Sahib (41 page)

Poor Metje died of his wounds this morning. I had hoped he would live, for I saw him fall; and it pained me not to assist him; but we were under a tremendous fire, and all depended on keeping up the charge. I could not have stopped for my brother. He was a fine young fellow, always foremost in any sport, as in the field. I saw him yesterday, and asked him if he saw me when he fell. He said yes. I told him how sorry I was not to assist him, kissed his forehead and commended him to God.
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Although the historian Lawrence James states that: ‘Sepoys provided the ballast of an army. They provided the weight of an attacking force, but the vanguard were always British soldiers, who were quite literally the cutting edge of empire,’
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of course there were times when this was not the case. For example, at the battle of Khushab in the Persian War of 1856–57, it was the 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry, rather than HM’s 14th Light Dragoons (the only British cavalry regiment with the force), which charged and broke a well-conducted square of Persian infantry (‘a solid square with kneeling ranks … awaited us most steadily’), rallying after its first attack to charge again, and then chasing the survivors ‘till the troopers were weary of hewing’.
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The charge itself owed much to charismatic leadership by British officers, as one of them recalled how Captain Forbes, commanding the 3rd, and his adjutant, Lieutenant Moore:

placed themselves in front of the 6th troop, which was the one directly opposite the nearest face of the square. The others, [the elder] Moore, Malcolmson and Spens, came the least thing behind, riding knee to knee, with spurs in their horses flanks, as if racing after a dog. In rear of them rushed the dark troopers of the 3rd … In spite of fire, steel and bullets, they tore down upon the nearest face of the devoted square. As they approached, Forbes was shot through the thigh and Spens’s horse was wounded; but unheeding they swept onwards.

Daunted by the flashes and the fire and the noise and the crackle of musketry, the younger Moore’s horse swerved as they came up. Dropping his sword and letting it hang by the knot at the wrist, he caught up the reins in both hands, screwed his horse’s head straight, and then coolly, as if riding a fence, leaped him straight into the square … Of course the horse fell stone dead upon the bayonets; so did his brother’s, ridden with equal courage and determination.

The elder Moore – 18 stone in weight and 6 feet seven inches in height, cut his way out on foot. Malcolmson took one foot out of his stirrup, when he saw his brother officer down and unarmed (for his sword had been broken to pieces by the fall) and holding on to that, the younger Moore escaped.

The barrier once broken, and the entrance once made, in and through it poured [our] troops … Out of five hundred Persian soldiers … who composed that fatal square, only twenty escaped to tell the tale of their own destruction.
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John Jacob called it ‘the best cavalry performance of modern times’. But it was not an isolated example. In December 1856, when the British-Indian force landed in the Gulf, 20th BNI took a fort by storm. Captain Wood, of the grenadier company, was hit seven times as he climbed the parapet, but he ran an enemy commander through with his sword, and his grenadiers followed him bravely and secured the place. He gained the first VC awarded to an officer of the Company’s forces.

Examples like Khushab in 1857 and Chitral in 1895 (where not only the garrison, but the relief column which reached the little town first were all Indian troops) were, however, exceptions to a general rule. In 1803 Lake declared to Wellesley that it was ‘impossible to do things in a gallant style without Europeans’, and after his victory at Laswari he warned that unless his British casualties were replaced his army would lose its cutting edge.

It was because of the importance that contemporaries attached to the combat performance of British units that failures were the source of such heart-searching. Several commentators observed that the real damage done by the retreat from Kabul in 1844 and the destruction of HM’s 44th Foot was to British prestige. Exactly the
same was said about the rebuff to HM’s 24th at Chillianwallah, where the regiment fell back after suffering appalling casualties, dragging the flanking Indian regiments, 25th and 45th BNI, back with it. Sita Ram was not surprised, asking: ‘How could they stand if the Europeans could not?’
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When Colonel Charles MacGregor heard the news of Maiwand, where HM’s 66th Foot had been badly cut up in 1881, he wrote: ‘It is not so bad in the way of losses as I thought, but worse for our honour, as they ought all to have been killed.’
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B
RAVE LEADERSHIP
was fundamental to British military success , and prompt reward for courage and campaign service was widely esteemed. Sometimes British officers showed a bravery that was literally suicidal. We have already seen how the garrison of Delhi arsenal blew it up as the mutineers surged in. At the same time the great arsenal of Allahabad was held by ‘60 worn-out European pensioners’ of the Company’s service, supported by a few volunteers. In command were Lieutenants Russell and Tod Brown of the Bengal Artillery.

