Three times, after the East India Company had become supreme in India, its dominion was exposed to serious danger of overthrow. The Afghan war, dictated by mistaken policy, and badly carried out, led to the greatest disaster in Anglo-Indian history, though it was redeemed by subsequent successes. The Sikh military power, built up by an able ruler, and disciplined by European officers, went very near to defeating British armies in pitched battles. The mutiny of the Bengal sepoys turned against England the main instrument of her previous conquests.

In the course of a long reign Runjeet Sing had become by far the most powerful Indian prince since Hyder Ali. The Khalsa, as the Sikh commonwealth was styled, was full of zeal for its creed, a reformed Hindooism. The race was hardy and vigorous, and Runjeet Sing, taking into his service many French and other adventurers, had given his army a discipline and cohesion never before approached by any oriental troops. He had conquered several provinces from the Afghans, though not uniformly successful against them, and by carefully respecting the prejudices of his people had won complete ascendancy at home. Though naturally he looked with no favour on the growth of the British power, he had the wisdom to discern its vast strength, and sedulously cultivated friendly relations with it, which the Calcutta government was very willing to maintain. One of the subsidiary purposes of the ill-advised Afghan war was to assist Runjeet Sing in increasing his dominions at the expense of the Afghan monarchy. The real determining motive was however the same which led to the equally ill-judged Afghan war of 1878-9, dread of the advance of Russia in central Asia.

In 1837 Persia, largely under Russian influence, tried to wrest Herat from the Afghan monarch, Dost Mahommed, but the attempt failed, chiefly through the energy of Eldred Pottinger. The Afghans, fanatical Mahommedans, and bitterly hostile to foreigners, only asked to be let alone. Their country is very mountainous, and difficult of access, much of it barren, and the outlying parts occupied by lawless predatory tribes. With a little assistance from India, they would have afforded then, as later, a most effectual barrier against a Russian advance. Dost Mahommed would have welcomed an English alliance, chiefly to protect him against Persia. Lord Auckland however, the governor-general, persuaded himself that Dost Mahommed was not to be trusted, and determined to replace him by a pretender who had, as the event showed, no partisans in Afghanistan. Armies were sent to invade the country by more than one route, as from the nature of the case was inevitable, and occupied it without serious resistance. Then the difficulties began. Shah Sujah, the British puppet, had no capacity and could establish no power. Almost every imaginable blunder was committed by the English authorities at Cabul, both civil and military: the envoys were murdered, the army was to all intents and purposes placed in the hands of the revolted Afghans to destroy at their pleasure. The government of India was slow to perceive the absolute necessity of retrieving by vigorous measures our lost credit, and of avenging those who had been treacherously slaughtered. Lord Ellenborough, who succeeded Lord Auckland, was less incompetent to deal with the crisis, though his policy was by no means faultless. In 1842 Afghanistan was again occupied by armies, this time well and boldly led; and then the puppet was withdrawn, and Dost Mahommed resumed his throne. The net result of the whole war was to inspire in the Afghans a feeling of active dislike towards the English, which had hardly existed before, and to diminish the elements of order and civilisation, and therefore the chances of resisting Russia in case of need, in a state always barbarous and a prey to violence.

What might have happened if Runjeet Sing had lived to hear of the disaster at Cabul, whether his fidelity to the English alliance would have been proof against the temptation to strike for Sikh supremacy in India, it is not pleasant to conjecture. He however died when the first invasion of Afghanistan was progressing, and his death was followed by virtual anarchy in the Punjab. Rulers and ministers in rapid succession rose to power by violence or intrigue, and were deposed and murdered by similar means. Every revolution made the Sikh army more and more powerful in the state, more and more conscious of its own power. The soldiers were admirably brave, and capable of enduring enormous fatigue, nor had their discipline been impaired by their political preponderance, with its consequent high pay and license of violence. Man for man they were superior to any other natives of India, and little, if at all, inferior to English soldiers. Strong in religious zeal, they believed it to be their mission to expel the foreigners, and establish, throughout northern India at least, a purified Hindoo empire. The Sikhs were well provided with artillery, on which they placed their main reliance, and trained in all the methods of European warfare: though slow to attack, they defended intrenchments with extraordinary determination. Altogether they were an enemy such as the East India Company had never yet encountered. Fortunately for England, they had no really skilful generals, and they were, at any rate in the first war, led by men who were only anxious for their own personal advantage: from the soldiery they had practically bought their offices, and might be overthrown by them at any moment. At the best these chiefs calculated that a war with the English, if unsuccessful, would bring them under less exacting masters, if successful, might lead to indefinite possibilities. Their conduct, on more than one occasion, warrants the belief that they deliberately sought to destroy their own men.

