The Kaffir Bride.“Officers in command of regiments are requested to meet the Commander-in-chief at ten o’clock this evening.“December 6, 1867.”Such was the order placed in Major Hughes’s hands a few days after the desperate attack on the out-picket had been so gallantly repulsed. The loss of the regiment had been severe; but the men were in high spirits, and ready for everything, being proud both of themselves and of their commanding officer, whom the old soldiers of the corps had known as a youngster, and had learned to trust and to love.Sir Colin Campbell, as he entered the tent which was to serve as the council-room, held out his hand, advancing to meet him as he did so. “I congratulate you, sir, on the gallant behaviour of your regiment. Your name will appear in General Orders to-morrow with an appointment as lieutenant-colonel of your corps, pending her Majesty’s approbation.”The tell-tale blood flushed his cheek as he grasped the hand held out to him, and one and another of the men who stood around him added their congratulations to those of the rough but true-hearted old soldier.There stood Brigadier Hope Grant talking eagerly to the officer commanding Hodgson’s Horse, but who found time for a cordial shake of the hand; Captain Middleton, who, with his field battery, had ever been among the foremost; Brigadier Greathead; Captain Peel, of the gallant Naval Brigade; Captain Remington, of the Horse Artillery; the Commanding Officers of the Cavalry; of the 4th, 5th, and 6th Infantry Brigades, and of the Royal Engineers, all men trained in a school of actual warfare; and it was with difficulty Hughes could suppress his emotion, as one after another advanced and shook his right hand, congratulating him on a firmness and steadiness which had perhaps saved the little force, but, at all events, kept open the communications with Allahabad.“Oh, that Isabel could have been here!” he thought. But Isabel was away, and far better that it was so, for stern work was yet to be done.“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin, motioning with his hand. A momentary bustle ensued and then a dead silence, broken only by the boom of an occasional gun from the town.“I dare say you have wondered not a little,” said the fine old soldier, “why I have remained so long inactive. My object has been to disembarrass my force from the incubus of non-combatants. The want of foresight of the enemy in leaving us the bridge of boats permitted the attempt to be made. The true British pluck and gallantry of the 150th Regiment has enabled me to carry it out completely.”All eyes turned towards Hughes, who again blushed with pleasure.“I intend, gentlemen, to strike our tents at sunrise to-morrow, and attack the enemy.”Sir Colin paused, and a general murmur of pleasure and gratification ran round the table, as he continued, with a smile on his war-worn countenance,—“Ay, ay; you have all been grumbling at me in your hearts, but we’ll make up for lost time. My attack will be on the enemy’s right, and if we can drive that from its position, the day will be ours.“Here are the instructions for the Cavalry and Horse Artillery, who will act together. Brigadier Greathead, here are yours. You will call in the out-pickets of the 150th, and direct that regiment to join your brigade, holding the centre of our line. You hear me, Colonel Hughes,” said the veteran, as he turned to the officers he addressed, those named rising and each receiving his written instructions.“Officers commanding Infantry Brigades, you will parade your regiments in contiguous columns in rear, and under cover of the cavalry barracks half an hour before sunrise, according to seniority. And now, gentlemen, good night, for I have much to do,” continued Sir Colin. “The enemy muster twenty-five thousand men, with all the guns of the Gwalior Contingent. We can count only about four thousand and thirty-two guns.”“And quite enough, too,” exclaimed the gallant Peel, replying to his chief, utterly against all military etiquette. “We’ll have more before we pipe to supper to-morrow night. I say, Hughes, you can answer for how my fellows do their work? Eh!”There was a general laugh, a few hearty shakes of the hand, as the officers of the force crowded round their beloved leader, and the council of war broke up.“Let General Wyndham have this order, Ogilvie,” were the last words Hughes heard, as he took his way into the night. “It will tell him to open the heaviest fire he can from his entrenched camp before sunrise.”Some one touched him on the shoulder. It was General Greathead.“Are you well enough to take command of your regiment?” asked the General, pointing to the left arm, which was in a sling.“I would not relinquish the honour for any reward the world could give me,” was the reply.