The Heroic Garrison

by V. A. Stuart

  When the ghastly slaughter was over, the hubbub faded to a savage muttering sound, as the flames rose higher and drove the mob back. A lance was raised, the dripping head of a British soldier impaled on its tip, and the muttering became a roar of exultation. Alex found himself unable to move. He stood at the front of the godown, frozen into immobility, his stomach churning and, rising in his throat, bile that he tried vainly to choke down. This was what he had feared; it was a repetition of what had been done in the Bibigarh and at the Suttee Chowra Ghat in Cawnpore and at a hundred other military stations throughout North India. Dear God in heaven, he reproached himself, conscience-stricken, he had known what to expect, he had experienced it before in all its searing horror and he had not lifted a finger to prevent it.

  But could he have prevented it, with six exhausted men, armed only with rifles? He drew a shuddering breath, as a vision of Emmy’s face floated in front of him, blotting out his present surroundings—Emmy’s small, sweet face as he had seen it for the last time, gaunt from starvation and with the still pallor of death spreading over it.There had been over four hundred of them on the Ghat and only four now survived . . . Mowbray Thomson, Henry Delafosse, Private Murphy of the 84th, and himself. He would willingly have died a thousand deaths if he could have spared Emmy the slow agony of hers, but then, as now, he had been powerless to prevent the slaughter. Then, as now, they had been hopelessly outnumbered . . . Merciful heaven, was it never to end, the hatred, the barbarism, the carnage? The mobs who murdered and mutilated without pity were sepoys, their victims British officers and men, their comrades in arms, whom formerly they had trusted and even loved. But there was no trust now, no love—only fear and a mindless hatred, shared equally by both sides, which led to acts like this, crying out for some more hideous reprisals.

  Alex closed his eyes, fighting for control. Beside him he heard Hollowell cursing and, opening his eyes again, saw the Highlander raise his rifle to his shoulder. But there was no clear target at which he could aim and he lowered the weapon, tears of outraged pity and frustration streaming down his cheeks.Two of the other men discharged their rifles uselessly into the melee and, recovering himself, Alex sharply bade them hold their fire and return to their posts.They obeyed him, cursing as bitterly as Hollowell had done, their faces taut with shock.

  “It’s over for those poor fellows, at least,” Surgeon Home said, his voice choked. “God rest their souls, it’s over . . . they will not have to suffer anymore.” He laid a hand on Alex’s shoulder, sensing his distress. “Think of that, if you are blaming yourself, Colonel Sheridan—as, I confess, I am.We all are, every one of us. But we could do nothing to save them.We should have thrown our lives away to no purpose if we had attempted to and sacrificed our own wounded in addition.You did all that any man could have done to protect them and—”

  “And only prolonged their agony,” Alex put in harshly. “God forgive me for that . . . and God forgive their murderers, for I cannot, I . . .” From the shadows behind him, a voice said, trembling on the edge of panic, “And now it’s our turn—now them bastards will come after us and serve us the same way! Holy Mother of God, put a bullet through me, one of you! Jesus, I can’t just lie here waiting for them to come, I can’t. It’s more than flesh and blood can stand!”

  Panic was infectious. Alex turned, his own emotions swiftly hidden and, without attempting to identify or reproach the speaker, he issued brisk orders.The sentries were relieved, the less severely wounded sent to search the bodies of the dead sepoys for anything that might be of use in the way of weapons, ammunition, or food. They found some Brown Bess muskets and ammunition but neither food nor water and, returning with the muskets, reported that the courtyard at the back of the godown was deserted and flanked by a substantially built brick house.

  “Could we no’ break intae the yard, sir?” McManus asked. “There’s just a mud wall tae be knocked doon and the house wad maybe serve us better than this midden. Indeed, sir, I’ve an idea we might be able tae make oor way to the Chutter Munzil through yon house. It lies in the right direction and, once it’s dark, we’d hae a fair chance o’ getting intae it wi’out being seen.”

