OCCUPATION OF THE CITY
The renown won by our troops in 1857 is now wellnigh forgotten, and,
in fact, their deeds in that distant quarter of our Empire faded into
oblivion within a very short period subsequent to the capture of Delhi.
When the regiments engaged at that place came home to England after a
long course of service in India, scarcely any notice was taken of their
arrival. There were no marchings past before Her Majesty at Windsor or
elsewhere, no public distribution of medals and rewards, no banquets
given to the leading officers of the force, and no record published
of the arduous duties in which they had been engaged. Those times are
changed, and the country has now rushed into the opposite extreme of
fulsome adulation, making a laughing-stock of the army and covering
with glory the conquerors in a ten days' war waged against the wretched
fellaheen soldiers of Egypt.
Five years passed away after 1857 (and how many poor fellows had died in
the meantime!) before a mean and niggardly Government distributed to the
remnant of the Delhi army the first instalment of prize-money, and three
years more elapsed before the second was paid.
In September, 1861, exactly four years after the storm of Delhi, my
regiment paraded at the Plymouth citadel to receive medals for the
campaign of 1857. The distribution took place in the quietest manner
possible, none but the officers and men of the regiment being present.
Borne on a large tray into the midst of a square, the medals were handed
by a sergeant to each one entitled to the long-withheld decoration, the
Adjutant meanwhile reading out the names of the recipients. There was
no fuss or ceremony, but I recollect that those present could not help
contrasting the scene with the grand parade and the presence of the
Queen when some of the Crimean officers and men received the numerous
decorations so lavishly bestowed for that campaign.[1]
The city was entirely in our possession by noon of September 20, and
shortly after that hour I proceeded on horseback, with orders from
the Colonel, to withdraw all the advanced pickets of my regiment
to headquarters at Ahmed Ali Khan's house. These were stationed in
different parts of the city, and it was with no small difficulty that I
threaded my way through the streets and interminable narrow lanes, which
were all blocked up with heaps of broken furniture and rubbish that had
been thrown out of the houses by our troops, and formed in places an
almost impassable barrier. Not a soul was to be seen; all was still
as death, save now and then the sound of a musket-shot in the far-off
quarters of the town.
My duty accomplished, I started in the afternoon with two of our
officers to view a portion of the city. We made our way first in the
direction of the Palace, passing down the Chandni Chauk (Silver Street)
and entering the Great Gate of the former imperial residence of the
Mogul Emperors. Here a guard of the 60th Rifles kept watch and ward with
some of the jovial little Goorkhas of the Kumaon battalion. From the
first we learnt particulars of the easy capture of the Palace that
morning, and were shown the bodies of the fanatics who had disputed the
entrance and had been killed in the enclosure. None of them were sepoys,
but belonged to that class of men called "ghazi," or champions of the
faith, men generally intoxicated with bhang, who are to be found in
every Mohammedan army--fierce madmen, devotees to death in the cause of
religion. Passing on, we wandered through the courts, wondering at the
vast size of this castellated palace with its towering, embattled walls,
till we came to the Dewan-i-Khas, and further on to the Dewan-i-Aum, or
Hall of Audience. This last, a large building of white marble on the
battlements overhanging the River Jumna, was now the headquarters of the
General and his staff, and where formerly the descendants of the great
warrior Tamerlane held their court, British officers had taken up their
abode; and infidels desecrated those halls, where only "true believers"
had assembled for hundreds of years.
Passing thence through a gateway and over a swinging bridge, we entered
the old fort of Selimgarh, built, like the Palace, on the banks of the
river, its battlements, as well as those of the latter place on its
eastern side, being washed by the waters of the Jumna. Several heavy
guns and mortars were mounted on the walls of the fort, and we noticed
one old cannon of immense size for throwing stone balls, but which was
cracked at the muzzle, and evidently had not been used for centuries.
The fort was full of large and commodious buildings, used afterwards for
hospitals by our troops, the place itself, from its commanding situation
open and separate from the rest of the city, being the healthiest place
that could be found. There was a lovely view of the country on the left
bank of the Jumna, while to the north and south we followed the windings
of the broad river till lost to view in the far distance.
