Guns to the Far East

by V. A. Stuart

  They left at dawn by boat, dressed in native clothing— Mahee Singe and some of the village boatmen volunteering to accompany them—and a little while before their departure, a Eurasian clerk named Dudman—who, with his wife and two children, had been sheltering in a neighbouring village—came to join them in their flight. The river was low, their progress tedious, but they were unmolested and, despite the heat and the somewhat overcrowded conditions caused by the arrival of the four Dudmans, they suffered only minor discomfort. On the outskirts of Lucknow, Mahee Singe hired bullock carts to which, under cover of darkness, all the fugitives were transferred, together with the sacks of grain and baskets of dried fish that had formed the boat’s cargo.

  With the white-bearded tessaildar acting as driver of the leading cart and Sita Ram crouched beside the pile of sacks which gave them concealment, Harriet and her children completed their long journey, to receive a warm welcome from the people in the Residency, and the offer of hospitality from Mr Martin Gubbins, the Financial Commissioner. In his large, two-storey house—which formed part of the newly completed defensive perimeter south-west of the Residency—she found Colonel Birch’s widow and only daughter, and Mrs Apthorp and her three children, who had been escorted in by a company of the 41st Native Infantry, commanded by Major Apthorp, before the outbreak of the Mutiny in Sitapur. The entire party was safe, Mrs Apthorp told her, the other ladies being accommodated in the house of the Judicial Commissioner, Mr Ommaney, but her husband’s company had since left Lucknow, with the avowed intention of joining their comrades in the mutiny.

  “And that, after being rewarded most lavishly for having saved our lives!” Mary Apthorp said bitterly. “There is no understanding them, is there?” She drew Harriet aside and lowered her voice, so that the other occupants of the room might not overhear. “Poor dear Mrs Birch is quite heartbroken by her husband’s death … as, indeed, you must be, Mrs Dorling. We heard the terrible news of what happened in Sitapur, after our departure, from Lieutenant Lester, who managed to reach here about a week ago. Like you and your sweet, brave children, he was helped and given shelter by friendly villagers but many others, alas, were not so fortunate.”

  Thinking of the four crudely marked graves she had left behind her at the river’s edge, forty miles away, Harriet’s throat ached with tears, but she said nothing. Only to Martin Gubbins did she reveal the fate of those who now rested beneath the small wooden crosses and he, patting her hand sympathetically, advised silence. “There is enough sadness and anxiety here already, my dear lady, and—as no doubt you will have observed—our turn is coming. We shall defend ourselves, of course, have no fear of that. Our preparations to do so are almost completed.”

  He was kindness itself, advancing Harriet a loan to enable her to give a generous reward to Mahee Singe before he returned to his village, and sending a servant with a note to the quarters of Colonel Inglis, the Commanding Officer of the Queen’s 32nd Regiment, asking him to inform her sister and brother-in-law of her safe arrival.

  “I believe they are here,” Harriet said, gratefully sipping a glass of sherry which, when the note had been dispatched, her kindly host had poured for her. “The last time I heard from my sister, they were both in Cawnpore but expecting to remove here as soon as Tom—my brother-in-law, Tom Hill—had recovered from a bout of fever. My sister is expecting to be delivered of her first child …” She hesitated, seeing a frown crease Martin Gubbins’s smooth brow, and then asked, filled with sudden fear, “Mr Gubbins, is it true that Cawnpore is under siege?”

  He nodded, his frown deepening, “Yes, it’s true, I’m sorry to say. The garrison was attacked on the sixth of June by mutinous native troops, commanded by the one man in whom poor old General Wheeler reposed implicit trust … the Nana of Bithur. They have held out with great gallantry in a mudwalled entrenchment—scarcely worthy of the name—on the south side of the city, the sole advantage of which appears to be that it is situated close to the Allahabad road. Pray God they will continue to hold out!”

  “Don’t you think they will?” Harriet asked. Again the Financial Commissioner hesitated, as if reluctant to distress her, and she said quietly, “Nothing can shock me now, Mr Gubbins, and I should be grateful if you would tell me the truth.”

