The Last Argument of Kings
The Arrest of the Maulvi from Captain Thurburn’s Perspective and Other Sundry Incidents
Captain Felix Thurburn had been appointed magistrate to Fyzabad and Oudh in 1856. Having witnessed the annexation of the province, he already had an idea that his lot was not going to be an easy one. His first duty was to keep the peace and he was going to fulfil his duty, come hell or high water. The Maulvi was not the first nuisance he had to deal with.
For several months before the outbreak at Meerut, Fyzabad had been a hotbed of sedition, with “fanatics of varied types” descending in the city, and “were employed, on all sides, preaching and giving course to sedition, where ever people be congregated to listen to them.” The Maulvi, however, proved to be a particular nuisance. He and his followers had deliberately refused to give up their arms when arriving and his “frenzied behaviour” was causing a ruckus. All Thurburn was waiting for was for the Maulvi to do something particularly disagreeable.
The opportunity presented itself when Thurburn personally requested him to give up his arms. Again, the Maulvi refused; and Thurburn was met by ” him and his retainers ranging themselves in open defiance, and with partly drawn swords intimating plainly their
determination to defend themselves from further molestation.” Unarmed, Thurburn retired but he called together a small body of the police and placed the Maulvi and his followers under surveillance. Uneasy in mind, Thurburn returned home at dusk – along the way he noticed vast crowds gathering in the city’s meeting places; in his understanding, it was now possible the populace would attempt to rescue the Maulvi.
Sufficiently disturbed by the incident of the day, Thurburn assembled two companies of Infantry with their European officers, and after a brief consultation with the military and civil authorities, it was decided that unless the Maulvi complied by morning, then Thurburn would have the authority to arrest them, by any means necessary.
As it was, the Maulvi of course failed to give up his arms at the appointed hour. The sepoys were ordered to advance but they did not move. Seeing their obvious reluctance, the Maulvi and his men took the offensive and launched an attack.
Young Lieutenant Thomas, seeing his men holding their ground, rushed ahead of his men in an attempt to encourage them to follow – no one did. Brutally attacked and cut by swords from all sides, Thomas fell severely injured and Thurburn, seeing that no one was going to save the young officer, took out his pistol and shot dead three of the assailants. It was enough the take the lead off the sepoys’ feet and they charged. Wounded in the shoulder, the Maulvi fled.
Thurburn was no longer in the mood to negotiate, his patience worn thin by this obvious fiasco. He cornered the Maulvi in a small room in the caravanserai – and calling out to him to surrender, Thurburn ordered the men with him, should the Maulvi refuse, to fire into the place with no quarter.
Realising Thurburn was not going to relent, the Maulvi threw his sword outside the door and sullenly delivered himself up to the magistrate. Tried for sedition, the Maulvi was sentenced for transportation overseas. If it had been up to Thurburn, he would have done away with the coquetry of law, and executed him on the spot. Had he been allowed to act, Thurburn could have, perhaps singlehandedly spared much bloodletting and misery that was to come in the next months.
With the Maulvi safely ensconced in jail within the cantonments, Thurburn returned to his regular business. Not that he was to have any peace.
It was a normal day at the Deputy Commissioners Court; nothing untoward or remarkable had happened in the morning – so it was all the more surprising, when suddenly all the clerks and writers in the offices, some 70 in number, simultaneously shut their books and hastened to escape the building, in a mad flight, putting as much distance between them and the building as they could. “No collusion or design could in any way be traced for such an act on the part of any of them, but it proved to be one of the straws preceding the storm, which was ere long to burst on our devoted heads.” Thurburn, to his horror, would discover that day that Azimgarh had mutinied and the 17th Regt N.I. was leisurely marching to Fyzabad. How the writers and clerks knew, he never discovered.
For the next 20 days, Thurburn took to sleeping with loaded guns and pistols around his bed and had an armed guard placed outside his room – men he himself had selected and to a man, would all prove to be traitors at heart.
He fortified his residence and laid in supplies for several months in anticipation of a siege – “but alas ! all these precautions were to no purpose, for the tainted leaven of treachery had already crept into the garrison. On the first appearance of imminent danger, the supplies were declared polluted, and designed for the taking away of caste; my private goods and chattels were stolen piecemeal from under my very eyes; commands and orders issued were insolently conveyed to those for whom they were intended; and the numbered majesty of my brave men-at-arms dwindled down daily from scores to tens, and latterly from tens to units.”
