The day after my husband wrote this letter (the last he ever wrote) the news came that Delhi had not been taken: it was a mistake in the telegram. What it cost us to bear this dreadful reverse and give up this last hope, I cannot tell. We were again plunged into uncertainty as to our fate; for we felt that the sepoys would no longer keep quiet when they heard of failure. Our last hope of escape was now cut off, as a telegram arrived from Mr. Colvin, the Lieut.-Governor at Agra, to say that the ladies and children were not to be sent into Agra till the mutiny really broke out at Gwalior. Before this, my husband had often wished to send me to Agra; but he would not desert his post, and I would not leave him. I have often thought since that had I done so he might have escaped, by riding off unimpeded by me; many unmarried officers having escaped in this way. When the mutinies first began, if all the ladies and children at the numerous small stations had been instantly sent away to Calcutta or some place of safety before the roads were obstructed, their husbands and fathers
would probably have had a better chance of escape. Instead of which, the lives of men, women, and children were sacrificed, through the efforts to avoid arousing the suspicions of the troops.
Gwalior was one of the worst places in India to effect an escape from. The houses were in rows on each side of a long road, a mile in length; behind them, on one side, were the lines of the cavalry and artillery, and branching off from them were the lines of the infantry regiments. On the other side, behind the houses, was the nullah70. The only people who escaped on the night of the 14th, lived on this side. On the first alarm, they instantly rushed across the nullah. Had the guards of their houses resisted their escape, nothing could, have saved them: had soldiers been placed there to stop them, it would have been useless to attempt it; but for the first ten minutes the nullah was left unguarded. Our house was some distance from the nullah, and we had not been long enough in Gwalior to know the locality exactly. Besides, almost immediately after the alarm, the banks of the nullah were lined with sepoys, hunting for those who had already crossed. I believe the Brigadier lay hidden under the bridge whilst they were passing over it and searching for him.
At one end of the long street was a small bazaar, the natives of which were instantly up in arms. Our house was near this end of the street, and at
the opposite end was a cemetery, a parade ground and gaol. At the back of the houses and lines were the cavalry stacks, the course, the magazine, and a small place where elephants were kept.
I got a letter from one of my cousins, saying that they had all been obliged to escape by riding from Simla to Kussowlie; it was a long distance; and my uncle, who. had been very ill, was greatly exhausted by riding so far in the sun. They were also very much alarmed about their brother at Peshawur, the Panjab being in such an unsettled state.
I was much struck with the conduct of our servants – they grew so impertinent. My ayah evidently looked on all my property as her share of the plunder. When I opened my dressing-case, she would ask me questions about the ornaments, and inquire if the tops of the scent-bottles were real silver; and she always watched where I put my things. One evening, on returning from our drive, we heard a tremendous quarrelling going on between the sepoys of our guard and the ayah and kitmutghar. They were evidently disputing about the spoil; and it afterwards turned out that the sepoys got quite masters, and would not let the servants share any of the plunder, but kept them prisoners, and starved and ill-treated them. They had much better have remained faithful to us, and have helped us to escape; instead of which, at the first shot, they vanished, and began to plunder
what they could. My husband overheard the punkah coolies outside talking about us, and saying that these Feringhis71 would soon have a different home, and they would then be masters; and that the Feringhis were quite different in the cool weather, but were now such poor creatures as to require to be punkahed and kept cool. I could not help fancying they might have made us punkah and fan them, so completely were we in their power.
During this week the bunian72, who supplied us with grain for the cattle and other things, the church-bearer and the schoolmaster, all came to be paid at once; they said they were going to take all their property to the Lushkur. This looked as if mischief was brewing.
Letters came from home full of news about the Manchester Exhibition, tours in Scotland, and all sorts of pleasures. Of course, our friends knew nothing then of the state of misery we were in.
Our last consolation was now taken away, for the telegraph between us and Agra was destroyed, and we were dependent upon rumour for intelligence. We heard dreadful reports from Jhansi, but could not ascertain the extent of the calamity there. An order appeared for a regiment to hold itself in readiness for marching, and the guard returned from the Residency, for the Rajah gave Major Macpherson a guard.
Major Blake was constantly consulting with the Brigadier as to what was to be done. We went to call on the Blakes, and heard from Mrs. Raikes, who was staying there (her husband being at Agra), that their house had been burnt down, at one of the outstations; though it was thought not by the sepoys.
On Friday and Saturday we heard nothing; and we lived in a state of dread uncertainty. My husband seldom undressed at night, and I had a dress always ready to escape in. My husband’s rifle was kept loaded (I learnt to load and fire it), as we were determined not to die without a struggle. Oh! the misery of those days! None but the condemned criminal can know what it is to wait death passively; and even he is not kept in suspense, and knows he will be put to a merciful end.
I well remember one Saturday night (the last night we spent in our own house) we were kept awake by the ominous sound of the maistree73 making a coffin for a poor little child that was to be buried early the following morning. My husband rose at half-past four, as the funeral was at five. The ayah was particularly attentive in her manner to me, and began pitying the poor “mem sahib,” saying, “How she will grieve now her baby is dead.” She stood at the window watching, and telling me all that was going on.
When the buggy returned for me, I drove to church, and found service had begun. I passed many sepoys idling about the road – as is usual on
Sunday. They all saluted Me; but I thought I observed a treacherous look on their faces. I wondered they did not attack us when we were in church, and heard afterwards that they were very sorry they did not. The church was well attended. and we afterwards received the Holy Communion. Singular that we should all meet for the last time at such a solemn service!
