THE SCENES OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.
_Thursday, January 22nd._--Lucknow has been given by the natives the
pretty name of the "City of Roses."
It is needless to say that on this our first morning in Lucknow, our
steps were naturally directed to the Residency, before whose grand and
grim remembrances the gimcrack beauty of the palaces, the mosques, and
the tombs, pale into uninteresting insignificance.
A bright, chill October morning it was, and I say October because,
added to the keenness of the air, the leafless and withered branches of
the trees gave to Lucknow an autumnal look. The terrific storm of hail
which passed over the city fourteen days ago, and which during its five
minutes' visitation played such havoc amongst the trees, has stripped and
left them leafless.
[Illustration: The Residency, Lucknow.]
The Residency is not in the least disappointing. It is like what we
should imagine and picture to ourselves. An unimposing gateway, flanked
by two turret towers, with broken walls and ditches. Nothing grand
or striking about it, for it was only a fortified barrack; but the
surrounding walls and buildings riddled with shot, and showing large
cavities where a shell has burst, tell its simple but awful tale of
bitter suffering. Here for five long months a little band of 1800 heroic
Englishmen, with 400 or 500 faithful sepoys, defended themselves bravely,
starvation staring them in the face, looking day by day for the relief
which so tardily came. So closely invested were they by the ferocious
hordes of rebels, that the sepoys within were taunted by the rebels
without the entrenchment. Morning after morning the enemy's battery
opened fire, weakening day by day their feeble defences, attacking
first one position and then another, always repulsed, but always with
some ill-spared loss to the small body of defenders. The Residency ruins
extend for a mile and a half, and looking round now at the low walls,
in no part more than four feet high, and the shallow trenches, it seems
well-nigh impossible how the defenders kept at bay the rebels so long as
they did. Everything is left as far as possible as it was at the time
of "the Relief." At the suggestion of the Prince of Wales, tablets have
been let into the walls, and posts erected at all the famous points
of defence. We trace thus the position of each regiment, and even the
rooms in the several houses in the Residency enclosure, occupied by the
officers' wives before the siege.
Grand as the study of the general outline is--of each spot memorable for
some gallant defence--of one more life from the heroic little band laid
down--the intensity of interest concentrates in certain spots: such as
Dr. Fayrer's House, where Sir Henry Lawrence was brought after his leg
was fractured by a bullet, and the four walls are shown (for the roof
and floor are gone) of the room where he died. Also the room where the
walls, battered with shot, fell in, burying some soldiers of the 32nd;
the underground apartments where the women and children were kept for
safety, and where so many of them died from privation and disease. In
another room we saw the hole made by a shell, which entered the window
and exploded against the opposite wall, killing an officer's wife on the
spot from the shock and fright. Then there is the world-renowned Baillie
Guard Gate, the scene of the deadliest repulses and corresponding deeds
of courage.
The flagstaff on the tower of the Residency is the same as was there
during the siege. Broken in half by a bullet one day, it was riveted
together as we now see it. The flag was kept flying during the whole
of those five months. Every Sunday it is now raised again. Adjoining
the tower we see the ruins of the cook-house and the well, which was
accessible during the siege by a covered way. In the centre of this
quadrangle, on a raised mound, stands the exceedingly beautiful Greek
cross, erected to the memory of Sir Henry Lawrence and his comrades in
arms who fell.
All praise is due, we think, to Lord Northbrook, for having during his
viceroyalty added to the monuments which are erected to our soldiers,
who only died doing their duty, by presenting an obelisk to the memory
of the sepoys who, amid the general rise of their countrymen, remained
faithful to the British. The inscriptions on the four sides are in
English, Hindustani, Persian, and Oudhee. Another cross has been erected
to the memory of the 93rd Highlanders, giving the names and the different
entrenchments where their men fell, and engraved with the crests of the
regiment--an elephant and a stag.
The grey building, broken and unroofed, where all is so quiet and neat,
is soothing after the terrible tale of hardship and bloodshed we have
just been tracing out amongst its walls.
The masses of begonia hanging from the tower, the lawns and gardens, the
gravel paths, would efface such memories, but yet the ghastly reminders
always remain in those riddled walls, those sudden gaps, where the masses
of masonry have been torn away by shot and shell. It is as well perhaps
for them to remain--to warn us of the blood already shed to retain our
hold on our Indian empire. It is as well that they should remain, to
tell us to ask ourselves, should occasion in the future arise, "Shall
we pour out the blood of the nation again to keep that which we have
unflinchingly gotten?"
