by V. A. Stuart
“I know, I know,” he acknowledged, as if Alex had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Our defences are not completed and the coolies who were supposed to be working on the site have all disappeared. And—save for night alarms—the gunners have not been given permission to stand to arms in shirtsleeves order—none of us has. The general obviously was not expecting the mutineers to attack us, but perhaps, now he’s realised that they intend to, he’ll agree to relax some of the regulations which are likely to hamper us.” He tugged at the high white collar of his shell jacket with an impatient hand. “Have you been on a tour of our defences yet?”
Alex shook his head. “No, not yet.”
Moore repeated his sigh. “I’ll take you when the conference is over. You’ll find it alarming. Why in God’s name the general didn’t choose to defend the Magazine I’ll never know! We could have held out there for months, with little danger to the women and children … but old Wheeler insists that reinforcements are on their way and will reach us in less than a week. His main reason for choosing this site is, he says, because it’s close to the Allahabad road and he doesn’t want the reinforcements to have to fight their way through the city in order to reach us. He has a point, of course—if they reach us soon and in sufficient number. But if they don’t …” he made a rueful grimace. “May God help the poor innocents we are pledged to protect!”
Remembering the message he had brought from Lucknow, warning of an unforeseen delay which had halted the relief column at Benares, Alex maintained a discreet silence. The delay might not be as serious as anticipated and it was, in any case, for General Wheeler to break this news to his officers—or not—as he saw fit. He and Moore entered the cramped, low-ceilinged room in which the general had established his administrative headquarters and, there being no chairs, they took up their positions by the wall on the far side of the room, where an open window admitted what air there was.
The room was already full but more officers came crowding in after them, all correctly uniformed and wearing swords and medals, as if for a peacetime inspection. None looked particularly happy and several were openly grumbling, with varying degrees of annoyance, at the sudden summons and the confined space in which they found themselves. One late arrival, a red-bearded young giant in Native Infantry uniform, thrust a way through the press to join John Moore by the window and was introduced to Alex as Lieutenant Mowbray Thomson of the 53rd.
“Late of the 53rd,” Thomson amended. He glanced with interest at Alex’s uniform and his empty sleeve. “And you, sir, would seem to be late of the Third Light Cavalry. May I respectfully enquire whether you were at Meerut when your regiment earned the doubtful distinction of being the first to betray its salt?” Alex stiffened involuntarily but the question was asked in an apologetic tone, clearly prompted by a desire for information and not intended to give offence and, after a slight hesitation, he answered it without rancour.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “I had the misfortune to reach Meerut on the eve of the punishment parade which led to the outbreak and, I fear, precipitated it.” He heard John Moore draw in his breath sharply and, conscious that both he and Thomson were eyeing him expectantly, shook his head, anticipating the next question that both wanted to ask but were reluctant to put into words. “I regret I cannot tell you why the Meerut mutineers were permitted to reach Delhi, without any attempt on the part of the British garrison to stop them. I—”
“Cannot—or will not, Alex?” John Moore challenged dryly.
“In all honesty, John, I cannot,” Alex assured him, careful to control his voice as a wave of remembered anger welled up into his throat. He saw again in memory the obese figure of General Hewitt, slumped in what Colonel Jones of the 60th Rifles had scornfully called “his bloody bath chair,” heard the voice of the divisional commander raised in petulant protest when he, and a dozen others, had pleaded to be allowed to go in pursuit of the mutineers. Such memories filled him with shame; he had endeavoured to erase them from his mind but still they returned, like visions from a nightmare, to haunt his thoughts and torment his conscience. The Meerut garrison, barely a week ago, had fought the first gallant and successful action against the mutineers when, in overwhelming numbers and confident of victory, they had sought to bar the road to Delhi at the Hindan River bridge. Colonel Jones at the head of the Rifles, Charles Rosser with his two squadrons of Carabineers, Henry Craigie, Hugh Gough and Melville Clarke of his own regiment and even Brigadier Archdale Wilson had, it seemed, purged their memories of that night of failure and confusion in blood … whereas he, who had shared it with them, had only the consciousness of failure on which to look back. He had failed to reach Delhi with the warning Brigadier Wilson had eventually entrusted to him and, before that, he …
“You’ve nothing with which to reproach yourself, Alex,” Moore said, breaking the brief silence that had fallen between them. “And you surely don’t have to defend General Hewitt? For God’s sake, everyone knows that he refused to allow any of his British troops to leave the station, even those who volunteered! He’s to blame for the whole miserable affair, not the officers who were under his orders.”
