In the City of Gold and Silver (31 page)

Hazrat Mahal is stunned. The courier has to describe the terrible conditions of a starving population, an army lacking for everything—in particular ammunition—and torn by conflict and backbiting amongst leaders, for her to accept the hard reality.

“And what happened to His Majesty Bahadur Shah Zafar?”

“He has been taken prisoner and rumour has it that his sons have been assassinated. As for the town, I fear that . . . ”

The regent silences him with a gesture.

“All this must remain between us, at least for a few days. An announcement of the great Mughal's defeat would be disastrous for our troop's morale. Please do not speak of this to anyone. The news will spread quickly enough, but it is important that we gain some time. Do you give me your word?”

“I am your devoted servant, Your Majesty.”

Bowing down to the ground in a respectful adab, he departed.

Once alone, the regent calls for her hookah. She pulls on it deeply; the gurgle of the water in the crystal bowl and the curls of sweet smelling smoke slowly
 
calm her down. Frowning, she ponders: after the fall of Kanpur and now Delhi, the British are going to concentrate all their troops on Lucknow. It is vital to plan a new course of action. She must speak to Jai Lal.

Jai Lal . . . He must be furious; she insulted him in public! But why does he feel the need to control her every movement? She is the regent. It is she who decides! However . . . he seemed so upset.

Was he really frightened for me? For me, or for the queen who, as he insisted, has a duty towards the state and her son? After all, does he see me as anything other than . . . the queen?

She recalls the emotion she had felt when Mumtaz had told her that the rajah was in love with an inaccessible beauty . . .

I had believed then . . . I was probably only imagining things . . .

Although he is amiable, Jai Lal now keeps his distance. Never mind, she will keep hers too. She is certainly not going to beg for his friendship!

 

Despite the Indian troops' courage, Alambagh is captured on September 23rd.

For the British, it is a strategic victory: they intend to use the palace as an advance base for further operations against the rebellious town.

 

At dawn on September 25th, Outram and Havelock launch the attack on Charbagh Bridge to the southeast of the town. In an audacious act of bravery, the British cavalry charges, swords drawn, the infantry following in successive waves. After a first terrible encounter, the British gain the upper hand, but the losses on both sides are immense. In order to cross the bridge, the soldiers have had to walk over hundreds of dead and wounded.

The Residency is only two miles away; the most direct route passes through the crowded area of Aminabad, riddled with trenches, bristling with palisades, where most of the houses have been equipped for defence. Forewarned by their spies, the British command decides to make a detour around Aminabad and to enter from the east, through what was formerly the European garrison and the palace area. However, as they approach Kaisarbagh they are greeted by a cannonade. Well protected behind the kiosks and the marble fountains, hundreds of sepoys
 
led by Rajah Jai Lal are waiting for them. The men fight savagely with guns, swords and bayonets. Civilians lend the sepoys their support and defend every inch of land, while the women hurl volleys of bricks and stones from the terraces.

But the British cannons cover their troops' advance and, despite the opposition, they are now only half a mile from the Residency. Evening is falling, the soldiers are exhausted—they have not slept and have hardly eaten for the last three days. Outram, wounded in the arm, suggests they rest a bit before setting off on the last march through the congested streets. For Havelock, this is out of the question; he swore to himself he would save the Residency today and not a day later.

On his orders, the 78th Regiment of Highlanders and the Sikhs continue to advance through the narrow streets lined with terraced houses. The men have just got underway when gunfire breaks out from all sides; they fall like flies. Colonel Neill, who is leading them, is hit in the head by a bullet. Indifferent to the losses, Havelock urges his soldiers to continue their advance. They progress heroically through the confined lanes under a hail of bullets and projectiles, and, finally, at nightfall they reach the Residency.

Bagpipes play as the Highlanders enter the entrenched camp. A joyful chaos ensues. The besieged occupants all rush to welcome their saviours. They shake their hands, blessing them through tears,
 
while the rugged soldiers, trembling with emotion, hug the children they have saved from a certain death. The Residency's sepoys join in the celebration. To their misfortune, at the sight of natives, the British soldiers, used to shooting at “niggers,” open fire and kill those who had gathered around them to offer their thanks, until the screams of the besieged British alert them to the misunderstanding.

The incident is soon to be forgotten and the celebrations continue all through the night.

 

The next morning, however, the joy subsides when the rescuers realise that it is impossible to evacuate the camp. Outram and Havelock's small troop has suffered heavy losses—five hundred and thirty-five dead and wounded—and they have neither the strength nor the means to transport the wounded, the sick, the women and the children—about
 
one thousand five hundred non-combatants—to Kanpur.

The embarrassing truth is that after having made such a great effort to enter the Residency, the soldiers can no longer get out, and the liberators, who were supposed to save the besieged prisoners, have in fact joined their numbers.

“We are all depressed,” notes Colonel Case's widow. “Our saviours are too few to deliver us and too many for the remaining supplies.”*

 

In town, on the other hand, the population enjoys a ready supply of jokes about “these
Angrez
who imprisoned themselves.” Making fun of those whom they usually admire, fear or hate is a rare treat for them; perhaps even more meaningful than killing them. After all, one only kills individuals, often poor wretches, while ridicule demeans the enemy, stains their image and destroys the authority of this so-called superior race.

They also rejoice in Colonel Neill's death, whose cruelty had earned him the nickname of “the butcher of Benares, Allahabad and Kanpur,” and they convince themselves that the hated occupation will soon be over.

While one section of Lucknow feasts, the other buries its dead. Over a thousand have been killed, yet both the Hindus and the Muslims see them not as victims, but as martyrs. The Hindus will be reborn as higher beings, the Muslims will go straight to Allah's paradise.

 

In Chaulakhi Palace, the regent has assembled the military leaders to congratulate them on their bravery and to consult them.

