Massacre at Cawnpore Read online

  “Yes. And perhaps James Neill, whether or not we get word to him … he’ll have a fair idea of what we’re up against.”

  Whiting bowed his head. “I wish I could still believe in the power of prayer … because it will take a miracle to save us.”

  As the next week crawled by, Alex, too, found his faith shaken. The entrenchment was under continuous bombardment—the guns they had destroyed with such a feeling of triumph quickly replaced by others from the Magazine—and attacks at night became more frequent, particularly on the out-picket in Number Four Block. The defenders were at their posts, day and night, with little relief and less sleep and there was no shelter for them, except in the trenches. The burnt-out hospital block retained its heat for three days and was impossible to enter and the women and children, who had previously been accommodated there, had either to crowd into the stifling, unventilated storerooms near the quarter-guard or find what shelter they could, with their menfolk, behind the parapet. The men dug shallow holes in trenches for them and erected crude awnings in a vain attempt to shield them from the sun but inevitably deaths mounted, both from wounds and disease. The surgeons, suffering casualties themselves, did what they could but, without instruments and with a rapidly diminishing stock of medicines, this was little enough. Men—and frequently women also—died from gangrene, after suffering quite minor wounds, because amputation was no longer possible. The quarter-guard building became a hospital for the more seriously wounded and Emmy worked there, sometimes for twelve or fourteen hours without relief, reduced to a shadow of the lovely, vivacious young woman she had once been. Her long hair was shorn, since it could not be washed, her clothing was in tatters and, with each day that passed, her dark eyes seemed to sink deeper into her lined, emaciated face. Alex found the sight of her unbearably painful and when she came to him, at night, utterly spent and stumbling over the uneven ground like a sleep-walker, oblivious to the pitiless rain of shells and musket-balls, he was hard put to it not to cry his agony aloud. They would have a few moments together, talking in whispers, and then she would sink exhausted into the small pit he had lined for her with some scraps of canvas, and sleep the sleep of the dead until the glare of the sun brought her reluctantly back to what passed for life in the entrenchment.

  Usually, when they talked, they spoke of the past but sometimes Emmy would tell him sadly of the losses sustained since their last meeting. The gallant, black-bearded Fusilier Stewart, who had carried her from the blazing barrack hospital on the night of the fire, whose Enfield had exploded in his face from heat and over-use; John McKillop, the limping, self-appointed “Captain of the Well,” gravely wounded by grape-shot, when in the act of hauling up a bucket of water, his conscience troubled, even as he fell, because the woman for whom he had drawn the water had been deprived of it … there were so many losses now, all of them heartbreaking.

  Apart from young St George Ashe, all the Artillery officers and 59 gunners were dead or wounded or victims of fever. Colonel Larkin had been one of the early cases of enteric, which had taken his wife and two small children; Lieutenants Dempster and Eckford had both been killed by round-shot in the entrenchment. Now the guns, their muzzles buckled, the bores warped, were served by teams of infantrymen and civilians, captained by Henry Delafosse, Francis Whiting, Edward Vibart and the fever-stricken George Kempland. They fired only when close-range targets presented themselves, for there was no ammunition to spare. Delafosse had risked his life and been badly burnt when an enemy shell had fallen among his ammunition wagons. Lying full-length beneath the wagon, with the fire of two rebel batteries fiercely concentrated on the remaining wagons, he had torn at blazing splinters with his bare hands and flung handfuls of earth on to the flames, aided by two men of the 32nd, who had sacrificed several buckets of precious drinking water before the danger to their last reserves of ammunition was finally averted.

  Yet, in spite of the relentless drain on their manpower and resources, the defenders continued to put up an obstinate resistance. John Moore, although in pain from his wounded arm, which had turned septic, continued to organise sallies but now these had to be restricted to parties of six or eight and, of necessity, aimed only at clearing snipers from the unfinished barrack blocks to the west of the entrenchment. Mowbray Thomson, bearing a charmed life, clung tenaciously to his battered stronghold in Number Four but had, almost daily, to request replacements for his wounded and Number Six lost three successive commanding officers.

