The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Well indeed, kunwari. They are yours, every man.”

  “Aye, for the moment. My tongue didn’t trip? You’re sure? My feet did, though …” She giggled and sipped. “I know, I drink too much – but could I have faced them sober? D’you think they noticed?”

  “They noticed what you meant them to notice,” says Mangla dryly.

  “Baggage! It’s true enough, though … Men!” She gave her husky laugh, raised a shimmering leg and admired its shapeliness complacently. “Even that beast of an Akali couldn’t stare hard enough … heaven help some wench tonight when he vents his piety on her. Wasn’t he a godsend, though? I should be grateful to him. I wonder if he …” She chuckled, drank again, and seemed to see me for the first time. “Did our tall visitor hear it all?”

  “Every word, kunwari.”

  “And he was properly attentive? Good.” She eyed me over the rim of her cup, set it aside, and stretched luxuriously like a cat, watching me to gauge the effect of all that goodness trying to burst out of the tight silk; no modest violet she. My expression must have pleased her, for she laughed again. “Good. Then we’ll have much to talk about, when I’ve washed away the memory of those sweaty warriors of mine. You look warm, too, my Englishman … show him where to bathe, Mangla – and keep your hands off him, d’you hear?”

  “Why, kunwari!”

  “‘Why kunwari’ indeed! Here, unbutton my waist.” She laughed and hiccoughed, glancing over her shoulder as Mangla unfastened her at the back. “She’s a lecherous slut, our Mangla. Aren’t you, my dear? Lonely, too, now that Jawaheer’s gone – not that she ever cared two pice for him.” She gave me her Delilah smile. “Did you enjoy her, Englishman? She enjoyed you. Well, let me tell you, she is thirty-one, the old trollop – five years my senior and twice as old in sin, so beware of her.”

  She reached for her cup again, knocked it over, splashed wine across her midriff, cursed fluently, and pulled the diamond from her navel. “Here, Mangla, take this. He doesn’t like it, and he’ll never learn the trick.” She rose, none too steadily, and waved Mangla impatiently away. “Go on, woman – show him where to bathe, and set out the oil, and then take yourself off! And don’t forget to tell Rai and the Python to be within call, in case I need them.”

  I wondered, as I had a hasty wash-down in a tiny chamber off the boudoir, if I’d ever met such a blatant strumpet in my life – well, Ranavalona, of course, but you don’t expect coy flirtation from a female ape. Montez hadn’t been one to stand on ceremony either, crying “On guard!” and brandishing her hairbrush, and Mrs Leo Lade could rip the britches off you with a sidelong glance, but neither had paraded their dark desires as openly as this tipsy little houri. Still, one must conform to the etiquette of the country, so I dried myself with feverish speed and strode forth as nature intended, eager to ambush her as she emerged from her bathroom – and she was there ahead of me.

  She was half-reclining on a broad silken quilt on the floor, clad in her head-veil and bangles – and I’d been looking forward to easing her out of those pants, too. She was fortifying herself with her wine cup, as usual, and it struck me that unless I went to work without delay she’d be too foxed to perform. But she could still speak and see, at least, for she surveyed me with glassy-eyed approval, licked her lips, and says:

  “You’re impatient, I see …. No, wait, let me look at you … Mm-m … Now, come here and lie down beside me … and wait. I said we should talk, remember. There are things you must know, so that you can speak my mind to Broadfoot sahib and the Malki lat.” Another sip of puggle and a drunken chuckle. “As you English say, business before pleasure.”

  I was boiling to contradict her by demonstration, but as I’ve observed, queens are different – and this one had told Mangla to have “Rai and the Python” standing by; they didn’t sound like lady’s maids, exactly. Also, if she had something for Hardinge, I must hear it. So I stretched out, nearly bursting at the prospect of the abundances thrusting at me within easy reach, and the wicked slut bobbed them with one hand while she poured tipple into herself with the other. Then she put down the cup, scooped her hand into a deep porcelain bowl of oil at her side, and kneeling forward above me, let it trickle on to my manly breast; then she began to rub it in ever so gently with her finger-tips, all over my torso, murmuring to me to lie still, while I gritted my teeth and clawed at the quilt, and tried to remember what an ablative absolute was – I had to humour her, you see, but with that painted harlot’s face breathing warm booze at me, and those superb poonts quivering overhead with every teasing movement, and her fingers caressing … well, it was distracting, you know. To make things worse, she talked in that husky whisper, and I must try to pay attention.