As a last resort, Thurburn caused all letters deemed suspicious to be detained at the Post Office; he employed several spies to bring him news of any conspirators within and outside of Fyzabad, and “to leave no chance unturned, bribed by gifts, the goodwill of the chief priests in power.” The intention of this last move intended to have ears in the temples – where he himself could not go, others could hear for him of any sedition afoot.
Between all of these goings-on, he was ordered to arrest Raja Maun Singh, by direct order from Lucknow by Sir Henry Lawrence. Exasperated, Thurburn lodged the Raja in his own house, where at least, he would have some measure of comfort and Thurburn could somehow cover over the whole disagreeable affair as an extended visit of sorts. Raja Maun Singh was one of the most influential noblemen in Fyzabad and his arrest could not have come at a worse time for as Thurburn saw it, they would soon be in need of friends.
Gradually it became clear the 17th Regt N.I. was nearing Fyzabad. They had taken their time marching down; but this simply added to the menace they carried in their wake and “As it halted or advanced on its line of march, the state of the public mind rose or fell with barometrical precision.” It was not long before the 22nd Regt. N.I. had made up their minds – they informed their officers that unless the 17th attacked, they would, under no circumstances open the fight with them. The statement was tantamount to mutiny, but their officers still refused to hear any words said against their men.
As the situation became dire it was obvious holding Raja Maun Singh was, besides wrong, it was foolish. Captain Alexander Orr had vehemently opposed the arrest and it was left to him and Captain Reid to smooth things over with the Raja, now that they needed him.
This family had had a long history in India, and all of it was in the service of the King of Oudh. Originally of Scottish descent, they had settled in Oudh long before the annexation – the father of the captain, also named Alexander, had served as librarian to the Nawab of Oudh, and three of his sons were officers in the Nawab’s army. Captain Patrick Orr was the second of three brothers, all, prior to the annexation, in the service of the King of Oudh. The eldest brother Alexander had then rendered excellent service as Assistant to the Superintendent of Frontier Police. After the annexation, he was made an Assistant Commissioner. He was as able as he was hard-working. The second brother, Patrick, commanded originally one of the King’s regular regiments of infantry. On the annexation, he, too, was made all Assistant Commissioner. He was a brave, zealous, and able officer. The youngest brother, Adolphus, was, under the King, adjutant of one of his infantry regiments. On annexation, he was appointed to command the 3rd Regiment of Oudh Military Police, which, on the outbreak of the mutiny, was stationed at the Moti Mahall, Lucknow – Kaye and Malleson.
Captain Adolphus Orr would be caught up in the siege of Lucknow. He would be one of only six British or Eurasian residents to be rewarded with vast tracts of land in Oudh by the EICo following the mutiny, such was the value of his services before and after 1857.
Discretion is the better part of Valour, June 9th
While all this was playing out, still little thought had been given as to what anyone would actually do when the inevitable mutiny would break out. As we have seen in the previous chapter, Raja Maun Singh was finally persuaded to take under his charge every European from Fayzabad and he even made preparations to this effect. Yet, what Sir Henry Lawrence saw was not the much defenceless women and children of Fyzabad – his concern was the entire artillery battery stationed in the cantonments of Fyzabad, which could, should things turn sour, be turned on him. For this purpose, Sir Henry gave the civilians in Fyzabad the authority to bribe the men who manned the guns. Offered a princely sum of £20’000, they were to bring the 6 guns to Lucknow and hand them over to Sir Henry – however, “the fellows could not be moved to do aught in the matter, save make hollow protestations of fidelity…” as it was, these 6 guns would do sterling work but not in aid of Sir Henry, rather the opposite. Manned by their very disloyal gunners, they would be brought into play against the Lucknow garrison and would aid in the rout that would be the very disastrous affair of Chinhat.
Bribery did not work with the men of the artillery and reasoning as we have already seen, did not work with the officers or the women in the cantonments. While the civilians packed off their families to Shahgunj on the 7th of June where they would be very cordially treated by Raja Maun Singh, Captain Thurburn, Captain Reid and Colonel Goldney all saw it as their duty, honour bound to remain in Fyzabad, come what may.
On the night of the 8th, all of the civilians dined at Captain Thurburn’s house.
