“There are such proposals?” says he, and I said I could not talk in open durbar, at which there were sounds of rapid female muttering from behind the screen. The chamberlain asked what I could have to say that could not be said by Captain Skene, and I said politely that I could tell that to the Rani, and no other. He conferred again, and I tried to picture the other side of the screen, with the Rani, sharp-faced and thin in her silk shawl, muttering her instructions to him, and puzzled to myself what the odd persistent noise was that I could hear above the soft pipes of the hidden orchestra – a gentle, rhythmic swishing from beyond the screen, as though a huge fan were being used. And yet the room was cool and airy enough not to need one.
The chamberlain popped out again, looking stem, and said that her highness could see no reason for prolonging the interview; if I had nothing new from the Sirkar to impart to her, I was permitted to withdraw. So I got to my feet, clicked my heels, saluted the screen, picked up the second package which I had brought, thanked him and his mistress for their courtesy, and did a smart about-turn. But I hadn’t gone a yard before he stopped me.
“The packet you carry,” says he. “What is that?”
I’d been counting on this; I told him it was my own.
“But it is wrapped as the gift to her highness was wrapped,” says he. “Surely it also is a present.”
“Yes,” says I, slowly. “It was.” He stared, was summoned behind the screen, and came out looking anxious.
“Then you may leave it behind,” says he.
I hesitated, weighing the packet in my hand, and shook my head. “No, sir,” says I. “It was my own personal present, to her highness – but in my country we deliver such gifts face to face, as honouring both giver and receiver. By your leave,” and I bowed again to the screen and walked away.
“Wait, wait!” cries he, so I did; the rhythmic sound from behind the screen had stopped now, and the female voice was talking quietly again. The chamberlain came out, red-faced, and to my astonishment he bustled everyone else from the room, shooing the silken ladies and gentlemen like geese. Then he turned to me, bowed, indicated the screen, and effaced himself through one of the archways, leaving me alone with my present in my hand. I listened a moment; the swishing sound had started again.
I paused to give my whiskers a twirl, stepped up to the end of the screen, and rapped on it with my knuckles. No reply. So I said: “Your highness?”, but there was nothing except that damned swishing. Well, here goes, I thought; this is what you came to India for, and you must be civil and adoring, for old Pam’s sake. I stepped round the screen, and halted as though I’d walked into a wall.
It wasn’t the gorgeously-carved golden throne, or the splendour of the furniture which outshone even what I’d left, or the unexpected sensation of walking on the shimmering Chinese quilt on the floor. Nor was it the bewildering effect of the mirrored ceiling and walls, with their brilliantly-coloured panels. The astonishing thing was that from the ceiling there hung, by silk ropes, a great cushioned swing, and sitting in it, wafting gently to and fro, was a girl – the only soul in the room. And such a girl – my first impression was of great, dark, almond eyes in a skin the colour of milky coffee, with a long straight nose above a firm red mouth and chin, and hair as black as night that hung in a jewelled tail down her back. She was dressed in a white silk bodice and sari which showed off the dusky satin of her bare arms and midriff, and on her head was a little white jewelled cap from which a single pearl swung on her forehead above the caste-mark.
I stood and gaped while she swung to and fro at least three times, and then she put a foot on the carpet and let the swing drag to a halt. She considered me, one smooth dusky arm up on the swing rope – and then I recognised her: she was the ladies’ maid who had been standing by the palankeen at the palace gate. The Rani’s maid? – then the lady of the palankeen must be …
“Your mistress?” says I. “Where is she?”
“Mistress? I have no mistress,” says she, tilting up her chin and looking down her nose at me. “I am Lakshmibai, Maharani of Jhansi.”
* * *
a Turban.
b Groom.
c A Sword.
d Literally, “woolly-haired” – a negro.
e Christian, a white man.
f See Flashman.
g Great Salute.
h Sergeant.
i Sir, Lord.
j Door-keeper.
k Hero.
