The muskets came down with a clang, as of one man.
“Charge;” shouted Major Hughes, and round the stockade, round the stand, with a loud howl for vengeance, came the British line. The shock was tremendous, for the men fought like fiends, while from the two positions which had been so hotly contested, the bright flashes of musketry came thick and fast, mingling their reports with the roar of the heavy guns from town and entrenchment.
The men of the Gwalior Contingent were literally borne back by that terrible bayonet charge, then the whole mass became mixed, the scene more resembling an Irish row than a fight among disciplined men.
Pandies and English were jumbled together, fighting for life, and for revenge more than for victory, the red glare of the guns seen through the rising mist, the shouts and cheers of the men in the race stand, maddening still further the already savage combatants below.
“Clear the way, my hearties,” shouted a hoarse voice, as with a loud cheer, the men of Peel’s Naval Brigade came laughing and shouting along, after forming behind the grand stand, dragging along a 24-pounder. “Starboard, you may. Heave ahead with the gun.”
“Who is commanding officer?” asked Captain Peel. “Here, bugler, sound the recall. Now, my lads, give them Number one broadside, ram in grape!” and as the notes of the bugle sounded in the morning air, the discipline momentarily lost, again regained its hold; and the 150th came streaming back, re-forming behind the gun, Major Hughes grasping the gallant sailor’s hand as he passed him.
Staggered by the bayonet charge, the mutineers paused. A man, evidently an officer of high standing, could be seen encouraging them, and urging them on. At length, with a savage yell, the massive column wavered to and fro, the officer, grasping a green flag, dashed forward, full twenty paces in front of his men.
“File firing from the right of companies,” shouted Hughes, as the regiment, re-formed, once again, stood in line.
“Take that, you landlubber,” shouted a sailor, hitting the mutineer officer over the head with his short cutlass, as the brave fellow dashed at the gun, and cutting it literally in two, the 24-pounder, with its terrible fire of grape, sweeping right through the advancing column.
The mutineers wavered, stopped dead, while with a cheer the gallant tars loaded the gun.