Cawnpore & Lucknow

by Donald Richards

  That day had been intensely hot and the dust stirred up by the slow-moving column was at times so dense that as Mrs Brydon noted, ‘even to see the children in your arms’ was scarcely possible. It was difficult to obtain even the bare modicum of food, for every village on their route had been deserted by the inhabitants who feared the ill humour of the redcoats, and it was not long before Mrs Brydon’s small store of edibles was reduced to ‘some carrots and a little sugar candy’.

  Adelaide Case wrote:

  We left the Alumbagh at half past ten o’clock and had a most tedious day’s march. I think we were one hour and a half sitting in the carriages without moving. To imagine the sight of so many hackeries, camels, carriages of all kinds, riders, camp followers, is quite impossible. The whole column was nine miles in length. The name of the place where we are encamped tonight I do not know, but it is about nine miles from Allumbagh. Even getting over that short distance took us more than seven hours.

  Each halt had been plagued with a swarm of flies and such was the disorganization that although there was no shortage of tents, many of the evacuees were obliged to sleep in the open, with no protection from the elements.

  Meanwhile, at the Residency, having heard nothing from General Windham by 27 November, Sir Colin Campbell became increasingly concerned about the bridge of boats across the Ganges. The 93rd were drawn up on parade and Campbell explained to the men that in the event of the bridge falling into the hands of the rebels, they would be cut off in Oudh, with the responsibility of protecting the women and children against an army of mutineers in their rear and to their front. ‘So, Ninety Third,’ he concluded, ‘I don’t ask you to undertake this forced march in your present tired condition, without good reason. We must reach Cawnpore tonight at all costs.’

  Leaving the task of maintaining a watch on the Lucknow mutineers to Sir James Ourtram at the Sikanderbagh, Sir Colin Campbell had been among the last to leave the Residency, and in negotiating a particularly rough piece of ground on the arm of Lieutenant Gordon Alexander, he suddenly asked him, ‘Well, young man, what’s your opinion of the move?’

  Taken by surprise, the subaltern answered, ‘I don’t understand it, sir, but it looks as if we are running away.’

  ‘Of course we are,’ replied the General, adding, ‘but il faut reculer pour mieux sauter!’ and roared with laughter at his own joke.

  About 40 miles to the south-west, preparations were being made to lodge the Lucknow refugees in the compound of the old Cawnpore Hotel. Furniture, crockery and other domestic items thought necessary to their well-being were being collected from the bazaars, and a score of tents were pitched for the accommodation of the women and children. The Assembly Rooms were made ready, servants were taken on and consideration was being given to hiring a number of vehicles to meet the column as it neared Cawnpore. In the midst of all this activity, the forced march which had begun early on the morning of the 27th was having a deleterious effect upon Corporal William Forbes-Mitchell’s physical well-being. After eighteen days of continuous duty without the opportunity of a bath or a change of clothing – even a change of socks – had exhausted the young Highlander as he freely admitted: ‘I shall never forget the misery of that march. However, we reached the sands on the banks of the Ganges, on the Oude side of the river opposite Cawnpore, just as the sun was setting, having covered the forty-seven miles under thirty hours.’

  As the weary troops covered mile after mile in dogged determination, the faint noise of artillery had grown from ‘a sound of distant thunder’ to an intensity which caused an anxious General Campbell to urge the men to make even greater exertions. With typical Gaelic phlegm, Forbes-Mitchell sought to make light of it. ‘There is nothing to rouse tired soldiers like a good cannonade in front,’ he confessed. ‘It is the best tonic out.’

  The fact that Windham had been hard pressed at Mangalwar was readily apparent from the spiralling columns of smoke rising from the battered township, but to Campbell, who had earlier received a note from Windham urging his assistance, the sight of an undamaged bridge of boats across the Ganges was one of unsurpassed relief. After a forced march of 28 miles, Campbell’s ‘exhausted men and officers, having had nothing to eat except those who were lucky enough to bring something with them’ – wrote Major Bingham – finally reached Cawnpore on 18 November. News which undoubtedly lifted his spirits was shortly to greet him, for Major Bingham was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel on 20 December.

