by Anand, Anita
Sophia continued to plough her time and money into the WSPU. She had failed to convert Pauline, but she had more success with Catherine. Her sister gave small amounts to the suffragettes regularly, though she preferred to be affiliated with Millicent Fawcett’s moderates. At her home in Germany, women’s suffrage was not her main priority. Catherine feared that a war involving the main Western powers was imminent, and that the conflict might put her and the rest of the family on opposing sides.
While Europe edged towards the brink, Sophia continued to wave her placards, sell The Suffragette, speak at meetings, and behave provocatively. She drove ‘press carts’ through the city of London16 – open horse-drawn carriages piled high with campaign newspapers and covered in suffragette posters and ribbons. Travelling in convoy with her friends, and dressed impeccably for the long and dirty journeys, Sophia always made sure that she was positioned in the first carriage to attract as much attention as possible.
Even in June, with international tensions at breaking point, such attention was forthcoming when the New York Times published an article listing prominent suffragettes who were giving money to the WSPU. The individuals named included a handful of aristocrats, and several members of the clergy. Foremost among the ‘named and shamed’ were Princess Sophia and her sister Catherine. ‘Do Princess Sophia Duleep Singh, Princess Catherine Duleep Singh, and Lady Wolsey, all of whom have enjoyed the hospitality of the King at Hampton Court Palace, approve of the burning of that historic residence, which has been marked for destruction for some time?’ the paper asked. ‘Princess Sophia Duleep Singh and Princess Catherine Duleep Singh are housed as the King’s guests at Hampton Court Palace, yet the Princess has given £51 and collected £6 pounds and 7s in the last year to aid a union many members of which intend to burn Hampton Court Palace at the first opportunity.’17
The list was enough to provoke the Palace authorities again. And it might have proved the final straw for King George V had not the outbreak of the First World War brought all matters suffragette to a sudden and complete halt.
As soon as war was declared Emmeline Pankhurst sent a circular to Sophia and the other members of the WSPU. In it she asked them to put down their rocks and matches: ‘It was inevitable that Great Britain should take part in the war, and with that patriotism, which has served women to endure endless torture in prison cells for the national good, we ardently desire that our country shall be victorious.’18 For the suffragettes, the militant campaign was over, but for Sophia, a different kind of battle had already begun. She had to get Catherine out of Germany, and she had to do it fast.
Part III
War And Peace, 1914–1948
19
The Lady Vanishes
From the moment war was declared on 4 August 1914, Sophia could think only of her sister Catherine. She was stuck on the wrong side of enemy lines and, more worryingly, neither her brother Freddie, who was still a serving officer in the British Army, nor Victor, great friends with the exceedingly wealthy and well connected, had the power to get her out.
As luck would have it, Sir James Dunlop Smith, the Viceroy of India’s private secretary, was in London for the summer. As soon as Sophia became aware of his presence, she wrote asking for and then demanding an urgent meeting. Exasperated and sick with worry, Sophia turned up at the India Office in person on 7 August. Of all the Viceroy’s senior advisers, Sir James was the most sympathetic to Indian royalty. He had worked closely with Lord Curzon as the first British political agent to the Phulkian states of the Punjab – the collection of independent Sikh principalities which had sworn allegiance to the Raj. All of them had been hostile to British meddling at first, but Dunlop Smith’s quiet respect and earnest interest in their culture earned him many royal friendships. Sophia was counting on that same regard when she begged him for help.
Sir James diligently recorded notes from their meeting and sent them to his superiors, with a request for advice on how to respond. Copies were also sent to the War Office and for filing with the Political and Secret Department. Summarising her predicament, Dunlop Smith wrote: ‘Princess Sophia Duleep Singh has just called to ask if anything can be done for her sister, Princess Katherine. When they last heard she was in Willhelmschone Cassel Prussia . . . The last letter they received was dated the 23rd. Since then all efforts to communicate with her have failed. She was living with a German lady, an intimate friend, and her sister is not at all clear whether she (Pr Katherine) wishes to leave Germany. All the family wish to get in communication with her.’1
The note was passed around the highest levels, but the answer, when it came just twenty-four hours later, brought Sophia no relief. Under instructions from his superiors, Sir James told the princess that many similar applications had been made to the Foreign Office and all were being told the same thing, that it was ‘quite impossible for them to assist the enquiries to communicate with friends’.2 He could only suggest that she approached the American embassy for information; they still had a diplomatic presence in Germany, though, he cautioned, ‘the FO won’t advise this course officially’.3
Sophia read Sir James’s reply despondently, dismayed by the government’s indifference. Only one thing gave her comfort. Despite what she had told Dunlop Smith, Sophia knew full well that Catherine was safe, for now at least. The letter of 23 July had not been the last communication from her sister. Catherine had written once more, immediately after the declaration of war. The British War Office knew it too. Letters to and from Faraday House had been intercepted at the post office and Catherine’s last missive had been sent directly to the War Office for further investigation. The reason for their interest, and Sophia’s reluctance to share the letter with Dunlop Smith, was its treacherous contents:
Dear Soph,
It is awful. Having no news of you all – we are going to Switzerland in November. If it is possible, then, and from there, of course, we can communicate – I am perfectly all right here, you must not be anxious in any way, it is just the same as in times of peace, perfect order everywhere, and no sort of restrictions for me . . . There have been no murders or disturbances by Germans in Germany and the destruction of property, et cetera in their enemies countries has simply been the just punishment of civilians who have taken part in the war. I implore to have nothing to do with this unjust war against Germany. Please pay the remainder on Harrods when do you and any bills etc. Much love to all, especially B who, I fear, may have been worrying.