Whilst walking in the garden, before going to church, when my husband was at the funeral of Captain Murray’s little baby, I saw about a hundred sawars ride past the back of our house; they rode quietly in, all wrapped in long cloaks. I cannot help thinking they were the mutinous sawars of Captain Alexander’s party, returned to join in the outbreak.
After breakfast we bathed and dressed, and whilst my husband was resting, and I playing one of Mozart’s “Masses,” we heard a tremendous noise in our garden. After waiting a little time to see if it would cease, my husband went out, and found one or two sepoys again disputing with our servants. He ordered them to be quiet; but it was of no use. they did not now care even to keep up appearances. At last they settled the dispute among themselves; and for two hours we had perfect silence – not a sound was heard; it was a dread, foreboding stillness. I read the lines, “While drooping sadness enfolds us here like mist,” in the “Christian Year,’ and felt comforted. I afterwards recovered that very book.
My husband laid down, and tried to get a little sleep, he was so worn out. He had just before been telling me the particulars of the Jhansi massacre, too frightful to be repeated; and we did not know how soon we might meet the same fate ourselves.
I hope few will know how awful it is to wait quietly for death. There was now no escape; and we waited for our death-stroke. The dread calm of apprehension was awful. We indeed drank the cup of bitterness to the dregs. The words “0 death in life, the days that are no more,” kept recurring to my memory like a dirge. But God helps us in all our woes; otherwise we could not have borne the horrible suspense.
Silence still reigned, and I was again reading home letters – one from my sister on her wedding tour – when in rushed some of the servants, calling out that the little bungalow where we had formerly lived was on fire, and that the wind was blowing the flames in our direction. Something must be done, as the sparks were being blown all about: the “1st” N. I. were very active in either putting out – or increasing – the flames. All the residents began to take the furniture out of their houses and pour water on the roofs; and my husband, at the head of our servants, instantly took similar precautions with our house. The heat was dreadful, the wind high, and the mess-house was soon also a mass of flames. Everyone who has seen a great fire in a village may imagine what a
sight it was. The road was crowded, the air filled with smoke, and I heard the crackling and roaring of the flames: it was a great contrast to the dead calm that had reigned before; but scarcely more awful While my husband was busily assisting the men, who were running about with water, and using the fire-engine; to my astonishment I found the ayah making bundles of my clothes, which she had taken out of the wardrobes and spread over the floor: she came to me for my keys, saying I had better have my things packed up and she would take care of them. I ordered her to replace them in the drawers and come and punkah me, as it was fearfully hot; I wished to keep her quiet, but she was constantly running off. At last the wind fell, and the fire was extinguished; but not till the mess-house, the large bath-house adjoining, and little bungalow were burnt to the ground: my husband came in, greatly exhausted with his exertions.
After dinner the poor clerk, Collins, came in to know about service: he was dreadfully agitated, and my husband had to wait some time before he was sufficiently composed to speak. He said he was quite sure the sepoys intended to rise that night and murder us all Poor man! I shall never forget his look of distress: he was the first to be shot that night My husband advised me to put on a plain dark dress and jacket, and not to wear any ornaments or hide anything about me, that the sepoys might not kill me for the sake of my dress or trinkets; we then
selected one or two trifles that we prized and some valuable papers, which we made into small packets, and again sat down in silent suspense.
Meanwhile my husband wrote to Captain Meade (the brigade-major) to ask if we were to have service in the church that evening, as the mess-house was destroyed; and also to inquire what he thought of things. Captain Meade replied that under present circumstances no one would be prepared to go to church, and we must expect “such things” to happen in these times. I then finished a letter for home; which never went, as it was burnt in our house.
After coffee we received a note from Major Sherriff, saying he wished to see my husband; at 5 o’clock he came, and they had a long talk together. He said it was a hard thing that we should stay to be butchered like sheep; for now there was no doubt but that such would be our fate. He also told ‘us Mrs. Hawkins had come in from Sipri, to join her husband, and that she had been confined on Saturday. “It is dreadful,” he added, “that women and children should be exposed to such horrors: they will receive no mercy I fear.” We wished him to dine with us, but he was engaged to the Brigadier; and after walking some time in the garden he went away, having first left some money which he had forgotten to give at the holy communion that morning. A few hours after he was shot, when at the lines of his regiment.
My husband now sent for all the servants and gave them each handsome presents in money: to his bearer and my ayah he gave double; he also rewarded the guard of six sepoys, who had come to guard our house when the fire broke out. We then drove out. We saw scarcely any one about, everything looked as it had done for days past; but as we were returning we passed several parties of sepoys, none of whom saluted us. We met the Brigadier and Major Blake, who were just going to pass a party of sepoys, and I remember saying to my husband, “If the sepoys don’t salute the Brigadier the storm is nigh at hand.” They did not. The Brigadier and Major Blake turned and looked at them. We found our guard still at our house, but they also took no notice of us. We then had tea, and sat reading till gun-fire; and at 9 we retired to rest, as my husband was much exhausted.
I hope no one will think me unfeeling in writing what follows: it must be obvious to all that I cannot do so without great pain; but I think that Englishmen ought to know what their own countrywomen have endured at the hands of the sepoys; and what we went through that night and the following week, hundreds of ladies suffered all over India. Only a few survived to tell the tale; which can only be faithfully told by one who has experienced the misery.
Some men may think that women are weak and only fitted to do trivial things, and endure petty troubles; and there are women who deserve no
higher opinion: such as faint at the sight. of blood, are terrified at a harmless cow, or make themselves miserable by imagining terrors, and unreal sorrows; but there are many who can endure with fortitude and patience what even soldiers shrink from. Men are fitted by education and constitution to dare and to do; yet they have been surpassed, in presence of mind and in the power of endurance, by weak women.
