In the City of Gold and Silver (36 page)

The hours pass without their noticing. Then a soft knocking on the wall startles them. They cannot believe it is time to separate.

“She must be mistaken,” grumbles Jai Lal.

But through the window they can make out the first light of dawn.

Then he turns to the young woman and embraces her as if he fears losing her:

“When, my jani?” he asks in a faltering voice.

“Now, whenever you want, always,” she stammers, her face pressed to his chest. At this moment, everything beyond them seems unreal, unimportant. Unreal this war, this Court and this government too. The only reality is their love. For the first time she feels alive, the rest is only pretence and justification to escape the emptiness. She would like to abandon everything, to leave with him, to go far, far away.

She knows it is impossible. She has a duty towards her son. He had asked for nothing, she wanted him to be king and today her freedom is the price to be paid for her ambition.

As if reading her thoughts, Jai Lal murmurs:

“However much we may want to, neither you nor I could abandon the struggle and all those who have put their trust in us. We would despise ourselves. Our love would not survive it.”

As always, he is right.

So to lighten the atmosphere, she quips:

“Let us hope that between battles, the British will leave us time to love each other!”

“We will make their lives so miserable, they will be forced to take a break every now and then!” he promises, laughing.

Persistent knocking is heard on the wall.

Hazrat Mahal throws herself into Jai Lal's arms.

“We will meet very soon, my love. And remember the emeralds—that will be our sign. I will wear them every time we can meet.”

And slipping on her burqa, she disappears—a slight black silhouette in the pale pink of dawn.

 

* * *

 

Since March 2nd, General Campbell has been camped at Alambagh with his soldiers, preparing for the attack on Lucknow. On March 4th, General Frank joins him. Together, their troops represent thirty-one thousand men, almost all European, reinforced by Jung Bahadur's nine thousand Gurkhas.

In Lucknow, now transformed into a fortified town, the population is on the lookout. The military command directs operations from its newly established headquarters in Kaisarbagh Palace. The private apartments are now empty, as the wives and the women of the royal family have left what has become an excessively dangerous place to take refuge in houses far from the combat zone. Hazrat Mahal is relieved. She could no longer bear their visits and recriminations, and hated being constantly spied upon.

Faced with the strength of the enemy forces, some taluqdars have chosen to flee, deserting with their troops. Apart from the thirty thousand sepoys, only ten thousand or so ill-prepared volunteers are left. Despite his best efforts to organise and reassure them, Jai Lal can feel their anxiety mounting, especially after news of the presence of the “Nepali demons” has been confirmed. He needs help to comfort and motivate his men to continue the fight.

Hazrat Mahal had accepted immediately. The king and she will come to talk to the soldiers.

On this afternoon of March 5th, thousands of soldiers assembled in the immense Kaisarbagh garden stand in the sun awaiting the young sovereign, to whom they had sworn allegiance barely eight months ago.

When the king and his mother finally appear on the balcony, a wave of fervour runs through the crowd, cheers and blessings ring out from all sides.

In the background, Jai Lal waits for the enthusiasm to abate, but the men do not seem to tire of bellowing out their joy. He is obliged to call for silence in order to allow the king to speak. Birjis Qadar steps forward, dressed very simply in a white cotton churidar and kurta
—
clothes dear to the Lucknawis' hearts—and wearing a royal mandil on his head.

In a vibrant but poised voice, he evokes his father, Wajid Ali Shah: “Your king, who is a prisoner in Fort William, is counting on all of you to defeat the Angrez so that he can return to Awadh and re-establish an era of prosperity and dignity.”

The adolescent is never presumptuous, nor does he assert himself as the sovereign. In a society where respect for elders is a supreme value, his modesty wins him hearts. He is cheered: so young and so wise! The rough sepoys are moved to tears.

With a gesture, Birjis Qadar silences the ovations.

“Now, the person whom I admire the most in the world, who with her courage and determination presides over our destinies, the Queen, my mother, will speak to you.”

