Flashman In The Great Game fp-5

by George MacDonald Fraser

  "I … I thought in the circumstances of your visit," says Skene, apologetically, "that you might think it best to comply."

  "You did, did you?" says I. "Does every Briton in Jhansi leap to attention when this beldam snaps her fingers, then?"

  "Shall we say, we find it convenient to humour her highness," says he — he was more of a political than he looked, this lad, so I blustered a bit, to be in character, and then said he might find me an escort of lancers to convoy me in.

  "I'm sorry, sir," says he. "We haven't any lancers — and if we had, we've agreed not to send troop formations inside the city walls. Also, since I was excluded from the, er … invitation, I fear you must go alone."

  "What?" says I. "Damnation, who governs here — the Sirkar or this harridan?" I didn't fancy above half risking my hide unguarded in that unhealthy-looking fortress, but I had to cover it with dignity. "You've made a rod for your own backs by being too soft with this … this woman. She's not Queen Bess, you know!"

  "She thinks she is," says he cheerfully, so in the end of course I had to lump it. But I changed into my lancer fig first, sabre, revolver and all — for I could guess why she was ensuring that I visited her alone: up-country, on the frontier, they judge a man on his own looks, but down here they go on the amount and richness of your retinue. One mounted officer wasn't going to impress the natives with the Sirkar's power — well, then, he'd look his best, and be damned to her. So I figged up, and when I regarded myself in Skene's cracked mirror — blue tunic and breeches, gold belt and epaulettes, white gauntlets and helmet, well-bristled whiskers, and Flashy's stalwart fourteen stone inside it all, it wasn't half bad. I took a couple of packages from my trunk, stowed them in my saddle-bag, waved to Skene, and trotted off to meet royalty, with only the syce to show me the way.

  Jhansi city lies about a couple of miles from the cantonment, and I had plenty of time to take in the scenery. The road, which was well-lined with temples and smaller buildings, was crowded into the city, with bullock-carts churning up the dust, camels, palankeens, and hordes of travellers both mounted and on foot. Most of them were country folk, on their way to the bazaars, but every now and then would come an elephant with red and gold fringed howdah swaying along, carrying some minor nabob or rich lady, or a portly merchant on his mule with a string of porters behind, and once the syce pointed out a group who he said were members of the Rani's own bodyguard — a dozen stalwart Khyberie Pathans, of all things, trotting along very military in double file, with mail coats and red silk scarves wound round their spiked helmets. The Rani 'night not have a army, but she wasn't short of force, with those fellows about: there was a hundred years' Company service among them if there was a day.

  And her city defences were a sight to see — massive walls twenty feet high, and beyond them a warren of streets stretching for near a mile to the castle rock, with its series of curtain walls and round towers — it would be the deuce of a place to storm, after you'd fought through the city itself; there were guns in the embrasures, and mail-clad spearmen on the walls, all looking like business.

  We had to force our horses through a crowded inferno of heat and smells and noise and jostling niggers to get to the palace, which stood apart from the fort near a small lake, with a shady park about it; it was a fine, four-square building, its outer walls beautifully decorated with huge paintings of battles and hunting scenes. I presented myself to another Pathan, very splendid in steel back-and-breast and long-tail puggaree, who commanded the gate guard, and sat sweating in the scorching sun while he sent off a messenger for the chamberlain. And as I chafed impatiently, the Pathan walked slowly round me, eyeing me up and down, and presently stopped, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and spat carefully on my shadow.

  Now, close by the gate there happened to be a number of booths and side-shows set 'tip — the usual things, lemonade-sellers, a fakir with a plant growing through his palm, sundry beggars, and a kind of punch-and Judy show, which was being watched by a group of ladies in a palankeen. As a matter of fact, they'd already taken my eye, for they were obviously Maharatta females of quality, and four finer little trotters you never saw. There was a very slim, languid-looking beauty in a gold sari reclining in the palankeen, another plump piece in scarlet trousers and jacket beside her, and a third, very black, but fine-boned as a Swede, with a pearl headdress that must have cost my year's pay, sitting in a kind of camp-chair alongside — even the ladies' maid standing beside the palankeen was a looker, with great almond eyes and a figure inside her plain white sari like a Hindoo temple goddess. I was in the act of touching my hat to them when the Pathan started expectorating. At this the maid giggled, the ladies looked, and the Pathan sniffed contemptuously and spat again.

  Well, as a rule anyone can insult me and see how much it pays him, especially if he's large and ugly and carrying a tulwar*(*A sword.). But for the credit of the Sirkar, and my own face in front of the women, I had to do something, so I looked the Pathan up and down, glanced away, and said quietly in Pushtu:

  "You would spit more carefully if you were still in the Guides, hubshi."*(*Literally, "woolly-haired" — a negro.)

  He opened his eyes at that, and swore. "Who calls me hubshi? Who says I was in the Guides? And what is it to thee, feringhee*(*Christian, a white man.) pig?"

  "You wear the old coat under your breastplate," says I. "But belike you stole it from a dead Guide. For no man who had a right to that uniform would spit on Bloody Lance's shadow."

