In the City of Gold and Silver (24 page)

“Good strategists, naturally! We are the very ones who trained them!”

“You have to admit, old chap, that we do not teach these tactics and tricks in our military academies.”

“Come now, gentlemen! I have not gathered you here to argue over our adversary's qualities or failings,” intervenes the colonel, a small, stocky man with grey hair.

And, puffing nervously on his pipe:

“Our spies have informed me a massive attack is being prepared and will be executed within the next few days. How many available men do we have?”

“About twelve hundred, sir, of which five hundred are natives.”

“And how many wounded in the hospital?”

“About sixty, but they are not safe there. A shell fell on it yesterday, it was lucky no one was hurt.”

The colonel frowns.

“Take our hostages—the three princes and that young Rajah of Tulsipur—to the hospital and keep them there. Have the word put about. The mutineers have their spies here too. You will see that by tomorrow, they will stop bombing that area.”

“Have we any news of the reinforcements sent by Calcutta?” enquires an officer, looking worried.

“They are expected any day now,” the colonel reassures him.

He considers it futile to demoralise his men by revealing that reinforcements are not likely to reach them any time soon. The day before, a messenger had arrived, informing him of General Havelock's troop deployment: after bringing the city of Allahabad down on July 14th and then setting out on the road to Lucknow, the general had been obliged to re-route to Kanpur, in order to lend Major Renaud a hand in dealing with an onslaught from Tantia Tope's men. It is also useless to point out that progress across the country is very slow, as most of the peasants have joined the rebellion. Villages have been transformed into fortified towns and the roads are strewn with traps. How much longer can they hold out? They have lost dozens of men since the beginning of the siege; as for the wounded, despite the surgeon's talent and the volunteer nurses' dedication, most of them end up dying of septicaemia or gangrene. But more importantly, it is the anxiety that dangerously saps morale. Supplies will not allow them to resist indefinitely, rations have already been reduced to lentil soup and three chapatis a day, and the children are constantly crying for more. Nonetheless, there is no question of surrender. The tragic fate of the Kanpur garrison confirms that the enemy will show no mercy.

Thankfully, they have enough ammunition, more in any event than the Indians, who bombard them incessantly, while the British have been issued orders to make every shot count. But will they have the strength to withstand the massive attack that is coming? Even if they have the advantage of higher ground, will they be able to fight off the assault from an enemy force that is ten, maybe twenty times larger?

Colonel Inglis has spent a sleepless night going over all the options. He knows that if help does not arrive soon, they are lost . . . unless, in the enemy camp, the alliance between the taluqdars, the sepoys and the population breaks down. Unfortunately, for the time being, all his attempts at stirring up discord have been in vain. The police superintendent in the town of Bareilly even returned the fifty thousand rupees sent to him to pay agitators capable of creating discord between Hindus and Muslims. Despite the large sums offered, he had not been able to buy anyone's collaboration.

One of his companions tells a joke, suddenly drawing the colonel out of his grim reflections:

“Have you heard the latest rumour? The court superintendent, the eunuch Mammoo, is supposed to be the regent's lover and may even have fathered the young king!”

“A eunuch, how would it be possible?”

“Apparently, in some cases, the castration is not completed, or the person doing it takes pity on them. It has already happened that alleged eunuchs procreate. In any event, that would explain the begum's special attachment to her servant and his incredible rise to the position of head of the royal household.”

“But then Birjis Qadar would only be a bastard without special rights or entitlements to the throne,” exclaims the colonel. “Do you realise what this means, gentlemen?”

And, seeing his officers' bewilderment:

“It is a unique opportunity to throw the enemy camp into confusion. The cavalry already greatly resented the enthronement of such a young child. If the rumour that he is not Wajid Ali Shah's son is given credence, both he and his mother will lose all legitimacy. The taluqdars, the rajahs and the sepoys will be so busy tearing each other apart over a new candidate that, in the meantime, they will not bother mounting operations against us.”

