They say ten thousand Khalsa died in the Sutlej. Well, I didn’t mind, and I still don’t. They started it, and hell mend them, as old Colin Campbell used to say. And if you tell me that every man’s death diminishes me, I’ll retort that it diminishes him a hell of a sight more, and if he’s a Khalsa Sikh, serve him right.
Knowing me, you won’t marvel at my callousness, but you may wonder why Paddy Gough, as kindly an old stick as ever patted a toddler’s head, hammered ’em so mercilessly when they were beat and running. Well, he had good reasons, one being that you don’t let up on a courageous adversary until he hollers “Uncle!”, which the Sikhs ain’t inclined to do – and I wouldn’t trust ’em if they did. Nor do you feel much charity towards an enemy who never takes prisoners, and absolutely enjoys chopping up wounded, as happened at Sobraon and Ferozeshah both. Even if Gough had wanted to stop the slaughter, I doubt if anyone would have heeded him.50
But the best reason for murdering the Khalsa was that if enough of the brutes had escaped, the whole beastly business would have been to do again, with consequent loss of British and Sepoy lives. That’s something the moralists overlook (or more likely don’t give a dam about) when they cry: “Pity the beaten foe!” What they’re saying, in effect, is: “Kill our fellows tomorrow rather than the enemy today.” But they don’t care to have it put to them like that; they want their wars won clean and comfortable, with a clear conscience. (Their consciences being much more precious than their own soldiers’ lives, you understand.) Well, that’s fine, if you’re sitting in the Liberal Club with a bellyful of port on top of your dinner, but if you rang the bell and it was answered not by a steward with a napkin but an Akali with a tulwar, you might change your mind. Distance always lends enlightenment to the view, I’ve noticed.
Being uncomfortable close, myself, my one concern when I’d slept the night away was to slide out in safety and rejoin the army. The difficulty was that when I crawled out of my refuge and stood up, I tumbled straight down again and almost rolled over the ledge. I had another go, with the same result, and realised that my head ached, I felt shockingly ill and dizzy, I was sweating like an Aden collier, and some infernal Sutlej bug was performing a polka in my lower bowels. Dysentery, in fact, which can be anything from fatal to a damned nuisance, but even at best leaves you weak as a rat, which is inconvenient when the nearest certain help is twenty miles away. For while I could hear our bugles playing Charlie, Charlie across the river, I wasn’t fit to holler above a whimper, let alone swim.
By moving mostly on hands and knees I made a cautious scout of the emplacements on the bank behind me; luckily they were empty, the Sikh reserve having decamped, taking their guns with them. But that was small consolation, and I was considering the wild notion of crawling down to the corpse-littered bank, finding a piece of timber, and floating down to Ferozepore ghat, when out of the dawn mist came the prettiest sight I’d seen that year – the blue tunics and red puggarees of a troop of Native Cavalry, with a pink little cornet at their head. I waved and yelped feebly, and when I’d convinced him that I wasn’t a fugitive gorrachar’ and received the inevitable, heart-warming response (“Not Flashman – Flashman of Afghanistan, surely? Well, bless me!”) we got along famously.
They were 8th Lights from Grey’s division which had been watching the river at Attaree, and had been ordered across the previous night as soon as Gough knew he had the battle won. More of our troops were invading over the Ferozepore ghat and Nuggur Ford, for Paddy was in a sweat to secure the northern bank and tidy up the remnants of the Khalsa before they could get up to mischief. Ten thousand had got away from Sobraon, with all their reserve guns, and there were rumoured to be another twenty thousand up Amritsar way, as well as the hill garrisons – far more than we had in the field ourselves.
“But they ain’t worth a button now!” cries my pink lad. “The shave is that their sirdars have hooked it, and they’re quite without supplies or ammunition. And the hidin’ they got yesterday will have knocked all the puff out of ’em, I dare say,” he added regretfully. “I say, were you in the thick of it? Lor’, don’t I just wish I’d had your luck! Of all the beastly sells, to be ploddin’ up an’ down on river patrol, and not so much as a smell of a Sikh the whole time! What I’d give for a cut at the rascals!”
Between his babble and having to totter into the bushes every half-mile while the troop tactfully looked the other way, I was in poor trim by the time we reached Nuggur Ford, where they slung me a hammock in a makeshift hospital basha, and a native medical orderly filled me with jalap. I gave my little fire-eater a note to be forwarded to Lawrence, wherever he was, describing my whereabouts and condition, and after a couple of days in that mouldering hovel, watching the lizards scuttle along the musty beams and wishing I were dead, received the following reply:
Political Department,
Camp, Kussoor.
