Massacre at Cawnpore

by V. A. Stuart

  “The devils are swarming into all the unoccupied blocks,” Moore told him. “They’re threatening Mowbray Thomson in Four and are all around Six. We’re sunk if they once get control there and he’s only got fifteen men, so we’ll have to help him. I told Eddie Vibart that we’d try to clear them out and, if it can be managed, that we’d drive them into One and Two. He has a gun laid on both blocks so, if we can get them there, he’ll be able to rout them with a few rounds of canister. But I’ll need at least 25 able-bodied men, Alex. I can’t take any from the Redan, they’re pushed as it is, and the cavalry attack will probably be concentrated on them. Can you let me have ten of your fellows and come yourself? It’s best to stick to our usual team and it shouldn’t take long—you’ll be back here before the main attack develops, with any luck.”

  Alex complied with his request, recognising its urgency. To lose control of Number Four and Six Blocks would, he was only too well aware, render the west side of the entrenchment untenable. Number Four, in particular, had to be held … he caught the pouch of home-made grenades Moore tossed to him and handed over command of his sector to Athill Turner.

  “Sorry to leave you in the lurch, Athill. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  Turner nodded, relieving him of the glass with a tight-lipped grin. “Don’t hurry—they won’t, cowardly swine! They’re probably consulting the oracle to see which of ’em will have to face us first.”

  With the two Native Cavalry Officers, Quinn and Wren, and Private Bannister of the 32nd, Alex completed his small party by selecting five men of the 84th and two Fusiliers—the choice virtually made for him, since few others in the sector could lay claim to being able-bodied. They joined Moore, Francis Whiting and the rest of the men and, without the need for orders—since all were veterans of innumerable sallies into the disputed barrack blocks—slipped out of the entrenchment. In ones and twos, bent low and steering a zigzag course, they ran the gauntlet of the rebels’ musketry, to fling themselves down under cover of Number Four Block to regain their breath.

  When all had crossed, Moore led one party to the left, Alex the other to the right and, with Thomson’s marksmen providing them with covering fire, they set about clearing the blocks in methodical fashion. They had been compelled to do it so often before that they now worked to a well-tried routine; first the grenades, lobbed in through the unglazed window spaces; a pause, then a few shots, from accurate Enfields, followed by a bayonet charge and, with the rebels as always in full retreat, on to the next. It was an exhausting task in the daytime heat, for half-starved, parched and weary men, few of whom had had more than an hour’s sleep but somehow, calling upon reserves of strength they had not realised they possessed, it was accomplished and the threat averted. Some of Thomson’s picket made a dash to support the forward parties and cover their withdrawal and then, in response to their signal from the “crow’s nest,” Edward Vibart’s well-sited guns on the north side of the entrenchment sent a shower of grape into the end pair of the line of unfinished barrack blocks, known to the defenders as Numbers One and Two.

  Limping, barely able to walk after their strenuous exertions, the men of the raiding parties reformed on Number Four. They had sustained casualties; Lieutenant Quinn was hit in the leg, Moore himself had been creased by a musket-ball which had laid the right side of his scalp bare for almost four inches; the valiant Sergeant Maywood, of the 32nd was carried back by Bannister and another private of the same regiment, with a severe wound in the chest and two men of the 84th, although unwounded, were in a state of collapse from heatstroke. Francis Wren, bleeding from a flesh wound on the brow, stumbled in, half-blinded, under the guidance of a young railway engineer named Miller.

  “We’ll have to leave our casualties with you, Tommy,” Moore decided, when he could get his breath. “And I’ll ask Surgeon Macauley to come across. They’ll be better off here—at least the poor devils will be out of the sun and they can be moved tonight, if they’re in your way. In the meantime, do what you can for them, will you please? Because we must get back to our posts.”

  “There’s been no attack yet, John,” Mowbray Thomson told him. “Andy Stirling’s been keeping a look-out.” He added cynically, “They’re depending on a prolonged bombardment to soften us up, like the French in the Crimea. But I don’t think it’ll be a conspicuous success for them either, unless they’re prepared to come at us with infantry.”

