Koh-i-Noor Page 12

  Born in 1817, Jindan had been brought up around ferocious hunting dogs. Her father, Manna Singh Aulak, had been the kennel-keeper in charge of Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s hounds, and almost from the time of Jindan’s puberty Aulak had thrust his pretty young daughter at the Lion. A wily and ambitious man, Aulak coaxed and cajoled the ageing one-eyed king to take Jindan as his wife, saying that she might put fire back into his loins. In 1835, Ranjit Singh, at the age of fifty-five, finally gave in, and his marriage to the eighteen-year-old Jindan made her his seventeenth wife.

  Beautiful Jindan, with her oval face, aquiline nose and large, intense, almond-shaped eyes, was said to move with the grace of a dancer. Her innate sensuality unnerved many of those who met her, and she attracted admirers and detractors in equal measure. In contrast, war and the pressures of state had taken their toll on her husband: his long hair and chest-length beard were snowy white, and his tanned and pockmarked face deeply weathered and wrinkled. Paralysis had frozen his right side, and the pair looked deeply incongruous together. When Jindan fell pregnant two years later, the court gossips could barely contain themselves.

  Just as they had destroyed Sher Singh’s reputation in the cradle, so whispers set about the new baby from the moment he was born. How could the gnarled maharaja have fathered a child at his age and with his infirmities? Jindan must have slept with one of her servants. The gossips singled out one of her water-bearers for suspicion, a good-looking boy who was frequently caught locking gazes with the low-born queen. Surely the baby was too delicate and pretty to be of the Lion’s loins?

  In an unusual move, Maharaja Ranjit Singh took the step of officially and publicly declaring Duleep Singh his legitimate child, silencing rumours of Jindan’s impropriety. By doing so, he quashed any notion that he was gullible enough to be cuckolded, while simultaneously confirming his own virility. Grudgingly, the court made room for Jindan and her baby, never thinking for a moment that he might one day be their king, and that she might sit on the throne of Punjab.

  When they anointed the five-year-old Duleep Singh as maharaja of Punjab on 18 September 1843 the nobles of the durbar hoped they had found a puppet king to do their bidding. But the twenty-six-year-old Jindan, ill-educated, with no aristocratic family behind her, had other plans. The kennel-keeper’s daughter scandalised the court by leaving the purdah of the women’s quarters and declaring that she would govern Punjab herself in her boy’s name.

  With the Koh-i-Noor strapped to his soft, plump arm, Duleep sat in his mother’s lap while she ruled over one of the most powerful empires in all India. The outrage provoked by her decision was made worse when Jindan appointed her brother, Jawahar Singh, the new vizier. He was one of the most detested men in the realm, wearing his coarseness like armour. Jawahar knew that his new-found wealth and status depended entirely on his sister, and as soon as he became vizier he set about destroying any challenge to her authority.

  His intrigues were tolerated for a while. But on 11 September 1845, just two years into his nephew’s reign, Jawahar went too far. Duleep’s half-brother, Prince Pashaura Singh Kanwar, one of the only other surviving sons of Ranjit Singh, was restive. The twenty-three-year-old prince lacked the all-important stamp of legitimacy bestowed on Duleep, the boy king. Yet, having seen his half-brother Sher Singh shrug off his own similarly unlegitimised status, Pashaura Singh grew convinced that he too could seize power. Openly challenging Duleep for the throne, Pashaura amassed an army to fight for his claim. Unlike Sher Singh’s, however, his army was met with unified resistance from Jindan’s imperial troops. Greatly outnumbered on the battlefield, Pashaura was forced to surrender, but not before he made the regent promise to let him live out the rest of his life in peace and honour. In return, he vowed never again to challenge her son.

  With the terms agreed, and on the pretext of escorting Prince Pashaura back to his home, Jawahar Singh, Jindan’s brother, separated him from his soldiers and had him strangled to death. In the eyes of the high-born nobles, he had crossed an unforgivable line. He had reneged on a promise, and he had defied caste and honour by killing a prince of the royal blood. Jindan’s brother would be made to pay for his treachery. On 21 September, now back in Lahore, Jawahar Singh was summoned to a meeting of the Sikh Khalsa, the spiritual leadership of Punjab.

