The Cannons of Lucknow Read online

  THE CANNONS OF LUCKNOW

  Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press

  BY ALEXANDER KENT

  Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight!

  The Flag Captain

  Signal–Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour this Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Cross of St George

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  BY DUDLEY POPE

  Ramage

  Ramage & The Drumbeat

  Ramage & The Freebooters

  Governor Ramage R.N.

  Ramage’s Prize

  Ramage & The Guillotine

  Ramage’s Diamond

  Ramage’s Mutiny

  Ramage & The Rebels

  The Ramage Touch

  Ramage’s Signal

  Ramage & The Renegades

  Ramage’s Devil

  Ramage’s Trial

  Ramage’s Challenge

  Ramage at Trafalgar

  Ramage & The Saracens

  Ramage & The Dido

  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  The Devil’s Own Luck

  The Dying Trade

  A Hanging Matter

  An Element of Chance

  The Scent of Betrayal

  A Game of Bones

  BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

  The French Admiral

  Jester’s Fortune

  BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

  Badge of Glory

  First to Land

  The Horizon

  Dust on the Sea

  BY V.A. STUART

  Victors and Lords

  The Sepoy Mutiny

  Massacre at Cawnpore

  The Cannons of Lucknow

  The Heroic Garrison

  BY C. NORTHCOTE PARKINSON

  The Guernseyman

  Devil to Pay

  The Fireship

  Touch and Go

  BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT

  Frank Mildmay OR The Naval Officer

  The King’s Own

  Mr Midshipman Easy

  Newton Forster OR

  The Merchant Service

  Snarleyyow OR The Dog Fiend

  The Privateersman

  The Phantom Ship

  BY JAN NEEDLE

  A Fine Boy for Killing

  The Wicked Trade

  BY IRV C. ROGERS

  Motoo Eetee

  BY NICHOLAS NICASTRO

  The Eighteenth Captain

  Between Two Fires

  BY W. CLARK RUSSELL

  Wreck of the Grosvenor

  Yarn of Old Harbour Town

  BY RAFAEL SABATINI

  Captain Blood

  BY MICHAEL SCOTT

  Tom Cringle’s Log

  BY A.D. HOWDEN SMITH

  Porto Bello Gold

  BY R.F. DELDERFIELD

  Too Few for Drums

  Seven Men of Gascony

  The Cannons

  of

  Lucknow

  V. A. STUART

  The Alexander Sheridan Adventures, No. 4

  MCBOOKS PRESS

  ITHACA, NEW YORK

  Published by McBooks Press 2003

  Copyright © 1974 by V. A. Stuart

  First published in Great Britain by Robert Hale Limited, London 1974

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc.,

  ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover painting: Sir Henry Havelok at the Relief of Lucknow.

  Courtesy of Peter Newark Military Pictures

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stuart, V.A.

  The cannons of Lucknow / by V. A. Stuart.

  p. cm. — (Alexander Sheridan adventures ; no. 4)

  ISBN 1-59013-029-4 (alk. paper)

  1. Sheridan, Alexander (Fictitious character)--Fiction.

  2. British--India--Fiction. 3. India--History--Sepoy Rebellion, 1857-1858--Fiction. 4. Great Britain--History, Military--19th century--Fiction. 5. Lucknow (India)--History--Siege, 1857--Fiction. I. Title

  PR6063.A38 C36 2003

  823’.914—dc212002012358

  All McBooks Press publications can be ordered by calling

  toll-free 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711).

  Please call to request a free catalog.

  Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is for Dale L. Walker,

  of the University of Texas at El Paso, in gratitude for his

  kindness and encouragement and in the hope that he may find it

  as factual as we both like our historical fiction to be.

  “One hundred years,” the Moulvi said.

  The Sadhu agreed with nodding head.

  “And we have served an alien breed.

  The hour is come—Hind shall be freed!”

  The runners sped throughout the land—

  The Sign was passed from hand to hand.

  From every ghat and every khud

  There came the call for British blood.

  Night’s horror gone, the peacock loud

  Proclaims the waning star of Oudh.

  The vulture, gruesomely replete

  Sees blood-red dawn invade the street.

  Here riven shako, bloodied sash,

  Half-buried in the shrouding ash

  Bear evidence that, once begun,

  Treachery’s cost is five to one.

  Now day’s reluctantly begun

  As though, in shame, the very sun,

  Seems in the mist to hide his head …

  And over Oudh the dawn is red!

  Delhi Rebels by W. B. Lindsay.

  By permission of the author

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes

  Glossary of Indian Terms

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  BASED ON published letters and accounts of the Indian Mutiny everything recounted in this book actually happened.

  The only fictional characters are Alex Sheridan and his bearer, Mohamed Bux; all others are called by their correct names and their actions are on historical record although, of course, conversations with the fictitious characters are imagined. As far as possible, however, such conversations are based on their known views or actions. Sergeant Mahoney, of the famous “Blue Caps” serving with the Volunteer Cavalry, was awarded a V.C.; Timothy Cullmane of H.M.’s 64th was killed in action. No award of a Victoria Cross was made to any of the survivors of the heroic siege of Cawnpore, although repeated recommendations were made on behalf of Lts. Mowbray Thomson and Henry Delafosse. Both continued to serve in the Indian Army; Henry Delafosse retired
as a major-general, after commanding the Blue Caps, Mowbray Thomas reached the honorary rank of general.

