“Sweep them as you swept them at Ferozeshah and Moodkee?” cries Jeendan. “Aye, there was a fine sweeping – my waiting women could have swept as heartily!” She waited, head thrown back, for the effect of this. Imam stood in silent anger, and she went on: “Goolab has sent you supplies enough – why, every wheat-porter in Kashmir makes an endless train from Jumoo to the river, laden –”
She was drowned in a roar of derision from the five hundred, and Imam advanced a yard to bawl his answer. “Aye, in single file, on pain of mutilation by the Golden Hen, who makes a brave show of assistance, but sends not breakfast for a bird! Chiria-ki-hazri! That’s what we get from Goolab Singh! If he wishes us well, let him come and lead us, in place of that bladder of lard you made our general! Bid him come, kunwari – a word from you, and he’ll be in the saddle for Sobraon!”
Uproar followed – “Goolab! Goolab! Give us the Dogra for general!” – but still they kept their ranks.
“Goolab is under the heel of the Malki lat, and you know it!” snaps Jeendan. “Even so, there are those among you who would make him Maharaja – my loyal Khalsa!” There was silence on the instant. “You send him ambassadors, they tell me … aye, in breach of your sacred oath! You whine for food on the one hand, and make treason on the other – you, the Khalsa, the Pure …” And she reviled them in fishwife terms, as she had at Maian Mir, until Gardner stepped swifty forward and caught her by the arm. She shook him off, but took the hint – and none too soon, for beyond the screen the five hundred were fingering their hilts, and Imam was black with fury.
“That is a lie, kunwari! No man here would serve Goolab as Maharaja – but he can fight, by God! He does not skulk in his tent, like Tej, or flee like your bed-man Lal! He can lead – so let him lead us! To Delhi! To victory!”
She let the shouting die, and spoke in a cold voice, ringing with scorn: “I have said I will not have Goolab Singh – and he will not have you! Who’s to blame him? Are you worth having, you heroes who strut out to battle with your banners and brave songs – and crawl back whimpering that you are hungry? Can you do nothing but complain –”
“We can fight!” roars a voice, and in a moment they were echoing it, stirring forward in their ranks, shaking their fists, some even weeping openly. They’d come for supplies, and what they were getting was shame and insult. Keep a civil tongue in your head, can’t you, I was whispering, for it was plain they’d had their fill of her abuse. “Give us guns! Give us powder and shot!”
“Powder and shot!” cries Jeendan, and for a moment I thought she was going to be out and at them. “Did I not give you both, and to spare? Arms and food and great guns – never was such an army seen in Hindoostan! And what did you make of it? The food you’ve guzzled, the British have your great guns, and the arms you flung away, doubtless, as you ran cheeping like mice – from what? From a tired old man in a white coat with a handful of red-faced infidels and Bengali sweepers!”
Her voice rose to a shriek as she faced the curtain, fists clenched, face contorted, and foot stamping – and beside me Jassa gasped and Mangla gave a little sob as we saw the ranks of the five hundred start forward, and there was steel glittering amongst them. She’d gone too far, the drunken slut, for Imam Shah was on the dais, the Khalsa coats were surging behind him, shouting with rage, Gardner was turning to snap an order, the Muslim muskets were dropping to the present – and Jeendan was fumbling beneath her skirt, swearing like a harpy, there was a rending of cloth, and in an instant she had whirled her petticoat into a ball and hurled it over the screen. It fell at Imam’s feet, draping over his boot – there was no doubting what it was, and in the shocked silence her voice rang out:
“Wear that, you cowards! Wear it, I say! Or I’ll go in trousers and fight myself!”
It was as though they’d been stricken by a spell. While you could count ten there wasn’t a sound. I see them yet – an Akali, his sword half-out, poised like a gladiator’s statue; Imam Shah staring down at the scarlet shift; the old rissaldar-major, mouth open, hands raised in dismay; little Dalip like a graven image on his throne; the mass of men still as death, staring at the screen – and then Imam Shah picked up the golden standard, raised it, and shouted in a voice of thunder:
“Dalip Singh Maharaja! We go to die for your kingdom! We go to die for the Khalsa-ji!” Then he added, almost in a whisper, though it carried round the hall: “We will go to the sacrifice.”
