LIST OF PLATES.

PAGE
Colonel Maxwell’s last Charge at Assaye.—[Frontispiece.]
Portrait of General Baird[18]
Portrait of Sir John Moore[98]
Portrait of General Picton[258]
Portrait of Lord Anglesea[437]

THE
VICTORIES AND CONQUESTS
OF THE
BRITISH ARMY.

Introduction.—State of England, military and political.—India.—Critical situation of British interests.—Marquis Wellesley appointed to the Government.—His measures.—War declared.—Tippoo attacks the army of Cannanore.—Seringapatam invested.—Stormed by General Baird.—Death, character, and anecdotes of the Sultaun of Mysore.—Military observations.—Acts of cruelty.—Tippoo killed by an Irish soldier.

The history of military nations exhibits periods of disaster and success, when good and evil fortune, as if ruled by a fatality, prevail. With some, in every essay, conquest crowns their arms; while the bravest efforts of others terminate invariably in defeat. Again, the best measures fail to obtain success,—mischances follow thick upon each other,—possessions are lost,—power declines,—and a name, before which a world once trembled, becomes a by-word, and is rarely used but to mark the mutability of national prosperity.

In looking back on past events, perhaps the gloomiest period of British history will be found between the outbreak of the war of independence, in 1775, and that of the French revolution at the close of the last century. Conquest deserted those banners which for ages she had crowned with victory,—the days of England’s glory seemed departed,—and her military dispositions were rendered nugatory by a thousand accidental occurrences, which no human prudence could foresee. Disciplined valour was defeated by the raw levies of her own colonists, and her continental influence was placed in abeyance for a time, by those splendid victories achieved by the armies of the French Republic over the best organized and best commanded troops in Europe.

Had the pride alone of Britain been lowered by the failure of her arms, that circumstance would have been sufficiently humiliating; but far more disastrous consequences resulted from these continued defeats. The North American colonies were wrested from the parent country, never to be recovered; and a retention of her Indian possessions became a doubtful question. French influence, too successfully employed with almost every European cabinet, had already reached the East; and the native princes, ripe for revolt, were only awaiting a fitting moment to throw off the mask, and, by an appeal to arms, free themselves from the thrall of a power which in secret they both dreaded and detested. This state of things was pregnant indeed with danger to Great Britain; but bold and well-digested measures saved her in this her political extremity; and when every thing was most heavily overcast, the first promise of returning prosperity dawned, and a future tide of conquest flowed from her earlier successes in the East.

In 1797, the Marquis of Wellesley was nominated to the Government of India; and on his arriving at the Presidency, he found the British interests environed by a thousand perils. Most of the native powers were avowedly inimical, or secretly ill-disposed. It was known that the Sultaun of Mysore was in active communication with the French Directory; that he had tendered his alliance; that in return, he had received an assurance of co-operation, and the assistance of European officers to train his troops, accompanied by a liberal supply of warlike stores. Tippoo Sultaun was also endeavouring to influence Zemaun Schah to make a diversion on the northern frontier of the English territory, pressing the Mahratta powers to join the league, and make common cause against the British by a simultaneous revolt. Scindia was notoriously devoted to the French—and of course the Court of Deccan was unfriendly. The Rajah of Berar was more than suspected of disaffection; and Holkar, if not a declared enemy, could not be regarded as a friend.

In this ominous aspect of Eastern affairs, nothing could have preserved India to Great Britain but prompt and daring measures—and Lord Wellesley at once perceived that war was inevitable—while the proclamation of the governor of the Isle of France, and the landing on the coast of Malabar of officers and men for Tippoo’s service, hurried the crisis. A premature declaration would, however, have been impolitic. The British armies were not ready for the field,—their matériel was incomplete—their organization imperfect,—and, until these deficiencies were remedied, Lord Wellesley determined to delay the hour of hostile movements; and this, with admirable tact, he managed to accomplish.

