by V. A. Stuart
“What’s worrying you?” Stisted asked. “The absence of opposition?”
“Yes,” Napier admitted. “What the devil d’you suppose they’re playing at? I mean to say, we’re not exactly moving silently, are we? Those blasted guns are enough to give us away . . . damn it, the Pandies must know we’re on the move. After attacking us all day, are they just going to let us walk into the Residency?”
“It’s to be hoped they will,” Stisted returned wryly. “I’ve had enough fighting to do me for a while. But . . .” he shrugged. “The possibility of an ambush has to be considered, and the Chutter Munzil would seem to me to be the most likely place for them to lie in wait for us. Unless, of course, they’re expecting us to follow the route we took yesterday—through the square where the wounded were massacred.”
Napier turned in his saddle to look at him in surprise. “Why the devil should they expect us to do that?”
“They’ll know we can’t bring the guns in by the river path. And they miscalculated yesterday—they expected us to take the direct route, along the Cawnpore road from the Char Bagh. Our detour took them completely by surprise.”
“True,” Napier conceded. “I think, Stisted, that we shall have to try to outwit them. Link up with the detachments in the Furhut Baksh and McCabe’s party in the Terhee Kothee and flush ‘em out of the Chutter Munzil, if they’re there. It will delay us a little, but if we don’t do it, it won’t be safe to park those guns. And I intend to park ’em.The general is going to occupy all the palaces tomorrow and include them within the Residency perimeter, so the guns can be brought to where they’re needed then. I’ll have a word with Moorsom and . . .” he was interrupted by the crackle of musketry, coming from the Chutter Munzil enclosure and growing in volume. “What the devil!” He flung a crisp order to his galloper and, as Stisted swiftly deployed the 78th, set spurs to his horse and rode forward to join the advancing line of skirmishers as they approached the enclosure in open order and with bayonets fixed.
“Pandies, Colonel—several hundred of them!” Colonel Purnell, who was in command of the detachment of the 90th, informed him, when he reached the enclosure. “They’re in a walled garden behind this one, on the city side of the river.They must have been skulking there for some time. Captain McCabe discovered them when he came through from the Furhut Baksh. My men are ready to go in, and I’ve sent word to McCabe . . . we’ll catch them in a cross-fire and then go in with the bayonet —subject to your approval, of course.”
“You have my approval and my blessing,” Napier assured him. “I want to park my guns and wagons here for the night, so let us get the whole area cleared while we’re about it. In you go and good luck to you! I’ll support you with the 78th if necessary.”
“Thank you, sir,” Purnell acknowledged and drew his sword.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN THE SHED on the north side of the square a strange, menacing silence reigned. There had been no attempt on the part of the rebels to set the refuge on fire, to Alex’s relief, but the stealthy pad of feet on the roof warned him to take no chances. He posted Webb and Roddy at one end of the shed, Cameron and McManus at the other and, assisted by Ryan—who had staggered to his feet like a sleepwalker, on hearing his name called—he completed the removal of the wounded into the passageway, ready for their anticipated flight.
Lieutenant Swanson was unconscious and made no sound, Murphy screamed in delirium, and poor Andrew Becher, holding his shattered jaw between his hands, maintained his enforced silence, although, he all too evidently, was fully conscious. Lieutenant Arnold, who had lain motionless and stoically uncomplaining for most of the day, talking in occasional whispers to Becher and the men who tended him, asked them to sit him up, and it was evident that he, too, was fully aware of the perils of their situation when he offered to hold off pursuit with a revolver.
“Leave me and make your escape, Colonel Sheridan, with the fit men,” he pleaded.With infinite effort, the sweat pouring down his haggard cheeks, he took his Colt from the waistband of his trousers and held it up with courageous steadiness. “I can still use this, I promise you—and I’ll see they don’t follow you. Don’t worry,” he added, as Alex started to shake his head. “I heard what happened to those other poor devils in the doolies. I shall keep the last shot for myself.”
