Koh-i-Noor

by William Dalrymple

  The request for a few token trinkets was granted and the maharaja was duly presented with an assortment of gems. Though he was a king without a kingdom, on his birthday he looked like a maharaja. If Login’s aim had been to distract the boy from his greater losses, his gambit did not entirely work. As he reported to his wife, Duleep ‘innocently remarked that on his last birthday he had worn the Koh-i-noor on his arm’.6

  John Login dreaded any mention of the Koh-i-Noor. He had been uneasy for some time about the way in which it had been appropriated. Nothing represented Duleep’s downfall more eloquently than the loss of the legendary gem, and Login longed to put distance between the boy and his humiliation. A few weeks after the birthday party, Login heard some news that cheered him: ‘There is a report going about since last mail that, much to the honour of “our dear little Queen,” she has declined to accept the Koh-i-noor as a gift, under the circumstances in which it has been offered her; indeed I shall rejoice to hear that this is true, and I am sure that many of her subjects will rejoice with me.’7

  Login hoped that Queen Victoria’s misgivings about the diamond mirrored his own, and that they would force the British government to pay for the diamond if they wished to take it, making its transfer to the Tower of London feel a little less unjust: ‘I feel certain that it would be easy to raise a sufficient sum to purchase it, and it would have more value in her eyes, given her in this way by her people, as a token of their respect and honour …’8

  In his excitement, Login even started spending the money that he thought the sale of the Koh-i-Noor would raise, the bulk of it ‘to be spent for the good and benefit of her new subjects here, by making the Punjab to bloom like a garden … giving employment to the 100,000 men who have been cast adrift, making roads, bridges, and canals, and establishing schools among them, and thus showing that we are above taking anything from them in a shabby way. This would be one way of converting the possession of the Koh-i-noor into a blessing instead of a curse …’9

  However, Login’s hopes were soon dashed. They were based on nothing more than a rumour. Though the queen might have expressed private misgivings about the treatment of Duleep and the way in which his greatest treasure had been appropriated, she never went as far as to refuse the diamond, nor did she interfere with Dalhousie’s plan for the maharaja’s ‘adoption’ by the Logins. There was no question that he might be given back to his mother.

  Meanwhile, over the course of several months, Jindan’s reputation had been destroyed in dispatches shuttling between Lahore and London. She was painted as a sexual predator, described as the ‘Messalina of Punjab’ – evoking the promiscuous wife of the Roman emperor Claudius. It was suggested that she would use her beauty to bewitch men to follow her in an uprising. This was why she had to be locked away.

  Having established Jindan as a whore, Dalhousie then set about attacking her parenting, knowing that this would poison the well at Buckingham Palace. He told Queen Victoria that Jindan was a cruel mother, who had physically abused her son. British intervention had saved the boy from such a woman: ‘[Duleep] has no desire to return to his mother, who “put discredit on him,” he says, “by beating him every day” …’10

  Queen Victoria accepted Dalhousie’s explanation; however, she also made it known that she wanted regular updates on the maharaja’s welfare and progress, urging her representatives to treat him with kindness. Duleep was almost the same age as Victoria’s eldest son, Bertie, the prince of Wales, and she was deeply touched by his plight.

  While Login planned Duleep’s birthday party, his mother, Jindan, marked her sixteenth month behind bars. Despite her subsequent move from Lahore to Sheikhupura, this was not far enough for Currie. In July 1848, he ordered Jindan to be transported hundreds of miles to a remote cell in Chunnar Fort, an ancient and imposing stone citadel, high on a rocky outcrop (in the Mirzapur district of modern Uttar Pradesh).

  From her lonely, windswept prison, overlooking the vast Gangetic plains, Jindan pined for any scrap of information about her son. Only rage seemed to sustain her. That same passion threatened to drown her completely when she heard of the annexation of Punjab and the seizure of the Koh-i-Noor. Days after Duleep had signed the treaty, on 19 April 1849, Rani Jindan escaped from Chunnar Fort. Exchanging her clothes for the rags worn by a seamstress, a lowly servant who had come to Chunnar Fort to sew leaves into cups and plates, she fled under cover of darkness, taunting her British captors as she went. Jindan scrawled a note for guards to find: ‘You put me in a cage and locked me up. For all your locks and your sentries, I got out by magic … I had told you plainly not to push me too hard – but don’t think I ran away. Understand well, that I escape by myself unaided … don’t imagine I got out like a thief.’11

  Keeping to the wilderness paths, Jindan took a circuitous route of almost 800 miles to reach the Kingdom of Nepal. There, in the capital, Kathmandu, she threw herself on the mercy of the ruler Jung Bahadur. Unknown to her, British envoys had reached him first and instructed the Nepalese ruler to offer Jindan sanctuary as long as he also enforced a stringent set of conditions. He must forbid her from setting foot in India again. She must not attempt to contact her son. She must not attempt to stage an uprising in Punjab or challenge British rule in any way. Failure to comply with these rules would lead to her exile from Nepal and immediate incarceration in an Indian prison from which she would never escape again.

  Physically and mentally battered, Jindan had no option but to accept.

  While Jindan wasted away in Nepal, in early February 1850 the streets of her old capital, Lahore, were lined by tearful subjects. They watched as their maharaja’s caravan left Punjab for the very last time, taking him into exile. He seemed to be taking the legacy of Ranjit Singh with him, and for many old sirdars it was almost too much to bear. John Login had tried his best to make the journey feel like an adventure to Duleep. His new home would be hundreds of miles away in Fategarh, and Login filled the boy’s ears with promises of good hunting, new experiences and the prospect of a happy childhood with a ‘normal’ family.

  The family Login offered was his own. His wife Lena would join them in Fategarh, as would his children, and there would be playmates and fun for the maharaja. After years of uncertainty and fear, Login offered him security, space to breathe and the freedom to act like a child.

  Login’s optimism was genuine. He felt that the more miles he could put between his ward and his old life, the better off he would be. Of late, his talks with Duleep had inspired him to think more ambitiously. Perhaps he might be able to remove the boy from India altogether. Much to Login’s delight, the maharaja was beginning to show a fascination with England. He regularly asked about its people, culture and queen: ‘I think the Maharajah shows a great desire to hear about England. Sir H[enry] Lawrence wished he could be educated there, and not left to grow idle and debauched in India with nothing to do, considering what he has lost and we have gained! … he is young enough to mould.’12 If his country could make room for Duleep’s diamond, could it also make room for Duleep, Login wondered?

  Though the British press was already clamouring for the great diamond to be brought to England it showed very little interest in the gem’s previous owner: ‘Are we really to see the Mountain of Light? … is the renowned Koh-i-noor really on its way to England? Is the Tower of London actually to possess such a treasure?’ asked Lloyd’s Weekly, capturing the excited anticipation of the nation. Though the paper was delighted at the prospect of the Koh-i-Noor’s arrival, it was less pleased about the role Dalhousie had played in its confiscation:

  Though the Marquis of Dalhousie has substantially made her Majesty a present of the gem, in point of form, the boy Dhuleep Singh ceded it to the Queen. But such a cession is a mockery; the lad did exactly what he was bid, and would have made it over with equal facility to the chief of the Cherokee Indians, had Lord Dalhousie directed him. He signed the paper placed before him quite regardless of its contents; and the responsibility of its terms re
st [sic] entirely with the Governor General …13

  Painting an unflattering portrait of an arrogant man, the paper went on to charge Dalhousie with betraying his employers at the East India Company and overstepping his mandate in India. Dalhousie stood accused of unforgivable hubris, of acting as if he were the man presenting the diamond to the queen when he had no legal right to do so. The diamond, as with all else in the conquered territory of Punjab, belonged to the East India Company. It should have been in the Company’s gift to present the gem to the sovereign, not some vain servant of that company, who sought only glory for himself.

  Stung by the criticism, Dalhousie had to bear further insult when the East India Company insisted on leaving him out of any future presentation of the Koh-i-Noor to the queen. Though he had to accept their decision, Dalhousie did not do so graciously. In a letter to Sir John Hobhouse, the president of the Board of Control and ultimately the minister responsible for the East India Company, the governor general reminded him that not one man at Leadenhall Street, the Company’s headquarters, had played a part in securing the diamond for Britain. Dalhousie and Dalhousie alone was responsible for the Koh-i-Noor making its way to the queen:

  Whatever my ‘affectionate friends’ at Leadenhall Street should, or may, think, you at least will find no fault with my having regarded the Koh-i-Noor a thing by itself, and with my having caused the Maharajah of Lahore, in token of submission, to surrender it to the Queen of England. The Koh-i-Noor had become in the lapse of ages a sort of historical emblem of conquest in India. It has now found its proper resting place.14

  Privately, Dalhousie was less polite, railing in a letter to a friend: ‘I am much indebted to them for thinking me a blockhead. Our estimate of each other is mutual.’15

  Though he would not be permitted to put the Koh-i-Noor directly into his queen’s hands, Dalhousie still had to organise its safe passage to England. The Lahore vaults and their contents were now the responsibility of a Board of Administration, consisting of three men: Sir Henry Lawrence, the now former resident of Lahore, his younger brother John Lawrence, and Charles G. Mansell, a long-serving civil servant. Of the three, the tall, handsome John Lawrence was the most charismatic and contrary. He had served with distinction in the first Anglo-Sikh War, yet ever since the annexation he had won the esteem of the Punjab peasantry who hailed him as ‘the saviour of Punjab’. Lawrence had fought to save them from punitive taxes, and though he represented the ‘enemy’ many poor Punjabis had grown to regard him as an ally.

  John Lawrence was somewhat surprised when he, the man least impressed by princely baubles, was chosen to guard the Koh-i-Noor until such time as its passage to England could be arranged. Orders came in a letter, from Dalhousie, addressed to the three men just before Christmas in 1849. After they had read the governor general’s wishes, the diamond was summoned up from the toshakhana and formally transferred into John’s custody. If his official biographer is to be believed, John solemnly removed it from its casket, placed it in his waistcoat pocket, took it home and promptly forgot all about it.

  Six weeks later, on 12 January 1850, a message arrived from Simla with Dalhousie’s unmistakable signature. The time had come to send the great diamond to England and to Queen Victoria. As his brother Henry finished reading out the letter, John responded with a solemn but stirring: ‘Send for it at once.’ No sooner had the words left his lips than his brother exploded with an incredulous: ‘Why, you’ve got it!’16

  Like the absent-minded Mughal emperor Humayun who had left his bag of jewels, including Babur’s Great Diamond, on a Persian riverbank while he bathed, John Lawrence had forgotten all about the jewel entrusted to him. Now, expected to produce the Koh-i-Noor, he realised he had absolutely no recollection of what he had done with it. John did his best to hide his panic and he left his companions, telling them blithely that he was just off to retrieve the Koh-i-Noor. In reality he had no earthly clue where it might be. ‘Well, this is the worst trouble I have ever got you into!’ he said to himself, as he desperately tried to remember the last time he had laid eyes on the stone.17

  Reaching home, ‘with his heart in his mouth’, John Lawrence ‘sent for his old bearer and said to him, “Have you got a small box which was in my waistcoat pocket some time ago?” “Yes, Sahib,” the man replied, “I found it and put it in one of your boxes.” “Bring it here,” said the Sahib. Upon this, the old servant went to a battered tin box. “Open it,” said John Lawrence, “and see what is inside.”’ John watched as the baffled bearer held up the Koh-i-Noor. ‘There is nothing here, Sahib,’ he said, ‘but a bit of glass!’18

  John Lawrence dined out on that story, although many of his contemporaries poured scorn on it. Lena Login, who usually kept controversial opinions to herself, scoffed at the idea that a man’s waistcoat pocket could ever have held such a mighty gem. Whether the story of the lost Koh-i-Noor was true or not, it added another facet to the diamond’s already colourful legend.

  The Koh-i-Noor’s ocean crossing was a straightforward proposition, but getting it to the port of Bombay was not. An overland trip of hundreds of miles would be fraught with risk and needed careful thought and preparation. Heavily guarded caravans would be too conspicuous. Small but swift cavalry escorts would be too vulnerable. Having considered all his options, Dalhousie decided that secrecy was more important than strength. Telling only a handful of his most trusted confidants, he decided that he would carry the diamond to Bombay himself. As a frequent visitor to Lahore, Dalhousie’s swift arrival and departure would draw little attention. The very notion that the governor general might act as diamond courier was too ludicrous to be entertained, which is why he became convinced that it was the only plan that would work.