Descending from Selimgarh, we took our stand on the bridge of boats now
deserted in its whole length, but over which, during the days of the
siege, thousands of mutineers had marched to swell the rebel forces in
Delhi. Thence we skirted along the banks of the river outside the walls,
viewing on our way the houses of the European residents, built in
charming situations close to the water's edge. These had been all
entirely destroyed, gutted, and burnt; nothing but the bare walls were
left standing, and the interiors filled with heaps of ashes. We thought
of the wretched fate of the former inmates of these houses, most of
whom had been mercilessly killed by the city rabble, urged on in their
fiendish work by the native soldiers, of the regular army.
The mutineers of the 3rd Light Cavalry from Meerut had entered Delhi on
May 11, crossing the Jumna by the bridge of boats, and, being joined
by the city scoundrels, first wreaked their vengeance on the European
residents who lived close by, and who, without any previous warning of
the terrible fate in store for them, fell easy victims to the murderers.
It made our blood run cold, when visiting the ruins of these houses, to
think of the dastardly crimes which had been committed in and around the
spots on which we were standing. Defenceless and unarmed, helpless
in the hands of these human tigers, our unfortunate men, women, and
children were immolated without mercy. Turning back, we entered the city
by the Calcutta Gate, and walked along the ramparts by the riverside,
past the walls of the magazine, till we reached the Water bastion. Here
the destructive effect of our batteries during the bombardment was most
apparent. Fired at the distance of only 180 yards, the guns had smashed
the walls and ramparts to pieces, huge fragments had rolled down into
the ditch, and the cannon in the battery were completely dismounted from
the carriages, lying in confusion one on top of the other.
At the Kashmir Gate there was a heap of goods (consisting principally
of clothes and rubbish) many feet high, which had been looted from the
houses around. The guard at the gate had orders to allow no one to pass
out with a bundle of any kind; and the consequence was an accumulation
of material, chiefly worthless, which covered many square yards of
ground. I have omitted all record of the plundering which up to this
time, and for long afterwards, took place all over the city where
our troops had penetrated. This account I have reserved for the last
chapter, where full details of the loot of Delhi and the amount of
prize-money accruing to the force will be found. _September 21_.--During
the 21st I, in company with other officers, wandered over the heart of
the city, continuing our perambulations south of the Chandni Chauk and
penetrating into streets beyond, where the six days' fighting had taken
place. The night before we had heard occasional shots fired at no great
distance, and these were continued during the day and for some time
afterwards.
Looting was going on to a great extent, both European and native
soldiers engaging in the work; and though strict orders had been issued
to prevent such licence, it was found impossible to check the evil. The
shots emanated from these men, who, of course, went about well armed,
and brooked no interference when in the act of securing booty.
Altercations of a serious nature had taken place between the Europeans
and Sikh soldiers, ending sometimes in blows, and often in bloodshed,
when the two parties met in a house or were busy employed in dividing
the spoil. However, in time, when most of the native troops had left
Delhi, and the European regiments were quartered in walled enclosures
with a guard at the gates to prevent egress, the looting on the part of
the private soldiers ceased, and the prize agents were enabled to gather
in the enormous wealth of the city without any trouble.
The portions of the town we passed through on that day had been pillaged
to the fullest extent. Not content with ransacking the interior of each
house, the soldiers had broken up every article of furniture, and with
wanton destruction had thrown everything portable out of the windows.
Each street was filled with a mass of debris consisting of household
effects of every kind, all lying in inextricable confusion one on top of
the other, forming barricades--from end to end of a street--many feet
high. We entered several of the large houses belonging to the wealthier
class of natives, and found every one in the same condition, turned
inside out, their ornaments torn to pieces, costly articles, too heavy
to remove, battered into fragments, and a general air of desolation
pervading each building. Much of this wholesale destruction was, no
doubt, attributable to the action of the sepoys and rabble of the city,
who during the siege, and in the state of anarchy which prevailed during
that period, had looted to their hearts' content, levying blackmail on
the richer inhabitants and pursuing their evil course without let or
hindrance. Still, that which had escaped the plundering and devastating
hands of the sepoys was most effectually ruined by our men. Not a
single house or building remained intact, and the damage done must have
amounted to thousands of pounds.
