Cawnpore & Lucknow

by Donald Richards

  No one had seen fit to warn the women and for a few terrifying moments many thought that a mine had exploded and that the sepoys had forced their way in. ‘We were awoke by the most horrible explosion … it shattered every bit of glass in the house,’ wrote Mrs Maria Germon. ‘There were four doors to our tye khana, half glass, and the concussion covered us with the glass and shook one of the doors off its hinges, I believe we all thought our last hour was come.’

  In the Begum Kothi, bricks and mortar fell from the ceiling and so thick was the fog of brick dust that when Mrs Brydon lit a candle the occupants of the room were barely able to recognize each other. ‘It was such a tremendous shock that we all sprang up not knowing what had happened,’ she wrote. ‘The poor little children were screaming in terror.’

  Early the next morning, a shout from outside the Baillie Guard Gate brought the duty guard to its feet. ‘Arragh, be Jasus. Open the gate.’ The sentries rubbed their eyes and burst into roars of laughter for, standing before them, was the naked and powder-blackened figure of the missing soldier, leading a pair of bullocks and an empty cart. Blown in the air and regaining consciousness to find himself alone, he had resumed his drunken slumber before coming to his senses and making his way to the Residency. His had been an experience guaranteed to have persuaded most alcoholics to a vow of total abstinence, but true to character, the Irishman lost no time in celebrating his miraculous escape with several glasses of grog.

  The hilarity which greeted his return was soon to be overshadowed by an event which plunged the whole community into the deepest gloom. From his room in an upper storey, Sir Henry Lawrence enjoyed a wide field of view over the rebel positions. Even so, his was a position of some danger, particularly vulnerable to the enemy’s artillery. A shell from the 8-inch howitzer captured by the rebels at Chinhat smashed through a window later that day as Sir Henry conversed with his secretary, fortunately without exploding, but nevertheless serving as a timely warning to the Commissioner that it would be advisable to change his quarters.

  On the morning of 2 July Captain Wilson reminded him of his earlier promise to move to a safer part of the building, and was assured by Sir Henry that he had not forgotten but would rest for an hour before doing so. It was a fateful decision for as he rested on his bed another shell from the same howitzer exploded just after 8.00 am, filling the room with dust and smoke. Wilson was thrown to the floor. He lay there stunned for a few moments and then, rising to his feet, he called, ‘Sir Henry! Sir Henry! Are you hurt?’ There followed an ominous silence and Wilson called twice more before a low voice answered him:‘I am killed.’ When the smoke cleared Wilson could see that the Commissioner’s injury was indeed a frightful one. A fragment of shell had smashed the upper part of his thigh and fractured his pelvis. When Sir Henry Lawrence was removed to another room it was discovered that little could be done other than to apply a tourniquet. Both Doctors Fayrer and Hadow realized that the wound was mortal and when the Commissioner asked how long he had, Dr Fayrer replied with brutal honesty, ‘Forty-eight hours, Sir.’ The forecast proved remarkably accurate for Sir Henry died quietly at 8 o’clock on the morning of 4 July. He was buried that night in a shallow grave, as were several gunners who had been killed during the day.

  When news of his death became generally known, even the most insensitive redcoat felt that he had lost a friend. ‘His death cast a great shadow over the garrison, and at such a time was most depressing to all concerned,’ observed Ensign Ruggles. ‘His uprightness, unselfishness, and genial affectionate nature made us all feel that we had indeed lost a friend, and that in time of great need.’

