Ferozeshah and the First Anglo-Sikh War

‘One more such victory and we are undone’, exclaimed India’s Governor-General, Sir Henry Hardinge, after the battle of Ferozeshah of December 21st and 22nd, 1845. In the 88 years that had elapsed since Plassey and witnessed the spread of British domination across the whole of the Indian sub-continent with the exception of the Punjab, British regular and East India Company raised regiments had been engaged in a series of wars against the ‘Country Powers’.

In most of these campaigns, climate and terrain proved more dangerous adversaries than the opposing forces, but in the last month of 1845, a well-disciplined yet highly fanatical body was encountered, capable of meeting European troops on equal terms on the field of battle; the Khalsa, or Sikh army. That the Sikhs should have reached this pinnacle of military prowess was something of an anomaly.

In 1469, a Hindu grain merchant of Tal-wandi village on the banks of the Ravi river just north of Lahore, called Kalu, had a son he named Nanak. From his earliest years, the child showed an exceptional intelligence combined with a passionate interest in the study of religion, so much so that on reaching the age of ten he had not only absorbed the abstruse teachings of the Hindu Sastras, but also those of the Koran. When still under twenty, he set out to travel the length and breadth of northern India, denouncing Hindu polytheism, preaching a belief in ‘One God’, and calling on people to ‘live virtuously and be tolerant of the feelings of others’.

Before long this youth had gathered round himself a considerable following of pacifist, philanthropical followers calling themselves ‘Sikhs’, meaning literally ‘disciples’, while he himself assumed the title of‘Guru’ or ‘teacher’. By the time of his death at the age of seventy, Sikhism had become established as a minority faith, and the position of Guru established on a permanent hereditary basis. Throughout the sixteenth century the Sikhs increased rapidly in number, founding a centre for their belief at Amritsar, a town lying almost due east of Lahore and halfway between the Ravi and Beas rivers.

This expansion was possible because of the basic tolerance of Hinduism, a tolerance shared, uncharacteristically, by Akbar, first of the ‘Great Moghuls’, grandson of Babur, descendant of the Tartar, Timur-i-lang (Tamerlane), who had conquered India, imposing his dynasty in Delhi in 1527. On Akbar’s death (1605), however, his successors reverted to more typically Islamic fanaticism with its abomination of all ‘infidels’. The Sikhs were persecuted ruthlessly. Refusing conversion, many, including two Gurus, were either beheaded, impaled, or torn to pieces.

It was the 6th Guru, Har Gobind, who came to the decision that, if Sikhism were to survive, the cult of pacifism must be dropped and violence met by even greater violence. His call to arms had an enthusiastic response. In 1639, the very first Sikh army, only 5,000 strong, soundly defeated a Moghul force of over 7,000. It was the first action of a life and death struggle with the central power of Delhi, to last for the best part of one hundred and fifty years.

In 1703, shortly before the death of the Emperor Aurangzeb, most rabid of all the Sikhs’ persecutors, Gobind (not to be confused with Har Gobind), the 10th Guru, founded the Khalsa, or ‘Army of the Chosen’, called for the extermination of Islam, decreed that - like Samson - a Sikh should never shave or cut his hair, at all times bear arms, and that the suffix ‘Singh’, or ‘Lion’ (and thus ‘warrior’), should be added to every name.

By the early nineteenth century, the Moghul Empire having fallen into decadence and the rising power of the Marathas smashed by the British, there remained only two genuine military powers on the sub-continent: the British and the Sikhs. The British were the Goliath of this confrontation. Their hand lay firm from Bengal to the Sutlej river, south to the tip of the Carnatic and Travancore, and the lands of the scattered Maratha Confederacy.

Though on a far smaller scale, the Sikh State, with its capital Lahore, was still a power to be reckoned with, built up to its apogee by its greatest leader, the one-eyed Ranjit Singh. Having assumed the title of Maharaja, popularly known as ‘the Lion of the Punjab’, he was master of all the territory west of the Sutlej, right up to the Khyber Pass, having wrested Peshawar and most of what was later to be known as The North West Frontier Province from the Afghans.