  Chapter 13

  THE FALL OF LUCKNOW

  The long winding procession of refugees, carriages, hackeries, doolies and bullock-drawn carts had been left far behind by General Campbell, but now, as the column continued its slow progress towards Cawnpore, Mrs Brydon’s sense of anticipation was heightened by the sound of firing and the sight of ‘smoke rising in many places’. She was further encouraged from being told that the bridge of boats would soon be reached.

  At length, ten days after vacating the Residency, the weary women and children, and the sick, crossed the bridge of boats from the Oudh side of the Ganges, to be confronted by the grim sight of Wheeler’s old entrenchment with its background of smoke-blackened walls, charred timbers and the stumps of once leafy trees. ‘Those few houses in cantonments that had escaped hitherto,’ wrote William Shepherd, ‘were on this occasion reduced to ashes.’

  ‘Nothing,’ in the opinion of Mrs Adelaide Case, ‘could look more wretched and miserable than this dreadful place as we came in by the light of the moon. The station of Cawnpore, once so familiar, was a desolation.’

  Mrs Georgina Harris evidently shared this view when she entered in her diary the observation:

  I never saw such a sad scene of desolation as this station. There is not a house left standing; it is enough to make one cry to look at the blackened ruins of what once were beautiful bungalows, and then to think of the awful fate of all those who so lately inhabited them – a fate too which we so narrowly escaped.

  Despite the general air of gloom, for one member of Windham’s garrison there was cause for celebration. Among the last of the refugees to cross ‘was my friend Lieutenant Delafosse,’ exclaimed Mowbray Thomson, ‘reduced to a most emaciated condition from the continued effects of fever and dysentery.’

  Over the next few days the Lucknow survivors were given time to recover from their experiences whilst arrangements were made for the final stage of the journey to Allahabad. On 3 December they left with a small escort, much to the relief of Sir Colin Campbell who was now able to devote the whole of his attention to the overthrow of Tatya Tope and Bala Rao. Three days later, he struck.

  Earlier in his attempt to relieve the Lucknow garrison, a Calcutta newspaper had referred to the General as ‘Sir Crawling Camel’, alluding to his slow progress through Oudh, but now that he was relieved of responsibility for the refugees, the alacrity with which plans were drawn up to free Cawnpore from the grip of the Gwalior Contingent amazed even officers on his own staff. Campbell’s tactics laid emphasis on exploiting the vulnerability of Tatya Tope’s right flank. In a subsequent despatch to the Governor General, Sir Colin wrote:

  It appeared to me if his right were vigorously attacked that it would be driven from his position without assistance coming from other parts of his line, the wall of the town which gave cover to our attacking columns on our right being an effective obstacle to the movement of any portion of his troops from his left to right.

  The rebel army facing Campbell amounted to just over 13,000 infantry and was split into two bodies: the Gwalior Contingent on the right across the road to Kalpi; and on the left, holding the city and the ground beyond it to the Ganges, were stationed the regular and irregular troops loyal to the Nana Sahib and led by Bala Rao.

  To face these forces, all that Campbell could muster were 5,000 infantry, including some new arrivals from Britain, 600 cavalry and 35 guns.

  At precisely 9.00 am on the 6th, General Windham began a heavy bombardment of the rebel-held ground between the city and the r
iver, concentrating on Tatya Tope’s position along the Ganges Canal, which lasted for two hours before lifting to allow the infantry to advance. The Rifle Brigade were sent to occupy the two villages near the canal, from where their fire effectively prevented the enemy gunners from harassing two other brigades which had left the fort to proceed across the open plain towards the brick kilns. Lieutenant Frederick Sleigh Roberts, who had been born in Cawnpore, wrote:

  It was a sight to be remembered, that advance, as we watched it from our position on horse back, grouped around the Commander-in-Chief. Before us stretched a fine open plain, to the right the dark green of the Rifle Brigade battalions. Nearest to us, the 53rd Foot and the 42nd and 93rd Highlanders in their bonnets and kilts, marched as on parade although the enemy’s guns played upon them.

