of his eighteenth
year, and under the April sunshine, (and April is sweet, even in
London,) were repeating Wordsworth's poetry, and Talfourd's recital of
the "Sonnet on Westminster Bridge," on the spot where it was composed,
"made me," says Havelock, "a Laker for life." Nor after he became a
soldier was he likely to forget a poem of his favourite poet, upon which
his whole life might seem to have been moulded; and when, forty years
later, his brother, Colonel William Havelock, flung away his life in
battle against the Sikhs, Henry, proudly writing that ''my grief is more
than half absorbed in admiration, and I would scarcely give my dead
brother for any living soldier in the three Presidencies," justifies it
by describing how "Will Havelock" rode "happy as a lover" to his
death. But it is not such casual allusions as these that make us connect
the poem of Wordsworth and the life of Havelock. It is because, as the
life was an exposition of the poem, so the poem is a commentary on the
life; and in sketching the one we shall ever and anon listen to the
stately music of the other.
Havelock bears the name of Havelok the Dane, who
ruled or ravaged the eastern counties before Hengist and Horsa visited
them. Whether he was also descended from him does not appear. It is much
more satisfactorily established that he was the son of a Sunderland
shipbuilder, who, having made his money by the sea, like those old Norse
pirates, retired, not like them, to some solitary wave-washed rock, but
to a comfortable park in the county of Kent, where his son Henry was
born. At school, seeing a big boy thrashing a little one, he interfered,
and was accordingly thrashed by the big one, and thereafter thrashed by
the master for having been thrashed before. At the age of ten he left
this reverberant pedagogue, and went to the Charter House, where he was
thrashed incessantly, and came, like the famous eels, rather to like it.
We are told, indeed, that the severity of discipline here, and the
custom of fagging and being fagged, had a great influence on his
afterlife; he was a terrible disciplinarian in the army, never sparing
others, and, it must be added in justice, never sparing himself. Among
the boys who scampered about the Charter House in Havelock's time were
Fox Maule, now Lord Panmure, Eastlake, the President of the Royal
Academy, and Grote and Thirlwall, the well-known historians. But a
little knot of more intimate friends—Sam Hinds, and Daphne Norris,
and Phlos Havelock, and Julius Charles Hare, had some stranger
and deeper thoughts in their heads, and used to creep away to one of the
dormitories to read sermons, and perhaps to pray, at the risk of much
"crackling of thorns " if they were discovered. The friendship thus laid
in honest young hearts lasted through life; and in 1850 Archdeacon Hare,
one of the noblest Christian men and English writers of our day,
welcomed back the bronzed little warrior from India, having ''longed
continually to know what fruit the bright and noble promise of your
boyhood had borne." In more than one respect, therefore, does Havelock's
life at the Charter House, compared with his subsequent history, recall
to us Wordsworth's
"Generous spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought."
When the victory at Futtehpore shot the first ray of
light across the darkness of Indian mutiny, he sat down and wrote his
wife, "One of the prayers oft repeated throughout my life since my
school days has been answered, and I have lived to command in a
successful action. . . . Norris would have rejoiced, and so would dear
old Julius Hare, if he had survived to see the day."
Havelock had intended to be a lawyer, but owing to
"an unhappy misunderstanding with his father," of which we have no
details, he, like his three brothers, entered the army at the age of
twenty. For some ten years thereafter, he occupied the position which
Lord Burleigh characterised as "a soldier in peace—a chimney in summer;"
but our young officer refused to acquiesce in this view of his
profession. He studied Vauban, and Lloyd, and Templehoff, and Jomini,
read every military memoir within his reach, made himself familiar with
the events of every modern and ancient campaign, got up the history and
exploits of all the regiments of our army, and made himself a well
furnished and accomplished soldier before he saw a single skirmish. Nor
was this all; our lieutenant, who is described at this date as
"diminutive in stature, but well built, with a noble expanse of
forehead, and an eagle eye," "With a natural instinct to discern What
knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn, Abides by this resolve, and
stops not there, But makes his moral duty his prime care."