Undoubtedly, he would have liked to extend his dominions to include Delhi, but he was no hothead. Though naturally aggressive and ambitious, he was always careful to weigh up a situation before acting. He is said to have visited a British garrison disguised as a horse-dealer, and have come to the conclusion that the framework of the Khalsa did not conform with the standards of a modern army and must be re-organized.

Till then, the Khalsa, like all other oriental armies, relied entirely on a cavalry striking force, the infantry being little better than an unwieldy mob of untrained levies, and the artillery practically non-existent. Ranjit Singh was, indeed, the first Indian leader to appreciate the true significance of fire-power, the potential battle-winning capacity of well-trained, well-disciplined infantry, and above all the growing importance of the future role of artillery.

To ensure the efficiency of his reorganization, Ranjit Singh was able to recruit foreign advisers lured by the prospect of generous pay, notably the French generals Allard and Court, and two French-trained Italians, Ventura and Avitibile, the latter a specialist in infantry training. Thanks to the efforts of these four men, the Khalsa evolved from being an amorphous mass into a cohesive military entity comprised of brigades, each consisting of four battalions of infantry, two batteries of artillery, and a cavalry wing which could be up to 5,000 strong.

Units were properly drilled, and put through rigorous courses of battle and weapon training. Officers received instruction in the intricacies of‘modern’ tactics. A homogeneous uniform was introduced - scarlet tunics, blue trousers, blue turbans for the infantry, scarlet for the cavalry, while the gunners wore black jackets and white trousers - and special emphasis was laid on the necessity of the men receiving regular pay through the channel of a paymaster known as the ‘Bakshi.’

Regiments had their own standards (Jhanda), their own followers such as cooks and sweepers, their own transport wing, and, to ensure that the religious basis of Sikhism was not forgotten, the equivalent of a chaplain, known as a Granthi, reader of the Granth, the holy book of the Sikhs.

Unfortunately when Ranjit Singh died in 1839, the Sikh State was torn by rival factions in a scramble for power. The Khalsa - or army clique - resented the fact that the British barred their path to the east, feared British designs on their independence, and at the same time felt that their ‘modern’ army was capable of defeating the ‘foreigners’. Those at the Lahore Court, the Durbar, feared both the British and the Khalsa.

After the murder of Ranjit’s son, the death the following day of his successor, the result of a dubious accident, and the murder in 1843 of the third Maharaja in as many years, much of the real power passed into the hands of an ambitious young widow, Rani Jindan, claiming that her ten-year-old son, Dalip, having been sired by ‘the Lion’ in his old age, was the rightful heir to the throne. In this she was supported by two favourites, Lall Singh, reputed to be her lover, and Tej Singh, the Durbar-appointed commander-in-chief.

This little clan of self-seekers, afraid that the Khalsa meant to seize power and proclaim its own nominee Maharaja, came to the conclusion that their interests would best be served by a war with the British in which the Khalsa would be defeated, convinced that the British would then proclaim the Punjab a protectorate with Rani Jindan recognized as Regent till Dalip’s coming of age.

In the meantime, the Khalsa’s confidence in its own strength had been greatly increased on learning of the disasters suffered by British arms in Afghanistan in 1841 and ’42, and aggravated when, in 1843, the British annexed Sind, a province on which they themselves had been casting covetous eyes. Working themselves into a frenzy of xenophobia, encouraged by the Durbar, the Khalsa crossed the Sutlej river into British-controlled territory on December 11th, 1845.

Despite ample evidence of Sikh military prowess, and being fully aware of the reorganization that had taken place under General Allard, the British authorities were not only surprised by the invasion, but greatly underestimated their opponents.

In early December, British forces in the threatened area consisted of three weak divisions stationed at Ferozepore, Ludhiana, and Ambala, commanded respectively by Major Generals Sir John Littler, Sir John McCaskill, and Sir Walter Gilbert. Army Headquarters were at Ambala, commanded by Sir Hugh Gough, a full general, sixty-six years old, who had fought with Wellington in the Peninsula.

