Princesses Behaving Badly

by Linda Rodriguez McRobbie

  In 1842, she was married to a childless widower, the much older maharaja of a city-state in north-central India that had sworn allegiance to the British East India Company (EIC). Traditional sources claim that she was only 8 years old at the time, not an uncommon marrying age for Indian royalty in the nineteenth century. The union gave her a new name, Lakshmibai, put an end to her carefree childhood, and tied her to Jhansi, a hot, dry place where the wicked dust storms were called “the devil’s breath.”

  By the time Lakshmibai was 14, her marriage was consummated; by 17, she was pregnant. But the birth of her son and the maharaja’s heir brought only short-lived happiness—the boy died at just 3 months old, followed soon after by her devastated husband.

  So in November 1853, Rani Lakshmibai was a teenaged widow. A vulnerable widow, the British probably thought. Just before his death, the old maharaja had tried to keep the EIC from seizing Jhansi lands by adopting a 5-year-old boy and naming him as heir; administration of the state would be vested in Lakshmibai until the child came of age. But Lord Dalhousie, governor general of the EIC, refused to recognize either Lakshmibai or the boy as rightful rulers. In early 1854, the EIC annexed Jhansi, claiming it would be better for the inhabitants if they were under direct company rule. Rani Lakshmibai was given a life pension and allowed to remain in the palace. She demanded the governor general reconsider, writing letters pointing out various aspects of British and Indian law that upheld her claim. Dalhousie refused, and Jhansi was swallowed up by the EIC.

  ON THE OFFENSE

  British presence in India would have been ludicrous if not for the money the country brought in and the pretensions of empire it afforded. The EIC had ruled since around 1773 through a combination of outright landownership, mostly acquired through wars and annexation, and by using existing royal families as puppet administrators. But India was hot and full of diseases to which the colonials were unaccustomed. Local populations chafed under the restrictions placed on their autonomy as well as British residents’ general disregard for local religious institutions, laws, and customs. It was only a matter of time before things got nasty.

  In May 1857, Indian sepoys (native troops recruited by the EIC) decided they’d had enough. The spark that lit the powder keg was the decision by EIC army commanders to use greased-cartridge rifles. It was common practice to bite open the cartridges to release the gunpowder, meaning that the soldiers would probably inadvertently consume some of the grease. In a ridiculous oversight, the grease in question was made from cow or pig fat, angering both the Hindus, whose religion regards the cow as a sacred animal and the pig as disgusting, and the Muslims, whose faith explicitly disallows the consumption of pork products. The grease was replaced, but the damage was done—several sepoys refused to use the cartridges.

  On May 10, after the protesting sepoys were court-martialed and sentenced to hard labor, revolt began in the city of Meerut. The British were slaughtered as they left church; looting, rape, murder, and arson swept through the city. Chaos thundered into nearby Delhi, where the last Mughal emperor gave his support to the rebellion and nominated his own (inexperienced) son to command the military forces.

  Within a month, revolutionary fire spread to Jhansi, where British adminstrators had not exactly endeared themselves to the local population after taking control four years earlier. First, they’d lifted the ban on the slaughter of cows, an outrage to the Hindu population. Then they demanded that revenues earmarked for a Hindu temple be remitted to the East India Company. Finally, they forced Lakshmibai to pay some of her husband’s state debts out of her private pension and cut her off from funds left by the late maharaja for the couple’s adopted son. The rani’s appeals on behalf of her people went unanswered, and by the time rebellion reached Jhansi, anger had long been building.

  The simmering resentment exploded into the June 8, 1857, massacre of 61 English men, women, and children who’d taken refuge at the fort in Jhansi before surrendering to rebel forces. Contrary to later reports, Lakshmibai seems not to have taken part in that uprising—she was besieged in her palace by mutineers at the time.

  When the insurgents left Jhansi later that month, the remains of British authority left with them. The rani took control and began to deal with the defense of her lands by enlisting troops, casting cannons, and making weapons. Popular legend claims that Lakshmibai trained her own regiment of female soldiers. Whether or not that’s true (most likely not), the military wasn’t created to fight the British. Rather, her army was defending Jhansi from neighboring rajs looking to exploit the power vacuum and build their own empires. In September and October of 1857, the rani successfully fended off assaults from two would-be emperors.

