The Skull of Alum Bheg

by Kim A. Wagner

The final stage of the battle of Trimmu Ghat on 16 July had been a decidedly one-sided affair, as Wilberforce recounted: ‘The clearing of the island was speedily accomplished; most of the Sepoys sought for safety in the swollen waters of the Ravee and found death, only a very few being captured and of course shot.’64 The Sialkot brigade was thus complexly annihilated; the British suffered just six wounded.65 After the final defeat of the Sialkot mutineers, Nicholson, who, according to Wilberforce, ‘hated Sepoys with a hatred that no words could describe’, demonstrated an uncharacteristic respect for the enemy he had defeated and had the bodies of the rebels buried according to Muslim tradition.66 No mention is made of the fact that most of the sepoys were Hindus, whose funeral rites involved burning, but the gesture was genuine: Nicholson also set up a makeshift monument at the side of the sepoy’s last stand around the earthwork on the island, testifying to their valour.67 At times, it seems, the British could display a surprising degree of respect towards their enemy—albeit an enemy they had slaughtered indiscriminately.

  The British perceived Nicholson’s victory over the rebels at Trimmu Ghat as a just punishment and as little different from the spectacular mass-executions that were then taking place all over Punjab. One contemporary observer noted that:

  ‘It was butchery, no doubt, and the 46th Native Infantry, who had protected their officers, hardly deserved annihilation, but the holocaust was necessary. That the 52nd Foot should have executed sentence on their former comrades at Sialkot was a curious Nemesis.’68

  Even in the absence of any semblance of due process, justice was still invoked as an almost divine attribute of British actions, and this allowed free reign for indiscriminate violence. The ‘condign punishment’ of the Sialkot rebels at Trimmu Ghat was thus repeatedly described not as a military victory but as the execution of justice pure and simple:

  ‘We now hear that these men have been totally destroyed—that they are swept from the face of the earth—that the mutiny brought the sentence of death on the regiments, and that capital punishment has been strictly and fully executed. Justice so prompt and so vigorous will give its lesson to every ear in which the word Revolt has been whispered.’69

  Not all of the Sialkot mutineers, however, were killed or captured by Nicholson’s forces. By the time of the final attack, several hundred of the rebels had already abandoned their hopeless position on the island. Alum Bheg was most likely amongst those who were reported to have braved the currents and fled into Gholab Singh’s territories in Kashmir on 14 July 1857.70 Following the outbreak, the dreams of Alum Bheg and the rest of the Sialkot mutineers of joining the uprising down south, and entering the service of Bahadur Shah had lasted exactly five days. The Indian soldiers of the 9th BLC and 46th BNI never escaped British service long enough to experience what it meant to be masters of their own destiny, let alone help build and defend a new rebel government in defiance of the East India Company. Their mutiny was cut short, as were the lives of so many of their comrades, by Nicholson and the Movable Column at Trimmu Ghat. Yet, even as Alum Bheg and the other survivors staggered ashore on the western side of the Ravi, and literally ran for the hills, their fates were sealed. From then on, they were fugitives on the run, beasts to be hunted down.

  8

  JUSTICE SO PROMPT AND VIGOROUS

  On 10 July, at Lahore, Andrew Gordon and his fellow American missionaries were gathered around the death bed of his young son, Silas, who had never recovered from his illness. Gordon later recalled the moment their sad vigil was suddenly interrupted:

  ‘The next moment Mr. Barnes entered the room in haste with an open letter in his hand, saying, with deep emotion: “Brethren, the Sepoys in Sialkot have mutinied! General Brind, the commanding officer of the station; Doctor J. Graham, the superintending surgeon; Dr. J.C. Graham, the civil surgeon; Captain Bishop, and poor Mr. and Mrs. Hunter and their babe, have all been murdered!” My heart fills, and my eyes moisten, at the remembrance of that moment as I write these lines, more than a quarter of a century after the events.’1

