Editor's Note: This account was one of a number of first-hand accounts published in The Royal Magazine in the first decade of the twentieth century, under the title, 'Survivor's Tales of Great Events'. These accounts were the results of interviews conducted by Walter Wood, and the subjects were all survivors of famous incidents; a number were civilians, and their stories typically included escapes from ship-wrecks, fires or mine disasters, but the majority were military.

Most were illustrated with typically stirring scenes executed by Stanley Wood, who was then at the height of his popularity as a military artist. As late as 1900 there were still many veterans the early wars of Queen Victoria's reign alive, and 'Survivor's Tales of Great Events' included reminiscences of the Sikh Wars, Indian Mutiny, and Crimea. Survivors of later events were, of course, still plentiful, and a number of accounts from the Zulu and Afghan Wars were also included; arguably the most famous was Alfred Henry Hook's account of Rorke's Drift, which has been quoted many times in recent histories.

"AGE OF EMPIRES" hopes to re-publish a selection of the more interesting and unusual of these stories. The introduction and editing are as they appear in the original article. We begin with Sergeant Ford's account of the desperate fighting and grim aftermath of Chillianwallah in the Sikh War of 1849;

An Eye-Witness account of the battle of Chillianwallah, Sikh War, 1849, by Sergeant J. Ford, Grenadier Company, 61st Foot.

"Sergeant Ford was pay and senior sergeant of the Grenadier Company of the 61st Regiment during the Cubi Campaign in the Punjaub, and was present in every action in which his corps was engaged. I can vouch for his exemplary and gallant conduct throughout the service, but more particularly in the action of Chillianwalla, where he behaved with remarkable bravery with the noble company to which he belonged, and of which I was an eye-witness."

That testimonial, written nearly sixty years ago, was given by Sir Colin Campbell to the remarkable veteran who is one of the very few survivors of the great battle of Chillianwalla, India, on Jan. 13th, 1849, when Lord Gough attacked the Sikh army. He lost nearly 1000 officers and men killed and had 1500 wounded ; while of the enemy 3000 were killed and 4000 wounded. From November, 1845, to November, 1850, Sergeant Ford marched with his regiment 5295 miles, sometimes covering forty miles a day.

Scorching heat by day, freezing cold by night - heat so fierce that men dropped dead in the ranks, cold so intense that comrades perished in their sleep - always marching, often over choking plains, ankle-deep in sand, carrying your cross-belts with sixty rounds of ammunition and your musket in your hands; with few tents, no comforts, little water, scanty rations - that was our training for the jungle fight at Chillianwalla.

And all for fivepence a day - when you got it, which you did when there were no stoppages. But there were many British soldiers under old John Company Bahadur who never had a penny due to them when they had paid for the new boots and other equipment which they were forced to have to ply their trade of fighting. Yes, fivepence a day was our reward in wealthy, lazy, deadly India - so that John Company, despite his boundless riches, was not more liberal as a master than John Bull proved when the Honourable Company's troops became Imperial soldiers. We had marched from Cawnpore, glad beyond telling to escape a city which in eight months had claimed the lives of 89 men, 74 children, and 26 women of my regiment. Marching, suffering, fighting - that was our lot; but what did it matter, so that we got clear of the unhealthiest city in India?

Being tall and stalwart, I was in the Grenadier company of my regiment, and the grenadiers in those days took the place of honour as the flank companies, and were distinguished by their bearskin headress and their "wings", which you now only see on the shoulders of bandsmen. We were big, heavy men, and those who were smaller and lighter called us "The Sandbags" - but was there ever a post of honour which was not belittled by those who did not fill it? We got level with the scoffers by calling them "The Buffers".

Through sandy desert and dense jungle we had forced our way to Chillianwalla, where between 30,000 and 40,000 Sikhs, with 62 guns, were waiting for us. They were in a formidable position and had advantages of which Lord Gough was ignorant when he resolved to attack it. In guns they equalled us; in troops they were two to one. They had a double line of intrenchments; in front of their position were obstacles such as boughs to cripple our cavalry work; in the rear was a rock like a precipice, down which we were at liberty to tumble if we carried their stronghold. But their greatest protection and our worst barrier was the jungle thereabouts - the jungle into which they lured us, and where many of our men were destroyed while they were as helpless as game in a battle.

Slow

We had been slow in getting into touch with the enemy, but now that we were face to face, and our old Commander-in-Chief had inspected us and told us how we were to fight, we knew that it would not be long before we were in the death grip. It was wonderful to notice the different ways in which men looked at things; some carelessly, even recklessly; some with a strange fear or overwhelming foreboding - but all consumed with eagerness to be up and doing and get the terrible tension over.

