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I'm a pilgrim, I'm a stranger,
And I tarry but a night,
 

and as we went upward, he burst into singing, and sang joyously as he strode over the fields of snow. Little he thought that the end of his pilgrimage was so near! But six months later the Mutiny broke out, and he was one of its first victims. He was of the party from Futteghur, with a fate made more dreadful, because he had with him not only his wife, but two children, and the monster spared neither age nor sex. After the Mutiny, Mr. Woodside visited Cawnpore, and made diligent inquiry for the particulars of his friend's death. It was difficult to get the details, as the natives were very reticent, lest they should be accused; but as near as he could learn, "Brother Campbell," as he spoke of him, was led out with his wife – he holding one child in his arms, and she leading another by the hand – and thus all together they met their fate! Does this seem very hard? Yet was it not sweet that they could thus die together, and could come up (like the family of Christian in Pilgrim's Progress) in one group to the wicket gate? No need had he to sing any more:

 
I'm a pilgrim, I'm a stranger,
And I tarry but a night,
 

for on that summer morning he passed up a shining pathway, whiter than the fields of snow on the crest of the Himalayas, that led him straight to the gates of gold. Let no man complain of the sacrifice, who would claim the reward; for so it is written, "It is through much tribulation that we must enter into the Kingdom of God."

CHAPTER XVII

THE STORY OF LUCKNOW

"You are going to Lucknow?" she said. It was a lady in black, who sat in the corner of the railway carriage, as we came down from Upper India. A cloud passed over her face. "I cannot go there; I was in the Residency during the siege, and my husband and daughter were killed there. I cannot revisit a place of such sad memories." It was nothing to her that the long struggle had ended in victory, and that the story of the siege was one of the most glorious in English history. Nothing could efface the impression of those months of suffering. She told us how day and night the storm of fire raged around them; how the women took refuge in the cellars; how her daughter was killed before her eyes by the bursting of a shell; and how, when they grew familiar with this danger, there came another terrible fear – that of death by famine; how strong men grew weak for want of food; how women wasted away from very hunger, and children died because they could find no nourishment on their mother's breasts.

But amid those horrors there was one figure which she loved to recall – that of Sir Henry Lawrence, the lion-hearted soldier, who kept up all hearts by his courage and his iron will – till he too fell, and left them almost in despair.

Such memories might keep away one who had been a sufferer in these fearful scenes, but they stimulated our desire to see a spot associated with such courage and devotion, and led us from the scene of the tragedy of Cawnpore to that of the siege of Lucknow.

But how soon nature washes away the stain of blood! As we crossed the Ganges, the gentle stream, rippling against the Slaughter Ghat, left no red spots upon its stony steps. Near the station was a large enclosure full of elephants, some of which perhaps had carried their burden of prisoners down to the river's brink on that fatal day, but were now "taking their ease," as beasts and men like to do. Familiar as we are with the sight, it always gives us a fresh impression of our Asiatic surroundings, to come suddenly upon a herd of these creatures of such enormous bulk, with ears as large as umbrellas, which are kept moving like punkas to keep off the flies; to see them drawing up water into their trunks, as "Behemoth drinketh up Jordan," and spurting it over their backs; or what is more ludicrous still, to see them at play, which seems entirely out of character. We think of the elephant as a grave and solemn creature, made to figure on grand occasions, to march in triumphal processions, carrying the howdahs of great Rajahs, covered with cloth of gold. But there is as much of "youth" in the elephant as in any other beast. A baby elephant is like any other baby. As little tigers play like kittens, so a little elephant is like a colt, or like "Mary's little lamb."

Lucknow is only forty miles from Cawnpore, with which it is connected by railway. A vast plain stretches to the gates of the capital of Oude. It was evening when we reached our destination, where another American friend, Rev. Mr. Mudge of the Methodist Mission, was waiting to receive us. A ride of perhaps a couple of miles through the streets and bazaars gave us some idea of the extent of a city which ranks among the first in India. Daylight showed us still more of its extent and its magnificence. It spreads out many miles over the plain, and has a population of three hundred thousand, while in splendor it is the first of the native cities of India – by native I mean one not taking its character, like Calcutta and Bombay, from the English element. Lucknow is more purely an Indian city, and has more of the Oriental style in its architecture – its domes and minarets reminding us of Cairo and Constantinople. Bayard Taylor says: "The coup d'œil from one of the bridges over the Goomtee, resembles that of Constantinople from the bridge over the Golden Horn, and is more imposing, more picturesque, and more truly Oriental than any other city in India." It is a Mohammedan city, as much as Delhi, the mosques quite overshadowing the Hindoo temples; and the Mohurrim, the great Moslem festival, is observed here with the same fanaticism. But it is much larger than Delhi, and though no single palaces equal those of the old Moguls, yet it has more the appearance of a modern capital, in its busy and crowded streets. It is a great commercial city, with rich merchants, with artificers in silver and gold and all the fabrics of the East.

