The Cannons of Lucknow Page 3

  Barrow laid a big hand on his knee. “Alex, old man, when you first joined us, you said you remembered almost nothing. But you’re remembering now, are you not?”

  “Yes,” Alex admitted. “Unhappily I am.”

  “The general would like a report, you know, as soon as you’re able to make one,” the Volunteers’ commander said gently. “Of the siege and your escape. And he needs the names of casualties, particularly civilian casualties, so that their relatives can be notified.”

  “Yes, I know. Harry Havelock asked me about it this morning. I promised I’d do the best I could, but there are still a great many gaps, I’m afraid.” Involuntarily, Alex raised his hand, still grasping the reins, to touch the jagged scar which, although healing, puckered and disfigured his left temple and cheek. The sowar who had dealt him the blow had kept his sabre razor-sharp, he thought wryly, and probably thereby saved his life. He glanced at his companion apologetically. “Names and dates elude me, Lou. I remember some incidents vividly. When the Pandies launched attacks on our entrenchment and we held them off, every detail is clear, but—”

  “I’ve seen your entrenchment,” Lousada Barrow put in gravely. “And before heaven, I don’t know how you held them off for a single day, much less for three weeks!” He swore under his breath. “Devil take it, what possessed old Sir Hugh Wheeler to attempt to defend such a place? The Magazine was intact, wasn’t it, until the Nana had it blown up?”

  “It was, yes. But—”

  “You could have held out there for months. So why was it left to fall into the Pandies’ hands?”

  Alex sighed, reluctant even now to criticise his old commander. “Mainly, I suppose,” he answered quietly, “because General Wheeler made the fatal mistake of trusting the Nana. He was promised Bithur troops to guard the Magazine and Treasury and the Nana assured him repeatedly that the sepoys, when they broke out, would march straight off to Delhi. The poor old man believed he would only have to defend himself against isolated raids by the city budmashes, but what really decided him was the promise he was given of reinforcements of British troops, which were said to be on their way from Allahabad at the beginning of June. A handful did reach us and General Wheeler sent them on to Lucknow, on receiving their assurance that Colonel Neill’s column was behind them. Wheeler constructed the entrenchment within sight of the Allahabad road so as to enable Neill to get to us without having to fight his way through the city. When the Nana betrayed us and led the sepoys back here to attack us, it was too late to leave the entrenchment … and too late even to destroy the powder and ordnance stores in the Magazine. The Bithur troops seized them and handed the whole lot over to the mutineers who, of course, used them against us. But for all that, Lou, the old general’s decision was a logical one, in the circumstances. The Magazine was six miles north of the Allahabad road and—”

  “Did you consider it a sound decision?” the older man demanded.

  “No,” Alex was forced to concede. “A number of us didn’t. But we thought we could hold out until Neill’s column reached us. We were daily expecting its arrival.”

  “But Neill did not come.” Lousada Barrow’s expression was inscrutable.“Well, he had his problems, as you’ll have realised by now—he had to deal with mutinies at both Benares and Allahabad.”

  “I do realise that, Lou. Indeed it was I who brought the message from Lucknow that Neill was held up in Benares—”

  “You brought it?”

  “Yes, by road—the electric telegraph wires had been cut between here and Lucknow. Sir Henry Lawrence sent me, and his warning was the first intimation poor old General Wheeler had that any delay was likely. We expected no prolonged delay—ten days, perhaps, or even a fortnight—because we knew that Neill had been fully informed of our plight. I …” Alex hesitated, choosing, his words carefully before he went on.“No one has yet been able to explain the length of that delay, Lou, or to give me an entirely satisfactory reason for it. Lack of transport has, of course, been mentioned, as well as insufficient troops, and I’m aware that Neill had to ensure the safety of Allahabad, as well as that of Benares, before he could move to our aid.”

  “You mean,” Barrow offered shrewdly, “it’s been suggested that Neill spent more time than was strictly necessary hanging mutineers—and those suspected of being in sympathy with the mutineers—when he should have pushed on to Cawnpore at any hazard?”

