Flashman In The Great Game fp-5

by George MacDonald Fraser

  So a few more weeks went by, and I was slipping into this nice easy life, as is my habit whenever things are quiet. I reckoned I'd give it another month or so, and then slide out one fine night for Jhansi, where I'd surprise Skene by turning up a la Pathan and pitch him the tale about how I'd been pursuing Ignatieff in secret and getting nowhere. I'd see Ilderim, too, and find if the Thugs were still out for me; if it seemed safe I'd shave, become Flashy again, and make tracks for Calcutta, protesting that I'd done all that could be done. Might even pay my respects to Lakshmibai on the way … however, in the meantime I'd carry on as I was, eating Duff Mason's rations, seeing that his bearer laid out his kit, harrying his servants, and tupping his kitchen-maid — she was a poor substitute for my Rani, and once or twice, when it seemed to me that Mrs Leslie's eye lingered warmly on my upstanding Pathan figure or my swarthy bearded countenance, I toyed with the idea of having a clutch at her. Better not, though — too many prying eyes in a bungalow household, which is what made life hard for grass widows and unattached white females in Indian garrisons — they couldn't do more than flirt in safety.

  Every now and then I had to go back to barracks. Carmichael-Smith had been willing enough to detach me to Duff Mason, but I still had to muster on important parades, when all sepoys on the regimental strength were called in. It was on one of these that I heard the rumour flying that the 19th NJ. had rioted at Behrampore over the greased cartridge, as sepoy Ram Mangal had predicted.

  "They have been disbanded by special court," says he to me out of the corner of his mouth as we clattered back to the armoury to hand in our rifles; he was full of excitement. "The sahibs have sent the jawans home, because the Sirkar fears to keep such spirited fellows under arms! So much for the courage of your British colonels — they begin to fear.

  Aye, presently they will have real cause to be fearful!"

  "It will need to be better cause than a pack of whining monkeys like the 19th," says Pir Ali. "Who minds if a few Hindoos get cow-grease on their fingers?"

  "Have you seen this, then?" Mangal whipped a paper from under his jacket and thrust it at him. "Here are your own people — you Mussulmen who so faithfully lick the sahibs' backsides — even they are beginning to find their manhood! Read here of the great jihad*(*Holy war.) that your mullahs*(*Preachers.) are preaching against the infidels — not just in India, either, but Arabia and Turkestan. Read it — and learn that an Afghan army is preparing to seize India, with Ruski guns and artillerymen — what does it say? ‘Thousands of Ghazis, strong as elephants’." He laughed jeeringly. "They may come to help — but who knows, perhaps they will be behind the fair? The goddess Kali may have destroyed the British already — as the wise men foretold."

  It was just another scurrilous pamphlet, no doubt, but the sight of that grinning black ape gloating over his sedition riled me; I snatched the paper and rubbed it deliberately on the seat of my trousers. Pir Ali and some of the sepoys grinned, but the rest looked pretty glum, and old Sardul shook his head.

  "If the 19th have been false to their salt, it is an ill thing," says he, and Mangal broke in excitedly to say hadn't the sahibs broken faith first, by trying to defile the sepoys' caste?

  "First Behrampore — then where?" cries he. "Which pultan will be next? It is coming, brothers — it is coming!" And he nodded smugly, and went off chattering with his cronies.20

  I didn't value this, at the time, but it crossed my mind again a couple of nights later, when Duff Mason had Archdale Wilson, the binky-nabob,*(*Artillery commander.) and Hewitt and Carmichael-Smith and a few others on his verandah, and I heard Jack Waterfield, a senior man in the 3rd Native Cavalry, talking about Behrampore, and wondering if it was wise to press ahead with the issue of the new cartridge.

  "Of course it is," snaps Carmichael-Smith. "Especially now, when it's been refused at Behrampore. Give way on this — and where will it end? It's a piece of damned nonsense- some crawling little agitator fills the sepoys' heads with rubbish about beef-grease and pig-fat, when it's been made perfectly plain by the authorities that the new cartridge contains nothing that could possibly offend Muslim or Hindoo. But it serves as an excuse for the troublemakers — and there are always some."

