“He’s unlikely to be given a posting to China, then?” Phillip suggested, with mild sarcasm.
Peel shook his head. “No—Captain Jones is on half-pay and has come out here at his own expense for what he himself is pleased to describe as a ‘lark.’ His attitude to war is, to say the least, a trifle light-hearted but I’ve no doubt he will learn that it’s pretty grim business before he’s much older. I advised a visit to the Bibigarh, but I don’t think he took my advice. He missed seeing the Lucknow column, of course, which might have given him pause for thought … and if he’d been here when General Windham was under attack by the Gwalior rebels, I don’t imagine he would have regarded that as much of a lark. It was a deuced near run thing, Phillip—even Sir Colin admits it now, although he blames Windham for not adhering strictly to his orders. But I hear he’s apologised to Brigadier Carthew.”
They talked for a little longer and then, when Jim Vaughan, the Shannon’s First Lieutenant, joined them, broke off for the evening meal. When this was over, Phillip went to the fort in search of Colonel Cockayne and, learning from him that his small force was complete and ready to march within the next 24 hours, agreed to accompany him and went to volunteer the thirty bluejackets William Peel had promised. He had no difficulty in obtaining the men he wanted, the first to step forward being the veteran petty officer, Thomas Devereux. Midshipman Lightfoot, hearing a rumour that something was afoot, arrived breathless with the plea that he be permitted to join the party, and his own numbers complete, Phillip reported the fact to Colonel Cockayne.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Colonel was in his tent, a map of Oudh spread out before him and a beaker of whisky in his hand. Hospitably, he poured another for his visitor and invited him to seat himself. With the aid of the map, he indicated his proposed route, pointing out likely camp sites and the point at which he had decided to cross the river.
His voice was slurred and Phillip realised, to his surprise, that his new commander had evidently been drinking heavily. But Cockayne held his liquor well; an occasional hesitation and one or two incorrect map references were swiftly corrected and, putting down his lapse as a lone celebration after weeks of anxiety, he thought no more of it. The Colonel knew every inch of the country his force was to cover and he drew a useful sketch map of the city of Ghorabad, at Phillip’s request, tracing the course of the Sye River on whose banks it was situated and marking in the position of the fort, in which the British garrison had taken refuge, and the palace of the local Rajah, Newab Abdul Ruza.
“Abdul Ruza is a Muslim, Commander Hazard,” he said, offering the sketch for Phillip’s inspection. “And he’s been engaged in fermenting rebellion for a long time, in association with the Moulvi of Fyzabad, whose name you may have heard. The Moulvi is one of the most powerful of the rebel leaders in Lucknow and the Newab is one of his most fanatical recruits. His palace, as you can see, is on the right bank of the river … here, on the east side of the native city. He has his own zamindari levies, matchlock men, and a few brass cannon, and his palace is constructed for defence, as they all are, with loopholed walls and two stone-built watch-towers.”
“How about the fort?” Phillip enquired. “Is that well constructed, sir?”
Colonel Cockayne expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh. “Originally it was, yes, but it was allowed to fall into disrepair. We patched it up as well as we could but we hadn’t much time before the native garrison mutinied. Also there was a …” He hesitated, and then added reluctantly, “there was a difference of opinion between the Commissioner, John Hardacre, and myself. Actually, he’s quite junior in the Civil Service and his Army rank was only that of Captain, so I … I over-ruled him. It was a military decision, in any case, you understand.”
“To defend the fort do you mean?” Phillip prompted, when he fell silent.
Morosely Colonel Cockayne refilled his beaker. “For you, Commander? No … oh, very well, then. And yes, it was my decision to defend the fort. Hardacre wanted to fortify and provision his Residency—it was in better repair, admittedly, but in my view indefensible. One of those long, rambling single-storey houses with a flat roof and a low mud wall surrounding it. Besides, it was too far from the river. The fort’s right on the river-bank and I decided that, if we weren’t able to hold out, we could at least try to make our escape down river by boat, after the rains.”
