The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Three divisions have declared for Goolab Singh as Wazir,” cries he. “Court’s, Avitabile’s, and the Povinda. They wish the durbar to summon him from Kashmir with all speed.”

  Jeendan continued to study her mouth in the mirror, opening and closing her lips; satisfied, she drank again, and without looking aside gestured to her chief maid, who called out: “What say the other divisions of the Khalsa?”

  Maka Khan hesitated. “They are undecided …”

  “Not about Goolab Singh!” shouts the rissaldar-major. “We’ll have no rebel as Wazir, and the devil with Court’s and the Povinda!” There was a roar of agreement, and Maka Khan tried to make himself heard. Jeendan took another pull at her goblet before whispering to the chief maid, who called: “There is no majority, then, for Goolab Singh?”

  A great bellow of “No!” and “Raja Goolab!” with the leaders trying to quiet them; one of the young Sikh spokesmen shouted that his division would accept whoever the Maharani chose, which was greeted with cheering and a few groans, to the amusement of Jeendan and the delight of the maids, who were now holding up three long pier-glasses so that she might survey herself from all sides. She turned and posed, emptied her cup, pulled her trouser waist lower on her stomach, winked at her chief maid, then raised a finger as Maka Khan shouted hoarsely:

  “We can do nothing until the kunwari speaks her mind! Will she have Goolab Singh or no?”

  There was a hush at that, and Jeendan whispered to the chief maid, who stifled a fit of the giggles and called back: “The Maharani is only a woman, and can’t make up her mind. How is she to choose, when the great Khalsa cannot?”

  That sent them into noisy confusion, and the maids into stitches. One of them was bringing something from the table on a little velvet cushion, and to my astonishment I saw it was the great Koh-i-Noor stone which I’d last seen streaked with blood in Dalip’s hand. Jeendan took it, smiling a question at her maids, and the wicked sluts all nodded eagerly and clustered round as the Khalsa fumed and bickered beyond the curtain and one of the young Sikhs shouted:

  “We have asked her to choose! Some say she favours Lal Singh!” A chorus of groans. “Let her come out to us and speak her mind!”

  “It is not seemly that her majesty should come out!” cries the chief maid. “She is not prepared!” This while her majesty, with the diamond now in place, was flexing her stomach to make it twinkle, and her maids hugged themselves, giggling, and egged her on. “It is shameful to ask her to break her purdah in durbar. Where is your respect for her, to whom you swore obedience?”

  At this there was a greater uproar than ever, some crying that her wish was their command and she should stay where she was, others that they’d seen her before and no harm done. The older men scowled and shook their heads, but the youngsters fairly bayed for her to come out, one bold spirit even demanding that she dance for them as she had done in the past; someone started up a song about a Kashmiri girl who fluttered her trouser fringes and shook the world thereby, and then from the back of the room they began to chant “Jeendan! Jeendan!” The conservatives swore in protest at this indecent levity, and a big lean Akali with eyes like coals and hair hanging to his waist burst out of the front rank yelling that they were a pack of whore-mongers and loose-livers who had been seduced by her wiles, and that the Children of God the Immortal (meaning his own set of fanatics) would stand no more of it.

  “Aye, let her come out!” bawls he. “Let her come humbly, as befits a woman, and let her forswear her scandalous life that is a byword in the land, and appoint a Wazir of our approving – such a one as will lead us to glory against the foreigners, Afghan and English alike …”

  The rest was lost in pandemonium, some howling him down, others taking up his cry for war, Maka Khan and the spokesmen helpless before the storm of noise. The Akali, frothing at the mouth, leaped on to the front of the dais, raving at them that they were fools if they gave obedience to a woman, and a loose woman at that; let her take a suitable husband and leave men’s affairs to men, as was fitting and decent – and behind the purdah Jeendan nodded to her chief maid, draped a silver scarf over one arm, took a last look at her reflection, and walked quickly and fairly steadily round the end of the curtain.