My husband went into his dressing room, and I, after undressing and dismissing my ayah, arranged my dress for flight, and lay down. A single lamp shed a ghostly glimmer in the room. Soon afterwards the gun fired – instantly the alarm bugle rang out its shrill warning on the still night. Our guard loaded their muskets, and I felt that our death knell had sounded when the butts went down with a muffled sound. My husband opened his door and said, “All is over with us! dress immediately.” The ayah and bearer rushed in, calling out, “Fly! the sepoys have risen, and will kill you.” The ayah then quickly helped me to dress. I put on a morning wrapper, cloth jacket, and bonnet, and snatched up a bottle of aromatic vinegar and another of opium from the dressing table, but left my watch and rings. My husband then came in, and we opened my bath-room door, which led into the garden, and rushed out. Fortunately it was very dark. I said, “Let us go to the Stuarts, and see what they are doing.” We soon reached their house, and found Mrs. Stuart in great distress,
as her husband had just ridden off to the lines. Poor Mrs. Hawkins lay in the next room, with a serjeant’s wife attending to the little baby (only a few hours old). Mrs. Hawkins’ children and the little Stuarts were crying, and the servants sobbing, thus adding to the confusion. Whilst my husband tried to soothe Mrs. Stuart, I went in to talk to Mrs. Hawkins, whose husband had also gone to the lines.
Suddenly a horse dashed into the compound, and Mrs. Stuart cried out, “Oh! they have killed my husband!” I returned to her, as my husband went out to speak to the syce74. I held her hand, and never can I forget her agonised clasp! The syce told my husband that the sepoys had shot Captain Stuart; that he thought the captain was not dead, but had been taken to the artillery lines: he also brought a message from Major Hawkins, directing his wife and children to go to the lines. So Mrs. Hawkins was carried out on a bed, followed by the nurse with the infant, and a large party of servants carrying the other four children. They all went to the artillery lines, as the artillery had promised to remain faithful. Mrs. Stuart also set off in her carriage with her children; my husband helped her in, and tried to comfort her. Mrs. Stuart had before told me that when she returned from her former flight to the Residency, a sepoy had said to her, “Why did you leave your husband, Mem-sahib?
That was not brave; but you women, are so weak and faint-hearted, you take flight at nothing. See the Sahib trusted us; we will always be faithful, whatever happens.”
Our syce now appeared with the buggy, accompanied by our kitmutghar; the latter appeared very much excited, and had a tulwah75 in each hand. He advised us to cross the bridge leading to the Lushkur; but the syce said it was guarded with guns and sentries. At first we thought we would follow Mrs. Stuart and Mrs. Hawkins to the artillery lines, as the artillery were thought to be better inclined towards us; it was the 4th we dreaded, for they had often let fall suspicious and mutinous words. It is believed that they committed, that night and the following morning, most of the murders at the station.
Just as we were going to turn towards the artillery lines, a young sepoy came running from them towards us, weeping and sobbing. He called out, “They have shot the Sahib,” and though my husband spoke to him, he ran past without answering. All this time we heard volleys of musketry, bugles, shots, and terrible shrieks, and saw some of the houses burning. We drove to the Blakes’ bungalow, where we found Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Raikes, and Dr. and Mrs. Kirke; none of them knowing what to do. Major Blake had ridden off to the lines the instant the alarm bugle had sounded; and things were rather quieter here.
It was now 10 o’clock. Dr. Kirke said the guard had promised to stay by us, and that now it was utterly impossible to escape, as every road was guarded and planted with guns, and cavalry were riding about. After a short time, passed in terrible suspense, the guard of the house suggested that we had better hide in the garden, as the sepoys would soon be coming to “loot76“ the house, and would kill us. It was only postponing our deaths, as we knew that escape was now hopeless; but as life is dear to all, we did what we could to save it.
I shall not attempt to describe my feelings; but leave readers to imagine them – if they can. I will only relate the simple facts.
We followed the advice of the guard, and went into the garden, where we remained for some time. Mrs. Raikes with her baby was taken by her servant to hide elsewhere, and the Kirkes, with their little boy, went back to their own house. My husband had his rifle, which was afterwards lost. I was told afterwards by several natives that he killed two sepoys with it: I know not if he did.
Mrs. Blake’s kitmutghar, Muza, who remained faithful, now took us to a shady place in the garden, where we lay concealed behind a bank, well covered with trees. He told us to lie down and not to move, and then brought a large dark shawl for my husband,
who was in a white suit. It was now about 11. The guard (composed of men of the 1st) still remained faithful; though they took no active part in helping us. They kept coming to us with reports that Mrs. Campbell was lying dead in her compound; that the Brigadier was shot on the bridge, and Dr. Mackeller near one of the hospitals, and (worst of all) that poor Major Blake was killed. This last report was only too true.
At last about a hundred sepoys came to attack Mrs. Campbell’s house, which was close to our hiding place. We heard them tearing down the doors and windows, and smashing the glass and furniture; they even brought carts into the garden to carry off the plunder; then they set fire to it, and the flames shot up into the clear night air. They seemed to take pleasure in their mad work, for their wild shouts of laughter mingled with the crackling of the flames. The moon (which had now risen) looked calmly down on our misery, and lighted the heavens, which were flecked with myriads of stars, only occasionally obscured by the smoke of the burning houses. Oh the sight of that moon! how I longed that she would hide her brightness behind some cloud, and not seem to look so serenely down upon our misery.
At last, when the mutineers had wreaked their vengeance on Mrs. Campbell’s house, and only a heap of smouldering and blackened ruins remained, they commenced their attack on the Blakes’ house.
