PROLOGUE

BY MID-AFTERNOON on Friday, 5th June, 1857, the last of the sepoy corps to join in the mutiny of the Cawnpore Brigade— the 56th Bengal Native Infantry—formed up in readiness to follow the rest of the brigade on the long march to Delhi.

The 56th had hesitated, mindful of their long tradition of service to the Company and reluctant to betray the trust reposed in them by their British officers. Some of their number had fought to defend the Magazine, when the sowars of the 2nd Native Cavalry—dogs of Muslims—had endeavoured to plunder it of its weapons of war. They, with a section of the 53rd, had held off the men of the Nana Sahib’s bodyguard, to whom responsibility for the safety of both Magazine and Treasury had been confided, refusing to believe the arrogant claim—made by Azimullah Khan, the Nana’s Mohammedan vakil—that the sun had set on the British Raj and on the great John Company, which had ruled all Hind for a hundred years. Yet the General Sahib, to whom their native officers had gone to offer assurances that the regiment would remain loyal, had ordered a cannon to open fire on them, as they waited in their Lines, and this inexplicable act of hostility had broken the ties which bound them to their allegiance.

With the exception of a handful of older men—who, despite the shower of grapeshot which had rained down on them, had elected to join the British in their entrenchment—the 56th Regiment had now thrown in their lot with the mutineers and they were in good heart as they swung along the dusty road which led to Kalianpore, where it had been agreed that the brigade would bivouac for the night. The drums and fifes were playing a familiar British march, Over the hills and far away, and without any conscious sense of irony, the sepoys kept to the lively air. In their scarlet tunics and white crossbelts, with muskets shouldered and shakoed heads held high, they looked the picture of a well-disciplined corps as they marched, four abreast, out of Cawnpore, the cheers of an excited crowd from the native city ringing in their ears.

Behind them, to mark their passing, pillaged buildings—once a symbol of British power—smouldered into extinction, and a few pathetic corpses, already bloated by the heat of the sun, lay unburied and unmourned. The heavy, iron-bound door of the Treasury sagged drunkenly on shattered hinges; the jail and the courthouse were in flames and the Magazine had been systematically denuded of military stores. A part of its outer wall had been blown in and reduced to a heap of rubble, in order to facilitate the passage of the field guns and ammunition tumbrils which the mutineers had seized and which, harnessed to bullock teams and elephants, were now heading towards Kalianpore, as the sepoys were, on the first stage of their 270 mile journey. Every man knew that there could be no turning back—the die was cast, the mutiny of the Sepoy Army of Bengal no longer a pipe-dream but stern reality. Victory would mean freedom but defeat, they were well aware, would mean death for those who had betrayed their salt … the British would not forgive what had been done here this day, any more than they would forget what had been done— almost a month before—in Meerut and Delhi.

They had everything to gain and nothing to lose, their native officers told them, and there was no reason to linger here when their comrades were awaiting them in Delhi, so they stepped out smartly, booted feet kicking up the dust, as the cheers grew fainter and finally faded into silence.

A mob from the bazaar, composed of unruly elements, had been hovering on the fringe of the crowd, cheering as lustily as the rest but, as if the sepoys departure were a signal for which they had been waiting, they now separated from it and spread out, bent on turning the situation to their own advantage. This was an opportunity to pay off old scores and to take possession of the plunder the sepoys had left—too good an opportunity to be missed. The mutineers had burdened themselves with guns, they had not touched the cantonment bungalows or those in the Civil Lines … running swiftly, the rioters made for the walled enclosures at the river’s edge and derisive shouts greeted the leaping flames as they set torches to the thatched roofs and sun-dried timbers.

Uniformed police mingled with newly released convicts and with the city riff-raff, making no attempt to deter them from their purpose and turning a blind eye to looters and fire-raisers alike. Even when the hapless family of a railway engineer was discovered, hiding in a godown, the police were deaf to their cries. Thus encouraged, the hate-crazed mob hacked the unfortunate mother to pieces and, flinging the children from one to another, disposed of them as mercilessly, finally letting the tiny bodies fall into the trampled mud at their feet as if they were broken toys.

