Perhaps they could, Phillip thought … please God, they could! He had not anticipated that the Newab would be able to gather a thousand-strong force about him quite so rapidly, but at least they had a chance, with the element of surprise to aid them. It would have been a very different story if the hordes of rebel horsemen had fallen on the column when it was on the open road, hampered by the presence of the women and children and with nowhere to dig in. If they could inflict a defeat on the Newab and sufficient casualties to send him back to Ghorabad with his tail between his legs, then the safety of the women was assured and that, really, was all that mattered.
“Don’t you worry, Benjy,” he told the ensign, with well-simulated confidence. “We’ll give them a hiding they won’t forget in a hurry. Get those horses under cover, if you please, and take post here with me. Mr Miller, you’d better make your report to Captain Grayson and act as his aide.”
It was half an hour before the Newab’s horsemen came into view. They were still in a compact body, riding twenty or thirty abreast and spilling over on both sides of the road. As Miller had said, they were moving fast. Phillip studied them through his glass, observing with satisfaction that the horses were lathered and that discipline was, by British standards, somewhat lax. But now a party of about a dozen had been sent forward, in advance of the main body, presumably for the purpose of reconnoitring the road and the camp site, and he despatched Highgate to warn Grayson and Arbor to allow them to pass unmolested.
They did so, fifteen minutes later, cantering past the British troops’ concealment without a second glance, laughing and chattering among themselves and clearly not expecting to meet with any opposition. Phillip listened tensely when they were lost to sight, fearing that their reconnaissance might include the village but Highgate, who had wormed his way to the far side of the nullah to watch them, reported that they were continuing to follow the road.
“Right,” Phillip said, addressing Devereux. “Action front, Chief! Close up the rocket-crew … it won’t be long now. When I give the order, I want rapid fire into the enemy centre and rear. We’ll leave the riflemen to deal with their front. Our aim is to panic the horses and break up their formation—but not a move until I tell you.” He waved a warning to Arbor, in the nullah below him and they waited, the rocket-crew lying full length on the ground, the infantrymen hidden in the nullah, gripping their rifles, able to hear but, as yet, not to see the advancing enemy.
Phillip closed his Dollond and flung himself flat, his heart thudding. Everything depended on the next few minutes. If one young soldier lost his nerve and opened fire prematurely, the bulk of the Newab’s cavalry, and his baggage and guns, would escape the trap he had laid for them but … Not a man moved, although the strain of waiting became almost unbearable. The zamindari horsemen came noisily, even carelessly, spread out so far across the road that those on the flanks were having to pick their way over tree-roots and clumps of brushwood and Phillip, watching them between the screening leaves of an overhanging peepul tree, found it hard to believe that they had not seen the scarlet jackets of Grayson’s detachment on the far side of the road and some sixty yards behind him. He let the first hundred or so pass his point of vantage; then, when he judged that Lightfoot’s nine-pounder was bearing on them, sprang to his feet, yelling to Devereux to open fire.
The rockets caused even more pandemonium than he had dared to hope they might. Terrified horses bolted or, unable to escape from the tightly packed ranks, plunged and reared, flinging their riders to the ground. When Devereux directed his fire to the rear, the elephants drawing the baggage and ammunition waggons were thrown into wild confusion, some charging forward, trumpeting, into the cavalry’s disordered ranks, others trampling on the men who endeavoured to control them. Lightfoot’s gun sent round after round of grape into the advance guard and, on both sides of the road, the Enfields and Miniés opened a rapid and sustained fire at virtually point-blank range.
The surprise was complete; the rebel guns, trapped in the centre of the melee, could not unlimber and, as men and horses went down on all sides of them, the gunners abandoned their weapons and attempted to flee. A few of the cavalrymen, braver than the rest, bunched together and tried to charge into the trees, but Grayson’s men met them with levelled bayonets and drove them back, to meet the enfilading fire of Arbor’s as they sought safety in flight.
