Clive of India
Visits Seringapatam
In parts of India, nothing has changed for hundreds of years and the sights sounds and smells we experienced, were those that would have greeted Private Sharpe and his comrades in the 33rd Foot on their long marches. Fields of rice irrigated by ancient water systems stretched towards rocky outcrops where goats picked their meager living from the shrubs. Bullocks lazily pull creaking cart loads of merchandise under the command of sun browned men who often seem to be asleep. Street traders crouch beside the dusty road sharing chai with their friends and at every village there is the distinctive smell of cooking fires fueled by cattle dung patties. These are hand shaped flying saucers of poo; about 10 inches in diameter that had been dried in the sun, and stacked in bee hive shaped heaps until required.
When we arrived at the city wall, Harish was more than happy to park in the shade and take a nap on the back seat as we walked the last few yards to the ancient city.
Years evaporate with the timeless visions that met us, so much so, that I could almost feel the weight of the pack on my shoulders and the sweat under the shako as I held my trusty Brown Bess musket. Reality had me carrying a rucksack, wearing a straw hat and carrying a walking stick, but I had been transported back by the unchanging scenery to the last year of the 18th century, just before the monsoon rains of 1799.
Here is a map of the city marking points of interest.
We went to the mosque first by way of the Bangalore gate in the East, but were only able to peer through the entrance because a small ceremony was underway inside and we both felt that our attendance would not be very welcome.
The interior of the city is huge, much more so than I appreciated from the map, which in my defence, did not include a scale, so after our visit to the Mosque we returned to wake Harish and ask him to drive us around within the walls. I was surprised to see that the city was not teeming with people and the hard packed earth of the open spaces between buildings was often clear apart from numerous games of cricket being played by enthusiastic young men and boys. I have never seen a girl playing cricket in India. Thinking about it, they’ve probably got much better things to do with their time. I once read a definition of cricket as being organized loafing, which seems bang on to me. I apologize right now to any cricket fan reading this, it’s only my opinion.
To stand at such a significant spot on the parched earth where so many men had shed their blood in the savage fighting transports me with the efficiency of a time machine. I can hear the firing of the men’s muskets, their hurrahs, the officers rallying shouts and see the acts of heroism. It’s as if the ghosts remain there, frozen over time in their sanguinary struggle clearly visible to anyone who stops and cares to look hard enough.
We went first to the wall at the furthest West point of the defenses and after a short walk over some rough ground I stood at the small obelisk memorial which marks the breech where so many men lost their lives. Inscribed on it are the names of the officers who perished during the siege. As was the custom of the day, the names of the ordinary soldiers and non commissioned officers are lost in time, not considered worthy of engraving onto the proud stone.