We were more than charmed with the Residency. The complex memories which
it leaves with us will linger harmoniously for many a day. It is one of
the things which has interested and pleased us most in all our travels.
Passing along the road where the mutineers first gathered in force, and
showed a spirit of hostility, we see the iron bridge where their quarters
were.
Two unfinished works of Muhammed Ali Shah are before us. One is the Watch
Tower or Sut Khunda, of which only four stories of the seven projected
were finished. It stands there rotting away, a monument to the finger of
death, which respects not the designs or intentions of man. The other is
the "musjid" or mosque, intended to surpass the famous Jumna Musjid of
Delhi, and which also remains incomplete, the scaffolding rotting away,
as it was left eighteen years ago at the time of the Shah's death.
Muhammed Ali Shah at length succeeded in accomplishing a finished work
in the Husainabad, but, as will be seen, one can hardly say, after all
his endeavours, that his name will be handed worthily down to posterity.
Entering under a gateway, we are met by the stone figures of two women,
holding the chains hanging from the archway, and which is gaudily
decorated with green fishes and dolphins against a yellow ground. We find
ourselves in a pretty court with a garden crowded with a great variety of
buildings; among others a bad model of the Taj, a very terrible object
for those who are still looking forward to see the beauties of that
matchless tomb for the first time. The tank in the centre is guarded
at intervals with painted wooden figures. There are centaur women,
soldiers in uniform, like the Highlanders of tobacco shops, and maidens
representative of the figure-heads of barges. At the further end of the
garden is the palace, containing a wonderful collection of rubbish. There
are glass chandeliers swathed in linen covers and priced at 6000 rupees,
models of pagodas and temples in ivory and wood under glass cases. A
bottle containing a carved figure, suggesting the riddle how it ever
got inside, is shown as a priceless treasure. There are gilded thrones
and chairs, and the temple modelled entirely in coloured wax, which is
carried in procession at the festival of Muhurrum and destroyed yearly.
[Illustration: The Imambara, Lucknow.
Page 291.]
In the midst of these tawdry and gilded surroundings sleep Muhammed
Ali and his mother, under their canopied tombs, surrounded by gilded
railings. Disgusted with this incongruous mass we passed into another
small building. Here we see a collection of full-length portraits of many
kings of Oude--bright, realistic paintings, in each of which the artist
has flattered the oriental vanity of his subject by painting him as large
and as blazoned as possible.
Opposite the Husainabad stands the Musa Bagh, or the "Tomb of the Rat."
Two curious origins are attributed to it. One says that the Nawab
Asaf-ud-Daulah, when out riding one day, crushed a rat under his horse's
feet, and erected this tomb over it; the other says that it was built by
a Frenchman, whose name is lost to posterity, but which tradition tries
to preserve in the Musa, or corruption of monsieur!
After this we looked into the Jumna Mosque, and I experienced the feeling
of disappointment which I suppose nearly every one does on entering a
mosque for the first time. The interior is so utterly bare, so cold
and uninteresting. I expected to see rich drapings and hanging lights,
instead of the bare marble pavement, with the kibla as the only sign of
the worship performed there. I admired, however, the delicate triangle
device in blue and green, traced on the inside of the three domes, the
unfailing characteristic of all mosques.
And then we went to that gem of architecture, the great Imambara.
Few things exceed in beauty, in the conception of the design and in
execution, the great prize springing from the competition offered by
Asaf-ud-Daulah. The result has been prodigious in the perfection of
delicacy. It is as if the imagination of all the great architects of
our generation had united together, and each contributing his own idea
formed the perfect whole. It is almost impossible to believe that from
the brain of one man could have emanated such a multitude of fanciful
styles of architecture. I speak of the delicate arches crowning the
massive walls, and which, open to the daylight, trace their delicate
proportions against the blue sky; of the row upon row of tiny domes that
crown each arch, while these again, repeated in tiers above and below
each other, line the three sides of the quadrangle. And again, the walls
which support these airy structures are a study in themselves, replete
with carving and coloured with pale tints of cream or pink.
