Farzana Page 13

  Farzana was no believer in miracles. Seeing the emperor’s distress, she detailed half her army to stay in Sardhana and moved straight back to Delhi. Here she placed Colonel Pauli and the rest of the brigade at Shah Alam’s personal disposal. Quarrels over the succession to Mirza Najaf’s post of Amir-ul-Umara (‘chief-of-chiefs’) had begun almost before the man himself was buried; and not without a careful assessment of her own interests, Farzana had appointed herself the emperor’s champion.

  In this and subsequent crises at the Mughal court her conduct stands in marked contrast to that of most other nobles and military commanders who owed their positions to the lonely old emperor. In headlong pursuit of their own fortunes, they habitually exploited his weaknesses, ignored his interests and rode roughshod over his authority. Not so Farzana. Whether because she owed her status entirely to imperial favour, whether because she relished the fact that the gulf between Chauri Bazaar and the imperial palace had been so satisfactorily bridged, or whether because she felt genuinely sorry for him, Farzana’s loyalty to Shah Alam was a constant. As the struggle to fill the vacuum left by Mirza Najaf intensified, her presence at the emperor’s side was as notable as it was reassuring.

  Since he had had no sons of his own who could have been groomed as his successor, Mirza Najaf had elevated two of his protégés to the status of ‘adopted sons’. He also had a nephew. The elder and more able of the adopted sons claimed to have been nominated by Mirza Najaf as his heir, although this claim was immediately challenged by the nephew. Seemingly because he was detained in his harem in a haze of opium smoke at the time, the younger adopted son was slow to enter the fray. In their strivings to gain the upper hand the two main contenders launched themselves into an orgy of intrigue. The elder ‘son’ offered Shah Alam a large bribe and was duly installed in the post but then refused to hand over the money. He was replaced by the nephew, who was in turn accused of some heinous crime and was replaced. The music began again and the players circled the throne. Throughout it all, Farzana remained resolutely neutral, her loyalty so firmly with the emperor that an East India Company employee observed how strange it was ‘to see a woman’s arm sustaining the falling empire of the Mogols’.25

  In August 1782, four months after the death of Mirza Najaf, Governor General Warren Hastings wrote to Shah Alam expressing polite concern at ‘the confusion and mismanagement that had followed the death [of Najaf] on account of dissensions among some of the sardars at his court’. Hastings had just ratified a peace treaty with the Marathas (Treaty of Salbai, June 1782) that signalled the end of the first Anglo-Maratha war. But he had no wish to see his pacified adversaries expand their sphere of influence by taking advantage of the confusion in Delhi. To press the point further, he followed up this letter by sending a deputation to the imperial court. Headed by Major James Browne, its remit was to offer Shah Alam British, instead of Maratha, support and, less openly, ‘to look into the characters, connections and influence of the several competitors for the possession of the King’s favour or the exercise of his authority’.26 Browne was delayed on his journey, first by the monsoon and then by illness. He did not reach Delhi for nearly a year, by which time Hastings’ attentions had been diverted by troubles of his own, notably his imminent recall and impeachment. Despite Shah Alam showing some interest in Hastings’ proposal, Browne was withdrawn and another opportunity for Mughal–British cooperation was lost.

  Left to his own devices, and encouraged by Farzana’s loyalty to take matters into his own hands, Shah Alam sent two emissaries to Najaf’s nephew to order him to negotiate some kind of agreement with the elder adopted son. One of these emissaries was a former ally of Mirza Najaf’s; the other was Farzana’s lover and military commander, Colonel Pauli. The two men were given a friendly welcome, ushered into the nephew’s private apartments and promptly seized by his henchmen on suspicion of spying for his rival. The former ally submitted without a struggle and was released after having his eyes put out. But Pauli, who put up a stout resistance, was decapitated.

