The Dawning Light
Episode XXIA: Blood at Shaykh Tabarsi
At Shaykh Tabarsi, the siege closed tighter, and the cost of steadfastness rose toward one of the darkest passages of the Babi struggle.
The Dawning Light
Episode XXIA: Blood at Shaykh Tabarsi
On the day they finished digging the well, Mullá Husayn looked at his companions and told them that before dawn they would bathe, cleanse themselves of every earthly defilement, and go out to seal their faith with their blood. Whoever was willing to partake of the cup of martyrdom should prepare himself and wait for the hour. That same afternoon he performed his ablutions, clothed himself in fresh garments, placed the Báb’s turban on his head, and walked among the companions with a joy on his face that none of them could explain. He spoke serenely of his departure. He sat at the feet of Quddús and poured out everything an enraptured soul could no longer hold back.
Soon after midnight, as the morning star rose, he started to his feet, mounted his horse, and gave the signal for the gate to be opened. Three hundred and thirteen companions rode out behind him. The cry of “Yá Sáhibu’z-Zamán!” broke from them, so intense that forest, fort, and camp shook with its echo.
He struck first at the barricade defended by Zakariyyay-i-Qádí-Kalá’í, one of the enemy’s most formidable officers. In a short time he had broken through it, killed its commander, and scattered his men. Then the second barricade. Then the third. Then every remaining barricade fell. Bullets rained on him constantly. He did not stop.
Then his horse tangled in the rope of a tent. He was exposed, lit up by the glare of the fires his charge had raised. Above him, hidden in the branches of a tree, Abbás-Qulí Khán-i-Laríjání had been watching from the darkness, following his movements. He fired. The bullet struck Mullá Husayn in the breast. Abbás-Qulí Khán did not even know who he had hit. Two young companions from Khurásán, Qulí and Hasan, carried his bleeding body back to the fort.
When Mullá Husayn was brought in, he appeared to have lost consciousness. Quddús ordered everyone to leave. “Leave me alone with him,” he said, and told Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir to close the door and admit no one. “There are certain confidential matters which I desire him alone to know.”
Moments later, from outside the closed door, the companions heard something they did not expect. They heard Mullá Husayn’s voice, replying to Quddús. For two hours they spoke.
Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir, watching through a fissure in the door, later told them what he saw. As soon as Quddús called his name, Mullá Husayn rose and seated himself in his customary way, on bended knees beside him. With bowed head and downcast eyes, he listened to every word Quddús spoke. Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir heard Quddús say: “You have hastened the hour of your departure and have abandoned me to the mercy of my foes. Please God, I will ere long join you and taste the sweetness of heaven’s ineffable delights.” And he heard Mullá Husayn answer: “May my life be a ransom for you. Are you well pleased with me?”
A long time passed before Quddús opened the door. “I have bade my last farewell to him,” he said. “Things which previously I deemed it unallowable to utter I have now shared with him.”
They found Mullá Husayn had died. A faint smile still lingered on his face. He looked as if he had fallen asleep.
Quddús clothed him in his own shirt. He laid a parting kiss on his eyes and forehead. “Well is it with you to have remained to your last hour faithful to the Covenant of God,” he said. “I pray God to grant that no division ever be caused between you and me.” He spoke with such force that the seven companions standing beside him wept and wished they had died in his place. With his own hands, Quddús laid the body in a tomb to the south of the shrine of Shaykh Tabarsí and ordered those present to keep the burial place secret, even from their fellow companions. Then he had the thirty-six who had fallen that night buried together in a single grave on the northern side. “Let the loved ones of God take heed of the example of these martyrs of our Faith,” he said. “Let them in life be and remain as united as these are now in death.”
Ninety more had been wounded that night. Most of them would not survive. From the first attack at Barfurúsh to this dawn, the number of martyrs had reached seventy-two. A hundred and sixteen days had passed since the siege began, and in those days, on four separate occasions, Mullá Husayn had risen to heights of courage that even his enemies confessed they could not comprehend.
