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.