For hours he recounts the agony of Delhi, how the population was suffering from hunger and thirst, the British having blocked the canal providing the town with water and destroyed the harvests, and how the rebel government no longer had enough funds to feed the army. As a result, increasing numbers of soldiers had deserted.
He describes the sepoys’ quarrelsome and disorganised authority and the inability of the old emperor to control anything. He was disrespected even in his own palace, invaded by a rabble of soldiers. One of his sons, Mirza Mughal, had taken command of the army, but the other generals contested his authority to such an extent that the regiments were incapable of any unity of action. Lastly, there was a severe shortage of gunpowder, as the British had set fire to the main depot.
At the beginning of September, the British had launched the attack, supported by a six-mile-long siege train.80
“For three days, the cannons bombarded us incessantly. It was like a deluge of fire. Finally, on September 14th, the British began their assault. United at last by the threat of danger, we fought bitterly to defend every inch of land. The British advanced with difficulty through the labyrinth of streets and suffered very heavy losses. It was there, in fact, that General Nicholson was mortally wounded. May his soul be damned! For two whole days, the outcome of the battle remained undecided. However, a whole brigade fled and we were just too few. We needed to revive the resistance of a population who, out of fear, had gone into hiding.
“At our insistence, the emperor agreed to lead the army. You should have seen the crowd of enthusiastic volunteers waiting for him. We could still have won then because the demoralised British soldiers balked at making another foray into the confined, winding streets—a third of them, it seems, had already died there.
“Unfortunately, on the advice of his hakim, an Anglophile traitor, Bahadur Shah Zafar finally backed down and the discouraged crowd dispersed.
“Can one really hold it against him? He is an old man . . . But his act signed the imperial capital’s death sentence. Delhi was slowly abandoned by its last defenders. I myself decided to leave then, considering it useless to have my men killed for the glory of it.
“The town fell on September 20th. We know how terrible British vengeance has been. For days, soldiers massacred both fighters and civilians, sparing neither the wounded nor the sick; thousands of prisoners were shot and the palaces pillaged and vandalised.”
“And the emperor?”
“Bahadur Shah Zafar had taken refuge with his family a few miles outside town, in his ancestor Emperor Humayun’s mausoleum. Informed by a spy, Captain William Hodson—an adventurer who had earlier been condemned for embezzlement—went in search of him and convinced him to surrender, assuring him that he would be treated with all the honours due to his rank. I have since learnt that the emperor is imprisoned in a small barred cell, on display and ridiculed by mocking visitors . . .
“As for his three sons accompanying him, Hodson had promised their lives would be spared, if they surrendered. Nonetheless, along the way he managed to separate them from their retinue, forced them to take off their clothes and shot them at point blank range.”
“How terrible!” shivers Hazrat Mahal. “How can these people not honour their own promises? I hope that his superiors punished this man accordingly!”
“Not in the least! Even if his commanding officers disapprove of his behaviour, they can say nothing. Hodson is now considered a hero, both here and in England.”
These words are received with disillusioned nods; everyone is quiet, lost in their thoughts.
To lighten the atmosphere, Hazrat Mahal signals to some young servants to distribute hookahs and serve mango and rose sherbets.
And, turning towards the prince:
“Are you going to stay with us, Shahzadeh81?”
“It would be my greatest desire, Huzoor,” he answers, staring at Hazrat Mahal in admiration.
She feels herself blush. The conflict and its tragedies have hardened her but have in no way made her insensitive to compliments.
“You are even more beautiful than people say,” he murmurs.
She knows she should seem offended and turn away, but it has been so long since anyone has admired anything but her courage and her intelligence, she feels like a butterfly thirsting after nectar.
The sensation of someone staring at her neck compels her to turn around: Rajah Jai Lal is watching her coldly.
As disturbed as she is irritated, she looks him up and down. Why should she feel guilty at taking pleasure in the charming turquoise prince’s82 compliments? Words that are of no consequence and are so pleasing to hear . . .
“Regrettably I must leave,” continues the latter. “I am going to the Central Provinces to lend my support to the freedom movement. We must encourage uprisings on all fronts simultaneously. It is our only hope of doing away with the British. The population is ready but incapable of organising themselves on their own and, unfortunately, the majority of the sepoys have left for the big towns.
“If you wish, though, I will leave you one of my best lieutenants. He has heard a great deal about you and dreams of serving you. I thought it could be useful to have someone at your side who knows perfectly the way the enemy thinks and reacts. Shall I summon him?”
With Hazrat Mahal’s consent, Firoz Shah’s lieutenant enters. He is a tall, blond lad, his complexion reddened by the sun. He bows respectfully before the regent.
Astounded, she turns to the prince.
“But he is English!”
“No, Irish. His name is Brendan Murphy.”
“To me they are one and the same. I do not want a European in my retinue. We already have enough spies amongst our own kind.”
The exchange has taken place in Urdu to prevent Murphy from understanding. The latter, still standing, smiles: he understands Urdu perfectly, but he also understands the regent’s reaction.