  Alex now held his line with twelve officers and men, where before there had been twice that number, and two of his section were pensioned drummers, whom almost incessant practise had transformed into marksmen as deadly as the rest. In the exposed Redan, Edward Vibart suffered acutely from the fire of mutineers, but had advanced a sap to within a scant two hundred and fifty yards of his position, from whence they picked off any man who showed his head about the parapet. Women acted as loaders, when there were no men free to undertake the task and George Kempland, fighting his single worn-out gun in the south-east corner of the entrenchment, was reduced to tears of impotent fury and distress when four of his courageous female volunteers were killed by round-shot in the space of an hour.

  Physically all were in pitiful condition. The food rations, even for the fighting men, were reduced and then reduced again, until the most that any of them could count on were two or three handfuls of parched grain—originally stored as horse fodder— soaked in water or rum. It kept them from starvation but that was all and many of the men could hardly stand. Their bodies broke out in suppurating sores and they leaned against the crumbling mud walls as much for support as for protection, firing when ordered to and sleeping, in brief catnaps, whenever they could. The children became living skeletons, prematurely aged and solemn; too weak to stir from the scooped-out holes in the ground in which their mothers placed them and in which most of them lay from dawn to dusk in terrible, uncaring apathy.

  The heat induced apathy but rumours kept fading hopes alive. A relief column was said to be within a few miles of the Bridge of Boats on the Lucknow road, and a body of marching men, approaching from the south, was for a long time believed to be Neill’s column … until telescopes revealed the dark faces beneath the shakoes and it was borne on the anxious watchers that these reinforcements were not for them but for the enemy.

  On the morning of 21st June, the arrival of a solitary British officer in their midst caused feverish excitement among the garrison. It was claimed that he had come from Lucknow, slipping unobserved through the Nana’s camp in darkness, to bring them word that help was on the way, and even the sick roused themselves, eyes brightening in the belief that their ordeal might be nearing its end.

  But the officer had come alone, seeking refuge from a peril more immediate than theirs. He had hidden overnight on the open plain and at dawn, wounded and in the last stages of exhaustion, had leapt his horse over the mud wall of the entrenchment, being fired on by two of the defenders, who took him for an enemy sowar. He proved to be the sole survivor of a party of officers sent, with a detachment of the 7th Light Cavalry and the 48th Native Infantry, from Lucknow ten days before, to endeavour to keep open the road between Fategarh and Cawnpore.

  “My name’s Bolton, 7th Light Cavalry,” he said, looking in shocked astonishment at the scarecrow figures who surrounded him. “The sepoys of the 48th mutinied yesterday morning—they turned on us, without warning, and murdered their own officers. Major Staples and I were the only ones who got away from them, but some of our sowars pursued us. Poor Staples was shot down and they cut him to pieces before I could lift a hand to help him. After that, I was on my own. They followed me for about sixteen miles before I managed to lose them in thick jungle. I decided to make for Cawnpore because I thought—that is, I was given to understand that you …” he broke off in embarrassment.

  “You thought that we were defending ourselves against the Nana Sahib,” Moore finished for him, his tone cynical. “Well, we are, my friend, we are … all that
are left of us. And waiting, in vain it would seem, for a relief column to reach us.”

  “From the south—from Allahabad or Benares?” Bolton asked, still puzzled.

  “Or from Lucknow,” several voices informed him and Alex, standing silently by, saw a look of dismay spread across the newcomer’s blood-stained face. He hesitated and then said bleakly, “Gentlemen, I … I fear that no help can be sent from Lucknow. When I left, the situation there was such that …” again he hesitated, ducking involuntarily as a shell whined overhead and added, as if reluctant to shatter such hopes as they might cherish, “I do not know, of course. Sir Henry Lawrence may find a way. I … if you are hungry and on short rations, as you appear to be, my horse is wounded. Shoot it, if you wish and put me to work. My wound isn’t serious, just a sabre cut on the cheek. I’ll gladly help in any way I can.”

