The bugler sounded the advance, and with a cheer our men rushed through the gateway, and met the other columns, who had carried their respective breaches. The Lahore Gate alone defied our attempts, and Nicholson called for volunteers to follow him through the narrow street towards the Lahore Gate.

As he strode forward, sword in hand, though there was death in every window and on every house-top, his great stature marked him out as a target for the enemy, and he fell, mortally wounded, the one man England wanted most.

The long autumn day was over, and we were in Delhi, but had not taken it. Sixty-six officers and 1,100 men had fallen, while not a sixth part of the city was ours. Many of our men were lying drunk in the shops. Had the sepoys possessed a General, they might have recovered the ridge, and taken our whole camp, defended as it was mainly by the sick and wounded.

On the next day, by order of General Wilson, vast quantities of beer, wine, and brandy were destroyed. On the 16th active operations were resumed. By sapping gradually from house to house we managed to avoid street fighting and slowly pressed the rebels back into the ever-narrowing part of the city from which, like rats, they streamed.

Whilst Seaton was in the Cashmere Gateway, he saw some artillerymen who were on duty there rummaging about. One of them was looking into a long arm-chest, when all at once he slammed down the lid, sat upon it sharp, and roared out: “Hi! Bill, run! be quick! Here’s a devil of a Pandy in the box!”

Bill lost no time in attending to his comrade’s request, and others running up to see what it was, they pulled out of the box a fine powerful sepoy, who was taken at once to the ditch and disposed of without more ceremony.

On the 18th, between 9 and 10 a.m., there was an eclipse of the sun. There is little doubt that this had a great effect on the minds of the superstitious natives, for they now began to leave the city in streams.

On the morning of the 20th, as the city in the direction of the palace seemed to be deserted, Colonel Jones came down with a column; a powder-bag was applied to the palace gates, a few defenders were slain, and the British flag was hoisted.

That night the mess dinner was laid in the celebrated Dewan Khas, the marble building that Moore describes in “Lalla Rookh.”

The inner room is the King’s throne-room, and round the walls, inlaid with black marble, are the famous words: “If there be an elysium on earth, it is this.”

The habits of the late King and family rendered that elysium a very dirty one, though the white marble was inlaid with coloured stones in flowers and arabesques. The houses and huts in which the Princes of the royal blood lived with their wives and children were a perfect rabbit-warren, so closely packed were they. The exterior walls enclosing the palace are 60 feet high, and built of red sandstone, loopholed and crenellated, and make a noble appearance.

But the squalor and filth in the whole place were inconceivable. As none of the Princes could engage in any business, the pittance they had to live on barely supplied the necessaries of life. Seaton saw some of the Princes. He says: “There was no trace of nobility, either of birth or of mind, in their faces. They were stamped with everything vile, gross, ignoble, sensual. Noble blood is a fine thing, but a noble heart is better, and will shine through the most forbidding features; but these wretches, with the cold, calm hand of death on them, showed nothing of kingly descent or nobility of heart, their countenances being as forbidding as the despicable passions in which they had indulged could make them.”

It was laughable to see what rubbish was found in the palace. In one room were found at least 200 pair of those trousers which Mohammedan ladies wear instead of petticoats. Some of these were so stiff with brocaded silk that they must have needed a hearty kick with each foot at every step.

The quantities of pots and pans which they had amassed would have furnished a whole street of dealers; then, there were telescopes and guns and other valuables.

Much blame has been cast on Hodson for his severity to the royal family. He fetched out the King and three Princes from the tomb where they had taken refuge. The Princes were in a native carriage, and as they drew near to Delhi an immense crowd surged round them, which was increasing every moment, pressing on Hodson’s few men. They could hardly proceed. Hodson, perhaps fearing a rescue, ordered the three prisoners to get out. The poor wretches, seeing that something was about to happen, put up their hands and fell at his feet, begging that their lives might be spared.

Hodson merely said, “Choop ruho” (be silent); “take off your upper garments.” They did so. Then, “Get into the cart.” They obeyed.

Hodson then took a carbine from one of his men, and shot them all three. Then, turning to his men, he said: “These three men whom I have just shot are the three Princes who contrived and commenced the slaughter of our innocent women and children, and thus retributive vengeance has fallen on them.”

The crowd, overawed, parted, and the carriage passed on. The bodies were exposed on the very spot where our unfortunate countrymen had been exposed. It seems cruel and vindictive, but we are judging in security. Hodson had an angry people to daunt, and their sense of justice to satisfy.

