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.