THE STORY OF LUCKNOW.
"You are going to Lucknow?" she said. It was a lady in black, who sat
in the corner of the railway carriage, as we came down from Upper
India. A cloud passed over her face. "I cannot go there; I was in the
Residency during the siege, and my husband and daughter were killed
there. I cannot revisit a place of such sad memories." It was nothing
to her that the long struggle had ended in victory, and that the story
of the siege was one of the most glorious in English history. Nothing
could efface the impression of those months of suffering. She told us
how day and night the storm of fire raged around them; how the women
took refuge in the cellars; how her daughter was killed before her
eyes by the bursting of a shell; and how, when they grew familiar with
this danger, there came another terrible fear--that of death by
famine; how strong men grew weak for want of food; how women wasted
away from very hunger, and children died because they could find no
nourishment on their mother's breasts.
But amid those horrors there was one figure which she loved to
recall--that of Sir Henry Lawrence, the lion-hearted soldier, who kept
up all hearts by his courage and his iron will--till he too fell, and
left them almost in despair.
Such memories might keep away one who had been a sufferer in these
fearful scenes, but they stimulated our desire to see a spot
associated with such courage and devotion, and led us from the scene
of the tragedy of Cawnpore to that of the siege of Lucknow.
But how soon nature washes away the stain of blood! As we crossed the
Ganges, the gentle stream, rippling against the Slaughter Ghat, left
no red spots upon its stony steps. Near the station was a large
enclosure full of elephants, some of which perhaps had carried their
burden of prisoners down to the river's brink on that fatal day, but
were now "taking their ease," as beasts and men like to do. Familiar
as we are with the sight, it always gives us a fresh impression of our
Asiatic surroundings, to come suddenly upon a herd of these creatures
of such enormous bulk, with ears as large as umbrellas, which are kept
moving like punkas to keep off the flies; to see them drawing up water
into their trunks, as "Behemoth drinketh up Jordan," and spurting it
over their backs; or what is more ludicrous still, to see them at
play, which seems entirely out of character. We think of the elephant
as a grave and solemn creature, made to figure on grand occasions, to
march in triumphal processions, carrying the howdahs of great Rajahs,
covered with cloth of gold. But there is as much of "youth" in the
elephant as in any other beast. A baby elephant is like any other
baby. As little tigers play like kittens, so a little elephant is like
a colt, or like "Mary's little lamb."
Lucknow is only forty miles from Cawnpore, with which it is connected
by railway. A vast plain stretches to the gates of the capital of
Oude. It was evening when we reached our destination, where another
American friend, Rev. Mr. Mudge of the Methodist Mission, was waiting
to receive us. A ride of perhaps a couple of miles through the streets
and bazaars gave us some idea of the extent of a city which ranks
among the first in India. Daylight showed us still more of its extent
and its magnificence. It spreads out many miles over the plain, and
has a population of three hundred thousand, while in splendor it is
the first of the native cities of India--by native I mean one not
taking its character, like Calcutta and Bombay, from the English
element. Lucknow is more purely an Indian city, and has more of the
Oriental style in its architecture--its domes and minarets reminding
us of Cairo and Constantinople. Bayard Taylor says: "The coup d'oeil
from one of the bridges over the Goomtee, resembles that of
Constantinople from the bridge over the Golden Horn, and is more
imposing, more picturesque, and more truly Oriental than any other
city in India." It is a Mohammedan city, as much as Delhi, the mosques
quite overshadowing the Hindoo temples; and the Mohurrim, the great
Moslem festival, is observed here with the same fanaticism. But it is
much larger than Delhi, and though no single palaces equal those of
the old Moguls, yet it has more the appearance of a modern capital, in
its busy and crowded streets. It is a great commercial city, with rich
merchants, with artificers in silver and gold and all the fabrics of
the East.
But the interest of Lucknow, derived from the fact of its being one of
the most populous cities of India, and one of the most splendid, is
quite eclipsed by the thrilling events of its recent history. All its
palaces and mosques have not the attraction of one sacred spot. This
is the Residency, the scene of the siege, which will make the name of
Lucknow immortal. How the struggle came, we may see by recalling one
or two facts in the history of India.
A quarter of a century ago, this was not a part of the British
possessions. It was the Kingdom of Oude, with a sovereign who still
lives in a palace near Calcutta, with large revenues wherewith to
indulge his royal pleasure, but without his kingdom, which the English
Government has taken from him. This occurred just before the Mutiny,
and has often been alleged as one of the causes, if not _the_ cause,
of the outbreak; and England has been loudly accused of perfidy and
treachery towards an Indian prince, and of having brought upon
herself the terrible events which followed.