February 13, 1846.
My dear Flashman – I rejoice that you are safe, and trust that when this reaches you, your indisposition will have mended sufficiently to enable you to join me here without delay. The matter is urgent. Yrs & c, H. M. Lawrence.
It gave me qualms, I can tell you; “urgent matters” were the last thing I needed just then. But it was reassuring, too, for there was no reference to my Dalip fiasco, and I guessed that Goolab had lost no time in advising Lawrence and Hardinge that he was looking after the lad like a mother hen. Still, I hadn’t covered myself with glory, and knowing Hardinge’s dislike of me it was surprising to find myself in such demand; I’d have thought he’d be happy to keep me at arm’s length until the peace settlement was concluded. I knew too much about the whole Punjabi mischief for anyone’s comfort, and now that they’d be patching it all up to mutual satisfaction and profit, with lofty humbug couched in fair terms, neither side would want to be reminded of all the intrigue and knavery that had been consummated at Moodkee and Ferozeshah and Sobraon; things would be easier all round if the prime agent in the whole foul business wasn’t leering coyly at the back of the durbar tent when they signed the peace.
And it wasn’t just that I’d be a spectre at the diplomatic feast. I suspected that Hardinge’s aversion to me was rooted in a feeling that I spoiled the picture he had in mind of the whole Sikh War. My face didn’t fit; it was a blot on the landscape, all the more disfiguring because he knew it belonged there. I believe he dreamed of some noble canvas, for exhibition in the great historic gallery of public approval – a true enough picture, mind you, of British heroism and faith unto death in the face of impossible odds; aye, and of gallantry by that stubborn enemy who died on the Sutlej. Well, you know what I think of heroism and gallantry, but I recognise ’em as only a born coward can. But they would be there, rightly, on the noble canvas, with Hardinge stern and forbearing, planting a magisterial boot on a dead Sikh and raising a penitent, awe-struck Dalip by the hand, while Gough (off to one side) addressed heaven with upraised sword before a background of cannon-smoke and resolute Britons bayoneting gnashing niggers and Mars and Mother India floating overhead in suitable draperies. Dam’ fine.
Well, you can’t mar a spectacle like that with a Punch cartoon border of Flashy rogering dusky damsels and spying and conniving dirty deals with Lal and Tej, can you now?
However, Lawrence’s summons had to be obeyed, so I struggled from my bed of pain, removed my beard, obtained a clean set of civilian linens, hastened down to Ferozepore by river barge, and tooled up to Kussoor looking pale and interesting, with a cushion on my saddle.
While I’d been laid up with the dolorous skitters, Gough and Hardinge had been prosecuting the peace with vigour. Paddy had the whole army north of the Sutlej within three days of Sobraon, and Lawrence had been in touch with Goolab, who now figured it was safe to accept openly the Wazirship which the Khalsa had been pressing on him, and come forward to negotiate on their behalf. There were still upward of thirty thousand of them under arms, you remember, and Hardinge was on fire to come to terms before the brutes could work up a new head of steam. For it was a ticklish position, politically: we simply hadn’t the men and means, as Paddy had pointed out, to conquer the Punjab; what was needed was a treaty that would give us effective control, dissolve the last remnants of the Khalsa, and keep Goolab, Jeendan, and the rest of the noble scavengers content. So Hardinge, with a speed and zeal which would have been useful months ago, had his terms cut and dried and ready to shove down Goolab’s throat a mere five days after the war ended.
Kussoor lies a bare thirty miles from Lahore, and Hardinge had installed himself and his retinue in tents near the old town, with the army encamped on the plain around. As I trotted through the lines I could feel that air of contented elation that comes at the end of a campaign: the men are tired, and would like to sleep for a year, but they don’t want to miss the warm feeling of survival and comradeship, so they lie blinking in the sun, or rouse themselves to skylark and play leapfrog. I remember the Lancers at baseball, and a young gunner sitting on a limber, licking his pencil and writing to the dictation of a farrier-sergeant with his arm in a sling: “… an’ tell Sammy ’is Dad ’as got a Sikh sword wot ’e shall ’ave if ’e’s bin good, an’ a silk shawl for ’is Mum – stay, make that ’is dear Mum an’ my best gel …” Sepoys were at drill, groups of fellows in vests and overalls were boiling their billies on the section fires, the long tent-lines and ruined mosques drowsed in the heat, the bugles sounded in the distance, the reek of native cooking wafted down from the host of camp-followers, fifty thousand of them, camped beyond the artillery park, somewhere a colour sergeant was waking the echoes, and a red-haired ruffian with a black eye was tied to a gun-wheel for field punishment, exchanging genial abuse with his mates. I stopped for a word with Bob Napier the sapper,51 who had his easel up and was painting a Bengali sowar sweating patiently in full fig of blue coat, red sash, and white breeches, but took care to avoid Gravedigger Havelock, who sat reading outside his tent (the Book of Job, most likely). It was all calm and lazy; after sixty days of fire and fury, in which they’d held the gates of India, the Army of the Sutlej was at peace.