These two gallant officers had taken the precaution to fill the cellars below the armoury (which contained some 50,000 to 60,000 stands of arms) with barrels of powder, their intention being to blow up the whole place in the event of the sepoys getting the upper hand. This determination was known to all in the fort … 
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This sort of mettle was the
sine qua non
of officer leadership. In their personal accounts, British soldiers are often irreverent about their superior officers. Some, like Lieutenant Colonel St George Showers of the 2nd Bengal Fusiliers, were seen as fussy old pedants. Others did not even begin to look like warrior kings. The senior captain of HM’s 61st Foot, who commanded the battalion before Delhi,

was, without exception, the greatest oddity for a soldier that our army has ever seen. Five feet two inches in height, with an enormous head, short, hunch back body, long arms, and thin shrivelled legs, his whole appearance reminded one of Dickens’s celebrated character Quilp … Entering the service in the ‘good’ old times, when there was no examination by a medical man, he had, through some back-door influence, obtained a commission in the army. All his service had been passed abroad, for it would have been utterly impossible for him to have retained his commission in England.

Marching, he was unable to keep step with the men, and on horseback he presented the most ludicrous appearance, being quite unable to ride, and looking more like a monkey than a human being. On our first advance across the plain the little Captain was riding in our front, vainly endeavouring to make his horse move faster, and striking him every now and then on the flanks with his sword. I was on the right of the line, and, together with the men, could not keep from laughing, when a friend of mine – a tall officer of one of the native infantry regiments-rode to my side and asked me who that was leading the regiment. I answered ‘He is our commanding officer.’
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And others, many others, drank too much. Private Waterfield thought it a scandal that, if no clergyman was present, his commanding officer should read the Sunday service ‘when perhaps not five minutes before that same man was damning his men, now his congregation to all intents and purposes, and himself suffering from last night’s debauchery’.
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Lastly, there were suspicions that officers enjoyed more than their fair share of loot. Sergeant Forbes-Mitchell of the 93rd Highlanders lamented that his own regiment ‘got very little loot’ at Lucknow. However,

it was shrewdly suspected by the troops that certain small caskets in battered cases, which contained the redemption of mortgaged estates in Scotland, England and Ireland … found their way inside the uniform cases of even the prize-agents. I could myself name one deeply-encumbered estate which was cleared of mortgage to the tune of £180,000 within two years of the plunder of Lucknow. But what good?
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Two qualities featured greatly on the credit side of the ledger. Paternalism was generally admired. In 1870 Emily Wonnacott, whose husband William was schoolmaster to HM’s 8th Foot, told her parents of her delight that: ‘Dear old Col Woods is coming back on Sunday. We are all so glad. He is like a father to the regiment.’
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Corporal Ryder of HM’s 32nd remembered Colonel Hill weeping as he warned his men that they risked being shot for striking an officer, and John Pearman thought that grey-haired Colonel White, ‘such a happy face, so kind to all’ was a fine commander. When old Gough wandered round a field hospital after Chillianwallah, visiting men who might not unreasonably have attributed their presence there to his ‘Tipperary tactics’, Sergeant Keay of the Bengal Artillery affirmed that the very sight ‘of his venerable white head’ provoked a burst of cheering and ‘from many a poor fellow who had scarcely a head left upon his shoulders to shout with – it said, as plainly as ever words will say, “You will never find us wanting when you require us”.’
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Often this paternalism was coupled with largesse: Captain Billy Olpherts, that doyen of horse gunners, would always summon his servant to reward a successful detachment, saying ‘Give that gun a drink,’ and Major Henry Tombs, another member of the Bengal Horse Artillery, forgave a defaulter who later absconded from hospital to serve his gun.

