Forty Thousand Miles Over Land and Water

CHAPTER XVII

THE SCENES OF THE INDIAN MUTINY

Thursday, January 22nd.—Lucknow has been given by the natives the pretty name of the "City of Roses."

It is needless to say that on this our first morning in Lucknow, our steps were naturally directed to the Residency, before whose grand and grim remembrances the gimcrack beauty of the palaces, the mosques, and the tombs, pale into uninteresting insignificance.

A bright, chill October morning it was, and I say October because, added to the keenness of the air, the leafless and withered branches of the trees gave to Lucknow an autumnal look. The terrific storm of hail which passed over the city fourteen days ago, and which during its five minutes' visitation played such havoc amongst the trees, has stripped and left them leafless.

The Residency is not in the least disappointing. It is like what we should imagine and picture to ourselves. An unimposing gateway, flanked by two turret towers, with broken walls and ditches. Nothing grand or striking about it, for it was only a fortified barrack; but the surrounding walls and buildings riddled with shot, and showing large cavities where a shell has burst, tell its simple but awful tale of bitter suffering. Here for five long months a little band of 1800 heroic Englishmen, with 400 or 500 faithful sepoys, defended themselves bravely, starvation staring them in the face, looking day by day for the relief which so tardily came. So closely invested were they by the ferocious hordes of rebels, that the sepoys within were taunted by the rebels without the entrenchment. Morning after morning the enemy's battery opened fire, weakening day by day their feeble defences, attacking first one position and then another, always repulsed, but always with some ill-spared loss to the small body of defenders. The Residency ruins extend for a mile and a half, and looking round now at the low walls, in no part more than four feet high, and the shallow trenches, it seems well-nigh impossible how the defenders kept at bay the rebels so long as they did. Everything is left as far as possible as it was at the time of "the Relief." At the suggestion of the Prince of Wales, tablets have been let into the walls, and posts erected at all the famous points of defence. We trace thus the position of each regiment, and even the rooms in the several houses in the Residency enclosure, occupied by the officers' wives before the siege.

Grand as the study of the general outline is—of each spot memorable for some gallant defence—of one more life from the heroic little band laid down—the intensity of interest concentrates in certain spots: such as Dr. Fayrer's House, where Sir Henry Lawrence was brought after his leg was fractured by a bullet, and the four walls are shown (for the roof and floor are gone) of the room where he died. Also the room where the walls, battered with shot, fell in, burying some soldiers of the 32nd; the underground apartments where the women and children were kept for safety, and where so many of them died from privation and disease. In another room we saw the hole made by a shell, which entered the window and exploded against the opposite wall, killing an officer's wife on the spot from the shock and fright. Then there is the world-renowned Baillie Guard Gate, the scene of the deadliest repulses and corresponding deeds of courage.

The flagstaff on the tower of the Residency is the same as was there during the siege. Broken in half by a bullet one day, it was riveted together as we now see it. The flag was kept flying during the whole of those five months. Every Sunday it is now raised again. Adjoining the tower we see the ruins of the cook-house and the well, which was accessible during the siege by a covered way. In the centre of this quadrangle, on a raised mound, stands the exceedingly beautiful Greek cross, erected to the memory of Sir Henry Lawrence and his comrades in arms who fell.

All praise is due, we think, to Lord Northbrook, for having during his viceroyalty added to the monuments which are erected to our soldiers, who only died doing their duty, by presenting an obelisk to the memory of the sepoys who, amid the general rise of their countrymen, remained faithful to the British. The inscriptions on the four sides are in English, Hindustani, Persian, and Oudhee. Another cross has been erected to the memory of the 93rd Highlanders, giving the names and the different entrenchments where their men fell, and engraved with the crests of the regiment—an elephant and a stag.

The grey building, broken and unroofed, where all is so quiet and neat, is soothing after the terrible tale of hardship and bloodshed we have just been tracing out amongst its walls.

The masses of begonia hanging from the tower, the lawns and gardens, the gravel paths, would efface such memories, but yet the ghastly reminders always remain in those riddled walls, those sudden gaps, where the masses of masonry have been torn away by shot and shell. It is as well perhaps for them to remain—to warn us of the blood already shed to retain our hold on our Indian empire. It is as well that they should remain, to tell us to ask ourselves, should occasion in the future arise, "Shall we pour out the blood of the nation again to keep that which we have unflinchingly gotten?"

