“THE BATTLE OF THE BRIDGE.”
While Nana Sahib was thus neglecting no plan that could, as he thought, add to his security, the Nemesis was coming on.
It was well known to the English that Lucknow and Cawnpore were in imminent peril; and knowing, further, that General Wheeler was hampered with a large number of women and children, it was determined to make the most strenuous efforts to relieve Cawnpore.
With this object in view, General Havelock placed himself at the head of a body of gallant troops, including a regiment of Highlanders. With his little army he marched out of Allahabad. He knew how desperate were the odds against him—he knew that every mile of ground would have to be contested; but the grand old soldier was also aware that, if his troops were few, their hearts were brave, and he had perfect faith in his own ability to lead them to victory.
At the same time, Major Renaud, in command of the Madras Fusiliers, who had performed prodigies of valour, was pushing up the river with the view of effecting a junction with Havelock. By forced marches the General made rapid progress, not a day passing but what he had a skirmish with the enemy. These skirmishes were not worthy the name of battle, since they were waged mostly by the native rabble; but they served to harass and annoy the British.
In a little while he fell in with Renaud, and the reinforcement was doubly welcome; for many of his own troops had fallen sick through the intense heat and the heavy marches, but there was no rest to be had. The brave old warrior knew that every hour delayed served but to increase the awful peril of those whom he was hastening to relieve.
Futtehpore was reached, and here a desperate battle was fought between Havelock and the Nana’s troops, who had been sent out to meet him.
Confident of victory, the Sepoys had taken their stand at this place, and, with taunts and bragging, presented a most powerful front to the jaded and worn British soldiers. But Havelock knew his men; he knew his strength. He let loose his little army. The fight was long and bloody, but it ended in unmistakable victory for the General. It was the first decisive blow that had been struck at the enemy in that part of the country. Little time could be devoted to rest after the battle. Every man burned to be on the road again. They were warming to their work. Long forced marches were made, until a small river, called the Pandoo-Muddee, was reached. This river was some little distance to the south of Cawnpore, and here Bala Rao was stationed with a number of Sepoys to oppose the English crossing the bridge.
Havelock’s soldiers were worn out. The men were staggering beneath their load. Some of them slept as they stood, others dropped by the wayside. But if any incentive were wanted, it came now in the shape of the news that Cawnpore had capitulated, and the brave garrison had been foully slaughtered.
The news was brought by the General's spies; and as he made it known, in a few sorrowful words, to his troops, want of rest was no more thought of. The strong sprang to their feet, and breathed silent vows of vengeance, while the sick and the weak wept because they were not able to join their comrades in wreaking retribution on the cruel enemy.
The bridge across the river was a small and narrow one. Bala Rao had arrived too late to destroy it, but he had got his guns into position to sweep it, so that it seemed impossible that a passage could be made across it. He stood, with his cowardly followers, taunting the fagged white men to cross. He dared them to come. He called them dogs.
“Soldiers and comrades,” cried Havelock, “we must cross that bridge.”
Shrill and clear rang out the bugle notes as they sounded the advance. They must have struck terror to the black foe. With lips compressed, with bayonets down at the charge, shoulder to shoulder, went the dauntless few under a merciless storm of iron hail. The passage was short, but many a brave fellow fell never to rise again. The Cawnpore side of the river was gained; and then with a ringing cheer the British “went at it.” What could stand against such a charge? The enemy was scattered; he fled in wild disorder, leaving his guns behind him.
The fight over, men fell down on the spot where they stood, and went to sleep, too tired and jaded even to think of the evening meal.
A few hours afterwards, Nana Sahib, anxious and restless, was pacing his hall; he was waiting for news of “the battle of the bridge.” Though Havelock had succeeded in reaching that point, he could not conceive it possible that he could cross. He had ordered Bala to blow up the bridge, and to make a firm stand. He was waiting now to hear that this had been accomplished, when Bala Rao staggered in. He was covered with blood, which had flowed from a terrible wound in the shoulder.
“They have crossed the bridge, and we are defeated,” he gasped, as he fell fainting into a chair.