  "Fortunately not in our regiment," says another — Plow-den, who commanded my own company. By God, thinks I, that's all you know, and then Carmichael-Smith was growling on that he'd like to see one of his sepoys refuse the issue, by God he would.

  "No chance of that, sir," says another major of the 3rd, Richardson. "Our fellows are too good soldiers, and no fools. Can't think what happened with the 19th — too many senior officers left regimental service for the staff, I shouldn't wonder. New men haven't got the proper grip."

  "But suppose our chaps did refuse?" says one young fellow in the circle. "Mightn't it —"

  "That is damned croaking!" says Carmichael-Smith angrily. "You don't know sepoys, Gough, and that's plain. I do, and I won't countenance the suggestion that my soldiers would have their heads turned by this … this seditious bosh. What the devil — they know their duty! But I I' they get the notion that any of us have doubts, or might show weakness — well, that's the worst thing imaginable. I'll be obliged if you'll keep your half-baked observations to yourself!"

  That shut up Gough, sharp enough, and Duff Mason tried to get the pepper out of the air by saying he was sure Carmichael-Smith was right, and if Gough had misgivings, why not settle them then and there.

  "Your colonel won't mind, I'm sure, if I put it to one of his own sowars — don't fret, Smith, he's a safe man." And he beckoned me from where I stood in the shadows by the serving-table from which the bearers kept the glasses topped up.

  "Now, Makarram Khan," says he. "You know about this cartridge nonsense. Well — you're a Muslim … will you take it?"

  I stood respectfully by his chair, glancing round the circle of faces — Carmichael-Smith red and glistening, Waterfield thin and shrewd, young Gough flustered, old Hewitt grinning and belching quietly.

  "If it will drive a ball three hundred yards, and straight, husoor," says I, "I shall take it."

  They roared, of course, and Hewitt said there was a real Pathan answer, what?

  "And your comrades?" asks Archdale Wilson.

  "If they are told, truly, by the colonel sahib, that the cartridge is clean, why should they refuse?" says I, and they murmured agreement. Well, thinks I, that's a plain enough hint, and Carmichael-Smith can put Master Mangal's croaking into the shade.

  He might have done, too, but the very next day the barracks was agog with a new rumour — and we heard for the first time a name that was to sweep across India and the world.

  "Pandy?" says I to Pir Ali. "Who may he be?"

  "A sepoy of the 34th, at Barrackpore," says he. "He shot at his captain sahib on the parade-ground — they say he was drunk with sharab or bhang, and called on the sepoys to rise against their officers.21 What do I know? Perhaps it is true, perhaps it is rumour — Ram Mangal is busy enough convincing those silly Hindoo sheep that it really happened."

  So he was, with an admiring crowd round him in the middle of the barrack-room, applauding as he harangued them.

  "It is a lie that the sepoy Pandy was drunk!" cries he. "A lie put about by the sahibs to dishonour a hero who will defend his caste to the death! He would not take the cartridge — and when they would have arrested him, he called to his brothers to beware, because the British are bringing fresh battalions of English soldiers to steal away our religion and make slaves of us. And the captain sahib at Barrackpore shot Pandy with his own hands, wounding him, and they keep him alive for torture, even now!"

  He was working himself into a terrible froth over this — what surprised me was that no one — not even the Muslims — contradicted him, and Naik Kudrat Ali, who was a good soldier, was standing by chewing his lip, but doing nothing. Eventually, when Mangal had raved himself hoarse, I thought I'd take a hand, so I asked him why he didn't go to the Colonel himself, and find out the truth, whateve
r it was, and ask for reassurance about the cartridge.

  "Hear him!" cries he scornfully. "Ask a sahib for the truth? Hah! Only the gora-colonel's lapdog would suggest it! Maybe I will speak to Carmik-al-Ismeet, though in my own time!" He looked round at his cronies with a significant, ugly grin. "Yes, maybe I will … we shall see!"

