The Sepoy Mutiny

by V. A. Stuart

  Alex repeated his thanks, with genuine gratitude, and followed the salaaming chowkidar down a long paved path to the bungalow. A bearer admitted him, and Colonel Smyth after a five minute delay received him on the rear veranda. They had served together in the Sikh War of 1849 but, although they had known each other well, the colonel’s greeting was noticeably lacking in enthusiasm.

  “I have a guest,” he said. “So I cannot spare you more than a few minutes, Sheridan. But young Clark insisted that your business was urgent. He’ll have told you, of course, about the regrettable turn of events here and tomorrow’s parade?”

  “Yes, sir, he told me, and I’m extremely sorry. Indeed I—”

  “Eighty-five mutineers, who have betrayed their salt and disgraced a fine regiment, are to be dealt with as they deserve,” Colonel Smyth interrupted, his tone harsh.

  “You approve of the punishment, sir?” Unable to keep the astonishment from his voice, Alex stared at him.

  “God damn it, of course I do! This epidemic of mutiny has to be stamped out—and I agree with the general. Mild measures won’t do; an example has to be made. Naturally I regret that my regiment has had to be singled out but I concur fully with the decision of the court martial.” He waved Alex to a chair, the gesture impatient.

  A decanter of whisky and glasses stood on the table behind him, and he had a glass in his hand but he pointedly did not offer his visitor a drink. The omission was calculated to give the impression that he was not in the habit of entertaining those of inferior rank to his own, unless by invitation.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What is your urgent business, Captain Sheridan?”

  The colonel, at least, had not changed, Alex thought wryly, as he explained the reason for his visit with the brevity clearly expected of him. He was older and a trifle grayer, but just as thin and ramrod-stiff. His manner was just as distant and as icily formal as it had always been. In the Punjab, they had been on Christian name terms, with only one step in rank between them but this was forgotten now, although Carmichael Smyth’s lieutenant-colonelcy was a brevet, earned in the Punjab after the war. He was an efficient and courageous soldier and a splendid all-around sportsman, stoic and possessed of an iron will—qualities which should have appealed strongly to the fierce Muslim horsemen he commanded—yet he had never been popular with either his sowars or his brother officers. They respected and admired but certainly did not like him and he had, for this reason, taken refuge behind a self-imposed barrier of arrogant aloofness. The barrier was more apparent now, Alex decided—probably because he took less trouble to hide it than he had in the old days. With advancing years, he appeared to have abandoned the efforts he had once made to court the liking of his fellows and even, in his own case, deliberately to offend and antagonize, as if he were determined to sever all links with the past—perhaps because he feared that advantage might be taken of them.

  “May I see these letters?” the colonel asked, after listening, with ill-concealed disbelief, to Alex’s account of his interview with Sir Henry Lawrence.

  “Yes, of course, sir. They’re here. Sir Henry has retained the originals—these are copies, with a translation which—”

  “Copies, dammit?” The interruption was scornful. “Then they’re of no value, they don’t offer proof.”

  “Sir Henry has signed a statement which guarantees their authenticity,” Alex pointed out patiently. “He has sent a similar set of copies to the governor-general, I understand.”

  “So Lord Canning’s being brought into it,” the colonel observed, sounding less skeptical. “In that case, I suppose I’d better read them.” He shuffled through the translations and read in silence, brows furrowed, his expression changing to one of shocked dismay as the full implication of what he was reading slowly sank in. “God in heaven!” he exclaimed, staring down at the flimsy sheets as if stunned. “These are—these are … did you read these nauseous documents? Did Sir Henry Lawrence take you into his confidence?”