Chapter 4
For a moment I didn’t believe it: I had become so used to picturing her over the past three months as a dried-up old shrew with skinny limbs that I just stood and gaped.8 And yet, as I looked at her, there couldn’t be any doubt: the richness of her clothes shouted royalty at you, and the carriage of her head, with its imperious dark eyes, told you as nothing else could that here was a woman who’d never asked permission in her life. There was strength in every line of her, too, for all her femininity – by George, I couldn’t remember when I’d seen bouncers like those, thrusting like pumpkins against the muslin of her blouse, which was open to the jewelled clasp at her breast bone – if it hadn’t been for a couple of discreetly embroidered flowers on either side, there would have been nothing at all concealed. I could only stand speechless before such queenly beauty, wondering what it would be like to tear the muslin aside, thrust your whiskers in between ’em, and go brrrrr!
“You have a gift to present,” says she, speaking in a quick, soft voice which had me recollecting myself and clicking my heels as I presented my packet. She took it, weighed it in her hand, still half-reclining in her swing, and asked sharply: “Why do you stare at me so?”
“Forgive me, highness,” says I. “I did not expect to find a queen who looked so …” I’d been about to say “young and lovely”, but changed it hurriedly for a less personal compliment. “So like a queen.”
“Like that queen?” says she, and indicated the picture of Vicky and Albert, which was lying on a cushion.
“Each of your majesties,” says I, with mountainous diplomacy, “looks like a queen in her own way.”
She considered me gravely, and then held the packet out to me. “You may open it.”
I pulled off the wrapping, opened the little box, and took out the gift. You may smile, but it was a bottle of perfume – you see, Flashy ain’t as green as he looks; it may be coals to Newcastle to take perfume to India, but in my experience, which isn’t inconsiderable, there’s not a woman breathing who isn’t touched by a gift of scent, and it don’t matter what age she is, either. And it was just the gift a blunt, honest soldier would choose, in his simplicity – furthermore, it was from Paris, and had cost the dirty old goat who presented it to Elspeth a cool five sovs. (She’d never miss it.) I handed it over with a little bow, and she touched the stopper daintily on her wrist.
“French,” says she. “And very costly. Are you a rich man, colonel?”
That took me aback; I muttered something about not calling on a queen every day of my life.
“And why have you called?” says she, very cool. “What is there that you have to say that can be said only face to face?” I hesitated, and she suddenly stood up in one lithe movement – by jove, they jumped like blancmanges in a gale. “Come and tell me,” she went on, and swept off out on to the terrace at that end of the room, with a graceful swaying stride that stirred the seat of her sari in a most disturbing way. She jingled as she walked – like all rich Indian females, she seemed to affect as much jewellery as she could carry, with bangles at wrist and ankle, a diamond collar beneath her chin, and even a tiny pearl cluster at one nostril. I followed, admiring the lines of the tall, full figure, and wondering for the umpteenth time what I should say to her, now that the moment had come.
Pam and Mangles, you see, had given me no proper directions at all: I was supposed to wheedle her into being a loyal little British subject, but I’d no power to make concessions to any of her grievances. And it wasn’t going to be easy; an unexpected stunn
er she might be, and therefore all the easier for me to talk to, but there was a directness about her that was daunting. This was a queen, and intelligent and experienced (she even knew French perfume when she smelled it); she wasn’t going to be impressed by polite political chat. So what must I say? The devil with it, thinks I, there’s nothing to lose by being as blunt as she is herself.
So when she’d settled herself on a daybed, and I’d forced myself to ignore that silky midriff and the shapely brown ankle peeping out of her sari, I set my helmet on the ground and stood up four-square.
“Your highness,” says I, “I can’t talk like Mr Erskine, or Captain Skene even. I’m a soldier, not a diplomat, so I won’t mince words.” And thereafter I minced them for all I was worth, telling her of the distress there was in London about the coolness that existed between Jhansi on the one hand and the Company and Sirkar on the other; how this state of affairs had endured for four years to the disadvantage of all parties; how it was disturbing the Queen, who felt a sisterly concern for the ruler of Jhansi not only as a monarch, but as a woman, and so on – I rehearsed Jhansi’s grievances, the willingness of the Sirkar to repair them so far as was possible, threw in the information that I came direct from Lord Palmerston, and finished on a fine flourish with an appeal to her to open her heart to Flashy, plenipotentiary extraordinary, so that we could all be friends and live happy ever after. It was the greatest gammon, but I gave it my best, with noble compassion in my eye and a touch of ardour in the curl shaken down over my brow. She heard me out, not a muscle moving in that lovely face, and then asked:
“You have the power to make redress, then? To alter what has been done?”
