Amritsar 1919 Read online

  Occurring just fifteen years after the ‘Mutiny’, the British response to the Kuka Outbreak was very much shaped by the memory of 1857. Faced with what he perceived to be ‘an open rebellion’, Cowan had simply followed the example provided by the ‘Mutiny’ – and the link between the two events was further established by his description of the Kukas as ‘rebels’ and through the manner in which he punished them.26 In fact, Forsyth claimed that Cowan’s chosen mode of execution was ‘a proceeding warranted by former precedents when large numbers of rebels were thus disposed of in 1857’.27 Although the leader of the Kukas, Ram Singh, had originally warned the authorities about the impending attack on Malerkotla, and had not himself been involved, he was considered to have played ‘a deep game’ and thus ultimately was held responsible for the actions of his followers.28 Having committed himself so thoroughly to Cowan’s cause, Forsyth in particular was at pains to present a dire image of the threat posed by the Kukas, whose behaviour throughout Punjab he deemed ‘a sufficient indication that there is some intention of a general rising, and the slightest failure on the part of the authorities to deal promptly with the marauders now caught would be a signal to concealed parties to rush forward’.29 These alarmist threat assessments were not merely the product of the fevered imagination of a few panicking colonial officials. Both the Punjab Government and the Government of India approved and even applauded the deportation of Ram Singh by relying on the outmoded legislation first introduced against so-called ‘Thugs’ decades earlier, namely Regulation III of 1818.30

  The official response to the outbreak, however, brought to light the tension existing between the Government of Punjab and the central Government of India. While Cowan enjoyed the tacit support of the Punjab Government, the Governor-General of India did not condone the circumstances surrounding the executions, and within a week of the incident Cowan was suspended pending further inquiries.31 The Lieutenant-Governor of Punjab, Sir Robert Henry Davies, insisted that the captured Kukas were no ordinary criminals but had forfeited their lives due to the nature of their crimes – ‘originating in a carefully stimulated religious fanaticism, they had a political object, every step in the attainment of which threatened the most serious disturbance of the existing order of things’.32 Davies’s interjection on Cowan’s behalf thus invoked the central tenets of the Punjab system, which favoured personal discretion over technical legalism.33 True to the spirit of his predecessors during the ‘Mutiny’, the Lieutenant-Governor even defended Cowan’s choice of execution: ‘Blowing from a gun is an impressive and merciful manner of execution, well calculated to strike terror into the bystanders.’34 The Government decision on the case, however, constituted a direct rebuttal of the proponents of the Punjab system.35 Despite the difficult situation in which Cowan found himself, the manner of the execution, ‘its excessive and indiscriminate severity’, was deemed to be entirely unjustified.36 Worst of all, however, was the fact that, by the time the executions took place, there were no longer any immediate threats: ‘It is in short obvious,’ the Governor-General stated, ‘that his motive in ordering the executions was to prevent a rising which he considered imminent, by an act calculated to strike terror into the whole Kuka sect.’37 As a result, Cowan was permanently suspended from his position, while Forsyth was transferred to another province where he would have no authority in matters relating to native states.38

  The nightmare scenario of an imminent rising presented by Cowan and Forsyth nevertheless found a receptive audience among the British in India, and the Anglo-Indian paper Pioneer was thoroughly scathing in its critique of the Government’s stance, which was mockingly satirised:

  The truth is we want omelettes without the breaking of eggs. We like vigour up to a certain point; but if you get us into a scrape we must throw you over, indeed we shall be obliged to throw the first stone. So, in all emergencies, keep one eye fixed on that tender-hearted clique at home, which is always wanting a victim to worry about, unless you are willing to be that victim yourself.39

