CHAPTER XXI

"Wombwell's Menagerie"

On his return in the early morning of the following day, Ted related his adventures to brother and cousin, and told of his interview with the hero of the Punjab.

"Yes," replied Jim, "Nicholson has been here inspecting our defences and examining our men. He's left his column behind and galloped on to confer with our general. Lucky for you, young 'un, that he happened to be present. But, then, you are such a lucky beggar!"

"I wonder what they'll do to your friend the major?" observed Charlie, whose splendid constitution was doing wonders for him.

"Ask him to resign, I expect," Jim opined.

But that officer of the 15th Derajats had already resigned. Before he and his escort had left the Ridge a shell from one of the Mori 24-pounders exploded in their midst, killing the major and one sepoy and wounding four others. Ted, however, did not learn this until the following day, and at the same time he heard that Nicholson had left the camp and ridden out to bring in his column, which was now close at hand.

"Before I forget, here's something for you, Ted," Jim exclaimed, after the three had discussed the ensign's adventures at some length. "The mail came while you were away, and I had a letter from Ethel enclosing this for you."

Jim handed his brother a note, which Ted promptly opened and read.

"It's very jolly of her! The colonel has nearly completely recovered, she says, and they are quite safe. Will you swop letters, Jim?"

"Wouldn't you like to? Cheeky young cub!"

Charlie laughed.

"I've already offered him half my daily pay for a sight of the precious document, and he's waiting for me to raise the bid. He's been looking so radiantly absurd, young 'un, since he received it, that I've been longing to throw my boots at him, but unfortunately I can't get at them."

Jim winked solemnly at his cousin, and appeared far too happy to be abashed by the satire of his facetious relatives.

Before long news reached the Ridge that the Punjab Movable Column was coming in. The whole camp turned out to meet Jan Nikkulseyn's ever-victorious men. Brigadier Nicholson was, of course, under General Sir Archdale Wilson, yet the whole army looked upon him as the man destined to lead them to victory. All felt that a great soldier was in their midst--nor were they disappointed. Hardly had he arrived before he led them out to attack the foe at Nujufgurh, where a splendid success was won, and the enthusiasm of the wearied troops was aroused.

On the 4th September the last reinforcements came in. The remainder of the 60th Rifles arrived from Meerut to join their brethren, the comrades of the little Gurkhas at the house of Hindu Rao, as well as a contingent from the Dogra ruler of Jummu and Kashmir. But the whole camp turned out to cheer a still more welcome reinforcement which accompanied these.

Escorted by the Rifles came the guns--the big guns, the siege guns, the real guns at last! With slow and stately tread, as though conscious of their importance and of the impression they were making, the massive elephants--two harnessed to each gun--appeared in sight, hauling the ponderous cannon to the place that needed them so much. With what delight the long-looked-for guns were greeted may well be imagined. The fortunate soldiers of 1857 had never heard the classic phrases "Now we sha'n't be long!" and "Let 'em all come!", but if they had, they would certainly have used them.

In the thick of the crowd was Ted, who had got leave of absence from the Ridge, and as Alec could not accompany him, he looked out for any other chums who might be there, and soon caught sight of the khaki and blazing scarlet of Claude Boldre, gay with the colours of the "Flamingoes". They greeted Lieutenant Roberts, who was busy with his multifarious duties as D. A. Q. M. G., but cheerful and brisk as ever, and stood behind a group of hilarious Tommies.

"Here come the guns at last!" cried a carabineer in an ecstacy of enthusiasm.

"Git away wid ye, it's Wombwell's menagerie comin' to give us an entertainment!" declared an Irish private.

"Nice little ponies them are, drorin' them!" was another comment.

"What--the uttees? Three cheers for the bloomin' uttees!"[19]

[19] "Uttee" is Mr. Thomas Atkins' rendering of "hathi", the Hindustani for elephant, as readers of _The Jungle Book_ will know.

"What'll we do wiv the huttees when we've got the guns fixed hup? They'll heat their 'eads hoff 'ere. There won't be none of hus left for fightin'; we shall hall 'ave to go hout foragin' for food for the helephints hall day," observed a soldier of Cockney extraction.

"Ay," a friend replied, "and they'll want exercising. Bill, you'll 'ave to go and take 'arf a dozen helephints for a run every mornin' before breakfast, same as you used to do them fox-terriers you used to have."

