Massacre at Cawnpore Read online

  “Number Six,” his companion told him. “We’ve made that into quite a strong position, thanks to the ingenuity of the railway engineers. They’re still working on Five.”

  “How many blocks are there?”

  John Moore swore loudly and luridly. “There are nine of the infernal things altogether, but Numbers Eight and Nine can be disregarded—their walls are barely started. The rest are empty shells, most of them lacking floors but, as I’m sure you’ll agree, they do constitute a very serious threat to all our defensive position on this side—particularly Number Four! His finger stabbed angrily in the direction of the nearest of the unoccupied buildings. “They stand forty feet high, Alex, and the roofs are pucca tiling. True they’re flat but it only wants a few riflemen on top of them or even in the buildings themselves and we’ll be pinned down too effectively for comfort. Besides, they could bring the well under fire …” He went into details and Alex, following these with frowning concentration, was forced to the conclusion that he had not exaggerated the danger.

  “Can we go across?” he asked. “I’d like to take a closer look at Number Four.”

  “I see no reason why not. The Pandies are still too busy burning and looting to worry about us.” They both turned to look at the smoke cloud which hung, like a pall, over the city and Moore added, with feeling, “God, Alex, it’s an appalling thought, is it not, that those devils will only have to walk into the Magazine to help themselves to all the guns they can possibly require to pound this place into extinction? And ourselves and our women and children with it. That’s what I find almost impossible to stomach … the fact that the women and children, our wives, our children, are in this place too.” He bit back a sigh. “Without them, we might have stood a chance of fighting our way to Allahabad or Lucknow but with them …” he left the sentence uncompleted and Alex, sharing his bitterness and despair, could find no comfort to offer.

  They left the entrenchment and crossed the intervening space to the fourth of the partly constructed barrack blocks, Moore pausing to point out the two guns mounted almost facing it, beyond which there was a strongly entrenched rifle pit, manned by two sentries of the Madras Fusiliers. A tall, dark haired man in a shirt and white cavalry overalls stood on the parapet in front of the sentries, a spy-glass to his eye.

  “Eddie Vibart,” Moore supplied, his habitual cheerfulness returning. “Of the Light Cavalry, Alex. He’s the best of fellows and one very much after my own heart. He’s called that post of his the Redan and he had a party of volunteers working all yesterday and part of last night to build a trou de loup, in the French style, to his left. You can’t see it from here because he’s had it covered in, but he says it will stop a cavalry charge.” He grinned. “Let us hope he’s right! Well, this is Number Four. In my humble opinion, it’s asking for trouble to leave it as it is—we ought either to occupy and defend it or blow it up.”

  Alex needed only the briefest of inspections to agree wholeheartedly with this assessment.

  “It would not take a lot of explosive to bring the front down, John,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe it would even require the services of the engineers—we could lay the charges ourselves in less than an hour.”

  “If we had permission,” Moore pointed out. “Which we have not.” He turned away with a resigned shrug. “Well, perhaps now that the matter has been brought to General Wheeler’s attention, something will be done about it—my previous approaches on the subject were made, as I told you, to the station commander. And he, evidently sharing Wheeler’s belief that the only attacks we should have to ward off would be from the city riff-raff, wasn’t anxious to destroy Company property. I’d like to see all the blocks we can’t occupy laid flat and be damned to whose property they are! For God’s sake, it scarcely matters now, does it? Half the city’s gone up in flames already and the New Cantonment, of which everyone was so proud, is going up now by the look of it.”

  They re-entered the entrenchment and Moore gestured to the smoke clouds rising sluggishly skywards from the direction of the river. “Everything we owned was in Number 25 The Mall, Alex,” he said bleakly. “We had a garden, with English roses blooming in it and a summer house, under a magnificent old banyan tree, which Caroline designed for the children to play and picnic in. We knew happiness there, perfect and complete. But neither of us ever dreamed that it would last for so short a time—or end like this.”

  The kind of happiness which he had known with Emmy, Alex thought, remembering Adjodhabad and the rambling, white-painted bungalow they had shared during his brief reign as district commissioner. That house, too, was now a blackened, burnt-out skeleton; the garden Emmy had loved and watched over probably, by this time, indistinguishable from the jungle that hemmed it in from which it had been wrested. He banished the thought from his mind, aware that to look back was to weaken and John Moore, evidently reacting as he had, said with an abrupt change of tone, “Have you been detailed to a sector, Alex?”