One must do our soldiers the justice to say that, though infuriated by the slaughter of their officers and countrymen, with their wives and children, inflamed by the news of the Cawnpore massacre, not an old man, not a woman or child, was wilfully hurt by them. As Seaton was waiting on the 20th by the Palace Gate, some soldiers were bringing along an old man, whom they held by the arms. He went up and said to them: “Remember you are Christian men, and he is very old.”

“Oh, sir!” was the reply, “we doesn’t forget that. We don’t mean him no harm. We only wants a bit of baccy.”

So he let them go on, and in a few minutes saw them stuffing their pipes, and the old fellow genially bringing a coal to light them.

“I have seen hundreds of instances where the greatest humanity and kindness were shown, both to young and old, as well as to females, by our noble-hearted fellows, even in their wildest moments.”

From Major-General Sir Thomas Seaton’s “From Cadet to Colonel.” By kind permission of Messrs. G. Routledge and Sons.

CHAPTER XI
THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW (31st of May to 25th of September, 1857)

Firing at close quarters—Adventures of fugitives—Death of Sir H. Lawrence—His character—Difficulty of sending letters—Mines and counter-mines—Fulton killed—Signs of the relief coming—A great welcome—Story of the escape from Cawnpore.

For about ten days previous to the outbreak at Lucknow daily reports were made that an émeute was intended, and Sir Henry Lawrence, the brother of Sir John Lawrence, had ordered all kinds of stores to be bought and stored. The ladies and children had been removed from the cantonments to the Residency in the city, which was already occupied by a party of the 32nd foot and two guns.

The 9 p.m. gun on the 30th of May was evidently the signal for the mutiny to begin, as a few minutes after it had been fired, whilst Sir Henry and his staff were at dinner at the Residency, a sepoy came running in, and reported a disturbance in the lines.

Sir Henry took two guns and a company of the 32nd, and took post on the road leading to the town. Meanwhile bands of insurgents began to plunder and burn our officers’ bungalows. Many officers had wonderful escapes from death; some were killed by the rebels. Muchee Bhawun, the residence of the late King, had been selected as a fitting place of security and retreat: it was being strengthened and supplied with stores.

On June 10 houses and buildings around began to be demolished; tents were set apart for the European refugees who arrived daily from the districts.

On June 12 the military police mutinied in a body, and went off to Cawnpore; they were pursued for eight miles and about twenty were killed.

On June 15 a hundred barrels of gunpowder were brought from the Muchee Bhawun and buried in the Residency enclosure; twenty-three lacs of rupees were also buried in front of the Residency to save the use of sentries. Cash payments were now suspended, the men being paid by promissory notes.

On June 20 large stacks of firewood, covered with earth, were placed to protect the front of the Residency: they formed an embankment 6 feet high, and embrasures were cut through them for the guns, of which there were four 9-pounders on that side.

A letter arrived from Cawnpore giving very bad news. The enemy had shelled them for the last eight days with fearful effect within their crowded trenches, and one-third of their number had been killed. More guns are brought in. They hear that eight or ten regiments of rebels are within twenty miles of Lucknow.

On June 28 Mrs. Dorin, wife of Lieutenant Dorin, arrived at evening in a country cart, disguised as a native and accompanied by some clerks. The enemy are nine miles off. Though a force was sent out to meet them, we had to retire before overwhelming numbers, with the loss of the 8-inch howitzer and three 9-pounders.

The rebels came boldly on, investing the English on all sides, and firing from all the houses round, which they rapidly loopholed.

July 1.—We managed to send message to blow up the Muchee Bhawun fort and come to the Residency at 12 p.m., bringing the treasure and guns. We opened fire from our batteries in order to distract the attention of the enemy from them.

At 12.15 they were at the Lower Water Gate. Here there was some delay, as the gates had not yet been opened. A very serious accident had nearly happened, for the leading men, finding the gate closed, shouted out, “Open the gates!” but the artillerymen at the guns above, which covered the entrance, mistook the words for “Open with grape,” and were on the point to fire when an officer ran up and put them right. The whole force came in safely, not a shot being fired. The explosion which had been ordered had not yet taken place, but soon a tremor of the earth, a volume of fire, a terrific report, and a mass of black smoke shooting up into the air announced to Lucknow that 240 barrels of gunpowder and 594,000 rounds of ball and gun ammunition had completed the destruction of Muchee Bhawun, which we had fortified with so much labour.

