The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1)

by Richard Estep

  Half-expecting to be met with another delaying force, General Harris took no chances and deployed heavy contingents of cavalry to range far and wide across their path; he was pleasantly surprised to find out that only small pockets of the enemy mounted looties were being used to keep an eye on the encroaching British force, and the journey went by both quickly and without any further engagements.

  The last traces of the sun had just dipped below the western horizon on the evening of the fifth day, when Wellesley and General Harris rode out to view the lay of the land. The stars were coming out, but even without them, both men would have been able to see the city and its surroundings quite clearly with their enhanced sight. The two officers found a good vantage point on some high ground above the plains to the west of the city, and had with them a sketch map of the region upon which Wellesley would make marks and notations as their agreed-upon strategy began to develop.

  The city of Seringapatam sat upon an island in the middle of the River Cauvery, where the main river forked into two north and south branches. Tipu’s base of power was the fortress itself, which occupied the westernmost third of that island. Almost 150,000 people made their home either in the fortress or in domiciles located on the outskirts. Although the architecture of the Sultan’s inner palace was both colorful and ornate, the same could not be said of the rest of the city. The drab colors and ramshackle dwellings told of the true poverty that was commonplace throughout Mysore.

  Yet it was not without its beauty, Arthur thought appreciatively as he observed it through his spyglass. Even from this distance and with the city walls forming a barrier to observation, he could see both a mosque and a Hindu temple, the construction of both of which showed superb craftsmanship. The uneasy coexistence between Hindus and Muslims was just one of the many challenges that the Tipu juggled really rather well, in Arthur’s estimation.

  The Grand Army had approached Seringapatam on the night before, the long column winding its way in ponderously from the east. They kept the River Cauvery on their right flank in order to provide some measure of additional security. What remained of the Sultan’s cavalry had made a couple of demonstrations, but nothing which might properly be called an attack. Certainly, no true engagement had taken place; much chastened after the events of Mallavelly, General Floyd’s cavalry and their native allies had screened the infantry and the remainder of the baggage train aggressively, riding quickly to head the enemy off each time they came just a little too close to the British force for comfort.

  A handful of cavalrymen from both sides had met their deaths beneath the night sky, but the army was able to split itself into two halves without any major incident. One went to the north of the city, while the other swung around to the south. It was an encirclement maneuver which led to the twin British pincers marching clear around the island, joining up once again on the western plain. They began to make camp, in sight of the city’s walls but not so close that the enemy artillery were within range to be a credible threat. Strangely, the Sultan seemed content to merely watch them march in and establish their camp, making no move to openly resist their approach - or so it had seemed at first.

  With the arrival of dusk, Tipu’s cavalry patrols had returned to the confines of the inner fortress, leaving Harris and Wellesley to work unhindered. The two men considered various locations on the walls as possible entry points, discussing the pros and cons of each.

  “The western wall looks to be most practicable, sir, if I’m any judge,” Arthur said finally, concentrating on the relative thickness of the outer fortifications and the level of the Cauvery directly in front of them. “The water appears to be suitable for wading across in that region.”

  The general nodded thoughtfully, his chin cupped in the palm of one hand. “A breach in the wall there would allow our men to penetrate the outer fortress, and then encircle the inner walls to the north and south simultaneously.”

  “I concur, sir.”

  “The axis of first approach is one that must be considered most carefully,” Harris mused, already seeing in his mind’s eye the red-coated columns coming under the most horrific cannon fire as they marched across the western plains towards whatever breach could be made in the walls. “But if we also put down sustained fire upon these points of the wall, here, here, and here,” he indicated sections of the northern and southern walls with the tip of a finger, “then we shall at least keep the Sultan guessing as to the precise location of our assault. We shall have to see what Colonel Gent has to say, as his shall surely be the final reckoning.” William Gent may not have been a King’s officer, but this colonel of the East India Company engineers was as well-versed in the arts of siegecraft as any many alive. If anyone could tell the commanders of artillery precisely where to hammer upon the walls of Seringapatam in order to bring them crashing down, it would be Gent.

  Arthur could see the wisdom of Harris’s preliminary plan. Most of the British siege guns would have to be brought forwards from the western plain, and then dug in securely in order to protect them from the enemy cannon fire which was sure to follow their arrival; but there was no reason why a few guns could not be positioned to the north and south, perhaps drawing Tipu’s attention away from the real target.

  “What of an attack on the eastern side of the island?” he asked hypothetically, but Harris simply shook his head.

  “Possible, yes, but a poor choice.” The General pointed to where the Cauvery could be forded before the western walls, and then said, “An attack on the western aspect, assuming that it can be breached, will put our troops directly into the city itself. Yes, we shall have to overcome the defenders posted inside the breach and upon the walls on either side, but that can be done with sufficient determination.

  “But were we to choose the opposite end of the island, once our men are across the river and onto the island, there is nothing to stop Tipu from meeting them with battalions of his infantry soldiers, all lined up on the shore, just waiting for us. It would be a bloodbath, and only after fighting our way through the Sultan’s entire land army could we even begin to think about entering the city itself. No, it’s the west or it’s nothing.”

