In the City of Gold and Silver (26 page)

Nevertheless, many sovereigns still hesitate, torn between their suspicion of the British, capable of violating their own treaties, and their fear of the excesses which a potentially uncontrollable population may perpetrate once it shakes off its age-old lethargy.

“I will write to the Begum of Bhopal,” declares Hazrat Mahal, “to try to convince her that it is in her best interest to join the liberation movement.”

“The king should also send a letter to the Nizam of Hyderabad. Some of his troops are growing restless. They refuse to help the great Mughal's enemies. We will certainly win if the states of Bhopal and Hyderabad join our battle, along with the Mahrattas.”

In his role as army chief reporting to his regent, the rajah provides her with information and an analysis of the military situation. However, he now maintains a certain reserve, neither proffering nor seeking a personal reaction. He even avoids meeting the young woman's eyes. What she would not give to restore their former harmonious relationship, their passionate discussions on evolving operations, on questions of state administration, and continue to benefit from his invaluable advice. But she has to admit, what she misses the most is the warmth in his voice, the admiration and tender concern he had showered her with; it had been like a protective velvet cloak, shielding her from the jealousy and plotting . . .

What am I imagining? What admiration? What solicitude? Exactly the same he must show the Chowk courtesans, whom, it seems, he continues to visit regularly . . . Surely I do not miss the affection of a man who made fun of me, who led me to believe . . .

She had allowed herself to be deluded by him because
 
she had felt alone, confused and vulnerable, harassed by so much hostility in the Court. She knows, however, that power always isolates and that the main priority is to command respect.

Hazrat Mahal straightens up, and with a majestic nod, she dismisses the rajah.

 

* * *

 

“Long live Nana Sahib! Glory to the Peishwa!”

In these early days of August, the population of Lucknow enthusiastically welcomes the exiled prince of Bithur, the new Mahratta leader. After an unsuccessful battle, Nana Sahib has been forced to leave Kanpur to the British, and has come to fight alongside the begum, bringing about two thousand soldiers with him.

Hazrat Mahal has sent Rajah Jai Lal to welcome him with elephants, cavalrymen, lancers and all the honours due to his rank. However, despite her advisor's insistence, she obstinately declines to receive him herself. It requires all the Rajah of Mahmudabad's powers of persuasion to convince her that no matter what she holds against the Nana, the unity of the leaders of the insurrection takes precedence over any other consideration.

 

This afternoon, the Chaulakhi Palace throne room buzzes with courtiers, who have hurried over to catch a glimpse of the Nana. But in fact the main reason for their presence is to witness the anticipated confrontation.

Seated next to her son, the regent gazes out into the distance. She ostensibly ignores their illustrious guest who, adorned with pearls and diamonds, salutes the young king and has sumptuous Benares silks spread before him. She has agreed to receive him but not to speak to him. She is thoroughly dismayed by this insignificant, vain character, whom she has always despised. Out of the corner of her eye, she observes the corpulent figure waddling about, spouting hot air. Suddenly her vision clouds over and instead of him, she sees faces screaming in terror, severed limbs, rivers of blood . . . She can no longer contain herself. Abruptly, she interrupts the prince:

“Rajah Sahib, why don't you
 
please explain what happened at Bibighar.”

Her words resound like a whiplash. All conversation stops dead. Stunned by the violent tone of voice, the assembly waits.

“But, Huzoor, I do not understand . . . ” the Nana stammers, paling under the insult.

“Neither do I understand how you allowed innocent women and children to be massacred—a crime that dishonours our cause!”

Nana Sahib hesitates . . . Should he run the risk of being branded a mere puppet and admit to the fact that his orders were disobeyed? Or should he take responsibility for an act that, deep down, even he condemns? He recalls the violent altercation between himself and his advisor Azimullah, who claimed it was the Bibighar guardian who had taken the decision. He had not believed a word of it. He remains convinced Azimullah had compromised him on purpose to ensure that in the event circumstances were to change, he could never abandon the battle and seek reconciliation with the British.

