In the City of Gold and Silver (15 page)

“Impossible!” object others. “The emissaries made us swear to wait for the signal, all garrisons must rebel together—a surprise effect is needed to be able to overcome the Angrez!”

“We no longer have a choice! Are we going to wait for them to execute us?”

There is a heated debate. They argue and abusive insults are exchanged. Men come in and out, going from one tent to the other to listen to the different opinions, in an attempt to establish a common position.

Taking advantage of the confusion, an old sepoy slips out of the camp. He hurries through the night, keeping to the back roads. After a good hour's walk, out of breath, he finally reaches the high gates of the Residency.

In the bright moonlit night, the mansion looms impressively. A dozen armed guards are posted at the entrance. In vain the man explains he has urgent news for the sahib, he must see him immediately, as it is a question of life or death. The guards do not want to know. It is past midnight, the chief commissioner is asleep, waking him up is out of the question. The sepoy should return the following day.

“Tomorrow all the English officers will have been massacred, and it will be your fault!” shouts the old man in despair, but he realises they think he is mad. Taking advantage of a moment's inattention, he grabs one of the guard's rifles and shoots in the air. He is immediately overpowered and thrown to the ground. Inside the Residency, however, lights have been switched on. Alerted by the sound, Colonel Lawrence's aide-de-camp sends his batman to find out what is going on.

Seething, the old sepoy is roughly pushed towards the house. Sir Henry, woken by the commotion, appears in his dressing gown.

“What is the matter, my good man?” he exclaims, surprised.

“The matter, Sahib, is that these imbeciles of guards are so frightened of disturbing you, they would prefer to see you dead!” explodes the sepoy, and without pausing for breath, he recounts the men's feverish discussions, their absolute determination not to touch the polluted cartridges, their fear of being hanged for indiscipline and their decision to act first, by killing all their officers.

He has barely reached the end of this story, when a messenger on horseback arrives panting, bringing the latest news: the sepoys have just taken over the arms depot!

Sir Henry turns pale; he had bet on his soldiers' loyalty. He was wrong. There is no time to lose.

In under an hour, all the British forces stationed in Lucknow are mobilised: the infantry, the cavalry and the artillery. In the darkness, they stealthily approach the camp and surround the barracks. The sepoys are alerted by the sound of branches cracking, they come out of their tents to find themselves staring into the mouths of British cannons.

The moonlight bathes the two groups of soldiers in an unreal light. They observe each other—allies yesterday, enemies today. No one stirs, aware that the slightest movement could have catastrophic repercussions.

Mounted on his chestnut horse, Sir Henry Lawrence advances toward them.

“Soldiers, listen to me! Some here are trying to fool you and lead you to disaster. I, your commander, give you my word that no impure fat is used in the manufacturing of the new cartridges. Believe me, my good men, over the last thirty years that I have been in India, I have come to know your civilisation and your beliefs, and I respect them—just as I have always appreciated your courage and dedication. I will never betray you! Soldiers, I am counting on your loyalty, but know that those who have betrayed us . . . ”

From within the British ranks, an inopportune shot rings out, interrupting his speech. The sepoys panic; a few remain where they are in a frozen stupor. The majority flee and, using the darkness, try to conceal themselves in the surrounding shrubbery. They are soon caught and handcuffed: is the fact that they fled not proof of their guilt? For hours they are interrogated and whipped
 
to force them to reveal the details of the plot and the names of the instigators. Not one of them speaks.

 

In his office, Sir Henry paces up and down, in his hand a letter one of his spies has just brought. It was sent by the 7th Infantry Regiment of Awadh to the 48th. It states that the soldiers declare their willingness to give their lives to protect their faith and hope the 48th Regiment will join them.

What is to be done? The previous day Lawrence had given orders to disarm all the sepoys. Some of the old faithful soldiers were crying, protesting their loyalty. It had wrung his heart, but he is obliged to enforce respect for British authority, even if in this particular case, he can understand these men. In the past, an assurance from their officers would have sufficed to convince them; today a long list of errors and injustices has made them lose all trust.

