The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [629]
‘Now!’ yelled Wally, leaping onto a cane stool that stood outside his bedroom door. ‘Maro!’ And as the Guides turned in the narrow hallway and fell upon the leading Afghans, he fired over their heads at those who were crowding down behind them and who could not turn because of the pressure of others treading on their heels.
Even a poor shot would have found it difficult to miss his mark at that range, and Wally was anything but a poor shot. Within six seconds half-a-dozen Afghans on the steep flight of stairs dropped forward with a bullet in their brains, and as many fell headlong over the bodies and came cascading down like a flock of sheep at a bank, to be cut down by the sabres and bayonets of the Guides.
Ambrose Kelly had heard the noise of the fighting, and realizing that the enemy must have broken into the Mess House, he abandoned his scalpel in favour of a revolver and dashed upstairs – only to be swept backwards by a mass of struggling men who stabbed and hacked and wrestled with each other (there was little room for sword-play) or used their carbines and rifles as clubs, there being no time to reload or, for that matter, for anyone in Rosie's position to use a revolver. But Wally, standing head and shoulders above the scrum, caught sight of him, and realizing that he dare not risk a shot into the demented mêlée, took a flying leap from the stool, snatched the weapon from him, and regaining his vantage point, used it himself to excellent effect.
The fusillade of shots, the shambles on the stair and the uproar and confusion of the fight below made the rear ranks of the invaders suddenly aware that disaster had overtaken their leaders. They checked at the top of the stairs and some of them, losing their heads, fired wildly down at the murderous scrimmage below while others scrambled back and made no further attempt to invade the Residency from above. But of their comrades who had rushed so boldly down the steep stairway, not one came back.
‘Come on, Rosie,’ shouted Wally breathlessly, tossing back the empty revolver and hurriedly re-loading his own: ‘they're bolting. Now's our chance to clear ‘em off the roof.’
He turned to Hassan Gul, who leant against the wall of the landing panting from his exertions, and told him to call the others together and they would charge up the stairs and clear the roof. But the sepoy only shook his head and said hoarsely: ‘We cannot do it, Sahib. There are too few of us… Jemadar Mehtab Singh is dead, and Havildar Karak Singh also… they were killed in the fighting on the stairs… And of those who were on the roof, only two remain. I do not know how many there may still be in the other house, but here there are only seven left…’
Seven. Only seven left to hold the three floors of that tall, mud and plaster rat-trap that was pock-marked with bullet holes and crammed with wounded men.
‘Then we must block off the staircase,’ said Wally.
‘With what?’ asked Rosie tiredly. ‘We've already used almost everything we could lay our hands on to make barricades. Even the doors.’
‘There's this one –’ Wally turned towards it, but the doctor caught his arm and said sharply: ‘No! Leave it, Wally. Let him be.’
‘Who? Who is in there? Oh, you mean the Chief. He won't mind. He's only – He stopped abruptly, staring at Rosie with a sudden horrified comprehension. ‘Do you mean, it's serious? But – but it was only a head wound. It couldn't…’
‘He was shot in the stomach not long ago. There wasn't anything I could do except give him as much opium as I could spare and let him die in peace.’
‘Peace,’ said Wally savagely. ‘What sort of peace could he possibly die in, unless…’
He stopped and his face changed. Then, jerking his arm free, he turned the handle and went into the shadowed room where the only light came through