“Open the gates!” they cried. “In the name of the King of Delhi, open the gates!”
Getting the same curt refusal that had greeted the previous summons, some went off for scaling-ladders, and as they heard these being fixed against the outer wall the Nine knew the moment for action had come. The sepoy employees of the Arsenal were in full flight now, but Willoughby let them go. He had no shot to spare for them. So over the walls they scrambled, like rats deserting a sinking ship, to join their compatriots without.
As the last man of them disappeared the rush of the mutineers began. Swarming up the ladders they lined the walls, whence they fired upon the brave group of defenders, while the more intrepid among them leapt boldly down into the yard. The rifles of the Nine rang out sharply; then at the word “Fire!” the big guns poured their charges of grape into the huddled mass of rebels.
By this time a gate had been burst open, and here the 24-pounder was booming its grim defiance. The sepoys hung back in check for some minutes before the rain of shot. Behind them, however, was a rapidly increasing crowd, filling the air with the cry of faith—“Deen! Deen!” and calling on their brothers in the front to kill, and kill quickly. At this, though the ground was littered with dead, the rushes became more daring and the yard began to fill with dusky forms, driving the Englishmen farther back.
The end was very near now. The sepoys were dangerously close to the guns, and Willoughby realised that in a few moments he would have to give the fatal signal. One last quick glance up the white streak of road showed him no sign of approaching aid. They were helpless—doomed!
Willoughby threw a last charge into the gun he himself worked.
“One more round, men,” he said, “and then—we’ve done.”
The big pieces thundered again in the face of the dark crowd by the broken gate, and at the groups along the wall. Then, dropping his fuse, Scully ran swiftly to the lemon tree where the post of honour was his.
It had been arranged that Buckley should give the signal at a word from Willoughby, but the brave conductor was bowled over with a ball in his elbow. It fell to Willoughby himself, therefore, to make the sign. He raised his cap from his head, as if in salute, and the same moment Scully bent down with his port-fire over the powder train.
There was a flash of flame across the yard to the door of the big store building, a brief instant of suspense, and then, with a deafening roar which shook Delhi from end to end, the great magazine blew up.