Not long after following to the grave the remains of my beloved Commanding Officer, I was so unfortunate as to be prostrated by a severe attack of remittent fever, and to be sent on six months' sick leave to the hills.

Before closing these brief memoirs I must fulfil my promise of relating how my dear comrade and former Commanding Officer, Captain Sanford, lost his life.

He had succeeded the gallant Younghusband, who had been killed shortly before at Futtehgarh, in the command of a detachment of the 5th Punjab Cavalry, which formed part of the Mounted Brigade under Sir Hope Grant, and was attached to Sir James Outram's force during the operations in March, 1858 on the left bank of the Goomti. On the 10th of March, while the Cavalry Brigade was returning from a reconnaissance, it was fired on by a small group of rebels. Sir Hope Grant ordered Captain Sanford to attack these men; but before he could overtake them they had reached the shelter of a village which Sanford decided to reconnoitre personally before taking his men into it. He therefore dismounted them and left them outside, while he penetrated into the place without a single companion. He climbed on to the flat roof of a house, and moved forward to a low wall which separated it from the roof of the next house. Over that wall he must have vaulted, when he found himself confronted by the loopholes of a higher building within a few yards of him. From these loopholes a volley flashed, and he fell, struck by a bullet in the forehead. Thus ended a life which till that moment had seemed a charmed one. Always utterly reckless of his own safety, while considerate of others to a fault—a magnificent horseman—a finished master of swordsmanship—he had hitherto triumphantly and gaily carried his life through a hundred perils. His first wound was his last. The day before he fell he had read in the Gazette the announcement of his promotion to a brevet majority for distinguished service before Delhi: and doubtless his heart was full of soldierly pride and of hope of yet more brilliant honour when the fatal bullet suddenly and for ever stilled it.

As he did not return, the worst was feared; and a gallant young officer volunteered to go in search of him. With him went two of Sanford's men. They followed the route which he had taken, but had no sooner got on to the top of the house than another volley laid low both the sowars, killing one and wounding the other. The officer immediately dragged the wounded man off the house, and then returned and brought away the body of his comrade. Once more he started on his heroic errand, accompanied by two fresh volunteers. During the previous brief episode he had noticed that the loopholes in the high building were so cut that the muzzles of the muskets of its occupants could not be depressed at a very acute angle. He now left his two men at the foot of the wall of the house, and himself climbed on to the roof. Throwing himself flat on his stomach, he crawled up to the low partition-wall beyond which lay Captain Sanford's body. As he vaulted over this and again threw himself flat, a volley was fired, but missed him. His surmise proved to have been correct. While he lay prone the muskets of the rebels could not be depressed so as to hit him: so he crept up to the body, and, dragging it with him, reached the low wall. Exerting all his strength, he hoisted it over, and fell with it on the other side, escaping unscathed from the hurried fusillade which pursued him. In a few seconds he was once more in safety with his sacred burden. Then ensued a smart little fight. The village was stormed, and every one of the rebels in it was killed. The young hero whose story I have told was recommended by Sir Hope Grant for the Victoria Cross, which I have no doubt my readers will agree with me in thinking he had well earned, but—it was not awarded to him.

Though I was not an eye-witness of the events above described, and cannot therefore vouch from personal knowledge for the strict accuracy of all the details, the reader may perfectly rely on the main correctness of the relation: for I have repeated it as it was told to me at the time; and, deeply interested as I was in all that pertained to the fate of so dear a friend as was Sanford to me, the story burnt itself into my memory. Moreover, I have lately sought and obtained satisfactory confirmation of it.

About a hundred and fifty yards to the right of the Lucknow-Fyzabad road, and about a hundred yards beyond the bridge where that road crosses the Gokral nullah, stands an obelisk in a small walled enclosure. On a white marble tablet let in to the obelisk is the following inscription:—"Beneath this monument rest the mortal remains of Charles Sanford, late Captain of the 3rd Bengal Light Cavalry, who, when gallantly leading a body of dismounted Punjab Cavalry in an assault on a fortified place near Lucknow, on the 10th March, 1858, met a soldier's death."

"Stranger: Respect the lonely resting-place of the brave!"

A slab on the wall of the enclosure records that it was consecrated by the Right Reverend Ralph, Bishop of Calcutta, on the 17th of January, 1878.

Truely, a lonely resting-place for the ashes of a hero. A solitary tree marks the spot on the bare brown plain, the desolate surface of which is scored by small ravines trending down to the Gokral nullah. Not far off is a village, probably the one where the gallant Sanford fell. A broad cultivated valley, through which the tortuous Goomti river rolls, like a huge snake, its sluggish folds, fills, to the south, the foreground of the landscape. Beyond the fields, through the distant haze, rise, embosomed among groves of trees, the domes and minarets of Lucknow—a beautiful and placid scene—realising the Poet's vision of a "haunt of ancient peace."

Such are now the surroundings of the sacred spot where, nearly thirty-three years ago, was laid to rest, while the air was thick with the smoke of battle, all that could die of the heroic Charles Sanford.