Another Account.
“I was on a hill with the medical staff during the night of the assault of Badajos. For two hours we watched the fire, the bursting of shells and hand-grenades. Then the wounded began to arrive, and we were busy.
“Lord Wellington rode up with his staff, and soon after a staff-officer came up at a gallop, shouting, ‘Where is Lord Wellington?’
“‘There, sir.’
“‘My lord, I am come from the breaches. The troops after repeated attempts, have failed to enter them. So many officers have fallen that the men, dispersed in the ditch, are without leaders. If your lordship does not at once send a strong reinforcement they must abandon the enterprise. Colonel McLeod, of the 43rd, has been killed in the breach.’
“A light was called for and instantly brought, and Lord Wellington noted the report with a steady hand. His face was pale and expressed great anxiety. In his manner and language he preserved perfect coolness and self-possession. General Hay’s brigade was ordered to advance to the breaches.
“You may think that it was nervous work hearing this.
“Our General had wisely planned two extreme attacks by escalade on the castle by the Third Division and on the south side of the town by the Fifth Division, and on Fort Pardoleros by the Portuguese. It was known that Soult was within a few leagues. Marmont had pushed his advanced Dragoons as far as the bridge of boats at Villa Velha; the river Guadiana was in our rear.
“It was a crisis, and we wondered what thoughts were passing through the mind of our gallant chief as he sat motionless on his horse.
“Presently another staff-officer galloped up, out of breath.
“‘General Picton—has—got possession of—the castle, sir.’
“‘Who brings that intelligence?’ exclaimed Lord Wellington.
“The officer saluted and gave his name.
“‘Are you certain, sir—are you positively certain?’
“‘I entered the castle with the troops. I have only just left it. General Picton in possession. He sent me.’
“‘Picton in possession! With how many men?’
“‘His division.’
“It is impossible to describe to you the change this news produced in the feelings of all around. A great sigh of relief could almost be heard.
“‘Return, sir, and desire General Picton to maintain his position at all hazards.’
“Having dispatched this messenger, Lord Wellington directed a second officer to proceed to the castle to repeat his orders to General Picton.
“Next morning at dawn I set out to visit the breaches. I was just thinking of two friends, Major Singer and Captain Cholwick, of the Royal Fusiliers, both of whom had been with me two evenings before. I was wondering how they had fared in the assault when I met some Fusiliers and asked for Major Singer.
“‘We are throwing the last shovels of earth upon his grave, sir.’
“‘Is Captain Cholwick safe?’ I inquired.
“‘In the act of climbing over that palisade he was wounded, fell into the water, and we have seen nothing of him since.’
“That did not make me disposed to be very cheerful.
“I found the great breach covered with dead from its base to its summit. Many were stripped. Amongst them I recognized the faces of many well known to me. In climbing up the breach my feet receded at every step in the débris, so as to make my progress slow and difficult. Behind the chevaux-de-frise a broad and deep trench had been cut, into which our men must have been precipitated had they succeeded in surmounting this huge barrier. Above was a battery of 12-pounders completely enfilading the great and the small breach, near to each other. No wonder we failed there to enter.
“I next visited the castle, at the bottom of whose walls, nearly 40 feet high, were lying shattered ladders, broken muskets, exploded shells, and the dead bodies of many of our brave men. Amongst the dead I recognized the body of the gallant Major Ridge, of the 5th Regiment, lying near the gate that leads to the town, in forcing which he had fallen, riddled with balls.
“I met a soldier of the Connaught Rangers, overpowered by excitement and brandy. The fellow looked at me suspiciously, and appeared disposed to dispute my passage. He held his loaded musket at half present, and I was prepared to close with him; but fortunately flattery succeeded. He allowed me to pass.
“Soon after entering the town a girl about nine years of age implored my protection, ‘por el amor de Dios,’ for her mother.
“A number of soldiers of a distinguished regiment were in the house, armed, and under the influence of every evil passion. Alas! I was powerless. I met a man of the 88th dragging a peasant by the neck, with the intention of putting him to death—so he declared—in atonement for his not having any money in his pockets! I appealed to the gallantry of his corps, and saved the life of his victim.”
The town had now become a scene of plunder and devastation. Our soldiers and our women, in a state of intoxication, had lost all control over themselves. These, together with numbers of Spaniards and Portuguese, who had come into the city in search of plunder, filled every street. Many were dispossessed of their booty by others, and these interchanges of plunder in many cases were not effected without bloodshed. Our soldiers had taken possession of the shops, stationed themselves behind the counters, and were selling the goods contained in them. These were, again, displaced by more numerous parties, who became shopkeepers in their turn, and thus continual scuffling and bloodshed was going on.
In addition to the incessant firing through the keyholes of the front doors of houses as the readiest way of forcing the locks, a desultory and wanton discharge of musketry was kept up in the streets, placing all who passed literally between cross-fires. Many of our own people were thus killed or wounded by their own comrades.
An attempt was made next day to collect our soldiers. The troops, however, that were sent into the town for that purpose joined in the work of plunder.
We may feel shocked at the excesses which our soldiers committed after the storming of such towns as Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajos. Folk sitting by their quiet firesides may wonder how sane men can be so dead to the higher and better feelings of humanity; but when the fever of war is followed by the poison of drink, it is no wonder if the minds of rude men are thrown off their balance. War is a most awful thing to witness, and many officers have declared to the writer that, had they known what war meant in all its dreadful reality, they would not have been so eager in their youth to join the army. All the more reason is there that every youth in our islands should be compelled by law to learn the use of the rifle, that when the time comes—as come it will—when an invader shall set foot upon our shore, we may not be helpless and unarmed. Perhaps it is necessary that we should sometimes hear the horrid truth about war; we may thus be stimulated to use a little self-denial for our country’s security, when we realize that life is not made up of games and money-making, and when we can see what our fatherland would be to us, devastated by a savage enemy, with farms and barns blazing, women and children starved to death, towns sacked and plundered, and the honour of old England trodden beneath the foot of a foreign invader. The story of these sieges has many lessons—military, ethical, and economic. Let us at least learn one—the duty that is incumbent upon all of us, men and boys, to defend mother and wife and child.
[CHAPTER VI]
A PRISONER IN ST. SEBASTIAN (1813)
The coup de grâce—The hospital—A cruel order—An attempt at escape—Removed to the castle—The English at the breach—Many are wounded—French ladies sleep in the open—A vertical fire—English gunners shoot too well—A good sabre lightly won.
Colonel Harvey Jones, R.E., has left us an interesting account of the siege of St. Sebastian by the British forces. The town, situated close to the French frontier, just south of the Pyrenees and by the sea, contains 10,000 inhabitants, and is built on a low peninsula running north and south. The defences of the western side are washed by the sea, those on the eastern side by the river Urumea, which at high-water covers 4 feet of the masonry of the scarp. The first assault in July failed. Colonel Jones was wounded and taken prisoner.
His diary begins: “After witnessing the unsuccessful attempts of Lieutenant Campbell, 9th Regiment, and his gallant little band to force their way on to the ramparts, and their retreat from the breach, my attention was soon aroused by a cry from the soldier who was lying disabled next to me:
“‘Oh, they are murdering us all!’
“Looking up, I perceived a number of French Grenadiers, under a heavy fire of grape, sword in hand, stepping over the dead and stabbing the wounded. My companion was treated in the same manner. The sword, plucked from his body and reeking with his blood, was raised to give me the coup de grâce, when, fortunately, the uplifted arm was arrested by a smart little man—a sergeant—who cried out:
“‘Oh, mon Colonel, êtes-vous blessé?’ and he ordered some men to remove me.”
They raised the Colonel in their arms and carried him up the breach on to the ramparts. Here they were stopped by a Captain of the Grenadiers, who asked some questions, then kissed him, and desired the party to proceed to the hospital.
They met the Governor and his staff on the way, who asked if the Colonel was badly wounded, and directed that proper care should be taken of him.
After descending from the rampart into the town, as they were going along the street leading to the hospital, they were accosted by an officer who had evidently taken his “drop.” He demanded the Englishman’s sword, which was still hanging by his side.
The reply came: “You have the power to take it, but certainly have no right to do so, as I have not been made a prisoner by you.”
This seemed to enrage him, and with great violence of manner and gesture he unbuckled the belt and carried away the sword.
Upon reaching the hospital, the Surgeon-Major was very kind in his manner. After he had enlarged the wounds, according to the French system, and then dressed them, the Colonel was carried across the street and put into a bed in one of the wards of the great hospital, which a soldier was ordered to vacate for his use. This man returned later in the day for his pipe and tobacco, which he had left under the pillow.
In the course of the morning they were visited by the Governor, who made inquiries as to their wounds, and whether they had been plundered of anything; for a great number of English soldiers had been taken, and were lodged in the town prison. The only persons permitted to visit them were some staff-officers, a few Spanish ladies, and a Spanish barber. From the former the Colonel was made acquainted with all that passed in the British lines—at least, as far as the French could conjecture. Although boats arrived nightly from Bayonne, the other side of the frontier, bringing shells, medicine, charpie, or lint, engineers, etc., the garrison remained in great ignorance of the movements of the two armies. Soult kept sending word that he would soon come and raise the siege; thus, by promises of immediate relief, he kept up the spirits of the garrison. He also rewarded the gallantry of particular defenders during the assault and in the sorties by promotion, or by sending them the decoration of the Legion of Honour. In the French Army there seemed to have been a system of reward for good and gallant conduct by promotion into the Grenadiers or Voltigeurs, which had an excellent effect. A French soldier was extremely proud of his green, yellow, or red epaulettes. They were badges of distinguished conduct and only those who had shown great gallantry in action were admitted into their ranks. What with the success attendant upon the sorties and the numerous decorations which had been distributed among the officers and privates, such a spirit of daring had been created that the idea of a surrender was scouted by all.
After the stones had been extracted which had been blown into his leg and thighs by the bursting of shells and grenades, the Colonel was enabled to move about and get into the gallery running round the courtyard of the hospital, and into which all the doors and windows of the rooms respectively opened. It was the only place where they were allowed to breathe the fresh air.
One day, whilst sitting in the gallery, he observed a table placed in the balcony below him, on the other side of the courtyard. Soon he saw an unfortunate French gunner laid upon the table. They amputated both his arms, his hands having been blown off by an accident in one of the batteries. In the course of the morning, whilst conversing with the surgeon who had performed the operation, he told the Colonel that he had acted contrary to his instructions, which were never to amputate, but to cure if possible. When he was asked for the reason of such an inhuman order having been issued, his reply was that the Emperor Napoleon did not wish numbers of mutilated men to be sent back to France, as it would make a bad impression upon the people.
“You must be a bold man to act in opposition to this order.”
He replied: “Affairs are beginning to change, and, moreover, it is now necessary that the soldiers should know they will be taken proper care of in the event of being wounded, and not left to die like dogs. We send as many as we can at night to Bayonne by the boats; thus we clear out the hospitals a little.”
In conversations with many of the officers they detailed acts committed by their soldiers in Spain so revolting to human nature that one refuses to commit them to paper. A chef de bataillon once asked him how the English managed with their soldiers when they wanted them to advance and attack an enemy.
The reply was simply, “Forward!”
“Ah! that way will not do with us. We are obliged to excite our men with spirits, or to work upon their feelings by some animating address; and very often, when I have fancied I had brought them up to the fighting pitch, some old hand would make a remark which in an instant spoilt all I had said, and I had to begin my speech all over again.”
The Colonel asked how they managed to provision their men when they went out on expeditions that lasted ten or twenty days.
The answer was: “Our biscuits are made with a hole in the centre. Each biscuit is the ration for a day. Sometimes twenty are delivered to each soldier, who is given to understand that he has no further claim on the commisariat for those days.”
“But it is impossible for the soldier to carry twenty.”
“We know that very well, but he has no claim; and how he lives in the meanwhile we do not ask. Perhaps he lives on the country.” In other words, he steals!
In the hospital he was attended by a Spanish barber. As he could speak Spanish fluently, they had a good deal of talk. The barber used to tell all he heard and saw of what was passing both inside and outside the fortress. When he learnt that the Colonel was an engineer, he offered to bring him a plan of all the underground drains and of the aqueduct.
The attendant, although a good-natured man, kept a sharp eye on the barber; so it was a difficult matter for him to give anything without being detected.
At last, one morning when preparing to shave him, he succeeded in shoving a plan under the bedclothes. The Colonel seized the earliest opportunity of examining it, and from the knowledge he had before acquired of the place he soon mastered the directions of the drains, etc. From that moment his whole attention was fixed on the means of making his escape.
He knew that the hospital was situated in the principal street, the ends of which terminated upon the fortifications bounding the harbour. If once he could gain the street he had only to turn to the right or left to gain the ramparts, and so make his escape from the town in the best manner he could.
One evening just at dusk, when the medical men took leave of them for the night, one of them left his cocked hat on the bed. As soon as the Colonel noticed this he put it on his head, hurried downstairs, and made direct for the great door; but he found it so completely blocked up by the guard that, unless by pushing them aside, it was not possible to pass undiscovered. He therefore retreated upstairs in despair, and threw the hat down on the bed. Scarcely had he done so when in rushed the doctor, asking for his chapeau.
They were more than once visited by the crews of the boats which arrived nightly from France. The sight of the prisoners seemed to afford the Frenchmen great gratification, but there was nothing in their manner which could in any way offend.
Very unexpectedly one evening the Governor’s aide-de-camp came to the prison and told the officers to prepare immediately to go to France.
A Portuguese Captain, one of the party of prisoners, was dreadfully in fear of being sent there, and with great warmth of manner told the aide-de-camp that Lord Wellington would soon be in possession of the place, and if the prisoners were not forthcoming he would hold the Governor answerable in person.
It is supposed that the aide went and reported this conversation to the Governor, as he did not return for some time, and then told them it was too late to embark that night, as the boats had sailed. They were never afterwards threatened to be sent away.
About the middle of August the garrison began to flatter themselves that the siege was turned into a regular blockade, and that they would be relieved by the successes of Marshal Soult. Their spirits ran high, their hopes were elated.
The 15th of August, the birthday of Napoleon, was observed as a day of rejoicing among the garrison, and at nightfall the letter “N” of a very large size was brilliantly lighted up on the face of the donjon.
When the operations of the second siege began a Captain who visited the Colonel kept him au fait of all that was going on. One day a Spanish Captain who had sided with the French came into the hospital—it was on the evening of the assault. He was wringing his hands, tearing his hair, and swearing he had heard the shrieks of his wife and daughters, and had seen his house in flames. The French officers took the poor man’s outcries with great merriment, and the Spaniard must have bitterly regretted the day when he deserted the English. The French officers did not fail to taunt him with having done so, and ridiculed his frantic actions.
In the course of the next day Colonel Jones was asked if he would like to speak with a corporal of sappers who had been made prisoner during the sortie.
To his surprise, a fine, tall youngster, a stranger to him, walked into the ward, dressed in a red jacket. Now, blue was the colour when the Colonel was taken prisoner.
“When did you join the army, corporal?” he asked.
“Yesterday morning, Colonel. I was put on duty in the trenches last night, and in a few minutes I was brought into the town by the enemy.”
“I could not help laughing, though he wore a rueful expression,” says the Colonel.
One morning a Captain of artillery, whom he had never before seen, came into the ward and commenced conversing about the siege. He observed that the whole second parallel of the British trenches was one entire battery, and if there were as many guns as there were embrasures, he said, “we shall be joliment fouettés.”
The Colonel’s reply was: “Most assuredly you will. Depend upon it, there are as many guns as embrasures. It is not our fashion to make batteries and stick logs of wood into the embrasures in the hope of frightening the enemy.”
He made a grimace, and with a shrug of the shoulders left the ward.
Next morning the surgeon came, as usual, to dress the wounds. This was about half-past seven. All was still, and he joyously exclaimed, as he entered:
“So, gentlemen, we have another day’s reprieve!”
In about half an hour afterwards, whilst Colonel Jones was under his hands, the first salvo from the breaching batteries was fired. Several shot rattled through the hospital and disturbed the tranquillity of the inmates. The instrument dropped from the surgeon’s hands, and he exclaimed, “Le jeu sera bientôt fini!” Then very composedly the good doctor went on with his work.
The opening of the batteries made a great stir amongst all hands. A hint was given the prisoners to prepare to be removed into the castle. A private hint was given to the Colonel to be sage on the way up, as the Captain of the escort was méchant, and that it would be better to be quiet and orderly.
This, perhaps, was intended to deter any of them from attempting to escape. The wounded prisoners were moved in one body up the face of the hill to the entrance of the castle. Under the Mirador battery they were exposed to a sharp musketry fire. Some of the party were wounded, the Portuguese Captain severely.
A building on the sea-side, which had been constructed for a powder magazine, was now converted into their hospital, the interior being fitted up with wooden beds. In the area surrounding the building were placed the unwounded prisoners. As the number of wounded from the ramparts increased, the hospital filled rapidly, and to prevent the fire from the English batteries being directed upon them some of the prisoners were desired to hoist a black flag on the roof. While they were doing so the Colonel told the French officer that it was labour in vain, as the British had learnt that this building was their great depot for powder, and so hoisting a flag would be regarded as a ruse to preserve their ammunition. Little benefit did they get from the ensign. After the capture of the island Santa Clara, hardly could anyone move about that part of the castle opposite to the island without the risk of being hit. Grape and shrapnel swept the whole of the face, and it was only at night that fresh water could be fetched from the tank.
The garrison had a fixed idea that the assault would take place at night, so each morning they rose with happy faces—another twenty-four hours’ reprieve!
On the 31st of August, when the first rattle of musketry was heard in the castle, an inquiring look pervaded each countenance; but no one spoke. As the firing continued and the rattle grew and grew, little doubt remained as to the cause. Every soldier seized his musket and hurried with haste to his post. The Colonel was then ordered not to speak or hold converse with the unwounded prisoners outside. One French officer asked him if he thought that the English prisoners would remain quiet if an assault of the breach should take place, adding, “If they were to make any attempt they would all be shot.”
Colonel Jones replied: “Do not fancy you have a flock of sheep penned within these walls. Happen what may, shoot us or not, you will be required to give a satisfactory account of us when the castle is taken.”
From the commencement of the assault until the rush into the castle upon the capture of the town, not the slightest information could they obtain as to the state of affairs at the breach. The period that intervened was to the prisoners one of the most anxious and painful suspense. At last the tale was told by the awful spectacle of the interior of the hospital.
In an instant the ward was crowded with the maimed and wounded. The amputation-table was in full play, and until nearly daylight the following morning the surgeons were unceasingly at work.
To have such a scene passing at the foot of one’s bed was painful enough. Added to this the agonizing shrieks and groans and the appearance of the sappers and Grenadiers who had been blown up by the explosion in the breach, their uniforms nearly burnt off, and their skins blackened and scorched by gunpowder—all this was truly appalling. The appearance of these men resembled anything but human beings. Death soon put an end to their sufferings, and relieved all from these most distressing sights. Of all wounds, whether of fractured limbs or otherwise, those caused by burns from gunpowder seemed to produce the most excruciating pain.
In the rear of the donjon was a small building, in which was stored much gunpowder. Shells were falling fast and thick around it, so a detachment of soldiers was sent to withdraw the ammunition. This dangerous service they were performing in a most gallant manner, and had nearly completed their work, when some shells fell into the building, exploded the barrels that remained, and blew the building, with some of the soldiers, into the air, not leaving a vestige to show that such an edifice had stood there.
There were three French ladies in the garrison. They were on their way to France when the investment took place. These ladies were permitted to enter the hospital, and were allowed a small space at one end of the wooden bedsteads. There they were for several days and nights. The only water they could obtain to wash in was sea-water. As the number of the wounded increased, some of the officers who were lying upon the floor were loud in their complaints that madame and her daughters were occupying the space which properly belonged to them. They succeeded in getting the ladies turned out, to find shelter from shot and shell where best they could!
The day the castle capitulated Colonel Jones went in search of his fair companions, and found them, nearly smoke-dried, under a small projecting rock.
One of the young ladies was extremely pretty. Shortly after the siege she was married to the English Commissary appointed to attend upon the garrison until sent to England. The change from the hospital to the naked rock relieved them from witnessing many a painful scene, as the amputating-table was placed near their end of the ward.
After the capture of the town a heavy bombardment of the castle took place, by salvos of shells from more than sixty pieces of artillery. There were only a few seconds between the noise made by the discharge of the mortars and the descent of the shells. Those of the mutilated who were fortunate enough to snatch a little sleep and so forget their sufferings were awakened by the crash of ten or a dozen shells falling upon or in the building, whose fuses threw a lurid light through the gloom. The silence within, unbroken save by the hissing of the burning composition, the agonized feelings of the wounded during those few moments of suspense, are not to be described. Many an unlucky soldier was brought to the table to undergo a second operation. The wretched surgeons were engaged nearly the entire night. Rest was impossible. You could not choose but hear. The legs and arms were thrown out as soon as amputated, and fell on the rooks.
It was not an agreeable sight. Those who vote for war do not realize these little details in the programme. War, they say, breeds heroes.
It is but justice to the French medical officers to state that their conduct during the whole period of their harassing and laborious duties was marked by the greatest feeling and kindness of manner, as well as by skilful attention to the relief of all who came under their hands.
The unfortunate prisoners who were not wounded had been placed in the area round the hospital, and being without cover, suffered at every discharge.
The Colonel exerted himself to obtain a few pickaxes and shovels to throw up some sort of splinter-proof, but it was in vain he pleaded, and in the end fifty were killed or wounded out of 150.
From the surgeons and hospital attendants they experienced great kindness. Their diet was the same as that of the French wounded soldiers. Their greatest luxury was three stewed prunes!
The effects of the vertical fire on the interior of the castle were so destructive that, had it been continued six hours longer, the garrison would have doubtless surrendered at discretion. They had lost all hope that Soult could relieve them.
Everybody now sought shelter where best he could among the rocks. Still, no nook or corner appeared to be a protection from the shrapnel shells.
A sergeant of the Royals, standing at the foot of a bedstead, was struck by a ball from a shrapnel shell, and fell dead while talking. An Italian soldier, while trying to prepare some broth for dinner, was blown into the air—soup, bowl, and all!
The excellence of the British artillery is well known. Nothing could surpass the precision with which the shells were thrown or the accuracy with which the fuses were cut. During the siege our men in the British trenches little heeded the lazy French shells which were thrown into our batteries. From the length of the fuses sufficient time was often allowed before they burst to put themselves under cover; and when they did burst, the splinters flew lazily around. But when the sound of an English shell was heard in the castle, or when the men stationed in the donjon cried, “Garde la bombe!” everybody was on the alert. Touching the ground and bursting were almost simultaneous, and the havoc from the splinters was terrible. It appeared to be of little avail where a man hid himself: no place was secure from them.
A French officer of Engineers, who was very badly wounded, kindly lent the Colonel some of the professional books which were supplied to him. Many were works which he had never been able to procure. Much pleasure and instruction did he derive from their perusal. He found out that the French Engineers were supplied with them by the Government, and their Generals also with the best maps of the country.
One day the Colonel was called to the door of the ward by a French officer, who exclaimed, as he pointed to a large convoy of English transports coming in under full sail: “Voilà les fiacres qui viennent nous chercher!” (“There are the cabs coming to fetch us.”) It was a most cheering and beautiful sight—the cabs that were sent to fetch us home!
When Colonel Jones was told, shortly after, that he was no longer a prisoner, he began to look round for the best sword in the castle to replace the one which that rude French Captain had taken from him.
He discovered a handsome sabre belonging to a wounded staff-officer, so he sent and desired that it might be taken down from the place where it was hanging, as he wanted such a weapon.
“I have it still by me. It was the only sword I wore until the end of the war, and often, when at the outposts with a flag of truce, have I seen the French officers regard the eagles on the belt with anything but a gratified look.
“In 1815 I was quartered at Paris, being engineer in charge of the fortifications on Mont-Martre. There I frequently saw several of the St. Sebastian officers, and from my old friend the Chirurgien-Major I received many visits.
“We both agreed that, though the tables were turned, our present position was far more agreeable than when our acquaintance began in St. Sebastian.”
From Muswell’s “Peninsular Sketches.” Henry Colburn, publisher.
[CHAPTER VII]
JELLALABAD (1842)
Position of the town—Sale’s brigade rebuilds the defences—A sortie—Bad news—A queer noise—A ruse that did not succeed—The only survivor comes in—Story of a massacre—The earthquake—The walls are down—Are rebuilt—English magic—Pollock comes—Fight outside—The peril of Lady Sale.
In November, 1841, the English Resident at the Afghan Court of Cabul was treacherously assassinated. General Elphinstone, who was left in command of the English troops, being in feeble health, attempted to leave the country with his 4,500 troops and three times that number of camp followers. On the 11th of March, 1842, Akbar Khan with a large army attacked General Sale at Jellalabad.
Jellalabad is a walled town on the right bank of the Cabul River. The upper end of the valley is very fertile and picturesque, studded with forts and villages, but all round the city it is sandy and arid. Snow mountains close in the valley on all sides.
South of Jellalabad, at a distance of 1,200 yards, is a low range of limestone hills, and on the south-west other low hills command the town at 200 yards’ distance. All round the walls were houses, mosques, old forts, gardens, and trees—in fact, every species of cover that an enemy could desire.
The walls of the town were 2,100 yards in extent, all in ruinous condition, and in many places not more than 9 feet high, and easily scaled. Through breaches in the wall laden cattle and droves of asses went in and out daily.
Into this town on the evening of the 12th of November, 1841, wearied, footsore, hungry, short of ammunition, Sale’s brigade entered, to undertake the desperate task of defending it against the whole power of the country, the people of which not only hated us as invaders, but regarded us as infidels to be rooted out.
At a distance of 600 miles from our own frontier, with the formidable defiles of the Khyber Pass to cross, what would be our condition if Runjeet Sing should refuse to allow another army to traverse his territories?
In the meantime these ruinous walls were better than the open plain; so, after viewing the fortifications, Sale marched the brigade in, and the inhabitants fled out at the other side as we entered.
It was decided to hold the whole town and try to make it defensible. Our supply of provisions was so low that the troops had to be put on half, and the camp followers on quarter, rations. As to ammunition, we had only 120 rounds per man. We set to work and collected grain, flour, pulse, and food of all sorts which had been left behind, and in a few hours supplies for several days had been gathered in.
As parts of the walls had no parapets and the sentries were quite exposed, hundreds of camel saddles were ranged, two deep and two high, for the sentries to kneel behind.
The next day many thousands of the enemy came swarming round and set fire to the grass huts and sheds on the eastern side. Some of them seemed to be bent on getting into a small mosque near the town, so a party of sappers, under Major Broadfoot, were sent to see what it contained.
They discovered a quantity of carbine ammunition, which proved to our men a timely and welcome supply. From dusk till midnight they kept firing on our sentries with wild yells. Then they withdrew, and the troops could snatch some rest.
At early dawn Sale determined on a sortie, and all were aroused without sound of bugle. Seven hundred infantry and two guns, commanded by Colonel Monteath, were ordered to sally out at sunrise and attack the Afghans. There were some 6,000 Afghans waiting to meet them in the rocky hills at the south-west angle of the city, but they did not resist long, and the cavalry rolled them over and pursued the fugitives, while Abbot’s guns ploughed through them wherever they massed together.
By ten o’clock it was all over. The panic was so great that they deserted the forts, and we secured all the grain and fodder.
Two great results followed this fortunate victory: it gave the garrison a little breathing-time, and we had a few days of uninterrupted quiet to repair our walls and destroy cover.
The people of the valley now adopted the usual Oriental policy of trying to keep well with both parties, and sent in donkey-loads of flour, wheat, etc.
Working parties were told off to clear away the rubbish, to destroy houses outside, and to build parapets on the walls; for with the enemy’s marksmen so near, no one could look over the walls or show a cap without getting a shot through it.
“Jellalabad” means “the abode of splendour,” but our men found it squalid and mean. There were two main streets, crossing each other at right angles; the rest were narrow, filthy lanes. The mountain tribes have fair complexions and the Grecian type of face. They are believed to be the descendants of the Greeks left by Alexander the Great. All their implements and household utensils are totally different from those used by the Afghans.
As soon as the enemy was driven off by our sortie the troops set to work on the defences. No one was allowed to be idle. Officers and men, with spade, pickaxe, bill-hook, or mining tools in hand—all were at work from daybreak to sunset.
Parties of the enemy hovered about, but never dared to molest us. Strong detachments of cavalry were sent out every day to protect our grass-cutters.
On the 21st of November the garrison received bad news. The little fort of Pesh Bolak (half-way between Jellalabad and the Khyber) had had to be evacuated, and Captain Ferris had been seen going over the mountains away to Peshawar in hasty retreat.
Then from Cabul they heard that our troops there were shut up by the insurgents in their fortified cantonment, that there was a general rising of the whole country, and the roads were closed against messengers.
