In the City of Gold and Silver

by Kenize Mourad

  Faced with the strength of the enemy forces, some taluqdars have chosen to flee, deserting with their troops. Apart from the thirty thousand sepoys, only ten thousand or so ill-prepared volunteers are left. Despite his best efforts to organise and reassure them, Jai Lal can feel their anxiety mounting, especially after news of the presence of the “Nepali demons” has been confirmed. He needs help to comfort and motivate his men to continue the fight.

  Hazrat Mahal had accepted immediately. The king and she will come to talk to the soldiers.

  On this afternoon of March 5th, thousands of soldiers assembled in the immense Kaisarbagh garden stand in the sun awaiting the young sovereign, to whom they had sworn allegiance barely eight months ago.

  When the king and his mother finally appear on the balcony, a wave of fervour runs through the crowd, cheers and blessings ring out from all sides.

  In the background, Jai Lal waits for the enthusiasm to abate, but the men do not seem to tire of bellowing out their joy. He is obliged to call for silence in order to allow the king to speak. Birjis Qadar steps forward, dressed very simply in a white cotton churidar and kurta—clothes dear to the Lucknawis’ hearts—and wearing a royal mandil on his head.

  In a vibrant but poised voice, he evokes his father, Wajid Ali Shah: “Your king, who is a prisoner in Fort William, is counting on all of you to defeat the Angrez so that he can return to Awadh and re-establish an era of prosperity and dignity.”

  The adolescent is never presumptuous, nor does he assert himself as the sovereign. In a society where respect for elders is a supreme value, his modesty wins him hearts. He is cheered: so young and so wise! The rough sepoys are moved to tears.

  With a gesture, Birjis Qadar silences the ovations.

  “Now, the person whom I admire the most in the world, who with her courage and determination presides over our destinies, the Queen, my mother, will speak to you.”

  Hazrat Mahal corrects him immediately:

  “It is not I, my son,” and turning to the soldiers, “it is all of you fighters gathered here, with your courage and loyalty, who hold the destiny of Awadh in your hands! It is you whom we should honour and thank. We place ourselves in your hands.”

  With an ample gesture she reaches out to the crowd, as if she wants to embrace all of them in gratitude.

  Amazed and fascinated, the audience contemplates this exceptional woman, this queen, so beautiful and noble, who is paying homage to them: simple peasants, mere soldiers. In the silence, Hazrat Mahal signals to Jai Lal to approach.

  “I particularly want to thank your leader, Rajah Jai Lal, whose foresight and courage we all appreciate. He does and will do his utmost to protect you, for he loves you as his children. Under his leadership, you won a memorable victory at Chinhat, and for months, you have been holding off the enemy. Under his leadership, we will win!”

  Her words are greeted with frenetic hurrahs. These men, who have always sacrificed themselves for their masters, have never felt so highly recognised and honoured. They are overcome with emotion; they laugh and cry at the same time. Galvanised, they brandish their rifles, their scythes, their lances. They are no longer afraid, they are no longer doubtful. They are ready to fight for the Queen Mother, the king and the country. Knowing how important it is for the people to be able to approach those they admire, the begum has had the royal elephant readied and, contrary to the custom that dictates it be reserved only for the sovereigns, she invites the rajah to join them in the silver howdah. Slowly, they tour the park, acclaimed by the soldiers, who are sensitive to the tribute paid to their leader.

  Although danger is at the gates of Lucknow, Hazrat Mahal is radiant. Surrounded by the two men she loves, amidst the people cheering them, never in her life has she felt this happy.

  30

  On March 6th at dawn, General Sir Colin Campbell launches an attack on Lucknow, which he hopes will be decisive.

  Although outnumbered by the enemy forces, he decides to divide up his troops, contrary to strict military protocol. While he moves in from the southeast, he sends Outram—with seven thousand soldiers and a powerful artillery battery, galvanised by the young Lieutenant Vivian Majendie’s fervour—towards the north, along the supposedly impassable Gomti River. However, overnight, brilliant engineering allows them to construct two makeshift bridges and at dawn, Outram and his troops are able to ford the river.