Hazrat Mahal corrects him immediately:

“It is not I, my son,” and turning to the soldiers, “it is all of you fighters gathered here, with your courage and loyalty, who hold the destiny of Awadh in your hands! It is you whom we should honour and thank. We place ourselves in your hands.”

With an ample gesture she reaches out to the crowd, as if she wants to embrace all of them in gratitude.

Amazed and fascinated, the audience contemplates this exceptional woman, this queen, so beautiful and noble, who is paying homage to them: simple peasants, mere soldiers. In the silence, Hazrat Mahal signals to Jai Lal to approach.

“I particularly want to thank your leader, Rajah Jai Lal, whose foresight and courage we all appreciate. He does and will do his utmost to protect you, for he loves you as his children. Under his leadership, you won a memorable victory at Chinhat, and for months, you have been holding off the enemy. Under his leadership, we will win!”

Her words are greeted with frenetic hurrahs. These men, who have always sacrificed themselves for their masters, have never felt so highly recognised and honoured. They are overcome with emotion; they laugh and cry at the same time. Galvanised, they brandish their rifles, their scythes, their lances. They are no longer afraid, they are no longer doubtful. They are ready to fight for the Queen Mother, the king and the country. Knowing how important it is for the people to be able to approach those they admire, the begum has had the royal elephant readied and, contrary to the custom that dictates it be reserved only for the sovereigns, she invites the rajah to join them in the silver howdah. Slowly, they tour the park, acclaimed by the soldiers, who are sensitive to the tribute paid to their leader.

Although danger is at the gates of Lucknow, Hazrat Mahal is radiant
.
Surrounded by the two men she loves, amidst the people cheering them, never in her life has she felt this happy.

O
n March 6th at dawn, General Sir Colin Campbell launches an attack on Lucknow, which he hopes will be decisive.

Although outnumbered by the enemy forces, he decides to divide up his troops, contrary to strict military protocol. While he moves in from the southeast, he sends Outram—with seven thousand soldiers and a powerful artillery battery, galvanised by the young Lieutenant Vivian Majendie's fervour—towards the north, along the supposedly impassable Gomti River. However, overnight,
 
brilliant engineering allows them to construct two makeshift bridges and at dawn, Outram and his troops are able to ford the river.

Their objective: to capture Chakar Kothi, the racecourse grandstand opposite the Kaisarbagh palaces, and set up the heavy artillery there. The Indian command will thus find itself caught between two lines of fire.

However, taking the grandstand proves to be a particularly arduous task; a small group of sepoys
 
positioned inside defends it ferociously. In under an hour about twenty British, including an officer, are killed. General Outram then gives
 
the order for the gunners to open fire until all resistance is wiped out.

Lieutenant Majendie tells the rest of the story in his memoirs:

 

“Enraged at having lost Lieutenant Anderson, a very popular officer, a group of our Sikh soldiers rushes into the ruined building and comes out with the only survivor. Seizing him by the legs, they try in vain to tear him apart. This does not work so they drag him along the ground, piercing him with their bayonets. But the worst was yet to come: they improvise a brazier and hold the dying man above it, despite his jerks and his screams. At one moment the man, mad with pain, manages to escape his tormentors and drags himself a few meters along the ground, but they recapture him and again hold him above the fire until he succumbs, atrociously burnt.”

 

And Lieutenant Majendie concludes:

 

“Thus, in this 19th century that prides itself on its civilisation and humanity, one can roast a human being to death while small groups of Englishmen and Sikhs look on unperturbed!”
92
 

 

Meanwhile, to the south, Sir Colin advances methodically. The fortified palaces, the mosques and the mausoleums are being taken one
 
by one. The hardest battle is fought around Begum Kothi, the last palace before Kaisarbagh, which Rajah Jai Lal is defending with his sepoys. For hours they manage to resist, until British cannon fire destroys all the walls and Jai Lal sounds the retreat, judging it futile to sacrifice more men. With a few hundred sepoys, he remains in position to cover the escape while the British move into the kothi.