You have heard of people having a premonition of death? Those who will may scoff at it, but I know too well how true it is; and even in those far-off days, before the Crimea and the Mutiny were talked of, I had been a witness more than once of its fulfilment. You notice and remember these things most when they come nearest home to you, and a case came very closely home to me at Chillianwalla. There was a special friend of my own, by name George Hanlin, who had been with me in my company for nine years.

On the night before the battle we had walked to the regimental bazaar or market. We knew that the fight could not long be delayed because already we had seen the enemy's camp very plainly. Most of us, indeed, were glad to think that we should so soon to measure strength - and I was in the majority. I had escaped death in so many terrible forms already - cholera, dysentery, and the hundred and one swift dooms of the East - that I could almost afford to laugh at muskets, guns and steel, and I dwelt with a light heart on the prospects of the morrow.

Prospects

Not so my friend. He was gloomy and disturbed, and when I said, as we returned:

"I think we shall have a bit of a brush with the enemy to-morrow, George" he answered:

"Do you think so?"

"Yes", I told him.

"Then", he said solemnly, "I am sure to be killed."

I tried to laugh his fears away. "Why so?" I asked.

"Because I am," he replied, and with that - a woman's reason and a fatalist's - I had to be content.

I could laugh and argue as I liked, but my words had no effect on him. He was positive, and, I believe, resigned - can it be that at such a time there comes to some of us the power of seeing into the unknown and comprehending the unfathomable? -and, talk as I would, and did, I could not cheer him or remove his conviction.

"No," he repeated positively; "I shall be killed. I know it, and I want you to take charge of my, things and the few rupees I have."

What could I do but promise? I gave him my word - and, oh! the solemnity of that night before the battle, the thoughts of home and far-off England, that possessed even the most reckless of us. And the grim sensations when the night fell and the hospital sergeant came to our tent and issued bandages to the pay-sergeant - myself - with rough instructions how to put them on a wounded leg or arm!

That confirmed my friend's gloom; but, as for me, I went about my business and took things easily. I made up my accounts - for I was at all times methodical - even to the preparation of a balance-sheet between my company officer and myself. That took me until nearly midnight. Then I slept till five in the morning, when the "reveille" sounded, and we all turned out, struck our tents and loaded up the elephants with them, and put our bedding on the camels. Two hours later we were ready to march - such a march as I had never before seen and was ne ver again to know, even in India.

Throughthe Jungle

We went at it through the thick jungle and over ditches and hedges, on and on until we were near the Sikh outposts. Again we halted, and a dram of grog and a pound of beef were issued to each man. Half-an-hour's rest, then on again until noon, when we heard the first growl of combat.

It was the opening music of our jungle battle.There was a crash in front of us, a flash of flame, a cloud of smoke, and the boom of artillery.

What was the meaning of the scattering of our piled arms, the furious beating of our drums, the wild rushing of men, the hoarse shouting of our officers, the galloping of aides-de-camp? And, above all, what was the meaning of that terrific cannonade almost, as it seemed, in the midst of us?

The soldier's instinct gave the answer. This was the real battle at last.

As soon as I awoke I dashed for my musket, and fell into my place in the line that was already advancing to charge the enemy.

Grape and canister screamed about us - wildly for the present; but we had only covered a hundred yards when a round shot shattered the head of my comrade Hanlin.

His prophecy had come true - and with terribly dramatic emphasis, for of all who fell on that desperate field he was the first to be slain.

Our company officer turned round for an instant.

"We can do nothing for him?" he shouted. "Come on!"

"No, sir, nothing," I shouted back. "He's as dead as a door-nail".

Hail of Missiles

Then we were struggling ahead again into the hail of missiles, with the earth around us becoming such a shambles that we could scarcely move without walking over fallen comrades. My company was thinned frightfully, for even early in the battle a third of its members were killed or wounded.

As we advanced I noticed one of many instances of the way in which the British soldier will keep his place in the ranks even when he is dangerously or mortally wounded. A comrade named Mason was lagging behind.

"What's the matter, Jim?" I said.

"I think I'm shot in the body," he answered.

"Then you'd better fall out," I told him.

"Not I," he said; "I shall be better directly."

With that he pulled himself together and hurried up to his place in the front rank, like the brave fellow he was. He had scarcely done so, and had not even fired a shot, when he fell dead. Afterwards it was found that he was right, and that he had been fatally wounded by a shot in the lower part of the body.

When the fire of war is burning in your veins you will do things that in cold blood are impossible. How, if we had time to think, could we have obeyed the orders to advance over ground every yard of which was a death-trap? It is hard enough work to go ahead across smooth ground, with nothing to oppose you, and when the air is clear and fresh; how hard, then, in an Oriental country, under a blazing sun, at the hottest time of the day, laden like beasts of burden, and, when we were not ploughing through sand, forcing our way through the swamp and jungle to get at the enemy, who were mowing us down with their guns, and picking us off with their small arms?

