Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 21

The Massacres of Cawnpore

Anyone who has been at the Cape, will remember the lofty height of the Lion’s Mountain, looking over the bay. It presents a striking object as the ship stands in, and the Table Mountain, without its fleecy covering, rises with its flattened summit cut clearly against the line of blue sky. Without has been purposely written; for if the fog hangs heavily on its top, or, in the words of the sailor, if the table-cloth be spread, then a blow is quite certain, and the very best thing to be done by the passenger is to leave the ship to pitch and roll at her anchors until the gale blows itself out, or, better still, to charter a horse, as the Jack Tars have it, for a ride to Wynebergh, where the vineyards lie, producing the famed Constantia grape.

Winding along by the sea side, and giving the most delicious little peeps over the ocean, the road to Wynebergh is exquisitely beautiful. Many take it for the romantic loveliness of its land and ocean views; others, because their business leads them in that direction; and not a few, because of the little road-side public-house, which lies about half way, and where the click of the billiard balls never seems to cease night or day.

Long before the traveller comes to that hotel, he will pass on his left hand a small house, embowered in trees, standing in its own grounds, sweeping down nearly to the sea. It is a pretty spot, with its white façade, its green shutters, and broad verandah, the wood-work nearly hidden by the clustering creepers and vines.

Bright flowers and green plots of grass, carefully mowed and watered, speak of European taste; and, in point of fact, the lovely little spot on the Wynebergh road, belonged to an English merchant, Mr Chichester, who, being absent in England was glad to let it.

It was a fine August day of the year 1857. The sun was shining brightly, and the breeze came from the sea. A fountain of water was playing in the sunlight, and the birds were singing; while the splash of the waves, as they broke on the beach, could be distinctly heard.

“Are you tired of our quiet life at the Cape, Enrico?” asked Isabel, who, seated on a rustic bench, was busy with some embroidery, Hughes lying on the grass at her feet, an open book near.

“Well, no,” answered he, yawning; “but I don’t see why we should wait the reply to all that mass of papers sent to Portugal.”

“I don’t speak English well enough yet,” said Isabel, laughing; but this was not exactly true, for she was using that tongue, and that her three months’ residence at the Cape had not been lost in this particular, was fully evident.

“We had trouble enough with that box of papers,” said Hughes, musing; “and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your father’s property at stake, I suppose we must submit.”

“Submit,” replied Isabel, brightly; “it’s no very hard task, methinks. Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?”

“Not the ride, certainly; I’m not equal to the exertion,” replied the soldier.

Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the missionary’s parting words came back to him.

“You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of the ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,’ and your old comrade working alone.”

The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.

“Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk as much as you choose of birds and trees.”

“I don’t exactly remember where I left off, Isabel,” replied Hughes, once more yawning heavily. “A stab in the arm, and to find oneself suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian; however, I’ll try. Lend me that cushion.”

Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of mortals.

“Well, Enrico,—and my tale?” asked Isabel, looking up.

“Let me see. The little chapel of Penrhyn was filled with the conspirators, and Father Guy had just made his appeal to them, pointing out Sir Roger Mostyn as their first victim. Mine is a true tale, and it happened there what always happens. They melted away like snow before the sun, as the trembling notes of a trumpet were heard outside the house—chapel and outbuildings being surrounded by the royal troops.

“Sir Roger had no wish to make prisoners, his only desire was to break up the plot; so in the confusion all made their escape except one, and that was my ancestor, the master of Penrhyn, who scorned to fly.

“Even the old priest was hustled away, still vomiting excommunications and threats. The chapel was dismantled, and the master of Penrhyn so heavily fined, that one by one his broad lands melted away, and were lost by his attachment to the Catholic faith.”

“And Lucy?” asked Isabel; “your tale is worth nothing without her.”

“Oh, Lucy was our saviour. She married the young heir of Penrhyn, inherited the estates of Coetmore, and they passed to us.”

“And the old priest—what was Father Guy’s fate, Enrico? Do you know?”

“Indeed, yes. His was a curious one. The country I speak of is now a populous neighbourhood. A large watering place has sprung up there, and the white houses and terraces of Llandudno replace the fishermen’s huts of St Tudno’s time; but few who go there now either know of or care for the curious deeds of the past.