Strange stories were told by some of the refugees from outlying districts. Here is one told by the wife of a surgeon: “I heard a number of shots fired in our station, and looking out, I saw my husband driving furiously from the mess-house. I ran to him, and, catching up my child, got into the buggy. At the mess-house we found all the officers assembled, with sixty sepoys who had remained faithful.

“As we went our homes were seen to be on fire. Next morning our sepoy escort deserted us. We were fired on by matchlock men and lost one officer. We had no food. An officer kindly lent us a horse. We were very faint. Our party now was only nine gentlemen, two children, the sergeant, and his wife. On the 20th Captain Scott took my little two-year-old Lottie on to his horse. Soon after sunrise we were followed by villagers armed with clubs and spears. One of them struck Captain Scott’s horse on the leg. He galloped off with Lottie, and my poor husband never saw his child again.

“We rode on several miles, keeping away from villages, and then crossed the river. Our thirst was extreme. Soon I saw water in a ravine. I climbed down the steep descent. Our only drinking-vessel was M.’s cap (which had once been a sepoy’s). Our horse got water and I bathed my neck. I had no stockings and my feet were torn and blistered. My husband was very weak, and, I thought, dying. He wished me good-bye as he lay on the ground. My brain seemed burnt up: no tears came. Our horse cantered away, so that escape was cut off. We sat down on the ground waiting for death. Poor fellow! he was very weak; his thirst was frightful, and I went to get him water. Some villagers came and took my rupees and watch. I took off my wedding-ring, twisted it in my hair and replaced the guard. I tore off the skirt of my dress to bring water in; but it was no use, for when I returned, my beloved’s eyes were fixed, and, though I called and tried to restore him and poured water into his mouth, it only rattled in his throat. He never spoke to me again, and he gradually sank down and died. I was alone. In an hour or so about thirty villagers came. They dragged me out of the ravine and took off my jacket; then they dragged me to a village, mocking me all the way. The whole village came to look at me. I lay down outside the door of a hut. They had dozens of cows, and yet refused me milk. When night came and the village was quiet, some old woman brought me a leafful of rice. The next morning a neighbouring Rajah sent a palanquin and a horseman to fetch me, who told me that a little child and three sahibs had come to his master’s house. That little child was my Lottie! She was sorely blistered, but, thank God! alive and well.”

That is the sort of experience some ladies went through—ladies that had never before known what thirst or privation or insult was like.

July 2.—About 8 a.m. Sir Henry returned to the Residency and lay down on his bed. Soon after an 8-inch shell from the enemy’s howitzer entered the room at the window and exploded. A fragment struck the Brigadier-General on the upper part of the right thigh near the hip, inflicting a fearful wound.

Captain Wilson, who was standing alongside the bed with one knee on it, reading a memorandum to Sir Henry, was knocked down by falling bricks. Mr. Lawrence, Sir Henry’s nephew, had an equally narrow escape, but was not hurt. The fourth person in the room, a native servant, lost one of his feet by a fragment of the shell. The ceiling and the punkah all came down, and the dust and smoke prevented anyone seeing what had happened.

Neither Sir Henry nor his nephew uttered a sound, and Captain Wilson, as soon as he recovered from the concussion, called out in alarm: “Sir Henry, are you hurt?”

Twice he thus called out and got no reply. After the third time Sir Henry said in a low tone: “I am killed.”

His bed was being soaked with blood. Some soldiers of the 32nd soon came in and placed Sir Henry in a chair. When the surgeon came he saw that human aid was useless. Lucknow and England had lost what could never be replaced. For all who ever came in contact with Sir Henry Lawrence recognized in him a man of unstained honour, a lover of justice, pure, unselfish and noble. His successor, Brigadier Inglis, wrote of him: “Few men have ever possessed to the same extent the power which he enjoyed of winning the hearts of all those with whom he came in contact.” He gained also by his frankness the trust of the natives, who said of him: “When Sir Henry looks twice up to heaven and once down to earth, and then strokes his beard, he knows what to do.” His dying wish was that, if any epitaph were placed on his tomb, it should be this: “Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty.” He had indeed tried to do his duty towards the defence of Lucknow. Three weeks before anyone else thought of a siege he began to collect supplies, and even paid for them much over their market value. He collected and buried much treasure in the grounds of the Residency; he stored up in underground cellars guns and mortars, shot and shell and grain; strengthened the outworks, and cleared the ground of small buildings around. Even then the assailants and the besieged were quite close to each other, and no man on either side dared expose himself to fire his musket: they fired through loopholes in the walls. This placed a never-ending strain on the besieged, for they never knew when to expect an assault. On the one side of a narrow lane were myriads of swarthy foemen, on the other side a few hundreds, who were bound always to be ready, day and night, to meet a storming party. All through the siege officers and men alike stood sentry; all bore an equal burden of toil and fighting.

