DANGEROUS SERVICE.
On the morning of the 17th of July the troops rose with light hearts
from the ground where they had thrown themselves, utterly exhausted,
after the tremendous exertions of the previous day. Cawnpore was before
them, and as they did not anticipate any further resistance--for the
whole of the enemy's guns had fallen into their hands, and the Sepoys
had fled in the wildest confusion at the end of the day, after fighting
with obstinacy and determination as long as a shadow of hope of victory
remained--they looked forward to the joy of releasing from captivity
the hapless women and children who were known to have been confined in
the house called the Subada Khotee, since the massacre of their
husbands and friends on the river.
Just after daybreak there was a dull, deep report, and a cloud of gray
smoke rose over the city. Nana Sahib had ordered the great magazine to
be blown up, and had fled for his life to Bithoor. Well might he be
hopeless. He had himself commanded at the battle of the preceding day,
and had seen eleven thousand of his countrymen, strongly posted,
defeated by a thousand Englishmen. What chance, then, could there be of
final success? As for himself, his life was a thousandfold forfeit; and
even yet his enemies did not know the measure of his atrocities. It was
only when the head of the British column arrived at the Subada Khotee
that the awful truth became known. The troops halted, surprised that no
welcome greeted them. They entered the courtyard; all was hushed and
quiet, but fragments of dresses, children's shoes, and other
remembrances of British occupation, lay scattered about. Awed and
silent, the leading officers entered the house, and, after a glance
round, recoiled with faces white with horror. The floor was deep in
blood; the walls were sprinkled thickly with it. Fragments of clothes,
tresses of long hair, children's shoes with the feet still in them--a
thousand terrible and touching mementos of the butchery which had taken
place there met the eye. Horror-struck and sickened, the officers
returned into the courtyard, to find that another discovery had been
made, namely, that the great well near the house was choked to the brim
with the bodies of women and children. Not one had escaped.
On the afternoon of the 15th, when the defeat at Futtehpore was known,
the Nana had given orders for a general massacre of his helpless
prisoners. There, in this ghastly well, were the remains, not only of
those who had so far survived the siege and first massacre of Cawnpore,
but of some seventy or eighty women and children, fugitives from
Futteyghur. These had, with their husbands, fathers and friends, a
hundred and thirty in all, reached Cawnpore in boats on the 12th of
July. Here the boats had been fired upon and forced to put to shore,
when the men were, by the Nairn's orders, all butchered, and the women
and children sent to share the fate of the prisoners of Cawnpore.
Little wonder is it that the soldiers, who had struggled against heat
and fatigue and a host of foes to reach Cawnpore, broke clown and cried
like children at that terrible sight; that soldiers picked up the
bloody relics--a handkerchief, a lock of hair, a child's sock sprinkled
with blood--and kept them to steel their hearts to all thoughts of
mercy; and that, after this, they went into battle crying to each other:
"Remember the ladies!" "Remember the babies!" "Think of Cawnpore!"
Henceforth, to the end of the war, no quarter was ever shown to a Sepoy.
One of the first impulses of the Warreners, when the tents were pitched
in the old cantonments, and the troops were dismissed, was to ride with
their father to the house of the ranee. It was found to be
abandoned-as, indeed, was the greater part of the town--and an old
servant, who alone remained, said that two days previously the ranee
had left for her country abode. Major Warrener at once drew out a
paper, saying that the owner of this house had shown hospitality and
kindness to English fugitives, and that it was therefore to be
preserved from all harm or plunder; and having obtained the signature
of the quartermaster-general in addition to his own, he affixed the
paper to the door of the dwelling. The next day he rode out with his
sons and twenty of his men to the house where the boys had first been
sheltered. The gates were opened at his summons by some trembling
retainers, who hastened to assure them that the ranee, their mistress,
was friendly to the English.
"Will you tell her that there is no cause for alarm, but that we desire
an interview with her?" the major said, dismounting.
In a minute the servant returned, and begged the major to follow him,
which he did, accompanied by his sons. They were shown into a grand
reception room, where the ranee, thickly veiled, was sitting on a
couch, surrounded by her attendants, Ahrab standing beside her.
The ranee gave a little cry of pleasure on recognizing the boys, and
Ahrab instantly signed to the other attendants to retire. Then the
ranee unveiled, and the major, who had remained near the entrance until
the attendants had left, came forward, the boys kissing the hands that
the ranee held out to them.
