The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  If you wonder why I continued to lie there, it was part exhaustion, but mostly caution. I knew there must be some survivors on my side of the water, doubtless full of spleen and resentment, and I’d no wish to meet them. There was no sound from the reserve positions behind me, and I imagined the Sikh gunners had taken their leave, but I wasn’t stirring until I was sure of a clear coast and friends at hand. I doubted if our lot would cross the river today; John Company would be dog-tired, binding his wounds, taking off his boots, and thanking God that was the end of it.

  For it was over now, no question. In most wars, you see, killing is only the means to a political end, but in the Sutlej campaign it was an end in itself. The war had been fought to destroy the Khalsa, root and branch, and the result was lying in uncounted thousands on the banks below Sobraon. The Sikh rulers and leaders had engineered it, John Company had executed it … and the Khalsa had gone to the sacrifice. Well, salaam Khalsa-ji. Sat-sree-akal. High time, mind you.

  “For that little boy. And for their salt.” Gardner’s words came back to me as I lay on that sandy ledge, letting the pictures of memory have their way, as they will on the edge of sleep … the bearded faces of those splendid battalions, in review at Maian Mir, and swinging down to the war through the Moochee Gate … Imam Shah staring down at the petticoat draped across his boot … Maka Khan grim and straight while the panches roared behind him … “To Delhi! To London!” … that raging Akali, arm outflung in denunciation … Sardul Singh shouting with excitement as we rode to the river … the old rissaldar-major, tears streaming down his face …

  … and a red and gold houri wantoning it in her durbar, teasing them in her cups, cajoling them, winning them, so that she could betray them to this butchery … standing half-naked above the bleeding rags of her brother’s body, sword in hand … “I will throw the snake in your bosom!” Well, she’d done all of that. Jawaheer was paid for.

  And if you ask me what she’d have thought if she could have gazed into some magic crystal that day, and seen the result of her handiwork along the banks of the Sutlej … well, I reckon she’d have smiled, drunk another slow draught, stretched, and called in Rai and the Python.

  Chapter 18

  They say ten thousand Khalsa died in the Sutlej. Well, I didn’t mind, and I still don’t. They started it, and hell mend them, as old Colin Campbell used to say. And if you tell me that every man’s death diminishes me, I’ll retort that it diminishes him a hell of a sight more, and if he’s a Khalsa Sikh, serve him right.

  Knowing me, you won’t marvel at my callousness, but you may wonder why Paddy Gough, as kindly an old stick as ever patted a toddler’s head, hammered ’em so mercilessly when they were beat and running. Well, he had good reasons, one being that you don’t let up on a courageous adversary until he hollers “Uncle!”, which the Sikhs ain’t inclined to do – and I wouldn’t trust ’em if they did. Nor do you feel much charity towards an enemy who never takes prisoners, and absolutely enjoys chopping up wounded, as happened at Sobraon and Ferozeshah both. Even if Gough had wanted to stop the slaughter, I doubt if anyone would have heeded him.50

  But the best reason for murdering the Khalsa was that if enough of the brutes had escaped, the whole beastly business would have been to do again, with consequent loss of British and Sepoy lives. That’s something the moralists overlook (or more likely don’t give a dam about) when they cry: “Pity the beaten foe!” What they’re saying, in effect, is: “Kill our fellows tomorrow rather than the enemy today.” But they don’t care to have it put to them like that; they want their wars won clean and comfortable, with a clear conscience. (Their consciences being much more precious than their own soldiers’ lives, you understand.) Well, that’s fine, if you’re sitting in the Liberal Club with a bellyful of port on top of your dinner, but if you rang the bell and it was answered not by a steward with a napkin but an Akali with a tulwar, you might change your mind. Distance always lends enlightenment to the view, I’ve noticed.

  Being uncomfortable close, myself, my one concern when I’d slept the night away was to slide out in safety and rejoin the army. The difficulty was that when I crawled out of my refuge and stood up, I tumbled straight down again and almost rolled over the ledge. I had another go, with the same result, and realised that my head ached, I felt shockingly ill and dizzy, I was sweating like an Aden collier, and some infernal Sutlej bug was performing a polka in my lower bowels. Dysentery, in fact, which can be anything from fatal to a damned nuisance, but even at best leaves you weak as a rat, which is inconvenient when the nearest certain help is twenty miles away. For while I could hear our bugles playing Charlie, Charlie across the river, I wasn’t fit to holler above a whimper, let alone swim.