  Their objective: to capture Chakar Kothi, the racecourse grandstand opposite the Kaisarbagh palaces, and set up the heavy artillery there. The Indian command will thus find itself caught between two lines of fire.

  However, taking the grandstand proves to be a particularly arduous task; a small group of sepoys positioned inside defends it ferociously. In under an hour about twenty British, including an officer, are killed. General Outram then gives the order for the gunners to open fire until all resistance is wiped out.

  Lieutenant Majendie tells the rest of the story in his memoirs:

  “Enraged at having lost Lieutenant Anderson, a very popular officer, a group of our Sikh soldiers rushes into the ruined building and comes out with the only survivor. Seizing him by the legs, they try in vain to tear him apart. This does not work so they drag him along the ground, piercing him with their bayonets. But the worst was yet to come: they improvise a brazier and hold the dying man above it, despite his jerks and his screams. At one moment the man, mad with pain, manages to escape his tormentors and drags himself a few meters along the ground, but they recapture him and again hold him above the fire until he succumbs, atrociously burnt.”

  And Lieutenant Majendie concludes:

  “Thus, in this 19th century that prides itself on its civilisation and humanity, one can roast a human being to death while small groups of Englishmen and Sikhs look on unperturbed!”92

  Meanwhile, to the south, Sir Colin advances methodically. The fortified palaces, the mosques and the mausoleums are being taken one by one. The hardest battle is fought around Begum Kothi, the last palace before Kaisarbagh, which Rajah Jai Lal is defending with his sepoys. For hours they manage to resist, until British cannon fire destroys all the walls and Jai Lal sounds the retreat, judging it futile to sacrifice more men. With a few hundred sepoys, he remains in position to cover the escape while the British move into the kothi.

  The fighting is particularly fierce. Once the sepoys have fired, they do not waste time recharging their rifles, but throw them at the British, using the bayonets like javelins. Then, drawing their swords, they rush in, hurling war cries and finally throwing themselves beneath the enemy bayonets, cutting off legs and feet before they themselves fall, pierced to death.

  There are only a few dozen men left when Jai Lal gives the order to withdraw through a breach in the rear, close to where their horses are waiting. Just as they are leaving, the tall figure of a British officer suddenly appears:

  “Is there anyone here?” he shouts randomly.

  “Yes there is!” retorts Jai Lal, aiming his rifle. He has barely fired the shot, when, stunned, he recognises the soldier who has collapsed on the ground: it is William Hodson, the man who arrested Bahadur Shah Zafar and treacherously assassinated the emperor’s three sons. His picture had appeared in all the major Indian newspapers at the time.

  The shot, however, has alerted the enemy. Jai Lal and his companions barely have time to mount their horses and beat a hasty retreat.

  The news of the death of the most hated Englishman in the whole of India spreads like wildfire throughout the town. As far as the barricades, the name of the hero who has avenged the honour of the fallen but still revered imperial family is acclaimed.

  As soon as he reaches Kaisarbagh Palace, still covered in dust and blood, Jai Lal is received by the young king and the Queen Mother, who express their gratitude before the assembled court. While the enemy cannons continue to boom outside, a ceremony is improvised during which, with great pomp and circu
mstance, Birjis Qadar presents the rajah with a splendid khilat embroidered with gold and pearls.93

  Later that evening, Jai Lal and Hazrat Mahal meet in Mumtaz’s room, connected to the begum’s by a narrow corridor.

  It is now impossible to get to the small house in the old town, further besieged each day by enemy forces. They know they are taking a great risk, but in the general confusion with officers coming and going from one palace to the other, who would be surprised at seeing a masked man entering the former courtesan Mumtaz’s room?

  The only danger is Mammoo Khan, whose jealousy breeds suspicion. He was used to seeing Hazrat Mahal at any time of the day or night, but recently he had provoked her wrath by advising her to negotiate with the British. Contemptuously, the begum had forbidden him to appear before her. Since then he has been nursing his resentment and is not to be seen anywhere.

