Sir David was described by his contemporaries as being "every inch a soldier," "an outstanding officer." These qualities were a rarity in this days. As a young Captain in the 73rd Highlanders in the British army in India he had been grievously wounded during an attack on Hyder Ali, the powerful ruler of the State of Mysore. Left for dead he was taken prisoner and thrown in prizon in Hyder Ali's capital city of Seringapatam. There, along with his fellow unfortunate captives, they were kept in chains for three long years although one of his compatriots volunteered to wear them for him. On hearing about his capture and the wearing of manacles his mother excleaimed, "God help the chiel chained to oor Davie!" After the death of Hyder Ali, his son, Tipu or Tippoo Sahib reached a peace agreement in 1780 with the British and Baird was released returning home as a Major. He was subsequently promoted to Lieutenant Colonel and command of the regiment.
Under the command of Cornwallis (of Yorktown in-fame), he returned to India years later and to again mysore taking part in the iege of its capital city, Seringapatam. It was beseiged by the British in May of 1789. Baird was responsible for the storming parties in his regiment and spoke to his troops, "Men, are you ready?" "Aye" they shouted back, "then, forward my lads." At the head of his troops he took the city in ten minutes and became its master. Tippoo was killed in the batle for the city and Baird was presented with his sword. The sword was recently purchased by an Indian buyer at an auction in 1994.
Sir David Baird viewing the body of Tippoo Sahib
Tippoo Sahib
Tippoo Sahib's Sword
Baird's spectacular victory was dulled immediately when he was superceded for polititical reasons by Colonel Wellesley, later the Duke of Wellington. Wellesley's eldest brother, Arthur, was, after all, the Governor-General of India...and the Wellesley tribe were an extremely ambitious lot! Those were the days when commissions could be bought and the man with the most money, or politial influence, gained the highest commands. To be fair though Wellesley, as the Duke of Wellington was a genius of a military commander.
Some of our soldiers were involved in the Peninsula War of 1809-1812, and saw a host of actions during the great fighting retreat to Corunna, and then embarkation to Britain. History buffs will know that Sir John Moore, a Glasgow-born Scot, whom Britain failed to support with food, munitions and supplies, conducted a brilliantly successful military rearguard campaign, but was killed on the heights overlooking Corunna.
Moore's Great Fighting Retreat through Spain to the Port of Corunna
Sir John Moore at Corunna - B. Granville Baker
Battle of Corunna
This caused much anguish amongst the British soldiers because, unlike many other officers of the day, he was much respected and loved, and his loss deeply affected the whole army. At his own request he was buried there in an unmarked grave prompting Charles Wolfe to write the following poem commemorating the scene:
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
Charles Wolfe
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon-beam’s misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,
And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,
And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour of retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing
Slowly and sadly we laid him down
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone in his glory.