“But if it were slander?”

“What does it matter! We must spread the rumour, discredit the regent, create doubt about this Birjis: is he the king's son or the son of a slave! False rumours have always been one of the most powerful weapons in warfare, often more efficient than cannons. Send our spies into town immediately, and have them cast doubts in everyone's minds.”

A
t 9
A.M.
on July 20th, a huge explosion startles Major Banks as he is sipping his morning tea. A cloud of dust rises near the batteries positioned to the west of the Residency: a mine has just exploded.

The clarions immediately sound the alarm. Led by their officers, the artillerists race to their positions, and the infantry moves in behind the trenches. From the direction of the town, a human tide advances towards them, the flags of Awadh flying at the centre, alongside the rajahs' pennants. Their cries of “Har Har Mahadev!” celebrating Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction, and “Allah hu Akbar!” rend the air as thousands of sepoys prepare to attack.

The mine, placed under cover of darkness, has just exploded near to the Redan Battery, the most important British cannon unit. It should have opened a breach in the rampart walls, large enough for the attackers to scramble through and take over the Residency. Just barely after impact, and through the thick smoke, the Indian infantry makes headway swiftly while the artillery discharges incendiary shells to set the Residency buildings on fire. However, as the soldiers approach, they are met with intense bombardment and rifle fire. They had badly miscalculated the actual location of the mine and so the undamaged British batteries can spew their deadly fire.

Spurred on by their leaders' calls of “
Chalo Bahadur!
”
69
the waves of insurgents continue to move forward under the hail of bullets. Although they fall by the hundreds, some manage to reach the palisades. Pressing against them, safe from the bullets and cannon fire, they catch their breath and then relaunch an attack. Appearing from all directions, they try to break through the ramparts, fighting a merciless hand-to-hand combat with swords and bayonets; they slip in the pools of blood on the ground covered with corpses.

Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah leads the attack on the Bailey Gate
70
side. He has found an ingenuous defence tactic to protect his men from enemy fire: the soldiers advance,
 
concealed behind bales of cotton, and before the British realise the ploy, the Indians reach the foot of the ramparts. Once there, spurred on by the maulvi
 
brandishing the green flag of Islam, his troops separate into two groups that push
 
forward, heedless of the gunfire, until they capture an enemy battery. In a panic, the British artillerists call for reinforcements, and a furious battle ensues. The Indians seem to have gained the upper hand, when suddenly, under the astonished gaze of the British, instead of pursuing their advantage, they begin to retreat.

It is later discovered that, at this crucial moment, the Indians found out their ammunition supply was exhausted. The maulvi
 
will never forgive the high command for this negligence, which he suspects was deliberate. From that moment on, he decides to fight the occupying forces alone.

 

The battle lasts seven hours. Both sides clash with equal ferocity. Finally, at about 4
P.M.
, the sepoys are given orders to retreat. They leave hundreds of dead and wounded behind on the battlefield; they will return to fetch them after dark with the tacit agreement of the British, who fear the bodies rotting in the intense summer heat will provoke an outbreak of disease.

As for the British, they have lost about twenty men—excluding the native soldiers, whose numbers are not counted. To their great distress, Major Banks, their chief commissioner, was struck down by a cannonball. The whole command is now in Colonel Inglis's hands.

 

Late in the evening, summoned by the Regent Hazrat Mahal, Rajah Jai Lal arrives at Chaulakhi Palace, still covered in dust. He finds her in a state of great agitation. He has barely completed his greeting, when she demands:

“What happened, Rajah Sahib? How can a few hundred British have held off an army of eight thousand Indians? This attack had been prepared for weeks, we sent in our best troops! Why this shameful defeat?”

“It is not for lack of courage, Huzoor, our men fought like lions. They resisted for hours against a firepower far superior to our own. Not one tried to flee. The number of dead and wounded bears witness to their courage and devotion. They deserve to be congratulated, not criticised.”

