CHAPTER XX
An Adventure on the Ridge
The attacks on the Ridge outposts had become less frequent and less dangerous, though the cannonade was as brisk as ever.
Early on the morning following the receipt of the amazing news from Aurungpore, Ted Russell of the Hindu Rao picket was roughly aroused from slumber. All was hurry and scurry as company after company of the Guides and Rifles ran to the assistance of the Gurkhas, who were bearing the brunt of a cleverly-designed attack by ten times their number. Jim, Alec, and Ted raced to the scene of action, arriving just in time to pursue the already defeated foe.
“Charlie means to have that rag,” Ted panted to his chum, as they raced side by side.
Shouting, “Follow me, lads!” Dorricot had made a dash for the colours of a rebel regiment, and was rapidly overhauling the flying standard-bearer, a score of mixed-up Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas following as best they could. The fight and pursuit were being carried on over a great extent of ground, and only the few in Dorricot’s immediate neighbourhood knew what was taking place. Seeing that the pursuers were so few in number, a large body of the enemy interposed between the officer and his followers, barring their progress. Charles Dorricot broke through, cut down the colour-bearer, grasped the standard, beat back his assailants, and for a few moments cleared a space around him. But what could one man do against so many? Before help could come Dorricot was beaten to his knees, sorely wounded, though still attempting to defend himself.
He collapsed, a sword-thrust through his breast, just as Corporal Thompson, a huge rifleman, forced his way through the mob by sheer strength and weight and judicious use of the butt-end. In the wake of the corporal came Motiram Rana, a Gurkha, and Hassan Din of the Guides, but, as they got through, the rebels closed up again behind them, baffling the efforts of Ted and his men to follow. Whether their officer was dead or wounded the three knew not; they meant to guard his body with their own. At bay they stood back to back—representatives of the three regiments that had held the Ridge—and, facing them, the rebels snarled like a pack of wolves around a wounded lion. Those behind pressed on those in front, and sepoy after sepoy fell before the weapons of the dauntless three, the Englishman trusting to the butt, the Pathan to the bayonet, and Motiram Rana, of course, to his patron saint, the kukri. The rifle in the Gurkha’s left hand was still loaded. Using the weapon as a pistol, the little man pulled the trigger, and the bullet passed through two pandies at least. Having now more room, the gigantic Thompson swung his rifle round and round and up and down like a flail, and cleared a breathing space. The stock broke into splinters, but before the mutineers could get in he snatched a musket, cracked the owner’s head, and the pandies again recoiled.
“He’s down!” Ted gasped. “At ’em, Guides!”
He and Alec with their Guides around them were pushing and thrusting and smiting their way through the opposing crowd, the pandies on this portion of the sloping ground having rallied round their standard. Suddenly the mob bulged in close by where they fought, as a pricked tennis-ball when squeezed; and amid a babel of shrill yells and jabberings in an unknown tongue, a lane was opened up. A Gurkha corporal had passed the word that Dorricot was down, and, collecting a couple of dozen furious men, had charged at their head. The vicious kukris flashed and flickered and bit deep, and the sepoys fell to right and left of that living wedge of Himalayans. Behind them Ted and Alec, Guides and Riflemen, found their way, and the sepoys broke and fled.