“There’s a good time coming, boys!”
“There’s a good time coming, boys!”
The poor fellow was made a prisoner of at once, for insubordination; but when I explained the case to our gallant, noble-hearted colonel, he took quite a different view of the matter, forgave the man, and presented him with a pair of good warm socks and a pair of new boots; for the poor fellow had nothing but uppers, and no soles on his old ones; and, in order to teach our smart young officer how to respect men who were trying to do their duty, sentenced him to three extra fatigues to Balaclava, and to walk it the same as any other man. On another occasion, I had to take charge of a party of men (about forty), march them to Balaclava, to bring up blankets. In due course, after trudging through the mud for nine miles, I presented my requisition to the Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General, who informed me that it was not signed by theQuartermaster-General of the Division, and that I should not have an article until it was duly signed. I informed him that the men were dying daily for the want of blankets. He ordered me to be silent, and, with language that is not parliamentary, he informed me he did not care—(a correct return, or no stores)—shouting like a half-mad man: “Here, take this document back, and when it is correctly signed you can then have the blankets.” I informed him that I had a party of forty men with me, and that if he gave me the blankets, the return should be sent back, correctly signed. But, no! He had not the feelings of humanity in him. I was ordered out like a dog. I at once handed my men over to another sergeant of ours, that was stationed at Balaclava to look after the interests of the regiment, and, with a little coaxing, managed to borrow a good strong mule; and away I went back to camp, as fast as the poor brute could move, straight to the colonel’s tent. The first salute I got, from one that had the feelings of humanity, and who had frequently proved himself as brave as a lion (Col. L. W. Yea), was: “What’s up, Gowing?” I at once explained all, handing the document to him. As quick as thought he called to his servant: “Brock, get this sergeant something to eat and drink.” Mounting his old cob, that had carried him through the fields of the Alma (where he was bravely followed by his Grenadiers, whilst shot and shell flew like hail about their ears), Little Inkermann, and throughout that memorable foggy morn at Inkermann, away he went, and in less than fifteen minutes was back again. Rushing into the tent, he exclaimed: “Well, sergeant, what are you going to do now?” “Go back; sir, and get the blankets, if you have got the signature of the Quartermaster-General.” “Here you are, then.” I was up and out of camp before he had time to say more. I found my mule had a lot of pluck in him, so I gave him his head and let him go. We looked a pair of beautieswhen I pulled up at our young swell’s hut, and presented the signature. I at once got my stores of priceless blankets, and marched back. I found that a number of my men had been taking water well diluted during my absence. A wild youth from the Green Isle said that that was the best fatigue he had had since he left ould Ireland—handing me a bottle to whet my eye with. I found that most of my party had something besides blankets to keep out the cold; but we got home all right, without any trouble. In less than a month after, I had the pleasure of meeting our gallant Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General in the trenches, up to his knees in mud and water, like the remainder. He had been sent to his duty. I thought at once of his treatment of me and my party. He appeared such a shiftless creature, shrivelled up with cold, that I felt compelled to offer him my tin pot of hot coffee, to revive him a little. He, poor lad, recognised me, and apologised for his treatment, which I knew well arose from want of experience and thought.
HEAVY ODDS.
The true Briton generally comes out in his proper colours when under difficulty. During the Crimean campaign, a man joined us who had some little experience in the prize ring. There was nothing particular to note about him, further than that he was a fine specimen of humanity, about five feet eleven inches, and forty-six in. round the chest; he was strong as Hercules, and knew it. But he was as meek as a lamb unless well roused, and it took not a little to accomplish that. Only once during that trying campaign was he ever known to stand upon his dignity, and that was with a big bully, whom he settled in less than five minutes. Whilst the fighting lasted, our gallant allies, the French, got on well with us. It was nothing strange to hear them applauding us withBon Anglais, BonAnglais. They were loud in their expressions of admiration at our conduct at Balaclava, and after Inkermann their exultation was beyond all bounds. They looked at our men in wonderment; they knew well we were but a handful against a host; and with thrilling shouts ofVive l’EmpereurandBon Anglais, they threw their arms around many a grim face covered with powder, blood, and mud, and impressed kiss after kiss in token of admiration. But what a lot of faces some people carry under one hat; and we proved before we parted with our excitable little neighbours that we could not stake horses well together. After the fall of that far-famed town, Sebastopol, we had but little to do but drink each other’s health, which often ended in a row; and it was nothing strange to see one of our men defending himself against half-a-dozen half drunken Frenchmen, and proving the victor. If they started to kick, some of our Lancashire lads would soon give them a lesson in “pausing” and “purring.” So things went on week after week.
A YORKSHIRE BITE.
