The Outbreak of the Mutiny
On the night of Monday, May 11, some weeks after Ted's recovery, Ethel's
twenty-first birthday was celebrated, Colonel Woodburn entertaining the
officers and British residents of Aurungpore. The season was too warm
for more than occasional dancing, and conversation was the order of the
night--conversation serious and frivolous, harmless flirtations between
the younger members, and solemn interchange of views concerning the
rumoured dissatisfaction prevailing amongst the native troops, a subject
pooh-poohed by some and laughed at by others, but gravely regarded by a
few--when an orderly entered and handed a missive to the colonel. As he
opened it and read he gave a start, and his face paled for one brief
second, but soon resumed its ordinary aspect as he slowly folded the
paper and placed it in his pocket.
A few moments later he crossed over to Major Munro, who at once left the
room after speaking to the adjutant and another officer. These two also
took their departure before long, and one by one the remainder of the
officers were spoken to and retired to their mess-room, where they were
shortly joined by Colonel Woodburn.
"I have terrible news," he informed them, "but we must try to avoid
alarming either the ladies or the sepoys. The 3rd Native Cavalry and the
11th and 20th Native Infantry have broken into mutiny at Meerut, killed
some of their officers, and, so the message runs, are sacking the town
and murdering right and left."
"At Meerut!" gasped Major Munro. "How at Meerut of all places? They
couldn't--it's simply impossible!"
"It must be true," declared the colonel, "though it certainly does seem
impossible. One would think they would have broken out at Cawnpore, or
Benares, or Allahabad, or here, or anywhere rather than Meerut. But this
report must be exaggerated! How could they sack the town and murder in
the face of those English regiments and the Artillery? It's
incomprehensible!"
Now even Ensign Russell, a mere griffin, knew that Meerut--a large
station more than fifty miles north-east of Delhi--was considered a
model cantonment, and contained the strongest British force in all
India. Could a revolt seem more hopeless than at this station, where the
three native corps were more than counterbalanced by a regiment of
British dragoons, the 60th Rifles, and two batteries of the finest
artillery in the world--a force sufficient to repress any rising within
ten minutes--whereas throughout the seven hundred and fifty miles of
territory along the Ganges, in the districts containing the large towns
of Agra, Allahabad, Benares, Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Patna, there were
only three weak British corps to oppose nearly a score of sepoy
regiments and many thousands of armed rebels?
"There's no saying how it will spread," continued the colonel. "We must
take all precautions, though I believe our men are perfectly
trustworthy. There must be some mistake, and I've no doubt that we shall
hear to-morrow that the rebels have been cut to pieces. I'm afraid the
silly fellows will be slaughtered by hundreds."
But the news of the morning and of the succeeding days was no less hard
to understand. Eighty-five men of the 3rd Native Cavalry (a corps
composed of Hindus and Mohammedans) had refused to use the cartridges
served out, alleging that the fat of pigs and of cows had been employed
in the manufacture.
As most readers will know, the pig is regarded as unclean by all
Moslems, and the cow is holy to Hindus, so that to touch the fat of
these animals would imperil their salvation and shut them out of
Paradise. The mullahs and fakirs had been poisoning the minds of the
soldiers by asserting that the government was taking this means of
uprooting their religion and converting them to Christianity by
destroying their chance of salvation as Moslems or Hindus. If they had
no future to which to look forward as Mussulmans or Brahmans, they would
be the more ready to listen to the Christian doctrine which might give
them some hope.
Unfortunately there is reason to believe that some foundation for the
rumour existed, owing to carelessness on the part of those responsible
for the manufacture, and to senseless, most blamable, disregard of the
sepoy's religious susceptibilities. But these few unclean cartridges had
been withdrawn, and those which the men were required to use contained
no offensive grease, but merely oil and bees'-wax. The childish,
credulous, superstitious sepoys were, however, only too ready to believe
all idle tales: they accepted the statements of the fakirs, that by
means of charms and witchcraft the English would transform them into
animals; that their children would be born with tails like monkeys, and
other stories equally absurd.
