Guns to the Far East (12 page)

He knew nothing specific, however; the tales were mostly rumour and all that Phillip was able to glean from him was confirmation that both Cawnpore and Lucknow were under siege. Troops and a Brigadier-General named Havelock— recalled from Persia—were being sent to their aid but it was not yet known whether they had left Calcutta.

On board the hospital ship, when he went to take leave of Dr Crawford and the rest of the medical staff, he heard the same rumours repeated, many obviously exaggerated and without foundation, but all of them an alarming indication of how grave the situation in India had become.

“Your two ships may be the means of saving Calcutta itself from anarchy, if even half these terrible tales are true,” Crawford said grimly, when they had discussed the spate of rumour and conjecture at some length. “Please God they are not! It's an appalling thing when women and children are in the forefront of the battle and when that battle is being fought in India, at the height of summer and against a merciless foe, their suffering doesn't bear thinking about, does it? And if the stories
are
true, God help the poor souls!”

“Amen to that,” Phillip said, his voice flat.

Crawford eyed him searchingly. “Do you have loved ones out there? Relatives, friends?”

“Two of my sisters, Doctor. I believe they are in Lucknow but I don't know—there's been no news of them.”

“I see. Well, if you are pinning your hopes on joining a relief force to go up country, you will have to take care of that arm, Commander Hazard,” the surgeon warned. “There's no infection, the bone is knitting very nicely, but you'll not be able to dispense with the splints for another week or two.”

He offered advice and Phillip said wryly, “And if I obey your instructions to the letter, Doctor, what then?”

Dr Crawford smiled. “Then you should be as fit as the next man by the time you reach Calcutta, apart from muscle weakness in your left arm.”

Phillip started to thank him but Crawford brushed his thanks aside. “It's a pity we've all to go our separate ways now,” he observed, with genuine regret. “The padre, our good Josiah Thompson, was here yesterday from the front. He told me that the Commodore will probably go home. He's still up river but Josiah says he's only waiting for the next English mail. If Their Lordships don't relent, he'll go back by mail steamer and the padre and Spurrier will go with him.”

William Peel's barometer, Phillip thought, conscious of an inner anger directed against those on the Board of Admiralty who had—for personal and political reasons, Peel claimed— treated Keppel so scurvily. Did they not realise what he had achieved out here in the few short weeks since his arrival? Did they not understand that victory at Fatshan had been won because of Keppel's courageous leadership, his ability to inspire the men he commanded to a valour almost matching his own? The destruction of the Chinese war fleet by a handful of British seamen in ships' boats had made it possible for the Canton River to be controlled by that same handful and a few small gunboats and, as a result, Lord Elgin was in a position to send aid to India. For God's sake, how could the loss of
Raleigh
be measured, to Keppel's detriment, against Fatshan?

“Poor young Foster died of his wounds on board
Fury,
off the Macao Fort,” Surgeon Crawford was saying. “But your friend Commander Turnour is doing great things in the
Bittern.
He took five pirate junks the other day, it seems, and Josiah Thompson tells me that the C-in-C has recommended him for immediate promotion. His brother Nicholas, whom you probably know, is here now, with the
Pearl …
” He mentioned other
Raleigh
officers and men and Phillip made an effort to listen, still conscious of the bitter anger burning inside him.

“The youngsters have all got other ships,” Dr Crawford went on. “Johnny Lightfoot and Mark Kerr will be joining you in the
Shannon.
Charlie Scott, Victor Montagu, and Harry Stephenson have been appointed to
Pearl,
so no doubt you'll see something of them … and
we
may yet run across each other in India, if fate so decrees.”

“We, Doctor?” Phillip echoed. “Do you mean that you—”

“Oh, I'm not aiming to join the Naval Brigade,” Crawford answered, with more than a hint of bitterness. “I'm being invalided, alas. But I have a brother in Madras, so I thought I'd take my sick leave with him. Stay a while, perhaps, just in case there's anything a crocked naval surgeon can do.” He did not offer any explanation and Phillip did not press him for one, sensing that his own ill-health was not a subject he wanted to discuss.