Some six months after the fall of Sebastopol, when peace negotiations were being carried on, some four or five non-commissioned officers (I being one of them) had been out for a walk on a Sunday afternoon. Returning home to camp up one of the ravines that had been the scene of the desperate strife at Inkermann, we met a party of some fifteen half-drunken Frenchmen coming down the hill. It was an awkward place for a row. The road was narrow; on one side was a solid rock, and the other a nasty slope of some thirty or forty feet, like an ugly railway embankment. As soon as the French caught sight of us they commenced to shoutAnglais non bon; non bon Anglais—“English, you are no good; you are no good.” One of our party was the gallant bruiser, to whom I have before alluded. Hewas what is called a well-scienced man, and of tremendous strength—“Yorkshire bite,” we had nick-named him, as he hailed from Leeds. He immediately took command of us, directing us to sit down under the rocks. “Now lads, set thee doon,” said he. “If these fellows interfere with us, you set still, and leave this little lot to me, and if I cannot settle them, my name is not Jacky Frith.” They were rapidly approaching us, still shouting like madmen, “Anglais non bon; non bon,” and cursing us with all the most filthy oaths they could muster, which we all understood, having been mixed up with them for two years. Well, we all sat still under the embankment, with the exception of our Yorkshire sprig. A monster of a French artilleryman was the first to come up—and the first to go down. He deliberately spat in our hero’s face, shouting disdainfullyAnglais non bon. The Yorkshireman’s arm at once came into play,[13]with a blow that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him rolling from top to the bottom of the cudd. Another, or two, went at him, and he sent them to look after their comrade. Others rushed at him, but he proved himself more than a match for the lot. As far as we could see, one blow was quite enough. We all sat looking at the fun, almost bursting our sides with laughter, until the last had disappeared down the cudd. Our hero then put his hands into his pockets, and, looking over the cudd, shouted out that the English werebonenough for them on the field of Waterloo, and were so now; and turning round to us with “Come on, boys, let’s go home,” left the French to get out the best way they could. Next day there was a parade for all hands, in order to pick out the men who had so disgraced themselves and the regiment, as our friends had stated that they had been overpowered by numbers,and that those who had attacked them belonged to the Fusiliers. I must say they all looked in a most pitiable plight; some with their heads bandaged, some with black eyes, others with their arms in slings, and some limping with the assistance of a stick. They were accompanied by a French general officer (I think MacMahon). After a minute inspection up and down the ranks, not a man could be picked out, but they still persisted that the party that had given them such an unmerciful beating belonged to us. The colonel then formed square, with this nice little party in the centre. He then addressed us, expressing a hope that those who had disgraced themselves would step to the front. Four out of the five who had constituted our party at once complied. We were made prisoners, and the colonel proceeded to question us; but when it was made known to him thatwehad been attacked and grossly insulted, and that one man, who was not then on parade, had settled the whole, without any assistance from us, the regiment was at once dismissed, and our gallant pioneer corporal sent for. As soon as our friends caught sight of him, there was no need to ask if they recognized him, for they at once commenced to jabber like a lot of magpies. When Gen. Mac Mahon had satisfied himself that we had been the injured party, and that this solitary man had settled the lot, and further stated that he was ready for as many more, provided they came singly, the general laughed heartily, and applauded the man’s conduct, requesting the colonel not to punish any of us. We were at once released, and the case dismissed.
THE HORRORS OF WAR.
The following incident occurred at the Campo Mayor affair, on the 25th of March, 1811. “A French captain of dragoons demanded permission, under a flag of truce, to search among the dead for his colonel. His regiment was a fine one, with bright brass helmets and black horsehair. It was truly a bloody scene, being almost all sabre wounds. It was long before he could find the French colonel, for he was lying on his face, his naked body weltering in blood; and as soon as he was turned up, the officer knew him: he gave a sort of scream and sprang off his horse, dashed his helmet on the ground, knelt by the body, took the bloody hand and kissed it many times in an agony of grief: it was an affecting and awful scene. There were about six hundred naked dead bodies lying on the ground at one view. The French colonel was killed by a corporal of the Thirteenth. This corporal had killed one of his men, and he was so enraged, that he sallied out himself and attacked the corporal, who was well mounted and a good swordsman, as was the colonel himself. Both defended for some time; the corporal cut him twice across the face; his helmet came off at the second, when the corporal slew him by a cut which nearly cleft his skull asunder, cutting in as deep as the nose through the brain.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS.
Private Stevenson, of Ligonier’s Horse, having had his horse shot under him shortly after the commencement of the battle of Fontenoy, on the 11th May, 1745, did not rejoin his regiment until the evening of the following day. A court-martial was demanded by the man, before which he produced Lieutenant Izard, of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who deposed that the prisoner acquainted him with the death of his horse, and requested permission to carry a firelock in the grenadier company under him. His request wasgranted; he behaved throughout the day with uncommon intrepidity, and was one of the nine grenadiers which he brought out of action. He was then promoted to a lieutenancy in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN IN THE CRIMEA?
