The Heroic Garrison Read online

  “I am in command here now,” the Moulvi interrupted harshly.

  “Thou?” Azimullah was visibly taken aback, staring at him in astonishment. “But we had heard that the Begum placed her trust in sepoy generals!”

  “No longer. Hazrat Mahal has appointed me her chief military adviser and I command in her name.”

  “And the Rajah Man Singh?” Azimullah persisted. “He who once gave sanctuary to British fugitives . . . is it true that he is now in alliance with thee and the Begum?”

  “It is true,” the Moulvi confirmed. “Man Singh has promised his support. He is here with his troops.” The Moulvi changed the subject, submitting Azimullah to a barrage of questions concerning the Nana’s movements and his plans for the future, to which the younger man replied with boastful confidence.The Nana, he asserted—referring to his master as the Peishwa—had vowed by the waters of the sacred Ganges that he would avenge the defeats he had suffered at Havelock’s hands and as soon as Tantia Topi joined him, with the well-equipped Gwalior troops, he would launch an attack on Cawnpore. Tantia could be relied on—he had sent messengers to the Mahratta camp, assuring his master of his whole-hearted loyalty and support. When news reached him that Havelock’s column had been wiped out—or, failing this, that both Outram and Havelock were under siege in the Lucknow Residency—he would, Azimullah was certain, march from Kalpi without delay, dispatching part of his force to cut the British lines of communication with Allahabad and Calcutta.

  This was the assurance he had hoped for, and the Moulvi nodded his approval. “Thou canst inform the Nana Sahib and Tantia Topi that Havelock’s column will no longer pose a threat to them in Oudh, Azimullah. Whilst it is true that Outram and Havelock are reported to have reached the Residency alive, Neill is dead. The unspeakable defiler of souls was killed in the fighting last night. He fell to a marksman’s bullet.”

  “Neill dead!” Azimullah exulted. “Allah be praised—that is indeed good news!”

  “And in the same place, we intercepted a party of wounded this morning,” the Moulvi added. “Forty or fifty doolies, under escort, were sent from the rear-guard in the Moti Mahal . . . they were cut to pieces. A few escaped but,” he shrugged, with pretended indifference, “it is no matter. All in the Residency will die . . . men, women, and children. We shall spare none of them when the time comes.”

  “We heard from the Peishwa’s spies,” Azimullah said, a hint of misgiving in his hitherto confident voice, “that Havelock’s orders were to evacuate the garrison of the Residency to Cawnpore. These spies are reliable, Ahmad Ullah. Is there a chance that Havelock may endeavor to carry out his orders before Tantia Topi leaves Kalpi?”

  “Impossible!” the Moulvi retorted contemptuously. “They have hundreds of wounded and sick, in addition to their women and children—close to a thousand, I would estimate—and they have no carriage in which to convey them to Cawnpore. Besides, they are surrounded—if such an attempt is made, we shall annihilate them. Nothing is more certain, I give thee my word.”

  “And if they do not attempt to reach Cawnpore?”

  “Then they are trapped. So long as thy master and Tantia Topi fulfill their promise to recapture Cawnpore and prevent relief reaching them from Allahabad or Calcutta, they are doomed, Azimullah.” The Moulvi was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes, which remained narrowed and watchful. “The Residency is ringed with guns and their defensive positions are mined. Oh, they may die at their posts, many of them will, but it is only a question of time before they are compelled to surrender, just as General Wheeler’s garrison did. And then they will die, as Wheeler’s people did . . . defeated, on their knees and begging for mercy!”

  “Not many of Wheeler’s garrison died thus,” Azimullah was compelled to remind him. “Hast thou forgotten that I was there? I hate all the British, Allah knows I hate them and with good reason, yet . . .” he shrugged and added, with grudging admiration, “I cannot deny their courage, Ahmad Ullah. Those men of Wheeler’s were skeletons, scarcely able to hold themselves upright when they left his Fort of Despair. Yet they fought us like soldiers and they died sword in hand. They are not easily defeated. I . . .” he hesitated and then said, frowning, “I heard a rumor that they have taken Delhi by assault. Didst thou also hear it?”

  “I heard but did not believe it. Doubtless the British them selves started that hare running.”