Firoz Shah stands up:
“I do not want to influence you. Talk to him yourself and decide.”
Shadows pervade the large drawing room as the servants start lighting the silver torches, while the Queen Mother and the lieutenant continue to converse.
Brendan Murphy recounts how he signed up for the British army in 1846 because people were dying of hunger at home. It was during the Great Famine. All the cereals and meat the country produced in vast quantities were being exported, and the potato harvest, the only food left to the peasants, had been destroyed by mildew.
“Exported by whom?” asks Hazrat Mahal, who does not fully understand.
“By the English, who colonised our country at the end of the Middle Ages, just as they are colonising yours! Four centuries ago, our lands were seized by colonialists from Great Britain, and the former owners were reduced to farmers who could be dismissed at will.”
“Are you telling me that the English colonised you, Christian Europeans, just as they are colonising us, the ‘natives,’ and, moreover, ‘pagans?’” exclaims the astonished begum.
“Absolutely! And just like you, we rebelled. In the 17th century, Irish peasants massacred thousands of colonisers. This led to the terrible repression by Oliver Cromwell, the new ruler of England. From then onwards, the population was totally subjected to the authority of English Protestant stock, who had appropriated all the powers. First they attacked religion, and then the clergy, who were giving the people the courage to resist. The priests refusing to swear loyalty to the Protestant king were banished or hung. Penal laws were introduced: speaking our own language, Gaelic, was forbidden, practising our religion was forbidden, any kind of education was also forbidden. The population was not only reduced to misery, it was crushed. Yet it continued to resist.
“In May 1798, the Great Revolt took place. On both sides, property was burnt and people were slaughtered. The English had the upper hand. The majority of the rebels were poor peasa
nts, with neither weapons nor discipline. The repression was terrible. My grandfather had participated in the movement. He was killed, along with his whole family, except for his youngest son—a five-year-old who had hidden in the hay. That boy was my father. He was raised by distant relatives, and when he grew up, he always avoided politics. He worked as a peasant but had learnt to read and write, which gave him the status of a scholar in the village. It was a time when priests said Mass and conducted classes in the secrecy of roadside ditches.
“I learnt everything I know from my father. In 1845, the year the Great Famine struck my country, I was seventeen. It lasted four years. Out of a population of eight million Irish, a million died of starvation. Another million became exiles, including myself. But since the beginning of the century, Great Britain needed soldiers for her colonies. Thus, in 1846, as I had no other option, I enlisted in the army and came to India.”
The begum cannot believe it.
“But why were you, the Irish, treated like that?”
“As always and everywhere, people use moral reasons to invade a country and appropriate its wealth. Ireland’s wealth lies in its agriculture. You, here in India, have gold, precious stones, spices, as well as silk and cotton that are needed for the mills, which are constantly growing in numbers. These raw materials are so important at the moment that the headlines in the British press read: ‘The loss of India will be a mortal blow to our commerce and industry.’”*
Hazrat Mahal nods; however, a detail intrigues her:
“It seems to me you understand Urdu. Where did you learn it?”
With a burst of laughter, the Irishman retorts:
“Quite simply, from my wife! I married an Indian woman and we have two wonderful children!”
The begum also starts laughing.
“I like you, Mr. Murphy, but you must meet Rajah Jai Lal Singh. When it comes to army matters, he is the one who decides.”
This is how Brendan Murphy, an Irishman from County Cork, was enrolled in the service of the kingdom of Awadh to fight the British occupation. He became Rajah Jai Lal’s right-hand man, and the rajah soon made a good friend of him too.
27
It is early November 1857, and Lucknow is preparing to withstand yet another assault. Fighters stream in from all over the country to lend their support to the resistance. There are now more than fifty thousand soldiers in the town—an impressive force but a liability too. All these men have to be fed and armed, and despite the administration’s best efforts to collect taxes, the coffers are almost empty. Consequently, Rajah Jai Lal was forced to announce that the new arrivals would earn only half of what Awadh’s regular army was paid, which provoked discontentment amongst the men, a predicament that Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah quickly turned to his advantage.
“God’s messenger” promised any sepoy who would join him, the same pay as the Lucknow sepoys, and so he managed to double the capacity of his forces at the regent’s expense. Thus emboldened, the maulvi never wastes an opportunity to criticise what he scornfully calls “the Court party.”
“This cannot continue. I must talk to him,” decides Hazrat Mahal.
“Do you think it is worthwhile?” objects Jai Lal. “He certainly has not forgotten the failure of Operation Muharram and the reluctance of our troops to support him.”
“I must try . . . After all, we have a common enemy, we have to work together.”
To flatter the maulvi, the regent has decided to receive him with all the honours befitting important dignitaries.
The meeting takes place in the throne room, in the presence of the king and some ministers. The begum is all smiles and attention. However, she has misjudged the man, who now considers himself her rival. Far from being appeased by the Queen Mother’s decorum and amiability, Ahmadullah Shah interprets it as a recognition of his importance and the fear he inspires. He launches into a virulent diatribe, accusing the generals of incompetence and cowardice, and goes so far as to question the Court’s commitment to the freedom movement.
