Wild rumours were also fed to the credulous villagers to the effect that the feringhees were intent upon putting an end to caste by dropping pieces of beef and pork into drinking wells at night. It was also believed by many Hindus that flour bought by their wives in the Sudda Bazaar had been contaminated with the ground bones of cows.
The East India Company officials, who were certainly aware of these rumours, were not inclined to place any reliance on them, confident that the majority of Indians were satisfied with the peaceful era brought about by a firm but honest administration. That the misinformation put about by the troublemakers was having its desired effect was readily apparent to a new arrival from Britain however. ‘Just forty-one days since I bade adieu to the shores of merry England,’ noted Charles North, ‘and, although but a few hours have passed since I landed, it is nevertheless apparent to me that the native portion of the community is in an unwholesome state of ferment. Where will it all end?’
Mrs Elizabeth Sneyd came close to sharing his disquiet when complaining that ‘My ayah would often stand before the looking glass while admiring herself instead of dressing me when I wanted her, with the taunt, “Ah! Your rule will soon come to an end, and we shall have our own king!”’
Taking courage from the Company’s reluctance to act, the supporters of the ex-king went about their business of encouraging a rebellious mood with enthusiasm, informing the impressionable sepoys that the Russians had defeated the invincible English in the Crimea, and in India, with so few English troops to oppose them, it would be a simple matter for the sepoys to drive the infidels into the sea. The portents were good and they were told that a Fakir had once predicted the Raj of John Company would last just 100 years. Plassey had been fought in 1757 so this year must see the end of foreign rule.
To the knowledgable observer it seemed that the overthrow of the East India Company would indeed be a relatively easy task as the demands of the Crimean War had greatly reduced the strength of the Queen’s forces in India. In the spring of 1857 the total number of white troops in the northern and southern provinces amounted to little more than 22,000, against which could be ranged some 277,000 native troops, armed and trained by British officers, causing Major North to comment with justifiable exasperation: ‘According to the favourite system, European troops have been generally dispersed with Cawnpore being garrisoned by a miserable detachment of Her Majesty’s 32nd and all the stations on the Grand Trunk Road held by sepoys.’
He was not alone in harbouring misgivings concerning the gravity of the situation for early in March the commander of native forces in Madras was sufficiently alarmed to draw the attention of the authorities to ‘a widespread feeling of sullen disaffection … human endurance has a limit and I emphatically warn the Government that the limit has been reached in the army.’ Despite his concern, it must be said that the Madras Army remained true to the Raj.
In sharp contrast to the apprehension felt by certain military personnel, most civilians continued to remain untroubled and in Calcutta no thought was given to cancelling the annual ball to be given in honour of Queen Victoria’s 38th birthday. Commented a puzzled Major North: ‘However much distrust is felt, none is expressed ’ the inertness on the part of those Military Authorities who ought to make arrangements to meet every exigency is remarkable.’
About 6 miles north-west of Calcutta lay the artillery arsenal of Dum-Dum in an area described by an officer serving there ‘as being surrounded by a salt water lake where it is not surrounded by jungle and paddy fields, and which has been specially selected as the headquarters of the artillery because it is the dampest place in India, and therefore eminently adapted to the purpose of carrying on experiments in gunpowder.’ A depot had also been created there to instruct selected personnel in a new rifle drill and it was here in January 1857 that an approach to a sepoy by a native workman was to have far-reaching results in raising a ‘Devil’s Wind’ which would eventually sweep across Bengal and Oude with terrifying fury.
At this time, in addition to the ‘Brown Bess’ musket, there were three other types of firearm currently in use in the Bengal Army. The Brunswick, the Minie – a rifled barrel version of the smoothbore musket – and a carbine employed by the cavalry. Of these, the Brunswick was easily the worst. A report by a Select Committee in 1842 had discovered that ‘at all distances above 400 yards the shooting was so wild as to be unrecorded … the force required to ram down the cartridge being so great as to render any man’s hand unsteady for accurate shooting.’ All these weapons were muzzle loaders and charged by the simple act of biting off the end of a paper cartridge and pouring its black powder contents down the barrel. The rest of the cartridge containing the ball was then rammed home by a rod provided for the urpose.
