Gradually, the revolt spreads throughout northeast India, and now a large part of central India, the heart of the Mahratta region, appears ripe for rebellion.
During this month of August 1857, the governor general in Calcutta is no longer able to communicate with his officers; the telegraph lines have been sabotaged and the province of Bihar has joined the revolt, making the circulation of mail almost impossible. Thus, he is obliged to base his decisions on fragmented bits of information.
Everywhere, the Indians are riding a wave of enthusiasm. Nonetheless, the British reinforcements and units loyal to the Bombay and Madras armies continue their progress towards the centre of the country. The insurgents have to act quickly: the only way to drive out the British would be to extend the rebellion to include the west and the south. However, a number of princes are still hesitant, while some others—the most influential—have resolutely chosen the British camp.
The sovereign of Bhopal in particular, whom Hazrat Mahal had tried hard to convince, refuses to join the uprising, despite her subjects’ demonstrations in favour of it. Like her mother, Begum Sikander is gifted with a political sense unencumbered by ideals, and she is betting on British success.
As for the biggest state in the Deccan, Hyderabad, rattled by maulvis preaching rebellion in the mosques, it would have switched alliances if the old nizam had not just passed away. The latter would not have hesitated to take revenge on the British for confiscating part of his state a few years earlier. Luckily for the occupying forces, his son, who succeeded him a few months before the beginning of the revolt, is under the influence of the Prime Minister, Sir Salar Jung, a dedicated Anglophile who had the rebellion’s leaders arrested and handed over to the British authorities.
On August 14th, an army of three thousand men led by General Nicholson has reached the outskirts of Delhi, bringing necessary reinforcements to strengthen the siege while awaiting additional forces. To recapture the former capital, the governor general of India has issued orders that the bulk of troops be concentrated there. Indeed, the fate of the rebellion in the Northeast Provinces, which joined the revolt after the great Mughal had assumed power, depends on Delhi—as do the fates of the Punjab and central India. For even in the provinces remaining loyal to the British, maintaining control is proving increasingly difficult. If the seat of the former power—a symbol of two centuries of glory—is lastingly re-established, the country will fight as a single man to expel the foreigners.
Over the space of a few weeks, John Nicholson, a giant of a man, both taciturn and inspired, has become a legend. Since he left Peshawar in May, the rumour of his courage and brutality has circulated across the country; it is said that his troops are allowed to carry out atrocities on the population.
The Sikh soldiers have the worst reputation: horrifying stories are told of their prisoners being impaled, of their running stakes through children, whom they then roast before their parents’ eyes. Fantasy or reality, the fact remains, the British officers do not condemn any excesses of force. Since the massacre of the European women and children, the British are convinced the Indians are evil savages to be exterminated.
For a number of soldiers, revenge is a God-given right inscribed in the Bible; their fight, a battle between Good and Evil; and crushing the mutiny, a crusade. They have the full support of the English press in Calcutta and London, which has run amok since the Kanpur massacres.
“For every church destroyed, we should destroy fifty mosques. For every Christian killed, we should massacre a thousand rebels,” declares The Times.
Even Charles Dickens goes as far as to write:
“I would like to be commander-in-chief in India. I would strike terror into this Oriental race and would proclaim that, on God’s orders, I would do everything in my power to wipe their breed—guilty of so many atrocities—off the surface of the earth.”
As for the Governor General Lord Canning, he has finally understood the danger of blind repression. It leaves an often-undecided population with no other choice but to join the rebels. He attempts to restore the rule of law, making him the brunt of insults from the British community, who scornfully nickname him “Clemency Canning,” but he is unable to put a stop to the terror inflicted by an army thirsty for revenge.
In Lucknow, news of the siege of Delhi has caused little concern. The capital is unassailable: surrounded by moats six metres deep and four metres wide, it is defended by tens of thousands of sepoys. What is not known is that the besieged population is desperately short of supplies and ammunition, and an increasing number of the starving soldiers are deserting.
Besides, the military command is preoccupied by General James Outram’s imminent arrival. He left Calcutta on August 25th and is marching towards Awadh. Warned by his spies, Rajah Jai Lal has informed the regent that Outram, leading a large, well-equipped army, intends to meet up with General Havelock in Kanpur in order for them to launch a combined attack on Lucknow.
Sir James Outram . . . Hazrat Mahal recalls the kingdom of Awadh’s last resident, his arrogance, his lies and the constant humiliations he inflicted on the unfortunate sovereign. She remembers in particular the interview with the Queen Mother, her plea for mercy for her son and Outram’s condescending, brutal reply.
She, the fourth wife at the time, could only remain silent . . . Ah, things have certainly changed. I will show him, this evil Angrez, what my people and I are capable of!
