Brave British soldiers and the Victoria Cross / a general account of the regiments and men of the British Army, and stories of the brave deeds which won the prize "for valour"

by Unknown

Here was an undertaking of no ordinary danger. The guide would have to pass through the hostile ranks of the mutineers in disguise; if detected, he would have to submit to a death of torture. No wonder, then, that the bravest heart quailed before such an adventure. But the moment was urgent; the provisions were nearly exhausted; if the relieving army met with a check the whole garrison might perish. In this emergency Kavanagh came forward and offered his services. Not from mere recklessness. He knew the extent of the danger. He had counted the cost, and was prepared for success or failure. In Sir James Outram, the Chief Commissioner, he found a kindred spirit who could appreciate such an act of self-devotion: Outram entered readily into all his plans, and undertook to afford him every assistance. At first the native spy refused to encounter the risk of passing through the ranks of the enemy in company with a European in disguise, but his scruples were overcome. Kavanagh borrowed from the natives the different articles of clothing he required to complete his disguise, and when, arrayed in Oriental costume, he entered Outram’s quarters, his appearance was so altered that his most familiar friends failed to recognise him. The painter of the pictures composing the Victoria Cross Gallery, Mr. Desanges, has chosen this meeting as a subject for his canvas. The dignified Oriental is Kavanagh; the short, thick-set figure, who, cigar in mouth, is holding a plan of Lucknow in one hand, and giving the last touch to Kavanagh’s beard with the other, is the late Sir James Outram, and he is surrounded by officers of the garrison; in the background are Kunoujee Lal, the native spy, and some servants. At half-past eight o’clock on the evening of the 9th of November Kavanagh started on his arduous mission, followed by the prayers and best wishes of all who were intrusted with the secret. His most anxious thoughts were of his wife and children, who believed that he was to spend the night in the mines. The darkness of the hour was favourable to the enterprise. On reaching the river Goompty they had to strip and wade across. After crossing the river they crept up a trench for about three hundred yards, till they came to a grove of trees, where they stopped to dress. A man came down to the river to wash, but, fortunately, he did not observe them; they regained their confidence, and advanced towards the huts of the enemy in front. Kavanagh exchanged greetings with a matchlockman, taking care to be the first to speak. On proceeding about seven hundred yards farther they reached the iron bridge across the Goompty, and were challenged by a native officer. Kavanagh remained a little in the shade: the officer, satisfied with the answers of the guide, allowed them to pass. They continued to advance along the left bank of the river, where they were met by numbers of sepoys, till they reached the stone bridge, where they glided past the sentry, and found themselves in the principal street of Lucknow. As it was part of their policy to court rather than avoid observation, they advanced along the main street, where no one challenged them, till they reached the open country, when a watchman inquired who they were. The answer was satisfactory, and they passed on cheerfully for four or five miles through the fragrant groves and beautiful woods which surround Lucknow, when they discovered that they had taken the wrong road and were close to the pickets of the enemy. The native guide was alarmed lest Kavanagh should suspect his honesty; but, reassured on this point, he endeavoured to find the right path. In wandering through the fields they met with singular adventures: they tumbled into ditches, and were nearly drowned; they alarmed the dogs of the native villages, and had to conceal themselves in a canal; they entered a wretched hut, and persuaded the female inmates to point out the way. About one o’clock in the morning they came upon an advanced picket of the enemy. Kavanagh marched up to them boldly, and, after answering their challenge, was allowed to pass. They were now close to the Alum Bagh, which was garrisoned by the English, but the native guide dissuaded Kavanagh from attempting to pass through the numerous rifle-pits and detachments of the enemy by which it was surrounded. At three o’clock they reached a mango grove, where a native sentinel, hearing their approach, gave the alarm, and the guard was called out. Startled by this unexpected danger, the native guide lost courage, and threw away the despatch for Sir Colin Campbell. It was a trying moment, but Kavanagh retained his presence of mind, and disarmed their suspicions by his confident bearing and ready answers. The guide had the politeness to show them the way to Umroula, a village on the route to the English camp, which, they said, they wished to reach; and, after walking on for some distance, they tumbled into a jheel, or swamp, and were once more nearly drowned. They continued to advance with the water often as high as their necks: Kavanagh, being the taller of the two, had often to hold up Kunoujee Lal by the neck to keep him from sinking. Their clothes were torn from their bodies by the tall reeds, and, worse than this, the paint was washed from Kavanagh’s hands by the muddy water: it was fortunate that it did not reach his face. After floundering in the swamp for two hours, they reached the land in such a state of exhaustion that they had to rest for a quarter of an hour.