I have seen majestic nature in grandeur displayed,With the hills and the valleys which the ocean hath made;I’ve seen the eagle and vulture with pinions extended,And battles so well fought that no hero could mend it.I saw the Light Division leading the vanWith their Allies, who also would die to a manBefore they would yield to an Autocrat’s rule,Or turn back on their march to Sebastopol.I saw the Heights of Alma, on the 20th September,There the maiden British army first faced the foe,There the Russian, bear, with all his ugly cubs,Was taught to use his heels as fast as he could go.I saw Inkermann’s Heights, on that memorable foggy morn,A name now respected by Britons not then born;The odds were seven to one, but no desponding cry—Remember the Heights of Alma, boys, we conquer or we die!I’ve seen Inkermann’s Heights and its Valleys of snow,Where many a brave soldier a rooting did go,In search of some fuel his breakfast to cook,With a pick on his shoulder, and axe or bill-hook.I’ve seen the Mamelon and the Malakoff tower,When the grape shot and shell on our trenches did pour.While Mars sat in triumph to test our renown,And meet us with laurels as we stormed the great town.I’ve seen the Quarantine Battery, Fort Paul, and the docks;With the Bear and the Eagle contending for rocks,And vultures in numbers near the Worrensoff road,That once was the highway to the Russian’s abode.I’ve seen sorties and struggles by the Russians, ’tis true,But their banners were stained by the Red, White and Blue,We sent them some pills their system to cool,Which worked them in thousands from Sebastopol.I’ve seen Lord Raglan, Pélissier, and their brilliant staff,While the band of the 7th played “Larry O’Gaff;”I’ve seen Lord Brown in the trenches, for war he was ripe,Dressed as plain as a ploughman, with a little short pipe.I’ve seen the great English battery upon the green hill,Work with deadly precision the Russians to kill;With terrific grandeur the balls they did fly,Illuminating the heavens like stars in the sky.I’ve seen Arabs, Frenchmen, and Bashi-Bazouks,Russians made prisoners, and sad were their looks;Their pitiful tales I’ve heard them unfoldOf the hardships they suffered from hunger and cold.I’ve seen General Codrington on his charger so grey,Riding out on the bills at the dawning of day,With an eye like an eagle and a heart like a lion,Inspecting the trenches where soldiers were dying.On June the 7th I saw the Allies in action,Their heroic deeds were the source of attraction;They fought and fought bravely, their cause to maintain,They took the great Mamelon, but thousands were slain.On that 7th day of June I saw the English too.Not far from their Allies, combat with the foe;Their deeds were praiseworthy, they never did flinch,They took the great Quarries and the Circular Trench.On the 18th of June I saw that disastrous fight,Led on by young Waller, Fitzclarence, and Wright;When our Colonel got shot, the brave daring Yea,And many were the victims of that bloody affray.I’ve seen Kazatch Bay and the great combined fleet,Where the French and the English each other did greet;They mixed and they mingled, the ships and ship’s crew,The Blue, White, and Red, and the Red, White, and Blue.I’ve seen those interesting and gay VivandiersMarch with their soldiers with smiles and with cheers;I’ve seen them on horseback astride like a man,To describe their attractions is more than I can.I’ve seen the explosion of a French magazine,With great loss to the Emperor and our lady the Queen;It knocked down our huts and our tents it turned o’er,And numbers of men were never seen more.Our troops were alarmed as the explosion it spread,And for self-preservation from the camp they fled;But Young Hope was active, and his part he played well,As the missiles were flying, the round shot and shell.Near the scene of excitement, on the top of the hill,Stood the great magazine which they call the Windmill;Had it once taken fire our loss had been great,And Britain would have mourned her army’s sad fate.I’ve seen the brave Turner and his friend Major Peck,Who sailed from old England to make an attack;Though Boreas did buffet our weather-beaten screw,She skipped o’er the billows with her Crimean-bound crew.I’ve seen Monsieur Français, his eyes beaming with pride,Take our young lads on the spree to drink his cognac;I’ve seen the triangles to which men were fast tied.While the drummers served fifty upon their bare back.I’ve seen Balaclava, a magnificent sight,With its cloud-covered castle high up on the right,Once embellished by art, and built on the great rock,A shelter for shipping and Nature’s wild flock.I’ve seen Balaclava by night and by day,With its lofty rough mountains and foaming black sea—The billows embracing the proud bosomed rock,Where the porpoises sport and the seagulls do flock.I’ve seen Balaclava all covered with snow,On a cold winter’s night when on sentry I’d go;The scene it was lovely, the stars glittered bright,Fair Luna was shining, Nature’s mantle was white.I saw the Valley of Death, where thousands lay low,Not half of whom ever fell by the hands of the foe;The causes are many, as well known to the State,But I might give offence if the truth I relate.I saw the Valley of Death, and going to the trenches,I looked on the graves and thought of the wenches[14]In silence lamenting some dear friend or brother,I thought of the orphan and the heart-broken mother.I’ve seen the Valley of Death, the cross and the tomb,O’er the graves of those heroes—oh, sad was their doom;Where the wild dogs are prowling—what a horrible sight!Where the carrion-crows gather, and owls screech by night.I’ve seen the Valley of Death—but here I will not dwell,It would take me too long my sad story to tell;’Tis like some pandemonium—cursed region below—Sometimes hot like a furnace, then covered with snow.I’ve seen Colonel Wellesley, who had lately come here,A man much respected by each bold Fusilier;His discipline was gentle, his mind was serene,A friend to the 7th, his country, and Queen.I’ve heard that our Colonel will open a school,To teach art and science near Sebastopol;The soldiers to cipher, to write, and to read,Then march to the north side the Russians to bleed.The arts and the sciences, what wonderful things,They open up coal-beds and artesian springs;We are going to Cronstadt in scientific tubs,To take the old bear and all his young cubs.I’ve seen one rare thing—the right man in his right place,One Sergeant Silvester, who has charge of the peace;He is cock of the walk, and a gander ’mong geese;He keeps down bad morals with his rural police.The brave sons of Britain, they never did flinchFrom the bullet-swept plains, or the cold bloody trench;They have planted their standard—who dares pull it down?In conjunction with France, in Sebastopol town.And now, to conclude my short but truthful tale,I’ve seen those kind sisters, and the famed Nightingale,Attending the wounded on beds that were gory,And this is the end of my Crimean story.By Sergt. T.Gowing,And Private A.Crawford.
I have seen majestic nature in grandeur displayed,With the hills and the valleys which the ocean hath made;I’ve seen the eagle and vulture with pinions extended,And battles so well fought that no hero could mend it.
I saw the Light Division leading the vanWith their Allies, who also would die to a manBefore they would yield to an Autocrat’s rule,Or turn back on their march to Sebastopol.
I saw the Heights of Alma, on the 20th September,There the maiden British army first faced the foe,There the Russian, bear, with all his ugly cubs,Was taught to use his heels as fast as he could go.