Every night now parties of the enemy used to creep round and fire at our sentries. At twelve o’clock on the night of the 28th there was a tremendous report, like the firing of a heavy gun. The alarm was sounded, and in two minutes every man was at his post. Seaton was Captain of the day, so he hurried off to learn what all the row was about. He found Sale and his staff in the west gate, looking earnestly in the direction of the enemy, and discussing with the heroic Havelock the probabilities of an attack. It was a bright moonlight night; everything visible near or far. All at once some one called out:
“Here they come, sir! Don’t you see those two dark columns of men 500 yards off?”
Ah! yes. Every one saw them clearly enough.
“I looked a little, and then laughed right out. The General called to me in his short, sharp way:
“‘Seaton, what is it, sir?’
“‘General, where is the back wall of the old fort?’
“‘Eh! eh! what! what!’ said he testily.
“‘Why, General, you sent me out yesterday to destroy the back wall of that old fort behind which the enemy used to muster. The clay was too hard for us, so, as the wall was just over a sunk road, and the bank below the wall soft, I threw a dam across the lower part of the road and turned in yon little stream. I guess it has softened the bank, and the wall has fallen with a slap into the water and produced the explosion. The columns of men are only the shadows of the north and south walls.’ So we all had a hearty laugh.”
Seaton was on guard every third day. Though the duty was hard, it was comparatively a day of rest. During the night officers visited the guards and sentries every two hours, and made the sentries report everything they had seen or heard. They patrolled the streets, too, every two hours, and the picket in the centre of the town sent patrols to each gate every hour during the night. Every day, when not on special duty, he went out with a large working party to destroy the old walls and houses outside the town, to fell and cut up the trees, and to bring them in for firewood.
The enemy had some capital marksmen, and several of our men were shot through the loopholes. Sale now thought it time to put a stop to this, for they cut off our supplies and we had only thirty days’ food in store. So he quietly waited until noon, when the enemy would be thinking more of food than fighting, and a column of 1,100 infantry was formed in the west street. All the cavalry that could be mustered, with two of Abbott’s guns, assembled in the south street. They had a tough job at first. The Afghans stood bravely and poured in a heavy fire; but the moment the cavalry and guns appeared on the plain clear of Piper’s Hill the whole body of the enemy fled in every direction. Many were drowned in the river.
During the pursuit Captain Oldfield, who commanded the cavalry, as he galloped up to a party of the fugitives, saw one man suddenly stop, throw off his turban, tear off his clothes, wrap his waist-cloth round his loins and attempt to personate a Hindoo, calling out, “Shah bash, Angrèz!” (“Well done, English!”). But our troopers were not to be deceived: the Hindoo gentleman was instantly cut down.
Doubtless if the Afghans had possessed the needful tools they might have succeeded in their plan of cooping us in and starving us out.
It was to Major Broadfoot’s firmness and foresight that the brigade was mainly indebted for its honour and safety. When they were first sent out, Broadfoot was ordered to proceed without his tools. This he respectfully but firmly declined to do, and by his manly representations he carried his point, and was allowed to take them.
They returned at dusk, very hungry and tired. Our loss had been small, our gain great, and a further result was that provisions at once began to flow in. People flocked to the gates to sell flour, grain, and vegetables. But the officers were all so poor that very few of them could purchase anything. The soldiers and camp-followers were still worse off. The commissariat officer had now six weeks’ food in store, but would the treasure-chest hold out? Copper coinage had nearly disappeared.
The New Year, 1842, opened ominously, and brought more evil tidings. A letter from Cabul, from Pottinger, told them of the murder of the Envoy, that Ghusnee was besieged, and the whole country in insurrection.
But our garrison was not dismayed. All scouted the idea of any great disaster happening to our troops at Cabul, and our works were pushed on with increased vigour. Provisions kept coming in, and the surplus was carefully stored.
On the 9th of January a letter from General Elphinstone was brought in by a horseman, ordering Sale to retire with his brigade to Peshawar.
It was a crushing, humiliating blow, spreading a gloom over every heart; but when Sale’s determination was made known—to hold Jellalabad until the Cabul force arrived—the men’s confidence in their commander was greater than ever.
The greatest harmony existed between the European and native soldiers, and there was but one mind in the garrison—to defy the Afghans and to redeem as far as possible the reverses of the Cabul force. They had no money, they were short of ammunition, and had not too much food; but there was no thought of giving way.
On the 13th of January Seaton was on guard at the south gate when, a little after twelve o’clock, some one came rushing along the passage leading to the guardroom. The door was burst open, and Lieutenant B—— threw himself into Seaton’s arms, exclaiming:
“My God, Seaton! the whole of the Cabul army has been destroyed!”
“What! man, are you mad? The whole army?”
“All but one—Dr. Brydon! We saw from the top of the gateway a man riding on an old pony. He seemed to be wounded; he was bending over the pommel. We sent two horsemen out to bring him in—it was Dr. Brydon. He could not speak at first. Then he murmured: ‘The only survivor of Cabul army!—all killed.’”
The Last of an Army
The whole of the Cabul army but one man, Dr. Brydon, was destroyed.
After thinking this over in silence for a minute or two, they went outside and saw Sale and his staff at the Cabul gate hoisting up the colours, a sign to any poor fugitive who might have escaped. A hearty cheer went up as they looked on their country’s glorious colours. Their spirits were still high.
Instantly the cavalry rode out. About four miles from Jellalabad they found the bodies of three of Brydon’s companions—Lieutenant Harper, Collyer, and Hopkins—all terribly mangled.
At night lights were hung out over the Cabul gate, and two buglers were put on duty in the south-west bastion to sound the advance every quarter of an hour, in hope that some poor fugitive might hear it and be saved.
“The terrible wailing sound of those bugles I shall never forget,” says Seaton. “It was a dirge for our slaughtered soldiers, and had a most mournful and depressing effect.” Dr. Brydon’s tale struck horror into the hearts of all who heard it, but mingled with the sorrow and pity came a fierce desire for vengeance. Little was said, but the stern looks of the soldiers, the set teeth, and the clenched hands, showed how deep was the feeling that had been stirred, and how stern the vow registered in each man’s heart.
On the 19th a servant of Captain Bazette came in, and on the 30th a Goorkah. On the 31st they had the pleasure of welcoming another white face—a sergeant-major. From the accounts of the sergeant they gathered many particulars of this tragedy—how, after the murder of our Envoy, General Elphinstone agreed to evacuate the country and retire with the whole of his force, Akbar, on his part, undertaking to escort the Cabul force and guarantee it from attack; how the Afghans rushed into our cantonments, even before the rear of the British force had got outside the walls, and began their plundering; how our men were shot down in the Khoord Cabul Pass; how Akbar pretended he could not control his men, and advised the English officers to surrender to him; how the native soldiers, chilled to death in the snow, went over to the enemy in hundreds.
The sergeant said in their excuse: “I can’t blame the natives. I myself was born in a cold climate. I was well clad, yet my sufferings from the cold were terrible: my fingers were frost-bitten, and all my joints were sore. Why, sir, in the next pass the Afghans, after slaughtering our men till they were tired, stripped hundreds of poor Hindoos stark naked and left them there to die in the cold.”
Stories such as these only spurred on the garrison of Jellalabad to greater exertion, for, as they would have now to face Akbar Khan and all his warriors, on them devolved the task of redeeming our country’s fame.
On the 30th of January our cavalry brought in 175 head of cattle that had been grazing at some distance off, and on the next day they shepherded in 734 sheep.
Now, work on Sunday was remitted. Men came to morning service with sword and pistol, or musket and bayonet, and sixty rounds in pouch, ready at a moment’s notice to march to battle.
“To me,” says Seaton, “it was always an affecting sight to see these great rough fellows with their heads bowed, humbly confessing their sins before God, and acknowledging their dependence on His goodness and mercy; and I am sure that afterwards, when we were surrounded by greater perils, there were many who felt the comfort there was in having One to whom they could appeal in all their troubles.”
In February they knew that Akbar was collecting his forces for an attack. On our side the General ordered that all able-bodied camp-followers who were willing should be armed and receive the pay of native soldiers.
Those for whom there were no muskets were armed with pikes, which were made for them.
On the 16th rain came down in torrents; on the 18th heavy rain again. On the morning of the 19th Seaton was at work outside when he felt a smart shock of earthquake, with a rumbling noise. At first he did not take much notice, but when the rumbling increased and swelled to the loudest thunder, as if a thousand heavy waggons were being driven at speed over a rough pavement, he turned quite sick. An awful fear came over him. The ground heaved and set like the sea, and the whole plain seemed to be rolling in waves towards them. The motion was so violent that some were nearly thrown down, and expected every moment to see the whole town swallowed up.
The houses, the walls, and the bastions were rocking and reeling in a most terrific manner, and falling into complete ruin, while all along the south and west faces the parapets, which had cost us so much labour to erect, were crumbling away like sand. The whole was enveloped in one immense cloud of dust, out of which came cries of terror from the hundreds within.
When the dreadful noise and quaking ceased, a dead silence succeeded, all being so deeply impressed by the terror of the scene that they dared not utter a sound. The men were absolutely green with fear. Presently a gentle breeze sprang up. Officers encouraged the men to go on with their work, but, looking round the valley, they saw every fort and village wrapped in dense clouds of dust. From some the dust was streaming away like smoke, from others it rose high in the air in dense columns.
When the breeze had cleared away the dust from Jellalabad an awful scene of destruction appeared. The upper stories of the houses were all gone, and beams, posts, doors, windows, bits of wall, ends of roof, earth and dust, all were mingled in one confused heap. It was as if some gigantic hand had taken up the houses and thrown them down in one rubbish-heap.
The parapets all round had fallen from the walls. The walls were split in many places. In the eastern wall a breach had been made large enough for two companies abreast to walk through.
Sale’s bugle sounded the assembly, and they went in at once. On muster being taken, it was found that the loss of life was happily only three men crushed in the cavalry hospital.
On looking round, it was found that a month’s cannonading with a hundred pieces of heavy artillery could not have produced the damage that the earthquake had effected in a few seconds. “The hand of the Almighty had indeed humbled our pride, and taught us the wholesome lesson that He alone is a sure defence.”
The Colonel narrowly escaped with his life. He had been standing on the wall, which, he said after he was taken up from the ruins, wriggled like a snake.
In one place, as an officer was passing along the ramparts, the ground opened beneath him, and he fell in, but only to be thrown out again—an operation which was twice repeated. At a spot near the river the wall had opened so wide that a man could have slipped through. All the barracks and sheds were in ruins; all shelter for the men was destroyed.
This, however, was not the time for idle wonder or for despair. Without delay every man in garrison was set to work, and though there were frequent shocks of earthquake during the day, the ruins had been cleared away by dusk, and a temporary parapet of clods of earth and clay made all round the walls.
Towards sunset a small body of horsemen from Akbar’s camp came to reconnoitre. Abbott, who was looking out, sent a shot right into the party, making them scamper off, probably to report to their chiefs that the fortifications were uninjured, and that our “magic” had caused the earthquake.
But we were in a critical state, with all defences levelled, a huge breach in the works, and the destroyer of our Cabul force within a few miles of us, with the whole power of the country at his back.
They had now daily fights for their forage. The grass-cutters went out at early dawn under a strong escort. The grass in India is a creeping grass: the shoots run along under ground, or it would perish in the droughts of summer.
The grass-cutter, armed with a small hoe, sits down on his heels, and with a sweeping motion cuts the grass half an inch below the surface of the ground. He then collects it, beats off the earth, and brings it home on his head. This grass is very sweet and nutritious. As the hot weather advanced they had to go further afield for grass. On the 2nd of March Akbar sent a large force round to the east, and they were invested.
“I find this in my journal for the 2nd of March: ‘All our comforts are vanishing. Tea has long been gone; coffee goes to-day; sugar on its last legs; butter gone; no grass for the cows; candles not to be had. Akbar is trying to starve us out.’”
Lead for the rifles was in great request. Some officers of the 13th hit upon a very comical method of procuring it. They dressed up a figure—cocked hat, red coat, painted face—and put it on a short pole. Hoisted up above the ramparts and managed adroitly, it created no end of fun.
Eagerly the Afghans fired at it. Thousands of bullets went over their heads or battered against the wall below. Whenever they thought the General was hit or saw him bob down, they yelled and shouted like madmen.
How many Generals must they not have killed! Generals running short! The figure was hit sometimes. In the evening or early morning they used to go outside and pick up the bullets, of which immense numbers were found. In the course of half an hour one morning Seaton picked up 121, but several officers picked up more.
From the 2nd of March, the day on which the enemy established a camp east of the city, they all slept at their posts on the walls. No one took off his clothes. None of them wore uniform, but clothes made of camel-hair cloth. Too much digging for fine uniforms! On the 10th of March, as the Afghans had been thronging the ravines for many days, Sale thought it wise to see to it, so a sortie with 800 men was ordered. They thoroughly examined the ravines at night and destroyed the enemy’s shelters. As they were retiring into the town the enemy came on, pursuing with loud yells and screams. Their horse came boldly down towards the town, offering a splendid mark for Abbott, whose guns plied them with shot and shell with deadly effect.
Not a single horseman could stand before Abbott’s gun within 1,200 yards, his aim was so unerring. Ever since the siege of Bhurtpoor he had been celebrated for his skill as an artilleryman, and they had daily proof of his prowess.
So the month progressed, fighting or working by day, watching on the walls by night, and all the time on half rations.
They knew that Government was assembling a force at Peshawar under Pollock in order to relieve them, for they got a stray letter now and then.
Hard work, poor food, anxiety, were making all thin and pale; and some of them were angry with Sale that he would not go out and fight, for they felt perfectly capable of squaring accounts with Akbar and his legions; but “Fighting Bob,” as he was called, would not come up to his name.
Night after night they were roused from their short sleep by earthquakes. A sharper shock, a violent heave, a short cracking sound, and all would start up, listen, grumble, try to get to sleep again.
Some messengers came in from Peshawar on the 25th. They heard the men of the 13th in fits of laughter at some absurd game they were playing, and all the native soldiers singing in chorus their festival songs. They were astounded.
“Why,” they said, “you are besieged, and ought to be sad and dispirited; but you are all as merry as possible.”
When they saw the ease with which a party of Akbar’s men were beaten in a fight for some grass they were utterly confounded. When they returned to Peshawar all this went down the road to the Khyber, with wonderful additions. It was just the sort of tale that in the mouths of such men would not lose in the telling.
All this time the greatest cordiality and good feeling prevailed between the European and native soldiers.
“I remember one case of disagreement,” says Seaton. “A sepoy of my company met a soldier of the 13th on a narrow path in the town. The soldier overbalanced himself, and stepped into the mud.
“Being very hot-tempered, he struck the sepoy a violent blow. The latter came to me to make his complaint. The matter was referred to Sale, who was furious, blew up the English soldier fearfully, and ordered him to confinement.
“As the Adjutant was marching the soldier off the sepoy took the soldier by the hand and said: ‘General Sahib, forgive him. There has not been one quarrel between any of us ever since the regiments have been together. You have scolded with him, so I ask you please forgive him.’
“The General granted the sepoy’s request. The soldier said he was sorry he had given way to temper and struck a man who could behave so generously.
“Many of our soldiers had friends among the sepoys, and I have known more than once a soldier, when dying, send for his sepoy friend to be with him in his last moments.”
Akbar had a new idea: he caused large flocks of sheep to be driven over the distant forage grounds. On the 30th they saw these flocks going within range of the guns. They looked at them with hungry eyes.
On the morning of the 1st of April a flock of sheep was driven by the enemy’s shepherds close to the old ruined fort. Several officers got round Sale and fairly badgered him into making an attempt to carry them off. Four hundred men, all the cavalry, and some pikemen, were ordered out. As they sallied forth Seaton heard a man on the walls say to a friend, “I say, Bill, what a lark if we can get in all them sheep!”
The cavalry rode out and got round them. The sheep were given to the pikemen. The infantry extended in skirmishing order to check the enemy, who were running up. The sheep were got in, the last one dropping a lamb on the very threshold.
They had one man killed and eight wounded, but were all in the highest spirits, and when the Afghans, dancing with rage, showed themselves on the hills, they were saluted with shouts of laughter and a thousand cries of “B-a-a! b-a-a!”
The garrison got 481 sheep and a few goats. The General gave forty sheep to the men of Seaton’s regiment (natives); but they, with great good-feeling, desired that the sheep should be given to the English soldiers, for whom, they said, such food was necessary, while they could do very well on their rations. Bravo, 35th Native Infantry! A grateful letter came in return from the non-commissioned officers and privates of the 13th L.I. to Colonel Dennie, ending with, “Believe me, sir, that feeling is more gratifying to us than the value of the gift, and we shall ever feel the obligation our old comrades and brother campaigners have placed us under.”
On the 3rd a spy came in and told them that when Akbar learnt that they had captured his sheep, he burst into such a transport of fury that his people were afraid to go near him.
On the 6th of April they heard that Pollock had been repulsed in the Khyber Pass, and at noon Akbar fired a royal salute in honour of his victory.
All the officers now went to Sale and urged on him the absolute necessity of going out and fighting Akbar.
Sale saw that the time for action had arrived.
On the morning of the 7th strong guards were posted at the gates, a picket in the centre of the town, and all pikemen, sick and wounded soldiers, etc., were sent to man the walls, and a very respectable show they made.
With the first peep of dawn the gates were quietly opened, and the three columns, under Dennie, Monteath, and Havelock, sallied out.
The plan was to march direct on Akbar’s camp, burn it, drive him into the river, and bring off his guns.
They wasted some time in attacking a ruinous fort, and Colonel Dennie was mortally wounded. Then Sale called off the troops, and they went straight for Akbar.
The sound of the guns had roused all the enemy’s force, and they were turning out in thousands. It was a grand sight to see their large masses of horse coming down from the hills. They charged boldly on Havelock’s column, which, rapidly thrown into square, received them with the greatest coolness, and repulsed them with heavy loss.
They then made an attack on Seaton’s regiment, but at this moment two guns of Abbott’s battery came up and sent shot and shell crashing into the enemy’s ranks, making them recoil faster than they had advanced.
The English soon came within sight of the Afghan camp, from whence the enemy opened fire on them, which caused some loss. But they made a rush and carried the camp without a check, while the enemy fled through the groves of trees beyond. They tried to carry off one of the guns, but a shot by Abbott killed the two horses attached to the limber, and the artillerymen fled. Numbers of the fugitives threw themselves into the river, which, swollen and rapid, destroyed the greatest part of them.
The whole of Akbar’s camp fell into our hands. His guns, ammunition, standards, plunder—everything he had with him. The bugle soon recalled the skirmishers, and Seaton was detached with a party to fire the tents and the huts, made of boughs and reeds. The smoke of the burning proclaimed our victory to the whole valley. Numbers of camels and mounds of grain fell into our hands.
“I secured three noble camels for myself, and right good service they did me afterwards.”
Sale was anxious to get back to Jellalabad, so the men returned in triumph, each man carrying off what he pleased, and were received with loud cheers from the walls. A little after dark the news was brought in by some Hindoos living in the valley that every fort and village within eight miles had been deserted.
This night they slept in bed, perfectly undisturbed. After passing the last thirty-six nights on the ramparts, armed and accoutred, constantly roused by the enemy, by their own rounds, by the relief of sentries, by those terrible earthquakes, many nights drenched by rain without shelter, quiet rest in a real bed for the whole night was an unspeakable luxury; “but coupled with the thought that, unaided, we had broken the toils cast round us by Akbar Khan; that we had beaten in fair fight the chief who had destroyed our Cabul army; that months of toil, watching, anxiety, and peril had been crowned with glorious success; that our country’s honour was safe in our hands, it was positive bliss, such as few have had the happiness to taste.”
On this night even the earthquakes spared them—no sudden roar, no sharp electric shock, no far-off rumbling sound, no sharp crack of doom to startle them from their well-earned repose. It was bliss!
It was observed that earthquakes usually followed much rain, thus raising the question whether steam may not often be the origin of the phenomenon.
Next day they found 580 rounds of ammunition for the captured guns. Now food began to pour in from the country, and they lived on the fat of the land.
News came in that Pollock had forced the Khyber, and would arrive about the 15th.
At length, on the morning of the 14th, they could see with their glasses Pollock’s force coming near. They had not arrived in time to help the garrison in their imminent peril. They had lost the grand opportunity of joining with them to crush the man whose treachery had destroyed their brothers-in-arms, whose bones lay scattered in the icy passes of Cabul. A fifth part of Pollock’s cavalry would have enabled them to annihilate Akbar and all his troops.
So when next morning Pollock’s force did arrive, there was a hearty welcome, but a sly bit of sarcasm in the tune to which the band of the 13th played them in, “Ye’re ower lang o’ comin’.”
It was not Pollock’s fault, however. He had to wait for the troops to join him at Peshawar.
“Let me relate one incident,” writes Colonel Seaton, “that will tend to illustrate the character of my old commander, General Sir R. Sale.
“Shortly after Akbar’s camp appeared in sight it was whispered about in garrison that Akbar intended to bring Lady Sale, then a prisoner in his hands, before the walls, and put her to torture within sight, and so compel Sale to surrender.
“Every day when the men were at dinner Sale used to take a turn on the ramparts, ostensibly to have a quiet look round at the progress of our works, but in reality, I believe, to ponder on the desperate situation of his wife and daughter, and debate with himself the means of effecting their rescue.
“We knew that they were well, had hitherto been kindly treated, and were in Akbar’s fort, not many miles off.
“One day Sale, in going his rounds, came and stood over the south gate, where I was on duty; so, as I had enjoyed the privilege of great intimacy with him and Lady Sale at Cabul, I went out and joined him. I ventured to mention this report, and asked him what he would do if it should prove true, and if Akbar should put his threat into execution.
“Turning towards me, his face pale and stern, but quivering with deep emotion, he replied:
“‘I—I will have every gun turned on her. My old bones shall be buried beneath the ruins of the fort here, but I will never surrender!’”
Could Lady Sale have heard it, her heart would have bounded with pride, for the heroine was worthy of her hero.
The reception of the garrison by Lord Ellenborough at Ferozepoor was a noble and ample return for all their toil and suffering. His lordship had taken care that each officer and man of the “illustrious garrison,” as he termed them, should have a medal, and they were sent out to them before they reached Ferozepoor.
Not an English officer in India at this time had such a mark of distinction. They were the first to be so honoured, and were highly gratified by it.
On the morning on which they marched in, the bridge of boats over the Sutlej was gaily ornamented with flags and streamers. His lordship met them at the bridge head, and was the first to welcome them as they stepped on the soil of our own provinces. All the troops in camp were drawn up in line at open order, and received them as they passed with presented arms. Lord Ellenborough also ordered that at each station they marched through on their way to their destination the same military honours should be rendered to them. The garrison were received with similar marks of distinction at Kurnaul, at Delhi, and at Agra.
“We may forget everything else, but we shall never forget Lord Ellenborough’s noble and ever-ready kindness and the many honours he caused to be shown us. One word more: After the Mutiny, it is not to be wondered at that the sepoy was written down as a demon and a coward; but we had known him as an excellent soldier, generally mild and humane and temperate as a man, sometimes even generous and forgiving, as the best of Christians.”
When will it become the English custom to recite before our young of both sexes some of the deeds which have saved the Empire, “lest we forget”? If not in church, at least in school, we should make this effort to save our children from ignorance, which is ingratitude.
From Major-General Sir Thomas Seaton’s record, “From Cadet to Colonel.” By kind permission of Messrs. G. Routledge and Sons.
[CHAPTER VIII]
SIEGE OF SEBASTOPOL (1854-1856)
The English land without tents—Mr. Kinglake shows off before Lord Raglan—The Alma—Strange escapes—Looted houses—Fair plunder—Balaklava Bay—Horses lost at sea—A derelict worth having—Jack very helpful—The Heavy and Light Brigades—Spies—Fraternizing.
The Crimean War, fought between Russia on the one hand and England, France, Turkey, and Sardinia on the other, consisted mainly in the Siege of Sebastopol, a strong fortified port in the South of Russia. They fought ostensibly about the guardianship of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, but really because Turkey was thought to be decaying, and Russia wished to protect the Slavonic races in her own interest, and to extend her power to the Dardanelles. The war was characterized by the great sufferings of the troops during the winter, intensified by storms in the Black Sea, where so many transports laden with warm clothing went to the bottom that our men were left unprotected.
Even at the first landing, on the 14th of September, 1854, these sufferings commenced. Imagine a bare and desolate beach, the home of seagull and wild-fowl, suddenly turned into a barrack-yard. From one end to the other bayonets glistened, red coats and brass-mounted shakos gleamed in solid masses. The transports were tossing yonder out in the offing, and as gig or cutter grounded on the sand the officers of each company first landed, each in full dress, and carried his greatcoat, fastened by a strap round his body. After the officers came the men, bearing rations for three days in their wallets. Before they were all well on shore the rain began, and the wind was sending a little surf on the beach. The horses were not yet landed, so Generals and staff-officers might be seen sitting on powder-barrels on the shore, retiring gloomily within the folds of cape and mackintosh. Disconsolate doctors were groaning after hospital panniers which had not yet arrived; for, strange to say, more than one man died on that beach.
The country people, though at first full of fear of the invaders, soon brought food to sell, and retired with twinkling eyes. They were of Tartar race, with small eyes set wide apart and high cheek-bones.
That first night in the Crimea! Twenty thousand Englishmen, and not one tent amongst them! The wind rose and the rain fell in sheets, piercing through the greatcoats and blankets of the soldiers. Their only bed was the reeking puddles. They had no fire to cheer them, no hot grog. They were just miserable, while the French and the Turks were lying snug under canvas.
No wonder that there was a great increase in illness among the troops. Next day the surf was so heavy that many boats were stove in, and the work of landing horses and guns was difficult.
On the morning of the 20th, as Lord Raglan, the Commander-in-Chief, was waiting, surrounded by his staff, for the troops to get into position, a gentleman joined them on a handsome grey pony.
The pony began neighing and screaming so loudly that no one could hear a word that was said. Lord Raglan turned and asked:
“Does anyone know who that gentleman is?”
One of the staff replied: “I think it is one of the newspaper reporters, my lord. Shall I ask him to go away?”
Lord Raglan laughed, and said: “If you do, he will show you up, you may depend upon it.”
“It is Mr. Kinglake, the author of ‘Eōthen,’” said another.
“Oh,” said my lord, “a most charming man,” and was going to speak to him, when the French Marshal St. Arnaud rode up and prevented it.
About an hour after, as Lord Raglan was nearing the Russian position, a pony dashed past at a furious pace, and who should it be but Mr. Kinglake, the future historian of the Crimean War? On he went right through the skirmishers, with his horse’s head between his legs. Fortunately for the rider, the saddle got forward, and soon went over the horse’s ears. Of course the author of “Eōthen” went with the saddle, which was better than riding into the enemy’s lines.
It struck the staff as rather an absurd thing just before a battle, and they all laughed; but Lord Raglan rode up and offered him another pony. Mr. Kinglake has not mentioned this personal adventure in his history.
Then came the Battle of the Alma, a river at that time of year only knee-deep. It cost us nearly 3,000 men killed or wounded. They say the individual escape of officers and men was miraculous. Chin-straps were shot off, buttons carried away, belts torn, coats ripped—all without further injury to the wearer. Many hundred Russians threw away their arms and accoutrements in their flight. On the further heights, about a mile and a half from the Alma, the British troops ceased their pursuit; and then arose such a cheer—a cheer from 20,000 victorious men. Even some of the wounded fellows joined in it.
“I shall never forget that cheer as long as I live,” writes an officer. “It was indeed thrilling. I almost pitied the fallen enemy; it must have been so galling to them. I heard a man of the Guards say to a comrade: ‘I say, Bill, pleasant for them poor devils’ (pointing to some wounded Russians), ‘hearing our chaps cheer like that.’
“Lord Raglan rode up and down the line, the men cheering him heartily. There was such a shaking of hands. One felt very choky about the throat and very much inclined to cry as one wrung the hand of a friend. ‘God bless you, old fellow! So glad to see you all right!’ and so on. It was a touching sight to see the meeting between Lord Raglan and Sir Colin Campbell. The latter was on foot, as his horse had been killed under him. He went up to his lordship and, with tears in his eyes, shook hands, saying it was not the first battle-field they had won together. The battle was over at twenty minutes to four p.m.”
Next morning the poor wounded were far more quiet. Many had died during the night. Numbers of our men were going about among the wounded before it was light, giving them drinks of water. All those shot through the head died with a smile on their faces. “Some looked so happy, poor fellows! that one felt comforted.” On the 23rd of September order was given to prepare for marching, and the army left the heights of the Alma.
But what is that grey mass on the plain, almost lying without life or motion? Now and then, indeed, an arm may be seen waved aloft, or a man raises himself for a moment, looks around, and then lies down again.
Alas! that plain is covered with the wounded Russians still.
Nearly sixty long hours have they passed in agony on the wet ground, and now the English must leave them as they lie. Seven hundred and fifty wounded men are still on the ground, and we can do nothing for them. Their wounds have been bound and dressed by us, and Lord Raglan has told the head-man of a Tartar village to do what he can for them.
At first the country was hilly and barren, but on coming to the valley of the Katcha there were beautiful verdure, shrubs, white villas and snug cottages, vineyards and gardens.
