by V. A. Stuart
“It was nothing, my dear chap, nothing of consequence. I’m tired and that makes me pessimistic.” He raised his glass in his left hand, looked down wryly at his empty right sleeve and then drank the toast with a smile. “To the Company! Long may it prosper and continue to command the loyalty of all who serve it!”
“Hear, hear,” the adjutant echoed. He topped up their glasses. “This is capital stuff for drowning one’s sorrows. Another toast, sir? It’s your turn to propose one.”
“I’m going to bed,” Alex told him. “And I think you should too, old son, because you’ll need all your wits about you tomorrow.” Clark stared at him incredulously.
“Me, need my wits? For pity’s sake, what for? I don’t want to see it happen, I want to blind myself to what’s going on, don’t you understand? That’s the only way I’ll be able to stomach the sight of my men being treated like felons, sir, truly it is.”
“Don’t be a selfish, idiotic young fool!” Alex reproved him sharply. “Eighty-five sowars are only part of the regiment. The rest of them will be looking to their officers to stand by them, to give them the courage to remain true to their salt. It will be the very devil of an ordeal for them and they’ll be afraid, tempted to kick over the traces if ever men were, when their pride is trampled in the dust and they’ve nothing left in its place. Less than nothing, if the officers they know and trust desert them.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that, sir,” the boy admitted. “You’re right, of course, I … I’ll go and sober up, sir.”
“Wait a minute,” Alex said quietly. “I’ll give you a final toast, if you wish. To the 3rd Light Cavalry, for all that it has been and all, please God, that it may be again!”
“Amen to that,” Melville Clark responded huskily. He gulped down the contents of his glass, and then, letting the glass fall to shatter at his feet, he stammered a slightly slurred good night and left the room. He was, Alex saw, weeping unashamedly.
CHAPTER FOUR
BUGLES sounded reveille long before dawn, and in the brickbuilt European barracks and the Native Lines bordering the racecourse, sleepy-eyed soldiers and yawning sepoys answered the call with varying degrees of reluctance. In bungalows and bachelor quarters, lights flickered to life, officers buckled on their swords, donned helmets and shakos and called for their horses and, still in darkness, cantered off to join their regiments. Also in darkness, the first of several gun teams of the Bengal Horse Artillery limbered up and trotted smartly down Cannon Row from their park in East Street, a nine-pounder thudding behind them.
Soon the tramp of marching feet woke echoes in the still sleeping Sudder Bazaar, as the Meerut garrison of four thousand men started to converge, as ordered, on the Rifles’ drill square, between Barrack Street and The Mall. It was a sultry dawn, with low-lying storm clouds and a hot wind to stir the dust on the freshly watered parade ground. An occasional growl of distant thunder drowned the shouted commands as regiment after regiment marched up and wheeled into its allotted position, to form three sides of a hollow square.
Facing each other were the two Queen’s Regiments, the 60th Rifles in dark green, the 6th Dragoon Guards in scarlet and blue, pale sunlight glinting on their plumed brass helmets, as they kneed their still awkwardly recalcitrant Cape horses into a close-packed line. The third side of the square was formed by the Indian regiments, the sepoys of the 11th and 20th Native Infantry making a bright splash of colour in their red coatees, with white crossbelts and collars. Last to arrive and line up beside them, dismounted, were the sowars of the 3rd Light Cavalry, their French grey and silver uniforms dusty from unaccustomed foot drill and the long march from the racecourse to The Mall. The brown faces beneath the light dragoon shakos were glum and apprehensive as, under the stern eye of their colonel, they took up their dressing and shuffled, with booted feet, into line with the 11th.
Behind the square, two batteries of artillery were drawn up, backed up by a solid phalanx of blue-clad British gunners, each gun double-shotted with grape and the portfires lighted. The Indian troops had paraded with their arms, but no ammunition had been issued to them and their apprehension grew when they realized that they were trapped between the guns to their rear and the formidable ranks of close on a thousand riflemen, facing them with loaded Lee-Pritchetts. Not a man moved, however, and they came obediently to attention when a carriage, fashioned of wood with a basketwork frame and drawn by two ponies, made its appearance on the edge of the parade ground.
