The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
not given proper welcome to the English lord sahib – and it is unmannerly to burst in on him, instead of receiving him in durbar.a What will he think of us?” Meaning, what does he think of me, to judge from another glance of those fine gazelle eyes. I gave her my gallant leer, and hastened to toady her overlord.
“His majesty honours me. But will you not sit, maharaj’, and your lady also?”
“Lady?” He stared and laughed. “Why, she’s a slave! Aren’t you, Mangla?”
“Your mother’s slave, maharaj’,” says she coldly. “Not yours.”
“Then go and wait on my mother!” cries the pup, not meeting her eye. “I wish to speak with Flashman bahadur.”
You could see her itching to upend him, but after a moment she gave him a deep salaam and me a last appraisal, up and down, which I returned, admiring her graceful carriage as she swayed out, while the little pest tried to disarm me. I told him firmly that a soldier never gives his weapon to anyone, but that I’d hold it for him to see, if he showed me his sword in the same way. So he did, and then stared at my pepperbox19, mouth open.
“When I am a man,” says he, “I shall be a soldier of the Sirkar, and have such a gun.”
I asked, why the British Army and not the Khalsa, and he shook his head. “The Khalsa are mutinous dogs. Besides, the British are the best soldiers in the world, Zeenan Khan says.”
“Who’s Zeenan Khan?”
“One of my grooms. He was flank-man-first-squadron-fifth-Bengal-Cavalry-General-Sale-Sahib-in-Afghanistan.” Rattled out as Zeenan must have taught him. He pointed at me. “He saw you at Jallalabad Fort, and told me how you slew the Muslims. He has only one arm, and no pinshun.”
Now that’s a pension we’ll see paid, with arrears, thinks I: an ex-sowar of Bengal Cavalry who has a king’s ear is worth a few chips a month. I asked if I could meet Zeenan Khan.
“If you like, but he talks a lot, and always the same story of the Ghazi he killed at Teizin. Did you kill many Ghazis? Tell me about them!”
So I lied for a few minutes, and the bloodthirsty little brute revelled in every decapitation, eyes fixed on me, his small face cupped in his hands. Then he sighed and said his Uncle Jawaheer must be mad.
“He wants to fight the British. Bhai Ram says he’s a fool – that an ant can’t fight an elephant. But my uncle says we must, or you will steal my country from me.”
“Your uncle is mistaken,” says diplomatic Flashy. “If that were true, would I be here in peace? No – I’d have a sword!”
“You have a gun,” he pointed out gravely.
“That’s a gift,” says I, inspired, “which I’ll present to a friend of mine, when I leave Lahore.”
“You have friends in Lahore?” says he, frowning.
“I have now,” says I, winking at him, and after a moment his jaw dropped, and he squealed with glee. Gad, wasn’t I doing my country’s work, though?
“I shall have it! That gun? Oh! Oh!” He hugged himself, capering. “And will you teach me your war-cry? You know, the great shout you gave just now, when I ran in with my sword?” The small face puckered as he tried to say it: “Wee … ska … see …?”
I was baffled – and then it dawned: Wisconsin. Gad, my instinct for self-preservation must be working well, for me to squeal that without realising it. “Oh, that was nothing, maharaj’. Tell you what, though – I’ll teach you to shoot.”
“You will? With that gun?” He sighed ecstatically. “Then I shall be able to shoot Lal Singh!”
I remembered the name – a general, the Maharani’s lover.
“Who’s Lal Singh, maharaj’?”
He shrugged. “Oh, one of my mother’s bed-men.” Seven years old, mark you. “He hates me, I can’t tell why. All her other bed-men like me, and give me sweets and toys.” He shook his head in perplexity, hopping on one leg, no doubt to assist thought. “I wonder why she has so many bed-men? Ever so many –”
“Cold feet, I dare say … look, younker – maharaj’, I mean – hadn’t you better be running along? Mangla will be –”
“Mangla has bed-men, too,” insists this fount of scandal. “But Uncle Jawaheer is her favourite. Do you know what Lady Eneela says they do?” He left off hopping, and took a deep breath. “Lady Eneela says they –”
Fortunately, before my delicacy could receive its death blow, Mangla suddenly reappeared, quite composed considering she’d plainly had her ear at the keyhole, and informed his garrulous majesty peremptorily that his mother commanded him to the durbar room. He pouted and kicked his heels, but finally submitted, exchanged salaams, and allowed her to shoo him into the passage. To my surprise, she didn’t follow, but closed the door and faced me, mighty cool – she didn’t look at all like a slave-girl, and she didn’t talk like one.
“His majesty speaks as children do,” says she. “You will not mind him. Especially what he says of his uncle, Wazir Jawaheer Singh.”
No “sahib”, or downcast eyes, or humble tone, you notice. I took her in, from the dainty Persian slippers and tight silk trousers to the well-filled bodice and the calm lovely face framed by the flimsy head veil, and moved up for a closer view.
“I care nothing about your Wazir, little Mangla,” smiles I. “But if our small tyrant speaks true … I envy him.”
“Jawaheer is not a man to be envied,” says she, watching me with those insolent gazelle eyes, and a drift of her perfume reached me – heady stuff, these slave-girls use. I reached out and drew a glossy black tress from beneath the veil, and she didn’t blink; I stroked her cheek with it, and she smiled, a provocative parting of the lips. “Besides, envy is the last deadly sin I’d expect from Flashman bahadur.”
“But you can guess the first, can’t you?” says I, and gathered her smoothly in by tit and buttock, not omitting a chaste salute on the lips, to which the coy little creature responded by slipping her hand down between us, taking hold, and thrusting her tongue halfway down my throat – at which point that infernal brat Dalip began hacking at the door, clamouring for attention.
“To hell with him!” growls I, thoroughly engrossed, and for a moment she teased with hand and tongue before pulling her trembling softness away, panting bright-eyed.
“Yes, I know the first,” she murmurs, taking a last fond stroke, “but this is not the time –”
“Ain’t it, by God? Never mind the pup – he’ll go away, he’ll get tired –”
“It is not that.” She pushed her hands against my chest, pouting and shaking her head. “My mistress would never forgive me.”
“Your mistress? What the blazes – ?”
“Oh, you will see.” She disengaged my hands, with a pretty little grimace as that whining whelp kicked and yammered at the panels. “Be patient, Flashman bahadur – remember, the servant may sup last, but she sups longest.” Her tongue flickered at my lips again, and then she had slipped out, closing the door to the accompaniment of shrill childish reproaches, leaving me most randily frustrated – but in better trim than I’d been for days. There’s nothing like a brisk overhaul of a sporty female, with the certainty of a treat in store, for putting one in temper. And it goes to show – whiskers ain’t everything.
I wasn’t allowed to spend long in lustful contemplation, though, for who should loaf in now but the bold Jassa, looking fit for treason, and no whit put out when I damned his eyes and demanded where he’d been. “About the husoor’s business,” was all the answer I got, while he took a wary prowl through the two rooms, prodding a hanging here and tapping a panel