Sitting his horse a short distance away, the Nana Sahib—Dundoo Punth, self-styled Maharajah of Bithur—watched them, his round, plump face devoid of expression. His thoughts were of the meeting he had just had with a deputation of native officers from the four mutinous regiments and of the promises he had made to them when he accepted an invitation to become their leader. His acceptance had, of course, been conditional on the mutineers’ return to Cawnpore … he had no intention of leading them to Delhi to support the cause of the Mogul Emperor when, with their swords at his back, there was a kingdom here which could be had for the taking, once the British had been driven out. His kingdom, long promised to him by his adoptive father, Baji Rao, last of the great Mahratta Peishwas—his kingdom which, with Baji Rao’s pension, the British had denied him, despite all his efforts to show himself as their friend and ally … his dark, curving brows met in a scowl.

How he had worked to cultivate good relations with the British! He had entertained the Cawnpore garrison lavishly, had given dinners in their honour, organised picnics and hunting parties for them, making expensive gifts to their whey-faced womenfolk, enduring the boredom of their company and of their conversation—in a language he neither spoke nor understood— for hour after endless hour. And all to no avail, although time and again old General Wheeler had assured him that he would make representations on his behalf to the Court of Governors of the Company, and the general’s wife, who was of his own caste and creed, had begged him to be patient. He had been patient, the Nana told himself. He had waited, whilst his coffers emptied and he had been compelled to call on the money-lenders to supply him, at exorbitant rates of interest, with the means to live in the manner to which his position entitled him, and to support the thousands of retainers who were dependent on him … fifteen thousand of them, the majority useless old men, responsibility for whom had been bequeathed to him by Baji Rao.

Yet nothing had been done. He had sent his young aide, Azimullah Khan, to London at great expense, to put his case to the governors of the Company and they had rejected his claim, refusing to recognise the Hindu ceremony of adoption which, under ancient Indian Law, gave him the same rights as a natural-born son of the Peishwa would have enjoyed. He had been permitted to inherit Baji Rao’s private fortune and his palace at Bithur, with his debts and his retainers, but that was all. The Peishwa’s generous pension was deemed to have died with him and his private fortune—never as large as the British chose to believe—had long since been dissipated.

He had had no choice, the Nana Sahib reflected bitterly, no choice at all in the circumstances but to embrace the mutineers’ cause. He was in much the same position as they were, with little to lose and everything to gain by severing his ties with the British. Crippled by debt, continually hounded by rapacious money-lenders, in what other way could he hope to recoup his fortune or regain his lost throne? He had for a time, it was true, toyed with the idea of ranging himself so staunchly on the side of the British, when the sepoys rose, that the Company would be in honour bound to reward his loyalty by recognising the justice of his claim and paying him the pension they had for so long refused. But the success of this manoeuvre would depend on the British emerging victorious from the struggle, and events in Meerut and Delhi had convinced him that it was unlikely—a conviction to which General Wheeler’s ludicrously inadequate preparations for the defence of Cawnpore had added weight. Wheeler, for all his glowing record, was proving as unfitted for command as Hewitt had proved in Meerut.

Had the old general decided to defend the Magazine, it might have been different, but as matters stood … the Nana Sahib smiled to himself. Most of the Company’s generals were too old and Wheeler was in his dotage—he had refused to listen to advice, had rejected all attempts to persuade him to move his troops into the Magazine for fear of showing mistrust of the sepoys which, he had insisted, might offer them an excuse to mutiny. Obstinate to the last, he had built what he was pleased to call an entrenchment out on the open plain that was, in fact, nothing more than a death-trap for the nine hundred souls he had herded into its confines … and the sepoys, neither waiting for nor requiring an excuse, had mutinied just the same.

Clearly Wheeler was mad or too senile to understand the gravity of the situation. Of those sheltering now in the entrenchment, close on four hundred were women and children. Burdened by these and by non-combatant civilians, railway engineers and a horde of frightened Eurasian Christians, with a scant two hundred trained British soldiers, a handful of British and native officers and a few loyal sepoys to defend them, what chance did the old man imagine he had, behind his crumbling mud walls? The British, admittedly, fought best when the odds were against them, but this time surely the odds were too long … with the sun beating down on them and some four thousand sepoys, with heavy guns, attacking them day and night, how could any of the motley garrison hope to survive?

