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

by George MacDonald Fraser

  There had been nothing else for it, with detection certain, and as I pulled out my compass and roared to Jassa to change course to port, I was reckoning that no great harm had been done. We were on fresh horses, while the gorracharra had been in the saddle all day; it would take time to mount any kind of pursuit from the city supposing they thought it worth while, with night coming down; the odds were they'd make inquiry first to see if any child of a wealthy family was missing, for I was sure the officer had taken us for common kidnappers—he'd never have risked a shot at us if he'd known who Dalip was. And if, by some astonishing chance, it was discovered that the Mahajara had taken wing—well, we'd be over the river and far away by then.

  I called a halt after the first couple of miles, to tighten girths, take stock, and make certain of my bearing, and then we rode on more slowly. It was pitch dark by now, and while we might have trotted on a road we daren't go above a brisk walk over open country. The moon wouldn't be up for six or seven hours yet, so we must contain ourselves in the sure knowledge that the dark was our friend, and no pursuers could hope to find us while it lasted. Meanwhile we bore on south-east, with Dalip asleep in the crook of my arm—what with distress and elation, he was quite used up, and being lulled by "Tom Bowling" instead of Mangla's song didn't trouble him a bit.

  "Is this how soldiers sleep?" yawns he. "Then you must wake me when it is my time to ride guard, and you shall rest …"

  It was a wearisome trek, and a cold one, hour after hour in the freezing dark, but at least it was without alarm, and by the time we had put twenty miles behind us I was convinced that there would be no pursuit. At about mid-night we pulled up to water the horses at a little stream, and stamp some warmth back into our limbs; there was a faint starshine over the doab now, and I was remarking to Jassa that we'd be able to raise the pace, when Ahmed Shah called to us.

  He was squatting down by a big peepal tree, with his sabre driven into the trunk just above the ground, and his finger on the foible of the blade. I exclaimed, for I knew that trick of old, from Gentleman Jim Skinner on the road above Gandamack. Sure enough, after a moment Ahmed shook his head, looking grim.

  "Horsemen, husoor. Twenty, perhaps thirty, coming south. They are a scant five cos behind us."

  If I'm a firm believer in headlong flight as a rule, it's probably because I've known such a horrid variety of Pursuers in my time—Apaches in the Jornada, Udloko

  Zulus on the veldt, Cossacks along the Arrow of Arabat, Amazons in the Dahomey forest, Chink hatchetmen through the streets of Singapore … no wonder my hair's white. But there are times when you should pause and consider, and this was one. No one was riding the Bari Doab that night for recreation, so it was a fair bet that the inquisitive officer had deduced who our costly-clad infant was and that every rider from the Lahore garrison was sweeping the land from Kussoor to Amritsar. Still, we had spare mounts, so a sprain or a cast shoe was no matter; our pursuers must be riding blind, since even an Australian bushman couldn't have tracked us, on that ground; seven miles is a long lead with only fifteen to go; and there were friends waiting at the finish. Even so, having your tail ridden is nervous work, and we didn't linger over the next few miles, not pausing to listen, and keeping steadily south-east.

  When the moon came up we changed to our remounts; Ahmed's ear to the ground detected nothing, and there was no movement on the plain behind us. It was fairly open country now, with a few scrubby thickets, occasional belts of jungle, and now and then a village. When I reckoned we had only about five miles to go, and still three hours to dawn, we eased to a walk, for Dalip had awoken, demanding food, and after we'd halted for a bite and there was still no sign of pursuers, it seemed sensible to go at a pace that would let him sleep. Of course, he wouldn't, and kept up such a stream of questions and drivel that I came close to fetching him a clip over the head. I didn't, mind you, for it don't pay to offend royalty, however junior: they grow up.

  There was still no sign of the Jupindar rocks, and I guessed we'd come a degree or two off course, so I climbed the first tall tree we came to, for a dekko about. The moonlight gave a clear sight for miles around, and sure enough, about three miles to our left, the ground rose in a long slope to a summit of tangled rocks—Jupindar, for certain. And I was just preparing to swing down when I took a last look astern, and almost fell out of the tree.

