It is easy to say that with a powerful, arrogant Khalsa bent on invasion, war was inevitable; no one in the Punjab could restrain them (or wanted to), so what could the British do but prepare to meet the storm? Something, according to Cunningham, a most respected historian, who believed that, while the Khalsa took the initiative, the British were "mainly to blame" for the war. His conclusion has been eagerly seized on in some quarters, but his argument boils down to the suggestion that Britain, "an intelligent power" faced with "a half barbarous military dominion", should have acted with more wisdom and foresight. It is rather lofty, even for 1849, and perhaps "equally" or "partially" would be fairer than "mainly" At the same time, George Bruce is certainly right when he accuses Hardinge of mental paralysis, and of making no rational move to prevent war; he points to the massive failure of communication. Still, considering the state of the Lahore durbar, and the motives at work among its principals, perhaps Britain should not be shouldered with too much of the responsibility.
Granted that Broadfoot was not the ideal man for the sensitive post of North-west Agent. Like many Britons, he obviously felt that the sooner Britain was running the Punjab, the better—but then, considering what had been happening north of the Sutlej for years, can he be blamed for that? There is a tendency to cast him as the villain of the piece, and certainly he was belligerently ready to make the worst of the situation, but so were many on the other side. Jeendan and her associates wanted the Khalsa destroyed, and the Khalsa was ready to rush to destruction—it would have taken an Agent of massive forbearance, and a Governor-General of genius, which Hardinge certainly was not, to settle matters peacefully. The impression one gets of the British peace lobby, as personified by Hardinge, is that they wished the Punjab would go away—or rather that it would settle down into the strong, disciplined stability it had known under Runjeet Singh. But Hardinge had no idea of how that was to be achieved.
On the Sikh side, one can understand their apprehension. Below the Sutlej, they were well aware, was a giant who had shown an alarming tendency to conquest—Sind was a recent, appalling example. The Sikh who did not take seriously the possibility that Britain was bent on swallowing the Punjab, would have been a fool; if he was objective, he would see the logic of it. That the Company had neither the power nor the inclination for farther expansion (for the moment, anyway) would not be evident in Lahore. And the Khalsa? Bellicose, and itching for a slap at the reigning champion as they were, they had some reason to suspect that if they didn't start the fight, Britain would.
These are very general observations, and to every one of them can be added the qualification "Yes, but …" One may scan Broadfoot's correspondence, or the provocations offered from the Sikh side, in detail, but weighing all such things as evenly as one can, it seems that the war happened because it was actively desired by the Khalsa, with Jeendan and others egging them on for deplorable reasons, while on the British side there were some, including Hardinge, who lacked foresight and flexibility, and others who were ready, with varying degrees of eagerness, to let it happen. It should be remembered, too, that the fighting men on either side underestimated each other; for all their fears, the British, with far greater experience, had a deep conviction of invincibility, and while it was rudely shaken in the field, it was justified in the end. The Khalsa seem to have had no doubts at all, and even with the treachery of their leaders stacked against them, they kept their confidence until the last moments of Sobraon.
Even then, after the peace, with the Punjab a British protectorate, the spirit of the Khalsa remained: they would come again. The fuel was there, in the British presence at Lahore which began by protecting the position of the Punjab's nominal rulers and ended by assuming power; in the intrigues of Jeendan and Lal Singh who found the new order of things less rewarding than they had expected (both were eventually exiled); but most of all, perhaps, in the abiding belief of the Sikh soldiery that what they had nearly done once could be done at the second attempt. The result was the Second Sikh War of 1848-9, which ended in complete British victory—Gough, hesitant for once, fought a costly action at Chillianwalla, and was about to be replaced, but before his successor arrived he had won the decisive victory at Gujerat. The Punjab was annexed, Dalip Singh was deposed, and as Gardner had foretold, Britain inherited something infinitely more valuable than the Punjab or the Koh-i-Noor—those magnificent regiments whose valour and loyalty became a byword for a hundred years, from the Great Mutiny to Meiktila and the Rangoon road.