  Sir Henry Lawrence had inspired widespread confidence, but with his demise many began to question whether it had been right to attempt to defend a perimeter of more than a mile with a force of little more than 1,700, of which only 780 were professional soldiers. The defence ring around the Residency comprised a number of fortified houses, linked by mud walls and trenches taking the form of an irregular pentagon divided into seventeen posts, each having its own commander and a compliment of thirty British troops, plus civilian volunteers and sepoys who had remained loyal to the Company. Of the seventeen redoubts, the Redan battery mounting two 18-pounders and one 9-pounder was the most important and this was manned entirely by British soldiers under the command of Lieutenant Samuel Lawrence, the nephew of the late Commissioner. Facing the river, his battery overlooked the one area thought to be the most likely for a rebel mass attack. On the east face of the perimeter, next to the Water Gate, was the hospital and a battery of three mortars, and almost adjoining it the Baillie Guard Gate which had once been the grand entrance to the Residency. Here, Lieutenant Aitken of the 13th NI had charge of two 9-pounders and a howitzer. This section of the perimeter was close to the walled gardens and houses occupied by the mutineers, which in some instances were no more than 25 yards from the Residency; having loopholed the garden walls, they were eventually to make use of them to sink mine shafts unseen by the defenders.

  Fortunately, the boundary wall facing the rebel position was a solid affair with several fortified houses possessing flat, castellated roofs. One was the property of Dr Fayrer, another was used by Martin Gubbins as an office and was commanded by Captain Saunders of the 13th NI. Among other notable buildings was the Brigade Mess, the high roof of which afforded an unobstructed field of fire for the marksmen among the community. In command here was Colonel Master of the 7th Light Cavalry, popularly known as ‘the Admiral’ from his habit of climbing to the uppermost part of the gabled roof and hailing the men in the surrounding posts.

  Most exposed of all was the post commanded by Lieutenant Innes of the Engineers. Sited on a spur of high ground slightly proud of the main defence line, this single-storey house was overlooked by several buildings which had not been demolished and were now occupied by the rebels. Despite this shortcoming, Innes’ command was important from its value as an observation post and as such was protected by a battery sited near the church, and by the heavy guns of the Redan.

  Given that at least 8,000 mutineers were ranged against them, numbers which were increasing with each passing day, the defenders could not afford to relax their vigilance for an instant. Duty spells were of necessity continuous and the garrison of a post were rarely able to leave their position except at night when provisions were brought to them. In these circumstances rank could not exercise its usual privilege and guard duties were shared equally between officers and men. Should a person be fortunate enough to snatch a few hours of broken sleep, it was always in his clothes and with a loaded musket at his side. There were few instances of relief and the posts were rarely visited by a superior officer, save for an occasional inspection by Brigadier Inglis or a member of his staff.

  Although each garrison was separated from its neighbour, the symbol of the Union flag floating above the Residency tower inspired every Englishman with a pride in his nationality and a determination to defend it with his life. The flag became an obvious target for the rebels and its halyards were frequently cut by musket shots, but it was lowered each day at sunset and the torn cloth patched. When the sun rose the following day, the first object to meet the enemy’s eye would be this infuriating emblem of the British Raj hanging from a splintered flagpole.

  When he lay dying, Sir Henry Lawrence – much to the chagrin of the Financial Commissioner, Martin Gubbins – had appointed Major Banks, the Commander of the Lucknow Division, to succeed him, and he quickly restored order to the Residency area. The Commissariat bullocks, some of which, crazed with thirst, had stumbled about and fallen into the wells, were securely penned, and numerous horses, many of which had chewed the tails of their neighbours to assuage their hunger, were now safely picketed.

  In the early days of the siege the rebels had kept up a constant musketry rather than making extensive use of artillery to breach the walls, and this had accounted for most of the fifteen casualties per day in the first week. Warnings of potential rebel assaults were frequent,
and on these occasions, wrote Mrs Bartrum, ‘there would come the cry of all lights out; the children would cry at being in the dark and the women would be trembling in fear lest the enemy attack proved successful and the sepoys should get in.’ The dreadful consequence of such an event provoked frequent discussions among them as to the legitimacy of suicide. Mrs Adelaide Case observed:

  Some of the ladies keep laudanum and prussic acid near them. I can scarcely think it right to have recourse to such intent, it appears to me that all we have to do is to endeavour, as far as we can, to be prepared for our own death, and leave the rest in the hands of Him who knows what is best for us.

  A few of the more spirited ladies however, chose to demonstrate their defiance by remaining on the balcony verandah and singing popular songs.

