The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “That’s most kind of you, sir,” says I. “I’m honoured, ’deed I am. But I’m afraid I have to decline.”

  “What’s that you say?” He was bristling in an instant; ready to fight with his own shadow if it contradicted him, was H.M.L.

  “I can’t stay in the Punjab, sir. And now that the war’s over, I intend to go home.”

  “Do you indeed? And may I ask why?” He was fairly boiling.

  “It’s not easy to explain, sir. I’d take it as a favour … if you’d just allow me to decline – with regret, I assure you –”

  “I’ll do no such thing! Can’t stay in the Punjab, indeed!” He calmed abruptly, eyeing me. “Is this because of Hardinge?”

  “No, sir, not at all. I’m simply applying to be sent home.”

  He sat back, tapping a finger. “You’ve never shirked – so there must be a good reason for this … this nonsense! Come, man – what is it? Out with it!”

  “Very well, sir – since you press me.” I figured it was time to explode my mine. “The fact is, you ain’t the only one who wants me at Lahore. There is a lady there … who has intentions – honourable, of course – and … well, it won’t do, you see. She’s –”

  “Good God!” I’m probably the only man who ever made Henry Lawrence take the name of the Lord in vain. “Not the Maharani?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s made it perfectly plain, I’m afraid. And I’m married, you know.” For some reason, God knows what, I added: “Mrs Flashman wouldn’t like it a bit.”

  He didn’t say anything for about three minutes – d’you know, I’m sure the blighter was absolutely wondering what advantage there might be to having the Queen Mother of the Punjab panting for his assistant. They’re all alike, these blasted politicals. Finally, he shook his head, and said he took my point, but while it ruled out Lahore, there was no reason why I should not be employed elsewhere –

  “No, sir,” says I, firmly. “I’m going home. If necessary, I’ll sell out.” Perhaps it was that I hadn’t got over my illness, but I was sick and tired and ready for a stand-up fight if he wanted one. I think he sensed it, for he became quite reasonable, and said he would see to it. He wasn’t a bad chap, you know, and quite half-human, as he showed towards the end of our conversation.

  “I can see that you might furnish me with material for another romantic novel,” says he, looking whimsical. “Tell me: is the lady as personable as they say?”

  He wasn’t the only one to ask me that kind of question. It has been my fate to make the acquaintance of several mysterious beauties who excited the randy interest of my superiors – I recall Elgin going quite pink with curiosity about the Empress of China, and the gleam in the eyes of Colin Campbell and Hugh Rose when they cross-examined me about the Rani of Jhansi. Lincoln and Palmerston, too. I told Lawrence she was a little stunner, but given to alcoholic excess, and on no account to be trusted – political information, you see, but no lascivious details. He said he’d be interested to meet her, and I advised him that Gardner was his man.52

  “You’ll conduct Goolab Singh, at least,” says he, which I didn’t mind, since it was sure to infuriate Hardinge, and the next afternoon found me trotting out along the Lahore road, in uniform again, to meet the elephant train bringing the Khalsa emissaries down from Loolianee. Lawrence had told me that they were to be shown no ceremony, and I should wait about half a mile out and let them come to me, for form’s sake. But they halted a good mile from the town, and I could see the mahouts picketing the beasts and tents being raised for the sirdars, while a small body of gorracharra mounted guard about them; I continued to sit my pony, waiting, and presently I saw a solitary horseman cantering down towards me, and it was Goolab himself. He gave a wave and a great bellow of “Salaam, soldier!” as he drew rein alongside, grinning all over his rogue’s red face, and taking my hand. To my surprise he was wearing no armour or finery, only a simple robe and turban.

  “It is not for the envoy of a beaten foe to come in state and pride!” says he. “I am but a poor suppliant, seeking mercy from the Malki lat, and so I dress the part. And a single soldier comes to meet me – albeit a distinguished one. Ah, well, these are hard times.”

  I asked him where Dalip was. “In good hands. A wilful child, who shows me no respect; he has been too much among women, so doubtless they will be his downfall some day. Presently I shall bring him – leading him by the hand, remember?” He chuckled and looked sly. “But only when the treaty is agreed beyond peradventure; until then I keep the bird in my hand.”