Yet courage was all, and a single lapse, whatever its logic, could damn a man for ever. John Shipp recounts how, at the siege of Huttras in 1817:

While we sat chatting, one of us noticed that a young officer had taken off his epaulettes, and the plate and feather from his cap, and looked for all the world like a discharged pensioner. Whatever his motives may have been it was very unwise, for it would be certain to be commented on by both the men and the officers. The officers to be sure joked about it, and drew their own conclusions. One of them asked the young man why he had done so and was told that it was in order to look as much like a private soldier as possible, and to avoid being singled out by the enemy. How far such a thing is open to censure I do not know, but I warn young officers never to do it, for it is bound to lay them open to ridicule and criticism.
This young man’s intentions were no doubt right enough, but he never recovered his character in the regiment and left some time afterwards.
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Charles MacGregor even disapproved of the practice, which became common amongst officers of irregular horse during the Mutiny (and lives on in the shoulder-chains of British cavalry No 1 Dress), of sewing steel strips, often the curb-chains from horses’ bits, onto shoulders and down the outer side of breeches to protect against sword-cuts. It was ‘anything but right’ for officers to do this unless the men could do it too.
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But it was just possible to be too brave, to show suicidal extremes of courage. At Meani in February 1843, HM’s 22nd Foot halted on the edge of a dry
nullah
filled with a seething press of hostile infantry, but would not plunge into the mass. Lieutenant MacMurdo jumped into the river bed and killed four Beluchis with his sword, but his men knew it was certain death if they followed. ‘Mr MacMurdo,’ they called ‘if you don’t leave off, we’ll shoot you.’
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For evidence of the shared risk that united all who wore a red jacket there is no better account than Captain John Cumming’s of that long, terrible night at Ferozeshah:

Many a gallant fellow was lying in the silent square, though severely wounded, many of them bleeding to death without a murmur. In the 80th square a grapeshot struck a man in the shoulder, producing rather severe flesh wound. The foolish fellow wanted to get out of the square; where he intended going I do not know, as if his wound was of more importance than that of anyone else. Being refused by a sergeant of his company, he went to the Colour-Sergeant saying: ‘Sergeant, I am badly wounded, let me get out of the square to go to the surgeon.’

The Colour-Sergeant replied, ‘Lie down where you are, man, look at me’ – lifting up a leg without a foot. But he was determined to gain his point, and came next to Lieutenant Bythesea, who commanded his company, and was lying next to me. ‘Oh Sir, I wish you would give orders to let me out of the square: I am wounded.’ ‘So am I,’ coolly answered Mr Bythesea, putting round his right arm, and lifting up his left
hand which hung shattered from the wrist. Though he was near me I did not know till then that he had been hurt. But the man persevered and came now to Colonel Bunbury, who commanded the regiment, and who was still on horseback. He was about two yards from where I lay. ‘Sir,’ cried the man, ‘I am wounded, please give orders for me to go and have it dressed.’ ‘So you’re wounded, my good man,’ said the Colonel. ‘Yes Sir.’ ‘So am I’ – I then perceived that the colonel was wounded just below the knee, and the blood had filled his boot, and was trickling down his heel to the ground. The assistant-sergeant-major had been watching this man, and, becoming angry at the annoyance he was causing, determined to stop it. He ran up and seized him, saying ‘Damn—,’ but before any more was out of his mouth, a cannon ball carried away his head, and part of the unfortunate private’s, killing both at once.
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There were times when even the bravest leadership did not work. At Parwandara in Afghanistan on 2 November 1842, two squadrons of the 2nd Bombay Light Cavalry found themselves faced by an Afghan force commanded by Dost Mohammed himself. Dost Mohammed should have been captured: ‘The commanding officer gave the word to charge, and he and all the [four] Europeans with him galloped headlong into the Afghan horse. But their men hesitated, fell back, and finally took to disgraceful flight.’
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Two of the five British were killed and two very badly wounded. One of the dead was Dr Lord, a medical officer acting as political agent, and the unwounded survivor was the regiment’s riding master: both saw it their clear duty to charge. As Neville Chamberlain observed, there was nothing wrong with the example that was set.

