Cawnpore & Lucknow

by Donald Richards

  Now that the period of uncertainty was over, work on the defences of the outbuildings commenced with an urgency which perhaps had previously been lacking. Captain R.F. Anderson of the 25th NI pulled down the garden wall of his house on the Cawnpore road which might have afforded shelter to rebels, and in its place dug a ditch with pointed bamboos at the bottom, and a wooden stockade. Even the contents of library shelves had their uses as Martin Gubbins, the Financial Commissioner, was to discover when a volume of Lardner’s Encyclopedia stopped a musket ball in 128 pages.

  Sir Henry was careful to ensure the safe passage of refugees by employing Sikh cavalry to patrol the roads around Lucknow, a measure which enabled families fleeing the rebels to reach the Residency in ever-increasing numbers.

  Spread over an area of some 30 acres, the Residency site was certainly of a size to accommodate the flood of refugees. The building itself had ample living space in three storeys of lofty apartments, wide verandahs and high windows. It was well supplied with water and was not overlooked at all by buildings housing the mutineers.

  Few of the original residents had given thought to the upheaval likely to accompany such an influx of refugees, and even those who had been obliged to leave the familiar comfort of their own home met a scene of utter confusion. Having survived a four-day journey from Gouda with a party of seven ladies, twelve children and four officers, Mrs Katherine Bartrum arrived on 9 June with little more than the clothes she wore, only to find that she was to share a room in the Begum Koti – ‘a most uninviting looking place, so dirty’ – with fifteen other women and children. Separated from her doctor husband and ignorant of what had become of him, the 23-year-old girl from Somerset found herself among strangers too concerned with problems of their own to pay much attention to her and the baby. ‘We had to endure intense heat, mosquitoes and flies in swarms,’ she complained. ‘How great a change after the comforts of our own homes! And at the same time how great was our anxiety concerning the fate of our husbands.’

  Like many of the refugees, the unaccustomed change to communal living was far from welcome. Mrs Adelaide Case felt compelled to enter her diary with the observation: ‘There is not one hole or corner where one can enjoy an instant’s privacy. The coming and going, the talking, the bustle and noise, inside as well as outside, the constant alarming reports, and at times the depressed expression on some of the countenances baffle all description.’ She discovered one compensation, however, for as she freely admitted:

  The view from the top of the Residency is truly beyond description, and in the early morning when the sun begins to shine on the gilded mosques and minarets and towers, it is like a fairy scene. The whole of this vast city spread out before one, and on all sides surrounded by beautiful parks and magnificent trees, forms a panorama which it would be difficult to see equalled in any other part of the world.

  As the days passed, the work of turning the Residency into a fortress continued at a feverish pace. Buildings skirting the outer defence works were half demolished to form a barrier against the impact of artillery fire, and where streets crossed the Residency boundary, barricades were erected. Mrs Huxham noted:

  We could see from our balconies the work of destruction going on around, for many handsome buildings and gateways surrounding the Residency were pulled down, so as to avoid giving our enemies commanding positions from which to open fire upon us in case of coming to close quarters with them. The trees and shrubs were dug up by the roots, the gardens destroyed, and treasure and ammunition buried in their place … even large empty beer casks were filled with sand and put up as a sort of protection to do duty as walls … Sir Henry Lawrence would sometimes go into the town outside the Residency in disguise to see how the work was progressing. He seemed to take no rest, actuated as he was by a high sense of his responsibility, and he won the love and admiration of all, high and low.

  On 6 June news reached them of the mutiny at Cawnpore. The sufferings of that unfortunate garrison, and the fact that Lucknow could offer no assistance, cast an air of gloom over the whole community. When Sir Henry Lawrence heard of the massacre on the evening of the 28th, he realized that his own ordeal was merely a matter of days away.

  Rebels in Oudh had been increasing in number and, mindful of the fact that a party had already reached Chinhat just 8 miles away, Martin Gubbins, the opinionated Financial Commissioner, repeatedly urged Sir Henry to sally out in strength to disperse them. He would not take ‘no’ for an answer, going so far as to suggest that ‘we shall be branded at the bar of history as cowards.’ Eventually, Lawrence much against his better judgement, agreed to mount an operation, which he hoped might confuse the rebels and delay an attack against the Residency.