I saw Inkermann’s Heights, on that memorable foggy morn,A name now respected by Britons not then born;The odds were seven to one, but no desponding cry—Remember the Heights of Alma, boys, we conquer or we die!
I’ve seen Inkermann’s Heights and its Valleys of snow,Where many a brave soldier a rooting did go,In search of some fuel his breakfast to cook,With a pick on his shoulder, and axe or bill-hook.
I’ve seen the Mamelon and the Malakoff tower,When the grape shot and shell on our trenches did pour.While Mars sat in triumph to test our renown,And meet us with laurels as we stormed the great town.
I’ve seen the Quarantine Battery, Fort Paul, and the docks;With the Bear and the Eagle contending for rocks,And vultures in numbers near the Worrensoff road,That once was the highway to the Russian’s abode.
I’ve seen sorties and struggles by the Russians, ’tis true,But their banners were stained by the Red, White and Blue,We sent them some pills their system to cool,Which worked them in thousands from Sebastopol.
I’ve seen Lord Raglan, Pélissier, and their brilliant staff,While the band of the 7th played “Larry O’Gaff;”I’ve seen Lord Brown in the trenches, for war he was ripe,Dressed as plain as a ploughman, with a little short pipe.
I’ve seen the great English battery upon the green hill,Work with deadly precision the Russians to kill;With terrific grandeur the balls they did fly,Illuminating the heavens like stars in the sky.
I’ve seen Arabs, Frenchmen, and Bashi-Bazouks,Russians made prisoners, and sad were their looks;Their pitiful tales I’ve heard them unfoldOf the hardships they suffered from hunger and cold.
I’ve seen General Codrington on his charger so grey,Riding out on the bills at the dawning of day,With an eye like an eagle and a heart like a lion,Inspecting the trenches where soldiers were dying.
On June the 7th I saw the Allies in action,Their heroic deeds were the source of attraction;They fought and fought bravely, their cause to maintain,They took the great Mamelon, but thousands were slain.
On that 7th day of June I saw the English too.Not far from their Allies, combat with the foe;Their deeds were praiseworthy, they never did flinch,They took the great Quarries and the Circular Trench.
On the 18th of June I saw that disastrous fight,Led on by young Waller, Fitzclarence, and Wright;When our Colonel got shot, the brave daring Yea,And many were the victims of that bloody affray.
I’ve seen Kazatch Bay and the great combined fleet,Where the French and the English each other did greet;They mixed and they mingled, the ships and ship’s crew,The Blue, White, and Red, and the Red, White, and Blue.
I’ve seen those interesting and gay VivandiersMarch with their soldiers with smiles and with cheers;I’ve seen them on horseback astride like a man,To describe their attractions is more than I can.
I’ve seen the explosion of a French magazine,With great loss to the Emperor and our lady the Queen;It knocked down our huts and our tents it turned o’er,And numbers of men were never seen more.
Our troops were alarmed as the explosion it spread,And for self-preservation from the camp they fled;But Young Hope was active, and his part he played well,As the missiles were flying, the round shot and shell.
Near the scene of excitement, on the top of the hill,Stood the great magazine which they call the Windmill;Had it once taken fire our loss had been great,And Britain would have mourned her army’s sad fate.
I’ve seen the brave Turner and his friend Major Peck,Who sailed from old England to make an attack;Though Boreas did buffet our weather-beaten screw,She skipped o’er the billows with her Crimean-bound crew.
I’ve seen Monsieur Français, his eyes beaming with pride,Take our young lads on the spree to drink his cognac;I’ve seen the triangles to which men were fast tied.While the drummers served fifty upon their bare back.
I’ve seen Balaclava, a magnificent sight,With its cloud-covered castle high up on the right,Once embellished by art, and built on the great rock,A shelter for shipping and Nature’s wild flock.
I’ve seen Balaclava by night and by day,With its lofty rough mountains and foaming black sea—The billows embracing the proud bosomed rock,Where the porpoises sport and the seagulls do flock.
I’ve seen Balaclava all covered with snow,On a cold winter’s night when on sentry I’d go;The scene it was lovely, the stars glittered bright,Fair Luna was shining, Nature’s mantle was white.
I saw the Valley of Death, where thousands lay low,Not half of whom ever fell by the hands of the foe;The causes are many, as well known to the State,But I might give offence if the truth I relate.
I saw the Valley of Death, and going to the trenches,I looked on the graves and thought of the wenches[14]In silence lamenting some dear friend or brother,I thought of the orphan and the heart-broken mother.
I’ve seen the Valley of Death, the cross and the tomb,O’er the graves of those heroes—oh, sad was their doom;Where the wild dogs are prowling—what a horrible sight!Where the carrion-crows gather, and owls screech by night.
I’ve seen the Valley of Death—but here I will not dwell,It would take me too long my sad story to tell;’Tis like some pandemonium—cursed region below—Sometimes hot like a furnace, then covered with snow.
I’ve seen Colonel Wellesley, who had lately come here,A man much respected by each bold Fusilier;His discipline was gentle, his mind was serene,A friend to the 7th, his country, and Queen.
I’ve heard that our Colonel will open a school,To teach art and science near Sebastopol;The soldiers to cipher, to write, and to read,Then march to the north side the Russians to bleed.
The arts and the sciences, what wonderful things,They open up coal-beds and artesian springs;We are going to Cronstadt in scientific tubs,To take the old bear and all his young cubs.