“Very well, Colonel Hughes, then good night. We shall meet at sunrise, and a memorable day it will be. Good night!” and shaking hands heartily, as men do under such circumstances, the two separated, taking their way to their respective commands, challenged at every few paces by the watchful sentries, the boom of an occasional gun from the town breaking the stillness of the night.Morning dawned bright and beautiful, with that freshness in the air so well known to all who have inhabited hot countries. The guns in the town and entrenchments were for once silent, as the domes and minarets of Cawnpore flashed back the first rays of the rising sun. The river rolled its sacred waters lazily along, and the trees in the compounds, and on its banks, hardly moved in the breeze. The Ganges canal alone separated the out-pickets of the two forces, the ring of an occasional shot breaking the calm stillness of the morning.Behind the Cavalry Barracks, and close to the Allahabad road, corps after corps formed up. There were Hope’s and Inglis’s brigades. Shoulder to shoulder stood the men of those two splendid regiments, the 42nd and 93rd Highlanders, and there, too, laughing, joking, and putting all notions of discipline at utter defiance, were the gallant tars of the Naval Brigade.Sir Colin Campbell seemed in high spirits, as regiment after regiment marched past, and took up the position assigned it, the whole movement being concealed from the enemy by the large buildings called the Dragoon Barracks.“How well the 2nd and 3rd battalions of the Rifles look, Biddulph,” he said to the quartermaster-general, who stood by his side. “Captain Wheatcroft, let Wyndham know that his guns should open.”Saluting with his sword, the dragoon officer dashed away, and in a few minutes the calm silence of the morning was broken by the loud boom of a single gun, quickly replied to from the town, and followed by one after another, until the whole of Wyndham’s artillery was hotly engaged, and the firing on both sides the heaviest during the siege. Seated on his horse, watch in hand, Sir Colin calmly listened to the deafening uproar.“Captain Remington,” said he, at last, beckoning to his side an officer commanding a troop of horse artillery, “take the cavalry and with your guns cross the canal higher up, threatening the enemy’s rear. I think, Biddulph, the fire from the entrenchments slackens, let the infantry deploy into line.”All was now bustle and excitement as the orders to deploy were given, and the various brigades were put into motion, the bugles of the Sikh Infantry sounding merrily on the breeze, as the gallant fellows spread over the plain in skirmishing order.“The 53rd Regiment to support skirmishers,” shouted Captain Dalzell of the 93rd, and the regiment indicated moved off at the double.To the light lay Brigadier Greathead’s brigade, consisting of the 8th and the 150th Regiments, and the 2nd Punjaub Infantry.The whole line was now in motion, the enemy having been completely deceived, the heavy firing from the entrenchments causing them to expect an attack on their centre, which lay fully prepared right in front of Greathead’s regiments. So silently and so skilfully had the movement been conducted, under shelter of the great buildings of the Dragoon Barracks, that the whole force was hurled on their right flank, before they knew anything about it.“There go Walpole’s and Smith’s guns,” said the chief, as a heavy firing was heard among the brick-fields and kilns under the city walls; “let the whole line advance, I long to hear the scream of my brave Highlanders.”Over the canal bridge poured regiment after regiment. Brigade after brigade appearing in great confusion for a moment, and the next re-forming their ranks, as regularly as though on parade. The long line of the enemy’s force lay before them, as pouring in volley upon volley, the skirmishers being driven in, the British line struggled forward.Colonel Biddulph was shot down. The gallant Dalzell, of the 93rd Highlanders, was lying on the ground dead; he fell as he was leading his regiment to the charge. Captain Wheatcroft, of the 6th Dragoons, Hardy of the Royal Artillery, were moistening the plain with their hearts’ blood. Sir Colin Campbell himself was wounded, and eight of the staff around him were more or less hurt. The Naval Brigade working their twenty-four pounder, as though it were a plaything, had been dreadfully cut up, but still above the roar of the guns, and the pattering of the musketry, came the shout, “Forward!” not a man thought of retreat.“Brigadier Greathead is hard pressed, Sir Colin,” said a mounted officer, dashing up.“I can’t spare a man, Major Robertson,” replied the chief. “Tell him to look to himself.”“Captain Heale, this for Sir Hope Grant; tell General Mansfield I want him.”While the battle was thus hotly contested on the left, Brigadier Greathead’s little force found itself opposed to the enemy’s centre. Walpole’s guns, it is true, were steadily clearing the brick-fields, driving the enemy before them, but the Punjaub Infantry had already lost ninety-five men, and the 150th were severely cut up.“Within five minutes of receiving this you will charge the enemy’s centre, such are the chief’s orders,” exclaimed a staff officer, galloping up, and handing over a small pencilled note.The thing seemed impossible, and the Brigadier, amid the roar of the battle, for a moment doubted his ears. The next, the word of command was given, and pouring a shattering volley into the enemy’s line, the little brigade dashed on with the bayonet.Precisely at the same moment, on the left, Sir Colin heard the scream of his Highlanders, the whole British force dashing forward at the charge. It was a splendid sight, as emerging from the heavy smoke cloud, the long line of bayonets glittering in the sun, with one mighty shout for vengeance, the English force buried itself in the heavy opposing masses of the murderers of Cawnpore.