  Jeendan: This is what killed Runjeet Singh, did you know? It took a full bowl of oil … and then he died … smiling …

  Flashy (a trifle hoarse): You don’t say! Any last words, were there?

  J: It was my duty to apply the oil while we discussed the business of the state. It relieved the tedium of affairs, he used to say, and reminded him that life is not all policy.

  F (musing): No wonder the country went to rack and ruin … Ah, steady on! Oh, lor’! State business, eh? Well, well …

  J: You find it … stimulating? It is a Persian custom, you know. Brides and grooms employ it on their wedding night, to dispel their shyness and enhance their enjoyment of each other.

  F (through clenched teeth): It’s a fact, you can always learn something new. Oh, Holy Moses! I say, don’t you care for a spot of oil yourself … after your bath, I mean … mustn’t catch COLD! I’d be glad to –

  J: Presently … not yet. What splendid muscles you have, my Englishman.

  F: Exercise and clean living – oh, God! See here, kunwari, I think that’ll do me nicely, don’t you know –

  J: I can judge better than you. Now, be still, and listen. You heard all that passed at my durbar? So … you can assure Broadfoot sahib that all is well, that my brother’s death is forgotten, and that I hold the Khalsa in the hollow of my hand … like this … no, no, be still – I was only teasing! Tell him also that I entertain the friendliest feelings towards the Sirkar, and there is nothing to fear. You understand?

  F (whimpering): Absolutely. Speaking of friendly feelings –

  J: A little more oil, I think … But you must warn him to withdraw no regiments from the Sutlej, is that clear? They must remain at full strength … like you, my mighty English elephant … There now, I have teased you long enough. You must be rewarded for your patience. (Leaves off and kneels back, reaching for drink.)

  F: Not before time –

  J (fending him off): No, no – it is your turn to take the oil! Not too much, and begin at my finger-tips, so … very gently … smooth it into my hands … good … now the wrists … You will inform Broadfoot sahib that the Khalsa will be dispersed until after the Dasahra, when I shall instruct the astrologers to choose a day for opening the war … now my elbows. But no day will be propitious for many weeks. I shall see to that … now slowly up to the shoulders … softly, a little more oil … Yes, I shall know how to postpone and delay … so the Sirkar will have ample time to prepare for whatever may come … The shoulders, I said! Oh, well, you have been patient, so why not? More oil, on both hands … more … ah, delicious! But gently, there is more news for Broadfoot sahib –

  F (oiling furiously): Bugger Broadfoot!

  J: Patience, beloved, you go too fast. Pleasure hasted is pleasure wasted, remember … Tell him Lal Singh and Tej Singh will command the Khalsa – are you listening? Lal and Tej – don’t forget their names … There, now, all is told – so lie down again, elephant, and await your mahout’s pleasure … so-o … oh, gods! Ah-h-h …! Wait, lie still – and observe this time-glass, which tells the quarter-hour … its sands must run out before yours, do you hear? So, now, slowly … you remember the names? Lal and Tej … Lal and Tej … Lal and …

  Young chaps, who fancy themselves masterful, won’t credit it, but
these driving madames who insist on calling the tune can give you twice the sport of any submissive slave, if you handle them right. If they want to play the princess lording it over the poor peasant, let ’em; it puts them on their mettle, and saves you no end of hard work. I’ve known any number of the imperious bitches, and the secret is to let them set the pace, hold back until they’ve shot their bolt, and then give ’em more than they bargained for.

  Knowing Jeendan’s distempered appetite, I’d thought to be hard put to stay the course, but now that I was sober, which I hadn’t been at our first encounter, it was as easy as falling off a log – which is what she did, if you follow me, after a mere five minutes, wailing with satisfaction. Well, I wasn’t having that, so I picked her up and bulled her round the room until she hollered uncle. Then I let her have the minute between rounds, while I oiled her lovingly, and set about her again – turning the time-glass in the middle of it, and drawing her attention to the fact, although what with drink and ecstasy I doubt if she could even see it. She was whimpering to be let alone, so I finished the business leisurely as could be, and damned if she didn’t faint – either that or it was the booze.

