Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 22

“Where are Major Hughes’s quarters?” asked a mounted dragoon of Hodgson’s Horse, before daylight, on the morning of the 29th, making the inquiry of an out-picket of the corps.

“Yonder,” replies the man, pointing to a tent, whose single pole was surmounted with a small fluttering flag.

The man rode on. Before the tent door lay several servants fast asleep. The one nearest the trooper, as he checked his horse near the tent pegs, was lying on his face. The dragoon, leaning from his saddle, pricked the sleeper gently in the bareback with the point of his sword, intending to rouse him; but, thus rudely woke from deep sleep, the man thought at once that a snake had bitten him, commencing a series of howlings, which at once effectually roused the occupants of the tent.

“What on earth is the matter?” asked Hughes and the adjutant of the regiment, who had both thrown themselves down on the ground to sleep, dressed as they were.

“Just stop that fellow’s bellowing, Reynolds, will you?” said Hughes, as he advanced to the mounted orderly, who, saluting, handed him a written note.

“Brigadier Hope’s Brigade will hold itself in readiness to carry the bridge at eight o’clock a.m., on the morning of the 29th.”

Here followed details as to the formation of the various corps.

“Let the orderly sergeants fall in, Reynolds,” said Major Hughes, as he handed the trooper a receipt, and half an hour after, the 150th broke ground at the quick step, but in perfect silence, moving across the flat plain towards the Ganges, here spanned by a bridge of boats, the approach to which was covered by the guns of the Naval Brigade.

“There’s Remington’s Horse Artillery,” said Reynolds, pointing to a battery; “and there are the dragoons.”

“Commanding officers of regiments to the front!” was the order now given.

“You will content yourselves, gentlemen, with your assigned positions; your orders are first to gain then to hold your ground, and act purely on the defensive. The 150th will have the honour of carrying the bridge,” said Sir Hope Grant.

“At this moment a heavy gun was fired from the camp, when, and, as if in answer to it, Peel’s Naval Battery opened fire, and shortly after, Wyndham’s from the entrenchments, replied to by the artillery of the Gwalior rebels.

“You will push your pickets on to the banks of the Ganges Canal. And now, Major Hughes, show us the way.”

The next instant Hughes was at the head of his regiment, and dashing over the bridge at the double. The fierce cannonade still continued; but whether from apathy or want of forethought, the English column was not meddled with, but quietly allowed to pass the bridge, and establish itself in the buildings called the Dragoon Barracks, and those adjoining it. This at once opened a communication with Wyndham’s force, and left the road to Allahabad free, enabling Sir Colin Campbell to send away his enormous train of women, children, wounded, and non-combatants, over the bridge of boats thus secured by the gallantry of Major Hughes and his regiment. The object was gained, as hour after hour, and day after day, passed the long files of those who had been the little army’s greatest encumbrances, the helpless women and children.

It was early morning, and singularly enough a heavy fog had settled down on the banks of the Ganges, while a cool breeze was driving it along in densely packed masses, sometimes lifting a little, but only to settle down more heavily than ever on the domes and minarets of Cawnpore. It rolled among the long lines of white tents, and along the canal banks, while a heavy dull explosion, coming from the town, seemed to shake the dense vapour from time to time, and show a lurid patch near the guns. Then came the crashing sound of splintering wood, and tumbling bricks, telling that the mutineers of Oude had found out their mistake, and were cannonading the Dragoon Barracks, where the 150th Regiment had entrenched themselves. In the English camp all was quiet. The possession of the bridge of boats, and of the line of the canal, had given Sir Colin what he wanted, communication with Wyndham’s entrenchments, and also with Allahabad, and so enabled him to rid himself of the most fearful accumulation of non-combatants an army was ever called upon to encumber itself with.

“I feel uneasy, I know not why,” said Major Hughes to his adjutant, Lieutenant Reynolds, as they stood within a roughly constructed barricade, near the race stand, his regiment supplying the main picket, posted close to the Trunk Road, leading to Allahabad.

“Who holds Saint Salvador House?”

“A strong detachment of our 53rd, Major,” was the reply.

“It’s a nasty morning, Reynolds, just visit the outlying pickets, and tell Biddulph to keep a sharp look-out.”

The adjutant wrapped himself in his cloak, and went out into the rolling fog, and his superior officer, leaning against an upright post, his drawn sword in his hand, listened eagerly for any passing noise.