A guide-post showed they were ten miles from Sebastopol. The road now looked like a byway in Devon or Hampshire. Low walls were surmounted by fruit-trees, laden with apples, pears, peaches, and apricots, all ripe and fit for use.
The first villa they came to was the residence of a country surgeon. It had been ruthlessly destroyed by the Cossacks. A veranda, laden with clematis, roses, and honeysuckle, was filled with broken chairs and tables. All the glass of the windows was smashed. There lay on the grass outside the hall-door two side-saddles, a parasol, and a big whip. The wine-casks were broken and spilt; the barley and corn of the granary were tossed about; broken china and glass were scattered over the floors; and amid all the desolation and ruin of the place a cat sat blandly on the threshold, winking her eyes in the sunshine at the new-comers. The scene within was awful. The beds had been ripped open, and the feathers littered the rooms a foot deep; chairs, sofas, bookcases, pictures, images of saints, needlework, bottles, physic-jars, all smashed or torn, lay in heaps in every room. Even the walls and doors were hacked with swords. It was as if the very genius of destruction had been at work and had revelled in mischief. Every other house and villa that they passed was a similar scene to this. Grand pianos and handsome pieces of furniture covered with silk and velvet, rent to pieces with brutal violence, were found in the larger houses.
The houses consist of one story only, size being gained by lateral extension. Each house has a large patch of vineyard round it. A porch covered with vines protects the entrance. They learnt from a deserter that the natives were hiding because they expected to be shot; also, that the Russians in their retreat had been seized with panic in the night, and had rushed off pell-mell; indeed, the state of the roads favoured this, for they were littered with linstocks, cartridges, and caps all the way. Our soldiers now fared on the richest of grapes and the choicest pears, but they were not allowed to waste or plunder.
September 25.—On the march to Balaklava they got near the enemy. They proved to be the baggage-guard of a large detachment. A few rounds, a cavalry charge, the Rifles in skirmishing order, and they broke, leaving baggage of every description strewed over the ground for two miles.
This was fair and lawful plunder, and the troops were halted and allowed to take what they liked and what they could carry. The officers presided over it to see that there was no quarrelling. Immense quantities of wearing apparel, dressing-cases, valuable ornaments, and jewellery were found in the carts.
A Russian artillery officer, found in one of the carriages, was in a very jovial mood, beside an empty champagne bottle. Fine winter cloaks, lined with fur, were found in abundance. This plunder put our soldiers in great good-humour, and they marched on the whole day in excellent spirits.
As the baggage was some miles behind, Lord Raglan had to put up in a miserable little lodge, while his staff slept on the ground in a ditch outside.
Not the smallest attempt was made by the enemy to annoy the English during this march to Balaklava; but we could have been greatly harassed by the smallest activity on their part. The march lay through woods, along bad and often precipitous roads, and a few trees felled at intervals could have stopped our army for hours. We had, it seems, taken the Russians by surprise, and they showed themselves quite destitute of resources.
“Balaklava, September 24.—I never was more astonished in my life,” writes Sir W. Russell, “than when I halted on the top of one of the numerous hills of which this part of the Crimea is composed, and looking far down, saw under my feet a little pond, closely shut in by the sides of high, rocky mountains. On this pond floated six or seven English ships, for which exit seemed quite hopeless. The bay is like a highland tarn. It is long ere the eye admits that it is some half-mile in length from the sea, and varies from 250 to 120 yards in breadth. The shores are so steep and precipitous that they shut out the expanse of the harbour, and make it appear much smaller than it really is.
“Towards the sea the cliffs close up and completely overlap the narrow channel which leads to the haven, so that it is quite invisible.
“On the south-east of the poor village which straggles between the base of the rocky hills and the margin of the sea there are extensive ruins of a Genoese fort, built some 200 feet above the level of the sea, all crumbling in decay—bastion and tower and wall. A narrow defile leads to the town. A few resolute men posted here might have given great trouble to a large army.”
The staff advanced first on the town, and were proceeding to enter it, when, to their surprise, from some old forts above came four spirts of smoke, and down came four shells close to them. The dose of shell was repeated; but by this time the Agamemnon outside the rocks was heard busily sending her shot against the fort. After a few rounds the fort was summoned, hung out a flag of truce, and surrendered. There were only sixty men—all made prisoners.
As Lord Raglan entered at noon the principal street, the inhabitants came out to meet him, bearing trays laden with fruit and flowers. Others bore loaves of bread cut up in pieces and placed on dishes covered with salt, in token of goodwill and submission. The fleet and army were once more united. Lord Raglan had secured his base of operations. Towards evening the huge bulk of the Agamemnon glided in between the rocks of the entrance, to the joy and delight of all on shore.
“October 3.—Sebastopol is not yet invested. It is only threatened on the south and south-east side by the army, while the fleet attacks it from the east. There is an enormous boom across the entrance, and many ships have been sunk close to shore. The Russians can throw shot further from their batteries than we can from our decks. Their shot went over us the other day when ours were falling 500 yards short.
“Since we landed in the Crimea as many have died of cholera as perished at the Alma. The deserters say that thirty Russian ladies went out of Sebastopol to see the Alma battle, as though they were going to a picnic. They were quite assured of the success of the Russian troops, and great was their dismay when they had to fly for their lives.
“Bad news to-day about the Dragoons’ horses. Some 200 horses coming from Varna have perished en route. The sea ran high: fittings and horse-boxes gave way, and the horses got loose upon the deck, and were killed or washed overboard.
“October 9.—An amusing incident has happened. Towards noon a large ship, under Austrian colours, was seen standing in towards Sebastopol. The Russian Fort Constantine opened fire on her at 2,500 yards, but the ship paid no attention to the shot and shell which flew over her. The other Russian batteries followed suit; still the Austrian cared not. Not a sheet did she slack, while the shot struck her hull and rigging. She came right past the batteries, and passed them unscathed, nearing the shore as she came. The Firebrand went to her assistance, and received several shot in her hull while doing so, but Captain Stuart persevered and brought her off. What do you think? Why, she had been deserted by her crew when the wind failed and she was getting too near Sebastopol. But she was laden with 600 tons of hay for the English army. Her escape is almost miraculous, but it is a proof of the bad gunnery of the Russians.
“October 13.—It is now eighteen days since our army, by a brilliant march on Balaklava, obtained its magnificent position on the south side of Sebastopol. Up to this moment not a British or French gun has replied to the fire of the enemy. The Russians have employed the interval in throwing up earthworks, trenches, and batteries, to cover the south side of the town.
“The delay had been quite unavoidable. We had to send all our guns and material round by sea, and land it as best we could. All these enormous masses of metal were to be dragged by men or a few horses over a steep and hilly country a distance of eight miles. You have some idea of the severity of the work in the fact that on the 10th no less than thirty-three ammunition horses were found dead. We had now opened out about 1,500 yards of trench fit for the reception of heavy guns.
“‘Jack’ made himself very useful to us. The only thing against him was that he is too strong. He pulls strong carts to pieces as if they were toys; he piles up shot-cases in the waggons till the horses fall under the weight, for he cannot understand ‘the ship starting till the hold is full.’ But it is most cheering to meet a lot of these jolly fellows working up a gun to the camp: from a distance you can hear a hearty English chorus borne on the breeze. The astonishment of the stupid, fur-capped Crim Tartars, as they stare at the wondrous apparition of our hairy Hercules, is ludicrous to a degree; but ‘Jack’ salutes every foreigner who goes by with the same cry, ‘Bono, Johnny!’ and still the song proceeds.
“October 22.—Lord Dunkellin, Captain Coldstream Guards, was taken prisoner this morning. He was out with a working party of his regiment, which had got a little out of their way, when a number of men were observed through the dawning light in front of them. ‘They are the Russians!’ exclaimed one of his men. ‘Nonsense! they’re our fellows,’ said his lordship, and went off towards them, asking in a high tone as he got near: ‘Who is in command of this party?’ His men saw him no more. The Russians fired no shot, but merely closed round and seized him before he could get away.
“October 25.—At half-past seven this morning an orderly came galloping in to the head-quarters camp from Balaklava with the news that at dawn a strong corps of Russian horse, supported by guns and battalions of infantry, had marched into the valley, and had already nearly dispersed the Turks of the redoubt No. 1, and that they were opening fire on the other redoubts, which would soon be in their hands unless the Turks offered a stouter resistance. Sir George Cathcart and H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge were ordered to put their divisions, the fourth and the first, in motion for the scene of action. Sir Colin Campbell, who was in command of Balaklava, had drawn up the 93rd Highlanders in front of the road to the town. The French artillerymen and Zouaves prepared for action along their lines.
“Lord Lucan’s little camp was full of excitement. The men had not had time to water their horses; they had not broken their fast yet, and had barely saddled at the first blast of the trumpet, when they were drawn up on the slope behind the redoubts. Soon after eight o’clock Lord Raglan and his staff cantered up towards our rear; a French General, Bosquet, with his staff and an escort of Hussars, followed at a gallop.
“Never did the painter’s eye rest on a more beautiful scene than I beheld from the ridge. The fleecy vapours still hung around the mountain-tops, and mingled with the ascending volumes of smoke from the cannonade; the patch of sea sparkled freshly in the rays of the morning sun, but its light was eclipsed by the flashes which gleamed from the masses of armed men below.
“To our disgust, we saw the Turks fly at the approach of the Russians; but the horse-hoof of the Cossack was too quick for them, and sword and lance were busily plied among the retreating herd. The yells of the pursuers and pursued were plainly audible. The Turks betake themselves to the Highlanders, where they check their flight, and form into companies on the Scotsmens’ flanks.
“The Russian cavalry, seeing the Highlanders, halt till they have about 1,500 men along the ridge—Lancers, Dragoons, and Hussars. They drew breath for a moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders, who were drawn up two deep. The ground flies beneath their horses’ feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with a line of steel.
“The Turks fire a volley at 800 yards and run. As the Russians come within 600 yards, down goes that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling volley of minié musketry. The distance is too great; the Russians come on. With breathless suspense every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock; but ere they come within 150 yards, another deadly volley flashes from the levelled rifle, carrying death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. ‘Bravo, Highlanders! well done!’ shout the excited spectators.
“But events thicken. The Russians—evidently corps d’élite—their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing at an easy gallop towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and squadrons of grey-coated Dragoons moved up to support them.
“The instant they came in sight the trumpets of our cavalry gave out the warning blast which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort, groups of officers, Zouaves, French Generals and officers, bodies of French infantry on the heights, were spectators of the scene, as though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down in deep silence.
“The Russians rode down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their line was at least double the length of ours, and it was three times as deep. Behind them was a similar line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their insignificant-looking enemy, but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through the valley: the Scots Greys and the Enniskillens went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry.
“The space between them was only a few hundred yards; it was barely enough to let the horses gather way. The Russian line brings forward each wing as our horse advance, and threatens to annihilate them as they pass.
“Turning a little to the left to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every heart; the wild shout of the Enniskillens rises at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a cloud, the Greys and Enniskillens pierce through the dark masses of the Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel, a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the red-coats vanish in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished numbers, in broken order, against the second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can to retrieve the fortune of the charge.
“It was a terrible moment. God help them! they are lost!
“With unabated fire the noble hearts rode at their enemy. It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians, though broken, had turned, and were coming back to swallow up our poor handful of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage Enniskillen and Scot were winning their desperate way right through the enemy’s squadrons, and already grey horses and red coats had appeared at the rear of the second mass, when, with irresistible force, the 1st Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th, rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as though it were made of pasteboard, and dashing on the second body of Russians, still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and Irish, put them to utter rout. A cheer burst from every lip. In the enthusiasm officers and men took off their caps and shouted with delight, clapping their hands again and again.”
Lord Raglan at once despatched Lord Curzon to convey his congratulations to General Scarlett, and to say “Well done!”
The gallant old officer’s face beamed with pleasure when he received the message. Our loss was very slight—about thirty-five killed and wounded.
Presently General Canrobert, attended by his staff, rode up to Lord Raglan, and complimented him upon the magnificent charge of our cavalry.
It was shortly after this that the historic charge of the Light Brigade took place, owing to an order misinterpreted. Lord Lucan received a written order from Brigadier Airey through Captain Nolan to advance his cavalry nearer to the enemy.
“Where are we to advance to?” asked Lord Lucan.
Captain Nolan pointed with his finger to the mass of Russian cavalry, the six battalions of infantry, and the thirty guns that faced them, and said: “There are the enemy, sir, and there are the guns; it is your duty to take them.”
Don Quixote in his tilt against the windmill was not so rash and reckless as the gallant fellows who prepared thus to rush on almost certain death.
It is a maxim of war that “cavalry never act without a support,” that infantry should be close at hand. The only support our light cavalry had was the reserve of heavy cavalry a long way behind them.
As they swept proudly past, officers could scarcely believe the evidence of their senses. Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in position! At the distance of 1,200 yards from thirty iron mouths there belched forth a flood of smoke and flame. There were instant gaps in our ranks—dead men and horses, riderless horses starting aside—but the remnant rode on into the smoke of the batteries. You could see their sabres flashing as they cut down the gunners; you saw them return, break through a column of infantry, then, exposed to a flank fire from the battery on the hill, scattered, broken, wounded, dismounted, flying towards their base. But at this moment a large body of Lancers was hurled on their flank. They were cutting their way through this mass when there took place an act of atrocity without parallel in modern warfare. The Russian gunners had returned to their guns: they saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just ridden over them, and, to their eternal disgrace, poured in a murderous volley of grape and canister, thus mingling friend and foe in one common ruin.
All our operations in the trenches were lost sight of in the interest of this melancholy day, in which our Light Brigade was annihilated by their own rashness and by the brutality of a ferocious enemy.
“November 3.—There were many spies in our camp—sometimes dressed like French officers—and we not clever enough to detect the bad French. The other night the sentinel before the house of the Provost-Marshal in Balaklava was astonished to see a horse, with a sack of corn on his back, deliberately walking past him in the moonlight. He went over to seize the animal, when the sack of corn suddenly became changed into a full-grown Cossack, who drove the spurs into his horse and vanished!
“Our sentries often fraternized with the Russian sentries. A few nights ago our men saw some Russian soldiers coming towards them without arms, and they supposed them to be deserters; but, on coming nearer, they made signs that they wanted a light for their pipes, and then they stayed a few minutes, talking. First Russian: ‘Englise bono!’ First Englishman: ‘Ruskie bono!’ Second Russian: ‘Oslem no bono!’ Second Englishman: ‘Ah, Turk no bono!’ pretending to run away as if frightened, upon which all the party go into roars of laughter, and then, after shaking hands, they retire to their respective beats, ready for the bloody work of war.”
From Sir W. Howard Russell’s “Letters from the Crimea.” By kind permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sons, Ltd.
[CHAPTER IX]
AFTER INKERMANN (1854-55)
Valiant deeds—Lord Raglan under fire—Tryon the best shot—A Prince’s button—A cold Christmas—Savage horses—The Mamelon redoubt—Corporal Quin—Colonel Zea.
The Battle of Inkermann was fought on the 5th of November, 1854, in a thick fog. It began very early in the morning with a surprise, and developed into a series of desperate deeds of daring, of hand-to-hand fights, of despairing rallies, of desperate assaults in glen and valley, in brushwood glades and remote dells. At six o’clock in the morning our men of the Second Division were roused by their tents being ripped to pieces by Russian shells. In darkness, gloom, and rain the British troops sallied forth to meet the foe—with the bayonet if they could.
Many valiant deeds were done. Some were noted, many were unmarked. Lieutenant Crosse was surrounded by Russians, who attacked him with the bayonet, though he was badly wounded. He shot two with his revolver. Then a private, running up to help him, shot another, bayonetted the fourth, and carried the Lieutenant away in his arms.
MacGrath was captured by two Russians, but while they were leading him away he seized the firelock of one of them, shot the Russian, and dashed out the brains of the other.
Burke was surrounded just as a ball broke his jawbone. He rushed amongst his enemies, shot three dead with his revolver, and cut two men down with his sword. He fell at last with more than thirty wounds in his body.
When Sir George Cathcart was shot and our men were retiring, Colonel Seymour, of the Guards, a dear friend who had served with him through the campaign in Kaffirland, rushed forward to help him, and in so doing was shot through the leg.
“Come back, Colonel!” the men shouted as they swept past the two officers.
“No, no; my place is here with Sir George,” replied Seymour.
“You must leave him,” cried General Torrens; “the enemy are close at hand. You will be killed, man!”
But nothing could persuade the Colonel to leave the side of his dying chief. There he remained, alone against the rushing tide of battle, and met a hero’s death in endeavouring to protect his friend from insult and mutilation.
When, later in the day, some of the French troops were seen to retire before the impetuous onslaught of the Russian masses, Lord Raglan despatched an aide-de-camp to General Pennefather, who was near the French division, to ask how he was getting on.
The General sent word in reply that he could hold his own perfectly well, and that he thought the enemy looked like retiring.
“If I can be reinforced with fresh troops, I will follow the Russians up and lick them to the devil.”
Lord Raglan was so delighted with this spirited answer that he galloped over to the French General Canrobert and translated General Pennefather’s words literally to him.
“Jusqu’au diable, Général!” That was what he said.
Canrobert, who had just remounted his horse, after having his arm bound up, exclaimed: “Ah! quel brave garçon! quel brave homme! quel bon Général!”
The day ended with a great artillery duel, in which Colonel Dickson won great renown, and mowed down great lanes through the massed forces opposed to him, until they broke and fled.
Captain Peel, of H.M.S. Diamond, greatly distinguished himself for his marvellous sang-froid in action. A shell fell close to a gun which he was laying in the trenches. Instead of running to take cover, he picked up the shell and lifted it over the parapet. The shell exploded just after it left his hands, and did no damage, whereas had it burst on the spot where it fell, probably many men would have been killed and wounded.
A private of the 33rd (Duke of Wellington’s) Regiment was surprised and made prisoner by two Russian soldiers when an advanced sentry. One of the Russians took possession of his musket and the other of his pouch, and they marched him between them towards Sebastopol. It was not the direction which Tommy wanted to take, so he kept wary watch, and when he fancied his captors were off their guard, he sprang on the one who carried his musket, seized it, knocked the fellow down, and then shot dead the Russian who carried his pouch. Meanwhile the Ruskie from whom Tommy had taken his own musket rose up from his recumbent position, fired and missed his aim. Tommy promptly hit him on the head with the butt end of his musket. After this the Englishman proceeded at leisure to take off his foes’ accoutrements, and he returned to his post laden with spoils, being fired at by the Russian sentries and cheered loudly by the English pickets.
Getting rid of his Captors
An English private was taken prisoner by two Russians. When he thought they were off their guard he snatched his own musket and felled one of them, and then shot the other dead. The first tried to shoot the Englishman, but missed, and was then promptly hit on the head with the butt end.
But Lord Raglan himself gave several instances of great coolness under fire. He was sitting on horseback during the Battle of Inkermann, in the midst of a battery of artillery, watching our men working the guns. A very heavy fire was being directed against this part of the field, and one of his staff suggested the propriety of his not putting himself in quite so dangerous and conspicuous a place, especially as, from the number of bullets that came singing by, it was clear he was being made a mark for the enemy’s riflemen.
Lord Raglan, however, merely said: “Yes, they seem firing at us a little; but I think I get a better view here than in most places.”
So there he remained for some time, and then, turning his horse, rode along the whole length of the ridge at a foot’s pace. Some of the hangers-on about the staff found they had business elsewhere, and cantered unobtrusively away.
Towards evening of the same day Lord Raglan was returning from taking his last leave of General Strangways, who had been mortally wounded, and was riding up towards the ridge. A sergeant of the 7th Fusiliers approached, carrying canteens of water to take up for the wounded. As Lord Raglan passed, he drew himself up to make the usual salute, when a round shot came bounding over the hill and knocked his forage-cap off his head.
The man calmly picked up his cap, dusted it on his knee, placed it carefully on his head, and then made the military salute, all without moving a muscle of his countenance. Lord Raglan was delighted with the sergeant’s coolness, and, smiling, said to him: “A near thing that, my man!”
“Yes, my lord,” replied the sergeant, with another salute; “but a miss is as good as a mile.”
One of the most painful things during the battle was the number of wounded horses. Some of the poor creatures went grazing about the fields, limping on three legs, one, perhaps, having been broken or carried away by a shot. Others were galloping about wildly, screaming with terror and fright. At times two or three horses would attach themselves to the staff, as if desirous of company or for human protection. One poor beast, who had its nose and mouth shot away, used to edge in amongst the staff and rub its gory head against their horses’ flanks. He was at last ordered to be put out of his pain, being in this more fortunate than many poor soldiers, who lay out for several nights in their agony.
It was a day or two after that the best shot in the British Army was killed. Lieutenant Tryon, of the Rifle Brigade, was shot through the head when in the act of firing at the retreating Russians. He was a great loss, much beloved by his men. It is stated that he had himself killed over a hundred Russians. At the Battle of Inkermann he employed himself the whole day in firing at the Russian artillerymen. He had two of his men to load for him, and they say that he knocked over thirty Russians, besides wounding several more.
General Canrobert issued a general order eulogizing the conduct of our Rifles, and lamenting in just terms the death of Lieutenant Tryon.
This must be the first occasion on record of a French General particularizing the bravery of a British officer of Tryon’s rank.
There is a story told which proves that Russian Generals were not dead to a sense of humour.
A Mr. C——, an officer in an English regiment, was taken prisoner in a sortie of the Russians, and was sent on to Simferopol. A day or two after his arrival there he received some letters from England which had been sent in with a flag of truce. One of these letters was from a young lady who was engaged to Mr. C——. In this letter she wrote:
“I hope, dearest, that if you take Prince Menchikoff prisoner, you will cut a button off his coat and send it to me in a letter, as you know how fond I am of relics.”
All these letters had been opened and translated at the Russian headquarters, as is usual. Prince Menchikoff was shown this letter, which amused him not a little; so he wrote to Mr. C——, saying how much he regretted he was unable to pose as a prisoner, when it was the other way about; but he had much pleasure in sending him the enclosed button off his best coat, which he trusted Mr. C—— would forward to the young lady with his compliments.
By December the whole army was suffering, worn out by night work, by vigil in rain and storm, by hard labour in the trenches, by cholera and short allowances. For nine days there was no issue of tea, coffee, or sugar to the troops. Food, corn, hay were stowed in sailing-vessels outside the harbour. A hurricane arose. To the bottom went provender and food for twenty days of all the horses. You could hardly tell an officer from a corporal. They were all hairy and muddy, filthy, worn, mounted on draggle-tailed ponies. Yet withal we are told they were the noblest, cheeriest, bravest fellows in Europe—ready to defy privation, neglect, storm, and wounds. Letters, it is true, sometimes came from the Crimea in which the writer showed a righteous indignation against those who mismanaged affairs and caused so much unnecessary loss and suffering. In one of these we read:
“January 2.—We have had a rough and dreary Christmas. Where are our presents? where are the fat bucks, the potted meats, the cakes, the warm clothing, the worsted devices made by the fair sympathizers at home? They may be on their way, but they will be too late. Why are our men still in tents? Where are the huts that were sent out? Some of them I have seen floating about the beach; others are being converted into firewood. There are 3,500 sick men in camp; there are 8,000 sick and wounded in the hospitals on the Bosphorus.
“Snow is on the hills, and the wind blows cold. We have no greatcoats. Our friends the Zouaves are splendid fellows, always gay, healthy, well fed. They carry loads for us, drink for us, eat for us, bake for us, forage for us—and all on the cheapest and most economical terms.
“The trenches are two and three feet deep with mud, snow, and slush. Many men, when they take off their shoes, are unable to get their swollen feet into them again. The other day I was riding through the French camp, 5th Regiment, when an officer came up and invited me to take a glass of the brandy which had been sent out by the Emperor as a Christmas gift. He had a bright wood fire burning in his snug warm pit. Our presents have so far all miscarried.
“January 19.—After frost and snow milder weather. Our warm clothing has come! Many thousands of fine coats, lined with fur and skins, have been served out to the men, together with long boots, gloves, socks, and mits.
“What a harvest Death has reaped! How many are crippled by the cold!
“January 24.—I have been viewing Sebastopol from a hill. The suburbs are in ruins. All the streets I saw had their houses broken down. Roofs, doors, and windows were all off, but the Russian riflemen shoot from them. I saw many walking from the sea with baskets of provisions. The harbour is covered with boats.
“May 18.—The Sardinians are encamped on the slopes of pleasant hills. Their tents are upheld by their lances, one at each end of the tent. Their encampment, with its waving pennons, has a very pretty effect. The Sardinians’ horses are rather leggy, but not such formidable neighbours as the horses of the 10th Hussars, which are the terror of the camp, breaking their picket-ropes and tearing about madly.
“Yesterday I was riding peaceably along with an officer of artillery and of 8th Hussars, when suddenly we heard cries of ‘Look out!’ and lo! there came a furious steed down upon us, his mane and tail erect. He had stepped out of a mob of Hussar horses to offer us battle, and rushed at full gallop towards our ponies.
“‘Out swords!’ was the word, as the interesting beast circled round us, now menacing us with his heels, now with his teeth; but he was repelled by two bright swords and one strong whip, and at last, to our relief, he caught sight of Colonel Mayo, who was then cantering by in ignorance of his danger, till he was warned by the shouts of the soldiers. The Colonel defended himself and horse with great resolution, and, drawing his sword, gave point or cut right and left as the case required, till the men of the 10th came up and beat off the creature. It is rather too exciting this hot weather to have to run the risk of being demolished by the heels of an insane Arab.
“June 7.—It has leaked out that something of import was to take place to-day. Between 5 and 6 p.m. Lord Raglan and his staff took up a conspicuous position looking straight into the teeth of the Redan. The man with the signal rockets was in attendance. About half-past six the French attacking column was seen to be climbing the arduous road to the Mamelon fort.
“The rocket was fired, and our small force rushed for the quarries to divert the Russians. The French went up the steep to the Mamelon in beautiful style and in loose order. Their figures, like light shadows flitting across the dun barrier of earthworks, were seen to mount up unfailingly in the evening light—seen running, climbing, scrambling like skirmishers up the slopes amid a plunging fire from the guns.
“As an officer who saw Bosquet wave them on said at the moment, ‘They went in like a clever pack of hounds.’ Then we see the Zouaves standing upon the parapets and firing down into the fort from above. Now they are in the heart of the Mamelon, and a fierce hand-to-hand encounter, with musket and bayonet, is evidently taking place. It was only seven minutes and a half from the commencement of the enterprise. There is still another sharp bayonet fight, and this time the Russians run out on the other side, spiking their guns. But the roar of guns is heard on the side towards the town: the Russians have been reinforced!
“When rocket after rocket went up ominously from the French General’s position we began to be nervous. It was growing darker, and the noise of the fight seemed to be on our side of the fort. At last the swell and babble of the fight once more rolled down the face of the hill. ‘They are well into it this time,’ said a General, handing over his glass to his neighbour. All was still. No more musket flashes, no more lightning of the heavy guns from the embrasures. A shapeless hump upon a hill, the Mamelon was an extinct volcano, until such time as we should please to call it again into action.
“‘How are our men getting on?’ says one.
“‘Oh, take my word for it they’re all right,’ says another.
“They were in the quarries, but had to fight all night and repel six successive attacks of the Russians, who displayed the most singular pertinacity and recklessness of life. Meanwhile the Zouaves, emboldened by success, carried their prowess too far, and dreamt of getting into the round tower by a coup de main. The fire of the musketry from the round tower was like a shelf of flame, and the shells of our gunners—for we were supporting the French—stood out dark against the heavens as they rose and swooped to their fall.
“June 9.—As an illustration of character I note that one of our sailor artillerymen, being desired to keep under cover and not put his head out to tempt a rifle bullet, grumbled at the prohibition, saying to his comrades: ‘I say, Jack, they won’t let a fellow go and look where his own shot is. We ain’t afraid, we ain’t. That’s what I call hard lines.’
“Lance-Corporal Quin, of the 47th, has been brought to notice for bravery. In one of the attacks made by the enemy on the quarries the Russians had some difficulty in bringing their men again to the scratch. At length one Russian officer succeeded in bringing on four men, which Corporal Quin perceiving, he made a dash out of the work, and with the butt-end of his musket brained one, bayoneted a second, and when the other two took to their heels he brought in the officer as a prisoner, having administered to him a gentle prick by way of quickening his movements.
“After delivering him up he said to his comrades: ‘There’s plenty more yonder, lads, if so be you’ve a mind to fetch in a prisoner or two.’
“June 20.—A plan of attack was proposed—that the French were to assault the Malakoff and we the Redan; but though they got into the Malakoff, they were driven out again, with loss. As our 37th Regiment advanced they were met by a well-aimed fire of mitraille, which threw them into disorder.
“Poor Colonel Zea in vain tried to steady them, exclaiming: ‘This will never do! Where’s the bugler to call them back?’
“But at that moment no bugler was to be found. In the gloom of early dawn the gallant old soldier by voice and gesture tried to reform his men, but as he ran to the head of the column a charge of the deadly missle passed, and he fell dead. Next day we had to ask for an armistice to bury our dead, which was not granted until 4 p.m. It was agonizing to see the wounded men who were lying out under a broiling sun, to behold them waving their caps or hands faintly towards our lines, over which they could see the white flag waving, and not to be able to help them. Many of them had lain there for thirty hours.
