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 by Lal and Tej – and by Gough, once he’s learned from you what they’re about.” He stabbed me with a bony finger. “From you – that’s the point! If Lal sent a native agent, promising betrayal, Gough wouldn’t give him the time of day. But he knows you, and can trust what you tell him!”

      And much good it would do him, I thought, for however Lal and Tej mismanaged the Khalsa, they couldn’t alter its numbers, or the zeal of its colonels, or the quality of its soldiers, or the calibre of its guns. They might supply Gough with full intelligence, but he was still going to have to engage and break a disciplined army of a hundred thousand men, with a Company force one-third the size and under-gunned. I’d not have wagered two pice on his chances.

      But then, you see, I didn’t know him. For that matter, I didn’t know much about war: Afghanistan had been a rout, not a campaign, and Borneo an apprenticeship in piracy. I’d never seen a pukka battle, or the way a seasoned commander (even one as daft as Paddy Gough) can manage an army, or the effect of centuries of training and discipline, or that phenomenon which I still don’t understand but which I’ve watched too often to doubt: the British peasant looking death in the face, and hitching his belt, and waiting.

      My chief concern, of course, was the prospect of venturing into the heart of the Khalsa and conspiring with a viper like Lal Singh – with a game leg to prevent me lighting out at speed if things went amiss, as they were bound to do. Even sitting a mount hurt like sin, and to make matters worse, Gardner said Jassa must stay behind. I couldn’t demur: half the Punjab knew that crafty phiz, and that he was my orderly. But he’d pulled me clear twice now, and I’d feel naked without him.

      “Broadfoot needs a foot on the ground here, anyway,” says Gardner. “Never fear, dear Josiah will be safe under my wing – and under my eye. While the war lasts I’m to be governor of Lahore – which between ourselves is liable to consist of protecting Mai Jeendan when her disappointed soldiery come pouring back over the river. Yes, sir – we surely earn our wages.” He surveyed me in my gorracharra outfit, of which the most important part was a steel cap, like a Roundhead’s, with long cheek-pieces that helped conceal my face. “You’ll do. Let your beard grow, and leave the talking to Ganpat. You’ll make Kussoor this afternoon; lie up there and go down to the river ghat after dark and you should fetch up with Lal Singh around dawn tomorrow. I’ll ride along with you a little ways.”

We set off, the six of us, at about ten o’clock, riding parallel with the south road. It was heavy with traffic for the Khalsa – baggage and ration carts, ammunition wagons, even teams of guns, for we were riding with the rearguard of the army, a vast host spread across the dusty plain, moving slowly south and east. Ahead of us the doab^b would be alive with the main body as far as the Sutlej, beyond which Lal Singh was already investing Ferozepore and Tej Singh’s infantry would be advancing … whither? We rode at a fast trot, which troubled my ankle, but Gardner insisted we must keep up the pace if I was to reach Lal in time.

      “He’s been over the Sutlej two days now. Gough must be moving, and Lal’s going to have to take order pretty sharp, or his colonels will want to know why. I only hope,” says Gardner grimly, “that the weak-kneed son-of-a-bitch doesn’t run away – in which case we might just have the gorracharra under the command of someone who knows what the hell he’s doing.”

      The more I thought of it, the madder the whole thing sounded – but the maddest part of it was still to be revealed. We’d made our noon halt, and Gardner was turning back to Lahore, but first he rode a little way apart with me to make sure I had it all straight. We were on a little knoll about a furlong from the road, along which a battalion of Sikh infantry was marching, tall stalwarts all in olive green, with their colonel riding ahead, colours flying, drums beating, bugles sounding a rousing air. Gardner may have said something to prompt my question, but I don’t recall; at any rate, I asked him:

      “See here … I know the Khalsa’s been spoiling for this – but if they know their own maharani has been conspiring with the enemy, and suspect their own commanders … well, even the rank and file must have a shrewd idea their rulers want to see ’em beat. So … why are they allowing themselves to be sent to war at all?”

      He pondered this, and gave one of his rare wintry smiles. “They reckon they can whip John Company. Whoever may be crossing or betraying ’em, don’t matter – they think they can be champions of England. In which case, they’ll be the masters of Hindoostan, with an empire to plunder. Maybe Mai Jeendan has that possibility in mind, too, and figures she’ll win, either way. Oh, she could charm away the suspicions of treason; most of ’em still worship her. Another reason they have for marching is that they believe you British will invade them sooner or later, so they might as well strike first.”

      He paused for a moment, frowning, and then said: “But that’s not the half of it. They’re going to war because they’ve taken their oaths to Dalip Singh Maharaja, and he’s sent them out in his name – never mind who put the words in his mouth. So even if they knew they were doomed beyond a doubt … they’d go to the sacrifice.” He turned to look at me. “You don’t know the Sikhs, sir. I do. They’ll fight their way to hell and back … for that little boy. And for their salt.”

      He sat gazing across the plain, where the marching battalion was disappearing into the heat haze, the sun twinkling on the bayonets, the sound of the bugles dying away. He shaded his eyes, and it was as though he was talking to himself.

      “And when the Khalsa’s beat, and Jeendan and her noble crew are firm in the saddle again, and the Punjab’s quiet under Britannia’s benevolent eye, and little Dalip’s getting his hide tanned at Eton College … why then” – he gestured towards the road – “then, sir, John Company will find he has a hundred thousand of the best recruits on earth, ready to fight for the White Queen. Because that’s their trade. And it’ll all have turned out best for everybody, I guess. Lot of good men will have died first, though. Sikh. Indian. British.” He glanced at me, and nodded. “That’s why Hardinge has held off all this time. He’s probably the only man in India who thinks the price is too high. Now it’s going to be paid.”

      He was a strange bird this – all bark and fury most of the time, then quiet and philosophical, which sorted most oddly with his Ghazi figurehead. He chucked the reins and wheeled his pony. “Good luck, soldier. Give my salaams to old Georgie Broadfoot.”

      a Must is the madness of the rogue elephant. Doolali=insane, from Deolali Camp, inland from Bombay, where generations of British soldiers (including the editor) were received in India, and supposedly were affected by sunstroke.

      b The name given to the tracts between the rivers of the Punjab.

       Chapter 12

      I’ve never cared, much, for service with foreign forces. At best it’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and the rations are liable to play havoc with your innards. The American Confederates weren’t bad, I suppose, bar their habit of spitting on carpets, and the worst I can say of the Yankees is that they took soldiering seriously and seemed to be under the impression that they had invented it. But the Malagassy army, of which I was Sergeant-General, was simply disgusting; the Apaches stink and know dam’ all about camp discipline; no one in the Foreign Legion speaks decent French, the boots don’t fit, and the bayonet scabbard is a clanking piece of scrap. All round, the only aliens in whose military employ I could ever be called happy were the Sky-Blue Wolves of Khokand – and that was only because I was full of hashish administered СКАЧАТЬ