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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ to their appeals for audience she summoned them not to durbar but to the yard under the Summum Boorj, receiving them in cold silence while she sat veiled and swathed in her mourning weeds, and Dinanath announced her terms. These sounded impressively severe – total submission to her will, and instant delivery of the murderers – but were in fact part of an elaborate farce stage-managed by Mangla. She and Lal Singh and a few other courtiers had been taken prisoner by the Khalsa at the time of the murder, but released soon after, since when they’d been politicking furiously with Dinanath and the panches, arranging a compromise.

      It amounted to this: the Khalsa grovelled to Jeendan, gave up a few token prisoners, and promised to deliver Pirthee Singh and the other leading plotters (who had already decamped to the hills, by previous arrangement) as soon as they were caught. In the meantime, would she please forgive her loyal Khalsa, since they were showing willing, and consider making war on the damned British in the near future? For their part, they swore undying loyalty to her as Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs. To this she replied through Dinanath that while it was hardly good enough, she was graciously pleased to accept their submission, and hand back the token prisoners as a liberal gesture. (Sensation and loyal cheers.) They must now give her a little time to complete her mourning and recover from the grievous shock of her brother’s death; thereafter she would receive them in full durbar to discuss such questions as making war and appointing a new Wazir.

      It was the kind of face-saving settlement that’s arranged daily at Westminster and in parish councils, and no one’s fooled except the public – and not all of them, either.

      You may ask, where was Flashy during all these stirring events? To which the answer is that, having mastered an impulse to steal a horse and ride like hell for the Sutlej, I was well in the background, doing what I’d ostensibly come to Lahore for – namely, negotiate about the Soochet legacy. This entailed sitting in a pleasant, airy chamber for several hours a day, listening to interminable submissions from venerable government officials who cited precedents from Punjabi and British law, the Bible, the Koran, The Times, and the Bombay Gazette. They were the most tireless old bores you ever struck, red herring worshippers to a man, asking nothing from me beyond an occasional nod and an instruction to my babu to make a note of that point. That kept ’em happy, and was good for another hour’s prose – none of which advanced the cause one iota, but since the Punjabi taxpayers were stumping up their salaries, and I was content to sit under the punkah sipping brandy and soda, all was for the best in the best of all possible civil services. We could have been there yet – my God, they probably are.

      I was busy enough in my spare time, though, chiefly writing cypher reports for Broadfoot and committing them to Second Thessalonians, from which they vanished with mysterious speed. I still couldn’t figure who the postman (or postmistress) was, but it was a most efficient service to Simla and back; within a week of my writing off about Jassa a note turned up in my Bible saying, among other things: “Number 2 A2”, which meant that, notwithstanding his colourful past, my orderly was trustworthy to the second degree, which meant only a step below Broadfoot and his Assistants, including myself. I didn’t tell Jassa this, but contrived a quick word with Gardner to give him the glad tidings. He grunted: “Broadfoot must be sicker than I thought,” and passed on, the surly brute.

      For the rest, Broadfoot’s communication amounted to little more than “Carry on, Flash”. The official news from British India, through the vakil, was that Calcutta deplored the untimely death of Wazir Jawaheer and trusted that his successor would have better luck – that was the sense of it, along with a pious hope that the Punjab would now settle down to a period of tranquillity under Maharaja Dalip, the only ruler whom the British power was prepared to recognise. The message was clear: murder each other as often as you please, but any attempt to depose Dalip and we shall be among you, horse, foot and guns.

      So there it was, status quo, the question of the hour being, would Jeendan, for her own and Dalip’s safety, give way before the Khalsa’s demand for war, and turn ’em loose over the Sutlej? I couldn’t for the life of me see why she should, in spite of her half-promise to them; she seemed to be able to deal with them as her brother had failed to do, dividing and ruling and keeping them guessing; if she could hold the rein on them while she tightened her grip on the government of the country, I couldn’t see how war would be in her interest.

      Time would tell; a more pressing matter began to vex me as the first week lengthened into the second. Lal Singh had assured me that Jeendan was anxious to know me better, politically and personally, but devil a sign of it had there been for almost a fortnight, and I was champing at the bit. As the horrors of those first two days receded, the pleasures became more vivid, and I was plagued by fond memories of that painted little trollop writhing against me in the durbar room, and strutting wantonly before her troops at Maian Mir. Quite fetching, those recollections were, and bred a passion which I knew from experience could be satisfied by the lady herself and no other. I’m a faithful soul, you see, in my fashion, and when a new bundle takes my fancy more than ordinary, as about a score have done over the years, I become quite devoted for a spell. Oh, I’d done the polite by Mangla (and repeated the treatment when she called clandestine three nights later) but that was journeyman work which did nothing to quench my romantic lust to put Jeendan over the jumps again, and the sooner the better.

      I can’t account for these occasional infatuations, but then neither can the poets – uncommon randy, those versifiers. In my own case, though, I have to own that I’ve been particularly susceptible to crowned heads – empresses and queens and grand duchesses and so forth, of whom I’ve encountered more than a few. I dare say the trappings and luxury had something to do with it, and the knowledge that the treasury would pick up any bills that were going, but that ain’t the whole story, I’m sure. If I were a German philosopher, I’d no doubt reflect on Superman’s subjection of the Ultimate Embodiment of the Female, but since I ain’t I can only conclude that I’m a galloping snob. At all events, there’s a special satisfaction to rattling royalty, I can tell you, and when they have Jeendan’s training and inclinations it only adds to the fun.

      Like most busy royal women, she had the habit of mixing sport with politics, and contrived our next encounter so that it dealt with both, on the day of her emergence from mourning for her eagerly-awaited durbar with the Khalsa panches. I’d tiffened in my quarters, and was preparing for an afternoon’s drowse with the Soochet-wallahs when Mangla arrived unannounced; at first I supposed she’d looked in for another quarter-staff bout, but she explained that I was summoned to royal audience, and must follow quietly and ask no questions. Nothing loth, I let her conduct me, and had quite a let-down when she ushered me into a nursery where little Dalip, attended by a couple of nurses, was wreaking carnage with his toy soldiers. He jumped up, beaming, at the sight of me, and then stopped short to compose himself before advancing, bowing solemnly, and holding out his hand.

      “I have to thank you, Flashman bahadur” says he, “for your care of me … that … that afternoon …” Suddenly he began to weep, head lowered, and then stamped and dashed his tears away angrily. “I have to thank you for your care of me …” he began, gulping, and looked at Mangla.

      “… and for the great service …,” she prompted him.

      “… and for the great service you rendered to me and my country!” He choked it out pretty well, head up and lip trembling. “We are forever in your debt. Salaam, bahadur.”

      I shook his hand and said I was happy to be of service, and he nodded gravely, glanced sidelong at the women, and murmured: “I was so frightened.”

      “Well, you didn’t look it, maharaj’,” says I – which was the honest truth. “I was frightened, too.”

      “Not you?” cries he, shocked. “You are a soldier!”

      “The soldier who is never frightened is only half a soldier,” says СКАЧАТЬ