“As I was riding round I came upon two of our men with sad faces.
“‘What are you waiting here for?’ said I.
“‘To go out for the Colonel, sir,’ was the reply.
“‘What Colonel?’
“‘Why, Colonel Zea, to be sure, sir,’ said the good fellow, evidently surprised at my thinking there could be any other Colonel in the world.
“Ah! they liked him well. Under a brusque manner he concealed a most kind heart, and a soldier more devoted to his men and to his country never fell in battle. The Fusiliers were the first who had hospital huts. When other regiments were in need of every comfort Zea’s regiment had all that exertion and foresight could procure. I ride on, and find two Voltigeurs with a young English naval officer between them. They are taking him off to shoot him as a spy. He has not enough French to explain his position to his captors.
“‘He tells us he is an officer of the Viper, that he got into the Mamelon by mistake.’ The matter is explained to our allies, who let him go with the best grace in the world. As to the attack which failed, we are disappointed, yet we do not despair; but we learn now that we are going to attack the Redan and Malakoff by sap and mine—a tedious process of many weeks.
“September 5.—The Russians have evacuated the forts of Sebastopol and withdrawn to the north side of the harbour. The Crimean War is over!”
From Sir W. Howard Russell’s “Letters from the Crimea.” By kind permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sons, Ltd.
[CHAPTER X]
THE INDIAN MUTINY—DELHI (1857-1858)
The Mutiny begins—A warning from a sepoy—A near thing—A noble act of a native officer—In camp at Delhi with no kit—A plan that failed—Our first check—Wilson in command—Seaton wounded—Arrival of Nicholson—Captures guns—The assault—The fate of the Princes—Pandy in a box.
A rumour had been going through the bazaars of India that the British rule was to be limited to one hundred years from the date of the Battle of Plassey (1757). The sepoy troops had grown self-confident and arrogant through the victories they had won under English officers, and fancied that they held the destiny of India in their own hands. Then came the story that the cartridges of the new Enfield rifles, which were just then being introduced among the native troops, were greased with fat of beef or pork, and were thus rendered unclean for Mohammedan and Hindoo alike. The sepoys, or native troops, believed that the new cartridges were being given out solely for the purpose of destroying their caste, and so of introducing Christianity by force.
Delhi, where the deposed King Bahadur Shah was living, was the centre and focus of rebellion; it was to Delhi that the first mutineers marched after killing their English officers. Sir Thomas Seaton has left us some picturesque stories of his part in the Mutiny. He had rejoined his native regiment at Rohtuck, forty-five miles from Delhi, after some years’ leave in England, and found the manners of the sepoy greatly changed for the worse. He writes:
“On the 4th of June I was in the mess-tent writing to the Adjutant-General about the hopeless state of the regiment, when the native Adjutant came in and said:
“‘Colonel, I wish particularly to speak to you.’
“It was close upon 5 p.m., and, as several officers were in the tent, I went outside with the Adjutant.
“‘Well, Shebbeare, what is it?’
“‘Why, Colonel, I have just heard from two of our drummers, who have their information from friends amongst the men, that the regiment is to mutiny to-night, murder the officers, and be off to Delhi.’
“Though I expected this, it was startling enough to hear it was so close at hand. And now that the great difficulty stared me in the face, how, with this small body of officers, was I to meet and grapple with reckless and determined mutineers? But as this was not the time to flinch or show indecision, I said:
“‘Well, Shebbeare, let me see the men. I’ll make a few inquiries first. I will go to the hospital. Do you lounge out that way too.’
“As I had been used to visit the hospital about this hour, my going there would excite no suspicion.
“In a few minutes I had found out that it was too true that an outbreak was planned for that night. Meanwhile I addressed the Adjutant:
“‘Now, Shebbeare, will you stand by me?’
“‘Yes, Colonel,’ replied the gallant fellow, ‘that I will.’
“‘Very well. Now, I’ll tell you what I propose to do. I will go on parade, and, as there is nothing like facing a difficulty, I’ll tax them with their intended outbreak, and we will see what they will do. Tell the officers to look out.’”
Seaton’s idea was that the men, finding he knew all about their plans, would be so disconcerted that they would put off the mutiny; we should probably gain a day or two of delay, and might hear that Delhi was taken or the mutineers defeated. So at sunset he went on parade, assembled the native officers in front, at some distance from their companies, and taxed them with their intended treachery. As he had expected, the sepoys were utterly confounded; they flatly denied the intended treachery, and swore by all their gods that they would be faithful to their salt, and that no harm should happen to the officers.
The native officers then begged permission to appoint a guard to keep watch in the camp at night, as there might be some badmashes in the regiment.
It was a dangerous experiment, but the only chance was to take things coolly, still seeming to trust the men, keeping at the same time a sharp look-out.
It was Seaton’s duty to keep the regiment together as long as possible at any risk. The Commander-in-Chief was marching on Delhi with a small force hurriedly got together; to have placed at this critical moment a regiment of mutineers in his rear would simply have been destruction, for they could have fortified some spot on the road and so cut off supplies from our camp.
Whilst he was taxing the native officers, the men of their companies were looking on—they were too far off to hear; but they took their cue from their officers and were quiet and respectful. Seaton left the circle of native officers, and went up and addressed each company, meeting with the same vows of fidelity.
As he came from parade after this trying scene, some officers inquired anxiously: “What is it, Colonel? Is it all right?”
“Oh yes. I think our throats will not be cut to-night.”
But his mind was not at ease until he had seen the guard for the night.
However, a few days passed quietly enough; but on the 8th a curious thing happened. As Seaton was going in the evening to visit the hospital, and was crossing a ditch, a young sepoy gave him a hand and whispered in his ear:
“Colonel Sahib, when your highness’ people shall have regained the Empire, I will make my petition to your highness.”
This was all he said, but Seaton could not help pondering on his meaning. Was this a warning to him of the coming outbreak of the regiment?
Resistance was out of the question, as he had only twelve English officers with him and one English sergeant. He was tormented by the ever-recurring thought that not only the lives of his officers, but perhaps the safety of our little army, might be dependent on himself. “All I could do,” he says, “was to trust in God’s mercy and goodness.”
The night of the 9th passed off quietly—all was still. In the morning he could detect nothing suspicious in camp. The men were civil and respectful to him personally. Some were parading for guard, some going to bathe, others preparing their food. Five of the young officers asked leave to go out shooting. Seaton had no objection, and they went. At 4 p.m., when he was in the usual camp hot-weather deshabille, all at once he was startled by a loud explosion. He ran out to see what was the matter, but neither saw nor heard anything strange—no crowd, not a sound, the men mostly sleeping after their day’s meal. He was going on when the havildar-major (native sergeant-major) came rushing up to him. Catching him in his arms, he said in a very agitated voice:
“Colonel Sahib, don’t go to the front.”
“Why not?”
“The Grenadiers are arming themselves. They have mutinied!”
The hour for which he had trembled had come at last. He tried to collect one or two of the native officers, but in vain. The havildar-major entreated him to be off whilst there was time. While the grooms were saddling the horses they heard musket-shots, and the havildar rushed past him. Immediately the whole body of the Grenadiers burst out of their tents, firing and shouting, in order to rouse the regiment and hurry it into mutiny.
The shouts and cries of terror, the galloping of horses, the report of muskets, all tended to confusion. Seaton had not time to take his sword, for the mutineers were within ten paces of him. He had got a few seconds’ start, and in a mêlée like this a second makes all the difference between life and eternity.
Just outside camp they overtook Major Drought, who was walking.
The havildar instantly cried: “Colonel, the poor old fellow will be murdered. I’ll put him on my horse and run for it.”
It was a noble and heroic act, for Shebbeare had been wounded by the mutineers. So they made Shebbeare get on the lee side of the Colonel’s horse; he laid hold of the stirrup, and off they went at a round canter.
After running 400 yards he got blown, and they pulled up to a walk. Soon they found the officers waiting for them at a bend in the road; they were all unhurt. After a time they saw clouds of smoke ascending, and knew that they were burning the tents. They kept on all night at a moderate pace. About 3 a.m. they heard a horseman coming along. Who could it be? They drew up and challenged.
“Who is there?”
“Sowar” (trooper).
“What sowar?”
“Hodson Sahib Ka Sowar” (one of Captain Hodson’s troopers). And then, saluting, he continued: “Are you the Sahib log? I have a letter for Colonel Cheetun Sahib.”
“Yes, come along; here is the Colonel Seaton.”
Seaton read the note by the light of a cigar vehemently smoked by an officer. It was to the effect that we had driven the rebels from the ridge into Delhi, and that our camp was pitched in the cantonments. So now they were all right, and knew where to find their camp. At 9 a.m. the Colonel dismounted at Sir H. Barnard’s tent.
They were all surprised to see him, as they had been informed that he and his officers were all killed: the young officers who had gone out shooting had been so informed, and had ridden to Delhi before them with the news.
Now all the belongings the Colonel had were his horse and the few clothes he stood in. He had to go round camp and beg: one gave him a coat, a shirt, and some cigars, another a sword and belt. He was made a member of the mess of the 1st E. B. Fusiliers, but had neither fork, spoon, plate, nor glass—for the mess merely provides food and dishes. However, he soon begged these or bought all he needed at a sale of an officer’s effects.
“My first night’s rest was heavenly,” he says. “I heard distinctly the firing, but it did not disturb me. I was lulled by a feeling of security to which I had been a stranger for many nights before the 60th mutinied. No wonder my sleep was profound.”
Delhi is situated on the right bank of the river Jumna. The walls are pear-shaped, on the river or eastern side rendered irregular by the excrescence of the old fort of Selimgurh. To the south the walls run to a point. Inland from Delhi is a ridge of rocks, which at its nearest point is about 1,400 yards from the walls. Our camp lay under the ridge, on the side away from the city; there were canals and swamps to protect us in rainy seasons. It was quite evident that a regular siege was out of the question, from the vast size of the place and from our want of guns, etc. A coup de main was our only resource. Accordingly a plan was drawn up by the Engineers and Hodson, and approved by the General. It was a hazardous step, but one and all were crying out “Take Delhi!”
Nor was this cry to be wondered at. Delhi, once the capital of the great Mogul Empire in India, strongly fortified, and supplied with war material, was now in the possession of our own trained sepoys. The King, once our puppet, had placed himself at the head of the rebellion, and Delhi had become the focus of insurrection.
Moreover, there was a vehement desire in camp for instant vengeance on the traitors in the city, who had cruelly murdered their officers, our brethren in arms, with their wives and little ones. One bold stroke now, every one said, would make us masters of Delhi. At the appointed hour the troops began to move down to their allotted posts.
All were waiting impatiently for the pickets from the ridge, but the proper time slipped by, and the assault was countermanded.
The storm of indignation in camp at the failure of this bold design was frightful. But, as Colonel Norman justly remarked, “It was one of those happy interpositions in our behalf of which we had such numbers to be thankful for.”
For, even if the rebels should have been driven out of Delhi, what if they rallied and returned in force? Our poor 3,000 men would have been swallowed up in the immensity of the city. The postponement of the assault gave the rebels full scope: it bred anarchy, confusion, and disorder, and the native trading population soon felt the difference between the violence and robbery of the sepoy domination and the peace and security they had enjoyed under us. But in camp the abandonment of the assault was followed by a period of despondency and gloom.
In a few days cheering news came from the Punjab. The Chief Commissioner, John Lawrence, aided by worthy officers, had made all safe at the chief points of danger. All through the Punjab the Hindoo cavalry and sepoys were being disarmed; the magazines had been secured; the Sikhs and Punjabees, men who had no sympathy with the mutineers, were being enrolled and formed into corps and re-armed. With bold and daring hand, that “out of this nettle, danger, plucks the flower safety,” Lawrence was gathering as volunteers from the warlike frontier tribes all the restless, turbulent spirits who might have been bitter foes in extremity. He took them into pay, and made them eager to march on Delhi, to assist in its capture and share in its plunder.
There were several sorties to repulse, and these small successes kept up the men’s spirits. In the first six weeks of the siege, or until the reinforcements began to flow in, night or day no man undressed, except for a few minutes for the necessary ablutions and changes of clothes, and this was not always possible. They lay down and slept in their clothes, with arms and ammunition either on or by their sides, ready to slip on the moment the alarm should be sounded.
The heat was fearful, yet day after day they had to stand for hours in the sun and hot wind, or, worst of all, to endure the torture of lying down on the burning rocks on the Ridge—baked by them on one side, whilst the sun was “doing” the other. Many an officer and man, struck by the sun and unable to rise, was carried off to hospital delirious and raving. The flies were in myriads, and added to their torments; they clung to hands and faces, they covered the food until it was uneatable, and they worried all incessantly until dusk. Many men had sunstroke twice; some who were wounded suffered from it also, and the great heat and fatigue began to tell on the soldiers, and sent them into hospital, from whence many were never to return.
Fortunately, food in camp was both abundant and good; the troops got their meals and their dram of grog with great regularity.
It was quite amusing to see the cook-boys of companies bring up the dinners to their respective squads. Battery or advanced picket, it was all the same to them; cannonade or no cannonade—it made no difference, they were sure to come.
A large flat shallow basket held twenty or more metal plates; on each a piece of beef and some nicely browned potatoes, all smoking and frizzling from a few bits of live charcoal in a small earthen pan under each.
On the 18th, the 15th and 30th Native Infantry, with the famous Jellalabad battery—Abbott’s battery that was—marched into Delhi, to the great joy of the mutineers and the King.
At noon on the 19th the rebels began to pour out of Delhi in great numbers. The alarm was sounded, and in a few minutes every one was at his post; but as no enemy appeared, the troops were allowed to return to their tents.
A gun fired in their rear startled the English; then galloped up a trooper to say that the Pandies (as they called the rebels) were killing the grass-cutters and carrying off the cattle. Then troops were sent out, and fighting went on long after dusk. The casualty list was heavy: a limber of Scott’s battery was blown up, while one of Turner’s guns was disabled and left on the field. “I well remember the gloomy impression which the result of this fight made on our minds. It was our first check.”
Next morning a strong party was sent out to the scene of action. To their great surprise, there was Turner’s gun; there also a gun and two ammunition waggons abandoned by the rebels. There were so many evidences on the field that the enemy had suffered severely that all gloom and despondency were quite relieved.
This was the most trying period of the whole siege. If an officer sat down to write a letter or to shave himself the alarm was sure to sound, and he was compelled to throw down his pen or razor, buckle on his sword, and rush out to his post.
The 23rd of June was the centenary of the Battle of Plassey, and their spies told the English officers they were to be attacked at all points. They began to fight at sunrise, and, strange to say, in the very height of the mêlée our first reinforcements marched into camp! Three times the rebels assaulted our position, each time being repulsed with great loss. “We drove them back, and then we began a series of attacks on houses, gardens and enclosures filled with mutineers, whom we cleared out; our heavy guns hastened or retarded their flight into the city.
“I look upon this day as the turning-point in the siege: our first reinforcements had come in, and we had gained an important victory over the rebels.”
Soon was seen a great smoke beyond Delhi: they were burning their dead!
“Of the many interpositions of a merciful Providence in our behalf during this wonderful siege,” says Seaton, “I think the most striking was this—that the rains were so abundant and the season so favourable that cholera was in a comparatively mild form. The rains filled the Jumna on one side and the canal on the other, thus forming, as it were, a wall to the right and left of our road to the Punjab, guarding it more effectually than many thousand men could have done.”
During the night of the 4th it rained in torrents. Colonel Seaton was driven into the Flagstaff Tower for shelter, but could only get standing room, so he went and visited the pickets, and sentries, and returned soaked through and through. He then lighted a cigar and stood about till daylight, when the picket turned out and he turned in and slept till sunrise.
At sunrise he was relieved, after thirty-six hours on duty. On getting into camp he found his own tent pitched, his servants all waiting, clean clothes, washing tackle, a clean breakfast table, and Hodson, with a smiling face, waiting for him.
“We felt like men who had just inherited large fortunes! My things had been sent on from Alipore. Oh! it was a comfort to get my own clothes and uniform, to be able to appear in camp once more dressed like a gentleman, and to have the attendance of my own servant.”
On the night of the 5th of July General Sir H. Barnard died of cholera, brought on by fatigue and anxiety of mind.
General Wilson began on a new system. They no longer attacked the villages, losing men and gaining little. They were now to remain on the defensive, and to burn or bury all corpses. For it was sickening to see the dogs and jackals, disturbed by the burying-parties, slowly waddling off, fat and gorged with their horrible feast.
Until buried the rebels were still enemies: their effluvia carried death into our ranks. As a sergeant once said: “Them Pandies, sir, is wuss when they are killed.”
On the 19th they received the first intelligence of the Cawnpore tragedy—of Wheeler’s capitulation and destruction—causing great depression in camp and more cholera.
They had been clearing the gardens of rebels beyond the Metcalfe grounds when Seaton saw two of Coke’s men coming along, carrying Captain Law, who had just been killed. He stopped to help them, and was stooping to take the men’s muskets when he was struck full on the left breast by a musket-ball fired at thirty-five paces’ distance. The blow was so violent that he was nearly knocked off his horse, and for some seconds could not breathe, the blood rushing from his mouth in foam. He naturally thought he was done for, but as soon as his breath came again, he opened his clothes and found out the course of the ball.
Seeing that no air issued from the wound, he secured his sword and pistol, and, dismounting from his horse, led him over a broken wall, and was on the point of falling headlong in a faint when the two men he had tried to help took him under the arms and got him to the Metcalfe picket.
The men there ran to meet him: one gave him a drop of rum and water, others brought a charpoy (native bedstead) and carried him off to the doctor. On the way he met Hodson, who galloped off at once to camp, so when they reached his tent, he found the doctor waiting and everything ready. The ball had struck on a rib, fractured it, driven it down on the lung, and then had passed out at his back. Hodson cared for him with the affection of a brother. He was to lie quite still and not speak for a week.
On the 1st of August the doctor took off this embargo—Seaton was recovering rapidly. In Delhi, our spies said, the Pandies were all jealous of one another and would not act in concert. The rebel sepoy carried in a purse round his waist the gold he had made by selling his share of our plundered treasures; this gold made him unwilling to risk his life in battle and made him suspect his comrades.
Their wounded were in a horrible state: there were no surgeons to perform any operations, no attendants to bring food or water. The limbs of some were rotting off with gangrene, others had wounds filled with maggots from neglect; all were bitterly contrasting their lot with the life of comfort they had enjoyed under British government. The old King, too, was in despair, and vented it in some poor poetry.
On the 7th of August there was a tremendous explosion in the city, and next day they heard that a powder manufactory had blown up, killing 400 people.
“About this time”—to quote the words of one who wrote a history of this siege—“a stranger of very striking appearance was remarked visiting all our pickets, examining everything, making most searching inquiries about their strength and history. His attire gave no clue to his rank; it evidently never gave the owner a thought. He was a man cast in a giant mould, with massive chest and powerful limbs, and an expression ardent and commanding, with a dash of roughness, features of stern beauty, a long black beard, and deep, sonorous voice. There was something of immense strength, talent, and resolution in his whole gait and manner, and a power of ruling men on high occasions that no one could escape noticing at once. His imperial air, which never left him, and which would have been thought arrogant in one of less imposing mien, sometimes gave offence to his own countrymen, but made him almost worshipped by the pliant Asiatics. Such a man would have risen rapidly from the ranks of the legions to the throne of the Cæsars; but in the service of the British it was thought wonderful that he became a Brigadier-General when, by seniority, he could only have been a Captain.”
The stranger thus described was Nicholson, the best man that Sir John Lawrence possessed in the Punjab. He had ridden ahead of his force to consult with General Wilson before Delhi. On the following day he returned to his force, On the 14th he again rode into the English camp at the head of his column—a splendid addition of 4,200 men to the besiegers. The small force upon the ridge now amounted to 8,000 men of all arms; the siege-train was on its way, and despair began to settle down on the rebels in the city and on the Princes.
They had heard of the defeat of the Nana, and of Havelock’s entry into Cawnpore; they knew that fresh troops were coming from Calcutta, and that Nicholson, whose name had spread far and wide, had arrived in our camp with a large force. They knew, too, that this compact force of white men was swayed by one arm and governed by one will. Every soul in Delhi knew that John Lawrence directed the storm that was gathering around them, and the cold, dread shadow of the coming event was creeping over the shuddering city. A look through our camp would have shaken the courage of the boldest rebel. Instead of tents half filled with sick men, our camp now was teeming with soldiers of various races, all cheerful and confident. Hodson’s men were mostly Sikhs, tall and slender, yet wiry and strong; their clothes of ash colour, with wrist-band, turban, and sash over the left shoulder, all of bright crimson. In contrast with these were Coke’s men, more wild and picturesque, with large turbans of dark blue and enormous waist-bands. Their lofty stature, long hair, bright black eyes, sandalled feet, and bold look, would have made them remarkable anywhere.
Our artillery park, too, was filled with guns captured from the mutineers. The battery-train was on its way, but it was reported by spies that a very strong body of rebels was about to leave the city to attempt its capture. Nicholson was sent out with 700 cavalry and 1,200 infantry, and three troops of horse artillery, to head them off. He returned in triumph, bringing with him thirteen captured guns. In Nicholson’s fight the following incident occurred, which shows a little bit of the native character:
A rebel native officer was overtaken in his flight from the field by a man of Green’s Punjab regiment. The officer immediately went down on his knees in the midst of a pool of water, and putting up his hands, roared out: “I’ve been forty years in the Company’s service, and thirteen years a Subadar. Spare—oh, spare my life!” With an execration and a very rude term of abuse the Punjabee thrust his bayonet into the traitor.
On the 4th of September the long-expected battery-train arrived in camp, with an ample supply of shot, shell, and powder for all the guns.
The activity in the Engineers’ camp was now pushed to the utmost, and all the material for trenches and batteries was accumulated with great rapidity.
To prevent the men plundering, the General promised that all the captured property should be prize, and prize agents were appointed.
We were about to throw a small force of about 4,500 men into a city seven miles in circumference, a perfect maze of narrow streets and gullies, abounding in strong blocks of houses, where one might expect that the defence would be obstinate.
On the night of the 7th 1,300 men in working and covering parties were sent down with the Engineers to open trenches and erect the first siege-battery against Delhi. On the 12th the whole of the batteries were completed, and in full play on the parts of the walls intended to be breached or shelled. The parapet was soon knocked off, each block of masonry rarely requiring more than two well-planted shots to demolish it completely. There was outside the wall a ditch 25 feet wide and 16 feet deep, before crossing which it was necessary that all the parapets and bastions should be cleared of their defenders. The army inside Delhi numbered at least 40,000 men; the besiegers only 11,000, after all their reinforcements had come in. Of these only 3,300 were Europeans. Our heavy guns were 54 in number, while those in the city amounted to 300.
There was considerable risk in attempting to storm under such conditions. One of the batteries was only 160 yards from the Water Bastion, and the heavy guns had to be dragged up to it, through the open, under a heavy fire of musketry. Baird Smith, the Chief Engineer, prepared all the plans; Alexander Taylor superintended their execution. With the very first shot the masonry of the fortifications began to fly. Fifty-four guns and mortars belched out havoc on the city. Cheers rang out from our men as the smoke cleared away, and they saw the dreaded bastions crumbling into ruins, while the defenders were forced to seek shelter far away in the city. For the next forty-eight hours there was no cessation of the roar of artillery. The worn-out gunners would throw themselves down to snatch a short sleep beneath their very guns, while volunteers filled their place; then, springing up again, they would go on with their task with fresh ardour.
The sepoys were fighting on with the courage of despair. They ran out light guns to enfilade our batteries; they manned the gardens in front of the city with sharp-shooters to pick off our gunners.
On the evening of the 13th the breaches in the walls were to be examined, and so at dusk Lieutenants Greathed, Home, Medley, and Lang, of the Engineers, were sent to execute their dangerous mission. As the hour struck ten the batteries ceased firing, and the four young officers, slipping out of the gardens with a small covering party of the 60th Rifles, crept forward to the edge of the glacis, Greathed and Home going to the Water, Medley and Lang to the Cashmere Bastion. A ladder was quietly lowered, Medley and Lang descended, and found themselves on the edge of the ditch; but the enemy heard them, and several ran towards them. The Englishmen saw that the breach was practicable, so rose and ran back, being followed by a harmless volley. Greathed and Home returned safely also, and reported that all was favourable.
Then was the thrilling order made known: “The assault at 3 a.m.!”
No. 1. column, under Nicholson, were to assault the Cashmere Bastion; No. 2, under Colonel James, the Water Bastion; No. 3, under Colonel Campbell, to enter by the Cashmere Gate; No. 4, under Major Reid, to attack Kissengunge.
To Nicholson fell the post of honour. Sir John Lawrence had sent him down “to take Delhi,” and the whole army was willing that he should have that honour. He was to head the first column in person. Our batteries redoubled their roar whilst the columns were taking up their positions, throwing shells to drive the enemy away from the breaches. The morning was just breaking; the thunder of our artillery was at its loudest, when all at once it stopped. Every one could hear his heart beat.
The Rifles now ran forward as skirmishers to cover the advance of the assaulting columns, and the men, who had been lying on the ground, now sprang up, and, with a cheer, made for the walls. They crossed the glacis, and left it behind them dotted with wounded men; they went down into the ditch—many to stay there; but the ladders were planted against the scarp, and very soon the dangers of the escalade were over. Soon the whole line of ramparts which faced the ridge was ours; the British flag was once more run up upon the Cabul Gate.
Meanwhile at the Cashmere Gate there had been some delay. Lieutenants Home and Salkeld, with some sergeants and native sappers, had at sunrise crossed the beams of the bridge, from which the rebels had removed the planking, and in broad daylight, without a particle of cover, had laid their powder-bags. The enemy were so daunted by this daring act that, when they saw Home coming, they hastily shut the wicket, and he and his men laid the bags and jumped down into the ditch unhurt.
Salkeld was not so fortunate. The rebels fired on him from the top of the gateway, and he fell. Sergeant Burgess caught up the portfire, but was shot dead. Carmichael fired the fuse, and fell mortally wounded.
Sergeant Smith, finding the fuse was alight, threw himself into the ditch, and instantly the gate was burst open with a tremendous crash.
A Daring Deed: Blowing-up the Cashmere Gate, Delhi
In broad daylight, and without a particle of cover, Lieuts. Home and Salkeld, with a few sappers, laid their powder bags and fired them. Salkeld and some of the others were shot before they could escape.
The bugler sounded the advance, and with a cheer our men rushed through the gateway, and met the other columns, who had carried their respective breaches. The Lahore Gate alone defied our attempts, and Nicholson called for volunteers to follow him through the narrow street towards the Lahore Gate.
As he strode forward, sword in hand, though there was death in every window and on every house-top, his great stature marked him out as a target for the enemy, and he fell, mortally wounded, the one man England wanted most.
The long autumn day was over, and we were in Delhi, but had not taken it. Sixty-six officers and 1,100 men had fallen, while not a sixth part of the city was ours. Many of our men were lying drunk in the shops. Had the sepoys possessed a General, they might have recovered the ridge, and taken our whole camp, defended as it was mainly by the sick and wounded.
On the next day, by order of General Wilson, vast quantities of beer, wine, and brandy were destroyed. On the 16th active operations were resumed. By sapping gradually from house to house we managed to avoid street fighting and slowly pressed the rebels back into the ever-narrowing part of the city from which, like rats, they streamed.
Whilst Seaton was in the Cashmere Gateway, he saw some artillerymen who were on duty there rummaging about. One of them was looking into a long arm-chest, when all at once he slammed down the lid, sat upon it sharp, and roared out: “Hi! Bill, run! be quick! Here’s a devil of a Pandy in the box!”
Bill lost no time in attending to his comrade’s request, and others running up to see what it was, they pulled out of the box a fine powerful sepoy, who was taken at once to the ditch and disposed of without more ceremony.
On the 18th, between 9 and 10 a.m., there was an eclipse of the sun. There is little doubt that this had a great effect on the minds of the superstitious natives, for they now began to leave the city in streams.
On the morning of the 20th, as the city in the direction of the palace seemed to be deserted, Colonel Jones came down with a column; a powder-bag was applied to the palace gates, a few defenders were slain, and the British flag was hoisted.
That night the mess dinner was laid in the celebrated Dewan Khas, the marble building that Moore describes in “Lalla Rookh.”
The inner room is the King’s throne-room, and round the walls, inlaid with black marble, are the famous words: “If there be an elysium on earth, it is this.”
The habits of the late King and family rendered that elysium a very dirty one, though the white marble was inlaid with coloured stones in flowers and arabesques. The houses and huts in which the Princes of the royal blood lived with their wives and children were a perfect rabbit-warren, so closely packed were they. The exterior walls enclosing the palace are 60 feet high, and built of red sandstone, loopholed and crenellated, and make a noble appearance.
