The Land of the Veda/Chapter 06

by William Butler

CHAPTER VI.

THE CAWNPORE MASSACRE AND THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.

WHILE we were thus maintaining, as best we could, our position against fearful odds, and hoping for that relief which had yet, for the reasons following, to be so much longer delayed, our fellow Christians down in the plains below us were passing through sorrows and agonies in the presence of which our trials were not worthy to be mentioned, and the accounts of which were about to fill the civilized world with horror.

With a sad heart we tell the story of Cawnpore—the “city of melancholy fame”— and present to our readers that wonderful record of fruitless valor and unutterable woe which was there exhibited. Fourteen years have passed over since these deeds were done, but the fearful record of them will be read with deepest interest by Christian men and women long after the present generation has passed away. This story can never die. Wherever and whenever read, it should be remembered that England alone did not suffer there. The dire agony of Cawnpore was shared by American gentlemen and ladies; indeed, they took precedence in these sorrows, for the group first “led as sheep to the slaughter,” before the murder of those from the intrenchment was perpetrated, included the Rev. Messrs. Freeman, Johnson, M’Mullin, and Campbell, with their dear wives and children, from Futtyghur—the very next station to the one then occupied by the writer, who, with his family, had to conclude whether to accept the invitation to join this party, and attempt escape by the Ganges, or else “flee to the mountains” on the north. He decided for the latter, and thus narrowly escaped the fate which befell these brethren and sisters, whom he had already learned to esteem so highly for their own and for their work's sake.

Of few of “the martyrs of Jesus” in any age may it more truly be said than of them, “These are they which came out of great tribulation.” The sharp agony of that hour is ended, and they have met again where He who loved them has long since wiped away all tears from their eyes. The American Presbyterian Church, to which they belonged, should nobly press on the work for which they died, and be earnest to reap the harvest made so fertile with their blood.

“The massacre of Cawnpore” has been truly called “the blackest crime in human history.” Every element of perfidy and cruelty was concentrated in it. No act ever carried to so many hearts such a thrill of horror as did the deed that was done there on the 15th of July, 1857. Yet no complete account of it has been laid before the American public. To supply this deficiency, so far as our space allows, is the aim of these pages. Our authorities are the best: Trevelyan, (of whose excellent work we make free use,) with Thomson, Bourchier, The Friend of India, and the Calcutta Quarterly Review, together with the personal communications of Havelock's soldiers; while photographs, taken on the spot, enable us accurately to present “the Well” into which the ladies were thrown, and the beautiful monument which a weeping country has placed over their remains.

The city of Cawnpore is situated on the banks of the Ganges, six hundred and twenty-eight miles from Calcutta, and two hundred and sixty-six miles from Delhi. At the time of the great Rebellion, the English general commanding the station was Sir Hugh Wheeler. He had under his command four Sepoy regiments, and about three hundred English soldiers. In addition to these, there were the wives and children of the English officers and of his own force, and of the force at Lucknow. Oude having been but recently annexed, the families of the officers in Lucknow could not yet obtain houses there, and so were left for the present under the care of Sir Hugh Wheeler at Cawnpore. When the alarm began to extend, the ladies and children of the stations around also went to him for protection, so that, before the rebellion broke out, the

General found himself responsible for the care of over five hundred and sixty women and children, with only three hundred English soldiers and about one hundred and forty other Europeans, for their protection.

Sir Hugh had been over fifty years in India. His age and his confidence in the loyalty of the Sepoys under his command ill-fitted him for the position he then held. He would not credit the imminence of the danger, nor make that provision against it which some of those under his orders believed to be urgently necessary. He still trusted the loyalty of the Nana Sahib, and placed the Government treasure—an immense sum of money—under his care; and there was even a proposal to send the ladies and children off to the Bithoor palace for safe-keeping. There was a strong magazine on the banks of the Ganges, well provided with munitions of war and with suitable shelter, to which Sir Hugh might have taken his charge, and where, it is believed, he could have held out till relief reached him; but unfortunately he thought otherwise, believing himself not strong enough to hold it. So he crossed the canal and took a position on the open plain, in two large, one-story barracks, and threw up a low earth-work around it, and thought himself secure till assistance could reach him from Calcutta. He did not take the precaution to provision even this place properly or in time, and also left the strong intrenchment on the Ganges stored with artillery of all sizes, and with shot and shell to match, with thirty boats full of ammunition moored at the landing-place—left all to fall into the hands of his enemies; and it was actually used, profusely used, against himself in the terrible days that followed. The few cannon which he took with him were no match for those he left behind, and which he had afterward to fight so fiercely and at such disadvantage.

On the 14th of May intelligence reached them of the fearful massacres of Meerut and Delhi. On the 5th of June the Cawnpore Sepoys broke into open mutiny, having been joined by other regiments from Oude. The Nana Sahib had been in intimate communication with the ringleaders; yet for some reason or other,

probably a disinclination to murder their officers or to face the few English soldiers there, the Sepoys seemed more inclined to leave the station and march for Delhi than to remain and attack the English. They actually started, performed the first stage, and encamped at a place called Kullianpore. The wily Azeemoolah and his master now saw that their hour had come. Arriving in the camp, they persuaded the Sepoy host to return to Cawnpore and put all the English to the sword before they left the place. Their unwillingness was overcome by the promise of unlimited pillage, and the offer by the Maharajah of a gold anklet to each Sepoy. They retraced their steps. That night the English officers were, some of them, sleeping in their own houses, imagining that they had seen the last of that Sepoy army. But early the next morning the Nana announced his intention to commence the attack at once, and there was barely time to summon the officers and families outside ere it began. Every thing of value, clothing and stores of all kinds, had to be suddenly abandoned. He who in that close and sultry night of midsummer had sought a little air and sleep on his house-top might not stay “to take any thing out of his house;” he who had been on early service in the field might not “turn back to take his clothes.” Few and happy were they who had time to snatch a single change of raiment. Some lost their lives by waiting to dress. So that, half-clad, confused, and breathless, the devoted band rushed into the breastwork, which they entered only to suffer, and left only to die.

Within this miserable inclosure, containing two barracks designed for only one hundred men each, and surrounded by a mud wall only four feet high, three feet in thickness at the base, and but twelve inches at the top—where the batteries were constructed by the simple expedient of leaving an aperture for each gun, so that the artillery-men served their pieces as in the field, with their persons entirely exposed to the fire of the enemy—within this inclosure were huddled together a thousand people, only four hundred and forty of whom were men, the rest being women and children. Here, without any thing that could be called shelter, without proper

provisions for a single week, exposed to the raging sun by day and to the iron hail of death by day and night, these Christian people had to endure for twenty-two days the pitiless bombardment, the rifle-shots, and storming-parties, launched at them from a well-appointed army of nearly ten thousand men.

How well those four hundred and forty men must have fought, when, with closed teeth and bated breath, the Brahmin and the Saxon thus closed for their death grapple, where no quarter was asked or received, may be imagined. But who can imagine the terror and the sufferings of that crowd of five hundred and sixty ladies and children, not one of whom could be saved, even by all the valor of those brave men who fought so hard and died so rapidly to protect them! Of the whole number, only three men escaped—Captain Delafosse, Major Thompson, and Private Murphy.

America and Europe have ever forbidden their warriors to point the sword at a female breast. But Asiatics have no such scruples. The Hindoos, who allow their women few or no personal rights, and the Mohammedans, who doubt if they have souls, have no tenderness for the position or treatment of the weaker sex. The sharp-shooters and gunners of the Nana Sahib were true to their heathenism. They gave no rest, and showed no mercy. Some ladies were slain outright by grape or round shot, others by the bullet: many were crushed by the splinters or the falling walls. At first every projectile that struck the barracks, where they were crowded together, was the signal for heart-rending shrieks, and low wailing, more heart-rending still; but ere long time and habit had taught them to suffer and to fear in silence. The unequal contest could not last long. By the end of the first week every one of the professional artillery-men had been killed or wounded, besides those who had fallen all around the position. Sun-stroke had dazed and killed several. Their only howitzer was knocked clear off its carriage, and the other cannon disabled, save two pieces which were withdrawn under cover, loaded with grape, and reserved for the purpose of repelling an assault. Even the bore of these had been injured so that a canister could not be driven home, and the poor

ladies gave up their stockings to supply the case for a novel, but not unserviceable, cartridge. As their fire became more faint, that of the enemy augmented in volume, rapidity, and precision—casualties mounted up fearfully, and at length their misfortunes culminated in a wholesale disaster. One of the two barracks had a thatched roof. In this, as more roomy, were collected the sick, and wounded, and women. On the evening of the eighth day of the bombardment the enemy succeeded in lodging a lighted “carcase” on the roof, and the whole building was speedily in a blaze. No effort was spared or risk shunned to rescue the helpless inmates; but, in spite of all, two brave men were burned to death. During that night of horror the artillery and marksmen of the enemy, aided by the light of the burning building, poured their cruel fire on the busy men who were trying to save the provisions and ammunition, and living burdens more precious still, out of the fire, while the guards, crouching silent and watchful, finger on trigger, each at his station behind the outer wall, could see the countless foes, revealed now and again by the glare, prowling and yelling around the outer gloom like so many demons eager for their prey.

The misery fell chiefly on the ladies: they were now obliged to pass their days and nights in a temperature varying from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty-eight degrees, cowering beneath such shelter as the low earth-work could give—and all this to women who had been brought up in the lap of luxury, and who had never till now known a moment of physical privation. There were but two wells within reach; one of these had been used to receive their dead—for they could not bury them—the other was so trained upon day and night by the shell of the enemy that at last it became the certain risk of death to remain long enough to draw up, from a depth of over sixty feet, a bucket of water for the parched women and children. Yet necessity compelled that risk, while it made the sip of water rare and priceless, but left none to wash their persons or their wounds. A short gill of flour and a handful of split peas was now their daily sustenance. The medical stores had been all destroyed in the conflagration—there remained

no drugs, or cordials, or opiates to cure or alleviate. The bandages for the newly wounded were supplied off the persons of the ladies, who nobly parted with their clothing for this purpose, till many of them had barely enough left to screen their persons. And to this condition were these once beautiful women reduced—herded together in fetid misery, where delicacy and modesty were hourly shocked, though never for a moment impaired. Bare-footed and ragged, haggard and emaciated, parched with drought and faint with hunger, they sat watching to hear that they were widows. Each morning deepened the hollow in the youngest cheek, and added a new furrow to the fairest brow. Want, exposure, and depression speedily decimated that hapless company, while a hideous train of diseases—fever, apoplexy, insanity, cholera, and dysentery—began to add their horrors to the dreadful and unparalleled scene. Alas! even this does not by any means exhaust the list of terrors, but we can go no further. American ladies will add their generous tears to those which have been flowing for their sorrows in many an English home during the past few years.

They tried hard to communicate with the outside world—with Lucknow or Allahabad—for they had a few faithful natives who ventured forth for them; but so close were the cavalry pickets around their position that only one person ever returned to them. These spies were barbarously used. The writer saw some of them after the Rebellion in their mutilated state—their hands cut off, or their noses split open; and one poor fellow had lost hands, nose, and ears. The native mode of mutilation was horribly painful, the limb being sometimes chopped off with a tulwar—a coarse sword—and the stump dipped in boiling oil to arrest the bleeding.

