“LUCKNOW” KAVANAGH AND THE VICTORIA CROSS.
The Siege of Lucknow forms one of the most interesting episodes in
the history of the Indian Mutiny. No event connected with the war
excited a deeper interest in this country, and it is impossible, even
after the lapse of nine years, to reflect on the gallant defence of a
small body of soldiers and civilians shut up within the Residency, the
patient endurance of the women, and the heroic efforts to effect their
deliverance, without a certain thrill of emotion. Among the many who
distinguished themselves at this critical period, a prominent place
is held by T. Henry Kavanagh, an Irish gentleman belonging to the
uncovenanted service, who happened to be stationed at Lucknow with his
wife and children. The report of the massacres at other stations induced
the Kavanaghs to remove from their own house to two rooms in the Post
Office near the Residency, and these they continued to occupy during all
the privations and miseries of the subsequent siege, and until the final
rescue. As soon as the native regiments mutinied, the small garrison of
Europeans at Lucknow, under the command of Sir Henry Lawrence, prepared
to defend themselves to the last: provisions were collected, the
fortifications strengthened, and the civilians enrolled into companies
of combatants. Before the middle of June, 1857, the whole province of
Oude had cast off its allegiance to the British Crown; the English
residents had perished or betaken themselves to flight; Lucknow alone
remained, like a mighty rock, with the British flag displayed on its
summit, dashing back the waves of insurrection and mutiny. All the rage
of the rebels was concentrated against it: again and again they advanced
to the attack; but the gallant band of defenders, though weakened by
suffering and thinned by the bullets of the enemy, proved to their
recreant assailants that they would sooner bury themselves beneath the
ruins than surrender; and India, in truth, could not have been retained
as an appendage of our Crown if it had not been defended by men equal in
courage to those who first reduced it to subjection.
The garrison, not satisfied with maintaining the defence, sent small
bodies of cavalry to rescue their countrymen at the neighbouring
stations, and occasionally made sorties against the enemy. In one of
these affairs they were overpowered by numbers at a place called Chinut,
and obliged to retire within their entrenchments with considerable loss.
This disaster, coupled with the massacre of Cawnpore, of which they had
just heard, had a depressing effect upon the garrison at first; but the
thought that a similar fate awaited their wives and children if they
fell into the hands of the enemy, inspired the men with the courage of
despair. Their numbers were reduced, but still they held out. Every mine
of their assailants was countermined; every rent in their walls was
repaired almost as soon as made. In the obstinacy of their defence they
equalled the inhabitants of Saragossa; and there was many a fair maid
who lauded their courage, tended the sick, and prayed with the dying.
During the first part of the siege, Kavanagh was so prostrated by illness
that he could render no assistance; he lay chafing in his bed, like the
wounded knight in “Ivanhoe,” listening to the din of battle and bemoaning
his hard fate. The report of gallant deeds done by others filled his
heart with such rapture, that, he tells us, it would have burst if a
friend had not leaned on his chest to keep down its emotions. There is
no instance, perhaps, on record where strong mental emotion exercised
a more powerful influence over the physical frame than in Kavanagh’s
case. On the 20th of July he was able to leave his bed, and from that
day to the final rescue he proved himself brave amongst the brave. He
tells us that from the years of his boyhood he had longed to do some
deed to immortalise his name, and his youthful aspirations met with so
little sympathy that his uncle assured him he was born to be hanged. But
Kavanagh is not the first who has been misunderstood in early life. When
he returned from India, the admired of all admirers, his friends were
better able to appreciate his character.
Towards the end of July, cholera, fever, and smallpox joined their
ravages to those of war, and cut off many of the garrison. On the 7th of
August, Kavanagh had a narrow escape from death. He had left his house to
report himself to his superior officer, and unwittingly exposed himself
to the fire of the enemy, from which he was rescued by two of his friends
who saw his danger. His courage was not of a calculating character, and
his warlike enthusiasm having led him to fire without orders, he was
placed under arrest. He was soon released, and, taught by experience,
was content for the future to check his undisciplined ardour and to
obey the directions of his superiors. August passed drearily away. The
defenders, when there was a lull in the attack, climbed to the roofs
of their houses and looked out, like sister Anne, for assistance which
never came. Hope and despair alternately gained the mastery over them.
