THE LION HEARTS.
With the booming of that gun, as the terrible day dawned on Cawnpore, there commenced a siege that, for horror and misery, has never been exceeded in the history of the world.
It was the month of June. The heat was terrific. The cloudless sky was like a canopy of fire. What little wind there was came like the blast from a glowing furnace. The tubes of the guns grew so hot in the sun’s rays that it was impossible to touch them with the hand. Behind the entrenchments were a heroic band of men—a mere handful—and with them nearly two hundred women and children.
It was for the sake of these dear ones that every man braced himself up to fight against those fearful odds, until he fell dead at his post. Not a craven heart beat in any breast there. Every person knew that the case was hopeless—that to hold out was but to prolong the agony. But “surrender” was a word no one would breathe.
For days and days went on the awful siege. The defenders, weary, overworked and starving, laboured, with the might of giants, in the trenches. The clothes rotted from their backs, and the grime from the guns caked hard and black upon their faces and hands. But, with dauntless courage, they served the guns, and this always under a tremendous fire, from which they were barely screened.
Where all were heroes, comparisons would be invidious indeed, and yet there were some whose names are indelibly written upon the scroll of fame, for the conspicuous manner in which they displayed their heroism.
Captain Moore was one of these. He was wounded at the very commencement of the siege—his arm was broken. But it could not break his spirit! He went about with the fractured limb in a sling. No toil seemed to weary him—no danger could daunt him. Day and night he laboured; encouraging the women, cheering the children. Now serving a gun—now heading a desperate sortie against the enemy. As a companion with him was Captain Jenkins of the 2nd Cavalry. He held the outposts beyond the trenches. Over and over again did the enemy try to dislodge him, but failed each time. At length a treacherous Sepoy, who had been feigning death, raised his gun and fired. The jawbone of the brave Jenkins was smashed, and he died an agonising death.
One day a red-hot shot from the enemy’s battery blew up a tumbrel and set fire to the woodwork of the carriage. A large quantity of ammunition was stored close by. If this caught fire the whole place, and every soul in it, would meet with instant destruction. It seemed as if nothing but a miracle could save them, for there was no water—nothing to extinguish the flames. But the miracle suddenly appeared in the person of a young hero; his name was Delafosse. A deadly stream of eighteen-pound shot was poured upon the spot by the besiegers, but, unmoved by this, Delafosse flung himself upon the ground beneath the blazing wood, which he tore off with his hands, and then stifled out the fire with dry earth. Such a cheer rose from the throats of the British at this heroic deed, that it must have sent terror to the hearts of the cruel and cowardly enemy.
Then upon a projection of the barrack wall there was perched young Stirling, known as the “dead-shot,” from his unerring aim. Day after day he sat on his perch and picked off single Sepoys. And the list would be incomplete without mention of the brave Scotchman, Jervis; he was an engineer. He was out in the open compound one day, and with the indomitable pride of race, refused to run from a black fellow, so he fell shot through the heart.
If midst our tears we sing a pæan in honour of these hero-martyrs, the wives and daughters of the fighting men of Cawnpore must go down to posterity as an example of all that women should be—noble, patient, uncomplaining.
Poets have sung how the women of old turned their hair into bow-strings, that their men might fight the enemy. Those Cawnpore women would have done the same, if it had been needed. And they did do an equivalent. When the canister could not be rammed home, owing to the damage done to the guns by the enemy’s fire, these noble women took off their stockings. These were filled with the contents of the shot-cases, and it is probably the only time that such cartridges were used.
The days lengthened into weeks, but still these lion hearts could not be quelled. Sadly reduced were their ranks by death; for what the enemy’s fire failed to do, privations and sickness completed.
One of the greatest wants felt was that of water. The small quantity in store when the siege began was soon exhausted, and the only supply to be obtained was from a small well that stood in the open compound. The cruel enemy knew this, and they kept guns pointed, and special marksmen for that particular spot. To go for water was to go to almost certain death. And yet every morning men were found who volunteered for the awful work, until around the well there grew up a pile of dead, where they were obliged to be left, for there was nowhere to bury them.