  Reminiscent of Rudyard Kipling’s caricature of the quintessential liberal politician in ‘The Enlightenments of Pagett, M.P.’, also published in Pioneer, this was an obvious attack on those in power who had no stomach for the grisly realities involved in running an empire, leaving the dirty work to men like Cowan only to disown them when it became politically expedient to do so.40 In his autobiography, published posthumously, Forsyth claimed that Davies had refused to give him any instructions on how to deal with the Kukas and that his final words before leaving for Malerkotla had been: ‘I shall act on my own judgement, and you must support me.’41 With so much emphasis on discretionary power, officers brought up within the Punjab system expected the Government to back them up – as Cooper had also expressed it in 1857: ‘no officer in the Punjab can do his duty without instant and warm recognition’.42

  The belief that Cowan and Forsyth had indeed saved the lives of many of their compatriots was widely shared among Anglo-Indians and the ardently pro-colonial newspaper The Englishman stated that the two ‘deserve the best thanks and admiration of the English community in India’.43 Once Cowan’s dismissal became public knowledge, a subscription was organised by its readers, who reported ‘that subscriptions are being set on foot at all large stations in Upper India for Mr. L. Cowan, whose summary dismissal has evoked a feeling of universal indignation throughout all classes of the Anglo-Indian community . . .’44 Yet the affair affected more than just the Anglo-Indian community – touching upon the very nature and prestige of the British Empire, it was widely debated throughout the imperial metropole, including the House of Commons.

  Initially opinions were divided, but as more details of the events reached England, attitudes changed and the initial expressions of anxiety concerning the threat posed by the Kukas were increasingly replaced by incredulity.45 The fact remained that no British lives had been lost and to many observers the fears of rebellion seemed misplaced and the executions blatantly excessive:

  We are very fond of dilating on the way in which ‘inferior’ races allow themselves to be worked up to a high pitch of excitement by a dominant idea. But experience seems to show that fanaticism of the most excitable of communities is calmness itself when compared with the uncontrollable outbursts of panic-stricken ferocity to which some British officials, living in the midst of an alien population, are subject [. . .] Every local squabble is magnified into a wide-spread rebellion; and the most barbaric severities are resorted to, not as the just reward of offences actually committed, but in order to avert disturbances which the ‘prophetic soul’ of the custodian of British honour discerns in the future.46

  Morally defensible or not, the suppression of the Kuka outbreak reinforced the lessons of the ‘Mutiny’, and the perceived need for ‘prompt and stern’ punishment became an ‘essential ingredient’ of colonial governance in the lore of the Raj. In Rudyard Kipling’s short story ‘On the City Wall’, the sahib narrator asks an Indian acquaintance about a mysterious prisoner named Khem Singh in the fort at Lahore:

  ’What is it?’ I asked. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A consistent man,’ said Wali Dad. ‘He fought you in ’46, when he was a warrior-youth; refought you in ’57 and he tried to fight you in ’71, but you had learned the trick of blowing men from guns too well . . .’47

  Written in 1888, the story takes place some fifteen years after the old seditious Sikh Khem Singh had been deported following the Kuka outbreak. Allowed to return to the Punjab from his exile in Burma, Singh’s appetite for sedition soon awakens and the narrator unknowingly aides the old man escaping from his confinement:

  He fled to those who knew him in the old days, but many of them were dead, and more were changed, and all knew something of the Wrath of the Government. He went to the young men, but the glamour of his name had passed away, and they were entering native regiments or Government offices, and Khem Singh could give them neither pension, decorations, nor influence – nothing but a glorious d
eath with their backs to the mouth of a gun.48

  In Kipling’s story, the British use of exemplary punishment had served its purpose well and the spirit of rebellion was permanently subdued; the exertions of the old firebrand to stir up trouble anew no longer held any attraction for the local population. The story is characterised by a sense of paternalist complacency – even though the sahib is tricked into helping the old enemy of the state to escape, the threat of native revolt has long since been rendered harmless. Outside the quaint world of Anglo-Indian fiction, however, the final decades of the nineteenth century witnessed the gradual development of Indian nationalism, which erupted into a forcefully anti-colonial movement after the ill-conceived partition of Bengal in 1905. Kipling’s belief in the efficacy of colonial violence was thus entirely misplaced and, while the mass executions of 1857 and 1872 did leave an indelible memory, it was among the Anglo-Indians and colonial officials rather than the Indian population.

