The Heroic Garrison

PROLOGUE

IN THE WHITE-WALLED palace once occupied by Ali Naqui Khan, prime minister to the deposed King of Oudh, the Moulvi of Fyzabad, Ahmad Ullah, waited with thinly disguised impatience for the arrival of an emissary from the Nana Sahib of Cawnpore, to confer with whom he had been summoned from the battle raging in the neighborhood of the Moti Mahal Palace.

Several hundred British troops—General Havelock’s rear-guard—were caught, like rats in a trap, in the Moti Mahal, together with their wounded, their ammunition wagons, baggage train, and heavy caliber guns. Unable to follow the main body into the Lucknow Residency the previous evening, their attempt at first light to smuggle out some of their wounded had resulted in the slaughter of at least forty of them . . . although the rest, due to the bungling of the sepoy officers in command, had been permitted to escape. But one of the heavy guns, which had wrought such havoc with those of the sepoy General of Artillery, Mirza Guffur, was now jammed across a narrow passageway, unable to move and under such heavy musketry fire that the gunners could not use it.

The gun—a valuable prize in itself—could be theirs for the taking, the Moulvi reflected angrily, if only the musketeers’ valor were equal to their marksmanship. But none dared risk his worthless life by approaching it, and Mirza Guffur, old woman that he was, had refused to lead a party, with gun-bullocks, to remove it. His own call for volunteers and his promised reward had met with only halfhearted response . . . they were cowards, these miserable dogs of sepoys, reluctant to fight, concerned only with how much plunder they could amass, to enable them to return, as rich men, to their villages.Time and again, they allowed themselves to be routed and put to flight by a mere handful of feringhi soldiers who—as they had done that morning, in defense of the laden doolies containing their wounded—charged almost contemptuously with the bayonet, aware that no sepoy would face up to them.

It had been the same at Cawnpore and in every battle fought between Allahabad and Lucknow, and the cavalry—even the much vaunted Company-trained Light Cavalry—had acquitted themselves no better. Havelock’s puny force of Volunteer Horse—all of them officers, admittedly—had numbered only twenty when they left Allahabad but, even when many of the Irregulars had deserted and come over to the Nana, they had put the whole of the Light Cavalry to shame at Fatepur and again in the battle for Cawnpore.The Moulvi’s sallow face suffused with resentful color. Never had he been more humiliated than the day before yesterday, when his own picked body of horsemen had displayed a craven reluctance to engage their British foes, despite the lead he had given them. As a result, instead of taking two of their guns and making the feringhi Colonel Sheridan prisoner, he had himself only just contrived to evade capture and his witless followers had allowed themselves to be led into an ambush. Sheridan, even with a lost sword-arm, bore a charmed life—he had survived the Cawnpore massacre and now, presumably, had entered Lucknow with Havelock’s force. Indeed, he had been reported as one of a party of cavalry that had made a sally from the Residency during the early hours of the morning, although the identification had not been positive and the promise of substantial reward for proof of his death or capture had, as yet, borne no fruit.

The Moulvi’s dark, beetling brows met in a scowl as he crossed to a balcony overlooking the river. The Residency lay a mile to the east, on the opposite bank of the river, but in imagination he saw its battered, shot-scarred walls and the defiant flag, fluttering from its rooftop flagpole in the faint evening breeze. Even at sunset, it was never lowered, and however many times it was shot down, it was never left like that for more than a few hours—one or two of the garrison invariably risked life and limb to hoist it again. The flag was a symbol of the might of the British Motherland, as well as of the Company’s threatened Raj. Reminded of this, the Moulvi’s lips tightened into a thin, hard line.

So long as it flew, the garrison would not surrender. Half-starved, deprived of all the comforts and luxuries previously considered a necessity by the British if life in India were to be sustained, their women and children dying of dysentery and fever and their wounded for lack of medical supplies, yet they had held out for over three months. Now that they had been reinforced and their casualties made good by the two thousand men of Havelock’s column, they would, the Moulvi did not for a moment doubt, fight back like tigers, so long as any hope of relief remained. Havelock had proved himself an able commander in the field, and Outram’s record was, perhaps, the best of any of the British generals, his courage second to none. But . . .The Moulvi moved restlessly away from the balcony and started to pace the cool, lofty-ceilinged room, his frown deepening.

If the Nana and Tantia Topi could be persuaded to attack Cawnpore and then, with the Gwalior Contingent, sweep south on Allahabad, to intercept the British troops on their way up-country, it would be a different story. Deprived of their promised relief, the Lucknow garrison could be starved into submission . . . especially if now or within the next few days, they were compelled to dissipate their fighting strength by warding off a series of resolute and well-planned attacks.

