The Life and Times of Queen Victoria; vol. 2 of 4

by Robert Wilson

SIR JAMES OUTRAM.

Unfortunately, the base on which the empire of the Company had rested for a century was at this critical period extremely insecure. India was won and India was held, not by English, but by Native soldiers. The British Empire was, therefore, built up on the fidelity of the Sepoy, and the Sepoy had become dissatisfied with his masters, especially in Bengal.[335] The army of Bengal had not only been prone to mutiny, but Napier had denounced its lack of discipline, and there were fewer Europeans in it in proportion to Natives, than in the armies of Bombay or Madras.[336] The Crimean War had drained the life-blood from the British battalions in Bengal; and whereas six English regiments were usually stationed between Calcutta and Allahabad, when Lord Dalhousie left the country there were only two. Obviously, if the Sepoy was not to be trusted, the whole fabric of empire in India was in such circumstances resting on a rotten foundation, and although officers of experience refused to doubt the loyalty of their men, the spirit of mutiny was most certainly abroad in the Bengal army. The Sepoy had grievances, and the Government had not sense enough to redress them. These grievances were two in number. (1), When a Sepoy in the old days marched to the conquest of a province he got increased pay and allowances; but in recent times, when the province was annexed, it was considered British territory, and the pay and allowances of the Company’s mercenary forces were reduced to the scale of home service. Conquests, therefore, while they imposed more work on the army, practically reduced its pay. (2), Another cause of discontent was the “General Service Order” of 1856. The Sepoy was originally enlisted for service in India only. He could not be sent across the sea; in fact, only low caste men dared cross “the black water.” During the first Burmese War the Sepoys had to be marched round the Indian frontier to the enemy’s territory; and when the second Burmese War broke out, the 38th Native Infantry refused to embark for Rangoon. Of course, though they should not have been asked to go without having been previously “sounded” on the subject, refusal in their case was tantamount to mutiny. Dalhousie could not, however, legally punish them, so he sent them to Dacca, where they were decimated, not by courtmartials, but by cholera. Thus the Sepoy argued that he must in future choose between his caste or a pestilential station, if he refused to serve across the sea. But while the Sepoys were brooding over this dilemma in 1856, the Governor-General promulgated the “General Service Order” to the effect that no more Sepoys should be enlisted who would not take an oath to cross the sea if called on to do so, and veteran officers, who had grown grey in the Company’s service predicted that this Order would make mischief in the army. And so it did. To the Sepoy, his service under the Company was a source of pride, profit, and even of valuable civil privileges.[337] To him it was as great a grievance to issue an Order of this sort, as it would be to the English aristocracy to attach conditions to military service, which should render it impossible for a gentleman to hold the Queen’s Commission. The individual Sepoy, no doubt, was not touched by the Order. But then his sons and grandsons, whom he expected to become Sepoys, were. The army was thus closed to every Native, unless they were prepared to submit to loss of caste. In fact, a lucrative profession was, by Lord Canning’s Order, made the monopoly of low-caste natives. Unfortunately, too, most of the recruits were drawn from Oudh, the annexation of which had been a scandal, and which was swarming with disbanded soldiers, who had been in the personal service of the deposed King.

Thus we had, in 1857, the following conditions prevailing in India: (1), A popular belief was current in every village that the last year of the British raj had come; (2), The Native Courts were suspicious that the annexation of Oudh was an indication of the fate that was in store for them; (3), The high-caste Natives, whether in the army or in civil life, were suspicious that the Government desired to defile their caste, and sap the foundations of their religion.[338] The country was therefore in such an inflammable condition that the first spark that fell on it would produce an explosion. By an extraordinary act of stupidity the Government not only struck this spark, but fanned it into flame.

The Crimean War caused the British Army to substitute the rifle for the old smooth-bore musket popularly called “Brown Bess.” In 1856 it was determined to serve out Enfield rifles to the Indian Army, and in doing this no heed was paid to Sepoy prejudices. The cartridge of the new weapon could not be rammed home unless it were previously greased. But, then, no Hindoo can touch the fat of ox or cow without loss of caste, which is worse than loss of life, and no Moslem can touch pigs’ fat without moral defilement. Yet no steps were taken to exclude these substances from the grease for the Indian cartridges! A rumour accordingly flew round the bazaars that in order to attack Hindoo and Moslem alike the two objectionable fats had been mixed in the grease. This story was traced to a curious source. One day a low-caste man at Dumdum, near Calcutta, asked a Sepoy to give him a draught of water from his lotah. The Sepoy refused, loftily observing that the vessel would be polluted if a low-caste man touched it with his lips. The Lascar replied, with a sneer, that the Sepoy would soon lose his own caste, for the Government were making cartridges greased with defiling fats, which he would have to bite in loading his rifle. The Sepoy, horror-stricken at this tale, told it to his comrades. It flew from mouth to mouth, and soon the Native Army of Bengal lay under the blight of a hideous panic—every man going about his duty haunted by a dread of soul-destroying defilement.[339] The men, half-crazy with fear, met of nights to concert measures for their protection, and at Barrackpore incendiary fires broke out. General Hearsey, who was in command, warned the Government of what was going on, and orders were given that ungreased cartridges should be issued—the men lubricating them with whatever substance they chose to apply.[340] But no sooner had one suspicion been banished from the Sepoy mind than another took its place. A glazed paper was used for the ungreased cartridges, whereupon a new rumour flew round to the effect that the glaze was produced by fat. General Hearsey harangued his men, assuring them on his honour that their suspicions were wrong, and they seemed satisfied; though, as events showed, they were by no means satisfied.

