The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light fp-9

by George MacDonald Fraser

  As each regiment approached the arch it gave a great cheer, and I thanked God for the shadows as I saw that they were saluting a little knot of mounted officers in gorgeous coats, with the rotund figure of Tej Singh at their head. He was wearing a puggaree as big as himself, and enough jewellery to start a shop; he shook a sheathed tulwar over his head in response to the troops' weapons brandished in unison as they chanted: "Khalsa-ji! Wa Guru-ji ko Futteh! To Delhi! To London! Victory!"

  After them came cavalry, regular units, lancers in white and dragoons in red, jingling by, and finally a baggage train of camels, and Tej left off saluting, the band gave over, and people turned away to the booths and grog shops. Jassa told the jemadar to have the riders follow us singly, and then my rider dismounted and Jassa began to lead my beast down towards the gate.

  "Hold on," says I. "Where away?"

  "That's your way home, wouldn't you say?" says he, and when I reminded him that I was all in, dry, famished, and one-legged, he grinned all over his ugly mug and said that would be attended to directly, I'd see. So I let him lead on under the great arch, past the spearmen standing guard in their mail coats and helms; my puggaree, like my sword and pepperbox, had gone during the evening's activities, but one of the riders had lent me a cloak with a hood, which I kept close about my face; no one gave us a second glance.

  Beyond the gate were the usual shanties and hovels of the beggars, but farther out on the maidan a few camp fires were winking, and Jassa made for one beside a little grove of white poplars, where a small tent was pitched, with a couple of horses picketed close by. The first streak of dawn was lightening the sky to the east, silhouetting the camels and wagons on the southern road; the night air was dry and bitter cold, and I was shivering as we reached the fire. A man squatting on a rug beside it rose at our approach, and before I saw his face I recognised the long rangy figure of Gardner. He nodded curtly to me, and asked Jassa if there had been any trouble, or pursuit.

  "Now, Alick, you know me!" cries that worthy, and Gardner growled, that he did, and how many signatures had he forged along the way. The same genial Gurdana Khan, I could see—but just the sight of that fierce eye and jutting nose made me feel safe for the first time that night.

  "What's wrong with your foot?" snaps he, as I climbed awkwardly down and leaned, wincing, on Jassa. I told him, and he swore.

  "You have a singular gift for making the sparks fly upward! Let's have a look at it." He prodded, making me yelp. "Damnation! It'll take days to mend! Very well, Doctor Harlan, there's cold water in the chatti—let's see you exercise the medical skill that was the talk of Pennsylvania, I don't doubt! There's curry in the pan, and coffee on the fire."

  He picketed the horse while I wolfed curry and chapattis and Jassa bound my ankle with a cold cloth; it was badly sprained and swollen like a football, but he had a soothing touch and made it feel easier. Gardner came back to squat cross-legged beyond the fire, drinking coffee with the aid of his iron neck-clamp and eyeing me sourly. He'd left off his bumbee tartan rig, no doubt to avoid notice, and wore a cowled black robe, with his Khyber knife across his knees: a damned discouraging sight all round, with questions to match.

  "Now, Mr Flashman," growls he. "Explain yourself. What folly took you among the Khalsa—and at such a time, too? Well, sir—what were you doing in that house?"

  I knew I would be relying on him for my passage home, so I told him—all of it, from the false message to Jassa's rescue, and he listened with a face like flint. The only interruption came from Jassa, when I mentioned my encounter with Goolab Singh.

  "You don't say! The old Golden Hen! Now what would he be doing so far from Kashmir?" Gardner rounded on him.

  "Minding his own dam' business! And you'll do like-wise, Josiah, you hear me? Not a word about him! Yes … while I think on it, you'd best take yourself out of earshot."

  "That's for Mr Flashman to say!" retorts Jassa.

  "Mr Flashman agrees with me!" barks Gardner, fixing me with a cold eye, so I nodded, and Jassa loafed off in a pet. "He did well by you tonight," says Gardner, watching him go, "but I still wouldn't trust him across the street. Go on."

  I finished my tale, and he observed with grim satisfaction that it had all fallen out for the best. I said I was glad he thought so, and pointed out that it wasn't his arse that had been toasted over a slow fire. He just grunted.