We were quite alone in most streets; deserted and silent, they resembled
a city of the dead on which some awful catastrophe had fallen. It was
difficult to realize that we were passing through what had been, only a
few days before, the abode of thousands of people. What had become of
them, and by what magic influence had all disappeared? Not till days
afterwards was the mystery solved.
The _tai-khanas_, or underground rooms of houses, scattered all over the
city, were found to be filled with human beings--those who, by age or
infirmity, had been unable to join in the general exodus which had taken
place during the last days of the siege. Hundreds of old men, women and
children, were found huddled together, half starved, in these places,
the most wretched-looking objects I ever saw. There was no means of
feeding them in the city, where their presence also would have raised a
plague and many would have died; so, by the orders of the General, they
were turned out of the gates of Delhi and escorted into the country. It
was a melancholy sight, seeing them trooping out of the town, hundreds
passing through the Lahore Gate every day for a whole week. We were told
that provisions had been collected for their use at a place some miles
distant, and it is to be hoped the poor creatures were saved from
starvation; but we had our doubts on the subject, and, knowing how
callous with regard to human suffering the authorities had become, I
fear that many perished from want and exposure.
There were other objects also which raised feelings of pity in our
minds. During our walks through the streets we caught sight of dozens
of cats and tame monkeys on the roofs of the houses, looking at us with
most woe-begone countenances, the latter chattering with fear. These, as
well as birds of every description left behind in cages by their owners
on their flight, literally starved to death in the houses and streets of
the city. There was no food for such as these, and it is lamentable to
think of the torture and suffering the poor pet creatures endured till
death put an end to their misery.
Dead bodies of sepoys and city inhabitants lay scattered in every
direction, poisoning the air for many days, and raising a stench which
was unbearable. These in time were almost all cleared away by the native
scavengers, but in some distant streets corpses lay rotting in the sun
for weeks, and during my rides on duty, when stationed at the Ajmir
Gate, I often came across a dead body which had escaped search.
On the afternoon of the 21st a most important capture was effected by
Hodson. Shah Bahadoor Shah, the old King of Delhi, was taken by that
officer near the city while endeavouring to escape down-country.
Hodson, with his accustomed daring, and accompanied by 100 only of his
own troopers, seized the person of the King from amongst thousands of
armed dependents and rabble, who, awed by his stern demeanour, did not
raise a hand in resisting the capture. The King was brought to Delhi the
same day, and lodged as a prisoner in the house formerly the residence
of the notorious Begum Sumroo. He was guarded by fifty men of my
regiment, under command of a Lieutenant; and on the 22nd I went to see
him, accompanied by our Adjutant.
Sitting cross-legged on a cushion placed on a common native _charpoy_,
or bed, in the verandah of a courtyard, was the last representative of
the Great Mogul dynasty. There was nothing imposing in his appearance,
save a long white beard which reached to his girdle. About middle
height, and upwards of seventy years old, he was dressed in white, with
a conical-shaped turban of the same colour and material, while at his
back two attendants stood, waving over his head large fans of peacocks'
feathers, the emblem of sovereignty--a pitiable farce in the case of one
who was already shorn of his regal attributes, a prisoner in the hands
of his enemies. Not a word came from his lips; in silence he sat day and
night, with his eyes cast on the ground, and as though utterly oblivious
of the condition in which he was placed. On another bed, three feet
from the King, sat the officer on guard, while two stalwart European
sentries, with fixed bayonets, stood on either side. The orders given
were that on any attempt at a rescue the officer was immediately to
shoot the King with his own hand.
[Illustration: KING OF DELHI AS A PRISONER IN 1857.]
[From a photograph taken from a pencil sketch by Captain Robles, who was
placed on guard over him.]
The old King was brought to trial shortly afterwards at the palace, and
found guilty of complicity in the murders of our country men and women,
and was transported beyond the seas, dying in British Burmah before he
could be removed to the Andaman Islands, where, in accordance with his
sentence, he was to have remained in imprisonment for the term of
his natural life. The vicissitudes of fortune, numberless as are the
instances among men of royal birth, can scarcely show anything more
suggestive of the transitoriness of earthly pomp and grandeur than
the case of the last King of Delhi. Sprung from the line of the great
conqueror Tamerlane, the lineal descendant of the magnanimous Akbar and
of Shah Jehan the magnificent, he ended his days as a common felon, far
from the country of his ancestors, unwept for and unhonoured.
