Arthur clenched his fist in irritation at the setback, and then relented. In the event it was just as well that Harness had hurried forward ahead of the other columns. Turning to Fitzroy Arthur indicated the right flank column. ‘Get down there and tell Vesey what’s happened.Tell him to raise his ladders against the bastions. He is to avoid the wall at all costs.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fitzroy saluted and spurred his mount forward towards the ranks of men marching up to the right side of the pettah’s gate, which Wallace’s column was boldy approaching, dragging a six-pounder cannon with them. Once Fitzroy had passed on the warning the right-hand column split into two as they made for the bastions at each end of the length of wall assigned to them.
Arthur pulled out his telescope to watch the progress of the attack as closely as possible. One of Harness’s grenadier officers had rallied some of his men and they had moved towards the nearest bastion and thrown up a ladder. The first three men and the officer hurriedly began to climb. As they neared the top a handful of defenders suddenly appeared and thrust the ladder away with poles so that it toppled back, throwing the climbers on to the ground. At once the officer was up on his feet. His hat had been knocked off and a livid red streak ran down his face from an injury in his scalp. He helped his men replace the ladder, and while the skirmishers turned their fire on the defenders above he raced back up the ladder, followed by his men. He didn’t pause at the top. Drawing his sword as he reached the rampart, he clambered across the battlements and fell upon the Arabs in the bastion. His sword flashed brilliantly as he carved a path through his enemies.The grenadiers surged up the ladder and joined him to clear the top of the bastion. The struggle was brief as more grenadiers piled into the fight and then disappeared into the bastion. Colonel Harness was hurriedly directing his men towards the place and they began streaming over the top as the distant pop and crackle of musket fire sounded over the pettahwalls.
Over on the right Vesey’s men had reached another bastion and were locked in a desperate fight with its defenders.With two bastions out of action Colonel Wallace faced little danger as the central column waited on the track before the main gate. Ahead of them the six-pounder had been loaded and the artillery crew was running it up to the gate so that the muzzle pressed against the stout but aged timbers.
Arthur spurred Diomed forward to join the men waiting to assault the town. He was determined to be there when they did enter to make sure that the officers restrained their men from looting or attacking the civilians within the walls. As he rode along the column towards the gate an artillery sergeant carrying the portfire suddenly shouted. ‘Back, lads! They’re opening the gates!’
There was a dull clatter from beyond the timbers and then they began to swing inwards. Arthur had a glimpse of armed men under the gate tower, then the sergeant swept his portfire down on to the paper cone of the fuse. Even as it flared briefly, Arthur felt a cold fist clench in his stomach, but it was too late to do anything. The gun went off with a boom as a jet of flame and smoke gushed through the pettahgatehouse. Colonel Wallace thrust his sword out and shouted to his men. ‘Forward! Forward, you devils!’
Arthur dismounted and pushed his way through the men and under the gatehouse. The cannon had gone off right in the faces of some of Vesey’s sepoys. One man, who must have been directly in front of the muzzle, had been torn in two and his head, chest and shoulders lay several feet from his pelvis and buckled legs. In between, his guts and pools of blood lay spashed across the ground. Several more men were injured and were staggering out of the way of Wallace’s soldiers as they charged into the town. Beyond them Arthur caught a glimpse of a handful of the Arab mercenaries disappearing into one of the narrow streets.Then he saw Vesey and indicated the injured men.
‘Have them taken back to our lines to get their wounds tended.’
‘Yes, sir.’Vesey saluted.
‘By the way, Captain.’ Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That was fine work.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
Arthur drew his sword and entered the base of the gatehouse. He stepped over several enemy bodies on the stairs as he made his way up and emerged on to the paved top of the bastion where the grenadier officer had carved a path through his enemies. The small area was littered with the bodies of the mercenaries, all killed by savage sword blows or thrusts from the bayonet. Amongst the dead were two of the grenadiers, and a third, injured, man was slumped against the inside of the rampart clasping his hands over a wound to his stomach. As he saw his general he raised a bloodied hand to salute. For an instant, Arthur felt a compulsion to tend to the man, but compassion was a luxury a commander could not afford until after the battle. So Arthur returned the salute and made his way to the breastwork to look over the town.
British troops were pouring through the tangle of streets pursuing small bands of the enemy, some of whom still had enough of their wits about them to turn and fire occasional shots. A few had already emerged from the far gate and were desperately running for the cover of the nearest topes to escape the groups of cavalry that encircled the town ready to ride down any Mahratta warriors that came their way. Once he was satisfied that only a handful had managed to reach the fort Arthur turned away from the scene. The grenadier leaning against the parapet was staring at him with a frozen expression of agony. Arthur leaned over him and touched his shoulder.There was no reaction and he realised that death had claimed him only a few moments earlier. Arthur straightened up and gazed sadly at the man. An hour ago he had been marching towards this small unregarded town, no doubt swapping tall tales and jokes with his companions; an earthy vibrant being, perhaps with a wife or sweetheart waiting for him back in Scotland. Now, thanks to an order from Arthur, he was dead.
He pulled out his watch and glanced at the hands. It was barely twenty minutes since the attack had begun and already the town had fallen. The enemy had suffered hundreds of casualties, and there would be many British wounded as well. But if, as Arthur intended, the swift and decisive assault served to discourage the defenders of the fortress, then a greater number of lives could be saved in the long run. It was a peculiar train of thought and he wondered if other generals indulged in such moral computations to justify their decisions. Now that the action was over, a familiar weariness settled on him and with a sigh he turned his mind to the capture of the fortress as he descended the stairs inside the bastion.
Over the next two nights a battery was constructed three hundred yards from the fortress. Arthur and his engineers had examined the fortifications in some detail through their telescopes before settling on a section where the masonry appeared to be weak and crumbling in places. The killadarcommanding the fortress was clearly unversed in modern siege warfare, or had chosen to ignore the advice of the French officers serving under him. There was no attempt to fire on the British engineers and by dawn on the second day the battery was complete and guns, powder and ammunition had been hauled into position. As soon as there was enough light to gauge the fall of shot Arthur gave the order to open fire. There was a rolling crash as the twelve-pounders belched flame and smoke while Arthur stood to one side and squinted through his telescope at the fortress. He saw the iron balls strike home and chips of masonry explode from the face of the wall. Lowering his telescope he nodded to the officer in command of the battery.
‘The range is good. Keep firing, but don’t rush the job. The guns must be loaded carefully. I don’t want a single shot wasted, understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’