  “Yet it could be the truth, Ahmad Ullah. Indeed—”

  “Nahin! Three thousand lal-kotes against forty thousand sepoys behind fortress walls!” the Moulvi scoffed. “It is inconceivable. In any case, there has been no confirmation, Azimullah. It is mere bazaar gossip and thou art a fool to give it a moment’s credence.”

  “A fool, perhaps,” Azimullah conceded. “Yet I wonder . . .The rumor had it that Nicol Seyn himself led the assault, and with such a man, a miracle is always possible.”

  “It would require a very great miracle,” the Moulvi returned tartly, “for three thousand to triumph over forty thousand.”

  “Forty thousand sepoys—dogs of Hindus, most of them, undisciplined and badly led,” Azimullah objected. Again he hesitated, biting his lower lip, as if reluctant to engage in argument with the man who, for so long, had been his tutor in the subtleties of mutiny and subversion, but finally he said, with obstinate insistence, “We return, do we not, Moulvi Sahib, to these sepoys— those trained soldiers of the Company who have no stomach to do battle with British bayonets. Thou hast how many of them here, holding the Residency under siege? More, perhaps, than the Shah Bahadur has—or had—in Delhi.”

  The Moulvi eyed him balefully, resenting the implication. “What is it to thee, Azimullah? We have enough for our purpose. I have told thee, thou canst assure thy master that if he keeps his word, we will keep ours.There will be no escape for the lal-kotes in the Residency. Our sepoys will contain them and—”

  Azimullah cut him short. “I have brought thee a man who can teach the sepoys their trade, Ahmad Ullah . . . one who will be worth all thy sepoy generals put together. Speak with him, I beg thee.” In response to his words, his silent, half-hidden companion stepped from the shadows that had concealed him, acknowledging the Moulvi’s presence with a grave inclination of the head. He was tall, and slimmer, even, than Azimullah, dressed in a richly embroidered, gold-laced chapkan and the high boots and breeches of a cavalryman, with a turban of Sikh pattern wound about his head and a tulwar of formidable proportions suspended from a leather sling at his side. As he moved into the center of the room, the light from the setting sun fell full on his face, revealing that, beneath its coating of tan, his skin was white and the hair of his beard a rich, dark auburn flecked, here and there, with gray.

  The Moulvi recoiled from him in shocked surprise.

  “Dost thou mock me, Azimullah?” he demanded angrily. “This man is a feringhi!”

  “Nahin, Moulvi Sahib,” the stranger denied, speaking perfect Hindustani, with no trace of accent. “I am no feringhi ... nor am I a lover of the British. I was born in Lahore and my father— whose name, I am sure, will be known to you—was General Henri Court.”

  The Moulvi recovered from his surprise. Henri Court, he was aware, had entered the service of the Sikh Maharajah Ranjit Singh —the famous “Lion of the Punjab”—some thirty years before. A Frenchman of good birth and a product of the French Military Polytechnic, he had shared with Jean François Allard, Jean Baptiste Ventura, and the Italian general Paolo Avitabile, the distinction of having trained the famous Khalsa army of the Sikhs to the peak of military perfection. Following Ranjit Singh’s death in 1839, most of the foreign commanders had either been dismissed or had left the Sikh service, but all had married, and it was, therefore, quite possible that this tall, handsome companion of Azimullah’s was what he claimed to be, a son of General Court—half French and half Sikh.

  The Moulvi studied him thoughtfully, and—almost against his better judgment—found himself liking what he saw.The newcomer was of good presence; he look
ed and spoke like a soldier and replied to questions with a fearless frankness that could only stem from honesty. His mother, he said, still lived; she was the daughter of a Sikh sirdar, at one time a member of the Durbar. He himself had served his military apprenticeship, under his father and Lehna Singh Majithia, in the ordnance works and later in the field in both the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns, when he had risen to the command of a Ghorchurra regiment, the elite of the Khalsa cavalry.

  “Well?” Azimullah prompted, a trifle impatiently, when the Moulvi’s questions became less personal and the conversation turned to matters of military strategy. “I would return to the Peishwa’s camp tonight, Ahmad Ullah—he is anxious for word from thee and may come to Lucknow himself sometime during the next few weeks, to speak with thee and the Begum. Hast thou honorable employment to offer our friend from Lahore or shall I take him back with me?”

