“In truth, the Rani of Jhansi has the same reasons as the Nana to detest the British,” comments a begum. “They refused to recognise her adopted son, despite the fact that the rajah had specifically designated him as his heir, and then, arguing that the state was without a ruler, they annexed it! Lakshmi Bai seemed to have resigned herself to the situation, but I heard she is only waiting for the right opportunity to take revenge.”
“And whom is the Nana here to meet?” enquires a young woman.”
“Tomorrow he is to call on the resident,” the eunuch informs them, “but today he is visiting his peers, specifically Rajah Jai Lal and his brothers, who are making arrangements for his stay here.”
The sound of Jai Lal’s name startles Hazrat Mahal. Just as she suspected, this “touristic” visit to recently annexed states is a first contact, maybe even an attempt to initiate a plan of action.
Nonchalantly, as if the conversation was no longer of interest to her, she gets up to return to her apartments, but she whispers an order to Mammoo, who is following close behind:
“Go and mingle with Nana Sahib’s retinue as if you were one of Rajah Jai Lal’s servants. Keep your eyes and ears wide open and report all the details back to me.”
Bathed in the golden light of this late April afternoon, guests throng the vast veranda of the kothi,52 where Nana Sahib is finishing his siesta. They have come to pay their respects to the man they consider the legitimate successor of the great Mahratta sovereigns. If it were not for the dozens of guards posted outside the gates of the park, it would appear to be a joyous and easy-going gathering.
Not without some difficulty, Mammoo manages to edge his way into a group of confectioners who have come to deliver laddus, burfis, gajar halwa53 and other sweetmeats, highly appreciated by the Nana. Once inside, he easily spots Rajah Jai Lal, deep in conversation with a thin, olive-skinned man dressed in an elegant tunic of white silk, embroidered with silver. Imperceptibly, he moves closer, without either of the men noticing.
“And why, my dear Azimullah, did you go visiting the trenches at Sebastopol, instead of returning directly from London?”
“I wanted to see with my own eyes what was being said in Istanbul: about the British Army’s collapse before the town held by the Russians, their unsuccessful attacks, the despondency—even within the high command—the disorganisation and indiscipline in the ranks . . . To my astonishment, I witnessed firsthand how weak these English really are, while here, we believe them to be invincible. They could do nothing against the Russians. Ah, the Russians! What formidable warriors! Capable of enduring anything! I left Sebastopol convinced that if we knew how to organise ourselves, even we . . . ”
“Sshh! We could be overheard.”
And, lowering his voice:
“Is it true you met with the tsar’s agents?”
“One of them contacted me on my return to Istanbul. They are closely monitoring the situation in India and long to evict the British. Their messenger assured me that if we manage to stir up a rebellion in our country, and above all, to reconquer Delhi, they would be ready to provide us with substantial material aid and would help us drive the British out. We continue to correspond through Kashmir, aided by modest almond and fruit traders, who carry our messages back and forth.”
“For our part, since the annexation of Awadh, we have been active. We never miss an opportunity to bring up the Battle of Plassey’s prophecy, which states that the British have to leave India a hundred years after their victory—which is, in fact, in June this year. You know how superstitious our compatriots are: prophecies are signs from the heavens, which they would not dare ignore. As for the cartridge business, true or false, it is heaven-sent, and we are making the most of it! The people are infuriated and ready to rise up but, unfortunately, a lot of our prominent taluqdars still believe they can negotiate. They are unwilling to take any risks.”
“Apart from those who have nothing left to lose, of course! The Rani of Jhansi was raised at the peishwa’s court with Nana Sahib, she calls him ‘elder brother.’ She is ready to follow us. So are the princes of Nagpur, Satara, Karnataka, Tanjore and other states that have been annexed over the last few years. My master maintains a regular correspondence with them. If some still do hesitate, I am sure they will join us once the rebellion breaks out, and they realise how widespread it is.”
“And the date that has been set is still . . . ?”
Their words are lost in whispers that Mammoo cannot decipher, despite all his best efforts. He has heard enough though; he must inform his mistress as quickly as possible.
* * *
Hazrat Mahal listens attentively to the eunuch’s report. As she suspected the sepoys’ insubordinations in Berhampur and Barrackpore are not isolated incidents—a general uprising is in the offing. And, in Lucknow, Rajah Jai Lal Singh is one of the main instigators. But this Azimullah character, can he be trusted?
“What do you know about this man, apart from the fact he is the Nana’s favourite advisor?”
“He goes by the name of Azimullah Khan and is proud of being a Pathan from the northwest territories, part of Afghanistan that the British have never been able to conquer, however hard they tried. In 1842, after four long years of battle, they had to retreat, as their army had been hacked to pieces: out of twelve thousand men, barely a few dozen returned. They are certainly courageous and cunning, these Afghans. They have an exceptional capacity for endurance. They have never been subjugated, and I doubt if anyone would be able to rule them in the foreseeable future either!”
“And this Azimullah?”
“According to information I could glean, he is said to have arrived in Kanpur as a child, accompanied by his mother during the Great Famine of 1837. They were employed as domestic staff, first by the founder of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, then by his successor. The child was highly intelligent and was finally sent to school. There, he was taught English and French, but they also tried insistently to convert him to Christianity. Worse still, he was the victim of repeated sexual harassment, and his gratitude towards his benefactors soon turned into hatred. As he is charming and extremely competent, he found a position with some Europeans, notably Brigadier Ashburnham, but was dismissed for theft in 1850. He denied the accusation, albeit unsuccessfully. Publicly humiliated, he developed a terrible grudge against English society.
“It was at about this time that he entered Nana Sahib’s service. Formerly, he had been the Nana’s English teacher, now he has become his confidant and chief advisor. They say the prince never makes any decision without asking his advice. In a way, he is his eminence grise.
“Since his failed mission in London, it would appear that he himself is convinced and has persuaded Nana Sahib that he will never obtain justice. If, on the other hand, the princes unite, it would be possible to defeat the British in battle.”
“May Allah hear him!” sighs Hazrat Mahal. Then, with a short laugh: “However, it seems this Azimullah has nothing against English women. I have heard it said that in London, he was quite a ladies’ man.”
“Yes, he is supposed to have been a great success in high society. Apparently, he passed himself off as a prince, and given that he is handsome and has perfect manners, women literally fell into his arms. He developed a real contempt for Western women, who, in his opinion, have none of the qualities of restraint and modesty of the women here. Beneath his outwardly elegant and worldly manners, Azimullah is reputed to follow a strict moral code. It seems that his journey to Europe convinced him just how corrupt these societies, posing as models of virtue, actually were. Instead of dazzling him, it reinforced his hatred.”
“I was astonished that Nana Sahib, a well-known reveller and such a weak, indecisive man, actually has the audacity to conspire. Well, I like what I hear of this Azimullah,” concludes Hazrat Mahal, dismissing the confused eunuch.
* * *
Sir Henry Lawrence
Resident, Lucknow
To Sir Hugh Wheeler
Resident, Kanpur
My dear Wheeler,
Yesterday I received your friend, Prince Nana Sahib, accompanied by his brother and his secretary, a certain Azimullah. I must say, they made a very poor impression indeed; their arrogant manner was just short of insolence. In addition, I was unable to understand the exact reason for their journey to Lucknow—tourism being a feeble excuse. They were to come for dinner tonight but cancelled at the last moment, claiming urgent business in Kanpur.
Given the current problems, I cannot advise you strongly enough to remain wary of this individual, and not to place any trust in him.*
Hoping your family and you are all well, I send you my kind greetings.
Lawrence
Sir Hugh Wheeler
To Sir Henry Lawrence
25 April 1857
My dear Lawrence,
Thank you for your concern. I know the prince can be disconcerting at times, but I can assure you he is a true friend of the English, which he has proven on countless occasions. Just recently, he suggested placing some of his men at our disposal in the event of trouble, and he even went so far as to offer to accommodate my family in one of his residences.
In any event, all is calm here, and I have total confidence in my sepoys’ loyalty.
With fond memories,
Wheeler
* * *
On this scorching Saturday afternoon of May 2nd, a squadron of the 7th Infantry Regiment is assembled on the training field. The atmosphere is tense: the British officers have just announced they are to begin the training session for the new Lee-Enfield rifles, using the new cartridges, as ordered by the Governor General Lord Canning.
Strapped into his impeccable uniform, Major Carnegie inspects his troops. With irritation he notices the crumpled tunics, some torn at the armhole—it must be said, they are so tight that if a man dropped his bayonet, it would be difficult for him to bend down to pick it up. But surely this is the very purpose of a uniform: to be a hard shell that forces one to stand upright? The Indians are naturally indolent and inattentive; the British had tolerated their whims for decades on the pretext of respecting their culture . . . Fortunately, things are now on the right track, and they are attempting to inculcate real values into these soldiers.
Standing to attention before his men, he orders in a loud voice:
“On my command, load the rifles!”
A slight shiver runs through the troop, furtive looks are exchanged. No one moves.
Taken aback, the major shouts his order again; the sepoys lower their heads, immobile.
In the face of this blatant indiscipline, the major almost chokes with indignation. Have these soldiers lost their minds? Do they not know the price to be paid for disobeying an officer?
But with his threats, the silence grows heavier, more hostile.
Finally, a sepoy steps forward and declares that the 7th Regiment, like the regiments in other garrisons, refuses to renounce its religion by using polluted cartridges.
Controlling his anger, Major Carnegie tries yet again to explain: “These are the same cartridges as before, this story of unclean fat is a false rumour spread by troublemakers . . . ” But he is wasting his time. The men no longer trust their officers’ words. The broken treaties, the deposition of their king and the annexation of their country have persuaded them that the British are capable of the worst.
Having exhausted his arguments, the major, red in the face, finally sends them back to their quarters, warning them they will be severely punished and made an example of.
All night long, gathered under their tents, groups of sepoys discuss the situation. Rather than risk being hanged for refusing to obey orders, some recommend a mutiny and slaughtering the officers.
“Impossible!” object others. “The emissaries made us swear to wait for the signal, all garrisons must rebel together—a surprise effect is needed to be able to overcome the Angrez!”
“We no longer have a choice! Are we going to wait for them to execute us?”
There is a heated debate. They argue and abusive insults are exchanged. Men come in and out, going from one tent to the other to listen to the different opinions, in an attempt to establish a common position.
Taking advantage of the confusion, an old sepoy slips out of the camp. He hurries through the night, keeping to the back roads. After a good hour’s walk, out of breath, he finally reaches the high gates of the Residency.
In the bright moonlit night, the mansion looms impressively. A dozen armed guards are posted at the entrance. In vain the man explains he has urgent news for the sahib, he must see him immediately, as it is a question of life or death. The guards do not want to know. It is past midnight, the chief commissioner is asleep, waking him up is out of the question. The sepoy should return the following day.
“Tomorrow all the English officers will have been massacred, and it will be your fault!” shouts the old man in despair, but he realises they think he is mad. Taking advantage of a moment’s inattention, he grabs one of the guard’s rifles and shoots in the air. He is immediately overpowered and thrown to the ground. Inside the Residency, however, lights have been switched on. Alerted by the sound, Colonel Lawrence’s aide-de-camp sends his batman to find out what is going on.
Seething, the old sepoy is roughly pushed towards the house. Sir Henry, woken by the commotion, appears in his dressing gown.
“What is the matter, my good man?” he exclaims, surprised.
“The matter, Sahib, is that these imbeciles of guards are so frightened of disturbing you, they would prefer to see you dead!” explodes the sepoy, and without pausing for breath, he recounts the men’s feverish discussions, their absolute determination not to touch the polluted cartridges, their fear of being hanged for indiscipline and their decision to act first, by killing all their officers.
He has barely reached the end of this story, when a messenger on horseback arrives panting, bringing the latest news: the sepoys have just taken over the arms depot!
Sir Henry turns pale; he had bet on his soldiers’ loyalty. He was wrong. There is no time to lose.
In under an hour, all the British forces stationed in Lucknow are mobilised: the infantry, the cavalry and the artillery. In the darkness, they stealthily approach the camp and surround the barracks. The sepoys are alerted by the sound of branches cracking, they come out of their tents to find themselves staring into the mouths of British cannons.
The moonlight bathes the two groups of soldiers in an unreal light. They observe each other—allies yesterday, enemies today. No one stirs, aware that the slightest movement could have catastrophic repercussions.
Mounted on his chestnut horse, Sir Henry Lawrence advances toward them.
“Soldiers, listen to me! Some here are trying to fool you and lead you to disaster. I, your commander, give you my word that no impure fat is used in the manufacturing of the new cartridges. Believe me, my good men, over the last thirty years that I have been in India, I have come to know your civilisation and your beliefs, and I respect them—just as I have always appreciated your courage and dedication. I will never betray you! Soldiers, I am counting on your loyalty, but know that those who have betrayed us . . . ”
From within the British ranks, an inopportune shot rings out, interrupting his speech. The sepoys panic; a few remain where they are in a frozen stupor. The majority flee and, using the darkness, try to conceal themselves in the surrounding shrubbery. They are soon caught and handcuffed: is the fact that they fled not proof of their guilt? For hours they are interrogated and whipped to force them to reveal the details of the plot and the names of the instigators. Not one of them speaks.
In his office, Sir Henry paces up and down, in his hand a letter
one of his spies has just brought. It was sent by the 7th Infantry Regiment of Awadh to the 48th. It states that the soldiers declare their willingness to give their lives to protect their faith and hope the 48th Regiment will join them.
What is to be done? The previous day Lawrence had given orders to disarm all the sepoys. Some of the old faithful soldiers were crying, protesting their loyalty. It had wrung his heart, but he is obliged to enforce respect for British authority, even if in this particular case, he can understand these men. In the past, an assurance from their officers would have sufficed to convince them; today a long list of errors and injustices has made them lose all trust.
Here and there, the insubordination gains ground. In Meerut, the largest garrison in north India, eighty-five sepoys who refused to use the cartridges are court-martialled: they are demoted and condemned to ten years of hard labour. If it were only the soldiers! Sir Henry is well aware the discontent has spread to the whole population, whether it be the tens of thousands of craftsmen; former employees of the king, who are now unemployed; the peasants subjected to taxes that are too heavy; or the feudal lords, whose forts have been demolished and a large share of their lands confiscated.
Nonetheless, whatever his predecessors’ errors and short-term policies, he cannot deny them. He is forced to follow the same path, however dangerous and unfair it might be. His loyalty to England takes precedence, even over his conscience.
Following the old British strategy of “divide and rule,” Sir Henry decides to invite all the aristocrats, notables and upper echelons of the Awadh army to a grand durbar at the Residency.
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 11
