It was not even yet an exact word, but a curse and a warning: This is the night. The word ran across the plains, leaped wide rivers, and raced through the jungles as a fire races under dry leaves. A woman tapped on a city wall and whispered it to her neighbor. One man cried it to another as their bullock carts passed in the fields. It set out at sunset from every place where sepoys were stationed; it traveled in every direction; and before the morning of Sunday, May 10, 1857, it had crossed and recrossed itself many times. People hurried home when they heard it, or bolted their doors, and waited. They did not know who was threatened this night, but it might be they. Some prayed; some shrugged; few went abroad.
“Remember Mangal Pande! Mangal Pande! This is the night of the raw flesh…Kill! The guns are coming. Kill them all! Kill or be hanged! Remember!”
A hundred years hence the inscriptions must be there to read on the memorials: Here English children were burned alive in theirs cots, and English women cut in pieces by these brown animals you see around you. DO NOT FORGET.
After have listened to the BBC dramatization based on this book, I decided I MUST read its printed version.
And not to forget Zemindar by Valerie Fitzgerald.