  The Moulvi shook his head. “If Colonel Court is willing to remain here I shall very gladly avail myself of his valuable services.” He glanced inquiringly at the French general’s son and added, smiling, “On my personal staff initially, Colonel Sahib, until I have consulted with the Begum and the Council. But I can promise a command worthy of your achievements.” He spoke in Punjabi and Court replied in the same language, as fluently as he had in Hindustani.

  “I have one aim, to which I have devoted my life, Moulvi Sahib,” he answered quietly. “I want to see the British and their John Company driven from India. For that aim, I would die, not one but a thousand deaths! I ask a free hand in the training of your sepoys and a rank that will spare me from the criticism and envy of your other commanders.” Seeing the Moulvi’s look of bewilderment, he relaxed a little and explained, “During Ranjit Singh’s lifetime, my father had what I have asked for, but, after his death, the jealousy of lesser men drove him back to Europe, bitter and broken-hearted. I am of Hind, Moulvi Sahib, I am born and bred here—for me there is no escape to Europe. Grant me what I have asked and you will have no cause for regret. In return, I will give you an army you can lead to victory.”

  “So be it,” the Moulvi assented. He held out both hands in a spontaneous gesture of goodwill, and his smile widened, for the first time lighting his somber dark eyes as he added, with a flash of wry humor, “I had not thought to call my brother any man with the white skin and the appearance of a feringhi but—thou art a man after my own heart! And in very truth, I have need of thee, Henri Court.”

  “Then I gladly offer my services,” Court answered. He took the Moulvi’s proffered hands in his and, lowering his turbaned head, touched them to his brow. “But I will take the name of my mother’s family. Know me as Kaur Singh, Ahmad Ullah—it will be better thus.”

  “So be it,” the Moulvi said again. “Come,” he invited, his smile fading. “The hour approaches when we shall unsheathe our tulwars to do battle once more with the enemies of Hind. Havelock’s soldiers have been all day under heavy bombardment in the Moti Mahal.When darkness falls, they will rest, believing that we have withdrawn.Then, when the moon rises or at first light, if they see no sign of us, they will make another attempt to break out and save their guns . . . and we shall be waiting for them. In the meantime, some of them are reported to be in hiding, with wounded, in the square where Neill met his end. We will flush them out and enjoy a little sport to while away the time of waiting—wilt thou accompany us, Azimullah?”

  Azimullah shook his head. “Nahin, as I told thee, I will return to my master the Peishwa, Ahmad Ullah.”

  “Then Khuda hafiz,” the Moulvi bade him, “Allah be with thee.” He turned to Court. “Let us go, my brother.”

  The two went out together and Azimullah Khan watched them go, resenting the Moulvi’s perfunctory farewell. But his resentment swiftly faded. His mission had been successfully and diplomatically accomplished, and the Nana, he told himself, would be pleased when he returned to report his success . . . pleased and, Allah willing, also grateful. Court had played his part well— no actor could have played it better. Ahmad Ullah, for all his wary cunning, had failed to recognize his new staff officer for the unscrupulous adventurer he was. But . . . he was a fine soldier, trained in every aspect of war; his professional skill would balance the Moulvi’s lack of it and his fanaticism.With Court at hand, neither he nor the Begum would be permitted to make any move that might upset the Nana’s plans—they would be held in Lucknow, as securely as the British they were besieging were held, in a state of stalemate, which would leave the Nana free to raise his standard in Oudh. It mattered not that they had crowned the Begum’s ten-year-old son, Birjis Quadr, as king; the people of Oudh would know—or be swiftly taught—to whom their allegiance should be given.With the King of Delhi a prisoner, as Azimullah had no doubt that he was, the Nana would indeed be Peishwa, and all the lost Mahratta territory between the Chumbul and the Nerbudda would be restored to those from whom it had been wrested by the rapacious John Company.

  And after that, all India, with himself at the Peishwa’s right hand, and Court . . . Azimullah was smiling as he moved toward the curtained archway. Court was a soldier and the lives of soldiers were cheap. Cheaper, even, than their loyalties . . .

  For Historical Notes on the Mutiny, see page 243, and for a Glossary of Indian Terms, see page 255.

