# The Land of the Veda/Chapter 05

pages 221-292
CHAPTER V.
“IN PERILS BY THE HEATHEN, IN PERILS IN THE WILDERNESS.”
ON our arrival at Bareilly in January, 1857, we were most kindly received by the Judge—Mr. Robertson—a member of the Free Church of Scotland. He took us into his home, and entertained us until we could obtain a house and furnish it. He was greatly delighted at our coming, for he believed in Missions, and in the power of the Gospel to reach the hearts of the heathen. For more than thirty years he had been in the civil service, knew the people well, and spoke their language with great fluency. His advice and opinions on our work were freely given and gratefully accepted, and it was evident that we might ever count him among the truest friends of our Mission.
We entered our own home just ten weeks before the Rebellion occurred; settled all things for our work, put up my valued library in its place, and began to study the language, little dreaming that so soon our comfortable arrangements would be consigned to the flames, and we be homeless and hunted for our lives on the adjoining mountains!
Yet, we might have been awakened from our sense of security by many events around us. In particular, one day a native gentleman called at our house and held a conversation, Joel interpreting, in which I was given to understand that my coming among them was regarded by the people of Bareilly with considerable anxiety; that for some time they had been led to believe the English Government had hostile intentions toward their faith, and really intended, by force or fraud, to break their caste and destroy their religion; and the supposition was, that I had been brought there by the Government to be ready, when their caste was broken, to baptize them, and so complete their Christianization!
​My earnest denial of any connection with the Government was received with a look of suspicion, for they confounded every white man (then few and far between in India) with the Government; and when I proceeded to assure him that I was not even an Englishman, the Hindoo looked at me and exclaimed, “Why, Sahib, your face is white, you talk the English language, and are by religion a Christian; what else can you be but an Englishman?” I told him I was an American; but, more confused still, he asked, “A what?” “Why, an American.” He had never heard the word before, nor perhaps one in ten thousand of his race, and he inquired what “an American” meant. He had no idea there was any other nation than England talking the same language and as white as they, and who were also Christians. This was generally true of his countrymen then. But when, five years after, “the cotton famine” raised so wonderfully the value of their staple, and the Hindoo farmer began to receive two, and even three, rupees for the same quantity of cotton for which he obtained only one the year before, men opened their eyes and began to study geography, to find out that there was a nation, and a great one, beyond England, whose faces were white and who spoke the English language, and were Christians too. So that our civil war in this country woke up the dormant intellect of ten thousand homes in the depths of India, and led men to inquire and study, and so far stimulated education, and showed its value, as no foreign event for hundreds of years previously had done.
But in 1857 the cotton famine had not occurred, and my Hindoo visitor was perplexed. Notwithstanding the general confidence they have in the truthfulness of the white faces, I have reason to think that this man left my dwelling under the conviction that I had tried to deceive him; that I was what he supposed, and had denied it to screen myself and my purpose. It is probable that that interview and its impressions exposed my family and myself to their more special vengeance when the day came.
With Joel's aid I commenced the work, hoping to have something done by the time the first party of our brethren should reach
​us from America. On the Sabbath we had two services—at eleven o'clock in the Hindustanee language, conducted by Joel, at which our family and a few natives attended; after this service we had our class-meeting, led by myself, six persons (Mrs. B., Joel and his wife, Ann, and Isaac, and Maria) being present, Joel translating for me what had to be said in Hindustanee. In the afternoon I held a little English service, at which a few of the officers and civilians attended. On Tuesday evening, also, we had an Hindustanee service, and an English one on Thursday. Thus our work opened, but it was truly “the day of small things.”
The year in which I arrived in India saw the introduction of new arrangements for arming the Sepoy army. Instead of the old “Brown Bess,” or regulation musket, with which they had hitherto fought the battles of the British, the rulers of India concluded to arm their Sepoys with the new Enfield rifle. For this weapon a peculiar cartridge had to be prepared, samples of which had been sent out from England to be manufactured at the arsenal of Dum Dum, eight miles from Calcutta. The rifles were distributed to the forces, and the wily Fakirs, ever on the look-out for something new to foment disaffection and distrust, at once declared that these, too, were a part of the insidious plan to injure their faith. The Sepoys received them with suspicion. Lock, stock, and barrel were taken asunder and carefully scrutinized, but nothing dangerous to their faith could be discovered. Yet the Fakirs had assured them there was danger, and that settled the matter.
Then came the intense excitement about the “greased cartridges” for these guns, the purpose being, I suppose, to lubricate the bore of the rifle. It was given out that this grease was “a compound of hogs' lard and bullocks' fat.” Only those who have lived among these people, and realized what a horror the Mohammedan has of the hog, and what a reverence the Hindoo has for the cow, can appreciate the storm of excitement and frenzy this simple announcement caused through the whole Bengal army. The Fakirs exultantly pointed to the alleged fact as corroborating all they had asserted of the designs of the English against their religions.
​It has never been definitely settled whether the charge as to the composition of the unguent was correct or not. The Government did what it could to allay the excitement and fears of the Sepoys, even to the withdrawal of the obnoxious cartridges, offering the men the right to make them up themselves with such grease as was not offensive to them. But it was all too late; midnight meetings now began to be held and plans of resistance discussed, and immediate and open mutiny was proposed.
General Hearsey at Barrackpore, by a well-timed and judicious address to the Sepoys of his command, in which he showed them the folly of supposing the Government inclined to attempt their forcible conversion, and the Governor General by proclamation to the whole army, tried to arrest the fearful tendency of affairs, and tranquilize the troops; but the effect was temporary. The lull was only the prelude to the storm. The General's manly and straight-forward address to the men, with whom he had served nearly forty years, ought, if any thing could have done so then, to have satisfied and appeased them. He told them, among other things, that “the English are Christians of the Book, (that is, Protestants,) and Christians of the Book admit no proselytes, and baptize none, except those who fully understand and believe in the tenets therein inculcated.”
But rebellion was a foregone conclusion with these infatuated men; so they dissembled and professed to be “koosh” (pleased) with his address, yet they only awaited their hour. Twenty days after this, on that same parade ground, a Brahmin Sepoy named Mungul Pandy turned out armed, and in the presence of his regiment, not a man of whom interfered to save their officers or to arrest the Sepoy, shed the first blood of the Rebellion by firing on and wounding Adjutant Baugh and Sergeant-Major Hewson. The firing drew General Hearsey and his son to the spot. Mungul took aim at the General, who drew his sword, and with the words, “John, if I fall, rush upon him and put him to death,” spurred his horse forward. The man was overpowered, and after attempting suicide was tried and executed, and died refusing to make any statement to
​implicate his comrades, who were known to sympathize with him.
We heard all this, and as the toils closed around us, began fully to realize how helpless we were, and how entirely in the power of those people and their instruments. In addition to the officials connected with the public offices already mentioned, there were any number of Moulvies and Moonshees, connected with the mosques and with tuition, available for their purposes. These men could control the consciences of the Moslem servants in our families—the servants, of course, had eyes and ears—so that, while we lived in entire ignorance of what they said, or did, or purposed, our whole life lay open to our enemies, and our domestic conversations could be reported to them daily. The influence of the Nana Sahib, and other Hindoo authorities, could equally operate through their Pundits and Priests, and we were helpless between the two, as the full glare of observation and suspicion fell upon us, while those who watched every movement, and waited for our lives, could stand back in the shade and work in darkness.
One of the methods employed was the fabrication and diffusion of false news and prophecies. All that they required was temporary effect to rouse the fanaticism of the fighting class to a white heat of fury, until they committed themselves. As the Sepoys were utterly ignorant, and their minds entirely under the influence of their Fakirs, whom they believed implicitly, nothing promulgated by them was too monstrous for belief. For instance, it was asserted that “the English had imported several cargoes of flour mixed with bones, which had been ground fine, and one morsel of which would destroy the caste of any man;” that “this flour had been covertly introduced, and was then on sale in all the leading bazaars, but so well disguised that even those who bought and sold it could not discover the difference!” All this was believed. It was no use denying it, or asking them to trace it, or name the ship that brought it, or who had landed it; it was enough that the Fakirs had said it; it was certainly so. Thus Brahmin and Sepoy bought their food with suspicion, and eat it with fear. Another
​report was, that there was a plan for transporting to India the numerous widows of the Englishmen slain in the Crimea. The principal zemindars (landholders) of the country were to be compelled to marry them, and their children, who would not of course be Hindoos, were to be declared the heirs of the estates; and thus the territorial rights of the people of India, as well as their religion, were to be annihilated! With much more of the same sort.
Prophecies were invented, and arrangements made to fulfill them. The leading one was, that “the power which rose on the battle-field of Plassey should fall on the centennial anniversary of that great day.” Another form of it, that better suited the Mohammedan mind, was, that “on the hundredth anniversary of Plassey the power that rose should fall, and the power that fell should rise.” The meaning of all this is clear enough.
Allegorical expressions in letters and remarks were much used, such as “Pearls (that is, white-faces) are quoted as low in the market; Red Wheat (that is, colored-faces) is looking up.” Then in February came that singular movement, the circulation of the “Chupatties,” (small unleavened cakes,) the full significance of which has never been explained. Each recipient of two cakes was to make ten others, and transmit them in couples to the Chokeydars (constables) of the nearest village, and they to others, so that in a few days the little cakes were distributed all over the country, causing amazing excitement. It was known that sugar had been used as a signal for the Vellore mutiny, (July, 1806.) And the idea of thus conveying a warning to be in readiness for a preconcerted rising, had precedent enough in the “Feast of the Moon Loaves,” still held in commemoration of a similar device, in the conspiracy by which the Mogul dynasty was overthrown five hundred years ago in China, as the reader will find narrated in Gabel and Huq's “Travels in Tartary,” chapter iii. No other explanation has ever been given of this singular transaction.
Every supernatural means to which they looked for aid and direction were invoked and propitiated to lend their help in the coming struggle. Hunooman's assistance was confidently expected
​to render them invincible when they should cross bayonets with the dreaded white-faces. So they sharpened their weapons, lawful and unlawful, and awaited the day.
Meanwhile the more intelligent and elevated of the conspirators cautiously sounded the native princes of the semi-independent States, to enable them to understand what part they would probably take in the great effort. Suitable motives were carefully held out to them, and also to the nobles and military classes, founded upon freedom from annexation, restoration of ancient dynasties, the bitter payment of old grievances, with patronage and rank when the Mogul should have “his own again,” and be once more paramount in India. The Sepoys were promised promotion, higher pay, and better times generally; the Priests were assured of a deliverance forever from the growing power of Christianity, or even its presence, with a swift reversal of those enactments which had so seriously curtailed their dignity and perquisites, in usages and rites which humanity had swept away. The loose and vagabond classes (called “Budmashes”) were linked in with the enterprise by promises of license and plunder; and it was not a secret that they disputed together in advance as to the particular shares to which they should become entitled. Even the criminals in the jails were to become personally interested in the results. In Bareilly, where we lived, was the great central jail, containing nearly three thousand, the convicts of the province of Rohilcund, with its eight millions of people. These wretches, confined there for all crimes, from murder downward, understood that their time would come to be avenged upon the Government and the race that were punishing them. None can say now how we gained the information, only that “a bird of the air” would carry such a matter; but weeks in advance of our flight from Bareilly, the English ladies had heard that those wretched criminals, in their chains and cells, understood that they were to be let loose upon the day of the mutiny, receiving their liberty on condition of consummating the atrocities which the high caste of the Sepoys prohibited them from perpetrating. And, accordingly, let loose they were on that dreadful
​31st of May; but, thank Heaven! we had been led by a merciful Providence to anticipate the infernal intention, and removed to a place of safety nearly all of those whom they intended to victimize. Alas! for the few women and children who, tardy in their flight, did fall into their fiendish hands on that ever memorable afternoon.
Incendiary fires in the officers' quarters, which Sepoys refused to aid in extinguishing, now became matters of nightly occurrence in different stations. Partial mutinies took place at Fort William, Berhampore, and Lucknow, until, on the 10th of May the three regiments stationed at Meerut (near our position at Bareilly) rose and set fire to the houses, shot some of their officers, and then ruthlessly murdered all the Europeans on whom they could lay their cruel hands, men, women, and children, over forty in number. All this was done in a station where there were European troops within one mile of this scene of blood, and yet the miserable old General who commanded was so stupefied that he would not permit his men either to attack or pursue them! So the Sepoys hurried up their work undisturbed, and marched off to Delhi. They reached that city the next day. Here the other Sepoy troops, five thousand in number, joined them, and, taking their artillery, they proceeded to the palace of the Emperor, where they hauled down the old flag of England, ran up the green standard of the Moslem, and fired a royal salute in honor of the resumption of Mohammedan sovereignty in India. They then began one of the most ruthless and fiendish massacres of the Europeans which even Delhi (the city of cruelty) had ever witnessed. The Shazadahs were foremost in this devilish work, which was done chiefly in public, before thousands of raging foes, at the Kotwallee (Police Station) of the city. All the Europeans within the palace were slaughtered, with the concurrence, if not by the orders, of the Emperor, including the English Embassador, the Chaplain, Mr Jennings and his daughter, and Miss Clifford—the latter said to be one of the most beautiful English ladies then in the East.
Amid the record of these horrors, it makes one feel proud of his Anglo-Saxon blood to think of some of the daring deeds which
​were done against such fearful odds, and in the face of almost certain death. One of the most notable of these was Lieutenant Willoughby's defense of the Delhi magazine on that dreadful day. I know the place, and enjoy the honor of a personal acquaintance with some of the brave men whom he commanded then. I have also had the privilege, in company with one of the survivors, to wander over the ruins into which he blew the whole structure when he found he could not save it for his country.
There were no European troops in Delhi to oppose the entrance of the red-handed Sepoys that day; none, except the nine men in charge of the magazine, and which it was of the first moment to Sepoy success that they should seize. In the Lieutenant's judgment it was of equal importance to his nation that they should never have it, and his resolution was promptly taken, that, if it cost his life and the lives of those under his orders, it never should be surrendered. The names of the eight heroes whom he commanded were Lieutenants Forrest and Raynor; Conductors Buckley, Shaw, Scully, and Crow; Sergeants Edwards and Stewart. He first put his guns and howitzers in position for the defense of the place, and then, so as to be prepared for the worst, laid his trains to connect all parts of the magazine. A handful of native assistants happened then to be with them in the magazine, whom they could not open the gates to turn out, for they soon discovered that they were playing them false; so they had to watch them also. The firing and yells resounded all over the city, coming nearer and nearer to them. But there these men stood, with one hope in their hearts, that the European troops whom they knew to be at Meerut would follow up the mutineers, and that they might be able to hold out till they arrived, and so save the magazine and Delhi too. Vain hope—they came not. Soon the Palace Guards were thundering at the gates, and, in the name of the Emperor, demanded the surrender of the magazine. No reply was given. The mutineers then brought scaling ladders from the Palace, and the Sepoys swarmed up upon the high walls all around them.