I said I had the power to report direct to Pam, and she said that so, in effect, had Skene. Her agents in London had spoken direct to the Board of Control, without avail.
“Well,” says I, “this is a little different, highness, don’t you see? His lordship felt that if I heard from you at first-hand, so to speak, and we talked –”
“There is nothing to talk about,” says she. “What can I say that has not been said – that the Sirkar does not know? What can you –”
“I can ask, maharaj’, what actions by the Sirkar, short of removing from Jhansi and recognising your adopted son, would satisfy your grievances – or go some way to satisfying them.”
She came up on one elbow at that, frowning at me with those magnificent eyes. For what I was hinting at – without the least authority, mind you – was concessions, and devil a smell of those she’d had in four years.
“Why,” says she, thoughtfully. “They know well enough. They have been told my grievances, my just demands, for four years now. And yet they have denied me. How can repetition serve?”
“A disappointed client may find a new advocate,” says I, with my most disarming smile, and she gave me a long stare, and then got up and walked over to the balustrade, looking out across the city. “If your highness would speak your mind to me, openly –”
“Wait,” says she, and stood for a moment, frowning, before she turned back to me. She couldn’t think what to make of this, she was suspicious, and didn’t dare to hope, and yet she was wondering. God, she was a black beauty, sure enough – if I’d been the Sirkar, she could have had Jhansi and a pound of tea with it, just for half an hour on the daybed.
“If Lord Palmerston,” says she at last – and old Pam himself would have been tempted to restore her throne just to hear the pretty way she said “Lud Pammer-stan” – “wishes me to restate the wrongs that have been done me, it can only be because he has discovered some interest to serve by redressing them – or promising redress. I do not know what that interest is, and you will not tell me. It is no charitable desire to set right injustices done to my Jhansi –” and she lifted her head proudly. “That is certain. But if he wishes my friendship, for whatever purpose of his own, he may give an earnest of his good will by restoring the revenues which should have come to me since my husband’s death, but which the Sirkar has confiscated.” She stopped there, chin up, challenging, so I said:
“And after that, highness? What else?”
“Will he concede as much? Will the Company?”
“I can’t say,” says I. “But if a strong case can be made – when I report to Lord Palmerston …”
“And you will put the case, yourself?”
“That is my mission, maharaj’.”
“And such other … cases … as I may advance?” She looked the question, and there was just a hint of a smile on her mouth. “So. And I must first put them to you – and no doubt you will suggest to me how they may best be phrased … or modified. You will advise, and … persuade?”
“Well,” says I, “I’ll help your highness as I can …”
To my astonishment she laughed, with a flash of white teeth, her head back, and shaking most delightfully.
“Oh, the subtlety of the British!” cries she. “Such delicacy, like an elephant in a swamp! Lord Palmerston wishes, for his own mysterious reasons of policy, to placate the Rani of Jhansi. So he invites her to repeat the petition which has been repeatedly denied for years. But does he send a lawyer, or an advocate, or even an official of the Company? No – just a simple soldier, who will discuss the petition with her, and how it may best be presented to his lordship. Could not a lawyer have advised her better?” She folded her hands and came slowly forward, sauntering round me. “But how many lawyers are tall and broad-shouldered and … aye, quite handsome – and persuasive as Flashman bahadur?a Not a doubt but he is best fitted to convince a silly female that a modest claim is most likely to succeed – and she will abate her demands for him, poor foolish girl, and be less inclined to insist on fine points, and stand upon her rights. Is this not so?”
“Highness, you misunderstand entirely … I assure you –”
“Do I?” says she, scornfully, but laughing still. “I am not sixteen, colonel; I am an old lady of twenty-nine. And I may not know Lord Palmerston’s purpose, but I understand his methods. Well, well. It may not have occurred to his lordship that even a poor Indian lady may be persuasive in her turn.” And she eyed me with some amusement, confident in her own beauty, the damned minx, and the effect it was having on me. “He paid me a poor compliment, do you not think?”
