Cawnpore & Lucknow

by Donald Richards

  About 400 miles to the north-west, another subaltern destined to win the Victoria Cross and eventually to become the most celebrated military figure of the Victorian age, sought out his kit for a hot-weather march, little thinking that he would never again return to Peshawar. Lieutenant Frederick Sleigh Roberts left his bungalow and everything in it, and made ready to join the movable column.

  Elsewhere, European families continued to enjoy the comfortable if dull routine to which they had become accustomed. A newspaper correspondent writing from Delhi a few days before the incident at Barrackpore, admitted: ‘as usual no news to give you. All quiet and dull.’ At Cawnpore, the ever-popular Nana Sahib was staging yet another lavish party for the British residents and officers of the station. Early May in Meerut brought the usual proliferation of sporting events and social activities to occupy the attention of most of the residents and it began to appear that the warning Hugh Gough had received was, if anything, ill founded. ‘There was little thought or apprehension of anything so serious as war breaking out,’ he wrote. ‘It was one of the pleasantest and most favourite stations in the Bengal Presidency.’

  The fact that such rumours had been dismissed as being absurd was not surprising as Meerut boasted the largest force of European infantry, cavalry and artillery of any establishment in India. Unhappily, for many of the unsuspecting residents, such assurance was shortly to be disabused in the most brutal fashion.

  Sunday, 10 May was a day of scorching heat and searing winds. Because of the heat, the evening service at the church of St John had been rearranged for 7.00 pm – a break with tradition that was undoubtedly welcomed by the ladies who would otherwise have been obliged to forfeit or cut short their siesta in order to complete their toilet and dress in the late afternoon. As she was dressing, an indication that the service might be interrupted was brought to the chaplain’s wife by a tearful ayah. Nervously, the Indian woman begged Mrs Rotton not to go to church that evening because of the danger of a disturbance by the sepoys. The chaplain, busy with putting the final touches to his sermon, at first shrugged off the warning. Meerut, after all, was a popular posting with a full complement of British troops, but in deference to his wife’s fears, he agreed that she and the children should be left in the care of the quarter guard provided by the 60th Rifles. It was a decision he was not to regret.

  The European families, as they climbed into their carriages or strolled leisurely through a field of sugar cane towards the church, found the peal of bells comforting. In the foetid streets of the native bazaar that same sound was audible to the sowars of the 3rd Light Cavalry as they angrily discussed the shackling and imprisonment of their fellow troopers. The men were bitterly resentful of the humiliation which had been heaped upon their comrades, but although seething with discontent and taunted by the prostitutes in the bazaar – ‘We have no kisses for cowards’ was their cry – they were not yet ready to take the irrevocable step of releasing the men in the jail.

  The trouble began when a sowar caught a glimpse of a detachment of the 60th Rifles falling in for church parade, and immediately rode for the native lines to spread a rumour that British troops were coming to relieve them of their arms. His report inflamed the already excited sepoys of the 11th and 20th NI who at once broke away from their assembly to run for their piled muskets intent upon releasing the eighty-five sowars and a motley collection of criminals from Meerut New Jail. The bond of loyalty to their British officers had been severed as had the religious differences between Muslim and Hindu in their shared interest of overthrowing British rule.

  By nightfall, Meerut had become a place of horror. Earlier, when Gough had stepped out on to his verandah, he had been appalled to see the horizon turn into a sea of flame. Galloping for the cavalry lines he found ‘a thousand sepoys dancing and leaping frantically about, calling and yelling to each other and blazing away with their muskets in all directions’.

  Gough barely escaped with his life. His friend MacNabb was not so fortunate.

  The ferocity and speed of the insurrection paralysed the senior British officers, many of whom were aged and confused, not having commanded men in action since their youth. The junior officers, Hugh Gough among them, tried to organize some resistance but without success, and the mutineers, followed by a mob from the bazaar, eventually departed for Delhi 40 miles to the south-west, unmolested by British troops.

