by V. A. Stuart
“I can bear anything,” she confided to Mrs Chalmers when, the short service over, she took William from his cot to change and feed him. “Anything, even another week in this place, so long as Alex is safe. Because I know that he will come to me, to us, whenever he can.”
William emitted a plaintive little cry and she held him to her breast, rocking him gently to and fro until his cries were stilled.
Mrs Chalmers said nothing but there were tears in her eyes as she watched Emmy’s patient attempts to suckle him which, as always, ended with the tiny mouth closing and the head, with its fringe of dark hair, falling back in futile exhaustion.
In the plundered Treasury building at the Nawabganj, the plump, sallow-faced Nana Sahib, Maharajah of Bithoor, received a deputation of native officers from the regiments which had mutinied. Flanked by his two brothers, Baba Rao and Bala Bhat, and with the handsome Azimullah Khan at his elbow, he listened, frowning, to the pleas of the officers.
“Lead us to Delhi, Maharajah,” Rissaldar-Major Teeka Singh of the 2nd Cavalry entreated him. “My sowars are eager to go. They will obey you and fight for you. We have guns and tumbrils of ammunition, bullocks and elephants to pull them, and the infantry are with us. We await only a leader.”
“It is a long way to Delhi,” the Nana objected. “And,” he glanced at Azimullah, “and I have work to do here.”
“Protecting the British?” a subadar of the 1st Sepoys suggested insolently. “A kingdom awaits you if you join our cause, Maharajah … but death if you take the side of our enemies.”
“What have I to do with the British?” the Rajah retorted angrily. “They have robbed me of my inheritance. I am altogether yours.”
“Our hearts are set on going to Delhi, huzoor,” Teeka Singh put in swiftly, motioning the subadar to silence. “There our brothers have raised the banners of Islam. They have proclaimed Bahadur Shah emperor, they have restored him to the Peacock Throne of his Mogul ancestors. We would go to offer him our tulwars, to find glory in fighting for our Faith. If you will lead us, Highness, a share of the glory will be yours. Our Hindu comrades of the infantry fight with us in this war against the feringhi.”
“Highness,” Azimullah whispered, bending close so that the officers could not overhear him. “What profit lies in the long march to Delhi to espouse the cause of the Mogul emperor? I speak contrary to the dictates of my Faith but I am thy loyal servant in all things, even in this. There is greater glory for thee here—a kingdom to be had for the taking! What can the British offer thee to equal that—a pension they have always refused to restore to thee in the past?”
“I have sworn to protect them,” the Nana reminded him uneasily.
“Promises can be broken, Highness. And what can those poor fools in their Fort of Despair hope to do, if we advance against them with an army at our backs? And guns … we shall have heavy guns, they have only nine-pounders and a mud wall a child could leap over!”
Sweat broke out on the Nana’s brow and he brushed it away with a long, bejewelled hand. “I made promises also to the sons of old Shah Bahadur. I told them that I would send soldiers to their aid.”
“They will not want for soldiers,” Azimullah assured him. “From all over Bengal, the sepoy regiments will rise and march to Delhi. Keep these men here, Highness, under thine own command. Let them fight to build a kingdom for thee here.”
“How can I persuade them to remain?” the Nana asked, his frown deepening. “If their hearts are set on marching to Delhi with the rest?”
“Offer them rewards, Highness,” Azimullah retorted confidently. “Pay for their men, promotion for themselves. They will stay.”
The native officers were growing impatient and the subadar who had spoken insolently a few minutes before was, the Nana saw, arguing with some of the others. He raised a hand for silence. “Do not go to Delhi,” he urged them. “Rather stay here and your names will be greater. I will be your leader if you remain. Kill every Englishman in Cawnpore and I will give you each a gold medal and unlimited plunder and I will see to it that your men are paid as regularly as the Company paid them.” He pointed to Teeka Singh. “You, I will make my general. And you,” he waved the subadar of the 1st Infantry to approach him, “shall be colonel of your regiment. Well, how say you? Will you stay and fight here against the British?”
They hesitated, looking at each other, still undecided. Then Teeka Singh dropped on one knee and offered his hand.
“I will serve you, Maharajah. But come with us, I beg you, to Kalianpore to address our men.”
