Victoria's Cross (11 page)

Rumours of its existence reached Canada, from where, early in 1867, the commanding officer of the British forces expressed his curiosity about the revised warrant. In March 1867 Sir Edward Lugard, parliamentary under-secretary at the War Office, declined to forward to Canada a copy of the 1858 revision, stating that ‘the Warrant in question has never been printed, or published in the London Gazette' and that it was not ‘expedient' to distribute it.
²⁷
In Pennington's view, the 1858 revision cheapened the VC and he, for one, regarded it as his duty to block awards made under it.
²⁸
On his return to London in July 1860, former Major (and now Lieutenant Colonel) Brett, who had taken command of the 54th regiment on the
Sarah Sands
during the crisis,
²⁹
wrote a letter to the new regimental CO, Colonel Michel, applying for a VC to be awarded to Private Andrew Walsh of the 54th Foot. Private Walsh was out of luck; despite being endorsed for the VC by the Duke of Cambridge, Lugard took the advice of Pennington that the unpublished revision of the warrant was not retrospective, even though it
had been created specifically to cover the incident of the
Sarah Sands
. Walsh fell foul of a diligent if now forgotten civil servant.
³⁰

Only six VCs, all of which today appear aberrations, were granted under this revised and obscure warrant. Perhaps the oddest case was that of Private Timothy O'Hea of the 1st Battalion, Rifle Brigade. Stationed in Canada, on 9 June 1866 O'Hea was travelling on a train when a fire broke out in a truck loaded with ammunition. The truck was disconnected from the train while a sergeant dithered over what to do. O'Hea grabbed the key to the truck and opened it, called for a ladder and water to extinguish the fire, and apparently single-handedly put it out after more than an hour. The indefatigable Pennington raised objections to O'Hea's VC, the strongest being that what O'Hea did might be considered an act of duty and that doing one's duty had never been sufficient to merit a VC. Had this stipulation been implemented, then many subsequent VCs might never have been awarded. Pennington must have imagined that his killer blow was to reiterate that, as the 1858 revised warrant had never been invoked, then to do so after eight years might set an unfortunate precedent. But the board of officers which met to consider VC recommendations passed O'Hea's, no doubt confident in their judgement thanks to General Peel's return to the War Office as Secretary of State. So O'Hea got his unusual VC, gazetted on 1 January 1867, the only VC to be awarded on Canadian soil, and the only one to have been published in the
London Gazette
stipulating that it was awarded under the terms of the warrant signed and dated 10 August 1858.
³¹

Equally bizarre were the VCs awarded for a single incident on Little Andaman Island, in the Bay of Bengal. On 21 March 1867 the British captain and seven crew members of the
Assam Valley
went ashore and disappeared. A few days later a small expedition went in search of them, but retreated after they were attacked by a group of Onge, the island's indigenous population. On 6 May 1867 a larger expedition landed on
the shore, but again came under attack from the Onge and had to be rescued; four privates under the command of an assistant surgeon of the 24th Regiment landed and rescued the seventeen officers and men stranded on shore. Apart from the lavish distribution of VCs on this occasion – all five of the rescue party got one – this incident is notable for the debate as to whether the VCs were awarded under the original warrant or the revised 1858 version. The official notice in the
London Gazette
of these VCs made no mention of the 1858 warrant – unlike the O'Hea case – but nor did it refer to any enemy being present. Even today it is not entirely clear under what terms the five Andaman VCs were awarded. This case was particularly anomalous because the Albert Medal (named for Victoria's deceased husband, and with two classes) had been established by royal warrant on 7 March 1866 and was specifically designed to be awarded for the saving of human lives at sea. But in one sense it does not really matter. The Andaman VCs demonstrated a determination to recognize the bravery of the men concerned in the most public way possible; the Victoria Cross suited that larger political consideration much more than the rather less well-known Albert Medal. The Andaman VCs went to men who were, no matter how bathetically, defending the empire; their example was felt at the time to demand the highest recognition the empire could offer.