  To Surgeon Munro advancing with the 93rd, it seemed that he was ‘moving within a circle of fire’. Behind him, Windham’s batteries belched forth their noisy discharges, whilst to his right there could be heard the continual rattle of musketry, described by Munro as ‘at one moment sounding near in crashing volleys, at another, rippling away slowly in the distance’. William Munro was no stranger to the passage of round shot – ‘a rushing sound like the concentrated essence of an express train’ – and the whistling of musket balls, but he had never before heard the deadly sound of grapeshot. As his regiment advanced, it appeared to him that ‘the sound of birds in rapid flight’ was above and all around him. At this strange and terrifying noise Munro instinctively lowered his head and turned to present his side to it in an effort to make as small a target as possible. No sooner had he done so than his orderly tugged at his sleeve, saying reproachfully, ‘A’m ashamed for ye, doctor, Laud yer front tae’t mon,’tis only grape ye’re hearin’.’

  As the surgeon watched the men of his regiment go into battle with ‘waving plumes and flowing tartans’, even as a non-combatant he was conscious of a mounting sensation which, he wrote, ‘enthralled the soul and made that day one worthy to be remembered with a feeling of pride and satisfaction’.

  It was whilst he too was engaged in observing the movement of the enemy, that Colonel John Ewart fell victim to enemy action just as he was in the act of dismounting from his horse, as he recorded in his memoirs:

  I was aware that I had been struck violently on the left side, but did not know what had actually taken place, until I looked down and saw the bleeding stump. The blow did not knock me down, nor did I feel any inclination to fall, but a soldier of the 93rd ran up at once and tied his handkerchief tightly around the stump.

  Ewart was later carried off to the field hospital where what remained of his left arm was amputated. ‘This caused universal regret in the regiment,’ commented Corporal Forbes-Mitchell, ‘he being the most popular officer in it’.

  John Ewart confessed:

  What took place I do not know, but when I came to myself again, another piece of my arm was gone and the wound had been nicely bandaged up. I was then replaced in the doolie, and had the leisure to think over what had occurred … not that I could do so in perfect peace, as the shells continued to fall around the bungalow.

  For a short time the rebels fought with tenacious fury until a spreading cloud of white smoke interspersed with streaks of orange flame signalled the commencement of a fierce bombardment from the large-calibre naval guns and Windham’s field artillery, which poured round after round into the enemy’s position with telling effect.

  Under this punishing fire the Gwalior Contingent was driven back beyond the Kalpi road with Campbell’s infantry in hot pursuit. ‘Our time had come at last,’ enthused Hugh Gough, ‘we were in amongst them, driving them before us, a disorganised, flying rabble.’

  A young officer in Peel’s naval brigade also found it difficult to contain his excitement. In a letter to his parents, Edmund Verney wrote:

  I can’t tell you how jolly it was seeing the brutes run. I could hardly believe my eyes. I felt perfectly mad, and our men got on top of the guns, waving their hats and yelling … we pursued them to their camp, found it all deserted, tents, horses, ponies, baggage, bedding, swords, muskets, everything lying about, hackeries loaded with all manner of treasure.

  By 1.00 pm the 7,000-strong Gwalior Contingent, which had considered itself to be invincible, had become a flying rabble with the sepoys seeking whatever cover they could find, either in the jungle or the fields of tall sugar cane. Meanwhile the cavalry, which had been drawn up along the Grand Trunk Road, received orders to cross the canal and join the pursuit. Standing close by Sir Hope Grant, Forbes-Mitchell heard the Colonel give the word of command ‘Squadrons, Outwards’, and watched them wheel in response as if ‘at a review on the Calcutta parade ground’. The bridge was crossed and the infantry spread out leaving the cavalry to sweep round each flank.

  Despite having taken the wrong road, Hope Grant’s cavalry caught the remnants of Bala Rao’s command crossing the Ganges and captured what was left of their artillery without suffering a single casualty. ‘On we went still, right through the camp and after them across the fields and roads at a tremendous pace,’ Lieutenant Verney continued to write. ‘We chased them for about 10 miles … We took seventeen guns, loads upon loads of ammunition, all their luggage, treasure and everything – there’s for you!’