  He sighed. “The latest news—a message from General Wheeler, delivered by cossid yesterday—warned that their losses have been heavy and cruel. The General has begged us for aid which, alas, Sir Henry Lawrence feels he dare not give, lest he weaken our own position irreparably. I, on the other hand, would send aid, no matter what the cost but … I am not in command. So I can only pray that the relief column from Calcutta will reach them in time. A column is on its way, commanded by Colonel Neill, but it consists of a single European regiment—the Madras Fusiliers—and it has been held up by outbreaks in Benares and Allahabad, according to the news we’ve had by electric telegraph. That is the truth, Mrs Dorling.” He shrugged disconsolately. “If that column doesn’t get through, the consequences—both to General Wheeler’s garrison and ourselves—don’t bear thinking about …” He talked on, at times more to himself than to her, and Harriet finally left him with a heavy heart, to dress in a borrowed gown for a dinner, served in incongruous state, for which she had no appetite.

  Mrs Case, wife of the second-in-command of the 32nd, called to see her when the lengthy and elaborate meal was over and Harriet sensed, from the look on her face, that the news she brought was the reverse of that for which she had hoped.

  “Colonel Inglis asked me to call on you, Mrs Dorling, after he received the note concerning your sister from Mr Gubbins. I’m afraid that neither your sister nor her husband are here, with the regiment. They …” She paused, pity in her eyes, and Harriet said flatly, knowing the answer, “They’re in Cawnpore?”

  “Yes, my dear, I’m sorry to say they are. Captain and Mrs Moore, and Lieutenant and Mrs Wainwright are also there, with about seventy of our invalid men. But there is hope … they are still holding out and, as I’m sure Mr Gubbins will have told you, a relief force is trying to reach them. A European regiment, the Madras Fusiliers, commanded by Colonel James Neill, has got as far as Allahabad, and more troops—recalled from Burma and Persia—are being sent up country with all possible speed to join them. If General Wheeler can just hold out for another week or ten days, they will be saved.”

  “Yes,” Harriet agreed but without conviction, feeling her control begin to slip. She had told Mr Gubbins that nothing could shock her now but this … She bit her lower lip, vainly attempting to still its trembling. Lavinia was so young, hardly more than a child herself, and she had been waiting so eagerly for the arrival of her baby … Oh, God, let them be saved, she prayed silently. All those poor, brave souls in their—what had Mr Gubbins called it? Their mud-walled entrenchment, scarcely worthy of the name … She remembered Jemmy and the others and shivered. Spare them that, at least, dear merciful God, spare them the fears and the horrors that I endured, spare my sister the death that poor Mrs Gowan suffered at the hands of men we trusted, who are now turned into fiends …

  Mrs Case took a letter from her reticule. “This came—miraculously—by dawk from Calcutta. It is addressed to you and Mrs Hill, so Colonel Inglis thought you should be given it.” She smiled, holding out her hand. “I’ll leave you in peace to read it. If you want to reply, Captain Wilson, Sir Henry’s Military Secretary, has arranged for a cossid to take letters to Benares. They must be very brief and sent to Captain Wilson’s office by midnight and, as you’ll understand, I’m sure, there’s no certainty that they will reach their destination. Good night, Mrs Dorling, I do hope you’ll sleep well and that you won’t be too overcrowded and uncomfortable. If there’s anything you need, such as clothing, for yourself or the children, you have only to make your needs known to me or to Mrs Gubbins.”

  Harriet thanked her. The letter, she saw, was from Graham. It consisted of only a few lines, announcing his arrival in command of the Lady Wellesley and informing her that Phill
ip was in China. “There is something of a panic here in Calcutta,” her brother had written. “The news of mutiny in Meerut and the fall of Delhi to the mutinous regiments has caused considerable alarm among the people here. But Catriona and I have not changed our plans—we intend to take up residence and we are looking for a house of sufficient size to enable us to invite you both here, with your children, dearest Harriet and, we both hope, your new arrival, dearest Lavinia.