  Gunner Sullivan died of wounds and cholera, after his escape: Private Murphy served with Havelock’s Force and, on leaving the army, was made gardener in charge of the Cawnpore Memorial Well and garden, which post he held until his death. Lousada Barrow retired as a major-general, C.B., and General Havelock’s son Harry was awarded a V.C. and he too, became a general.

  I should like to thank the city librarian, Mr. O. S. Tomlinson and the staff of York City Library for their help in obtaining reference books for me, including out-of-print works which I could not otherwise have read.

  I make no apology for appending a list of “Books Consulted” since I have tried to make this novel as factually accurate as lies within my power, for which reason I consulted them … and readers, whose interest in the Mutiny may have been stimulated, could well find the list of practical use as a guide to their future reading.

  PROLOGUE

  WITH THE SOUND of General Havelock’s guns still ringing remorselessly in his ears, Dundoo Punth—Nana Sahib and self-styled Peishwa of the Mahrattas—stepped into the broad-beamed country boat which had been tied up at the Bithur landing stage since early morning, awaiting his appearance.

  His brother, Bala Bhat, sullenly nursing the wound he had received in the battle for Cawnpore, had preceded him, with the women of his household, and the women now crouched, frightened and shivering, in the forward part of the boat. Their dark faces were raised to his, seeking reassurance, but the Nana ignored them. He seated himself on the cushions placed beneath the oil lantern in the stern and gestured to the chief boatman to cast off.

  “Maharajah …” The grizzled old rissaldar-major, whom he had promoted to the command of his cavalry, made a last effort to detain him. “How am I to pay my sowars if you leave us, huzoor? They grow insolent, they make demands which I cannot meet. They—”

  “Their cowardice has cost us Cawnpore!” the Nana Sahib flung back wrathfully. “Let them plunder the British if they desire payment for their services, Teeka Singh—they shall have no reward from me. I go to my death on their account, fool that I was to listen to their false promises and trust in their courage.” He turned away, his round, plump face suffused with resentful colour, and Azimullah Khan, his tall young Moslem vakeel, brushed the old cavalryman contemptuously aside as he, too, boarded the crowded boat.

  “Cast off, dogs!” he shouted to the boatmen. “Pull into midstream!”

  The men obeyed him, straining at their oars, and the mob of Brahmin holy men, beggars, and palace retainers, who had accompanied their Maharajah to the landing ghat, set up a chorus of mournful wails.

  “Protector of the poor! Mighty Peishwa, do not leave us! How shall we fare without thee, when the British come seeking vengeance? Nana Sahib, take not thine own life, we beseech thee —stay with us!”

  The Nana’s full lips curved into a cynical smile as he listened, and Azimullah observed, smiling also, “The seed is sown, Highness. They will believe all when they see our lights extinguished.”

  “And tell the British that I am dead?”

  Azimullah’s smile widened. “Of a surety, Highness—and the accursed British will believe what they are told. Narayan Rao will see to it and buy us time. That is all we need—time to rally our forces.”

  “The dogs of sepoys are deserting our cause daily,” the Nana objected. “They flee in the hundreds at the mere sight of a British bayonet. From whence can we obtain others?”

  “Ahmad Ullah, the Moulvi, goes to Oudh to gather troops, and from Gwalior, Sindhia will send us more—Tantia Topi will see to that.” Azimullah spoke confidently. “We shall retake Cawnpore, have no fear of that, Highness. This General Havelock has but a handful of white soldiers and he loses men daily from sickness. His gunners are old greybeards who must be carried in bullock carts and his much-vaunted steamer is worn out, with scarcely the power to make her way against the river current.” The young Mohammedan snorted his contempt. “Let Havelock cross the river into Oudh—as he must, if he is to reach Lucknow—and we shall annihilate him.”

  “As we did at Panda Nadi?” Bala Bhat put in sourly. “And at Aong?” He gestured to his wounded arm, his eyes bright with anger. “The greybeard gunners, whom you affect to despise, shot the sponge-staffs from the hands of our golandazes and their aim was so true that Tantia Topi’s elephant was killed under him with a single shot! I saw this, with my own eyes … and I saw also our mighty cavalry routed by a charge of less than a score of feringhi horse. What say you to that, Azimullah?”

  “They were badly led, badly disciplined,” Azimullah defended. “Teeka Singh is a weak commander. His sowars hold him in contempt, knowing that he cares nothing save to enrich himself.”

  “Teeka Singh will be given his just deserts now,” the Nana said. His gaze went to the landing stage they had left and his smile returned, coldly malicious. “His own men will deal with him if he is unable to pay them. Perhaps he will buy his life by disgorging the gold and treasure he has robbed me of … although even that may not be enough.”