Just then, Azimullah steps forward, his face tense. Abandoning his customary courtesy, he addresses the begum sharply:

“Our acts were a response to the atrocities perpetrated by the British. The rape and torture of thousands of our women and children, does that mean nothing? And the hundreds of villages burnt, the roads strewn with corpses, the men defiled with the perverse intention of preventing them from attaining any kind of peace, even after death? Aren't we using two different yardsticks here—some are deserving of pity,
 
others not? Have we assimilated the scornful attitude of the whites to such an extent, so as to consider our dead are worth less than theirs?”

Speechless, the audience looks on with bated breath.

He continues in a vibrant voice:

“When they dare insinuate that an Indian mother suffers less than a European mother at the loss of her child? Are they blind to the sacrifices our women make? These women who deprive themselves of everything to feed their children, sometimes even dying of hunger in the process? The British are not interested in reality, though, unless it confirms their prejudices.”

“The double standards of the British infuriate me as much as they do you, Khan Sahib. However, just not because our enemies behave like barbarians does not mean that we need to follow suit,” replies the Queen Mother, forcing herself to remain calm. “Their hypocrisy and cruelty are the very reasons we are fighting them. Are we going to stoop to their level?”

“We are at war, Huzoor. If we want to win, I do not think we can allow ourselves the luxury of moral considerations. The common people, who are the first to suffer, would not understand.”

“I hold our people in higher esteem, Khan Sahib. I think, on the contrary, they find such barbaric acts repugnant. The proof is that despite all your threats, you could not find a single sepoy willing to kill the defenceless prisoners in Bibighar! I believe that the strength of a nation depends, above all, on its moral strength.”

And, with the magnetic gaze of her green eyes fixed on the assembled courtiers:

“If we, the masters, show ourselves to be unscrupulous, capable of anything to satisfy our interests, why would the people accept the sacrifices we demand of them in the name of the ‘common good'? The population are ignorant of intrigues and power games, therefore we believe them easy to manipulate, but they are in fact far more perceptive than many of our great minds. They only respect their leaders if those leaders behave respectably. If we bypass the laws we have laid down, how do you expect them to trust us? One day they will revolt, and neither our speeches nor our promises will be able to appease their anger.”

The aristocratic audience listens, disconcerted by these strange words. They have always professed that scepticism is the sign of a higher mind, and morality, only good for fools.

Making an effort to stifle her contempt, the Queen Mother turns to face Nana Sahib:

“This crime, Rajah Sahib, has increased the risks we run. The British will certainly use it as a pretext to justify all their excesses. But I am also concerned about the men we send into battle: how can we demand they behave like soldiers and not wild animals, if unwarranted cruelty is the example their superiors have set for them?

“Once taboos have been shattered, one never knows where the violence will end. We ourselves could very well be the next victims.”

G
entlemen, I have summoned you here today to draw up a plan of action for the next assault on the Residency, but first of all, to go over our past failures and learn from our mistakes. Then we shall decide on the best possible tactics.”

The principal ministers and army leaders are gathered together in the Council Hall. Sharuf-ud-Daulah, the grand vizier; the head of the treasury; the Court minister Mammoo Khan; the Rajah of Mahmudabad, the taluqdars' emissary; and Rajah Jai Lal Singh, the sepoys' spokesman, are all present. The only one absent is Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah, who continues to boycott this government run by a woman.

“The Residency is surrounded by deep trenches eighteen feet wide and defended by Howitzer cannons,” explains Jai Lal. “The main building, from which much of the enemy fire is launched, is about ten metres above the entry to the camp. Our soldiers are being massacred by the hail of shellfire, even before they reach the ramparts. The only Howitzer in our possession, captured at Chinhat, is useless as we lack the necessary ammunition. We need to be able to approach the walls, unseen by the enemy.”

