Three hundred footsore and sick men were left to hold the Alumbagh. In the grey dawn of September 25, Havelock’s men, scanty in number, worn with marching, and hardened with a score of fights, were falling into line for the final march, which was to relieve Lucknow. “The sergeants of companies,” says an eye-witness, “acting on their orders, were shouting ‘Fall out, all you men that are footsore or sick;’ but many added the taunt, ‘and all you fellows whose heart isn’t good as well!’” But no man fell out of the ranks that grey September morning on that coward’s plea! At half-past eight the bugles sang out the advance, and with a cheer, and a quick step which the officers could scarcely restrain from breaking into the double, the men moved off for the last act in this great adventure. Maude’s guns moved first, covered by two companies of the 5th (Northumberland) Fusileers. Outram rode by Maude’s side with the leading gun. Instantly, from a wide front, a cruel and deadly fire smote the head of the little column. From the enemy’s batteries on either flank, carefully laid and admirably served, from the cornfields, from the garden walls, from the house-roofs, a terrific fire of musketry and cannon-shot lashed, as with a scourge of flame, the causeway on which the English guns were moving. Maude’s guns were halted, and opened fiercely in answer to this fire. The men fell fast. A musket-ball passed through Outram’s arm, but, says Maude, “he only smiled, and asked one of us to tie his handkerchief tightly above the wound.” The cluster of British guns, with their gallant gunners, stood in the very centre of a tempest of shot. Here is a picture, drawn by Maude, of the carnage in his battery:—