They rejoiced as they thought of the serried ranks of their countrymen
advancing; they shuddered as they thought of their wives, and sisters,
and children, exposed to the same fate as the victims of Cawnpore. At one
time they amused themselves with reckless gaiety in writing lampoons upon
one another; now they gave way to unreasoning despondency, and cursed
the heartlessness of their countrymen in leaving them thus to perish
amid the ruins. In this, as in similar straits, the women were far more
hopeful and unselfish than the men: they concealed their own fears, and
often starved themselves that their husbands and children might eat. The
ministering angels of that beleaguered fort, their presence exercised a
wholesome power which gave hope to the despairing and courage to the
feeble. Had there been none of the gentler and weaker sex in Lucknow, it
is doubtful whether its garrison of strong men would have stood out so
long.
September passed slowly away without bringing the expected aid. The
enemy changed their tactics, and tried to reduce the garrison by hunger.
Our countrymen, no longer roused to exertion by the fierce excitement
of fighting, sank into a sort of stupor, and bewailed the dull monotony
of their existence, which was occasionally relieved by the bands of the
mutineers playing familiar airs, and more especially the National Anthem.
Meanwhile Havelock, with his gallant little force, was fast advancing
to their help. The Highlanders were on the march to Lucknow, though the
shrill music of the war-pipe was not yet heard within its walls. Our
readers are all, doubtless, familiar with the story of Jessie Brown,
the Scottish servant-maid, whose watchful ear drank in the slogan and
pibroch of her advancing countrymen when others could hear nothing. It
is always an invidious task to dispel a pleasing illusion, but a sacred
regard for truth compels us to state that Jessie is a purely mythical
being—a creature of the imagination as much as Mrs. Harris. The story of
Jessie is one of those _canards_ with which French journals delight to
entertain their readers; it first appeared in the _Pays_, was dramatised
and introduced on the stage, and Jessie’s paternity, we understand,
has been the subject of litigation. Notwithstanding our protests, she
will doubtless live in the future history of Lucknow till a second
myth-destroying Niebuhr appear to vindicate the truth. On the afternoon
of the 25th of September the garrison could hear, not the sound of the
bagpipe, but the boom of Havelock’s artillery, and all who could walk
hurried to the roofs of the houses and strained their eyes to catch the
first glimpse of their countrymen. On they came, a small but resolute
body, driving the enemy before them at the point of the bayonet, and
pressing them into the river, where many of them perished. Little
resistance was offered till the advance column began to force their way
through the Red Gate, where the enemy opened a murderous fire of small
arms upon them. There was no time to pick up the wounded or rescue the
bodies of the slain. A rush was made, and Havelock’s band was within
the walls. The enthusiasm of the garrison knew no bounds: they cheered,
they waved their hats, they wept with irrepressible joy, they embraced
and implored blessings upon their deliverers. Poor Kavanagh, with true
Milesian hospitality, offered his last three bottles of liquor to the
exhausted soldiers, who required no pressing to induce them to empty them.