The Imambara forms one immense square. Entering under a gateway you find
yourself in a court, paved and vast. On this archway we see the green
fishes and dolphins, the never-wanting emblem of good luck on all these
ancient buildings, and without which the superstitious Oriental would
hardly care to continue the work. Three sides of the square are parallel
and at right angles to each other, but the fourth is cut slanting-wise
by the mosque with its gilded dome, from whence spring those slender
minarets, the pride and landmarks of the city. They also add their
graceful proportions to perfect the whole. Facing us there is another of
those beautiful Saracenic rows of arches, and we think we see the whole.
But no, there is yet another court within this court, and this gateway,
through which we gain access to it, was used by the harem. Passing
through, we come to the last grand conception. Standing on a marble
platform, the beauty of the frontage is seen to its greatest advantage.
We look wonderingly at the labour expended upon the carvings of the
twisted pilasters, the open fretwork of the little galleries, and the
coping-stones that crown the turrets. If executed in a model miniature,
the fretwork and carving would be delicate enough to form one of those
Chinese toy-houses in ivory carving. And yet all this is worked in
concrete, for there is no wood used in the construction of the Imambara.
The interior is as grand, One stupendous regal hall, divided by arches
on either side to break the otherwise oppressive size. White, vast, and
void. White, for the walls are painted a dead, uninterrupted white, and
the arched roof is the same, save where delicate lines trace out the
successive niches in the form of millions of domes; vast, for the hall
measures 300 feet from end to end; void, for the walls are totally
without decoration, and stand out to add to the vagueness by their
blankness and flatness. There are no mural obstructions, no projections
(save those ugly red boxes); but stay--not quite empty. Two objects are
in the centre, almost lost amidst the oppressive vastness. Standing
slantwise across the hall is a silken canopy, suspended over a silver
railed enclosure. It is the tomb of the Vizier Nawab, and the plain slab
is covered with a gorgeous pall with flowers laid on it. It is rather
gaudy, but yet it strikes one as strange and solemn, such a grand spot as
a last resting-place amid such intense silence.
Not far from this is the execrable, the tormenting spectacle of a tazia,
a tower literally manufactured out of paste-board and coloured paper,
of tinsel and ribbons,--the tazia of the last Muhurrum. This Muhurrum
is a religious festival commencing on the evening of the new moon in
January, and lasting for ten days. It is observed by only one sect of
the Mahommedans. On the last day of the festival the tazia is taken and
burnt in the streets, a new one being supplied ready for the following
year, The Muhurrum may truly be considered a great evil to Lucknow. The
beauty of its palaces and tombs are destroyed by the coloured lamps
and glass chandeliers hung there for use during the Festival, whilst
gateways and archways are disfigured by the masses of nails left after
the illuminations.
In one of the galleries of the hall there is a "priest's chair" of
ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. But the so-called chair is merely a
succession of steps, with a wider one for a seat at the top. The little
balconies, or red boxes as they look, hung out from the roof, form a
dreadful mareye to the grand beauty. They connect with a gallery running
round the hall, and are pointed out as the favourite place in which the
Begums played hide and seek.
A fit ending to the grand simplicity of the hall is the octagonal room at
the farthest end. Here the moulded archings find a common centre under
the apex of the dome, and spread themselves out in a fanlike shape to
the floor. This building was commenced in a time of famine, and work was
carried on at night to enable the higher class to labour without being
seen or known.
We were so delighted with the Imambara that we allowed ourselves the
luxury (seldom possible) of a second visit to it. This time it was in
the afternoon, and it looked cold and somewhat gloomy in the falling
light and shadows. Some priests were sitting around the tomb of the
vizier chanting in their musical monotonous tones verses out of the
Koran. As one finished the other took up the theme, and the different
tones, some shriller, others richer, yet all reciting on one note,
repeated by the echo were very effective. I carried away with me a deeper
and yet more pleasing impression of the Imambara.
In fit proximity, and so near as to mingle its beauty with that of
the Imambara, is the Rûmî Darwaza, or Turkish gate. In fact, from the
precincts of the courts the gate is seen rising so immediately behind,
and between the minars of the mosque as to appear to form part of it. An
imitation of acanthus-leaves, which radiate above the line of the wall,
is the curious feature of this gateway. It is flanked by four minarets,
and ornamented balustrades projecting outwardly from several tiers. The
whole is crowned by a miniature temple with pillars and dome, and around
this the leaves strike out in spikes, forming a halo about the summit, or
looking like the shafts of a rose window without the circle.