A detachment of the 34th was sent from Barrackpore to Berhampore. They carried the tale about the glazed paper with them, and communicated the fresh panic to the 19th Native Infantry at that station. The day after the men of the 34th arrived the 19th Regiment had blank cartridges served to them, which by some mistake had been made out of two different kinds of paper. The men at once suspected that the new defiling cartridges had been mixed with the old ones, so that their caste might be destroyed, and they refused to take their percussion caps. Colonel Mitchell, instead of reasoning with his Sepoys as Hearsey had done, flew into a paroxysm of passion—which simply confirmed their suspicions. Mitchell, in fact, mistook fear for mutiny, and it was in vain that the Native officers, who of course knew the real state of the case, implored him to keep his temper with his men. That night the 19th mutinied. Mitchell had no European troops, but he closed round the mutineers with two other Native regiments—cavalry and artillery—and then, sending for the Native officers of the 19th, stormed at them in impotent fury. They assured him that their men were only in a panic, and that if the cavalry and artillery were withdrawn they would return to duty. The cavalry and artillery were withdrawn, and the 19th went back to its quarters loyally enough.

Though Mitchell’s indiscretion drove the 19th into revolt, it had unquestionably revolted. Lord Canning, therefore, was bound to punish it, and he decided that the regiment must be disarmed and disbanded. But he had no British troops to spare for this purpose. He accordingly had to wait from the end of February till the end of March for the arrival of an English regiment from Burmah to disarm the 19th, who were marched down to Barrackpore to be broken up. On the 29th of March, two days before the disbandment of the 19th Native Infantry, Private Mungul Pandy of the 34th, in a fit of drunken fanaticism, attempted to get up a mutiny among his comrades. He shot the horse of the Adjutant, Lieutenant Baugh, who was cut down in trying to seize him. Only one man of the quarter-guard responded to the order to arrest the mutineer, who was finally captured, tried, and hanged on the 22nd of April. Evil communications had passed between the 19th and the 34th, and it was found that, though the Sikhs and Moslems in the regiment were loyal, the Hindoos were mutinous to a man. Yet nothing was done to punish the 34th. The discharged men of the 19th, however, carried the story of their wrongs to their homes in Oudh and Bundelkund, and soon it came to be believed that not only were the cartridges greased, but, in order to produce a general pollution of the Natives, which would destroy all caste, “that the public wells, and the flour, and ghee (a clarified butter sold in the bazaars), had been defiled by ground bone-dust and the fat of cows and pigs, while the salt had been sprinkled with cows’ and hogs’ blood.”[341] Viceregal proclamations were issued to contradict these rumours and reassure the people, but in vain. The North-West Provinces had now become smitten with the terror which hovered over India, and the Commander-in-Chief suggested that the depôt at Umballa might be broken up before the rifle practice began at the annual training. Lord Canning, believing that his proclamations had lulled the rising storm, refused to sanction this step. Fires next broke out at Umballa, as at Barrackpore—the officers alleging that Sepoys, who were as yet “undefiled,” set fire to the huts of those who had accepted the defiling cartridges, and that the latter retaliated. Oudh soon became affected, and in May Sir Henry Lawrence had to disarm the 7th Irregular Native Infantry at Lucknow.

CAWNPORE.

In the North-West Provinces the famous “chupatties” began to make their appearance. They consisted of small baked cakes, and they were passed on from hand to hand, from hamlet to hamlet, spreading a strange excitement wherever they went. The circulation of the “chupatties” was evidently a signal of some sort, and yet, though Native society was shaking with revolutionary tremors, nothing happened. At last an event occurred which precipitated a general catastrophe. At Meerut eighty-five men of the 3rd Native Cavalry had been tried and doomed to ten years’ hard labour on the roads for refusing to bite their cartridges. They were paraded and punished before the other Native regiments, who seem to have been irritated, rather than overawed. Next day (10th May), the 3rd Cavalry forced the gates of the gaol and released their comrades. The men of the 20th and 11th Regiments flew to arms, shot every European they met, set fire to their huts, and marched on to Delhi. Why, it will be asked, was this revolt not quelled, seeing that a strong English force was stationed at Meerut? The outbreak, it is true, occurred during church hours on a Sunday; but even this hardly explains why General Hewitt, who was in command, permitted the mutineers to pursue their march to the city of the Mogul Emperors. There they proceeded, as if by concert, to the King, who espoused their cause. The people of the city rose and massacred the Europeans. The Native regiments in Delhi—the 38th, 54th, and 74th—joined the mutineers one by one, and though the arsenal was held for a time by Lieutenant Willoughby, with Lieutenants Raynor and Forrest, and six other Englishmen, they blew it up when it was no longer tenable. The Mutiny was now a war of liberation. It had a King for a rallying-point, and an Imperial city for a capital.