  “Yes, sir, he did. And I was as shocked as you are. Don’t you think, sir, that General Hewitt should be shown them at once?” Alex rose to his feet, anxious to lose no more time. “Sir Henry felt that the general might feel justified in sending a detachment of British troops to Delhi, in view of the threat these letters contain. Perhaps if we were to call on the station commander now and request his permission to—”

  Again Carmichael Smyth cut him short, but this time without any deliberate intention of giving offense. “General Wilson is here. He dined here, as my guest. I’ll have a word with him, show him these papers and let him decide what’s best to be done. Certainly the matter is urgent and I’m grateful to you for bringing it to my attention, Alex.” In his agitation, he failed to notice the lapse. “Er … wait here, will you? And help yourself to a peg, if you feel like one. I’ll call for you, when you’re needed.”

  He went inside and Alex obediently waited, hearing the subdued hum of voices coming from the lamplit drawing room to his left. The conference with the station commander lasted for over half an hour and he was left, cooling his heels in ever increasing frustration, awaiting a summons that did not come. If young Melville Clark had not exaggerated, General Hewitt would by this time have retired with his second bottle of whisky, he thought anxiously and his second-in-command might well be reluctant to disturb him, still more so to admit a newly arrived junior officer to his presence. In fact he … the handsome grandfather clock in the hall of the bungalow chimed the half-hour and, to his relief, he heard footsteps. Rising, he stiffened to attention as Colonel Carmichael Smyth came towards him, a tall, gaunt-featured officer with a goatee beard at his side.

  “This is Captain Sheridan, sir,” the colonel said. “As I mentioned, he brought the letters from Lucknow and he has seen Sir Henry Lawrence quite recently, so if you would care to ask him for any details I may have omitted, I am sure that he will gladly place himself at your service.”

  General Archdale Wilson acknowledged the introduction courteously. He asked a few questions, seeming worried and undecided, tugging at the scant white hairs of his small, carefully trimmed beard as he listened to Alex’s replies.

  “H’m … I don’t know what we ought to do,” he confessed. “The matter’s urgent, I realize, but we can’t do a great deal tonight, can we? To whom were you instructed to deliver these letters, Captain Sheridan?”

  “To General Hewitt, sir,” Alex told him. He added, forestalling another string of questions, “Sir Henry Lawrence instructed me to tell the general that, in his considered view, Delhi is likely to become the focal point of any revolt which may break out. In these circumstances, sir, and in view of the evidence contained in the letters, he believes that the general would be fully justified in reinforcing the Delhi garrison with a detachment of British troops from here.”

  “The general could not possibly send troops to Delhi on his own responsibility,” Wilson objected in horrified tones. “British troops—good heavens, there’s the treaty to be considered! To break that would require authority from the commander-in-chief who, as you probably know, is in Simla.”

  “Could not the necessary authority be obtained by means of the electric telegraph, sir?” Alex persisted.

  “Yes, I suppose it could,” the station commander conceded uncertainly. “If General Hewitt conceives it advisable to send troops to Delhi. He may not. The Delhi station commander hasn’t asked for them, has he? And the King of Delhi—”

  “The King of Delhi’s sons are deeply involved in the plot, sir,” Alex reminded him, keeping a tight rein on his temper. “As the letters prove.”

  “That is true, they are. But all the same …” the brigadiergeneral continued to tug agitatedly at his beard. “We have our own crisis here, you know, Sheridan. I doubt if the general will feel inclined to weaken the Meerut garrison in the circumstances. It could lead to serious trouble. At the punishment parade tomorrow—why, good heavens, it could be touch and go!”

  “Is there no possibility th
at the parade could be canceled or postponed, sir?”

  “Canceled—postponed! Of course it can’t. The general wouldn’t hear of it. In any case, unless General Graves asks for help, I don’t see … tell me, has he been shown these letters?”

  Alex was compelled to shake his head. “No, not yet, sir. I was instructed to bring them first to General Hewitt, since Delhi is under his command. But Sir Henry Lawrence was anxious that General Graves should see them and he suggested that, with the general’s permission, I should take them to Delhi when he had perused them.”