  Immersed in her happiness, Hazrat Mahal has forgotten about him. Every evening she joins her beloved in the big bed decorated with fragrant jasmine and, until dawn breaks, they lose themselves in each other’s love.

  It is a lingering contemplation, where, trembling, they both discover and revel in one another. Before this man who gives himself without reserve, this warrior who gazes at her with wonderment and the innocence of an adolescent, her restraints and fears dissolve. She caresses his strong, robust body, nestling herself sensually against him, pressing her breasts and her stomach against his, astonished at her own audacity. Very quickly, though, she stops asking herself questions, swept away by a whirlwind, abandoning herself, head thrown back, lips parted in exaltation, caught up in a warm breeze, a deep chant, an intense light that penetrates her whole body; she can feel it growing, escaping her and blossoming into an incandescent explosion.

  Every night they give themselves to each other in a passionate embrace. Every night they know it may be their last.

  31

  General Campbell’s troops methodically take over the town of Lucknow. Avoiding the roads spiked with traps and barricades, they go from house to house, dynamiting the walls to clear a path for themselves, and slaughtering the inhabitants who were unable to flee. The Indians defend the terrain tooth and nail and when they are forced to retreat, they take care to leave bottles of alcohol behind in the abandoned houses, knowing the British soldiers cannot resist the temptation to drink and this will delay their progress that much more.

  From March 9th onwards, the bombing of Kaisarbagh intensifies. Campbell’s cannons in the south are now joined by Outram’s artillery in the north. Nonetheless, the sepoys have sworn to defend the seat of power and to give their lives for the Queen Mother, the king and the country.

  Assisted by Mumtaz and two of the palace hakims, Hazrat Mahal has organised a makeshift dispensary. The Court surgeon has disappeared, doubtless judging it prudent to flee. Apart from dressings of antiseptic herbs for the wounds and ligatures to stem the flow of blood, they cannot do much more, except offer comforting words and administer opium to alleviate the pain.

  However, many, in particular the few remaining ministers in the palace, believe that the regent’s place is not at Kaisarbagh. They attempt to convince her to accompany them to a house far from the combat zone. Hazrat Mahal will have none of it:

  “Leave, Sahiban, the king and I will remain. How could we abandon these thousands of men who are risking their lives for us?”

  As for Jai Lal, he says nothing. She is grateful for this, as his worried expression betrays his concern, but he knows her well enough not to intervene. He understands that she needs to do something, to feel useful. All the more so as this very morning, she has received distressing news: the Queen Mother Malika Kishwar, King Wajid Ali Shah’s mother, had died in Paris two months earlier. The news has just reached India.

  For Hazrat Mahal it has come as a terrible shock. The Queen Mother was the woman whom she admired more than anyone in the world. Demanding and passionate, she was a good judge of people and had never succumbed to flattery. She appreciated her son’s young wife, in whom she recognised a personality as strong as her own, although too outspoken, and she had often warned her against the pitfalls of the Court.

  The Queen Mother had waited months in London for a meeting with Queen Victoria. In vain. In despair, she had decided to return, stopping over in Paris on the way home. Maybe she could convince the French to intervene? In Paris, however, nobody had ever heard of Lucknow or the kingdom of Awadh, and they had paid no attention to this strange old lady. Exhausted and short of funds, the Queen Mother had fallen ill. She had passed away in a modest hotel, attended by her youngest son and two faithful servants. She had been buried in a cemetery called Père-Lachaise.

  Hazrat Mahal tries to console herself with the thought that at least Malika Kishwar died with a clear conscience. She would certainly never have forgiven herself had she not done everything possible trying to save her son’s throne. She was indeed a woman with a sense of duty.

  She trusted me; I will be worthy of that trust. I too will fight to the bitter end.

  The bombing was to continue for two days. Shells rained down on all sides. Jai Lal had a lucky escape and it was with great difficulty that he managed to persuade Hazrat Mahal that she and the young king remain in the basement.