  In 1907, the fiftieth anniversary of 1857, the fears of another ‘Mutiny’ resurfaced yet again with renewed force and sent tremors through the colonial administration.49 In India, the British commemoration was thus marred by concerns over the recent radicalisation of Indian politics, particularly in Punjab, where anti-colonial protests assumed an even more menacing character. What began as a protest by aggrieved farmers over a new bill affecting the status of landownership in the so-called Canal Colonies soon spread to the bigger cities of the province. Coinciding with crop failure and a substantial increase in water rates, this local unrest quickly grew into a mass movement, and, under the leadership of two local activists, Lajpat Rai and Ajit Singh, the agitation eventually assumed a distinctly anti-colonial character.50 Local newspapers called for hartals, or strikes, and, as the protests gained momentum, attempts were made to draw in the Sikh troops in British service.51 One pamphlet that was circulating reminded the sepoys that the British had only defeated the rebels in 1857 because Punjabi troops had remained loyal and turned their weapons against their countrymen – now they had the chance to redeem themselves.52 It is far from clear that the agitators had much success with their propaganda, but the very nature of these rumours was enough to alarm the authorities.53

  In the weeks leading up to the anniversary of the outbreak of the ‘Mutiny’, on 10 May 1907, the situation reached a breaking point; riots broke out in Amritsar, Lahore and Rawalpindi, and the army was called in to quell the disturbances. According to one Reuters telegram: ‘The political unrest is hourly assuming graver proportions. Bands of stalwart rustics, armed with bludgeons, who have been enlisted by the leaders of the sedition, are crowding into the native city, and troops of all arms and bodies of police, mounted and dismounted are being drafted into the City of Lahore from all parts of the province.’54 Political meetings were banned, and when protesters sought to enter the European Lines, or neighbourhood, of Lahore, they were driven back by the police and Anglo-Indian civilians who had armed themselves.55 At one point, the British magistrate threatened to order the police to fire into the crowd with buckshot unless a prohibited meeting convened by Lajpat Rai was called off.56 At Amritsar, the Anglo-Indians gathered at the European Club to make preparations to defend themselves and their families from what they thought was the inevitable onslaught of Indian rioters. One British officer later recalled the panic at Amritsar:

  A story went round of drums beaten in the dead of night, of shadowy figures stealing along the darkened roads armed with sticks. On inquiry they were found to have been a party of guests returning home from a native wedding in the city. Yet I can hardly blame the scaremongers: after all, they and their wives and families would have to go on living in the place; whereas my wife had preceded me to England and I myself was due for furlough.57

  The impact of events in Punjab resonated throughout the subcontinent, and, as a general sense of panic gradually spread, it seemed as if history was repeating itself with uncanny precision. All the portents of the 1857 Uprising were present: astrological predictions, secret signs and rumours, foreign agents and religious fanatics preaching sedition, and attempts to tamper with the native troops. Amid wild reports of secret revolutionary activities, the Viceroy of India, Lord Minto, noted how things were getting out of hand: ‘The information I get from Calcutta points to a nervous hysterical Anglo-Indian feeling there which I can only call very unpalatable, the beginning of much of the same feeling which is not pleasant to read of in Lord Canning’s time during the Mutiny.’58 Thousands of firearms were said to have been secretly shipped to India, some on board German steamers, some in consignments of sewing machines, while bombs were allegedly smuggled into the country in cans of condensed milk.59 Foreign agents were reported to be circulating throughout the country, and there were rumours of a planned uprising, during which all Europeans would be murdered by their Indian servants. Even the Viceroy seemed worried about the situation and suggested that ‘perhaps after all the gossip which reaches one indicates more truly the dangers of the electricity that is in the air than the best information on reliable authority. It means a good deal when one hears of Europeans arming everywhere: of British soldiers sleeping with rifles by their sides, and of the unauthorised issue by Commanding Officers of Army rifles and ammunition to civilians wherewith to defend themselves.’60 Relaying the same worries to his wife, he added: ‘The recollections of the Mutiny have shed a great influence over both Europeans and Natives . . .’61