“Forward—remember Cawnpore,” shouted Hughes, as at the head of his men he dashed on, leaving a long line of dead and dying in his rear.Utterly astonished at the attack, the mutineers of the Gwalior Contingent gave way, then came the ringing cheer of the 8th Regiment, as the men dashed onward with the bayonet, and the enemy fairly doubled up, turned and fled.At this moment, and just when the first runaways carried dismay into the ranks of the still resolute right wing, the Highland scream was heard as the little army moved forward, and emerging from the smoke, hurled itself in one glittering line on the mutineers, who broke at once.“General Mansfield,” shouted Sir Colin, as he rode on through the enemy’s camp, among whose white tents the Highlanders and the men of the 32nd Regiment were bayoneting right and left.“General Mansfield, take Greathead’s brigade, and storm the enemy’s left at Subadar’s Camp.”“Colonel Hughes, let your bugles sound the recall, and fall into line at once,” cried General Mansfield, as he rode up in obedience to the order.The men of different regiments were now fairly mixed, and a motley corps was hastily got together. There were the uniforms of the 23rd, 64th, the 90th Regiments, with the 150th, and some dismounted troopers of the 9th Lancers.“You will take the command, Colonel Hughes,” said General Mansfield, as they moved hastily forward against the enemy’s left, “one volley only, and then the bayonet. Steady men, you will have enough to do soon.” The enemy’s fire now reached them, and man after man dropped as the line moved forward. A withering volley was poured in, and then came the irresistible charge of the British soldier, and the next moment the 150th were among the tents, and the whole Gwalior Contingent in full flight.Gun after gun was spiked; the English Artillery playing upon the masses of retreating and disorganised mutineers. Grape and canister being poured into their broken masses at two hundred paces distant, while the Lancers and Dragoons rode them down, sabring right and left.Sir Colin himself led the pursuit, and for fourteen miles along the banks of the river the carnage continued, until tired out and unable to do more, the bugles and trumpets sounded a halt, and men and horses bivouacked on the ground, not an enemy in sight.The whole of the rebel stores, ammunition, and a great part of the guns were taken, but the loss on the side of the English was heavy.The 150th counted over one hundred men in killed and wounded, and the 93rd Highlanders alone had ninety-three killed and one hundred and eight wounded.“It was a splendid sight, Curtis,” said Hughes, as he sat on a spiked gun, while a hospital dresser who had happened to be passing was looking to a bullet wound in his right leg. “It was indeed a splendid sight when the cavalry debouched from yonder grove, and with Sir Colin at their head, dashed into the retreating pandies. I shall never forget the day.”“Where’s Harris? I have not seen him for the last two hours.”“Poor fellow, he is lying among the tents at Subadar’s Tank, shot through the heart. He fell close to me at our first charge.”The two were silent, for the mad excitement of the fray was passing away, and the cost had now to be counted. They were seated at the junction of the Calpee and Cawnpore roads, masses of men of different regiments, and peletons of cavalry and artillery were moving across the plain in every direction, the animals fagged and weary, the men exultant, and bandying rough jokes.Their horses covered with sweat and dust, their arms and accoutrements jingling as they rode, a group of officers came along. It was Sir Colin, General Mansfield, and Brigadier Greathead, with their staffs.Reining in his horse, Sir Colin spoke.“Colonel Hughes, you will parade the 150th to-morrow afternoon. I have a word to say to them.”Steadying himself, with his right hand leaning on the gun-carriage, his left being useless, his leg half swathed up in its bloody bandages, and the hospital dresser kneeling at his feet, his forage-cap lost, and the heavy masses of black hair hanging over a forehead smeared with blood, Colonel Hughes saluted, and the General and his staff rode on.“I wonder what he wants with us,” said Curtis. “We shan’t be able to turn out very well.”Events in India had justified fully the confidence reposed in her sons by England. The retreating rebels were pursued the following day, and the column, under Sir Hope Grant, came up with and at once attacked them at a place called Serai Ghat, took fifteen guns, and a vast quantity of ammunition, then pushing on to Bithoor, carried Nana Sahib’s palace, and captured all his treasure. It was one of the closing scenes of the Indian mutiny.