  True to character, Gordon had the appropriate Bible quote on hand: ‘Help us, O God of our salvation, for the glory of thy name; and deliver us, and purge away our sins for thy name’s sake. Wherefore should the heathen say, Where is their God? [Psalms 79:10]’2 Back at Sialkot, Dr Guise had tried in vain to care for Brind, but the wound was fatal and the Brigadier died early next morning.3 This brought the number of casualties of the outbreak to seven: Brigadier Brind, Captain Bishop, Dr James Graham, Dr John Graham, Thomas Hunter, Jane Hunter and her baby.4 Because the British had not yet re-established control over the cantonment, their bodies could not be laid to rest in the European cemetery. Instead they were buried three days after the outbreak, in a small garden under the western wall of the fort. Reverend Boyle conducted the service.5

  When Gordon, Hill and Scott returned to Sialkot two weeks later, they found to their surprise that the small Presbyterian mission had been protected by local villagers during the outbreak and had suffered no damage. After they had examined the possessions they had left behind, confirming everything was there, they walked up to the cantonment and European lines to see for themselves the extent of the damage. With most of the Europeans still cooped up in the fort, the station appeared completely devoid of human life.6 When an officer of the 46th claimed that ‘no city was ever more completely sacked than the station of Sealkote,’ it was a gross exaggeration, especially given the later destruction of Indian cities such as Delhi or Lucknow at the hands of the British.7 As Gordon and the others made their way through the empty streets, however, Sialkot was hardly recognisable from the lively and orderly station they had left just a month before.

  Most of the European houses were made from brick and had not been set on fire. Once Gordon and the others ventured inside the former homes of their friends, the devastation nevertheless became apparent: ‘everything like furniture, dishes, books, and glass, were torn to bits or dashed in pieces in the most barbarous manner.’8 The well-kept bungalow, with their pristine gardens, were now little more than empty shells. ‘Into many houses we merely looked through the windows,’ Gordon recalled, ‘observing merely that the windows were broken, an evidence that if we would look in we would see nothing but ruins.’9 Gordon went to inspect the house occupied by the Hunters and found it had been ransacked and destroyed like all the rest. ‘Sad, indeed, was the thought’, he reflected, ‘while looking on these ruins, that those lovely people had been so cruelly murdered.’10 Sialkot had become a colonial ghost town, and with its streets strewn with abandoned loot it was a place of ‘sorrowful desolation’.11

  The final house they visited, was Mr Hill’s, where Thomas, Jane and the baby had spent their last night. The house stood isolated a mile west of the cantonment and ‘of all the houses we have seen,’ Gordon wrote, ‘this seems to have suffered the most.’12 Everything, including doors and windows had been removed or broken, and only the walls and the roof were left intact. As Hill walked through the wreck of his home, his eyes caught a piece of paper amongst the debris on the floor, which turned out to be one of his own sermons written long ago. The theme of the sermon was from Corinthians and, considering the circumstances, rather poignant: ‘For the fashion of this world passeth away. [1 Corinthians 7:31]’13 Picking up a few odd items that had survived, including Hill’s Greek grammar and a manuscript of Thomas Hunter’s, they finally left. ‘Everything was in such a sad state,’ Gordon noted, ‘that we felt as if we would much rather have seen nothing at all.’14

  * * *

  The peasants of the surrounding area had been led to believe that British rule was over and had flocked into Sialkot to make the most of the unexpected withdrawal of law and authority after the rebels left. On 10 July, McMahon entered the cantonment along with the levies from the fort, shooting more than twenty villagers, and driving away the rest who were still engaged in plundering the abandoned houses.15 A gallows was erected in the fort, and MacMahon proclaimed that unless all plunder was
immediately returned within twenty-four hours, the headman in every village where loot was found would be hanged. This had the desired effect, as Gordon later described:

  ‘The next day Captain McMahon, as he surveyed the country from the high walls of the Sialkot fort, witnessed a most interesting spectacle. Long processions of men and beasts of burden laden with the plunder were seen wending their way towards the city from north, south, east, and west, like so many extended caravans. Some were loaded down with tents, chairs, tables, trunks, doors and window-blinds; some carried books, clothing and bedding; others were the bearers of teapots.’16