  After a while she came to, calling weakly for a drink, so I fed her a few sips while I debated whether to give her a thrashing or sing her a lullaby – you must keep ’em guessing, you know. The first seemed inadvisable, so far from home, so I carried her to and fro humming “Rockabye, baby”, and so help me she absolutely went to sleep, nestling against me. I laid her on the divan, thinking this’ll give us time to restore our energies, and went into the wash-room to rid myself of the oil – I’ve known randy women have some odd tastes: birches, spurs, hairbrushes, peacock feathers, baths, handcuffs, God knows what, but Jeendan’s the only grease-monkey I can recall.

  I was scrubbing away, whistling “Drink, puppy, drink”, when I heard a hand-bell tinkle in the boudoir. You’ll have to wait a while, my dear, thinks I, but then I heard voices and realised she had summoned Mangla, and was giving instructions in a dreamy, exhausted whisper.

  “You may dismiss Rai and the Python,” murmurs she. “I shall have no need of them today … perhaps not tomorrow …”

  I should think not, indeed. So I sang “Rule, Britannia”.

  * * *

  a Chief.

  b The ten-day festival in October after which the Sikhs were accustomed to set out on expeditions.

  c Sudden attack.

  d The Afghan nickname for George Broadfoot.

  Chapter 9

  If you consult the papers of Sir Henry Hardinge and Major Broadfoot for October, 1845 (not that I recommend them as light reading), you’ll find three significant entries early in the month: Mai Jeendan’s court moved to Amritsar, Hardinge left Calcutta for the Sutlej frontier, and Broadfoot had a medical examination and went on a tour of his agencies. In short, the three principals in the Punjab crisis took a breather – which meant no war that autumn. Good news for everyone except the dispersed Khalsa, moping in their outlying stations and spoiling for a fight.

  My own immediate relief was physical. Jeendan’s departure came in the nick of time for me, for one more amorous joust with her would have doubled me up forever. I’ve seldom known the like: you’d have thought, after the wild passage I’ve just described, that she’d have rested content for a spell, but no such thing. A couple of hours’ sleep, a pint of spirits, and drum up the town bull again, was her style, and I doubt if I saw daylight for three days, as near as I could judge, for you tend to lose count of time, you know. We may well have set a record, but I didn’t keep tally (some Yankee would be sure to claim best, anyway). All I’m sure of is that my weight went down below twelve and a half stone, and that ain’t healthy for a chap my size. I was the one who needed medical inspection, I can tell you, never mind Broadfoot.

  And on the fourth morning, when I was a mere husk of a man, wondering if there was a monastery handy, what d’you think she did? Absolutely had a chap in to paint my portrait. At first, when he dragged his easel and colours into the boudoir, and started waving his brush, I thought it was another of her depraved fancies, and she was going to have him sketch us performing at the gallop; the devil with this, thinks I, if I’m to be hung at the next Punjab Royal Academy it’ll be with my britches on and my hair brushed. But it proved to be a pukka sitting, Flashy fully clad in romatic native garb like Lord Byron, looking noble with a hookah to hand and a bowl of fruit in the foreground, while Jeendan lounged at the artist’s elbow, prompting, and Mangla made helpful remarks. Between the two of them he was in a fine sweat, but did a capital likeness of me in no time – it’s in a Calcutta gallery now, I believe, entitled Company Officer in Seekh Costume, or something of the sort. Ruined Stag at Bay, more like.

  “So that I shall remember my English bahadur,” says Jeendan, smiling slantendicular, when I asked her why she wanted it. I took it as a compliment – and wondered if it was a dismissal, too, for it was in the same breath that she announced she was taking little Dalip to Amritsar, which is the Sikhs’ holy city, for the Dasahra, and wouldn’t return for some weeks. I feigned dismay, concealing the fact that she’d reduced me to a state where I didn’t care if I never saw a woman again.

  My first act, when I’d staggered back to my quarters, was to scribble a report of her durbar and subsequent conversation with me, and commit it to Second Thessalonians. That report was what convinced Hardinge and Broadfoot that they had time in hand: no war before winter. I was right enough in that; fortunately I didn’t give them my further opinion, which was that there probably wouldn’t be a war even then.

