‘We keep quiet here still, altho’ one does not feel quite so comfortable now the Europeans have all left us, with the exception of thirty sick men who could not be moved and a guard of forty for them. I have not gone to Lahore after all. I was twice on the point of going Papa thinking it better for me to do so, but the parties with whom I was to have gone viz. Mrs Fitzgerald and Mrs Graham10 both changed their minds, thinking we might as well remain until there was some cause for alarms, but nearly all of the ladies have taken flight, but the accounts of the barrack’s life at Lahore is so dreadful that I feel quite glad I am not there, altho’ I had an invite from Capt. Lawrence, but every lady I believe is obliged to sleep in the barracks, and after all one is as safe here as there where they seem to have been in an frightful state of alarm, altho’ they have had up to the present moment such a number of our guns, and only allowed to go to their houses from 6am to 6pm and then alarmed to do so. W[ilia]m on arrival went to [Mian Mir] but could only see one European who was ready armed for an attack with revolvers etc., so I intend to enjoy the comforts of life quietly as long as I can, but the best of natives are not now to be trusted.’11
With the dangers of the unfolding rebellion reaching Sialkot only through letters—and thus never personally experienced—Sarah found the idea of life at Lahore, shoulder to shoulder with people that might have been of a lesser social standing than her, abhorrent and ultimately chose comfort over safety. Life at Sialkot was nevertheless beginning to wear on her nerves: ‘This station looks so deserted—not a buggy or a single individual scarcely to be seen in the evenings.’12 The exception was Friday nights when, keeping up the pretence of normality to the point of absurdity, the band of the 46th still played cheerful tunes for what remained of the European community.13 What Alum Bheg and the other Indian NCOs of the regiment, who attended these semi-social gatherings, thought of such occasions can only be imagined.
The more vulnerable their position in Sialkot became, the greater powers Dr Graham seemed to attribute to the near-mythical figure of John Nicholson, whom he described as ‘just the man for the crisis now existing.’14 Where others had found solace in the Bible, Dr Graham instead indulged in histrionic fantasies of revenge which he outlined in his letters to his nephew:
‘I fancy you will ere long hear of some sharp and decisive punishments amongst the mutinous prisoners at Lahore, Ferozpore and Peshawur. Mercy to them is out of the question; firmness and decision, and the fate of our empire all require the last penalty, and die they must. Maudlin humanity and over indulgent sentimental feelings have placed us in our present position. Had we been rigid, stern and unhesitating in our rule our present difficulties would never have shown themselves, but it is folly now to speculate, for change our ways we must. The only good order I have yet seen is that of hanging the authorities, and burning the villages at all places where the electric wire had been cut or injured. Had the 19th and 34th regiments received their reward—sharp and short as the cannons roar, we would have had no massacres to chronicle. Humanity and forbearance in this country are put down to fear! Might is right, and when not exercised is put down to pusillanimity. Our timid conciliating orders and policy are a lasting disgrace to our rule and will be so recorded in history.’15
Brind’s cautious and conciliatory attitude towards the sepoys at Sialkot, which Graham was railing against, were indeed becoming a rarity as the uprising slowly spread across northern India. With every mail bringing new stories of mutinies and massacres, few Englishmen any longer pretended that British governance could maintain its veneer of benevolence. Maintaining control of Punjab was of utmost importance to re-establish British rule to the southeast, and as regiment after regiment broke out in mutiny, the colonial state unleashed its entire arsenal of exemplary force. On 9 June, the British for the first time took recourse to a particularly brutal form of execution by blowing two sepoys of the 35th from the mouth of a cannon near Lahore. An artillery officer witnessed the gory spectacle:
‘On the 9th of June, at Anarkullee, two sepoys of the 35th were tried by a drum-head court-martial for mutinous language, and sentenced to be blown away from guns. The execution was a terrible one. Having been directed to carry it out in my battery, I was close to the wretches, and could watch every feature; they showed the most perfect apathy: one man merely saying that he had some money in the hands of the non-commissioned officer of his company; the other never uttered a word. (Since this execution I have seen many men hung and executed in various ways. They all evinced the same indifference as to life or death; one man bowed his head to me as he was being tied to the gun and said, “Salaam, Captain Sahib, Sallam, gora log,” “Good-bye Captain, good-bye Europeans.”) This was the first tragedy of the kind carried out, and must have struck awe and terror into the minds of all who witnessed it.’16
