The Cannons of Lucknow (23 page)

“He most certainly does not,” Alex asserted with conviction. “An Order of the Day was issued when we first entered Cawnpore, in which General Havelock clearly stated that—and I quote—‘whilst mutineers, civilian traitors, and other miscreants will be brought to swift and merciless justice, barbarism is
not
to be met with barbarism.' It was a very necessary Order, particularly after what had been done in the Bibigarh became known to our troops. But I assure you, it was strictly adhered to, so long as General Havelock was in command here.” He quoted the rest of the Order and saw relief reflected in both the anxious young faces opposite him.

“Then do you suppose he'll put an end to General Neill's wholesale executions?” Mowbray Thomson asked. “If I could be sure of that, I'd jump at the assistant-provost-marshal's job.”

“I'm quite certain he will, Tommy,” Alex assured him. “There's been a good deal of friction between them—mostly caused by Neill—and when the general learns what's been going on in his absence, he'll be horrified, because his orders were most explicit and Neill has deliberately flouted them. Havelock's not the man to stand for that.”

“Good. Then I shall contact Herbert Bruce tomorrow.” Thomson smiled. “I'm sickened by all this fighting and killing. I know it has to be done but, for a while at least, I'd like to forget I'm a soldier and try, instead, to construct something out of the ruins this revolt has left in its wake. I …” He reddened. “I'm humbled, I suppose, by the miracle of my own survival and by Drigbiji Singh's loyalty and kindness. I often ask myself why, Alex. I mean, why did God save
us
, out of the whole garrison? When we made our last sally from Eddie Vibart's boat, we thought it would be our last … None of us expected to live, did we? Yet four of us did—five, if poor Sullivan pulls through. When we staggered ashore it was because we couldn't swim any farther and we expected the villagers who were waiting for us to cut us to pieces … but instead they fed and helped us and then took us to Drigbiji Singh for protection.”

“And he refused several demands from the Nana to hand you over, I believe,” Alex said.

Thomson nodded. “Yes, he did. I've put in an official request that he should be rewarded, but that won't pay our debt to him.” He sighed. “And still I ask myself why God chose
us
to live on, when there were so many others more deserving. John Moore, for example, or Georgie Ashe or Vibart … even the poor old general. Your wife, Alex, who spent herself caring for the sick and wounded, Amelia Wheeler, Caroline Moore … dear heaven, any of them had a better claim to life than I have. And as for those poor souls who perished in the Bibigarh …” He shuddered. “I have nightmares about them.”

“Yes,” Alex confessed. “So do I.” He looked at Delafosse. “What about you, Henry—have you had enough fighting?”

“No, not yet.” Henry Delafosse spoke gravely, without bravado. “Like you, my dear Alex, I shall soldier on. It's all I know how to do and, I must admit, I have a deep and bitter longing to hit back at the Pandies. But in battle, on more even terms than they permitted us in that ghastly entrenchment on the plain. Everyone's now saying it was indefensible, and it
was
.” The other two nodded in agreement and Delafosse went on, “I want, if it's humanly possible, to save the poor people in Lucknow from the fate our people suffered. My conscience plagues me, as Tommy's does, because they're dead and I'm alive but, for as long as God sees fit to spare me, I'll fight their killers. Do you remember what Eddie Vibart said in the boat, when we were just about at the end of our tether? ‘Some of us must live,' he said. ‘Whatever it costs. Our betrayal
has
to be avenged.' He was right … and our archbetrayer, the Nana, is said to be at Bithur, so I'm joining the column, Alex.”

“We'd welcome you in the Volunteer Cavalry,” Alex offered. “Eddie Vibart's young brother is with us, by the way—Tom. As might be expected, he's a splendid youngster.”

“Thanks, but no. I'm a shocking horseman. And I've found myself a niche.” Delafosse laughed, with something of his old spirit. “Jack Olpherts has just arrived in camp, with the other half of his battery. He was at the hospital, visiting Francis Maude—who was in, having treatment for a crushed foot—and when I mentioned that I'd been one of poor old General Wheeler's gunners, Olpherts said he could find employment for an experienced officer. So I shall be attached to the Bengal Artillery for the duration of this campaign and I'm glad. It would have been a pity to waste all the knowledge of gunnery I acquired during the siege.”