  We'd just come through a jungly strip, and behind it the doab lay flat as a flagstone to the horizon. Halfway across it, a bare mile away, a line of horsemen were coming at the canter—a full troop, well spread in line. Only regular cavalry ride like that, and only when they're searching.

  I was out of that tree like a startled monkey, yelling to Jassa, who was standing guard while young Dalip squatted in the bushes—the little bastard must have had an orange cached somewhere, for he'd done his bit three times since midnight. A precious minute was lost while he got himself to rights, bleating that he wasn't done yet, and Jassa fairly threw him into the saddle; then we were away, drumming across the doab for those distant rocks where, unless Gardner had lied, friends were waiting.

  There was a mile of scrub and trees before the rocks came into view, at the top of a long incline dotted with sandy hillocks—and there, far off on our flank, the first of the pursuing horsemen were clearing the jungle. A faint halloo sounded on the frosty air, and now it was a straight race for Jupindar before they could head us off.

  It was going to be close-run, for with our south-east course having carried us wide, we were having to cut back at an angle, while the pursuing troop had only to make straight forrard. There was nothing in it for distance; the best horsemen would be first to the post—and these were lancers; I could make out the long poles.

  Thank God little Dalip could ride. Seven years old, spoiled, garrulous, and loose-bowelled he might be, but he could wear my colours in the National any day. He lay flat to his beast's neck, talking to it when he wasn't squealing with excitement, his long hair flying as he took the jumps over the little dry nullahs that crossed our course. He led me by a length, with Jassa and Ahmed pounding on my quarters; as we breasted the slope for the last mile we were gaining, but there wasn't a sign of life from the rocks looming ahead—God, had Gardner's people failed at the rendezvous? I loosed a warning shot from my Cooper, and in the same moment I saw Dalip's horse stumble. For a moment I thought he was gone, but there must have been a dash of Cumanche in him, for he let the bridle go, clutching the mane, the horse made a long stagger and recovered—but it was dead lame and hobbling, and as I swept by I swung him clear by his waistband, heaving him across before me. Out of the tail of my eye l saw the lancers swinging up the slope a bare furlong behind us, Jassa's pistol cracked—and dead ahead, glorious sight, riders were racing down from the Jupindar rocks, two long files at the gallop, riding wide, one circling in behind us, and the other swinging out in a great arc to envelop our pursuers.

  I never saw it better done. There were five hundred of 'em if there was one—gorracharra, by the look of them, and going like thunderbolts. There were yells of confusion in our rear, and as I steadied my screw and looked back, the lancers were closing on each other in fair disorder, sewn heat as a cat in a bag by those two lines of irregular horsemen, enclosing them front, flanks, and rear. Well met by moonlight, thinks I; you have some capable pals, Gardner. Little Dalip had scrambled to a sitting position before me, clapping and piping cheers at the top of his voice, and Jassa and Ahmed were reining up alongside.

  There was a hail from above and ahead of us, and I saw that there was a narrow gorge in the rocks, and at its mouth a little knot of horsemen in mail and with lanced pennons; overhead a standard was fluttering, and to the fore was a burly old stager in spiked helm and steel backand-breast who raised a hand and roared a greeting.

  "Salaam, maharaj'! Salaam Flashman bahadur! Sat-sree-akal!"

  His companions took up the cry, advancing to meet us, but Did had eyes only for their leader, grinning all over his ruddy face and white whiskers, sit
ting his pony at ease for all that he had only one foot in the stirrup; the other, swathed in bandages, rested in a silken sling hanging from his saddle-bow.

  "Well met again, Afghan-killer!" cries Goolab Singh.

  "Sure people" would meet us, Gardner had said, and like a simpleton I'd taken his word without a thought. He was such a square-shooting white man, you see, and I was so used to thinking of him as a faithful ally and friend—well, he'd saved my hide twice—that I'd clean overlooked that he had other allegiances in the tangled web of Punjabi politics. Well, he'd done me brown—and Hardinge and Lawrence; we'd plucked Dalip Singh out of Lahore just so that he could be dropped into the lap of the whiskered old bandit beaming at me across the fire.

  "Think not harshly of Gurdana Khan," says he soothingly. "He has not betrayed thee—or the Malki lat; rather has he done thee a service."

