The Cannons of Lucknow, page 12
Inside, the scene differed from the normal solemn procedure laid down for military executions in that there was no hollow square drawn up in disciplined alignment and no band playing the Funeral March. The troops present, of whom a high proportion were officers, gathered in groups as spectators rather than witnesses and in place of the band, four drummers of the 84th stood with their provost-sergeant on the verandah of the building, their instruments piled in front of them.
It wanted fifteen minutes to the appointed time for the executions, but the six condemned men, under a strong guard, were lined up beneath the gallows which had been erected within the courtyard, their arms pinioned. The guards were natives, in the dun-coloured uniforms and red turbans of the newly recruited civil police—drawn, Alex had been told, from men of sweeper caste, under Eurasian N.C.O.’s—all armed with steel tipped lathis. The prisoners, with a single exception, were sepoys, in uniform but stripped of their buttons and badges of rank, bareheaded and with their jacket collars open at the neck and significantly turned back.
The exception was the jullad, a hulking brute of a man with a pock-marked face and in soiled white robes, who was standing apart from the rest, an outcast, even from the sweeper police. He was showing visible signs of apprehension, sweating profusely in the steamy heat and looking this way and that, his gaze lingering on the small knot of native spectators gathered at the rear of the gallows, as if in the hope of rescue. By contrast, the sepoys maintained a dignified calm, outstaring the noisy, hostile crowd of British soldiers which surged about them, their own eyes full of hate. Two of them were wounded, Alex noticed, but in spite of this and their pinioned arms, they were careful to avoid physical contact with their guards—and the guards, for all their new and privileged status, treated them with the awed respect which Hindus of lower caste always accorded to Brahmins.
At twenty-five minutes past twelve, the provost-marshal, Captain Bruce, called the assembled troops to attention and General Neill and his escort rode in through the gateway. Dismounting, the general strode to the verandah of the Bibigarh and, acknowledging Bruce’s salute, gave him permission to proceed. First in English and then in Hindustani, the provost-marshal read out the charges against each man and the sentences, the drums rolled, and Bruce, after a brief pause, continued to read from the papers in his hand.
“By order of the brigadier-general commanding in Cawnpore, the brigadier-general has determined that every stain of the innocent blood which was shed in this House of Massacre shall be cleared and wiped out, previous to their execution, by such of the miscreants as may be thereafter apprehended, who took an active part in the mutiny, to be selected according to their rank, caste, and degree of guilt. Each miscreant will be taken under guard to the house in question and will be forced to clear up a small portion of the bloodstains, and the provost-marshal will use the lash freely in forcing anyone who objects to complete his task. After having the portion properly cleared up, the culprit is to be immediately hanged and, for this purpose, a gallows has been erected close at hand.”
There was a stunned silence. The British soldiers looked at one another, as the meaning of what they had just heard slowly sank in. They were standing to attention and, since no order had been received which would have permitted them to demonstrate their feelings, they remained silent. Some of the younger officers who were not officially on duty raised a cheer, but this was not taken up by the rest, and beside him Alex heard a subaltern of a mutinied native regiment say incredulously, “But this is meeting barbarism with barbarism! Surely General Havelock did not sanction such an order?”
“General Havelock crossed into Oudh at noon,” a Fusilier captain reminded him. “General Neill commands here now.”
The provost-marshal waited until the spasmodic cheers had died down and repeated the order in Hindustani. One of his staff, posted beside the group of prisoners, also translated it to them and, for the first time since their ordeal had begun, the condemned sepoys lost their stoical calm, as they waited tensely for the names of those who were to suffer this ultimate punishment to be read out.
The jullad’s name was called first. Already terrified, the man burst into a torrent of weeping, but he gave his guards little trouble and stumbled across to the verandah of the Bibigarh without having to be coerced. Two of the drummers, one carrying a cat o’ nine tails slung over his shoulder, preceded him into the house; the provost-sergeant contemptuously propelled the abject prisoner into the inner room and General Neill stood, arms akimbo, in the open doorway to watch his sentence carried out. The whip, seemingly, was not applied, for no cries of pain reached those in the courtyard outside, but when the jullad emerged five or six minutes later, he came on his hands and knees and, flinging himself at the general’s feet, pleaded with him for mercy.
