The Tigress of Mysore

by Allan Mallinson

  ‘That was only to be expected, the moat. How many pieces?’

  ‘Fairbrother said he hoped to discover that once it was daylight. He reckons it may be the major part of their artillery – about fifty. He says the Swiss haven’t been seen though, which didn’t surprise him, as Colonel Bell had never supposed they’d throw in willingly with the dewan.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘He expects to be able to get inside the citadel by way of a communicating tunnel.’

  ‘Ah; I didn’t know of a tunnel. There again, there’s no reason I should have.’ He thought for a moment. ‘How strong do you reckon is the dewan – within the moat, I mean?’

  ‘Fairbrother said he estimated two thousand, for there wouldn’t be room for more, but they could be many fewer. He hopes to discover it this morning. For myself I can’t judge.’

  ‘And what of the troops that are not in the palace?’

  ‘My own observation, though only of the east side, which is, I fancy, the direction which they would have greatest care for, is that there are none but a guard for the moat. I observed for the better part of an hour at daylight, and saw no other. I suspect the dewan’s made the error of not being able to decide where most to place his effort and instead has placed it everywhere.’

  ‘The cavalry?’

  ‘The cavalry’s another matter – the Pindarees as Fairbrother calls them – I’ve seen nothing of them but the odd patrol. Fairbrother neither. Their grass month has just ended, apparently, and he thinks they may be kept to their quarters for fear they’ll desert. He has a few spies in their camp but hasn’t been able to make touch with them yet.’

  ‘Mm. And the road you came by?’

  ‘Pickets and camp-followers the length of it.’

  Hervey thought for a moment or two more, then told him what he planned with Colonel Dennie’s. ‘If things go well with him, I ought to have the regiment and the Madras Horse before Chintalpore in two days. Tell Fairbrother to have Colonel Bell use all means to detach the Swiss – and to find out what he can of this tunnel. And where those damned Pindarees are.’

  ‘Colonel.’

  ‘And, Christopher, take no undue risks.’

  In truth, the whole enterprise was one of risk; judging what was due and what was not would tax a Napoleon. Hervey knew it, but the sentiment made him feel better. Worsley knew it too, but appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

  * * *

  Colonel Dennie, eagle-eyed, his jaw set and sword in hand to do battle with the trailing vines that entangled anyone who tried to wrestle with them (the old Ava hands called it ‘wait-a-while’), marched at the head of his battalion like stout Cortez. If his infantrymen – light infantrymen – were to be sent through country unfit for habitation by any but savages, human and otherwise, it would be with him at the fore. For if he himself, Colonel William Dennie, were at their head, then no man, no matter how low his rank or base his nature, could shirk or falter. Or, if he did, he could not complain at the lash.

  Behind him was his adjutant with the compass by which they would keep direction in the dense green. Then came the regimental pioneers, their axe blades new sharpened that morning, and behind them two dozen sappers lest their progress require more than just brute strength with the blade. ‘The crooked shall be made straight’, he’d told them, enlisting Isaiah; ‘and the rough places plain.’

  Then came the light companies in double file: six centuria (on paper at least; their true bayonet strength nearer eighty), a quarter of a mile of red-coated soldiery seasoned by Burman jungle, hardened by strict discipline at Agra, and hoping for plunder as rich as at Rangoon. Behind them, the six-pounders of the ‘flying artillery’ and a cornet and two dragoons of the Sixth, and then a second column – the baggage and camp-followers, despite the express instructions to march light. But then, sutlers and wives didn’t count themselves under command; and who otherwise would care for those who fell sick or to the bullet – or provide them with spirits? Hervey had his doubts about the guns, even broken down and ported, but if there were the remotest chance of getting them through it was worth taking. ‘First reckon, then risk,’ he’d insisted. Dennie himself was certain of the matter, however: his battalion would make the way practicable. Any regiment of His Majesty’s Foot would be able to make it so, though none, he said, as fast and surely as his. Which was why he’d insisted an officer of the troop be forward with his pioneers.

