The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I like a woman who knows her mind; the question was, where? and I couldn’t think of anywhere cosier than the room I’d been allotted at the back of Sale’s mansion – Indian servants have eyes in their buttocks, of course, but the walls were solid, not chick, and with dusk coming down we could slide in by the french windows unseen. Her good name had plainly died in the late ’20s, for she said it was a capital lark, and presently we were slipping through the bushes of Sale’s garden, keeping clear of the dinner guests’ jampand bearers, who were squatting by the front verandah. We paused for a lustful grapple among the deodars before mounting the steps to the side verandah – and dammit, there was a light in my room, and the sound of a bearer hawking and shuffling within. I stood nonplussed while my charmer (a Mrs Madison, I think) munched on my ear and tore at my buttons, and at that moment some interesting Oriental came round the corner of the house, expectorating hugely, and without thinking I whisked her through the door next to mine, closing it softly.

  It proved to be the billiard-room – dark, empty and smelling of clergymen, and since my little flirt now had my pants round my ankles and was trying to plumb my depths, I decided it would have to do. The diners would be beating their plates for hours yet, and Gough hadn’t the look of a pool-shark, somehow, but caution and delicacy forbade our galloping on the open floor, and since there were little curtains between the legs of the table …

  There ain’t as much deck clearance under a billiard table as you might suppose, but after a cramped and feverish partial disrobing we settled down to play fifty up. And Mrs Madison proved to be a most expert tease, tittering mischievously and spinning things out, so that we must have been everywhere from beneath the baulk to the top cushion and back before I had her trapped by the middle pockets and was able to give of my best. And after she had subsided with tremulous whimpers, and I had got my breath back, it seemed quite cosy, don’t you know, and we whispered and played in the stuffy dark, myself drowsy and she giggling at what a frolic it was, and I was beginning to consider a return fixture when Sale decided he’d like a game of billiards.

  I thought I was sent for. The door crashed open, light shone through the curtains, bearers came scurrying in to remove the cover and light the table candles, heavy footsteps sounded, men’s voices laughing and talking, and old Bob crying: “This way, Sir Hugh … your highness. Now, what shall it be? A round game or sides, hey?”

  Their legs were vague shadows beyond the curtains as I bundled Mrs Madison to the centre – and the abandoned trot was positively shaking with laughter! I hissed soundlessly in her ear, and we lay half-clad and quivering, she with mirth and I with fright, while the talk and laughter and clatter of cues sounded horrid close overhead. Of all the damned fixes! But there was nothing for it but to lie doggo, praying we didn’t sneeze or have the conniptions.

  I’ve had similar experiences since – under a sofa on which Lord Cardigan was paying court to his second wife, beneath a dago president’s four-poster (that’s how I won the San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth), and one shocking time in Russia when discovery meant certain death. But the odd thing is, quaking as you are, you find yourself eavesdropping for dear life; I lay with one ear between Mrs Madison’s paps, and the other taking it all in – and it’s worth recounting, for it was frontier gossip from our head men, and will help you understand what followed.

  In no time I knew who was in the room: Gough, and Sale, and a pimpish affected lisp which could belong only to the German princeling, the pulpit growl of old Gravedigger Havelock (who’d ha’ thought that he’d frequent pool-rooms?), and the high, arrogant Scotch burr that announced the presence of my old Afghan chum George Broadfoot, now exalted as Agent for the North-west Frontier.11 He was in full complaint, as usual:

  “… and Calcutta rebukes me for taking a high hand with the Maharani and her drunken durbar! I must not provoke them, says Hardinge. Provoke, indeed – while they run raids on us, and ignore my letters, and seduce our sepoys! Half the brothel bints in Ludhiana are Sikh agents, offering our jawanse double pay to desert to the Khalsa.”

  “Double for infantry, six-fold for sowars,”f says Sale. “Temptin’, what?12 Spot or plain, prince?”

  “Spot, if you please. But do many of your native soldiers desert, then?”

  “Och, a few.” This was Gough, in his pig-sty brogue. “Mind you, if ever the Khalsa invaded, God knows how many might jump on what they thought was the winnin’ nag. Or refuse to fight agin’ fellow-Injuns.”