“Huzoor … Protector of the Poor, I beg you to grant me my life! I have a wife and children, who will starve without me … and I did only what my masters bade me do. I am guilty of no crime, Great One—I did but take from here the bodies of those who were slain by others. I killed none—”
Neill gestured to the guards and, grasping the ropes with which he was bound, they dragged the man, screaming incoherently, to the gallows, where two of their number, acting as executioners under the supervision of a British sergeant, abruptly silenced his screams. The body was still jerking spasmodically at the end of its noose when the name of Bhandoo Singh was read out, and Alex, watching the Subedar’s face, saw the expression on it change from indifference to horrified disbelief.
The native officer, it was evident, had not imagined that the hideous punishment meted out to the jullad could possibly be inflicted upon himself. He had waited bravely enough for death but not for this death, whose prelude would rob him of his immortal soul. True, he had heard the order read out, but in his interpretation of it had not supposed that his own crimes would merit his selection, and before he could stop himself, he shouted his protest aloud.
“I had no part in what was done here! I shed no blood in this house … hear me, I speak truly!”
The guards, in obedience to an order barked out by the sergeant to secure him, took a few paces in his direction and then hesitated, reluctant even now to lay hands on the person of a thrice-born Brahmin. A low-voiced argument ensued and then, without warning, the Subedar motioned to them to stand aside and they did so, unthinkingly. He made as if to walk of his own accord toward the Bibigarh and they prepared to fall in behind him, but instead he turned and flung himself on to the wooden ladder leading to the gallows. Hampered by his bound hands, he somehow reached the top and was attempting to thrust his head into the trailing noose when the sergeant kicked the ladder away. Bhandoo Singh fell with a sickening thud onto the platform, his right leg doubled up beneath him.
“Is he alive?” Neill’s voice thundered, from the door of the Bibigarh.
The sergeant bent over the recumbent man and he called back breathlessly, “Yes, sir, he’s alive. But I think he’s broken his leg, sir. Shall I—”
“Bring him over here, man!” the general ordered irritably. “Carry him if you have to but get him here. The sentence will be carried out.”
The sweeper police, smarting under the lash of the sergeant’s tongue and anxious to make amends for their mistake, lifted the Subedar without regard for his injuries, and four of them carried him, moaning, into the shadowed interior of the Bibigarh. The two drummers with their cat and the Provost-Sergeant followed them, and a few moments later a high-pitched shriek and the unmistakable swish of an expertly wielded lash told those outside that Bhandoo Singh’s fight against his defilement was not yet over. But it did not and could not last much longer; within ten minutes the limp body was carried out and on its return to the gallows, willing hands lifted it up to enable the noose to be put in place. A strange, almost animal murmur rose from the watchers as the dark body, with the telltale weals crisscrossing back and shoulders, swung twitching from the gallows like some grotesque marionette performing a macabre dance of death above their heads, as the air was slowly choked from his lungs. The sergeant, cursing his untutored executioners for a botched-up job, put a swift end to the victim’s agony by hauling downward on his legs, and as the twitching ceased, the next name was read out.
“Naik Sita Ram, First Sepoys!”
Alex turned and made his way with slow deliberation through the closely packed crowd to the gateway, not caring whether Neill noticed his departure or not. He had stood enough, he thought, sickened. War was one thing but this … dear heaven, this was quite another, and as a soldier he deplored it. Reaching the gateway, he turned for a moment to look back and saw, a few paces behind him, the young Native Infantry officer who had earlier questioned General Havelock’s sanction of his successor’s order. The boy was white and tense but he managed a wan smile, and when he realised that Alex was waiting for him, caught up and walked with him through the gateway.
