Seen and Unseen

by E. Katherine Bates

My squadron, consisting of French's and my troops, was told off as an escort to Blunt's Battery, F.A., which formed the left of the line, consisting of our other two squadrons, more F. Artillery, 8th and 75th Regiments, etc., all moving to the front through high crops.

Then we saw the enemy—700 or 800 yards off—and Blunt unlimbered his guns, and began to fire, when we soon saw a body of cavalry moving off across our front, to turn our left flank, and Blunt said we must go back to defend our camp. So he limbered up, and we all (i.e. our squadron and Blunt's guns) began to straggle back through the high crops. But Blunt said he must leave one troop with two of his guns, and French's troop was stopped for the purpose. Instead of staying with it, he felt so sure we should have a chance at the cavalry we had seen (Mutineers) that he came on with me, and together we formed up my troop on the parade-ground, close to Blunt's guns, which we saw already unlimbered.

A squadron of Irregular (mutinied) cavalry was coming in our direction over the parade-ground, with a blue squadron of (mutinied) regular cavalry in support, both trotting; so, of course, we went for the Red (head of the echellon they formed).

Then I saw French shot, and the hind quarters of his grey horse pass round the left flank of my little troop; then I gave the word Gallop, and the Red squadron, to my surprise, halted.

Observing its leader taking aim at me with his carbine, I inclined a little to my left, in order to stick him, never dreaming that I should be hit before I could do so, and I was almost within reach before he fired, and his bullet went through my bridle arm, so I had to take my reins on my sword hand and jam my horse into the ranks, just behind the squadron leader who had shot me.

Now to clear up your mystery about my being left to my fate (I had specially asked Colonel Jones how he happened to be left alone amongst the Sepoys, whose numbers were registered by his sabre cuts in so ghastly a fashion), I was not left to my fate; on the contrary, the man on the left of my troop, who alone could see, put his lance through the squadron leader, and stayed about—outside the ring—trying to get to me to the last, and got the V.C. on my report to that effect.

My troop, occupying, in double rank, about twenty yards, went straight on after the twenty yards or so front of the enemy's probable front of perhaps fifty yards. So there were plenty of Sowars left to mob round me and to keep off the man who tried to save me. Of course, my men were quite right in pursuing the broken force as they did, right off the field.

This account has the immense advantage of being taken verbatim from Colonel Jones' letter just received by me. It has the disadvantage that such a letter, from a brave man, would naturally possess—i.e. that of minimising his share in the episode to the point of making it difficult for the lay mind to realise where the heroism came in—which heroism is a vital point in my "coincidence." Fortunately, I have the best authority for saying that the "Blunt" mentioned in this record always maintained that Colonel Alfred Jones had "saved his guns." It appears that at the time of the unexpected attack from the enemy, Colonel Jones and two or three friends (who had not gone to the fort) were breakfasting under the shade of the cemetery wall when the alarm was given. My friend, wishing to rest his charger after the long forced march from Agra, had taken a spare troop horse, saddled with a hunting saddle.

When the round shot began to fall, there was no time to get his charger. There was nothing for it but to put on sword and pistol and ride straight in to the enemy's ranks. No wonder the poor people shut up in Agra were enthusiastic over this "charge of cavalry in their shirt sleeves," as they called it.

In 1891 I was staying in Agra, at the hotel, with my friend of the Delhi incident. A certain Major Pulford, who had come to Agra to race some ponies, divided us at the table d'hôte. He and I had been neighbours for two or three days, when he asked me carelessly one evening what I had been doing that afternoon, as my friend confessed to having taken a "day off."