  On 29 June, a 600-strong column comprising 300 men of the 32nd of Foot, 230 loyal native troops, 100 Sikhs and a small detachment of volunteer cavalry, supported by ten guns and an 18-inch howitzer drawn by an elephant, was put into a state of readiness for a dawn march the next morning. From its inception the expedition proved to be an unmitigated disaster. Lack of staff planning meant that the sun was already high in the sky before the march commenced and, since food had not been prepared, the troops marched on empty stomachs. In the absence of breakfast, many of the Europeans had indulged rather too freely in liquor and it was with throbbing heads that many tramped along in a sullen frame of mind with the sun shining directly in their faces.

  ‘We were given to understand that there were only 5,000 of the enemy,’ lamented Henry Metcalfe, ‘but we found out our mistake when we got [nearer] … However our hopes were strong and we thought we could thrash all before us, but we were sadly taken in.’

  Some 3 miles into the march a halt was made whilst Sir Henry Lawrence and his staff rode ahead to reconnoitre. On the way, a group of merchants were encountered who, when questioned, told them that the rebels had fallen back leaving only an advance guard in a nearby village. Sir Henry, who was concerned about his men’s fatigued condition, considered returning to the Residency, but a majority of his officers were in favour of continuing the advance and the column set off once more, covered by the cavalry, with the artillery rumbling along in the rear. It was then that matters deteriorated rapidly for the native water carriers, perhaps sensing the presence of mutineers in the grove of trees ahead, deserted with this precious commodity, and the small force of Europeans had not proceeded very much further before it came under a heavy fire of musketry. Lieutenant Ludlow-Smith explained in a letter to his father:

  The Europeans were dreadfully distressed and done up by the heat. We had scarcely formed up when the enemy opened fire. Their first round shot passed over those in front and just missed us in the rear … the next hit one of the native artillerymen … the scene that took place then amongst this native artillery is indescribable. They rushed their guns off the road down the side which like the side of all the roads in India, was a mass of scoops, hollows and holes, out of which mud has been taken to make the road. It had rained so you can imagine what a condition the place was in.

  The rebel force, led by a skilful General Barhat Ahmed, was in considerable strength – 5,500 infantry supported by ten guns – but, undeterred, the men of the 32nd quickly deployed to bring their own artillery into action and a fierce exchange of gunfire began. The first British shell, fired from a range of 1,300 yards, burst above the heads of the enemy gunners and was quickly followed by others equally destructive. The rebel sepoys began to move off the road and for a moment it appeared that they might even be retiring. Rees, who rode with the column as a volunteer, had no doubts and when Captain Wilson came riding up crying, ‘That’s it! There they go, keep it up!’ he quite thought the day was won. In fact, the mutineers were merely changing front and although the howitzer, christened by the men of the 32nd as ‘Turk’, continued to tear great gaps in the enemy’s ranks, it was the beginning of the end for Lawrence’s punitive column.

  An attack by the 32nd on the village of Ishmailganj petered out when Colonel William Case fell mor
tally wounded; weakened by hunger and suffering severely from the heat, his men refused to advance any further, merely lying down in the long grass to begin an exchange of musketry. The native artillerymen with Lawrence, seeing the strength of the opposition, cut the horses traces and deserted to the enemy; even the elephant which had been pulling the howitzer was driven off by its mahout. Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun, Rees saw that the plain between Ishmailganj and Chinhat was ‘one moving mass of men … the flanks covered with a foam of skirmishers, the light puffs of smoke from their muskets floating from every ravine and bunch of grass in our front’.

  The enforced retreat of Lawrence’s column soon took on the appearance of a rout as, buoyed by their success, the mutineers attacked on both flanks. A few loyal sepoys and the more determined of the 32nd stood their ground with powder- blackened faces and throats parched from biting the ends off cartridges, but their stand was little more than an impotent gesture and beneath a hail of grape and canister the survivors fell back in confusion. ‘Throughout the whole affair there had been mismanagement and mistakes,’ wrote Ludlow-Smith, ‘and now with the retreat, these were increased ten fold … We had no earthly means of carrying them away [the wounded] and saw them cut up under our eyes.’