“Steady, men, steady,” said Colonel Hughes, as leaning heavily on his sword, he stood in the centre of his regiment formed up in square, just where the Calpee and Cawnpore roads join.“There comes the General and his staff—150th, attention!”The rattle of the muskets as the men came to attention was heard. “Fix bayonets—shoulder arms,” were the words of command which followed as a mounted aide, at the gallop, left the group who were advancing across the plain, their plumes dancing in the breeze, and the sun glinting from their accoutrements.“Order arms, and keep the men at attention only,” were the directions given and obeyed. “Have you the muster roll of your losses?” asked the aide.“A heavy casualty list, Colonel Hughes,” said Sir Colin, as, with the paper in his hand, he rode into the centre of the square. “Three officers, and one hundred and four rank and file. 150th Regiment, I am proud of you!” said the stern old soldier, raising his plumed hat as he spoke. “Twice have you done good service to the whole force under my command. At the race stand, your determined gallantry saved our communications being cut off; to your splendid charge, we owe our first success yesterday. Men of the 150th, I repeat I am proud to have had you under my command. This I give as a token of the admiration of the whole force under my orders, and you it is who have won it for your commanding officer. As he spoke, the old soldier stooped, and himself attached the Victoria Cross, the first ever won in India, to Colonel Hughes’s breast. For you, my men, the glorious word ‘Cawnpore’ shall in future be borne on your regimental colours.”“Colonel Hughes, dismiss your regiment.”Three hearty cheers for Sir Colin were given, as the regiment broke its ranks, and the general and his staff rode away, winding in and out, among the fatigue parties, busy burying the dead.The Gwalior Contingent melted away. British supremacy again reigned in India, and regiment after regiment was poured into the country, now rapidly being pacified.Three months had hardly elapsed, when the 150th Regiment was marching for Calcutta, under orders for embarkation for England.The sun was shining brightly on the ocean, and the houses of Cape Town. Isabel sat at her window looking across the sea, watching the white sails of a large ship, which with a pyramid of canvas, rising over a dark hull, was standing right for the anchorage. It was her favourite spot, and much of her time had been spent at that window, looking over the sea. Many a vessel had she watched, driving through the waves, while she speculated on the hopes and fears which attached themselves to those whose home lay within the dark hulls. Some had been coming from Europe, bound for far-away lands; others returning, but all bearing, doubtless, their living cargoes, and their freights of happiness and of misery.The successes of the British army had been known, but no news had arrived in the colony for some time, and so Isabel looked musingly over the sea, and the stately ship came on letting fly her royals, and next the topgallant sails were handed, her topsails settled down on the caps, her lower sails hung in the brails, and soon a heavy splash was heard, as the anchor dropped into the water, and a crowd of shore boats surrounded the ship.There was nothing in the scene that she had not watched daily, and now she remained at her window, sunk in reverie. A gentle breeze was blowing, the sun was shining brightly, and her book had dropped from her hand. Suddenly her ear caught a quick step on the stairs, which sent the red blood mantling under the clear olive skin, the fluttering heart beat wildly, and the net-work of blue veins seemed filled to bursting. Isabel rose, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on the door. It opened, and, with a cry of happiness, the next moment she found herself clasped in her husband’s arms.Sobbing with delight, Isabel raised her head, and her eye caught the glitter of that cross, the noblest decoration the world can give.“Where, oh, where did you win that, Enrico mio?” she asked, pushing the clustering hair from her eyes, and resting her two hands on her husband’s shoulder.“On the battle-field of Cawnpore,” replied the soldier, “from the hand of the bravest of the brave.”Isabel’s head sunk on the speaker’s breast, resting on the cross given only for deeds of high daring and devoted courage, and she sobbed heavily, not from sorrow but joy.A knock came to the door. Encircling Isabel’s waist with his arm, Hughes bid the new comer enter, and Major Curtis stepped into the room.“Captain Edmonds wants to know—” he said hastily, and then stopped abruptly.“Allow me to present you, Curtis, to my Kaffir bride,” said Colonel Hughes, laughing.That night Isabel was on board the “Larkins” hired transport, surrounded by her husband’s men, and his comrades, tried and proved trusty on many an occasion, and when the morning sun tipped the ocean waves with its rising beams, the gallant ship, with every sail set, and a leading wind, could just be made out from land, as she steered her course straight for the white chalk cliffs of England.The End.
“Officers in command of regiments are requested to meet the Commander-in-chief at ten o’clock this evening.
