The Red Year: A Story of the Indian Mutiny

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE EXPIATION

  Two hours after midnight--that is a time of rest and peace in mostlands. Men have either ceased or not yet begun their toil. Evenwarfare, the deadliest task of all, slackens its energy, and the ghostlyreaper leans on his scythe while wearied soldiers sleep. Wellingtonknew this when he said that the bravest man was he who possessed"two-o'clock-in-the-morning" courage, for shadows then become real,and dangers anticipated but unseen are magnified tenfold.

  Yet, soon after two o'clock in the morning of September 14, 1857, fourthousand five hundred soldiers assembled behind the Ridge for thegreatest achievement that the Mutiny had demanded during the four monthsof its wonderful history. They were divided into five columns, one beinga reserve, and the task before them was to carry by assault a stronglyfortified city, surrounded by seven miles of wall and ditch, held byforty thousand trained soldiers and equipped with ample store of gunsand ammunition. Success meant the certain loss of one man amongfour--failure would carry with it a rout and massacre unexampled inmodern war.

  Men had fallen in greater numbers in the Crimea, it is true--a Britisharmy had been swallowed alive in the wild Khyber Pass--but these wereonly incidents in prolonged campaigns, whereas the collapse of theassailants of Delhi would set free a torrent of murder, rapine andpillage, such as the utmost triumph of the rebels had not yet produced.

  The Punjab, the whole of the Northwest, Central India and Rajputana, allnorthern Bengal and Bombay, must have been submerged in the flood if thegates of Delhi were unbarred. It is not to be marveled at, therefore,that General Wilson, the Commander-in-Chief, "looked nervous andanxious" as he rode slowly along the front of the gathering columns, northat many of the British officers and men received the Holy Communion atthe hands of their chaplains, ere they mustered for what might prove tobe their last parade.

  In some tents, of their own accord, the soldiers read the Old Testamentlesson of the day. With that extraordinary aptness which the chroniclesof the prophets often display in their relation to current events, thechapter foretold the doom of Nineveh: "Woe to the bloody city! It isfull of lies and robbery ... draw the waters for the siege, fortify thystrongholds ... then shall the fire devour thee; the sword shall cutthee off; it shall eat thee up like the canker-worm."

  How thrilling, how intensely personal and human, these words must havesounded in their ears, for it should ever be borne in mind that theBritons who recovered India in '57 were not only determined to avengethe barbarities inflicted on unoffending women and children, but wereinspired by a religious enthusiasm that showed itself in almost everydiary kept and letter sent home during the war.

  And now, while the brilliant stars were dimmed by bursting shells androckets hissing in glowing curves across the sky, the columns movedforward.

  English, Scotch, Irish and Welsh--swarthy Pathans, bearded Sikhs, dapperlittle Ghoorkahs--marched side by side, from the first column on theleft, commanded by Nicholson, to the fourth, on the extreme right, ledby Reid.

  The plan of attack was daring and soldier-like. John Nicholson, everclaiming the post of utmost danger, elected to hurl his men across thebreach made by the big guns in the Cashmere Bastion, the strongest ofthe many strong positions held by the enemy. The second column, underBrigadier Jones, was to storm the second breach in the walls at theWater Bastion. The third, headed by Colonel Campbell, was to passthrough the Cashmere Gate when the gallant six who had promised to blowopen the gate itself had accomplished their task, while the fourthcolumn, under Major Reid, undertook to clear the suburbs of Kishengungeand Pahadunpore and force its way into the city by way of the LahoreGate.

  Brigadier Longfield, commanding the reserve, had to follow and supportNicholson. Generally speaking, if each separate attack made good itsobjective, the different columns were to line up along the walls,form posts, and combine for the bombardment and escalade of thefortress-palace. Nicholson, who directed the assault, had not forgottenthe half-implied bargain made between Malcolm and the PrincessRoshinara. Strict orders were given that the King and members of theroyal family were to be taken prisoners if possible. As for Akhab Khanand other leaders of rebel brigades, it was impossible to distinguishthem among so many. Not even Nicholson could ask his men to be generousin giving quarter, when nine out of every ten mutineers they encounteredwere less soldiers than slayers of women and children.