Events had now reached their dire extremity. The sweetness of existence had vanished, and the last flicker of hope had died away. Yet, moved by a generous despair and an invincible selfrespect, they still fought on for dear life, and for lives dearer than their own. By daring, and vigilance, and unparalleled endurance, these brave and suffering men staved off ruin for another day, and yet another. Long had their eyes and ears strained in the direction

of Allahabad, hoping for the succor that was never to reach them,. The 23d of June dawned—the anniversary of the battle of Plassey. The Nana Sahib had vowed to celebrate that centenary of the rise of the English power in its utter overthrow; the Sepoys had sworn by the most solemn oath of their religion to conquer or perish on that day. Early in the morning the whole force was moved to the assault; the guns were brought up within a few hundred yards of the wall; the infantry in dense array advanced, their skirmishers rolling before them great bales of cotton, proof against the bullets of the besieged, while the cavalry charged at a gallop in another quarter. It was all in vain. The contest was short but sharp. The teams which drew the artillery were shot down, the bales were fired, the sharp-shooters driven back on their columns, and the saddles of the cavalry were emptied as they came on. The Sepoy host reeled before the dreadful resistance and fell back discouraged—nor could they be induced to renew the effort. That evening a party of them drew near the position, made obeisance after their fashion, and asked leave to remove their dead. This acknowledgment of an empty triumph was a poor consolation to these gaunt and starving Englishmen, under the shadow of the impending doom of themselves and those whom they so well defended.

The result of this day's conflict produced a sudden change in the plans of the Nana Sahib. He began to despair of taking the position by storm, and events were forbidding him to wait for the slower process of starvation. The Sepoys were already grumbling, and another repulse would set them conspiring. The usurper saw he must bring matters to a speedy conclusion; for, in addition to Sepoy discontent, rumors had already reached him of an avenging force having left Benares to save those whom he had resolved to destroy. He had not a day to lose. It behooved the monster to bring the matter to a speedy conclusion by any means, even the very foulest, as all others had failed. He therefore resolved to insnare where he could not vanquish—to lure those Christians from the shelter of that wall within which no intruder

had set his foot and lived. He suspended the bombardment and opened negotiations. The world had never yet heard of treachery so hellish as what he meditated then. Though some of the ladies had their fears, yet none imagined the purpose which was in the depths of the dark hearts of this man and his minion Azeemoolah. Admiration of the defense was expressed, and sympathy for the condition of the ladies still living, with the offer of boats provisioned, and a safe conduct under the Nana's hand to take them to Allahabad. The terms of the conference were committed to paper, and borne, by Azeemoolah, to the Nana for his signature; all was made seemingly right and safe for the capitulation. The boats were actually moored at the landing-place and provisions put on board, and the whole shown to the committee of English officers. That night they could obtain water, and deep were the draughts of the blessed beverage which they imbibed; they could also sleep, for the bombardment had ceased, though a cloud of cavalry held watch around their position. They slept sounder the next night, as the Nana intended that they should.

Some criticisms have been made upon their agreement to surrender at all. It may be answered, that had that garrison consisted only of fighting men, no one would have dreamed of surrender. But what could be done when more than half their number, male and female, had already been killed, and the balance was a mixed multitude, in which there was a woman and child to each man, while every other man was incapacitated by wounds or disease, with only four days more of half rations of their miserable subsistence, and the monsoon — the tropical rains — hourly expected to open upon them in all its violence? The only choice was between death and capitulation; and if the latter was resolved on it was well that the offer came from the enemy.

Eleven o'clock next morning, June 27th, came. Every thing was ready; all Cawnpore was astir, crowding by thousands to the landing-place. The doomed garrison had taken their last look at their premises and at the well, into which so many of their number had been lowered during the past three weeks. The writer has

walked over the same ground, between their intrenchment and the landing-place, wondering with what feelings that ragged and spiritless cavalcade must have passed over that space that day. But they had at least this consolation—they thought that their miseries were ending, and that they were going toward home, with all its blessed associations. They moved on, reached the wooden bridge, and turned into the fatal ravine which led to the water's edge. Two dozen large boats, each covered with a frame and heavy thatch, to screen the sun, were ready; but it was observed that, instead of floating, they had been drawn into the shallows, and were resting on the sand. The vast multitude, speechless and motionless as specters, watched their descent into that “valley of the shadow of death.” The men in front began to lift the wounded and the ladies into the boats, and prepared for shoving them off, when, amid that sinister silence, the blast of a bugle at the other end of the ravine, as the last straggler entered within the fatal trap, gave the Nana Sahib's signal, and the masked battery, which Azeemoolah had spent his night preparing, opened with grape upon the confused mass. The boatmen who were to row them thrust the ready burning charcoal into the thatch, plunged overboard, and made for the shore, and, almost in a moment, the entire fleet was in a blaze of fire. Five hundred marksmen sprang up among the trees and temples, and began to pour their deadly bullets in upon them, while the cavalry along the river brink were ready for any who attempted to swim the Ganges. Only four men made good their escape—two officers and two privates, one of whom soon afterward sank under his sufferings—and they owed their lives to their ability in swimming and diving, and were indebted for their ultimate safety to the humanity of a noble Hindoo, Dirigbijah Singh, of Oude. The Nana Sahib was pacing before his tent, waiting for the news. A trooper was dispatched to inform him that all was going on well, and that the Peishwa would soon have ample vengeance for his ancient wrong. He bade the courier return to the scene of action, bearing the verbal order to “keep the women alive, and kill all the males.” Accordingly the

women and children whom the shot had missed and the flames spared, were collected and brought to land. Many of them were dragged from under the charred woodwork, or out of the water beside the boats. Some of the ladies were roughly handled by the troopers, who, while collecting them, tore away such ornaments as caught their fancy, with little consideration for ear or finger. Their defenders were all soon murdered, and lay in mutilation on the banks or in the boats, or floated away with the stream. The ladies were taken back along the road, through a surging crowd of Sepoys and towns-people, till the procession halted opposite the pavilion of the Maharajah, who, after receiving his wretched captives, ordered them removed to a small building north of the canal, which was to be the scene of their final sufferings on the 15th of the following month. We present a sketch of this place, known afterward as the “House of the Massacre.”

“The House of Massacre.”

It comprised two principal rooms, each twenty feet by ten, with three or four windowless closets, and behind the building was an open court, about fifteen yards square, surrounded by a high wall. Guarded by Sepoys, within these limits, during nineteen days of tropical heat, were penned up together these two hundred and one ladies and children and five men—two hundred and six persons in all—awaiting their doom from the lips of a monster. Their food during those terrible days was very coarse and scanty indeed; and, to add to it the keenest indignity that an Oriental could give, it was cooked for them by the Methers, (scavengers.) They lay on the bare ground, and were closely watched day and night. “The Well,” into which he had their mangled bodies thrown, is shown on the left side of the picture.

That evening the Nana Sahib held a State review in honor of his “victory,” ordered a general illumination of the city of Cawnpore, and posted the Proclamation already quoted, in which he called upon the people to “rejoice at the delightful intelligence that Cawnpore has been conquered, and the Christians have been sent to hell, and both the Hindoo and Mohammedan religions have been confirmed.”

The Maharajah at length enjoyed the compliment he had so long coveted, and was so long denied—at the review he was greeted with the full sum of twenty-one guns, his nephew and two brothers receiving seventeen each. He wore his royal honors for seventeen days and no more. Distributing $50,000 among the mutineers, he returned in state to his Cawnpore residence. This was a hotel kept by a Mohammedan, and in which the writer slept when in the place a few months previously. The Nana took possession of these premises, which were about seventy-five paces from the house here shown, where the poor ladies were confined. Here he lived from day to day in a perpetual round of sensuality, amid a choice coterie of priests, panderers, ministers, and minions. The reigning beauty of the fortnight was one Oula or Adala. She was the Thais on whose breast sank the vanquished victor, oppressed with brandy and such love as animates a middle-aged Eastern debauchee. She is said to have counted by hundreds of thousands the rupees which were lavished upon her by the affection or vanity of her Alexander.

Every night there was an entertainment of music, dancing, and pantomime, the latter being some caricature of English habits. The noise of this revelry was plainly audible to the captives in the adjoining house; and as they crowded round the windows to catch a breath of the cool night air, the glare of the torches and the strains of the barbarous melody might remind them of the period when he who was now the center of that noisy throng thought himself privileged if he could induce them to honor him with their acceptance of the hospitality of Bithoor. To such reality of woe were they reduced! Heat, hardship, wounds, and want of space and proper nourishment were beginning to release some from their bondage before the season marked out by Azeemoolah for a jail delivery such as the world never witnessed before. A sentence of relief may be added here, as rumors contrary to the fact have been circulated: Trevelyan, whom we have so freely copied, declares that the evidence shows that these ladies died without mention, and we may hope without apprehension, of dishonor.

The hour of retribution dawned at length! Outraged

civilization was coming with a vengeance to punish the guilty, and to save this remnant if it were possible. General Havelock and his brave little brigade were on their way, making forced marches daily. The Nana roused himself to meet the danger. He had forwarded armies to resist their approach, but twice his forces were hurled back, bringing to him the news of their disaster. Reserving his own sacred person for the supreme venture, he now ordered his whole army to be got ready. But before setting out he took advice as to what was best to be done with the captives. It was seen that dead men or women tell no tales and give no evidence, and this was important in case of a reverse; while he also reasoned that, as the British were approaching solely for the purpose of releasing their friends, they would not risk another battle for the purpose merely of burying them, but would be only too glad of an excuse to avoid meeting the Peishwa in the field. So he and his council concluded. Their decision was that the ladies should die, and that, too, without further delay, as the army must march in the morning.

We purposely omit many of the details of the horrors of that dreadful evening, as we have read them or heard them described by Havelock's men, and will try to give the result in brief terms. About half past four o'clock that afternoon—the 15th—the woman called “The Begum” informed the ladies that they were to be killed. But the Sepoys refused to execute the order, and there was a pause. Nana Sahib was not thus to be balked, even though the widows of Bajee Rao, his step-mothers by adoption, most earnestly remonstrated against the act. It was all in vain. The Nana found his agents. Five men—some of whom were butchers by profession—undertook the work for him. With their knives and swords they entered, and the door was fastened behind them. The shrieks and scuffling within told those without that these journeymen were executing their master's will. The evidence shows that it took them exactly an hour and a half to finish it; they then came out again, having earned their hire. They were paid, it is said, one rupee (fifty cents) for each lady, or one hundred and three

dollars for the whole, and were dismissed. Then a number of Methers (scavengers) were called, and by the heels, or hair of their head, these once beautiful women and children were dragged out of the house and dropped down into the open well—shown on the left of the picture—the dying with the dead, and the children over all! The well had been used for purposes of irrigation, and was some fifty feet deep. Next morning, when the army marched, no living European remained in Cawnpore.

