Massacre at Cawnpore Read online

  “I understand, Papa,” Amelia said quietly. There was a little silence and then she asked, still quietly, “Will you now give permission to Colonel Sheridan to attempt to get through to Allahabad?”

  “Tomorrow, Amelia,” he promised. “If there is no word of relief by tomorrow evening, I’ll let him go.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “Dear Papa, lie down, will you not, and let me soothe you to sleep?” She bent over him and he felt the hard outline of the pistol pressing against his side as her fingers moved, with skilled gentleness, about his forehead and then down, to knead the aching muscles of his neck and shoulders.

  General Wheeler slept at last but, even in sleep, there was no peace for him because the faces were there, the faces of those who had died, haunting even his dreams. The bluff, jovial face of Sir George Parker, the civil magistrate, blackened and contorted in the agonies of the sunstroke and apoplexy that had killed him; of Stephen Williams, colonel of the 56th, and of his pretty, fair haired wife; of Robert Prout and of Alec Jack, his brigadier and friend, who had gone the same way. All the men had been, like himself, veterans of the Sikh wars, grown grey in the Company’s service and looking forward to honourable retirement … but he had brought them death. He had refused to listen to their advice; they had begged him to make his stand in the strongly-built Magazine, but instead he had insisted on their joining him in the mud-walled entrenchment, which Azimullah Khan, the Nana’s Mohammedan vakeel, had contemptuously called his “Fort of Despair.” His was the guilt; the decision had been his although, perhaps, it was shared with those who had promised him reinforcements and failed to send them. Given two hundred more British bayonets, he could have held even the Fort of Despair—he could hold it now, if the reinforcements came. God in heaven, would they never come? Were he and the gallant men and women of his garrison to be left—as he had told Lawrence they were—without aid, to die like rats in a cage at the treacherous hands of the Nana?

  The face of his son Godfrey blotted out the other faces and finally the old general slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was daylight when he was awakened by a voice calling his name and he sat up, blinking uncertainly at the men who were crowding about him. Moore was there, he saw, and Vibart and Whiting … and his wife and daughters had left the room. His first thought was that they had come to bring him news that the relief column had been sighted, but a glance at their expressions told him that it was not so.

  “Well?” he demanded hoarsely. “What is it, gentlemen?”

  Moore answered him. “A Eurasian woman, a Mrs Henry Jacobi, sir, has brought this letter from the Nana. She says that he is offering his terms, sir.”

  The general put out a shaking hand for the letter. He read it slowly, unable at first to take it in; then, at a second reading, its meaning became clear. Addressed not to him, but to “The Subjects of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria,” the message ran: “All those who are in no way connected with the acts of Lord Dalhousie* and are willing to lay down their arms, shall receive a safe passage to Allahabad.”

  It was unsigned, but General Wheeler had no difficulty in recognising the handwriting and the autocratic style as Azimullah’s. He thrust the single sheet of paper into Moore’s hand and said, suddenly angry, “This is not even correctly addressed! It is arrogant and insulting and, as such, merits no reply. In any case we cannot deal with underlings—this is Azimullah’s work. The Nana must sign it himself before I will consider it. By whom was it delivered, did you say, Captain Moore? A Eurasian woman?”

  “A Mrs Henry Jacobi,† sir. One of the Nana’s captives, I believe, whose children are being held at the Savada House with a number of other Christian prisoners. Most of them were hiding in the city when they were taken.” He looked at Edward Vibart and the cavalry officer took up the story.

  “Thomson and I admitted Mrs Jacobi to the entrenchment, sir. The Pandies stopped firing on us a couple of hours ago and then we saw this woman approaching, waving a handkerchief and calling out to us, in English, not to shoot. She was very distressed …” and Vibart hesitated. “She told me, sir, that if we rejected these terms, the Nana would execute her children.”

