You never can say you’ve seen anything for the last time. I’d have laid a million to one that I’d not return to that little stand of white poplars south of the Moochee Gate where I’d sat by the fire with Gardner – yet here I was, only a few weeks later, with the flames crackling under the billy-can resting on the self-same red stone with the crack in it. To our right the road was busy with the wayfarers of daybreak; under the great Moochee arch the gates were swung back, they were dousing the night torches, and the guard was changing: an uncommon heavy one, it seemed to me, for I counted twenty helmets in and about the archway, and since our arrival in the small hours there had been endless cavalry patrols circling the city walls, red lancers with green puggarees, and great activity of matchlockmen on the parapets.
“Muslim brigade,” says Jassa. “Yes, sir, she’s got this old town laced up tighter’n Jemima’s stays. Waste o’ time, since any plotters’ll be on the inside – prob’ly in the Fort itself, among her own people. Say, I bet Alick Gardner’s sleepin’ light, though!”
It was our third morning on the road, for we had taken a wide cast south, crossing the Sutlej at a ghat near Mundole to avoid any enemy river watchers, and keep clear of the Khalsa’s main traffic on the upper road through Pettee to Sobraon. We’d ridden in cautious stages, Jassa and I and a trusted Pathan ruffian of Broadfoot’s old bodyguard, Ahmed Shah; Gough had wanted to send an N.C. squadron disguised as gorracharra, but Lawrence had turned it down flat, insisting that they’d be bound to give themselves away, and anyway, if all went well three would be enough, while if it went ill a brigade would be too few. No one would give any heed to three obvious Afghan horse-copers with a string of beasts – and thus far, no one had.
I shan’t weary you with my emotions as we waited, shivering in the frosty dawn, round our fire. I’ll say only that in addition to the blue funk I felt at the mere sight of Lahore’s frowning gates and brooding towers, I had the liveliest misgivings about the plan whereby we were to spirit young Dalip out of the cobra’s nest. It was Gardner’s invention, lined out precisely to Jassa, who had repeated it to Lawrence and Van Cortlandt with Flashy palpitating attentively, and since our tartan Pathan wasn’t there to be argued with, it was a case of take it or leave it. I know which I’d ha’ done, but Lawrence had said it should serve admirably – he wasn’t going to be the one sneaking in and out of Lahore Fort in broad daylight, after all.
That seemed to me an unnecessary lunacy: why the devil couldn’t Gardner, with all his powers as governor, have contrived to smuggle the brat out to us? Jassa had explained that the city was tight as a tanner by night, and the panches’ spies had their eye on little Dalip most of the day; the only hour to lift him was his bedtime, to be out and away before curfew, and have all night to make tracks. And we must go into the Fort to do it, for his mother wouldn’t rest unless she saw him placed under my protective wing. (They’d all avoided my eye at this; myself, I hadn’t liked the sound of it above half.) As to our coming and going at the Fort, Gardner would provide; all we need do was be in the vicinity of Runjeet’s Tomb at noon of this, the third day.
So now you see three Kabuli copers herding their beasts through the dust and bustle of the Rushnai Gate, and setting up shop in a crowded square by the Buggywalla Doudy at midday. Ahmed Shah cried our wares, asking exorbitant prices, since the last thing we wanted was to sell our transport, and I held the brutes’ heads and spat and looked ugly, praying that no one would recognise Jassa with a patch over his eye, and his hair and five-day beard dyed orange. He had no such fears, but loafed about freely with the other idlers, gossiping; as he said, there’s no concealment like open display.
I didn’t see the touch made, but presently he ambled off, and I passed the halters to Ahmed and followed across the great square by the marble Barra Deree to the palace gateway where I’d first seen Gardner months before. There were no Palace Guards on the parapet now, only green-jacketed Muslim musketeers with great curling moustachioes, watchful as vultures, who scowled down at the crowds loitering in the square. There must have been several thousand gathered, and enough Sikhs in assorted Khalsa coats among them to set my innards churning; they did nothing but stare up at the walls, muttering among themselves, but you could feel the sullen hostility hanging over the place like a cloud.
“She ain’t venturing abroad this weather, I reckon,” murmurs Jassa as I joined him in the lee of the gateway. “Yep, there’s a sizeable Republican majority right here. Our guide is right behind us, in the palki; when I give the nod, we’ll tote it through the gate.”
I glanced over my shoulder; there was a palki, with its curtains drawn, set down by the wall, but no bearers in sight. So that was how we were to get past the gate guard, who were questioning all incomers; even under my posh-teen I could feel the sweat icy on my skin, and for the twentieth time I fingered the Cooper hidden in my sash – not that six shots would buy much elbow-room if we came adrift.
All of a sudden the mutter of the crowd grew to a babble and then to a roar; they were giving back to make way for a body of marching men advancing across the square from the Hazooree gate on the town side – Sikhs almost to a man, from half the divisions of the Khalsa, some of them with bandaged wounds and powder burns on their coats, but swinging along like Guardsmen behind their golden standard which, to my amazement, was borne by the white-whiskered old rissaldar-major I’d seen at Maian Mir, and again at Jeendan’s durbar. And he was weeping, so help me, the tears running down to his beard, his eyes fixed ahead – and there behind him was Imam Shah, he of the ivory knives, bare-headed and with his arm in a sling. I was in behind Jassa double-quick, I can tell you.
The crowd were in a frenzy, waving and wailing and yelling: “Khalsa-ji! Khalsa-ji!”, showering them with petals as they marched by, but not a man so much as glanced aside; on they went, in column of fours, under the palace archway, with the mob surging behind up to the gate, taking up another cry: “See Delhi! See Delhi, heroes of the Khalsa! Wa Guru-ji – to Delhi, to London!”
“Now, who the hell are they?” whispers Jassa. “I guess maybe we got here just in time – I hope! Come on!”
We laid hold on the palki and shouldered our way through the mob to the gateway, where a Muslim subedara barred our way and stooped to question our passenger. I heard a woman’s voice, quick and indistinct, and then he had waved us on, and we carried the palki through the gate – and for all my dread at re-entering that fearsome den, I found myself remembering Stumps Harrowell, who’d been the chairman at Rugby when I was a boy, and how we’d run after him, whipping his enormous fat calves, while he could only rage helplessly between the shafts. You should see your tormentor now, Stumps, thinks I; hoist with his own palki, if you like.