Here and there, the insubordination gains ground. In Meerut, the largest garrison in north India, eighty-five sepoys who refused to use the cartridges are court-martialled: they are demoted and condemned to ten years of hard labour. If it were only the soldiers! Sir Henry is well aware the discontent has spread to the whole population, whether it be the tens of thousands of craftsmen; former employees of the king, who are now unemployed; the peasants subjected to taxes that are too heavy; or the feudal lords,
 
whose forts have been demolished and a large share of their lands confiscated.

Nonetheless, whatever his predecessors' errors and short-term policies, he cannot deny them. He is forced to follow the same path, however dangerous and unfair it might be. His loyalty to England takes precedence, even over his conscience.

Following the old British strategy of “divide and rule,” Sir Henry decides to invite all the aristocrats, notables and upper echelons of the Awadh army to a grand durbar at the Residency.

On May 12th, before an audience of rajahs, taluqdars, British officers and Indian non-commissioned officers—the latter being given the right for the first time to sit with the English—the chief commissioner delivers a long speech
 
on the benefits of British power and his absolute neutrality on the question of religion.

“Rest assured that we will never interfere with your customs or your beliefs, we respect them. Unlike the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb, who disparaged the Hindu religion and forced conversion to Islam, unlike Shivaji, too, the great Hindu hero,
 
who loathed Islam and put thousands of Muslims to the sword.”

Stone-faced, his guests nod their heads politely.

Then it is time to distribute medals to the deserving soldiers who helped put down the rebels—heroes in the eyes of the British, traitors to their comrades.

Finally, refreshments and all kinds of delicacies are served by impassive servants. To the Indians' great astonishment, the British officers join their groups, joking and informally discussing the latest events, forgetting,
 
for the occasion, their usual arrogance that prevents them from mixing with the natives. If they think they can win the sepoys' sympathy in this manner, they are wrong. Their sudden congeniality leads the latter to conclude
 
that the English are afraid and are trying to soften them.

As for Sir Henry's speech on the benevolence with which Christians regard other religions, as opposed to Hindu and Muslim intolerance, it amused them. It is, in fact, common knowledge that the Mughal emperors, even the deeply pious Aurangzeb, had Hindu generals leading their troops. As for Shivaji, the illustrious hero of the Hindus, during his war against the Mughal emperor, maintained Muslims in crucial positions within his army. Besides, in the event of defeat, the population always gave shelter to the vanquished, whatever their beliefs.

In the state of Awadh itself, religion has never led to the slightest discrimination. Sovereigns like Safdarjung and Asaf-ud-Daulah offered Hindu priests land for their temples and often even financed them. A few years before he was expelled, Wajid Ali Shah himself had allocated a superb piece of land in the centre of Lucknow to some Irish nuns for them to build a Christian school called Loreto Convent. It later went on to accept girls from the best Hindu and Muslim families.

“This policy of discrimination began when the English arrived, with only Christians being offered the highest positions!” a rajah says.

They all agree, fully aware the British are trying to turn them against each other in order to weaken them.

O
n the morning of June 10th, Mammoo Khan bursts into the zenana with extraordinary news: the Meerut garrison has rebelled! After shooting a colonel, the mutineers freed their comrades, imprisoned for refusing to use the new cartridges. They also released all the other captives, then spilled into the streets, burning houses occupied by Europeans and killing those they met on the way.

“The memsahibs
 
and children too?” gasp the horrified women.

While Mammoo hesitates, Hazrat Mahal offers an explanation:

“These acts were certainly carried out by the criminals who were freed along with the soldiers. Our sepoys
 
would never attack defenceless women and children! But tell me, how many of ours were killed?”

“That is the most astonishing thing! The English were so surprised that they did not react immediately, and so the insurgents had time to flee on horseback. They galloped forty miles towards Delhi to His Majesty the Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar's palace. There, they massacred the English guards who tried to intervene and demanded the sovereign be awakened. When the latter appeared, asking what the commotion was all about, they greeted him with applause, proclaimed him the Emperor of India and leader of the rebellion, then they lifted him up on their shoulders in triumph.”