Nana Sahib literally foamed with rage when he heard these ominous words. The dream was being realised, and the mighty fingers of the White Hand were closing upon him.
“Ten thousand curses upon them!” he muttered. “But I yet hold a card, and will play it.”
He rang a bell violently; a servant appeared.
“Send Tantia Topee and Azimoolah here.”
In a few minutes these two persons stood in his presence.
“I want the Beebee-Ghur cleared of every woman and child. And stay—there is a well close by—it has long been useless—let it be filled up with rubbish. Do not mistake my orders. EVERY WOMAN AND EVERY CHILD must leave.”
“I understand, your Highness,” answered Azimoolah, with a hideous smile. “Your tenants are not profitable, and you have use for the house. The women and children shall all be sent home.”
* * * * * * *
In a few hours’ time the Beebee-Ghur was deserted and silent, and the useless well had indeed been filled up.
Then, placing himself at the head of five thousand troops, Nana Sahib marched forth to oppose the further advance of Havelock.
“We shall conquer yet,” he murmured, as, armed to the teeth, he rode side by side with his counsellors.
They succeeded in reaching a village close to where Havelock was resting; it was naturally a strong position. Here they posted a number of very heavy guns, and the most experienced and ablest gunners were selected to serve them.
They opened fire with deadly effect upon the worn British soldiers.
“Comrades, those guns must be charged,” were Havelock’s words. “Who will take the post of honour?”
In answer to the question, the Highlanders, under the command of Colonel Hamilton, rushed to the front. There was not a single man who was not eager to play his part in the deadly work; but the Highlanders were the first to answer, and they claimed precedent. They were to lead the charge. Setting aside for a moment all discipline, a stalwart fellow stepped from the ranks, and holding up a card on which a thistle was worked in a woman’s hair, while around it was a true lover’s knot, he shouted in a stentorian voice—
“For ‘Auld Reekie,’ boys, and the bonnie lasses we’ve left behind.”
He was answered with a wild cheer, and cries of “Well done, Sandy!”
Every heart of those kilted soldiers thrilled as the shrill sounds of the pibroch arose from the bagpipes in the rear. Each man felt that he had a personal wrong to wipe out, the death of a murdered friend to revenge.
Every man set his teeth, and clutched his rifle, as he held it at the charge, with a grip of nervous desperation.
The guns of the enemy were still roaring fierce defiance, and hurling death right and left.
Forward went the brave Highlanders with a ringing cheer, their bayonets flashing in the sunlight; and, though the enemy were strongly posted behind those awful guns, they were appalled as they beheld the bare-legged soldiers rushing on like an impetuous torrent. The bayonet charge of British troops was what no Sepoy had ever yet been able to stand. The rebels wavered, then gave way, and fled. The guns were in the hands of the Highlanders. “Auld Reekie” had been well remembered, but poor Sandy was lying with his dead eyes staring up to the quivering sky, and the little love-token lying over his stilled heart.
The troops fell back in orderly array. But at the same moment a howitzer, that had hitherto been masked, opened fire with fearful effect. This gun was posted in a hollow—a sort of natural trench—on some rising ground. Had it been served by any other than Sepoys, it might have kept half-a-dozen regiments at bay.
“Soldiers,” cried General Havelock again, “we must silence that noisy gun. Its impudent tongue disturbs the neighbourhood!”
Forth bounded the Highlanders again. An inspiriting cheer, a resistless rush, the gun was captured; and, as the foe fled, the howitzer was turned upon them.
But the battle was not yet ended. The rebels, in great force still, held the village, and new batteries were brought into action, and poured a murderous fire upon the British lines. A little body of volunteer cavalry, that had been held in reserve, now came forward. It was composed entirely of British officers, and their number was only eighteen. Eighteen against thousands of the enemy, who were sheltered behind walls and trees!
As these heroes were preparing to go into action, there was one of their comrades who, stricken with deadly cholera, was lying in the ambulance. This was Captain Beatson. He cried out that he would not be left behind, but that he would go into the heat of the battle with his brothers. He could not sit his horse, for he was dying fast. But no persuasion could induce him to miss the chance of taking part in the act of retribution. Go he would; so a tumbrel was procured, and he was carried into action, clutching his sword with his enfeebled hands.