One of the bastions commanded a view of the country toward
​Meerut—a long reach of the road could be seen from it. There Willoughby took his position. Conductor Scully had volunteered to fire the train, should the last emergency come. There he stood, with his lighted port-fire in his hand, watching every movement of his chief. Seeing all was lost, and chafing with impatience, in presence of the raging foes around upon the walls, he would now and then cry out, “Shall I fire her, sir?” But the Lieutenant, who still hoped for the sight of help from Meerut, would reply, “Not yet, Scully—not yet.” The despairing but brave man would again look along the road and sigh, while Scully watched for the signal.
Lieutenant Forrest, with the other six men, worked the guns. The gallant little band never once thought of betraying their trust by capitulation. The escalade from without was the signal for a similar movement from the traitorous natives within. In the confusion they managed to hide the priming pouches; they then deserted the Europeans, climbing up the sloped sheds on the inside of the magazine, and descending by the ladders without. The insurgents had by this time swelled into multitudes upon the walls, pouring a deadly musketry discharge upon them at less than fifty yards, but the brave besieged kept up an incessant fire of grape, which told well. At length Conductor Buckley—who had been loading and firing with the same steadiness as if on parade—received a ball in his arm; and Lieutenant Forrest was at the same time struck by two balls. Further defense was hopeless. No help from Meerut. Lieutenant Willoughby saw that the supreme moment had arrived. He lifted his hat, which was the signal, and Conductor Scully instantly fired the trains, and with an explosion that shook all Delhi, up went the magazine into the air, and its vast resources were annihilated. From five hundred to one thousand Sepoys on the walls were killed, and every thing around destroyed. Willoughby, Forrest, and Buckley, though wounded, actually escaped death, and managed to crawl from beneath the smoking ruins under cover of night, and retreated through the sally-port on the river-face, and Forrest and Buckley lived to tell the story of their
​great deed. Lieutenant Willoughby himself was killed in a village close to Delhi. No trace of Scully or the rest was ever found.
This was a great service for the English cause, but could not turn the tide for them. Unfortunately, there was an arsenal and an immense park of artillery in another part of the city, both which fell into the hands of the mutineers; while the sixty thousand Sepoys who soon found their way to Delhi brought with them from other cities abundant munitions for its defense.
After the destruction of the magazine, the murder of the officers and missionaries and other Europeans, the violation of their wives and daughters, and the spoliation and burning of their homes, was proceeded with. Then followed the demolition of the courts of law, the church, the college, and the printing-office, and deeds were done that day which devils themselves might blush to own. It was an unutterable woe; yet it was not without its great compensation.
There is a permissive providence of our God which sometimes allows a limited calamity to fall upon individuals and communities in order to preserve them from a sorrow that would be overwhelming and unmitigated: in the sense of Caiaphas's words, “It is expedient that one man die for the people,” etc. But in such cases, and indeed in general, it requires that we patiently wait until time gives the Almighty the requisite opportunity to be his own interpreter. We could not then understand God. In the midst of these agonies it seemed as if he had “forgotten to be gracious, and in anger had shut up his tender mercies.” But what light the succeeding events, and the history of the last dozen years, have shed upon his overruling providence and his wise designs!
Two facts of this class belong just here: one general, and one particular to ourselves. But for the anticipation on the part of the Meerut mutineers of the contemplated universal rising, it seems to me that not a Christian life could have been preserved in all India. Had they patiently waited till the 31st of May, and all had risen, as was intended, so that on the same day and hour, in every place, they had commenced their work of blood, not a lady nor a babe
​could have been saved. All must have been overwhelmed in one common ruin, and none left to tell the tale.
But those demented Sepoys of Meerut struck twenty-one days too soon, thus throwing the whole country into such an excitement and effort to meet the hour, which was then manifestly inevitable, that every expedient that men could adopt, to remove the ladies, children, and non-combatants to some, to any, place of safety, and the best possible measures for their defense and preservation, were taken. So that to that three weeks of opportunity each lady owes her life, and the world was saved the agony of a tale of horror that would have been even a hundred fold greater than the terrible tragedy which horrified them in 1857-8.
The other fact was personal to ourselves, yet having a kindred significance in its results. Our commanding General in Bareilly was a gentleman of the name of Sibbald. Like many other old officers, he had an infatuated confidence in his Sepoy troops. If he had been at home when the news of the Meerut massacre reached us, the probability is that not a soul of us would have escaped. But, just before the event took place, he was led to proceed upon a tour of military inspection of the province under his authority, and was most providentially away in the mountain district when the news arrived.
He left in command our brave friend. Colonel Troup—a man who knew the Sepoys well, and who did not trust them. Acting on his own judgment and discretion, though he knew the old General would probably disapprove his action, he took that course, in the hour and opportunity afforded him by his temporary command, which proved the salvation of all those under his care who obeyed his orders.
In our flight to Nynee Tal, myself and family brought up the rear. I met General Sibbald half-way down, at Bahari Dak Bungalow, and he was wild with excitement, declaring that Colonel Troup's head was turned to do such a thing as to send away the ladies and children out of Bareilly, and he swore that if he had been at home not one of them should have left. He knew, he
​said, that his Sepoys were staunch and true, and could be depended upon to defend them! I looked after the old man as he hurried away from me, with the sad presentiment that he was mistaken. He “blew up” Troup, and was so firm in his reliance on the Sepoys that, had it not been for the influence of his officers, he would, in order to show his confidence in his troops, have yielded to their request to order back the ladies to Bareilly. On such a thread as this our fate hung. Yet this very man, to whom his Sepoys swore such fidelity and made such promises, was the first person whom they shot on that Sabbath morning, May 31st. In his dying hour, if he thought of them, he must have felt that the safety of his own wife and daughters was due to the precaution of the officer he had blamed! But we are anticipating what follows.
Forty-eight hours after the Meerut massacre (and three days before the account of that of Delhi reached us) a mounted horseman entered Bareilly, with a letter from the English Governor of the North-west, Mr. Colvin, to the commanding officer, narrating the terrible deeds done at Meerut, and suggesting that every precaution should be taken to provide for the safety of the ladies and children. Colonel Troup, being in command, received the letter and acted as we have stated. The telegraphs had been cut all over the country, and the mails on the Delhi side stopped; so that had it not been for the precaution of Mr. Colvin in sending a message direct, we should have been in ignorance of what had been done, and of our own fearful danger. Many such facts might be given to show the merciful Providence which watched over us to save us. But these may suffice here.
I now turn to our personal narrative, and, in presenting it, have carefully looked over the letters addressed to the Corresponding Secretary of our Missionary Society, in various dates from May 26 to July 10, 1857, when I gave the facts as they occurred; and in the light of the explanations which subsequent years have developed, I find only a few words that I need at all to qualify; so that the facts and impressions are given in the form in which they came from an anxious heart, which, in the midst of danger and in the
​face of death, tried to trust in God for all events, and yet looked for a happy issue out of these afflictions, and for the life and extension of the mission which we had begun.
On Thursday, May 14, the commanding officer kindly sent his Adjutant over to our house with a serious message. Not knowing what he specially wanted, we engaged for nearly an hour in religious conversation. But I thought from his manner that he looked anxious. With gentlemanly delicacy he was unwilling to mention his message before Mrs. Butler, lest it might injuriously affect her, as she was in circumstances where any shock was undesirable. He, accordingly, asked to see me alone, and then communicated the intelligence of the mutiny at Meerut, stating that word had arrived from the Governor that the insurrection was spreading to Delhi and other places, and that fears were entertained as to the intention of the Sepoys at Bareilly. Under those circumstances, the commanding officer felt it his duty to request that all ladies and children should be sent off quietly, but at once, to the hills, and also that he considered it prudent, from the reports in circulation concerning us and our objects, that I also should accompany Mrs. B. and the children, as he considered me in rather special danger in the event of a mutiny. I promised the Adjutant that I would prayerfully consider the message, and let my conclusion be known to the commanding officer that evening. As soon as the Adjutant had gone, I communicated the message to Mrs. Butler. She received it with calmness, and we retired to our room to pray together for divine direction. After I had concluded my prayer, she began, and I may be excused in saying that such a prayer I think I never heard; a martyr might worthily have uttered it, it was so full of trust in God and calm submission to his will. But when she came to plead for the preservation of “these innocent little ones,” she broke down completely. We both felt we could die, if such were the will of God; but it seemed too hard for poor human nature to leave these little ones in such dreadful hands, or perhaps to see them butchered before our eyes! We knew that all this had been done on Sunday last in Meerut, and we had no reason to expect
​more mercy from those in whose power we were, should they rise and mutiny. But we tried hard to place them and ourselves, and the mission of our beloved Church, in the hands of God; and he did calm our minds, and enable us to confide in him. On rising from our knees I asked her what she thought we ought to do? Her reply was that she could not see our way clear to leave our post; she thought our going would concede too much to Satan and to these wretched men; that it would rather increase the panic, that it might be difficult to collect again our little congregation if we suspended our services, and, in fact, that we ought to remain and trust in God. I immediately concurred, and wrote word to the commanding officer. He was not pleased at all with our decision. The evening wore on, and we held our usual weekly English service. I tried to preach from Deut, xxxiii, 25, “As thy days, so shall thy strength be,” and administered the holy Sacrament. The commanding officer was present. I felt much for him. His responsibility was great, for on his discretion and judgment our entire safety, under God, depended. We passed a restless night, startled at every sound, feeling that we slept over a volcano that might burst forth at any moment, and scatter death and destruction on every side.
Before going to bed we arranged our clothes for a hasty flight, should an alarm be given. But we beheld the morning light in safety, and the mail brought me the Christian Advocate of March 19, and one of the first things I saw was the little paragraph which was headed with the words “Pray for your lonely William Butler!” How much I needed to be prayed for! Before that simple sentence my heart gave way, and I could not resist the tears that came. The past and the present were such contrasts! But God graciously soothed my feelings, till I wondered why I had ever doubted for a moment, or failed to see that God, who had brought us hitherto, would not now forsake us, or allow our mission to be broken up. I felt assured that thousands in this happy land did pray for their “lonely William Butler.” Three times between that and Saturday evening did my kind friend send to warn me to
​leave, as did also other friends among the military. By that time nearly all the ladies and children had left. The place looked very desolate, and I began to question whether I was right in resisting advice any longer. My Moonshee told me candidly he thought I “ought to go.” Being a Mohammedan, and having a pecuniary loss in the suspension of my lessons in the language, his warning had much weight with me. I had then to settle the question, raised by the commanding officer, whether our resistance to going, under those circumstances, was not more a tempting of, rather than a trusting in, Providence? I hated to leave my post, even for a limited time. Yet to remain looked, as he argued, should an insurrection occur, and I become a victim, like throwing away my life without being able to do any good by it; and the Missionary Board would probably have blamed me for not taking advice, and acting on the prudence which “foreseeth the evil,” and takes refuge “till the indignation is overpast.” Still, had I been alone, or could I have induced Mrs. B. to take the children and go without me, (a proposition she met by declaring she would never consent to it, but would cling to her husband and cheerfully share his fate, whatever it might be,) I would have remained. But when to all the preceding reasons, the reflection was added that Mrs. B.'s situation required that, if moved at all, it must be then, as a little later flight would be impossible, and she and the children and myself must remain and take whatever doom the mutineers chose to give us, I consulted Joel, and asked his advice as to what had better be done. He thought it safest that we should go, say for three or four weeks, to Nynee Tal, and, if all remained quiet, we could then return. Meanwhile he promised to sustain our humble service, and keep every thing in order. How little he or I then imagined that he himself, or any native Christian, would be in peril, or that before we again stood together on that spot, events would transpire around him that would fill the civilized world with horror!
I, therefore, arranged to suspend my English service, (indeed most of those who attended were already gone,) hoping soon to
​return and resume it. Saturday night we lay down to rest, not to sleep. The mounted patrols that went round every fifteen minutes would call out to the watchman attached to each house in such boisterous tones that sleep was impossible; and it almost became distracting, from the manner in which it made the poor children startle and cry until daylight broke. It was a solemn Sabbath. We had but ten persons at the native service, and less at the English one; people seemed afraid to come out. A rumor got afloat that Sunday was to be our last day; that the Sepoys intended to murder the Europeans on that Sabbath.
Our class-meeting was a solemn, but profitable, time. We used it as if it were our last. Had it been, I think each of that little band (seven in number) would have been found of God in peace. We lay down again to seek rest, but it was short and disturbed repose. Monday morning came; I tried to find palankeens for our journey, but all were away; so I obtained some bamboos and rope, and took three charpoys, (an article like what our Lord referred to when he bid the man “take up his bed and walk,”) turned the feet uppermost, put on the bamboos, and threw a quilt on each, and we were equipped. I left three native Christians in the house with Joel, besides two watchmen for night. That evening, at six o'clock, the news arrived that the Sepoys had risen in Delhi, murdered the Europeans, and proclaimed the Emperor. The details were frightful. Just then Judge Robertson appeared upon the scene, and inquired if I too was yielding to the panic? I told him all. He was incredulous. I asked him why he thought so confidently that there would be no rising? He told me he was so advised by Khan Bahadur, the native judge, who assured him there was no cause for alarm, and guaranteed him personal protection under the hospitality of his own roof. Judge R. expostulated with me for leaving, and had not my arrangements been made for going, the influence of his words might have prevailed to lead me to put it off, and we should have shared his sad fate. We were ready when our bearers came at nine o'clock, and I went into my study once more. I looked at my books, etc., and the thought flashed across my mind
​that perhaps, after all my pains in collecting them, I should never see them again! I took up my Hindustanee Grammar, two volumes of manuscript Theological Lectures, a couple of works on India, my Passport, my Commission, and Letter of Instructions, with my Bible, Hymn Book, and a copy of the Discipline, and sorrowfully turned away, leaving the remainder to their fate. The children, poor little fellows, were lifted out of their beds and placed in the dooley.