The stench, too, from dead animals was dreadful: they had so few servants, and the fighting men were so harassed, that they were helpless to bury them.

Heavy showers night and day kept the garrison drenched to the skin, and they had no change of clothes. The sick and wounded were much crowded, as they could not use the upper story of the hospital because it was under fire of round shot.

August 12.—A letter to General Havelock, rolled up and put inside a quill, was despatched by the hands of an old woman. She left the position about 9 p.m., and it was hoped she would be permitted to pass the enemy’s sentries. During the past forty-five days they had sent by different hands, in a similar manner, some twenty letters. To only one of these was any reply received.

August 18.—At daylight the enemy exploded a large mine under one of the principal posts. The three officers and three sentries on the top of the house were blown up into the air; the guard below were all buried in the ruins. The officers, though much stunned, recovered and escaped. A clear breach had been made in our defences to the extent of 30 feet in breadth. One of the enemy’s leaders sprung on the top of the breach and called on his comrades to follow; but when he and another had been shot the rest hung back. Boxes, doors, planks, etc., were rapidly carried down to make cover to protect the men.

August 23.—There was work nightly for at least 300 men, as they had the defences to repair daily, mines to countermine, guns to remove, corpses to bury, rations to serve out. The Europeans were not capable of much exertion, as from want of sleep, hard work, and constant exposure, their bodily strength was greatly diminished. The ladies had to be removed, as the upper story of Mr. Gubbins’ house was no longer safe, owing to the number of round shot through it. It was difficult to find quarters for them, every place being so crowded, and the ladies were already four and five together in small, badly ventilated native dwellings. Dreadful smells pervaded the whole place, from the half-buried bodies of men, horses, and bullocks, and also from the drains.

September 9.—During the night a shell exploded in a room occupied by a lady and some children, and, though almost every article in the room was destroyed, they all escaped unhurt. Finding that the enemy were rapidly mining towards the Cawnpore battery, they sprung a mine containing 200 pounds of powder. The effect was tremendous, and it evidently astonished the enemy to see their miners going up skywards in fragments.

As the uniforms wore out they clothed themselves as they could. One officer had a coat made out of an old billiard cloth; another wore a shirt made out of a floor-cloth. They had no tobacco, and had to smoke dried tea-leaves.

“September 14.—A grievous loss to-day: Captain Fulton, of the Engineers, while reconnoitring from a battery, was killed by a round shot which struck him on the head. He had conducted all the engineering operations of the siege for a long time. He was a highly gifted, brave and chivalrous officer, and a great favourite.”

September 22.—About 11 p.m. Ungud, pensioner, returned to Lucknow, bringing a letter containing the glad tidings that the relieving force, under General Outram, had crossed the Ganges, and would arrive in a few days.

His arrival and the cheering news he brought of speedy aid was well timed, for daily desertions of servants were becoming the rule. All the garrison were greatly elated at the news, and on many of the sick and wounded the speedy prospect of a change of air and security exercised a most beneficial effect.

September 25.—About 11 a.m. increasing agitation was visible among the people in the town. An hour later they heard guns and saw the smoke. All the garrison was on the alert; the excitement amongst many of the officers and men was quite painful to witness. At 1.30 p.m. many were leaving the city with bundles of clothes on their heads. The rebels’ bridge of boats had evidently been destroyed, for they could see many swimming across the river, most of them cavalry, with their horses’ bridles in their hands. During all this apparent panic the guns of the enemy in position all round were keeping up a heavy cannonade, and the riflemen never ceased firing from their loopholes.

At 4 p.m. report was made that some officers dressed in shooting-coats and caps, a regiment of Europeans in blue pantaloons and shirts, could be seen near Mr. Martin’s house. At 5 p.m. volleys of musketry, rapidly growing louder, were heard in the city. But soon the firing of a minie-ball over their heads gave notice of the still nearer approach of their friends. It was very exciting, but they as yet could see little of them, though they could hear the rebels firing on them from the roofs of the houses.