But the interest of Lucknow, derived from the fact of its being one of the most populous cities of India, and one of the most splendid, is quite eclipsed by the thrilling events of its recent history. All its palaces and mosques have not the attraction of one sacred spot. This is the Residency, the scene of the siege, which will make the name of Lucknow immortal. How the struggle came, we may see by recalling one or two facts in the history of India.

A quarter of a century ago, this was not a part of the British possessions. It was the Kingdom of Oude, with a sovereign who still lives in a palace near Calcutta, with large revenues wherewith to indulge his royal pleasure, but without his kingdom, which the English Government has taken from him. This occurred just before the Mutiny, and has often been alleged as one of the causes, if not the cause, of the outbreak; and England has been loudly accused of perfidy and treachery towards an Indian prince, and of having brought upon herself the terrible events which followed.

No doubt the English Government has often carried things with a high hand in India, and done acts which cannot be defended, just as we must confess that our own Government, in dealing with our Indian tribes, has sometimes seemed to ignore both justice and mercy. But as to this king of Oude, his "right" to his dominion (which is, being interpreted, a right to torture his unhappy subjects) is about the same as the right of a Bengal tiger to his jungle – a right which holds good till some daring hunter can put an end to his career.

When this king ruled in Oude he was such a father to his people, and such was the affection felt for his paternal government, that he had to collect his taxes by the military, and it is said that the poor people in the country built their villages on the borders of the jungle, and kept a watch out for the approach of the soldiers. As soon as they were signalled as being in sight, the wretched peasants gathered up whatever they could carry, and fled into the jungle, preferring to face the wild beasts and the serpents rather than these mercenaries of a tyrant. The troops came, seized what was left and set fire to the village. After they were gone, the miserable people returned and rebuilt their mud hovels, and tried by tilling the soil, to gain a bare subsistence. Such was the patriarchal government of one of the native princes of India.

This king of Oude now finds his chief amusement in collecting a great menagerie. He has a very large number of wild beasts. He has also a "snakery," in which he has collected all the serpents of India. It must be confessed that such a man seems more at home among his tigers and cobras than in oppressing his wretched people. If Americans who visit his palace near Calcutta are moved to sympathy with this deposed king, let them remember what his government was, and they may feel a little pity for his miserable subjects.

To put such a monster off the throne, and thus put an end to his tyrannies, was about as much of a "crime" as it would be to restrain the king of Dahomey or of Ashantee from perpetuating his "Grand Custom." I am out of patience with this mawkish sympathy. There is too much real misery in the world that calls for pity and relief, to have us waste our sensibilities on those who are the scourges of mankind.

But once done, the deed could not be undone. Having seized the bull by the horns, it was necessary to hold him, and this was not an easy matter. It needed a strong hand, which was given it in Sir Henry Lawrence, who had been thirty years in India. Hardly had he been made governor before he felt that there was danger in the air. Neither he nor his brother John, the Governor of the Punjaub, were taken by surprise when the Mutiny broke out. Both expected it, and it did not find them unprepared. Oude was indeed a centre of rebellion. The partisans of the ex-king were of course very active, so that when the Sepoys mutinied at Meerut, near Delhi, the whole kingdom of Oude was in open revolt. Every place was taken except Lucknow, and that was saved only by the wisdom and promptness of its new governor.

His first work was to fortify the Residency (so called from having been occupied by the former English residents), which had about as much of a military character as an old English manor-house. The grounds covered some acres, on which were scattered a few buildings, official residences and guardhouses, with open spaces between, laid out in lawns and gardens. But the quick eye of the governor saw its capability of defence. It was a small plateau, raised a few feet above the plain around, and by connecting the different buildings by walls, which could be mounted with batteries and loopholed for musketry, the whole could be constructed into a kind of fortress. Into this he gathered the European residents with their women and children. And behind such rude defences a few hundred English soldiers, with as many natives who had proved faithful, kept a large army at bay for six months.

