In the City of Gold and Silver (33 page)

The begum also starts laughing.

“I like you, Mr. Murphy, but you must meet Rajah Jai Lal Singh. When it comes to army matters, he is the one who decides.”

 

This is how Brendan Murphy, an Irishman from County Cork, was enrolled in the service of the kingdom of Awadh to fight the British occupation. He became Rajah Jai Lal's right-hand man, and the rajah soon made a good friend of him too.

I
t is early November 1857, and Lucknow is preparing to withstand yet another assault. Fighters stream in from all over the country to lend their support to the resistance. There are now more than fifty thousand soldiers in the town—an impressive force but a liability too. All these men have to be fed and armed, and despite the administration's best efforts to collect taxes, the coffers are almost empty. Consequently, Rajah Jai Lal was forced to announce that the new arrivals would earn only half of what Awadh's regular army was paid, which provoked discontentment amongst the men, a predicament that Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah quickly turned to his advantage.

“God's messenger”
 
promised any sepoy who
 
would join him, the same pay as the Lucknow sepoys, and so he managed to double the capacity of his forces at the regent's expense. Thus emboldened, the maulvi never wastes an opportunity to criticise what he scornfully calls “the Court party.”

“This cannot continue. I must talk to him,” decides Hazrat Mahal.

“Do you think it is worthwhile?” objects Jai Lal. “He certainly has not forgotten the failure of Operation Muharram and the reluctance of our troops to support him.”

“I must try . . . After all, we have a common enemy, we have to work together.”

To flatter the maulvi, the regent
 
has decided to receive him with all the honours befitting important dignitaries.

The meeting takes place in the throne room, in the presence of the king and some ministers. The begum is all smiles and attention. However, she has misjudged the man, who now considers himself her rival. Far from being appeased by the Queen Mother's decorum and amiability, Ahmadullah Shah interprets it as a recognition of his importance and the fear he inspires. He launches into a virulent diatribe, accusing the generals of incompetence and cowardice, and goes so
 
far as to question the Court's commitment to the freedom movement.

“Enough!”

Hazrat Mahal interrupts, glaring at him:

“Are you perchance insinuating that I too, could be a traitor?”

The maulvi
 
hesitates, then says disdainfully:

“Maybe you are being misled . . . Women are unfit to manage state affairs. They are too weak and easily influenced.”

“Really?” scoffs the begum. “So how is it that over the centuries, women have so often governed Indian states? Have you never heard of Razia Sultana, whose father designated her to succeed him on the throne of Delhi in 1236, as he considered her more capable than her brothers? She proved to be a skilful warrior and a remarkable administrator, re-establishing order in the country, encouraging commerce and supporting the arts. And the great Nur Jahan, Emperor Jahangir's wife, who, in the 17th century, led the Mughal Empire while her husband revelled in poetry and drink? And the sovereigns of Bhopal—one of the largest Muslim principalities in India—first Qudsia Begum and now her daughter, Begum Sikander? And also the Rani of Jhansi, who, at the head of her army, is currently leading the revolt against the occupier? And so many others . . . Are they all, in your opinion, weak and easily influenced women?”

At the audience's laughter, Ahmadullah Shah tenses.

“As a good Muslim, I respect the Holy Book that proclaims: ‘A state governed by a woman is bound to fail.'”

“It is not written in the Holy Quran! As a ‘good Muslim' you know that very well indeed!” exclaims the begum indignantly. “On the contrary, the Prophet gave women rights that no Christian, Jewish or Hindu woman had at the time, and would only acquire centuries later: the right to inheritance, the right to dispose of her property as she sees fit, and the right to conduct business. Some women were even nominated to the position of
cadi
s.”
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“At least they had the decency to wear the veil as is ordained,” retorts the maulvi, throwing a nasty look at her jet-black hair covered with simple translucent gauze.

“Yet another invention! Nowhere in the Quran does it state that the face has to be hidden, not even the hair! Women are only asked to be modest.”