At last came one of the heaviest blows that had fallen upon the garrison. The barrack with the thatched roof was burnt down; it had enjoyed an immunity from this long-expected disaster, but the fatal shot came one day that set it on fire. How the fiendish hearts of the coward mutineers beat with joy as they saw the flames leap into the air! It was a terrible disaster for the noble defenders, as many of the women and children had to lie upon the bare ground without any shelter from the dews by night or the sun by day.
Matters had grown desperate enough now. The food was all but done; the well was all but dry. The air was poisoned by the unburied dead. Sickness and disease were hourly thinning the number of the wretched people; and yet there was not a man there, not a woman, nay, not even a child, who would have consented to dishonourable surrender.
During the progress of the siege, there was one who was not able to render much, if any, assistance. This was Lieutenant Harper, who recovered but slowly from the effects of his wound; the want of proper nourishment and other necessaries retarded his progress to convalescence. Haidee watched over him, nursed him with untiring care, and gradually brought him from the very brink of the grave. When he gained strength, he felt that the time had come to render what poor assistance he could. How best could that be done? was a question he put to Haidee and Gordon, who had been amongst the most prominent defenders. After some reflection Haidee answered—
“If you could reach the outside world, and procure succour, we might all be saved.”
It was an unselfish suggestion. She knew that it was a forlorn hope; but it held out a faint hope for the little garrison. Harper jumped at it. It was desperate service indeed. To safely get beyond the lines of the investing army seemed almost out of the region of possibility; but there was yet a chance, however small, and if he could but reach Meerut, help might be procured, and the little remnant of the brave defenders saved.
It was agreed unanimously that he should go, and a dark night favoured his departure. Walter Gordon would readily have gone, but he felt that his strength could be utilised to better advantage in helping the besieged. He had suffered agonies of mind as he thought of what the fate of Flora Meredith might be. He hoped and prayed in his own mind that a merciful death had long since ended her sufferings.
The hour came for Harper to depart; it was a solemn moment. Each felt that as they grasped hands.
“Walter,” said Harper, “the last time we parted was at the very commencement of this horrible mutiny. I little thought then that we should meet again; but we part now, and the chances of our seeing each other any more on this earth are remote indeed. Though, if I should survive, and can render aid to Flora Meredith, if she lives, it shall be done. But before I go, I exact a solemn promise from you, that while life is in your body you will protect Haidee, and if you should both manage to escape, you will never lose sight of her.”
“I give the promise, old fellow. God bless you,” was Walter’s answer, in a voice that was choked with emotion.
Harper turned from his friend to bid farewell to Haidee. How can that parting be described? There was no passionate wailing—no useless tears. She was a true woman, and however powerful her love might be, she knew that it was a duty to sacrifice all personal feelings where so many lives were at stake. She hung around his neck for a few brief moments; she pressed a kiss of pure love upon his lips, and then released him. In both their hearts there was that nameless feeling of ineffable sorrow that has no interpretation.
“Light of my eyes, joy of my soul, go,” she said. “Into the dust Haidee will bow her head, for happiness can never more be hers.” One more pressure of the hand, one more meeting of the lips, and Harper crouched down, and was making his way across the compound.
It was midnight, and the night was dark. The enemy’s fire had almost ceased; and as the crouching form disappeared, many were the fervent prayers uttered on Harper’s behalf, that he would succeed in his mission.
The morning came, and then the night again, and the next morning, and so on for several mornings, the defenders holding out bravely. Meanwhile the Nana Sahib was chafing with rage. He had not counted upon such a stubborn resistance. The indomitable pluck of these English was something that passed his comprehension. It irritated him beyond measure. The city over which he wished to rule was in a state of turmoil through it. His army was being shattered. Some of his best Sepoy officers had been killed by the fire from the defences; and, to make matters worse, cholera had broken out amongst the troops, and raged violently. Driven to desperation, he held counsel with his staff.