Our passenger was calling directions to Jassa, who was between the front shafts, and presently we bore up in a little secluded court, and out she jumped, walking quickly to a low doorway which she unlocked, motioning us to follow. She led us up a long, dim passage, several flights of stairs, and more passages – and then I knew where we were: I had been conducted along this very way to Jeendan’s rose boudoir, and I knew that pretty little rump stirring under the tight sari …
“Mangla!” says I, but she only beckoned us on, to a little ill-furnished room where I’d never been. Only when she had the door closed did she throw off her veil, and I looked again on that lovely Kashmiri face with its slanting gazelle eyes – but there was no insolence in them now, only fear.
“What’s amiss?” snaps Jassa, scenting catastrophe.
“You saw those men of the Khalsa – the five hundred?” Her voice was steady enough, but quick with alarm. “They are a deputation from Tej Singh’s army – men of Moodkee and Ferozeshah. They have come to plead with the Rani for arms and food for the army, and for a leader to take Tej’s place, so that we may still sweep the Jangi lat back to the gates of Delhi!” The way she spat it out, you would have wondered which side she was on; even traitors still have patriotic pride, you see. “But they were not to have audience of the durbar until tomorrow – they have come before their time!”
“Well, what of it?” says I. “She can fob them off – she’s done it before!”
“They were not a beaten army then. They had not been led to defeat by Tej and Lal – or learned to mistrust Mai Jeendan herself. Now, when they come to durbar and find themselves ringed in by Muslim muskets, and call to her for aid which she cannot give them – what then? They are hungry men, and desperate.” She shrugged. “You say she has wheedled them before – aye, but she is not given to soft words these days. She fears for Dalip and herself, she hates the Khalsa for Jawaheer’s sake, and she feeds her rage on wine. She’s like to answer their mutinous clamour by blackening their faces for them – and who knows what they may do if she provokes them?”
Red murder, like as not – and then we’d have some usurper displacing Tej Singh and reviving the Khalsa for another slap at us. And here was I, back on the lion’s lip, thanks to Gardner’s idiot plots … should I throw in now, and bolt for India? Or could we still get Dalip out before all hell broke loose …?
“When’s the durbar?”
“In two hours, perhaps.”
“Can Gardner bring the boy to us beforehand … now?”
“Run in daylight?” cries Jassa. “We’d never make it!”
Mangla shook her head. “The Maharaja must be seen at the durbar. Who knows, Mai Jeendan may answer them well enough – and if she fails, they may still be quiet, with a thousand Muslims ready to fall on them at a word from Gurdana Khan. Then, when you have seen Mai Jeendan –”
“I don’t need to see her – or anyone, except her blasted son! Tell Gardner –”
“Why, here’s a change!” says she, with a flash of the old Mangla. “You were eager enough once. Well, she wishes to see you, Flashman bahadur, and she will have her way –”
“What the devil for?”
“Affairs of state, belike.” She gave her insolent slow smile. “Meanwhile, you must wait; you are safe here. I shall tell Gurdana, and bring word when the durbar begins.”
And she slipped out, having added bewilderment to my fears. What could Jeendan want with me? I’d thought it rum at the time, her insistence that I should be Dalip’s rescuer – to be sure, the kid liked me, but she’d as good as made me a condition of the plan, to Paddy Gough’s ribald amusement. Coarse old brute. But it couldn’t be that, at such a time … mind you, with partial females, you never can tell, especially when they’re foxed.
But all this was small beer beside the menace of the Khalsa deputies. Could she hocus them again, by playing her charms and beguiling them with sweet words and fair promises?
Well, she didn’t even try, as we saw when Mangla returned, after two hours of fretful waiting, to conduct us to that same spyhole from which I’d watched an earlier durbar. This was a different indabab altogether; then, there had been tumult and high spirits, laughter even, but now we heard the angry clamour of the deputation and her shrill replies even before we reached the eyrie, when I saw at a glance that this was an ugly business, with the Mother of All Sikhs on her highest horse and damn the consequences.
The five hundred were in uproar in the main body of the great hall before the durbar screen, but keeping their ranks, and it was easy to see why. They were wearing their tulwars, but round the walls of the chamber there must have been a full battalion of Muslim riflemen, with their pieces at the high port, primed and ready. Imam Shah was standing forward, addressing the screen, with the old rissaldar-major a pace behind; the golden standard lay before the throne on which little Dalip sat in lonely state, the tiny figure brave in crimson, and with the Koh-i-Noor ablaze in his aigret.
Behind the purdah more Muslims lined the walls, and before them stood Gardner, in his tartan fig, the point of his naked sabre resting between his feet. Close by the screen Jeendan was pacing to and fro, pausing from time to time to listen, then resuming her furious sentry-go – for she was in a great rage, and well advanced in liquor, by the look of her. She had a cup in hand, and a flagon on the table, but for once she was modestly clad – as modest, anyway, as a voluptuous doll can be in a tight sari of purple silk, with her red hair unbound to her shoulders, and that Delilah face unveiled.
Imam Shah was in full grievance, shouting hoarsely at the screen. “For three days your faithful Khalsa have lived on grain and raw carrots – they are starving, kunwari, and eaten up with cold and want! Only send them the food and munitions you promised and they will sweep the host of the Jangi lat to –”
“Sweep them as you swept them at Ferozeshah and Moodkee?” cries Jeendan. “Aye, there was a fine sweeping – my waiting women could have swept as heartily!” She waited, head thrown back, for the effect of this. Imam stood in silent anger, and she went on: “Goolab has sent you supplies enough – why, every wheat-porter in Kashmir makes an endless train from Jumoo to the river, laden –”
She was drowned in a roar of derision from the five hundred, and Imam advanced a yard to bawl his answer. “Aye, in single file, on pain of mutilation by the Golden Hen, who makes a brave show of assistance, but sends not breakfast for a bird! Chiria-ki-hazri! That’s what we get from Goolab Singh! If he wishes us well, let him come and lead us, in place of that bladder of lard you made our general! Bid him come, kunwari – a word from you, and he’ll be in the saddle for Sobraon!”
Uproar followed – “Goolab! Goolab! Give us the Dogra for general!” – but still they kept their ranks.
“Goolab is under the heel of the Malki lat, and you know it!” snaps Jeendan. “Even so, there are those among you who would make him Maharaja – my loyal Khalsa!” There was silence on the instant. “You send him ambassadors, they tell me … aye, in breach of your sacred oath! You whine for food on the one hand, and make treason on the other – you, the Khalsa, the Pure …” And she reviled them in fishwife terms, as she had at Maian Mir, until Gardner stepped swifty forward and caught her by the arm. She shook him off, but took the hint – and none too soon, for beyond the screen the five hundred were fingering their hilts, and Imam was black with fury.
