Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald
wedding night, to dispel their shyness and enhance their enjoyment of each other.
F (through clenched teeth): It’s a fact, you can always learn something new. Oh, Holy Moses! I say, don’t you care for a spot of oil yourself … after your bath, I mean … mustn’t catch COLD! I’d be glad to –
J: Presently … not yet. What splendid muscles you have, my Englishman.
F: Exercise and clean living – oh, God! See here, kunwari, I think that’ll do me nicely, don’t you know –
J: I can judge better than you. Now, be still, and listen. You heard all that passed at my durbar? So … you can assure Broadfoot sahib that all is well, that my brother’s death is forgotten, and that I hold the Khalsa in the hollow of my hand … like this … no, no, be still – I was only teasing! Tell him also that I entertain the friendliest feelings towards the Sirkar, and there is nothing to fear. You understand?
F (whimpering): Absolutely. Speaking of friendly feelings –
J: A little more oil, I think … But you must warn him to withdraw no regiments from the Sutlej, is that clear? They must remain at full strength … like you, my mighty English elephant … There now, I have teased you long enough. You must be rewarded for your patience. (Leaves off and kneels back, reaching for drink.)
F: Not before time –
J (fending him off): No, no – it is your turn to take the oil! Not too much, and begin at my finger-tips, so … very gently … smooth it into my hands … good … now the wrists … You will inform Broadfoot sahib that the Khalsa will be dispersed until after the Dasahra, when I shall instruct the astrologers to choose a day for opening the war … now my elbows. But no day will be propitious for many weeks. I shall see to that … now slowly up to the shoulders … softly, a little more oil … Yes, I shall know how to postpone and delay … so the Sirkar will have ample time to prepare for whatever may come … The shoulders, I said! Oh, well, you have been patient, so why not? More oil, on both hands … more … ah, delicious! But gently, there is more news for Broadfoot sahib –
F (oiling furiously): Bugger Broadfoot!
J: Patience, beloved, you go too fast. Pleasure hasted is pleasure wasted, remember … Tell him Lal Singh and Tej Singh will command the Khalsa – are you listening? Lal and Tej – don’t forget their names … There, now, all is told – so lie down again, elephant, and await your mahout’s pleasure … so-o … oh, gods! Ah-h-h …! Wait, lie still – and observe this time-glass, which tells the quarter-hour … its sands must run out before yours, do you hear? So, now, slowly … you remember the names? Lal and Tej … Lal and Tej … Lal and …
Young chaps, who fancy themselves masterful, won’t credit it, but these driving madames who insist on calling the tune can give you twice the sport of any submissive slave, if you handle them right. If they want to play the princess lording it over the poor peasant, let ’em; it puts them on their mettle, and saves you no end of hard work. I’ve known any number of the imperious bitches, and the secret is to let them set the pace, hold back until they’ve shot their bolt, and then give ’em more than they bargained for.
Knowing Jeendan’s distempered appetite, I’d thought to be hard put to stay the course, but now that I was sober, which I hadn’t been at our first encounter, it was as easy as falling off a log – which is what she did, if you follow me, after a mere five minutes, wailing with satisfaction. Well, I wasn’t having that, so I picked her up and bulled her round the room until she hollered uncle. Then I let her have the minute between rounds, while I oiled her lovingly, and set about her again – turning the time-glass in the middle of it, and drawing her attention to the fact, although what with drink and ecstasy I doubt if she could even see it. She was whimpering to be let alone, so I finished the business leisurely as could be, and damned if she didn’t faint – either that or it was the booze.
After a while she came to, calling weakly for a drink, so I fed her a few sips while I debated whether to give her a thrashing or sing her a lullaby – you must keep ’em guessing, you know. The first seemed inadvisable, so far from home, so I carried her to and fro humming “Rockabye, baby”, and so help me she absolutely went to sleep, nestling against me. I laid her on the divan, thinking this’ll give us time to restore our energies, and went into the wash-room to rid myself of the oil – I’ve known randy women have some odd tastes: birches, spurs, hairbrushes, peacock feathers, baths, handcuffs, God knows what, but Jeendan’s the only grease-monkey I can recall.
I was scrubbing away, whistling “Drink, puppy, drink”, when I heard a hand-bell tinkle in the boudoir. You’ll have to wait a while, my dear, thinks I, but then I heard voices and realised she had summoned Mangla, and was giving instructions in a dreamy, exhausted whisper.
“You may dismiss Rai and the Python,” murmurs she. “I shall have no need of them today … perhaps not tomorrow …”
I should think not, indeed. So I sang “Rule, Britannia”.
a Chief.
b The ten-day festival in October after which the Sikhs were accustomed to set out on expeditions.
c Sudden attack.
d The Afghan nickname for George Broadfoot.
If you consult the papers of Sir Henry Hardinge and Major Broadfoot for October, 1845 (not that I recommend them as light reading), you’ll find three significant entries early in the month: Mai Jeendan’s court moved to Amritsar, Hardinge left Calcutta for the Sutlej frontier, and Broadfoot had a medical examination and went on a tour of his agencies. In short, the three principals in the Punjab crisis took a breather – which meant no war that autumn. Good news for everyone except the dispersed Khalsa, moping in their outlying stations and spoiling for a fight.
My own immediate relief was physical. Jeendan’s departure came in the nick of time for me, for one more amorous joust with her would have doubled me up forever. I’ve seldom known the like: you’d have thought, after the wild passage I’ve just described, that she’d have rested content for a spell, but no such thing. A couple of hours’ sleep, a pint of spirits, and drum up the town bull again, was her style, and I doubt if I saw daylight for three days, as near as I could judge, for you tend to lose count of time, you know. We may well have set a record, but I didn’t keep tally (some Yankee would be sure to claim best, anyway). All I’m sure of is that my weight went down below twelve and a half stone, and that ain’t healthy for a chap my size. I was the one who needed medical inspection, I can tell you, never mind Broadfoot.
And on the fourth morning, when I was a mere husk of a man, wondering if there was a monastery handy, what d’you think she did? Absolutely had a chap in to paint my portrait. At first, when he dragged his easel and colours into the boudoir, and started waving his brush, I thought it was another of her depraved fancies, and she was going to have him sketch us performing at the gallop; the devil with this, thinks I, if I’m to be hung at the next Punjab Royal Academy it’ll be with my britches on and my hair brushed. But it proved to be a pukka sitting, Flashy fully clad in romatic native garb like Lord Byron, looking noble with a hookah to hand and a bowl of fruit in the foreground, while Jeendan lounged at the artist’s elbow, prompting, and Mangla made helpful remarks. Between the two of them he was in a fine sweat, but did a capital likeness of me in no time – it’s in a Calcutta gallery now, I believe, entitled Company Officer in Seekh Costume, or something of the sort. Ruined Stag at Bay, more like.
“So that I shall remember my English bahadur,” says Jeendan, smiling slantendicular, when I asked her why she wanted it. I took it as a compliment –