When the leading files had closed to within 80 yards, the bayonets came down and the sight of these terrifying, bearded, kilted, screaming banshees, utterly demoralized the mutineers who broke and fled. The 64th, not to be outdone, captured a howitzer that had been particularly destructive, and went on to overrun the village, sending more rebels scurrying to the rear. As the sound of firing died away and the Highlanders congratulated each other, a 24-pound shot screamed through the air, bringing the celebration to a premature end. The heavy iron ball hit the ground and skipped along on its lethal passage before rising to take the head off a Highlander close by General Havelock. In an attempt to reassure his horrified comrades, who were wiping his blood and brains from their tunics, the General observed, ‘His had been a happy life, for he had died in the service of his country.’
An anonymous voice broke the silence. ‘For mysel’, Sir, gin ye’ve nae objection, I wad sunner bide alive i’ the service o’ ma cuntra.’ The guffaw which followed this remark most surely eased the tension.
Half hidden in the rolling clouds of smoke, the rebels could be seen frantically preparing the powder charges with which to destroy the bridge. A worried Havelock, knowing that if they were successful his advance on Cawnpore would be delayed by several days, roused his men to one last effort. From a position which enfiladed the enemy the Fusiliers poured such a heavy fire upon the demolition party that the charge was detonated prematurely – the parapet was shattered but the span remained intact. ‘General Havelock, who had just had his horse shot from under him, now appeared boldly riding a hack,’ noted Major North, ‘the only man who dared to raise his head – so close and thick was the fire.’
The 62-year-old General, popularly known as ‘Holy Havelock’ from his long white hair and rigid Baptist views, sensed that a crisis in the battle had arrived. Turning his back on the enemy fire, he addressed the powder-blackened veterans of the 64th in his high, shrill voice. ‘The longer you look at it, men, the less you will like it! The brigade will advance – left battalion leading.’ The 2/64th of Foot responded with a rousing cheer which emphasized the fact that their enthusiasm had not been dulled by fatigue or losses, as round shot and grape from the enemy guns began to take effect.
‘The enemy sent round shot into our ranks, until we were within 300 yards,’ wrote Havelock in his official report, ‘and then poured in grape with such precision and determination as I have seldom witnessed.’
‘Every regiment had its hands full,’ remembered Lieutenant Swanston. ‘The enemy had taken up several different positions, so that as fast as two guns were taken from them, we found two more open on us from another direction.’
For a few moments the outcome of the battle hung in the balance when Maude’s field guns, galloping to the aid of the infantry, became bogged down in the soft sand. ‘If the Nana’s cavalry who were close to us had possessed one atom of dash,’ he admitted, ‘they could have taken the whole of our eight guns at that moment without losing a dozen men.’
A prompt response to the threat of enemy artillery fire could often minimize its effect, as Ensign Pearson was quick to point out in a letter to his parents in a far from convincing attempt to reassure them. ‘For the first 400 yards of our advance if we threw ourselves down directly we heard the report we were in time to let most of it go over us,’ wrote the young officer. ‘But as we approached the gun of course the shot reached us sooner, and if we were not on our faces as the gunner applied his match, we were too late.’
Prominent in the assault against the gunners had been the General’s son, and in an act which surely merited his award of the Victoria Cross, Harry Marsham Havelock deliberately drove his horse at the muzzle of a huge brass cannon moments before it erupted in a deadly discharge of grape. Men each side of Havelock stumbled and fell, but miraculously he survived unscathed, and with a shout of triumph the Redcoats he led carried the position at the point of the bayonet. ‘The 84th gave out this awful yell,’ reported Ensign Pearson, ‘screeched out the word “Cawnpore!” and rushed like madmen at the gun.’
The remorseless advance of the British infantry which presented an unbroken line of naked steel, unnerved the mutineers and their fire became ever more erratic. Maude’s guns had now arrived upon the scene and the shrapnel which burst over the sepoys’ position from four of the field guns only added to their discomfort. When the leading battalion of the 64th, ‘red in the face from the exertion of running fully laden’, poured in several volleys of musketry before coming on with the bayonet, Nana Sahib’s men broke and fled. The Nana could be seen riding to and fro trying to rally his men, but to no avail, and without waiting to see the end of the battle, he left, bitter in the knowledge that his brief reign as Peshwa was almost over.