_September 22_.--Lieutenant Hodson, also on the 22nd, took prisoner, at
a place some miles from Delhi, the two eldest sons and the grandson
of the King. These men, more especially the eldest, who was
Commander-in-Chief of the rebel army, had been deeply implicated in the
murders of May 11, had urged on the sepoys and populace in their cruel
deeds, and were present at the terrible massacre of our people which
took place in the Chandni Chauk on that day.
Hodson's orders were precise as to the fate of these blood-thirsty
ruffians, and though his name has been vilified and his reputation
tarnished by so-called humanitarians for the course he adopted in
ridding the world of the miscreants, he was upheld in the deed by the
whole Delhi army, men in every respect better qualified to form a
judgment in this particular than the sentimental beings at home who
denounced with horror this perfectly justifiable act of speedy and
condign punishment.
The three Princes were placed in a _gharee_, or native carriage, and,
guarded by Hodson's native troopers, were conducted towards the city.
Before they entered, the carriage was stopped, and Hodson spoke to his
men of the crimes committed by the prisoners. Then, dismounting from his
horse and opening the door of the _gharee_, he fired two shots from a
Colt's revolver into each of their hearts. After being driven to the
Kotwali, or chief magistrate's house, in the centre of the Chandni
Chauk, on the very spot where our country men and women had suffered
death, the three bodies were stripped save a rag around the loins, and
laid naked on the stone slabs outside the building.
Here I saw them that same afternoon; nor can it be said that I or the
others who viewed the lifeless remains felt any pity in our hearts for
the wretches on whom had fallen a most righteous retribution for their
crimes. The eldest was a strong, well-knit man in the prime of life, the
next somewhat younger, while the third was quite a youth not more than
twenty years of age. Each of the Princes had two small bullet-holes over
the region of the heart, the flesh singed by gunpowder, as the shots
were fired close; a cloth covered part of the loins, but they were
otherwise quite naked. There was a guard, I think, of Coke's Rifles
stationed at the Kotwali, and there the bodies remained exposed for
three days, and were then buried in dishonoured graves.
On the 22nd the regiment, or what was left of it, comprising about 180
effective rank and file, moved from Ahmed Ali Khan's house to the Ajmir
Gate at the extreme south-western side of the city, a distance of a mile
and a half from our former residence. Here we put up in a large serai,
with open courtyards in the centre, shaded by high trees, the small
rooms on each side of the building being turned into quarters for the
men, the officers taking up their abode in a mosque at the far end. The
change was far from agreeable; flies and mosquitoes swarmed around us,
the ditch outside the walls was filled with pools of stagnant water, and
a horrible stench impregnated the air, increasing the sickness among
the already enfeebled soldiers, and still further reducing our scanty
number.
_September 23_.--The next day I started with D----, of my regiment, to
view the Jama Masjid, or Great Mosque. Nothing can exceed the rich,
though chaste, beauty of this glorious structure. The building stands
in a large walled enclosure, high broad steps leading up to the mosque,
with its three domes of pure white marble and floor of the same
material, all inlaid with figures. We ascended one of the minarets,
about 120 feet high, obtaining a grand view of the imperial city and the
surrounding country. To the south extended the ruins of Ferozebad, or
ancient Delhi; to the east lay the River Jumna; and to the west and
north stretched a forest of trees and gardens, among which were seen the
suburbs of the city, the now historic ridge in the far distance hiding
the whole camp from our view. From our elevated position a just estimate
could be formed of the great size of Delhi: the city lay spread out
below with its vast area of streets, its palaces, mosques, and temples,
all silent and deserted, in striking contrast to the din and turmoil of
a few days back.
Major Coke's corps of Punjab Rifles were quartered in the Masjid--a
luxurious place of residence--but there were no worshippers to be found
in the sacred building, and only armed men of an infidel creed were to
be seen. A report spread at this time that it had been decided to blow
up the mosque. I cannot vouch for the truth of this statement, and can
only attribute the rumour to a belief that a large ransom would be paid
by the Mohammedan population of India for the preservation of their
temple had the authorities really intended to carry out the project. Its
destruction would have been an act of vandalism quite at variance with
the character of the British nation, and one which would have brought
down on us the wrath and contempt of the whole civilized world.