  At one stage of the chase, Hugh Gough found himself keeping pace in a fast gallop with Sir Colin Campbell, who, carried away by the excitement of it all, remarked, ‘By Jove! You fellows can go.’

  ‘His whole face was beaming with delight,’ remembered the young subaltern. ‘I felt I would have gone anywhere for the plucky old man.’

  ‘What a chase we had,’ confirmed Lieutenant Frederick Roberts. ‘We went at a gallop, only pulling up occasionally for the battery to come into action, to clear our front and flanks.’

  Harried upon every side, the sepoys scattered, many throwing away their weapons and discarding their distinctive red jacket in the hope of being mistaken for a harmless village peasant.

  For many of the captured sepoys the method of punishment was swift and merciless. Those suspected of committing atrocities against Europeans faced a method of execution which had been practised by the Moghul Emperors as recently as 1825. An officer who was a witness to one such multiple execution described it thus:

  Their eyes were bandaged and they were bound to the guns with their backs against the muzzles, and their arms fastened backward to the wheels. The port fires were lighted, and at a signal from the artillery major, the guns were fired. It was a horrid sight that then met the eye; a regular shower of human fragments – of heads, arms, and legs – whistling through the smoke; and when that cleared away, these fragments lying on the ground – fragments of Hindoos and Musselmans mixed together – were all that remained.

  This grisly death was perhaps one of the few which held any real terror for either a Hindu or a Muslim. The same anonymous officer explained with some candour:

  If he is hanged or shot he knows that his friends or relatives will be allowed to claim his body, and will give him the funeral rites required by his religion. But if sentenced to death in this form, he knows that his body will be blown into a thousand pieces, and the thought that perhaps a limb of someone of a different religion to himself might possibly be burned or buried with the remainder of his own body, is agony to him. So great is the disgust we all feel for the atrocities committed by the rebels, that we had no room in our hearts for any feeling of pity.

  It was an attitude of mind which Corporal Forbes-Mitchell seems to have shared:

  The inhuman murders and foul treachery of the Nana Saheb and others put all feeling of humanity or mercy for the enemy out of the question, and our men thus early spoke of putting a wounded Jack Pandy out of pain, just as calmly as if he had been a wild beast; it was even considered an act of mercy.

  It was impossible, however, despite the degree of indifference prevalent among most Europeans for them not to feel admiration for the way in which those mutineers faced their en
d. ‘Of the whole forty only two showed signs of fear, and they were bitterly reproached by the others for so disgracing their race,’ admitted a witness. ‘They certainly died like men.’

  The Nana Sahib had not stayed to see the outcome of the battle for Cawnpore but had retired to his palace in Bithur where he made an effort to recover as much of his treasure as possible before crossing into Oudh with his followers.

  Lieutenant Frederick Roberts, who was one of those who had pursued the Nana’s forces to Bithur, was told by a native on 12 December that the Nana had slept at the palace the night before, Roberts observed, ‘but hearing of our approach, he decamped with all his guns, and was now at a ferry some miles up stream trying to get across the river and make his way to Oudh’.

  Since there was little to be gained by a forced march which would result in the troops arriving at nightfall, a halt was made in Bithur for ‘rest and refreshment’. The palace was found to be in a good state of order and in one of the many rooms Roberts discovered a great many letters addressed to Azimullah Khan. Of those written in English, the majority appeared to be from female admirers. ‘Not a few from ladies of rank and fashion,’ he noted, ‘some opened and some extremely interesting.’

  There was treasure in abundance. After being drained, a nearby well was found to contain valuable artefacts, among which was a massive golden bowl weighing 40lb. A rumour that the soldiers in Hope-Grant’s detachment were to share in the distribution of prize money prompted many to labour through Christmas, but their expectations were in vain for it was eventually decided that most of the treasure, to the value of two million rupees, had been looted from the Cawnpore garrison and therefore was the property of the State. ‘We never got a pice,’ complained Forbes-Mitchell bitterly. ‘All we did get was hard work. We even had to pay from our own pockets for the replacement of our kits which were taken by the Gwalior Contingent when they captured Windham’s camp.’