  Speaking professionally, I’d say she wasn’t more than half-soused, but drunk or sober, she knew her business. She didn’t sidle or saunter or play any courtesan tricks, but walked a few paces and stopped, looking at the Akali. There had been a startled gasp from the mob at her appearance – well, dammit, she might as well have been stark naked, painted scarlet from the hips down and gilded across her top hamper. There was dead silence – and then the Akali stepped down from the dais like an automaton, and without another glance she continued to the throne, seated herself without haste, arranged her scarf just so on the arm-rest to cushion her elbow, leaned back comfortably with a finger to her cheek, and surveyed the gathering with a cool little smile.

  “Here are many questions to be considered at once.” Her voice was slightly slurred, but carried clearly enough. “Which will you take first, general?” She spoke past the Akali, who was glaring from side to side in uncertainty, and Maka Khan, looking as though he wished she’d stayed out of sight, drew himself up and bowed.

  “It is said, kunwari, that you would make Lal Singh Wazir. Some hold that he is no fit man –”

  “But others have bound themselves to accept my choice,” she reminded him. “Very well, it is Lal Singh.”

  This brought the Akali to life again, an arm flung out in denunciation. “Your bed-man!” he bawled. “Your paramour! Your male whore!”

  There was a yell of rage at this, and some started forward to fall on him, but she checked them with a raised finger and answered the Akali directly, in the same calm voice.

  “You would prefer a Wazir who has not been my bed-man? Then you can’t have Goolab Singh, for one. But if you wish to nominate yourself, Akali, I’ll vouch for you.”

  There was a moment’s stunned hush, followed by scandalised gasps – and then a huge bellow of laughter echoing through the great room. Insults and obscene jests were showered on the Akali, who stood mouthing and shaking his fists, the rowdies at the back began to stamp and cheer, Maka Khan and the seniors stood like men poleaxed, and then as the tumult grew the old soldier roused himself and thrust past the Akali to the foot of the dais. In spite of the din, every word reached us through that cunningly-designed spy-hole.

  “Kunwari, this is not seemly! It is to shame … to shame the durbar! I beg you to withdraw … it can wait till another day …”

  “You didn’t bid that thing withdraw, when he brayed his spite against me,” says she, indicating the Akali, and as it was seen that she was speaking, the noise died on the instant. “What are you afraid of – the truth that everyone knows? Why, Maka Khan, what an old hypocrite you are!” She was laughing at him. “Your soldiers are not children. Are you?” She raised her voice, and of course the mob roared “No!” with a vengeance, applauding her.

  “So let him have his say.” She flirted a hand at the Akali. “Then I shall have mine.”

  Maka Khan was staring in dismay, but with the others shouting at him to give way, he could only fall back, and she turned her painted smile on the Akali. “You rebuke me for my lovers – my male whores, you call them. Very well …” She looked beyond him, and the thick heavy voice was raised again. “Let every man who has never visited a brothel step forward!”

  I was lost in admiration. The most beardless innocent there wasn’t going to confess his unworldliness to his mates – and certainly not with that mocking Jezebel watching. Even Tom Brown would have hesitated before stepping forth for the honour of the old School-house. The Akali, who hadn’t the advantage of Arnold’s Christian instruction, was simply too dumbfounded to stir. She timed it well, though, looking him up and down in affected wonder before he’d collected his wits, and drawling:

  “There he stands, rooted as the Hindoo Kush! Well, at least he is honest
, this wayward Child of God the Immortal. But not, I think, in a position to rebuke my frailty.”

  That was the moment when she put them in her pocket. If the laughter had been loud before, now it was thunderous – even Maka Khan’s lips twitched, and the rissaldar-major fairly stamped with delight and joined in the chorus of abuse at the Akali. All he could do was rage at her, calling her shameless and wanton, and drawing attention to her appearance, which he likened to that of a harlot plying for hire – he was a braver man than I’d have been, with those fine eyes regarding him impassively out of that cruel mask of a face. I remembered the story of the Brahmin whose nose had been sliced off because he’d rebuked her conduct; looking at her, I didn’t doubt it.

  The Akalis are a privileged sect, to be sure, and no doubt he counted on that. “Get you gone!” he bawled. “You are not decent! It offends the eye to look at you!”

