Wood made a rush for the fort. Persian soldiers were in force behind the parapet, and a hot rifle-fire was poured into the advancing infantry, but under the inspiration of their leader they held bravely on. The captain was the first to mount the wall, where his tall figure instantly became a target for the enemy. A score of rifles were levelled at him, and some six or seven bullets found their mark in his body.
Badly wounded as he was, Wood jumped down into the midst of the enemy, killing their leader and striking terror into the hearts of the rest. This desperate charge, completed by his men, who had quickly swarmed up the parapet after him, carried the day. The fort was surrendered with little more opposition.
The feat of arms, however, which led to Lieutenants Moore and Malcolmson being decorated, was of even greater brilliancy. To Moore belongs the almost unique distinction of having broken a square.
It was at Khoosh-ab that his act of heroism took place. Near this village, some way inland behind Bushire, the Persians were massed about eight thousand strong. Outram’s little army had made a successful advance into the interior and routed the Persian troops with considerable loss on their side, and was now making its way back to the coast. Surprise attacks at night had been frequent, but this was the first attempt to make a determined stand against our troops.
It was by a singular irony of fate that in this war we should have had to fight against soldiers trained in the art of war by British officers. But so it was. After Sir John Malcolm’s mission to Persia in 1810, the Shah set to work to remodel his army among other institutions, and British officers were borrowed for the purpose of bringing it to a state of efficiency. The soldiers who gave battle to our troops at Khoosh-ab, therefore, on February 8th, 1857, were not raw levies. But, for all that, when it came to a pitched battle the Persians showed great pusillanimity. At the charges of the Bengal Cavalry their horsemen scattered like chaff before the wind.
Most of the infantry, too, fled when Forbes’ turbaned sowars of the 3rd Bengals and Poonah Horse rode down upon them, as panic-stricken as the cavalry. But there was one regiment that, to its honour, stood firm. In proper square formation they awaited the onset of the charge, the front rank kneeling with fixed bayonets, and those behind firing in volleys.
With his colonel by his side, Lieutenant Moore led his troop of the Bengals when the order was given to charge, but Forbes having been hit the young officer found himself alone. He had doubtless read of Arnold Winkelried’s brave deed at Sempach, when “in arms the Austrian phalanx stood,” but whether this was in his mind or not he resolved on a bold course. He would “break the square.”
As he neared the front rank of gleaming steel, above which, through the curls of smoke, appeared the dark bearded faces of the Persians, Moore pulled his charger’s head straight, drove in his spurs, and leapt sheer on to the raised bayonets. The splendid animal fell dead within the square, pinning its rider beneath its body; but the lieutenant was up and on his feet in an instant, while through the gap he had made the sowars charged after him.
In his fall Moore had the misfortune to break his sword, and he was now called on to defend himself with but a few inches of steel and a revolver. Seeing his predicament, the Persians closed round him, eager to avenge their defeat on the man who had broken their square. Against these odds he must inevitably have gone under had not help been suddenly forthcoming.
Luckily for him, his brother-officer, Lieutenant Malcolmson, saw his danger. Spurring his horse, he dashed through the throng of Persians to his comrade’s aid, laying a man low with each sweep of his long sword. Then, bidding Moore grip a stirrup, he clove a way free for both of them out of the press. What is certainly a remarkable fact is that neither of the two received so much as a scratch.
Malcolmson’s plucky rescue was noted for recognition when the proper time came, and in due course he and Moore received their V.C.’s together. The former died a few years ago, but Moore is still with us, a Major-General and a C.B.
CHAPTER VIII.
INDIA.—THE GALLANT NINE AT DELHI.
The early part of the year 1857 saw the outburst of the Indian Mutiny which was to startle the world by its unparalleled horrors and shake to its foundations our rule in India. Never before was a mere handful of white men called upon to face such a fearful ordeal as fell to the lot of the 38,000 soldiers who were sprinkled all over the North-West Provinces, and the record of that splendid struggle for mastery is one that thrills every Englishman’s heart with pride.
There are pages in it that one would willingly blot out, for from the outset some terrible blunders were committed. Inaction, smothered in “the regulations, Section XVII.,” allowed mutiny to rear its head unchecked and gain strength, until the time had almost passed when it could be stamped out. But if there were cowards and worse among the old-school British officers of that day, there were not wanting those who knew how to cope with the peril. We are glad to forget Hewitt and those who erred with him in the memory of Lawrence, Nicholson, Edwardes, Chamberlain, and the many other heroes who came to the front.
In every great crisis such as that which shook India in 1857 the occasion has always found the man. The Sepoy revolt was the means of bringing into prominence hundreds of men unsuspected of either genius or heroism, and of giving them a high niche in the temple of fame. Young subalterns suddenly thrust into positions of command, with the lives of women and children in their hands, displayed extraordinary courage and resource, and the annals of the Victoria Cross bear witness to the magnificent spirit of devotion which animated every breast.
One hundred and eighty-two Crosses were awarded for acts of valour performed in the Mutiny, the list of recipients including officers of the highest, and privates of the humblest, rank; doctors and civilians; men and beardless boys. In the following pages I shall describe some of the deeds which won the decoration and which stand out from the rest as especially notable, beginning with the historic episode of “the Gallant Nine” at Delhi.
The Indian Mutiny was not in its inception the revolution that some historians have averred it to be. It was a military mutiny arising from more or less real grievances of the sepoys, to which the affair of the “greased” cartridges served as the last straw. Moreover, it was confined to one Presidency, that of Bengal, and it is incorrect to say that the conspiracy was widespread and that a large number of native princes and rajahs were at the bottom of it.
As a matter of fact only two dynastic rulers—the execrable Nana Sahib and the Ranee of Jhansi—lent it their support. The majority of the native princes, among them being the powerful Maharajah of Pattiala, sided with the British from the first, and it was their fidelity, with their well-trained troops, which enabled us to keep the flag flying through that awful time.
