Jumna did not share Morgan’s jubilation. Shaking his head, he said, ‘There was a time when if Nana Sahib gave his word it was as though Krishna himself had spoken. That is no longer so. Today Nana Sahib speaks not with his own voice but with the voice of those who are guided by hatred and not honesty.’
‘What do you mean…?’ Horace Morgan ceased talking as a party of men could be heard passing by the door. When their sound had disappeared, he asked, hoarsely, ‘Do you believe he is planning some treachery?’
‘That is what is believed in the bazaar.’
‘But … someone must warn General Wheeler.’
‘Would you care to try, sahib?’
‘I couldn’t. I’d be taken by the mutineers long before I could even reach the entrenchment.’
‘That is so, sahib, it is because you are a European. But if an Indian tried he would be killed by Wheeler’s soldiers before he could reach them. We must hope General Wheeler is not deceived by what Nana Sahib is offering him.’
Morgan knew Jumna was right, but all that day he lay in the darkness of the roof space thinking of the situation without coming up with any solution, and late that evening he asked Jumna to go back to the bazaar to learn the latest rumours about what was happening.
When the Commissariat gardener returned he brought news that should have been reassuring, but Morgan was still concerned. General Wheeler had not accepted the original terms offered by Nana Sahib, but the two men had reached a compromise. Instead of laying down their arms as had been demanded in his first letter, those in the entrenchment would be allowed to leave carrying both arms and ammunition. Furthermore, transport was to be provided to convey the women to the river where boats stocked with sufficient supplies to carry the entrenchment’s survivors downriver to safety would be waiting. The evacuation was to take place in thirty-six hours’ time.
For all the day and most of the night before the evacuation was to take place Horace Morgan thought of ways he might possibly join up with those from the entrenchment, to be reunited with his wife and family, and escape downriver with them, but there seemed to be no way it might be achieved.
As Jumna pointed out, it would not be safe for Morgan to go out on his own to try to make his way to the entrenchment. It was still guarded by a tight cordon of sepoys who would kill him if he fell into their hands. The same fate would be suffered by Jumna if he tried to assist him by talking his way through the cordon.
The only solution, Jumna suggested, was to wait until the convoy of boats was on its way then, when night fell, he would guide Morgan, disguised as an Indian, out of Cawnpore to chase after the boats, either on foot, or using a small boat which Jumna would secure for him, using some of the money Morgan possessed. Either way, he should have no difficulty catching up with the convoy of boats. Heavily laden with passengers and provisions they would be unwieldy and slow-moving in the sluggish reduced flow of the river.
It was a scheme that could succeed, despite the obvious dangers and for the whole of the next day and night Horace Morgan’s excitement grew as time for the evacuation of the entrenchment neared.
IV
Jumna left the house soon after dawn and was gone for more than two hours before he returned to say the evacuation had begun, but he was visibly shaken by what he had seen.
‘Your people were approaching the river when I saw them, sahib, but many are hurt and all are as dirty as the poorest low caste beggar. There are not enough elephants or carts to carry all the women and children, many of whom have hardly any clothes to cover themselves. It looks as though their dresses and other garments have been torn up to make bandages for others. The people of Cawnpore left their homes to go and jeer them, but most were so shocked by what they saw that they fell silent as they passed by. Not so the sepoys who are escorting them. They are behaving as though they have won a great battle, beating those unable to keep up with the others, mostly the women, and shouting abuse at those who once commanded them … although not many of the officer sahibs remain.’
‘Do you think you might have seen my wife, Jumna? She is a handsome high caste Hindu woman – with two children, a boy and a girl, both young.’
‘I did not stay to watch them for long, sahib, my heart was too heavy for what I saw. The ways of your people are not always kind towards mine, but you are proud men and women and it hurt me to see them in such a state and I fear there are many who have not lived to see this day.’
Horace Morgan was silent for a long time before saying, ‘Thank you for all you and your wife have done for me, Jumna. I will leave you half the money I have, which should make you a wealthy man. But no amount of money could ever repay you for all you have done. I will leave you tonight and by tomorrow I should have reached the others. God willing, I will find my wife and children with them.’
He had hardly finished talking when there came the sudden boom of cannon-fire. It was followed immediately by the sound of gunfire, sporadic at first but then continuous. There was also the shrill sound of the screaming of women and children and a roar such as might have been heard at a great outdoor event.
‘What is it?’ Horace Morgan demanded, although he knew there could be little doubt about what was happening.’
‘Hide yourself and stay silent, I will go and find out what is happening.’
The sounds Morgan had heard came from the direction of the river and continued for almost an hour while he lay in the roof-space shivering in fright, his imagination running riot. Gradually the sounds died away, with only the occasional gunshot to be heard now. Then Jumna returned to the house and could be heard speaking to his wife.
Showing himself from the safety of the roof-space, Horace Morgan demanded to know what had happened.
When Jumna looked up at him, Horace Morgan was shocked to see tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. ‘It was pitiful to see, Sahib Morgan. As I feared, there is no longer any worth in the promises of Nana Sahib. When the last of those to whom he promised safe passage had stepped from the shore to make their way to the boats a cannon opened fire, then many men he had hidden began shooting at them. When I hurried away from the river his men were among your poor people wielding swords to kill all the men and take the women as prisoners. I could watch it no longer.’