“That is a lie, kunwari! No man here would serve Goolab as Maharaja – but he can fight, by God! He does not skulk in his tent, like Tej, or flee like your bed-man Lal! He can lead – so let him lead us! To Delhi! To victory!”
She let the shouting die, and spoke in a cold voice, ringing with scorn: “I have said I will not have Goolab Singh – and he will not have you! Who’s to blame him? Are you worth having, you heroes who strut out to battle with your banners and brave songs – and crawl back whimpering that you are hungry? Can you do nothing but complain –”
“We can fight!” roars a voice, and in a moment they were echoing it, stirring forward in their ranks, shaking their fists, some even weeping openly. They’d come for supplies, and what they were getting was shame and insult. Keep a civil tongue in your head, can’t you, I was whispering, for it was plain they’d had their fill of her abuse. “Give us guns! Give us powder and shot!”
“Powder and shot!” cries Jeendan, and for a moment I thought she was going to be out and at them. “Did I not give you both, and to spare? Arms and food and great guns – never was such an army seen in Hindoostan! And what did you make of it? The food you’ve guzzled, the British have your great guns, and the arms you flung away, doubtless, as you ran cheeping like mice – from what? From a tired old man in a white coat with a handful of red-faced infidels and Bengali sweepers!”
Her voice rose to a shriek as she faced the curtain, fists clenched, face contorted, and foot stamping – and beside me Jassa gasped and Mangla gave a little sob as we saw the ranks of the five hundred start forward, and there was steel glittering amongst them. She’d gone too far, the drunken slut, for Imam Shah was on the dais, the Khalsa coats were surging behind him, shouting with rage, Gardner was turning to snap an order, the Muslim muskets were dropping to the present – and Jeendan was fumbling beneath her skirt, swearing like a harpy, there was a rending of cloth, and in an instant she had whirled her petticoat into a ball and hurled it over the screen. It fell at Imam’s feet, draping over his boot – there was no doubting what it was, and in the shocked silence her voice rang out:
“Wear that, you cowards! Wear it, I say! Or I’ll go in trousers and fight myself!”
It was as though they’d been stricken by a spell. While you could count ten there wasn’t a sound. I see them yet – an Akali, his sword half-out, poised like a gladiator’s statue; Imam Shah staring down at the scarlet shift; the old rissaldar-major, mouth open, hands raised in dismay; little Dalip like a graven image on his throne; the mass of men still as death, staring at the screen – and then Imam Shah picked up the golden standard, raised it, and shouted in a voice of thunder:
“Dalip Singh Maharaja! We go to die for your kingdom! We go to die for the Khalsa-ji!” Then he added, almost in a whisper, though it carried round the hall: “We will go to the sacrifice.”
He thrust the standard into the rissaldar-major’s hand – and in that moment, unprompted, little Dalip stood up. A second’s pause, and the whole five hundred roared: “Maharaja! Maharaja! Khalsa-ji!” Then they turned as one man and marched out of the open double doors behind them. Gardner was at the corner of the screen in four quick strides, staring after them, then coming out to take Dalip’s hand. Behind the purdah, Jeendan yawned, shook her red hair and stirred her shoulders as though to ease them, took a deep drink, and began to straighten her sari.
Now that is exactly what I saw, and so did Alick Gardner, as his memoirs testify – and neither of us can explain it. Those Khalsa fanatics, stung to madness by her insults, would have rushed the purdah and cut her down, I’m certain, and been slaughtered by the Muslims; God knows what would have followed. But she threw her petticoat at them, and they went out like lambs, prepared to do or die. “Intuition” on her part, Gardner calls it; very well, it did the business. Mind you, young Dalip stood up at exactly the right time.43
Jassa was breathing relief, and Mangla was smiling. Below us came a series of thunderous crashes as the Muslims ordered arms and began to file out of the chamber. Little Dalip was behind the purdah, being enfolded in Mama’s tipsy embrace, but Gardner had disappeared. Mangla touched my arm, and signing to Jassa to wait, led me up to the rose boudoir – I felt exhausted even looking at it – and through to the passage beyond and a little room which I guessed must be the schoolroom of Dalip and his playfellows, for there were half a dozen little desks, and a blackboard, and even a globe, and fairy-tale pictures on the walls. There she left me, and a moment later Gardner strode in, breathing fire and wonder.
“You saw that just now? Goddam, but that woman’s a bearcat for nerve – a bearcat, sir! Petticoats, by thunder! I wouldn’t ha’ credited it! Sometimes I think …” He paused, eyeing me with a curious frown. “… I think she’s a mite de-ranged, what with drink and … well, no matter. And George Broadfoot’s dead? Well, that’s hard hearing. You didn’t see it? Well, you have one as good in Henry Lawrence, let me tell you that. Maybe even better, as an Agent. Not a better man, mind you. No, sir, they don’t come better than the Black-coated Infidel.”
He was standing, arms akimbo, staring at the floor, and I sensed disturbance – not because he hadn’t greeted me, or made reference to my recent adventures, for that was never his style. But there was something on his mind, for all that he tried to cover it with a show of briskness.
“It’s past four, and you and Josiah must be clear of the gates before six. You’ll go as you came, bearing the palki, but this time Dalip will be your freight, dressed as a girl. My subedar will have the palace gate, so you’ll be clear there. Once beyond the Rushnai, keep to the doab, due south-east, and dawn should see you at Jupindar – it’s about forty miles, and not on the map, but you’ll see it clear enough. It’s a big cluster of black rocks, among low hillocks, the only ones for miles around. There you’ll be met –”
“By whom? Our people? Gough wanted to –”
“By sure people.” He gave me a hard stare. “All you need do is get that far – and I don’t have to tell you that you’re carrying the Punjab on your back. Whoever gets that boy, it must not be the Khalsa, mallum? He’s a good little horseman, by the way, so you can keep up the pace. Dawn, at Jupindar, mind that. Due south-east and you’ll fall over it.”
For the first time, I felt excitement rather than fear. He had it pat, and it would do. We were going to bring it off.
“What else?” says he. “Ah, yes, one thing … Dr Josiah Harlan. I gave him a bad name to you, and he deserved every word. But I allow he’s played a straight hand this time, and I incline to revise my opinion. That being the case, you’d better keep a closer eye on him than ever. Well, that’s all, I guess …” He paused, avoiding my eye. “Once you’ve paid your respects to the Maharani … you can be off.”
Now there was something up. Gardner uneasy was a sight I’d never thought to see, but he was scratching his grizzled beard and keeping his face averted, and I felt a strange foreboding. He cleared his throat.