"I have mourned for you as dead," she said. "When the news of that
horrible treachery came, and I thought that I had let you go to death,
my heart turned to water."
"This is our father, dear lady," Ned said; "he has come to thank you
himself for having saved and sheltered us."
The interview lasted for half an hour; refreshment being served, Ned
recounted the particulars of their escape. Major Warrener, on leaving,
handed the ranee a protection order signed by the general, to show to
any British troops who might be passing, and told her that her name
would be sent in with the list of those who had acted kindly to British
fugitives, all of whom afterward received honors and rewards in the
shape of the lands of those who had joined the mutineers. Then, with
many expressions of good-will on both sides, the major and his sons
took their leave, and, joining the troops below, rode back to Cawnpore.
For three days after his arrival at Cawnpore General Havelock rested
his troops, and occupied himself with restoring order in the town.
Numbers of Sepoys were found in hiding, and these were, as soon as
identified, all hung at once. On the third day Brigadier-General Neil
arrived, with the two hundred and twenty men of the Eighty-fourth, who
had been hurried forward-a most welcome reinforcement, for Havelock's
force was sadly weakened by loss in battle, sunstroke, and disease. On
the 20th the army marched against Bithoor, every heart beating at the
thought of engaging Nana Sahib, who, with five thousand men and a large
number of cannon, had made every preparation for the defense of his
castle. At the approach of the avenging force, however, his courage,
and the courage of his troops, alike gave way, and they fled without
firing a shot, leaving behind them guns, elephants, baggage, men, and
horses, in great numbers. The magazine was blown up, and the palace
burned, and the force, with their captured booty, returned to Cawnpore.
During the advance to Cawnpore the zeal and bravery of the young
Warreners had not escaped the notice of the general, who had named them
in his official report as gentlemen volunteers who had greatly
distinguished themselves. On the return from Bithoor, on the evening of
the 20th, he turned to them as he dismounted, and said, "Will you come
to my tent in two hours' time?"
"Young gentlemen," he said, when they presented themselves, and had at
his request seated themselves on two boxes which served as chairs, "in
what I am going to say to you, mind, I express no wish even of the
slightest. I simply state that I require two officers for a service of
extreme danger. I want to send a message into Lucknow. None of the
officers of the English regiments can speak the language with any
fluency, and those of the Madras Fusiliers speak the dialects of
Southern India. Therefore it is among the volunteers, who all belong to
the northwest, that I must look. I have no doubt that there are many of
them who would undertake the service, and whose knowledge of the
language would be nearly perfect, but there are reasons why I ask you
whether you will volunteer for the work. In the first place, you have
already three times passed, while in disguise, as natives; and in the
second, your figures being slight, and still a good deal under the
height you will attain, render your disguise far less easy to be
detected than that of a full-grown man would be. If you undertake it,
you will have a native guide, who last night arrived from Lucknow with
a message to me, having passed through the enemy's lines. You
understand, young gentlemen, the service is one of great honor and
credit if accomplished, but it is also one of the greatest risk. I
cannot so well intrust the mission to the native alone, because I dare
not put on paper the tidings I wish conveyed, and it is possible,
however faithful he may be, that he might, if taken and threatened with
death, reveal the message with which he is charged. I see by your faces
what your answer is about to be, but I will not hear it now. Go first
to your father. Tell him exactly what I have told you, and then send me
the answer if he declines to part with you--bring it me if he consents
to your going. Remember that in yielding what I see is your own
inclination, to his natural anxiety, you will not fall in the very
least from the high position in which you stand in my regard. In an
hour I shall expect to hear from you. Good-night, if I do not see you
again."
"Of course father will let us go," Dick said when they got outside the
tent. Ned did not reply.
"Dick, old boy," he said presently, as they walked along, "don't you
think if I go alone it would be better. It would be an awful blow to
father to lose both of us."
"No, Ned," Dick said warmly, "I hope he will not decide that. I know I
can't talk the lingo as you can, and that so I add to your danger;
still sometimes in danger two can help each other, and we have gone
through so much together--oh, Ned, don't propose that you should go
alone."
Major Warrener--or Colonel Warrener as he should now be called, for
General Havelock had given him a step in rank, in recognition of the
most valuable service of his troop during the battles on the road to
Cawnpore--heard Ned in silence while he repeated, as nearly as possible
word for word, the words of the general. For some time he was silent,
and sat with his face in his hands.