  The pills clicked, and the prince says: “But the British will always be the winning side. Why, all India holds your army invincible.” There was a long pause, then Broadfoot says:

  “Not since Afghanistan. We went in like lions and came out like-sheep – and India took note. Who knows what might follow a Sikh invasion? Mutiny? It’s possible. A general revolt –”

  “Oh, come!” cries the prince. “A Sikh invasion would be promptly repelled, surely! Is that not so, Sir Hugh?”

  More pill-clicking, and then Gough says: “Put it this way, sorr. If John Sepoy turned tail – which I don’t believe, mind – I’d be left wi’ our British regiments alone agin’ one hunnert t’ousand of the best fightin’ fellows in India – European trained, mark’ee, wi’ modern arms … How many do I get for a cannon, will ye tell me? Two? Mother o’ God, is it worth it? Well, here goes.” Click. “Damnation, me eyes is failin’. As I was sayin’, your highness – I wouldn’t have to make too many mistakes, now, would I?”

  “But if there is such danger – why do you not march into the Punjab now, and nip it in the bud?”

  Another long silence, then Broadfoot: “Breach of treaty if we did – and conquest isn’t popular in England, since Sind.13 No doubt it’ll come to that in the end – and Hardinge knows it, for all he says British India’s big enough already. But the Sikhs must strike first, you see, and Sir Hugh’s right – that’s our moment of peril, when they’re south of the Sutlej in force, and our own sepoys may join ’em. If we struck first, treaty or not, and tackled the Khalsa in the Punjab, our stock would rise with the sepoys, they wouldn’t waver, and we’d win hands down. We’d have to stay, in a territory London don’t want – but India would be safe from Muslim invasion forever. A nice, circular problem, is it not?”

  The Prince says thoughtfully: “Sir Henry Hardinge has a dilemma, it seems.”

  “That’s why he waits,” says Sale, “in the faint hope that the present Lahore government will restore stability.”

  “Meanwhile reproving me and hindering Sir Hugh, in case we ‘provoke’ Lahore,” says Broadfoot. “‘Armed observation’ – that’s to be our ticket.”

  Mrs Madison gave a gentle snore, and I whipped my hand over her mouth, pinching her nostrils.

  “What’s that?” says a voice overhead. “Did you hear it?”

  There was silence, while I trembled on the verge of heart failure, and then Sale says:

  “Those dam’ geckoes.g Your shot, Sir Hugh.”

  If that wasn’t enough, Mrs Madison, now awake, put her lips to my ear: “When will they leave off? I am ever so cold.” I made silent frantic motions, and she thrust her tongue in my ear, so that I missed the next exchange. But I’d heard enough to be sure of one thing – however pacific Hardinge’s intentions, war was an odds-on certainty. I don’t mean that Broadfoot was ready to start it himself, but he’d jump at the chance if the Sikhs gave him one – and so no doubt would most of our Army folk; it’s a soldier’s business, after all. And by the sound of it the Khalsa were ready to oblige – and when they did, I’d be in the middle, galloper to a general who led not only from the front but from the middle of the enemy’s blasted army, given the chance. But the prince was talking again, and I strained my ears, trying to ignore Mrs Madison, who was burrowing underneath me, for warmth, presumably.

  “But may Sir Henry not be right? Surely there is some Sikh noble capable of restoring order and tranquillity – this Maharani, for example … Chunda? Jinda?”

 
; “Jeendan,” says Broadfoot. “She’s a hoor.” They had to translate for the prince, who perked up at once.

  “Indeed? One hears astonishing stories. They say she is of incomparable beauty, and … ah … insatiable appetite …?”

  “Ye’ve heard of Messalina?” says Broadfoot. “Well, this lady has been known to discard six lovers in a single night.”

  Mrs Madison whispered: “I don’t believe it,” and neither did the prince, evidently, for he cries:

  “Oh, scandalous rumours always multiply facts! Six in one night, indeed! How can you be sure of that?”

  “Eye-witnesses,” says Broadfoot curtly, and you could almost hear the prince blinking as his imagination went to work.

