HOW SURGEON-CAPTAIN WHITCHURCH WON FAME.
There was some consternation in the quaint-looking, five-towered fort at
Chitral on the evening of the 3rd of March 1895. Sher Afzul, the usurping
chief of the little mountainous state in the north-west of India, was
approaching with a large force, and some two hundred of the 4th Cashmere
Rifles had gone out under Captain Townshend to try conclusions with the
rebels. After several hours’ brisk fighting in the villages nestling at
the foot of the hills, the troops had withdrawn to the fort, but some men
of one section still remained to be accounted for.
Captain Baird, with about a dozen Ghurkhas, had not returned. He
was lying somewhere out in the darkness, on the hillside, where the
white-robed Chitralis were still firing. And with him was Surgeon-Captain
Whitchurch, who had bravely hastened to his assistance on hearing that
the captain was wounded.
“Where is Whitchurch? Where is Baird?” Captain Gurdon and the other
members of the little garrison asked the question of each other anxiously
from time to time, hoping that the missing men had found their way into
the fort. The surgeon especially was needed, for Captain Townshend’s
reconnoitring party had brought many wounded back with them. But the
answer still came, with an ominous shake of the head, “Not in yet.”
In the meantime, while the occupants of the fort set about preparing for
the expected siege, the few stars that were beginning to peep out of the
clouded sky looked down upon a strange scene in a little orchard nearly
two miles away from the fort. There, under the trees, a wounded officer
was being bandaged by the skilful hands of another who bent over him, a
dozen sepoys and four stretcher-bearers standing patiently by.
The operation finished, the sufferer was lifted tenderly into a dhoolie.
Then two bearers raised it from the ground, the escort ranged itself
alongside, and the little party started out for the road leading to the
fort.
“Feel any easier now, old chap?” asked the surgeon, who was striding by
the dhoolie.
“Yes, thanks, Whitchurch; much easier,” replied Captain Baird,
suppressing a groan as one of the bearers stumbled over a stone.
Contrary to the general opinion expressed at the fort, neither of the
two missing men had been killed or captured by the enemy. When Baird had
fallen with a bullet in his side, his men had carried him quickly to the
shelter of an orchard close at hand, and here they had escaped notice.
All around them, however, lurked the Chitralis, on the look-out to cut
off any stragglers from the retreating force.
In a few minutes Whitchurch’s party had filed down the hillside and
reached the road, but a cry of warning from the native officer in front
pulled them up short.
“We’re cut off, sahib,” he exclaimed, as the surgeon hastened to his
side. “The enemy have got in front of us!”
It was, alas! too true. Although he could see nothing through the gloom,
the shouts and occasional shots that reached his ears told Whitchurch
plainly that the Chitralis were on the road ahead. What was to be done?
A sudden thought occurred to him. “Isn’t there a way round to the fort by
the river, Bidrina Singh?” he asked of the officer.
The other nodded affirmatively. There was a track along the river bank,
he said, but it would take them a mile out of their way and across some
very difficult ground.
“Never mind,” said the surgeon briskly. “We’ve got to get to the fort
to-night. So pull your men together, Bidrina Singh, and make for the
river at once.”
From his dhoolie Captain Baird called Whitchurch over to him, and begged
that he would consider his own safety first. “I’m badly hit, old chap,”
he said; “I know I’m done for----” But Whitchurch shut him up quickly.
While there was breath in his body he meant to stick to his comrade;
there was to be no talk of running away. So, picking up the wounded man
again, the native bearers took their place in the middle of the escort,
the latter closed up, and on they moved across the polo ground towards
the river on their left.
Thanks to the dense darkness, they made good progress on their way for a
quarter of an hour or so. Then a scouting party of Sher Afzul’s followers
suddenly appeared in front, and with a joyful shout gathered round them.
At Whitchurch’s quick word of command the sturdy little Ghurkas closed in
and fired a volley into the midst of their foes. There were yells of pain
which told that some of the shots had taken effect, but the yells drew
other Chitralis who were prowling near, and the answering shots of the
enemy became more frequent.
