The Royal Rebel Page 3

  Catherine sighed.

  “Everyone has been given huge respect apart from us,” she said.

  “This is why Father was so angry,” I told them. “This is what he lost.”

  One thing was clear after Delhi. We simply did not matter to the British.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” said Bamba. “It’s time to leave.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Really, we had come to India to visit Punjab. The land of Father’s birth. We left for Lahore in the north, feeling hurt by how we were treated in Delhi. Lahore was at the centre of our grandfather’s mighty empire. If I belonged anywhere, it was there. I was excited to see it.

  On the train from Delhi, everyone we spoke to talked about our grandfather.

  “A true hero, Miss,” said a man selling tea.

  “If your grandfather were alive now,” said a woman, “India would be free of the British!”

  Everyone we met was against the British. They first took control through the East India Company in 1757, and in 1858 the British Crown took over the entire country. Now, the people we met were sad or angry. A couple of them spoke of rebellions to remove the British once and for all. By the time we arrived in Lahore, Bamba was fired up with anti-British talk.

  “I hope to meet some real rebels,” Bamba told us. “I want to stay and fight for a free India.”

  I wanted India to be free too. However, I remembered that Arthur Oliphant had told us we should keep our true feelings to ourselves. We were on a packed platform in Lahore, but Bamba did not care who heard her.

  She also failed to notice the appalling poverty that surrounded us. Men, women and children sat in every corner, barely clothed, holding up their dirt-crusted hands. They begged for food and water, and money too. Some were clearly ill. One or two seemed close to death. I had always imagined India as a country full of riches and splendour. The poverty I saw in Lahore made me think again.

  “It’s terrible,” I said to Catherine. “Far worse than the poverty in London.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “How awful.”

  “Do you think someone will be here to meet us?” asked Bamba.

  As in Delhi, we were ignored once again. As royals, we should have been treated as such – shown to our lodgings and given guidance. We had none. Instead, a local called Gurcharan Singh took us under his wing and gave us a place to stay.

  “I am a distant relative of your father’s,” Gurcharan explained on our first evening together. “And your grandfather, the Lion of the Punjab …”

  “I know a little about him,” I replied. “He died so long ago, yet everyone here knows my grandfather and speaks so highly of him.”

  Gurcharan smiled. Bamba had gone to bed, but Catherine and I were eager to hear more, even though we knew the story from Father.

  “Maharajah Ranjit Singh was the greatest warrior in all of India,” Gurcharan told us. “He created and ruled the mighty Sikh empire, here in Punjab. He was wise and brave, and fair to all people, no matter what their religion or caste.”

  “Our grandfather fought the British and won,” Catherine added. “He must have been remarkable.”

  “Indeed,” said Gurcharan. “He was a great man. Sadly, when he died, the kingdom was torn apart.”

  “Our father was only a boy then, of course,” said my sister.

  Gurcharan nodded. “Duleep Singh was only five, and betrayed by so many,” he told us. “The British stole his kingdom, and stole him away from us. Your grandmother was thrown into prison. Many of the Sikh commanders turned away from your father. It was a shameful time …”

  “Our father never forgot what happened,” I said. “He was haunted by the memories, I think.”

  “I am not surprised,” said Gurcharan. “He saw many wicked things. It must have destroyed him.”

  “He was a very troubled man,” said Catherine.

  “Do not worry,” Gurcharan said. “We understand that his problems were caused by the British. His drinking and gambling. We do not think badly of your father here in Punjab. He was one of us.”

  The next day, we met some of Gurcharan’s family. As I entered the first house, a woman far older than me fell to my feet and touched them. I was shocked. She spoke in Punjabi, and I did not understand her.

  “It is a sign of respect for your family,” Gurcharan told me.

  I helped the woman to her knees and saw that she was crying.

  “Rab rakha,” she said over and over again.

  When Gurcharan saw my confusion, he translated her words.

  “She is blessing you,” he said. “May God keep you safe.”

  Later that evening, a frail old man came to visit – one of Gurcharan’s elderly uncles. When the old man saw me, he wailed and held his face. Then he too fell to his knees. I hurried to help him up, but he would not rise.

  “Rab rakha. Rab rakha,” he said over and over again, sobbing.

  This happened several times during our stay in Lahore, and it never got any easier for me. I felt unworthy of their blessings. I was caught between my English upbringing and my Sikh heritage. I was not my grandfather, or my father. I had done nothing to deserve the praise of others.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lahore was magnificent. We spent our days discovering its vast pleasures and meeting many more people. Much of the city was still Indian, with mosques and temples and palm trees lining the streets. We were resting in a park one day, not far from our host’s house, taking in the sunshine and watching the world go by. British people walked around in stiff, formal dress, whilst thousands of Punjabis filled the streets in their traditional outfits. It was messy and colourful, fragrant and whiffy, and all amazingly vibrant.

  “What a wonderful city,” said Bamba. “No wonder our grandfather made Lahore his capital.”

  “But it didn’t look like this back then,” I replied.

