The Second Sikh War: 1848-1849

The Second Sikh War, in which Sita Ram took part, was a direct consequence of the British reluctance to annex the Punjab after their victory in 1846. The Sikhs, humiliated by their defeat and the wresting from them of the fair province of Kashmir and the Jullundur Doab, became more discontented on account of the reforming activities of Sir Henry Lawrence, the British Resident in Lahore. His crusade against female infanticide, widow burning, cruel punishments and unjust taxation was hardly calculated to endear him to those Sikh sirdars who had a vested interest in a continuance of the old ways. Moreover the Sikh soldiers, under-paid and under-employed, were in a state of semi-mutiny for most of the time, and hoped longingly for the time when they would be able to settle scores with the hated Company.

>Multan was the capital of the southernmost Sikh province. It was ruled by Mulraj, a Hindu governor, who had once found favour in the eyes of Maharajah Runjeet Singh. A minor revolt there in April 1848, resulting in the murder of two of the Company's officers, soon developed into outright rebellion. Multan is fiendishly hot during the summer and it was some time before a force could be assembled to deal with Mulraj. This force, commanded by Major-General Whish, was joined by a Sikh army under Sirdar Sher Singh, but they proved to be unreliable allies. Abruptly abandoning the siege, Sher Singh marched north to join forces with other Sikh armies that had risen in rebellion. The Punjab was soon in flames.

The Governor-General was the Earl of Dalhousie, one of the most dynamic men ever to have held that office. He had the reputation of being an 'annexationist' but he was reluctant to become embroiled with the Sikhs. It was several months before he yielded to the arguments of Lord Gough, the Commander-in-Chief, and assembled an army to deal with the Sikhs once and for all. This army, the 'Army of the Punjab', assembled at Ferozepore and crossed the Sutlej in late November 1848. The Sikhs had concentrated their forces on the river Chenab, and there followed some skirmishing along the banks of that river before Gough launched his troops against the Sikhs at Chillianwallah on 13 January 1849. It was a battle in the best Gough tradition —fought without clear orders against an enemy concealed in thick jungle and whose bravery was in no way inferior to that of their opponents. Gough's troops remained on the field when night fell but their losses were considerable. When the news of them reached London there was consternation at yet another pyrrhic victory à la Gough.

However, years of intrigue and mutiny had taken their toll of the Sikh army. The men were as brave as ever but they were no longer a disciplined army. As soon as Multan had been captured in February 1849, and the troops involved in that operation were free to rejoin Gough, he brought the Sikhs to battle at Gujerat on 21 February 1849. On this occasion Gough retrieved his reputation by signally defeating the Sikhs, largely because of the intelligent handling of his artillery and cavalry. The Sikhs and their Afghan allies fled the field and were pursued until they were no longer an effective fighting force.

In the words of Lieutenant F. G. Cardew, historian of the Bengal Native Army, 'Thus ended the second Sikh War, which, commencing with the treacherous revolt of Mulraj, terminated with a great victory over one of the bravest of the peoples of India, gave a fine kingdom to the British Empire, and some of the best of its soldiers to the Indian Army.' The Punjab and Peshawar passed into the possession of the East India Company whose frontier now marched with the Afghans.

Sita Ram was present at Chillianwallah, as hard a battle as ever he fought, but he was only on the fringes of Gujerat since his regiment was employed in guarding the baggage train. He had now been promoted to jemadar, and was an officer, but not it seems a very contented one. He was ageing rapidly and feeling the effects of wounds and previous hardships, but he continued to give loyal service. I suspect the old man was longing for his pension, and his seat under the pipal tree in his ancestral village, where his age and his rank would ensure him a respectful hearing among the village elders; but there were still some years to pass before he would attain this, and those years were destined to be the most difficult of all his service.

The fortune of the Sirkar was very high at this time. All ideas of resisting it had ceased, and the mutinous feeling in the army, which I have mentioned as having existed previously, seemed to have disappeared. All that was now talked about was the good luck of the Company Bahadur, and since the Khalsa troops, who had always been supposed a match for the English army, had now been beaten, even the Mahommedans held their peace and for a time considered it folly to go against fate. But fortune does not always remain the same, and who can tell where the seeds of the dandelion will alight?

My regiment was stationed at Ambala after this war, and after the end of the second year of its stay there I was promoted to Jemadar. I had now been some thirty-five years as a servant of the government.¹ True, I was a Jemadar, but where were the visions of wealth I had indulged in when first I took service? I had nothing to show, other than some seven wounds and four medals. I was becoming an old man, but I wore a sword and was an officer. My eldest son, who had formerly served with me in the same regiment before I entered Shah Shujah's service, was somewhere in Sind and I had not heard of him for two years. Numbers of native soldiers had been carried off by the terrible fever of that country, and it had such a bad reputation that the native regiments were with great difficulty persuaded to go there. The heat was greater than in any other part of India. Those sepoys who escaped death from the effects of the fever were so affected by it that they were seldom any use afterwards. They were subject to attacks of the disease long after they had returned to their native country. In the last letter I had received from my son he said that 750 men of his regiment were ill with it, and that half a European regiment had died.² He also was in hospital and had little hope of escaping death; for four weeks before he wrote he had been unable to move.

