The Mutiny begins—A warning from a sepoy—A near thing—A noble act of a native officer—In camp at Delhi with no kit—A plan that failed—Our first check—Wilson in command—Seaton wounded—Arrival of Nicholson—Captures guns—The assault—The fate of the Princes—Pandy in a box.

A rumour had been going through the bazaars of India that the British rule was to be limited to one hundred years from the date of the Battle of Plassey (1757). The sepoy troops had grown self-confident and arrogant through the victories they had won under English officers, and fancied that they held the destiny of India in their own hands. Then came the story that the cartridges of the new Enfield rifles, which were just then being introduced among the native troops, were greased with fat of beef or pork, and were thus rendered unclean for Mohammedan and Hindoo alike. The sepoys, or native troops, believed that the new cartridges were being given out solely for the purpose of destroying their caste, and so of introducing Christianity by force.

Delhi, where the deposed King Bahadur Shah was living, was the centre and focus of rebellion; it was to Delhi that the first mutineers marched after killing their English officers. Sir Thomas Seaton has left us some picturesque stories of his part in the Mutiny. He had rejoined his native regiment at Rohtuck, forty-five miles from Delhi, after some years’ leave in England, and found the manners of the sepoy greatly changed for the worse. He writes:

“On the 4th of June I was in the mess-tent writing to the Adjutant-General about the hopeless state of the regiment, when the native Adjutant came in and said:

“‘Colonel, I wish particularly to speak to you.’

“It was close upon 5 p.m., and, as several officers were in the tent, I went outside with the Adjutant.

“‘Well, Shebbeare, what is it?’

“‘Why, Colonel, I have just heard from two of our drummers, who have their information from friends amongst the men, that the regiment is to mutiny to-night, murder the officers, and be off to Delhi.’

“Though I expected this, it was startling enough to hear it was so close at hand. And now that the great difficulty stared me in the face, how, with this small body of officers, was I to meet and grapple with reckless and determined mutineers? But as this was not the time to flinch or show indecision, I said:

“‘Well, Shebbeare, let me see the men. I’ll make a few inquiries first. I will go to the hospital. Do you lounge out that way too.’

“As I had been used to visit the hospital about this hour, my going there would excite no suspicion.

“In a few minutes I had found out that it was too true that an outbreak was planned for that night. Meanwhile I addressed the Adjutant:

“‘Now, Shebbeare, will you stand by me?’

“‘Yes, Colonel,’ replied the gallant fellow, ‘that I will.’

“‘Very well. Now, I’ll tell you what I propose to do. I will go on parade, and, as there is nothing like facing a difficulty, I’ll tax them with their intended outbreak, and we will see what they will do. Tell the officers to look out.’”

Seaton’s idea was that the men, finding he knew all about their plans, would be so disconcerted that they would put off the mutiny; we should probably gain a day or two of delay, and might hear that Delhi was taken or the mutineers defeated. So at sunset he went on parade, assembled the native officers in front, at some distance from their companies, and taxed them with their intended treachery. As he had expected, the sepoys were utterly confounded; they flatly denied the intended treachery, and swore by all their gods that they would be faithful to their salt, and that no harm should happen to the officers.

The native officers then begged permission to appoint a guard to keep watch in the camp at night, as there might be some badmashes in the regiment.

It was a dangerous experiment, but the only chance was to take things coolly, still seeming to trust the men, keeping at the same time a sharp look-out.

It was Seaton’s duty to keep the regiment together as long as possible at any risk. The Commander-in-Chief was marching on Delhi with a small force hurriedly got together; to have placed at this critical moment a regiment of mutineers in his rear would simply have been destruction, for they could have fortified some spot on the road and so cut off supplies from our camp.

Whilst he was taxing the native officers, the men of their companies were looking on—they were too far off to hear; but they took their cue from their officers and were quiet and respectful. Seaton left the circle of native officers, and went up and addressed each company, meeting with the same vows of fidelity.

As he came from parade after this trying scene, some officers inquired anxiously: “What is it, Colonel? Is it all right?”

“Oh yes. I think our throats will not be cut to-night.”

But his mind was not at ease until he had seen the guard for the night.

However, a few days passed quietly enough; but on the 8th a curious thing happened. As Seaton was going in the evening to visit the hospital, and was crossing a ditch, a young sepoy gave him a hand and whispered in his ear:

“Colonel Sahib, when your highness’ people shall have regained the Empire, I will make my petition to your highness.”