  At last, in the darkness, the columns reached their allotted stationsand halted. The engineers, carrying ladders, crept to the front.

  Nicholson placed a hand on Jones's shoulder.

  "Are you ready?" he asked, with the quiet confidence in the success ofhis self-imposed mission that caused all men to trust in him implicitly.

  "Yes," answered Jones.

  Nicholson turned to Malcolm and two others of his aides.

  "Tell the gunners to cease fire," he said.

  Left and right they hurried, stumbling over the broken ground to reachthe batteries, which were thundering at short range against the fastcrumbling walls. In No. 2, which Malcolm entered, he found a younglieutenant of artillery, Frederick Sleigh Roberts, working a heavy gunalmost single-handed, so terribly had the Royal Regiment suffered inthe contest waged with the rebel gunners during seven days and nights.

  Almost simultaneously the three batteries became silent. With aheart-stirring cheer the Rifles dashed forward and fired a volley tocover the advance of the ladder-men, and the first step was taken in theactual capture of Delhi.

  The loud yell of the Rifles served as a signal to the other columns.The second, gallantly led by Jones, rushed up to the Water Bastion andentered it, but not until twenty-nine out of thirty-nine men carryingladders were killed or wounded. On Jones's right, Nicholson, ever in thevan, seemed to lift his column by sheer strength of will through anavalanche of musketry, heavy stones, grape-shot and bayonet thrusts,while the rebels, swarming like wasps to the breach, inspired each otherby hurling threats and curses at the Nazarenes. But to stop Nicholsonand his host they must kill every man, and be killed themselves in thekilling, and, not having the stomach for that sort of fight, they ran.

  Thus far a magnificent success had been achieved. It was carriedfurther, almost perfected, by the splendid self-sacrifice displayedby the six who had promised to blow open the Cashmere Gate. Tothis day their names are blazoned on a tablet between its twoarches--"Lieutenants Home and Salkeld of the Engineers, Bugler Hawthorneof the 52d and Sergeants Carmichael, Smith and Burgess of the BengalSappers." Smith and Hawthorne lived to wear the Victoria Crossesawarded for their feat. The others, while death glazed their eyes anddimmed their ears, may have known by the rush of men past where they laythat their sacrifice had not been in vain. The stout timbers and ironbands were rent by the powder-bags, and the third column fought apassage through the double gateway into the tiny square in front of St.James's Church.

  Then, as if the story of Delhi were to serve as a microcosm of fortune'ssmiles and frowns in human affairs, the victorious career of the Britishcolumns received a serious, almost a mortal check. The mutineers werein full retreat, terror-stricken and dismayed. Thousands were alreadycrossing the bridge of boats when the word went round that the Feringhiswere beaten.

  They were not, but the over-caution against which Nicholson had railedfor months again betrayed itself in the failure of the second columnto capture the Lahore Gate when that vital position lay at its mercy.Audacity, ever excellent in war, is sound as a proposition of Euclid inoperations against Asiatics.

  Brigadier and men had done what they were asked to do--they ought tohave done more. Having penetrated beyond the Mori Bastion they fellback and fortified themselves against counter assault, thus displayingunimpeachable tactics, but bad generalship in view of the enemy'sdemoralization. Instantly Akhab Khan, who commanded in that quarter ofthe city, claimed a victory. The mutineers flocked back to theirdeserted posts. While one section pressed Jones hard, another fell onReid's Ghoorkahs and the cavalry brigade. They actually pushed thecounter attack as
far as Hindu Rao's house on the Ridge, until HopeGrant's cavalry and Tomb's magnificent horse artillery tackled them. Aterrific _melee_ ensued. Twenty-five out of fifty gunners were killed orwounded, the 9th Lancers suffered with equal severity, but the rebelswere held, punished, and defeated, after two hours of desperateconflict.

  The mischance at the Lahore Gate cost England a life she could illspare. When he heard what had happened, Nicholson ran to the MoriBastion, gathered men from both columns and tried to storm the LahoreBastion at all hazards. It was asking too much, but those gallant heartsdid not falter. They followed their beloved leader into a narrow lane,the only way from the one point to the other. They fell in scores, butNicholson's giant figure still towered in front. With sword raised heshouted to the survivors to come on. Then a bullet struck him in thechest and he fell.