“What can we do to subdue this people?” he asked of Azimoolah.
“Nothing to subdue them,” was the answer. And for the first time in his life, perhaps, Azimoolah spoke the truth.
“What shall we do to crush them, then?” the Nana went on; “I would hack them to mince-meat, if I could get near enough, but that seems impossible.”
“Scarcely so impossible as your Highness seems to imagine,” made answer Azimoolah, as his face glowed with the inhuman cruelty that stirred his heart.
“How shall we reach them?” was the angry question of his master.
“By stratagem.”
“Ah, that is good! But how?”
“These people are reduced to extremity. They have many women and children with them; for their sakes they will be glad to accept terms. Let us proclaim a truce, and offer, as a condition of their laying down their arms, to convey them by water to Allahabad.”
The Nana laughed as he observed—
“You are an excellent counsellor, Azi, and I like your scheme; but having got them out, what then?”
He asked this question with a great deal of significance; for although a diabolical thought was shaping itself in his brain, his recreant heart dare not give it words. And so he waited for his tool to make the suggestion.
“Having got them out, I think the rest is easy, your Highness.”
“Well, well,” the other cried, impatiently, as Azimoolah seemed to dwell too long upon his words.
“We will provide them with carriage down to the river. There we will have a fleet of large, thatched-roof boats. On board of these boats the English people, who have given you so much trouble, shall embark.”
“Well, go on—I follow,” said the Nana, as Azimoolah paused again. “Having got them on board, what then?”
“We will slaughter them, your Highness—man, woman, and child. Not one shall live to tell the tale. On each side of the river we will have heavy guns posted, and our troops shall line the banks. A mouse would not be able to escape.”
“Good! I leave all to you,” was the Nana’s only answer. But his tone of voice betrayed the joy he felt.
Azimoolah retired to his tent, and, calling for writing materials and pen, with his own hand he wrote the following missive in English:—
“To the subjects of Her Majesty Queen Victoria: All those who are in no way connected with the acts of Lord Dalhousie, and are willing to lay down their arms, shall receive a safe passage to Allahabad.”
The next morning an armistice was proclaimed, and Azimoolah, accompanied by two Sepoys, presented himself before the entrenchments.
This temporary cessation of hostilities was a great relief to the starving and worn-out garrison. They were prepared to listen to any terms that did not propose dishonourable surrender. General Wheeler called up two captains and the postmaster, and gave them full powers to go out and treat with the emissaries of the Nana.
Azimoolah proposed surrender, without the customary honours of war. But this the officers would not entertain for a single instant, and demanded that the British should march out with their arms and sixty rounds of ammunition in the pouch of every man. The Nana was to afford them safe escort to the river, provide carriages for the women and children, and provisions of flour, sheep, and goats for the voyage to Allahabad.
These proposals were written on a sheet of paper and given to Azimoolah, who returned to his lines; while the officers went back to their entrenchments.
As they made known the terms they had submitted, there was rejoicing in the little garrison. The women cheered up as they thought that an end was coming to their sufferings and sorrow.
So it was; but a different end to what they contemplated. It had been an awful time during the siege. Human comprehension can scarcely realise the full measure of the suffering endured by the devoted band. It possibly stands without a parallel in the world’s horrors begotten by war.
For some hours the people waited in anxious suspense; their hearts beat high, and the wan cheeks flushed as the sounds of a bugle fell upon their ears.
A horseman had arrived from the rebel camp, and brought word that the terms had been agreed to, and the garrison was to remove that night. But General Wheeler flatly refused to do this, saying that he could not get his people ready until morning.
“Let it be so,” said the Nana, when the message was brought; “we can afford to give them a few hours.”
In the rebel camp there was great rejoicing; quantities of drink were consumed; and there was gambling and singing throughout the long dark hours.
In the entrenchments there was peace; silence reigned, broken occasionally by the audible prayer from some grateful heart as it uttered its thanks to the Christian’s God for the relief He had brought them.