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:
“When war is rife and danger nigh,
God and the soldier is all the cry;
When war is over and wrongs are righted,
God is forgot and the soldier slighted.”
“After the Secundrabâgh we had to advance on the Shâh Nujeef. As the
24-pounders were being dragged along by our men and Peel’s sailors a
poor sailor lad just in front had his leg carried clean off above the
knee by a round shot, and although knocked head over heels by the force
of the ball, he sat bolt upright on the grass, with the blood spouting
from the stump of his limb like water from the hose of a fire-engine,
and shouted:
“‘Here goes a shilling a day--a shilling a day! Pitch into them, boys!
Remember Cawnpore, 93rd--remember Cawnpore! Go at them, my hearties!’
and then he fell back in a dead faint. He was dead before a doctor
could reach him.”
Sir Colin himself was wounded by a bullet after it had passed through
the head of a 93rd Grenadier.
Amongst the force defending the Shâh Nujeef there was a large body of
archers on the walls armed with bows and arrows, which they discharged
with great force and precision, and on Sergeant White raising his head
above the wall an arrow was shot right into his feather bonnet. Inside
the wire cage of his bonnet he had placed his forage-cap, folded up,
and instead of passing right through, the arrow stuck in the folds of
his cap. White, drawing out the arrow, cried: “My conscience! Bows and
arrows! Have we got Robin Hood and Little John back again? Well, well,
Jack Pandy, since bows and arrows are the word, here’s at you!” and
with that he raised his bonnet on the point of his bayonet above the
top of the wall, and at once another arrow pierced it through, while a
dozen more whizzed past a little wide of the mark.
[Illustration: THE LIGHTER SIDE OF WAR AT LUCKNOW
A body of archers were amongst the defenders of the Shâh Nujeef. A
Highland sergeant put his bonnet on his bayonet and held it up, and it
was at once pierced by an arrow.]
Just then Penny, of No. 2 Company, looking over the wall, got an arrow
right through his brain, the shaft projecting more than a foot at the
back of his head.
Then they all loaded and capped, and, pushing up their bonnets again,
a whole shower of arrows went past or through them. Up they sprang and
returned a well-aimed volley from their rifles at point-blank distance,
and more than half a dozen of the rebels went down. But Montgomery
exposed himself a little too long to watch the effects of the volley,
and before he could get down into shelter an arrow was sent through his
heart, passing clean through his body, and falling on the ground a few
yards behind him. He leaped about 6 feet straight up in the air and
fell stone dead.
But as yet we had made little impression on the solid masonry walls,
and one of our ammunition waggons exploded, killing several men, and
our storming party was repulsed. Just then Sergeant Paton came running
up out of breath to say he had found a wide breach on the other side.
It seems our shot and shell had gone over the first wall and had blown
out the wall on the other side. Paton had climbed up easily and seen
right inside the place. So Captain Dawson and his company were sent
with Paton, and when the enemy saw them come in behind them they fled
like sheep.
Thus ended the terrible 16th of November, 1857.
“An adventure happened to me in the Shâh Nujeef,” says Forbes-Mitchell,
“which I still sometimes dream of with horror. This place was the tomb
of the first King of Oude, and a place of Mohammedan pilgrimage. It had
a number of small rooms round the enclosure for the pilgrims. These the
enemy had used for quarters, and in their hurry to escape many had
left their lamps burning. As I had lost my greatcoat in the fight, and
felt very cold at night, so that I could not sleep, it struck me that
some of the sepoys might have left blankets behind them. With this hope
I went into one of the rooms where a lamp was burning, took it off its
shelf, and walked to the door of the great domed tomb, which was only
20 yards or so away from the spot where the arms were piled and the men
lying round the still burning fire. I peered into the dark vault, but
could see nothing, so I advanced slowly, holding above my head the clay
saucer of oil containing a loose cotton wick. I was looking cautiously
round, for fear of surprise from a concealed foe, till I came near
the centre of the great vault, where my progress was obstructed by a
big black heap about 4 feet high, which felt to my feet as if I were
walking in loose sand. I lowered the lamp to see what it was, and
discovered that I was standing up to the ankles in loose gunpowder!
“About 40 hundredweight of it lay in a great heap in front of my nose,
while a glance to my left showed me a range of some thirty barrels also
full of powder, and on the right lots of 8-inch shells, all loaded,
with the fuses fixed.