  “Come at once, if you can and the state of the country permits. Jemmy and Tom will, of course, have to remain at their posts—they are soldiers and will want to play their part in quelling the insurrection. But I do urge both of you to join us, if it is possible, without delay. If I am required to transport troops or supplies—as I well may be—Catriona will accompany me but the house will be yours. You have only to contact the shipping agents.

  “Come, I beg you—the storm is gathering, without any doubt. Come before it breaks.”

  The storm had broken, Harriet thought, with infinite sadness; it had broken, in all its hideous violence, a few days after Graham had written his invitation. It had imprisoned her here, just as—she choked on a sob—just as it had imprisoned Lavinia and Tom in Cawnpore, and there would be no escape for any of them until it was over.

  With borrowed pen and paper, she wrote a short reply, gave it, with the others, into the keeping of Captain Wilson’s chuprassi and then, with the other occupants of the house, attended Evening Prayer in the garden.

  There were daily services held in the various larger buildings in which women and children from cantonments and those who had fled from Oudh out-stations were housed and, each day, special prayers were said for the Cawnpore garrison. Harriet, with her two older children, joined fervently in them all but hope began to fade when it was learnt that General Wheeler had decided that further resistance was beyond the strength of his severely depleted garrison and that he was, in consequence, about to treat with the Nana Sahib of Bithur, who had offered terms for their surrender. No relief had reached them from Allahabad, all save two of their nine light-calibre guns had been put out of action, their supplies were all but exhausted, their crumbling breastwork, defended by sick and wounded soldiers, could no longer withstand assaults of the mutineers. Of close on a thousand souls—400 of them women and children—who had crowded into the entrenchment at the beginning of June, only 437 still survived, more than half incapacitated by wounds or fever.

  One letter, written by Colonel Wiggins of the 53rd Native Infantry, reached Lucknow, and described the suffering endured by the garrison as “beyond anything ever written in history,” adding that, with the temperature soaring to 130° and the larger of their two brick buildings destroyed by fire, the sun had been their greatest enemy. A second—a mere scrap of paper, dated 25th June and written by Lieutenant George Master of the same regiment to his father, a Colonel serving in the Lucknow garrison—also reached its destination. It read: “We have held out now for 21 days, under a tremendous fire. The Rajah of Bithur has offered to forward us in safety by river to Allahabad and the General has accepted his terms. I have been twice wounded but am all right … I’ll write from Allahabad. God bless you!”

  Ironically, on the same date, Sir Henry Lawrence received two dispatches from Colonel Neill, stating that—order having been restored in Allahabad and their lines of communication with Calcutta secured—an advance force of 400 European Fusiliers of his regiment, 300 Sikhs, and two guns was about to leave for Cawnpore. A further reinforcement of troops returned from Persia, under Brigadier-General Havelock, was hourly expected in Allahabad, also intended for the relief of Cawnpore.

  This was good news and Lawrence immediately sent a cossid to Cawnpore, urging General Wheeler to hold out and warning him, in a tersely worded postscript, written partly in French, “You cannot rely on the Nana’s promises. Il a tué beaucoup de prisonniers.” The message was never delivered. On 28th June, the native messenger returned with a companion and both were closeted for a long time with Martin Gubbins and Captain Hawes; after reporting to Sir Henry Lawrence, Martin Gubbins sadly informed the members of his household that no hope could now be entertained for General Wheeler’s garrison. As Henry Lawrence had feared, the Nana had betrayed them. They had been promised honourable surrender and boats to convey them to Allahabad, but no sooner had they entered the boats than a savage attack had been launched on them, by armed sepoys and guns hidden among the trees above the landing stage, which had showered them with grape.

  “My cossids witnessed this terrible massacre,” Gubbins said, his voice harsh with pain. “And I have, alas, no reason to doubt that the account they have given me is true. The few women and children who survived the Nana’s treacherous attack on their boats are being held prisoner in Cawnpore, near the Nana’s encampment—perhaps as hostages. I have dispatched a cossid to Allahabad with this news. We must pray that the relief force will be in time to save the poor, unhappy souls.”