  Concerned for their wounded, Alex glanced in mute question at Surgeon Home who, after a momentary hesitation, nodded. “Anything is better than staying here, Colonel. But before we attempt to move our poor wounded fellows again, it might be advisable to take a look around in case the house is occupied. I’ll go, if you like—I’ve had more rest than you have.”

  Alex thanked him and moved wearily toward the back of the shed, but before he could examine the wall they would have to break though, Cameron called out to him that some of the enemy were on the roof. The ominous sound of splintering timber warned him that the same tactics as those that had driven them from their first refuge were once again to be employed and, shaking off his weariness, he shouted to the sentries to fire on any rebels they could see.

  Roddy, on guard at the entrance, picked off one man who incautiously showed himself, and Alex emptied all six chambers of his Adams in an effort to drive off the others, but in a matter of minutes there were several gaping holes in their frail roof, through which their attackers fired down on them, driving them steadily back toward the passageway at the rear.

  “Break through into the courtyard, Doctor,” he requested Surgeon Home breathlessly. “It’s our only hope if they set this place on fire. Hollowell, you go with the surgeon and report back to me if it’s safe to move the wounded. Quick as you can, lad— we’ll try and hold them off until you get back.”

  “Aye, sir.” Hollowell went to work with the butt of his rifle, his expression grimly determined.

  Cameron and Ryan, on Alex’s instructions, were moving the wounded into the passageway when the man who had earlier pleaded for a bullet to end his misery broke suddenly into a torrent of weeping.

  “Leave me be!” he besought them. “Give me a rifle and leave me.We’re trapped, for God’s sake . . . we’ll never get out of here and the bloody rear-guard won’t help us. How are they to know we’re here? We’ll have been reported missing, believed dead, if we’ve been reported at all.”

  “That poor fellow could be right, alas,” Surgeon Home said. He kept his voice low as he went on. “Facing stark facts, Colonel, they cannot possibly know that any of us are left alive, can they? Which means we can’t depend on their coming to our rescue.”

  “In that case, my friend,” Alex answered wearily, “we shall just have to dig ourselves in until we hear them coming and then either try to get word to them or break out and join them. If McManus is right, we may well be able to do so through the house across the courtyard, so the sooner we can get ourselves into it, the better.” He added, a note of authority in his voice, as the mud wall yielded to Hollowell’s rifle butt, “Right, Doctor, off you go. Take it carefully and keep your heads down!”

  The two men clambered into the courtyard, to vanish from sight in the gathering darkness. No shots followed them, and, from the roof, the firing abruptly ceased.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE FIRST intimation that disaster had befallen the convoy of wounded reached the Residency when the main body of the escort entered by the Bailey Guard gate, a little before noon.

  They had fought a running battle against a large force of mutineers, meeting a vicious fire of musketry from the buildings that lined their route and of grape and canister from field guns mounted at the intersections. Having no artillery to support them, Major Simmons’ Fusiliers and Sikhs had been compelled to clear each street they entered with a bayonet charge and their casualties, in consequence, were high.They had managed to bring most of them in, however, and General Havelock, waiting anxiously for news of his son Harry, was overjoyed to learn that he and a wounded private of the 78th were the occupants of the only two doolies from the front of the convoy to reach safety.

  The little General, worn out by the strain of the previous day’s fighting, had handed over his command to General Sir Jam
es Outram. With his severely wounded chief of staff, Colonel Tytler, he had accepted the generous offer of hospitality made by Martin Gubbins, the Financial Commissioner, in whose shell-scarred house he was sleeping fitfully when Harry Havelock was carried in.

  The two embraced, the white-haired general unashamedly in tears, but not until his surgeon, Dr. Collinson, had dressed Harry’s shattered arm and Mr. Gubbins’ native cook provided him with food and drink, did Havelock permit his son to give him an account of what had happened. Harry was in considerable pain, his face like wax, but relief at finding himself miraculously safe and alive caused him to make light of the suffering he had endured and, sipping a glass of Mr. Gubbins’ sherry, he glossed over the events of the previous day, making no mention of the gallantry that had led to his being shot down.