The sepoys were now in such a panic of fear lest their precious caste
should be defiled, that they began to suspect some attempt to destroy
this inheritance (without which life was not worth living) in everything
prepared for them by the government. The new cartridge-paper had a
glazed, greasy appearance. This was enough! Here was another subtle
attempt to make them Christians! In this fashion they argued and
persuaded one another like foolish children, though in reality the paper
was entirely free from fat.
Many years before this a report had spread throughout Hindustan that the
English rulers were collecting the salt (a very precious commodity in
the East) into two heaps: over that intended for the use of the
Mohammedans the blood of pigs was sprinkled, and over the other the
blood of cows. This "salt" panic had occurred many years ago, but now in
1857 an equally incredible story was believed by hundreds of thousands,
namely, that the government had caused the bones of bullocks and of pigs
to be ground and mixed with the flour served out to the troops. For days
following the rumour no flour was used, the sepoys preferring to starve
rather than eat what they believed to be defiled food.
But these matters of the greased cartridges and bone-flour were by no
means the only cause of the great mutiny: they were simply the pretexts
for bringing matters to a head. The sepoys had been treated in widely
different ways at various times, being now spoiled and petted, and now
dealt with haughtily and occasionally unjustly. When first the native
army was raised the men were allowed to dress after their own fashion,
but early in the nineteenth century many changes had been initiated, and
the soldiers began to be clothed and drilled according to the European
model.
They were forbidden to wear the cherished caste-marks on their
foreheads; the ear-rings to which they were fondly attached, and which
the Moslems regarded as a charm against evil spirits, were no longer
permitted; they were deprived of the beards of which they had been so
proud, and were forced to shave their chins like the "unclean"
Englishmen; and upon their head the national turban was replaced by a
stiff round cap. Now, not only are hats and caps the outward and
visible signs of Christianity (for Christians are known as
_topi-wallahs_, or hat-wearers), but this uniform cap contained leather
made either from the hide of the abominable hog or from that of the
sacred cow. Thus the new head-dress was an offence to Moslems and Hindus
alike.
A further cause of discontent arose from the decline in the importance
of the native officer. In the early years of the British-Indian army the
native officer had been a great and important man, but at this period
his standing had declined. The English officer of sixteen had authority
over the grizzled Rajput captain who had served the Company for thirty
years. The native officers were not saluted by British privates, and
frequently when they visited the tents of their white brother-officers,
the latter had not the courtesy to offer them chairs, regarding them,
indeed, as in no way different from the common sepoy. The native
officers grumbled to one another in indignant tones over these
grievances.
"It is better," they said, "to serve in the armies of the native states,
where elephants and palanquins and sumptuous tents are provided for the
officers, than in the army of 'The Great Lord Company', in which we are
compelled to live with the common sepoy when on the line of march."
Again, most of the Hindus had enlisted on the understanding that they
were to serve in Hindustan only and not across the sea. Now to cross
"The Black Water" is likewise a defilement forbidden to Brahmans, and
great dissatisfaction had been caused a few years previously because
certain regiments had been ordered to Burma; and during this campaign
the Brahmans had been compelled to work as labourers in the construction
of barracks. The British soldiers had fallen to with a will, as had the
low-caste Madras sepoys, but the men from Bengal demanded to know
whether Brahmans and Rajputs were mere coolies that they should so
defile themselves.
In addition to the above causes of disquietude, the King of Delhi--a
quiet old gentleman who dabbled in poetry--had been recently deprived of
certain privileges. This monarch was the descendant of the great Mogul
emperors, whose sway had been acknowledged by far more kings, princes,
and nations than that of any European sovereign.