We were more than charmed with the Residency. The complex memories which it leaves with us will linger harmoniously for many a day. It is one of the things which has interested and pleased us most in all our travels.

Passing along the road where the mutineers first gathered in force, and showed a spirit of hostility, we see the iron bridge where their quarters were.

Two unfinished works of Muhammed Ali Shah are before us. One is the Watch Tower or Sut Khunda, of which only four stories of the seven projected were finished. It stands there rotting away, a monument to the finger of death, which respects not the designs or intentions of man. The other is the "musjid" or mosque, intended to surpass the famous Jumna Musjid of Delhi, and which also remains incomplete, the scaffolding rotting away, as it was left eighteen years ago at the time of the Shah's death.

Muhammed Ali Shah at length succeeded in accomplishing a finished work in the Husainabad, but, as will be seen, one can hardly say, after all his endeavours, that his name will be handed worthily down to posterity. Entering under a gateway, we are met by the stone figures of two women, holding the chains hanging from the archway, and which is gaudily decorated with green fishes and dolphins against a yellow ground. We find ourselves in a pretty court with a garden crowded with a great variety of buildings; among others a bad model of the Taj, a very terrible object for those who are still looking forward to see the beauties of that matchless tomb for the first time. The tank in the centre is guarded at intervals with painted wooden figures. There are centaur women, soldiers in uniform, like the Highlanders of tobacco shops, and maidens representative of the figure-heads of barges. At the further end of the garden is the palace, containing a wonderful collection of rubbish. There are glass chandeliers swathed in linen covers and priced at 6000 rupees, models of pagodas and temples in ivory and wood under glass cases. A bottle containing a carved figure, suggesting the riddle how it ever got inside, is shown as a priceless treasure. There are gilded thrones and chairs, and the temple modelled entirely in coloured wax, which is carried in procession at the festival of Muhurrum and destroyed yearly.

In the midst of these tawdry and gilded surroundings sleep Muhammed Ali and his mother, under their canopied tombs, surrounded by gilded railings. Disgusted with this incongruous mass we passed into another small building. Here we see a collection of full-length portraits of many kings of Oude—bright, realistic paintings, in each of which the artist has flattered the oriental vanity of his subject by painting him as large and as blazoned as possible.

Opposite the Husainabad stands the Musa Bagh, or the "Tomb of the Rat." Two curious origins are attributed to it. One says that the Nawab Asaf-ud-Daulah, when out riding one day, crushed a rat under his horse's feet, and erected this tomb over it; the other says that it was built by a Frenchman, whose name is lost to posterity, but which tradition tries to preserve in the Musa, or corruption of monsieur!

After this we looked into the Jumna Mosque, and I experienced the feeling of disappointment which I suppose nearly every one does on entering a mosque for the first time. The interior is so utterly bare, so cold and uninteresting. I expected to see rich drapings and hanging lights, instead of the bare marble pavement, with the kibla as the only sign of the worship performed there. I admired, however, the delicate triangle device in blue and green, traced on the inside of the three domes, the unfailing characteristic of all mosques.

And then we went to that gem of architecture, the great Imambara. Few things exceed in beauty, in the conception of the design and in execution, the great prize springing from the competition offered by Asaf-ud-Daulah. The result has been prodigious in the perfection of delicacy. It is as if the imagination of all the great architects of our generation had united together, and each contributing his own idea formed the perfect whole. It is almost impossible to believe that from the brain of one man could have emanated such a multitude of fanciful styles of architecture. I speak of the delicate arches crowning the massive walls, and which, open to the daylight, trace their delicate proportions against the blue sky; of the row upon row of tiny domes that crown each arch, while these again, repeated in tiers above and below each other, line the three sides of the quadrangle. And again, the walls which support these airy structures are a study in themselves, replete with carving and coloured with pale tints of cream or pink.

