by V. A. Stuart
A guard of Fusiliers, posted in a walled garden overlooking the river, challenged and brought the volunteer party to a halt. Thornhill gave the password of the day and one of the Fusiliers, gesturing ahead with his Minié rifle, told him that the main body of the reinforcements, under Major Simmons, had advanced through the king’s stables and the godowns beyond, making for Martin’s House. They were retracing the route by which the column had advanced yesterday, Alex’s tired brain registered, but this time, seemingly, without meeting anything like yesterday’s opposition.
“We’ll keep close to the river,” Bensley Thornhill said, as they moved forward again. “Until we’re opposite Martin’s House.Then we’ll have to leg it across three hundred yards of dangerous ground, exposed to enemy fire. Perhaps, Colonel Sheridan, as you are mounted, you and your sowars could give us cover?”
“Certainly,” Alex assented.He had two native cavalrymen with him, men who had accompanied him on one of his earlier sorties to bring in wounded from the Khas Bazaar area, and he glanced at them inquiringly, wondering if they had understood Thornhill’s request, which had been made in English. He was about to repeat it in Hindustani when one of the sowars, who had a daffadar’s stripes on his tattered uniform, gave vent to a startled exclamation.
“Sheridan Sahib . . . you are Sheridan Sahib? Allah forgive me, I was not sure. In the darkness I did not see the sahib’s face and, in truth, I believed you dead, Colonel Sahib—in Cawnpore, with all the others!” The man’s voice shook and Alex checked his stride, to subject him to a puzzled scrutiny. The lined, dark face, with its graying beard was vaguely familiar and so was the voice but . . . his tired eyes glimpsed the medals pinned to the ragged tunic. Ghuznee and the Sutlej campaign . . . of course, it could be no one else! Pleasure and relief overcame his weariness and he turned, his hand extended.
“Ghulam Rasul—Daffadar Ghulam Rasul!”
“The same, Sahib.” The old daffadar was beaming as he clasped the proffered hand.
“My wits are woolly from lack of sleep,” Alex apologized. “I should have recognized you, daffadar-ji.”
“We have all changed, Colonel Sahib.” Ghulam Rasul gestured to Alex’s scarred face. “You bear the scars of Cawnpore and I those of Lucknow.”
“Have you been with the Lucknow garrison throughout the siege?” Alex asked him, resuming his slow, stumbling walk. Ghulam Rasul inclined his turbaned head.
“Ji-han . . . since the day when the Colonel Sahib sent me back from Cawnpore with Partap Singh, the Sahib’s orderly. He, alas, is dead—he was killed many weeks ago, when serving a gun. But the Sahib’s fine horse is yet living . . . the black Arab, Sultan. I have taken the best care of him that I could, Colonel Sahib, but like the rest of us, he is skin and bone.”
Deeply moved by his loyalty, Alex thanked him, his throat tight. Ghulam Rasul had been one of the eighty-five sowars of the 3rd Light Cavalry sentenced by court martial to ten years’ penal servitude, prior to the outbreak of the mutiny, for refusing the suspect Enfield cartridges. With the rest of his condemned comrades, he had been fettered and had his medals and his uniform stripped from him at the infamous punishment parade, ordered by the obese and senile General Hewitt in Meerut on May 9. Moved to pity by the plight of the eighty-five—and, in particular, by that of the old daffadar, whose twenty years of loyal service had earned no mitigation of his sentence—Alex had picked up his medals from the dust of the parade ground and had gone to the jail to restore them to their owner. Ghulam Rasul had not forgotten that small act of compassion. Liberated, with the other prisoners, when, the following evening, the Native Infantry regiments and the Light Cavalry had mutinied and broken into the jail, he had ridden with the rest to Delhi but then, sickened by the orgy of arson and slaughter in which the mutineers had launched their revolt, he had returned. He owed his life to the daffadar’s providential return, Alex recalled. The old man had searched for and found him, in the corn field in which he had been left for dead, and it was thanks to his devotion and gallantry that he had reached Meerut safely, with the orphaned Lavinia Paterson.