There was a fort in Lucknow well supplied with guns and ammunition, but it was defended by only three hundred men, and was a source of weakness rather than strength, since the English force was too small to hold it, and if it should fall into the hands of the Sepoys with all its stores, it would be the arsenal of the rebellion. At Delhi a similar danger had been averted only by a brave officer blowing up the arsenal with his own hand. It was a matter of the utmost moment to destroy the fort and yet to save the soldiers in it. The only hope of keeping up any defence was to unite the two feeble garrisons. But they were more than half a mile apart, and each beleaguered by watchful enemies. Sir Henry Lawrence signalled to the officer in command: "Blow up the fort, and come to the Residency at twelve o'clock to-night. Bring your treasure and guns, and destroy the remainder." This movement could be executed only by the greatest secrecy. But the order was promptly obeyed. At midnight the little band filed silently out of the gates, and stole with muffled steps along a retired path, almost within reach of the guns of the enemies, who discovered the movement only when they were safe in the Residency, and the fuse which had been lighted at the fort reached the magazine, and exploding two hundred and fifty barrels of gunpowder, blew the massive walls into the air.

But the siege was only just begun. Inside the Residency were collected about two thousand two hundred souls, of whom over five hundred were women and children. Only about six hundred were English soldiers, and seven or eight hundred natives who had remained faithful, held to their allegiance by the personal ascendancy of Sir Henry Lawrence.⁷ There were also some three hundred civilians, who, though unused to arms, willingly took part in the defence. Thus all together the garrison did not exceed seventeen hundred men, of whom many were disabled by sickness and wounds. The force of the besiegers was twenty to one. There is in the Indian nature a strange mixture of languor and ferocity, and the latter was aroused by the prospect of vengeance on the English, who were penned up where they could not escape, and where their capture was certain; and every Sepoy wished to be in at the death. Under the attraction of such a prospect it is said that the besieging force rose to fifty thousand men. Many of the natives, who had been in the English service, were practised artillerists, and trained their guns on the slender defences with fatal effect. Advancing over the level ground, they drew their lines nearer and nearer, till their riflemen picked off the soldiers serving in the batteries. Three times they made a breach by exploding mines under the walls, and endeavored to carry the place by storm. But then rose high the unconquerable English spirit. They expected to die, but they were determined to sell their lives dearly. When the alarm of these attacks reached the hospital, the sick and wounded crawled out of their beds and threw away their crutches to take their place at the guns; or if they could not stand, lay down flat on their faces and fired through the holes made for musketry.

But brave as were the defenders, the long endurance told upon them. They were worn out with watching, and their ranks grew thinner day by day. Those who were killed were carried off in the arms of their companions, who gathered at midnight for their burial in some lonely and retired spot, and while the chaplain in a low voice read the service, the survivors stood around the grave, thinking how soon their turn would come, the gloom of the night in fit harmony with the dark thoughts that filled their breasts.

But darker than any night was the day when Sir Henry Lawrence fell. He was the beloved, the adored commander. "While he lived," said our informant, "we all felt safe." But exposing himself too much, he was struck by a shell. Those around him lifted him up tenderly and carried him away to the house of the surgeon of the garrison, where two days after he died. When all was over "they did not dare to let the soldiers know that he was dead," lest they should give up the struggle. But he lived long enough to inspire them with his unconquerable spirit.

He died on the 4th of July, and for nearly three months the siege went on without change, the situation becoming every day more desperate. It was the hottest season of the year, and the sun blazed down fiercely into their little camp, aggravating the sickness and suffering, till they longed for death, and were glad when they could find the grave. "When my daughter was struck down by a fragment of a shell that fell on the floor, she did not ask to live. She might have been saved if she had been where she could have had careful nursing. But there was no proper food to nourish the strength of the sick, and so she sunk away, feeling that it was better to die than to live."

But still they would not yield to despair. Havelock had taken Cawnpore, though he came too late to save the English from massacre, and was straining every nerve to collect a force sufficient to relieve Lucknow. As soon as he could muster a thousand men he crossed the Ganges, and began his march. The movement was known to the little garrison, and kept up their hopes. A faithful native, who acted as a spy throughout the siege, went to and fro, disguising himself, and crept through the lines in the night, and got inside the Residency, and told them relief was coming. "He had seen the general, and said he was a little man with white hair," who could be no other than Havelock. Word was sent back that, on approaching the city, rockets should be sent up to notify the garrison. Night after night officers and men gazed toward the west for the expected signal, till their hearts grew sick as the night passed and there was no sign. Deliverance was to come, but not yet.