Will they again be repulsed? The heart sickens at the thought. No. Five minutes later, and our troops are seen fighting their way through one of the principal streets, and though men are falling at almost every step, yet on they come. Nothing can withstand the headlong gallantry of our reinforcements. Once fairly seen and all doubts and fears are ended. And now the garrison’s long pent-up feelings of anxiety and suspense burst forth in a succession of deafening cheers. From every pit, trench and battery, from behind the sand-bags piled up on shattered houses, from every post still held by a few gallant spirits, rose cheer on cheer—aye, even from the hospital.

Many of the wounded were crawling forth to join in that glad shout of welcome to those who had so bravely come to their assistance. The ladies were in tears—tears of joy; some were on their knees, already thanking God for a deliverance from unspeakable horrors. It was a moment never to be forgotten. Soon all the rearguard and heavy guns were inside our position, and then ensued a scene which baffles description. For eighty-seven days the Lucknow garrison had lived in utter ignorance of all that had taken place outside. Wives who had mourned their husbands as dead were again restored to them; others, fondly looking forward to glad meetings with those near and dear to them, now for the first time learnt that they were alone in the world. On all sides eager inquiries were made for relations and friends. Oh, what a hubbub of voices, what exclamations of delight, what sad silences!

The force under the command of Sir James Outram and Havelock had suffered heavily. Out of 2,600 who had left Cawnpore nearly one-third had been either killed or wounded in forcing their way through the city. Indeed, their losses were so heavy that they could effect little towards the relief, for the rebels were in overpowering force, so that the garrison remained on three-quarter rations, as closely besieged as before, looking for a day when they might be more effectually relieved by a larger and stronger force.

Then, after the personal inquiries had died down, with bated breath they asked for news of Cawnpore. What a tale of horror, of pride, of shame! On the 5th of June, so they were told, the Cawnpore regiments mutinied and set off for Delhi. On the 6th they were brought back by Nana Sahib, a man who had once been well received in London drawing-rooms, now the arch-traitor and murderer.

Not less than 1,000 persons took refuge in the Residency, which Nana proceeded to invest. It was a poor, weak place to defend, yet they kept the flag flying till the 24th of June, when their ammunition and provisions were all gone. Time after time the gallant little garrison repulsed all the Nana’s attacks. At length he approached them with treacherous smiles, and offered to transmit them safely to Allahabad on conditions of surrender. General Sir Hugh Wheeler undertook to deliver up the fortifications, the treasure, and the artillery on condition that our force should march out under arms, with sixty rounds of ammunition to every man; that carriages should be provided for the conveyance of the wounded, the women, and the children; that boats provided with flour should be in readiness at the landing-place.

What happened was described by one who had been on the spot. He said:

“The whole of Cawnpore was astir at an early hour to see the English depart. They poured down to the landing-place in thousands. Meanwhile a crowd of carriages and beasts of burden had been collected outside the entrenchments. The bullock-carts were soon filled with women and children. A fine elephant had been sent for the General, but he put his wife and daughters in the state howdah, and contented himself with a simple palanquin. The wounded were placed in litters with such care as soldiers could employ. Many sepoys mingling with the crowd expressed admiration for the British defence; some even wept over the sufferings of their late masters. Eleven dying Europeans were left behind, too ill to be moved.

“They set off, with the men of the 32nd Regiment at their head; then came a throng of naked bearers, carrying the palanquins full of sick and wounded; then came the bullock-carts crowded with ladies and children; and next, musket on shoulder, came all who could still walk and fight. Major Vibart of the Second Cavalry came last. Colonel and Mrs. Ewart started late, she on foot, walking beside her husband, who was borne by four native porters. As they dropped astern some natives belonging to the Colonel’s own battalion approached him. They began to mock him, and then cut him in pieces with their swords. They did the same to his wife.

“The road to the landing-place, which is about a mile from the entrenchments, runs down a ravine, which in summer is dry, and is enclosed on either side by high banks and crumbling fences. As the van turned down this ravine a great mob of natives watched them go in a strange silence.

“Rather disorderly, with swaying howdahs and grunting beasts, the unwieldy caravan wound along the sandy lane. When they were all entangled in the little defile some sepoys quietly formed a double line across the mouth of the gorge, shutting, as it were, the top of the trap.

“Meanwhile the head of the caravan had reached the landing-place, being a little surprised at the want of a pier or planks to serve as gangway.

