Sahib (44 page)

You will wonder perhaps about my seeing the flight of a shell but it was quite easy because the spherical shell … does not attain the same velocity as the elongated shell of the present day, and besides, the fuse which is attached to the shell to explode on its arrival at its destination emits sparks all the way in its flight, so that you may easily trace its direction.
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Fuse-cutting required great skill, and during the siege of Lucknow some civilian volunteers showed great aptitude for it.

The casualties amongst the artillery, owing to the exposed opposition of our batteries were very numerous. Every officer was either killed or wounded, and to supply their places several officers of native infantry, whose men had mutinied, some civil engineers, and some gentlemen of independent means, who had come to visit the country, were trained in artillery drill,
and so proficient did they become, that each in turn came to be entrusted with a command. Two or three – Lieutenant Ward, Mr Macrae, Mr Lucas and Mr Cameron – especially distinguished themselves. The first two were skilled in throwing shells, a difficult task, as, the enemy being so close to us, it required great care to prevent the shell exploding in our own lines. Bits constantly came singing back to us.
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As its name suggests, roundshot was a round iron ball slightly smaller than the diameter of the gun barrel, and its weight categorised the gun. Roundshot was fired with as flat a trajectory as possible, with the intention of hitting the ground (‘first graze’) just in front of the enemy. A British 9-pounder laid point-blank, with no elevation, would achieve first graze about 400 yards from the muzzle, and would then ricochet on before hitting the ground again, some 600 yards from the muzzle. It might ricochet once more, to perhaps 700 yards, or simply bounce and roll onwards for a shorter distance. A man standing anywhere between its muzzle and the end of its run would be in danger. A British 9-pounder had a maximum range of 1,700 yards, and an effective range of 8–900 yards, when roughly half its shot could be expected to take effect on a line of infantry, and cavalry made an even easier target.

In January 1846, John Pearman was moving up with his regiment, 3rd Light Dragoons, just behind the infantry.

I was looking at our left front, when I saw something glisten in the sun’s rays. I said ‘Sergeant-Major Baker, there is the enemy.’ He replied ‘You be damned!’ He had been very drunk just before we marched. He had been down to his old mates in the 16th Lancers. He had hardly replied when: ‘Bang! Bang!’ and two balls whizzed over our heads. A third ball went into a regiment of sepoys, and knocked over three or four men. The 53rd was taking ground to the left, when a ball passed through them, striking the ground in front of us, close to me, and bounded over our heads … 

We now got the order to move to the front, and at that moment a ball came and knocked down five. A corporal of the 80th Regiment had his leg knocked off. He said: ‘Comrades, take my purse.’ I took his gun and threw my own away.
We stepped over them and passed on, but had not got far when another ball struck Harry Greenbank in the head. It sounded like a band-box full of feathers flying all over us. He was my front-rank man, and his brains nearly covered me. I had to scrape it off my face, and out of my eyes, and Taf Roberts, my left-hand man, was nearly as bad.
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A roundshot was dangerous even towards the end of its flight, as the inexperienced often discovered to their cost. At Mudki Bancroft saw shot ‘rolling and plunging among the horses’ legs like so many cricket balls’. Lieutenant Wainwright:

took a fancy that he might stop one of their balls and return it to them; he made the trial, and had the mortification of having his right arm disabled as part of the experiment, and he returned to his guns, cursing his ill-luck at being disabled before having had the opportunity of using the splendid Damascus blade which he had just received as a present from his father at home. The major reprimanded him sharply for his language and sent him to the rear.
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At between 300–500 yards gunners switched to canister. This consisted of a large tin, slightly smaller than the calibre of the piece, filled with balls. There were generally two sizes of ball, heavy and light: a British 9-pounder canister contained either 180 light or 44 heavy. Light balls were about the size of a thumb nail, and heavy ones the diameter of a fifty-pence piece. They were usually made of iron so that they did not become distorted by the impact of the gun’s explosion. When the tin container left the gun’s muzzle it burst open, forming a lethal pattern 32 feet wide at 100 yards, 64 feet at 200 yards and 96 feet at 300 yards.
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Although grapeshot is often mentioned in contemporary accounts, it was rarely issued for land battles: what contemporaries called ‘grape’ was in fact heavy canister. It was so abundant that it is often the most frequent find on Indian battlefields, more common even than musket balls (the minute you leave your car at Assaye children rush forward to press it upon you for a trifling cost).

Advancing troops had to make their way through what was, in the most literal sense, a hail of death, with shells bursting over and
around them, roundshot trundling through their ranks, and, for the last few hundred yards, gusts of canister tearing men down, a dozen at a time. Experienced officers knew that it was a trial that called for the utmost fortitude. John Pearman advanced with his cavalry regiment at Gujrat.