Sir H. Hardinge, who succeeded Lord Ellenborough as governor-general, was an experienced and capable soldier: he saw that a Sikh war was probably inevitable, and brought troops up within easy distance of the frontier, while avoiding such a concentration as would provoke immediate attack. On December 11, 1845, the Sikhs crossed the river Sutlej, the virtual frontier: Sir John Littler, who commanded the only British force in the immediate neighbourhood, boldly marched out of Ferozepore and offered battle, though they had five times his number. His confident attitude impressed the Sikhs; their nominal commander-in-chief, who desired to commit them as deeply as possible, represented to them that it would be much more glorious to encounter and defeat the governor-general, and they followed the insidious advice. In a few days the English commander-in-chief, with a portion of the army that was concentrating, drew near. Misinformed as to his numbers, and urged on by leaders who desired their destruction, the Sikhs did not march with their whole force to meet him at Moodkee, but sent a detachment of barely his strength, all arms included, and very weak in the most important, infantry. Sir Hugh Gough showed on all occasions impatience of everything but direct attack in front. Forming his infantry in line he advanced, regardless of the Sikh artillery in their centre: his cavalry by a brilliant charge broke the superior Sikh horse which threatened his flank, and the Sikh infantry, greatly outnumbered, were inevitably forced back with the loss of most of their guns, though they never were routed. This experience of the quality of his enemies ought to have taught Sir Hugh Gough wisdom: had it done so, the unnecessary loss of several hundred men might not have been too dear a price to pay. Three days later (December 21, 1845) the available forces were concentrated, and moved to attack the Sikh army, which had entrenched itself to await him. Their position was, to use the words of Gough's own despatch, "a parallelogram of about a mile in length and half a mile in breadth, including within its area the strong village of Ferozeshah—the shorter sides looking towards the Sutlej and Moodkee, and the longer towards Ferozepore and the open country." The governor-general, who had joined the army, intimated his readiness to serve under Gough. Whether the battle would have been less rashly fought if he had commanded in chief, cannot be known; certainly Gough, whose courage was magnificent, but who had no idea of using skill to save resort to sheer force, brought the army to the verge of overwhelming disaster.

The short December day was nearly over before the troops were ready to begin the attack. The plan of the battle was of the simplest. Littler, on the left, was to assail the west face of the Sikh position; Wallace on his right, the south-west corner and part of the south face, Gilbert on the right, the south-east. Between Gilbert and Wallace was massed nearly all the artillery, of which Gough in his impatience made very little use. Against Littler the Sikhs had, as it happened, their heaviest artillery, as well as overwhelming infantry; and his attack was decisively repulsed. Wallace carried the intrenchments opposite him, but remained exposed to the fire of the enemy, who had only been driven back. Gilbert succeeded to about the same extent, but as darkness came on retired a few hundred yards, and there remained, ready to renew the action with daylight. The reserves were brought up just before dark; the 3rd dragoons charged a battery and silenced it, and then swept through the Sikh camp, dealing destruction as they passed, but suffering heavily. Sir Harry Smith's division of infantry forced its way into the heart of the Sikh position, but being attacked in the dead of night was obliged to retire some distance. So qualified a success was practically a defeat; Gough was no doubt fully determined to renew the struggle, but it is hard to see why further efforts should have been decisively successful, if the Sikhs had been properly commanded. They however had really no general: the nominal commander, Tej Sing, was watching Ferozepore with 10,000 men. The chief minister, who was with the main army, desired for his own sake the destruction of the soldiery whom he could not control. Hence when day dawned, the Sikhs had no coherence or definite purpose, and allowed themselves to be driven from Ferozeshah almost without resistance. Tej Sing and his division were by this time near enough to have restored the action, and perhaps to have won it, for the English ammunition was exhausted. But the traitor contented himself with a mere demonstration, and then fled, leaving his troops to take care of themselves.