In 1853, after successful trials, a new rifle was put into production at the Royal Small Arms Factory at Enfield having a calibre of 0.577 inch, smaller than the bore of the Minie, and with a barrel length of 39 inches. Weighing less than 91b it had the advantage of a grooved barrel giving greater accuracy and a shorter loading time. Within months of the end of the Crimea War this new weapon was introduced to the 60th Rifles in Bengal, and every rifle range was soon echoing to the sharp crack of the Enfield rifle. The one controversy concerning the new cartridge was the fact that the it was a very tight fit and to smooth its passage down the barrel the lower half was coated in grease. But, whereas the cartridge for the Brown Bess musket had been impregnated with a mixture of wax and vegetable oil, the new paper cartridge was coated with tallow – a mixture of beef fat or pigs’ lard – anathema to Hindu and Muslim alike. A low-caste khalasi at Dum-Dum was very much aware of this when he stopped a sepoy and insolently demanded a drink from the Brahmin’s brass lotar or water bowl. The outraged Brahmin refused in no uncertain manner knowing that the khalasi would have defiled it with his touch. ‘Today you are very particular,’ sneered the labourer, ‘but wait a little longer; the sahib logue will make you bite cartridges soaked in pig and cow fat and then where will your caste be?’
Filled with dread that such an act would destroy his caste and banish him from home and family, the sepoy hurried back to the lines with a message which horrified his fellow sepoys. Their concern was immediately brought to the attention of the officer in charge of rifle drill, and Captain J.A.Wright was sufficiently impressed to report to his superiors that ‘There appears to be a very unpleasant feeling existing among the native soldiers who are here for instruction, regarding the grease used in preparing the cartridges, some evil disposed person having spread a report that it consists of a mixture of the fat of pigs and cows.’
Wright’s letter was taken seriously by the Divisional Commander, Major General J.B. Hearsey, an officer with a comprehensive knowledge of native customs, who in turn recommended to Calcutta that the suspect ammunition should be replaced by cartridges impregnated with wax and oils, emphasizing a warning that ‘here was a mine ready for explosion’.
In reply, the General was informed that the authorities had agreed to withdraw the existing stock of cartridges and allow the men to use coconut palm oil or any other mixture from the bazaar that they might think fit. This concession did little to allay the sepoys’ suspicion that the Company had intended to put an end to caste. ‘Without caste how could a man be rewarded for his acts in a previous incarnation?’ asked a Hindu of his commanding officer.
The man’s fears were readily appreciated by Charlotte Canning who in a letter to the Queen, pointed out that ‘Sepoys are the most tractable good people, but any fear that religion or caste shall be tampered with, can always excite them to every possible folly.’ Events were soon to prove the validity of the First Lady’s comment for when rumour of the encounter between the khalasi and the Brahmin at Dum-Dum reached Berhampur, the sepoys of the 19th NI refused to accept an issue of the new cartridge despite a threat of being sent to Burma. In fact there had been nothing to fear for the cartridges issued by the storekeeper on this occasion were old stock, greased with tallow
, which the sepoys had never previously refused to use. But they were in no mood to accept the assurances of their officers, and, sullen, suspicious and convinced that it was impossible to distinguish between the old and the new, they steadfastly refused to touch them, leaving the Colonel with no alternative but to report their mutinous behaviour to Calcutta. Eventually, after much consideration, the Governor General ordered that the regiment be marched 90 miles south to to the military station of Barrackpore, there to be disbanded in the presence of a battalion of British troops. On 31 March the sepoys of the 19th NI were paraded on a square dominated by the field guns of a European battery and ordered to pile their empty muskets. Then, after accepting their arrears of pay ‘in a sullen and sluggish manner’, they were allowed to return to their homes wearing their uniforms.