For now Havelock becomes a Christian. The old Charter
House feelings had died away. How they were revived we
have no exact knowledge. Havelock's Christianity always partook
of the nature of the man—stern, outspoken, uncompromising, but very
averse to dwelling upon or analysing his own feelings. We only
know that on his outward-bound voyage to India
in 1823, in the twenty-eighth year of his age,
"the Spirit of God came to him with its offer of peace and
mandate of love, which, though for some time resisted, at last
prevailed." A fellow voyager, a Lieutenant Gardener, was of great use to
him at this time. Havelock taught him Hindostanee, and he taught in
return the elements of the doctrine of Christ, giving him to read, as we
find, the "Life of Martyn," and Scott's "Force of Truth." And so he
seems to have stepped upon the soil of India, the land with which his
name must henceforth be associated, a confirmed and consolidated
Christian character; and to have henceforth regulated his upright,
downright, straightforward life, not by the gentlemanly maxims of the
mess, nor by the unsteadfast emotions of an "honest English heart," but
by the power and in the strength of duty, as taught from the lips
of Him who has brought duty as well as immortality to light.
"Hence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows."
This character was, for many years, to be displayed,
not in active service, but in the monotony of a subaltern's life in
cantonment and office. No doubt the year after he went out to India he
went through a Burmese campaign, but it was very short; "the gilded
spires of the countless pagodas of Rangoon" had fallen into our hands
before his arrival, and in the only skirmish in which he was personally
engaged, "my pioneers (Madrassees) fairly flung down the ladders, and
would not budge, though I coaxed, harangued, and thrashed them by turns,
all under the best fire our feeble enemy could keep up, and within
pistol-shot of the work." After a twelvemonth of liver complaint and
convalescence, we find him sent as the emissary of the British power to
Ava, to receive the ratification of the treaty of peace, when the
courteous barbarians, placing a fillet of gold leaf on his forehead,
invested him with the title of a Burmese noble. But while he was a noble
in Burmah, he remained in India a lieutenant in the 13th Foot, and it
was long before his keen desire for either active service or promotion,
or both, was gratified. Yet in this, too, as in later life amid more
important work, he maintained the characteristic consistency and
strength of his nature, as one
"Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all."
Let us hear, on this subject, how he writes to his
friend Major Broadfoot, a man of kindred and prodigious energy:—
"Let me ask, my good friend, what it is you mean by
prejudices against me. Tell me plainly; I am not aware of any.
Old ------ and others used to tell me that it was believed at the Horse
Guards and in other quarters, that I professed to fear God, as well as
honour the Queen, and that Lord Hill and sundry other wise persons had
made up their minds that no man could be at once a saint and a
soldier. Now, I dare say such great authorities must be right,
notwithstanding the example of Colonel Gardiner, and Cromwell, and
Gustavus Adolphus, (all that I can think of just now;) but if so, all I
can say is, that their bit of red ribbon was very ill bestowed upon me,
for I humbly trust that, in that great matter, I should not change my
opinions and practice, though it rained garters and coronets as the
rewards of apostasy."
And again—
"You are quite right; in public affairs, as in
matters eternal, the path of popularity is the broad way, and that of
duty the strait gate, and few there be that enter therein. I shall have
been half a century in the world if I am spared another month, and I end
in opinion where I begin. Principles alone are worth living for, or
striving for."
Meantime, long before promotion came, and before
these letters were written, he had "lived his life " honestly and truly.
He taught and instructed the religiously-disposed men of his regiment,
and formed a little band of Baptist " saints," whom the rest respected.
" I know nothing about Baptists," said bluff Colonel Sale, "but I know
that I wish the whole regiment were Baptists, for their names are never
in the defaulter's roll, and they are never in the lock-up house." "Call
out Havelock's saints," said Sir Archibald Campbell, when the Burmese
threatened an outpost unexpectedly at night; they "are always sober, and
can be depended on, and Havelock himself is always ready."