They’d earned it. There were 1400 fewer of them than there had been, and 5000 wounded in the Ferozepore barracks; against that, they’d killed 16,000 Punjabis and broken the best army east of Suez. There was a great outcry at home, by the way, over our losses; having seen the savagery of two of the four battles, and knowing the quality of the enemy, I’d say we were lucky the butcher’s bill was so small – with Paddy in charge it was nothing short of a miracle.
If there was an unbuttoned air about the troops, headquarters resembled Horse Guards during a fire alarm. Hardinge had just issued a proclamation to say that the war was over, it had all been the Sikhs’ fault, we desired no extension of territory and were fairly bursting with pacific forbearance, but if the local rulers didn’t co-operate to rescue the state from anarchy, H.M.G. would have to make “other arrangements”, so there. In consequence, messengers scurried, clerks sweated, armies of bearers ran about with everything from refreshments to furniture, and bouquets of new young aides lounged about looking bored. No doubt I’m uncharitable, but I’ve noticed that as soon as the last shot’s fired, platoons of these exquisites arrive as by magic, vaguely employed, haw-hawing fortissimo, pinching the gin to make “cock-tails”, and stinking of pomade. There was a group outside Lawrence’s tent, all guffaws and fly-whisks.
“I say, you, feller,” says one. “Can’t go in there. Major ain’t receivin’ civilians today.”
“Oh, please, sir,” says I, uncovering, “it’s most awfully important, you know.”
“If you’re sellin’ spirits,” says he, “go an’ see the – what d’ye call him, Tommy? Oh, yaas, the khansamah – the butler to you, Snooks.”
“Who shall I say sent me?” says I, humbly. “Major Lawrence’s door-keepers?”
“Mind your manners, my man!” cries he. “Who the devil are you, anyway?”
“Flashman,” says I, and enjoyed seeing them gape. “No, no, don’t get up – you might land on your arse. And speaking of butlers, why don’t you go and help Baxu polish the spoons?”
I felt better after that, and better still when Lawrence, at first sight of me, dismissed his office-wallahs and shook hands as though he meant it. He was leaner and more harassed than ever, in his shirt-sleeves at a table littered with papers and maps, but he listened intently to the recital of my adventures (in which I made no mention whatever of Jassa), and dismissed my failure to deliver Dalip as of no account. “Not your fault,” snaps he, in his curt style. “Goolab writes that the boy is well – that’s all that matters. Anyway, that’s past. My concern is the future – and what I have to tell you is under the rose. Clear?” He fixed me with that gimlet eye, pushed out his lantern jaw, and pitched in.
“Sir Henry Hardinge doesn’t like you, Flashman. He thinks you’re a whippersnapper, too independent, and careless of authority. Your conduct in the war – with which I’m well pleased, let me tell you – doesn’t please him. ‘Broadfoot antics’, you understand. I may tell you that when he learned that Goolab had got the boy, he spoke of court-martialling you. Even wondered if you had acted in collusion with Gardner. That’s the curse of Indian politics, they make you suspect everyone. Anyway, I soon disabused him.” For an instant I’ll swear the dour horse face was triumphant, then he was glowering again. “At all events, he doesn’t care for you, or regard you as reliable.”
My own sentiments about Hardinge exactly, but I held my peace.
“Now, Goolab Singh comes here tomorrow, to learn the treaty terms – and I’m sending you to meet him and conduct him into camp. That’s why I summoned you. You have the old fox’s confidence, if anyone does, and I wish that to be seen and known. Especially by Sir Henry. He mayn’t like it, but I want him to understand that you are necessary. Is that clear?”
I said it was, but why?
“Because when this treaty is settled – I can’t tell you the terms; they’re secret until Goolab hears them – it is likely that a British presence will be required at Lahore, with a Resident, to keep the durbar on a tight rein. I’ll be that Resident – and I want you as my chief assistant.”