We heard them looking for us; but not finding their victims there, they came into the garden and made a diligent search for us. I saw the moonlight glancing on their bayonets, as they thrust aside the bushes, and they passed so close by us that we might have touched them. But God baffled their malice for a time; though they sought us with a deadly hatred, they were unsuccessful, and we were again left to wait a little longer in bitter suspense. When they were burning the Blakes’ house, the flames and smoke swept over us. Gradually the fury of the sepoys died away, and they seemed to be gone in search of fresh plunder, or other victims; for we heard them shouting and firing in the distance.
Our faithful Muza now crept to us, and said we were no longer safe where we were, but that he might hide us in his house, and perhaps get us some native dresses to disguise ourselves in; and gratefully we hurried after him during a lull in the storm. His house was a low, small hut, close to the garden, where the other houses of the Blakes’ servants were; and we rushed past so quickly that, though we saw a number of sepoys, yet they, in the excitement, did not see us. Mrs. Blake, in her hurry, fell, and hurt her head and shoulder. We crouched down in the hut, not daring to move, and scarcely to breathe. I remember asking Mrs. Blake to take off her silk cape, as it rustled, which she did. In the dark I fell backward over a small bed and hurt myself. Muza then
barred the door, and fastened it with a chain. After half an hour the sepoys returned, more furious than before; they evidently knew we were somewhere about. We heard them disputing, and the clang of their guns sounded as though they were loading them.
They entered the kitchen of the house, which was only separated from the room we were in by a thin wooden partition. Muza then went out; we did not know what for. Had he deserted us? The sepoys talked and argued with him; we heard them count over the cooking vessels and dishes, and distinctly say, “do, tien, char, awr eck nai hai?77“ After dividing the spoil, we heard them again ask Muza if we were in his house, and say they must search; but he replied that his mother was ill, and that they might frighten her. They asked him, “Have you no Feringhis concealed?” and he swore the most sacred oath on the Koran, that there were none in his house: but this did not appear to satisfy them, and we heard them coming in; they forced open the door with the butts of their muskets, the chain fell with a clang, and as the door burst open, we saw the moon glistening on their fixed bayonets. We thought they were going to charge in upon us: but no; the but was so dark that they could not see us. They called for a light; but Muza stopped them, and said, “You see they are not here: come, and I will show you
where they are.” He then shut and fastened the door, and they again went away.
There was again a dead silence, followed by the dying shrieks of a horse, as it rushed past our hiding place; so we supposed they had gone to the stables. After a time Muza returned and said: “They will be here again soon, and will kill me for concealing you, when I swore you were not here; so I will take you to the bearer’s hut: he will not betray you.” He then opened the door and we went out. Day was beginning to dawn, and the air felt cool, after the close atmosphere of the house we had been in for so many hours; it was the bearer’s but we were taken to; one of a cluster of huts built of mud, and very low and small. I again fell and hurt myself, as it was not yet light, and we again lay on the ground, quite worn out with watching, and terror; our lips were parched, and we listened intently to hear the least sound: but a brooding silence prevailed. We were soon joined by Mrs. Raikes, with her baby and ayah; the poor baby crying and fretting.
It was now nearly six o’clock, and grew gradually lighter, when the sepoys again returned howling and raging like wild beasts. They came round the hut, the baby cried, and we heard them ask, “Whose child is that?” One of the women replied they did not know; they called “Bring it out;” when Mrs. Raikes exclaimed in an agony of fear, “Oh! they will kill my child!” When the woman carried it
out, the sepoys yelled, “Feringhi, hi78: kill them!” and I saw through the doorway a great number of them loading their muskets. They then ordered the woman to bring out a large quantity of plunder that lay on the floor of the hut, pictures, plate, &c.; she took them out slowly, one by one, and gave them to the sepoys.
We all stood up close together in a corner of the hut; each of us took up one of the logs of wood that lay on the ground, as some means of defence. I did not know if my husband had his gun, as it was too dark in the hut to see even our faces. The sepoys then began to pull off the roof: the cowardly wretches dared not come in, as they thought we had weapons. When they had unroofed the hut, they fired in upon us. At the first shot we dropped our pieces of wood, and my husband said, “We will not die here, let us go outside.” We all rushed out; and Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Raikes, and I, clasped our hands and cried, “Mut maro, mut maro” (do not kill us). The sepoys said, “We will not kill the mem-sahibs, only the sahib.” We were surrounded by a crowd of them, and as soon as they distinguished my husband, they fired at him. Instantly they dragged Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Raikes, and me back; but not into the bearer’s hut; the mehta’s79 was good enough for us, they said. I saw no more; but volley after volley soon told me that all was over.
Here we again lay crouched on the ground; and the stillness was such, that a little mouse crept out and looked at us with its bright eyes, and was not afraid. Mrs. Campbell came rushing in with her hair hanging about; she wore a native’s dress, her own having been torn off her: she had been left alone the whole night. Then poor Mrs. Kirke, with her little boy, joined us: she had that instant seen her husband80 shot before her eyes; and on her crying “Kill me too!” they answered, “No, we have killed you in killing him.” Her arms were bruised and swollen; they had torn off her bracelets so roughly: even her wedding ring was gone. They spared her little boy; saying; “Don’t kill the butcha81; it is a missie baba82.” Poor child! his long curls and girlish face saved his life! He was only four years of age.