  In fact, though Rani Lakshmibai had more than enough reason to cast her lot with the rebels, throughout that summer and into autumn she repeatedly affirmed her allegiance to the absent British authority. When, for example, the mutineers who’d besieged the English at the fort demanded she provide them with weapons and money, Lakshmibai agreed but wrote to the British explaining her actions and asking for help and protection against her neighbors, appeals that were never answered. Even when asked by the warden of the local jail if she’d fight against the British, Lakshmibai replied that she would return Jhansi to English rule as soon as they returned. The British, however, didn’t believe her.

  In the months after the rebellion broke out, Lakshmibai was declared a rebel by British forces, slandered in the press and in official company documents. She was branded a “licentious” woman, a “jezebel,” and a whore responsible for that horrifying massacre at the fort. The British wanted someone to blame, and Rani Lakshmibai was a convenient scapegoat.

  By winter 1858, the unorganized rebellion was dying in the face of British counterinsurgency; most of northern India was back under colonial rule. At the end of February, British forces were moving to take back Jhansi, and they intended to do so with force. After months of pleading for aid and declaring herself their loyal friend, Lakshmibai came to realize that if she were caught by the British, she would likely be tried as a rebel and hanged. But if she sided with the rebels, at least she could die fighting. So as the army marched ever closer, Rani Lakshmibai finally became what the British claimed she was.

  REBEL WITH A CAUSE

  On March 23, the British siege of Jhansi began. Lakshmibai oversaw the defense of her city against cannon fire; when walls crumbled, she directed that they be rebuilt. On March 30, another rebel leader (and childhood friend of the rani) came to her defense with 20,000 troops. Hope was extinguished, however, when the army of raw recruits was defeated and the British broke through city walls. Contemporary accounts say the streets “ran with blood” as the Jhansi forces fought in hand-to-hand combat. The palace was captured, but as the British readied their final assault, their general received word that Lakshmibai had escaped. And with a contingent of soldiers, to boot.

  The British assault devastated Jhansi’s defenses, but more problematically, the fort’s water supply had gone dry. Flight was Lakshmibai’s only option. Dressed as a soldier and with her adopted son in tow (either strapped to her back or tucked in her lap), she took off on horseback into the night. The British cavalry was hot on her heels. An officer came within snatching distance, but Lakshmibai succeeded in striking him down with her sword. (This is probably the genesis of the folk-art images of Lakshmibai plunging into battle with her son strapped to her back, which, were it true, would be a very questionable parenting decision.)

  Lakshmibai now had a price on her head. She joined the other rebels at Kalpi, a city some 90 miles east of Jhansi, but to her great chagrin and the everlasting lament of the people in the region, she was not given command of the rebel army. That honor went to the childhood friend who’d failed to save Jhansi even when his army outnumbered the British five to one.

  The city of Kunch fell to the British, and then Kalpi capitulated, with Rani Lakshmibai barely escaping. The rebels decided to make one last stand at Gwalior, traditionally a
region that supported the British but whose troops had been won over to the rebel cause. Confident that Gwalior would be the site of victory, rebel leaders started celebrating before the battle had even begun. But not Rani Lakshmibai. While her compatriots ate and prayed and sang, she inspected the troops from horseback, armed with sword and pistol.

  When the British arrived on June 17, 1858, Lakshmibai and her forces were waiting for them at the gates. Dressed in full battle gear, with sword drawn, the rani of Jhansi plunged into battle and, all accounts agree, faced death bravely.

  The exact circumstances of her demise are unclear. One story says that when she was cut down, she was fighting with two swords, one in each hand, the reins of her horse gripped in her teeth. Another says she was shot in the back, turned to fire on her assassin, and was run through with a sword. Still other accounts claim she was fatally wounded but managed to stay alive long enough to instruct her soldiers to build her funeral pyre; before she dragged herself to it to be burned alive, she distributed her gold jewelry among her troops. However it happened, Rani Lakshmibai’s death signaled the end of the rebellion. The road to Gwalior was taken by the British, and the city itself soon fell. The revolt was over.