Positioned between the front rank of B Troop and the little knot of prisoners standing under guard and in miserable isolation, Alex watched the approach of the pony carriage with oddly conflicting emotions. This, then, he thought, was the buggy Lieutenant Clark had described—the equipage which did duty for the charger General Hewitt could no longer contrive to mount. The carriage came briskly towards the center of the square, escorted by two A. D. C.s on matching chestnuts. Little could be seen of its occupant, save the waving plumes of his cocked hat and it was not until the general was assisted to alight that Alex was able to get a clear view of him and he was hard put to it, despite Clark’s warning, to suppress a horrified gasp.
The white-haired, tottering figure climbing unsteadily up the steps of the saluting base was a caricature of the man he had once been, so grossly obese that his uniform frock coat could scarcely be buttoned and was open at the throat, so shapeless that only his straining sword belt hinted at the position of his waist. At first it seemed as if he were too ill to be fully aware of his surroundings; he stood, looking vaguely about him, his heavily jowled face devoid of expression. Then, recovering himself, he nodded in the direction of the prisoners. To the roll of drums, a staff officer stepped forward, saluted and proceeded to read out the sentences in English, pausing occasionally to enable his words to be repeated in Hindustani by an interpreter, who was posted in front of the Indian regiments.
A visible tremor ran through the sepoys’ ranks as they listened. The prisoners, discipline momentarily forgotten with the realization that there was to be no last-minute reprieve, turned to look at each other in ashen-faced disbelief. The price to be exacted from them was high and now they must fare it. No longer would they be proud soldiers, swaggering in the Company’s uniform, fighting its battles. They were to be transported to a penal colony in the Andaman Islands where, pensions forfeited and honor lost, most of them would labor in felons’ chains for ten long, weary years, while their families starved.
An old daffadar, wearing the medals for Ghuznee and the Sutlej campaign, started to weep; another dropped to his knees, praying wordlessly, but they were given no time in which to protest or plead for mercy. In response to a shouted order, two heavily laden ammunition carts, drawn by artillery troop horses, moved towards them and a detachment of British soldiers—armorers and smiths of the Horse Artillery—marched out from behind the silent ranks of the Rifles.
The old daffadar was the first to have his uniform stripped from him. A slash from behind rent the blue-grey cloth; medals and crested silver buttons were ripped off, to fall and be trampled underfoot, as the smiths moved on, spurs jingling, to the next in line, leaving the old daffadar to kneel, in his scant white loincloth, and remove his boots.
Alex felt sick with pity as he watched. Mutiny had to be punished, it was true, but not like this, not with thousands looking on. There was worse to come, he saw, as the blue-uniformed artillerymen crossed to the ammunition carts and returned, carrying leg-irons and lengths of chain over their shoulders.
One by one, the prisoners submitted to having fetters hammered about their bare ankles, the chains attached to them, riveted to necks and arms. None offered any resistance but, as the sun rose higher and the slow, humiliating work went on, their spirit broke and a chorus of voices pleaded humbly for forgiveness. Their appeals were addressed to the colonel but Carmichael Smyth sat his horse in silence, seemingly deaf to the frantic cries. After a while the pleas turned to curses and several of the men hurled their discarded boots in his direction but h
e continued to ignore them.
“The Government has imprisoned us without fault, Colonel Sahib!” the old daffadar screamed, struggling to hold himself upright in his chains. “We are not mutineers! What we did, we had to do, for our Faith! Show us mercy, huzoor! Did we not serve you well, I and others like me, for twenty years?”
His appeal, like all the rest, went unanswered. The colonel sat immobile, gazing stonily to his front and at last the prisoners were marched off in a shambling line, stumbling frequently as the heavy shackles impeded them. A few, bolder than their fellows, raised a defiant cry of “Deen, deen! For the Faith! Remember us!” as they came within earshot of the general but he, too, turned a deaf ear to them. Before they were out of sight, he descended from his wooden platform, leaning on the arm of an A. D. C., clambered awkwardly into the waiting buggy and was driven off, leaving General Wilson to dismiss the parade.
