But this was not the case with Nana Sahib, nor the wily Azimoolah. The centralisation of the rebellion was to place the power in one pair of hands. The Nana craved for power, and he had no intention of recognising the authority of the King, to whom he would have to be subordinate. That, however, formed no part of his programme. But, for a time, the Sepoy leaders declared their intention of going to Delhi, and they made one short march on the road as far as a place called Kullianpore. Here, with all their elephants ladened with the English treasure, their artillery, and heaps of ammunition, they halted. The Nana had accompanied them thus far. He knew that by humouring their first impulse he might bend them to his will. His craft and cunning were truly remarkable.
“Comrades,” he cried, as he commenced to harangue them, “we make common cause. And I ask you, would you be slaves? If you go to Delhi your necks must bear the King’s yoke. Remember all that I have done—all that I have sacrificed to give you liberty. From these English I drew wealth, but I have forfeited all in order that you may be free. Why should you go to the Imperial City? If you concentrate yourselves at any given point, it is certain that the Feringhees will mass their forces against that point and crush you. It is by spreading ourselves over a large area that our hopes of success lie. The British have not troops enough to attack all our strongholds. Again I say, what can Delhi offer you more than I can? Have we not a fair city here?
“The power of the English in Europe is declining; they are weak in India; the vast breadth of country over which the faithful followers of the Prophet are asserting their independence is stripped of troops. What then have we to fear? Remain here and recognise my rule. Restore the Peishwahship, and I promise you wealth, freedom, honour and glory.”
The voice of the charmer prevailed. The leaders wavered in their determination. They conferred one with another, then up they spoke, almost as one man, and answered the Nana Sahib—
“We go back—we devote our lives to your service—we will do your bidding.”
The Mahratta smiled. He saw that the game was in his own hands, and that his ambition and malice might be gratified at one blow. Here were four disciplined native regiments—together with his Bhitoor retainers, who numbered alone nearly one thousand, and were all trained soldiers, some hundreds of guns, heaps of ammunition, and abundance of treasure. With such a force, what might he not do?
His familiar demon, Azimoolah, rubbed his hands with ferocious joy as he heard the answer of the men. Formerly a common servant in the house of an Englishman, Azimoolah had been raised to position by the Nana, to whom he had ever been a ready tool and a cringing slave. He had gone to England to plead his worthless master’s cause; he had made love to English ladies; he had been fêted and lionised by the hospitable English, who loaded him with favours and presents. But he returned to his country with a deadly hatred in his heart for those who had befriended him.
In addition to this astute Mahomedan and cunning devil, the Nana had in his company Tantia Topee, who had been his playfellow in former days, and was now his counsellor and guide.
There were also Bala Rao and Baba Bhut, his brothers; the Rao Sahib, his nephew, and Teeka Singh—a combination of cowardly and pitiless villains.