But the squalor and filth in the whole place were inconceivable. As none of the Princes could engage in any business, the pittance they had to live on barely supplied the necessaries of life. Seaton saw some of the Princes. He says: “There was no trace of nobility, either of birth or of mind, in their faces. They were stamped with everything vile, gross, ignoble, sensual. Noble blood is a fine thing, but a noble heart is better, and will shine through the most forbidding features; but these wretches, with the cold, calm hand of death on them, showed nothing of kingly descent or nobility of heart, their countenances being as forbidding as the despicable passions in which they had indulged could make them.”
It was laughable to see what rubbish was found in the palace. In one room were found at least 200 pair of those trousers which Mohammedan ladies wear instead of petticoats. Some of these were so stiff with brocaded silk that they must have needed a hearty kick with each foot at every step.
The quantities of pots and pans which they had amassed would have furnished a whole street of dealers; then, there were telescopes and guns and other valuables.
Much blame has been cast on Hodson for his severity to the royal family. He fetched out the King and three Princes from the tomb where they had taken refuge. The Princes were in a native carriage, and as they drew near to Delhi an immense crowd surged round them, which was increasing every moment, pressing on Hodson’s few men. They could hardly proceed. Hodson, perhaps fearing a rescue, ordered the three prisoners to get out. The poor wretches, seeing that something was about to happen, put up their hands and fell at his feet, begging that their lives might be spared.
Hodson merely said, “Choop ruho” (be silent); “take off your upper garments.” They did so. Then, “Get into the cart.” They obeyed.
Hodson then took a carbine from one of his men, and shot them all three. Then, turning to his men, he said: “These three men whom I have just shot are the three Princes who contrived and commenced the slaughter of our innocent women and children, and thus retributive vengeance has fallen on them.”
The crowd, overawed, parted, and the carriage passed on. The bodies were exposed on the very spot where our unfortunate countrymen had been exposed. It seems cruel and vindictive, but we are judging in security. Hodson had an angry people to daunt, and their sense of justice to satisfy.
One must do our soldiers the justice to say that, though infuriated by the slaughter of their officers and countrymen, with their wives and children, inflamed by the news of the Cawnpore massacre, not an old man, not a woman or child, was wilfully hurt by them. As Seaton was waiting on the 20th by the Palace Gate, some soldiers were bringing along an old man, whom they held by the arms. He went up and said to them: “Remember you are Christian men, and he is very old.”
“Oh, sir!” was the reply, “we doesn’t forget that. We don’t mean him no harm. We only wants a bit of baccy.”
So he let them go on, and in a few minutes saw them stuffing their pipes, and the old fellow genially bringing a coal to light them.
“I have seen hundreds of instances where the greatest humanity and kindness were shown, both to young and old, as well as to females, by our noble-hearted fellows, even in their wildest moments.”
From Major-General Sir Thomas Seaton’s “From Cadet to Colonel.” By kind permission of Messrs. G. Routledge and Sons.
[CHAPTER XI]
THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW (31st of May to 25th of September, 1857)
Firing at close quarters—Adventures of fugitives—Death of Sir H. Lawrence—His character—Difficulty of sending letters—Mines and counter-mines—Fulton killed—Signs of the relief coming—A great welcome—Story of the escape from Cawnpore.
For about ten days previous to the outbreak at Lucknow daily reports were made that an émeute was intended, and Sir Henry Lawrence, the brother of Sir John Lawrence, had ordered all kinds of stores to be bought and stored. The ladies and children had been removed from the cantonments to the Residency in the city, which was already occupied by a party of the 32nd foot and two guns.
The 9 p.m. gun on the 30th of May was evidently the signal for the mutiny to begin, as a few minutes after it had been fired, whilst Sir Henry and his staff were at dinner at the Residency, a sepoy came running in, and reported a disturbance in the lines.
Sir Henry took two guns and a company of the 32nd, and took post on the road leading to the town. Meanwhile bands of insurgents began to plunder and burn our officers’ bungalows. Many officers had wonderful escapes from death; some were killed by the rebels. Muchee Bhawun, the residence of the late King, had been selected as a fitting place of security and retreat: it was being strengthened and supplied with stores.
On June 10 houses and buildings around began to be demolished; tents were set apart for the European refugees who arrived daily from the districts.
On June 12 the military police mutinied in a body, and went off to Cawnpore; they were pursued for eight miles and about twenty were killed.
On June 15 a hundred barrels of gunpowder were brought from the Muchee Bhawun and buried in the Residency enclosure; twenty-three lacs of rupees were also buried in front of the Residency to save the use of sentries. Cash payments were now suspended, the men being paid by promissory notes.
On June 20 large stacks of firewood, covered with earth, were placed to protect the front of the Residency: they formed an embankment 6 feet high, and embrasures were cut through them for the guns, of which there were four 9-pounders on that side.
A letter arrived from Cawnpore giving very bad news. The enemy had shelled them for the last eight days with fearful effect within their crowded trenches, and one-third of their number had been killed. More guns are brought in. They hear that eight or ten regiments of rebels are within twenty miles of Lucknow.
On June 28 Mrs. Dorin, wife of Lieutenant Dorin, arrived at evening in a country cart, disguised as a native and accompanied by some clerks. The enemy are nine miles off. Though a force was sent out to meet them, we had to retire before overwhelming numbers, with the loss of the 8-inch howitzer and three 9-pounders.
The rebels came boldly on, investing the English on all sides, and firing from all the houses round, which they rapidly loopholed.
July 1.—We managed to send message to blow up the Muchee Bhawun fort and come to the Residency at 12 p.m., bringing the treasure and guns. We opened fire from our batteries in order to distract the attention of the enemy from them.
At 12.15 they were at the Lower Water Gate. Here there was some delay, as the gates had not yet been opened. A very serious accident had nearly happened, for the leading men, finding the gate closed, shouted out, “Open the gates!” but the artillerymen at the guns above, which covered the entrance, mistook the words for “Open with grape,” and were on the point to fire when an officer ran up and put them right. The whole force came in safely, not a shot being fired. The explosion which had been ordered had not yet taken place, but soon a tremor of the earth, a volume of fire, a terrific report, and a mass of black smoke shooting up into the air announced to Lucknow that 240 barrels of gunpowder and 594,000 rounds of ball and gun ammunition had completed the destruction of Muchee Bhawun, which we had fortified with so much labour.
Strange stories were told by some of the refugees from outlying districts. Here is one told by the wife of a surgeon: “I heard a number of shots fired in our station, and looking out, I saw my husband driving furiously from the mess-house. I ran to him, and, catching up my child, got into the buggy. At the mess-house we found all the officers assembled, with sixty sepoys who had remained faithful.
“As we went our homes were seen to be on fire. Next morning our sepoy escort deserted us. We were fired on by matchlock men and lost one officer. We had no food. An officer kindly lent us a horse. We were very faint. Our party now was only nine gentlemen, two children, the sergeant, and his wife. On the 20th Captain Scott took my little two-year-old Lottie on to his horse. Soon after sunrise we were followed by villagers armed with clubs and spears. One of them struck Captain Scott’s horse on the leg. He galloped off with Lottie, and my poor husband never saw his child again.
“We rode on several miles, keeping away from villages, and then crossed the river. Our thirst was extreme. Soon I saw water in a ravine. I climbed down the steep descent. Our only drinking-vessel was M.’s cap (which had once been a sepoy’s). Our horse got water and I bathed my neck. I had no stockings and my feet were torn and blistered. My husband was very weak, and, I thought, dying. He wished me good-bye as he lay on the ground. My brain seemed burnt up: no tears came. Our horse cantered away, so that escape was cut off. We sat down on the ground waiting for death. Poor fellow! he was very weak; his thirst was frightful, and I went to get him water. Some villagers came and took my rupees and watch. I took off my wedding-ring, twisted it in my hair and replaced the guard. I tore off the skirt of my dress to bring water in; but it was no use, for when I returned, my beloved’s eyes were fixed, and, though I called and tried to restore him and poured water into his mouth, it only rattled in his throat. He never spoke to me again, and he gradually sank down and died. I was alone. In an hour or so about thirty villagers came. They dragged me out of the ravine and took off my jacket; then they dragged me to a village, mocking me all the way. The whole village came to look at me. I lay down outside the door of a hut. They had dozens of cows, and yet refused me milk. When night came and the village was quiet, some old woman brought me a leafful of rice. The next morning a neighbouring Rajah sent a palanquin and a horseman to fetch me, who told me that a little child and three sahibs had come to his master’s house. That little child was my Lottie! She was sorely blistered, but, thank God! alive and well.”
That is the sort of experience some ladies went through—ladies that had never before known what thirst or privation or insult was like.
July 2.—About 8 a.m. Sir Henry returned to the Residency and lay down on his bed. Soon after an 8-inch shell from the enemy’s howitzer entered the room at the window and exploded. A fragment struck the Brigadier-General on the upper part of the right thigh near the hip, inflicting a fearful wound.
Captain Wilson, who was standing alongside the bed with one knee on it, reading a memorandum to Sir Henry, was knocked down by falling bricks. Mr. Lawrence, Sir Henry’s nephew, had an equally narrow escape, but was not hurt. The fourth person in the room, a native servant, lost one of his feet by a fragment of the shell. The ceiling and the punkah all came down, and the dust and smoke prevented anyone seeing what had happened.
Neither Sir Henry nor his nephew uttered a sound, and Captain Wilson, as soon as he recovered from the concussion, called out in alarm: “Sir Henry, are you hurt?”
Twice he thus called out and got no reply. After the third time Sir Henry said in a low tone: “I am killed.”
His bed was being soaked with blood. Some soldiers of the 32nd soon came in and placed Sir Henry in a chair. When the surgeon came he saw that human aid was useless. Lucknow and England had lost what could never be replaced. For all who ever came in contact with Sir Henry Lawrence recognized in him a man of unstained honour, a lover of justice, pure, unselfish and noble. His successor, Brigadier Inglis, wrote of him: “Few men have ever possessed to the same extent the power which he enjoyed of winning the hearts of all those with whom he came in contact.” He gained also by his frankness the trust of the natives, who said of him: “When Sir Henry looks twice up to heaven and once down to earth, and then strokes his beard, he knows what to do.” His dying wish was that, if any epitaph were placed on his tomb, it should be this: “Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty.” He had indeed tried to do his duty towards the defence of Lucknow. Three weeks before anyone else thought of a siege he began to collect supplies, and even paid for them much over their market value. He collected and buried much treasure in the grounds of the Residency; he stored up in underground cellars guns and mortars, shot and shell and grain; strengthened the outworks, and cleared the ground of small buildings around. Even then the assailants and the besieged were quite close to each other, and no man on either side dared expose himself to fire his musket: they fired through loopholes in the walls. This placed a never-ending strain on the besieged, for they never knew when to expect an assault. On the one side of a narrow lane were myriads of swarthy foemen, on the other side a few hundreds, who were bound always to be ready, day and night, to meet a storming party. All through the siege officers and men alike stood sentry; all bore an equal burden of toil and fighting.
The stench, too, from dead animals was dreadful: they had so few servants, and the fighting men were so harassed, that they were helpless to bury them.
Heavy showers night and day kept the garrison drenched to the skin, and they had no change of clothes. The sick and wounded were much crowded, as they could not use the upper story of the hospital because it was under fire of round shot.
August 12.—A letter to General Havelock, rolled up and put inside a quill, was despatched by the hands of an old woman. She left the position about 9 p.m., and it was hoped she would be permitted to pass the enemy’s sentries. During the past forty-five days they had sent by different hands, in a similar manner, some twenty letters. To only one of these was any reply received.
August 18.—At daylight the enemy exploded a large mine under one of the principal posts. The three officers and three sentries on the top of the house were blown up into the air; the guard below were all buried in the ruins. The officers, though much stunned, recovered and escaped. A clear breach had been made in our defences to the extent of 30 feet in breadth. One of the enemy’s leaders sprung on the top of the breach and called on his comrades to follow; but when he and another had been shot the rest hung back. Boxes, doors, planks, etc., were rapidly carried down to make cover to protect the men.
August 23.—There was work nightly for at least 300 men, as they had the defences to repair daily, mines to countermine, guns to remove, corpses to bury, rations to serve out. The Europeans were not capable of much exertion, as from want of sleep, hard work, and constant exposure, their bodily strength was greatly diminished. The ladies had to be removed, as the upper story of Mr. Gubbins’ house was no longer safe, owing to the number of round shot through it. It was difficult to find quarters for them, every place being so crowded, and the ladies were already four and five together in small, badly ventilated native dwellings. Dreadful smells pervaded the whole place, from the half-buried bodies of men, horses, and bullocks, and also from the drains.
September 9.—During the night a shell exploded in a room occupied by a lady and some children, and, though almost every article in the room was destroyed, they all escaped unhurt. Finding that the enemy were rapidly mining towards the Cawnpore battery, they sprung a mine containing 200 pounds of powder. The effect was tremendous, and it evidently astonished the enemy to see their miners going up skywards in fragments.
As the uniforms wore out they clothed themselves as they could. One officer had a coat made out of an old billiard cloth; another wore a shirt made out of a floor-cloth. They had no tobacco, and had to smoke dried tea-leaves.
“September 14.—A grievous loss to-day: Captain Fulton, of the Engineers, while reconnoitring from a battery, was killed by a round shot which struck him on the head. He had conducted all the engineering operations of the siege for a long time. He was a highly gifted, brave and chivalrous officer, and a great favourite.”
September 22.—About 11 p.m. Ungud, pensioner, returned to Lucknow, bringing a letter containing the glad tidings that the relieving force, under General Outram, had crossed the Ganges, and would arrive in a few days.
His arrival and the cheering news he brought of speedy aid was well timed, for daily desertions of servants were becoming the rule. All the garrison were greatly elated at the news, and on many of the sick and wounded the speedy prospect of a change of air and security exercised a most beneficial effect.
September 25.—About 11 a.m. increasing agitation was visible among the people in the town. An hour later they heard guns and saw the smoke. All the garrison was on the alert; the excitement amongst many of the officers and men was quite painful to witness. At 1.30 p.m. many were leaving the city with bundles of clothes on their heads. The rebels’ bridge of boats had evidently been destroyed, for they could see many swimming across the river, most of them cavalry, with their horses’ bridles in their hands. During all this apparent panic the guns of the enemy in position all round were keeping up a heavy cannonade, and the riflemen never ceased firing from their loopholes.
At 4 p.m. report was made that some officers dressed in shooting-coats and caps, a regiment of Europeans in blue pantaloons and shirts, could be seen near Mr. Martin’s house. At 5 p.m. volleys of musketry, rapidly growing louder, were heard in the city. But soon the firing of a minie-ball over their heads gave notice of the still nearer approach of their friends. It was very exciting, but they as yet could see little of them, though they could hear the rebels firing on them from the roofs of the houses.
Will they again be repulsed? The heart sickens at the thought. No. Five minutes later, and our troops are seen fighting their way through one of the principal streets, and though men are falling at almost every step, yet on they come. Nothing can withstand the headlong gallantry of our reinforcements. Once fairly seen and all doubts and fears are ended. And now the garrison’s long pent-up feelings of anxiety and suspense burst forth in a succession of deafening cheers. From every pit, trench and battery, from behind the sand-bags piled up on shattered houses, from every post still held by a few gallant spirits, rose cheer on cheer—aye, even from the hospital.
Many of the wounded were crawling forth to join in that glad shout of welcome to those who had so bravely come to their assistance. The ladies were in tears—tears of joy; some were on their knees, already thanking God for a deliverance from unspeakable horrors. It was a moment never to be forgotten. Soon all the rearguard and heavy guns were inside our position, and then ensued a scene which baffles description. For eighty-seven days the Lucknow garrison had lived in utter ignorance of all that had taken place outside. Wives who had mourned their husbands as dead were again restored to them; others, fondly looking forward to glad meetings with those near and dear to them, now for the first time learnt that they were alone in the world. On all sides eager inquiries were made for relations and friends. Oh, what a hubbub of voices, what exclamations of delight, what sad silences!
The force under the command of Sir James Outram and Havelock had suffered heavily. Out of 2,600 who had left Cawnpore nearly one-third had been either killed or wounded in forcing their way through the city. Indeed, their losses were so heavy that they could effect little towards the relief, for the rebels were in overpowering force, so that the garrison remained on three-quarter rations, as closely besieged as before, looking for a day when they might be more effectually relieved by a larger and stronger force.
Then, after the personal inquiries had died down, with bated breath they asked for news of Cawnpore. What a tale of horror, of pride, of shame! On the 5th of June, so they were told, the Cawnpore regiments mutinied and set off for Delhi. On the 6th they were brought back by Nana Sahib, a man who had once been well received in London drawing-rooms, now the arch-traitor and murderer.
Not less than 1,000 persons took refuge in the Residency, which Nana proceeded to invest. It was a poor, weak place to defend, yet they kept the flag flying till the 24th of June, when their ammunition and provisions were all gone. Time after time the gallant little garrison repulsed all the Nana’s attacks. At length he approached them with treacherous smiles, and offered to transmit them safely to Allahabad on conditions of surrender. General Sir Hugh Wheeler undertook to deliver up the fortifications, the treasure, and the artillery on condition that our force should march out under arms, with sixty rounds of ammunition to every man; that carriages should be provided for the conveyance of the wounded, the women, and the children; that boats provided with flour should be in readiness at the landing-place.
What happened was described by one who had been on the spot. He said:
“The whole of Cawnpore was astir at an early hour to see the English depart. They poured down to the landing-place in thousands. Meanwhile a crowd of carriages and beasts of burden had been collected outside the entrenchments. The bullock-carts were soon filled with women and children. A fine elephant had been sent for the General, but he put his wife and daughters in the state howdah, and contented himself with a simple palanquin. The wounded were placed in litters with such care as soldiers could employ. Many sepoys mingling with the crowd expressed admiration for the British defence; some even wept over the sufferings of their late masters. Eleven dying Europeans were left behind, too ill to be moved.
“They set off, with the men of the 32nd Regiment at their head; then came a throng of naked bearers, carrying the palanquins full of sick and wounded; then came the bullock-carts crowded with ladies and children; and next, musket on shoulder, came all who could still walk and fight. Major Vibart of the Second Cavalry came last. Colonel and Mrs. Ewart started late, she on foot, walking beside her husband, who was borne by four native porters. As they dropped astern some natives belonging to the Colonel’s own battalion approached him. They began to mock him, and then cut him in pieces with their swords. They did the same to his wife.
“The road to the landing-place, which is about a mile from the entrenchments, runs down a ravine, which in summer is dry, and is enclosed on either side by high banks and crumbling fences. As the van turned down this ravine a great mob of natives watched them go in a strange silence.
“Rather disorderly, with swaying howdahs and grunting beasts, the unwieldy caravan wound along the sandy lane. When they were all entangled in the little defile some sepoys quietly formed a double line across the mouth of the gorge, shutting, as it were, the top of the trap.
“Meanwhile the head of the caravan had reached the landing-place, being a little surprised at the want of a pier or planks to serve as gangway.
“But the English officers went in knee-deep and hoisted the wounded and the women into the covered barges, which had been hauled into the shallows, and were in many cases grounded on the sandy bottom. The boats were 30 feet from stem to stern and 12 feet in beam, roofed with straw, having a space at each end for the rowers and the steersman. They looked very old and dilapidated, but beggars may not choose. Hindoo boatmen were waiting sullenly and silently, not deigning to return a smile to the little English children, who already began to scent fun and enjoyment in a long river excursion.
“All at once a bugle rang out from the top of the defile. Away splashed the native rowers, jumping from their boats into the water.
“The rebels put up their muskets and fired point-blank into the laden boats; but the English had their rifles, and returned the fire.
“Yet another surprise! Suddenly the straw roofs of the native boats burst into flame, and from either shore of the river grape and musket shot were poured in relentlessly. The wounded lay still and were burnt to death. Ladies and children sought the protection of the water, and crouched in the shallows under the sterns of the barges. The men tried to push off, but the keels stuck fast. Out of two dozen boats only three drifted slowly down from the stage. Of these three two went across to the Oude bank, where stood two cannon, guarded by a battalion of infantry and some cavalry. The third boat, containing Vibart and Whiting and Ushe, Delafosse and Bolton, Burney and Glanville and Moore, the bravest of the brave, got clear away, and drifted down the main channel.”
Mrs. Bradshaw thus describes what she saw: “In the boat where I was to have gone were the school-mistress and twenty-two missies. General Wheeler came last in a palkee. They carried him into the water near a boat. I was standing close by. He said, ‘Carry me a little further near the boat.’ But a trooper said, ‘No; get out here.’ As the General got out of the palkee, head foremost, the trooper gave him a cut with his sword into the neck, and he fell into the water. My son was killed near him. I saw it—alas! alas! Some were stabbed with bayonets; others were cut down with swords and knives. Little infants were torn in pieces. We saw it, we did, and tell you only what we saw. Other children were stabbed and thrown into the river. The school-girls were burnt to death. I saw their clothes and hair catch fire. In the water, a few paces off, by the next boat, we saw the youngest daughter of Colonel Williams. A sepoy was going to kill her with his bayonet, when she said, ‘My father was always kind to sepoys.’ He turned away, and just then a villager struck her on the head with his club, and she fell into the water.”
After a time the women and children who had not been shot, stabbed, or burnt were collected and brought to shore, some of them being rudely handled by the sowars, who tore from ear or finger such jewels as caught their fancy.
About 120 sat or lay on the shore or on logs of timber, full of misery, fear, and despair. There they waited in the blinding sun on the Ganges shore all that morning. Then they were herded back along the narrow lane by which they had come with hope in their bosoms, while the sepoys who guarded them grinned with fiendish delight, and showed gleefully all their spoils. Past the bazaar and the chapel and the racquet-court and the entrenchments they limped along, until they were paraded before the pavilion of the Maharajah, who looked them well over, and ordered them to be confined in the Savada House. Two good-sized rooms, which had been used by native soldiers for a month, were given them to live in, and a guard was placed over them.
One witness says: “I saw that many of the ladies were wounded. Their clothes had blood on them. Some were wet, covered with mud and blood, and some had their dresses badly torn, but all had clothes. I saw one or two children without clothes. There were no men in the party, but only some boys of twelve or thirteen years of age. Some of the ladies were barefoot and lame. Two I saw were wounded in the leg.”
And what of the third boat which floated down-stream?
More than 100 persons had taken refuge in it. Some officers and men, seeing how hopeless was the fight on the bank, had swum out to Vibart and his crew. Now they stranded on a mud-bank, now they drifted towards the guns on the other shore, ever under a hot fire of canister and shell, and continually losing brave men who were shot at point-blank range. Down in the bottom of the great barge lay dying and dead, till at last the survivors were compelled to throw the bodies overboard.
At night a fire-ship was sent down to set them alight, and fire-tipped arrows were shot into the thatched roof, forcing our people to cut them away. Then they came under a fierce fire from the militia of Ram Bux. Pelting rains came down, and they drifted up a backwater, and soon after a host of rebels surrounded the poor, stricken fugitives and took them back to Cawnpore.
The doomed boat-load were seen to be drawing near the landing-place early on the morning of the 30th. This is what a native spy said of them:
“There were brought back sixty sahibs, twenty-five mem sahibs, and four children. The Nana ordered the sahibs to be separated from the mem sahibs, and shot by the 1st Bengal Native Infantry. But they said, ‘We will not kill the sahibs; put them in prison.’ Then said the Nadiree Regiment: ‘What word is this—put them in prison? We will kill the males ourselves.’
“So the sahibs were seated on the ground. Two companies stood with their muskets, ready to fire. Then said one of the mem sahibs, the doctor’s wife: ‘I will not leave my husband. If he must die, I will die with him.’ So she ran and sat down behind her husband, clasping him round the waist.
“When she said this the other mem sahibs said: ‘We also will die with our husbands;’ and they all sat down, each by her husband.
“Then their husbands said: ‘Go back;’ but they would not do so.
“So then the Nana gave order, and his soldiers went in and pulled them away by force. But they could not pull away the doctor’s wife, who stayed there. Then the padre asked leave to read prayers before they died. He did so, and then shut the book. Then all the sahibs shook hands and bid good-bye. Then the sepoys fired. One sahib rolled one way, one another, but they were not quite dead; so the sepoys went at them and finished them off with their swords.”
Can you imagine the breathless horror with which the garrison of Lucknow listened to these details of a most cruel and treacherous onslaught upon wounded men, upon refined ladies, and innocent children? How they sighed for a force strong enough to take an adequate revenge upon these miscreants! But for the present they were besieged themselves, though reinforced; and who of them could count upon a day’s security? Perhaps, if the bullet spared them at Lucknow their would-be rescuers might be unable to fight their way through the city, and these poor ladies and children of the Lucknow garrison might be reserved for a lot even worse than death. “Will they come?—will they come to help us here at Lucknow? That is our anxious thought night and day.”
[CHAPTER XII]
THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW (1857)
The scene at Cawnpore—Fights before Lucknow—Nearly blown up—A hideous nightmare—Cheering a runaway—All safe out of the Residency—A quick march back—Who stole the biscuits?—Sir Colin’s own regiment.
“I had enlisted in the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders to go to India to put down the Mutiny,” writes Mr. Forbes-Mitchell, an old friend of the author. “We reached Cawnpore on the 27th of October, having marched the last forty-six miles in two days. We were over 1,000 strong, and many of us had just been through the Crimean War. After a few hours’ rest we were allowed to go out in parties of ten or twelve to visit the scene of the late treachery and massacre.”
Wheeler’s entrenchments at the highest place did not exceed 4 feet, and could not have been bullet-proof at the top. The wonder was how the small force could have held out so long. In the rooms were still lying about broken toys, pictures, books, and bits of clothing. They then went to see the slaughter-house in which our women and children had been barbarously murdered and the well into which their mangled bodies were flung. On the date of this visit a great part of the house had not been cleaned out. The floors of the rooms were still covered with congealed blood, and littered with trampled, torn dresses, shoes, locks of long hair, many of which evidently had been severed by sword-cuts. But the most horrible sight they saw was an iron hook fixed into the wall. This was covered with dried blood, and from the marks on the whitewashed wall it was evident that a little child had been hung on to it by the neck, with its face to the wall. There the poor thing must have struggled for long, because the wall all round the hook was covered with the hand-prints, and below the hook with the footprints, of a little child—in blood.
The number of victims killed at Cawnpore, counted and buried in the well by Havelock’s force, was 118 women and 92 children. This sight was enough, they said, to make the words “mercy” and “pardon” appear a mockery.
The troops crossed into Oude on the 2nd of November, and on the 3rd a salute fired from the mud fort on the Cawnpore side told them that, to their great delight, Sir Colin Campbell had come up from Calcutta. They were all burning to start for Lucknow. Every man in the regiment was determined to risk his life to save the women and children from the fate of Cawnpore.
On their march they saw they were at once in an enemy’s country. None of the villages were inhabited. There was no chance of buying chupatties (girdle-cakes) or goat’s milk. It was the custom to serve out three days’ biscuits at one time, running four to the pound. Most men usually had finished their biscuits before they reached the first halting-ground.
Before they made their first halt they could hear the guns of the rebels bombarding the Residency. Footsore and tired as they were, the report of each salvo made the men step out with a firmer tread and a more determined resolve to relieve those helpless women and children.
On the 10th of November they were encamped on the plain about five miles in front of the Alumbâgh, about 5,000 of them, the only really complete regiment being the 93rd Highlanders, of whom some 700 wore the Crimean medal. They were in full Highland costume, feather bonnets and dark waving plumes—a solid mass of brawny-limbed men.
The old chief rode along the line, saying a few words to each corps as he passed. The regiment remarked that none of the other corps had given him a single cheer, but had taken what he said in solemn silence. At last he came to the 93rd, who were formed close column, so that every man might hear. When Sir Colin rode up he seemed to have a worn and haggard expression on his face, but he was received with such a cheer, or rather shout of welcome, as made the echoes ring. His wrinkled brow at once became smooth, and his weary features broke into a smile as he acknowledged the cheer by a hearty salute. He ended his speech thus: “Ninety-third, you are my own lads. I rely on you to do the work.” A voice from the ranks called out: “Ay, ay, Sir Colin! ye ken us, and we ken you. We’ll bring the women and children out of Lucknow or die in the attempt;” and the whole regiment burst into another ringing cheer.
On the morning of the 14th of November they began the advance on the Dilkoosha Park and Palace. The Fourth Brigade, composed of the 53rd, 93rd, and 4th Punjab Regiments, with a strong force of artillery, reached the walls at sunrise. Here they halted till a breach was made in the walls. The park swarmed with deer—black buck and spotted. There were no signs of the enemy, and a staff-officer of the artillery galloped to the front to reconnoitre. This was none other than the present Lord Roberts, known to the men then as “Plucky Wee Bobs.” About half of the regiment had passed through the breach, when a masked battery of six guns opened fire on them from behind the palace. The first shot passed through the column, the second cut in two a trooper’s horse close to Roberts, who dismounted and helped the trooper to his feet. They all cheered the young Lieutenant for his coolness under a point-blank fire of 9-pounders. They kept on pegging away until the sepoys bolted down the hill for shelter in the Martinière. About two o’clock they drove the rebels out, occupied the Martinière and erected a semaphore on the roof to communicate with the Residency.