“There were sepoys on both sides of the entrenchments at Lucknow,” says Dr. Fitchett in his Tale of the Great Mutiny. “Counting camp followers, native servants, etc., there were two black faces to every white face under the British flag which fluttered so proudly over the historic ridge at Delhi. The ‘protected’ Sikh chiefs kept British authority from temporary collapse betwixt the Jumna and the Sutlej. They formed what Sir Richard Temple calls ‘a political breakwater,’ on which the fury of rebellious Hindustan broke in vain.” Had the Mutiny indeed been a national uprising, what chances would the 38,000 white soldiers have had against the millions of natives who comprised India’s population?
It is important to bear all this in mind while following the course of events which marked the progress of revolt. We shall not then get such a distorted picture of the whole as is too frequently presented to us.
The Mutiny was a military one, as I have said. It began prematurely in an outbreak at Barrackpore, on March 29, 1857. Here a drunken fanatical sepoy, named Mungul Pandy, shot two British officers and set light to the “human powder magazine,” which was all too ready to explode. On the 10th of May following came the tragedy of Meerut, where the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry, the 11th and 20th Regiments of Native Infantry rose and massacred every European not in the British lines, and this despite the presence there of a strong troop of horse artillery and a regiment of rifles, 1000 strong!
After the carnage at Meerut the mutinous sowars poured out unchecked along the high road to Delhi, to spread the news of their success and claim in the old, enfeebled pantaloon Mogul king in that city a political head to their revolt. Delhi received them open-armed. There were no British troops there, by special treaty, only a few Englishmen in charge of the great magazine and its stores.
It is quite clear that the 31st of May (a Sunday) was the day fixed for the sepoy regiments in Bengal to rise simultaneously. Unforeseen events had precipitated the catastrophe by a few weeks. In Delhi, which was a nest of treason and intrigue, arrangements had been perfected for the outbreak there, one of the first objects to be attained being the seizure of its arsenal. Hither, then, the mutineers turned at once after their triumphant entry.
The magazine of Delhi was a huge building standing about six hundred yards from the main-guard of the Cashmere Gate. Within its four walls were guns, shells, powder, rifles, and stores of cartridges in vast quantities, from which the mutineers had relied upon arming themselves. And to defend this priceless storehouse there was but a little band of nine Englishmen, for the score or so of sepoys under their command could not be depended on.
The Nine comprised Lieutenant George Willoughby, Captains Forrest and Raynor, Sergeants Stuart and Edwards, and four Conductors, Buckley, Shaw, Scully, and Crowe. Willoughby was in charge, a quiet-mannered, slow-speaking man, but possessed of that moral courage which is perhaps the highest of human attributes. When the shouting horde from Meerut swarmed in and began to massacre every white person they met, he called his assistants inside the courtyard and locked the great gates. At all costs the magazine must be saved from falling into the hands of the mutineers.
There was not a man of the eight but shared his leader’s determination. With set, grim faces they went about their work, preparing for the attack which must come sooner or later. There were ten guns to be placed in position, several gates to be bolted and barred, and, last of all, the mine to be laid beneath the magazine. Help would surely come—come along that very road down which the sowars of the 3rd Bengal Cavalry had galloped with bloodstained swords and tunics. But if it did not, the Nine knew their duty and would not flinch from doing it.
With all possible speed the front entrance and other important vulnerable points were covered with howitzers, loaded with grape-shot. Arms had been served out to all, including the native employees, but the latter only waited the opportunity to escape. In the meantime Conductor Buckley saw to the laying of the mine, connecting it with a long thin line of powder that ran out to the centre of the courtyard under a little lemon tree.
Conductor Scully begged for the honour of firing the train when the fatal moment came, and obtained his desire. A signal (the raising of a cap) was then arranged to be given, at which he was to apply his port-fire to the fuse.
All being at last in readiness, the Nine stood at their several posts waiting for the enemy to make the first move. They had not to wait long. Within half an hour came an urgent messenger from the Palace bearing a written summons to Willoughby to surrender the magazine. The Head of the Nine tore up the paper and gave his answer.
Soon after appeared a body of sepoys, men of the Palace Guard and of the revolted Meerut regiments, with a rabble of city people.
“Open the gates!” they cried. “In the name of the King of Delhi, open the gates!”
Getting the same curt refusal that had greeted the previous summons, some went off for scaling-ladders, and as they heard these being fixed against the outer wall the Nine knew the moment for action had come. The sepoy employees of the Arsenal were in full flight now, but Willoughby let them go. He had no shot to spare for them. So over the walls they scrambled, like rats deserting a sinking ship, to join their compatriots without.
As the last man of them disappeared the rush of the mutineers began. Swarming up the ladders they lined the walls, whence they fired upon the brave group of defenders, while the more intrepid among them leapt boldly down into the yard. The rifles of the Nine rang out sharply; then at the word “Fire!” the big guns poured their charges of grape into the huddled mass of rebels.
By this time a gate had been burst open, and here the 24-pounder was booming its grim defiance. The sepoys hung back in check for some minutes before the rain of shot. Behind them, however, was a rapidly increasing crowd, filling the air with the cry of faith—“Deen! Deen!” and calling on their brothers in the front to kill, and kill quickly. At this, though the ground was littered with dead, the rushes became more daring and the yard began to fill with dusky forms, driving the Englishmen farther back.
The end was very near now. The sepoys were dangerously close to the guns, and Willoughby realised that in a few moments he would have to give the fatal signal. One last quick glance up the white streak of road showed him no sign of approaching aid. They were helpless—doomed!
Willoughby threw a last charge into the gun he himself worked.
“One more round, men,” he said, “and then—we’ve done.”
The big pieces thundered again in the face of the dark crowd by the broken gate, and at the groups along the wall. Then, dropping his fuse, Scully ran swiftly to the lemon tree where the post of honour was his.
It had been arranged that Buckley should give the signal at a word from Willoughby, but the brave conductor was bowled over with a ball in his elbow. It fell to Willoughby himself, therefore, to make the sign. He raised his cap from his head, as if in salute, and the same moment Scully bent down with his port-fire over the powder train.
There was a flash of flame across the yard to the door of the big store building, a brief instant of suspense, and then, with a deafening roar which shook Delhi from end to end, the great magazine blew up.
A dense column of smoke and débris shot high up into the sky, which was lit with crimson glory by the leaping flames. The smoke hung there for hours, like a black pall over the city, a sign for all who could read that the Huzoors, the Masters, had given their first answer of defiance to Mutiny.