The Indian regiments marched off in turn, led by the 20th, the two British regiments standing firm until Colonel Carmichael Smyth gave the order for the Light Cavalry to follow them. Aware that the men behind him were weeping, Alex called them to attention again and made them dress ranks before permitting them to move off. Like the other troop officers, he was on foot and, while the dressing was in progress, he walked across to where he had seen the old daffadar’s medals fall and, bending swiftly, picked them up. B Troop, under his temporary command, wheeled past the unlimbered guns and back on to the wide, tree-shaded Mall. He trudged in front of them and kept them marching to attention with their heads held high until they turned out of Bridge Street, into Circular Road, and the gaping watchers in the cantonment bungalows were left behind. The children had meant no harm, of course—they could not distinguish one regiment from another—but some of the Muslim servants had called out abuse and he had seen the men flinch.
He said to the native officer at his elbow, “B Troop may march at ease, Rissaldar Sahib. Before you dismiss the men to their quarters, tell them that they did well.”
The rissaldar shouted the order. Falling into step with Alex again, the man, who was also wearing a Sutlej medal, remarked diffidently, “The Captain Sahib did a wise thing. It was well to remind these men that they are still soldiers, for they came close to forgetting it out there this morning, with so many to witness their shame.”
“It need not be their shame, Rissaldar-ji,” Alex told him. “These are good men. If they stay true to their salt and obey the Company’s hukum, today’s shame can be wiped out. Make this clear to them also, before you dismiss the troop.” He thought of Colonel Chalmers’ Irregulars, remembering how they had run riot, looting and burning in the Civil Lines at Adjodhabad, and yet had incurred no punishment, because their commander had refused to believe in their guilt. “Budmashes from the bazaar,” Chalmers had insisted obstinately, when he had demanded redress. “My men are well in hand. I will not insult them by making unfounded charges against them.” He sighed irritably. There had to be a happy medium, damn it—a line drawn between Colonel Chalmers’ attitude and that of Carmichael Smyth, when it came to dealing with disaffection and mutiny. Old Chalmers’ complacency had invited contempt, because his sowars imagined that he was afraid of them; they had interpreted his efforts to protect them from the consequences of their misdeeds, not as trust but as proof that he was seeking to buy their loyalty. They gave it, derisively, and continued to plot behind his back. Alex glanced at the line of dark faces at his own back and repeated his sigh.
What had Colonel Smyth achieved by forcing the issue? What emotions had his icy rejection of the mutineers’ pleas for mercy and forgiveness aroused in these men, out there on the parade ground, under the threat of the double-shotted guns? Fear, perhaps, but also hatred, mingled with despair; they had been shown the price of mutiny, clearly and unequivocally—but would that ensure their loyalty? The faces were sullen and unhappy; they slouched along now, kicking up the dust, cowed and vulnerable, robbed of their pride, their eyes on the ground, looking like a rabble, many not even in step. For God’s sake, how could these men be expected to forget what had been done to them? General Hearsey’s way was better, surely. They should be disbanded now and permitted to return to their homes.
“Sahib,” the grey-haired rissaldar ventured, as if guessing his thoughts, “there is one way in which hope might be restored.”
Alex turned to look at him, checking his stride. The man’s face was set in grave lines, his eyes anxious but they met his searching scrutiny without flinching. “Well, rissalar-ji,” he invited. “How might hope be restored?”
“If a new trial could be granted to those who are condemned—a good advocate hired, Sahib, to plead for them in mitigation. They are truly contrite. If the sentences could be reduced, perhaps, to a dishonorable discharge for each of them, with forfeiture of pension, would that not be punishment enough?”
It was a chance, Alex told himself—a slim one, heaven knew, but still a chance, if Colonel Smyth could be persuaded to consider such a possibility.
“They are not felons, Sahib,” the rissaldar went on earnestly. “Many have served the Company for twenty years. Daffadar Ghulam Rasul—he whose medals the Sahib plucked from the dust—won his promotion for bravery at Sobraon, yet he is fettered just like the others, his past service counting for nothing.”
“Are you asking me to intercede with the Colonel Sahib?” Alex questioned, frowning.
“The Colonel Sahib would not listen,” the native officer answered sadly. “He turned his face away when they cried out to him and they cursed him, they flung their boots at the feet of his horse. The Colonel Sahib is a hard man—he will not forgive them for that.”