“I am too old a dog to learn new tricks, Sahib,” the daffadar said softly, as if reading his thoughts and Alex smiled, remembering. He had asked the man why he stayed, and Ghulam Rasul had replied with those words, adding in explanation, “I have served the Company for twenty years and I have taken pride in my service. I am too old to learn what I should have to learn, were I to remain in Delhi.The men I commanded have become arrogant madmen, seeking only to kill like butchers, not as soldiers. They rode through the Darya Ganj sabering every white passer-by they could see—women, children, even babes in their mothers’ arms. I have no stomach for such slaughter, Sheridan Sahib. I will stay with you, if you will permit this, and serve you. If need be, I will die with you . . .”
He had kept his word. He and perhaps thirty others—native officers and N.C.O.’s—of the 3rd Light Cavalry had remained true to their salt. Alone of the men whom General Hewitt had so savagely punished, Daffadar Ghulam Rasul, veteran of Ghuznee and Sobraon, had assisted in the defense of Lucknow and, on this account, could still take pride in his service.
Alex started to tell him so, but the old daffadar apologetically cut him short. “We have reached the dangerous ground of which Thornhill Sahib spoke. It is time to mount our horses, Colonel Sahib.”
He was right, Alex saw. Ahead he could see the bulk of the Moti Mahal—the Pearl Palace—rising above the trees, dazzling white in the glow of the sunrise, the graceful, pearl-shaped dome, from which it had taken its name, appearing above a pall of black, swirling cannon smoke. It was under heavy bombardment still, with round shot thudding against its walls from a heavy gun battery sited, as nearly as he could judge, in the Kaiser Bagh to his right. Savage volleys of musketry were coming from the Khoorsheyd Munzil—the Palace of the Sun, which had been the mess house of the 32nd Regiment—firing at much closer range, and swarms of rebel infantry could be seen in the loopholed, mud-walled houses to the left and right of it. But from the south side of the enclosure held by the British rear-guard, a spirited fire was being returned, and one, at least, of Major Eyre’s twenty-forpounders was still in action, together with a howitzer, throwing a stream of shot and shell over the intervening trees and buildings, in the direction of the Kaiser Bagh.
“We have to cross a nullah,” Thornhill warned, having to shout to make himself heard above the uproar. “But there’s our objective,” he pointed, “Martin’s House. We’ll keep under cover of its compound wall, halt to get our breath, and then cross over the last forty yards of exposed ground to gain the south-west side of the palace. Major Simmons’ force are in position, they’re occupying the compound of Martin’s House, and they’ll give us covering fire when I give the signal.” He rose, a torn white handkerchief held above his head, which he waved vigorously. Receiving an answering signal, he said, “Right—off we go!”
The small party—probably because it was small, Alex decided —attracted only a few ill-aimed shots and reached the comparative safety of the Moti Mahal Palace without suffering any casualties. But it would be a very different matter, he knew, when the open ground had to be crossed by a long line of hospital doolies containing badly injured men, and when there were several hundred native bearers—of the noncombatant coolie caste —to protect and control, the majority of whom would drop their burdens and take flight if they came under heavy attack. However, once this first hazard had been negotiated, the rest of the journey along the narrow riverside path would be screened from enemy fire and could be taken slowly, so as not to cause the wounded any unnecessary discomfort.
A harassed ensign, with bloodshot blue eyes and a filthy scrap of cloth serving as a bandage for a head wound, conducted the new arrivals to Colonel Campbell. The rear-guard commander looked even more harassed and exhausted than his subaltern. He was limping from a wound in the right leg, but he received Thornhill’s proposals for the evacuation of the wounded with a heartfelt “Thank God!” and proceed
ed to implement the plans he had obviously prepared earlier.
“I’ve two surgeons I can send with you, Mr. Thornhill,” he said. “Dr. Home and Dr. Bradshaw . . . the third was killed, alas, half an hour ago. As to an escort—dammit, I can’t spare any of my men, and, in any case, they’re too done up to be of much use to you. Major Simmons’ fellows are fresher—we’ll see what he can offer you. Preston, pass the word to the major, if you please— he’s in the hospital, I fancy, having his hand dressed and—”
“I’ll find him myself, sir,” Thornhill put in, as Ensign Preston prepared wearily to go in search of the 5th Fusiliers’ commander. “I promised the general I’d make sure that his son was safe.”