The Nana Sahib rose. The die was cast, he told himself. “Fetch me my horse,” he ordered. “We will ride to Kalianpore.”
Alex was stiff and saddle-sore when he reached Lucknow just after daybreak on June 4th. He and his small party of volunteers had ridden hard since leaving Meerut eleven days before. The first part of their journey had been, perforce, slow and mainly across country, for the whole area between Delhi and Meerut was in a dangerously unsettled state and they had twice had brushes with parties of mutineers.
Once on the Grand Trunk Road, however, and heading southeast, they had encountered no hostility from the country people, although in the towns and out-stations, the atmosphere was full of brooding menace. The British officers, both military and civil, were remaining grimly at their posts, whilst admitting that they felt as if they were seated on a powder keg which might, at any moment, explode in their faces. Most had made arrangements for the protection of noncombatants, arming and provisioning such forts or other strongholds as were available; a few had sent their women and children to places of greater safety but in many cases, the women had refused to leave and Alex’s offer of escort had also been rejected. In Fatehgarh, through which they had passed before making a detour to Adjodhabad, the garrison commander, Colonel Simpson, had stated quite frankly that he could not trust his native troops. He had made arrangements to transfer one hundred and seventy civil residents and their families to Cawnpore by boat, he said and, in view of the number involved, Alex had been relieved that his escort had not been required, for it had enabled him to answer the request for help which had come in from Adjodhabad while he was still talking to the colonel.
“Go if you can, Sheridan,” Simpson had begged. “I’ve no troops I dare send—the Tenth are merely waiting for an excuse to rise. You’ve friends there, haven’t you? Then off you go, my dear fellow, with my grateful blessing!”
They had gone, of course and, although they had been almost too late, they had at least arrived in time to bring out those who had survived the treacherous attack launched on them by Colonel Chalmers’ Irregulars, including the colonel’s widow and his shocked and pathetically altered daughter.
Making his report to Sir Henry Lawrence over breakfast in the fortified Residency, within an hour of his return, Alex did not dwell on the mutiny at Adjodhabad. There were other, more pressing matters on which the Chief Commissioner of Oudh needed up-to-date information, and it had taken him the best part of an hour to give chapter and verse of the events which had led up to the capture of Delhi by the Meerut mutineers.
Sir Henry, who looked more ill and exhausted than on the last occasion that they had met, belied the frailty of his appearance by his energetic grasp of the situation and by the crisp, incisive comments he made.
“If anyone but Hewitt had been in command at Meerut none of this need have happened,” he said finally, when Alex came to the end of his recital. “Can you imagine Hearsey behaving as he did, or Outram? Either of them would have sent a detachment of British troops to Delhi on reading those letters you delivered and without waiting for permission from a commander-in-chief out of touch with the situation in the hills. No, no”—he brushed aside Alex’s apologies—“you did not fail, you did everything in your power. I doubt whether I could have done more, if I’d had those wings I wished for. With a man in Hewitt’s state of senility, nothing could be done. And his brigadier, Wilson, doesn’t appear to have acted much better … al
though he’s redeemed himself a little, as the result of his successful action at the Hindan crossing. You heard about that, I suppose?”
“No, sir.” Alex shook his head. “I knew that General Wilson was commanding a force from Meerut. Lieutenant Hodson rode from Ambala with orders from the commander-in-chief the day I left.” His eyes gleamed, as Sir Henry told him of the repulse of the mutineers at the bridge over the Hindan River. Colonel Jones and Colonel Custance would, he thought, be able at last to hold their heads high again, and so, too, would the gallant Rosser, whose two squadrons of recruits had captured five of the mutineers’ guns.
“We had a sharp little action of our own here, last Sunday evening,” Sir Henry went on. “We had been warned that the 71st intended to rise then and I was at dinner in the Mariaon cantonment, with a wing of the 32nd Queen’s standing by. I had just said to young Wilson, ‘Your friends are late,’ when we heard a great commotion and the sound of firing coming from the native lines. I ordered my horse to ride over to the gun battery and the subadar commanding my guard asked me if he should order his men to load. The guard was found by the Thirteenth and I wasn’t quite sure of them but,” he smiled, “I said, ‘Yes, load and see that no harm is done here lest I come back and hang you all.’ They all stood firm and three hundred men of the regiment ranged themselves alongside the Europeans, followed by small parties from both the 48th and the 71st. That’s on the credit side. On the debit side, alas, we lost Brigadier Handscombe and the adjutant of the 71st, Lieutenant Grant, killed and several others wounded and, of course, there was the usual crop of burnt and pillaged buildings.”
