Barclay of the Guides

by Herbert Strang

A score of mutineers were hauling a heavy log through the gateway. At the same moment there was a great uproar from the rear of the house. The attack in that quarter had not been resumed since the previous night, the rebels having apparently determined to concentrate on the front, trusting to win an easy victory with the aid of their gun. Owing to the casualties among the defenders, only ten men were now available, and the division of forces necessary to cope with simultaneous attacks in both front and rear laid a heavy handicap upon them. Half ran to the back to repel the assault. The furniture had already been massed against the door, and Ahmed saw with relief that by firing through the loopholes in the shutters the attackers could for the present be held off. It was otherwise in front. Several of the men carrying the log were shot down, but others took their places before the defenders could reload, and the ram was launched against the timber. The whole building trembled under the impact, and though the door for the moment held fast, it was plain that it could not long withstand such a battery.

The doctor was alive to the situation. He called to the men to prepare for a rush up the staircase, bidding one of them get ready the nail-studded plank for laying lengthwise on the stairs. While the men were still holding their position at the loopholes, they heard the sound of wrenching woodwork above, and in a few minutes there was a large gap in the ceiling of the hall. Immediately afterwards there came from above the sharp sound of hammers on metal. Ahmed could not guess what the doctor and the khansaman were doing, but felt sure that whatever it was the defence would gain by it.

Meanwhile the battering on the front door had at last loosened the hinges; it was time to retire. Ahmed and the five men with him went a few steps up the staircase. Then he laid the plank on the treads, so that none of the enemy could mount without crossing five feet of sharp iron points. The massive timber withstood several more assaults before there was a final crash, and it hung half open, disclosing a part of the yelling crowd outside. Ahmed and his comrades were only dimly visible to the besiegers, while the latter in the open courtyard were in full view of the besieged. A second after the door burst open the six men on the stairs fired together. There was no chance of missing the densely packed throng—every shot claimed its victim. For a second or two the crowd recoiled. The little firing party ran up to the landing. Then the doctor, limping to the top of the stairs, gave directions to the khansaman to pour down the plank the contents of a huge blue bottle. Shots were whistling round them from the muskets of the rebels who had swarmed into the hall, but neither showed the slightest concern. Kaluja had just finished his work when, led by the shrieking fakir, the mob made a rush for the stairway. Several men, heedless of the nails, scrambled up for a foot or two. Then with shrill cries of rage and pain they jumped backwards, overturning their comrades who were pressing on behind them. The plank was smoking with the strong acid which the khansaman had poured upon it. Most of the mob were barefooted, and even their tough soles could not withstand the effects of the burning liquid, the fumes from which set those above choking.

The hall was now packed tight with yelling rebels, so closely pressed together that to use their muskets was impossible. They had no escape from the shots fired by the men above as fast as they could reload. Then a new terror was added to the scene. Ahmed now saw the meaning of the knocking he had heard. Over the gap in the floor the khansaman had laid the doctor's sitz-bath, in the bottom of which he had pierced a number of holes. He was now engaged in emptying the contents of his master's bottles into the bath, the doctor adding water from time to time. It would have puzzled the most expert chemist to define the chemical composition which fell in a steady shower on the heads of the panic-stricken mutineers. The liquid fizzed and smoked, and changed colour like a chameleon—now green, now yellow, now brown, now an indescribable mixture of tints. There was only one desire among the discomfited enemy: to escape from this cockpit in which they suffered pangs due to the hakim's mysterious art as well as to the more familiar weapons of war. Pushing, shouting, scrambling over each other, they forced their way out into the compound, and there was such a wringing of hands and such a chorus of groans as surely Delhi had never heard or seen before.