The Nana’s smile faded, as he considered the odds. The hot weather had begun and with each day the temperature would soar. The recently built barrack and the new European hospital block, on which the defenders were depending for shelter, were of flimsy construction and would not long withstand the pounding of shot and shell … and the hospital was roofed only with thatch. The barracks were overlooked by other as yet unfinished new blocks from which the sepoys could fire down with impunity; the old general had not laid in adequate stocks of food or of ammunition for his eight light field guns and there was only one well within the whole of the four-acre entrenchment. A few marksmen, carefully positioned, should be able to keep the well under continuous fire during the hours of daylight and, deprived of water at the height of the Indian summer, not even the British could hold out for more than a few days. A week, perhaps, at most and if he offered a reward to any man who succeeded in setting the hospital roof ablaze, then … the Nana Sahib’s smile returned.

Azimullah, he recalled, had named the entrenchment The Fort of Despair, during the course of its construction, and thus it would prove, if the mutineers abandoned their foolish desire to go to Delhi and agreed, instead, to return to Cawnpore. Their leaders had assured him that they would; they had gone ahead of him, in order to inform the sepoys of the proposed change of plan and he was only waiting for a summons to ride out to Kalianpore and place himself at their head. With their aid, he would build up a great power for himself here, he would march, as a conqueror, down the valley of the Ganges and, as more regiments threw off the Company’s fetters and came flocking to his banner, he would fight a new Plassey. Above all, he told himself exultantly, he would teach these Christian dogs what it meant to flout a Mahratta. He …

Highness! Azimullah Khan’s voice broke into the Nana’s thoughts. His handsome young Mohammedan aide had been deep in conversation with his elder brother, Bala Bhat, and with the Moulvi of Fyzabad, Ahmad Ullah, for the past twenty or thirty minutes, and the Nana studied him with suspicious eyes as he approached. The Moulvi was a teacher of the Islamic faith. He had been useful in sowing the seeds of sedition in the minds of the Light Cavalry, who were of his faith, and he had done good work in Lucknow and elsewhere in Oudh, but he was ambitious, a smooth-tongued rabble-rouser, on whom it might be wise not to place too much reliance. His previous service under the now-deposed King of Oudh had not been entirely satisfactory—there had been ugly rumours concerning him, even one or two hints that he had betrayed his old master to the British, in return for personal advancement.

Nothing had been proved but … he had, of late, begun to exercise some influence over Azimullah and this the Nana was determined not to permit. Azimullah, although of humble origin and neither a Mahratta nor a Hindu, had become as indispensable to him as his own right hand and, at this critical juncture in his life, he had to have one man—apart from his two brothers— whose undivided loyalty was beyond doubt. There was Tantia Topi, of course, the commander of his bodyguard, who had always served him well, but Tantia was a soldier, with a soldier’s blunt honesty. He lacked Azimullah’s shrewd wits, his political cunning, his knowledge of the British—acquired at first-hand in London and in the Crimea, as well as here in Cawnpore, when he had acted as munshi to General Wheeler’s predecessor. Of the two perhaps, Tantia was more to be trusted, yes … the Nana Sahib sighed.

Well? he challenged, as Azimullah reined in beside him. What plots have you been hatching with the Moulvi?

We hatch no plots, Nana Sahib. The young man’s tone was reproachful. The Moulvi seeks only to serve you—as do I—and he offers two suggestions for your consideration.

The Nana’s mouth tightened. His suspicions were far from being allayed; if anything they were increased. And what, pray, does the fellow suggest? he demanded coldly.

Azimullah gestured to the mob of looters with a disdainful hand. "He asks, Highness, whether you would not be well advised to keep this plunder for the sepoys when they return? They have been promised pay and this must come from your purse if these scum are permitted to carry off everything of value from the dwellings of the British. Shall I send in the bodyguard to drive them off?"

The Nana Sahib gave his assent a trifle sullenly, but the suggestion was a practical one which, had he not been so absorbed in thought, he might have considered without any prompting from the Moulvi. As his sowars went in with whoops of delight to wrest their prizes from the bazaar mob, he asked, still coldly, And what is Ahmad Ullah’s second suggestion? You said he had two to offer, did you not?

Azimullah’s dark eyes lit with a fugitive gleam of resentment. He had for so long enjoyed his master’s favour that to be spoken to in this curt, disparaging manner roused him to indignation. His conscience was clear, Ullah knew; what he had planned with the Moulvi was more for the Nana’s gratification than his own, but the Moulvi had been most insistent that he should do all in his power to persuade his master to accede to the scheme, so he controlled himself.