  The few who refused to retire were seen ‘fighting like bulldogs held at bay’. Those with flesh wounds were able to grasp a stirrup, some were laid across gun limbers, whilst others were removed on the backs of loyal sepoys, but for the rest left on the field, observed Rees, ‘none asked for mercy, for none expected it.’

  In full pursuit came the main body of the enemy, including a strong detachment of rebel horse who at one time threatened to cut Lawrence’s line of retreat. They were clearly visible to the Calcutta merchant, who was astonished to see they were commanded by a ‘handsome looking man, well built, fair, about twenty-five years of age, with light mustachios, and wearing the undress uniform of a European cavalry officer, with a blue and gold laced cap on his head’. Rees later recalled that a Russian had been arrested and then released just before the outbreak of unrest in Lucknow.

  Possession of the bridge at Kokrail was essential and Sir Henry, with remarkable presence of mind, ordered one of the few remaining guns to be unlimbered and hauled to the middle of the bridge with a gunner standing over it, a lighted portfire in his hand although there was neither powder nor shot for the cannon. The ruse had its desired effect and whilst the mutineers held back fearing a discharge of grape, a squadron of volunteer cavalry rallied immediately to the trumpet call of Captain Radcliffe. Without a moment’s hesitation, thirty-six horsemen set spurs to their mounts and dashed for the bridge as two rebel 9-pounders belched flame and smoke. As the round shot whirred harmlessly over their heads, the shrill notes of a bugle sounded the ‘charge’ and the group of volunteers, sabres flashing in the sun, broke from a gallop into a charge. Astonishingly, the rebel cavalry made no attempt to engage the oncoming horsemen but turned away and the infantry’s line of retreat was secured. The men of the 32nd, too exhausted even to load their muskets, retired from the bridge as best they could, leaving the road strewn with the bodies of their fallen comrades.

  This defeat and the losses suffered by his column troubled Sir Henry greatly. ‘My God! My God!’ a soldier heard him exclaim. ‘And I brought them to this.’

  Meanwhile, those in the Residency, as yet unaware of the debacle, continued to work at a pace. Men sweated over their charges or directed native prisoners and coolies in the work of demolition to create improved fields of fire. Then, as rumour of the disaster at Chinhat began to circulate, the natives began to steal away, taking with them the tools of their trade. Half an hour after the first group of redcoats had begun to stream into the Residency grounds, there was scarcely a native to be seen in the confines of the entrenchment. Henry Polehampton, who had seen the column march out of Lucknow, witnessed their return. ‘By about 12 o’clock the whole of the remains of our small force had come in,’ he noted in his diary, ‘hard pressed by the enemy who had taken two howitzers and one 9-pounder. Colonel Case, Captain Stevens, Lieutenant Brackenbury and about 112 noncommissioned officers and men were left on the field.’

  The return of the Chinhat expedition added to the despondency of the refugees quartered in the Residency. Mrs Julia Inglis, although suffering from an attack of smallpox, left her bed to peer out of a window. ‘They [the soldiers] were struggling in by twos and threes, some riding, some on guns, some supported by their comrades,’ she observed. ‘All seemed thoroughly exhausted, I could see the flashes of the muskets, and on the opposite side of the river could distinguish large bodies of the enemy through the trees.’

  A little later Mrs Case entered the room. ‘Oh, Mrs Inglis, go to bed,’ she urged. ‘I have just heard that Colonel Inglis and William are both safe.’

  ‘A few minutes afterwards John came in,’ continued Mrs Inglis. ‘He was crying; and after kissing me, turned to Mrs Case and said, “Poor Case!” Never shall I forget the shock his words gave me, or the cry of agony from the poor widow.’

  Around the compound the women did their best to alleviate the suffering of the wounded, moving about them anxiously with fans and jars of iced water, ‘for up to that time we had a good supply of ice,’ explained Mrs Huxham, ‘and this refreshed them in their exhausted condition’. As the last of the redcoats limped over the iron bridge, those mutineers who were not looting the bazaar could be seen through the trees, closing in on the Residency. Before the day was over they had taken possession of the houses surrounding the entrenchment and had begun work on the construction of gun emplacements. As night fell, watch fires were to be seen on every side. The siege of Lucknow had begun.