Such were the vagaries and rule-bending in the early years of the VC; it was not so much a matter of what you had done, but what allies could be pulled upon to back your case. Some VCs, such as ‘Sir Timothy Valliant's', were virtually nodded through; others had to be fought for, both on and off the battlefield. The case of Charles Heaphy illustrates the extent to which lobbying for a VC could succeed, if pursued with sufficient tenacity and with the right political influence.
³²

British-born Heaphy was a talented draughtsman and water-colourist who gained a bronze and a silver medal from the Royal Academy before he was seventeen. In 1839 he took a job as draughtsman with
the New Zealand Company (NZC), established in 1837 to colonize the country. Heaphy settled in Auckland and spent the next decade surveying and exploring the country, at a time when the indigenous people of New Zealand were fighting a lengthy guerrilla campaign against the NZC's land-grabbing rapacity. An eager imperialist, Heaphy volunteered his services to the local militia, whose task – backed by regular British forces – was to repress local resistance. He learned the Maori language and, according to his obituary in
The Times
, ‘by his judicious mediations he prevented much native heartburning and bitterness of spirit towards the colonists'.
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Judiciousness was in scant evidence in 1864.

On 11 February that year, the now Captain Heaphy was in command of a small force of local irregulars involved in a skirmish at the Mangapiko River. Heaphy went to the aid of a fatally wounded militiaman and was himself slightly wounded. Major Sir Henry Havelock VC of Indian Mutiny fame was in command of the regular forces during the Mangapiko episode, and saw fit to recommend Heaphy for a VC to Major General Galloway, a regular army officer and local commander of all forces. Havelock at least was unlikely to be ignorant of the formal VC regulations of the 1856 warrant, which did not embrace the type of local colonial forces to which Heaphy belonged. Up the chain went Heaphy's recommendation, first to Sir George Grey, Governor General of New Zealand, who in turn sent it to Edward Cardwell, then Colonial Secretary in London, until finally it reached the War Office – which, obedient to the terms of the warrant, refused the VC. Heaphy appealed, exploiting a loophole in the 1856 warrant, arguing that the phrase ‘our military and naval forces' was open to interpretation in his favour. Heaphy's VC became a political issue: it was a matter of denying a great honour to a new colony. On 11 August 1865 the General Assembly of New Zealand heard a statement from the Governor-General, expressing regret that technicalities should prevent Her Majesty bestowing this
distinction on officers and men of a colonial militia; the New Zealand government asked for an extension of the VC warrant. Heaphy wrote to Lord Palmerston to push his case, pointing out that Palmerston was acquainted with his father. Palmerston died before he could act on Heaphy's letter, but – such was the political necessity of placating a remote colonial government, in this case that of New Zealand – that the rewriting of the regulations of the VC was of lesser significance. The VC warrant was thus amended and promulgated on 1 January 1867 to include ‘persons serving in the Local Forces of New Zealand' – and Heaphy got the VC he so craved, gazetted the same day, almost three years after his act.
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Did Heaphy merit his VC? At this distance the question is unanswerable, if we restrict the discussion purely to a consideration of the degree of courage displayed. The success of a VC recommendation has always depended, in part, on considerations of the broader political usefulness that might be gained. Heaphy's case might be seen as highlighting and overcoming an unhelpful ambiguity in the phrasing of the original warrant. On the other hand, it might equally be felt that rules are, after all, rules; what is the point of having them if they are to be altered simply by tugging at a few influential strings? By the time Heaphy's case cropped up, there had already been so many anomalies in the decoration's brief history that he, no doubt, felt entirely justified in pursuing his VC so assiduously.

Some – very few – dared to ask the question: was the VC such a marvellous creation? The senior ranks of the British army had a spectrum of views, ranging from those who thought it might be useful as a means of rewarding favourites or outstanding examples of gallantry, to the indifferent, through to those who regarded it with outright hostility. Few senior officers devoted much time and energy to a serious analysis of the Cross; those that did generally kept their doubts private. One who publicly attacked the VC was Lieutenant General Henry
James Stannus, an Irish career officer in the Indian army. Stannus loyally served queen and country for almost forty years before ultimately being squeezed out of the army and the only life he had known and loved, at the age of fifty-seven. A deeply conservative figure, Stannus was pushed into becoming something that he had previously given no sign of – an outspoken and highly critical maverick. If Stannus had not been shabbily treated by the tight nexus of power that operated between Simla, the Indian viceroy's summer residence, Horse Guards, the London army HQ, and Whitehall, he may never have committed to paper just how much contempt he felt for the army's highest ranks, or how much he and – so he claimed – others of his rank despised the Victoria Cross.