  Someone else’s was also taking flight: Mrs Madison, possibly inspired by all this disgraceful gossip, was becoming attentive again, the reckless bitch, and try as I would to still her, she teased so insistently that I was sure they must hear, and Havelock’s coffin face would pop under the curtain at any moment. So what could I do, except hold my breath and comply as quietly as possible – it’s an eerie business, I can tell you, in dead silence and palpitating with fear of discovery, and yet it’s quite soothing, in a way. I lost all track of their talk, and by the time we were done, and I was near choking with my shirt stuffed into my mouth, they were putting up their cues and retiring, thank God. And then:

  “A moment, Broadfoot.” It was Gough, his voice down. “D’ye think his highness might talk, at all?”

  There could only be the two of them in the room. “As the geese muck,” says Broadfoot. “Everywhere. It’ll be news to nobody, though. Half the folk in this damned country are spies, and the other half are their agents, on commission. I know how many ears I’ve got, and Lahore has twice as many, ye can be sure.”

  “Like enough,” says Gough. “Ah, well – ’twill all be over by Christmas, devil a doubt. Now, then – what’s this Sale tells me about young Flashman?”

  How they didn’t hear the sudden convulsion beneath the table, God knows, for I damned near put my head through the slates.

  “I must have him, sir. I’ve lost Leech, and Cust will have to take his place. There isn’t another political in sight – and I worked with Flashman in Afghanistan. He’s young, but he did well among the Gilzais, he speaks Urdu, Pushtu, and Punjabi –”

  “Hold yer horses.” says Gough. “Sale’s promised him the staff, an’ the boy deserves it, none more. Forbye, he’s a fightin’ soldier, not a clerk. If he’s to win his way, he’ll do it as he did at Jallalabad, among hot shot an’ cold steel –”

  “With respect, Sir Hugh!” snaps Broadfoot, and I could imagine the red beard bristling. “A political is not a clerk. Gathering and sifting intelligence –”

  “Don’t tell me, Major Broadfoot! I was fightin’, an’ gatherin’ intelligence, while your grandfather hadn’t got the twinkle in his eye yet. It’s a war we’re talkin’ about – an’ a war needs warriors, so now!” God help the poor old soul, he was talking about me.

  “I am thinking of the good of the service, sir –”

  “An’ I’m not, damn yer Scotch impiddence? Och, what the hell, ye’re makin’ me all hot for nothin’. Now, see here, George, I’m a fair man, I hope, an’ this is what I’ll do. Flashman is on the staff – an’ you’ll not say a word to him, mallum?h But … the whole army knows ye’ve lost Leech, an’ there’s need for another political. If Flashman takes it into his head to apply for that vacancy – an’ havin’ been a political he may be mad enough for anythin’ – then I’ll not stand in his way. But under no compulsion, mind that. Is that fair, now?”

  “No, sir,” says George. “What young officer would exchange the staff for the political service?”

  “Any number – loafers, an’ Hyde Park hoosars – no disrespect to your own people, or to young Flashman. He’ll do his duty as he sees it. Well, George, that’s me last word to you. Now, let’s pay our respects to Lady Sale …”

  If I’d had the energy, I’d have given Mrs Madison another run, out of pure thanksgiving.

  * * *

  a See Flashman’s Lady.

  b See Flashman.

  c Butler.

  d A kind of sedan chair.

  e Native infantryman.

  f Cavalry trooper.

  g House lizards.

  h Understand?

  Chapter 3

  “I suppose ye know nothing at all,” says Broadfoot, “about the law of inheritance and widows’ rights?”

  “Not a dam’ thing, George,” says I cheerily. “Mind you, I can quote you the guv’nor on poaching and trespass – and I know a husband can’t get his hands on his wife’s gelt if her father won’t let him.” Elspeth’s parent, the loathly Morrison, had taught me that much. Rotten with rhino he was, too, the little reptile.

  “Haud yer tongue,” says Broadfoot. “There’s for your education, then.” And he pushed a couple of mouldering tomes across the table; on top was a pamphlet: Inheritance Act, 1833. That was my reintroduction to the political service.