Quietly, and under cover of the night, we started, leaving the keys of our house and all things in Joel's charge. Shaking hands with him and the others, we moved off by the light of the Mussalchee's torch, crossed the Bazaar, but no one molested us; they simply asked the men, “Whom have you?” The reply was, “The Padre Sahib,” (the missionary,) and we passed through the crowd unmolested. We moved on in the silent darkness, having seventy-four miles to go. About midnight I happened to be awake, and saw we were passing a gig with two ladies in it, and a native leading the horse. It seemed hazardous to stop, but I became so uneasy that I did, and walked back. The ladies knew my voice. There I found them, on that wretched road, twenty miles from Bareilly, in the middle of the night; the ladies, scantily dressed, and crowded, with an Ayah, (a native nurse,) into a small gig, one of them holding up (for there was no room for it to lie down) a poor little sick child. In that posture they had been for nearly eight hours. They were just sitting down to dinner when the news of the massacre of Delhi arrived, and such was the panic produced that the gig was instantly brought to the door, and they put into it and sent off. They must go alone, for their husbands were military officers and must remain. I have witnessed desolate scenes, but never saw any thing so desolate looking as those two ladies and that child on that road that night. I took the lady with the child out of the gig and put them into my dooley, and it did my heart good to see them lying down. I then sent them on and took charge of the other lady and the gig. We overtook them, and about five ladies more, next morning, at the travelers' bungalow at Behari. There they remained, as directed, until dooleys overtook
​them next evening. Here I met General Sibbald, as already stated, hurrying down in a fury; too late, thank God! to carry out his purpose to prevent the departure. We rested till the heat of the day subsided, and then I started with my family again. We reached the first Chowkee safely, changed bearers, and then entered the Terai—a belt of deep jungle, about twenty miles wide, around the Himalayas, reeking with malaria, and the haunt of tigers and elephants. The rank vegetation stood in places like high walls on either side. At midnight we reached that part of it where the bearers are changed. The other palankeens had their full complement of men; but, of the twenty-nine bearers for whom I paid, I could only find nine men and one torch-bearer; and this, too, in such a place! Darkness and tigers were around us; the other palankeens were starting one after another, each with its torch to frighten away the beasts, the bearers taking advantage of the rush to extort heavy “bucksheesh.” All but two had gone off, and there we were with three dooleys and only men enough for one, and no village where we could obtain them nearer than twelve miles. What to do I knew not. I shall never forget that hour. At length I saw there was but one thing to be done; I took the two children and put them into the dooley with Mrs. Butler; a bullock-hackrey, laden with furniture, was about a quarter of a mile ahead, with its light fading in the distance; desperation made me energetic; at the risk of being pounced upon, I ran after the hackrey, and by main force drove round the four bullocks and led them back, sorely against the will of the five men in charge of it. But I insisted that they must take Ann (our servant) and me, with what little baggage we had with us. I put her and the luggage up, the driver grumbling all the while about his heavy load and the delay. I then turned around to see Mrs. Butler off, but her bearers did not stir. I feared they were about to spoil all. They were exhausted by extra work, and might have even fairly refused to carry two children with a lady; and to have taken either of them on the hackrey was impossible. I dreaded the bearers would not go. Delay seemed ruinous to the only plan by which I could get them on at all. If
​the men refused the burden and left, they would take with them, for their own protection, the only torch there was, which belonged to them, and we should have been left in darkness, exposed to the tigers and the deadly malaria. Mrs. C. and Miss Y.'s bearers had laid them down, and were clamoring for larger “bucksheesh.” My ten men looked on. The hackrey-driver turned his bullocks around, and, out of all patience, was actually putting his team in motion. But, in spite of urging, there stood my men. It was an awful moment. For a few minutes my agony was unutterable; I thought I had done all I could, and now every thing was on the brink of failure. I saw how “vain” was “the help of man,” and I turned aside into the dark jungle, took off my hat, and lifted my heart to God. If ever I prayed, I prayed then. I besought God in mercy to influence the hearts of these men, and decide for me in that solemn hour. I reminded him of the mercies that had hitherto followed us, and implored his interference in this emergency. My prayer did not last two minutes, but how much I prayed in that time! I put on my hat, returned to the light, and looked. I spoke not; I saw my men at once bend to the dooley; it rose, and off they went instantly, and they never stopped a moment, except kindly to push little Eddie in, when in his sleep he rolled so that his feet hung out.
Having seen them off, I turned around, and there were our two dooleys. I could do nothing with them, so left them for the tigers to amuse themselves with, if they chose, as soon as the light was withdrawn. I ran after the hackrey and climbed up on the top of the load, and gave way to my own reflections. I had known what it was to be “in perils by the heathen,” and now I had had an idea of what it was to be “in perils in the wilderness.” But the feeling of divine mercy and care rose above all. The road was straight, and what a joy it was to see the dooley-light grow dim in the distance, as the bearers hurried forward with their precious burden.
We moved on slowly after them, owing to the rugged road, the swaying furniture, and the wretched vehicle; but we were too grateful for having escaped passing the night in the miasma and
​danger of the jungle to complain, though every movement swung us about till our bones ached.
We were ten hours going those fifteen miles. At last day broke, and our torch-bearer was dismissed. “Hungry and thirsty, our souls fainted in us” indeed. But at last we reached Katgodan, and found the mother and babes all safe. They had slept soundly the whole distance, and at daybreak were laid safely down at the door of the travelers' bungalow. It was twenty-two hours of traveling and exposure since we had tasted food, and when it was served up it was indeed welcome.
Mrs. C. and Miss Y. did not arrive for some hours after my wife, having lost the difference of time on the road in contentions with their bearers, and extra bribing to induce them to go on. On my arrival, one of the first remarks I met was from Miss Y.: “Why, what could have happened to Mrs. Butler's bearers, that they started so cheerfully and arrived here so soon, without giving her the least trouble!” Ah! she knew not, but I knew, there is a God who heareth and answereth prayer! O for a heart to trust him as I ought! The divine interposition in the case will appear all the more manifest when I add that even the “bucksheesh” for which the bearers were at first contending, (and which I was only too willing to pay them,) they started off without staying to ask for or receive; nor did they even require it from Mrs. B., when they safely laid her down at the end of their run. I shall never forget the experience and the mercy of that night in the Terai!
We stopped all night at the bungalow, which was crowded, and the heat was beyond any thing I ever felt before. Major T. had kindly sent down jampans (a kind of arm-chair with a pole on each side, carried by four men) to bring us up the mountain. We began the ascent at three o'clock next morning, having eleven miles to go to reach Nynee Tal. As soon as day broke the view was sublime—something of the Swiss scenery in its appearance, but more majestic. The road (a narrow path) wound round and up one mountain after another, by the brink of precipices and landslips. As we rose the cold increased, till we came to a region
​where trees and shrubs of European growth were flourishing, bilberries and raspberries made their appearance, and the cuckoo was heard. The last two miles was up the face of a mountain as nearly perpendicular as was possible and yet permit a very zigzag path to be cut on it. At length, after seven hours' toiling, we gained the summit, 7,000 feet above the plains below. What a prospect! In the bosom of those cool mountains lay the sanitarium of Nynee Tal, with its beautiful lake, while behind it rose up the “snowy range,” 21,000 feet higher still.
Those who may visit the place for health or pleasure in the days to come can have little idea with what feelings the panting fugitives of 1857 caught this first glimpse of it on that morning.
Nynee Tal occupies a high upland valley or gorge in the Gaghur range, south and east of the point where that range attains its highest elevation at Cheenur Peak, 8,732 feet above the sea. This peak sends off a spur to the south and south-east, called Deoputta and Ayar Pata, and the hollow between the spur and the main range of the Gaghur—here called Shere ke Danda and Luria—is occupied by the flat portion of the station, by the bazaar, and by the lake which gives its name to the place, and which forms the principal feeder of the Bulleah River.
Nynee Tal, as you enter it.
​ The valley is half land and half water, the lower end being occupied by the lake, and it is only open to the south-east, where the outlet for the water is situated. The length of the whole hollow is a mile and a half, and its average breadth is under half a mile. The length of the lake is a few yards less than one mile. The water is at all times beautifully clear and transparent, and in calm weather reflects the surrounding scenery like a mirror.
The place is approached by two narrow paths from the foot of the hills on the Moradabad and Bareilly sides. The ascent is in places very steep and on the verge of fearful precipices. It had been used for a few years past as a sanitarium by the English residents, and was chosen now for us because the military men believed that it could be easily defended.
All looked so peaceful and felt so delightfully cool! After some
​searching, I was fortunate enough to find a Httle furnished house of four rooms still unengaged, which I gladly hired for $225 for “the season.” A bachelor Captain was in it as a day tenant, but he most kindly turned out and let us in at once, and within five hours of our arrival we laid our weary little ones to rest in our new and strange home, not knowing for how long a time we should be able to occupy it. Yet we were even then deeply impressed with the value of such a place for a sanitarium for our mission in the better days of the future, when the brethren and sisters, whose health would require the change, would feel thankful to have within their reach such a refuge from the heat. But under what different feelings and circumstances is it now visited by them from those with which their fugitive superintendent first entered it!
Immediately on reaching Nynee Tal I wrote a few words to Dr. Durbin, and as they express the feelings of the hour, and an unshaken faith in God in the future of our mission, they may be quoted here: “I had hoped by this mail (which closes here to-day) to have sent you a full account of our situation; but this is impracticable until the next mail. We have only just arrived here, and are all in confusion. I can therefore, only write a few lines. The commanding officer required all non-combatants to leave Bareilly and take refuge here until the Government has put down this insurrection. We delayed till the last moment, but had to leave. Our experiences on the way up were, in many respects, trying enough, but God preserved us in safety, so we
“ ‘—praise him for all that is past,
And trust him for all that's to come.’
“What awaits us we know not; but should any thing happen to us, tell our beloved Church that we had prepared ourselves through grace for all results, and that our last thoughts were given to our mission in the confident hope that the Methodist Episcopal Church would do her part faithfully in redeeming India. Beyond this we had no anxiety except for our poor children. Doctor, you will think of them if I fall! We need now, O how much! the prayers of God's people.”
​This note worked its way through all the dangers to which the mails, then rapidly breaking up, were exposed, and managed to reach the seaside, and so on to its destination; a better fate than many of its successors had.
For more than ten days all moved on as usual; the mails came and went; Joel wrote and kept me informed how matters progressed till, seeing no further sign of danger, some of our party became impatient, asking ourselves why did we leave at all, and even proposing to return to Bareilly. It was, however, only the lull before the storm.
On the 25th we heard of the mutiny at Allyghur. Sabbath, the 31st of May, I preached twice (the first Methodist sermons ever uttered on the Himalaya mountains) from Acts xx, 21, and Rom. viii, 16. I tried to preach as “a dying man to dying men.” At the same hour in Bareilly Joel was conducting the service. He preached—for he had already begun to take a text—the very morning of the mutiny from the words, “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” when, in the midst of his closing prayer, the guns opened fire, and the slaughter of the Europeans commenced. But we knew it not.
Our Sabbath passed peacefully over, while many of the ladies of our party were widows, and the mangled bodies of their husbands were then lying exposed to every form of insult in the streets of Bareilly.
Monday came, and no mail from Bareilly. We feared something must be wrong, and our fears were all verified by the arrival of the first of the fugitives in the evening, bearing the terrible news that at eleven o'clock on Sunday morning the Sepoys had risen and commenced shooting their officers. An understanding had existed among the officers that, in case of a rising, the rendezvous should be the cavalry lines; so, as soon as the firing began, each officer that could do so jumped on his horse and galloped to where the cavalry were drawn up, Brigadier-General Sibbald being killed on the way there. As Lieutenant Tucker, of the Sixty-eighth Native Infantry, was flying on horseback, he saw the Sepoys firing
​into the houses of the English sergeants; and calling out to one of them, “Jennings, jump up behind me,” he was shot dead by the Sepoys, and fell from his horse. Jennings mounted it. They shot the horse under him. He jumped off, ran for his life, and escaped. Captain Patterson, with other officers, was fired on in the orderly room. They escaped by the opposite door, ran to their stables, got their horses, and fled. Colonel Troup heard the firing, and was leaving his house when his own orderlies tried to stop him. He got out by another door, and escaped on foot, but was followed by his syce (groom) with his horse. Dr. Bowhill, of the Eighteenth, was in his bath when he heard the firing. He jumped out, drew on his clothes, got out his watch and one hundred rupees, ran to the stable to order his horse, returned, and found that his rascally bearer had made off with money and watch too. I have only heard of one who had time to save a single thing except the clothes they had on them. Captain Gibbs had to ride across the parade ground through a volley of musketry, and the artillery men fired on him with grape. He escaped unhurt. All was so sudden, so unexpected, there was no time for preparation—nothing but to mount and fly. Two minutes after Colonel Troup left his house he saw it in flames; and before ten minutes every bungalow in the cantonments seemed on fire. The road to Nynee Tal was direct through the city. A band of officers and gentlemen, about forty in number, evaded the city, took a by-road for a couple of miles, and escaped. Those who tried the city I believe all perished. Of Lieutenant Gowan (our good friend of the Eighteenth Native Infantry) we could hear nothing; but he was saved by his own Sepoys, who liked him. Under cover of night, when it came, they took him out of a house where they had concealed him, and escorted him, with their Sergeant-Major Belsham and his wife and five children, and conducted them two miles beyond Bareilly to the south, giving the sad party what money they could spare, and their good wishes for their escape. They were joined during the night by four officers that had escaped the massacre, and they resolved to keep together for mutual protection; but the slow
​pace at which the poor woman and her infants could move soon irritated the officers, and they resolved to leave them behind. Lieutenant Gowan would not listen to the proposal. His humanity saved his life. The four officers pushed on and were murdered, while the little party with the Lieutenant were all saved by the wonderful generosity of a Hindoo farmer, who found them concealed in his field, and who hid them for seven months within his own house at the risk of his life. This was at Khaira Bajera, a place now on our Minutes, and where good Lieutenant (now Colonel) Gowan has built and endowed Christian schools as a memorial of his gratitude to the Thakoor who sheltered him, and to God who inclined him to do so. They are under the charge of our mission.
When the firing first began, at eleven o'clock, some of the officers when they reached the lines of the native cavalry suggested a charge on the artillery and infantry, hoping the cavalry would prove true, as they all professed great loyalty. It was attempted, but the rascals, after going a few paces, hoisted the “green flag” and deliberately rode over to the infantry, leaving the officers in a body, with about twenty-five of the cavalry, who stood faithful. The artillery then opened upon them with grape, and they had to fly. Poor fellows! they rode the seventy-four miles without refreshment or a change of horses; and when they came up the hill to us next morning they were all sun-burned and ready to drop from sheer exhaustion. Some of them had nothing on but shirt and trousers; few of them were completely dressed, as the hour of mutiny was the general hour for bath and breakfast, and they had to spring to their horses without losing a moment to look for any. Fully one half of our little English congregation were murdered. Two of the sergeants who used to attend escaped, and got half way to Nynee Tal, but were attacked by the people of Bahary. One of them, who had become very serious, was there murdered; he fell with his hands clasped and calling upon the Lord. The other was left for dead, but managed to crawl to the foot of our hill, and recovered from his wounds. Mr. Raikes, the chief
​magistrate, Mr. Orr, and Mr. Wyatt, were all murdered, and Dr. Hansbrow, the Governor of the jail, was killed by the convicts, the native jailer helping them. Mr. Laurance, a widower with four children, was made to sit in a chair while his children were executed before his eyes, and then he was killed. Mrs. Aspinall, who lived next to us, with her son and his wife and child were murdered in their garden. It is said the murderers flung the baby, five weeks old, into the air, and cut at it with their swords as it fell. Some of the accounts are too dreadful to repeat. We cannot but hope that many of them were exaggerated. In all they killed forty-seven Christian people, men, women, and children, in Bareilly that day.
