The Victories of Wellington and the British Armies

by W. H. Maxwell

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.