Massacre at Cawnpore Page 12

  “And the women?” Alex challenged. “The women and children?”

  John Moore eyed him somberly. “You know the answer to that question, my friend. There’ll be enough of us left to … to do what is necessary. Obviously they can’t be allowed to fall into the Nana’s hands. Well …” he repeated his sigh. “The swine have mounted a six-pounder behind Number One Block and I’m just collecting a party to spike it. Are you coming with us?”

  Alex inclined his head. It was not the moment to speak of his own plan to contact the Allahabad force, he decided; that, too, could wait until tomorrow. He felt for his pistol, glanced over to where Emmy was sleeping, and then fell into step beside Moore.

  “I want to take a prisoner tonight, Alex,” the Irishman added. “There are a few things we’ll have to know about those gun positions. Will you attend to it?”

  Alex nodded again. A few minutes later they slipped silently out of the entrenchment, with five men of the 32nd and Captain Jenkins from Number Six Block.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE PRISONER taken during the raid—whom Alex selected because he was a jemadar—proved an unexpectedly valuable and willing source of information. Dragged unceremoniously into Number Four Block for interrogation, he recognised Mowbray Thomson of his old regiment and begged, with tears in his eyes, to be permitted to return to the British service.

  He gave his name as Ram Gupta and admitted that he had been one of the native officers who had joined the garrison in the entrenchment at the beginning of the siege and subsequently deserted. Unlike most of the mutineers captured on earlier raids, be expressed regret for his infidelity and seemed anxious to talk, replying readily to questions and even volunteering information on his own account. Alex and Mowbray Thomson interpreted his replies for the benefit of John Moore, who spoke little Hindustani and, after finding out most of what they wanted to know about the gun positions and the slack watch that was kept on most of them, Moore was jubilant.

  “What did I tell you, Alex old man?” he demanded. “We could take those guns, if only the general will give his consent. I’m going to see him at first light and insist that it’s our only hope. If necessary, I’ll damned well accept the command at any rate for long enough to put my plan into operation.”

  “Let us hear what else this man can tell us,” Alex cautioned. “They may have heard rumours about Neill’s column that we haven’t.” He turned again to the jemadar but the man shook his head. No reports had come in from the Nana’s patrols on the Allahabad road, but a British column was believed to be in the city.

  “A small, weak force only, Sahib,” he added. “The native garrison is said to be engaged against it and the whole area is in revolt.”

  “You see?” Moore’s tone was impatient. “We cannot depend on outside aid reaching us, perhaps for weeks. Ask him about things here—morale, for instance.”

  On this subject, Ram Gupta spoke freely and bitterly, needing little prompting. The British defence had astonished and angered the mutineers’ leaders, he told them, and morale amongst the rebel troops was at a low ebb.

  “Every day more regiments join us—we have close on eight thousand men of all arms, yet you defy us. You beat off every attack, causing such heavy losses, it is believed that you have a minefield girdling your ramparts. Some have asked that a herd of asses be stampeded across the plain to explode these mines but the Nana Sahib will not hear of it. He has issued orders for a great attack to be launched against you, which must succeed or every man must die in the attempt to breach your walls.”

  The officers exchanged wry glances, when Alex translated this statement. “When, Ram Gupta?” be asked quietly. “When is this great attack on us to be launched?”

  The jemadar shrugged. “Soon, Sahib, very soon. In two days, perhaps, or three—I am not sure. There is a reluctance among our soldiers. Many care more for plunder than for fighting and do not want to risk their lives, when they believe that the guns will do their work for them. When the rains come they say you will have no rampart and will be compelled to yield. But the Nana Sahib is impatient—he will not wait. He demands victory.”

  He talked on, his tongue now loosened. From what he said, he appeared to have been disillusioned by the poor discipline maintained by the native officers promoted to high rank by the Nana and, in particular, by the arrogance of the cavalry and the excesses they committed, usually without incurring punishment.