“Harry Havelock?” A smile lit Campbell’s smoke-blackened face. “Oh, we’ve taken good care of him, don’t worry. He’s taken a musket-ball in the arm, but the surgeons have cleaned and dressed it for him, and they don’t think that amputation will be necessary. He’s in good spirits.” Thornhill went off under the guidance of young Preston, and the colonel, after peering at him uncertainly, recognized Alex. “You’re Sheridan, aren’t you, of Barrow’s Horse?”
“Yes, sir,” Alex acknowledged.
“Wonderful fellows, yours,” the Queen’s officer said, with genuine admiration.” Still, so they should be, with lieutenant colonels serving in their ranks! Tell me, Colonel Sheridan, how did it go with the leading regiments yesterday evening—the Highlanders in particular? We have only heard rumors here but one of the rumors concerned General Neill. It’s not true, is it, that he was killed?”
“I am sorry to say he was, sir. I was within a few yards of him when he fell—to a sniper’s bullet.” Alex gave details of casualties and then, the memory of it still vivid in his mind, described the entry into the Residency. Colonel Campbell sighed when Sheridan came to the end of his recital.
“General Havelock saved the garrison,” he said. “But, dear heaven, Sheridan . . . at what cost! It will break the poor old gentleman’s heart to have lost so many—and of his beloved Highlanders, too. Still, it had to be done.We could not permit another Cawnpore, and we really needed a force of ten thousand, instead of three, to do the job properly. We—excuse me . . .” he broke off, as his regimental surgeon came toward him. “Well, Tony, how goes it in your department? This, by the way, is Colonel Sheridan of the Volunteer Horse—Dr. Home.”
The surgeon bowed in acknowledgement of the introduction, indicating his bloodstained hands with a wry gesture. Like all the rest, he looked tired, and the white coat he wore was torn and filthy, but he listened alertly to Colonel Campbell’s instructions and went off to prepare for the evacuation of the wounded, promising that he would hasten his preparations and be ready in half an hour. His estimate of the number of wounded was over two hundred, of whom perhaps twenty-five or thirty were capable of walking.The remainder would have to be carried in doolies, with four bearers to each—and they would make a lengthy and slow-moving procession, Alex reflected ruefully, requiring a large escort for at least part of the way. He was about to follow the surgeon to the inner courtyard in which the makeshift hospital had been established, when Colonel Campbell motioned him to wait.
“If you’ll lend me your arm, I’ll come with you, Sheridan,” he said. “I shall have to have a word with Major Simmons concerning the escort. How many men do you think you’ll need?”
Alex offered his arm. “It’s rather a question of how few we can make do with, is it not, sir?” he suggested.
“Yes, I regret to say it is,” Campbell admitted. “But I’m very anxious to get the wounded to safety, for their sake and ours . . . some of the poor devils have been lying in doolies since noon yesterday, young Havelock among them. We can’t guard them and fight back, Sheridan. But with only the guns to worry about, we’ll stand a better than even chance of getting through to the Residency tonight, under cover of darkness, and of bringing out Vincent Eyre’s guns. You heard that we have a twenty-fourpounder jammed in the passageway across there, no doubt?” He pointed in the direction of the outer wall behind him. “The infernal thing is under a constant fire of musketry. We can’t get near it, but neither, of course, can they, and Crump’s got some plan for shifting it, as soon as it’s dark enough to bring up a team of bullocks without being seen.To return to the question of your escort, though . . . Simmons only brought me 250 men, and they’re holding Martin’s enclosure, as you know.”
“Are you expecting more reinforcements, Colonel?” Alex asked.
Campbell permitted himself a tight-lipped smile. “I’m hoping for more, my friend—Simmons informed me that they’ll be sent, under Colonel Napier, as soon as possible. But as you can see, they haven’t arrived. Perhaps, when you report to the general, you’d tell him I need them without delay? I . . .” his voice trailed off as part of the palace wall ten yards ahead of them came crashing down under the pounding of a series of well-directed round shot. A gray-haired sergeant, reeling back from the shattered embrasure in which he had been keeping watch, gasped out a warning that the shots had come from an enemy thirty-twopounder on the opposite bank of the river.
“The bastards just brought it up, sir,” he told Colonel Campbell. “Not fifteen minutes ago—there they are, see, in the garden behind them trees?” He spat out dust, cursing luridly. “We can’t touch the swine with our rifles, not from here, sir.”