“Was that how you made your escape, Colonel?” Phillip asked, when his companion again lapsed into silence. His question sprang from no more than idle curiosity and Cockayne’s angry reaction to it took him completely by surprise.
“The devil take you, sir, what business it is of yours how I made my escape?” the cavalryman demanded. The beaker crashed down on the small camp table, its contents spilling on to the outspread map. Phillip grabbed it quickly, shaking the moisture from it, as two bloodshot eyes bored furiously into his. “We march at first light tomorrow morning, Commander Hazard,” Cockayne informed him, with drunken dignity. He issued orders in a brusque stream and added, after a pause intended to add weight to his words, “You understand, sir, that I am in command. I shall require no advice from any subordinate officer and I shall offer no explanation for any action I may take, unless I see fit to do so. I had hoped, I confess, to confide in you … I was a friend of your late brother-in-law and of your sister, Commander Hazard, and having witnessed the excellent work you did with your guns on the Bridge of Boats, I … oh, well, it’s of no consequence. I give you goodnight, sir!”
Somewhat taken aback, Phillip replaced the map and came to attention, offering a formal and noncommital response. Colonel Cockayne waved a hand in dismissal and, turning his back, picked up the storm lantern from his table and, by its flickering light, appeared to be searching for a fresh bottle of whisky. Phillip did not wait to ascertain whether or not his search was successful, but during the three-mile ride through the darkness to the Naval Brigade camp, he had much to occupy his thoughts—not least the uneasy fear that his decision to join the Ghorabad relief force might prove to be one he would later regret. It was manifestly unfair to pass judgement on a man when he was in his cups but … Harriet, he recalled, had been a trifle reticent about the Colonel, emphasising the fact that he had not been a close friend of her husband’s, as if she knew something not entirely to his credit which she had been reluctant to repeat—even to him. On the other hand, she had entrusted her children to his care and had spoken warmly of his wife and daughter, so that … Phillip sighed, aware that it was too late to alter his decision.
William Peel was still up when he reached camp, but looking so tired that he contented himself with a brief report of the instructions he had been given and, after warning his party that reveille would be at 3 a.m., he repaired to his own tent to pack his few essential belongings and snatch a short catnap before the time for muster.
At dawn, when the column formed up preparatory to recrossing the Bridge of Boats into Oudh, Colonel Cockayne was his normal friendly self. His greeting was pleasant, his orders courteously delivered and he appeared to have no recollection of the strange little scene he had created the previous evening, as he expressed approval, in flattering terms, of the naval party’s turn-out.
“We will halt at sunrise, gentlemen,” he told his assembled officers. “To enable the men to break their fast but thereafter I propose to call only two short halts. We have 65 miles to cover and I should like to make eighteen or twenty today, when we shall have the benefit of a good road, which is regularly patrolled. I am aware that tomorrow will be Christmas Day but I regret that I can permit no celebrations, not even of Divine Service. To effect the rescue of the Ghorabad garrison, it is essential that we move with all possible speed, giving the enemy no advance warning of our presence. For this reason, I have required you to travel light, without tents and with the minimum of native servants and camp followers. At night every man will sleep with his rifle at his side, and strong piquets are to be posted. On the march, the cavalry will skirmish ahead of the co
lumn and a detachment will act as baggage guards. Well?” he studied their faces. “Any questions, gentlemen?”
“Are we to make no observance of Christmas, sir?” someone asked. “For the sake of the men’s morale, sir, surely we could—”
Cockayne cut him short. “Do you imagine, sir, that the garrison we are on our way to relieve will have cause—or even the means—for celebration? We are soldiers and we have battles to fight. We’ll celebrate when we have won them.” He dismissed the officers to their units and, placing himself at the head of his squadron of blue-turbanned Sikh sowars, led the way to the Bridge of Boats.