  “They are dogs of Moslems, Sahib,” he said resentfully. “Cowards and killers of the helpless, who like nothing better than to seek out Christians who have hidden themselves in the city. These they murder and rob, without mercy. They slaughter cows in our holy places and hold even the Nana Sahib in contempt, when he bids them cease. Teeka Singh, he who was Rissaldar-Major of the Second Light Cavalry, was made general over us, but now his own sowars demand his arrest because he has amassed more than his fair share of plunder. Instead of acceding to their request, the Nana has rewarded him with many khilluts, including an elephant and many gold bangles, as a mark of his favour. The men of my regiment are angry. They weary of the siege and of attacks in which they died but the Cavalry take no part. The golandazes are also weary, for they must serve their guns all day long in this heat and suffer raids when, in the hours of darkness, they would rest. They say that the Cavalry should protect them and they do not.”

  Alex smiled as he translated this lengthy statement, word for words, to John Moore, who noted it gleefully.

  “We could succeed with a bold sally, I swear! The rebels are thoroughly demoralised, for God’s sake … they’ll run, the instant they catch sight of our bayonets. They—” he was interrupted by a warning shout from Lieutenant Stirling, posted on what the defenders of Number Four Block termed their “crow’s nest,” a loop-holed edifice, built of discarded bricks twenty feet above the roof. A fusillade of shots from the picket swiftly dispersed the threatened attack and Stirling called down matter-of-factly, “Six, boys. Not bad but we’ve done better. All clear now.”

  Ram Gupta looked from one to another of them, his jaw dropping in ludicrous surprise. “Truly the gods are with you, Sahib,” he told Mowbray Thomson. “You are so few … we had believed that fifty sahibs held this building. Indeed, it is said without supernatural aid, you must long since have been overpowered by our number and by the heat … yet you fight on! You have little water and no food, whereas our bellies are full, yet you defeat all our efforts, you and your memsahibs also. We had supposed all the memsahibs and the white children dead, but it is not so, is it? You saved them, even when Subadar Riaz Ali set fire to the thatched-roof of the hospital.”

  Again the officers exchanged wary glances and Mowbray Thomson nodded. “You will not defeat us, Jemadar-ji,” he returned with quiet confidence, “however many fires you start.” The jemadar bowed his head.

  “This I believe now, Sahib, for you are gods, not men … and I would return to fight at your side. Like many others of my paltan, I had no wish to betray my salt. Truly, it was the hawa— the devil’s wind—that caused us to break faith with the Company and now we regret it. Our hearts are sickened by the manner in which the Nana Sahib rules and by the favour he shows to the cowardly dogs of Mohammedans.”

  Alex’s interest quickened, as the significance of the native officer’s words sank in. “Are there many others who feel thus, Ram Gupta?” he asked.

  The man met his gaze squarely. “Ji-han, Huzoor, there are very many in the infantry paltans. Those of my faith …” he hesitated and then went on, with an earnestness which, of itself, carried conviction, “I think that if they were promised pardon and, perhaps, some reward by the General Sahib, they would return to the Company’s service. There has been talk that we should leave for Delhi but that would be silenced were such an offer to be made. In truth, Sahib, we do not trust the Nana. He is of our faith but … he is a Mahratta. Let me return to my men with an offer of pardon.”

  “And that,” Alex told John Moore, when he had translated the jemadar�
�s suggestion, “is something else for the general’s ear, is it not?”

  “Yes, perhaps it is,” Moore conceded, a trifle reluctantly. “If you think this fellow can be trusted.”

  “He had an exemplary record in the regiment, John,” Mowbray Thomson observed.

  “But he betrayed us—not once but twice! He deserted from the entrenchment.”

  “And appears to have learnt his lesson.” Thomson spoke without heat. “We’ve surely nothing to lose if we send him back with an offer—such as he suggests—to his men. He can bring us their answer and—”

  “If the general is willing to pardon them, Tommy.”

  “Why should he not be willing? We’re in desperate straits— surely any gamble is worth taking?”