  Alex inclined his head. “Yes,” he answered, tight-lipped. “Between ourselves, that has been suggested. He certainly appears to have behaved like the wrath of God in Allahabad. Estimates are at variance, but I’ve been told that he hanged over six hundred natives, some without trial. I don’t know if that’s true, of course, but I do know that he only despatched the advance force, under poor Renaud, on the thirtieth of June … three days after his failure to relieve us compelled our surrender. Spurgin’s steamer left the same day, I believe.”

  Lousada Barrow settled himself more comfortably in his saddle. He took a cheroot from the case in his hip pocket and lit it, the lucifer cupped between his palms. Puffing smoke, he observed dryly,“James Neill has been promoted to brigadier-general in recognition of his services, Alex. Did you hear that?”

  “No, I did not.” Alex’s tone was deliberately noncommittal. He offered no comment and Barrow frowned.

  “Do not misunderstand me. I cannot approve of his drumhead courts martial or, indeed, of some of his other methods of stamping out rebellion—I’ve been a civil magistrate for too long. “But,”—his broad shoulders rose in an elaborate shrug—“our new general did avert what could have been a very ugly situation in Allahabad and the surrounding district and he apparently did the same in Benares. His methods, if crude, are undoubtedly effective … and the Commander-in-Chief evidently thinks so, or he wouldn’t have been promoted.”

  “I can’t imagine that General Havelock will approve of them, judging by his remarks to us this morning,” Alex said. “Barbarism must not be met by barbarism, he said.”

  “Quite so,” Barrow affirmed. They were approaching a village, and he sent two of his cavalrymen to scout ahead of the column. Puffing once more at his cheroot, he went on, “Since this conversation is strictly between ourselves, my dear Alex, I can tell you that there’s no love lost between Havelock and Neill. There hardly could be—they are such very different characters. Neill, understandably perhaps, resented having had command of the Movable Column taken from him, when he expected to be given it himself. And he said so, quite openly, as well as referring to his new commander as ‘The Old Gentleman.’ Before we even left Allahabad, Havelock had to pull rank on him more than once, and finally, when we did set off, he left Neill to follow on with whatever fresh drafts arrived from Dinapore or Calcutta. This, despite his long and distinguished service, is the first independent command our little general has ever had and he intends to make the most of it. He’ll tolerate neither delay nor interference from Neill, I can assure you. He’ll relieve Lucknow, if it’s humanly possible to do so, without wasting a day.”

  “You really think he will?” Alex questioned doubtfully.

  “I know he will. At this morning’s staff conference, he instructed Fraser Tytler to begin preparations for crossing the river tomorrow morning. As soon as Neill gets here, Havelock will hand over the command of Cawnpore to him and press on.”

  “He’s going to leave Neill in command here?” Alex echoed, unable to hide his dismay.

  “A force of this size hardly requires two generals,” Barrow returned. “And General Havelock doesn’t—” he was interrupted by a shout from one of the two Volunteers scouting fifty yards ahead of the gun train, which was followed an instant later by a fusillade of shots coming from the village they were approaching. Ordering the train to halt and the rest of his small troop to close in and cover it against a possible attack, Barrow put his horse into a canter and rode toward the village, calling over his shoulder to Alex to accompany him. “Mutineers, I imagine,” he added, when Alex drew level
with him. “Holed up here with wounded, probably. We’d better take them alive, if we can.”

  The village was small, a mere cluster of reed-thatched huts running down to a stream and screened by trees. At first sight it appeared to be deserted, save for a little group of women engaged in washing their household linen at the river’s edge who, with shrill cries of fright, flung themselves into the water at the sight of the approaching horsemen. Then a horrifying apparition emerged from one of the huts and came stumbling across the intervening space toward them, voice raised in an ear-splitting scream.