John Crawford was in his late forties and now he looked every year of his age, wan and tired, his cheeks hollow, as if it had been a long time since he had slept. His skill had saved a great many lives and he had never spared himself but now, it seemed, Their Lordships had no further use for him—for him or for Keppel …

“It is a case of ‘physician, heal thyself,' is it not, Commander Hazard? Well, I'm going to have a damned good try to do just that and confound them! Godspeed, good luck, and I hope we'll meet again. My prayers, for what they are worth, will be for all of you.” He held out his hand and Phillip wrung it, his throat tight.

He joined the
Shannon
that evening; next day the Marines from the
Sanspareil
were transferred. On the morning of 16th July, having embarked the Earl of Elgin and his staff,
Shannon
and
Pearl
weighed anchor and set course for Singapore, which was reached on the 28th. Two days later, having completed with coal and taken on board a company of the 90th Light Infantry—shipwrecked in the transport
Transit
off the Malayan coast—the two frigates proceeded on their voyage to India.

M
utiny came to Sitapur,
with horrifying violence, on the morning of Wednesday, 3rd June. To the British civil and military officers and their wives, the outbreak came as no surprise but rather as a nightmare ending to the weeks of tension and uncertainty which had preceded it.

Crouching now in a jungle clearing, as merciful darkness descended upon her, Harriet Dorling unbuttoned the front of her torn and bloodstained dress and holding her baby son to her breast, thankfully gave him suck. His feeble whimpering stilled at last and the other two children falling into an exhausted sleep beside her, she forced her mind back into the past, reliving the nightmare of the last 24 hours.

They had expected a mutiny but had sought, all of them, to avert it by remaining at their posts and showing no outward signs of fear. Perhaps they had been wrong, Harriet thought— perhaps
she
had been wrong to insist on staying at Jemmy's side, instead of taking the opportunity, when it had been offered to her, of going under escort to Lucknow with her children. But very few of the other wives had accepted it; some because, like herself, they were reluctant to leave their husbands, and others, on their own admission, because they feared that their escort—sepoys of the 41st Native Infantry— might betray them. Their commanding officer, Colonel Birch, had continued to the last to trust them and, in proof of his confidence in their fidelity, had sent his own wife and daughter with them, but no one knew whether or not the small party had reached Lucknow safely. And … Harriet bit back a sob. One of his own sepoys had, that morning, shot the poor Colonel in the back, without warning and seemingly without compunction. Just as they … The baby stirred restlessly and, releasing her nipple from his flaccid lips, she lifted him gently on to her shoulder to caress the wind he had sucked in from his small, distended stomach, glad that, in this emergency, she had suckled him herself from birth, instead of employing a wet nurse. At least now—for as long as she was alive—she could sustain his precious life and perhaps Ayah
would
keep her promise and return to them from her village, with food for the other two.

The baby relieved, she placed him on her other breast and again forced herself to look back, trying to place, in their proper order, the events which had led to her presence here and to … tears welled unbidden into her eyes, ached in her throat. To darling Jemmy's … death.

Ever since mid-May, when the news of Delhi's capture by the mutineers from Meerut had reached them, the native troops on the station had been showing increasing signs of disaffection. Priests and holy men had paid secret visits to the Native Lines, preaching
jehad,
urging the sepoys to betray the Company's salt and it had been impossible to deny them entry. By the end of the month, two of the four regimental Commanders had been compelled to warn the Commissioner, George Christian, that no reliance could be placed on their regiments' continued loyalty. It had almost broken Jemmy's heart to make such an admission, Harriet recalled with bitterness. Jemmy was of the old school, a commanding officer who regarded his men as his children and who, all his service life, had made their welfare his first concern. He had always had their respect and their personal devotion and, in return, had loved them and taken an intense pride in everything they did. His house, as well as his office, had been open to any and all of them; every man, from his Subedar down to the newest recruit, had been known to him by name and could count on a sympathetic hearing in time of trouble. Dear heaven, he had spent more time with his sepoys than he had with his own family and yet, in spite of it, they had betrayed him. They … Harriet laid the baby, sleeping now, across her knees and, with a trembling hand, wiped the tears from her eyes.

