CHAPTER XVIII.
“LUCKNOW” KAVANAGH AND THE VICTORIA CROSS.
The Siege of Lucknow forms one of the most interesting episodes in the history of the Indian Mutiny. No event connected with the war excited a deeper interest in this country, and it is impossible, even after the lapse of nine years, to reflect on the gallant defence of a small body of soldiers and civilians shut up within the Residency, the patient endurance of the women, and the heroic efforts to effect their deliverance, without a certain thrill of emotion. Among the many who distinguished themselves at this critical period, a prominent place is held by T. Henry Kavanagh, an Irish gentleman belonging to the uncovenanted service, who happened to be stationed at Lucknow with his wife and children. The report of the massacres at other stations induced the Kavanaghs to remove from their own house to two rooms in the Post Office near the Residency, and these they continued to occupy during all the privations and miseries of the subsequent siege, and until the final rescue. As soon as the native regiments mutinied, the small garrison of Europeans at Lucknow, under the command of Sir Henry Lawrence, prepared to defend themselves to the last: provisions were collected, the fortifications strengthened, and the civilians enrolled into companies of combatants. Before the middle of June, 1857, the whole province of Oude had cast off its allegiance to the British Crown; the English residents had perished or betaken themselves to flight; Lucknow alone remained, like a mighty rock, with the British flag displayed on its summit, dashing back the waves of insurrection and mutiny. All the rage of the rebels was concentrated against it: again and again they advanced to the attack; but the gallant band of defenders, though weakened by suffering and thinned by the bullets of the enemy, proved to their recreant assailants that they would sooner bury themselves beneath the ruins than surrender; and India, in truth, could not have been retained as an appendage of our Crown if it had not been defended by men equal in courage to those who first reduced it to subjection.
The garrison, not satisfied with maintaining the defence, sent small bodies of cavalry to rescue their countrymen at the neighbouring stations, and occasionally made sorties against the enemy. In one of these affairs they were overpowered by numbers at a place called Chinut, and obliged to retire within their entrenchments with considerable loss. This disaster, coupled with the massacre of Cawnpore, of which they had just heard, had a depressing effect upon the garrison at first; but the thought that a similar fate awaited their wives and children if they fell into the hands of the enemy, inspired the men with the courage of despair. Their numbers were reduced, but still they held out. Every mine of their assailants was countermined; every rent in their walls was repaired almost as soon as made. In the obstinacy of their defence they equalled the inhabitants of Saragossa; and there was many a fair maid who lauded their courage, tended the sick, and prayed with the dying. During the first part of the siege, Kavanagh was so prostrated by illness that he could render no assistance; he lay chafing in his bed, like the wounded knight in “Ivanhoe,” listening to the din of battle and bemoaning his hard fate. The report of gallant deeds done by others filled his heart with such rapture, that, he tells us, it would have burst if a friend had not leaned on his chest to keep down its emotions. There is no instance, perhaps, on record where strong mental emotion exercised a more powerful influence over the physical frame than in Kavanagh’s case. On the 20th of July he was able to leave his bed, and from that day to the final rescue he proved himself brave amongst the brave. He tells us that from the years of his boyhood he had longed to do some deed to immortalise his name, and his youthful aspirations met with so little sympathy that his uncle assured him he was born to be hanged. But Kavanagh is not the first who has been misunderstood in early life. When he returned from India, the admired of all admirers, his friends were better able to appreciate his character.
Towards the end of July, cholera, fever, and smallpox joined their ravages to those of war, and cut off many of the garrison. On the 7th of August, Kavanagh had a narrow escape from death. He had left his house to report himself to his superior officer, and unwittingly exposed himself to the fire of the enemy, from which he was rescued by two of his friends who saw his danger. His courage was not of a calculating character, and his warlike enthusiasm having led him to fire without orders, he was placed under arrest. He was soon released, and, taught by experience, was content for the future to check his undisciplined ardour and to obey the directions of his superiors. August passed drearily away. The defenders, when there was a lull in the attack, climbed to the roofs of their houses and looked out, like sister Anne, for assistance which never came. Hope and despair alternately gained the mastery over them. They rejoiced as they thought of the serried ranks of their countrymen advancing; they shuddered as they thought of their wives, and sisters, and children, exposed to the same fate as the victims of Cawnpore. At one time they amused themselves with reckless gaiety in writing lampoons upon one another; now they gave way to unreasoning despondency, and cursed the heartlessness of their countrymen in leaving them thus to perish amid the ruins. In this, as in similar straits, the women were far more hopeful and unselfish than the men: they concealed their own fears, and often starved themselves that their husbands and children might eat. The ministering angels of that beleaguered fort, their presence exercised a wholesome power which gave hope to the despairing and courage to the feeble. Had there been none of the gentler and weaker sex in Lucknow, it is doubtful whether its garrison of strong men would have stood out so long.
