"The King, who accompanied the troops for some short distance last night, gave himself up to a party of Irregular Cavalry, whom I sent out in the direction of the fugitives, and he is now a prisoner under a guard of European soldiers."
Delhi is ours; but at what a cost in officers and men! and Nicholson is dead.
"With the single exception of my ever revered friend, Sir Henry Lawrence, and Colonel Mackeson, I have never met his equal in field or council; he was preëminently our best and bravest, and his loss is not to be atoned for in these days.
"The troops have behaved with singular moderation towards women and children, considering their provocation. I do not believe, and I have some means of knowing, that a single woman or child has been purposely injured by our troops, and the story on which your righteous indignation is grounded is quite false; the troops have been demoralized by drink, but nothing more."
In November he gets a few weeks' leave, and is off to Umbala to meet his wife for the last time, safe after all, and no longer a lieutenant under a cloud. What a meeting must that have been.
With the taking of Delhi our narrative, already too long, must close, though a grand five months of heroic action still remained. Nothing in the book exceeds in interest the ride of ninety-four miles from Seaton's column, with young Macdowell, to carry a despatch to Sir Colin, on December 30th. The tale of the early morning summons, the rumors of enemies on the road, the suspense as to the Chief's whereabouts, the leaving all escort behind, their flattering and cordial reception by Sir Colin, (who gets them "chops and ale in a quiet friendly way,") the fifty-four miles' ride home, the midnight alarm and escape, and the safe run in, take away our breath. And the finish is inimitable.
"All Hodson said," writes Macdowell, "when we were at Bewar, and safe, was 'By George! Mac, I'd give a good deal for a cup of tea,' and immediately went to sleep. He is the coolest hand I have ever yet met. We rode ninety-four miles. Hodson rode seventy-two on one horse, the little dun, and I rode Alma seventy-two miles also."
One more anecdote, however, we cannot resist. On the 6th of January, 1858, Seaton's column joins the Commander-in-Chief; on the 27th, at Shumshabad, poor young Macdowell (whose letters make one love him) is killed, and Hodson badly wounded. They were in advance, as usual, with guns, and had to charge a superior body of cavalry:—
"But there was nothing for it but fighting, as, had we not attacked them, they would have got in amongst our guns. We were only three officers, and about one hundred and eighty horsemen,—my poor friend and second in command, Macdowell, having received a mortal wound a few minutes before we charged. It was a terrible mêlée for some time, and we were most wonderfully preserved. However, we gave them a very proper thrashing, and killed their leaders. Two out of the three of us were wounded, and five of my men killed and eleven wounded, besides eleven horses. My horse had three sabre-cuts, and I got two, which I consider a rather unfair share. The Commander-in-Chief is very well satisfied, I hear, with the day's work, and is profusely civil and kind to me."
In another letter he writes:—