Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 from the presence, turning and resuming my tile only when I reached the rug in the doorway, as form demanded. To my surprise, Lal Singh came after me, taking my arm, all smiles, and insisting on giving me a conducted tour of the arsenal and foundry, which were close by the Sleeping Palace. Since I’d spent half the night sporting with his lady love, I found this affability disconcerting, until he took me flat aback by speaking of her with alarming frankness.

      “Mai Jeendan had hoped to come out from purdah to greet you after the durbar,” confides he. “Alas, she is a little drunk from toasting her abominable brother, in a vain effort to put some courage into him. You can have no notion what a poltroon he is! The thought of facing the Khalsa quite unmans him, even now when all is settled. But she will certainly send for you afterwards; she has important messages for the envoy of the Sirkar.”

      I said I was at her majesty’s service, and he smiled.

      “So I have heard.” Seeing me stare, he laughed aloud. “My dear friend, you look at me as though I were a rival! Believe me, with Mai Jeendan there is no such thing! She is no one’s mistress but her own. Let us fortunate fellows thank God for it. Now, you shall give me your opinion of our Punjabi muskets – are they not a match for Brown Bess?”

      At the time, I was all suspicion; only later did I realise that Lal Singh meant every word he said – and Mai Jeendan was the least of what he wanted to tell me that day. When we’d examined the small arms, stocked in impressive numbers, and the forges, and the casting of a great white-hot nine-pounder gun, and the rain of lead hitting the steaming vats in the shot tower, and I’d agreed that the Khalsa’s armoury compared well with our own, he took me by the arm as we walked, most confidential.

      “You are right,” says he, “but arms are not everything. On the day, victory and defeat rest with the generals. If ever the Khalsa took the field, it might well be under my leadership, and Tej Singh’s.” He sighed, smiling, and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how we should acquit ourselves against … oh, against such a seasoned campaigner as your Sir Hugh Gough. What would you think, Flashman sahib?”

      Wondering, I said that Gough wasn’t the most scientific soldier since Boney, but he was probably the toughest. Lal Singh nodded, stroking his beard, and then laughed merrily. “Well, we must hope it is never put to the test, eh? Now, we set out for Maian Mir in an hour – may I offer you some refreshment?”

      They’re so devious, these folk, you never know what they’re up to. Was he hinting that if it came to war, he was ready to fight a cross? Or trying a bamboozle? Or just gassing? Whatever his purpose, he must know that nothing he said could make Gough drop his guard. It was all most interesting, and gave me food for thought until the horns sounded to signal the departure of the royal progress to Maian Mir.

The procession was drawn up outside the Bright Gate, and when I saw it I thought: that’s India. It was Arabian Nights come to life: two battalions of the Palace Guard in their red and yellow silks, and in their midst half a dozen elephants, gorgeously caparisoned in blue and gold saddle-cloths that swept the ground, jewelled harness on their heads, their tusks and even the mahouts’ goads tipped with gold. The howdahs were little coloured palaces topped with minarets and silk canopies which stirred as the great beasts swayed and bellowed, the keepers quieting them as they waited for their royal freight. Horsemen in steel casques that shone like silver in the sunlight rode up and down the elephant line, their sabres drawn; they converged like clockwork to form a lane from the gate for porters who came bearing enormous panniers brimming with coin, preceded by chamberlains who supervised the strapping of the panniers to the howdahs of the third and second elephants. When some of the coins fell in a tinkling shower to the dust, there was a great “Oo-h!” from the crowd assembled to see the show; two or three of the horsemen leaned from their saddles, scooping up the rupees and hurling them over the heads of the rigid guardsmen to the mob, who yelled and scuffled for them – for a country that was supposed to be short of blunt, there seemed to be no lack of pice^a to fling to the beggars.

      Two of the chamberlains mounted the third elephant, and now came a little knot of courtiers, led by Lal Singh, all brave in green and gold; they mounted into the fifth howdah, and a chamberlain who’d been shepherding Jassa and me indicated that we should mount the ladder on the fourth beast. We climbed up and as I seated myself the muted grumble of the crowd took on a new note – I knew exactly why: they were asking each other, who’s the foreigner, then, who takes precedence over the royal courtiers? He must be an infidel of note, doubtless the English Queen’s son, or a Jewish moneylender from Karachi; well, give the unbelieving swine a cheer. I doffed my tile, looking out over that astonishing scene: ahead, the great mammoths with their swaying howdahs, and either side the horsemen, the yellow Guards, and beyond a vast sea of brown faces; the walls flanking the Bright Gate were black with spectators, as were the buildings behind, with the great column of the Summum Boorj towering over all. The baying of the crowd rose again, and now there was a disturbance below my elephant, the yellow line of Guardsmen breaking to let in a wild figure who capered and waved to me: he was a burly Ghazi of a fellow, bandoliered and bearded to the eyebrows, yelling in Pushtu:

      “Ai-ee, Bloody Lance! It is I, Shadman Khan! Remember me? Salaam, soldier, heep-heep-heep-hoorah!”

      Well, I didn’t remember him, but plainly he was someone from the old days, so I lifted my lid again, calling: “Salaam, Shadman Khan!” and he shouted with delight and yelled, in English: “Stand fast, foortee-foorth!” – and in an instant I was looking down on the bloody snow over Gandamack, with the remnants of the 44th being cut down by the tribesmen swarming over their position … and СКАЧАТЬ