Tug of War [India + England]

[India]

"This weather is terrible," muttered a fellow soldier, trying to light a fire. The wood was wet; the attempt sent up a weak wisp of smoke. The group filed into the tent, opting for shelter over warmth, which wouldn't come till daybreak.

"The weather is the least of our problems," said another soldier, crossly. "Those gujjars are bleeding the traders dry. We're running out of food."

"You eat too much," said the one sitting next to him, and much of the group listening laughed. Arya smiled. While that was true - Muzaffar ate more than two soldiers combined - she didn't feel very well right then, and she had the strangest feeling tugging at her. A premonition?

The soldier sitting next to her, a young man with an easily forgettable name, turned towards her. "You seem a little uneasy, Dev." The anxiety was reasonable. They'd heard rumors of the enemies coming down with visuchika but they were not likely to believe them. They'd had enough with rumors of late - including that bazaar story of the hundred-year rule.

The lightheartedness among the group left, and all of them looked morose for a moment.

"We nearly had it there," said Muzaffar. "We could've won before."

"The try in Jyaisthya?" asked the young man next to Arya. "Unlikely. You see the Sarkar didn't retreat in Asadha, either."

"Jyaisthya was not quite as bad," said Arya, feeling the uneasiness get noticeably worse. "I saw the expressions on their faces. They weren't expecting it." She tried for a confident smile and faltered. Where was that Englishman? He'd mentioned he had some responsibility for the actions of the Company Sarkar, but he'd been conspicuously missing since she'd joined the Rebellion.

Well. She narrowed her eyes. He'd turn up soon enough, like a coin with a dent in it. Just as well she'd joined the ranks here. If she heard one more 'helpful suggestion' she'd explode.

"Ahan," said Muzaffar. "I saw them too. We'll get over this yet. A hundred years, I'm sure, a few days' confusion does not matter."

"Right," said yet another soldier, cracking a sodden stick. "It's either that the Sarkar leaves or the Maharaj does."

"What?" asked the young soldier, alarmed. "What will they do to the Shah?"

Pat came the reply. "You didn't hear of it, did you?" A frown. "The Company sent word to the Maharaj. They told him he'd be the last on the throne, and-"

While the other members of the group tried their best to keep him quiet and hiss down the suggestion - what audacity! - Arya simply pushed her shoulders up and wrapped her arms around herself. That foolishly outspoken soldier had perfectly outlined most of her worries, and she feared it would get only worse from here on.

As if directed beforehand, it started to rain. A few half-hearted drops that soon turned into a deafening chatter on the roof of their tent. Now they'd never be able to light a fire.


'Jyaisthya' and 'Asadha' are months of the Bangla calendar. The soldiers are referring to the uprisings of June 19 and 23 respectively.

[England]

August 14th, 1857

“But we changed the blasted cartridges!” Hodson’s voice snapped, giving the rickety arm of his field chair a vindictive thump. The outburst managed to quiet the debate for a moment, temporarily casting the tent into silence before the man reached up to mop at his face. “We changed the blasted cartridges,” he said again, subsiding, tired and stretched thin. Encapsulating of the general consensus though it was, it got them no further.

“A hundred years have come and gone, gentleman. Their prophecy has summarily failed. That’s something to our advantage,” Wilson’s voice interjected.

“To Colonel Clive,” Richard Smith, Wilson's chief engineer, put in resolutely. Colonel Clive, was echoed back fondly from around the tent.

“Be that as it may, I should not be greatly demoralised by it. Not sitting up there with 30,000 troops, watching us prattle about,” Colonel Campbell said, with a careful chuckle.

“You wouldn’t start a full blown rebellion over cows and pigs, Colonel. Stranger things have happened.” Wilson’s voice had moved, towards the decanters if the clink of glass were any indication.

“You say the magazine was destroyed.” Nicholson’s Irish burr interrupted.

“One, indeed. Willoughby managed that before he was forced to retreat, but they laid on another three miles out. We can be more than sure it has been looted to a more practical location. The artillery is as Richard explained. Nevertheless, we’ve repelled their advances well enough.”

“And with my reinforcements, we’ll be making an attempt for the gates soon?” Nicholson’s weighty practicality met with too long a pause.

“That is the plan,” Wilson said, finally. “It was always General Reed’s intention, but we’ve had our hands full. Every day we sit out here we look the weaker party—and near become it, in this infernal rain. Half the men are ill, but we must not waste the chance when it’s taken. We’re unlikely to get another before Christmas.”

England continued to listen with half an ear as the conversation moved on. He had already taken himself, and his tea, outside where the camp was quiet. The black irony swirled gently in the pot, sourced and served by native hands. They always did a better job of it. The Empire had been half way across the world only lately, and now he was here with one leg crossed neatly over the other, stirring the liquid point of all this idiocy. England had seen Field Marshal Campbell installed in Calcutta, fresh from London, Crimea still close between them. London had mobilised far more quickly than they had a year ago, and still it had not been quick enough to fortify Delhi. Not that he ever should have had to. He had extended Bahadur Shah every luxury and every comfort. He had, to the extent that could be expected, accommodated the Indians and their myriad of silly traditions. And what had he got in return? A senseless massacre of women and children - and good men. Above England’s head, the awning swayed and rippled with the thumping rain. Above that, India poured down half the heavens in a concerted effort to drown the lot of them—never mind they were on the top of a hill. Arthur had chosen his position simply: he could see Delhi’s watch fires and walls from here. And somewhere inside, Arya. England was certain of it, and he was glad of it. She would be there, in the thick of the resolution, to answer for this. Relaxing his grip around the tender porcelain, England glanced up as the tent opened, spilling light out behind the giant silhouette of Brigadier-General John Nicholson.