  “We passed a somewhat uncomfortable night in the Moti Mahal,” he admitted. “And we were all immensely pleased and relieved when Cousin Bensley arrived and Colonel Campbell informed us that all the wounded were to be evacuated to the Residency under his guidance. We had a sticky time of it until we reached the path by the river—crossing the open ground we were under heavy fire from an enemy battery on the far side and the bearers started to panic then. However, once we were under cover of the palace walls, we all imagined that the worst was over. I was even smoking a cheroot!”

  The general, his hand shaking visibly, refilled his son’s sherry glass. “The hospitable Mr. Gubbins tells me he has plenty of this,” he said dryly. “And last night, believe it or not, my dear Harry, he regaled us on turtle soup and champagne! Hoarded especially for the occasion, he assured us, but . . . we believed that they were starving. Pray continue, my dear boy.What happened when you reached the palace? We have pickets occupying all three palaces since entering here last night—your way should have been clear.”

  Harry sighed. “To tell you the truth, Father,” he said, “I did not see a great deal. One minute we were proceeding quite quietly along the pathway by the river—in single file, of course, because the path is narrow—and the next all hell had broken loose! We turned into a square, with an arched gateway at the far end, and we had just passed under the archway when a murderous fire was opened on us from all sides. There must have been thousands of rebels there, lying in wait for us and firing from behind loopholed sheds and houses, so that the escort hadn’t a chance.”

  “The square in which Neill was killed!” General Havelock exclaimed. “Oh, dear heaven, Bensley Thornhill must have taken the wrong turning and missed his way!”

  “General Neill was killed?” Harry questioned, in shocked surprise.

  His father inclined his white head. “Yes, last night. A shot fired—at point-blank range from the arched gateway you have just described, Harry— struck him in the head. He was killed instantly. Sheridan and Spurgin brought his body in on a gun-limber.”

  “I cannot pretend that I shall mourn him,” Harry Havelock confessed. “He was your worst enemy, Father—your cruelest, most unjust critic. All the same, it’s a shock. Whatever his faults, he was a brave man, if a ruthless one. And one must allow that he saved Benares and Allahabad, which a less ruthless commander might have lost.”

  “God grant him peace.” The general’s voice held genuine compassion. “James Neill did his duty as he saw it—I trust the same may be said of me, when my time comes. He and I did not see eye to eye on many things but . . . I digress. Go on with your report, Harry.”

  “There’s not much more to tell, sir.” Harry drained his sherry glass and leaned back against the pillows. “I was in the leading doolie, with that most excellent fellow Private Henry Ward of the 78th looking after me. He was the one you spoke to last night, Willie ...” he turned to give William Hargood, his father’s A.D.C., a wry grin, and Hargood—who had twice risked his life to cross from the Chutter Munzil to the Moti Mahal in order to relieve the general’s anxiety by bringing him tidings of his wounded son—reddened in embarrassment and affected not to hear. The general glanced at him thoughtfully but said nothing, and Harry continued his narrative, “If it hadn’t been for Ward, Father, I should not be here.There was mad panic among the doolie-bearers when the enemy opened on us. Half of them just dropped the poor wretches they were carrying and ran. I heard Bensley Thornhill yelling to the rear of the convoy to go back, and he and one or two of the surgeons dashed toward the rear, trying to stop them. Bensley was hit, I think, but I’m not sure. One of the walking wounded, Private Pilkington of the 78th, was hit again and he dived into my doolie with me.

  Ward drove our bearers on at bayonet point. They tried to ditch us several times, but Ward would have none of it—he made them bring us in. If ever a man deserved a Victoria Cross, in my book that man does! He saved my life a dozen times and refused to leave me.”