  He would send out no scouts or flankers to beware ambush, however, for how were they to maintain direction? They’d only slow the advance. Besides, what skill did an insurgent rabble possess that might disconcert the 13th Light Infantry, or, indeed, what art of war to march through forest to take them by surprise? No, Colonel Dennie believed, as Hervey, in reckoning and then risking.

  But they struck, in great numbers and savagery. Pioneers, sappers and men in the leading company were assailed with shocking speed. Many fell to the ground, others staggered blindly, while some ran swearing blue, hands clenched to their wounds.

  Hornets.

  Faces swelled like pumpkins; hands like gourds. In minutes, two men were gasping their last, and the adjutant lay back against a tree, unrecognizable, his breathing too shallow for hope. Dennie himself, his face so bloated as to make him unrecognizable too but for the crown on his epaulettes, could only keep upright with hands to a tree, breathing deeply yet still cursing, angered beyond reason that his battalion be thus stopped in its tracks.

  Brandy came to his aid, the colour ensigns rushing to his side. Then a horse to support him. He thrust his right arm angrily through the stirrup leather, refusing all entreaties to get into the saddle, cursing foully still, every thing and every one.

  But recover they must. The jungle took no side. He’d allow them half an hour, no more, and then those that couldn’t rise – two dozen and more – he’d leave for the surgeon and the camp-followers.

  The Somersets thus forged on, Dennie’s jaw set even squarer, his sword swinging even angrier. ‘And I will send hornets before thee, which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaanite, and the Hittite, from before thee.’ Those within hearing thought he raved, but Dennie was leading them into the Promised Land, like the people of Israel. He’d spare neither himself nor any other to drive out these latter-day Hivites, Canaanites and Hittites – these tribes who opposed the coming of his battalion to Chintal.

  And so when at last, in the late afternoon, they broached the forest edge, he smiled with grim satisfaction and told his major to carry on – to make a marching camp in the way he said that morning – and sat down with his back against a peepal tree, and though utterly exhausted wrote a despatch for Colonel Lindesay – and thence for Hervey – and sent the gunner back for his troop. And then, dosing himself with more brandy, he pulled his cloak round him, told his orderly to wake him before dawn, and lay down to sleep off the poison. Colonel William Dennie would wake ready for whatever the day or Hervey’s gallopers might bring. That, or he’d not wake at all.

  As for those left for the surgeon and the camp-followers, however, five would breathe their last before morning, and be buried with bayonets for grave markers and shakos tied to them to honour their regiment. It scarcely mattered that their names couldn’t be inscribed, for who would read them in the forest? They were known unto God and, in due course, the regimental paymaster. That was all that counted.

  XXIII

  The General’s Art

  Next morning

  Dennie’s despatch had come just after midnight. And great relief it was. Hervey had made two plans for the morning: if Dennie’s answer were ‘nay’, he’d recall them and bring the Madras Native Infantry from the northern road, together with most of the artillery, and begin the butcher-business of overcoming the defences at the river. ‘Mere pounding’, he’d said to himself disconsolately. If Dennie’s answer were ‘yea’, however, he’d at once send the Nizam’s contingent to reinforce him, then brigade the 13th and the 6th Light Dragoons under Colonel Maclean (but keepin
g Worsley’s troop under his own command) and have them follow as soon as the infantry brigadiers were content to have them go. The dragoons would shock the Chintalees at the river and the stockade when they assailed them from the rear. Indeed, likely as not they’d scarce need to fire a shot.

  His gallopers performed prodigiously in those early hours. He knew they would – picked men – but even so it was a relief to find Gordon’s Nizams on the march so soon after sunrise. ‘Into the hornets’ nest’, perhaps, real and figurative. The Prussian hornet was bad enough: seven stings to kill a horse, as they used to say, and vier für ein Mann, und zwei für ein Kind – but the Indian, real or figurative, was the very devil. Well, so be it. The jungle took no sides, though he meant to make it an ally.

  As soon as it was light he wrote a despatch for Somervile, supposing his old friend would soon be back at Sthambadree, but promising no rapid success. Somervile’s humour was not always that of the soldier, even though – like the old Prince Regent – he fancied himself the leader of men on occasions. Certainly, Hervey had no wish now to give him any pretext to join them. In a few days more – a week at most, he trusted – he’d be able to send word that the Governor of Madras was welcome in the capital of Her Highness the Ranee, but it wouldn’t do to misjudge the matter now.