Becher painfully grunted his approval of this suggestion and Ryan, who had listened to it with dismay, dropped to his knees beside the Blue Cap officer. Looking up at Alex, he said quietly, “I’ll stay with Mr. Arnold, sir. We could hold them bastards off between us—long enough for you to get across to that house with the others, anyway. I can’t leave him behind, sir. He’s my officer and it wouldn’t be right.”
Arnold let the Colt fall and his hand closed about the young Blue Cap’s. “Good man, Ryan,” he whispered. “And God bless you! But you’ve got a chance and you’ve got to take it. I’m finished in any case . . . for God’s sake, look at my legs! You go with Colonel Sheridan and the others.”
“We’re not leaving anyone,” Alex told them firmly. He forced his dry lips into a smile. “Good Lord, we’re not beaten yet! We’ve held our own all day, and the rear-guard will start to move out soon—it’s practically dark. We shan’t have to wait much longer. When Hollowell and the doctor get back, we’ll move into a more substantial building, which will be less malodorous and a darned sight easier to defend than this hovel. Cut along and watch out for them, will you, Ryan?” Ryan rose and went obediently to the hole in the wall behind them and, when he was out of earshot, Arnold said, a note of strain in his voice, “Colonel Sheridan, I really do think you should leave Captain Becher, Swanson, and myself here. Without us, you could fight your way to the rear-guard and—”
“I told you, we’re not leaving anyone. We—”
“With respect, sir,” Lieutenant Arnold interrupted. “We shall all be killed if we just stay here, depending on the rear-guard to come to our rescue. For pity’s sake, they probably imagine we’re dead already. The doctor as good as said so, didn’t he?”
He was right, Alex thought dully. Colonel Campbell would have no means of knowing of their continued presence in the square; the firing would not be heard above the roar of the cannon outside the Moti Mahal and, whatever reports he might have received, they would be unlikely to include any mention of a small party of men, cut off in the city. In any event, Campbell had problems of his own. The evacuation of the rear-guard and whatever reinforcements had been sent to him would have to be his first consideration. He . . .
“Look at us,” Arnold went on. “Swanson’s dying, if he’s not dead already, Captain Becher’s had half his face shot away, and as for myself . . .” he gestured to his legs. “In God’s name, sir, if you bring me in, it will only be for the sawbones to take my legs off. A good clean bullet from this,” he tapped his Colt, “is infinitely to be preferred. And they wouldn’t take us alive, I’ll guarantee that.”
Alex sighed. His logic was irrefutable but . . . Ryan’s low-voiced warning saved him from the necessity for a reply.
“They’re coming, sir—the doctor and Hollowell! And they’re carrying something . . . a water chatti, I think, sir.”
A few shots from the rebels on top of the roof shattered the silence, but their vigilance left as much to be desired as their marksmanship and Home and Hollowell clambered unhurt through the gap in the wall, breathless but triumphant as they exhibited their prize. The chatti was barely three-quarters full of lukewarm water, but it tasted like nectar to the parched and weary men, even Becher contriving somehow to swallow his share in slow, agonized sips through the clumsy bandage wound about his mouth and lower jaw. Flagging spirits were revived when Surgeon Home described the house across the courtyard.
“It might have been made by Providence for our defense,” Home said. “The walls are thick, the doorways few, and there is a spacious courtyard on the far side, overlooking a walled garden, about sixty or seventy yards beyond. Hollowell thinks the garden is part of the Chut
ter Munzil Bagh, but I’m not sure. It could be, but we didn’t really get a very good look at it. It was crawling with rebels, and we didn’t dare show ourselves.”
“And the house?” Alex questioned. “Was it unoccupied?”
“As far as we could make out it was, yes. I thought—” the Doctor hesitated.
“Well?” Alex prompted, sensing his uneasiness.
“Well, Colonel, although as I said, it’s a very much better defensive position than this one, I fear we may have some difficulty in transferring ourselves to it. They have men posted on the roof, as you know—perhaps if we wait until it’s completely dark, we might manage to get our wounded men across without their seeing us and opening fire. But if they do . . .” Home spread his hands despairingly. “They might well bring the mob we saw in the walled garden down on us before we could enter the house.”