From the Jama Masjid we wandered through narrow lanes and
back-slums--the former resort of the worst characters in the city--to
the Delhi and Turkoman Gates, the streets, as in other parts, being
strewed with property from the wrecked houses, and wellnigh impassable.
We saw parties of Europeans and native soldiers, all eager in the
pursuit of plunder, going from house to house, or diving down courts and
alleys when they saw us approaching. Interference or remonstrance with
these men would have been useless, if not dangerous; in their excited
state they were no respecters of persons, and we deemed it the better
judgment to take no notice of their actions. Dead bodies lay in almost
every street, rotting in the burning sun, and the effluvium was
sickening, so that we were glad to make our way back to the Ajmir Gate
to a less poisonous atmosphere.
A movable column of 2,500 men of all arms started on the morning of the
23rd in pursuit of the rebels, taking the direction to Cawnpore. My
regiment had been detailed for this service; and, though numerically
weak, and suffering from sickness, the officers and men hailed with
pleasure the approaching departure from Delhi. But, unfortunately for
us, the Colonel in command reported us sick and unfit to march. We were
all to a man furious at this; everyone fit for duty was willing, heart
and soul, to be sent wherever the exigencies of the war required, and
more especially looked forward with delight to the prospect of serving
under Sir Colin Campbell, in whose brigade the regiment had fought in
the Punjab campaign of 1848-49. Still, the decision of the responsible
officer was not to be disputed, and so the regiment was kept at Delhi.
On the 25th I mounted guard with fifty men at the Lahore Gate. The
orders were "on no account to allow soldiers, either European or native,
nor camp-followers without passes, to enter or leave the city." My post
was constantly at the gate, where I examined passes; and while
thus occupied some thirty troopers of the Mooltani Horse--wild,
truculent-looking fellows, armed to the teeth--rode up demanding
entrance. I explained to them what my orders were, and refused
admission. Whereupon they commenced talking among themselves, and
presently had the audacity to move towards the sentries with the
intention of forcing their way. I was exasperated beyond measure, and
turned out the guard, at the same time telling the Mooltanis that, if
they did not at once retire, I would fire upon them without more
ado. They then at once changed their threatening attitude, contented
themselves with swearing at the _Gore log_,[2] and rode away, saying
that now Nicholson was dead no one cared for them, and they would return
to their homes. These men had been newly raised, were scarcely under
proper discipline, and were certainly horrible-looking bandits and
cut-throats--very different from the Sikh and Punjabi Horsemen, who were
in manner and discipline all that could be desired. I knew that the
Mooltanis only desired entrance into the city to participate in the
looting which was still going on; and had they been allowed to indulge
in a work for which by their evil countenances they seemed well adapted,
collisions would have taken place between them and the English soldiers
and others, and bloodshed would have been the result.
Shortly after the Mooltani Horsemen rode away I saw a party of Goorkhas
coming towards the gate. They were strolling along quite unconcernedly,
laughing and chatting together, with their hands in their pockets and
quite unarmed, not even carrying their favourite _kukri_. Coming to
where I was standing just outside the gate, they laughingly asked me to
allow them to take a stroll down the Chandni Chauk and through a part of
the city for a short time. My orders were imperative, and I told them
so; whereat they said they belonged to the Sirmoor battalion--the
gallant regiment which, in conjunction with the 60th Rifles, had
defended the right of our position throughout the siege. The corps was
still stationed at their old quarters at Hindoo Rao's house, and not one
of them up to this time had entered Delhi. Naturally, they said they
wished to see the city, promised most faithfully that they would refrain
from looting, and return to the Lahore Gate in an hour's time. I found I
could not resist the importunities of these brave little fellows, and,
trusting to their honour, at last consented, though contrary to orders,
to grant them admission. We watched them walking along the Chandni
Chauk, staring in wonder at all they saw, till lost in the distance.
Punctual to the time mentioned the Goorkhas returned, and, thanking me
for my courtesy, made their way to their old quarters on the ridge.