“I’d like to hear what really happened,” young Mowbray Thomson persisted, his tone still apologetic. “From one who was there. That is, I—forgive me, sir, but there are so many rumours. One doesn’t know what to believe. I’ve heard that General Hewitt is to be tried by court martial and …” He broke off as a staff officer called for silence and General Wheeler entered, with Brigadier Jack and an aide-de-camp at his heels.
The assembled officers came to attention and the general took a paper from his A.D.C. with a visibly shaking hand. He was a small, spare man, with sparse white hair and of erect, soldierly bearing, whose boundless reserves of energy had hitherto belied his advancing years. In the past he had radiated a benign confidence but now, Alex thought as he watched him, white head bent, staring down at the papers in his hand, he seemed uncertain and hesitant, as if something—or someone—had dealt a mortal blow to his self-esteem.
Sir Hugh Massey Wheeler had a fine record of over fifty years’ service with the Company’s sepoy army, to which he had been posted as an ensign in 1805. He had seen action against Diraj Singh and in the Afghan War of 1839-40 and had fought with distinction as a brigade commander against the Sikhs. The only blot on his record had been his failure to act decisively, when bringing up reinforcements prior to the Battle of Aliwal, for which he had incurred some criticism, but he had lived that down and his personal courage during the battle, in which he had been severely wounded, had finally been rewarded with a knighthood at the end of the Punjab campaign, when he had commanded the Jullundur Frontier Force.
He looked anything but a hero now, however, as he addressed his tensely listening audience in a voice that was at once querulous and charged with emotion. “I shall not keep you from your posts for long, gentlemen,” he promised. “But I feel in honour bound to inform you personally that the native prince, whom I have trusted and regarded as a friend, has repaid my trust with the basest treachery.” He paused, glancing about him as if expecting comment but no one spoke and he went on bitterly, “The Nana Sahib of Bithur, gentlemen, after repeatedly assuring me that the mutinous regiments would, if they rose, march to Delhi and do us no harm, has himself ridden after them and brought them back to the city. At dawn this morning I received from him what amounts to a declaration of war.” The general’s voice broke as he read from the paper he had been holding. “‘I am about to attack you,’ he informs me and has the effrontery to sign himself Peishwa of the Mahrattas!”
At this there was a concerted murmur of outraged feeling which could not be contained and Mowbray Thomson exclaimed, with a shrug, “Well, what price the Magazine now!”
His voice carried and the general’s pale cheeks were suffused with colour. “I am aware,” he said, as the indignant murmurs faded into disciplined silence, “that many of you considered me to be at fault in choosing to defend this site, instead of th
e Magazine, and I am forced to concede that our present position will not be easy to defend against overwhelming numbers and resolute attack. Most of you know why I chose this site—it is close to the road from Allahabad, along which I believed and hoped that a relief column would come. I had intended, with the help of that column, to evacuate the women and children—of whom there are now 375—to Allahabad, at the first possible opportunity. The last information I had from Calcutta, before the wires of the electric telegraph were cut, led me to believe that Colonel Neill was leading his regiment of European Fusiliers to our aid, and that we could expect his force within a week or, at most, ten days. However …” again he paused, as if inviting comment and Alex, glancing at the faces of those about him, saw dismay mirrored in each one.
For a soldier to endure hardship or to fight against overwhelming odds was, as he knew well, no new experience for most of the officers of this garrison, many of whom were veterans of the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns … but it was a very different matter when the lives of nearly four hundred helpless women and children were also at stake. Yet still no one voiced his dismay and General Wheeler sighed.