Thomas Henry Kavanagh completing his Disguise in the Residency at Lucknow.

Resuming their route, they entered the village, and found several men sleeping near the chubootra, or native office. Rousing one of the sleepers, they informed him that they were spies sent to discover the strength of the enemy, and requested him to direct them to the English camp. The sleeper, enraged at being disturbed, gave them a surly answer; and, advancing, they passed to the other guards about three hundred yards apart. It was fortunate for them that the enemy had thrown out no sentries, and were seated in a half-drowsy state around their watch-fires. They passed between the two fires without being challenged, and soon after met some villagers, who informed them that they were fleeing before the English. They inferred from this that Sir Colin Campbell’s encampment must be close at hand; and, after losing their way and again nearly falling into the hands of the rebels, they reached a grove about four o’clock in the morning, and Kavanagh, regardless of the remonstrances of the guide, threw himself on the ground to sleep for an hour. Before he had closed his eyes he was startled by the challenge, in a native accent, “Who comes there?” and sprang to his feet. Perhaps those three simple English words, pronounced by native lips, were the sweetest words he ever heard in his life. They had stumbled upon a picket of Sikhs, and the officer in command requested two Sowars to conduct them to the advance-guard.

Kavanagh was almost dead with cold and fatigue, but a kind-hearted officer of the 9th Lancers supplied him with clothes and refreshments. The adventures of the past night seemed to him like a fearful dream; now that they were past he could scarcely realize them. The whole English camp was struck with admiration of a deed unsurpassed in the annals of the heroic ages, and each vied with the other in doing honour to one whom they were proud to call their countryman. Even the stern and impassive old Scottish chief—usually so sparing in his praise, so severe in his reproof—was touched by the unselfish heroism of such a deed. In the darkened tent, unseen by human eye, Kavanagh knelt down and expressed his gratitude to Him who had taken him from the miry clay and conducted him in safety through the hosts of the enemy. His next thought was of his wife and children; and before lying down to rest he had the flag of the semaphore in the Alum Bagh hoisted as the signal of his safety. It was in vain that he tried to sleep; his over-excited brain refused to be lulled to rest. At eleven o’clock he was seated at Sir Colin’s table, surprising his entertainer by the strangeness of his adventures and the strength of his appetite. His assistance was invaluable in explaining the plans drawn up by Sir James Outram, and in pointing out the best route for advancing through Lucknow. By exposing his own life he saved that of many a gallant soldier who would otherwise have been lost; and Sir Colin showed his appreciation of his conduct by retaining him near his person. Next morning the army of rescue was on the march, and after a feeble resistance reached the Alum Bagh. On the 14th of November they advanced against Lucknow, under the guidance of Kavanagh, who was familiar with the neighbourhood of the city. The cowardly Sepoys fled before our men, and sought refuge within the walls of Lucknow. On reaching the banks of the river the English army halted, and spent the night under arms, waiting anxiously and eagerly for the hour when the Massacre of Cawnpore was to be avenged. The night was dark and chilly; Kavanagh slept by the side of Sir Colin Campbell on the cold floor; the foe attempted nothing to disturb their repose.

With the earliest dawn Sir Colin was mounted on his charger, riding from post to post and giving his orders for the day. A new route proposed by Kavanagh, as preferable to that indicated by Outram, was at once adopted; but during the following night a heavy cannonade was kept up to mislead the enemy from the real point of danger. Next morning our men advanced rapidly through the tortuous lanes and thick plantations, meeting with little resistance from the enemy, who expected to be attacked in another quarter, till they reached the Secunder Bagh. Here a heavy fire of musketry was opened upon them, and the first man who tried to pass was shot in the hip and fell. Kavanagh leaped from his horse, took the poor fellow in his arms, and bore him in safety to a neighbouring hut. Others pressed forward and surrounded the building; the artillery seized an embankment which commanded the gate; the enemy were deprived of all means of escape. The Highlanders were the first who entered; arrested in their progress by a dead wall, they mounted the roof, tore off the tiles, and leaped into the midst of the mutineers. At the same time a breach was made in the walls of the Secunder Bagh; Sikh and Highlander vied with one another in being the first to reach it; many were hit, but nothing could resist their impetuous bravery. They forced their way in, and, maddened with resistance and the remembrance of Cawnpore, they showed no mercy; the bayonet did its deadly work till all was still, and two thousand of the mutineers were piled together in one gory mass as a monument of our vengeance. Humanity shudders at the remembrance of such a scene, but the murderers of helpless women and children at Cawnpore deserved no quarter.

