Meean-Meer, 20th September, 1862.My Dear, Dear Parents,Once more a line, in the best of health, trusting this will find you enjoying the same blessing. I told you in my last that I felt lonely. I have given Corporal Woods a little of my mind. What is the use of upsetting your minds for nothing. It istrue I got a touch of the cholera in June last—the doctors only called it a touch—but if that’s only a touch, I pray that it may never touch me again. Another wrote to my wife, informing her of it. She, poor thing, was almost distracted: and the only thing that appeased her mind was frequent telegrams informing her that I was alive and had got over the worst of it. It gave me a good shaking, but not being in the habit of drinking spirits, brandy cured me. The doctors informed me that had I been a rum drinker, the brandy would not have had the effect. I have no objection to Wood writing to his friends; but, as I told him, he might have waited to see the result before sending the news 15,000 miles away, almost amounting to one’s death. Well, thank God, I have got over it, but I have had another fight for life since then. I think it will somewhat amuse you, so I will tell you all. I have put Johnny into the school at Kussoulie, in the Himalaya Mountains: it is about 350 miles from here. We travelled by bullock cart (Government), changing bullocks every ten miles, travelling night and day. We found it very hot and sultry in July, but still we pushed on. All went well until we came to the banks of the Sutlej, a broad and rapid river which, owing to the melting of the snow on the hills, had overflowed its banks. The point at which we had to cross was over six miles wide, the current running from ten to twelve miles per hour. I obtained a good supply of food, lemonade, and other refreshments from the 81st, stationed in a large fort on the banks of the river. Cart, bullocks, and all, were put into a large Government boat, and off we started.It was tedious work, crossing such a current. We had four Natives to man the boat. As far as I could see, they understood their business. I watched them for some time, and then got into my cart to have a nap. I was informed we should be four hours, at least, crossing. Whilst I was asleep, Master Johnny amused himself by throwing all the food we had overboard, to feed the fishes. On arriving safely onterra firmaonce more, I asked my generous son to hand me a biscuit and a bottle of lemonade. I got the latter, but Johnny said he could not see any biscuits in the box. I told him to look again. The answer I got was: “I cannot see any biscuits, dada.” I was rather annoyed, but I found the child was right. We had then about 140 miles to go, without food, and no sign of habitation—a nice look out. We travelled all that night, and until about 5 p.m. next day. As I was walking behind the cart, I noticed the child crying; I inquired what was the matter, when he, poor boy, burst out the louder, saying he was hungry. I could not stand that, so, mounting on the top of the cart, I espied a native village about a mile from the road. We drew the cart up under some trees, and telling the driver to take his bullocks out, and stop there to take care of the child until I returned, promising to reward him, I armed myself with a brace of revolvers, loaded, took some empty bottles to hold milk, and with a good strong stick, off I went across the paddy fields, up to my ankles, and sometimes knees, in mud and water, until I struck upon a good path. As I approached the village a number of dogs came at me. I kept them at bay with stones andmy stick as long as I could—shooting the most troublesome one, when the remainder were called off. On turning a corner I came upon a number of native women (almost in a state of nudity), milking cows—the very thing I wanted. I walked up to them and saluted them with, “Salam:” then mustering my best Hindustanee I told them that I required milk. (Now, mind, don’t you laugh). “Hum-dood, Manta-hi”—that I would pay them for it. “Hum piea dada hi.” They all looked at me with contempt, exclaiming, yea, screaming, “Jow thome Feringhee sour”—“Go away, you English pig.” I could not stand much of that; I tried once more to make peace with them by telling them I was no thief, that I wanted milk for my hungry child and myself, and that I would pay them what they asked. The following is as near as I can come at it: “Decco thunb hum loot wallah nay hi Hum-dood Manta-hi, hommoea babba both bokha hi,” and, to my astonishment, they with one voice screamed out, and sent me to the lower regions—a very hot place for an English pig—“Jahanham jow tomb Feringhee sour.” Flesh and blood could not stand that: I was not to be done by a lot of fanatic women. So I at once walked up to one of them, and taking the vessel that she was milking into, drank heartily, throwing down four annas (sixpence) for it. Hereupon they all at once jumped up and ran into the village, shouting as though I had killed or kissed some of them. They had not been gone long when they returned with seven men, armed with “lathies”—long sticks with lead let into the end, and brass-headed nails all around from the top, extending about two feet. The women were behind the men, shouting like mad, pitiless creatures, for the men to “Maro, Maro, Ko Feringhee”—“Kill, kill the Englishman.” It was no use my trying to run, but I must face the lot. Now for the “tug of war.” On they came: the first man rushed at me, delivering a terrible blow at my head; being a fair swordsman, I warded it off, and delivered the six-cut right across his face, when down he went: he had had enough. Another came at me; I warded off his blow, and delivered a point from the hip right into his stomach, which doubled him up and made him pull all sorts of wry faces, and down he went. Others rushed at me. Only one hit me, but I warmed him for that, right and left. In less time than it takes me to tell you, I had them all rolling on the ground: they had each of them received some heavy blows; it was life or death with me. When the women found that the “English pig” was too many for them, they, with one exception, ran back into the village, screaming again. I at once broke all their sticks and threw them into a pond close by, and by way of refreshment, took another good drink of milk, and filled my bottles. I was just about to walk off, when I noticed some men coming after me, with a number of women and dogs, encouraging them to kill me.I knew well it would be no use me trying to get away, so I made up my mind at once to die hard. My chief thought was about my poor little boy. Rushing to a good-sized tree I stood on the defensive, with my back to the tree, men, women, and dogs pursuing. The first man who came at me was a powerful-looking fellow, a sort ofchampion or bully. I believe they thought he would be more than a match for me; right manfully did he come at me, but I punished him so severely about the head and legs, that he lay groaning on the ground, rubbing his head and legs, whilst the blood flowed freely from the side of his head. Others then came on to the attack, but were met with terrible blows, right and left. At last my stick broke: I dashed the pieces I had in my hand into the face of the fellow nearest me. When the women saw I had no stick, they commenced to shout again: “Maro, Maro, Ko Feringhee.” Now for life or death, I thought. Out came the two revolvers. A brute of a dog that had given me a lot of trouble got the first shot right between his eyes, when down he went without a groan. I then fired through one of their huge turbans. It had the desired effect. I did not wish to take life, and told them so, but if they did not let me alone I would kill the whole of them. I then rolled over another dog, one of their pet dogs. This last shot appeared to decide them. The women called their husbands away, begging me, on bended knees, not to kill them. A Native has an utter dread of a revolver. They say that it is “jaddowed” (bewitched), and that it will fire as often as you like. I still found the dogs very troublesome, and had to shoot another. I made the villagers drop their sticks or send them home, and then made peace with them. I got all the milk I required, and “chupatties” (thin cakes of unleavened bread). Two men went to the road with me, carrying the milk and cakes. I told them I should report them; they begged me not to do it, or they would be heavily punished. I found the child crying bitterly for his dada. The milk and cakes, however, soon put him right, and off we went jogging along again. I found it exceedingly pleasant at Kussoulie, up about 8,000 feet. We have a large depôt up here, and the men look remarkably healthy. I took Master Johnny straight to the school, situated on another hill, and duly handing him over, left him for two days. My wife and little ones were up here, so I spent two days very pleasantly with them, and then went and bade the boy good-bye. The school, so far as I could see, is kept very clean, and the children are well cared for. I found him making himself quite at home with the other children. I think I shall send Master Arthur there as soon as I can: it will do him the world of good to get off the burning plains. If ever you see Johnny you will, perhaps, remember the narrow squeak I had while taking him to school. It was the determined front I showed that struck them with awe; they could see I meant mischief. It will not do to stop to count Indians, but go at them determined to conquer or die. I expect to join headquarters at Ferozepore next month. This is my third attempt at this letter. Please excuse all imperfections.And believe me,My dear Parents, as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING,C.S., A.S.M.
Meean-Meer, 20th September, 1862.
My Dear, Dear Parents,
Once more a line, in the best of health, trusting this will find you enjoying the same blessing. I told you in my last that I felt lonely. I have given Corporal Woods a little of my mind. What is the use of upsetting your minds for nothing. It istrue I got a touch of the cholera in June last—the doctors only called it a touch—but if that’s only a touch, I pray that it may never touch me again. Another wrote to my wife, informing her of it. She, poor thing, was almost distracted: and the only thing that appeased her mind was frequent telegrams informing her that I was alive and had got over the worst of it. It gave me a good shaking, but not being in the habit of drinking spirits, brandy cured me. The doctors informed me that had I been a rum drinker, the brandy would not have had the effect. I have no objection to Wood writing to his friends; but, as I told him, he might have waited to see the result before sending the news 15,000 miles away, almost amounting to one’s death. Well, thank God, I have got over it, but I have had another fight for life since then. I think it will somewhat amuse you, so I will tell you all. I have put Johnny into the school at Kussoulie, in the Himalaya Mountains: it is about 350 miles from here. We travelled by bullock cart (Government), changing bullocks every ten miles, travelling night and day. We found it very hot and sultry in July, but still we pushed on. All went well until we came to the banks of the Sutlej, a broad and rapid river which, owing to the melting of the snow on the hills, had overflowed its banks. The point at which we had to cross was over six miles wide, the current running from ten to twelve miles per hour. I obtained a good supply of food, lemonade, and other refreshments from the 81st, stationed in a large fort on the banks of the river. Cart, bullocks, and all, were put into a large Government boat, and off we started.