  Daylight revealed the rows of burnt and blackened bungalows, a scene of bleak desolation, while in the streets of the Sudder Bazaar, many mutilated and scorched corpses bore grim testimony to the fury of the mob. The night’s horror had resulted in the deaths of some fifty European men, women and children. It also marked the beginning of a tragedy which would only end after more than a year’s bitter fighting and further savage atrocities. But as the troops set about the grim task of laying out the bodies of the murdered Europeans, 250 miles to the south-east at Cawnpore, some 800 Britons and Eurasians, largely unaware of the horrors that had taken place in Meerut, were undisturbed by rumour, confident that they enjoyed the protection of the Nana Sahib.

  Chapter 3

  MISPLACED CONFIDENCE

  Cawnpore, despite an unenviable reputation for its bazaars being the favoured resort of numerous thieves and hooligans, was a popular posting for the families of the European troops stationed in Oude, despite Caroline Lindsay’s less than favourable first impressions. Having sailed from England she had journeyed up-country with her mother Kate, brother George, and sisters Alice and Fanny from Calcutta in late October 1856.

  Still homesick for England, the eighteen year old made no attempt to disguise her disappointment when writing to her Aunt Jane in Rochester. ‘The station is a very ugly one and dreadfully scattered. It is a distance of fully six miles from one end of the cantonment to the other and by no means pretty or inviting to look at … I have often and often wished I could be transported back to England to all my friends.’ Despite the allure of dinner parties and the occasional ball, like her sister Caroline, Alice too pined for the home they had left behind, and in a letter to their Aunt Jane she begged for news by return: ‘and give an account of yourself. Do you still go to Mrs Webster’s to be tortured?’ she wondered. ‘I hope you had a merry Christmas. I suppose it will be over by the time you get this letter’. It was, of course, and tragically had she but known it, Alice’s young life was also drawing to a close.

  With the prospect of cooler weather, Caroline, Alice and Fanny were at last able to put aside their feelings of nostalgia, for the European quarter between the town and the river had many facilities for social activity. Amateur theatricals were popular with both Europeans and Eurasians. There was a racquets court, a library, a race course marked out by ‘inverted pots of whitewashed crockery’, a bandstand, together with regular dinner parties and dances in the spacious assembly rooms at which the Lindsay sisters were much in demand. Lieutenant Moorsom, in spite of his criticism of the regimental ball, where he found the ‘floor very bad and the dancers fewer and not so good as those in Lucknow’, he was more than pleased to dance ‘some polkas and a Lancer’s’ with Alice and Caroline Lindsay.

  Among its buildings Cawnpore boasted a church, whose tall white steeple rising above the surrounding trees was a recognized landmark, and if the town lacked the imposing architecture of Delhi, the broad expanse of the Ganges – almost 3 miles wide when in flood – was used by vessels of every shape and size carrying merchandise to places as far away as Calcutta 1,000 miles downstream.

  About 13 miles to the north-west lay the town of Bithur. From 1819 the palace there had been the residence of the Peshwa Baji Rao, a Mahratta ruler who, following a defeat by the army of Brigadier General Sir John Malcom in June 1818, lived in considerable opulence on a pension of eight lakhs of rupees – equivalent to £80,000 – per annum. It had been a generous settlement by the East India Company who, given the Peshwa’s dissolute lifestyle, could not have expected him to live beyond middle age. In fact Baji Rao II confounded them all by dy
ing in 1851 at the ripe old age of seventy-six and with his death the pension terminated in accordance with Dalhousie’s ‘doctrine of lapse’ which allowed the Governor General to take over the estate of a Hindu prince who had no natural heir.

  According to Hindu belief, it was necessary for a son to perform the funeral rites in order to prevent his father’s soul from hell after death and propitiate the souls of his ancestors. In the case of a Hindu having no male issue, Hindu law recognized an adopted son for that purpose. Therefore in 1827, with his astrologer’s approval, Baji Rao took two young men as his adopted sons: Nana Govind Dondhu Pant, who took the household title of Nana Sahib, and Sadashur Rao, popularly known as Dada Sahib.

  Nana Sahib was about thirty-six years old at the time of the Peshwa’s death. A rather stout, pale-faced Brahmin, he enjoyed the reputation of being a much sort after benefactor and host, patronized by officers and memsahibs alike. John Lang had enjoyed the Nana’s hospitality in his palace at Bithur a year before the Mutiny, and thought him ‘not a man of ability but not a fool’. If Nana Sahib nursed a grievance against the Company for refusing to grant him part of his adoptive father’s pension, he took care not to reveal it. A limited knowledge of English did not inhibit him from entertaining favoured Western visitors and he frequently gave parties which became the talk of Cawnpore.