The traditional ‘fighting Irishman’, Gough has been accused of a total lack of appreciation of the ‘art’ of war. Ideally suited to lead a battalion in a frontal charge, he is said to have lacked all tactical flair, and to have been relied on to pay the highest possible price in lives for victory. His remark at the battle of Sobraon (February 10th, 1846) on hearing that the artillery was short of ammunition - ‘Thank God, then we’ll be at ’em with the bayonet’ - has become a classic. Nevertheless, there has seldom been a commander more beloved by his troops, both British and Indian, or more imperturbable under fire.

In both Sikh wars, that of 1845 on which he was about to embark, and the second, and final, campaign of 1849, Gough has been roundly blamed for alleged tactical errors and high casualties; but in 1845 his position was rendered invidious by the action of the Governor-General, Sir Henry Hardinge, soldier turned politician.

As a soldier, Hardinge was still on the active list, though junior to Gough; but as Governor-General, his was the highest authority in the land. Yet on the outbreak of hostilities, he took the unprecedented step of declaring himself Gough’s second-in-command. For the latter it was an extremely embarrassing situation, and one he had no power to change.

Gough’s total force did not exceed 30,000, but consisted of a hard core of regular British infantry and cavalry. This was fortunate, as, by 1845, the East India Company’s ‘native’ units, as they were known, were already affected by the virus of discontent that, twelve years later, was to cause the terrible upheaval of the Mutiny. In addition, most of the sepoys originated from India’s eastern provinces, Oudh, Bengal and Bihar. For them the Punjab was looked upon as a ‘foreign’ posting.

They complained bitterly that they had not enlisted to serve so far from their homes, and that having been persuaded to do so, the promised extra allowances were not forthcoming. A significant number applied for their discharge; two regiments, the 34th and 64th Bengal Native Infantry, mutinied. Furthermore, the individual sepoy did not have the natural physique or inherent martial ardour of the Sikhs, and was frankly apprehensive at the thought of crossing swords with the Khalsa.

The Sikh force that crossed the Sutlej amounted to close on 50,000 men, the regular units of the cavalry being swelled by the Gorchurras, semi-irregulars, superbly mounted, and including a number of the most fanatical of all Sikhs, the Akalis, ‘the immortals’, or rather, ‘the soldiers of God’, an order instituted by Gobind.

The Gorchurras were ultra-conservative, scorning the ‘new-fangled’ ideas of training, but though outstandingly brave, failed to make the contribution to the campaign they could have done had they been a disciplined force. A notable feature of the Khalsa was its powerful artillery wing, comprising some 380 pieces, varying from 4 to 15-pounders.

The army’s fatal weakness, however, was its leaders. Not only had Tej Singh retained overall command, but Lall Singh, Rani Jindan’s reputed lover, a man of no military talent, no experience, and totally lacking in personal courage, had been appointed as his second.

The first major clash took place at Mudki (or Moodkee) on December 18th, after Tej Singh had prevented the Sikhs from taking advantage of the tactical surprise occasioned by their unexpected crossing of the river to strike directly at Littler’s division, dangerously isolated at Ferozepore.

Such an attack could well have started their campaign with a resounding victory, since Littler had a bare 7,000 men under command. Instead, he by-passed Ferozepore, then split his army into two wings one of which, consisting of 3,000 regular infantry and 20 guns, supported by 10,000 irregular cavalry, ran into the Ludhiana and Ambala divisions hurrying to the threatened area, and led by Sir Hugh Gough in person.

There were only two hours of daylight left; and Gough, unaware of the enemy’s proximity, had given orders to bivouac for the night. Tents were being pitched when Sikh guns opened fire. As the progress of the infantry was slow and uncoordinated - the popular story is that the force commander, Lall Singh, having given the order to attack, then slipped away and took no further interest in the proceedings - the British had time to reform and, Gough taking charge, themselves went over to the attack.