  Moore frowned, still not entirely convinced. He said, with a hint of irritation, “You Company’s officers are always so ready to trust the blasted sepoys, aren’t you? But …” he controlled himself and looked across at Alex. “What’s your opinion, Alex? By virtue of your brevet, you are the senior—what should we do?”

  “Take Ram Gupta to the general,” Alex answered, without hesitation. “If he is prepared to pardon any mutineers who renounce their allegiance to the Nana and return to us, then this man can be sent back with the offer. As Tommy says, we’ve nothing to lose by making it … and perhaps everything to gain.” He lowered his voice. “We all know we can’t hold out much longer.”

  “I still believe we can fight our way out, but so be it. I’ll take him to General Wheeler.” Moore scratched at the unsightly stubble on his chin, his frown deepening. “Just one point, though. You don’t propose that we should admit any ex-mutineers to the entrenchment, simply relying on their word that they are returning to fight for us, do you?”

  Alex shook his head, restraining the impulse to reply sharply. They were all tired, he thought, so tired that tempers were easily frayed. “No, naturally not. But as a Company’s officer, my dear John, I’d rely on their word to the extent of being willing to lead them in a raid on the battery in the Cavalry Lines … does that satisfy you?”

  Moore’s expression relaxed. “That’s good enough for me—I hope I live to see you do it! And I’ve the greatest admiration for all the Company’s officers I’ve had the honour to serve with here, I assure you.” He laid a hand briefly on Alex’s shoulder and rose from his cross-legged position on the earthen floor of the barrack, to stretch his cramped limbs wearily. “Well, we’d better try to get a little sleep, I suppose, in case your jemadar was telling the truth about the do-or-die attack the Nana is planning. We—”

  “I think,” Alex warned him, “that—in case he is—you would be wise to postpone your plans for a final sally. We’d have a better chance of taking those guns if we defeat the worst they can throw at us before we try it, don’t you agree?”

  “Then you do believe the fellow’s story?”

  “Yes, I do—on that score, at all events.” Several of the others nodded their agreement and Alex added thoughtfully, “Knowing the Nana, I’m surprised he’s waited so long to order a full-scale attack, because he needs a victory—and needs it badly—if he’s to retain power. He’s losing prestige with every day we resist him. Besides, idle troops are lawless troops—his best chance of enforcing discipline is by making them fight. I’m quite sure they’ll attack us and very soon.”

  The attack came sooner even than Alex had anticipated. At dawn on 23rd June—the anniversary of Plassey—a great mass of troops was seen to be collecting on all sides of the entrenchment. Although still some distance away, it could be seen that they no longer resembled regular corps, for most of the sepoys had discarded their scarlet Company uniforms and, whilst a few wore jackets and shakoes, the majority were in undress white uniforms of the type worn by recruits. The cavalry, too, presented a strangely unmilitary appearance, the French grey and silver of the 2nd Native Cavalry worn only by a few officers, and their ranks augmented by several regiments of irregular horse, whose colourful costumes and brightly-hued turbans were reminiscent of bygone frontier wars. But telescopes revealed that they were well armed and being kept sternly in hand by their officers, so as to provide protection for the horse artillery troops which accompanied them.

  The gun batteries surrounding the entrenchment opened the heaviest cannonade the defenders had yet experienced, causing them some discomfort and a number of casualties, as the women and children were hastily crowded into the godowns and the flat-roofed barrack, which—although honeycombed with holes—now offered the only shelter available for the helpless. A few found precarious sanctuary behind the blackened crumbling walls of the burnt-out hospital, while others—caught in the open and unable to reach any of the buildings—crouched in the drain or the shallow trench behind it.

  Alex, having escorted Emmy to the quarter-guard, was forced to leave her there, with the most cursory of farewells, when the general alarm sounded. With Captain Athill Turner of the 1st Native Infantry and two young cavalry officers, Charles Quinn and Francis Wren, who had recently joined his sector, he ran to the parapet and took his place at the loopholed observation post, telescope to his eye, expecting to have to ward off an attack. But the alarm appeared to have been somewhat premature and he put the glass down, in order to ascertain whether he had his full complement or whether it would be necessary to reorganise the vulnerable parts of his line.