Stannus's condemnation of the VC is logical, detailed and principled, and was the view of one of Britain's most senior officers; yet his critique has been overlooked by the many books devoted to the VC that have appeared over the years. This neglect reveals the extent to which the received opinion of the VC quickly settled into place; most books on the Cross settle into the same format, the telling and retelling of tales of individual VC winners who all are deemed heroes, no matter what their individual circumstances might have been. Stannus was the first to apply a little bit of analysis, the first to look at the Cross more forensically. He disapproved not only of the VC but of all medals, decorations and military honours – although he received several himself – for the impeccably logical reason that to ‘reward a man, as is frequently the case, for doing what he would be ashamed not to do, and for neglecting to do which he would deserve to be tried by court-martial, is acknowledged even by the recipient of the honours to be perfectly ridiculous'.
³⁵
His acceptance of honours when they came his way may be thought hypocritical, but it was a necessary hypocrisy; to decline the CB he was awarded would have been to commit professional and social suicide. But once his career was finished and he was
free of the yoke of silent obedience, Stannus returned to Horse Guards all his honours and medals.

Up untill shortly before he left the army, Stannus had enjoyed a glittering career. He joined the 5th Bengal Cavalry in India as a cornet. In the First Afghan War, from 1839 to 1842, he so distinguished himself at the age of nineteen that he was made adjutant of his regiment. In 1848, when the Second Anglo-Sikh War broke out, Lord (Hugh) Gough, commander-in-chief of the British forces in India, appointed Stannus head of his personal bodyguard. Stannus again shone, at the Battle of Gujrat on 21 February 1849, when thirty chainmail-clad Afghan cavalry tried to capture Gough. Leading a small band against the Afghans, Lieutenant Stannus and his men found their swords useless against chainmail and used their pistols instead. He was badly wounded in this skirmish, for which – had it existed at the time – he almost certainly would have been recommended for the VC. He was immediately appointed captain and brevet major – he held three different ranks in three days – and in 1852 took command of the 1st Punjab Cavalry. In 1862 Stannus was given command of the newly raised 20th Hussars, formed from the East India Company's European (i.e. non-Indian) cavalry regiments. Five years later, Sir William Mansfield, then commander-in-chief of the armed forces in India, appointed Stannus commander of a brigade based at Agra. By December 1871 Lieutenant Colonel Stannus was now a CB and in receipt of a good-service pension. A short while later the viceroy, Lord Napier, gave Major General Stannus command of the division based at the city of Umballa, today's Ambala.

In December 1872 the 20th Hussars were withdrawn from India and Stannus had no option but to leave too. By 1874 he was back in Ireland on the unattached army list, kicking his heels and wondering what his next appointment might be, when – to his bitter disappointment and anger – he learned that two more junior generals, Crawford Chamberlain and Donald Stewart, had been given commands of
divisions in India. In an army where seniority was acquired by length of service, this could only be construed as a deliberate snub to Stannus, who complained to the commander-in-chief of the British army, the Duke of Cambridge, that he was a victim of injustice and possible nepotism. He drew attention to the fact that Sir John Lawrence, the viceroy of India from 1864 to 1869, loved to play croquet, and that a party comprising Lawrence, Chamberlain and Stewart (the latter two both then colonels) regularly met at Simla to indulge in a game. Digging deeper, Stannus discovered that his fate had probably been sealed in 1867, when he had been censured by Mansfield for an incident that was so trivial that Stannus had forgotten all about it.

During the heat of the Indian summer, Brigadier General Stannus and his staff at Agra usually donned white linen uniforms, following widespread practice. Major General Troup, a notorious bully who liked to boast of his rudeness to subordinates, commanded the Meerut Division of the Bengal army and was thus Stannus's immediate superior. When Troup turned up at Agra to inspect Stannus's command, he expressed surprise at being greeted by a cool but – for Troup – peculiarly dressed Stannus, who immediately offered to conform to Troup's more regular style of uniform. Troup dismissed the matter and led Stannus to understand he had no objection; Stannus mistook this for approval and he and his staff appeared at all inspection parades and official dinners in white linen uniforms. Throughout his stay at Agra, Troup gave no hint of displeasure; but once back at his own base Troup issued orders banning the white uniform throughout his command. Troup then left the division for a period and, as the next most senior officer, Stannus took over command. As he was entitled to, Stannus issued his
own
orders as to what to wear during the heat – white linen. Stannus may have lacked tact or political sense, but he had done nothing wrong. Nevertheless, Stannus was formally reprimanded by Mansfield for his infringement of official regulations regarding uniform.