The signal was given. Away went the dauntless few. Shot and shell poured around them, but could not stay their impetuous rush. Right into the very midst of the enemy they rode. They did terrible execution; and in a very short time had cleared the village.
As the noble Beatson was brought in, he heard the cries of victory; and, as his life was passing away, he raised his sword, gave a faint cheer, and, with a smile upon his face, fell back dead.
Baffled and beaten, the Sepoys fled. They appeared to be in full retreat upon Cawnpore. To the Peishwah all seemed lost. It was the crisis of his fate, and he was determined to make one desperate effort more to turn the tide.
He was arrayed in the most costly and imposing garments. He wore a robe of cloth of gold, and his waist was encircled with a zone of pure gold, set with brilliants. Pendant from this was a massive tulwar, also jewelled, and round his head was an embroidered turban, that was literally ablaze with diamonds.
He knew the effect of gaud and glitter upon the native mind, and so, putting spurs to his charger, he got ahead of his troops, and then faced them, and bade them halt.
“Why do you fly?” he cried, flashing his tulwar in the sun. “Are you not men, and your pursuers dogs? Do men fly from dogs? Shame on you! Remember our cause, and for what we fight—Liberty! Will you throw this away, and become slaves again? Turn, and face the enemy, who is weak and worn. We can hold this road to the cantonment. Let a battery of guns be planted. The enemy must not, and shall not, enter Cawnpore. An hour ago, I despatched messengers back to the city, and reinforcements are already coming up.”
“We will stand!” was the answer from hundreds of throats.
The battery was planted right on the road that led into the cantonment, and in about half an hour fresh troops came pouring out. They came down with a terrible clatter, and amid the clashing of cymbals and the roll of drums. As they got into position, Nana Sahib rode along the lines.
“Taunt them, boys—taunt them! Dare them from their shelter, and then blow them to atoms!”
And, in response to this, the native band ironically struck up “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.”
It was a taunt of the right sort. It reached the ears of the English; and, tired and worn out as they were, it gave them fresh vigour.
The grey-haired veteran, Havelock, rode forth before his troops.
“Soldiers,” he cried, “the enemy is bearding us; let us teach them a lasting lesson!”
The infantry rushed into line; their impatience could scarcely be restrained. The noble Highlanders, looking fresh and inspirited, as if they had only just come into action, again struggled to take the lead.
It was an awful moment, for they must ride right upon the death-dealing battery, which was planted in the centre of the road, and was belching forth storms of grape and twenty-four pounders with astonishing rapidity. But not a man quailed.
“Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” still sounded in their ears, when the word of command was given to “charge.” Away they went with that mad rush which nothing could withstand. Right on to the muzzles of the guns they sped, the General’s aide-de-camp, his noble son, Harry, leading the way. The battery was carried; the enemy was shattered, and fled in confusion; and as their own guns were turned upon them, and a terrific fire opened, the English band struck up “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.”
Night fell—the British bivouacked two miles from Cawnpore. They were too weary to need a pillow, and their throats were so parched that they were glad to drink some putrid water from a neighbouring ditch.
On the following morning, as they were getting under arms, some of the General’s spies came in. They brought an awful tale—it ran like a shudder along the lines. Strong men bowed their heads and wept. And they knew now that, in spite of their forced marches, in spite of the terrible battles they had fought, in spite of their grand heroism, they knew they were too late to save—they could only avenge. And there was not a man there who did not make a mental vow to have a terrible vengeance.
When the first burst of grief was over, the troops moved forward to occupy the cantonment. As they neared it they saw an immense, balloon-shaped cloud arise, and then the earth was shaken with a fearful explosion. The retreating enemy had blown up the magazine.
Soon the British flag was once more floating over the blood-stained city; the bagpipes and the bands filled the air with pæans of victory; the sword of Damocles had fallen. The Great White Hand had gripped the fiendish heart of the Nana, and his power was no more.