“The ‘Wyvern,’ the cutter which had brought the Irish Catholics from the Isle of Man, still lay in the bay under the shelter of the little Orme.

“It is a curious spot, Isabel, and has a beautiful pebbly beach; the water is deep, and the Orme falls in one sheer sweep into the sea there, so that when the wind is from the north and east, the waves strike its base, and the foam flies scores of yards up its sides. A mass of rock has tumbled down, and lies in picturesque confusion in the centre of the bay. There are strange caves and holes in the rocks, and when the cutter sailed all supposed the priest had gone too.

“Days passed, and quiet crept again over the grand old land of Creuddyn.”

“You speak as if you like the country, Enrico?”

“And so I do,” replied Hughes, warmly. “I was born among its fine old mountains, and I love its old-fashioned, brave, honest-hearted race; but to continue. Days had passed when some fishermen at sea noticed a spiral wreath of smoke issuing from the face of the lesser Orme.

“They talked of this over the fire at night. Some laughed at the tale, but others of the older men remembered to have heard of a cave in the flanks of the mountain, long the abode of the foxes.

“They searched, and found a narrow, dangerous path, which yet exists. The Gloddaeth keepers know it, and know too where to track Reynard when their game disappears. The priest was found half starved, and fast asleep there.

“The news spread, the fanatic population was soon roused. The country people flocked from far and near.

“‘Let the idolater see his chapel,’ they roared, as the emaciated, careworn man was dragged into the centre of the green field, stretching before the house of Penrhyn to the sea. The aged priest was weak with hunger, and worn with suffering. Before him seethed a rude mob of infuriated peasants, and death was certain. This moved him not, but the chapel, despoiled, ruined, and half burned, caused the tears to roll down his thin cheeks.

“‘Ha!’ shouted a thick-set peasant, ‘ye doomed us all to death, let us see how ye meet your own;’ and he hurled a sharp stone at the feeble old man.

“‘I condemned ye not, children of darkness,’ said the priest, wiping away the blood from his eyes, and raising his tall, fine figure to its utmost height, his grey hair streaming on the wind. ‘I would have saved ye from the evil one, whose prey ye are. Ye cannot harm me,’ and a smile of withering scorn settled down upon his lips.

“From the skirts of the crowd to its centre, the whole became one seething, boiling mass. Knives gleamed in the sunshine. One moment Father Guy stood there, firm and erect, a smile of quiet scorn on his lips, and the fresh, breeze from the sea playing through his scanty grey hair and over his shaven crown; the next his body was whirling above men’s heads, it was pulled to and fro, torn here and there, until at length it was rived, piecemeal, by the infuriated crowd, and the Roman Catholic faith died out with the House of Penrhyn in Creuddyn.”

The tale was told, the speaker ceased, and for a moment all was silence, for the story had been a melancholy one.

The sharp angry bark of a dog was heard, then a step crushing the gravel as some one advanced.

“The postman, Isabel,” exclaimed Hughes, springing to his feet with renewed energy; “now for news!”

But there was only a paper and one letter, and both bore the Calcutta postmark.

“I know not a soul in the Presidency,” said Hughes, as he turned the letter, which was a very bulky one, listlessly in his hand. “I dare say it will keep.”

“Well, if you find it so fatiguing to read your own letters, at least read me the paper.”

The soldier tore the band and flung it from him, shaking out the sheet, and then threw himself on the ground in the same indolent attitude.

“What news will interest you, Isabel?” he asked; but before the reply could be given, his eye fell on the column headed “Latest Intelligence,” and all traces of apathy disappeared as if by magic, the words “Massacre at Cawnpore,” “Atrocities committed by Nana Sahib,” meeting his eye.

“Why, what is the matter, Enrico?” asked Isabel, laying down her work in alarm, for his eyes literally blazed with fury, as he snatched up the despised letter, and tore it open, reading therein the details of the terrible massacre of Cawnpore.

“And where is Cawnpore?” asked Isabel.

“It is a large station on the right bank of the Ganges, where a European force is generally quartered, and in whose neighbourhood a large number of my countrymen live. The native troops have revolted, murdered their English officers, while the trusted friend of the British, Nana Sahib, has seized the treasury, joined the rebels, and the revolt spreading, India has thrown off our rule, while the handful of English are being murdered piecemeal.”