Finally, leaving scores of dead and wounded behind them, the rebels retreated, emerging from the smoke in scattered groups, intent only on escape. Devereux and his crew continued to direct a shower of rockets into their midst; Lightfoot and his gunners manhandled their weapon on to the road and opened on their rear and Phillip, with Benjy Highgate running breathlessly after him, joined Arbor’s party in a bayonet charge across the fields to their right. But the rebels, although they had been hard hit, were still capable of fighting and a party of some hundred or so reformed, to conduct a courageous rearguard action. Led by a bearded native officer in the yellow chapkan of the Oudh Irregular Cavalry, they repeatedly charged the advancing British infantry and, growing bolder when they began to realise how few their assailants were, compelled them to form square to avoid being driven back.
Phillip, grabbing a Minié from a wounded soldier, took careful aim and knocked the bearded leader from his horse but the fellow picked himself up and came at him in a lunging rush, sabre raised above his head and his dark face contorted with hatred. A sergeant of the 88th shot him, a fraction of a second before the steel blade descended and Phillip grinned his thanks. The rearguard, disheartened by the loss of their leader, fell back after a while, but they had inflicted a number of casualties and bought time for their fellow rebels and Phillip saw, to his dismay, that a party of them had brought up one of the heavy brass cannon they had taken from the village the previous night and were making strenuous efforts to bring it into action.
“Withdraw your wounded, John,” he bade Arbor. “And take cover. There’s nothing more you can do.”
“Very well,” Arbor acknowledged. He passed a bloodstained hand across his sweating, smoke-blackened face, and swore, loudly and angrily. “The swine will get away, you know—God, if only we had our cavalry! The Newab is commanding that gun in person … look!”
Phillip nodded, tight-lipped, and repeated his order. Satisfied that it would be obeyed, he ran back along the shambles of the road in search of Lightfoot. Finding him, he said, shouting to make himself heard, “Bring your gun forward, Mr Lightfoot, and hurry!”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Young Lightfoot was black from head to foot, a torn and filthy bandage wound round his left leg and he was limping badly, but he cheered as lustily as the rest when, aided by half a dozen riflemen of Grayson’s detachment, the seamen dragged their nine-pounder into position on the far side of the trees. A roundshot came bounding to meet them, followed by a second, as the Newab’s party brought their brass cannon to bear on the road. The men scattered to avoid the deadly missiles, but a party of Arbor’s wounded were not so fortunate and the second shot ploughed through them, leaving three or four broken bodies in its wake, as the native bearers deserted their dhoolies and ran shrieking for cover. Devereux was still sending a steady shower of rockets into the rebels’ fleeing baggage train, but he was unsighted and unable to bear on the brass cannon and Phillip yelled to Lightfoot’s crew, gesturing to the belching monster, “There’s your target, my boys—action front, rapid fire! The Newab’s there and he’s all yours, if you can hit him!”
He heard the nine-pounder open as he stumbled wearily across the road to aid Arbor’s wounded and then both guns abruptly ceased fire and he heard the men cheering wildly. Benjy Highgate gripped his arm and he straightened up to see, to his astonishment, that the brass cannon was being abandoned, the gunners leaping for their horses in blind, unreasoning panic.
“What the devil—” he began, but Highgate cut him short.
“The Colonel, sir!” the boy told him, his voice shrill with excitement. He raised a scarlet-clad arm an
d pointed. “Look, sir—it’s Colonel Cockayne with the Sikh cavalry! By heaven, what a capital sight they make!”
They did indeed, Phillip thought, his heart lifting as he watched them ride into the attack, the sun striking a myriad rainbow-hued reflections from their drawn sabres. The blueturbanned Sikh cavalrymen increased their pace from a canter to a gallop, the whole squadron in line behind Colonel Cockayne, giving points with their flashing sabres as their charge gathered momentum and they bore relentlessly down in the Newab’s panic-stricken gunners.
There was no escape for the Newab; the Colonel rode, straight as a die, for his enemy and the rebel leader, too proud to seek refuge in flight, held his ground. He and a handful of others were dismounted but, for a moment, each of the two antagonists were alone, Cockayne twenty yards ahead of the Sikhs, the Newab standing by himself in front of the great, silent brass cannon on which he had pinned his faith. He waited bravely for death, making no attempt to defend himself, and the Colonel’s sabre, descending in a gleaming arc, all but severed his head from his shoulders.