  Alex nodded, recovering himself. “Yes—on the north-east face. Adjoining the Oudh Battery, I believe.”

  “Young St George Ashe’s—or what’s left of it. Two brass nine-pounders and a couple of European sergeants,” Moore supplied. “We’ll head across there now, if you like. There isn’t much more to show you, apart from a few more buildings we could well have done without. One stands due north of us, on the far side of the road from the city—can you see it?”

  “Yes, I see it.” Following the direction his companion had indicated, Alex studied the low, flat-roofed building with narrowed eyes. “What is it, pray? More Company property?”

  “A riding school, my dear fellow, for the European cavalry we haven’t got! Distance from our perimeter eleven hundred and fifty yards—an ideal site for a battery of eighteen- or twenty-four-pounders, don’t you agree?” Moore laughed mirthlessly. “But, of course, no one anticipated that the Magazine would fall into the hands of the rebels. As the general explained this morning, he ordered it to be blown up. Young Ashe went to carry out that order at first light the day before yesterday, soon after the Light Cavalry mutinied and went on the rampage. He—”

  “The day before yesterday!” Alex exclaimed. “I understood—”

  “Hear me out, Alex,” Moore put in. There was an angry glint in his blue eyes but his voice was carefully expressionless as he went on, “Ashe galloped his two guns to the Nawabgunge and unlimbered in front of the main gate of the Magazine. The sepoys of the First Native Infantry had joined the cavalry by that time, but the two other regiments—still in their Lines—were wavering, and the Magazine guard found by the 53rd were ready to admit Ashe, although they knew what he’d come to do.”

  “Then what went wrong, for God’s sake?” Alex asked. “Did his gunners refuse their orders?”

  Moore shook his head. “No, not then—their conduct was exemplary. The 56th were observed to be massing on their parade ground—their officers said afterwards that they were coming to our support in the entrenchment. But someone here panicked— I don’t know for certain who it was—and Ashe was recalled, ordered to bring his guns round to the south of the entrenchment and open fire on the 56th. His, you understand, were our only mobile guns. The result was, of course, quite disastrous. With the exception of the native officers and a few loyal sepoys, the whole regiment marched off to join the mutineers and the 53rd did the same. The unfortunate Ashburner, who was sent out with Ashe’s half battery a few hours later to blow up the powder in the Magazine, lost his guns and was cut to pieces when he attempted to do so. His sergeant was badly wounded but managed to get back with Conductor Reilly. All the native gunners deserted them.”

  His words struck chill to Alex’s heart. Why, he wondered, why in heaven’s name had two lone Englishmen been sent, with native gunners—however exemplary their conduct might have seemed up till then—on so vital and dangerous a mission? Had the lesson still not been learned, even now? John Moore answered his unspoken question with a cynical, “Ashburner volu
nteered, poor devil, and so did his gunners. They were the same men who had obeyed the order to fire on the 56th.” He sighed. “Mowbray Thomson and Henry Delafosse offered to go with a party of unattached officers, in an eleventh hour attempt to reach the Magazine, but the general wouldn’t hear of it, so … that’s the situation, Alex my friend. And the reason why the continued presence of those barrack blocks and that infernal riding school is a constant source of anxiety to me. I’ve talked freely—too freely, perhaps—but I confess it’s been a relief to get some of my anxieties off my chest. And at least you know what the situation is … I nearly said how bad it is, but that wouldn’t do, would it?”

  Alex forced a smile. “No, I don’t think it would. But thank you for telling me, John. I’m grateful.”

  “And sorry that you didn’t return to Lucknow, when the chance was there?” John Moore suggested shrewdly.

  Conscious of a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach, Alex nodded. His fear was for Emmy, rather than for himself, for Emmy and the little son he had wanted so much. But for them … his mouth tightened. “They will not have an easy time in Lucknow,” he pointed out. “But they’ll fight and so shall we. How did the general put it? Relying on our own resources and our resources include some pretty useful fighting men, if I’m any judge.”