  The fugitive was half-naked, a European or an Anglo-Indian, Alex decided, judging by the colour of his skin, but so hideously mutilated that his face bore little resemblance to that of a human being of any race. Nose, ears, and both hands had been hacked off and heavy iron fetters trailed from his ankles, as the unfortunate man dragged himself unsteadily through the dust and filth of the rutted cart track which served the village as a street. The crackle of musketry momentarily drowned his screams and three or four shots whined above his head or buried themselves in the dust at his feet. Intent only on escape, he ignored them, struggling manfully on, until a single, well-aimed shot stopped him in his tracks and he fell awkwardly forward onto his tortured face.

  Barrow pulled up beside him and dismounted, jerking his horse round in front of him to serve as temporary protection for both himself and the wounded man. “I’ll take care of this poor devil, Alex,” he grunted breathlessly. “You go on and tell Birch and Stewart not to shoot those rebels if they can help it. I want the swine alive!”

  Alex did his best to carry out these instructions, but by the time he reached the hut from which the shots had been fired, the two young Volunteers who had given the alarm were inside and he heard the roar of pistols being discharged at close range as he tethered his horse beside theirs and dashed in after them. Graham Birch turned, grinning, a smoking Colt in his hand, to point to the three bodies lying at his feet.

  “Those devils won’t fire on an unarmed Englishman again, sir,” he announced triumphantly. “As for this cringing cur …” he spun the chamber of his Colt and levelled the weapon at the last remaining mutineer, who was crouching in a corner of the room, gibbering with fear, his empty musket held uselessly across his chest. “I have one round left that has his name on it!”

  “No, hold your fire,” Alex bade him. “Captain Barrow wanted them all taken alive, but since this man is the only one left, he’ll have to do. Disarm and tie him up and then bring him outside, if you please.”

  Lieutenant Birch obediently lowered the Colt. He was a tall, good-looking boy, who had served for less than a year with his regiment, the 1st Bengal Light Cavalry. Like his comrade in arms, Ensign Stewart of the 17th Native Infantry, and a number of others—including Lousada Barrow himself—he had made a perilous journey through hostile country to Allahabad in order to serve with Havelock’s Force and in the ranks of the Volunteer Cavalry. Death was no stranger to either of them now, but they exchanged wry glances as they pinioned the surviving sepoy’s wrists and helped him, none too gently, to his feet.

  Stewart ventured diffidently, “I’m sorry if we were a bit too impulsive, Colonel Sheridan, but they did open fire on us and … did you see that poor wretch they were holding prisoner? They’d inflicted the most ghastly injuries on him, sir, and I’m afraid it made me see red.”

  “I very much doubt whether the sepoys were responsible for the prisoner’s injuries,” Alex told him. “That kind of torture smacks rather of the Nana’s executioners.”

  “You mean he was punished for some reason?” Birch suggested.

  “Or silenced. It won’t surprise me to find that his tongue has been cut out as well.”

  “His tongue?” Stewart passed his own tongue nervously over his lips. “I … see. The unfortunate fellow was making an odd sort of noise, as if he was trying to yell out and couldn’t.” His expression hardened. “The general says that we’re not to match barbarism with barbarism, but after what I’ve seen here, I … damn it all, sir, I don’t see what else we can do. They’ve betrayed us, they’ve murdered our women and children, they …” Birch silenced him with a sharp jab of the elbow. He jerked his head in Alex’s direction with a warning scowl and the youngster reddened. “I’m very sorry, sir. I forgot that you—that is, I—”

  “You forgot that I was in the Seige?” Alex finished for him. “And that most of the women and children who died in the Bibigarh were known to me? Well, continue to forget it, my young friend, because it’s something that I’d give my immortal soul to forget. The general is absolutely right, you know. If we’re to win back India, if we’re to regain the trust of the ordinary people who have had no part in this mutiny, it will not be by meeting barbarism with barbarism.”