Dinner complete, they each went their separate ways – Mr. Bradford returned to the cutcherry “in the belief, which the result proved well-founded, that the men of the 22nd NI on treasure guard would protect him.” As for Captain Thurburn and Captain Orr, they made the rounds of the police stations in the town, and found nothing amiss. Thurburn was persuaded then, instead of returning to his own house, to remain the rest of the night at the home of Captain Reid.
While the civilians settled down for the night’s sleep, two miles away, in the cantonments a bugle was sounded in the irregular lines; answered by the call from 22nd; and the cry went up, as heard in the Meerut bazaar not so long ago, the Europeans were coming to exterminate everyone in Fyzabad. Whipped up into a state of frenzy, the sepoys of the 22nd and 6th Irregulars declared themselves servants to the King of Delhi.
During the night, the guards in the city left their posts, and by morning, Fyzabad had gone over to the mutineers.
Captain Thurburn awoke early on the 9th of June. He was little prepared for the chaos that would greet him.
“The first thing that saluted my eyes was a party of cavalry, that had been sent out into the country a couple of days previously, for the purpose of watching the 17th Regiment, returning to cantonments, through the gateway over which we were domiciled. The men composing it, though now returning to their headquarters without permission, were not yet aware that the mutiny had actually taken place. Had it been otherwise, our situation would without question have been rather a desperate one. Anticipating the outbreak, however
as they passed underneath the arches of our gateway, they said to the men composing our civic guard, “see to it, that you don’t fire upon us when we return.” This remark was not lost
for one’s ears are sharp enough with the dullest of us, when life is at stake. I had hardly notified to my friends the purport of my suspicions in respect to this incident, when the head jailor of the prison rushed in, to say that the military forces protecting it had left during the night without orders, and that the prisoners were clamorously tearing down the bars of their cells. Shortly after this report had been received, several of our spies and messengers also came in pell mell, with more discomforting intelligence of the whirligig state of affairs around us ; the enforced departure of the military officers in boats, and the fact that the mutinous troops had already taken possession of a part of the town, and would soon doubtless make their appearance before us, for the purpose of making us their prisoners.”
Captain Reid on the other hand, had been receiving alarming reports since dawn. Realising Mr. Bradford was at the cutcherry, he quickly sent off a note to him, requesting him to come with all haste to Captain Reid’s house. As it turned out, Mr. Bradford never received the note – all communication had been cut off and since sunrise, the mutineers had moved down from cantonments into the city. Captains Reid, Orr and Thurburn decided that in this situation, resistance was indeed quite impossible and retreat, though perhaps not honourable, certainly preferable to death. Captain Thurburn would write,
“Seeing that the thunder-cloud had indeed burst, and that no object could possibly be obtained by a further risking of our lives (our civic guard having long previously bolted), we with sad hearts ordered out our horses, just as the rebels reached the end of the street we were in, for the purpose of attacking our little party of three Englishmen. Discretion, in this instance, was no doubt the better part of valour, so mounting our steeds we made a leisurely retrograde move, in a direction least likely to be open to observation and pursuit.”
Unencumbered by baggage and with no families in tow (having sent them on the 7th of June to Shahgunj), the three men rode off with all haste out of Fyzabad. They could now pursue a “zig-zag course”, avoiding the direct road to Shahgunj but proceeding at right angles to it, in every effort to avoid any danger of pursuit by the mutineers. Captain Orr suggested heading for the village of Gowrea under the tutelage of “a well-disposed Rajput” named Burrisal Singh. It was a ride of 12 miles which had to be undertaken during the hottest part of the day; but after four hours of hard riding, the three men found themselves in safety.
“We were rewarded by meeting with a favourable reception; and, wayworn and exhausted, gladly on his invitation entered his female apartments, which we knew if once opened to a guest, would be inviolable, and be defended to the bitter death by the master of the house.”
In the distance they heard a royal artillery salute – they would find out soon after it was in honour of the new King of Fyzabad – Ahmed Ullah Shah.
Throughout the day, increasingly alarming reports reached Burrisal Singh – a proclamation had been issued for the heads of Orr, Thurburn and Reid; and anyone caught harbouring them would suffer the consequences of such actions. Justifiably alarmed, he
“assembled a number of his clan, all armed to the teeth, and conducted us further into the recesses of the jungle. After travelling some distance we found ourselves in a most curious place called Mookta-ka-Poorwa—a dilapidated mud fort, surrounded by trees and dense brushwood, that completely hid it from outward observation but that of the comer, as he stumbled into its ditches. The few huts nestling under the crumbling walls had once been occupied by men of the Robin Hood type ; but they now formed the residence of the family priest of our Rajpoot friend, and who, in addition to his clerical duties, followed the more lucrative pursuit of an astrologer. To such a strange bedfellow had our adversity introduced us!”