“December 6, 1867.”
Such was the order placed in Major Hughes’s hands a few days after the desperate attack on the out-picket had been so gallantly repulsed. The loss of the regiment had been severe; but the men were in high spirits, and ready for everything, being proud both of themselves and of their commanding officer, whom the old soldiers of the corps had known as a youngster, and had learned to trust and to love.
Sir Colin Campbell, as he entered the tent which was to serve as the council-room, held out his hand, advancing to meet him as he did so. “I congratulate you, sir, on the gallant behaviour of your regiment. Your name will appear in General Orders to-morrow with an appointment as lieutenant-colonel of your corps, pending her Majesty’s approbation.”
The tell-tale blood flushed his cheek as he grasped the hand held out to him, and one and another of the men who stood around him added their congratulations to those of the rough but true-hearted old soldier.
There stood Brigadier Hope Grant talking eagerly to the officer commanding Hodgson’s Horse, but who found time for a cordial shake of the hand; Captain Middleton, who, with his field battery, had ever been among the foremost; Brigadier Greathead; Captain Peel, of the gallant Naval Brigade; Captain Remington, of the Horse Artillery; the Commanding Officers of the Cavalry; of the 4th, 5th, and 6th Infantry Brigades, and of the Royal Engineers, all men trained in a school of actual warfare; and it was with difficulty Hughes could suppress his emotion, as one after another advanced and shook his right hand, congratulating him on a firmness and steadiness which had perhaps saved the little force, but, at all events, kept open the communications with Allahabad.
“Oh, that Isabel could have been here!” he thought. But Isabel was away, and far better that it was so, for stern work was yet to be done.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin, motioning with his hand. A momentary bustle ensued and then a dead silence, broken only by the boom of an occasional gun from the town.
“I dare say you have wondered not a little,” said the fine old soldier, “why I have remained so long inactive. My object has been to disembarrass my force from the incubus of non-combatants. The want of foresight of the enemy in leaving us the bridge of boats permitted the attempt to be made. The true British pluck and gallantry of the 150th Regiment has enabled me to carry it out completely.”
All eyes turned towards Hughes, who again blushed with pleasure.
“I intend, gentlemen, to strike our tents at sunrise to-morrow, and attack the enemy.”
Sir Colin paused, and a general murmur of pleasure and gratification ran round the table, as he continued, with a smile on his war-worn countenance,—
“Ay, ay; you have all been grumbling at me in your hearts, but we’ll make up for lost time. My attack will be on the enemy’s right, and if we can drive that from its position, the day will be ours.
“Here are the instructions for the Cavalry and Horse Artillery, who will act together. Brigadier Greathead, here are yours. You will call in the out-pickets of the 150th, and direct that regiment to join your brigade, holding the centre of our line. You hear me, Colonel Hughes,” said the veteran, as he turned to the officers he addressed, those named rising and each receiving his written instructions.
“Officers commanding Infantry Brigades, you will parade your regiments in contiguous columns in rear, and under cover of the cavalry barracks half an hour before sunrise, according to seniority. And now, gentlemen, good night, for I have much to do,” continued Sir Colin. “The enemy muster twenty-five thousand men, with all the guns of the Gwalior Contingent. We can count only about four thousand and thirty-two guns.”
“And quite enough, too,” exclaimed the gallant Peel, replying to his chief, utterly against all military etiquette. “We’ll have more before we pipe to supper to-morrow night. I say, Hughes, you can answer for how my fellows do their work? Eh!”
There was a general laugh, a few hearty shakes of the hand, as the officers of the force crowded round their beloved leader, and the council of war broke up.
“Let General Wyndham have this order, Ogilvie,” were the last words Hughes heard, as he took his way into the night. “It will tell him to open the heaviest fire he can from his entrenched camp before sunrise.”
Some one touched him on the shoulder. It was General Greathead.
“Are you well enough to take command of your regiment?” asked the General, pointing to the left arm, which was in a sling.
“I would not relinquish the honour for any reward the world could give me,” was the reply.
“Very well, Colonel Hughes, then good night. We shall meet at sunrise, and a memorable day it will be. Good night!” and shaking hands heartily, as men do under such circumstances, the two separated, taking their way to their respective commands, challenged at every few paces by the watchful sentries, the boom of an occasional gun from the town breaking the stillness of the night.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful, with that freshness in the air so well known to all who have inhabited hot countries. The guns in the town and entrenchments were for once silent, as the domes and minarets of Cawnpore flashed back the first rays of the rising sun. The river rolled its sacred waters lazily along, and the trees in the compounds, and on its banks, hardly moved in the breeze. The Ganges canal alone separated the out-pickets of the two forces, the ring of an occasional shot breaking the calm stillness of the morning.