It was an object of paramount importance to interrupt the native relations, if possible, and detach the Nizam from the Sultaun of Mysore. The army of the former amounted to fourteen thousand men, officered and disciplined by French mercenaries. The Marquis applied himself to effect a new treaty, by which the force at Hyderabad should be augmented, and the French officers dismissed from the service of the prince. These objects were happily effected. A moveable column was despatched from Fort William—reached Hyderabad by forced marches—and, assisted by the Nizam’s cavalry, surrounded the infantry, arrested the officers, and disarmed the sepoys. The Governor-General, finding himself now in an attitude to commence hostilities, addressed a remonstrance to Tippoo, which was unnoticed for some time. The advance of the British army produced an unsatisfactory reply; and, on the 22nd of February, war was formally declared.

The British force, with which this short and brilliant campaign was opened and completed, consisted of the army of the Carnatic, under General Harris, and that of Cannanore, commanded by Colonel Stuart. Including the corps at Hyderabad, and the infantry of the Nizam, the former amounted to thirty thousand men, to which a cavalry corps of six thousand sabres was united. These were a contingent of the Nizam, and commanded by an officer of his own—his son, Meer Allum. The Western, or Cannanore corps, numbered about six thousand five hundred.

On the 5th of March, the army of the Carnatic crossed the frontier and carried some hill forts with trifling opposition, while the corps under Stuart marched direct on Seringapatam. Ascertaining that his capital was threatened, Tippoo broke up from his cantonments, intending to attack the army of the Carnatic; but suddenly changing his plans, he hurried with the élite of his infantry to meet the division from Cannanore.

Never was the field taken with deadlier animosity to an enemy than that with which Tippoo regarded his antagonists. Like Hannibal’s to Rome, the hatred of the Sultaun to Britain was hereditary and implacable. In the infancy of English glory, a foe like him was reckoned truly formidable. His military talents were considerable; and, with excellent judgment, and untrammelled by Eastern presumption, he saw the defects of native discipline, and laboured to remove them. He had striven, and with success, through the agency of Europeans, to introduce into his camp the improved systems of modern warfare; and the army of the Mysore had, within a few years, undergone a mighty change. Many confidential communications that passed between the Sultaun and his chief officers, found after the fall of the capital, prove with what assiduity he had devoted his whole attention to the establishment of a force that, by physical and numerical superiority, should crush a power he detested, and overthrow England’s dominion in the East. Tippoo’s infantry were tolerably drilled—his artillery were respectable—and though his numerous horse were quite unequal to meet and repel the combined charge of British cavalry, still, as irregulars, they were excellent; alike dangerous to an enemy from their rapid movement, the audacity with which their sudden assault was made, and the celerity, when repulsed, with which their retreat was effected.

On the 5th, the Sultaun’s camp was indistinctly seen from the British outposts. Four native battalions, commanded by Colonel Montressor, were in advance at Seedaseer, and the remainder of the division cantoned at a distance of from eight to twelve miles in the rear. The country was difficult and wooded; and to troops who were acquainted with its localities, extremely favourable for taking an enemy by surprise. From the detached position of the different brigades, Tippoo could attack them in detail, and press with an overwhelming force the leading regiments under Montressor, and probably cut them off before they could be supported from the rear. So favourable an opportunity was not to be neglected—and the Sultaun made his dispositions to attack the British division the next morning.

A deep jungle lay between him and his enemy—and at nine o’clock he passed through the brushwood undiscovered, and threw himself furiously on the front and flanks of Montressor’s brigade. Though surprised, and assailed under very discouraging circumstances by a force immensely superior in point of numbers, the sepoys behaved with veteran steadiness, and fought most gallantly. Every effort made by Tippoo to shake their formation failed. For five hours, these native regiments sustained furious and repeated attacks unsupported; and not until Stuart, after considerable opposition from the Sultaun’s troops, who had gained the rear of Montressor, came up and relieved this hard-pressed brigade, did the fiery Sultaun desist from the assault. Unable longer to withstand the united force opposed to him, Tippoo retired in disorder, leaving fifteen hundred of his best troops upon the field, while the British loss scarcely amounted to one hundred and fifty.

