Well, I’d had a long day, and night. The shock of discovering that my Afghan orderly was an American medical man23 (and no doubt as big a villain as Gardner said) was quite small beer after all the rest. No more of a shock than Gardner himself, really. One thing was sure: Jassa, or Josiah, was Broadfoot’s man, and he was right, I couldn’t disown him on Gardner’s suspicions. I said so, and much to my surprise, Gardner didn’t shout me down, although he gave me a long hard stare.
“After what I’ve told you about him? Well, sir, it’s on your own head. It’s possible you won’t rue the day, but I doubt it.” He turned to Jassa. “As for you, Josiah … I don’t know what brings you back to the Punjab in another of your disguises. I know it wasn’t Jawaheer, or anything as simple as British political work … no, it’s some dirty little frolic of your own, isn’t it? Well, you forget it, doctor – because if you don’t, immunity or not, I’ll send you back to Broadfoot by tying you over a gun and blowing you clear to Simla. You can count on that. Good-night, Mr Flashman.”
The jemadar led us back to my quarters through a maze of corridors that was no more confused than my mind; I was dog-tired and still mortally shaken, and had neither the wit nor the will to question my newly-revealed Afghan-American orderly, who kept up a muttered stream of apology and justification the whole way. He’d never have forgiven himself if any harm had come to me, and I must write to Broadfoot instanter to establish his bona fides; he wouldn’t rest until Gardner’s calumnies had been disproved.
“Alick means no harm – we’ve known each other for years, but truth is, you see, he’s jealous, us both being American and all, and he hasn’t risen any too high, while I’ve been prince and ambassador, as he said – course, fate hasn’t been too kind lately, which is why I took any honourable employment that came … God, I’ve no words of excuse or apology, sir, for my lapse tonight … what must you think, what will Broadfoot think? Say, though, I’d like him to understand about my losing my governorship – it wasn’t coining, no sir! I dabble in chemistry, see, and there was this experiment that went wrong …”
He was still chuntering when we reached my door, where I was reassured to see two stalwart constables, presumably sent by Bhai Ram Singh. Jassa – with that ugly frontier dial and dress I could think of him by no other name – swore he’d be on hand too, from this moment, closer than a brother, why, he’d bed down right here in the passage …
I closed my door, head swimming with fatigue, and rested a moment in blessed solitude and quiet before walking unsteadily through the arch to the bedchamber, where two lights burned dimly either side of the pillow – and stopped, the hairs rising on my neck. There was someone in the bed, and a drift of perfume on the air, and before I could move or cry out, a woman whispered out of the gloom.
“Mai Jeendan must have eaten her fill,” says Mangla. “It is almost dawn.”
I stepped closer, staring. She was lying naked beneath a flimsy veil of black gauze spread over her like a sheet – they’ve nothing to learn about erotic display in the Punjab, I can tell you. I looked down at her, swaying, and it shows how fagged out I was, for I asked, like a damfool:
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you not remember?” murmurs she, and I saw her teeth gleam as she smiled up from the pillow, her black hair spread across it like a fan. “After the mistress has supped, it is the maid’s turn.”
“Oh, my God,” says I. “I ain’t hungry.”
“Are you not?” whispers she. “Then I must whet your appetite.” And she sat up, slow and languid, stretching that transparent veil tight against her body, pouting at me. “Will you taste, husoor?”
For a moment I was tempted. Altogether used up, fit only for the knacker’s yard, I wanted sleep as I wanted salvation. But as I contemplated that magnificent substance stirring beneath the gauze, I thought: to thine own self be true, and put temptation aside.
“Right you are, my dear,” says I. “Got any more of that jolly drink, have you?”
She laughed softly and reached out for the cup beside the bed.
* * *
a “Lieutenant, come here!”
Chapter 7
If you’ve read Robinson Crusoe you may recall a passage where he weighs up his plight on the desert island like a book-keeper, evil on one side, good on t’other. Dispiriting stuff, mainly, in which he croaks about solitude, but concludes that things might be worse, and God will see him through, with luck. Optimism run mad, if you ask me, but then I’ve never been shipwrecked, much, and philosophy in the face of tribulation ain’t my line. But I did use his system on waking that second day in Lahore, because so much had happened in such short space that I needed to set my mind straight. Thus:
EVIL
GOOD
I am cut off in a savage land which will be at war with my own country presently.
