Colonel Biddulph was shot down. The gallant Dalzell, of the 93rd Highlanders, was lying on the ground dead; he fell as he was leading his regiment to the charge. Captain Wheatcroft, of the 6th Dragoons, Hardy of the Royal Artillery, were moistening the plain with their hearts’ blood. Sir Colin Campbell himself was wounded, and eight of the staff around him were more or less hurt. The Naval Brigade working their twenty-four pounder, as though it were a plaything, had been dreadfully cut up, but still above the roar of the guns, and the pattering of the musketry, came the shout, “Forward!” not a man thought of retreat.
“Brigadier Greathead is hard pressed, Sir Colin,” said a mounted officer, dashing up.
“I can’t spare a man, Major Robertson,” replied the chief. “Tell him to look to himself.”
“Captain Heale, this for Sir Hope Grant; tell General Mansfield I want him.”
While the battle was thus hotly contested on the left, Brigadier Greathead’s little force found itself opposed to the enemy’s centre. Walpole’s guns, it is true, were steadily clearing the brick-fields, driving the enemy before them, but the Punjaub Infantry had already lost ninety-five men, and the 150th were severely cut up.
“Within five minutes of receiving this you will charge the enemy’s centre, such are the chief’s orders,” exclaimed a staff officer, galloping up, and handing over a small pencilled note.
The thing seemed impossible, and the Brigadier, amid the roar of the battle, for a moment doubted his ears. The next, the word of command was given, and pouring a shattering volley into the enemy’s line, the little brigade dashed on with the bayonet.
Precisely at the same moment, on the left, Sir Colin heard the scream of his Highlanders, the whole British force dashing forward at the charge. It was a splendid sight, as emerging from the heavy smoke cloud, the long line of bayonets glittering in the sun, with one mighty shout for vengeance, the English force buried itself in the heavy opposing masses of the murderers of Cawnpore.
“Forward—remember Cawnpore,” shouted Hughes, as at the head of his men he dashed on, leaving a long line of dead and dying in his rear.
Utterly astonished at the attack, the mutineers of the Gwalior Contingent gave way, then came the ringing cheer of the 8th Regiment, as the men dashed onward with the bayonet, and the enemy fairly doubled up, turned and fled.