“Ah … did Mangla say nothing to you? No, well … oh, dooce take it!” He looked me full in the face. “Mai Jeendan wants to marry you! There, now!”
Heaven knows why, my first reaction was to look in the mirror on the classroom wall. A fierce-eyed Khyberie ruffian stared back at me, which was no help. Nor was my recollection of what I looked like when civilised. And possibly the Punjab had exhausted my capacity for astonishment, for once the first shock of that amazing proposal had been absorbed, I felt nothing but immense gratification – after all, it’s one thing to win a maiden heart, and very fine, but when a man-eater who’s sampled the best from Peshawar to Poona cries “Eureka!” over you, well, it’s no wonder if you glance at the mirror. At the same time, it’s quite a facer, and my first words, possibly instinctive, were:
“Christ, she ain’t pregnant, is she?”
“How the devil should I know?” cries Gardner, astonished. “On my word! Now, sir, I’ve told you! So there you are!”
“Well, she can’t! I’m married, dammit!”
“I know that – but she does not, and it’s best she should not … for the moment.” He glared at me, and took a turn round the room, while I sank on to one of the infants’ stools, which gave way beneath me. Gardner swore, yanked me to my feet, and thrust me into the teacher’s chair.
“See here, Mr Flashman,” says he, “this is how it is. Mai Jeendan is a woman of strange character and damned irregular habits, as you’re well aware – but she’s no fool. For years now she’s had it in mind to marry a British officer, as security for herself and her son’s throne. Well, that’s sound policy, especially now when Britain’s hand is on the Punjab. For months past – this is sober truth – her agents in India have been sending her portraits of eligible men. She’s even had young Hardinge’s likeness in her boudoir, God help me! As you know, she has your own – well, ’twas the only one she took to Amritsar, and the rest (a score of ’em) have been with the lumber ever since.”
Nothing to say to that, of course. I kept a straight face, and he took station in front of me, mighty stern.
“Very well, it’s impossible. You have a wife, and even if you hadn’t, I dare say you’d not care to pass your days as consort to an Eastern queen. Myself, while I admire her many good qualities,” says he with feeling, “I’d not hitch with Jeendan for all the cotton in Dixie, so help me Hannah! But she has a deep fondness for you – and this is no time to blight that affection! Northern India’s in the balance, and she’s the pivot – steady enough, but not to be disturbed … in any way.” He stooped suddenly and seized my wrist, staring into my eyes, grim as a frost giant. “So when you see her presently … you will not disappoint her hopes. Oh, she’ll make no direct proposal – that’s not Punjabi royal style. But she’ll sound you out – probably offer you employment in Sikh service, for after the war – with a clear hint of her intentions … to all of which you’d best give eager assent – for all our sakes, especially your own. Hell hath no fury, you remember.” He let go, straightening up. “I guess you know how to …”
“Jolly her along? Oh, aye … by God, it’s a rum go, though! What’ll happen later, when she finds I ain’t a starter?”
“The war’ll be over then, and it won’t signify,” says he bleakly. “I dare say she’ll get over it. Dirty game, politics … she’s a great woman, you know, drunk and all as she is. You ought to be flattered. By the by, have you any aristocratic kinfolk?”
“My mother was a Paget.”
“Is that high style? Better make her a duchess, then. Mai Jeendan likes to think that you’re a lord – after all, she was once married to a Maharaja.”44
As it happened, my lineage, aristocratic and otherwise, was not discussed in the rose boudoir, mainly because there wasn’t time. When Gardner had spoken of not disappointing her, I’d supposed (and have no doubt that he meant) that I must not dash her hopes of becoming Mrs Flashman; accordingly, I bowled in prepared for an exchange of nods and becks and coy blushes on her part, and ardent protestations on mine. Only when I stood blinking in the dark, and two plump arms encircled me from behind, that familiar drunken chuckle sounded in my ear, and she turned up the lamp to reveal herself clad only in oil and bangles, did I suspect that further proof of my devotion was required. “I liked you better shaven,” whispers she (which settled that), and Dalip or no Dalip, there was nothing for it but to give eager consent, as Gardner had put it. Luckily she was no protractor of the capital act, as I knew, and I didn’t even need to take my boots off; a quick plunge round the room, horse artillery style, and she was squealing her soul out, and then it was back to the wine-cup and exhausted ecstatic sighs, mingled with tipsy murmurs about the loneliness of widowhood and what bliss it would be to have a man about the house again … fairly incoherent, you understand, but not to be misunderstood, so I responded with rapturous endearments.
“You will abide with me always?” whispers she, nuzzling in, and I said I’d like to see anyone stop me, just. Did I love her truly? Well, to be sure I did. She muttered something about writing to Hardinge, and I thought, by George, that’ll spoil his toast and coffee for him, no error, but mostly it was fond drunken babble and clinging kisses, before she turned over and began to snore.
Well, that’s that, and you’ve done your duty, thinks I, as I repaired the sweet disorder in my dress and slid out – with a last backward glance at that jolly rump glistening in the lamplight. I imagined, you see, that I was looking my last on her, and I do like to carry away happy memories – but twenty minutes later, when Jassa and I were fretting impatiently in the schoolroom, and Gardner was damning Mangla’s tardiness in bringing young Dalip, in comes a waiting woman to say that the kunwari and the Maharaja were awaiting us in her drawing-room. This was a fine apartment close by the boudoir, and there was the Mother of All Sikhs, enthroned in her armchair, as respectable a young matron as ever you saw, and not more than half-soused; how the deuce she’d got into parade order in the time was beyond me.
She was soothing young Dalip, who was standing by in a black fury and a child’s sari, with veil and bangles and a silk shawl round his small shoulders.
“Don’t look at me!” cries he, turning his face away, and she petted him and kissed away his tears, whispering that he must be a Maharaja, for he was going among the White Queen’s soldiers, and must do credit to his house and people.
“And this goes with you, the symbol of your kingship,” says she, and held out a silver locket, with the great Koh-i-Noor glittering in a bed of velvet. She closed the case and hung its chain about his neck. “Guard it well, dearest, for it was your father’s treasure, and remains your people’s honour.”
“With my life, mama,” sobs he, and hung upon her neck. She wept a little, holding him close, and then stood up and led him to me.
“Flashman sahib will take care of you,” says she, “so mind you obey him in all things. Farewell, my little prince, my own darling.” She kissed him and put his hand in mine. “God speed you, sahib – until we meet again.” She extended a hand, and I kissed it; one warm, glassy look she gave me, with that little curl of her thick lips; she was swaying slightly, and her waiting woman had to step lively to steady her.
