Читать книгу The Magnificent Montez: From Courtesan to Convert - Horace Wyndham - Страница 15

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Those were not the days of ocean greyhounds, covering the distance between England and India in a couple of weeks. Nor was there then any Suez Canal route to shorten the long miles that had to be traversed. Thus, when Lola and her spouse embarked from England in an East Indiaman, the voyage took nearly five months to accomplish, with calls at Madeira, St. Helena, and the Cape, before the welcome cry, "Land Ahead!" was heard and anchor was dropped at Calcutta.

Lola's first acquaintance with India's coral strand had been made as a child of five. Now she was returning as a married woman. Yet she was scarcely eighteen. She did not stop in Calcutta long, for her husband's regiment was in the Punjaub, and a peremptory message from the brigadier required him to rejoin as soon as possible. It was at Kurnaul (as it was then spelled) that Lola began her experience of garrison life. Among the other officers she met there was a young subaltern of the Bengal Artillery, who, in the years to come, was to make a name for himself as "Lawrence of Lucknow."

The year 1838 was, for both the Company's troops and the Queen's Army, an eventful one where India was concerned. During the spring Lord Auckland, the newly-appointed Governor-General, hatched the foolish and ill-conceived policy which led to the first Afghan war. His idea (so far as he had one) was, with the help of Brown Bess and British bayonets, to replace Dost Muhammed, who had sat on the throne there for twenty years without giving any real trouble, by an incompetent upstart of his own nomination, Shah Shuja.

Lieutenant James's regiment, the 21st Bengal Native Infantry, was among those selected to join the expeditionary force appointed to "uphold the prestige of the British Raj"; and, as was the custom at that time, Lola, mounted on an elephant (which she shared with the colonel's better half), and followed by a train of baggage camels and a pack of foxhounds complete, accompanied her husband to the frontier. The other ladies included Mrs. McNaghten and Mrs. Robert Sale and the Governor-General's two daughters. It is just possible that Macaulay had a glimpse of Lola, for a contemporary letter says that "he turned out to wish the party farewell."

The "Army of the Indus" was given a good send off by a loyal native prince, Ranjeet Singh (the "Lion of the Punjaub"), who, on their march up country, entertained the column in a rest-camp at Lahore with "showy pageants and gay doings," among which were nautch dances, cock-fights, and theatricals. He meant well, no doubt, but he contrived to upset a chaplain, who declared himself shocked that a "bevy of dancing prostitutes should appear in the presence of the ladies of the family of a British Governor-General." Judging from a luscious account that Lola gives of a big durbar, to which all the officers and their wives were bidden, these strictures were not unjustifiable. Thus, after Lord Auckland ("in sky blue inexpressibles") and his host had delivered patriotic speeches (with florid allusions to the "British Raj," the "Sahib Log," and the "Great White Queen," and all the rest of it) gifts were distributed among the assembled company. Some of these were of an embarrassing description, since they took the form of "beautiful Circassian slave maidens, covered with very little beyond precious gems." To the obvious annoyance, however, of a number of prospective recipients, "the Rajah was officially informed that English custom and military regulations alike did not permit Her Majesty's warriors to accept such tokens of goodwill."

But, if they could not receive them, the guests had to make presents in turn, and Ranjeet Singh for his part had no qualms about accepting them. With true Oriental politeness, and "without moving a muscle," he registered rapture at a "miscellaneous collection of imitation gold and silver trinkets and rusty old pistols offered him on behalf of the Honourable East India Company."

A correspondent of the Calcutta Englishman was much impressed. "The particular gift," he says, "before which the Maharajah bent with the devotion of a preux chevalier was a full-length portrait of our gracious little Queen, from the brush of the Hon. Miss Eden herself."

In a letter from Lord Auckland's military secretary, the Hon. William Osborne, there is an account of these doings at Lahore:

Ranjeet has entertained us all most handsomely. No one in the camp is allowed to purchase a single thing; and a list is sent round twice a week in which you put down just what you require, and it is furnished at his expense. It costs him 25,000 rupees a day. Nothing could exceed his liberality and friendship during the whole of the Governor-General's visit.

A second durbar, held at Simla, was accompanied by much florid imagery, all of which had to be interpreted for the benefit of Lord Auckland. "It took a quarter of an hour," says his sister, "to satisfy him about the Maharajah's health, and to ascertain that the roses had bloomed in the garden of friendship, and the nightingales had sung in the bowers of affection sweeter than ever since the two Powers had approached each other."

The Afghan campaign, as ill conceived as it was ill carried out, followed its appointed course. That is to say, it was punctuated by "regrettable incidents" and quarrels among the generals (two of whom, Sir Henry Fane and Sir John Keane, were not on speaking terms); and, with the Afghans living to fight another day, a "success for British arms" was announced. Thereupon, the column returned to India, bands playing, elephants trumpeting a salute, and guns thundering a welcome. "The war," declared His Excellency (who had received an earldom) in an official despatch, "is all over." Unfortunately, however, it was all over Afghanistan, with the result that there had to be another campaign in the following year. This time, not even Lord Auckland's imagination could call it "successful."

"There will be a great deal of prize money," was the complacent fashion in which Miss Eden summed up the situation. "Another man has been put on the Khelat throne, so that business is finished." But it was not finished. It was only just beginning. "Within six months," says Edward Thompson, "Khelat was recaptured by a son of the slain Khan, Lord Auckland's puppet ejected, and the English commander of the garrison murdered."

Although the expedition that followed was the subject of a highly eulogistic despatch from the Commander-in-Chief and the big-wigs at headquarters, a number of "regrettable incidents" were officially admitted. As a result, a regiment of Light Cavalry was disbanded, "as a punishment for poltroonery in the hour of trial and the dastards struck off the Army List."

Later on, when Lord Ellenborough was Governor-General, a bombastic memorandum, addressed "To all the Princes and Chiefs and People of India," was issued by him:

"Our victorious army bears the gates of the Temple of Somnauth in triumph from Afghanistan, and the despoiled tomb of Sultan Mahmood looks down upon the ruins of Ghuznee. The insult of 800 years is at last avenged!

"To you I shall commit this glorious trophy of successful war. You will yourselves with all honour transmit the gates of sandalwood to the restored Temple of Somnauth.

"May that good Providence, which has hitherto so manifestly protected me, still extend to me its favour, that I may so use the power entrusted to my hands to advance your prosperity and happiness by placing the union of our two countries upon foundations that may render it eternal."

There was a good deal more in a similar style, for his lordship loved composing florid despatches. But this one had a bad reception when it was sent home to England. "At this puerile piece of business," says the plain spoken Stocqueler, "the commonsense of the British community at large revolted. The ministers of religion protested against it as a most unpardonable homage to an idolatrous temple. Ridiculed by the Press of India and England, and laughed at by the members of his own party in Parliament, Lord Ellenborough halted the gates at Agra, and postponed the completion of the monstrous folly he had more than begun to perpetrate."

Severe as was this criticism, it was not unmerited. Ellenborough's theatrical bombast, like that of Napoleon at the Pyramids, recoiled upon him, bringing a hornets' nest about his own ears and leading to his recall. As a matter of fact, too, the gates which he held in such reverence were found to be replicas of the pair that the Sultan Mahmood had pilfered from Somnauth; and were not of sandalwood at all, but of common deal.