He was thirty-six years old. He had met Siyyid Kázim in Karbilá at the age of eighteen. For nine years he had sat at his feet. The nine remaining years of his life were spent in a restless, feverish activity that carried him to the field of martyrdom.
His death should have ended the siege. It did not.
For forty-five days the enemy could not reassemble. The cold held them back. The shame held them back. Quddús distributed among the companions the rice that Mullá Husayn had stored, and then he told them plainly: “Whoever feels himself strong enough to withstand the calamities that are soon to befall us, let him remain with us in this fort. And whoever perceives in himself the least hesitation and fear, let him leave immediately, ere the enemy has assembled his forces and assailed us. The way will soon be barred before our face.”
That same night, a siyyid from Qum named Mírzá Husayn-i-Mutavallí wrote a letter to Abbás-Qulí Khán. He told him that Mullá Husayn was dead. He told him the defenders were worn with famine. He pledged that with no more than a hundred men, within two days, the fort could be taken. The letter was sealed and entrusted to Siyyid ‘Alíy-i-Zargar, who carried it out of the fort at midnight along with his share of the rice Quddús had given him.
The letter found Abbás-Qulí Khán four farsangs from the fort, hiding in a village, unsure whether to go home to Laríján and face the reproaches of his family or return to the capital after so humiliating a defeat. He had just risen from bed when the messenger arrived at sunrise. The news revived him. And then, fearing the messenger might spread the report of Mullá Husayn’s death, he killed him on the spot.
Ten days before Naw-Rúz, Abbás-Qulí Khán encamped half a farsang from the fort and hoisted his standard. He marched with two regiments of infantry and cavalry and opened fire on the sentinels.
Quddús told Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir what had happened. “The betrayer has announced the death of Mullá Husayn to Abbás-Qulí Khán. Emboldened by his removal, he is now determined to storm our stronghold. Sally out, and with eighteen men at your side, administer a befitting chastisement. Let him realise that though Mullá Husayn be no more, God’s invincible power still continues to sustain his companions.”
Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir selected his eighteen, the gate was flung open, and the cry of “Yá Sáhibu’z-Zamán!” split the air. The whole army fled. Abbás-Qulí Khán was so shaken he fell from his horse. He left one boot hanging from the stirrup and ran, half-shod and bewildered, toward Barfurúsh. Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir rode back through the gate holding the enemy’s abandoned standard and laid it before Quddús.
Their food was now the flesh of horses brought from the enemy camp. And still, as Naw-Rúz approached, the starving defenders raised their voices in praise. “Holy, holy, the Lord our God, the Lord of the angels and the spirit”, this chorus rose from the fort without ceasing, day and night.
All that remained of their cattle was a single cow that Haji Nasiru’d-Dín-i-Qazvíní had set aside. Each day he made a pudding from its milk for Quddús. Each day Quddús took a few spoonfuls and gave the rest to his companions. “I have ceased to enjoy, since the departure of Mullá Husayn, the meat and drink which they prepare for me,” he said. “My heart bleeds at the sight of my famished companions, worn and wasted around me.” Through it all he continued to dictate his commentary on the Sád of Samad, and each morning and evening Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir chanted from it before the assembled believers.
Mullá Mírzá Muhammad-i-Furúghí later testified: “God knows that we had ceased to hunger for food. We were so enraptured by the entrancing melody of those verses that, were we to have continued for years in that state, no trace of weariness could possibly have dimmed our enthusiasm. And whenever the lack of nourishment sapped our strength, Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir would hasten to Quddús. A glimpse of his face, the magic of his words as he walked amongst us, would transmute our despondency into golden joy.”
Then the bombardment returned. Prince Mihdí-Qulí Mírzá, reinforced now by Sulaymán Khán-i-Afshar, Abbás-Qulí Khán, Ja’far-Qulí Khán, and some forty officers, encamped around the fort with fresh trenches and barricades and opened fire.
