The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Can you not see that that is not our way – that none of our ways are your ways? You talk of your reforms, and the benefits of British law and the Sirkar’s rule – and never think that what seems ideal to you may not suit others; that we have our own customs, which you think strange and foolish, and perhaps they are – but they are ours – our own! You come, in your strength, and your certainty, with your cold eyes and pale faces, like … like machines marching out of your northern ice, and you will have everything in order, tramping in step like your soldiers, whether those you conquer and civilise – as you call it – whether they will or no. Do you not see that it is better to leave people be – to let them alone?”

  She wasn’t a bit angry, or I’d have agreed straight off, but she was as intense as I’d known her, and the great dark eyes were almost appealing, which was most unusual. I said that all I’d meant was that instead of thousands going sick and ragged and hungry about her city, it might be better to have some system of relief; come cheaper on her, too, if they had the beggars picking yarn or mending roads for their dole.

  “You talk of a system!” says she, striking her riding crop on the saddle. “We do not care for systems. Oh, we admire and respect those which you show us – but we do not want them; we would not choose them for ourselves. You remember we spoke of how twelve Indian babusn did the work of one white clerk –”

  “Well, that’s waste, ma’am,” says I respectfully. “There’s no point –”

  “Wasteful or not, does it matter – if people are happy?” says she, impatiently. “Where lies the virtue of your boasted progress, your telegraphs, your railway trains, when we are content with our sandals and our ox-carts?”

  I could have pointed out that the price of her sandals would have kept a hundred Jhansi coolie families all their lives, and that she’d never been within ten yards of an ox-cart, but I was tactful.

  “We can’t help it, maharaj’,” says I. “We have to do the best we can, don’t you know, as we see it. And it ain’t just telegraphs and trains – though you’ll find those useful enough, in time – why, I’m told there are to be universities, and hospitals –”

  “To teach philosophies that we do not want, and sciences that we do not need. And a law that is foreign to us, which our people cannot understand.”

  “Well, that doesn’t leave ’em far behind the average Englishman,” says I. “But it’s fair law – and with respect that’s more than you can say for most of your Indian courts. Look now – when there was a brawl in the street outside your palace two days since, what happened? Your guards didn’t catch the culprits – so they laid hands on the first poor soul they met, haled him into your divan,o guilty or not – and you have him hanging by his thumbs and sun-drying at the scene of the crime for two solid days. Fellow near died of it – and he’d done nothing! I ask you, ma’am, is that justice?”

  “He was a badmash,p and well known,” says she, wide-eyed. “Would you have let him go?”

  “For that offence, yes – since he was innocent of it. We punish only the guilty.”

  “And if you cannot find them? Is there to be no example made? There will be no more brawls outside the palace, I think.” And seeing my look, she went on: “I know it is not your way, and it seems unfair and even barbarous to you. But we understand it – should that not be enough? You find it strange – like our religions, and our forbidden things, and our customs. But can your Sirkar not see that they are as precious to us as yours are to you? Why is it not enough to your Company to drive its profit? Why this greed to order people’s lives?”

  “It isn’t greed, highness,” says I. “But you can’t drive trade on a battlefield, now can you? There has to be peace and order, surely, and you can’t have ’em without … well, a strong hand, and a law that’s fair for all – or for most people, anyway.” I knew she wouldn’t take kindly if I said the law was as much for her as for her subjects. “And when we make mistakes, well, we try to put ’em right, you see – which is what I’m here for, to see that justice – our justice, if you like – is done to you –”

  “Do you think that is all that matters?” says she. We had stopped in the pavilion garden, and the horses were cropping while her attendants waited out of earshot. She was looking at me, frowning, and her eyes were very bright. “Do you think it is the revenues, and the jewels – even my son’s rights; do you think that is all I care for? These are the things that can be redressed – but what of the things that cannot? What of this life, this land, this country that you will change – as you change everything you touch? Today, it is still bright – but you will make it grey; today, it is still free – oh, and no doubt wrong and savage by your lights – and you will make it tame, and orderly, and bleak, and the people will forget what they once were. That is what you will do – and that is why I resist as best I can. As you, and Lord Palmerston would. Tell him,” says she, and by George, her voice was shaking, but the pretty mouth was set and hard, “when you go home, that whatever happens, I will not give up my Jhansi. Mera Jhansi denge nay. I will not give up my Jhansi!”

