Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald
a brother, why, he’d bed down right here in the passage …
I closed my door, head swimming with fatigue, and rested a moment in blessed solitude and quiet before walking unsteadily through the arch to the bedchamber, where two lights burned dimly either side of the pillow – and stopped, the hairs rising on my neck. There was someone in the bed, and a drift of perfume on the air, and before I could move or cry out, a woman whispered out of the gloom.
“Mai Jeendan must have eaten her fill,” says Mangla. “It is almost dawn.”
I stepped closer, staring. She was lying naked beneath a flimsy veil of black gauze spread over her like a sheet – they’ve nothing to learn about erotic display in the Punjab, I can tell you. I looked down at her, swaying, and it shows how fagged out I was, for I asked, like a damfool:
“What are you doing here?”
“Do you not remember?” murmurs she, and I saw her teeth gleam as she smiled up from the pillow, her black hair spread across it like a fan. “After the mistress has supped, it is the maid’s turn.”
“Oh, my God,” says I. “I ain’t hungry.”
“Are you not?” whispers she. “Then I must whet your appetite.” And she sat up, slow and languid, stretching that transparent veil tight against her body, pouting at me. “Will you taste, husoor?”
For a moment I was tempted. Altogether used up, fit only for the knacker’s yard, I wanted sleep as I wanted salvation. But as I contemplated that magnificent substance stirring beneath the gauze, I thought: to thine own self be true, and put temptation aside.
“Right you are, my dear,” says I. “Got any more of that jolly drink, have you?”
She laughed softly and reached out for the cup beside the bed.
a “Lieutenant, come here!”
If you’ve read Robinson Crusoe you may recall a passage where he weighs up his plight on the desert island like a book-keeper, evil on one side, good on t’other. Dispiriting stuff, mainly, in which he croaks about solitude, but concludes that things might be worse, and God will see him through, with luck. Optimism run mad, if you ask me, but then I’ve never been shipwrecked, much, and philosophy in the face of tribulation ain’t my line. But I did use his system on waking that second day in Lahore, because so much had happened in such short space that I needed to set my mind straight. Thus:
| EVIL | GOOD |
| I am cut off in a savage land which will be at war with my own country presently. | I enjoy diplomatic immunity, for what it’s worth, and am in good health, but ruined. |
| An attempt has been made to assassinate me. These buggers would sooner murder people than eat their dinners. | It failed, and I am under the protection of the queen bee, who rides like a rabbit. Also, Gardner will look out for me. |
| My orderly turns out to be the greatest villain since Dick Turpin, and is an American to boot. | Broadfoot chose him, and since I see no reason why he should be hostile to me, I shall watch him like a hawk. |
| Damn Broadfoot for landing me in this stew, when I could have been safe at home rogering Elspeth. | Rations and quarters are A1, and Mangla sober is a capital mount, though she don’t compare to Jeendan drunk. |
| If I were a praying man, the Almighty would hear from me in no uncertain terms, and much good it would do me. | Being a pagan (attached C of E) with no divine resources, I shall tread uncommon wary and keep my pepperbox handy. |
That was my accounting, cast up in the drowsy hour after Mangla slipped away like a lovely ghost at daybreak, and it could have been worse. My first task must be to make a searching examination of the bold Jassa, or Josiah, before sending off a cypher about him to Broadfoot. So I had him in while I shaved, watching that crafty hill figurehead in my mirror, and listening to the plausible Yankee patter that came out of it. Oddly enough, after the character Gardner had given him, I felt inclined to take him at face value. You see, I’m a knave myself, and know that we wrong ’uns ain’t always bent on mischief; it seemed to me that Jassa, the professional soldier of fortune, was quite likely just marking time in Broadfoot’s employ, as he’d claimed, until something better turned up. The queerest fish swim into the political mill, with not too many questions asked, and I felt I could accept if not trust him. Like Gardner, I was sure he’d had no hand in the plot against my life – if he’d wanted me dead he could have let me drop from the balcony instead of saving me.
It was comforting, too, to have one of my own kind alongside me – and one who knew the Punjab and its politics inside out. “Though how you hoped to pass unrecognised, I don’t see,” says I. “If you were so high under Runjeet, half the country must know you, surely?”
“That was six years ago, behind a full set o’ beard an’ whiskers,” says he. “Clean-shaven, I reckoned to get by – ’cept with Alick, but I planned to keep out o’ his way. But it don’t matter,” he added coolly, “there are no reward notices out for Joe Harlan, here or anywhere else.”
He was such a patent rascal that I took to him – and even now I won’t say I was wrong. He had a fine political nose, too, and had been using it about the Fort that morning.
“Jawaheer seems to be in luck. The whole palace knows he tried to get you, and the talk was that the Maharani would have him arrested. But she had him to her boudoir first thing today, all smiles, embraced him, and drank toasts to his reconciliation to the Khalsa, her maids say. It seems Dinanath and Azizudeen have made his peace for him; they were out talking to the panches at dawn, and Jawaheer’s appearance this afternoon will be a formality. He and the whole royal family will review the troops – and you’ll be invited, no doubt so that you can pass word to Broadfoot that all’s well with the Lahore durbar.” He grinned. “Yes, sir, you’ll have quite a packet of news for Simla. How d’you send out your cyphers – through Mangla?”
“As you said yourself, doctor, why should I tell you what Broadfoot didn’t? Are you really a doctor, by the way?”
“No diploma,” says he frankly, “but I studied surgery back in Pennsylvania. Yep … I’ll bet it’s Mangla; that little puss is in everyone’s pocket, so why not John Company’s? A word of advice, though: cover her all you’ve a mind to, but don’t trust her – or Mai Jeendan.” And before I could damn his impudence he took himself off to change, as he put it, into his mess kit.
That meant his best robes, for our durbar appearance at noon, with Flashy in full fig of frock coat and go-to-meeting roof, making my official bow to little Dalip enthroned in state; you’d not have recognised the lively imp of yesterday in the regal little figure all in silver, nodding his aigretted turban most condescendingly when I was presented by Lal Singh, who was second minister. Jawaheer was nowhere in sight, but Dinanath, old Bhai Ram Singh, and Azizudeen were present, solemn as priests. It was eerie, knowing that they were all well aware that their Wazir had tried to murder me a few hours earlier, and that I’d rioted with their Maharani in this very chamber. There wasn’t so much as a flicker on the handsome, bearded faces; damned good form, the Sikhs.
Behind Dalip’s throne hung a fine lace curtain, the purdah of his mother, the Maharani – it being the custom of quality Indian ladies to seclude themselves, when they ain’t belly-dancing at orgies, that is. By the curtain stood Mangla, unveiled but most modestly dressed, and formal as though we’d never laid eyes on each other. Her duty was to relay conversation to and from her mistress behind the screen, and she did it most properly, welcoming me to Lahore, inviting blessings on my work, and finally, as Jassa had forecast, bidding me to attend his majesty when he reviewed the Khalsa that afternoon.
“You shall ride on an elephant!” squeaks the said majesty, lapsing from kingly dignity for a moment, and then stiffening before the reproving glances of his court. I said gravely that I’d be honoured beyond measure, he shot me a shy little smile, and then I backed