“Now,” said the Colonel to Captain John Bruce, “I’m going to leave you here.  Let your men lie below the top of the bank and if any man looks over, till your command ‘Up and fire,’ kick his face in.  You will peep through that bit of bush and no one else will move.  Do nothing until I open fire from the other side.  The moment I open fire, up your lot come and do the same.  Magazine, of course.  The moon will improve as it rises more.  You’ll fix bayonets and charge magazines now.  I expect a pretty big convoy—­and before very long.  Probably a mob all round a couple of bylegharies[67] and a crowd following—­everybody distrusting every one, as it is treasure, looted from all round.  Don’t shoot the bullocks, but I particularly want to kill a blind bloke who may be with ’em, so if we charge, barge in too, and look out for a blinder and don’t give him any quarter—­give him half instead—­half your sword.  He’s a ringleader—­and I want him for auld lang syne too, as it happens.  He doesn’t look blind at all, but he would be led....  Any questions?”

  [67] Bullock-carts.

“No, Sir.  I’m to hide till you fire.  Then fire, magazine, and charge if you do.  A blind man to be captured if possible.  The bullocks not to be shot, if possible.”

“Eight O. Carry on,” and the Colonel strode back to where the remaining twenty-five waited, under a Sergeant.  These he placed behind an old stone wall that marked the boundary of a once-cultivated patch of land, some forty yards from the road, to which the ground sloped sharply downwards.

A nice trap if all went well.

All went exceeding well.

Within an hour and a half of the establishment of the ambush, the creaking of ungreased wheels was heard and the loud nasal singing of some jovial soul.  Down the silent deserted road came three bullock-carts piled high with boxes and escorted by a ragged regiment of ex-sepoys, ex-police, mutineers, almost a battalion from the forces of the wild Border State neighbouring Gungapur.  A small crowd of variously armed uniformless men preceded the escort and carts, while a large one followed them.

No advance-guard nor flanking-parties guaranteed the force from ambush or attack.

Suddenly, as the carts crossed a long culvert and the escort perforce massed on to the road, instead of straggling on either side beneath the trees, a voice said coolly in English “Up and fire,” and as scores of surprised faces turned in the direction of the voice the night was rent with the crash of fifty rifles pouring in magazine fire at the rate of fifteen rounds a minute.  Magazine fire at less than fifty yards, into a close-packed body of men.  Scarcely a hundred shots were returned and, by the time a couple of thousand rounds had been fired (less than three minutes), and Colonel Boss-Ellison had cried “Ch-a-a-a-r-ge” there was but little to charge and not much for the bayonet to do.  Of the six bullocks four were uninjured.