The red-brick clock-tower erected as a memorial to Sir George Cooper is
a veritable eyesore, lying as it does in the midst of these monuments of
antiquity.
In the afternoon we drove out to the Dilkusha, a hunting residence and
park belonging formerly to Saadut Ali Khán, and called by him "Heart's
Delight." It is now a ruin standing in a quiet garden, but was the
scene of a terrible struggle in the Mutiny between the forces of Sir
Colin Campbell and the rebels. He was advancing to the relief of the
Residency, and the rebels made a desperate stand here. Later on it was
the death-place of Sir Henry Havelock as the forces were retreating to
Alum Bagh. There are the tombs of two officers amongst the ruins.
We drove on to the Martinière, or the Mansion of Constantin. It is a
school for Europeans and Eurasians, founded by Martin, a French soldier
who came over with Count Lally to one of the French settlements. A
magnificent and very peculiar building. No one could possibly suppose
it had been built for the present purpose, but it was the private
residence of Martin himself. First of all, in the centre of a lake,
which is supplied from a canal from the neighbouring River Goomptie,
rises the enormous fluted column, which from the distance one imagines
to be part of the building. The whole design of the college is as
fantastic as possible. On all sides Corinthian columns, plain or fluted,
little towers with crenelated tops, and a mass of kiosks meet the eye.
Lions rampant are mounted on the battlements, whilst curious gargoyles
protrude from every corner. From story to story we have the rise of the
central tower, each platform being marked by the octagonal towers at
the corners, and the winding flight of stairs. The dome which crowns
the top is formed by the "intersection of two semicircular arches built
up with steps and balustrades, which look not unlike arcs boutant or
flying buttresses." Each story seems to reproduce some different style of
florid architecture, whether it be Corinthian, or Tuscan, or Gothic. The
whole stands on a large platform, and the two wings are built back in a
semicircular form, either end being on a level with the central building.
The bell was tolling for afternoon prayers in the chapel, and we joined
the boys and choristers who were trooping in. The rich stained-glass
window at the east end, which I admired so much, I was told afterwards
was only diaphanous paper! Then we went to see the marble bust of General
Martin, which stands in the vestibule. It represents a small, wizened
face, with the _queue_ and silk bow of the eighteenth century. In the
vault below we were shown his tomb, and the large bell he had cast; but
it is very uncertain whether the handsome sarcophagus really contains his
bones, as the tomb was opened at the time of the Mutiny, and the four
soldiers in mourning attitudes guarding the tomb, and made of brick, were
then destroyed. Upstairs we went through floor upon floor of dormitories,
the monotonous row of red quilts, peculiar to such institutions,
contrasting strangely with the very beautiful Moorish decoration in
pale green and pink on the ceilings. There are about 250 boys here, of
all ages up to twenty-three. Principals and masters are English. It is
a very rich institution, as the sum left by General Martin has always
been in excess of the wants of the college, and an accumulated surplus
of a million is now in the hands of the trustees. The Martinière forms
a village in itself, as we saw when we came away, with its outlying mud
settlement where the servants live, the mighty range of bath-rooms, and
the gymnasium. It is surrounded by the Martinière Park, where, by the
roadside, is the stone tomb of Major Hodson of "Hodson's Horse."
After this we explored Wingfield Park, a most dreary place of recreation,
and then went to the bazaar to buy some of the little wooden figures, so
carefully and correctly carved, that show the costumes of the different
native servants; the dhobie with his bundle of linen, the bheestie
with his goat-skin, the ayah, the khitmutgar, &c. They are quite a
_specialité_ of Lucknow.
On returning home we found a kind invitation to dinner from the
Commissioner, Mr. Quinn, for that evening; but we were destined not to
avail ourselves of it without first experiencing a little adventure. We
were driving along in our gharry in the dark with the shutters (viz.
windows) closed to avoid the raw fog, when we were thrown suddenly
forward, with a terrible shock, and came to a dead stop. We thumped at
the door (which of course under the circumstances stuck fast, and kept us
imprisoned in pitch darkness), and scrambled out at length on to the road
to behold a sad sight. Our driver lay on the ground groaning, thrown some
yards away by the force of the concussion; the two horses formed a medley
of legs turned uppermost, and lay as still as if they were killed; the
forepart of the gharry was stove in. The trunk of a tree, the remains of
the storm, lay partially across the road, and against this the horses had
come in full force. We were in a difficult strait. It was quite dark, we
were on an unknown road, and, worst of all, unable to speak the language.