Coming from the great Henry, I guess it was as high a compliment as Wellington’s handshake, or one of Elspeth’s ecstatic moans. But it was so unexpected, and ridiculous, that I almost laughed aloud.
“That’s why I’m putting you forward now. Goolab will be the éminence grise, and if he is seen to respect and trust you, it will help me to win the G.G. over to your appointment.” He gave a sour grin. “They don’t call us politicals for nothing. I’ll have to persuade Currie, too, and the rest of the Calcutta wallahs. But I’ll manage it.”
When I think of the number of eminent men – and women – who have taken me at face value, and formed a high opinion of my character and abilities, it makes me tremble for my country’s future. I mean, if they can’t spot me as a wrong ’un, who can they spot? Still, it’s pleasant to be well thought of, and has made my fortune, at the expense of some hellish perils – and minor difficulties such as conveying tactfully to Henry Lawrence that I wouldn’t have touched his disgusting proposal with a long pole. My prime reason being that I was sick to loathing of India, and the service, the Sikhs, and bloody carnage and deadly danger, and being terrified and bullied and harried and used, when all I wanted was the fleshpots of home, and bulling Elspeth and civilised women, and never to stir out of England again. I daren’t tell him that, but fortunately there was a way out.
“That’s most kind of you, sir,” says I. “I’m honoured, ’deed I am. But I’m afraid I have to decline.”
“What’s that you say?” He was bristling in an instant; ready to fight with his own shadow if it contradicted him, was H.M.L.
“I can’t stay in the Punjab, sir. And now that the war’s over, I intend to go home.”
“Do you indeed? And may I ask why?” He was fairly boiling.
“It’s not easy to explain, sir. I’d take it as a favour … if you’d just allow me to decline – with regret, I assure you –”
“I’ll do no such thing! Can’t stay in the Punjab, indeed!” He calmed abruptly, eyeing me. “Is this because of Hardinge?”
“No, sir, not at all. I’m simply applying to be sent home.”
He sat back, tapping a finger. “You’ve never shirked – so there must be a good reason for this … this nonsense! Come, man – what is it? Out with it!”
“Very well, sir – since you press me.” I figured it was time to explode my mine. “The fact is, you ain’t the only one who wants me at Lahore. There is a lady there … who has intentions – honourable, of course – and … well, it won’t do, you see. She’s –”
“Good God!” I’m probably the only man who ever made Henry Lawrence take the name of the Lord in vain. “Not the Maharani?”
“Yes, sir. She’s made it perfectly plain, I’m afraid. And I’m married, you know.” For some reason, God knows what, I added: “Mrs Flashman wouldn’t like it a bit.”
He didn’t say anything for about three minutes – d’you know, I’m sure the blighter was absolutely wondering what advantage there might be to having the Queen Mother of the Punjab panting for his assistant. They’re all alike, these blasted politicals. Finally, he shook his head, and said he took my point, but while it ruled out Lahore, there was no reason why I should not be employed elsewhere –
“No, sir,” says I, firmly. “I’m going home. If necessary, I’ll sell out.” Perhaps it was that I hadn’t got over my illness, but I was sick and tired and ready for a stand-up fight if he wanted one. I think he sensed it, for he became quite reasonable, and said he would see to it. He wasn’t a bad chap, you know, and quite half-human, as he showed towards the end of our conversation.
“I can see that you might furnish me with material for another romantic novel,” says he, looking whimsical. “Tell me: is the lady as personable as they say?”
He wasn’t the only one to ask me that kind of question. It has been my fate to make the acquaintance of several mysterious beauties who excited the randy interest of my superiors – I recall Elgin going quite pink with curiosity about the Empress of China, and the gleam in the eyes of Colin Campbell and Hugh Rose when they cross-examined me about the Rani of Jhansi. Lincoln and Palmerston, too. I told Lawrence she was a little stunner, but given to alcoholic excess, and on no account to be trusted – political information, you see, but no lascivious details. He said he’d be interested to meet her, and I advised him that Gardner was his man.52
“You’ll conduct Goolab Singh, at least,” says he, which I didn’t mind, since it was sure to infuriate Hardinge, and the next afternoon found me trotting out along the Lahore road, in uniform again, to meet the elephant train bringing the Khalsa emissaries down from Loolianee. Lawrence had told me that they were to be shown no ceremony, and I should wait about half a mile out and let them come to me, for form’s sake. But they halted a good mile from the town, and I could see the mahouts picketing the beasts and tents being raised for the sirdars, while a small body of gorracharra mounted guard about them; I continued to sit my pony, waiting, and presently I saw a solitary horseman cantering down towards me, and it was Goolab himself. He gave a wave and a great bellow of “Salaam, soldier!” as he drew rein alongside, grinning all over his rogue’s red face, and taking my hand. To my surprise he was wearing no armour or finery, only a simple robe and turban.