Whitchurch’s revolver spoke more than once with good effect, and his
“Steady, men! Aim low,” rang out encouragingly above the din. The
Chitralis, thank goodness, were firing somewhat at random, not knowing
the strength of those opposed to them; but one bullet at last found its
mark. A bearer dropped his end of the stretcher with a cry, and tumbled
over backwards, dead. The jolt of the fall wrung a groan from poor Baird,
in spite of his iron nerve. Then another stretcher-bearer stepped forward
and lifted the dhoolie, and on the little party pressed again.
Firing steadily in volleys, the gallant Ghurkas gradually cleared the
way before them. The Chitralis had no wish to stand in the way of those
deadly levelled barrels, preferring to circle round their prey and drop
in a shot as opportunity offered. Two more bearers were killed, together
with two or three sepoys, and the surgeon now took one end of the dhoolie
himself.
They had gone nearly half the distance when the enemy rallied in stronger
force and barred the track ahead. Things were beginning to look serious.
“Fix bayonets!” Whitchurch called out, and there was a rattle of steel in
the sockets. “Charge!” And with a cheer the Ghurkas dashed at the cluster
of white-robed figures, sending them scattering right and left, while a
few lay writhing on the ground.
That charge taught the Chitralis to keep at a more respectful distance,
but a little later some daring spirits ventured nearer, and the last
of the bearers fell shot through the body. Whitchurch put the dhoolie
down and lifted up the wounded man in his strong arms. The Ghurkas were
wanted, every man of them, to protect Baird with their rifles; not one
could be spared for bearer-work.
Again, it is said, the captain implored Whitchurch to leave him and make
a run for it to the fort. Perhaps he felt already that his wound was
mortal. But again the brave surgeon refused to hear a word. With Baird in
his embrace, he struggled gamely after the sepoys.
Along the rough, rock-strewn path the party stumbled, working their way
ever nearer and nearer to the fort. A low wall confronted them thrice, a
wall behind which the enemy were quick to post themselves. But jumping
over with the surgeon to lead them, the nimble Ghurkas swept the way
clear each time, and Whitchurch, having returned to pick up Baird, half
carried and half dragged his weighty burden to the more open ground.
At last, after another fifteen minutes’ struggle, a dark mass of trees
loomed up ahead. It was the grove of cedars by the eastern wall of the
fort. They were within sight of safety now. Still the Chitralis hovered
round, however, and a chance shot hit Baird as he hung limp in the
surgeon’s arms.
“Make for the garden entrance!” cried Whitchurch; and the Ghurkas turned
to pass through the grove. On their right, by the main gates, was a
confused sound of shouting and firing. The enemy had already gathered in
force there.
As they neared the entrance in the garden and gave a ringing cheer, the
sentries saw them. In a minute the gate was unbolted, and the little
party scrambled through, but not before Baird was yet a third time
hit--on this occasion in the face, as his head rested on Whitchurch’s
shoulder. How often has it happened in similar rescues, that the wounded
has been the target for the enemy’s bullets, while the rescuer has
escaped scot free! It was the story of “Dhoolie Square” repeated again,
the story of McManus, Ryan, and Captain Arnold.
Inside the fort enclosure the officers gathered quickly round Whitchurch
as the glad cry went up, “They’ve brought Baird in!” And tenderly, very
tenderly, for he was suffering greatly from his hurts, the wounded
officer was carried to the hospital, where without any loss of time the
surgeon followed to save, if possible, the life that was so dear to them
all.
I should much like to add that he was successful; but fate willed
otherwise. Captain Baird lived only a few hours, and the fort that he had
helped to defend so gallantly served as his grave.
Chitral was relieved about the middle of April, when a British column
succeeded in fighting its way to the fort through the mountain
passes. Three months later the _London Gazette_ contained the welcome
announcement that the Victoria Cross had been awarded to Surgeon-Captain
Harry Frederick Whitchurch, of the Indian Medical Service.
Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself pinned the Cross on the brave
surgeon’s breast at Osborne, with warm words of praise that were echoed
by every one who had heard the story of that plucky night-rescue in
far-off Chitral.