Commanding in person, the Nana Sahib went forth that day to meet General Havelock, bent on doing something great in defense of his tottering throne. But, notwithstanding the disparity of their numbers, he soon realized the difference between them and the group of invalids and civilians, whom he had brought to bay behind that deserted rampart, or a front rank of seated ladies and children and a rear rank of gentlemen, all with their hands strapped behind their backs, as in his first “victory.” Now he saw before him, extending from left to right, the line of white faces, of red cloth, and of sparkling steel. With set teeth and flashing eyes, and rifles tightly grasped, closer and closer drew the measured tramp of feet, and the heart of the foe died within him; his fire grew hasty and ill-directed, and, as the last volley cut the air overhead, the English, with a shout, rushed forward at their foes. Then each rebel thought only of himself. The terrible shrapnel and canister tore through their ranks, and they broke ere the bayonet could touch them. Squadron after squadron, and battalion after battalion, these humbled Brahmins dropped their weapons, threw off their packs, and spurred and ran in wild confusion, pursued for miles by the British cavalry and artillery. At nightfall the Nana Sahib entered Cawnpore upon a chestnut horse drenched in perspiration and with bleeding flanks. On he sped toward Bithoor, sore and weary, his head swimming and his chest heaving. He had never ridden so far and fast before. It was the just earnest of that hardship which was henceforth to be his portion. Far otherwise had he been wont to return to that palace after a visit of state to the English: lolling, vinaigrette in hand, beneath the

breath of fans, amid the cushions of a luxurious carriage, surrounded by a moving hedge of outriders and running footmen. Placing his harem on steeds, with some treasure and provisions, and with his brothers and such as chose to follow his fortunes, he accompanied his forces to resist General Havelock's advance on Lucknow. When again defeated, for the fifth time, he fled to the congenial society of Khan Bahadar at Bareilly, where he made his last stand; and he then, having filled to overflowing the measure of his guilt, passed away like a thief in the night, and left his wealth to the spoiler. Accompanied by his evil spirit, Azeemoolah, he and his followers entered the jungles of Oude and penetrated deep into desolate wilds, where the malarious fever soon thinned off his company, and reduced the remnant to the final distress. For the last that is known of this man's doom we have to depend upon the reports of two native spies who followed him, and two of his servants who subsequently found their way out of those Himalayan solitudes. Wasted and worn at last by fever and starvation to utter desperation, they are reported to have held a council, and concluded to put their swords each through his own women, and then to separate and die alone. Certainly a remnant of any of them has never since been seen. The Nana Sahib wore that great ruby which was so celebrated for its size and brilliancy. His priests had told him that it was an amulet which secured to him a charmed life. He trusted in it, no doubt, to the very last. It was probably in his turban when he wandered up that deep ravine to die alone; and if so, there it lies to-day, for no human hand will ever penetrate those pestilential jungles to gather it. The eagles of the Himalayas alone, as they look down from their lofty height for their prey, are the only creatures that will ever see the burning rays of that ruby, as it shines amid the rags of the vagrant who perished there long years ago!

On the 17th of July at daybreak the English army reached Cawnpore; they passed the walls of the roofless barracks, pitted with shot and blackened with flames, and then came to “the Ladies' House,” and, as they stood sobbing at the door, they saw

what it were well could the outraged earth have hidden—the inner apartment was almost ankle deep in blood! The plaster all around was scored with sword-cuts, not high up, as where men had fought, but low down, and around the corners, as if a creature had crouched there to avoid the blow. Fragments of dresses, large locks of hair, broken combs, with three or four Bibles and Prayer Books, and children's little shoes, were scattered around. Alas! it was thirty-six hours too late! The Well beside the House held what they had marched and fought so hard to save, and marched and fought in vain. They had to leave them as they found them; so they filled up the well and leveled the earth about it. Over that well a weeping country has erected a graceful shrine, and has turned the ground around it into a fair garden, and made the whole forever sacred to their memory. We present views of the outside and inside of the shrine, engraved from photographs taken on the spot. Around the rim of the stone covering the well's mouth is this inscription:

“Sacred to the perpetual memory of a great company of Christian people, chiefly women and children, cruelly massacred near this spot by the rebel Nana Sahib, and thrown, the dying with the dead, into the well beneath on the XVth day of July, MDCCCLVII.”

Over the door outside are the words of the one hundred and forty-first Psalm, “Our bones are scattered at the grave's mouth, as when one cutteth and cleaveth wood upon the earth.”

The garden, inclosed, planted, and made so lovely, with the monument in the center, is now such a contrast in its peace and beauty to the sorrows once endured within its limits, that one is reminded of the words which Havelock's men cut on the temporary monument of wood which they placed over the well: “I believe in the resurrection of the body.” The entire premises have been placed by Government under the appropriate guardianship of Private Murphy—one of the three survivors of that fearful siege—and here he may be seen daily, accompanying visitors from many lands, who with sad thoughts and respectful steps approach the Ladies' Monument in the Memorial Garden of Cawnpore.

“The Well”—inside view.

“The Shrine”—outside view.

It may be well here to consider for a moment the alleged severities which some of the English soldiers and commanders inflicted upon those red-handed Sepoys. Who will wonder, as he thinks of the men that stood around the door of that “Slaughter House,” (as it was long after called,) and who gazed upon a sight that no other men had ever seen, and who, as they reflected upon all they had themselves so vainly endured to save those whose gory mementoes lay before them, causing these sun-burned soldiers to sob and weep like children, that such soldiers, in such circumstances, should have vowed vengeance against the perpetrators of this matchless cruelty? Does not even humanity, in advance, require a gentle judgment upon their feelings and resolutions, or the retributions which they afterward administered?

One of them told me that, as they stood around the door and looked in, a tuft of hair, from a lady's head, floated on the congealed mass; a comrade went in, walking on his heels to keep his shoes above the gore, and snatching up the handful of hair, he returned to them and proposed they should share it among them. They stood around in a circle, and divided it, taking an oath that they would have a Sepoy life for each hair they held! This dreadful resolution may be forgiven. General Havelock was a man of mercy as well as of valor, and impressed his authority upon them, so as to keep them from exercising this vengeance upon any save resisting rebels and convicted criminals. Two of his Aids, Generals Neill and Renaud, were more severe; they felt it their duty to break the caste, as well as to take the life, of the more prominent murderers who fell into their hands, by requiring these Brahmin Sepoys to wipe up the blood which their leader had caused to be shed; reminding one of the punishment inflicted by Ulysses in the palace of Ithaca, as related by Homer, only that the provocation was so much greater at Cawnpore. Under any other civilization than Christianity, in its hour of triumph, retaliation would have been general and undiscriminating. The citizens of Cawnpore well knew that a Hindoo or Moslem army, in such an opportunity, and with such a deed to revenge, would have given

them and their city to fire and sword, and have left only a ruin behind.

The practice of “blowing men from guns” in India during the Rebellion also needs a few words of explanation. The act has been much misunderstood, especially in this country. I have met with strange assertions upon this matter, some of which assumed that the Sepoys were actually rammed into the guns, and then fired out! and too often has it been said or supposed that the act was perpetrated as a refinement of cruelty. Both of these opinions are mistaken. The mode of death in this case was, usually, to sink a stake in the ground, and tie the man to it; the gun was behind him, from six to eight feet distant, loaded with blank cartridge, and, when discharged, it dissipated the man's remains. It was a quick and painless mode of death, for the man was annihilated, as it were, ere he knew that he was struck. But what the Sepoys objected to in it was, the dishonor done to the body, its integrity being destroyed, so that the Shraad could not be performed for them. [The Shraad is a funeral ceremony, which all caste Hindoos invest with the highest significance, as essential to their having a happy transmigration; the dissipation of the mortal remains of a man thus executed would necessarily render its importance impossible, and so expose the disembodied ghost, in their opinion, to a wandering, indefinite condition in the other world, which they regard as dreadful; and, to avoid this liability, when condemned to die they would plead, as a mercy, to be hung or shot with the musket—any mode—but not to be blown away.]

Knowing that this was the only procedure of which their wretched consciences were afraid, two of the English officers—one of them being General Corbett, at Lahore—threatened this mode of punishment upon Sepoy troops whom they could not otherwise restrain from rebelling. Corbett did, at last, execute it upon twelve of the ringleaders of a Sepoy regiment which, during the height of his anxiety for the safety of the Punjab, rose one morning and shot their officers, and marched for Delhi. He took two Sikh regiments and pursued and scattered them, bringing back these leaders for

trial and execution. The court resolved death should be inflicted in this mode, as a last resort to strike terror into the other two Sepoy regiments, so as to restrain them from rising. And it certainly had that effect. From the hour of that execution till Delhi fell, not a single Sepoy hand was raised against an officer's life or the Government. They saw that the man at their head would not shrink from violating their prejudices, even as to their Shraad, if they committed mutiny and murder, and they would not face that danger. So the Punjab was kept quiet, and we at Nynee Tal, and they at Simla and Delhi, (including hundreds of ladies,) were saved, more probably by that act of stern discipline than by any other event during those seven months.

Every generous and candid heart will judge the General's action by his motive and the circumstances around him, as well as the minds on which he had to operate. He was far, as was his noble Governor, Sir John Lawrence, from any wish to perpetrate an undue severity or refinement of cruelty. He was in circumstances where he had reason to believe that this was the only way to arrest murder and mutiny, and save thousands of lives whose fate hung on the position of the Punjab and his measures to preserve it. This was equally the motive of the other General, who employed it as a measure of restraint as well as punishment. The act itself was analogous to the policy of Christian States one hundred years ago, in refusing what was called “The Benefit of Clergy” to certain notorious criminals. Lord Canning, the Governor-General, as soon as he heard of it, however, believing that it infringed too much upon the conscience of the Hindoos, forbade its repetition by any Commander, and it was therefore entirely abandoned. As a mode of punishment it was introduced into India by the French during their brief rule in the South. Wilkes's “History of the Mysore” relates its infliction, by Count Lally, in 1758, upon six Brahmins.

The consideration of Lord Canning, however, was not reciprocated by the Sepoy power itself, for in the hour of their opportunity they made no scruple whatever to employ this mode of execution upon other people. We have testimony that several of the

Europeans who fell into the hands of the Nawab of Futtyghur and the Nana Sahib, were executed by being blown from guns; and even the greased cartridges, to which they at first objected, when their own time came, they are said to have readily used to murder the Europeans who fell into their hands.

Though, unhappily, too late to save those who suffered at Cawnpore, the relieving army were destined, after endurance and valor which received the admiration of all who ever heard of it, to reach and rescue the larger garrison of Lucknow, which, as the reader will see on the map, lies forty-three miles beyond Cawnpore.

The Mission of the Queen of Oude in 1856 had failed, the decree had gone forth and was unalterable, and an English Governor ruled the kingdom, which became a part of British India. His official residence—ere long to become so famous—is shown in the picture on the opposite page. This building, before the annexation, was the home of “the Resident,” or English Embassador, at the Court of Oude, and afterward became the house of “the Chief Commissioner,” or Governor, of the kingdom, and was therefore called “The Residency.”

“The Residency,” Lucknow, India.

No record of human endurance exceeds that which was here exhibited from June to November, 1857. “The Story of Cawnpore” is, alas! more tragical; but for the great qualities of the heroic and the enduring, Lucknow may well challenge human history to furnish a higher example, especially when we remember the number of women who were here shut up, and how nobly they bore themselves amid risks and sufferings which only Christian women of our Anglo-Saxon race could bear to the bitter end, and yet emerge from them all in moral triumph. Nearly a dozen volumes, by different hands—three of them from the pens of ladies—have presented the facts to the world. They abundantly show how nobly woman can illustrate the virtue inculcated by Virgil:

⁠“Do not yield to misfortunes,
But advance to meet them with greater fortitude.”

Probably there never was such a siege as that of Lucknow. History seems to have no parallel to it in its extraordinary

circumstances, the bravery of its garrison, the privations, risks, and horrors to which the women were subjected, while hope was deferred, and England gave them up as dead, and they themselves at length, “not expecting deliverance,” resolved to die, if die they must, with their face to their bloody and relentless foe. The women of Carthage are celebrated for having cut off their hair to make bowstrings for their husbands, but the resolute and enduring courage of these daughters of Britain make them worthy of higher fame. Englishmen may well feel proud of their countrywomen.

Two great and good men are the central figures of this siege and relief, Sir Henry Lawrence and Sir Henry Havelock—the former an Episcopalian and the latter a Baptist—both men who honored and loved God, and who were greatly honored by God, the first in defending, the latter in rescuing, against fearful odds, the gallant men and women of the Lucknow Residency.

