While we were at the Mint a little incident occurred, which suggested how, in the excited state of affairs, a spark might have caused a great conflagration. Seeing a crowd of natives, almost all servants, at the gate, I went to it, and there the sentry, a little peppery Irishman, was threatening to stab with his bayonet a native servant with a note in his hand. I asked what was the matter. The sentry said, "That black fellow is mocking me, and I'll send this through him." The servant appealed to me. He said he had a note for a gentleman in the Mint, and entreated that "gora," "white man," to let him in, but instead of doing so he threatened to kill him. The mocking was, it turned out, the native folding his hands in the attitude of supplication. I explained the matter, and the man got in. The native servants were so roughly treated by some of our people, especially by the newly-arrived soldiers, simply because they were natives, that I was afraid they might leave us in a body; and if they had done so we should have been in a sad plight. One of my own servants, a native Christian, complained bitterly to me of the treatment he had received.
The quiet of Benares during this period was remarkable—I might almost say preternatural. When the fight of the 4th of June commenced, numbers were seen with drawn swords rushing towards cantonments, but when they saw Sepoys falling, and others running away, they shrank back into the city. A great dread fell on the entire population. I was told by natives the report had gone out that the English soldiers had been commanded to enter the city, and slay every man, woman, and child they met; and that in consequence, to adopt their exaggerated words, they sat trembling all night, no one daring to sleep.
In the meantime the terrible work of retribution commenced. Martial law was proclaimed, and many poor miserable creatures, charged with plundering, were hanged. Some of the Sepoys caught were blown from guns. I will not harrow my readers with details. I shunned as much as I could these bloody scenes, but on several occasions I came suddenly on them. To the present day I shudder as I think of what I saw.
THE PANIC OF JULY 6TH.
OUR DAY OF PANIC.
I must now come to our day of panic, July 6th. July 5th was a Sunday. We had our usual services with the native Christians. Some two hours after the evening service, a nephew of ours, then at Benares, drove into the compound, and told us we must go at once to the Mint, as a large force of Sepoys and country people were four miles off, prepared to attack the jail. This was startling news, as our house lay in the direct line between the jail and the city, and, in the event of the attack being successful, we should be the first victims. Still, we were very unwilling to stir, but our nephew was so urgent that we at last complied with his entreaty. A refugee family was in our house, and with us all crowded into a small conveyance we made our way to the rendezvous. What a scene was there! Most had arrived before us. Rain was falling, and we could not remain out. The rooms were so crowded that we could not get into them, and we had to lie for the night as we could in a dirty passage, with our back to the wall. The night passed off without an alarm, and in the morning we returned to our home, somewhat annoyed at having been taken from it, as we supposed, without sufficient reason.
On the morning of the 6th I had a strange duty to discharge for such a time—the marriage of a couple. One of our native Christians had arranged for his marriage taking place at that date. I told him that this was no time for marrying; that we who were married must abide with our families, but that those who were intending marriage should defer it to a more propitious season. He said all was arranged, and he begged me to officiate, which I did, I must say, with a bad grace. No sooner was the marriage over than I went home. After breakfast and family worship, we each betook ourselves, thoroughly worn out, to our rooms to obtain some rest. Scarcely had I lain down on my couch, when our faithful watchman came to my door and exclaimed, "If you do not go at once to the Mint you will all be killed." I asked him what was the matter. He could not tell me. He could only say, "Fly, fly." The refugee lady who, with her family, was with us, hearing the watchman's words, exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Kennedy, do not leave us!" to which I replied, "Depend on it, I will not. Rather than that, I myself will remain behind." Our conveyance was speedily made ready, and off we started, with such a crowded coach as has been seldom seen, I, as driver, urging the poor overladen horse to his utmost speed. Natives as well as Europeans were seized with panic. There was a stream, then in full flood, close to our house, and I saw several natives throw themselves into it to swim across, at the imminent risk of their lives. As we crossed one of the great roads leading to the city, the natives were running as if pursued by demons. Right before us we saw an English lady running towards the Mint, with her bare head in the sun, which had now come out in its strength. A gentleman in a buggy drove past us, pulled in reins, the lady leaped into it, and they dashed on to the place of refuge. On reaching the Mint we found most of the Europeans there before us. I accosted a friend and said, "What does this mean?" He told us how the impression had gone out that the enemy were on us, and how the panic might have been prevented if information of the state of affairs had been given. There was danger. The host coming against us had, with characteristic procrastination, put off the attack till the morning. To prevent their approach to the city, every man and gun that could be spared were sent out to meet them.
When we reached the Mint we heard the rumour that Cawnpore had fallen. The report was not generally believed, but it was true. We were only two hundred miles from Cawnpore, and yet nine days had passed before our hearing of its fall, and we then heard of it only as a rumour.
The feeling of panic soon subsided, and as some in their haste had taken something with them, it soon looked as if we were a large improvised picnic party. For a few hours all was quiet; but in the afternoon the rattle of the musketry and the boom of the cannon told us the battle had commenced. Soon the news reached us that the rebels were in flight, and that we were again safe. Till the news reached there was anxiety, but there was little manifestation of it, except by the wives of some of the soldiers, who were wringing their hands and weeping bitterly. The night was spent by us in the greatest discomfort, huddled together, lying in our day clothes on the floor, in an atmosphere so close that I wonder we were not stifled. That 6th of July, 1857, at Benares can never be obliterated from the memory of any one who was there. It makes us understand, as nothing else could do, how much more dreadful a panic is than the most furious combat.
THE ADVENTURES OF A MARRIAGE DAY.