The Heroic Garrison Read online

  THE HEROIC GARRISON

  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 Scaracens

  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

  Heroic

  Garrison

  V. A. STUART

  The Alexander Sheridan Adventures, No. 5

  MCBOOKS PRESS

  ITHACA, NEW YORK

  Published by McBooks Press 2003

  Copyright © 1975 by V. A. Stuart

  First published in Great Britain by Robert Hale Limited, London 1975

  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: The Indian Mutiny, 1857: Bengal Army Sepoys Rebel against

  British Soldiers at Meerut, near Delhi.

  Courtesy of Peter Newark’s Military Pictures

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stuart, V.A.

  The heroic garrison / by V. A. Stuart.

  p. cm. — (Alexander Sheridan adventures ; no. 5)

  ISBN 1-59013-030-8 (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 H47 2003

  823’.914—dc21 2002012358

  All McBooks Press publications can also be ordered by calling toll-free

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  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

  For my good friend Jim Schaaf of Concord, California, in the hope that, in the sharing of a mutual admiration for the deeds of brave soldiers, this book may give him pleasure.

  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

  WITH THE EXCEPTION of the final episode—which could have happened—everything recounted in this book actually took place.

  The only fictional characters are Alex Sheridan and Henri Court; all the others are called by their correct names and their actions are on historical record although, of course, conversations with the fictitious characters and dialogue with each other are imagined.As far as possible, however, such conversations are based on their known views or actions.

  Both General Wheeler’s two daughters were officially on record as having died or been killed at or shortly after the massacre of the Cawnpore garrison, the elder by her own hand, after she had shot and killed the cavalry sowar who rescued her from the Suttee Chowra Ghat and sought to make her his wife. A strong rumour persisted for many years that the younger had been forcibly converted to the Moslem faith and that, having married a sowar of the Light Cavalry, she was living with him near Lucknow when the Mutiny ended . . . and that she had no wish to return to her father’s people.It is possible that rumour confused her with Amelia Horne, whose story—told later by herself—was exactly similar.

  Another persistent rumour was of the presence of a European officer with the mutineers during the siege of the Lucknow Residency. His nationality was unknown but it was generally believed that he was French or of mixed French and Sikh blood, and that he held high rank in the rebel army. He was said to have been killed during the siege.

  Of the officers and men trapped in what was later known as “Doolie Square,” Surgeon Home of the 90th, and Privates Hollowell, 78th, McManus, 5th Fusiliers, and Ryan, Madras Fusiliers, won Victoria Crosses; Captain Becher, Lieutenants Arnold and Swanson and two private soldiers subsequently died of their wounds.V.C.s were not then awarded posthumously, otherwise the gallant Arnold would almost certainly have been honoured. The names of som
e of the private soldiers do not appear to be on record so that, where necessary, I have given them the names of men noted on the rolls of their regiments as being with Havelock’s Force in Lucknow at the time in question.

  PROLOGUE

  IN THE WHITE-WALLED palace once occupied by Ali Naqui Khan, prime minister to the deposed King of Oudh, the Moulvi of Fyzabad, Ahmad Ullah, waited with thinly disguised impatience for the arrival of an emissary from the Nana Sahib of Cawnpore, to confer with whom he had been summoned from the battle raging in the neighborhood of the Moti Mahal Palace.

  Several hundred British troops—General Havelock’s rear-guard—were caught, like rats in a trap, in the Moti Mahal, together with their wounded, their ammunition wagons, baggage train, and heavy caliber guns. Unable to follow the main body into the Lucknow Residency the previous evening, their attempt at first light to smuggle out some of their wounded had resulted in the slaughter of at least forty of them . . . although the rest, due to the bungling of the sepoy officers in command, had been permitted to escape. But one of the heavy guns, which had wrought such havoc with those of the sepoy General of Artillery, Mirza Guffur, was now jammed across a narrow passageway, unable to move and under such heavy musketry fire that the gunners could not use it.