The hesitant Sikh infantry were halted as they probed forward, then thrown back. At the same time the British cavalry, led by the 3rd Light Dragoons (later the 3rd King’s Own Hussars), launched a brilliant charge, first scattering the irregular horse, then wheeling on to the flank of the guns, sweeping through the battery positions sabreing the gunners. Those who survived, fighting their guns to the last, then perished on the bayonets of the 30th (Huntingdonshire) and 50th (Queen’s Own) of Foot. By the time night fell, 17 Sikh guns, surrounded by the dead bodies of their crews, were in British hands.

There was no pursuit. Gough’s men were too exhausted after a long day’s march, followed by a hard-fought encounter, to do other than attempt to organize a scratch meal and get a little sleep despite the bitter cold of the night.

Sikh casualties amounted to just over 2,000 killed and wounded. British losses were half that figure, but included a number of senior officers, among them the divisional commander, Sir John McCaskill, and Sir Robert Sale who had brilliantly conducted the defence of Jellalabad during the recent Afghan war. Battle honours had certainly gone to the 3rd Light Dragoons, to be known from then as Shaitan ki bacchi (‘The Devil’s children’) by their enemies, by their comrades as the ‘Moodkee Wallahs’.

Despite this reverse, the Sikhs were still in a position to exploit their great numerical superiority, for during the night the two wings of their army linked up. With every justified hope of success, they could either have resumed their attack at dawn, or else turned with their combined strength on Littler. Instead, they chose to fall back and set up an entrenched camp at Ferozeshah (or Pheerooshuhur) roughly halfway between Ferozepore and Mudki.

Gough, indeed, was expecting to be attacked the following morning, and had himself taken up a defensive position, but when no enemy materialized, immediately set out in a north-westerly direction to hasten his junction with Littler. When the leading troops spotted the Sikh position, however, reporting it back to the main body, Gough galloped forward to make a quick reconnaissance in person, and decided to assault the enemy defences without waiting for the junction.

At this point, the unsatisfactory chain of command became manifest. When Gough announced his intention, Sir Henry Hardinge, though, as has been seen, acting as second-in-command at his own request, promptly exercised his superior position as Governor-General by ordering Gough to refrain from any offensive action till Littler arrived on the scene.

Eventually the link-up was effected at a village called Misreewalla, just over two miles south of Ferozeshah. By then it was close on two o’clock in the afternoon. It was 1600 hrs before final orders had been issued and the British guns opened fire, by which time, since it was the shortest day of the year, a bare two hours of daylight remained.

Gough now had four divisions under command, three in line with one in reserve. Gilbert was on the right, Brigadier Wallace who had taken over McCaskill’s division on the latter’s death in the centre, Littler on the left. Before the battle opened, the Sikh army had again split up, Tej Singh withdrawing still further to the north-west, leaving the defence of Ferozeshah in Lall Singh’s incompetent hands.

Even so the latter enjoyed a small numerical superiority, while many of his 88 guns were of heavier calibre and out-ranged those of the British, an advantage soon made evident when on replying to the British bombardment the Sikhs succeeded in knocking out a number of lighter pieces currently in use with the Royal Horse Artillery.

The Sikh counter-fire was described by one eye-witness as ‘devastating’. ‘Guns’, he says, ‘were dismounted and their ammunition blown into the air’; and as Gough’s divisions moved into the attack, he continues ‘squadrons were checked in mid-career; battalion after battalion was thrown back with shattered ranks...’

This initial disadvantage was worsened by the fact that, through misinterpretation of orders, Littler had moved ahead of schedule. His infantry was subjected to crippling losses. Coming within 300 yards of the Sikh trenches, the 62nd (Wiltshire) regiment was shot to pieces, 299 men falling in ten minutes, among them 16 officers.

An NCO, Sita Ram, of a ‘native’ regiment who later, after 48 years service, was prevailed upon to write his memoirs, says:

‘The Sikhs gave volley for volley... and their fire was terrible such as no sepoy has ever had to endure. The Sirkar’s (British) guns were almost silenced and ammunition wagons exploded. I saw two or three European regiments driven back by the weight of artillery fire which rained down on us like a monsoon downpour. One European regiment (he refers to the 62nd) was annihilated-totally swept away - and now I thought the Sirkar’s army would be overpowered...’