It fell to the lot of one of his unhorsed bodyguard to avenge him. The man hurled himself beneath the Colonel’s plunging charger, hacking at its belly and legs with his tulwar and the animal crashed to the ground, flinging its rider over its head. The Sikh line struck and, their impetus making it impossible for them to do otherwise, one or two of them rode over their recumbent commander. They went on in pursuit of their beaten enemy, as they had been ordered and Phillip seized the bridle of a loose horse, which one of Arbor’s men was holding, and flung himself into the saddle.
“Find a dhoolie if you can, lad,” he bade the soldier. “And send it after me. I’m going to bring the Colonel in.”
He had only one thought, as he kneed his reluctant mount across the field of trampled winter corn to where the Colonel lay, and that was to restore her father to Andrea—if he was alive. He was lying, spreadeagled and motionless, a few yards from the brass cannon and the Newab’s body and he appeared to be dead but, when Phillip reached him and, dismounting, went to kneel at his side, his eyes opened and were lit by a flicker of recognition.
“Your daughter is safe, Colonel,” Phillip told him, uncertain whether or not he understood. “Your daughter Andrea, sir. Last night she said that all she needed for her cup of happiness to run over was to see and speak to you again.”
He looked round for the dhoolie he had asked for but could see no sign of it. Benjy Highgate and some soldiers had, however, started after him and he measured the distance between them, suddenly conscious of danger. Not all the rebels who had fallen about the Newab’s cannon were dead; several of them, although wounded, were moving about and … He drew in his breath sharply as he found himself looking into the muzzle of a long-barrelled flintlock pistol, hearing the click as it was cocked. Dark eyes gleamed in a white-bearded face, meeting his balefully and then softening in what, at any other time, he would have taken as friendly acknowledgement. A thin old hand came out to grasp his shoulder, as if seeking to thrust him aside.
“Not you, Hazard Sahib,” the old vakeel whispered, in English. “I have one bullet and my life is draining away. I would take my son’s murderer with me. His hands are red with innocent blood. He deserves to die, he—”
Phillip leapt to his feet. He made a grab for the old man’s wrist but his fingers closed on empty air. The pistol exploded and his world seemed to explode with it, setting him adrift in a sea of pain, unable to see or to breathe. From somewhere near at hand he heard a scream; then there was silence and merciful oblivion.
Colonel Cockayne got up, his own smoking pistol in his hand, and walked unsteadily to meet Highgate and his soldiers. He saw the dhoolie following behind them and said, his voice shaking, “Don’t worry about me, Highgate … tell them to pick up Commander Hazard. He … has just saved my life and I fear he’s severely wounded. You’ll … deal with him gently, won’t you? He has a pistol ball … in the chest.”
Benjy Highgate sobbed as he urged the dhoolie-bearers forward.
EPILOGUE
Early in February, the Commander-in-Chief’s main force returned to Cawnpore, preceded by Hope Grant’s Cavalry Brigade, and on the evening of the 12th, the Naval Brigade under Captain Peel made camp at Unao, on the Lucknow side of the Ganges.
Futtehghur had been taken and occupied and various forces of brigade strength had done all that was necessary to subdue the Doab. Following a conference with the Governor-General, Lord Canning, at Allahabad, Sir Colin Campbell began to make preparations for a second and final assault on Lucknow.
Phillip was in hospital but convalescent when a note arrived from William Peel to say that he would ride over to Cawnpore next day, in order to visit him.
“I rejoice in your recovery, my dear Phillip,” the Shannon’s Captain wrote warmly. And I have a number of communications from Their Lordships and from Commodore Watson—newly appointed as Senior Officer in Calcutta—which concern you and which you will, I feel sure, regard as good news.
“First and foremost, my sincere congratulations on your promotion to post-rank, official confirmation of which reached me here only yesterday, together with that of Jim Vaughan … and a hint, which gratified me greatly, that I am to be awarded a KCB!