No doubt the English Government has often carried things with a high
hand in India, and done acts which cannot be defended, just as we must
confess that our own Government, in dealing with our Indian tribes,
has sometimes seemed to ignore both justice and mercy. But as to this
king of Oude, his "right" to his dominion (which is, being
interpreted, a right to torture his unhappy subjects) is about the
same as the right of a Bengal tiger to his jungle--a right which holds
good till some daring hunter can put an end to his career.
When this king ruled in Oude he was such a father to his people, and
such was the affection felt for his paternal government, that he had
to collect his taxes by the military, and it is said that the poor
people in the country built their villages on the borders of the
jungle, and kept a watch out for the approach of the soldiers. As soon
as they were signalled as being in sight, the wretched peasants
gathered up whatever they could carry, and fled into the jungle,
preferring to face the wild beasts and the serpents rather than these
mercenaries of a tyrant. The troops came, seized what was left and set
fire to the village. After they were gone, the miserable people
returned and rebuilt their mud hovels, and tried by tilling the soil,
to gain a bare subsistence. Such was the patriarchal government of one
of the native princes of India.
This king of Oude now finds his chief amusement in collecting a great
menagerie. He has a very large number of wild beasts. He has also a
"snakery," in which he has collected all the serpents of India. It
must be confessed that such a man seems more at home among his tigers
and cobras than in oppressing his wretched people. If Americans who
visit his palace near Calcutta are moved to sympathy with this deposed
king, let them remember what his government was, and they may feel a
little pity for his miserable subjects.
To put such a monster off the throne, and thus put an end to his
tyrannies, was about as much of a "crime" as it would be to restrain
the king of Dahomey or of Ashantee from perpetuating his "Grand
Custom." I am out of patience with this mawkish sympathy. There is too
much real misery in the world that calls for pity and relief, to have
us waste our sensibilities on those who are the scourges of mankind.
But once done, the deed could not be undone. Having seized the bull by
the horns, it was necessary to hold him, and this was not an easy
matter. It needed a strong hand, which was given it in Sir Henry
Lawrence, who had been thirty years in India. Hardly had he been made
governor before he felt that there was danger in the air. Neither he
nor his brother John, the Governor of the Punjaub, were taken by
surprise when the Mutiny broke out. Both expected it, and it did not
find them unprepared. Oude was indeed a centre of rebellion. The
partisans of the ex-king were of course very active, so that when the
Sepoys mutinied at Meerut, near Delhi, the whole kingdom of Oude was
in open revolt. Every place was taken except Lucknow, and that was
saved only by the wisdom and promptness of its new governor.
His first work was to fortify the Residency (so called from having
been occupied by the former English residents), which had about as
much of a military character as an old English manor-house. The
grounds covered some acres, on which were scattered a few buildings,
official residences and guardhouses, with open spaces between, laid
out in lawns and gardens. But the quick eye of the governor saw its
capability of defence. It was a small plateau, raised a few feet above
the plain around, and by connecting the different buildings by walls,
which could be mounted with batteries and loopholed for musketry, the
whole could be constructed into a kind of fortress. Into this he
gathered the European residents with their women and children. And
behind such rude defences a few hundred English soldiers, with as many
natives who had proved faithful, kept a large army at bay for six
months.
There was a fort in Lucknow well supplied with guns and ammunition,
but it was defended by only three hundred men, and was a source of
weakness rather than strength, since the English force was too small
to hold it, and if it should fall into the hands of the Sepoys with
all its stores, it would be the arsenal of the rebellion. At Delhi a
similar danger had been averted only by a brave officer blowing up the
arsenal with his own hand. It was a matter of the utmost moment to
destroy the fort and yet to save the soldiers in it. The only hope of
keeping up any defence was to unite the two feeble garrisons. But they
were more than half a mile apart, and each beleaguered by watchful
enemies. Sir Henry Lawrence signalled to the officer in command: "Blow
up the fort, and come to the Residency at twelve o'clock to-night.
Bring your treasure and guns, and destroy the remainder." This
movement could be executed only by the greatest secrecy. But the order
was promptly obeyed. At midnight the little band filed silently out of
the gates, and stole with muffled steps along a retired path, almost
within reach of the guns of the enemies, who discovered the movement
only when they were safe in the Residency, and the fuse which had been
lighted at the fort reached the magazine, and exploding two hundred
and fifty barrels of gunpowder, blew the massive walls into the air.
