Such broken sentences escaped him from time to time, as he fired upon the enemy with his own hand, often with deadly aim; but though the resistance made was desperate, what was able to withstand the hot ardour of this assault? Man after man went down before the strong arm of Baird, who toiled like a knight of old in the breach, cheering on his men with loud cries of revenge for the murdered. Kasim fought beside him, and equalled the deeds of the British leader.
‘They bear charmed lives!’ cried the Sultaun, dashing to the ground the gun he had just fired; ‘twice have I struck down the men close to them, but the balls harmed them not.’
‘Retire, I beseech you, O Prince!’ cried Rajah Khan and a hundred others around him; ‘this is no place for you; on our lives be it we drive them back.’
‘No; I will die here,’ said Tippoo doggedly; ‘they shall pass into the Fort over my body; but the ditch is yet before them—they cannot pass it unless it is filled as it was at— Bah! why should I have thought of that scene?’
This passed in a moment: the struggle on the breach was over—the defenders and their enemies lay there in heaps; still there was the ditch to cross, which was wide and deep; for an instant even Baird was staggered, and his men ran right and left seeking for a passage. Kasim Ali and he were close together; there was a scaffolding, and a plank over it leading to the rampart on the other side: it was enough, the way was found, and hundreds poured over it quicker than thought.
It was the last sight the Sultaun saw—everything else swam before his eyes; he looked stupefied, and said, hurriedly and gloomily, ‘It is finished—where are my bearers? take me to the palace—the women must die—every one: we would not have them defiled by the kafirs. Come! haste! or we are too late.’
They led him to his palankeen, mingling with the fugitives, who in the passage between the two walls were rushing on to the small postern where it had been left; men had been sent for it, but what bearers could struggle against that frantic crowd? As they hurried on, Rajah Khan vainly endeavoured to persuade him to fly by the river-gate; Poornea and his son were out, he said, and they might yet escape to the fastnesses of the west.
‘Peace! cried the Sultaun; ‘the women are sacred—they must die first; then we will throw ourselves upon the kafirs, cry Alla Yar, and die. May hell be their portion!’ he exclaimed suddenly, as he stumbled and fell. They raised him—a shot had struck him; he was sick to death, but they were strong men, and they urged him on, supporting him. Another cry he uttered—they saw blood pour from his back—he was wounded once more; but the gate was close at hand, and they strained every nerve to reach it. Hundreds were struggling there: the fierce English were behind, advancing with loud oaths and cheers, maddened by excited revenge, slaughter, lust, and hope of plunder. A fearful thing is a strife like that, when men become monsters, thirsting for blood.
They reached the palankeen, and laid the Sultaun in it. ‘Water! water!’ he gasped; ‘air! I am choking! take me out, take me out, I shall die here! Water! for the love of Alla, water! one drop! one drop!’
‘Remember the murdered, give no quarter,’ cried many whose bayonets were already reeking with blood. ‘Here is a gate, we shall be inside directly—hurrah!’