“It is not for the envoy of a beaten foe to come in state and pride!” says he. “I am but a poor suppliant, seeking mercy from the Malki lat, and so I dress the part. And a single soldier comes to meet me – albeit a distinguished one. Ah, well, these are hard times.”
I asked him where Dalip was. “In good hands. A wilful child, who shows me no respect; he has been too much among women, so doubtless they will be his downfall some day. Presently I shall bring him – leading him by the hand, remember?” He chuckled and looked sly. “But only when the treaty is agreed beyond peradventure; until then I keep the bird in my hand.”
We were moving at a walk towards the Kussoor lines, for he seemed in no hurry; indeed, for a man bound on a delicate embassy he was uncommon carefree, joking and making small talk, with an air of great contentment. Only when I mentioned that I’d be going home in a day or two, did he rein up in astonishment.
“But why? When fortune awaits you here? No – not that royal slut in Lahore Fort! Gurdana has told me of that; you would not be such a fool! As well mate with a krait. But in Kashmir, with me!” He was grinning and frowning together. “Did you doubt me, when I promised you a golden future yonder? Regiments to command, a general’s rank, lordships and revenues – Gurdana has accepted already! Aye, he leaves Lahore, to come to me! And why should not you? Is the Bloody Lance of Afghanistan less of a soldier than Gurdana, or that dog-dirt Harlan, who lorded it under Runjeet, or Avitabile and the rest?” He struck me on the shoulder. “And we have stood up together, you and I – and who stands with Goolab has a friend!”
If that was how he remembered our scuffle in the Lahore alleys, let him – but wasn’t there a movement to recruit Flashy these days, just? Reputation and credit, there’s no currency to touch them. Lawrence, Goolab … even a queen setting her cap at me. Aye, but they ain’t home. I thanked him, explaining politely that I wasn’t a soldier of fortune, and he shook his head, threw up his great shoulders, and let it go. I asked him if he was so sure of getting Kashmir, and he said it was in the treaty. It was my turn to stare.
“But the terms are secret – you don’t know ’em yet!”
“Do I not? Oh, not from Lawence Sahib, or any of your people.” He rumbled with laughter. “Is this the Punjab, and shall I not know what passes? A treaty of sixteen articles, whereby the durbar will give up to Britain the Sutlej banks, and the Jullundur Doab, and keep only a kutch-a Khalsa of a mere 20,000 bayonets and 12,000 horse, and pay a mighty indemnity of a million and a half sterling …” He burst out laughing at my amazement. “You need not tell Lawrence Sahib and the Malki lat that I know it all – let them sleep at nights! But if you should, it is no matter – they will keep the bargain, because it is all they need – a rich province of the Punjab, to punish us and show the world the folly of challenging the Sirkar; a tiny, feeble Khalsa – oh, aye, to be commanded by that lion among warriors, Tej Singh, with Lal as Wazir; and a submissive durbar to do your bidding, with Dalip and his mother obedient puppets – handsomely subsidised, to be sure. So the Punjab remains free – but its mistress is the White Queen.”
I didn’t doubt his information – in a land of spies there are no secrets. And it was the best of bargains for us: control without conquest. One thing, though, I couldn’t see.
“How on earth is the Lahore durbar to pay a fine of a million and a half? They’re bankrupt, ain’t they?”
“Assuredly. So, having no money, they will pay in kind – by ceding Kashmir and the hill country to the British.”
“And we’ll give you Kashmir, for services rendered?”
He sighed. “No … you will sell me Kashmir, for half a million. Your countrymen don’t overlook opportunities for profit. And they say the Jews are sharp! The price is not mentioned in the treaty – nor is another item which is to be surrendered as a token of Punjabi good faith and loyalty.”
“What’s that?”
“You have heard of our Mountain of Light – Koh-i-Noor, the great diamond of Golconda? Well, that too is to be taken from us, as a trophy for your Queen.”
“Ye don’t say? Her Majesty’s share of the loot, eh? Well, well!”
“Let her have it,” says Goolab magnanimously. “To the strong, the prize. And to the patient, gold-bought slave … Kashmir.”