The moral effects of this battle were considerable: it showed that the English were not invincible. Though they had been ultimately victorious, it was because the Sikhs abandoned the contest, not by their own prowess. The origin and growth of beliefs is always difficult to trace, nowhere more so than in India; but it is at least credible that the mutiny of 1857 may have been encouraged by the discovery that the success of the white men was not inevitably decreed by fate. Gough thought it necessary to wait for several weeks, while heavy guns were brought up, before resuming active operations in person. Meanwhile the Sikhs, feeling themselves more or less in the ascendant, crossed the Sutlej with a considerable force, and Sir Harry Smith was sent to protect Loodiana. At Aliwal (Jan. 28, 1846) he completely routed his enemies and drove them back over the Sutlej. This victory led Golab Sing, who was playing a very important part in Sikh affairs, and was aiming at his own aggrandisement, whether in hostility to the English power or by agreement with them, to open negotiations, which elicited from the governor-general the intimation that if the Sikh army were disbanded, he would leave the Sikh monarchy standing. The army however was its own master, and bent on continuing the war for the predominance of their faith.

When at length Gough's artillery arrived, the Sikhs were occupying a position at Sobraon, analogous to that at Ferozeshah, but weaker in that the intrenchments were in parts very badly constructed, and disadvantageous in that the Sutlej flowed behind it, though adequately bridged. On Feb. 10, 1846, Gough moved before daylight to the attack, and by the help of a fog had his artillery in position and his troops formed in front of the enemy before they were seen. Again his impatience would not wait for the cannonade to do its work effectually: the delay of seven weeks since Ferozeshah was rendered virtually useless. The right being the weakest part of the enemy's intrenchments, the plan was that the British left should deliver the real attack, while feints were made by the centre and right. The Sikhs however reinforced their right so strongly that the assailants could make scarcely any impression. Gough seeing this, ordered the infantry of his centre and right to attack in earnest. They suffered heavily, and recoiled for a moment, but they had relieved the left, and gradually the whole British line pressed the Sikhs back. Tej Sing again set the example of flight, and in crossing the bridge broke the centre of it. Whether this was a deliberate piece of treachery or not, it was fatal to the Sikh army, which, fighting desperately to the last, was cut to pieces or driven into the Sutlej. This victory was decisive: the Sikhs submitted to terms which, while leaving the child Dhuleep Sing nominal Maharajah, made the British resident virtual ruler of the Punjab, from which moreover the eastern provinces were ceded to the East India Company. Cashmere also, which was to be ceded in lieu of a large war indemnity, was sold to Golab Sing, who paid the sum which the Sikh government had promised—a transaction indefensible in principle, and mistaken in policy.

Peace seemed to be so well assured in the Punjab that Sir Henry Lawrence, the first resident at Lahore, went to England for his health without misgivings. His successor, a man of less penetration, was profoundly convinced that no trouble was to be apprehended; yet all the time the Sikh army and nation were cherishing the purpose of making another effort for independence, if not supremacy in India. The mischief began at Mooltan, an important and well fortified town in the extreme south of the Punjab, where in the spring of 1848 two English officers were murdered by the soldiery. Whether Moolraj, the governor of Mooltan, instigated the deed, is doubtful; but he cast in his lot with the perpetrators. It is suggested that this rising was part of a wide scheme, and intended to compel the English government to undertake a difficult siege at the worst period of the year. The new governor-general counted it the proper business of the Sikh government to put down what was, formally at least, a rebellion against them. The old commander-in-chief, Lord Gough, doubted the feasibility of reducing Mooltan in summer. Their hand was however forced by Lieut. Edwardes, political officer of a neighbouring district, who raised some native levies, and marched on Mooltan. He was presently joined by a small force under General Whish, and by another of Sikhs despatched from Lahore. The latter presently went over to Moolraj, whereupon General Whish perforce abandoned the siege till he could be reinforced, but remained in the neighbourhood. Successive revolts and defections making it plain that the Sikhs as a nation were resolved on war, Lord Gough collected an army, and crossed the Sutlej in November. He was short of numbers until Mooltan should fall, and was intended only to observe the Sikh army and prevent its attempting any offensive movement. His inveterate habit, however, of rushing at the enemy, regardless of every consideration except the hope of inflicting an immediate blow, showed itself immediately. The Sikh commander, who had no great skill, was of his own accord quitting a strong position at Ramnugur. A reasonable man, who was not completely master of the situation, would have been glad to let him thus throw away an advantage. Gough must needs attack him with infantry, and lost several hundred men in compelling the enemy to do what he was already doing without compulsion. A month later, when changing circumstances rendered it expedient that active operations should be attempted without waiting any longer for Whish, he indulged the same propensity in a most wanton manner.

