‘’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.