  “I do believe—“ Arthur began to say, but he never got the chance to finish his sentence, because the stillness of the early evening was suddenly torn apart by the shriek of launching rockets.

  The sky had transitioned from its daytime blue to the darker shade of early evening when the Sultan, accompanied by his ever-present Jamelia, emerged at the top of one of the staircases that served the western walls.

  Tipu liked to inspect the city defenses on a regular basis, preferably each evening just before sundown. He found that it settled his mind and offered a great sense of reassurance to both himself and his troops, to walk along the fire-steps and ramparts of the mighty stone walls. Their solidity and thickness never failed to bring a smile to his face.

  Despite their obvious reluctance to commit military forces to the region, the government of France had nevertheless sent Tipu a number of military advisers, primarily army officers that were charged with advising him on how best to repel the British forces from Mysore.

  Artillery, they had advised him almost to a man, was the thing. The French loved their heavy guns, and it had taken very little effort on their part to persuade Tipu to love them too. He had spent ruinous amounts of money in purchasing scores of cannon, howitzers, and other artillery pieces, the muzzles of which now poked threateningly out from embrasures on all four sides of Seringapatam’s walls. Many were decorated in the style of his much-loved tiger theme, with crouching, leaping, growling cats either wrought or carved into the designs of their barrels. Others were plain and unadorned, but would do the job of killing Englishmen with just as much brutal efficiency as their more ostentatious counterparts.

  An artillery battery was only as good as the crews who manned it, the French advisers had pointed out, and the Sultan had listened there too. He had not skimped on the manpower front, paying excellent
wages (although his army’s pay was currently several weeks behind schedule) for skilled foreign labor. Many of the gunners were former French and German soldiers, fighting alongside those from other European countries. A fair number were even British deserters, men who had once worn the red coat of the King but had run from the army, lured by the promise of a better standard of living, higher pay, and a greatly-reduced likelihood of receiving a flogging.

  Desertion was not without its risks, however. If the British were to capture Seringapatam, those former redcoats would be tied to a wooden post and executed by firing squad. Some of his officers and men worried about the loyalties of the British deserters, the Sultan knew, but as he saw it, what better motivation could a man have to fight like a tiger, than the sure and certain knowledge that he would be shot dead by his former comrades in the event that the city fell?

  The gunners braced themselves to attention as their master passed by. He returned their salutes with a languid wave of the hand or a casual nod of the head. Despite the niggling presence of the British army now camped on his land beyond these walls, Tipu knew that he was the master of all that he surveyed, and that knowledge filled him with pride.

  I am the tiger of this land, and the British will soon learn that for themselves.

  Tipu and Jamelia continued their leisurely stroll along the western parapet, occasionally stopping to talk with a gun crew or to the sentries who were posted on lookout duty. His reversal at Mallavelly had caused something of a melancholy to set in, but this tour of his revetments and bastions had shaken that off in very little time at all. The Sultan was now in a remarkably good mood, laughing and joking with the men who would soon be expected to fight and perhaps die for him. For her part, Jamelia maintained her usual tight smile, more interested in watching the British soldiers going about their business on the other side of the rampart.

  “Magnificent creations, are they not?”

  “Hmmm?” She returned her attention to the Sultan, who was holding up a tall wooden stick and gazing with rapt admiration at the metal tube which adorned its top end. On his instructions, the cylinder (and the many others like it in his arsenal) had been reverently inscribed with a line taken from the Quran which described the greatness of Allah, and then fitted with a pointed cap, in an attempt to make it more aerodynamic.

  “My rockets,” the Sultan clarified, as though she had never seen one of the projectiles before. “Are they not simply magnificent?” He sounded in awe of the flimsy device, gazing upon it with the look of a child who had been gifted with a particularly impressive toy.

  “They are…certainly most intriguing devices, Your Majesty,” she answered warily.

  “You do not approve?” He sounded almost teasing, but one could never be entirely sure where Tipu was concerned, and so Jamelia paused, wondering how to frame her answer in such a way that it would not drive her master into a fit of rage. The problem was, she had seen the rockets at work, and they were extremely unpredictable at best. At worst, they were an absolute liability to their own side. There was no way to guide the damnable things. One simply pointed the rocket in the direction of its target, lit the tapering fuse, and hoped for the best. Some of them flew almost straight and true, she had to concede; but others went off in any one of a thousand different directions, with one or two usually going so far as to blast straight up into the air and land in the midst of the men who had fired them, delivering an explosive payload that was no joke at all.

  But the Sultan had fallen in love with them, as he did with most things that could create an almighty bang and which could also be pointed at his enemies. This was one of his pet projects, and Tipu was not the sort of man who liked to be associated with failure.

  “The rockets are indeed most impressive,” she conceded at last, “at least, when they do happen to land amongst the ranks of the enemy.”