The Imambara forms one immense square. Entering under a gateway you find yourself in a court, paved and vast. On this archway we see the green fishes and dolphins, the never-wanting emblem of good luck on all these ancient buildings, and without which the superstitious Oriental would hardly care to continue the work. Three sides of the square are parallel and at right angles to each other, but the fourth is cut slanting-wise by the mosque with its gilded dome, from whence spring those slender minarets, the pride and landmarks of the city. They also add their graceful proportions to perfect the whole. Facing us there is another of those beautiful Saracenic rows of arches, and we think we see the whole. But no, there is yet another court within this court, and this gateway, through which we gain access to it, was used by the harem. Passing through, we come to the last grand conception. Standing on a marble platform, the beauty of the frontage is seen to its greatest advantage. We look wonderingly at the labour expended upon the carvings of the twisted pilasters, the open fretwork of the little galleries, and the coping-stones that crown the turrets. If executed in a model miniature, the fretwork and carving would be delicate enough to form one of those Chinese toy-houses in ivory carving. And yet all this is worked in concrete, for there is no wood used in the construction of the Imambara.

The interior is as grand, One stupendous regal hall, divided by arches on either side to break the otherwise oppressive size. White, vast, and void. White, for the walls are painted a dead, uninterrupted white, and the arched roof is the same, save where delicate lines trace out the successive niches in the form of millions of domes; vast, for the hall measures 300 feet from end to end; void, for the walls are totally without decoration, and stand out to add to the vagueness by their blankness and flatness. There are no mural obstructions, no projections (save those ugly red boxes); but stay—not quite empty. Two objects are in the centre, almost lost amidst the oppressive vastness. Standing slantwise across the hall is a silken canopy, suspended over a silver railed enclosure. It is the tomb of the Vizier Nawab, and the plain slab is covered with a gorgeous pall with flowers laid on it. It is rather gaudy, but yet it strikes one as strange and solemn, such a grand spot as a last resting-place amid such intense silence.

Not far from this is the execrable, the tormenting spectacle of a tazia, a tower literally manufactured out of paste-board and coloured paper, of tinsel and ribbons,—the tazia of the last Muhurrum. This Muhurrum is a religious festival commencing on the evening of the new moon in January, and lasting for ten days. It is observed by only one sect of the Mahommedans. On the last day of the festival the tazia is taken and burnt in the streets, a new one being supplied ready for the following year, The Muhurrum may truly be considered a great evil to Lucknow. The beauty of its palaces and tombs are destroyed by the coloured lamps and glass chandeliers hung there for use during the Festival, whilst gateways and archways are disfigured by the masses of nails left after the illuminations.

In one of the galleries of the hall there is a "priest's chair" of ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. But the so-called chair is merely a succession of steps, with a wider one for a seat at the top. The little balconies, or red boxes as they look, hung out from the roof, form a dreadful mareye to the grand beauty. They connect with a gallery running round the hall, and are pointed out as the favourite place in which the Begums played hide and seek.

A fit ending to the grand simplicity of the hall is the octagonal room at the farthest end. Here the moulded archings find a common centre under the apex of the dome, and spread themselves out in a fanlike shape to the floor. This building was commenced in a time of famine, and work was carried on at night to enable the higher class to labour without being seen or known.

We were so delighted with the Imambara that we allowed ourselves the luxury (seldom possible) of a second visit to it. This time it was in the afternoon, and it looked cold and somewhat gloomy in the falling light and shadows. Some priests were sitting around the tomb of the vizier chanting in their musical monotonous tones verses out of the Koran. As one finished the other took up the theme, and the different tones, some shriller, others richer, yet all reciting on one note, repeated by the echo were very effective. I carried away with me a deeper and yet more pleasing impression of the Imambara.

In fit proximity, and so near as to mingle its beauty with that of the Imambara, is the Rûmî Darwaza, or Turkish gate. In fact, from the precincts of the courts the gate is seen rising so immediately behind, and between the minars of the mosque as to appear to form part of it. An imitation of acanthus-leaves, which radiate above the line of the wall, is the curious feature of this gateway. It is flanked by four minarets, and ornamented balustrades projecting outwardly from several tiers. The whole is crowned by a miniature temple with pillars and dome, and around this the leaves strike out in spikes, forming a halo about the summit, or looking like the shafts of a rose window without the circle.

The red-brick clock-tower erected as a memorial to Sir George Cooper is a veritable eyesore, lying as it does in the midst of these monuments of antiquity.