  Judging anything, though, in this green fog of war would test a man. The art of the general, said the Prussian, consisted ‘entirely and completely’ in his Überblick – a tricky word, ‘overview’ literally, ‘grasp of matters’ – without which he was overpowered by events rather than dominating them. But here he fought blind, reliant wholly on what was brought to him by others. Indeed, he might as well sit in front of a chessboard as ride about the forest, for here there was no profit in the cavalryman’s coup d’oeil. And yet he must judge what was brought him; and how might he do that without some sense at least of whence it came? He’d therefore spent the rest of the day before with the Dorsetshires at the river, and then gone to see the Westmorelands as they pressed the stockades. Both seemed to have mastered the game of ‘demonstration’, harassing the defenders without losing men (or rather, too many men), but he didn’t suppose the Chintalees could be deceived for long, and he’d therefore warned the brigadiers to be ready to stand on the defensive in case of counter-attack. Afterwards he chided himself a little, but a general must be forgiven for occasionally making sure his subordinates knew their job, even if he himself were more acquainted with sabre and spur than boot and bayonet. He mustn’t meddle, though: brigadiers fight the enemy; the general fights the battle.

  It wasn’t till the middle of the morning that the dragoons recovered themselves and Maclean got them into some semblance of a brigade. That scarcely troubled Hervey, for the Nizams would by his calculation take five or six hours to negotiate ‘Dennie’s Road’, and he wanted also to see the Native Infantry come down from the north to join Lindesay’s brigade (on which he’d decided late). It gave him opportunity, too, to speak with Major Garratt, who was all blitheness at the prospect of dismounted work if, as he put it, it came to ‘winkling out’. The only question was if, when assailed both front and rear, the Chintalees would throw down their arms or scatter. By rights, taking them prisoner was the better course always, but who would be their gaolers? Hervey supposed that, being irregulars, scattered they’d take an age to rally, and therefore no trouble for a day or so, which might, contrary to the usual precepts of war, be the better. If they did yield, however, he said it would fall to the cavalry to take and keep them prisoner – though which cavalry he couldn’t yet tell.

  Armstrong was with the major, too, and in his element. They’d neither a lame horse nor a sick dragoon, ‘and the farriers all idle’. Hervey walked aside with him while Garratt had a word with Parry about the gunners.

  ‘What isn’t clear to me is where the “Pindarees” are. Skulking in their lines perhaps, or nowhere at all, even, taken French leave, paid or unpaid. I’ve yet to have word from Captain Fairbrother.’

  ‘Nor from Captain Worsley?’

  ‘I didn’t want them breaking cover too soon, showing we were close. In any event, this road the Somersets have opened – we’ll have a thousand and more horse through by evening. It ought to serve.’

  Armstrong agreed. He’d no great regard for the Pindaree relics he’d clashed with at Bhurtpore. ‘Aye, Colonel; they’re fleet enough, but they don’t stand.’

  Hervey nodded. He was certainly counting on it.

  Garratt had finished his discourse with Parry.

  Armstrong braced up. ‘With your leave, then, Colonel – General?’

  Hervey returned the salute. ‘And you will remember to allow the sar’nt-majors their share of shot and shell, Mr Armstrong?’

  ‘Sir!’

  Half enquiry, half order – but, Hervey knew, without point.

  It was towards five o’clock when they emerged from the cool and silence of the forest into the bright sun of the Nerbudda’s flood plain. A picket of the Somersets directed him to Colonel Dennie’s pennant atop a goat-house whose occupants had no further need of it, having the night before become mutton.

  Everywhere was pleasing order, dragoons off-saddled and grooming, with running lines up and grass-cutters at work. The Nizams were no less exemplary, while the Somersets’ marching camp would have done them justice on any inspection, with a picket line a good half a mile distant and the gunners’ flying troop disposed to support. Whatever Dennie’s prostration, his staff and company officers knew their business.

  ‘General!’