  Well, one swallow don't make a summer, or one ill-natured agitator a revolt — no doubt what I'm telling you now about barrack-room discontent among the sepoys looks strong evidence of trouble brewing, but it didn't seem so bad then. Of course there was discontent, and Ram Mangal played on it, and every rumour, for all he was worth — but you could go into any barracks in the world, you know, at any time, and find almost the same thing happening. No one did anything, just sullen talk; the parades went on, and the sepoys did their duty, and the British officers seemed content enough — anyway, I was only occasionally in the barracks myself, so I didn't hear much of the grumbling. When the word came through that Sepoy Pandy had been hanged at Barrackpore for mutiny, I thought there might be some kind of stir among our men, but they never let cheep.

  In the meantime, I had other things to claim my attention: Mrs Leslie of the red hair and lazy disposition had begun to take a closer interest in me. It started with little errands and tasks that put me in her company, then came her request to Duff Mason that I should ride escort on her and Miss Blanche when they drove out visiting ("it looks so much better to have Makarram Khan attending us than an ordinary syce"), and fmally I found myself accompanying her when she went riding alone — the excuse was that it was convenient to her to have an attendant who spoke English, and could answer her questions about India, in which she professed a great interest.

  I know what interests you, my girl, thinks I, but you'll have to make the first move. I didn't mind; she was a well-fleshed piece in her way. It was amusing, too, to see her plucking up her courage; I was a black servant to her, you see, and she was torn between a natural revulsion and a desire to have the big hairy Pathan set about her. On our rides, she would flirt a very little, in a hoity-toity way, and then think better of it; I maintained my correct and dignified noble animal pose, with just an occasional ardent smile, and a slight squeeze when I helped her dismount. I knew she was getting ready for the plunge when she said one day:

  "You Pathans are not truly … Indian, are you? I mean … in some ways you look … well, almost … white."

  "We are not Indian at all, mem-sahib," says I. "We are descended from the people of Ibrahim, Ishak and Yakub, who were led from the Khedive's country by one Moses."

  "You mean — you're Jewish?" says she. "Oh." She rode in silence for a while. "I see. How strange." She thought some more. "I … I have Jewish acquaintances … in England. Most respectable people. And quite white, of course."

  Well, the Pathans believe it, and it made her happy, so I hurried the matter along by suggesting next day that I show her the ruins at Aligaut, about six miles from the city; it's a deserted temple, very overgrown, but what I hadn't told her was that the inside walls were covered with most artistically-carved friezes depicting all the Hindoo methods of fornicating — you know the kind of thing: effeminate-looking lads performing incredible couplings with fat-titted females. She took one look and gasped; I stood behind with the horses and waited. I saw her eyes travel round from one impossible carving to the next, while she gulped and went crimson and pale by turns, not knowing whether to scream or giggle, so I stepped up behind her and said quietly that the forty-fifth position was much admired by the discriminating. She was shivering, with her back to me, and then she turned, and I saw that her eyes were wild and her lips trembling, so I gave my swarthy ravisher's growl, swept her up in my arms, and then down on to the mossy floor. She gave a little frightened moan, opened her eyes wide, and whispered:

  "You're sure you're Jewish … not … not Indian?"

  "Han, mem-sahib," says I, thrusting away respectfully, and she gave a contented little squeal and grappled me like a wrestler.

  We rode to Aligaut quite frequently after that, studying Indian social customs, and if the forty-fifth position eluded us, it wasn't for want of trying. She had a passion for knowledge, did Mrs Leslie, and I can think back affectionately to that cool, dim, musty interior, the plump white body among the ferns, and the thoughtful way she would gnaw her lower lip while she surveyed the friezes before pointing to the lesson for today. Pity for some chap she never re-married. Aye, and more of a pity for her she never got the chance.