It was tedious work, crossing such a current. We had four Natives to man the boat. As far as I could see, they understood their business. I watched them for some time, and then got into my cart to have a nap. I was informed we should be four hours, at least, crossing. Whilst I was asleep, Master Johnny amused himself by throwing all the food we had overboard, to feed the fishes. On arriving safely onterra firmaonce more, I asked my generous son to hand me a biscuit and a bottle of lemonade. I got the latter, but Johnny said he could not see any biscuits in the box. I told him to look again. The answer I got was: “I cannot see any biscuits, dada.” I was rather annoyed, but I found the child was right. We had then about 140 miles to go, without food, and no sign of habitation—a nice look out. We travelled all that night, and until about 5 p.m. next day. As I was walking behind the cart, I noticed the child crying; I inquired what was the matter, when he, poor boy, burst out the louder, saying he was hungry. I could not stand that, so, mounting on the top of the cart, I espied a native village about a mile from the road. We drew the cart up under some trees, and telling the driver to take his bullocks out, and stop there to take care of the child until I returned, promising to reward him, I armed myself with a brace of revolvers, loaded, took some empty bottles to hold milk, and with a good strong stick, off I went across the paddy fields, up to my ankles, and sometimes knees, in mud and water, until I struck upon a good path. As I approached the village a number of dogs came at me. I kept them at bay with stones andmy stick as long as I could—shooting the most troublesome one, when the remainder were called off. On turning a corner I came upon a number of native women (almost in a state of nudity), milking cows—the very thing I wanted. I walked up to them and saluted them with, “Salam:” then mustering my best Hindustanee I told them that I required milk. (Now, mind, don’t you laugh). “Hum-dood, Manta-hi”—that I would pay them for it. “Hum piea dada hi.” They all looked at me with contempt, exclaiming, yea, screaming, “Jow thome Feringhee sour”—“Go away, you English pig.” I could not stand much of that; I tried once more to make peace with them by telling them I was no thief, that I wanted milk for my hungry child and myself, and that I would pay them what they asked. The following is as near as I can come at it: “Decco thunb hum loot wallah nay hi Hum-dood Manta-hi, hommoea babba both bokha hi,” and, to my astonishment, they with one voice screamed out, and sent me to the lower regions—a very hot place for an English pig—“Jahanham jow tomb Feringhee sour.” Flesh and blood could not stand that: I was not to be done by a lot of fanatic women. So I at once walked up to one of them, and taking the vessel that she was milking into, drank heartily, throwing down four annas (sixpence) for it. Hereupon they all at once jumped up and ran into the village, shouting as though I had killed or kissed some of them. They had not been gone long when they returned with seven men, armed with “lathies”—long sticks with lead let into the end, and brass-headed nails all around from the top, extending about two feet. The women were behind the men, shouting like mad, pitiless creatures, for the men to “Maro, Maro, Ko Feringhee”—“Kill, kill the Englishman.” It was no use my trying to run, but I must face the lot. Now for the “tug of war.” On they came: the first man rushed at me, delivering a terrible blow at my head; being a fair swordsman, I warded it off, and delivered the six-cut right across his face, when down he went: he had had enough. Another came at me; I warded off his blow, and delivered a point from the hip right into his stomach, which doubled him up and made him pull all sorts of wry faces, and down he went. Others rushed at me. Only one hit me, but I warmed him for that, right and left. In less time than it takes me to tell you, I had them all rolling on the ground: they had each of them received some heavy blows; it was life or death with me. When the women found that the “English pig” was too many for them, they, with one exception, ran back into the village, screaming again. I at once broke all their sticks and threw them into a pond close by, and by way of refreshment, took another good drink of milk, and filled my bottles. I was just about to walk off, when I noticed some men coming after me, with a number of women and dogs, encouraging them to kill me.
I knew well it would be no use me trying to get away, so I made up my mind at once to die hard. My chief thought was about my poor little boy. Rushing to a good-sized tree I stood on the defensive, with my back to the tree, men, women, and dogs pursuing. The first man who came at me was a powerful-looking fellow, a sort ofchampion or bully. I believe they thought he would be more than a match for me; right manfully did he come at me, but I punished him so severely about the head and legs, that he lay groaning on the ground, rubbing his head and legs, whilst the blood flowed freely from the side of his head. Others then came on to the attack, but were met with terrible blows, right and left. At last my stick broke: I dashed the pieces I had in my hand into the face of the fellow nearest me. When the women saw I had no stick, they commenced to shout again: “Maro, Maro, Ko Feringhee.” Now for life or death, I thought. Out came the two revolvers. A brute of a dog that had given me a lot of trouble got the first shot right between his eyes, when down he went without a groan. I then fired through one of their huge turbans. It had the desired effect. I did not wish to take life, and told them so, but if they did not let me alone I would kill the whole of them. I then rolled over another dog, one of their pet dogs. This last shot appeared to decide them. The women called their husbands away, begging me, on bended knees, not to kill them. A Native has an utter dread of a revolver. They say that it is “jaddowed” (bewitched), and that it will fire as often as you like. I still found the dogs very troublesome, and had to shoot another. I made the villagers drop their sticks or send them home, and then made peace with them. I got all the milk I required, and “chupatties” (thin cakes of unleavened bread). Two men went to the road with me, carrying the milk and cakes. I told them I should report them; they begged me not to do it, or they would be heavily punished. I found the child crying bitterly for his dada. The milk and cakes, however, soon put him right, and off we went jogging along again. I found it exceedingly pleasant at Kussoulie, up about 8,000 feet. We have a large depôt up here, and the men look remarkably healthy. I took Master Johnny straight to the school, situated on another hill, and duly handing him over, left him for two days. My wife and little ones were up here, so I spent two days very pleasantly with them, and then went and bade the boy good-bye. The school, so far as I could see, is kept very clean, and the children are well cared for. I found him making himself quite at home with the other children. I think I shall send Master Arthur there as soon as I can: it will do him the world of good to get off the burning plains. If ever you see Johnny you will, perhaps, remember the narrow squeak I had while taking him to school. It was the determined front I showed that struck them with awe; they could see I meant mischief. It will not do to stop to count Indians, but go at them determined to conquer or die. I expect to join headquarters at Ferozepore next month. This is my third attempt at this letter. Please excuse all imperfections.
And believe me,My dear Parents, as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING,C.S., A.S.M.
And believe me,My dear Parents, as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING,C.S., A.S.M.
Camp Nowshera, 24th March, 1864.My ever Dear Parents,Once more, a line from this troublesome part of Her Majesty’s dominions. You will have learnt from my wife’s pen that I have, thank God, escaped the ravages of war once more without a scratch.I did not like to write you when things looked so ugly. The war cloud has passed. I have passed through it: and now I will tell you a little. The Afghans, without any warning (i.e., declaration of war—just as the Sikhs did in 1845) invaded our territory, carrying death and destruction into all our frontier villages. All that they could lay their hands upon were destroyed, old and young, male and female, rich and poor, and the cattle walked off with, for no other crime than that they were British subjects. You may be sure our Government would not stand that, so a small army was at once sent against them, to punish them and to teach them better manners. The Fusiliers were in camp at Meean-Meer, awaiting the Governor-General. We, as a feather in our cap, had been selected by the Commander-in-Chief, Sir H. Rose, K.C.B., to escort his lordship all through India. Our women and children were left behind, with all delicate men. Our Colonel’s lady accompanied us, and took Mrs. G. as her lady’s maid. We sent two companies from Ferozepore to escort his lordship from Simla here, but his lordship took another route. He died, and was buried in the hills. We expected then to have returned to our station, Ferozepore, but, instead of that, were ordered into the field. The small force our Government (penny-wise and pound foolish) had sent against the Afghans were overwhelmed. It is bad policy to despise your enemies. Our little force could hardly hold their own: in fact, were hemmed in on all sides by an overwhelming, brave race of men—rather a humiliating position for the conquering race. News in transit out here (bad in particular) will lose nothing. Meean-Meer is near 600 miles from the seat of war, and the news was flying through the Native bazaars that our army in Afghanistan had been utterly destroyed. It was represented to be as bad as the disaster in the Bolan Pass, in 1840—not a man had escaped, and that the conquering Afghans were marching on Rawul Pindee. We were ordered off at once, with a number of other regiments, both horse, foot, artillery, Natives and Europeans, and to force-march, we often covered thirty-two miles in twenty-four hours; so it was no child’s play, with a heavy load of ammunition to carry in a climate like this in the month of September. But, dear parents, the honour of our glorious old flag was at stake, and it is then when the true Briton comes out in his true colours. A brave man can die but once, but a cowardly sneak all his life long: and I do believe that Pat has a jealous eye for the honour of that flag he loves so well. We were off to measure our strength with the Afghans. All went swinging along as merry as wedding bells. We had a lively time of it; singing faces were in requisition. I feel I must give a sample of one song we had; but you must not laugh. The man was called upon to sing by our much-respected Colonel. He said he would sing if the good lady wouldride on out of the way. The Colonel gave his lady a hint, and she galloped on ahead. We all thought we were going to hear something nice. We were requested not to laugh, but to come in in chorus. I hardly need say this youth was from the Green Isle. The song:—“I was at the Battle of the Nile,All the while,At the battle of the Nile,I was there all the while.”