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS BARELY light when the first small party of volunteers left the Lucknow Residency to make their way cautiously through the Terhee Kothee and Furhut Baksh Palaces and from there, along the river bank, to the position held by the rear-guard of Havelock’s force in the Moti Mahal.

  Alex Sheridan, leading his horse a little way behind the rest, was almost asleep on his feet, stumbling blindly on the rubble-strewn ground, still littered with the debris of the previous day’s battle. He had snatched less than an hour’s sleep after entering the beleaguered Bailey Guard gate in the wake of the gun-limber bearing Brigadier General James Neill’s body, eaten a frugal meal and then—informed of a call for anyone familiar with Lucknow’s geography to volunteer to assist in bringing in wounded —had answered the call. For what remained of the night, he had gone, with a surgeon named Greenhow and Lieutenant Johnson of the Irregular Cavalry and twenty of his sowars, as far as the Khas Bazaar, returning with wounded Highlanders and Sikhs slung across their saddles or clinging, limping, to their stirrupirons.

  Lousada Barrow, commander of the Volunteer Cavalry, had also fared forth on a similar mission, along the street leading to the Paeen Bagh and—thanks to the prompt action of the commander of the Bailey Guard, Lieutenant Aitken, who had led a party of his defenders to secure the adjacent buildings—neither party had been fired on by the enemy. Indeed, Alex thought, rousing himself to look about him, the rebels were conspicuous by their continued absence, content, it appeared, to abandon both palaces at the river’s edge and their walled enclosures to British occupation. Only ahead of them, in the neighborhood of the Moti Mahal three quarters of a mile away, were the Begum’s guns in action . . . and there, according to a report received from Colonel Campbell, of Her Majesty’s 90th Light Infantry, who was in command, the position was one of considerable peril.The rear-guard, which consisted of a hundred men of his regiment, was surrounded and under continuous bombardment. Hampered by the column’s baggage train and by its wounded—now numbering over two hundred, in doolies—and with one of Major Eyre’s heavy guns jammed in a narrow passageway and out of action, Campbell stated that he could not advance, although he was so far holding his own. He had asked for reinforcements and, as a matter of urgency, for assistance to evacuate the wounded, many of whom were dying, due to the inability of his handful of surgeons to care for them adequately under such conditions.

  The reinforcements—two companies of H.M.’s 5th Fusiliers, under Major Simmons, and a company of Jeremiah Brasyer’s Sikhs—had been ordered out by General Outram, Alex was aware, before his own party had left the Residency, but they had been held up by the necessity to clear and occupy the Chutter Munzil garden before proceeding to the
ir objective. When a young civil service officer, Bensley Thornhill—who was well acquainted with Lucknow’s tortuous maze of streets and palace courtyards— had offered to guide a party along a path by the river bank, at the rear of the Chutter Munzil, and bring the wounded back by the same route, his offer had been accepted thankfully by General Havelock and agreed to by Sir James Outram.

  Havelock’s son Harry, deputy assistant adjutant-general to the Oudh Field Force, had been shot down after the attack on the Char Bagh bridge the day before and he was known to be among the wounded. The little general, despite his stoic efforts not to betray his personal feelings, was beside himself with anxiety on his son’s account and Thornhill, who was related to the Havelocks by marriage, was eager to assuage his anxiety. His offer, however, had been confidently made and his route very carefully planned; it was evident to Alex, as the young civilian strode unhesitatingly ahead of his party of volunteers, that he knew the locale as well as he had claimed to know it.

  “We’re skirting the Chutter Munzil now,” he called back softly. “Heads down and keep close to the wall, if you please.”

  Outside, under the towering wall of the palace, the shadows were deep and the path deserted.To their left, the River Goomti followed its winding course, its murky waters touched with a faint pink radiance as the new day dawned. On the far bank, the lights that had flickered through the darkness like fireflies went out, one by one, but, aside from this indication that the citizens of Lucknow were starting to wake, there was no sign of untoward activity on the part of the rebel troops. All their efforts were concentrated on the destruction of Colonel Campbell’s hard-pressed rear-guard, the thunder of cannon and the crackle of musketry bearing witness to the ferocity of their assault.