  "Maka Khan'd never ha' gone through with it. He'd try to scare you, but torture isn't his style."

  "The devil it ain't! Good God, man, I was half-broiled, I tell you! Those swine would have stopped at nothing! Why, they roasted my punkah-wallah to death —"

  "So they told you. Even if they did, a no-account nigger's one thing, a white officer's another. Still, you were lucky … thanks to Josiah. Yes, and to Goolab Singh."

  I asked him why he thought Goolab and the widow had taken such risks on my behalf, and he stared at me as though I were half-witted.

  "He told you plain enough, I'd say! The more good turns he does the British, the better they'll like him. He's promised to stand by 'em in the war, but protecting you is worth a thousand words. He's counting on you to do him credit with Hardinge—and you do it, d'you hear? Goolab's an old fox, but he's a brave man and a strong ruler, and deserves to have your people confirm him as king in Kashmir when this war's over."

  It seemed to me he was being optimistic in thinking we'd be in a position to confirm anyone in Kashmir when the Khalsa had done with us, but I didn't care to croak in front of a Yankee, so I said offhand: "You think we'll beat the Khalsa quite handily, then?"

  "There'll be some damned long faces in Lahore Fort if you don't," says he bluntly, and before I could ask him to explain that bewildering remark, he added: "But you'll be able to watch the fight from the ringside yourself, before the week's out."

  "I don't see that," says I. "I agree I can't stay in Lahore, but I'm in no case to ride for the frontier in a hurry, either—not with this confounded leg. I mean, even in disguise, you never know—I might have to cut and run, and I'd rather have two sound pins for that, what?" So you'd best find me a safe, comfortable spot to lie up in meanwhile, was what I was hinting, and waited for him to agree. He didn't.

  "We can't wait for your leg to mend! This war is liable to be won and lost in a few days at most—which means you must be across the Sutlej without delay, even if you have to be carried!" He glared at me, whiskers bristling. "The fate of India may well depend on that, Mr Flashman!"

  The sun couldn't have got him, not in December, and he wasn't tight. Tactfully I asked him how the fate of India came into it, since I had no vital intelligence to take with me, and my addition to the forces of the Company, while no doubt welcome in its small way, could hardly be decisive.

  "Forces of the Company my aunt's petticoat!" snarls he. "You're going in with the Khalsa!"

  If life has taught me anything at all, it's how to keep my countenance in the presence of strong, authoritative men whose rightful place is in a padded cell. I've known a power of them, to my cost, and Alick Gardner's a minor figure in a list that includes the likes of Bismarck, Palmerston, Lincoln, Gordon, John Charity Spring, M.A., George Custer, and the White Raja, to say nothing of my beloved mentor, Dr Arnold, and my old guv'nor (who did end his days in a blue-devil factory, bless him). Many of them men of genius, no doubt, but all sharing the delusion that they could put any proposal, however lunatic, to young Flashy and make him like it. There's no arguing with such fellows, of course; all you can do, if you're lucky, is nod and say: "Well, sir, that's an interesting notion, to be sure—just before you tell me more about it, would you excuse me for a moment?" and once you're round the corner, make for the high ground. I've seldom had that chance, unfortunately, and there's nothing for it but to sit with an expression of attentive idiocy trying to figure a way out. Which is what I did with Gardner while he elaborated his monstrous suggestion.

  "You're going with the Khalsa," says he, "to ensure its defeat. It's doomed and damned already, thanks
to Mai Jeendan—but you can make it certain."

  You see what I mean—the man was plainly must,*(*Must is the madness of the rogue elephant. Doolali=insane, from Deolali Camp, inland from Bombay, where generations of British soldiers (including the editor) were received in India, and supposedly were affected by sunstroke. doolali, afflicted of Allah, too long in the hills altogether—but one doesn't like to say so, straight out, not to a chap who affects tartan pants and has a Khyber knife across his lap. So I avoided the main point for a lesser but equally curious one.