The Nana’s return to Cawnpore was noted by Nanak Chand. ‘It became now a little dark when news came that Nana was coming running back, and this turned out to be true,’ he wrote. ‘The man I sent to see told me that Nana was standing haggard in looks and soaked in perspiration … mounted on a chestnut horse, accompanied by Maratha sowars. If even fifty British soldiers had arrived there he would have been caught; Nana rode away at a rapid pace for Bithoor.’
Havelock’s troops had followed at a more leisurely pace until they reached the outskirts of Cawnpore, where they halted to bivouac for the night on the open plain. ‘We bivouacked as we stood,’ remembered William Swanston. ‘All our baggage, food and everything of that sort, were 5 miles behind. We had nothing to eat and a very little dirty water to drink, but we were all so tired that we were glad to lie down as we were, and sleep with our horses’ bridles in our hands.’
‘We had neither tents, rations, nor grog,’ confirmed Charles North, ‘but we had the commendation of our General and the glowing terms in which he addressed us, proved how truly he appreciated our ardour.’ One other person who had good reason to express his relief at the news of Havelock’s success was William Jonah Shepherd. Released from his jail with numerous other prisoners by a jailer who no longer believed in victory for the Nana, Shepherd now stood on the open plain near the abandoned lines of the 56th NI. In the early dawn light, he saw ‘an immense army, as it appeared at dawn, covering the whole of the low ground in front … Can these be the rebel sepoys?’ he wondered. Then, as the appearance of the soldiers became more distinct, he saw to his relief that they were British and stumbled towards them holding his chains aloft and crying hoarsely, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah! Thanks be to God, I am saved … I am saved!’ but the tale he related to his saviours was so dreadful that it horrified and dismayed every one of his listeners.
The extensive gardens of the Old Cawnpore Hotel resounded to angry voices as the Nana’s lieutenants argued as to the best course of action. Some suggested a retreat to Bithur, whilst others were in favour of contesting the British once again on the Grand Trunk Road before Cawnpore. ‘If it were not for the rescue of the women and children in confinement, the soldiers would not rush on with such impetuosity,’ a voice was heard to say. It was then that Azimullah offered a piece of advice to the Nana which was to bear heavily on the fate of the four men and 206 women and children confined in the Bibigarh. ‘Kill the maimes and baba logues and inform the English of it – you will find the Europeans will be discouraged and go back.’ The Nana listened and was impressed – with no prisoners to free, the British would have no reason for advancing on Cawnpore.
The decision to kill the captives quickly became known to the women of the Nana’s seraglio where many of them vehemently protested, even to the extent of threatening to throw themselves from the windows should any further murders be committed, none of which seemed to concern Hussaini Khanum, a favourite of the Nana. She was a tall, fair woman, aged about thirty, with a persona so imperious that she was known to the others as the Begum. She took a delight in humiliating the captive memsahibs as much as possible. Only one bhisti, or water carrier, was allowed to service the needs of the women; consequently there was never enough water and many of the captives were oblige
d to cut off each other’s hair to avoid an infestation of lice.
On the 15th, shortly after Bala Rao had returned to announce the defeat at the Pandu river, the male prisoners were brought out from the Bibigarh with their arms pinioned. Little ceremony seems to have been accorded to this ragged group for at the gate which opened from the compound they were met by a levelled row of muskets, and the shots which so alarmed the ladies in the Bibigarh ended the life of Mr Thornhill, a judge from Fategarh, Colonels Smith and Goldie, and the late Edward Greenway’s fourteen-year-old son.
Within the hour the women too learned that they were to be shot. The chilling news was broken to them by Hussaini Khanum, and received with some scepticism by many who were convinced that the sepoys were too much in dread of the sahibs’ vengeance ever to consider raising their muskets against the female prisoners.