The Sikh army were posted near Chillianwalla, on the river Jhelum, their front covered by a thick belt of jungle. It was suggested to Lord Gough that he should move so as to place his right obliquely across the enemy's left flank; if this were done, the enemy's line could be enfiladed by artillery, the left driven in on the centre, and the whole army routed.[96] The jungle in front of the Sikhs, which prevented them from making a forward movement, greatly facilitated this manoeuvre: if Gough had adhered to his plan, they could only have escaped defeat by retreating. It was afternoon (Jan. 13, 1849) before the English army came within reach of the Sikhs, and the intention was to halt for the night, and engage next morning. The Sikh general, however, either merely to do what mischief he could to the enemy, or, as has been suggested, with the deliberate intention of provoking Gough to attack, pushed forward some guns and opened fire, to which the English artillery replied. Neither party could really see the other for the intervening jungle, and the comparatively innocuous cannonade might have been ignored. Lord Gough's fighting temper was roused, and he did precisely what the enemy could have desired: he ordered his infantry to make a direct attack. The dense jungle, in one part nearly a mile in depth, naturally broke up the order of the troops. On the left one brigade of Sir Colin Campbell's division reached the hostile guns, but was overpowered and driven back. The other brigade, under Campbell in person, found itself almost surrounded; for the Sikhs being considerably superior in number, their right extended beyond the British line, and part of it was able to close upon Campbell's flank and rear, though the rest was kept in check by the cavalry on the extreme British left: he however obstinately maintained his ground. The infantry of the right wing under Gilbert was somewhat more successful, thanks in some measure at least to the brilliant services rendered by Dawes' troop of horse artillery. The cavalry however of the right wing were badly defeated. Lord Gough ordered forward his last reserve to fill the gap between Campbell and Gilbert: and after a severe struggle the infantry line succeeded in forcing the Sikhs back, and establishing themselves beyond the jungle. By this time the cavalry of the right wing had re-formed and had been reinforced from the left; there was daylight yet left for a charge, which, pushed home upon the Sikhs, who were already giving way and disordered by hard fighting, might perhaps have been decisive. Gough however did not see, or would not use, the opportunity, and went forward in person to the infantry. They were in a sense victorious, but the enemy was not routed, and might resume the action. There was neither food nor water within reach. It was deemed necessary to withdraw from the hard-won field to Chillianwalla, abandoning the wounded and the captured guns, that could not be removed in the dark. To do this was virtually to acknowledge defeat, though fortunately the Sikhs had lost so severely that no evil consequences followed. A braver soldier than Gough never lived; but few battles are recorded in which the general showed himself more incompetent than at Chillianwalla, none in which the blunders of the commander were better redeemed by the courage of the soldiers.