“I have just received a letter from General Outram. He requests permission to leave the Residency to return to Kanpur. In exchange, he promises the British will not punish those with no blood on their hands. What do you think?” she enquires with an ironic smile.

The assembly's laughter is a clear answer: “These damned British are incredible! They are prisoners and promise not to execute all of us if we free them! Have you ever heard anything so outrageous?”

“And what do you intend to reply, Huzoor?” asks Rajah Jai Lal.

“I think I will make him wait a bit and then . . . ” The tone is one of studied nonchalance, but her eyes shine with delight. “And then I will let him know that his offer is interesting and that I am considering it. After that, I will ask him to go into greater detail on certain points; in short, I will let him hope that I will agree but . . . I will forget to answer him. He will continue to write until . . . ”

Hazrat Mahal stops short; her expression is now forbidding, and she concludes curtly:

“ . . . until he finally realises that I am making a fool of him, just as he made a fool of the king.”

F
rom her terrace overlooking the Kaisarbagh gardens, Hazrat Mahal contemplates the setting sun reflected in the water of the fountains and on the white marble kiosks. Blissfully she breathes in these first moments of cool as she reflects on the events of the day. For the first time in weeks, she had decided to leave the responsibility of state affairs to her ministers in order to spend the afternoon with her son.

Over the past year, Birjis Qadar has grown a great deal. His green eyes, so like his mother's, sparkle with intelligence in his delicate face.

Together they had wandered down the garden paths, she in an open phaeton, he on horseback, proud of having her admire his progress:

“They say the Rani of Jhansi is an excellent horsewoman. Why do you not learn to ride, Amma
 
Huzoor? We could go for long excursions together!”

Hazrat Mahal had replied that she would give it some serious thought, nostalgically remembering the time when Jai Lal had offered to give her lessons, suggesting that one day it could come in useful. She must learn!

She quickly chased the rajah from her thoughts; her son demanded her full attention. He told her how he was leading his sepoy company through their drill every morning. Since his coronation, the officers had determined he should learn about military leadership, like his father before him, who excelled at it—rather too much so for the taste of British, who had finally forbidden him to participate in military affairs!

However, Hazrat Mahal is aware of a lingering sadness behind the young boy's enthusiastic stories.

God, how he has changed . . . He was just a carefree child . . . Today, he is the king, and already he no longer has any friends, only courtiers . . .

As if guessing her thoughts, Birjis Qadar had taken his mother's
 
hand and kissed it.

“I am doing everything I can to prepare myself for my duties, Amma
 
Huzoor, but I do not know what exactly is expected of me, apart from presiding over a few ceremonies and being cheered on by the soldiers. I feel like a puppet. All around me, the country is in turmoil, and I remain inside the palace. I cannot stand it any longer. I want to fight too.”

“Fight? But you are only eleven! Furthermore, we cannot take the risk of your being killed. The country needs its king.”

“But you took part yourself in the Battle of Alambagh! Does the country not need its regent?”

Hazrat Mahal had remained speechless: her son was talking to her exactly the same way as Jai Lal did.
 

“I promise that when you are fourteen and almost a man, you will take part in the battles. But by then, I hope we will have won our independence and there will be peace.”

And she had taken him in her arms to console him—after all, he was still only a little boy . . . her little boy.

 

The arrival of a eunuch interrupts her musings.

“Huzoor, Rajah Jai Lal is asking to see you. He is accompanied by an Angrez.”

The rajah at this hour, and with a British man! It must be a messenger sent by General Outram, who is growing impatient . . .

The rajah's companion, a young man sporting a turban, his skin darkened, turns out to be an ally. William Reid, a postal employee at the Residency, had earlier been one of His Majesty's horticulturists, and still worships this king, who had made Lucknow into the “city of gardens” and had treated him like an artist.

When the kingdom was annexed, he had lost his job—more a vocation than a means of earning a living—and had found himself confined to a dusty office . . . He who had lived among flowers
. . .
The injustice done to the king, and consequently to himself, made him bitter. He dislikes his compatriots and considers them petty individuals who take advantage of India to live well above their status. On the other hand, he has great respect for the Indian aristocrats whom he had had the opportunity of meeting in the royal gardens.

Thus, deep down, he has remained loyal to his adopted country, and when the telegraph clattered out the astounding news, at great risk to himself, he had decided to come and warn the regent.

News that is as important as it is disastrous: the plot to liberate Wajid Ali Shah has been uncovered. The governor general in Calcutta has been informed of it by London.

“That is impossible!”

Hazrat Mahal refuses to believe it. The messenger has to provide the details of the operation for her to finally admit—appalled—that they have been betrayed yet again.

“But how did London find out?”

“Madam, it would seem as though it were through . . . someone in your entourage.”

“What makes you say that?” enquires the incredulous regent.

“The telegram specifies that London received the information from Lucknow.”

Alarmed, Hazrat Mahal turns to Jai Lal.

“Who knew, apart from my closest circle?”

“No one, Huzoor,” replies the rajah grimly. “I knew we were surrounded by spies, but I did not imagine they had managed to penetrate the zenana . . . ”

And, addressing the young man:

“I honour your courage, sir, and your loyalty to our unfortunate king. What can we do to thank you?”

“Nothing. I did what my conscience and my heart dictated. I do not have to support my country when it behaves so badly, just because I am British. Now, if I may, I will leave, as my absence might be noticed.”

“But how will you get back inside the Residency?”

William chuckles:

“The same way I got out! With your incessant bombing, there is always a breach somewhere that has not been noticed straight away!”

As he bows to the begum, she says softly:

“Wait a moment, sir.”

She slips a ring encrusted with rubies off her finger:

“Take this, it is a small token of my gratitude.”