While the cannons pounded, Quddús emerged from his room and walked to the center of the fort. His face was wreathed in smiles. A cannonball fell before him. He rolled it with his foot. “How utterly unaware are these boastful aggressors of the power of God’s avenging wrath,” he said. “Have they forgotten that a creature as insignificant as the gnat was capable of extinguishing the life of the all-powerful Nimrod? Seek they to intimidate the heroes of God, in whose sight the pomp of royalty is but an empty shadow, with such contemptible evidences of their cruelty?”
Then he turned to the companions. “You are those same companions of whom Muhammad, the Apostle of God, has thus spoken: ‘Oh, how I long to behold the countenance of my brethren; my brethren who will appear in the end of the world! Blessed are we, blessed are they; greater is their blessedness than ours.’ Each one of you has his appointed hour, and when that time is come, neither the assaults of your enemy nor the endeavours of your friends will be able either to retard or to advance that hour.”
A few whose faces betrayed fear were seen huddled in a sheltered corner of the fort, watching with envy and surprise the zeal that filled their companions.
The enemy fired for days. They were astonished to find that the booming of their guns did not silence the voices inside. Instead of surrender, they heard the call of the muezzin, the chanting of the Qur’án, and the chorus of hymns rising without pause.
Then Ja’far-Qulí Khán raised a tower, mounted a cannon on top of it, and directed his fire straight down into the heart of the fort. Quddús summoned Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir again. “Let him know,” he said, “that God’s lion-hearted warriors, when pressed and driven by hunger, are able to manifest deeds of such heroism as no ordinary mortals can show. Let him know that the greater their hunger, the more devastating shall be the effects of their exasperation.”
Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir took eighteen companions. The gates opened. The cry of “Yá Sáhibu’z-Zamán!”, fiercer and more thrilling than ever, scattered the ranks. Ja’far-Qulí Khán fell with thirty of his men. The tower was taken, the guns hurled to the ground, the barricades demolished. Only darkness stopped the advance. They returned unharmed, carrying the stoutest stallions the enemy had left behind.
An explosion in one of the enemy’s ammunition stores killed several officers and forced a full month’s pause. During that lull, companions emerged from the fort to gather grass from the fields, the only food left. They had already eaten the flesh of horses and the leather of their saddles. Now they boiled grass and devoured it. As their strength failed, Quddús multiplied his visits among them.
And still he spoke of purpose. “Never since our occupation of this fort have we under any circumstances attempted to direct any offensive against our opponents,” he told them. “Not until they unchained their attack upon us did we arise to defend our lives. Our sole, our unalterable purpose has been the vindication, by our deeds and by our readiness to shed our blood in the path of our Faith, of the exalted character of our mission. The hour is fast approaching when we shall be able to consummate this task.”
One more sortie. A fresh assault brought regiments storming the walls. Quddús sent Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir with thirty-six companions. The gates opened, the cry rang out, the enemy scattered again. Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir re-entered the fort carrying the banner the enemy had abandoned. Five of his companions had fallen. He buried them together near their brothers.
Then the prince, stunned, took counsel for three days. He concluded that the wisest course was to wait, to let starvation break what arms could not.
While he waited, a messenger arrived from Tihran bearing the royal farmán. This man, a resident of the village of Kand, obtained leave to approach the fort and call for one of its defenders, Mullá Mihdí-i-Kandí, someone he knew. The messenger later described what he saw. Mullá Mihdí appeared above the wall looking as fierce as a lion. He wore a long white shirt in the Arab manner, a sword girded over it, a white kerchief around his head. His face burned with resolve. “What is it that you seek?” he demanded. “Say it quickly, for I fear that my master will summon me and find me absent.”
The messenger tried to reach his heart. He reminded him of his infant son, Rahmán, whom he had left behind, the child he had loved so much he had composed a poem to sing as he rocked his cradle. “Your beloved Rahmán longs for you,” the messenger said. “He is alone and forsaken.”
The answer was instant. “Tell him from me that the love of the true Rahmán, a love that transcends all earthly affections, has so filled my heart that it has left no place for any other love besides His.”
