Christmas came and went, and a new year opened, before Ted Russell took part in another fight. In the early days of January, 1858, the rebels were attacked at the village of Khuda-ganj, north-west of Cawnpore.
No sooner were the troops within range than the native gunners opened fire, and showed how excellent had been their training. The shells whizzed viciously overhead, and one burst with a crash between Ted and Ramzan Khan, who were within ten paces of each other, the fragments whirring about their ears without touching man or beast. Boldre’s Horse were ordered to retire out of range, and the Horse Artillery began to talk back, and Peel’s tars came running up, dragging their big guns along without apparent effort, and, wheeling them smartly into action, were soon pumping shot and shell into the rebel stronghold.
The rest of the troops were ordered to take cover and lie down until the cannon should have played havoc among the mutineers, and prepared the way for a bayonet charge. And now Ted and Claude, from behind the sand-hills, witnessed an unusual incident, no less than open defiance of the commander-in-chief himself, by an English regiment—flat mutiny in fact.
The men of the 53rd firmly believed that Sir Colin favoured the Highlanders unduly, and gave them more than their due. Having learned that he had selected the 93rd for the honour of leading the stormers, they quietly determined to baulk their rivals. The rebel fire was still unsilenced—indeed both Sir Colin and General Hope Grant had just been hit by spent bullets—when one of the 53rd rose and ran forward yelling. A howl of triumph and a cheer, and the regiment dashed after him.
Sir Colin was furious—but the 53rd must be supported, even though they had upset his plans. He gave the 93rd the order to back them up, and Hope Grant advanced his cavalry.
A thrill of delight passed through the nerves of our two lieutenants as the “Charge” was sounded, and the line of British Lancers and Sikh and Pathan Irregulars shot forward at a gallop, knee to knee as though on parade, the earth quivering beneath the hammering, the horses straining as if they entered into the feelings of their riders. It was a supreme moment, and Ted could tell that his good Arab was as excited as himself as the line thundered onwards. And then the regularity of the gallop was spoiled and the better-horsed shot ahead, for the lads of the 53rd had broken Jack Pandy’s heart, and he was already scudding away with his guns. One party of rebels after another was overtaken and scattered, and on went the cavalry until all the guns were captured and hardly a rebel was left in sight. Then they turned and charged back upon those who had escaped the first shock.
“Hurt at all?” asked Ted as he came up with Claude Boldre.
Boldre pointed to his leg, from which the blood was welling. “Bit of a bayonet prick from a pandy who was down. I don’t think much of it.”
“Better have it bathed, though.—— By Jove, look there! Roberts is a dead man—no, he’s cut the sepoy down!”
The troop of native cavalry with which the future hero of Kandahar and Pretoria was riding had come across a body of mutineers, who, unable to escape, had turned and fired, mortally wounding Younghusband, the commandant. Roberts was hurrying to his friend’s aid, when he noticed a pandy in the act of slaying one of his troopers. He instantly engaged the rebel, and, cutting him down, saved the life of the Punjabi. Turning round Lieutenant Roberts perceived a couple of sepoys hurrying off with a standard, so he pursued and overtook them, and, seizing the standard with his left hand, he killed the bearer. As he did so the other sepoy let fly, his musket barely a foot away. Luckily for England it missed fire, and the second opponent was speedily disposed of, and Lieutenant Roberts bore away the standard and thereby gained the V.C.