by V. A. Stuart
On the Nana’s personal instructions, the unfortunate young officer was nailed to planks laid on the ground and had his ears, nose, toes and fingers hacked off. Thus, bleeding and in agony, he was left in the full glare and heat of the sun and it was not until further painful mutilations had been inflicted on him the following day that, at long last, death released him from his torment. Men of the Light Cavalry cut his body to pieces with their sabres and his remains were left there, unburied, as a warning to others who might attempt to dispute the Nana’s will or threaten his life.
The evening after the massacre, the Nana held a review of his troops on the plain close by the Savada Koti. To the beat of drums and the firing of salutes—plainly audible to the unhappy women captives—he was formally proclaimed Peishwa of the Mahrattas. The sacred mark was affixed to his forehead; he reappointed his brother, Bala Bhat, governor-general of Cawnpore and Jwala Pershad was made commander-in-chief and, after speeches praising his army for their courage in gaining victory over the British, he promised them a lac of rupees as reward and retired to his tent. The imprisoned women, hearing this, wept …
On the third day of their incarceration, a native doctor was sent to minister to the wounded; they were given clean clothes and their diet was improved, but cholera had now broken out among them and five of those saved from the Suttee Chowra Ghat died. The survivors from Edward Vibart’s boat, all wounded and almost starving, were dragged roughly from the jolting bullock carts outside the prison and the women ordered to go inside. The men, with seventeen others captured on the Oudh shore by the irregular cavalry, were told by Teeka Singh that they had been condemned to death. The one-time rissaldar turned a deaf ear to the pleas of some of his sowars to spare the life of their paymaster, Captain Seppings; the wounded captain was permitted to read a brief prayer and then, with the young wife of the Light Cavalry surgeon, Dr Boyes, clinging so frantically to her husband that her hands could not be prised loose, the execution was brutally carried out by sepoys of the 1st Native Infantry.
The rest of the women were driven at musket point into the misery of the Savada Koti, their tears evoking only derision from their captors. Next day the Nana broke up his camp and took up residence in the Old Cawnpore Hotel in the Civil Lines, close to the Assembly Rooms. The women and children, now numbering 122, were taken to a yellow-painted brick building thirty yards from the hotel. It was flat-roofed and comprised two main rooms, each about twenty feet by ten feet, with four dark closets at the corners, less than ten feet square. The doors and windows—with the exception of the entrance—were secured by wooden bars and, in the walled courtyard which surrounded it, a heavy guard of sepoys was posted.
The house, built originally by a British officer for his native mistress, was known as the Bibigarh—the House of Women—and had previously been used by a native clerk employed in the medical department.
With the addition of some forty more women and children— a second party of fugitives from Fategarh, who had endeavoured to make their escape by river and other captives, brought in from the city and surrounding districts—there were over two hundred Europeans in the small, yellow-painted House of the Women and it had become unpleasantly overcrowded. In the airless heat of July, without punkas or adequate sanitation and with only straw for bedding, the hapless women suffered the worst torment most of them had yet had to endure. All had been bereaved, many had seen their loved ones butchered in front of them; they did not know for what purpose the Nana was holding them prisoner and, as each day dawned, they feared that an order might come for their execution. Rescue seemed to them now an impossibility; they no longer dared even to hope that the relief column, for which they had waited so long, might be on its way to them from Allahabad or Calcutta.
True, they were fed; the native doctor did all in his power for them, and they had the services of a bhisti and a sweeper; but the woman from the Nana’s household, Hosainee Khanurn—ayah to his courtesan, Adala—who had been put in charge of them, told them nothing. She hinted that any who might wish to join the Nana’s harem would be well treated but, beyond this, she offered them little hope of release. They lived with fear; death or the fear of death was always with them, and the sepoy guards, squatting under the moulsaree tree in the compound or smoking their hookahs beside the well, smiled at them mockingly when they begged to be told whether they were to live or die.
