The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Flashman bahadur! Why, have you received the parwana, then?”

  I turned, and there was Mangla walking towards me along the gallery, wearing a smile of astonishment and very little besides. Plainly it was fancy dress, and she’d come as a dancer from some select brothel (which wasn’t far out, in fact). She wore a long black sash low on her hips, knotted so that it hung to her ankles before and behind, leaving her legs bare; her fine upper works were displayed in a bodice of transparent gauze, her hair hung in a black tail to her waist, she tinkled with bangles, and there were silver castanets on her fingers. A cheering sight, I can tell you, at any time, but even more so when you’ve been hanging out of windows to avoid the broker’s men.

  “No parwana, I’m afraid,” says I. “Here, I say, that’s a fetching rig! Well, now … is that the durbar room down yonder?”

  “Why, yes – you wish to meet their highnessses?” She came closer, eyeing me curiously. “Is all well with you, bahadur? Why, you are shaking! Are you ill?”

  “Not a bit of it!” says I. “Took a turn in the night air … chilly, eh?” Some drunken instinct told me to keep mum about my balcony adventure, at least until I met higher authority. She said I needed something to warm me, and a lackey serving the folk in the gallery put a beaker in my hand. What with brandy and funk I was parched as a camel’s oxter, so I drank it straight off, and another – dry red wine, with a curious effervescent tang to it. D’you know, it settled me wonderfully; a few more of these, thinks I, and they can bring the nigger in. I took another swig, and Mangla laid a hand on my arm, smiling roguishly.

  “That is your third cup, bahadur. Have a care. It is … strangely potent, and the night has only begun. Rest a moment.”

  I didn’t mind. With the liquor taking hold I felt safe among the lights and music, with this delectable houri to hand. I slipped an arm round her waist as we looked down on the dancers; the guests reclining in the booths around the floor were clapping to the music and throwing silver; others were drinking and eating and dallying – it looked a thoroughly jolly party, with most of the women as briefly attired as Mangla. One black charmer, naked to the waist, was supporting a shouting reveller as he weaved his way across the floor, there was excited laughter and shrill voices, and one or two of the booths had their curtains discreetly closed … and not a Pathan in sight.

  “Their highnesses are merry,” says Mangla. “One of them, at least.” A man’s voice was shouting angrily below, but the music and celebration continued uninterrupted. “Never fear, you will find a welcome – come and join our entertainment.”

  Capital, thinks I, we’ll entertain each other in one of those curtained nooks, so I let her lead me down a curved stair giving on to an open space at one side of the floor, where there were buffets piled high with delicacies and drink. The angry man’s voice greeted us as we descended, and then he was in view beside the tables: a tall, well-made fellow, handsome in the pretty Indian way, with a curly beard and moustache, a huge jewelled turban on his head and only baggy silk pantaloons on the rest of him. He was staggering tight, with a goblet in one hand and the other round the neck of the black beauty who’d been helping him across the floor. Before him stood Dinanath and Azizudeen, grim and furious as he railed at them, stuttering drunkenly.

  “Tell ’em to go to the devil! Do they think the Wazir is some mujbeec who’ll run to their bidding! Let ’em come to me – aye, and humbly! Khalsa scum! Sons of pigs and owls! Do they think they rule here?”

  “They know it,” snaps Azizudeen. “Persist in this folly and they’ll prove it.”

  “Treason!” bawls the other, and flung the goblet at him. It missed by yards, and he’d have tumbled over if the black wench hadn’t caught him. He clung tipsily to her, flecks of spittle on his beard, crying that he was the Wazir, they wouldn’t dare –

  “And what’s to stop them?” demands Azizudeen. “Your Palace Guard – whom the Khalsa have promised to blow from guns if you escape? Try it, my prince, and you’ll find your Guards have become your jailers!”

  “Liar!” yammers the other, and then from raging and cursing he burst into tears, bleating about how well he’d paid them, half a lakh to a single general, and they’d stand by him while the British ate the Khalsa alive. “Oh, aye – the British are marching on us even now!” cries he. “Don’t the fools know that?”