“Without asking his opinion?”

Incredulous exclamations burst forth. The eighty-two-year-old man, who bears the honorary title of King of Delhi, is the last Mughal emperor and Akbar the Great's
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descendent. However, he now only reigns over his palace, the splendid Red Fort and its adjoining buildings, some thirty square kilometres at the centre of the old city, on the banks of the Yamuna River.

Even before the arrival of the British, the Mughal emperors, who had dominated India for two and a half centuries, held only nominal power. In 1739, Delhi and the palace had been pillaged by the Persian king, Nader Shah. He had seized the Peacock Throne,
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a marvel encrusted with sapphires, rubies, emeralds and pearls, as well as the famous
Koh-i-noor
diamond. Ten years later, an Afghan invader, Ahmad Shah Durrani, looted the capital, leaving the empire in a severely weakened condition. Since then, the Muslim and Hindu lords enjoyed a de facto independence. In 1788, another Afghan invader, Ghulam Qadir, had the reigning emperor Shah Alam blinded for refusing to reveal where the remaining treasure was hidden. Taking advantage of the power vacuum, the Mahrattas then occupied Delhi. Anarchy prevailed for fifteen years, until the British made their entrance in 1803 and re-established order—to their advantage. Since then, they have maintained the Mughal representative in a state of splendour, but with powers restricted to within the walls of the citadel.

Nevertheless, the imperial family had been up in arms against the British for some time now. They had in fact learnt that Lord Dalhousie now considered the great Mughal an empty figurehead, and for economic reasons had decided to put an end to this “farce.” On his death, his heir would not be recognised as the emperor, and the privileges enjoyed by the imperial family would be abolished. At the palace, concern vies with fury. Some of the princes have even made contact with the dispossessed rajahs and nawabs, so much so that when the sepoys arrive there on May 11th, they are not only welcomed with open arms but everything has been organised for their arrival. All of them, from the emperor's sons to the courtiers, are well aware that Bahadur Shah Zafar's death will mean the end of the house of Timur.
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Mammoo Khan's announcement has stupefied the women of the zenana.

“It was said the emperor was only interested in poetry and his thousands of pigeons that flew in close rows above his head to protect him from the harshness of the sun whenever he went out. We were told he was a sage who stayed well away from the political scene. Could he possibly be behind this conspiracy?”

“Certainly not! Still, they did not leave him much of a choice: in order to legitimise their movement and to be able to spread it across the country, the sepoys need to give it a credible historical basis. By raising Bahadur Shah Zafar to power, they are reviving the prestigious Mughal era, which both Hindus and Muslims consider the most brilliant period in their history, and hence, erasing two centuries of British colonisation. The people, who applauded the emperor when he appeared on his elephant and proclaimed
swaraj
,
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understood this perfectly.

“‘Oh you, sons of Hindustan, if you so desire, we can destroy our enemy,' he declared. ‘We will liberate our religion and our country, both dearer to our hearts than life itself. Hindus and Muslims rise up! Of all God's gifts, swaraj is the most precious. What the oppressor demon stole from you through lies and trickery, is he going to keep it forever?'*

“His speech was greeted by a cheering crowd. It was as if the humiliating foreign occupation had never occurred, as if suddenly India was regaining its very soul and the Indians, their identity and their pride.”

The women are speechless; do they even dare believe it? Is it possible that the British, these all-powerful masters . . .

Hazrat Mahal trembles with excitement.

“You mean to say the Angrez were beaten by our troops?” she asks in a strangled voice. “It is not just a mutiny that will be put down tomorrow, like the all the others?”

“I do not believe so, Huzoor, I heard Rajah Jai Lal say . . . ”

Mammoo hesitates, the words he is about to pronounce seem so overwhelming.

“He said . . . that it was the beginning of the war for freedom.”