THE MEN WHO WORE SKIRTS
That was what the rebels called the 78th,--"the men who wore skirts."
Now, Highland regiments had fought in India for many a year before the
Mutiny, and the kilt was no new thing in native eyes. The phrase,
therefore, is significant. It crystallizes the legend that went
round--that an army of savage English was marching from Allahabad, and
that its most ferocious corps was dressed in skirts, the men having
sworn never to assume male clothing until they had avenged their
murdered women-folk.
There could be no better proof that the sepoys and their helpers were
well aware that they had outraged all the laws of war and humanity by
their excesses, and there was a further reason why the garb of old Gaul
was more dreaded throughout India than any other British uniform during
the autumn and cold weather of 1857. Not many Europeans knew it until
long afterwards, but the natives knew, and told the story with bated
breath, and one British officer knew, for he was with the Seaforth
Highlanders in Cawnpore when they took dire vengeance for the Well.
It is a matter of history how Havelock marched his little army of twelve
hundred men along the Grand Trunk Road from Allahabad. He led a thousand
British soldiers, drawn from the 64th, 84th, and 78th Foot, and the 1st
Madras Fusiliers. Captain Brasyer brought 130 loyal Sikhs to the column:
there were six small guns, and eighteen volunteer cavalry.
These details should be appreciated before it is possible to understand
the supra-miraculous campaign Havelock conducted. For five days the
expedition tramped north in the rain and heat, through a land given over
to dead men, vultures and carnivorous animals. Renaud and Spurgin had
made no prisoners. They did not slay wantonly, but the slightest shadow
of suspicion falling on any man meant the short shrift of a rope and the
nearest tree.
At last, on the 12th of August, the main body overtook Renaud, whose
patrols were stopped by a large force of rebels entrenched in a village
four miles south of Fattehpore. The junction took place at one o'clock
in the morning. At daybreak, Havelock sent Colonel Tytler, with the
eighteen volunteer horse, to reconnoiter. The enemy's cavalry, thinking
they had only Renaud's tiny detachment to deal with, charged across the
plain, to find the whole twelve hundred drawn up to receive them. Struck
with a sudden fear, the white-coated troopers reined in their horses.
This was the first real check Nana Sahib had received. It was typical of
the new order. The flood-tide of mutiny had met its barrier rock.
Thenceforth, it ebbed, though it raged madly for a while in the effort
to sweep away the obstruction.
Without giving the enemy's cavalry time to recover from their surprise,
Havelock threw forward his infantry, Captain Maude, of the Royal
Artillery, rushed his six guns to a point-blank range, there was a short
and sharp fight, and the rebels broke. They were chased through and out
of the town of Fattehpore. All their guns and some valuable stores were
captured, and, greatest marvel in a day of marvels, not one British
soldier had fallen!
No wonder Havelock wrote to his wife: "One of the prayers oft repeated
since my school-days has been answered, and I have lived to command in a
successful action.... But away with vain glory! Thanks be to God who
gave me the victory."
That evening Malcolm witnessed the plundering of Fattehpore, which was
permitted in retribution for its recent rebellion. The town lay on the
main road, which, at this point, was removed from the river by many
miles, else he would have ridden to the ghat and sent a message to
Hossein Beg in order to make sure of the safety of the friendly ryot.
Owing to his knowledge of the vernacular, he managed to pick up a bit of
useful information while questioning a native on this matter. On the
battle-field he came across a state elephant which had been shot through
the body by one of Maude's nine-pounders. The manner of the beast's
death was remarkable--it is not often that an elephant is bowled over by
a cannon-ball like a rabbit by a bullet from a small caliber rifle--and
its trappings betokened that it had carried a person of importance.
Now he learned that Tantia Topi was the rider, and it was thus he
discovered that Nana Sahib was directing the operations from Cawnpore,
as Tantia Topi was his favorite lieutenant, whereas it was believed
previously that the Brahmin usurper would lead his hosts to take part in
the siege of Lucknow.
