And so the elephants’ and horses’ heads were turned round again, the artillery trains were got in motion, and at the head of his powerful army the Nana Sahib—the ruthless Tiger of Cawnpore—marched back to the city. He felt that he was supreme master of the situation. He knew that opposed to him were a little handful of English only, that he could crush—or, at least, he believed so; but he did not consider the hearts of steel that beat in the breasts of those few British, who would have conquered even his legions of black demons if they had not been made the victims of a cruel plot.
With swelling pride the Nana rode into the town, his long lines of troops in the rear, his guns lumbering over the dusty roads, and singing a “song of death” with their trundling wheels. He dubbed his army at once the “Army of the Peishwah,” and commenced to make promotions, Teeka Singh being placed in command of the cavalry, with the rank of general. Azimoolah was war secretary and counsellor, and Tantia Topee became keeper of the treasure.
When this first business had been arranged to their own satisfaction, the army sat down close to the British defences. Long a subject of the English, Nana Sahib now felt that he was their master; and a pitiless, grinding, exacting, awful master he was to prove.
As he viewed the paltry fortifications which had been thrown up by General Wheeler, and then let his eyes wander to his own heavy guns, he smiled a grim smile of satisfaction.
“What think you of our chances of success, Azimoolah?”
“I have been examining the place through my telescope for the last half-hour,” answered Azimoolah. “I have some difficulty in discovering their works, even now. But I think that after two hours’ battering with our guns, I shall need a microscope to find them.”
“Sarcastic, as usual, Azi. But don’t you think that we had better let these miserable people go?”
“Go—go where?” cried the crafty knave, turning upon his master suddenly.
“Escape,” the Nana answered pointedly.
“Escape?” echoed the other, in astonishment. “Surely your Highness will not signal the commencement of your reign by an act of namby-pamby weakness. Escape, forsooth! Turn every gun you’ve got upon them, and blow them to that hell they are so fond of preaching about!”