For a time all was joy within the garrison, but there was still much
work to be done, much suffering to be endured. The Red Gate was still in
the possession of the enemy: Kavanagh undertook to conduct a party to a
spot where they could seize it by surprise. At the moment of danger the
two young officers in command lost courage, and treated their guide as a
drunken madman. An unsuccessful attempt was made to reach the Alum Bagh,
where there was a small garrison of our men. On this occasion Kavanagh
was one of the first to advance, the last to retreat; he often spent
whole nights in the mines, worked his way into those of the enemy, and
brought his revolver to bear upon them with deadly effect. A master of
Hindustani, he could scold as well as shoot, and it was difficult to say
whether his tongue or his rifle was more galling to the enemy. Havelock’s
men brought no provisions with them, and, as there were now more mouths
to be fed, the rations were reduced in quantity. We have heard many a
soldier say that he would rather go without his dinner than his pipe, and
the poor smokers had to use dried tea and bitter herbs as a substitute
for tobacco. But the sufferers bore up manfully, and their sufferings
were all but forgotten when, on the 9th of November, a spy arrived with a
despatch from Sir Colin Campbell, announcing that help was at hand. Plans
had been previously drawn up for the guidance of the Commander-in-Chief
in effecting his entrance into the Residency, but it was felt that they
could be of little use unless some one familiar with the locality could
reach his camp for the purpose of explaining them.
Here was an undertaking of no ordinary danger. The guide would have to
pass through the hostile ranks of the mutineers in disguise; if detected,
he would have to submit to a death of torture. No wonder, then, that
the bravest heart quailed before such an adventure. But the moment was
urgent; the provisions were nearly exhausted; if the relieving army met
with a check the whole garrison might perish. In this emergency Kavanagh
came forward and offered his services. Not from mere recklessness. He
knew the extent of the danger. He had counted the cost, and was prepared
for success or failure. In Sir James Outram, the Chief Commissioner, he
found a kindred spirit who could appreciate such an act of self-devotion:
Outram entered readily into all his plans, and undertook to afford him
every assistance. At first the native spy refused to encounter the risk
of passing through the ranks of the enemy in company with a European in
disguise, but his scruples were overcome. Kavanagh borrowed from the
natives the different articles of clothing he required to complete his
disguise, and when, arrayed in Oriental costume, he entered Outram’s
quarters, his appearance was so altered that his most familiar friends
failed to recognise him. The painter of the pictures composing the
Victoria Cross Gallery, Mr. Desanges, has chosen this meeting as a
subject for his canvas. The dignified Oriental is Kavanagh; the short,
thick-set figure, who, cigar in mouth, is holding a plan of Lucknow
in one hand, and giving the last touch to Kavanagh’s beard with the
other, is the late Sir James Outram, and he is surrounded by officers
of the garrison; in the background are Kunoujee Lal, the native spy,
and some servants. At half-past eight o’clock on the evening of the 9th
of November Kavanagh started on his arduous mission, followed by the
prayers and best wishes of all who were intrusted with the secret. His
most anxious thoughts were of his wife and children, who believed that
he was to spend the night in the mines. The darkness of the hour was
favourable to the enterprise. On reaching the river Goompty they had to
strip and wade across. After crossing the river they crept up a trench
for about three hundred yards, till they came to a grove of trees,
where they stopped to dress. A man came down to the river to wash, but,
fortunately, he did not observe them; they regained their confidence,
and advanced towards the huts of the enemy in front. Kavanagh exchanged
greetings with a matchlockman, taking care to be the first to speak.
On proceeding about seven hundred yards farther they reached the iron
bridge across the Goompty, and were challenged by a native officer.