  Nor was this the end of the bloodletting. By the middle of 1784 the elder adopted son and the nephew would themselves both be dead, murdered on each other’s orders. That left just the opium-dazed younger ‘son’, Najaf Kuli Khan, who had hitherto been dismissed as a contender for power on account of his addiction. Meanwhile, Shah Alam was forced to look elsewhere for someone to rescue his dangerously chaotic ‘empire’, and Farzana was struggling to find a replacement for the late lamented Pauli.

  Her reaction to the loss of a second lover is sadly unrecorded. No doubt she mourned; she surely fumed. Pauli may not have been her emotional mainstay but he had proved himself a dependable commander and he had died on behalf of the emperor and while in her service. Finding a successor who was both as devoted and capable would not be easy. Lovers would prove ineffectual leaders, and leaders ineffectual lovers. The problem of whether to trust her head or her heart would dominate Farzana’s sometimes erratic relationship with the brigade for the next twenty years.

  7

  FIT FOR SERVICE

  Finding a replacement for Pauli as her senior officer was never going to be a purely personal choice. The Sardhana Brigade, for all its apparent docility since Farzana had taken charge and despite the fact that it was now in the regular service of the emperor, was still a collection of unscrupulous and ruffianly fortune seekers. Their heavy drinking provoked endless quarrels; discipline was just a tiresome means of maximizing their prospects of plunder and prize money. However devoted to Farzana, they expected to be consulted about any appointment and were most particular as to who they would accept.

  The Europeans refused to take orders from anyone who thought himself their superior; they were also reluctant to endorse anyone whose military skills they did not find sufficiently impressive. These perverse conditions were difficult for any candidate to meet. Even if such a popular paragon could be found there was still the problem of persuading him to take the job; for just as any potential commander had to be acceptable to the brigade, so the brigade had to be acceptable to any potential commander. According to William Sleeman, Farzana tried three possible contenders in quick succession but ‘all gave it up in disgust at the beastly habits of the European subalterns, and the overbearing insolence of the soldiers’.1

  Her fourth choice was a French officer named Baours. As a veteran from Reinhardt’s original parti, Baours was no stranger to the brigade’s ‘beastly habits’ or their ‘overbearing insolence’; he probably shared them. He understood the mercenary’s code of self-preservation and he was clearly acceptable to all ranks. Appointed in 1784, he would stay in his command for about five years. But off duty, Baours cut an uninspiring figure and one to which Farzana was in no sense drawn. Their relationship would be strictly professional; and rather than being enhanced by intimacy, it would be endangered by it.

  For Farzana, now in her early thirties and still childless, was not about to forego masculine friendship. Proposals of marriage would come thick and fast, some politically motivated, some money-grubbing and some decidedly quixotic. She would rebuff them all. Instead, she would eventually embark on a tempestuous relationship with the one freelancer in India who would live that dream of carving out a personal kingdom as fully as she did. This was the larger-than-life George Thomas, a boon companion and an inspiration in battle but an irresponsible liability in the eyes of the brigade. Not till his proposal of marriage – the only one she may actively have invited – failed to materialize would she entertain others.

  There may also have been some logic behind her remaining single; indeed, given Farzana’s record of careful calculation, it would be surprising if there weren’t. Marriage to any but a complete nonentity would have restricted her independence. It would have compromised her sovereignty in Sardhana, complicated her command of the brigade and prejudiced her dealings with the Mughal grandees in Delhi. Above all, it would have altered her relationship with Shah Alam. The emperor trusted her. He probably doted on
her and he was becoming ever more dependent on her. Had she pledged herself to another, this curious bond between the waif from Chauri Bazaar and the emperor in his Red Fort would have been broken. Shah Alam would have resented anyone having a prior call on her loyalty, while Farzana would have forfeited the favour she held most dear.

  As of 1785 this relationship would become crucial not just to the two principals but to the very existence of what remained of the Mughal Empire. New contenders were about to vie for Farzana’s favours and for control of the emperor’s person. Meanwhile, more territory would be lost, more indignities would be inflicted on the luckless ‘king of the world’ and more opportunities would arise for his unlikely saviour to prove her mettle.

  Ever since the death of Najaf Khan, the emperor had been casting about for a dependable commander-in-chief and for sponsors powerful enough to guarantee his tenure of the throne. The rivalry between the ‘sons’ and the nephew of Najaf Khan had solved nothing; and with the 1784 recall of Governor General Warren Hastings to face disgrace and impeachment in London, hopes of the emperor being able to call on the English Company’s firepower faded.

  Left with few other options, Shah Alam then made the very move that Hastings had hoped to avert. He turned to the Marathas, that warlike confederation of Hindu rulers from central India and the Deccan that also included the saintly Ahalyabai of Malwa. In particular, he turned to Mahadji Scindia,* a redoubtable warlord who had emerged from the Anglo-Maratha war of 1775–82 as the leading Maratha commander. Small, rugged, of dark complexion, with a pronounced limp and very few graces, Mahadji Scindia was yet extremely astute. As the illegitimate son of an erstwhile patel (a village headman), his origins were humble. But his father had set a fine example, rising through the ranks to become a general in the army of the nominal Maratha supremo, the Peshwa of Poona, and enjoying the Peshwa’s special favour as his official slipper-bearer. Inheriting the rank – and the slippers – after the death of his father and then, in successive battles, of his three older half-brothers, Mahadji Scindia zealously maintained the charade that he was only ‘the poor old patel of his native Maratha village whose sole aspiration was to continue as the hereditary slipper-bearer of the Peshwa’.

  But all the while he strengthened his power base in Ujjain (near Malwa) and quietly eased himself beyond the Peshwa’s control. He had been instrumental in resurrecting Maratha power after the confederation’s defeat by the Afghans at Panipat (1761), in which battle he himself had been seriously injured (hence his limp). Ten years later he had been in the forefront of the negotiations to bring Shah Alam back to Delhi. Thwarted then by the death of the Peshwa and delayed ever since by the Anglo-Maratha war, Mahadji Scindia had been waiting for just this opportunity to reimpose Maratha control over the Mughal capital and thereby over Hindustan.

  Despite his protestations of abject loyalty, Scindia’s success had incurred the bitter jealousy of Maratha rivals and the equally bitter hatred of those Rajputs, Jats and others whose territories he had overrun along the way. He had also experienced occasional failures, most notably against the British, and these had taught him how best to meet such hostility. His army, like most Maratha units, had initially consisted of swarms of light cavalry; indefatigable horsemen wielding lances and sabres from their spry little ponies, the Maratha Horse relied on surprise and evasion. But now 20,000-strong and ‘unequalled for guile’, Scindia’s forces still lacked both infantry and artillery. During the recent Anglo-Maratha war they had been repeatedly overwhelmed and dispersed by British-led units less than a quarter their size. The Comte de Modave had once predicted that ‘the first Indian prince who reforms his army and establishes an efficient corps of regular soldiers will become master of all the others’. Scindia heeded such sentiments and by 1784 aspired to be just such a prince. Eschewing half measures, he determined not just to employ European mercenaries, but to appoint a European officer to recruit and train a whole new brigade on the European model.

  By good fortune he found the ideal candidate. During the negotiations that ended the Anglo-Maratha war, he had approached a former East India Company employee and protégé of Warren Hastings who was destined to become the most successful of all the European adventurers in India. Benoit de Boigne, a native of Savoy, of ‘fine physique, bold spirit and tireless perseverance’,2 had arrived in India, aged twenty-seven, in 1788. His previous military experience had included a spell in the Irish Brigade of the French army, another in the Russian army of Catherine the Great and several months as a prisoner of the Turks. On his release he had made his way to Madras equipped with an introduction to a major in the East India Company’s army. A commission had quickly followed, and de Boigne had spent two years as a junior officer before resigning, ostensibly on the grounds that he thought his nationality would prevent him ever rising to high rank.