APPENDIX II: Jeendan and Mangla
There is no way of verifying all Flashman's recollections of Maharani Jeendan (Jindan, Chunda) and her court; one can say only that they are entirely consistent with the accounts of reputable contemporary writers. "A strange blend of the prostitute, the tigress, and Machiavelli's Prince", Henry Lawrence called her, and he was right on all three counts. Strikingly beautiful, brave, wanton, and dissipated, a brilliant and unscrupulous politician and a quite shameless exhibitionist, she would have been a darling of the modern tabloid press, who could have invented nothing more sensational than the story of her rise to power, and her exploitation of it.
She was born apparently about 1818, the daughter of Runjeet Singh's kennel-keeper, and for the lurid details of her early life we are indebted to Carmichael Smyth; he had much of his information from Gardner, who knew her well and greatly admired her, and who has left an account of his own. Jeendan's father was a sort of unlicensed jester to Runjeet, and pestered the Maharaja with his daughter, then only a child, suggesting jokingly that she would make a suitable queen. Gardner's version has Runjeet taking her into his harem, "where the little beauty used to gambol and frolic and tease … and managed to captivate him in a way that smote the real wives with jealousy." She was sent to a guardian in Amritsar when she was thirteen, and went through a series of lovers before being brought back to Lahore "to enliven the night scenes of the palace". In 1835 she went through a form of marriage with Runjeet, but continued to take other lovers, with the Maharaja's knowledge and even (according to Smyth) his encouragement—"to give a detail … of scenes acted in the presence of the old Chief himself and at his instigation, would be an outrage on common decency." Not surprisingly, when Dalip was born in 1837, there were doubts about his paternity, but Runjeet was happy to acknowledge him.
After the old Maharaja's death, little is heard of Jeendan until Dalip's accession in 1843 (he was eight, not seven, when Flashman knew him). Thereafter, as Queen Mother and co-regent with her brother, she was occupied with intrigue, pacifying the Khalsa, and what Broadfoot, agog for scandal, called her misconduct and notorious immorality. The Agent said he felt more like a parish constable outside a brothel than a government representative, compared her to Messalina, and was in no doubt that drink and debauchery had turned her mind ("What do you think … of four young fellows changed as they cease to give satisfaction passing every night with the Rani?"). no doubt he was ready to retail all the salacious gossip he ould get, with the implication that such a corrupt regime called out for British intervention, but even allowing for exaggeration there is no doubt that, as Khushwant Singh puts it, the durbar "abandoned itself to the delights of the flesh". And even before her brother's murder Jeendan and her confederates were conspiring to betray the country for their safety and profit; Jawaheer's death was what finally determined her to launch the Khalsa to destruction—"thus did the Rani … plan to avenge her-self on the murderers."
How she did it Flashman recounts fairly and in greater detail than is to be found elsewhere. It was a delicate, dangerous operation which she managed with consider-able skill, and unlike many later war criminals, she got away with it, for a time at least. After the war she continued as Regent until the end of 1846, when under a new treaty the British Resident at Lahore (Lawrence) was given full authority, and Jeendan was pensioned off. She did not take it meekly, and h ad to be removed from court—"dragged out by the hair, in her own words—and kept under guard. Suspected of conspiracy; she was de
ported from the Punjab—and suddenly, with discontent against the British rising, she was a national heroine, and the darling of the Khalsa again But there was to be no happy return, and when the Second Sikh War ended and Dalip had gone into English exile she followed him. She was only in her mid-forties when she died, in 1863, and her son took her ashes back to India
Mangla (or Mungela) was perhaps a more important influence on the Lahore durbar than Flashman realised. The child of white-slavers, she was born about 1815, and sold by her parents when she was ten. She worked in a brothel at Kangra and was bought by (or ran away with) a munshi, as his concubine, before setting up as a prostitute on her own account in Lahore. She prospered, and became the mistress of one Gulloo Mooskee, a personal attendant of Runjeet Singh's. He passed her on to his nephew, a lover of Jeendan's. This was in 1835, and the two young women began a partnership in intrigue which was to last for many years_ P Mangla became a member of Runjeet's harem, and played a leading role in convincing him that he was the father of Dalip Singh. In the next ten years she made herself indispensable to Jeendan as adviser and go-between, became the lover of Jawaheer Singh, and after his death obtained control of the treasury, adding to her already considerable fortune. Less beautiful than her friend an mistress, Mangla had "a pair of fine hazel eyes of which she could make a most effective use, and an easy, winning carriage and address".
(See Carmichael Smyth, Gardner, Khushwant Singh, Bruce.)
Mary, and Queen Elizabeth (the Queen Mother), who wore it at the coronation of her husband, George VI. It is now in her platinum crown in the Tower.
The last male to wear the Koh-i-Noor, little Maharaja Dalip Singh, had his share of misfortune. Deposed and exiled, he saw the great diamond again when it was shown to him by Queen Victoria on his arrival in England, and expressed pleasure that she should wear it. He was sixteen at the time, and unusually handsome, and the Queen (no doubt unaware that one of his relatives was referring to her as "Mrs Fagin") was much taken with him; unfortunately his good looks were not Jeendan's only legacy, for he became a noted libertine, to the Queen's distress, and died, "poor, portly, and promiscuous", in 1893. He is buried in the grounds of his home, Elveden Hall, Suffolk.
(See The Queen's Jewels, by Leslie Field, 1987; Weintraub.)
Notes
1. "A very extraordinary and interesting sight", as the Queen recorded in her journal on May 11, 1887.
2. Whether at Flashman's prompting or not, the Queen engaged two Indian attendants in the following month, one of whom was the pushing and acquisitive Abdul Karim, known as "Munshi" (teacher); he became almost as great a royal favourite as the celebrated ghillie, John Brown, had been, and was even more unpopular at Court. "Munshi" not only tutored the Queen in Hindustani, which she began to learn in August 1887, but was given access to her correspondence, blotted her signature, and even buttered her toast at tea-time. He claimed to be the son of an eminent physician (one rumour said a Surgeon-General of the Indian Army) but investigation showed that his father was a prison pharmacist at Agra. There was, as Flashman says, a very Indian flavour to the Queen's Jubilee celebrations of 1887. During her reign, the population of the rest of the Empire had increased from 4,000,000 to 16,000,000, while that of the sub-continent had risen from 96,000,000 to a staggering 254,000,000. The Indian festivities began on February 16, and ranged from illuminations and banquets to the opening of new libraries, schools, hospitals, and colleges all over the country; in Gwalior, all arrears of land-tax (Ł1,000,000 in all) were remitted. In Britain itself the celebrations did not reach their climax until June 21, when the Queen, at the head of a procession led by the Indian Princes, attended a service in Westminster Abbey; there were loyal demonstrations everywhere (except in Cork and Dublin, where there were riotous demonstrations), and much rejoicing in the United States, where the Mayor of New York presided over a great Festival of Thanksgiving. (See The Life and Times of Queen Victoria, vol. ii (1888), by Robert Wilson, which has a detailed account of the Jubilee; Victoria, by Stanley Weintraub (1987).)
3. Flashman's memory is slightly at fault here. He was not, as he says, "retired on half-pay" at this time; in fact, he had been in Singapore inspecting Australian horses for the East India Company army, and it was during this visit that his wife, Elspeth, was kidnapped by Borneo pirates, and the adventure began which culminated in the Flashmans' rescue from Madagascar in June, 1845. In the circumstances, his failure to remember his exact military status is understandable. As to his allowing himself to be bullied into going to India, he may not have been quite as reluctant as he suggests; the Governor of Mauritius certainly had no power to compel him, and it may well have been that the Punjab crisis (which had not yet assumed serious proportions) seemed a less daunting prospect than returning to face his ill-willers in England.
4. "Elphy Bey" was Major-general William Elphinstone, commander of the British force which was wiped out on the retreat from Kabul in 1842, in which Flashman ingloriously won his first laurels. A fine soldier who distinguished himself at Waterloo, Elphinstone was hopelessly inept in Afghanistan; crippled by gout, worn out, and according to one historian, prematurely senile, he was incapable of opposing either his political advisers or the Afghans, but in fairness he was less to blame than those who appointed him to a post for which he was unfitted. Flashman gives a perceptive but characteristically uncharitable sketch of him in the first volume of the Flashman Papers. (See also J. W. Fortescue's History of the British Army, vol. xii (1927); Subedar Sita Ram's From Sepoy to Subedar (1873), and Patrick Macrory's Signal Catastrophe (1966).)
