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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       Chapter 8

      If there was one thing worse than Jawaheer’s murder it was his funeral, when his wives and slave-girls were roasted alive along with his corpse, according to custom. Like much beastliness in the world, suttee is inspired by religion, which means there’s no sense or reason to it – I’ve yet to meet an Indian who could tell me why it’s done, even, except that it’s a hallowed ritual, like posting a sentry to mind the Duke of Wellington’s horse fifty years after the old fellow had kicked the bucket. That, at least, was honest incompetence; if you want my opinion of widow-burning, the main reason for it is that it provides the sort of show the mob revels in, especially if the victims are young and personable, as they were in Jawaheer’s case. I wouldn’t have missed it myself, for it’s a fascinating horror – and I noticed, in my years in India, that the breast-beating Christians who denounced it were always first at the ringside.

      No, my objection to it is on practical, not moral grounds; it’s a shameful waste of good womanhood, and all the worse because the stupid bitches are all for it. They’ve been brought up to believe it’s meet and right to be broiled along with the head of the house, you see – why, Alick Gardner told me of one funeral in Lahore where some poor little lass of nine was excused burning as being too young, and the silly chit threw herself off a high building. They burned her corpse anyway. That’s what comes of religion and keeping women in ignorance. The most educated (and devout) Indian female I ever knew, Rani Lakshmibai, thought suttee beneath contempt; when I asked her why, as a widow, she hadn’t hopped on the old man’s pyre herself, she looked at me in disbelief and asked: “Do you think I’m a fool?”

      She wasn’t, but her Punjabi sisters knew no better.

      Jawaheer’s body was brought, in several pieces, to the city on the day after his death, and the procession to the ground of cremation took place under a red evening sky, before an enormous throng, with little Dalip and Jeendan and most of the nobility prostrating themselves before the suttees – two wives, stately handsome girls, and three Kashmiri slaves, the prettiest wenches ever you saw, all in their best finery with jewelled studs in their ears and noses and gold embroidery on their silk trousers. I ain’t a soft man, but it would have broken your heart to see those five little beauties, who were made for fun and love and laughter, walking to the pyre like guardsmen, heads up and not a blink of fear, serenely scattering money to the crowd, according to custom – and you wouldn’t credit it, those unutterable bastards of Sikh soldiers who were meant to be guarding ’em, absolutely tore the money from their hands, and yelled taunts and insults at them when they tried to protest. Even when they got to the pyre, those swine were tearing their jewels and ornaments from them, and when the fire was lit one villain reached through the smoke and tore the gold fringe from one of the slaves’ trousers – and these, according to their religion, were meant to be sacred women.

      There were groans from the crowd, but no one dared do anything against the all-powerful military – and then an astounding thing happened. One of the wives stood up among the flames, and began to curse them. I can see her still, a tall lovely girl all in white and gold, blood on her face where her nose-stud had been ripped away, one hand gripping her head-veil beneath her chin, the other raised as she damned ’em root and branch, foretelling that the race of Sikhs would be overthrown within the year, their women widowed, and their land conquered and laid waste – and suttees, you know, are supposed to have the gift of prophecy. One of the spoilers jumped on the pyre and swung his musket butt at her, and she fell back into the fire where the four others were sitting calmly as the flames rose and crackled about them. None of them made a sound.²⁵

      I saw all this from the wall, the black smoke billowing up to mingle with the low clouds under the crimson dusk, and came away in such a boiling rage as I never felt on behalf of anyone except myself. Aye, thinks I, let there be a war (but keep me out of it) so that we can stamp these foul woman-butchers flat, and put an end to their abominations. I guess I’m like Alick Gardner: I can’t abide wanton cruelty to good-looking women. Not by other folk, anyway.

      That brave lass’s malediction filled the crowd with superstitious awe, but it had an even more important effect – it put the fear of God into the Khalsa, and that shaped their fate at a critical time. For after Jawaheer’s death they were in a great state of uncertainty and division, with the hotheads clamouring for an immediate war against us, and the more loyal element, who’d been dismayed by Jeendan’s harangue at Maian Mir, insisting that nothing could be done until they’d made their peace with her, the regent of their lawful king. The trouble was, making peace meant surrendering those who’d plotted the murder of Jawaheer, and they were a powerful clique. So the debate raged among them, and meanwhile Jeendan played her hand to admiration, refusing even to acknowledge the Khalsa’s existence, going daily to weep at Jawaheer’s tomb, heavily veiled and bowed with grief, and winning the admiration of all for her piety; the rumour ran that she’d even sworn off drink and fornication – a portent that reduced the Khalsa СКАЧАТЬ