  With him, for a time, drooped the flag of Britain. The utter confusionwhich followed is shown by Lord Robert's statement in his Memoirs thathe found Nicholson lying in a dhooly near the Cashmere Gate, the nativecarriers having fled. Although Baird Smith, a skilled engineer andartillerist, had secured against a _coup de main_ that small portionof the city occupied by the besiegers, General Wilson was minded towithdraw the troops. Even now he considered the task of subduing Delhito be beyond their powers. Baird Smith insisted that he should hold on.Nicholson sent a typical message from his deathbed on the Ridge that hestill had strength enough left to struggle to his feet and pistol thefirst man who counseled retreat, and the harassed commander-in-chiefconsented to the continuance of the fighting.

  Although his judgment was mistaken he had good reasons for it. AkhabKhan, on whom the real leadership devolved when it became known that theKing and his sons had fled from the palace, tried a ruse that might wellhave proved fatal to his adversaries. Counting on the exhaustion of theBritish and the privations they had endured during the long months onthe Ridge, he caused the deserted streets, between the Cashmere and MoriGates, to be strewed with bottles of wine, beer and spirits. To menenfeebled by heat and want of food the liquor was more deadly than leador steel. Were it not that Akhab Khan himself was shot through theforehead while trying to repel the advance of Taylor's engineers alongthe main road to the palace from the Cashmere Gate, it was well withinthe bounds of possibility that the afternoon of the 14th might havewitnessed a British _debacle_.

  In one respect the sepoy commander's death was as serious to his causeas the loss of Nicholson to the English. The rebels, fighting fiercelyenough in small detachments, but no longer controlled by a man who knewhow to use their vastly superior numbers, allowed themselves to bedealt with in detail. Soon the British attack was properly organized,and a six days' orgy of destruction began.

  Although no Briton was seen to injure a woman or child in the streets orhouses of Delhi, the avenging army spared no man. Unhappily thousands ofharmless citizens were slaughtered side by side with the mutineers. TheBritish had received a great provocation and they exacted a terriblepayment. On the 20th the gates of the palace were battered in and theBritish flag was hoisted from its topmost turret. Then, and not tillthen, did Delhi fall. The last of the Moguls was driven from the hallswhich had witnessed the grandeur and pomp of his imperial predecessors,and the great city passed into the hands of the new race that had cometo leaven the decaying East. It was a dearly-bought triumph. OnSeptember 14 the conquering army lost sixty-six officers and elevenhundred and four men. Between May 30 and September 20 the total Britishcasualties were nearly four thousand.

  Malcolm soon learnt that the Princess Roshinara had fled with her fatherand brothers. Probably the death of Akhab Khan had unnerved her, and shedared not trust to the mercy of the victors. Frank was among the firstto enter the palace. After a few fanatical ghazees were made an end of,he hurried towards the zenana. It was empty. He searched its glitteringapartments with feverish anxiety, but he met no human being until somemen of the 75th entered and began to prise open boxes and cupboards inthe search for loot.

  After that his duties took him to the Ridge, and it was not until allwas over that he heard how Hodson had captured the King and shot theroyal princes with his own hand. This tragedy took place on the roadfrom Humayun's Tomb, whither the wretched monarch retreated when it wasseen that Delhi must yield. Hodson claimed to be an executioner, not amurderer. He held that he acted under the pressure of a mob, intent onrescuing Mirza Moghul, the heir apparent, and his brother and son. Thatall three were cowardly ruffians and merciless in their treatment ofthe English captured in Delhi on May 11, cannot be denied, but Hodson'saction was condemned by many, and it was perhaps as well that he found asoldier's grave during Colin Campbell's advance on Lucknow.

  It was there that the fortune of war next brought Malcolm. Delhi hadscarce quieted down after the storm and fury of the week's streetfighting when Havelock, re-enforced by Outram, drove the relief forcethrough the insurgent ring around the Residency like some stout shipforcing her way to port through a raging sea.

