“I feel uneasy, I know not why,” said Major Hughes to his adjutant, Lieutenant Reynolds, as they stood within a roughly constructed barricade, near the race stand, his regiment supplying the main picket, posted close to the Trunk Road, leading to Allahabad.
“Who holds Saint Salvador House?”
“A strong detachment of our 53rd, Major,” was the reply.
“It’s a nasty morning, Reynolds, just visit the outlying pickets, and tell Biddulph to keep a sharp look-out.”
The adjutant wrapped himself in his cloak, and went out into the rolling fog, and his superior officer, leaning against an upright post, his drawn sword in his hand, listened eagerly for any passing noise.
He began speculating as to the chance of an attack on the important post he held, covering the road by which the wounded, the ladies and children were making their weary way towards safety. Isabel was safe in her little home looking over the Indian Ocean, but there were many Isabels among that sad column, equally dear to others, and whose safety was in his hands.
“Captain Robertson,” he said, speaking to one of a group of officers, who were laughing and chatting near, with their swords drawn, “get the men under arms at once. Pandy will never miss such a chance of surprise as this fog gives him.”
The picket, consisting of about two hundred rank and file, were soon under arms, and the grey dawn was just breaking through the mist, when suddenly the explosion of a single musket was heard, followed by several others, then a heavy volley from the front.
“I thought so!” exclaimed Hughes, with a sigh, as though his breast was relieved of a great weight.
Firing as they were driven in, the officers and men of the outlying picket were now to be seen through the dense mist as clearing away from the front of the line; the well-trained fugitives dashed round the flanks and re-formed under cover of the race stand.