  “I need a loader for one of my guns,” Henry Delafosse told him and summoned a grin. “And the horse will be a welcome addition to our diet, believe me. We’ve been living on cattle fodder for the past week.” He put one of his blistered arms round the boy’s shoulders and led him away.

  That evening, Gillis returned from Lucknow, bearing a reply from Sir Henry Lawrence and Alex, who admitted the messenger to the entrenchment, took him first to a surgeon and then to General Wheeler. The general was alone in the small, bare room which served him as an office and he stared at both his visitors without recognition for a long moment, having to make an effort to rouse himself before he could take in the reason for their sudden appearance.

  “I had asked that I should not be disturbed,” he said querulously. “I have had a shock, I—that is, I have suffered an irreparable loss and I wanted to be alone, for a little while, with my grief.” His thin, bony hands clenched and unclenched themselves, as if he were fighting for control of his emotions. “But, of course, if … well, what is it, Colonel Sheridan? Why did you wish to see me?”

  “The reply to your message to Sir Henry Lawrence, sir,” Alex answered, holding the spill of paper out to him. “This man has just arrived from Lucknow and I thought you would want to be informed at once.”

  The old general’s hand was visibly trembling as he took the paper and, with slow clumsiness, unfolded it. He read its contents two or three times, his gaunt face expressionless; then, his voice flat and uncontrolled, he dismissed Gillis, with the promise that he would see and reward him next morning. When the man had gone, he passed the letter to Alex. “Read this,” he invited. “And then acquaint the senior officers with Sir Henry’s decision. I … I cannot face them tonight, Sheridan. I am not myself and this … this is the final blow.”

  Alex moved closer to the single flickering lamp. Lawrence had written, with heartbroken regret, that it was impossible for him to spare a detachment from the weak force which was all he had for the protection of his own people. Cholera had broken out among his garrison; the native police had risen in revolt and he had been compelled to dispense with the services of all save four hundred of his regular native troops, because of doubts concerning their loyalty. Apart from his Sikhs, he had only the 32nd Foot, fifty men of the 84th and the forty-strong Volunteer Horse; with over twelve hundred non-combatants to protect—half of them women and children—he dared not weaken his garrison by a single European soldier. To send native troops, in the present circumstances, would be worse than useless.

  It was what he had feared, Alex thought—what he had expected, after talking to Lieutenant Bolton. Knowing Henry Lawrence, he could guess what this refusal must have cost that good and kindly man; yet, in his place, he knew that he would have been compelled to reply, as Lawrence had, that no aid could be sent to Cawnpore. Lawrence’s first concern had to be Lucknow; Lucknow was his responsibility, his charge. To lose the capital of Oudh, at this critical time, might prove as disastrous to the British cause as the loss of Delhi had been and Lawrence was a statesman, who looked to the future and would not allow himself to be blinded by past or present. With the fate of all India in the balance, he had made the only possible decision … even if, by that decision, he had sealed the fate of Cawnpore and of every man, woman and child who remained there.

  His own fate and Emmy’s, Alex thought. The stubborn defence, the privations they had endured, the tragic losses they had suffered would all be in vain, unless Neill could reach them … and God only knew when that would be. He felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat and swallowed it, sickened. Had Francis Whiting been right after all—ought they to have abandoned the wounded after the burning of the hospital and endeavoured to fight their way to Lucknow? A handful of them might have won through if they had taken the gamble then, but the cost, surely, would have been too high … the cost of conscience, the cost in human suffering. And now it was too late; there were not enough fit fighting men even to make the attempt. Bolton was the only one who had eaten normally since the siege began; the rest of them were … he glimpsed his own image in a cracked square of mirror behind the general’s chair and sighed despairingly. The dirty, bearded apparition, with its hollow cheeks and skin burnt to the colour of teak needed only a few daubs of gypsum and vermillion, of sandalwood and ash to pass for a sadhu, one of the beggar tribe of itinerant holy men who travelled the Indian roads. In fact … suddenly excited, Alex moved towards the mirror, subjecting his reflection to a closer scrutiny. He spoke the language well enough and his missing right arm would add to the credibility of such a disguise … by heaven, it was worth a try! Even the Nana’s men would hesitate before they arrested a holy man, fearing his curse.