  “Wait, my young friend!” Wilson put in eagerly. “That is the answer, is it not?” He appealed to Colonel Smyth. “I will have these letters sent to General Graves at once. He is in a much better position than we are to assess the possible danger and to decide whether or not the Delhi garrison should be reinforced. He has a perfectly adequate native force under his command—quite sufficient to deal with a palace intrigue which, in any event, comes more within the civil commissioner’s province than his. He has not reported that any of his regiments are disaffected, rather the reverse, in fact. It is we in Meerut who have an incipient mutiny on our hands … one which may require every British soldier we have to contain, don’t you agree?” For a moment, he looked almost happy, the burden of responsibility lifted from his shoulders but, meeting Colonel Smyth’s reproachful gaze, his thin, angular face reverted to its accustomed expression of careworn melancholy. “I didn’t mean to imply that you could not restore discipline in your regiment, my dear George. Quite the contrary. I have every confidence in you, believe me.”

  “But, sir,” Alex besought him, before the colonel could reply, “surely you will show General Hewitt these letters or at least inform him of their contents before sending them to Delhi? Sir Henry Lawrence charged me to deliver them in person, sir, so that I could make his views known to the general and point out, unofficially of course, that as a precautionary measure he—”

  “That will do, Sheridan,” Colonel Smyth said coldly. “The matter is out of your hands now. You have done all that is required of you and you may safely leave General Wilson and myself to deal with the letters as we see fit.” He added, with biting sarcasm, when Alex attempted to protest, “For God’s sake, man, you are not a jumped-up political officer now! You are serving under my command and I’ll thank you to remember it. When the general officer commanding this division needs you to point out precautionary measures at the instigation of a civilian, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”

  It was his dismissal and, with the awareness that he had failed in his mission, Alex felt a wave of bitterness sweep over him. He picked up his forage cap, stony-faced, controlling himself withdifficulty. General Hewitt might be senile, incompetent, even drunk, but authority was vested in him; he was the only one who had the power to take decisive action and he was about to be bypassed and, it seemed, deliberately kept in ignorance of the danger Henry Lawrence had foreseen with such clear, cool certainty.

  “Let a mutiny succeed in Delhi and it will be the signal for an uprising all over the country, from the Afghan border to Calcutta …” Lawrence had said, he remembered, hearing the tired old voice as if it were coming from beside him. “If, on the other hand, it should fail there, I am of the firm opinion that the planned insurrection will fizzle out everywhere else like a damp squib …”

  “I think I’m right, George.” Archdale Wilson’s voice also sounded tired, with a lingering note of doubt in it, as if he still sought reassurance. “I’ll send a courier to Delhi with these infernal things and Harry Graves can decide, after consultation with Commissioner Fraser, whether they’re to be taken seriously. Come to that, he can refer the matter to the commander-in-chief if he considers it advisable to break the treaty. It’s not really up to us, is it? Frankly I don’t much relish the idea of facing the Old Man with a problem like this, when he’s got so much on his mind with tomorrow’s unhappy affair. He’d probably only shelve it. Perhaps when the punishment parade is safely over, I … dammit, you understand how I feel, do you not?”

  “I understand perfectly, sir,” the colonel responded promptly. “You’ve reached the right decision, I’m sure. There’s nothing to be gained by disturbing General Hewitt tonight. And you are the station commander, after all. How about a nightcap, before you go?” He turned, reaching for the decanter and, realizing that Alex was still within earshot, said with an abrupt change of tone, “All right, Sheridan, no need for you to wait. You’ll be on tomorrow’s parade, of course. I want all my officers present and, even if there hasn’t been time to post you to a troop, you had better be there.”

  “Certainly, sir.” He might have been addressing a newly joined cornet, Alex thought, anger catching at his throat, but he forced himself to speak quietly and with the correct degree of respectful formality. There was one last card he could play; judging by General Wilson’s anxiety to rid himself of the letters, the colonel must have forgotten to tell him of the possibility that Lord Canning was, by now, aware of their existence. He added, still respectfully, “If you will allow me, sir, I should like to mention one point to General Wilson—it’s a point which may have been overlooked, although I did inform you of it.”

  For a moment it seemed as if his new commanding officer was about to refuse his request; the colonel reddened with annoyance and his mouth tightened ominously.