  Cold rage hardened the general’s heart. “All our lives are at stake,” he retorted brusquely. “And these are terms for a vanquished enemy. We have not been defeated, therefore we shall not lay down our arms.” He gestured to the letter. “The Nana must sign that before I will treat with him. Furthermore he must give us his most solemn oath that he will abide by whatever conditions are finally agreed between us for the evacuation of this garrison to Allahabad … otherwise we shall stay and fight him. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?” He glanced from one to the other of them and then to the postmaster, who rose from his charpoy and limped over to join them.

  No one spoke until Moore said, with evident reluctance, “We have provisions for only three more days, sir. And if the rains break, what is left of our defensive wall will be washed away. We cannot hold this place any longer.”

  The general’s anger slowly evaporated. There were also the women and children to be considered … he bit his lower lip, remembering the pistol he had given his daughter Amelia and the use to which he had told her to put it. If there were any chance of saving them, he had to take it … but they could not surrender unconditionally. They must retain their arms, not only because British honour demanded that they should but because they would have to defend themselves on the way to Allahabad. He turned to Moore.

  “Send Mrs Jacobi back to the Nana with the letter, if you please, Captain Moore. Provided that he signs it, we will receive his representatives to negotiate conditions for our evacuation. Then call a conference of senior officers to decide what conditions we can accept and have them put in writing. The Nana will have to agree to them also.”

  John Moore came to attention. “Very well, sir. Shall we agree to a cease-fire, in the meantime?”

  “Yes, certainly.” The old general’s voice was very tired. “You will have to conduct the negotiations on my behalf, Moore. I cannot walk and if they see me thus …” He did not complete his sentence, but Moore nodded in understanding. “We must have a free exit and march out under arms. And we shall require carriages, to convey the women and children.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” Moore promised. He nodded to the other two and they withdrew.

  That evening, Mrs Jacobi returned with the letter correctly addressed and with the Nana’s signature appended to it. In the gathering darkness, two hundred yards behind the frightened, bare-footed woman, Azimullah Khan and Jwala Pershad, commander of the Nana’s cavalry, waited with an escort of sowars. Mowbray Thomson went out, with Ensign Henderson, to direct them to one of the unfinished barrack blocks; Azimullah greeted him in English and the sowars demanded insolently that he speak his own language.

  In the rubble-strewn barrack and in Hindustani, negotiations for the surrender of the Cawnpore garrison were begun, between the Nana’s two representatives and Captains Moore and Whiting, on behalf of General Wheeler, and Roache, the postmaster, on behalf of the civilians.

  Alex, at the general’s behest, took no part in the negotiations. His brief interview, soon after these had started, left him with no illusions as to Wheeler’s feelings.

  “I do not trust the Nana, Colonel Sheridan,” the old man told him, with bitter frankness. “But I must not let slip any opportunity to save the lives of our women and children. If it were not for them, I should not treat with the enemy or contemplate surrender. As it is, I intend to obtain the most solemn guarantees, in writing, from the Nana to ensure that we shall be permitted to march out unmolested and that suitable conveyance shall be provided to take us all by river to Allahabad. However—” he paused, eyeing Alex searchingly, “I may still require you to try to contact Colonel Neill, should the negotiations break down or the Nana refuse to agree to the conditions I have directed Captain Moore to impose. I take it you are still willing to make the attempt?”

  Alex felt his mouth go dry, bu
t he answered quietly, “Yes, sir.” The general had voiced his own feelings, his own fears and mistrust concerning the Nana and his henchmen but, with every hour that passed, his chances of escaping from the entrenchment were becoming more hazardous. A ring of infantry encompassed them and his observations with a telescope had revealed strong patrols of cavalry to the rear of the watching sepoys. It would be impossible now to adopt the disguise he had originally planned; his only chance would be to pass himself off as a sepoy, mingle with those who were seeking to guard against any attempt at escape on the part of the garrison and then, if he could, steal a sowar’s horse and resort to bluff. He explained this and saw the general’s white brows come together in an anxious pucker.

  “You would don their uniform?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Their uniforms are pretty irregular. I’ve taken Jemadar Ram Gupta’s. It’s blood-stained but that would probably aid my deception. In any case”—Alex wryly indicated his empty sleeve— “I should have to try to pass myself off as a casualty, in order to hide this.”

