It was rough going for the greater part of the six miles to the river, the ground being very swampy, and overhead was a broiling July sun. Despite these disadvantages, and the fact that he had not slept for forty-eight hours, Mangles bore the helpless private the whole of the way, only stopping now and then to place his charge on the ground and take a pot-shot at the pursuing rebels. “I really never felt so strong in my life,” he used to say afterwards in referring to this incident. When the waters of the Ganges were reached he plunged in and swam out to the boats with his now unconscious burden. Then, when all the survivors were aboard, the flotilla started on its sad return journey.
Mr. McDonell all this time had been ever to the front, assisting the officers to keep the men together. An excellent shot, like his fellow-magistrate, he accounted for many a rebel ere the river-side was reached, but he did not escape unscathed. A musket shot had lodged in his arm.
In the wild rush for the half-dozen country boats moored close to the river bank, McDonell gave no thought to himself. There were several men very badly hit, and it was not until he had seen these safely over the thwarts that he jumped in and cast the mooring adrift. He was the last man aboard his boat, which was crowded with thirty-five soldiers.
Out into the stream they floated, but now a fresh danger faced them. The rebels had removed the oars from the boat and lashed the rudder tightly, so that the little craft was helpless. To their horror it began to drift back again to the southern bank, on which the sepoys were clustered in joyful expectation of emptying their muskets into the boatload of sahibs. Something had to be done at once, or they were doomed.
To show his face above the gunwale was to court instant death, but McDonell took the risk. With a knife in his hand, he climbed outside on to the canvas roof, worked his way to the stern and with a few deft slashes cut the ropes that held the tiller fast. Bullets pattered all round him as he lay outstretched there, and one passed clean through his helmet, but he was otherwise untouched. Having regained his seat safely, he steered the boat and its precious freight to the opposite bank, where they landed—three men short. The sepoys’ fire had not been all in vain.
While, as I have said, both Mangles and McDonell received the V.C. for their bravery on this occasion, it is a remarkable fact that the former’s exploit would have passed unnoticed by the authorities but for a happy chance. The private whose life he had saved and who had passed some months in Dinapur Hospital before being invalided home, had told the story of his rescue to a surgeon. This worthy noted it down at the time in his journal, and just twelve months later made the true facts public.
It was only in March of last year that Mr. Ross Lowis Mangles died at his home in Surrey, where, after long service in India, he had settled down to spend the remaining years of his life.
Of the three civilians who have won the V.C. “Lucknow” Kavanagh is the most famous. The story of his daring journey in disguise through the rebel lines in order to act as guide to Sir Colin Campbell’s relief force has been told over and over again, but one can never tire of hearing it. It thrills our pulses now as much as ever it did.
Thomas Henry Kavanagh was an Irishman in the Indian Civil Service. At the time the Mutiny broke out he held the post of Superintendent of the office of the Chief Commissioner of Oudh, and took up his residence in Lucknow. Here with his wife he played no mean part in these fateful months before and after Havelock and Outram had fought their way to the aid of the Residency garrison, taking his share of work in the trenches or at the guns as required.