  Often it was the innocent who suffered the consequence of neglecting to seek shelter in the event of enemy activity. Mrs Bartrum, standing at the door of the Begum Kothi, smiled at a little girl playing with a spent musket ball. As she watched her at play, Katherine Bartrum was reminded of her own happy childhood. Then, as she was lost in thought, there came the sound of a musket shot and before Katherine’s horrified gaze, the child’s head was reduced to a bloody pulp from the impact of the heavy lead ball. The shock to Mrs Bartrum was so great that she collapsed in a faint and, as she later confessed: ‘I could never afterwards think of that poor child without a shudder.’

  Prominent among the rebel snipers was an African employee of the ex-King of Oude, who seldom failed to send a ball through the head of his selected target. So deadly was his aim that he earned for himself the soubriquet of ‘Bob the Nailer’. His accustomed post was a turreted two-storey house across the street from the Cawnpore battery, and this commanding position gave the African a good view of Lieutenant Anderson’s redoubt, which was sufficient cause for the defenders to single the African out for special attention. Shells lobbed into the building proved ineffectual and in a determined sortie against the house by the redcoats of the 32nd, he escaped the fate of most of his comrades. Not until many weeks later, when a mine was exploded beneath the African’s chosen post, did the rebels’ most effective sharpshooter meet his end in a singularly spectacular fashion.

  The second week of the siege saw a noticeable reduction in the number of casualties from gunshot wounds. The soldiers and civilian volunteers were learning from experience the safest way to move between posts and were exercising a great deal of caution. But, although battle casualties had been reduced, the chance of contracting one of the many virulent fevers endemic to India was just as great and removal to the hospital, whether due to sickness or enemy action, was perhaps one of the community’s greatest fears.

  On 29 June, the group of women in the Begum Kothi suffered their first loss. ‘A sudden blow has fallen upon us, the first of our little band has been taken away’ ‘wrote Mrs Bartrum. ‘Poor Mrs Hale died today.’ Before the incident of the little girl, Katherine Bartrum had never encountered death in any shape or form, but, as she subsequently confessed, ‘mixed with feelings of sadness’, came the thought that ‘perhaps Mrs Hale was to be envied in that her sufferings were over’. In the weeks that followed the death of Mrs Hale, cholera, that scourge of the Victorian Age, was to strike with increasing frequency. Minor ailments were common and whilst not life threatening, were nevertheless an irritant. Mrs Germon wrote in early July of her health problems. ‘Got up feeling wretched, my face is becoming covered with boils, but hardly anyone is without them.’

  ‘About this time death began to be busy in our quarters,’ confessed Mrs Huxham. ‘Mrs Wells first lost her baby. Mrs Clarke died in the Begum Kothi, followed by both her children; Mrs Bruere’s baby succumbed to fever; but my two children continued in pretty good health till the 24th July, when my baby was attacked by dysentery.’ Mrs Huxham’s baby was to die in the early hours of Sunday, 9 August.

  The long Banqueting Hall in the Residency was now in use as a sick bay and although resistant against the impact of cannon balls, it was not considered safe. Since all the windows had been barricaded against sniper activity, the general atmosphere was stifling and the occasional blast of hot air from an open door merely added to the oppressive sultriness. There were few beds and practically no change of linen. The patients lay on makeshift mattresses in rows along the floor, or on sofas, more often than not tormented by swarms of flies. L.E.R. Rees paid a visit to the hospital in mid July and was appalled by the ‘squalor and disagreeable, foetid smell which pervaded the long hall of the sick … Everywhere cries of agony were heard,’ he wrote, ‘piteous exclamations for water or assistance.’

  Ensign Ruggles was another deeply effected by what he observed. ‘The distress among the wounded in hospital was most pitiable. They were terribly crowded; comforts were almost unobtainable; most of the invalid diet had been used. Needless to say great mortality was the result, even among those slightly wounded, gangrene being frequently one of the causes.’

  The women did what they could for the sick, moving among them with dressings and iced water, and none worked harder than Mrs Emily Polehampton, the wife of an English pastor, who so impressed a sergeant of the 32nd of Foot that he felt justified in pointing out that ‘any history of the defence of Lucknow would be incomplete if it did not contain a mention of that noble hearted woman, Mrs Polehampton.’

