The Cannons of Lucknow (19 page)

Left alone with his son Harry, now acting as his Deputy Assistant adjutant-general in place of Stuart Beatson, General Havelock was silent, his eyes closed in prayer. Opening them at last, he said quietly, “Our force is woefully inadequate for the task it must undertake. But if the worst comes to the worst, Harry my dear lad, we can but die with our swords in our hands. God, in His infinite goodness, has enabled us to come thus far and I would not have it written as my epitaph that I had failed to put my best endeavours into bringing relief to Lucknow. If with God's help and guidance it is possible, then we will do it … because there must not be a second Cawnpore!”

“Morale is high, Father,” Harry Havelock reminded him. “You could not ask for better or more willing troops. Whatever you demand of them, they will carry out—you need have no fear on that score. They've seen what you can achieve and they have complete faith in your invincibility.”

Indeed, throughout the small force, morale had never been higher, in spite of the discomfort caused by heat and the incessant rain. Havelock had won the respect of his officers for his tactical skill and military efficiency. Even those who had at first doubted his ability, or who had resented his appointment to the command over Neill's head, were willing now to follow him anywhere. His soldiers, to a man, admired and trusted their stern little general, who had led them to victory against seemingly impossible odds. He imposed an iron discipline and would not tolerate drinking, but he concerned himself personally with their welfare. On the march from Allahabad, he had driven them to the limit of their endurance, but always he had been there in the thick of the fight, taking his own life in his hands and teaching them, by example, not to flinch in the face of enemy fire. He never swore, but his voice carried above the sounds of battle, urging them on, praising them when their valour earned his approbation and reproving them when it did not. Aware that he had come through twenty-eight engagements without a scratch, they believed him not only invincible, as his son Harry had claimed, but also indestructible.

Whenever he made his appearance in camp, an erect, white-haired figure in a faded blue frock coat, the men flocked round to cheer him, and in the field hospital, where he was frequently to be found, the wounded and the dying were grateful both for his presence and his prayers. Small and old though he might seem, his keen eyes missed nothing, and there was a wiry toughness about him that made light of hardship and privation. Neill and some of his officers might continue to mock Havelock's orations and the services and prayer meetings he conducted, but the men did not, and in the new atmosphere of disciplined sobriety he had created, even the most hard-bitten of them flocked in increasing numbers to hear him preach or read passages from the well-worn Bible he always carried with him. His faith, like his courage, never wavered, and both became a byword, for to the unlettered men he commanded, Henry Havelock was not only a symbol of the devout, if somewhat puritanical type of Christianity in which most of them had been reared; he was also a soldier whose record was a source of pride to them, and they gave him their wholehearted devotion.

They were in high spirits when the advance began at five o'clock next morning. The weather was clear and they marched forward to the stirring sound of the pipes, led by the 78th Highlanders and the Fusiliers, with the leading companies spread out in skirmishing order and a small cavalry piquet scouting the road ahead. Alex, commanding the piquet, sent back word by Tom Vibart that opposition awaited them at a village straddling the road near the town of Unao, three miles from their starting point. The village was typical of hundreds more in Oudh, where each hamlet was frequently at feud with its neighbours—a collection of mud-walled huts, loopholed for defence, the whole surrounded by a high mud wall. It was a strong position, protected on the right by a swamp, with three guns covering the approach from behind a walled enclosure and a large body of rebel troops posted in and behind the village. The town itself lay three-quarters of a mile to the right, but the flooded state of the country precluded the possibility of turning in that direction.

Havelock rode up and, sweeping the scene with his glass, ordered the Enfield skirmishers to open the action, while two field pieces were brought forward. The main body of the Highlanders were drawn up in expectation of being ordered to lead the assault, but, finding themselves under fire from the guns in the walled enclosure, Colonel Hamilton, their commander, cantered back to report.

“Remove them out of range until our guns arrive,” Havelock told him.

“Pray, sir,” Hamilton pleaded. “They are ready—let them go at the place and have done with it!”

