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Best Poems From
ERIC RATCLIFFE
(Aug 8,1918)
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49.
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Wellington in India II
Old campaigns were open books
for those who took heed of designs,
refought, reformed, regrouped, replanned,
rode horse over dead battlegrounds,
saw passages through the ghats.
Generalship was in this Wellesley,
reconnoitring from Fort George,
riding in the tracks of Cornwallis,
studying actions, the defeat of Baillie;
visiting Pondicherry, Clive's Arcot fortress,
military sites at Wandewash, Porto Novo;
using mobile bazaars for supplies,
with merchants handling bullocks;
equipping siege trains, testing axletrees,
allotting elephants, bullocks to units
to haul artillery, roundshot and grape.
Solid with Mornington (another Wellesley) ,
was the Nizam's military protection.
Six Company battalions would replace
the French at Hyderabad, shipped home,
napoleon chagrin on each face.
Stuff of horse-dream his Diomed,
grey Arab, a dying legacy,
enough a match for his skills
of horsemanship. Swift, controlled,
this gift-horse, his horseman's leap
made surer than Mahratta,
travelling, organizing, ordering
an army for Harris, questing
between Arcot, Arnee and Vellore.
(Like Copenhagen, his chestnut pride
spurred later from Quatre Bras to Ligny)
- superb for fast reconnaissance.
Eric Ratcliffe
Read more: horse poems
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50.
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Wellington in India III
Then west under Harris,
across the Baramahal,
four armies and a fifth
east from Cannanore -
the Tiger was due for a claw cut.
Advancing to storm, Madrassis, British,
moving on mortars, smoothbore field guns
by bullocks and mules; horse artillery,
dragoons, sappers, pioneers, native brigades,
irregular silahdhars, scimitar shamshirs
to hand, with the British Foot;
sepoys, subedars, havildar-majors,
all British ranks to generals,
the colonel with his Thirty-Third;
infantry from Madras, Bengal,
troops of the Nizam.
Tipu, who cries 'Infidel British! '
and 'War to all Tyrants! '
- like father, like son -
who threatens his prisoners
with conversion to Islam,
puts dancing-girl dresses
on young British children;
or presses surrender
in exchange for all lives,
then kills in false promise!
Tipu, whose mortars
are cast hollow tigers,
chained tigers skulking
in his palace courtyard,
snarling war tigers
engraved on his sword hilts!
Tipu, whose throne
is tiger-supported,
teeth of rock crystal,
gold-plated body;
whose Royal Tiger toy
eats a carved European!
On the Indian day of St.George
the monsoon rains were near;
outside the Cauvery, the besieging ground
would turn to softness with mud,
locking in the fighters for Tipu.
The man on the grey horse
weaponed against the tiger-dragon
counted clear days to flood
for the time of the breaching.
High time to test this Sultan,
complete the strategy with force,
mount breaching batteries,
spike the outer cannons of Tipu,
tear up the west curtain wall
with eighteen and twenty-four pounders.
Who broke the truce, by fate
found himself broken
in sixty minutes of an Indian May.
opened breach ripped,
trampling redcoats, sword,
neck-slicing sabre,
the repeated gore on bayonets
overwhelmed the fortress,
pulled teeth from the Tiger.
(No infidel would pension him
as Empire Raja, and never did,
he said, dying bravely
near his northern Water Gate.)
Some said he died in the breach,
piled high with dead
a wounded tiger, despatched
by infidel who coveted
his gold belt buckle. a deed
a Wellesley would rue,
even in the heat of battle.
Now Mysore's suns of new and unknown fates
light exits of the ghosts of tiger lord
and courtyard tigers chained in palace grounds.
A cooler living colonel consolidates
in Tipu's palace, the Dowlut Baugh,
keeps city order as its commandant,
while warling officers depart the scene;
flogs plunderers, with hangings to deter
all raping, cruelty, in returning peace;
encourages bazaars of native life.
When muskets go unloaded in these quarters,
the foolish shattering of bodies ceases,
with its hate and swordings. Planning
to stabilise the poor, untrusting flesh
of human beings, defenceless after strife,
was an art, professional as field-gun manning.
He found time to charm the ladies, stand as godfather,
attend to vegetables - reverted to gentleman-at-arms.
Though British power, expanded in this land
is past apology, no better or no worse than other
conquests, areas were ruled fairer, caught
and nurtured in the careful Wellesley hand.
A different business from sepoy sieges,
roaring field cannon, assault on any fort
- from thrusting bayonets fixed to trusted Bess,
the bloody ruin of some Indian mother's son
who stood his flesh-man fast against
the blades of victors, against that ingress
a sword made lawful.
Then escaped Pathan, a price on head,
pursuit of Dhoondiah, now forgotten history
unlike that fabled head of Bendigeid Vran
- no spell against the Company's commitments.
This 'King of Two Worlds - Heaven and Earth'
self-styled, with followers riding free
would wish the Company and the British
trampled by his cavalry, raiding,
doing, dying for Dhoondiah,
fast riding, slashing with tulwar,
clubbing, dispersing, reappearing
over Mahratta borders. Riled,
clearing orders from Mornington
reached his brother, tersely made:
'Hang him from the very first tree! '
Wellesley, his harrying forces split,
attacked his stronghold forts, offered reward
of thirty thousand rupees for his head.
Equipped with stores, supplies, he travelled fast,
field guns drawn by bullocks from Mysore,
white and strong, as quick as moving infantry.
A single charge at Conaghull, at last,
by Wellesley's troopers, routed him, killing
this Dhoondiah. With his death, Salabut,
his son of only four, found safety
with the colonel, only too willing
to arrange for care. This wild Mahratta land,
south from Savanore, saw his efforts
to make friendly ties, until his brother
willed him to abandon his command.
Another Governor of Mysore would lace
respect for law and trade, from ghat to ghat.
Wellesley's military skills, to chase
the French, were needed, as the Marquess sought
surprise invasion of their island base.
At distant Trincomalee, supplies for transports,
food, ammunition, medicines, rice, not least
on-shore training of the forces, brought
to battle pitch, units formed in haste
needed a cool hard-working commander.
This choice of brother, publicly declared,
brought protests of nepotism - mined under
the colonel's world - outranked by General Baird
- his venue was changed to Egypt. In all good faith
Wellesley would have sailed, but ill
from Malabar itch he needed a daily bath
in dilute acid - the twentieth-century pill
still a physician's dream to come. The hand
of God saved him for Spain and Waterloo,
for 'The Susannah' sailed, with him on land,
foundered at sea, lost all the crew.
Wellesley rode back to the island city; memories
of Seringapatam, the breach, losses, screams,
were dark clouds passing, put aside, breeze
and showers sharpening the mind; all schemes
were futures; from the palace of Dowlut Baugh
he would punish severely crimes of race,
misuse of Company funds in peace or war.
Beating of Indians would lead men into disgrace,
dishonour, service discharge in shame.
- tyranny towards defenceless servants
was lawless sin, a damn cruel game
without excuse, whatever the circumstance.
He would administer changes, clear rubble,
improve the barracks and arsenal, oversee care
of military bullocks, horses, mules, take trouble
to supervise keepers of elephants, aware
that their rations were tempting to steal.
Waggon timbers should be seasoned and good;
exercise, pure water, the wholesome meal
would help to stay disease in the blood.
Eric Ratcliffe
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