I had no doubt she was willing enough for me to make the running there — she was wearing my scent, and letting me know it, and she was as pleasant as pie in her cool way at that meeting — nodding graciously as I talked to her wise men about the petition, smiling if I ventured a joke, inviting them to admire my reasoning (which they fell over themselves to do, absolutely), even asking my advice occasionally, and always considering me languidly with those dark slanting eyes as I talked. All of which might have seemed suspiciously amiable after her frankness at our first encounter — but since then she'd had time to weigh the political advantages of being pleasant to me, and was setting out to make me enjoy my work.
But I knew politics wasn't the half of it — I know when a woman's got that little flutter in her midriff about me, and in our ensuing meetings I could watch her enjoying using her beauty on me — and she could do that with a touch that Montez might have envied. I'll admit it now, I found her enchanting; she had the advantage of being a queen, of course, which makes a beauty all the more tantalising — well, even I, on short acquaintance; could hardly have taken her belly in one hand, her bum in the other, and fondled her flat on her back with passionate murmurs, as one would do in ordinary circumstances. No, with royalty you have to wait a little. Not that I wasn't tempted, in those early talks, when she had dismissed her councillors, and we were alone, and just once or twice, from the warm gleam in her eye as she swayed on her swing or lay on her daybed, I wondered if perhaps … but I decided to make haste slowly, and play the bowling as it came down.
It came mighty fast, too, sometimes, for if she was generally content just to politick flirtatiously, I soon discovered that she could be dead serious when Jhansi and her own ambitions were concerned; let the talk turn that way, and you saw the passion of her feeling.
"Five years ago, how many beggars were on the streets?" she rounded on me once. "One for every ten today. And who has accomplished this? Who but the Sirkar, by assuming the affairs of the state, so that one white sahib comes to do the work that employed a dozen of our people, who must be turned out to starve. Who guards the state? Why, the Company soldiers — so Jhansi's army must be disbanded, and they, too, can shift or steal or go hungry!"
"Well now, highness," says I, "it's hard to blame the Sirkar for being efficient, and as for your unemployed soldiers, they'll be more than welcome in the Company service —"
"In a foreign army? And will there be room in its ranks, too, for the Indian craftsmen whom the Sirkar's efficiency has put out of work? For the traders whose commerce has decayed under the benevolent rule of the Raj?"
"You must give us a little time, maharaj'," says I, humouring her. "And it ain't all bad, you know. Banditry has ceased; the poor folk are safe from dacoits and Thugs — why, your own throne is secure against greedy neighbours like Kathe Khan and the Dewan of Orcha —"
"My throne is safe?" says she, stopping the swing on which she had been swaying, and lifting her brows at me. "Oh, very safe — for the Sirkar to enjoy its revenues, and usurp my place, and disinherit my son — ha! As to Kathe Khan and that jackal of Orcha, whom the Company in their wisdom allow to live — if I ruled this state, and had my soldiers, Kathe Khan and his fellow-viper would come against me once —" she picked up a fruit from the tray at her elbow, considered it, and nibbled daintily " — and crawl home again — without their hands and feet."
"No doubt, ma'am," says I. "But the fact is that when Jhansi ruled itself, it couldn't deal with these foes. Nor were the Thugs put down —"
"Oh, aye — we hear much of them, and how the Company suppressed their wickedness. And why — because they slew travellers, or was it because they served a Hindoo god and so offended the Christian Company?" She eyed me contemptuously. "Belike had the Thugs been Jesus-worshippers, they would have been roaming yet — especially if they had chosen Hindoo victims."
You can't argue with gross prejudice, so I just looked amiable and said:
"And doubtless had suttee, that fine old Hindoo custom whereby widows were tortured to death, been a Christian practice, we would have encouraged it? But in our ignorance and spite, we forbade it — along with the law which condemned those widows who had escaped burning to a life of slavery and degradation with their heads shaved and heaven knows what else. Come, maharaj' — can we do nothing right?" And without thinking I added: "I'd have thought your highness, as a widow, would have cause to thank the Sirkar for that at least."
As soon as the words were out, I saw I'd put my foot in it. The swing stopped abruptly, and she sat upright, with a face like a mask, staring at me.
"I?" says she. "I? Thank the Sirkar?" And she suddenly flung her fruit across the room and stood upright, blazing at me. "You dare to suggest that?"
Well, I could grovel, or face it out — but I don't hold with grovelling to pretty women, not unless the danger's desperate or I'm short of cash. So I started to hum and haw placatingly, while she snapped in a voice like ice:
"I owe the Company nothing! If the Company had never been, do you think I would have submitted to suttee, or allowed myself to be made a menial? Do you take me for a fool?"
"By God, no, ma'am," says I hastily. "Anything but, and if I've offended, I beg your pardon. I simply thought that the law was binding on all, ah … ladies, you see, and … "
"The Maharani makes the law," says she, all Good Queen Bess damning the dagoes, and I hurriedly cried thank heaven for that, at which she looked down her nose at me.
"That is not the view of your Company or your country. Why should you be different? Why should you care?"