He began speculating as to the chance of an attack on the important post he held, covering the road by which the wounded, the ladies and children were making their weary way towards safety. Isabel was safe in her little home looking over the Indian Ocean, but there were many Isabels among that sad column, equally dear to others, and whose safety was in his hands.

“Captain Robertson,” he said, speaking to one of a group of officers, who were laughing and chatting near, with their swords drawn, “get the men under arms at once. Pandy will never miss such a chance of surprise as this fog gives him.”

The picket, consisting of about two hundred rank and file, were soon under arms, and the grey dawn was just breaking through the mist, when suddenly the explosion of a single musket was heard, followed by several others, then a heavy volley from the front.

“I thought so!” exclaimed Hughes, with a sigh, as though his breast was relieved of a great weight.

Firing as they were driven in, the officers and men of the outlying picket were now to be seen through the dense mist as clearing away from the front of the line; the well-trained fugitives dashed round the flanks and re-formed under cover of the race stand.

“Steady, my lads, aim low!” shouted the major, as a dark, dense mass of men loomed through the fog, and from the race stand and the stockade near, came the quick, sharp fire of the English musketry, poured at twenty paces distant into the serried ranks of the mutineers.

Staggered by the volley, the attacking party for an instant fell back, the sharp cry of pain, mixing with the yell for revenge, as confident in their numbers, they poured in volley upon volley, and again advanced, literally swarming round the English outposts.

The guns of Wyndham’s entrenchment were now heard, replied to hot and fast by those of the Gwalior mutineers, while their Artillery from the town opened a heavy fire on the Dragoon Barracks. Fearfully overmatched, the 150th fought on, the bayonet doing its deadly work, while the clubbed muskets came crashing down on the heads of the assailants as they appeared above the stockade, the deep oath, the loud shout of triumph, the yell of pain, and the scream of agony, mixed with the rattle of the deadly volley poured into the dense files of the rebel force.

“Remember, my lads,” shouted Hughes, “the safety of the women and children are in our hands,” as his sword descended on the dark shako of a man who had just gained the race stand, and was firing his pistol into the ranks of the 150th. “Ye fight for your wives and your children,” he shouted, as the man, with a deep groan, fell back, impaled on the clustering bayonets of his friends below.

A loud cheer answered his words, taken up by the defenders of the stockade, but now a second column of the enemy, nearly a thousand strong, came dashing along. They were fresh men, and pouring in a volley as they came, they took the little force in flank, seeming to bury it under their heavy mass, as they dashed on. The fight became a melée now.

Major Hughes had received a ball in the shoulder. His adjutant lay on the planking of the stand, with a bullet through his forehead, his fair hair bedabbled in a stream of blood, the groans of the wounded, the sad, pitiful cries for water, rang around him, while the heavy guns from the town and entrenchment, combined with the rattling volleys of musketry, to make a fiendish uproar, such as few had ever heard.

There was no time for thought, it was a hand-to-hand struggle now, but still the loud cry, “Ye fight for your wives and children, men!” rang out, answered by a feeble cheer, from race stand and stockade, and a storm of yells from the swaying, panting crowd of assailants below.

The day was dawning clear now, but the cheers from the stockade became more and more feeble, as man after man went down. No time to load, but the bayonet and clubbed musket are doing their work, doggedly, desperately, and in silence. The British force is melting away, when hark! the feeble cheers from the battered race stand are at last answered, as a long line of tall shakoes and red uniforms comes into view in rear. It was his regiment, the 150th, commanded by its senior captain, Curtis.

“Hurrah, my lads, we are safe now!” shouted Hughes, as he swung himself from the rear of the stand, a desperate leap; and the next moment, without his forage-cap, his face streaked with blood, and begrimed with smoke, stood among his men. “Halt!” shouted his powerful voice, as he waved his sword in his right hand, his left hanging powerless.

“Men of the 150th, prepare to charge!”

The muskets came down with a clang, as of one man.

“Charge;” shouted Major Hughes, and round the stockade, round the stand, with a loud howl for vengeance, came the British line. The shock was tremendous, for the men fought like fiends, while from the two positions which had been so hotly contested, the bright flashes of musketry came thick and fast, mingling their reports with the roar of the heavy guns from town and entrenchment.

The men of the Gwalior Contingent were literally borne back by that terrible bayonet charge, then the whole mass became mixed, the scene more resembling an Irish row than a fight among disciplined men.