They next fought their way to a village on the east side of the Secundrabâgh. Here they saw a naked wretch with shaven head and body painted and smeared with ashes. He was sitting on a leopard-skin, counting a rosary of beads. James Wilson said:
“I’d like to try my bayonet on that fellow’s hide;” but Captain Mayne replied:
“Oh, don’t touch him. These fellows are harmless Hindoo jogees” (mendicants).
The words had scarcely been uttered when the painted scoundrel stopped counting his beads, slipped his hand under his leopard-skin, brought out a short brass blunderbuss, and fired it into Captain Mayne’s chest, a few feet off. The fellow was instantly bayoneted, but poor Mayne died.
From the Secundrabâgh came a murderous fire, and they had to wait for the guns to make a breach.
“Lie down, 93rd, lie down!” shouted Sir Colin. “Every man of you is worth his weight in gold to England to-day.”
When the breach was large enough the 4th Punjabis led the assault, but seeing their officers shot down, they wavered. Sir Colin turned to Colonel Ewart and said:
“Bring on the tartan. Let my own lads at them.”
Before the buglers had time to sound the advance the whole seven companies, like one man, leaped the wall with such a yell of pent-up rage as never was heard before nor since. The bayonet did the work effectually. Many of the Highlanders were wounded in the leg because the native tulwârs were as sharp as razors, and when the rebels had fired their muskets they hurled them like javelins, bayonets first, and then drawing their tulwârs, slashed in blind fury, shouting, “Deen! Deen!” (“The faith!”), and some threw themselves down and slashed at the legs of the Highlanders.
In the centre of the inner court of the Secundrabâgh there was a large peepul-tree (Indian fig), with a very bushy top, and round the foot of it were set some jars full of cool water. Captain Dawson noticed that many of our men lay dead under this tree, and he called out to Wallace, a good shot, to look up and try if he could see anyone in the top, as the dead seemed to be shot from above.
Wallace stepped back and scanned the tree. “I see him, sir,” he shouted, and cocking his rifle, he fired. Down fell a body dressed in a tight-fitting red jacket and rose-coloured silk trousers. The breast of the jacket bursting open with the fall showed that the wearer was a woman.
She was armed with a pair of heavy old-pattern cavalry pistols. From her perch in the tree, which had been carefully prepared before the attack, she had killed more than half a dozen men. Poor Wallace burst into tears, saying: “If I had known it was a woman I would never have harmed her.”
When the roll was called it was found that we had lost nine officers and ninety-nine men. Sir Colin rode up and said: “Fifty-third and Ninety-third, you have bravely done your share of this morning’s work, and Cawnpore is avenged.”
“On revisiting Lucknow many years after this I saw no tablet or grave to mark the spot where so many of the 93rd are buried. It is the old, old story which was said to have been first written on the walls of Badajos:
“When war is rife and danger nigh,
God and the soldier is all the cry;
When war is over and wrongs are righted,
God is forgot and the soldier slighted.”
“After the Secundrabâgh we had to advance on the Shâh Nujeef. As the 24-pounders were being dragged along by our men and Peel’s sailors a poor sailor lad just in front had his leg carried clean off above the knee by a round shot, and although knocked head over heels by the force of the ball, he sat bolt upright on the grass, with the blood spouting from the stump of his limb like water from the hose of a fire-engine, and shouted:
“‘Here goes a shilling a day—a shilling a day! Pitch into them, boys! Remember Cawnpore, 93rd—remember Cawnpore! Go at them, my hearties!’ and then he fell back in a dead faint. He was dead before a doctor could reach him.”
Sir Colin himself was wounded by a bullet after it had passed through the head of a 93rd Grenadier.
Amongst the force defending the Shâh Nujeef there was a large body of archers on the walls armed with bows and arrows, which they discharged with great force and precision, and on Sergeant White raising his head above the wall an arrow was shot right into his feather bonnet. Inside the wire cage of his bonnet he had placed his forage-cap, folded up, and instead of passing right through, the arrow stuck in the folds of his cap. White, drawing out the arrow, cried: “My conscience! Bows and arrows! Have we got Robin Hood and Little John back again? Well, well, Jack Pandy, since bows and arrows are the word, here’s at you!” and with that he raised his bonnet on the point of his bayonet above the top of the wall, and at once another arrow pierced it through, while a dozen more whizzed past a little wide of the mark.
The Lighter Side of War at Lucknow
A body of archers were amongst the defenders of the Shâh Nujeef. A Highland sergeant put his bonnet on his bayonet and held it up, and it was at once pierced by an arrow.
Just then Penny, of No. 2 Company, looking over the wall, got an arrow right through his brain, the shaft projecting more than a foot at the back of his head.
Then they all loaded and capped, and, pushing up their bonnets again, a whole shower of arrows went past or through them. Up they sprang and returned a well-aimed volley from their rifles at point-blank distance, and more than half a dozen of the rebels went down. But Montgomery exposed himself a little too long to watch the effects of the volley, and before he could get down into shelter an arrow was sent through his heart, passing clean through his body, and falling on the ground a few yards behind him. He leaped about 6 feet straight up in the air and fell stone dead.
But as yet we had made little impression on the solid masonry walls, and one of our ammunition waggons exploded, killing several men, and our storming party was repulsed. Just then Sergeant Paton came running up out of breath to say he had found a wide breach on the other side. It seems our shot and shell had gone over the first wall and had blown out the wall on the other side. Paton had climbed up easily and seen right inside the place. So Captain Dawson and his company were sent with Paton, and when the enemy saw them come in behind them they fled like sheep.
Thus ended the terrible 16th of November, 1857.
“An adventure happened to me in the Shâh Nujeef,” says Forbes-Mitchell, “which I still sometimes dream of with horror. This place was the tomb of the first King of Oude, and a place of Mohammedan pilgrimage. It had a number of small rooms round the enclosure for the pilgrims. These the enemy had used for quarters, and in their hurry to escape many had left their lamps burning. As I had lost my greatcoat in the fight, and felt very cold at night, so that I could not sleep, it struck me that some of the sepoys might have left blankets behind them. With this hope I went into one of the rooms where a lamp was burning, took it off its shelf, and walked to the door of the great domed tomb, which was only 20 yards or so away from the spot where the arms were piled and the men lying round the still burning fire. I peered into the dark vault, but could see nothing, so I advanced slowly, holding above my head the clay saucer of oil containing a loose cotton wick. I was looking cautiously round, for fear of surprise from a concealed foe, till I came near the centre of the great vault, where my progress was obstructed by a big black heap about 4 feet high, which felt to my feet as if I were walking in loose sand. I lowered the lamp to see what it was, and discovered that I was standing up to the ankles in loose gunpowder!
“About 40 hundredweight of it lay in a great heap in front of my nose, while a glance to my left showed me a range of some thirty barrels also full of powder, and on the right lots of 8-inch shells, all loaded, with the fuses fixed.
“By this time my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of the mosque, and I took in my position at a glance. Here I was up to my knees almost in powder—in the very bowels of a magazine—with a naked light!
“My hair literally stood on end. I felt the skin of my head lifting my feather bonnet off my scalp. My knees knocked together, and, despite the chilly night air, the cold perspiration burst out all over me and ran down my face and legs.
“I had neither cloth nor handkerchief in my pocket, and there was not a moment to be lost, as already the overhanging wick was threatening to shed its smouldering red tip into the live magazine at my feet.
“Quick as thought I put my left hand under the down-dropping flame and clasped it firmly. Holding it so, I slowly turned to the door and walked out with my knees knocking one against the other. I never felt the least pain from the wick, fear had so overcome me; but when I opened my hand on gaining the open air, I felt the smart acutely enough. I poured the oil out of the saucer into the burnt hand, then kneeling down, I thanked God for having saved me and all our men around from horrible destruction. I then got up and staggered rather than walked to the place where Captain Dawson was sleeping. I shook him by the shoulder till he awoke, and told him of my discovery and fright.
“‘Bah, Corporal Mitchell!’ was all his answer. ‘You have woke up out of your sleep and have got frightened at a shadow’—for he saw me all trembling.
“I turned my smarting hand to the light of the fire and showed the Captain how it was scorched; and then, feeling my pride hurt, I said: ‘Sir, you’re not a Highlander, or you would know the Gaelic proverb, “The heart of one who can look death in the face will not start at a shadow,” and you, sir, can bear witness that I have not shirked to look death in the face more than once since morning.’
“He replied: ‘Pardon me. I did not mean that. But calm yourself and explain.’
“I then told him that I had gone into the mosque with a naked lamp, and had found it half full of loose gunpowder.
“‘Are you sure you’re not dreaming from the excitement of this awful day?’ he asked.
“With that I looked down to my feet and my gaiters, which were still covered with blood from the slaughter in the Secundrabâgh. The wet grass had softened it again, and on this the powder was sticking nearly an inch thick. I scraped some of it off, throwing it into the fire, and said:
“‘There is positive proof for you that I’m not dreaming, nor my vision a shadow.’
“On that the Captain became almost as alarmed as I was, and a sentry was posted near the door of the mosque to prevent anyone entering it.
“The sleeping men were aroused, and the fire smothered out by jars of water. Then Captain Dawson and I, with an escort of four men, went round the rooms. As Wilson, one of the escort, was peering into a room, a concealed sepoy struck him over the head with his tulwâr; but his bonnet saved him, and Captain Dawson put a pistol bullet through the sepoy to save further trouble.
“After all was quiet the men rolled off to sleep again, and I too lay down and tried to sleep. My nerves were, however, too much shaken, and the burnt hand kept me awake, so I lay and listened to the men sleeping round me. And what a night that was! The horrible scenes through which the men had passed during the day had told with terrible effect upon their nerves, and the struggles with death in the Secundrabâgh were fought over again by some of the men in their sleep, oaths and shouts of defiance being often strangely intermingled with prayers.
“One man would be lying calmly asleep and then suddenly break out into a fierce battle-cry of ‘Cawnpore! you bloody murderer!’ Another would shout, ‘Charge! give them the bayonet!’ and a third, ‘Keep together, boys; don’t fire yet. Forward! forward! If we are to die, let us die like men!’
“Then I would hear one muttering, ‘Oh, mother, forgive me, and I’ll never leave you again.’ So it was through all that memorable night, and I have no doubt it was the same at the other posts. At last I dozed off and dreamed of blood and battle, and anon of Dee or Don side and the Braemar gathering; then the scene would change, and I was a little boy again, kneeling beside my mother, saying my evening hymn. Verily Campbell’s ‘Soldier’s Dream’ is no fiction.”
Next morning they found plenty of pumpkins and piles of flat cakes already cooked, but no salt; but Mitchell had an old matchbox full of salt in his haversack. An old veteran who used to tell stories of Waterloo had said to him at home: “Always carry a box of salt in your haversack when on active service: it will be useful.” So it was very often. After breakfast they sponged out their rifles, which had become so foul that the men’s shoulders were black with bruises from the recoil.
They had to assault the mess-house next, and after they had driven the rebels into the River Goomtee they peppered every head that showed above water.
One tall fellow acted as cunningly as a jackal. Whether struck or not, he fell just as he got into shallow water on the opposite side, and lay without moving, with his legs in the water and his head on the land. He appeared to be stone dead, and every rifle was turned on those that were running across the plain, while many that were wounded were fired on, as the fellows said, in mercy to put them out of pain. For this war of the Mutiny was a demoralizing war for civilized men to be engaged in. The cold-blooded cruelty of the rebels branded them as traitors to humanity and cowardly assassins of helpless women and children.
But to return to our Pandy. He was ever after spoken of as “the Jackal,” because jackals often behave as he did. After he had lain apparently dead for about an hour, some one noticed that he had gradually dragged himself out of the water. Then all at once he sprang to his feet and ran like a deer. He was still within easy range, and several rifles were levelled at him; but Sergeant Findlay, who was on the rampart, called out: “Don’t fire, men; give the poor devil a chance.” So instead of a volley of bullets the men’s better feelings gained the day, and Jack Pandy was reprieved, with a cheer to speed him on his way. As soon as he heard it he realized his position, and like the Samaritan leper of old, he halted, turned round, and putting up both his hands with the palms together in front of his face, he salaamed profoundly, prostrating himself three times on the ground by way of thanks, while the men on the ramparts waved their bonnets and clapped their hands to him in token of goodwill.
Just at this time was heard a great sound of cheering near the Residency, the cause of which they shortly learned. It was because General Sir Colin Campbell had met Havelock and Outram. So then they knew the Residency was relieved, and the women and children were saved, though not yet out of danger. Every man in the force slept with a lighter heart that night.
A girl in the Residency—Jessie Brown—had stated that she heard the skirl of the bagpipes hours before the relieving force could be seen or heard by the rest of the garrison, “and I believe it was quite true. I know we heard their bagpipes a long way off. Well, we had relieved Lucknow, but at what a cost! No less than forty-five officers and 496 men had been killed—more than a tenth of our whole number.”
The Residency was relieved on the afternoon of the 17th of November, and the following day preparations were made for the evacuation of the position and the withdrawal of the women and children. To do this in safety, however, was no easy task, for the rebels showed but small regard for the laws of chivalry. There was a long stretch of plain, exposed to the fire of the enemy’s artillery and sharp-shooters from the opposite side of the Goomtee. To protect this part of the route all the best shots were placed on the north-west corner of the ramparts next to the Goomtee. They were under the command of Sergeant Findlay. One very good shot that excellent marksman made. A rebel officer rode out with a force of infantry from the east gate of the Bâdshâh-hibâgh. They had a couple of guns, too, to open fire on the line of retreat. They might have played havoc with the retiring garrison, but Findlay managed to unhorse the officer at long distance, and as soon as he was knocked over the enemy retreated into the bâgh, and did not show themselves any more that day.
By midnight of the 22nd of November the Residency was entirely evacuated, and the enemy completely deceived as to the movements. The women and children had passed the exposed part of their route without a single casualty.
The roll was called on reaching the Martinière, and two were found to be missing. They had been left asleep in the barracks, and came in later, saying that the rebels had not yet discovered that the English had gone and were still firing into the Residency. Shortly after the roll-call a most unfortunate accident took place. Corporal Cooper and four or five men went into one of the rooms of the Martinière in which there was a quantity of loose powder which had been left by the enemy, and somehow the powder got ignited and they were all blown up, their bodies completely charred and their eyes scorched out. The poor fellows all died in the greatest agony within an hour or so of the accident, and none of them could tell how it happened.
“This sad accident made me very mindful of and thankful for my own narrow escape and that of my comrades in the Shâh Nujeef.
“An amusing thing occurred on the march to Cawnpore. As all the subaltern officers in my company were wounded I was told off, with a guard of twenty men, to see all the baggage-carts across Bunnee Bridge. A commissariat cart, loaded with biscuits, got upset, and its wheel broke just as we were moving it on to the road.
“The only person in charge of the cart was a young bâboo, a boy of eighteen years of age, who defended his charge as long as he could; but he was soon put on one side, the biscuit bags were ripped open, and the men commenced filling their haversacks.
“Just at this moment an escort of the 9th Lancers, with some staff-officers, rode up from the rear. It was the Commander-in-Chief and his staff.
“The boy bâboo seeing him, rushed up and called out aloud:
“‘Oh, my lord, you are my father and my mother. What shall I tell you? These wild Highlanders will not hear me, but are stealing commissariat biscuits like fine fun!’
“Sir Colin pulled up, and tried not to smile. ‘Is there no officer here?’ he asked.
“The bâboo replied: ‘No officer, sir—my lord—only one very big corporal, and he tell me grandly “Shut up, you! or I’ll shoot you, same like rebel mutineer.”’
“Hearing this, I stepped out of the crowd, and, saluting Sir Colin, told him that this cart had broken down, and as there were no other means of carrying the biscuits, the men had filled their haversacks with them rather than leave them on the ground.
“Then the bâboo again came to the front with clasped hands, saying: ‘Oh, my lord if one cart of biscuits short, Major Fitzgerald not listen to me; rather order thirty lashes with Provost Marshal’s cat. Oh, what can a poor bâboo do with such supreme and wild Highlanders?’
“Sir Colin replied: ‘Yes, bâboo, I know these Highlanders are very wild fellows when they are hungry. Let them have the biscuits,’ and turning to one of the staff, he directed him to give a voucher to the bâboo that a cart loaded with biscuits had broken down, and the contents had been divided amongst the rearguard by order of the Commander-in-Chief. Sir Colin then turned to us and said: ‘Men, I give you the biscuits. Divide them with your comrades in front; but you must promise me should a cart loaded with rum break down, you will not interfere with it.’
“We all replied: ‘No, no, Sir Colin; if rum breaks down, we’ll not touch it.’
“‘All right,’ said Sir Colin, ‘remember! I trust you, and I know every one of you.’
“We honestly shared those biscuits, and it was well we had them, for about five miles further on a general halt was made for a short rest and for all stragglers to come up. Sir Colin ordered the 93rd to form up, and calling the officers to the front, he announced to the regiment that General Wyndham had been attacked by the Nana Sahib and by the Gwalior contingent in Cawnpore; that his force had been obliged to retire within the fort at the bridge of boats; and that we must reach Cawnpore that night, because if the bridge of boats should be captured before we got there, we should be cut off in Oude, with 50,000 of our enemies in our rear, a well-equipped army of 40,000 men in our front, together with a powerful train of artillery numbering over forty siege-guns to face, and with all the women and children, sick and wounded, to guard. ‘So, 93rd,’ said the old chief, ‘I don’t ask you to undertake this forced march in your present tired condition without good reason. You must reach Cawnpore to-night at all costs.’
“As usual, when he took the men into his confidence, he was answered from the ranks: ‘All right, Sir Colin, we’ll do it.’ And we did.”
By this time they could hear the guns of the Gwalior contingent bombarding General Wyndham’s position in Cawnpore. Although terribly footsore and tired, not having had their clothes off for eighteen days, they trudged on their weary march, every mile hearing the guns more clearly. There is nothing to rouse tired soldiers like a good cannonade in front. It is the best tonic out.
But they will never forget the misery of that march. They reached the sands on the banks of the Ganges, on the Oude side of the river opposite Cawnpore, just as the sun was setting, having covered the forty-seven miles under thirty hours. And when they got in sight of Cawnpore the first thing they saw was the enemy on the other side of the river making bonfires of their spare kit and baggage, which had been left at Cawnpore when they advanced for the relief of Lucknow.
How on the 29th of November they crossed the bridge of boats; how by the 3rd of December all the women and children and wounded were on their way to Allahabad; how they smashed up the famous Gwalior contingent and sent the Nana flying into the desert—all this belongs to another story. Sir Colin thanked his old regiment for their great toil and prowess. “But we old soldiers should like our deeds and the deeds of those who gave their lives for England to be remembered by our children’s children, and to be studied with a grateful sympathy.”
From “Reminiscences of the Great Mutiny,” by William Forbes-Mitchell. By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Co.
This is one of the most interesting books that has been written by a soldier who took part in the Mutiny War.
[CHAPTER XIII]
RUNNING THE BLOCKADE (1861)
North v. South—A new President hates slavery—Fort Sumter is bombarded—Ladies on the house-top—Niggers don’t mind shells—A blockade-runner comes to Oxford—The Banshee strips for the race—Wilmington—High pay—Lights out—Cast the lead—A stern chase—The run home—Lying perdu—The Night-hawk saved by Irish humour—Southern need at the end of the war—Negro dignity waxes big.
In November, 1860, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. As the new President was in sympathy with those who wished to abolish slavery, and as the Southern States were mostly inhabited by large landholders possessing thousands of slaves, this election was felt to doom their ascendancy unless they could resist the will of the North. Therefore, on the 17th of December a convention of the State of South Carolina was held at Charleston, which formally repealed their acceptance of the United States Constitution.
Neither side at first foresaw the results of secession. Each thought the other would offer little resistance. The North were totally unprepared for war; the South were weakened by internal dissensions, but they fought as long as they had any soldiers left, and at last “robbed the cradle and the grave.” The South were in the end quite exhausted, while the North seemed to gather new strength every month. As the war went on the soldiers of the South, or Confederates, wore out their clothes, and could not replace them. Things were so scarce and dear that it became a proverb, “In going to market, you take your money in your basket and bring your purchases home in your pocket.” Planters in the South had to borrow money to support their hordes of negroes in idleness while they themselves were away at the front.
On the 4th of March Lincoln formally entered on office. Secession, he said, meant rebellion. The Constitution must be preserved, if necessary, even by force.
Major Anderson, who held a small fort in Charleston Harbour for the North, spiked his guns and moved into Fort Sumter, also in the harbour. This was considered an act of war, and Fort Sumter was bombarded and taken. The little town was full of excited soldiers, singing and shouting. We have a peep of what was going on and what it felt like in Mrs. Chestnut’s diary for the 12th of April:
“I do not pretend to go to sleep. How can I? If Anderson does not accept terms at four the orders are he shall be fired upon. I count four. St. Michael’s bells chime out, and I begin to hope. At half-past four the heavy booming of a cannon! I sprang out of bed, and on my knees prostrate I prayed as I never prayed before. There was a sound of stir all over the house, pattering of feet in the corridors. All seemed hurrying one way. I put on my double gown and went on the house-top. The shells were bursting. The roar of the cannon had begun. The women were wild there on the house-top. Prayers came from the women and imprecations from the men. Then a shell would light up the scene, and we all wondered why Fort Sumter did not reply.”
On the next day Fort Sumter was on fire. The warships of the North were outside the bar, and could not enter for want of depth of water. On the 15th Anderson had to give the fort up to the South.
The slaves were taking it all very quietly, seemed not much moved by the thought of being free—rather preferred to be slaves and be well fed.
A negro was rowing in the bay towards Charleston during the bombardment with some supplies from a plantation. He was met and asked: “Are you not afraid of Colonel Anderson’s cannon?”
“No, sar. Mars Anderson ain’t daresn’t hit me. He knows marster wouldn’t ’low it.”
The next step taken by the President was to declare all the Southern ports in a state of blockade, in order that the seceding States might be starved out. The coast-line was some 3,000 miles in length, and the whole fleet of the United States did not reach 150 ships, of which many were unseaworthy. But the energy of the North increased this fleet to nearly 700 vessels. Thus any attempt to run in through the blockading squadron was very dangerous.
A royal proclamation in England admonished all loyal subjects to respect the Federal blockade; but the high profits to be made tempted many Liverpool firms to adventure their argosies. A ship taken while running the blockade is treated as an enemy, and if she resists she is treated as a pirate.
During the first year of the war many captures were made, and stories came to England of hairbreadth escapes which set many young men longing to join in the exciting game.
I remember a man coming to Oxford when I was an undergraduate with a letter of introduction from a friend. He was running into Charleston, and had brought from that port a store of watches and jewellery, which he persuaded us to take in exchange for a quantity of discarded clothing. The lady’s gold watch which I got is, I hear, still going strong, and belies the suspicion with which I took it. At this time there were no mills, and almost no manufactories in the Southern States, so that they soon began to feel the want of clothes, buttons, boots, socks, medicines, and chemicals. Nassau, a little island in the Bahamas, was the chief base for the steamers that were running the blockade. It is about 560 miles from Charleston and 640 from Wilmington.
The Bahama group afforded neutral water to within fifty miles of the American coast, but it required a very fast vessel to succeed in evading the chain of cruisers which soon patrolled the coast. These fast vessels were being built in England and elsewhere. Let us follow the fortunes of one of them—the Banshee.
She arrived safely across the Atlantic and put into Nassau. There she was stripped for the work that lay before her. Everything aloft was taken down, and nothing was left standing but the two lower masts, with cross-trees for a look-out man. The ship was painted a dull white, and the crew wore a grey uniform. As the success of a blockade-runner depends much on her speed, the qualities of the engineer are important.
The Banshee possessed a model chief engineer in Mr. Erskine, a man cool in danger and full of resource. In her pilot, Tom Burroughs, she had a man who knew the waters thoroughly, and was a genius in smelling out a blockader on the darkest night. A good pilot received about £800 for the trip there and back, for there was some risk in the service, and if they were captured they went to prison. The pay of the seamen was from £50 to £60 for the trip. So the Banshee stole out of Nassau Harbour on a dark night, laden with arms, gunpowder, boots, and clothing, on her way to Wilmington.
Wilmington lies to the north of Charleston, some sixteen miles up the Cape Fear River. Off the mouth of this river lies Smith’s Island, which divides the approach to the port into two widely different channels.
Fort Fisher, placed at the northern point, obliged the blockaders to lie far out, beyond the range of the guns. Further out still was a cordon of cruisers, and outside these were gunboats always on the move; so that it required speed and a good look-out to elude the three lines of blockaders. They crept as noiselessly as possible along the shores of the Bahamas, and ran on safely for the first two days out, though as often as they saw a sail on the horizon they had to turn the Banshee’s stern to it till it vanished. The look-out man had a dollar for every sail he sighted, and was fined five dollars if it were seen first from the deck. On the third day they found they had only just time to run under cover of Fort Fisher before dawn, and they tried to do it.
“Now the real excitement began,” says Mr. Taylor, who was in charge of the cargo, “and nothing I have ever experienced can compare with it. Hunting, pig-sticking, big-game shooting, polo—all have their thrilling moments, but none can approach ‘running a blockade.’ Consider the dangers to be encountered, after three days of constant anxiety and little sleep, in threading our way through a swarm of blockaders, and the accuracy required to hit in the nick of time the mouth of a river only half a mile wide, without lights, and with a coast-line so low that as a rule the first intimation we had of its nearness was the dim white line of the surf.”
They steamed along cautiously until nightfall. Though the night was dark it was dangerously clear. No lights, not even a cigar. The hatchways of the engine-room were covered with tarpaulins, and the poor stokers had to breathe as best they could.
All hands were on deck, crouching down behind the bulwarks. On the bridge were Taylor, the captain, Mr. Steele, and the pilot, all straining their eyes into the “vasty deep.”
Presently the pilot muttered: “Better cast the lead, captain.”
Steele murmured down the tube that led to the engine-room, and the vessel slowed down and then stopped. A weird figure crept into the fore-chains and dropped the leaded line, while the crew listened to see if the engines would seize the opportunity to blow off steam and so advertise their presence for miles around. In two minutes came the seaman, saying: “Sixteen fathoms, sir. Sandy bottom, with black specks.”
“We are not so far in as I thought,” said the pilot. “Port two points and go a little faster.”
He knew by the speckled bottom where they were. They had to be north of that before it was safe to head for the shore.
In an hour or less the pilot asked for another sounding. No more specks this time. “Starboard and go ahead easy” was the order now.
The paddle-floats were flapping the water softly, but to the crew the noise they made was terrifying. They could be heard a long way.
Suddenly the pilot said: “There’s one of them, Mr. Taylor, on the starboard bow.”
Presently straining eyes could see a long, low, black object lying quite still. Would she see the Banshee?
They passed within a hundred yards of her and were not heard.
Soon after Burroughs whispered: “Steamer on the port bow.”
A second cruiser was made out close to them.
“Hard a port,” said the captain, and the steamer swung round, bringing the enemy upon her beam. No sound! The enemy slept! Then suddenly a third cruiser came out of the gloom and steamed slowly across the Banshee’s bows.
“Stop her,” said Captain Steele down the tube, and the blockade-runner gurgled to a standstill, while the cruiser moved across and was lost in the darkness.
Then “Slow ahead” was the order, until the low-lying coast and the grey surf came dim to the eye. But it was getting near dawn, and there was no trace of the river mouth.
They knew not quite where they were, and thoughts of prison and prison fare would come uppermost.
At length the pilot said: “All right, boys. I can see the big hill yonder.”
The only hill on the coast was near Fort Fisher. Now they knew where they were; so did six or seven gunboats, which, in the silver light of early dawn, catching sight of their prey, steamed hard and fast towards the Banshee, with angry shots from the bow gun. The balls were dropping all around and churning up the sea. It was mighty unpleasant to men who knew they had several tons of gunpowder in the hold; and just then they were obliged to steer out to avoid the North Breaker shoal, so that the gunboats crept ever nearer and nearer, barking like disappointed puppies.
The pilot looked at the captain and the captain at the supercargo. Their lips tightened and their breath came faster as they eyed the gunboats askance.
“One good shot into the paddle will end this trip,” thought Mr. Taylor; “and it is my first run in, too!”
Then came a welcome sound overhead. A shell from the fort whirred its way towards the gunboats and warned them off.
With a parting broadside they sheered off out of range, and after half an hour’s run the Banshee was over the bar and in quiet waters. They soon sped up the sixteen miles to Wilmington, and found a large posse of willing slaves ready to discharge their cargo.
The poor folk at Wilmington were then very much pinched for want of good food and drink, and the advent of the Banshee restored smiles all round. Living on corn-bread, bacon, and water grows monotonous, and invitations to lunch on board the Banshee were never declined—in fact, many friends did not even wait for an invitation.
Within a very few days the Banshee was again ready for sea, ballasted with tobacco and laden with cotton—three tiers even on deck! High profit tempted them to pile up their vessels like hay-waggons, and put to sea in a condition quite unfit to meet a boisterous wind.