“Surely, you mean killed in open warfare, Enrico? In our days people are not murdered wholesale,” said Isabel, opening her eyes widely with horror and astonishment.

“Listen to my letter, Isabel. It is from an old friend and officer of my own regiment, and after telling me that the corps has been ordered to join Sir Henry Havelock’s force, it says:—

“‘The proceedings at Cawnpore are a blot on humanity. The women, children, and sick were placed in barracks, which it was thought the enemy would respect. Their guns thundered night and day on Wheeler’s entrenchments, held only by a handful of men against the rebel army; but, not content with this, they threw carcasses filled with powder on to the thatched roof which they knew covered the defenceless women, burned it and them, shouting and laughing when they saw the flames.’”

“How horrible!” ejaculated Isabel.

“Ay: but this is not all,” continued Hughes, reading on. “‘Without water, without provisions, the cruel Nana offered terms, offered life and liberty. They were accepted, and then, in detail, the soldiers having laid down their arms, were murdered.’”

Hughes put down the letter, and a sorrowful silence ensued. He was thinking of his late months of idleness, while such events had been passing around him, and thinking of them, too, with regret.

Isabel was meditating also, but her thoughts were turned on the future, and on her husband’s duty.

Hughes again took up the letter. “‘They who met death,’” he continued reading, “‘were happy; but the prisoners suffered far worse. General Havelock, to join whom we are marching up-country, has beaten the rebels everywhere in detail, and as the news of his victories reached Cawnpore, the European prisoners were led out in small batches, the men were murdered, with every refinement of cruelty possible; the children were killed, their brains dashed out before their parents’ eyes, while wives and daughters were given up to the savage lust of the sepoys, only to meet death at a later period.’”

Isabel started from her seat, her eyes were bright as she walked to and fro, and she pushed her hair back from her forehead with both hands as she spoke.

“Have you done, Enrico?” she asked, her breath seeming to come fast and thick.

“All, except smaller matters of personal detail,” he replied.

“Read on to the last letter,” she said; and he obeyed.

“‘You are promoted to a Majority, as you will see by the enclosed Gazette. Colonel Desmond obtained leave, and started for England a few days before the explosion of the mutiny. Lieutenant-Colonel Sedley is sick, and will be sent down to Calcutta, his old wound having broken out. Could you not—’”

And Hughes paused, looking sadly at Isabel.

The latter stopped in her walk, bent down, and took up the letter which had fallen to the ground.

“Do you think so meanly of me? Do you believe me to be so unworthy of you?” she said, turning her eyes full upon him, and placing the document once more in his hands. “Read on, Enrico.”

“‘Could you not join at once on receipt of this? Don’t bring the Kaffir Bride, we have impediments enough already. You will have command of the old regiment, and we will gloriously revenge on these foul murderers the butchery of our women and children. Don’t hesitate an hour when this reaches you.’

“‘Ever sincerely yours,’

“‘Frederick Curtis.’”

“Always the same,” exclaimed Hughes. “He would have the command and sure promotion, but he thinks of me rather than himself.”

“And you will not hesitate a minute—no, not a second,” cried Isabel, the hot blood rushing to her face.

“Isabel!” said the soldier, in a voice which, despite all he could do, trembled.

“You will avenge the savage butchery. Shall I, a daughter of sunny Portugal, in whose veins flows the proud blood of Castille, bid you stay?”

He held her out at arm’s length, he gazed into her eyes, flashing with pride and indignation.

“Go, Enrico. The steamer leaves to-morrow at daybreak. Go: and come back to me covered with glory, as you will come.”

“And if I return no more, Isabel?”

“Still go, Enrico; and lead your regiment in the thickest of the fray. Tell them they fight for their wives and children; and when the murders are avenged, when what remains of the helpless prisoners are safe, when the flag of your country waves victorious in the land, come back to me, or,”—and for the first time the flushed countenance paled and the voice trembled—“or,” she continued, “Enrico mio, I will come to you;” and, bursting into tears, her beautiful head sunk on the soldier’s breast, as he clasped her fervently in his arms.

