When they reached the points assigned to them for
the attack they advanced; and then, while the skirmishers
and the artillery engaged the enemy, who were strongly
posted in the inclosures of a village, the main body
lay down. The enemy’s guns were, however,
too strongly posted to be silenced, and the Seventy-eighth
were ordered to take the position by assault.
The Highlanders moved forward in a steady line until
within a hundred yards of the village; then at the
word “Charge!” they went at it with a
wild rush, delighted that at last they were to get
hand to hand with their foe. Not a shot was fired
or a shout uttered as they threw themselves upon the
mutineers; the bayonet did its work silently and thoroughly.
A breach once made in the enemy’s line, position
after position was carried—Highlanders,
Sixty-fourth men, and Sikhs vieing with each other
in the ardor with which they charged the foe, the enemy
everywhere fighting stubbornly, though vainly.
At last, at six in the evening, all opposition ceased,
and the troops marched into the old parade ground
of Cawnpore, having performed a twenty-two miles’
march, and fought for five hours, beneath a sun of
tremendous power.
DANGEROUS SERVICE.
On the morning of the 17th of July the troops rose
with light hearts from the ground where they had thrown
themselves, utterly exhausted, after the tremendous
exertions of the previous day. Cawnpore was before
them, and as they did not anticipate any further resistance—for
the whole of the enemy’s guns had fallen into
their hands, and the Sepoys had fled in the wildest
confusion at the end of the day, after fighting with
obstinacy and determination as long as a shadow of
hope of victory remained—they looked forward
to the joy of releasing from captivity the hapless
women and children who were known to have been confined
in the house called the Subada Khotee, since the massacre
of their husbands and friends on the river.
Just after daybreak there was a dull, deep report,
and a cloud of gray smoke rose over the city.
Nana Sahib had ordered the great magazine to be blown
up, and had fled for his life to Bithoor. Well
might he be hopeless. He had himself commanded
at the battle of the preceding day, and had seen eleven
thousand of his countrymen, strongly posted, defeated
by a thousand Englishmen. What chance, then,
could there be of final success? As for himself,
his life was a thousandfold forfeit; and even yet his
enemies did not know the measure of his atrocities.
It was only when the head of the British column arrived
at the Subada Khotee that the awful truth became known.
The troops halted, surprised that no welcome greeted
them. They entered the courtyard; all was hushed
and quiet, but fragments of dresses, children’s
shoes, and other remembrances of British occupation,
lay scattered about. Awed and silent, the leading