More than a month of comparative inaction followed. The Sikh army was largely reinforced, and used every effort to tempt Gough to another battle before he could be joined by the troops now set free by the fall of Mooltan. Gough however either had at length learned prudence, or yielded to the counsels of others, and steadily refused to fight until it suited him. On February 21 took place the final battle of the campaign, in front of the town of Gujerat. The Sikhs occupied a position of no strength, for the two streams on their right and left were at that season easily passable anywhere. They might easily have found a better position in the immediate neighbourhood: but nothing could have saved them from defeat, unless Lord Gough had reverted to his favourite tactics. The British army was very superior in artillery; probably no army of anything like equal numbers had ever before been so strong in this arm, whether for the weight of metal, the number of guns, or the precision of fire. The Sikhs understood artillery well, and trusted to it greatly; and they would be naturally all the more impressed by finding the preponderance against them.[97] The plan of attack was simply that after the Sikh artillery had been silenced, the infantry should advance, and that Sir Colin Campbell on the left should turn the right of the Sikhs, this being the flank by which their line of retreat could be most effectually threatened. This programme was in the main carried out, though Gough's impatience ordered the infantry forward a little too soon. But for this hardly any of the infantry need have been seriously engaged. The Sikhs resisted with their usual bravery, but were ultimately forced to abandon the field; and their retreat was converted into a rout by the English cavalry and horse artillery. A few days later the remains of the army laid down their arms, and the Sikh nation submitted. After due deliberation the British government determined to annex the Punjab. The administration of the new province was entrusted to the best men in India, headed first by Henry and then by John Lawrence, with the result that eight years later, in the terrible strain of the Mutiny, the Punjab was a main source of strength. The Sikhs, who had been the most dangerous enemies of British rule in India, won over by good government, and largely by the personal influence of the Lawrences, became our most faithful and valuable supporters.

The history of the Indian Mutiny must be written either at length, or in the briefest possible way. In the whole region of the Ganges, between lower Bengal and the Punjab, the sepoys with few exceptions revolted, and murdered in most cases their English officers. The English, isolated in small bodies, defended themselves as best they could, with the obstinacy of their race, and the determination of men who felt that surrender, while certainly disgraceful and injurious to the general cause, gave no certainty of rescue for their own lives. In most important places, as for instance in Lucknow, they held their ground: in a few, as in Delhi, the rebels gained complete possession. The people generally, alive to the advantages of British rule in ensuring peace and good government, but unable to understand their masters, and especially their holding the balance even between Hindoos and Mahommedans, remained on the whole passive. The native princes, whose territory, roughly speaking, bounded on the south the disturbed region, remained generally faithful to England, notably the great Mahratta princes, Holkar and Sindia, though the adopted son of the last Peishwa, whose succession the British government had refused to acknowledge, was naturally a bitter enemy. Had they all made common cause with the insurgents it is hard to see how the empire could have been saved, even though the Punjab needed no troops, and the Madras and Bombay sepoys remained on the whole true to their colours. Gradually as more and more British soldiers became available, the revolt was crushed out, though not without great exertion and much time.

The point on which the largest amount of attention was concentrated was Lucknow, the capital of Oude. The annexation, a measure rendered absolutely necessary by the scandalous oppression of the king, had been too recent for even Sir Henry Lawrence to have won over the population, who furnished a very large proportion of the rebel sepoys. Hence the difficulty of forcing the way to the capital was exceptionally great, and it had to be done three times. The original garrison was but small, the 32nd regiment and about 500 native soldiers who remained faithful. There were many English women and children shut up with them. They had no real defences, inadequate supplies, and almost no servants, and it was the hottest season. After Sir Henry Lawrence was killed, Colonel Inglis of the 32nd held the command, and proved himself fully capable of making the most of his very meagre resources. At the outset it was expected that they could hold out for about a fortnight: it was eighty-seven days before Havelock was able to force his way to Lucknow, and then it was only to reinforce, not to rescue. The heroic endurance of those long weeks cannot be described in sober prose: no English reader can wish to see it attempted, with Tennyson's noble poem in his memory. Havelock had had long and severe fighting in the neighbourhood of Cawnpore, before he could even begin to advance towards Lucknow. At the last moment General Outram was sent to supersede him, the government apparently thinking, most unreasonably, that it was Havelock's fault that more had not been achieved. But Outram, the 'Bayard of India,' would not rob Havelock of the credit: in his first and only general order issued on joining the little army, he announced that he waived his superior rank, and would accompany the force in his civil capacity as the new chief commissioner of Oude. Havelock and Outram forced their way into Lucknow on September 28, when Outram of course assumed the chief authority. His first idea was to withdraw, but he found that transport could not be provided for the women and children and the large number of sick and wounded. He therefore resolved to await relief from Sir Colin Campbell, which could not be very long in coming. Campbell however was hampered by many difficulties before he could leave Cawnpore: and it was not till November 17 that he fought his way into Lucknow. The storming of the Secunderbagh, a fortified palace in the outskirts of the city, and of the Shah Nujeef, a mosque near it, are among the most sensational feats authentically recorded. They could not be better told than in the admirable narrative of Mr. Forbes Mitchell, then a sergeant in the 93rd Highlanders, which played a conspicuous part in the relief. This time the garrison was withdrawn, for Campbell had not men enough, if he occupied Lucknow in force, for the critical operations which awaited him around Cawnpore: but the gallant Havelock died, worn out, before the retreat began. Outram remained in a fortified position at the Alumbagh not far from Lucknow: and after disposing of other duties Campbell returned to make a final end of the Lucknow rebels. This time the forces available were large, the operations could be conducted in a methodical way without undue waste of life, and the work was done effectually.