The Relief of Cawnpore

The news of the fearful outbreak in India had taken the English by surprise. The dreadful atrocities of Cawnpore, the massacres perpetrated by Nana Sahib, who had ever been looked upon as the Englishman’s friend, had carried a sense of woe and desolation to the heart of the land, but the first numbing sense of sorrow had passed, and many a gallant fellow was on his way to India to wipe out the stain, which the revolt of her Sepoy army had cast upon the time-honoured banner of England.

“Lucknow has fallen!” were the words which met Major Hughes as he hurried on to the front one bright November morning in the memorable year of 1857. Then came reports of the demise of Sir John Lawrence, and at last, when within a few hours’ march of the place itself, a rumour soon changed into a certainty, spread far and wide, announcing the death of the gallant Havelock. For a time the horizon of the Indian world seemed again clouded over by an event which was wholly unexpected. Lucknow had fallen before a small force, whose determined gallantry had carried all before it, but the man whose masterly brain had planned, and whose daring gallantry had carried out the advance through a country literally swarming with enemies, the soldier under whose direct superintendence the Secunderabagh had been stormed, and who had spared neither health, constitution, nor blood in the cause of his country, had consummated the sacrifice with his life. The gallant Havelock was no more. His body lay in a small grave in the Alumbagh. The flag of England was thrown over him in his death, and his country, though mourning her loss, found another, second perhaps to none, to step into the gap.

“You will take the command of your regiment this day, Major Hughes,” said Sir Colin Campbell, as that officer reported himself on the morning of the 26th November, 1857. “You will find the 150th attached to General Outram’s brigade, holding the Bunnee Bridge. Report yourself at once, and take your command,” he continued, rising as he spoke.

This order was given in the sharp tones of one who had not a moment to lose; and Hughes, saluting his superior, turned to carry it out, without a word.

The general’s tent was pitched in the Dil Kooshah Park, and the scene of confusion through which he picked his way was enough to confuse anyone. Regiment after regiment passed him. Infantry, cavalry, and artillery, all moving in one direction towards the Alumbagh, and it became evident that some great movement was going on. Ladies were to be seen wandering hopelessly about with children poorly provided for, only lately rescued from imminent peril. Guns lay here and there, which not being worth taking away, had been burst. Camp followers were shouting and quarrelling, and a scene of more inextricable confusion could hardly be imagined. Moving along with the crowd, Major Hughes found his way to the Martiniere, where lay Brigadier Little and a cavalry brigade. On the banks of the canal the 63rd Regiment and the 4th Sikh infantry were bivouacked, and soon he stumbled on the lines of the 93rd Highlanders, and of Captain Peel’s gallant Naval Brigade. The heavy dome of the Shah Nujeef mosque lay before him, its walls pierced for musketry, and breached by the fire of the British guns; and there stood the Secunderabagh itself, with its yawning breaches and shattered walls. The gardens of the doomed city had been destroyed, the mosques, houses, even to the European mess-house, had been in detail carried by storm. In one spot alone, the bodies of three thousand mutineers had been found, every corpse showing that death had been caused by the deadly bayonet. Major Hughes had proceeded thus far, and was just asking his way from a captain of the Royal Artillery, when down a roughly cut road, his horse white with foam, came an officer of the 9th Lancers.

Pulling up with a sharp jerk, which brought the tired animal on his haunches, and sent the light gravel flying in the air—

“You are Major Hughes, commanding the 150th?” he asked.

“I am; on my way to report myself as having joined.”

“You will find the chief in the Martiniere compound. Officers commanding regiments are directed to join him there. Evil tidings have arrived.”

Touching his horse with the spur the officer dashed on.

“Who is that?” inquired Hughes from his companion; “I saw him with Sir Colin.”

“Captain Ogilvie, of the 9th Lancers, aide-de-camp to Sir Colin Campbell,” was the reply; “and I’d advise you to be jogging. He himself must be yonder where you see the group of men.”

Retracing his steps, Major Hughes soon stood in the Martiniere compound. A group of officers of all arms surrounded Sir Colin. Colonel Hay, 93rd Regiment, was speaking as Hughes strode up, and just outside the group an officer dismounted, but holding his horse by the bridle, stood listening. The poor fellow’s uniform was torn and dirty, the horse, whose colour had once been grey, was now of a blue black with sweat and foam, his head was hanging down, and it was evident that steed and rider were dropping with fatigue.

A twisted scrap of paper was between Sir Colin’s fingers, his brows were knit, and the forage-cap he wore was pushed from his forehead.