Within the Residency’s entrenched camp, the besieged captives have regained hope, convinced that this time, they will be saved. Indeed, after waiting over a month for Havelock’s army to cover the fifty miles separating Kanpur from Lucknow, they had to face a huge disappointment: the Indian attacks had forced the general to retreat. Since then, despite all his efforts, Colonel Inglis was unable to keep up the garrison’s morale.
“The fighters are exhausted,” he wrote, begging for relief troops to come to their rescue. “Enemy fire, hunger and sickness claim about twenty victims a day. I do not think we can manage to hold out much longer.”
Henceforth, they follow the progress of Outram’s troops anxiously. Marching rapidly, the army has reached Kanpur.
On September 19th, it sets off for Lucknow. Crossing the Ganges by means of a floating bridge made of small flat boats, it advances under torrential rain. The first encounter with the Indians occurs twenty-five miles from the capital, exactly where Havelock’s troops had been defeated a month earlier. The British charge to cries of “Remember Kanpur” and disperse the enemy forces with swords. Pursuing them, they continue to advance, astonished at the absence of any further resistance. When they reach Alambagh Palace, set in the middle of a garden surrounded by high walls, five miles from Lucknow, only then do they understand the adversary’s tactics: protected on the left by the walls of Alambagh, and at the centre and to the right by a series of low hills, the Indians greet the attackers with heavy fire.
The encounter will last three days.
At the height of the combat, a woman appears on the battlefield. Riding an elephant, from her howdah high above, she spurs on the fighters, who cheer her: it is the regent. To galvanise the soldiers in this encounter—the first threat to Lucknow—she has decided to take an active part in the battle. She is also motivated by a need to take revenge on this Outram, who has so profoundly humiliated the royal family.
Surprised by the clamour, Rajah Jai Lal approaches. Recognising the young woman, he halts for a moment, hesitating between admiration and anger. As anger prevails, he spurs his horse on and, arriving level with her, he shouts rudely:
“What are you doing here? Have you lost your mind? This war is not a game. You have a duty to the state and to the king, your son. You have no right to get yourself killed.”
Her green eyes grow almost black with fury:
“How dare you order me around? I do whatever I consider necessary. The soldiers need their queen’s encouragement.”
And then she turns her back on him.
She will remain on the battlefield for several hours, exhorting the sepoys, who, captivated by this fragile woman’s bravery, fight with increased courage and daring.
When she finally returns to the palace, still exalted by the heat of battle, a messenger is waiting for her; his clothes are dusty, he looks exhausted. He has just come from Delhi: after a week of fierce fighting, the imperial town has fallen.
Hazrat Mahal is stunned. The courier has to describe the terrible conditions of a starving population, an army lacking for everything—in particular ammunition—and torn by conflict and backbiting amongst leaders, for her to accept the hard reality.
“And what happened to His Majesty Bahadur Shah Zafar?”
“He has been taken prisoner and rumour has it that his sons have been assassinated. As for the town, I fear that . . . ”
The regent silences him with a gesture.
“All this must remain between us, at least for a few days. An announcement of the great Mughal’s defeat would be disastrous for our troop’s morale. Please do not speak of this to anyone. The news will spread quickly enough, but it is important that we gain some time. Do you give me your word?”
“I am your devoted servant, Your Majesty.”
Bowing down to the ground in a respectful adab, he departed.
Once alone, the regent calls for her hookah. She pulls on it deeply; the gurgle of the water in the crystal bowl and the curls of sweet smelling smoke slowly calm her down. Frowning, she ponders: after the fall of Kanpur and now Delhi, the British are going to concentrate all their troops on Lucknow. It is vital to plan a new course of action. She must speak to Jai Lal.
Jai Lal . . . He must be furious; she insulted him in public! But why does he feel the need to control her every movement? She is the regent. It is she who decides! However . . . he seemed so upset.
Was he really frightened for me? For me, or for the queen who, as he insisted, has a duty towards the state and her son? After all, does he see me as anything other than . . . the queen?
She recalls the emotion she had felt when Mumtaz had told her that the rajah was in love with an inaccessible beauty . . .
I had believed then . . . I was probably only imagining things . . .
Although he is amiable, Jai Lal now keeps his distance. Never mind, she will keep hers too. She is certainly not going to beg for his friendship!
Despite the Indian troops’ courage, Alambagh is captured on September 23rd.
For the British, it is a strategic victory: they intend to use the palace as an advance base for further operations against the rebellious town.