Fortunately we heard some natives coming, and one of them, a baboo,
speaking a few words of English, hurried on with me to show the way to
the bungalow (which happily was quite close), and from whence I sent back
relief to C., who kept guard over the injured party. It was found that
the driver recovered quickly on the presentation of some rupees, and the
horses were disentangled and got up, much cut about the knees.
_Friday, January 23rd._--We are terribly startled and disturbed by the
news in this morning's _Pioneer_, which tells of the battle of Abu Klea,
in the Soudan, as my brother-in-law (Col. Hon. George Gough), commanding
the Mounted Infantry, was, we see, engaged in it.[6] We set to work at
a second day's sight-seeing therefore with heavy hearts and distracted
minds. It may have been this which made the places we saw to-day less
interesting than those of yesterday.
Najaf Ashraf contains the tomb of the first King of Oude. You pass
under a gateway bright with yellow ochre, and which has depicted on it
two brown monsters with their paws meeting over the arch. This leads
to a "square" building with a "round" dome. Inside you behold a sea of
chandeliers swathed in Turkey twill bags (literally), with green and
red and blue globes hanging from the ceiling, all remains of the last
Mohurrum. The king and his wife are buried in the centre, in the midst of
the usual decorations of gilt railings, of canopies with silver fringes,
and beautifully embroidered silk palls; but hanging on the walls at
the entrance are some very curious frames containing a collection of
miniatures of the Kings of Oude, with another set of their wives. The
flowers and birds of these frames are exquisitely represented, and the
portraits themselves are very perfect, with the different expressions,
the jewels and the ornaments very delicately delineated. We felt obliged
to go and see Secunder Bagh, for though it is only a small enclosure with
high walls, broken in places, every inch of this spot must have been
saturated with blood, when the 2000 rebel Sepoys were slaughtered to a
man by the 93rd Highlanders and 53rd Foot, a terrible retribution for the
fire with which they had been harassing us previously. Its original use,
as a garden given by the Nawab Wajid Ali to a favourite wife, was very
different from the slaughter-house it is now known as.
On the banks of the muddy Goomptie are the Chuttur Munzil and the
Kaisur Pusund. The former is used as a club, and the latter as the High
Court of Justice. Both buildings are remarkable from the little gilt
umbrellas, or "chutturs," which surmount the various towers, and which
make them easily known from the mass of other buildings. The club was
originally a seraglio. It has a pretty exterior, with a carved belt of
stone, painted red to contrast with the prevailing whiteness; and the
magnificent banqueting-hall inside, hung with numerous chandeliers, must
be particularly appropriate to its present use, however wrong that "use"
was in the first instance. On the opposite side of the road is Lall
Baradaree, or the Museum, whose verandah is supported by the figures
of negroes standing with arms folded, and bearing the pillars on their
heads. It is painted bright red both inside and out. It used to be the
throne-room, where was held the durbar when the president enthroned a
new king. Now it is full of glass cases containing rubbish, and only
interesting from the large model of the Siege of the Residency, the red
and green flags showing in what close proximity the armies were.
The Kaiser Bagh is a very marvellous collection of buildings. Standing in
their midst, in the court, whether it be the medley of architecture, or
the crudeness of the yellow-ochre walls, relieved with pink, and mingling
with the green lines of the venetian shutters, the effect is startling.
We see in these two-storied buildings, Italian windows between Corinthian
pillars, and these surmounted by Saracenic arcades, or irregular openings
of no style whatever.