(Chorus)—“At the battle of the Nile, boys,I was there all the while;All the while I was there,At the battle of the Nile.”And so this youth kept it up, with about 1,200 men joining in. The Natives all along the line of march had heard the bad news: they must have thought we were a jolly lot. This is just a sample of how we got over our long marches. I had the honour, as acting sergeant-major, of leading. We had not a man fall out the whole way. I had promised this youth my go of rum when we got in, if he would sing a good song. As soon as it was all over, our Colonel turned in his saddle and called out, “You must not forget your promise, Sergeant-Major.” The man called out in good mellow Irish, “By my soul, then, I shall not forgit it, Colonel dear.” Mind, I was in charge of the canteen, so he was likely to have a good tot. Although it was heavy work to be marching night and day, the excitement kept us well on the move, for bad news kept coming in. As we approached Nowshera we began to meet traces of hand-to-hand encounters—wounded officers and men with sword cuts. The wounded informed us that the enemy were very numerous, and as brave as lions, many of them quite fanatics, despising death so long as they could close with you. We had our old friends the 93rd Highlanders with us. It is a splendid regiment, and I had not the slightest doubt about the result. With the reinforcements that were going up, one could see our Government meant to make short work of the enemy. We turned off to the right at Nowshera, and bid good-bye to all roads and bridges; but nothing could stop our fellows. We had several regiments of Ghoorkas with us, and we soon found that they had plenty of fight in them. We had a lot of rough marching after we left the plains of India; but still, on and on, up and up, we went. Some of the hills took the singing out of us. In many places we had nothing but a goat’s path to get up, and could only go one at a time, but still, on we went. We found our people strongly entrenched, with the enemy nearly all around them. The Swatties are a brave race of people, big, raw-boned, stalwart men, and we found a number of the very worst of the Mutineers mixed up with them. They had nothing to look forward to but death. They knew well that if taken they would be shot, and they fought with desperation. Some of the encounters we had with the foe involved desperate fighting, hand to hand, foot to foot, knee to knee—no quarter asked or given; and but for the superior weapons, with the heavy odds against us, it would have been uphillwork with us. Our artillery (and we had nearly eighty guns with us) simply mowed the huge masses of the enemy down by wholesale. We repeatedly found them as brave as lions; they frequently stood to be mowed down, or came on to certain destruction. Then they would get volley after volley of musketry or be hurled or pitchforked from the field with the bayonet. But to go into all the fights would be impossible. We found the little Ghoorkas perfect devils in the fights, but some of our crack Sikh regiments trembled before the foe, while we and the Ghoorkas brought them up and made them face the foe or us. They chose the enemy, and were nearly annihilated. In one of the fights, our Ghoorkas, we found, had killed all they met—both women and children lay all around, dead. Our gallant old General, Sir J. Garveck, K.C.B., would not stand that. As soon as the fight was over and the enemy routed, we formed up and faced the Ghoorkas. A strong force of artillery, with cavalry, were with us, the 71st, 93rd, and 101st. The General at once demanded the men to be given up who had murdered the poor women and children—or instant death. Resistance was out of the question.Fifteen men were given up by their comrades. They were tried by court-martial, and five of them shot on the spot; the others were transported for life. The General said he would not command murderers: we were fighting a fair stand-up fight against men. This stopped it. At last, after other heavy fights, the enemy threw up the sponge, and begged for mercy they were strangers to—for all who had fallen into their hands, whether Europeans or Asiatics, had had to die. Our chief demanded all the Mutineers to be given up. We found they had got into an old mud fort, but in a very strong position. The arms were given back to a portion of the foe, and they were made to storm the fort and destroy every man. Some five regiments of infantry and about twenty-four guns went with them, with two regiments of Native cavalry, to see the order carried out. Remember, these men were all murderers from the Mutiny, so I think we can say that we put the finishing touch upon the Mutineers, as the Highlanders did on the Russians at the Alma. Well, thank God, it is all over: we have struck terror into thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of lawless Afghans. As soon as the last shot was fired and the enemy was at our feet, I wrote the following short note (in blood, for we had no ink) to my poor wife: “The fight all over; enemy beaten at all points. I am, thank God, safe and sound.—T. G.” We marched into the plains of India 24th December last. We had a very long march to finish off with. They said it was thirty-four miles; but we had no mile-posts, and if measured it would have been found a good forty and a wee bit. Now for a bit of a spree before I close this long letter. It is a bit of red tape trampled upon. On marching into Permula, at the foot of the mountains, our Colonel sent for me, inquiring as to whether the canteen had come in. I informed him it had not, and from what I had heard, did not expect it for some time to come. Our Colonel is a very feeling man—just the sort that the Fusiliers would follow through thick and thin. “Well, Sergeant-Major,” said he,“something must be done.” As quick as thought I sat me down on the stones, took a leaf out of my pocket-book, and made out (in pencil) an urgent requisition on the commissariat for fifty gallons proof rum. The Colonel read it and signed it at once. I then called out for ten men of my own company to follow me. I had been told to look alive; so off I started with my men to the commissariat stores close by, armed with the requisition. On inquiring for the conductor, I was informed by a Native policeman that the Sahib was taking his dinner and could not be disturbed. His tent being pointed out to me, I went at once to it, and inquired through the chick of the tent if the conductor was in. A voice from within answered me in the affirmative. “And what the d——l do you want?” and “Go to h——l out of this.” I said I had just completed one long march, quite enough for one day; and that if he did not know what common civility was, I would teach him. And then, without any more talk, I walked into his tent and handed to him my requisition. After looking at it for about a minute, he said, with all the authority of a lord high admiral: “Sergeant, I shall not issue anything upon that dirty bit of paper.” I could hardly keep myself within bounds. My knuckles began to itch, as the Yankees say. I called him some nice name—not a gentleman. I found he was closely related to that notable firm, Day & Martin. I gave him to understand, in plain English, that if he did not give me the rum, I should take it. He got into a violent temper, rushed out of the tent, called or whistled up a large, ugly-looking dog, and five or six Native policemen. I found my gallant friend a perfect swell—patent leather shoes, white ducks, black cloth vest, with red neck-tie, kid gloves, white linen shirt,and a black face. And one would think, by his conduct, that his heart was the same as his face towards us. But I was not to be easily done. One of my men came up and informed me that they had found the rum. I again asked if I was to have the rum in accordance with the requisition. Throwing the paper at me, he told me to go to the d——l. I could stand no more of that, so I landed my bunch of fives right between his eyes, and followed it up with one, two, three more. His dog and the police came to the rescue; but the dog was the only one that showed fight, the police thinking discretion the better part of valour. I then proceeded to take what I wanted—a barrel of proof rum. I found our Colonel had got out of patience, and we met him and the General coming to see what was keeping me. When I explained all, and how that I had had to fight for it, the Colonel and General laughed heartily. The Fusiliers were not to be stopped quite so easily. Ha! ha! I was reported for striking the conductor, but got over it with flying colours; the General saying I ought to have given him a little more, and that he hoped the lesson the conductor had had in the art of self-defence would teach him to keep a civil tongue with Britons.So I think you will say the Afghans had not taken all the fight out of me. But I am getting tired, and must bring this to a close. We shall, all being well, be at, or close to our station,Ferozepore, about the time this reaches you. Please to accept the enclosed £—, as a further mark of love from as both.And believe us to remainYour affectionate Son and Daughter,T. and B. J. GOWING,Royal Fusiliers.P.S.—Mrs. G. is here with me, and we are as happy as the day is long.T. G.
Camp Nowshera, 24th March, 1864.
My ever Dear Parents,
Once more, a line from this troublesome part of Her Majesty’s dominions. You will have learnt from my wife’s pen that I have, thank God, escaped the ravages of war once more without a scratch.
I did not like to write you when things looked so ugly. The war cloud has passed. I have passed through it: and now I will tell you a little. The Afghans, without any warning (i.e., declaration of war—just as the Sikhs did in 1845) invaded our territory, carrying death and destruction into all our frontier villages. All that they could lay their hands upon were destroyed, old and young, male and female, rich and poor, and the cattle walked off with, for no other crime than that they were British subjects. You may be sure our Government would not stand that, so a small army was at once sent against them, to punish them and to teach them better manners. The Fusiliers were in camp at Meean-Meer, awaiting the Governor-General. We, as a feather in our cap, had been selected by the Commander-in-Chief, Sir H. Rose, K.C.B., to escort his lordship all through India. Our women and children were left behind, with all delicate men. Our Colonel’s lady accompanied us, and took Mrs. G. as her lady’s maid. We sent two companies from Ferozepore to escort his lordship from Simla here, but his lordship took another route. He died, and was buried in the hills. We expected then to have returned to our station, Ferozepore, but, instead of that, were ordered into the field. The small force our Government (penny-wise and pound foolish) had sent against the Afghans were overwhelmed. It is bad policy to despise your enemies. Our little force could hardly hold their own: in fact, were hemmed in on all sides by an overwhelming, brave race of men—rather a humiliating position for the conquering race. News in transit out here (bad in particular) will lose nothing. Meean-Meer is near 600 miles from the seat of war, and the news was flying through the Native bazaars that our army in Afghanistan had been utterly destroyed. It was represented to be as bad as the disaster in the Bolan Pass, in 1840—not a man had escaped, and that the conquering Afghans were marching on Rawul Pindee. We were ordered off at once, with a number of other regiments, both horse, foot, artillery, Natives and Europeans, and to force-march, we often covered thirty-two miles in twenty-four hours; so it was no child’s play, with a heavy load of ammunition to carry in a climate like this in the month of September. But, dear parents, the honour of our glorious old flag was at stake, and it is then when the true Briton comes out in his true colours. A brave man can die but once, but a cowardly sneak all his life long: and I do believe that Pat has a jealous eye for the honour of that flag he loves so well. We were off to measure our strength with the Afghans. All went swinging along as merry as wedding bells. We had a lively time of it; singing faces were in requisition. I feel I must give a sample of one song we had; but you must not laugh. The man was called upon to sing by our much-respected Colonel. He said he would sing if the good lady wouldride on out of the way. The Colonel gave his lady a hint, and she galloped on ahead. We all thought we were going to hear something nice. We were requested not to laugh, but to come in in chorus. I hardly need say this youth was from the Green Isle. The song:—
“I was at the Battle of the Nile,All the while,At the battle of the Nile,I was there all the while.”(Chorus)—“At the battle of the Nile, boys,I was there all the while;All the while I was there,At the battle of the Nile.”