I’ve seen one rare thing—the right man in his right place,One Sergeant Silvester, who has charge of the peace;He is cock of the walk, and a gander ’mong geese;He keeps down bad morals with his rural police.
The brave sons of Britain, they never did flinchFrom the bullet-swept plains, or the cold bloody trench;They have planted their standard—who dares pull it down?In conjunction with France, in Sebastopol town.
And now, to conclude my short but truthful tale,I’ve seen those kind sisters, and the famed Nightingale,Attending the wounded on beds that were gory,And this is the end of my Crimean story.
By Sergt. T.Gowing,And Private A.Crawford.
India, its extent and resources—Its Population—Its Invasion by Alexander—The beginning of the English Empire in India—The East India Company and its Officers—How the Empire was Extended—The Afghan Campaign of 1839-40-41—The Sikh War—Battle of Ferozeshah—The Norfolk Regiment amongst those who safeguarded England’s honour—Battle of Aliwal—The “Holy Boys” again leading the way—The Burmese War—Our Sepoy Army and how it was treated—The Mutiny Predicted—The Commencement of the Mutiny in 1857—Comparative Numbers of Native and British Troops—Mungul Pandy, the first Mutineer—Fatal Indecision of our Commanders—The Revolting Scenes at Delhi—List of the people killed by the Rebels—The Force that first encountered the Mutineers—Rapid spread of the Mutiny—Nana Sahib’s Proclamation—The Butchery of Women and Children—Delhi Captured and the Mutineers put to the sword, by a Norfolk man, Sir Archdale Wilson—The Delhi Field Force and its killed and wounded—Vengeance exacted—Disarming Mutinous Regiments—Description of the Scene—Blowing Rebels from the Guns—The 10th (Lincolnshire) Regiment at Benares.
India, its extent and resources—Its Population—Its Invasion by Alexander—The beginning of the English Empire in India—The East India Company and its Officers—How the Empire was Extended—The Afghan Campaign of 1839-40-41—The Sikh War—Battle of Ferozeshah—The Norfolk Regiment amongst those who safeguarded England’s honour—Battle of Aliwal—The “Holy Boys” again leading the way—The Burmese War—Our Sepoy Army and how it was treated—The Mutiny Predicted—The Commencement of the Mutiny in 1857—Comparative Numbers of Native and British Troops—Mungul Pandy, the first Mutineer—Fatal Indecision of our Commanders—The Revolting Scenes at Delhi—List of the people killed by the Rebels—The Force that first encountered the Mutineers—Rapid spread of the Mutiny—Nana Sahib’s Proclamation—The Butchery of Women and Children—Delhi Captured and the Mutineers put to the sword, by a Norfolk man, Sir Archdale Wilson—The Delhi Field Force and its killed and wounded—Vengeance exacted—Disarming Mutinous Regiments—Description of the Scene—Blowing Rebels from the Guns—The 10th (Lincolnshire) Regiment at Benares.
HISTORICAL SKETCH.
Before proceeding to relate my experiences during nineteen years’ service in India, and in doing so to recall some of the incidents of the terrible Mutiny of 1857-1858, I desire to say a few words respecting that great country and its people.
India is so enormous a country that our glorious little island—of which Englishmen are so justly proud—might be put in one corner and be scarcelynoticed. In length, from the north of Cashmere to Cape Comorin, it is about 2,000 miles; and in breadth, from the western border of Scinde to the extremity of Assam, it is about 1850 miles; while through this vast extent there are but two small states (Nepaul and Bhutan) independent of British or European rule, and even they are subjected, more or less, to our sway. This appendage of the crown of Britain is divided into three presidencies, viz.: Bengal, Bombay, and Madras, the former being much the largest and most thickly populated. The area of our Indian Empire contains 1,687,803 square miles, with a population speaking no fewer than twenty languages, and by far exceeding that of the whole of Europe, numbering no less than 240,938,000. From the most remote period the inhabitants of India have been a divided people, split up into sections or castes; and frequently the more warlike tribes from the north and north-west made inroads into the country, carrying death and destruction all over its extensive plains. Alexander the Great invaded India 327 years before the Christian era, with an army of 135,000 men, horse and foot, and conquered it, battle after battle being fought in that part of the country now known as the Punjaub. The last tremendous conflict took place just outside the present City of Lahore, and the determined resistance the conqueror here met with so enraged him that the City was ordered to be levelled to the ground, and the brave foe distributed as slaves among the victors. The next invasion occurred in 664 A.D., when the Arabs overran many provinces, and in 1024 Sultan Mahmoud, extended the Mahommedan conquests from the Oxus to the Indian Ocean, and from Bagdad to the Ganges. But, in addition to the Arabs, the Afghans often came down from the mountains and carried all before them, the whole country being given up to pillage. Nothing could escape the fury of the conquerors—neither age nor sex—all had to fall beneaththe merciless fury of these enraged Barbarians; thus frequently the fertile plains and beautiful cities of India ran with innocent blood.
