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.