Those now surrounded in the Moti Mahal—the original rear-guard and the five hundred or so men sent to their aid from the Residency and occupying two of the adjacent palaces—must on no account be allowed to escape. They were burdened by their camp-followers, their wounded, and by the heavy guns. When darkness fell, they were almost certain, despite this morning’s setback, to make a second attempt to reach the Residency, by way of the river bank and through the gardens and buildings at its edge. If a trap were set for them, the doolie-bearers could be counted on to abandon their burdens in panic-stricken flight and then . . . the Moulvi expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh.

With the loss of a third of his red-coated soldiers, even the redoubtable General Outram would be compelled to come to terms, and the story of Cawnpore, repeated in Lucknow, would strike terror into the hearts of the British.The setting of the trap would require careful timing and firm leadership; he could not trust either Mirza Guffur or the white-bearded old nanny-goat the sepoys had elected as their general, Gomundi Singh. If the plan were to succeed, he would have to attend to the matter himself and lead the attack in person, trusting in Allah to give sufficient courage to his followers to carry out the orders he had given them. His mind made up, the Moulvi ceased his restless pacing and, to the servant who answered his impatient shout, he gave brusque instructions to summon the officers that he had requested the Begum to appoint to his personal staff.

They came, saluted him respectfully and listened in dutiful silence to his orders. He was explaining these in detail when his visitor, the stains of travel now removed from his person, presented himself, accompanied by a tall, slim man in native dress, who took up a position in the shadows at the back of the room. Azimullah Khan came forward, smiling. His greeting was less respectful than that of the sepoy officers had been, but his pleasure in their reunion was, the Moulvi decided, genuine. He had grown in stature and also in arrogance since the days in Cawnpore, when a word or even a gesture had sufficed to bring him running, eager to serve without question . . . But now, as the Nana’s envoy and his trusted lieutenant, Azimullah evidently considered himself the equal of his one-time mentor and his opening words reflected his new-found self-confidence.

Ahmad Ullah, my brother, I rejoice to see thy face again! My thoughts have been often of thee during the past weeks. Dismiss these good fellows—he waved a graceful hand in the direction of the little group of sepoy officers, who were eyeing him with undisguised curiosity— I have matters of some moment to speak of, but what I have to say is not for other ears.

"What I have to say to my officers is also of some moment, the Moulvi pointed out dryly. We are at war here." Deliberately taking his time, he repeated the instructions he had given earlier but with more emphasis, and had the satisfaction of seeing Azimullah’s eyes widen, as the significance of his carefully chosen words became clear.

Thou art indeed at war here! the younger man exclaimed, a note of envy in his voice. He brushed an imagined speck of dust from his chapkan and sighed. But think’st then that the British will simply walk into this ambush? They are not fools.

They will have no choice, the Moulvi assured him. They have many wounded, whom they dare not abandon. If we appear to withdraw our troops when darkness falls, they will make an attempt to break out and reach the Residency. And they will bring their guns with them, as well as the wounded—General Havelock does not like to lose guns, and these are twenty-fourpounders. Such guns are cumbersome and the road is narrow. They will never reach the Residency with them.

They reached the Residency yesterday, Azimullah reminded him, with conscious malice. Did they not?

Not without loss. The Moulvi dismissed his staff and went on, without troubling to lower his voice as they filed out. "Our men will not stand up to them—the accursed feringhis wear a mantle of invincibility in sepoy eyes. Let a lal-kote come face-toface with them and they turn tail—one cannot expect the citizens of Lucknow to do better than trained soldiers of the Company’s Army. They fight well enough from behind defensive walls and trenches but in the open . . . He shrugged contemptuously. They run like the curs they are!"

Perhaps they lack the leadership to which they are accustomed, Azimullah suggested.He exchanged a swift, covert glance with the man who had accompanied him, still standing in the deepening shadows beside the curtained doorway, as if anxious to avoid attention. He did not speak, and Azimullah went on, an oddly cruel little smile playing about his lips, "Without their feringhi officers to give them orders, few of the Company’s soldiers fight well. Could this be because they do not trust their own kind to command them? It was thus at Cawnpore, during the siege and after . . . the sepoy commanders cannot—or will not— enforce discipline. Doubtless it is the same here, Moulvi Sahib, and for that reason—"

"I am in command here now," the Moulvi interrupted harshly.

Thou? Azimullah was visibly taken aback, staring at him in astonishment. But we had heard that the Begum placed her trust in sepoy generals!

No longer. Hazrat Mahal has appointed me her chief military adviser and I command in her name.

And the Rajah Man Singh? Azimullah persisted. "He who once gave sanctuary to British fugitives . . . is it true that he is now in alliance with thee and the Begum?"