The British Empire in the East had but a small beginning; but the ability, indomitable perseverance, and resistless valor, which have ever been British characteristics, resulted in securing as the appendage of the English Crown, a territory the wealth and glory of which have excited the envy and cupidity of more than one other European State. During the reign of Henry VIII., some of our forefathers watched the Portuguese intercourse with India with a jealous eye, and petitioned the King for permission to fit out two ships for discovery and traffic. That permission was granted, and the King, having an eye to business, sent two on his own account to accompany them. These sailed from London in 1527, but one of the King’s ships was lost, and the other returned without effecting anything. But that did not damp or daunt our forefathers’ spirits. Money was forthcoming, and other attempts were made shortly after, in the reigns of Edward VI., Mary, and Elizabeth; but all ended in disappointment, until in 1591, one vessel out of a small squadron despatched from London, succeeded in reaching the Island of Sumatra, although the voyage was profitless. Again, in 1596, another squadron was despatched with little result. But our merchants were not disheartened by their repeated failures, and in September, 1599, another Company was formed to carry on trade with India. The capital amounted to £30,000, divided into shares. There was some difficulty in raising these shares from the belief that it would be money thrown away; but shortly after, another Company started, this time with funds amounting to nearly £90,000, with which capital five ships were fitted out, a fifteen years’ charter having been obtained. These were placed under command of Capt. J. Lancaster, and sailed from Torbay, on the 22nd of April, 1601.This little fleet, after some fourteen months’ tossing about, reached the Isle of Sumatra in 1602. The Sovereign gave the strangers a cordial reception, with permission to build storehouses, and to establish a factory. This was the first actual possession of Great Britain in the East Indies. The ships all returned in safety, and the profits ran so high (138 per cent.) that little difficulty was experienced in raising another Company. Accordingly, in 1609, another was started, and obtained a royal charter from James I., with exclusive power of trading in the East Indies. They now commenced to build more storehouses at Surat. This was the first factory on the mainland of Hindostan. Shortly after, James I. sent out an ambassador (Sir Thomas Roe) to the great Mogul Emperor. About this time the Company was considerably augmented, and its capital amounted to the sum of £1,629,000. The Dutch and Portuguese showed hostility to this venture, and united to massacre all the English they could lay their hands upon. The French also joined with them in the attempt to exterminate the sons of Albion, but, notwithstanding all, our forefathers were prosperous. In 1634, permission was granted to trade with the whole of Bengal; and shortly after, a small tract of land, five miles long and one mile broad, was granted, with permission to built a fort thereon. Accordingly, a snug little fort soon sprung up, named Fort St. George. This was the cradle of the present magnificent City of Madras. Soon after this, another settlement was made, on the Hooghly, close to where Calcutta—the city of palaces—now stands. A fort was built to protect our interests, and named Fort William. The government of the Company was now transferred to Calcutta. Bombay became an independent settlement in 1687, and the first Governor of Bombay was Sir John Child. As yet no British troops had been sent out. The Company had a few men to act as police, assisted by natives in our pay; but it wasnothing more nor less than a Trading Company. The instructions to the Governors were to look after the returns of calicoes and muslins, and to remember not to trouble themselves about territory. In 1654, the Madras Army was reduced by an order from home to ten soldiers; but it gradually increased in numbers, to keep in check not only the Natives, but the French, Dutch, and Portuguese, which countries kept up strong forces, under pretence of watching their interests, until in 1744, Louis XV. of France, declared war against us, which aroused all the energies of the sons of Albion. Hostilities continued, we may say, almost until 1815 (a period of 71 years), and ended in the glorious triumph of British arms over all their antagonists, not only in India, but in all parts of the globe. This terrible war between France and England caused a lavish expenditure of both life and treasure; for it was a death struggle. Spain threw in her lot against us. The American States claimed their independence, and both sea and land was red with blood. All parts of the globe witnessed this terrible strife.
As far as India was concerned, all our enemies were subdued, and our proud old flag was carried triumphant across land and sea. Our army in India alone was raised to the enormous number of 395,000 men, exclusive of Europeans, which numbered about 50,000 more. During this long struggle, some of the noblest men that ever served their country sprang forward to defend the honour of the flag. A Clive laid his pen on one side, and carved out an empire for us. Victory followed victory, triumph followed triumph, and on the plains of Plassey he routed 75,000 men with 4,000. He was called by the Natives “the daring in war,” and was looked upon as a sort of demi-devil that no power could withstand. Following in his wake, a Hastings (another clerk) pushed himself to the front, and fastened victory after victory toour standard. He was a wonderful man, endowed with a large mind, an iron will, but a cold heart, and the eye of an eagle. In a short time he scattered Hyder Ali’s vast armies; though this prince brought into the field 70,000 Cavalry, and Infantry without number. But Warren Hastings dashed at them, and scattered their wild horsemen in all directions. They were terrified, and driven in disorderly flight from field after field. Hyder Ali died in 1782, leaving his hatred to his son, Tippoo Sahib, who fought us until he lost all, life and kingdom into the bargain, at Seringapatam. We were then brought face to face with another powerful chief of warlike habits. There was no such thing as retiring, 200,000 horsemen being in the field. These fierce tribes had to be confronted. Wellesley—the future hero of Waterloo—was sent against them; and on the fields of Assaye and Arganon, with a force of 8,000 men, those vast hordes, backed up by upwards of 100 cannon, were completely routed, leaving nearly all their guns in the hands of the victor, who had still brighter laurels to win from more worthy foes.
In tracing the crimsoned records and mighty triumphs of our arms, we find that a terrible battle was fought by Lord Lake, just outside the city of Delhi, on the 11th of September, 1803. The enemy was commanded by French officers, and fought with desperation, but to no purpose; all had to yield to our conquering arms, and the ancient city and capital of Hindostan lay at the conqueror’s feet. Our victorious General gave the enemy no breathing time, but followed them up, taking fortress after fortress. Ally Ghur was stormed, Agra fell, and the ever-victorious “thin red line” carried the sphere of British rule still further forward. The military genius of Lake and Wellesley baffled the haughty Mahratta chief, who was compelled to sue for peace, which was granted at the expense of an enormous slice of territory cededto the Company for ever. The Company’s frontier now extended to the borders of the Punjaub, a broad and rapid river (the Sutlej) separating us from the Sikhs, a fierce and warlike nation, who were struck with awe at our victorious march, and remained very civil neighbours for years.