  At present, though, the enemy forces are nearing Kaisarbagh.

  “We will not be able to hold out much longer,” announces the rajah one evening, his face drawn. “You must leave immediately for Musabagh Palace.”

  “I want to remain with you!”

  “And place the king in danger?”

  She shivers.

  “But you . . . ?”

  “I will join you very soon, I promise.”

  He holds her in his arms for a long time.

  “We will meet again soon, my jani! Come now, please, it is time. Night is falling, no one must see you leave the palace. An escort is waiting. We have not a moment to lose.”

  Musabagh is a vast princely residence situated four miles to the north of the town, where the Court used to go to enjoy the fresh country air. In order to avoid attracting attention, the regent, her son and Mumtaz climb into a simple doli,94 escorted by soldiers dressed up as peasants. As they cross the Gomti Bridge, Hazrat Mahal’s hand tightens on the revolver given to her by Jai Lal. She will not have to use it. They reach the palace without hindrance.

  The following day, attacked from all sides, Jai Lal and his three thousand soldiers will be forced to beat a hasty retreat. Two hours later, Kaisarbagh is occupied by the British.

  Their next target is Musabagh.

  * * *

  As soon as she arrived at her new refuge, Hazrat Mahal systematically visited the buildings, appreciating the thickness of the walls and the massive towers, from where one could get a good shot at the attackers. However, the dozens of high doors and arched windows make the palace very vulnerable. All night long, the regent has encouraged her sepoys to erect mud walls and position sandbags to block the openings. When Jai Lal and his soldiers reach Musabagh the next day, he takes over operations himself. Despite his men’s exhaustion, he leaves them no time to rest. They hastily complete the defences and position the cannons on the corner towers and behind the terrace balustrades. Within a few hours, the summer residence is transformed into a fortress.

  Just in time. General Campbell’s troops appear on the horizon.

  For five days and five nights, the palace will resist the violent Howitzer attacks. The Indian cannons vainly try to retaliate; their cannonballs inevitably fall short of the enemy batteries. Then, risking everything, a few volunteers decide to slip out of the palace to steal behind the enemy lines in order to throw grenades at the artillery.

  But before setting off for a certain death, the men have a last request: to be blessed by the king and the Queen Mother.

  Every day, dozens of these men depart to sacrifice their lives in this manner, and every morn
ing the heartbreaking ceremony takes place.

  At the centre of this gathering of soldiers stand King Birjis Qadar and his mother. On behalf of the whole country, they thank the young men for their heroism. This gesture surprises them, as does the depth of emotion the Queen Mother is trying hard to hide. After all, they are only doing their duty!

  However, when this great lady, whom they revere as they do Durga, the warrior goddess, asks their names and those of their native villages in order to assist their families after the victory, it is their turn to weep and shower blessings upon her.

  Each night, Jai Lal and Hazrat Mahal manage to meet, refusing to allow sleep to keep them apart. They feel as if they have known each other forever, as if these short weeks have been years of love and mutual understanding. For the first time, Jai Lal allows himself to voice his doubts, as he knows the young woman silently caressing his forehead can understand and help him. And then, without saying so, he wants to prepare her for a future in which he may no longer be beside her.

  He analyses their tactical errors severely:

  “If the popular uprising had reached the western and central areas, we could have won. The people were ready to rebel, and had started to do so, but they needed leaders. Unfortunately, the sepoys preferred to get to the important centres of rebellion—Delhi, Lucknow, Kanpur—leaving inexperienced civilians to hold off the British return.”

  “We were also betrayed by some of the taluqdars who claimed to be our allies!”

  “Not only the taluqdars. The enemy bought off many people’s loyalty. Indians provided them with food, transport and even information! Sometimes I think that as a people we lack honesty or dedication to any cause that goes beyond our own personal interest. Unlike the British, who are capable of the worst atrocities, but also of the greatest sacrifices for their country.”