The messenger wept. “Accursed be those who consider you as having strayed from the path of God,” he said. The prince had offered safe passage to any who would leave. Mullá Mihdí promised to relay the message, then added: “Is there anything further? I am impatient to join my master.”
“May God assist you in accomplishing your purpose.”
“He has indeed assisted me!” Mullá Mihdí cried. “How else could I have been delivered from the darkness of my prison-home in Kand? How could I have reached this exalted stronghold?” Then he turned and vanished from sight.
The prince’s offer emptied a few men from the fort. Rasúl-i-Bahnimírí and a small number, unable to bear the famine, took the pledge at face value and walked out. They were killed immediately on the orders of Abbás-Qulí Khán.
Then, on a Wednesday morning, an emissary arrived requesting two representatives for peace negotiations. Quddús sent Mullá Yúsúf-i-Ardibílí and Siyyid Ridá-i-Khurásání. The prince received them courteously and offered tea. They declined. “We should feel it an act of disloyalty to partake of either meat or drink whilst our beloved leader languishes worn and famished in the fort.”
The prince said the hostilities had been prolonged enough. He took a copy of the Qur’án, and on the margin of its opening Súrih, in his own hand, he wrote an oath. He swore by the holy Book, by the righteousness of God who revealed it, and by the mission of Muhammad who was inspired with its verses, that he cherished no purpose but peace. He pledged the protection of the Almighty, of Muhammad, and of the Sháh. He called down the malediction of God upon himself if his heart held any other desire. He affixed his seal.
Quddús received the Qur’án, kissed it reverently, and said: “O our Lord, decide between us and between our people with truth; for the best to decide art Thou.” Then he told his companions to prepare to leave. “By our response to their invitation, we shall enable them to demonstrate the sincerity of their intentions.”
He placed on his head the green turban the Báb had sent him, the companion to the one Mullá Husayn had worn on the night of his death. At the gate of the fort they mounted the horses provided by the prince. Quddús rode the prince’s own favourite steed. His chief companions, siyyids and learned divines, rode behind him. The rest marched on foot, carrying what was left of their arms and belongings. Two hundred and two in number, they made their way to the tent the prince had pitched near the public bath of the village of Dizva.
Once they had settled, Quddús gathered his companions. “You should show forth exemplary renunciation,” he told them, “for such behaviour will exalt our Cause and redound to its glory. Anything short of complete detachment will but serve to tarnish the purity of its name. Pray the Almighty to grant that even to your last hour He may graciously assist you to contribute your share to the exaltation of His Faith.”
That evening the prince sent dinner, poor and scanty food, divided into trays assigned to groups of thirty. Nine companions had been summoned to eat with Quddús. He refused to touch it. They refused to touch it. The attendants, delighted, ate the food themselves.
At daybreak, the prince summoned Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir. The prince repeated his assurances. He cited the case of Ja’far-Qulí Khán, who had massacred thousands of imperial soldiers during the Salar’s insurrection and still received a pardon and fresh honours from Muhammad Sháh. He laid out the plan: a bath in the morning, then horses to convey the entire company to disperse at Fírúz-Kúh. Then Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir returned to Quddús and told him plainly: “I am of opinion that what his tongue professes, his heart does not believe at all.”
Quddús agreed. He told the companions to scatter that night. He himself would go to Barfurúsh. They begged him not to separate from them. He answered calmly. “Weep not. The reunion which will follow this separation will be such as shall eternally endure. We have committed our Cause to the care of God; whatever be His will and pleasure, the same we joyously accept.”
The prince broke every oath.
Instead of joining Quddús, he summoned him to the headquarters of the Farrásh-Báshí and told him to wait. Then the prince’s attendants went to the remaining companions and told them that Quddús had given them permission to come to headquarters. Some believed the lie. They were taken captive. They were sold as slaves. These were the survivors, the remnant who would carry the story forward.
Then the attendants brought Mullá Yúsúf to a clearing and ordered him to tell the rest of the companions to disarm. They asked him what exactly he would say. His answer was blunt: “I will warn them that whatever be henceforth the nature of the message you choose to deliver to them on behalf of their leader, that message is naught but downright falsehood.”