  With the arrival of Captain Richard Lawrence, sent up from Lahore, the task of punishment began two days later.17 Lawrence’ investigation initially focused of the old officer of the mounted police, the Rissaldar, and the two officers of the jail guards, the Subadar and the Darogha, all of whom were suspected of having colluded with the mutineers.18 Most of the jail guards and wardens were in fact ‘Hindustanis’ and, unknown to the British, had maintained close links with the sowars of the 9th BLC. During his investigation, Lawrence discovered that, during the months prior to the outbreak, two sowars of the 9th had been in the habit of visiting the jail guards and smoking with them. ‘No doubt’, he concluded, ‘matters were arranged during these interviews and the Soobadar was won over to assist.’19 The old Rissaldar of the mounted police, who otherwise ‘bore an excellent character’, had not personally taken any part in the outbreak, but he kept his troopers inactive throughout and prevented them from aiding the British—as had been noted at the time. A few of the mounted police were also Hindustanis and were known to Monckton’s chuprassis, including Hurmat Khan. ‘I can only imagine,’ Lawrence noted, ‘that he [the Rissaldar] was corrupted by four or five designing Hindoostanee scoundrels in the Ressala [mounted police].’20 The links between different personnel employed by the British, combined with a shared Purbiya identity, as well as the confusion of the outbreak itself, had all contributed to the apparent disloyalty of the police and guards at Sialkot. The conclusion of the enquiry was that ‘it was clearly proved that the Soobadar of the Guard and the jail Darogha had a good understanding with the mutineers of the 9th Cavalry, and that they opened the jail gates and let loose the prisoners without even a show of resistance.’21 All three were promptly hanged, the old Rissaldar ‘within a quarter of an hour of the conclusion of his trial.’

  The executions were tense undertakings and tested the strength and resolve of British control, which was so precarious in the immediate aftermath of the outbreak. Because the Rissaldar was a Sikh, there were concerns that the execution might cause resentment among the local population, as one British soldier described in a letter:

  ‘It was a very ticklish affair, as we were hanging Sikhs when we only had Sikh levies about us. The ropes broke, and the guard was ordered to shoot the half lifeless bodies; then followed three or four volleys of musketry. Those not looking on thought that it was “all up,” and that the guards had turned upon us. I never felt so alarmed all through the affair.’22

  This was only the beginning, though, and over the following days and weeks various types of punishment were meted out. The policemen and guards who had not run away were all given prison sentences or simply discharged. After the rout of the rebels at Trimmu Ghat, servants and camp-followers were daily being brought back, as the same officer noted:

  ‘Lots of servants who went away with the mutineers have been punished. In one day we had to flog 125 men—40 lashes each. We have some hang every day, from one to six in number […] We have a hard day’s work before us again to-day, for another batch have come in. They are nearly all “down-easterners,” as we in the Punjaub call them—i.e. men of the north-west provinces.’23

  Those Indians who had remained loyal, and who had saved the lives of Europeans, were given promotions and other financial compensation. Rewards were offered for those locals against whom particularly grave crimes could be attributed, including Hurmat Khan, for whose apprehension the sum of Rs 1000 was offered.24 By 18 July, exactly a week after he arrived, Lawrence reported the following numbers of ‘cases dealt with’:

  Shot: 24

  Hanged: 10

  Imprisoned: 8

  Dismissed from service: 22

  Flogged: 109

  Number of villages fined: 27

  Acquitted: 51

  With the initial job of re-asserting British authority at Sialkot completed, Lawrence returned to Lahore a few days later. Lawrence’ departure did not mark the end of the retribution, however, and once Monckton resumed office, the daily hangings and floggings continued—just as they did so many other places across northern India. One of Dr Graham’s servants was among the locals who were later executed, and the Doctor’s son, William Graham, described the scene after arriving in Sialkot at the end of July:

  ‘I volunteered for Nicholson’s force and got out but a few hours later, unfortunately not in time to have the governor’s coachman and mate Benni shot. His [Dr Graham’s] Mussalchee [torch-bearer] was hung here, he having rode out to Wuzeerabad for information for the mutineers as regarding the strength of Her majesty’s 24th[,] artillery etc. His military career was a short one, and was polished off on his return. Only two servants stuck true, Causomat and Dirsie. All jewels etc. looted. House awfully destroyed, and everything nearly broken.’25