This scene would be repeated many times over as the British fought to regain control over northern India—only a few days later some twenty-four sepoys of the 55th BNI were executed at Peshawar in the same manner. Moral outrage was quickly replacing the soft rhetoric of Evangelicalism and Utilitarian reform, and colonial officers such as John Nicholson, whom one writer has described as an ‘imperial psychopath’, rose to prominence during this time, embodying a new and militant ideal of vengeful Christianity.17 There was much self-fashioning on the part of Nicholson, who was said to have expunged the word ‘mercy’ from his vocabulary, and who at one point proposed a bill ‘for the flaying alive, impalement, or burning of the murderers of the women and children…’18 When asked to report on the different types of punishment he had inflicted on captured rebels, Nicholson’s reply was allegedly curt and concise: ‘THE PUNISHMENT FOR MUTINY IS DEATH!’19 Such anecdotes played well to the likes of Dr Graham.
While it seemed that the rest of the world was going up in flames and people everywhere else were either killed or killing, the strain was beginning to show at Sialkot. ‘Our Padre Boyle’, Dr Graham noted of the priest, who had been on edge ever since May, ‘is the greatest of the horror stricken here.’20 Boyle was in such a state that Sarah found it difficult to hide her contempt:
‘The poor padre here sets us all a very bad example. He ought to be ready to die but he is in such an excited and alarmed state. He came to call on us the other morning with his leather belt with two pistols on. He went to Lahore under the pretence of escorting Mrs Baker and Bourchier over, but in truth trying to try and get ordered with the moveable column as its chaplain. He telegraphed21 Sir John Lawrence to know what he was to do, when the reply was to do as he liked. In the mean time he had an order from the Brigadier here to return immediately, asking him if he was not the chaplain of Sealkote. He has now applied for the chaplaincy of Fort William…’22
Boyle was clearly desperate to get away from Sialkot and go anywhere large numbers of British troops might be found, even if it meant joining the siege at Delhi. Dr Graham and his daughter nevertheless carried on the bluff of Empire, as the doctor himself described it: ‘We continue quiet here and not only occupy our own homes, but take our drivings [sic] morning and evening as if the whole country was serene.’23 The whole country was clearly not ‘serene’, and yet the father and daughter went through the motions as if an adherence to the routine of everyday life might in and of itself bring about the sense of normality that was so evidently missing. On the last days of June, the rains broke, offering some relief from the relentless heat.24
By early July, Thomas and Jane Hunter were beginning to waver in their conviction and the tone of his letters had become desolate rather than hopeful: ‘Two months ago the country seemed profoundly tranquil, and bright schemes for the future were formed. How these are doomed to disappointment is now apparent…We are very anxious; the season is far advanced and the heat becomes excessive.’25 After their friends had left for Lahore, Jane, the ever-devout evangelical, wrote to Gordon and the other Americans and confessed her fears and growing doubt, couched, as always, in religious language: ‘These texts have been constantly in
my mind: Lord, increase our faith.’26 She ended her letter with another Biblical reference: ‘Soon the day will break and the shadows flee away.’27 A few nights later, Jane had a disturbing dream ‘in which she saw the dead bodies of her husband and baby lying before her,’ which she took to be a warning from God.28 This was apparently the final straw, and the couple began to prepare to leave for Lahore immediately. Having been warned against undertaking the journey on their own, they, arranged to leave the very next day, 8 July, along with Rev. Boyle, who had managed to get attached to the Movable Column at Amritsar. Unfortunately, the letter confirming Boyle’s new assignment had not arrived in time, forcing him to postpone his departure. Though they were desperate to leave, the Hunters agreed to wait until they could travel with Boyle. This unexpected delay at the eleventh hour was a hard blow to the couple: ‘When Mrs. Hunter heard that it was impossible to leave Sialkot, she picked up her baby of eleven months, and holding it to her bosom exclaimed “O do let us escape at once from this horrible place!”’29 By the time Boyle received his orders with the morning mail on the 8th, it was too late in the day to leave, and so the anxious missionaries were yet again persuaded to postpone their departure until the following day.