  "I can see me convincing Sir Henry Hardinge of that!" says I. "Of all the double-dyed Yankee fakers —"

  "Nay, nay now! Only consider: Mai Jeendan, rightly fearing for her son's safety, wished to put him under British protection—good! On her behalf, Gurdana Khan set the thing in train with your folk—good! But then, as my friend and agent, he bethought him that the child would be even better in the keeping of … myself. Why? Because once the Khalsa heard that their king was in the hands of the British, they would smell treason—aye, they might even cut Mai Jeendan's pretty throat, and set up some new Maharaja who would carry on this plaguey war for years." He wagged his wicked head, looking smug, "But now, when they learn that I, the admired Goolab, hold the child, they will think no evil. Why, they have lately offered me the throne, and the Wazirship, and command of the Khalsa, and I know not what, so well do they respect me! But I have no such ambitions—what, to king it in Lahore, and find a quick grave like Jawaheer, and all those other fortunate occupants of that throne of serpents? Not I, friend! Kashmir will do for me—the British will confirm me there, but never in Lahore —"

  You think they will—after this? You've used us, and Gardner's aided and abetted you —"

  "And what harm is done? The child is as safe with me as in his mother's bosom—safer, by God, there is less traffic—and when this war is over I shall have the credit of leading him by the hand into the presence of the Malki-lat!" crows the old villain. "Think of the good will I shall earn! I shall have proved my loyalty to my Maharaja and the British alike!"

  And I'd been sneaking about Lahore Fort in peril of my life, conspiring and kidnapping and being hounded by Khalsa lancers, just so that this ancient iniquity could cut a dash in the last act.

  "Why the devil did Gardner have to bring us into it at all? Couldn't you have lifted the boy for yourself?"

  "Mai, Jeendan would never have allowed it. She trusts me not," says he, shrugging, all innocent-like. "Only to Flashman bahadur would she yield up her precious ewe lamb—ah, what it is to be young and straight and lusty … and British!" He twinkled at me approvingly, shaking with laughter, and refilled my cup with brandy. "Your health, soldier! What, we have stood together, you and I, and heard the cold steel sing! You'll never grudge old Goolab the chance to stand well with your masters!"

  That was gammon. For one thing, I'd no choice, and the plain fact was that in Dalip, the only Maharaja acceptable to all parties, he now held the trump card. He'd been trafficking with us for months, while hedging his bets with the Khalsa, and now that the dice had finally fallen in our favour, he was making sure that he could dictate his own terms. And Hardinge could only swallow it and look pleasant—why shouldn't he? With Dalip and Jeendan secure in Lahore, and Goolab confirmed in Kashmir, the north-west frontier would be safe as never before.

  "And it will be only for a day or two at most," he went on. "Then I shall take Dalip Maharaja and place him in the Sirkar's arms. Aye, Flashman, the war is done. The Khalsa is bought and sold, and not by Tej Singh only. They think themselves secure in their strong position at Sobraon, where even the Jangi fat can hardly assail them, be his guns ever so big—they still dream of sweeping on to Delhi!" He leaned forward, grinning like a fat tiger. "And even now, plans of those fine fortifications are on their way to White Coat Gough—aye, by tomorrow your engineers will know every trench and tower, every rampart and gun emplacement, in that fine trap the Khalsa have built for themselves in. the elbow of the river! Their fortress? Their coffin, rather! For not a man of them shall escape … and the Khalsa will be no more than an evil memory!" He filled his cup again, drank, and licked his lips, Pickwick in a puggaree, nodding benevolently at me. "That is my gift to your government, bahadur! Is it enough, think you? Will it set the seal on Kashmir for me?45

  There's a point, you know, where treachery is so complete and unashamed that it becomes statesmanship. Given a shift of fortune, at Moodkee or Ferozeshah, and this genial, evil old barbarian would have been heart and soul with the Khalsa, leading 'em on to Delhi, no doubt. As it was, he was ensuring their slaughter, and revelling in the prospect, like the cruel savage that he was. I often wish I could have introduced him to Otto Bismarck; a fine matched pair they'd have made.

  Well, he had shored up his credit with our side, sure enough, with little Dalip in his hands for good measure. That was his affair, and I wished him joy of it; my own concern was that I'd failed in my own immediate mission, thanks to him and Gardner, and what was I going to tell Hardinge?

  "Why, that ye had the child safe, but were hard pressed by Khalsa riders, when in the nick of time came loyal Goolab to snatch thee and him to safety! Is it not true, after all? And perforce ye must leave the lad with Goolab, who would nowise part with him, fearing for his safety with all these Khalsa bravos loose about the country!" He chuckled and drank again, wiping his whiskers; you never saw roguery so pleased with itself. "it will make a brave tale … so that ye tell it right." He fixed me with a meaning eye. "It will profit us all, Flash-man sahib."

  I asked, pretty sour, how it could profit me, and he gave me a leery look. "What would ye have that the King of Kashmir can give … when he comes into his own? There Is rich employment, if you wish it, up yonder. Aye, and a warm welcome from that bonny widow, my good-sister. Think on it, bahadur.

  Ironic, wasn't it—a queen hoping to wed me, a king offering me golden rewards, when all my worldly ambition was to step from Colaba Causeway to the deck of a homeward-bound Indiaman, and never see their dirty, Dangerous country again. I could just thank my stars I'd come this far, to this snug camp under Jupindar rocks, testing and boozing by Goolab's fire, with little Dalip fast asleep in a tent close by (Goolab had fairly grovelled to him, but the lordly mite had been too fagged to do more than accept it coolly and curl up), and the Khalsa lancers disarmed and under guard; they'd taken it without a Murmur, once they'd discovered who their captor was. Thus far in safety, and in the meantime all I could do was slope off over the river and report failure to Hardinge—he'd enjoy that.

  To my surprise, I slept sound at Jupindar, and it was after noon when I broke the news to Dalip that he would not be coming with me to the Sirkar's army after all, but must stay awhile with his kinsman, Goolab Singh, until it was safe for him to go home to Mama. I'd expected a royal tantrum, but he took it without a blink of those great brown eyes, nodding gravely as he looked about the camp, aswarm with Goolab's followers.

  "Aye, I see how it is—they are many, and you are but three," says he. "May I have my pistol now, Flashman bahadur?

  That rattled me, I confess. Here he was, not two chamberpots high, lifted in disguise from his mother's palace, fired on and pursued through the dark and cold, left in the hands of a ruffian of whom he could have heard nothing but evil—and all that concerned him was the promised pepperbox. No doubt Sindiawalla princelings were used alarm and excursion from the cradle, and God knows how much children understand, anyway -- but it struck me that whatever faults Dalip Singh developed in later years, funk wouldn't be one of them. Quite awe-inspiring, he was.

  We were standing apart from the others, while Goolab drank his morning t
oddy on a rug outside his tent, watching slantendicular, and Jassa and Ahmed lounged by the horses. I beckoned Ahmed and took out the Cooper, Dalip watching round-eyed as I drew the six loads. I showed him the mechanism, and set the gun in his small fist; he had to grip well up the stock to get his finger near the ring.

  "Ahmed Shah will keep these rounds for you, maharaj'," says I, "and load them at your need."

  "I can load!" says majesty, struggling manfully with the cylinder. "And I would have the pistol charged—I cannot shoot thieves and badmashes with an empty toy!"

  I assured him there were no thieves about, and he gave me a forty-year-old look. "And that fat bearded one yonder, the Dogra whom you call my kinsman? Mangla says he would steal the droppings from a goat!"

  This boded well for Goolab's guardianship, no error. "Now, see here, maharaj', Raja Goolab is your friend, and will guard you until your return to Lahore, which will be soon. And Ahmed Shah here will bide with you also -he is a soldier of the Sirkar, and my comrade, so you must obey him in all things." Which was stretching it, for I hardly knew Ahmed, but he was a Broadfoot Pathan, and the best I could do. To him I said: "On thy head, 'Yusufzai," and he nodded and tapped his hilt. Dalip looked at him critically.

  "Can he help me to shoot the gun, at need? Well then, so be it. But that great belly yonder is still a thief. I will stay with him, and mind him, but I will not trust him. He may guard me and yet rob me too, because I am little." I le was examining the Cooper as he delivered his judgment, sotto voce, on Goolab's character, but then he stuck the pistol in his sash and spoke clear, in his shrill treble.