At dawn on September 25th, Outram and Havelock launch the attack on Charbagh Bridge to the southeast of the town. In an audacious act of bravery, the British cavalry charges, swords drawn, the infantry following in successive waves. After a first terrible encounter, the British gain the upper hand, but the losses on both sides are immense. In order to cross the bridge, the soldiers have had to walk over hundreds of dead and wounded.
The Residency is only two miles away; the most direct route passes through the crowded area of Aminabad, riddled with trenches, bristling with palisades, where most of the houses have been equipped for defence. Forewarned by their spies, the British command decides to make a detour around Aminabad and to enter from the east, through what was formerly the European garrison and the palace area. However, as they approach Kaisarbagh they are greeted by a cannonade. Well protected behind the kiosks and the marble fountains, hundreds of sepoys led by Rajah Jai Lal are waiting for them. The men fight savagely with guns, swords and bayonets. Civilians lend the sepoys their support and defend every inch of land, while the women hurl volleys of bricks and stones from the terraces.
But the British cannons cover their troops’ advance and, despite the opposition, they are now only half a mile from the Residency. Evening is falling, the soldiers are exhausted—they have not slept and have hardly eaten for the last three days. Outram, wounded in the arm, suggests they rest a bit before setting off on the last march through the congested streets. For Havelock, this is out of the question; he swore to himself he would save the Residency today and not a day later.
On his orders, the 78th Regiment of Highlanders and the Sikhs continue to advance through the narrow streets lined with terraced houses. The men have just got underway when gunfire breaks out from all sides; they fall like flies. Colonel Neill, who is leading them, is hit in the head by a bullet. Indifferent to the losses, Havelock urges his soldiers to continue their advance. They progress heroically through the confined lanes under a hail of bullets and projectiles, and, finally, at nightfall they reach the Residency.
Bagpipes play as the Highlanders enter the entrenched camp. A joyful chaos ensues. The besieged occupants all rush to welcome their saviours. They shake their hands, blessing them through tears, while the rugged soldiers, trembling with emotion, hug the children they have saved from a certain death. The Residency’s sepoys join in the celebration. To their misfortune, at the sight of natives, the British soldiers, used to shooting at “niggers,” open fire and kill those who had gathered around them to offer their thanks, until the screams of the besieged British alert them to the misunderstanding.
The incident is soon to be forgotten and the celebrations continue all through the night.
The next morning, however, the joy subsides when the rescuers realise that it is impossible to evacuate the camp. Outram and Havelock’s small troop has suffered heavy losses—five hundred and thirty-five dead and wounded—and they have neither the strength nor the means to transport the wounded, the sick, the women and the children—about one thousand five hundred non-combatants—to Kanpur.
The embarrassing truth is that after having made such a great effort to enter the Residency, the soldiers can no longer get out, and the liberators, who were supposed to save the besieged prisoners, have in fact joined their numbers.
“We are all depressed,” notes Colonel Case’s widow. “Our saviours are too few to deliver us and too many for the remaining supplies.”*
In town, on the other hand, the population enjoys a ready supply of jokes about “these Angrez who imprisoned themselves.” Making fun of those whom they usually admire, fear or hate is a rare treat for them; perhaps even more meaningful than killing them. After all, one only kills individuals, often poor wretches, while ridicule demeans the enemy, stains their image and destroys the authority of this so-called superior race.
They also rejoice in Colonel Neill’s death, whose cruelty had earned him the nickname of “the butcher of Benares, Allahabad and Kanpur,” and they convince themselves that the hated occupation will soon be over.
While one section of Lucknow feasts, the other buries its dead. Over a thousand have been killed, yet both the Hindus and the Muslims see them not as victims, but as martyrs. The Hindus will be reborn as higher beings, the Muslims will go straight to Allah’s paradise.
In Chaulakhi Palace, the regent has assembled the military leaders to congratulate them on their bravery and to consult them.
“I have just received a letter from General Outram. He requests permission to leave the Residency to return to Kanpur. In exchange, he promises the British will not punish those with no blood on their hands. What do you think?” she enquires with an ironic smile.
The assembly’s laughter is a clear answer: “These damned British are incredible! They are prisoners and promise not to execute all of us if we free them! Have you ever heard anything so outrageous?”
“And what do you intend to reply, Huzoor?” asks Rajah Jai Lal.
“I think I will make him wait a bit and then . . . ” The tone is one of studied nonchalance, but her eyes shine with delight. “And then I will let him know that his offer is interesting and that I am considering it. After that, I will ask him to go into greater detail on certain points; in short, I will let him hope that I will agree but . . . I will forget to answer him. He will continue to write until . . . ”
Hazrat Mahal stops short; her expression is now forbidding, and she concludes curtly:
“ . . . until he finally realises that I am making a fool of him, just as he made a fool of the king.”