‘Did any of them get away downriver? Any of the women and children?’
‘I could not say. Perhaps … but I do not think so. I am sorry, sahib … there was nothing I could do to help them … nothing.’
Horace Morgan left Jumna’s house two nights later dressed as an Indian mounted on a horse the Commissariat head gardener had managed to acquire for him, using some of the money taken from the East India Company’s safe.
It was a good night on which to leave Cawnpore. Nana Sahib had organized a huge celebration for his soldiers and their many supporters and the town itself was quiet. Morgan intended travelling along the northern bank of the Ganges, but keeping far enough away from the river to avoid the many villages and small fishing communities scattered along its course.
Taking a tortuous route he would head for Allahabad, more than a hundred miles away, where there was a fort and a strong European military presence.
During his years in India and because his work had involved land ownership and management, he had come to know the area in which he worked better than most of his countrymen. This knowledge would stand him in good stead now. He was able to plan his journey through comparatively empty country, spending the nights away from human habitation, preferring to risk the danger posed by the carnivorous animals who lived in such places to that he would have faced in villages touched by the bloody hand of rebellion.
On the third night of his journey he lost his horse during a fierce monsoon storm that was accompanied by thunder and lightning. He had tied it to a tree using its rein, but the frightened horse broke it and galloped away, terrified by the noise of the tempest.
This posed a serious problem for him, but it was not a total disaster. He had been shelt
ering from the rain beneath an outcrop of rock in thick, jungle country, using his satchel for a pillow and inside the satchel he had the revolver, half the money taken from the commissariat and what remained of the food prepared for him by Jumna’s wife.
When morning came he set off heading towards the river with the satchel slung over his shoulder and by noon had come within sight of a small riverside fishing village. There did not appear to be any untoward activity here, but Horace Morgan was taking no chances. Finding himself a hiding place well away from the village and its attendant canine population, he spent the remainder of the day studying the small riverside community.
That night there was more intermittent rain, but between the showers a crescent moon gave him sufficient light to make his way to the village, take one of the small boats left upside-down on the nearby river-bank just outside the village and drag it to the water. There had been a crudely shaped paddle beneath the primitive craft and, climbing on board, he propelled the boat clumsily away from the bank until he felt it taken by the current.
Progress was difficult at first, due mainly to clouds that kept scudding across the moon, preventing him from maintaining his course in the faster-flowing water to be found in the centre of the river and he grounded the boat on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, by the time dawn broke he was well on his way and out of sight of the village where the boat’s owner lived.
There must have been a great deal of rain further up the river because before long the boat’s speed increased and an almost constant rainfall meant that visibility was poor and the width of the river increased so much that for much of the time the boat would have been invisible from either bank and the few boats travelling the great waterway.
For all that day he continued his journey and at nightfall guided the boat into some rushes. Here, thoroughly exhausted, he slept for a couple of hours despite the rain that hardly ceased.
It was still night when he woke. The rain had mercifully stopped and the moonlight, peeping through wispy, speeding cloud was sufficient for him to see well enough to paddle the boat out of the rushes and back into the main stream of the river.
Morgan had no idea where he was now, but by morning felt he must be fairly close to Allahabad and he began to look for recognizable landmarks on the shore. It was difficult to see for any distance because for the moment the sky had cleared and the midsummer sun shining on rain-soaked ground resulted in a steamy mist that created a surreal effect on the landscape.
Morgan had manoeuvred his boat close to the shore when, suddenly, a party of armed horsemen emerged from the mist and, quickly raising their guns, a number of them fired at him. As bullets struck the boat and plopped into the water around it, Morgan dropped to the bottom of the boat, but before he disappeared from view he had observed that the riders were not Sowars, as he had first thought, but Europeans and he realized they were irregular British cavalryman.
‘Don’t shoot … don’t shoot … I’m British!’
It was the first time Morgan had spoken for many days and his voice sounded strange, even to him but he called again … and again.
‘Stand up and show yourself,’ a voice called out in English and Morgan could sense the doubt in it.
‘I’m standing up now … I’m Horace Morgan of the East India Company in Cawnpore – even though I’m wearing Indian clothing. ’
Rising to his feet slowly Morgan held his hands aloft, expecting at any moment to receive a bullet from one of the many rifles pointing at him. Then one of the men said, ‘Good God! It is Horace Morgan. I know him. He must have escaped from Cawnpore….’
V
The party of horsemen turned out to be members of an irregular cavalry troop formed from volunteers at Allahabad and sent ahead of the main body of British troops as scouts by Brigadier Henry Havelock, commanding officer of the relief column, preparing to march on Cawnpore.
The brigadier listened to Horace Morgan’s account of the happenings at Cawnpore with dismay … and more than a little scepticism. General Wheeler was the most experienced army officer in India, he would never have allowed himself to be deceived in such a way, especially when he was responsible for the lives of so many women and children. Not until the same information was relayed to him the next day from two separate sources did he accept Morgan’s news and send for him to tell him everything he knew about what had happened.