“But the English officers went in knee-deep and hoisted the wounded and the women into the covered barges, which had been hauled into the shallows, and were in many cases grounded on the sandy bottom. The boats were 30 feet from stem to stern and 12 feet in beam, roofed with straw, having a space at each end for the rowers and the steersman. They looked very old and dilapidated, but beggars may not choose. Hindoo boatmen were waiting sullenly and silently, not deigning to return a smile to the little English children, who already began to scent fun and enjoyment in a long river excursion.

“All at once a bugle rang out from the top of the defile. Away splashed the native rowers, jumping from their boats into the water.

“The rebels put up their muskets and fired point-blank into the laden boats; but the English had their rifles, and returned the fire.

“Yet another surprise! Suddenly the straw roofs of the native boats burst into flame, and from either shore of the river grape and musket shot were poured in relentlessly. The wounded lay still and were burnt to death. Ladies and children sought the protection of the water, and crouched in the shallows under the sterns of the barges. The men tried to push off, but the keels stuck fast. Out of two dozen boats only three drifted slowly down from the stage. Of these three two went across to the Oude bank, where stood two cannon, guarded by a battalion of infantry and some cavalry. The third boat, containing Vibart and Whiting and Ushe, Delafosse and Bolton, Burney and Glanville and Moore, the bravest of the brave, got clear away, and drifted down the main channel.”

Mrs. Bradshaw thus describes what she saw: “In the boat where I was to have gone were the school-mistress and twenty-two missies. General Wheeler came last in a palkee. They carried him into the water near a boat. I was standing close by. He said, ‘Carry me a little further near the boat.’ But a trooper said, ‘No; get out here.’ As the General got out of the palkee, head foremost, the trooper gave him a cut with his sword into the neck, and he fell into the water. My son was killed near him. I saw it—alas! alas! Some were stabbed with bayonets; others were cut down with swords and knives. Little infants were torn in pieces. We saw it, we did, and tell you only what we saw. Other children were stabbed and thrown into the river. The school-girls were burnt to death. I saw their clothes and hair catch fire. In the water, a few paces off, by the next boat, we saw the youngest daughter of Colonel Williams. A sepoy was going to kill her with his bayonet, when she said, ‘My father was always kind to sepoys.’ He turned away, and just then a villager struck her on the head with his club, and she fell into the water.”

After a time the women and children who had not been shot, stabbed, or burnt were collected and brought to shore, some of them being rudely handled by the sowars, who tore from ear or finger such jewels as caught their fancy.

About 120 sat or lay on the shore or on logs of timber, full of misery, fear, and despair. There they waited in the blinding sun on the Ganges shore all that morning. Then they were herded back along the narrow lane by which they had come with hope in their bosoms, while the sepoys who guarded them grinned with fiendish delight, and showed gleefully all their spoils. Past the bazaar and the chapel and the racquet-court and the entrenchments they limped along, until they were paraded before the pavilion of the Maharajah, who looked them well over, and ordered them to be confined in the Savada House. Two good-sized rooms, which had been used by native soldiers for a month, were given them to live in, and a guard was placed over them.

One witness says: “I saw that many of the ladies were wounded. Their clothes had blood on them. Some were wet, covered with mud and blood, and some had their dresses badly torn, but all had clothes. I saw one or two children without clothes. There were no men in the party, but only some boys of twelve or thirteen years of age. Some of the ladies were barefoot and lame. Two I saw were wounded in the leg.”

And what of the third boat which floated down-stream?

More than 100 persons had taken refuge in it. Some officers and men, seeing how hopeless was the fight on the bank, had swum out to Vibart and his crew. Now they stranded on a mud-bank, now they drifted towards the guns on the other shore, ever under a hot fire of canister and shell, and continually losing brave men who were shot at point-blank range. Down in the bottom of the great barge lay dying and dead, till at last the survivors were compelled to throw the bodies overboard.

At night a fire-ship was sent down to set them alight, and fire-tipped arrows were shot into the thatched roof, forcing our people to cut them away. Then they came under a fierce fire from the militia of Ram Bux. Pelting rains came down, and they drifted up a backwater, and soon after a host of rebels surrounded the poor, stricken fugitives and took them back to Cawnpore.

The doomed boat-load were seen to be drawing near the landing-place early on the morning of the 30th. This is what a native spy said of them:

“There were brought back sixty sahibs, twenty-five mem sahibs, and four children. The Nana ordered the sahibs to be separated from the mem sahibs, and shot by the 1st Bengal Native Infantry. But they said, ‘We will not kill the sahibs; put them in prison.’ Then said the Nadiree Regiment: ‘What word is this—put them in prison? We will kill the males ourselves.’