It was not until they made their first halt at sunrise that Phillip was able to obtain a clear idea of the composition of the column. The infantry, he realised consisted of small detachments, the majority newly arrived as reinforcements for the regiments forming the garrison of Cawnpore and those which had served in the Lucknow Relief Force. A few of the officers and NCOs were veterans, judging by their suntanned faces and faded uniforms, but the rest were young soldiers, who had plodded wearily and silently along and who now flung themselves full length on the dusty ground, too jaded and dispirited to build bivouac fires on which to cook their meal. He eyed them pityingly, contrasting their demeanour with that of his own cheerful bluejackets who, their ration meat already boiling away under the supervision of the two mess cooks, were larking about the grog limber, where Petty Officer Devereux was preparing to dole out their tots.
The young soldiers, of course, were not yet acclimatised or fighting fit. After the long voyage out from England, confined in over-crowded and unhealthy conditions below decks in a troop transport, most of them had been despatched upcountry by dak and bullock carriage, rail or river steamer— some even on foot. Now, with scarcely a pause, they found themselves being marched into hostile territory with every prospect of engaging in battle with an alien and ruthless foe, of whom they would have heard only the most horrifying stories … small wonder if they were apprehensive, poor young devils, Phillip thought. And their officers would be of little help to them at this stage since they, too, were young and inexperienced. The highest ranking that he could see were two Captains, neither more than twenty-four or five; the rest were of subaltern rank, pink-cheeked boys, who held apart from their men, talking in drawling voices among themselves as they waited, in varying degrees of impatience, for their servants to bring them their food.
“I fear that Colonel Cockayne has had rather a high proportion of griffins and unseasoned recruits foisted upon him,” a voice with a strong Scottish accent observed softly from behind him. Phillip turned, recognising with pleasure a Native Infantry Captain named Crawford, who had been attached to the 93rd Highlanders during the attack on the Sikanderbagh at Lucknow. “It is something of a relief to find you and your splendid sailors here, Commander,” Crawford added. “At least we know that our artillery will be well served!”
“I’m equally relieved to find you,” Phillip confessed, “I trust in command of a detachment of the 93rd?”
The other shook his head regretfully. “Alas, no—I am on my own, apart from my invaluable orderly, without whom campaigning would be a misery.” He gestured to a tall, fine-looking Highlander, who was talking to a group of young soldiers seated on the ground nearby. “Collins has eighteen years’ service and was in the ‘Thin Red Line’ at Balaclava … a truly splendid fellow. I told him to mix with these new boys of ours and try to put some heart into them.”
“An excellent idea,” Phillip said. He took out his flask and offered it, but again the Native Infantry officer shook his head. “No, thanks—I’d better attend our CO. I volunteered to act as DAQ to the force and Colonel Cockayne is a stickler for his staff pulling their weight! I’m in his black books already because I advocated waiting for a day or two, in the hope of improving the quality of the troops allocated to us. I even offered to intercede with poor Colonel Ewart, before they carted him off to hospital in Allahabad, in the hope that he would give us a company of Highlanders … but Cockayne wouldn’t listen.”
“Why on earth not?” Phillip questioned, more than a little shocked.
“Oh, he’s like that—always has been.” Crawford shrugged. “He acts on impulse and doesn’t take kindly to advice. I believe you were there when he blasted off at the Commander-in-Chief, were you not?”
Phillip grinned, “I was indeed—and I shan’t forget it in a hurry! Look, my friend, you might as well eat, even if you won’t share my flask. Our cooks are ready and they’re not bad hands at preparing ration beef.” Crawford accepted a plate of the appetizing stew and they settled down to eat beneath the shade of a gnarled and multi-rooted banyan tree growing at the roadside a few yards away. Midshipman Lightfoot brought them coffee and Phillip brushed aside his companion’s thanks. “Captain Peel subscribed to the belief that sailors march best on well-filled stomachs, even if the Army doesn’t, and we employ cooks to prepare our food. It’s a better system than yours, I venture to suggest. Our cooks ride on the grog-limber and aren’t too exhausted by a long march to fulfil their function when a halt is called. And we pool our rations, so that each man gets a fair share.”
“Judging by the excellence of this,” Crawford conceded, mopping up the remains of his stew with unconcealed satisfaction, “you’re right. But I can’t see Colonel Cockayne permitting many halts of this duration, once we leave the road.”