The situation at Sialkot, however, was about to be overtaken by a dramatic turn of events. On the 8th, Dr Graham unexpectedly received a letter marked ‘secret’ from an acquaintance at Gujrat, thirty-six miles west of Sialkot.30 The 14th NI at Jhelum had apparently mutinied the day before, and at Gujrat they had been hearing the distant thunder of artillery for a while. Other than those brief details, the correspondent had no further information, but Dr Graham expected his adored Nicholson to save the day, as he wrote his nephew:
‘It is not improbable that this affair will lead to the disarming of all other native regiments in the Punjab. Nicholson and his movable column will make a desperate effort to cut these rascals up. Mercy is not a word to be found in his vocabulary.’31
In his obsession with vengeance and retribution, Dr Graham seemed certain of the ultimate outcome of the struggle and noted, almost in passing, that ‘the 46th here…appear all right.’32 It is nevertheless possible to detect a creeping sense of doubt at the very end of the same letter—while most others had fled, he and Sarah had perhaps waited too long at Sialkot: ‘At present I feel it impossible to decide on what I shall do. The chances for and against going are equal, showing the mutability of all human schemes!’33
The outbreak at Jhelum had, in fact, been the outcome of a botched attempt to disarm the sepoys there, and although the mutiny was quickly contained, the fallout proved disastrous. For some time already, the detachment of the 14th stationed at Jhelum had been suspected of being on the verge of mutiny, but as there were no British troops nearby, nothing could be done. By early June, the situation was nevertheless deemed to be critical and three guns and 285 British soldiers of the 24th, along with a number of newly recruited Punjabi troops, were dispatched to disarm the 500 sepoys. The plan was for the British troops to arrive during the early morning when the sepoys were on parade, but the appearance of the column sent the sepoys into a panic and they immediately armed themselves and retreated to their lines. The sepoys were able to hold back the British troops with a sustained fire and although the artillery was brought to bear on the men ensconced in their quarter guard, the encounter lasted for several hours before the mutineers were driven out of the cantonment. The fleeing sepoys were pursued through the countryside and offered a determined resistance from a village to which they had retreated. The encounter lasted into the night and at one point the sepoys even managed to capture one of the guns. In the end, however, the survivors dispersed. The British troops suffered severe casualties during this confusing engagement, but that was nothing in comparison to the fate of the sepoys of the 14th: 167 were killed during the fighting, 25 drowned while trying to escape across the nearby river, and of those later captured, 108 were promptly executed.34 Out of the 500 sepoys who resisted disarmament at Jhelum, only 39 managed to get away.35 While the outbreak at Jhelum was thus quickly contained, the concern was that any fugitives might reach Sialkot, which was on the direct route to Delhi. In the absence of any British troops, the fragile trust that Brigadier Brind had maintained with the 9th and 46th might easily be upturned by the fallout of the mutiny at Jhelum.