I was very thankful to see Mrs. Campbell, after the frightful report we had heard; for till then we had thought her to be safe under Major Macpherson’s protection. The sepoys soon returned, and crowded in to stare at us. They made the most insulting remarks, and then said, “Let us carry them to our lines;” whereupon they seized our hands, and dragged us along very fast. It was a beautiful morning, and the birds were singing. Oh! how could the bright sun and clear blue sky look on such a scene of cruelty! It seemed as if God had forgotten us, and that hell reigned on earth. No words can describe the hellish looks of these human, fiends, or picture their horrid appearance: they had rifled all the stores, and drank brandy and beer to excess, besides being intoxicated with bhang83. They were all armed, and dressed in their fatigue uniform. I noticed the number on them; it was the 4th – that dreaded regiment. Some were evidently the prisoners who had been let out from the gaol the night before; and they were, if possible, more furious than the rest. Several mounted sowars (the same, I believe, whom I had seen ride in the day before) were riding about the roads and keeping guard, and wished to fire at us, but the infantry would not let them. The road was crowded with sepoys laden with plunder, some of which I recognised as our own.
After they had dragged us to their lines, they took
us from house to house, and at last placed us on a charpoy84 under some trees. Mrs. Gilbert and her child now arrived, and poor Mrs. Procter; the latter in a dreadful state, having just seen her husband killed. All our horses and carriages were drawn up in a line under some trees, and I saw a beautiful Arab of Mrs. Raikes’ lying shot. Hundreds of sepoys now came to stare at us, and thronged round us so densely we could scarcely breathe. They mocked and laughed at us, and reviled us with the most bitter language, saying: “Why don’t you go home to your houses? Don’t you think it is very hot here? Would you like to see your sahibs now?” We said we wished to go to Agra; they replied, “Oh Agra is burnt to the ground, and all the Feringhis are killed.” They then struck the native gong. I think it was about eight o’clock.
After keeping us for some time, as a spectacle on which to wreak their contempt, when they had tired themselves with using insulting language, they mid we might go where we liked; but when we asked how? they demurred at giving us one of the carriages, till some, more merciful than the rest, at last said we might have one. They gave us Mrs. Blake’s – a large landau. The horses were very spirited and plunged a good deal: the morning before, they had broken the traces. How we all got in I can’t say: there were Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Raikes, her baby and ayah,
Mrs. Kirke and her little boy, Mrs. Campbell and myself; and some sergeants’ wives clung to the carriage: how they hung on I don’t know. The sepoys threw into the carriage one or two bottles of beer, and a bottle of camphor-water. The first thing the horses did, was to run down a bank and across a small nullah.
Muza drove; and a syce went with us a little way, but soon grew tired, and fell back. When we got a little way from the station, we came up with some more sergeants’ wives and children; some of them nearly naked, and in great distress, having seen their husbands shot, and dragged about, and others not knowing the fate of their husbands. Poor things, their distress was very pitiable; their feelings being less under control than ours.
I never can remember how it was we were separated from Mrs. Proctor and Mrs. Gilbert, with her nurse and child; but think the Grenadiers carried them off to their lines, as they afterwards re-joined us. The horses now grew very restless and tried to run away, and Muza did not know how to manage them. We came up to a chowki85 and were afraid the mutineers would stop us: they did not; but they. told us that Mrs. Hennessy and Captain Murray had been killed in escaping.
We here debated where we should go, and at
last agreed to go to the Rajah and entreat him for protection.
The Lushkur was five or six miles from the Mori and we reached it about noon. We passed crowds of natives, whom we expected to stop us every instant. When we reached the palace, we asked to see the Rajah.
The palace was surrounded by a crowd of horsemen, soldiers and natives, all most insolent in their Manner to us, calling out “your Raj86 is over now.” The Maharajah refused to see us: though we entreated some of the Rajah’s servants to be allowed to speak to him, we were roughly refused. Some say he was looking at us from a balcony all the time. Why were we so heartlessly treated by him, when he had been so kind to Major Macpherson and his party, even lending them carriages and a guard, and facilitating their escape in every way? Did he shelter Major Macpherson in his political capacity, and the brigadier as a man of importance? Perhaps he thought that helpless women could never be of any use to him. This is a mystery that no one can explain to the Rajah’s credit. We felt it keenly, to be thus driven from his palace gate with contempt.
We proceeded on our way, the people yelling and shouting after us, and we expecting every instant to be stopped and torn out of our carriage and given up to be killed by them; for nothing could exceed their savage looks and language. At the outskirts of the
Lushkur we were obliged to stop, as the horses kept breaking the traces as fast as we tied them together again; moreover they were much exhausted, having been in harness the whole night before, for Mrs. Blake’s escape.
A chaprasi87 of the Rajah’s took the carriage from us, and made us get out and wait by the road side till he sent us two or three native carts; they were miserable things without springs, had no covers to protect us from the sun, and were drawn by wretchedly weak bullocks. We got in and were taken to a large pucka88 house in a garden, where some great bullocks were munching grain in a room; and there we stayed. It was now about one o’clock, I think. We here found an European belonging to the telegraph, and his wife with her little baby: she was a half-caste, and they were disguised in native dresses. The weak childish conduct of this man was sickening; he almost cried, and kept saying, “O we shall all be killed:” instead of trying to help, he only proved a burden to us.
We had now almost lost the power of thinking and acting, for we had been from nine the preceding evening without food, water, or rest; and our minds were on the rack, tortured by grief and suspense. Here we were, about eight miserable women, alone and unprotected, without food or proper clothing, exhausted by fatigue, and not knowing what to
do; some had no shoes or covering for their heads. At last Muza said we had better get into our carts and push on; for the natives of the Lushkur, hearing we were here, would follow and kill us. The bullocks went very slowly, and we could not make them move faster. The sensation of horror and helplessness oppressed us like a night-mare: for all this time we were only a few miles from Gwalior, and could even hear the shouting and crying there.