  “Then turn your eyes away … while you still have them,” says she, and as he fell back a pace, silenced, she rose, keeping a firm grip of the throne to steady herself, and stood straight, posing to let them have a good view. “In my private place, I dress as you see me, to please myself. I would not have come out, but you called me. If the sight of me displeases you, say so, and I shall retire.”

  That had them roaring for her to stay, absolutely, which was just as well, for without the throne to cling to I believe she’d have measured her length on the floor. She swayed dangerously, but managed to resume her seat with dignity, and as some of the younger men startled to hustle the Akali away, she stopped them.

  “A moment. You spoke of a suitable husband for me … have you one in mind?”

  The Akali was game. He flung off the hands pulling at him and growled: “Since you cannot do without a man, choose one – only let him be a sirdar,a or a wise man, or a Child of God the Immortal!”

  “An Akali?” She stared in affected astonishment, then clapped her hands. “You are making me a proposal! Oh, but I am confused … it is not fitting, in open durbar, to a poor widow woman!” She turned her head bashfully aside, and of course the mob crowed with delight. “Ah, but no, Akali … I cannot deliver my innocence to one who admits openly that he frequents brothels and chases the barber’s little girls. Why, I should never know where you were! But I thank you for your gallantry.” She gave him a little ironic bow, and her smile would have chilled Medusa. “So, you may keep your sheep’s eyes … this time.”

  He was glad to escape into the jeering crowd, and having entertained them by playing the flirt, the fool, and the tyrant in short order, she waited till they were attentive again, and gave them her Speech from the Throne, taking care not to stutter.

  “Some of you call for Goolab Singh as Wazir. Well, I’ll not have him, and I’ll tell you why. Oh, I could laugh him out of your esteem by saying that if he is as good a statesman as he was a lover, you’d be better with Balloo the Clown.” The young ones cheered and guffawed, while the older men scowled and looked aside. “But it would not be true. Goolab is a good soldier, strong, brave, and cunning – too cunning, for he corresponds with the British. I can show you letters if you wish, but it is well known. Is that the man you want – a traitor who’ll sell you to the Malki lat in return for the lordship of Kashmir? Is that the man to lead you over the Sutlej?”

  That touched the chord they all wanted to hear, and they roared “Khalsa-ji!” and “Wa Guru-ji ko Futteh!”, clamouring to know when they’d be ordered to march.

  “All in good time,” she assured them. “Let me finish with Goolab. I have told you why he is not the man for you. Now I’ll tell you why he is not the man for me. He is ambitious. Make him Wazir, make him commander of the Khalsa, and he’ll not rest until he has thrust me aside and mounted to my son’s throne. Well, let me tell you, I enjoy my power too much ever to let that happen.” She was sitting back at ease, confident, smiling a little as she surveyed them. “It will never happen with Lal Singh, because I hold him here …” She lifted one small hand, palm upwards, and closed it into a fist. “He is not present today, by my order, but you may tell him what I say, if you wish … and if you think it wise. You see, I am honest with you. I choose Lal Singh because I will have my way, and at my bidding he will lead you …” She paused for effect, sitting erect now, head high, “… wherever it pleases me to send you!”

  That meant only one thing to them, and there was bedlam again, with the whole assembly roaring “Khalsaji!” and “Jeendan!” as they crowded forward to the edge of the dais, bearing the spokesmen in front of them, shaking the roof with their cheers and applause – and I thought, bigod, I’m seeing something new. A woman as brazen as she looks, with the courage to proclaim absolutely what she is, and what she thinks, bragging her lust of pleasure and power and ambition, and let ’em make of it what they will. No excuses or politician’s fair words, but simple, arrogant admission: I’m a selfish, immoral bitch out to serve my own ends, and I don’t care who knows it – and because I say it plain, you’ll worship me for it.

