Jhauts were desperately trying to re-lay for enfilade instead of sweeping the ramparts.
Hervey glanced left and right as if trying to choose, but Major Everard was even now mustering the rest of the regiment to press into the fortress. Hervey looked about him to rally any of the Sixth who had made it to the top: Rose looked game, Armstrong was with him, and Wainwright; McCarthy, his instincts still a foot soldier's, had picked up a musket.
They set off after Everard's men, half-tumbling down the shattered ramparts. Bodies and pieces of bodies lay thicker than before, scattered like winnowed chaff, the harvest of Armstrong's method. Even as they slid and stumbled over rock and flesh, brick and bone, Hervey hoped the army would indeed remember its debt.
Now there was the rattle of musketry, and to the smell of powder which had hung in their nostrils since the springing of the mine came that other stench of battle, of ordure and evisceration. Always it nauseated some men and excited others.
Soon they were doubling. There seemed no resistance despite the musketry. They were soon into the streets of the town, mean though it was. Hervey had his bearings now: the citadel lay straight ahead. An easy affair this was, his pistol and sabre as clean as a whistle.
They debouched suddenly into the maidan before the citadel. Hervey at last got a clear view ahead as the Fourteenth's companies spread left and right. He saw the great gates swinging closed, and he groaned. What an opportunity was gone!
Then he saw what the gates had also shut out – hundreds, four or five perhaps, of Durjan Sal's legionaries, who now turned back in desperation.
Everard had his men ready in the space of two words of command: 'Extend! Present!'
One hundred muskets levelled at the host not fifty yards in front. 'Fire!'
The citadel and all before it was at once masked by a wall of black smoke. 'On guard! Charge!'
It was not his fight, this, but Hervey would not hold back – not when the citadel itself stood within their grasp. He raced forward, barging ahead of the bayonets even, sabre thrust out like a lance.
He saw only a mass of limbs and faces in the seconds before they clashed – no 'pick your man, recover sabre, ride through, rally'. The infantry had their science too, but it didn't amount to much when it came to steel on steel. Only brute strength and will atop a certain skill. He felt the sabre jump in his hand as the point found a mark. But his grip was tight, and in deep went the blade. Then up came the pistol, the flash and the smoke, and the ball striking the same chest as the sabre, point-blank, throwing the man from off it, freeing the sabre to begin its proper work – the cutting and slicing and blooding of its razor edge. In seconds, red ran the length of the blade.
He was gasping for breath. There were only bodies now within reach of him. Wainwright closed to his side, Armstrong was already reloading a pistol next to him, McCarthy stood on-guard with the bayonet. Only Rose was still fighting, determined to force his way past friend and foe alike to get to the citadel gates. 'Hold hard,' said Hervey to the three of them. It made no sense to press forward when there were formed ranks of redcoats doing their work so efficiently.
At first it had been a fight. Now it was merely slaughter. The Jhauts who had not fallen to the Fourteenth's volley had stood their ground until the first clash, but without order they had soon collapsed, while those in the ranks behind sought in vain to escape. There had been no time for quarter, either to beg it or to give it. The Fourteenth -and the Sixth's men – had gone at their quarry with brute strength and a will. Some of the Fourteenth's bayonets had run two men through at once, and some had broken with their wielders' ardour. Not a Jhaut was spared in the maidan that hour. Not one.
Hervey had not stood back, but he was ever thankful for the infantry's skill at execution. These men were now so heated they could surely escalade the walls of the citadel! But that was asking too much, for there was increasing musketry from the high walls, and they had but a few scaling ladders, and those inadequate. Instead, Major Edwards coolly retired with his company to the cover of the havelis across the maidan and sent word back to General Reynell for the engineers to bring up longer ladders, and powder to blow in the gates.
Rose now rejoined them. He agreed it was an affair of redcoats, with little they themselves could do. Instead they would explore: if the other breaches and escalades had been successful, there ought now to be attempts on the stronghold from a number of directions.
