In the City of Gold and Silver (25 page)

 

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 . . .

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!”

F
orward, 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 action. 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 a message to the commander-in-chief, he writes:

 

“My officers, in whom I have total confidence, are all of the opinion that with the forces at our disposal, our advance on Lucknow is destined to fail. To confront the enemy in our current condition would be to court the total annihilation of our troops.”*

 

With a heavy heart, he decides to delay the operation to save his compatriots. He leads his remaining men back over the Ganges to regain Kanpur, where they will await the convoy.

When news of the British retreat reaches the citizens of Lucknow, the town resounds with cries of joy. Men dance to the beat of tablas in the streets decorated with flags, celebrating what they consider a victory. There is not a single Englishman left in the entire state of Awadh, apart from those besieged inside the Residency. Soon, they hope, not one will be left in the whole of India!

 

Not a single British person in India, is it possible . . . ?

Poring over the Ordnance Survey maps, Hazrat Mahal listens attentively to Rajah Jai Lal's explanations. It is August 1857.Two thirds of the Bengal army has joined the rebellion—that is to say, eighty thousand sepoys and tens of thousands of volunteers—including the troops belonging to a number of taluqdars. Meanwhile, after their humiliating defeat at Chinhat, the British regiments are besieged in Lucknow and Agra, and stalled outside Delhi.

“The insurrection has also spread to several central states,” explains Jai Lal, “not that the ever-prudent princes have adopted a clear position. But a number of sepoy regiments have revolted, with the support of the local populations: Gwalior, Indore, Banda, Nowgong, Mhow, Sagar, Sehore and, of course, Jhansi. In the state of Bhopal, the begum has to contend with the nationalists, who have appropriated vast territories and contest her alliance with the British. It is the same in Bundelkhand and Rajputana. In Maharashtra, the town of Poona, to the south of Bombay, has rebelled, and we can hope to see a general uprising in the Mahratta principalities in the name of Nana Sahib, the peishwa's heir.”

“And what are the British doing?”

“They have finally got over their surprise! There were troops on their way to China, but London had them redirected to India. These troops are moving towards the centre of the country with the Bombay and Madras armies, as well as the Sikhs who have remained loyal to the Company. Our forces must act quickly: if the popular revolt spreads successfully towards the west and the south, influential sovereigns like the
Nizam
72
of Hyderabad and the Maharajahs of Gwalior and Indore will realise it is in their interest to support it. The other princes will soon follow suit and that will be the end of British rule!”

Hazrat Mahal does not dare to believe it . . . Can popular courage and determination really transform the whole country? Will the great princes risk a confrontation with the British? She recalls that she herself had, for a long time, only fought to convince the British powers to revoke their decision and reinstate her husband to the throne of Awadh. Like her entourage, her horizons were limited to demanding justice from an immutable master. However, day after day, massacre after massacre, she has realised it is no longer a question of asking or conceding. The conflict has escalated to such an extent, it has now reached a point of no return.