‘It was his destiny,’ said the Sultaun gloomily; ‘it was once said his fate was linked with mine,—let it come. His death was that of a soldier, may mine be the same! Go! let him be buried with honour. We will dine here,’ he added to an attendant; ‘we feel hot within, and this air from the water is cool.’
His light repast was soon finished, and again he sat looking towards the trenches. He thought there were many men in them; as if by mutual consent, the firing had ceased on both sides, and no sound arose except the busy hum of the city: in the English camp all was still as death. He speculated for a while idly upon the unusual quietness, and looked again. On a sudden a man climbed upon the mound of the trench; he was tall and noble in appearance; his height was exaggerated by his position—he looked a giant. The Sultaun’s heart sank within him; he could not be mistaken in those features—it was Baird, whom he had so often reviled. ‘He comes to revenge the old man,’ he muttered—‘to revenge Mathews!’
It was a noble sight to see that one man stand thus alone in front of both armies: he appeared to look at the Fort for an instant, then drew his sword from its scabbard, and as it came forth it flashed in the sunlight. He waved it high in the air. Another leaped to his side: he was a native, and wore a steel cap and glittering chain-armour; a shield hung on his arm, and he waved a broad sabre. They leaped together from the mound, followed by hundreds, who with loud cheers dashed on in regular order.
‘Prophet of Alla!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘they come—Baird and Kasim Ali! Look to the breach! every man to the breach! defend it with your lives!’
He was hurrying away, when a thought appeared to strike him. ‘Stay!’ he cried, ‘bring water; we have eaten, and are unclean; we would not die like a kafir, but one for whom the Apostle waits ere he enters Paradise. I come, O Mohamed! I come quickly now.’
CHAPTER XLIX.
‘To the breach! to the breach!’ was now the cry far and wide; those who loved the Sultaun hurried there to die, to stop with their bodies the ascent of the devoted English—a living wall in place of that which had been torn down.
It was a sight on which men looked with throbbing hearts and aching eyes from both sides—those in the English camp, and those in the Fort. There were but few cannon to stop the English; all upon the breach had been dismounted, and no one dared show himself upon the dismantled defences to plant others. But as the British advanced, a storm of shot and rockets met them, which was enough to have turned more daring men. Many went down before it, many writhed and struggled; the column was like a march of ants where a human foot has just trodden, some hurrying on, a few turning to carry away a wounded and disabled comrade.
‘They are drunk!’ cried the Sultaun; ‘the hogs—the kafirs—they have been plied with wine. Be firm, brothers, and fear not, though they are desperate. Be firm, ye with the long spears, and do ye of the Kureem Kutcheree regain your lost fame! Remember, we are present,—a hundred rupees for every Feringhee! Look to your aim—they cannot pass the ditch.’