  “They know you say so – but that it is not true,” puts in Dinanath sternly. “My prince, this is foolish. You know you must go out to the Khalsa tomorrow, to answer for Peshora’s death … if you speak them fair, all may be well …” He stepped closer, speaking low and earnest, while the fellow mowed and wept – and then, damme if he didn’t lose interest and start nuzzling and fondling his black popsy. First things first seemed to be his motto, and he pawed with such ardour that they tumbled down and sprawled in a drunken embrace at the stair foot, while Dinanath and Azizudeen stood speechless. The drunkard raised his face from between her boobies once, blubbering at Dinanath that he daren’t go out to the Khalsa, they’d do him a mischief, and then went back to the matter in hand, trying to climb on top of her with his great turban all awry.

  Mangla and I were standing only a few steps above them, and I was thinking, well, you don’t often see this at Windsor – the astonishing thing was that no one else in the durbar room was paying the least heed; while the drunkard alternately mauled his wench and whimpered and snarled at the two counsellors, the dance was reaching its climax, the band piping away in fine style, the spectators applauding. I glanced at Mangla, and she shrugged.

  “Raja Jawaheer Singh, Wazir,” says she, indicating the turbaned sportsman. “Do you wish to be presented?”

  Now he was struggling to his feet again, calling for drink, and the black girl held the cup while he gulped and slobbered. Azizudeen turned on his heel in disgust, and Dinanath followed him towards one of the booths. Jawaheer pushed the cup away, staggered, and clutched at a table for support, calling for them to come back, and that was when his eye fell on us. He goggled stupidly, and started forward.

  “Mangla!” cries he. “Mangla, you bitch! Who’s that?”

  “It is the English envoy, Flashman sahib,” says she coolly.

  He gaped at me, blinking, and then a crafty look came into his eyes, and he loosed a great shout of laughter, yelling that he’d been right – the British had come, as he’d said they would.

  “See, Dinanath! Look, Azizudeen! The British are here!” He swung round, stumbling, weaving towards them in a sort of crazy dance, crowing with high-pitched laughter. “A liar, am I? See – their spy is here!” Dinanath and Azizudeen had turned in the entrance of one of the booths, and as Jawaheer capered and fell down, and Mangla brought me to the foot of the staircase, I saw Dinanath white with fury – shame and loss of face before a foreigner, you see. The dancing and music had stopped, folk were craning to look, and flunkeys were running to help Jawaheer, but he lashed out at them, staggering round to point unsteadily at me.

  “British spy! Filth! Your Company bandits will come to plunder us, will they? Brigands, wilayati,d vermin!” He glared from me to Dinanath. “Ai-ee, the British will come – they will have cause to come!” shrieks he, pointing at me, and then they’d hustled him off, still yelling and laughing, Mangla clapped her hands, the music began again, and folk turned away, whispering behind their hands, just as they do at home when Uncle Percy’s had one of his bad turns during evensong.

  I dare say I should have been embarrassed, but with a couple of quarts of mixed brandy and puggle inside me, I didn’t mind one little bit. Jawaheer was plainly all that rumour said of him, but I had deeper concerns: I was suddenly thirsty again, and beginning to feel so monstrous randy that if Lady Sale had happened by she’d have had to look damned lively, rheumatics and all. Doubtless the curious liquor Mangla had plied me with was responsible for both conditions; very well, she could take the consequences … there she was, the luscious little teaser, by the booth where Azizudeen and Dinanath had been
a moment since. I lurched towards her, gloating, but even as I hove to beside her a woman spoke from beyond the open curtains.

  “Is this your Englishman? Let me look at him.”

  I turned in surprise – not only at the words, but at the slurred, appraising arrogance of the tone. Mangla stepped back, and with a little gesture of presentation, said: “Flashman sahib, kunwari,”e and that title told me I was in the presence of the notorious Maharani Jeendan, Indian Venus, modern Messalina, and uncrowned queen of the Punjab.

