The Cannons of Lucknow (5 page)

Barrow pulled up beside him and dismounted, jerking his horse round in front of him to serve as temporary protection for both himself and the wounded man. “I'll take care of this poor devil, Alex,” he grunted breathlessly. “You go on and tell Birch and Stewart not to shoot those rebels if they can help it. I want the swine alive!”

Alex did his best to carry out these instructions, but by the time he reached the hut from which the shots had been fired, the two young Volunteers who had given the alarm were inside and he heard the roar of pistols being discharged at close range as he tethered his horse beside theirs and dashed in after them. Graham Birch turned, grinning, a smoking Colt in his hand, to point to the three bodies lying at his feet.

“Those devils won't fire on an unarmed Englishman again, sir,” he announced triumphantly. “As for this cringing cur …” he spun the chamber of his Colt and levelled the weapon at the last remaining mutineer, who was crouching in a corner of the room, gibbering with fear, his empty musket held uselessly across his chest. “I have one round left that has
his
name on it!”

“No, hold your fire,” Alex bade him. “Captain Barrow wanted them all taken alive, but since this man is the only one left, he'll have to do. Disarm and tie him up and then bring him outside, if you please.”

Lieutenant Birch obediently lowered the Colt. He was a tall, good-looking boy, who had served for less than a year with his regiment, the 1st Bengal Light Cavalry. Like his comrade in arms, Ensign Stewart of the 17th Native Infantry, and a number of others—including Lousada Barrow himself—he had made a perilous journey through hostile country to Allahabad in order to serve with Havelock's Force and in the ranks of the Volunteer Cavalry. Death was no stranger to either of them now, but they exchanged wry glances as they pinioned the surviving sepoy's wrists and helped him, none too gently, to his feet.

Stewart ventured diffidently, “I'm sorry if we were a bit too impulsive, Colonel Sheridan, but they did open fire on us and … did you see that poor wretch they were holding prisoner? They'd inflicted the most ghastly injuries on him, sir, and I'm afraid it made me see red.”

“I very much doubt whether the sepoys were responsible for the prisoner's injuries,” Alex told him. “That kind of torture smacks rather of the Nana's executioners.”

“You mean he was punished for some reason?” Birch suggested.

“Or silenced. It won't surprise me to find that his tongue has been cut out as well.”

“His
tongue?
” Stewart passed his own tongue nervously over his lips. “I … see. The unfortunate fellow was making an odd sort of noise, as if he was trying to yell out and couldn't.” His expression hardened. “The general says that we're not to match barbarism with barbarism, but after what I've seen here, I … damn it all, sir, I don't see what else we can do. They've betrayed us, they've murdered our women and children, they …” Birch silenced him with a sharp jab of the elbow. He jerked his head in Alex's direction with a warning scowl and the youngster reddened. “I'm very sorry, sir. I forgot that you—that is, I—”

“You forgot that I was in the Seige?” Alex finished for him. “And that most of the women and children who died in the Bibigarh were known to me? Well, continue to forget it, my young friend, because it's something that I'd give my immortal soul to forget. The general is absolutely right, you know. If we're to win back India, if we're to regain the trust of the ordinary people who have had no part in this mutiny, it will not be by meeting barbarism with barbarism.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Stewart stammered. Still very red of face, he started to drag the pinioned sepoy from the hut. But, Alex thought, he would not forget; none of them would. What had happened here, what they had seen in the well outside the Bibigarh and in that other well, close to the entrenchment, was printed indelibly on their minds, as it was on his own. The fact that he had survived the massacre set him apart from these young officers with whom he now served; his scarred face and the empty sleeve at his right side set him apart too and erected an even more insuperable barrier than his brevet rank. Save in moments of stress or excitement, when they were in action, the young officers pitied him and fought shy of him, calling him “sir” and treating him with wary respect. In the Volunteer Cavalry he held no official rank; Barrow was commandant and the two officers who had escaped with him from Salone, Thompson and Swanson, acted as subalterns; he was entitled to no particular respect from even the youngest of them. Indeed, he supposed wryly, they had all—including Barrow, until their brief talk just now had made his feelings clear—expected him to be filled with a lust for blood, to seek vengeance as Neill had sought it. Whereas, in fact … he sighed, glancing at Birch.