  Since our grandfather’s time, the British had built churches and clock towers, and buildings that reminded me of London. There was even a street called The Mall. It felt wrong. The clash between Victorian clock towers and the traditional Indian buildings was odd, but this didn’t stop me admiring the city. It was a wonderful place.

  “Yes,” said Bamba. “Grandfather would probably tear these Victorian buildings down.”

  “I don’t mind it,” said Catherine. “It gives the city a special feel, don’t you think?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Sort of Indian and not. Maybe that’s why it works. Lahore is like us. Not one thing or another …”

  My words summed up how I felt. I wasn’t British enough for the British. Not Indian enough to fully appreciate India – yet. I could imagine Lahore as my home. But for now, I was still caught in the middle, as if I belonged on a boat between the two places.

  One afternoon, I stood gazing at a newly built statue of my godmother, Queen Victoria. It sat in the heart of Lahore, made of gleaming brass and set under a dazzling white stone canopy. There were no statues of my father, and none I had seen of my grandfather. Yet Queen Victoria had pride of place in a country that was not her own. It made me sad and angry.

  “It is a strange monument, is it not?” I heard someone say about the statue. “Imposing, and almost mocking we Indians …”

  I turned to find a slim, well-dressed gentleman smiling at me.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Permit me to introduce myself, Princess,” the gentleman replied. “I am Umrao Singh Sher-gil. I am a friend of your host, Gurcharan Singh.”

  Umrao wore a dark British suit, complete with a pocket watch.

  “Very pleased to meet you,” I said as Catherine and Bamba approached us.

  “I would be honoured if you and your sisters would join me for supper this evening,” Umrao said. “With your host’s blessing, of course.”

  “We would be delighted,” I told him. “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Well,” Umrao said, “it’s not every day that the granddaughters of Punjab
’s greatest son visit us.”

  Umrao’s house sat in a walled compound, surrounded by beautiful gardens. The exterior was very much traditional Indian, yet inside the house I found books, art and trinkets from across the world. Umrao’s wife, Narinder, made us feel at home. Warm and kind, she fussed over us like Mother once had. It made my spirits soar.

  “Have you had enough tea?” Narinder asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said.

  The teapot and cups were bone china, as fine as any I had seen in England. The spoons and sugar pot were silver, and I was reminded of our wayward baboon at Elveden.

  “Are you sure, my dear?” she added. “You can treat my home as your own. Please don’t be shy.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” I said.

  Narinder smiled and fluffed up the cushions behind me.

  “There,” she said. “That will make you more comfortable.”

  We had a simple supper of dal and rice, then sat and listened to Umrao.

  “I hate the British,” said Bamba. “For all they have done to us.”

  “You must be cautious with your words,” he told us. “Especially when talking of the British.”

  “Why?” asked Bamba, who was always the most headstrong of us.

  “Because of spies,” Umrao said. “You must be careful who you trust. They might report you to the British.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Catherine.

  “It is,” said Umrao. “Another way for the British to keep their rule over us.”

  “Everyone we meet here dislikes British rule,” I told him. “So why does nothing change?”

  “It is happening slowly,” Umrao said. “But we cannot talk openly yet. The British arrest anyone they suspect. So we hide and meet in secret.”

  “We?” I replied.

  “Yes, my dear,” Umrao said. “I often host meetings for rebels. This house is safe.”

  “British rule is awful,” said Bamba. “The way ordinary Indians have to live is appalling.”

  “Well, your heritage must make you angry,” Umrao replied. “After the way your family has suffered and lost everything it once had.”

  Narinder came in with more tea and sat beside me.

  “You know, my family tried to rescue your grandmother,” said Narinder.

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes,” she told me. “Before the British took your father from us, they imprisoned your grandmother. She was a noble and proud woman, and the mother of our empire. My family hatched a plan to save her, but they failed.”

  “Father would talk of our grandmother often,” said Catherine. “She sounded honest and determined.”

  “She was,” said Narinder. “Imprisoning her was cruel and unforgivable.”

  “We seem cursed,” I said, thinking of my poor Eddie. “Our family, I mean.”

  “Yes,” said Umrao.

  “The British government are the curse,” I added after a pause. “They’ve caused every sorrow that has fallen upon our family.”

  My thinking changed for ever. I loved Britain and I loved the British people, but my respect for British rule had died.

  My sisters stayed in India, but I decided to return to London.

  “Why?” asked Bamba. “Stay here with us. I will never go back to England.”

  “I cannot stay,” I told her. “I can help with the fight for Indian independence better in London than I can here.”

  “We are going on a trip to Kashmir,” Catherine told me. “On horseback, staying in open-air tents. You’ll love it, Saff.”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe when I come back,” I told her. “But I need to do more with my life – make a difference. London is where I should be – I can talk to some of our friends, gain their support, perhaps …”

  Bamba snorted.

  “You mean go back to being British?” she snapped. “Living the life of an English aristocrat …?”

  “No,” I insisted. “I am done with that life. I want to be useful. To help people.”

  I had loved my time in Lahore, but I still felt lost – caught between India and Britain. Perhaps I really didn’t belong anywhere.