“By this time my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the
mosque, and I took in my position at a glance. Here I was up to my
knees almost in powder--in the very bowels of a magazine--with a naked
light!
“My hair literally stood on end. I felt the skin of my head lifting my
feather bonnet off my scalp. My knees knocked together, and, despite
the chilly night air, the cold perspiration burst out all over me and
ran down my face and legs.
“I had neither cloth nor handkerchief in my pocket, and there was not a
moment to be lost, as already the overhanging wick was threatening to
shed its smouldering red tip into the live magazine at my feet.
“Quick as thought I put my left hand under the down-dropping flame
and clasped it firmly. Holding it so, I slowly turned to the door
and walked out with my knees knocking one against the other. I never
felt the least pain from the wick, fear had so overcome me; but when
I opened my hand on gaining the open air, I felt the smart acutely
enough. I poured the oil out of the saucer into the burnt hand, then
kneeling down, I thanked God for having saved me and all our men around
from horrible destruction. I then got up and staggered rather than
walked to the place where Captain Dawson was sleeping. I shook him by
the shoulder till he awoke, and told him of my discovery and fright.
“‘Bah, Corporal Mitchell!’ was all his answer. ‘You have woke up out
of your sleep and have got frightened at a shadow’--for he saw me all
trembling.
“I turned my smarting hand to the light of the fire and showed the
Captain how it was scorched; and then, feeling my pride hurt, I said:
‘Sir, you’re not a Highlander, or you would know the Gaelic proverb,
“The heart of one who can look death in the face will not start at a
shadow,” and you, sir, can bear witness that I have not shirked to look
death in the face more than once since morning.’
“He replied: ‘Pardon me. I did not mean that. But calm yourself and
explain.’
“I then told him that I had gone into the mosque with a naked lamp, and
had found it half full of loose gunpowder.
“‘Are you sure you’re not dreaming from the excitement of this awful
day?’ he asked.
“With that I looked down to my feet and my gaiters, which were still
covered with blood from the slaughter in the Secundrabâgh. The wet
grass had softened it again, and on this the powder was sticking nearly
an inch thick. I scraped some of it off, throwing it into the fire, and
said:
“‘There is positive proof for you that I’m not dreaming, nor my vision
a shadow.’
“On that the Captain became almost as alarmed as I was, and a sentry
was posted near the door of the mosque to prevent anyone entering it.
“The sleeping men were aroused, and the fire smothered out by jars of
water. Then Captain Dawson and I, with an escort of four men, went
round the rooms. As Wilson, one of the escort, was peering into a room,
a concealed sepoy struck him over the head with his tulwâr; but his
bonnet saved him, and Captain Dawson put a pistol bullet through the
sepoy to save further trouble.
“After all was quiet the men rolled off to sleep again, and I too lay
down and tried to sleep. My nerves were, however, too much shaken, and
the burnt hand kept me awake, so I lay and listened to the men sleeping
round me. And what a night that was! The horrible scenes through which
the men had passed during the day had told with terrible effect upon
their nerves, and the struggles with death in the Secundrabâgh were
fought over again by some of the men in their sleep, oaths and shouts
of defiance being often strangely intermingled with prayers.
“One man would be lying calmly asleep and then suddenly break out into
a fierce battle-cry of ‘Cawnpore! you bloody murderer!’ Another would
shout, ‘Charge! give them the bayonet!’ and a third, ‘Keep together,
boys; don’t fire yet. Forward! forward! If we are to die, let us die
like men!’
“Then I would hear one muttering, ‘Oh, mother, forgive me, and I’ll
never leave you again.’ So it was through all that memorable night, and
I have no doubt it was the same at the other posts. At last I dozed
off and dreamed of blood and battle, and anon of Dee or Don side and
the Braemar gathering; then the scene would change, and I was a little
boy again, kneeling beside my mother, saying my evening hymn. Verily
Campbell’s ‘Soldier’s Dream’ is no fiction.”
Next morning they found plenty of pumpkins and piles of flat cakes
already cooked, but no salt; but Mitchell had an old matchbox full
of salt in his haversack. An old veteran who used to tell stories of
Waterloo had said to him at home: “Always carry a box of salt in your
haversack when on active service: it will be useful.” So it was very
often. After breakfast they sponged out their rifles, which had become
so foul that the men’s shoulders were black with bruises from the
recoil.