“I was at the Battle of the Nile,All the while,At the battle of the Nile,I was there all the while.”
(Chorus)—“At the battle of the Nile, boys,I was there all the while;All the while I was there,At the battle of the Nile.”
And so this youth kept it up, with about 1,200 men joining in. The Natives all along the line of march had heard the bad news: they must have thought we were a jolly lot. This is just a sample of how we got over our long marches. I had the honour, as acting sergeant-major, of leading. We had not a man fall out the whole way. I had promised this youth my go of rum when we got in, if he would sing a good song. As soon as it was all over, our Colonel turned in his saddle and called out, “You must not forget your promise, Sergeant-Major.” The man called out in good mellow Irish, “By my soul, then, I shall not forgit it, Colonel dear.” Mind, I was in charge of the canteen, so he was likely to have a good tot. Although it was heavy work to be marching night and day, the excitement kept us well on the move, for bad news kept coming in. As we approached Nowshera we began to meet traces of hand-to-hand encounters—wounded officers and men with sword cuts. The wounded informed us that the enemy were very numerous, and as brave as lions, many of them quite fanatics, despising death so long as they could close with you. We had our old friends the 93rd Highlanders with us. It is a splendid regiment, and I had not the slightest doubt about the result. With the reinforcements that were going up, one could see our Government meant to make short work of the enemy. We turned off to the right at Nowshera, and bid good-bye to all roads and bridges; but nothing could stop our fellows. We had several regiments of Ghoorkas with us, and we soon found that they had plenty of fight in them. We had a lot of rough marching after we left the plains of India; but still, on and on, up and up, we went. Some of the hills took the singing out of us. In many places we had nothing but a goat’s path to get up, and could only go one at a time, but still, on we went. We found our people strongly entrenched, with the enemy nearly all around them. The Swatties are a brave race of people, big, raw-boned, stalwart men, and we found a number of the very worst of the Mutineers mixed up with them. They had nothing to look forward to but death. They knew well that if taken they would be shot, and they fought with desperation. Some of the encounters we had with the foe involved desperate fighting, hand to hand, foot to foot, knee to knee—no quarter asked or given; and but for the superior weapons, with the heavy odds against us, it would have been uphillwork with us. Our artillery (and we had nearly eighty guns with us) simply mowed the huge masses of the enemy down by wholesale. We repeatedly found them as brave as lions; they frequently stood to be mowed down, or came on to certain destruction. Then they would get volley after volley of musketry or be hurled or pitchforked from the field with the bayonet. But to go into all the fights would be impossible. We found the little Ghoorkas perfect devils in the fights, but some of our crack Sikh regiments trembled before the foe, while we and the Ghoorkas brought them up and made them face the foe or us. They chose the enemy, and were nearly annihilated. In one of the fights, our Ghoorkas, we found, had killed all they met—both women and children lay all around, dead. Our gallant old General, Sir J. Garveck, K.C.B., would not stand that. As soon as the fight was over and the enemy routed, we formed up and faced the Ghoorkas. A strong force of artillery, with cavalry, were with us, the 71st, 93rd, and 101st. The General at once demanded the men to be given up who had murdered the poor women and children—or instant death. Resistance was out of the question.
Fifteen men were given up by their comrades. They were tried by court-martial, and five of them shot on the spot; the others were transported for life. The General said he would not command murderers: we were fighting a fair stand-up fight against men. This stopped it. At last, after other heavy fights, the enemy threw up the sponge, and begged for mercy they were strangers to—for all who had fallen into their hands, whether Europeans or Asiatics, had had to die. Our chief demanded all the Mutineers to be given up. We found they had got into an old mud fort, but in a very strong position. The arms were given back to a portion of the foe, and they were made to storm the fort and destroy every man. Some five regiments of infantry and about twenty-four guns went with them, with two regiments of Native cavalry, to see the order carried out. Remember, these men were all murderers from the Mutiny, so I think we can say that we put the finishing touch upon the Mutineers, as the Highlanders did on the Russians at the Alma. Well, thank God, it is all over: we have struck terror into thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of lawless Afghans. As soon as the last shot was fired and the enemy was at our feet, I wrote the following short note (in blood, for we had no ink) to my poor wife: “The fight all over; enemy beaten at all points. I am, thank God, safe and sound.—T. G.” We marched into the plains of India 24th December last. We had a very long march to finish off with. They said it was thirty-four miles; but we had no mile-posts, and if measured it would have been found a good forty and a wee bit. Now for a bit of a spree before I close this long letter. It is a bit of red tape trampled upon. On marching into Permula, at the foot of the mountains, our Colonel sent for me, inquiring as to whether the canteen had come in. I informed him it had not, and from what I had heard, did not expect it for some time to come. Our Colonel is a very feeling man—just the sort that the Fusiliers would follow through thick and thin. “Well, Sergeant-Major,” said he,“something must be done.” As quick as thought I sat me down on the stones, took a leaf out of my pocket-book, and made out (in pencil) an urgent requisition on the commissariat for fifty gallons proof rum. The Colonel read it and signed it at once. I then called out for ten men of my own company to follow me. I had been told to look alive; so off I started with my men to the commissariat stores close by, armed with the requisition. On inquiring for the conductor, I was informed by a Native policeman that the Sahib was taking his dinner and could not be disturbed. His tent being pointed out to me, I went at once to it, and inquired through the chick of the tent if the conductor was in. A voice from within answered me in the affirmative. “And what the d——l do you want?” and “Go to h——l out of this.” I said I had just completed one long march, quite enough for one day; and that if he did not know what common civility was, I would teach him. And then, without any more talk, I walked into his tent and handed to him my requisition. After looking at it for about a minute, he said, with all the authority of a lord high admiral: “Sergeant, I shall not issue anything upon that dirty bit of paper.” I could hardly keep myself within bounds. My knuckles began to itch, as the Yankees say. I called him some nice name—not a gentleman. I found he was closely related to that notable firm, Day & Martin. I gave him to understand, in plain English, that if he did not give me the rum, I should take it. He got into a violent temper, rushed out of the tent, called or whistled up a large, ugly-looking dog, and five or six Native policemen. I found my gallant friend a perfect swell—patent leather shoes, white ducks, black cloth vest, with red neck-tie, kid gloves, white linen shirt,and a black face. And one would think, by his conduct, that his heart was the same as his face towards us. But I was not to be easily done. One of my men came up and informed me that they had found the rum. I again asked if I was to have the rum in accordance with the requisition. Throwing the paper at me, he told me to go to the d——l. I could stand no more of that, so I landed my bunch of fives right between his eyes, and followed it up with one, two, three more. His dog and the police came to the rescue; but the dog was the only one that showed fight, the police thinking discretion the better part of valour. I then proceeded to take what I wanted—a barrel of proof rum. I found our Colonel had got out of patience, and we met him and the General coming to see what was keeping me. When I explained all, and how that I had had to fight for it, the Colonel and General laughed heartily. The Fusiliers were not to be stopped quite so easily. Ha! ha! I was reported for striking the conductor, but got over it with flying colours; the General saying I ought to have given him a little more, and that he hoped the lesson the conductor had had in the art of self-defence would teach him to keep a civil tongue with Britons.
So I think you will say the Afghans had not taken all the fight out of me. But I am getting tired, and must bring this to a close. We shall, all being well, be at, or close to our station,Ferozepore, about the time this reaches you. Please to accept the enclosed £—, as a further mark of love from as both.
And believe us to remainYour affectionate Son and Daughter,T. and B. J. GOWING,Royal Fusiliers.
And believe us to remainYour affectionate Son and Daughter,T. and B. J. GOWING,Royal Fusiliers.
P.S.—Mrs. G. is here with me, and we are as happy as the day is long.