Alex, waiting with his small party—a few yards away, saw a fugitive smile light the face of the little general as he gave his assent. Five minutes later, when the two guns under Lieutenant Crump had unlimbered and placed some well-aimed shots amongst the enemy gunners, he saw the Highlanders and the Blue Caps rush forward with a concerted yell at the walled enclosure. They were met by a withering fire. A scarlet-jacketed Highlander clambered up and fell back, shot through the head; a Fusilier followed, only to be flung back, a bayonet wound in his throat. Three times they charged, three times they were thrown back with heavy losses, and then they were in, the guns abandoned by the rebel gunners and the thatch of the mud-walled huts ablaze.

Lousada Barrow, commanding the main body of the small force of cavalry, led some of his men in to pick up wounded. To Alex he said breathlessly, “They've fired the whole village—men are burning to death in there, ours as well as theirs, and the matchlock men are contesting every hut. But we've been ordered out. Crommelin of the Engineers says there's a large force of the enemy—infantry, cavalry, and guns—advancing on Unao from the other side.” He pointed with a blood-smeared hand. “Take your piquet forward, will you, and if he's right, report the position to the general.”

Alex needed no second bidding. Spurring forward, their horses over their hocks in the glutinous mud of the swamp, he and his half-dozen men emerged from the smoke of the burning village to see that Captain Crommelin's warning was indeed correct. A force of about six thousand rebels, a large proportion of them cavalry, with twelve or fourteen guns, was debouching onto the road from behind the outskirts of the town. They were still a considerable way away and making a great deal of noise, with trumpets sounding and drums beating, and Alex watched them from behind the shelter of a grove of mango trees, studying them and the lie of the land ahead with the aid of his glass. The road, he saw, ran through the centre of the swamp, but there was what appeared to be a firm tongue of land, about half a mile or so in width, ahead of him and to his right. He scanned it with his telescope and, satisfied that his eyes had not deceived him and that the bright green of the swamp grass gave way, at this point, to dry, sandy soil, he told his piquet to remain under cover and galloped across to make assurance doubly sure. Five minutes later, he was making his report to General Havelock, who acted upon it with swift decisiveness.

Leaving the Sikhs under Jeremiah Brasyer to clear up the village, he ordered the rest of his force to disengage and advance by the narrow passage between the village and the town. Reaching the tongue of dry ground was no easy matter, particularly for Francis Maude's bullock-drawn guns, which were frequently stuck fast in the reddish-brown mud under a galling fire of matchlocks. The Volunteer Cavalry, endeavouring to cover their advance, had several times to hitch their horses to the traces in order to drag them clear, but the road was reached at last and Alex guided them through a series of screening mango trees to the position he had reconnoitred.

Here General Havelock drew the infantry up in line, with four guns in the centre and two on each wing, to await the rebels' attack. The Sikhs rejoined the main body and, in anticipation of an artillery cannonade, the infantry were ordered to lie down and the Volunteers posted behind the guns on either flank. The rebels came forward confidently, even arrogantly, in a long, tightly bunched column, with elephants drawing three heavy-calibre field pieces behind a strong body of cavalry. Still drumming and trumpeting, they held their green Islamic banners on high, yelling defiance and clearly believing that so puny a force as the one that was facing them could offer little opposition to their own overwhelming numbers.

Havelock made no attempt to check their advance. The British line waited in silence, the Colours of the Fusiliers in the centre hanging limp in the hot, still air and Maude's gunners, portfires glowing, crouched expectantly behind their double-shotted 9-pounders. When they were within a thousand yards, the rebels halted and opened fire. Maude's gunners, who had the sun behind them and a perfect sight of their target, replied with devastating effect. Within ten minutes they had silenced the enemy's leading guns and scattered their supporting infantry, and Havelock bade his line rise and move forward, as his opposing commander—realising the mistake he had made—endeavoured to deploy, only to lose a number of guns, which were engulfed by the swamp. Although still very heavily outnumbered, the British advanced steadily, Enfield and Minié rifles and the flank guns playing viciously on the dense mass of rebel infantry, which wavered, broke, and then rolled back. Seeing this, Havelock ordered his own left flank to advance through the morass, led by the Enfield skirmishers of the 64th. Knee deep in mud at the edge of the swamp, the riflemen poured volley after volley into their shattered foe; the saddles of the cavalry began to empty, and as Maude's four guns in the centre unlimbered and sprayed them with grape, they beat a panic-stricken retreat in which the infantry, after a momentary hesitation, chaotically joined. Only the rebel gunners—crack Company troops—maintained the conflict. Deserted by their supporting infantry and deprived of their cavalry screen, most of them perished beside their guns, bayoneted where they stood by the Fusiliers and the 78th.