In that tremendous explosion close on a thousand mutineers perished, crushed by the falling walls and masonry. Of the devoted Nine five were never seen again, among them being Conductor Scully. The four survivors, Willoughby, Buckley, Forrest, and Raynor, smoke-blackened and unrecognisable, escaped into the country outside the walls, and set off for Meerut, the nearest British cantonment.
Forrest and Buckley, both badly wounded, arrived safely there with Raynor, to tell the story of their deed; but Willoughby, who had separated from them, was less fortunate. His companions learned of their brave leader’s fate some time after, when a native brought news of how some five British officers had been waylaid and cut to pieces near Koomhera. Willoughby formed one of the doomed party.
It was a sad ending to a fine career, and throughout India and England the keenest regret was felt that he had not lived to receive the V.C. with which, in due course, each of his three comrades was decorated.
CHAPTER IX.
INDIA.—WITH SABRE AND GUN AGAINST SEPOY.
The siege of Delhi, which was begun a month after the rebellion had broken out, ranks with the most historic sieges of modern times. In its course it yielded many notable Crosses.
Defended by high bastions and walls of solid masonry, the city proved a hard nut to crack, and Generals Barnard and Wilson, who conducted the operations with an army of British, Afghan, Sikh, and Ghurka troops, spent several months before reducing the stronghold. Even then its capture was only made possible by the arrival of a siege train under Brigadier-General John Nicholson.
To Nicholson belongs a great share of the credit for the fall of Delhi. By a series of remarkable forced marches he brought a strong force of artillery and British and Sikh soldiers from the Punjab to the Ridge at Delhi, which added greatly to the strength of the army there encamped. And by his impetuosity in council he compelled the wavering General Wilson to decide on the final assault in September.
Before I come to this point, however, I have to tell of some gallant deeds that were performed in the fighting round Delhi. While the army lay on the Ridge preparing for its leap upon the rebel city, a number of engagements with the enemy took place. These were mostly of a very desperate character, and the individual deeds of some who distinguished themselves therein were fittingly rewarded with the Cross for Valour.
In one of the sorties made by the sepoys at Delhi in July of that year, 1857, Lieutenant Hills and Major Tombs, of the Bengal Horse Artillery, had a fierce encounter with the rebels, which gained the V.C. for each of them.
With a cavalry picket and two guns, Hills was on outpost duty on the trunk road, near a piece of high ground called the Mound, when a large body of sepoy sowars from the city charged upon him. The picket, taken by surprise, took to flight and left the guns undefended, but Hills remained at his post. To save his guns and give the gunners a chance of opening fire was the plucky lieutenant’s first thought, so clapping spurs to his horse he bore down alone on the enemy.
In narrating the incident himself he says: “I thought that by charging them I might make a commotion, and give the guns time to load, so in I went at the front rank, cut down the first fellow, slashed the next across the face as hard as I could, when two sowars charged me. Both their horses crashed into mine at the same moment, and, of course, both horse and myself were sent flying. We went down at such a pace that I escaped the cuts made at me, one of them giving my jacket an awful slice just below the left arm—it only, however, cut the jacket.
“Well, I lay quite snug until all had passed over me, and then got up and looked about for my sword. I found it full ten yards off. I had hardly got hold of it when these fellows returned, two on horseback. The first I wounded, and dropped him from his horse. The second charged me with his lance. I put it aside, and caught him an awful gash on the head and face. I thought I had killed him. Apparently he must have clung to his horse, for he disappeared. The wounded man then came up, but got his skull split. Then came on the third man—a young, active fellow.
“I found myself getting very weak from want of breath, the fall from my horse having pumped me considerably, and my cloak, somehow or other, had got tightly fixed round my throat, and was actually choking me. I went, however, at the fellow and cut him on the shoulder, but some ‘kupra’ (cloth) on it apparently turned the blow. He managed to seize the hilt of my sword and twisted it out of my hand, and then we had a hand-to-hand fight, I punching his head with my fists, and he trying to cut me, but I was too close to him.”
At this critical moment Hills slipped on the wet ground and fell. He lay at the sowar’s mercy, and nothing could have saved him from death had not Major Tombs come within sight of the scene. The major was some thirty yards away, and had only his revolver and sword with him. There was no time to be lost, so resting the former weapon on his arm he took a quick steady aim and fired. The shot caught the sepoy in the breast, and as his uplifted arm fell limply to his side he tumbled dead to the ground.
Thanking Heaven that his aim had been true, Major Tombs hastened to assist Hills to his feet and help him back to camp. But as they stood together a rebel sowar rode by with the lieutenant’s pistol in his hand. In a moment Hills, who had regained his sword, dashed after the man, who proved no mean adversary.
They went at it cut and slash for some time; then a smashing blow from the sowar’s tulwar broke down the lieutenant’s guard and cut him on the head. Tombs now received the sepoy’s attack, but the major was among the best swordsmen in the army, and closing with his opponent he speedily ran him through.
Both the officers had had their fill of fighting for the day, and fortunately, perhaps, for them, no more rebels appeared to molest them on their return to the camp. The lieutenant, I may note in passing, is now the well-known Lieut.-General Sir J. Hills-Johnes, G.C.B.; his fellow-hero of the fight died some years ago, a Major-General and a K.C.B.
Another veteran of the Indian Mutiny still alive, who also won his V.C. at Delhi, is Colonel Thomas Cadell. A lieutenant in the Bengal European Fusiliers at the time, Cadell figured in a hot affray between a picket and an overwhelmingly large body of rebels. In the face of a very severe fire he gallantly went to the aid of a wounded bugler of his own regiment and brought him safely in. On the same day, hearing that another wounded man had been left behind, he made a dash into the open, accompanied by three men of his regiment, and succeeded in making a second rescue.
The heroes of Delhi are so many that it is difficult to choose among them. Place must be found, however, for brief mention of the dashing exploit of Colour-Sergeant Stephen Garvin of the 60th Rifles. The Rifles, by the way, now the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, have the goodly number of thirteen V.C.’s to their credit.
In June 1857 the British army on the Ridge was greatly harassed by rebel sharpshooters who took up their position in a building known as the “Sammy House.” It was essential that this hornet’s nest should be destroyed, and volunteers were called for. For this service Colour-Sergeant Garvin promptly stepped forward and, with a small party of daring spirits, set out on what looked to most like a forlorn hope.