Mrs. Campbell having broken one of the bottles of beer, we had each drank a little, which greatly refreshed us.
We toiled slowly onwards the whole of that long, hot afternoon; the dust rising in clouds, and the hot wind parching us. The men who drove the bullocks could hardly make them move. We mixed a few drops of the camphor-water with the water Muza occasionally brought us from the wells we passed, and found it support us a little.
The shades of evening were drawing on, and we were as yet only a few miles on our weary way, when Muza said we were pursued by some sawars, who were coming to kill us, and he feared he could not save us, as we were on a flat sandy plain with no shelter. We reached, at last, a small chowki by the road side, where the horses for the mail and the dak gharries were kept, and the syces who attended to them. There were some wild, savage-looking men cooking food round a fire. Muza spoke to them,
and then told us to get out of our carts and hide here. We all sat on the ground, and Muza said, “Only pretend to go to sleep: but I fear I cannot save you, as they are bent on killing you.” We waited, with our carts drawn up. It was nearly dark, and we heard the horsemen coming quickly on. At last five sawars appeared, armed with matchlocks and tulwahs, and as soon as they saw the carts they stopped and dismounted. Muza went towards them and began talking to them. We heard him say, “See how tired they are; they have had no rest. Let them sleep to-night; you can kill them tomorrow: only let them sleep now.” This they consented to do, and went a little way. from us; but when it grew darker they crept near us, and began loading their matchlocks and unsheathing their tulwahs. Muza came to us, and said he feared they would not spare us. He then asked us for all the ornaments we had. Mrs. Blake was the only one who had any, Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Kirke having been stripped of theirs, and I had left mine behind. I instantly took off my wedding ring and tied it round my waist, as I was determined to save it if possible. Mrs. Blake had several valuable rings, other ornaments, and money about her; these she gave to Muza, who handed them to the sawars. We heard them quarrelling together, and I believe they held a loaded pistol to his breast and made him swear that we had no more. Muza then said we
must speak to them, as they would not believe him. So Mrs. Blake and Mrs. Campbell, who spoke Hindustani fluently, spoke to them, and offered them 40l. if they would take a note to Captain Campbell at Agra, asking for a guard. At first they said they would, and went to one of the flees to ask for paper; but presently returned and said we meant to betray them; and again they threatened to kill us. Just then we heard in the distance the tramp of a large body of horse and the clang of arms: this rather startled the sawars, and gave us some hope. When the cavalry came nearer, we saw that they were part of the Rajah’s body-guard, returning from escorting Major Macpherson and his party. They stopped, and we all ran towards them; and Mrs. Campbell. whose husband had had the temporary command of them, entreated their native officer (who was dressed in an English officer’s uniform) to guard us, and let some of his men go with us. She offered them a large sum of money if they would. The Maharajah owed Captain Campbell long arrears of pay, and this also I believe she offered them; but to no purpose. She then entreated for the protection of only one or two of his men. As they had escorted Major Macpherson, why could they not escort us? The Rajah might have given orders for them to protect any helpless refugees from Gwalior. They refused, saying they had not the Maharajah’s “hukum89.” So we had the bitter disappointment of watching them ride
off. Whether the sawars were frightened, I know not; but, so far as I remember, they did not again molest us. We then lay down, and some of us went to sleep: the poor children did, at least.
Very early next morning we again set out. Muza got us some “gram” for food, like vetch, which the animals live on; it was very dry, and this, with a little water mixed with the camphor-water, was all we had to eat. About noon on Tuesday we reached the second dak bungalow on the way to Agra (when we had before come to Gwalior, we had come by another bye road, this not being then finished). Here we halted for an hour or two, as we heard frightful reports about Major Macpherson and his party; we were told that as soon as they had reached the Chumbul, the Rajah’s body-guard had left them, and that they had been attacked by the villagers, who had killed them. They even told us the names of those who had been killed, and so circumstantially that we could not doubt. The Rajah of Dholpur, they said, had taken possession of the ford and would not allow any one to cross. We did not know what to do, whether to go on, not crediting what they said, or, believing them, stay where we were. The servants at the bungalow pressed us to stay, saying, we should all be killed if we went on; but we thought they wanted to entrap us, and would only wait till they were joined by others, and then kill us.
We sent for the dak-book, in which travellers write their names, but only saw “Major Macpherson and
party;” there was no list of names. This we much regretted, as we were anxious to see who had escaped; and I most earnestly wished to know if Mrs. Stuart, Mrs. Hawkins, Mrs. Hennessy, and several others, had escaped, as we had heard such frightful reports. Mrs. Campbell wrote all our names in the book, that others who might escape should see them. We then partook of a little “dhal90“ and rice, the first food we had tasted since Sunday night, excepting the gram. The poor children were very glad of it, but we could eat little, being so weak with exposure to the sun: afterwards, however, the doctors told us, it was well we had eaten so little, as our weak state alone saved us from sun-strokes. On looking at my foot, which was very painful, and inflamed, I found that I had cut it, as my boots were very thin; so I tied my pocket handkerchief round it. We were all covered with “prickly heat,” a very painful and irritable eruption; and we could not rest, as crowds of natives would continue thronging in to stare at us; even looking through the windows of all the rooms. They all had fire-arms, which they brandished, and they looked so ferocious that we did not feel at all safe. Here we were joined by Mrs. Gilbert, poor Mrs. Proctor, and Mrs. Quick, a sergeant’s wife; they had been very ill-treated at the Lushkur: Mrs. Proctor had even had a tulwah held to her throat.