They had to assault the mess-house next, and after they had driven the
rebels into the River Goomtee they peppered every head that showed
above water.
One tall fellow acted as cunningly as a jackal. Whether struck or not,
he fell just as he got into shallow water on the opposite side, and lay
without moving, with his legs in the water and his head on the land.
He appeared to be stone dead, and every rifle was turned on those that
were running across the plain, while many that were wounded were fired
on, as the fellows said, in mercy to put them out of pain. For this war
of the Mutiny was a demoralizing war for civilized men to be engaged
in. The cold-blooded cruelty of the rebels branded them as traitors to
humanity and cowardly assassins of helpless women and children.
But to return to our Pandy. He was ever after spoken of as “the
Jackal,” because jackals often behave as he did. After he had lain
apparently dead for about an hour, some one noticed that he had
gradually dragged himself out of the water. Then all at once he sprang
to his feet and ran like a deer. He was still within easy range, and
several rifles were levelled at him; but Sergeant Findlay, who was
on the rampart, called out: “Don’t fire, men; give the poor devil a
chance.” So instead of a volley of bullets the men’s better feelings
gained the day, and Jack Pandy was reprieved, with a cheer to speed
him on his way. As soon as he heard it he realized his position, and
like the Samaritan leper of old, he halted, turned round, and putting
up both his hands with the palms together in front of his face, he
salaamed profoundly, prostrating himself three times on the ground by
way of thanks, while the men on the ramparts waved their bonnets and
clapped their hands to him in token of goodwill.
Just at this time was heard a great sound of cheering near the
Residency, the cause of which they shortly learned. It was because
General Sir Colin Campbell had met Havelock and Outram. So then they
knew the Residency was relieved, and the women and children were saved,
though not yet out of danger. Every man in the force slept with a
lighter heart that night.
A girl in the Residency--Jessie Brown--had stated that she heard the
skirl of the bagpipes hours before the relieving force could be seen or
heard by the rest of the garrison, “and I believe it was quite true.
I know we heard their bagpipes a long way off. Well, we had relieved
Lucknow, but at what a cost! No less than forty-five officers and 496
men had been killed--more than a tenth of our whole number.”
The Residency was relieved on the afternoon of the 17th of November,
and the following day preparations were made for the evacuation of
the position and the withdrawal of the women and children. To do this
in safety, however, was no easy task, for the rebels showed but small
regard for the laws of chivalry. There was a long stretch of plain,
exposed to the fire of the enemy’s artillery and sharp-shooters from
the opposite side of the Goomtee. To protect this part of the route all
the best shots were placed on the north-west corner of the ramparts
next to the Goomtee. They were under the command of Sergeant Findlay.
One very good shot that excellent marksman made. A rebel officer rode
out with a force of infantry from the east gate of the Bâdshâh-hibâgh.
They had a couple of guns, too, to open fire on the line of retreat.
They might have played havoc with the retiring garrison, but Findlay
managed to unhorse the officer at long distance, and as soon as he
was knocked over the enemy retreated into the bâgh, and did not show
themselves any more that day.
By midnight of the 22nd of November the Residency was entirely
evacuated, and the enemy completely deceived as to the movements. The
women and children had passed the exposed part of their route without a
single casualty.
The roll was called on reaching the Martinière, and two were found to
be missing. They had been left asleep in the barracks, and came in
later, saying that the rebels had not yet discovered that the English
had gone and were still firing into the Residency. Shortly after the
roll-call a most unfortunate accident took place. Corporal Cooper and
four or five men went into one of the rooms of the Martinière in which
there was a quantity of loose powder which had been left by the enemy,
and somehow the powder got ignited and they were all blown up, their
bodies completely charred and their eyes scorched out. The poor fellows
all died in the greatest agony within an hour or so of the accident,
and none of them could tell how it happened.
“This sad accident made me very mindful of and thankful for my own
narrow escape and that of my comrades in the Shâh Nujeef.
“An amusing thing occurred on the march to Cawnpore. As all the
subaltern officers in my company were wounded I was told off, with a
guard of twenty men, to see all the baggage-carts across Bunnee Bridge.
A commissariat cart, loaded with biscuits, got upset, and its wheel
broke just as we were moving it on to the road.
“The only person in charge of the cart was a young bâboo, a boy of
eighteen years of age, who defended his charge as long as he could; but
he was soon put on one side, the biscuit bags were ripped open, and the
men commenced filling their haversacks.
