An eye-witness says, “I shall never forget the moment that our men rushed in; we had no idea that they were so near, not expecting they could reach us for several days, when all at once we heard a sharp fire of musketry close by, then some tremendous cheering, then our deliverers came rushing in; we all found ourselves shaking hands frantically, and exchanging fervently, ‘God bless you.’ The excitement was beyond all description; the big rough-bearded men were seizing the little children out of our arms, kissing them, with tears rolling down their cheeks, and thanking God that they had come in time to save them from the fate of those at Cawnpore; we all rushed about to get these noble fellows a little water; my heart felt as if it would burst: we cried, we laughed, and I felt that I must, and did, kiss some of these noble-hearted men. We soon found out that a number of our deliverers were praying men, and that their noble Commander was one who loved the Lord with all his heart and soul. A Prayer Meeting was held that night, and a number of those who had saved us gave God all the praise.”

I have often heard it said that the biggest rogues and the worst characters in our army make the best soldiers when it comes to the push, but facts contradict this. Were it ever my lot to go into another forlorn hope, and I was allowed to select my men, I should most certainly choose those who loved the Lord, or the “Soldiers of Christ,” for they would fight fearlessly, despising all danger, as death presents to them no after fears.

Our Christian hero’s end was now fast approaching. He, with a mere handful of men, had cut his way through the midst of a host, and had been the instrument in the hands of God of saving hundreds from the murderer’s sword. His little army found themselves hemmed in, but their united forces now made the enemy keep at a respectful distance; in other words, General Sir James Outram was determined to have breathing room, and he soon made the place all around him a rather “hot corner.” But our Christian soldier and leader was now fast sinking under an attack of dysentery, brought on by excessive fatigue, “and his end was peace.” Calling his son, the present Sir H. Havelock-Allen, V.C., who had so often fought by his side, “Come here, my boy; for more than forty years I have so ruled my life, that when death came I might face it without fear; and my end is approaching.” After a time, calling his son again, and looking him full in the face, the dying man bade him “mark well how a man that has walked with God can give up the ghost.” On another occasion, “Come, my son,” said he, “and see how a Christian man can die.” These were his own words. Many a time had he said, “We may never meet like this again, but I will tell you where, if we believe in Christ, we shall meet, and I will tell you how we shall be employed;” and then, New Testament in hand, he would read and explain this Scripture, “To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise;” this, “He died, and was taken by angels into Abraham’s bosom;” this, “Absent from the body, present with the Lord;” this, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them;” and this, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith; henceforth, there is laid up for me (mark, religion is a personal matter), a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me, at that day; and, brethren and comrades, ‘Not to me only, but to all them that love Him.’” He was always trying to comfort the weak and to cheer the drooping heart. Thus died Sir H. Havelock, in the zenith of his fame. He has bequeathed to us a name that will live in England and India as a household word for ages to come. General Sir Henry Havelock is gone. God took the Patriarchs, and the same unchanging God and Father took our beloved Havelock, but, although dead, he yet speaketh. If we could bring back the 13th Regiment of Infantry, and ask them what was the great topic of his discourse, as soon as the duties of his country allowed him half-an-hour—it mattered not whether it was under canvas, in barracks, or on board ship, in the Rangoon Pagoda, in the trenches, on the battle-field, or anywhere else—they would tell us that his whole talk was of redeeming love. Many a time, when death was stalking around him, had he spoken to them of Providence, when others would have spoken of chance; spoken of an Everlasting Life, of Hell, and of Death, and of departure to be with Christ, “which is far better.” Reader, Havelock yet speaks, and will live in the hearts of thousands, as long as our language endures.

A few more thoughts about this noble Commander. Havelock is gone to “that home not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” God, our unchanging God, gave him the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” I say again, he lives in the hearts of the people. His name will be handed down to posterity. Our children’s children will hear of him and bless his name. Methinks I can now hear the dying veteran at Lucknow exclaim, “O death, where is thy sting? Where is thy capacity for destroying me? Thou art the king of terrors, as some would say, but thou art without any authority over me! Rejoice not against me, O mine adversary, thou art a conquered tyrant; thou wert forced to give up my Lord and Master and thou wilt be forced to give me up, for though ‘He was dead, He is alive again.’ ‘O grave, where is thy victory?’” Some will scornfully say—“Old soldier, call you that victory?” Aye! This is the true victory—the victory given to him who is faithful—the victory whose laurels can never fade! Scholar as he was, hero as he was, Havelock trusted in the redeeming love of his Lord and Master. O, the dear old man, what a soldier! what a Christian! what a father! “Come, my son, and see how a Christian man can die.” For forty years of his life he had not shrunk back, but had faithfully done all that in him lay to “extol the stem of Jesse’s rod, and crown him Lord of all;” he had lived a life of faith, and now he could without shrinking face the last enemy; death had no sting for him.

Reader, stop and think. Havelock died, and so will you—will you be able to sing in death? Try and live as you would die. Remember, we are only sojourners in this tabernacle of clay for a short night, when compared with eternity—eternity, no end. But he lives again, and will live as long as eternity’s endless day shall last. He lives with untold millions, that have been bought with the precious blood of Him who died that we poor rebels might live throughout countless ages. The sad tidings of Havelock’s death reached England on the 7th January, 1858, and

England’s mighty heart was shaken.

His victorious march and daily battles had swelled the hearts of his grateful countrymen, and his triumphal progress was the theme of universal admiration. He had subdued the mutineers upon field after field, with a mere handful of men, and the gloom of his death spread from the palace to the humble cottage. The whole of the English-speaking people echoed a mournful song. But

The death of the just
Keeps something of his glory in the dust.

Meanwhile, “I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, write, blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.”—Rev. xiv. 13. Rest, warrior; rest, saintly soldier; rest, thou faithful missionary; rest, hero, rest! For truly it may be said of thee that thou hast entered through the pearly gates into the New Jerusalem, shouting “Victory! victory! through the blood of the Lamb!” He proved himself a faithful servant of his Lord and Master, through evil and through good report, for upwards of forty years; he served his country faithfully, and he proved upon more than thirty fields that he was second to none. He had been repeatedly sneered at by those in high positions, as a “Methodist,” a “ranting Baptist,” and often had he been painted as black as they could paint him. But one, holding the highest position that a subject could hold—that of Viceroy or Governor-General—said, “I do wish he (Havelock) would make the whole army Baptists.” And the hero of Borrosa, Field Marshal Lord Gough, knew well upon whom he could rely when the country’s honour was at stake—“Send Havelock’s band of Saints at them; they are not drunk.” And the water-drinking band went in and carried all before them.