This was all he said, but Seaton could not help pondering on his meaning. Was this a warning to him of the coming outbreak of the regiment?

Resistance was out of the question, as he had only twelve English officers with him and one English sergeant. He was tormented by the ever-recurring thought that not only the lives of his officers, but perhaps the safety of our little army, might be dependent on himself. “All I could do,” he says, “was to trust in God’s mercy and goodness.”

The night of the 9th passed off quietly—all was still. In the morning he could detect nothing suspicious in camp. The men were civil and respectful to him personally. Some were parading for guard, some going to bathe, others preparing their food. Five of the young officers asked leave to go out shooting. Seaton had no objection, and they went. At 4 p.m., when he was in the usual camp hot-weather deshabille, all at once he was startled by a loud explosion. He ran out to see what was the matter, but neither saw nor heard anything strange—no crowd, not a sound, the men mostly sleeping after their day’s meal. He was going on when the havildar-major (native sergeant-major) came rushing up to him. Catching him in his arms, he said in a very agitated voice:

“Colonel Sahib, don’t go to the front.”

“Why not?”

“The Grenadiers are arming themselves. They have mutinied!”

The hour for which he had trembled had come at last. He tried to collect one or two of the native officers, but in vain. The havildar-major entreated him to be off whilst there was time. While the grooms were saddling the horses they heard musket-shots, and the havildar rushed past him. Immediately the whole body of the Grenadiers burst out of their tents, firing and shouting, in order to rouse the regiment and hurry it into mutiny.

The shouts and cries of terror, the galloping of horses, the report of muskets, all tended to confusion. Seaton had not time to take his sword, for the mutineers were within ten paces of him. He had got a few seconds’ start, and in a mÊlÉe like this a second makes all the difference between life and eternity.

Just outside camp they overtook Major Drought, who was walking.

The havildar instantly cried: “Colonel, the poor old fellow will be murdered. I’ll put him on my horse and run for it.”

It was a noble and heroic act, for Shebbeare had been wounded by the mutineers. So they made Shebbeare get on the lee side of the Colonel’s horse; he laid hold of the stirrup, and off they went at a round canter.

After running 400 yards he got blown, and they pulled up to a walk. Soon they found the officers waiting for them at a bend in the road; they were all unhurt. After a time they saw clouds of smoke ascending, and knew that they were burning the tents. They kept on all night at a moderate pace. About 3 a.m. they heard a horseman coming along. Who could it be? They drew up and challenged.

“Who is there?”

“Sowar” (trooper).

“What sowar?”

“Hodson Sahib Ka Sowar” (one of Captain Hodson’s troopers). And then, saluting, he continued: “Are you the Sahib log? I have a letter for Colonel Cheetun Sahib.”

“Yes, come along; here is the Colonel Seaton.”

Seaton read the note by the light of a cigar vehemently smoked by an officer. It was to the effect that we had driven the rebels from the ridge into Delhi, and that our camp was pitched in the cantonments. So now they were all right, and knew where to find their camp. At 9 a.m. the Colonel dismounted at Sir H. Barnard’s tent.

They were all surprised to see him, as they had been informed that he and his officers were all killed: the young officers who had gone out shooting had been so informed, and had ridden to Delhi before them with the news.

Now all the belongings the Colonel had were his horse and the few clothes he stood in. He had to go round camp and beg: one gave him a coat, a shirt, and some cigars, another a sword and belt. He was made a member of the mess of the 1st E. B. Fusiliers, but had neither fork, spoon, plate, nor glass—for the mess merely provides food and dishes. However, he soon begged these or bought all he needed at a sale of an officer’s effects.

“My first night’s rest was heavenly,” he says. “I heard distinctly the firing, but it did not disturb me. I was lulled by a feeling of security to which I had been a stranger for many nights before the 60th mutinied. No wonder my sleep was profound.”

Delhi is situated on the right bank of the river Jumna. The walls are pear-shaped, on the river or eastern side rendered irregular by the excrescence of the old fort of Selimgurh. To the south the walls run to a point. Inland from Delhi is a ridge of rocks, which at its nearest point is about 1,400 yards from the walls. Our camp lay under the ridge, on the side away from the city; there were canals and swamps to protect us in rainy seasons. It was quite evident that a regular siege was out of the question, from the vast size of the place and from our want of guns, etc. A coup de main was our only resource. Accordingly a plan was drawn up by the Engineers and Hodson, and approved by the General. It was a hazardous step, but one and all were crying out “Take Delhi!”