They killed him on the spot.
Then they turned to the fort. They plundered it. They bombarded it. They demolished it. Then they surrounded the remaining companions and opened fire. Those who survived the bullets were cut down by swords and spears. In the very throes of death, those men were still heard repeating the words that had echoed through the fort for months: “Holy, holy, O Lord our God, Lord of the angels and the spirit.”
The prince ordered the captives brought before him. Men of recognised standing, the father of Badí’, Mullá Mírzá Muhammad-i-Furúghí, Haji Nasiru’d-Dín-i-Qazvíní, were sent to Tihran to be ransomed. The rest were handed to the executioners. Some were cut to pieces with swords. Some were torn apart. Some were bound to trees and riddled with bullets. Some were blown from the mouths of cannons. Some were burned.
Three companions from Sang-Sar were brought before the prince. One of them was Siyyid Ahmad, whose father had taken him to Karbilá to meet Siyyid Kázim, only to find that the siyyid had already died. In Najaf, the Prophet Muhammad had appeared to his father in a dream and bidden the Imám ‘Alí to announce that both his sons would attain the presence of the promised Qá’im and suffer martyrdom in His path. His father had shared his will and last wishes. He died seven days later.
Now Siyyid Ahmad stood before the prince and was asked why he had chosen this path. His answer was steady. “My faith in this Cause is born not of idle imitation. I have dispassionately enquired into its precepts and am convinced of its truth.” He told them that in Najaf he had asked the preeminent mujtahid of that city, Shaykh Muhammad-Hasan-i-Najafí, to explain certain principles of Islám, and the man had angrily refused. “How can I be expected to seek enlightenment from a divine, however illustrious, who refuses to answer my question on such simple matters and who expresses his indignation at my having asked?”
They asked what he believed about Mullá Husayn. “We believe him to have been the bearer of the standard of which Muhammad has spoken: ‘Should your eyes behold the Black Standards proceeding from Khurásán, hasten ye towards them, even though ye should have to crawl over the snow.’”
Then he made his request. “If you wish to bestow upon me a favour, bid your executioner put an end to me and enable me to be gathered to the company of my immortal companions. For the world and all its charms have ceased to allure me.”
The prince, reluctant to execute a siyyid, spared him. His two companions were killed at once. But Mírzá Muhammad-Taqí, arriving from Sarí with seven clerics, demanded that Siyyid Ahmad be handed over. On the road to Sarí, Siyyid Ahmad pleaded with his captors: “Why ill-treat a guest whom the prince has committed to your charge? Why ignore the Prophet’s injunction: ‘Honour thy guest though he be an infidel’?” Mírzá Muhammad-Taqí and his seven companions drew their swords and cut him to pieces. With his last breath, Siyyid Ahmad invoked the Sáhibu’z-Zamán.
On a Friday afternoon, the prince returned to Barfurúsh with Quddús. The Sa’ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ and the town’s clerics came out to welcome him. Bonfires blazed. Flags flew. Three days of celebration passed. The prince vacillated. He wanted to send Quddús to Tihran and be rid of the responsibility. He refused to let the mob have him.
The Sa’ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ would not accept it. Day and night he worked on the prince. He appealed to the crowds. He inflamed their passions. He vowed before them all: “I have vowed to deny myself both food and sleep until such time as I am able to end the life of Haji Muhammad-‘Alí with my own hands!” The whole of Barfurúsh was aroused. The threats of the agitated multitude succeeded.
The prince summoned the leading clerics. Quddús was brought before them. The prince rose and invited him to sit beside him and told the Sa’ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ to conduct his interrogation based on the Qur’án and the traditions of Muhammad.
The Sa’ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ attacked at once. “For what reason have you placed a green turban upon your head? You have no right to it. Whoso defies this sacred tradition is accursed of God.”
Quddús answered calmly. “Was Siyyid Murtadá, whom all the recognised clerics praise and esteem, a descendant of the Prophet through his father or his mother?” One of those present instantly admitted that the mother alone had been a siyyid. “Why, then, object to me,” Quddús replied, “since my mother was always recognised by the inhabitants of this town as a lineal descendant of the Imám Hasan? Was she not, because of her descent, honoured, nay venerated, by every one of you?”