I enjoy diplomatic immunity, for what it’s worth, and am in good health, but ruined.
An attempt has been made to assassinate me. These buggers would sooner murder people than eat their dinners.
It failed, and I am under the protection of the queen bee, who rides like a rabbit. Also, Gardner will look out for me.
My orderly turns out to be the greatest villain since Dick Turpin, and is an American to boot.
Broadfoot chose him, and since I see no reason why he should be hostile to me, I shall watch him like a hawk.
Damn Broadfoot for landing me in this stew, when I could have been safe at home rogering Elspeth.
Rations and quarters are A1, and Mangla sober is a capital mount, though she don’t compare to Jeendan drunk.
If I were a praying man, the Almighty would hear from me in no uncertain terms, and much good it would do me.
Being a pagan (attached C of E) with no divine resources, I shall tread uncommon wary and keep my pepperbox handy.
That was my accounting, cast up in the drowsy hour after Mangla slipped away like a lovely ghost at daybreak, and it could have been worse. My first task must be to make a searching examination of the bold Jassa, or Josiah, before sending off a cypher about him to Broadfoot. So I had him in while I shaved, watching that crafty hill figurehead in my mirror, and listening to the plausible Yankee patter that came out of it. Oddly enough, after the character Gardner had given him, I felt inclined to take him at face value. You see, I’m a knave myself, and know that we wrong ’uns ain’t always bent on mischief; it seemed to me that Jassa, the professional soldier of fortune, was quite likely just marking time in Broadfoot’s employ, as he’d claimed, until something better turned up. The queerest fish swim into the political mill, with not too many questions asked, and I felt I could accept if not trust him. Like Gardner, I was sure he’d had no hand in the plot against my life – if he’d wanted me dead he could have let me drop from the balcony instead of saving me.
It was comforting, too, to have one of my own kind alongside me – and one who knew the Punjab and its politics inside out. “Though how you hoped to pass unrecognised, I don’t see,” says I. “If you were so high under Runjeet, half the country must know you, surely?”
“That was six years ago, behind a full set o’ beard an’ whiskers,” says he. “Clean-shaven, I reckoned to get by – ’cept with Alick, but I planned to keep out o’ his way. But it don’t matter,” he added coolly, “there are no reward notices out for Joe Harlan, here or anywhere else.”
He was such a patent rascal that I took to him – and even now I won’t say I was wrong. He had a fine political nose, too, and had been using it about the Fort that morning.
“Jawaheer seems to be in luck. The whole palace knows he tried to get you, and the talk was that the Maharani would have him arrested. But she had him to her boudoir first thing today, all smiles, embraced him, and drank toasts to his reconciliation to the Khalsa, her maids say. It seems Dinanath and Azizudeen have made his peace for him; they were out talking to the panches at dawn, and Jawaheer’s appearance this afternoon will be a formality. He and the whole roy
al family will review the troops – and you’ll be invited, no doubt so that you can pass word to Broadfoot that all’s well with the Lahore durbar.” He grinned. “Yes, sir, you’ll have quite a packet of news for Simla. How d’you send out your cyphers – through Mangla?”
“As you said yourself, doctor, why should I tell you what Broadfoot didn’t? Are you really a doctor, by the way?”
“No diploma,” says he frankly, “but I studied surgery back in Pennsylvania. Yep … I’ll bet it’s Mangla; that little puss is in everyone’s pocket, so why not John Company’s? A word of advice, though: cover her all you’ve a mind to, but don’t trust her – or Mai Jeendan.” And before I could damn his impudence he took himself off to change, as he put it, into his mess kit.
That meant his best robes, for our durbar appearance at noon, with Flashy in full fig of frock coat and go-to-meeting roof, making my official bow to little Dalip enthroned in state; you’d not have recognised the lively imp of yesterday in the regal little figure all in silver, nodding his aigretted turban most condescendingly when I was presented by Lal Singh, who was second minister. Jawaheer was nowhere in sight, but Dinanath, old Bhai Ram Singh, and Azizudeen were present, solemn as priests. It was eerie, knowing that they were all well aware that their Wazir had tried to murder me a few hours earlier, and that I’d rioted with their Maharani in this very chamber. There wasn’t so much as a flicker on the handsome, bearded faces; damned good form, the Sikhs.