“Just at this moment an escort of the 9th Lancers, with some
staff-officers, rode up from the rear. It was the Commander-in-Chief
and his staff.
“The boy bâboo seeing him, rushed up and called out aloud:
“‘Oh, my lord, you are my father and my mother. What shall I tell you?
These wild Highlanders will not hear me, but are stealing commissariat
biscuits like fine fun!’
“Sir Colin pulled up, and tried not to smile. ‘Is there no officer
here?’ he asked.
“The bâboo replied: ‘No officer, sir--my lord--only one very big
corporal, and he tell me grandly “Shut up, you! or I’ll shoot you, same
like rebel mutineer.”’
“Hearing this, I stepped out of the crowd, and, saluting Sir Colin,
told him that this cart had broken down, and as there were no other
means of carrying the biscuits, the men had filled their haversacks
with them rather than leave them on the ground.
“Then the bâboo again came to the front with clasped hands, saying:
‘Oh, my lord if one cart of biscuits short, Major Fitzgerald not listen
to me; rather order thirty lashes with Provost Marshal’s cat. Oh, what
can a poor bâboo do with such supreme and wild Highlanders?’
“Sir Colin replied: ‘Yes, bâboo, I know these Highlanders are very wild
fellows when they are hungry. Let them have the biscuits,’ and turning
to one of the staff, he directed him to give a voucher to the bâboo
that a cart loaded with biscuits had broken down, and the contents had
been divided amongst the rearguard by order of the Commander-in-Chief.
Sir Colin then turned to us and said: ‘Men, I give you the biscuits.
Divide them with your comrades in front; but you must promise me should
a cart loaded with rum break down, you will not interfere with it.’
“We all replied: ‘No, no, Sir Colin; if rum breaks down, we’ll not
touch it.’
“‘All right,’ said Sir Colin, ‘remember! I trust you, and I know every
one of you.’
“We honestly shared those biscuits, and it was well we had them, for
about five miles further on a general halt was made for a short rest
and for all stragglers to come up. Sir Colin ordered the 93rd to form
up, and calling the officers to the front, he announced to the regiment
that General Wyndham had been attacked by the Nana Sahib and by the
Gwalior contingent in Cawnpore; that his force had been obliged to
retire within the fort at the bridge of boats; and that we must reach
Cawnpore that night, because if the bridge of boats should be captured
before we got there, we should be cut off in Oude, with 50,000 of our
enemies in our rear, a well-equipped army of 40,000 men in our front,
together with a powerful train of artillery numbering over forty
siege-guns to face, and with all the women and children, sick and
wounded, to guard. ‘So, 93rd,’ said the old chief, ‘I don’t ask you to
undertake this forced march in your present tired condition without
good reason. You must reach Cawnpore to-night at all costs.’
“As usual, when he took the men into his confidence, he was answered
from the ranks: ‘All right, Sir Colin, we’ll do it.’ And we did.”
By this time they could hear the guns of the Gwalior contingent
bombarding General Wyndham’s position in Cawnpore. Although terribly
footsore and tired, not having had their clothes off for eighteen days,
they trudged on their weary march, every mile hearing the guns more
clearly. There is nothing to rouse tired soldiers like a good cannonade
in front. It is the best tonic out.
But they will never forget the misery of that march. They reached
the sands on the banks of the Ganges, on the Oude side of the river
opposite Cawnpore, just as the sun was setting, having covered the
forty-seven miles under thirty hours. And when they got in sight of
Cawnpore the first thing they saw was the enemy on the other side of
the river making bonfires of their spare kit and baggage, which had
been left at Cawnpore when they advanced for the relief of Lucknow.
How on the 29th of November they crossed the bridge of boats; how
by the 3rd of December all the women and children and wounded were
on their way to Allahabad; how they smashed up the famous Gwalior
contingent and sent the Nana flying into the desert--all this belongs
to another story. Sir Colin thanked his old regiment for their great
toil and prowess. “But we old soldiers should like our deeds and the
deeds of those who gave their lives for England to be remembered by our
children’s children, and to be studied with a grateful sympathy.”
From “Reminiscences of the Great Mutiny,” by William
Forbes-Mitchell. By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Co.
This is one of the most interesting books that has been written by
a soldier who took part in the Mutiny War.