The battle of Pollilur

The year was 1780, and the winds of rebellion swept across the Deccan. Under the banner of the Tiger of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, and his father, Hyder Ali, the kingdom of Mysore had become a symbol of resistance against British colonial ambitions in southern India. The British East India Company, growing increasingly bold, had sought to dominate the region, but the warriors of Mysore had other plans. Their defiance would culminate in one of the greatest victories ever recorded against the British: the Battle of Pollilur.

The British, under Colonel William Baillie, were advancing toward Conjeevaram to link up with the forces of Sir Hector Munro, intending to crush Hyder Ali’s growing power. But Hyder Ali and Tipu Sultan had laid a trap for them. For weeks, the Mysorean army had carefully maneuvered, striking at British supply lines, weakening their position. Now, as Baillie’s forces marched with tired legs and hungry bellies, they were unknowingly walking into a masterstroke of military strategy.

Tipu Sultan, commanding the vanguard, had carefully chosen the plains of Pollilur for the final confrontation. He knew that the British, with their rigid European formations and reliance on artillery, would be vulnerable in the open terrain, surrounded by dense forests and hills that only Mysore’s forces knew how to navigate. The night before the battle, Tipu’s men prayed, sharpened their swords, and prepared their iron-cased rockets. Victory was in the air, and every Mysorean soldier could feel it.

At dawn on September 10, 1780, the British forces, weakened by disease, exhaustion, and a lack of supplies, entered the Pollilur plain. Baillie, believing he was still in control, began to position his men in traditional European lines. But as the sun rose higher, the sounds of the jungle began to shift. From the surrounding hills, drums began to beat, and war cries echoed across the battlefield. The British soon realized they were not alone.

Suddenly, out of the trees and from hidden positions, Mysorean cavalry, infantry, and war elephants poured onto the battlefield. Tipu’s cavalry, known for their speed and agility, cut through the British flanks like a scythe, their curved swords gleaming in the sunlight. Baillie, shocked by the ferocity and precision of the Mysorean attack, ordered his men to form a square, a formation designed to protect them from cavalry assaults. But this was exactly what Tipu had anticipated.

As the British soldiers huddled together in their tight square, they were about to experience something no European army had faced before: the devastating power of Mysore’s rockets. Tipu had been perfecting this weapon for years, and now, in the heat of battle, its full potential was unleashed. The iron-cased rockets, propelled by black powder, streaked through the sky with fiery tails, raining down upon the British lines. The rockets exploded on impact, scattering shrapnel and setting men, horses, and supplies ablaze. Panic spread through the British ranks as their square, which had seemed impenetrable moments before, was torn apart by the relentless bombardment.

Baillie tried desperately to regroup his men, but it was too late. Tipu’s infantry, armed with muskets and swords, surged forward, overwhelming the shattered British formations. War elephants, towering and unstoppable, smashed through the remaining lines, trampling anything in their path. The British artillery, which had been positioned at the rear, was destroyed before it could even be brought to bear.

In the chaos, Tipu Sultan himself rode across the battlefield, his black stallion cutting through the dust and smoke. His sword gleamed, and his presence inspired his troops to fight with even greater ferocity. His banner, emblazoned with the tiger, fluttered above the fray, a symbol of Mysore’s might. As the British lines collapsed, the Mysorean forces showed no mercy. They were fighting not just for their kingdom but for the right to remain free in the face of British domination.

By mid-afternoon, the battlefield was littered with British dead and wounded. Colonel Baillie, wounded and defeated, was captured along with the remnants of his army. The British force, which had once been seen as invincible, was utterly annihilated. For Tipu Sultan and his father, Hyder Ali, it was a moment of immense triumph. The Battle of Pollilur was not just a victory; it was a message to the world that Mysore would not bow to British imperialism.

In the aftermath, the Mysoreans celebrated their victory, but they knew the war was far from over. Still, the memory of Pollilur would forever be a reminder of their strength. It became a tale told around campfires, whispered in the streets of Srirangapatna, and carved into the annals of history. It was the day when the tiger of Mysore roared, and the might of the British was silenced.

Years later, British officers would speak in hushed tones of the rockets of Mysore, the ferocity of Tipu’s soldiers, and the brilliance of his strategy. The Battle of Pollilur was a rare moment when an Indian kingdom, through sheer will, intelligence, and the courage of its people, had defeated one of the world’s most powerful empires.

And for Tipu Sultan, standing atop the battlefield, sword in hand, the victory was not just for Mysore but for every soul who believed in the right to resist tyranny. The tiger had shown his claws, and the world would never forget.