The morning of the twenty-seventh of March broke with unclouded
splendour; the army of the Sultaun were expecting their enemies with
impatience, and the result was looked to with confidence. Tippoo had
been urged by Chapuis to take up a position upon the Madoor, in the same
pass as that where Kasim Ali had been attacked; but the Frenchmen had
lost very considerably the influence they possessed since the news of
their defeat in Egypt, and the discomfiture of Raymond at Hyderabad, and
he determined to pursue the bent of his own inclination, both as to the
ground he should select and the disposition of his troops. Since
daylight he had been on horseback, indefatigable in marshalling his
army. The ground he had selected was commanding, and covered the road.
Malvilly, he knew, was the destination of the English on that day; and
as it was one marked by a particularly auspicious conjunction of the
planets, he determined on trying the result of a general action. When a
few attempted to dissuade him that morning from opposing the English,
lest by a defeat he should dispirit his troops and unfit them for the
siege which all felt sure must follow, he flew into a violent passion.
‘Are we cowards,’ he said, ‘that we should retire before the kafirs and
cowardly English? No! let them come on—the base-born rascals! let them
come on and taste of death! if our father—may his name be ever
honoured!—could overwhelm the English in the field, should we not follow
so exalted an example? No, by the Prophet! we will not retire; the day
is fortunate—the planets are in good conjunction. If ye are cowards, and
like not the English shot—go! your absence is better than your
presence.’
But all swore to fight to the last drop of blood, and the Sultaun’s
disposition was made. Soon after sunrise all were at their posts—the
heavy guns in the centre, the infantry behind. Two corps, one of them
the favourite Kureem Cushoon, were pushed forward upon the flanks, and
hundreds of rocket-men were interspersed with the line. It was a gallant
and inspiring sight to see that huge force drawn up in steady array,
determined upon retrieving their fame that day, and fighting for Islam
and for their Sultaun.
They had waited long: the Sultaun had heard from scouts that the English
had left their camp long before dawn, and their coming was looked for
with eagerness. ‘They will fly,’ he cried, ‘when they see the array; the
sons of dogs and swine will not dare to face the true believers.’
‘Yes,’ said Nedeem Khan and Nusrut Ali, favourites who were always near
him, ‘it will be as my lord says, we shall have no fighting. Will they
dare to advance against these cannon, and the various divisions which
are drawn up in such wonderful order that not even a rat could get
between?’
‘Infatuation!’ said Meer Ghuffoor to Abdool Wahab; ‘for all the
boastings of those young coxcombs, thou wilt see them turn and fly. I
have served the English, and know them well. Ere an hour elapses after
the first shot, we shall be in full retreat.’
‘I trust not, Meer Sahib,’ said the other; ‘but what is that yonder?’
‘’Tis they! ’tis they!’ cried the Sultaun. ‘Now upon them, my sons! upon
them, and let us see ye do brave deeds. Your Sultaun is beholding you!’
It was indeed a beautiful sight to behold. The Sultaun was on a high
ground, and could see all. A few English red-coats were first seen—then
more; the sun glanced from their bright bayonets and musket-barrels as
they proceeded. Gradually column after column came on; though they were
still at some distance, there was a halt perceived, and considerable
bustle.
‘They retreat! they retreat!’ cried the Sultaun, in an ecstasy of joy,
clapping his hands and laughing in his excitement. It was changed in an
instant, when, after a short disposition of the troops, the English army
advanced; but it appeared such a mere handful of men, when compared with
his own force, that his derision grew even louder. ‘Ha! ha!’ he cried,
‘they have left half their army to keep their baggage. They hold me
cheap indeed to attempt to attack me with the few that are yonder! But
it is well: Inshalla! ye will see, sirs, ye will see! What troops are
those on the left?’ he asked after a while, as he examined them with a
telescope; ‘what green standard is that? Dare the infidels to use the
sacred colour?’
Just then the breeze unfurled the standard to its full width, and, as
all descried the white crescent and ball beneath it, a cry of exultation
burst from the Sultaun.
‘’Tis the standard of Sikundur Jah! ’Tis they—the effeminate
Dekhanees!—men who are no better than eunuchs. Advancing upon my own
Cutcherie too—upon the Kureem Cushoon! Inshalla! Inshalla! let them
come. The renegades from the faith, advancing against the favoured of
the Prophet! Holy Mohamed confound them!’
The English army halted: its long columns deployed into lines steadily
and gracefully; it was a beautiful sight in that bright sun. There was a
large opening in the line, and Tippoo rode forward, urging his cavalry
to break through and attack the general, who with his staff was beyond.