It is true, the Moulvi confirmed. Man Singh has promised his support. He is here with his troops. The Moulvi changed the subject, submitting Azimullah to a barrage of questions concerning the Nana’s movements and his plans for the future, to which the younger man replied with boastful confidence.The Nana, he asserted—referring to his master as the Peishwa—had vowed by the waters of the sacred Ganges that he would avenge the defeats he had suffered at Havelock’s hands and as soon as Tantia Topi joined him, with the well-equipped Gwalior troops, he would launch an attack on Cawnpore. Tantia could be relied on—he had sent messengers to the Mahratta camp, assuring his master of his whole-hearted loyalty and support. When news reached him that Havelock’s column had been wiped out—or, failing this, that both Outram and Havelock were under siege in the Lucknow Residency—he would, Azimullah was certain, march from Kalpi without delay, dispatching part of his force to cut the British lines of communication with Allahabad and Calcutta.

This was the assurance he had hoped for, and the Moulvi nodded his approval. Thou canst inform the Nana Sahib and Tantia Topi that Havelock’s column will no longer pose a threat to them in Oudh, Azimullah. Whilst it is true that Outram and Havelock are reported to have reached the Residency alive, Neill is dead. The unspeakable defiler of souls was killed in the fighting last night. He fell to a marksman’s bullet.

Neill dead! Azimullah exulted. Allah be praised—that is indeed good news!

And in the same place, we intercepted a party of wounded this morning, the Moulvi added. "Forty or fifty doolies, under escort, were sent from the rear-guard in the Moti Mahal . . . they were cut to pieces. A few escaped but, he shrugged, with pretended indifference, it is no matter. All in the Residency will die . . . men, women, and children. We shall spare none of them when the time comes."

We heard from the Peishwa’s spies, Azimullah said, a hint of misgiving in his hitherto confident voice, that Havelock’s orders were to evacuate the garrison of the Residency to Cawnpore. These spies are reliable, Ahmad Ullah. Is there a chance that Havelock may endeavor to carry out his orders before Tantia Topi leaves Kalpi?

Impossible! the Moulvi retorted contemptuously. They have hundreds of wounded and sick, in addition to their women and children—close to a thousand, I would estimate—and they have no carriage in which to convey them to Cawnpore. Besides, they are surrounded—if such an attempt is made, we shall annihilate them. Nothing is more certain, I give thee my word.

"And if they do not attempt to reach Cawnpore?"

Then they are trapped. So long as thy master and Tantia Topi fulfill their promise to recapture Cawnpore and prevent relief reaching them from Allahabad or Calcutta, they are doomed, Azimullah. The Moulvi was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes, which remained narrowed and watchful. The Residency is ringed with guns and their defensive positions are mined. Oh, they may die at their posts, many of them will, but it is only a question of time before they are compelled to surrender, just as General Wheeler’s garrison did. And then they will die, as Wheeler’s people did . . . defeated, on their knees and begging for mercy!

Not many of Wheeler’s garrison died thus, Azimullah was compelled to remind him. Hast thou forgotten that I was there? I hate all the British, Allah knows I hate them and with good reason, yet . . . he shrugged and added, with grudging admiration, I cannot deny their courage, Ahmad Ullah. Those men of Wheeler’s were skeletons, scarcely able to hold themselves upright when they left his Fort of Despair. Yet they fought us like soldiers and they died sword in hand. They are not easily defeated. I . . . he hesitated and then said, frowning, I heard a rumor that they have taken Delhi by assault. Didst thou also hear it?

I heard but did not believe it. Doubtless the British them selves started that hare running.

Yet it could be the truth, Ahmad Ullah. Indeed—

"Nahin! Three thousand lal-kotes against forty thousand sepoys behind fortress walls! the Moulvi scoffed. It is inconceivable. In any case, there has been no confirmation, Azimullah. It is mere bazaar gossip and thou art a fool to give it a moment’s credence."

A fool, perhaps, Azimullah conceded. Yet I wonder . . .The rumor had it that Nicol Seyn himself led the assault, and with such a man, a miracle is always possible.

It would require a very great miracle, the Moulvi returned tartly, for three thousand to triumph over forty thousand.

"Forty thousand sepoys—dogs of Hindus, most of them, undisciplined and badly led, Azimullah objected. Again he hesitated, biting his lower lip, as if reluctant to engage in argument with the man who, for so long, had been his tutor in the subtleties of mutiny and subversion, but finally he said, with obstinate insistence, We return, do we not, Moulvi Sahib, to these sepoys— those trained soldiers of the Company who have no stomach to do battle with British bayonets. Thou hast how many of them here, holding the Residency under siege? More, perhaps, than the Shah Bahadur has—or had—in Delhi."

