With this object in view, General Havelock placed himself at the head of a body of gallant troops, including a regiment of Highlanders. With his little army he marched out of Allahabad. He knew how desperate were the odds against him—he knew that every mile of ground would have to be contested; but the grand old soldier was also aware that, if his troops were few, their hearts were brave, and he had perfect faith in his own ability to lead them to victory.
At the same time, Major Renaud, in command of the Madras Fusiliers, who had performed prodigies of valour, was pushing up the river with the view of effecting a junction with Havelock. By forced marches the General made rapid progress, not a day passing but what he had a skirmish with the enemy. These skirmishes were not worthy the name of battle, since they were waged mostly by the native rabble; but they served to harass and annoy the British.
In a little while he fell in with Renaud, and the reinforcement was doubly welcome; for many of his own troops had fallen sick through the intense heat and the heavy marches, but there was no rest to be had. The brave old warrior knew that every hour delayed served but to increase the awful peril of those whom he was hastening to relieve.
Futtehpore was reached, and here a desperate battle was fought between Havelock and the Nana’s troops, who had been sent out to meet him.
Confident of victory, the Sepoys had taken their stand at this place, and, with taunts and bragging, presented a most powerful front to the jaded and worn British soldiers. But Havelock knew his men; he knew his strength. He let loose his little army. The fight was long and bloody, but it ended in unmistakable victory for the General. It was the first decisive blow that had been struck at the enemy in that part of the country. Little time could be devoted to rest after the battle. Every man burned to be on the road again. They were warming to their work. Long forced marches were made, until a small river, called the Pandoo-Muddee, was reached. This river was some little distance to the south of Cawnpore, and here Bala Rao was stationed with a number of Sepoys to oppose the English crossing the bridge.
Havelock’s soldiers were worn out. The men were staggering beneath their load. Some of them slept as they stood, others dropped by the wayside. But if any incentive were wanted, it came now in the shape of the news that Cawnpore had capitulated, and the brave garrison had been foully slaughtered.
The news was brought by the General's spies; and as he made it known, in a few sorrowful words, to his troops, want of rest was no more thought of. The strong sprang to their feet, and breathed silent vows of vengeance, while the sick and the weak wept because they were not able to join their comrades in wreaking retribution on the cruel enemy.
The bridge across the river was a small and narrow one. Bala Rao had arrived too late to destroy it, but he had got his guns into position to sweep it, so that it seemed impossible that a passage could be made across it. He stood, with his cowardly followers, taunting the fagged white men to cross. He dared them to come. He called them dogs.
“Soldiers and comrades,” cried Havelock, “we must cross that bridge.”
Shrill and clear rang out the bugle notes as they sounded the advance. They must have struck terror to the black foe. With lips compressed, with bayonets down at the charge, shoulder to shoulder, went the dauntless few under a merciless storm of iron hail. The passage was short, but many a brave fellow fell never to rise again. The Cawnpore side of the river was gained; and then with a ringing cheer the British “went at it.” What could stand against such a charge? The enemy was scattered; he fled in wild disorder, leaving his guns behind him.