The Last Mughal

by William Dalrymple

  four European gentlemen were concealed in the house of Muhammad Ibrahim, son of Muhammad Ali, merchant. The troopers hearing this went there, and killing the Europeans, plundered the house. A European woman, dressed as a native, was going along near Ellenborough Tank, and was killed by the troopers … Two European gentlemen going along in the guise of natives were killed in front of the principal police station.55

  As far as Maulvi Muhammad Baqar was concerned, there was something miraculous in the ease with which the British were being dispatched: ‘Englishmen are still being discovered,’ he wrote in the Dihli Urdu Akbhar, ‘and, thanks to divine prowess, being easily overpowered: their arrogance has brought them divine retribution. The English are now suffering under the blows of the unseen power because of their enmity towards Islam and their support for efforts to destroy the Islamic faith.’56

  Other than the targeting of Christians, there was surprisingly little patriotic or nationalistic spirit visible in the violence that rumbled on for weeks after the outbreak: the initial mutiny in the army had opened a vast Pandora’s box of differences and grievances – economic, sectarian, religious and political – and now that the violence and settling of scores had begun, it would not be easy to bring them to a halt. In the meantime, many of the sepoys simply took the opportunity presented by the breakdown of law and order to enrich themselves, as did many Delhiwallahs.57

  Judging by the petitions that poured in to the King, many of which survive among the Mutiny Papers, the worst affected were the ordinary people of Delhi who did not even have the partial protection of gates or high haveli walls. The poor proved especially vulnerable outside the city, in suburbs such as Kishenganj and Nizamuddin. There the inhabitants found themselves at the mercy not only of the incoming sepoys, but also of mobs of Gujars from the surrounding countryside. One of the largest delegations to come before Zafar and beg for protection in the first days of the Uprising arrived from the western suburb of Paharganj. The language they used to the Emperor was full of the old Mughal titles – Zafar was addressed as the Throne of the Caliphate and the Refuge of the Inhabitants of the World – but the petition that was presented demonstrated the reality of the utter helplessness of his regime:

  We poor folk, residents of Jaisinghpura and Shahganj, also known as Paharganj, have come together to the Luminous Presence, because from days of old our settlement was attached to the Royal Estate, yet now the Tilangas come out from Ajmeri Gate and oppress the shopkeepers, and take goods by force without paying anything. The troops enter the houses of the poor and penniless and take anything they find – even the string beds, dishes and piles of firewood. Whenever your humble servants, or even our most respected citizens, go to the Tilangas and plead with them about the misery to which they have been reduced, they merely threaten them with their guns and swords. We have been reduced to such extremities by the depredations of the troops that we submit this petition to His Majesty that He may turn his gaze of justice and commiseration towards us. Send a Royal Order to the Tilangas that they give no more trouble, and that with the support of our gracious sovereign we may be left to live our lives in peace. May the sun of prosperity and success and all glory shine brightly, for your sake, O Lord of All!58

  Another large delegation came to the Fort from the city’s provision merchants and corn chandlers, who complained that, while seizing all their stocks, the troops had paid ‘not one pice and have threatened and beaten up all the merchants’.59 The inability of the Emperor to aid any of these petitioners was made startlingly clear by the fact that special orders had to be given to protect even the traders of the Chatta Chowk, the bazaar within the walls of the Red Fort, ‘and if any Telinga disobeys, his officers should immediately report him’.60 The sepoys also looted the King’s own ice factory outside Ajmeri Gate, pointlessly destroying the Fort’s stocks of ice.61 Even the harkaras, the royal messengers, complained that they were being attacked by the Tilingas: ‘they come to our houses, make trouble and loot their contents’.62

  The position in the countryside outside the city was even worse: when Zafar sent some riders to seek troops and support from the Raja of Alwar, Gujars attacked them on the road just outside Mehrauli; they returned naked and bruised, reporting that the Gujars had ‘robbed them of their horses, clothes and money; that they had taken the King’s letter and, tearing it up, had put the pieces back into their hands’.63

  Hoping to stop the looting and bring the city back to normality, Zafar called some of the leading men of his court to the Palace and discussed what could be done. He received them sitting on a silver throne that had been in storage ever since the ceremony of receiving nazrs from the Governor General had been stopped in 1842; now it was brought out, given a polish and installed in the Diwan i-Khas.