As soon as the officers fled, the Sepoys fired their houses, after which they broke open the treasury and took the money; and then, as if possessed with the demon of madness, they went to the jail, broke open the gates, and let loose the criminals. These wretches completed what the Sepoys had begun. The homes of the civilians were sacked and burned. All the gentlemen that had not fled, or were overtaken, were either killed or taken prisoners. The Sepoys then proclaimed the Emperor of Delhi; elected as Nawab Khan Bahadur Khan, who had held the office of Deputy Judge under our friend Judge Robertson, and who so deceived him, as already noticed. It is understood that the prisoners were all brought before the new Nawab next morning, (Judge Robertson, Dr. Hay, and Mr. Raikes being of the number,) and this wretch deliberately condemned them to death by the law of the Koran: “They were infidels, and they must die!” He ordered them to be publicly hanged in front of the jail.
The rebels went to my house, and expressed great regret at not finding me. They are said to have declared they specially wanted me. They then destroyed our little place of worship, and burned my house with its contents. All was lost, save life and the grace of God; but the sympathy and prayers of our beloved Church were still our own, so the loss was not so great after all.
It would be affectation if I were to profess that I was unmoved
​at my loss. So far from it, I felt overwhelmed by it. Every thing was so complete and well arranged for my work. But all was destroyed, and some things gone that could never be restored. All my manuscripts; my library, (about one thousand volumes, the collection of my life, and which, perhaps, I loved too well,) so complete in its Methodistic and theological and missionary departments; my globe, maps, microscope; our clothes, furniture, melodeon, buggy, stock of provisions—every thing, gone; and here we were, like shipwrecked mariners, grateful to have escaped with life. But we tried to say, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” I had the consolation to know that my goods had been sacrificed for Christ's sake. When we looked around us and saw the anguish that wrung the hearts of the bereaved of our number, we felt that our loss was light, and could be easily borne. So we were “cast down, but not destroyed.”
When the Sepoys had thus slaughtered all the Europeans on whom they could lay their hands, they remembered that there were a few native Christians, and they eagerly sought them out, resolved not to leave a single representative of the religion of Jesus in Bareilly when the sun of that day should set. Their full purpose thus became apparent, and God alone could prevent them from consummating it.
We had in all six Christians, of whom two or three were then regarded as converted, the rest were seekers; but all were equally exposed to the dreadful rage which that noon burst so unexpectedly upon them. In the cloud of darkness and terror which settled over them they were at once hidden from my view. Where they were, or whether alive or dead, I could not find out. Those Europeans who escaped and joined us could tell me nothing at all about them, though I anxiously questioned all who might by any possibility know. I also succeeded in bribing two natives, who remained faithful to us and came up with the ladies, to venture down and seek for Joel and the rest, promising a large reward for any intelligence of him or them; but the messengers did not return to us,
​and we were left to suppose that they—our Christians—were nowhere to be found in or around Bareilly. Of the death of any of them we received no information; so we kept on hoping that heathen rage had confined itself to the Europeans, and that the others, though scattered, were uninjured. How little we knew what they had suffered!
Though at the risk of anticipating events which date further on, I must here give the facts as I was enabled to ascertain them. As soon as any communication was established between Calcutta and the Upper Provinces on the south side of the Ganges—for all north of that river was still held by the Sepoys—I sent off letters to every place to which I thought it likely Joel could have escaped. He also was trying to reach me by letters, but could not. One of my communications at last found him, as I had hoped, in Allahabad, and, in response to my request, he gave me a narrative of what befell him and the rest on that dreadful day. All his statements we afterward confirmed together on the spot in every particular.
Instead of giving the facts myself, I prefer to present his deeply interesting letter, assured that the reader will kindly excuse its occasional imperfect English and Hindustanee idioms, rendering some words in a few places when it is necessary to give his meaning. I had told him that we had heard of the arrival at Calcutta of the first party of our missionaries, and that if he were outside the circle of danger and at Allahabad, and could communicate with Calcutta, to try and have them come where he was, as the seat of the Northwest Government had been fixed at Allahabad, and all was safe there then; also, that I felt assured, as the armies were rapidly breaking up the Sepoy forces, we at Nynee Tal who were still preserved, though besieged, would soon be relieved, and our mission be once more established at Bareilly. I tried to cheer him, and sustain his faith in God. My letter took twelve days to reach him having to go out through the mountains behind us, and then along their crest till it could reach the Ganges, and get beyond the range of the rebels in Rohilcund. In reply he writes:
“Allahabad, February 4, 1858.
“My Dear Sir,—Your long-expected letter, dated the 18th January, reached me on the 1st instant. Though the interval is very long, still it was a source of very great consolation to me. It has given fresh vigor and courage. I became happy, exceedingly happy, from its perusal. And nothing could exceed my joy then to hear of the safety and welfare of self and Mrs. Butler, and the little bachchas, (children;) increased more by the joyous news that another precious little darling [our daughter Julia, born after our flight] has been added to the number of the family, for which I must congratulate you. You ask in your letter why I did not write to you? True, I knew you were in Nynee Tal; but I could see no way of safety for months and months. I could not know whether communication with Nynee Tal was open or not. The whole country was in such a dreadful disorder I was conscious that it would never reach you; but the moment that I was assured communication was open, and my letter would fall in your hands, I immediately addressed you two letters in succession, but I am sorry to see it did not reach you. According to your request, I sit down with the greatest pleasure to give you an account of how I escaped. It was on the memorable 31st of May, on Sunday, that the mutiny of the Bareilly troops took place. I was busy with prayers with the other Christians after a sermon on ‘Fear not, little flock,’ etc., and about the middle of the closing prayer I was informed of the outbreak. I instantly closed, and began to look out for the safety of my wife and child. The Chowkeydar (watchman) aided me in getting the Christian women concealed. I then returned to the Bungalow, (my residence.) By this time it was partly looted and in flame. Seeing it on fire, I threw down the keys, thinking no use to keep keys now, [a very innocent and just conclusion of poor Joel's.] Palwansing and Isaac [two of the native Christians] disguised themselves as gardeners. I went to see if the women were safe, and returned, when I saw Tuggu and another man attacking Isaac with a tulwar to rob him. Palwansing signaled me not to come near, as Tuggu had just said they
​were searching for me to kill me. They went off, and I came forward, and then I saw Maria [our first female member in Bareilly, and a good Christian girl] coming, running through the trees, but before any of us could reach her a Sowar [mounted Sepoy] caught sight of her and turned, and with his tulwar he struck her head off.
“Seeing all was over, Isaac fled toward Budaon. I heard he was killed on the road. How providential that Emma was a brand plucked out from burning, for in the house where she was going afterward to hide herself a good many Europeans were concealed, and not long after the house was burned by the Sowars, when, with a few exceptions—who were afterward killed—all perished. Emma escaped. Your Dhobin (washerwoman) caught her hand as she was entering, and said, ‘You must not go in there.’ Again, as Emma was sitting with these women, disguised as one of them, she was remarked by a Sepoy to be a Christian woman, [her bright, intelligent face might well betray her,] and here again the Dhobin's intercession saved her. [This faithful creature also buried Maria's body under the rose hedge. I had the gratification afterward of meeting her on the spot, and rewarding her for the humanity she showed our Christian people.] As soon as it was dark I went to the store-room, where I had, on the first alarm, hidden my Bible, and money, and clothes, under the charcoal, but they were all gone; so we started on foot, and, not knowing where to go, directed our steps toward Allahabad. The Chowkeydar came with us. We did not arrive here till after various wanderings and troubles, tasting the bitterness of death as it were at every step night and day walking—with my wife, who before could not rough it for half a mile, [she was delicate and weak,] doing some twenty-four or twenty-six miles a day, suffering the pangs of hunger, thirst, and fatigue, and pressed with dangers and difficulties; in perils often, Budmashes [thieves and ruffians] scattered every place. I carried the child, but after the first twelve miles Emma gave out, said she could go no farther, so we had to stop and rest her, resuming our walk at three o'clock in the morning, and going
​on till nine. Fearing the Budmashes, we left the road and took side paths, which brought us to a village. We had nothing to eat since Sunday morning, but could get nothing there except parched gram, (pulse for horses.) Eat a little and pushed on again.
“By this time Emma's poor feet gave out with soreness, so we bound them up with soft rags to make it easier to walk. We reached Mohumdee, which was infested, and were soon surrounded; but the Hindoo Jamedar (police officer) rescued us out of their hands, and asked who we were. I told him, ‘Give food and shelter, for we are strangers, and I will tell you who we are, and where going.’ He did, and then asked, ‘Are you Hindoos or Mohammedans?’ I said, ‘Neither; we are Christians.’ He advised us not to stop there, but to push on at once. We did, and on nearing Shahjehanpore I saw a Hindoo that I knew. Took him aside, and asked him if any Europeans in S. The man said, ‘Not one; all killed.’ So we turned off and made for Seetapore. Seeing a man watering fields I asked him if any Sahib logs [white gentlemen] at Seetapore. He said he ‘had heard that they were all killed or gone.’ We entered and passed through, and rested under a tamarind-tree beyond. Two Hindoos came by, and told of their own accord how the Sahibs were killed there, and added, ‘We are hunting for a native Christian.’ I asked why they should search for him. They replied, ‘He has defiled himself by eating with Christians.’ I said, ‘Nothing that a man eats can defile him.’ Then they asked, ‘Who are you?’ The Chowkeydar was afraid, and tried to put off the question. But I replied, ‘I am a Christian.’ They were not pleased, but went on. Soon meeting with two other men they pointed back to our party. For fear of mischief we rose and went on our way, and escaped them. My crying toward God was, ‘O that my head were waters, and mine eyes fountains of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the people of the Almighty!’ At length we reached Lucknow, which had not yet fallen, and there saw Sir Henry Lawrence and other Englishmen. One of them asked me all about Bareilly. After resting we went on toward Allahabad. In two days reached
​Cawnpore. Stopped on the east bank of the Ganges to find out what was the state of C. Found it surrounded on all sides by the rebels under Nana Sahib, and the bridge guarded by two cannon; so we kept on the east bank two days' journey more, till we saw a boat, and the man took us over for a rupee.
“Nearing Futtehpore we met crowds of people hurrying away, and asked, ‘What is the matter?’ They said, ‘O the English are coming and sweeping all before them!’ They were in great terror, but we rejoiced now, though we did not tell them so. Not fearing the English, we went on through the flying crowd to meet them. Just then came to the Ten Commandments and Mr. Tucker's house at F. [Mr. T. was a noble Christian—a magistrate—who had had the Commandments cut on two large stone slabs in the native language, and set up by the road-side near his gate, that all persons passing by might read them. They were very large and prominent.] I stood near and read them to our party, then went into Mr. T.'s fine house and took possession, for all was empty. Mr. T. was killed the day of the mutiny. Found good mangoes in the garden and eat them. Started next morning. The villages were deserted. In the evening we lay down in a serai all alone, and slept comfortably, knowing the English must be near. Next morning we were rejoiced to see a white man's face—a man with a party repairing the telegraph. We told him all, and he told us about Allahabad, and that Mr. Owen and all were in the fort there.
“We soon met the army; they did us no harm; my health and spirits revived; we slept near them that night. It was either Neil or Havelock. [It was probably General Neil, with the vanguard of Havelock's force.] Reached Allahabad next day, so happy to find my friends again. God had heard and saved us, though we had been robbed of every thing except a single covering for our bodies; yet here we are at last, joined to our people once more. Thanked and praised be God's holy name, who not only supported and gave us strength, but enabled us to endure all the changes of nature, and safely brought us thus far; and now additional joy has been afforded
​us by the receipt of your letter, to find you all in health and comfort. How I long to see you, and wish I was with you!
“The fatigue and trouble so overtook Emma, that even up to this time she is in very delicate health. [No wonder. It makes me now shudder to imagine what such a gentle and tender creature must have endured in that dreadful walk of three hundred and forty miles, in the raging heat of an India June, without nourishment, and exposed to insult and even death all the time.] The Allahabad Mission is a heap of ruins. Mr. Owen's bungalow was burned to ashes, and all the furniture and books of the mission and the college destroyed; the church sadly mutilated, though, thank God! no serious damage done to it that cannot be restored with a little outlay; the press, too, and every thing connected with it, all ruined. Mr. Munniss and Mr. Owen had both to escape to Calcutta. But Mr. Owen has now returned. You must have heard of the deaths of the Futtyghur missionaries. They were murdered either at Bithoor or at Cawnpore. [And it occurred about the very time that Joel passed in the vicinity of these places on his way down. How little he imagined that those he knew and loved so well were there, within probably a mile of where he passed, enduring the agonies of Christian martyrdom!] All the houses of the native Christians here were burned and destroyed.
“You write wishing Messrs. Pierce and Humphrey, with their wives, to join me; but I think if impossible. The ladies at any rate cannot go up with them, at least for some months hence, and it is not the orders of the Commander-in-Chief that ladies may go to the upper provinces. I have written to Messrs. Pierce and Humphrey to come here and learn something of the language till the time when Bareilly is retaken.
“I am really very much obliged to you for your kind care of me during these troublesome times; but as I am at present working on the railway here, and earn something to support myself and family, I do not see any necessity of your taking any further trouble about me in regard to money, until such time as I shall be with you again. But whenever, if I will require, I will tell you; and,
​over and above, I think you can hardly spare any thing, yourself being in trouble.
“I am not at all discouraged with this trouble; on the contrary, I hope it has been sanctified to my good. God forbid that I may be discouraged! but may he grant me that grace which may make my hope strong and my faith firm; and would to God that new vigor should be afforded me in the path of duty! My wife joins with me in sending her remembrance and regards to Mrs. Butler, Mr. Gowan, [whom he supposed to be with our party,] and to all others acquainted with me, and in prayers for our speedy restoration in the field of our labor. My mother-in-law and Jonas and wife offered their best regards to you both. Emma says, ‘Give my salaam [the prayer for peace and blessing] to my mother;’ that is to say, to Mrs. Butler.