“So the sahibs were seated on the ground. Two companies stood with their muskets, ready to fire. Then said one of the mem sahibs, the doctor’s wife: ‘I will not leave my husband. If he must die, I will die with him.’ So she ran and sat down behind her husband, clasping him round the waist.

“When she said this the other mem sahibs said: ‘We also will die with our husbands;’ and they all sat down, each by her husband.

“Then their husbands said: ‘Go back;’ but they would not do so.

“So then the Nana gave order, and his soldiers went in and pulled them away by force. But they could not pull away the doctor’s wife, who stayed there. Then the padre asked leave to read prayers before they died. He did so, and then shut the book. Then all the sahibs shook hands and bid good-bye. Then the sepoys fired. One sahib rolled one way, one another, but they were not quite dead; so the sepoys went at them and finished them off with their swords.”

Can you imagine the breathless horror with which the garrison of Lucknow listened to these details of a most cruel and treacherous onslaught upon wounded men, upon refined ladies, and innocent children? How they sighed for a force strong enough to take an adequate revenge upon these miscreants! But for the present they were besieged themselves, though reinforced; and who of them could count upon a day’s security? Perhaps, if the bullet spared them at Lucknow their would-be rescuers might be unable to fight their way through the city, and these poor ladies and children of the Lucknow garrison might be reserved for a lot even worse than death. “Will they come?—will they come to help us here at Lucknow? That is our anxious thought night and day.”

CHAPTER XII
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW (1857)

The scene at Cawnpore—Fights before Lucknow—Nearly blown up—A hideous nightmare—Cheering a runaway—All safe out of the Residency—A quick march back—Who stole the biscuits?—Sir Colin’s own regiment.

“I had enlisted in the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders to go to India to put down the Mutiny,” writes Mr. Forbes-Mitchell, an old friend of the author. “We reached Cawnpore on the 27th of October, having marched the last forty-six miles in two days. We were over 1,000 strong, and many of us had just been through the Crimean War. After a few hours’ rest we were allowed to go out in parties of ten or twelve to visit the scene of the late treachery and massacre.”

Wheeler’s entrenchments at the highest place did not exceed 4 feet, and could not have been bullet-proof at the top. The wonder was how the small force could have held out so long. In the rooms were still lying about broken toys, pictures, books, and bits of clothing. They then went to see the slaughter-house in which our women and children had been barbarously murdered and the well into which their mangled bodies were flung. On the date of this visit a great part of the house had not been cleaned out. The floors of the rooms were still covered with congealed blood, and littered with trampled, torn dresses, shoes, locks of long hair, many of which evidently had been severed by sword-cuts. But the most horrible sight they saw was an iron hook fixed into the wall. This was covered with dried blood, and from the marks on the whitewashed wall it was evident that a little child had been hung on to it by the neck, with its face to the wall. There the poor thing must have struggled for long, because the wall all round the hook was covered with the hand-prints, and below the hook with the footprints, of a little child—in blood.

The number of victims killed at Cawnpore, counted and buried in the well by Havelock’s force, was 118 women and 92 children. This sight was enough, they said, to make the words “mercy” and “pardon” appear a mockery.

The troops crossed into Oude on the 2nd of November, and on the 3rd a salute fired from the mud fort on the Cawnpore side told them that, to their great delight, Sir Colin Campbell had come up from Calcutta. They were all burning to start for Lucknow. Every man in the regiment was determined to risk his life to save the women and children from the fate of Cawnpore.

On their march they saw they were at once in an enemy’s country. None of the villages were inhabited. There was no chance of buying chupatties (girdle-cakes) or goat’s milk. It was the custom to serve out three days’ biscuits at one time, running four to the pound. Most men usually had finished their biscuits before they reached the first halting-ground.

Before they made their first halt they could hear the guns of the rebels bombarding the Residency. Footsore and tired as they were, the report of each salvo made the men step out with a firmer tread and a more determined resolve to relieve those helpless women and children.

On the 10th of November they were encamped on the plain about five miles in front of the Alumbâgh, about 5,000 of them, the only really complete regiment being the 93rd Highlanders, of whom some 700 wore the Crimean medal. They were in full Highland costume, feather bonnets and dark waving plumes—a solid mass of brawny-limbed men.