What the rebels thought of this impudent attempt to oust them from their stronghold we cannot tell, for but one or two of them escaped to the city with their lives. Such an onslaught as they received at the “Sammy House,” when Garvin and his valiant dozen rushed the place, quite surpassed anything in their experience. The colour-sergeant is described as hewing and hacking like a paladin of romance, and for his bravery and the example he set to his followers he well deserved the Cross that later adorned his breast.
At Bulandshahr, a little to the south of Delhi, in September of the same year, there was a gallant action fought by a body of the Bengal Horse Artillery, which resulted in no fewer than seven V.C.’s being awarded; but there is, I think, no more heroic act recorded in the annals of this famous corps than that of brave Gunner Connolly at Jhelum, two months previously.
While working his gun early in the action he was wounded in the left thigh, but he said nothing about his wound, mounting his horse in the team when the battery limbered up to another position. After some hours’ hot work at this new post, Connolly was again hit, and so badly that his superior officer ordered him to the rear.
“I gave instructions for his removal out of action,” says Lieutenant Cookes in his report, “but this brave man, hearing the order, staggered to his feet and said, ‘No, sir, I’ll not go there whilst I can work here,’ and shortly afterwards he again resumed his post as a spongeman.”
Throughout the fighting that day Connolly stuck to his gun, though his wounds caused him great suffering and loss of blood, and it was not until a third bullet had ploughed its way through his leg that he gave up. Then he was carried from the field unconscious. That was the stuff that our gunners in India were made of, and we may give Connolly and his fellows our unstinted admiration. For sheer pluck and devotion to duty they had no peers.
A highly distinguished artilleryman, who won his Cross in a different way, was a young lieutenant named Frederick Sleigh Roberts, now known to fame as Field-Marshal Earl Roberts, K.G. The scene of his valour was Khudaganj, near Fatehgarh, in the Agra district, and the date the 2nd of January 1858.
Some five thousand rebels under the Nawab of Farukhabad being in force in the neighbourhood, Sir Colin Campbell pushed on with his troops to disperse the enemy. Lieutenant Roberts was attached to Sir Hope Grant’s staff, and with his leader came into contact with the rebels at the village of Khudaganj. Here a sharp engagement took place, which resulted in the Nawab’s army being completely routed.
At the end of the fight, while the mounted men were following up the fugitives, the young lieutenant saw a sowar of the Punjab Cavalry (a loyal native regiment) in danger of being worsted by a sepoy armed with fixed bayonet. Wheeling his horse in their direction, he quickly thrust himself between the two and, with a terrific sweep of his sword across the other’s face, laid the sepoy low. A minute or two later he caught sight of a couple of rebels making off with a standard. Roberts determined that this should be captured, so setting spurs to his horse he galloped after them.
He overtook the pair just as they were about to seek refuge in a village close by, and engaged them both at once. The one who clutched the standard he cut down, wrenching the trophy out of the other’s hands, but the second sepoy, ere he could turn, placed his musket close to the young officer’s body and pulled the trigger. Fortunately for him, the musket missed fire (it was in the days of the old percussion caps), whereupon the sepoy made off, leaving Roberts to return in triumph.
In other engagements like those at Bulandshahr and Khudaganj many young cavalry officers who came to high honour in later years distinguished themselves by personal bravery. Prominent among these were Captain Dighton Probyn and Lieutenant John Watson, both of the Punjab Cavalry. Their exploits are well worth narrating.
At the battle of Agra Probyn at the head of his squadron charged a body of rebel infantry, and in the mêlée became separated from his men. Beset as he was by a crowd of sepoys, he cut his way through them and engaged in a series of single combats of an Homeric kind. In one instance he rode down upon a cluster of sepoys, singled out the standard-bearer, killed him on the spot, and dashed off again with the colours. His gallantry on this and other occasions was, as Sir Hope Grant said in his despatch, so marked that he was promptly awarded the V.C.
Lieutenant Watson had a similar heroic encounter with a rebel on November 14th, 1857, when just outside Lucknow he and his troop of Punjabis came into contact with a force of rebel cavalry which far outnumbered them.
As they approached the Ressaldar in command of the rebels rode out in advance of his men with half a dozen followers. He is described as having been “a fine specimen of the Hindustani Mussulman,” a stalwart, black-bearded, fierce-looking man. Here was a foeman worthy of one’s steel. With all the daring that had already made him beloved by his sowars and feared by the enemy, Watson accepted the challenge thus offered, and rode out to give the other combat.
He had got within a yard or so of his opponent when the Ressaldar fired his pistol point blank at him, but luckily the shot failed to take effect. It can only be supposed that the bullet had fallen out in the process of loading, for the two were too close together for the rebel leader to have missed his mark. Without hesitating, the lieutenant charged and dismounted the other, who drew his tulwar and called his followers to his aid.
Watson now found himself engaged with seven opponents, and against their onslaught he had to defend himself like a lion. It is not recorded that he slew the Ressaldar, though it is to be hoped that he did so, but he succeeded in keeping them all at bay until his own sowars came to the rescue with some of Probyn’s Horse who had witnessed the combat. And when the rebels were put to flight the brave lieutenant’s wounds bore evidence of the fierce nature of the combat. A hideous slash on the head, a cut on the left arm, another on the right arm that disabled that limb for some time afterwards, and a sabre cut on the leg which came near to permanently laming him, were the chief hurts he had received, while a bullet hole in his coat showed how nearly a shot had found him.
There were many tight corners that the young cavalry leader found himself in before the Mutiny came to an end, and despatches recorded his name more than once for distinguished services, but if you were to ask General Sir John Watson (he is a G.C.B. now, like his brother-officer, Sir Dighton Probyn) to-day, I doubt if he could remember another fight that was so desperate as that hand-to-hand combat with the mighty Ressaldar.
And if it should ever come to fade from his memory he has only to look at a little bronze Maltese cross which hangs among his other medals on his breast, to remind himself of a time when it was touch-and-go with death.
CHAPTER X.
INDIA.—THE BLOWING UP OF THE CASHMERE GATE.