‘Are we all to be murdered?’ the wife of Captain Moore asked Yousef Khan, the guard commander. The jemadar shook his head. His men would never accept orders from a woman of the harem. Frustrated by the jemadar’s refusal to comply with her instructions, the Begum then went off in search of a person of authority, returning with Tatya Tope, who threatened to have the sepoys shot if they did not carry out the Begum’s order. Reluctantly the jemadar led his men to the double doors which the women had vainly tried to secure, and they were wrenched open.
The women refused the order to come out, and linked arms and waists to frustrate the sepoys’ half-hearted attempt to pull them out. One woman had opened a book of prayer and began to recite from a passage in the Litany: ‘From our enemies defend us, Oh Christ’. This incident can be presumed if not verified from the fact that Mowbray Thomson later found a prayer book sprinkled with blood and lying open at that page, ‘where,’ he wrote, ‘I have but little doubt those poor dear creatures sought and found consolation, in that beautiful supplication.’
When the sepoys appeared at the windows and door with levelled muskets, the screaming women and children rushed frantically for the courtyard to seek the cover afforded by the columns and the one tree growing there, but the crush was too great and most managed only to crowd together against the verandah or crouch helplessly on the courtyard floor. At Yousef Khan’s command twenty sepoys fired a volley into the crowd of women and children killing and wounding many, but when a second group of sepoys moved in to complete the executions, perhaps sickened by the sight, and disturbed by the hysterical cries of the women, they refused to obey the order from Tatya Tope. This infuriated the Begum who went in search of others who would not share the sepoys’ scruples.
Darkness had descended on that July evening when she returned with five men. Four were clad in the loose cotton dress favoured by the Hindustan peasant, whilst the fifth wore the red uniform of the Nana’s personal bodyguard. All were carrying tulwars and several bore aloft a flaming torch. A bystander noted that the one in uniform was a half-caste with ‘hair on his hands’. The shrieks of terror which greeted the men as they carefully closed the door before beginning the slaughter were clearly heard by the townsfolk outside, crowding close to the walls.
The full horror of the work can only be imagined, but William Shepherd was later told by a villager; ‘Some of the helpless creatures in their death agony fell down at the feet of their murderers, clasped their legs and begged in the most pitiful manner to spare their lives, but to no purpose.’ Twice, apparently, the man in uniform emerged from the Bibigarh to obtain a sword, having perhaps broken the previous one in a misplaced swipe against a wall or column.
A thin haze obscured the moon when after little more than an hour, the five men, their arms and clothes heavily coated with blood, emerged for the last time, as the Begum waited to lock the door behind them. The awestruck crowd of townspeople could no longer hear the cries and screams which had previously chilled their blood, but just as disturbing was a macabre sound as of individuals dragging themselves across the floor, and a low moaning ‘which continued through the night’.
Early the next morning the five murderers returned with several low-caste sweepers to begin the task of removing the bodies from the Bibigarh for disposal in a nearby well 9 feet wide by 50 feet deep. A native witness testified:
The bodies were dragged out, mostly by the hair of the head. Those who had clothes worth taking were stripped. Some of the women were alive. I cannot say how many, but three could speak. They prayed for the sake of God that an end might be put to their sufferings. Yes, there was a great crowd looking on. Yes, there were also sepoys. Three boys were alive. They were fair children. The eldest I think, must have been six or seven and the youngest five years. They were running around the well and there was none to save them. No, none said a word or tried to save them.
After the children had been killed the crowd of spectators began to disperse and by midday the only living persons in the vicinity of the Bibigarh were the three sweepers who had been detailed to remove those corpses which had not been cast into the well, for disposal in the Ganges.
In the city, news that the British were closing on Cawnpore, together with the knowledge that the prisoners in the Bibighar had been murdered, drove the townspeople into a state close to hysteria. Even those merchants who remained loyal to the Company left their homes to flee from the advancing British column. Nanak Chand, who had occasionally advised the merchants on legal matters, asked one citizen why he was abandoning his home. Because, the merchant replied, the British ‘would spare nobody in their desire to avenge the massacre at Cawnpore’.
‘I thought to myself, this must be true,’ wrote Nanak Chand. ‘At a time like this the British were not likely to distinguish between friend and foe,’ and with this disturbing thought he hurried back to his home in the city.