During my tour on duty on this occasion at the Lahore Gate upwards of
500 of the Delhi populace were turned out of the city. They extended
in a long string up the Chandni Chauk, decrepit old men and women
with groups of young children. It was a pitiable sight, drawing forth
exclamations of sympathy even from the rough soldiers on guard.
It had been brought to the notice of the General that some of the former
inhabitants of Delhi, including sepoys, were in the habit of entering
the city for the purpose of carrying away valuables, being drawn up by
ropes held by confederates on the walls, and that many had also escaped
in the darkness by the same means. Several captures had already been
made, a strict watch was ordered to be kept at the several gates, and
patrolling parties to march at intervals outside the walls. The day I
was on guard at the Lahore Gate Hodson rode up to me from the outside,
and said he had seen some natives on the walls close by, evidently
attempting to escape into the country. I immediately sent round a
corporal and four soldiers in the direction indicated, who presently
returned with six natives--carrying bundles--whom they had made
prisoners. All men thus captured were sent to the Governor of the city
at the Kotwalli, who disposed of them as he thought fit, having the
power of life and death in these matters. The Governor had the repute of
being over-indulgent with regard to the disposal of the captives, being
considered too merciful in his treatment of men who, for aught he knew,
had forfeited their lives in joining the armed rebellion against our
authority.
A striking instance of the feeling which animated officers and men in
the troublous times took place some time afterwards at Delhi. An officer
of my regiment was on guard at the Ajmir Gate, and on one occasion sent
to the Governor some men whom he had captured while they were in the
act of escaping from the city. These men were released; but on a second
occasion three men were taken, and the officer, deeming it useless to
forward them for punishment to the usual authority, called out a file of
his soldiers, placed the prisoners in the ditch outside the Ajmir
Gate, shot them, and then, digging a hole, buried them at the place of
execution.
For a long period after the capture of Delhi executions by hanging
were of common occurrence in the city, and the hands of the old
provost-sergeant were full. Disguised sepoys and inhabitants taken
with arms in their possession had short shrift, and were at once
consigned to the gallows, a batch of ten one day suffering death
opposite the Kotwali.
In the beginning of October two more reputed sons of the old King were
shot by sentence of court-martial. They had commanded regiments of
the rebel army, and were foremost in the revolt, even joining in the
massacre of our people. The 60th Rifles and some Goorkhas formed
the firing party, and took, strange to say, such bad aim that the
provost-sergeant had to finish the work by shooting each culprit with
a pistol. Nothing could have been more ill-favoured and dirty than the
wretched victims; but they met their fate in silence and with the most
dogged composure.
_September 28_.--Accompanied by our Adjutant and some other officers, I
rode out to Taliwarra and Kishenganj on September 28. These suburbs were
a mass of ruins, but enough was left intact to show the immense strength
of the enemy's position at the former place. Batteries had been erected
at every available spot, strongly fortified and entrenched, and one in
particular which had raked the right of our position was perfect in
every detail, and was guarded by a ditch, or rather _nallah_, forty feet
deep.
We passed through the large caravanserai, the scene of the conflict
during the memorable sortie of July 9, and when in the course of our
inspection in the enclosure a ludicrous event occurred. An officer who
had been shot through the leg on that day, recognizing the place where
he had received his wound, dismounted from his horse, and stood on the
very spot. He was in the act of explaining events, and describing his
sensations when shot, when suddenly he made a jump in the air, uttering
a cry of pain, and commenced rubbing his legs, first one and then the
other. We burst into laughter at the antics of our friend, who, we
imagined, had been seized with a fit of madness quite at variance with
his usual quiet demeanour, and jokingly asked him what was the matter.
Still writhing with pain, and engaged in his involuntary saltatory
exercise, he pointed to a swarm of wasps which, roused from their nest,
on which he had been standing, covered his lower extremities, and had
made their way inside his pantaloons, stinging him on both legs, and
crawling up his body. The pain must have been intense, and fully
accounted for his gymnastics and frantic efforts to crush the insects.
It was some days before he recovered from the wounds he had received,
far more painful--as he averred--than the enemy's bullet, I intimated
at the time to my friend that the wasps probably were the ghosts of
the sepoys who had been killed in the serai, their bodies, by the
transmigration of souls, having taken the shape of these malignant
insects in order to wreak vengeance on their destroyers. He, however,
did not seem to relish my interpretation of this very singular event,
and, in fact, was inclined to resent what he called my ill-timed
jesting; but the story spread, and our poor friend became for some time
afterwards the butt and laughing-stock of the regiment.