“Believe me to be your most obedient servant,
“Joel T. Janvier.”
I communicated again with Joel, sending money, and requested him to stand ready to release himself from his situation, and join me as soon as I should call him to his higher work. I knew his heart and could rely upon him. General Havelock's progress was necessarily slow, the fall of Delhi was delayed; but the hour of relief, on the south-west of our position, came at length, and I was enabled to reach the plains on the Dehra Doon side, and have him join me once more.
Every thing English in Bareilly—people, houses, furniture—was ruthlessly destroyed, all save the house which the English officers had used as a Freemasons' Lodge. The poor superstitious Sepoys understood that there was something mysterious transacted there, and it might not be safe or lucky to interfere with it in any way. So there it stood in its integrity, when we returned to Bareilly, alone and unharmed amid the ruins of the English station.
After their carnival of blood and ruin had been consummated in Bareilly the Sepoys began the work of dividing the plunder, and strange and fantastic were the scenes as they were afterward
​described to us. The newly-elected Sepoy officers, who were now to fill the places of their superiors, were decked out, according to their new rank, in the clothes and equipments of the murdered officers, strolling about or riding in their carriages, and doing what they could to enforce the same salutes and honors that were formerly paid to the English officers. Their fellows would grin and ridicule their demands, so that the prospects of discipline or subordination were very poor, and from the first intimated that defect which was one of the causes of their failure.
How strange it seems now to remember that, on that very Sabbath-day, and at the very hours when these deeds were done, and hell seemed to run riot in Bareilly, in the city of Boston there was being held one of the most holy and impressive services ever witnessed there. Bromfield-street Methodist Church was crowded that day to witness the consecration of Messrs. Pierce and Humphrey to the missionary work—Bareilly being their destination! God never looked down at the same hour upon two greater contrasts than he gazed upon that day and night—the one worthy of heaven and its joy, the other—but we forbear. How would ten minutes' service of the telegraph (had it been then in use as it is to-day) have changed that holy, joyous scene in Bromfield-street into mourning and woe! But the friends dreamed not of our sorrows, and God honored their faith and devotion, notwithstanding our sufferings and the suspension of our work.
This dreadful 31st of May was, with few exceptions, the general day for rising all over the land. The scenes of Bareilly were repeated in all the cities of Rohilcund, Oude, the Doab, and the North-west Provinces. Volumes might be filled with the sad recitals. But we have no heart for their repetition. One alone, till we come to speak of Cawnpore and Lucknow, must suffice; and we give it because it was the station next our own—Shahjehanpore—forty-three miles east of Bareilly. The atrocities committed there were so cruel and complete that no Europeans escaped; so we rely for our account of their sad fate upon the testimony of the natives themselves, as drawn out by subsequent Government inquiry.
​With well-dissembled enmity, the Sepoys at Shahjehanpore went through their duties until the morning of the rising. They waited until their officers and their families had gone to church. This was the opportunity which they preferred. They rose en masse, and, having armed themselves fully—though those whom they were to overcome were entirely unarmed and defenseless worshipers in the house of God—stealthily proceeded in a body to the church. They must have taken their measures very quietly and quickly, for they entered while the congregation knelt in prayer, without causing the least alarm, and in some instances dealt their deadly blows on the prostrate suppliants before their presence was known or their purpose feared. Young Spens was on his knees in prayer when his shoulder was laid open by the savage lunge of a tulwar wielded by one of the murderous mutineers. The attack being simultaneous, the people were instantly on their feet, struggling in mortal combat with their assailants. The heart-rending scene that ensued I cannot describe. Words seem too feeble to convey its horrors. It is believed that not one of the number of men, women, and children in that sanctuary ultimately escaped.
Particulars have been ascertained concerning the sad fate of twenty-six of their number. These succeeded, by some means, in getting out of the furious fray and reaching the doors of the church, and, befriended by their syces, or coachmen, reached their carriages and drove off, scarcely knowing or caring whither. They only drew up at a place called Mohumdy, after a drive of many miles. Here they were well received by the Theeselder, or local officer, who seemed sincerely disposed to shield and serve them. The strongest defense at his disposal was a mud fort, and there he placed the fugitives, who began to breathe in hope. It was only for a brief interval. A part of the Forty-first Sepoy Cavalry suddenly appeared, and, having discovered the refugees, demanded their surrender. The remonstrances and resistance of the friendly Theeselder were in vain.
On being given up they were put into their own carriages and driven off under the escort of their captors. Before starting,
​however, the disabled and bandaged condition of young Spens, who was one of the party, excited the notice of one of the troopers, who stepped up and cleft him in pieces, coolly remarking that it was useless taking a wounded man with them to cumber them.
Whether they had any specific intention concerning their captives on starting it is impossible to say; but it is certain that, after proceeding for some time, they halted, as if in accordance with a pre-arranged purpose. Opening the carriages, they ordered the ladies and children to step out. The unhappy husbands and fathers entreated to be taken in their stead. Impatient of the slightest resistance, they dragged the babes and their mothers to the ground, and, with a refinement of cruelty, dismembered and mutilated them in the presence of their powerless protectors. Having finished with them, they fell upon the men and butchered them also, and then drove off with the empty carriages, leaving the mangled bodies dishonored and exposed upon the road, to be devoured by the jackals and birds of prey. Some friendly villagers, however, soon after they had gone, dug a pit near the spot and buried the outraged remains.
A leading American journal very justly remarked at the time: “Horrible are the atrocities which mark the progress of the present rebellion. The North American savage need no longer be considered the monster of human cruelty, as the red man has found his match in the Sepoys, who cut off women's ears, eyes, and noses, destroying them by tortures worthy of the diabolical rage and malignity of Satan himself.” Indeed, one may venture to go further, and say that history may be searched in vain to find a parallel to the riot, plunder, and murder of those dreadful days. The number of the slain and mutilated will probably never be known. Inquiry has ascertained, however, that, apart from the relieving army, not less than fifteen hundred Englishmen and Englishwomen must have perished, not half of whom probably found the rest of the grave: their bodies lay upon the waste, or were dragged out of the bazaars, or left amid the wreck of their own homes, to lie neglected and become the food of dogs and jackals, or the foul birds
​of prey. How sad were the cases of which I had personal knowledge, as well as the histories to which I have listened during the subsequent years, particularly of the trials and tortures to which ladies were subjected! Volumes might be filled with the dreadful details of these shameful atrocities: we can, however, name a few of the sufferers.
Of the Missionaries of the various societies within the circle around our position, the following suffered a cruel death at the hands of the Sepoys in the cities named:
Rev. W. H. and Mrs. Haycock, and Rev. H. and Mrs. Cockey, at Cawnpore, of the English Gospel Propagation Society.
Rev. J. E. and Mrs. Freeman, Rev. D. E. and Mrs. Campbell, Rev. A. O. and Mrs. Johnson, and Rev. R. and Mrs. Macmullin, at Futtyghur, of the American Presbyterian Mission.
Rev. T. Mackay, at Delhi, Baptist Missionary Society.
Rev. A. R. Hubbard and Rev. D. Sandys, at Delhi, English Gospel Propagation Society.
Rev. R. and Mrs. Hunter, at Sealcote, Scotch Kirk. Rev. J. Maccallum, at Shahjehanpore, Addit. Clergy. Society.
Some of these had children, who suffered with them.
Several Chaplains also were killed: Mr. Jennings in Delhi, Mr. Polehampton in Lucknow, Mr. Moncrieff at Cawnpore, and Mr. Copeland.
The mission property destroyed was estimated at the value of $344,400. Of this heavy loss, by far the greater portion fell upon the English Church Missionary Society, and the American Presbyterian Missions. The former lost $160,000, and the latter about $130,000.
Thus the mission of the Methodist Episcopal Church to India was, in the first year of its establishment, covered with a cloud, and the faith and patience of our Church was severely tested. It became a solemn question, how the Church would take this dispensation of Providence. Will she recede at the first difficulty? Will she give way because earth and hell have roused themselves up to resist her? Nay, “Greater is He that is for us than all that can
​be against us.” Besides, our experience is not singular. Many missions that have been eminently successful have had very unpropitious beginnings; and God eminently honored the faith that did not shrink from difficulties. We recollect with what interest the Church of Scotland sent forth her first missionary, Dr. Duff, to lay the foundation of her mission in India. But seldom has a voyage been more protracted or disastrous than Dr. Duff's first voyage to India in 1830. His ship went down off the coast of Africa, and he lost all he possessed in the world, (including a valuable library, too,) except one copy of the word of God, he and his devoted wife barely escaping with their lives. They made their way to the Cape of Good Hope, and sailed again; but, off the Mauritius, came near foundering, and actually were a second time shipwrecked in the Bay of Bengal: so that their disastrous voyage lasted eight months from the time they left England till they reached Calcutta. But what a glorious work of God has sprung from that perilous and untoward commencement! God grant that the Methodist Mission to North India, notwithstanding “the fight of afflictions” in which it was begun, may find its sufferings, and its faith and patience, honored by similar success! And why not? I thank God we were not discouraged. Notwithstanding all we had passed through, or might pass through, we lost neither heart nor hope; we still held on to the expectation that India had a bright future before it, and that our mission would live, and “triumph in Christ,” among the very people at whose hands we had suffered.
The refugees from Moradabad reached us by the southern pass within a couple of hours of those from Bareilly. We went to meet them; and how hearty was each congratulation upon their escape and safe arrival! Each man, too, added to the force for our defense, and so strengthened us. One officer, as he came over the brow of the hill, and caught his first view of Nynee Tal, looked delighted, as he rested his loaded rifle by his side, till a sudden thought flushed his face with anxiety, and, turning to us, he asked, “But are we safe here?” We dared not answer; for we had been asking that question of our own fears for many previous hours, as
​the fearful emergency in its character and extent opened out so seriously before our view.
A wonderful circumstance occurred in connection with the flight of these people from Moradabad, which illustrates the idea so often expressed of that tender mercy which
“Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”
The English Government requires a constant supply of elephants for carrying forage, drawing and handling cannon and timber, and other heavy work for the army and commissariat. As these huge creatures do not breed in captivity, the required supply can only be kept up by constant additions from the herds of wild elephants which roam the great Terai forest surrounding the Himalaya Mountains. To accomplish this a regular department is organized, which trains the more docile of the female elephants to aid in capturing the wild ones in the Terai, and they lend themselves to the work with a sagacity and a fidelity that is truly wonderful. At the head of this “Elephant Department” was a Major Baugh, whose residence was at Moradabad. On the very morning of the mutiny his lady was confined, and in less than four hours after that event the Sepoys rose. The Major's feelings may be imagined when he rushed into his home and broke the dreadful news to his wife as she lay in her chamber with her baby by her side. The agonized husband looked at them, and was almost speechless with horror in anticipation of the destruction that would be at their door in a few moments. But the heroic lady, notwithstanding her situation, was equal to the emergency. With a word of cheer to the sad husband, she made the astounding proposal to him to bring the buggy at once to the door. It was done. She then told him to take a bed and put it in the buggy, and to lift her up and carry her and her baby out, and lay them on the bed, and try to escape. Then commending themselves to Heaven's help, the husband, having his sword in one hand and the horse's bridle in the other, they commenced the dreadful and uncertain march for the foot of the mountains, fifty miles distant, over a rough road, crossed by numerous rivers, not
​one of which was then bridged. Twenty miles of the road lay through the malarious Terai; while they were liable at any hour to be overtaken and cut to pieces, yet not daring to go faster than a walk, for the poor lady's life could not bear more than the strain it was at that rate enduring—and all this beneath that blazing sun of May!
I leave it to those who may read these facts to imagine, if they can, what must have been that husband's feelings during those thirty-six hours of sympathy and fear! But the dear lady went through it all, reached the foot of the hills, was carried up the remaining eleven miles in a jampan, and was received and welcomed by us with the tender commiseration and respect that were due to one who had gone through such an experience. We hardly dared to hope that she could really survive it, but thought it must kill her and her babe too. But no! a merciful Providence carried her safely through. Her recovery was rapid, and in three weeks after her escape she made her appearance upon the Mall which runs around the lake, looking, though pale, so cheery and grateful as each gentleman she met lifted his hat in homage to one who had drawn so deeply upon our sympathies, and whose appearance again gave us as much pleasure as if she had been a personal friend or a sister of ours.
Had our enemies only followed us up at once, instead of waiting to burn, and plunder, and dispute about rank and methods of action, they could most certainly have been upon us before we were prepared for resistance. But we made good use of the forty-eight hours which their wrangling allowed; and when they reached the foot of the hills our measures were taken, and we stood ready for them—so far as a handful could be ready for a host of Sepoys and Budmashes. With a good glass, from certain points we could catch a glimpse of their out-lying pickets when they pushed up to Julee.
As soon as the last refugee had reached us we held a “council of war,” to see what could be done. The first thing was to ascertain our numbers; so we counted heads, and found that we
​were eighty-seven gentlemen, with one hundred and thirteen ladies and children to protect. By general consent Major Ramsay, the Commissioner, was elected Commandant. We voted ourselves a sort of militia in her Majesty's service, and pledged the Major our full duty and obedience to defend the place to the last extremity. Somehow or other all of us were supplied with arms; those who had more than enough divided with those who had none. Here was a case where “he who had no sword” would willingly “sell his garment and buy one,” for “the days of vengeance” were upon us, and we had a duty to fulfill on behalf of ladies and little ones that admitted of no hesitation, in view of the relentless enemy who now hemmed us in on every side.
Having elected our Commandant and distributed our arms, the worthy Major asked us to stand up in line, that he might address us a few words. Each shouldered his weapon, and the line was formed. The Commandant looked at his little force. He could not help smiling, serious as he and we felt, for a more “awkward squad” than we appeared no commandant ever inspected. Among the eighty-seven, as they then stood, each “a high private,” were three generals, grayheaded and bent with years; a number of colonels, majors, and captains; some doctors, judges, and magistrates; a few Indigo planters, merchants, and shopkeepers; two English chaplains, and myself, the only American in the party—from the man of fourscore down to the boy of seventeen: yet half of the number had probably never fired a shot in anger, if at all, and had to learn every thing in their new profession.
Our commander's speech was a very brief one. Its burden was the duty that we owed to the ladies and children, with the assurance that, far-off and isolated as we were, England would find us out and rescue us if we could only hold on till her forces arrived; that, whatever came, the last man must fall at his post ere one of those wretches should cross our defenses. Our hearts were sad enough, but we cheered the speech. We were, to a man, willing to fight, and, if necessary, to die to defend the ladies.