Hardinge evidently hadn’t been warned that I was infesting headquarters again, for he started visibly when I ushered Goolab into the big durbar tent, and darted an indignant glance at Lawrence. There was a fine gallery, including Mackeson, who had narrowly lost the Agent’s post to Lawrence after Broadfoot’s death; Currie, the government secretary; and any number of “Calcutta wallahs”, as Lawrence had called them. As I presented “His Highness, the Raja Goolab Singh”, I could almost read Hardinge’s mind: conspiracy, he was thinking, the little bugger’s been wangling a 99-year lease on the Khyber Pass. He was all frost and dignity to Goolab, who truckled like a good ’un, leaning on a stick and making much of his gouty foot in the hope of being asked to sit, which he wasn’t; Hardinge returned his greeting with a formal statement conveying (but without saying so, for he was a dab hand at diplomatic chat) that the terms which he would shortly hear had been designed to cut the Punjab down to size, and they could think themselves lucky to get off so lightly. He then turned the old chief over to Currie and Lawrence, who would explain the treaty, and they took him off. Hardinge gave me another cold glare, and for a moment I thought he was going to address me, but he changed his mind; from the way the Calcutta toadies sniffed and eyed me askance I could see that the word was out that Flashy was a Bad Penny, so I lit a cheroot, hoping to be rebuked; I wasn’t, so I tooled out to take the air.
Lawrence had told me that morning that I should go down to Umballa the following day (and so home, thank God!), so when I left the durbar I made a few calls, to collect letters and any trinkets that my comrades might want transported – quicker and safer than the Army post, you see. There was general lamentation at my departure (for as Thomas Hughes has told you, I had a gift of popularity), and dear old Paddy Gough absolutely called me into his command tent and insisted on my having a glass with him.
“The best men always get kilt, or married, or retire!” says he, pledging me. “Ye’ve done the last two, Flashman, my son – here’s wishin’ you never do the first! Which reminds me – did ye give that neckercher back after Ferozeshah? Ye did nott, ye light-fingered young divil! Would ye believe it, Smith – a staff galloper that plunders his own gineral’s effects in the presence o’ the inimy? He did, though! Ye nivver saw the like o’ that in the Peninsula, I’ll be bound!”
This was to Harry Smith, looking more like Wellington than usual. “Never trust a political,” says he. “Health, Flashman.” And as they drank, d’ye know, I felt quite moved, for Paddy had been having some conference or other, and his marquee was full of leading men – Joe Thackwell, and Gilbert with his arm in a sling from Sobraon, and the Gravedigger, and younger fellows like Edwardes, and Johnny Nicholson, and Rake Hodson, and Hope Grant. Well, ’tisn’t every day you have your health drunk by chaps like those.53
Their talk was all of Sobraon, of course: the Gravedigger had had his fifth horse of the campaign shot out from under him, and Thackwell said they’d have to start charging him for remounts; Harry Smith said it was the fourth worst scrap he’d ever been in, the first three being Waterloo, Badajoz, and New Orleans, in that order, which set them arguing; old M’Gregor, the poultice-walloper, enthralled me with a charming dissertation on the different effects on the frame of a musket ball and a grapeshot, with a tasteful description of knee-wounds;54 and I made them laugh with my account of Tej Singh’s funkhole, and a modestly doctored version of my escape across the Sutlej.
“An’ I thought it was just Sikhs we were shootin’ at!” cries Hodson. “Oh, Flashy, if only we’d known!”
And in the midst of all the noise and laughter who should come mincing in but the little squirt of an aide with whom I’d bandied words outside Lawrence’s tent the day before. In that company you’d have thought he’d have slipped in quietly, but he was fresh from Eton or Addiscombe or one of those shops, for he marched straight up to Paddy’s table, took off his hat, and in a shrill voice asked permission to deliver a message from the Governor-General. No compliments, or anything of the sort, but Paddy, at ease with his glass, and supposing it was for him, told him to fire away. The squirt turned to me with a malicious glint in his eye.
“Mr Flashman!” squeaks he, and as he spoke the chatter died away altogether. “Sir Henry Hardinge understands that you are leaving the Army of the Sutlej tomorrow. He instructs me to tell you that your services are no longer required on his personal staff, and that you are to consider yourself withdrawn from all military and political duties forthwith. I am also to remind you that smoking in the durbar tent is strictly prohibited.”
There wasn’t a sound for a moment, except M’Gregor’s wheezing. Then someone said “Good God!” And I, dumbfounded by that deliberate insult, uttered in the presence of the flower of the Army, somehow found the wit to reply quietly.
“My compliments to the Governor-General,” says I, “and my thanks for his courtesy. That’s all. You can go.”