From Kishenganj we rode through the Sabzi Mandi Gardens, visiting our
old pickets there and at the Crow's Nest, and then proceeded up the
slope of the ridge to Hindoo Rao's house. This was still garrisoned by
the Sirmoor battalion of Goorkhas, some of whom escorted us round the
place, pointing out the different positions they had so gallantly
defended. The house was knocked to pieces, the walls showing evidence of
the enemy's fire, and revealing to us the truth of the saying in camp
that these hardy little fellows, with the 60th Rifles, during more than
three months, had been constantly exposed night and day to shot and
shell, there not being a single part of their quarters where complete
shelter could be found.
The Observatory, close to Hindoo Rao's house, had also felt the effect
of the enemy's shot, while midway between the Observatory and the
Flagstaff Tower, the Mosque--the only other building on the ridge--was
also in ruins. Our batteries, nine in number, lay in a comparatively
small compass, extending about three-quarters of a mile from the Crow's
Nest in the right rear to Wilson's battery opposite the Observatory. The
rest of the ridge was unprotected by guns in position, it being at so
great a distance from the city and also free from the enemy's attacks;
the only danger and annoyance arose from occasional shells, which
reached the camp and exploded amongst the tents, from round-shot and
from rocket fire.
Passing by the Flagstaff Tower, we rode through the old camp, now
desolate and silent, visiting the graves of our poor fellows at the
cemetery, and then, retracing our steps, entered Delhi by the Kashmir
Gate, and returned to our quarters.
Cholera still continued its ravages among the small number of troops
left in Delhi. The reaction from a life of strife and excitement to the
dull existence we were now leading had its effects on the men, and we
each day lamented more and more that we had not gone with the Movable
Column, leaving the noisome smells, the increasing sickness, and the
monotony of Delhi behind. Two thousand sick and wounded had been moved
into the Fort of Selimgarh, where the pure air and open situation of the
place soon made a marked change in the number of invalids: but disease
was rife among the regiments quartered in the city, and convalescents
from Selimgarh were soon replaced by men suffering from cholera and
fever ague.
In the beginning of October, to our intense delight, we moved from the
Ajmir Gate, that sink of corruption, and took up our quarters in the
magazine. The officers here occupied a fine roomy building of two
stories, while the men were housed in comfortable sheds round the
enclosure. We still furnished guards at the Ajmir and Lahore Gates, the
term of duty, through paucity of men for relief, extending over three
days. The officer on guard at the former gate visited detachments and
sentries at the "Delhi" and "Turkoman" Gates, a distance of a mile and
a half through streets in which dead bodies in the last stage of
decomposition were still lying. While one day engaged on this duty, I
passed a carcass on which some pariah dogs were making a meal. Disgusted
at the sight, and weak in stomach from the putrid air, I returned to
my tent at the Ajmir Gate at the time when my servant arrived with my
dinner from the magazine. I asked him what he had brought me, and was
answered, "Liver and bacon." The nauseating sight I had just witnessed
recurred to my memory, visions of diseased and putrid livers rose before
my view, and, unable to control myself, I was seized with a fit of
sickness which prostrated me for some time after.
Nothing of importance occurred during the month of October. We settled
into a very quiet life at the magazine, varied by eternal guard-mounting
at the different gates of the city and regimental drill. My health had
been failing for some time, and, now that there seemed no immediate
prospect of employment on active service, I gladly acquiesced in the
doctor's advice that I should proceed to Umballah on sick leave.
_November 8_.--Accordingly I left Delhi on November 8, my destination
being Umballah, a station in the Cis-Sutlej provinces. A _palki ghari_,
or Indian carriage, drawn by two horses, awaited me that evening at
Selimgarh, and, bidding adieu to our good doctor, who had nursed me with
unremitting attention during my sickness, I entered the carriage.
Just before starting, an officer of my regiment handed me two
double-barrelled pistols--revolvers were at a premium in those
days--saying they might possibly come in useful during my journey, and
I little thought at the time that their services would be brought into
requisition.