But the siege was only just begun. Inside the Residency were collected
about two thousand two hundred souls, of whom over five hundred were
women and children. Only about six hundred were English soldiers, and
seven or eight hundred natives who had remained faithful, held to
their allegiance by the personal ascendancy of Sir Henry Lawrence.[7]
There were also some three hundred civilians, who, though unused to
arms, willingly took part in the defence. Thus all together the
garrison did not exceed seventeen hundred men, of whom many were
disabled by sickness and wounds. The force of the besiegers was twenty
to one. There is in the Indian nature a strange mixture of languor and
ferocity, and the latter was aroused by the prospect of vengeance on
the English, who were penned up where they could not escape, and where
their capture was certain; and every Sepoy wished to be in at the
death. Under the attraction of such a prospect it is said that the
besieging force rose to fifty thousand men. Many of the natives, who
had been in the English service, were practised artillerists, and
trained their guns on the slender defences with fatal effect.
Advancing over the level ground, they drew their lines nearer and
nearer, till their riflemen picked off the soldiers serving in the
batteries. Three times they made a breach by exploding mines under the
walls, and endeavored to carry the place by storm. But then rose high
the unconquerable English spirit. They expected to die, but they were
determined to sell their lives dearly. When the alarm of these attacks
reached the hospital, the sick and wounded crawled out of their beds
and threw away their crutches to take their place at the guns; or if
they could not stand, lay down flat on their faces and fired through
the holes made for musketry.
But brave as were the defenders, the long endurance told upon them.
They were worn out with watching, and their ranks grew thinner day by
day. Those who were killed were carried off in the arms of their
companions, who gathered at midnight for their burial in some lonely
and retired spot, and while the chaplain in a low voice read the
service, the survivors stood around the grave, thinking how soon their
turn would come, the gloom of the night in fit harmony with the dark
thoughts that filled their breasts.
But darker than any night was the day when Sir Henry Lawrence fell. He
was the beloved, the adored commander. "While he lived," said our
informant, "we all felt safe." But exposing himself too much, he was
struck by a shell. Those around him lifted him up tenderly and carried
him away to the house of the surgeon of the garrison, where two days
after he died. When all was over "they did not dare to let the
soldiers know that he was dead," lest they should give up the
struggle. But he lived long enough to inspire them with his
unconquerable spirit.
He died on the 4th of July, and for nearly three months the siege went
on without change, the situation becoming every day more desperate. It
was the hottest season of the year, and the sun blazed down fiercely
into their little camp, aggravating the sickness and suffering, till
they longed for death, and were glad when they could find the grave.
"When my daughter was struck down by a fragment of a shell that fell
on the floor, she did not ask to live. She might have been saved if
she had been where she could have had careful nursing. But there was
no proper food to nourish the strength of the sick, and so she sunk
away, feeling that it was better to die than to live."
But still they would not yield to despair. Havelock had taken
Cawnpore, though he came too late to save the English from massacre,
and was straining every nerve to collect a force sufficient to relieve
Lucknow. As soon as he could muster a thousand men he crossed the
Ganges, and began his march. The movement was known to the little
garrison, and kept up their hopes. A faithful native, who acted as a
spy throughout the siege, went to and fro, disguising himself, and
crept through the lines in the night, and got inside the Residency,
and told them relief was coming. "He had seen the general, and said he
was a little man with white hair," who could be no other than
Havelock. Word was sent back that, on approaching the city, rockets
should be sent up to notify the garrison. Night after night officers
and men gazed toward the west for the expected signal, till their
hearts grew sick as the night passed and there was no sign.
Deliverance was to come, but not yet.
Havelock found that he had attempted the impossible. His force was but
a handful, compared with the hosts of his enemies. Even nature
appeared to be against him. It was the hot and rainy season, when it
seemed impossible to march over the plains of India. Cannon had to be
drawn by bullocks over roads and across fields, where they sank deep
in mud. Men had to march and fight now in the broiling sun, and now in
floods of rain. "In the full midday heat of the worst season of the
year, did our troops start. The sun struck down with frightful force.
