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 to a state of stricken wonder by all accounts.
In the end they gave in, and in response 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 powe
r 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 I. “And d’ye know who told me that? The greatest soldier in the world. His name’s Wellington; you’ll hear about him some day.”
He shook his head in wonder at this, and deciding butter wouldn’t hurt I asked if I might be shown his toys. He squeaked with delight, but Mangla said it must be another time, as I had important affairs to attend to. He kicked over his castle and pouted, but as I was salaaming my way out he did the strangest thing, running to me and hugging me round the neck before trotting back to his nurses with a little wave of farewell. Mangla gave me an odd look as she closed the door behind us, and asked if I had children of my own; I said I hadn’t.
“I think you have now,” says she.
I’d supposed that was the end of the audience, but now she conducted me through that labyrinth of palace passages until I was quite lost, and from her haste and the stealthy way she paused at corners for a look-see, I thought, aha, we’re bound for some secret nook where she means to have her wicked will of me. Watching her neat little bottom bobbing along in front of me, I didn’t mind a bit – tho’ I’d rather it had been Jeendan – and when she ushered me into a pretty boudoir, all hung in rose silk and containing a large divan, I lost no time in seizing her opportunities; she clung for a moment, and then slipped away, cautioning me to wait. She drew the curtain from a small alcove, pressed a spring, and a panel slid noiselessly back to reveal a narrow stairway leading down. Sounds of distant voices came from somewhere below. Having had experience of their architecture, I hesitated, but she drew me towards it with a finger to her lips.
“We must make no sound,” she breathed. “The Maharani is holding durbar.”
“Capital,” says I, kneading her stern with both hands. “Let’s have a durbar ourselves, shall we?”
“Not now!” whispers she, trying to wriggle free. “Ah, no! It is by her command … you are to watch and listen … no, please! … they must not hear us … follow me close … and make no noise …” Well, she was at a splendid disadvantage, so I held her fast and played with her for a moment or two, until she began to tremble and bite her lip, moaning softly for me to leave off or we’d be overheard, and when I had her nicely on the boil and fit to dislocate herself – why, I let her go, reminding her that we must be quiet as mice. I’ll learn ’em to lure me into boudoirs on false pretences. She gulped her breath back, gave me a look that would have splintered glass, and led the way cautiously down.
It was a dim, steep spiral, thickly carpeted against sound, and as we descended the murmur of voices grew ever louder; it sounded like a meeting before the chairman brings ’em to order. At the stair foot was a small landing, and in the wall ahead an aperture like a horizontal arrow-slit, very narrow on our side but widening to the far side of the wall so that it gave a full view of the room beyond.
We were looking down on the durbar room, at a point directly above the purdah curtain which enclosed one end of it. To the right, in the body of the room before the empty throne and dais, was a great, jostling throng of men, hundreds strong – the panches of the Khalsa, much as I’d seen them that first day at Maian Mir, soldiers of every rank and regiment, from officers in brocaded coats and aigretted turbans to barefoot jawans; even in our eyrie we could feel the heat and impatience of the close-packed throng as they pushed and craned and muttered to each other. Half a dozen of their spokesmen stood to the fore: Maka Khan, the imposing old general who’d harangued them at Maian Mir; the burly Imam Shah, who’d described Peshora’s death; my rissaldar-major of the heroic whiskers, and a couple of tall young Sikhs whom I didn’t recognise. Maka Khan was holding forth in a loud, irritated way; I suppose you feel a bit of an ass, addressing two hundred square feet of embroidery.
To our left, hidden from their view by the great curtain, and paying no heed at all to Maka Khan’s
oratory, the Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs was making up for her recent enforced abstinence from drink and frivolity. For two weeks she’d been appearing in public sober, grief-stricken, and swathed in mourning apparel; now she was enjoying a leisurely toilet, lounging goblet in hand against a table loaded with cosmetics and fripperies, while her maids fluttered silently about her, putting the finishing touches to an appearance plainly calculated to enthrall her audience when she emerged. Watching her drain her cup and have it refilled, I wondered if she’d be sober enough; if she wasn’t, the Khalsa would miss a rare treat.
From mourning she had gone to the other extreme, and was decked out in a dancing-girl’s costume which, in any civilised society, would have led to her arrest for breach of the peace. Not that it was unduly scanty: her red silk trousers, fringed with silver lace, covered her from hip to ankle, and her gold weskit was modestly opaque, but since both garments had evidently been designed for a well-grown dwarf I could only wonder how she’d been squeezed into them without bursting the seams. For the rest she wore a head veil secured by a silver circlet above her brows, and a profusion of rings and wrist-bangles; the lovely, sullen face was touched with rouge and kohl, and one of her maids was painting her lips with vermilion while another held a mirror and two more were gilding her finger and toe nails.
They were all intent as artists at a canvas, Jeendan pouting critically at the mirror and directing the maid to touch up the corner of her mouth; then they all stood back to admire the result before making another titivation – and beyond the purdah her army coughed and shuffled and waited and Maka Khan ploughed on.
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