[1] Gabions are hollow cylinders of basket-work filled with earth.
[2] Fascines are large bundles of brushwood faggots.
On the eventful morning of 8th September, 1857, Major Brind of the Artillery—a man concerning whom an officer present observed: “Talk about the V.C., why, Brind should be covered with them from head to foot!”—is given the honour of commencing the bombardment from No. 1 Battery, only seven hundred and fifty yards from the walls. In spite of all Brind’s labours of the night, the sun rises before his battery is ready for action, and the mutineers at once perceive his designs. Pitiless showers of well-directed grape plunge in and around the battery. Though but half-sheltered from this terrible fire, Brind’s gunners, assisted by a detachment of the Gurkhas of the Kumaon Battalion, go on with the rapid completion of the work. At length a single howitzer is dragged into position, and the first shot of the real bombardment is fired. It is but a feeble retort to the thundering giants of the Mori and Kashmir bastions, and the foemen laugh as they continue to pound the gallant little band with round-shot, grape, and shell. Ted from his post on the Ridge looks on with disappointed eyes.
But before long a second gun is on its platform, and then a third, and the rebels laugh no longer. And soon the battery is complete; five 18-pounders and four 24-pounders, magnificently aimed and served, are replying in earnest, as though the very cannon knew how long the army had been waiting for them, and had resolved to do their duty and show that the waiting had not been in vain. With high hopes and expectations thousands of British, Gurkha, Pathan, Sikh, and Dogra soldiers look on at the awful duel. Idle spectators are they, unable to assist, and safe from the venomous fire of the rebel cannon which are now all directed to the destruction of this impertinent No. 1 Battery. The insurgents stand manfully to their guns, but the finest artillerymen in the world are serving under Brind, and at length, to the delight and amid the resounding cheers and hurrahs of the spectators, the massive masonry of the Mori Bastion, that looked but yesterday strong enough to defy an earthquake, begins to crumble away. The answering fire slackens and dwindles down.
By this time No. 2 Battery (Campbell’s) is ready, but is directed to wait until No. 3 can also be prepared, in order that the enemy’s surprise may be the greater. With No. 2 is a party of the Jummu contingent, who are at first unwilling to ply spades and shovels or pile sand-bags, murmuring that they are come to fight, not to do coolie work. As the mutineers blaze away, these Dogra Rajputs, throwing down shovels, seize their muskets and fire harmlessly at the stone walls, to the great danger of the artillerymen. They are at once told by Major Campbell that they are there to work and not to play at fighting, and they manfully settle down to the uncongenial task.
The attention of the foe having been purposely attracted by No. 1 Battery, No. 3 (Scott’s)—partially prepared during the night, and concealed by grass and branches of trees—has been secretly at work, and is ready on the morning of the 12th. Dangerously near to the rebel cannon is No. 3; less than two hundred yards separate the British gunners from their antagonists. Almost at the same moment No. 4 Battery (Major Tombs’) prepares for action. To achieve the secret completion of these batteries has been the brilliant work of Colonel Baird Smith and of his worthy second in command, Engineer-Captain Alexander Taylor.
For three days Brind’s guns have been reducing the gigantic and formidable Mori Bastion to powder, whilst the other three batteries have been preparing to lend him a hand.
“Not much left of our old friend!” observes Major Reid cheerfully to a small group of his officers, who stand gazing upon the work of destruction on the evening of September the 11th.
As Reid speaks, another shell strikes their ancient antagonist, the Mori Bastion, towards which he is pointing.
“They’re defending it well, though, sir,” replies Captain Russell, as gun after gun is brought forward by the rebels, who are making praiseworthy efforts to silence Brind. “We’ve got so used to the old bastion that one feels almost sorry to see him going to the dogs in this way.”