  For by now April had turned into May, the temperature was sweltering, and there was a hot wind blowing across the Meerut parade-ground and barracks that had nothing to do with the weather. You could feel the tension in the air like an electric cloud; the sepoys of the 3rd N.C. went about their drill like sullen automatons, the native officers stopped looking their men in the eye, the British officers were quiet and wary or explosively short-tempered, and there were more men on report than anyone could remember. There were ugly rumours and portents: the 34th N.I. — the executed Sepoy Pandy's regiment — had been disbanded at Barrackpore, a mysterious fakir on an elephant had appeared in Meerut bazaar predicting that the wrath of Kali was about to fall on the British, chapattis were said to be passing in some barrack-rooms, the Plassey legend was circulated again. Out of all the grievances and mistrust that folk like Ram Mangal had been voicing, a great, discontented unease grew in those few weeks — and one thing suddenly became known throughout the Meerut garrison: without a word said, the certainty was there. When the new greased cartridge was issued, the 3rd Native Cavalry would refuse it.

  Now, you may say, knowing what followed, something should have been done. I, with respect, will ask: what? The thing was, while everyone knew that feeling was rising by the hour, no one could foresee for a moment what was about to happen. It was unimaginable. The British officers couldn't conceive that their beloved sepoys would be false to their salt — dammit, neither could the sepoys. If there's one thing I will maintain, it is that not a soul — not even creatures like Ram Mangal — thought that the bitterness could explode in violence. Even if the cartridge was refused — well, the worst that could follow was disbandment, and even that was hard to contemplate. I didn't dream of what lay ahead — not even with all my forewarning over months.

  And I was there — and no one can take fright faster than I. So when I heard that Carmichael-Smith had ordered a firing-parade, at which the skirmishers (of whom I was one) would demonstrate the new cartridge, I simply thought: well, this will settle it — either they'll accept the new loads, and it'll all blow over, or they won't and Calcutta will have to think again.

  Waterfield tried to smooth things beforehand, singling out the older skirmishers and reassuring them that the loads were not offensively greased, but they wouldn't have it — they even pleaded with him not to ask them to take the cartridge. I think he tried to reason with Carmichael-Smith — but the word came out that the firing-parade would take place as ordered.

  After Waterfield's failure, this was really throwing down the gauntlet, if you like — I'd not have done it, if I'd been Carmichael-Smith, for one thing I've learned as an officer is never to give an order unless there's a good chance of its being obeyed. And if you'd fallen in with the skirmishers that fine morning, having seen the sullen faces as they put on their belts and bandoliers and drew their Enfields from the armoury, you'd not have wagered a quid to a hundred on their taking the cartridge. But Carmichael-Smith, the ass, was determined, so there we stood, in extended line between the other squadrons of the regiment facing inwards, the native officers at ease before their respective troops, and the rissaldar calling us to attention as Carmichael-Smith, looking thunderous, rode up and saluted.

  We waited, with our Enfields at our sides, while he rode along the extended rank, looking at us. There wasn't a sound; we stood with the baking sun at our backs; every now and then a little puff of warm wind would drive a tiny dust-devil across the ground; Plowden's horse kept shying as he cursed
and tried to steady it. I watched the shadows of the rank swaying with the effort of standing igid, and the sweat rivers were tickling my chest. Naik Kudrat Ali on my right was straight as a lance; on my other side old Sardul's breathing was hoarse enough to be audible. Carmichael-Smith completed his slow inspection, and reined up almost in front of me; his red face under the service cap was as heavy as a statue's. Then he snapped an order, and the havildar-major stepped forward, saluted, and marched to Carmichael-Smith's side, where he turned to face us. Jack Waterfield, sitting a little in rear of the colonel, called out the orders from the platoon exercise manual.

  "Prepare to load!" says he, adding quietly: "Rifle-atfull-extent-of-left-arm." The havildar-major shoved out his rifle.

  "Load!" cries Jack, adding again: "Cartridge-is-broughtto-the-left-hand-right-elbow-raised-tear-off-top-of-cartridge-with-fmgers-by-dropping-elbow. "

  This was the moment; you could feel the rank sway forward ever so little as the havildar-major, his bearded face intent, held up the little shiny brown cylinder, tore it across, and poured the powder into his barrel. A hundred and eighty eyes watched him do it; there was just a suspicion of a sigh from the rank as his ram-rod drove the charge home; then he came to attention again. Waterfield gave him the "present" and "fire", and the single demonstration shot cracked across the great parade-ground. On either side, the rest of the regiment waited, watching us.