  "I don't quite follow, Gardner, old fellow," says I. "You say the Khalsa's doomed … and it's Jeendan's doing? But … she never wanted this war, you know. She's been working to avoid it—hocussing the Khalsa, delaying 'em, holding 'em back. They know it, too—Maka Khan told me. And now they've broken loose, in spite of her —"

  "In spite of … why, you jackass!" cries he, glaring like the Ancient Mariner. "She started it! Don't you under-stand—she's been planning this war for months! Why? To destroy the Khalsa, of course—to see it exterminated, root and branch! Sure, she held 'em back—until the cold weather, until she'd fixed it so they have the worst possible generals, until she'd bought time for Gough! But not to avoid war, no sir! Just to make sure that when she did send 'em in, the Khalsa would get whipped five ways to Sunday! Don't you know that?"

  "Talk sense—why should she want to destroy her own army?"

  "Because if she doesn't, it will sure as hell destroy her in the end!" He fetched a deep breath. "See here … you know the Khalsa's gotten too big for its britches, don't you? For six years it's been ruining the Punjab, defying government, doing as it dam' well pleases —"

  "I know all that, but —"

  "Well, don't you see, the ruling clique—Jeendan and the nobles—have had their power and fortunes wiped out, their very existence threatened? So of course they want the Khalsa crushed—and the only force on earth that can do that is John Company! That's why they've been trying to provoke a war—that's why Jawaheer wanted one! But they murdered him—and that's another score Mai Jeendan has to settle. You remember her that night at Maian Mir, don't you? She was sentencing the Khalsa then, Mr Flashman—now she's executing them!"

  I remembered her screaming hate at the Khalsa over Jawaheer's body—but Gardner still wasn't making sense. "Dammit, if the Khalsa goes under, she'll go with it!" I protested. "She's their queen—and you say she's set them on! Well, if they lose, she'll be finished, won't she?"

  He sighed, shaking his head. "Son, it won't even take the dander out of her hair. When they lose, she's won. Consider … Britain doesn't want to conquer the Punjab—too much trouble. It just wants it nice and quiet, with no Khalsa running wild, and a stable Sikh government who'll do what Hardinge tells 'em. So … when the Khalsa's licked, your chiefs won't annex the Punjab—no, sir! They'll find it convenient to keep little Dalip on the throne, with Jeendan as regent—which means that she and the nobles will be riding high again, squeezing the fat out of the country just like old times—and with no Khalsa to worry about."

  "Hold on! Are you saying that this war's a put-up job—that they know, in Simla, that Jeendan is hoping we'll destroy her army, for her own benefit? I won't have that! Why, it'd be collusion … conspiracy … aiding and abetting —"

  "No such thing! Oh, they know in Simla what she's after—or they suspect, leastways. But what can they do about it? Give the Khalsa free passage to Delhi?" He snorted. "Hardinge's got to fight, whether he likes it or not! And while he may not welcome the war, there are plenty of `forward policy' men like Broadfoot who do. But that doesn't mean they're in cahoots with Mai Jeendan—the way she's fixed things, they don't need to be!"

  I sat silent, trying to take it in … and feeling no end of a fool. Evidently I had misjudged the lady. Oh, I'd guessed there was steel inside my drunken, avid little houri, but hardly of the temper that could slaughter scores of thousands of men just for her own political convenience and personal comfort. Mind you, what other reasons do statesmen and princes ever have for making war, when all the sham's been stripped away? Oh, and she had her sot of a brother to avenge, to be sure. But I wondered if her calculations were right; I could spot one almighty imponderable, and I voiced it to Gardner, whether it sounded like croaking or not.

  "But suppose we don't beat the Khalsa? How can she be so sure we will? There's a hell of a lot of 'em, and we're spread thin … Wait, though! Maka Khan was in a great sweat in case she'd betrayed their plans of campaign! Well, has she?"

  Gardner shook his head. "She's done better than that. She's put the conduct of the war in the hands of Lal Singh, her Wazir and lover, and Tej Singh, her commander-in-chief who'd set fire to his own mother to keep warm." He nodded grimly. "They'll see to it that Gough doesn't have too much trouble."

  Suddenly I remembered Lal Singh's words to me … "I wonder how we should acquit ourselves against such a seasoned campaigner as Sir Hugh Gough …?"

  "My God," says I, with reverence. "You mean they're ready to … to fight a cross? To sell the pass? But … does Gough know? I mean, have they arranged with him -?"