T. G.
Ferozepore, 28th September, 1864.My Dear Parents,Once more, a line from this dusty station, in the best of health. We are coming close up to the end of a very hot summer. I have had another trip up to the hills with Master Arthur; it will do him the world of good. This is a very pretty station. There are large gardens, beautifully laid out. The River Sutlej is about one mile from barracks. There is a large fort on the banks of it. We keep about 150 men in it. Our men still look very brown from the last outing we had. The Fusiliers got a lot of soft soap in general orders for their conduct in the late Afghan campaign. We are to get a medal, and I do not know how many bars, for it some day. I must give in: there is a sand-storm coming up. The doctors say they are very healthy; they may be, but they are very unpleasant—enough to blind one. Well, it’s all over; it lasted about an hour: we are almost smothered with sand. About a month ago, we had a flight of locusts; they played “old Harry” with everything green about the place, stripped every bush and tree. There must have been millions of them. The whole heavens were black with them. Our men turned out to kill or frighten them. The Natives caught as many as they could. I have some of them in a bottle. I find the Natives make curry of them. Well, we have plenty of fun here. Our Colonel has given the men permission to keep horses, tats, ponies, &c. It is very amusing to see our men out by hundreds, practising to ride. They look very smart. Most of them have flannel trousers, in all the colours of the rainbow. I expect they will soon be calling us the 7th Flying Horse, the 7th Dragoons, or the 7th Flannel-bellies. It’s enough to make a pig laugh, to see some of them trying to hold on to the saddle, the mane, the tail, or anything they can, belonging to or fastened to their quadrupeds. It is as good a thing as they could have; it keeps their mind employed and gives them good healthy exercise, and they all look healthy and well. Please to accept the enclosed as a further mark of love, and pass no compliments about it—this is from my rib. Well, dear parents, I hope you will not blame me for the step I have taken. I thought of coming home. I know well you would have liked to have seen me and mine; but you must remember my cap does not cover my head. We muster six little ones; and I do believe there will be an increase before this reaches you. Whether the number will be brought up to eight, I do not know; and there is something else about it—so long as I have myhealth and can keep them comfortably, I do not care. Well, you will say, “What have you done?” I have re-engaged to complete twenty-one years. Had I come home, I should have thrown eleven years away for nothing; and I think I have had ten years of it pretty rough, so I made up my mind to go in for a pension. You see, our house is getting rapidly filled; whether it is the change of air, I must leave you to surmise. At all events, the bargain was made in ’58 for no grumbling, and we pull along pretty well. If I find my old chum wrong-side out, or her temper or monkey up, I just light my pipe and walk over to our mess. In an hour I am back again, and the storm is all over. The old Book is right: “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” I think we could claim the flitch of bacon: we are near six years married, and have not had one cross word. You ask me about the price of food, clothing, &c. Well, good flour is 3d. per stone. I will give you the prices in English money, you will understand me better. Potatoes almost for nothing, 1d. per stone; eggs (large) sixty for 1s.; fowl (large) fit for the table, 4d.; beef, 1½d. per pound (prime); mutton, 2d. per pound (prime); rabbits, in the season, 2d. each; all kinds of fresh fish for a song; fresh pork, 3d. per pound. Anything from home is very dear, such as Cheshire cheese, 3s. 6d. per pound; hams, from 2s. 6d. to 4s. per pound, and they will not cut them. The cheeses are in tins of from four to twelve pounds. Beer, for the non-commissioned officers and privates, 6d. per quart; but if an officer requires ale, he must drink Bass’s or Allsopp’s, at 2s. 6d. per bottle. Brandy, from 8s. to 12s. per bottle; gin, whisky, port and sherry, from 6s. to 10s. per bottle. Clothing for ladies and children is very dear, more than double the price at home, so I hope that you will attend to the order my rib sent you: Snowdon, or Chamberlain’s people would only be too happy to comply; get a sample of what they will send. Again, as regards drink. Country drink is very cheap. They call it Darro; it is as strong as our brandy, and is sold in the bazaars at 2d. per bottle. This is the stuff that kills our men. After drinking it for a time, they become quite stupid, and go off like the snuff of a candle, or are sent home invalided, fit for nothing. I have never tasted it yet, and will not, whilst I am in my right mind. I am sorry to have to inform you that cholera, in its worst form, has broken out, and is raging in Cawnpore, Lucknow, Allahabad, Delhi, and Umballa. I hope it will keep from us; we have been very fortunate since ’62. I will send the photos next mail. My kind regards to all old friends,And believe me, as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, C.S. and A.S.M.,Royal Fusiliers.P.S.—Wife will drop a line next mail. Keep up your spirits, mother. All is well that ends well.T. G.P.S. 2.—Before I send this off, I feel that I must give you a littletit-bit, a relic of the Mutiny. Just after I had laid my pen down, a respectable looking Native came to my door and handed to me apaper to read (he did not speak). I read the document. It stated that he had been a Sepoy, an unfortunate man; that he had through bad advice, thrown in his lot against us, and fought us at Lucknow: that he was wounded there in a remarkable way by a musket ball: that the shot went in at his mouth, carried away his tongue, and passed out at the back of his head; and that, if you wished, he would take a plug out, open his mouth, and you could see right through his head. I looked at the man, and said “coolo” (open). He did so, and, true enough, I could see right through. I gave the fellow a rupee. His petition further stated that the man had belonged to a regiment that had not hurt their officers, women, or children; but went over to the enemy and fought for heavy stakes and lost all.T. G.
Ferozepore, 28th September, 1864.
My Dear Parents,
Once more, a line from this dusty station, in the best of health. We are coming close up to the end of a very hot summer. I have had another trip up to the hills with Master Arthur; it will do him the world of good. This is a very pretty station. There are large gardens, beautifully laid out. The River Sutlej is about one mile from barracks. There is a large fort on the banks of it. We keep about 150 men in it. Our men still look very brown from the last outing we had. The Fusiliers got a lot of soft soap in general orders for their conduct in the late Afghan campaign. We are to get a medal, and I do not know how many bars, for it some day. I must give in: there is a sand-storm coming up. The doctors say they are very healthy; they may be, but they are very unpleasant—enough to blind one. Well, it’s all over; it lasted about an hour: we are almost smothered with sand. About a month ago, we had a flight of locusts; they played “old Harry” with everything green about the place, stripped every bush and tree. There must have been millions of them. The whole heavens were black with them. Our men turned out to kill or frighten them. The Natives caught as many as they could. I have some of them in a bottle. I find the Natives make curry of them. Well, we have plenty of fun here. Our Colonel has given the men permission to keep horses, tats, ponies, &c. It is very amusing to see our men out by hundreds, practising to ride. They look very smart. Most of them have flannel trousers, in all the colours of the rainbow. I expect they will soon be calling us the 7th Flying Horse, the 7th Dragoons, or the 7th Flannel-bellies. It’s enough to make a pig laugh, to see some of them trying to hold on to the saddle, the mane, the tail, or anything they can, belonging to or fastened to their quadrupeds. It is as good a thing as they could have; it keeps their mind employed and gives them good healthy exercise, and they all look healthy and well. Please to accept the enclosed as a further mark of love, and pass no compliments about it—this is from my rib. Well, dear parents, I hope you will not blame me for the step I have taken. I thought of coming home. I know well you would have liked to have seen me and mine; but you must remember my cap does not cover my head. We muster six little ones; and I do believe there will be an increase before this reaches you. Whether the number will be brought up to eight, I do not know; and there is something else about it—so long as I have myhealth and can keep them comfortably, I do not care. Well, you will say, “What have you done?” I have re-engaged to complete twenty-one years. Had I come home, I should have thrown eleven years away for nothing; and I think I have had ten years of it pretty rough, so I made up my mind to go in for a pension. You see, our house is getting rapidly filled; whether it is the change of air, I must leave you to surmise. At all events, the bargain was made in ’58 for no grumbling, and we pull along pretty well. If I find my old chum wrong-side out, or her temper or monkey up, I just light my pipe and walk over to our mess. In an hour I am back again, and the storm is all over. The old Book is right: “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” I think we could claim the flitch of bacon: we are near six years married, and have not had one cross word. You ask me about the price of food, clothing, &c. Well, good flour is 3d. per stone. I will give you the prices in English money, you will understand me better. Potatoes almost for nothing, 1d. per stone; eggs (large) sixty for 1s.; fowl (large) fit for the table, 4d.; beef, 1½d. per pound (prime); mutton, 2d. per pound (prime); rabbits, in the season, 2d. each; all kinds of fresh fish for a song; fresh pork, 3d. per pound. Anything from home is very dear, such as Cheshire cheese, 3s. 6d. per pound; hams, from 2s. 6d. to 4s. per pound, and they will not cut them. The cheeses are in tins of from four to twelve pounds. Beer, for the non-commissioned officers and privates, 6d. per quart; but if an officer requires ale, he must drink Bass’s or Allsopp’s, at 2s. 6d. per bottle. Brandy, from 8s. to 12s. per bottle; gin, whisky, port and sherry, from 6s. to 10s. per bottle. Clothing for ladies and children is very dear, more than double the price at home, so I hope that you will attend to the order my rib sent you: Snowdon, or Chamberlain’s people would only be too happy to comply; get a sample of what they will send. Again, as regards drink. Country drink is very cheap. They call it Darro; it is as strong as our brandy, and is sold in the bazaars at 2d. per bottle. This is the stuff that kills our men. After drinking it for a time, they become quite stupid, and go off like the snuff of a candle, or are sent home invalided, fit for nothing. I have never tasted it yet, and will not, whilst I am in my right mind. I am sorry to have to inform you that cholera, in its worst form, has broken out, and is raging in Cawnpore, Lucknow, Allahabad, Delhi, and Umballa. I hope it will keep from us; we have been very fortunate since ’62. I will send the photos next mail. My kind regards to all old friends,
And believe me, as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, C.S. and A.S.M.,Royal Fusiliers.
And believe me, as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, C.S. and A.S.M.,Royal Fusiliers.
P.S.—Wife will drop a line next mail. Keep up your spirits, mother. All is well that ends well.