On the 15th a sharp fight gave the British possession of the village of
Aong. The position was dearly won, for the gallant Renaud fell there,
mortally wounded. The men were about to prepare their breakfast after
the battle when news came that the enemy, strongly reinforced from
Cawnpore, were preparing to blow up a bridge over the Pandoo Nuddee, an
unfordable tributary of the Ganges, six miles ahead. Havelock called for
a special effort, the troops responded without a murmur, and advanced
through dense groves of mango trees until they came under fire. For the
second time that day they hurled themselves on the rebels, drove them
headlong out of a well-chosen position, and saved the bridge.
Cawnpore was now only twenty-three miles distant. With the fickleness of
the rainy season the sky had cleared, and the sun beat down on the
British force with a fury that had not been experienced before that
year, though the hot weather of 1857 was noted for its exceedingly high
temperatures. The elements seemed to have joined with man to try and
stop the advance, but neither Indian sun nor Indian sepoy could
restrain that terrible host. Dogged and uncomplaining, animated rather
by the feelings of the infuriated tigress seeking reprisals for her
slain cubs than by the sentiments of soldiers engaged in an ordinary
campaign, they pressed on, until sixteen miles of that sun-scorched road
were covered.
Then Havelock commanded a halt in a grove of trees, and two level-headed
sepoys, deserters from Nana Sahib's army, came in and told the British
general that the Nana had brought five thousand men out of Cawnpore to
do battle for his tottering dynasty. It was in vain. Though he displayed
some tactical skill, placed his men well, and did not hesitate to come
under fire in person, he was out-generaled by a flank march and sent
flying to Bithoor, there to curse his fate, befuddle his wits with
brandy, and threaten to drown himself in the Ganges.
But the battle was not won until one of those strange incidents happened
that distinguish the Mutiny from all other wars. It must never be
forgotten that the sepoys had received their training from British
officers. Their words of command, methods of fighting, even their
uniforms, were based on European models.
They had regimental bands, too, and the tunes in their repertoire were
those in vogue in Britain, for native music does not lend itself to
military purposes. The musicians, of course, were profoundly ignorant of
the names or significance of the melodies they had been taught to play.
Hence, when Nana Sahib rallied his men in a village, Havelock called on
the Highlanders and 64th to take it, and the two regiments entered into
a gallant race for the position, while the Highland pipers struck up an
inspiring pibroch. Not to be outdone, a sepoy band responded with "The
Campbells are Coming!"
And this, of all airs, to the Mackenzies! It was chance, of course, but
it added gall to the venom of the 78th.
This fourth and greatest victory was a costly one to the British, but it
left their ardor undiminished, their reckless courage intensified. On
the next day they flung themselves against the remnant of the Nana's
army that still tried to bar the way into the city. Vague rumors had
reached the men of the dreadful tragedy enacted on the 15th. They
refused to credit them. None but maniacs would murder helpless women and
children in the belief that the crime would hinder the advance of their
rescuers. So they crushed, tore, beat a path through the suburbs, until
the leading company of Highlanders reached the Bibigarh, the House of
the Woman.
Malcolm was with them, and he saw a sergeant enter the blood-stained
dwelling, while the men lined up in front of the Well in an awed
silence. The sergeant returned. His brick-red face had paled to an ashen
tint. In his hand he carried the long, rich strands of a woman's hair,
strands that had been hacked off some unhappy Englishwoman's head by
Nana Sahib's butchers.
He removed his bonnet with the solemnity of a man who is in the presence
of God and death. Passing down the ranks he gave a lock of the hair to
each soldier.
"One life for every hair before the sun sets," he said quietly. And that
was all, but there are old men yet alive in Cawnpore who remember how
the Highlanders raged through the streets that evening like the wrath of
Heaven.
General Neill, who came later and assumed the role of magistrate, showed
neither pity nor mercy. Every man who fell into his hands, and who was
connected in the slightest degree with the infamy of the Well, was
hanged on a gallows erected in the compound, but not until he had
cleaned with his tongue the allotted square of blood-stained cement that
formed the floor of the house.
