The Disputed V.C.: A Tale of the Indian Mutiny

by Frederick P. Gibbon

On the night of Monday, May 11, some weeks after Ted’s recovery, Ethel’s twenty-first birthday was celebrated, Colonel Woodburn entertaining the officers and British residents of Aurungpore. The season was too warm for more than occasional dancing, and conversation was the order of the night—conversation serious and frivolous, harmless flirtations between the younger members, and solemn interchange of views concerning the rumoured dissatisfaction prevailing amongst the native troops, a subject pooh-poohed by some and laughed at by others, but gravely regarded by a few—when an orderly entered and handed a missive to the colonel. As he opened it and read he gave a start, and his face paled for one brief second, but soon resumed its ordinary aspect as he slowly folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

A few moments later he crossed over to Major Munro, who at once left the room after speaking to the adjutant and another officer. These two also took their departure before long, and one by one the remainder of the officers were spoken to and retired to their mess-room, where they were shortly joined by Colonel Woodburn.

“I have terrible news,” he informed them, “but we must try to avoid alarming either the ladies or the sepoys. The 3rd Native Cavalry and the 11th and 20th Native Infantry have broken into mutiny at Meerut, killed some of their officers, and, so the message runs, are sacking the town and murdering right and left.”

“At Meerut!” gasped Major Munro. “How at Meerut of all places? They couldn’t—it’s simply impossible!”

“It must be true,” declared the colonel, “though it certainly does seem impossible. One would think they would have broken out at Cawnpore, or Benares, or Allahabad, or here, or anywhere rather than Meerut. But this report must be exaggerated! How could they sack the town and murder in the face of those English regiments and the Artillery? It’s incomprehensible!”

Now even Ensign Russell, a mere griffin, knew that Meerut—a large station more than fifty miles north-east of Delhi—was considered a model cantonment, and contained the strongest British force in all India. Could a revolt seem more hopeless than at this station, where the three native corps were more than counterbalanced by a regiment of British dragoons, the 60th Rifles, and two batteries of the finest artillery in the world—a force sufficient to repress any rising within ten minutes—whereas throughout the seven hundred and fifty miles of territory along the Ganges, in the districts containing the large towns of Agra, Allahabad, Benares, Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Patna, there were only three weak British corps to oppose nearly a score of sepoy regiments and many thousands of armed rebels?

“There’s no saying how it will spread,” continued the colonel. “We must take all precautions, though I believe our men are perfectly trustworthy. There must be some mistake, and I’ve no doubt that we shall hear to-morrow that the rebels have been cut to pieces. I’m afraid the silly fellows will be slaughtered by hundreds.”

But the news of the morning and of the succeeding days was no less hard to understand. Eighty-five men of the 3rd Native Cavalry (a corps composed of Hindus and Mohammedans) had refused to use the cartridges served out, alleging that the fat of pigs and of cows had been employed in the manufacture.

As most readers will know, the pig is regarded as unclean by all Moslems, and the cow is holy to Hindus, so that to touch the fat of these animals would imperil their salvation and shut them out of Paradise. The mullahs and fakirs had been poisoning the minds of the soldiers by asserting that the government was taking this means of uprooting their religion and converting them to Christianity by destroying their chance of salvation as Moslems or Hindus. If they had no future to which to look forward as Mussulmans or Brahmans, they would be the more ready to listen to the Christian doctrine which might give them some hope.

Unfortunately there is reason to believe that some foundation for the rumour existed, owing to carelessness on the part of those responsible for the manufacture, and to senseless, most blamable, disregard of the sepoy’s religious susceptibilities. But these few unclean cartridges had been withdrawn, and those which the men were required to use contained no offensive grease, but merely oil and bees’-wax. The childish, credulous, superstitious sepoys were, however, only too ready to believe all idle tales: they accepted the statements of the fakirs, that by means of charms and witchcraft the English would transform them into animals; that their children would be born with tails like monkeys, and other stories equally absurd.