  Keeping the circle of trust as small as he could, the governor general asked his wife, Lady Dalhousie, to stitch a small pouch for him. It was nondescript and just large enough to hold the diamond. She chose the softest kid leather she could find, material that would not chafe against her husband’s skin when he hid it under his shirt. Lady Dalhousie also double-sewed the pouch on to the inside of a leather belt, which fitted snugly around her husband’s waist, beneath his shirt. She attached a thin chain to the base of the bag, long enough to pull up over her husband’s body and fasten around the back of his neck. Even if Dalhousie had cause to unbutton his shirt in the heat, the chain looked as if it might hold a locket or crucifix, and should have attracted no undue attention.

  For the perilous journey to Bombay, Dalhousie chose Captain James Ramsay to accompany him. Not only was Ramsay an accomplished and decorated soldier, he was also Dalhousie’s flesh and blood. The governor general’s trusted nephew, Ramsay was the only other person who knew of Dalhousie’s plan. Two other members of Dalhousie’s household were also conscripted for the mission, though they probably were not aware of its importance. Dalhousie’s pet dogs, Banda and Barron, would serve as ferocious guards, and were to be chained to his camp bed every night. Satisfied with his plan, at a small ceremony in Lahore on 7 December 1849, with John Lawrence, Henry Lawrence and Mansell in attendance, as well as Sir Henry Elliot, the secretary to the government of India, and John Login, Dalhousie signed a receipt for the Koh-i-Noor. Securing the diamond in his secret pouch, the governor general left Lahore for the long journey to Bombay.

  Much to Dalhousie’s relief, the trip was largely uneventful and he kept the Koh-i-Noor next to his skin. As he later confessed, ‘It never left me, day or night.’19 Only once was he forced to remove the pouch, and that was early on in his mission. Unavoidable government business required him to ride out from camp in a place called Dera Ghazi Khan, on the outskirts of Punjab territory. The terrain was notoriously treacherous and teeming with bandits. Dalhousie carefully unwound the Koh-i-Noor from his body and gave it to his nephew. As he later confessed to a friend in a letter, Ramsay was issued with some unusual instructions: ‘I left it with Captain Ramsay (who now has joint charge of it) locked in a treasure-chest, and with strict instructions that
he was to sit upon the chest until I came back! My stars! What a relief to get rid of it.’20 One can only imagine how ridiculous Ramsay looked and felt, pistol in hand, sitting on a piece of luggage, all alone in a tent, for hours on end.

  On 1 February, after nearly two months of travelling and tension, the Koh-i-Noor in its sweaty leather pouch finally reached Bombay. Though both Dalhousie and Ramsay were quite giddy with relief, it soon became clear that the diamond would have to stay hidden for a further two months. Dalhousie’s hopes of putting the gem to sea immediately were thwarted when he found out that no suitable naval vessel would be available to carry the diamond to England for weeks. All appropriate vessels were fully committed in the Far East. Unable to expedite the process without drawing suspicion, Dalhousie resigned himself to another long stretch of anxiety.

  First he placed the Koh-i-Noor in a small iron safe fitted with a sturdy lock. Then he placed the safe inside a red dispatch box, which also had a lock. This container was sealed with red tape and wax, making it look like a normal diplomatic pouch which might usually contain official papers bound for Westminster. The dispatch box was then placed in another chest, specially designed also to have two separate locks. The diamond in its multi-layered protection was then stored in the Bombay treasury, where it waited, under special guard, for the next leg of its journey.

  On 6 April 1850, the Koh-i-Noor was finally taken aboard HMS Medea, a steam sloop in the charge of a seasoned naval commander named Captain William Lockyer. Lockyer watched the double-locked iron chest being loaded on to his vessel. It was not until his ship had weighed anchor that the importance of his cargo was made known to him. Dalhousie also sent his nephew, Captain Ramsay, to accompany the diamond on its final journey. The East India Company grandees in Leadenhall Street had demanded that one of their own men also be included in the diamond’s entourage. Colonel J. Mackeson completed the trio of Koh-i-Noor escorts aboard Medea.