In the early hours of Friday, 17 July, a detachment of the 84th, powder stained and coated with the dust and sweat of battle, reached Wheeler’s old cantonment. Later that day Havelock’s men took possession of the stables and for the first time in three weeks the entrenchment resounded to the clamour of British troops, including the 93rd Highlanders. Sergeant William Forbes-Mitchell, looking at what remained of Wheeler’s entrenchment, wondered how so small a force could have held out for so long. John Sherer, whilst not in disagreement, thought that:
Wheeler’s entrenchment, which seemed so miserable when we came to look at it, proved really enough for what he was guarding against, namely, the confusion incident on an outbreak. But the advisors of the Nana induced him to send messengers after the sepoys, and offer them ample monetary remuniation if they would return. They did return, and all the world knows with what result.
Forbes-Mitchell inspected the ruins of the barrack blocks with mixed feelings. ‘In the rooms of the building were still lying strewn about the remains of articles of women’s and children’s clothing, broken toys, torn picture books, pieces of music, etc.,’ he wrote. Also picked up was a New Testament printed in Gaelic, which Forbes-Mitchell decided to keep as a relic of the Mutiny.
There were many interested visitors to the town, prominent among whom was Mowbray Thomson, who discovered that the natives who remained had erected all manner of signs to establish their innocence. ‘This house belongs to Mokerjea, very loyal subject,’ proclaimed one, ‘please do not molest.’ In furtherance of these pleas, John Sherer was asked to endorse a number of talismans designed to protect the occupant from the wrath of the British soldier. ‘Fortunately for all parties,’ commented the magistrate, ‘Atkins was not permitted to roam into the city, and my talismans were never put to the test.’
William Shepherd, who had ridden in with the 84th, wrote:
The entire population was so panic stricken that, leaving house and property, every man that had a hand in the rebellion took to his heels. People deserted their families on the way to escape with their own lives. From noon till midnight nothing but immense mobs were seen rushing away as fast as possible towards the west, some crossed over to Lucknow from Bithoor ghat. Others went towards Delhi, and the most part of the city p
eople hid themselves in the neighbouring villages when they were nicely robbed by the zemindars.
Despite Sherer’s assertion that the bazaar and streets of Cawnpore were prohibited to the British soldier, Tommy Atkins was nevertheless able to partake of the available plunder. ‘Cawnpore is crammed full of every description of liquor from champagne to bottled beer,’ a sergeant of the 84th regiment confided to a friend in England. ‘Shawls, tulwars, gold embroidered coats, and rich elephant trappings were sold in our camp for a few rupees.’ Order was soon restored, as the same NCO made abundantly clear when writing a few days later. ‘We have a Provost Sergeant and his Staff here now, and they would hang a European if they found him plundering or give him a dozen on the spot if they caught him half-a-mile from his camp. But as for a native,’ he added, ‘it is quite a common thing to have a few swung up every day. The least thing will do it.’
Chapter 8
RETRIBUTION
Captain Ayton’s company of the 85th, to which William Shepherd had attached himself, passed the splintered trees, the charred remains of the European bungalows and the battered walls of the barrack buildings, and were astonished by the devastation around them. Everything that had once been familiar to them had been destroyed – even much of the Church of St John lay in ruins, and Wheeler’s old entrenchment had evidently been used by the natives ‘as a cloaca maxima,’ reported by Russell of The Times. ‘The smells are revolting,’ he added.
As Captain Ayton and Lieutenant Moorsom neared the compound, they were joined by Lieutenant McCrae and a group of Highlanders. As yet unaware of the horrors that had taken place the day before, their attention was drawn to the Bibighar by two villagers who approached them hesitantly exhibiting every sign of apprehension, pointing to the Bibighar and whispering, ‘Sahib! Sahib!’ As Ayton and McCrae dismounted and walked over the flattened grass towards the double doors, they were conscious of a repulsive odour which grew stronger with every step. William Shepherd watched as McCrae put his shoulder to the door which creaked open. Almost immediately, the officer staggered back, his boots slippery with blood. Sick with apprehension, Shepherd asked him whether the room contained any bodies. McCrae, his face ashen, shook his head in mute stupefaction.
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