“Then you think we should remain here until it’s dark?”
“Or until we hear the rear-guard coming in and then make a run for it.”
“I see.”
Alex turned to Hollowell, and the Highlander, forestalling his question, said with conviction, “Aye, sir, the doctor’s right. The walled garden is the south side o’ the Chutter Munzil enclosure, I’m pretty sure, and I’d say there were at the verra least five hundred Pandies there. We canna risk attracting their attention.”
“The fit men could get into the house, sir,” Arnold began. “If you’d—”
“No.” Alex shook his head, his mind made up. “We’ll sink or swim together, my friend. If Hollowell’s right about the position of the Chutter Munzil garden, we’re near enough to the route the rear-guard will take to be reasonably sure of hearing them, so we’ll get what rest we can, while we can. Two fit men will act as sentries for the first hour, then they’ll be relieved by two others . . .” he arranged a roster, putting himself on for the first hour with Roddy.
There were no alarms; except for the occasional footfall overhead, the rebels appeared content to leave them in peace. Probably because they were preparing to attack the rear-guard when it left the Moti Mahal, he thought wryly, but Colonel Campbell or whoever was in command would be expecting an attack and certainly would not leave the Moti Mahal unless and until he had been substantially reinforced. Campbell had said that Colonel Napier, of Sir James Outram’s staff, was expected but had not yet arrived and . . . Alex’s tired brain could not be cudgeled into remembering. It all seemed a very long time ago, as he paced slowly up and down in front of the hole in the wall in an effort to keep himself awake. He ought, he knew, to make a personal inspection of the house across the courtyard, but he was too exhausted to do so now, and he decided to wait until he had snatched an hour’s sleep, at least. They were all exhausted; it was essential that they rest before attempting to move from their present quarters, for they would need all the strength and reserves of energy they could muster, in case they had to fight their way through to join the rear-guard, hampered by four severely wounded men. Whatever poor Arnold said, whatever sacrifices he was willing to offer, the wounded could not be left . . . Alex peered through the broken wall into the courtyard, listening intently, and then wearily resumed his pacing.
He wakened Cameron and McManus at the end of the allotted hour and, after instructing them to call him at once if anything untoward occurred, lay down on the mud floor and fell instantly asleep.
A sudden burst of firing and the rush of feet overhead roused them all. Alex, from the habit learned so painfully in the Cawnpore entrenchment, wakened as instantly as he had fallen asleep, alert and in possession of all his faculties, and it was he who first realized that the firing was not one-sided . . . some of it, at least, was coming from British Enfields.
“Cheer, my lads, cheer for all you’re worth!” he bade them. “Those are our fellows—let’s make sure they know we’re here!”
The men, wild with excitement, responded with a will, the sound of their voices rising above the crackle of musketry.
“Europeans!” the surgeon yelled. “We’re Europeans!” “Charge them, boys—charge them!” Ryan urged and Hollowell, keeping his wits about him, shouted out directions.
“Keep to your right, lads! They’re holding the square!”
They raised a concerted cheer; McManus and Cameron fired their rifles through the broken wall, and they waited tensely for some sight or sound that would tell them that relief was on its way and their ordeal over. It did not come. Abruptly the firing ceased, and they looked at each other in shocked dismay, unable at first to take it in.
“They were so near,” Ryan said brokenly. “So near . . . sod them, they must have heard us. Oh, sod them, sod them!”
“They were beaten back, lad,” Hollowell told him. “They couldna get tae us. But wasna for want o’ trying—there were too few o’ them, that’s a’.”
“Probably a small picket,” Alex added, again thankful for the veteran Highlander’s calm common sense. “Scouting the route for the rear-guard. But they must have heard us and, if they did, they’ll report our presence, which gives us a chance.” He was anxious to keep up their spirits, determined not to let them yield to despair but, as he talked on, he sensed their bitter disappointment and was hard put not to reveal his own.
Surgeon Home came valiantly to his support. “Could we not move into the house, Colonel?” he suggested. “It would be worth the risk, surely, because we’d be that much nearer the rear-guard when they come.”