“But then why did we lose?” insists Hazrat Mahal, caught off guard and somewhat disconcerted.

“Because of our inferior weaponry. Both our rifles and cannons have too short a range. We also have a problem with the commanders: our officers are undisciplined and despite instructions, they launch frontal attacks, deeming courage more important than tactics. And finally, we do not have any competent strategists, as the Company has never allowed an Indian to rise beyond the rank of non-commissioned officer, nor command a unit any bigger than a company. None of our
subedars
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have been trained in military operations, they have no idea of logistics. In my case, everything I learnt was gleaned from books describing the great battles of the century.”

“Still, it was you who devised a strategy for this attack?” persists the young woman.

“Yes, and I thought I had succeeded in convincing the officers to follow it. As soon as the mine exploded, an advance party was to check that the breach was wide enough for us to get through it. The fire from the artillery barrage was to create a diversion while the infantry took the opportunity to advance along the flanks. Instead, as soon as the mine blew up, the soldiers rushed in led by their officers. Once the smokescreen dispersed, they found themselves face to face with the enemy, who were still well protected and shooting at them from behind their undamaged fortifications. It turned into a massacre. An unnecessary massacre due to lack of discipline and a burst of enthusiasm. The truth is, our sepoys are too courageous—for them, life does not count for much.”
 

“Unlike the Europeans, who value life so highly that they see death, the inevitable ending, as a real tragedy!” comments Hazrat Mahal disdainfully. “I am, of course, referring to the death of British men. They do not even bother to count their dead Indians.”

The rajah asks permission to retire. It had been a long day and he still wants to visit the barracks to reassure his soldiers.

Alone, Hazrat Mahal paces up and down her apartments. Despite the late hour, she knows sleep will not come easily. Her thoughts return to all these young soldiers who set off full of fervour this morning . . . and are dead this evening . . . for nothing?

No, Jai Lal is wrong. These men are not dying for nothing. They are dying for their freedom, their dignity. By taking part in the battle, they are no longer poor wretches crushed by their daily cares. Their miserable existence finally
has
meaning. It matters little to them if they lose their lives, they will be heroes for eternity. This indifference to death is our army's strength but also its weakness, as our soldiers take unnecessary risks. While the British fight to win, our men fight to surpass themselves and attain glory.

 

The following morning, Hazrat Mahal sends someone to fetch the rajah. She has spent the night mulling over the reasons for the defeat and wondering how they can improve the situation. She wants to discuss the matter with him.

The messenger returns alone: the rajah is not at home.

Mammoo has come as usual, bringing the latest news. Seeing the begum's astonishment, he takes great delight in informing her:

“He spent the night at the Chowk with the courtesans.”

And in response to Hazrat Mahal's amazed expression, he adds maliciously:

“Despite the gravity of the situation, he does not seem to be able to stay away from them.”

This is the perfect opportunity for him to take his revenge. The eunuch finds it difficult to accept the place the rajah has come to occupy in the begum's life. After all, it was he, Mammoo, who had been her only confidant for ten years. He was the one who had supported and encouraged her in her worst moments. With rage in his heart, he watched this newcomer gradually win the regent's trust. Now she consults the rajah on everything, just as she used to consult him, Mammoo, during the blessed time when she was locked up in the zenana, and he was her only link with the outside world.

The worst is when she welcomes the rajah with her happy smile—a smile she had never had for him. Watching them, he feels a rush of jealous rage. He had believed her different from
 
the other feather-brained women, who judge a man by his bearing. Could she possibly be attracted
 
to this lout because he is tall and well built? Does she find him intelligent, when he is, in fact, only a smooth talker?

I will not let it happen. I will not
let her forget who she is: the wife and the mother of a king, the powerful regent whom everyone must respect . . .

No one knows the young woman better than he does. How could anyone advise and protect her better than he can? He vows he will do his utmost to watch over her, as it is his duty, and shrugging his shoulders, he stifles a small warning voice whispering to him that he is actually mainly defending his own interests.