  By moving mostly on hands and knees I made a cautious scout of the emplacements on the bank behind me; luckily they were empty, the Sikh reserve having decamped, taking their guns with them. But that was small consolation, and I was considering the wild notion of crawling down to the corpse-littered bank, finding a piece of timber, and floating down to Ferozepore ghat, when out of the dawn mist came the prettiest sight I’d seen that year – the blue tunics and red puggarees of a troop of Native Cavalry, with a pink little cornet at their head. I waved and yelped feebly, and when I’d convinced him that I wasn’t a fugitive gorrachar’ and received the inevitable, heart-warming response (“Not Flashman – Flashman of Afghanistan, surely? Well, bless me!”) we got along famously.

  They were 8th Lights from Grey’s division which had been watching the river at Attaree, and had been ordered across the previous night as soon as Gough knew he had the battle won. More of our troops were invading over the Ferozepore ghat and Nuggur Ford, for Paddy was in a sweat to secure the northern bank and tidy up the remnants of the Khalsa before they could get up to mischief. Ten thousand had got away from Sobraon, with all their reserve guns, and there were rumoured to be another twenty thousand up Amritsar way, as well as the hill garrisons – far more than we had in the field ourselves.

  “But they ain’t worth a button now!” cries my pink lad. “The shave is that their sirdars have hooked it, and they’re quite without supplies or ammunition. And the hidin’ they got yesterday will have knocked all the puff out of ’em, I dare say,” he added regretfully. “I say, were you in the thick of it? Lor’, don’t I just wish I’d had your luck! Of all the beastly sells, to be ploddin’ up an’ down on river patrol, and not so much as a smell of a Sikh the whole time! What I’d give for a cut at the rascals!”

  Between his babble and having to totter into the bushes every half-mile while the troop tactfully looked the other way, I was in poor trim by the time we reached Nuggur Ford, where they slung me a hammock in a makeshift hospital basha, and a native medical orderly filled me with jalap. I gave my little fire-eater a note to be forwarded to Lawrence, wherever he was, describing my whereabouts and condition, and after a couple of days in that mouldering hovel, watching the lizards scuttle along the musty beams and wishing I were dead, received the following reply:

  Political Department,

  Camp, Kussoor.

  February 13, 1846.

  My dear Flashman – I rejoice that you are safe, and trust that when this reaches you, your indisposition will have mended sufficiently to enable you to join me here without delay. The matter is urgent. Yrs & c, H. M. Lawrence.

  It gave me qualms, I can tell you; “urgent matters” were the last thing I needed just then. But it was reassuring, too, for there was no reference to my Dalip fiasco, and I guessed that Goolab had lost no time in advising Lawrence and Hardinge that he was looking after the lad like a mother hen. Still, I hadn’t covered myself with glory, and knowing Hardinge’s dislike of me it was surprising to find myself in such demand; I’d have thought he’d be happy to keep me at arm’s length until the peace settlement was concluded. I knew too much about the whole Punjabi mischief for anyone’s comfort, and now that they’d be patching it all up to mutual satisfaction and profit, with lofty humbug couched in fa
ir terms, neither side would want to be reminded of all the intrigue and knavery that had been consummated at Moodkee and Ferozeshah and Sobraon; things would be easier all round if the prime agent in the whole foul business wasn’t leering coyly at the back of the durbar tent when they signed the peace.

  And it wasn’t just that I’d be a spectre at the diplomatic feast. I suspected that Hardinge’s aversion to me was rooted in a feeling that I spoiled the picture he had in mind of the whole Sikh War. My face didn’t fit; it was a blot on the landscape, all the more disfiguring because he knew it belonged there. I believe he dreamed of some noble canvas, for exhibition in the great historic gallery of public approval – a true enough picture, mind you, of British heroism and faith unto death in the face of impossible odds; aye, and of gallantry by that stubborn enemy who died on the Sutlej. Well, you know what I think of heroism and gallantry, but I recognise ’em as only a born coward can. But they would be there, rightly, on the noble canvas, with Hardinge stern and forbearing, planting a magisterial boot on a dead Sikh and raising a penitent, awe-struck Dalip by the hand, while Gough (off to one side) addressed heaven with upraised sword before a background of cannon-smoke and resolute Britons bayoneting gnashing niggers and Mars and Mother India floating overhead in suitable draperies. Dam’ fine.

