“Lucknow has fallen!” were the words which met Major Hughes as he hurried on to the front one bright November morning in the memorable year of 1857. Then came reports of the demise of Sir John Lawrence, and at last, when within a few hours’ march of the place itself, a rumour soon changed into a certainty, spread far and wide, announcing the death of the gallant Havelock. For a time the horizon of the Indian world seemed again clouded over by an event which was wholly unexpected. Lucknow had fallen before a small force, whose determined gallantry had carried all before it, but the man whose masterly brain had planned, and whose daring gallantry had carried out the advance through a country literally swarming with enemies, the soldier under whose direct superintendence the Secunderabagh had been stormed, and who had spared neither health, constitution, nor blood in the cause of his country, had consummated the sacrifice with his life. The gallant Havelock was no more. His body lay in a small grave in the Alumbagh. The flag of England was thrown over him in his death, and his country, though mourning her loss, found another, second perhaps to none, to step into the gap.
“You will take the command of your regiment this day, Major Hughes,” said Sir Colin Campbell, as that officer reported himself on the morning of the 26th November, 1857. “You will find the 150th attached to General Outram’s brigade, holding the Bunnee Bridge. Report yourself at once, and take your command,” he continued, rising as he spoke.
This order was given in the sharp tones of one who had not a moment to lose; and Hughes, saluting his superior, turned to carry it out, without a word.
The general’s tent was pitched in the Dil Kooshah Park, and the scene of confusion through which he picked his way was enough to confuse anyone. Regiment after regiment passed him. Infantry, cavalry, and artillery, all moving in one direction towards the Alumbagh, and it became evident that some great movement was going on. Ladies were to be seen wandering hopelessly about with children poorly provided for, only lately rescued from imminent peril. Guns lay here and there, which not being worth taking away, had been burst. Camp followers were shouting and quarrelling, and a scene of more inextricable confusion could hardly be imagined. Moving along with the crowd, Major Hughes found his way to the Martiniere, where lay Brigadier Little and a cavalry brigade. On the banks of the canal the 63rd Regiment and the 4th Sikh infantry were bivouacked, and soon he stumbled on the lines of the 93rd Highlanders, and of Captain Peel’s gallant Naval Brigade. The heavy dome of the Shah Nujeef mosque lay before him, its walls pierced for musketry, and breached by the fire of the British guns; and there stood the Secunderabagh itself, with its yawning breaches and shattered walls. The gardens of the doomed city had been destroyed, the mosques, houses, even to the European mess-house, had been in detail carried by storm. In one spot alone, the bodies of three thousand mutineers had been found, every corpse showing that death had been caused by the deadly bayonet. Major Hughes had proceeded thus far, and was just asking his way from a captain of the Royal Artillery, when down a roughly cut road, his horse white with foam, came an officer of the 9th Lancers.
Pulling up with a sharp jerk, which brought the tired animal on his haunches, and sent the light gravel flying in the air—
“You are Major Hughes, commanding the 150th?” he asked.
“I am; on my way to report myself as having joined.”
“You will find the chief in the Martiniere compound. Officers commanding regiments are directed to join him there. Evil tidings have arrived.”
Touching his horse with the spur the officer dashed on.
“Who is that?” inquired Hughes from his companion; “I saw him with Sir Colin.”