Yet the heir to this magnificence was now merely the pensioner of a
company of merchants; though permitted to dwell in an enormous
palace--almost a town in itself--with the empty title of king, he
possessed no real power and no authority. This fact rankled in the minds
of all Mohammedans. In one important respect, however, the Company had
deferred to the king's wishes. He had begged that none of their troops
should be quartered in the imperial city, so that he might at least make
pretence to be the real master thereof. The request was granted, and
with the exception of a handful of men to guard the great Delhi arsenal,
neither sepoys nor British soldiers were stationed in the town, but,
instead, had their cantonments on the destined-to-be-famous ridge
outside.
Then, again, the great province of Oudh had been recently annexed, and
certain privileges had been taken not only from the king thereof, but
from the large landholders; and though in the course of time these
changes would undoubtedly work for the good of the majority, still they
pressed heavily on a certain class; and the poorer people, for whose
benefit the changes were made, could not understand, and therefore
disliked them. The King of Oudh, like his master the Emperor of Delhi,
was a Mohammedan.
There was also a Mahratta rajah, known as Nana Sahib, who had many
grievances against the English. The Mahrattas were a powerful Hindu
confederacy that had overawed even the Grand Moguls until Wellesley and
Lake had broken their power.
Trouble had arisen in many corps over the question of pay. For services
outside India the sepoys were paid more than in Hindustan itself. After
the annexation of the Punjab in 1849 this extra pay was dropped for
regiments serving in the province, and the sepoys could not understand
how, if the Punjab was not in Hindustan when they entered, it could
become part of Hindustan because the government chose to term it so.
They argued that even if the Punjab had become merged in the Indian
Empire, it was still a foreign country in their eyes; that they were
still serving away from their native land, and were therefore entitled
to extra pay. Some regiments had accordingly refused to obey orders.
The Brahman priests thereupon warned the Indian Government that if they
(the priests) chose to forbid Hindus to enlist, the British would have
to make shift without a sepoy army. This threat rather frightened "John
Company", but not Sir Charles Napier, the commander-in-chief at the
period. He promptly took matters into his own hands, and disbanding the
66th Native Infantry, which had refused to obey orders, he gave their
title and colours to the Nasiri Gurkha Battalion, who thereupon became
the 66th Infantry of the Line.
This step scared the Brahmans, for they saw that if the government was
minded to fill their places with Gurkhas, those intrepid little
mountaineers would be only too delighted to enlist in the regular army
instead of in irregular battalions with less pay, as at present. The
occupation of the Brahman sepoys would then be gone, at least to a
larger extent than they desired.
Now, in India the status of a soldier is a most honourable one, and the
army is not mainly recruited from the lower classes, as in England, but
from the most respectable natives of the middle and higher ranks of
life; and families consider it a great privilege to have a son in the
army, even as a private. Judged by Indian standards the pay is very
good, and the pension will keep a family in ease and comfort. The
British soldier often enlists because he has no taste for settled
employment, or because he has been tempted by coloured placards setting
forth "the advantages of the army", or has been attracted by the ribbons
of the recruiting-sergeant. Perchance he has been jilted by his
sweetheart, or done something of which he is ashamed, and so has run
away from home. Often he has taken another name, and has lost sight and
touch of the parents at home.
But the sepoy, as soon as his name is on the regimental roll, becomes
the pride and prop of his house. He visits home regularly and is
regarded as a great man in his village, and his family comes under the
special protection of the state. Many families boasted that they had
eaten the salt of "The Great Lord Company" from generation to
generation. The sepoys usually had a real pride in their colours; they
rejoiced in the honourable and well-paid service that was sought by the
very flower of the people, by the highest castes in Bengal.
Napier's prompt action checked the spread of revolt, but dissatisfaction
still rankled in the sepoys' breasts. In 1857 each injustice was
recalled to mind, and thousands of the mutineers honestly believed that
they had been very badly treated.
A further incitement to revolt was this. The Moslems cherished a
prophecy that India would be ruled by the Feringhis for exactly one
hundred years, after which the Mogul Empire would resume its sway. The
year 1857 was just a century after Plassey.