“It would indeed,” Alex agreed. He answered Thomson's questions concerning Tom Vibart and added, “We march, or so I'm told, for Bithur on Sunday morning … and your guns will probably see more action, Henry, than we shall in the cavalry. The Nana is said to have four to five thousand troops, mainly regulars, and to be strongly entrenched, with five guns.”

“So long as he is commanding in person,” Henry Delafosse said, his blue eyes bright. “I shall be satisfied. He is the one man I would hand over, without a qualm, to General Neill. I would even have him blown from the muzzle of a 9-pounder, which, God knows, is a messy and revolting business as practiced here on some of the captured native officers! But if the Nana were to be condemned … quite honestly, I believe I'd volunteer to be his executioner. It's a Mahratta punishment, anyway, isn't it, Alex?”

“Yes … and one reserved, usually, for those who betray their salt.”

“Then it would be no less than justice for the self-styled Peishwa of the Mahrattas!” Delafosse claimed jubilantly. “God, I pray he'll fall into our hands on Sunday!”

“There was a very strong rumour going about,” Alex said thoughtfully, “when we reentered the city a month ago, that he had drowned himself in the river. But—”

“He appears to be very much alive now,” Mowbray Thomson put in. “Neill's spies insist they have seen him several times. So let us drink to his final demise, shall we?” He opened a fresh bottle of champagne and grinned when Alex accused him of being too generous a host. “Nonsense, my dear fellow—this is an occasion! Like the Nana, we three have returned from the dead. And in any case. I received a draft for my back pay and a gift of six bottles of this stuff from General Neill, of all people. He says he keeps himself alive on it and recommends it against the cholera, dysentery, and a host of other ills. So charge your glasses, my very dear friends, with the Cawnpore elixir.” He poured lavish measures of the bubbling liquid into each of their glasses and then raised his own. “I give you a toast … success to our arms at Bithur and eternal damnation to the Nana and all who conspired with him against us!”

They drank the toast, and Alex, who had touched no liquor except watered-down rum or porter during the campaign in Oudh, set down his glass and got to his feet. “I'm loth to break up our reunion while the night is still young,” he said regretfully. “But my head's not proof against your hospitality, Tommy. I'm woefully out of practice and there are very strict orders concerning the need for sobriety in Havelock's Column, in case you haven't heard. The men are not permitted to drink more than their daily ration and, although the officers are not so restricted, they
are
required to set an example.”

“Havelock's Saints, eh?” Thomson suggested. “Don't tell me you've joined them?”

“Well, one can hardly order a man fifty lashes for an offence one commits oneself,” Alex defended.” And the proof of the effectiveness of the General's ban on drunkenness is the fact that no excesses have been committed by the men under his command since the column left Allahabad.”

“Touché, Alex!” Thomson acknowledged. “Henry and I will sign the pledge tomorrow. We're no more accustomed to strong drink than you are, if the truth be known. We've existed on a liquid diet of buffalo milk and sherbert during our stay at Moorar Mhow; although we were offered
bhang
to smoke more than once, we didn't try it. It kept poor Sullivan alive and reasonably free from pain, so we gave him our share, poor devil.” He picked up the champagne bottle and held it poised above Alex's empty glass. “One more toast and then we'll call it a night, Colonel sir, I promise you. But this toast we have to drink, don't we, Henry?”

“We do indeed,” Henry Delafosse confirmed solemnly. They rose and lifted their glasses. “To you, sir,” Thomson offered. “And to the award of the Victoria Cross you so richly deserve. You—”

“Victoria Cross?” Alex stared at them in dismay. “But how did you know … oh, for heaven's sake, you can't drink to that! I'm not getting it, I—”

“Henry Simpson told us you were!” Delafosse exclaimed. “He knows you or so he said—he was with the Irregular Cavalry and then with your Volunteers and now he's on Neill's staff. We thought he'd know, if anyone did. But—”

“But there
was
a rumour,” Thomson put in. “A rumour that General Havelock intended to recommend you for a Cross but that General Neill somehow scotched the notion. We poohpoohed it, of course. I mean, there's no truth in it, is there, Alex?”