Bill was wont to boast of the ratting qualities of his dogs at home.

"Ay, Bill," chaffed another. "Go an' take 'em rattin' along the banks of the Jumner; they're beggars for rats are uttees."

Bill was equal to the occasion, however, and readily replied:

"Nothin' of the sort! General told me has the helephints was comin' to-day, an' 'e says to me, 'Bill,' sez 'e, 'wot are we to do with them uttees when they come?' 'General,' sez hi, 'why not mount the Gurkeys on 'em an' make 'em into light horsemen?--there's nobody else's legs 'ud go round a huttee.' 'Bill,' sez 'e, 'you're a genius!'"

The laugh that followed showed that Bill had scored, and a group of officers standing by, who had up to this point tried to preserve a sedate demeanour, joined in the merriment at the thought of a little Gurkha perched astride one of the monsters. Regardless of the jests at their expense, the huge pachyderms came steadily on through the clustered ranks of interested and gaping spectators.

"By gum, boys, them are guns! We'll soon be in Delhi now!"

"Three cheers for the Bengal Artillery! and three more for John Lawrence who sent them!"

The cheers were lustily given, for hopes ran high.

"They ought to make short work of the walls," said Claude. "I think we're going to have a look in at last."

"Yes; we're all getting a bit sick of waiting. Hope we can get a good place in the stalls when the theatre doors open," Ted replied.

"And I hope Nicholson leads us. By the way, I suppose you've heard nothing fresh from Aurungpore?"

"Nothing."

"That's rough on you. It must be horribly upsetting to have the matter hanging over so long."

"It is. I'm glad we're kept so busy, though, as I haven't much time to think of it."

"Never say die! Truth will out, you know, and you'll be all right. Alec Paterson told me the whole story. That chap Tynan must be a pretty average cad. More guns coming!"

"'Ullo!" exclaimed our friend Bill as the end of the procession came into sight, "where's the rest of the show? There's nothing but huttees!"

"No more there isn't. This is a bloomin' fine circus, this is!"

"Here, you!" shouted a dragoon to a dignified mahout, "where's yer giraffes, an' 'ippopotamusses, an' ricoconoseroses, an' kangeroos? Why, there ain't no clowns nor hacrobats!--this is a fraud! Gimme me money back, I can see a better menagerie than this in Hengland!"

"Ay, give us our money back!" chimed in the others in tones of simulated indignation; and roars of laughter went up, to the astonishment of the staid Sikhs and Punjabis, and to the delight of the jolly little Gurkhas.

But though the whole camp was in such high spirits, the more knowing ones understood that Delhi had not fallen yet, and that these cannon were no bigger, and were greatly inferior in number to those mounted on the city walls. Also that the mutineers' guns, being sheltered by the solid masonry, were twice as effective as their own unprotected armament.

During the next few days the whole camp helped the Engineers to put into execution the plan of attack which Colonel Baird Smith's masterly brain had planned. At dead of night the soldiers constructed batteries and shelter-trenches between the English camp and the walls, in positions where it would have meant death to have worked by daylight. Before long thousands of gabions[20] and acres of fascines[21] had been made for the protection of gunners.

[20] Gabions are hollow cylinders of basket-work filled with earth.

[21] Fascines are large bundles of brushwood faggots.

On the eventful morning of 8th September, 1857, Major Brind of the Artillery--a man concerning whom an officer present observed: "Talk about the V.C., why, Brind should be covered with them from head to foot!"--is given the honour of commencing the bombardment from No. 1 Battery, only seven hundred and fifty yards from the walls. In spite of all Brind's labours of the night, the sun rises before his battery is ready for action, and the mutineers at once perceive his designs. Pitiless showers of well-directed grape plunge in and around the battery. Though but half-sheltered from this terrible fire, Brind's gunners, assisted by a detachment of the Gurkhas of the Kumaon Battalion, go on with the rapid completion of the work. At length a single howitzer is dragged into position, and the first shot of the real bombardment is fired. It is but a feeble retort to the thundering giants of the Mori and Kashmir bastions, and the foemen laugh as they continue to pound the gallant little band with round-shot, grape, and shell. Ted from his post on the Ridge looks on with disappointed eyes.