You can imagine our case to some extent by imagining troops operating over a patch of country in England, advancing to the charge across land thick with high grass and broken up by ponds and swamps. At the best the progress would be slow; in circumstances like ours it equalled only a crawl. Yet in some way we went ahead, struggling through the jungle towards the Sikhs, for there was no going back, and the sooner we got to their position the quicker we should reach the end of the fight.

The jungle sheltered some of us from the fire; others it shielded from the sun when they were struck down, while it offered protection to many a poor wretch who crawled into the shade from the open where he had been wounded.

Return Fire

That passage through the jungle made many breaks and gaps in our line as we advanced, and by the time we were through it many companies had been reduced to sections; but we were clear of it at last, and got our chance to return the fire which already had destroyed so many of my comrades. We of the 61st gave it as hot as we got it, and the cannonading was terrific. A very inferno of artillery fire confronted us, but we had clear ground to rush across, and over we went, to the muzzles of a battery of twenty guns. We dashed up and took them, and it seemed as if already we were to score a victory, because we had done the seemingly impossible.

It was at this thrilling stage of the battle that two sharp contrasts were afforded of the behaviour of the troops in action. As it is with individuals, so it is with regiments; the one will show extreme courage, the other the utmost cowardice. The first quality was displayed by the 24th Regiment, now the South Wales Borderers; the second by a crack British cavalry regiment, which had greatly distinguished itself not long before, and did the same afterwards, when it found itself again. The 24th belonged to the 5th Brigade, and this was ordered to advance by Lord Gough, who was somewhat hasty tempered. The 24th were as fine and brave a lot of troops as I ever saw, and to tell them to advance was to set a spark to powder.

They rushed on, never stopping, forging over the dusty ground, forcing their way through the jungle, advancing until they were only eighty yards or so from the Sikhs. The danger and misfortune of their position was that they had to force their passage blindly, because they could not see the enemy towards whom they advanced. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the open space they had gained was strewn with the mangled forms of British soldiers, for the Sikhs had opened fire from masked guns, and with grape and canister at point-blank range mowed the 24th down by sections.

It was an appalling slaughter, and an unexpected and fatal check.

We were very near them, and I saw the whole dreadful drama, the hail of grape and canister, the blotting out of a regiment, as it seemed, the shattered ranks which had but a moment before been so strong and steady. Lieutenant-Colonel Brook, commanding the 24th, was slain as he encouraged his men in the attack.

Brigadier Pennycuik was killed, too, and on that fatal field, where many mighty deeds were done, I saw none nobler than the hopeless effort of the brigadier's son to save his father's life. He was a young ensign, a mere youth, but he fought like a lion over his father's prostrate body, and fell only when he was cut to pieces. (at right, Pennycuik defends his fallen father)

On that great day, renowned forever in the annals of the 24th, thirteen of their officers and 227 men were killed, and ten officers and 300 men were wounded. Almost exactly thirty years afterwards the 24th were annihilated by the Zulus at Isandalwana, and the story is told that just before the butchery the officers of the two battalions met, and, having a few bottles of wine left, they jokingly drank a toast; "That we may have better luck and not get into such a mess as we did at Chillianwalla!" A few hours later not one of the toast-drinkers was still alive.

But while the 24th at Chillianwalla died so bravely, some of the cavalry were seized with panic and bolted, tearing madly over the ground, caring for nothing but their own skins. They dashed over our wounded, and many a man who would have survived the enemy's bullets was killed by the hoofs of his own comrades horses.

It is not well to talk too much of that part of the affair; but afterwards, when Sir Charles Napier inspected the regiment, he said some icy things, and the colonel went and committed suicide in his bathroom.

Worst Punishment

A worse punishment than that was given by those of us who had been in the fight and seen what happened. Trust to the British soldier for seeing to the right way to show his liking or contempt - and many a crack cavalryman wished he had stayed on the battlefield when he writhed under the taunt: "Who turned their horses' tails to the enemy at Chillianwallah?"

While the 24th were being destroyed in such a wholesale fashion the 61st continued their advance. We had this great advantage, that the ground over which we were working was more open than the area of operations of the 24th. We could see our objective pretty clearly, and that was a Sikh battery here and another there - the guns being distributed in pairs and threes. At them we went. With a rush and a cheer we were upon them and in the midst of the gunners.It was short work to spike the weapons, shorter still to dispose of the artillerymen when once we could get the bayonet in.

The Sikhs were fierce and desperate fighters and splendid swordsmen. They did not show a sign of defeat until they recognised that the position which they considered impregnable had been stormed and taken by British and native troops. Then they began to withdraw, to pull themselves out of the melee, and seek the shelter of a safer place.

Many of their guns were ours, many more, which we could not bring away, we made useless; but because of our losses we were not able to clinch our victory for the present, so, after a short bout of one of the most ferocious battles ever waged in India, we were got together by our officers, slowly returned over the field, and made ready to pass the night.

