In the towns along the Ganges and its tributaries the sepoy hordes still held the upper hand, and their numbers were daily increasing. Gallant Havelock and chivalrous Outram had at length broken their way through and relieved the intrepid garrison of Lucknow, but the mutineers had closed behind them, and they in their turn were shut up in the Residency, and Henry Lawrence, the best-loved Englishman who had ever set foot in India, was dead. Hardly a big town along the Ganges but had its tale of murder and black treachery to unfold.
Delhi had been captured, but its swarms of mutineers had gone to augment the ranks of the sepoys who were holding a reign of terror in Oudh; and though Sir Colin Campbell was at the head of a fine army, there were still threescore rebels against each white man.
Arrived at the Mogul capital, Ted learned that Colonel Boldre had gone on to Agra, whither he was to proceed with all speed. The route thus far was open, for the Delhi column under Hope Grant and Greathed had cleared the way, and fifty mounted Irregulars had little to fear from undisciplined and cowardly budmashes.
CHAPTER XXV
To the Rescue
The sun had just risen when Hira Singh, riding fifty paces ahead of the cavalcade, suddenly waved his hand as a signal to halt, leapt from his horse, and led it behind the bushes that bordered the road. His companions reined in their steeds and awaited the explanation.
The Englishman threw his reins to the nearest sowar and stealthily joined the ressaidar, who was peering through the bushes. They were passing through a well-wooded tract, abounding with mango, pipal, tamarind, and other trees, with plenty of tropical undergrowth, giving good cover.
“What is it?” Ted asked.
“I don’t know,” said the Sikh. “The dust hides everything.”