  Despite defeat, the rebellion could claim one important victory—the end of rule by the East India Company. By August 1858, the dust had cleared and the EIC was officially dissolved. But the British experiment in India was far from over. Queen Victoria assumed the title Empress of India, and her government took control of the country as the British Raj. It wasn’t until 1947 that the country gained its independence, remaining a dominion of the British crown until 1950.

  Throughout India’s struggle for independence, Rani Lakshmibai’s legend was an inspiration. Her story is still taught in schools, and she even stars in an eponymous series of comic books; she is a hero, a political symbol, the Indian Joan of Arc. Even Sir Hugh Rose, who faced this “bravest of the rebel leaders” in battle, had to admit: “The best man on the side of the enemy was the Rani of Jhansi.”

  Hatshepsut

  THE PRINCESS WHO RULED EGYPT AS A KING

  CA. 1508–1458 BCE

  ANCIENT EGYPT

  Hatshepsut must have known a thing or two about public relations. How else could an overweight, balding, middle-aged princess transform herself into a svelte, athletic, divinely conceived king? It’s lucky that the men who tried to chisel her from history didn’t do a very good job. Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t know anything about ancient Egypt’s most successful and longest-serving female ruler, one of only three women in as many millennia to seize the title and power of pharaoh.

  GOLDEN AGE QUEEN

  Hatshepsut was born during the New Kingdom period, ancient Egypt’s golden age. She was the eldest daughter of the Eighteenth Dynasty ruler Tuthmosis I, a great military leader, and his consort, Queen Ahmose. According to her own (probably less than honest) claims, Hatshepsut was her father’s favorite child and the person he wanted to ascend to the throne after his death. Unfortunately for her, Dad didn’t make his wishes explicit. So when he died, a prince was located among the sons born to the women of the pharaoh’s harem.

  The leading candidate was Prince Tuthmosis, the son of a minor concubine, who was willing to marry Hatshepsut, his half-sister, to solidify his claim to the throne (see “A Family Affair,” this page, for more on royal incest throughout the ages). Unchallenged, he became Tuthmosis II, and his wife/half-sister became queen.

  But Tuthmosis II died unexpectedly only three years later (CT scans of his remains indicate the cause was heart disease). Once again, a dynastic struggle loomed—Hatshepsut had borne only a girl, and so another prince from the mistress pack was pushed forward. Though just a baby, Tuthmosis III became the new pharaoh.

  Hatshepsut, now dowager queen, stepped in to rule as regent until the boy (technically her stepson and nephew, mind you) was old enough to assume power. This was pretty much standard procedure in Egypt at the time; mothers often ruled in place of their infant sons, and wives took over while their husbands were at war. For about two years, Hatshepsut played the role of dutiful regent, recognizing Tuthmosis III as pharaoh. Then something strange happened: Hatshepsut shoved aside the toddler pharaoh and crowned herself king.

  FEMALE PHARAOH

  Boldly naming herself king required more than a little cunning to pull off. It was a move that took balls (literally), because divine order required that a pharaoh be male. So how’d she do it? With a three-pronged strategy. First, Hatshepsut claimed that her father had appointed her as his successor, which also reinforced the idea that she was the result of a true blue-blooded union, not just the random offspring of a minor concubine (ahem, Tuthmosis III). Second, Hatshepsut claimed that she was conceived when Amun, pharaoh of all the gods, had disguised himself as her father and had sex with her mother. Hatshepsut began referring to herself as “God’s Wife of Amun,” which doesn’t entirely make sense but does imply that she was really royal and the daughter/wife of the godliest of gods. Her final, and perhaps most politically astute, move was to kick out all existing courtiers and then to stock the palace with supporters beholden to her.