  The Khalsa acted as upholders of the Sikh moral code and were known to be uncompromising. Jawahar realised he was in danger, but could not ignore the summons from such an important group of men. He chose to meet the threat by riding out on the maharaja’s own elephant, with Duleep sitting firmly in front of him on his lap.

  His actions served as a very visual reminder to the Khalsa – Jawahar had the protection of his sister and her son. If they attacked him, they attacked their own sovereign. Thinking himself shielded, Jawahar lumbered towards the appointed meeting place, clinging to his little nephew. But he had underestimated the rage of his enemies. The Khalsa, along with a scattering of imperial guards, surrounded the elephant and rough hands reached up to pull his terrified, sobbing nephew from his arms. With the maharaja safely out of the way, the Khalsa then turned on Jawahar, tipping him from the jewelled howdah and throwing him into the dirt. As he lay there, pleading for his life, they hacked him to death.

  Duleep, held out of danger by his own men, stood splattered with his uncle’s warm blood. He saw every brutal blow, and the experience would haunt him all the days of his life. The screams of his mother, forced by durbar courtiers to watch, mingled with his own. After they were done, the vizier’s killers bowed before the weeping child, assured him that he had never been the target of their anger, and that they would serve him loyally to the end of their days.

  Jindan seemed to drown in her grief and terror for a time, and the nobles may have been forgiven for thinking they had rid themselves of her along with the malign influence of her brother. But her retreat to the zenana, the hidden women’s apartments in the palace, was only temporary, and after a matter of weeks, defying all expectation, Jindan emerged from her quarters to resume her duties as regent. With a dignity that masked her inner turmoil, she took her place in the throne room, surrounded by the very men who had contrived to murder her brother and strongest ally. Hundreds of miles away from the unfolding drama, the British East India Company watched events with intense interest.

  By the 1840s the British were the undisputed geopolitical masters of much of India. Through a mixture of trade and conquest, their territories expanded rapidly from Madras in the south-east of India all the way up to the Sutlej river, the natural boundary of the Sikh kingdom in the north. Ranjit Singh’s strong army had stopped any further territorial gain, but his death and the years of turbulence which followed greatly weakened fortress Punjab.

  In 1843, the very year that Duleep was anointed, East India Company troops began to build up south of the Sutlej. British agents tentatively approached Jindan, offering support to her regency, while at the same time making overtures to the most powerful men in the royal court, offering to help them topple her. Rani Jindan and Maharaja Duleep Singh were surrounded by embittered and ambitious men, and some of the most senior proved remarkably easy to turn.

  Three months after the slaying of Duleep’s uncle Jawahar, with resentment between Jindan and the Khalsa still simmering, the British made their move. Mobilising men from as far as West Bengal, they turned their comparatively small encampments by the Sutlej into an army. The Sikhs interpreted the unconcealed troop build-up as an act of aggression, and on 11 December 1845, Sikh cavalry crossed south over the Sutlej in order to push back the British encroachment. Two days later, claiming that his territory had been violated, the British governor general Sir Henry Hardinge declared war.

  While the battles of the first Anglo-Sikh War raged, neither Duleep nor Jindan knew that two of the most powerful men in their court had already betrayed them. Lal Singh, who had replaced the slain Jawahar Singh as vizier, disclosed the position of Duleep’s gun batteries to British spies and told them how many soldi
ers were in play and what they planned to do. Tej Singh, the commander of Duleep’s armies, did far worse. The battle of Ferozeshah, which raged through 21–22 December 1845, was one of the hardest ever fought by the British army and their losses were heavy. Low on ammunition and food, governor general Hardinge found himself caught up on the front line. Continually battered by heavy guns all day, his men got no respite even when the sun went down. The Sikhs continued to pound his position with a ‘terrific cannonade’ that lit up the darkening sky. Hardinge described the long hours before dawn as ‘a night of horrors’.4 Expecting the Sikhs to overrun his position at any moment, he ordered the burning of his official documents: a protocol triggered when defeat was assured. He then presented his most precious personal possession, a sword which had once belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte, to his aide-de-camp.