  Harriet heard him; her heart turned to stone, her grief too deep even for the relief of tears. That evening her baby was taken ill with colic and, on the advice of the Civil Surgeon, Dr Fayrer, she removed into his house with all three children, joining ten other ladies and seven children. Cholera had broken out among the European soldiers and two of the ladies lodging in the Residency were said to be dying of the disease. Although the kindly Dr Fayrer assured her that her baby’s illness was not unduly serious, she watched over the poor mite anxiously, going without sleep in order to be on hand, day or night, should he need her. To while away the long hours of inactivity, she began a letter, in the form of a diary and, after earnest heart-searching, addressed her epistle to her brother Phillip who would, she knew, delete any upsetting details before passing the contents on to their parents.

  At first, the letter was a catalogue of heartbreaking casualties among friends and acquaintances in Cawnpore and other neighbouring stations, as news of these filtered through, brought in by native cossids and spies. Every native regiment in Oudh and the Upper Provinces appeared to have risen in revolt and there was increasing concern in Lucknow itself, lest those in the garrison who continued to affirm their loyalty— in particular the Sikhs—should, in the end, betray Sir Henry Lawrence’s trust in them. They were put to the test on 30th June, under which date Harriet recorded:

  “At first light this morning, we were startled by the sound of guns passing this house. I learnt from Dr Partridge (a friend of Dr Fayrer’s and one of the seven gentlemen who are quartered in his house) that, having received intelligence of a force of some four or five thousand rebels advancing to attack us, Sir Henry Lawrence was sending a detachment of three hundred of the 32nd, with the Volunteer and Sikh Cavalry, two hundred loyal sepoys, and seven guns to meet and, it was hoped, drive them back.

  “You may imagine with what consternation we awaited news and, when it came, it filled us with despair. Sir Henry led our detachment himself and, it is now said that he ordered it out against his own better judgement, being taunted for want of spirit by some of his advisers when, initially, he objected to the proposal. When they reached the village of Chinhat, about six miles from the city, they found—instead of the small advance guard they had expected to engage—a rebel army of between twelve and fourteen thousand, with thirty guns and a large force of cavalry awaiting them.

  “Our poor soldiers of the 32nd had marched without breakfast, the last few miles under a blazing sun, no supplies of water or reserve ammunition came up—the natives in charge of the waggons having bolted with them—and to make matters worse, many of their muskets proved unserviceable through lack of use and would not fire. In spite of this, they fought gallantly and have over a hundred killed, wounded or missing, including poor Colonel Case (whose wife was so kind to me when I first reached here) and four other officers killed. The native gunners deserted to the enemy, many of the wretches making off with the gun ammunition, and the big howitzer, of which much had been hoped, was put out of action before it could open fire, and lat
er taken by the rebels, with two or three others manned by golandazes.

  “Sir Henry had no choice but to order a retreat. They fought their way back, under a hot pursuit, many of our poor 32nd collapsing from sunstroke and being cut to pieces as they fell. The pursuers were only halted at the Iron Bridge over the Goomtee by fire from gun batteries within the Residency defences, and by the valiant efforts of the Volunteer Cavalry—of whom there are only 36—and Captain Hardinge’s Sikhs, who repeatedly charged the advancing mass of the enemy. On gaining the bridge some of the field-guns were placed across it—empty, for their ammunition was exhausted—but the gunners stood by them with lighted portfires and the rebels, who are arrant cowards, did not dare approach them.

  “They could not be prevented from entering the city, however, and by nine o’clock we were in a state of siege and tremendous firing commenced, a fierce attack being launched on the Bailey Guard Gate, at the back of this house. We got a cup of tea and breakfasted as well as we could, sitting behind walls to escape the firing …”

  By nightfall, the Residency perimeter was completely invested, the city in the mutineers’ hands, and there was a wholesale desertion of native servants and of the hundreds of coolies who had been employed in the construction of earthworks and gun emplacements. But the work was virtually complete and, with an irregular cluster of houses and gardens, covering an area of 33 acres and with the three-storeyed Residency in the centre, the Lucknow garrison began the long ordeal of the siege.