Behind the Cavalry Barracks, and close to the Allahabad road, corps after corps formed up. There were Hope’s and Inglis’s brigades. Shoulder to shoulder stood the men of those two splendid regiments, the 42nd and 93rd Highlanders, and there, too, laughing, joking, and putting all notions of discipline at utter defiance, were the gallant tars of the Naval Brigade.
Sir Colin Campbell seemed in high spirits, as regiment after regiment marched past, and took up the position assigned it, the whole movement being concealed from the enemy by the large buildings called the Dragoon Barracks.
“How well the 2nd and 3rd battalions of the Rifles look, Biddulph,” he said to the quartermaster-general, who stood by his side. “Captain Wheatcroft, let Wyndham know that his guns should open.”
Saluting with his sword, the dragoon officer dashed away, and in a few minutes the calm silence of the morning was broken by the loud boom of a single gun, quickly replied to from the town, and followed by one after another, until the whole of Wyndham’s artillery was hotly engaged, and the firing on both sides the heaviest during the siege. Seated on his horse, watch in hand, Sir Colin calmly listened to the deafening uproar.
“Captain Remington,” said he, at last, beckoning to his side an officer commanding a troop of horse artillery, “take the cavalry and with your guns cross the canal higher up, threatening the enemy’s rear. I think, Biddulph, the fire from the entrenchments slackens, let the infantry deploy into line.”
All was now bustle and excitement as the orders to deploy were given, and the various brigades were put into motion, the bugles of the Sikh Infantry sounding merrily on the breeze, as the gallant fellows spread over the plain in skirmishing order.
“The 53rd Regiment to support skirmishers,” shouted Captain Dalzell of the 93rd, and the regiment indicated moved off at the double.
To the light lay Brigadier Greathead’s brigade, consisting of the 8th and the 150th Regiments, and the 2nd Punjaub Infantry.
The whole line was now in motion, the enemy having been completely deceived, the heavy firing from the entrenchments causing them to expect an attack on their centre, which lay fully prepared right in front of Greathead’s regiments. So silently and so skilfully had the movement been conducted, under shelter of the great buildings of the Dragoon Barracks, that the whole force was hurled on their right flank, before they knew anything about it.
“There go Walpole’s and Smith’s guns,” said the chief, as a heavy firing was heard among the brick-fields and kilns under the city walls; “let the whole line advance, I long to hear the scream of my brave Highlanders.”
Over the canal bridge poured regiment after regiment. Brigade after brigade appearing in great confusion for a moment, and the next re-forming their ranks, as regularly as though on parade. The long line of the enemy’s force lay before them, as pouring in volley upon volley, the skirmishers being driven in, the British line struggled forward.
Colonel Biddulph was shot down. The gallant Dalzell, of the 93rd Highlanders, was lying on the ground dead; he fell as he was leading his regiment to the charge. Captain Wheatcroft, of the 6th Dragoons, Hardy of the Royal Artillery, were moistening the plain with their hearts’ blood. Sir Colin Campbell himself was wounded, and eight of the staff around him were more or less hurt. The Naval Brigade working their twenty-four pounder, as though it were a plaything, had been dreadfully cut up, but still above the roar of the guns, and the pattering of the musketry, came the shout, “Forward!” not a man thought of retreat.
“Brigadier Greathead is hard pressed, Sir Colin,” said a mounted officer, dashing up.
“I can’t spare a man, Major Robertson,” replied the chief. “Tell him to look to himself.”
“Captain Heale, this for Sir Hope Grant; tell General Mansfield I want him.”
While the battle was thus hotly contested on the left, Brigadier Greathead’s little force found itself opposed to the enemy’s centre. Walpole’s guns, it is true, were steadily clearing the brick-fields, driving the enemy before them, but the Punjaub Infantry had already lost ninety-five men, and the 150th were severely cut up.
“Within five minutes of receiving this you will charge the enemy’s centre, such are the chief’s orders,” exclaimed a staff officer, galloping up, and handing over a small pencilled note.
The thing seemed impossible, and the Brigadier, amid the roar of the battle, for a moment doubted his ears. The next, the word of command was given, and pouring a shattering volley into the enemy’s line, the little brigade dashed on with the bayonet.
