In the City of Gold and Silver (38 page)

“The officer unsheathed his revolver and struck him. While the boy was lying on the ground, he tried twice to shoot at him, but his revolver jammed. It was only on the third attempt that he managed to put a bullet through his head. The adolescent fell at his feet, covered in blood.”*

The fate of the fifty sepoys who had surrendered after being promised they would not be harmed is also reported: “Having asked them to lay down their weapons, the officer in charge had them lined up against a wall and ordered his Sikh soldiers to finish them off. They disposed of them within minutes, either shooting them or killing them with bayonets.”
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* * *

 

“How do you explain these atrocities?”

At the end of this month of March 1858, William Russell, the highly respected
London
Times
correspondent, well-known for his reporting during the recent Crimean War, savours his whisky in the company of a few officers with whom he had entered Lucknow two weeks earlier.

“These acts seem more like displays of condemnation and fear rather than justified punishments,” he insists. “It would appear that in India, the British forget all their basic principles very quickly.”

“And you, sir, you seem to be forgetting Kanpur!” retorts an officer, trembling with rage. “Barbarianism has never reached such heights—the mutilation and rape of our defenceless women . . . ”

“Forgive me, but I went to Kanpur and carried out a detailed investigation there. No one ever actually witnessed an English woman being mutilated or raped. These are rumours which, unfortunately, served to justify our men's worst excesses. They were horrified by these abominable accounts of which I did not discover the slightest proof, stories spread by people in Calcutta who were, in fact, hundreds of miles away when the events took place. I have even been able to establish with certainty that the inscriptions on the walls of the house where the massacre took place were added after Havelock had taken Kanpur, thus proving they were written by British men. These demands to ‘avenge the rapes and mutilations' drove the soldiers mad and convinced them to massacre all the ‘niggers' they encountered, even women or children.”

His comments are received with hostile mutters, but Russell pays them no heed. He knows very well he cannot convince soldiers who are in the throes of military action. His only goal is to inform public opinion in the metropolis by countering the atrocious and slanderous descriptions put forward by the English press in Calcutta, which exhorts the population to demand ever more blood. As the only witness present, he feels obliged to warn the authorities in London to try to limit, if at all possible, the destruction and the carnage.

 

For Lucknow, alas, it is too late.

This town with its half a million inhabitants is now deserted. For weeks, the panic-stricken population will hide in the surrounding forests, preferring to die of hunger rather than risk the fate of the inhabitants of Delhi who, it is said, were tortured before being put to death.

Although the majority of its population was able to escape the worst, Lucknow, the rebel town, will be destroyed. Its long resistance must be punished; it must serve as an example of the price one pays for opposing British power. “The city of gold and silver,” the most sophisticated symbol of Hindu-Muslim culture, the town of a thousand palaces, gardens, temples and mosques, each one richer and more beautiful than the other, is to be systematically destroyed, after being savagely looted.

William Russell had arrived a few days before the assault. With great difficulty he had dragged his huge frame all the way up to the terrace of Dilkusha Palace, from where he looked out over the town, amazed:

 

“No city in the world, not Rome, nor Athens, nor Constantinople, can be compared to its stunning beauty,” he had written, captivated. “A vision of palaces, minarets, azure and gold domes, cupolas, colonnades, long, beautifully proportioned facades, rooftop terraces—all that emerging out of a calm ocean of greenery that spreads several miles around. Here and there, the towers of this magical city emerge amidst the luminous green. Their golden arrows sparkle in the sunlight, the towers and cupolas shine like stars. Are we really in Awadh? Is this the capital of a semi-barbarian race? Is this the city built by a corrupt, decadent and vile dynasty?”*

 

Two weeks later, he notes with horror:

 