Cawnpore, on the 17th, was indeed a city of dreadful night. The fierce
exultation of successful warfare was gone. The streets were empty save
for prowling dogs, pigs, and venturesome wild beasts. No sound was heard
in the British encampment except the melancholy plaint of the pipes
mourning for the dead, during the interment of those who had fallen.
Even the unconquerable Havelock said to his son, as they and the
officers of the staff sat at dinner:
"If the worst comes to the worst we can but die with our swords in our
hands."
Next morning his splendid vitality reasserted itself. He advanced
towards Bithoor and took up a strong position in case Nana Sahib might
attempt to recover the city. But that arch-fiend had been deserted by
the majority of his followers, and he was babbling of suicide to his
fellow Brahmins.
Meanwhile Neill brought a few more troops from Allahabad, and Havelock
threw the greater portion of his army across the Ganges. Owing to the
difficulty of obtaining boats and skilled boatmen, this was a slow and
dangerous undertaking. It took five days to ferry nine hundred men to
the Oudh side, but Lawrence had said that the Residency could only hold
out fourteen days, and come what might the effort must be made to
relieve him.
On the 20th while Malcolm was occupied with some details of transport,
Chumru came to him. The bearer was no longer "Ali Khan," the
swashbuckler, but a white-robed domestic, though no change of attire
could rob him of the truculent aspect that was the gift of nature.
Beside Chumru stood another Mohammedan, an elderly man, who straightened
himself under the sahib's eye and brought up his right hand in a smart
military salute.
"Huzoor," said Chumru, "this is Ungud, Kumpani pinsin (a pensioner of
the Company), and he would have speech with the Presence."
"Speak, then, and quickly, for I have occupation," said Malcolm. But he
listened carefully enough to Ungud's words, for the man coolly proposed
to work his way to Lucknow and carry any message to Lawrence that the
General-sahib entrusted to him.
It was a desperate thing to suggest. The absence of native spies from
either Cawnpore or Lucknow proved that the rebels killed, and probably
tortured all who attempted to run the gauntlet of their investing lines.
Yet Ungud was firm in his offer, so Malcolm brought him to Havelock and
the general at once wrote and gave him a letter to Lawrence, the news of
the great Commissioner's death not having reached the relieving force.
Frank seized the opportunity to write a few lines to Winifred. He was
charged with the care of Ungud as far as the nearest river ghat, and he
scribbled the following as he rode thither:
BRITISH FIELD FORCE,
CAWNPORE, July 20th, 1857.
MY DEAREST WINIFRED:
If this note is safely delivered, you will know that Sir Henry
Havelock, at the head of a strong force, is on his way to
relieve Lucknow. I am with him, as major on the staff.
I reached Allahabad on the 4th, thanks wholly to your loving
thought in sending Chumru after me, for I was a prisoner in the
hands of a fanatical moulvie when Chumru came to my assistance.
He saved my life there, and his quick-witted devotion was shown
in many other instances during a most exciting journey. My
thoughts are always with you, dear one, and I offer many a
prayer to the Most High that you may retain your health and
spirits amid the horrors that surround you. Be confident, dear
heart, and bid your uncle tell his comrades of the garrison
that we mean to cut our way to your rescue through all
opposition.
The bearer will endeavor to return with a reply to the general.
Perhaps you may be able to send a line with him. In any event,
I trust he will see you, and that will bring joy to my soul
when I hear of it.
Ever your devoted
FRANK.
By Havelock's order, a light, swift boat was placed at Ungud's disposal,
and Malcolm supplied him with plenty of money for horses and bribes on
the road, while, in the event of success, he would be liberally rewarded
afterwards.
Now it chanced that on the 20th, about the very hour Ungud set out on
his daring mission, the Moulvie of Fyzabad managed to goad his
co-religionists into a determined assault on the Residency.
At ten o'clock in the morning the bombardment suddenly ceased. The
garrison sentries noted an unusual gathering of the enemy's forces in
the streets and open spaces that confronted the Bailey Guard and the
other main posts on the city side.