  In fact, word of his attainments and character had reached Governor General Warren Hastings, who after meeting him in Calcutta appointed him to his personal staff. On Hastings’ instructions, de Boigne had formed part of Major Browne’s protracted and ultimately inconclusive embassy to the court of Shah Alam in 1783, since when he had been in Agra and Fatehpur Sikri observing the activities of the Marathas, reporting back to Hastings and awaiting further orders.

  Hastings being on the point of returning to England prior to his interminable impeachment, he encouraged de Boigne to accept Mahadji Scindia’s offer of employment. Despite the Treaty of Salbai committing the Marathas and the British to friendship, each remained deeply suspicious of the other. Hastings recognized the value of having an ally in the Maratha camp and de Boigne was therefore free to agree to Scindia’s terms. But a proviso was added: he was to build Scindia a brigade ‘as nearly as possible on the plan of those in the English service, and armed, disciplined and clothed after that manner,’3 but he was never to be called upon to fight against the British, with whom he had always had excellent relations. The deal was quickly done, and the admirable de Boigne set about his task with the energy and diligence for which he would become famous.

  He set up camp amidst the ruined glory of Agra and started recruiting. So many Indian sepoys applied to join his new model brigade that he had the luxury of picking only the best. European officers who could live up to his exacting standards were harder to find. Among those he eventually engaged were the Dutch-born John Hessing (he whose Taj-like monument overshadows Reinhardt’s tomb in Agra’s Christian cemetery) and George Sangster, a Scotsman who had commanded a mercenary battalion under René Madec and was ‘so skilled in casting cannon and making muskets that they were said to be equal to any produced by British ordnance factories’.4 While Sangster established a foundry and started turning out guns, de Boigne drilled the sepoys, trained them in the use of artillery and fitted them out with specially designed uniforms. After only five months he reported to Mahadji Scindia that the brigade was fit for service.

  Researching these developments for a classic work on the Indian freelances, the habitually meticulous H.G. Keene would express regret that ‘such is the confused manner in which these events are related by my authorities – some leaving out one part, and some another, while the dates shine few and far, like stars in a stormy night – that the relative position of events is sometimes left entirely open to conjecture’.5 De Boigne’s arrival in the service of Mahadji Scindia can be dated quite precisely to 1784, and the deployment of his new army to somewhat later in that year. But the same cannot be said of the Sardhana Brigade’s acquisition of the man who would rival de Boigne as ‘the most charismatic European military adventurer ever to brandish his sword in the service of an Indian ruler’. In all probability the two events almost coincided, though since George Thomas had yet to make his mark, the timing of his arrival passed unnoticed by any but the brigade itself and its not disinterested commander.

  Certain it is though that in January 1785 Mahadji Scindia and Benoit de Boigne rode into Delhi at the head of what Scindia was now calling his ‘Army of Hindustan’. They h
ad come in response to the emperor’s overtures. Scindia was accordingly received by Shah Alam ‘with every demonstration of satisfaction, and was treated with distinguished honour’. In exchange for assurances of protection for the emperor and his family against what one writer calls the ‘kites and carnivores that clustered round the festering carcass of the Mughal Empire’,6 plus a monthly stipend of 65,000 rupees for his personal and household expenses, Shah Alam offered Mahadji Scindia the office, previously held by Mirza Najaf, of Amir-ul-Umara, or commander-in-chief.

  As unctuously self-effacing as ever, Scindia declined the offer. Instead, he insisted that an even grander title, that of Vakil-ul-Mutluq (‘Plenipotentiary Vice-regent of the Empire’) be conferred on his nominal overlord, the twelve-year-old who was now Peshwa of Pune. The helpless child Peshwa was thus elevated to the highest office in Mughal India with Mahadji Scindia as his self-appointed deputy – in effect as regent for the vice regent of the empire. Scindia now held, in Francklin’s words, ‘the executive power in Hindoostan and a rank which, if he ever should be able and desirous of asserting it, would supersede that of all other ministers in the court of the Peshwa. The emperor also conferred on him the command of his army, and gave up the provinces of Delhi and Agra to his management.’7