enemy is retreating!—until they notice the regiments descending the flanks of the hill in an encirclement manoeuvre. There are thousands of them advancing in perfect order. At this precise moment, the Indian artillerists and most of the sepoys in the column choose to abandon their posts. They push the cannons into the ditches quickly and rush to join their compatriots, leaving the British artillerists isolated and short of ammunition. Their stocks have evaporated as if by magic. Surrounded on all sides, the British fight furiously. They fall to enemy fire by the dozens; the situation is absolutely hopeless, when, finally, Sir Henry decides to sound the retreat.
Given the soldiers’ state of exhaustion, the retreat would have been transformed into a bloodbath if Lawrence had not had a brilliant idea: he posts men equipped with flamethrowers on a narrow bridge. They hold off the Indians, permitting the rest of his troops to return to the Residency, where the blood-splattered fighters are received with panic. The losses have been heavy: three hundred dead and dozens wounded. But above all, the psychological shock is immense—it is the first time a British army has been defeated by natives!
While the camp licks its wounds, Sir Henry Lawrence hurriedly has the latest gaps in the ramparts repaired, and tries his best to reassure the terror-stricken women and children. Meanwhile, the victorious sepoys are given a heroes’ welcome. They recount the battle in great detail and describe the flight of these Angrez, whom, until now, everyone had believed to be invincible.
In order to complete their victory, a few hundred enthusiasts swarm the Residency, armed with only their rifles. Repelled by heavy cannon fire, they are forced to retreat, leaving a large number of their dead behind on the battlefield. They then vent their rage on the “collaborators”: the policemen who remained loyal to the occupier, but mainly the banyas and mahajans,60who have benefited from the new regime. The hunt for traitors begins. Helped by the angry population, the soldiers pillage and burn everything belonging to the British or their allies, and pursue those they presume guilty, resolutely deaf to the warnings of their commanding officers, who try to maintain order. In a vengeful frenzy, they burn the British bungalows as well as the prison, the court of justice, the tax office, the telegraph office, the station and everything that reminds them of British domination. The situation deteriorates from one hour to the next as peasants, avid to take part in the victory celebration and in the acts of retribution, arrive from the surrounding villages. There is absolute chaos.
* * *
“We must act as quickly as possible, otherwise we will lose all control and the town will fall into anarchy.”
Rajah Jai Lal has assembled the military leaders and the taluqdars who took part in the Battle of Chinhat. All of them are aware of the danger, but after hours of discussion, they have still not managed to agree on a strategy.
“We cannot just start shooting soldiers to make them submit! It would spark off a civil war!” protests one of the rajahs.
“In my opinion, it would be best to leave them alone. In two or three days they will be exhausted and things will have calmed down on their own,” adds his neighbour wisely.
This is too much for Rajah Jai Lal.
“Allow them to continue vandalising the town? Make no mistake, it is no longer our sepoys leading this dance. These are criminals freed from the prisons, men who kidnap and kill women and children! If it were your homes and your families being attacked, would you continue to deliberate, sitting comfortably in your armchairs? No, of course not, you would immediately find a way to stop this carnage! But as it concerns ‘the others,’ people who are strangers to you, the poor who are used to misfortune, you take your time, arguing endlessly, discussing the principles to be respected, the necessary objectivity and the undesirable consequences that could result from a rash decision!”
And, pointing his finger at the speechless assembly:
“If the assassins, blinded by rage and hatred are guilty, you gentlemen in your luxurious ivory towers are all the more so! How can you sleep at night when, through indifference and cowardice, you allow all these innocents to be massacred?”
“You who speak so well, what solution do you propose?”
The young Rajah of Salimpur has never had much sympathy for Jai Lal, this new aristocrat. His frankness is an insult to the refined behaviour so prized by Lucknow’s society.
“We must re-establish an unquestioned authority that applies to everyone as soon as possible.”
“And how is that to be done? Our sovereign is a prisoner, hundreds of miles away, and we have abolished the British power that had replaced him. A taluqdars’ assembly then?”
Jai Lal shrugs his shoulders.
“You know perfectly well that the taluqdars will never manage to reach an agreement on anything! The only unquestioned authority would be a member of the royal family, as my discussions with the sepoys’ representatives over the last few days have confirmed. The cavalry favours Prince Sulaiman Qadar, the king’s brother, but the infantry, which is ten times larger and mainly Hindu, insists the throne should go to one of Wajid Ali Shah’s sons. The eldest are in Calcutta with their father, but two of them are still here.”
“How old are they?”
“The elder one is sixteen, the younger, eleven.”
“Children!”
“It does not matter. They will only be symbolic figures. All the decisions will be taken by the delegates designated by the taluqdars and the army.”
“Don’t forget the begums!” intervenes the old Rajah of Tilpur maliciously. “Some of them are strong personalities. Officially, the mother of a young king is regent until his majority, and should she get it into her head that she wants to govern, we may well have problems.”
“We will find a way to make them listen to reason,” interrupts Jai Lal. “At the moment, our priority is to find the best possible candidate. As head of the army, I propose that I, together with a delegate designated by the taluqdars, talk to the begums tomorrow.”
* * *
Mammoo Khan has been entrusted with the task of announcing the visit to the zenana. When Rajah Jai Lal contacted him, he had tried his best to insinuate that it would be a waste of time consulting the other wives, as Hazrat Mahal’s son, Prince Birjis Qadar, was by far the best choice. He had been rudely rebuffed.
“Who do you think you are, permitting yourself to participate in affairs of state? It is for the army and the taluqdars to decide, not the eunuchs!”
From the look of hatred Mammoo shoots at him, Rajah Jai Lal knows he has gone too far, but at least he expressed himself clearly. Mammoo and the likes of him must understand that times have changed, and the days of palace intrigue, which too often passed for politics, are over.
The slaves hung a heavy curtain across the large blue drawing room of the Chattar Manzil Palace—this palace, where in happier times the king used to enjoy chatting to his wives. Behind the curtain, an assembly of aristocratic begums is waiting impatiently for the visitors’ arrival. The little information Mammoo shared with them has whetted their curiosity: the Rajahs Jai Lal Singh and Mahmudabad have requested a meeting to discuss the future of the revolt. The future of the revolt? They do not understand—war is men’s business! What do they, women, have to do with any of this? Hazrat Mahal is the only one who guesses their intentions, but she remains silent. In addition, Mammoo, generally so talkative, claims he knows nothing. She suspects he is lying, but since the day before he has been in such a vile mood that she prefers not to insist.
Footsteps can be heard in the vestibule. The two rajahs appear, escorted by the Turkish guards. The contrast between the rugged soldier with his weather-beaten face and his fair, delicate companion is striking. When dealing with such important business, though, they complement each other perfectly.
After multiple greetings and the customary compliments, the Rajah of Mahmudabad, choosing his words with great care, explains the reaso
n for their visit. He has barely begun when outraged exclamations break out:
“Our beloved sovereign is still alive, how dare you think of replacing him!”
“It would be unpardonable treason!”
“We would never accept such vileness!”
The shocked women protest. Despite the turmoil of past events, they have kept the glorious image of Wajid Ali Shah alive and, among the population, their unshakeable loyalty upholds the belief that the sovereign will return. Being faithful to the king is a sacred cause for them. Is their status not inextricably linked to his? If he is dispossessed what will become of them? Wives of a monarch exiled by his enemies, but above all, disowned by his friends, they would become nothing more than forgotten shadows . . . of a shadow.
Calmly, the Rajah of Mahmudabad lets the avalanche of indignation run its course, waiting until the begums are ready to listen again.
He describes the indiscipline that is gaining in the sepoy ranks and the difficulty in controlling the troops. The victory has gone to their heads, he explains; the only authority they are henceforth willing to recognise is the great Mughal in Delhi, or his representative in Lucknow. As the latter is currently a prisoner, they want one of his sons to replace him until his return.
“So if Jan-e-Alam returns, his throne will be restored to him?” ask the women, suspicious.
“I swear it on my honour!” retorts Rajah Jai Lal, growing impatient with these protests of loyalty. “On the other hand, I can assure you that if the throne remains vacant, if the soldiers do not have a sovereign who talks to them and encourages them to fight, an indisputable arbitrator who knows how to punish but also to reward, who, in short, is a final authority in whom they have full confidence, most of them will abandon the cause and return home. This will leave the door wide open for the Company to re-establish itself and take its revenge. If that happens, I do not hold out much hope for any of our lives!”
At these words, the women shudder. They know this is no empty threat.
Nonetheless, Begum Shanaz, the doyenne, is not totally convinced.
“I do not understand, Rajah Sahib, the soldiers themselves designated you as their leader, are they not willing to obey you?”
“You know our people’s mentality as well as I, Huzoor. They are naturally undisciplined. But for their God or their king, whom they revere as the incarnation of God on earth, they would make the ultimate sacrifice without the slightest hesitation.”
“You should also bear in mind, Honourable Begums, that if a king were to be reinstated, the Court would reclaim the place it deserves and you would regain your position, whereas presently, these palaces are totally desolate.”
This last argument cleverly put forward by the Rajah of Mahmudabad is what tips the scales. A return to a semblance of their former life—none dared hope for that any longer. The enthusiasm is considerably dampened, however, when Rajah Jai Lal reminds them that the period they are about to face will not be a time of celebration but rather a time of war, a merciless war against the occupier.
“It is for this reason that I ask you to discuss the question very seriously amongst yourselves, before designating the king. Bearing in mind the fact that both the princes are still very young, it will be the king’s to exercise the regency. Doubtless, it is an honour, but most of all, an arduous task and a particularly dangerous one under the present circumstances. The slightest error could be fatal. Of course, we will be there to advise the regent and guide her decisions, but the final responsibility will rest on her shoulders and her son’s.
“And now, Honourable Begums, may we respectfully retire in order for you to start the deliberations. Do not forget, though, time is of the essence. We will return this evening.”
* * *
My son . . . king?
Could this ambition nurtured in secret for the last eleven years actually become reality? Hazrat Mahal shivers, not fully knowing whether it is out of excitement or fear. It is all so different from what she had imagined. Instead of glory and honour, what they are being offered today is a merciless confrontation that could prove fatal. The dream could turn into a nightmare . . .
Images run through her mind: the poor but carefree little girl for whom the horizons of happiness were limited to the red garara that young brides wear, and lots of sons who would have enough to eat every day. She feels a sudden nostalgia for those simple joys—the mutton they feasted on during the Eid ul-Kabir festival, it tasted even more delicious as they could only afford to eat meat once a year. The new clothes they received for Eid ul-Fitr; they pranced about in them all day, even wanting to wear them to bed! As the memories return, she is overcome by emotion but also amazement. She, who has come so far, does she really miss this ordinary past?
Around her, the women are deep in discussion. The rajah’s arguments have got the better of their hesitations, and they are currently trying to convince the pretty Khas Mahal of the luck and honour that have befallen her. To them it is clear—if they must designate a successor to the unfortunate Wajid Ali Shah, it can only be his eldest son, despite . . . Despite the fact that Nausherwan Qadar is an unstable adolescent, whose own father had considered him unfit to reign. Under the present circumstances, he will only be a symbol; the regent will take all the decisions, as advised by the assembly of the taluqdars. Yet to their great surprise, the prince’s mother resists. Usually so mild, so much so that they imagined her passive and malleable, now she obstinately refuses a responsibility she feels incapable of assuming. She is not interested in power, her whole world revolved around her love for her husband and her son. Now, while she still mourns her captive husband, they would ask her to endanger the most precious thing she has left, her beloved Nausherwan? The more her companions insist, the more she resists them with a stubborn silence.
Furious, the begums change their tactics. They decide to shame her: this son she claims to love so much, is she not being selfish in denying him this unbelievable opportunity to ascend to the throne? The risk? It is minimal. They are living in troubled times, true enough, but the whole country is rising up against the occupier, one town after the other. There are not that many British forces left here, and without their sepoys, they will not be able to resist for long. And when they do finally leave Awadh, imagine the young king getting all the glory for the victory! Her head spinning with these arguments, and unable to counter them, the hapless Khas Mahal finally relents.
18
The reflected rays of the setting sun bathe the large zenana drawing room in a purple glow as the two rajahs return to enquire after the verdict. To welcome the visitors, some servants offer them mango and lemon sherbets prepared according to a secret palace recipe, while others fan them with broad pankhas.61
Finally, a commanding voice is heard from behind the curtain. It is Begum Shanaz; as the eldest, it is her privilege to announce the decision.
“Here, Rajahs Sahiban,62 is the outcome of our private deliberation: we have unanimously chosen Prince Nausherwan Qadar, son of Begum Khas Mahal, as the future king.”
The disappointment he feels makes Jai Lal realise that he had always hoped that Begum Hazrat Mahal, who had so impressed him with her energy and intelligence, would be chosen. Now the die had been cast, he cannot intervene. In return though, he does want certain assurances:
“We thank you, Your Highnesses. If we may, we would now like to speak directly to the future regent,” he declares.
“She is very disturbed, give her a little time,” intervenes Begum Nashid, who tries to comfort the crying Khas Mahal.
“Forgive us, Honourable Begums, but we simply do not have time for such niceties. A war is at our doorstep and in order to fight, we must restore discipline in the sepoy ranks as soon as possible.”
Surprised, the Rajah of Mahmudabad looks askance at Jai Lal: why such harshness? Surely a few more hours will not change anything. Are the Court ladies being put to the t
est?
He soon receives an answer. From behind the curtain, a soft, trembling voice speaks up:
“I am ready, I will do my best. I will follow all your advice, Rajahs Sahiban. But you must assure me, on your honour, that my son’s life will not be put in any danger.”
Anticipating his friend’s exasperated reaction, Mahmudabad patiently explains:
“You must understand, Huzoor, that in times of war, all lives are in danger—your son’s, your own and ours. We have every intention of driving the British out, but if fate goes against us, we can only promise that we will do everything in our power to protect you.”
A long silence ensues, then the soft voice declares, firmer this time:
“In this case I must refuse. My life is of little importance, but I feel I do not have the right to place the prince at such risk.”
“I am ready to accept!”
The words rang out clearly in the middle of a stunned silence.
“And my son, Prince Birjis Qadar, is also ready to serve his country.”
Disapproving murmurs rise around Hazrat Mahal: what is she talking about? How could a child undertake such a commitment?
“He is young, but I personally strove to ensure that he was brought up to be conscious of his duties towards his people, unlike other princes, who are only concerned with their prerogatives and the privileges of their birthright.”
Disregarding her companions’ indignant protests, she continues in a resonant voice:
“Just like you, Rajahs Sahiban, I am convinced the only solution for us is to fight. We have bowed down far too long, hoping our good behaviour would please our masters. But experience has shown that pleas and explanations are useless—those in power only hear what they want to hear. No concessions, no negotiations will return our country to us. The British invoke morality and justice, and swear their only aim is to re-establish public order, supposedly undermined by an incompetent sovereign. We now know they care nothing for justice and only want to appropriate our wealth. They will not budge until they are driven out by the whole population. With your guidance, Rajahs Sahiban, my son and I are ready to lead this battle.”
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 16