“I trust your journey back to Cawnpore was not too unpleasant and that tomorrow I shall find you—if not yet quite fit enough to resume normal duty—at least making progress towards that end. There is, do not forget, the matter of making the official presentation of the Brigade’s Victoria Crosses, the arrival of which via China has been so long delayed.”
Phillip smiled, as he read the letter through a second time, taking in the fact that it was addressed to “Captain P. H. Hazard, VC, RN” in William—soon to be Sir William—Peel’s neat, firm hand. It was good to have attained the much coveted post-rank at last, although his promotion would probably mean a period on half-pay, possibly in England, before he could hope to be appointed to a new command. But it released him from the promise his father had exacted from him, all those years ago, when he had been the Trojan’s First Lieutenant … his smile widened. He was free to marry, if the young lady of his choice would consent to become his wife … and Andrea Cockayne was still in Allahabad, with the rest of the survivors of the illfated Ghorabad garrison, awaiting transport to Calcutta and passage home, when they had recovered sufficiently from their ordeal to undertake the long journey.
He leaned back in his comfortable rattan chair, eyes halfclosed, remembering. The slow return to Cawnpore in a dhoolie, with his chest heavily bandaged, had been a nightmare, which he preferred to forget. But there had been moments during his agony which remained in his mind and to which he had clung, when his tortured body was fighting for survival … moments shared with Andrea. The sound of her voice, distinctive among all the other voices, the awareness that she had wept over him, prayed for him and walked, her hand clasping his, for hour after weary hour beside his airless, swaying dhoolie, bringing him water when the column halted and gently wiping the sweat from his unshaven face … dear heaven! Those memories he cherished, since they had inspired his fight for life, when it would have been easier and less painful to die.
But he had had to let her go without revealing any hint of his feelings for her, because he had spent the first two weeks of his return to Cawnpore in a state of semi-consciousness, and only learnt—days after her departure—that, on her father’s insistence, she had left for Allahabad with the others. Colonel Cockayne had accompanied her and rumour had it that he intended to retire and travel back to England with his daughter … Phillip sighed. He had written, of course, but had received no reply and …
“Phillip—Phillip, my dear fellow, my apologies if I’ve wakened you …” He opened his eyes, recognising Peel’s voice with pleased surprise. “Sir Colin sent for me,” the Naval Brigade Commander explained, when greetings and congratulations had been exchanged. “So I’m here a day earlier than I anticipated. Things are moving, Phillip. Reinforceme
nts are flowing in, General Outram is more than holding his own in the Alam Bagh and the signs are that the rebels are tiring of the struggle and quarrelling among themselves. We’ll be ready to move against Lucknow in two or three weeks time, I think—and with a total force of close on twenty thousand men of all arms. Our Brigade will be stronger than it’s ever been.” Peel grinned, with schoolboyish delight. “We captured the Carriage Works at Futtehghur intact and during our stay there, I had carriages made for our eight-inch guns—the Shannon’s own guns, Phillip, are coming from Allahabad!” He went into enthusiastic detail and Phillip listened, his heart quickening its beat.
“I’d give a great deal to be in at the death, sir,” he said. “Will you have any work for a newly appointed Post-Captain on half-pay, do you suppose?”
Peel laughed. “Since the Brigade already has one, in the person of Oliver Jones, I anticipate complaints from Their Lordships if I permit a second to join us. And Commodore Watson sends me repeated demands for the entire Brigade to pull out and return to Sir Michael Seymour’s command in China! So far, with Sir Colin Campbell’s influential help, I have contrived to avoid making any definite reply to the Commodore, in confident expectation that Their Lordships will over-rule him. We are needed, if Lucknow is to be recaptured without heavy losses of life, Phillip. Remove our heavy batteries and our four hundred and thirty trained and seasoned officers and men, and Sir Colin will feel the loss greatly. But—” His smile faded. “As to yourself, dear fellow, whilst if you are fit, I’d gladly risk the Admiralty’s displeasure by entering you as a volunteer, like the gallant Jones … I regret to tell you that Commodore Watson has made a specific request for your services.”
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