  I boarded the first ship I could and was soon heading back to England. I had finally understood just how much Father had lost – no, how much had been stolen from him by the British. After that, the idea of being part of the London social scene did not appeal to me.

  As the ship cruised towards England, I had made my decision. My grandfather had been the Lion of the Punjab – loved and respected for being kind and fair and decent. But fierce and fearless too. As his heir, I had a duty to help others. And I was determined to do just that …

  PART 3

  England

  1903–1928

  CHAPTER 10

  As soon as I arrived in London, I felt lost. Eddie had always needed me, and then Mother too. After their deaths, I had given my time to my sisters, but now they were living their own lives in Lahore. I saw my brothers now and then – they were also busy and contented.

  I was not. Mostly, I was stuck in my apartment at Faraday House, feeling lost and alone again. London’s social life bored me, and I stopped taking part in it. Instead, I read every new story I could about India and the moves for independence. My time in India had changed me. Britain no longer felt like a real home. It no longer felt comfortable and safe. I finally understood that I was an outsider – just a refugee like any other.

  Eventually, I decided to help the lascars. They were Indian sailors who’d been stranded in London and left to rot. Father had once supported them. He’d paid for them to have a house down by the River Thames. The docks were dirty and dangerous, and the men were stuck in London, most of them unable to return to their families. Many suffered from addictions to alcohol and opium. I understood their situation in some ways – their lack of somewhere to belong. They were refugees too, caught between two countries and two cultures.

  “We are forgotten men, my princess,” one of the sailors told me when I visited the docks. He was wretched – nothing but skin and bone, with the yellowing eyes of an opium addict. His shirt was ragged, and his trousers were too short.

  “How long have you been away from your family?” I asked.

  “Many, many years,” the sailor told me. “I have lost them. I am nothing now.”

  “What do you do for work?” I said.

  “Anything I can,” he said. “I load ships at the docks or run errands.”

  “The way you have been treated is an outrage,” I replied. “Something must be done.”

  I began raising money from my British friends, as most were very wealthy. Slowly but surely, they listened to me and donated what they could, but only for the lascars – not for the cause of Indian independence.

  “I just cannot, Sophia,” said one of my old friends. “I would be shunned if news got out that I’d donated money to Indian rebels.”

  But this lady did give me money for the lascars. Soon, I had collected enough to build a new house for the Indian sailors. It was on London’s Victoria Docks, and over the next five years, I devoted myself to their cause. My efforts for Indian independence didn’t amount to much, but at least I could help the lascars. I had purpose again, and their ill treatment made me passionate about their cause.

  Then I met Una Dugdale, one afternoon in 1908. I’d been taken to a social event, despite not wanting to attend. The Dugdale family were wealthy and well connected. I sat alone, drinking tea and hoping to go home. But when Una arrived to give a speech, I was mesmerised.

  “Dear ladies,” Una began, her accent refined and her voice serious. “Let me tell you of my work with the Women’s Society for Social and Political Union …”

  Una was dark haired, with a determined face. When she spoke, the room fell silent. I knew of the Suffragette movement, of course, and their fight to win women the right to vote. But Una’s words filled me with a new passion.

  “Last February, we marched throug
h London!” she declared. “Three thousand women, my friends. Three thousand!”

  Some cheered and others clapped. I sat perfectly still, too shy to speak and too absorbed in Una’s words.

  “We marched on Parliament soon afterwards, despite efforts to stop us,” Una went on. “Imagine police officers on horseback, wading into the crowds, sisters! Simply to stop us from gaining the right to vote!”

  The cheers and clapping grew louder.

  “Together we will end this oppression!” Una declared. “And women shall gain the vote. It is our right. But we need your support. We need you to stand beside us. As Emmeline Pankhurst quite rightly said, the time has come for deeds, not words!”

  Some of the women around me cheered even louder. They were all society ladies, rich and well educated. Una Dugdale had them enthralled.

  “Deeds, not words!” they chanted.

  My skin prickled with excitement. Once the event was over, I made my way to the WSPU table. Two women stood by it, wearing frilly white blouses and black skirts. Both wore a purple sash, one of three colours of the WSPU. The others were green and white. Several of the women attending wore enamel pin badges in all three colours.

  “I would like to join you,” I said.

  The women behind the table gasped.

  “Princess Sophia,” said one of them. “We would be honoured to have you with us.”

  I smiled and looked away, a little embarrassed. I did not feel like a princess any more. I didn’t care about the title … unless it helped our cause.

  “Here,” said another woman, showing me a form. “Please complete and sign this, Your Highness.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m just Sophia,” I said. “That is all.”

  CHAPTER 11

  My local WSPU branch was in Kingston upon Thames, a few miles from Faraday House. I threw myself into the movement without question. Our local leader was an Irish woman called Norah Dacre Fox. I warmed to her immediately. She was a true revolutionary and did not care what anyone thought of her. Many people misjudged Norah because she looked so sweet. Her features were angelic, but her heart was full of fire.