Sir Henry Lawrence, after spending more than thirty years in the military and civil service in India, was appointed Governor of the Kingdom of Oude. He reached Lucknow, the capital, and entered upon his duties early in 1857, fully impressed by the dangerous condition of things at that time. Though in very feeble health, he set himself vigorously at work to prepare for the coming storm, which at length broke over India on the memorable 31st of May. Every city in Oude, save Lucknow, was seized that day by the Sepoys, and deeds of cruelty and blood perpetrated which shocked the whole civilized world. Lucknow alone, where Sir Henry dwelt in the Residency, was held, and even his vigor and ability could not have suspended its fall had he not had a handful of English soldiers to rely upon. He at once collected all the civilians and Christian residents of Lucknow, with a few native troops whose fidelity he thought he could trust, and over whom he exerted a wonderful influence, into the Residency, and some other houses close to it, and began to fortify them in the best manner that the time and means at his command would allow. Provisions were collected rapidly, and ammunition stored and prepared, guns put in position, and his people organized. In addition to the

Residency, he also occupied an old fort called the “Muchee Bhawun,” about one third of a mile west of the Residency, and close to which are our mission premises. Dividing his force, he fondly hoped to be strong enough to hold both positions till re-enforcements should reach him, and enable him to restore law and order at the capital, and throughout the kingdom. How little he foreboded the fearful odds against which his feeble garrison would soon have to contend! Meanwhile the reports of the fiendish atrocities of Delhi, Meerut, Shahjehanpore, Bareilly, and other places reached Lucknow, and its few hundred anxious Christian people began to realize more fully how completely they were cut off from all human assistance, and how dark their own future was becoming.

The natives in the city had become so persuaded of the overthrow of the English power that the Government securities, which a few days before were selling at a premium, had fallen from over one hundred to thirty-seven. Fanatics paraded the city—some of them haranguing the crowds of people, and exhibiting pictures of Europeans maimed and mutilated by Sepoys; others had a show of dolls dressed as European children, which ended by striking off their heads, to the great delight of the mobs, who looked on and applauded; while the blasphemy of Mohammedan Fakirs became bold and frightful, as they exulted in the overthrow of Christianity, and demanded the blood of “the Kaffirs” in the Fort and Residency, as the consummation of their efforts. These wretched men imagined that the whole of Hindustan had fallen, that the few of our faith around Sir Henry Lawrence were all of the Christian life left in India; and for many long and weary months the Christians generally, like those at Nynee Tal, did not know but that this was the terrible truth.

While busy preparing the defenses with which they were surrounding the Residency and the other houses near it, so as to form intrenchments, and make the best of their position, Sir Henry was joined by the few Europeans who had escaped from the massacres at Secrora and other stations in Oude. The news they brought deepened the gloom of the situation. Reports of the dead bodies

of Europeans, among them three women, lying by the road side a few miles out, were brought to them, and the fiendish cruelty to which they were exposed received a fearful illustration when, one day, some natives brought to the Residency the body of an English lady, which they had found lying by the road side cut up into quarters! These unfortunate people were evidently making for the Residency when they were overtaken and thus cruelly murdered and mutilated by the Sepoys.

Sir Henry now redoubled his efforts to complete the batteries, stockades, and trenches around his position, and prepare for whatever might occur. Hearing, on the 29th of June, that the insurgents were approaching Lucknow, he concluded to march out with a part of his little force, hoping to defeat them before they reached the city, and so save himself from investment and the city from being taken; but, unfortunately, his information of the strength of the foe was defective, and in the moment of emergency, when he suddenly came upon them at Chinhut, seven miles from Lucknow, he found his little force of six hundred and thirty-six men and eleven guns in front of an enemy fifteen thousand strong, with six batteries of guns of various caliber, all ready to receive him. Before his force could recover their surprise the foe opened upon them, their cavalry quickly outflanking them, and it seemed for a while as though not a man could escape to tell the tale. But the brave handful of troops showed a bold front, charging with the bayonet when the enemy came near enough, yet unable to follow up their advantages. The native drivers of the British guns fled in terror, and their artillery was rendered nearly useless, and most of it fell into the hands of the foe. Colonel Case, at the head of his men, was struck by a bullet and dropped. Captain Bassano, seeing him fall, turned to assist him, but the dying hero waved him off, saying, “Captain Bassano, leave me to die here; your place is at the head of your company. I have no need of assistance.”

They now tried to return to Lucknow, but only about two hundred and thirty-four of their number reached the Residency; they saved only sixty-five of their wounded—the rest were all cut up.

The wonder is, that any one escaped. Had the rebel cavalry used its opportunity not a single man of Sir Henry Lawrence's force, or of the faithful natives he had with him, could ever have returned to the Residency.

This sad event of Chinhut caused Sir Henry Lawrence the deepest anguish, and it is thought tended to shorten his life. His face, already careworn enough to be remarkable, assumed a sad aspect that it was painful to contemplate. But he nerved himself to meet the stern realities of the position, and all allow that it was, under God, to his foresight and efforts that the Lucknow garrison held out to be at last relieved by Havelock. Those who had till this day remained outside the intrenchments had now to fly to the Residency, leaving houses and property unprotected, sacrificing every thing, and thinking only of saving their lives. The Residency became one scene of confusion—the women and children rushing to find a place of refuge from the relentless foe, who, flushed with victory, were approaching with flying colors and drums beating, confident of an easy triumph over the remnant that remained. Men, covered with blood, some with mangled limbs, their muscles contracted with agony, their faces pale, and bodies almost cold, others with the death-rattle in their throat, were brought in by their comrades and laid in rows in the banqueting hall, now turned into a hospital. The ladies crowded around them, fanned them, supplied temporary bandages, and showed as much solicitude for them as though they had been their own relatives, which was probably the case as to some of them. The surgeons were soon busy enough, cutting, probing, amputating, and bandaging. All the horrors of war were at once laid bare before the anxious crowd.

Every man, including the civilians—some of whom had never handled a musket before, but whom Sir Henry had armed—were now called out to defend the position, for the exultant enemy were pouring over the two bridges and up the streets to the very gates of the Residency, and getting their guns into position. The people of the city within range were flying, with their goods, out of the way of the expected bombardment, while both sides prepared for the

terrible and unequal conflict. The defenses of the Residency were hastily completed. Barricades were formed in all exposed situations, and it is marvelous to read the elements of which some of them were composed—mahogany tables and valuable furniture of all kinds, carriages and carts, the records of Government officers in large chests, boxes of stationery, and whatever could be laid hold of and piled up, to cover from the enemy's fire or stop a bullet. Even Captain Hayes's famous library, consisting of invaluable Oriental manuscripts, the standard literary and scientific works of European nations, and dictionaries of almost every language, were, for the nonce, converted into barricades.

These, with the other defenses which they had already prepared, were by no means strong, though the best they could extemporize. Their chief reliance was on the number of their guns, the quantity of their ammunition, and their owm courage, which they hoped the God of Hosts would crown with his blessing, till relief could reach them from Calcutta or from England.

Their enemies had taken possession of the houses deserted by the citizens, and were filling them with sharp-shooters, loop-holing the walls, and putting their numerous cannon in position all around the Residency, as near as they could come, a few of them being so close that they were not more than forty or fifty yards from the intrenchments around the buildings occupied by the Christians. This seems almost incredible, but I can vouch for its truthfulness from personal knowledge before the siege, and personal examination after it, while the battered and torn Residency is to-day its standing memorial. Each party spent a busy night, and next morning the iron messengers of death were flying back and forth in increasing numbers.

Let us pause here and note the respective strength of the parties in this fearfully unequal conflict, and the object for which each was about to fight. On the one side were part of an English regiment, one company of British artillery, a few hundred faithful Sepoys, with some English and European civilians; on the other, the whole army of Oude. But this fact is worthy of more detail.

The entire number now inside the Residency, including those holding the fort of the Muchee Bawun, near by, was as follows:

Men:	European soldiers	629
	European“ civilians	298
	Native soldiers	765
	⁠Total bearing arms	1,692
Women		240
Children		310
	⁠Total inside the Residency⁠	2,242

This includes the sick and wounded after the disastrous defeat at Chinhut.

Outside, their enemies swarmed around their position in such numbers that they have been variously computed at from 30,000 to 100,000 strong at different periods during the siege, with about one hundred guns bearing on the devoted Residency and its defenders.

But mere numbers do not give a sufficient idea of this dreadful contest. Many of those now within the Residency had fled there in such panic as to leave behind in their homes their provisions, money, and furniture, and were literally without a change of clothing, or a bed to lie down upon, or a knife and spoon with which to eat their scanty food. The hottest time of the year was upon them, with not the first of the appliances by which they had been accustomed to mitigate its rigor. Crowded into the narrowest space, most of them had to lie down on the ground, the heat, mosquitoes and effluvia being almost intolerable: the shot of the enemy, too, often came crashing through the walls, sprinkling them with the dust and mortar as it passed over them, while sometimes a fearful shell would explode in their midst, and kill or wound two or three or more of them. Alas! one hundred and forty-three days of such suffering lay before them now, during which time two fifths of their number were to die, and more than a thousand brave men would have to perish in order to save the remnant that was left!

The Residency itself, and a few houses around it—the homes of

the officers in the suite of the Governor—occupied an elevated plateau, with the city on three sides of it and the river Goomtee on the north. From the roof of the Residency the view was beautiful, extending over the city and surrounding country. The number and variety of the buildings, the gilded domes and cupolas, the elegant outlines of the palaces, all set in the deep green of the surrounding trees and gardens, together made up a scene of surpassing beauty; but no building could have been less calculated for purposes of defense. Its lofty windows, which had not been walled up, offered unopposed entrance to every bullet that came. The roof was wholly exposed. Below its ground floor the Residency had a spacious “Tyekhana”—underground rooms, used by people in India as a retreat from the heat and glare of the mid-day sun in the hot season, and as soon as the siege commenced the ladies and children were crowded into this splendid cellar, and had to remain there. The Banqueting Hall was turned into a hospital, and the upper rooms occupied by the soldiers. Altogether, in this one building there were from 800 to 1,000 persons. The remainder were placed in the houses around, or at the batteries, or where any shelter could be found.

Meanwhile the siege went on, and increased in its fierceness; closer and closer still was drawn the circle of guns around the position, and they were served with great ability. Every loop-hole made in the walls of the houses around had a sharp-shooter at it day and night, and the moment a head was exposed the rifle sent forth a leaden messenger of death. Sir Henry soon became convinced that he was too weak in numbers to think any longer of holding both the Muchee Bawun and the Residency. He saw that he would be overwhelmed in the assault which would probably follow this fierce bombardment, so he resolved to give up the Muchee Bawun and concentrate his whole force within the Residency. But how to effect the junction now, when the river side of the road the whole way to the Muchee Bawun was lined with the batteries and troops of the enemy, was a difficulty before which most men would have shrunk. Sir Henry, however, saw it must

be attempted, and every thing was done to carry it out. By telegraphic signals from the tower, shown in the picture, communications were at length established, and the order was transmitted to the commanding officer, “Blow up the fort and come to the Residency at twelve o'clock to-night. Bring your treasure and guns, and destroy the remainder.”

That night was anxiously looked for, and many an earnest prayer went up to God that every movement might be made safely and well, so that the retreat of the retiring force might not be intercepted. To distract the attention of the enemy the batteries opened fire, especially toward the iron bridge, by which the column must pass. The movement was most successfully accomplished, and so noiseless was the march, favored by the darkness, that the head of the column was at the Residency gate at fifteen minutes after twelve. There was a little delay here, as, not being so quickly expected, the gate had not been made ready. It was dark, and a very serious accident had almost occurred, for the leading men finding the gates closed, cried out, “Open the gates.” This the artillerists at the guns above, which covered the entrance, mistook for “open with grape.” They flew to their guns and rammed in the grape, when an officer rushed up and set them right. The whole force came in without a shot being fired by them or at them. The distance is fully one third of a mile, and the enemy was on their left hand, within fifty or sixty yards of them most of the way. The explosion had not yet occurred, the fuses having been left extra long to give time for the rear to be quite clear of danger; but soon a shake of the earth, a volume of fire, a terrific report, and an immense column of black smoke shooting high into the air, announced to Lucknow that the Muchee Bawun was no more. All the ammunition that they could not remove—two hundred and fifty barrels of powder and several millions of ball cartridge—was destroyed, together with the buildings and their contents. The shock resembled an earthquake.