“Lucknow is henceforth a dead town. All that is left of its magnificent palaces are miserable ruins, their facades and domes pierced by cannonballs. The invaluable art and precious objects that had been accumulated here for centuries are left to be pillaged and destroyed by soldiers greedy for gold and ‘drunk on rapine.' They break everything that is too fragile or too large to be taken away. The ground is littered with fragments of marvels that the men persist in destroying.”
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The most terrible scenes of destruction and pillaging took place in the sumptuous Kaisarbagh Palace. The soldiers broke down the doors of precious wood and dragged trunks full of brocades, silk carpets embroidered with pearls, gossamer muslins, out into the courtyards, then ripped them to shreds in a frenzy. As for the cashmere shawls embroidered with gold and silver, they had them burnt to salvage the metal. Enraged, they destroyed exquisite collections of jade, Venetian mirrors, crystal candelabras and threw delicate furniture inlaid with ivory or mother-of-pearl into huge fires, along with musical instruments, tortoiseshell vanity sets and thousands of priceless ancient illuminated manuscripts of which they could not possibly imagine the value. On the other hand, they fought over all that was metal and precious stone, gold and silver tableware, and jewellery abandoned by the terrified women during their flight.

In order to extract the rubies and emeralds, they took apart exquisitely embossed weapons, shields decorated with inlaid work, ancient swords and daggers, they lacerated the royal horse and elephant saddles in order to extricate the pearls and turquoises, destroying these marvels—evidence of one of the most refined civilisations in the world.

They even go as far as to tear off the fine gold sheets that cover the Chattar Manzil cupola. They make up a few hundred kilograms of gold that are to find their way to the market in London, where they are sold as trophies and are to reach astronomical prices.

The mosques and temples are also profaned. Inside the splendid mosque next to the Bara Imambara,
 
drunken British soldiers dance jigs, and the Sikhs light bonfires, savouring their revenge on the execrated Muslims.

Even the houses of the poor, where there is nothing to steal, are vandalised “to teach them a lesson!” In fact, as the
Times
correspondent notes perceptively: “The worst thing for these soldiers is that this insurrection was carried out by a subjected race: black men who had dared shed their master's blood.”
97
*

And the Indian people, what do they think of the white man's behaviour?

One evening while his servant is laying the table, Russell questions him.

After assuring himself that his master will not reproach him, the man answers:

“You see these monkeys, Sahib, they seem to be playing, but the Sahib doesn't know what the game is or what they are going to do next. Well, the Indian people see the British in just the same way as the British see these monkeys: they know you are strong and ferocious so they dare not laugh. They see you as creatures who have come to hurt them, but they are incapable of understanding either the actions or the motivations behind them.”
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*

 

* * *

 

The pillaging of the capital is to last over a month. When, laden with tons of booty, the army finally leaves, Lucknow is a ghost city where vultures feast on corpses in the vandalised gardens and ruined palaces.

Little by little, the terrified inhabitants are to return, little by little, the ruins are cleared away and the rebuilding begins.

However, the splendour of the “city of gold and silver” and, above all, its spirit of refinement and aestheticism, its extravagance, its delicate and subtle attitudes, everything that gave Lucknow the most exquisite quality of life ever known, has disappeared forever.

H
azrat Mahal fled with four thousand soldiers, forty-five cannons and some of the treasure stashed away from British greed. They rode for two days
 
to escape the enemy army; two days and two nights interrupted by brief halts in villages to water their horses and to have something to eat themselves.

At the insistence of the Rajah of Mahmudabad, who impresses upon her that the exhausted animals and men cannot continue at this pace, the begum finally accepts the hospitality of this gentleman whom Jai Lal has entrusted her to and who has become her protector. After all, the fiefdom of Mahmudabad is eighty miles to the north of Lucknow, and the scouts sent out on surrounding roads have not glimpsed even the shadow of a British soldier.

Mahmudabad Palace is an oasis of serenity, rising high above a calm river, set amidst gardens planted with thousands of roses. It is one of the most beautiful ancestral homes in Awadh, with its latticework towers and balconies, fragile columned parapets, long lacework balustrades and ochre walls covered with stucco scallops. A paradise the rajah has prudently had surrounded by strong fortifications.