He thrust the standard into the rissaldar-major’s hand – and in that moment, unprompted, little Dalip stood up. A second’s pause, and the whole five hundred roared: “Maharaja! Maharaja! Khalsa-ji!” Then they turned as one man and marched out of the open double doors behind them. Gardner was at the corner of the screen in four quick strides, staring after them, then coming out to take Dalip’s hand. Behind the purdah, Jeendan yawned, shook her red hair and stirred her shoulders as though to ease them, took a deep drink, and began to straighten her sari.
Now that is exactly what I saw, and so did Alick Gardner, as his memoirs testify – and neither of us can explain it. Those Khalsa fanatics, stung to madness by her insults, would have rushed the purdah and cut her down, I’m certain, and been slaughtered by the Muslims; God knows what would have followed. But she threw her petticoat at them, and they went out like lambs, prepared to do or die. “Intuition” on her part, Gardner calls it; very well, it did the business. Mind you, young Dalip stood up at exactly the right time.43
Jassa was breathing relief, and Mangla was smiling. Below us came a series of thunderous crashes as the Muslims ordered arms and began to file out of the chamber. Little Dalip was behind the purdah, being enfolded in Mama’s tipsy embrace, but Gardner had disappeared. Mangla touched my arm, and signing to Jassa to wait, led me up to the rose boudoir – I felt exhausted even looking at it – and through to the passage beyond and a little room which I guessed must be the schoolroom of Dalip and his playfellows, for there were half a dozen little desks, and a blackboard, and even a globe, and fairy-tale pictures on the walls. There she left me, and a moment later Gardner strode in, breathing fire and wonder.
“You saw that just now? Goddam, but that woman’s a bearcat for nerve – a bearcat, sir! Petticoats, by thunder! I wouldn’t ha’ credited it! Sometimes I think …” He paused, eyeing me with a curious frown. “… I think she’s a mite de-ranged, what with drink and … well, no matter. And George Broadfoot’s dead? Well, that’s hard hearing. You didn’t see it? Well, you have one as good in Henry Lawrence, let me tell you that. Maybe even better, as an Agent. Not a better man, mind you. No, sir, they don’t come better than the Black-coated Infidel.”
He was standing, arms akimbo, staring at the floor, and I sensed disturbance – not because he hadn’t greeted me, or made reference to my recent adventures, for that was never his style. But there was something on his mind, for all that he tried to cover it with a show of briskness.
“It’s past four, and you and Josiah must be clear of the gates before six. You’ll go as you came, bearing the palki, but this time Dalip will be your freight, dressed as a girl. My subedar will have the palace gate, so you’ll be clear there. Once beyond the Rushnai, keep to the doab, due south-east, and dawn should see you at Jupindar – it’s about forty miles, and not on the map, but you’ll see it clear enough. It’s a big cluster of black rocks, among low hillocks, the only ones for miles around. There you’ll be met –”
“By whom? Our people? Gough wanted to –”
“By sure people.” He gave me a hard stare. “All you need do is get that far – and I don’t have to tell you that you’re carrying the Punjab on your back. Whoever gets that boy, it must not be the Khalsa, mallum? He’s a good little horseman, by the way, so you can keep up the pace. Dawn, at Jupindar, mind that. Due south-east and you’ll fall over it.”
For the first time, I felt excitement rather than fear. He had it pat, and it would do. We were going to bring it off.
“What else?” says he. “Ah, yes, one thing … Dr Josiah Harl
an. I gave him a bad name to you, and he deserved every word. But I allow he’s played a straight hand this time, and I incline to revise my opinion. That being the case, you’d better keep a closer eye on him than ever. Well, that’s all, I guess …” He paused, avoiding my eye. “Once you’ve paid your respects to the Maharani … you can be off.”
Now there was something up. Gardner uneasy was a sight I’d never thought to see, but he was scratching his grizzled beard and keeping his face averted, and I felt a strange foreboding. He cleared his throat.
“Ah … did Mangla say nothing to you? No, well … oh, dooce take it!” He looked me full in the face. “Mai Jeendan wants to marry you! There, now!”