They gave the alarm and every man rushed to the walls. Even the sick and
wounded left their beds. Men with the fire of fever in their eyes, men
with bandaged limbs and scarce able to crawl, asked for muskets and
lined up alongside their yet unscathed comrades.
They waited in grim silence, those war-worn soldiers of the Queen. The
signal for a furious struggle was given in dramatic fashion. A mine
exploded, a large section of the defending wall crumbled into ruins, a
hundred guns belched forth a perfect hail of round shot, sharpshooters
stationed in the neighboring houses fired their muskets as rapidly as
they could lift them from piles of loaded weapons at their command, and,
under cover of this fusillade, some three thousand rebels advanced to
the attack.
They came on with magnificent courage. They actually succeeded in
planting scaling-ladders across the breach, and their leader, a
fierce-looking cavalry rissaldar, leaped into the ditch and stood there,
right in front of the Cawnpore battery, waving a green standard to
encourage his followers.
He was shot by a man of the 32d, and his body formed the lowermost
layer of a causeway of corpses that soon choked the ditch. But the
concentrated fire of the defenders checked this most audacious of the
many assaults delivered during four hours' fighting. At two o'clock
the attack slackened and died away. The rebels had lost some hundreds,
while the British had only four men killed and twelve wounded.
There was much jubilation among the garrison at this outcome of the
long-expected and dreaded attack. It added to their spirit of
self-reliance, and it cast down the hopes of the mutineers to a
corresponding degree; because their moral inferiority was proved beyond
dispute. Like all Asiatics, they had not dared to press on in the face
of death. With one whole-hearted rush those three thousand fighters
could have swarmed into the Residency against all the efforts of the few
Europeans and natives who resisted them. But that rush was never made by
the assailants as a mass. Not once in the history of the Mutiny did the
sepoys adopt the "do or die" method that characterized the British
troops in nearly every action of the campaign.
When the moon rose on the night of the 21st a sharp-eyed sentry saw a
man creeping across the broken ground in front of the Bailey Guard.
He raised his rifle, but his orders were to challenge any one who
approached thus secretly, lest, perchance, a messenger from some
relieving force might be slain by error.
"Who goes there?" he cried.
"A friend," was the answer, but the rest of the stranger's words showed
that he was a native.
The sentry was no linguist.
"You _baito_[21] where you are," he commanded, bidding a comrade summon
an officer, "or somebody who can talk the lingo."
[Footnote 21: "Stop."]
Within a minute the newcomer was admitted. It was Ungud, who had run
the gauntlet of the enemy's pickets and who now triumphantly produced
Havelock's letter to "Larrence-sahib Bahadur." Alas, Henry Lawrence was
dead, but Brigadier Inglis, who succeeded him in the command, now learnt
that Havelock had defeated Nana Sahib, occupied Cawnpore, and was
advancing to the relief of Lucknow.
How the great news buzzed through the Residency! How men grasped each
other's hands in glee and exultation and sought leave to take the joyful
tidings to the hospital and the women's quarters!
Mayne aroused Winifred to tell her.
"Perhaps Malcolm was able to get through to Allahabad," he said. "When
you come to think of the difficulties in the way of our troops--this
man says they have fought three if not four pitched battles between
Fattehpore and Cawnpore--we have been unreasonable in looking for help
so soon."
"Mr. Malcolm would surely succeed if it were possible. He understands
the native character so well and is so proficient in their language,
that he was the best man who could be chosen for such a task."
And that was all that Winifred would say about "Mr. Malcolm," who would
have been the most miserable and the most astonished person in India
that night had he known how bitter was the girl's heart against him.
Though Winifred was not to blame, for the necklace and the pass offered
strong evidence of double-dealing on her lover's part, her unjust
suspicions were doomed to receive a severe shock.
In the morning she heard that Captain Fulton wished to see her. She left
her quarters by a covered way and waited outside the Begum Kotee until a
soldier found Fulton.
He came, bringing with him a native.