  The Nana seems to have shown a particular interest in the game of billiards. John Lang joined him in a game during his stay in Bithur and was impressed. ‘I am not a bad billiard player,’ he wrote, ‘but it was quite evident to me that he suffered me to beat him as easily as I did, simply out of what he considered to be politeness.’ Although outwardly a strict Hindu, Nana Sahib made no demands upon his guests in the matter of religion. Confessed Lang: ‘If I preferred beef to any other kind of meat I had only to give the order.’ In the interests of his host’s religious belief, however, Lang was careful to request a vegetarian dish, although he was convinced that the Nana drank brandy and smoked hemp.

  Despite his apparent good relationship with the British community, Dalhousie’s refusal to grant him the right to use the title of Maharajah, or to allow him a salute of guns – an honour Baji Rao II enjoyed up to his death – was undoubtedly a source of vexation to the Nana, who in 1854 had lodged an appeal, only for Dalhousie to dismiss it out of hand. Undeterred by this rebuff the Nana, who dared not take the risk of polluting his caste by crossing the ocean, decided to send a trusted agent to present his case to the East India Company’s Board of Control in London, or even petition Parliament itself.

  The emissary chosen by Nana Sahib was a clever young man who as a child had been educated at the Cawnpore Free School, and after becoming a house steward in the Nana’s service had risen rapidly to the position of a valued advisor. Azimulla Khan was undoubtedly gifted, possessing an extensive knowledge of both French and English. He was, according to Mowbray Thomson, able to converse, read and write fluently in both languages. Well supplied with money, Azimulla Khan set off for England with two companions, Raja Piraji and Mohamed Ali Khan, but when the ship eventually docked at Southampton, only two of them strode down the gangway. Raja Piraji, having succumbed to illness, had been buried at sea.

  Azimulla’s handsome appearance and polished manners charmed many ladies in London society, but singularly failed to win the favour of the Board of Directors with the Nana’s petition, and the two Indians left England in June 1855 with their mission unfulfilled. Despite the Nana’s insistence that commitments to his father’s pensioners had left him in reduced circumstances, it was a claim many would have found difficult to credit having visited his palace. As the visitor’s gaze took in the sumptuous furnishings and tapestries, and as his feet sank into the luxurious carpets laid across the floors, he might be forgiven for believing that the Nana’s pension from the Government was more than adequate.

  Maharajah Dhondu Pant seldom left his palace in Bithur but in April 1857, accompanied by Azimullah, he paid a brief visit to Lucknow where he saw the Financial Commissioner, Martin Gubbins. The impression he made upon that worthy was less than favourable:

  His manner was arrogant and presuming. To make a show of dignity and importance, he brought six or seven followers with him into the room, for whom chairs were demanded. He appeared to be of middle age and height, and, as Hindoos of rank generally are in India, corpulent. Mahrattas of pure descent are usually fair in complexion, but the Nana is darker than they generally are.

  Nana Sahib fared better in his dealings with the Commissioner for Oudh. Sir Henry Lawrence received him cordially and requested ‘the authorities of the city to show him every attention’. The Nana, however, for reasons best known to himself, cut short his visit protesting that his presence in Cawnpore was urgently required. This excuse did not satisfy Martin Gubbins who suspected that he had used the occasion to secretly conspire with other discontented princes. He thought the Nana’s conduct to be highly suspicious and with the approval of the High Commissioner, immediately conveyed his fears to Major General Sir Hugh Wheeler, the officer commanding the Cawnpore garrison. Wheeler, whose Indian wife was of the same caste as that of the Nana, and who had always found him to be agreeable, refused to believe that either he or his armed retainers posed a threat to the garrison. In fact, so confident was Wheeler of obtaining the Nana’s co-operation in the event of trouble with the sepoys, that he invited him to take over the protection of the Treasury 5 miles away at Nawabganj, using the Nana’s own household troops.