I walked home with my musket on my shoulder and my pockets
​full of ball cartridges and caps, greatly to my wife's surprise, who met me at the door and declared there must be some mistake: she had “married a Methodist preacher, and not a soldier.” But I took that gun as a religious duty, and intended to use it, too, if I had a chance; for surely these were circumstances in which a Christian could pray God to “teach his hands to war and his fingers to fight.” Before one of those bloody men below should burst our bounds, or lay a finger on one of the ladies who relied upon our protection, as, under God, their only hope, I should certainly have fired my last charge, and then laid around me with the butt-end, and, having done all, have “died at my post.” So would every man of our number.
But the rascals below were not very anxious to give us a chance to show how valiant we were, so we rested on our arms and awaited their pleasure.
The twenty-five faithful Sowars who had stood firm and come up with their officers were quite a help to us; but in spite of what the brave fellows had risked for their fidelity, (for word had reached them that their fellow-Sepoys would kill their children, whom they had to leave behind in Bareilly, if they did not forsake us,) yet we secretly dreaded to trust them fully, so they were placed down the hill a mile or two to guard that pass, and our “munition of rocks” was defended by our own right arms alone. The hill men, called Paharees, being probably aborigines, hate the plains' men, and the dislike is returned with equal cordiality. We made no effort to heal this breach, but rather fomented it. The Commandant hired and trained as many of these Paharees as he could. We had thus done all we could for our own preservation—placed a small force at the bottom of the hill, then posts every mile or two, which could fall back on each other if overpowered. Half-way we had a small cannon planted, the grape of which would mow down any advancing party; then on convenient turns and narrow places great heaps of stone and trees, denuded of their branches, were ready to be rolled down upon any foe that would venture to come up these passes; then the road had been cut so narrow in places that
​only two men could walk abreast on the verge of the precipice; we had also undermined the road in several places, so that an invading party could be so isolated that they could neither go back nor forward. In addition, we were well armed, and ready, by day or night, when the signal gun was fired, to rush to the top of the pass, and die there sooner than the enemy should force it, or that a single one of those one hundred and thirteen ladies and children should fall into the hands of those vile wretches. We felt assured, as we looked at our work, that a handful could hold the place against multitudes if their ammunition only held out and their provisions lasted; but that was the question just then.
Our congregation was a sad one. With the exception of my wife and another person, every lady of the party wore some badge of mourning, showing that either relatives or near friends had been killed. Of course house and property were utterly destroyed in every case, while the enemies of our Lord and Saviour were raging and blaspheming below, thirsting for our blood, and vowing, by all their gods, that they would soon have it, and thus finish up their fiendish work. In such circumstances what a significance many parts of the word of God had for us! “The denunciatory Psalms,” which in a calm and quiet civilization seem sometimes to read harshly, were in our case so apposite and so consistent that we felt their adaptation and propriety against these enemies of God as though they had been actually composed for our special case. How we used to read them with the new light of our position, and how they drew out our confidence in God for the final issue!
Khan Bahadur, the new Nawab of Rohilcund, strengthened his force to hem us in, and issued his list of prices for our heads, beginning with Mr. Alexander, the Commissioner. Five hundred rupees was, if I recollect rightly, the price he put upon my poor head. Every expedient was used to urge his men to storm our position; but their spies (for they had such) considerably cooled their ardor by the representation of our resolution and preparations; so they came to the conclusion that if they could not get up to kill us, they would do the next best thing for them, by starving
​us out, which would answer about as well. But we as decidedly resolved that we would not be starved, so we set to work to make the best commissariat arrangements of which the case admitted.
There was a very sparse population of the Paharees sprinkled about in the valleys between us and the higher Himalayas, and every thing these people had to spare we bought up; the lake furnished some fish, and the forest around had game. The latter, however, was not much aid to us, as it was not prudent to waste our ammunition, nor, in view of our signals, was it desirable to have much firing in our neighborhood. We did as well as we could; but as week after week went over we felt the pressure more sensibly. Money grew scarce, and clothing, shoes, and other necessities, became harder to obtain.
In about two weeks after our flight the terrible jungle fever, which we hoped we had escaped the night when we were detained in the Terai, began to develop itself, (taking about that time to do so,) and soon our little home was a scene of sickness, while help and medicine were so very scarce. Every one of us had to go through it, four out of the five being down with it at the same time. In the midst of this scene of weakness and sorrow our daughter Julia was born. The day she came was the darkest we had ever seen. Illness, tropical rains, want of help, a scarcity of proper nourishment for the poor mother, with the uncertainty as to the moment when we might be assailed, and my liability to have to leave the sick household to go to my post at the pass, all constituted a strain upon the soul of one anxious mortal that I feel thankful does not often fall to the lot of a husband to endure.
But, notwithstanding, the dear babe brought the light with her. A father's heart may be allowed to say that her presence helped to disperse some of the gloom of the dark days that followed, and added a new motive for vigilance and courage. Yes, let the 30th of June stand as “a red-letter day” in the life of one so deeply indebted as I am to the ruling providence of my God! Our “partners in distress” were pleased to designate her “The Mutiny Baby,” and many a kind word and act were lavished upon her.
​Of course our mails were cut off—we were completely isolated from all the world. We could stand on our magnificent elevation and look out upon the plains of India, the horizon stretching for a hundred miles from east to west—could trace the courses of the rivers, and see the forests and towns in the dim distance—but could only imagine what was being done down there. The handful of villagers around us told us that we were the last of Christian life left in India; that from where we stood to the sea, nearly a thousand miles on each side, every white man had been murdered, and the last vestige of our religion swept away. We well knew if this were so our fate was but a question of time; yet “against hope” I “believed in hope.” I felt that this could not be true, for Jesus Christ was still on the throne which governs this world, and he would not thus allow the clock of progress to be put back for centuries, nor yield to earth or hell the conquests won on the oriental hemisphere.
Our “raging foes” kept up their alarms, but we estimated them at their worth, and stood on our guard day and night with unrelaxed vigilance. How we longed for news! A letter or a newspaper would have been more precious than rubies; but we were destined to know for weary months what “hunger for news” meant. Our food was often scanty; but we would willingly have done without it, even for days, to have received instead a feast of information, more particularly about those whom we left below, and of whose fate we were so uncertain.
We tried hard to establish some means of communication, but they were all failures. The few natives that remained faithful were offered the largest bribes which our means afforded, to go down and bring us news of how matters stood—whether any of our friends survived, and if there was any prospect of relief. Four or five were induced to go, but only one returned, and he was mutilated. The rebels cut off his nose and ears, and the poor man was a frightful spectacle. Government afterward liberally pensioned him. We were indeed “shut up;” life hung in uncertainty, and we “stood in jeopardy every hour.” The outside world lost
​sight of us, and some of our number were published as among the dead.
In the midst of these vicissitudes the question was discussed whether we had not better, for the ladies' sake, try to cross the Himalayas and strike the Brahmapootra behind them, and so make our way by that river to Burmah; a proposition that would have been madness to have attempted, situated as we were, without resources, and which would have involved our destruction. The fact of the proposition, however, shows the extremity to which we were reduced when intelligent men could seriously propose such a mode of escape.
The English judge at Budaon, near Bareilly, was a pious gentleman of the name of Edwards. Before the rebellion I had gone, at his earnest request, to visit that place and hold divine service with his family on a Sabbath day. Two or three natives had been led to embrace Christianity, one of whom, named Wuzeer Singh, had resigned his position in a Sepoy regiment to join the little band whom Mr. E. cared for. The “mutiny” broke out soon after. Judge Edwards had sent his wife and child to Nynee Tal, but resolved, to use his own words, “to stick to the ship as long as she floated,” and he remained, the only European officer in charge of his district, with 800,000 people within its bounds. “I went,” he says, “into my room and prayed earnestly that God would protect and guide me, and enable me to do my duty.”
At six o'clock on Monday morning the Sepoys broke into open mutiny. . . . Mr. Edwards, revolver in hand, forced his way through the crowd, and approached a “fine, powerful Patan, about fifty years of age,” named Moottan Khan, one of the leaders. Mr. E. rode up to him, and putting his hand on his shoulder, said, “Have you a family and little children?” The Patan nodded. “Are they not dependent on you for bread?” “Yes,” was the answer. “Well, so have I,” said Mr. E., “and I am confident you are not the man to take my life, and destroy their means of support.” Moottan Khan hesitated a moment, then said, “I will save your life; follow me;” and he escorted him out of the city.
​Mr. E. reached a place of safety, a village owned by Hurdeo Buksh, a Talookdar, a man of wealth and influence, near Futtyghur, one hundred and forty miles from Nynee Tal. For many months this noble, friendly Hindoo, at great peril, sheltered him, though constantly threatened by the rebels of Futtyghur. Mr. E. after some time succeeded in finding a man who, by the promise of a large reward, was induced to venture to carry a message to Mrs. Edwards, in Nynee Tal.
She, poor lady, was mourning for her husband in the bitterness of uncertainty and woe unspeakable, supposing that, like the rest, he had been murdered.
Judge E. procured a small piece of paper, and wrote on it that he was still alive, and even well, and in a village named ——. Here he wrote the name of the village in Greek, lest the note should be discovered. He then, with a small knife, slit a bamboo walking stick, inserted the tiny missive, and withdrew the knife. The slit closed so completely as to defy the skill of any seeker, though the messenger was often searched by the rebel police, but they never imagined that there was a letter in the walking-stick. The faithful native reached our position after a variety of adventures, and when challenged by our guards, declared he was a friend, and that he had a letter for delivery to Mem Sahib (Lady) Edwards. They conducted him to her. He found her dressed in mourning, supposing herself a widow. He told her his bamboo stick had a letter in it from her husband. He broke it, and there it verily was, in his own handwriting. In addition to expressing her own joy at the discovery, she knew the native mind and character well, and how to impress it, and that it was necessary that her action now should be significant, as she feared her reply might be lost, or would have to be destroyed by the messenger to save his life, and she must do something which would show him the joy which she felt; so, telling him to wait, she retired, and soon came back again, and stood before him arrayed from head to foot in white clothing. He understood her perfectly, and started back by night on his dangerous journey to Judge Edwards.
​“Did you see the Mem Sahib?”
“Yes, Sahib," said the good fellow, “I saw herself in person.”
“Well, and how did she look, and what had she to say to you?”
In his estimation, how she looked, and what she said, were all summed up in one fact.
“Sahib, when I gave her your chittee (letter) she was clothed in black, but when she read the chittee she immediately went into another room, and soon came back to me dressed all in white.”
The affectionate wife and husband fully comprehended each other's feelings in that action, and we at Nynee Tal rejoiced with her that day that so providentially gave her “the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” It was six months and more before they were able to meet, but they could henceforward live in the hope of being again united in life and love together. There was one less on our mall from that day forward who wore mourning.
Coming down the hill from our Thursday afternoon prayer-meeting one day, a military officer who had been present sought the opportunity of a private interview, and with much feeling he said to me:
“O, sir, permit me to thank you from my heart for the earnest prayers which you put up to God this afternoon for the victory of my country's arms!”
I looked at the man and smiled; asked him if we were not in “the same boat” just then, or whether he thought it likely that those wretches down there would pay more respect to my Stars and Stripes than to his English ensign?
So we lived, and watched, and prayed. Meanwhile the terrible news of the Sepoy Rebellion had reached the shores of Europe and America. England was nerving her energies for our relief. Troops and munitions of war were being prepared as fast as possible. A General, supposed equal to the emergency, was found in Sir Colin Campbell, for two Commanders-in-Chief had already fallen, (Generals Anson and Barnard,) and the little English army in India was without a head. The Queen telegraphed to Sir Colin,
​after his acceptance of the position, requesting to be informed when he could be ready to leave England for the East? His prompt and Spartan reply was telegraphed back, “To-morrow!” The old chief's promptitude reminds one of another “to-morrow” in India's history. At the battle-field of Bidera, when Lord Clive, who founded the British Empire in the East, was Governor-General, Forde, who commanded, applied for written authority to begin the attack. His note reached Clive as he was playing cards with his company, and without quitting his seat, he took a pencil and wrote—
“Dear Forde: Fight them immediately, and I will send you the order in council to-morrow!”
Sir Colin, of course, outran his army, for they could not, like him, start “to-morrow.” But a merciful Providence had provided a vanguard of help in the army from Persia, (with which peace had just been concluded,) on their return to India. With this little force was that great and good man, General Havelock, whose promptitude and wonderful valor did so much to turn the dreadful tide, and rescue the besieged long months ere Sir Colin Campbel or his troops could reach India. General Havelock, returning victorious from Persia, landed at Bombay with his Highlanders on the very day before the massacre at Bareilly. Unable to cross the country, he went around by sea to Calcutta as rapidly as possible, reaching there June 17, having been delayed on the way by the total shipwreck of the vessel which carried him. His troops followed, and all that could be done to prepare for pushing up the country was accomplished by this indefatigable man, whom God had brought so opportunely to our aid.
Not a day too soon did his succor come. Up to that hour the Sepoys had it all their own way; one post after another had fallen before them; they were gaining ground every week, and the horrors of the situation for the English were deepening daily. Sepoy success was followed by more desperate resolutions and more terrible measures, falsehood and blasphemy being added in any quantity for their purpose. The measures and spirit of these men may
​be judged from a sample of their public proclamations, issued from Delhi and Cawnpore to the whole Sepoy army, and the officials and people.
The first proclamation was issued in the name of the Emperor's army defending Delhi, which the little English army was then trying to besiege; and the Mogul Court desired to draw the whole Sepoy force in that direction to annihilate them. The glaring falsehoods in the following proclamation are manifest enough:
“To all Hindoos and Mussulmans, Citizens and Servants of Hindustan, the Officers of the Army now at Delhi send greeting:
“It is well known that in these days all the English have entertained these evil designs—first to destroy the religion of the whole Hindustanee army, and then to make the people Christians by compulsion. Therefore we, solely on account of our religion, have combined with the people, and have not spared alive one infidel, and have re-established the Delhi dynasty on these terms, and thus act in obedience to orders, and receive double pay. Hundreds of guns and a large amount of treasure have fallen into our hands; therefore it is fitting that whoever of the soldiers and the people dislike turning Christians should unite with one heart and act courageously, not leaving the seed of these infidels remaining. Whoever shall in these times exhibit cowardice or credulity by believing the promises of those impostors, the English, shall very shortly be put to shame for such a deed; and, rubbing the hands of sorrow, shall receive for their fidelity the reward the ruler of Lucknow got. It is further necessary that all Hindoos and Mussulmans unite in this struggle, and that all, so far as it is possible, copy this proclamation, and dispatch it every-where, so that all true Hindoos and Mussulmans may be alive and watchful, and fix it in some conspicuous place, (but prudently, to avoid detection,) and strike a blow with a sword before giving circulation to it. The first pay of the soldiers at Delhi will be thirty rupees per month for a trooper, and ten rupees for a footman, [a large advance on the English allowance.] Nearly one hundred thousand men are
​ready; and there are thirteen flags of the English regiments, and about fourteen standards from different parts, now raised aloft for our religion, for God, and the conqueror; and it is the intention of Cawnpore to root out the seed of the devil. This is what we of the army here wish.”