Completely repulsed by the division of Cannanore, the Sultaun did not renew the attack, but moved again to Bangalore, and came up with the army of the Carnatic. After a cavalry demonstration, which a few cannon-shot checked, Tippoo fell back upon his capital—and General Harris continued his march with all the despatch his defective means of transport would permit.

The army of the Carnatic, taking the southern road to Seringapatam, passed Karkunhully unopposed, crossed the Madoor, and on the 27th reached Malavelly, where Tippoo was drawn up in order of battle. Anxious to bring on an action, Colonel Wellesley, with the Nizam’s troops, the 33rd European regiment, and Floyd’s cavalry, advanced against the left, while General Harris attacked the right. For a time, Tippoo, by a rocket discharge and brisk cannonade strove to arrest these forward movements—but the British advanced steadily, and no effort which the Sultaun could make would check them. A fine body of the Sultaun’s best troops, amounting to two thousand, came boldly forward and attacked the 33rd. Their reserved fire was received by the British at some sixty yards, and answered by a bayonet rush. The Sultaun’s infantry broke,—the British cavalry charged home,—no quarter was given,—and an immense number of the bravest of the native troops were bayoneted or cut down.

Following up his success, Harris crossed the Cauvery, Tippoo contenting himself with making a close reconnaissance on the 2nd and 4th, as the British defiled along the heights. On the 5th, the whole army took up its ground in front of the city, and made preparations for immediately commencing the siege.

Seringapatam stands on an island of bare and desolate appearance, formed by the river Cauvery, which here divides itself into separate streams—the waters creeping sluggishly along for nearly three miles, when they again become united. This insulated surface is in no place above a mile across—and on its upper extremity the city is built, both channels of the river flowing immediately beneath its walls.[1]

The fortifications are in the Eastern style, the works irregular, and the defences rather numerous than well-constructed. Several walls, one within the other, connect bastions of different forms; some being the ancient Hindu tower, while others are of regular proportions, and formed after the designs of European engineers. The point of attack chosen by the British commander was the north-west angle of the fort; and on the arrival of the Bombay army, which joined on the evening of the 14th, the siege was vigorously pressed.

The besiegers’ camp was judiciously selected, and distant from the west face of the works about three thousand five hundred paces. The right occupied a height, while the left was protected by the Cauvery and an aqueduct. The rear also, was effectually secured by steep ravines, and the watercourse that supplied the greater canal. There were several topes[2] within the lines, thickly planted with cocoa-trees and bamboos, thus affording ample means for constructing ladders and fascines. The place was healthy, the water pure and abundant, and it possessed all the security of an intrenched camp.

A part of the position however, in front of Tippoo’s advanced posts, was within range of musketry and rockets, and it was necessary that from these the enemy should be dislodged. A night attack, under the command of Colonels Wellesley and Shaw, was unsuccessful, and attended with considerable loss. On the following day the whole line was stormed; the right and left flanks and centre being simultaneously assaulted under a heavy cannonade. On every point the attacks succeeded—and a line of posts was gained, reaching from Sultaunpet to the Cauvery, and advanced within eighteen hundred yards of the fortress. On the west front, the Bombay army were securely established within a thousand paces of that angle of the fort; while a watercourse was seized on the south, which allowed that face of the works to be invested within less than nine hundred yards.

The siege was vigorously pressed—an intrenchment was stormed on the evening of the 20th; and a parallel opened within seven hundred and eighty paces of the works. On the 22nd the garrison made a grand sortie, and fell in considerable force upon the Bengal army; but their sustained efforts were repulsed, and they were driven into the town with a loss of six hundred men. On the 26th, the enemy having intrenched themselves behind a watercourse only three hundred and eighty yards from the place, it was deemed advisable to obtain its possession. It was accordingly assaulted in gallant style, and carried, after an obstinate defence, that cost both the victors and the vanquished a serious loss of life.