How gladly the garrison greeted their comrades as they entered! The junction of the two forces was an incalculable gain, for the

additional men were actually required to man the defenses, and their safe arrival greatly cheered every person in the Residency. Strange things will occur in the most solemn circumstances. On calling their muster-roll they found one man was missing—an Irish soldier. He was given up as lost. The unfortunate fellow had been left behind in a state of intoxication. He was thrown into the air and returned again to mother earth unhurt, continued his drunken sleep, and awoke early next morning to find, to his astonishment, the fort all in ruins around him. He deliberately walked to the Residency, unmolested by any one. The men inside the Residency gate, just as day was breaking, were not a little surprised to hear a man outside sing out to them, with a rich Irish brogue, “Arrah, thin, open your gates!” Convulsed with laughter, they opened and let the poor fellow in. He was asked why he had left the fort, and with a look of wonder and simplicity answered, “Sure, an' I didn't see e'er a man in the place.”

Every one seemed to catch the spirit of the noble chief—Sir Henry's presence anywhere was like a re-enforcement. Day and night he was inspecting and encouraging the various posts, exposed to imminent danger all the while. From twelve to forty men were at each point or battery, with thousands of the blood-thirsty and blaspheming fanatics opposed to each set; but these outposts must be maintained, for if once in, the enemy never could have been turned out; every man, woman, and child would have been ruthlessly butchered; yet each party fought under the apprehension that others might be more hardly pressed than themselves, and occasionally the cry would be heard, “More men this way!” and off would run two or three, all that could be spared, till a similar cry was heard from another direction, when others would rush to that point to give assistance.

On July 4 the heaviest trial that could befall them occurred—their trusted and heroic commander was struck down. The Sepoys had found out what room Sir Henry Lawrence occupied—the one shown on the lower floor, right-hand side, in the picture, and they began to send shells into it. One of these entered and

exploded close to Sir Henry, tearing the thigh from his body, and mortally wounding him. He lingered for two days, and then departed as noble a spirit as ever animated human clay. He spent the conscious moments of these two days in directing and advising what should be done in carrying on the defense till succor should arrive. Frequently he would arouse himself, and exclaim to the mourning group around him, “Save the ladies!” and for their sakes he enjoined upon them, in view of what had been done at Delhi and Cawnpore, never to surrender! His last thoughts were given to those he loved so well, and to the Redeemer whom he had served for many years. He expressed his anxiety for the welfare of the “Lawrence Asylum”—a school which he had founded for the children of soldiers in India; sent affectionate messages to his children and to his brother, late Viceroy of India, and to his sisters; and spoke most affectionately of his wife, Lady Lawrence, who had died four years previously. He then earnestly pointed out to those around him the worthlessness of all human distinctions, recommending them to fix their thoughts upon a better world and try to gain it. He was prayed with, and received the holy sacrament, praising God, and expressing his perfect faith and reliance on his divine Saviour, and in this state of mind he passed out of that scene of conflict and confusion to that blessed clime where

“No rude alarm of raging foes,
No fears, shall break his long repose.”

Military honors marked not their respect for his remains. The times were too stern for such demonstrations. “By dead of night” a hurried prayer, amid the booming of the enemy's cannon and the fire of their musketry, was read over his corpse, and he was lowered into a pit, with several other, though lowlier, companions in arms, and there he sleeps behind the Residency, awaiting the resurrection of the just.

A feeling of despair for a few hours seemed to take possession of every man and woman, but they had to rouse themselves to meet the stern realities of their position. Darker and more

dreadful the days came on; yet still they fought and suffered. Their hopes of relief were still deferred, and their hearts were sick, while their foes grew stronger in numbers and determination to destroy them, and would frequently yell out, with fearful imprecations—for they were near enough to be heard—what they would do with them when they did get in. But the garrison were determined there should not be another Cawnpore. Sir Henry's injunction “never to surrender” was fully accepted. It is fearful to read their resolves should the worst come, and to find the ladies acquiescing; and even, in some cases, requiring an engagement from their husbands to fulfill those wishes rather than that they should fall into the hands of the Sepoys.

This awful alternative was actually taken by some of those who fell at Jansee. One lady in particular is mentioned, who pledged her husband, an English officer, that when death became inevitable, he was not to allow her to fall alive into the power of the Sepoys, but she was to die by a pistol-ball from his own hand. Sadly and reluctantly he gave the promise; and when the fearful hour came, and the enemy broke in upon them, she sprang to his side, and, with a last caress exclaimed, “Now, Charley, now—your promise!” He kissed her, put the pistol to her head, and then turned and sold his own life dearly to the wretches around him.

Such cases cannot be judged by ordinary rules. Those who entertained such thoughts were confronted by an Oriental foe, whose fiendish malice and cruelty to women and children are not known in civilized warfare. It is a matter of devout thankfulness that the Lucknow garrison were not reduced to this dreadful extremity. It would have clouded the bright record of their heroic endurance.

Space would fail to give even a brief outline of their sorrows during the next three months. Reduced to starvation allowances of the coarsest food, many of them clad in rags, and all crowded into the narrowest quarters, so that Mrs. Harris's Diary speaks of the ladies lying on the floor, “fitting into each other like bits in a puzzle, until the whole floor was full,” they still courageously endured.

And if this was the condition of those in health, what must have been the state of the sick and wounded! Small-pox, cholera, boils, dysentery, and malarious fever added their horrors to the situation, while the iron hail of death, mingling with the drenching rain of the monsoon, dropped upon them, so that by the first of August the deaths sometimes rose to twenty in a single day. During this period, and amid all this turmoil and sorrow, eight or ten little ones were born; and most of these “siege babies,” as they were called, actually lived through it all, and still survive, while many of the poor mothers sank under their privations. But the bereaved babies were cared for by the noble women around them. Daily the men fell in the presence of the enemy; and it is described as truly affecting to see how the list of newly-made widows increased in its number and sadness.

Food and clothing became painfully scarce, and now “money was despised for bread.” The effects, or little stores, of the officers killed were at once sold by auction to the survivors, and it is curious now to read the prices that were eagerly paid. A bottle of wine brought 70 rupees, (the rupee is 50 cents in gold;) a ham, 75 rupees; a bottle of honey, 45 rupees; a cake of chocolate, 30 rupees; a bottle of brandy, 140 rupees; a small fowl, bought by an officer for his sick wife, 20 rupees; two pounds of sugar brought 16 rupees, and other things in proportion. An old flannel shirt, that had seen hard service in the mines—which they had to dig to countermine the enemy—brought 45 rupees. The single suit with which many of them had to hurry into the Residency was being fast worn out, and the officers might have been seen wearing the most extraordinary costumes. Few had any semblance of a military uniform, and many were in shirts, trousers, and slippers only. One gallant civilian, having found an old billiard-table cloth, had contrived to make himself a kind of loose coat out of it. All carried muskets, and were accoutered like the soldiers.

While the feeble garrison were thus decreasing in numbers, their foes were augmenting their strength. The Talookdars (Barons) of Oude were sending their armed retainers to aid the Sepoys, till it

was thought that by the end of August there must have been as many as one hundred thousand men around the Residency. Their leaders were maddened by the continued and successful resistance of the English; and all that they could do to inspire their men, by fanaticism, bhang, (an intoxicating liquor,) and brave leading, were done to capture the position. They attempted to storm it several times. Three of these occasions are specially memorable; and it is perfectly amazing to read the stern, unconquerable resistance with which this handful of heroic men, behind their intrenchments, met and dashed back again that raging tide of fierce and blaspheming assailants. They would begin by exploding the mines which they had driven close up to or under the defenses, open with a fearful cannonade, and then swarm up to the breaches made. On July 20th the fight lasted from 9 A. M. to 4 P. M., with the broiling sun up to 140 degrees. At what cost these repulses must have been received may be understood by the fact, that the native report of the attempt to storm on the 10th of August admits a loss on their side of four hundred and seventy men killed and wounded on that day alone.

Lady Inglis, wife of the Commander, in her journal of this terrible day, while the poor ladies down in the Tyekhana trembled for the result, refers to the soothing influence of prayer, as she tried it there with that excited and terrified crowd of women. The effect, she says, was amazing; each of them seemed to rise above herself, and with calmness and true courage they awaited the result, realizing that, though the enemy was near, God himself was nearer still, and could preserve them. And he did preserve them.

It is described as one of the most affecting sights that ever was witnessed in a scene of battle to see how the wounded men acted on that day. Knowing the danger, and how their comrades were pressed, they insisted on leaving their beds in the hospital and being helped to the front. The poor fellows came staggering along to the scene of action, trembling with weakness and pale as death, some of them bleeding from their wounds, which reopened by the exertions they made. Those whose limbs were injured laid aside

their crutches and kneeled down, and fired as fast as they could out of the loop-holes; while others, who could not do this much, lay on their backs on the ground and loaded for those who were firing. With such endurance as this the fierce enemy was beaten back; and Asiatics were taught how Christian soldiers could fight and die when defending the lives and honor of Christian women. The storming over, the usual cannonade and musketry were resumed; but the garrison had become so used to danger and death, that by this time the balls would fall at their feet, or whiz past and graze their hair, frequently without causing any remark about their escapes—they were so common, yet so narrow. The very children began to act like soldiers, playing the mimic “game of war.” One urchin of five years was heard saying to another, “You fire round shot, and I'll return shell from my battery.” Another, getting into a rage with his playmates, exclaimed, “I hope you may be shot by the enemy!” Others, playing with grape instead of marbles, would say, “That's clean through his lungs,” or, “That wants more elevation.” These young scamps picked up all the expressions of the artillery, and made use of them at their games.

The peacock abounds in India, wild and “in all his glory.” On the 30th of June, during a lull in the firing, one of these magnificent birds flew near the Residency, perched on the ramparts, and there quietly plumed his feathers. The hungry men looked at him for awhile, and all felt what a welcome addition he would be to their scanty fare. They could easily have shot him, but they refrained; the beautiful creature seemed like an omen of coming liberty and peace, and he was allowed to remain unmolested as long as he liked.

To insult the garrison, the Sepoys would frequently send the regimental bands to the opposite banks of the river Goomtee, and have them perform the popular English airs that they used to play there for their officers in other days. With any thing but pleasant feelings, the garrison would have to listen to “The Standard Bearer's March,” “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” “See, the Conquering Hero Comes,” etc. The disloyal rascals had the

impudence always to finish the concert with the loyal air, “God Save the Queen.”

We pause here to consider what was being done, meanwhile, hundreds of miles away for their relief. The English authorities at Calcutta had become ere this fully aware of their danger, and were straining every nerve to send them assistance. But what could they do without men? Delhi had not a soldier to spare, nor had other points throughout the land where a few English troops were found. Relief must come from without, until the four tedious months rolled over that would bring it from England, twelve thousand miles away.

It was this terrible emergency that made the little force from the Persian Gulf so opportune in its arrival in June. Its saintly and gallant commander was General Havelock, whose portrait we here present.

Henry Havelock.
By permission of Bryan, Taylor & Co.