  The gun—a valuable prize in itself—could be theirs for the taking, the Moulvi reflected angrily, if only the musketeers’ valor were equal to their marksmanship. But none dared risk his worthless life by approaching it, and Mirza Guffur, old woman that he was, had refused to lead a party, with gun-bullocks, to remove it. His own call for volunteers and his promised reward had met with only halfhearted response . . . they were cowards, these miserable dogs of sepoys, reluctant to fight, concerned only with how much plunder they could amass, to enable them to return, as rich men, to their villages.Time and again, they allowed themselves to be routed and put to flight by a mere handful of feringhi soldiers who—as they had done that morning, in defense of the laden doolies containing their wounded—charged almost contemptuously with the bayonet, aware that no sepoy would face up to them.

  It had been the same at Cawnpore and in every battle fought between Allahabad and Lucknow, and the cavalry—even the much vaunted Company-trained Light Cavalry—had acquitted themselves no better. Havelock’s puny force of Volunteer Horse—all of them officers, admittedly—had numbered only twenty when they left Allahabad but, even when many of the Irregulars had deserted and come over to the Nana, they had put the whole of the Light Cavalry to shame at Fatepur and again in the battle for Cawnpore.The Moulvi’s sallow face suffused with resentful color. Never had he been more humiliated than the day before yesterday, when his own picked body of horsemen had displayed a craven reluctance to engage their British foes, despite the lead he had given them. As a result, instead of taking two of their guns and making the feringhi Colonel Sheridan prisoner, he had himself only just contrived to evade capture and his witless followers had allowed themselves to be led into an ambush. Sheridan, even with a lost sword-arm, bore a charmed life—he had survived the Cawnpore massacre and now, presumably, had entered Lucknow with Havelock’s force. Indeed, he had been reported as one of a party of cavalry that had made a sally from the Residency during the early hours of the morning, although the identification had not been positive and the promise of substantial reward for proof of his death or capture had, as yet, borne no fruit.

  The Moulvi’s dark, beetling brows met in a scowl as he crossed to a balcony overlooking the river. The Residency lay a mile to the east, on the opposite bank of the river, but in imagination he saw its battered, shot-scarred walls and the defiant flag, fluttering from its rooftop flagpole in the faint evening breeze. Even at sunset, it was never lowered, and however many times it was shot down, it was never left like that for more than a few hours—one or two of the garrison invariably risked life and limb to hoist it again. The flag was a symbol of the might of the British Motherland, as well as of the Company’s threatened Raj. Reminded of this, the Moulvi’s lips tightened into a thin, hard line.

  So long as it flew, the garrison would not surrender. Half-starved, deprived of all the comforts and luxuries previously considered a necessity by the British if life in India were to be sustained, their women and children dying of dysentery and fever and their wounded for lack of medical supplies, yet they had held out for over three months. Now that they had been reinforced and their casualties made good by the two thousand men of Havelock’s column, they would, the Moulvi did not for a moment doubt, fight back like tigers, so long as any hope of relief remained. Havelock had proved himself an able commander in the field, and Outram’s record was, perhaps, the best of any of the British generals, his courage second to none. But . . .The Moulvi moved restlessly away from the balcony and started to pace the cool, lofty-ceilinged room, his frown deepening.

  If the Nana and Tantia Topi could be persuaded to attack Cawnpore and then, with the Gwalior Contingent, sweep south on Allahabad, to intercept the British troops on their way up-country, it would be a different story. Deprived of their promised relief, the Lucknow garrison could be starved into submission . . . especially if now or within the next few days, they were compelled to dissipate their fighting strength by warding off a series of resolute and well-planned attacks.

  Those now surrounded in the Moti Mahal—the original rear-guard and the five hundred or so men sent to their aid from the Residency and occupying two of the adjacent palaces—must on no account be allowed to escape. They were burdened by their camp-followers, their wounded, and by the heavy guns. When darkness fell, they were almost certain, despite this morning’s setback, to make a second attempt to reach the Residency, by way of the river bank and through the gardens and buildings at its edge. If a trap were set for them, the doolie-bearers could be counted on to abandon their burdens in panic-stricken flight and then . . . the Moulvi expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh.