T. G.
P.S. 2.—Before I send this off, I feel that I must give you a littletit-bit, a relic of the Mutiny. Just after I had laid my pen down, a respectable looking Native came to my door and handed to me apaper to read (he did not speak). I read the document. It stated that he had been a Sepoy, an unfortunate man; that he had through bad advice, thrown in his lot against us, and fought us at Lucknow: that he was wounded there in a remarkable way by a musket ball: that the shot went in at his mouth, carried away his tongue, and passed out at the back of his head; and that, if you wished, he would take a plug out, open his mouth, and you could see right through his head. I looked at the man, and said “coolo” (open). He did so, and, true enough, I could see right through. I gave the fellow a rupee. His petition further stated that the man had belonged to a regiment that had not hurt their officers, women, or children; but went over to the enemy and fought for heavy stakes and lost all.
T. G.
Saugor (Central India), 25th September, 1869.My Dear Father and Mother,—This is a world of troubles and sorrows; my heart is almost too full to say much. Since my last from this place, it has pleased an All-wise God and Father again to lay the hand of death upon our once happy circle. I told you in my last that cholera, in its worst type, had broken out among us and the Artillery, and that we were burying the poor fellows without coffins—sewed up in blankets, twenty and twenty-five a-day. As you know, this is not my first experience of that fearful scourge. But, dear parents, the heavy blow that I have received is enough to give one a stroke of apoplexy. My poor heart is near bursting with grief. The stroke has been so sudden that I can hardly realise it. But it is the stroke of One who is “Too wise to err; too good to be unkind.” So we, poor short-sighted mortals, must bow to His all-wise decree. Six of my dear children have been called away to the bright realms above, all in a few hours. On the morning of the 15th inst., they were all well. Eight dear little ones, wife, and self sat down to breakfast, all hearty and well. Before the breakfast was over, little Freddy complained of a pain in his body. I took him on my knee, but that did not cure him. One of our doctors was passing at the time; I called him in. He ordered the child off to the cholera hospital at once. Mother went with him. But, dear parents, I cannot dwell upon it. Before four o’clock, six of my fine boys and girls had passed away into the arms of Him who does all things well. We shall never hear their sweet prattling tongues any more: all is silent in the tomb. Before six o’clock p.m. on the 15th, they were all laid in one common grave, wrapped in sheets, without coffins. Three of them the same morning, about five o’clock, were singing the following hymn in bed:—“I’ll praise my Maker with my breath;And when my voice is lost in death,Praise shall employ my nobler powers:My days of praise shall ne’er be pastWhile life and thought and being last,Or immortality endures.”Their mother and myself stood at their bedroom door, listening totheir sweet voices. We little thought that they would so soon be numbered with the clods of the valley. But further, I am sorry to have to inform you that my poor dear wife was pronounced dead by one of our doctors, and carried to the dead-house, or mortuary, about 2.30 p.m. on that fatal 15th. Thank God, however, life was found in her: she was carried back to hospital, and is still alive. She, poor thing, does not yet know how she has been bereaved; the doctors having given strict orders that she must not know it for some time to come. I am thankful to say that she is rapidly improving. But I sometimes feel that I cannot live: all, all are gone that we loved so well. Out of our heavy family we have lost eight dear little ones, snatched from us in this, to all appearance,paradise (?)on earth. A dear old friend said to me this morning, when I told him the blows were more than I could bear; “My boy, your partner is left to you; it might have been worse.” Then, grasping my hand, he said, “Look to your father’s God for strength, look to the strong for strength.” My dear parents, I feel it is there Imustlook. My officers, from the Colonel downwards, are very kind to me. The Colonel and his lady called this morning to sympathise with me in my sore trials. I cannot say more at present. Will write again in a short time if I am spared. Good-bye, and may God bless you all.And believe me as ever,In health or in wealth,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,Royal Fusiliers.P.S.—Please to accept the enclosed; use it if you require it, or put it in the bank.T. G.
Saugor (Central India), 25th September, 1869.
My Dear Father and Mother,—
This is a world of troubles and sorrows; my heart is almost too full to say much. Since my last from this place, it has pleased an All-wise God and Father again to lay the hand of death upon our once happy circle. I told you in my last that cholera, in its worst type, had broken out among us and the Artillery, and that we were burying the poor fellows without coffins—sewed up in blankets, twenty and twenty-five a-day. As you know, this is not my first experience of that fearful scourge. But, dear parents, the heavy blow that I have received is enough to give one a stroke of apoplexy. My poor heart is near bursting with grief. The stroke has been so sudden that I can hardly realise it. But it is the stroke of One who is “Too wise to err; too good to be unkind.” So we, poor short-sighted mortals, must bow to His all-wise decree. Six of my dear children have been called away to the bright realms above, all in a few hours. On the morning of the 15th inst., they were all well. Eight dear little ones, wife, and self sat down to breakfast, all hearty and well. Before the breakfast was over, little Freddy complained of a pain in his body. I took him on my knee, but that did not cure him. One of our doctors was passing at the time; I called him in. He ordered the child off to the cholera hospital at once. Mother went with him. But, dear parents, I cannot dwell upon it. Before four o’clock, six of my fine boys and girls had passed away into the arms of Him who does all things well. We shall never hear their sweet prattling tongues any more: all is silent in the tomb. Before six o’clock p.m. on the 15th, they were all laid in one common grave, wrapped in sheets, without coffins. Three of them the same morning, about five o’clock, were singing the following hymn in bed:—
“I’ll praise my Maker with my breath;And when my voice is lost in death,Praise shall employ my nobler powers:My days of praise shall ne’er be pastWhile life and thought and being last,Or immortality endures.”
“I’ll praise my Maker with my breath;And when my voice is lost in death,Praise shall employ my nobler powers:My days of praise shall ne’er be pastWhile life and thought and being last,Or immortality endures.”
Their mother and myself stood at their bedroom door, listening totheir sweet voices. We little thought that they would so soon be numbered with the clods of the valley. But further, I am sorry to have to inform you that my poor dear wife was pronounced dead by one of our doctors, and carried to the dead-house, or mortuary, about 2.30 p.m. on that fatal 15th. Thank God, however, life was found in her: she was carried back to hospital, and is still alive. She, poor thing, does not yet know how she has been bereaved; the doctors having given strict orders that she must not know it for some time to come. I am thankful to say that she is rapidly improving. But I sometimes feel that I cannot live: all, all are gone that we loved so well. Out of our heavy family we have lost eight dear little ones, snatched from us in this, to all appearance,paradise (?)on earth. A dear old friend said to me this morning, when I told him the blows were more than I could bear; “My boy, your partner is left to you; it might have been worse.” Then, grasping my hand, he said, “Look to your father’s God for strength, look to the strong for strength.” My dear parents, I feel it is there Imustlook. My officers, from the Colonel downwards, are very kind to me. The Colonel and his lady called this morning to sympathise with me in my sore trials. I cannot say more at present. Will write again in a short time if I am spared. Good-bye, and may God bless you all.
And believe me as ever,In health or in wealth,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,Royal Fusiliers.
And believe me as ever,In health or in wealth,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,Royal Fusiliers.
P.S.—Please to accept the enclosed; use it if you require it, or put it in the bank.
T. G.
Saugor (Central India), 20th October, 1869.My Dear Parents,Once more, a line in health, in accordance with promise. Thanks for your kind letters and Christian advice. I know well that you are ripe for the Master, and that in a few short years at most, we shall all be where time shall be no more. But I am truly happy to learn that your health and that of poor mother is still good. You must remember, dear father, that you have passed the allotted time of man by ten years, and mother by seven years. I know that you must be drawing on for your diamond wedding, as you married much younger than I did. I hope the Lord will spare you to celebrate it, and me and mine with you to cheer you up. I am exceedingly happy to inform you that my dear partner has been spared to me; she, poor thing, has been terribly shaken, and does not look the same woman. Our colonel’s lady kindly undertook, with other ladies, to break the sad news of the loss of our dear children to her. She bore it with a Christian fortitude beyond what I had expected; and thanked God fervently that I had been spared to comfort her, and that we had yet four left to us. I am bringing my boys from the school. They will help to fill up the void, or empty chairs, and cheer us up a little. But bad as our case was, there was one in theregiment worse. A whole family, of father, mother, and eight fine boys and girls, all in a few days. The mother and children died on the 16th September, and after they had been interred three days, the poor distracted father bribed the Native in charge of the cemetery, obtained a pick and a shovel, and digged down to his poor wife to have a kiss. But it was a fatal kiss for him, and in less than two short hours he was laid beside those he loved so well. Our men have subscribed and put a nice stone over him, with a suitable epitaph. I have put up a monument over my dear little ones. I am happy to inform you that cholera has now entirely left us. Some of our poor fellows who got over it are nothing but wrecks of humanity, and will all have to be invalided home. Now that it is all over, I will tell you a little. My poor wife hardly ever left the side of the poor women and children that were dying of it, but stuck to them like a true Briton until she, poor thing, caught the terrible malady from our little Freddy. And, further, I never left the men, but did all that lay in my power for them. I pitched the sergeant-major’s coat on one side, tucked up my shirt sleeves, and rubbed the poor fellows as long as there was a chance of life. Poor Corporal Woods died in my arms. I promised him that I would write to his widowed mother in Norwich. I have his watch; he wished me to send it to his mother. I will do so by this post. Go and console the poor widow. Mind, this is the same man who wrote home about me in 1862. The cholera lasted only fourteen days with us, and in that short time we lost 149 men, 11 women, and 27 children, out of a total strength of about 340. We have strong detachments out at Nowgong, Putchmuny, and Jhansie. We had no parades nor drills. What was to be done? Our doctor asked the colonel to leave me to him. I found it all through as I have frequently found it before—in Turkey, the Crimea, in Meean-Meer (in 1862), and here—that it is almost impossible to keep the men’s spirits up. They get it into their heads that they are going to die, and die they will. Others fought against it manfully. Some said they would sooner face the foe, twenty to one; they might have a chance to sell their lives dearly or to die hard. But here there was an unseen enemy, with no chance to combat it. Well, thank God, it is all over, and I am still in the land of the living, whole and hearty.My wife joins with me in love; she will drop you a line as soon as she gets a little stronger. Please to accept the enclosed from the old girl’s long stocking, that has never seen daylight for years, so far as I know.And believe me as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, S.M., R.F.