But before long a second gun is on its platform, and then a third, and the rebels laugh no longer. And soon the battery is complete; five 18-pounders and four 24-pounders, magnificently aimed and served, are replying in earnest, as though the very cannon knew how long the army had been waiting for them, and had resolved to do their duty and show that the waiting had not been in vain. With high hopes and expectations thousands of British, Gurkha, Pathan, Sikh, and Dogra soldiers look on at the awful duel. Idle spectators are they, unable to assist, and safe from the venomous fire of the rebel cannon which are now all directed to the destruction of this impertinent No. 1 Battery. The insurgents stand manfully to their guns, but the finest artillerymen in the world are serving under Brind, and at length, to the delight and amid the resounding cheers and hurrahs of the spectators, the massive masonry of the Mori Bastion, that looked but yesterday strong enough to defy an earthquake, begins to crumble away. The answering fire slackens and dwindles down.

By this time No. 2 Battery (Campbell's) is ready, but is directed to wait until No. 3 can also be prepared, in order that the enemy's surprise may be the greater. With No. 2 is a party of the Jummu contingent, who are at first unwilling to ply spades and shovels or pile sand-bags, murmuring that they are come to fight, not to do coolie work. As the mutineers blaze away, these Dogra Rajputs, throwing down shovels, seize their muskets and fire harmlessly at the stone walls, to the great danger of the artillerymen. They are at once told by Major Campbell that they are there to work and not to play at fighting, and they manfully settle down to the uncongenial task.

The attention of the foe having been purposely attracted by No. 1 Battery, No. 3 (Scott's)--partially prepared during the night, and concealed by grass and branches of trees--has been secretly at work, and is ready on the morning of the 12th. Dangerously near to the rebel cannon is No. 3; less than two hundred yards separate the British gunners from their antagonists. Almost at the same moment No. 4 Battery (Major Tombs') prepares for action. To achieve the secret completion of these batteries has been the brilliant work of Colonel Baird Smith and of his worthy second in command, Engineer-Captain Alexander Taylor.

For three days Brind's guns have been reducing the gigantic and formidable Mori Bastion to powder, whilst the other three batteries have been preparing to lend him a hand.

"Not much left of our old friend!" observes Major Reid cheerfully to a small group of his officers, who stand gazing upon the work of destruction on the evening of September the 11th.

As Reid speaks, another shell strikes their ancient antagonist, the Mori Bastion, towards which he is pointing.

"They're defending it well, though, sir," replies Captain Russell, as gun after gun is brought forward by the rebels, who are making praiseworthy efforts to silence Brind. "We've got so used to the old bastion that one feels almost sorry to see him going to the dogs in this way."

"He's losing flesh rapidly," Ted joins in, as yet another of Brind's kind regards is sent crashing against the once rock-like wall and a fresh shower of dust is thrown up.

"I can't say that I feel much pity for him," Reid grimly declared. "He has too many of my brave lads' lives to answer for," the commandant added with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"Well, the rest will be merely child's play, I fancy," conjectured a young lieutenant standing by.

Major Reid solemnly regarded the author of this remark for a few seconds before replying.

"You think so, young man?" he asked. "Better keep the playing until it is over. The hard work is yet to come."

Whilst the bombardment proceeds, the Ridge is tolerably safe, for the Delhi guns are too much occupied with Brind's pestilent battery to pay much heed to any other place. The duel continues, waxing hotter and still more hot.

"Splendid practice our fellows are making!" says Jim presently.

"They're a long time with those other batteries," our ensign hazards. "I wish to goodness they'd hurry them up, and then for storming the place!"

"Don't be impatient, youngster," Reid replies. "If we play our part as well as the Artillery and Engineers are doing theirs, our country will have precious little cause for complaint. They are doing their work magnificently; they've already accomplished wonders, and it's a lot more easy to talk about it and to criticise them, than to get guns into position in the face of those bastions."

Feeling somewhat abashed by his chief's rebuke, as he doubtless deserved to be, Ted discreetly remains silent.

Darkness closing in brings the artillery duel to an end, and the troops lie down for the night.

Not all, however.