  No sooner had he entered the entrenchment on the 25th of September thanthe rebel waves surged together again in his rear, and on the 27th theResidency was again invested almost as closely as ever. But the newcolumn infused vigor and hope in the hearts of a garrison that hadceased even to despair. Apathy, a quiet waiting for death, was theprevalent attitude in Lucknow until the Highland bonnets were seentossing above the last line of mutineers that tried to bar their passagethrough the streets. At once the besieged took up the offensive. Thelines were greatly extended, the enemy's advanced posts were carriedwith the bayonet, troublesome guns were seized and spiked and the rebelmining operations summarily stopped.

  Two days before Havelock's little army cut its way into Lucknow, Ungud,the pensioner, crept in to the retrenchment and announced the comingrelief. He was not believed. Twice already had he brought that cheeringmessage and events had falsified his news.

  Winifred, a worn and pallid Winifred by this time, sought him and askedfor tidings of Malcolm. He had none. There was a rumor that Delhi hadfallen, and an officer had told him that there was a Major Malcolm onNicholson's staff. That was all. Not a letter, not a sign, came toreassure the heart-broken girl, so the joy of Havelock's arrival wasdimmed for her by the uncertainty that obtained in regard to her lover'sfate.

  Then the dreadful waiting began again. After having endured a plagueof heat in the hot weather, the remnant of the original garrison wassubjected to the torment of cold in the months that followed. In UpperIndia the change of temperature is so remarkably sudden that it isincomprehensible to those who live in more favored climes. Early inOctober the thermometer falls by many degrees each day. The reason is,of course, that the diminishing power of the sun permits the earth tothrow off by night the heat, always intense, stored during the day.Something in the nature of an atmospheric vacuum is thus created, andthe resultant cold continues until the opposite effect brings about thelasting heat of the summer months, which begin about March 15 in thatpart of India.

  But scientific explanations of unpleasant phenomena are poor substitutesfor scanty clothing. In some respects the last position of thebeleaguered garrison was worse than the first, and the days wore on inseemingly endless misery, until absolutely authentic intelligencearrived on November 9, that Sir Colin Campbell was at Bunnee and wouldmarch forthwith to relieve the Residency.

  Then Outram, who had succeeded to the chief command as soon as Havelockjoined hands with Inglis, called for a volunteer who would act as SirColin's guide through the network of canals, roads, and scatteredsuburbs that added to the dangers of Lucknow's narrow streets, and aman named Kavanagh, an uncovenanted civilian, offered his services.

  It is not hard to picture Kavanagh's lot if he were captured by themutineers. His own views were definite on the point. Beneath his nativedisguise he carried a pistol, not for use against an enemy, but to takehis own life if he failed to creep through the investing lines. But hesucceeded, and lived to be the only civilian hero ever awarded theVictoria Cross.

  Another incident of the
march should be noted. Malcolm saw preparationsbeing made to hang a Mohammedan who was suspected of having ill-treatedEuropeans. The man protested his innocence, but he was not listened to.Then Frank, thinking he remembered his face, questioned him and found hewas the zemindar who helped Winifred, her uncle and himself during theflight from Cawnpore.

  Such testimony from an officer more than sufficed to outweigh the slightevidence against the prisoner, who was set at liberty forthwith. Duringthe remainder of his life he had ample leisure to reflect on the goodfortune that led him to help the people who sought his assistance onthat June night. Were it not for Malcolm's interference he would havebeen hanged without mercy, and possibly not without good cause.

  On the afternoon of November 11, Sir Colin Campbell reviewed his littlearmy. It was drawn up in parade order, on a plain a few miles southof the Dilkusha. Three thousand four hundred men faced him, and thesmallness of the number is eloquent of the magnitude of their task.Indeed, that is one of the salient features of each main episode ofthe Mutiny. Nicholson at Delhi, Havelock at Cawnpore and on the way toLucknow, Colin Campbell in the pending action, and Sir Hugh Rose in manya hard fought battle in Central India, one and all were called on toattack and defeat ten times the number of sepoys.