The final assault of Delhi, the leap of a little army of five thousand British and native soldiers upon a strongly fortified city held by fifty thousand rebels, forms one of the most exciting chapters in the history of the Indian Mutiny, and the blowing up of the Cashmere Gate one of its most heroic incidents. Once more did the gallant “sappers and miners,” whom we last saw doing noble work in the trenches at Sebastopol, here show themselves ready to face any peril at duty’s call.
The decision to make the attack was come to at that historic council on September 6th, 1857, to which Nicholson went fully prepared to propose that General Wilson should be superseded did he hesitate longer. On the following day the engineers under Baird-Smith and his able lieutenants set to work to construct the trenching batteries, and by the 13th enough had been done to warrant the assault.
We have a very vivid picture drawn for us by several writers of how, on the night of the 13th, four Engineer subalterns stole out of the camp on the Ridge and crept cautiously up to the walls of the enemy’s bastions to see what condition they were in. Greathed, Home, Medley, and Lang were the names of the four; one of them, Lieutenant Home, was to earn undying fame the next day at the Cashmere Gate.
Armed with swords and revolvers, the party—divided into two sections—slipped into the great ditch, sixteen feet deep, and made for the top of the breach. But quiet as they were, the sepoy sentries on the wall above had heard them. Men were heard running from point to point. “They conversed in a low tone,” writes Medley, who was with Lang under the Cashmere Bastion, “and presently we heard the ring of their steel ramrods as they loaded.”
Huddled into the darkest corner of the ditch, the two officers waited anxiously for the sepoys to go away, when another attempt might be made; but the alarmed sentries held their ground. The engineers, however, had seen that the breach was a good one, “the slope being easy of ascent and no guns on the flank,” so the four of them jumped up and made a bolt for home. Directly they were discovered a volley rattled out from behind them, and the whizzing of balls about their ears quickened their steps over the rough ground. Luckily not one was hit.
There was one other man engaged in reconnoitring work that same night of whom little mention is made in accounts of the siege. This was Bugler William Sutton, of the 60th Rifles, a very brave fellow, as had been proved some weeks previously during a sortie from Delhi. On this occasion he dashed out from cover and threw himself upon the sepoy bugler who was about to sound the “advance” for the rebels. The call never rang out, for Bugler Sutton’s aim was quick and true, and the rebels, in some disorder, were driven back.
Volunteering for the dangerous service on which the four engineers above-named had undertaken, Sutton ventured forth alone to spy out the breach at which his regiment was to be hurled next morning, and succeeded in obtaining some very valuable information for his superiors. The 60th Rifles gained no fewer than eight Victoria Crosses during the Mutiny, and one of them fell to Bugler Sutton, who was elected unanimously for the honour by his comrades.
But it is of the Cashmere Gate and what was done there that this chapter is mainly to tell. According to the plans of the council, four columns were to make the attack simultaneously at four different points in the walls. The one under Nicholson was to carry the breach near the Cashmere Bastion, while another column, under Colonel Campbell, was to blow up the Cashmere Gate and force its entrance through into the city. The duty of performing the first part of this operation fell to Lieutenants Home and Salkeld of the Engineers.
There was a little delay on the morning of the assault, for it was found that the sepoys had been hard at it in the night blocking up the holes in the breaches with sandbags, and otherwise repairing the damage done by our batteries. But at last everything was in readiness. The signal to advance was given, and the columns moved eagerly forward.
At the head of the third column (Campbell’s), well in front of the rest, ran Home, Salkeld, two sergeants, also of the Bengal Engineers,—let their names be given, Smith and Carmichael,—Corporal Burgess, and Bugler Hawthorne of the 52nd Regiment, together with Havildar Pelluck Singh and eight sappers. Salkeld had a slow match in his hand (not a port-fire, as is often stated); the sergeants and the other men each carried a 25 lb. bag of powder. Behind, to cover them, followed close a small firing party.
It is not difficult to conjure up the scene before our eyes. As the little company nears the Gate it sees that the bridge which formerly spanned the ditch has been broken down. Only a single beam stretches across. Nothing daunted, Lieutenant Home leads the way, stepping lightly over the shaking beam and dropping his powder bag at the foot of the Gate ere he leaps down into the ditch.
Peering through the wicket, the sepoys stare in sheer astonishment at this handful of mad Englishmen charging at them, and four or five of the party have got safely across, each depositing his precious bag in its place, ere the rebel muskets speak out. Then the slender wooden beam becomes indeed a bridge of death. A sheet of flame flashes from the wicket of the Gate, and one man after another falls, wounded or killed outright. Enough bags, however, have been flung down into position, and Home calls upon Salkeld to finish the job.
With Sergeants Smith and Carmichael, and the corporal by his side, Salkeld, who has been in waiting, dashes for the frail bridge. He gains it and is over, as a volley rattles out from the Gate, but before he can light the fuse he falls, shot through leg and arm.
“Here you are, Burgess!” he cries, holding out the slow match. “Quick, man!”
The corporal takes the slow match in turn and bends low over the powder, only to fall back the next instant mortally wounded. We have it on Lord Roberts’ authority that Burgess actually succeeded in lighting the fuse, but opinions are at variance on this point. It seems probable, however, that he did perform his task, for when Sergeant Smith, seizing the slow match in his turn, now goes forward to ignite the powder, he sees that the fuse is fizzling.
A leap into the ditch, where he lands beside Home and Bugler Hawthorne, saves him just in time. A moment later and there is a loud explosion, a cloud of smoke, and stones, pieces of wood, and other débris raining down all around. In the noise of the firing and the confusion that prevails, the bugler is meanwhile sounding the “advance,” not once but thrice, though it is extremely doubtful if it is heard at all.
Colonel Campbell has seen the explosion, however, and the storming party, straining like hounds in leash, are no more to be held back. With a wild cheer they spring forward, to find—not the big Gate itself destroyed, but the little wicket, which was all that had been blown in. One by one they creep through, stepping over the scorched bodies of the sepoy wardens within, and form up in the open space by Skinner’s Church, where all are to meet.
But what of the survivors of the explosion left behind in the ditch? Home is alive, and so are Hawthorne, Smith, Burgess, and Salkeld, though the two last are grievously wounded. Carmichael and several others lie still for ever on the damp ground.