Heaven knows why, my first reaction was to look in the mirror on the classroom wall. A fierce-eyed Khyberie ruffian stared back at me, which was no help. Nor was my recollection of what I looked like when civilised. And possibly the Punjab had exhausted my capacity for astonishment, for once the first shock of that amazing proposal had been absorbed, I felt nothing but immense gratification – after all, it’s one thing to win a maiden heart, and very fine, but when a man-eater who’s sampled the best from Peshawar to Poona cries “Eureka!” over you, well, it’s no wonder if you glance at the mirror. At the same time, it’s quite a facer, and my first words, possibly instinctive, were:
“Christ, she ain’t pregnant, is she?”
“How the devil should I know?” cries Gardner, astonished. “On my word! Now, sir, I’ve told you! So there you are!”
“Well, she can’t! I’m married, dammit!”
“I know that – but she does not, and it’s best she should not … for the moment.” He glared at me, and took a turn round the room, while I sank on to one of the infants’ stools, which gave way beneath me. Gardner swore, yanked me to my feet, and thrust me into the teacher’s chair.
“See here, Mr Flashman,” says he, “this is how it is. Mai Jeendan is a woman of strange character and damned irregular habits, as you’re well aware – but she’s no fool. For years now she’s had it in mind to marry a British officer, as security for herself and her son’s throne. Well, that’s sound policy, especially now when Britain’s hand is on the Punjab. For months past – this is sober truth – her agents in India have been sending her portraits of eligible men. She’s even had young Hardinge’s likeness in her boudoir, God help me! As you know, she has your own – well, ’twas the only one she took to Amritsar, and the rest (a score of ’em) have been with the lumber ever since.”
Nothing to say to that, of course. I kept a straight face, and he took station in front of me, mighty stern.
“Very well, it’s impossible. You have a wife, and even if you hadn’t, I dare say you’d not care to pass your days as consort to an Eastern queen. Myself, while I admire her many good qualities,” says he with feeling, “I’d not hitch with Jeendan for all the cotton in Dixie, so help me Hannah! But she has a deep fondness for you – and this is no time to blight that affection! Northern India’s in the balance, and she’s the pivot – steady enough, but not to be disturbed … in any way.” He stooped suddenly and seized my wrist, staring into my eyes, grim as a frost giant. “So when you see her presently … you will not disappoint her hopes. Oh, she’ll make no direct proposal – that’s not Punjabi royal style. But she’ll sound you out – probably offer you employment in Sikh service, for after the war – with a clear hint of her intentions … to all of which you’d best give eager assent – for all our sakes, especially your own. Hell hath no fury, you remember.” He let go, straightening up. “I guess you know how to …”
“Jolly her along? Oh, aye … by God, it’s a rum go, though! What’ll happen later, when she finds I ain’t a starter?”
“The war’ll be over then, and it won’t signify,” says he bleakly. “I dare say she’ll get over it. Dirty game, politics … she’s a great woman, you know, drunk and all as she is. You ought to be flattered. By the by, have you any aristocratic kinfolk?”
“My mother was a Paget.”
“Is that high style? Better make her a duchess, then. Mai Jeendan likes to think that you’re a lord – after all, she was once married to a Maharaja.”44
As it happened, my lineage, aristocratic and otherwise, was not discussed in the rose boudoir, mainly because there wasn’t time. When Gardner had spoken of not disappointing her, I’d supposed (and have no doubt that he meant) that I must not dash her hopes of becoming Mrs Flashman; accordingly, I bowled in prepared for an exchange of nods and becks and coy blushes on her part, and ardent protestations on mine. Only when I stood blinking in the dark, and two plump arms encircled me from behind, that familiar drunken chuckle sounded in my ear, and she turned up the lamp to reveal herself clad only in oil and bangles, did I suspect that further proof of my devotion was required. “I liked you better shaven,” whispers she (which settled that), and Dalip or no Dalip, there was nothing for it but to give eager consent, as Gardner had put it. Luckily she was no protractor of the capital act, as I knew, and I didn’t even need to take my boots off; a quick plunge round the room, horse artillery style, and she was squealing her soul out, and then it was back to the wine-cup and exhausted ecstatic sighs, mingled with tipsy murmurs about the loneliness of widowhood and what bliss it would be to have a man about the house again … fairly incoherent, you understand, but not to be misunderstood, so I responded with rapturous endearments.