A further incident involving mutinous behaviour had occurred two days earlier when a sepoy of the 34th NI, armed and under the influence of hemp, strode up and down on the dust-covered parade ground, determined to demonsrate his defiance of the infidel’s instructions. Mangal Pandey was a religious fanatic. The fear of losing caste was uppermost in his mind as he brandished his musket and screamed at the quarter guard to refuse the controversial cartridge. ‘Come out, you bhainchutes, from biting these cartridges we shall become infidels!’ The quarter guard, twenty tall men in scarlet jackets, white drill trousers and shining black shakos, fidgeted uneasily but the jemadah in charge of them made no attempt to obey an English sergeant major’s order for him to arrest the sepoy. ‘What can I do?’ he replied. ‘My naik is gone to the adjutant, the havildar is gone to the field officer. Am I to take him myself?’
It was not long before the disturbance attracted the attention of those off duty and as the crowd grew, so the excitement mounted until the drumming of hooves on the sun-baked parade ground turned a sea of faces in the direction of the officers’ bungalows. Lieutenant Baugh, the adjutant, had been alerted by the naik and the un-accustomed noise which had disturbed the peace of his Sunday afternoon.
‘Where is he? Baugh demanded of the sergeant major.
‘To your left, Sir, but beware, the sepoy will fire at you’, he warned.
In his drug-induced state, Mangal Pandey was not to be intimidated by the appearance of a single British officer, and whilst Baugh was still several yards away a shot from the sepoy’s musket brought down his horse. In the struggle that followed, both Baugh and the sergeant major received several cuts from Pandey’s tulwar, but before any further wounds could be inflicted Pandey was restrained by a courageous Muslim sepoy whilst the two Englishmen made their escape. Only then did the Muslim release the drug-crazed sepoy when members of the quarter guard threatened to shoot him if he had not.
Other Europeans were appearing on the scene, among them Colonel Wheler, the Commanding Officer of the 34th NI who, faced with this unexpected and potentially explosive situatioin, decided that the best course of action was to send for the Brigadier. The 66-year-old Brigadier General, Sir John Hearsey, assessed the gravity of the scene as his gaze took in the mob of excited sepoys, the sullen quarter guard and Mangal Pandey standing in a threatening attitude with levelled musket.
‘Have a care, General,’ came a voice from the crowd, ‘his musket is loaded.’
‘Damn his musket!’ growled Hearsey and, turning to his son, he called, ‘If I fall, John, rush in and put him to death.’
Sir John’s swift reply, emphasized by a signifant wave of his pistol towards the jemadar, was enough to persuade Mangal Pandey that there could be no escape from the hangman’s noose, and he turned the muzzle of the musket upon himself, touching the trigger with his toe. In doing so the musket moved and the ball simply grazed his chest. On 8 April, the 26-year-old sepoy was hanged in front of the assembled garrison despite his plea that he had been taking bhang and opium and was not aware of what he was doing. The jemadar survived him by just thirteen days before he too paid the penalty for his failure to arrest the mutinous Brahmin.
A young ensign of the 84th NI was a sympathetic witness to the execution of the jemadar, for on the previous day in the company of Lieutenant Pearson, George Blake had visited the prisoner in the guard tent. ‘He was heavily ironed, and had four sentries posted,’ remembered Blake. ‘On our entering he got up, salaamed and seemed very civil. Next day the warrant came and we were formed up in a line facing the gallows … At 4.00 pm we saw the procession coming, the prisoner sitting in the bullock cart escorted by detachments of the 53rd and the Governor General’s bodyguard. He made a long speech which I believe exhorted the sepoys to take warning by his fate and was then swung off.’