  We were moving at a walk towards the Kussoor lines, for he seemed in no hurry; indeed, for a man bound on a delicate embassy he was uncommon carefree, joking and making small talk, with an air of great contentment. Only when I mentioned that I’d be going home in a day or two, did he rein up in astonishment.

  “But why? When fortune awaits you here? No – not that royal slut in Lahore Fort! Gurdana has told me of that; you would not be such a fool! As well mate with a krait. But in Kashmir, with me!” He was grinning and frowning together. “Did you doubt me, when I promised you a golden future yonder? Regiments to command, a general’s rank, lordships and revenues – Gurdana has accepted already! Aye, he leaves Lahore, to come to me! And why should not you? Is the Bloody Lance of Afghanistan less of a soldier than Gurdana, or that dog-dirt Harlan, who lorded it under Runjeet, or Avitabile and the rest?” He struck me on the shoulder. “And we have stood up together, you and I – and who stands with Goolab has a friend!”

  If that was how he remembered our scuffle in the Lahore alleys, let him – but wasn’t there a movement to recruit Flashy these days, just? Reputation and credit, there’s no currency to touch them. Lawrence, Goolab … even a queen setting her cap at me. Aye, but they ain’t home. I thanked him, explaining politely that I wasn’t a soldier of fortune, and he shook his head, threw up his great shoulders, and let it go. I asked him if he was so sure of getting Kashmir, and he said it was in the treaty. It was my turn to stare.

  “But the terms are secret – you don’t know ’em yet!”

  “Do I not? Oh, not from Lawence Sahib, or any of your people.” He rumbled with laughter. “Is this the Punjab, and shall I not know what passes? A treaty of sixteen articles, whereby the durbar will give up to Britain the Sutlej banks, and the Jullundur Doab, and keep only a kutch-a Khalsa of a mere 20,000 bayonets and 12,000 horse, and pay a mighty indemnity of a million and a half sterling …” He burst out laughing at my amazement. “You need not tell Lawrence Sahib and the Malki lat that I know it all – let them sleep at nights! But if you should, it is no matter – they will keep the bargain, because it is all they need – a rich province of the Punjab, to punish us and show the world the folly of challenging the Sirkar; a tiny, feeble Khalsa – oh, aye, to be commanded by that lion among warriors, Tej Singh, with Lal as Wazir; and a submissive durbar to do your bidding, with Dalip and his mother obedient puppets – handsomely subsidised, to be sure. So the Punjab remains free – but its mistress is the White Queen.”

  I didn’t doubt his information – in a land of spies there are no secrets. And it was the best of bargains for us: control without conquest. One thing, though, I couldn’t see.

  “How on earth is the Lahore durbar to pay a fine of a million and a half? They’re bankrupt, ain’t they?”

  “Assuredly. So, having no money, they will pay in kind – by ceding Kashmir and the hill country to the British.”

  “And we’ll give you Kashmir, for services rendered?”

  He sighed. “No … you will sell me Kashmir, for half a million. Your countrymen don’t overlook opportunities for profit. And they say the Jews are sharp! The price is not mentioned in the treaty – nor is another item which is to be surrendered as a token of Punjabi good faith and loyalty.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have heard of our Mountain of Light – Koh-i-Noor, the great diamond of Golconda? Well, that too is to be taken from us, as a trophy for your Queen.”


  “Ye don’t say? Her Majesty’s share of the loot, eh? Well, well!”

  “Let her have it,” says Goolab magnanimously. “To the strong, the prize. And to the patient, gold-bought slave … Kashmir.”

  Hardinge evidently hadn’t been warned that I was infesting headquarters again, for he started visibly when I ushered Goolab into the big durbar tent, and darted an indignant glance at Lawrence. There was a fine gallery, including Mackeson, who had narrowly lost the Agent’s post to Lawrence after Broadfoot’s death; Currie, the government secretary; and any number of “Calcutta wallahs”, as Lawrence had called them. As I presented “His Highness, the Raja Goolab Singh”, I could almost read Hardinge’s mind: conspiracy, he was thinking, the little bugger’s been wangling a 99-year lease on the Khyber Pass. He was all frost and dignity to Goolab, who truckled like a good ’un, leaning on a stick and making much of his gouty foot in the hope of being asked to sit, which he wasn’t; Hardinge returned his greeting with a formal statement conveying (but without saying so, for he was a dab hand at diplomatic chat) that the terms which he would shortly hear had been designed to cut the Punjab down to size, and they could think themselves lucky to get off so lightly. He then turned the old chief over to Currie and Lawrence, who would explain the treaty, and they took him off. Hardinge gave me another cold glare, and for a moment I thought he was going to address me, but he changed his mind; from the way the Calcutta toadies sniffed and eyed me askance I could see that the word was out that Flashy was a Bad Penny, so I lit a cheroot, hoping to be rebuked; I wasn’t, so I tooled out to take the air.

