Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald
Punjab would now settle down to a period of tranquillity under Maharaja Dalip, the only ruler whom the British power was prepared to recognise. The message was clear: murder each other as often as you please, but any attempt to depose Dalip and we shall be among you, horse, foot and guns.
So there it was, status quo, the question of the hour being, would Jeendan, for her own and Dalip’s safety, give way before the Khalsa’s demand for war, and turn ’em loose over the Sutlej? I couldn’t for the life of me see why she should, in spite of her half-promise to them; she seemed to be able to deal with them as her brother had failed to do, dividing and ruling and keeping them guessing; if she could hold the rein on them while she tightened her grip on the government of the country, I couldn’t see how war would be in her interest.
Time would tell; a more pressing matter began to vex me as the first week lengthened into the second. Lal Singh had assured me that Jeendan was anxious to know me better, politically and personally, but devil a sign of it had there been for almost a fortnight, and I was champing at the bit. As the horrors of those first two days receded, the pleasures became more vivid, and I was plagued by fond memories of that painted little trollop writhing against me in the durbar room, and strutting wantonly before her troops at Maian Mir. Quite fetching, those recollections were, and bred a passion which I knew from experience could be satisfied by the lady herself and no other. I’m a faithful soul, you see, in my fashion, and when a new bundle takes my fancy more than ordinary, as about a score have done over the years, I become quite devoted for a spell. Oh, I’d done the polite by Mangla (and repeated the treatment when she called clandestine three nights later) but that was journeyman work which did nothing to quench my romantic lust to put Jeendan over the jumps again, and the sooner the better.
I can’t account for these occasional infatuations, but then neither can the poets – uncommon randy, those versifiers. In my own case, though, I have to own that I’ve been particularly susceptible to crowned heads – empresses and queens and grand duchesses and so forth, of whom I’ve encountered more than a few. I dare say the trappings and luxury had something to do with it, and the knowledge that the treasury would pick up any bills that were going, but that ain’t the whole story, I’m sure. If I were a German philosopher, I’d no doubt reflect on Superman’s subjection of the Ultimate Embodiment of the Female, but since I ain’t I can only conclude that I’m a galloping snob. At all events, there’s a special satisfaction to rattling royalty, I can tell you, and when they have Jeendan’s training and inclinations it only adds to the fun.
Like most busy royal women, she had the habit of mixing sport with politics, and contrived our next encounter so that it dealt with both, on the day of her emergence from mourning for her eagerly-awaited durbar with the Khalsa panches. I’d tiffened in my quarters, and was preparing for an afternoon’s drowse with the Soochet-wallahs when Mangla arrived unannounced; at first I supposed she’d looked in for another quarter-staff bout, but she explained that I was summoned to royal audience, and must follow quietly and ask no questions. Nothing loth, I let her conduct me, and had quite a let-down when she ushered me into a nursery where little Dalip, attended by a couple of nurses, was wreaking carnage with his toy soldiers. He jumped up, beaming, at the sight of me, and then stopped short to compose himself before advancing, bowing solemnly, and holding out his hand.
“I have to thank you, Flashman bahadur” says he, “for your care of me … that … that afternoon …” Suddenly he began to weep, head lowered, and then stamped and dashed his tears away angrily. “I have to thank you for your care of me …” he began, gulping, and looked at Mangla.
“… and for the great service …,” she prompted him.
“… and for the great service you rendered to me and my country!” He choked it out pretty well, head up and lip trembling. “We are forever in your debt. Salaam, bahadur.”
I shook his hand and said I was happy to be of service, and he nodded gravely, glanced sidelong at the women, and murmured: “I was so frightened.”
“Well, you didn’t look it, maharaj’,” says I – which was the honest truth. “I was frightened, too.”
“Not you?” cries he, shocked. “You are a soldier!”
“The soldier who is never frightened is only half a soldier,” says I. “And d’ye know who told me that? The greatest soldier in the world. His name’s Wellington; you’ll hear about him some day.”
He shook his head in wonder at this, and deciding butter wouldn’t hurt I asked if I might be shown his toys. He squeaked with delight, but Mangla said it must be another time, as I had important affairs to attend to. He kicked over his castle and pouted, but as I was salaaming my way out he did the strangest thing, running to me and hugging me round the neck before trotting back to his nurses with a little wave of farewell. Mangla gave me an odd look as she closed the door behind us, and asked if I had children of my own; I said I hadn’t.
“I think you have now,” says she.
I’d supposed that was the end of the audience, but now she conducted me through that labyrinth of palace passages until I was quite lost, and from her haste and the stealthy way she paused at corners for a look-see, I thought, aha, we’re bound for some secret nook where she means to have her wicked will of me. Watching her neat little bottom bobbing along in front of me, I didn’t mind a bit – tho’ I’d rather it had been Jeendan – and when she ushered me into a pretty boudoir, all hung in rose silk and containing a large divan, I lost no time in seizing her opportunities; she clung for a moment, and then slipped away, cautioning me to wait. She drew the curtain from a small alcove, pressed a spring, and a panel slid noiselessly back to reveal a narrow stairway leading down. Sounds of distant voices came from somewhere below. Having had experience of their architecture, I hesitated, but she drew me towards it with a finger to her lips.
“We must make no sound,” she breathed. “The Maharani is holding durbar.”
“Capital,” says I, kneading her stern with both hands. “Let’s have a durbar ourselves, shall we?”
“Not now!” whispers she, trying to wriggle free. “Ah, no! It is by her command … you are to watch and listen … no, please! … they must not hear us … follow me close … and make no noise …” Well, she was at a splendid disadvantage, so I held her fast and played with her for a moment or two, until she began to tremble and bite her lip, moaning softly for me to leave off or we’d be overheard, and when I had her nicely on the boil and fit to dislocate herself – why, I let her go, reminding her that we must be quiet as mice. I’ll learn ’em to lure me into boudoirs on false pretences. She gulped her breath back, gave me a look that would have splintered glass, and led the way cautiously down.
It was a dim, steep spiral, thickly carpeted against sound, and as we descended the murmur of voices grew ever louder; it sounded like a meeting before the chairman brings ’em to order. At the stair foot was a small landing, and in the wall ahead an aperture like a horizontal arrow-slit, very narrow on our side but widening to the far side of the wall so that it gave a full view of the room beyond.
We were looking down on the durbar room, at a point directly above the purdah curtain which enclosed one end of it. To the right, in the body of the room before the empty throne and dais, was a great, jostling throng of men, hundreds strong – the panches of the Khalsa, much as I’d seen them that first day at Maian Mir, soldiers of every rank and regiment, from officers in brocaded coats and aigretted turbans to barefoot jawans; even in our eyrie we could feel the heat and impatience of the close-packed throng as they pushed and craned and muttered to each other. Half a dozen of their spokesmen stood to the fore: Maka Khan, the imposing old general who’d harangued them at Maian Mir; the burly Imam Shah, who’d described Peshora’s death; my rissaldar-major of the heroic whiskers, and a couple of tall young Sikhs whom I didn’t recognise. Maka Khan was holding forth in a loud, irritated way; I suppose you feel a bit of an ass, addressing two hundred square feet of embroidery.
To our left, hidden from their view by the great curtain, and paying no heed at all to Maka Khan’s oratory, the Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs was making up for her