"I don't like you both going, my boys," he said huskily.
"No, father," Dick said, "I feared that that was what you would say;
but although in some respects I should be a hindrance to Ned from not
speaking the language, in others I might help him. Two are always
better than one in a scrape, and if he got ill or wounded or anything I
could nurse him; and two people together keep up each other's spirits.
You know, father, we have got through some bad scrapes together all
right, and I don't see why we should not get through this. We shall be
well disguised; and no end of Sepoys, and people from Cawnpore, must be
making their way to Lucknow, so that very few questions are likely to
be asked. It does not seem to me anything like as dangerous a business
as those we have gone through, for the last thing they would look for
is Englishmen making their way to Lucknow at present. The guide who is
going with us got out, you know; and they must be looking out ten times
as sharp to prevent people getting out, as to prevent any one getting
in."
"I really do not think, father," Ned said, "that the danger of
detection is great-certainly nothing like what it was before. Dick and
I will of course go as Sepoys, and Dick can bind up his face and mouth
as if he had been wounded, and was unable to speak. There must be
thousands of them making their way to Lucknow, and we shall excite no
attention whatever. The distance is not forty miles."
"Very well, boys, so be it," Colonel Warrener said. "There is much in
what you say; and reluctant as I am to part with you both, yet somehow
the thought that you are together, and can help each other, will be a
comfort to me. God bless you, my boys! Go back to the general, and say
I consent freely to your doing the duty for which he has selected you.
I expect you will have to start at once, but you will come back here to
change."
General Havelock expressed his warm satisfaction when the boys returned
with their father's consent to their undertaking the adventure. "I
understand from Colonel Warrener," he said, addressing Ned, "that you
are intended for the army. I have deferred telling you that on the day
of the first fight I sent your name home, begging that you might be
gazetted on that date to a commission in the Sixty-fourth. Your name
will by this time have appeared in order. There are only two ensigns
now in the regiment, and ere I see you again there will, I fear, be
more than that even of death vacancies, so that you will have got your
step. I will do the same for you," he said, turning to Dick, "if you
like to give up your midshipman's berth and take to the army."
"No, thank you, sir," Dick said, laughing. "By the time this is over, I
shall have had enough of land service to last my life."
"I have already sent down a report to the admiral of your conduct,"
General Havelock said; "and as a naval brigade is coming up under
Captain Peel, you will be able to sail under your true colors before
long. Now for your instructions. You are to inform Colonel Inglis, who
is in command since the death of Sir H. Lawrence, that, although I am
on the point of endeavoring to push forward to his rescue, I have no
hope whatever of success. Across the river large forces of Oude
irregulars, with guns, are collected, and every step of the way will be
contested. I must leave a force to hold Cawnpore, and I have only
eleven hundred bayonets in all. With such a force as this it is
impossible, if the enemy resists as stubbornly as may be expected, for
me to fight my way to Lucknow, still more to force my way through the
city, held by some ten or fifteen thousand men, to the Residency, I may
say that I have no hope of doing this till I am largely reinforced.
Still, my making a commencement of a march, and standing constantly on
the offensive, will force the enemy to keep a large force on the road
to oppose me, and will in so far relieve the Residency from some of its
foes. You see the importance of your message. Did the enemy know my
weakness, they would be able to turn their whole force against the
Residency. Tell our countrymen there that they must hold out to the
last, but that I hope and believe that in a month from the present time
the reinforcements will be up, and that I shall be able to advance to
their rescue. Colonel Inglis says that their stores will last to the
end of August, and that he believes that he can repel all attacks. The
native who goes with you bears word only that I am on the point of
advancing to the relief of the garrison. So if the worst happens, and
you are all taken, his message, if he betrays it, will only help to
deceive the enemy. You will start tonight if possible. I leave it to
you to arrange your disguises, and have ordered the guide to be at your
father's tent at nine o'clock--that is, in an hour and a half's
time--so that if you can be ready by that time, you will get well away
before daybreak. There is a small boat four miles up the river, that
the guide crossed in; he hid it in some bushes, so you will cross
without difficulty; and even if you are caught crossing, your story
that you are Sepoys who have been hiding for the last few days will
pass muster. Now, good-by, lads, and may God watch over you and keep
you!"
Upon their return to Colonel Warrener's tent they found their friends
Captains Dunlop and Manners, and two or three of the officers most
accustomed to native habits and ways, and all appliances for disguise.