Havelock found that he had attempted the impossible. His force was but a handful, compared with the hosts of his enemies. Even nature appeared to be against him. It was the hot and rainy season, when it seemed impossible to march over the plains of India. Cannon had to be drawn by bullocks over roads and across fields, where they sank deep in mud. Men had to march and fight now in the broiling sun, and now in floods of rain. "In the full midday heat of the worst season of the year, did our troops start. The sun struck down with frightful force. At every step a man reeled out of the ranks, and threw himself fainting by the side of the road; the calls for water were incessant all along the line." "During the interval between the torrents of rain, the sun's rays were so overpowering that numbers of the men were smitten down and died." But the survivors closed up their ranks and kept their face to the foe. Their spirit was magnificent. Death had lost its terrors for them, and they made light of hardships and dangers. When fainting with heat, if they found a little dirty water by the roadside "it was like nectar." After marching all day in the rain, they would lie down in the soaking mud, and grasp their guns, and wrap their coats around them, and sleep soundly. Says an officer:

"August 5th we marched toward Lucknow nine miles and then encamped on a large plain for the night. You must bear in mind that we had no tents with us, they are not allowed, so every day we were exposed to the burning sun and to the rain and dew by night. No baggage or beds were allowed; but the soldier wrapped his cloak around him, grasped his musket and went to sleep, and soundly we slept too. My Arab horse served me as a pillow, I used to lie down alongside of him, with my head on his neck, and he never moved with me except now and then to lick my hand." But he adds, "We found that it was impossible to proceed to Lucknow, for our force was too small – for though we were a brave little band, and could fight to Lucknow, yet we could not compel them to raise the siege when we got there."

Another enemy also had appeared. Cholera had broken out in the camp; eleven men died in one day. The Rebels too were rising behind them. As soon as Havelock crossed the Ganges they began to gather in his rear. Nana Sahib was mustering a force and threatened Cawnpore. Thus beset behind and before, Havelock turned and marched against the Mahratta chief, and sent him flying towards Delhi. In reading the account of these marches and battles, it is delightful to see the spirit between the commander and his men. After this victory, as he rode along the lines, they cheered him vehemently. He returned their salute, but said, "Don't cheer me, my lads, you did it all yourselves." Such men, fighting together, were invincible.

In September Havelock had collected 2,700 men, and again set out for Lucknow. Three days they marched "under a deluge of rain." But their eyes were "steadfastly set" towards the spot where their countrymen were in peril, and they cared not for hardships and dangers. The garrison was apprised of their coming, and waited with feverish anxiety. In the relieving force was a regiment of Highlanders, and if no crazy woman could put her ears to the ground (according to the romantic story so often told) and hear the pibroch, and shout "The Campbells are coming," they knew that those brave Scots never turned back. As they drew near the city over the Cawnpore road, they found that it was mined to blow them up. Instantly they wheeled off, and marched round the city, and came up on the other side. Capturing the Alumbagh, one of the royal residences, which, surrounded by a wall, was easily converted into a temporary fortress, Havelock left here his heavy baggage and stores of ammunition, with an immense array of elephants and camels and horses; and all his sick and wounded, and the whole train of camp-followers; and three hundred men, with four guns to defend it. Thus "stripped for the fight," he began his attack on the city. It was two miles to the Residency, and every step the English had to fight their way through the streets. The battle began in the morning, and lasted all day. It was a desperate attempt to force their way through a great city, where every man was an enemy, and they were fired at from almost every house. "Our advance was through streets of flat-roofed and loop-holed houses, each forming a separate fortress." Our informant told us of the frenzy in the Residency when they heard the sound of the guns. "The Campbells were coming" indeed! Sometimes the firing lulled, and it seemed as if they were driven back. Then it rose again, and came nearer and nearer. How the tide of battle ebbed and flowed, is well told in the narratives of those who were actors in the scenes:

"Throughout the night of the 24th great agitation and alarm had prevailed in the city; and, as morning advanced, increased and rapid movements of men and horses, gave evidence of the excited state of the rebel force. At noon, increasing noise proclaimed that street fighting was growing more fierce in the distance; but from the Residency nought but the smoke from the fire of the combatants could be discerned. As the afternoon advanced, the sounds came nearer and nearer, and then we heard the sharp crack of rifles mingled with the flash of musketry; the well-known uniforms of British soldiers were next discerned."