On the 30th a battery was unmasked, and commenced breaching the bastion; on the 2nd of May, another was completed, and opened a heavy fire on the curtain to the right—while several guns of large calibre were gradually got to work. The old masonry, unable to support this well-served and well-sustained cannonade, began to yield—masses of the wall came down into the ditch—a breach in the fausse-braye was reported practicable—and on the 3rd of May, the face of the bastion was in such a state of ruin, that preparations were made for an immediate assault. In a brief letter,[3] orders to that effect were given next morning to Major-General Baird, who had volunteered to command the storming party.

That the capture of Seringapatam should, to a certain extent, have been achieved by the agency of Baird, appears a striking act of retributive providence. He, who was to lead on that resistless soldiery, by whose bayonets the life and throne of Tippoo should be extinguished, had pined in hopeless captivity, the tenant of a dungeon, in that capital which he was to enter in a few hours a conqueror. In the melancholy slaughter of Colonel Bailey and his troops by Hyder Aly, on the 10th of September 1780,[4] Baird, then a captain, was desperately wounded, made prisoner, hurried to Seringapatam, and there subjected to treatment that, even at a period remote from the event, cannot be heard without producing in the reader a thrill of horror and disgust. Of the many who shared his captivity, few remained to narrate their sufferings. Disease, starvation, poison, and the bowstring ended their miserable lives: but a providential ordinance willed it that Baird should survive—and, after disease failed to rob him of life, or temptation[5] deprive him of his honour, he was destined to lead that band to vengeance, by whom a tyrant was exterminated, and the power of Mysore prostrated to the dust!

The arrangements for the assault were completed on the evening of the 3rd—and two thousand five hundred Europeans, and one thousand nine hundred native troops were selected to carry it into execution. After sunset, ladders, fascines, &c. were conveyed into the trenches unnoticed by the enemy; and before daybreak, the storming parties, evading the observation of the garrison, marched quietly in, and lay down until the order to assault was given.

One o’clock came—the city at that hour was perfectly quiet,—while the trenches, to all appearance, contained nothing but their ordinary guards. This tranquillity was suddenly interrupted. Baird appeared, ordered the assault to be given—and that word, “Forward!” annihilated an empire, and changed a dynasty over an immense territory, with a population almost countless, an army of three hundred thousand men, and a revenue of five millions sterling. The forlorn hope rushed on, followed closely by the columns under Dunlop and Sherbroke—both plunging into the river under a tremendous fire of rockets and musketry. The ford across the Cauvery had been staked the preceding night, to mark the passage the troops should take; but, in the hurry, they swerved to the right, and getting into deeper water, the progress of the column was retarded. Baird, observing the difficulty, rushed on to the forlorn hope,—cheered the men forward,—and in six minutes the British colours were flying above the breach!

Filing off right and left, the storming parties pressed on. The north-west bastion was carried—all went prosperously—although the discovery of an inner ditch, filled with water, was at first alarming. But the scaffolding used by Tippoo’s workmen, and most fortunately left there undisturbed, enabled the British to surmount every obstacle, and enter the body of the place.

The right column halted on the east cavalier to give the men breathing-time after violent exertion under a burning sun. They awaited there a reinforcement of fresh troops to proceed and assail the palace, where it was believed Tippoo had retired. The report was untrue,—that palace he was fated never to revisit,—for the tyrant of Mysore was then gone to his account!

The left column, in the mean time, had overcome every opposition, and continued their course along the ramparts, as directed in the general order for the assault. Part of the 12th regiment, however, either mistaking or disobeying orders, rushed into the body of the town, and finding the sally-port crowded with the Sultaun’s troops, commenced firing from the inside on the archway, while the remainder of their own column were keeping up a sharp fusilade upon it from the other side. No wonder, thus enfiladed, that the passage was choked with dead; and it was afterwards ascertained, on the removal of the bodies, that above three hundred of the soldiers of Mysore had fallen in this narrow space.