Many, tried beyond endurance, lay on the matting-covered floor and prayed for death; one of them, although no whisper of her fate reached them, had already found release in the only way left to her. Amelia Wheeler, the general’s young daughter, had been taken from the Suttee Chowra Ghat by a sowar of the 2nd Native Cavalry, Ali Khan, and hidden in a house in the bazaar. It was his intention to convert her to the Mohammedan faith and take her as one of his wives but she proved obstinate in her refusal to forsake her own religion. Returning one night, fortified by bhang and accompanied by two of his comrades, Ali Khan attempted to break down her resistance.
Amelia, proud daughter of a sepoy general, took out the pistol her father had given her, days before, in the entrenchment. She had not been able to put it to the purpose for which her father had intended it—her mother and sister had been butchered in their boat—but now she snatched the weapon from the bosom of her dress. It contained six shots, her father had said; she used five of them on her tormentors and the sixth, as her father had told her she must, she reserved for herself, her hand quite steady as she depressed the trigger.
Alex left the ruined bungalow of an indigo planter, in which he had spent the night of 29th June, mounted the sowar’s horse and, with a pale, watery sun to guide him, set his face in the direction of Allahabad.
He rode for eleven days, at times drenched by heavy rain, at others mercilessly burned by a blazing sun. He took an indirect route, through villages within sight of the river and by rutted bullock tracks, which meandered aimlessly through cultivated fields, sometimes travelling in a circle, in order to avoid concentrations of troops and occasionally, in the hope of meeting the British relief column, along parts of the Grand Trunk Road.
Had he been in his normal senses, he would have been more cautious but the odd, carefree indifference to danger he had felt on recovering consciousness at the temple ghat persisted; he rode without fear of molestation and no one attempted to molest him. In India, among the unlettered peasants, a strange, wary respect is paid to madness and, to the villagers, who gave him food—and even to some of the native troops he encountered—it was evident that the tall jemadar, with the hideously scarred face and light, staring eyes, was far gone in madness. Frequently, indeed, he was; talking to himself and to the gallant beast that carried him, memory returning in jumbled flashes and then vanishing again, so that even his own identity occasionally eluded him and he had no idea for what purpose he was travelling. He knew only that he was under orders to make contact with a column commanded by Colonel Neill—a column of the Madras Fusiliers, believed to be marching from Allahabad—and that it was important that he find them. But when, on the evening of the eleventh day of his long journey, he met a patrol of irregular cavalry spread out across an open plain and was fired on, he did not suppose them to be British and his first impulse was to endeavour to escape.
They swiftly surrounded him, however, and when the officer in charge of the patrol rode up, pistol in hand, he realised thankfully that his journey was over. The stern order, in English and then repeated in Hindustani, woke a latent echo in his bemused brain and he answered, an authoritative note in his voice, in English, “All right, my friend—put your pistol away—I’m a British officer. Are you from Colonel Neill’s column?”
“From the advance column—Major Renaud’s, sir. Colonel Neill is in Allahabad, but General Havelock’s force is following us.” The cavalry commander, after a momentary hesitation, holstered his pistol and motioned to his sowars to rein back. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Palliser and asked, “May I know your name, sir, and where you’re from?”
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Alex’s hesitation was also momentary. “My name is Sheridan, brevet lieutenant-colonel, late Third Light Cavalry … and I’m from Cawnpore. That is to say, I—”
“Cawnpore, sir?” Palliser stared at him in stunned surprise. “We heard that the garrison had fallen—that General Wheeler had surrendered and that you’d all been wiped out. The reports came from native informants, of course, and some of them were conflicting, but we heard there’d been a massacre and …” he recovered himself. “I’d better take you to Major Renaud at once. He’s anxious for reliable news and so, I feel sure, is the general. We’re expecting him to rendezvous with us here in the next day or two.”
“General Havelock, did you say?” Alex questioned.
“Yes, sir. Government got him back post haste from Persia, I believe, to take command of the force which is to—I mean was to relieve Cawnpore. We’ll retake it, of course, and then I suppose push on to Lucknow.”
“Is Lucknow also under siege?”
Lieutenant Palliser turned his horse towards the river. He nodded. “Yes, since the 30th, we understand. The garrison made a sally to Chinhat and suffered a serious reverse. Sir Henry Lawrence commanded in person but he was deserted by his native cavalry and artillery and his force only just managed to fall back on the Residency. We heard a rumour that Sir Henry himself had been mortally wounded and then another, which claimed he was dead—but neither has been confirmed. It’s to be hoped that it’s not true.”