“Bad news from Cawnpore,” whispered an officer of Hussars, as Major Hughes joined the group.

“What has gone wrong?” asked the latter.

“The Gwalior Contingent have attacked the city, and poor Edwardes yonder has managed to get through their lines, the bearer of urgent requests for help.”

“Silence, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin. “There is not an hour to be lost. The troops will break ground immediately, falling back from their position of Dil Kooshah and the Martiniere. Commanding officers of corps will at once make their preparations, and will move at daybreak, taking up their several positions on the plain below the city, exactly where each corps bivouacked before the attack. Good morning, gentlemen. Captain Gough, send the Quartermaster-General to me. Major Hughes, give this to General Outram,” he continued, handing him a note. The little crowd of officers melted away, and borrowing a horse from a captain of Lancers, Major Hughes rode through the confusion, towards the Bunnee camp, the position occupied by General Outram.

It was past midnight when he reached the lines, and was challenged by the outlying pickets, yet he found the General awake and watchful, for every now and then a heavy prolonged thud shook the air, telling of the firing of great guns, and though Cawnpore was forty miles away yet every man of the little army knew that the Gwalior mutineers, with a force far exceeding any which Sir Colin Campbell could bring against them, were pressing hard upon the handful of men who garrisoned the entrenchments.

Major Hughes delivered his letter. It contained an enclosure from Brigadier Carthew, telling a sad tale. One after another the different outposts had been taken, and given to the flames. The enormous force opposed to them was literally crushing out the handful of the defenders of Cawnpore, and unless immediate help came all were lost. Such were the details, of which he was the bearer, and they were disastrous enough. The note itself directed Brigadier Outram to move forward one portion of the force early the next morning, Sir Colin Campbell proposing to join the advanced guard.

“Major Hughes, you will be under arms by daybreak.” “Good night” were the only words which greeted him, as General Outram turned to his aide-de-camp and summoned his staff round him to make his arrangements for the advance.

“Take this to Brigadier Greathead. The 8th, the 2nd Punjaub Infantry, with the 150th Regiment will form the advance,” were the last words which reached his ears as he stepped forth into the night, to find his corps as best he might. A sentry, who had held his horse, pointed out the lines of the 150th, and taking his way to a large tent which he rightly conjectured to be the mess tent, the officers were soon roused, and flocking around him.

“Do you remember I said you were a lucky fellow, Major,” said Harris, as he shook his commanding officer warmly by the hand, “that night when we shot the tiger at Bellary?”

“I think you were the lucky fellow, then,” replied Major Hughes, laughing.

“Yes, but only fancy Colonel Desmond being sent home on sick leave. Colonel Sedley invalided from the effects of that ball through the lungs at Quatre Bras, and you joining just in time to take the command.”

“Well, it was lucky, I must own. And what has become of Major Ashley?”

“Hit in the neck at the storming of the Dilkhoosha House,”—replied Harris, now Lieutenant of the Light Company; “but here’s Curtis.”

“How are you, Curtis?”

“Glad to see you once more among us,” was the reply, as that officer, now the senior captain of the regiment, shook hands with him, “and where’s the Kaffir bride you promised to bring back?” he added, laughing.

And one after another flocked in, roused out of their well-earned slumbers by the hasty summons, glad to welcome an old comrade, and pleased to hear of the advance.

“I say, Biddulph, won’t we trounce those Gwalior chaps? They’d have done better to have stayed at Calpee, and they’ll know it when old Colin gets at them.”

“There goes the réveillé,” replied Biddulph, as the quivering notes of the bugle rose on the air, the morning light just breaking grey over the plain, showing the tents of the little force lying here and there.

“The 150th Regiment will fall in at once, and move off on the Cawnpore road, as soon as ready,” shouted a mounted orderly officer as he rode up.

“Major Hughes, the Brigadier desires you will cover your advance with the Light Company, and move on slowly, the sooner the better.”

Saluting as he spoke with his sword, the officer rode away to deliver his orders, and the work of inspecting their several companies went on rapidly by the regimental officers of the corps destined to lead the advance.