“You will abide with me always?” whispers she, nuzzling in, and I said I’d like to see anyone stop me, just. Did I love her truly? Well, to be sure I did. She muttered something about writing to Hardinge, and I thought, by George, that’ll spoil his toast and coffee for him, no error, but mostly it was fond drunken babble and clinging kisses, before she turned over and began to snore.
Well, that’s that, and you’ve done your duty, thinks I, as I repaired the sweet disorder in my dress and slid out – with a last backward glance at that jolly rump glistening in the lamplight. I imagined, you see, that I was looking my last on her, and I do like to carry away happy memories – but twenty minutes later, when Jassa and I were fretting impatiently in the schoolroom, and Gardner was damning Mangla’s tardiness in bringing young Dalip, in comes a waiting woman to say that the kunwari and the Maharaja were awaiting us in her drawing-room. This was a fine apartment close by the boudoir, and there was the Mother of All Sikhs, enthroned in her armchair, as respectable a young matron as ever you saw, and not more than half-soused; how the deuce she’d got into parade order in the time was beyond me.
She was soothing young Dalip, who was standing by in a black fury and a child’s sari, with veil and bangles and a silk shawl round his small shoulders.
“Don’t look at me!” cries he, turning his face away, and she petted him and kissed away his tears, whispering that he must be a Maharaja, for he was going among the White Queen’s soldiers, and must do credit to his house and people.
“And this goes with you, the symbol of your kingship,” says she, and held out a silver locket, with the great Koh-i-Noor glittering in a bed of velvet. She closed the case and hung its chain about his neck. “Guard it well, dearest, for it was your father’s treasure, and remains your people’s honour.”
“With my life, mama,” sobs he, and hung upon her neck. She wept a little, holding him close, and then stood up and led him to me.
“Flashman sahib will take care of you,” says she, “so mind you obey him in all things. Farewell, my little prince, my own darling.” She kissed him and put his hand in mine. “God speed you, sahib – until we meet again.” She extended a hand, and I kissed it; one warm, glassy look she gave me, with that little curl of her thick lips; she was swaying slightly, and her waiting woman had to step lively to steady her.
Then Gardner was bustling us away, with Jassa carrying Dalip for greater speed, and it was bundle-and-go down to the palki in the little court, with Mangla at my elbow insisting that his majesty must eat no oranges, for they gave him the trots, and here was a lotion for the rash o
n his arm, and a letter for the governess who must be engaged for him in India – “a Kashmiri lady, gentle and well-read, if one can be found, but not some stern English mem-sahib, for he is but a little fellow; I have written of his diet and his lessons.” Kidnapping ain’t just a matter of lifting the infant, you see, and on my other side Gardner was snarling that the gates would be closing in half an hour. We bundled Dalip into the palki, and now he was blubbering that he didn’t want to go, and clinging to Mangla, and Gardner was fuming while two of his black robes scouted ahead to see that all was clear, and Jassa and I got between the shafts, and Mangla kissed me quickly on the cheek, leaving a drift of perfume as she hurried away, and Gardner turned to me in the fading light of the little court.
“Due south-east, forty miles, Jupindar rocks,” snaps he. “I guess we won’t see you in Lahore again, Mr Flashman. If I was you, I’d stay well south of the Sutlej for the next fifty years or so. And that goes double for you, Josiah – you stretched your luck, doctor; come nigh me again and I’m liable to snap it for you! Jao!”
“Yes, you an’ the Continental Congress!” retorts Jassa. “Go change your sentries, Gardner – that’s your sort!”
“Jao, I say!” growls Gardner, and the last I remember of him is the brown hawk face with its fierce moustache, twisted in a sour grin under the tartan puggaree.
We came down to the Buggywalla Doudy just as the sun was dipping behind the Badshai Musjit mosque, through the bustling noisy crowds all unaware that the two stalwart palki-bearers were spiriting their ruler away to the enemy, and him moping fretfully behind the curtains in his little sari and bangles. Ahmed Shah was in a foul humour because he’d had to sell two of our beasts, leaving only five besides our own screws, which meant only one remount for the four of us. We slung the palki between two of the led horses, and when I put my head in to see how Dalip did, he whimpered something piteous.
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