Seringapatam

I have killed many men since my first true battle
and they do not haunt my dreams.
But on that day I was rightly blooded.

We were fifty thousand strong, deep in country
when the 33rd broke square and formed up for the volley.
Seven hundred wide in a file two deep.

I still dream the rhythm of drums,
the creak of leather,
the rattle and clank of metal.
The smell of fear.

We advanced and I opened a corner of my soul.
Abandoned by a whore to a foundling home
I was beaten with the bible,
hard lessons were learned.

Discarded, abused,
thieving and caught.
It was jail or the King’s Army, it was,
the home I never had.

The redcoat was stifling,
the neckstock chafing.
And the heat,
my God, the heat.

The Sippoo’s troops were a handsome lot
in tiger-striped tunics and crimson turbans,
thirty-five thousand all.
Their forward ranks drew close now,
the call came to fire.

Seven hundred muskets filled the world
with thunder and smoke.
The second row fired
and with bayonets forward
we raced to engage the enemy.

That day, on the plains of Mysore,
on the outskirts of Seringapatam,
I unleashed
my
rage.

I am not afraid of dying,
but my fury has been to live.