“Impossible, there are about thirty lookouts day and night, alternating every four hours. Not even a mouse can get through.”

“And what about a mole?”

His question is met with disapproving murmurs. This assembly is not inclined to joking. The rajah continues:

“I believe that our only chance is to dig tunnels beneath the Residency, plant mines under the batteries and when they explode, rush in through the breaches. It is a difficult task. The preparation, long and painstaking, will have to be executed in total silence so as not to alert the enemy. The risk of the tunnel collapsing makes it dangerous, and it is a huge gamble because if we miscalculate and our mines do not destroy their artillery, the British will pick us off one by one as we emerge from the breach. On the other hand, if the mines explode as planned, we can take full advantage of the surprise effect to gain control of the camp.”

“It sounds possible in theory, but it is unrealistic. There are too many uncertainties. It will never work,” declares Mammoo Khan, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, maybe you have another suggestion then!”

The two men stare each other down. The rajah has difficulty hiding his contempt for the courtier, and the eunuch never misses an opportunity to belittle him in the begum's eyes.

“Personally, I find the idea interesting,” interjects the Rajah of Mahmudabad. “In any event, what other option do we have? Our men are ready to die, but what is the point of sending them in armed with old muskets against cannon fire? Another alternative is to continue waging a war of attrition, shooting at the closest enemy positions and picking off as many as possible. This is demoralising and exhausting for those under siege since they must be on constant vigil, but as long as they have ammunition and a minimum of supplies, they will not surrender.”

“Our in-house spies have informed us they have sufficient provisions to hold out for several weeks longer,” specifies the grand vizier.

“Waiting around for weeks is out of the question!” intervenes Hazrat Mahal. “Calcutta is going to dispatch reinforcements soon, especially after what happened in Kanpur. The time to vanquish them is now! Given that a frontal attack appears doomed to failure, I am of the opinion we must try the tunnel warfare recommended by the rajah. What does the honourable assembly think?”

A short discussion ensues; finally, the proposed plan is accepted, as no one else has a better idea. It is decided to entrust the job to the Pasi volunteers, who belong to a very ancient tribe and are renowned for their expertise in archery, as well as the manufacturing and setting of mines.

During the following days, dozens of half-naked men bustle about, digging galleries twenty feet below the ground. It is an arduous and backbreaking job, with the dust burning their eyes, and the suffocating heat; the flames of the torches, lighting up the darkness, add to their discomfort. Rajah Jai Lal consults the palace architects in order to calculate the precise positioning of the mines beneath the British cannons, to be able to ensure maximum destruction. These mines are to be stored in underground chambers alongside the galleries. At the time of the attack, all the Pasis have to do is light the fuses: the rooms and the batteries above will explode.

 

* * *

 

This morning, Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Ward have come to see Colonel Inglis in a terrible state of agitation. They have not even taken the time to do their hair! Out of breath, they explain they were kept awake all night by the sound of dull thuds and vibrations strong enough to shake their beds. Over the last few days, other inhabitants of the Residency had also notified the head of the garrison of these developments. After consulting his officers, it became obvious that the Indians had changed tactics: they were now going to attempt to enter the camp by exploding mines.

To ward off this danger, orders have been issued to the inhabitants to report any suspicious underground noises and to gather in places they deem the safest. Most importantly—the best defence being offence—these chaps were going to be in for a surprise! By an extraordinary coincidence, or rather—so the besieged prisoners believe—by the grace of God, who helps the true believers—the Residency is defended by the 32nd Regiment of the Royal Army. These soldiers are recruited amongst Cornish miners, for whom subterranean work holds no secrets. In order to catch the assailants unawares when the time comes, Colonel Inglis has ordered them to track the progress made inside the enemy galleries and to dig openings and counter tunnels just above.

While all able men join in to help the soldiers with preparations to confront this new danger, amongst the women and children, anxiety reaches its peak: the “black devils” could pop up at any moment—from under an armchair, a table, a bed . . .!