"This is the man who arrived from Cawnpore last night, Miss Mayne," he
said. "He has a letter for you, but he refuses to deliver it to any one
but yourself. I fancy," added the gallant engineer officer with a smile,
"that the sender impressed on him the importance of its reaching the
right hands."
Winifred caught a glimpse of Frank's handwriting. Her face grew scarlet.
For one delightful instant she forgot the harsh thoughts she had
harbored against him. Then the scourge of memory tortured her. Fulton's
kindly assumption that Malcolm was her fiance must be dispelled and she
bit her lower lip in vexation at the tell-tale rush of color that had
mantled her cheeks when Ungud discharged his trust and gave her the
letter.
"It is from Captain Malcolm," she said coldly. "I suppose he wishes his
personal belongings to be safeguarded. I am surprised he did not write
to my uncle rather than to me."
Fulton was surprised, but he laughed lightly.
"Every one to his taste," he said; "but from what little I have seen of
Malcolm I should wager that nine out of ten letters addressed to the
Mayne family would be intended for you, Miss Winifred. By the way, a
word in your ear. General Inglis hopes to persuade our friend here to
try his luck on a return journey to-night. Perhaps you may have a note
to send on your own account. No one else must know. This is a special
favor, conferred because Malcolm himself procured Ungud's services, but
we cannot ask the man to act as general postman. Good-by."
He hurried away. Winifred, after the manner of woman, fingered the
unopened letter.
"Kuch joab hai, miss-sahib?" asked Ungud.
"There is no answer--yet. I will give you one later."
The girl's Hindustani went far enough to enable her to frame the reply
intelligibly. Ungud salaamed and left her, probably contrasting in his
own mind the lady's frigidity with the fervid instructions given him by
the officer-sahib.
Then Winifred went to her own room and opened her letter, and her
woman's heart gleaned the truth from its candor. Of course she cried.
What girl wouldn't? But she smiled through her tears and read the nice
bits over and over again. Not for twenty necklaces and a whole file of
hieroglyphic passes would she doubt Frank any more.
The reference to Chumru puzzled her and that was a gratifying thing in
itself, for if Frank could be mistaken about her share in Chumru's
departure from Lucknow, why should not she be wrong in her
interpretation of the mysterious presence of the necklace?
When her uncle came she wept again, being hysterical with the sheer joy
of watching his face while he perused Frank's note.
A man's bewilderment finds different expression to a woman's. A man
trusts his brain, a woman her heart.
"If there is one thing absolutely clear in this letter it is that Frank
knows nothing whatever about the pearls you produced from his turban,"
said Mr. Mayne, with the frown of a judge who is dealing with a knotty
point in equity.
"There are--several things--quite clear in it--to me," fluttered
Winifred.
"Ah, hum, yes. But I mean that it is ridiculous to suppose he would
knowingly leave such a valuable article exposed to the chances and
changes of barrack-room life in a siege. Whatever motive he may have had
in concealing the necklace earlier he would surely have said something
about it now, given some hint as to its value, asked you to take care of
his baggage, or something of the sort."
"In my heart of hearts I always felt that we were misjudging Frank,"
said she.
Mayne's eyebrows lifted a trifle, but he passed no comment.
"By the way," he said, "where is the necklace?"
"Here," she said, pulling a box out of a cupboard. The string of pearls
was coiled up in the midst of the roll of soiled muslin and the badge
was pinned to one of the folds.
"That is a very unsafe place," said Mayne. "If I were you I would wear
it beneath your bodice."
"Would you really?"
"Yes. I can think of no other explanation of the mystery now than that
Frank meant to surprise you with it. You may be sure he obtained it
honorably, so you will only be meeting his wishes by wearing it. At any
rate it will be safer in your possession than in that cupboard."
"Perhaps you are right," said she. And while she clasped the
diamond-studded brooch in front of her white throat she glanced round
the room for a mirror.
Her uncle smiled. He was glad that this little cloud had lifted off
Winifred's sky. The sufferings and positive dangers of the siege were
bad enough already without being added to by a private grief.
He stooped to pick up the turban and his eye fell on the regimental
device of the metal badge.
