Lawrence’s own policy, meanwhile, was to fight for time. Every hour the Mutiny could be postponed lessened its chances of success. “Time,” he writes in his diary on May 18, “is everything just now; time, firmness, promptness, conciliation, prudence.” But Lawrence had many difficulties in carrying out that wise policy, some of them created by the divided judgments of his own staff. Mr. Gubbins, the financial commissioner, in particular, vehemently mistrusted Lawrence’s mild handling of the Sepoys. Gubbins was clever, audacious, quick-witted, fatally over-quick, perhaps, in judgment, with a gift for giving advice in confident—not to say imperious—accents, which his official superiors found somewhat trying. He valued his own advice, too, so highly that he could not forgive the dulness in his superiors which failed to discern its excellence, or the hesitation which lingered in putting it into practice. He was perpetually urging Lawrence to disarm and expel all the native troops in Lucknow. Yet Lawrence’s milder policy was justified by events. Some seven hundred Sepoys remained true to their salt, and served through the great siege with a devotion and a courage beyond praise. “Neither temptation nor threats from their comrades without,” says Fayrer, “or hardships and privation within, could induce them to desert. There is nothing in the history of the Sepoy army more creditable or honourable than their behaviour.”
Lawrence had other troubles with the Europeans in Lucknow. An indiscreet editor in Lucknow published some alarmist articles of a singularly mischievous character, and Lawrence sent for him, and warned him that, if he continued to write in a fashion calculated to provoke mutiny, he would suppress his paper. But Lawrence knew human nature too well to believe that mere threats would keep a foolish editor from committing folly. A few days afterwards, happening to ride by the newspaper office, he suddenly drew rein, and said to his staff, “Let us go in and edit the paper for Mr. ⸺.” He entered, said to the astonished editor, “Mr. ⸺, to show you I bear no ill-will, I am come to write you a leading article;” and, sitting down, dashed off an article expounding the resources of the Government for meeting and putting down a revolt. The article acted as a tonic on native and European opinion in the city; but it also captured the editor.
Lawrence had not a very keen sense of humour, but occasionally humour—of a grim sort—broke out from him. A Hindu of some rank advised that a number of monkeys should be collected in the Residency, and be attended and fed by high-caste Brahmins. This would ensure the favour of all the Hindu divinities, and would make the English popular. Lawrence listened gravely, then said, “Your advice is good. Come,” he said, rising and taking his hat, “I will show you my monkeys.” He led the way to a battery which had just been completed; and laying his hand on an 18-pounder gun, said, “See! here is one of my monkeys. That”—pointing to a pile of shot—“is his food, and this”—laying his hand on the shoulder of a sentry of the 32nd, who stood at attention close by—“is the man who feeds them. Now go and tell your friends of my monkeys!”
The serene quality of Lawrence’s courage is shown by a letter he writes to Raikes on May 30: “We are pretty jolly ... but we are in a funny position.... We are virtually besieging four regiments—in a quiet way—with 300 Europeans. I ... reside in cantonments guarded by the gentlemen we are besieging.” That very night, as it happened, the outbreak came!
On the last day of June the disastrous fight at Chinhut brought affairs at Lucknow to a crisis. The revolted regiments from Eastern Oude were marching on Lucknow, and Lawrence, acting on the one principle of British war in India—of striking and never waiting to be struck—marched out to crush the approaching mutinous regiments. His little force consisted of 300 of the 32nd, 230 more or less loyal Sepoys, 36 British volunteers on horseback, 120 native cavalry, and 10 guns, of which six were manned by Sepoys. There was grave doubt as to how the native artillery would behave; but Lawrence said, “We must try and ‘blood’ them.”
As it happened, Lawrence was completely deceived as to the strength of the enemy. He reckoned they might number 5000; they were nearer 15,000, with not less than thirty guns. By some accident, too, the 32nd were marched out without having broken their fast, and, marching eight miles under the glare of an Indian sun, were exhausted before they fired a shot.
The day at Chinhut, in brief, was one of blunders and disasters. “Everything,” says Fayrer, “was against us.” The force started late, and without adequate preparation. The supplies of food and water never came up. The men of the 32nd had to attack when exhausted by heat, thirst, and fatigue, and want of food. The native artillerymen deserted; the Sikh cavalry fled. The one formidable gun the British had, an 8-inch howitzer, was thrown out of action owing to the elephant that drew it taking fright. The British, in addition, were badly armed. Many of their muskets would not go off. In the confusion of the retreat an officer called on a private of the 32nd by name to turn round and fire on the enemy. “I will do so, sir, if you wish,” said the man, “but it’s no use! I have snapped six caps already and the piece won’t go off.” The Sepoys, as it happened, were armed with new and clean muskets.
The enormous number of the Sepoys enabled them to outflank the scanty British force, and nothing remained but retreat. There were many individual acts of gallantry; but, in broken, desperately fighting clusters, the 32nd had to fall back, many of the men dropping from exhaustion or sunstroke while they tried to fight. An officer in the battle has described the huge mass of the Sepoys as it pressed on the flank of the retreating British. “The plain,” he says, “was one moving mass of men. Regiment after regiment of the Sepoys poured steadily towards us, the flanks covered with a foam of skirmishers. They came on in quarter-distance columns, the standards waving in their places, and everything performed as steadily as possible. A field-day on parade could not have been better.” Under the terrific fire poured on their flank the gallant 32nd simply melted away. Their colonel, Case, a splendid soldier, fell desperately wounded, and one of the officers ran to assist him. “Your place,” Case told him, “is with your men. Never mind me. Leave me to die, but stand by your men.”