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.”