Precisely at the same moment, on the left, Sir Colin heard the scream of his Highlanders, the whole British force dashing forward at the charge. It was a splendid sight, as emerging from the heavy smoke cloud, the long line of bayonets glittering in the sun, with one mighty shout for vengeance, the English force buried itself in the heavy opposing masses of the murderers of Cawnpore.
“Forward—remember Cawnpore,” shouted Hughes, as at the head of his men he dashed on, leaving a long line of dead and dying in his rear.
Utterly astonished at the attack, the mutineers of the Gwalior Contingent gave way, then came the ringing cheer of the 8th Regiment, as the men dashed onward with the bayonet, and the enemy fairly doubled up, turned and fled.
At this moment, and just when the first runaways carried dismay into the ranks of the still resolute right wing, the Highland scream was heard as the little army moved forward, and emerging from the smoke, hurled itself in one glittering line on the mutineers, who broke at once.
“General Mansfield,” shouted Sir Colin, as he rode on through the enemy’s camp, among whose white tents the Highlanders and the men of the 32nd Regiment were bayoneting right and left.
“General Mansfield, take Greathead’s brigade, and storm the enemy’s left at Subadar’s Camp.”
“Colonel Hughes, let your bugles sound the recall, and fall into line at once,” cried General Mansfield, as he rode up in obedience to the order.
The men of different regiments were now fairly mixed, and a motley corps was hastily got together. There were the uniforms of the 23rd, 64th, the 90th Regiments, with the 150th, and some dismounted troopers of the 9th Lancers.
“You will take the command, Colonel Hughes,” said General Mansfield, as they moved hastily forward against the enemy’s left, “one volley only, and then the bayonet. Steady men, you will have enough to do soon.” The enemy’s fire now reached them, and man after man dropped as the line moved forward. A withering volley was poured in, and then came the irresistible charge of the British soldier, and the next moment the 150th were among the tents, and the whole Gwalior Contingent in full flight.
Gun after gun was spiked; the English Artillery playing upon the masses of retreating and disorganised mutineers. Grape and canister being poured into their broken masses at two hundred paces distant, while the Lancers and Dragoons rode them down, sabring right and left.
Sir Colin himself led the pursuit, and for fourteen miles along the banks of the river the carnage continued, until tired out and unable to do more, the bugles and trumpets sounded a halt, and men and horses bivouacked on the ground, not an enemy in sight.
The whole of the rebel stores, ammunition, and a great part of the guns were taken, but the loss on the side of the English was heavy.
The 150th counted over one hundred men in killed and wounded, and the 93rd Highlanders alone had ninety-three killed and one hundred and eight wounded.
“It was a splendid sight, Curtis,” said Hughes, as he sat on a spiked gun, while a hospital dresser who had happened to be passing was looking to a bullet wound in his right leg. “It was indeed a splendid sight when the cavalry debouched from yonder grove, and with Sir Colin at their head, dashed into the retreating pandies. I shall never forget the day.”
“Where’s Harris? I have not seen him for the last two hours.”
“Poor fellow, he is lying among the tents at Subadar’s Tank, shot through the heart. He fell close to me at our first charge.”
The two were silent, for the mad excitement of the fray was passing away, and the cost had now to be counted. They were seated at the junction of the Calpee and Cawnpore roads, masses of men of different regiments, and peletons of cavalry and artillery were moving across the plain in every direction, the animals fagged and weary, the men exultant, and bandying rough jokes.
Their horses covered with sweat and dust, their arms and accoutrements jingling as they rode, a group of officers came along. It was Sir Colin, General Mansfield, and Brigadier Greathead, with their staffs.
Reining in his horse, Sir Colin spoke.
“Colonel Hughes, you will parade the 150th to-morrow afternoon. I have a word to say to them.”
Steadying himself, with his right hand leaning on the gun-carriage, his left being useless, his leg half swathed up in its bloody bandages, and the hospital dresser kneeling at his feet, his forage-cap lost, and the heavy masses of black hair hanging over a forehead smeared with blood, Colonel Hughes saluted, and the General and his staff rode on.
“I wonder what he wants with us,” said Curtis. “We shan’t be able to turn out very well.”
Events in India had justified fully the confidence reposed in her sons by England. The retreating rebels were pursued the following day, and the column, under Sir Hope Grant, came up with and at once attacked them at a place called Serai Ghat, took fifteen guns, and a vast quantity of ammunition, then pushing on to Bithoor, carried Nana Sahib’s palace, and captured all his treasure. It was one of the closing scenes of the Indian mutiny.