In 1847 two English officers were killed at Multan. The Sirkar, to avenge this insult, went to war with Dewan Mulraj of Multan and laid siege to the place.³ This inflamed the Sikhs. They began to collect troops and their warlike ardour seemed to revive. The prospects of yet another Sikh War were now debated. The government began to assemble troops and moved them up towards Ferozepore. My regiment was again ordered to form part of this army.⁴ The siege of Multan progressed very slowly and this gave great confidence to the Sikhs who boasted that they would beat the foreigners this time. Regiments now came in every day from Delhi, Meerut, Ambala, etc., and then they were all pushed on towards Ferozepore. A large English force crossed the Sutlej and entered the Punjab, while the Sikhs were reported to have collected on the banks of the river Jhelum under the command of Sirdar Sher Singh.

After two or three rather serious skirmishes on the banks of the river, and towards the end of the year, we came up with the Sikh army. They were all encamped in very thick jungle and only their advance pickets were visible. No-one could estimate their strength but spies brought in word that there were 50,000 of them, and that their strength was increasing every day. They also had a vast number of guns. The enemy kept to the jungle and displayed no inclination to begin the fight. However, our suspense was soon ended for the Sikhs fired with some heavy guns on the Commander-in-Chief sahib when he was out riding with his staff. The Lad sahib became enraged because someone was killed beside him and the order was given for immediate engagement with the enemy.⁵ This was just as the gongs were sounding mid-day, but the jungle was so thick that it was like fighting in the dark. Regiments became disorganized—rifle company number ten of my regiment was in advance of the grenadier company. Our own regiments mistook each other for Sikhs and volleys were exchanged before the mistake was discovered. The commanding officer of my regiment suffered greatly from fever and was compelled to go away very sick only a few days before the battle. Another Colonel sahib was sent to us just as we were going into action. The firing had actually begun. He saw the red coats of the enemy and imagined them to be one of our regiments. He immediately stopped us firing, saying he was certain we were firing on our friends. Some of the officers then said they could see the black belts of the men of the other regiment and were certain they were Sikhs [the Sikh army wore black belts, or very brown ones, and the English sepoys wore white].

The Colonel then rode at full gallop up to this dubious regiment which was about 200 yards away and half hidden by the jungle. He was received with a volley full in his face but, wonderful to relate, he escaped without a scratch. He returned among us and called out, 'All right, fire away, sepoys!' He was a brave officer, and fearless but none of us knew him in the regiment, or his word of command.⁶ which is great drawback for a regiment in action. Fighting continued all day and neither side seemed to be gaining a victory. The Sikhs lost guns, and the Sirkar had some captured by the Sikhs. Their batteries were so well concealed by the thick jungle that it was impossible to tell the number of the guns. One regiment, the 24th Europeans, charged a battery; the terrible fire of the guns and from a Sikh regiment concealed behind the battery forced them to retire. This corps lost nearly half its strength, and more than twenty officers were killed or wounded.⁷ A native regiment was with them and was beaten back with great loss. How could they stand if the Europeans could not?

In the evening the Sikhs retired to a village called Rasul and threw up entrenchments. This battle was called Chillianmoosa [Chillianwallah] and took place on the thirteenth day of the first month of the year. The Sirkar's army remained on the ground all night but it was not much of a victory. It also began to rain, which made the place a perfect swamp. Not far from the thick jungle in which this bloody battle was fought were plains free from any jungle; these would have been much better for fighting on. This battle was not managed with the usual splendid arrangement of the Sirkar, but it was fought in haste and before the orders could have been properly explained to our whole force. Besides which, the ground was not known at all by the English officers, which is always a disadvantage in war. But then in this battle, the Sirkar had nothing but disadvantages.⁸ The Sikhs fought well but the fire was not as heavy as at Ferozeshah. It was evident that the Sikh army had not improved since its last war with the Sirkar, and there was not the same reluctance or dread to meet the Sikhs as had been shown by the sepoy regiments during the first [Sikh] war.

Rasul was a small village surrounded by deep ravines with a steep bank on its near side and the river Jhelum not far away. This place might have been shelled if its position had been accurately known, but the Sikhs were allowed to retain it unmolested by us. However, they had very heavy artillery in position all around the village and a close approach was never practicable. During this time of inactivity we used to go down to the river to bathe and drink water. We repeatedly met the Sikh soldiers who seemed to think that the English army had suffered a severe blow, so that it was stunned like a snake, or else, they said, why did it not attack them? To be honest there was some measure of truth in this but the Sikhs had had enough of fighting to prevent them from annoying our army.