In a few minutes the round six- and nine-pound shot and shell was flying over our heads. Captain Draper of ours, every shot that went over his head made him duck down his head. Colonel White, who had seen the Peninsula fights and been at Waterloo, said: ‘Captain, it is no use ducking. If there is one for you, I think you will get it.’ This made us laugh, but Draper was a nice little officer, and a perfect gentleman. He replied: ‘I can’t help it colonel! ‘Just at this moment a nine-pound shot struck the ground at the Colonel’s horses heels, but Colonel White did not move or look round. His brave old face never moved, with his white hair round it. He only said: ‘Steady men, steady! Make much of your horses, men!’ I think there was not a man or an officer who knew Colonel White who did not love him. Such a happy face, and so kind to all. But he could be severe if he liked.
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Colonel Chester, adjutant general of the Bengal army, rode forward with the attack at Badli ke Serai, though strictly speaking he had no need to do so, for Brigadier Showers had things well in hand. Richard Barter looked round to see that:

A shot had evidently alighted on the holster pipes, smashing the horse’s back and cutting it open, and at the same time disembowelling the rider. The horse was rolling in agony and the poor old Colonel lay on his back, his helmet off and his grey hair stained with blood, calling in a faint voice for Captain Barnard … How he could speak at all was a puzzle to me for the whole of his stomach lay beside him on the ground as if had been scooped out of his back, and yet I heard afterwards that he lived a quarter of an hour.
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I
F THE MAIN THREAT CAME
, as it so often did in India, from the enemy’s artillery, then there was little merit in stopping to fire for long, for a lengthy pause within canister range exposed attacking infantry to artillery fire at its most effective. At Maharajpore, HM’s 39th did not stop to fire at all, but advanced straight into the battery and bayoneted the gunners at their pieces, and at Sobraon, HM’s 10th ‘gained great kudos for charging a battery without firing’. At Chillianwallah the 24th tried to do the same, as Major Smith explained:

The 24th advanced with loaded firelocks – but the greatest pains were taken by [Lieutenant Colonel] Campbell (previous to their going into action) to inculcate upon them the merit of taking the enemy’s guns without firing a shot.

He told me so & blamed himself for it – & for a long time previous to Goojerat I drilled the Regt by his order, in firing by files while advancing.

There seems to have been a confusion of principles in this – To stop to fire after the charge is commenced, supposing it not begun till within reasonable distance, is, of course, a grievous and destructive error – but the 24th were told to march up, under a storm of fire, in front of the muzzles of the guns, for several hundred yards, without attempting to stagger or dismay the enemy by making use of their arms.

You must very well remember how the rascals crouched
down & ran when the rattling fire of the 29th told among them. Had we gone up without doing them harm on the way, they would have stood there, mowing us down, till the last.
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When HM’s 32nd Foot attacked at Gujrat, Private John Ryder wrote that the Sikh gunners held their fire as long as possible (for they had already been badly punished by Gough’s artillery, and had no wish to reopen that debate), and then they:

commenced firing at long range of musketry. We advanced and did not discharge a shot till within 150 yards or less, when we opened such a murderous and well-directed fire that they fell in hundreds. They, on their part, kept up a good fire, but it was badly directed; as most of their balls went over our heads.

The regiment was soon up to the battery, and:

We took every gun we came up to, but their artillery fought desperately; they stood and defended their guns to the last. They threw their arms round them, kissed them, and died. Others would spit at us, when the bayonet was through their bodies.
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It was important to proceed at a steady walk until the charge was ordered, or men would run too far and would be out of breath when they had to fight hand to hand. For almost the whole of the period British infantry went into battle with their colours flying and drummers rattling out the step. Each battalion had what was known as a stand of colours. The sovereign’s colour was the Union flag with a royal cipher in its centre, and the regimental colour was of the same hue as the regiment’s facings with the Union in its upper canton and a badge in its centre. They were made of silk, and measured 6 foot 6 inches long by 6 foot deep, carried on a pike 9 foot 10 inches high. On the line of march they were carried in turn by all the subalterns, but in action they were borne by the ensigns, starting with the most junior and being passed on by seniority as the youngsters were hit. Because colours stood out above the line they were often hit by projectiles flying too high to hit the front ranks. When HM’s 9th Foot marched into Allahabad after the Second Sikh War, its Queen’s colour had been almost stripped from its staff by fire, and the regimental colour was scarcely better. An eyewitness sketched
the scene, which became the basis for a print in a well-known series.
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The loss of a colour in battle was considered a disgrace, and during the whole of the conquest of India only two or three British colours were actually lost, although more were seriously imperilled. One of the colours of the Bengal Europeans was retrieved from beneath the dead body of Ensign Philip Moxon after the first day’s fighting at Ferozeshah, and carried off under fire by Ensign Percy Innes. The 31st Foot had both its ensigns shot down at Mudki, but Quartermaster Sergeant Jones picked up their colours, earning himself an immediate commission. HM’s 44th hung on to its colours for much of the retreat from Kabul in 1842, and eventually the sacred silk was taken from its pikes and wrapped round the bodies of two officers. During the last stand at Gandamack the regimental colour was worn by Captain Souter, and it may be that he survived because the Afghans believed that somebody with such an expensive waistcoat must be very important. The colour was laid up in 1844 in the parish church at Alverstoke in Hampshire, and was moved to the Essex Regiment chapel at Warley in 1926, where a fragment of it now remains.
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The Queen’s colour was never recovered.