The Moulvi eyed him balefully, resenting the implication. "What is it to thee, Azimullah? We have enough for our purpose. I have told thee, thou canst assure thy master that if he keeps his word, we will keep ours.There will be no escape for the lal-kotes in the Residency. Our sepoys will contain them and—"

Azimullah cut him short. I have brought thee a man who can teach the sepoys their trade, Ahmad Ullah . . . one who will be worth all thy sepoy generals put together. Speak with him, I beg thee. In response to his words, his silent, half-hidden companion stepped from the shadows that had concealed him, acknowledging the Moulvi’s presence with a grave inclination of the head. He was tall, and slimmer, even, than Azimullah, dressed in a richly embroidered, gold-laced chapkan and the high boots and breeches of a cavalryman, with a turban of Sikh pattern wound about his head and a tulwar of formidable proportions suspended from a leather sling at his side. As he moved into the center of the room, the light from the setting sun fell full on his face, revealing that, beneath its coating of tan, his skin was white and the hair of his beard a rich, dark auburn flecked, here and there, with gray.

The Moulvi recoiled from him in shocked surprise.

Dost thou mock me, Azimullah? he demanded angrily. "This man is a feringhi!"

"Nahin, Moulvi Sahib, the stranger denied, speaking perfect Hindustani, with no trace of accent. I am no feringhi ... nor am I a lover of the British. I was born in Lahore and my father— whose name, I am sure, will be known to you—was General Henri Court."

The Moulvi recovered from his surprise. Henri Court, he was aware, had entered the service of the Sikh Maharajah Ranjit Singh —the famous Lion of the Punjab—some thirty years before. A Frenchman of good birth and a product of the French Military Polytechnic, he had shared with Jean François Allard, Jean Baptiste Ventura, and the Italian general Paolo Avitabile, the distinction of having trained the famous Khalsa army of the Sikhs to the peak of military perfection. Following Ranjit Singh’s death in 1839, most of the foreign commanders had either been dismissed or had left the Sikh service, but all had married, and it was, therefore, quite possible that this tall, handsome companion of Azimullah’s was what he claimed to be, a son of General Court—half French and half Sikh.

The Moulvi studied him thoughtfully, and—almost against his better judgment—found himself liking what he saw.The newcomer was of good presence; he looked and spoke like a soldier and replied to questions with a fearless frankness that could only stem from honesty. His mother, he said, still lived; she was the daughter of a Sikh sirdar, at one time a member of the Durbar. He himself had served his military apprenticeship, under his father and Lehna Singh Majithia, in the ordnance works and later in the field in both the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns, when he had risen to the command of a Ghorchurra regiment, the elite of the Khalsa cavalry.

Well? Azimullah prompted, a trifle impatiently, when the Moulvi’s questions became less personal and the conversation turned to matters of military strategy. I would return to the Peishwa’s camp tonight, Ahmad Ullah—he is anxious for word from thee and may come to Lucknow himself sometime during the next few weeks, to speak with thee and the Begum. Hast thou honorable employment to offer our friend from Lahore or shall I take him back with me?

The Moulvi shook his head. If Colonel Court is willing to remain here I shall very gladly avail myself of his valuable services. He glanced inquiringly at the French general’s son and added, smiling, On my personal staff initially, Colonel Sahib, until I have consulted with the Begum and the Council. But I can promise a command worthy of your achievements. He spoke in Punjabi and Court replied in the same language, as fluently as he had in Hindustani.

I have one aim, to which I have devoted my life, Moulvi Sahib, he answered quietly. I want to see the British and their John Company driven from India. For that aim, I would die, not one but a thousand deaths! I ask a free hand in the training of your sepoys and a rank that will spare me from the criticism and envy of your other commanders. Seeing the Moulvi’s look of bewilderment, he relaxed a little and explained, During Ranjit Singh’s lifetime, my father had what I have asked for, but, after his death, the jealousy of lesser men drove him back to Europe, bitter and broken-hearted. I am of Hind, Moulvi Sahib, I am born and bred here—for me there is no escape to Europe. Grant me what I have asked and you will have no cause for regret. In return, I will give you an army you can lead to victory.

So be it, the Moulvi assented. He held out both hands in a spontaneous gesture of goodwill, and his smile widened, for the first time lighting his somber dark eyes as he added, with a flash of wry humor, "I had not thought to call my brother any man with the white skin and the appearance of a feringhi but—thou art a man after my own heart! And in very truth, I have need of thee, Henri Court."

Then I gladly offer my services, Court answered. He took the Moulvi’s proffered hands in his and, lowering his turbaned head, touched them to his brow. But I will take the name of my mother’s family. Know me as Kaur Singh, Ahmad Ullah—it will be better thus.

So be it, the Moulvi said again. Come, he invited, his smile fading. "The hour approaches when we shall unsheathe our tulwars to do battle once more with the enemies of Hind. Havelock’s soldiers have been all day under heavy bombardment in the Moti Mahal.When darkness falls, they will rest, believing that we have withdrawn.Then, when the moon rises or at first light, if they see no sign of us, they will make another attempt to break out and save their guns . . .