  This was the moment when the Sikhs ought to have delivered a decisive blow, but, instead of advancing, their general, Tej Singh, ordered a retreat. He would later claim he was trying to outflank his enemy, but most recognised his actions for what they were – a betrayal of his men and his maharaja. The Sikhs were cut to pieces by British reinforcements, who had been given ample time to muster thanks to Tej Singh’s disastrous fallback.

  Less than two months after the heavy defeat at Ferozeshah, on 10 February 1846, the Sikh army found itself pushed hard by freshly deployed, heavily armed British soldiers. To reorganise and rearm, Punjabi soldiers withdrew across the Sutlej river at every point except Sobaron, some forty miles south-east of Lahore. A single battalion of exhausted Sikhs was left to hold the bridgehead. Despite heavy fire, they refused to surrender or retreat. Superior numbers and greater firepower battered their position, yet they refused to give any ground. When they ran out of bullets, the Sikhs attacked with their swords, weaving through heavy artillery fire to attack the British at close quarters. For a while their bravery seemed to be turning the tide of battle, but at the very moment he should have been proudest of his men, General Tej Singh betrayed them again. Having himself crossed to the safety of the north bank of the river, he ordered the bridges across the Sutlej to be burned, cutting off any hope of reinforcement for his pinned-down soldiers. His men were now trapped between the British and the water, and their comrades were forced to watch the rout from the wrong side of the river. Though they knew their situation was hopeless, not one Sikh soldier surrendered that day. Backs to the torrent, they fought until British guns brought silence to the Sutlej. Sikh casualties are said to have numbered around 9,000.

  Though they had emerged victorious in what became known as the First Anglo-Sikh War, the British were aware that they were still vastly outnumbered in the region. Entering Lahore as victors, Hardinge’s men had to shore up their position, and they needed Duleep Singh to do that. So it was that the British hit upon an ingenious strategy. They assured a reeling Lahore that not only would they leave the maharaja on his throne but they would also safeguard his interests.

  Signing the Treaty of Lahore with the child on 9 March 1846, the British vowed to stay only until Duleep reached the age of sixteen, as long as he in turn submitted to the presence of a resident, or local governor, who would have full authority to direct matters in all departments of the state. When Duleep turned sixteen, he would be old enough to govern for himself, and the British would leave as friends. The ink had barely had time to dry on the treaty when the British started to garrison their soldiers in Lahore, and draw up amendments to the legal document.

  Ostensibly the British troops were protecting the boy king, and since they were there to serve him, Duleep was forced to foot the bill. He was, in effect, paying an occupying force to infiltrate his kingdom, while the resident worked to slash the size of his own imperial army within his realm. Outwardly in the durbar, things did not seem too different at first: Duleep remained on his throne, and the aristocrats of his court were allowed to continue in their positions too. The regent, Duleep Singh’s mother, Rani Jindan, seemed to be the only one who could see what the British were doing.

  Incandescent at the supine response of her advisers, she threw her bangles at them, accusing them of being weaker than women, taunting them for their stupidity. Could they not see that this was annexation by stealth? She railed impotently as the British carved up her son’s kingdom and prepared to sell off parcels of land for war reparations. As amendments to the original agreement were pressed on her boy, like Cassandra, Jindan begged her nobles to see that their king was being deposed before their very eyes. Articles one and two of the treaty spoke of friendship and Duleep’s right to rule, yet article three transferred control of his fortresses to the British. Articles four and five dealt with reparations that crippled Duleep’s exchequer, and articles seven and eight decimated his army and gave away all his heavy guns. When the traitorous General Tej Singh was granted the Jagir of Sialkot, a district at the foot of the Kashmir hills, Jindan could stand it no more: the title would give the traitor all revenues from the district, and allowed him to parade around like a minor royal. Jindan could not allow her son to be debased in this way, and instructed him to defy the British and humiliate the treacherous general in front of all Lahore.