  With few other options open, the court decided that the Emperor should go out on elephant-back, with Mirza Jawan Bakht seated behind him, ‘accompanied by a regiment of infantry, some guns, his own special armed retainers, and a band of musicians’, through the deserted, looted and smoking city, in an attempt to bring peace to the streets. By the beat of the drum, the royal proclamation was read through the bazaars that ‘the country had reverted to the possession of the King’, that Zafar had reclaimed the supreme authority that was always his by right, that the looting must now stop and the shops must reopen for business. In addition, Prince Mirza Mughal ‘went to all the principal police stations, seated on an elephant, and had a proclamation made that anyone convicted of plunder would be punished with the loss of nose and ears’.64

  A salute of twenty-one guns was fired on Zafar’s departure from the Palace, and another on his return. Yet the procession proved very different from those Zafar was used to mounting, in which the cavalcade would stop for his subjects to come forward to present symbolic offerings of fealty to the Emperor. Instead,

  from house to house the King was distracted by cries and petitions, now from servants of Europeans who had been murdered, now from shopkeepers whose shops had been plundered, now from the higher classes whose houses had been broken into – all looked to the King for immediate redress. Everywhere appeals were made to him to repress the plunder and rapine common throughout the city65

  That evening Zafar summoned a general durbar and ‘in a Persian rubakari [order] beautiful with flowing language’ called on all the subahdars of the different sepoy regiments to rein in the bad behaviour of their troops, saying ‘that such a state of things was most unbecoming’ now that the rule of the Mughals had returned, a dynasty ‘at whose feet all other kings and monarchs waited on bended knee’.66 The officers listened politely enough, but within an hour other companies of sepoys appeared complaining loudly they could get no food in the town, that the grain shops refused to open, and bluntly telling the Emperor to find something for them to eat.

  Forgetful of the lofty tone of the order, and of the high toned phraseology expressive of the King’s dignity, they addressed him with such disrespectful terms as, ‘I say, you King!’ ‘I say, you old fellow!’ (‘Arey, Badshah! Arey, Buddha!’) ‘Listen,’ cried one, catching him by the hand. ‘Listen to me,’ said another, touching the old king’s beard. Angered at their behaviour, yet unable to prevent their insolence, he found relief alone in bewailing his misfortunes and his fate before his servants …

  Throughout this eventful day he was distraught, perplexed and cowed at finding himself in a position which made him the mere puppet of those who had formerly been only too glad humbly to obey his orders, but who now, taking advantage of the spirit of insubordination which was rife in all classes of the city in this day of ruin and riot, were not ashamed to mock and humiliate him67

  If Zafar was in many ways an ideal monarch for the conditions imposed on him by the British before the Uprising, able from a position of virtual house arrest to act as host and part-catalyst for a major cultural renaissance, it was rapidly becoming clear that he was too old, mystical and other-worldly even to begin to fit the role of a leader in war. He was after
all eighty-two years old, and lacked any of the energy, ambition and worldliness, and indeed the drive and determination, needed to ride the tiger of rebellion.

  Instead his position was so weak that he was not even able to stop the sepoys from turning his Hall of Public Audience, the Diwan i-Am, into an ammunition store and dormitory for the artillery, or to prevent the rebel guards on the ramparts from peering constantly into his zenana quarters, as frequent petitions from his angry begums bear witness. Less still was he able to prevent the damage that was done to his beloved gardens. For much of May he pressed to get the cavalry to remove their horses from his garden, but all without success.68

  The following morning, the 13th, Zafar again tried to bring some order to his city. While surveying the damage done the day before, he realised the urgent need to put out the many fires that were still burning, especially around the gutted magazine; after all, many of the houses of Delhi were built of little more than mud and thatch, and even the grander houses had wooden balconies and latticework projections.

  It was Zahir Dehlavi who volunteered to go to the kotwal and attempt to gather the manpower necessary to extinguish the fires. ‘I thought that if, God forbid, the remaining gunpowder catches fire, then before long the whole town will be ablaze,’ Zahir wrote afterwards.

  The Kotwal sent two or three hundred water carriers, and himself came along to help, so together we put out the fires which were burning, both in the magazine and houses around the town. It was just as well we acted when we did. Inside the magazine, on the side of the river, there were mountains of coal and gunpowder, as well as about two hundred cannons loaded and ready to fire. There was no count of the number of rifles lying scattered around, as well as innumerable pistols. Within two or three days I was told that the rabble had carried away the powder, guns and cannon, and only the cannon balls were left.

  For us courtiers these were dangerous days. We Royal servants had the dagger of fate hanging over our heads at all times, and every so often I used to be surrounded by rebels who would put a pistol on my chest. One day [soon after the outbreak] twenty or twenty-five of us were sitting in the storehouse of the Fort along with Hakim Ahsanullah Khan, when the Purbias came and surrounded us. They pulled out their guns and said, ‘You infidels! You are all closet Christians! We know you are writing letters to the English …’ We were shocked and told them that if this was true, why didn’t they just shoot us there and then – at least we would be done with the anxiety of living from day to day under such pressure. One or two of the officers among them were sensible and were able to pacify the others. They were persuaded to leave us, but we were all frightened out of our wits.

  Zahir writes how every day three or four hundred more sepoys came to join the men who had collected in Delhi until gradually seven or eight thousand had collected from all over Hindustan.

  They were living in luxury, drinking a lot of bhang, * eating the best laddoo peras [sweetmeats] and had stopped doing their own cooking, as for both meals they fed on delicious puri kachoris and sweets, and at night slept a peaceful sleep … They took control of Delhi and did what ever they wanted: there was no one who we could appeal to. It was like andher nagri chaupat raj [the proverbial city of darkness with an incompetent ruler].

  The ordinary people of Delhi quickly tired of the uncertainties and were all praying God to rid them of this unexpected cataclysm and that power should be restored in the hands of rulers who would look after them. Meanwhile the rebel sepoys and the city mob were daily getting richer, looting whomever they wished. So rich did some of them become that soon they did not have enough space to keep their loot. They changed rupees for gold coins and had them tied to their belts. Meanwhile the ordinary people of Delhi were beginning to die of starvation, all the factories were closed, and people were sitting around with closed shops and no work69

  Against this background of lawless anarchy in the city, the Mughal court, for all its weakness, assumed a centrality and a political importance it had not had for a century.

  The daily audiences, or durbars, were resumed for the first time since the Persian sack of the city in 1739, and the Emperor, Bahadur Shah II, was hailed again throughout Hindustan as Mightiest King of Kings, Emperor son of Emperor, Sultan son of Sultan. As the Sadiq ul-Akabhar put it, ‘We humbly and greatly thank our Lord and express our gratitude to him for putting an end to the tyrannical rule of the Christians and for restoring the administration and governance of his exalted Majesty the Khalifa, the Shadow of God on Earth, the Deputy of the Divine Prophet.’70 Yet for all this rhetoric, behind the façade the royal family reacted by splitting into competing and deeply divided factions.

  The group that most enthusiastically embraced the Uprising consisted of a party of five young passed-over princes. Their future had been looking distinctly bleak until the day of the outbreak: whether or not Mirza Jawan Bakht succeeded Zafar, and whether or not the Mughals continued in the Red Fort, they all seemed destined to live out restricted lives of genteel princely poverty. For all of them the Uprising presented a unique opportunity for self-improvement. All five immediately grabbed the chance that fate had presented.

  Four of these five princes were men of little obvious talent or standing at the court, and they barely appear in the Palace records prior to 1857. Mirza Khizr Sultan was Zafar’s ninth son, the illegitimate child of a Palace concubine named Rahim Bakhsh Bai71 Aged twenty-three in 1857, he was renowned for his physical beauty – indeed, Ghalib said he was as beautiful as Yusuf, the biblical Joseph – and he had some capacity as a poet and a marksman; but his only appearances in the Palace diary had been when he had asked his father for an elephant and a house of his own in Mehrauli in 1852, and been promptly turned down. This was possibly because he was closely associated with the disgraced Mirza Fakhru; certainly his wife and Mirza Fakhru’s wife appear to have been best friends72 His second appearance in the court diary was even less promising: in August 1852 he was publicly rebuked by Zafar in full durbar for beating his wife, at which point the prince ‘fell at HM’s feet and prayed forgiveness of his fault. The King struck him two or three times very angrily and then pardoned him, warning him for the future to live on good terms with his wife’.73