It was fortunately more easy to run out than to run in, as there was no harbour mouth to find in the dark, and the open sea lay before them. They learnt that the Admiral’s ship remained at anchor during the night, while the other vessels moved slowly to and fro across the mouth of the river; so they formed a bold plan, thinking that security lay in a startling impudence. They hid the Banshee behind Fort Fisher till nightfall, rowing ashore to get the latest news from Colonel Lamb, who commanded the fort.
“Which, sir, is the Admiral’s flag-ship?”
“The Minnesota, a sixty-gun frigate. Don’t go too near her.”
“That is just what we mean to do, Colonel; but first we will take her bearings exactly. We don’t want to bump into her.”
The Colonel was very kind and helpful, and they often enjoyed his society and that of his wife, who lived in a cottage not far off.
As soon as night fell over the sea the Banshee slipped quietly from her secret anchorage, crossed the river bar, and following the observations they had taken, ran close by the flagship, and so out to sea, clear of the first cordon. But in trying to pass the second they ran across a gunboat, which at once opened fire. The men lay down on the deck, and the engines throbbed and thumped. Luckily the gunboat was very slow, and they soon lost one another; but as they could hear her pounding along behind, they attempted a ruse. The helm was put hard over, so that they steamed in a direction at right angles to their former course, and in a few minutes their engines were stopped. The Banshee lay perfectly still. The crew rose on their elbows and peeped over the bulwarks, following the course of the gunboat by the flashes of her guns and by the rockets she was sending up madly to attract or warn her consorts. So they saw her go plunging past them and firing madly into the dark abyss of the night.
After resting five minutes on the heaving wave, the Banshee started again as noiselessly as she could. One danger remained—the third cordon. You may be sure they stared wide-eyed round the horizon as morning broke. With the Banshee so heavily laden it would be fatal to meet a cruiser in the daylight.
No smoke visible—no sail! All that day and for two days more they steamed on with fear beside them. On the evening of the third day they steamed proudly into Nassau, though a heavy list to starboard made them present a rather drunken appearance.
The profits of blockade-running may be estimated by the fact that though the Banshee afterwards became a total loss by capture, she earned enough on her eight successful trips to pay the shareholders 700 per cent. on their investment. The Northerners turned her into a gunboat, but she asserted her sympathies for the South by running foul of the jetty in the naval yard at Washington.
On another run in the Night Hawk, after getting safely through the blockading fleet, they grounded on the bar, and two launches speedily boarded them. The Northerners were very excited, and evidently expected to meet with desperate resistance, for firing of revolvers and wild cutlass blows surprised the crew of the Night Hawk, who stood quietly on the poop waiting to be taken prisoners.
“This roused my wrath,” says Taylor, “and I expostulated with the Lieutenant upon his firing on unarmed men.”
They then cooled down and began a search for portable valuables; but, perhaps because they feared Colonel Lamb might come to the rescue, they made haste about this, and then set fire to the ship fore and aft.
They were quickened in their departure by the humour of an Irish fireman, who sang out lustily:
“Begorra! begorra! but we shall all be in the air in a minute, with this ship full of gunpowder!”
The men who were holding Taylor dropped him “like a hot potato,” and away they rowed, taking some of the crew as prisoners. The gunpowder existed only in the fancy of the Irishman.
The blockaders opened fire on the Night Hawk, which was blazing merrily, and Colonel Lamb shelled the blockading fleet; then through the boiling surf the rest of the crew rowed safely, wet through and exhausted.
With the rising tide she bumped herself over the sandbank, still burning. They telegraphed to Wilmington for help, and some 300 negroes came down the river to assist in baling and pumping. So they managed to save the Night Hawk and make her fit to undertake other voyages, though to look at she was no beauty, for her sides were all corrugated with the heat, and her stern twisted, and not a bit of woodwork on her was left unconsumed by the fire. Yet she managed to stagger across the Atlantic through some very bad weather.
Such were some of the adventures of the blockade-runners in the Civil War of the United States. To those who bought the ships it was a matter of pecuniary profit merely; to the Southerners in Richmond, Wilmington, and Charleston, and even on the plantations inland, the arrival of these vessels staved off famine and cold and nakedness. To the Northerners they meant a prolongation of the unequal struggle, and it was no wonder that they dealt rather harshly with those whom they caught.
A rich lady of South Carolina wrote during this war: “I have had an excellent pair of shoes given me. For more than a year I have had none but some dreadful things made by our carpenter, and they do hurt my feet so. Uncle William says the men who went into the war to save their negroes are abjectly wretched. Neither side now cares a fig for these beloved negroes, and would send them all to heaven in a hand-basket to win the fight.”
The negroes on the whole were very faithful to their old masters, for many of them had been treated with all justice and kindness. Of course, some of them gave themselves airs on becoming free and independent voters. One old negro said to his master: “When you all had de power you was good to me, and I’ll protect you now, massa. No niggers nor nobody shall tech you. If you want anything, call for Sambo. Ahem! I mean call for Mr. Samuel: dat my name now.”
From “Running the Blockade,” by T. E. Taylor. By kind permission of Mr. John Murray.
[CHAPTER XIV]
THE FIRST IRONCLADS (1862)
Will they sink or swim?—Captain Ericsson, the Swede—The Merrimac raised and armoured—The Monitor built by private venture—Merrimac surprises Fort Monroe—The Cumberland attacked—The silent monster comes on—Her ram makes an impression—Morris refuses to strike his flag—The Cumberland goes down—The Congress is next for attention—On fire and forced to surrender—Blows up at midnight—The Minnesota aground shows she can bite—General panic—Was it Providence?—A light at sea—Only a cheese-box on a raft—Sunday’s fight between two monsters—The Merrimac finds she is deeply hurt, wounded to death—The four long hours—Worden and Buchanan both do their best—Signals for help—The fiery end of the Whitehall gunboat.
The War of Secession between the Federals and Confederate States gave rise to a new kind of warship—the ironclad. The Merrimac was converted into such a vessel by the South, and the Monitor was built by the North, or Federals, in the space of 100 days.
Most people, experts and others, predicted a watery grave for a ship cased in iron. Very few ventured on board at the launching of the Monitor, and even the builders provided a steam-tug to save the passengers in case she went to the bottom. But the Monitor, after the first graceful dip, sat like a wild duck on a mere, being flat-bottomed, having a turret 9 feet high, capable of revolving, with two circular portholes to fire from. Captain Ericsson, a Swede, was her architect.
The South had seized all the forts and dockyards below Chesapeake Bay, and had struck great consternation into the Federal hearts. When the Federals burnt and evacuated the Norfolk Navy Yard they scuttled the steam frigate Merrimac; but the Confederates raised her, plated her with railroad iron, and fitted her with a slanting roof to serve as a shield. The Merrimac, when finished, did not take the water so gracefully as the Monitor, for her weight was so enormous that she nearly broke her back in launching. It was known that both sides were at work upon some monster of the deep, but which would be ready first no one could predict.
However, on the 8th of March the Merrimac left Norfolk, accompanied by two other war vessels—the Jamestown and Yorktown—and followed by a little fleet of armed tugs. She was heading for Newport News, where there was a Federal garrison, guarded by the sailing frigates the Cumberland and the Congress, which rode at anchor within half a mile of the shore battery. Their boats were hanging at the booms, and the week’s washing fluttered in the rigging—as peaceful a scene as could be imagined.
But the look-out on Fortress Monroe caught sight of a monster vessel ploughing the waves, and signalled to the war-ships to get under way. The Minnesota had her steam up and soon went off towards Newport News, where the Cumberland and Congress lay on blockading duty. The crew of the Cumberland, seeing a strange ship come round Craney Island, recognized her as the expected ironclad. All hands were beat to quarters, and the Cumberland swung across the channel in order to bring her broadside to bear. The slanting roof of the Merrimac puzzled them, and the long iron ram churned up the water as she advanced relentlessly and in silence. At the distance of a mile the Cumberland began to use her pivot guns, but the Merrimac made no reply, only steamed majestically on, though broadside after broadside was poured upon her like hail; but the heavy shot glanced off harmlessly, and ever the Merrimac came closer and closer.
As she passed the Congress the Merrimac fired one broadside, and then, leaving her to the tender mercies of the Jamestown and the Yorktown, made straight for the Cumberland. Both the Federal ships discharged their broadsides against the armoured monster. She just quivered under the blow and came on in silence. The National battery at Newport News opened upon her at point-blank range, and every man on board the Cumberland drew a breath of relief. “Now,” they thought, “our massive guns will teach her a lesson.” But it seemed as if the Merrimac had received no damage. Not a soul could be seen on her decks, not a splinter on her sides; but she was coming towards them—coming madly, as it seemed, to destruction.
What did the Merrimac mean? Why did she not fire her guns? The crew on the Cumberland soon found out, when the great ram struck their frigate amidships with a shock that threw every man down on the deck, crushed in the ribs, and heeled the ship over till her topsail yards almost splashed the water. The Merrimac reversed her engines and backed away under a murderous broadside, replying as she too turned her broadside with a deadly volley of shot and shell, which swept her enemy’s decks of guns and men. Meanwhile the water was pouring into the terrible gaping wound in the side of the Cumberland; but Lieutenant Morris, who was in command, fought her to the last with unflinching courage. Yet once again the Merrimac turned her prow and crushed in close upon the old wound, and the great oak ribs snapped like twigs under the weight of iron. The Cumberland began to ride lower in the water, but still aimed with calm accuracy at the Merrimac, riddling her smoke-stack and bending her anchor. But the Merrimac lay off a little and poured a storm of shot into the sinking frigate, dealing death and mutilation. Yet Morris refused to yield, and the whole crew in their desperate plight thought of nothing but saving the honour of the flag. One sailor, with both his legs shot off, hobbled up to his gun on bleeding stumps and pulled the lanyard, then fell in a swoon by the gun.
“She is sinking!” was the cry; but they still fought on, though the frigate was settling deeper every minute. Then the water came gurgling into the portholes, and choked the guns and drowned the gunners. The last gunner was knee-deep in water when he fired the last shot, and then the Cumberland careened over on her side. Down she sank amid a whirl of circling waters, a caldron of wave and air—caught in one, and vomiting steam all around and over the dying vessel, and in a moment 400 men were on the verge of death, some being carried down into the revolving vortex, some being cast up on the outside, some swimming frantically towards the shore, or reaching desperately for fragments of wreck. About 100 went down with the ship. The chaplain went down with the wounded who were below deck.
It took forty-five minutes for the Merrimac to finish off the Cumberland, and she now turned her ram towards the Congress, which spread all sail and endeavoured to get clear away.
But at this moment the Congress grounded and became helpless. The gunboats of the Confederates were still firing heavily at her from a respectful distance, but as they saw the Merrimac approaching they too drew near under her protection.
The Merrimac chose her position at about 100 yards’ range, despising the guns of the Congress, and raked her fore and aft, dismounting guns and covering her deck with mangled limbs. In three places the Congress burst into flames, and the dry timber crackled and blazed and smoked like a volcano. The men could not stand by the guns for the fervent heat. The wounded were slowly burned alive. The officers could not bear this sight, and hauled down the flag.
A tug was sent by the Confederates to take off the prisoners from the burning wreck, but, unfortunately, some sharpshooters from the shore still kept up a hot fire upon the Southern vessels. In consequence of this the Merrimac fired another broadside into the sinking Congress, and killed many more of her crew. The Congress, being deserted, still burned on till darkness fell, and the ruddy glare lit up the moving waters as if they had been a sea of blood. At midnight the fire reached her magazine, and with a thunder of explosion the Congress blew up into a myriad fragments. The Northern warship Minnesota had also grounded, so had the frigate St. Lawrence, and the Merrimac, while it was still light enough to aim a gun, steamed towards them to see what little attention she could bestow upon them. The Merrimac was, perhaps, a little overconfident in her coat of mail. Anyhow, she risked receiving a broadside at very short range from the heavy guns of the Minnesota.
A shot seems to have entered her porthole and damaged her machinery, for she hesitated, put about, and returned to safe anchorage behind Craney Island.
Meanwhile, a very natural terror was gnawing at the hearts of the Federal crews and garrison in Hampton Roads.
They had listened to the sounds of the conflict and seen the dire results in wonder, almost in despair. The Merrimac, they said, was invulnerable. Not a shot could pierce her. On Sunday morning she would return and destroy the whole Federal fleet at her leisure. She would shell Newport News Point and Fortress Monroe, at the entrance of Hampton Roads, set everything on fire, and drive the garrisons from their guns. Nay, as the telegraph wires flashed the news to Washington, it was foreseen with an agony of horror that the Merrimac might ascend the Potomac and lay the capital in ashes. Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York, Boston, were in a state of panic. No one knew what might not follow. It was a blind horror of a new and unknown danger. For the experience of one hour had rendered the shipbuilding of the past a scorn and a laughing-stock. Wooden frigates might go to the scrap-heap now. With the Cumberland had gone down morally all the great navies of Europe. A new order had to be found for ship and battery, and steel must take the place of planks of oak.
Such a night of anxiety and alarm the Northern States had never experienced. It was ten o’clock at night when the look-out in the garrison thought he saw lights out at sea in Chesapeake Bay. He called his mate. By-and-by they made them out to be two small steamers heading for Old Point Comfort. An eye-witness from Fort Monroe thus describes what happened:
“Oh, what a night that was! I can never forget it. There was no fear during the long hours—danger, I find, does not bring that—but there was a longing for some interposition of God and waiting upon Him, from whom we felt our help must come, in earnest, fervent prayer, while not neglecting all the means of martial defence. Fugitives from Newport News kept arriving. Ladies and children had walked the long ten miles from Newport News, feeling that their presence only embarrassed their brave husbands. Sailors from the Congress and Cumberland came, one of them with his ship’s flag bound about his waist, as he had swum with it ashore. Dusky fugitives came mournfully fleeing from a fate worse than death—slavery. These entered my cabin hungry and weary. The heavens were aflame with the burning Congress. But there were no soldiers among the flying host. The sailors came only to seek another chance at the enemy, since the Cumberland had gone down in deep waters, and the Congress had gone upward, as if a chariot of fire, to convey the manly souls whose bodies had perished in that conflict upward to heaven.
“The heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o’er,”
but the night was not half so heavy as our hearts, nor so dark as our prospects. All at once a speck of light gleamed on the distant wave. It moved; it came nearer and nearer, and at ten o’clock at night the Monitor appeared.
“‘When the tale of bricks is doubled, Moses comes!’
“I never more firmly believed in special Providence than at that hour. Even sceptics for the moment were converted, and said: ‘God has sent her!’ But how insignificant she looked! She was but a speck on the dark blue sea at night, almost a laughable object by day. The enemy call her ‘a cheese-box on a raft,’ and the comparison is a good one. Could she meet the Merrimac? The morrow must determine, for, under God, the Monitor is our only hope now.”
Lieutenant Worden, the Commander of the Monitor, on arriving at Fort Monroe was instructed to lie alongside the Minnesota, to guard her in case of a night attack. At eleven o’clock she set out, and her arrival was hailed with delight by the men on board the frigate, though some shook their heads at the strange unshapely toy which a private individual had constructed to save the Federal fleet. But few slept that night. The odds against the Monitor seemed too great. She mounted but two guns, while the Merrimac carried ten. Sunday morning broke sunny and beautiful, and the sea was peaceful and calm. Near Sewell’s Point, opposite Hampton Roads, three vessels were at anchor, one of them the Merrimac.
About nine o’clock glasses showed a stir amongst them, and instantly the Monitor awoke to life and action, closing her iron hatches and putting on the dead-light covers. The Monitor, like a great girdle-cake, only stood 2 feet out of the water; her smooth surface was broken only by the turret and pilot-house.
Then they saw the Merrimac coming, looking like a submerged house, with roof only out of the water. After her came the Jamestown and Yorktown, and a fleet of tug-boats crowded with ladies and gentlemen from Norfolk eager to see the fun.
The Merrimac, entirely unconscious of the new enemy she had to encounter, steamed slowly along and fired upon the Minnesota, which was still aground. The Minnesota replied with a broadside and the usual result; but the Monitor steamed out from behind and boldly advanced to meet her antagonist, and when at a distance of half a mile Lieutenant Worden from the pilot-house gave the order to fire. The ball, weighing 170 pounds, rattled against the mailed side of the Merrimac. She staggered under the force of the concussion, and at once seemed to realize that in this floating turret she had no mean antagonist. At the range of only a few yards she poured in a terrible broadside. To her disgust, the shots seemed to have glided off and done no harm. Then the two vessels closed and poured a hail of heavy metal upon each other. The Monitor being the quicker, would circle round the Merrimac, while the turret, turning with ease, always presented the guns to the foe.
Worden in his pilot-house could speak through tubes to Lieutenant Green, who commanded the gunners in the tower. Once Green trained his guns on the Merrimac’s water-line, and the shot penetrated.
“Splendid, sir! splendid!” roared Worden. “You have made the iron fly.”
But the spectators who lined the ramparts of Fort Monroe could not see what was happening for the clouds of smoke, and they stood, silent and wretched, almost afraid to look.
But at last the veil parted, and they saw the little Monitor lying alongside the Merrimac, trim and spiteful, with the Stars and Stripes flying proudly from her stern, and a great cheer arose from every throat. Then they saw the Merrimac bear down upon the little flat cheese, as if to sink her. She struck fair and square, but the iron ram glided up on her low-sheathed deck and simply careened her over; but in so doing the Merrimac showed her unarmed hull below the iron coat of mail, and the Monitor planted one of her shots in a vital place.
For four long hours had this strange duel lasted, the Merrimac firing heavily, the Monitor steaming round and choosing her place and time, with careful aim at rudder, screw, and water-line. At last Buchanan, the Commander of the Merrimac, was severely wounded, and as his ship began to take in water through three gaping wounds, the helm was put over and the conqueror of yesterday limped away. But her last shot struck point-blank upon the iron grating of the pilot-house just where Lieutenant Worden was looking out. The concussion threw him down senseless, and minute pieces of iron and powder were driven into his eyes, so that he was blinded. When after a time he recovered his consciousness he asked:
“Have I saved the Minnesota?”
“Yes, sir, and whipped the Merrimac,” was the reply.
“Then I care not what becomes of me,” murmured the Lieutenant.
The Merrimac slowly made her way to a safe anchorage under the batteries at Sewell’s Point. Here she signalled for help, and tugs came up, took her in tow, and escorted her to Norfolk. Her injuries were so severe that after months of work upon her she never ventured to quit her retreat, whereas the Monitor seemed but slightly damaged. She had been hit twenty-two times, and only showed slight indentations, but a ball striking full on the pilot-house had bent a huge iron beam. The ram of the Merrimac had torn off some of the plating from the side of the Monitor. The latter drew only 10 feet of water, and could go where the Merrimac could not venture.
But though the Merrimac had fired her last shot, she gave the North a great fright in the night which followed the battle. At midnight thousands of people along the coast were roused from their sleep by cries that came over the water: “Fire! fire! For God’s sake, save us!”
The shore was soon lined by spectators, who stood unable to get a boat to put out or help in any way. There was the gunboat Whitehall roaring with flames, and the dark figures of the crew were plainly visible on her deck, either wrapped in red fire or jumping into the deep water beneath.
The Whitehall’s shotted guns were going off here and there through the thick crowds or clustering houses, and one shell struck the hospital, making the inmates believe that the Merrimac had returned. It transpired that a red-hot shot had been thrown from the Merrimac during the day and had lodged between the Whitehall’s timbers, where the fire smouldered until late at night.
The general conclusion from this momentous fight between the first ironclads was that “England’s naval supremacy is gone for ever.” But men are more potent than masses of metal. America and England have navies now in comparison with which the Merrimac and Monitor are but tin kettles. Yet we must remember that Russia, too, a few months ago possessed a strong navy as far as metal goes. But once again the Japanese proved to the world that it is in the hearts of brave men, the science of clever men, and the enduring patience of patriotic men, that the issues of victory or defeat are mainly determined.
[CHAPTER XV]
CAPTURE OF NEW ORLEANS (1862)
New Orleans and its forts—Farragut despises craven counsel—The mortar-fleet in disguise—Fire-rafts rush down—A week of hot gun-fire—A dash through the defences—The Varuna’s last shot—Oscar, aged thirteen—Ranged before the city—Anger of mob—Summary justice—Soldiers insulted in the streets—General Butler in command—Porter nearly blown up in council—Fort Jackson in ruins—“The fuse is out.”
New Orleans, on the Mississippi River, was the great market of the South, a rich and powerful city of 200,000 inhabitants. Everything possible had been done to defend it from the Northern arms. Sixty miles below New Orleans the river makes a sharp bend, and here, fronting each other on either side, stood the forts of Jackson and St. Philip. These strong forts the Confederates had seized, and the Federal fleet had to pass them on its way to New Orleans. They were heavily armoured with 180 pieces of ordinance, but besides the forts the warships would have to cut through an iron cable stretched across the river and supported by seven hulks and rafts. Above these were eighteen gunboats and floating batteries, with fire-rafts and rams; so that the city felt itself tolerably secure behind these obstructions, and laughed to scorn any thought of being besieged. Besides, had not English and French officers examined the forts and pronounced the attempt to pass them madness? But Commodore Farragut, who was in command of the National fleet, answered them in these words:
“You may be right, gentlemen, but I was sent here to make the attempt. I came here to reduce or pass the forts and to take New Orleans, and I shall try it on.”
The Federal mortar-fleet was getting ready for action. Topmasts were lowered, all spars and booms unshipped, the main-decks cleared, and armour of chain cables was improvised to protect the gunners. The ships were painted with mud to make them invisible. On the 17th of April the order was given to advance up-stream. There was a thick forest on the western bank, a low bank and marshy ground on the east. In order to confuse the enemy, the masts and rigging of the Northerners were festooned with leafy branches; others were sheathed with reeds to blend with the background of the river-bank. Five sloops of war waited behind the mortar-boats, carrying 104 guns; 150 boats supplied with grapnel-ropes, axes, and buckets, were ready to deal with the fire-ships. And they soon had the work to do, for one dark night a blazing raft came down upon them, lighting up water and bank, trees and rushes; but the Westfield dashed into the burning pile and turned her hose upon it; and the boats leapt forth to hack and grapple and plunge the burning timbers into the river. Then cheers broke forth when the peril had been subdued.
At 9 a.m. of the 16th of April Fort Jackson threw a shell into the Northern flotilla a mile off, and at once the mortar-boats replied, sending their big shells with great accuracy into the very ramparts. New Orleans, seventy-two miles away, distinctly heard the thunder of the bombardment, kept up for more than a week. The citadel was set on fire, the walls cracked and shattered, and the forts were flooded. The men on deck would fall down and sleep in the midst of the great thunder, so exhausted were they by toil night and day. On the second day the Carleton received a shell into her magazine, which exploded, and she sank. At the end of a week, after all this terrible storm of flying metal, only one man had been killed and six wounded in the Federal fleet. But the forts had not been silenced.
On the 24th of April, at 2 a.m., two red lights were run up on the flag-ship, and very soon the fleet was under way for the passage between the forts. As each ship passed it delivered its broadside and swept on towards the gunboats beyond. Fire-rafts kept floating down, and the roar of 500 cannon shook the air.
The Ithaca was riddled by shot and fell behind. The ram Manasses came down on the flag-ship, and Admiral Farragut got aground while trying to avoid her. His ship took fire from a fire-raft, but it was extinguished.
Captain Boggs in the Varuna sunk five gunboats one after another, then his vessel’s sides were stove in by a ram; but with his last broadside before he sank he disabled her. A boy named Oscar was on board the Varuna, only thirteen years old, and during the fight was very busy passing ammunition to the gunners. All covered with dirt and powder-begrimed, he was met by Captain Boggs, who asked where he was running in such a hurry.
“To get a passing-box, sir. My other was smashed by a ball.”
When the Varuna went down with her crew Boggs missed the boy, and feared he was among the drowned. But presently he saw the lad gallantly swimming towards the Oneida, a neighbour ship. Oscar clambered on board, dripping and grinning from ear to ear, as if he had just enjoyed the finest fun in life. Seeing his Captain, he put his hand to his forehead in the usual salute, and saying, “All right, sir; I report myself on board,” shook off the water and was ready for the next duty to hand.
On the morning of the 25th the Federal ships ranged up near the city batteries and silenced their fire in a few minutes. Soon the whole fleet was moored opposite New Orleans, with the Stars and Stripes proudly flying from every masthead, and the bands playing their national airs.
The citizens of New Orleans had rested in full persuasion that they were absolutely safe behind their forts and gunboats, and now that they saw the enemy actually threatening their city, they were transported by a passion of panic, mortification, and rage.
When they first heard that the forts had been passed and that the Yankee ships were coming up the river, the mob of the city became so desperate in their fury that martial law had to be proclaimed. At least, they said, these hated Yankees should not get the wealth of the city, and they put the torch to everything that would burn. Offices, banks, ships, cotton, piers, warehouses, coal, and sugar—all were fired and consumed in one vast conflagration. The river was dotted with floating islands of flame, as richly freighted merchantmen were fired and cut adrift.
The Confederate General Lovell and his troops were withdrawn, as no reasonable promise of a successful defence remained.
Two iron rams of immense power which had been in building were destroyed before Admiral Farragut arrived.
As soon as the fleet appeared before the city some of the citizens who favoured the Union foolishly expressed their delight by cheers. Civil war is always conducted with greater bitterness than war with a foreign Power. These unfortunates were promptly shot down in the street or on the quay.
Shot down by their Fellow-Citizens
During the siege of New Orleans, some of those who favoured the North were foolish enough to cheer when the Northern fleet arrived.
On the 26th of April the city was formally surrendered, and a body of troops was landed to raise the Stars and Stripes over the public buildings. Crowds of angry men followed the marines with hoot and yell, and were only prevented from inflicting actual outrage by the fear of being shelled from the ships. It is said that Captain Bailey and his men on landing at the crowded pier were jostled and jeered at by angry bands of rowdies. We have to remember this when we pass judgment on General Butler’s order to treat all ladies who insulted the troops as disorderly women. We may wonder how the Germans would have treated the French in Paris had the Parisians dared to conduct themselves so outrageously.
General Butler writes thus to a friend: “We were 2,500 men in a city seven miles long by two to four wide, of 150,000 inhabitants, all hostile, bitter, defiant, explosive—standing literally on a magazine. The devil had entered the hearts of the women to stir up strife in every way. Every opprobrious epithet, every insulting gesture, was made by these bejewelled, becrinolined and laced creatures, calling themselves ladies, towards my soldiers and officers from the windows of houses and in the streets. How long do you think our flesh and blood could have stood this?...”
It is clear that General Butler was as angry as the ladies. The Albany Journal adds this fact: “Women who have been regarded as the pattern of refinement and good breeding not only assail our men with the tongue, but with more material weapons. Buckets of slops are emptied upon them as they pass, decayed oranges and rotten eggs are hurled at them. The forbearance of our troops is wonderful.”
Commander Porter had been left behind to receive the capitulation of the forts Jackson and St. Philip, when the Federal fleet steamed up to New Orleans. He pitched a few shells into Fort Jackson, but there “was no response; the fight had all been taken out of them.” On the 28th a flag of truce from Fort Jackson came on board the Harriet Lane with offer to surrender. When officers of both sides were assembled in the cabin of the Harriet Lane discussing the details of surrender, an officer came below and informed Commander Porter that the Southern battery Louisiana had been set on fire and was drifting down upon them. She was a steam floating battery of 4,000 tons, mounting sixteen heavy guns. The battery had been fired so quietly that no one suspected any such thing until it blazed up, for flags of truce were flying upon both forts and ships.
Porter proceeded with the conference as if nothing were the matter. Soon another officer came down, reporting that the battery, on fire from stem to stern, was drifting down upon them.
Turning to the Confederate officers, Porter asked: “Has she powder and loaded guns on board, gentlemen?”
“We presume so, but we know nothing of naval matters here.”
Just at this moment the hot guns began to go off and throw shot and shell at random amongst friends and foes.
Commander Porter, with severe coolness of manner, only said: “Then we will go on with our business, gentlemen. If you don’t mind the effect of the explosion which is soon to come, we can stand it.”
Fortunately, the Louisiana drifted across towards St. Philip, and exploded her magazine when just abreast of it. The sound of the explosion was heard for miles up and down the river. When the smoke cleared away the battery had gone into fragments and sunk in the Mississippi. If it had drifted upon the Harriet Lane, as had been intended, and blown into smithereens the consulting officers of both North and South, that would have been a consequence of treachery almost worse than the insults of the New Orleans ladies or the indiscreet edict of General Butler.
Fort Jackson had crumbled into powder under the impact of the huge shells from the mortars. On the first night of the bombardment the magazine was in such danger that only wet blankets saved it from blowing up. One bomb came leaping into the officers’ mess-room when they were dining. With a thud and a rumble it rolled under the very table. All rose and clustered in a corner in some consternation, expecting to go skywards with the crockery. They waited one minute, two minutes. Not yet had death come! Then a young officer crawled under the table and burst into a hearty laugh.
“What is it, Jimmy?”
“Oh, you can go on with that Irish stew now. The fuse is out.”