  Since the late eighteenth century, when Cawnpore had been chosen as the base for an advanced British garrison by Warren Hastings, the town’s importance as a military station had fallen away and now, although still the military headquarters of the Bengal Presidency by virtue of the Grand Trunk Road which ran past its barracks, Cawnpore could not boast of a single British Army regiment. The 32nd of Foot was at Lucknow, and Cawnpore’s military strength of 3,300 was made up largely of native troops from the 1st, 53rd and 56th NI, the 2nd Light Cavalry and a company of artillerymen. The only European troops available to General Wheeler were seventy-four invalids from the 32nd of Foot, sixty men of the 84th of Foot, fifteen men from the Madras Fusiliers and fifty-nine artillerymen. These, together with the British officers of the native regiments, brought the total number of Europeans to less than 300.

  The officer commanding, Major General Sir Hugh Massey Wheeler, was a slightly built Irishman who, despite his sixty-eight years, carried himself as erect as any young soldier. He had served with native troops in India for more than fifty years and had led the 48th NI with distinction in the Afghan campaign. No one had a greater affection, or a firmer belief in the loyalty of his troops, than Sir Hugh Massey Wheeler.

  In April, a party of rebellious troops from the disbanded 19th NI passed through the town spreading tales of the controversial cartridges, and it did not escape the notice of the more suspicious British residents that the malcontents were lavishly entertained by the Nana. When news of the mutinies which had overwhelmed Meerut and Delhi reached Cawnpore on 14 May it created little apprehension among the Europeans perhaps because of the distance involved – Meerut was almost 300 miles from Cawnpore – but the excitement in the ranks of the sepoys and among the native traders in the bazaar, grew appreciably. Several of the Eurasian merchants were sufficiently alarmed to arrange for boats to carry their families to Allahabad.

  Despite the rising tension in the native quarters, Wheeler’s trust in the Nana’s integrity remained unshaken. The wife of at least one high-ranking officer on his staff shared his confidence. In a letter to her sister in England, Mrs Emma Sophia Ewart wrote on 18 May:

  My dearest Fanny. We are in the midst of surprising events. You will learn a great deal from the papers I dare say. As yet we are quiet here and the native troops have shown no disaffection at this place … people here are for the most part in great terror, but my husband thinks needlessly so. The General, Sir Hugh Wheeler, is on the qui vive, and is said to be equal to the difficulties of his positi
on: cool and determined … If this storm blows over, the events will at least open the eyes of the Government to the necessity of keeping a stronger European force in this country.

  Mrs Kate Lindsay who had recently arrived in India with her family, was not so easily comforted. ‘Oh Jane,’ she wrote on 19 May, ‘such a day … I hope never to pass again … Willie [Major Lindsay] said I must go with the girls & he was anxious for Lilly to go with me [to Calcutta] and also Mrs Bissel.’

  Kate Lindsay’s fears were assuaged somewhat when later that day, the telegraph reported that the rebels had marched on Delhi. Major Lindsay reassured his sister by telling her that Queen’s troops were marching on Cawnpore as fast as they could. ‘This gave me a more cheering feeling,’ she continued, ‘and we all went to church at ½ past 6 in the evening, and I think we all felt our minds calmed and comforted, and trusted in God, who is a good God, wd [sic] not quite forsake us.’

  General Wheeler, despite the reports from Meerut, never wavered in his view that providing the Europeans and Eurasians – some 800 in a native population of 150, 000 – remained calm, the sepoys in Cawnpore would in all probability not mutiny. Nevertheless he was sympathetic to the fears of the civilians and should the worst happen, the General made it known that shelter would be provided in two barracks south of the canal currently used by the invalids and families of the 32nd of Foot. In the event of a mutiny, he pointed out, it was to be hoped that the sepoys would follow the example set by the Meerut rebels and immediately depart for Delhi. A telegram Wheeler sent to the Governor General in Calcutta on 18 May certainly reflected the confidence he felt: ‘All well at Cawnpore … the insurgents can only be about 3,000 in number, and are said to cling to the walls of Delhi, where they have put up a puppet king. Calm and expert policy will soon reassure the public mind … the plague is, in truth, stayed.’