With some assistance, brave John Smith and Bugler Hawthorne get Lieutenant Salkeld into the doctor’s hands, though it is evident nothing can be done for him. Burgess, too, has a mortal wound, and he is dead before friendly hands have carried him a score of yards. Of the wounded only the havildar, who had fallen with Carmichael before the deadly rain of bullets, has any hope of recovery.
There is not much more to be said. Lieutenant Philip Salkeld died a few days later, but not before he knew that the Cross for Valour had been conferred upon him. Sergeant Smith and the bugler were the only two destined to wear the coveted decoration in memory of that day’s desperate deed.
Lieutenant Duncan Home figures in the list of V.C. heroes with his brother-lieutenant by reason of the Cross having been provisionally bestowed upon him by General Wilson. His end, which came scarcely three weeks later, was a dramatic one.
In the attack on Fort Malagarh it was expedient to lay a mine and make a breach in the wall. Home superintended this operation, and lit the slow match himself. The fuse appearing to have gone out, he went forward to examine it and relight it if necessary, but at the moment he stooped the light reached the powder and the mine blew up.
CHAPTER XI.
INDIA.—THE STORY OF KOLAPORE KERR.
The scene of the incident which I am about to narrate was Kolapore (or Kolhapur, as the modern spelling has it), an important town in the Bombay Presidency. Even before the Mutiny broke out there had been no little disaffection among the people in that quarter of India, and when the news of the revolt at Meerut and Delhi reached the Presidency grave fears were entertained lest the native troops there should join the rebels.
It was characteristic of most English officers attached to native regiments in those days that they firmly believed in the loyalty of their men. Only at the last moment, when the soldiers they had drilled and taught broke into open mutiny, could they grasp the truth, and then it was often too late. But in Bombay there was one officer whose trust was not belied. This was Lieutenant William Alexander Kerr, of the Southern Mahratta Irregular Horse.
“I know my men,” he would say, when the question of loyalty was raised, “and I know they are true. I’ll answer for my troopers at any time.”
Rather short men were these Mahrattas, but sturdy, stocky fellows with somewhat flat features, long jet black hair, and bronze faces, out of which small fiery black eyes gleamed at one. They were excellent fighters, as many a hill fight had proved, and there were not a few officers in India who would as soon have had a company of wild Mahratta warriors at their back as Sikhs or Punjabis, when it came to a tussle.
Lieutenant Kerr certainly held this opinion. Long service with them had made him acquainted with their courage and faithfulness.
“The Bombay Infantry may rise, but not my Mahrattas,” he affirmed. “There isn’t a man among them who wouldn’t follow me to the ends of the earth!”
He was stating this fact for the hundredth time at a memorable council that was held in the officers’ mess at Satara on the night of July 8th, 1857, when the startling news was flashed over the wires that the 27th Bombay Native Infantry had revolted at Kolapore. The message ran that nearly all their English officers had been killed, only a few escaping to find uncertain refuge in the Residency. Help was needed urgently.
What was to be done? The officer commanding at Satara faced his staff with a grave face. Here was confirmation of their worst fears. The looks that met his were full of foreboding; all, that is, save Kerr’s.
Rising to his feet, the young lieutenant turned quickly to his superior.
“Give me leave, sir,” he said, “and I’ll undertake with a company of our sowars to clear every mutineer out of Kolapore.”
It was the chance he longed for, the chance to prove the loyalty of his troopers.
The colonel pondered some moments, for the little force at Satara was not over strong.
“I can give you fifty men,” he said at last; “a troop of fifty, no more. Can you manage with that?”
“I can and I will,” answered Kerr tersely. And half an hour later saw him spurring fast southward with his Mahrattas behind him, in all the glory of their gold-braided green coats and scarlet turbans.
Kolapore lay seventy-five miles due south, as the crow flies, but their way led through unfrequented roads and jungle paths, with swollen rivers and flooded nullahs to swim across, for the rains had been heavy of late and the fords were gone. Swamps impeded their progress, clutching at the feet of the wiry hill horses to drag them down, but they were clear at last, and galloped breathless into Kolapore in rather less than six-and-twenty hours from their start.
The mutineers of the revolted 27th Regiment had entrenched themselves in a strongly built stone fort on the outskirts of the town. The main entrance to this was a massive wooden door which would need to be forced open, for inside there were heavy bolts and bars to secure it. So Kerr, choosing the quickest way, borrowed a couple of antique cannon from the Rajah of the place and pounded away to break the outer wall; but the guns turned out to be worthless and had to be abandoned.
There now remained the door to be broken open. That offered the best, indeed the only, means of effecting an entrance. Night was fast drawing nigh, and the lieutenant was determined to take action at once. It would not do to give the rebels breathing space.
Halting his Mahrattas some distance from the fort, Kerr picked seventeen of his most trusted men and bade them dismount and follow him to the attack. For himself and a trooper whose name, strangely enough, was Gumpunt Rao Deo Ker, he had obtained two stout iron crowbars with which to force open the door, and at a signal from him the little party dashed eagerly forward.
From their loopholes and from the top of the wall the sepoys poured an irregular fire upon the besiegers below. But Kerr and Gumpunt Rao, working away desperately with their bars, very soon made a hole in the door near the ground. A few more blows enlarged it sufficiently to allow one man to crawl through on his hands and knees.
That was enough for Kerr.
“In we go, men,” he cried; “after me! Have your swords ready!” And the little fierce-eyed men grinned with delight as they saw their leader wriggle like a snake through the hole with the faithful Gumpunt at his heels. What a fight there was going to be!
They guessed truly. The instant Kerr showed himself inside the courtyard he was greeted with a volley of musketry, but the sepoys aimed too high, and every bullet crashed harmlessly into the woodwork over his head. Springing to his feet, the lieutenant made a rush at his assailants that sent them flying before him. And then, the scarlet turbans having followed safely through the aperture one after another, the mutineers were slowly driven back, leaving several heaps of dead and wounded in their wake.
The fighting blood of the wild Mahrattas was up now. A battalion of rebels could not have stayed them. Before their fierce onslaught the mutineers fled to the refuge of a house that covered the second entrance to the fort, but the building was set on fire, and off they scampered again for dear life, though a few perished in the flames.