For the first time Major Hughes, as he sat on his borrowed horse in the grey dawn, found himself in command of the regiment he had entered as an ensign, and that too with an enemy of overpowering strength in his front. He thought of Isabel, his wife, “where was she now?” and then the memories of the past thronged quickly upon him; the elephant hunt on the Shire river, the “Halcyon,” the death of the old noble; and he had left that brave wife, who had herself been the first to bid him go alone, without a protector. What if he fell in the unequal fight which was to take place? and then on the sharp morning air came the subdued but heavy thud, which told him of his countrymen and countrywomen in dire peril, with the soldiers of the treacherous Nana gathering closely around them. The Adjutant rode up, giving in his report. Was there a quiver in the voice which gave the order, “With ball cartridge. Load?”

The regiment stood in column of companies, bayonets fixed and shouldered, the Grenadier company leading.

“By double files from the centre rear wing to the front. Two centre sections outwards wheel,” were the words of command, hoarsely shouted. “Quick march.”

By this manoeuvre, the two centre sections of each company opening out, permitted that immediately in their rear to pass through their ranks. Thus the Light Company, from being in rear of all, now became the leading one, advancing through the opened sections four deep at the double, each company closing its ranks, and following in its turn, the Grenadiers forming the rear guard.

“Captain Curtis, throw out the light bobs as skirmishers, and advance cautiously,” said Hughes, the men having cleared the Grenadiers, and again formed up as a company.

The notes of the bugle sounding the Light Infantry call to extend from the centre, floated on the air; the light company obeyed it, spreading across the country, their right flank resting on the left of the skirmishers of the Punjaub Infantry, their own left on the right of the Light Bobs of H.M.’s 8th Foot, the whole regiment moving off along the Cawnpore road just as the bugles of the different brigades rang out on the plain, and the guns of Colonel Bourchier’s battery of Horse Artillery came jingling along in rear.

“How slowly we move on, with the halt sounding every moment, Curtis!” said Major Hughes, as he sat on his horse at the head of the regiment, speaking to his senior captain, towards midday of the 27th of November.

“Slowly indeed, and our force is weak, in artillery particularly. Two troops of Horse Artillery, the Naval Brigade, one heavy field battery, and three light ones, with the 4th, 5th, and 6th Infantry Brigades, and a handful of cavalry, seem a small force.”

“The more the honour for us; they shall hear of us with pride in the old land,” answered Hughes. “If ever we meet those scoundrels of Nana’s with the bayonet, we will teach them a lesson.”

The regiment was halted near the village of Onao, on a slight eminence, and the two officers looking back could see the long tortuous march of the little army, while far away, far as the eye could reach, the plain was covered with the vast horde of camp followers, which is the great pest of a march in India, mixed with camels and baggage waggons.

The jingling of accoutrements was now heard, as, at a sharp trot, a splendid regiment of English cavalry moved to the front.

“Look out, 150th, there’ll be sharp work for you soon!” shouted the officer commanding, as he rode past, his words replied to by a cheer from the men.

“Major Hughes, call in your light company!” shouted an orderly officer, as he dashed on, not checking his horse. “The Lancers will act as videttes.”

Almost at the same moment, the bugles of the 8th Regiment on the left, and the Punjaub Infantry on the right, were heard, sounding the recall, as an officer of Hodgson’s Horse came up at a hard gallop from the front.

“Bad news from Cawnpore!” he shouted. “Wyndham’s hard pressed; all his outposts driven in, and hardly able to hold his entrenchments!”

“Steady, men, steady!” called Hughes, as a thrill of excitement ran through the corps.

“Orders for the 150th to press to the front!” shouted another orderly officer, as he galloped past.

“One Hundred and Fiftieth, attention! Shoulder arms! Slope arms! By your right! Quick, march! Steady, men! Officers commanding companies, look to your distance!” were the words of command, as the whole force moved on leaving Onao after a couple of hours’ halt, and still following the Cawnpore road.

Sir Hope Grant now rode with the advance, and the cavalry videttes on the flanks had an idle time of it, for not the trace of an enemy was to be seen, while every hour caused the heavy cannonade in front to be heard louder and louder.

The morning of the 28th dawned, and Sir Colin Campbell’s force encamped on the banks of the Ganges, with the city of Cawnpore in its front. A bridge of boats had been thrown across the river, as it afterwards appeared, and this bridge had, by some unaccountable oversight, been overlooked by the mutineers.