“He’s a strange fellow, the Colonel. He’d be well advised to pamper these young soldiers a little, if he wants to get the best out of them,” Phillip observed.
“I can tell you he won’t, Hazard. Rather the opposite. He’ll drive them till they drop.”
Phillip’s brows lifted. “You astonish me! Tell me, have you known him long?”
“Yes, for a good number of years. I once served in his regiment—and in Ghorabad—but I … that is, I transferred to the Oudh Infantry.” There was an odd expression in George Crawford’s dark eyes, almost of anger, but it faded and he added, smiling, “I also know his wife and daughter, which is really why I’m here. I … well, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m deeply attached to Colonel Cockayne’s daughter. If it hadn’t been for this infernal mutiny, I should have declared myself to her but as things are”—his smile vanished—“I can only pray God that the poor, sweet child is still alive.”
The lovely daughter Harriet had spoken of, Phillip thought. He studied his companion’s lean brown face with renewed interest, liking what he saw. Crawford was in his midor late thirties, as so many of the Honourable Company’s captains were, his thick dark hair already tinged with grey but he was a credit to his profession, intelligent and certainly not lacking in soldierly virtues. At the Sikanderbagh, he had been one of the first through the breach at the main gate and Colonel Ewart had singled him out for praise for the heroism he had displayed in twice risking his life to bring out wounded men. Yet it seemed, from the hints he had let drop, his attachment to Colonel Cockayne’s only daughter had been formed in spite of some early differences between himself and the Colonel. To have transferred out of the regiment suggested a certain incompatibility, to say the least—or perhaps Cockayne had not welcomed the younger man as a prospective son-in-law.
Phillip frowned, as Crawford said bitterly, “The Ghorabad garrison are in dire straits. In my view, it will be a miracle if even half of them have survived.”
“Then there is reason for Colonel Cockayne’s haste?” Phillip suggested.
“Yes, there is every reason, although a couple of days would have been neither here nor there. With seasoned troops, we could have made up for the delay.”
“In that case why—”
“My dear Hazard, Colonel Cockayne’s conscience is tormenting him,” Crawford returned thickly. “It gives him no rest … and there is reason for that, too.” He rose, setting down his plate and the mug of coffee, only half finished, as if he had forgotten about them, and went on, his voice harsh with pain. “If you thought the Lucknow garrison suffered it
will, I fear, bear no comparison with the suffering those poor souls in Ghorabad have had to endure. When the mutiny broke out, about sixty British women and children and roughly the same number of non-combatant civilians—mostly Eurasians— took refuge in a crumbling mud fort, built fifty years ago, with a handful of British officers and NCOs to defend them. I don’t know how many but I do know that the mutiny was a bloody affair, in which many of the regimental officers were murdered by their own men before they could reach the fort. The wretched place lies on the opposite bank of the river from Cantonments and the Civil and Native Lines, you see, and they never got there. The Residency would have been much nearer and I believe some of them tried to defend it but Cockayne—”
But Colonel Cockayne had chosen to defend the fort, on his own admission, Phillip recalled. Assailed by sudden doubts, he interrupted anxiously, “They are still holding out in the fort, aren’t they?”
“There’s no way of knowing that until we get there,” George Crawford told him. “The Colonel insists they are. I …” he seemed about to say more but bugles were sounding an end to the halt and the men starting to shuffle reluctantly into line, so instead he excused himself and hurried off towards the head of the column, leaving Phillip decidedly uneasy. The march was resumed and, in one respect at least, Crawford’s forecast of Colonel Cockayne’s intentions proved accurate. Only two brief halts were called and the unseasoned young soldiers began to fall out in increasing numbers. Some, too exhausted to care what punishment might be in store for them, ignored their sergeants’ admonitions and abandoned their rifles and accoutrements by the roadside, to limp sullenly on without them, whilst others simply collapsed. The waggons following in the rear, compelled to wait in order to pick up men and weapons, dropped so far behind that, at the first halt, they were out of sight and the second had to be prolonged, to enable them to make up some of their lost ground.
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