Fifteen guns were taken and, in undisputed possession of the road, the British swept across the causeway. At 2 P.M. Havelock ordered a two-hour halt to enable them to cook and eat their belated midday meal, while tumbrils picked up the wounded and the dead were buried.

“Look at them!” Lousada Barrow exclaimed disgustedly, waving a hand in the direction of the fleeing rebels. “I've begged to be allowed to pursue them but the general won't have it. The flooded state of the country would make pursuit hazardous, he says, and we are too few for him to take any risk of losing us.” He slumped down beside Alex at the bivouac fire, mopping at his smoke-grimed face. “So we lose the fruits of our victory!”

“What the general says—alas—makes sense,” Alex pointed out mildly. “And we've taken fifteen guns, I'm told.”

“But without beasts to draw them, we cannot use them; they're to be spiked and thrown into the swamp.” Barrow gulped down a long draught of porter, shaking his head at the mess of undercooked meat someone offered him. “No, thanks—I'll confine myself to wet rations until this evening.” He consulted his pocket watch. “The general intends to push on, so we're to reconnoitre ahead with Fraser Tytler as soon as we've eaten. I'll go this time, Alex. Your troop is to be divided, half to act as escort to the artillery and the other half to accompany the wounded to the rear and serve as baggage guard.” He gave brief instructions and then added, smiling, “You've done well with those recruits, my dear fellow, damned well! They handle themselves like cavalrymen born and that sergeant of yours is an acquisition—not to mention young Vibart. How did you get hold of him?”

Alex explained, and Lousada Barrow's smile widened. “Ah, one of those Vibarts, is he? And living up to the name, it would appear. I'm sorry he's to be given no chance of glory, but blame that on the floods and the general's reluctance to lose us. I'll take him with me on the reconnaissance—it will be good for his education, if nothing else.” He rose, stretching his cramped limbs. “If my wife could see me now, she wouldn't believe her eyes! But thanks be to God, she's in England with the family. Our last child, a boy, was a sickly little fellow and we had to take the inevitable but painful decision to separate, for his sake.”

“It was the right decision, in these circumstances, Lou,” Alex said. He thought of his own efforts to persuade Emmy to go to Calcutta and bit back a sigh.

“Yes,” Barrow agreed. “Undoubtedly it was, Alex. Young Charlie is now five years old and Piercy writes that he's a fine little chap—as sturdy as anyone could wish. Odd that I should think of them now, though, isn't it? Could it be a premonition, perhaps?”

“God forbid!”

Lousada Barrow grunted. He said, as he swung himself onto his horse, “It's not for one's own sake that one worries, but for theirs. A Government pension for one of my rank won't suffice to keep a widow and six children, I fear, so no doubt I should be grateful for the general's wish to preserve us intact. But … if anything should happen to me, I can count on you to do what you can for my family, can't I?”

“Of course you can, Lou,” Alex assured him.

The bugles sounded, half an hour later, and the advance continued.

Lucknow was still thirty-seven miles away and the next obstacle was the town of Busseratgunj, five miles on. This was a walled town, situated at the rear of an extensive
jheel
, with deep, water-filled ditches encircling the walls which, as usual in Oudh towns, were loopholed and strongly defended. In addition, the gate was defended by a round tower, on which four guns were mounted. A causeway, 150 yards long, crossed the swamp to the rear of the town and Havelock, on receiving the report he had asked for from Fraser Tytler, decided that, after a preliminary bombardment, he would send the 64th on a turning movement to the left, for the purpose of cutting off the defenders' escape route to the causeway. As they did so, the 78th and the Fusiliers were to assault the gate and the town, with the Sikhs and the 84th in support, in order to catch the enemy between two fires.