Under cover of the night the sappers and miners and gunners are hard at work completing the preparations for batteries Nos. 3 and 4. Our fellows work like true Britons, for their hearts are in their labour. Encouraged by Captain Taylor, who superintends the work, and by their other officers, all of whom lend a hand like the meanest private, they toil on with steadfast, energetic purpose, and daylight finds them prepared.

Word has mysteriously reached the Ridge that to-morrow's sun will see a bombardment the like of which has never before been known in the East, and our friends are stirring soon after sunrise, waiting in exultant anticipation.

"Is it true, sir," asks Ted, "that all four batteries will be playing on the town this morning?"

"I'm hoping so, but I can't say how far they got last night."

At length the longed-for moment arrives. At eight o'clock on the morning of the 12th nine 24-pounders of No. 2 Battery open fire simultaneously on the Kashmir Bastion. Ringing cheers of triumph greet this, the greatest salvo of the whole war, for, as the smoke clears away and the deafening thunder and reverberating echoes die down, our friends and their fellow-spectators see that this very first discharge is bringing down huge masses of masonry.

A moment of profound silence follows: then a mighty cry of exultation bursts forth.

"Ah! Well done! Well aimed, Campbell!" scream the enthusiastic onlookers.

But the insurgent guns hotly and strenuously reply, and Campbell's battery seem likely to suffer severely, for the rebel fire is not only hot, but is also exceedingly well directed.

"They're keeping their tails up pluckily enough. Villains though they are, they're not cowards," murmurs one.

"That's true! Seems to me that No. 2's in a tight place enough. I only hope--"

What that officer hoped will never be known.

A deafening roar from another direction interrupts his expression of opinion and announces that Major Tombs' Battery (No. 4) is dealing with the rebel guns.

"Hurrah! Tombs is givin' it 'em 'ot! Tombs 'e's a-silencin' of 'em!" shout the riflemen.

"Ulu-ulu-ulu!" scream the delighted Gurkhas.

"Ah!" gasp the astounded Sikhs and Pathans, who have never before seen cannonade like this.

Whilst the British riflemen estimate and argue the distance of the battery from the walls and the probable duration of the bombardment, the Guides and Gurkhas chatter and scream with excitement. Many of these allies of ours have been somewhat prone to consider themselves quite as good soldiers as their employers, but now they are beginning to understand a little more clearly the extent of the British power and resources. And such consideration is good for them.

Again Tombs's gunners fling their iron hail against the Delhi cannon, putting them out of action one by one.

"Why, Tombs has got within two hundred yards!" a spectator guesses.

"No, hardly so close as that," declares a second.

"Well, he ain't much farther away," another joins in. And exclamations of "Well done, Tombs!" "Well aimed, sir!" ring out from the Ridge unheeded, because unheard by the gunners steadily plying their grim trade. For Major Tombs is a general favourite; stories of his prowess and dare-devilry have spread throughout the British camp, and the approving cheers are echoed from scores of throats.

"Might this be a cricket match?" suavely enquires a captain of the 60th Rifles as he smiles at the enthusiasm.

The mutineers are aghast! How have those batteries been brought there and concealed and protected? And then, only one hundred and sixty yards from the Water Bastion, No. 3 unmasks. But, alas! the work has necessarily been done at night, and in the darkness a serious mistake has been made. The big piles of covered sand-bags, which had been placed to hide the guns from the watchful enemy, as well as to protect our gunners from their fire when the moment should come for unmasking, are found to have been carefully piled in a wrong position, so as to obstruct the aim of our guns. For men to go outside the shelter in order to remove the obstruction will not only take a long time, but will expose to almost certain death any brave enough to venture out. So thinks the heroic commandant of the battery, who fears nothing for himself, but hesitates to order his men to be shot down one by one, for so close are they under the walls that the rebel gunners can hardly miss them. But while he pauses in doubt, a Sikh sapper calmly springs outside and commences to throw down the pile before his own gun. With one accord the other sappers and gunners follow the noble example, and the clearance is effected with such rapidity that the guns are ready to open fire before the sepoys have grasped the fact of the battery's presence.

