Lady Canning goes on to picture Campbell’s march back to Cawnpore, with his great convoy of wounded men and women and children, and her woman’s imagination fastens naturally on this long procession of helpless human beings. “Sir Colin,” she writes, “has sent off four miles long of women and wounded!” Later on she reports the procession as fourteen miles long! And no doubt the business of transporting such a host of helpless creatures out of a city which contained 60,000 hostile troops, and across nearly fifty miles of an enemy’s country, was a feat calculated to impress the human imagination.
Campbell had one tremendous source of anxiety. He had to carry his huge convoy of non-combatants, guns, treasure, and material across the slender, swaying line of boats which bridged the Ganges at Cawnpore before safety was reached. That bridge, indeed, formed his only possible line of retreat. If it were destroyed or fell into the enemy’s hands, the tragedy of Cabul—where only one man escaped out of an army—might have been repeated.
Campbell had left Windham to guard the bridge and hold Cawnpore, but Windham had only 500 men—a force scarcely stronger in fighting power than that with which Wheeler held the fatal entrenchments—and within easy striking distance was the Gwalior contingent, numbering, with a fringe of irregulars, some 25,000 men, with forty guns, the most formidable and best-drilled force, on the Sepoy side, in the whole Mutiny. At its head, too, was Tantia Topee, the one real soldier on the enemy’s side the Mutiny produced, with quite enough warlike skill to see the opportunity offered him of striking a fatal blow at Campbell’s communications. If Windham’s scanty force had been crushed, and the bridge destroyed, Campbell’s position would have been, in a military sense, desperate, and the tragedy of Cawnpore might have been repeated in darker colours and on a vaster scale. Sound generalship required Campbell to smash the formidable force which threatened Cawnpore before advancing on Lucknow; but Campbell took all risks in order to succour the beleaguered Residency.
Having plucked the beleaguered garrison out of the very heart of the enemy’s forces, it may be imagined with what eagerness Campbell now set his face towards Cawnpore again. There was no safety for his helpless convoy till the bridge was crossed. For days, too, all communications with Windham had been intercepted. An ominous veil of unpierced silence hung between the retreating English and their base. Campbell set out from the Alumbagh on the morning of November 27. All day the great column crept along over the desolate plain towards the Ganges. At nightfall they had reached Bunnee Bridge, and that “veil of silence” was for a moment lifted. Or, rather, through it there stole a faint deep sound, full of menace, the voice of cannon answering cannon! Windham was attacked! He was perhaps fighting for his life at the bridge-head!
All through the night those far-off and sullen vibrations told how the fight was being maintained, and with what eagerness the march was resumed next morning may be guessed. Forbes-Mitchell relates how Campbell addressed the 93rd, and told them they must reach Cawnpore that night at all costs. The veteran was fond of taking his Highlanders into his confidence; and he went on to explain:—
“If the bridge of boats should be captured before we got there we would be cut off in Oude with 50,000 of our enemies in our rear, a well-equipped army of 40,000 men, with a powerful train of artillery, numbering over 40 siege guns, in our front, and with all the women and children, sick and wounded to guard. So, 93rd,” said the grand old chief, “I don’t ask you to undertake this forced march in your present tired condition without good reason. You must reach Cawnpore to-night at all costs.” “All right, Sir Colin,” shouted one voice after another from the ranks; “we’ll do it!”
The men, it must be remembered, had not had their clothes off or changed their socks for eighteen days, and what a tax on the fortitude of the men that forced march was, can hardly be realised. Alison tells the story very graphically:—
Not a moment was to be lost. The danger was instant, and the whole army eagerly pressed on towards the scene of danger. At every step the sound of a heavy but distant cannonade became more distinct; but mile after mile was passed over, and no news could be obtained. The anxiety and impatience of all became extreme. Louder and louder grew the roar—faster and faster became the march—long and weary was the way—tired and footsore grew the infantry—death fell on the exhausted wounded with terrible rapidity—the travel-worn bearers could hardly stagger along under their loads—the sick men groaned and died. But still on, on, on, was the cry. Salvoes of artillery were fired by the field battery of the advanced guard in hopes that its sound might convey to the beleaguered garrison a promise of the coming aid. At last some horsemen were seen spurring along the road; then the veil which had for so long shrouded us from Windham was rent asunder, and the disaster stood before us in all its deformity.
The story of Windham’s disastrous fight at Cawnpore is a sort of bloody appendix to Campbell’s march on Lucknow. It must be told here to make the tale complete.