The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
for it but to lie doggo, praying we didn’t sneeze or have the conniptions.
I’ve had similar experiences since – under a sofa on which Lord Cardigan was paying court to his second wife, beneath a dago president’s four-poster (that’s how I won the San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth), and one shocking time in Russia when discovery meant certain death. But the odd thing is, quaking as you are, you find yourself eavesdropping for dear life; I lay with one ear between Mrs Madison’s paps, and the other taking it all in – and it’s worth recounting, for it was frontier gossip from our head men, and will help you understand what followed.
In no time I knew who was in the room: Gough, and Sale, and a pimpish affected lisp which could belong only to the German princeling, the pulpit growl of old Gravedigger Havelock (who’d ha’ thought that he’d frequent pool-rooms?), and the high, arrogant Scotch burr that announced the presence of my old Afghan chum George Broadfoot, now exalted as Agent for the North-west Frontier.11 He was in full complaint, as usual:
“… and Calcutta rebukes me for taking a high hand with the Maharani and her drunken durbar! I must not provoke them, says Hardinge. Provoke, indeed – while they run raids on us, and ignore my letters, and seduce our sepoys! Half the brothel bints in Ludhiana are Sikh agents, offering our jawanse double pay to desert to the Khalsa.”
“Double for infantry, six-fold for sowars,”f says Sale. “Temptin’, what?12 Spot or plain, prince?”
“Spot, if you please. But do many of your native soldiers desert, then?”
“Och, a few.” This was Gough, in his pig-sty brogue. “Mind you, if ever the Khalsa invaded, God knows how many might jump on what they thought was the winnin’ nag. Or refuse to fight agin’ fellow-Injuns.”
The pills clicked, and the prince says: “But the British will always be the winning side. Why, all India holds your army invincible.” There was a long pause, then Broadfoot says:
“Not since Afghanistan. We went in like lions and came out like-sheep – and India took note. Who knows what might follow a Sikh invasion? Mutiny? It’s possible. A general revolt –”
“Oh, come!” cries the prince. “A Sikh invasion would be promptly repelled, surely! Is that not so, Sir Hugh?”
More pill-clicking, and then Gough says: “Put it this way, sorr. If John Sepoy turned tail – which I don’t believe, mind – I’d be left wi’ our British regiments alone agin’ one hunnert t’ousand of the best fightin’ fellows in India – European trained, mark’ee, wi’ modern arms … How many do I get for a cannon, will ye tell me? Two? Mother o’ God, is it worth it? Well, here goes.” Click. “Damnation, me eyes is failin’. As I was sayin’, your highness – I wouldn’t have to make too many mistakes, now, would I?”
“But if there is such danger – why do you not march into the Punjab now, and nip it in the bud?”
Another long silence, then Broadfoot: “Breach of treaty if we did – and conquest isn’t popular in England, since Sind.13 No doubt it’ll come to that in the end – and Hardinge knows it, for all he says British India’s big enough already. But the Sikhs must strike first, you see, and Sir Hugh’s right – that’s our moment of peril, when they’re south of the Sutlej in force, and our own sepoys may join ’em. If we struck first, treaty or not, and tackled the Khalsa in the Punjab, our stock would rise with the sepoys, they wouldn’t waver, and we’d win hands down. We’d have to stay, in a territory London don’t want – but India would be safe from Muslim invasion forever. A nice, circular problem, is it not?”
The Prince says thoughtfully: “Sir Henry Hardinge has a dilemma, it seems.”
“That’s why he waits,” says Sale, “in the faint hope that the present Lahore government will restore stability.”
“Meanwhile reproving me and hindering Sir Hugh, in case we ‘provoke’ Lahore,” says Broadfoot. “‘Armed observation’ – that’s to be our ticket.”
Mrs Madison gave a gentle snore, and I whipped my hand over her mouth, pinching her nostrils.
“What’s that?” says a voice overhead. “Did you hear it?”
There was silence, while I trembled on the verge of heart failure, and then Sale says:
“Those dam’ geckoes.g Your shot, Sir Hugh.”
If that wasn’t enough, Mrs Madison, now awake, put her lips to my ear: “When will they leave off? I am ever so cold.” I made silent frantic motions, and she thrust her tongue in my ear, so that I missed the next exchange. But I’d heard enough to be sure of one thing – however pacific Hardinge’s intentions, war was an odds-on certainty. I don’t mean that Broadfoot was ready to start it himself, but he’d jump at the chance if the Sikhs gave him one – and so no doubt would most of our Army folk; it’s a soldier’s business, after all. And by the sound of it the Khalsa were ready to oblige – and when they did, I’d be in the middle, galloper to a general who led not only from the front but from the middle of the enemy’s blasted army, given the chance. But the prince was talking again, and I strained my ears, trying to ignore Mrs Madison, who was burrowing underneath me, for warmth, presumably.
“But may Sir Henry not be right? Surely there is some Sikh noble capable of restoring order and tranquillity – this Maharani, for example … Chunda? Jinda?”
“Jeendan,” says Broadfoot. “She’s a hoor.” They had to translate for the prince, who perked up at once.
“Indeed? One hears astonishing stories. They say she is of incomparable beauty, and … ah … insatiable appetite …?”
“Ye’ve heard of Messalina?” says Broadfoot. “Well, this lady has been known to discard six lovers in a single night.”
Mrs Madison whispered: “I don’t believe it,” and neither did the prince, evidently, for he cries:
“Oh, scandalous rumours always multiply facts! Six in one night, indeed! How can you be sure of that?”
“Eye-witnesses,” says Broadfoot curtly, and you could almost hear the prince blinking as his imagination went to work.
Someone else’s was also taking flight: Mrs Madison, possibly inspired by all this disgraceful gossip, was becoming attentive again, the reckless bitch, and try as I would to still her, she teased so insistently that I was sure they must hear, and Havelock’s coffin face would pop under the curtain at any moment. So what could I do, except hold my breath and comply as quietly as possible – it’s an eerie business, I can tell you, in dead silence and palpitating with fear of discovery, and yet it’s quite soothing, in a way. I lost all track of their talk, and by the time we were done, and I was near choking with my shirt stuffed into my mouth, they were putting up their cues and retiring, thank God. And then:
“A moment, Broadfoot.” It was Gough, his voice down. “D’ye think his highness might talk, at all?”
There could only be the two of them in the room. “As the geese muck,” says Broadfoot. “Everywhere. It’ll be news to nobody, though. Half the folk in this damned country are spies, and the other half are their agents, on commission. I know how many ears I’ve got, and Lahore has twice as many, ye can be sure.”
“Like enough,” says Gough. “Ah, well – ’twill all be over by Christmas, devil a doubt. Now, then – what’s this Sale tells me about young Flashman?”
How they didn’t hear the sudden convulsion beneath the table, God knows, for I damned near put my head through the slates.
“I must have him, sir. I’ve lost Leech, and Cust will have to take his place. There isn’t another political in sight – and I worked with Flashman in Afghanistan. He’s young, but he did well among the Gilzais, he speaks Urdu, Pushtu, and Punjabi –”
“Hold yer