The early part of the year 1857 saw the outburst of the Indian Mutiny which was to startle the world by its unparalleled horrors and shake to its foundations our rule in India. Never before was a mere handful of white men called upon to face such a fearful ordeal as fell to the lot of the 38,000 soldiers who were sprinkled all over the North-West Provinces, and the record of that splendid struggle for mastery is one that thrills every Englishman’s heart with pride.

There are pages in it that one would willingly blot out, for from the outset some terrible blunders were committed. Inaction, smothered in “the regulations, Section XVII.,” allowed mutiny to rear its head unchecked and gain strength, until the time had almost passed when it could be stamped out. But if there were cowards and worse among the old-school British officers of that day, there were not wanting those who knew how to cope with the peril. We are glad to forget Hewitt and those who erred with him in the memory of Lawrence, Nicholson, Edwardes, Chamberlain, and the many other heroes who came to the front.

In every great crisis such as that which shook India in 1857 the occasion has always found the man. The Sepoy revolt was the means of bringing into prominence hundreds of men unsuspected of either genius or heroism, and of giving them a high niche in the temple of fame. Young subalterns suddenly thrust into positions of command, with the lives of women and children in their hands, displayed extraordinary courage and resource, and the annals of the Victoria Cross bear witness to the magnificent spirit of devotion which animated every breast.

One hundred and eighty-two Crosses were awarded for acts of valour performed in the Mutiny, the list of recipients including officers of the highest, and privates of the humblest, rank; doctors and civilians; men and beardless boys. In the following pages I shall describe some of the deeds which won the decoration and which stand out from the rest as especially notable, beginning with the historic episode of “the Gallant Nine” at Delhi.

The Indian Mutiny was not in its inception the revolution that some historians have averred it to be. It was a military mutiny arising from more or less real grievances of the sepoys, to which the affair of the “greased” cartridges served as the last straw. Moreover, it was confined to one Presidency, that of Bengal, and it is incorrect to say that the conspiracy was widespread and that a large number of native princes and rajahs were at the bottom of it.

As a matter of fact only two dynastic rulers—the execrable Nana Sahib and the Ranee of Jhansi—lent it their support. The majority of the native princes, among them being the powerful Maharajah of Pattiala, sided with the British from the first, and it was their fidelity, with their well-trained troops, which enabled us to keep the flag flying through that awful time.

“There were sepoys on both sides of the entrenchments at Lucknow,” says Dr. Fitchett in his Tale of the Great Mutiny. “Counting camp followers, native servants, etc., there were two black faces to every white face under the British flag which fluttered so proudly over the historic ridge at Delhi. The ‘protected’ Sikh chiefs kept British authority from temporary collapse betwixt the Jumna and the Sutlej. They formed what Sir Richard Temple calls ‘a political breakwater,’ on which the fury of rebellious Hindustan broke in vain.” Had the Mutiny indeed been a national uprising, what chances would the 38,000 white soldiers have had against the millions of natives who comprised India’s population?

It is important to bear all this in mind while following the course of events which marked the progress of revolt. We shall not then get such a distorted picture of the whole as is too frequently presented to us.

The Mutiny was a military one, as I have said. It began prematurely in an outbreak at Barrackpore, on March 29, 1857. Here a drunken fanatical sepoy, named Mungul Pandy, shot two British officers and set light to the “human powder magazine,” which was all too ready to explode. On the 10th of May following came the tragedy of Meerut, where the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry, the 11th and 20th Regiments of Native Infantry rose and massacred every European not in the British lines, and this despite the presence there of a strong troop of horse artillery and a regiment of rifles, 1000 strong!

After the carnage at Meerut the mutinous sowars poured out unchecked along the high road to Delhi, to spread the news of their success and claim in the old, enfeebled pantaloon Mogul king in that city a political head to their revolt. Delhi received them open-armed. There were no British troops there, by special treaty, only a few Englishmen in charge of the great magazine and its stores.

It is quite clear that the 31st of May (a Sunday) was the day fixed for the sepoy regiments in Bengal to rise simultaneously. Unforeseen events had precipitated the catastrophe by a few weeks. In Delhi, which was a nest of treason and intrigue, arrangements had been perfected for the outbreak there, one of the first objects to be attained being the seizure of its arsenal. Hither, then, the mutineers turned at once after their triumphant entry.

The magazine of Delhi was a huge building standing about six hundred yards from the main-guard of the Cashmere Gate. Within its four walls were guns, shells, powder, rifles, and stores of cartridges in vast quantities, from which the mutineers had relied upon arming themselves. And to defend this priceless storehouse there was but a little band of nine Englishmen, for the score or so of sepoys under their command could not be depended on.