In the afternoon we drove out to the Dilkusha, a hunting residence and park belonging formerly to Saadut Ali Khán, and called by him "Heart's Delight." It is now a ruin standing in a quiet garden, but was the scene of a terrible struggle in the Mutiny between the forces of Sir Colin Campbell and the rebels. He was advancing to the relief of the Residency, and the rebels made a desperate stand here. Later on it was the death-place of Sir Henry Havelock as the forces were retreating to Alum Bagh. There are the tombs of two officers amongst the ruins.

We drove on to the Martinière, or the Mansion of Constantin. It is a school for Europeans and Eurasians, founded by Martin, a French soldier who came over with Count Lally to one of the French settlements. A magnificent and very peculiar building. No one could possibly suppose it had been built for the present purpose, but it was the private residence of Martin himself. First of all, in the centre of a lake, which is supplied from a canal from the neighbouring River Goomptie, rises the enormous fluted column, which from the distance one imagines to be part of the building. The whole design of the college is as fantastic as possible. On all sides Corinthian columns, plain or fluted, little towers with crenelated tops, and a mass of kiosks meet the eye. Lions rampant are mounted on the battlements, whilst curious gargoyles protrude from every corner. From story to story we have the rise of the central tower, each platform being marked by the octagonal towers at the corners, and the winding flight of stairs. The dome which crowns the top is formed by the "intersection of two semicircular arches built up with steps and balustrades, which look not unlike arcs boutant or flying buttresses." Each story seems to reproduce some different style of florid architecture, whether it be Corinthian, or Tuscan, or Gothic. The whole stands on a large platform, and the two wings are built back in a semicircular form, either end being on a level with the central building.

The bell was tolling for afternoon prayers in the chapel, and we joined the boys and choristers who were trooping in. The rich stained-glass window at the east end, which I admired so much, I was told afterwards was only diaphanous paper! Then we went to see the marble bust of General Martin, which stands in the vestibule. It represents a small, wizened face, with the queue and silk bow of the eighteenth century. In the vault below we were shown his tomb, and the large bell he had cast; but it is very uncertain whether the handsome sarcophagus really contains his bones, as the tomb was opened at the time of the Mutiny, and the four soldiers in mourning attitudes guarding the tomb, and made of brick, were then destroyed. Upstairs we went through floor upon floor of dormitories, the monotonous row of red quilts, peculiar to such institutions, contrasting strangely with the very beautiful Moorish decoration in pale green and pink on the ceilings. There are about 250 boys here, of all ages up to twenty-three. Principals and masters are English. It is a very rich institution, as the sum left by General Martin has always been in excess of the wants of the college, and an accumulated surplus of a million is now in the hands of the trustees. The Martinière forms a village in itself, as we saw when we came away, with its outlying mud settlement where the servants live, the mighty range of bath-rooms, and the gymnasium. It is surrounded by the Martinière Park, where, by the roadside, is the stone tomb of Major Hodson of "Hodson's Horse."

After this we explored Wingfield Park, a most dreary place of recreation, and then went to the bazaar to buy some of the little wooden figures, so carefully and correctly carved, that show the costumes of the different native servants; the dhobie with his bundle of linen, the bheestie with his goat-skin, the ayah, the khitmutgar, &c. They are quite a specialité of Lucknow.

On returning home we found a kind invitation to dinner from the Commissioner, Mr. Quinn, for that evening; but we were destined not to avail ourselves of it without first experiencing a little adventure. We were driving along in our gharry in the dark with the shutters (viz. windows) closed to avoid the raw fog, when we were thrown suddenly forward, with a terrible shock, and came to a dead stop. We thumped at the door (which of course under the circumstances stuck fast, and kept us imprisoned in pitch darkness), and scrambled out at length on to the road to behold a sad sight. Our driver lay on the ground groaning, thrown some yards away by the force of the concussion; the two horses formed a medley of legs turned uppermost, and lay as still as if they were killed; the forepart of the gharry was stove in. The trunk of a tree, the remains of the storm, lay partially across the road, and against this the horses had come in full force. We were in a difficult strait. It was quite dark, we were on an unknown road, and, worst of all, unable to speak the language. Fortunately we heard some natives coming, and one of them, a baboo, speaking a few words of English, hurried on with me to show the way to the bungalow (which happily was quite close), and from whence I sent back relief to C., who kept guard over the injured party. It was found that the driver recovered quickly on the presentation of some rupees, and the horses were disentangled and got up, much cut about the knees.