Then Gardner was bustling us away, with Jassa carrying Dalip for greater speed, and it was bundle-and-go down to the palki in the little court, with Mangla at my elbow insisting that his majesty must eat no oranges, for they gave him the trots, and here was a lotion for the rash on his arm, and a letter for the governess who must be engaged for him in India – “a Kashmiri lady, gentle and well-read, if one can be found, but not some stern English mem-sahib, for he is but a little fellow; I have written of his diet and his lessons.” Kidnapping ain’t just a matter of lifting the infant, you see, and on my other side Gardner was snarling that the gates would be closing in half an hour. We bundled Dalip into the palki, and now he was blubbering that he didn’t want to go, and clinging to Mangla, and Gardner was fuming while two of his black robes scouted ahead to see that all was clear, and Jassa and I got between the shafts, and Mangla kissed me quickly on the cheek, leaving a drift of perfume as she hurried away, and Gardner turned to me in the fading light of the little court.
“Due south-east, forty miles, Jupindar rocks,” snaps he. “I guess we won’t see you in Lahore again, Mr Flashman. If I was you, I’d stay well south of the Sutlej for the next fifty years or so. And that goes double for you, Josiah – you stretched your luck, doctor; come nigh me again and I’m liable to snap it for you! Jao!”
“Yes, you an’ the Continental Congress!” retorts Jassa. “Go change your sentries, Gardner – that’s your sort!”
“Jao, I say!” growls Gardner, and the last I remember of him is the brown hawk face with its fierce moustache, twisted in a sour grin under the tartan puggaree.
We came down to the Buggywalla Doudy just as the sun was dipping behind the Badshai Musjit mosque, through the bustling noisy crowds all unaware that the two stalwart palki-bearers were spiriting their ruler away to the enemy, and him moping fretfully behind the curtains in his little sari and bangles. Ahmed Shah was in a foul humour because he’d had to sell two of our beasts, leaving only five besides our own screws, which meant only one remount for the four of us. We slung the palki between two of the led horses, and when I put my head in to see how Dalip did, he whimpered something piteous.
“Oh, Flashman sahib – when can I put off these garments of shame? See, Mangla has put my man’s clothes in this bag … aye, and cakes and little sweets! She always remembers,” says he, and his lip came out. “Why could she not come with us? Now I shall have no song before I sleep!” And he began to weep. “I wish Mangla were here!”
Mangla, you’ll note, not Mama. Well, I’d not have turned her away myself. “See here, maharaj’,” whispers I, “you’ll put on your own clothes directly, and ride with us like a soldier, but now you must stay close and quiet. And when we come to journey’s end – see what I have for you!” I was far enough within the palki to slip the Cooper from my sash for an instant, and he squeaked and fell back on the cushions, covering his eyes in joy.
We passed under the Rushnai arch even as the chowkidars were crying the curfew, and skirted the city walls to the little stand of white poplars, crimson in the last of the sunset. In the gloaming they were beyond eyeshot of the gate, and we lost no time in rousting out little Dalip, for I wanted him in the saddle without delay, so that we could abandon the cumbersome palki and put distance between us and Lahore.
He tumbled out eagerly, tearing off his sari and veil and scattering his bangles with childish curses, and was shivering in his vest while Jassa helped him into his little jodhpurs, when there was a clatter of hooves, and out of the deepening dusk came a troop of gorracharra, making for the city in haste before the gates closed. There was no time to hide the imp; we must stand pat while they cantered by – and then their officer reined up, staring at the sight of a half-clad infant surrounded by three burly copers and their beasts.
“Where away at this hour, horse-sellers?” cries he.
I answered offhand, hoping to keep him at a distance, for even in the fading light it was ten to one he’d recognise his own monarch if he came any closer.
“Amritsar, captain sahib!” says I. “We take my master’s son to his grandmother, who is ill, and calls for him. Hurry, Yakub, or the child will catch cold!” This to Jassa, who was helping Dalip into his coat, and thrusting him up into the saddle. I swung aboard my own screw, with my heart pounding, ignoring the officer, hoping to heaven the inquisitive brute would ride on after his troop, who had vanished into the twilight.
“Wait!” He was sitting forward, staring harder than ever – and with a thrill of horror I realised that Dalip’s coat was his ceremonial cloth of gold, packed by that imbecile Mangla, and even in that uncertain light proclaiming its wearer a most unlikely companion for three frontier ruffians. “Your master’s son, you say? Let’s have a look at him!” He wheeled his horse towards us, his hand dropping to his pistol butt – and the three of us acted as one man.
Jassa vaulted into his saddle and snatched Dalip’s bridle even as I slashed my reins across the beast’s rump, and Ahmed Shah dug in his heels and charged slap into the advancing Sikh, rolling him from the saddle. Then we were away across the maidan, Dalip and Jassa leading, Ahmed and I behind, with the led horses thundering alongside. There was a shout from the dusk, and the crack of a shot, and little Dalip yelled with delight, dragging his bridle from Jassa’s grip. “I can ride, fellow! Let me alone! Ai-ee, shabash, shabash!”
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 midnight 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 I 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 neat 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 back-and-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 I had eyes only for their leader, grinning all over his ruddy face and white whiskers, sitting 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 lat 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, Flashman 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, resting 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 to 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 toddy 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.” He 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.
“A gift for a gift, bahadur! Bow your head!”
Wondering, I stooped towards him, and to my amazement he lifted the heavy silver locket from about his neck and threw the chain over my head, and for a moment his little arms locked tight, holding me, and I felt him tremble and his tears suddenly wet on my face. “I will be brave! I will be brave, bahadur!” whispers he, sobbing. “But you must keep it for me, till you come again to Lahore!” Then I set him down, and he stood rubbing his eyes angrily, while Goolab came limping, to apologise for intruding on his majesty, but it was time we were all on our various roads.
I asked where he would take the Maharaja, and he said no farther than Pettee, a few miles off, where his fighting men were assembling; he had brought forty thousand down from Jumoo “– in case the Jangi lat should need assistance against these rebel dogs of the Khalsa; haply we may cut them up as they flee from Sobraon! Then,” and he bowed as far as his belly would let him, “we must see to it that your majesty has a new army, of true men!” Dalip took this with a good grace, whatever he may have been thinking.