Arthur had arrived almost together with the large Irishman’s reinforcements, travelling the last day in his galvanised company. It was enough for some small measure of familiarity, but the General did not invite himself to sit and he did not sit down. He came to the edge where England was sitting and hovered, aggressively staring out at Delhi.

“Wilson,” he said, at last.

“Wilson,” England agreed, without compromise. Crimea had revised some of the thinking as to the traditional chain of command. It had not revised it that much. “Can you work with him?”

Beside him, he felt the Irishman pause. England withdrew the spoon from his cup, tapping the excess sugar off. It made a sharp tink the rain didn’t quite swallow.

“I will. But I’ve made it known: I think the native regiments ought be dismissed. We’ve got Sikhs and Pakhtuns enough.”

England nodded. That was solid military thinking he wouldn’t argue with. He’d almost lifted the cup to his lips when he felt the weight of the other man’s stare upon him.

Wellington had always been the same.

“Don’t strain yourself attempting to like me,” England said, without preamble, since they might as well be plain about it. “I will tell you now, General. You will not like me, and Ireland would be very proud of you for it.” Too often, some of his best officers came from his brothers’ houses. It was always an irritant, but it was also irrelevant. Let the man believe he was personifying a National ideal; it was close enough to the truth. England sipped his tea, tasting rain. “Delhi is the only thing of importance.”

A burst of animated conversation lifted and fell, buffeted out of the tent by wind.

“They’re discussing Lord Canning’s clemency resolution,” the large General said, changing the subject. Fierce and intelligent: and he had to be Irish. England set his jaw.

“They have rounded up women and children. I hardly think clemency is merited for mutiny. But we will certainly grant it.”

“The Nightingales will be happy.”

“A meaningful death is a compliment,” England replied, coldly. ”I’m not having mutineers for martyrs.” No, they would not get a farthing out of all of this if he had his way.




(very brief) notes .

. I mean no religious disrespect with anything I might write from the British POV. I'm merely attempting to replicate thinking from the period.

. Colonel Robert Clive, Battle of Plassey.

. The Campbell present in dialogue is not to be confused with Field Marshall Campbell.

. Nightingales – a reference to Florence Nightingale and her outspoken contemporary opposition to the carnage and horror of the Crimean War.

. Lord Canning’s 'Clemency' resolution advised against the execution of mutineers not convicted of murder.

[India]

Bhadra 1779 (24 August 1857)

“What is this?” cried one of the soldiers, kicking at the rubble. A few stones rolled off into the canal.

“Only to be expected,” said General Sudhari Singh, grimly. “They knew the canal protected the rear of their camp. To leave a bridge across it would be an invitation.”

“So what do we do now?” asked a soldier, morosely. The sky reflected the thoughts of the Nimach troops. Rain thundered down in relentless sheets. It was a terrible time for any kind of uprising, thought Arya. The annual monsoons were something most Delhi troops were used to. But many of the Nimach were from other parts of India, where it didn’t rain this much, or so hard.

And they had all answered the call. The Emperor – he was not the last! – needed their help. Though she despised his weakness, she knew they needed a person to rally around. It was a bit late to complain about thrones, but there was still the Mughal line to keep safe. And she would never permit anybody – be it the English or even something she didn’t understand – to try and rub away their religion. Conversion. How could they have even dared to try something like it.

She frowned the water out of her eyes and stepped forward for a clearer view of their obstacle.

Somewhere else, the irony of the situation would merit a chuckle. They were at Palam, and the bridge had collapsed. Had been collapsed. The only way across was over the bridge, so they’d have to get it back up.

Singh had had the same idea. “We need to rebuild the bridge, men.”

“It’ll take us a day,” muttered a voice from the troops. “And the rain won’t relent any time soon.”

”It’s either that or wading through,” snapped Arya. This was going to slow them down, the soldier had a point. But the English would be far slower, she knew they wouldn’t be able to cope quite as well with the rains.

She looked back at the troops milling around the nearest gun. Nine guns between here and the last camp. Four at the khan. That’s how they had planned it. If she felt anything at all, it wasn’t hope. Maybe hunger. She hadn’t eaten in a while.

She nudged a neighbor with her elbow and asked quietly, “How much food do you think we have left?” Hopefully enough to tide this through.

He looked fair depressed. “Not much.” Bakht Khan, what were you thinking? She felt slightly panicky now. Not many of the troops knew of their dwindling supplies. They needed to keep it that way. Those who guessed would keep silent, both to save energy and avoid further alarm. Supplies had been low when they had left Delhi, they would be still lower here.

Incessant rain. No food. This did not look promising. She looked through the rain at the murky shapes further up; there was a swamp to get around before they’d be able to do anything at all. Najafgarh jilh. Not impressive as swamps went, but it was the very worst she knew she would ever come across for a while.

As the men moved around the bridge, trying to get it up as fast as they could with the rain pooling about their ankles, Arya stepped into one of the small houses clustered around the bridge. The people of Palam were powerless here, and they didn’t have much more food than they did.

The house was empty. She did not want to know where the residents were. Hunger did things to people. In any case, she thought, it was shelter – leaky shelter – from the rain.

Battle of Najafgarh.

Most of the revolt started from rumors. There were the cartridges, then things started up about trying to convert Muslims and Hindus to Christianity… it does seem a bit idiotic now, but back then most Indians were extremely religious. Not an obligation, more of a trait of some kind, passed on through generations. The revulsion they would’ve felt at the very idea of touching cow/pig fat has no counterpart in European ways of thinking.

The irony about a broken bridge at Palam was a pun on the fact that the very word palam means ‘bridge’ in a popular South Indian language. She would find it amusing.