  Well, you can’t mar a spectacle like that with a Punch cartoon border of Flashy rogering dusky damsels and spying and conniving dirty deals with Lal and Tej, can you now?

  However, Lawrence’s summons had to be obeyed, so I struggled from my bed of pain, removed my beard, obtained a clean set of civilian linens, hastened down to Ferozepore by river barge, and tooled up to Kussoor looking pale and interesting, with a cushion on my saddle.

  While I’d been laid up with the dolorous skitters, Gough and Hardinge had been prosecuting the peace with vigour. Paddy had the whole army north of the Sutlej within three days of Sobraon, and Lawrence had been in touch with Goolab, who now figured it was safe to accept openly the Wazirship which the Khalsa had been pressing on him, and come forward to negotiate on their behalf. There were still upward of thirty thousand of them under arms, you remember, and Hardinge was on fire to come to terms before the brutes could work up a new head of steam. For it was a ticklish position, politically: we simply hadn’t the men and means, as Paddy had pointed out, to conquer the Punjab; what was needed was a treaty that would give us effective control, dissolve the last remnants of the Khalsa, and keep Goolab, Jeendan, and the rest of the noble scavengers content. So Hardinge, with a speed and zeal which would have been useful months ago, had his terms cut and dried and ready to shove down Goolab’s throat a mere five days after the war ended.

  Kussoor lies a bare thirty miles from Lahore, and Hardinge had installed himself and his retinue in tents near the old town, with the army encamped on the plain around. As I trotted through the lines I could feel that air of contented elation that comes at the end of a campaign: the men are tired, and would like to sleep for a year, but they don’t want to miss the warm feeling of survival and comradeship, so they lie blinking in the sun, or rouse themselves to skylark and play leapfrog. I remember the Lancers at baseball, and a young gunner sitting on a limber, licking his pencil and writing to the dictation of a farrier-sergeant with his arm in a sling: “… an’ tell Sammy ’is Dad ’as got a Sikh sword wot ’e shall ’ave if ’e’s bin good, an’ a silk shawl for ’is Mum – stay, make that ’is dear Mum an’ my best gel …” Sepoys were at drill, groups of fellows in vests and overalls were boiling their billies on the section fires, the long tent-lines and ruined mosques drowsed in the heat, the bugles sounded in the distance, the reek of native cooking wafted down from the host of camp-followers, fifty thousand of them, camped beyond the artillery park, somewhere a colour sergeant was waking the echoes, and a red-haired ruffian with a black eye was tied to a gun-wheel for field punishment, exchanging genial abuse with his mates. I stopped for a word with Bob Napier the sapper,51 who had his easel up and was painting a Bengali sowar sweating patiently in full fig of blue coat, red sash, and white breeches, but took care to avoid Gravedigger Havelock, who sat reading outside his tent (the Book of Job, most likely). It was all calm and lazy; after sixty days of fire and fury, in which they’d held the gates of India, the Army of the Sutlej was at peace.

  They’d earned it. There were 1400 fewer of them than there had been, and 5000 wounded in the Ferozepore barracks; against that, they’d killed 16,000 Punjabis and broken the best army east of Suez. There was a great outcry at home, by the way, over our losses; having seen the savagery of two of the four battles, and knowing the quality of the enemy, I’d say we were lucky the butcher’s bill was so small – with Paddy in charge it was nothing short of a miracle.

  If there was an unbuttoned air about the troops, headquarters resembled Horse Guards during a fire alarm. Hardinge had just issued a proclamation to say that the war was over, it had all been the Sikhs’ fault, we desired no extension of territory and were fairly bursting with pacific forbearance, but if the local rulers didn’t co-operate to rescue the state from anarchy, H.M.G. would have to make “other arrangements”, so there. In consequence, messengers scurried, clerks sweated, armies of bearers ran about with everything from refreshments to furniture, and bouquets of new young aides lounged about looking bored. No doubt I’m uncharitable, but I’ve noticed that as soon as the last shot’s fired, platoons of these exquisites arrive as by magic, vaguely employed, haw-hawing fortissimo, pinching the gin to make “cock-tails”, and stinking of pomade. There was a group outside Lawrence’s tent, all guffaws and fly-whisks.