  “In God’s name, Sheridan, I’ve told you to go, haven’t I?” he exploded wrathfully. “You are taking too much upon yourself. Dammit, you—” General Wilson laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Let us hear what he has to say, George,” he suggested and summoned a smile. “Well, Captain Sheridan? You are undoubtedly a very conscientious young man and, since Sir Henry Lawrence appears to have reposed his confidence in you, what point do you think we may have overlooked?”

  Alex faced him squarely. “The fact that copies of these letters have been sent to the governor-general, sir. Sir Henry felt that their importance demanded that they should be brought to his attention without delay and he intended to despatch them to Calcutta as soon as a suitable courier could be found to deliver them to his lordship.”

  The effect of his announcement on both his listeners exceeded his expectations. It was evident, from Colonel Smyth’s barely suppressed fury, that he had omitted to pass on this information to his superior, and from the exclamation of alarm to which the station commander gave vent, it was equally evident that he considered the omission a serious one. He controlled himself admirably, however, and said flatly, “Thank you, Captain Sheridan. This does place a different complexion on the matter, most certainly, and I’m obliged to you for mentioning it.” He exchanged an anxious glance with Colonel Smyth. “We shall have to show them to him, George. Even at the risk of …” he broke off, mopping at his brow.

  “Tonight, sir?” Smyth’s hard blue eyes held a steely glint, more calculating than angry. He poured two liberal measures of whisky into his own glass and the general’s and gestured in the direction of the room they had left. “Let’s go inside, shall we?” He took a sip of his whisky and added, frowning, “We cannot cancel the parade, so I hardly think—”

  “I entirely agree with you. Tomorrow morning will be time enough,” Archdale Wilson decided. “After the parade. We’ll wait until after the parade.”

  Alex drew himself up, recognizing that there was nothing more he could do. When they had gone, he left the bungalow and made his way through the sweet-smelling garden to the road, stepping quietly past the old chowkidar who was dozing, his lantern at his feet, by the gate. To his surprise, he found Melville Clark waiting for him when he reached his own quarters. Like the chowkidar he, too, had fallen asleep, sitting bolt upright in one of the high-backed cane chairs with which the room was furnished, but he roused himself as soon as Alex entered.

  “I brought this, sir,” he said and held up a bottle. “Gough discovered he had one left and I thought you might need it. I’m afraid it’s only mess port but perhaps it’l
l be better than nothing. At least we can drink a toast in it, if there’s anything to celebrate. I hardly like to ask but … how did you get on, sir?”

  Alex sank wearily into the chair at the foot of his bed. “Not as well as I had hoped,” he answered honestly. “But, I suppose, better than I might have done, all things considered. I’m grateful for your kindly thought,” he gestured to the bottle. “I’m as dry as a bone, having talked myself hoarse. To no avail, I regret to say, so far as the parade is concerned.”

  Clark’s smile faded. “It’s still to be held?”

  “Yes, it’s still to be held … and General Hewitt will not be shown my despatches until it’s over. On the credit side, though, General Wilson has seen them. He was there, with the C. O.”

  “He wants this damned parade, you know—the colonel,” Clark said bitterly. “He has to prove he’s right. Those 85 sowars defied him. They refused to listen to him when he pleaded with them to accept the cartridges. He wants them to have to eat dirt.” He poured the port, his hands so unsteady that he splashed it over the tops of both glasses. “To what or whom can we drink then? Obviously not to a regiment that is about to die of its own shame, condemned by its own commanding officer. Oh, well, what the devil,” his young voice was harsh with disillusionment. “Let’s drink to John Company, which offers us the chance of fame and fortune, with a soldier’s glorious death as an alternative! How’s that for an inspiring toast, Captain Sheridan? May I give you the Honorable Company, sir?”

  “Unless it, too, is dying,” Alex said softly, thinking of the letters he had brought from Lucknow. He had spoken more to himself than to his companion and when Clark asked, startled, “What was that, sir?” he shook his head.