  William’s regret at having missed the execution of his father’s servants is revealing of how the British generally regarded the issue of crime and punishment during the uprising. All Indian servants and soldiers who joined the uprising were considered simply as traitors and, regardless of their actual actions, considered equally guilty and deserving of the most severe punishment. The notion of betrayal was indeed central to the British understanding of the outbreak, and Cave-Browne’s description of the killing of the British officer of the 26th BNI at Meean Meer in late July, provides a particularly evocative example of this:

  ‘Unarmed as [Major Spencer] was, he went forward and endeavoured to reason with them: but in vain. A sepoy, stealing up behind, felled him with a blow from a hatchet, others rushed on him, and he who had grown up among them from boyhood—who had lived among them, and, it might be said, for them—and there were few who would have been said to be more beloved by their men—he was hacked to pieces by his own BABAS* (* Literally children, a term of endearment which was commonly used by officers of sepoy regiments when speaking of or to their men. It is sad to reflect how such misplaced confidence, ay, and affection, have been requited.)’26

  By evoking the paternalism of British rule, which saw ‘natives’ as children, the treachery of the sepoys was thus rendered doubly despicable. More importantly, however, resistance to British rule was, in and of itself, reduced to an act of betrayal and therefore morally and politically indefensible. The killing of British officers, women and children not only committed entire regiments to mutiny, it also condemned entire regiments and populations, to British retribution. All Indians who fought the British in 1857 were considered guilty of treason and betrayal and any previous bonds of friendship or loyalty were considered to have been disingenuous and deceitful. In this perceived struggle between good and evil, any form of retribution was implicitly justified and, to use the words of a later colonial officer, ‘there could be no question of undue severity’.27 Referring directly to the execution of the Rissaldar of the mounted police, Cooper praised the manner in which the ‘hydra-headed disease’ of mutiny had been defeated at Sialkot by British officials unflinching in their performance of duty:

  Had there been the faintest hesitation shown in bringing them to trial because they were Sikhs, or any tendency to relax the construction of the law, the effect would have been most dangerous. But the Judicial Commissioner knew not what it was to swerve from the right line of action; and fearlessly did his delegate, Captain Lawrence, perform the stern duty of presiding over the trial, and of sentencing to death two of his own subordinates. Thus the impregnable stability
of the State was acted upon throughout as a given axiom. No overtures have been made that were not in accordance with this line of policy, and in keeping with the tone of international communication with all civilised countries. No concessions have been made.’28

  Cooper was expressing widely held sentiments concerning the efficacy of violence and its importance as the mainstay of colonial authority—more than anything else, it was the certainty of punishment that ultimately sustained British rule in India. The former commissioner of Delhi, Sir Charles Metcalfe, writing under the pseudonym of ‘Indophilus,’ made perhaps the most explicit formulation of the principles upon which British retribution were based:

  ‘Human nature itself has to be vindicated; the feeling of the personal inviolability of the English race in India has to be restored, and the righteous indignation of our nation at the strange and horrible atrocities which have been perpetrated upon our women and children has to be appeased. These are indispensable conditions of success.’29

  Metcalfe further illustrated his point with an apocryphal story about the notorious ‘Thugs’, or highway-robbers who strangled travellers:

  ‘Before the operations which resulted in the suppression of Thugee commenced, a number of Thug leaders discussed in council whether they should exercise their profession upon Europeans, and they decided the question in the negative for three reasons: 1st, that Europeans generally carried arms; 2nd, that they seldom carried money; and 3rd, that if the Thugs strangled a single European they would never hear the last of it. The third reason was their real motive; and what we now have to do, is indelibly to impress the same opinion on the whole of India. On no other condition can a handful of foreigners bear rule over millions of natives.’30

  Retribution was accordingly a product of weakness rather than strength, shaped by the peculiar circumstances of colonialism.31 British punishment was deliberately excessive to mask the vulnerability of the colonial state, which had been so dramatically exposed by the uprising. In trying to justify the spectacle of mass-executions, one officer made the very same point: