DELHI: RETRIBUTION
There remained the great palace, the last stronghold of the Mutiny, a
building famous in history and in romance. The 60th Rifles were launched
against it, the gates were blown open, and the troops broke their way
in. They found it practically deserted. The garrison had fled, the king
and his household were fugitives, and the clash of British bayonets,
the tramp of British feet, rang through the abandoned halls and ruined
corridors of the palace of the Mogul.
The flight of the garrison from the imperial palace had been hastened by
a very gallant feat of arms. Between the palace and the bridge crossing
the Jumna is a strong fort, a sort of outwork to the palace, called the
Selingarh. An officer, Lieutenant Aikman, with a party of Wilde’s Sikhs,
had been despatched to reconnoitre along the river front. Aikman, who
knew the ground thoroughly, and who was of a daring temper, determined to
make a dash at the Selingarh, and so prevent the escape of the king and
his court across the river. With his handful of Sikhs, Aikman carried the
Selingarh with one fierce rush, and seized the passage connecting the
rear gate of the palace with the fort, thus plugging up that opportunity
for flight. The king, with his court, as it happened, had fled already,
but as Aikman held the rear gate of the palace, while the 60th Rifles
blew in its front gates, all who remained in it were made prisoners.
That the imperial palace should have been carried almost without loss of
life seems wonderful. It proves how completely the spirit of the Sepoys
had been broken by the fiery valour of the British assaults. Yet even
the capture of the palace was marked by some curious, though isolated,
examples of courage on the part of the rebels.
Hope Grant, for example, records that a sentry was found at one of the
palace gates dressed and equipped according to regulation, and marching
up and down on his beat with his musket on his shoulder. “In a museum
at Naples,” he adds, “is to be seen the skull and helmet of a man who
was found buried at his post in a sentry-box in the midst of the lava.
The inscription states the occupant to have been a ‘brave soldier’; but
nothing could have been braver or cooler than the conduct of this Sepoy,
who must have known that his fate was sealed.” Roberts, who shared in
the rush for the palace gates, adds another curious example of Sepoy
courage. They found the recesses in the long passage which led to the
palace buildings packed with wounded men, but about thirty yards up the
passage stood a Sepoy in the uniform of a grenadier of the 37th Native
Infantry. The man stood quietly as the British came along the passage,
with his musket on his hip. Then he coolly raised his musket and fired
at the advancing party, sending his bullet through the helmet of the
leading Englishman. Next, dropping his musket to the level, he charged
single-handed down on the entire detachment of the 60th, and was killed!
Colonel Jones, who commanded the Rifles, sent a pencilled note to Wilson
announcing, with soldier-like brevity, “Blown open the gate and got
possession of the palace.”
At sunrise on the morning of September 21 a royal salute rang over Delhi,
its pulses of deep sound proclaiming to all India that the sacred city,
the home and stronghold of the revolt, was once more in British hands.
That same day Wilson moved in from his rough camp on the Ridge, and
established his headquarters in the Dewan-i-khas, the king’s private hall
of audience.
But if Delhi was captured, the King of Delhi, with all the leading
figures in the Mutiny, yet remained free, and might easily become the
centre of new troubles. The rebel commander-in-chief felt that the game
was up when the Burn Bastion was carried, and he fled from the city
that night, carrying with him most of his troops. He urged the king to
flee with him, and to renew the war in the open country, where his name
would have all the magical charm of a spell on the imagination of the
common people. But the unhappy king was old and tired. His nerve had been
dissolved in the sloth and sensualities of an Indian court. His favourite
wife strongly opposed flight, in the interests of her child, whom she
hoped to see succeeding the king.
The unhappy monarch, in a word, could neither flee nor stay, and he took
refuge in a stately cluster of famous buildings named Humayon’s Tomb,
some seven miles out of Delhi. Hodson, the daring and famous captain
of Light Horse, ascertained this, and with some trouble extracted from
Wilson permission to attempt the capture of the king, with strict
instructions to promise him his life. Taking fifty picked men from his
regiment, Hodson rode out on one of the most audacious expeditions ever
undertaken.
The road to Humayon’s Tomb at one point runs underneath a strong tower,
where the king had at first taken refuge, and which was still filled
with his adherents. Fierce dark faces looked down from its parapets and
from every arrow-slit in its walls as Hodson, with his little cluster
of horsemen, rode past. But in the Englishman’s stern face and cool,
unflurried bearing there was something which awed those who looked on
him, and not a shot was fired as the party rode by on their stern errand.
Hodson and his men reached the spot where the tomb lifts its dome of
stainless marble high in the air. In one of the chambers of that great
pillar sat, trembling, the last heir of the house of Timour; in the
cloisters at its foot were some thousands of the servants and hangers-on
of the palace, armed and excited.
For two hours Hodson sat in his saddle before the gate, his men posted—a
slender chain of cavalry—round the tomb, while messengers passed to
and fro between him and the king. “Picture to yourself,” said Hodson’s
brother, when telling the story, “the scene before that magnificent
gateway, with the milk-white domes of the tomb towering up from within.
One white man, amongst a host of natives, determined to secure his
prisoner or perish in the attempt!”
The king at last consented to come out and deliver himself to Hodson, but
only on condition that he repeated with his own lips Wilson’s promise
of safety for his life. Presently the king came out, carried in a
bullock-carriage, and Hodson spurred his horse forward and demanded the
king’s arms. The king asked him whether he were Hodson Bahadur, and if he
promised him his life. Hodson gave the required promise, but added grimly
that if any attempt were made at a rescue he would shoot the king down
like a dog! Then the procession, at a foot walk, moved on to the city,
thousands of natives following and gazing in wonder at the lordly figure
of that solitary Englishman carrying off their king alone. But Hodson’s
calm and dauntless bearing acted as a spell on the crowd.
Bit by bit the multitude slunk away, and, with his fifty horsemen and his
group of prisoners, Hodson rode up to the Lahore Gate. “What have you got
in that palkee?” asked the officer on duty. “Only the King of Delhi!”
said Hodson. The clustering guard at the gate were with difficulty kept
from cheering. The little group moved up the stately Silver Bazaar to
the palace gate, where Hodson delivered over his royal prisoners to
the civil officer in charge. “By Jove, Hodson,” said that astonished
official, “they ought to make you Commander-in-Chief for this!” When
Hodson reported his success to Wilson, that general’s ungracious and
characteristic comment was, “Well, I’m glad you’ve got him. But I never
expected to see either you or him again!”
Hope Grant tells how he went to see the fallen monarch in his prison:—
He was an old man, said by one of the servants to be ninety
years of age, short in stature, slight, very fair for a native,
and with a high-bred, delicate-looking cast of features. Truly
the dignity had departed from the Great Mogul, whose ancestors
had once been lords of princely possessions in India. It might
have been supposed that death would have been preferable to
such humiliation, but it is wonderful how we all cling to the
shreds of life. When I saw the poor old man he was seated on a
wretched charpoy, or native bed, with his legs crossed before
him, and swinging his body backwards and forwards with an
unconscious dreamy look. I asked him one or two questions, and
was surprised to hear an unpleasantly vulgar voice answering
from behind a small screen. I was told that this proceeded from
his begum, or queen, who prevented him from replying, fearful
lest he might say something which should compromise their
safety.
Sir Richard Temple, who prepared the evidence for the trial of the
ex-king of Delhi, paid many visits to the ill-fated monarch during
his confinement. “It was a strange sight,” he says, “to see the aged
man, seated in a darkened chamber of his palace; the finely chiselled
features, arched eyebrows, aquiline profile, the sickly pallor of the
olive complexion, nervous twitching of the face, delicate fingers
counting beads, muttering speech, incoherent language, irritable
self-consciousness—altogether made up a curious picture. Here sat the
last of the Great Moguls, the descendant of emperors two centuries ago
ruling the second largest population in the world; who had himself,
though a phantom sovereign, been treated with regal honours. He was now
about to be tried for his life by judges whose forefathers had sued for
favour and protection from his imperial ancestors.”
