Spurred on by their leaders’ calls of “Chalo Bahadur!”69 the waves of insurgents continue to move forward under the hail of bullets. Although they fall by the hundreds, some manage to reach the palisades. Pressing against them, safe from the bullets and cannon fire, they catch their breath and then relaunch an attack. Appearing from all directions, they try to break through the ramparts, fighting a merciless hand-to-hand combat with swords and bayonets; they slip in the pools of blood on the ground covered with corpses.
Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah leads the attack on the Bailey Gate70 side. He has found an ingenuous defence tactic to protect his men from enemy fire: the soldiers advance, concealed behind bales of cotton, and before the British realise the ploy, the Indians reach the foot of the ramparts. Once there, spurred on by the maulvi brandishing the green flag of Islam, his troops separate into two groups that push forward, heedless of the gunfire, until they capture an enemy battery. In a panic, the British artillerists call for reinforcements, and a furious battle ensues. The Indians seem to have gained the upper hand, when suddenly, under the astonished gaze of the British, instead of pursuing their advantage, they begin to retreat.
It is later discovered that, at this crucial moment, the Indians found out their ammunition supply was exhausted. The maulvi will never forgive the high command for this negligence, which he suspects was deliberate. From that moment on, he decides to fight the occupying forces alone.
The battle lasts seven hours. Both sides clash with equal ferocity. Finally, at about 4 P.M., the sepoys are given orders to retreat. They leave hundreds of dead and wounded behind on the battlefield; they will return to fetch them after dark with the tacit agreement of the British, who fear the bodies rotting in the intense summer heat will provoke an outbreak of disease.
As for the British, they have lost about twenty men—excluding the native soldiers, whose numbers are not counted. To their great distress, Major Banks, their chief commissioner, was struck down by a cannonball. The whole command is now in Colonel Inglis’s hands.
Late in the evening, summoned by the Regent Hazrat Mahal, Rajah Jai Lal arrives at Chaulakhi Palace, still covered in dust. He finds her in a state of great agitation. He has barely completed his greeting, when she demands:
“What happened, Rajah Sahib? How can a few hundred British have held off an army of eight thousand Indians? This attack had been prepared for weeks, we sent in our best troops! Why this shameful defeat?”
“It is not for lack of courage, Huzoor, our men fought like lions. They resisted for hours against a firepower far superior to our own. Not one tried to flee. The number of dead and wounded bears witness to their courage and devotion. They deserve to be congratulated, not criticised.”
“But then why did we lose?” insists Hazrat Mahal, caught off guard and somewhat disconcerted.
“Because of our inferior weaponry. Both our rifles and cannons have too short a range. We also have a problem with the commanders: our officers are undisciplined and despite instructions, they launch frontal attacks, deeming courage more important than tactics. And finally, we do not have any competent strategists, as the Company has never allowed an Indian to rise beyond the rank of non-commissioned officer, nor command a unit any bigger than a company. None of our subedars71 have been trained in military operations, they have no idea of logistics. In my case, everything I learnt was gleaned from books describing the great battles of the century.”
“Still, it was you who devised a strategy for this attack?” persists the young woman.
“Yes, and I thought I had succeeded in convincing the officers to follow it. As soon as the mine exploded, an advance party was to check that the breach was wide enough for us to get through it. The fire from the artillery barrage was to create a diversion while the infantry took the opportunity to advance along the flanks. Instead, as soon as the mine blew up, the soldiers rushed in led by their officers. Once the smokescreen dispersed, they found themselves face to face with the enemy, who were still well protected and shooting at them from behind their undamaged fortifications. It turned into a massacre. An unnecessary massacre due to lack of discipline and a burst of enthusiasm. The truth is, our sepoys are too courageous—for them, life does not count for much.”
“Unlike the Europeans, who value life so highly that they see death, the inevitable ending, as a real tragedy!” comments Hazrat Mahal disdainfully. “I am, of course, referring to the death of British men. They do not even bother to count their dead Indians.”
The rajah asks permission to retire. It had been a long day and he still wants to visit the barracks to reassure his soldiers.
Alone, Hazrat Mahal paces up and down her apartments. Despite the late hour, she knows sleep will not come easily. Her thoughts return to all these young soldiers who set off full of fervour this morning . . . and are dead this evening . . . for nothing?
No, Jai Lal is wrong. These men are not dying for nothing. They are dying for their freedom, their dignity. By taking part in the battle, they are no longer poor wretches crushed by their daily cares. Their miserable existence finally has meaning. It matters little to them if they lose their lives, they will be heroes for eternity. This indifference to death is our army’s strength but also its weakness, as our soldiers take unnecessary risks. While the British fight to win, our men fight to surpass themselves and attain glory.
The following morning, Hazrat Mahal sends someone to fetch the rajah. She has spent the night mulling over the reasons for the defeat and wondering how they can improve the situation. She wants to discuss the matter with him.
The messenger returns alone: the rajah is not at home.
Mammoo has come as usual, bringing the latest news. Seeing the begum’s astonishment, he takes great delight in informing her:
“He spent the night at the Chowk with the courtesans.”