Kavanagh remained a little in the shade: the officer, satisfied with the
answers of the guide, allowed them to pass. They continued to advance
along the left bank of the river, where they were met by numbers of
sepoys, till they reached the stone bridge, where they glided past the
sentry, and found themselves in the principal street of Lucknow. As it
was part of their policy to court rather than avoid observation, they
advanced along the main street, where no one challenged them, till they
reached the open country, when a watchman inquired who they were. The
answer was satisfactory, and they passed on cheerfully for four or five
miles through the fragrant groves and beautiful woods which surround
Lucknow, when they discovered that they had taken the wrong road and
were close to the pickets of the enemy. The native guide was alarmed
lest Kavanagh should suspect his honesty; but, reassured on this point,
he endeavoured to find the right path. In wandering through the fields
they met with singular adventures: they tumbled into ditches, and were
nearly drowned; they alarmed the dogs of the native villages, and had to
conceal themselves in a canal; they entered a wretched hut, and persuaded
the female inmates to point out the way. About one o’clock in the morning
they came upon an advanced picket of the enemy. Kavanagh marched up
to them boldly, and, after answering their challenge, was allowed to
pass. They were now close to the Alum Bagh, which was garrisoned by the
English, but the native guide dissuaded Kavanagh from attempting to pass
through the numerous rifle-pits and detachments of the enemy by which
it was surrounded. At three o’clock they reached a mango grove, where a
native sentinel, hearing their approach, gave the alarm, and the guard
was called out. Startled by this unexpected danger, the native guide lost
courage, and threw away the despatch for Sir Colin Campbell. It was a
trying moment, but Kavanagh retained his presence of mind, and disarmed
their suspicions by his confident bearing and ready answers. The guide
had the politeness to show them the way to Umroula, a village on the
route to the English camp, which, they said, they wished to reach; and,
after walking on for some distance, they tumbled into a jheel, or swamp,
and were once more nearly drowned. They continued to advance with the
water often as high as their necks: Kavanagh, being the taller of the
two, had often to hold up Kunoujee Lal by the neck to keep him from
sinking. Their clothes were torn from their bodies by the tall reeds,
and, worse than this, the paint was washed from Kavanagh’s hands by the
muddy water: it was fortunate that it did not reach his face. After
floundering in the swamp for two hours, they reached the land in such a
state of exhaustion that they had to rest for a quarter of an hour.
[Illustration: Thomas Henry Kavanagh completing his Disguise in the
Residency at Lucknow.]
Resuming their route, they entered the village, and found several men
sleeping near the _chubootra_, or native office. Rousing one of the
sleepers, they informed him that they were spies sent to discover the
strength of the enemy, and requested him to direct them to the English
camp. The sleeper, enraged at being disturbed, gave them a surly answer;
and, advancing, they passed to the other guards about three hundred
yards apart. It was fortunate for them that the enemy had thrown out
no sentries, and were seated in a half-drowsy state around their
watch-fires. They passed between the two fires without being challenged,
and soon after met some villagers, who informed them that they were
fleeing before the English. They inferred from this that Sir Colin
Campbell’s encampment must be close at hand; and, after losing their way
and again nearly falling into the hands of the rebels, they reached a
grove about four o’clock in the morning, and Kavanagh, regardless of the
remonstrances of the guide, threw himself on the ground to sleep for an
hour. Before he had closed his eyes he was startled by the challenge, in
a native accent, “Who comes there?” and sprang to his feet. Perhaps those
three simple English words, pronounced by native lips, were the sweetest
words he ever heard in his life. They had stumbled upon a picket of
Sikhs, and the officer in command requested two Sowars to conduct them to
the advance-guard.
Kavanagh was almost dead with cold and fatigue, but a kind-hearted
officer of the 9th Lancers supplied him with clothes and refreshments.
The adventures of the past night seemed to him like a fearful dream; now
that they were past he could scarcely realize them. The whole English
camp was struck with admiration of a deed unsurpassed in the annals of
the heroic ages, and each vied with the other in doing honour to one whom
they were proud to call their countryman. Even the stern and impassive
old Scottish chief—usually so sparing in his praise, so severe in his
reproof—was touched by the unselfish heroism of such a deed. In the
darkened tent, unseen by human eye, Kavanagh knelt down and expressed
his gratitude to Him who had taken him from the miry clay and conducted
him in safety through the hosts of the enemy. His next thought was of
his wife and children; and before lying down to rest he had the flag of
the semaphore in the Alum Bagh hoisted as the signal of his safety. It
was in vain that he tried to sleep; his over-excited brain refused to be
lulled to rest. At eleven o’clock he was seated at Sir Colin’s table,
surprising his entertainer by the strangeness of his adventures and the
strength of his appetite. His assistance was invaluable in explaining the
plans drawn up by Sir James Outram, and in pointing out the best route
for advancing through Lucknow. By exposing his own life he saved that of
many a gallant soldier who would otherwise have been lost; and Sir Colin
showed his appreciation of his conduct by retaining him near his person.
