IN THE HOUR OF VICTORY.
The date fixed for the final leap on Delhi was the 14th of September.
Before that historic day arrived there was a week of anxious
preparation. The siege-train, to whose assistance Nicholson had gone,
as related in the previous chapter, came into camp safely, bringing
with it eighteen guns, 24-pounders, 18-pounders, and howitzers. These
were quickly placed in position in new batteries close to the walls of
the city, and the thunder of their fire warned the mutineers that the
siege had entered upon its last phase.
The initial work fell mostly to the engineers. Under the direction of
Alexander Taylor, second in command to Baird-Smith, who was
unfortunately on the sick list, they worked day and night constructing
the breaching batteries and getting ready fascines, gabions, and
scaling-ladders. Owing to the heavy musketry fire concentrated on them
by the sepoys, the task was one which cost many valuable lives; but,
like the true heroes they were, the engineers never flinched. As one
after another was laid low, a comrade was ready to step forward and
take the fallen man's place.
Now was it that Medley, Greathed, Lang, and Home, among others, won
fame for their daring reconnaissances of the enemy's position. The big
guns had battered down the Mori bastion, and made great breaches in the
wall near the Cashmere Gate. It was important to ascertain the extent
of these, so the four engineer officers named volunteered to make an
examination. On the evening of the 13th of September, while it was
still light, Lang stole out of the British camp, and coolly ran the
gauntlet of the sepoy bullets to the very counterscarp of the ditch
beneath the fortifications. He returned safely to report that the
breaches were practicable.
To make more sure of the nature of the ground, Lang and Medley ventured
out again after nightfall with a ladder and measuring-rod. They
reached the great ditch, completed their examination of its depth and
width, and were mounting to the breach itself when the alarmed sepoy
sentries came running towards them. To stay meant almost certain
death, so the two officers, with their escort of riflemen, made a dash
for safety. Their figures were descried, however, and a volley of
balls came whizzing about their ears as they bolted back. Elsewhere,
at the Water bastion, Greathed and Home were similarly engaged, being
able to announce that the breaches there were equally successful.
At last all was in readiness for the attack. To everyone's
gratification, the honour of leading the assault had been conferred on
Nicholson. He was to head the first of the three columns placed under
his command and to storm the breach near the Cashmere bastion. The
second column directed its attention to the Water bastion, while the
third was told off to follow the first after the Cashmere Gate had been
blown up.
The story of how the gallant Lieutenants Home and Salkeld, with
Sergeant Carmichael, Corporal Burgess, and others, blew up the Cashmere
Gate and covered themselves with glory, cannot be given at length here.
Abler pens than mine have described the brave deed with graphic
detail,[1] and I must refer the reader to their narratives. It is of
Nicholson and his last glorious exploit that I have to tell.
His post of honour, as has been explained, was at the head of the first
attacking column. While Home and Salkeld were carrying their powder
bags to the Cashmere Gate, and while behind them No. 3 Column, under
Campbell of the 52nd, waited like hounds in leash, Nicholson gave the
signal to advance. The booming of the guns had ceased, the heavy
shells from the 24- and 18-pounders having cleared once more the
breaches which the mutineers had vainly attempted to repair. The way
was open for the stormers to enter the doomed city.
In the mad rush that followed, the attacking party outdistanced the
ladder-bearers. This caused a brief delay, during which the foremost
files of the column were exposed to a fierce fire; but no one wavered.
Very soon the ladders were brought, officers and men dropped down into
the ditch, and away they all went, racing up the opposite slope and
driving the sepoys before them.
Nicholson was still in the van. Leading his men, sword in hand, he
swept resistlessly through the gaping breach and found himself inside
the city. At the sight of the grim-faced, menacing troops who poured
in after him, the rebels fell back confusedly. Little difficulty was
experienced in fighting a way through the streets to the point where it
had been arranged the three columns should meet. This was an open
space by what was known as Skinner's Church.
The juncture of the forces having been effected, Colonel Campbell's
column proceeded to push on to the centre of the city. The other two
columns, merged practically into one, turned themselves towards the
Lahore Gate, the capture of which was all-important. Here, in fact,
was the key to Delhi.
According to the instructions issued, the Lahore Gate was to be carried
at all costs. Little did the commander-in-chief anticipate what a
terrible ordeal he had set his subordinates. As they pressed eagerly
forward the troops followed the line of the ramparts and eventually
cleared a path to the Cabul Gate. So far they had been successful.
There now remained before them a narrow lane less than three hundred
yards long and varying from ten yards to three feet in width. Through
this passage they would have to win ere the gate could be reached.
What a "lane of death" it was to prove was speedily shown. At the far
end the sepoys, flushed with the success that had attended their
efforts in repelling the assault at this point, had mounted two guns,
one covering the other and each protected by a bullet-proof screen.
Above these towered the massive Burn bastion, into which some minutes
later hundreds of mutineers poured. It seemed beyond the bounds of
possibility that any force could make its way against such terrible
odds. There were men, however, who were willing to try, and the
advance began.
The 1st Bengal Fusiliers dashed forward at the signal and succeeded in
capturing the first of the guns, but they got little farther. The fire
directed upon them can only be described as murderous. Shot and shell
dropped among the ranks thick and fast, inflicting heavy loss, and the
remnant was obliged to fall back for the time. A second charge was
made, but this too failed, leaving many another poor fellow stretched
lifeless on the ground.