And in response to Hazrat Mahal’s amazed expression, he adds maliciously:
“Despite the gravity of the situation, he does not seem to be able to stay away from them.”
This is the perfect opportunity for him to take his revenge. The eunuch finds it difficult to accept the place the rajah has come to occupy in the begum’s life. After all, it was he, Mammoo, who had been her only confidant for ten years. He was the one who had supported and encouraged her in her worst moments. With rage in his heart, he watched this newcomer gradually win the regent’s trust. Now she consults the rajah on everything, just as she used to consult him, Mammoo, during the blessed time when she was locked up in the zenana, and he was her only link with the outside world.
The worst is when she welcomes the rajah with her happy smile—a smile she had never had for him. Watching them, he feels a rush of jealous rage. He had believed her different from the other feather-brained women, who judge a man by his bearing. Could she possibly be attracted to this lout because he is tall and well built? Does she find him intelligent, when he is, in fact, only a smooth talker?
I will not let it happen. I will not let her forget who she is: the wife and the mother of a king, the powerful regent whom everyone must respect . . .
No one knows the young woman better than he does. How could anyone advise and protect her better than he can? He vows he will do his utmost to watch over her, as it is his duty, and shrugging his shoulders, he stifles a small warning voice whispering to him that he is actually mainly defending his own interests.
How can he? And I believed . . .
Alone again, Hazrat Mahal bites her lip in fury, her eyes fill with tears of disappointment. How can she have been so silly? This man, whom she admires to such an extent that she asks his opinion on all the affairs of the kingdom; this man, whose integrity she respected so highly, is only a vulgar hedonist! Barely out of her presence, he goes to cavort with the courtesans! Ah, he has made a real fool of her! How he must have laughed at her innocence . . .
She will tell him . . .
&
nbsp; She stops short.
What can she say to him? She has no claim on him, no right whatsoever to comment on his private life . . . their relationship goes no further than work . . .
Yet . . . Did I imagine the gleam in his eyes when I appear? Did I dream the gentleness I hear in his voice when he feels I am worried? Could it all be an act put on by a charmer, or worse, an opportunist?
At 5 P.M., punctual as always, the rajah arrives for his daily interview with the regent. Hazrat Mahal had long hesitated to receive him. If she listened to herself, she would immediately break off all relations with him. However, that would lead everybody, especially the rajah himself, to wonder why. The real reason must remain a secret. Today she needs his advice more than ever: she has to find the means to help the families of the soldiers who died on the battlefield. Unless they are convinced that their children will not be left to die of hunger, a large number of the sepoys may well return to their villages, just when they are needed the most. The rumor that British regiments have moved out of Allahabad and are marching on Lucknow has been confirmed.
The meeting is to be brief. With unusual formality, Hazrat Mahal enquires about the possibilities of raising funds, and the rajah suggests reinstating the taxes levied on the taluqdars’ domains, interrupted due to the war. They also decide to publish an edict allowing the sepoys to pillage traitors but prohibiting them—under threat of the severest punishment—from attacking property belonging to ordinary citizens, whom they are supposed to be protecting.
Never has Hazrat Mahal been so distant with the rajah, never has she indicated so clearly that she is the sovereign. Hurt by her demeanour, which he attributes to the previous day’s defeat—a reaction he finds unfair—Jai Lal takes refuge in a purely professional attitude and they separate coldly, annoyed with one another.
They are not given the time to dwell on their irritation though. Urgent business demands their attention.
After a tough battle, General Havelock had routed Nana Sahib’s army. Preceded by an advance party led by Major Renaud, who has sworn to “exterminate all these niggers,”* the general’s troops had proceeded to Kanpur, burning villages and fields along the way. In the town deserted by Nana’s forces, they had killed part of the population but had not lingered there. Leaving behind the dreaded Colonel Neill, a religious fanatic who believes himself destined for the most glorious future, they had immediately set off for Lucknow, hurrying to the aid of their compatriots besieged in the Residency.
Every day messengers reach Lucknow bringing the latest news. Soon, hundreds of escapees, more dead than alive, pour into the capital. They have horrific tales to tell: Colonel Neill and his men are not content with massacring the population of Kanpur and the surrounding villages, sparing neither women nor children; besides torturing their victims, they pollute them in order to ensure they find no peace even after death.
“I saw them stitch Muslims into pigskins and force them to eat the fat, despite all their screams and cries for mercy,” relates an old peasant. “As for the Hindus, they stitched them up too, but in cow skins, forcing pieces of the sacred animal down their throats. As long as I live, I will never forget the heartrending cries uttered by those men, usually so stoical in the face of suffering and death. Thus polluted, they knew themselves eternally damned. The British laughed and insulted them, then, tiring of their cries, they closed the bags and let them suffocate to death. Finally, they had them undergo rituals contrary to the principles of their religion—incinerating the Muslims and burying the Hindus.”
“The monsters!” Hazrat Mahal shivers in horror. “How can they be so cruel? Is it not sufficient to kill the enemy? Must they punish them beyond death, closing the door to eternal life, the only one that really matters to them?”
“Maybe it is because of the women and children imprisoned in Bibighar,” hazards a sepoy recently arrived from Kanpur.