“I could not stick any more of that,” he confessed. “But I was afraid I’d have to until I saw you leaving, sir. I kept thinking, you see, about those who died here … the women and children, I mean, who were massacred in that house. Would they have wanted to be avenged in such a manner? Could they have wanted it?”
“‘That it may please Thee to forgive our enemies, persecutors, and slanderers, and to turn their hearts,’” Alex quoted softly. “I found that passage from the Litany heavily underscored in a prayer book which one of them dropped, so I think the answer to your question is—no, they would not. They kept their faith to the end and I feel sure that not one of them would have wanted to deprive even their murderers of the hope of life after death.”
“Did you know any of them, sir, or have relatives among them?” the boy asked and, when Alex nodded, he went on, a catch in his voice, “My eldest brother was in General Wheeler’s garrison, with his wife and two little girls. Edward Vibart … he was a major in the Light Cavalry. He—did you ever meet him, sir?”
“Yes, I did.” Alex looked at his companion with quickened interest. Eddie Vibart had talked of a brother, he recalled, when he and Francis Whiting had consigned a brief, pencilled account of their ordeal to a bottle, which they had dropped into the river on the last day of their flight. “Didn’t you go to Fategarh to visit friends?”
“No, that was John. I’m Tom—Thomas Meredith Vibart, sir, Thirty-Seventh N.I. Poor old Johnny is missing too. I’d hoped that he had managed to escape, but they tell me that none of the Fategarh garrison survived.” Tom Vibart sighed disconsolately. “They defended the fort for as long as they could and then tried to get through to Cawnpore by river. They couldn’t have been aware of the situation here when they made that decision, could they, sir?”
“No,” Alex confirmed. “They could not.” He wondered whether to tell the boy what he knew of his brothers’ fate and decided against it. Now was not the time; the lad was already upset, and no doubt an opportunity would arise later on, when he would be better able to take it in without distressing himself. “Come back to camp with me, Vibart,” he invited, “and we’ll have a drink together—I think we could both do with one.”
They collected their horses and rode through the motley crowd of natives still thronging the approaches to the Bibigarh. The rain had ceased and a watery sun lit the domes and minarets of the city to a soft and lovely radiance, belying the horrors with which now the name of Cawnpore would be associated in the minds of both British and Indian, perhaps for generations to come. Alex shrugged off his depression and, anxious to change the subject, questioned his companion about the mutiny in Benares and the disarming of the 37th. The boy was anxious to talk and replied readily to his questions.
“General Neill had just arrived with a small party of the Fusiliers when we received news of the mutiny of the Seventeenth at Azimgurh. The Brigadier commanding in Benares, General Ponsonby, who, with our Colonel Spottiswoode, had been reluctant to disarm our men, finally agreed that it would have to be done. He was ill—indeed, sir, I don’t think the poor old man was really aware of how badly disaffected our fellows were—and he wanted to put off the disarming until the following morning but …”
“But General Neill insisted that it must be done immediately, did he not?” Alex suggested.
“Yes, sir. And I’m sure he was right.” Tom Vibart spoke with conviction. “We didn’t have above two hundred Europeans, apart from the Fusiliers General Neill brought with him, who were quite done up. That is to say, we had a hundred and fifty men and two officers of the Tenth Queen’s and Captain Olpherts’ nine-pounder battery, with thirty gunners. The Loodiana Sikhs were believed to be loyal, though, and they, with a squadron of the Thirteenth Irregular Cavalry, were ordered to stand by in case they were required to back up the Europeans. The trouble began when our regiment, which had been ordered to muster without muskets, refused to do so. They gathered round the bells of arms, giving every sign of insubordination. Colonel Spottiswoode lectured them and they seemed prepared to obey the order when General Ponsonby turned out the Tenth and, as they approached the parade ground, our men, believing themselves threatened, broke open the bells of arms. They seized their muskets and opened fire on the Tenth, killing four of them. Well, of course, the Tenth returned their fire and so did the Artillery.” Young Vibart shrugged helplessly. “It was all tragically mistimed, sir. Our men started to retire toward their lines, firing wildly at any officer they saw. General Ponsonby fell—or dismounted, I’m not sure which—from his horse, and General Neill assumed command. He was directing an attack on our regiment by the Europeans and the Sikhs when the Cavalry shot down their commander, Captain Guise, and their rissaldar galloped to the front, yelling that they had mutinied and calling on the Sikhs to join them. The Cavalry were to the rear of the Sikhs and they started to loose off with their carbines. The Sikhs were confused. They turned to fire on the Irregulars and some of them fired on Captain Olpherts’ gunners who, of course, poured a hail of grape into them. It was a truly appalling shambles, sir, and that’s the truth.”