  Here and there in my memoirs I’ve remarked on the attraction of the female sex, and how it’s seldom a matter of beauty alone. There are breathtakers like Elspeth and Lola and Yehonala whom you can’t wait to chivvy into the shrubbery; equally classic creatures (Angie Burdett-Coutts, for example, or the Empress of Austria) who are as exciting as cold soup but appeal to the baser aesthetic senses; and plain Janes who could start a riot in a monastery. In each case, Aphrodite or the governess, the magic is different, you see; there is always some unique charm or singular attraction, and it can be hard to define. In Mai Jeendan, though, it stood out a mile: she was simply the lewdest-looking strumpet I ever saw in my life.

  Mind you, when a young woman with the proportions of an erotic Indian statue is found reclining half-naked and three parts drunk, while a stalwart wrestler rubs her down with oil, it’s easy to leap to conclusions. But you could have covered this one with sackcloth in the front row of the church choir, and they’d still have ridden her out of town on a rail. You’ve heard of voluptuaries whose vices are stamped on their faces – mine, for example, but I’m over eighty. She was in her twenties, and lust was in every line of her face: the once perfect beauty turned fleshy, the lovely curves of lip and nostril thickened by booze and pleasure into the painted mask of a depraved angel – gad, she was attractive. She looked like those sensual pictures of Jezebel and Delilah which religious artists paint with such loving enthusiasm; Arnold could have got enough sermons out of her to last the half. Her eyes were large and wanton and slightly protruding, with a vacant, sated expression which may have been due to drink or the recent attentions of the wrestler – a bit shaky, he looked to me – but as I made my bow they widened in what was either drunken interest or yearning lechery – the same thing, really, with her.

  Considering the size of her endowments, she was quite small, light coffee in colour, and fine-boned under her smooth fat – a tung bibi, as they say; a “tight lady”. Like Mangla, she was decked out as a dancer, with a crimson silk loin-cloth and flimsy bodice, but instead of bangles her legs and arms were sheathed in gauze sewn with tiny gems, and her dark red hair was contained in a jewelled net.

  To see her then, you’d never have guessed that when she wasn’t guzzling drink and men, Mai Jeendan was another woman altogether; Broadfoot was wrong in thinking debauchery had dulled her wits. She was shrewd and resolute and ruthless when the need arose; she was also an accomplished actress and mimic, talents developed when she’d been the leading jester in old Runjeet’s obscene private entertainments.

  Just now, though, she was too languid with drink to do more than struggle up on one elbow, pushing her masseur away to view me better, slowly up and down – it reminded me of being on the slave-block in Madagascar, when no one bought me, rot them. This time, so far as one could judge from the lady’s tipsy muttering as she lolled back on her cushions, fluttering a plump hand at me, the market was more buoyant.

  “You were right, Mangla … he’s big!” She gave a drunken chuckle, adding an indelicate remark which I won’t translate. “Well, must make him comfortable … have him take off his robe … come sit down here, beside me. You, get out …” This to the wrestler, who salaamed himself off in haste. “You too, Mangla … draw the curtains … want to talk with big Englishman.”

  And not about the Soochet legacy, from the way she patted the cushions and smiled at me over the rim of her glass. Well, I’d heard she was game, but this was informality with a vengeance. I was all for it, mind you, even if she was as drunk as Taffy’s sow and spilling most of the drink down her front – if any ass tells you that there’s nothing so disgusting as a beauty in her cups, I can only say she looks a sight more interesting than a sober schoolmarm. I was wondering if I should offer to help her out of her wet things when Mangla got in before me, calling for a cloth, so I hung back, polite-like, and found myself being addressed most affably by a tall young grandee with a flashing smile who made me a pretty little speech, welcoming me to the Court of Lahore, and trusting that I would have a pleasant stay.