It was now generally realised that the task of forcing a passage
through the lane was hopeless, or at least inadvisable, for the
present. Nicholson, however, would not concede this. Every inch of
ground gained in Delhi that day was worth untold gold, and he
determined that no effort should be spared to win the Lahore Gate.
Placing himself at the head of his men, he called on them for another
charge, for one last brave attempt.
If there was one man whom the Fusiliers would have followed to death,
it was Nicholson. At his summons they ran on again, some of them
actually reeling from the terrific strain they had undergone.
Springing out into the mouth of the lane, Nicholson waved his sword
above his head and went forward. The soldiers advanced some paces,
wavered, re-formed, and wavered again as the sepoys' guns belched forth
flame and death. Then, as they paused hesitating, the fateful moment
came. Some yards ahead of the soldiers stood Nicholson, facing his men
as he called to them angrily to "come on." Suddenly a sepoy leaned out
of the window of a house close by and pointed his musket at the tall,
commanding figure beneath him. There was a flash, and on the instant
Nicholson fell with a bullet in his back.
[Illustration: "A sepoy leaned out . . . and pointed his musket at the
tall figure beneath him."]
Even then, lying mortally wounded, the dying lion refused to allow
himself to be borne to the rear. "Carry the lane first," he ordered;
but Colonel Graydon, who went to his assistance, persuaded him to let a
bearer party lift him to one side. Thence, a little later, he was
taken to a hospital tent to have his wound attended to. It was at this
juncture that a young staff-officer, who is now Lord Roberts, found
Nicholson in a dhoolie by the roadside just within the Cashmere Gate.
The stricken hero had been deserted by the native bearers and left to
his fate!
Through Roberts' efforts a fresh party of bearers was obtained, and
Nicholson was carried tenderly to the nearest field hospital. He was
seen to be in great pain, besides being much exhausted from loss of
blood, but hopes were entertained that his wound would not prove
mortal. By the irony of fate, the occupant of another dhoolie, which
was presently placed by his, turned out to be his brother Charles,
whose arm had been shattered. The two had met again for the last time.
From the field hospital Nicholson was shortly after conveyed to the
Ridge, where nothing was left undone that could ease his suffering.
Medical skill, however, was unavailing; he lingered until the 23rd of
the month, and then passed peacefully away.
Of Nicholson's last moments Neville Chamberlain, who was constantly by
his bedside, has written in touching words. He himself had lost a
devoted friend who could never be replaced. In the camp the news that
Nicholson was gone was received with universal sorrow. It was felt
that by his death the army on the Ridge had been suddenly deprived of
the one strong man to whom everybody had instinctively turned for
advice and encouragement, and who could least be spared. There was a
sense of injustice, too. Delhi had fallen, but--John Nicholson, struck
down in the hour of victory, was not there to share in the triumph.
The funeral of the dead hero took place on the following day. He was
buried in a newly made cemetery not far from the Cashmere Gate and the
breach through which he had led the storming party, a fitting spot
truly for his resting-place. Among those who paid their last respects
to him were the men of the Mooltani Horse, who had followed Nicholson
from the Punjaub to Delhi. Their grief was unrestrained, sirdars and
troopers mingling their tears as the body of their beloved "Nikalseyn
sahib" was lowered into the grave.
Of the strange sect that had worshipped him as a god it is recorded
that on Nicholson's death becoming known, the two head-men of the tribe
committed suicide, declaring that life was no longer worth living. The
rest, however, decided that their dead master would not have approved
of such a course, and announced their resolve to worship in future the
God of whom he had often spoken to them; whereupon they went to
Peshawur in a body and became Christians.
After Nicholson's death the tributes of praise accorded him were many
and widespread. In every part of India and in Great Britain his early
demise--he was but thirty-five--created a feeling of a national loss.
The _London Gazette_ soon afterwards announced that had he lived he
would have been made a K.C.B.; while, for their part, the East India
Company, in whose service he had laboured so well, marked their
recognition of him by unanimously voting his mother a special grant of
500 pounds a year.
What more remains to be said? It is a fadeless memory that John
Nicholson has left behind him. Soldier, administrator, and leader of
men, he trod "the perfect ways of honour," and by his private as much
as by his public life made himself a shining ensample for all time.
Like Havelock, Henry and John Lawrence, Gordon, and many another
soldier of high fame, Nicholson was a man of deep religious feeling.
For this his careful early training was largely responsible. He would
not have enjoyed the Lawrences' intimate friendship had he not been the
high-minded, pure-souled man he was; but if he bore "the white flower
of a blameless life" himself, he never paraded his religion or forced
his views upon others. It was enough for him to live cleanly and
righteously, to follow the dictates of conscience in all his actions.
We may fittingly close this brief record of his glorious career by
echoing the words of an eloquent speaker who thus eulogised "the Lion
of the Punjaub"--
"He fell as a soldier would wish to fall, at the head of his gallant
troops, with the shout of victory in his ear. Was not such a death
worthy of such a life? And will not the Cabul Gate, where he fell,
live in future British history as live those Heights of Abraham on
which there fell, a century ago, another youthful general, the immortal
Wolfe?"
[1] See, among other accounts, _The Book of the V.C._ (Melrose).