The Company’s officers had now time to turn their thoughts to the better government of the territories which their triumphant sword had conquered. The natives soon found that their conquerors, although redoubtable in the field, were merciful, and ruled them with justice, which, under Native chiefs, they had never known. A restraint was at once put upon the cruel and soul-destroying rites of “Suttee,” by which poor women, irrespective of age or position, were burnt on the funeral pile of their deceased husbands. This was abolished by the strong arm of the law. Some of the high caste gentlemen did not like our interference, but a strong rope soon taught them that our Government meant to be masters, and that our laws must be obeyed. Restraint was also put upon all kinds of tortures to which fanaticism had annually condemned thousands. The sacrifices at their festivals to the idol Juggernaut were strictly prohibited. This was a huge idol, weighing some twenty tons, dragged about by elephants; and their fanatic priests made thousands of poor wretches believe that if they wanted to reach Paradise quickly, they must throw themselves in front of the wheels of the carriage of this god, and posterity would regard them as saints. The strong arm of the law put an end to that. Again, the unnatural practice of infanticide had to be grappled with. This was the practice of destroying female children. Our people gave them to understand that it was murder, and that a murderer should die, whether Native or European. The law being vigorously carried out, quickly stopped this. Again, the horrible practice of “Thuggee” was attacked, but it took years to stampthat out. Whilst this was tolerated no traveller was safe for a moment, for he never knew at what corner he might have a rope thrown over his head and be strangled, for no other crime than that of appearing respectable. The poor Natives found out that under our flag the rich could not oppress them; and, again, the rich and haughty found that money could not save them if they broke the law—all must obey or take the consequences. Accordingly, the country gradually settled down, and the people became good law-abiding subjects. Although we had conquered some of the strongest princes on the plains of India, yet there was more work for us to do, and we had to be continually on the watch.
In 1826, the Rajah of Bhurtpore threw down the gauntlet at our feet, depending upon his impregnable fortress. But a Combermere was close at hand. He had routed the French Imperial Guards from the field of Waterloo, and, under his Lordship’s guidance, Bhurtpore was stormed and taken, and the whole of the proud Rajah’s territories were confiscated. Our arms, however, received a check from the brave little Ghoorkas in the Nepaul Hills. Our people fought them for years, but they have never been subjugated; yet to this day many of them are our friends and Allies. We have thousands of them in our army, and noble fellows they are.
We did not gain much by our first Afghan Campaign, in 1839-40-41, though the Afghans were eventually subdued. From 1841 to 1849, our army, or armies, were continually in the field. Scinde was conquered by Sir Charles Napier, and added to the Company’s territory. The Rajah of Gwalior began to show his teeth, but the battles of Maharajpore and Punniar, both fought on the 29th December, 1843, brought him to the conqueror’s feet. The Mahratta Chief likewise lost his strong fortress, Gwalior, which stands upon a rocky eminence, the sides of which are almostperpendicular and appear impregnable. The disastrous Afghan Campaign had brought discredit upon our arms, but our officers and men made the enemy respect them. The fault rested with the head of that army. Through favouritism, a feeble old man who could not walk, and scarcely ride, was placed in command. He was an honourable gentleman, kind-hearted, and his courage never could be questioned. He had once been a good soldier, but was now completely broken down and crippled with gout. This was the man that our red-tape gentlemen sent to command our field forces in Afghanistan, and then they complained because one disaster followed another! However, another army was soon formed, called “the avenging army,” to cut out the survivors that were holding on for bare life at Jellalabad. A part of our army, by permission, marched through the Punjaub. The Sikhs, a brave and warlike race of people, had heard of the disorganized state of that army, and a disaster will not lose anything in transit through India. Our mishap in the Bolan Pass was magnified into the destruction of the whole of the Feringhee army. But the Sikhs remained quiet until the end of 1845, when they crossed the Sutlej and invaded our dominions, without any warning or declaration of war. An army was got together as quickly as possible to confront them, commanded by the hero of Barrosa, Sir Hugh Gough, K.C.B., &c., (afterwards Lord Gough). The Governor-General at the time was the hero of Albuera, Lord Hardinge. With two such men as these the honour of the British Empire in the East was safe. The enemy was first confronted on the field of Moodkee, December 18th, 1845. The Sikhs fought well, but came off second best, with the loss of seventeen guns. They retired in good order, and took up a formidable position at the village of Ferozeshah, and there set the conquerors of India at defiance. On the 21st December, 1845, Sir Hugh Gough’s army attackedthem in their strong position. The resistance that our people met with was unexpected, for guns were dismounted, ammunition waggons blown into the air, our matchless Cavalry were checked in full charge, and battalion after battalion of Infantry were hurled back, with their ranks shattered, the enemy still holding their ground when darkness obscured the scene. Our people were thrown into sad confusion by the bloody repulses they had received—men of all regiments and arms being mixed together, officers and men groping about in the dark trying to find their regiments. A portion of the enemy’s position had been captured, but their line was still unbroken. Our men lay down that night cold, weary, and supperless, and hardly masters of the ground they slept upon. Our Commanders anxiously awaited the morning light, the undaunted heroes of Barrosa and Albuera moving from regiment to regiment, saying a few kind words to each, to encourage and animate the men to the performance of desperate deeds. The supremacy of our power was in the keeping of the 9th (Norfolk) regiment, 29th, 31st, 50th, 62nd, 80th, 101st, and a number of Native regiments. But, reader, it was safe. Lord Hardinge, with the eye of an eagle, could see that it would be “do or die” with these gallant men. He voluntarily placed his sword at the disposal of the Commander-in-Chief, and served in a subordinate position under the flag he loved so well. The morning of the 22nd arrived. Our men arose from their cold bed, breakfastless, with nothing to comfort them, their foes still frowning upon them. Sir Hugh Gough placed himself in front of the right wing, and Lord Hardinge in front of the left. The whole army was then ordered to advance; the queen of weapons was brought out, and then, with a ringing cheer, and a headlong bayonet charge, the struggle was brought to an end. Thus the enemy were routed, leaving all their guns in the hands of the victors.