  Lawrence had told me that morning that I should go down to Umballa the following day (and so home, thank God!), so when I left the durbar I made a few calls, to collect letters and any trinkets that my comrades might want transported – quicker and safer than the Army post, you see. There was general lamentation at my departure (for as Thomas Hughes has told you, I had a gift of popularity), and dear old Paddy Gough absolutely called me into his command tent and insisted on my having a glass with him.

  “The best men always get kilt, or married, or retire!” says he, pledging me. “Ye’ve done the last two, Flashman, my son – here’s wishin’ you never do the first! Which reminds me – did ye give that neckercher back after Ferozeshah? Ye did nott, ye light-fingered young divil! Would ye believe it, Smith – a staff galloper that plunders his own gineral’s effects in the presence o’ the inimy? He did, though! Ye nivver saw the like o’ that in the Peninsula, I’ll be bound!”

  This was to Harry Smith, looking more like Wellington than usual. “Never trust a political,” says he. “Health, Flashman.” And as they drank, d’ye know, I felt quite moved, for Paddy had been having some conference or other, and his marquee was full of leading men – Joe Thackwell, and Gilbert with his arm in a sling from Sobraon, and the Gravedigger, and younger fellows like Edwardes, and Johnny Nicholson, and Rake Hodson, and Hope Grant. Well, ’tisn’t every day you have your health drunk by chaps like those.53

  Their talk was all of Sobraon, of course: the Gravedigger had had his fifth horse of the campaign shot out from under him, and Thackwell said they’d have to start charging him for remounts; Harry Smith said it was the fourth worst scrap he’d ever been in, the first three being Waterloo, Badajoz, and New Orleans, in that order, which set them arguing; old M’Gregor, the poultice-walloper, enthralled me with a charming dissertation on the different effects on the frame of a musket ball and a grapeshot, with a tasteful description of knee-wounds;54 and I made them laugh with my account of Tej Singh’s funkhole, and a modestly doctored version of my escape across the Sutlej.

  “An’ I thought it was just Sikhs we were shootin’ at!” cries Hodson. “Oh, Flashy, if only we’d known!”

  And in the midst of all the noise and laughter who should come mincing in but the little squirt of an aide with whom I’d bandied words outside Lawrence’s tent the day before. In that company you’d have thought he’d have slipped in quietly, but he was fresh from Eton or Addiscombe or one of those shops, for he marched straight up to Paddy’s table, took off his hat, and in a shrill voice asked permission to deliver a message from the Governor-General. No compliments, or anything of the sort, but Paddy, at ease with his glass, and supposing it was for him, told him to fire away. The squirt turned to me with a malicious glint in his eye.

  “Mr Flashman!” squeaks he, and as he spoke the chatter died away altogether. “Sir Henry Hardinge understands that you are leaving the Army of the Sutlej tomorrow. He instructs me to tell you that your services are no longer required on his personal staff, and that you are to consider yourself withdrawn from all military and political duties forthwith. I am also to remind you that smoking in the durbar tent is strictly prohibited.”

  There wasn’t a sound for a moment, except M’Gregor’s wheezing. Then someone said “Good God!” And I, dumbfounded by that deliberate insult, uttered in the presence of the flower of the Army, somehow found the wit to reply quietly.

  “My compliments to the Governor-General,” says I, “and my thanks for his courtesy. That’s all. You can go.”

  He couldn’t, though. While everyone, after a stunned pause, was talking to his neighbour loudly as though nothing had happened, the Gravedigger was looming over the squirt like an avenging angel.

  “Boy!” thunders he, and I’ll swear the lad quivered. “Are you lost to propriety? Are you unaware that a personal communication is delivered in private? Outside, sir, this instant! And when you have purged your insolence, you may return, to offer your apology to this officer, and to the Commander-in-Chief! Now – go!”