It was time to go, and Jassa mounted alongside me – that was the moment when I knew for certain that he hadn’t been party to Gardner’s little plot. He’d seemed as stunned as I was to find Goolab Singh waiting at Jupindar, but that might have been acting – the fact that he was riding back to Hardinge with me was proof of his innocence. I gave a last salutation to Dalip, standing very small and steady apart from old Goolab, and then Jassa and I rode south from Jupindar rocks – with our tails between our legs, if you like … and two million pounds’ worth of crystallised carbon round my neck.
He was a canny infant and wise beyond his years, young Dalip – wasn’t he just? He knew Goolab wouldn’t dare harm his person – but his property was another matter. If the old fox had guessed the Koh-i-Noor was within reach, then that wondrous treasure would surely have found its way to Kashmir. And in his infant innocence, Dalip had passed it to me, for safe-keeping …
I brooded on that as we trotted south over the doab in the misty afternoon, with Jupindar fading from sight behind us, and the distant green that marked the Sutlej coming into view ahead. By rights I should have been deciding where to cross, and calculating our bearing from Sobraon, where presently all hell would be let loose. But having the most precious object in the world bobbing against your belly concentrates the mind wonderfully; it ain’t just the fearful responsibility, either. All kinds of mad fancies flit by – not to be taken seriously, you understand, but food for wild imaginings – like bleaching your hair and striking out for Valparaiso under the name of Butterworth and never looking near England again … two million quid, Lord love us! Aye, but how d’you dispose of a diamond the size of a tangerine? Not in Amsterdam … probably to some swindling shark who’d set the traps after you … I could picture myself going mad in a garret, gibbering at a treasure I was too windy to sell … But if you could, and disappear … Gad, the life you could lead – estates, palaces, luxury by the bucket, gold cigar-boxes and silk drawers, squads of slaves and battalions of willing women, visions of Xanadu and Babylon and unlimited boozing and frolic …
No steak and kidney ever again, though – and no Elspeth. No sunny days at Lord’s or strolls along the Haymarket, no hunt suppers or skittle pool or English rain or Horse Guards or quarts of home-brewed … oh, for Elspeth bare and bouncing and a jug of October and bread and cheese by the bed! All the jewels of Golconda can’t buy you that, even supposing you had the nerve to bolt with them – which I knew I had not. No, pinching Koh-i-Noor is like putting t’other side in to bat – you won’t do it, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t think hard about it.
“Where you aim to cross, lieutenant?” says Jassa, and I realised he’d been gassing since we left Jupindar, full of bile against Gardner, and I’d hardly taken in a blessed word. I asked him, as one who knew the country, where we were.
“About five miles nor’east of Nuggur Ford,” says he. “The Sobraon ghat’s less than ten miles due east – see, that smoke’ll be from the Sikh lines.” He pointed to our left front, and on the horizon, above the distant green, you could see it hanging like a dark mist. “We can scout the Nuggur, an’ if it ain’t clear, we can cast downriver a piece.” He paused. “Leastways, you can.”
Something in his tone made me look round – into the six barrels of his pistol. He’d reined in about ten feet behind me, and there was a hard, fixed grin on his ugly face.
“What the hell are you about?” cries I. “Put that damned thing up!”
“No, sir,” says he. “Now you sit right still, ’cos I don’t wish to harm you. No, don’t start to holler an’ tear your hair, neither! Just slip off that locket an’ chain, an’ toss ’em over this way – lively, now!”
For a moment I’d been all at sea – I’d forgotten, you see, that he’d been there when Jeendan had shown the stone to Dalip and put it round his neck, and again when Dalip had passed the locket to me. Then:
“You confounded fool!” I yelped, half-laughing. “You can’t steal this!”
“Don’t bet on it! Now, you do as I say, d’ye hear?”
I was riding Ahmed Shah’s screw, with two long horse pistols in the saddle holsters, but I’d no notion of reaching for them. For the thing was wild – hadn’t I been turning it over, academic-like, for the past hour?
“Harlan, you’re daft!” says I. “Look, man, put up that pepperbox and see reason! This is the Koh-i-Noor – and the Punjab! Why, you’ld not get twenty miles – you’ld be running your head into a noose –”
“Mr Flashman, you can shut up!” says he, and the harsh face with its ghastly orange whiskers looked like a scared ape’s. “Now, sir, you pass that item across directly, or –”
“Hold on!”, says I, and lifted the tarnished silver case in my hand. “Hear me a moment. I don’t know how many carats this thing weighs, or how you think you can turn it into cash – even if you get clear of the Sikhs, let alone the British Army! Good God, man, the mere sight of it and you’ll be clapped in irons – you can’t hope to sell –”
“You’re trying my patience, mister! An’ you’re forgetting I know this territory, for a thousand miles around, better’n any man alive! I know Jews in every town from Prome to Bokhara who can have that rock in twenty bits quicker’n you can spit!” He threw back his puggaree impatiently and raised the pistol, and for all his brag his hand was shaking. “I don’t want to shoot you out of the saddle, but I will, by the holy!”
“Will you?” says I. “Gardner said you wouldn’t do murder – but he was right about your being a thief –”
“That he was!” cries he. “An’ if you paid heed to him, you know my story!” He was grinning like a maniac. “I’ve followed fortune half a lifetime, an’ taken every chance I found! I ain’t about to miss the best one yet! An’ you can set the British an’ the Punjab in a roar after me – there’s a war to finish, an’ more empty trails between Kabul an’ Katmandu an’ Quetta than anybody’s ever thought of – ’cept me! I’ll count to three!”
His knuckle was white on the ring, so I slipped the chain over my neck, weighed the locket a moment, and tossed it to him. He snapped it up by the chain, his feverish eyes never leaving me for a second, and dropped the locket into his boot. His chest was heaving, and he licked his lips – highway robbery wasn’t his style, I could see.
“Now you climb down, an’ keep your hands clear o’ those barkers!” I dismounted, and he side-stepped in and seized my reins.
“You’re not leaving me afoot – and unarmed, for God’s sake!” I cried, and he backed his horse away, covering me still, and drawing my mount with him.
“You’re less’n two hours from the river,” says he, grinning more easy now. “You’ll make it safe enough. Well, lieutenant … we had our ups an’ downs, but no hard feelings my side. Fact, I’m almost sorry to part – you’re my sort, you know.” He gave a high-pitched laugh. “That’s why I’m not offering you a partnership in Koh-i-Noor Unlimited!”
“I wouldn’t take it. How long have you been planning this?”
“’Bout twenty minutes. Here – catch hold!” He unslung the chaggle from Ahmed’s saddle, and threw it towards me. “Hot day – have a drink on me!”