  “They do,” Moore agreed. He gestured to their left. “Over there, last but by no means least of our resources, is the only natural shade we possess—an attempt at a garden but alas, also left uncompleted. It was Lady Wheeler’s idea, I believe. She thought it would be a playground for the children and—” his voice sharpened, in sudden alarm. “My God, Alex, there are some children there now, with their mothers, do you see? I think we ought to warn them to go back to the hospital and take cover, just in case. I can see no sign of an attack but it could come without much warning and if those children are caught there, I shudder to think what might happen.”

  He broke into a run and Alex followed him, sharing his concern. Smoke and flames still billowed up from the city and the Cantonment area, and the flat plain which separated the wall of the entrenchment from the road was devoid of life, suggesting that the Nana’s army was still occupied in arson and looting but … they had a regiment of cavalry. A mounted attack could be launched swiftly and with a minimum of warning; guns could be brought up, under cover of the trees. He experienced a moment of blind panic, imagining that he could see Emmy, with the child in her arms, strolling slowly along beside the low hedge by which the small, arid garden was surrounded. Then, as he drew nearer, he realised that he was mistaken—the woman with the baby wasn’t Emmy, she had two other toddlers clinging to her skirts. Besides she was older, coarser-featured and she did not move with Emmy’s light, natural grace.

  “We’d best not alarm them, John,” he cautioned and they slowed their pace to a walk. The women watched their approach apprehensively, guessing what it portended, and they did not argue when John Moore delivered his warning, phrasing it as gently as he could.

  “We just came out for a breath of air, sir,” a handsome dark-haired girl explained. “The kiddies were fractious, cooped up in that barrack room all night long, so we thought it might do them good if they could stretch their legs for a while. And they told us the sepoys had gone.” She sighed, reaching for the hand of a small, pale boy in a grubby white sailor suit. “Haven’t they gone, sir, after all?”

  Moore shook his head. “They appear to have changed their minds, unhappily. But don’t worry, Mrs Widdowson—keep under cover, with the children. We’ll drive them off, if they try to attack us.” He smiled reassuringly from one to another, addressing several of them by name. “They’re all 32nd families,” he told Alex, lowering his voice as the women started to move away. “The ones I’m responsible for, heaven help them! I wish we could have moved them to Lucknow with their husbands. Poor souls, it’s no wonder the children are fractious—their quarters are appallingly hot and overcrowded. I suppose we might have left them to play for a little longer, so that—”

  “I don’t think we could,” Alex interrupted. He pointed, his throat suddenly constricted. “Our time’s run out, John. They’re coming—cavalry and what looks like infantry, raising the dust on the Canal Road, do you see?”

  Moore tensed. “Yes, I believe you’re right. Damn their insolence, their drums and fifes are playing, aren’t they? Mutineers, marching to make war on us to the tune of “The British Grenadiers” … well, that’s irony if you like! But I suppose we’d better get to our posts.”

  The alarm bugle sounded, shrill and clear, as they sprinted for the perimeter wall. They had scarcely reached it when the dry, sandy plain which lay between the entrenchment and the roads by which it was encircled—deserted a few moments before—was alive with mounted men in the French grey and silver of the Native Light Cavalry. Other horsemen, in the Nana’s uniform, and two Horse Artillery teams, smartly handled, appeared from the direction of the Nawabgunge to join them. The sunlight glinted on lance-tips and drawn sabres, as they manoeuvred arrogantly in front of the watching British and, led by their band, the leading companies of a long column of infantry emerged, a solid wedge of scarlet and white, from beneath the clouds of dust kicked up by their marching feet.

  There was a dull boom, as a cannon within the entrenchment woke to life and then, heralded by a puff of white smoke rising above the feathery tops of the neem trees edging the Canal Road, a round-shot hurtled across the garden where the children had been at play, to tear a gaping hole through the half-grown hedge which bordered it. Bounding on, it scattered the team of a nine-pounder grouped about their gun on the north-east face of the entrenchment, one of whom fell forward on to his face and did not rise again.

  The siege of Cawnpore, Alex thought grimly, had begun.