The Chandiwalli Baradaree, a stone building in the centre, is used now
as a town hall or concert-room (I notice that the residents of Lucknow
have a very practical idea of turning these ancient buildings, the glory
of the city, to their own uses). There is the Jilokhana, or place where
the royal processions used to start from; the Cheeni Bagh, so called
because of the China vases that used to decorate it; and the Hazrat Bagh,
guarded by green mermaids. Farther on there are the buildings built by
the royal barber, and sold by him to the king for his harem. It was here
the rebel Begum held her court, and kept our prisoners confined in a
stable near by. Yet further still there is the tree, with the roots paved
with marble, where Shah Wajid Ali, clothed in the yellow rags of a fakir
(beggar), sat during the great fair. It was the chief work of the present
ex-king of Oude. We finished up our morning by a visit to the chowk.
Driving there we passed the "House of the Sun" (now the Martinière Girls'
School), and which is interesting just now, because at the time of the
Mutiny it was captured from the rebels "by a company of the 90th, under
Captain (now Lord) Wolseley," with some other troops.
In the afternoon we revisited the Residency and the Imambara. Returning
from the latter we stopped to watch a band of prisoners at work on a new
railway embankment, in charge of their orange clad gaolers. They were all
heavily chained, and whilst carrying the earth to and fro in baskets and
throwing it down at the feet of the overseer, we could not help thinking
that the gaolers were unnecessarily harsh, the use of the switch in
their hands too frequent, with the often-repeated "chillau." We waited
to see them marched away from their work, hand in hand, the road being
previously kept clear of the friends who were waiting to catch a glimpse
of them at a distance. Some of the men were very old and tired, whilst
others only walked with great difficulty, on account of the tightness of
their chains.
We drove through the lines of the Cantonment, the military and civil,
with their rows of bungalows, all with that untidy and temporary look
which characterizes the bungalow. It is very strange, when driving up to
one to call, to draw up opposite the drawing-room window in the verandah.
Indian society under these circumstances gives you no opportunity for
the polite untruth of "not at home." Many of the bungalows we went into
in the course of our Indian travels were very pretty with their bright
foulquaries and striped purdahs, but I can never grow accustomed to the
lazy necessity of ground-floor bedrooms, opening to and separated from
the drawing-room only by a curtain. Of course there are all manner of
appliances against the heat--a punkah, pulled day and night by relays
of "wallahs;" shutter-doors and windows, to keep the rooms dark and yet
cool; chicks, or fine wooden venetian blinds; and "tatties" placed in
windows and doorways. These latter are formed of the root of a grass,
and, kept constantly moist, freshen the air which passes through them
into the room. It is also strange, when you wish to buy anything, to be
driven by an avenue up to a bungalow--the shop.
We called on General Dillon, who is at present commanding the division
here, and then driving down "the Mall," the inevitable accompaniment to
"the lines," we listened to the band playing till the malarious mist
drove us home. We noticed the church of Christchurch, whose pinnacles
were being repaired after the damage done them by the storm as we came
home, and the more humble structure of the American Presbyterian Mission
Church.
It is said that these missions do far more good than the S.P.G. or C.M.S.
Societies of the Church of England, on account of the divisions of High
and Low Church of the latter, for the natives come and ask if they are of
different religions.
C. went to see Lord Randolph Churchill, who arrived in Lucknow early
this morning, and who is having a splendid reception from Europeans and
natives wherever he goes. Every spot in and about Lucknow is marked by
reminiscences of the Mutiny, some position of the enemy snatched from
them by our troops, some palace or garden more hotly disputed; but
you need to be an enthusiastic tactician to thoroughly appreciate the
interest which attaches to Lucknow, the city and centre of the scenes of
the Mutiny.
_Saturday, January 24th._--Getting up this morning at 6 a.m., and
dressing by the modest light of one candle, was a miserable struggle. The
extreme changes of temperature which one is subjected to during one day's
travelling in India is very trying. From the intense cold of the early
start we warm into life at 10 a.m., and by noon are suffering from the
heat. At sundown the chill creeps on again, and by night the bitter cold
returns, Through the day we are alternating from ulster to dust-cloak,
and returning at last to the warmth of our morning friend.
We had reached the second state of temperature by the time we arrived
at Cawnpore, where we were to spend the day. The Railway Hotel, kept
by Mr. Lee, is atrociously bad, and certainly ought not to be taken
as a fair specimen of a Dâk Bungalow, as usually, and especially when
under Government management, they are excellent. The Dâk Bungalow is an
important feature in Indian travelling. Maintained by the Government, a
fixed charge is made, and the traveller enters in a book the sum paid,
with date of departure and arrival. He is only entitled to shelter for
forty-eight hours, in accordance with the postal rules. A miserable
breakfast determined us to take refuge at the station for dinner. We had
a pleasant rest of some hours sitting reading in the verandah, before
starting.