  “And you will require to shave,” the general reminded him. “I have a razor and water here—please make use of them while we’re waiting for news of the negotiations.” He sighed. “The razor was my late son’s, I … my daughter will fetch it for you and give you what aid she can. Amelia!”

  Amelia appeared from the shadows, the razor in her hand. It was a luxury to remove the unsightly stubble from his cheeks but, even with Amelia’s skilful assistance, the task took some time and his face, Alex realised with some dismay, after inspecting it in General Wheeler’s cracked mirror, would have to be darkened to an even tan if he were to have any hope of avoiding detection.

  “You should shave your head, Colonel Sheridan,” Amelia advised, eyeing him critically. “Leaving just a single long tuft of hair in the centre, as the Hindu sepoys do. And I will bring you a lamp—lamp-black would darken your face sufficiently to pass muster, I think.”

  The lamp-black was successfully applied but, with his face now as dark as his body, Alex could not bring himself to follow the rest of the girl’s advice. He was a British officer and a Christian, he reminded himself, and would carry his disguise no further; his hair was already cropped short, like that of most of the other defenders, and could be hidden under Ram Gupta’s tightly wound pugree. He left the weary old general dozing restlessly and went in search of Emmy, finding her in the quarter-guard caring, as usual, for the wounded. Chattis, brimming over with dust-clouded well water, stood about the room and Emmy greeted him happily, face, hands and close-cropped hair freed at last of the accumulated dust and dirt of the three-week siege, her small, famished body clad in a clean dress.

  “Oh, Alex!” Her voice shook. “Even if the negotiations break down—as pray God they won’t—we can be grateful for the cease-fire. It has enabled us to quench our thirst, to wash our persons and our clothes—to feel clean again! And for these poor men”— she gestured to the rows of wounded men—“it has meant the difference between torment and a measure of comfort. For some it has meant the difference between life and death. The Crimea was never as bad as this, Alex. You …” she broke off, regarding him with furrowed brows. “You’ve stained your face!”

  “Yes,” he admitted, reaching for her hand and drawing her to him.

  “Does that mean that you—that the general is sending you to find Colonel Neill after all? Overland, not by river with us? I thought, I hoped … oh, darling, must you go?”

  Alex shook his head. “Only if the Nana refuses his agreement to our conditions, Emmy.”

  The brief happiness faded from Emmy’s dark eyes. “Then there really is a chance that he may refuse?”

  “There was always that chance, my love. The general is insisting on the most stringent guarantees before he will order our evacuation … and he is right. The Nana has betrayed us once. Conditions are to be set down in writing—the Nana will have to take an oath that he will adhere to them.”

  “Do you think he will?” Her voice was a small whisper of sound, heartbreaking in its plea for reassurance and Alex responded to it with a conviction he did not feel.

  “Yes, darling, I think so.”

  “Thank God!” Emmy choked on a sob. “Oh, thank God!”

  When she left him to return to the makeshift hospital, she was smiling, her hopes revived. And there seemed every reason for hope when, at noon, John Moore informed the general that Azimullah and Jwala Pershad had agreed to all the conditions for which he had asked. The agreement, drawn up in writing, had been taken back to the Nana for ratification.

  “We are to hand over all money, guns and magazine stores, sir,” Moore said. “But we march out under arms, with sixty rounds of ammunition apiece. The Nana is to provide carriage for our wounded and for the women and children to the Suttee Chowra Ghat, where covered boats will be waiting. They are to be provisioned and we may inspect them as soon as they are prepared —probably this evening. And, as you stipulated, sir, the Nana will guarantee, under his seal and signature and giving his most solemn oath, that our garrison will be permitted to proceed to Allahabad unmolested.”

  The general listened with eyes closed, lying back on his mattress. He said, without opening his eyes, “So be it, Captain Moore. If the Nana signs that agreement, I will do likewise.”