In the evening we proceeded on our journey in the
carts. Our faithful Muza had procured us some chuddas91 in which we wrapped our heads, and disguised ourselves as well as we could, so as to appear like a party of natives travelling. The oxen slowly dragged their weary limbs along, hanging their heads and stopping every instant. When we started we were surrounded by natives; but strange to say, they let us depart, thinking probably that we should never reach Agra, and that we should only die a lingering death on the way; or that if we did reach Agra we should only find it in ruins.
We met five or six large carriages returning from conveying Major Macpherson and his party to Agra. We stopped them and vainly entreated the drivers to take us only as far as the Chumbul; but this they scornfully refused to do, saying they had not the Rajah’s “hukum.” Oh, how our hearts swelled with indignation at this second refusal It was very hard to see them drive past our miserable carts. Mrs. Quick was a very large woman – for corpulency becomes a disease in India, and her weight was such she had already broken down one cart, a small frail one, and now, toiling slowly along on foot, she implored us to take her in or she should die: her expressions and language were violent and dreadful, but we felt for her, and she was at last taken into one of the carts.
At night we reached a large village, but met with
no sympathy: when we asked the natives for some water, they said we might get it for ourselves. Muza got us some, at last. We were then obliged to get out of the carts, and lie on the ground, in the middle of a dusty road, huddled together, whilst the villagers collected to stare at us: they even brought torches to aid their scrutiny, as it was now getting dark. The drivers of the carts made a fire and cooked some food they had got for themselves. The natives were very insolent; they looked at us all in succession, and said, “Well, they are not worth a pice92 each;” but to Mrs. Campbell they said, “You are worth an anna93:” they said she was (burra kubsoorut) very handsome. She was a very beautiful woman, and had formerly been called the “Rose of Gibraltar,” when she was there with her father. They pulled aside her chudda, with which she tried to conceal her face, and said, “We will look at you.” At last, worn out with fatigue, we slept, and the next morning (Wednesday) continued our journey.
We passed through the town of Dholpur, which is built on each side of the Chumbul. The natives are a rude, fierce set, and when we reached the ford they would not let us cross, and said they would kill us. A large party of men well armed assembled together on a bank, and seemed to watch us. Muza advised us not to stir out of the carts, as they belonged to the
Rajah of Gwalior, and as long as they thought we were under his protection they dared not touch us. He then left us, in order to try if he could get a boat for us to cross in; and crowds of natives collected to gaze at us. It will be evident to all, from the behaviour of the villagers to us, that the disaffection was not confined to sepoys, as is sometimes asserted: indeed, the villagers always flocked into the stations after the mutinies to murder and loot. Of course there are some exceptions like Muza; and some of the sepoys even remained faithful, and helped their officers to escape.
It was the afternoon, and oppressively hot, when Muza returned, saying he had got a boat for us. We left our carts and descended the bill to the ford, where we saw a sort of raft, or rough native boat, at some distance from the shore; we had to wade the stream before we reached it, and then we scrambled into it wet as we were. Just as the boat began to move, Muza piloting, some natives dashed into the water, and, as if vexed that they had let us depart, tore a piece of wood out of the side, so that the water rushed in. The sergeants’ wives and children began shrieking out, “They are going to drown us: they are pulling the boat to pieces.” I don’t know whether this stopped them: but they then gave over; though some of them continued swimming after the boat. The river was very broad, and the boat began to fill with water; so as soon as we neared the opposite
shore, we jumped out, and again waded a short distance. The Chumbul, like all Indian rivers, during the rains, swells, and floods a large space beyond its banks, sweeping all before it; but during the dry season it shrinks up, leaving a large margin of sand and debris: through this we had now to drag ourselves, the sand sticking to our wet dresses. Having left our carts on the other side, we entered a small chowki94 near the river bank, into which we were followed by at least twenty horrid savage-looking men, armed with rusty old matchlocks and tulwahs. I shall never forget the expression of their faces; we could see well now, as it was light, and we were neither agitated nor excited, many of us having almost lost all longing for life. We sat here for more than an hour, surrounded by these men, who every now and then drew out their tulwahs, and slowly polished them with their fingers, seeming to whet and sharpen them. They watched us closely: one man especially, with only one eye, and that had a horrid basilisk expression in it, watched me the whole time. They appeared to consult how they should kill us, and I kept thinking what a dreadful death they would put us to with their rusty weapons: a bullet would have been a merciful death in comparison. They would occasionally leave us, and then return, as if purposely keeping us in suspense.
At last a camel sower rode up, and gave Mrs. Campbell a note. It was one written by Captain
Campbell to the Maharajah, requesting him to have all the bodies of the killed at Gwalior buried, and particularly his own wife. This she herself read. The sawar said he would take her to Captain Campbell, who had come a few miles out of Agra, and was at the dak bungalow at Munnia, not daring to come further, fearing an ambush; but Mrs. Campbell was unwilling to leave us, and moreover, she did not like to trust herself alone with the sawar, who agreed, instead, to take a note to Captain Campbell.
Mrs. Campbell (I think) pricked with a pin on the back of the note, “We are here, more than a dozen women and children: send us help.” The sawar departed, and Captain Campbell actually received the note.
Muza now said we had better walk on a little way, till he could procure us some more carts; so we walked on under the burning sun, our wet clothes clinging to us. Some of the women had no shoes or stockings; and one tore off pieces of her dress to wrap round her bleeding feet. Mrs. Kirke and Mrs. Campbell, who had no bonnets, put part of their dresses over their heads, to protect them from the burning rays of the sun. Mrs. Gilbert could hardly walk; but some of the women helped her along, and others carried the children. At last Mrs. Quick fell down in an apoplectic fit, and became black in the face; some of the ladies kindly stayed with her, but in a quarter of an hour she died. The natives crowded round,
laughing at her immense size, and mocked her. We asked them to bury her; but I don’t know whether they did; as we left her body lying on the road.
