Princesses Behaving Badly (6 page)

In fact, though Rani Lakshmibai had more than enough reason to cast her lot with the rebels, throughout that summer and into autumn she repeatedly affirmed her allegiance to the absent British authority. When, for example, the mutineers who’d besieged the English at the fort demanded she provide them with weapons and money, Lakshmibai agreed but wrote to the British explaining her actions and asking for help and protection against her neighbors, appeals that were never answered. Even when asked by the warden of the local jail if she’d fight against the British,
Lakshmibai replied that she would return Jhansi to English rule as soon as they returned. The British, however, didn’t believe her.

In the months after the rebellion broke out, Lakshmibai was declared a rebel by British forces, slandered in the press and in official company documents. She was branded a “licentious” woman, a “jezebel,” and a whore responsible for that horrifying massacre at the fort. The British wanted someone to blame, and Rani Lakshmibai was a convenient scapegoat.

By winter 1858, the unorganized rebellion was dying in the face of British counterinsurgency; most of northern India was back under colonial rule. At the end of February, British forces were moving to take back Jhansi, and they intended to do so with force. After months of pleading for aid and declaring herself their loyal friend, Lakshmibai came to realize that if she were caught by the British, she would likely be tried as a rebel and hanged. But if she sided with the rebels, at least she could die fighting. So as the army marched ever closer, Rani Lakshmibai finally became what the British claimed she was.

On March 23, the British siege of Jhansi began. Lakshmibai oversaw the defense of her city against cannon fire; when walls crumbled, she directed that they be rebuilt. On March 30, another rebel leader (and childhood friend of the rani) came to her defense with 20,000 troops. Hope was extinguished, however, when the army of raw recruits was defeated and the British broke through city walls. Contemporary accounts say the streets “ran with blood” as the Jhansi forces fought in hand-to-hand combat. The palace was captured, but as the British readied their final assault, their general received word that Lakshmibai had escaped. And with a contingent of soldiers, to boot.

The British assault devastated Jhansi’s defenses, but more problematically, the fort’s water supply had gone dry. Flight was Lakshmibai’s only option. Dressed as a soldier and with her adopted son in tow (either strapped to her back or tucked in her lap), she took off on horseback into the night. The British cavalry was hot on her heels. An officer came within snatching distance, but Lakshmibai succeeded in striking him down with
her sword. (This is probably the genesis of the folk-art images of Lakshmibai plunging into battle with her son strapped to her back, which, were it true, would be a very questionable parenting decision.)

Lakshmibai now had a price on her head. She joined the other rebels at Kalpi, a city some 90 miles east of Jhansi, but to her great chagrin and the everlasting lament of the people in the region, she was not given command of the rebel army. That honor went to the childhood friend who’d failed to save Jhansi even when his army outnumbered the British five to one.

The city of Kunch fell to the British, and then Kalpi capitulated, with Rani Lakshmibai barely escaping. The rebels decided to make one last stand at Gwalior, traditionally a region that supported the British but whose troops had been won over to the rebel cause. Confident that Gwalior would be the site of victory, rebel leaders started celebrating before the battle had even begun. But not Rani Lakshmibai. While her compatriots ate and prayed and sang, she inspected the troops from horseback, armed with sword and pistol.

When the British arrived on June 17, 1858, Lakshmibai and her forces were waiting for them at the gates. Dressed in full battle gear, with sword drawn, the rani of Jhansi plunged into battle and, all accounts agree, faced death bravely.

The exact circumstances of her demise are unclear. One story says that when she was cut down, she was fighting with two swords, one in each hand, the reins of her horse gripped in her teeth. Another says she was shot in the back, turned to fire on her assassin, and was run through with a sword. Still other accounts claim she was fatally wounded but managed to stay alive long enough to instruct her soldiers to build her funeral pyre; before she dragged herself to it to be burned alive, she distributed her gold jewelry among her troops. However it happened, Rani Lakshmibai’s death signaled the end of the rebellion. The road to Gwalior was taken by the British, and the city itself soon fell. The revolt was over.

Despite defeat, the rebellion could claim one important victory—the end of rule by the East India Company. By August 1858, the dust had cleared and the EIC was officially dissolved. But the British experiment in India was far from over. Queen Victoria assumed the title Empress of
India, and her government took control of the country as the British Raj. It wasn’t until 1947 that the country gained its independence, remaining a dominion of the British crown until 1950.

Throughout India’s struggle for independence, Rani Lakshmibai’s legend was an inspiration. Her story is still taught in schools, and she even stars in an eponymous series of comic books; she is a hero, a political symbol, the Indian Joan of Arc. Even Sir Hugh Rose, who faced this “bravest of the rebel leaders” in battle, had to admit: “The best man on the side of the enemy was the Rani of Jhansi.”

Hatshepsut

C
A
. 1508–1458
BCE
A
NCIENT
E
GYPT

H
atshepsut must have known a thing or two about public relations. How else could an overweight, balding, middle-aged princess transform herself into a svelte, athletic, divinely conceived king? It’s lucky that the men who tried to chisel her from history didn’t do a very good job. Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t know anything about ancient Egypt’s most successful and longest-serving female ruler, one of only three women in as many millennia to seize the title and power of pharaoh.