How, oh how, could the betrayal have been avoided? The Commissioner, God rest his soul, had taken what steps he could to meet the expected outbreak. Since so few of the British wives and families had left the station, he had decided that the first step was to arrange for their protection and had, accordingly, set about the task of provisioning and fortifying his bungalow. The Residency bungalow stood in a large, open compound, on two sides of which flowed the Sureyan River and from it, access to the Lucknow road could only be gained by passing through the military cantonment and Native Infantry Lines. This made it far from ideal as a defensive position but it was large enough to accommodate the majority of those who were likely to seek refuge with the Commissioner and he had issued instructions that, at the first sign of trouble, the British families were to gather there, each family bringing with them whatever transport they possessed, in case evacuation became necessary.

The 2nd Regiment of Military Police, commanded by Captain John Hearsey, had continued to obey orders and had expressed their intention to remain loyal and, in the belief that they, at least, could be trusted, George Christian had called upon them to guard the Residency. But, Harriet recalled wearily, in the end even they had betrayed their trust and joined the rest in a savage orgy of slaughter, shooting down poor George Christian, with his wife and younger child, and putting to the sword all those who had fled, in terror, from the building they had been pledged to defend. A few, like herself, had managed to make their escape but … She drew a long, shuddering breath. Like herself, all were now hunted fugitives in a trackless, inhospitable jungle, without food or water or weapons, their lives in danger both from pursuing sepoys and the wild animals by which it was infested.

Her own ordeal had begun before the police guards had joined the sepoys in their attack on the Christians' bungalow. She had wakened before dawn to find her husband hurriedly donning his uniform by the light of a single candle and he had told her, she remembered, that the Havildar-Major had summoned him to the Lines in the hope that, by his presence, he might prevent the hotheads from breaking out.

“I must go, darling,” he had told her. “It's my duty to do what I can. And they may listen if I appeal to them … they're not all affected by this madness. Burnes is coming with me and I've sent a
chitti
to Dick Snell to tell him to escort you and the children, with his own wife and child, to the Residency or to the Lucknow road, as he thinks best. The servants are putting the horses into the buggy now—it will be waiting for you by the time you're dressed—but please, don't waste any time.”

She had protested, of course, Harriet thought dully, had begged him not to go, not to risk his life by attempting to reason with his men.

“They're beyond reason now, Jemmy,” she had said. “And we need you, the children and I.”

“I'm in no danger from my own sepoys,” Jemmy had assured her. “From the others, perhaps, but not from my men. And I owe it to them to try to stop them, Harriet.” Buckling on his sword, he had promised that it would not take long, that he would come back for her. “I'll find you wherever you are, my love—at the Christians' or on the road. Dick Snell will look after you and I'm leaving Sita Ram with you, too—both will be armed.” He had kissed her, held her to him for a moment, and then vanished into the early morning mist, a tall, ramrod-stiff figure, bent only on saving his wayward sepoy-children from the consequences of their own folly, the stout Havildar-Major, respectful as ever, trotting at his heels.

Oh, Jemmy,
Harriet's heart cried in silent agony,
did you not know what they would do? Had you no inkling of the treachery they planned, the cruel betrayal? Had you no suspicion at all that they intended to take from you the life you had already given them a hundred times before?

No answer came from the humid darkness and, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby on her lap, Harriet drew her shawl more closely about her, shivering as the terrible, searing memories returned. She had done as Jemmy had bade her; had sent Ayah to rouse and dress the children and hastened to dress herself. The bearer brought tea and told her that the buggy was harnessed and ready; she had drunk the tea, she recalled, and waited for the Snells. A little later Sita Ram— Jemmy's orderly, a bemedalled veteran who had served him for fifteen years—had presented himself, smartly uniformed as always and his musket slung from his shoulder, to be greeted eagerly by the five-year-old Phillip, whose favourite companion he was.