No account of the Sepoy Rebellion would be just or adequate that would fail to give him that prominence in its overthrow which Almighty God, in his wonderful providence, awarded him.

About a month after the battle of Waterloo Henry Havelock entered the English army as Second Lieutenant in the Rifle Brigade. In 1823 he was ordered to India, and it was while on his way there, on board the “General Kyd,” and chiefly through the instrumentality of Lieutenant James Gardner, that he was led to that full surrender of his heart and life to the Lord Jesus which he so consistently sustained through the evil and good report of the following forty-three years of his eventful military career. His consecration to God was so complete that a brother officer has testified of him that “he invariably secured two hours in the morning for reading the Scriptures and private prayer.” He did this even when campaigning; so that “if the march began at six o'clock, he rose at four; if at four, he rose at two.” He recognized the claims of God upon his money as well as his time, and from his conversion to the close of his career he devoted regularly one tenth of his income to the cause of God; so that he might be truly described, in the words applied to the Centurion of the Italian band at

Cesarea, as “a devout man, and one who prayed to God alway.” His talents were equally at the Lord's service, so that he was ever ready to visit the sick, to hold a prayer-meeting, to address an audience at a missionary or Bible meeting, while his efforts to lead the men whom he commanded to Christ, and to promote temperance and virtue among them, are well known to have been continued to the last, and to have been greatly owned of God.

Havelock was a Baptist by profession, but he would not be a close communionist. He loved all good men, and delighted to join with them in celebrating his Lord's death. In all his public acts, when he rose to eminence and command, his dispatches and orders acknowledged God, and he delighted to ascribe to him the victories that he was enabled to achieve. How touching are these, especially in his last campaign!

His life was one of continued exposure and hard service. In 1824 he fought under Sir Archibald Campbell in Burmah, where he had the satisfaction of assisting at the liberation of Dr and Mrs. Judson from the Emperor's cruel tyranny. It was then, in the midst of a serious military move, and when the corps ordered to occupy a most important point were found utterly incapable, from intoxication, to fulfill their duty, that his commander-in-chief paid him and his men that rough compliment—“Call out Havelock's saints; they are never drunk, and Havelock is always ready!” The “saints” and their leader promptly responded, the position was saved, and the enemy repulsed.

How he was esteemed by his men, for whose highest good he labored so earnestly, may be seen in the fact that when, in 1836, his house was accidentally burned with all its contents, the men of his regiment came in a body to him, begging him to allow each of them to devote one month's pay to help him to sustain the loss. He gratefully declined the aid pressed upon him, but what a satisfaction must it have been in showing the estimation in which these men held him. He might well offset any petty High Church hauteur which certain parties might affect toward him because he was a “Dissenter,” with this noble instance of the value in

which his character and services were held by those who best knew in what his Christianity consisted.

If the consideration intimated had any thing to do with the fact that he was allowed to serve his country twenty-three years as a subaltern before he was promoted to a captaincy, the narrow-minded bigots who did him the injustice are not to be envied now. When they shall have been long forgotten, the good soldier of Jesus Christ, whose advance they retarded, will be remembered and honored by gallant men and true women on both Continents.

In 1838 he took part in the invasion of Afghanistan, was at the storming of Ghuznee, at the forcing of the Khoord Cabool Pass, and aided in the memorable defense of Jellalabad, where he won his majority, and received the Cross of the Bath for conspicuous bravery. He took part in the forcing of the Khyber Pass, in the invasion of Kohistan, and in the battle of Muherajpore. He wrote the military memoirs of some of these great events, and was Persian interpreter to the Commander-in-chief. At Moodkee, in 1845, he had two horses shot under him, and another at the battle of Sabraon; became Military Secretary to the Commander-in-chief and Colonel; till at length, after twenty-six years of hard service, which bore heavily on a constitution not naturally strong, he was permitted to visit England to recruit that energy which would soon be required in circumstances of greater emergency than he or his country had ever seen in the East.

Divine Providence had thus trained him for the supreme duty of his life. In 1855 he was back in India, appointed Adjutant-General, and just entering his sixtieth year, and in January, 1857, was nominated in orders to command the second division of the army employed against Persia, under Lieutenant-General Sir James Outram, from whence he returned victorious. In the heart of Persia we find him writing to his beloved wife, (the daughter of Dr. Marshman, the well-known missionary:) “I have good troops and cannon under my command, but my trust is in the Lord Jesus, my tried and merciful friend! To him all power is intrusted in heaven and on earth.” He had to pass a fort here, his steamer

being crowded with his Highlanders, whom he made to lie down, while, Farragut-like, he took his station on the paddle-box, to aid as the emergency required. Though the bullets whizzed all around him he was untouched. After the victory was won, he writes: “I felt throughout that the Lord Jesus was at my side.”

The sympathy of this noble man with “the common people” is beautifully illustrated just here, when we find him engaged in writ- ins: a Ions: letter to a Christian soldier then in London, named Godfrey, who had formerly served under him, a letter from whom found him in Persia.

But now came the days when we needed him and his brave men, and a merciful Providence causes war to cease in Mohummera, and returns him to India on the very day before the Bareilly massacre. He is delayed by shipwreck, and by having to wait for his troops at Calcutta. The 78th Highlanders, 84th and 64th Queens', reach him at last, and, as no more can then be spared, save a few Sikhs, and notwithstanding that he must know that he had probably a heavier duty on his hands than any soldier of his race ever undertook, he shrinks not—but with the words to his wife, “May God give me wisdom and strength to fulfill the expectations of the Government, and restore tranquillity in the disturbed provinces,” he sets out on his last eventful campaign, to find a grave at its close, but realizing all through it, ay, and at the end as well, that “the Lord Jesus was at his side!”

With only fourteen hundred British bayonets and eight guns, united to less than three hundred Sikhs and thirty irregular cavalry, he sublimely writes in starting: “I march to-morrow to endeavor to retake Cawnpore and rescue Lucknow!” He was to do this through a country swarming with Sepoy troops, who had been well disciplined and armed by Englishmen, and to do it, too, at that season of the year when the rains fall fast and frequently, and the flat country is inundated, and the sun pours down its rays like fire, till the thermometer stands at one hundred and thirty-eight degrees—to do it all with a poorly-supplied commissariat, with few tents, and little shelter. Were ever such results

sought by such means under such circumstances? But they were the best the times admitted, and knowing the danger of delay for the precious lives at Cawnpore and Lucknow, he would take them, and trust Him for the results who can save by few as by many.

At Futtypore he was confronted by thirty-five hundred rebels—two regiments being cavalry and three infantry—with twelve guns His men had just finished their march under a broiling sun that forenoon, when the Sepoys bore down upon him, confident of an easy triumph. But in four hours Havelock had his victory, with eleven of the rebel guns, their ammunition and baggage, as the trophies of it in his hands. In his General Order he ascribes his triumph “to the power of the Enfield rifle in British hands, to British pluck, and to the blessing of Almighty God on a most righteous cause—the cause of justice, humanity, truth, and good government in India.” This conflict occurred on the 12th of July—the anniversary of the battle of the Boyne, as noticed by the General. He also notes that one of the infantry regiments opposed to him was the 56th, the very regiment which he himself led at the battle of Maharajpore a few years previously! He challenged them in particular, and was exultant over their defeat; yet adds in his letter, “But away with vain-glory! Thanks to Almighty God, who gave me the victory!” Such was the man, and such the heroes whom he led, who were thus fighting their way up to our relief against such fearful odds.

It was near Futtypore, and about one day before the battle, that Joel met this force. His party had slept, the night before in Judge Tucker's house, as narrated in his letter. That gentleman's death was avenged before the General left Futtypore. On the day of the rising in May, Judge Tucker refused to desert his post, hoping to preserve the peace by the assistance of his subordinate, Hikrimtoolah Khan, the Deputy Collector. But, like Khan Bahadar, this man proved a cruel traitor. He himself led on the mob which surrounded the Judge's house. Hikrimtoolah proposed to try him, but the stern Judge would not surrender. Sixteen of his assailants fell by his hand ere this brave man was overpowered. At length

Hikrimtoolah had him at his disposal, and, taking off his hands, feet, and head, he held them up before the mob as trophies. All this was known; for evidence of native Christians, and others who fled, was taken on oath, and was already on file in Havelock's hands. Instead of keeping out of the way, Hikrimtoolah, with consummate hypocrisy, supposing his deed unknown to the General, came out to congratulate Havelock on his victory. He was at once arrested, the evidence of his guilt was found to be conclusive, and he was executed on the spot.

At Aong and Pandoo Nuddee Havelock was again victorious. This latter action brought him within a few miles of Cawnpore. Intelligence of the defeat of his Sepoy forces reached the Nana Sahib on the night of the 15th of July, and was immediately followed by the massacre of the ladies, already described.

The weary soldiers were aroused by the bugle-blast long before daylight on the morning of the 16th. They had that day to meet the sternest resistance they had ever yet encountered, for the whole force of the Nana Sahib, who commanded in person, lay between them and Cawnpore, where they hoped to find alive, and still holding out, the noble men they were marching and fighting so hard to save. The foe was met strongly intrenched at Ahirwa, and they fought like furies for two hours and twenty minutes, with every advantage in their favor. The British charge that day is described by those who witnessed it as one of the most sublime illustrations of the power of discipline that was ever witnessed. That little force of thirteen hundred men moved up, steady and silent as a wall, to conquer or to die, amid those crashing shells and volleys of musketry; and the heart of the foe died within him, and his fire became hasty and ill-directed, as the sheen of the British bayonets became ominously distinct, till, within one hundred yards, they delivered their fire, and with a cheer dashed through their own smoke at the enemy. Then each rebel thought only of himself. These humbled Brahmins dropped their weapons, stripped off their packs, and spurred and ran for dear life back to the city of their hideous crime, leaving all their guns in Havelock's hands. He lost one

hundred of his small force in this fierce contest. It is believed that “in no action ever fought was the superior power of arrangement, moral force, personal daring, and physical strength of the European over the Asiatic more apparent” than in this case, for the rebels fought hard and well, but they had met far more than their match, and were terribly beaten. Thus, between the 7th and 16th of July, Havelock's men had marched one hundred and twenty-six miles, under an Indian sun, alternated with tropical rains; had fought four battles, and captured forty-four guns; yet their labors and sufferings were only beginning. Still their General trusted in God, and held that his soldiers' discipline was equal to their valor, and he resolved to push on and finish the work that was given them to do.

The wounded are gathered and cared for, the dead buried, and the weary heroes lie down on the soaking earth to rest and dream of the deliverance they will surely bring to-morrow to their beleaguered friends in Cawnpore. In the middle of the night a crash that shook the ground beneath awoke them—Nana Sahib had blown up the Cawnpore magazine. On the morning of the 17th the British marched into Cawnpore. A Eurasian with whom I am well acquainted, a Mr. Shepherd—the only living Christian in the district, and who escaped as by a miracle—rushed out from his hiding-place and joined them; he told them all, and led them to the house of blood! These men, who had charged to the cannon's mouth on the preceding day, sank down on the ground and wept like children at this spectacle of crime and suffering. Havelock's feelings of grief were inexpressible. Nana Sahib's butcheries were evidently a defiant challenge to a conflict of absolute extermination on the one side or the other: none could misunderstand his purpose.

Resting his weary and sorrowful troops for that day, on the 19th Havelock marched against Bithoor. But Nana Sahib had fled and crossed the Ganges, to get between Havelock and Lucknow, so as at least to delay his march till the Sepoys there could have time to copy the hideous infamy of which he had given them the example.