  And they did. Mind you, if she hadn’t promised them war, it might have been another story, but she had, and she’d done it in style. She knew men, you see, and was well aware that for every one who shrank from her in disgust and anger and even hatred at the shame she put on them, there were ten to acclaim and admire and tell each other what a hell of a girl she was, and lust after her – that was her secret. Strong, clever women use their sex on men in a hundred ways; Jeendan used hers to appeal to the dark side of their natures, and bring out the worst in them. Which, of course, is what you must do with an army, once you’ve gauged its temper. She knew the Khalsa’s temper to an inch, and how to shock it, flirt with it, frighten it, make love to it, and dominate it, all to one end: by the time she’d done with ’em, you see … they trusted her.

  I saw it happen, and if you want confirmation, you’ll find it in Broadfoot’s reports, and Nicolson’s, and all the others which tell of Lahore in ’45. You won’t find them approving her, mind you – except Gardner, for whom she could do no wrong – but you’ll get a true picture of an extraordinary woman.26

  Order was restored at last, and their distrust of Lal Singh was forgotten in the assurance that she would be leading them; there was only one question that mattered, and Maka Khan voiced it.

  “When, kunwari? When shall we march on India?”

  “When you are ready,” says she. “After the Dasahra.”b

  There were groans of dismay, and shouts that they were ready now, which she silenced with questions of her own.

  “You are ready? How many rounds a man has the Povinda division? What remounts are there for the gorracharra? How much forage for the artillery teams? You don’t know? I’ll tell you: ten rounds, no remounts, forage for five days.” Alick Gardner’s been priming you, thinks I. It silenced them, though, and she went on:

  “You won’t go far beyond the Sutlej on that, much less beat the Sirkar’s army. We must have time, and money – and you have eaten the Treasury bare, my hungry Khalsa.” She smiled to soften the rebuke. “So for a season you must disperse the divisions about the country, and live on what you can get – nay, it will be good practice against the day when you come to Delhi and the fat lands to the south!”

  That cheered them up – she was telling them to loot their own countryside, you’ll notice, which they’d been doing for six years. Meanwhile, she and their new Wazir would see to it that arms and stores were ready in abundance for the great day. Only a few of the older hands expressed doubts.

  “But if we disperse, kunwari, we leave the country open to attack,” says the burly Imam Shah. “The British can make a chapaoc and be in Lahore while we are scattered!”

  “The British will not move,” says she confidently. “Rather, when they see the great Khalsa disperse, they will thank God and stand down, as they always do. Is it not so, Maka Khan?”

  The old boy looked doubtful. “Indeed, kunwari – yet they are not fools. They have their spies among us. There is one at your court now
…” He hesitated, not meeting her eye. “… this Iflassman of the Sirkar’s Army, who hides behind a fool’s errand when all the world knows he is the right hand of the Black-coated Infidel.d What if he should learn what passes here today? What if there is a traitor among us to inform him?”

  “Among the Khalsa?” She was scornful. “You do your comrades little honour, general. As to this Englishman … he learns what I wish him to learn, no more and no less. It will not disturb his masters.”

  She had a way with a drawled line, and the lewd brutes went into ribald guffaws – it’s damnable, the way gossip gets about. But it was eerie to hear her talk as though I were miles away, when she knew I was listening to every word. Well, no doubt I’d discover eventually what she was about – I glanced at Mangla, who smiled mysteriously and motioned me to silence, so I must sit and speculate as that remarkable durbar drew to a close with renewed cheers of loyal acclaim and enthusiastic promises of what they’d do to John Company when the time came. Thereafter they all trooped out in high good humour, with a last rouse for the small red and gold figure left in solitary state on her throne, toying with her silver scarf.

  Mangla led me aloft again to the rose-pink boudoir, leaving the sliding panel ajar, and busied herself pouring wine into a beaker that must have held near a quart – anticipating her mistress’s needs, you see. Sure enough, a stumbling step and muttered curse on the stair heralded the appearance of the Mother of All Sikhs, looking obscenely beautiful and gasping for refreshment; she drained the cup without even sitting down, gave a sigh that shuddered her delightfully from head to foot, and subsided gratefully on the divan.

  “Fill it again … another moment and I should have died! Oh, how they stank!” She drank greedily. “Was it well done, Mangla?”