But there still remained uncaptured the two sons and the grandson of
the king. The princes had a very evil fame. They had tortured and
slain English prisoners. They had been the leading figures in the
Mutiny. Their hands were red with innocent blood, the blood of little
children and of helpless women. The princes—Mirza Mogul, at one time the
commander-in-chief of the rebel forces, Mirza Khejoo Sultan, and Mirza
Aboo Bukir, the son of the late heir-apparent—with some 6000 or 7000
followers, had occupied Humayon’s Tomb after the king’s capture, partly
in a mood of fatalistic despair, and partly with the expectation that
they might find the same mercy the king had found.
Macdowell, who was second in command of Hodson’s Horse, tells how, on
September 21, he got a note from Hodson, “Come sharp; bring 100 men.”
He rode off at once, and, on meeting, Hodson explained that he had
ascertained that the three princes were in Humayon’s Tomb, and he meant
to bring them in.
Hodson rode to the tomb, halted his troop outside it, and sent in a
messenger demanding the surrender of the princes. They asked for a
promise of their lives, but Hodson sternly refused any such pledge. As
Hodson and Macdowell sat, side by side, on their horses, they could hear
the stormy shouts of the followers of the princes begging to be led out
against the infidels. But Hodson’s audacity and iron resolve prevailed,
as they prevailed the day before in the case of the king. The princes
sent word that they were coming; and presently a small bullock-cart made
its appearance. The princes were in it, and behind came some 3000 armed
retainers.
Hodson allowed the cart to come up to his line, ordered the driver to
move on, and then formed up his troop, by a single, quick movement,
between the cart and the crowd. The troopers advanced at a walk upon the
crowd, that fell sullenly and reluctantly back. Hodson sent on the cart
containing the princes in charge of ten of his men, while he sternly,
and step by step, pressed the crowd back into the enclosure surrounding
the tomb; then, leaving his men outside, Hodson, with Macdowell and four
troopers, rode up the steps into the arch, and called on the crowd to
lay down their arms. “There was a murmur,” says Macdowell, who tells
the story. “He reiterated the command, and (God knows why, I never can
understand it!) they commenced doing so.” He adds:—
Now, you see, we didn’t want their arms, and under ordinary
circumstances would not have risked our lives in so rash a
way. But what we wanted was to gain time to get the princes
away, for we could have done nothing, had they attacked us, but
cut our way back, and very little chance of doing even this
successfully. Well, there we stayed for two hours, collecting
their arms, and I assure you I thought every moment they would
rush upon us. I said nothing, but smoked all the time, to show
I was unconcerned; but at last, when it was all done, and all
the arms collected, put in a cart, and started, Hodson turned
to me and said, “We’ll go now.” Very slowly we mounted, formed
up the troop, and cautiously departed, followed by the crowd.
We rode along quietly. You will say, why did we not charge
them? I merely say, we were one hundred men, and they were
fully 6000. I am not exaggerating; the official reports will
show you it is all true. As we got about a mile off, Hodson
turned to me and said, “Well, Mac, we’ve got them at last”;
and we both gave a sigh of relief. Never in my life, under the
heaviest fire, have I been in such imminent danger. Everybody
says it is the most dashing and daring thing that has been done
for years (not on my part, for I merely obeyed orders, but on
Hodson’s, who planned and carried it out).
Hodson and Macdowell quickly overtook the cart carrying the princes,
but a crowd had gathered round the vehicle, and pressed on the very
horses of the troopers. “What shall we do with them?” said Hodson to his
lieutenant. Then, answering his own question, he added, “I think we had
better shoot them here. We shall never get them in!” And Hodson proceeded
to do that daring, cruel, much-abused, much-praised deed.
He halted his troop, put five troopers across the road, in front and
behind the cart, ordered the princes to strip; then, taking a carbine
from one of his troopers, he shot them with his own hand, first, in a
loud voice, explaining to his troopers and the crowd who they were, and
what crimes they had done. The shuddering crowd gazed at this tall,
stern, inflexible sahib, with his flowing beard, white face, and deep
over-mastering voice, shooting one by one their princes; but no hand was
lifted in protest.
Hodson showed no hurry. He made the doomed princes strip, that the act
might seem an execution, not a murder. He shot them with his own hand,
for, had he ordered a trooper to have done it, and the man had hesitated,
a moment’s pause might have kindled the huge swaying breathless crowd to
flame.
Critics in an overwhelming majority condemn Hodson’s act. Roberts,
whose judgment is mildest, says his feeling is “one of sorrow that such
a brilliant soldier should have laid himself open to so much adverse
criticism.” Hodson himself wrote on the evening of the same day, “I
made up my mind at the time to be abused. I was convinced I was right,
and when I prepared to run the great physical risk of the attempt I was
equally game for the moral risk of praise or blame. These have not been,
and are not, times when a man who would serve his country dare hesitate
as to the personal consequences to himself of what he thinks his duty.”
Perhaps, however, Hodson was scarcely a cool judge as to what “duty”
might be in such a case. The outrages which accompanied the Mutiny had
kindled his fierce nature into a flame. “If ever I get into Delhi,”
he had said, weeks before, “the house of Timour won’t be worth five
minutes’ purchase!” Hodson’s “five minutes” proved inadequate; but,
writing afterwards, on the very day he shot the princes, he recorded,
“In twenty-four hours I disposed of the principal members of the house
of Timour the Tartar. I am not cruel, but I confess I did rejoice in the
opportunity of ridding the earth of these ruffians.”
Macdowell writes the epitaph of the princes: “So ended the career of
the chiefs of the revolt and of the greatest villains that ever shamed
humanity.”
The bodies were driven into Delhi and cast on a raised terrace in front
of the Kotwallee. Cave-Browne, who was chaplain to the forces at the
time, comments on the curious fact that this was the very spot where the
worst crimes of the princes had been committed. “It was,” he says, “a
dire retribution! On the very spot where, four months ago, English women
and children had suffered every form of indignity and death, there now
lay exposed to the scoff and scorn of the avenging army, three scions of
the royal house, who had been chief among the fiends of Delhi.”
The story of the siege of Delhi is one of the most wonderful chapters
in the history of war. The besieging army never amounted to 10,000 men;
it sometimes sank below 5000. For weeks the British had thus to face an
enemy exceeding themselves in number sometimes by a ratio of ten to one,
and with an overwhelming superiority of artillery. They fought no fewer
than thirty-two battles with the enemy, and did not lose one! For three
months every man, not sick, in the whole force had to be under arms every
day, and sometimes both by night and day. The men were scorched by the
heat of the sun, wasted with dysentery and cholera, worn out with toil.
A new and strange perplexity was added to the situation by the fact that
many of the native troops on the Ridge were notoriously disloyal. The
British officers sometimes ran as much danger of being shot by their
own troops behind them as by the Sepoys in front. Early in July the 4th
Sikhs were purged of Hindustanis, as these could not be trusted. General
Barnard had to abandon one plan of assault on Delhi, because at the last
moment he discovered a conspiracy amongst the native soldiers in the camp
to join the enemy. The strength of the force was sapped by sickness as
well as by disloyalty.
On August 31, for example, out of under 11,000 men 2977 were in hospital.
Of their total effective force, nearly 4000—or two out of every five—were
killed, or died of wounds received in battle. Yet they never lost heart,
never faltered or murmured or failed. And after twelve weeks of such a
struggle, they at last stormed in open day a strong city, with walls
practically unbreached, and defended by 30,000 revolted Sepoys. This is
a record never surpassed, and seldom paralleled, in history!
Months afterwards, Lawrence, looking from the Ridge over the scene of
the long and bloody struggle, said to his companion with a sigh, “Think
of all the genius and bravery buried here!” The environs of Delhi, the
reverse slope of that rocky crest from which the British guns thundered
on the rebel city, are indeed sown thick with the graves of brave men who
died to maintain the British Empire in India.