“The telegraph line between Lucknow and Calcutta is apparently still open,” he went on wearily. “And yesterday, gentlemen, Sir Henry Lawrence sent one of his officers, Colonel Sheridan, to warn me that he had received news by telegraph that Colonel Neill’s relief column had been delayed. The sepoy regiments at Benares have also broken out in mutiny and it is believed that a similar situation now exists at Allahabad and in the surrounding districts. We can expect no help from Colonel Neill until both these outbreaks have been dealt with, I regret to tell you. We are alone, gentlemen, and must defend ourselves as best we can, relying on our own resources. As many of you will already know, our position is rendered the more perilous because my order to blow up the powder reserves in the Magazine could not be carried out. Lieutenant Ashburner, of the Oudh Artillery, the officer entrusted with this task, was fired on by the Nana’s troops and, deserted by his native gunners, unhappily lost his life in a gallant attempt to enter the Magazine. As a result, the rebels will have at their disposal all our heavy guns and reserves of ammunition.…” He talked on, reminding them of the defensive plans they had already made and ordering others.
All able-bodied men, including civilians, were to be armed and given instruction in the use of their arms, should this be required; some of the infantrymen would have to be trained as artillerymen because the nine-pounder guns in the entrenchment would, almost certainly, have to be manned day and night.
“They will, sir,” John Moore answered confidently. To Alex he added grimly, lowering his voice, “Over a hundred of the women and children are of our regiment. If they have to crawl to their posts, my men will defend them.”
“We have only sixty trained gunners of the Bengal Artillery and Lieutenant Ashe’s half-battery has none at all, since the golandazes he brought with him have joined the mutineers,” the general said, white brows meeting in an anxious frown. “This means that your invalids must be pressed into service, Captain Moore—any man who can stand on his feet must be asked to volunteer.”
There was no more talk of the Magazine; no one offered or even implied criticism of the entrenchment and, evidently heartened by this, the old general’s face lost some of its wan pallor and, like the good commander he was, he put on a show of confidence once more, which had a marked effect on everyone present.
“We have provisions and supplies of ammunition for up to a month’s siege, if necessary, gentlemen,” he announced. “But please God, relief will reach us before they are exhausted. We have a good well, but water must, of course, be rationed from now on, with priority for the women and children and the sick. We have adequate medical supplies, more surgeons than, I devoutly hope, we shall need, sufficient guns and muskets to hold the enemy at bay … and stout hearts. Trusting in the divine mercy of Almighty God, we will do battle against this evil and not flinch from our duty. To your posts, if you please, gentlemen, and be ready should the alarm sound—unless any of you have questions or suggestions of a practical nature to offer, before we dismiss?”
A number of questions were asked, which included the request that shirtsleeves order should be permitted for those manning the guns and the perimeter wall, and then John Moore pressed forward, as the general again moved to dismiss them.
“If you please, sir,” he said. “There is one matter which I believe to be of some importance.”
“Yes, Captain Moore?” The general’s voice sounded tired but he waited courteously for the question.
“The unfinished barrack blocks, sir,”Moore said. “Those which cross the south-west angle of our perimeter. I’m aware that we’re to defend Numbers Five and Six, which command the entrenchment, but what of the others? I mean, sir, if the rebels occupy them or contrive to mount guns or mortars under their cover, they could constitute a serious danger to our defences on that side. The well is within musket range of Number Four, sir. I know we have a gun trained on it but—”
“Are you suggesting that we should occupy Number Four?” Sir Hugh Wheeler spread his hands in a despairing gesture. “We haven’t the men to spare, my dear boy—heaven knows, I wish we had! But as it is I am having to depend on Mr Heberden and his railway engineers to man the two blocks we must defend.”
“Then ought we not to blow the rest up, sir?” Moore urged. “Or at least knock down the front brickwork of Numbers Four and Seven, to prevent the Pandies putting sharp-shooters into them? Without cover, they—”
“I’ll talk to the engineers, sir,” Brigadier Jack put in, his tone impatient. “To see if they think Captain Moore’s suggestion is a practical one.”