The priest took them under his protection and placed the men in the apartments of his womenfolk, the safest place he could put them. It was not without reason: several sepoys had been prowling around the fort. While the men remained hidden, the sepoys continued to visit the old astrologer.
“He faithfully fulfilled his trust, and after his interviews with the rebels, amused us by relating their exaggerated accounts of the mutiny at Benares, from whence some of them had just fled. The astrologer further diverted our brooding thoughts by stating that he well knew that all these calamities were about to take place long before they occurred; as for the fall of the British Government, he had prognosticated that weeks previously, and further he augured from the stars that blood would soon run ankle deep about Delhi during the months of September and October, but that a great King or Queen from the West would attain to the regal power over India, to be followed by a dynasty of Sikhs. Curious to say, his statement regarding Delhi was fully borne out; and stretching a point he was right also in the matter of a Queen of the West becoming the ruler of the country; for a few months afterwards the regal powers of the East India Company were withdrawn, and substituted by those of Her Majesty. It is to be hoped, that having made such palpable hits, he will miss the mark in his prediction respecting the Sikhs!“
Towards nightfall, the three men were escorted to Shahgunj by 16 villagers of Gowrea – it was a long march of 15 miles in the dark, but Thurburn could not help noticing the full moon was glorious! Their welcome at the fort’s gates was all but heartening, consisting of a “grand fusilade on imaginary foes…” but after some earnest deliberations on the part of the villagers with the guards, they were finally admitted inside. Here Thurburn, Orr and Reid found their families in safety.
It was but a short sojourn. Raja Maun Singh’s brother shortly came and informed them that the rebels had sent an order to the Raja himself – they knew he was hiding fugitive Europeans and could expect a visit from them in the morning. The Raja’s brother fortunately had a plan. He had already prepared boats to convey them down the Gogra to Dinapur (220 miles distant!) but the boats were moored at Poorwa Ghat, near Begumganj, where not so long ago their compatriots had made their stand.
It was only 11 miles away, but a direct route would have attracted too much attention and it was decided to instead take a detour of some 18 miles instead. The ladies and children were placed in palanquins while the men were provided with horses. If discretion and stealth had been the idea, the several hundred retainers ordered to accompany them put a close to that. Barely out of sight of the fort, Thurburn was informed by some men in the retinue that his wife’s palanquin was suspected of harbouring not just Mrs. Thurburn but a great quantity of jewellery. He was advised to keep his weapon at the ready as an attack was imminent on the poor woman. As it was, she would be parted from her jewellery but not in the way Thurburn expected.
Some miles further, the Thurburn’s realised they had been separated from the rest of the party with their guide leading them through the village of Budurshah, instead of around it, as the rest of the party had done. Seeing there was nothing for it, the Thurburns proceeded – only to discover that the men sleeping on the ground were not friendly villagers but rebels from the mutinied regiment of Sultanpore. Traversing the village as noiselessly as possible, they were but short of congratulating themselves on not waking a soul, when
“As we cleared the suburbs, a great shouting was set up in our vicinity. It proved to be the last farewell of an escaped convict from the Fyzabad jail; who having recognised me, could not refrain from tendering his worst wishes for my journey, in language which, in deference to ears polite, shall remain unchronicled.”
The slumber of the sepoys must have been deep indeed, for even after this ruckus, not a soul stirred!
The escort now entreated Thurburn to remove his wife from the palanquin – they had organised an elephant, which considering a pachyderm was a wiser choice for an escape than a wooden box carried by tired men, Thurburn agreed. Their disguise consisted of a white sheet thrown over both man and wife, with some hope of evading recognition. Safely astride the elephant, the mahout urged the animal to make haste – while the palanquin-bearers lagged behind and at the first opportune moment made off with Mrs. Thurburn’s boxes, some of which did indeed contain her jewellery. There was nothing for it – the Thurburns had to push on.