Pandies and English were jumbled together, fighting for life, and for revenge more than for victory, the red glare of the guns seen through the rising mist, the shouts and cheers of the men in the race stand, maddening still further the already savage combatants below.

“Clear the way, my hearties,” shouted a hoarse voice, as with a loud cheer, the men of Peel’s Naval Brigade came laughing and shouting along, after forming behind the grand stand, dragging along a 24-pounder. “Starboard, you may. Heave ahead with the gun.”

“Who is commanding officer?” asked Captain Peel. “Here, bugler, sound the recall. Now, my lads, give them Number one broadside, ram in grape!” and as the notes of the bugle sounded in the morning air, the discipline momentarily lost, again regained its hold; and the 150th came streaming back, re-forming behind the gun, Major Hughes grasping the gallant sailor’s hand as he passed him.

Staggered by the bayonet charge, the mutineers paused. A man, evidently an officer of high standing, could be seen encouraging them, and urging them on. At length, with a savage yell, the massive column wavered to and fro, the officer, grasping a green flag, dashed forward, full twenty paces in front of his men.

“File firing from the right of companies,” shouted Hughes, as the regiment, re-formed, once again, stood in line.

“Take that, you landlubber,” shouted a sailor, hitting the mutineer officer over the head with his short cutlass, as the brave fellow dashed at the gun, and cutting it literally in two, the 24-pounder, with its terrible fire of grape, sweeping right through the advancing column.

The mutineers wavered, stopped dead, while with a cheer the gallant tars loaded the gun.

Over the din, came the well-known shout, “Men of the 150th prepare to charge.”

“Charge!”

And once more the indomitable British line hurled itself on the foe, who broke and fled just as the tramp of cavalry was heard, and three troops of the Lancers, among whom could be seen the brilliant uniforms of Brigadier Hope Grant’s staff, came sweeping over the plain.

The fight had lasted two hours, and was the only attack made on the British picket. The punishment inflicted by the Lancers was severe, and the 24-pounder took an active part in the pursuit.

The Kaffir Bride

“Officers in command of regiments are requested to meet the Commander-in-chief at ten o’clock this evening.

“December 6, 1867.”

Such was the order placed in Major Hughes’s hands a few days after the desperate attack on the out-picket had been so gallantly repulsed. The loss of the regiment had been severe; but the men were in high spirits, and ready for everything, being proud both of themselves and of their commanding officer, whom the old soldiers of the corps had known as a youngster, and had learned to trust and to love.

Sir Colin Campbell, as he entered the tent which was to serve as the council-room, held out his hand, advancing to meet him as he did so. “I congratulate you, sir, on the gallant behaviour of your regiment. Your name will appear in General Orders to-morrow with an appointment as lieutenant-colonel of your corps, pending her Majesty’s approbation.”

The tell-tale blood flushed his cheek as he grasped the hand held out to him, and one and another of the men who stood around him added their congratulations to those of the rough but true-hearted old soldier.

There stood Brigadier Hope Grant talking eagerly to the officer commanding Hodgson’s Horse, but who found time for a cordial shake of the hand; Captain Middleton, who, with his field battery, had ever been among the foremost; Brigadier Greathead; Captain Peel, of the gallant Naval Brigade; Captain Remington, of the Horse Artillery; the Commanding Officers of the Cavalry; of the 4th, 5th, and 6th Infantry Brigades, and of the Royal Engineers, all men trained in a school of actual warfare; and it was with difficulty Hughes could suppress his emotion, as one after another advanced and shook his right hand, congratulating him on a firmness and steadiness which had perhaps saved the little force, but, at all events, kept open the communications with Allahabad.

“Oh, that Isabel could have been here!” he thought. But Isabel was away, and far better that it was so, for stern work was yet to be done.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Sir Colin, motioning with his hand. A momentary bustle ensued and then a dead silence, broken only by the boom of an occasional gun from the town.

“I dare say you have wondered not a little,” said the fine old soldier, “why I have remained so long inactive. My object has been to disembarrass my force from the incubus of non-combatants. The want of foresight of the enemy in leaving us the bridge of boats permitted the attempt to be made. The true British pluck and gallantry of the 150th Regiment has enabled me to carry it out completely.”

All eyes turned towards Hughes, who again blushed with pleasure.