  I was astonished; I’d never been in doubt that under the delectable feminine surface there was a tigress of sorts, but I hadn’t thought it was such a passionately sentimental animal. D’you know, for a moment I was almost moved, she seemed such a damned spunky little woman; I felt like saying “There, there”, or stroking her hand, or squeezing her tits, or something – and then she had taken a breath, and sat upright in the saddle, as though recovering herself, and she looked so damned royal and so damned lovely that I couldn’t help myself.

  “Maharaj’ – you don’t need me to say it. Go to London yourself, and tell Lord Palmerston – and I swear he’ll not only give you Jhansi but Bombay and Hackney Wick as well.” And I meant it; she’d have been a sensation – had ’em eating out of her dusky little palm. “See the Queen herself – why don’t you?”

  She stared thoughtfully ahead for a moment, and then murmured under her breath: “The Queen … God save the Queen – what strange people you British are.”

  “Don’t you worry about the British,” says I, “they’ll sing ‘God save the Queen’, all right – and they’ll be thinking of the Queen of Jhansi.”

  “Now that is disloyal, colonel,” says she, and the languid smile was back in her eyes, as she turned her horse and trotted off with me following.

  Now, you may be thinking to yourself, what’s come over old Flash? He ain’t going soft on this female, surely? Well, you know, I think the truth is that I was a bit soft on all my girls – Lola and Cassie and Valla and Ko Dali’s daughter and Susie the Bawd and Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman and the rest of ’em. Don’t mistake me; it was always the meat that mattered, but I had a fair affection for them at the same time – every now and then, weather permitting. You can’t help it; feeling randy is a damned romantic business, and it’s my belief that Galahad was a bigger beast in bed than ever Lancelot was. That’s by the way, but worth remembering if you are to understand about me and Lakshmibai – and I’ve told you a good deal about her on purpose, because she was such a mysterious, contrary female that I can’t hope to explain her (any more than historians can) but must just leave you to judge for yourselves from what I’ve written – and from what was to follow.

  For on the morning after that talk at the pavilion – two weeks to the day since I’d arrived in Jhansi – things began to happen in earnest. To me, at any rate.

  I sensed there was something up as soon as I presented myself in the durbar room; she was perfectly pleasant, vivacious even, as she told me about some new hunting-cheetah she’d been given, but her vakeel and chief minister weren’t meeting her eye, and her foot was tap-tapping under the edge of her gold sari; ah, thinks I, someone’s been getting the sharp side of missy’s tongue. She didn’t have much mind to business, either, and once or twice I caught her eyeing me almost warily, when she would smile quickly – with anyone else I would have said it was nervousness. Finally she cut the discu
ssion off abruptly, saying enough for today, and we would watch the guardsmen fencing in the courtyard.

  Even there, I noticed her finger tapping on the balcony as we looked down at the Pathans sabring away – damned active, dangerous lads they looked, too – but in a little while she began to take notice, talking about the swordplay and applauding the hits, and then she glanced sidelong at me, and says:

  “Do you fence as well as you ride, colonel?”

  I said, pretty fair, and she gave me her lazy smile and says:

  “Then we shall try a bout,” and blow me if she didn’t order a couple of foils up to the durbar room, and go off to change into her jodhpurs and blouse. I waited, wondering – of course, Skene had said she’d been brought up with boys, and could handle arms with the best of them, but it seemed deuced odd – and then she was back, ordering her attendants away, tying up her hair in a silk scarf, and ordering me on guard very business-like. They’ll never believe this at home, thinks I, but I obeyed, indulgently enough, and she touched me three times in the first minute. So I settled down, in earnest, and in the next minute she hit me only once, laughing, and told me to try harder.