What could I do but grin back at her? “Do his lordship justice, highness,” says I. “He’d never seen you. How many have, since you are purdah-nishin?”b
“Enough to have told him what I am like, I should have hoped. How did he instruct you – humour her, whatever she is, fair or foul, young and silly or old and ugly? Charm her, so that she keeps her demands cheap? Captivate her, as only a hero can.” She stirred an eyebrow. “Who could resist the champion who killed the four Gilzais – where was it?”
“At Mogala, in Afghanistan – as your highness heard at the gate. Was it to test me that you had the Pathan spit on my shadow?”
“His insolence needed no instruction,” says she. “He is now being flogged for it.” She turned away from me and sauntered back into the durbar-room. “You may have the tongue which insulted you torn out, if you wish,” she added over her shoulder.
That brought me up sharp, I can tell you. We’d been rallying away famously, and I’d all but forgotten who and what she was – an Indian prince, with all the capricious cruelty of her kind under that lovely hide. Unless she was just mocking me with the reminder – whether or no, I would play my character.
“Not necessary, highness,” says I. “I had forgotten him.”
She nodded, and struck a little silver gong with her wrist-bangle. “It is time for my noon meal, and this afternoon I hold my court. You may return tomorrow, and we shall discuss the representations you are to make to the subtle Lord Palmerston.” She smiled slightly in dismissal. “And I thank you for your gift, colonel.”
Her maids were coming in, and the little fat chamberlain, so I made my bow.
“Maharaj’”, says I. “Your most humble obedient.”
She inclined her head regally, and turned away, but as I backed out round the screen I noticed that she had picked up my perfume-bottle from the table, and was inviting her maids to have a sniff at it.
I came away from that audience thinking no small diplomatic beer of myself. At least I seemed to have got further with her than any other representative of the Sirkar had ever done, even if I’d had to lie truth out of Jhansi to do it. God knew I’d not the slightest right to promise redress of any of her grievances against the Raj, and if I trotted back a list of them to London the Board would turn ’em down flat again, no question. But she didn’t know that, and if I could jolly her along for a week for two, hinting at this or that possible concession, she might grow more friendly disposed – which was what Pam wanted, after all. Her hopes would revive, and while they were sure to be dashed in the end, I’d be back snug in England by then.
That was the official aspect, of course; the important thing was the delightful surprise that the old beldam of Jhansi was as prime a goer as ever wriggled a hip, and just ripe for my kind of diplomacy. She was a cocky bitch, with a fine sense of her queenly consequence, but I wasn’t fooled by her airs, or the set-down she’d tried to give me by warning me not to try to come round her with whiskery blandishments. That was pure flirtation, to put me on my mettle – I know these beauties, you see, and it don’t matter whether they’re queens or commoners, when they start to play the cool, mocking grand dame it’s a sure sign that they’re wondering what kind of a mount you’ll make. I’d seen the glint in this one’s eye when she walked round me, and thought quietly to myself, we’ll have you gasping for more, my girl, before this fortnight’s out.
You may think me a presumptuous ambassador on short notice, especially since the object of my carnal ambitions was royal, clever, dangerously powerful, and a high-caste Hindoo lady of reputed purity to boot. But that means nothing when a woman fancies a buck like me; besides, I knew about these high-born Indian wenches – randy as ferrets, the lot of them, and with all the opportunity to gratify it, too. A woman with a shape and face like Lakshmibai’s hadn’t let it go to waste in four years’ widowhood (after being married to some prancing old quean, too), not with the stallions of her palace guard available at the crook of her little finger. Well, I’d make a rare change of bedding for her – and if her lusty inclinations needed any prompting, she might find it in the thought that being amiable to ambassador Flashy was the likeliest way of getting what she wanted for herself and her state. Dulce et decorum est pro patria rogeri, she could say to herself – and I cantered back to the cantonments full of cheery thoughts, imagining what that voluptuous tawny body would look like when I peeled the sari off it, and speculating on the novel uses to which the pair of us could put that swing of hers, in the interests of diplomatic relations.
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