HEROIC DEFENCE OF THE MAGAZINE.
The great magazine of Delhi, with all its vast supplies of munitions of war, was in the city, not far distant from the Palace. It was one of the most important stores in Upper India.
It was in charge of Lieutenant George Willoughby, of the Ordnance Commissariat Department—a man whose dauntless bravery it would almost be impossible to surpass. He had with him as comrades, Lieutenants Forrest and Raynor, officers of the Bengal Artillery, and six other Europeans.
When the warning went forth that the mutineers were swarming into the town, this little band of resolute Englishmen braced themselves to face the tremendous odds which threatened them.
“Comrades,” said Willoughby, as, mounting a gun, he addressed his force, “this is an awful time, and an awful responsibility rests upon our shoulders, for this great arsenal, with its enormous stores, will be the first point made for by the mutineers. Shall we yield it to them without a struggle?”
“No, no!” was the united cry.
“Good. Shall we defend it with our lives?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Good again. The odds pitted against us are incalculable. But we are Englishmen. Duty and honour demand that these villains shall only reach the stores over our dead bodies.”
“Bravo! We will fight to the death!”
“Nobly said. Not only will we fight to the death, but nothing that this store-house contains shall fall into the hands of the cowardly assassins.”
“Hurrah!” was the answer.
“From the magazine,” Willoughby continued, “we will lay a train of powder, to that tree there in the compound. You, Scully, my brave fellow, shall stand at the tree with a lighted port-fire in your hand, and, when further defence is useless, you shall receive a signal from me to fire the train, and then, ho! for death and glory. Let all the outer gates be closed and barricaded. Load the six-pounder guns with double charges of grape, and while we can move an arm let the cowardly enemy be met with a reception that shall at least cause them to have some respect for British pluck.”
The answer from his comrades was a wild, ringing cheer, and each man hurried to his task. The gates were closed and hasty barricades improvised. The guns were dragged out and placed in position, and into them grape and canister was crammed to the very muzzles. Then the door of the powder-room was opened and the heads were knocked out of several barrels, and the powder scattered about. From this a thick train was laid to the withered trunk of an old mango-tree. Here Conductor Scully, a young man, little more than a youth, but dauntless as a lion, was stationed, port-fire in hand. And the brave Willoughby placed himself in a conspicuous position, to issue orders, and assist in serving the guns. It was a heroic deed—history has scarcely a parallel. Those nine men, all in the flush of youth, setting themselves to oppose the advance of a countless multitude, and vowing that sooner than yield one grain of powder, or one pound of shot, they would bury themselves in the ruins.
When the preparations were complete, the brave band sat down to wait. But they had not to wait long. The shrill sound of a bugle was heard, together with a hammering at the principal gate. Willoughby sprang on the wall. Below was Moghul Singh, accompanied by a number of troopers.
“It is the King’s commands,” cried Moghul, when he saw the Englishman, “that you surrender this magazine and all its stores into his keeping. And, on condition of your so doing, he promises that your lives shall be spared, and that you shall have safe escort out of the city.”
“This is our answer,” exclaimed the noble Willoughby, his face beaming with indignation. “If your vile and treacherous King desires this arsenal he shall have it, but we will surrender it to him a heap of smouldering ruins, together with our blackened bodies.”
“That is an insolent reply,” Moghul remarked; “and I should advise you to reconsider it.”
“There can be no reconsideration. Our decision is unalterable. We can die, but never surrender.”
“But the King commands you.”
“If the King were here in person to make the command, we would answer him with a round of grape. But you are only a myrmidon of his, and so we treat you with contempt.”
“By the Prophet’s beard,” cried Moghul, shaking with rage, “if I were near you I would make you eat your words, dog of an Englishman! But since you do not recognise the authority of his Majesty, whose power is now supreme, we will teach you a lesson. The reign of the cursed Feringhees is at an end, and the Mussulman’s time has come!”
The man turned his horse’s head and rode away, and Willoughby descended from the wall.
“Comrades!” he cried, “we have not a moment to lose. These black devils will be down upon us directly in countless thousands. But they shall only reach the top of our wall over the heaps of their own slain. We are but nine, but for each one of our lives there shall fall hundreds of these wretches, who are little less than demons.”
Then, with an energy begotten by the nature of the situation, they dragged out a number of guns, and placed them in a line so as to command the gateway and the front wall. Scarcely was this arrangement completed than the air was rent with the yells of the mutineers and the rabble, as they swarmed down to the arsenal. They were met with a terrific fire from the walls, delivered with all the coolness and steadiness of a practice parade. And as the guns belched forth their awful grape, scores of the on-coming horde bit the dust.
This unexpected reception caused a momentary check to the advance of the rabble. But it was but momentary, for the gaps were instantly filled, and on the infuriated mob rushed again. Once more they reeled and staggered, as from the walls came the messengers of death. Quickly recovering, and infuriated beyond control with their unseen foe, they raised a rallying cry—
“For the Prophet and the Faith! For the King and Liberty!”
And then they came down like an impetuous torrent, leaving in their wake a track of dead and dying, for round after round was delivered from the arsenal with terrible effect. But the enemy was legion. As thousands fell, there were thousands instantly to take their place, and thousands more again to fill up every gap.
Onward they pressed, yelling with fury, maddened with rage. Inside the walls, the noble and devoted band stood unflinchingly at their post. Grimed and blackened with smoke and powder, the brave Willoughby worked with almost superhuman strength, carrying heavy cases of grape and bags of powder; now serving this gun, now that; encouraging his comrades with cheery words, and hurrahing as he saw how their well-directed fire told upon the swarming enemy.
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.”
The natives were swarming down the walls now. They were inside the arsenal.
Willoughby and his friends discharged their last round, and dozens of the enemy fell. Then the noble Commandant held up both his hands. It was the signal agreed upon. Scully shifted his eyes from his leader; then he cast one look around at the living mass that covered the walls and bastions. He bent his arm; the port-fire and the powder came together. Up leapt a great white flame. With a terrible hiss it rushed along the ground, through a dark archway, where it was lost sight of until it reached the open powder. Then there was a terrific shock. The whole building seemed to be blown into the air. The very earth shook with the awful convulsion. The air was filled with bright, lurid flame. Dense volumes of smoke obscured the sun, and for miles around the report was heard.
The destruction was almost beyond comprehension, for there were thousands of tons of powder stored in the magazine. Huge masses of masonry were hurled high into the air. Ponderous guns were tossed away as if they had been toys caught by a strong wind. The massive walls rocked, tottered, and fell, burying hundreds of natives, while hundreds more were blown through the air like wisps of straw. Death was scattered through the ranks of the mutineers until they fell back appalled. It was such a daring deed, so unexpected, so fearful in its effects, so incalculably destructive, that it struck a nameless terror to their recreant hearts; and, with the bodies of their comrades falling in showers around them, they stood spellbound.
Four of the little band of defenders escaped alive. One of these four was a man named James Martin—a determined, fearless fellow, who, during the five long hours of the defence, had worked like one endowed with superhuman strength. When he saw Scully apply the torch to the train, he sprang on to one of the bastions, and, dropping a distance of nearly twenty feet, lay still until the awful blast of fire had passed over. Then he crept along until he reached a heap of masonry that had been blown down, and had fallen in such a way as to leave a large hollow, a kind of cavern. Into this Martin crept, and worn out with fatigue and excitement, he fell asleep.