An officer sauntering through the passages of the
Great Pagoda at Rangoon, suddenly found himself in a little room with
idols in the niches, each holding a lamp, by the light of which the
pious soldiers of the 13th, with Havelock in the midst of them, were
standing up and singing a Christian hymn to the one living God; even as,
long afterwards, within the walls of beleaguered Jellalabad, surrounded
by an overwhelming force of enemies, and ere yet the earthquake had
hurled its fortifications into ruin, he read in the midst of the
military square, '' God is our refuge and our strength: Therefore we
will not be afraid, though the hills be carried into the midst of the
seas; though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof! "
In 1829, not being able any longer "to run against
the tide in an Indian canoe," he "consented to give hostages to
fortune," and married the daughter of Dr Marshman, the revered Serampore
missionary. From the marriage ceremony, he hurried away to attend a
court-martial, in spite of the assurances of his friends that so
interesting a transaction would plead for him sufficient excuse.
Twenty-six years afterwards, he writes to his wife that the first
incident of that twofold day, partitioned with such rigorous
impartiality, was the "source of nearly all the satisfaction and
happiness which retrospect presents to me on the chequered map of my
sixty years' existence. So, madam, all hail! best of mothers and not
worst of wives." Nor is this the only utterance which recalls to us
Wordsworth's soldier, who,
"Though endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans
To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love."
Like most men of strong, firm natures, he had a great
pride in his sons; in the "boy Harry," who rode straight on through a
shower of grape at Cawnpore, and in "the mighty Georgy," to whom he thus
writes from Bombay:—
"My dear George,—This is your birthday, and I sit
here in sight of the house in which you were born, five years ago, to
write you a letter. My office is gone to Poonah, and I have nothing to
do but to think of you. But your brother Joshua is very busy in the next
room, reading Mahratta with his pundit. However, he says that he too
will scrawl a note for you as soon as his daily studies are over. I dare
say Harry is remembering you too, but he, you know, is a long way off
from us now, in the Punjab.
''Now, though a little boy, you ought to have wisdom
enough, when you get these lines, to call to mind how very good God was
to you on this day, in preserving the life of your dear mamma, who was
so sick that no one thought she would recover.....They tell me that
now-a-days it is the fashion for little boys like you to do no work
until they are seven years old. So if you are spared, you have two more
years of holiday; but then you must begin to labour in earnest, and I
will tell you what you will have to learn: the first thing is to love
God, and to understand His law, and obey it, and to believe in and
love Jesus Christ, since He was sent into the world to do good to all
people who will believe in Him. Then, as it is likely you will be
brought up to be a soldier in India, you will have to be taught to ride
well, and a little Latin, and a great deal of mathematics, which are not
very easy; and arithmetic, and English history, and French and German,
and Hindostanee, and drawing and fortification.....
"Read all the accounts of the battles of Alma,
Balaklava, and Inkermann, and if by God's blessing we meet again, I will
explain them to you."
But we must hurry on to notice Havelock's public
career. It was that of a soldier, who
"Doom'd to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed,—miserable train!
Turn'd his necessity to glorious gain"—
not so much by the placability and tenderness
of which the poet speaks, as resulting from the view of wretchedness
around—for, in truth, it was on this side that his character was
deficient—but by that strength of soul which rooted itself the deeper
through the shocks of a stormy existence. In peace, the soldier is, or
should be,
"More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more;"
in war he becomes
''More able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress."
So our brave little officer, with his high forehead,
and piercing eye, and ringing voice, rode through campaign after
campaign in the Northwest. He passed over the gate of the impregnable
fortress of Ghuznee, just after "the massive barricade had been shivered
in pieces, bringing down in hideous ruin, into the passage below, masses
of masonry and fractured beams," and having gained the inside, found
Colonel Sale on the ground, struggling desperately with a powerful
Affghan, and calling out to Captain Kershaw — coming up at the moment—to
''do him the favour to pass his sword through the body of the infidel."