Cawnpore may be described as a dreary plain, across which in dotted lines
run the cantonment barracks, whilst clouds of dust trace the numerous
roads which intersect it in all directions. A single bullock-cart raises
for the moment an impenetrable wall of sand.
The Memorial Church of All Souls stands out conspicuously amongst
a cluster of trees on the plain. It is of red brick, faced with
white stone, and looks like a handsome village church. The inside is
disappointing. The mural tablets to those who fell during the Mutiny
cover the walls, the only fine one in marble being that erected to the
Engineers. One cannot help wishing that instead of the usual ugly white
tablet in the form of a tomb or urn bordered with black, some great, some
beautiful monument had been designed with a grand inscription, like the
one we were to see presently in the garden. The black dome of the chancel
is somewhat curious, being intended to represent the heavens, with the
constellations in gold. Fourteen memorial tablets form the semicircle of
the chancel, giving the name of each and every one who died during the
siege. The inscription opens as follows:--
"To the glory of God: and in memory of more than 1000 Christian people
who met their deaths hard by between the 6th June and the 15th July,
1857."
By the side of the church there is a flat slab, paved round with blue
and white marble, with the inscription in raised letters, arranged so as
to form a cross. Here Major Vibart with seventy officers and soldiers
are buried, who, after escaping from the massacre, were recaptured and
murdered. We were now within Wheeler's Entrenchment, the small enclosure,
protected only by a mud wall of four feet high, hastily thrown up, and
where the besieged maintained themselves for twenty-one days. We could
trace the entrenchment exactly by means of the small posts set up, with
"W. E." on them. Then we came to another monument, built on the site
where St. John's Church stood at the time of the siege. Here seventy-five
Eurasians and natives, with their families, had taken refuge after the
evacuation of the entrenchment, and were murdered to a man by order of
Nana Sahib. Our interest is still further deepened when we see the stone
well, riddled with shot, yet used, where the oxen still toil up and down
the inclined causeway. It lies just outside the entrenchment, and was the
only water the besieged could obtain. Every drop was fetched at the risk
of life, with shots dropping at random over the open space that had to be
traversed.
Next we go some distance away to the well, where an awful memory still
clings of the midnight parties bringing each night the bodies of victims
who had died of cholera, heat, apoplexy, small-pox, or wounds during the
day. They were thrown into the well as the only means of safe disposal
for the survivors; and Captain Jenkins, who still held the bungalow
commanding the position, kept up a covering fire for these parties. The
spot is now made into a garden, and marked by a Byzantine cross, with
this inscription:--"Under this cross were laid, by the hands of their
fellows in suffering, the bodies of those men, women, and children, who
died near by during the heroic defence of Wheeler's Entrenchment, when
beleaguered by the rebel Nana, June 6th to 27th, A.D. 1857." And on the
pedestal of the cross,--"'Our bones are scattered at the grave's mouth,
as when one cutteth and cleaveth wood upon the earth; but our eyes are
unto thee, O God the Lord.'--Psalm cxli." Four smaller crosses at the
corners give the names of the officers and the men of their regiments
whose bodies were thrown into the well. Captain Jenkins is one of them,
and it is told how Private Murphy was the only individual of the C
company of the 84th Regiment who escaped.
Then we drove about a mile away to the deep ravine called the Suttee
Chowra Ghât. Here were the very steps, shaded by the same peepul-tree,
where the men, women, and children went down on their way to embark from
the ghât on the river. They had surrendered to Nana Sahib, as will be
remembered, on the condition of being transported in boats up the Ganges
to Allahabad. The women and children had embarked in the open boats, and
been pushed into the middle of the stream. The stone platform flanked by
two archways was crowded with others. There was a cry of "Treachery!"
and the soldiers of Nana Sahib, acting under his orders, opened fire.