The 66th had both its colours at Maiwand, and such was their symbolic value that even after the line had broken, with the ghazis running in with their knives, and everything going ‘beyond all orders and all hope’ that men gave their lives to protect them. Lieutenant Colonel Galbraith, already hard hit, died on one knee, with one of the colours in his hand: Second Lieutenant Barr fell atop the other. Lieutenant Honeywell took a colour back as far as the final rallying-point, and shouted: ‘Men! What shall we do to save this?’ He was soon shot. Lieutenant Raynor, the adjutant, was mortally wounded as he bore the colour. Drummer Darby, who in happier times beat the bass drum, although urged to run, would not leave him to die on his own and was killed too. Second Lieutenant Olivey and Sergeant Major Cuppage, carrying the colour in their turn, both died, one a youth at the beginning of his service, and the other the senior non-commissioned member of the battalion, alike committed to preserving the last rags of its honour at the cost of their lives that terrible day. Both colours were captured, and were rumoured to have been
taken away to Kharan, a fort not far from Quetta: a British boundary commission was denied entry there in 1883. Somewhere in the intractable country of the Pakistan-Afghan border, perhaps walled up or tucked into a roof space, are a stand of colours of HM’s 66th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot.

It was a cruel irony that in 1857 Indian regiments which had mutinied continued to carry the colours given them by a state whose authority they had so definitively rejected. In a little action in January 1858 Lieutenant Fred Roberts:

Discerned in the distance two sepoys making off with a standard, which I decided must be captured, so I rode after the rebels and overtook them, while wrenching the staff from the hands of one of them, whom I cut down, the other put his musket close to my body and fired; fortunately for me it missed fire, and I carried off the standard.
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The act earned Roberts the VC. With Havelock’s Lucknow-bound column was Sergeant Patrick Mahoney, 1st Madras Fusiliers, acting as sergeant major of the volunteer cavalry. On 21 September 1857, he cut down three members of the colour party of 1st BNI and made off with their regimental colour: he too earned the VC.

Part of an advance would be carried out with drums beating and colours flying. But the quicker the attackers could get through the beaten zone of the enemy’s artillery the less men they would lose, and the greater the chance that the gunners would not depress their muzzles quickly enough. Richard Barter admitted that he had misjudged the advance at Badli ke Serai.

After advancing for some distance the Brigadier gave the order to ‘Double’, and this saved us from much shot and shell all flew over. I was completely taken in by it myself and when the Brigadier gave the order, ventured to remonstrate saying at this distance the men would be blown before we reached the battery and it would be like the 24th at Chillianwallah, but the Brigadier told me to see his orders carried out and be silent and I soon saw how wise and judicious they were for having gone a hundred yards or so, the quick-time was again taken up and we were spared a good deal of round and grape shot
which flew over our heads, the Enemy not having depressed their guns.

When the 75th was ordered to prepare to charge, the men brought their bayonets down to the ‘engage’, a few more paces were taken to steady the line, and then:

the line seemed to extend as each man sought more room for the play of the most terrible of all weapons in the hands of a British soldier … The long hoped-for time had come at last … and a wild shout or rather a yell of vengeance went up from the Line as it rushed to the charge. The Enemy followed our movements, their bayonets were also lowered and their advance was steady as they came on to meet us, but when that exultant shout went up they could not stand it, their line wavered and undulated, many began firing with their firelocks from their hips and at last as we were closing in on them the whole turned and ran for dear life followed by a shout of derisive laughter from our fellows. In three minutes from the word to charge, the 75th stood breathless but victors in the Enemy’s battery.
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Much the same procedure was followed for an attack on a
serai,
a walled enclosure, at Najufghur in August 1857, as recalled by Lieutenant Edward Vibart, doing duty with 1st Bengal European Fusiliers:

A column composed of ourselves, a wing of Her Majesty’s 61st Foot and the 2nd Punjab Infantry, was then told off to attack it and, having advanced to a point about three hundred yards from the building, we were directed to deploy, halt, and lie down, while the General [Nicholson] and his staff rode out to the front to reconnoitre the position. Immediately afterwards a battery of Horse Artillery galloped up and, unlimbering at close range, poured in a heavy fire of round shot for a few minutes on that face of the serai which faced us. The order was then given to the attacking columns to stand up and, having fixed bayonets, the three regiments, led by General Nicholson in person, steadily advanced to within about one hundred yards of the enclosure, when the word of command rang out from our commanding officer, Major Jacob, ‘Prepare
to charge!’ ‘Charge!’ and in less time than it takes to relate we had scaled the walls, carried the
serai
and captured all the guns by which it was defended. Only a few of the rebels fought with any pluck, and these were seen standing on the walls, loading and firing with the greatest deliberation until we were close upon them. But few of these escaped, as they were nearly all bayoneted within the enclosure.
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All the vital ingredients of a successful attack were there. The assaulting troops were kept well in hand, and did not have too much ground to cover; their attack was prepared by the close-range fire of horse artillery; and there was brave leadership from the local commander.

Garnet Wolseley, fighting his first little battle in Burma, discovered that a charge needed real weight and determination. The men of 67th BNI went to ground, and their officers could not get them on. The 4th Sikhs were altogether better, but their commanding officer was ‘knocked over by a bullet that hit him at the top of his forehead, which it smashed and, to all appearances, lodged in his brain. It was a dreadful wound but, strange to say, it did not kill him.’ His own men were ‘undrilled recruits, and there were too few of us, and there was not enough backing-up from behind. Had a formed company with its officers been there the whole thing would have been over in a very few minutes.’ He was conscious of a never-to-be-repeated sensation of satisfaction and joy, but then he was hit in the thigh by a bullet from a
jingal and
was carried from the field: the attack had failed.
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When he led his company against the Mess House at Lucknow things were different. Sir Colin Campbell had just spoken to the officers, and ‘impressed on us the necessity of using the bayonet as much as possible when we got into the city, and not halting to fire when we could avoid doing so’. There was a feeling amongst the men that Campbell had showed undue favouritism to his Highlanders, and this ‘made them determined that no breechless Highlander should get in front of them that day. I overheard many of them express that determination in very explicit Anglo-Saxon.’ When the moment came to charge, Wolseley led them ‘at a good steady double’ for the Mess House. Then ‘I steadied my men and “whipped them
in” at the garden wall as we swarmed over it, and then made for the open doorway of the Mess House itself’. Beyond it they were stopped by a loopholed wall, but got possession of the loopholes and fired through them while crowbars and picks were sent for to make gaps. As soon as a hole was big enough for a man, an ensign scrambled through – ‘I have never heard of a more dare-devil exhibition of pluck’ wrote Wolseley – and the place was secured. Wolseley’s brigadier, Adrian Hope, warned him that Campbell was furious with him for going beyond the Mess House and depriving his Highlanders of more glory. By the time they met – Campbell was sleeping on the ground, and awoke when somebody put the leg of a wooden bed on his stomach – ‘His anger had left him, and no man ever said nicer or more complimentary things to me than he did then.’
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In European war it was axiomatic that bayonets were rarely crossed, but one side or the other recalled an urgent appointment elsewhere just before contact. Indeed, the French General Louis Trochu, whose eventful military career included the Crimean and Franco-Prussian Wars, recalled only three bayonet fights, one of them the result of a collision in the fog.

Things were different in India. Indian troops armed and equipped on European lines carried musket and bayonet. For much of the period this was a muzzle-loading flintlock weapon like the British Brown Bess, equipped with a triangular-bladed socket bayonet. Flints are not indigenous to India, and so the preferred firearm for many Indians was the matchlock musket. This embodied a more primitive form of ignition. Instead of the powder in the flash-pan being ignited by the spark of flint against steel, the firer used a match, a length of slow-burning cord, to set off the charge. However, many Indian matchlocks were not the clumsy and inaccurate weapons used in seventeenth-century Europe, but were well-made weapons whose ability to function with local supplies and repairs made them useful until well on in the nineteenth century.
Jezailchis,
irregulars armed with matchlock
jezails,
were still in service in the Second Afghan War.