On the 20th General Neill, at Havelock's urgent request, had

joined him from Allahabad with every available man—only two hundred and seventy of the Fusileers in all. Leaving Neill at Cawnpore with a few soldiers, Havelock, strong in hope that he should yet be in time to save the Lucknow garrison, crossed the Ganges on the 21st with his gallant fifteen hundred men, and began his first march for their relief. He fought two battles and gained two victories at Onao and Busserut Gunge in one day. But at this season the rains deluge the whole face of the country, which is quite flat between the two cities. There is only one road for that forty-three miles, and his foes, recruited from Lucknow, were swelled to ten or fifteen thousand men, with ample artillery and cavalry. Havelock had lost many of his officers and men. The gallant Renaud was killed; Beatson had died of cholera; disease and sun-stroke were busy in his ranks; and the great and good man was compelled, with a sad heart, to come to the conclusion that he must return nearer to Cawnpore, and wait for reinforcements, ere he could venture to resume his march. To persevere now would be certain destruction. So he returned to Munghowur, sent his sick and wounded to Cawnpore, and corresponded with Calcutta and Allahabad, entreating for help.

All this time he was trying to communicate with Lucknow, by hiring faithful natives to venture to carry letters to the garrison. Three of his missives did reach them—short, written in Greek, and inclosed in a quill, which the messenger could conceal in his mouth when liable to be searched by the rebel police and others. He had the satisfaction of receiving two replies from them, telling him of their condition and how they looked for his arrival. They little imagined with how small a force, and under what disadvantages, he was trying to reach them, for he made light of his obstacles, and wrote cheerfully of his hopes.

Neill sent out to him every available soldier that could then be obtained; and with fourteen hundred healthy men Havelock commenced his second march to relieve Lucknow on the 4th of August. The enemy had taken up a strong position on their old ground, at Busserut Gunge. The Sepoys, in great force and well posted, had the

town for their second line of defense. The country on either side of the road was little better than a lake; so, as it was impossible for Havelock to turn the position, he had to advance along the road which they so completely commanded, to drive them from their position. But he did this, and gained the town, and drove the rebels through and beyond it. He had only a handful of cavalry to follow up his advantage. This was his seventh victory.

But now appeared an invisible foe whom he could not conquer. The terrible Asiatic cholera broke out among his men, and he was in the field, exposed to the elements, and surrounded by swamps and malaria. He had, therefore, to retreat again, not from the face of man, but from the fearful pestilence. He retired upon Munghowur, which was on rising ground, and here he wrote one of his last letters to Mrs. Havelock, evidently fully conscious of the emergencies of his position, and says: “I have every-where beaten my foes, but things are in a most perilous state. If we succeed in restoring any thing, it will be by God's especial and extraordinary mercy. I must now write as one whom you may see no more, for the chances of war are heavy at this crisis. Thank God for my hope in the Saviour! We shall meet in heaven.”

What the Duke of Wellington said of a soldier whom he saw turn pale as he looked at the fearful breach which he was mounting up to storm—“There is a brave man; he sees his danger, and yet he faces it”—might with every propriety be said of this warrior and his men. They were fully sensible of their risks, and yet they gallantly faced them. What would four or five thousand men have been to Havelock then! But help was far away. A few hundreds were struggling up to him from Calcutta, but the forces he needed were tossing on the billows off the Cape of Good Hope, while twenty thousand Sepoys, well provisioned, and in splendid condition, lay extended across the road by which he wanted to march to the relief of the beleaguered garrison in the Residency. He had lost one hundred and forty men out of a thousand, and was but ten miles on his road to Lucknow. He evidently had no alternative but to go back to Cawnpore and wait for help. On the thirteenth

he recrossed the Ganges, and here the additional danger of his position broke upon him. Nana Sahib had recrossed the river before him and was threatening Cawnpore, and also his communications with Allahabad, while Neill and his little force were on the brink of destruction. He soon retrieved the state of affairs, fighting another well-contested battle, and scattering the rebel hosts to the winds.

Himself and men were now doomed to a brief term of enforced rest, which they greatly needed ere they entered upon their last great struggle. On the 15th of September came some of the help for which he had so longed, for Lieutenant-General Sir James Outram, with two thousand men, reached Cawnpore that day. General Outram could, in view of his superior rank, have at once assumed command; but, with a magnanimity as rare as it was generous, he waived his right, that he might gratify and honor the noble man whose devotion and gallantry he so highly appreciated. He therefore issued his divisional order on the night of the 16th, saying, “The important duty of first relieving Lucknow has been intrusted to Major-General Havelock, and General Outram feels that it is due to this distinguished officer, and the strenuous and noble exertions which he has already made to effect that object, that to him should accrue the honor of the achievement. General Outram is confident that the great end for which General Havelock and his brave troops have so long and gloriously fought will now, under the blessing of Providence, be accomplished. The General, therefore, in gratitude for, and admiration of, the brilliant deeds in arms achieved by General Havelock and his gallant troops, will cheerfully waive his rank on the occasion, and will accompany the force to Lucknow in his civil capacity as Chief Commissioner of Oude, tendering his military services to General Havelock as a volunteer.”

Havelock gratefully and publicly acknowledged this generous and noble conduct of his chief, and, with renewed hope, prepared for the great task before him. The first letter of Havelock's that the garrison in the Residency received was on the 24th of July,

promising, as the writer fondly hoped, relief in a few days; but it was not till the 29th of August that they understood the reasons of his delay, and now, nearly a month later still, he was at length to inform them in person what he had endured in order to reach them, and why he could not do so at an earlier day.

On the 20th of September Havelock again crossed the Ganges with 3,179 men, composed of the 78th and 91st Highlanders, the 64th and 84th, and the 1st and 5th Fusileers, a regiment of Sikhs, and 168 volunteer cavalry. No greater work was ever accomplished by military skill and daring than the relief of the Lucknow garrison by this handful of men.

The faithful native messenger, Ungud, again reached his camp, and was at once dispatched to give the final assurance to the garrison that he was at last really coming, and that, God helping him, they should be relieved within three or four days. This glad news reached them on the 22d of September, and raised the drooping spirits of all. How fervently they prayed, and how anxiously they watched, during the three following days, trembling to think how many precious lives of their approaching friends would have to be sacrificed in order to rescue them!

General Havelock had to fight two battles more between Cawnpore and Lucknow, but these he fought and won. Within five miles of the city they could hear the artillery booming around the Residency of Lucknow, and the General ordered a royal salute to be fired from his heaviest guns, in the hope that his beleaguered friends might hear the report and understand its import—that deliverance was drawing nigh.

Their beaten foes fell back on their strong city, about two miles of which Havelock's men must fight their way through, ere they could reach the Residency. Every inch of ground was disputed; palisades and barricades had to be taken at the point of the bayonet. The flat-roofed houses had been furnished with mud-walls on the top, on the street side, pierced for musketry, where the Sepoys could fire on the men in the narrow streets without exposing their own persons, thus doing dreadful execution. No words can do

justice to that march of fire and death. “Broad, deep trenches had been cut across the road, fitted with every kind of obstruction. Each inch of the way was covered point-blank by unseen marksmen; at every turn heavy artillery belched forth its fiery breath of grape and canister. Above, below, on all sides, crowds of human tigers glared from housetop and loop-holed casement upon the intrepid band, while, as they turned the corners which open upon the squares of the palace, surrounded by high walls, they had to encounter from many thousand rifles an iron hurricane of destruction and death.” A bullet here strikes General Neill, and he falls to rise no more. But the brave men and their gallant leaders move steadily on, capturing guns and positions, till they reach the Kaiser Bagh—the King's Palace Garden—which they also capture. And here they try to collect and secure their wounded, and rest for the night, for they can go no farther. Alas! many of their wounded, about whom they are so anxious, fell into the hands of the cruel enemy, the fate of some of whom was dreadful. They were collected early in the night by these barbarians into one of the squares, and were there actually burned to death in the doolies, or hospital litters, in which they lay.

Early the next day the troops resumed their terrible task. A long reach of the city still separated them from the Residency. Strong positions and lengthy streets must be won ere they are heard or seen by their anxious friends there. The distance has often been walked over in twenty minutes by the writer, but it took these brave men more than twelve hours of the fiercest fighting to accomplish it that day. This was the 25th of September. One of the staff thus describes what followed: “About eleven o'clock A. M. the people in the Residency could distinctly perceive an increased agitation in the center of the city, with the sound of musketry and the smoke of guns. All the garrison was upon the alert, and the excitement among many of the officers and soldiers was quite painful to witness. About half past one P. M. they could see many of the people of the city leaving it on the north side across the bridges, with bundles of clothes, etc., on their heads.

Still their deliverers were not yet visible. At four P. M. a report spread that some of them could be seen, but for a full hour later nothing definite could be made out. At five o'clock volleys of musketry, rapidly growing louder and nearer, were heard, and soon the peculiar ring of a Minié ball over their heads told them their friends could be only a gun-shot from them now. They could see the Sepoys firing heavily on them from the tops of the houses, but the smoke concealed them. Five minutes later and the English troops emerged where they could actually be seen, fighting their way up the street, and though some fell at every step, yet nothing could withstand the headlong gallantry of the men. The 78th Highlanders were in front, led in person by General Havelock. Once fairly seen, all doubts and fears regarding them were ended, and then the garrison's long pent-up feeling of anxiety and suspense burst forth in a succession of deafening cheers. From every pit, trench, and battery—from behind the sand-bags piled on shattered houses—from every post still held by a few gallant spirits—rose cheer on cheer, even from the hospital. Many of the wounded crawled forth to join in the glad shout of welcome to those who had so bravely come to their assistance. It was a moment never to be forgotten.”

The shouting made the ladies rush out from the Tyekanahs, just in time to witness the Highlanders and Havelock, having borne down all before them, reach the Residency. The enthusiasm with which they were greeted baffles all description—tears, hurrahs, every evidence of relief and joy, as they welcomed Havelock and the gallant men who had come in time to save them. Our picture but feebly depicts this thrilling scene, yet the heart of every humane person will easily imagine all that pen or pencil fails to portray.

The Relief of Lucknow by General Havelock.

Soon the whole place was filled, the Highlanders shaking hands frantically with every body, and then these great, big, rough-bearded men, black with powder and mud, seized the little children out of the ladies' arms, and were kissing them, and passing them from one to another, with tears rolling down their cheeks,

thanking God that they had come in time to save them from the fate of those at Cawnpore.

For eighty-seven days the Lucknow garrison had lived in utter ignorance of all that had taken place outside. Wives, who had long mourned their husbands as dead, were now suddenly restored to them—some of them had come as volunteer cavalry with Havelock—and others, looking fondly forward to glad meetings with those near and dear to them, now for the first time learned that they were alone in the world. On all sides eager inquiries for relations and friends were made. Alas! in too many instances the answer was a painful one. Sleep was out of the question, and the morning dawned upon the inquirers still asking for more information.

It is excusable that you find them recording now, amid this joy of their rescue, as they realized the success of their protracted struggle, the proud consciousness of the defense that they had made against such fearful odds, in preserving not only their own lives, but the honor and lives of the ladies and children intrusted to their keeping. Now they learned at last that they had not been forgotten. They were told what sympathy their fearful position had awakened in all noble hearts in England and America, and throughout the civilized world. The general order issued next day, in eloquent and beautiful terms, gave them official assurance of all this.

“Havelock's hundred days” were ended in success, and that brave heart glowed with gratitude for the wonderful mercy that had helped him thus to struggle on to the end through the terrible tide of battle, disease, and death, to insure their safety. Now that it was accomplished, he acknowledged the divine help in the words of the Hebrew warrior: “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto thy name give glory.”