  He stepped back, confronting the general. “Sir,” he began, a note of urgency in his voice. “Would you give me your permission to endeavour to make contact with Colonel Neill? I believe that I …” meeting the general’s blank, unseeing stare, he realised that the old man was lost in his own thoughts and had not heard him.

  “So we are to be deserted, left to die like rats in a trap—even by Lawrence!” The tired old voice was bitter in its disillusionment. “He will save his people, but I have brought mine to this. After a lifetime of service—honourable service—I am left with no alternative. I must either capitulate to the Nana or condemn my valiant garrison to death.”

  “Sir,” Alex besought him. “Listen to me, if you please, sir. You—”

  Sir Hugh Wheeler ignored him, seemingly deaf to any voice save his own. “Did you know that my son Godfrey was killed this morning? Killed in front of his mother and sisters, killed whilst they watched! He was lying on his mother’s charpoy—he had been slightly wounded and my wife was about to change the dressing for him. A round-shot entered through the archway of the veranda and took the boy’s head off. His blood and brains are spread across the wall of the room … the room in which all of us must try to sleep.”

  “I am sorry, sir, deeply sorry,” Alex managed, with genuine grief.

  “He was a fine boy, Sheridan. Although I was his father, I … but it’s of no importance now is it? He’s dead and tonight, when darkness falls, they will take his body and cast it into the well with all the others. Over two hundred others, they tell me … two hundred poor, brave souls who trusted me to defend and protect them, to preserve their lives. But I failed them.” Tears were streaming down the general’s sunken cheeks and he made no attempt to stem them. “I’m a broken man,” he went on sadly. “I no longer have the will to fight, I … I must relinquish my command, place it in more capable hands.” He looked at Alex then, as if seeing him for the first time. “You will have to take over, Sheridan—you and Captain Moore. You are the only officer of lieutenant-colonel’s rank alive and unwounded, are you not?”

  Alex stared at him in dismay. “Mine is only a brevet rank, sir, and I’m here as supernumerary—my command is in Lucknow. Captain Moore is the only senior officer with a command here and—”

  The old general sighed. “Then it will have to be Moore. He’s a good officer, he … the brigadier is dead, of course. And poor Colonel Williams. Ewart is badly wounded, they tel
l me, and Wiggins is down with fever. There’s Major Vibart, of course, who is a splendid officer but like you, he has no command here. I will hand over to Moore tomorrow, I … you had better warn him, perhaps. And give him your support, you and Vibart.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. But”—Alex studied his face with concerned eyes—“will you not give the matter more thought, sir? The garrison has every confidence in you and, whilst I feel sure that Captain Moore will be most willing to relieve you of some of your responsibilities, I hardly think that he will be anxious to take over command from you, sir. Will you not speak to him about it? I could send him to you now, if you wish.”

  But the bloodshot eyes had resumed their blank, uncomprehending stare and once again the old man lapsed into deafness. “Leave me alone,” he said plaintively. “I said I was not to be disturbed. I’ve lost my son … may I be permitted to mourn him?”

  Alex left him. He took Lawrence’s brief note to John Moore and told him what the general had said.

  “I thought I’d become inured of shocks, Alex,” Moore confessed wryly. “But evidently I have not because this has shocked me. Being offered the command, I mean—I had more than half expected that Lawrence would have to refuse our appeal.” He shrugged, wincing as a spasm of pain shot through his injured arm. “I think the general will change his mind, though, when he’s had time to get over his son’s death, so we’d better just wait and see. However”—he looked up suddenly, his blue eyes blazing— “if I do assume command, I know exactly what I shall do.”

  “And what is that?”

  Moore said quietly, “I shall lead every man who is capable of following me in a last night raid. We’ll take possession of every one of those blasted enemy batteries or die in the attempt. That’s what they all want, Alex, both officers and men … if they’ve got to die, they want to die like soldiers and so do I. In fact, I intend to put the proposal to General Wheeler, as soon as … that is, when it becomes evident that our position is hopeless.”