Their next retreat was behind a gateway which led to the inner portion of the fort. Here the shaken remnant was joined by the men of the garrison, who had been spectators of the affray. This reinforcement gave them renewed confidence, and they opened a fresh fire upon Kerr and his little band. The Mahrattas needed no call from their valiant leader. Two or three of them bit the dust under the hail of bullets, but the rest leapt to the gate where Lieutenant Kerr was already at work with his crowbar. Again a hole was made, and again the plucky officer—always first—crept through with his followers.
In the terrible hand-to-hand fight that ensued within Kerr had the chain of his helmet cut by a bullet, while another ball struck his sword. A sepoy, too, thrust his musket almost into the lieutenant’s face, the discharge blinding him for an instant, but Kerr ran his sword through the man’s body ere he could reload.
The thrust was a mighty one, and the effort to withdraw his weapon was so great that it gave time for a watching rebel to deal him a stunning blow on the head with the butt end of a musket. Down went Kerr like a felled log, and but for Gumpunt Rao he would have been shot where he lay. Just in the nick of time the Mahratta sprang between them and sent the sepoy to his last account.
Kerr’s storming party was sadly reduced in numbers by this time, and of those who had survived not one had escaped being wounded. But as soon as their leader had come to his senses, they went forward once more, cutting down the mutineers with their keen-edged curved swords, and striking terror into the hearts of those who yet again fled before them.
In their extremity the rebels made for an empty disused temple, hastily barricading its door with stones and anything that would help to keep those dreaded greencoats at a safe distance. They still had a good supply of cartridges left, and with these did such execution that several more of the Mahratta warriors were laid low.
But they had to reckon with a man who was bent on teaching them such a lesson as they and every mutineer in the Presidency should never forget. Seven sowars alone were left to Kerr for his last attack, seven out of the chosen seventeen who had followed him through that first hole in the outer door. Yet he did not wait to be reinforced. With this mere handful of men he flung himself on the temple door, which at once rang under the quick blows of his iron bar.
The entrance to the building, however, was made of stouter material than the other doors had been. Neither he nor Gumpunt Rao could burst through the wood. The lieutenant glanced round for another weapon, and now to his delight saw a heap of hay lying by a side wall. Here was the very thing he wanted.
“Quick, Gumpunt!” he shouted. “Bring that hay over here. We’ll burn the door down an’ finish ’em!”
And finish them they did. As the flames crackled up and the door fell in, Kerr, Gumpunt Rao, and the other six leapt inside. A grim-looking band they must have appeared, with their smoke-blackened faces, their slashed and bloodstained tunics, and doubly so to the panic-stricken mutineers who cowered in the dark corners of the temple.
“No quarter!” the wild Mahrattas had begged of their “sahib,” while they waited for the fire to do its work. “Death to every rat caught in the hole!” But Kerr would not grant them their wish. All who would yield were to be taken prisoners; he had a different fate in store for them.
So when the eight emerged again from the now silent building, more bloodstained than ever, for a few of the rats at bay had shown their teeth, they brought with them a bare dozen of trembling sepoys, all that remained of the mutinous garrison of Kolapore Fort. And with these in their midst the little swarthy hill-men in the green coats some hours later rode triumphantly back to Satara, with Kerr at their head, to tell of that grim night’s work.
The sparks of mutiny that might so easily have burst into a flame in Bombay may be said to have been stamped out by Lieutenant Kerr’s prompt and vigorous action. Subsequent attempts were made to create a rising, but they were fitful and half-hearted. The lesson of Kolapore had been a stern one.
For his dashing exploit Lieutenant Kerr received the V.C., a decoration which, I am glad to say, he is still alive to wear. The brave Mahratta, Gumpunt Rao Deo Ker, though he deserved to share the same honour, was rewarded in a different fashion.
That is the story of Kolapore Kerr. It is, to my mind, a theme every whit as inspiring to a poet’s pen as the stand of the Guides at Cabul or Gillespie’s ride to “false Vellore.” Perhaps some day a poet will arise who will commemorate for us in stirring verse Kerr’s gallant deed, and tell how once and for all the Southern Mahratta Irregular Horse proved their loyalty to the British Raj.
CHAPTER XII.
INDIA.—THE DEFENCE OF THE DHOOLIES.
In the preceding chapters I have told of many heroes who have won imperishable glory at the cannon’s mouth, “i’ the imminent deadly breach”; at the head of charging squadrons; or in Homeric personal combat. Valiant men were they all, and worthy of high admiration; but I come now to speak of other brave men, whose deeds though less ostentatious should appeal to our imagination no less forcibly—the devoted surgeons of our Army.
In the bead-roll of Britain’s heroes there are no more honoured names than theirs, and very high up among them I would place those of Surgeons Jee, McMaster, Home, and Bradshaw. Their work was not to lead storming parties or join in the press of battle, but to follow in the wake of the fight, to relieve the sufferings of the wounded, to bind up shattered limbs and bandage the ghastly hurts that round-shot, sabre, and musket had inflicted in the swirl of evil human passions thus let loose.
It was work that demanded devotion and courage of the highest order, for it was carried on mostly under fire, when bullets rained pitilessly around, and the very hand that one moment eased a sufferer’s pain might the next itself be stilled in death. Let the tale of what was done in Lucknow streets on that historic September day in 1857 when Havelock and Outram fought their way into the besieged city, testify to the pluck and noble self-sacrifice of which our Army doctors are capable at duty’s call.
Surgeon Joseph Jee was attached to the 78th Highlanders, the old “Ross-shire Buffs,” now known (with the 72nd Foot) as the Seaforth Highlanders. He had followed his regiment to Cawnpore to avenge Nana Sahib’s ghastly massacre, and thence to Lucknow, which, under the gallant Henry Lawrence, was holding out until relief came.
From the Alumbagh, the pleasure-house that was built by a Begum of the ex-King of Oudh about two miles out of the city, and was now garrisoned by some 12,000 sepoys, the relieving force, as is well known, fought their way steadily across the Charbagh Bridge, and so on to the Chutter Munzil Palace and the Bailey Guard Gate, and eventually gained the Residency itself.