Next morning the army of rescue was on the march, and after a feeble
resistance reached the Alum Bagh. On the 14th of November they advanced
against Lucknow, under the guidance of Kavanagh, who was familiar with
the neighbourhood of the city. The cowardly Sepoys fled before our men,
and sought refuge within the walls of Lucknow. On reaching the banks
of the river the English army halted, and spent the night under arms,
waiting anxiously and eagerly for the hour when the Massacre of Cawnpore
was to be avenged. The night was dark and chilly; Kavanagh slept by the
side of Sir Colin Campbell on the cold floor; the foe attempted nothing
to disturb their repose.
With the earliest dawn Sir Colin was mounted on his charger, riding from
post to post and giving his orders for the day. A new route proposed by
Kavanagh, as preferable to that indicated by Outram, was at once adopted;
but during the following night a heavy cannonade was kept up to mislead
the enemy from the real point of danger. Next morning our men advanced
rapidly through the tortuous lanes and thick plantations, meeting with
little resistance from the enemy, who expected to be attacked in another
quarter, till they reached the Secunder Bagh. Here a heavy fire of
musketry was opened upon them, and the first man who tried to pass was
shot in the hip and fell. Kavanagh leaped from his horse, took the poor
fellow in his arms, and bore him in safety to a neighbouring hut. Others
pressed forward and surrounded the building; the artillery seized an
embankment which commanded the gate; the enemy were deprived of all means
of escape. The Highlanders were the first who entered; arrested in their
progress by a dead wall, they mounted the roof, tore off the tiles, and
leaped into the midst of the mutineers. At the same time a breach was
made in the walls of the Secunder Bagh; Sikh and Highlander vied with one
another in being the first to reach it; many were hit, but nothing could
resist their impetuous bravery. They forced their way in, and, maddened
with resistance and the remembrance of Cawnpore, they showed no mercy;
the bayonet did its deadly work till all was still, and two thousand of
the mutineers were piled together in one gory mass as a monument of our
vengeance. Humanity shudders at the remembrance of such a scene, but the
murderers of helpless women and children at Cawnpore deserved no quarter.
Our men, worn out with fatigue and hunger, remained under arms the whole
night, waiting anxiously for daybreak. Sir Colin slept outside the
Secunder Bagh, with Kavanagh by his side; with the earliest dawn the
whole army was on the move. The enemy, disheartened by their reverses,
offered little resistance, and began to retreat; Kavanagh, who had
advanced to examine their position, was mistaken for a spy, and had a
narrow escape from being shot by his countrymen. Undaunted by the danger
to which he was exposed from the peculiarity of his dress and appearance,
he led a party of our men to the Motee Mahul, which was occupied by the
enemy, and, finding that the wall could not be broken through without
sappers, he returned to Sir Colin for assistance. After an amusing
altercation between him and his impetuous chief the required aid was
granted, and the British flag soon waved on the summit of the building.
After this success Kavanagh pressed forward in the hope of being the
first to reach Sir James Outram; he passed in safety through the fire of
the enemy till he met a soldier of the 64th Regiment, who conducted him
to the spot where a group of officers were standing. It was Sir James
Outram and his staff; as soon as they recognised their former comrade
in arms they shouted, “It is Kavanagh! three cheers for him! he is the
first to relieve us.” The warmth of this greeting was felt at the moment
to be a sufficient recompense for all the dangers he had encountered; no
wonder that tears rose to his eyes as he grasped the hands of those whom
he had parted with a little before, doubtful whether he should ever meet
them again. There was more joy in that meeting than falls to the lot of
many men in the whole course of their lives—a joy such as can only be
experienced by those who have risked their own safety in behalf of others.
