At the foot of the blasted mango-tree stood the heroic Scully. His arms were bare to the shoulders; his keen eyes were fixed upon his chief, from whom they never shifted; his teeth were set, his lips compressed. In his hand was a blazing port-fire, at his feet a heap of powder. But for the flush upon his face, and the heaving of his massive chest, he might have been taken for a stone statue representing the God of Vengeance about to inflict a terrible retribution.
It was an awful moment. It is hard to die at any time, but harder still when in the full vigour of health and strength. A slight movement of Scully’s arm, and the fire and powder would come in contact, and in an instant there would be an awful ruin. But not a muscle of the man’s frame quivered. He stood as firm and motionless as a rock.
The sun was shining brilliantly on the gorgeous domes and minarets of the great city. The great marble temple, the Jumna Musjid, which was devoted to Mohammedan worship, and was one of the wonders of India, gleamed grandly white in the shimmering light. But it was deserted now. Not a soul trod its sacred precincts. The followers of Mahomet had forgotten their religion, and, like starving tigers, were panting for blood.
Hour after hour passed, and still the noble “nine” kept the horde in check, nerved by the hope that succour would come from Meerut.
“Half the large number of troops in Meerut will be despatched after the mutineers,” said Willoughby; “and they must be very near now.”
Many an anxious glance did he cast towards the great high road, but no troops gladdened his sight. The expected succour did not come. Five hundred British soldiers at that moment could have cut the howling rabble to pieces, and in all human probability have prevented the further spread of the mutiny. And that number could easily have been spared from Meerut; but they were not sent out. Why, has never been known; but it was a fatal and cruel mistake; it is recorded in characters of fire on the pages of history, to the eternal disgrace of those who were responsible for the blunder.
The defence of the magazine was stubborn. The mutineers were mad with rage. They rallied to their war-cry of “Deen! Deen!” They pressed forward like a resistless tide. They rent the air with their howling. They discharged showers of musket-balls at the walls, which every moment gave tongue, and sent forth volumes of death-dealing grape and canister. But presently the fire began to slacken. The ammunition of the besieged was getting short, and none of them could leave their posts to descend into the magazine to get up fresh supplies. The sea of human beings without poured on. They gained courage as the discharge of the guns from the arsenal became less frequent. They pressed forward yard by yard. They gained the walls, against which scores of scaling-ladders were placed. Then the enemy streamed over, but the brave defenders had backed to their line of guns, and for a time kept the foe at bay, until even, as Willoughby had said it should be, the mutineers were almost able to mount to the parapets by the piled-up bodies of their slain.
Still they poured on, in their mad confusion, shooting down their comrades. The ammunition of the defenders was all expended now. The lion-hearted Willoughby rushed to the bastion on the river face. One more look—a long, anxious look—towards Meerut, but not a sign of coming succour. Meerut had failed them!
Willoughby returned to his guns. Half-a-dozen of them were still loaded; but he saw that all hope had passed. Further defence was useless.
“Comrades,” he said, “you have fought nobly, and England shall ring with your praises. We have defended our charge until defence is no longer possible. We are beaten by multitudes, but we are not conquered, and we do not know the meaning of the word surrender. When in happier days peace shall once more dawn over this fair land of India, when men shall recount the deeds done during this cruel day, may it be said that we did our duty as soldiers, and that we died like brave men.”