In the City of Gold and Silver (32 page)

How could she imagine at that moment that the ring, later found amongst the young man's belongings, would confirm Colonel Inglis's suspicions? He had been mistrustful of the king's ex-horticulturist for a while now.

A week after his visit to Kaisarbagh, William is to be convicted of treason and shot on the spot.

 

Left alone with the rajah, Hazrat Mahal holds her head in her hands.

“Who could have betrayed us like that? How am I to live, knowing that I am surrounded by spies, even amongst those closest to me?”

“You will have to be even more vigilant, Huzoor. In your position, you can trust no one.”

Her eyes shining with tears, she stammers:

“Not even you?”

She seems so lost that Jai Lal is moved. For the first time since their quarrel, he relents, and in an attempt to comfort her, says:

“Yes, of course you can trust me, as I hold nothing more sacred than the freedom of our country. I will always be there to help you.”

She turns towards him, she wants to take hold of his hands, to feel their reassuring warmth; suddenly she feels so vulnerable . . .

With an effort of willpower, she pulls herself together, and in a strangled voice says:

“I thank you, Rajah Sahib. Your presence beside me is infinitely . . . precious.”

She has just stopped herself from using the words “essential,” “indispensable” . . . She has no right to. How could she betray the king at the very moment when all hope of freeing him has vanished?

The rajah seems to read her thoughts; he nods slowly, he understands her scruples—he shares them—and respects her all the more for it.

He also knows, though, that he cannot continue to lie to himself. This queen, whose intelligence and willpower he admires, this sovereign, at times petulant and haughty, at others kind and disconcertingly simple, this woman who, at this moment, seems so terribly fragile . . . He feels for her something he has never felt before. It is not only desire—the carnal desire he had felt for the beautiful courtesans of the Chowk—although sometimes he has to force himself not to take
 
Hazrat Mahal in his arms. It is far from the lukewarm quiescence he shares with the mother of his children. In front of the young woman, he is overcome by an
 
immense tenderness, an attraction which all his powers of reason and even his cynicism cannot fight off. It frightens him. For the first time in his life, he feels overwhelmed by emotions he cannot control. Making a huge effort to conceal his feelings, the rajah bows to the regent, and, assuring her of his devotion, he takes his leave.

 

* * *

 

Since the fall of Delhi, Lucknow has become the rallying point for the insurgents. Thousands of sepoys arrive from the imperial capital. Groups of peasants from villages all over Awadh, armed with clubs, pitchforks and scythes, converge on the main town of the rebellion, where a military command and a legitimate authority still stand. For these men, the Queen Mother represents the fighting mother and the little king, Birjis Qadar-Krishna, unity between Hindus and Muslims.

Awadh's aristocracy has also joined the revolt with its private armies. Amongst the new reception is a prestigious personality whose reputation for bravery has already reached Lucknow. Prince Firoz Shah, the Mughal emperor's nephew, has just arrived with a small troop.

Preceded by the royal orchestra and accompanied by a majestic procession, a delegation of rajahs has gone to welcome him and escort him to Khurshid Manzil Palace, close to Kaisarbagh. This afternoon, the prince is expected at the Court. The Queen Mother is impatient to hear an eyewitness account of the battle of Delhi.

When he enters, she cannot suppress a feeling of disappointment. Small and thin in his brocade choga, Firoz Shah hardly resembles the warrior whose praises had been sung to her. It is only when the young man starts talking, eyes shining in his amazingly expressive face, that, captivated by the charm of his warm voice, she begins to understand the influence he exercises over all who come in contact with him.

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.
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“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,
Shahzadeh
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?”

“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's
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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 peasants, 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!”