  But what fine troops they were who met the commander-in-chief's gazeas they stood marshaled there, on that dusty Indian _maidan_. Peel'ssailors, with eight heavy guns, artillerymen standing by the cannon thathad sounded the knell of Delhi from below the Ridge, the 9th Lancers,who held the right flank when the capture of Hindu Rao's house wouldhave meant the collapse of the assault, the 8th and 75th Foot, the 2dand 4th Punjabis--all these had followed the Lion of the Punjab whenhe stormed the Cashmere Bastion. Sikh Cavalry, too, and Hodson's wildhorsemen, and many another gallant soldier, fresh from the immortalsiege, returned the General's quiet scrutiny, as he rode past, anddoubtless wondered how he would compare as a leader with the man whomthey had left in the little cemetery at the foot of the Ridge.

  It is on record that from the end of the line came a yell of welcome andrecognition. The 93d Highlanders remembered what Campbell had done inthe Crimea, and their joyful slogan brought a flush to the bronzed faceof the old war dog when he learnt the significance of their greeting.

  Next morning began a three day's battle. Perhaps there was never anaction so spectacular, so thrilling, so amazingly in earnest, as thecontinuous fight which brought about the Second Relief of Lucknow. Atthe Alumbagh, at the Dilkusha and La Martiniere school, at the SecunderBagh and the Shah Nujeef, were fought fiercely-contested combats that inother campaigns would have figured as independent battles, each highlyimportant in the history of the time.

  The taking of the Shah Nujeef alone was worthy of Homeric praise. It wasa mosque that stood in a garden, bounded by a high and stout wall andprotected by jungle and mud hovels. Its peculiar position, joined to thenumber of guns mounted on its walls and the thousands of sepoys who heldit, made it impossible for a devoted artillery to create an effectivebreach. Yet, if the relieving force failed here, they failed altogether.So Sir Colin asked his men for a supreme effort. Riding forward himself,accompanied by his staff and Sir Adrian Hope, Colonel of the 93d, hecheered on his loved Highlanders. Cannot one hear the skirl of the pipesamid that din of cannon and musketry? Cannot one see the shot-torncolors fluttering in the breeze, the plaids of the gallant Highlandgentlemen who led the 93d, vanishing in the smoke and dust? Middleton'sbattery of the Royal Artillery came dashing up, "the drivers wavingtheir whips, the gunners their caps," unlimbered within forty yards ofthe wall, and opened fire with grape. Men and horses fell in scores, butsomehow, anyhow, an entrance was gained and the Shah Nujeef was taken.Feeble must be the pulse that does not beat faster, dim the eye thatdoes not kindle, as one hears how those Britons fought and died, but didnot die in vain.

  Next day Captain Garnet Wolseley led a storming party against the MoteeMahal, and the self-sacrificing heroism of the Shah Nujeef was displayedagain here and with the same result.

  And so the wild fight went on, till Outram and Havelock, Napier, Eyre,Havelock's son and four other officers ran from the Residency through atempest of lead showered on them from the Kaiser Bagh, and Hope Grant,dashing forward from the van of Colin Campbell's force, shook hands withthe hero of the First Relief.

  Half an hour later Malcolm entered the Residency. At first sight it wasan abode of sorrow. Death and ruin seemed to have combined there towreak their spite on mankind and his belongings. Even the men and womenwhom he met were tear-laden, and it was not till he heard their happyvoices that he knew they were weeping because of the overwhelming joy intheir souls.

  He hurried on, scanning each excited group for one face that he thoughthe would recognize were it fifty years instead of five months sincetheir last meeting. He, of course, was even a finer-looking and betterset-up soldier now than when he galloped along the flame-lit roads ofMeerut on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday night in May, and it is notto be wondered at if he failed to allow for the effect on Winifred ofthe ordeal she had gone through.

  Perhaps his keen eyes were covered with a mist, perhaps the growing fearin his heart forbade his tongue to ask a question, because he dreadedthe answer. Perhaps sheer agitation may have rendered him incapable ofdistinguishing one among so many. Howsoever that may be, he knewnothing, saw no one, until a wan, slim-figured woman, a woman clothed intattered rags, down whose pallid cheeks streamed the divine tears ofhappiness, touched his arm and sobbed:

  "Are you looking for me--dear?"