Havelock left Allahabad with his army determined to save the women and children, believed to now number at least 250, held hostage by Nana Sahib in Cawnpore, and he took Morgan with him.
His army marched on Cawnpore at a speed that left behind any man who could not maintain the merciless pace set by the brigadier – and it was a vengeful army. Sepoy deserters or possible mutineers met with along the route were arbitrarily executed and any village found harbouring them was burned to the ground and the men of the village hanged.
Halfway to Cawnpore, two regiments of Nana Sahib’s army attacked the brigadier’s advance guard, unaware of the size of his main force – and after a fierce battle they were soundly beaten. During the fighting Morgan, still not fully recovered from the ordeal of his escape from Cawnpore, stayed back with the baggage train, clear of the fighting.
There were two more fierce skirmishes along the way and by the time Havelock reached Cawnpore his men were close to exhaustion, but they suddenly encountered a native army almost three times the size of their own. Backed by a great many large calibre cannons they gave the British soldiers no time to rest before engaging them in battle.
It was a close fought and merciless engagement and Horace Morgan and the wounded, sick and non-combatants found themselves fighting off numbers of Nana Sahib’s army, desperate to capture the baggage train.
Eventually the day was won by Havelock’s army when his Highland Regiment made a wild but determined bayonet charge on Nana Sahib’s soldiers urged on by the skirl of bagpipes. Soon, Nana Sahib’s army was in full flight and the British Army sank down on the field of battle, totally exhausted.
They entered Cawnpore the next day and Horace Morgan went in with the vanguard, eagerly guiding them to the bungalow where he knew the women and children had been kept … but the sight that met his eyes was the crux of the nightmares that would bring him awake screaming for many years to come.
Not a woman or child of the 250 captives had been left alive. They had been slaughtered without mercy and their bodies thrown into a nearby well until it would take no more. The remaining bodies had been dragged away and hurled into the murky waters of the Ganges.
Evidence of the slaughter was everywhere and Horace was not the only man who was uncontrollably sick at the scene. Thinking of his wife and children who had been among those incarcerated in the house of death, Horace Morgan came close to insanity and the memory of that day would remain with him for ever.
…. This was the nightmare that returned to Horace Morgan during the night spent in the prison cell in the Bodmin police headquarters in Cornwall and, when he woke in the tiny enclosed and darkened space, his cries brought an unsympathetic gaoler to the cell with a warning that if he did not cease making such a noise he would be obliged to come into the cell and use his baton to silence him.
Chapter 27
WHEN AMOS REACHED police headquarters the next morning he was met by a concerned station sergeant who had been anxiously awaiting his arrival.
‘That prisoner you and Sergeant Churchyard brought in yesterday evening, sir, I’m worried about him.’
‘Horace Morgan? Why, what’s he done?’
‘I’m not altogether sure, but when I went to look at him when I came on duty this morning I found him sitting on the edge of his bunk, shaking like a leaf and sweating as though he’d just been in a prize-fight. I’ve kept an eye on him and when I last went down to the cells he looked so ill that I was about to send for a doctor when Sergeant Churchyard came in. He’s down in the cell with him now.’
When Amos arrived at the basement cell where Morgan had sp
ent the night he found Tom seated beside the Trelyn estate steward on the hard wooden ledge that served both as seat and bed.
Morgan had gained some control over himself now but as Amos entered the cell he began shaking uncontrollably and only ceased when Tom gripped his arm in a sympathetic gesture.
When the trembling had stopped, Amos asked, ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s had a nightmare about his time in India,’ Tom replied, ‘He says it’s something that happens quite often, but the one he had last night was particularly bad, brought about by being shut up in the dark in a windowless cell. It seems it brought back memories of a similar situation he was in during the mutiny out there.’
Morgan had begun trembling once again while Tom was speaking and Amos said, ‘Bring him up to my office, it’s brighter up there. I’ll have some tea brought up for him – although he looks as though he’s in need of something stronger.’
Once in the office Morgan asked shakily if he might have the pipe and tobacco that had been taken from him when he was placed in the cell. Amos agreed and Tom went to fetch it.
After a few minutes spent puffing at his pipe and looking out of the office window at a rookery in the nearby trees, Morgan appeared to relax and gain control of himself once more, although he was still looking drawn and haggard when Amos said to him, ‘Do you mind telling me what that was all about, Mr Morgan?’ Amos and Tom had agreed the night before that Morgan should not be told that his wife and children were alive and well in India until they were satisfied he either had, or had not been informed of the fact.
The estate steward’s thoughts had been far away but now, after breathing deeply a few times he gathered his wits together and said, ‘For almost three weeks during the mutiny in India I was hiding in a dark roof space in a native’s hut after seeing many of my colleagues murdered, all the while listening to the sound of mutineers’ guns pounding the entrenchment where all the Europeans – men, women and children – were desperately striving to survive. Then …’ Here he choked on his words before gaining some control once more and continuing in a barely audible voice, ‘… Then they were all taken out and butchered.’
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