He wheeled his horse and was off at the gallop, making north, with my screw behind, leaving me alone on the doab. I waited until the scrub hid him, and then turned and ran at full speed in the direction of Nuggur Ford. There was a belt of jungle that way, and I wanted to be in cover. As I ran, I kept my hand cupped to my side, feeling the reassuring bulge of the Koh-i-Noor under my sash. I may day-dream occasional, but when I’m carrying priceless valuables in the company of the likes of Dr Josiah Harlan, I slip ’em out of sight in the first five minutes, you may be sure.
If he’d had the wit to open the locket – well, that would have been another story. But if he’d had that much wit, he’d not have been reduced to running errands for Broadfoot in the first place. The fact is, for all his experience of rascality, Jassa was a ’prentice hand. The Man Who Would Be King … but never was.
Only the other day my little great-niece Selina – the pretty one whose loose conduct almost led me to commit murder in Baker Street, but that’s another story – remarked to me that she couldn’t abide Dickens because his books were full of coincidences. I replied by telling her about the chap who lost a rifle in France and tripped over it in West Africa twenty years later,46 and added for good measure an account of my own strange experience after I parted from Harlan in the doab. That was coincidence, if you like, and damnably mixed luck, too, for while it may have saved my life it also landed me centre stage in the last act of the Punjab war.
Once I reached the jungle belt, chortling at the thought of Jassa stopping presently to gloat over his booty, I went to ground. Even when he found out he’d been diddled, he’d never dare come back to look for me, so I decided to stay put and cross the river when night fell. In my Kabuli attire I could pass for a gorrachar’ well enough, but the less I was seen the better, so I planned to leave my jungly lair a couple of hours before dusk, slip down to the river, swim across – it wasn’t above four hundred yards wide – and lie up on the far shore until daylight.
It began to rain heavily towards evening, so I was glad enough of my shelter, and only when the light began to fade did I venture out, onto a beaten track leading down to the Sutlej. It took me through a little wood, and I was striding boldly along, eager to catch a glimpse of the river, when I rounded a bend in the trees, and there, not twenty yards ahead, was a troop of regular Khalsa cavalry, with their beasts picketed and a fire going. It was too late to turn back, so I walked on, prepared to pass the time of day and pick up the shave, and only when I was almost on them did I notice six or seven bodies hanging from trees within the wood. I bore up in natural alarm – and that was fatal. They were already looking towards me, and now someone yelled an order, and before I knew it I had been seized by grinning sowars and hauled into the presence of a burly daffadarc standing by the fire, a mess-tin in his hand and his tunic unbuttoned. He eyed me malevolently, brushing crumbs from his beard.
“Another of them!” growls he. “Gorracharra, are you? Aye, the faithless rabble! And what tale have you got to tell?”
“Tale, daffadar sahib?” says I, bewildered. “Why, none! I –”
“Here’s a change! Most of you have sick mothers!” At which all his louts hooted with laughter. “Well, gorrachar’ where’s your horse? Your arms? Your regiment?” He suddenly threw the mess-tin aside and slapped me across the face, back and forth. “Your honour, you cowardly scum!”
It struck the sense out of me for a moment, and I was starting to babble some nonsense about being waylaid by bandits when he hit me again.
“Robbed, were you? And they left you this?” He snatched the silver-hilted Persian knife from my boot. “Liar! You’re a deserter! Like those swine there!” He jerked a thumb at the swinging corpses, and I saw that most of them were wearing some remnants of uniform. “Well, you can muster with them again, carrion! Hang him up!”
It was so brutally sudden, so impossible – I wasn’t to know that for weeks they’d been hunting down deserters from half the regiments of the Khalsa, stringing them up on sight without charge, let alone trial. They were dragging me towards the trees before I recovered my wits, and there was only one way to stop them.
“Daffadar!” I shouted, “you’re under arrest! For assault on a superior officer and attempted murder! I am Katte Khan, captain and aide to the Sirdar Heera Sing Topi, of Court’s Division –” it was a name from months ago, the only one I could think of. “You!” I snapped at the goggling sowar holding my left arm. “Take your polluting hand away or I’ll have you shot! I’ll teach you to lay hands on me, you damned Povinda brigands!”
It paralysed them – as the voice of authority always does. They loosed me in a twinkling, and the daffadar, open-mouthed, even began to button his tunic. “We are not of the Povinda division –”
“Silence! Where’s your officer?”
“In the village,” says he, sullenly, and only half-convinced. “If you are what you say –”
“If! Give me the lie, will you?” I dropped my voice from a bellow to a whisper, which always rattles them. “Daffadar, I do not explain myself to the sweepings of the gutter! Bring your officer – jao!”
Now he was convinced. “I’ll take you to him, Captain sahib –”
“You’ll bring him!” I roared, and he leaped back a yard and sent one of the sowars off at the gallop, while I turned on my heel and waited with my back to them, so that they shouldn’t see that I was shaking like a leaf. It had all been so quick – carefree one minute, condemned the next – that there hadn’t been time for fear, but now I was fit to faint. What could I say to the officer? I cudgelled my wits – and then there was the sound of hooves, and I turned to see the coincidence riding towards me.
He was a tall, fine-looking young Sikh, his yellow tunic stained with weeks of campaigning. He reined in, demanding of the daffadar what the devil was up, swinging out of the saddle and striding towards me – and to my consternation I knew him, and any hope of maintaining my disguise vanished. For it was long odds he’d recognise me, too, and if he did … A wild thought suddenly struck me, and before he could speak I had drawn myself up, bowed, and in my best verandah manner asked him to send his men out of earshot. My style must have impressed him, for he waved them away.
“Sardul Singh,” says I quietly, and he started. “I’m Flashman. You escorted me from Ferozepore to Lahore six months ago. It’s vital that these men should not know I’m a British officer.”
He gasped, and stepped closer, peering at me in the gathering dark. “What the devil are you doing here?”
I took a deep breath, and prayed. “I’ve come from Lahore – from the Maharani. This morning I was with Raja Goolab Singh, who is now at Pettee, with his army. I was on my way to the Malki lat, with messages of the highest importance, when by ill chance these fellows took me for a deserter – thank God it’s you who –”
“Wait, wait!” says he. “You are from Lahore … on an embassy? Then, why this disguise? Why –”
“Envoys don’t travel in uniform these days,” says I, and pitched my tale as urgent as I knew how. “Look, I should not tell you, but I must – there are secret negotiations in hand! I can’t explain, but the whole future of the state depends on them! I must get across the river without delay – matters are at a most delicate stage, and my messages –”
“Where are they?”
