Back went the man, and soon around the walls of the temple there were piled heaps of dried leaves and faggots. The brand was applied. Up leapt the devouring flame; but there was a strong wind, and it blew the flames and smoke away. Then a new device was put in practice; the enemy filled bags with powder and threw them on the flames, until the building rocked and tottered. There was nothing left now for the brave fourteen but flight. Bracing themselves up, and shoulder to shoulder, they fired a volley into the astonished foe; then, with a cheer, they charged with the bayonet. It was a short, but awful struggle. One half their number went down, never to rise again; seven reached the river; there they plunged into the stream. As they came up after the dive, two of the number were shot through the head, and the water was dyed with their blood; a third made for a spit of land, but, as soon as he landed, he was clubbed to death with the butt ends of muskets. But four still survived. They were sturdy swimmers; they seemed to bear charmed lives; the bullets fell in showers around; the rabble on the shores yelled with disappointed rage. But the swimmers swam on—The rapid current was friendly to them. They were saved! “Honour the brave!”
When the roll of heroes is called, surely amongst those who have died in England’s cause, and for England’s honour, the names of those valiant fourteen should stand at the head of the list. Never since the days of old Rome, when “the bridge was kept by the gallant three,” have there been heroes more worthy of a nation’s honour than that little band of fighting men who held the temple on the banks of the Ganges, and cut their way through a pitiless multitude who were thirsting for their blood. No Englishman will ever be able to read the record without the profoundest emotions of pity and pride.
When the Nana heard of the escape of the four, he tore his hair in rage; but he could still have his revenge. For news arrived immediately after, that the boat which had drifted away had been recaptured. Ordering a horse to be saddled, he galloped down to the Ghaut, to join Azimoolah and Tantia Topee. And the three waited to gloat their eyes upon the wretched victims in the boat. There were a few women and children, and about a score of men; they were all sick and wounded, but they were driven ashore. The men were butchered on the spot; but the women and children were reserved for a second death.
As Dundoo Pant viewed these helpless people he laughed loudly. It was some satisfaction to feel that they were in his power, and that a word or a look from him would bring about their instant destruction. What the real desire of his own heart was at that moment can only be known to the Great Reader of human secrets. But at his elbow, his evil genius, his familiar fiend, stalked, and, with the characteristic grin, murmured—
“We are in luck’s way, your Highness; and these prizes will afford us further amusement.”
“In what way, Azi?”
“We can torture them.”
“Ah, ah, ah! You are a grim joker, Azi. I would torture them—I would burn them with hot iron—I would flay them, but these cursed English seem almost indifferent to physical pain. We must torture their minds, Azimoolah—break their hearts. We must invent some means of making them feel how thoroughly they are humbled.”
“The invention will not be difficult, your Highness. Set them to grind corn!”