September passed slowly away without bringing the expected aid. The enemy changed their tactics, and tried to reduce the garrison by hunger. Our countrymen, no longer roused to exertion by the fierce excitement of fighting, sank into a sort of stupor, and bewailed the dull monotony of their existence, which was occasionally relieved by the bands of the mutineers playing familiar airs, and more especially the National Anthem. Meanwhile Havelock, with his gallant little force, was fast advancing to their help. The Highlanders were on the march to Lucknow, though the shrill music of the war-pipe was not yet heard within its walls. Our readers are all, doubtless, familiar with the story of Jessie Brown, the Scottish servant-maid, whose watchful ear drank in the slogan and pibroch of her advancing countrymen when others could hear nothing. It is always an invidious task to dispel a pleasing illusion, but a sacred regard for truth compels us to state that Jessie is a purely mythical being—a creature of the imagination as much as Mrs. Harris. The story of Jessie is one of those canards with which French journals delight to entertain their readers; it first appeared in the Pays, was dramatised and introduced on the stage, and Jessie’s paternity, we understand, has been the subject of litigation. Notwithstanding our protests, she will doubtless live in the future history of Lucknow till a second myth-destroying Niebuhr appear to vindicate the truth. On the afternoon of the 25th of September the garrison could hear, not the sound of the bagpipe, but the boom of Havelock’s artillery, and all who could walk hurried to the roofs of the houses and strained their eyes to catch the first glimpse of their countrymen. On they came, a small but resolute body, driving the enemy before them at the point of the bayonet, and pressing them into the river, where many of them perished. Little resistance was offered till the advance column began to force their way through the Red Gate, where the enemy opened a murderous fire of small arms upon them. There was no time to pick up the wounded or rescue the bodies of the slain. A rush was made, and Havelock’s band was within the walls. The enthusiasm of the garrison knew no bounds: they cheered, they waved their hats, they wept with irrepressible joy, they embraced and implored blessings upon their deliverers. Poor Kavanagh, with true Milesian hospitality, offered his last three bottles of liquor to the exhausted soldiers, who required no pressing to induce them to empty them.
For a time all was joy within the garrison, but there was still much work to be done, much suffering to be endured. The Red Gate was still in the possession of the enemy: Kavanagh undertook to conduct a party to a spot where they could seize it by surprise. At the moment of danger the two young officers in command lost courage, and treated their guide as a drunken madman. An unsuccessful attempt was made to reach the Alum Bagh, where there was a small garrison of our men. On this occasion Kavanagh was one of the first to advance, the last to retreat; he often spent whole nights in the mines, worked his way into those of the enemy, and brought his revolver to bear upon them with deadly effect. A master of Hindustani, he could scold as well as shoot, and it was difficult to say whether his tongue or his rifle was more galling to the enemy. Havelock’s men brought no provisions with them, and, as there were now more mouths to be fed, the rations were reduced in quantity. We have heard many a soldier say that he would rather go without his dinner than his pipe, and the poor smokers had to use dried tea and bitter herbs as a substitute for tobacco. But the sufferers bore up manfully, and their sufferings were all but forgotten when, on the 9th of November, a spy arrived with a despatch from Sir Colin Campbell, announcing that help was at hand. Plans had been previously drawn up for the guidance of the Commander-in-Chief in effecting his entrance into the Residency, but it was felt that they could be of little use unless some one familiar with the locality could reach his camp for the purpose of explaining them.