He couldn’t, though. While everyone, after a stunned pause, was talking to his neighbour loudly as though nothing had happened, the Gravedigger was looming over the squirt like an avenging angel.
“Boy!” thunders he, and I’ll swear the lad quivered. “Are you lost to propriety? Are you unaware that a personal communication is delivered in private? Outside, sir, this instant! And when you have purged your insolence, you may return, to offer your apology to this officer, and to the Commander-in-Chief! Now – go!”
“I was told –” pipes the oaf.
“Do you defy me?” roars Havelock. “Go!”
And he went, leaving me with my cheeks burning, and black rage inside me. To be spoken to, in that company, by a niddering green from the nursery, and not a thing to be done about it. But it couldn’t have happened before better men; in a moment they were laughing and prosing away, and Gough gave me a grin and a shake of the head. Harry Smith got to his feet, and as he passed out he clapped my arm and whispered: “Hardinge never intended that, you know.” And Johnny Nicholson and Hodson rallied round, and M’Gregor told a joke about amputations.
Looking back, I don’t blame Hardinge, altogether. With all his faults, he knew what was fitting, and I don’t doubt that, in his irritation at seeing me to the fore with Goolab, he had muttered something like: “That damned pup is everywhere! Leaving tomorrow, is he? Not before time! Tell him he’s suspended from duty, before he does any more mischief! And smoking, too, as though he were in a pot-house!” And Charlie, or someone, passed it on, and the squirt was given the message, and thought to hand me a set-down. He knew no better. Aye, but Hardinge should have seen that the thing was done decently – dammit, he could have sent for me himself, and coupled rebuke with a word of thanks for my services, whether he meant it or not. But he hadn’t, and his creature had made me look a fool. Well, perhaps two could play at that game.
In the meantime, old Goolab Singh was closeted in talk with Currie and Lawrence, and no doubt holding up his paws in horror as each successive clause of the treaty was put to him.55 I’m sure he never let on that he knew it all beforehand, but had a jolly time shaking his grizzled beard and protesting that the durbar would never agree to such harsh terms. The negotiations went on all afternoon and evening – leastways, Goolab did, for Currie gave up after a few hours, and left him, and Lawrence lay down on his charpoy and pretended sleep. It was all gammon, for Goolab was bound to agree in the end, but he kept at it for appearance’s sake, and didn’t run out of wind till the small hours. I was on hand, indulging my ’satiable curiosity, when Lawrence saw him off, but didn’t speak to him. He limped away from the tent, climbed stiffly aboard his pony, and trotted off towards the sirdars’ camp, and that was the last I ever saw of him, a burly old buffer on horseback, looking like Ali Baba off to gather firewood in the moonlight.56
“All right and tight, and ready to be signed when we come to Lahore,” says Lawrence. “Prosy old beggar. Well pleased, though, if I’m a judge. He should be – you don’t have a kingdom dropped into your lap every day. He’ll bring the little Maharaja to Hardinge in a day or two.” He yawned and stretched, looking at the night sky. “But by then you’ll be hasting home, you fortunate fellow. Stay a moment and we’ll have a rum-shrub to set you on your way.”
This was condescension, for he wasn’t sociable as a rule. I took a turn along the tent-lines as I waited, admiring the moon shadows drifting across the empty doab, and looking along the grey, straight ribbon of the Lahore road which, God willing, I’d never take again. Not long ago it had shaken to the tramp of a hundred thousand men, and the rumble of great guns … “Khalsa-ji! To Delhi, to London!” … and the march had ended in the burning ruins of Ferozeshah and the waters under Sobraon. The whirlwind had come raging out of the Five Rivers country, and now it was gone without a whisper … and as Lawrence put it, I was hasting home.
Hardinge had his peace, and his hand on the reins of the Punjab. Goolab had his Kashmir, Britain her frontier beyond the Sutlej where the hills began, and the northern door of India was fast against the Moslem tide. Little Dalip would have his throne, and his delectable mother the trappings of power and luxurious ease with all the booze and bed-men she desired (with one grateful exception). Tej Singh and Lal Singh could enjoy the fruits of their treachery, and old Paddy had still “nivver bin bate”. Alick Gardner would have his fine estate in the high hills beyond Jumoo, dreaming no doubt of far Wisconsin, and Broadfoot and Sale and Nicolson their lines in the Gazette. Maka Khan and Imam Shah had their graves by Sobraon ghat (although I didn’t know that, then). Mangla was still the richest slave-girl in Lahore, and like to be richer … I could feel a twinge at the thought of her – and still do, whenever I see black gauze. And Jassa had got an open road out of town, which is usually the best his kind can ever hope for.