“There's a certain amount” Alex admitted. He was suddenly quite sober, all the carefree ebullience induced by half a dozen glasses of champagne evaporating, like the tiny, pricked bubbles on the surface of the last, and he set it down untasted. “It's a long story and my weary bones are crying out for the first comfortable night's sleep I've had since crossing into Oudh. So, if you'll forgive me, I'll postpone the telling of it to a more appropriate moment. Suffice it now to say that I myself requested that no recommendation should be made on my behalf—if, indeed, it was ever General Havelock's intention to put my name forward. It may not have been—I only had General Neill's word for it and he—”

“Yes, but for God's sake, Alex!” Delafosse broke in indignantly. “They must give a Cross for Cawnpore, surely, and if they do, we'd all of us like to see you get it.”

Alex shook his head. “Let's leave the matter for the time being, shall we? in no circumstances is my name going forward, but if a Cross it given for Cawnpore, it should go to one of you, and I shall do all in my power to see that it does. There may not be one given, you understand, but—”

“May not be one given?” Mowbray Thomson echoed in surprise. “I confess I don't understand, Alex—why not?”

“When have you known the Horse Guards or the Indian Government to acclaim a military disaster or reward defeat?” Alex countered wryly. “Our siege was a disaster. Whatever the reasons or the excuses—and we can offer a great many—we were compelled to surrender and British prestige has suffered an enormous setback in consequence. That is the concerted view of everyone who took no part in it. You should hear them when they go to inspect our entrenchment—Neill in particular.”

“I have heard them. They look at the crumbling perimeter and are astounded that we held out as long as we did. So am I, when I look back.”

“But we were defeated, Tommy—not by the enemy but because our preparations were inadequate. Medals and honours are for the victorious, not for the defeated. And we're the only ones left of the Cawnpore garrison.” Alex shrugged. “I don't think, somehow, that the Indian Government will want to be reminded of us. By the same token, I don't expect General Havelock to win any honours for his recent heroic endeavours in Oudh, because he has failed to relieve Lucknow … but we shall see. If you want an example of courage of the highest order, you can find it in his decision
not
to go on with a totally inadequate force.”

“You're not being cynical, are you?” Delafosse questioned uncertainly.

Alex shook his head. “No. Disillusioned, perhaps, because I'm facing facts as they've been revealed to me since I joined the Movable Column—but not cynical.” How, he wondered, could he explain to them, how make them understand? “Listen,” he bade them. “We blamed Neill, did we not, for his failure to come to our aid? But he never had a chance, I know that now … less chance even than Havelock has been given to bring aid to Lucknow. Each will be blamed for his failure to achieve the impossible—just as we've been—but the real blame lies at the door of those who deprived India of British troops and of the means to transport such as we have to the places where they are needed.”

“That's true,” Thomson affirmed. “My God, yes, that's true! If we'd had the one British regiment we were promised, we could have held Cawnpore.”

“And with the two
he's
been promised but hasn't yet received, General Havelock could relieve Lucknow,” Alex said. “That's been the tragic story of this mutiny—Government wasn't prepared for it and local commanders took no heed of warnings, with the honourable exception of Sir Henry Lawrence, God rest his brave soul! He
did
make what preparations were possible for a siege and, because of that, I dare to hope that the Lucknow garrison may hold out until we can reach them … if no more promises are broken concerning reinforcements.” He smiled into their two bewildered young faces and clasped each of their hands in turn. “Don't despair, my boys! If we succeed in taking the Nana on Sunday, all the failures will be forgotten—even ours. We shall be showered with decorations! Thanks for the champagne, Tommy … and goodnight, both of you. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to be with you again.”

“It means a great deal to us, Alex,” Mowbray Thomson returned warmly.

They stood in front of the tent flap, watching him mount his horse, their faces still a trifle bewildered, and Alex felt his throat tighten as he turned to take his leave of them. They had gone through so much together, he thought, that for as long as they lived there would be a bond between them … and only death would break it. They appeared, standing there in their makeshift cotton uniforms, two ordinary, undistinguished young officers, whose thin, newly shaven faces revealed little of what they had endured, little of the heroism both had shown throughout their long ordeal, or of the courage and resourcefulness it had taken for them to survive. He wished, passionately and despairingly, that he could obtain for them the reward each had earned, not once but a hundred times when their crumbling entrenchment had been besieged, and knew, with the sharpness of disillusion, that it was unlikely that he would succeed. He had told them the truth and, perhaps, prepared them for what they might expect but … it had hurt him to have to do it. He smothered a sigh and kicked his tired horse into a canter. As senior surviving officer of the Cawnpore garrison, he was entitled to submit a recommendation on behalf of his two juniors, and tomorrow, after he had slept, he would do so.