A lady who was in the Residency, and has written a Diary of the Siege, thus describes the coming in of the English troops:

"Never shall I forget the moment to the latest day I live. We had no idea they were so near, and were breathing the air in the portico as usual at that hour, speculating when they might be in; when suddenly just at dusk, we heard a very sharp fire of musketry close by, and then a tremendous cheering. An instant after, the sound of bagpipes – then soldiers running up the road – our compound and veranda filled with our deliverers, and all of us shaking hands frantically, and exchanging fervent 'God bless you's' with the gallant men and officers of the 78th Highlanders. Sir James Outram and staff were the next to come in, and the state of joyful confusion and excitement was beyond all description. The big, rough-bearded soldiers were seizing the little children out of our arms, kissing them, with tears rolling down their cheeks, and thanking God they had come in time to save them from the fate of those at Cawnpore. We were all rushing about to give the poor fellows drinks of water, for they were perfectly exhausted; and tea was made down in the Tye-khana, of which a large party of tired, thirsty officers partook, without milk or sugar. We had nothing to give them to eat. Every one's tongue seemed going at once with so much to ask and to tell; and the faces of utter strangers beamed upon each other like those of dearest friends and brothers."

It was indeed a great deliverance, but the danger was not over. Of all that were in the Residency when the siege began, three months before, more than half were gone. Out of twenty-two hundred but nine hundred were left, and of these less than one-half were fighting men. Even with the reinforcement of Havelock the garrison was still far too small to hold such a position in the midst of a city of such a population. The siege went on for two months longer. The final relief did not come till Sir Colin Campbell, arriving with a larger force, again fought his way through the city. The atrocities of the Sepoys had produced such a feeling that he could hardly restrain his soldiers. Remembering the murders and massacres of their countrymen and countrywomen, they fought with a savage fury. In one walled enclosure, which they carried by storm, were two thousand Sepoys, and they killed every man!

Even then the work was not completed. Scarcely had Sir Colin Campbell entered the Residency before he decided upon its evacuation. Again the movement was executed at midnight, in silence and in darkness. While the watch-fires were kept burning to deceive the enemy, the men filed out of the gates, with the women and children in the centre of the column, and moving softly and quickly through a narrow lane, in the morning they were several miles from the city, in a strong position, which made them safe from attack.

The joy of this hour of deliverance was saddened by the death of Havelock. He had passed through all the dangers of battle and siege, only to die at last of disease, brought on by the hardships and exposures of the last few months. But his work was done. He had nothing to do but to die. To his friend, Sir James Outram, who came to see him, he stretched out his hand and said: "For more than forty years I have so ruled my life, that when death came, I might face it without fear."

The garrison was saved, but the city was still in the hands of the Rebels, who were as defiant as ever. It was some months before Sir Colin Campbell gathered forces sufficient for the final and crushing blow. Indeed it was not till winter that he had collected a really formidable army. Then he moved on the city in force and carried it by storm. Two days of terrible fighting gave him the mastery of Lucknow, and the British flag was once more raised over the capital of Oude, where it has floated in triumph unto this day.

But the chief interest gathers about the earlier defence. The siege of Lucknow is one of the most thrilling events in modern history, and may well be remembered with pride by all who took part in it. A few weeks before we were here the Prince of Wales had made his visit to Lucknow, and requested that the survivors of the siege might be presented to him. Mr. Mudge was present at the interview, and told me he had never witnessed a more affecting scene than when these brave old soldiers, the wrecks of the war, some of them bearing the marks of their wounds, came up to the Prince, and received his warmest thanks for their courage and fidelity.

These heroic memories were fresh in mind as we took our morning walk in Lucknow, along the very street by which Havelock had fought his way through the city. The Residency is now a ruin, its walls shattered by shot and shell. But the ruins are overrun with vines and creeping plants, and are beautiful even in their decay. With sad interest we visited the spot where Sir Henry Lawrence was struck by the fatal shell, and the cemetery in which he is buried. He was a Christian soldier and before his death received the communion. He asked that no eulogy might be written on his tomb, but only these words: "Here lies Henry Lawrence, who tried to do his duty. May God have mercy on his soul." This dying utterance is inscribed on the plain slab of marble that covers his dust. It is enough. No epitaph could say more. As I stood there and read these simple words and thought of the noble dead, my eyes were full of tears. With such a consciousness of duty done, who could fear to die? How well do these words express that which should be the highest end of human ambition. Happy will it be for any man of whom, when he has passed from the world, it can with truth be written above his grave, "Here lies one who tried to do his duty!"