  Chapter 10

  BATTLE FOR THE RESIDENCY

  On 1 July an intensive bombardment by rebel artillery began, using every kind of missile from conventional round shot to bundles of telegraph wire. One of the first fortified posts to be targeted by the rebels was captain R.P. Anderson’s house on the Cawnpore road, when a round shot carried away one of its stone pillars and brought down the verandah, burying a volunteer – a Mr Capper – under 6 feet of masonry and timber. As the dust settled, a faint voice could be heard crying, ‘I’m alive! Get me out! Give me air, for God’s sake.’

  It seemed to his rescuers, obliged to lie on their stomachs to avoid flying fragments of iron and stone, that the task was beyond them and the feelings of most was reflected in the view of one sweating civilian when he muttered, ‘It’s impossible to save him’ as he struggled to shift a heavy piece of masonry. Capper’s indignant reply came in a tone of sharp reproof: ‘Nonsense! You damn well try.’

  Fortunately for him, a beam had come down in such a way as to support most of the debris and after an hour’s strenuous labour under a hail of musketry, a dazed but grateful volunteer was freed from what might otherwise have become his tomb, ‘suffering merely from bruises and feeling a little faint’.

  Darkness brought an end to the enemy’s fire but although the night was relatively peaceful the stifling humidity brought little rest to the families with young children. The heat in the crowded rooms was almost unbearable and did much to add to the children’s fretfulness. When at last they fell asleep, Mrs Bartrum admitted: ‘We used to gather round a chair which formed our tea table sitting on the bedside, and drinking our tea by the light of a candle which was stuck in a bottle, that being our only candlestick, and then we talked together of bye-gone days, of happy homes in England where our childhood had been spent.’

  Daylight saw the resumption of the shelling and later that morning a determined rush by the rebels against the Water Gate which was only repulsed with difficulty. Again it was the women who suffered most from the uncertainty. Confined to their quarters, very often a cellar devoid of natural light, the noise of exploding shells, the rattle of musketry and the shouts of the combatants must have been little short of terrifying. Many, like Mrs Case mourning the death of her husband, sought refuge in prayer and for her
at least ‘the soothing effect of communing with God’ brought comfort which eased her mind and made her feel a ‘different person’.

  The loss in manpower following the fateful encounter at Chinhat had meant that the defence perimeter around the Residency was now desperately in need of volunteers to man it, and it was decided to send for the garrison of the Machi Bhawan to make good the shortfall. Messages to and from the old fort had ceased with the desertion of the native runners, and it was not until a primitive semaphore had been constructed and operated from the Residency roof that instructions could be conveyed to Colonel Palmer in charge of the garrison. The signal was short and to the point: ‘Spike the guns well. Blow up the fort and retire at midnight.’

  At precisely that hour, when many of the rebels were fully engaged in plundering the city, a twenty-minute fuse was laid to the magazine and Colonel Palmer led his men out of the fort accompanied by a procession of carts bearing the sick and wounded, and the women and children of the garrison, on the three quarters of a mile journey to the Residency. It was completed in just fifteen minutes without a shot being fired and with only one absentee – a drunken Irishman of the 32nd who, having fallen asleep in a quiet corner, could not be found when the roll call was completed. As the last of the garrison passed through the Baillie Guard Gate, 240 barrels of gunpowder and 594,000 cartridges erupted with a thunderous roar which shook the Residency building to its foundations and spread a pall of dense smoke over the area. ‘An immense black cloud enveloped even us in the Residency – darkness covering a bright starry firmament,’ observed the Calcutta merchant. ‘The shock resembled an earthquake.’

  ‘The enemy thought they had done it by their incessant firing of shot and shell,’ commented Private Metcalfe, ‘and they gave such a yell of triumph that you would have thought, with Shakespeare, that hell had become uninhabited and that all the demons were transferred to Lucknow.’