Nor was this cry to be wondered at. Delhi, once the capital of the great Mogul Empire in India, strongly fortified, and supplied with war material, was now in the possession of our own trained sepoys. The King, once our puppet, had placed himself at the head of the rebellion, and Delhi had become the focus of insurrection.

Moreover, there was a vehement desire in camp for instant vengeance on the traitors in the city, who had cruelly murdered their officers, our brethren in arms, with their wives and little ones. One bold stroke now, every one said, would make us masters of Delhi. At the appointed hour the troops began to move down to their allotted posts.

All were waiting impatiently for the pickets from the ridge, but the proper time slipped by, and the assault was countermanded.

The storm of indignation in camp at the failure of this bold design was frightful. But, as Colonel Norman justly remarked, “It was one of those happy interpositions in our behalf of which we had such numbers to be thankful for.”

For, even if the rebels should have been driven out of Delhi, what if they rallied and returned in force? Our poor 3,000 men would have been swallowed up in the immensity of the city. The postponement of the assault gave the rebels full scope: it bred anarchy, confusion, and disorder, and the native trading population soon felt the difference between the violence and robbery of the sepoy domination and the peace and security they had enjoyed under us. But in camp the abandonment of the assault was followed by a period of despondency and gloom.

In a few days cheering news came from the Punjab. The Chief Commissioner, John Lawrence, aided by worthy officers, had made all safe at the chief points of danger. All through the Punjab the Hindoo cavalry and sepoys were being disarmed; the magazines had been secured; the Sikhs and Punjabees, men who had no sympathy with the mutineers, were being enrolled and formed into corps and re-armed. With bold and daring hand, that “out of this nettle, danger, plucks the flower safety,” Lawrence was gathering as volunteers from the warlike frontier tribes all the restless, turbulent spirits who might have been bitter foes in extremity. He took them into pay, and made them eager to march on Delhi, to assist in its capture and share in its plunder.

There were several sorties to repulse, and these small successes kept up the men’s spirits. In the first six weeks of the siege, or until the reinforcements began to flow in, night or day no man undressed, except for a few minutes for the necessary ablutions and changes of clothes, and this was not always possible. They lay down and slept in their clothes, with arms and ammunition either on or by their sides, ready to slip on the moment the alarm should be sounded.

The heat was fearful, yet day after day they had to stand for hours in the sun and hot wind, or, worst of all, to endure the torture of lying down on the burning rocks on the Ridge—baked by them on one side, whilst the sun was “doing” the other. Many an officer and man, struck by the sun and unable to rise, was carried off to hospital delirious and raving. The flies were in myriads, and added to their torments; they clung to hands and faces, they covered the food until it was uneatable, and they worried all incessantly until dusk. Many men had sunstroke twice; some who were wounded suffered from it also, and the great heat and fatigue began to tell on the soldiers, and sent them into hospital, from whence many were never to return.

Fortunately, food in camp was both abundant and good; the troops got their meals and their dram of grog with great regularity.

It was quite amusing to see the cook-boys of companies bring up the dinners to their respective squads. Battery or advanced picket, it was all the same to them; cannonade or no cannonade—it made no difference, they were sure to come.

A large flat shallow basket held twenty or more metal plates; on each a piece of beef and some nicely browned potatoes, all smoking and frizzling from a few bits of live charcoal in a small earthen pan under each.

On the 18th, the 15th and 30th Native Infantry, with the famous Jellalabad battery—Abbott’s battery that was—marched into Delhi, to the great joy of the mutineers and the King.

At noon on the 19th the rebels began to pour out of Delhi in great numbers. The alarm was sounded, and in a few minutes every one was at his post; but as no enemy appeared, the troops were allowed to return to their tents.

A gun fired in their rear startled the English; then galloped up a trooper to say that the Pandies (as they called the rebels) were killing the grass-cutters and carrying off the cattle. Then troops were sent out, and fighting went on long after dusk. The casualty list was heavy: a limber of Scott’s battery was blown up, while one of Turner’s guns was disabled and left on the field. “I well remember the gloomy impression which the result of this fight made on our minds. It was our first check.”