  “Yes, sir, of course,” Stewart stammered. Still very red of face, he started to drag the pinioned sepoy from the hut. But, Alex thought, he would not forget; none of them would. What had happened here, what they had seen in the well outside the Bibigarh and in that other well, close to the entrenchment, was printed indelibly on their minds, as it was on his own. The fact that he had survived the massacre set him apart from these young officers with whom he now served; his scarred face and the empty sleeve at his right side set him apart too and erected an even more insuperable barrier than his brevet rank. Save in moments of stress or excitement, when they were in action, the young officers pitied him and fought shy of him, calling him “sir” and treating him with wary respect. In the Volunteer Cavalry he held no official rank; Barrow was commandant and the two officers who had escaped with him from Salone, Thompson and Swanson, acted as subalterns; he was entitled to no particular respect from even the youngest of them. Indeed, he supposed wryly, they had all—including Barrow, until their brief talk just now had made his feelings clear—expected him to be filled with a lust for blood, to seek vengeance as Neill had sought it. Whereas, in fact … he sighed, glancing at Birch.

  “They did open fire on us, sir, as George Stewart told you,” the young cavalry officer said defensively, careful to avoid his eye. “That was why we killed them.”

  “I’m sure that Captain Barrow will accept your explanation,” Alex returned crisply. “Let’s identify their regiments, shall we, in case a report is required, and then we’ll get back to the train. It will be dark very soon.”

  Birch nodded. He turned over one of the bodies with his spurred boot, revealing a medal pinned to the dead sepoy’s white undress coatee. “My God!” he exclaimed, sounding shocked. “This fellow fought at Chilianwala and Goojerat. He was in the 56th—one of the regiments that mutinied here. Don’t tell me that you’d have spared him, sir?” He examined the buttons of the others. “They were all of the same regiment, all of the 56th.” He dropped to one knee, removed the medal from the bloodstained jacket, and straightened up, the silver token of valour lying on the palm of his hand. “He won this and still betrayed his salt! Damn it, sir, I’m not sorry I killed him—after all, the punishment for mutiny is death, is it not?”

  “It is,” Alex agreed. “But now that we have retaken Cawnpore, our first and most essential task is to restore law and order. We have to substitute British justice, which is just, for the Nana’s corrupt administration, don’t you see? Mutineers and murderers will be punished—the general made no bones about that, did he? They’ll be hanged or blown from cannon if their crimes warrant it, but each man is entitled to a fair trial, with his guilt proven against him.”

  “Yes, I understand that, sir, but I …” Birch hesitated, still not entirely convinced.

  “Don’t worry, the fellow you took alive won’t escape, Birch.” Alex laid a hand on his shoulder. “He was of the 17th and I have good reason for making certain that he does not. He’ll be tried and his trial will serve as a warning to others, civilians as well as sepoys, who may now be wavering in their allegiance.”

  “You think it will influence them?”

  Alex nodded. “Yes, I do. The ordina
ry people of Cawnpore welcomed us back. You saw that for yourself when we marched in. But hundreds of them fled from the city, innocent and guilty, because they feared that we might follow our victory with looting and indiscriminate slaughter. They’ve suffered that already from the Nana’s troops, who plundered them unmercifully. When they learn that we have taken no more than just reprisals, they will return—the innocent will, at all events. We need their help and loyalty if we’re to hold on here and bring relief to Lucknow—theirs and that of the local rajahs and peasantry. We are far too small a force to do battle with the entire population between here and Lucknow. In any case, our quarrel is not with the zamindars and villagers; it’s with the Nana and the sepoys he has subverted to his cause. We cannot allow what happened to the garrison here to be repeated in Lucknow … at all costs, it must be prevented.”

  “Well said, Alex!” Lousada Barrow’s deep voice approved from the door of the hut. He came inside, mopping his face, which was damp with sweat. “All right, Graham, my boy,” he said to Birch. “You did what you considered necessary and I’m not going to put you on the carpet for it. But remember, it’s one thing to kill your enemy in battle and quite another to take away his life when he’s ready to surrender. Besides, prisoners often provide useful information.”