The Nine comprised Lieutenant George Willoughby, Captains Forrest and Raynor, Sergeants Stuart and Edwards, and four Conductors, Buckley, Shaw, Scully, and Crowe. Willoughby was in charge, a quiet-mannered, slow-speaking man, but possessed of that moral courage which is perhaps the highest of human attributes. When the shouting horde from Meerut swarmed in and began to massacre every white person they met, he called his assistants inside the courtyard and locked the great gates. At all costs the magazine must be saved from falling into the hands of the mutineers.

There was not a man of the eight but shared his leader’s determination. With set, grim faces they went about their work, preparing for the attack which must come sooner or later. There were ten guns to be placed in position, several gates to be bolted and barred, and, last of all, the mine to be laid beneath the magazine. Help would surely come—come along that very road down which the sowars of the 3rd Bengal Cavalry had galloped with bloodstained swords and tunics. But if it did not, the Nine knew their duty and would not flinch from doing it.

With all possible speed the front entrance and other important vulnerable points were covered with howitzers, loaded with grape-shot. Arms had been served out to all, including the native employees, but the latter only waited the opportunity to escape. In the meantime Conductor Buckley saw to the laying of the mine, connecting it with a long thin line of powder that ran out to the centre of the courtyard under a little lemon tree.

Conductor Scully begged for the honour of firing the train when the fatal moment came, and obtained his desire. A signal (the raising of a cap) was then arranged to be given, at which he was to apply his port-fire to the fuse.

All being at last in readiness, the Nine stood at their several posts waiting for the enemy to make the first move. They had not to wait long. Within half an hour came an urgent messenger from the Palace bearing a written summons to Willoughby to surrender the magazine. The Head of the Nine tore up the paper and gave his answer.

Soon after appeared a body of sepoys, men of the Palace Guard and of the revolted Meerut regiments, with a rabble of city people.

“Open the gates!” they cried. “In the name of the King of Delhi, open the gates!”

Getting the same curt refusal that had greeted the previous summons, some went off for scaling-ladders, and as they heard these being fixed against the outer wall the Nine knew the moment for action had come. The sepoy employees of the Arsenal were in full flight now, but Willoughby let them go. He had no shot to spare for them. So over the walls they scrambled, like rats deserting a sinking ship, to join their compatriots without.

As the last man of them disappeared the rush of the mutineers began. Swarming up the ladders they lined the walls, whence they fired upon the brave group of defenders, while the more intrepid among them leapt boldly down into the yard. The rifles of the Nine rang out sharply; then at the word “Fire!” the big guns poured their charges of grape into the huddled mass of rebels.

By this time a gate had been burst open, and here the 24-pounder was booming its grim defiance. The sepoys hung back in check for some minutes before the rain of shot. Behind them, however, was a rapidly increasing crowd, filling the air with the cry of faith—“Deen! Deen!” and calling on their brothers in the front to kill, and kill quickly. At this, though the ground was littered with dead, the rushes became more daring and the yard began to fill with dusky forms, driving the Englishmen farther back.

The end was very near now. The sepoys were dangerously close to the guns, and Willoughby realised that in a few moments he would have to give the fatal signal. One last quick glance up the white streak of road showed him no sign of approaching aid. They were helpless—doomed!

Willoughby threw a last charge into the gun he himself worked.

“One more round, men,” he said, “and then—we’ve done.”

The big pieces thundered again in the face of the dark crowd by the broken gate, and at the groups along the wall. Then, dropping his fuse, Scully ran swiftly to the lemon tree where the post of honour was his.

It had been arranged that Buckley should give the signal at a word from Willoughby, but the brave conductor was bowled over with a ball in his elbow. It fell to Willoughby himself, therefore, to make the sign. He raised his cap from his head, as if in salute, and the same moment Scully bent down with his port-fire over the powder train.

There was a flash of flame across the yard to the door of the big store building, a brief instant of suspense, and then, with a deafening roar which shook Delhi from end to end, the great magazine blew up.

A dense column of smoke and dÉbris shot high up into the sky, which was lit with crimson glory by the leaping flames. The smoke hung there for hours, like a black pall over the city, a sign for all who could read that the Huzoors, the Masters, had given their first answer of defiance to Mutiny.

In that tremendous explosion close on a thousand mutineers perished, crushed by the falling walls and masonry. Of the devoted Nine five were never seen again, among them being Conductor Scully. The four survivors, Willoughby, Buckley, Forrest, and Raynor, smoke-blackened and unrecognisable, escaped into the country outside the walls, and set off for Meerut, the nearest British cantonment.

Forrest and Buckley, both badly wounded, arrived safely there with Raynor, to tell the story of their deed; but Willoughby, who had separated from them, was less fortunate. His companions learned of their brave leader’s fate some time after, when a native brought news of how some five British officers had been waylaid and cut to pieces near Koomhera. Willoughby formed one of the doomed party.

It was a sad ending to a fine career, and throughout India and England the keenest regret was felt that he had not lived to receive the V.C. with which, in due course, each of his three comrades was decorated.