  Tipu laughed heartily, slapping the stone parapet with delight. “They are not the most predictable of weapons, it is true, but they can be utterly deadly when properly employed - much like your lovely self, eh, my dearest Jamelia!” Guffawing at his own joke, tears sprang to the Sultan’s eyes. He held his ample belly with both hands, shaking with laughter. Jamelia smiled wanly.

  “Have you emplaced them as instructed?” he asked her at last, wiping a tear from his eye with a sleeve.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. They merely await your command.”

  “It seems churlish to disappoint them. Consider the command to be given.”

  Jamelia was wearing an ankle-length sari made from the finest cerulean blue silk, and Tipu saw that there was an unmistakable lightness in her step as she went over to join one of the gun crews. It is good to see her happy once more, he reflected somberly. Then again, her spirits are always high after a kill.

  The massacre at the British camp had been four days ago, but Jamelia’s good mood was still holding fast. A gunner nodded in acknowledgment of some unheard instruction, and walked out onto the fire-step to where a number of his beloved rockets were stacked. It was but the work of a moment to send the rocket screaming towards the British lines, trailing a shower of sparks behind it.

  There was not the slightest chance of even reaching the enemy encampment at this range, let alone actually hitting anything; but then, that had never been the point in the first place.

  The single rocket was nothing more than a prearranged signal to the commander of an ad hoc force of rocket-men and infantry that Tipu had ordered be secreted closer to the British lines earlier that day. An aqueduct bearing precious water ran in a generally north-south direction along the plains directly to the west of Seringapatam. This artificial waterway did not run entirely straight, however; it made a number of switchbacks and S-turns, in order to negotiate the surrounding terrain with the greatest of efficiency. On the inside elbow of one such switchback was a thick stand of tope, the heavy jungle-like terrain which appeared in patches throughout the Sultan’s territory.

  Shortly after sunset the evening before, when he had eaten a hearty supper and had once again walked the ramparts – this time, the eastern walls - Tipu had watched as the head of the first British column appeared in the far distance. Taking a leather-bound telescope from the officer of the watch, he had noted with interest that the British were approaching along the south bank of River Cauvery, rather than the north. Tipu knew his land like the back of his own hand. The British would probably set up camp on the western plains, he decided, for there lay the greatest concentrations of drinkable water in the area.

  The outskirts of Seringapatam were defended by a number of outlying strongholds, such as an old mill building and a series of temporary fortifications. Tipu fully intended to make his major stand behind the stout walls of his fortified palace, but he fancied himself quite the master tactician, and so it was that a most audacious idea happened to present itself to him. Calling Jamelia in close, he gave orders for a force of gunners armed with a healthy supply of rockets to hide themselves in the shadows of the thick tope.

  “Send along a few foot-soldiers to provide security,” he said airily, gesturing towards the western aqueduct. “They are to lay up until darkness falls this evening, and then, on our signal, they shall open fire on the British camp.”

  “What will be the signal?” Jamelia asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “A single rocket, what else? We shall fire it from the walls of the palace, aimed towards the British camp. That shall be the command for them to rain down fire upon the infidels.” He smirked, impressed with his own ingenuity. Just as she was about to leave, Tipu laid a hand lightly on her arm. “Oh, and Jamelia? The British are going to counter-attack. You may depend upon it; and that attack will almost certainly be led by one of their senior officers. Be sure that a small supply of the…special ammunition goes with the men.”

  Jamelia had bowed and gone to make the arrangements. The truth be told, she actually rather liked this idea of his. The stand of tope happened to be located on the eastern bank of the aqueduct, wh
ich meant that when the British sent troops to push her soldiers out of there, they would have to cross a waist-deep body of running water in order to get at them – all under a storm of musket fire.

  It would not be long before the aqueduct ran red with the blood of British soldiers, she reflected, and found the thought to be immensely pleasing.

  The first rockets had now begun to streak from beneath the leafy canopy to the west. Jamelia uttered a low, throaty growl. Tipu turned to her, surprise evident upon his face. “Oh, my dear – I have been most remiss!” he declared, holding a hand theatrically up to his forehead. “Would you and your Tiger Guard like to join the celebration—perhaps welcome the British properly to my lands?”

  Jamelia’s sudden sense of delight was offset only by the torrent of pain now shooting down the length of her spine, as the transformation began to envelop her once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Preparations had begun as soon as the two officers had returned to camp, and Wellesley’s chosen battalion was on the march in under an hour. He had left Major Shee in command of five companies of the 33rd, fully half of the available strength. They were positioned half a mile to the rear, in order to act as a tactical reserve, while Wellesley personally led the attack on foot with the remaining five companies. Diomed had no place in a night assault in wild country, he had reasoned, and so he had left the horse behind in the care of one of the army’s grooms.

  The redcoats moved gingerly at night, none of them (except for the company captains) being in possession of the finely-tuned vampire senses with which their colonel was gifted. He could hear every one of hundreds of boots tramping through the night, and the heartbeats of the men that wore them. The half-battalion marched eastward, with bayonets fixed and their colonel striding at their head. He had chosen a position in front of the center unit, which was once again the Shadow Company; CSM Nichols had been more than willing to cede the spot to his colonel.