‘Ah! had I Kasim Ali and my brave old Rhyman Khan now, they would shame
ye!’ he cried to those who he fancied were tardy in movement; but they
did their duty—they charged.
‘Steady, men!’ cried the officer at the head of the regiment nearest the
point of danger—it was Philip Dalton; ‘let them come near.’
The cavalry thundered on—a grand picturesque mass—shouting their cries
of ‘Deen! deen!’ and ‘Alla Yar!’ The English were not to be daunted;
they were steady as rocks, and awaited the word, ‘Present—fire!’ The
effect was deadly. As the smoke cleared away, the flying mass was seen
in wild confusion, and before the line a heap of men and horses
struggling. A few daring fellows had, however, dashed through the
interval, and fell gallantly fighting in the rear.
Meanwhile the Sultaun’s infantry advanced steadily and firmly; he
cheered them on, putting himself at their head even within shot, and
then he turned to watch his favourite division. It was composed of
picked men: their arms, dress, discipline, were all superior to the rest
of the army; they were advancing against the Nizam’s troops, and were
confident of victory. The Sultaun was in an ecstasy of delight. Little
imagined he then to whom he was opposed; that one led the troops, which
he expected would fly like dust before the whirlwind, to whom fear was
unknown—who bore within him the germ of that renown which has raised him
to the proudest, the most glorious pinnacle of heroic fame—Wellesley!
Wellington! What heart so callous that does not bound at those
illustrious names, recalling with them victories upon victories to his
remembrance—not the result of fortuitous circumstances, but of devoted
bravery, of admirable foresight, of consummate skill, of patience and
fortitude under every privation through a long series of years—the most
splendid array of triumph that ever the world beheld, which, already so
glorious, will yet increase in after times to a renown more brilliant
than we can at present estimate.
‘Now ye will see them run!—now they will fly! Forward, my brave fellows!
forward to victory! I vow every man a month’s pay, and a jaghire to
their commander. Look! they halt—not a man wavering! it is a gallant
sight. They will fire!—then upon them with the steel. Shookr Alla! how
many have fallen!’ he exclaimed, as the division fired, and many of
those opposed to it fell. ‘Now charge!—charge, for the love of Alla!—why
do ye wait? ye lose time. Alla! Alla! the enemy fire in turn! Merciful
Prophet! how many have tasted of death! Never heed, however—now is the
time!—while they are loading, upon them!—upon them! Ya Kubeer! Ya
Hyder!’
It was fearful to look on him: his hands were clasped together, his eyes
strained, his features quivering with excitement and anxiety. On the
issue of a moment was victory or ruin.
‘Curse them!’ he cried; ‘curse them! they waver. Holy Prophet! why dost
thou not turn them? Alla! Alla! why dost thou not blast the infidels?
They waver! the Feringhees are upon them!—they fly!—now there is no
hope—Prophet of Alla, spare them!’
It was a sight which curdled his blood: his favourite corps turned—they
dared not abide the charge of the British and Nizam’s division, led by
the gallant Wellesley; and the cavalry, headed by his old enemy Floyd,
dashed out upon them. Hundreds went down before that terrible charge:
the Cushoon, which had so lately inspired confidence, turned as one man,
and in an instant became a confused rabble, flying for their lives; in
the midst of whom were the English cavalry, riding down the fugitives,
while they cut at them with their long swords.
The Sultaun gazed breathless and stupefied for a few moments: no one
dared to speak. At last he turned, his face wore a ghastly expression of
horror, at which his attendants shuddered. For an instant he looked
back; the cavalry thundered on—other portions of his troops were giving
way before them. He could look no more, but dashing his heels into the
flanks of his charger, fled from the field.
‘Shabash! Shabash! well done, gallant fellow!’ cried many English
officers, surrounding a richly-dressed native, apparently of rank, who,
clad in a magnificent suit of chain-armour over a cloth-of-gold vest,
with a bright steel cap on his head, and upon a noble chesnut horse, now
rode up at full gallop, accompanied by many of his risala, as martial in
appearance as himself, and equally well mounted. Their swords were red
with blood, and their faces flushed and excited with conquest. ‘Well
done! well done! ye have earned the good-will of the General, and ye
will be rewarded.’
‘I thank you,’ he said; ‘you are kind, and flatter our poor services;
but can you tell me where Colonel Dalton is?’
‘He is yonder,’ said an officer; ‘come, I will lead you to him.’
The action was now over. Philip had borne an honourable part, and was
attending to his wounded men when Kasim rode up to him.