They returned to their dinners with such appetite as they could. Fortunately, men who are living at high pressure and strain, meeting death at every turn, are easily moved to see the funny side of things.
[CHAPTER XVI]
THE SIEGE OF RICHMOND (1862 AND 1865)
Fair Oaks a drawn battle—Robert Lee succeeds Johnston—Reforms in the army—Humours of the sentinels—Chaffing the niggers—Their idea of liberty—The pickets chum together—Stuart’s raid—A duel between a Texan and a German—Effect of music on soldiers—A terrible retreat to James River—Malvern Hill battle-scenes—Three years after—General Grant before Richmond—Coloured troops enter the Southern capital in triumph—Lee surrenders—Friends once more.
The battle of Fair Oaks had been fought, and General McClellan began to entrench himself in view of the siege of Richmond. It had been a drawn battle: the South had taken some guns, but the Federal forces were too strong for them, and swamps, rough ground, and woods all helped to throw the South into confusion. Upon a field hardly a mile square were lying some 7,000 or 8,000 dead and wounded, many of them having been there for twenty-four hours. Some had gone deep into the muddy swamps and stuck fast there, dying or laying the foundation of some terrible disease. Acres of forest had been slashed, or cut about 5 feet from the ground, to prevent the passage of troops and artillery.
The Southern Commander-in-Chief, General Johnston, had been killed by a shell in this battle, but the substitution of General Robert E. Lee as Commander led to great reforms in the Confederate Army. Lee at once removed the camps from malarious swamps; he provided supplies of wholesome provisions, and reclothed the hungry, starving and mutinous men, so that in a few weeks they looked stronger, fought better, and behaved as men under discipline.
Every evening the countersign was given out, and sentinels were posted to prevent spies crossing the Chickahominy. In the Federal Army were men of many nations—Scotch, Irish, German, Norsemen, and others. It was told of an Irish sentinel that he stopped a stranger.
“Halt! Who comes there?”
“Me—a friend of the chaplain.”
“Have ye the countersign?”
“No.”
“Faith! an’ if ye were a friend of the divil and had no counthersign ye couldn’t pass this way—not on no account, sor.”
“But I tell you I am a friend of your chaplain, and I forgot to ask him for the countersign. Don’t you see?”
“Is that it, sor? Then, be jabers! what’s to prevint me giving to ye the counthersign, eh?”
“Nothing, I suppose, if you will be so kind.”
“Come closer, and, be jabers! I’ll just whisper it in your ear. There! Now stand and answer. Who comes here?”
“A friend.”
“A friend! Right! and maybe ye have the counthersign?”
“I have; it is ‘Good-night, mother.’”
“Quite correct, sor. Pass on, and good luck to ye!”
A long siege is such dull work that the Northerners used to amuse themselves by chaffing the young negroes when they caught them in the lines. Perhaps they would give the nigger-boy a bit of food, then suddenly say:
“Sambo, what relation are you to Jeff Davis’s coachman?”
The black eyes would roll and the whites enlarge as the grinning nigger replied:
“I ain’t no sort o’ connexion with that ere, sah.”
“You’re a Secesh, I reckon.”
“No, sah; I’m Union boy.”
“Oh, then we shall have to flog you, Sambo. Don’t you know that in this part of McClellan’s army we are all at heart good rebels?”
“Lord ha’ mercy! I never thought o’ that; and now I do think on it, I do agree dat I am a bit of a rebel, anyhow.”
Then all the listeners would burst out laughing at poor Sambo, and he left the camp befogged and bewildered.
Once an old grey-headed negro came into camp, and some young officers began to tackle him.
“Think we can take Richmond, boy?”
“Dar be right smart o’ men round here, but I dunno ’bout dar being able for to take Richmond, sah.”
“‘Right smart o’ men!’” said a Captain. “Why, this is only a flea-bite to what’s coming to eat up the rebel army. You’ll see them coming up like locusts. Here’s McClellan with half a million around here, and there’s Burnside down there, coming from Carolina with a hundred thousand more, and General Banks with two hundred thousand more, and General Fremont—why, he can’t count his men he has so many!”
The old fellow opened his eyes wider and wider as the list of imaginary armies was run over. Then, gazing up intently in the officer’s face:
“Got all dem men?” he asked in a subdued voice.
“Yes, and more.”
The negro threw out his arms and ejaculated:
“Oh! dear Mesopotamia! Whatever will become of massa, I wonder?”
The negroes wanted to be free, but they did not want to work. Many of them who had run away from their masters were employed by the Federals in unloading stores. They worked from daylight until dark, singing over it, talking, shouting, arguing, making such a shindy. A Virginian negro never did a quarter of a day’s work on his master’s plantations, and they soon found out the difference when they became free niggers and earned wages. They did not much relish their rise. A party of niggers would come up to the Colonel’s tent.
“Well, boys, what made you leave your master? Wasn’t he kind to you?”
“Oh yes, massa berry kind—berry kind indeed.”
“Well, didn’t he give you enough to eat?”
“Oh yes, plenty of dat, plenty of dat—’nuff to eat.”
“Well, boys, what made you leave him?”
“Why, de trufe am dat he made us work ’mong sugar-canes,” said one.
“And we heerd ’bout de Norf am such a nice place, so we tort dat we would go to um,” said another.
“Nice place? Why, how do you mean a nice place?”
“Well, sah, we was told dat nobody did no work up dar.”
Even the white peasants in Virginia seemed to be lazy and indolent. They lived in little cabins, and only the very young or old were left, as every able-bodied man was in the army. They were dressed in homespun and spoke with a drawl. They did not wish to be richer, content with one acre and a single cow—Tories of a most old-fashioned kind; and the women, like the Boers, were far more dangerous rebels than the men, and tried to entrap unwary Federals when they got them drinking in their houses.
All round by the river four miles from Richmond was a succession of dark swamp, yellow field, and brown hill-side. Batteries were placed on all the ridges, guarded on either side by woods and in front by earthworks. The Confederates on the other side of the river had fewer trees but stronger earthworks. On the 1st of June there was an artillery duel, begun by the Richmond batteries, but they had to beat a retreat into the woods before the precision of some German gunners. Sometimes the pickets of both armies were so close to each other that they made an agreement not to fire at one another. Then they got to exchanging newspapers and tobacco, telling the news, and altogether behaving as if they were rational human beings, and not machines sent to kill one another for political ideals far beyond their ken. Once when a New Jersey regiment was upon picket Federal scouts were being served with their allowance of coffee, and one of these latter observing a Southerner gazing wistfully at his smoking cup, beckoned to him to come over and have a drink. He came, drank, smacked his lips, and walked slowly back. Then he looked round and said:
“I say, friend, how many times a month do you fellows get this good coffee?”
“Oh, just three times a day,” said the Jersey man.
“Three times a day! Why, if that’s true I’ll not stay a day longer in the Confederate Army. Here, lad, I give myself up.” And the fellow actually let his friend take him prisoner.
On the 20th of June General McClellan reported that he had 156,839 men, but he could get no reinforcements, and the armies of the South were increasing. The rains were making quagmires all around, and disease was rife among the troops. About this time the Confederate General Stuart led a successful raid with 1,200 horse and two pieces of artillery round the rear of the Federals, driving in their cavalry pickets till he came to Garlick’s Landing, where he destroyed two schooners and many waggons and captured many prisoners. One Federal—a German Dragoon—scorned to fly with his comrades, and fought a duel with a Texan trooper. The German was a veteran in the wars of Europe, and attacked the Texan, who was a little in advance of his troop. Both were skilled swordsmen, and while they fought the rest pulled rein and looked on. The German sat his horse as if he were a part of the animal and wielded his sword with parry, cut, and thrust like lightning flash. The Texan, on his fleet barb, wheeled swiftly round and round, seeking in vain for an opening. At last the Texan slashed the German’s shoulder, and as blood spirted from the wound the Texans, looking on, raised a cheer. But as quick as thought, with a back-stroke the German cut through the sleeve and flesh of the Texan’s left arm, and his blood began to flow. Then the Texan backed his horse and spurred again upon his opponent, making a lunge at his breast. This the Dragoon parried with great dexterity, and brought down his sharp blade upon the other’s shoulder. Thereat the Texan wheeled his horse once more, drew a pistol and shot the Dragoon through the heart.
A Duel between a Texan and a German
After a successful raid by the Southerners, the Federals had almost all fled, but one—a German dragoon—scorned to do so, and instead attacked a Texan. The other Southerners let them fight a duel, and the German was having the best of it, when the Texan drew a pistol and shot him dead.
Colonel Estran, a Prussian officer in the service of the South, who witnessed this scene, but disapproved of the Texan having recourse to his pistol, writes thus: “Much moved by his fate, I ordered a grave to receive the remains of the brave German trooper. We buried him in his regimentals, with his trusty sword on his breast and his pistols by his side. I then sent for the Texan, and, after reprimanding him severely for his cowardly conduct, I ordered him to seek service in some other corps, telling him that I could not think of allowing a fellow of his stamp to remain in my regiment. The Texan scowled at me with his cat-like eyes, and, muttering a curse, mounted his horse and rode away.”
I think some of us may deem that the Texan was hardly treated by this Prussian officer who felt so indignant at the shooting of the German trooper. The Texan had received two severe wounds. He was not bound to fight only with the sword. He carried pistols; so did the German. Why? if they were not to be used, why carry them? It was the Texan’s duty to kill the German, and he did so. No wonder the poor fellow muttered a curse.
Days of disaster were coming for the Northern Army. They were spread along the river and through the swamps for more than twenty miles. The South could sally out of Richmond and strike any one point before support could be sent up. Part of the army was north of the river, part south. They dared not march on Richmond, now so strongly fortified, and to retreat was fatal. General Jackson had joined General Lee, and every day there was fierce fighting. In the battle of Gaine’s Mill, where the North lost twenty-two guns, the Federal General Butterfield at a critical moment came coolly down the knoll in the thick of a hot fire, and sword in hand, seized the colours, waved them aloft, and so encouraged the valour of his regiment, shouting:
“Your ammunition is never exhausted while you have your bayonets; and use them to the socket, my boys!”
Seventy thousand men were hurling grape, canister, and bullet against 30,000. It was one loud and continuous roar. It was only gradually that it was forced upon the Federal troops that they were beaten and were in full retreat to the James River.
Battles are like games of chess. The great thing is to bring as many pieces into play as you can and mass them on one or two points. The Federals had over 100,000 fighting men, but only 30,000 were engaged in the battle of Gaine’s Mill.
On the 28th McClellan wrote to the Secretary for War: “I have lost the battle because my force was too small. If I save this army now I tell you plainly that I owe no thanks to you or to any other person in Washington. You have done your best to sacrifice this army.”
The Federal rearguard did their best to cover the retreat. They blew up the ammunition which had to be deserted, emptied the barrels of whisky and molasses, bent the muskets, and dismantled the forsaken waggons. But the roads were thronged with the sick and wounded, and hundreds lay down to die in the awful sun.
Ever the victorious South were riding in upon them and making havoc. On one of these charges General Butterfield, seeing the utter misery and downheartedness of the men, gathered together all the regimental bands and placed them at the head of a brigade. In one great burst of sound, which rose above the clamour of the battle, they started “The Star-spangled Banner.” With the first few notes the men’s spirits rose and a new energy came to them. They stepped out and sang lustily, and other regiments caught the brave infection and cheered in chorus.
Such are the uses of music in war. In our own regiments in the Boer War, when the men got weary with the long march, a Colonel would shout to his sergeants: “Have you any men who can sing? Put them in front.” Then the regiment would step out and forget their weariness.
The Richmond Dispatch describes the battle-field thus: “Money was found abundantly among the slain. One man found not less than 150 dollars in gold. One lucky finder had no less than six chronometers ticking in his pocket at the same time. Our men seemed to take great delight in assuming Federal officers’ uniforms, and strutted about serio-comically, much to the amusement of powder-begrimed youths who sat lolling and smoking in the shade. The cannon and arms captured in this battle were numerous and of very superior workmanship. The twenty-six pieces were the most beautiful we have ever seen, while immense piles of guns could be seen on every hand, many even hardly tarnished.”
The road to James River was strewn with stragglers, tired to death. Hospitals were filled to overflowing. When they came to White Oak Swamp Bridge there was a block of waggons, cannon, ambulances, etc. Twenty rows of waggons stood side by side; teamsters swore, and horses gibbed, and officers shouted.
A Confederate officer, writing of the battle of Malvern Hill, describes how the gunboats on the James River helped the Federal retreat, how shot from rifled guns came hurtling through the woods, tearing down the largest trees. “We passed over four lines of our own men who lay close to the ground and dare not rise to face the grape and canister. Our men trampled them into the mud like logs. One man in his haste to get out of danger shoved me on one side, and just at that instant a canister-shot tore his head off. As you may suppose, I was not much vexed at his want of politeness. Early next morning I rode over the battle-ground. I came upon numbers of dead and dying horses—and the wounded! One, a fair-haired Yankee boy of sixteen, was lying with both legs broken, half of his body submerged in water, his teeth clenched, his finger-nails buried in the flesh, his whole body quivering with agony and benumbed with cold. In this case my pity got the better of my resentment, and I dismounted, pulled him out of the water and wrapped him in my blanket, for which he seemed very grateful. One of the most touching things I saw was a couple of brothers, both wounded, who had crawled together, and one of them, in the act of arranging a pillow for the other with a blanket, had fallen. They had died with their arms around one another, and their cheeks together. But your heart will sicken at these details, as mine did at seeing them, and I will cease.”
The word “resentment” in this letter reveals the bitter feeling that springs up when men of the same nation are at war. The battle of Malvern Hill was the fiercest of the seven days’ battles, and the loss on both sides was terrible. When the troops came in sight of James River, muddy current and low banks, they rushed down with mad impetuosity. Many plunged into the stream in a very frenzy of delight. Those who for hours had suffered agonies from thirst now stood knee-deep in the water and drank like fish. The horses were as delighted as the men, and neighed to their friends. Here the troops rested and enjoyed the supplies sent up from White House. But a storm came on the 2nd of July and changed all to mud and sticky surfaces; but the sound gave up their tents to the wounded, and soon many steamers took the poor victims of the fight to a more comfortable abode.
McClellan had lost 15,000 men in the awful struggle of the last seven days, but the South had suffered more heavily, and Richmond was crowded with the wounded and dying. The President thanked the General in a letter, saying: “I am satisfied that yourself, officers, and men have done the best you could.”
It was not until three years after this—in April, 1865—that Richmond was evacuated by General Lee before Generals Grant and Sheridan. President Davis was in church when an orderly, splashed with mud, walked up the aisle and handed him a paper. In the first glance he saw that all was over, and a few hours after he was in full flight. On Monday morning Weitzel with his army, composed partly of coloured troops, marched into Richmond with bands playing. The city had been fired and the stores plundered. Main Street was in ruins, and the bridges over the river were broken. A thousand prisoners were taken and 500 pieces of artillery.
It is said that the coloured troops entered Richmond with proud gait and shouts of ecstasy, welcomed enthusiastically by their dusky brethren who thronged the streets. They laughed and shouted, prayed and wept, and kissed one another in a delirium of happiness. They thought that now at last the white races would acknowledge their equality; but the world has not yet got rid of its old prejudices, and their sun of happiness was doomed to suffer an eclipse. In a few days Lee surrendered. The Federals first heard the news from the cheers of the poor famished army of the South. Twenty-two thousand—all that was left of them—stacked their arms and filed past in a great and solemn silence. The cruel, devastating war was over. Now was seen the strange spectacle of the enemy sharing their rations with a conquered foe. They were no longer North and South now: they were all Americans—citizens once more of the United States, destined, perhaps, in a not distant future to teach Europe that peace is better than war, love is stronger than hate, God’s kingdom supreme over the transient empires of this little world.
[CHAPTER XVII]
THE SIEGE OF PARIS (1870-1871)
WITH THE GERMANS OUTSIDE
The Germans invest Paris—Trochu’s sortie fails—The English ambulance welcomed—A Prince’s visit to the wounded—In the snow—Madame Simon—A brave Lieutenant—Piano and jam—The big guns begin—St. Denis—Old Jacob writes to the Crown Prince—A dramatic telegram—Spy fever—Journalists mobbed.
After the French Emperor was defeated and taken prisoner at Sedan a revolution broke out in Paris, and the terms of peace which had been agreed upon were refused by the Parisians. So the Germans marched on Paris, arriving on the 18th of September. By the end of October 240,000 men began to encircle the ring of fifteen outer forts which guarded Paris.
Trochu was the Governor of Paris. On the 30th of September he made a vigorous sortie across the Marne, to the south-east, where he hoped to join the French army of the Loire, and also at the same time to relieve Paris of some hungry mouths.
But the grip of the Germans was too strong. They had been allowed time to strengthen their positions, and the sortie failed, though the great guns of the forts had boomed and crashed until they were glowing hot.
An English ambulance under Mr. Young and Captain Furley was received by the German doctor with great enthusiasm, for medical comforts were growing scarce in the field hospital.
The stores were carried into the doctor’s own room, and as the box of sundries was unpacked it was splendid to see the delight of the good man.
“Porter,” he cried—“ganz gut! Ale—ganz gut! Chloroform—ach Gott! Twelve hundred cigars—du lieber Gott!” and his hands and eyes went up in delight and gratitude.
The woollen clothing alone must have saved many lives. After supper that evening the German doctor got up and made a little speech.
“Gentlemen, some people go about and make large promises which are never fulfilled. What an example of the contrary we have now before us! Mr. Young and Captain Furley heard of our state; they let no red tape stand in their way, and now this afternoon there comes jogging up our avenue a waggon bringing what is health—nay, what is life—to our poor sick and wounded. Here is the Englander all over, gentlemen—the bulldog that has no wind to spare in superfluous barking.”
The officers present raised their glasses and shouted “Hochs!” for the English ambulance. It is pleasant to hear of such comradeship between men of different nations.
The next day we are told that, after desperate fighting, the Head-quarters Staff of the German 12th Army Corps sat down to a very sombre dinner-table and spoke to one another in hushed voices, for many chairs were empty this dinner-time that had been occupied at breakfast. Not a man in the room but had lost dear friends, and many had lost kinsmen, and some had brothers lying out on the snow. On the forenoon of the fourth day there were found eight poor wretches who had survived the inclemency of two nights’ hard frost. Frostbitten, they lived two days after they were found.
The Germans, after two days’ hard fighting, drove the French back into Paris, with the loss of 6,000 men; but they themselves were very disheartened.
Their loss in officers was very large. The 108th Regiment lost thirty-six officers out of forty-five. In the knapsacks of the French soldiers were found provisions for six days, showing that they had hoped to co-operate with the Southern Army of the Loire.
One day the Prince of Saxe-Weimar went to visit the wounded Würtembergers, a big man and a kindly heart. He went round with a box of cigars under his arm, asking each patient, “Can you smoke?” It was pitiful to see how they all tried to smoke, though some were too weak to enjoy their weed. Now the Prince comes upon a stalwart under officer.
“Are you married?”
“No, Highness; but my mother—she has three sons down, all wounded, and it might be bad for her.”
The Prince took out a gold piece.
“Here, my man, send that to the mother, and let her know it comes from your Queen.”
It seems that the Germans had quite mistaken the amount of provisions existing in Paris. According to their calculations by the middle of December Paris ought to be feeling very hungry, on salt rations at the very best. They had not yet prepared for a bombardment with siege guns, hoping that Lady Famine would drive the Parisians to surrender. But they made no sign.
Down at Argenteuil, on the north-west of Paris, there was the crackling of the chasse-pot from over the river, and yet most of the population had come back to their shops. They gossiped in the streets with French gaiety and unconcern, while the bullets sang overhead pretty freely. The steeple of their beautiful church made a good observatory, though its sides were riddled with holes made by shells. The French peasants drove their carts into the market-place below the church and sold eggs and butter full merrily; yet somehow, if a German stood at a window to gaze out, the French sharpshooters would aim at him. At Lagny there were generally 1,000 prisoners a day passing through to Germany. Some were so ravenous with hunger that they stooped to pick up turnip-tops and bones from the gutter, until the British Society organized a relief with stores of preserved meat and bread. And there was no hospital for the wounded! the poor creatures were dumped down in sheds, vans, the station-rooms, the church, the mairie. In one day there arrived 1,800 wounded. They were bestowed—frozen, hungry, hopeless—in the cold comfort of the church. Madame Simon, the lady superintendent of the Saxon ambulance, did noble things day and night—a most devoted woman. There were feats of quiet bravery done every day. There was a colporteur of the English Bible Society who used to drive his waggon on a road between Gonesse and Aulnay, a road exposed to shell-fire more than most.
“Yes,” he said, “it is a good time for the men to read good words when they are standing with the shadow of death hanging over them.”
There is a story of a boy Lieutenant, von Schramm, who found himself suddenly in a crowd of Frenchmen. He leapt from his horse and hid in a house, in the hope of escaping by the back-door; but his pursuers caught him, and were taking him towards St. Denis, which lies to the north of Paris. In going through the park of Le Bourget the officer who carried von Schramm’s sword was shot and fell. The boy made a dash for his own sword, grasped the hilt and cut down the man on his other side, rushed for the small lake, dived to avoid pursuing bullets, and swam safely across to rejoin his regiment. The strange thing was that he had been on the sick-list before his winter ducking, but now he was blessed with a boy’s appetite.
It spoke well for the German besiegers that they got on so cordially with the villagers round Paris. These were mostly of the humbler sort; or servants left behind to take care of their master’s house. There were lovely country houses inhabited by a few German officers, and, were it not for the rents made by shot and shell, the owners would not have grumbled much at their condition when they returned to them, though, of course, there were cases where the boisterous fun of German Lieutenants played havoc with ormolu and gilding. I remember hearing[A] of a grand piano which gave forth reluctant sounds when the notes were pressed down. It was discovered that the strings had been plentifully smeared with jams and sweetmeats! But these jests were the exception.
The bombardment by the big guns had begun late in December with much excited wonder on the part of the Germans. Surely in a few days the Parisians will have had enough of exploding shells! Now here was almost the middle of January, and no effect visible. But the forts round Paris had no living population: no houses to be burnt, no women and children to mutilate. They had to be battered to bits, if possible; and Paris was behaving very heroically now. By the middle of January she was living very poorly indeed, but she endured yet another fifteen days longer.
As for the German soldiers, they began now to feel bored to death, as so often happens in a long siege. The first excitement evaporates; each day’s unlovely duties recur with abominable sameness—and the Germans could find no beer to drink. A German is used to drink plenty of beer, and can carry it without ill effects; but when Fritz took to drinking rum, schnapps, or arrack, he began to reel about the village streets and look rather disreputable.
It was a strange sight to mount some hill and get a view of Paris surrounded by its fifteen forts, and in a yet wider circle by the German lines. The foam of white smoke surged up all round; the thundering roar of cannon, the dull echo of distant guns made dismal music to the ear. The air of Paris is so clear compared to our English cities that all was quite visible; and now that wood was scarce and fires few, it was easy to mark the outlines of the larger buildings, though above them hung a brown pall of smoke, caused by exploding shells or houses that had caught fire.
Day after day there were rumours of this or that fort having been silenced. Now it was St. Denis, on the north side; now Valérien, on the west; now Vincennes, on the east; but the respite was only given to cool the guns or renew the emplacements, and all was as it had been. Besides this there was the daily fear of a new sortie, as Issy or Ivry broke out into fierce clamour on the south-west and south-east. Then troops would be hurriedly transferred along frozen or sometimes muddy roads, while splinters of shell were whizzing about rather too familiarly.
It was calculated that on a fierce day of firing the Germans shot away 10 tons of powder, and nearly 200 tons of heavy matter—iron and steel—were hurled upon the forts and city in twenty-four hours.
There is a story of the Crown Prince of Prussia which illustrates his kindness of heart. In the 3rd Würtemberg Dragoons was a certain Jacob, who had an aged and anxious father. This father had not heard from his son Jacob for so long a time that the old man, in his rustic simplicity, sat down and laboriously wrote a letter to the Crown Prince, asking, “Can Your Highness find out anything about my son?” The old man knew his son had fought at Wörth and at Sedan, but nothing later than Sedan. The Crown Prince did not throw this letter into the waste-paper basket, but sent it to the officer commanding the 3rd Würtembergers, requesting that the old man’s mind should be set at ease. Jacob was sent for by his commanding officer and asked why he had not written home.
“Do you know that His Royal Highness the Crown Prince wants to know why you have not written home for many weeks?”
The man saluted. His purple face was a study.
“Go and write instantly, and bring the envelope to me, sirrah.”
How that story got about among the men! How often has the same experience come to house-masters, when some loving mother appeals for help: “Please make Harry write home.” Both Harry and Fritz need a touch of the spur at times, but how promptly the letter is written when they feel that touch!
The town of St. Denis suffered terribly. The front of the theatre was in ruins. The cathedral, being banked up high with sand-bags, had not suffered so much. The tombs of the kings had all been thus protected, so had the statues, and not even a nose had been knocked off. But the bombardment had shattered many houses and churches, and the shells had ploughed up the streets, or rather hoed them into holes. It was only in the cold and dark cellars that safety could be found. Even there people were not always safe, and when they were pressed to take refuge in Paris they peeped forth shuddering, and swore they would rather die in their own cellars than sally forth through a tempest of shell-fire.
“At nine o’clock on the evening of the 28th of January, 1871, while the Head-quarters Staff of the Maes Army were assembled in the drawing-rooms of the Crown Prince’s château after dinner, an orderly brought in a telegram to the Crown Prince. His Royal Highness, having read it, handed it to General von Schlottheim, the Chief of the Staff. That officer perused it in his turn, and then rising, walked to the door communicating between the billiard-room and the saloon, and there read the telegram aloud. It was from the Emperor, and it announced that, two hours before, Count Bismarck and M. Jules Favre had set their hands to a convention, in terms of which an armistice to last for twenty-one days had already come into effect.”
This startling news meant that Paris was ready to surrender. How many hearts were lighter in both camps next day! War is not all glory and heroic achievement. Those who know what war is pray to God that statesmen and nations may think twice before they rush into so terrible a calamity. In this war of 180 days the Germans had won fifteen great victories, captured twenty-six fortresses, and made 363,000 prisoners.
“Paris is utterly cowed, fairly beaten”—so they said who came from Paris to the German lines, and a few non-combatants, journalists, and philanthropists, ventured to enter the city before the German troops passed in on the 1st of March. They found the streets crowded with men in uniform. The food shops had nothing to sell. There were a few sickly preserves, nothing solid worth eating—some horses’ fat for a delicacy to help down the stuff they called bread. A fowl was priced at forty-five francs; stickleback were fourteen francs a pound; butter, forty francs a pound. Outside the bakers’ shops stood a shivering line of ladies and women, waiting their turn for loaves that tasted like putty, and pulled to pieces like chopped straw.
But there were in side streets many of the roughest, the most cowardly and cruel ruffians of the worst parts of Paris. They were on the prowl, waiting for their prey; so no wonder that Mr. Archibald Forbes, journalist, and several others in divers parts of the city had unpleasant experiences.
Forbes tells us he was walking down the Champs Elysées when he met the Crown Prince of Saxony with his staff riding by. Forbes raised his hat; the Prince returned the salute and passed on. But the dirty gamins of Paris had been looking on. They hustled the Englishman, called him mouchard (spy), sacré Prussien, cochon, tripped him up, hit him on the back of the head with a stick; then, when he was down, they jumped on his stomach with their sabots or wooden shoes. He struggled, as a Scotsman can, got up, hit out right and left; but numbers prevailed, and he was dragged by the legs on his back, with many bumps and bruises, to the police-station. There he showed his papers, and the Prefect released him in a humour that said, “I am mighty glad you Parisians have had a good thrashing.”
Another journalist—so he told me in London a few weeks later—also had ventured to stray away from the German sentries in order to see what Paris thought of a siege. He soon found himself the centre of an angry throng.
Some cried: “He is a sacré Prussien! See his yellow hair!”
“No; I am an English artist,” shouted my friend, still smiling.
“He is a confounded spy! Take him to the Seine! duck him in the river!”
They dragged him towards the river-bank. Out of his eye corners my friend saw several boys pick up stones to help him to sink. He thought his last hour was come. They were close to the river: the water looked very cold. Then there came to his ears the “tuck” of a drum. A company of French soldiers was marching by; a Colonel on horseback rode beside them.
The artist recognized him, for they had once chummed together near Metz. He called to him by name, and the Colonel cried “Halt!”
He spurred his horse through the evil-smelling crowd, and seeing who it was whom the rascals were going to plunge into the Seine, held up his hand and cried:
“Let that English gentleman go. He is no Prussian, but an artist who has drawn my portrait—mine, I tell you—for the London journals. He is my friend—an English friend, like Mr. Wallace.”
This testimony was enough for them. The excitable crowd flew to the opposite extreme. Those who had made ready to stone him like a water-rat now dropped those stones, and rushing up with remorse and even affection in their changed looks, threw fusty arms round his neck, kissed him on both cheeks, sobbed and cried for forgiveness for their little mistake.
Indeed it is not safe to enter too soon into a conquered city.
From “My Experiences of the War,” by Archibald Forbes. With the kind permission of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.