Then is hurled forth such a shower of shell and heavy shot from that short distance that the traitors are filled with dismay. The iron hurricane teaches them at last what English artillery can do even in the face of such tremendous odds. This salvo of heavy guns heralds the turning-point of the Sepoy war, and determines the fate of the Indian empire. As the huge Water Bastion crumbles into a shapeless mass of masonry and is crushed into atoms by these 18-and 24-pounders, so the great mutiny is crushed and crumbled at the same time. The last hope of the mutineers is quenched; they may fight on, they may inflict great damage on the Feringhi, they may still accomplish further murders and massacres in various places throughout the land, but all hope of final triumph, all chance of overthrowing the British raj is gone for ever, destroyed by the fire of this magnificent artillery.

In Hindustan news travels from mouth to mouth over hundreds of miles almost as quickly as by telegraph; so north and south, east and west, flew the tidings that the walls and gates of Delhi were being battered down, that in the course of a few days the great city would be in the hands of the sahibs and the Mogul emperor a captive. Amongst the Pathan tribes along the Punjab frontier, in Afghanistan, Beluchistan, Waziristan, Kashmir, the Black Mountain country, and in Nepal, the news was told, and Afghan, Beluchi, Waziri, Afridi, Mohmand, Bunerwal, Swati, Yusufzai, Mamund, and Punjabi, who would most eagerly have helped to rout and destroy the British had our army retired beaten from Delhi, now scornfully turned a deaf ear to all appeals of the mutineers to come over and help them. For the Pathan worships success and despises the fallen.

"Nay," said they, "if you with forty thousand men and nearly two hundred cannon, entrenched behind strong walls and with every advantage, if you could be held in check for weeks by two or three thousand British and five hundred Gurkha monkey-men, and a few hundred more of our brethren of the Guides whom ye could not defeat, and then suffered your walls to be battered down as soon as this small army had been reinforced by more of our countrymen and neighbours, what chance will ye have now, driven out of your stronghold? And are not fresh red-coated regiments and corps of fierce, tall men in women clothes even now arriving from beyond the seas? Nay, we will not join you; rather will we fight on the side of the _kafirs_,[22] together with the Gurkha pigs and vile Sikh infidels."

[22] _Kafir_ (infidel) is a term frequently applied by Mohammedans, to denote a European.

So the tribesmen now offered their services in such numbers that they had to be refused. They brought wild horses that would not suffer any man to mount them, and they came with ancient, worn-out steeds, blind, lame, and weak at the knees, swearing and protesting that these were all splendid chargers, perfectly trained and in superb condition. With these they would fight the mutineers, if only the great sahibs, Edwardes and Jan Larens, would give them a soldier's pay. So John Lawrence, Commissioner of the Punjab, was enabled to send down more than fifty thousand men to uphold the British raj.

Day and night throughout the 12th and 13th of September the breaching operations continued, fifty guns grinding mercilessly at the rock-like walls. Though defeat stared them in the face the sepoys showed a courageous front to the end, and as their cannon were one by one knocked out of action, they brought fresh guns up and returned a rapid and well-aimed fire. Their sharp-shooters were told off to pick out the English gunners, and no easy task had those gallant fellows. To our hero and to the hundreds of onlookers the bombardment formed a grand but awful spectacle. Fascinated by the sight, they watched the salvoes of artillery directed at the bastions, every shot striking home, sending up clouds of dust, and followed often enough by a fall of masonry. The rebel shots whistled and rattled in the air, guns flashed and shells exploded both over their own men and over the doomed city. From the highest to the lowest, from the general in command to the youngest drummer-boy, all knew that this was the crowning work of anxious months of toil. Proud men were the engineer officers, Baird Smith and Taylor, one the brain, the other the hand that had thought out and directed this supreme finish. Proud also were Brind, Tombs, and the other artillerymen, for without their magnificent heroism and skill the plans of the engineers would have come to naught.

One building there was in Delhi close to the Kashmir Gate and the Water Bastion, which the Sikhs and Pathans and Gurkhas, and the rebel sepoys themselves, began to regard with awe--a white-domed edifice not unlike a mosque, save for the cross surmounting its cupola. It was the English church; and though shot and shell had crashed around and over it, the cross remained untouched.

On the 13th of September Captain Taylor declared that the breaches in the walls were large enough to admit of a successful assault, so Baird Smith, ill and harassed, weak and lame as he was, mapped out precise directions for five columns to attack the city at various points. Nicholson was appointed to the first column, and when the others should join him in the city he was to take command of the whole force.