In the Cabul war he went forward with this same brigade to Jellalabad,
and took part in its memorable defence, a defence all the more difficult
from the want of the reinforcements which he had demanded at the
beginning of the year,—" eight 28-pounders, four mortars, and a
chaplain." For a long time matters remained here as he described them in
a letter at the time,—" Our only friends on this side the Sutlege, are
our own and General Pollock's bayonets. Thus, while Cabul has been
overwhelmed by the billows of a terrific insurrection, Candahar,
Khelat-i-Ghilzie, Ghuznee, and Jellalabad, stand like isolated rocks in
the midst of an ocean covered with foam;" and when at last the garrison
saved themselves by their own gallant exertions, their success was owing
not a little to Havelock's valour and wisdom. Then came the Sikh wars,
with their "smashing combats." Through them all the future saviour of
Lucknow rode boldly and calmly; getting one horse shot under him by a
ball in the ribs, another by a ball in the mouth, and a third hurled
from under him by a cannon shot. Everywhere he distinguished himself by
personal intrepidity, by his professional science and skill, by his
clear-headed views of the requirements of each case, and by the
trustworthiness and reliableness of his nature. Now, as afterwards, when
all men watched his progress by the blood stained Ganges, or, as before,
when a neglected subaltern, he realised the character of
"The man, who lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,
Or left unthought of in obscurity—
"Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—
Plays in the many games of life that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stands fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self surpast."
So he lived his life, until at last, to use the
metaphor of our laureate, the " stubborn thistle"* of duty burst into
the bright red rose of fame. The hour came, and the man; for the man had
so lived, that no hour should find him unprepared. On his birthday, the
5th of April 1857, while he was gaining victories over the Persians, and
expecting more, news was brought him that peace with Persia had been
signed. "The intelligence," he writes, "which
elevates some and depresses others, finds me calm in my reliance on that
dear Redeemer, who has watched over me and cared for me when I knew Him
not, threescore and two years;" and with such an utterance on his lips,
he turned to his last, crowning labour—for the mutiny in India had
already broken out. And now, beyond all former emergencies of his life,
was seen that most brilliant characteristic of the Happy Warrior,—
"He who, if he be call'd upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has join'd
Great issues, good or bad, for human kind,
Is happy as a lover, and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw:
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need."
In this spirit he fought up to Cawnpore, and from its
blood-stained well to Lucknow. "In battle, the General," says Major
North, "seemed to be gifted with ubiquity, and the clear tone of his
voice raised to the highest pitch the courage of his men, as he hurried
toward the Highlanders, and said, ' Come, who '11 take that village, the
Highlanders or the 64th?'" And so his soldiers loved him, as men will
love those who know how to lead them, however stern they be—and not even
on this march would he relax his discipline, threatening, as we find, to
hang up in their uniform all plunderers in the corps. Yet, after
fighting two battles on the 28th of July,—
"As he returned to the causeway, the weary soldiers
who were grouped on it, leaning on their arms, suddenly caught a glimpse
of him, and in an instant there was an enthusiastic shout through their
ranks, 'Clear the way for the General!' A bright smile stole over the
stern features of the old chief, as he exclaimed, 'You have done that
well already, men.' This unexpected compliment electrified the
troops, and as his form gradually disappeared, 'God bless the General!'
burst from a hundred lips."
So, too, at that last, deadliest fight, when Havelock
and Outram, twins in fame, struggled at the head of their men into that
world-famous Presidency—the loopholed houses on either side pouring
forth a stream of fire as they advanced, every roof sending down a
shower of missiles, with deep trenches cut across the road to detain
them under the fire of the adjacent buildings, and from every angle of
every street a volley of shot scattering death—when at last they
arrived, it was no wonder that the garrison and the Highlanders, the
deliverers and the delivered—nay, the children and the women, united in
one rapture of acclamation and of welcome to the soldier who in deepest
need had proved himself worthy of the name.
One more battle—one more enemy to fight and
overcome—and then Havelock shall have, as another brave man strengthened
himself by reflecting, "all eternity to rest in." The true warrior, says
Wordsworth, finally, concluding his noble delineation, is he
"Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead, unprofitable name—
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause."
Thus died Havelock—thus, and even better. For while
he found, as he had ever done, a deep comfort in himself, in his cause,
and in the witness of Heaven authenticating the verdict of his
conscience; while he said, most truly and characteristically, to his
brave comrade Outram, ''I have for forty years so ruled my life, that
when death came I might face it without fear;" he also called his son,
the inheritor of his honours, to see how a Christian could die,
and affirmed in these last hours the trust, not in himself, in which he
had entered upon the campaign. Weeks before he had written to his wife,
— "I must now write as one whom you may never see more, for the chances
of war are heavy at this crisis. Thank God for my hope in the Saviour.
We shall meet in heaven."
"This is the Happy Warrior; this is he
That every man in arms should wish to be."