“Where? Eh? Oh, Lord above, they’re not written. They’re here!” I tapped my head, which you’ll agree was an appropriate gesture.
“But you have some passport, surely?”
“No, no … I can’t carry anything that might betray me. This is the most confidential affair, you see. Believe me, Sardul Singh, every moment is precious. I must cross secretly to –”
“A moment,” says he, and my heart sank, for while the fine young face wasn’t suspicious, it was damned keen. “If you must pass unseen, why have you come so close to our army? Why not by Hurree-ke, or south by Ferozepore?”
“Because Hardinge sahib is with the British army across from Sobraon! I had to come this way!”
“Yet you might have crossed beyond our patrols, and lost little time.” He considered me, frowning. “Forgive me, but you might be a spy. There have been many, scouting our lines.”
“I give you my word of honour, I’m no spy. What I say is true … and if you hold me here, you may be dooming your army to death – and mine – and your country to ruin.”
By God, I was doing it purple, but my only hope was that, being a well-educated aristocrat, he must know the desperate intrigue and dealing that were woven into this war – and if he believed me, he’d be a damned bold subaltern to hamper a diplomatic courier on such a vital errand. Alas, though, subalterns’ minds travel a fixed road, and his was no exception: faced with a momentous decision, my dashing escort of the Lahore road had turned into a Slave of Duty – and Safety.
“This is beyond me!” He shook his handsome head. “It may be as you say … but I cannot let you go! I have not the authority. My colonel will have to decide –”
I made a last desperate cast. “That would be fatal! If word of the negotiations gets out, they’re bound to fail!”
“There is no fear of that – my colonel is a safe man. And he will know what to do.” Relief was in his voice at the thought of passing the parcel to higher authority. “Yes, that will be best – I’ll go to him myself, as soon as our watch is ended! You can stay here, so that if he decides to release you, it can be done without trouble, and you will have lost little time.”
I tried again, urging the necessity for speed, imploring him to trust me, but it was no go. The colonel must pronounce, and so while he trotted back to his squadron post in the village, I must wait under guard of the glowering daffadar and his mates, resigned to capture. Of all the infernal luck, at the last fence! For it mattered not a bean whether his colonel believed my cock-and-bull story or not – he’d never speed me on my way without going higher still, and God alone knew where that might end. They’d hardly dare mistreat me, in view of the tale I’d told; even if they disbelieved it, they’d not be mad enough to shoot me as a spy, at this stage of the war, surely … mind you, some of those Akali fanatics were bloodthirsty enough for anything …
On such jolly reflections I settled down to wait in that dripping little camp – for it was raining heavily again – and either the colonel had gone absent without leave or Sardul spent an unconscionable time gnawing his nails in indecision, for it must have been well into the small hours before he returned. By that time, worn out with wet and despair, I had sunk into a doze, and when I came to, with Sardul shaking my shoulder, I didn’t know where I was for a moment.
“All is well!” cries he, and for a blessed second I thought he was going to speed me on my way. “I have spoken with the colonel sahib, and told him … of your diplomatic duty.” He dropped his voice, glancing round in the firelight. “The colonel sahib thinks it best that he should not see you himself.” Another reckless muttonhead ripe for Staff College, plainly. “He says this is a high political matter … so I am to take you to Tej Singh. Come, I have a horse for you!”
If he’d told me they were going to send me on shooting leave to Ooti I’d have been less astonished, but his next words provided the explanation.
“The colonel sahib says that since Tej Singh is commander-in-chief, he will surely know of these secret negotiations, and can decide what should be done. And since he is in the camp below Sobraon, he will be able to send you to the Malki lat with all speed. Indeed, you will be there sooner than if I released you now.”
That was what I’d talked myself into … Sobraon, the very heart of the doomed Khalsa. Yet what else could I have done? When you’ve just been within an ace of being hanged out of hand, you’re liable to say the first thing that comes to mind, and I’d had to tell Sardul something. Still, it could have been worse. At least with Tej I’d be safe, and he’d see me back to Hardinge fast enough … flag of truce, a quick trot across no man’s land, and home in time for breakfast. Aye, provided the dogs of war didn’t come howling out of the kennel in the meantime … what had Goolab said? “A day or two at most” before Gough stormed the Khalsa lines in the last great battle …
“Well, let’s be off, hey?” cries I, jumping up. “The sooner the better, you know! How far is it – can we be there before first light?” He said it was only a few miles along the river bank, but since that way was heavy with military traffic, we would be best to take a detour round their positions (and prevent wicked Flashy from spying out the land, you understand). Still, we should be there soon after dawn.
We set off in the rainy dark, the whole troop of us – he was taking no chances on my slipping my cable, and my bridle was tied firmly to the daffadar’s pommel. It was black as sin, and no hope of a moon in this weather, so we went at little better than a walk, and before long I had lost all sense of time and direction. It was my second night in the saddle, I was weary and sore and sodden and fearful, and every few moments I nodded off only to wake with a start, clutching at the mane to save myself from falling. How far we came before the teeming downpour ceased and the sky began to lighten, I can’t tell, but presently we could see the doab about us, with wraiths of vapour hanging heavy over the scrub. Ahead a few lights were showing dimly, and Sardul reined up: “Sobraon.”
But it was only the village of that name, which lies a mile or two north of the river, and when we reached it we must turn sharp right to come down to the Khalsa’s reserve positions on the northern bank, beyond which the bridge of boats spanned the Sutlej to the main Sikh fortifications on the southern side, hemmed in by Gough’s army. As we wheeled and approached the rear of the reserve lines, fires were flickering and massive shadows looming in the mist ahead, and now we could see the entrenchments on either flank, with heavy gun emplacements commanding the river, which was still out of sight to our front. As we trotted through a sea of churned mud to the lines, trumpets were blaring the stand-to, the Sikh drums were beginning to rattle, troops were swarming in the trenches, and from all about us came the clamour and bustle of an army stirring, like a giant rousing from sleep.
I didn’t know, nor did they, as drum and trumpet called them, that the Khalsa was answering its last reveille. But even as we entered the rearmost line, from somewhere far beyond the grey blanket mantling the northern shore ahead of us, came another sound, stunning in its suddenness: the thunder of gunfire echoing along the Sutlej valley in a continuous roar of explosions, shaking the ground underfoot, reverberating through the mists of morning. Beyond our view, on the southern shore, an old Irishman in a white coat was beating his shillelagh on the Khalsa’s door, and with a sinking heart I realised that I had come a bare hour too late. The battle of Sobraon had begun.
a Senior subaltern.
b Matter, affair.
c Cavalry commander of ten.