  That nettled me, I confess; I wasn’t having this, royalty or not, so I went to work – I’m a strong swordsman, but not too academic – and I pushed her for all I was worth. She was better-muscled than she looked, though, and fast as a cat, and I had to labour to make her break ground, gasping with laughter, until her back was against one of the glass walls. She took to the point, holding me off, and then unaccountably her guard seemed to falter, I jumped in with the old heavy cavalry trick, punching my hilt against the forte of her blade, her foil spun out of her hand – and for a moment we were breast to breast, with me panting within inches of that dusky face and open, laughing mouth – the great dark eyes were wide and waiting – and then my foil was clattering on the floor and I had her in my arms, crushing my lips on hers and tasting the sweetness of her tongue, with that soft body pressed against me, revelling in the feel and fragrance of her. I felt her hands slip up my back to my head, holding my face against hers for a long delicious moment, and then she drew her lips away, sighing, opened her eyes, and said:

  “How well do you shoot, colonel?”

  And then she had slipped from my arms and was walking quickly towards the door to her private room, with me grunting endearments in pursuit, but as I came after her she just raised a hand, without turning or breaking stride, and said firmly:

  “The durbar is finished … for the moment.” The door closed behind her, and I was left with the fallen foils, panting like a bull before business, but thinking, my boy, we’re home – the damned little teaser. I hesitated, wondering whether to invade her boudoir, when the little chamberlain came pottering in, eyeing the foils in astonishment, so I took my leave and presently was riding back to the cantonment, full of buck and anticipation – I’d known she’d call “Play!” in the end, and now there was nothing to do but enjoy the game.

  That was why she’d been jumpy earlier, of course, wondering how best to bring me to the boil, the cunning minx. “How well do you shoot?” forsooth – she’d find out soon enough, when we finished the durbar – tomorrow, no doubt. So by way of celebration I drank a sight more bubbly than was good for me at dinner, and even took a magnum back to my bungalow for luck. It was as well I did, for about ten Ilderim dropped by for a prose – as he’d taken to doing – and there’s nobody thirstier than a dry Gilzai – if you think all Muslims abstain, I can tell you of one who didn’t. So we popped the cork, and gassed about the old days, and smoked, and I was enjoying myself with carnal thoughts about my Lucky Lakshmibai and thinking about turning in, when there came a scraping on the chick at the back of the bungalow, and the khitmagarq appeared to tell me that there was a bibir who insisted on seeing me.

  Ilderim grinned and wagged his ugly head, and I cursed, thinking here was some bazaar houri plying her trade where it was least wanted, but I staggered out, and sure enough at the foot of the steps was a veiled woman in a sari, but with a burly-looking escort standing farther back at the gate. She didn’t look like a slut, somehow, and when I asked what she wanted she came quickly up the steps, salaamed, and held out a little leather pouch. I took it, wondering; inside there was a handkerchief, and even through the champagne fumes there was no mistaking – it was heavy with my perfume.

  “From my mistress,” says the woman, as I goggled at it.

  “By God,” says I, and sniffed it again. “Who the blazes –”

  “Name no names,” says she, and it was a well-spoken voice, for a Hindoo. “My mistress sends it, and bids you come to the river pavilion in an hour.” And with that she salaamed again, and slipped down the steps. I called after her, and took an unsteady step, but she didn’t stop, and she and her escort vanished in the dark.

  Well, I’m damned, thinks I, surprise giving way to delight – she couldn’t wait, by heaven … and of course the river pavilion at night was just the place … far better than the palace, where all sorts of folk were prying. Nice and secluded, very discreet – just the place for a rowdy little Rani to entertain. “Syce!” I shouted, and strode back inside, a trifle unsteadily, damning the champagne, but chortling as I examined my chin in the glass, decided it would do, and roared for a clean shirt.

  “Now where away?” says Ilderim, who was squatting on the rug. “Not after some trollop from the bazaar, at this time?”

  “No, brother,” says I. “Something much better than a trollop. If you could see this one you’d forswear small boys and melons for good.” By jove, I was feeling prime; I dandied myself up in no time, rinsed my face to clear some of the booze away, and was out champing on the verandah as the syce brought my pony round.

  “You’re mad,” growls Ilderim. “Do you go alone – where to?”