More important in its moral effect, more remarkable as an instance both of political and military audacity, was the reconquest of Delhi. The imperial city had but a small force of sepoys stationed in it, when the mutiny broke out at Meerut, forty miles off. Many of the mutineers hastened to Delhi, flying, it would seem, from the expected vengeance of the English troops at Meerut, who however were detained inactive by the hopeless incapacity of their general. The Delhi sepoys rose at the news, and slaughtered all the English in the city: those who lived outside fled as best they could. Lieutenant Willoughby, in charge of the great magazine, defended it for some time, aided by eight men only; and then blew it up, and a thousand rebels with it. The ancient capital, with all its resources, was for the time lost: and the mutineers proclaimed the restoration of the Mogul emperor, who, old and blind, resided in the palace, though this did not mean his assumption of any authority. The supreme importance of recovering Delhi was obvious, but it was not till three weeks after the outbreak that General Barnard, who had become commander-in-chief by the death of General Anson, marched for Delhi, ordering all that could be spared from Meerut to join him. Wilson with the Meerut force had to fight his way, and after his junction with Barnard a considerable battle had to be fought; but on June 8 the army established itself in the old garrison cantonments, on a long ridge which looks down on the city from the west and north-west. It was obviously far too small to besiege Delhi in any real sense. It could furnish visible evidence that England had not abandoned the idea of reconquest, but it could do no more without reinforcements and a siege train, unless by a direct and immediate assault. Some of the ardent spirits in the army strongly urged General Barnard to hazard an assault; and if he had done so, he might very possibly have succeeded; for the odds against him were not much greater than when Delhi was taken three months later, and the moral effect of prompt audacity is always great, especially in India. He however thought the consequences of failure too disastrous to be risked without a greater chance of success. Consequently Delhi became more and more the focus of the mutiny, to which streamed all rebels not already in organised bodies: and its fall was a greater material blow to their cause. This however can hardly be set against the value of an early proof that the British could and would re-establish their power. It requires an extraordinary man to realise that the risk of failure is no greater because the result of failure will be ruinous, and to run the risk with a full determination not to fail. Had Nicholson, or Havelock, or Edwardes, been in command before Delhi, the risk would have been faced. Barnard however was not an extraordinary man: the early opportunity once let slip, nothing could be done but hold on. The rebels, daily gaining in number and possessing unlimited stores of ammunition, made repeated attacks. The British army, though invariably successful in their encounters, and slowly gaining more and more ground, could not in any sense be said to besiege the city: they were not far from being themselves beleaguered. Moreover no help could come except from one quarter. The whole mass of the revolted territory lay between Delhi and Calcutta. The means of conquering Delhi must be furnished, if at all, from the Punjab.

England has never been better served than by the men who at the crisis of the mutiny governed the Punjab and adjoining provinces. The country was full of disaffected regiments, but they were nearly all disarmed without mischief: where material force to compel obedience was lacking, the calm assumption of irresistible authority answered nearly as well. Nowhere did the mutineers obtain the superiority, though a certain number made off towards the rebel ranks at Delhi. After a little observation of the temper of the Sikh population, Sir John Lawrence took the bold step of enlisting them by thousands, to take the place of the Mahommedan and Hindoo mutineers. The Sikhs had found the new government just: they saw its attitude of perfect confidence in its own strength, and they served it as devotedly as they had followed Runjeet Sing. Not only did Lawrence win the Sikhs to remain peaceful themselves, and keep down the elements of disorder on the borders, thus setting free the English regiments; he was able also to contribute thousands of Sikh troops of all arms to the recovery of Delhi. The delay increased his difficulties, for it weakened the belief in English invincibility. Regiments mutinied that had hitherto remained quiet: the wild tribes of the frontier, the non-Sikh parts of the population, were in a ferment. Lawrence however held firmly to his conviction that Delhi was the paramount consideration: he even despatched to Delhi the "movable column" which had been organised in the first days of the mutiny to meet emergencies. This force was commanded by John Nicholson, possibly the greatest of the many heroes of Anglo-Indian story, and he became the soul of the besieging army.