"This is not an officer's head-dress," he cried. "And Malcolm belongs to
the 3d Cavalry, whereas this badge was worn by a trooper in the 2d."
Winifred, who was turning her neck and shoulders this way and that to
get different angles of light, stopped admiring herself and ran to his
side.
"That is the turban Frank wore during our ride from Cawnpore," she
whispered breathlessly.
"It may be. But don't you remember that he was bareheaded when we met
him in Nana Sahib's garden? I was knocked almost insensible during the
fight for the boat so I am not sure what happened during the next few
minutes. Nevertheless, I can recall that prior fact beyond cavil. If it
were not for the safe-conduct you found at the same time as the pearls,
I would incline strongly to the belief that Frank obtained this turban
by accident, and is wholly ignorant of its extraordinary contents."
"I must write at once and tell him how sorry I am that I misjudged him."
"You dear little goose," cried her uncle amusedly, "Frank will begin to
wonder then what the judging was about. No. Wait until you meet. Write,
by all means, but leave problems for settlement during your first
tete-a-tete."
So Ungud carried in his turban a loving and sympathetic note, which
Winifred, with no small pride, addressed to "Major Frank Malcolm,
Headquarters Staff, British Field Force, Cawnpore," and she said inside,
among other things, that she hoped this would prove to be the first
letter he received with the inscription of his new rank.
Ungud also took confidential details from the Brigadier for Havelock's
information, and in three days, being as supple as an eel and cautious
as a leopard, he was back again with a reply from the general to the
effect that the relieving force would arrive in less than a week.
He brought another missive from Frank, cheery and optimistic in tone and
still blithely oblivious of the existence of such baubles as
hundred-thousand-dollar necklaces.
And that was all the news that either the garrison or Winifred received
for more than a month, when the intrepid Ungud again entered the lines
to bring Havelock's ominous advice: "Do not negotiate, but rather perish
sword in hand."
This time there was no letter from Frank, and the alarmed,
half-despairing girl could only learn that the major-sahib was not with
the column, which had been compelled to fall back on Cawnpore after some
heavy fighting in Oudh. Ungud did not think he was dead; but who could
tell? There were so many sahibs who fell, for out of his twelve hundred
Havelock had lost nearly half, and was now eating his heart out in a
weary wait for re-enforcements that were toiling up the thousand miles
of road and river from Calcutta.
So the blackness of disappointed hope fell on the Residency and its
inmates. Those few natives who had hitherto proved faithful began to
desert in scores. About a third of the European soldiers were dead.
Smallpox and cholera added their ravages to the enemy's unceasing fire
and occasional fierce assaults. Famine and tainted water, and lack of
hospital stores, and every evil device of malign fate that persecutes
people in such straits, were there to harass the unhappy defenders.
Officers and men swore that they would shoot their women-folk with their
own hands rather than permit them to fall into the rebels' clutches,
and, at times, when the siege slackened a little in its continuous
cannonade, the devoted community gave way to lethargy and despondency.
But let the enemy muster for an attack, these veteran soldiers faced
them with the dogged steadfastness that made them gods among the Asiatic
scum. The Brigadier, too, never allowed his splendid spirit to flag.
Though for three months he had not slept without being fully dressed,
though he worked harder than any other man in the garrison, he was the
life and soul of every outpost that he visited during the day or night.
Captain Fulton was another human dynamo in their midst. Finding plenty
of miners among the Cornishmen of the 32d, he sunk a countermine for
each mine burrowed by the enemy. His favorite amusement was to sit alone
for hours in a shaft, wait patiently until the rebels bored a way up to
him, and then shoot the foremost workers.
And in such fashion the siege went on, with houses collapsing, because
they were so riddled with cannon-balls that the walls gave way, and
ever-nearing sapping of the fortifications, and intolerable breaks in
the monsoon, when the heat became so overpowering that even the natives
yielded to the strain--and the days passed, and the weeks, and the
months, until, on September 16, Ungud, tempted by a bribe of five
thousand rupees, crept away for the last time with despatches for
Havelock.