That fatal afternoon passed, and the night came, bringing with it one of the heaviest rainstorms I had ever seen, accompanied by incessant thunder and lightening. In such a lurid setting we piled our arms, then set about a task which was infinitely worse than anything we had yet accomplished, and that was to collect our wounded and bring them in for the surgeons. Yet even then we were not so far overcome that we could not raise three rousing cheers when our old chief, Sir Colin Campbell, rode past our shattered regiment. It was said afterwards that his leadership of the 61st decided the action and saved the British Army; while the Duke of Wellington declared that our performance was one of the most brilliant exploits ever performed by the army.

The commissariat was close at hand - so close that one of the camels laden with rum was struck by a round shot at the beginning of the battle and, poor brute, wounded though he was, carried his two barrels of spirit for hours afterwards. Pay-sergeants were ordered to attend for grog, and I claimed the full allowance for my company's casualties. But nobody wanted rum, and the mournful and incessant cry was: "Water! Water!" from the wounded - and the pity of it was that there was not a drop of water available.

Cries of Suffering

Never can I forget that night after the battle. The air was rent with the groans and cries of the sufferers, and the more terrible cries of those who were in the hands of the surgeons. Men who had passed unscathed through combat, who had borne themselves unflinchingly, quailed at the sights they witnessed on and about the rough tables the doctors used. One man in particular was so overcome by what he saw that he went into hospital and died.

Merciful though the surgeons' work was, yet it was more hideous than the havoc of the battle, for in the one there was passive endurance and full consciousness, in the other the excitement of the contest, and, often enough, ignorance of the fact that injury had been sustained. The dim lights of lamps and candles, the lightning flashes showing for an instant the whole ghastly spectacle, the crashing thunder, the pitiless deluge of rain, the harassed surgeons working furiously, the cries, the groans - above all, the unutterably appealing looks of the stricken men whose turn was coming - this was war stripped of its thrill and pomp.

In the jungle and on the open ground, when the day broke, I came across dead and wounded wherever I turned. In the night some of the injured had fallen into the hands of the enemy, who gave no quarter, and it had not been possible to find others. There were veterans and recruits in all sorts of odd positions, some looking as if they were sleeping, others hideously contorted. Of the living, most of the veterans were grim and reconciled, but it was from the youngsters that the most heart-rending prayers and appeals came - and many a lad, with the freshness of home still on his face, was calling for his mother.

At one spot I saw a fine Sikh who had attacked a British infantryman. Sword in hand he had rushed upon his enemy just as the charge was being rammed home, and while the ramrod was still in the barrel. The infantryman had seen that he could not reload in time to fire, so he had pulled the trigger, and the ramrod was shot through the Sikh's face and head. Yet in spite of this awful wound, the noble fellow never flinched or murmured; he made no sound when I bent over him. He was carried to the surgeons, and died as soon as they had drawn the ramrod out. In another place a British soldier, badly wounded, laughed and chatted as he was carried from the field; at the same time he complained of pain in his hands - yet both his arms had been shot away.

Next day, when we buried our dead, the rain continued, deepening our misery. Worst of all, perhaps, was that sad final ceremony. In two trenches alone, which our sappers and miners dug, we buried 197 of the 24th and fourteen of the 61st; then, thank God, there was work to do in intrenching ourselves, and in the stress of labour we forgot our woes.

At last the sun came out again, and - such is soldiering - we laughed and joked almost as if there had been no fighting - laughed when a horse broke loose and galloped through the camp, with ropes and pegs flying about his heels, or when a man barked his shins in the darkness, or a camel snapped viciously, or when a new elephant, which did not fancy work, stampeded with its huge load of camp equipage or gunny-bags.

The heat of battle vanished, the days passed quickly, and - the enemy retreated from Chillianwalla. We started after him, our band playing as we left "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning". For a whole month we and the enemy kept in sight of each other, until he gave us battle once more at Goojerat. This time we conquered him completely, pursuing him from mid-day until dark. He left us his camp, baggage, ammunition, and fifty-three guns - and our loss was only one third of that which we suffered in our jungle fight.

Swivel Gun

In both battles I escaped injury; but I was wounded not long afterwards in a little affair with the Afridis, who were giving England trouble not long ago. We were out skirmishing at the time, and saw a man on a camel with a swivel gun - rather like a little ship of war, let loose on land.

"I am going to have a shot at that chap," I said, and three of us rushed up to within about forty yards, quite expecting an easy capture. But before we could get our muskets up the swivel gun was fired and the three of us went down. I was shot in the leg, one of my comrades was shockingly wounded in the face, and the third was bowled over so badly that he could not live. He puzzled the doctors for a long time. They found that one of his brace buttons had been driven into him.

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