On the arrival of the siege train early in September all felt that the crisis was come. Archdale Wilson, who had succeeded to the command on Barnard's death, was still doubtful of success, but he yielded with a good grace to bolder counsels. From the nature of the case nothing could be done but to batter those portions of the walls which were within reach from the English position, and then assault. After a few days' bombardment breaches had been made in the northern walls, one in the water-bastion close to the north-eastern angle, one near the Cashmere gate, which were deemed sufficient. On September 14 the attack was made in four columns; it was not supposed that the whole of the great city, swarming with desperate men, could be conquered at once, but if a firm footing were once gained within the walls, the rest of the work might be done gradually. One column under Jones was to storm the water-bastion, another under Nicholson, the breach near the Cashmere gate: a third under Campbell was to blow in the Cashmere gate, while Reid with the fourth was to take the suburbs on the western side of the city, and make for the Lahore gate, in the middle of the western face. The two first columns advanced first, and both were successful in making good their footing within the walls. While Nicholson was fighting his way house by house onwards, Jones turning to the right made his way along the walls. It would seem as if in the confusion all parties had lost their bearings, or else Jones should apparently have taken the Cashmere gate in flank, and saved the obvious risk of blowing it in. Ultimately, Jones found himself on the west side of the city, near the Lahore gate, but did not attempt to seize it, his rendezvous with Nicholson being at the Cabul gate further north, to which he retired. This waste of a chance was not of as much importance as it might otherwise have been, for Reid's attack failed for want of guns, with which the enemy were well provided. He himself was struck down, and all his men could do was to hold firmly the extreme end of the previous position. When Nicholson at length was able to force his way to the Cabul gate, and meet Jones, the enemy was in great strength there, and it would perhaps have been better policy to be content with what had been gained on that day. Nicholson however pushed forward towards the Lahore gate, and was mortally wounded while attempting the impossible. Meanwhile the Cashmere gate had been blown in: two engineer officers, with three sergeants and a bugler, were told off for this most difficult of military duties, for it requires not merely courage to face almost certain death, but perfect coolness to deal with the unexpected. Both the officers were badly wounded, two of the sergeants were killed, the third barely escaped being crushed in the explosion, but the powder was fired, and the gate blown to pieces. Campbell had no difficulty in entering the city, but he also failed to penetrate far. The day of the storm closed with no more success than to have taken possession of the northern edge of the city, and this at a cost of 1200 men, besides Nicholson, who was worth all the rest. The first blow however was really decisive: the rest of the city had to be conquered piecemeal, but the heart of the resistance was gone. The old Mogul emperor, who had for three months been the puppet of the mutineers, was taken prisoner. His sons were shot without trial by Hodson, commander of a famous regiment of irregular cavalry, a deed for which Hodson, who acted on his own responsibility, has been very strongly condemned and as warmly defended. Terrible severity was at first employed in punishing the rebels at Delhi, for which there was the excuse that nowhere had helpless women and children been so brutally murdered. There were some who even wished to destroy the city, as an example. Thanks to Sir John Lawrence, however, humane counsels prevailed, and the peaceful inhabitants of Delhi, who had been grievously ill-treated by the mutineers, returned to their homes.

The effect of the fall of Delhi was not as great as it would have been had Barnard stormed the place in June: but it put an end to the strain in the Punjab, and followed as it soon was by the relief of Lucknow, marked the definite turn of the tide. From that time onwards it was visible to all India that the English rule would be restored. The mutineers still fought on, but in fury and despair rather than expecting success. Great as was the danger at the outset, narrow as was the margin between the English in India and total destruction, the mutiny ended in strengthening our hold in the country, besides furnishing the most vivid testimony in all history to the maxim that nothing is impossible, while life remains, to those who have courage and coolness.

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