Indeed it was, Alex thought, another gap in his memory sadly filled. Palliser talked on as they rode back to the Fusiliers’ camp, but Alex scarcely heard him. The mists were closing about him again; his vision dimmed, then cleared, and dimmed again.
“We have four hundred Europeans—Blue Caps and 84th, sir— three hundred Sikhs and two guns, in addition to my detachment of cavalry, of whom there are a hundred. The rest of the Fusiliers have joined the general, apart from a detachment under Lieutenant Spurgin, about a hundred strong, who are coming up river by steamer in support. The main force consists of the 64th and the 78th Highlanders, and two hundred of the 84th, with Captain Maude’s horse battery and a very small detachment of volunteer cavalry, under Captain Barrow. The arm we’re shortest of is cavalry and, of course, transport has been a problem. We—”
“What delayed Colonel Neill for so long in Allahabad?” Alex asked abruptly.
“Delayed him, sir?” Palliser sounded at once surprised and faintly indignant. “Why, mutiny—in both Benares and Allahabad. Colonel Neill had to restore order before he could move. He’d only just done so in Benares when news came from Allahabad that the Sixth Native Infantry had risen and murdered most of their officers—the colonel and his Blue Caps marched seventy miles in three days, and only just arrived in time. The Pandies looted the Treasury of three lacs of rupees and were running riot, with the Europeans shut up in the Fort. But the colonel put it down, sir. He hanged hundreds of the swine and blew the rest from guns … to make an example of them. It was necessary, believe me, sir, and it worked. The Sikhs remained loyal and most of my chaps as well. But it took time, of course, because the whole area was in revolt and—”
Alex groaned, feeling his control slipping from him, as once again memory stirred and a vision of young Lieutenant Stirling’s face flashed into his mind. Stirling, with his field telescope, crouching twenty feet above Number Five Block, in what Mowbray Thomson had called his “crow’s nest,” scanning the Allahabad road for some sign of the relief column, for some sign that would give them hope. But Neill and his relief column, if Palliser were to be believed, had been hanging mutineers and blowing them from guns … he choked and the breath was strangled in his throat, the pain and confusion of his thoughts suddenly more than he could bear.
“Are you all right, sir?” his companion enquired anxiously. “You look as if … we’re just at the camp now, sir, and Major Renaud’s tent is only fifty yards from us.”
Alex did not answer him. He slid from the saddle and was unconscious when two sowars carried him into Major Renaud’s tent. The Fusilier major listened in silence to his cavalry commander’s report and sent for a surgeon.
“He’s apparently from Cawnpore, from General Wheeler’s garrison, Doctor,” he said, when the surgeon had completed his examination. “A lieutenant-colonel—brevet rank—named Sheridan, according to Palliser, and as you may imagine, I’m extremely anxious to hear his story. The general will be, too, I’m sure. How is the poor fellow, Dr Innes?”
“He ought to be dead,” the surgeon returned bluntly. “In all my experience—which is now considerable—I’ve never seen a man who was in such a state and still able to sit a horse, as he’s been doing for—how long? Ten days, more perhaps. I’m amazed that he could even give a rational account of himself to Palliser …but I fear he won’t be able to tell you anything more for several days. Possibly even a week.”
“A week? Oh, damn! You’re sure of that, I suppose?”
The doctor shrugged. “One cannot be sure of anything in a case like this, Major. The poor fellow has a sabre cut seven inches long across the head and face—the skull may be fractured and there could be serious brain injuries, I don’t know yet. He has a recently healed bullet wound in the right shoulder and he is very near to starvation, with all the complications that go with it—I tell you, it’s a wonder he’s alive! And I can tell you something else, too.”
“What’s that?” Renaud asked.