  CHAPTER TWO

  OTHER SHOTS FOLLOWED the first in increasingly rapid succession, although at fairly long range, all but a few of which fell short of their target.

  Alex, having ascertained that the section of trench for which he was responsible was fully manned, took up a position to the left of the line of riflemen, a field telescope to his eye. The enemy fire was becoming more accurate now and he saw, to his dismay, that the mutineers had contrived to mount two guns in the cavalry riding school, as John Moore had feared they would … both twenty-four-pounders. They were being well served and they quickly found the range, sending a succession of round-shot to thud against the flat-roofed building in which General Wheeler’s recent conference had been held. He cursed under his breath, realising that both guns must have been brought up under cover of darkness the previous night, apparently unseen and unheard by anyone within the British entrenchment.

  It had, of course, been madness to leave any buildings standing within gunshot range of the defences, he thought wrathfully, understanding Moore’s bitter outburst. It was true that, in Lucknow, Sir Henry Lawrence had refused to destroy the mosques and temples which, in places, overlooked the Residency defences, on the grounds that they were holy … but General Wheeler had no such excuse. He must know that nine-pounder guns, however skilfully trained and worked, could do no appreciable damage to the riding school or to the unfinished barrack blocks which John Moore—and no doubt a number of other experienced officers— had urged him to demolish before an attack could be launched.

  The barrack blocks might still be rendered harmless; they would require explosive charges to bring them down but little skill, surely to place the charges in position … a few men should be able to manage it, without a great deal of risk. Devil take it, if the rebels could use darkness and stealth as a cloak for their activities, that was a game both sides could play. With even half a dozen officers of John Moore’s calibre, they … a shell screeched overhead, its fuse hissing, to burst with devastating effect amongst the cluster of officers’ tents sixty yards behind him.

  Alex swore, seeing out of the corner of his eye the tongues of flame which licked greedily at the tautly stretched canvas of one that might have been his
own. He had brought only a bedding roll and a change of linen with him from Lucknow, in addition to his uniform, anticipating an immediate return, so he did not stand to lose much but … he turned, closing his glass. Obviously there would be no water to spare, to extinguish the flames and, in consequence, some of the tents’ owners would lose everything they possessed, unless the fire party worked fast.

  He watched six men and a sergeant go in, accompanied by a few reluctant native servants but they had scarcely begun to haul down the blazing tents when two more shells, aimed with alarming accuracy, sent them diving for cover. One man, a servant by his garb, emitted a high-pitched scream of agony and rolled over in the dust, clutching his shattered leg.

  After less than an hour’s bombardment, the Cawnpore garrison had suffered its second casualty. And this poor devil would not be the last, Alex reflected with bitterness, as the man’s screams were drowned by the thunder of yet another heavy calibre gun, coming now from a new direction, to the west of the entrenchment. More round-shot struck the brickwork of the hospital building, shattering windows and bringing down a shower of beams and plaster, and a fresh salvo of shells whined high above his head, to find their mark amidst the smouldering tents. The rebels had established a battery of eighteen- or twenty-four pounder guns behind the Native Cavalry Lines, his mind registered, and a mortar battery in or near the garrison church in the New Cantonment, due north of where he was standing. He ventured a glance over the top of the parapet, searching for it with his telescope. The mortar battery was well screened by trees and … he watched the hissing trail of the next shell. The battery was situated behind the church and closer, much closer than he had expected—no wonder they were so often on target. The range could not be much more than eight hundred yards.…

  “We trained them bastards too well, sir,” a grey-haired corporal of the Queen’s 84th observed wryly, as Alex ducked down beside him. He fingered his Enfield and swore, as a round-shot fell short and buried itself in the shallow ditch in front of the perimeter wall, sending mud and dust into both their faces in a choking shower. “If it had’ve been us out there, though, we’d have been at ’em with the bayonet by this time. I just wish them bloody Pandies would try it—but they’ve no guts, have they, sir?” He spat out dust. “I reckon they’ll just carry on firing their guns at us until they’ve laid this place flat and killed or wounded all the fighting men. They aren’t going to risk their perishing necks in no bayonet charge! It was always us that had to lead ’em against the Sikhs and we could drive the bastards out now, if the general would just give us the word.”