One day a sepoy of my company, rather celebrated for boasting of his deeds of valour, came into the camp with his head nearly severed and his face dreadfully gashed. The story he told was that he was drawing some water from a small nullah, or arm of the river, when one of the enemy came down and attacked him. This sepoy made out that he had shot the man but I, knowing he was always making cats into tigers,⁹ received his statement with some little doubt. Afterwards, when the Sikhs laid down their arms, a Hindustani in the Sikh service told me that he saw the sepoy drinking at the nullah, and warned him to go away as the Sikhs would certainly kill him if they saw him. But instead of taking this advice in a friendly way, the sepoy deliberately fired at him when quite close and missed him. The Hindustani became so angry at his countryman's ingratitude that he attacked him with his sword and left him for dead, as he thought; or at any rate with such scars as he would never get rid of for the rest of his life. After this was made known in the man's presence, boasting left his lips for ever.

The Sikh horsemen used to come out and challenge the English army to single combat. One day a sirdar came forth and the challenge was accepted by an English soldier in the Lancer regiment, and one out of the Dragoons.¹⁰ One of these men was killed and the other severely wounded. The Europeans were angry at their defeat and some of them fired at the Sikh and killed him. These men went without the orders of their officers who were very angry and annoyed at their being beaten. I was here struck with the difference between the European and the sepoy when wounded in action. The former would shake his fist at the enemy and call down vengeance on their heads, but would never utter a cry of pain. The latter, if hit in the legs or arms, would dance round hugging the limb and crying out, 'Pity! Take Pity! Mighty Company Bahadur !'¹¹

One morning it was reported that the Sikhs had left their position and moved up the bank of the river. The English were now expecting the force that had been engaged in the siege of Multan to join forces, since Multan had fallen into the hands of the Sirkar.¹² This force did arrive some time in February and our army pursued the Sikhs who had determined to make a stand at a place called Gujcrat, where their religious leaders had promised them victory. The Sikhs had also been joined by Sirdar Chattar Singh who had managed to get away from Multan without being molested. An action was fought at this place, Gujerat, and it was al- most entirely a fight between the heavy artillery. My regiment was on guard over the baggage, and therefore a good way in the rear, and I do not know much about ths battle from actual eyesight. The Sikh guns were dismounted, their lines broken, the village carried at the point of the bayonet, and the whole of the Sikh army fled towards Rawal Pindi.13 After this battle some Europeans were walking about the field with lighted pipes when some dubahs [skin containers in the shape of a jar] exploded, being filled with powder, and burnt five or six Europeans and several sepoys so severely that they all died in dreadful agony. The unfortunate men ran to- wards their comrades, begging they would put a bullet into tlieir heads and put them out of unbearable torment. I saw one or two sepoys-I think they belonged to the 72nd BNI. They were burnt from head to foot and the flesh fell off in charred lumps. I have often seen Sikhs fearfully burnt by their matches setting fire to their cotton-wadded coats when wounded, and then exploding their powder pouches, but I never saw such a frightful sight as these sepoys. What a wonderful thing is fate! These men, Europeans and sepoys, had survived both battles without a scratch and yet, when taking a stroll after the battle, for mere amusement, they met their death. The God of War was not satisfied with the slain!

After this battle of Gujerat the Sikhs fled across the river Jhelum and were followed by a light column of our army. They came up with them near an old fort on the road to Rawal Pindi, where the remainder of the Sikhs, finding they had no chance of escape from the Sirkar and having lost nearly all their guns, surrendered to the English general sahib. They were allowed to depart to their homes, after laying down their arms, and every man was offered a rupee to help him on the way home. Some took this but many refused it with contempt. There was a body of Afghan horse with the Sikhs, sent by Dost Mahommed to do mighty deeds against the foreigners, but these all escaped on account of the quality of their horses and fled through the passes by Peshawar without being attacked.¹⁴ I have heard that they made an attempt at attack at Chillianwallah but I never saw any of them. I am inclined to think that they took good care to keep well clear of shot or shell, and confined their mighty deeds to vain-glorious boasting.

being molested. An action was fought at this place, Gujerat, and it was almost entirely a fight between the heavy artillery. My regiment was on guard over the baggage, and therefore a good way in the rear, and I do not know much about this battle from actual eyesight. The Sikh guns were dismounted, their lines broken, the village carried at the point of the bayonet, and the whole of the Sikh army fled towards Rawal Pindi.¹³ After this battle some Europeans were walking about the field with lighted pipes when some dubahs [skin containers in the shape of a jar] exploded, being filled with powder, and burnt five or six Europeans and several sepoys so severely that they all died in dreadful agony. The unfortunate men ran towards their comrades, begging they would put a bullet into their heads and put them out of unbearable torment. I saw one or two sepoys—I think