  “I think they’ll try that,” Alex said. “They must.” He had been kneeling at Sergeant Maywood’s side, holding a water-bottle to the wounded man’s lips and he rose reluctantly to his feet. It was an effort to move, an effort even to speak. He felt nauseated and light-headed, unable to focus his gaze or see clearly and Mowbray Thomson said, with concern, “Rest for a few minutes, Alex. You’ll never make it if you don’t.”

  Francis Whiting took his arm. “I’ll come across with you. We can take it slowly—there aren’t any snipers, thank God. At least we gave them a pasting!”

  They returned to the entrenchment together, with the slow uncertain gait of old men, pausing often to regain their breath and managing somehow to avoid the bouncing round-shot which added to the perils of their three hundred yard journey. The three men of the 84th and the two Fusiliers, who returned with them, were in no better shape and Whiting said despondently, “I fear John will have to abandon his plan for a sortie, Alex. We’re none of us fit to undertake it. All we’re capable of now is the defence of this Godforsaken entrenchment … if that.”

  “We’ve got to hold the entrenchment,” Alex answered. “It’s do or die for us, as well as for them. If they do launch a full-scale attack this morning—as I’m convinced they will—our fate will be decided, one way or the other. The Nana’s, too, perhaps.” He sighed. “This is our last stand, Francis. If we make it a good one, it might even become a victory.”

  “Pray God, you’re right,” Francis Whiting said. “Pray God you are!”

  Alex said no more but he, too, was praying as he went from man to man, offering encouragement and a cheerful word but conscious of a pang when he saw that six or seven women had joined his depleted line in order to pass ammunition and load for their husbands. Minutes later, Athill Turner called out a hoarse warning and, returning to his observation post, he saw that a number of field batteries, with six- and nine-pounder guns drawn by horses and bullocks, were advancing on the north and northeast faces of the entrenchment. They came boldly, with a cavalry escort and unlimbered within four hundred yards but, choosing their moment with the skill of long practice, Ashe and Delafosse opened a withering fire on those within their range and forced them to withdraw.

  They had scarcely done so when skirmishers began to deploy from the trenches in front of the New Cantonment. Under cover of bales of cotton, which they rolled in front of them, they kept up a brisk fire with their muskets as they advanced in extended lines, making difficult targets, even for practised riflemen.

  “Steady!” Alex cautioned, watching them, glass to his eye. “Hold your fire—let the guns deal with them!” His vision had cleared now and his telescope revealed a great mass of infantry issuing from the trees and buildings which had given them concealment. The sun glinted on their bayonets and on the drawn sword of a tall, powerfully-built subadar-major, who was leading them, and they raised a concerted shout, deep-throated and savage, as they cleared the trenches and began to swarm across the Cantonment Road.

  Ashe’s guns poured grape and canister into the cotton bales, their staccato thunder echoed by Delafosse’s to the east and Kempland’s to the south-east of the entrenchment, followed by the crack of rifle fire from the Redan on the north face. The enemy were closing in from all sides, Alex’s mind registered, and in such overwhelming numbers that, if they pressed home their attack with sufficient resolution, they could not fail to take their objective. In previous attacks, they had lacked resolution but … he swung his glass round, anxious to ascertain the movements of the cavalry, of which he had lost sight in the dust and
smoke. They were over to the left of the riding school and had wheeled into four close-packed lines, preparatory to making a charge—their objective, as John Moore had forecast, almost certainly the Redan, which jutted out in a semi-circle to the rear of the flat-roofed barrack, defended by two guns and twenty riflemen.

  A trumpet sounded, shrill and clear above the mutter of light-calibre guns—the 24-pounders had ceased fire now, in anticipation of the attack—and the horsemen started to move forward in a cloud of reddish-brown dust, slowly at first but each line gathering momentum, as the sowars kicked their horses into a gallop. They made an awesome spectacle, the 2nd Light Cavalry with lances couched, the Oudh irregulars with tulwars drawn, thundering across the flat expanse of sunbright sand, their banners and the green, blue and yellow chapkans and turbans weaving intricate patterns of rippling colour amongst the white-clad ranks. As they broke into a gallop, they shouted their battle cries, two thousand voices raised in a blood-chilling chorus of vengeance and hate calculated to strike terror into the stoutest heart.