The unusual sight of a British regiment in confused retreat was greeted by the Sikhs with exultant cheers, and again at this stage a determined counter-attack might have swayed the balance in the Khalsa’s favour. That no such order was forthcoming can be attributed to Lall Singh.

Deliberately, it is felt, he refrained from so doing, and it was Gough, conspicuous in the white surcoat he always wore so as to be the cynosure of all eyes on the battlefield, who quickly profited by his opponent’s supineness. Placing himself at the head of Gilbert’s division, closely followed by Hardinge, he was able to rally the wavering infantry into a renewal of the assault.

Led by the 29th (Worcestershire) and 80th (Staffordshire Volunteers) regiments, Gilbert’s right hand brigade (Taylor) advanced steadily till within charging distance of the foremost trenches they were met by a fire as withering as that which had decimated the 62nd. The coolness of the 29th’s commanding officer, Major Congreve, a Peninsula veteran, saved the day. Well ahead of his leading files, he led a bayonet charge which broke into the Sikh positions, scattered their infantry, then overran a battery after a savage hand-to-hand encounter in which the gunners fought to the last gasp.

Losses, however, were severe. Brigadier Taylor was badly wounded, and within minutes both regiments were counter-attacked by a horde of irregulars, taken to be dismounted Gorchurras, Headed by a giant of a man clad in chain mail and carrying a huge black banner. This time the 80th bore the brunt of the losses, two of their company commanders being killed before the standard bearer himself fell and the counter-attack was finally beaten off.

In the meanwhile the 3rd Light Dragoons, emulating their feat at Mudki, had charged two batteries commanding the Ludhiana-Ferozeshah road and enfilading Taylor’s brigade, killing most of the crews before galloping on to disperse a regular infantry battalion about to go to the aid of the retreating Gorchurras.

Over to the left, the 9th (East Norfolk), the only British battalion in Wallace’s division, also took heavy casualties as it closed in on the Sikh perimeter, but was saved by a charge of the 26th Bengal ‘Native’ Infantry. Smashing a way through the outer defences, the two battalions then advanced towards Ferozeshah village itself, to be joined by the 50th (Queen’s Own) of Ryan’s brigade, which had been moved up to give heart to Littler’s badly battered regiments, led by the divisional commander, Sir Harry Smith.

In the village the Sikhs again rallied. A furious hand-to-hand, tulwar versus bayonet, battle raged in the narrow alleys before the village was finally cleared and the 50th advanced beyond the western fringe of houses, there to be halted, depleted by heavy casualties, weighed down by fatigue, and dangerously isolated by the rapid fall of night.

Darkness gave the Sikhs yet another chance of turning the tables. Inter-communication between the British command and units had broken down. The men were hungry, thirsty, and even more serious than lack of food was a desperate shortage of ammunition. Their position was, indeed, hazardous. Though most of the enemy perimeter had been stormed, British and Indian battalions were wide open to counter-attack. Company commanders had lost touch with their battalion commanders.

Men were finding it difficult to keep awake after the exertions of the day, tormented by the pangs of hunger and thirst. To add to their discomfort it was bitingly cold and any attempt to light a brushwood fire attracted the unwelcome attention of Sikh batteries which had driven off all assaults during the day. As Sita Ram put it rather picturesquely,

‘Nothing was heard among us than the chattering of teeth on empty stomachs.’

Later, Sir Henry Hardinge commented that during the night of the 21/22nd ‘The fate of India trembled in the balance’; while Captain Cunningham, in his ‘History of the Sikhs’, first published in 1849, wrote ‘On that memorable night the English were hardly masters of the ground on which they stood...’