  Following his visit to the hospital, Rees seems to have left with an unfavourable impression of the nursing, but since antiseptics and an effective anaesthetic had yet to be discovered, he was perhaps being unfair on the hard-working staff when he wrote: ‘as practised by the garrison’s surgeons, it is a law in medical science that death follows amputation as sure as night follows day.’

  The deaths certainly could not be blamed on a lack of concern for the patients, for as William Swanston was quick to point out: ‘Everything that could be done by the Medical Officers was done; but without medicines, or means of any sort, it was hard to fight against disease.’

  With no sweepers to empty the latrines, the stench from these and the carcases of animals decomposing in the heat hung over the compound as a nauseous vapour. On occasion the garrison was forced to go to extraordinary lengths to remove injured animals from the vicinity of their outposts.

  When his horse broke a leg, Captain Anderson, with the help of several loyal sepoys, risked his life by crawling outside the post and by dint of pulling on the head rope and pricking the animal’s rump with a bayonet, forced the unfortunate beast to hop on three legs outside the entrenchment. Despite every effort of the fatigue parties to remove them, many putrid carcases could not be reached and the noxious smell was certainly a factor affecting the health of women and children, already weakened from the effects of a diet which, according to Mr Rees, had been reduced to ‘an abomination which a Spartan dog would turn up his nose at’. Commenting on the shortage of supplies, Mrs Case admitted: ‘Money has ceased to be of any value, and people are giving unheard of prices for stores of any kind.’

  Although an attack had yet to be pressed home in a determined fashion by the rebels, numerous false alarms were having a disturbing affect on the beleaguered garrison, and the prolonged cries and screams from the nearby bazaar were certainly an irritant to the redcoats in Captain Anderson’s post.‘I say, Bill, I’m blowed if these’ere budmashes don’t yell like so many cats,’ was a typical remark from a long-suffering redcoat.

  ‘Gawd,’ow they do,’ came the reply from his comrade, ‘and I only wishes that I was behind’em with a tin pot of bilin water as they opens their bleedin’ mouths.’

  Another soldier of the 32nd, driven frantic by the incessant noise from a mutineer’s tin whistle, was heard to say, ‘I only wish I’ad’old of the black rascal as plays that. I’d not kill the vagabond, I’d only break that infernal hinstrument over the bridge of’is nose.’

  The rebel’s reluctance to mount an attack against the Residency was not a charge that could be levelled against their artillery and Anderson’s post became such a fa
voured target that before long only the lower storey remained habitable. Captain Anderson found that he had to share one of the few remaining rooms with an Eurasian merchant and his wife who were overfond of the bottle. The husband invariably retired the worse for drink, whilst his wife took the opportunity to boast of the number of men who had made love to her before she had reached the age of forty. ‘Had she remained,’ wrote Anderson, ‘she would probably have made every Seik desert from us, by reason of her gloomy conversation.’ The Captain, who no doubt held the strict moral views of many early Victorians, deemed her quite disgusting.

  On 8 July a rare assault on the Baillie Guard and the Cawn-pore Battery was successfully repelled, despite the fact that many of the defenders were the worse for drink. An adjacent cellar in use as a wine store had been broken into despite the owner’s precautions, and his last bottles of brandy and champagne had quickly disappeared. It was no consolation to Rees’s friend, Mr Dupret, whose cellar it was, to discover that the clarets and Haute Sauternes had been ignored.

  Drunkenness was an ever-present problem, sometimes leading to a heated exchange between officers and other ranks. Lieutenant McCabe, who had the reputation of being something of a disciplinarian, had occasion to reprimand a sentry for failing to challenge him. ‘Why the devil didn’t you challenge me?’ he demanded of the Irish soldier.

  ‘Because I knew it was you, sir, and that you would be coming this way.’

  ‘You should have fired, sir. You are not supposed to know anyone outside your post, especially at night, sir’.

  ‘Then be Jasus,’ the angry sentry replied, ‘the next time you come the same way at night I will accommodate you. I will shoot you right enough!’