The attack at the front had been effectually beaten off. The doctor hoped that the enemy would now retire altogether. But Ahmed ran up to the roof to see whether they were indeed withdrawing. The street was still full of rebels, and an excited altercation was going on among them. The central figures were Minghal Khan, who had hitherto been content to hound the men on without showing much eagerness to lead them, and the fakir, who bore many marks of the chemical baptism he had received. The uproar was too great to allow Ahmed to hear what was being said; he could only guess at it by the gesticulations of the men and by what happened afterwards. The fakir had, in fact, called on the fanatics who surrounded him, to bring combustibles for the burning of the house. Against this Minghal vehemently protested: the king's orders were that no houses should be fired: this would be only to assist the Feringhis. But the fakir scoffed at orders: it was the duty of all the faithful to destroy the infidels by any means in their power. Then Minghal used another argument: there was valuable property in the house—his property, his all. The fakir's answer to this was a horrible laugh, and the taunt that Minghal had shown no disposition to go into the house and fetch his valuable property. Minghal was overborne. Devoted adherents of the fakir brought up shavings, pieces of wood, jars of oil. Then, waving his arms, his long beard dripping in many-coloured drops, the fakir led the shouting mob round to the lane at the back. Not even he cared to face the front again.

Ahmed was descending to inform the doctor of this new move, when he stopped suddenly. A fresh sound had caught his ear: the sound of firing, both artillery and musketry, far away. Were the British columns renewing their assault? Was Colonel Jones forcing his way through the city again towards the mosque? His heart leapt with a great hope. The mutineers were coming to fire the house: nothing could prevent them; but rather than die like rats in a trap, he and his comrades must make a dash through the compound, and try to cut their way towards their friends. Suddenly he remembered the doctor. He could not take part in such a sortie. He must not be abandoned. The idea must be given up: there was nothing for it but to hold out to the last moment.

The roofs and windows of the surrounding houses were deserted. No doubt their former occupants had learnt that the house was to be fired and had joined the mob below, hoping for a share in the expected butchery and plunder. Here was a chance of dealing the enemy a last blow. Through the trap-door Ahmed called to the men to bring up his musket and join him. The mob was already pouring down the lane behind the fakir—hundreds of men in the frenzied zeal of fanaticism. They came to the garden wall and began to swarm over it; some burst in the gate; they flocked through in numbers too great to be checked by the fire of the ten men above. A volley flashed; Ahmed took aim at the fakir: he and the men nearest him fell. Those behind leapt over their prostrate bodies, and with fierce cries threw themselves against the door. Once more the ten fired among them; then Ahmed saw that men were again appearing on the roof of the nearest house, and before the little party all descended through the trap-door a Sikh and one of the corporals were hit.

When the others reached the doctor, they found him quietly preparing a bomb. He had filled a canister with powder, attached a roughly-made fuse, and was about to light it and fling the bomb among the enemy. At the sight of it an alternative scheme flashed into Ahmed's mind. He quickly explained it to the doctor, then hurried away through the almirah into the secret chamber below. Placing the table on the doctor's charpoy, he mounted on it, and laid the canister in a little ventilating recess just below the fountain. Then he lit the fuse and rushed away, slamming the door behind him.

He was only half-way up the stairs when he heard the back door burst in with a crash. Immediately afterwards there was a terrific report, that shook the house. He ran back, waited a minute or two to allow the fumes of the explosion to clear away, and re-entered the room. It was a wreck. The fountain had fallen into it, and it was choked with rubbish. Creeping over obstacles he saw a gap above his head, through which, by and by, it might be possible to reach the garden. He hurried back to the surgery. Whatever might have happened to the crowd in the garden, those who had entered the house had kindled a fire; the room was already full of smoke. In another minute all the little company had descended the spiral stairs to the secret room, leaving the wall of the surgery closed behind them. Below they would be safe for a time, the underground room being connected with the house only by the stone staircase.

Meanwhile the mutineers, daunted by the sudden explosion, had withdrawn to the further side of the garden. Some in terror had recrossed the wall; but the fire was alight; there had been no sign of any attempt at escape on the part of the garrison; and the fanatical throng exulted in the belief that ere long their victims would be consumed with the house.