Ahmed was on the point of spiking the gun when a sudden inspiration seized him. The gun had been partly prepared for the next charge. Round shot and grape lay ready. The mutineers up the street, charged by the Sikhs, were huddled together like a flock of sheep chased by a dog, and the space around the gun was clear. Ahmed dropped his hammer, and began to ram in a charge of grape.
"Right you are!" said one of the corporals, divining his intention. "We'll slew her round. Come on, Bill."
The two corporals with Ahmed's assistance rammed in the charge, and slewed the gun round so that it pointed down the street, where the crowd was already beginning to surge back. Then Ahmed snatched up the burning portfire that lay on the ground and applied it to the touch-hole.
There was a babel of yells from the throng as the shot sped among them. In so dense a crowd the havoc was terrific. The instant the gun was fired, before the smoke had cleared away, Ahmed drove his spike into the touch-hole, and raising his voice to its highest pitch shouted to the Sikhs to return. In a few moments the whole party was dashing back through the gateway into the compound. Bullets sang about their ears, fired from the neighbouring houses; but the smoke still lay thick over the street, giving them partial protection. One man was struck; him Ahmed and another caught up and carried between them. They were the last to reach the door, and had not entered when the crowd, frantic with rage at their losses and the spoiling of their weapon, came surging in at the gate. The door was shut just as the first of them, not stopping to fire, was making a fierce cut at Ahmed.
Breathless but exultant at the success of their desperate enterprise, Ahmed and the little party went to the loopholes and fired a volley at the assailants which again daunted them. But now a strident voice was heard among the shouts outside. Fierce yells answered it, growing in volume every moment.
"A fakir!" cried a Sikh.
"I've heard the like of that screeching in Seven Dials of a Saturday night," said one of the corporals.
"And, by gum, it means mischief," said the other. "He'll work those Pandies up into a perfect fury, Jack, and they'll be that mad they'd charge into hell."
"Well, screeches won't break down the door."
"No, but a battering-ram will, and dash me if the beggars haven't got one."