“Or maybe we could get tae the Residency through the square,” McManus offered thoughtfully. “While the Pandies are concerning themselves wi’ the rear-guard. Will I gang tae look, sir?”
Roddy answered him, his voice flat, “Sure and I looked, sorr, when our chaps were firin’ . . . they’ve not gone, there are more of them than ever. Meself, I’d say they’re waiting i0 n the hope of serving the rear-guard the way they served us this morning. They’re expecting them to come this way, that’s for certain.”
McManus swore. He limped across to the door of the shed, which Roddy had been guarding, and Alex followed him, ducking behind a pillar for a better view of the square. “They’ve lighted a fire, sir,” the Fusilier said disgustedly. “Bloody bastards. they’re burning what’s left o’ our men in the doolies, and there are hundreds o’ the swine . . . in the houses and outside them. Roddy’s right—they are expecting the rear-guard tae come this way!”
It was unlikely in the extreme that Colonel Campbell would repeat this morning’s tragic mistake, Alex thought—the rear-guard would use the river path, linking up with the detachments in the Terhee Kothee and the Furhut Baksh Palaces and perhaps clearing the Chutter Munzil, if they had sufficient strength to do so, and if they had brought the heavy guns out with them.The rebels had miscalculated . . . he returned to the passageway and, in a few crisp words, explained his deductions and saw the faces about him, white and strained in the moonlight filtering through from the courtyard outside, relax and lose some of their tension.
“You’re sure the rear-guard will not come through the square, as we did?” Surgeon Home asked.
“As sure as I can be. Our coming was a mistake—our guide took the wrong turning, and that fact will be known to the rear-guard commander by this time. Colonel Napier was to lead the reinforcements, and he’ll have Lieutenant Moorsom to advise and guide him. Moorsom knows Lucknow like the back of his hand . . .” Alex paused, letting his words sink in.
“Then ’tis the house for us, sir, is it?” Hollowell suggested shrewdly. “We canna gang through the square, so ’tis either the house or we maun bide where we are?”
“That’s about the size of it, Hollowell.” Alex cut short Arnold’s attempt to interrupt him. The Blue Cap lieutenant was much weaker than he had been even a couple of hours before; it was doubtful now whether he could, for all his courage, manage to use his revolver and, recognizing this, he did not argue, and Alex went on, his tone decisive, “I’ll go and make sure that the house is still unoccupied. If it is, I’ll come back and w
e’ll decide whether to move across right away or wait until we hear the rear-guard coming. We’d be nearer their route if we move, but . . .” he frowned, remembering what Arnold had said earlier. If the fit men could fight their way through to the rear-guard, a single fit man would stand a better than even chance of getting through— even past enemy pickets, if he spoke the language and . . . he looked down at his uniform. Stained and crumpled, his loose fitting white cotton tunic and breeches resembled native cavalry undress and, if he removed his pith helmet and retained only the pugree that was wound about it, he could almost certainly pass himself off as a sowar. Had he not done so before, had he not ridden from Sheorajpore to Batinda in similar guise, without arousing suspicion or provoking a single challenge? He started to unwind his pugree.
“What are you doing?” Surgeon Home asked, with weary curiosity.
Alex told him. “If I see an opportunity to make contact with any of our pickets, I shall take it and bring help as soon as I can. Be so good as to hold the end of this pugree for me . . . thanks, that’s fine.” He straightened up, the cloth now firmly wound about his head, and taking the Adams from his belt, checked its six chambers and asked, smiling, “Do I pass muster?”
Home raised an answering smile. “Indeed you do—so well that you will have to take care our own people don’t fire on you.”
“Right, then I’ll be on my way. I’ll signal my intention by giving you a whistle. Like this,” he demonstrated, “which will mean that the house is unoccupied and I’ve gone. In that case, Doctor, you can either come across or stay where you are. For the sake of the wounded men, it might be better if you stay, but it will be up to you to decide. Rest assured that if I’m able to make contact with the rear-guard, I’ll send help to you immediately.”