His first wife, a pretty woman with a delicate face, warmly welcomes Hazrat Mahal in her private apartments, while the young king is received by the principality's dignitaries in the men's section of the palace. His mother will not see him again for the duration of their stay there.

Indeed, Mahmudabad's reigning family makes it a point of honour to respect the strictest purdah in the whole of Awadh. Even in times of war or natural disaster, not a single man can boast of ever having set eyes on or having heard the voice of a woman from the palace. The slightest sign of intimacy is considered a violation of modesty. And so Begum Shahar Bano confides to Hazrat Mahal that she never visits her mother-in-law accompanied by her husband, as this would be considered an unfitting demonstration of familiarity, a breach of the etiquette and respect due the dowager, the very powerful Queen Mother.

Despite these rigid traditions, Hazrat Mahal is given the right to meet with the rajah daily so that strategies
 
for the coming days and weeks can be finalized
.
The rajah insists that she make Mahmudabad her base: the palace is vast, and she and her retinue may occupy the main wing. As for the army, it will be easy to set up barracks on the adjacent plots of land.

However, Hazrat Mahal has other plans:

“I am infinitely grateful to you, Rajah Sahib, but I do not want to invite misfortune upon you, your family and your villages. For a year now, we have seen the British vent their rage on civilians as well as on the fighters. Not only those close to you, but also your peasants, are all at risk of being massacred.”

“Where do you intend to go then?”

“Towards the northeast. The Rajah of Gonda is offering me his Bhitauli fortress, between the Ghogra and Chauka rivers. He has warned me comfort there is at best rudimentary, but at the present time, comfort is the least of our concerns. The important thing is the fortress is difficult to access, and there are very few villages around against which the British could exact harsh retribution. If we want the population to remain loyal to us, we must not place them in danger.”

“Perfect. When do we leave for Bhitauli?”

“You will come? But your family? And the affairs of your principality?”

The rajah looks at her reproachfully.

“Did I not give my best friend my word that I would remain by your side during his absence? As for the principality, although they are in purdah, the women of my family know exactly what is happening and are used to running it while the men are at war.”

The rani confirms, smiling:

“My husband will accompany you, Your Majesty. He knows that between the Queen Mother and myself, he has nothing to worry about.”

Hazrat Mahal is about to retort that the situation has changed and the British could well resort to retaliation on all those closest to the rajah, when she is prevented from doing so by the latter's son:

“Please, Huzoor, please allow me to come with you!”

Amir Hasan Khan is a handsome young boy, barely eight years old. From the beginning of the conversation, he has had a hard time
 
containing himself: he is dying to join the fighters!

“You, my son, have a far greater responsibility,” the rajah assures him, placing his hand on his shoulder. “As the eldest, I entrust you with the care of your mother and your sisters. In my absence, it is you who will protect them.”

“
Ji Adab, Aba Huzoor
,”
99
murmurs the little boy, who has turned red with pride, bowing before his father.

 

* * *

 

In this month of April 1858, the entire state of Awadh is on a war footing. When Lucknow was captured, the rebels were driven out and have dispersed throughout the country. The British administration has collapsed; its indigenous police force no longer exists, as regiments have mutinied one after the other and joined the insurgents.

As for the taluqdars and the rajahs, they have retired to their forts, where they are mobilising their troops. If they had thought of making up with the British authorities when the capital fell, Lord Canning's proclamation at the end of March completely dissuaded them. The governor general had in fact announced that all property belonging to the kingdom's aristocracy was to be confiscated, except the estates of half a dozen minor landlords, who had remained loyal to British interests.

All others, including the most powerful taluqdars, will be dispossessed of their lands. Their lives and those of their people will be spared only if they submit immediately to the chief commissioner, and on condition their hands are not stained with British blood.