  “Din! Din! For the Faith—kill for the Faith! Death to the feringhi! Maro! Maro!”

  The speed of their charge and the sheer volume of sound which accompanied it made them seem invincible; to many of the anxiously watching defenders it appeared that only minutes stood between them and annihilation. But they obediently held their fire, although the first wave of infantry, led by the giant subadar-major, was advancing from the Cantonment Road. The front rank fired a volley, without evoking any response and beside him, Alex heard a young private draw in his breath in a sobbing gasp. The infantry came swarming across the intervening space, yelling their heads off and trampling over the discarded cotton bales as if they, too, scented victory. But the cavalry had begun their charge too soon; in the blazing noonday sun, their horses were winded, losing impetus and alignment, failing to close their ranks.

  Ashe’s guns crashed out again and again—in the din, Alex could hear no others—and the cavalry charge was checked. Horses fell, others were plunging, flinging their riders headlong to the ground, to be trampled, screaming, by those who came behind. Then they were past, still heading for the Redan but in confusion, and Vibart’s defenders met them with a wall of fire. Alex raised his arm and his line of scarecrow soldiers fired almost as one man, fear, exhaustion, hunger forgotten or overcome, the rifles burning their blistered hands, as they hurled volley after volley at the oncoming infantry. Now a line of dead and dying mutineers lay between the mud wall of the entrenchment and the oncoming swarm; they faltered but their subadar stood, his sword raised, urging them on and the young private who had sobbed fixed him in his sights and, with cool deliberation, shot him down.

  Still the following waves continued their advance; Ashe turned his guns on them and only a few reached the ditch in front of the entrenchment, fewer still survived to hurl themselves at the parapet, to be met by British bayonets. They might, by sheer weight of numbers, have carried the north-east face but the sight of the cavalry in full retreat unnerved them. They wavered and, lacking resolute leadership, broke and fled, tearing through the ranks of their own oncoming support troops which, in turn, were thrown into confusion and fell back. One of Ashe’s hard-used guns blew up, its barrel shattered, but the three worn guns had served their turn and gradually the fire from the entrenchment slackened.

  No cheers saluted their victory; it had been won at too great a cost and the men lining the parapet leaned against it with closed eyes or collapsed into the trenches behind it, spent and gasping for breath. It was the women who came out to do what they could for those who were wounded and Alex, sitting dazedly with his back against the ruins of his observation post, his empty pistol in his hand, found Emmy beside him, holding a cup of water to his parched and blistered lips. He could not speak but he drank gratefully and then, the cup almost drained, he turned to her shamefaced, offering her what was left.

  “I … I’m sorry, I didn’t think, darling. Dear God, I’ve taken it all.”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “You needed it, Alex. Rest now, won’t you? They’re beaten off, there’s no more firing … surely you have earned a rest?”

  He dragged himself up. “That water saved my life, Emmy! Bless you for it. I … I’ll rest in a minute. I have to see to my men, I—”

  “We’re doing what can be done. There’ll be water—a party is drawing it now.” She gestured towards the well. “The general is wounded, did you hear? In the leg, I believe … the gallant old man joined them in the Redan. They suffered badly there, I’m afraid. Three young officers, all boys, were killed by round-shot before the cavalry charged. Poor young Ensign Supple was one of them. He was such a nice young man—he used to visit his friend, Tom Forman, in the hospital. He helped me often, when I …” Emmy’s voice broke. “Oh, Alex, is it never going to end, this terrible killing? Will they go on attacking until we are all dead?”

  Would they, Alex wondered, unable to answer her … or would this morning’s attack have convinced even the Nana that his opponents would yield only to death? He must have lost hundreds of men today and he had seen his cavalry vanquished and humiliated—but would this be enough to give him pause? Would it be enough to induce the sepoys of the 53rd and the 56th to desert him and return to their old allegiance, as Jemadar Ram Gupta believed they might?