Next morning a strong party was sent out to the scene of action. To their great surprise, there was Turner’s gun; there also a gun and two ammunition waggons abandoned by the rebels. There were so many evidences on the field that the enemy had suffered severely that all gloom and despondency were quite relieved.

This was the most trying period of the whole siege. If an officer sat down to write a letter or to shave himself the alarm was sure to sound, and he was compelled to throw down his pen or razor, buckle on his sword, and rush out to his post.

The 23rd of June was the centenary of the Battle of Plassey, and their spies told the English officers they were to be attacked at all points. They began to fight at sunrise, and, strange to say, in the very height of the mÊlÉe our first reinforcements marched into camp! Three times the rebels assaulted our position, each time being repulsed with great loss. “We drove them back, and then we began a series of attacks on houses, gardens and enclosures filled with mutineers, whom we cleared out; our heavy guns hastened or retarded their flight into the city.

“I look upon this day as the turning-point in the siege: our first reinforcements had come in, and we had gained an important victory over the rebels.”

Soon was seen a great smoke beyond Delhi: they were burning their dead!

“Of the many interpositions of a merciful Providence in our behalf during this wonderful siege,” says Seaton, “I think the most striking was this—that the rains were so abundant and the season so favourable that cholera was in a comparatively mild form. The rains filled the Jumna on one side and the canal on the other, thus forming, as it were, a wall to the right and left of our road to the Punjab, guarding it more effectually than many thousand men could have done.”

During the night of the 4th it rained in torrents. Colonel Seaton was driven into the Flagstaff Tower for shelter, but could only get standing room, so he went and visited the pickets, and sentries, and returned soaked through and through. He then lighted a cigar and stood about till daylight, when the picket turned out and he turned in and slept till sunrise.

At sunrise he was relieved, after thirty-six hours on duty. On getting into camp he found his own tent pitched, his servants all waiting, clean clothes, washing tackle, a clean breakfast table, and Hodson, with a smiling face, waiting for him.

“We felt like men who had just inherited large fortunes! My things had been sent on from Alipore. Oh! it was a comfort to get my own clothes and uniform, to be able to appear in camp once more dressed like a gentleman, and to have the attendance of my own servant.”

On the night of the 5th of July General Sir H. Barnard died of cholera, brought on by fatigue and anxiety of mind.

General Wilson began on a new system. They no longer attacked the villages, losing men and gaining little. They were now to remain on the defensive, and to burn or bury all corpses. For it was sickening to see the dogs and jackals, disturbed by the burying-parties, slowly waddling off, fat and gorged with their horrible feast.

Until buried the rebels were still enemies: their effluvia carried death into our ranks. As a sergeant once said: “Them Pandies, sir, is wuss when they are killed.”

On the 19th they received the first intelligence of the Cawnpore tragedy—of Wheeler’s capitulation and destruction—causing great depression in camp and more cholera.

They had been clearing the gardens of rebels beyond the Metcalfe grounds when Seaton saw two of Coke’s men coming along, carrying Captain Law, who had just been killed. He stopped to help them, and was stooping to take the men’s muskets when he was struck full on the left breast by a musket-ball fired at thirty-five paces’ distance. The blow was so violent that he was nearly knocked off his horse, and for some seconds could not breathe, the blood rushing from his mouth in foam. He naturally thought he was done for, but as soon as his breath came again, he opened his clothes and found out the course of the ball.

Seeing that no air issued from the wound, he secured his sword and pistol, and, dismounting from his horse, led him over a broken wall, and was on the point of falling headlong in a faint when the two men he had tried to help took him under the arms and got him to the Metcalfe picket.

The men there ran to meet him: one gave him a drop of rum and water, others brought a charpoy (native bedstead) and carried him off to the doctor. On the way he met Hodson, who galloped off at once to camp, so when they reached his tent, he found the doctor waiting and everything ready. The ball had struck on a rib, fractured it, driven it down on the lung, and then had passed out at his back. Hodson cared for him with the affection of a brother. He was to lie quite still and not speak for a week.

On the 1st of August the doctor took off this embargo—Seaton was recovering rapidly. In Delhi, our spies said, the Pandies were all jealous of one another and would not act in concert. The rebel sepoy carried in a purse round his waist the gold he had made by selling his share of our plundered treasures; this gold made him unwilling to risk his life in battle and made him suspect his comrades.