“I intend, gentlemen, to strike our tents at sunrise to-morrow, and attack the enemy.”

Sir Colin paused, and a general murmur of pleasure and gratification ran round the table, as he continued, with a smile on his war-worn countenance,—

“Ay, ay; you have all been grumbling at me in your hearts, but we’ll make up for lost time. My attack will be on the enemy’s right, and if we can drive that from its position, the day will be ours.

“Here are the instructions for the Cavalry and Horse Artillery, who will act together. Brigadier Greathead, here are yours. You will call in the out-pickets of the 150th, and direct that regiment to join your brigade, holding the centre of our line. You hear me, Colonel Hughes,” said the veteran, as he turned to the officers he addressed, those named rising and each receiving his written instructions.

“Officers commanding Infantry Brigades, you will parade your regiments in contiguous columns in rear, and under cover of the cavalry barracks half an hour before sunrise, according to seniority. And now, gentlemen, good night, for I have much to do,” continued Sir Colin. “The enemy muster twenty-five thousand men, with all the guns of the Gwalior Contingent. We can count only about four thousand and thirty-two guns.”

“And quite enough, too,” exclaimed the gallant Peel, replying to his chief, utterly against all military etiquette. “We’ll have more before we pipe to supper to-morrow night. I say, Hughes, you can answer for how my fellows do their work? Eh!”

There was a general laugh, a few hearty shakes of the hand, as the officers of the force crowded round their beloved leader, and the council of war broke up.

“Let General Wyndham have this order, Ogilvie,” were the last words Hughes heard, as he took his way into the night. “It will tell him to open the heaviest fire he can from his entrenched camp before sunrise.”

Some one touched him on the shoulder. It was General Greathead.

“Are you well enough to take command of your regiment?” asked the General, pointing to the left arm, which was in a sling.

“I would not relinquish the honour for any reward the world could give me,” was the reply.

“Very well, Colonel Hughes, then good night. We shall meet at sunrise, and a memorable day it will be. Good night!” and shaking hands heartily, as men do under such circumstances, the two separated, taking their way to their respective commands, challenged at every few paces by the watchful sentries, the boom of an occasional gun from the town breaking the stillness of the night.

Morning dawned bright and beautiful, with that freshness in the air so well known to all who have inhabited hot countries. The guns in the town and entrenchments were for once silent, as the domes and minarets of Cawnpore flashed back the first rays of the rising sun. The river rolled its sacred waters lazily along, and the trees in the compounds, and on its banks, hardly moved in the breeze. The Ganges canal alone separated the out-pickets of the two forces, the ring of an occasional shot breaking the calm stillness of the morning.

Behind the Cavalry Barracks, and close to the Allahabad road, corps after corps formed up. There were Hope’s and Inglis’s brigades. Shoulder to shoulder stood the men of those two splendid regiments, the 42nd and 93rd Highlanders, and there, too, laughing, joking, and putting all notions of discipline at utter defiance, were the gallant tars of the Naval Brigade.

Sir Colin Campbell seemed in high spirits, as regiment after regiment marched past, and took up the position assigned it, the whole movement being concealed from the enemy by the large buildings called the Dragoon Barracks.

“How well the 2nd and 3rd battalions of the Rifles look, Biddulph,” he said to the quartermaster-general, who stood by his side. “Captain Wheatcroft, let Wyndham know that his guns should open.”

Saluting with his sword, the dragoon officer dashed away, and in a few minutes the calm silence of the morning was broken by the loud boom of a single gun, quickly replied to from the town, and followed by one after another, until the whole of Wyndham’s artillery was hotly engaged, and the firing on both sides the heaviest during the siege. Seated on his horse, watch in hand, Sir Colin calmly listened to the deafening uproar.

“Captain Remington,” said he, at last, beckoning to his side an officer commanding a troop of horse artillery, “take the cavalry and with your guns cross the canal higher up, threatening the enemy’s rear. I think, Biddulph, the fire from the entrenchments slackens, let the infantry deploy into line.”

All was now bustle and excitement as the orders to deploy were given, and the various brigades were put into motion, the bugles of the Sikh Infantry sounding merrily on the breeze, as the gallant fellows spread over the plain in skirmishing order.

“The 53rd Regiment to support skirmishers,” shouted Captain Dalzell of the 93rd, and the regiment indicated moved off at the double.