  He sighed, forcing his tired brain to consider the possibilities. After this morning, the advantage lay—if only fleetingly—with the defenders but they would have to act now, at once, or it would be too late. He looked at the men who had held his sector of the perimeter so valiantly and repeated his sigh. They could not hold it for much longer; by this evening, if they had to endure another day in the blazing sun and the continued pounding of the rebel guns, half of them would be in a state of collapse. For God’s sake, Ram Gupta must be sent back to his regiment! He might fail but his suggestion was worth trying. A pardon—even the promise of reward, if the sepoys of the 53rd agreed to return to the Company’s service—was surely not too high a price to pay if it would end the siege or enable them to fight their way to Lucknow. The women, his own beloved Emmy, had suffered more than any women ought to be called upon to suffer—if the price of their lives was a pardon for one or two regiments of mutineers, it was certainly not too high … and the general must be made to see it.

  There was also his own, half-formed plan to disguise himself as a sadhu and attempt to contact Neill in Allahabad; that, too, might be a chance worth taking, however long the odds against it, Alex told himself. Alternatively, he …

  “Poor Mr Haycock died the other day,” Emmy was saying. There were tears in her eyes and she moved away from him, smoothing the folds of her ragged and filthy dress. “It was a merciful release for him, poor soul—he was quite out of his mind with sunstroke and fever for several days. But I’m sorry for his mother. She’s old and frail and she nursed him so devotedly, day and night. Even when he ran out into the compound, naked, saying that he was going to pray with the sepoys, she brought him back and soothed him. And poor Mary White—the one who has twins … oh, Alex, did you hear what happened to her? A single musket-ball broke both her arms and killed her husband, with whom she was walking under cover of the godown wall, as well as wounding one of the twins. Now she must suckle them lying on her back and—”

  “Emmy, my love …” gently Alex interrupted her. “You said the general was wounded, did you not?”

  “Yes—in the Redan this morning. He was hit in the leg and—”

  “Is he badly wounded?”

  Emmy shook her head. “I don’t think so. It was only a graze from a shell splinter, someone told me. But like Mrs Haycock, he is old and frail. Wounds turn gangrenous in this heat, Alex, and we’ve no medicines and hardly any clean dressings. The surgeons—”

  “I must see him, darling,” Alex said, again having to cut her short. She spent all her waking hours in the makeshift hospital in the quarter-guard building and the deaths, he realised, were beginning to prey on her mind
. Poor child, there were so many of them now, it was small wonder … “I must see the general at once,” he repeated. “Where was he taken, do you know?”

  Emmy eyed him apprehensively. “To his own quarters, I believe. His wife and daughters are caring for him but … why, Alex? Why must you see him at once?”

  He told her the truth and saw fear dawn in her eyes. “You mean that you will offer to take a message to Allahabad? Oh Alex, no! You won’t stand a chance, truly you won’t! They say that all the roads are guarded, the river too—you’d never get through. You—”

  “I think I might. For heaven’s sake, darling—look at me! I’d pass for a native easily, my skin’s burnt black, and I speak the language fluently.” He hesitated, reaching for her hand. “Darling, someone has to try to reach Neill—we can’t just stay here waiting until … Emmy, I won’t volunteer if you don’t want me to, my love. But I believe I’d have as good a chance as anyone.”

  She did not look at him. “If you want to go, I won’t stand in your way, Alex. But I am afraid for you … every minute of every day, I am afraid for you. Each time they bring a wounded man to us, my heart stops beating for fear that it will be you.”

  Alex drew her to him. “My dearest Emmy, it will be me, it will be all of us if Neill’s column does not reach us very soon.”

  She hid her ravaged face against his chest and he felt her trembling. “I know,” she whispered huskily. “I know. Go if you must, Alex, but I … I cannot bear to … to bid you farewell. I …” she left him and went, a thin, pitifully limping figure, back across the reeking dust of the compound to the quarter-guard building. She had scarcely gained its shelter when the rebel guns opened once more and a round-shot scattered those who were endeavouring to draw water from the well.

  Alex braced himself. He dismissed all the men of his sector except the sentries, sent a man to draw the rum ration and told the others to get what rest they could in the trenches and shallow, scooped-out holes behind their mud wall. Then handing over command to Athill Turner, he went to seek audience with the general.