“Enough!”
Hazrat Mahal interrupts, glaring at him:
“Are you perchance insinuating that I too, could be a traitor?”
The maulvi hesitates, then says disdainfully:
“Maybe you are being misled . . . Women are unfit to manage state affairs. They are too weak and easily influenced.”
“Really?” scoffs the begum. “So how is it that over the centuries, women have so often governed Indian states? Have you never heard of Razia Sultana, whose father designated her to succeed him on the throne of Delhi in 1236, as he considered her more capable than her brothers? She proved to be a skilful warrior and a remarkable administrator, re-establishing order in the country, encouraging commerce and supporting the arts. And the great Nur Jahan, Emperor Jahangir’s wife, who, in the 17th century, led the Mughal Empire while her husband revelled in poetry and drink? And the sovereigns of Bhopal—one of the largest Muslim principalities in India—first Qudsia Begum and now her daughter, Begum Sikander? And also the Rani of Jhansi, who, at the head of her army, is currently leading the revolt against the occupier? And so many others . . . Are they all, in your opinion, weak and easily influenced women?”
At the audience’s laughter, Ahmadullah Shah tenses.
“As a good Muslim, I respect the Holy Book that proclaims: ‘A state governed by a woman is bound to fail.’”
“It is not written in the Holy Quran! As a ‘good Muslim’ you know that very well indeed!” exclaims the begum indignantly. “On the contrary, the Prophet gave women rights that no Christian, Jewish or Hindu woman had at the time, and would only acquire centuries later: the right to inheritance, the right to dispose of her property as she sees fit, and the right to conduct business. Some women were even nominated to the position of cadis.”83
“At least they had the decency to wear the veil as is ordained,” retorts the maulvi, throwing a nasty look at her jet-black hair covered with simple translucent gauze.
“Yet another invention! Nowhere in the Quran does it state that the face has to be hidden, not even the hair! Women are only asked to be modest.”
As the maulvi raises his eyes skyward, she orders:
“Mammoo Khan, bring me my Quran.”
A few seconds later, it is placed in her hands.
“Listen to the only two passages in the whole Book that deal with the veil:
“And say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what (must ordinarily) appear thereof; that they should draw their shawls over their bosoms . . .’84
“And: ‘O Prophet! Tell thy wives and daughters, and the believing women, that they should cast their outer garments over their persons . . .’”85
Turning to the maulvi:
“Over the centuries, men have perverted the meaning of the Prophet’s teachings. How could he have advised women to remain cloistered when his first wife, Khadija, was a skilled businesswoman, and his youngest wife, Aisha, used to attend dinners with him and his friends? They discussed everything, especially politics!”
“It is all clearly stated,” confirms the Rajah of Mahmudabad, “but as the common people cannot read Arabic and even amongst the Arabs there are few who understand the literary language used in the Quran, the ulemas interpret it as they please!”
Furious at finding himself challenged before the whole assembly, the maulvi rises.
“You are insulting the ulemas! You are insulting the Holy Quran! Allah will punish you!” he thunders.
And thrusting aside the eunuchs on guard, he leaves the throne room as if he were fleeing the devil personified.
* * *
The new commander-in-chief of the Indian army, Sir Colin Campbell, is a sixty-five-year-old Scotsman who belongs to a famous clan, but one of its impoverished branches—his
father was a carpenter by profession. As he could not afford to purchase an officer’s rank—as was the custom at the time for sons from good families—he was forced to earn his promotions on the battlefield. His courage during the war against the Sikhs in the Punjab, then in the Crimean War, earned him a reputation as a hero.
Described in Calcutta’s British circles as a “little fellow, foul-mouthed and ugly,” he has nonetheless won the trust of Queen Victoria, who has come to appreciate her Scottish subjects since settling down in Balmoral. Campbell’s soldiers, particularly the Highlander Regiment, adore him, and these rough men from the Scottish highlands are the only ones in whom he has complete faith.
On October 28th, Sir Colin has left Calcutta to meet up with the forces stationed in Kanpur in an attempt to rescue the city of Lucknow. His priority is to liberate the Residency that has been resisting enemy attacks for four months now, thus becoming, throughout the Anglo-Saxon world, a symbol of the white race’s courage and superiority.
He reaches Kanpur on November 3rd at the head of three thousand five hundred men. There, like General Outram before him, he tries to establish contact with the local notables, making them all sorts of promises. To no avail. No one is willing to cooperate, or even to provide food supplies for the British. Campbell then decides to assemble all the troops located upstream of Benares, and, accompanied by five thousand men and about fifty cannons and mortars, he sets off for Lucknow.
However, at the last minute he hesitates, having learnt that General Tantia Tope is heading towards Kanpur with the formidable Gwalior contingent, which revolted against their maharajah. In England, though, the enraged press leaves him no choice. General Windham will remain in Kanpur with two thousand men.
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 25