Nearing the river they met an old woman. She had but two days previously witnessed the killings of Goldney and Bright at neatly the same spot where the Thurburns now halted. Believing the escort was on “evil deeds intent” she plead with all earnestness for the Englishman’s life. It was not without reward. The moment they had taken to speak to her, had caused Thurburn to notice the approach of 2 horsemen – clad in the red of the regiment they had so recently rebelled against. The Thurburns ran, leaving now even the elephant behind.
They found shelter in some mud huts where to their surprise they were told the rest of their party had but shortly left the place – and leaving the exhaustion and thirst of his wife and child to one side, Captain Thurburn decided “forward was the order of the day, so forward we proceeded…” They of course needed a disguise – Mrs. Thurburn quickly concocted a turban from a pocket-handkerchief for her husband and “she, for her own transformation into an ” eastern,” turned up the skirt of her dress over her head, made away with her wide-a-wake, and pocketed her shoes. Were not the circumstances of the escape of a sufficiently sobering nature in themselves to repress all desire to risibility, I can well imagine that an on-looker, unacquainted with all our perils, might excusably have been tempted into hazarding, at least, expressions of doubt respecting our sanity.
Thus attired, they remounted the elephant.
Arriving at the riverbank, the Thurburns were greeted by shouts and musketry fire – the mahout and the escort sufficiently alarmed, dragged the family off of the elephant and begged them, with all haste to run to the boats. Mrs. Thurburn, shoeless could not make any significant progress – the escort was not heartless and allowed them to get back on the elephant. The exertions of the day proved nearly too much however for little Augustus, their 2-year-old son –“our boy being taken ill, and gasping for breath, seemed at the point of death. He was, however, after a few cold applications of water to his head, brought round again.”
At this point, I would like my dear readers to be aware of the trials Mrs. Kezia Thurburn was enduring. She was 8 months pregnant, she had the heat of the Indian sun to contend with and it must be surmised, that her suffering must have been near intolerable. The stress of her journey would claim a sorrowful little victim. Her daughter, Elizabeth would be born in Calcutta on the 22nd of July yet would die but 8 days later.
On the banks of the Gogra, the Thurburns were reunited with the companions – Captain Reid, wife, and two children; Captain Alexander Orr, Orr, wife, five children, and sister-in-law Mr. Bradford and wife; Captain Dawson, wife, and four children; Corporal Hurst, wife, and child; Mr. Fitzgerald, wife, and child.
Raja Maun Singh had been true to his word and the boats were ready, but he had also made a promise to the rebels. Swearing he would only protect the fugitive women and their children, the party was separated into two boats; while the ladies were provided a covered boat, the men were “huddled together in a small open on, unprotected from the sun, the rays of which, during the month of June, represented generally a heat of 140 Fahrenheit.”
With a fair wind in their favour, the party made good progress down the river. This was not some pleasure cruise – their lives were still in danger and would remain so until they arrived in Gopalpore on the 21st of June. In the interceding days, they had been shot at, starved, robbed, and saved by a landowner, Madhao Persad Singh, who sheltered them in a tomb and later at one of his forts. He genuinely appeared helpful but “we found out afterwards that he had failed in negotiations to have us sent in as prisoners to the rebel seat of government at Lucknow, and that a neighbouring baron, called Roostum Sha, a well-wisher of the English power, had threatened to invade his territory if we were not at once set at liberty.” This timely interference saved their lives and to prove his fidelity, he sent them once again downriver.
At Gopalpore they found shelter in the deserted quarters of an indigo planter. This man had “a few days previously to our arrival, been attacked by the very same villagers who were instrumental in extracting black-mail out of our escort. This gentleman, with his following of dependants, turned out to defend himself, and a musketry engagement, at long bowls, ensued. Fortunately, a small river divided the belligerents, and to this fact may reasonably be traced the wonderful absence of casualties in either party, but who, for hours were employed in the vain attempt to draw blood. It was stated that one of the friends of the planter was most strenuous in his efforts to sustain the honour of his country. Curious to say, however, he having never handled compounds of villainous saltpetre nor wielded a sword, his offensive demonstrations- were confined to getting as near the enemy as possible and thereupon opening on them (with bullets whistling about him) a most elaborate rhetorical attack (the ventings of the oppressions of his mind), in the shape of opprobrious Hindustani expressions and terms of abuse that his memory had stored up during a sojourn of many years in India.”
Of this loquacious gentleman, unfortunately, no record remains.
After a well-deserved rest in comparative safety, they procured new boats and continued their journey to Dinapore, arriving much to the surprise of the European residents, on the 29th of June.