‘Behold!’ he said, showing his sword, ‘I have fulfilled my promise; I am
faithful to the salt I eat; thou wilt testify to that?’
‘Noble fellow! I will indeed; thou hast distinguished thyself before the
army. Come, I will lead thee to the General,—he will love to look on one
so brave and devoted.’
‘They were my old companions,’ said Kasim, ‘but I knew them not; my
heart was steeled against them; had I wavered, I was disgraced for ever.
Ye suspected me, but now I am free of taint.’
‘Thou art indeed, and thou wilt see how grateful an English commander
can be. Come!’
That night Kasim, Philip Dalton, and many others were in the General’s
tent; they had been asking him about the road. He seemed to think a
while.
‘Will ye take my advice?’ he asked, ‘the advice of one who is not worthy
to give it?’
‘Say on,’ replied the General.
‘Abandon this road, then,’ said Kasim; ‘there is a ford at Sosillay, two
easy marches from hence; it is deep, but the water is now low and it
will be practicable. I will guide you to it, if you will trust me. You
will cross the river there—forage is plentiful, the other bank is clear
of troops, and ye can hurry on and surprise the city.’
‘Is this true?’ said the General.
‘By your head and eyes—by your salt, it is!’
‘Will any one answer for you? it is a fearful risk.’
Kasim looked round; his eyes met Philip’s. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘if thou art
for a ride, come this night and I will show it thee: I and my men will
escort thee: Wilt _thou_ trust me?’
‘To the death!’ said Philip.
‘I believe him,’ said the General; ‘and he will see that this great
service shall be rewarded. Nevertheless I should like to know more about
the ford, and if it can be reconnoitered. Will you make the report,
colonel? you can take an escort of cavalry.’
‘With pleasure; you shall know early to-morrow.’
‘And I will accompany you,’ said another officer; ‘it will be a pleasant
ride.’
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Kasim, ‘we lose time, and we have a long ride
before us.’
* * * * *
The Sultaun, plunged into despair, had retired westward. The army had
collected, but thousands were missing, killed, or had deserted from his
standard. Still there was hope: his officers were yet faithful; the
forage of the north bank of the Cavery was utterly destroyed; and the
active Poornea, at the head of the irregular cavalry, was out burning
villages and setting fire to the grass of the wide plains. If the
English should advance, they would be drawn on to defeat as before.
There was still hope: his plans of defence were being matured: troops
poured into the Fort from all sides, and provisions for a year. He had
treasure too, and there was no fear. What could the English, with their
small amount of artillery, effect against the hundreds of cannon in the
Fort and the new fortifications? ‘Let them come on!’ he would say; ‘with
that fort before, and a bare country behind them, let us see how long
they will stay!’ And his words were echoed by his sycophants; but it was
easy to see, for all that, how dread gnawed at his heart.
On the evening of the fourth day after the action, he was in his tent of
audience. He was confident, for no news had been heard of the English
army, and it had not advanced upon the road as he had expected. He hoped
it had retreated, or was stationary for want of forage; and he was even
asserting broadly that it had.
Suddenly a messenger entered with dismay upon his face. Tippoo knew not
what to think. All his officers were present, and every one trembled,
though they knew not what to expect.
‘Speak, Madur-bukhta!’ cried Tippoo fiercely; ‘what hast thou to say?’
‘May I be your sacrifice! May I be pardoned,’ stammered the man; ‘the
English—the kafirs—have crossed the river!’
‘Crossed the river?’ echoed all; ‘how? where?’
‘Dog!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘if thou liest, I will have thee torn asunder.
Where did they cross?’
‘At Sosillay.’
‘At Sosillay! Who has been the traitor? Is any one missing?’
‘May I be your sacrifice!’ said an officer, ‘it must be Kasim Ali Patél.
He was seen hewing down the true believers at Malvilly.’
‘Kasim Ali!’ gasped the Sultaun; ‘Alla help me! then all is lost.’ And
he sank down on his musnud in stupor.
Long he remained so, only at times repeating ‘Kasim Ali’ and ‘Sosillay!’
Hardly any one spoke except in whispers. After some delay, sherbet was
brought to him, and he seemed to revive. He sat up, passed his hand
across his forehead, as though his brain was bewildered; then he arose,
and looked around him; his face was wan and careworn; those few minutes
appeared to have done the work of years. Many burst into tears.