  His name was Lal Singh, and I still give him top marks for style. After all, he was Jeendan’s principal lover, and here was his mistress cussing like Sowerberry Hagan and having her déshabillé mopped in the presence of a stranger whom she’d been about to drag into the woodshed; it didn’t unsettle him a bit as he congratulated me on my Afghan exploits and drew me into conversation with Tej Singh, my fat little warrior of the afternoon, who bobbed up grinning at his elbow to tell me how well I suited the robe he’d given me. By this time I was beginning to feel a trifle confused myself, having in short order survived an assassination plot – what a long time ago it seemed – been filled with strong waters and (I suspected) aphrodisiac, trotted up and down by a half-naked slave girl, verbally assailed in public by the Wazir of the Punjab, and indecently ogled by his drunken flesh-trap of a sister. Now I was discussing, more or less coherently, the merits of the latest Congreve rockets with two knowledgeable military men, while a yard away the Queen Regent was being dried off by her attendants and protesting tipsily, and at my back a vigorous ballet was being danced by a score of young chaps in turbans and baggy trousers, with the orchestra going full steam.

  I was new to Lahore, of course, and not au fait with their easygoing ways. I didn’t know, for example, that recently, when Lal Singh and Jawaheer had quarrelled publicly, the Maharani had composed things by presenting each of them with a naked houri and telling them to restore their tempers by doing honour to her gifts then and there. Which, by all accounts, they had done. I mention that in case you think my own account is at all exaggerated.

  “We must have a longer talk presently,” says Lal Singh, taking me by the arm. “You see the deplorable condition of affairs here. It cannot continue – as I am sure Hardinge sahib is aware. He and I have had some correspondence – through your esteemed chief, Major Broadfoot.” He flashed me another of his smiles, all beard and teeth. “They are both very practical and expert men. Tell me, you have their confidence – what price do you suppose they would consider fair … for the Punjab?”

  Well, I was drunk, and he knew it, which was why he asked the impossible, treasonable question, in the hope that my reaction would tell him something. Even fuddled, I knew that Lal Singh was a clever, probably desperate man, and that the best answer to the unanswerable is to put a question of your own. So I said, “Why, does someone want to sell it?” At which he gave me a long smile, while little Tej held his breath; then Lal Singh clapped me on the shoulder.

  “We shall have our long talk by day,” says he. “The night is for pleasure. Would you care for some opium? No? Kashmiri opium is the finest obtainable – like Kashmiri women. I would offer you one, or even two, of them, but I fear my lady Jeendan’s displeasure. You have aroused some expectation in that quarter, Mr Flashman, as I’m sure you noticed.” His smile was as easy and open as though he were telling me she’d be bidding me to tea presently. “May I suggest a fortifying draught?” He beckoned a matey, and I was presented with another beaker of Mangla’s Finest Old Inspirator, which I sipped with caution. “I see you treat it with greater respect than does that impossible sot, our Wazir. Look yonder, bahadur … and have pity on us.”

  For now Jawaheer was to the fore again, reeling noisily in front of Jeendan’s booth, with his black tart trying vainly to hold him upright; he was delivering a great tirade against Dinanath, and Jeendan must have sobered somewhat under Mangla’s ministrations, for she told him pretty
plain, with barely a hiccough, to pull himself together and drink no more.

  “Be a man,” says she, and indicated his wench. “With her … practise for acting like a man among men. Go on … take her to bed. Make yourself brave!”

  “And tomorrow?” cries he, flopping down on his knees before her. He was having another of his blubbering fits, wailing and rocking to and fro.

  “Tomorrow,” says she, with drunken deliberation, “you’ll go out to Khalsa –”

  “I cannot!” squeals he. “They’ll tear me to pieces!”

  “You’ll go, little brother. And speak to them. Make your peace with ’em … all will be right …”

  “You’ll come with me?” he pleaded. “You and the child?”

  “Be assured … we’ll all come. Lal and Tej … Mangla here.” Her sleepy gaze travelled to me. “Big Englishman, too … he’ll tell the Malki lat and Jangi latf how the troops acclaimed their Wazir. Cheered him!” She flourished her cup, spilling liquor again. “So they’ll know … a man rules in Lahore!”

  He stared about vacantly, and his face was that of a frightened ape, all streaked with tears. I doubt if he saw me, for he leaned closer to her, whispering hoarsely: “And then – we’ll march on the British? Take them unawares –”

  “As God wills,” smiles she, and looked at me again – and for an instant she didn’t seem drunk at all. She stroked his face, speaking gently, as to a fractious infant. “But first … the Khalsa. You must take them gifts … promises of pay …”