Doubt and misgivings were felt at Gough’s ad hoc HQ. There was a general tendency among the staff officers to counsel a retreat to Ferozepore. Gough, however, who could never bring himself to quit a battlefield on which the enemy still stood, turned a deaf ear. Instead, though understanding that his badly mauled force must regroup, he thought this could be best achieved by ordering a limited withdrawal of a few hundred yards only from the perimeter, to facilitate a speedy redeployment after re-establishing the broken chains of command, and to reassume the offensive at first light.

Even this limited withdrawal was fraught with serious hazards. Orders had to be delivered verbally and individually by runners never quite sure whether, in the pervading darkness, they would stumble on the unit they were seeking or a still intact Sikh position or marauding patrol; the order delivered, the pull-back could not be carried out without the grave risk of being surprised by roving bands of irregulars who knew the terrain.

But once again the Khalsa was betrayed by the inefficiency, or what is more probable, the treachery, of the two Sikh commanders. Instead of launching the vital counter-attack, Lall Singh had collected most of the Gorchurras to act as his personal escort. Then, without a word to his subordinates, slipped away to make sure of being alive to see the dawn.

Tej Singh, who throughout the 21st had been only a few miles to the west of Ferozeshah and on Gough’s right flank, had made no attempt to march ‘to the sound of the cannon’, even though he must have known that the intervention of his mass of fresh, battle-eager fanatics might well have turned the tide.

During this critical period, Sir Harry Smith and the group he had led in the successful attack on Ferozeshah village, were also in the greatest danger, marooned in the centre of the Sikh positions. Though no attack developed, they were being continually sniped at from all directions suffering casualties, and unable to reply effectively to this harassment for want of a concrete target.

No orders reached them; but about 0300 hrs, Sir Harry decided that, if his force were to avoid being surrounded and cut off from the main body, he must pull back outside the perimeter under the cover of darkness.

The withdrawal was successfully carried out, no serious opposition being encountered; but, like Gough, Sir Harry firmly rejected suggestions of extending the retreat to Ferozepore, guessing that a man of the commander-in-chief s temperament was almost certain to be ordering a renewal of the attack at daybreak. At 0500 hrs, hearing that Littler was re-concentrating at Misreewalla, he marched south, catching up with the division just before dawn.

He had barely arrived when a young staff officer was announced, claiming that he had orders for the two divisions to move back to Ferozepore. On questioning him closely, Sir Harry was convinced that the orders did not emanate from Gough himself- if, indeed, they were not the figment of the staff officer’s imagination.

He then had a violent argument with Littler who felt it doubtful whether his men were in any fit state to go into action. While their heated dispute was in progress, another staff officer, a Captain Christie of the Bengal irregular cavalry, came galloping up to say that the attack was already under way, and ordering them both to hurry to its support.

There had been no interference this time from Sir Henry Hardinge, though the risks being taken were infinitely greater than those of the previous day. Gough had no way of knowing that Lall Singh had fled with most of the Gorchurras, nor that his departure had provoked a disastrous collapse of morale in those left leaderless. In addition, though some rest had been snatched during the night hours, British and sepoys were still desperately tired, famished and thirsty.

No fresh supplies of ammunition had reached the line. Nevertheless, the British artillery was instructed to open fire with the few rounds left, and, as dawn broke, the infantry, bayonets fixed, moved steadily forward to storm those same positions for which they had fought so fiercely the day before.

One or two Sikh guns replied, but the Khalsa infantry had lost heart. After letting off a desultory volley, they hastily abandoned their trenches for the cover of the scrub jungle beyond the village. Only the gunners stood to fight to the death. By the time Smith and Littler arrived on the scene, it seemed that the battle was over; but as Gough rode down cheering lines congratulating the men on their victory, a scout came galloping up with the disturbing news that a whole fresh Sikh army was pushing down from the north. It was in fact the uncommitted wing commanded by Tej Singh.

Hardly a dozen rounds per man were left. The situation again appeared critical. As the trenches were hastily manned, a large body of horsemen emerged from the jungle, while hidden Sikh batteries opened up knocking out a number of British guns. Then, abruptly, their fire slackened while the cavalry mass, instead of hurling in a determined charge, began to manoeuvre in indeterminate circles beyond the range of the British infantry.