His gallant friend General Outram here assumed command, and in his dispatch he refers specially to a fact which shows that a delay of forty-eight hours more might have involved the destruction of all in the Residency. He writes: “We found that they

(the Sepoys) had completed six mines in the most artistic manner—one of them from a distance of two hundred feet under our principal defensive works, which were ready for loading, and the firing of which must have placed the garrison entirely at their mercy. The delay of another day, therefore, might have sealed their fate.” So near, apparently, did they come to being made another “Cawnpore.”

The few native troops that had nobly and faithfully stood by them were well honored and rewarded. Ungud, their valiant messenger, received five hundred rupees for each letter he carried, quite a fortune for the worthy native. The spirit of these brave Sepoys, who had so long resisted unto blood, “faithful among the faithless,” may be illustrated by a sad but touching incident, related by Mr. Rees, and which occurred at the entrance of the 78th Highlanders on the day of the relief. Coming with a rush on the Bailey Guard outposts, defended by the faithful Sepoys, and not knowing it to be within the Residency inclosure, or that these Sepoys were faithful, the Highlanders stormed it, and bayoneted three of the men, whom they mistook for rebels. The men never resisted, and when explanations ensued, and regret was expressed, one of them waved his hand, and crying, “Kootch purwanni—Never mind—it is all for the good cause; welcome, friends!” he fell and expired.

General Havelock was too weak in men to attempt to bring out the garrison; he had to remain shut up with them till the Commander-in-chief, Sir Colin Campbell, came to their assistance on the 22d of November. The Sepoys still kept up their cannonade, but at a more respectful distance, and the ladies no longer feared either storm or capture. But Havelock's vigor was now unmistakably on the wane. Symptoms of serious illness were developing. By the effort of a strong will he tried to think lightly of them, and was still actively engaged day and night; but a “reduced ration of artillery bullock beef, chuppaties and rice” was poor nourishment for an invalid who had not even a change of clothing for the following forty days, the baggage being four miles off at the

Alumbagh. Bread, tea, coffee, sugar, soap, and all such articles, were then unknown luxuries there. The wretches outside still sustained their incessant din of shells and bullets, and raged in tens of thousands in the streets and occupied the buildings which all around commanded the Residency. They were as resolved as ever to destroy the garrison, while they must have been well aware that it could never escape from that position unless relieved by a powerful English army.

But that army, though not large in numbers, was now on its way. Sir Colin Campbell had landed at Calcutta, and with the first five thousand men that arrived he started for Lucknow.

On the 16th of November Sir Colin approached the city. Avoiding the crowded and barricaded streets, he took a course around by the Royal Park on the east, and, being on rising ground, his force, as they fought the enemy, could be seen from the Residency. They were sternly resisted the whole day. The garrison eagerly watched the conflict. One person was most conspicuous; he was mounted on a white horse, and seemed to be everywhere. They all felt very anxious for this person, for they guessed, and rightly too, that he was the Commander-in-chief. He advanced upon the Residency by the Dilkoosha and Martiniere and the line of palaces; but it required three days of fighting for him to accomplish his purpose. How fierce that fighting was may be imagined from a single item in the Commander-in-chief's dispatch, wherein he says that within the limits of a single building, the Secunderbagh, and its garden, the bodies of two thousand Sepoys were counted.

As soon as they left the Park and entered the city they were of course hidden from view, and terrible was the anxiety within the Residency for their success, and even their fate, as hour after hour went over, and the second, and even the third, day came and yet they could not see them. Nothing was known of them but the noise of the firing, the shouting, and the smoke of battle; still they felt that they must be coming nearer to them, for these sounds gradually became more distinct. This was the moment

chosen for that imposition upon the sympathies of the world, the story of “Jessie Brown” and her “Dinna ye hear the slogan?” The heroine and the incident are alike fictitious; but what a wide currency the story obtained! Martin ascertained that it was originally a little romance, written by a French governess for the use of her pupils, which found its way into the Paris papers, thence to the Jersey Times, thence to the London Times, (December 12, 1857,) and afterward appeared in many of the English and American papers, and is to this day quoted as authentic. Yet the incident had some foundation in fact, though not in the form in which the poet has presented it. The bagpipes were heard certainly, but not till the Highlander who played them had got into the Residency; he was in among the first. The inspiration of the welcome set him going. As each party of the brave deliverers poured in they were greeted with loud hurrahs, which each garrison in the intrenchments would catch up, and so the cheers ran the rounds, and rose one wondrous shout to heaven. He who bore the bagpipes worked his way into this exulting mass of men, women, and children, and as he strode up and down and around the Residency he gave forth pæns of triumph in the shrill and joyous notes of his instrument, adding, of course, to the enthusiasm, and calling forth ardent repetitions of the wild delight of the occasion. Music never did more for the anxious human heart than was effected in that hour by those simple bagpipes. The sorrowful sighing of these prisoners of hope was suddenly turned into the joyous sense of deliverance; and it was fitting that Scotland's music should first thrill those hearts that Scotland's sons had been foremost to save.

On the evening of the 17th the army of the Commander-in-chief had fought their way near enough for the garrison to co-operate with his fire and attempt a junction. Notwithstanding the balls were still flying, Havelock and Outram rode forth to meet their deliverer. And what a meeting was that! The Scottish Chief, Sir Colin, grim with the smoke and dust of battle, “the good Sir James,” as Outram was called, and the dying Havelock, with their

respective staffs around them, met opposite the king's palace gate, about four hundred yards in front of the battered Residency, and there stood, hand grasped in hand, amid the roar of the cannon and the loud, glad cheers of their troops! Mansfield was there, and Hope Grant, and gallant Peel, with Norman, Ewart, Greathed, Sir David Baird, Adrian Hope, Gough, the Allisons, and scores of others, who had fought and suffered bravely to see that hour. All were in a tumult of joyous excitement. England has tried to do justice to that great meeting by a magnificent picture of the scene. But how significant of their toils and dangers is the reflection that of the names I have mentioned all but about two of this group of Christian knights are in their graves to-day! Campbell and Outram rest in Westminster Abbey, Havelock lies in the lonely Alumbagh, (he ought to sleep with his illustrious comrades,) and half the others repose beneath India's soil, on subsequent battle-fields, which had to be fought ere complete peace was conquered.

The relief of the Residency was at once followed by its evacuation. The women and children required to be promptly removed from danger to a place of safety; and, as this must be accomplished without risk to any of them, the intention had to be entirely disguised from the enemy, fifty thousand strong around them. The Commander-in-chief considerately intrusted the arrangement of this honorable duty to General Havelock; it was the last service he would ever render, and most efficiently was it performed. The whole force was admirably handled, the fire of the Residency being sustained, and even their lights left burning till sunrise. At midnight of the 22d all was ready, and along a narrow, tortuous lane, (the only possible path,) protected on both sides by the outposts, which, as the last of the column passed, were quietly withdrawn, “the pickets fell back through the supports; the supports glided away through the intervals of the reserve; the reserve, including the Commander-in-chief, silently defiled into the lane; while the enemy, seeing the lights and fires burning, thought the Residency still occupied, and kept up on the south and west sides

their usually desultory night-firing.” Not a single mishap occurred, and, to the delight of their deliverers, not one soul that had left the Residency that dark night was missing, as the garrison, with the four hundred and seventy-nine ladies and children, found themselves at sunrise on the morning of the 23d safe in the center of the whole English force, camped in the Dilkoosha Park, while the Residency, five miles away, the prison of their long agony, could be seen in the distance, swarming all over with the enraged Sepoys, who had just discovered, with the daylight, how completely they had been out-generaled!

The fresh air and green fields, the bread, butter, and milk, and clean table-cloths, and other comforts, which for many months they had not seen or tasted, are described as almost bewildering to the poor ladies and children, while the grateful hearts and tearful eyes of the officers who waited upon them so tenderly was a homage to their worth and sufferings which must have been very cheering to them. They were safe and well protected now.

But, in a tent near by, the noble man who had so uncomplainingly endured more than his enfeebled health could bear, was sinking, now that his great work for them was done. He had been helped off his horse and laid in a dooley. General Havelock was seriously unwell. His gallant son, with one wounded arm hung in a sling, was sitting by his cot, reading the Holy Scriptures and praying with his father. He was full of gratitude for the rescue so gloriously accomplished, and had accepted with becoming modesty the marked attention paid to him on all sides. He had also just heard of the gratitude of his country, the thanks of his Queen, for his noble services, and the fact that she had made him a Baronet, with a pension of £1,000 per year. But he had higher honor and reward than this awaiting him, and in a few hours was to pass away to its enjoyment. His disease was dysentery, which had been for several days aggravated by the “bread want,” so severely felt at the Residency. Every thing that medical science and human sympathy could effect was now done, but all in vain; there was no remnant of strength to fall back upon, and the complaint had

assumed its malignant form. He realized that his hour had come, and his work was done, and that now he had nothing more to do but to die. For that, too, he was ready. “The Resurrection and the Life” was beside him in that little tent, ready to pass with him through the valley and shadow of death. He feared no evil. Messages to his dear ones were delivered, and his last thoughts were given to the Redeemer, whom he had served and loved so long. He would say, and repeat it, “I die happy and contented!” To his eldest son, who waited upon him with such tenderness and loving attention, (though himself a wounded man and needing care,) he exclaimed, “My son, see how a Christian can die!”

General Outram, his illustrious comrade, asked to be permitted to see him. They had confronted danger together on many a hard-fought field, and death in all its reality was to be faced now. The Christian warrior looked up into the kindly, sympathetic countenance of his visitor, and said to him, “Sir James, for more than forty years I have so ruled my life that when death came I might face it without fear.” Then pausing, as he realized that death had come, he added: “So be it. I am not in the least afraid. To die is gain!”

On the evening of the 24th he “departed to be with Christ,” realizing the literal truthfulness of the favorite lines,

“My body with my charge lay down,
And cease at once to work and live.”

He was buried amid the tears of those he saved, and his companions in arms, on the following day, in the Alumbagh, five miles on the Cawnpore side of Lucknow.

“There rest thee, Christian warrior, rest from the twofold strife:
The battle-field of India, the battle-field of life!
⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*
Victorious first at Futtypore, victorious at Lucknow,
The gallant chief of gallant men is more than conqueror now.”

We cannot conclude without referring to the loss of the garrison and the cost of their rescue. Of the 1,692 fighting men in the Residency on the 29th of June, the loss was 713—including 49

officers—when they were finally relieved. To these are to be added 19 ladies and 53 children killed, besides those wounded. Of General Havelock's force of 3,179 men, the total killed and wounded, besides 76 officers, was 966, nearly a third of his force. The Commander-in-chief had 45 officers and 536 men killed and wounded; so that the total casualties to rescue the Lucknow garrison amount to 121 officers and 1,490 men. Adding the loss of the garrison, the entire number of killed and wounded was 170 officers, and 2,203 men.

The ladies and children were safely escorted to Cawnpore, and thence to Allahabad. Word had been telegraphed in advance of their coming, and the whole city seemed to turn out and welcome them. Government officials, troops, natives, every body wanted to see and greet the ladies of the Lucknow garrison, for whose safety they had so long trembled.

At length the train rolled into the station, and the thundering cheers that greeted them, and were over and over again repeated, was a welcome that few have ever received. They stepped out of the carriages, and the haggard, pale faces of many of them, with their evidence of suffering and their scanty raiment, all told a tale that brought the tears to many an eye. As the last of these brave women passed out of the station, and the sympathizing crowd dried their tears and looked after them, their pent-up feelings found expression in response to an English soldier, who was holding on to a lamp-post, as, flinging his cap into the air, he sung out at the top of his voice, “One cheer more for our women, boys!” On the following day they went in a body to the church in Allahabad, and there returned thanks publicly to Almighty God for their most merciful preservation and rescue.