  “I’m not sharing her, if that’s what you mean. I’ll take the syce.” For I wasn’t too sure of the way at night, and it was pitch black. I must have been drunker than I felt, for it took me three shots to mount, and then, with a wave to Ilderim, who was glowering doubtfully from the verandah, I trotted off, with the syce scrambling up behind.

  Now, I’ll admit I was woozy, and say at the same time that I’d have gone if I’d been cold sober. I don’t know when I’ve been pawing the ground quite so hard for a woman – probably the two weeks’ spooning had worked me up, and I couldn’t cover the two miles to the pavilion fast enough. Fortunately the syce was a handy lad, for he not only guided us but held me from tumbling out of the saddle; I don’t remember much of the journey except that it lasted for ages, and then we were among trees, with the hooves padding on grass, the syce was shaking my arm, and there ahead was the pavilion, half-hidden by the foliage.

  I didn’t want the syce spying, so I slid down and told him to wait, and then I pushed on. In spite of the night air, the booze seemed to have increased its grip, but I navigated well enough, leaning on a trunk every now and then. I surveyed the pavilion; there were dim lights on the ground floor, and in one room upstairs, and by George, there was even the sound of music on the slight breeze. I beamed into the dark – what these Indians don’t know about the refinements of romping isn’t worth knowing. An orchestra underneath, privacy and soft lights upstairs, and no doubt refreshments to boot – I rubbed my face and hurried forward through the garden to the outside staircase leading to the upper rooms, staggering quietly so as not to disturb the hidden musicians, who were fluting sweetly away behind the screens.

  I mounted the staircase, holding on tight, and reached the little landing. There was a small passage, and a slatted door at the end, with light filtering through it. I paused, to struggle out of my loose trousers – at least I wasn’t so tight that I’d been fool enough to come out in boots – took a great lusty breath, padded unsteadily forward, and felt the door give at my touch. The air was heavy with perfume as I stepped in, stumbled into a muslin curtain, swore softly as I disentangled myself, took hold of a wooden pillar for support, and gazed
round into the half-gloom.

  There were dim pink lamps burning, on the floor against the walls, giving just enough light to show the broad couch, shrouded in mosquito net, against the far wall. And there she was, silhouetted against the glow, sitting back among the cushions, one leg stretched out, the other with knee raised; there was a soft tinkle of bangles, and I leaned against my pillar and croaked:

  “Lakshmibai? Lucky? – it’s me, darling … chabelis … I’m here!”

  She turned her head, and then in one movement raised the net and slipped out, standing motionless by the couch, like a bronze statue. She was wearing bangles, all right, and a little gold girdle round her hips, and some kind of metal headdress from which a flimsy veil descended from just beneath her eyes to her chin – not another stitch. I let out an astonishing noise, and was trying to steady myself for a plunge, but she checked me with a lifted hand, slid one foot forward, crooked her arms like a nautch-dancer, and came gliding slowly towards me, swaying that splendid golden nakedness in time to the throbbing of the music beneath our feet.

  I could only gape; whether it was the drink or admiration or what, I don’t know, but I seemed paralysed in every limb but one. She came writhing up to me, bangles tinkling and dark eyes gleaming enormously in the soft light; I couldn’t see her face for the veil, but I wasn’t trying to; she retreated, turning and swaying her rump, and then approached again, reaching forward to brush me teasingly with her fingertips; I grabbed, gasping, but she slid away, faster now as the tempo of the music increased, and then back again, hissing at me through the veil, lifting those splendid breasts in her hands, and this time I had the wit to seize a tit and a buttock, fairly hooting with lust as she writhed against me and lifted the veil just enough to bring her mouth up to mine. Her right foot was slipping up the outside of my left leg, past the knee, up to the hip, and round so that her heel was in the small of my back – God knows how they do it, double joints or something – and then she was thrusting up and down like a demented monkey on a stick, raking me with her nails and giving little shrieks into my mouth, until the torchlight procession which was marching through my loins suddenly exploded, she went limp in my arms, and I thought, oh Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, as I slid gently to the floor in ecstatic exhaustion with that delightful burden clinging and quivering on top of me.