Your loving sister, Catherine.4
The line ‘unjust war against Germany’ had been underlined in red pencil by the interceptor. Catherine had also used a childish code in the letter, which further provoked interest; the star with the ‘S’ inside it was interpreted by the Foreign Office to mean Victor. Unaware that she had condemned herself by her own hand, Catherine ended her letter with the practical postscript: ‘I enclose a letter to Coutts, authorising them to allow you to act on my account.’5
Copies of the damning letter shuttled between the War Office and Sir Percy Cox, Secretary to the Government of India. Notes on Catherine and Sophia were urgently requested and shared between departments, as was a detailed history of the family. Ultimately, after some consideration, it was concluded that Catherine was ‘decidedly pro-German in her sentiments’,6 but was not a threat of any serious kind. She could be left in Germany as far as the India and War Office were concerned. A closer eye would have to be kept on the sister at Hampton Court though.
While Sophia continued to fret about Catherine, with whom she now had no contact, there was some good news regarding her WSPU friends at least. Six days after the start of the war, the government released all suffragette prisoners. Emmeline Pankhurst and Prime Minister Asquith had struck a deal. For the duration of the war all acts of militancy would cease. In exchange for his positive reconsideration of the franchise question, Emmeline assured Asquith that her women would not only stop the violence, they would also get behind the war effort.
Some of the more f
iery members of the movement were appalled by her actions. Among them was Kitty Marion, one of the WSPU’s most committed arsonists. She had endured 232 force-feedings while on hunger strike during a prison term of fourteen weeks and two days.7 She was not about to drop the struggle just because Emmeline willed it. Kitty vowed to continue alone if necessary and eventually left Britain for the United States, helping to invigorate the suffragette movement there. Undeterred by criticism, Emmeline, together with her daughter Christabel, began to work in earnest for the war effort.
Both of them spoke passionately at rallies, urging young men to enlist and fight valiantly for their country. Emmeline was even given a £2,000 grant by the government to organise a morale-boosting parade though the capital the following year.
Thousands of miles away in India, more than 40,000 men were preparing to be deployed in Europe, the first wave of a million-man force that would eventually leave India. The Viceroy had committed his entire army as soon as war was declared. Two infantry divisions, the 3rd Lahore and the 7th Meerut, were the first to be mobilised. They set sail for Egypt, dressed in light khaki drill uniforms, clothes suited to the hot climate and offering little protection for what lay ahead. Disembarking on 10 October in Marseilles, they found France was already gripped by frost. As the men stood shivering, waiting for their orders, their commander-in-chief, Lieutenant General Sir James Wilcox, attempted to warm his cold and dejected troops with words: ‘You are the descendants of the men who have been mighty rulers and great warriors for many centuries. You will never forget this. You will recall the glories of your race. Hindu and Mohammedan will be fighting side-by-side with British soldiers and our gallant French allies. You will be helping to make history. You will be the first Indian soldiers of the King Emperor, who will have the honour of showing Europe that the sons of India have lost none of their ancient martial instincts.’8
The men were told to think of their gods as they marched to the Western front, a deep scar of trenches that was eventually gouged into the land all the way from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier. On either side, armies dug in. Fighting was at close quarters, ruthless, and ultimately advanced neither side by more than a few feet. The ground beneath the soldiers’ boots was wet and cold. They only had thin soles and flimsy socks and their overcoats failed to protect them from the freezing conditions. Pneumonia and frostbite wreaked havoc, but still the Indian troops marched onwards, trudging every mile while their bones ached. Across the Channel, civilians mobilised by knitting gloves, scarves and undershirts ‘for the brave Indian men on the front’.
The British high command was feeding its Indian troops piecemeal into some of the fiercest fighting around Ypres. Losses were devastating. Indian battalions usually comprised a complement of 764 men. In less than a month, the 47th Sikhs of the Lahore Infantry Division were left with just over half that number. One despairing sepoy wrote home to his family: ‘This is not war; it is the ending of the world,’9 and described the deaths of his comrades in arms like ‘the grinding of corn in a mill’.10
By December, temperatures plummeted even further. Just outside the village of Gorre, north of the Somme, trenches had become so clogged with filthy, flowing icy water that orders were given to evacuate. As one British officer, Captain Roly Grimshaw of the 34th Poon Horse, sat in the mud, waiting with his men for rations, he watched a seemingly endless stream of wounded pass him by. They were like the animated dead, silent, save for the occasional moan from a stretcher: ‘the state of the wounded beggars all description. Little Gurkhas sloping through the freezing mud . . . Tommies with no caps, and plastered in blood and mud from head to foot; Sikhs with their hair all down . . . Pathans more dirty and untidy than usual; all limping, all reeling along like drunken men, some helping an almost foundered comrade. In most cases, misery depicted on their faces.’11
Those who died on the front were buried quickly and notes were made of names and causes of death. Although burial was acceptable for Muslims, it created a matter of great spiritual difficulty for the Hindus and Sikhs. According to their religious beliefs, the very ones that Lt General Wilcox had stirred in them in Marseilles, only fire could free their souls from their bodies. However, in the trenches, where the dim glow of a lit cigarette could attract the attention of a German sniper, cremations were out of the question.