At every step a man reeled out of the ranks, and threw himself
fainting by the side of the road; the calls for water were incessant
all along the line." "During the interval between the torrents of
rain, the sun's rays were so overpowering that numbers of the men were
smitten down and died." But the survivors closed up their ranks and
kept their face to the foe. Their spirit was magnificent. Death had
lost its terrors for them, and they made light of hardships and
dangers. When fainting with heat, if they found a little dirty water
by the roadside "it was like nectar." After marching all day in the
rain, they would lie down in the soaking mud, and grasp their guns,
and wrap their coats around them, and sleep soundly. Says an officer:
"August 5th we marched toward Lucknow nine miles and then
encamped on a large plain for the night. You must bear in
mind that we had no tents with us, they are not allowed, so
every day we were exposed to the burning sun and to the rain
and dew by night. No baggage or beds were allowed; but the
soldier wrapped his cloak around him, grasped his musket and
went to sleep, and soundly we slept too. My Arab horse
served me as a pillow, I used to lie down alongside of him,
with my head on his neck, and he never moved with me except
now and then to lick my hand." But he adds, "We found that
it was impossible to proceed to Lucknow, for our force was
too small--for though we were a brave little band, and could
fight to Lucknow, yet we could not compel them to raise the
siege when we got there."
Another enemy also had appeared. Cholera had broken out in the camp;
eleven men died in one day. The Rebels too were rising behind them. As
soon as Havelock crossed the Ganges they began to gather in his rear.
Nana Sahib was mustering a force and threatened Cawnpore. Thus beset
behind and before, Havelock turned and marched against the Mahratta
chief, and sent him flying towards Delhi. In reading the account of
these marches and battles, it is delightful to see the spirit between
the commander and his men. After this victory, as he rode along the
lines, they cheered him vehemently. He returned their salute, but
said, "Don't cheer me, my lads, you did it all yourselves." Such men,
fighting together, were invincible.
In September Havelock had collected 2,700 men, and again set out for
Lucknow. Three days they marched "under a deluge of rain." But their
eyes were "steadfastly set" towards the spot where their countrymen
were in peril, and they cared not for hardships and dangers. The
garrison was apprised of their coming, and waited with feverish
anxiety. In the relieving force was a regiment of Highlanders, and if
no crazy woman could put her ears to the ground (according to the
romantic story so often told) and hear the pibroch, and shout "The
Campbells are coming," they knew that those brave Scots never turned
back. As they drew near the city over the Cawnpore road, they found
that it was mined to blow them up. Instantly they wheeled off, and
marched round the city, and came up on the other side. Capturing the
Alumbagh, one of the royal residences, which, surrounded by a wall,
was easily converted into a temporary fortress, Havelock left here his
heavy baggage and stores of ammunition, with an immense array of
elephants and camels and horses; and all his sick and wounded, and the
whole train of camp-followers; and three hundred men, with four guns
to defend it. Thus "stripped for the fight," he began his attack on
the city. It was two miles to the Residency, and every step the
English had to fight their way through the streets. The battle began
in the morning, and lasted all day. It was a desperate attempt to
force their way through a great city, where every man was an enemy,
and they were fired at from almost every house. "Our advance was
through streets of flat-roofed and loop-holed houses, each forming a
separate fortress." Our informant told us of the frenzy in the
Residency when they heard the sound of the guns. "The Campbells were
coming" indeed! Sometimes the firing lulled, and it seemed as if they
were driven back. Then it rose again, and came nearer and nearer. How
the tide of battle ebbed and flowed, is well told in the narratives of
those who were actors in the scenes:
"Throughout the night of the 24th great agitation and alarm
had prevailed in the city; and, as morning advanced,
increased and rapid movements of men and horses, gave
evidence of the excited state of the rebel force. At noon,
increasing noise proclaimed that street fighting was growing
more fierce in the distance; but from the Residency nought
but the smoke from the fire of the combatants could be
discerned. As the afternoon advanced, the sounds came nearer
and nearer, and then we heard the sharp crack of rifles
mingled with the flash of musketry; the well-known uniforms
of British soldiers were next discerned."
A lady who was in the Residency, and has written a Diary of the Siege,
thus describes the coming in of the English troops:
"Never shall I forget the moment to the latest day I live.
We had no idea they were so near, and were breathing the air
in the portico as usual at that hour, speculating when they
might be in; when suddenly just at dusk, we heard a very
sharp fire of musketry close by, and then a tremendous
cheering. An instant after, the sound of bagpipes--then
soldiers running up the road--our compound and veranda
filled with our deliverers, and all of us shaking hands
frantically, and exchanging fervent 'God bless you's' with
the gallant men and officers of the 78th Highlanders. Sir
James Outram and staff were the next to come in, and the
state of joyful confusion and excitement was beyond all
description. The big, rough-bearded soldiers were seizing
the little children out of our arms, kissing them, with
tears rolling down their cheeks, and thanking God they had
come in time to save them from the fate of those at
Cawnpore. We were all rushing about to give the poor fellows
drinks of water, for they were perfectly exhausted; and tea
was made down in the Tye-khana, of which a large party of
tired, thirsty officers partook, without milk or sugar. We
had nothing to give them to eat. Every one's tongue seemed
going at once with so much to ask and to tell; and the faces
of utter strangers beamed upon each other like those of
dearest friends and brothers."