I had said, Highness, that when the sepoys swear allegiance to you it should be as Peishwa—that you should be proclaimed in your august father’s title, with a 21-gun salute. Your brother and the Moulvi were in agreement with me, but the Moulvi is of the opinion that the proclamation should be made here, when you lead your army back to the city, rather than at Kalianpore, before a few villagers. Also, so as to make the oaths binding on the men of both religions, he advises that we should plant two banners—one of Islam, for the Light Cavalry, and one for those of your Highness’s faith, the banner of Hanuman. Thus it will be made clear to all who witness it that we are united in your service and that of Hind … and that the enemy we fight are the Christian British and their converts. The Nana was beaming on him, Azimullah saw and, his temper swiftly restored, he went into details of the proposed ceremony and then, recalling the promise he had made to Bala Bhat, he added, At the same time, your Highness’s brother, Bala Sahib, could be proclaimed governor and chief magistrate of Cawnpore, to ensure that law and order are preserved in the city.

Good, good. It is agreed, Azimullah. Arrange it so, you and Ahmad Ullah. The Nana laid a forgiving hand on his young aide’s shoulder. I shall proclaim myself Peishwa here, in the city, tomorrow morning. When it is done, I shall send a formal declaration of war to General Wheeler and we will launch an attack on his Fort of Despair immediately.

That place will not hold out until nightfall, Highness! The heavy guns from the Magazine will demolish it, brick by brick, in a few hours, Azimullah declared scornfully. You will not need to dismount from your horse before you ride in to accept the old general’s surrender! He was smiling as he rode over to acquaint the Moulvi with his master’s decision.

Does he give his consent for the proclamation? Ahmad Ullah asked, before he could speak.

Yes … with much pleasure.

And also to the manner of the oath-taking?

Also to that, Ahmad Ullah. Azimullah’s smile widened. Thou has set great store by the oath-taking, hast thou not?

The Moulvi did not smile but his dark, hawk-like face revealed his relief at this news. It is important, he answered gravely, if we are to serve a Hindu prince—and a Mahratta—that the price of our subservience be settled in advance. We fight as equals and the rewards must be shared equally between us, with no discrimination against those of us who are true believers. Thy master shall swear to this tomorrow, Azimullah … and Bala Bhat also, before he is made governor.

Yes, certainly, Azimullah confirmed. They will raise no objections—least of all the Nana Sahib.

See to it that he does not, the Moulvi ordered, his tone suddenly harsh. They will raise now, throughout all Oudh and Northern India, the fighting men of the Bengal army—thy master will have a great host under his command. But if he should break the promises he will make to us, remember that Wajid Ali— he who was once King of Oudh and a believer—waits in enforced exile, eager to return.

My master will keep his word, the Nana’s young aide asserted stiffly.

He has yet to prove himself, the Moulvi pointed out. And the first thing he will have to prove is that he is no longer a friend of the British.

Thou need’st have no fear on that account, Moulvi Sahib. Azimullah spoke with conviction. The Nana’s hatred for the British may have been hidden beneath the cloak of soft words in the past, but it is deeper than thine—and with reason. The British have humiliated him times without number. They have taken from him greedily and given him nothing in return, save insults which have wounded him deeply. You will see what will happen when he gives free rein to the anger which burns in his heart— he will spare none of those who now cower behind their mud walls out on the plain, not even the women or the babes that cling to them! He will be as a tiger, thirsting for blood.

Good! The Moulvi’s bearded lips curved at last into a smile. Thy words have the ring of truth, Azimullah. Thou are a worthy son of the Prophet and we understand each other well. Stand thou at thy master’s back and see to it always that he gives ear to thee for, when the winds of change blow, it is as easy to drag down a leader as it is to elevate him to leadership. The war we wage is a holy war and we shall be less tolerant than the British to any of our commanders who fail us. He shrugged contemptuously. The British are fools to put their trust in the Company’s grey-beard generals! Old General Hewitt, by his failure to act decisively in Meerut, has almost certainly lost India for them, but what do they do? Demand his head, hang him … oh, no! They leave him in command at Meerut and put General Wilson—who behaved no better than he did—in command of the troops they send to attack Delhi. True, there is talk of an enquiry but … He broke off, with a pleased exclamation, to point to a horseman in the French grey and silver of the Native Cavalry full dress, approaching them at a headlong gallop. "Allah be praised! It is the messenger from Kalianpore at last, with a summons for the new Peishwa to take command of his army. The hour strikes for him and for us