His eyes glued to the ground, he continues in a barely audible voice:
“I was lucky enough to hide myself, but my comrades were forced to follow orders. General Tantia Tope threatened to hang them high if they refused.”
“If they refused what?” enquires Hazrat Mahal, worried.
“If they refused to kill the prisoners . . . ”
“Kill defenceless women and children!”
“Alas . . . Trembling and with tears streaming down their faces, the sepoys were forced to shoot through the doors and windows, until finally, to spare the victims, they aimed at the ceiling instead. Inside, the prisoners were screaming. After the first volley of fire, the soldiers declared they would rather die than continue. General Tantia Tope had them clapped in irons. I don’t know what happened to them. The virago they call ‘the begum’ went mad with rage. She sent for her lover, one of the Nana’s bodyguards, who arrived accompanied by four men: butchers, armed with swords. As soon as they entered the house, we heard heartbreaking cries and pleas. I fled. I could not bear it any more. Apparently, for half an hour these murderers methodically set about their terrible task. Later, one of them boasted the women clung to his feet, begging him to spare their children, but he showed them no mercy. There were about two hundred victims. Some were left in agony. Throughout the night we could hear their moans.
“The following morning, Tantia Tope sent sepoys to get rid of the bodies. They dumped them in the dry well in the courtyard.
“Two days later, on their arrival, General Havelock and his troops discovered the carnage. In a furious rage, they set off to take revenge on the population. But those responsible were already long gone. It was the innocent who were made to pay, as always, particularly after Colonel Neill took command. They arrested all the men, interrogated them and sentenced the majority to hanging. But before that, under threat of the whip, they were forced to lick the blood spilled on the floor of Bibighar. They were thus condemned to eternal damnation, just like those who had been stitched into pig or cow skins.”
The account is heard in deathly silence. Everyone is aghast; nobody has the heart to make the slightest comment. Long minutes pass before Hazrat Mahal tonelessly declares:
“The British will never forgive this crime. Let us pray that the blood shed by Nana Sahib does not stain us and our children!”
21
Forward, men! We must save our compatriots!”
General Havelock and his small troop forge ahead across the vast plain, striving towards two goals: to rescue the Lucknow Residency before it falls into the hands of the rebels and save the besieged prisoners from being massacred, as they were in Kanpur. Havelock is confident; he is absolutely convinced that God is on his side.
A little white-haired man, the general is the son of a ruined businessman. He joined the Company in India at a very young age and his courage won him dozens of medals, which he always wears proudly, rather like armour across his chest. A staunch Christian, he goes into battle with Christ’s name on his lips. During their free time, he teaches his men hymns from the Bible, and often deplores the fact that the government has not sent out enough missionaries to convert the sepoys to the “true religion.”
The general and his small army have managed to cross the Ganges, but now, about fifty miles from the capital of Awadh, they encounter fierce resistance. Alongside the sepoys, the peasants also retaliate, transforming every hamlet into a fortress. Sheltered by adobe walls or dense foliage, the Indian contingent keeps the British soldiers pinned down, while the women and children ensure a continuous supply of ammunition. There are thousands fighting with courage and tenacity, even in the most desperate of situations—a testament to their unwavering determination.
“Out with the Angrez!” has become their rallying cry.
Nonetheless, Havelock and his troops continue to advance, burning villages and exterminating the inhabitants on the way, “with the help of God, who supports this just and humanitarian cause”* —without seeing the slightest contradiction in their act
ion. If Neill’s name has become synonymous with terror, the pious Havelock is no less feared. When one of his officers asks him for instructions, he replies, “My dear man, hang as many as you want.”* And he recommends prisoners be executed by attaching them to the mouths of cannons.
Describing two young sepoys who were put to death in this manner, one of his officers, Major North, laments:
“They were two boys in the prime of youth—tall, muscular, delicate; they were like antique bronze statues. A second later all that was left of them was shreds of flesh scattered to the winds.”*
However, as the days pass, Sir Henry Havelock comes to realise he is not facing a mere “mutiny,” as his colleagues disdainfully assure him, but a major rebellion involving the whole population. The British have superior weaponry, but the Indians have numbers in their favour: the fatalities on both sides are mounting rapidly.
On August 5th, the British forces are just twenty miles outside Lucknow. En route, the village of Bashiratganj resists. Given the heavy firepower from the Howitzers and the artillery troops, the Indian infantry at the centre begins to retreat, while the artillery on both flanks stands firm. But soon, in a rapid manoeuvre the Indian troops attack from the rear, and before the British grasp what is happening, they find themselves surrounded. With great difficulty, they eventually manage to free themselves, leaving behind about a hundred dead.
Havelock finally recognises that if he continues in this manner, he and his thousand soldiers will all be killed, even before they reach the capital. Although he has telegraphed Calcutta, asking them to send reinforcements urgently, the Governor General Lord Canning has no intention of depleting his defences and he sends help only sparingly. In addition, the military convoy advances very slowly. Havelock knows that all his telegrams will change nothing: given the dangers and the unbearable heat, it will easily take four to five weeks before reinforcements arrive.
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 19