“Then what is left, Rissaldar Sahib?”
“If the Captain Sahib would speak to the men, if he would hear their pleas. They are confined in the jail now, no longer in the hospital. Later today, I am given to understand, their troop officers will visit them to pay them off. Perhaps, Sahib, a petition … a humble confession of their fault and—”
“A petition to whom?” Alex interrupted, thinking despondently of General Hewitt. There was a possibility that he might be summoned to the general’s presence, in order to supply him with any further information he required concerning the letters he had brought from Lucknow, although it seemed unlikely. Colonel Smyth would see to that. In any case, would General Hewitt consider a petition from the men he had so recently and publicly condemned?
“To the commander-in-chief, Sahib, in Simla,” the old rissaldar said, lowering his voice. “That is the only chance left for them.”
They were in sight of the long rows of thatched white huts that marked the native cavalry lines now and ahead of them, Alex saw, A Troop was forming up, preparatory to being dismissed. The colonel had led them off the Rifles’ parade ground but had not ridden back with them—presumably as a sign of his disapproval—and the only mounted officer was the acting adjutant, Melville Clark. He hesitated, brows again furrowed.
“I will visit the men, Rissaldar Sahib,” he promised. “Although I can hold out little hope that such a petition would be permitted to leave here—or that it would be heeded if it were. But I will talk to the other officers and see if anything can be done.”
Over a gloomy tiffin in the mess, he discussed the rissaldar’s suggestion with those officers who had elected to take their midday meal there. Few had any appetite and all were moody and depressed. Only Melville Clark snatched at the straw which the possibility of a petition offered, but the others shook their heads regretfully.
“They’ll never be granted a retrial,” the commander of A Troop asserted. He was a slow-voiced, pleasant captain named Henry Craigie, whose sympathies were clearly with the condemned sowars. “You know, I suppose, Sheridan, that two members of the court martial recommended the death penalty for all 85? By that criterion, they’ve been dealt with leniently … though I honestly believe that most of them would have preferred death to what was handed out to them this morning. The older men, certainly. They know they�
��ll be left to rot in the Andaman Islands for what time is left to them. But”—he shrugged—“I’m going to the jail this evening, with Hugh Gough and Alfred Mackenzie. Come with us, by all means. You’ve been given B Troop, have you not?”
“Temporarily,” Alex answered. “Until Major Harlow returns from leave.”
“Then you come in your own right. We’ll ride over about five, if that suits you?”
The discussion was continued as the four officers headed for the jail in the gathering dusk but so uncertain were they of the wisdom of raising false hopes that it was agreed between them that no mention of a possible petition should be made.
“We can sound the men as to their willingness to appeal for mercy,” Henry Craigie said. “And provided a majority are willing, then we can bring the matter to the colonel’s attention.” He forestalled a question from young Lieutenant Gough with a wry, “I know, Hugh, I know. But nothing can be done without his knowledge and consent. He’d scotch it, if we tried. Don’t you agree, Sheridan?”
Alex inclined his head. He was worried, not only about the condemned men but also about General Hewitt’s reaction to the letters, which—if Archdale Wilson had kept his word—must surely have been shown to him by this time. Unless, of course, he reflected cynically, the station commander was so reluctant to disturb his superior’s afternoon siesta that he had, on this account, delayed going to him. But the fact that he himself had been told nothing did not necessarily mean that the letters had not been delivered.
“Here we are,” Captain Craigie announced, interrupting a somewhat heated exchange between Gough and Mackenzie on the subject of the missiles which had been hurled at their colonel during the punishment parade and the effect the mutineers’ demonstration of hostility had had on him. “That is the City Jail.” He pointed to a large, rambling building directly ahead of them, with heavily barred windows and a flat roof, standing behind an eight or nine foot high mud wall. There were red-coated sentries at the main gate—sepoys, Alex recognized, with some astonishment, of the 20th Native Infantry, in the charge of a havildar. They presented arms smartly when the small cavalcade halted at the gate and the havildar ordered it opened, took charge of the horses and summoned the European jailer from his house in the prison compound.