“The mother is at least as intelligent as her son and is ready to do anything to free her country.”
The rajah bites his lips: this damned eunuch can read his thoughts; he would never have believed himself so transparent. He wants to end the conversation rapidly.
“All right. Well, tell your mistress I thank her for her letter.”
Then, seeing the eunuch is waiting, motionless, he adds almost despite himself:
“Tell her also that when the time comes, I will remember her.”
14
After the tense days following the assault on the city of Delhi and Bahadur Shah Zafar’s enthronement, Lucknow seems to have returned to its usual calm. To all appearances at least, life continues unabated. The British make it a point of honour to modify none of their habits; they continue going out on horseback or in carriages but are now armed with loaded revolvers. Beneath the usual compliancy however, every so often the occasional suspicious murmur and insolent glance surfaces.
In this month of May, as temperatures soar with each passing day, everyone’s nerves are on edge.
At the Residency, Sir Henry Lawrence has assembled the leading civil and military authorities. The governor general has just accorded him plenipotentiary powers, and he wants to discuss the measures to be taken to reinforce security in the vast Residency and the twenty adjacent buildings spread over this thirty-acre property. In the event of danger, they must be capable of providing shelter for the fifteen hundred members of the British community, half of whom are women and children, along with some seven hundred members of their native household staff. He also intends to have a moat dug and a boundary wall erected along a perimeter of a mile and a half.
“And the neighbouring houses?” objects a major. “We are at the centre of a highly populated area. It would be easy to shoot at us from the terraces.”
“Have those houses evacuated, but only destroy them if absolutely necessary. And most importantly, no religious buildings are to be touched!”
“Even if they overlook the Residency compound? Then of what use is the wall?”
Sir Henry shrugs his thin shoulders.
“Do you want us to antagonise the entire population? Do you not think we have been inconsiderate enough already? Let us try not to generate more hatred. Groups of sepoys requested an audience yesterday to assure me of their loyalty; I do not want to do anything that could alienate these men. We may need them.”
“Because you intend to continue accepting natives within the Residency compound?”
“So they can cut our throats at leisure?”
The two captains look at Sir Henry as if he has gone mad.
“You don’t understand the first thing about these people!” interjects old Colonel Simpson. “I have been living beside them for so long. I can assure you the older ones will never betray us!”
Sir Henry calmly puffs on his cigar while he scrutinizes his officers:
“I am sure you are perfectly aware, gentlemen, that we only have one European infantry battalion here—six hundred soldiers—whereas there are over twenty thousand sepoys in the Awadh region alone. If the situation turns ugly, do you seriously think we can contain it by ourselves?”
“Calcutta will send reinforcements.”
“Their equipment will slow them down. They will take over a month to reach here. In the meantime . . . ”
“All right, let us say that a handful of old sepoys will remain loyal,” admits an officer, “but all the others, who meet every night to plot against us and are only waiting for the first opportunity to revolt, are we finally going to disarm them?”
“Have I given an order to that effect?”
“No, but I imagine you will do so soon.”
“Well, once again, you are mistaken.”
Sir Henry’s tone is icy. The young, vain, ignorant upstarts they have been sending out here for the last fifteen years are ruining the work of generations of soldiers, who have earned the Indians’ respect, and often their love.
“If we disarm the Lucknow sepoys now, it will prove we are frightened, and it may very well spark off a general uprising in the surrounding garrisons. I think, on the contrary, we must show we trust them. That is why I have decided that, from now on, I will be sleeping amongst them in my mess at Camp Muriaon.”
And, with a mocking smile:
“You are most welcome to join me there, if you feel that way inclined!”
The following week sees the centre of Lucknow transformed into a vast construction site. Hundreds of workers are busy fortifying the Residency buildings, digging ditches and erecting a boundary wall pierced with loopholes, behind which the cannons are positioned. For days, bullock carts go up and down, transporting weapons and ammunition as well as all kinds of supplies, flour, sugar, tea, coal and fodder for the animals—enough to last out a very long siege if need be. They can no longer ignore the gravity of the situation: since the fall of Delhi, other garrisons along the Ganges have revolted, and the rebellion draws dangerously closer to Lucknow.
Sir Henry works tirelessly, supervising the smallest details, only allowing himself two to three hours sleep a night. He is everywhere and always has a humorous word, an encouraging smile for the simple soldiers who adore him.
For his part, Major Carnegie has created units to evacuate the houses closest to the Residency. Entire families find themselves evicted with no idea where to go, they are not even given the time to pack their most precious belongings—a fact which is not lost on the soldiers. Despite the chief commissioner’s instructions, a large number of houses are demolished, as Major Carnegie fears they will be occupied by “terrorists”—these Indians who have the audacity, to say nothing of the ingratitude, to want to rid themselves of benevolent British domination.
One of the residences that has been razed happens to be the palace belonging to Wajid Ali Shah’s brother, who has gone to London with the Queen Mother to plead the deposed king’s cause. The princesses and their ladies-in-waiting are brutally expelled—one even has her arm broken—and they find themselves in the street, destitute, as they have not been permitted to take anything with them. The soldiers scornfully throw saucepans and various other kitchen utensils at them from the windows, while they confiscate jewellery and other precious objects, before blowing up the palace.
They find shelter in one of the Kaisarbagh palaces, now the last remaining haven for the women of the royal family. For how much longer? wonders Hazrat Mahal anxiously, as she and the other wives make room for these unfortunate women and help them to settle in. We are being chased from residence to residence. The English are confiscating and destroying everything as they please. If we do not react quickly, and if the taluqdars continue to hesitate, soon there will be nothing left to save . . .
This Sunday, the 24th of May, is Eid ul-Fitr, the festival of sweets marking the end of Ramadan. Fearing violent incidents, Sir Henry Lawrence has ordered the British soldiers and police to stay out of sight.
As they come out of the mosques, the faithful proceed in silent demonstrations throughout the town. For hours the men walk, stone-faced: it is the moment to be counted, to show their determination and their strength. In the evening, none of the usual celebrations are held—no spectacular lights, no deafening orchestras, no distribution of multi-coloured sweetmeats, no performing monkeys and no snake charmers. No one feels like celebrating. Beneath the apparent calm, the people sense that confrontation will soon be take place. They are only waiting for the signal.
By May 25th, all the British women and children should leave their bungalows and move to the Residency compound. Sir Henry has set the date, and despite all the protests and resistance from the incredulous women—horrified at having to abandon their comfortable homes because of a hypothetical danger—he will not budge. He even sends his officers to check that every house has actually been vacated.
The transfer is spread
over a short week. The families arrive, one after the other, and settle in as best they can, often seven or eight to a room for, despite the modifications made to the layout, they lack space. There are not enough beds, so mattresses are laid on the ground, and sometimes a table is placed at the centre of the room for meals. People gather on the basis of affinity and, of course, social class. The officers’ wives are given the most comfortable lodgings. Whatever happens, hierarchy must be respected; it is the only way to maintain order. As for the household help, they are crowded together outside on the verandas.
The townspeople are furious: the Angrez are being allowed to reinforce their defences, and turn the Residency into an impregnable fortress while they sit by twiddling their thumbs! What are the leaders up to? When will they give the signal to attack?
On Saturday, the 30th of May, in the afternoon, a sepoy from the 13th Infantry Regiment, who had been decorated earlier on for denouncing a spy, creeps up to Captain Wilson’s bungalow, and softly scratching on the door, he reveals:
“It is for this evening, Sahib! The 71st Infantry has issued orders that the uprising commence at nine o’clock.”
Despite the warning, Lawrence refuses to take action. He has been sleeping in the garrison’s barracks for several nights now amongst the sepoys in order to prove his trust in them. He is not going to ruin everything on the basis of a rumour. While he is dining with his officers, the cannon thunders nine times. Not a sound escapes from the barracks.
“Your friends are late!”* he remarks ironically, turning to Wilson.
The words have barely left his mouth, when the silence is broken by the sound of gunfire, followed by more shots. A red glow appears in the sky. The guests rise hurriedly. Sir Henry orders that the horses be prepared. While they are saddled in haste, a messenger arrives panting.
“The infantry regiments have rebelled. They are setting fire to the bungalows, destroying and pillaging everything they find. The officers who tried to reason with them were killed and the rest fled. The 7th Cavalry Regiment tried to intervene, but when a rebel galloped towards them, exhorting them to support the insurrection and to defend their faith, the majority switched sides and joined the mutiny.”
Sir Henry frowns.
“After they have finished with the garrison, they will want to enter the town. We must stop them at all costs.”
And, turning to his officers:
“Use Her Majesty’s 32nd Regiment, four cannons and the European artillery company to block the road. I will meet you there.”
Then, signalling to Major Carnegie:
“Major, we risk an uprising in town. They are going to try to join the mutineers. You have been here for ten years, do you think we can trust the police?”
“I think, sir, that we cannot fully trust any of these damned niggers! However, the police are still relatively reliable. Anyway, do we really have a choice?”
“In that case, we will post a few British men to reinforce the native officers. About a dozen, that is all we can use. They must be told it will be dangerous for them. Better ask for volunteers.”
“Yes, sir!”
Major Carnegie walks off shaking his head. Giving soldiers the choice! Has one ever heard such a thing! What a strange man, this Lawrence! Nonetheless, they say that in Punjab he managed to set a catastrophic situation right, just by showing the natives some consideration and respect. Major Carnegie cannot believe it: as if it were enough to show some respect for your enemy to avoid a war and reach an agreement, he scoffs. And, if there were no more wars, what would the men do? They would die of boredom and end up killing each other anyway! “Good God,” he murmurs into his moustache, “save us from these dangerous pacifists!”
All night long, the sepoys burnt and pillaged, delighting in their revenge against these foreigners who had destroyed their houses and palaces. When the British commander gave the order to turn the cannons on the insurgents, in a sudden burst of solidarity, the Indian artillerists switched sides and joined the rebellion. British soldiers were called in to man the guns, firing all night without a break. When at dawn, Sir Lawrence and his troops recapture Camp Muriaon, all that remains are charred ruins strewn with corpses. The majority of the rebels have fled towards Delhi after vainly trying to join forces with the inhabitants of Lucknow.
In town, the police have managed to suppress the popular uprising with the help of a few sepoys who have remained loyal to the British. Apart from the numerous dead, they have taken about forty prisoners, who are court-martialled, condemned to death and hanged before a hostile crowd, kept in check by the cannons.
In the days that follow, several important personalities, suspected of having incited the population to revolt, are arrested. Amongst them, King Wajid Ali Shah’s eldest brother, as well as Shuruf-ud-Daulah, previously the king’s grand vizier, and two princes from the Delhi royal family, who had arrived in Lucknow a few weeks earlier to help organise the rebellion.
The atmosphere is strained, and Sir Henry Lawrence considers the time has come to move his headquarters to the Residency, where the civilians are already gathered. He no longer doubts that a real war is in the offing. Before he leaves, though, he sends Captain Birch and a division of Sikhs to seize the royal treasure kept at Kaisarbagh. He must deprive the Indians of the means to continue the uprising.
Despite the guards’ opposition and the women’s cries, the treasure is seized on June 17th. For hours, carts collapsing under the weight of boxes filled with gold and precious stones go up and down the mile separating Kaisarbagh from the Residency.
“These gems were impressive,” writes Captain Birch. “There were magnificent pearls and emeralds as big as eggs, sumptuous jewels and tons of gold. We buried the whole lot in the main building of the Residency.”*
In the zenana, the theft of the treasure came as a real shock. Everyone knew the British command was capable of cruelty and treachery but not of acts of robbery. “They have taken all the ceremonial jewellery,” the women lament, “even the sacred royal crown passed down from father to son on enthronement day. And now they are imprisoning our princes, will they dare kill them?”
They are interrupted by the excited shouts of a little servant girl, her cheeks flushed with emotion.
“Huzoor! Huzoor! Come quickly, come and see! Look what is happening outside!”
Holding up their trains, the begums hurry towards the wooden screens that allow them to look out without being seen.
The sight they discover leaves them speechless: down in the street, men are carrying big puppets dressed in the red British uniform. Shouting, they beat them with sticks, to the great amusement of the onlookers, who applaud when they slash off the heads with their swords, then brandish them like trophies, all the while saluted by the crowd’s triumphant jeers.
In the following days, the processions continue with mounting vengeance. The puppets no longer represent only soldiers but also women and children, who are beaten and decapitated to shouts of “Angrez murdabad!” The walls are covered with graffiti in Urdu, Hindi and Persian, written in red letters: “Death to the foreigners despised by the gods and hated by the true sons of the land.” “Those who remain passive are born from English pigs and carrion-eating crows!”*
Why are they doing this just under our windows? Hazrat Mahal wonders thoughtfully. Are they trying to involve the palace? Show us the people’s resolve, expecting us to inform the king? They are clearly awaiting a sign, and as the taluqdars are doing nothing, they hope the sovereign will intervene, but . . . he is far too busy with his pleasures . . . No, I am being unfair again. The poor king is a prisoner, his letters are monitored. He has no means of taking action. He has the right to enjoy what remains of his life rather than making himself ill . . .
Although she tries to justify his behaviour, she cannot understand the attitude of the sovereign she so admired, this husband she loved. She is angry with him, as i
f he had betrayed her, while deep down she knows she chose to turn a blind eye in order to continue to dream.
15
As if the Lucknow mutiny had been the signal, the rebellion spreads like wildfire, not just in the state of Awadh, but throughout northern India. Day after day, garrisons revolt. Everywhere, property belonging to the British or their representatives is burned and destroyed, prisons are thrown open, treasures pillaged. The sepoys see it as fair compensation for years of miserable pay.
The Europeans who could not escape are killed during the confrontations or executed. These acts of cold-blooded murder are decided by assemblies of sepoys. This cruelty is something their masters had subjected them to for decades; today the roles are reversed. For years they had endured insults, blows, whippings, they saw their comrades tied to the mouths of cannons and blown to bits. Now they are reacting with the same violence, and just as mercilessly.
Yet sometimes, humanity prevails. A few sepoys help families, and even some of their officers, to escape. But there is no turning back—they are on different sides now.
On June 12th, despite initial hesitations, the Awadh police force joins the rebellion. Everywhere fierce confrontations take place, with the population becoming increasingly involved. This is no longer mere mutiny: the rebels clearly state they are at war against the “colonisers who stole our country and humiliated us,” and sometimes even declare their struggle to be “the battle of the blacks against the white man.”
The announcement of the Kanpur mutiny on June 4th has been enthusiastically welcomed in the zenana. They knew full well that Nana Sahib had not come here as a tourist but to establish a battle plan with the other rajahs! Soon it will be Lucknow’s turn to rise up. The people are ready, they are only waiting for a signal from the leaders, Rajah Jai Lal Singh and his friend, the Rajah of Mahmudabad; their names are on everyone’s lips. They also speak of Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah, who has just been released from prison. His disciples—both Hindu and Muslim—have sworn undying hatred for the occupier, who dared defile their religion.
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 13