Their wounded were in a horrible state: there were no surgeons to perform any operations, no attendants to bring food or water. The limbs of some were rotting off with gangrene, others had wounds filled with maggots from neglect; all were bitterly contrasting their lot with the life of comfort they had enjoyed under British government. The old King, too, was in despair, and vented it in some poor poetry.

On the 7th of August there was a tremendous explosion in the city, and next day they heard that a powder manufactory had blown up, killing 400 people.

“About this time”—to quote the words of one who wrote a history of this siege—“a stranger of very striking appearance was remarked visiting all our pickets, examining everything, making most searching inquiries about their strength and history. His attire gave no clue to his rank; it evidently never gave the owner a thought. He was a man cast in a giant mould, with massive chest and powerful limbs, and an expression ardent and commanding, with a dash of roughness, features of stern beauty, a long black beard, and deep, sonorous voice. There was something of immense strength, talent, and resolution in his whole gait and manner, and a power of ruling men on high occasions that no one could escape noticing at once. His imperial air, which never left him, and which would have been thought arrogant in one of less imposing mien, sometimes gave offence to his own countrymen, but made him almost worshipped by the pliant Asiatics. Such a man would have risen rapidly from the ranks of the legions to the throne of the CÆsars; but in the service of the British it was thought wonderful that he became a Brigadier-General when, by seniority, he could only have been a Captain.”

The stranger thus described was Nicholson, the best man that Sir John Lawrence possessed in the Punjab. He had ridden ahead of his force to consult with General Wilson before Delhi. On the following day he returned to his force, On the 14th he again rode into the English camp at the head of his column—a splendid addition of 4,200 men to the besiegers. The small force upon the ridge now amounted to 8,000 men of all arms; the siege-train was on its way, and despair began to settle down on the rebels in the city and on the Princes.

They had heard of the defeat of the Nana, and of Havelock’s entry into Cawnpore; they knew that fresh troops were coming from Calcutta, and that Nicholson, whose name had spread far and wide, had arrived in our camp with a large force. They knew, too, that this compact force of white men was swayed by one arm and governed by one will. Every soul in Delhi knew that John Lawrence directed the storm that was gathering around them, and the cold, dread shadow of the coming event was creeping over the shuddering city. A look through our camp would have shaken the courage of the boldest rebel. Instead of tents half filled with sick men, our camp now was teeming with soldiers of various races, all cheerful and confident. Hodson’s men were mostly Sikhs, tall and slender, yet wiry and strong; their clothes of ash colour, with wrist-band, turban, and sash over the left shoulder, all of bright crimson. In contrast with these were Coke’s men, more wild and picturesque, with large turbans of dark blue and enormous waist-bands. Their lofty stature, long hair, bright black eyes, sandalled feet, and bold look, would have made them remarkable anywhere.

Our artillery park, too, was filled with guns captured from the mutineers. The battery-train was on its way, but it was reported by spies that a very strong body of rebels was about to leave the city to attempt its capture. Nicholson was sent out with 700 cavalry and 1,200 infantry, and three troops of horse artillery, to head them off. He returned in triumph, bringing with him thirteen captured guns. In Nicholson’s fight the following incident occurred, which shows a little bit of the native character:

A rebel native officer was overtaken in his flight from the field by a man of Green’s Punjab regiment. The officer immediately went down on his knees in the midst of a pool of water, and putting up his hands, roared out: “I’ve been forty years in the Company’s service, and thirteen years a Subadar. Spare—oh, spare my life!” With an execration and a very rude term of abuse the Punjabee thrust his bayonet into the traitor.

On the 4th of September the long-expected battery-train arrived in camp, with an ample supply of shot, shell, and powder for all the guns.

The activity in the Engineers’ camp was now pushed to the utmost, and all the material for trenches and batteries was accumulated with great rapidity.

To prevent the men plundering, the General promised that all the captured property should be prize, and prize agents were appointed.

We were about to throw a small force of about 4,500 men into a city seven miles in circumference, a perfect maze of narrow streets and gullies, abounding in strong blocks of houses, where one might expect that the defence would be obstinate.