The fighting is particularly fierce. Once the sepoys have fired, they do not waste time recharging their rifles, but throw them at the British, using the bayonets like javelins. Then, drawing their swords, they rush in, hurling war cries and finally throwing themselves beneath the enemy bayonets, cutting off legs and feet before they themselves fall, pierced to death.

There are only a few dozen men left when Jai Lal gives the order to withdraw through a breach in the rear, close to where their horses are waiting. Just as they are leaving, the tall figure of a British officer suddenly appears:

“Is there anyone here?” he shouts randomly.

“Yes there is!” retorts Jai Lal, aiming his rifle. He has barely fired the shot, when, stunned, he recognises the soldier who has collapsed on the ground: it is William Hodson, the man who arrested Bahadur Shah Zafar and treacherously assassinated the emperor's three sons. His picture had appeared in all the major Indian newspapers at the time.

The shot, however, has alerted the enemy. Jai Lal and his companions barely have time to mount their horses and beat a hasty retreat.

The news of the death of the most hated Englishman in the whole of India spreads like wildfire throughout the town. As far as the barricades, the name of the hero who has avenged the honour of the fallen but still revered imperial family is acclaimed.

As soon as he reaches Kaisarbagh Palace, still covered in dust and blood, Jai Lal is received by the young king and the Queen Mother, who express their gratitude before the assembled court. While the enemy cannons continue to boom outside, a ceremony is improvised during which, with great pomp and circumstance, Birjis Qadar presents the rajah with a splendid
khilat
embroidered with gold and pearls.
93

Later that evening, Jai Lal and Hazrat Mahal meet in Mumtaz's room, connected to the begum's by a narrow corridor.

It is now impossible to get to the small house in the old town, further besieged each day by enemy forces. They know they are taking a great risk, but in the general confusion with officers coming and going from one palace to the other, who would be surprised at seeing a masked man entering the former courtesan Mumtaz's room?

The only danger is Mammoo Khan, whose jealousy breeds suspicion. He was used to seeing Hazrat Mahal at any time of the day or night, but recently he had provoked her wrath by advising her to negotiate with the British. Contemptuously, the begum had forbidden him to appear before her. Since then he has been nursing his resentment and is not to be seen anywhere.

Immersed in her happiness, Hazrat Mahal has forgotten about him. Every evening she joins her beloved in the big bed decorated with fragrant jasmine and, until dawn breaks, they lose themselves in each other's love.

It is a lingering contemplation, where, trembling, they both discover and revel in one another. Before this man who gives himself without reserve, this warrior who gazes at her with wonderment and the innocence of an adolescent, her restraints and fears dissolve. She caresses his strong, robust body, nestling herself sensually against him, pressing her breasts and her stomach against his, astonished at her own audacity. Very quickly, though, she stops asking herself questions, swept away by a whirlwind, abandoning herself, head thrown back, lips parted in exaltation, caught up in a warm breeze, a deep chant, an intense light that penetrates her whole body; she can feel it growing, escaping her and blossoming into an incandescent explosion.

Every night they give themselves to each other in a passionate embrace. Every night they know it may be their last.

G
eneral Campbell's troops methodically take over the town of Lucknow. Avoiding the roads spiked with traps and barricades, they go from house to house, dynamiting the walls to clear a path for themselves, and slaughtering the inhabitants who were unable to flee. The Indians defend the terrain tooth and nail and when they are forced to retreat, they take care to leave bottles of alcohol behind in the abandoned houses, knowing the British soldiers cannot resist
 
the temptation to
 
drink and this will delay their progress that much more.

From March 9th onwards, the bombing of Kaisarbagh intensifies. Campbell's cannons in the south are now joined by Outram's artillery in the north. Nonetheless, the sepoys have sworn to defend the seat of power and to give their lives for the Queen Mother, the king and the country
.

Assisted by Mumtaz and two of the palace hakims, Hazrat Mahal has organised a makeshift dispensary. The Court surgeon has disappeared, doubtless judging it prudent to flee. Apart from dressings of antiseptic herbs for the wounds and ligatures to stem the flow of blood, they cannot do much more, except offer comforting words and administer opium to alleviate the pain.