“Steady, men, steady,” said Colonel Hughes, as leaning heavily on his sword, he stood in the centre of his regiment formed up in square, just where the Calpee and Cawnpore roads join.
“There comes the General and his staff—150th, attention!”
The rattle of the muskets as the men came to attention was heard. “Fix bayonets—shoulder arms,” were the words of command which followed as a mounted aide, at the gallop, left the group who were advancing across the plain, their plumes dancing in the breeze, and the sun glinting from their accoutrements.
“Order arms, and keep the men at attention only,” were the directions given and obeyed. “Have you the muster roll of your losses?” asked the aide.
“A heavy casualty list, Colonel Hughes,” said Sir Colin, as, with the paper in his hand, he rode into the centre of the square. “Three officers, and one hundred and four rank and file. 150th Regiment, I am proud of you!” said the stern old soldier, raising his plumed hat as he spoke. “Twice have you done good service to the whole force under my command. At the race stand, your determined gallantry saved our communications being cut off; to your splendid charge, we owe our first success yesterday. Men of the 150th, I repeat I am proud to have had you under my command. This I give as a token of the admiration of the whole force under my orders, and you it is who have won it for your commanding officer. As he spoke, the old soldier stooped, and himself attached the Victoria Cross, the first ever won in India, to Colonel Hughes’s breast. For you, my men, the glorious word ‘Cawnpore’ shall in future be borne on your regimental colours.”
“Colonel Hughes, dismiss your regiment.”
Three hearty cheers for Sir Colin were given, as the regiment broke its ranks, and the general and his staff rode away, winding in and out, among the fatigue parties, busy burying the dead.
The Gwalior Contingent melted away. British supremacy again reigned in India, and regiment after regiment was poured into the country, now rapidly being pacified.
Three months had hardly elapsed, when the 150th Regiment was marching for Calcutta, under orders for embarkation for England.
The sun was shining brightly on the ocean, and the houses of Cape Town. Isabel sat at her window looking across the sea, watching the white sails of a large ship, which with a pyramid of canvas, rising over a dark hull, was standing right for the anchorage. It was her favourite spot, and much of her time had been spent at that window, looking over the sea. Many a vessel had she watched, driving through the waves, while she speculated on the hopes and fears which attached themselves to those whose home lay within the dark hulls. Some had been coming from Europe, bound for far-away lands; others returning, but all bearing, doubtless, their living cargoes, and their freights of happiness and of misery.