On the night of the 7th 1,300 men in working and covering parties were sent down with the Engineers to open trenches and erect the first siege-battery against Delhi. On the 12th the whole of the batteries were completed, and in full play on the parts of the walls intended to be breached or shelled. The parapet was soon knocked off, each block of masonry rarely requiring more than two well-planted shots to demolish it completely. There was outside the wall a ditch 25 feet wide and 16 feet deep, before crossing which it was necessary that all the parapets and bastions should be cleared of their defenders. The army inside Delhi numbered at least 40,000 men; the besiegers only 11,000, after all their reinforcements had come in. Of these only 3,300 were Europeans. Our heavy guns were 54 in number, while those in the city amounted to 300.

There was considerable risk in attempting to storm under such conditions. One of the batteries was only 160 yards from the Water Bastion, and the heavy guns had to be dragged up to it, through the open, under a heavy fire of musketry. Baird Smith, the Chief Engineer, prepared all the plans; Alexander Taylor superintended their execution. With the very first shot the masonry of the fortifications began to fly. Fifty-four guns and mortars belched out havoc on the city. Cheers rang out from our men as the smoke cleared away, and they saw the dreaded bastions crumbling into ruins, while the defenders were forced to seek shelter far away in the city. For the next forty-eight hours there was no cessation of the roar of artillery. The worn-out gunners would throw themselves down to snatch a short sleep beneath their very guns, while volunteers filled their place; then, springing up again, they would go on with their task with fresh ardour.

The sepoys were fighting on with the courage of despair. They ran out light guns to enfilade our batteries; they manned the gardens in front of the city with sharp-shooters to pick off our gunners.

On the evening of the 13th the breaches in the walls were to be examined, and so at dusk Lieutenants Greathed, Home, Medley, and Lang, of the Engineers, were sent to execute their dangerous mission. As the hour struck ten the batteries ceased firing, and the four young officers, slipping out of the gardens with a small covering party of the 60th Rifles, crept forward to the edge of the glacis, Greathed and Home going to the Water, Medley and Lang to the Cashmere Bastion. A ladder was quietly lowered, Medley and Lang descended, and found themselves on the edge of the ditch; but the enemy heard them, and several ran towards them. The Englishmen saw that the breach was practicable, so rose and ran back, being followed by a harmless volley. Greathed and Home returned safely also, and reported that all was favourable.

Then was the thrilling order made known: “The assault at 3 a.m.!”

No. 1. column, under Nicholson, were to assault the Cashmere Bastion; No. 2, under Colonel James, the Water Bastion; No. 3, under Colonel Campbell, to enter by the Cashmere Gate; No. 4, under Major Reid, to attack Kissengunge.

To Nicholson fell the post of honour. Sir John Lawrence had sent him down “to take Delhi,” and the whole army was willing that he should have that honour. He was to head the first column in person. Our batteries redoubled their roar whilst the columns were taking up their positions, throwing shells to drive the enemy away from the breaches. The morning was just breaking; the thunder of our artillery was at its loudest, when all at once it stopped. Every one could hear his heart beat.

The Rifles now ran forward as skirmishers to cover the advance of the assaulting columns, and the men, who had been lying on the ground, now sprang up, and, with a cheer, made for the walls. They crossed the glacis, and left it behind them dotted with wounded men; they went down into the ditch—many to stay there; but the ladders were planted against the scarp, and very soon the dangers of the escalade were over. Soon the whole line of ramparts which faced the ridge was ours; the British flag was once more run up upon the Cabul Gate.

Meanwhile at the Cashmere Gate there had been some delay. Lieutenants Home and Salkeld, with some sergeants and native sappers, had at sunrise crossed the beams of the bridge, from which the rebels had removed the planking, and in broad daylight, without a particle of cover, had laid their powder-bags. The enemy were so daunted by this daring act that, when they saw Home coming, they hastily shut the wicket, and he and his men laid the bags and jumped down into the ditch unhurt.

Salkeld was not so fortunate. The rebels fired on him from the top of the gateway, and he fell. Sergeant Burgess caught up the portfire, but was shot dead. Carmichael fired the fuse, and fell mortally wounded.

Sergeant Smith, finding the fuse was alight, threw himself into the ditch, and instantly the gate was burst open with a tremendous crash.

A Daring Deed: Blowing-up the Cashmere Gate, Delhi

In broad daylight, and without a particle of cover, Lieuts. Home and Salkeld, with a few sappers, laid their powder bags and fired them. Salkeld and some of the others were shot before they could escape.