  There were no absentees; every man who could fire a rifle had answered the call, some having to be helped across the compound by their comrades and others contriving to hobble along unaided, using their rifles as crutches. They looked more like scarecrows than British soldiers, Alex reflected wryly, many of them wounded or ravaged by dysentery and fever, all of them on the verge of starvation and suffering acutely from the pangs of prolonged thirst. Their uniforms hung on them in unrecognisable, filthy rags, their emaciated bodies were burnt and blistered by the constant exposure to the sun, and their limbs were grossly swollen and covered in sores—an inevitable result of the diet of parched, uncooked grain and dried peas to which they had been reduced. All were in the same state, officers and common soldiers alike; it was impossible to tell the difference between them, save by their voices and the oaths they used.

  But they were in better spirits than they had been for days past and there was no fear in the haggard, unwashed faces lining the parapet. They had all suffered so much, seen death in its most hideous forms so often that it held no terror for them now … some, indeed, might welcome it as a friend. But they would fight and they would sell their lives dearly, Alex knew, conscious of a feeling of intense pride in their toughness, for these were the survivors of the long battle against impossible odds. They had lost wives, beloved children, comrades and friends and had not yielded; now they had come to defend their tiny, indefensible fortress for perhaps the last time, sensing that the attack for which they waited would be the ultimate test of their courage and endurance.

  If they failed now, it would be the end, and most of them were aware of it … yet they managed to joke amongst themselves as ramrods rang sharply in musket barrels and gun nipples were capped. Men who had breath to speak swore, grumbled and laughed, and swore again; they cursed the heat, the stench and the flies and then made lewd, foul-mouthed jokes, even of these. Edward Montcrieff, the garrison chaplain, came to them, making his dogged, dutiful rounds and, out of respect for him, the swearing instantly ceased. The men bowed their heads in prayer but, when he had gone, they whiled away the tedium of waiting by betting on the destination and effect of the round-shot which crashed into the entrenchment and Alex heard one wager offered, the result of which depended on whether or not the chaplain would manage to complete his round unscathed.

  To his right, ammunition wagons were dragged into position and he saw young Ashe, stripped to the waist and with a motley team of gunners, working to load his battered guns with double charges of grape. Ashe grinned and waved, with the irrepressible cheerfulness he always showed when an attack of some kind was imminent. He ge
stured to one of his loaders, his grin widening and Alex recognised Jemadar Ram Gupta, who was toiling as hard as the rest. The general, he knew, from what John Moore had told him of their interview, had refused to commit himself on the question of a pardon but was keeping the jemadar in the entrenchment, pending his final decision. He had also postponed his decision concerning the sally on which Moore had set his heart and Moore, in consequence, was on tenterhooks and uncharacteristically irritable.

  Well, perhaps if they could inflict one more humiliating reverse on the Nana’s troops this morning, both questions would resolve themselves, Alex thought philosophically, but his heart sank when, picking up his telescope again, he saw the force which the enemy was ranging against them.

  The flat plain to the north-west was thick with horsemen; there must be nearly two thousand of them already, and more were crossing the Canal Road—irregulars, judging by their formation and the calibre of their horses. There was also considerable activity among the infantry in the New Cantonment, he saw, taking a sweep with his glass. The trenches were packed and there was a mortar battery to the rear of the Church compound, which was keeping up an accurate and rapid fire of Henry Delafosse’s position … evidently in the hope of repeating their earlier success and exploding his reserve ammunition. But Delafosse was equal to the challenge. A tremendous roar—young Henry must have treble-shotted his gun, Alex decided—came from the southeast corner of the entrenchment and the rain of screeching, hissing shells abruptly ceased. His spirits rose but, as he was trying to ascertain whether Delafosse’s sorely-tried nine-pounder had been damaged, his attention was distracted by the sound of very heavy musketry fire, which appeared to be coming from the row of unfinished barrack blocks to the west.

  Minutes later, John Moore came running breathlessly across, to ask for as many men as he could spare from the parapet.