Saugor (Central India), 20th October, 1869.
My Dear Parents,
Once more, a line in health, in accordance with promise. Thanks for your kind letters and Christian advice. I know well that you are ripe for the Master, and that in a few short years at most, we shall all be where time shall be no more. But I am truly happy to learn that your health and that of poor mother is still good. You must remember, dear father, that you have passed the allotted time of man by ten years, and mother by seven years. I know that you must be drawing on for your diamond wedding, as you married much younger than I did. I hope the Lord will spare you to celebrate it, and me and mine with you to cheer you up. I am exceedingly happy to inform you that my dear partner has been spared to me; she, poor thing, has been terribly shaken, and does not look the same woman. Our colonel’s lady kindly undertook, with other ladies, to break the sad news of the loss of our dear children to her. She bore it with a Christian fortitude beyond what I had expected; and thanked God fervently that I had been spared to comfort her, and that we had yet four left to us. I am bringing my boys from the school. They will help to fill up the void, or empty chairs, and cheer us up a little. But bad as our case was, there was one in theregiment worse. A whole family, of father, mother, and eight fine boys and girls, all in a few days. The mother and children died on the 16th September, and after they had been interred three days, the poor distracted father bribed the Native in charge of the cemetery, obtained a pick and a shovel, and digged down to his poor wife to have a kiss. But it was a fatal kiss for him, and in less than two short hours he was laid beside those he loved so well. Our men have subscribed and put a nice stone over him, with a suitable epitaph. I have put up a monument over my dear little ones. I am happy to inform you that cholera has now entirely left us. Some of our poor fellows who got over it are nothing but wrecks of humanity, and will all have to be invalided home. Now that it is all over, I will tell you a little. My poor wife hardly ever left the side of the poor women and children that were dying of it, but stuck to them like a true Briton until she, poor thing, caught the terrible malady from our little Freddy. And, further, I never left the men, but did all that lay in my power for them. I pitched the sergeant-major’s coat on one side, tucked up my shirt sleeves, and rubbed the poor fellows as long as there was a chance of life. Poor Corporal Woods died in my arms. I promised him that I would write to his widowed mother in Norwich. I have his watch; he wished me to send it to his mother. I will do so by this post. Go and console the poor widow. Mind, this is the same man who wrote home about me in 1862. The cholera lasted only fourteen days with us, and in that short time we lost 149 men, 11 women, and 27 children, out of a total strength of about 340. We have strong detachments out at Nowgong, Putchmuny, and Jhansie. We had no parades nor drills. What was to be done? Our doctor asked the colonel to leave me to him. I found it all through as I have frequently found it before—in Turkey, the Crimea, in Meean-Meer (in 1862), and here—that it is almost impossible to keep the men’s spirits up. They get it into their heads that they are going to die, and die they will. Others fought against it manfully. Some said they would sooner face the foe, twenty to one; they might have a chance to sell their lives dearly or to die hard. But here there was an unseen enemy, with no chance to combat it. Well, thank God, it is all over, and I am still in the land of the living, whole and hearty.
My wife joins with me in love; she will drop you a line as soon as she gets a little stronger. Please to accept the enclosed from the old girl’s long stocking, that has never seen daylight for years, so far as I know.
And believe me as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, S.M., R.F.
And believe me as ever,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, S.M., R.F.
Fort Allahabad, 15th July, 1872.My Dear Mother,In answer to your kind letter, just to hand, with the sad news of the death of poor dear father. Truly, as you say, he was beloved by all who knew him. I do believe his enemies could be put into a very small room, whilst his friends were numbered by tens ofthousands. I know, mother dear, that you will feel his loss more than tongue can tell; but do try and console yourself with this fact that he is not lost, but gone before; that he is now in the midst of that blood-bought throng that no man can number; that he is now with Him whose name he tried to extol for fifty-six years; that he is now with untold millions singing, “Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God,” thus helping to swell the anthem of the skies,“While heaven’s resounding mansions ringWith shouts of sovereign grace.”We can mourn the loss of a good, loving earthly father. You, dear mother, will miss his sweet counsel, his noble, loving, manly heart. But we cannot mourn him as one whose work was not done. He has gone to his grave full of years (nearly 83[28]). And you have another consolation, that he died at his post, like a good soldier—faithful unto death. He tried to live as he would wish to die, that he might be able to sing in death—“Looking unto Jesus.” What an end! He can now shout, “Victory, victory through the blood of the Lamb.” There will be no sorrow there, no more pain, no more tears, but one continual song of praise unto Him who has done all things well. Again, remember, dear mother, in your bereavement, what a family of us have gone before, leaving behind them the record that they were on the Lord’s side: Grandfathers on both sides, grandmothers on both sides, uncles on both sides, aunts on both sides, my eight little ones; and now our beloved father has gone to tune his harp, and to sing for ever of redeeming love. Do not fret, dear mother; we shall meet again, and be able to sing when time shall be no more. Keep up your spirits. Again, do not be uneasy about money; we are not short of a few pounds, and as long as I live you shall never want for anything that will help to make the remainder of your days comfortable, so please rest contented on that score. I enclose a draft on Gurney’s Bank, that will, I think, put all straight, set the doctors smiling, and leave a good shot in the locker to make all things comfortable. I should like to have some of poor father’s books; do not sell one. I should advise you to go and live with Sarah; she could look after your comfort until I return. If I am spared we will then take you, and do all we can for your comfort. As for the furniture, sell it, but do not let the broker rob you. Give it to the poor rather than be imposed upon; and take the best of the things, including the books, to S——h. My wife will write you next mail. I want her to go home, take the children with her, and look after you. But, no; she likes mother very much, but the loadstone is at this end. Now, my dear mother, try and keep your spirits up; looking to the Strong for strength and guidance through this dark hour of trouble. Give my kind regards to all kind friends.And believe me, my dear Mother,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,Allahabad Garrison.
Fort Allahabad, 15th July, 1872.
My Dear Mother,
In answer to your kind letter, just to hand, with the sad news of the death of poor dear father. Truly, as you say, he was beloved by all who knew him. I do believe his enemies could be put into a very small room, whilst his friends were numbered by tens ofthousands. I know, mother dear, that you will feel his loss more than tongue can tell; but do try and console yourself with this fact that he is not lost, but gone before; that he is now in the midst of that blood-bought throng that no man can number; that he is now with Him whose name he tried to extol for fifty-six years; that he is now with untold millions singing, “Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God,” thus helping to swell the anthem of the skies,
“While heaven’s resounding mansions ringWith shouts of sovereign grace.”
“While heaven’s resounding mansions ringWith shouts of sovereign grace.”
We can mourn the loss of a good, loving earthly father. You, dear mother, will miss his sweet counsel, his noble, loving, manly heart. But we cannot mourn him as one whose work was not done. He has gone to his grave full of years (nearly 83[28]). And you have another consolation, that he died at his post, like a good soldier—faithful unto death. He tried to live as he would wish to die, that he might be able to sing in death—“Looking unto Jesus.” What an end! He can now shout, “Victory, victory through the blood of the Lamb.” There will be no sorrow there, no more pain, no more tears, but one continual song of praise unto Him who has done all things well. Again, remember, dear mother, in your bereavement, what a family of us have gone before, leaving behind them the record that they were on the Lord’s side: Grandfathers on both sides, grandmothers on both sides, uncles on both sides, aunts on both sides, my eight little ones; and now our beloved father has gone to tune his harp, and to sing for ever of redeeming love. Do not fret, dear mother; we shall meet again, and be able to sing when time shall be no more. Keep up your spirits. Again, do not be uneasy about money; we are not short of a few pounds, and as long as I live you shall never want for anything that will help to make the remainder of your days comfortable, so please rest contented on that score. I enclose a draft on Gurney’s Bank, that will, I think, put all straight, set the doctors smiling, and leave a good shot in the locker to make all things comfortable. I should like to have some of poor father’s books; do not sell one. I should advise you to go and live with Sarah; she could look after your comfort until I return. If I am spared we will then take you, and do all we can for your comfort. As for the furniture, sell it, but do not let the broker rob you. Give it to the poor rather than be imposed upon; and take the best of the things, including the books, to S——h. My wife will write you next mail. I want her to go home, take the children with her, and look after you. But, no; she likes mother very much, but the loadstone is at this end. Now, my dear mother, try and keep your spirits up; looking to the Strong for strength and guidance through this dark hour of trouble. Give my kind regards to all kind friends.
And believe me, my dear Mother,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,Allahabad Garrison.
And believe me, my dear Mother,Your affectionate Son,T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,Allahabad Garrison.