To the light lay Brigadier Greathead’s brigade, consisting of the 8th and the 150th Regiments, and the 2nd Punjaub Infantry.

The whole line was now in motion, the enemy having been completely deceived, the heavy firing from the entrenchments causing them to expect an attack on their centre, which lay fully prepared right in front of Greathead’s regiments. So silently and so skilfully had the movement been conducted, under shelter of the great buildings of the Dragoon Barracks, that the whole force was hurled on their right flank, before they knew anything about it.

“There go Walpole’s and Smith’s guns,” said the chief, as a heavy firing was heard among the brick-fields and kilns under the city walls; “let the whole line advance, I long to hear the scream of my brave Highlanders.”

Over the canal bridge poured regiment after regiment. Brigade after brigade appearing in great confusion for a moment, and the next re-forming their ranks, as regularly as though on parade. The long line of the enemy’s force lay before them, as pouring in volley upon volley, the skirmishers being driven in, the British line struggled forward.

Colonel Biddulph was shot down. The gallant Dalzell, of the 93rd Highlanders, was lying on the ground dead; he fell as he was leading his regiment to the charge. Captain Wheatcroft, of the 6th Dragoons, Hardy of the Royal Artillery, were moistening the plain with their hearts’ blood. Sir Colin Campbell himself was wounded, and eight of the staff around him were more or less hurt. The Naval Brigade working their twenty-four pounder, as though it were a plaything, had been dreadfully cut up, but still above the roar of the guns, and the pattering of the musketry, came the shout, “Forward!” not a man thought of retreat.

“Brigadier Greathead is hard pressed, Sir Colin,” said a mounted officer, dashing up.

“I can’t spare a man, Major Robertson,” replied the chief. “Tell him to look to himself.”

“Captain Heale, this for Sir Hope Grant; tell General Mansfield I want him.”

While the battle was thus hotly contested on the left, Brigadier Greathead’s little force found itself opposed to the enemy’s centre. Walpole’s guns, it is true, were steadily clearing the brick-fields, driving the enemy before them, but the Punjaub Infantry had already lost ninety-five men, and the 150th were severely cut up.

“Within five minutes of receiving this you will charge the enemy’s centre, such are the chief’s orders,” exclaimed a staff officer, galloping up, and handing over a small pencilled note.

The thing seemed impossible, and the Brigadier, amid the roar of the battle, for a moment doubted his ears. The next, the word of command was given, and pouring a shattering volley into the enemy’s line, the little brigade dashed on with the bayonet.

Precisely at the same moment, on the left, Sir Colin heard the scream of his Highlanders, the whole British force dashing forward at the charge. It was a splendid sight, as emerging from the heavy smoke cloud, the long line of bayonets glittering in the sun, with one mighty shout for vengeance, the English force buried itself in the heavy opposing masses of the murderers of Cawnpore.

“Forward—remember Cawnpore,” shouted Hughes, as at the head of his men he dashed on, leaving a long line of dead and dying in his rear.

Utterly astonished at the attack, the mutineers of the Gwalior Contingent gave way, then came the ringing cheer of the 8th Regiment, as the men dashed onward with the bayonet, and the enemy fairly doubled up, turned and fled.

At this moment, and just when the first runaways carried dismay into the ranks of the still resolute right wing, the Highland scream was heard as the little army moved forward, and emerging from the smoke, hurled itself in one glittering line on the mutineers, who broke at once.

“General Mansfield,” shouted Sir Colin, as he rode on through the enemy’s camp, among whose white tents the Highlanders and the men of the 32nd Regiment were bayoneting right and left.

“General Mansfield, take Greathead’s brigade, and storm the enemy’s left at Subadar’s Camp.”

“Colonel Hughes, let your bugles sound the recall, and fall into line at once,” cried General Mansfield, as he rode up in obedience to the order.

The men of different regiments were now fairly mixed, and a motley corps was hastily got together. There were the uniforms of the 23rd, 64th, the 90th Regiments, with the 150th, and some dismounted troopers of the 9th Lancers.

“You will take the command, Colonel Hughes,” said General Mansfield, as they moved hastily forward against the enemy’s left, “one volley only, and then the bayonet. Steady men, you will have enough to do soon.” The enemy’s fire now reached them, and man after man dropped as the line moved forward. A withering volley was poured in, and then came the irresistible charge of the British soldier, and the next moment the 150th were among the tents, and the whole Gwalior Contingent in full flight.