The old chief rode along the line, saying a few words to each corps as he passed. The regiment remarked that none of the other corps had given him a single cheer, but had taken what he said in solemn silence. At last he came to the 93rd, who were formed close column, so that every man might hear. When Sir Colin rode up he seemed to have a worn and haggard expression on his face, but he was received with such a cheer, or rather shout of welcome, as made the echoes ring. His wrinkled brow at once became smooth, and his weary features broke into a smile as he acknowledged the cheer by a hearty salute. He ended his speech thus: “Ninety-third, you are my own lads. I rely on you to do the work.” A voice from the ranks called out: “Ay, ay, Sir Colin! ye ken us, and we ken you. We’ll bring the women and children out of Lucknow or die in the attempt;” and the whole regiment burst into another ringing cheer.

On the morning of the 14th of November they began the advance on the Dilkoosha Park and Palace. The Fourth Brigade, composed of the 53rd, 93rd, and 4th Punjab Regiments, with a strong force of artillery, reached the walls at sunrise. Here they halted till a breach was made in the walls. The park swarmed with deer—black buck and spotted. There were no signs of the enemy, and a staff-officer of the artillery galloped to the front to reconnoitre. This was none other than the present Lord Roberts, known to the men then as “Plucky Wee Bobs.” About half of the regiment had passed through the breach, when a masked battery of six guns opened fire on them from behind the palace. The first shot passed through the column, the second cut in two a trooper’s horse close to Roberts, who dismounted and helped the trooper to his feet. They all cheered the young Lieutenant for his coolness under a point-blank fire of 9-pounders. They kept on pegging away until the sepoys bolted down the hill for shelter in the Martinière. About two o’clock they drove the rebels out, occupied the Martinière and erected a semaphore on the roof to communicate with the Residency.

They next fought their way to a village on the east side of the Secundrabâgh. Here they saw a naked wretch with shaven head and body painted and smeared with ashes. He was sitting on a leopard-skin, counting a rosary of beads. James Wilson said:

“I’d like to try my bayonet on that fellow’s hide;” but Captain Mayne replied:

“Oh, don’t touch him. These fellows are harmless Hindoo jogees” (mendicants).

The words had scarcely been uttered when the painted scoundrel stopped counting his beads, slipped his hand under his leopard-skin, brought out a short brass blunderbuss, and fired it into Captain Mayne’s chest, a few feet off. The fellow was instantly bayoneted, but poor Mayne died.

From the Secundrabâgh came a murderous fire, and they had to wait for the guns to make a breach.

“Lie down, 93rd, lie down!” shouted Sir Colin. “Every man of you is worth his weight in gold to England to-day.”

When the breach was large enough the 4th Punjabis led the assault, but seeing their officers shot down, they wavered. Sir Colin turned to Colonel Ewart and said:

“Bring on the tartan. Let my own lads at them.”

Before the buglers had time to sound the advance the whole seven companies, like one man, leaped the wall with such a yell of pent-up rage as never was heard before nor since. The bayonet did the work effectually. Many of the Highlanders were wounded in the leg because the native tulwârs were as sharp as razors, and when the rebels had fired their muskets they hurled them like javelins, bayonets first, and then drawing their tulwârs, slashed in blind fury, shouting, “Deen! Deen!” (“The faith!”), and some threw themselves down and slashed at the legs of the Highlanders.

In the centre of the inner court of the Secundrabâgh there was a large peepul-tree (Indian fig), with a very bushy top, and round the foot of it were set some jars full of cool water. Captain Dawson noticed that many of our men lay dead under this tree, and he called out to Wallace, a good shot, to look up and try if he could see anyone in the top, as the dead seemed to be shot from above.

Wallace stepped back and scanned the tree. “I see him, sir,” he shouted, and cocking his rifle, he fired. Down fell a body dressed in a tight-fitting red jacket and rose-coloured silk trousers. The breast of the jacket bursting open with the fall showed that the wearer was a woman.

She was armed with a pair of heavy old-pattern cavalry pistols. From her perch in the tree, which had been carefully prepared before the attack, she had killed more than half a dozen men. Poor Wallace burst into tears, saying: “If I had known it was a woman I would never have harmed her.”

When the roll was called it was found that we had lost nine officers and ninety-nine men. Sir Colin rode up and said: “Fifty-third and Ninety-third, you have bravely done your share of this morning’s work, and Cawnpore is avenged.”

“On revisiting Lucknow many years after this I saw no tablet or grave to mark the spot where so many of the 93rd are buried. It is the old, old story which was said to have been first written on the walls of Badajos: