“The King!”
Standing upright, Birjis Qadar advances to the centre of the group of courtiers, who bow respectfully. Taking his place beside his mother, he addresses the two guardians in a confident voice:
“I am informed of your loyalty towards my respected father, and I am grateful to you. However, did you not swear an oath of fidelity to me just a few days ago? Until His Majesty can reclaim the throne of Awadh, I am the king and you owe me your allegiance. I know my father, who has suffered his whole life under British tyranny, would not have hesitated to place his fortune at the service of our struggle for independence. I ask you therefore, in his name, to hand over the treasure to serve this noble cause.”
Impressed by his clear gaze and his words that suddenly seem perfectly logical to them, the two men express their devotion profusely: would His Majesty forgive them, for they are but poor, ignorant servants; the treasure will be delivered to the palace this very afternoon.
They take their leave, walking backwards, bowing all the way down to the ground.
With the issue of finances momentarily settled, the assembly now needs to define a strategy. Again, Rajah Jai Lal intervenes:
“I have made a careful study of logistics,” he declares, turning to face his peers. “Given their limited range, we must place the cannons as close to the Residency enclosure as possible. The inconvenience is that this makes them more vulnerable, and as we have very few, we must do our utmost to protect them. Hence, I propose we make them mobile: we conceal them behind a corner wall or at the bottom of a slope. Using a platform with a pulley system activated by our men, we draw them out just to open fire, then immediately return them to their hiding places before the enemy has time to react.”
Everybody approves of this ingenious plan to safeguard the cannons as well as the men operating them.
“Do we not also have a Howitzer that the British abandoned when they were defeated at Chinhat?” enquires an officer.
“We do in fact have one. There are also four large pieces of artillery captured the same day by the lords of Ilaqa and Purwa. I have tried to convince these gentlemen to allow us to use them, and I even offered them compensation. But these British cannons—though of no use at all—represent such symbols of prestige that they refuse to hand them over.”
“Have they not joined our struggle then?” asks Hazrat Mahal.
“No, Huzoor.”
“They are wrong. We will send them a firman67 signed by the king, directing them to participate in our battle against the occupier, with their men and their cannons. If they refuse, we will declare them allies of the British . . . with all the consequences that implies.”
The audience is dumbstruck, even Jai Lal, although he is aware of the new regent’s decisive personality.
In under a week, the main political and military guidelines are established. To everyone’s surprise, Hazrat Mahal turns out to be a remarkable organiser. Every morning, she presides over a meeting with the new Grand Vizier, Sharuf-ud-Daulah, and all the ministers, who keep her abreast of civil affairs; every afternoon, Rajah Jai Lal comes to report on military matters. As the sepoys’ spokesperson, he is the link between their high command and Chaulakhi Palace. In reality, although the prime minister is formally his hierarchical superior, it is Jai Lal who shoulders the main responsibilities, as in addition to his role as chief of the army, he has been appointed president of the Council of State. This council, set up by the rebels, consists of six soldiers and four civilians—Hindus and Muslims in equal numbers. Every decision has to be ratified by them; a power sharing that deeply irritates the regent.
For the moment, however, everyone agrees that the priority is to restore order, and to provide security and the bare necessities for the population’s subsistence. Edicts signed by Birjis Qadar, posted simultaneously in Hindi and Urdu, announce the abolition of taxes on common consumer goods and reiterate that pillagers and racketeers will be put to death.
Contrary to what the British want to believe—unable to understand the magnitude of the revolt, they call the uprising a “mutiny” and the insurgents “bandits”—it is a real power that is being instituted, imposing its laws and sanctions, re-establishing the old structures and abolishing everything that represents the hated colonial regime.
One of the first measures the government takes is to restore the taluqdars’ rights as both masters and protectors. Their villages are returned to them, and the peasants are given back their land, confiscated by the British administrator on the pretext that they were unable to pay the tax. Once again, ancestral order, and a social justice recognised by all, reigns in the countryside.
The year of the rebellion also sees the revival of traditional sciences and indigenous medicine, which the British had abolished in order to propagate Western-style science and techniques. Once again, the hakims treat the sick and wounded with their potions concocted according to ancient wisdom, and the pandits68 encourage the rebels with their predictions based on a reading of the planets. There is a real revival of a formerly subjected culture under way. The ancient practices, once depreciated, come alive again and are restored to their rightful place in civil society. This is a reaction to the violence perpetrated by the British, who had imposed their own intellectual and cultural systems, mocking the Indians’ traditions and beliefs, in order to justify Western superiority and thus British domination.
In the Kaisarbagh palaces too, the atmosphere has changed. Now it is solely occupied by Wajid Ali Shah’s wives and their relatives who, reassured by the prevailing optimism, have returned to their interminable games of dice and chess, their various beauty treatments and, above all, to their favourite occupation—gossiping. Abandoning the zenana with its intrigues and petty jealousies, Hazrat Mahal has settled into Chaulakhi Palace, traditionally the Queen Mother’s residence. This sumptuous palace is particularly famous for its incredibly fragrant walls. It is said that the rajah who had it built had taken pity on a perfume seller in difficulty. He had bought up his whole stock, and had ordered it to be mixed in with the mortar prepared for the construction.
It is in the famous Hall of Mirrors that Hazrat Mahal receives Rajah Jai Lal every afternoon, when he comes to make his report on the military situation—the very same drawing room where, barely a year ago, the dramatic interview between the Queen Mother, Malika Kishwar, and Sir James Outram, the resident, took place . . .
Everything has changed so fast . . . Have I also changed so much? Everyone looks at me differently, with far more deference, of course, but with fear too . . . even Mammoo no longer expresses himself as freely as he used to. Only Jai Lal remains frank and outspoken in his criticism. It angers me, yet at the same time, I am grateful to him for it. Power is so isolating. At least he does not hide the harsh realities from me . . .
However, besides discussing practical problems, what the young woman really appreciates in the rajah is that he treats her like a human being and not as an all-powerful sovereign. Over the course of their daily meetings, a mutual trust has grown between them. With him she feels free to express her doubts, her concerns, she dares question him on matters she is ignorant of or does not understand, as she knows he will never use it against her. Unlike the majority of the courtiers—who reluctantly tolerate this woman “come from nowhere,” and who watch out for any signs of blunders she might make—Jai Lal has understood that, just like him, the regent is determined to fight for independence and that neither promises nor threats will cause her to waver. Her rejection of the occupiers is not based on a desire to replace them in order to benefit from the advantages of power, it is a rage against an injustice that crushes and humiliates. Where do her courage and conviction come from? Rare qualities indeed in Lucknow’s high society, which would tend to mock such traits. Would it be precisely because she has “come from nowhere” and quite unlike a number of opportunists, she has not forgotten the suffering of those who feel scorned? She has
risen to this position out of nothing, just like him, a man whose father, a small landowner, was ennobled for having saved the king’s life during a hunt.
Together, they discuss everything, except one subject, which is taboo: Mammoo Khan.
To everyone’s surprise, Hazrat Mahal had insisted on appointing the eunuch to the position of chief of the Diwan Khana, the royal household, which gave him the rank of a minister of the Court. Strictly speaking, this allows him no authority over the other ministers, but his constant proximity to the regent gives him control over everybody and everything, far exceeding his title and his abilities. He takes full advantage of this situation, insolently enjoying his new status. After having been despised for so long, he takes his revenge. Nothing makes him feel as good as crushing someone else and, on the rare occasion when he helps somebody, he exacts a very high price. He has an unquenchable thirst for power and wealth, and vengefully pursues anyone he suspects of mocking his condition as a eunuch, or his short stature. The scandal surrounding this former servant who now takes the liberty of pestering the proud taluqdars is such that the regent’s enemies readily insinuate she clearly favours him because the supposed eunuch is, in reality, her lover and maybe even Birjis Qadar’s father.
When Jai Lal had tried to warn the regent against promoting Mammoo to such a high function, when he mentioned the feudal lords’ fury at being bullied and insulted by a former slave, she curtly put him in his place.
“Stop criticising him. He has served me faithfully for the last ten years. No one has ever been as devoted to me.”
“Do not delude yourself, Huzoor, this type of man is only devoted to himself. The day his interests and yours differ, he will not hesitate to betray you.”
Hazrat Mahal had turned pale.
“If you want us to stay on good terms, please do not bring this subject up again.”
Enraged, Jai Lal is tempted to open her eyes, tell her what people are saying about them, but it is impossible. He would never permit himself to insult her in this manner. He clenches his fists and says:
“I thought you appreciated me for my honesty. If you want a courtier who echoes everything you say and agrees with your every whim, you will have to look elsewhere.”
And, bowing deeply, he had left.
The rajah did not return for a few days, he had sent his aide-de-camp instead to keep the regent up-to-date with current affairs. Very quickly, however, Hazrat Mahal is forced to acknowledge that she misses their conversations and, above all, she needs his advice. She has important decisions to take and has doubts about her ministers’ clear-sightedness. Swallowing her pride, she decides to request the rajah’s return.
They must, in fact, prepare the attack on the Residency.
Until now, the sepoys and the taluqdars’ troops have limited themselves to a constant harassment of the fort. Day and night, they unleash musket and cannon fire from the terraces of the surrounding houses. It is a war of nerves that leaves the besieged prisoners not a moment’s respite, and in the long run, exhausts them both morally and physically. The rebels are also beginning to tire of these skirmishes that lead nowhere. They want to be done with these Angrez who taunt them, and they insist it is time to launch the great attack.
* * *
In the chief commissioner’s office—the only room still free of refugees’ mattresses and trunks—five men are seated around Colonel Inglis, Lawrence’s successor for military matters.
“It must be said, these Indians are good strategists,” comments an officer. “They have placed their small cannons all around, but so close to our positions that our shells whiz overhead without managing to reach them. As for our firing at their artillerists, it is almost impossible: they are well hidden behind palisades, which they move with diabolical speed, or they conceal themselves in the deep trenches, dug just behind their cannons!”
“Good strategists, naturally! We are the very ones who trained them!”
“You have to admit, old chap, that we do not teach these tactics and tricks in our military academies.”
“Come now, gentlemen! I have not gathered you here to argue over our adversary’s qualities or failings,” intervenes the colonel, a small, stocky man with grey hair.
And, puffing nervously on his pipe:
“Our spies have informed me a massive attack is being prepared and will be executed within the next few days. How many available men do we have?”
“About twelve hundred, sir, of which five hundred are natives.”
“And how many wounded in the hospital?”
“About sixty, but they are not safe there. A shell fell on it yesterday, it was lucky no one was hurt.”
The colonel frowns.
“Take our hostages—the three princes and that young Rajah of Tulsipur—to the hospital and keep them there. Have the word put about. The mutineers have their spies here too. You will see that by tomorrow, they will stop bombing that area.”
“Have we any news of the reinforcements sent by Calcutta?” enquires an officer, looking worried.
“They are expected any day now,” the colonel reassures him.
He considers it futile to demoralise his men by revealing that reinforcements are not likely to reach them any time soon. The day before, a messenger had arrived, informing him of General Havelock’s troop deployment: after bringing the city of Allahabad down on July 14th and then setting out on the road to Lucknow, the general had been obliged to re-route to Kanpur, in order to lend Major Renaud a hand in dealing with an onslaught from Tantia Tope’s men. It is also useless to point out that progress across the country is very slow, as most of the peasants have joined the rebellion. Villages have been transformed into fortified towns and the roads are strewn with traps. How much longer can they hold out? They have lost dozens of men since the beginning of the siege; as for the wounded, despite the surgeon’s talent and the volunteer nurses’ dedication, most of them end up dying of septicaemia or gangrene. But more importantly, it is the anxiety that dangerously saps morale. Supplies will not allow them to resist indefinitely, rations have already been reduced to lentil soup and three chapatis a day, and the children are constantly crying for more. Nonetheless, there is no question of surrender. The tragic fate of the Kanpur garrison confirms that the enemy will show no mercy.
Thankfully, they have enough ammunition, more in any event than the Indians, who bombard them incessantly, while the British have been issued orders to make every shot count. But will they have the strength to withstand the massive attack that is coming? Even if they have the advantage of higher ground, will they be able to fight off the assault from an enemy force that is ten, maybe twenty times larger?
Colonel Inglis has spent a sleepless night going over all the options. He knows that if help does not arrive soon, they are lost . . . unless, in the enemy camp, the alliance between the taluqdars, the sepoys and the population breaks down. Unfortunately, for the time being, all his attempts at stirring up discord have been in vain. The police superintendent in the town of Bareilly even returned the fifty thousand rupees sent to him to pay agitators capable of creating discord between Hindus and Muslims. Despite the large sums offered, he had not been able to buy anyone’s collaboration.
One of his companions tells a joke, suddenly drawing the colonel out of his grim reflections:
“Have you heard the latest rumour? The court superintendent, the eunuch Mammoo, is supposed to be the regent’s lover and may even have fathered the young king!”
“A eunuch, how would it be possible?”
“Apparently, in some cases, the castration is not completed, or the person doing it takes pity on them. It has already happened that alleged eunuchs procreate. In any event, that would explain the begum’s special attachment to her servant and his incredible rise to the position of head of the royal household.”
“But then Birjis Qadar would only be a bastard wi
thout special rights or entitlements to the throne,” exclaims the colonel. “Do you realise what this means, gentlemen?”
And, seeing his officers’ bewilderment:
“It is a unique opportunity to throw the enemy camp into confusion. The cavalry already greatly resented the enthronement of such a young child. If the rumour that he is not Wajid Ali Shah’s son is given credence, both he and his mother will lose all legitimacy. The taluqdars, the rajahs and the sepoys will be so busy tearing each other apart over a new candidate that, in the meantime, they will not bother mounting operations against us.”
“But if it were slander?”
“What does it matter! We must spread the rumour, discredit the regent, create doubt about this Birjis: is he the king’s son or the son of a slave! False rumours have always been one of the most powerful weapons in warfare, often more efficient than cannons. Send our spies into town immediately, and have them cast doubts in everyone’s minds.”
20
At 9 A.M. on July 20th, a huge explosion startles Major Banks as he is sipping his morning tea. A cloud of dust rises near the batteries positioned to the west of the Residency: a mine has just exploded.
The clarions immediately sound the alarm. Led by their officers, the artillerists race to their positions, and the infantry moves in behind the trenches. From the direction of the town, a human tide advances towards them, the flags of Awadh flying at the centre, alongside the rajahs’ pennants. Their cries of “Har Har Mahadev!” celebrating Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction, and “Allah hu Akbar!” rend the air as thousands of sepoys prepare to attack.
The mine, placed under cover of darkness, has just exploded near to the Redan Battery, the most important British cannon unit. It should have opened a breach in the rampart walls, large enough for the attackers to scramble through and take over the Residency. Just barely after impact, and through the thick smoke, the Indian infantry makes headway swiftly while the artillery discharges incendiary shells to set the Residency buildings on fire. However, as the soldiers approach, they are met with intense bombardment and rifle fire. They had badly miscalculated the actual location of the mine and so the undamaged British batteries can spew their deadly fire.
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 18