'South, I think, towards the Agra gate,' said Hervey. 'That's where General Adams's brigade should enter.'
Armstrong shouted for McCarthy and a couple of the volunteers from B Troop to join them, and they slipped away down one of the narrow streets running parallel to the citadel, not quite at the double, but breaking into a jog-trot here and there when it seemed right.
They saw no one at first, either alive or dead. The havelis must be empty, thought Hervey – and thank God, too, knowing what might happen. And then, round a corner, they ran into the pitiful flotsam of any siege. Half a dozen women, children in hand, some with babes in arm, were evidently trying to flee the place that had sheltered them during the bombardment. They were young women – girls, some of them – handsome, dressed well. Their fate in even the best-regulated siege would be uncertain. 'Christ!' spluttered Hervey. 'What in God's name do they think they're doing? Get inside!' he shouted, gesturing with his sword. They were now terror-struck.
Armstrong and McCarthy ran forward, taking off their shakos and making a show of courtesy. It seemed to work. The party started back indoors. Armstrong made a sign to them to draw the bolts and hide themselves.
Hervey saw their chowkidar trying to slink away, and tried to make the same reassuring gestures as Armstrong. Then he had a suspicion – just something in the man's look. He took a step towards him and the man turned to run. He followed – not long – and then it was out. There was the Khombeer gate, and before it was Durjan Sal – there could be no doubt. He had just paused long enough to collect his zenana, and now he would make his escape. Hervey could have spat with contempt as he thought of the men left to fight and die, ignorant of their prince's craven course.
One of the spearmen turned his horse and ran at him. Hervey raised his pistol and waited for the certainty of hitting, but a shot from behind brought his adversary down instead. He glanced round, to see Corporal Wainwright already reloading his carbine. And there were Armstrong, McCarthy and the two B-Troop men.
The carbines brought down three more before the gates swung open and Durjan Sal and his coterie – it looked like fifty – dashed for their freedom.
Hervey rushed for the nearest horse, a stallion that defied its gender by standing still. He sheathed his sabre and vaulted into the saddle, turned quickly to see how many would be with him, then kicked hard, for he wore no spurs.
The guards were too slow. They tried to close the gates and bring him down, but two well-aimed shots from the B-Troop men set them to ground, while Armstrong and Wainwright began a struggle to unseat two of the rearguard.
Hervey met a ragged fusillade outside, which stopped as quickly as it began, and then cheering as the sepoy picket realized their mistake.
He kicked on for all he was worth, the stallion flattening into an easy gallop.
He glanced behind as he began to narrow the lead. Armstrong was following, half a furlong, and he guessed the other was Wainwright.
He kicked and kicked. The stallion lengthened more and was fair eating the ground. Hervey's only thought now was to finish the business of Bhurtpore once and for all, to take the usurper himself and put an end to his insolence. But Durjan Sal had fifty horsemen about him – more, perhaps, for some were joining him from the little jungled patches that dotted this side of the plain. Hervey knew he could not overpower so many, even with Armstrong and Wainwright at his side. What could he do?
Now they changed direction, to make for the scrubby dhak half a mile in front of the Anah gate. He would lose them there, and all hope of ending the affair decisively.
The sepoy picket before the gate volleyed as best they could, but the target was hopelessly beyond range. Durjan Sal's ardour was checked, though. The party slowed just a little, seeming to hesitate over direction, before deciding to make for the dhak after all. But half a dozen of the escort now detached themselves to form front against their pursuer.
Hervey saw he could not evade them. He glanced back again: Armstrong and Wainwright would be up with him in less than a minute. But he couldn't wait that long: Durjan Sal would escape into the dhak, and-
Three of the Jhauts sprang to a gallop and made straight for him. He drew his sabre and brought it up to the guard: he wanted nothing so much as to get by them and on to the others – Armstrong and Wainwright could deal with them as they turned after him.