  But Bala Bhat was not to be placated. “Colonel Neill comes, they say, to serve our people in Cawnpore as he served them in Benares and Allahabad. He shows no mercy—he blows men from the cannon’s mouth, hangs them with only a mockery of a trial, and has them buried in the foul earth, so that their eternal souls are damned! And those of your Faith, Azimullah, have their lips greased with pig fat before they are hanged and then their corpses are burnt!” His last few words were uttered with a satisfaction he made no attempt to conceal, and Azimullah bit back an angry retort.

  Addressing the Nana, he said with dignity, “Your brother’s information is not up to date, Highness—Neill has been made a general as a reward for his misdeeds. But do not despair, I beg of you—he, too, shall get his just deserts. This is a temporary setback; the feringhi have been fortunate, but their luck cannot hold. And if General Neill does here as he has done in Allahabad, it will bring men of both your faith and mine flocking to your Highness’s banner … even those who now doubt and waver. You will have the greatest army India has ever known, eager to restore you to the throne of your father the Peishwa! Wait but a little, until the Moulvi returns, and Tantia Topi, with the Gwalior legions. Lucknow will fall, now that Lawrence is dead.”

  “I am sorry for Lawrence’s death,” the Nana confessed, with genuine regret. “He was a good man—one I would have pardoned and enlisted in my service, for he had a true love for India … a love that transcended race and creed.”

  “He might have saved Lucknow,” Bala Bhat reminded him. “Thou need’st have no regrets on Lawrence’s account, brother.”

  The Nana’s plump shoulders rose in a shrug. “I have regrets,” he insisted obstinately. “On Lawrence’s account and on that of the old general, Wheeler. He was my friend and his wife also. I ordered that they be spared, but those insolent dogs of sepoys disregarded my orders—seeking, no doubt, to implicate me so deeply in their murderous treachery that now I am compelled to flee from British vengeance with a price on my head. Even”—he waved a beringed hand distastefully to indicate the muddy waters of the Ganges—“to the extent that I must pretend to take my own life, in fulfillment of a vow I made under their coercion!”

  In the flickering light of the lantern above their heads, Bala Bhat and Azimullah exchanged uneasy glances, both aware that they, rather than the sepoys, had disregarded their master’s orders concerning General Wheeler, giving ear, instead, to the Moulvi of Fyzabad, Ahmad Ullah, who had warned that none of the garrison must be spared. But the Nana offered no accusation and, emboldened by this, Azimullah said, passing his tongue nervously over his dry lips, “Highness, there are none left alive to tell of what happened at the Suttee Chowra Ghat, after Wheeler’s surrender. The four who escaped by swimming and sought the protection of Drigbiji Singh will have had their throats cut by now. The Moulvi sent men to Moorar Mhow to attend to the matter befo
re he left for Lucknow. Drigbiji’s refusal to yield them up to your Highness’s messengers was but a gesture on his part. He will not risk his neck to save theirs.”

  “You believe so? Drigbiji Singh is no coward.”

  “Neither is he a fool, huzoor. He will fear to incur the Peishwa’s wrath.”

  “And the women are also dead,” Bala Bhat added quickly.

  His brother stared at him. “The women?”

  “Those held prisoner in the Bibigarh. I myself made known thy wishes respecting them to Savur Khan, of thy bodyguard, and to the serving woman, Hosainee. As Azimullah says, my brother, there are none living to bear witness to the British against thee.”

  The Nana’s shaven brows came together in a frown. “And no bodies? What of their bodies, Bala Bhat?”

  “All have been disposed of, Nana Sahib,” Bala Bhat assured him. “I entrusted Aitwurya and his jullads with the task and paid them well. As for those at the Suttee Chowra Ghat—why, they are long since picked clean by the vultures. Who can tell a man’s race from his skeleton? In any case, the rising river has taken most of them away.”

  The Nana inclined his head, his anxiety partially allayed. He would be blamed for the massacre of the women, of course, and probably also for the slaughter of Wheeler’s garrison. If the British were defeated, this would not matter and, indeed, might redound to his credit, but if they were not, if Havelock’s contemptible little force of European and Sikh soldiers managed, by some miracle, to hold Cawnpore and relieve Lucknow, then it would be a different story. The British had vast resources in both men and money, but it would take time to transport reinforcements in any number to India and time was what he was about to gain for himself now. He raised his head, glancing astern to where the lights gleamed through the darkness from the palace he had been forced to vacate. The crowd was, he saw, still moving restlessly about the ghat and the riverbank—there would be witnesses in plenty to take the tale of his death back to General Havelock, but he ought, perhaps, to have left his womenfolk behind in the palace to give the story credence. Baji Rao’s widows might with advantage have been abandoned—they were millstones round his neck, forever complaining and making demands on him, forever reproaching him because he had permitted European women to be put to death. Only this evening he had discovered, when the two were taken from their quarters, that they had hidden the wife of his lodge-keeper there in the hope of saving her life, and his own favourite wife, the lovely Kasi Bai, had been a party to their deception. She, too, had wept and made a scene when he had ordered the woman disposed of, and she was weeping now, her tears reproaching him. She …