‘Ye weep,’ he said, ‘ye weep; why should ye weep for one abandoned of
Alla? I have no hope now. Why stay ye with a man who is doomed? why link
your fate to a drowning wretch, who hath not even a straw upon the
whirlpool of his fate to clutch at? Go! ye have served me well—ye have
fought for me, bled for me. Go—may Alla keep ye! Ye have been my
friends, my companions. I have been harsh, often cruel. Will ye pardon
me? will ye pardon a poor slave of Alla? Go! I—I—have ever loved ye, and
now—’
He was interrupted: an officer, with streaming eyes, rushed from a side
of the tent, and throwing himself at the Sultaun’s feet, clasped his
knees and sobbed passionately aloud.
Tippoo could endure no more. He who had been by turns bitter in sarcasm,
brutal in mirth, cruel, proud, exacting, unfeeling, tyrannical,
overbearing among his subjects, was now humbled. He appeared to struggle
for a moment; but, unable to quell the wild tumult within him, he burst
into tears—the first he had ever been seen to shed.
Then ensued a scene which words cannot paint—a scene of passionate
raving, of tears, of oaths, of fidelity to death. Men embraced one
another, and swore to die side by side. Those who had cherished
animosities for years, cast themselves on each other’s breasts, and
forgot enmity in the bond of general affliction. All swore before Alla
and the Prophet, by the Sultaun’s head and the salt they ate, that they
would die as martyrs; they determined to retreat upon the city, and to
fight under its walls to death.
The army retired, and awaited the onset, but they were disappointed; the
English army passed three miles to the left, in glittering array, and
encamped at the opposite side of the Fort to that on which the former
attack had been made, and for the time the Sultaun exulted in his
safety.
Days passed: the thunder of cannon ceased not night or day, and the
hearts of all were appalled. No mercy was expected from the British.
Death would have been welcome at first; but its gradual approach, and
the stern progression of the English to victory, could not be shut out
from men’s eyes. All the redoubts beyond the Fort had been carried long
ago; even the French, upon whom the eye of the Sultaun rested in hope,
were beaten back by the native troops of his enemies, though they fought
bravely. Then he felt how he had been cajoled, deceived, betrayed into
destruction. To all his letters to the English commander there was but
one reply—send the money and the hostages, and the cannon shall cease,
but not before. At this his proud heart rebelled; there were those
around him who still ridiculed the idea of danger, but he well knew its
reality. Day by day the mosque resounded with his frantic prayers; the
Moolas to this day tell how impious they were—how he raved, prayed,
cursed by turns, till those who heard believed that a judgment would
follow them.
He held no communication with his family, for his presence in the zenana
was ever a signal for an outburst of grief. He lived in his hall of
audience, or in a small room off it, where most part of the day and
night was passed in vain astrological calculations, or those horrible
magical rites we have before alluded to; at other times he was upon the
walls, directing cannon, and firing with his own hand.
The breach became practicable; the guns on both sides of it had long
been silenced, and men looked on at the work of destruction, and heard
the storm of shot, shells, and grape which poured through it, in sullen
despair. The brave Meer Ghuffoor, who was devoted to the Sultaun, saw
that it could not be defended much longer; when the day dawned he went
to the monarch, to try to rouse him to a sense of his danger: it was
vain.
‘There is nothing between thee and thine enemies, O my Sultaun!’ said
the Syud; ‘nothing to prevent the storm. Their men are ready in the
trenches, and have been there since it was light; I have watched them.
The walls are gone. If your slave is permitted, he will commence a wall
and a ditch across the inside that cannot be breached, and it will stop
them.’
‘Go, Syud, we fear not,’ said the Sultaun; ‘we have hope in other
things; events will happen which thou knowest not of. The English will
be blasted this day—withered from the face of the earth. Already we have
ordered Fateehas for to-morrow. Go, old man! we feel for thy zeal, but
there is no fear; Mars is yet in the circle of planets.’
‘Thou wilt never see to-morrow,’ said the Syud prophetically, ‘unless
what I advise is done. I will do it; I have sought death these many
days, but it comes not—I may find it there.’
‘Go then, in the name of the Shitan, go!’ cried the Sultaun hastily;
‘trouble me no more. Do as thou wilt, but trouble me not.—So, Runga
Swamee! what news? hast thou prepared all?’
‘Alas!’ said the Syud as he went out, ‘I shudder at his communion with
those Brahmin infidels. I would to Alla I were with my old brethren in
arms; but that is now impossible, and death alone will be honourable to
the old soldier.’
‘All is prepared, O Sultaun,’ replied the Brahmin; ‘we wait for the
men—thou hast them ready?’
‘Ay, there are twelve dogs, sons of unchaste mothers, swine!—take them.’
