But Lucknow was not destined to fall.
“Well, I’m not a cruel man,” muttered the young private, “but I could kill a few o’ them sepoys with pleasure, the black-’earted villains!”
We may regret this longing for vengeance, but can we wonder at it? The men had heard of their comrades murdered in cold blood, of the women and children tortured and slain most barbarously, and their blood boiled at the outrages. Afterwards it was found that the tales of torture and cruelty had been exaggerated, and that the helpless women and children had been slain quickly and not after prolonged suffering. But even then matters were black enough to excuse the cries for vengeance. Many good and usually gentle men steeled their hearts at this time and gave no quarter to rebel soldiers, but let us thank God that there were many brave Englishmen—the Lawrences foremost among them—who forgave a great deal to the sepoys, and who took into account their temptations and their untamed nature, and who would much rather have won the rebels over by kindness than by slaughter had it been possible.
But that was not possible.
A number of the older soldiers of the Guides came up as the riflemen were still discussing the latest news. A veteran native officer, grief depicted on his weather-beaten countenance, addressed Captain Russell in tones of mingled sadness and anxiety.
“Is it true, Captain Sahib, that Henry Larens is dead? Tell us it is false.”
Jim’s voice faltered. Henry Lawrence had been the hero he had worshipped.
“It is true,” said he, simply.
“I would have given my life to save his, sahib,” said the old Sikh. “His was the brain that raised the Corps of Guides, and he it was who gave me my commission. Oh, my brothers, a great man is dead! Let us go and mourn for Larens Sahib.”
The veteran drew his sword and shook it at the sepoys on the walls.