  You see, I was convinced that Jeendan didn’t want one. If she had, and believed the Khalsa could beat us and make her Queen of all Hindoostan, she’d have turned ’em loose over the Sutlej by now. By hocussing them into delay she’d spoiled their best chance, which would have been to invade while the hot weather lasted, and our white troops were at their feeblest; by the cold months, our sick would be on their feet again, dry weather and low rivers would assist our transport and defensive movement, and the freezing nights, while unpleasant for us, would plague the Khalsa abominably. She was also double-dealing ’em by warning us to stay on guard, and promising ample notice if they did break loose in spite of her.

  Now there, you’ll say, is a clever lass who knows how to keep in with both sides – and will cross either of ’em if it suits her. But already she’d ensured that, if war did come, the odds were in our favour – and there was no profit to her in getting beat.

  All that aside, I didn’t believe war was in her nature. Oh, I knew she was a shrewd politician, when she roused herself, and no doubt as cruel and ruthless as any other Indian ruler – but I just had to think of that plump, pleasure-sodden face drowsing on the pillow, too languid for anything but drink and debauchery, and the notion of her scheming, let alone directing, a war was quite out of court. Lord love us, she was seldom sober enough to plot anything beyond the next erotic experiment. No, if you’d seen her as I did, slothful with booze and romping, you’d have allowed that Broadfoot was right, and that here was a born harlot killing herself with kindness, a fine spirit too far gone to undertake any great matter.

  So I thought – well, I misjudged her, especially in her capacity for hatred. I misjudged the Khalsa, too. Mind you, I don’t blame myself too much; there seems to have been a conspiracy to keep Flashy in the dark just then – Jeendan, Mangla, Gardner, Jassa, and even the Sikh generals had me in mind as they pursued their sinister ends, but I’d no way of knowing that.

  Indeed, I was feeling pretty easy on the October morning when the court departed for Amritsar, and I turned out to doff my tile as the procession wound out of the Kashmir Gate. Little Dalip was to the fore on his state elephant, acknowledging the cheers of the mob as cool as you like, but twinkling and waving gaily at sight of me. Lal Singh, brave as a peacock and riding with a proprietary air beside Jeendan’s palki, didn’t twinkle exactly; when she nodded and smiled in response to my salute he gave me
a stuffed smirk as much as to say, back to the pavilion, infidel, it’s my innings now. You’re welcome, thinks I; plenty of Chinese ginger and rhinoceros powder and you may survive. Mangla, in the litter following, was the only one who seemed to be sorry to be leaving me behind, waving and glancing back until the crowd swallowed her up.

  The great train of beasts and servants and guards and musicians was still going by as Jassa and I turned away and rode round to the Rushnai Gate. Have a jolly Dasahra at Amritsar, all of you, thinks I, and by the time you get back Gough will have the frontier reinforced, and Hardinge will be on hand to talk sense to you face to face; among you all you can keep the Khalsa in order, everything can be peacefully settled, and I can go home. I said as much to Jassa, and he gave one of his Yankee-Pathan grunts.

  “You reckon? Well, if I was you, lieutenant, I’d not say that till I was riding the gridiron again.”a

  “Why not – have you heard something?”

  “Just the barra choop,” says he, grinning all over his ugly mug.

  “What the devil’s that?”

  “You don’t know – an old Khyber hand like you? Barra choop – the silent time before the tempest.” He cocked his head. “Yes, sir, I can hear it, all right.”

  “Oh, to blazes with your croaking! Heavens, man, the Khalsa’s scattered all over the place, and by the time they’re mustered again Gough will have fifty thousand bayonets at the river –”

  “If he does, it’ll be a red rag to a Punjabi bull,” says this confounded pessimist. “Then they’ll be sure he means to invade. Besides, your lady friend’s promised the Khalsa a war come November – they’re going to be mighty sore if they don’t get it.”

  “They’ll be a dam’ sight sorer if they do!”

  “You know that – but maybe they don’t.” He turned in the saddle to look back at the long procession filing along the dusty Amritsar road, shading his eyes, and when he spoke again it was in Pushtu. “See, husoor, we have in the Punjab the two great ingredients of mischief: an army loose about the land, and a woman’s tongue unbridled in the house.” He spat. “Together, who knows what they may do?”