Fort Allahabad, 5th April, 1876.My Dear, Dear Mother,In answer to yours, just to hand, I drop a line. This, I hope, will be the last letter from the land of pestilence, blacks, and bugs. I have had quite enough of it, and so has my partner. I have found the last three or four summers very oppressive. Remember, I have had eighteen summers on these burning plains; quite enough, one would think, to get used to the excessive heat, or to get acclimatized, as people call it. But I begin to find that the climate is playing old hack with me, and the sooner I have a change the better. Although I have kept to my post throughout, I have continued for many summers to send my best half up to the hills with ladies, or at my own expense. Remember, dear mother, I have served the State for upwards of twenty-two years. I have more than completed my portion of the contract, and have tried to do my duty on many a hard-fought field, both in the Crimea and out here; and if spared a few months more, we will see what the Government will give me. They must give me the pension of my rank, viz., the large sum of 2s. 6d. per diem. I see by the papers there is some talk of increasing the rate of pensions for all ranks. I hope to be home some time next month, all being well. The doctor’s words have come true about my poor wife—that she would never be the same woman again after the attack of cholera. I almost long to come home. It will be nearly nineteen years since I left England; and what an eventful time of it I have had—death all around me, from water, famine, pestilence, shot, shell, grape, sword, musketry, and the assassin’s dagger; yet I have passed through it all. Truly I have much to be thankful for. My life of forty-two years (to-day) has been, I must acknowledge, watched over by an all-wise God, who can see from the beginning to the end. Mother dear, that is nothing more than I expected. Some of my letters out here have been little newspapers. It is no new thing: there is a class of people in this world that like to pry into other people’s business. I am sorry that you have lost some of my letters, but do not let that trouble you. I thought they might come in handy for some of my children, just to let them see a little what their father had gone through. There are many things that I have omitted in my diary; and again, I have neglected it of late years.And, dear mother, in order to have something nice when we arrive, please to accept the enclosed cheque for £—. Will drop a line from Bombay, if possible, and another as soon as we land. And, as I have escaped thus far, I hope the same powerful hand and watchful eye that has attended me and mine, will guide us safe to the land of liberty; and then, dear mother, we will sing—Home, sweet home!I love thee still.I am only bringing home two of my children—Arthur and Amy. Keep up your spirits, dear mother. We will meet again, all being well. Till then,Believe us as ever,Your affectionate Son and Daughter,T. & B. J. GOWING, S.M.,Allahabad.
Fort Allahabad, 5th April, 1876.
My Dear, Dear Mother,
In answer to yours, just to hand, I drop a line. This, I hope, will be the last letter from the land of pestilence, blacks, and bugs. I have had quite enough of it, and so has my partner. I have found the last three or four summers very oppressive. Remember, I have had eighteen summers on these burning plains; quite enough, one would think, to get used to the excessive heat, or to get acclimatized, as people call it. But I begin to find that the climate is playing old hack with me, and the sooner I have a change the better. Although I have kept to my post throughout, I have continued for many summers to send my best half up to the hills with ladies, or at my own expense. Remember, dear mother, I have served the State for upwards of twenty-two years. I have more than completed my portion of the contract, and have tried to do my duty on many a hard-fought field, both in the Crimea and out here; and if spared a few months more, we will see what the Government will give me. They must give me the pension of my rank, viz., the large sum of 2s. 6d. per diem. I see by the papers there is some talk of increasing the rate of pensions for all ranks. I hope to be home some time next month, all being well. The doctor’s words have come true about my poor wife—that she would never be the same woman again after the attack of cholera. I almost long to come home. It will be nearly nineteen years since I left England; and what an eventful time of it I have had—death all around me, from water, famine, pestilence, shot, shell, grape, sword, musketry, and the assassin’s dagger; yet I have passed through it all. Truly I have much to be thankful for. My life of forty-two years (to-day) has been, I must acknowledge, watched over by an all-wise God, who can see from the beginning to the end. Mother dear, that is nothing more than I expected. Some of my letters out here have been little newspapers. It is no new thing: there is a class of people in this world that like to pry into other people’s business. I am sorry that you have lost some of my letters, but do not let that trouble you. I thought they might come in handy for some of my children, just to let them see a little what their father had gone through. There are many things that I have omitted in my diary; and again, I have neglected it of late years.
And, dear mother, in order to have something nice when we arrive, please to accept the enclosed cheque for £—. Will drop a line from Bombay, if possible, and another as soon as we land. And, as I have escaped thus far, I hope the same powerful hand and watchful eye that has attended me and mine, will guide us safe to the land of liberty; and then, dear mother, we will sing—
Home, sweet home!I love thee still.
Home, sweet home!I love thee still.
I am only bringing home two of my children—Arthur and Amy. Keep up your spirits, dear mother. We will meet again, all being well. Till then,
Believe us as ever,Your affectionate Son and Daughter,T. & B. J. GOWING, S.M.,Allahabad.
Believe us as ever,Your affectionate Son and Daughter,T. & B. J. GOWING, S.M.,Allahabad.
The following will, I hope, be of much interest to my readers. They will be able to see at a glance the dates and principal places at which our unfortunate countrywomen and children were massacred; and the table shows moreover the distances our men had to march from Bombay and Calcutta respectively:—
Names of Places.Dists. fromDatesof Massacres.Some of the Principal Events.BOM.CAL.Agra +84883944th and 67th N.I. disarmed and bundled out of fort, and N.W. provinces placed under martial-law, May 18th, 1857.Allahabad +977948June 5, 1857.6th N.I. murdered all their officers, but Colonel Neill paid some of them off for it; the remainder bolted.Arrah1108406A handful of Sikhs here defended themselves successfully, commanded by Mr. Boyle, C.E., until relieved by the 5th Fusiliers.Barrackpore128516First shot fired by Mungul Pandy, March 29th, 1857; 19th N.I. disbanded, March 31st, 1857; but the 34th were the ringleaders. They were shortly after, disbanded. The Native officers of this unfortunate regiment corrupted nearly the whole of the Bengal Army.Bareilly1036910May 31, 1857.Murdered all they could lay their hands upon, then marched off to join their comrades at Delhi.Benares +950428June 4, 1857.Colonel Neill with his Fusiliers turned the tables upon then; the 10th slipped into them right gallantly, and they found out very quickly that they were playing a losing game.Bithoor948712June 1, 27;It was at this place that the monster, Nana Sahib, had a magnificent palace, which was utterly destroyed by Havelock.July 2, 16, 1857.Cawnpore +939700May 11, 1875.It was at this place that some of the foulest deeds that ever disgraced this earth were perpetrated. Relieved by Havelock.Delhi +880976Invested June 8th. Assaulted September 14th. City finally taken, September 20th, 1857, by General Sir A. Wilson.Dinapore1114411Three fine regiments broke loose here on the morning of the 25th July, 1857, and quietly marched away with their arms, although our 10th, and two Companies of the 37th were in the station. We wanted a Neill here, then not a man would have escaped.Ferozepore+11431181On the 13th of May some 3000 would-be murderers were confronted by our 61st, and almost destroyed to a man.Futteghur1006703June 7, 1857.It was at this place that the 10th and 41st N.I. pitched into each other over the spoils and then bolted.Fyzabad1040576June 7, 1857.The 22nd N.I. and 6th Oude Irregular Infantry murdered all they could lay their hands upon, and then marched to Delhi.Gwalior +680772June 14, 1857.All that came in their way, except women and children, were murdered; they then marched marched away.Indore3771030July 1, 1857.All were destroyed, male and female, young and old, that they could lay hold of.Jhansie +602725June 7, 1857.All perished. The atrocious deeds of the murderers were equal to Cawnpore; and a woman, or a fiend in form of a woman, was at the head of it.Kurrachee5721360All Native troops disarmed, and made to do duty with the ramrod; but were soon confronted with stern justice. It was at this place that the Fusiliers landed, the writer being then (in 1857) a sergeant.Lahore11921356All Natives disarmed by a part of the 81st and two batteries of Artillery, in a masterly style. style. It was do or die. The odds were about 12 to 1, but our determination was too much much for the arch-fiends.Lucknow +923629May 31, 1857.Invested by an overwhelming force, but gallantly held out from the beginning of June until relieved by Sir H. Havelock, September 25th, 1857; and then again until relieved second time by Sir Colin Campbell in November, 1857.Meerut9181008May 10, 1857.It was at this station that the ball was fairly opened; but through the incapacity of one of one man we lost thousands, for, had the 6th Carabineers, 60th Rifles, and Artillery been let loose, not a rebel would have told the tale.Mhow +3601018July 9, 1857.Destroyed all that came in their way, but stern justice quickly followed.Neemuch865850June 3, 1857.Destroyed all that came in their way, then marched in a body to Delhi.Peshawur +15251616All Native regiments disarmed, and forty of the would-be murderers blown from guns, June 11th, 1857.Sealkote +14651391July 9, 1857.Here grim justice soon overtook them. Colonel Nicholson, with the 52nd destroyed them all, all, except a score or two that got the rope.Umballah10201108This station was safe. It was held with an iron grasp by the 9th Lancers, the 75th, 101st, 101st, 102nd being close at hand.Note.—The fighting at some of the stations, where a handful confronted a host, was desperate, but in every case our men proved the victors. It was a pity they were not let let loose at Meerut; it would have terrified the Gentlemen at Delhi; the news would have been all over Bengal in a few days, and thousands of precious lives might have been spared.These nice gents were handled very roughly at stations marked.+N.I. Native Infantry. C.E. Civil Engineer.