Mrs. Thurburn, the other ladies and their children would be scuttled off with all haste to Calcutta where she would remain 15 months before rejoining her husband. The gentlemen of Fyzabad would attach themselves to various companies – for them, the mutiny was far from over; it had in fact, barely begun.
The Lady Did Not Leave
The faith in their men resounded just as soundly with the officer’s wives. Most of them only left Fayzabad in a last-minute scuttle to safety in Shahgunj – as we have seen, Mrs. Lennox was fortunate to escape with her husband and they both lived – Mrs. Hulme however would die on the banks of the river Gogra with hers. It was perhaps kismet, after all as Sergeant Busher had been told.
One lady, for some inexplicable reason neither left Fyzabad in the boats as her husband did, nor did she flee to Shahgunj with the last people to leave. Her name was Mrs. Mills (or as some accounts have it, Mill).
The wife of Major Mills of the artillery she had initially reported herself with her three children to the residence of Mr. Thurburn on the 7th of June, when the first women and children were leaving for Shahgunj. She was the first lady from the cantonments to consider refuge with Raja Maun Singh and ended up being the last lady to leave Fyzabad.
For some reason, she chose to stay behind. What the last conversation was with her husband on the fateful morning of the 8th of June was, remains a mystery – however, she and her three children stayed in cantonments. Her husband, in a statement by Bugler Williamson of the artillery who survived the ill-fated escape, had been sleeping for the four nights previous to the mutiny in the Quarter Guard – whatever the last conversation was between husband and wife – and we will never know – it would appear she either did not know the officers were ordered to leave or perhaps her husband had told her to trust her continued well being to the havildar of the artillery instead of braving the boats.
The havildar, by all appearances, was of the same mindset as the other mutineers. He would not harm his officers and in turn, would not kill Major Mill’s family. Instead, he simply chose not to feed them. With three small children in tow, Mrs. Mills found herself in a dire predicament. They obviously could not survive without nourishment, but she did not have any funds with which to procure any. So, she took a choice and revealed herself to the leader of the mutineers.
Accounts do not tell us who this man was – it was obviously not the Maulvi as it is unlikely he would have given her some money and sent her on her way across the river Gogra to the Gorackpur district. Again no one physically harmed Mrs. Mills. They just left her to fend for herself.
Over the next ten days – although according to some accounts, it was three months – she wandered from village to village, reduced in circumstances to the position of a beggar. When she was finally rescued from her plight by Raja Maun Singh, one of her children was dead and she had lost her senses.
Sir Charles Alexander Gordon saw Mrs. Mills at Dinapore shortly before she was sent away by steamer to Calcutta:
“She now was ill from hardships and starvation; one child, an infant, had died, the remaining two were ill with cholera; she herself nearly devoid of clothing, without servant or other help, almost completely broken down; nor was it until a few days ago that she learned the fate of her husband. A brother officer of Major Mills, Captain Alexander, placed a suite of his rooms in his house at her disposal. In due time she and her children were so far restored in health, and provided with clothing that they continued their journey towards Calcutta.”
Mrs. Mills clearly never remarried and was granted a pension under the regulations to the widow of an officer killed in action, which she drew until her death in 1903. In 1907, her daughter, Miss Alice Eleanor applied for the continuance of a compassionate allowance her mother had received in addition to the £40 pension. With her brother dead as well, Miss Mills was reduced to subsisting on the pension alone. She hoped that “in view of the services of her father and the hardships and dangers incurred…” she might be given some reprieve. The answer from Mr. Secretary Motley was quite clear.
“Mrs. Mill was granted the pension admissible under the regulations to the widow of an officer killed in action. On her death in 1903 her daughter applied for a continuation of this pension; but, apart from the fact that the continuation of a widow’s pension to her daughter would be altogether contrary to rule, the Secretary of State in Council decided that, in view of the amount of Miss Mills’ income, the case was not one for the grant of a special compassionate allowance.”
After 50 years on, while the world had moved forward, Miss Eleanor Alice Mills was still trapped by the past.
Annal of the Indian Rebellion – Noah Alfred Chick (1859)
Narrative of the Indian Mutinies of 1857, compiled for the Madras Military Male Orphanage (1858)
History of the Indian Mutiny (Vol I)- Col. G.B.Malleson (1878)
Reminiscence of the Indian Rebellion – Felix Augustus Victor Thurburn (1889)