  “I will endeavor to see that he gets a Cross,” General Havelock promised. “And, for what it is worth, Private Ward has my undying gratitude, my dear Harry.” He let his hand rest for a moment on Harry’s sound one, unable to keep back the tears as he looked down at his son’s pain-ravaged face. “If I had lost you, I . . . oh, my dearest boy, thank God you have been restored to me! I have lost so many of my brave soldiers, men who have followed me through thick and thin ever since we marched out of Allahabad, little knowing how formidable were the obstacles in our path. Over five hundred of them, Harry, in the past two days . . . it breaks my heart to think of it. And poor Fraser Tytler, one of the bravest of the brave, is lying at death’s door—here in this house. Was it any wonder that I could not drink Mr. Gubbins’ champagne? He is kindness itself, and I am aware that he had been saving the champagne to celebrate the relief of the garrison but I . . . merciful heaven, it would have choked me if I’d touched a drop of it when I learned what the cost had been.” He straightened up, squaring his thin, bowed shoulders. “Over five hundred killed and maimed! How many more were lost in the square this morning? Not all the wounded, surely?”

  He looked so frail and old and broken that Harry’s heart went out to him in helpless pity. But he knew his father too well to attempt to spare his feelings by deceiving him. “No, sir, not all. The rear part of the convoy hadn’t entered the square when the firing started. They would have had time to retire to the Chutter Munzil—our escort bought them time.They’ll come in soon, I feel certain, by the safe route through the palaces, and Bensley with them. Poor chap, it wasn’t his fault—it’s easy enough to lose one’s way in those palace courtyards. It’s like being in a rabbit warren and—”

  “I’m aware of that, Harry, and I’m not blaming young Thorn-hill. But how many doolies did enter the square, have you any idea?”

  “Perhaps thirty or forty, sir. It’s hard to be sure because I wasn’t in a position to see much.”

  “And the wounded men who were abandoned when the bearers fled,” the general persisted. “Is there any hope for the poor fellows or for the men who were escorting them?”

  “I fear not, sir,” Harry answered unhappily. “Those in my immediate vicinity were set on by a mob of sowars, armed with sabers. They were giving no quarter, and if it hadn’t been for Private Ward, I should never have escaped. He held them off most gallantly.”

  “And the escort?”

  “Well, sir, the main body of the escort were at the head of the convoy.We’d come along a narrow passage in single file, you see, and evidently Major Simmons expected an attack—if it came—to be launched against the head of the procession.” Hearing his father’s disapproving grunt, Harry added quickly, “Some of the officers ran back, but we were under a murderous fire, as I told you. Bensley Thornhill tried to warn the rear part of the convoy quite regardless of his own safety and so did Dr. Home and another surgeon who was with him. I saw Alex Sheridan, too—he came up from the rear with a Blue Cap and a couple of Highlanders, and they were doing what they could to protect the men in the doolies. They may have managed to get them back to the Chutter Munzil.”

  “Or they may be dead,” General Havelock said bleakly. He asked
Hargood for his sword-belt and started to buckle it on. “I had better go and have a word with Sir James. He’s in command now, of course, so the decision will be his, but I understand he intends to send Napier with reinforcements to assist in the evacuation of the rear-guard.They were to leave at two o’clock, were they not, Willie?”

  “Yes, sir,” the A.D.C.confirmed. “A hundred men of the 78th, two of Captain Olpherts’s guns and Captain Hardinge’s Sikh cavalry of the garrison are under orders, sir.”

  “Campbell was having a tough battle, Father,” Harry put in. “He was hit in the leg quite early on, but he insisted that he was perfectly fit for duty. One of the twenty-four-pounders Vincent Eyre left with him had become jammed in a lane, I believe, which was causing him great concern. I doubt whether they’ll be able to move before nightfall.”

  The general settled his cap on his head. “Then there will be time for Napier to search for the convoy of wounded if they haven’t come in.” He hesitated, frowning. “But you think it’s unlikely that any of our men are left alive in the square where the doolies were abandoned, Harry?”

  Harry shrugged and winced with the pain of it. “If they didn’t manage to get out of the square, I doubt it, sir. God grant they did . . . and I pray you’ll find that they’ve all got in safely by the time you find General Outram.”

  “Amen to that!” his father said. “Try to get some sleep, Harry, my dear boy. I shall be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, the ladies of the household will look after you.”