  * * * * *

  The Mutiny was by no means ended with the fall of Delhi and the SecondRelief of Lucknow. North and south and east and west the rebels werehunted with untiring zeal. Sometimes in scattered bands, less often informidable armies, they were pursued, encountered and annihilated.Quickly degenerating into mere robber hordes, they became a pest to theunhappy villagers in the remoter parts of the different provinces, andit was long ere the last embers of the fire that had raged so fiercelywere stamped out. Nana Sahib perished miserably under the claws of atiger in the Nepaul jungle, the Moulvie of Fyzabad and the Ranei ofJhansi fell in action, while Tantia Topi was hanged. But the end came,and on November 1, 1858, amid salvoes of artillery and to theaccompaniment of festivities innumerable, Queen Victoria proclaimed theabolition of the East India Company, and assumed the sovereignty of thecountry. Her Majesty took no territory, confirmed all treaties, promisedreligious toleration and civil equality to all her Indian subjects, andgave full and complete pardon to every rebel who was not a murderer.

  The Queen's gracious and peace-bringing words supplied a fitting closeto India's Red Year. Europeans and natives alike tried to forget boththe crime and its punishment. And that was a good thing in itself.

  The great land of Hindustan has doubled its teeming population andincreased its prosperity out of all comparable reckoning during thefifty years that have passed since the Mutiny. Many of the descendantsof men who fought against the British Raj are now its trusted servants,and there is not in India to-day a native gentleman of any importancewho would not assist the Government with his life and fortune to savehis country from the lawless horrors of any similar outbreak.

  But these are matters for the politician and the statesman. It is morefitting that this story of the lives and fortunes of a few of the actorsin a great human drama should conclude with such particulars of theirsubsequent history as have filtered through time's close-woven meshes ofhalf a century.

  One day in February, not so long ago, a young officer of the Guides, whohad come to Lucknow for "Cup" week, was standing in the porch of theMohamed Bagh Club when he heard a young lady bewailing fate in the shapeof a tikka-gharry which had brought her there. Her "people" were at theChutter Munzil Club, miles away, for Lucknow is a big place, and she wasalready late for tea.

  Being a nice young man, the said officer of the Guides could not bear tosee a nice young woman in distress.

  "My dog-cart is just
coming up," he said, "and I am going to the ChutterMunzil. Won't you let me drive you there?"

  She blushed and hesitated and of course agreed.

  On the way, to maintain a polite conversation, he pointed out severalhistoric buildings.

  "You are stationed here, I suppose?" she said.

  "No, indeed. My regiment is at Quetta, but I was reared on the recordsof Lucknow. My grandmother went through the whole of the siege, and mygrandfather was with the Second Relief. It must have agreed with theirhealth, for they were both out here two years since, and I went over theMutiny ground with them."

  "How interesting! Was that how they met?"

  "No. They were engaged just before the Residency was invested. It is anawfully interesting yarn, and I should like some day to have a chance oftelling it to you. There is a native princess in it, and a pearlnecklace, which is worth quite a lot of money, and is believed to havebeen stolen by a sepoy before my grandfather obtained it, quite byaccident. And the old chap--he was quite a young chap then, youknow--had a remarkable native servant who did so well at the Mutiny thathe became a nawab or something of the sort. Really, the whole thing ismore like a book than a chapter of real life."

  "I had a grandmother in the Mutiny," said the girl, "but she had such asad experience that she seldom mentioned it. Her maiden name was Keene,and her father was killed at Fattehpore--"

  "Keene! Did she ever speak of a man named Malcolm, who saved her and hersister?"

  "Oh, yes! You don't mean to say--"

  "Yes, really, I'm his grandson. Now, isn't that the queerest thing? Justimagine the odds against my meeting you here under such conditions?Please tell me your name, and you'll let me call, won't you?"

  The girl was somewhat breathless. Young Malcolm was looking at her asthough he felt that a special dispensation of Providence had broughtthem together.

  "I am sure my mother will be glad to meet you and hear all about thoseold days at Lucknow," she said shyly.

  So it may be that the gray ruins of the Residency, over which the flagflies ever that was kept there so resolutely by the men and women in'57, saw the beginning of another love idyll, destined to end as happilyas that which had its being amidst the terrors and fury of the Mutiny.

  THE END

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  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

  Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.