“That the reports concerning Wheeler’s garrison are probably true—they’ve been wiped out—if Colonel Sheridan’s physical state is anything to go by. But I’ll have him moved to the hospital tent and I’ll do my best to patch him up by the time the general gets here.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” Sydenham Renaud acknowledged. “Do the best you can. Because we’ll have a battle to fight within the next couple of days—though not before the general joins us, if I can help it. The Nana is said to have over three thousand troops at Fateport.” His expression hardened. “I’ve also had a report from a spy, who claims that two hundred women and children are being held captive in Cawnpore—British women and children, Dr Innes! Survivors of the garrison, one presumes … and one must also presume that the Nana intends to hold them as hostages.” He gestured towards the unconscious Alex. “The poor devil may be able to tell us if it’s true. If it is—”
The surgeon’s face drained of colour. “I understand,” he stated quietly. “As I said, I’ll do my best to restore him to his senses. At present his greatest need is sleep. But he seems to have a strong constitution—he may live, though I’m making no promises. When are you expecting the general, sir?”
“Tomorrow, God willing,” Renaud returned. He added grimly, “If the reports from Cawnpore are true, I can only regret I did not hang twice the number of blasted Pandies I left behind to point the way for General Havelock! The colonel’s right, you know—it’s the only way we’ll put down this rebellion. We’ve got to strike terror into their treacherous hearts.”
William Innes was silent. He had witnessed the reign of terror which the Fusiliers’ commanding officer had instigated in both Benares and Allahabad and he had seen the burning villages and the trees hung with corpses which had marked Renaud’s advance. It might, he thought wryly, have been better for the hard-pressed garrison of Cawnpore had both Neill and Renaud wasted less time on their summary executions, in order that relief might have reached General Wheeler before he was starved into submission. But, as a mere assistant-surgeon attached to Her Majesty’s 84th Regiment, it was not his place to criticise his military superiors—particularly those who were in the service of the Company and tended to resent criticism. Both Neill and Renaud were brave and experienced officers, who appeared to know what they were about … pray God that their assessment of the situation and their actions would be proved right. Dr Innes looked down at the scarred face of his new patient and then, his own face expressionless, he went to summon a doolie.
General Havelock’s force marched into Renaud
’s camp at Balindah the following evening, led by the pipes of the 78th Highlanders. They had marched through torrential rain and pitiless sun and were suffering badly from fatigue and exposure; nevertheless, on coming up with Renaud who had struck camp in readiness, the column continued without halting to a place called Khaga, about four miles from Futtehpore, which they reached soon after dawn. The long, slow-moving baggage train which followed in their wake did not arrive until long after the troops, and their dapper little brigadier-general—aware that his total force numbered only twelve hundred men, with eight guns— had hoped to permit them a day’s rest before leading them into battle. The Nana’s troops, however, elated by what they deemed their victory over General Wheeler at Cawnpore and imagining that only Renaud’s handful of men opposed them, were eager to do battle. Bringing two guns and a strong force of infantry forward, with cavalry on either flank, they drove back the small force of British cavalry reconnoitering under Colonel Tytler, and opened up a cannonade on Havelock’s front.
Havelock held them with a hundred Enfield riflemen of the Queen’s 64th until the rest of the men had finished their breakfast and then launched a counter-attack. With Maude’s guns in the centre, covered by skirmishers, and the rest of his infantry all armed with Enfields and deployed into line of quarter distance columns, he advanced, disconcerting the rebels with the range and accuracy of the Enfields. Maude’s bullock-drawn guns, skilfully handled by his veteran artillerymen, disabled those of the enemy and then, pushed boldly through a swamp to point-blank range on their right flank, opened so deadly a fire on them that they broke into precipitate flight, abandoning twelve guns and the town of Futtehpore to the swiftly advancing British. It was a battle fought with Enfield rifles and cannon and won, by Havelock’s tired and footsore soldiers, without the loss of a single man from enemy action. Pursuit was, unhappily, impossible since only Barrow’s eighteen volunteer cavalrymen were available. To the chagrin of Lieutenant Palliser, his irregulars had refused to charge against the mutineers and the general ordered them disarmed and sent back, on foot, to Neill at Allahabad. But the tide had turned for the British at last; the enemy had been ignominiously routed by an army of half their size, with heavy losses in guns and men and, only 48 miles ahead lay Cawnpore.