  With the loss of a third of his red-coated soldiers, even the redoubtable General Outram would be compelled to come to terms, and the story of Cawnpore, repeated in Lucknow, would strike terror into the hearts of the British.The setting of the trap would require careful timing and firm leadership; he could not trust either Mirza Guffur or the white-bearded old nanny-goat the sepoys had elected as their general, Gomundi Singh. If the plan were to succeed, he would have to attend to the matter himself and lead the attack in person, trusting in Allah to give sufficient courage to his followers to carry out the orders he had given them. His mind made up, the Moulvi ceased his restless pacing and, to the servant who answered his impatient shout, he gave brusque instructions to summon the officers that he had requested the Begum to appoint to his personal staff.

  They came, saluted him respectfully and listened in dutiful silence to his orders. He was explaining these in detail when his visitor, the stains of travel now removed from his person, presented himself, accompanied by a tall, slim man in native dress, who took up a position in the shadows at the back of the room. Azimullah Khan came forward, smiling. His greeting was less respectful than that of the sepoy officers had been, but his pleasure in their reunion was, the Moulvi decided, genuine. He had grown in stature and also in arrogance since the days in Cawnpore, when a word or even a gesture had sufficed to bring him running, eager to serve without question . . . But now, as the Nana’s envoy and his trusted lieutenant, Azimullah evidently considered himself the equal of his one-time mentor and his opening words reflected his new-found self-confidence.

  “Ahmad Ullah, my brother, I rejoice to see thy face again! My thoughts have been often of thee during the past weeks. Dismiss these good fellows”—he waved a graceful hand in the direction of the little group of sepoy officers, who were eyeing him with undisguised curiosity— “I have matters of some moment to speak of, but what I have to say is not for other ears.”

  “What I have to say to my officers is also of some moment,” the Moulvi pointed out dryly. “We are at war here.” Deliberately taking his time, he repeated the instructi
ons he had given earlier but with more emphasis, and had the satisfaction of seeing Azimullah’s eyes widen, as the significance of his carefully chosen words became clear.

  “Thou art indeed at war here!” the younger man exclaimed, a note of envy in his voice. He brushed an imagined speck of dust from his chapkan and sighed. “But think’st then that the British will simply walk into this ambush? They are not fools.”

  “They will have no choice,” the Moulvi assured him. “They have many wounded, whom they dare not abandon. If we appear to withdraw our troops when darkness falls, they will make an attempt to break out and reach the Residency. And they will bring their guns with them, as well as the wounded—General Havelock does not like to lose guns, and these are twenty-fourpounders. Such guns are cumbersome and the road is narrow. They will never reach the Residency with them.”

  “They reached the Residency yesterday,” Azimullah reminded him, with conscious malice. “Did they not?”

  “Not without loss.” The Moulvi dismissed his staff and went on, without troubling to lower his voice as they filed out. “Our men will not stand up to them—the accursed feringhis wear a mantle of invincibility in sepoy eyes. Let a lal-kote come face-toface with them and they turn tail—one cannot expect the citizens of Lucknow to do better than trained soldiers of the Company’s Army. They fight well enough from behind defensive walls and trenches but in the open . . .” He shrugged contemptuously. “They run like the curs they are!”

  “Perhaps they lack the leadership to which they are accustomed,” Azimullah suggested.He exchanged a swift, covert glance with the man who had accompanied him, still standing in the deepening shadows beside the curtained doorway, as if anxious to avoid attention. He did not speak, and Azimullah went on, an oddly cruel little smile playing about his lips, “Without their feringhi officers to give them orders, few of the Company’s soldiers fight well. Could this be because they do not trust their own kind to command them? It was thus at Cawnpore, during the siege and after . . . the sepoy commanders cannot—or will not— enforce discipline. Doubtless it is the same here, Moulvi Sahib, and for that reason—”