First the boys took a hearty meal; then they stripped, and were sponged
with iodine from head to foot; both were then dressed in blood-stained
Sepoy uniforms, of which there were thousands lying about, for the
greater portion of the enemy had thrown off their uniforms before
taking to flight. Ned's left arm was bandaged up with bloody rags, and
put in a sling, and Dick's head and face were similarly tied up, though
he could not resist a motion of repugnance as the foul rags were
applied to him. Both had a quantity of native plaster and bandages
placed next to the skin, in case suspicion should fall upon them and
the outside bandages be removed to see if wounds really existed; and
Dick was given a quantity of tow, with which to fill his mouth and
swell out his cheeks and lips, to give the appearance which would
naturally arise from a severe wound in the jaw. Caste marks were
painted on their foreheads; and their disguise was pronounced to be
absolutely perfect to the eye. Both were barefooted, as the Sepoys
never travel in the regimental boots if they can avoid it.
At the appointed time the guide was summoned, an intelligent-looking
Hindoo in country dress. He examined his fellow-travelers, and
pronounced himself perfectly satisfied with their appearance.
Outside the tent six horses were in readiness. Colonel Warrener, and
his friends Dunlop and Manners, mounted on three, the others were for
the travelers; and with a hearty good-by to their other friends in the
secret, the party started.
Half an hour's riding took them to the place where the boat was
concealed in the bushes; and with a tender farewell from their father,
and a hearty good-by from his companions, the three adventurers took
their places in the boat and started.
Noiselessly they paddled across the Ganges, stepped out in the shallow
water on the other side, turned the boat adrift to float down with the
stream, and then struck across the country toward Lucknow.
They were now off the main road, on which the Oude mutineers collected
to oppose the advance of General Havelock were for the most part
stationed. Thus they passed village after village, unchallenged and
unquestioned, and morning, when it dawned, found them twenty miles on
the road toward Lucknow. Then they went into a wood and lay down to
sleep, for even if any one should enter accidentally and discover them,
they had no fear of any suspicion arising. They were now near the main
road, and when they started--just as it became dusk--they met various
parties of horse and foot proceeding toward Cawnpore; sometimes they
passed without a question, sometimes a word or two were said, the guide
answering, and asking how things went at Lucknow.
The subject was evidently a sore one; for curses on the obstinate
Feringhee dogs, and threats as to their ultimate fate, were their only
reply.
Eighteen miles' walk, and a great black wall rose in front of them.
"That is the Alumbagh," the guide said; "the sahibs will have a big
fight here. It is a summer palace and garden of the king. Once past
this we will leave the road. It is but two miles to the canal and we
must not enter the city--not that I fear discovery, but there would be
no possibility of entering the Residency on this side. Our only chance
is on the side I left it; that is by crossing the river. We must work
round the town."
"How far are we from the Residency now? I can hear the cannon very
clearly;" and indeed for the last two hours of their walk the booming
of guns had been distinctly audible.
"It is about five miles in a straight line, but it will be double by
the route we must take."
Turning to the right after passing the dark mass of the Alumbagh, the
little party kept away through a wooded country until another great
building appeared in sight.
"That is the Dilkouska," the guide said. "Now we will go half a mile
further and then sleep; we cannot get in to-night."
In the afternoon they were awake again, and took their seats on a bank
at a short distance from any road, and looked at the city.
"What an extraordinary view!" Ned said. "What fantastic buildings! What
an immense variety of palaces and mosques! What is that strange
building nearest to us?" he asked the guide.
"That is the Martinière. It was built many years ago by a Frenchman in
the service of the king of Oude. Now it is a training college. All the
pupils are in the Residency, and are fighting like men. Beyond, between
us and the Residency, are several palaces and mosques. That is the
Residency; do you not see an English house with a tower, and a flag
flying over it, standing alone on that rising ground by the river?"
"And that is the Residency!" the boys exclaimed, looking at the
building in which, and the surrounding houses, a handful of Englishmen
were keeping at bay an army.
"That is the Residency," their guide said; "do you not see the circle
of smoke which rises around it? Listen; I can hear the rattle of
musketry quite distinctly."
"And how are we to get there?" the boys asked, impatient to be at work
taking part in the defense.
"We will keep on here to the right; the river is close by. We will swim
across after it gets dark, make a wide sweep round, and then come down
to the river again opposite the Residency, swim across, and then we are
safe."