Our men, worn out with fatigue and hunger, remained under arms the whole night, waiting anxiously for daybreak. Sir Colin slept outside the Secunder Bagh, with Kavanagh by his side; with the earliest dawn the whole army was on the move. The enemy, disheartened by their reverses, offered little resistance, and began to retreat; Kavanagh, who had advanced to examine their position, was mistaken for a spy, and had a narrow escape from being shot by his countrymen. Undaunted by the danger to which he was exposed from the peculiarity of his dress and appearance, he led a party of our men to the Motee Mahul, which was occupied by the enemy, and, finding that the wall could not be broken through without sappers, he returned to Sir Colin for assistance. After an amusing altercation between him and his impetuous chief the required aid was granted, and the British flag soon waved on the summit of the building. After this success Kavanagh pressed forward in the hope of being the first to reach Sir James Outram; he passed in safety through the fire of the enemy till he met a soldier of the 64th Regiment, who conducted him to the spot where a group of officers were standing. It was Sir James Outram and his staff; as soon as they recognised their former comrade in arms they shouted, “It is Kavanagh! three cheers for him! he is the first to relieve us.” The warmth of this greeting was felt at the moment to be a sufficient recompense for all the dangers he had encountered; no wonder that tears rose to his eyes as he grasped the hands of those whom he had parted with a little before, doubtful whether he should ever meet them again. There was more joy in that meeting than falls to the lot of many men in the whole course of their lives—a joy such as can only be experienced by those who have risked their own safety in behalf of others.

After the first congratulations, he offered to conduct Sir James and his staff to the commander-in-chief. It was an undertaking of some danger, but the Bayard of India never knew fear. They passed unscathed through a shower of grape and bullets, and Sir James took shelter in the shade of a hut while Kavanagh went to announce his arrival to Sir Colin Campbell. The meeting between these two gallant men was like the meeting between Wellington and Blucher after Waterloo; but there was no time for empty compliments; they had to make good their retreat from Lucknow without a moment’s delay. Havelock, the good Christian, the gallant soldier, tottered forward to welcome his deliverer; seven days later he was carried to his grave, lamented and respected by all who have learned to appreciate his heroic bravery, his humble piety. Three better or braver men than Havelock, Outram, and Campbell have never met; they have all passed away now; but such men can never die; they will live for ever in the memory and affections of their grateful and admiring countrymen. Nor was Kavanagh forgotten at that meeting. Sir Colin spoke of him in such terms of admiration as rarely issued from his stern lips, and expressed his sense of the value of his services in his despatch to the Government of India. “His escape at a time when the intrenchment was closely invested by a large army, and when communication, even through the medium of natives, was almost impossible, is, in Sir Colin Campbell’s opinion, one of the most daring feats ever attempted; and the result was most beneficial; for, in the immediate subsequent advance on Lucknow of the force under the Commander-in-chief’s directions, the thorough acquaintance with the localities possessed by Mr. Kavanagh, and his knowledge of the approaches to the British position were of the greatest use; and his excellency desires to record his obligations to this gentleman, who accompanied him throughout the operations, and was ever present to afford valuable information.” But dearer to Kavanagh than the praises of despatches or the congratulations of comrades were the tender reproaches of his wife, as she clasped him to her breast and wept her joy and admiration in his arms. The poet who sang the parting of Hector and Andromache could alone do justice to such a meeting; it lies not within the province of simple prose. He appeared in the midst of that beleaguered garrison as a bearer of safety—a messenger of mercy; the very soldiers blessed him as he passed, the heart of the widow and the captive sang aloud for joy, and many pressed into his house that they might “only have a look at him.” Few rewards have been more justly earned or more gratefully paid.