At the battle of Aliwal (28th January, 1846), the enemy were again defeated in a masterly style by General Sir Harry Smith. But yet another terrible battle had to be fought before the enemy were driven from our side the river. They took up a strong entrenched position at Sobraon, on the banks of the Sutlej. Our heavy siege guns opened upon their entrenchments on the morning of the 10th of February, 1846, and for hours they kept it up. The Sikhs stood to their guns unappalled, and returned flash for flash, and shot for shot, nothing daunted. Our matchless Infantry were then formed up and advanced to the attack, the Norfolk regiment (9th, or Holy Boys) leading the way. The Sikhs fought with determination, but recoiled in confusion from the desperate bayonet charge. The enemy’s supports and reserves coming up, they fought fiercely, but to no purpose, for some thousands of them were charged into the river, and drowned in its wide and rapid current. Our victorious army now crossed the Sutlej, and marched on to Lahore, and under its walls dictated terms of peace to the enemy. But the peace was of short duration, for in 1848 these warlike tribes again defied us and murdered our political agents. This war commenced with the siege of Mooltan, which was taken after some hard fighting. It was here that the valuable Koh-i-noor was captured and presented to Her Majesty. Sir Hugh Gough then fought the doubtful field of Chillianwallah, December 2nd, 1848. We had but a handful of men on the field, and it was “touch and go” with us; but the enemy retired next day, and we claimed the victory. It was on this field that the 61st immortalised themselves. They were led by Brigadier-General Sir Colin Campbell, afterwards Lord Clyde. Reinforcements were poured into the Punjaub, and the crowning battle of Goojerat was fought on the 21st of January, 1849. This was principally an Artillery and Cavalry fight. Some of the batteries had exhaustedall their ammunition, and charged the enemy with their guns. They brought the right wheels of the guns to bear upon the front faces of the enemy’s squares, thereby smashing them and letting the Cavalry in, when the whole army was routed. All their guns—160 in number—fell into our hands, and their army at once laid down their arms at the feet of the conquerors. The whole of the Punjaub was now annexed to the British dominions. A good slice was likewise taken from the Afghans, as a punishment for treachery, for they pretended to be our friends, yet thousands of them had been found fighting against us in the late battles; so, from the river Attock to the mouth of the Khyber Pass was added to British India, Peshawur being our frontier station.
In 1852 the Burmese broke their treaty with us. A strong force was, therefore, at once despatched to punish them, and it did not take long to satisfy them, or knock the conceit of fighting out of the head of the “King of Two Worlds,” while another nice little slice was added to our already overgrown dominions.
In all the fights—from Plassey (June 23rd, 1757) to 1852—the Sepoys had fought well by the side of our troops, and had frequently shown a gallant spirit. At the storming of Bhurtpore our regiments were driven back with frightful slaughter, when these noble fellows boldly stepped forward to lead another assault, and actually walked over their own comrades’ dead bodies into the place! They were brave enough for anything, and would go anywhere and do anything when led by British officers; but they were afterwards (as the following pages will prove) spoilt by injudicious though well-meant kindness, and their minds were poisoned against us by fanatics.
OUTBREAK OF THE MUTINY.
This India—the brightest gem in Her Most Gracious Majesty’s crown, was shaken to its foundation in 1857. It was held by a few desperate Britons, who could well lay claim to the motto of Napoleon’s old guard: “They might die, but not surrender.”
The Mutiny had been predicted by a far-seeing man—Sir Charles Napier—years before the Bengal army showed their teeth, for Sir Charles wrote to the Government of India when he was Commander-in-Chief, telling them that some of these mornings the much-pampered Sepoys would find out their strength, and that they would upset the King, the King would upset the magazine, and the magazine would be ignited, and blow up both King and country. Sir Charles was not liked by the directors of the East India Company, and was sent home, but his every word came true. He told them how to avoid it, but they laughed at him. Had that grand old soldier’s advice been taken, England would not have had to mourn over the horrible tragedies of 1857-58-59, when her supremacy hung in the balance, and for a time it was doubtful whether we should not have to reconquer the whole of India.
I will now try and trace the Mutiny from its commencement, and describe some of the most revolting scenes as far as it is prudent to mention them; but there were many sights that no pen can or would dare to describe. The blood runs cold to think of poor helpless creatures—delicately nurtured ladies and children—in the hands of such bloodthirsty fiends; but stern vengeance was inflicted before we had done with them.
Our Commanders were now called upon to undertake a most trying military operation, viz., to wage waragainst a fanatic enemy, formidable in numbers and resources, with an inadequate force at their disposal. The following table will show the strength of our several armies in India, at the commencement of the Mutiny:—