When Boyle received his orders to join the Moveable Column in the morning of the 8th, he had also received an invitation to join Mr Jones, the Assistant Commissioner, for dinner at Monckton’s house in the Civil Lines, where Captain McMahon was also staying.36 Boyle thus went home to house in the cantonment and made the final preparations for his departure along with the Hunter family next day. The Reverend then went to the civil lines and spent all afternoon and evening in the company of the officials. Just as he was about to leave at 8pm, Jones said to him: ‘You are not to return to-night; you must sleep here.’37 Boyle protested but his hosts insisted and despite the fact that Brigadier Brind had ‘bound them to secrecy,’ they eventually told him of the outbreak at Jhelum, to convince him to stay at the house.38 Boyle, who had long been on bad terms with Brind, later described his response in a letter to his wife:
‘The Brigadier from the first has made wonderful mistakes. He never disarmed the force, and for two months we have been as it were waiting the pleasure of these brutal devils to put us to death. When the Brigadier heard of the mutiny at Jhelum, and of the escape of the survivors of the 14th, he became alarmed, but not before, having miraculously maintained confidence in the Sepoys. When the danger was hinted at I could no longer contain myself. “The Brigadier’s policy from the first,” said I, “was wrong. He has put too much faith in the villains. He ought to have made a stand against all the Queen’s being taken from us by the authorities. Before they went the Sepoys should have at least been disarmed. I was aware, I said, he did not approve, but that was not enough, he ought to have made a stand, and I now assert, and if he and I live shall say it, that he alone will be anywhere responsible for all the blood that, in my opinion, will be shed to-morrow.”39 After thinking and cooling down as became, I hope, my clerical character, I said to Jones, “Good God, are the women and children to be butchered; are the valuable lives of God’s creatures to be lost, lost without one word of caution? Must no hint be given? Cannot they be brought away in the night to the fort?” “No, the suspicions of the Sepoys are not to be raised, and he wishes all to be kept quiet.”40
Boyle wrote this almost a week later, when the benefit of hindsight allowed him to pretend a greater level foresight than he really possessed. The truth was that although the Brigadier had forbidden any officials to speak of the news, last-minute precautions were being taken. On the eve of their departure, Thomas and Jane Hunter, and their baby, were in a particularly precarious situation, according to Gordon:
‘Their house was in the south-east corner of the military Cantonment. South-west of them, between their house and the city fort, lay the Chief Bazar [Sudder bazaar], with a large native population. Should they even succeed in reaching the City in safety, they could enter the Fort only after passing through several narrow streets, which were thronged with natives. Along the north border and down the west end of the cantonment were the Sepoy lines; and when once these armed Sepoys should begin their bloody work, escape would seem almost impossible.’41
Captain McMahon accordingly invited the Hunters to move out to Reverend Hill’s house, that had stood empty since the Americans had left for Lahore, which was a quarter of a mile west of Monckton’s residence and just next to the police lines. Since the police consisted of local Punjabi recruits, they were thought to be more reliable than the Hindustani sepoys. Moreover, with Monckton, Jones and McMahon virtually next door, they would be able to warn the missionaries in case of trouble.42 By the evening of the 8th, an outbreak seemed imminent. Staff-sergeant Greenwood, who had the administrative oversight of the Sudder bazaar, had for several days heard rumours in the bazaar ‘to the effect that there would be a
rising in the near future.’43 He duly reported this to the Brigade Headquarters, but this information was disregarded as unreliable and the sergeant was ridiculed for his efforts. Rumours ran rampant among the Anglo-Indian communities throughout northern India, and many at Sialkot had become inured to their increasingly alarmist content; Jones, for instance, mentioned the ‘dozens of rumours, most of them more or less true, of the bad state of the troops here.’44 Yet just as rumours could spark a panic if they reinforced pre-existing anxieties, they could as easily be dismissed if they did not align with what people wanted to hear. Brigadier Brind, who had for so long maintained his faith in the sepoys, was certainly not going to let ‘bazaar gup’ shatter the pretence of normality. The nuns at the Convent, however, were explicitly warned by Indian friends during the evening of the 8th that ‘they would do well to leave the place as promptly as possible with their pupils, as the insurrection was to commence the next morning at break of day, and the insurgents had resolved to kill every European.’45 As a result, the nuns began packing up their belongings in several carriages, prepared to leave at any moment. Meanwhile, in the military lines, everything seemed as calm and quiet as usual. The seventeen-year-old Lieutenant Arthur H. Prinsep of the 9th BLC, who was on guard duty, found nothing unusual to report:
‘On Wednesday night [8 July] it was my turn for duty at the guard, and accordingly I went down after mess, went through the lines, and, having found all quiet, took off my jacket and lighted a cheroot. I had a long talk with the native officer and troopers on guard, who were all very cheerful; after which I turned in and went to sleep.’46
The Skull of Alum Bheg Page 13