‘The goddess will be pleased, O Sultaun—she will drink their blood.
To-night, to-night she will put fear into their hearts; she will send
rain—the river will fill—they will be cut off.’
‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the Sultaun, ‘and twelve base-born Feringhees will
go to hell. Who is without—Jaffar?’
‘Refuge of the world! I am here.’
‘Hast thou obeyed the orders I gave thee yesterday?’
‘Protector of the poor! I have; not one lives now—Feringhee, Moslim, or
Hindoo; the prisoners died in the night. It was hard work, there were so
many, but it was done,’ and he chuckled. ‘There were twelve spared—the
last twelve.’
‘Good: if the Fort is taken, the kafirs will look in vain for their
brethren. Now go thou to the prison, take the twelve sons of perdition
who were captured in the sortie, bind them hand and foot, and convey
them to the temple. Thou art ready, Runga Swamee? As the sun rises,
their blood must flow, one by one. The men are ready, the priests wait,
the swords are sharp—what more? Enough—go! thou understandest, Jaffar?’
‘Ay, my lord.’
‘Hast thou sent for him—for Compton?’
‘The men go to-morrow.’
‘Good: when he comes he shall be the next offering, if thou wantest
more, Pundit.’
‘I am thankful,’ replied the man: ‘thou wilt gain much favour for this
and thy gifts to Brahmins—thirty thousand years of protection for every
offering.’
‘Inshalla!’ said the Sultaun; ‘go! time flies.’
It was noon, the day was bright and hot, and a strong mirage flickered
upon the white tents of the English camp, the parched ground around
them, and the black and rocky bed of the river. In the camp many men
were moving about, and marching to and fro. The Sultaun was looking at
them with his telescope, but saw nothing to excite alarm. He was gayer
than usual, for he had seen his face in a jar of oil, and the reflection
had been fortunate.
‘Rain will fall to-night in the hills,’ he said to a favourite near him,
Rajah Khan, as he observed some heavy masses of white fleecy clouds in
the west, which hung over the nearer hills and shrouded the distant
peaks. ‘The Brahmins are right, the sacrifice has done good; after all,
only a few Feringhees have gone to hell before their time—ha! ha!’
‘May your prosperity increase!’ said the officer; ‘they have deserved
their death.’
As he spoke a man rushed up the steps of the cavalier. Tears were in his
eyes, and his manner was wild.
‘What has happened, O fool?’ said the Sultaun; ‘hast thou seen the
devil?’
‘Khodawund!’ said the soldier, speaking with difficulty, ‘the Syud, the
holy Meer Ghuffoor is dead.’
‘Merciful Alla!’ cried Tippoo, ‘art thou sure of this?’
‘Alas! quite sure, Light of the World! I carried him away: behold his
blood.’
‘It was his destiny,’ said the Sultaun gloomily; ‘it was once said his
fate was linked with mine,—let it come. His death was that of a soldier,
may mine be the same! Go! let him be buried with honour. We will dine
here,’ he added to an attendant; ‘we feel hot within, and this air from
the water is cool.’
His light repast was soon finished, and again he sat looking towards the
trenches. He thought there were many men in them; as if by mutual
consent, the firing had ceased on both sides, and no sound arose except
the busy hum of the city: in the English camp all was still as death. He
speculated for a while idly upon the unusual quietness, and looked
again. On a sudden a man climbed upon the mound of the trench; he was
tall and noble in appearance; his height was exaggerated by his
position—he looked a giant. The Sultaun’s heart sank within him; he
could not be mistaken in those features—it was Baird, whom he had so
often reviled. ‘He comes to revenge the old man,’ he muttered—‘to
revenge Mathews!’
It was a noble sight to see that one man stand thus alone in front of
both armies: he appeared to look at the Fort for an instant, then drew
his sword from its scabbard, and as it came forth it flashed in the
sunlight. He waved it high in the air. Another leaped to his side: he
was a native, and wore a steel cap and glittering chain-armour; a shield
hung on his arm, and he waved a broad sabre. They leaped together from
the mound, followed by hundreds, who with loud cheers dashed on in
regular order.
‘Prophet of Alla!’ cried the Sultaun, ‘they come—Baird and Kasim Ali!
Look to the breach! every man to the breach! defend it with your lives!’
He was hurrying away, when a thought appeared to strike him. ‘Stay!’ he
cried, ‘bring water; we have eaten, and are unclean; we would not die
like a kafir, but one for whom the Apostle waits ere he enters Paradise.
I come, O Mohamed! I come quickly now.’
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