No one dared contradict him. The Sa’ídu’l-‘Ulamá’ burst into rage. He flung his turban to the ground and rose to leave. “This man has succeeded in proving to you that he is a descendant of the Imám Hasan,” he thundered. “He will, ere long, justify his claim to be the mouthpiece of God and the revealer of His will!”
The prince stood. “I wash my hands of all responsibility for any harm that may befall this man. You are free to do what you like with him. You will yourselves be answerable to God on the Day of Judgment.” He called for his horse and rode out for Sarí. Quddús was left in the hands of those who had been waiting for this moment.
What was done to him exceeds what any pen can fully render. By the testimony of Bahá’u’lláh, this young man, still on the threshold of his life, endured tortures that surpassed even what Jesus had suffered in His hour of greatest agony.
He was stripped. He was chained. He was paraded barefoot and bareheaded through the streets of Barfurúsh. The turban the Báb had given him was befouled. The mob followed, cursing and spitting. Women came at him with knives and axes. His body was pierced and mutilated as he walked.
Through all of it, Quddús whispered forgiveness. “Forgive, O my God, the trespasses of this people,” he prayed. “Deal with them in Thy mercy, for they know not what we already have discovered and cherish. I have striven to show them the path that leads to their salvation; behold how they have risen to overwhelm and kill me. Show them, O God, the way of Truth, and turn their ignorance into faith.”
Then the Siyyid-i-Qumí appeared, the man who had betrayed the fort. He saw Quddús helpless. He struck him in the face. “You claimed that your voice was the voice of God,” he sneered. “If you speak the truth, burst your bonds asunder and free yourself from the hands of your enemies.”
Quddús looked steadfastly into his face. He sighed deeply. “May God requite you for your deed,” he said, “inasmuch as you have helped to add to the measure of my afflictions.”
As he neared the Sabzih-Maydán, he raised his voice one last time. “Would that my mother were with me, and could see with her own eyes the splendour of my nuptials!”
The crowd tore him apart. They threw the pieces into the fire they had built for that purpose. In the middle of the night, a devoted friend came and gathered what remained. He buried the fragments in a place not far from the scene of the martyrdom.
The Báb, confined in the castle of Chihríq, was unable to write or dictate for six months. The grief silenced the voice of revelation itself.
Quddús was twenty-seven years old. He had left Barfurúsh for Karbilá at eighteen. At twenty-two he met the Báb in Shíráz. He was among the first to suffer persecution on Persian soil for this Cause. Five years after recognising his Beloved, on the twenty-third day of Jamádiyu’th-Thání, 1265, he fell in the Sabzih-Maydán of the city where he had been born.
Bahá’u’lláh conferred on him a station second to none except that of the Báb Himself.
But the story does not end in namelessness. These were not anonymous dead. They had names. And those names were kept.
Quddús. Mullá Husayn, the first to recognise the Báb, thirty-six years old, whose very dust was declared by the Báb to bring joy to the disconsolate and healing to the sick. Mírzá Muhammad-Hasan, the brother of Mullá Husayn. Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir, his nephew, the one who had designed the fort, carried the standard, led every charge after Mullá Husayn fell, and watched through the crack in the door as two men said farewell. Qambar-‘Alí, Mullá Husayn’s faithful servant, who had followed him all the way to Máh-Kú and who died the same night his master died. Hasan and Qulí, who carried the bleeding body from the field. Siyyid Ridá, who brought back the sealed Qur’án that bore the prince’s false oath. Mírzá Muhammad-Taqíy-i-Juvayní, whose head, and Mírzá Muhammad-Báqir’s head beside it, was impaled on a spear and paraded through the streets of Barfurúsh while the crowd howled.
The enemy destroyed the fort. They burned the bodies. They scattered the companions. But the names survived. The names are the last fortification. Everything else could be torn down. The names could not.