After effecting the rescue of the garrison, Sir Colin Campbell retired by forced marches to Cawnpore, where his presence soon reassured the forces, disheartened by the attacks of the enemy during his absence. Kavanagh accompanied him to Cawnpore, and soon after started for Calcutta, where the refugees from Lucknow met with a generous and hospitable reception from the governor-general and the British residents. The guide who had acted such an important part in the enterprise was not forgotten; all met with much sympathy; but there was a ringing cheer, such as none but English can give, when “Lucknow” Kavanagh (the name by which he has ever since been known, and a prefix as worthily gained as that which distinguished the Confederate general “Stonewall” Jackson) appeared with his wife and family. But such a restless spirit could not remain inactive at Calcutta while the fighting was going on in Oude; he no longer belonged to the uncovenanted service, and was at liberty to go wherever he pleased. He made his way up the country, formed the acquaintance of the Times’ correspondent, Dr. Russell, who persuaded him to mount an unruly horse that nearly broke his neck, and at last joined the army of Sir Colin Campbell, then a second time advancing from Cawnpore to Lucknow.

During the subsequent fighting he exposed himself to the fire of the enemy with almost reckless bravery; his constant immunity from danger gave rise to a sort of half belief that he bore a charmed life, and this belief was almost justified by the result. Many a gallant English officer bit the dust at Lucknow, but the bullets of the enemy seemed to be turned aside by some invisible hand from the person of Kavanagh. If the old Greek mythology had not been obsolete, we should have been tempted to believe that some friendly god or goddess was watching over our hero, and guarding him alike from friend and foe, as Aphrodite and Poseidon watched over Æneas at the siege of Troy. More than once he was in danger of being shot by his countrymen as a deserter; he had hand-to-hand combats with the enemy, whom he was ready to meet at any odds; he was thrown from horses, precipitated from dog-carts, tumbled into wells, was shot through the shoulder, wounded in the ankle, and survived to thrill the world by the story of his strange adventures, which borders on the realms of romance. When fighting was over at Lucknow he resumed his civil duties, and used all his influence to protect the miserable natives who had returned to their homes, and to check the thieving propensities of the gallant Sikhs and savage little Ghoorkas. In June, 1858, he offered to proceed to the camp of the enemy with a flag of truce, to persuade them to lay aside their arms and submit to the British rule; but the authorities at Lucknow—wisely, as we think—refused to expose his life to such a danger. Soon after this he was ordered to Muliabad, where he was intrusted with the command of a certain number of Sikhs and native police, whom he frequently led against the enemy. In these encounters he had many hair-breadth escapes; on one occasion his horse was disabled by a shot, and threw him to the ground. It was deemed a mark of merit on the part of Sir Hugh Widdrington that he could fight upon his stumps; Kavanagh was a hero of the same calibre; though dismounted he was not disarmed, and such was his determined bravery that he not only beat off his assailants, but seized one of them by the throat, and made him prisoner. At the fort of Birrwa he summoned the enemy to surrender, promising them their lives if they yielded without further resistance; they expressed their readiness to do so, if they could only have faith in his promises. On this he threw aside his arms, pushed past his own men who were between him and the enemy, walked into the centre of the yard where they stood, and thus placed his life at their mercy. They were awed by the courage of the act, and threw themselves at his feet in token of surrender; and thus, by yet one more daring deed, many lives were again saved by him. Such generous devotion was calculated to produce a powerful impression on the native mind; the Sikhs under his command looked up to him as a superior being, and once, when in great jeopardy, two of them saved his life at the expense of their own. After an absence of nine months he returned to Lucknow to rejoin his wife, who had suffered much uneasiness from the frequent reports of his death, and welcomed him almost as one from the dead. The joy of their meeting was scarcely over when he received orders to proceed to Sundeela and place his valuable services at the disposal of Brigadier Barker, who was advancing to attack two rebel chiefs who had shut themselves up within the fortresses of Birrwa and Rohya. He took an active part in reducing these strongholds, and in bringing back the Talookdars, or native barons, to submission to the British rule. It was only when all resistance had ceased that he returned to his civil duties, and reluctantly exchanged the sword for the pen. In May, 1859, he returned with his family to England, and published a brief account of his adventures.