The country around Delhi swarmed with _goojars_, the generic name for
professional thieves, who inhabited the numerous villages and levied
blackmail on travellers, though seldom interfering with Europeans. My
baggage, consisting of two _petarahs_ (native leather trunks) containing
uniform and clothing, was deposited on the roof of the vehicle under
charge of my bearer, but the loot I had acquired, I had safely stowed in
a despatch-box, which was placed under my pillow in the interior of the
carriage. A bed, comfortably arranged, occupied the seats, and on this I
lay down, closing the doors of the _ghari_ when night came on.
Some two stages from Delhi, after changing horses and proceeding on the
journey along the pucka road, I fell into a doze, and at last into a
sound sleep. From this I was rudely awakened by shouts of "Chor! chor!"
(Thief! thief!) from my bearer and the native coachman. Starting up,
I seized the pistols, and opening the doors of the _ghari_, saw, as I
fancied, some forms disappearing in the darkness at the side of the
road. I fired two barrels in the direction and pursued for some
distance, but finding that my shots had not taken effect, and fearful of
losing my way--for the night was pitch-dark--I returned to the carriage.
My bearer then told me that some robbers had climbed up the back of the
_ghari_, taken the two _petarahs_ between which he was lying, and made
off into the country. We had been driving at the usual pace, about six
miles an hour, and it proves the practised skill and agility of the
_goojars_, who, with such ease, had abstracted the boxes from under the
very nose of my servant. There was nothing for it but to continue my
journey regretting the loss of my personal effects, but still fortunate
in one respect--that the loot was safe under my pillow.
_November 9_.--At the next stage I questioned the horse-keeper,
acquainting him with the robbery, and learned that a village inhabited
by _goojars_ lay off the road not far from the place where the robbery
had been perpetrated. In the morning I arrived at the civil station
of Karnal, and drove to the residence of the Commissioner, to whom I
reported my loss, giving the name of the village where it had occurred.
He told me to make out a valuation of the things stolen and to send it
to him on the first opportunity. This I did on reaching Umballah, fixing
the value of the different articles in the boxes at 250 rupees. A month
afterwards, when the affair had almost faded from my memory, I received
a letter from the Commissioner stating that he had visited the village
near the spot where the robbery had taken place. The headman had been
summoned to his presence, and warned that, unless the thieves were
given up and the boxes returned with their contents intact, he would
confiscate a certain number of cattle, and sell the same to indemnify
me for the losses I had sustained. These orders being unfulfilled, the
cattle were sold, and an order for 250 rupees was enclosed to me in the
letter. The boxes, quite empty, with the exception of my journals, were
found afterwards at the bottom of a well and were forwarded to Umballah.
The ink had run in the journals from immersion in the water, but the
writing was little defaced, and these papers--to me the most precious
part of my luggage--I was glad to recover.
The change to Umballah was at first beneficial, but later on I suffered
a relapse; and after appearing before a medical board, was granted a
year's leave to England.
From Umballah I journeyed to Ferozepore, where I met several of my
brother-officers and others who, like myself, had been invalided home.
_January 10, 1858_.--After a short stay there--the time being
principally taken up with chartering boats and providing necessaries
for the passage down the river--we all, to the number of about fifty
persons, occupying twenty-two boats, which had to be specially fitted up
with straw-built houses with sloping roofs, set off on January 10, 1858,
under the protection of a guard of Sikhs, and, after what may on the
whole be regarded as a pleasant trip, reached Tattah on February 11.
Thence I went on to Karachi and Bombay and Marseilles, and, after a
pleasant tour on the Continent of Europe, arrived in the Old Country in
May, 1858, after an absence of rather more than six years.
[Illustration: "HOMEWARD," NEAR JERRICK, ON THE INDUS]
[Footnote 1: Since the above was written, especial honour has been shown
to those who participated in the hardships and glories of the campaign
by His Majesty King Edward VII., who received the surviving officers at
a levee at St. James's Palace on June 3, 1907.
A public dinner was also given by the proprietors of the _Daily
Telegraph_ in the Albert Hall on December 23 of the same year to all the
surviving veterans who had taken part in the suppression of the Mutiny
in 1857.]
[Footnote 2: White people.]