We sat for a long time waiting for carts, in a lane with high banks on each side, which sheltered us a little from the sun; at last, to our great delight, a native mounted policeman, riding Captain Campbell’s own “Blacky,” came up and told us that Captain Campbell was at the first dak bungalow from Agra; not daring to come any further, and uncertain if we had escaped, as Major Macpherson and all who had escaped knew nothing about us. Captain Campbell had sent him with instructions to us to rest at the next dak bungalow, where he would provide us with food. The man then rode off to ask the Rajah of Dholpur for some carts for us. It seemed strange to see this man, and hear him speak so kindly to us. He alone remained faithful when all the other mounted policemen afterwards mutinied at Agra.
The horse too was an old friend which we had often driven, and Mrs. Campbell was delighted to see it again. The man soon returned; and when the carts and an elephant, which the Rajah allowed us to have, came, we went to the bungalow. It was the same at which I had rested on our way to Gwalior nearly six months before; and I shall never forget the feeling with which I now entered that house under such different circumstances.
It was quite dark when we reached the bungalow, and our kind messenger gave us some biscuits, bread
and beer, which Captain Campbell had sent. Then we lay down, some on the floor – and slept. In the morning (Thursday) at about 4 a.m. we set out in our carts, which were very uncomfortable, though drawn by fine large bullocks. Some of the sergeants’ wives had tried the night before to sit on the elephant; but as it had no howdahs95, and they were too exhausted to hold on, we took them into our carts. About noon we came in sight of the bungalow at Munnia where Captain Campbell was: he had sent on his buggy for his wife, so she and Mrs. Gilbert preceded us in it. We soon arrived, and never shall I forget Captain Campbell’s kindness: he was truly a good Samaritan; he bathed our heads, fanned us, and procured us fowls and rice; for we were by this time utterly worn out with fatigue and exhaustion. Here Mrs. Gilbert’s baby was born, and we halted till evening. Captain Campbell had a small charpoy96 covered with some carpet belonging to the bungalow, for Mrs. Gilbert and the infant to be carried on. He had twenty horsemen with him, but could not trust them. We started about 4 p.m., and travelled all night, through bye lanes; and thus, it being dark, we avoided an ambush, as the rebels were collecting to attack us. Poor Sergeant Quick now joined us, and was told of the death of his wife.
At 6 the next morning (Friday) we reached Agra. It seemed so strange to see faces not haggard and
sorrowful. We went to the house of Captain Stevenson, Captain Campbell’s cousin, and were refreshed with tea; afterwards Mrs. Blake, accompanied by her ever faithful Muza, went to her friend Mrs. Griffin; Mrs. Kirke went to another kind friend, and Mrs. Raikes to her uncle Mr. Raikes; I went to Major Macpherson and Mrs. Innes, who were in a large house appointed for the Gwalior refugees. Mrs. Gilbert now heard that her husband had either arrived or was expected; which must indeed have cheered her. Captain Murray drove me to Major Macpherson’s, where Mrs. Innes met me very kindly; she took me to a room, where, after I had bathed, I laid down and fell asleep; never awakening till evening. Mrs. Innes arranged for us to sleep is the garden; as in case of an alarm we might more easily escape to the barracks. Major Macpherson and Dr. Mackeller were also to sleep in the garden with their fire-arms ready. We could now foresee danger, and plan how to avoid it; having been taught by bitter experience.
I lay awake that night, gratefully enjoying the tranquillity and comparative security: all was calm and still; the air gently stirred by a soft breeze, and the silence only broken by the chirp of a cicala. These lines recurred to my memory:–
Why are we weighed upon with heaviness
And utterly consumed with sharp distress
While all things else have rest from weariness?”
70. Nullah, a river stream.
71. Feringhis, English – Europeans.
72. Bunian, shopkeeper, trader in grain, &c.
73. Maistree, carpenter.
74. Syce, groom.
75. Tulwah, sword, scimitar.
76. Loot, to rob, to plunder.
77. Two, three, four; is there not another?
78. Feringhi, hi, there are English there.
79. Mehta, sweeper.
80. Dr. Winlow Kirke, who had for nearly twenty years been a medical officer of the company, first with the Bundelcund legion in Scinde, then as a medical adviser to Sir Charles Napier, afterwards with the Bengal troops at Bareilly, subsequently with the European artillery at Firuzpur, and, lastly, as superintending surgeon to the Gwalior contingent. He was much beloved, both by his brother officers, and by the sepoys under his care, for his benevolent disposition and goodness of heart: his kindness to the sepoys in sickness has been much commended; and it was generally thought, that if a rising took place, he would escape, being so much liked by the natives; but his death proved how delusive was the confidence to be placed in these black-hearted wretches. The doctor who had ministered to their necessities and comfort when in hospital, who had cured them when sick, and tended them when convalescent, these miscreants shot before his wife, and beat out his brains with the butts of their muskets.
81. Butcha, little one, child.
82. Missie baba, little girl.
83. Bhang, an intoxicating liquor made of hemp.
84. Charpoy, native bed.
85. Chowki, stage.
86. Raj, rule.
87. Chaprassi, messenger.
88. Pucka, stone, brick.
89. Hukum, order, command.
90. Dhal, pulse, split peas.
91. Chuddas, large veils, sheets.
92. Pice, copper coin worth about one farthing.
93. Anna, copper coin worth three halfpence.
94. Chowki, stage for horses.
95. Howdah, seat for four people on an elephant.
96. Charpoy, a native bedstead.
This collection transcribed by Chris Gage