  You see, what I’d heard under Sale’s pool-table had been the strains of salvation, and I’ll tell you why. As a rule, I’d run a mile from political work – skulking about in nigger clobber, living on millet and sheep guts, lousy as the tinker’s dog, scared stiff you’ll start whistling “Waltzing Matilda” in a mosque, and finishing with your head on a pole, like Burnes and McNaghten. I’d been through all that – but now there was going to be a pukka war, you see, and in my ignorance I supposed that the politicals would retire to their offices while the staff gallopers ran errands in the cannon’s mouth. Afghanistan had been one of those godless exceptions where no one’s safe, but the Sikh campaign, I imagined, would be on sound lines. More fool me.14

  So, having thanked the Fates that had guided me to roger Mrs Madison under the green baize, and taken soundings to satisfy myself that Leech and Cust had been peaceably employed, I’d lost no time in running into Broadfoot, accidental-like. Great hail-fellowings on both sides, although I was quite shocked at the change in him: the hearty Scotch giant, all red beard and thick spectacles, was quite fallen away – liver curling at the edges, he explained, which was why he’d moved his office to Simla, where the quacks could get a clear run at him. He’d taken a tumble riding, too, and went with a stick, gasping when he stirred.

  I commiserated, and told him my own troubles, damning the luck that had landed me on Gough’s staff (“poodle-faking, George, depend upon it, and finding the old goat’s hat at parties”), and harking back to the brave days when he and I had dodged Afridis on the Gandamack Road, having endless fun. (Jesus, the things I’ve said.) He was a downy bird, George, and I could see him marvelling at this coincidence, but he probably concluded that Gough had dropped me a hint after all, for he offered me an Assistant’s berth on the spot.

  So now we were in the chummery of Crags, his bungalow on Mount Jacko, with me looking glum at the law books and reflecting that this was the price of safety, and Broadfoot telling me testily that I had better absorb their contents, and sharp about it. That was another change: he was a sight sterner than he’d been, and it wasn’t just his illness. He’d been a wild, agin-the-government fellow in Afghanistan, but authority had put him on his dignity, and he rode a pretty high horse as Agent – once, for a lark, I called him “major”, and he didn’t even blink; ah, well, thinks I, there’s none so prim as a Scotsman up in the world. In fairness, he didn’t blink at “George”, either, and was easy enough with me, in between the snaps and barks.

  “Next item,” says he. “Did many folk see ye in Umballa?”

  “Shouldn’t think so. What’s it matter? I don’t owe money –”

  “The fewer natives who know that Iflassman the soldier is on hand, the better,” says he. “Ye haven’t worn uniform since ye landed? Good. Tomorrow, ye’ll shave off your moustache and whiskers – do it yourself, no nappy-wallaha – and I’ll cut your hair myself into something decently civilian – give ye a touch of pomade
, perhaps –”

  The sun had got him, not a doubt. “Hold on, George! I’ll need a dam’ good reason –”

  “I’m telling ye, and that’s reason enough!” snarls he; liver in rough order, I could see. Then he managed a sour grin. “This isn’t the kind of political bandobastb ye’re used to; ye’ll not be playing Badoo the Badmash this time.” Well, that was something. “No, you’re a proper wee civilian henceforth, in a tussore suit, high collar and tall hat, riding in a jampan with a chota-wallahc to carry your green bag. As befits a man of the law, well versed in widows’ titles.” He studied me sardonically for a long moment, doubtless enjoying my bewilderment. “I think ye’d better have a look at your brief,” says he, and rose stiffly, cursing his leg.

  He led me into the little hall, through a small door, and down a short flight of steps into a cellar where one of his Pathan Sappers (he’d had a gang of them in Afghanistan, fearsome villains who’d cut your throat or mend your watch with equal skill) was squatting under a lamp, glowering at three huge jars, all of five feet high, which took up most of the tiny cell. Two of them were secured with silk cords and great red seals.

  Broadfoot leaned on the wall to ease his leg, and signed to the Pathan, who removed the lid from the unsealed jar, holding the lamp to shine on its contents. I looked, and was sufficiently impressed.

  “What’s up, George?” says I. “Don’t you trust the banks?”