[Captain] Fraser got a desperate cut over the right wrist which will render the hand useless for life, and a fearful gash down the back. He was not aware of the wound in the wrist until he tried to draw a pistol and found his hand useless. Captain Ponsonby was surrounded by a dozen fellows cutting and hacking at him. He got a tremendous slash over the face, cutting through his nose into the bone of the face from ear to ear, the top of his thumb taken off, and his arms smashed by a ball, and his horse’s ears cut off, a ball through its neck, and his
bridle-reins severed. In this situation the horse kicked himself clear of the mêlée, and dashing off into a water-course threw poor Ponsonby onto his head.

Ponsonby was rescued by Mr Bolton, the riding master.
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The squadron’s native officers were dismissed and the regiment itself was later disbanded with ignominy. Yet the episode remains puzzling: 2nd Light Cavalry had previously enjoyed an excellent reputation, and some of its former soldiers later joined the Corps of Guides and won distinction in that hard-fighting force. Some of the cavalrymen maintained that they had no confidence in their newly issued swords, and it may be that it was this nagging suspicion that eroded that sense of confidence which is fundamental to the success of a cavalry charge.

Generals could also set a brave example. Wellesley led the decisive cavalry charge against Dhoondiah Waugh in person. At Assaye his first charger was killed at the start of the battle, and his favourite Arab horse, Diomed, was piked through the chest by a Maratha gunner. At the battle of Laswari, the commander in chief’s horse:

was shot under him, and his son Major Lake [of HM’s 94th, serving on his father’s staff] was wounded at his side in the act of holding his own horse for his father to mount on. This very soon became known to the men, and did not lessen their eagerness to get to close quarters with the enemy.
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Lake was so often at the front at the siege of Bhurtpore that it was ‘reckoned a service of danger’ to approach him. Charles Napier displayed the most spectacular bravery at Meani, and whatever Gough’s deficiencies, lack of courage was not amongst them. Major General Sir Robert Sale, hero of Jelalabad, and Gough’s quartermaster general, died at Mudki, and one of the four divisional commanders, Major General McCaskill, another veteran of Afghanistan, was killed. Another divisional commander, Major General Sir Robert Dick, died at Sobraon, shot through the head by a musket ball in the forefront of the battle. At Lucknow in November 1857 Colin Campbell was hit by a bullet which had already passed through the body of a British gunner, killing him, and still had enough energy left to cause the commander in chief a painful bruise on the thigh.

Both Crown and Company rewarded courage. As we have seen prize money and loot played their part in motivation. So too did the prospect of rapid promotion. During the Sikh War, Gough gave immediate ensigns’ commissions to some British NCOs in the field and, although there was a predictable frostiness in London over the matter, because he had exceeded his constitutional authority, the promotions stuck. Sepoys had long been promoted, and sometimes awarded specially struck medals, for bravery. In Albert Hervey’s Madras regiment, Sepoy Mir Emaum Ali was immediately promoted to
havildar
and given ‘a beautiful gold medal, on one side of which was inscribed in English, and on the other side in Hindustanee, the cause of it having been conferred upon him’ for saving an officer’s life in battle.
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Brevet promotion was available only to officers. In the Crown’s service it could take an officer to major, lieutenant colonel and colonel. In the Company’s, where promotion was slower and there were constant pressures for rank inflation, it could once make a man a captain too, but this concession was abandoned in the 1820s. A brevet promotion gave an officer rank in the service but not in his regiment. When serving with his regiment he carried out the duties of his substantive rank, but while away from it he was eligible for the appointments in his higher rank. An officer who reached brevet lieutenant colonel, even if he was only a substantive captain – as could easily be the case – was on the roll for promotion by seniority to colonel and so on to major general and beyond. Brevets were widely used to reward gallant or distinguished conduct. John Pennycuick became a brevet lieutenant colonel with effect from 23 July 1839, the date of the storming of Ghuzni, and Henry Havelock gained a brevet lieutenant-colonelcy for his bravery at Maharajpore in 1843, although regimentally he was ‘now in his 48th year and the 28th of his service … he was still among the captains of his corps’.
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