Hatshepsut was born during the New Kingdom period, ancient Egypt’s golden age. She was the eldest daughter of the Eighteenth Dynasty ruler Tuthmosis I, a great military leader, and his consort, Queen Ahmose. According to her own (probably less than honest) claims, Hatshepsut was her father’s favorite child and the person he wanted to ascend to the throne after his death. Unfortunately for her, Dad didn’t make his wishes explicit. So when he died, a prince was located among the sons born to the women of the pharaoh’s harem.

The leading candidate was Prince Tuthmosis, the son of a minor concubine, who was willing to marry Hatshepsut, his half-sister, to solidify his claim to the throne (see “A Family Affair,”
this page
, for more on royal incest throughout the ages). Unchallenged, he became Tuthmosis II, and his wife/half-sister became queen.

But Tuthmosis II died unexpectedly only three years later (CT scans of his remains indicate the cause was heart disease). Once again, a dynastic struggle loomed—Hatshepsut had borne only a girl, and so another prince from the mistress pack was pushed forward. Though just a baby, Tuthmosis III became the new pharaoh.

Hatshepsut, now dowager queen, stepped in to rule as regent until the boy (technically her stepson
and
nephew, mind you) was old enough to assume power. This was pretty much standard procedure in Egypt at the time; mothers often ruled in place of their infant sons, and wives took over while their husbands were at war. For about two years, Hatshepsut played the role of dutiful regent, recognizing Tuthmosis III as pharaoh. Then something strange happened: Hatshepsut shoved aside the toddler pharaoh and crowned herself king.

Boldly naming herself king required more than a little cunning to pull off. It was a move that took balls (literally), because divine order required that a pharaoh be male. So how’d she do it? With a three-pronged strategy. First, Hatshepsut claimed that her father had appointed her as his successor,
which also reinforced the idea that she was the result of a true blue-blooded union, not just the random offspring of a minor concubine (
ahem
, Tuthmosis III). Second, Hatshepsut claimed that she was conceived when Amun, pharaoh of all the gods, had disguised himself as her father and had sex with her mother. Hatshepsut began referring to herself as “God’s Wife of Amun,” which doesn’t entirely make sense but does imply that she was really royal
and
the daughter/wife of the godliest of gods. Her final, and perhaps most politically astute, move was to kick out all existing courtiers and then to stock the palace with supporters beholden to her.

Hatshepsut kept plenty busy outside the palace walls as well, embarking on a prodigious propaganda campaign. To cement her image as pharaoh, she was often depicted as a man; in official carvings and statues, she was shown with the slim, athletic, masculine build of the ideal ruler, wearing a cobra-shaped headdress and false beard, both pharaonic attributes. Of seemingly no consequence was that by this time she was well on her way to becoming a portly middle-aged woman cursed with the familial overbite and “huge pendulous breasts” (so say the archeologists who found her mummy).

Hatshepsut’s reign was remarkable, an era marked by prosperity and peace. Foremost among her accomplishments was reestablishing trade networks with neighboring kingdoms. Her focus was clearly on enrichment rather than expansion: though she did enjoy some early martial success, she ordered her armies to embark on lucrative trading expeditions rather than mounting costly and risky military campaigns.

Hatshepsut also spent some of Egypt’s significant wealth on an ambitious architectural binge. She put her subjects to work constructing massive obelisks, built or renovated temples throughout the kingdom, and commissioned hundreds of statues of herself, all so that posterity would remember her well. As she had written on an obelisk at Karnak: “Now my heart turns this way and that, as I think what the people will say. Those who see my monuments in years to come, and who shall speak of what I have done.”

Which is really rather ironic, not to mention sad, given what happened next.

Hatshepsut died, apparently from complications from diabetes, about 1458 BCE, which meant it was finally time for the rightful ruler, Tuthmosis III, to take over. T-III, now in his mid-twenties, was more than ready to rock. He proved himself to be a skilled and acquisitive military commander, the Napoleon of ancient Egypt. He lead 17 campaigns into the region we now call the Middle East; one of his most notable victories is still taught in military academies today.

When his own successful reign began drawing to a close, the aging Tuthmosis III decided to wage another sort of war: the eradication of any trace of his aunt/stepmother’s reign. He had stonemasons chisel her name off her many monuments, cover the text on her obelisks with stone, knock down or deface her statues, and destroy painted images of her. She was even left off the official lists of Egyptian pharaohs. And it worked, at least for a couple of millennia. Though Hatshepsut was briefly mentioned in a biography of Egyptian kings written in 300 BCE, it wasn’t until AD 1822, when hieroglyphics were first deciphered, that anyone had a clue she’d ever ruled.

So why did Tuthmosis III attempt to erase Hatshepsut from history? At first glance, his efforts look like more than mere spite. Ancient Egyptian culture worshipped death, or, to put it more accurately, life after death, hence the obsession with mummification. They believed that a person’s spirit could survive if enough images of that person were left behind. So chiseling Hatshepsut’s name off the walls and eradicating her image from statues was more than just a symbolic effort to get rid of her memory. It was an attempt to make sure she stayed dead.