  “I say, you, feller,” says one. “Can’t go in there. Major ain’t receivin’ civilians today.”

  “Oh, please, sir,” says I, uncovering, “it’s most awfully important, you know.”

  “If you’re sellin’ spirits,” says he, “go an’ see the – what d’ye call him, Tommy? Oh, yaas, the khansamah – the butler to you, Snooks.”

  “Who shall I say sent me?” says I, humbly. “Major Lawrence’s door-keepers?”

  “Mind your manners, my man!” cries he. “Who the devil are you, anyway?”

  “Flashman,” says I, and enjoyed seeing them gape. “No, no, don’t get up – you might land on your arse. And speaking of butlers, why don’t you go and help Baxu polish the spoons?”

  I felt better after that, and better still when Lawrence, at first sight of me, dismissed his office-wallahs and shook hands as though he meant it. He was leaner and more harassed than ever, in his shirt-sleeves at a table littered with papers and maps, but he listened intently to the recital of my adventures (in which I made no mention whatever of Jassa), and dismissed my failure to deliver Dalip as of no account. “Not your fault,” snaps he, in his curt style. “Goolab writes that the boy is well – that’s all that matters. Anyway, that’s past. My concern is the future – and what I have to tell you is under the rose. Clear?” He fixed me with that gimlet eye, pushed out his lantern jaw, and pitched in.

  “Sir Henry Hardinge doesn’t like you, Flashman. He thinks you’re a whippersnapper, too independent, and careless of authority. Your conduct in the war – with which I’m well pleased, let me tell you – doesn’t please him. ‘Broadfoot antics’, you understand. I may tell you that when he learned that Goolab had got the boy, he spoke of court-martialling you. Even wondered if you had acted in collusion with Gardner. That’s the curse of Indian politics, they make you suspect everyone. Anyway, I soon disabused him.” For an instant I’ll swear the dour horse face was triumphant, then he was glowering again. “At all events, he doesn’t care for you, or regard you as reliable.”

  My own sentiments about Hardinge exactly, but I held my peace.

  “Now, Goolab Singh comes here tomorrow, to learn the treaty terms – and I’m sending you to meet him and conduct him into camp. That’s why I summoned you. You have the old fox’s confidence, if anyone does, and I wish that to be seen and known. Especially by Sir Henry. He mayn’t like it, but I want him
to understand that you are necessary. Is that clear?”

  I said it was, but why?

  “Because when this treaty is settled – I can’t tell you the terms; they’re secret until Goolab hears them – it is likely that a British presence will be required at Lahore, with a Resident, to keep the durbar on a tight rein. I’ll be that Resident – and I want you as my chief assistant.”

  Coming from the great Henry, I guess it was as high a compliment as Wellington’s handshake, or one of Elspeth’s ecstatic moans. But it was so unexpected, and ridiculous, that I almost laughed aloud.

  “That’s why I’m putting you forward now. Goolab will be the éminence grise, and if he is seen to respect and trust you, it will help me to win the G.G. over to your appointment.” He gave a sour grin. “They don’t call us politicals for nothing. I’ll have to persuade Currie, too, and the rest of the Calcutta wallahs. But I’ll manage it.”

  When I think of the number of eminent men – and women – who have taken me at face value, and formed a high opinion of my character and abilities, it makes me tremble for my country’s future. I mean, if they can’t spot me as a wrong ’un, who can they spot? Still, it’s pleasant to be well thought of, and has made my fortune, at the expense of some hellish perils – and minor difficulties such as conveying tactfully to Henry Lawrence that I wouldn’t have touched his disgusting proposal with a long pole. My prime reason being that I was sick to loathing of India, and the service, the Sikhs, and bloody carnage and deadly danger, and being terrified and bullied and harried and used, when all I wanted was the fleshpots of home, and bulling Elspeth and civilised women, and never to stir out of England again. I daren’t tell him that, but fortunately there was a way out.