But this was mildness compared to the following blasphemous proclamation next issued from Cawnpore by the Nana Sahib:
“As by the kindness of God, and the good fortune of the Emperor, all the Christians who were at Delhi, Poonah, Sattara, and other places, and even those five thousand European soldiers who went in disguise into the former city and were discovered, are destroyed and sent to hell by the pious and sagacious troops who are firm to their religion; and as they have all been conquered by the present Government; and as no trace of them is left in these places—it is the duty of all the subjects and servants of the Government to rejoice at the delightful intelligence, and carry on their respective work with comfort and ease.
“As by the bounty of the glorious Almighty and the enemy-destroying fortune of the Emperor, the yellow-faced and narrow-minded people have been sent to hell, and Cawnpore has been conquered, it is necessary that all the subjects, and land-owners, and Government servants should be as obedient to the present Government as they have been to the former one; that it is the incumbent duty of all the peasants and landed proprietors of every district to rejoice at the thought that the Christians have been sent to hell, and both the Hindoo and Mohammedan religions have been confirmed; and that they should as usual be obedient to the authorities of the Government, and never suffer any complaint against themselves to reach to the ears of the higher authority.”
But even this is exceeded by the outrageous falsehoods of the proclamation with which he further imposed upon their credulity, and tried to rouse them to greater efforts. It finished up with what he deemed to be a suitable quotation from one of the Persian poets, and ran thus:
THE PROCLAMATION OF THE NANA SAHIB.
“A traveler just arrived at Cawnpore from Allahabad states that just before the cartridges were distributed, a Council (of the Governor-General at Calcutta) was held for the purpose of taking away the religion and rights of the people of Hindustan. The Members of Council came to the conclusion that, as the matter was one affecting religion, seven or eight thousand Europeans would be required, and it would cost the lives of fifty thousand Hindoos, but at this price the natives of Hindustan would become Christians. The matter was therefore represented in a dispatch to Queen Victoria, who gave her consent. A second Council was then held, at which the English merchants were present. It was then resolved to ask for the assistance of a body of European troops, equal in number to the native army, so as to insure success. When the dispatch containing this application was read in England, thirty-five thousand Europeans were very rapidly embarked on ships, and started for Hindustan. Then the English in Calcutta issued the order for the distribution of the cartridges, the object of which was to make Hindustan Christian. The cartridges were smeared with hog and cow's fat. One man who let out the secret was hung, and one imprisoned.
“Meantime the embassador of the Sultan of Roum (Turkey) in London sent word to his sovereign that thirty-five thousand Europeans had been dispatched to Hindustan to make all the natives Christians. The Sultan (may Allah perpetuate his kingdom!) issued a firman to the Pasha of Egypt, the contents of which are as follows: ‘You are conspiring with Queen Victoria. If you are guilty of neglect in this matter, what kind of face will you be able to show to God?’
“When this firman of the Sultan of Roum reached the Pasha of Egypt, the Lord of Egypt assembled his army in the city of Alexandria, which is on the road to India, before the Europeans arrived. As soon as the European troops arrived the troops of the Pasha of Egypt began to fire into them with guns on all sides, and sunk all
​their ships, so that not even a single European escaped. The English in Calcutta, after issuing orders for biting the cartridges, and when these disturbances had reached their height, were looking for the assistance of the army from London. But the Almighty, by the exercise of his power, made an end of them at the very outset. When intelligence of the destruction of the army from London arrived, the Governor-General was much grieved and distressed, and beat his head.
“ ‘At eventide he intended murder and plunder;
 At noon neither had his body a head nor his head a cover.
In one revolution of the blue heavens
 Neither Nadir remained, nor a followrer of Nadir.’
“Done by the order of his Grace the Peishwa, 1273 of the Hegira.”
Of course every word of this was believed by the Sepoys, for they not only had the proclamations of their Emperor and the Peishwa, but their Fakirs stood sponsors to the hideous falsehoods.
How appropriate is all this to the spirit of the Moslem creed—a Government communicating to its subjects “the delightful intelligence,” not that its enemies were defeated or slain, but that they were damned—“sent to hell!” Worthy indeed to be the successors of Tamerlane, who, after proving his claim to the title of “the scourge of God,” and marking his long track with massacre and desolation, coolly and complacently wrote with his own hand in his memoir that he felt it to be “a pious duty to assist God in filling hell chock-full of men and genii.”
When, in 1856, Sir Culling Eardly, the President of the Evangelical Alliance, wrote to Dr. Duff, of Calcutta, to ascertain the real sentiment of Mohammedans in India on a question in which the British people felt interested, (as their Government were then pressing certain reforms on the Sultan of Turkey, involving the principles of religious liberty for his subjects,) the world were somewhat surprised at Dr. Duff's reply. His inquiries led him to the conviction that Mohammedanism (like Popery) is unchangeable; that, where it has the power, it would not only enforce its claims
​and creed, but would do so at the sword's point. Individual Mohammedans may, like individual Romanists, be and are exceptions to this statement, and better than their training; but I speak of the system and of the general action—and here are its terrible illustrations in the hour of its opportunity.
Our fate evidently hung upon that of Delhi. If that city fell, we should probably be saved; if not, we must expect the worst, and that soon. But what could less than seven thousand soldiers and a few Sikh and Ghoorka allies do, and that in the open air and in the hottest season of the India year, against a strongly-fortified city, behind whose walls from forty to sixty thousand Sepoys fought! The Commander-in-chief of the Sepoys was Bukt Khan, an acquaintance of my own, for he was from Bareilly, and was Subadar of Artillery under our friend Major Kirby. When I have sat with the Major in the cool of the evening, and seen this sleek Sepoy come in, with such profound courtesy to us both, to deliver his daily report, how little I could have imagined the part he would yet, and so soon, play behind the walls of Delhi, with the Major's coat and cocked hat upon him, and his sword by his side!
Even though that handful of Englishmen could not take the city till they obtained more assistance, it was of immense benefit to us and to India that they held so many Sepoys fast there. The rebels came out in force on the 23d of June, and fought for thirteen hours. Their “astrologers” had declared that “unless they should beat the English army on that day” (the anniversary and centenary of the battle of Plassey, the most important action of the English in India) “the British would hold the country forever.” Hence the force and numbers with which they attacked, and the perseverance with which they kept up the contest. They were repulsed, however, leaving, as usual, the English masters of the field. They were much discouraged at their failure. Their loss on that day was, after all, but small—not over 500; their mode of fighting accounts for this. When they can choose their own ground and method they are very averse to any thing like “close quarters,” and much like the long-shot mode of warfare. This, and lurking
​under the shelter of the garden walls that surround Delhi, was the leading reason why the English could not manage them. Had they come out and fought in the open field, the General would gladly have met them, even with his so much smaller force, and a single day would probably have decided the whole contest. Besides, they found it made a great difference to them whether they were led by English officers or by officers of their own race.
Our provisions were now becoming more and more scarce and dear. Instead of one hundred eggs for sixty-two and a half cents, as it used to be, we had now to pay five cents for a single egg, and all other things rose in value about in the same proportion. Just in our extremity, and quite unexpectedly to us, the Nawab of Rampore, a territory in the plains on the south of our position, sent up a confidential messenger to inquire what he could do for us? This was a great surprise, as he was a Mohammedan and governed a Mohammedan State, and we supposed that he would have gone with the Delhi conspirators. But, in the hour of decision, he remembered that he owed his throne to the justice of the English Government, which refused to carry out the will of the former sovereign of Rampore, one of whose wives induced him to arrange so as to cut off the rightful heir in favor of her little son. The English declined to commit this wrong, but, instead, confirmed the present Nawab; and now, when he was appealed to by the Delhi faction to join them, he declared that, come what might, he would never draw his sword against a people whose justice had defended his rights. He quietly withstood all their persuasions and threats, even at personal hazard, and was faithfully sustained in his resolution by his Minister and the Commander-in-chief of his little army—two men whom I had afterward the satisfaction of seeing publicly rewarded for their fidelity.
This was a great providence for us. Had the Nawab proved hostile, especially as our south pass touched his territory, our position would have been probably untenable for a single week. But he quietly covered our danger on that side, and left our defenders more free to watch our Bareilly foes on the east pass. What he
​did in our favor, however, he had to do quietly, so as not to rouse the fanaticism of his own population, or the hostility of Khan Bahadur Khan.
On ascertaining our extremity he sent us rice, sugar, flour, etc., with some medicine and money—what he could spare and safely remit to us. We were certainly very much obliged to “his Highness” for these unlooked-for succors. But even his messengers could not restrain their bigotry: they duly informed our few Ghoorkas (hill soldiers) that “the ‘King of Rohilcund’ had raised an army of twenty thousand, and was casting cannon, etc.; also, that the Emperor of Delhi had taken the Fort of Calcutta, and his victorious armies were spreading all over the country!” So that even this help brought its own danger with it, and increased our anxiety.
The road to the Punjab through Kurnal was most providentially kept open. The Punjab was the only source from which a man, or a barrel of flour, or a case of medicine, could reach the English army before Delhi. Had that road been closed upon them, their condition must soon have become desperate. But the circumstances that retained that key of their position in friendly hands was as providential as the good will of the Rampore Nawab toward us at Nynee Tal. Mr. Le Bas, the Judge of Delhi, owed his life on the day of the slaughter to the speed of his horse. He reached Kurnal, about forty miles to the north-west, and sought an interview with the Nawab. It was the hour of England's deepest humiliation, and Le Bas trembled for the loyalty of the Nawab. But early the following morning he came to Mr. Le Bas and said: “I have spent a sleepless night in meditating on the state of affairs. I have decided to throw in my lot with yours. My sword, my purse, and my followers are at your disposal.”
Faithfully did the brave Nawab redeem his promise, and at the head of his little force he saved many a European life, several ladies among them, and kept the road to the Punjab open till Delhi fell, and the English Empire was restored.
It is also a pleasure to record another instance of wonderful humanity from a very unexpected quarter. In the month of July
​a Fakir named Himam Bhartee found his way to Meerut, and presented himself before Mr. Greathead, the Commissioner, with a little European baby in his arms, which he had found deserted and alone near the Jumna River. He had taken care of it, and even defended its life at great risk to himself, and delivered it up safe and sound. Mr. Greathead was delighted, and pressed the Fakir to receive a reward; but he would accept none, and only expressed a desire that a Well might be made to bear his name and commemorate the act. The Commissioner promised it should be done, and the Fakir departed well pleased. Let the name of this humane creature live here, and my readers remember Himam Bhartee, of Dhunoura. The parents of the little one were never discovered; but good Samaritans were found to adopt and love it.
The sad monotony of our life was suddenly disturbed early on Sunday morning, August 4th, by an imperative message from our Commander, ordering all the ladies and children, with three or four gentlemen in charge of them, away at once that day from Nynee Tal to Almorah, thirty miles farther into the mountains. Information that he had received required this movement as a matter of precaution to them, while it would leave their husbands more free and unshackled to meet the emergencies that were expected to arise.
Several reasons had concurred to lead to this measure. First of all, our provisions were becoming exhausted, and our supplies from below being (except from the Rampore side) cut off, the Commissioner felt himself quite puzzled to sustain our market.
In the next place, the delay of the fall of Delhi was rendering our enemies more rampant, in the expectation that they would soon weary out and destroy the little English army (now reduced, besides Ghoorkas and Sikhs, to twenty-five hundred European bayonets) before its walls; and then they hoped to make short work in other parts of the country.
Another reason was, that our friend the Nawab of Rampore was considered to be exposed to peculiar danger at the approaching Eyde, (an annual festival of the Mohammedans, during which they
​are peculiarly excitable.) The Nawab's refusal to join the Bareilly rebels, and his kindness in sending us supplies and money, had rendered him very unpopular with the Mohammedan fanatics among his people, and it was feared that, during the Eyde, he might be assassinated, in which case his successor would probably have been elected with the express understanding that he should do what he could to aid the rebel interests, and, likely, to begin by an attempt to cut us off, as we were close at hand.
The next and chief reason for our removal was, that Khan Bahadar Khan, the new “King of Rohilcund,” had actually dispatched an increased force from Bareilly to Nynee Tal, in order to destroy us; and the Commissioner had certain information on Saturday morning that they had not only started, but were encamped at Bahari, mid-way between Nynee Tal and Bareilly. Still, even this alone would not have caused us to leave, for “his army” were not likely to look our three hundred Ghoorka troops in the face, much less to have gone near the cannon and the body of English gentlemen with which we had fortified the head of the pass. But our anxiety was, that inasmuch as preparation to meet them involved the withdrawal of all the troops and the gentlemen from Nynee Tal, this would necessarily leave our ladies and children unprotected against any attempt that such an hour of opportunity would present to the Mohammedans in the Nynee Tal Bazaar. Were they to rise while we were below, they might slaughter every soul of them in a single hour, and the more easily, should the rebels below agree, as they likely would, to attack us at both passes at once, so as to divide our little force.
The distance from Nynee Tal to Almorah is thirty miles over the mountains, by a path which varies from four to six feet in width. It runs in some places on the very verge of precipices that are as nearly perpendicular as possible, while the depths below are sometimes frightful to look at. It requires great steadiness and care, from the rough and narrow path to be traversed, to go without danger, while in some places a single false step, especially at night, is instant destruction.
​Ladies are carried in a little chair-like vehicle by four men, with four to relieve. Gentlemen generally ride one of the hill ponies, which are very sure-footed. The journey occupies three days, ten miles being as much as can be comfortably accomplished in one day.
When our sudden order of departure came I arranged everything for the ladies intrusted to my charge, and sent them on, expecting to follow and overtake them in a short time; but such was the demand, I could not obtain coolies enough to take their luggage (including food and bedding, which travelers must always carry with them) till four o'clock in the afternoon. I then started, but the lateness of the hour entailed on me a great deal of toil and suffering. Indeed, I never had such a journey in all my life as that was. For an hour or two I made my way tolerably well. The sunset was brilliant, and among other objects of interest were immense lizards (some of them full fourteen inches long) which were darting across my path and over the verges. My way lay over and around a succession of mountains—so it was constantly up and down—the valleys between varying from a quarter of a mile to a mile in width. The little torrents had torn the path here and there, and in some places it was so rocky and rough that it was very hard work to pick one's way over it. Going down the hill was, from the precipitous and stony condition of the narrow path, something like going down an irregular flight of stairs a mile or more in length.