  Mirza Khizr was a close friend of the second of the princes who threw their lot in with the rebels: Mirza Abu Bakr, the eldest son of Mirza Fakhru and Zafar’s oldest surviving legitimate grandson. His only appearance in the records prior to 1857 was in November 1853, when he succeeded in removing one of his own fingers in a gun accident, but he quickly made up for lost time during the Uprising. Of all the royal family Mirza Abu Bakr seems most quickly to have grasped the opportunities the new dispensation presented for letting his hair down: within a few days of the outbreak he began appearing in petitions and complaints to the King, accused of whoring and drunkenness, whipping his servants, beating up watchmen and casually attacking any policeman who tried to rein him in.74

  The third prince was even more obscure: all that is known about Mirza Bakhtawar Shah before 1857 is that he was Zafar’s eleventh son, the illegitimate child of another of Zafar’s concubines, Hanwa, that he was born in 1839, and that he was married to Mirza Fakhru’s daughter in 1852.75 The fourth rebel prince was another grandson of Zafar’s: Mirza Abdulla, son of Zafar’s eldest boy, Mirza Shah Rukh, who had died in 1847. On his father’s death he and his concubine mother, Khairum Bai, had gone off on the haj to Mecca, from which they had returned in December 1853. After receiving a haj present of a fine white mare from his grandfather, Mirza Abdullah disappears from the records until the outbreak in May 1857.76

  The fifth of the princes was, however, a man very different from the other four, and he soon established himself as the effective head of whatever civil administration existed during the months of the Uprising. Mirza Mughal was Zafar’s fifth son, and his oldest surviving legitimate male child. In 1857 he was aged twenty-nine, only nine years younger than his powerful stepmother Zinat Mahal; his own mother was a sayyida (descendan
t of the Prophet) of aristocratic birth named Sharaf ul-Mahal Sayyidani, who was a senior figure in Zafar’s harem.77

  Unlike the four other insurgent princes, Mirza Mughal appears frequently in the court records before the Uprising and held a prominent position at court. He was the principal beneficiary of the disgrace of Mirza Fakhru: after the latter’s fall in February 1852, Mirza Mughal took on the powerful offices of Palace nazir and qiladar [fort keeper], which effectively made him the Palace paymaster and chamberlain; he also received most of Mirza Fakhru’s estates and the income that went with them78 He achieved this high position partly through reaching an understanding with Zinat Mahal, whose protégé he effectively became; she appears to have befriended and assisted him as a counterbalance to Mirza Fakhru: there is a telling reference in the court diary to her advising him, ‘Have no fears on the subject,’ when he consulted her about his problems on succeeding to Mirza Fakhru’s offices79

  There are two pictures extant of Mirza Mughal. He is present as an earnest and serious little boy of ten, wearing full court dress, in Zafar’s coronation portrait of 1838.80 But it is the oil portrait by August Schoefft, painted some time in the early 1850s, a few years before the outbreak, which is the most revealing image.81 It shows a handsome, dynamic and athletic-looking youth, dressed in flowing white robes that offset his dark skin, brown eyes and full black beard. If Schoefft’s image of Zafar shows a benign, weary and melancholy old man, his image of Mirza Mughal is its polar opposite – an image of a restless, impatient and frustrated young man who glares out of the frame with pride, suppressed anger and even a trace of bitterness.

  Although he wears as many gems as his brother Jawan Bakht and his father in their companion portraits, it is his sword and stabbing dagger which draw the eye; from the expression of Mirza Mughal’s face you are left in little doubt that he would use these weapons if the need arose. He has an energy and an urge to engage with the world that are wholly absent in the gentle and other-worldly expression of his father; there is also a seriousness and gravity quite absent from the image of his vain-looking younger brother. Yet for all that, there is in his eyes just a hint of Zafar’s lack of self-assurance.