“Steady, men, steady,” said Colonel Hughes, as leaning heavily on his sword, he stood in the centre of his regiment formed up in square, just where the Calpee and Cawnpore roads join.
“There comes the General and his staff—150th, attention!”
The rattle of the muskets as the men came to attention was heard. “Fix bayonets—shoulder arms,” were the words of command which followed as a mounted aide, at the gallop, left the group who were advancing across the plain, their plumes dancing in the breeze, and the sun glinting from their accoutrements.
“Order arms, and keep the men at attention only,” were the directions given and obeyed. “Have you the muster roll of your losses?” asked the aide.
“A heavy casualty list, Colonel Hughes,” said Sir Colin, as, with the paper in his hand, he rode into the centre of the square. “Three officers, and one hundred and four rank and file. 150th Regiment, I am proud of you!” said the stern old soldier, raising his plumed hat as he spoke. “Twice have you done good service to the whole force under my command. At the race stand, your determined gallantry saved our communications being cut off; to your splendid charge, we owe our first success yesterday. Men of the 150th, I repeat I am proud to have had you under my command. This I give as a token of the admiration of the whole force under my orders, and you it is who have won it for your commanding officer. As he spoke, the old soldier stooped, and himself attached the Victoria Cross, the first ever won in India, to Colonel Hughes’s breast. For you, my men, the glorious word ‘Cawnpore’ shall in future be borne on your regimental colours.”
“Colonel Hughes, dismiss your regiment.”
Three hearty cheers for Sir Colin were given, as the regiment broke its ranks, and the general and his staff rode away, winding in and out, among the fatigue parties, busy burying the dead.
The Gwalior Contingent melted away. British supremacy again reigned in India, and regiment after regiment was poured into the country, now rapidly being pacified.
Three months had hardly elapsed, when the 150th Regiment was marching for Calcutta, under orders for embarkation for England.
The sun was shining brightly on the ocean, and the houses of Cape Town. Isabel sat at her window looking across the sea, watching the white sails of a large ship, which with a pyramid of canvas, rising over a dark hull, was standing right for the anchorage. It was her favourite spot, and much of her time had been spent at that window, looking over the sea. Many a vessel had she watched, driving through the waves, while she speculated on the hopes and fears which attached themselves to those whose home lay within the dark hulls. Some had been coming from Europe, bound for far-away lands; others returning, but all bearing, doubtless, their living cargoes, and their freights of happiness and of misery.
The successes of the British army had been known, but no news had arrived in the colony for some time, and so Isabel looked musingly over the sea, and the stately ship came on letting fly her royals, and next the topgallant sails were handed, her topsails settled down on the caps, her lower sails hung in the brails, and soon a heavy splash was heard, as the anchor dropped into the water, and a crowd of shore boats surrounded the ship.
There was nothing in the scene that she had not watched daily, and now she remained at her window, sunk in reverie. A gentle breeze was blowing, the sun was shining brightly, and her book had dropped from her hand. Suddenly her ear caught a quick step on the stairs, which sent the red blood mantling under the clear olive skin, the fluttering heart beat wildly, and the net-work of blue veins seemed filled to bursting. Isabel rose, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on the door. It opened, and, with a cry of happiness, the next moment she found herself clasped in her husband’s arms.
Sobbing with delight, Isabel raised her head, and her eye caught the glitter of that cross, the noblest decoration the world can give.
“Where, oh, where did you win that, Enrico mio?” she asked, pushing the clustering hair from her eyes, and resting her two hands on her husband’s shoulder.
“On the battle-field of Cawnpore,” replied the soldier, “from the hand of the bravest of the brave.”
Isabel’s head sunk on the speaker’s breast, resting on the cross given only for deeds of high daring and devoted courage, and she sobbed heavily, not from sorrow but joy.
A knock came to the door. Encircling Isabel’s waist with his arm, Hughes bid the new comer enter, and Major Curtis stepped into the room.
“Captain Edmonds wants to know—” he said hastily, and then stopped abruptly.
“Allow me to present you, Curtis, to my Kaffir bride,” said Colonel Hughes, laughing.
That night Isabel was on board the “Larkins” hired transport, surrounded by her husband’s men, and his comrades, tried and proved trusty on many an occasion, and when the morning sun tipped the ocean waves with its rising beams, the gallant ship, with every sail set, and a leading wind, could just be made out from land, as she steered her course straight for the white chalk cliffs of England.
The End.