The Ruined Cities of Zululand

“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.