  With an outbreak seemingly imminent, the Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab, Denzil Ibbetson, sounded the alarm.62 He reported to the Viceroy that a great conspiracy was unfolding in Punjab with the aim of overthrowing the British Government; central to this plot was the mutiny of Indian troops. The trouble in the region was not caused by any real grievances, Ibbetson claimed, but was the work of radical extremists operating through secret societies. The riots and tampering with the troops were in fact directed by a ‘secret committee’ of the reformist Hindu organisation Arya Samaj. The devious mastermind behind the conspiracy was allegedly Lajpat Rai, who ‘keeps himself in the background, but the Lieutenant-Governor has been assured by nearly every Native gentleman who has spoken to him on the subject that he is the organizer-in-chief. His most prominent agent in disseminating sedition is Ajit Singh, formerly a schoolmaster, employed last year by the supposed Russian spy Lassef.’63 Ajit Singh was furthermore reported to have been in contact with the Amir of Afghanistan, and a more sinister conspiracy with even greater ramifications was accordingly conceivable.64 The more alarmist intelligence reports thus seemed to suggest the existence of an Afghan–Russian–Punjabi alliance behind the unrest of May 1907.65 Minto could not ignore the signals emanating from Punjab and gave in to Ibbetson’s calls for extraordinary measures to be imposed. By the application of the Regulation III of 1818, the same used in 1872, both Lajpat Rai and Ajit Singh were arrested and deported to Burma without trial.

  The unrest in Punjab eventually subsided – though not because the agitators and alleged ringleaders were deported, but rather because the bill, which had been the cause of protests in the first place, was withdrawn.66 As it turned out there was no conspiracy: no Russian or Afghan intrigues, no sepoys mutinied, and the two deported agitators, rather than being co-conspirators, turned out to be political rivals. The anniversary year thus passed without any serious incidents and, apart from the riots, the worst that happened to the European community in Punjab was two recorded instances of verbal insults.

  In the press, however, both in India and in Britain, the fifty years separating 1857 and 1907 seemed to evaporate, as the symbolism of the two dates merged. Under the alarmist heading ‘Aroused India Faces Mutiny and Invasion’, the New York Times painted a bleak picture of the extent of British authority and control in India: ‘The Government, both as represented at Calcutta and in the Indian Office, is wide awake to the dangers of the situation, but probably no better informed as to the secret aspirations of the millions it rules than it was at the time of the Indian Mutiny.’67 In
other words, the situation remained the same: the British administration was as ignorant and out of touch with its native subjects as it had been during the early days of the Raj. Even Lord Kitchener, commanding the British Indian Army, was gripped by the same feeling of suspicion when describing the situation among the native troops: ‘My officers tell me it is all right, but they said the same thing in the Mutiny days till they were shot by their own men.’68 If colonial rule had been complacent before 1857, it verged on paranoia thereafter.

  It should be obvious that the blueprint provided by the ‘Mutiny’ was entirely inappropriate to navigate India at the beginning of the twentieth century. In the half century or so following 1857, India had undergone a fundamental transformation and seen the emergence of the first major anti-colonial movement.69 The first liberal reforms, however limited, were introduced in 1911, while in Britain itself attitudes to the Empire were not uniformly jingoistic.70 The challenge to British rule in India had thus changed dramatically since the days of the ‘Mutiny’; the manner in which the British interpreted and responded to perceived threats, however, had not. The spectre of 1857 turned riots into rebellion and nationalist agitation into anti-British conspiracies, where local unrest could easily assume the proportion of major political crises. This was not merely evident in Government correspondence or sensationalist newspaper reporting – it was part of the British colonial mindset.71