As the maulvi raises his eyes skyward, she orders:

“Mammoo Khan, bring me my Quran.”

A few seconds later, it is placed in her hands.

“Listen to the only two passages in the whole Book that deal with the veil:

“And say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what (must ordinarily) appear thereof; that they should draw their shawls over their bosoms . . .'
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“And: ‘O Prophet! Tell thy wives and daughters, and the believing women, that they should cast their outer garments over their persons . . .'”
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Turning to the maulvi:

“Over the centuries, men have perverted the meaning of the Prophet's teachings. How could he have advised women to remain cloistered when his first wife, Khadija, was a skilled businesswoman, and his youngest wife, Aisha, used to attend dinners with him and his friends? They discussed everything, especially politics!”

“It is all clearly stated,” confirms the Rajah of Mahmudabad, “but as the common people cannot read Arabic and even amongst the Arabs there are few who understand the literary language used in the Quran, the ulemas interpret it as they please!”

Furious at finding himself challenged before the whole assembly, the maulvi rises.

“You are insulting the ulemas! You are insulting the Holy Quran! Allah will punish you!” he thunders.

And thrusting aside the eunuchs on guard, he leaves the throne room as if he were fleeing the devil personified.

 

* * *

 

The new commander-in-chief of the Indian army, Sir Colin Campbell, is a sixty-five-year-old Scotsman who belongs to a famous clan, but one of its impoverished branches—his father was a carpenter by profession. As he could not afford to purchase an officer's rank—as was the custom at the time for sons from good families—he was forced to earn his promotions on the battlefield. His courage during the war against the Sikhs in the Punjab, then in the Crimean War, earned him a reputation as a hero.

Described
 
in Calcutta's British circles as a “little fellow, foul-mouthed and ugly,” he has nonetheless won the trust of Queen Victoria, who has come to appreciate her Scottish subjects since settling down in Balmoral. Campbell's soldiers, particularly the Highlander Regiment, adore him, and these rough men from the Scottish highlands are the only ones in whom he has complete faith.

On October 28th, Sir Colin has left Calcutta to meet up with the forces stationed in Kanpur in an attempt to rescue the city of Lucknow. His priority is to liberate the Residency that has been resisting enemy attacks for four months now, thus becoming, throughout the Anglo-Saxon world, a symbol of the white race's courage and superiority.

He reaches Kanpur on November 3rd at the head of three thousand five hundred men. There, like General Outram before him, he tries to establish contact with the local notables, making them all sorts of promises. To no avail. No one is willing to cooperate, or even to provide food supplies for the British. Campbell then decides to assemble all the troops located upstream of Benares, and, accompanied by five thousand men and about fifty cannons and mortars, he sets off for Lucknow.

However, at the last minute he hesitates, having learnt that General Tantia Tope is heading towards Kanpur with the formidable Gwalior contingent, which revolted against their maharajah. In England, though, the enraged press leaves him no choice. General Windham will remain in Kanpur with two thousand men.

On November 9th, Campbell crosses the river and comes up against an advance guard of fifteen hundred sepoys. The odds are too uneven. After decimating them, he moves on to Alambagh, where a small English garrison is still stationed.

It is from this base, located five miles from Lucknow, that on November 14th he decides to launch the attack.

 

Meanwhile, in the capital, Rajahs Jai Lal and Man Singh—another great rajah of Awadh—are preparing their
 
defence.

The first clashes take place around Dilkusha Palace, the “Heart's Delight,” modelled on an English manor. It is in the vicinity of La Martiniere College, where students and professors are prepared to fight alongside the sepoys. Once again, British firepower defeats the light artillery and the muskets, forcing the Indian troops to retreat. A company will stay put, sacrificing their lives to cover their comrades' escape.

The following day, Campbell's advance guard swoops down on Sikander Bagh, a palace built by King Wajid Ali Shah for the pretty Sikander when she was his favourite wife. Surrounded by six-metre-high walls flanked by graceful turrets, the palace stands on the path leading to the Residency.