It was on the morning of the 25th of September that Lucknow was actually reached. At the Charbagh Palace, near the bridge, the 78th Highlanders were left to hold that position, while the main body threaded its way through the narrow, tortuous lanes leading to the Residency, and here Surgeon Jee and Assistant-Surgeon McMaster quickly found work for their hands. All the streets and houses in the vicinity were strongly occupied by mutineers. Desperate charges had to be made to carry the rebel guns which poured a devastating fire upon our troops, and though the cannon were captured and toppled over into the canal, the casualties were exceedingly heavy.
While the wounded remained to receive attention from the busy doctors, the regiment, following up its last attack, disappeared round the bend of the canal, and Jee and his assistants found themselves suddenly exposed to the enemy’s fire. Having obtained some men to act as bearers, the surgeon got his patients lifted up and carried to where a few dhoolies were. These were filled in no time, one of them by Captain Havelock, son of the General, who was badly hit in the arm; the rest of the wounded were placed in carts drawn by bullocks. The latter, however, met with a heartrending fate ere they had gone far; for the sick train coming to a standstill in the road where it was blocked, all the occupants of the carts were massacred by sepoys before their comrades’ eyes.
The regiment was caught up at last, and a company under Captain Halliburton detailed to guard the dhoolies. But misfortune dogged the little party’s steps. They lost their way in the city, were led by a blundering guide right into an enemy’s battery, which shelled them mercilessly, and wandered about for hours continually under fire, until they took refuge in the Moti-Mahal (the Pearl Palace). Here was a square courtyard having sheds all round it and two gateway entrances. As it was already packed with soldiers, camp followers and camels, the surgeons were hard put to it to find accommodation for their wounded.
Of the horrors of that night Surgeon Jee has told us in his own words. The firing was deafening, gongs were sounding the hours, while there was a hubbub of shouting through which the groans of the wounded could nevertheless be heard. An alarming rumour came that all the 78th had been killed, and, what added to the terrors of the situation, no one knew how far off the Residency was. But Jee stuck to his post, and many a poor fellow lived through that inferno to bless the brave, tender-hearted doctor to whom he owed his life.
At daylight some tea was made (they had had neither food nor drink since leaving the Alumbagh the morning before), and then preparations were made to defend the place. Loopholes had to be pierced in the walls, and the best marksmen stationed there to pick off the sepoys who raked the square from house and gateway. Jee himself had many a narrow escape as he dodged about dressing the wounds both of the artillery and his own men, and he recounts how Brigadier Cooper was shot through a loophole close to where he was standing.
In this extremity Jee boldly volunteered to attempt to get his wounded into the Residency by taking them along the river bank, leaving Captain Halliburton to hold the Moti-Mahal. Nothing could dissuade him from this course once his mind was made up, so with his dhoolies he set out to run the gauntlet.
What the little company of dhoolies passed through ere it reached its destination we do not know, but we can picture to ourselves that terrible journey through the winding tangled streets in which nearly every house contained sepoy riflemen. There was, too, a stream to be crossed, and at this spot they were exposed to the fire of the rebel guns at the Kaiserbagh Palace.
They reached the Residency at length, after much going astray, and reached it sadly depleted in numbers. As elsewhere in Lucknow that same night, the cowardly sepoys made a special mark of the dhoolies, shooting the defenceless wounded in cold blood. On their arrival General Havelock warmly congratulated the plucky surgeon on his success in getting through, for he had heard that Jee had been killed.
Honour was slower in coming to the brave Army doctors than to many others who distinguished themselves in the Mutiny, for it was not until three years later that Jee was gazetted V.C. But such services as his could not be overlooked, and there was universal satisfaction when his name was added to the Roll of Valour. He died some years ago, a Deputy Inspector-General and a C.B.
On the night of the same day that Jee was conveying his wounded to the Residency, a somewhat similar scene was being enacted in another quarter of Lucknow. By the Moti Munzil Palace lay a number of wounded officers and men of the 90th and other regiments in the charge of Doctors Home and Bradshaw of the 90th. Left behind by the relieving force as it held straight on to its goal, the dhoolies had to rely for protection on a small escort of a hundred and fifty men. By great good fortune they escaped the notice of the mutineers during the first part of the night, but ere dawn had broken a fierce attack was made upon them. Off they started, then, on a slow, laborious journey, which was to cost many valuable lives before its end.
“To the Residency!” was the cry, a young civilian named Thornhill having undertaken to guide them thither. But between them and Havelock’s house was a network of streets and lanes that had to be threaded, and these were still overrun with sepoys. It was a true via dolorosa that lay before them.
The order having been given, the dhoolies were picked up by very reluctant native bearers, the surgeons closed in round their charges, and they started off, while the escort covered their progress as best they could. After a terrible hour’s journeying, with sepoys hanging on flank and rear, the little company eventually reached the Martinière (a building erected by a French soldier of fortune in the eighteenth century). Their stay here was short, however, for a well-directed cannonade drove them once more afield. A flooded nullah was next crossed, and beyond this seemed to lie safety, but a fatal blunder on the part of their guide led them into a veritable death-trap.
The street into which they filed appeared to be deserted. As a matter of fact it was full of sepoys, who were concealed in the houses on either side. This was the narrow street leading to the Bailey Guard Gate, the entrance to the Residency; along its three-quarters of a mile, some hours previously, the 78th Highlanders and Brasyer’s Sikhs had won their way through a perfect tempest of shot. A similar reception awaited the dhoolies.
As the ill-fated train passed through and gained the square at the farther end, the storm of musketry broke into full blast over their heads. In a moment the panic-stricken bearers dropped the dhoolies and fled for dear life, leaving the wounded men in the middle of the square exposed to every sepoy marksman. The fire of close on a thousand muskets must have been concentrated on that small enclosure, but Surgeon Home managed, with nine men of the escort, to get half a dozen of the wounded within the shelter of a building before which was a covered archway.
Surgeon Bradshaw, meanwhile, who had been in the rear of the train, had collected his dhoolies as soon as the nature of the trap was disclosed, and turned hastily back to seek the turning that their guide ought to have taken. The luckless Thornhill had been killed, having been one of the first to be shot down. It is satisfactory to add that Bradshaw was successful in bringing his dhoolies to safe quarters without further mishap.