“But you repulsed the mutineers, sir?” Alex suggested. “Judging by the calm at present reigning.”
“We drove them on to the race-course,” Sir Henry confirmed grimly. “And at dawn on Monday morning we drove them off and pursued them for several miles, taking sixty prisoners, a number of whom we have hanged. I’d have preferred to disarm the whole regiment before they mutinied, of course, but,” he gave vent to a weary sigh, “I was afraid, if I did so, that it would provoke other regiments to mutiny, particularly those in the out-stations. Now I have moved all the women and children into the Residency area and organized our defenses to the best of my ability. We’re provisioned for a siege. If necessary for a lengthy one. We have guns and ammunition and some six hundred sepoys have remained loyal and, I believe, will continue to remain so. Although Martin Gubbins, as you might expect, wants me to disarm them, except for the Sikhs in the Machi Bhawan, whom he’s prepared to trust.” He gave details of the various defensive positions, to which Alex listened with interest and admiration. Sir Henry Lawrence might be a sick man but his farsighted planning would have done credit to any general. The Residency was not a fort but he had done his best, by means of a series of gun batteries and linked earthworks, to make it defensible and to provide adequate shelter for invalids and noncombatants, even converting a two-story banqueting hall into a hospital. Its weakness lay in the fact that, although he had demolished a number of surrounding houses, he had refused to destroy the mosques which also overlooked his position and, admitting wryly that his engineers had strongly advised him to do so, he said with a shrug, “I told them they must spare the holy places. Perhaps I was wrong.”
Perhaps he was, Alex thought; only time would tell.
Sir Henry poured himself a second cup of coffee and took out his silver hunter. “I am required to attend a council of war in half an hour. We have to decide whether or not to abandon the Machi Bhawan and the Mariaon cantonment and concentrate solely on this area for our defense. I feel we should try to hold all three positions for as long as we can.” He repeated his shrug, “But I must learn to listen to advice, I suppose. In the meantime I want to bring in as many women and children from the outstations as I can, and that requires cavalry. You have added a third to my total of volunteer cavalry, Alex, and I shall need you not only to command them but also to train civilian volunteers.
“I’m at your service, sir,” Alex responded readily.
“Are your men fit to go out this evening, to bring in fugitives from Sitapur?”
“We need fresh horses, sir, but the men are fit.”
“I can give you horses. The trained men are what I lack. But,” Sir Henry smiled, setting down his cup, “you, I trust, will rectify that. Take some of the volunteers with you.” He gave his instructions and, taking this as his dismissal, Alex rose. Sir Henry’s smile widened.
“It is good to have you here, Alex. Tell me, did you bring your wife and son from Cawnpore with you, after you left the unfortunate Mrs Chalmers there?”
“My wife, sir?” Alex stared at him in shocked incredulity. “My wife and son? But Emmy was to go to Calcutta with her sister! I had no idea, I …” he choked. His son, Emmy’s son and his! Oh, dear God! And Emmy still in Cawnpore—surely that wasn’t possible? Surely …
“My poor boy, how appallingly remiss of me to make no mention of this before,” Sir Henry apologized, in genuine distress. “I was so certain that you knew! You came here from Cawnpore, so I took it for granted that you had seen your wife and, indeed, that you had brought her and the child with you. That was why I asked, so that accommodation could be arranged and … your son was born prematurely, Alex. That was why your Emmy was unable to make the journey to Calcutta. I had a letter from her about ten days ago. I have it somewhere. There is also one for you, which George Cooper was keeping for you, I believe.” He looked at Alex’s stricken face and laid a hand pityingly on his shoulder.