Rajah Jai Lal immediately dispatches his men to counter the enemy advance, but they only have rifles against the heavy artillery and the latest English weaponry: mobile launchers.
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This is the first time these multiple-fire cannons are used in India, and they spread terror in the rebel ranks.

The battle rages on. The British manage to penetrate into the garden, cornering the insurgents, who fight back desperately. There are even women fighting on the Indian side.

During the attack, one of them
 
manages to conceal herself in a tall leafy tree under which jars of cool water are placed. When the battle is over, some soldiers go there to rest in the shade and quench their thirst. Suddenly, the sight of a number of corpses lying under the tree attracts an officer's attention. After examining the wounds, he realises that someone has shot them from above. Detecting a figure hidden amidst the leaves, he fires. A body, dressed in a fitted jacket and a pair of pink silk trousers, tumbles down. To his astonishment, he realises it is a young woman. Armed with two old pistols, she had managed to kill more than half a dozen men from her hiding place.

Not one of the three thousand Indian fighters at Sikander Bagh survives. Dawn breaks over piles of corpses, many still dressed in their old red uniforms.

The British advance continues. One of the last positions on the path leading to the Residency is Shah Najaf, the superb mausoleum erected for the first king of Awadh and his favourite wives. The confrontations last all afternoon; the British suffer such severe losses that the 93rd Highlanders division is ordered to retreat when, by chance, they discover a narrow passageway behind the mausoleum. One by one, the soldiers sneak in; the Indian defenders find themselves caught between two lines of fire: in front of them, intense cannon fire, behind them, the “devils in skirts,” who pounce on them.

When evening falls, Shah Najaf's lawns and flowerbeds are strewn with bodies. In order to avoid an outbreak of cholera, the British begin burning bodies, although some are only wounded . . . The night air is filled with the moans of the dying, begging to be shot.

The following morning, the last buildings close to the Residency are taken in hand-to-hand combat with
 
bayonets, and in the early afternoon, the British army reaches the Bailey Gate, where the besieged captives go into raptures welcoming them.

With all these troops reunited, Generals Havelock and Outram have every intention of moving into Kaisarbagh, subjugating Lucknow and being done with the begum and her associates
 
once and for all. To their great disappointment, Sir Colin categorically refuses. He has lost six hundred men and considers his remaining troops to be just sufficient to secure the evacuation of the Residency.

It is to take place on November 19th.

That evening, a first column of palanquins loaded with about five hundred women and children leaves the Residency and the town of Lucknow without any impediments.
 
The garrison is to be evacuated within three days. During the night, in total silence, the hundreds of wounded are borne away on stretchers, protected by armed civilians and soldiers. Sir Colin has set up a diversionary operation to distract the Indians' attention: Kaisarbagh is heavily bombarded by cannon fire in order to give the impression of an impending attack. Inside the palace, the women scream in terror and part of the terrified garrison is about to flee. The regent then summons the leaders:

“You can leave. I am staying,” she declares. “However, as I do not want to be taken alive by the enemy, I would ask you to cut off my head before you leave.”*

In the face of this woman's determination, the soldiers lower their eyes, ashamed of their own cowardice and, in a surge of pride, declare themselves ready to fight beside her.

 

Meanwhile, the long British convoy of four thousand men with horses and carts has reached the Gomti River. The only passage is a stone bridge, and despite the bombing and the darkness, the guards cannot possibly miss their crossing. They instantly sound the alert.

Informed in the dead of night, the regent does not seem particularly surprised:

“I was expecting it,” she replies to the officer who had hurried to warn her.

“I will sound the call to arms immediately for the troops to stop them!”

“No, let them go.”

“Pardon me?”

“Our objective is not to kill them. Our objective is to drive them out. If they themselves choose to leave and our country is thus rid of the last Angrez, so much the better! What more do you want?”

“Are we not going to avenge our dead . . . ?”