After the first congratulations, he offered to conduct Sir James and
his staff to the commander-in-chief. It was an undertaking of some
danger, but the Bayard of India never knew fear. They passed unscathed
through a shower of grape and bullets, and Sir James took shelter in
the shade of a hut while Kavanagh went to announce his arrival to Sir
Colin Campbell. The meeting between these two gallant men was like the
meeting between Wellington and Blucher after Waterloo; but there was no
time for empty compliments; they had to make good their retreat from
Lucknow without a moment’s delay. Havelock, the good Christian, the
gallant soldier, tottered forward to welcome his deliverer; seven days
later he was carried to his grave, lamented and respected by all who have
learned to appreciate his heroic bravery, his humble piety. Three better
or braver men than Havelock, Outram, and Campbell have never met; they
have all passed away now; but such men can never die; they will live
for ever in the memory and affections of their grateful and admiring
countrymen. Nor was Kavanagh forgotten at that meeting. Sir Colin spoke
of him in such terms of admiration as rarely issued from his stern lips,
and expressed his sense of the value of his services in his despatch to
the Government of India. “His escape at a time when the intrenchment
was closely invested by a large army, and when communication, even
through the medium of natives, was almost impossible, is, in Sir Colin
Campbell’s opinion, one of the most daring feats ever attempted; and the
result was most beneficial; for, in the immediate subsequent advance
on Lucknow of the force under the Commander-in-chief’s directions, the
thorough acquaintance with the localities possessed by Mr. Kavanagh,
and his knowledge of the approaches to the British position were of the
greatest use; and his excellency desires to record his obligations to
this gentleman, who accompanied him throughout the operations, and was
ever present to afford valuable information.” But dearer to Kavanagh
than the praises of despatches or the congratulations of comrades were
the tender reproaches of his wife, as she clasped him to her breast and
wept her joy and admiration in his arms. The poet who sang the parting of
Hector and Andromache could alone do justice to such a meeting; it lies
not within the province of simple prose. He appeared in the midst of that
beleaguered garrison as a bearer of safety—a messenger of mercy; the very
soldiers blessed him as he passed, the heart of the widow and the captive
sang aloud for joy, and many pressed into his house that they might “only
have a look at him.” Few rewards have been more justly earned or more
gratefully paid.
After effecting the rescue of the garrison, Sir Colin Campbell retired by
forced marches to Cawnpore, where his presence soon reassured the forces,
disheartened by the attacks of the enemy during his absence. Kavanagh
accompanied him to Cawnpore, and soon after started for Calcutta, where
the refugees from Lucknow met with a generous and hospitable reception
from the governor-general and the British residents. The guide who had
acted such an important part in the enterprise was not forgotten; all
met with much sympathy; but there was a ringing cheer, such as none but
English can give, when “Lucknow” Kavanagh (the name by which he has
ever since been known, and a prefix as worthily gained as that which
distinguished the Confederate general “Stonewall” Jackson) appeared with
his wife and family. But such a restless spirit could not remain inactive
at Calcutta while the fighting was going on in Oude; he no longer
belonged to the uncovenanted service, and was at liberty to go wherever
he pleased. He made his way up the country, formed the acquaintance of
the _Times_’ correspondent, Dr. Russell, who persuaded him to mount an
unruly horse that nearly broke his neck, and at last joined the army of
Sir Colin Campbell, then a second time advancing from Cawnpore to Lucknow.