Friday, January 23rd.—We are terribly startled and disturbed by the news in this morning's Pioneer, which tells of the battle of Abu Klea, in the Soudan, as my brother-in-law (Col. Hon. George Gough), commanding the Mounted Infantry, was, we see, engaged in it.6 We set to work at a second day's sight-seeing therefore with heavy hearts and distracted minds. It may have been this which made the places we saw to-day less interesting than those of yesterday.

Najaf Ashraf contains the tomb of the first King of Oude. You pass under a gateway bright with yellow ochre, and which has depicted on it two brown monsters with their paws meeting over the arch. This leads to a "square" building with a "round" dome. Inside you behold a sea of chandeliers swathed in Turkey twill bags (literally), with green and red and blue globes hanging from the ceiling, all remains of the last Mohurrum. The king and his wife are buried in the centre, in the midst of the usual decorations of gilt railings, of canopies with silver fringes, and beautifully embroidered silk palls; but hanging on the walls at the entrance are some very curious frames containing a collection of miniatures of the Kings of Oude, with another set of their wives. The flowers and birds of these frames are exquisitely represented, and the portraits themselves are very perfect, with the different expressions, the jewels and the ornaments very delicately delineated. We felt obliged to go and see Secunder Bagh, for though it is only a small enclosure with high walls, broken in places, every inch of this spot must have been saturated with blood, when the 2000 rebel Sepoys were slaughtered to a man by the 93rd Highlanders and 53rd Foot, a terrible retribution for the fire with which they had been harassing us previously. Its original use, as a garden given by the Nawab Wajid Ali to a favourite wife, was very different from the slaughter-house it is now known as.

On the banks of the muddy Goomptie are the Chuttur Munzil and the Kaisur Pusund. The former is used as a club, and the latter as the High Court of Justice. Both buildings are remarkable from the little gilt umbrellas, or "chutturs," which surmount the various towers, and which make them easily known from the mass of other buildings. The club was originally a seraglio. It has a pretty exterior, with a carved belt of stone, painted red to contrast with the prevailing whiteness; and the magnificent banqueting-hall inside, hung with numerous chandeliers, must be particularly appropriate to its present use, however wrong that "use" was in the first instance. On the opposite side of the road is Lall Baradaree, or the Museum, whose verandah is supported by the figures of negroes standing with arms folded, and bearing the pillars on their heads. It is painted bright red both inside and out. It used to be the throne-room, where was held the durbar when the president enthroned a new king. Now it is full of glass cases containing rubbish, and only interesting from the large model of the Siege of the Residency, the red and green flags showing in what close proximity the armies were.

The Kaiser Bagh is a very marvellous collection of buildings. Standing in their midst, in the court, whether it be the medley of architecture, or the crudeness of the yellow-ochre walls, relieved with pink, and mingling with the green lines of the venetian shutters, the effect is startling. We see in these two-storied buildings, Italian windows between Corinthian pillars, and these surmounted by Saracenic arcades, or irregular openings of no style whatever.

The Chandiwalli Baradaree, a stone building in the centre, is used now as a town hall or concert-room (I notice that the residents of Lucknow have a very practical idea of turning these ancient buildings, the glory of the city, to their own uses). There is the Jilokhana, or place where the royal processions used to start from; the Cheeni Bagh, so called because of the China vases that used to decorate it; and the Hazrat Bagh, guarded by green mermaids. Farther on there are the buildings built by the royal barber, and sold by him to the king for his harem. It was here the rebel Begum held her court, and kept our prisoners confined in a stable near by. Yet further still there is the tree, with the roots paved with marble, where Shah Wajid Ali, clothed in the yellow rags of a fakir (beggar), sat during the great fair. It was the chief work of the present ex-king of Oude. We finished up our morning by a visit to the chowk. Driving there we passed the "House of the Sun" (now the Martinière Girls' School), and which is interesting just now, because at the time of the Mutiny it was captured from the rebels "by a company of the 90th, under Captain (now Lord) Wolseley," with some other troops.