It is said, that to the moment of the assault, Tippoo never supposed that an attempt would be made to storm the fortress; and when the marching of the columns to the breach was reported, he received the intelligence with incredulity. The increasing uproar undeceived him, and rising from table, where dinner had been laid under a thatched shed on the northern face of the works, he performed his ablutions coolly, and called for his horse and arms.[6] At that moment the death of his best officer was announced. The Sultaun paid a tribute to the bravery of his favourite, named his successor, and rode forth never to return.

On the left, Tippoo commanded in person; and here, the traverses, erected to protect the breach, were so furiously defended, that the assailants were completely checked. The Sultaun fought among his meanest soldiers—and, if his attendants can be trusted, several of the most daring of the assailants were shot by the prince himself. Fortunately for the British, by some unaccountable neglect, a passage from the ditch to the rampart, by which the Sultaun’s working parties passed from one place to the other, had been forgotten. By this way, the 12th regiment reached the rampart, and pressing quickly forward, turned the traverses, and poured in a flanking fire that rendered them untenable. The troops that had held them hitherto were now obliged to retire—the posts were abandoned—and the Sultaun joined reluctantly his retreating soldiery.[7]

Fatigued, suffering from the intense heat, and pained by an old wound, Tippoo mounted his horse, and retired slowly along the northern rampart. The British were momentarily gaining ground—the garrison in every direction flying—while a spattering fusilade, and occasionally a wild huzza, told that the victors were everywhere advancing. Instead of quitting the city, as he might have done, the Sultaun crossed the bridge over the inner ditch and entered the town. The covered gateway was now crowded with fugitives vainly endeavouring to escape from the bayonets of their conquerors, who were heard approaching at either side. A random shot struck the Sultaun: he pressed his horse forward, but his passage was impeded by a mob of runaways, who literally choked the gloomy arch. Presently a cross fire opened, and filled the passage with the dead and wounded. Tippoo’s horse was killed, but his followers managed to disengage him, dragged him exhausted from beneath the fallen steed, and placed him in his palanquin. But escape was impossible; the British were already in the gateway,—the bayonet was unsparingly at work—for quarter at this moment was neither given nor expected. Dazzled by the glittering of his jewelled turban, a soldier dashed forward and caught the Sultaun’s sword-belt. With failing strength, Tippoo cut boldly at his assailant and inflicted a trifling wound. The soldier, irritated by pain, drew back, laid his musket to his shoulder, and shot the Sultaun dead. His companions, perceiving the struggle, rushed up; the palanquin was overturned, the bearers cut down, the body of the departed tyrant thrown upon a heap of the dead and dying, and the corpse—despoiled of every thing valuable—left among the fallen Mussulmans—naked, unknown, and unregarded.

The capital of Mysore was now at the mercy of the conquerors—and the general’s first care was to seek out the dishonoured body of its once haughty master. As it was suspected that Tippoo had fallen in the northern gateway, the bodies that lay heaped within it were hastily removed. For a time the search was unsuccessful, and torches were obtained, as the archway was low and gloomy. At last, beneath a heap of slain Mussulmans, their ruler’s body was discovered. The heat had not yet left the corpse; and though despoiled of sword and belt, sash and turban,[8] the well-known talisman that encircled his right arm was soon recognised by the conquerors. The amulet, formed of some metallic substance of silvery hue, was surrounded by magic scrolls in Arabic and Persian characters, and sewed carefully in several pieces of richly-flowered silk. The eyes were unclosed; the countenance wore that appearance of stern composure, which induced the lookers-on for a time to fancy that the proud spirit of the haughty Sultaun was still lingering in its tenement of clay.[9] The pulse was examined—its throbs were ended—and life was totally extinct.

The body was directly removed to the palace, and there respectfully deposited until the necessary preparations for an honourable interment were completed—the funeral being conducted with all the ceremonies which Eastern forms require. As the procession moved slowly through the city, a “keeraut” of five thousand rupees was distributed to the fakirs—and verses from the Koran were repeated by the chief of the priests, and responded by the assistants. Minute-guns were fired from the batteries; and a guard of honour, composed of European flank companies, followed the remains of the late ruler of Mysore to the sepulchre of his once haughty father.

Tippoo, notwithstanding his cruelty and despotism, was highly regarded by his Mussulman subjects. His was no common character,—brave, munificent, and a bigot to his faith, he was just the sovereign to excite Eastern admiration. A rigid observer of the Prophet’s ordinances, he attended strictly to the formulae of his religion—wine was strictly inhibited—and every unbeliever, not excepting his favourite employées, were treated with scorn and distrust. His establishment and household were formed on a scale of regal splendour; and when, by accident or age, their services were no longer efficient, Tippoo never permitted a servant to be discharged, although their numbers became incredible.

With all the sternness of character and high-souled energy for which the departed Sultaun was remarkable, it would appear that he was prone to superstition, and not endued with that blind reliance upon Providence which, among Mussulmans, distinguishes the true believer. It is said, that the day doomed to be fatal to his empire and himself had been announced; and that, forewarned of impending calamity, he had vainly endeavoured to avert misfortune by resorting to magic ceremonies, and obtaining the interference of the Brahmins with their gods. Though a devoted follower of Mahomet, he offered these priests an oblation of money, buffaloes, an elephant, black she-goat, and dresses of cloth-beseeching them to use their influence with Heaven for his prosperity. A presentiment of coming danger had evidently cast its shadows before, and those immediately around the Sultaun’s person[10] remarked that he was heavily depressed. Yet his confidence in the strength of the city and the matériel of its garrison was unbounded. He believed that Seringapatam was impregnable, and laughed to scorn the idea that the British would ever dream of carrying it by assault.

His funeral was marked by natural occurrences, that seemed in happy keeping with the obsequies of him who had left an empire for a tomb. On the evening when Tippoo was committed to his kindred dust, the sky became overcast, and a storm broke suddenly in a torrent of rain, while heaven seemed in a blaze,[11] and peal after peal of thunder appeared to shake the city to its very foundations, and added to the fearful uproar. A tempest of more violence was hardly recollected; and it seemed as if an elemental convulsion had been decreed, to announce that the once haughty tyrant of Mysore was nothing now but dust and ashes.

The storming of Seringapatam was certainly a bold and hazardous attempt—it was nobly executed, and deserved the success it gained. The moment for action was happily selected. An Indian sun, when in meridian power, obliges man to avoid its exhausting influence, and hence, that period of the day is habitually made in Hindoostan an hour of repose and sleep. Never supposing that at this season of relaxation any attempt upon the fortress would be made, with the exception of the guards alone, the Sultaun’s troops were sleeping in their respective barracks. When the alarm was given, a panic spread; and profiting by the confusion, the assailants increased it, and prevented any attempt being made for an efficient rally and defence.

To other circumstances, however, the fortunate result of the attack may in a great measure be attributed. By an unpardonable oversight the breach was unprovided with a retrenchment, and the workmen’s passage, between the ditch and rampart, left undefended. Had the breach been properly retrenched, it could not have been surmounted in the face of such a garrison; and traverses, that could have been, and were, most obstinately defended, were lost to the besieged by their stupid neglect in having left a means of escalade from the ditch, which the labour of a dozen men would have rendered impracticable. How frequently in war do great results arise from trifling causes.

Every care was taken to prevent plunder and violence in the night. The inhabitants were assured of protection; and the Sultaun’s children kindly received by General Baird, and for better security sent from the fortress to the camp. Even before Tippoo’s death was ascertained, great delicacy was observed in searching the palace, where it was supposed he had concealed himself. The zenana, which contained his women, was scrupulously respected—and a guard was merely drawn around it to prevent the Sultaun’s escape, in the event of his having made that his place of refuge.

Though eight thousand of Tippoo’s garrison fell in the assault, very few of the inhabitants suffered. The British loss during the siege and storm was, of course, severe; twenty-five officers were killed or wounded in the assault; and the total casualties were, of Europeans, twenty-two officers killed, forty-five wounded, eighty-one rank and file killed, six hundred and twenty-two wounded, and twenty-two missing; of the native army, one hundred and nineteen were killed, four hundred and twenty wounded, and one hundred missing, making a general total of one thousand five hundred and thirty-one hors de combat.

Having made necessary arrangements for the protection of the town, Baird marched the 33rd and 74th regiments to the palace, and in one of its magnificent courts the soldiers piled arms, and established their bivouac.[12] Sentries were placed around the zenana for its security; and the general slept on a carpet spread for his accommodation under the verandah. There lay the conqueror of Seringapatam, surrounded by his victorious soldiers, and dispensing protection to the helpless family of the fallen Sultaun. There he lay, on whose breath hung life and death—yet but a few years back, and within three hundred yards of the spot he rested on, that man had occupied a dungeon, dragging on a cheerless captivity, and waiting until the poisoned cup should be presented by “the bondsman of a slave,” or the order delivered for his midnight murder.

Is not the romance of real life oftentimes wilder far than any creation of the imagination?

Sir H. Raeburn.

H. Cook.

D. Baird

The tyrant of Mysore was gone to his account, and “how his audit stood none knew save Heaven;” but assuredly a more tiger-hearted monster never disgraced the musnud. His conduct to the European prisoners after Hyder’s death was atrocious. Of those taken with Bailey, the greater proportion perished from starvation and disease; while Matthews and his officers, who had surrendered under the usual conditions granted in honourable warfare, and guaranteed by Tippoo himself, were savagely murdered. Some of them were led out at night, taken to a retired spot, and hewn in pieces—while seventeen were poisoned with the milk of the cocoa-nut tree. The death of the unhappy general was probably the most horrible of all. Apprised by some means of the fate that was impending, he refused the food sent by the keeladar, and obtained, from the compassion of the guard and servants, as much of theirs as merely sustained existence—the havildar who had him in charge humanely conniving at the proceeding. But when Tippoo learned that his victim still lived, the havildar was sent for, and it was intimated that if his prisoner existed beyond a certain time, his own life should pay the penalty of his humanity. The wretched instrument of tyranny communicated what had passed to the devoted general, and gave him the alternative of death from poison or starvation. “For a few days the love of life maintained a struggle with the importunate calls of hunger. These, however, prevailed in the issue of the contest—he ate of the poisoned food, and drank too—whether to quench the rage of inflamed thirst, or to drown the torments of his soul in utter insensibility—of the poisoned cup; and in six hours after the fatal repast he was found dead.”[13]

The last acts of Tippoo’s life were in fit keeping with a career marked throughout by perfidy and bloodshed. In the confusion of the night of the 5th, when Colonel Wellesley’s attack on Sultaunpet failed from darkness and the intricacy of the betel tope, twelve grenadiers of the 33rd were made prisoners, and brought into Seringapatam. At midnight they were murdered by threes—“the mode of killing them was by twisting their heads, while their bodies were held fast, and thus breaking their necks.”[14] The fact was ascertained beyond doubt, for a peon pointed out the place where these ill-fated soldiers were interred, and they were examined and identified by their own officers. Other English soldiers who had been taken in assaulting outposts during the siege, had also been put to death, “having nails driven through their skulls.”[15]

In alluding to the Sultaun’s death, the regretted biographer of Sir David Baird says, “One cannot but regret, for the honour of human nature, and even for the sake of England, the end of such a man as Tippoo, shot in cold blood by a man endeavouring to rob him. Let us hope the man was a sepoy.” The man was an Irish soldier, who many years afterwards stated the fact in confession, and when in articulo mortis. “Cold blood!” Could blood be cold during the storm of a defended city, and under an Indian sun almost at noon?

The tyrant only met the doom he merited. For his talents we give him credit—his courage obtains our admiration—his munificence we admit—but for the murderer of the brave we feel neither sympathy nor regret.