  Hervey was surprised to see him on his feet, and dismounted at once to return the salute. ‘Colonel Dennie, my hand, sir; my compliments to you. And my condolences. I came on the graves an hour ago.’

  ‘Thank you, General. Two were rogues and worse, but the others were good men.’

  ‘And you yourself?’

  Dennie shrugged. ‘I can testify to their distress.’

  Hervey nodded. Dennie’s face was like a pug’s who’d lost his wager. ‘Is there anything more to report?’

  ‘No, the night passed quietly. I had the horse troop make a clearing patrol after stand-to this morning – about three miles – and they saw nothing. There’s a village of sorts a mile or so east, but they appear unworried, or unknowing. The dragoons’ll make another clearing patrol later.’

  ‘Capital. I’m minded not to wait, however. There’s a good moon, and with no enemy abroad … Do your men have another march in them?’

  ‘Certainly. They’ve full canteens and bellies, though biscuit mainly. To where?’

  ‘To cork the bottles, so to speak. The sooner we belabour those Chintalees from the rear, the sooner we can invest the palace.’

  Dennie nodded. Hervey had explained it before he’d marched. ‘But I’m loth to divide the battalion.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t have you do that. The corking’ll be for the dragoons. I would have you make a demonstration before the palace. Cavalry alone won’t fright them behind walls.’

  Dennie agreed, but doubted the wisdom of marching at once. By his reckoning, Chintalpore was a dozen miles and more, and the going uncertain. It would take an hour to break camp, there were but a couple more of daylight left, and there was cloud looming. If they did march at once they’d hardly be fresh for a fight before midday; if they marched at dawn, however, they’d cover the ground quicker, and be better ready after a bit of sleep – and just a few hours later.

  Hervey thought for a moment, then bid Dennie sit on the wall of the goat-house as they took coffee. For the advice of an officer of infantry on such a matter as a night march was not something to dismiss lightly. Yes, he’d known the odd old woman of a colonel who wasn’t content unless he’d an hour for mustering and his fifes and drums every step of the way, but Dennie was no such colonel. Some officers needed encouraging, and some driving; but very few needed restraining. And Dennie, most decidedly, was in the latter category.

  Then he understood. ‘No, you mistake me. I’ll not h
ave your men make an assault. I’ll hazard no more lives than strictly necessary. I mean to manoeuvre them out.’

  Philanthropists, said the Prussian, with evident disdain, might easily imagine there to be a skilful method of overcoming an enemy without great bloodshed; and this was an error that must be extirpated. But Hervey was unconvinced. He’d no objection to the enemy spilling blood, but counted it a commander’s first duty to spare as much of his own men’s as possible. It was no great art to suppose that since men must die there was no point in troubling if they did so needlessly. There were some who counted men merely as ordnance, to be spent and then replaced at will – that was Bonaparte’s way, as he’d seen for himself – but while well and good for Frenchmen, in the end it never did for ‘gentlemen in red’. Besides, he’d been at Badajoz and Bhurtpore: the best-regulated troops could turn into fiends after storming a fortress. In the long run it was to no one’s advantage, least of all to discipline.

  XXIV

  Fire and Manoeuvre

  Next morning

  The Ranee trembled as she spoke, though she struggled to master her dread. Show fear, and predators struck. Besides, if she were to be spirited away through that dark, dank tunnel – and who knew what perils lay therein? – few could accompany her. Death remained – certain death – for those left behind. The rissaldar and loyal sowars had their own lives to save as well as hers. Whose would they choose first? (It had ever been thus with Praetorians.)

  ‘Tell your husband, Mira Bai, that it must be this day. As soon as the Company’s soldiers appear before the walls, Ashok Acharya will force himself upon us, and the bodyguard will be overcome, and then my life shall be held forfeit. It must be this day. This mulatto captain, he is brave and true, you say. He must act, at once.’

  Mira Bai could assure her that Fairbrother was brave and true, for though she would not say it, to come within the walls of the palace, even as a hijda, was perilous in the extreme. As for her husband, it surely went without saying – and yet he had her children to keep safe, and few enough to guard the house. ‘I will go at once, Highness. Trust to Kali.’