The Indian wounded began to flow back to England within a matter of weeks and their numbers quickly overwhelmed such provision as had been laid aside for them. The steady stream of broken Indians turned into a flood and three stationary hospital ships were commandeered in the port of Southampton. It was not long before the Sicilia, Glengorm Castle and Goorkha were also overwhelmed. The sleepy market town of New Milton in Hampshire had one of its grandest buildings turned into a convalescent home; in the seaside resort of Bournemouth a large hotel was commandeered and filled with medical equipment. The buildings, although quickly found, were difficult to staff and supply, such was the disparate spread of locations. Civil servants looked for one single town that might become the hub for Indian wounded. It had to be large, sophisticated and willing to accept wave upon wave of foreigners from the front.
Brighton had long been a place associated with convalescence. Elegant Regency-style terraces stretched up wide streets with sea views and the cheery promenade was often filled with London’s most fashionable people. The rich and exhausted had been coming to the town since the time of its greatest patron, the playboy Prince Regent, later to become King George IV. He spent so much time in the town, escaping the political machinations of his father’s court, that he asked the architect John Nash to create a palace for him by the sea. The resulting Royal Pavilion was an embodiment of the prince’s exotic and extravagant taste. The town now offered its largest buildings to the war effort, including the Pavilion. With its domes, carved stone lattice work, towers and minarets, it looked more like a palace fit for a Maharajah than the holiday home of a future King of England.
An old workhouse was also handed over, filled with 2,000 beds, and named the Kitchener Hospital, after the man who now held the position of Secretary of State for War. Although it looked like any other military hospital, wards were separated in line with caste and religion. Nine separate kitchens had to be built in order to cater for the complex dietary requirements of the Indian men with their diverse faiths. Staff were taught how to ritually slaughter animals and about the importance of keeping food for the high-caste Hindus securely and separately stored from all the rest. Sacks of rice and lentils were ordered, and cooks were sought who might know what to do with them.12 There were separate taps for Hindus and Muslims, and on the lawns of the Pavilion itself, a makeshift Sikh temple was erected. Schools in York Place, a street near Brighton’s main station, were gutted and refitted in record time.13 These were to be hospitals of intensive care for critically wounded men evacuated from the Western front.
Just days before Christmas 1914, the first Indian casualties were brought in. As the local paper reported, they made a pitiful sight: ‘They arrived under rather mournful conditions. A drab day, rainstorms and a fierce sea running in the Channel, mud-laden streets, and a vista of dripping umbrellas and mackintoshes. That was the first impression the Warriors got of Brighton, and it was rather chilling . . . The hundred stretcher cases in the first train that reached the terminus on Monday afternoon, constituted perhaps the most distressing of the many pathetic sights seen on similar occasions during the past four months. Something akin to a feeling of awe was created by the silence.’14 The Viceroy of India, Sir Charles Hardinge, made it clear that it was not his practice to employ white women in hospitals meant for Indian soldiers. Since this was also the view of General Wilcox, only a handful of English women were ever permitted to work in Brighton’s Indian hospitals and then only in supervisory roles.15 Male orderlies filled the roles that ordinarily would have been carried out by nurses. The message was clear and colonial: it was not desirable for British women to touch brown patients.
Neverthel
ess, the soldiers were grateful for the care they received, as Isher Singh, a solder from the Sikh 59th Rifles, and a survivor of the battle of Neuve Chapelle, wrote from his bed: ‘Do not be anxious about me. We are very well looked after. White soldiers are always besides our bed – day and night. We get very good food four times a day. We also get milk. Our hospital is in the place where the King used to have his throne. Every man is washed once in hot water. The King has given strict order that no trouble be given to any black man in hospital. Men in hospital are tended like flowers and the King and Queen sometimes comes to visit them.’16
For a while the city, dubbed Dr Brighton for its healing role, coped well enough with the incoming Indian wounded, but by the beginning of 1915 it became clear that more medical provision was needed. Individuals with Raj connections rallied around to raise money. At the same time, the War Office cast around for a suitable site for a possible private hospital that might supplement their own offerings. Brockenhurst, some eighty miles along the coast, west of Brighton, proved to be the best location. It had already been temporarily used as a treatment centre for wounded Indians at the start of the war and was close to the port of Southampton with good railway connections. Overnight, the Lady Hardinge Hospital sprang up in the form of tents and sturdy galvanised huts.17 Named in honour of the Viceroy’s late wife, the Lady Hardinge had a capacity for 500 beds. Because of the corrugated appearance of the wards, to the locals it was known simply as ‘Tin Town’.