“And we can’t bring a gun to bear on them,” the colonel said bitterly, after a careful inspection from behind the crumbling brickwork of the wall. “But we’ve got to keep their heads down somehow before you cross that exposed ground with the doolies, Sheridan—you won’t get fifty yards, if they open up on you with grape.”
“The howitzer, sir?” Alex offered, frowning.
Campbell nodded. “Yes, if we can get it into position in time. I’ll have to see Major Cooper. Go on without me, will you, and tell Dr. Home he needn’t rush his preparations.” Leaning now on the sergeant’s arm, he limped off in search of the senior artillery officer. Alex continued on his way to the hospital, guided to it by the high-pitched scream of some unfortunate in mortal agony, which rose even above the thunder of the guns and the incessant crackle of musketry. He gave Surgeon Home the colonel’s message and found Bensley Thornhill kneeling beside Harry Havelock’s doolie. The younger Havelock was, as Colonel Campbell had said, in good spirits, but his good-looking face was drained of color and he was clearly in some pain.A stocky young private of the 78th, whom he addressed as Ward, was caring for him with almost womanly solicitude and, leaving them together, Thornhill drew Alex aside.
“Major Simmons has offered us half his force to escort the doolies, sir,” he said. “And he assures me that Colonel Napier is on his way with further reinforcements. Subject to Colonel Campbell’s permission, I feel we should make a start, don’t you? The poor devils are dying like flies in here—not only from their wounds but from musket-balls, which ricochet across. The surgeon who died, Robert Bartrum of the Artillery, was shot by a sniper from the roof of the mess house as he was crossing the courtyard.” He sighed. “His wife, Katherine, is waiting for him in the Residency, with their child.”
Looking across the crowded, evil-smelling palace anteroom in which they stood, Alex echoed his sigh.The bodies of the dead— of necessity, unburied—added to the stench of human sweat and excreta and the awful, sickly sweet smell of gangrene-infected wounds. Both sight and stench were familiar to him; it had been thus in the mud-walled entrenchment at Cawnpore and there, too, in the stifling heat of the Indian hot weather, men had died from their untreated wounds, their bodies burning with fever and racked with dysentery, and the dead had had to be left unburied until, with the coming of darkness, the enemy’s fire had slackened.
“The longer we delay,” Thornhill was saying, “the more likelihood there is of our . . .” a thunderous crash silenced him. Part of the ceiling above their heads caved in, showering the wounded and the doolies with chunks of brick and plaster and filling the room with choking dust. “My Go
d!” he exclaimed, when he could make himself heard above the uproar. “That was from close range, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Alex returned flatly. “The rebels have sited a thirty-two-pounder in the Hazuree Bagh, across the river. That, unhappily, is the reason for the delay. They’ve got the range of this place and Martin’s House . . . we can’t cross until the gunners here can draw their fire or put the gun out of action.”
“I see. Then we’d better do what we can here, I suppose.”
They went to assist in moving some of the doolies from the rubble; surgeons, orderlies and walking wounded struggling breathlessly under their weight. Alex heard a faint voice calling him by name as he bent over one of the doolies, and he was shocked to see that Corporal Cullmane, one of the original infantry volunteers in his troops, was lying hunched up in the interior of the curtained litter, a soiled and blood-soaked bandage only half-concealing the ghastly wound in his chest. The voice was slurred and indistinct but Cullmane, as always, was cockily cheerful, his bloodless lips twisting into their familiar, gap-toothed grin as he admitted to feeling “none too spry.”
Sick with pity, Alex took a small flask of whisky from his pocket and placed it gently between the Irishman’s hands.
“Drink it, lad,” he invited and added, aware that the hope was unlikely to be fulfilled, “It may ease the pain.And don’t worry— we’re going to get you to the Residency as soon as we can.”
“I’ll never make it, sorr. But God bless ye, all the same.” With trembling fingers, Cullmane unscrewed the silver-topped flask. “Ah, ’tis a drop av the real stuff,” he said, appreciatively. “If ye could lift me head just a moight, sorr, I’ll have it drunk in no time.”
Alex raised his head, kneeling beside him on the rubble-strewn floor and finding the task an awkward one with his single arm. A few drops of whisky trickled past the injured man’s lips, scarcely enough to do more than moisten them, but he persisted and the flask was almost empty when he let it fall from his grasp with a contented sigh.