“They
did
open fire on us, sir, as George Stewart told you,” the young cavalry officer said defensively, careful to avoid his eye. “That was why we killed them.”

“I'm sure that Captain Barrow will accept your explanation,” Alex returned crisply. “Let's identify their regiments, shall we, in case a report is required, and then we'll get back to the train. It will be dark very soon.”

Birch nodded. He turned over one of the bodies with his spurred boot, revealing a medal pinned to the dead sepoy's white undress coatee. “My God!” he exclaimed, sounding shocked. “This fellow fought at Chilianwala and Goojerat. He was in the 56th—one of the regiments that mutinied here. Don't tell me that you'd have spared
him
, sir?” He examined the buttons of the others. “They were all of the same regiment, all of the 56th.” He dropped to one knee, removed the medal from the bloodstained jacket, and straightened up, the silver token of valour lying on the palm of his hand. “He won this and still betrayed his salt! Damn it, sir, I'm not sorry I killed him—after all, the punishment for mutiny is death, is it not?”

“It is,” Alex agreed. “But now that we have retaken Cawnpore, our first and most essential task is to restore law and order. We have to substitute British justice, which
is
just, for the Nana's corrupt administration, don't you see? Mutineers and murderers will be punished—the general made no bones about that, did he? They'll be hanged or blown from cannon if their crimes warrant it, but each man is entitled to a fair trial, with his guilt proven against him.”

“Yes, I understand that, sir, but I …” Birch hesitated, still not entirely convinced.

“Don't worry, the fellow you took alive won't escape, Birch.” Alex laid a hand on his shoulder. “He was of the 17th and I have good reason for making certain that he does not. He'll be tried and his trial will serve as a warning to others, civilians as well as sepoys, who may now be wavering in their allegiance.”

“You think it will influence them?”

Alex nodded. “Yes, I do. The ordinary people of Cawnpore welcomed us back. You saw that for yourself when we marched in. But hundreds of them fled from the city, innocent and guilty, because they feared that we might follow our victory with looting and indiscriminate slaughter. They've suffered that already from the Nana's troops, who plundered them unmercifully. When they learn that we have taken no more than just reprisals, they will return—the innocent will, at all events. We need their help and loyalty if we're to hold on here and bring relief to Lucknow—theirs and that of the local rajahs and peasantry. We are far too small a force to do battle with the entire population between here and Lucknow. In any case, our quarrel is not with the
zamindars
and villagers; it's with the Nana and the sepoys he has subverted to his cause. We cannot allow what happened to the garrison here to be repeated in Lucknow … at all costs, it must be prevented.”

“Well said, Alex!” Lousada Barrow's deep voice approved from the door of the hut. He came inside, mopping his face, which was damp with sweat. “All right, Graham, my boy,” he said to Birch. “You did what you considered necessary and I'm not going to put you on the carpet for it. But remember, it's one thing to kill your enemy in battle and quite another to take away his life when he's ready to surrender. Besides, prisoners often provide useful information.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Birch acknowledged, crestfallen. “Will that be all, sir?”

“We're going to bivouac here and push on at first light,” Barrow told him. “So cut along, like a good fellow, and see that my horse and Colonel Sheridan's are fed and watered with your own, would you? Captain Thompson is detailing a night guard—report to him.”

“Very good, sir.” Thankfully, the boy made his escape. When he had gone, Lousada Barrow made a brief and impersonal inspection of the sepoys' bodies and said ruefully, as he led the way outside,” That poor devil's dead, Alex, the one who tried to escape from them. My boys are digging a grave for him now. He was an Englishman, but God knows who he was; perhaps you'd better see if you can identify him before we put him under. He might have been from the entrenchment, though I doubt it—he was too well fed. He's not a pretty sight … nose, hands, and tongue removed expertly and fairly recently. He tried to talk but I couldn't understand what he wanted to tell me. Something about a well, I think. That was the only word I could make out.”