All in all … not a bad little war, would you say? Everyone had got what they wanted, more or less … perhaps, in their own mad way, even the Khalsa. Twenty thousand dead, Sikh, Indian, and British … a lot of good men, as Gardner said. But … peace for the rest, and plenty for the few. Which reminds me, I never did discover what happened to the Soochet legacy.
No one could foresee, then, that it would all be to do over, that in three short years the Sikhs would be in arms again, Paddy’s white coat would come out of the closet reeking of camphor, and the bayonets and tulwars would cross once more at Chillianwalla and Gujerat. And afterwards, the Union Flag would fly over the Punjab at last, Broadfoot could rest easy, and the twice-beaten but never-conquered Khalsa would be reborn in the regiments which stood fast in the Mutiny and have held the Raj’s northern border all through my time. For the White Queen … and for their salt. The little boy who’d exulted over my pepperbox and ridden laughing to Jupindar rocks would live out a wastrel life in exile, and Mai Jeendan, the dancing queen and Mother of all Sikhs, her appetite undiminished and her beauty undimmed, would pass away, of all places, in England.b
But all that happened another day, when I was up the Mississippi with the bailiffs after me. My Punjab story ends here, and I can’t croak, for like all the others I too had my heart’s desire – a whole skin and a clear run home. I wouldn’t have minded a share of the credit, but I didn’t care that much. Most of my campaigns have ended with undeserved roses all the way to Buckingham Palace, so I can even smile at the irony that when, for once, I’d done good service (funking, squealing, and reluctant, I admit) and come close to lying in the ground for it, all I received was the cold shoulder, to be meekly endured … well, more or less.
Lawrence and I walked over to the big marquee which served as mess and dining-room; everyone seemed to be there, for Hardinge had waited up for news of the treaty talk with Goolab, and he and the Calcutta gang were enjoying a congratulatory prose before turning in. Lawrence gave me a quick glance as we entered, as much as to say would I rather we went to his quarters, but I steered ahead; Gough and Smith and the best of the Army were there, too, and I chaffed with Hodson and Edwardes while Lawrence called up the shrub. I downed a glass to settle myself, and then took an amble over to where Hardinge was sitting, with Currie and the other diplomatics.
“Good evening, sir,” says I, toady-like, “or good morning, rather. I’m off today, you know.”
“Ah, yes,” says he, stuffy offhand. “Indeed. Well, good-bye, Flashman, and a safe journey to you.” He didn’t offer his hand, but turned away to talk to Currie.
“Well, thank’ee, your excellency,” says I. “That’s handsome of you. May I offer my congratulations on a successful issue from our recent … ah, troubles, and so forth?”
He shot me a look, his brow darkening, suspecting insolence but not sure. “Thank you,” snaps he, and showed me his shoulder.
“Treaty all settled, too, I believe,” says I genially, but loud enough to cause heads to turn. Paddy had stopped talking to Gilbert and Mackeson, Havelock was frowning under his beetle-brows, and Nicholson and Hope Grant and a dozen others were watching me curiously. Hardinge himself came round impatiently, affronted at my familiarity, and Lawrence was at my elbow, twitching my sleeve to come away.
“Good bandobast all round,” says I, “but one of the clauses will need a little arrangement, I fancy. Well, ’tain’t a clause, exactly … more of an understanding, don’t you know –”
“Are you intoxicated, sir? I advise you to go to your quarters directly!”
“Stone cold sober, excellency, I assure you. The Leith police dismisseth us. British constitution. No, you see, one of the treaty clauses – or rather the understanding I mentioned – can’t take effect without my assistance. So before I take my leave –”
“Major Lawrence, be good enough to conduct this officer –”
“No, sir, hear me out, do! It’s the great diamond, you see – the Koh-i-Noor, which the Sikhs are to hand over. Well, they can’t do that if they haven’t got it, can they? So perhaps you’d best give it ’em back first – then they can present it to you all official-like, with proper ceremony … Here, catch!”
[The ninth packet of the Flashman Papers ends here, with typical abruptness. A few weeks later the Koh-i-Noor was again in the possession of the Lahore durbar, and was shown round at the treaty ceremony, but it was not finally surrendered until the annexation of the Punjab in 1849 after the Second Sikh War. The diamond was then presented to Queen Victoria by Hardinge’s successor, Lord Dalhousie. Doubtless on Flashman’s advice, she did not wear it in her crown at the 1887 Jubilee. See Appendix III.]
a Inferior.
b See Appendix II.