  "No, sir. That's your part. That's why you have to join the Khalsa." He leaned forward, the hawk face close to mine. "You're going to Lal Singh. By tomorrow he'll be lying before Ferozepore with twenty thousand gorracharra. He'll tell you his plans, and Tej Singh's—numbers, armaments, dispositions, intentions, all of it—and you'll carry them to Gough and Hardinge. And then … well, it should be an interesting little war … what's the matter?"

  I'd been struggling for speech during this fearful recital, but when I found words it wasn't to protest, or argue, or scream, but to pose a profound military question:

  "But … hell's bells! Look here … they can give away plans—arrange for a few regiments to go astray—lose a battle on purpose, I dare say … But, man alive, how do they betray an army of a hundred thousand men? I mean … how d'you sell a whole war?"

  "It'll take management, no denying. As I said, an interesting little war." He tossed another billet on the fire, and rose. "When it's over, and you're back in Lahore with the British peace mission—you can tell me all about it."

  My first thought, as I sat by the fire with my head in my hands, was: this is Broadfoot's doing. He's planned the whole hideous thing, start to finish, and kept me in the dark till the last moment, the treacherous, crooked, conniving, Scotch … political! Well, I was doing him an injustice; for once, George was innocent. He might welcome the war, as Gardner had said, and have a shrewd notion that Jeendan was launching the Khalsa in the hope of seeing it wrecked, but neither he nor anyone else in Simla knew that the Sikhs' two leading commanders were under her orders to give the whole game away. Nor could he guess the base use that was being made of his prize agent, Lieutenant Flashman, late 11th Hussars, in this hour of crisis.

  The notion that I should be the messenger of betrayal had been another inspiration of Jeendan's, according to Gardner. How long she'd had me in mind for the role of go-between, he didn't know; she'd confided it to him only the previous day, and he and Mangla would have brought me my marching orders that same night—if I hadn't been away gallivanting with the Khalsa and Goolab and the merry widow. Most inconsiderate of me, but all's ill that ends ill—here I was still, ankle crocked and guts fermenting with fright, meet to be hurled into the soup in furtherance of that degenerate royal doxy's intrigues, and no way to cry off that I could see.

  I tried, you may be sure, pleading my ankle, and the impossibility of taking orders from any but my own chiefs, and the folly of venturing again among enemies who'd already toasted me to a turn—Gardner answered every objection with the blunt fact that someone had to take Lal's plans to Gough, and no one else had my qualifications. It was my duty, says he, and if you wonder that I bowed to his authority—well, take a squint at the portrait in his Memoirs; that should convince you.

  I'm still not sure, by the way, exactly where his loyalties lay. To Dalip and Jeendan, certainly: what she order
ed, he performed. But he played a staunch game on our behalf, too, and on Goolab Singh's. When I ventured to ask him where he stood, he looked down that beak of a nose and snapped: "On my own two feet!" So there.

  He had Jeendan's infernal scheme all pat, and after I'd had a couple of hours' sleep and Jassa had rebound my swollen ankle, he lined it out to me; horrid risky it sounded.

  "You ride straight hence to Lal's camp beyond the Sutlej, with four of my men as escort, all of you disguised as gorracharra. Ganpat there will act as leader and spokesman; he's a safe man. This was his jemadar, a lean Punjabi with an Abanazar moustache; he and the half-dozen other riders had come out from the city by now, and were loafing round the fire, chewing betel and spitting, while Gardner bullied me privately.

  "You'll arrive by night, presenting yourselves as messengers from the durbar; that'll see you into Lal's presence. He'll be expecting you; word of mouth goes to him today from Jeendan."

  "Suppose Maka Khan or that bloody Akali turn up—they'll recognise me straight off —"

  "They'll be nowhere near! They're infantrymen—Lal commands only cavalry and horse guns. Besides, no one's going to know you in gorracharra gear—and you won't be in their camp long enough to signify. A few hours at most—just long enough to learn what Lal and Tej mean to do."

  "They'll take Ferozepore," says I. "That's plain. They're bound to put Littler out of the game before Gough can relieve him."

  He gave an impatient snarl. "That's what they'd do if they wanted to win the goddam war! They don't! But their brigadiers and colonels do, so Lal and Tej are going to have to look as though they're trying like hell! Lal's going to have to think of some damned good reason for not storming Ferozepore, and since he's a duffer of a soldier as well as a yellow-belly, he's liable to go cross-eyed if his subordinates present him with a sound plan … Now what?"