5. "John Company"—the Honourable East India Company, described by Macaulay as "the strangest of all govermnents .. for the strangest of all empires", was Britain's presence in India, with its own armed forces, civil service, and judiciary, until after the Indian Mutiny of 1857, when it was replaced by direct rule of the Crown. Flashman's definition of its boundaries in 1845 is roughly correct, and although at this period it controlled less than half of the subcontinent, his expression "lord of the land" is well chosen: the Company was easily the strongest force in Asia, and at its height had a revenue greater than Britain's and governed almost one-fifth of the world's population. (See The East India Company, by Brian Gardner (1971))
Flashman, writing in the early years of the present century, occasionally uses the word Sirkar when referring to the British power; the word in this sense means "government", but it was probably not applied exclusively to British authority as early as 1845.
6. The origins and development of the Sutlej crisis are controversial, and it is difficult even today to give an account that will satisfy everyone; nevertheless, Flashman's summary seems an eminently fair one. His racy little narrative of the power struggle at Lahore after the death of Runjeet Singh is accurate so far as it goes; indeed, it spares readers some of the gorier details (no doubt only because Flashman was unaware of them). His view of the gathering storm, the precarious position of the Lahore durbar, the menace of the Khalsa, and the misgivings of the British authorities about the loyalty of their native troops, and their ability to deal with an invasion, are reflected in the journals and letters of his contemporaries. Other points and personalities he mentions will be dealt with more fully in subsequent Notes. (See Appendix I, and G. Carmichael Smyth, History of the Reigning Family of Lahore (1847); W. Broadfoot, The Career of Major George Broadfoot (1888); Charles, Viscount Hardinge, Viscount Hardinge (1891); W. L. M'Gregor, History of the Sikhs, vol. ii (1846); Khushwant Singh, History of the Sikhs, vol. 2 (1966); J. D. Cunningham, History of the Sikhs (1849); George Bruce, Six Battles for India (1969); Fortescue; Vincent Smith, Oxford History of India (1920).)
7. Sir Hugh Gough (1779-1869) was that not unusual combination: a stern and ruthless soldier, but a kindly and likeable man. He was also entirely "Irish"—reckless, good-humoured, careless of convention and authority, and possessed of great charm; as a general, he was unpredictable and unorthodox, preferring to engage his enemy hand-to-hand and trust t
o the superiority of the British bayonet and sabre rather than indulge in the sophistications of manoeuvre. He attracted numerous critics, who drew attention to his shortcomings as a military organiser and tactician but could not deny his saving grace as a commander—he kept on winning. By 1845 he had a combat record unequalled by any soldier living, Wellington included, having been commissioned at 13, fought against the Dutch in South Africa and Surinam, pursued brigands in Trinidad, served throughout the Peninsular War (in which he received various wounds and a knighthood), commanded a British expedition to China, stormed Canton, forced the surrender of Nanking, and beaten the Mahrattas in India. At the time of the Sutlej crisis he was 66 years old, but sprightly in body and spirit, handsome, erect, with long receding white hair and fine moustaches and side-whiskers. The best-known portrait shows him in his famous white "fighting coat", pointing with an outstretched arm: it is said to illustrate one of the many critical moments in his career when, at Sobraon, he shouted: "What? Withdraw? Indeed I will not! Tell Sir Robert Dick to move on, in the name of God!" (See R. S. Rait, Life and Campaigns of Hugh, 1st Viscount Gough (1903); Byron Farwell, Eminent Victorian Soldiers (1985) and other works cited in these Notes.)
Sir Robert ("Fighting Bob") Sale was another highly combative general, celebrated for leading from the front, and once, when his men were mutinous, inviting them to shoot him. He fought in Burma, and in the Afghan War, where he was second-in-command of the army, and earned distinction as the defender of Jallalabad. (See also Note 9.)
8. War with the Gurkhas in 1815 brought the British to Simla, and the first European house was built there in the 1820s by one Captain Kennedy, the local superintendent, whose hospitality may have laid the foundations of its popularity as a resort. Emily Eden was the sister of Lord Auckland, Governor-General 1835-41. (See the excellently-illustrated Simla: a British Hill Station, by Pat Barr and Ray Desmond (1978).)
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