  That set him back on his heels. "Bloody Lance?" says he. "Thou?" He came closer and stared up at me. "Art thou that same Iflass-man who slew the four Gilzais?"

  "At Mogala," says I mildly. It had caused a great stir at the time, in the Gilzai country, and won me considerable fame (and my extravagant nickname) along the Kabul road — in fact, old Mohammed Iqbal had killed the four horsemen, while I lit out for the undergrowth, but nobody living knew that. (See Flashman.) And obviously the legend endured, for the Pathan gaped and swore again, and then came hastily to attention and threw me a barra salaam*(*Great salute.) that would have passed at Horse Guards.

  "Sher Khan, havildar,*(*Sergeant.) lately of Ismeet Sahib's company of the Guides,7 as your honour says," croaks he. "Now, shame on me and mine that I put dishonour on Bloody Lance, and knew him not! Think not ill of me, husoor*(*Sir, Lord.), for —"

  "Let the ill think ill," says I easily. "The spittle of a durwan*(*Door-keeper.) will not drown a soldier." I was watching out of the corner of my eye to see how the ladies were taking this, and noted with satisfaction that they were giggling at the Pathan's discomfiture. "Boast to your children, O Ghazi*(*Hero.)-that-was-a-Guide-and-is-now-a-Rani's porter, that you spat on Bloody Lance Flass-man's shadow — and lived." And I walked my horse past him into the courtyard, well pleased; it would be all round Jhansi inside the hour.

  It was a trifling enough incident, and I forgot it with my first glance at the interior of the Rani's palace. Outside it had been all dust and heat and din, but here was the finest garden courtyard you ever saw — a cool, pleasant enclosure where little antelopes and peacocks strutted on the lawns, parrots and monkeys chattered softly in the surrounding trees, and a dazzling white fountain played; there were shaded archways in the carved walls, where well-dressed folk whom I took to be her courtiers sat and talked, waited on by bearers. One of the richest thrones in India, Pam had said, and I could believe it — there were enough silks and jewellery on view there to stuff an army with loot, the statuary was of the finest, in marble and coloured stones that I took to be jade, and even the pigeons that pecked at the spotless pavements had silver rings on their claws. Until you've seen it, of course, you can't imagine the luxury in which these Indian princes keep themselves — and there are folk at home who'll tell you that John Company were the robbers!

  I was kept waiting there a good hour before a major-domo came, salaaming, to lead me through the inner gate and up a narrow winding stair to the durbar room on the first storey; here again all was richness
— splendid silk curtains on the walls, great chandeliers of purple crystal hanging from the carved and gilded ceiling, magnificent carpets on the floor (with good old Axminster there among the Persian, I noticed) and every kind of priceless ornament, gold and ivory, ebony and silverwork, scattered about. It would have been in damned bad taste if it hadn't all been so bloody expensive, and the dozen or so men and women who lounged about on the couches and cushions were dressed to match; the ones down in the courtyard must have been their poor relations. Handsome as Hebe the women were, too — I was just running my eye over one alabaster beauty in tight scarlet trousers who was reclining on a shawl, playing with a parakeet, when a gong boomed somewhere, everyone stood up, and a fat little chap in a huge turban waddled in and announced that the durbar had begun. At which music began to play, and they all turned and bowed to the wall, which I suddenly realised wasn't a wall at all, but a colossal ivory screen, fine as lace, that cut the room in two. Through it you could just make out movement in the space beyond, like shadows behind thick gauze; this was the Rani's purdah screen, to keep out prying heathen eyes like mine.

  I seemed to be first man in, for the chamberlain led me to a little gilt stool a few feet from the screen, and there I sat while he stood at one end of the screen and cried out my name, rank, decorations, and (it's a fact) my London clubs; there was a murmur of voices beyond, and then he asked me what I wanted, or words to that effect. I replied, in Urdu, that I brought greetings from Queen Victoria, and a gift for the Rani from her majesty, if she would graciously accept it. (It was a perfectly hellish photograph of Victoria and Albert looking in apparent stupefaction at a book which the Prince of Wales was holding in an attitude of sullen defiance; all in a silver frame, too, and wrapped up in muslin.) I handed it over, the chamberlain passed it through, listened attentively, and then asked me who the fat child in the picture was. I told him, he relayed the glad news, and then announced that her highness was pleased to accept her sister-ruler's gift — the effect was spoiled a trifle by a clatter from behind the screen which suggested the picture had fallen on the floor (or been thrown), but I just stroked my whiskers while the courtiers tittered behind me. It's hell in the diplomatic, you know.

  There was a further exchange of civilities, through the chamberlain, and then I asked for a private audience with the Rani; he replied that she never gave them. I explained that what I had to say was of mutual but private interest to Jhansi and the British government; he looked behind the screen for instructions, and then said hopefully:

  "Does that mean you have proposals for the restoration of her highness's throne, the recognition of her adopted son, and the restitution of her property — all of which have been stolen from her by the Sirkar?"

  Well, it didn't, of course. "What I have to say is for her highness alone," says I, solemnly, and he stuck his head round the screen and conferred, before popping back.

  "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 l'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."

  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 sharpl
y: "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.