  “I was told –” pipes the oaf.

  “Do you defy me?” roars Havelock. “Go!”

  And he went, leaving me with my cheeks burning, and black rage inside me. To be spoken to, in that company, by a niddering green from the nursery, and not a thing to be done about it. But it couldn’t have happened before better men; in a moment they were laughing and prosing away, and Gough gave me a grin and a shake of the head. Harry Smith got to his feet, and as he passed out he clapped my arm and whispered: “Hardinge never intended that, you know.” And Johnny Nicholson and Hodson rallied round, and M’Gregor told a joke about amputations.

  Looking back, I don’t blame Hardinge, altogether. With all his faults, he knew what was fitting, and I don’t doubt that, in his irritation at seeing me to the fore with Goolab, he had muttered something like: “That damned pup is everywhere! Leaving tomorrow, is he? Not before time! Tell him he’s suspended from duty, before he does any more mischief! And smoking, too, as though he were in a pot-house!” And Charlie, or someone, passed it on, and the squirt was given the message, and thought to hand me a set-down. He knew no better. Aye, but Hardinge should have seen that the thing was done decently – dammit, he could have sent for me himself, and coupled rebuke with a word of thanks for my services, whether he meant it or not. But he hadn’t, and his creature had made me look a fool. Well, perhaps two could play at that game.

  In the meantime, old Goolab Singh was closeted in talk with Currie and Lawrence, and no doubt holding up his paws in horror as each successive clause of the treaty was put to him.55 I’m sure he never let on that he knew it all beforehand, but had a jolly time shaking his grizzled beard and protesting that the durbar would never agree to such harsh terms. The negotiations went on all afternoon and evening – leastways, Goolab did, for Currie gave up after a few hours, and left him, and Lawrence lay down on his charpoy and pretended sleep. It was all gammon, for Goolab was bound to agree in the end, but he kept at it for appearance’s sake, and didn’t run out of wind till the small hours. I was on hand, indulging my ’satiable curiosity, when Lawrence saw him off, but didn’t speak to him. He limped away from the tent, climbed stiffly aboard his pony, and trotted off towards the sirdars’ camp, and that was the last I ever saw of him, a burly old buffer on horseback, looking like Ali Baba off to gather firewood in the moonlight.56

  “All right and tight, and re
ady to be signed when we come to Lahore,” says Lawrence. “Prosy old beggar. Well pleased, though, if I’m a judge. He should be – you don’t have a kingdom dropped into your lap every day. He’ll bring the little Maharaja to Hardinge in a day or two.” He yawned and stretched, looking at the night sky. “But by then you’ll be hasting home, you fortunate fellow. Stay a moment and we’ll have a rum-shrub to set you on your way.”

  This was condescension, for he wasn’t sociable as a rule. I took a turn along the tent-lines as I waited, admiring the moon shadows drifting across the empty doab, and looking along the grey, straight ribbon of the Lahore road which, God willing, I’d never take again. Not long ago it had shaken to the tramp of a hundred thousand men, and the rumble of great guns … “Khalsa-ji! To Delhi, to London!” … and the march had ended in the burning ruins of Ferozeshah and the waters under Sobraon. The whirlwind had come raging out of the Five Rivers country, and now it was gone without a whisper … and as Lawrence put it, I was hasting home.

  Hardinge had his peace, and his hand on the reins of the Punjab. Goolab had his Kashmir, Britain her frontier beyond the Sutlej where the hills began, and the northern door of India was fast against the Moslem tide. Little Dalip would have his throne, and his delectable mother the trappings of power and luxurious ease with all the booze and bed-men she desired (with one grateful exception). Tej Singh and Lal Singh could enjoy the fruits of their treachery, and old Paddy had still “nivver bin bate”. Alick Gardner would have his fine estate in the high hills beyond Jumoo, dreaming no doubt of far Wisconsin, and Broadfoot and Sale and Nicolson their lines in the Gazette. Maka Khan and Imam Shah had their graves by Sobraon ghat (although I didn’t know that, then). Mangla was still the richest slave-girl in Lahore, and like to be richer … I could feel a twinge at the thought of her – and still do, whenever I see black gauze. And Jassa had got an open road out of town, which is usually the best his kind can ever hope for.