When the depleted 3rd Light Dragoons, led in person by Brigadier White, charged out to meet them, they simply withdrew, not waiting to cross tulwars with the troopers’ sabres. Their retreat was the signal for the Sikh guns to cease fire, and for the rest of the force to retire rapidly, but in good order, without firing a shot.

This contemptible behaviour on the part of Tej Singh was witnessed with both amazement and relief by everyone from Gough down to Sita Ram, the latter noting ‘the Sirdar Tej Singh was afraid to fight. The sahibs were as surprised as everyone else...’

‘The British won at Ferozeshah more by default on the part of the Sikh leaders than by any skill on the part of Gough’, wrote a contemporary. There is indeed a strong element of truth in this statement; but, at the same time, it is most unjust not to give the old commander-in-chief the credit due for his outstanding courage and refusal to be shaken in the face of adversity.

Ferozeshah, in all the history of wars in India, was the battle in which the British came nearest to defeat. It was Gough’s unique flair for rallying shaken troops and his rejection of the advice to fall back on Ferozepore that saved the day.

There was no pursuit. The men had reached the limit of physical endurance. Casualties were heavy; a total of 2,415 killed or severely wounded, many of the latter dying for lack of medical attention. Among the dead was Brigadier Wallace, one of the few to fall on the morning of the 22nd. Sikh losses were heavier, especially among the gunners who had shown so admirable a spirit of self-sacrifice, and amounted to close on 5,000.

Surprisingly the Sikh cavalry, both regular and Gorchurra, totally failed to live up to their fine reputation. It is possible they were deliberately held back by the two leaders, anxious to keep them as a bargaining handle for future negotiations; but, whatever the reason, their showing was indeed lamentable compared with that of both gunners and infantry. On the other hand, no finer page has ever been written in the history of British cavalry than that relating the feats of the 3rd Light Dragoons at both Mudki and Ferozeshah.

After Ferozeshah there was a lull in the fighting. Hostilities were resumed in the new year (1846), and by the end of February, Gough had won two more savagely contested battles, at Aliwal and Sobraon. After the latter, where British losses topped 3,000 but those of the Sikhs close on 10,000, a disaster again attributable to the two unscrupulous leaders, the Sikhs withdrew across the Sutlej and sued for peace.

This was concluded on the terms hoped for by Rani Jindan and her clique: the youthful Dalip Singh was proclaimed Maharajah, with Rani Jindan regent, the British establishing a protectorate over the state of the Punjab till his coming of age.

The peace, however, proved nothing better than an uneasy, short-lived truce, due to the fury of the Khalsa, smarting under the humiliation of defeat, suspecting that treachery had brought about their downfall, and convincing themselves they could emerge victors from a second trial of strength.

From early 1848 it became obvious that a second war was imminent, as the whole of the Punjab seethed with revolt against the British presence. Fighting broke out in November as British and Sikhs clashed in a number of small-scale, inconclusive engagements; but on January 13th, 1849, the sixty-nine-year-old Gough, having lost none of his aggressiveness, attacked the main Sikh army concentrating near Chillianwalla on the east bank of the Jhelum river.

There was yet another ferocious battle ending in Pyrrhic victory for the British. Public opinion was so shocked by the casualties that an unwilling Sir Charles Napier was given orders to sail immediately for India to take command. Some time before he could reach the scene of operations, Gough struck the final blow, soundly defeating the Khalsa at Gujrat in a battle often described as ‘principally an artillery duel’.

This was the end not only of Sikh resistance, but of Ranjit Singh’s cherished dream; the independent State of the Punjab. Yet this time defeat brought no bitterness in its wake. Although Gujrat was followed by the annexation of the Punjab, and the Resident in Lahore replaced by a British Governor, when eight years later there came the great upheaval of the sepoy mutiny, it was the loyalty of the Punjab and the sterling quality of its soldiers, outstanding among them the Sikhs, that proved a major factor in its failure and ultimate suppression.