The burial party was at work under a clump of trees. Alex knelt beside the mutilated body, but was forced to shake his head. “To the best of my recollection I've never set eyes on him before, Lou.” He rose, brushing the earth from his knees. “Have you tried the prisoner?”

“No, but we can do that now. Swanston offered to interrogate him. They're somewhere near—yes, over there, d'you see? We'll have a word with him.” They walked across side by side. In the fading light, it was difficult to make out the prisoner's expression, but he seemed frightened and ill at ease and his interrogator, Lieutenant Oliver Swanston, greeted them with barely suppressed excitement. He had been Barrow's Assistant Commissioner in Salone and was a brilliant linguist.

“I believe we're on to something, Lou,” he said. “This chap's a
subedar
of the 17th—Ramsay says he knows him well. His name is Bhandoo Singh and he was one of the ringleaders when the regiment mutinied at Azimgurh. I gather that he was the instigator of the theft of seven and a half
lacs
of treasure, which was being taken to Benares by a troop of Oudh irregular cavalry.”

Barrow's bristling brows rose. “Was he now! Then he's quite a prize, is he not? What happened to the treasure?”

Oliver Swanston laughed without amusement. “The
subedar
says they handed it over to the Nana Sahib.”

“Is that the truth, Bhandoo Singh?” the cavalry commander demanded, addressing the man in his own language. “Did you yield up the treasure your regiment stole to the Nana?”

The prisoner inclined his head in sullen acquiescence.

“The Maharajah Bahadur insisted on it, Sahib, before he would permit the men of my
paltan
to serve under his command. One Azimullah Khan, the dog of a Moslem who stands at the Maharajah's right hand, took our treasure from us.”

The three British officers exchanged glances and Swanston suggested cynically, “And did the Maharajah's
vakeel
use your treasure in order to pay his troops?”

“Nay, Sahib, he did not. His troops were not paid, save in promises.” The man faced them indignantly, fear giving place to defiance. “Nevertheless, his soldiers fight for him, for the greater glory of Hind. They fight without pay, if need be, that they may rid this land of its oppressors; there are other leaders to whom promises are sacred. In Fyzabad there was such a one.”

“In Fyzabad?” Alex's interest quickened, and he took up the questioning. “Went you to Fyzabad then?”

The
subedar
's dark eyes flashed. “
Ji-han
. From Azimgurh, we marched to Fyzabad, where the sowars of the Oudh cavalry told us that their leader, Ahmad Ullah, the Moulvi, had been seized and was held in prison, under sentence of death. The sowars of the Barlow
ki Paltan
, the Irregulars, together with our brothers of the 22nd, rose when we were yet a day's march from them, at Begumgunj, and broke into the jail. They released the Moulvi and other prisoners and sent word to us that their officers, with the Commissioner Sahib and some
mems
, would be seeking to make their escape by river. They besought us to intercept and stop them.” He paused and all three officers, who were listening with growing dismay to his recital, again exchanged glances.

“The commissioner, Colonel Goldney, was at Fyzabad,” Lousada Barrow supplied, his tone clipped. “He had left his wife and some of the other ladies at Sultanpore, believing that they would be safer there. They reached Allahabad with Grant, the assistant commissioner, before we left, having got away just before Colonel Fisher's troops rebelled. Fisher and several of his officers were killed, but Mrs. Goldney had had no news of her husband.” He jerked the
subedar
round to face him and asked harshly,” What of the Commissioner Sahib and his party, Bhandoo Singh? Did you and your men molest them?”

Alex waited tensely for the reply to this question; old Colonel Goldney had been well known to him and he had been on terms of friendship with several of the Fyzabad officers, both civil and military. His heart sank when he saw Bhandoo Singh bow his head and he listened, barely able to restrain himself, as the man described, seemingly without contrition, how his regiment had met the four boatloads of fugitives with a hail of grape and musketry. One party had escaped, the
subedar
admitted; they had lain prone in the bottom of their boat and, unseen by the mutineers, had been rowed by their native boatmen downriver to Goruckpore. The rest had been murdered.

“The Commissioner Sahib stood trial before a court of our native officers. He was sentenced to death and shot. Others drowned, seeking to escape our attack.”