“Very well,” the general agreed. “Thank you, Captain Moore, for bringing the matter to my attention.”
Moore met Alex’s gaze and his shoulders rose in an expressive shrug. As they walked out together, he said resignedly, “I’ve already suggested that those buildings should be destroyed. At first I was told that no one had the required authority, then that compensation would have to be paid to the contractors who were putting them up and finally that it wasn’t necessary, because there was no danger of attack from the sepoys! But come and look at the infernal things, will you, and see if I’m not right? If they’re left as they are, the Pandies will get into them and we shan’t be able to stop them.” He led the way and Alex followed him, gratefully breathing the fresh morning air. After the stifling atmosphere of the room they had just left, it was a relief to be out in the open although, once the sun rose, the flat expanse of rock-hard ground within the entrenchment would, he was only too well aware, become a furnace.
“At least,” John Moore observed, as they passed a line of officers’ tents which had been set up a short distance to the rear of the general’s headquarters, “Eddie Vibart brought up the vexed question of our manning the defences in shirtsleeves order, praise be! I’d intended, whatever was decided, to parade my men in hospital fatigue dress—some of the poor devils have been down with dysentery and various other fevers for weeks. I cannot, in all humanity, ask them to fight in skin-tight tunics and stocks which choke the breath out of them.” He gestured to the tents. “Are you quartered in one of these, Alex?”
“Yes,” Alex confirmed. “I was allotted a half-share in one with, I believe, a Native Infantry major by the name of Lindsay, whose wife—like yours—has just removed to one of the barracks. I haven’t yet made his acquaintance—he was asleep when I took up my abode there and I, in turn, was sleeping when he left at some unearthly hour this morning.”
“Willie Lindsay, the assistant adjutant-general,” Moore told him. “A charming fellow with a delightful wife. The whole Lindsay clan seem to be here—there’s his sister, who married a cousin and was widowed about eight or nine years ago. She came out here with her family—three very charming girls, the Misses Caroline, Fanny and Alice, and their young brother George, who’s an ensign in the First Native Infantry. They all h
ail, as the name suggests, from Scotland. But I fear you’ll be looking for other quarters, if the sepoys do attack us—a tent won’t give you much protection.”
“In view of which,” Alex decided, halting in front of his shared tent, “I think I shall take the precaution of ridding myself of all this silver lace”—he gestured to his Light Cavalry tunic—“in exchange for the uniform Sir Henry Lawrence authorised for the mounted volunteers, if you will allow me a few minutes’ grace.” He smiled, indicating the rolled, knee-length chapkan of dustcoloured cloth which his orderly had laid out for him, before returning to Lucknow. “I shall at least be less conspicuous, don’t you think?”
“You damned well will,” John Moore agreed. “It’s what they call khaki, is it not, from the Persian word meaning dust?” He watched, his expression thoughtful, as Alex divested himself of his stable jacket and, with the deftness of long practice, donned the drab tunic, the right sleeve of which was already neatly pinned back to the elbow. “You’ve given me an idea. Our only alternatives are scarlet or white but white could be dyed, or, if that’s impossible because of lack of water, rolled in the dust of the entrenchment. White’s the most infernal colour to fight in, particularly at night, and if the Pandies do put a few sharp-shooters into those unfinished barrack blocks, they’ll pick my fellows off like flies. But if you’re ready, come and see for yourself.”
“Yes, I’m ready.” Alex exchanged a pith helmet for the tight-fitting shako he had just discarded and followed his guide towards the south-western wall of the entrenchment.
“Well, there they are, Alex my friend.” Halting to the right of one of the provision stores behind the quarter-guard building, Moore pointed to a line of red-brick barrack blocks which stood outside and at right angles to the perimeter wall. A sentry and two men with field telescopes were posted on the roof of the nearest which, Alex saw, was about three hundred yards from where they stood.