That was my cue, of course; I hesitated a second, and then looked at her, very frank and manly. "Because I've seen your highness," says I quietly. "And … well … I do care, a great deal, you see." I stopped there, giving her my steadiest smile, with a touch of ardent admiration thrown in, and after a long moment her stare softened, and she even smiled as she sat down again and said:
"Shall we return to the confiscated temple funds?"
Altogether it was a rum game in those first few days — rum for her, because she was a fair natural tyrant, yet whenever a disagreement in our discussions arose, she would allow it to smooth over, with that warm mysterious smile, and rum for me, because here I was day after day closeted with this choice piece of rump, and not so much as touching her, let alone squeezing and grappling. But I had to bide my time, and since she took such obvious and natural pleasure in my company, I contained my horniness for the moment, in the interests of diplomacy.
In the meantime, I occasionally paid attention to the other side of Pam's business, talking with Skene, and Carshore the Collector, and reassuring myself that all continued to go well among the sepoys. There wasn't a hint of agitation now, my earlier fears about Ignatieff and his scoundrels were beginning to seem like a distant nightmare, and now that I was so well established in the Rani's good graces, the last cloud over my mission appeared to have been dispelled. Laughable, you may think, when you recollect that this was 1856 drawing to a close — you will ask how I, and the others, could have been so blind to the fact that we were living on the very edge of hell, but if you'd been there, what would you have seen? A peaceful native state, ruled by a charming young woman whose grievances were petty enough, and who gave most of her time to seducing the affections of a dashing British colonel; a contented native soldiery; and a tranquil, happy, British cantonment.
I was about it a great deal, and all .our people were so placid and at ease — I remember a dinner at Carshore's bungalow, with his family, and Skene and his pretty little wife so nervous and pleased in her new pink gown, and jolly old Dr McEgan with his fund of Irish stories, and the garrison men with their red jackets, slung on the backs of their chairs, matching their smiling red faces, and their gossipy wives, and myself raising a laugh by coaxing one of the Wilton girls to eat a "country captain"*(*A type of curry.) with the promise that it would make her hair curl when she grew older.
It was all so comfy and easy, i
t might have been a dinner-party at home, except for the black faces and gleaming eyes of the bearers standing silent against the chick-screens, and the big moths fluttering round the lamps; afterwards there was a silly card game, and Truth or Con-sequences, and local scandal, and talk of leave and game-shooting with our cheroots and port on the verandah. Trivial enough memories, when you think what happened to all of them — I can still feel the younger Wilton chit pulling at my arm and crying:
"Oh, Colonel Flashman, Papa says if I ask you ever so nicely you will sing us ‘The Galloping Major’ — will you please, oh, please do!" And see those shining eyes, and the ringlets, as she tugged me to where her sister was sitting at the piano.
We couldn't see ahead, then, and life was pleasant — especially for me, with my diplomatic duties to attend to, and they became more enjoyable by the hour; I'll say that for Rani Lakshmibai, she knew how to make business a pleasure. Much of the time we didn't talk in the palace at all; she was, as Skene had told me, a fine horsewoman, and loved nothing better than to put on her jodhpurs and turban, with two little silver pistols in her sash, and gallop on the maidan, or go hawking along a wooded river not far from the city. There was a charming little pavilion there, of about a dozen rooms on two storeys, hidden among the trees, and once or twice I was taken on picnics with a few of her courtiers and attendants. At other times we would talk in the palace garden, among the scores of pet beasts and birds which she kept, and once she had me into one of her hen-parties in the durbar room, at which she entertained all the leading ladies of Jhansi to tea and cakes, and I found myself called on to discourse on European fashions to about fifty giggling Indian females in saris and bangles and kohl-dark eyes — excellent fun, too, although the questions they asked about crinolines and panniers would have made a sailor blush.
But her great delight was to be out of doors, riding or playing with her adopted son Damodar, a grave-faced imp of eight, or inspecting her guards at field exercise; she even watched their wrestling-matches in the courtyard, and a race-meeting in which some of our garrison officers took part — I was intrigued to see that on this occasion she wore a purdah veil and an enveloping robe, for about the palace she went bare-faced — and pretty bare-bodied, too. And if she could be as formal as a stockbroker with a new-bought peerage, she had a delightful way with the ordinary folk — she was never so gay and happy as when she held a party for children from the city in her garden, letting them run among the birds and monkeys, and at one of her almsgivings I saw her quite concerned as her treasurer scattered coins among the mob of hideous and stinking beggars clamouring at her gate. Not at all like a Rani, sometimes — she was a queer mixture of schoolgirl and sophisticated woman, all scatter one moment, all languor and dignity the next. Damned unpredictable — oh, and captivating; there were times when even I found myself regarding her with an interest that wasn't more than four-fifths lustful — and that ain't like me. It was directly after that alms-giving, when we rode out to her pavilion among the trees, and I had just, remarked that what was needed for India was a Poor Law and a few parish workuses, that she suddenly turned in her saddle, and burst out:
"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 babus*(*Clerks.) 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,*(*Court) 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,*(*scoundrel) 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, "wh
en 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.
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