“I see, sir. Thank you, I—”
“She will be safe enough in Cawnpore, you know,” Sir Henry went on. “Sir Hugh Wheeler has all noncombatants within the shelter of his entrenchments and he wrote me, only yesterday, to say that he believed the worst to be over. He had feared that his native troops would mutiny during Id but they did not. Indeed, he received the first reinforcements from Calcutta—a hundred and twenty men of the 84th Queen’s and the Madras Fusiliers—and he sent them on to me here, to assist my defense, having been assured that the remainder of the Fusiliers, under their colonel, were on their way to him.”
Alex listened in dazed silence. Sir Henry talked on reassuringly and, sending a servant for George Cooper, was able to give him Emmy’s letter, as well as the one she had sent, by the same mail, to himself.
“What of the Nana Sahib, sir?” Alex asked, recovering himself. “Does General Wheeler continue to repose complete trust in him?”
Sir Henry sighed. “Yes, I fear he does. But again, my dear boy, I seem to have been proved wrong. Sir Hugh informed me that the Nana had responded at once to his request for aid, ten or eleven days ago. He sent several hundred of his own troops and has given a promise that the lives of all British subjects will be protected, even if the Cawnpore regiments do rise. You need not be unduly anxious.”
“No, sir, of course not.” Alex made to take his leave, Emmy’s unopened letter in his hand. Sir Henry looked white with strain, he realized with compunction; he had no right to add to the burden of responsibility resting on those thin, bowed shoulders. The fault was his own; he should have waited, made enquiries last night, he reproached himself, instead of dashing on so precipitately to Lucknow. Fool that he was, he had never doubted that Emmy was in Calcutta. … He came to attention. “Forgive me for having taken up your time with my personal concerns, sir. I’ll carry out your instructions regarding the Sitapur people.” He could feel his control slipping. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Is it all, Alex?” Sir Henry reproved him gently.
Alex reddened under his grave-eyed scrutiny. “I hold my command under your orders, sir, and I am not asking for favours but I … I’d be grateful, should an opportunity arise for me to bring my wife and son here from Cawnpore, if I might be permitted to take it.”
“The first opportunity that arises shall be afforded to you,” Lawrence assured him, smiling now. “You have my word on that.”
The opportunity came with unexpected
suddenness during the afternoon. Alex was dressing, after a snatched sleep, when George Cooper sought him out.
“Colonel Sheridan, a courier has just come in from Cawnpore,” the secretary told him, his voice strained. “The whole brigade has mutinied, it seems—with the intention, according to General Wheeler’s intelligence, of marching to Delhi … although there’s no confirmation of this as yet. The courier reports that both the Magazine and the Treasury are in their hands but so far there has been no attack on the entrenchment and no officers of native regiments have been harmed by their men. They’ve indulged in the usual looting and incendiarism, and cut the telegraph wires, but that’s all.”
“And the Nana’s troops?” Alex asked grimly.
“The courier did not know. He thought they were standing firm.” Cooper sighed. “You can probably guess why I’ve come, Colonel. Sir Henry wishes you to take an urgent message to General Wheeler, if you are willing to make the attempt to get through. He instructed me to tell you that he personally fears you may encounter some difficulty, unless the mutineers have left for Delhi.”
“I have a powerful incentive, Mr Cooper. My wife and child are in Cawnpore.” Alex checked the Adams carefully and then slid it into his belt. “Tell Sir Henry, if you please, that I will gladly make the attempt to deliver his message to General Wheeler.”
The secretary looked relieved. “Good. Then I’m instructed to tell you that you should take the minimum escort you deem necessary and that you should hand over responsibility for the Sitapur party to your second-in-command. He’s capable, isn’t he?”
“Perfectly,” Alex assured him. “Is my despatch ready?”
“It will be by the time you’ve mounted your escort. I’ll bring it to you myself.” The secretary eyed him unsmilingly. “It consists of two lines, written in Greek, so if you should—that is, you need not worry unduly should it fall into the wrong hands. And I fear it will disappoint General Wheeler, because it informs him that the reinforcements he is expecting are held up in Benares by an outbreak of mutiny there. The message reached Sir Henry from Calcutta only an hour ago.” George Cooper hesitated and then held out his hand. “Good luck, Colonel Sheridan. I trust we shall see you back here, with your family, very soon.”