Behind Dalip’s throne hung a fine lace curtain, the purdah of his mother, the Maharani – it being the custom of quality Indian ladies to seclude themselves, when they ain’t belly-dancing at orgies, that is. By the curtain stood Mangla, unveiled but most modestly dressed, and formal as though we’d never laid eyes on each other. Her duty was to relay conversation to and from her mistress behind the screen, and she did it most properly, welcoming me to Lahore, inviting blessings on my work, and finally, as Jassa had forecast, bidding me to attend his majesty when he reviewed the Khalsa that afternoon.
“You shall ride on an elephant!” squeaks the said majesty, lapsing from kingly dignity for a moment, and then stiffening before the reproving glances of his court. I said gravely that I’d be honoured beyond measure, he shot me a shy little smile, and then I backed from the presence, turning and resuming my tile only when I reached the rug in the doorway, as form demanded. To my surprise, Lal Singh came after me, taking my arm, all smiles, and insisting on giving me a conducted tour of the arsenal and foundry, which were close by the Sleeping Palace. Since I’d spent half the night sporting with his lady love, I found this affability disconcerting, until he took me flat aback by speaking of her with alarming frankness.
“Mai Jeendan had hoped to come out from purdah to greet you after the durbar,” confides he. “Alas, she is a little drunk from toasting her abominable brother, in a vain effort to put some courage into him. You can have no notion what a poltroon he is! The thought of facing the Khalsa quite unmans him, even now when all is settled. But she will certainly send for you afterwards; she has important messages for the envoy of the Sirkar.”
I said I was at her majesty’s service, and he smiled.
“So I have heard.” Seeing me stare, he laughed aloud. “My dear friend, you look at me as though I were a rival! Believe me, with Mai Jeendan there is no such thing! She is no one’s mistress but her own. Let us fortunate fellows thank God for it. Now, you shall give me your opinion of our Punjabi muskets – are they not a match for Brown Bess?”
At the time, I was all suspicion; only later did I realise that Lal Singh meant every word he said – and Mai Jeendan was the least of what he wanted to tell me that day. When we’d examined the small arms, stocked in impressive numbers, and the forges, and the casting of a great white-hot nine-pounder gun, and the rain of lead hitting the steaming vats in the shot tower, and I’d agreed that the Khalsa’s armoury compared well with our own, he took me by the arm as we walked, most confidential.
“You are right,” says he, “but arms are not everything. On the day, victory and defeat rest with the generals. If ever the Khalsa took the field, it might well be under my leadership, and Tej Singh’s.” He sighed, smiling, and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how we should acquit ourselves against … oh, against such a seasoned campaigner as your Sir Hugh Gough. What would you think, Flashman sahib?”
Wondering, I said that Gough wasn’t the most scientific soldier since Boney, but he was probably the toughest. Lal Singh nodded, stroking his beard, and then laughed merrily. “Well, we must hope it is never put to the test, eh? Now, we set out for Maian Mir in an hour – may I offer you some refreshment?”
They’re so devious, these folk, you never know what they’re up to. Was he hinting that if it came to war, he was ready to fight a cross? Or trying a bamboozle? Or just gassing? Whatever his purpose, he must know that nothing he said could make Gough drop his guard. It was all most interesting, and gave me food for thought until the horns sounded to signal the departure of the royal progress to Maian Mir.
The procession was drawn up outside the Bright Gate, and when I saw it I thought: that’s India. It was Arabian Nights come to life: two battalions of the Palace Guard in their red and yellow silks, and in their midst half a dozen elephants, gorgeously caparisoned in blue and gold saddle-cloths that swept the ground, jewelled harness on their heads, their tusks and even the mahouts’ goads tipped with gold. The howdahs were little coloured palaces topped with minarets and silk canopies which stirred as the great beasts swayed and bellowed, the keepers quieting them as they waited for their royal freight. Horsemen in steel casques that shone like silver in the sunlight rode up and down the elephant line, their sabres drawn; they converged like clockwork to form a lane from the gate for porters who came bearing enormous panniers brimming with coin, preceded by chamberlains who supervised the strapping of the panniers to the howdahs of the third and second elephants. When some of the coins fell in a tinkling shower to the dust, there was a great “Oo-h!” from the crowd assembled to see the show; two or three of the horsemen leaned from their saddles, scooping up the rupees and hurling them over the heads of the rigid guardsmen to the mob, who yelled and scuffled for them – for a country that was supposed to be short of blunt, there seemed to be no lack of picea to fling to the beggars.