“Do you think the Sikhs intended to remain loyal, then?” Alex asked.
The boy nodded. “Yes, I think they did. Those who were on treasury guard and other duties didn’t mutiny. But when those on the parade ground suddenly found themselves attacked from both front and rear, they tried to defend themselves. Colonel Gordon, their commandant, said afterwards that he owed his life to the loyalty of his native officers and, when it was all over, quite a substantial number of his men formed up round him and, under his orders, aided the British troops in clearing the mutineers from the lines. But it was done with fearful slaughter, sir …” He talked on, describing how the sepoys of his regiment had barricaded themselves in their huts, from which they had only been driven when Captain Olpherts’ battery took up a raking position and fired round after round of grape into them, at a range of 250 yards.
He himself had been wounded, together with three other young ensigns attached to the 37th, their British quartermaster-sergeant, and Captain Dodgson, the acting major of brigade, who had been shot down whilst making a gallant attempt to retrain the Irregular Cavalry from throwing in their lot with the mutineers.
“They took us to a fortified enclosure that had been set up on the parade ground, where the surgeons did what they could for us. But there was no further attack and next day we were all removed to the Mint, a strong building with a flat roof situated between cantonments and the city, which had been previously selected as an asylum for the women and children in case of a disturbance. There were about a 150 of us, all crowded into one room; the British troops had been out all night, bringing in families, some of whom had terribly narrow escapes, because the mutineers were plundering and burning and firing on any white face they spotted. Next day, General Neill sent out parties of Fusiliers and the 10th and most of the Pandies fled. Any who were captured were brought back and hanged. But”—Tom Vibart glanced at Alex—“they were simply hanged, sir. And order was very speedily restored. There was nothing like—like the ghastly business we witnessed here today.”
“No,” Alex said, his voice without expression. He asked a few more general questions and then enquired, smiling, if Vibart had fully recovered from his wound.
“Oh, yes, sir,” the ensign assured him. “I was lucky. One of the fellows with me—Hayter, of the 25th, sir—died of his wounds, and Chapman, who was shot in the face, is to be sent home as soon as he is fit to travel. But mine were just flesh wounds and they’ve healed.”
“You came on with General Neill, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. I was given a temporary attachment to the 84th and I could remain attached, I suppose. But frankly, sir, I’m looking for a chance to join General Havelock’s Movable Column. I don’t want to stay here if I can help it.”
Alex eyed him thoughtfully. Tom Vibart was just the kind of recruit he wanted, and if he proved even half as good as his elder brother had been, he would be worth his weight in gold to the Volunteer Cavalry. “How would an attachment to the Cavalry appeal to you?” he asked, his smile widening. “Barrow’s Horse is looking for good men.”
“How would it appeal … good Lord, sir, it would appeal more than anything in the world! I’d give my eyeteeth to serve with the Volunteer Cavalry! Can you—I mean would you consider putting in a word for me?”
“I’ll do better than that, Tom,” Alex promised. “If you can obtain your C.O.’s permission, collect your kit, and report to me, with your horse, at the landing place by four o’clock this afternoon, I’ll take you with the rest of the new recruits to Captain Barrow, and I’m quite certain he’ll accept you.”