Gun after gun was spiked; the English Artillery playing upon the masses of retreating and disorganised mutineers. Grape and canister being poured into their broken masses at two hundred paces distant, while the Lancers and Dragoons rode them down, sabring right and left.

Sir Colin himself led the pursuit, and for fourteen miles along the banks of the river the carnage continued, until tired out and unable to do more, the bugles and trumpets sounded a halt, and men and horses bivouacked on the ground, not an enemy in sight.

The whole of the rebel stores, ammunition, and a great part of the guns were taken, but the loss on the side of the English was heavy.

The 150th counted over one hundred men in killed and wounded, and the 93rd Highlanders alone had ninety-three killed and one hundred and eight wounded.

“It was a splendid sight, Curtis,” said Hughes, as he sat on a spiked gun, while a hospital dresser who had happened to be passing was looking to a bullet wound in his right leg. “It was indeed a splendid sight when the cavalry debouched from yonder grove, and with Sir Colin at their head, dashed into the retreating pandies. I shall never forget the day.”

“Where’s Harris? I have not seen him for the last two hours.”

“Poor fellow, he is lying among the tents at Subadar’s Tank, shot through the heart. He fell close to me at our first charge.”

The two were silent, for the mad excitement of the fray was passing away, and the cost had now to be counted. They were seated at the junction of the Calpee and Cawnpore roads, masses of men of different regiments, and peletons of cavalry and artillery were moving across the plain in every direction, the animals fagged and weary, the men exultant, and bandying rough jokes.

Their horses covered with sweat and dust, their arms and accoutrements jingling as they rode, a group of officers came along. It was Sir Colin, General Mansfield, and Brigadier Greathead, with their staffs.

Reining in his horse, Sir Colin spoke.

“Colonel Hughes, you will parade the 150th to-morrow afternoon. I have a word to say to them.”

Steadying himself, with his right hand leaning on the gun-carriage, his left being useless, his leg half swathed up in its bloody bandages, and the hospital dresser kneeling at his feet, his forage-cap lost, and the heavy masses of black hair hanging over a forehead smeared with blood, Colonel Hughes saluted, and the General and his staff rode on.

“I wonder what he wants with us,” said Curtis. “We shan’t be able to turn out very well.”

Events in India had justified fully the confidence reposed in her sons by England. The retreating rebels were pursued the following day, and the column, under Sir Hope Grant, came up with and at once attacked them at a place called Serai Ghat, took fifteen guns, and a vast quantity of ammunition, then pushing on to Bithoor, carried Nana Sahib’s palace, and captured all his treasure. It was one of the closing scenes of the Indian mutiny.

“Steady, men, steady,” said Colonel Hughes, as leaning heavily on his sword, he stood in the centre of his regiment formed up in square, just where the Calpee and Cawnpore roads join.

“There comes the General and his staff—150th, attention!”

The rattle of the muskets as the men came to attention was heard. “Fix bayonets—shoulder arms,” were the words of command which followed as a mounted aide, at the gallop, left the group who were advancing across the plain, their plumes dancing in the breeze, and the sun glinting from their accoutrements.

“Order arms, and keep the men at attention only,” were the directions given and obeyed. “Have you the muster roll of your losses?” asked the aide.

“A heavy casualty list, Colonel Hughes,” said Sir Colin, as, with the paper in his hand, he rode into the centre of the square. “Three officers, and one hundred and four rank and file. 150th Regiment, I am proud of you!” said the stern old soldier, raising his plumed hat as he spoke. “Twice have you done good service to the whole force under my command. At the race stand, your determined gallantry saved our communications being cut off; to your splendid charge, we owe our first success yesterday. Men of the 150th, I repeat I am proud to have had you under my command. This I give as a token of the admiration of the whole force under my orders, and you it is who have won it for your commanding officer. As he spoke, the old soldier stooped, and himself attached the Victoria Cross, the first ever won in India, to Colonel Hughes’s breast. For you, my men, the glorious word ‘Cawnpore’ shall in future be borne on your regimental colours.”

“Colonel Hughes, dismiss your regiment.”

Three hearty cheers for Sir Colin were given, as the regiment broke its ranks, and the general and his staff rode away, winding in and out, among the fatigue parties, busy burying the dead.

The Gwalior Contingent melted away. British supremacy again reigned in India, and regiment after regiment was poured into the country, now rapidly being pacified.