Volley after volley was fired upon the helpless occupants of each boat;
a hidden battery of guns behind a tree being brought to bear upon those
on the landing-stage. It became a wholesale butchery. The women and
children who were captured and not massacred were taken that night to the
Assembly Rooms. Here atrocities were committed such as even the page of
history cannot detail, until a century has passed, and the victims and
their near relations shall be laid to rest; some cannot ever be mentioned
in the ears of ladies, but the world learnt then, if it never learnt
before, what our sex can endure. One lady killed the native with his own
sword, when he attempted, with Nana's permission, to take her away to his
house. Thus they remained for upwards of a fortnight, when, at Havelock's
approach, Nana Sahib ordered a general massacre at the Assembly Rooms,
the "House of Massacre" as it came to be called. The natives would not
hold the Europeans whilst their throats were cut, because it was against
their caste, and then Nana ordered his officers to get men to cut or
fire them down. One hundred were told off for the men, one hundred for
the women. After incessant firing for several hours, whether on purpose
or not was never known, only two were found to have been killed. At last
Nana found five butchers, belonging to the Bhowrie, or lowest caste of
all, who undertook the bloody slaughter. For five hours, from five till
ten in the morning, they cut and slashed, till few were left. The bodies
were cast into a well. This well became so full that, the water causing
the bodies to swell, many rose above the surface, when branches of trees
were laid across to keep them under.
It is on this awful spot that the most perfect monument, full of beauty
and peace, has been so fitly erected.
In the centre of the memorial garden stands the lovely statue of
Marochetti. It is a white marble figure, draped, with head downcast
and eyes full of tender sorrow. The hands are crossed on the breast,
each holding the palm-branch of victory, and the large curving wings
are unfolded. The delicate delineation of each feather on the latter
shows the perfect finish of the whole. The palm-branches rise over each
shoulder, from the declivity of the wings, where they are joined behind,
and in the centre there is a white marble cross, against which the
figure is supposed to be leaning. The drooping attitude and the gentle
expression of sorrow are very touching.
The angel figure seems to be declaring to us the inscription over the
entrance, "These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have
washed their robes."
The carved octagonal screen, showing daylight between its delicate
tracery, is worthy of the beautiful monument it surrounds and guards. The
harmony of the whole is maintained by the repetition of the octagonal
form. The screen is octagonal, and so are the steps which descend to
the richly carved pillar. The three tiers of marble, the pedestal of
the figure, are also octagonal. The purity and beauty of the memorial
is completed by the inscription: "Sacred to the Perpetual Memory of a
Great Company of Christian People, chiefly Women and Children, who near
this spot were cruelly massacred by the Followers of the Rebel Nana,
Dhoondopoor of Bithoor, and cast, the Dying with the Dead, into this
well below on the 15th day of July, 1857."
The "House of Massacre" is below the slope of the memorial, and is marked
by a white cross on a black marble base. The original little cross is
shown inside the burial-ground, the base of which marked the well, and
the cross at the top the House of Massacre--a poor but touching little
memorial, "raised by twenty men of the same regiment, who were passing
through Cawnpore" some time afterwards, as it tells us. The burial-ground
is on the spot where two bungalows adjoining the Assembly Rooms were
found, whose walls were written in blood, describing the agonies of the
prisoners. They were destroyed by Havelock's soldiers, and the spot
selected for the cemetery as the ground was soft for digging. It took
the men four days to bury the dead. Now the spot is enclosed with a
handsome railing, and it presents the appearance of a garden of tangled
roses and creepers, which cover the graves. There are seventy-two mounds
in all, but many of them are nameless graves; and it is known that four
were often buried in one grave. Immediately opposite them is another
three-cornered piece of ground railed in, where more of the mutilated
remains of the women and children were collected and interred. It is
a very noticeable fact that none of the dates on the memorial stones
of the "Mutiny" agree. They vary in fixing it as breaking out on the
15th, 17th, or 18th of June. The garden, which is really part of the old
Assembly Garden, is beautifully kept. Broad carriage-drives lead down the
palm-avenues, and amongst the bright masses of flower-beds.
We left Cawnpore at six o'clock. Half an hour after midnight we had
to change carriages at Tundla Junction, and we arrived at Agra at the
ghastly hour of two in the Morning. As I sat in the gharry outside the
station, waiting for C. with the luggage to appear, for the natives were
half asleep at that late hour, I could see the red battlements of the
fort rising opposite against the half-moonlit sky.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 6: After several days of continual anxiety, we heard that at
the very commencement of the engagement he had been slightly wounded.]