During the subsequent fighting he exposed himself to the fire of the
enemy with almost reckless bravery; his constant immunity from danger
gave rise to a sort of half belief that he bore a charmed life, and this
belief was almost justified by the result. Many a gallant English officer
bit the dust at Lucknow, but the bullets of the enemy seemed to be turned
aside by some invisible hand from the person of Kavanagh. If the old
Greek mythology had not been obsolete, we should have been tempted to
believe that some friendly god or goddess was watching over our hero,
and guarding him alike from friend and foe, as Aphrodite and Poseidon
watched over Æneas at the siege of Troy. More than once he was in danger
of being shot by his countrymen as a deserter; he had hand-to-hand
combats with the enemy, whom he was ready to meet at any odds; he was
thrown from horses, precipitated from dog-carts, tumbled into wells, was
shot through the shoulder, wounded in the ankle, and survived to thrill
the world by the story of his strange adventures, which borders on the
realms of romance. When fighting was over at Lucknow he resumed his civil
duties, and used all his influence to protect the miserable natives who
had returned to their homes, and to check the thieving propensities of
the gallant Sikhs and savage little Ghoorkas. In June, 1858, he offered
to proceed to the camp of the enemy with a flag of truce, to persuade
them to lay aside their arms and submit to the British rule; but the
authorities at Lucknow—wisely, as we think—refused to expose his life
to such a danger. Soon after this he was ordered to Muliabad, where he
was intrusted with the command of a certain number of Sikhs and native
police, whom he frequently led against the enemy. In these encounters he
had many hair-breadth escapes; on one occasion his horse was disabled by
a shot, and threw him to the ground. It was deemed a mark of merit on
the part of Sir Hugh Widdrington that he could fight upon his stumps;
Kavanagh was a hero of the same calibre; though dismounted he was not
disarmed, and such was his determined bravery that he not only beat
off his assailants, but seized one of them by the throat, and made him
prisoner. At the fort of Birrwa he summoned the enemy to surrender,
promising them their lives if they yielded without further resistance;
they expressed their readiness to do so, if they could only have faith in
his promises. On this he threw aside his arms, pushed past his own men
who were between him and the enemy, walked into the centre of the yard
where they stood, and thus placed his life at their mercy. They were awed
by the courage of the act, and threw themselves at his feet in token of
surrender; and thus, by yet one more daring deed, many lives were again
saved by him. Such generous devotion was calculated to produce a powerful
impression on the native mind; the Sikhs under his command looked up to
him as a superior being, and once, when in great jeopardy, two of them
saved his life at the expense of their own. After an absence of nine
months he returned to Lucknow to rejoin his wife, who had suffered much
uneasiness from the frequent reports of his death, and welcomed him
almost as one from the dead. The joy of their meeting was scarcely over
when he received orders to proceed to Sundeela and place his valuable
services at the disposal of Brigadier Barker, who was advancing to attack
two rebel chiefs who had shut themselves up within the fortresses of
Birrwa and Rohya. He took an active part in reducing these strongholds,
and in bringing back the Talookdars, or native barons, to submission to
the British rule. It was only when all resistance had ceased that he
returned to his civil duties, and reluctantly exchanged the sword for the
pen. In May, 1859, he returned with his family to England, and published
a brief account of his adventures.
Such a man assuredly deserved the Victoria Cross, which has often
been the reward of isolated acts of bravery. He merited it not only
for acting as a guide to Sir Colin Campbell at Lucknow, but also for
frequently exposing his life to danger in the field. Our readers, then,
will learn with some surprise that, when Lord Canning recommended him
for the Victoria Cross, the Court of Directors refused to forward his
recommendation to the Queen, under the pretence that “he would be
entitled to the medal which they anticipate her Majesty will confer upon
the garrison and relieving army of Lucknow.” They doubtless esteemed
the Victoria Cross too great an honour for a member of the uncovenanted
service. This was a last failure of expiring red-tapeism in the East; for
Kavanagh had soon after the satisfaction of announcing a new _régime_
in the capital of Oude, and of wearing the Victoria Cross on his manly
breast. He was the means of saving 300,000_l._ of public treasure at
Lucknow, and no one will say that he was too liberally rewarded by the
gift of 2000_l._ and the appointment of Assistant-Commissioner in Oude.
In one sense, the doers of deeds like Kavanagh’s can never be adequately
rewarded by gifts or offices: their richest recompense is to be found
in the high esteem of their fellow-men and the grateful remembrance of
posterity.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]