The daylight began to decline, and my little pony showed symptoms of unsteadiness. The heavy rains had softened the edge of the path, and rendered it liable to give way under very moderate pressure, so that caution was doubly necessary. At one place that looked doubtful I dismounted, and had not gone many yards when one of the hind feet of the pony sank, which caused him to stagger, and in a moment he went hastily over the precipice. The jerk on the reins caused one of the bit buckles to give way, which was a great mercy, as it gave me an instant in which to turn round and lay some pressure on the reins as they flew through my hand,
​and I was thus enabled in some degree to arrest his downward progress before he went too far to be recovered.
There he clung, the poor brute, with merely his nose above the edge of the precipice, and he eagerly holding on to the bank like a man standing on a ladder. Beneath him sloped down the declivity for several hundred feet, till the mist terminated the view; what was beyond that limit I could only infer by the roar of the river beneath, which sounded very deep indeed, so that had the poor fellow missed his hold, or taken one roll, his doom was certain. In an emergency how rapidly one can think! There was no help within many miles, and a very few minutes would decide his fate. I had sold his worthy predecessor, when rather hard pressed for cash, and had paid only forty dollars for him; but he looked very valuable as he hung on that precipice, and I imagined to myself what could I do without him there in that wilderness, with such a journey before me, and I alone; the night, too, falling fast. I felt for the poor creature, and I pitied myself, for I could ill afford to lose him, particularly there and then. To get him straight up would have required twenty men's strength. No time was to be lost. I feared every moment that he would begin to struggle, and then I must be prepared to know how long I dare hold on, and what instant I must let him go, lest he should jerk me over along with himself, and both be lost. A thought struck me. I got his head round on one side; he seemed to understand my object, and slightly shifted one foot, while I held him as fast as I dared by the rein. He then dug the other foot into the ground, and soon I had the gratification of having him right across the hill, and then by a little maneuvering I moved him, step by step, till I got him up. He was not much hurt, and after a little while I mounted, but had not proceeded half a mile when he trod on another soft edge. I felt him stagger, and had just time to free my right foot from the stirrup, and pitch off into the mud of the road, as he went over the bank. There I hung, half-way on the path, my legs dangling over the margin. Having scrambled up, I saw that he had dropped down about twelve feet, on a heap of
​sharp stones, and on going down to him I found his hind shoes torn off, and he lamed and much injured. I managed to get him up again to the path; but, alas! he was now worse than no horse at all. Seven long miles of that narrow and dangerous road lay between me and the dak Bungalow, and he could not walk a step only as I dragged him along. The night soon fled, and he failed fast. Never in all my life have I felt any thing so lonely as was that weary walk through those dark woods and over those high mountains. The keen remembrance of it will go with me to the grave. The poor animal had some of the stumps of the nails in his hoofs, which every step seemed to drive higher as he trod on the stony path, until at last it was real misery to look at him as he slowly and painfully limped along. What to do I could not tell; he was getting worse every step. To abandon him seemed cruel, and yet to stay with him, without even the means of lighting a fire, was to expose myself to equal danger. I had no alternative but to bring him along as well as I could; so I pulled him on over the rocks and streams, and up the hills, till I became utterly spent. The solitude around was something dreadful—no sound save the occasional yells of the wild animals—and I was obliged to keep a sharp lookout lest we should be pounced upon by a tiger. I had my gun on my shoulder, but the only charge I had with me was in it, so that one shot was my whole dependence in that line. Another element of anxiety was the fact that at the cross paths there were no signboards, and painful indeed was the suspense sometimes felt as to which road to take, or whether I was on the right path at all. Many an earnest prayer I put up to God at some of these doubtful points that He would in mercy guide me aright. The heat in the woods and valleys was great, and this, added to my exertions, caused so much perspiration that it fast exhausted my remaining strength, till at last I had to sit down and calculate what was to be done. I was also faint from hunger, having only had a light and very early breakfast, and neither dinner nor supper. My tongue swelled, and seemed to fill my mouth. As I sat there and thought of all I had given up for India, perhaps it was pardonable that, for
​a moment, I indulged a longing for the peace and privileges of the happy land I had left; but it was only for a moment, and all was right again. I felt I was just where I would like best to be, though for the present these trials seemed hard to bear. It was an hour of unusual experience, and the depression was correspondent to it. The hunger, the darkness, the surrounding danger, the heat and laborious exertion, with the uncertainty of my whereabouts, and the probable distance of any help, all together constituted such a drain on my strength, and hope, and fortitude, as I never before endured. To complete my calamities, both my boots had given way on the stony paths, and my feet were wet as well as sore.
As I was looking round for a tree in which I might spend the night, out of the reach of the animals, (for I felt as if I could go no farther,) I recollected Brother Stevens and “Old Jeddy,” and the “rest at home” that cheered him on that eventful night in the wilderness. I lifted up my heart to God and asked for strength for body and for soul; and there, in the midst of my gloom and solitude, I was cheered by the presence of my heavenly Father. A train of delightful reflections set in. I thought of my own deep indebtedness to the Divine mercy; I thought of our Church, and the glorious work that God had spread before her; and I thought of my own mission, and of that future day when it would spread among these degraded multitudes, and when they would love the Redeemer as I loved him then! How these thoughts and feelings braced up my soul for life and duty! Exhaustion was forgotten, and my full heart gushed out in strong affection toward the blessed Jesus, until I felt ready to bear any thing for his dear sake. I felt it easy to come to the conclusion that my state, with all its weariness, was one that I would not exchange with any of the votaries of this world's pleasure or ease. I rose to my feet, and these words came from the depths of my heart, and went up on the night air to heaven:
“In a dry land, behold I place
 My whole desire on thee, O Lord;
And more I joy to gain thy grace
 Than all earth's treasures can afford.”
​Shortly after, when climbing round the spur of one of the mountains, the dense clouds separated and exposed to view right before me the “Snowy Range” towering up so majestically to the skies! The full moon was shining upon it, and imparting to it that purple tint which makes it look so lovely and so unearthly! It was the grandest natural sight I ever beheld, and to me was brilliantly suggestive of that “land of rest,” where the sun shall no more go down, neither shall the moon withdraw itself; but the Lord shall be unto us an everlasting light, and the days of our mourning shall be ended!
I resumed my weary way, our pace being now about one mile an hour, and at nearly eleven o'clock came to the summit of a high mountain, where there seemed to be two paths, which increased my perplexity; but on looking off to the right I could make out that the hills rounded into a crescent, on the far point of which I discovered a light, which I knew must be from the window of the dak Bungalow! After all my anxiety I had been guided in safety by a way I knew not. On reaching the Bungalow, I found that neither bed nor food was to be had. However, I was too tired to care much for food, so the privation was little felt. I could have relished a comfortable bed had it been available, but the floor and shelter of a roof were mercies. The ladies had safely and duly arrived, and were stretched, some on the ground and others on charpoys, and thus the night wore over.
Next morning there was no sign of the coolies, so we resumed our march, my poor horse being obliged to remain where he was, and by evening we were overtaken at the next Bungalow by our bedding and food, both of which were very welcome indeed. We arrived at Almorah next day, tired enough, and were accommodated with a couple of rooms in a little house near the fort. Some of our friends would smile could they see the humble accommodations, for which we felt no small amount of gratitude. The floor was of clay; we had two camp tables, three chairs, and two charpoys—that was the extent of our furniture! But “necessity is the mother of invention,” and we soon found out that a trunk lid could be
​made into a table, and that a child can sleep as well in a basket or in an old box as on a mahogany bedstead. So our “picnic” fashion of life in Almorah gave us little concern, any inconveniences being amply balanced by the reflection that thirty miles more of mountains lay between our precious charge and danger.
Our worthy Commissioner, after a time, unable to endure longer this “hunger for news” that was consuming us, organized a post department of his own, and by relays of Paharees, stretching along the crest of the Himalayas, for what is usually seventeen days' journey to Mussoorie, above Dehra Doon, managed to reach on to beyond the immediate circle of Sepoy power and establish communication with the Europeans there, who were able to correspond with the Punjab, and obtain such news as was available from that quarter.
Information of our whereabouts and safety now got abroad, and worked its way around by the sea-coast to Calcutta. The 13th of August was a joyful day. To our delight and astonishment, the Paharee postman that morning brought us three numbers of the Christian Advocate, and three of Zion's Herald, for the month of April! The postmaster at Bombay had found us out, and commenced sending us a mail whenever he had the chance, via Kurrachee, Lahore, and Mussoorie. So we now began to receive papers and letters with more or less regularity. Only those who have been, as we were, shut up for three months and a half without a letter or a paper or a word from home, can imagine the joy with which we grasped the precious documents, and sat down to devour their contents. It was almost like life from the dead!
But, while grateful for news at last, what horrible accounts of massacre and pillage poured in upon us—frightful details of what had occurred! How truly we realized, as we heard or read them. the reality of the lines—
“My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage.”
At our family altar, and in our closet, our cry was, “O Lord, how long.” Nor was the suffering and wretchedness limited to the
​Europeans. The feuds between the Hindoos and Mohammedans were revived, and conflicts between them increased in bitterness and cruelty, until the country became one scene of anarchy. Trade, agriculture, and industry in general were all but suspended; any one that had a rupee to lose lost it; riot and bloodshed became the order of the day, while rapine and murder were openly carried on by the Goojurs, a Gipsy-like class of vagabonds, whom the miserable Mohammedan Government was unable to put down.
Short as our time was in Bareilly, I have the satisfaction of knowing that our labors were not altogether fruitless. Several of the Europeans who attended our little English service had spoken in grateful terms of the benefits received under the preaching. Among these was the excellent Dr. Bowhill, Surgeon of the Sixty-eighth Native Infantry. This gentleman had a very narrow escape for his life on the day of the massacre. His horse carried him only about twenty miles, and then fell dead lame. The remainder of the seventy-four miles he had to walk (with a very occasional lift on the horses of others of the party) under a broiling sun. I went to meet and congratulate him on his escape. We kneeled down together, and never shall I forget his emotions while I offered up to the service of the Holy Trinity the life that had been so mercifully preserved! It was a privilege to have made the friendship of such a man; and not only so, but also to have had that friendship cemented by the holiest ties. His sense of duty led him, as soon as the Commissioner arranged the letter post along the Himalayas, to venture to cross to Mussoorie and thence to Kurnal, and then join any passing column, so as to reach the little English army before Delhi, where his professional services were so much required. The brave man made his perilous way in safety, and we heard occasionally from him. In reply to a letter which I had written, expressing my gratitude for great professional kindness, especially at Nynee Tal, and adding a word or two to “strengthen his hands in God,” he says: “I do not feel that I am in any way entitled to the thanks you give for my attendance on your family. Inasmuch as the soul is more worthy than the body, so much the more are
​my thanks due to you; for, under Providence, I have to thank you for teaching me to love God. I feared him before I knew you, and that fear restrained me. Now I feel that, through your means, I love my Saviour and Redeemer, and try to obey because I love him.” What must have been then the condition of things before Delhi may be understood by the Doctor's statement, when he adds in this communication, that “Such is the amount of sickness which prevails, that twenty-five hundred of our men are in hospital, two hundred and forty-one of whom entered in one day. In my own regiment of five hundred men two hundred and forty-seven are lying sick! I fear that if the assault does not take place soon we shall not have men enough in health to attempt it. May God save us from a reverse before Delhi! The effect of a repulse here might be ruinous throughout the whole country.” How earnestly we prayed for the brave men in that little army who were thus suffering and fighting for us there!
Just then we had a little battle of our own to go through. On the Thursday after the receipt of this letter from Delhi, Khan Bahadur ordered his forces to assault our position. They moved up nearer to our defenses and encamped for the night, perhaps not realizing, being all “plains men,” how chilly they would feel the next morning in the cold hill air. Our Commandant saw his advantage, and very early next morning dropped down into the little valley where they were encamped, with thirty gentlemen and the twenty-five faithful Sowars, making a little body of cavalry; these, with the two hundred and fifty of our Ghoorka (hill) troops, came quietly upon them before they had unrolled themselves out of their blankets, and a fearful carnage ensued. In an hour all was over. The Sepoys fled in every direction, leaving one hundred and fourteen of their number dead, besides what wounded they managed to carry off.
After counting the enemy's dead, our men turned to ascertain their own loss, and, to their surprise and gratitude, found that they had only one man—a Sowar (native horseman)—killed, and two Ghoorkas wounded. One officer, Captain Gibbency, was slightly
​touched by a pistol ball, and this was all. The effect of this contest was of great importance. It struck some terror into the Sepoy mind, and they refused ever after to come up into our glens again; it raised our spirits, and had an immense effect upon the hill people, who of course flattered themselves that the victory was due to their own prowess. It also deepened their hatred of the Mohammedan party; while below, the Hindoo villagers took courage to help the Commandant, and actually captured nine rebels, stragglers who had turned to the work of plundering the villagers and abusing their women. They were brought up to Nynee Tal, tried, and executed at once. I was informed that they met their doom with the indifference that characterizes Mohammedan fatalists.
After this event some of the villagers and Hindoo Zemindars (landholders) of the plains around our hills sent up deputations to our Commandant, requesting him to assist them against the Mohammedans, and offering to pay their jumma (revenue) to him if he would only sustain them (as they thought him now able to do) against the rebel Government. But Major Ramsay was too prudent to go beyond his safe line, especially as he well knew he was still closely watched by a powerful and wily foe, and must risk nothing while he had ladies to protect. That foe, however, was beginning to feel certain qualms of anxiety, for already Havelock's name and the story of his victories were flying over the land, and they felt that he, or some other English General, might ere long give them a better opportunity to prove their courage than what they had when they so leisurely and safely cut down and butchered unarmed men and defenseless women and children.
It was “a day of rebuke and blasphemy,” but I still believed that our redemption was drawing nigh, and that all would be overruled for good. How grateful I feel that my letter to the Corresponding Secretary, written at this time, closes with the following words, now measurably in process of fulfillment:
“One sentence in closing. Believe me, this is one of the last terrible efforts of hell to retain its relaxing grasp on beautiful India, and the issue will be salvation for her millions . . .
​Don't be discouraged for us. If the sufferings abound, so do the consolations. But if I am cut off, (which is not improbable,) remember my mission and sustain it. Farewell, Doctor. Again let me beseech you, whether I live or die, remember my mission and sustain it. For India is to be Redeemed!”