  For the Sialkot title to be recognised, the maharaja himself needed to give Tej Singh his blessing by placing a mark of saffron and vermilion on his forehead. Jindan, fully aware of the defiance, told her son to resist no matter what his British advisers told him.

  At a very public ceremony in Lahore, as Tej Singh knelt to receive his mark, Duleep Singh resolutely refused to dip his finger in the pot of colour held before him. His actions insulted Tej Singh and infuriated the British in equal measure. It was left to Sir Henry Lawrence, the new resident of Lahore, to deal with the problematic regent. In increasingly frustrated letters, complaints about Jindan’s ‘anti-English’ behaviour and the ‘scandalaous profligacy of her conduct’ were scribbled and sent. Eventually a course of action was decided that took Jindan entirely by surprise: the British decided that she would have to be removed from Lahore and from Duleep completely. To make their decision more palatable, they attempted to conjure moral arguments for their decision. They were saving Duleep by taking his mother away from him: ‘her general misconduct and habits of intrigue are sufficient to justify her separation from her son … The British Government, being the guardian of the Maharajah, have the right to separate him from the contagion of her evil practice …’5

  In December 1847, when the maharaja was barely nine years old, he was sent to the Shalimar Gardens. Meanwhile, Jindan was torn screaming from her palace, fighting as she was dragged away, begging the Sikh men around her to wake up and fight. Not one man lifted a finger to help her.

  Jindan was imprisoned in Lahore fort for ten days and then moved to a fortress in Sheikhupura, some twenty-five miles away. From the confines of her cell, she begged the British for the return of her only child:

  Why do you take possession of my kingdom by underhand means? Why do you not do it openly? … You have been very cruel to me! … You have snatched my son from me. For ten months I kept him in my womb … In the name of the God you worship and in the name of the King whose salt you eat, restore my son to me. I cannot bear the pain of this separation. Instead you should put me to death …6

  She appealed to Henry Lawrence’s humanity:

  My son is very young. He is incapable of doing anything. I have left the kingdom. I have no need of kingdom … I raise no objections. I will accept what you say. There is no one with my son. He has no sister, no brother. He has no uncle, senior or junior. His father he has lost. To whose care has he been entrusted?7

  Lawrence was decidedly uneasy. It was one thing to imprison meddlesome insurgents, quite another to keep a child from his mother. His superior, Sir Henry Hardinge, had no such misgivings: ‘We must expect these letters in various shapes,’ he assured Lawrence, ‘which a woman of her strong mind and passions will assume as best suited either to gratify her vengeance or obtain her ends …’8

  With Jindan o
ut of the way, the British were now free to do as they pleased in the maharaja’s name. In 1848, they appointed a new governor general to replace the war-weary Hardinge. His name was James Andrew Broun Ramsay, the Earl of Dalhousie. His appointment would seal the fate of the maharaja and his entire kingdom.

  Dalhousie in turn appointed Sir Frederick Currie as his new resident at the Sikh durbar. One of Currie’s first acts was to raise taxes to refill depleted British coffers. The measure proved to be unpopular, and outlying areas of Punjab were hit hardest by the increasing demands. Multan, one of Punjab’s largest and oldest cities, became a hotbed of resentment. Knowing that Diwan Mulraj, the governor of Multan, had always been fiercely loyal to Ranjit Singh and his family, the British resolved to replace him with an official more sympathetic to their needs. They chose Sardar Khan Singh, a little-known official from the court of Lahore, who had been most malleable.

  Mulraj was ordered to hand over his city on 18 April 1848. Khan Singh presented himself at the gates, with a British political agent called Patrick Vans Agnew and a Lieutenant Anderson from the East India Company. What seemed at first to be a peaceful surrender proved to be anything but when the crowd, which had gathered to watch, turned into an angry mob. Whether what followed was pre-planned, or merely a reaction to the humiliation felt by the people of Multan, is hotly contested. What is not in dispute however is that Vans Agnew and Anderson were set upon and eventually hacked to death. This gave the British their casus belli and triggered an endgame that would ultimately lead to the total annexation of Punjab and the loss of the Koh-i-Noor.