It was indeed a great deliverance, but the danger was not over. Of all
that were in the Residency when the siege began, three months before,
more than half were gone. Out of twenty-two hundred but nine hundred
were left, and of these less than one-half were fighting men. Even
with the reinforcement of Havelock the garrison was still far too
small to hold such a position in the midst of a city of such a
population. The siege went on for two months longer. The final relief
did not come till Sir Colin Campbell, arriving with a larger force,
again fought his way through the city. The atrocities of the Sepoys
had produced such a feeling that he could hardly restrain his
soldiers. Remembering the murders and massacres of their countrymen
and countrywomen, they fought with a savage fury. In one walled
enclosure, which they carried by storm, were two thousand Sepoys, and
they killed every man!
Even then the work was not completed. Scarcely had Sir Colin Campbell
entered the Residency before he decided upon its evacuation. Again the
movement was executed at midnight, in silence and in darkness. While
the watch-fires were kept burning to deceive the enemy, the men filed
out of the gates, with the women and children in the centre of the
column, and moving softly and quickly through a narrow lane, in the
morning they were several miles from the city, in a strong position,
which made them safe from attack.
The joy of this hour of deliverance was saddened by the death of
Havelock. He had passed through all the dangers of battle and siege,
only to die at last of disease, brought on by the hardships and
exposures of the last few months. But his work was done. He had
nothing to do but to die. To his friend, Sir James Outram, who came to
see him, he stretched out his hand and said: "For more than forty
years I have so ruled my life, that when death came, I might face it
without fear."
The garrison was saved, but the city was still in the hands of the
Rebels, who were as defiant as ever. It was some months before Sir
Colin Campbell gathered forces sufficient for the final and crushing
blow. Indeed it was not till winter that he had collected a really
formidable army. Then he moved on the city in force and carried it by
storm. Two days of terrible fighting gave him the mastery of Lucknow,
and the British flag was once more raised over the capital of Oude,
where it has floated in triumph unto this day.
But the chief interest gathers about the earlier defence. The siege of
Lucknow is one of the most thrilling events in modern history, and may
well be remembered with pride by all who took part in it. A few weeks
before we were here the Prince of Wales had made his visit to Lucknow,
and requested that the survivors of the siege might be presented to
him. Mr. Mudge was present at the interview, and told me he had never
witnessed a more affecting scene than when these brave old soldiers,
the wrecks of the war, some of them bearing the marks of their wounds,
came up to the Prince, and received his warmest thanks for their
courage and fidelity.
These heroic memories were fresh in mind as we took our morning walk
in Lucknow, along the very street by which Havelock had fought his way
through the city. The Residency is now a ruin, its walls shattered by
shot and shell. But the ruins are overrun with vines and creeping
plants, and are beautiful even in their decay. With sad interest we
visited the spot where Sir Henry Lawrence was struck by the fatal
shell, and the cemetery in which he is buried. He was a Christian
soldier and before his death received the communion. He asked that no
eulogy might be written on his tomb, but only these words: "Here lies
Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty. May God have mercy on his
soul." This dying utterance is inscribed on the plain slab of marble
that covers his dust. It is enough. No epitaph could say more. As I
stood there and read these simple words and thought of the noble dead,
my eyes were full of tears. With such a consciousness of duty done,
who could fear to die? How well do these words express that which
should be the highest end of human ambition. Happy will it be for any
man of whom, when he has passed from the world, it can with truth be
written above his grave, "Here lies one who tried to do his duty!"
FOOTNOTE:
[7] As the historian of the mutiny has frequent occasion to speak of
the treachery of the Sepoys, it should not be forgotten that to this
there were splendid exceptions; that some were "found faithful among
the faithless." Even in the regiments that mutinied there were some
who were not carried away by the general madness; and, when the little
remnant of English soldiers retreated into the Residency, these loyal
natives went with them, and shared all the dangers and hardships of
the siege. Even after it was begun, they were exposed to every
temptation to seduce them from their allegiance; for as the lines of
the besiegers drew closer to the Residency and hemmed it in on every
side, the assailants were so near that they could talk with those
within over the palisades of the intrenchments, and the Sepoys
appealed to their late fellow-soldiers by threats, and taunts, and
promises; by pride of race and of caste; by their love of country and
of their religion, to betray the garrison. But not a man deserted his
post. Hundreds were killed in the siege, and their blood mingled with
that of their English companions-in-arms. History does not record a
more noble instance of fidelity.