Two of the chamberlains mounted the third elephant, and now came a little knot of courtiers, led by Lal Singh, all brave in green and gold; they mounted into the fifth howdah, and a chamberlain who’d been shepherding Jassa and me indicated that we should mount the ladder on the fourth beast. We climbed up and as I seated myself the muted grumble of the crowd took on a new note – I knew exactly why: they were asking each other, who’s the foreigner, then, who takes precedence over the royal courtiers? He must be an infidel of note, doubtless the English Queen’s son, or a Jewish moneylender from Karachi; well, give the unbelieving swine a cheer. I doffed my tile, looking out over that astonishing scene: ahead, the great mammoths with their swaying howdahs, and either side the horsemen, the yellow Guards, and beyond a vast sea of brown faces; the walls flanking the Bright Gate were black with spectators, as were the buildings behind, with the great column of the Summum Boorj towering over all. The baying of the crowd rose again, and now there was a disturbance below my elephant, the yellow line of Guardsmen breaking to let in a wild figure who capered and waved to me: he was a burly Ghazi of a fellow, bandoliered and bearded to the eyebrows, yelling in Pushtu:
“Ai-ee, Bloody Lance! It is I, Shadman Khan! Remember me? Salaam, soldier, heep-heep-heep-hoorah!”
Well, I didn’t remember him, but plainly he was someone from the old days, so I lifted my lid again, calling: “Salaam, Shadman Khan!” and he shouted with delight and yelled, in English: “Stand fast, foortee-foorth!” – and in an instant I was looking down on the bloody snow over Gandamack, with the remnants of the 44th being cut down by the tribesmen swarming over their position … and I wondered which side he’d been on then. (I’ve since
remembered that there was a Shadman Khan among those ruffians who held me in Gul Shah’s dungeon, and yet another among the band who saved me from the Thugs at Jhansi in ’57 and stole our horses on the way to Cawnpore. I wonder if they were all the same man. It has no bearing on my present tale, anyway; it was just an incident at the Bright Gate. But I think it was the same man; everybody changed sides in the old days.)
Now there was a sudden hush, broken by the strains of sweet music, and out from the Bright Gate came a native band, followed by a tiny figure in cloth of gold, mounted on a white pony; a thunderous salaam rolled out from the waiting crowd: “Maharaj’! Maharaj’!” as little Dalip was lifted from his saddle by a richly-clad courtier whom I recognised with a shock as Jawaheer Singh. He seemed sober enough now, and I’ve never seen a man grin so eagerly as he perched Dalip on his shoulder and gestured to the crowd, inviting their acclaim. They roared willingly enough, but I detected an undertone of groans which I imagine were meant for Jawaheer himself. He mounted with Dalip to the first elephant, and then out from the gate stalks Gardner, staring grimly right and left, and followed by a party of his black robes, guarding a palkib beside which Mangla walked unveiled. It stopped, and she drew the curtains and handed out the Maharani Jeendan: she was all in shimmering white, and although she wore a gauzy purdah veil I believe I’d have recognised that hourglass figure anywhere. She’d got over her drunk, by the looks of it, for she walked steadily to the second elephant, and Gardner handed her up to an absolute bellow of cheering – there’s no doubt about it, all the world loves Nell Gwynn. Mangla mounted beside her, and then Gardner stepped back and surveyed the procession, your good bodyguard alert for trouble. His eye passed over me and lingered for a moment on Jassa; then he had given the signal, the band struck up a march, the elephant lurched and bellowed beneath us, and off we swayed with a great creaking of harness and jingling of outriders, while the mob roared again and the dust swirled up from the tramp of the Guardsmen.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 108