Feelings in the native regiments were running high but to the astonishment of many Europeans, beyond the disbandment of the 19th and 34th NI, no further action was taken to meet the very real threat of insurrection about to sweep through the Bengal Army. Eighty-five sowars of the 3rd Light Cavalry at Meerut were the next body to demonstrate their unwillingness to accept the contraversial cartridges, despite assurances from their officers that this issue had not been greased with animal fat. It was said that the men would give no reason for refusing the order beyond saying that ‘they would get a bad name’. This act of insubordination was severely dealt with and at a subsequent court martial each man was sentenced to ten years imprisonment with the added disgrace of being publicly shackled. On 9 May, a day notable for dark low clouds and a scorching wind, 4,000 sepoys were drawn up to form three sides of a square, the fourth being reserved for the eighty-five sowars of the 3rd Light Cavalry.
‘They were marched up in front of us and formed into close column,’ reported Ensign Blake. ‘The General then gave the orders: “Order arms. Pile arms, and Take off your belts”, all of which were obeyed without the least hesitation. The General then made a long speech in their own language … several old native officers broke down and cried like children.’ It must have made for a depressing spectacle and reports had it that not a few present thought the punishment far too harsh for the offence.
‘Ironing the 85 took a long time,’ wrote Lieutenant Stubbs of the Bengal Artillery, ‘after which they were marched down the line and off to goal, looking wicked. I felt relieved when it was all over.’
Many of the sepoys drawn up on parade had served in several campaigns, but unarmed and surrounded by British troops shouldering Enfield rifles, they were powerless to protest as their cavalry comrades were stripped of their uniforms and boots, and marched off to the local jail.
To an English officer of the 3rd Light Cavalry, the events of Saturday, 9 May seemed just as menacing as that of the dark mass of cumulus building up on the horizon, and when he went down to the jail later with his friend MacNabb, Cornet Hugh Gough felt deeply moved by the plight of the prisoners. ‘Shall I ever forget the scene?’ he wrote many years later. ‘We found our men imprisoned in one large ward. Once they began to realise the terrible future before them, they broke down completely. Old soldiers, with many medals gained in desperately fought battles for their English masters, wept bitterly … young soldiers too, joined in. It was very evident they, at any rate, knew but little of the events that would follow.’
That same evening, whilst sitting on the verandah of his bungalow, young Gough was approached by a native officer and warned that the men were planning to mutiny and that the sahib’s own troop would join to free their comrades with the help of the native guard at the jail. Once that had been carried out they planned an outbreak of murder and arson. Gough was sufficiently alarmed to communicate his fears to the officers in the mess, only to be greeted with amused chuckles. When he had been in India a little longer, he was told, he would learn not to pay heed to rumour spread by the natives.
Gough was unconvinced and despite a snub from the Colonel, he nevertheless approached the Brigadier commanding the station. Brigadier General Archdale Wilson, however, proved to be just as disbelieving and Hugh Gough returned to his bungalow deeply troubled by the supine attitude of his superiors. ‘Such was our ill judged confidenc
e,’ he recalled. ‘But, indeed, few men would in those days have been inclined to believe in the treachery of our native soldiers.’
Around Gough’s bungalow the earth was cracked and parched and what little remained of the grass was scorched to the colour of burnt straw. This was the hot weather season when the Commander-in-Chief, his staff and virtually the whole of the administration had hastily abandoned the central plains for the cooler region of the hill stations. For those whose duties kept them in cantonments, the topic of conversation that morning dwelt more on a speculation as to the probable rise of the thermometer and how soon they might be permitted to join their families in Simla, than with the threat of insurrection. Firm in the belief that no native power was strong enough to challenge their authority, most Britons felt secure and in Chinsurah, a few miles from Barrackpore, a young subaltern of the 84th of Foot, whose battalion had been brought back from Burma to maintain an armed presence at the disbandment of the 34th NI, began to fear that he would soon be returning to Rangoon, a place he detested. George Blake’s concern was unfounded, however, for just as Lord Canning was on the point of ordering the 84th back to Rangoon, a report reached him of serious disturbances at Meerut and Delhi. The news that his battalion was to remain in Bengal delighted young Blake, for with the carefree attitude of youth, his thoughts were far removed from bloodshed and danger, but rather with the fact that at Barrackpore there were jackals to hunt.
Cawnpore & Lucknow Page 3
