At every day’s march the distress of the army increased. Men were upon the lowest rations; the cavalry were almost inefficient from the starvation and weakness of their horses, and the active and irregular cloud of the Nizam’s horse consumed what little forage was left in the country, long ere it could be collected by the English. The leaves of mango and other trees, where they could be procured, were even gladly devoured by the starved cattle in lieu of other food. Nevertheless, in spite of these discouraging prospects, the army advanced by slow marches; and as the heat was moderate—for the height of the table-land of Mysore, from three to four thousand feet, gives it a temperate climate at all seasons of the year—the troops, long accustomed only to the enervating climate of Coromandel, gained fresh vigour and health as they proceeded.
Meanwhile the advance of the English, though he often affected to despise it, was a source of the greatest alarm to the Sultaun. In vain had he consulted the stars, in vain tried magical arts. They still proceeded, and drew nearer to his capital daily. Nevertheless he heard accounts of the distress and famine prevalent in the English camp; and could he only gain time, even by negotiation or by retreat, he might protract the campaign so that the English would be obliged to retreat, and he would then pour upon them his whole force and annihilate them for ever. Night after night was occupied in discussions with his chief advisers, Meer Sadik, Kishun Rao and Purnea, but their counsel was hardly listened to in the wild schemes which were revolving in his mind.
‘Our government is the gift of God!’ he would cry. ‘Are kafirs who heap abuse on the name of Mohamed his apostle to subdue it? Are we not blessed with holy dreams, with visions of conquest, and of possessing the five kingdoms of Hind? Are all these for naught? I tell ye nay, but true and holy revelations, even such as were made to Mohamed, whose shadow upon earth we are. Here we have daily written them—records of our thoughts—prophecies of our greatness, which as they become fulfilled we will read to ye. Ah, ye sceptics! Let the kafirs advance—they come into the snare. Ha, ha! their cattle are dying. How, Jaffar Sahib?’—he was present—‘thou didst see them.’
‘Peer-o-Moroshid! they are,’ replied Jaffar Sahib; ‘they can hardly drag the guns: even the men are harnessed, and work like beasts.’
‘They will get tired of that, perhaps, soon. Let them come on, I say, even to the gates of the town. I fear not—why should I fear? my destiny is bright.’
‘But why not give up the prisoners, Asylum of the Earth? May your generosity increase!’ said Meer Sadik, whose dauntless spirit spoke out before the Sultaun. ‘Dost thou not break faith in keeping them?’
‘By Alla and the Prophet, thou art bold to say that, Meer Sadik. No! never shall they be wrested from me: rather would I kill them with my own hand. Have they not broken faith, to make war on us without a cause—to destroy our country, to enter into a league against us? We swear before ye, sirs, not one shall return alive.’
Tippoo retained Jaffar always about his person. He was spy, plotter, adviser, executioner, by turns. That night—shortly before the action which followed at Arikéra—they were alone in the Sultaun’s tent. All had left him, and he was uneasy and fretful. No wonder, for his thoughts at night were terrible, and he could not bear to be alone. He had summoned one of his favourite ladies from the city, and sought in her society a respite from his thoughts. All was in vain: he could not shut out from himself his danger, though he scoffed at it openly.
‘And thou hast seen him, Jaffar, and spoken with him?’
‘I have: he is a conceited, arrogant Dukhanee—a man to be despised—a man whose rapacity is not to be satisfied.’