  The agreement, duly signed and sealed, was brought to the entrenchment by Azimullah, early that afternoon, with the information that four hundred coolies were already at work preparing and provisioning the boats. As earnest of the Nana’s good intentions, a supply of provisions for the garrison’s immediate use was on its way to the entrenchment.

  The news that their long ordeal was almost at an end was received joyfully by the entire garrison. Even the wounded smiled through their pain; the children, like small, emaciated ghosts, gathered round the cooking fires and choked down mouthfuls of chapatti and bowlfuls of lentil stew, brimming panikans of water clutched in their bony little hands. The women washed and searched for changes of raiment, exclaiming eagerly over a tattered shawl or a torn petticoat; the men shaved and poured water over their sweating bodies; soldiers donned again the scarlet jackets they had earlier discarded and cleaned their rifles … a few even raked over the ashes of the burnt-out hospital, hoping to find their lost medals.

  Only the weary old general lay weeping on his mattress, refusing all Amelia’s pleas to try to eat or at least to allow her to shave him. Alex went to him once but left again, without having made himself heard; he returned to the compound, to find John Moore and Francis Whiting engaged in an altercation with Jwala Pershad.

  “He’s insisting that we evacuate the entrenchment tonight, Alex,” Moore said, almost speechless with anger. “I’ve told him that it is quite impossible. We can’t move four hundred people, including wounded and sick, in a few hours—besides, we have not yet inspected the boats.”

  “Is this the Nana’s demand, Jwala Pershad?” Alex questioned curtly. “Or your own?”

  “Not mine, Sahib,” the one-time Bithur retainer said, with well-simulated innocence. “But my men are anxious. They say now that the British have washed and dressed and have had time to rest, they will not go away. They have held out for so long— now they will be able to hold out longer.”

  “We have agreed to go, we have given our word and the General Sahib has set his hand to the agreement,” Alex reminded him.

  “True, Sahib, we know this. But my men are witless dogs, they do not believe written words. They—”

  “Then convince them—you are their commander. Do you take orders from your sowars?”

  “If you will hand over your guns to them and the treasure,” Jwala Pershad said sullenly. “Then they will believe that you intend to leave Cawnpore. I myself, with two of my officers, will remain as hostages within the entrenchment, if you will comply with our wishes, Sahib. Otherwise …” he spread his hands in an elaborate shrug, dark eyes on Alex’s face. “I cannot promise that our guns will not speak again and if they do, th
ey will annihilate you.”

  Francis Whiting laid a hand on his arm, jerking the man round to face him. “If you push us to the last extremity,” he threatened, his tone cold, “we have powder enough in our magazine to blow both your force and ours into the Ganges … and by heaven, we shall use it!”

  “Tell him,” John Moore intervened quickly, “that we will be ready to leave at dawn and not before. If he obtains the Nana’s agreement—and his sowars’—to this, I will request the general to let him remove the treasure this evening, on the terms he suggests. But not until after we have inspected the boats.”

  Whiting translated, in a flat, controlled voice. The Indian officer departed, supposedly to consult the Nana, but returned, with suspicious alacrity, to announce that his master was willing to postpone the evacuation until the following morning.

  “The boats are ready for inspection,” he added blandly. “Horses and an escort await the sahibs who will undertake the inspection.”

  Athill Turner, Henry Delafosse and John Goad of the 56th Native Infantry were deputed to go with the escort. They came back, just before sunset, to report that 42 boats had been provided, each thirty to forty feet long by fourteen feet across the thwarts, with the stern part roofed over with thatch. Not all had been provisioned and, as yet, a number lacked their straw awnings, but coolies were working on these tasks and the three officers expressed the opinion that all should be in readiness by the following morning. The boats were at present lying at the Customs Ghat but were to be moved to the agreed mooring place as soon as work on them was completed.

  Accordingly, all that had been saved of the government treasure—a lac and a half of rupees—and the battered, almost completely disabled guns were handed over and Jwala Pershad and two of his officers yielded themselves up as hostages.