  Hatshepsut kept plenty busy outside the palace walls as well, embarking on a prodigious propaganda campaign. To cement her image as pharaoh, she was often depicted as a man; in official carvings and statues, she was shown with the slim, athletic, masculine build of the ideal ruler, wearing a cobra-shaped headdress and false beard, both pharaonic attributes. Of seemingly no consequence was that by this time she was well on her way to becoming a portly middle-aged woman cursed with the familial overbite and “huge pendulous breasts” (so say the archeologists who found her mummy).

  Hatshepsut’s reign was remarkable, an era marked by prosperity and peace. Foremost among her accomplishments was reestablishing trade networks with neighboring kingdoms. Her focus was clearly on enrichment rather than expansion: though she did enjoy some early martial success, she ordered her armies to embark on lucrative trading expeditions rather than mounting costly and risky military campaigns.

  Hatshepsut also spent some of Egypt’s significant wealth on an ambitious architectural binge. She put her subjects to work constructing massive obelisks, built or renovated temples throughout the kingdom, and commissioned hundreds of statues of herself, all so that posterity would remember her well. As she had written on an obelisk at Karnak: “Now my heart turns this way and that, as I think what the people will say. Those who see my monuments in years to come, and who shall speak of what I have done.”

  Which is really rather ironic, not to mention sad, given what happened next.

  CHISELED FROM HISTORY

  Hatshepsut died, apparently from complications from diabetes, about 1458 BCE, which meant it was finally time for the rightful ruler, Tuthmosis III, to take over. T-III, now in his mid-twenties, was more than ready to rock. He proved himself to be a skilled and acquisitive military commander, the Napoleon of ancient Egypt. He lead 17 campaigns into the region we now call the Middle East; one of his most notable victories is still taught in military academies today.

  When his own successful reign began drawing to a close, the aging Tuthmosis III decided to wage another sort of war: the eradication of any trace of his aunt/stepmother’s reign. He had stonemasons chisel her name off her many monuments, cover the text on her obelisks with stone, knock down or deface her statues, and destroy painted images of her. She was even left off the official lists of Egyptian pharaohs. And it worked, at least for a couple of millennia. Though Hatshepsut was briefly mentioned in a biography of Egyptian kings written in 300 BCE, it wasn’t until AD 1822, when hieroglyphics were first deciphered, that anyone had a clue she’d ever ruled.

  So why did Tuthmosis III attempt to erase Hatshepsut from history? At first glance, his efforts look like more than mere spite. Ancient Egyptian culture worshipped death, or, to put it more accurately, life after death, hence the obsession with mummification. They believed that a person’s spirit could survive if e
nough images of that person were left behind. So chiseling Hatshepsut’s name off the walls and eradicating her image from statues was more than just a symbolic effort to get rid of her memory. It was an attempt to make sure she stayed dead.

  Or maybe not. Egyptologists have long been divided on just how Tuthmosis III really felt about Hatshepsut. On the one hand, she had ruled in his place, and he reacted by destroying or claiming everything she’d ever made. Which helps explain why earlier historians felt obliged to cast her as the wicked stepmother, declaring her “vain, ambitious and unscrupulous” and “of a most virile character.” On the other hand, consider that Hatshepsut didn’t have Tuthmosis III killed, which was certainly an option. And instead of hiding him away, she allowed him to receive military training. That was a potentially dangerous decision, because it could have easily allowed him to amass loyal followers and gain strength to back up his right to rule. Tuthmosis also seems to have held his stepmother-aunt in some regard. He didn’t destroy her body, which would have been the logical place to start had he really wanted to sabotage her afterlife. Moreover, his revisionist efforts didn’t begin until decades after her death, meaning that he had either very long simmering resentment or other reasons altogether.

  Modern Egyptologists believe that Tuthmosis acted out of not anger or resentment but rather political expediency. By all accounts a rational, clearheaded ruler, T-III simply wanted to subsume Hatshepsut’s glorious reign into his own. That’s why he left untouched certain images of her as queen regent. Tuthmosis was probably also worried about the succession of his son, Amenhotep II: rewriting history was one way of discouraging rival claims to the throne and ensuring that Tuthmosis’s line remained in charge.