The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Tell me this, my boy – an’ if you’re proved wrong I’ll not hold it against ye. This Tej Singh, now … ye know the man. Can we rely on him to do his worst, by his own side?”

  “Yes, sir,” says I. “I believe so. He’d sit in front of Ferozepore forever. But his officers may force his hand for him.”

  “I think, Sir Hugh,” drawls Hardinge, “that it would be wiser to weigh the facts we know, rather than Mr Flashman’s opinion.”

  Gough frowned at the tone, but nodded. “No doubt, Sorr Hinry. But whatever, it must be Ferozeshah. And as soon as maybe.”

  I was dismissed after that, but not before Gough had insisted on drinking my health – Hardinge barely lifted his glass from the table. The hell with him, I was too fagged to care, and ready to sleep for a year, but did I get the chance? I’d barely pulled my boots off, and was soaking my extremity in cold water, when my tent was invaded by Broadfoot, bearing a bottle and full of bounce and congratulations, which included himself for being so dam’ clever in sending me to Lahore in the first place. I said Hardinge didn’t seem to think so, and he snorted and said Hardinge was an ass, and a puffed-up snob who had no use for politicals – but never mind that, I must tell him all about Lahore, every word, and down he plumped on my charpoy,a spectacles a-gleam, to hear it.

  Well, you know it all, and by midnight, so did he – bar the jolly parts with Jeendan and Mangla, which I had too much delicacy to mention. I made much of my friendship with little Dalip, spoke in admiring terms of Gardner, and put in a word for Jassa – d’you know, he’d been aware of that remarkable rascal’s identity all along, but had kept it from me on principle. When I’d finished, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

  “All this will be of the greatest value. What matters, of course, is that you have gained the confidence of the young Maharaja … and his mother …” He glanced sharply at me, and I met his eye with boyish innocence, at which he went pink, and polished his glasses. “Yes, and Goolab Singh, also. Those three will be the vital figures, when all this is over. Yes …” He went off into one of his Celtic trances for a moment, and then roused himself.

  “Flashy – I’m going to ask you to do a hard thing. You won’t like it, but it must be done. D’ye see?”

  Oh, Jesus, thinks I, what now? He wants me to go to Burma, or dye my hair green, or kidnap the King of Afghanistan – well, the blazes with it! I’ve run my mile, and be damned to him. So, of course, I asked him eagerly what it might be, and he glanced at my injured ankle which I’d laid, still pink and puffy, on a wet towel.

  “Still painful, I see. But it didn’t stop ye riding thirty miles today – and if there’s a cavalry charge against the Khalsa tomorrow, you’ll be in it if it kills you, won’t you?”

  “I should dam’ well hope so!” cries I, with my heart in my boots at the mere thought, and he shook his head in stern admiration.

  “I knew it! No sooner out o’ the frying pan than you’re itching to be at the fire. Ye were just the same on the Kabul retreat.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, I’m sorry, my boy – it’s not to be. Tomorrow, I don’t want you to be able to walk a step, let alone back a horse – d’ye follow?”

  I didn’t – but I smelled something damned fishy.

  “It’s this way,” says he earnestly. “Last night we fought the sternest action I ever saw. These Sikhs are the starkest, bravest fellows on earth – worth two Ghazis, every man of ’em. I killed four myself,” says he solemnly, “and I tell ye, Flashy, they died hard! They did that.” He paused, frowning. “Have you ever noticed … how soft a man’s head is?33 Aye, well … what we did last night, we’ll be doing again presently. Gough must destroy Lal’s half of the Khalsa at Ferozeshah – and unless I’m mistaken it’ll be the bloodiest day that ever was seen in India.” He wagged a finger. “It may well decide this war –”

  “Yes, yes!” cries I, all eagerness, feeling ready to puke. “But what’s all this gammon about me not being able to walk –?”

  “At all costs,” says he impressively, “you must be kept out of the fighting. One reason is that the credit and confidence you’ve achieved with the folk who’ll be ruling the Punjab under our thumb next year – is far too valuable to be risked. I won’t allow it. So, when Gough asks for you as a galloper tomorrow – which I know he will – well, he can’t have you. But I don’t choose to tell him why, because he has no more political sense than the minister’s cat, and wouldn’t understand. So we must hoodwink him, and the rest of the Army, and your game leg will serve our turn.” He laid a hand on my shoulder, owling at me. “It’s not a nice thing, but it’s for the good o’ the service. I know it’s asking a deal, from you of all men, that you stand back when the rest of us fall in, but … what d’ye say, old fellow?”

  You can picture my emotion. That’s the beauty of a heroic reputation – but you must know how to live up to it. I assumed the right expression of pained, bewildered indignation, and put a catch into my voice.

  “George!” says I, as though he’d struck the Queen. “You’re asking me … to shirk! Oh, yes, you are, though! Well, it won’t do! See here, I’ve done your job in Lahore, and all – don’t I deserve the chance to be a soldier again? Besides,” cries I, in a fine passion, “I owe those bastards something! And you expect me to hang back?”

  He looked manly compassionate. “I said it was a hard thing.”

  “Hard? Dammit, it’s … it’s the wrong side of enough! No, George, I won’t have it! What, to sham sick – humbug dear old Paddy? Of all the cowardly notions!” I paused, red in the face, fearful of coming it too strong in case he relented. I changed tack. “Why am I so confounded precious, anyway? When the war’s over, it’ll be all one who plays politics in Lahore –”

  “I said that was one reason,” he cut in. “There’s another. I need you back in Lahore now! Or as soon as may be. While it’s all in the balance, I must have someone near the seat of power – and you’re the man. It’s the part I designed for you from the first, remember? But your return must be a secret known only to you, me, and Hardinge … well, if you sham sick no one will wonder why you’re being kept out of harm’s way in the meantime.” He grinned complacently. “Oh, I ken I’m a devious crater! I need tae be. So you’ll go on a crutch the morn – and let your beard grow. When you go north again it’ll be as Badoo the Badmash – well, ye can hardly ask admission to Lahore Fort as Mr Flashman, can ye?”

  Fortunately, perhaps, I was speechless. I just stared at the red-whiskered brute – and he took silence for consent, when in truth it didn’t even signify comprehension. The whole thing was too monstrous for words, and while I sat open-mouthed he laughed and clapped me on the back.

  “That puts things in a different light, does it not? You’ll be shirking your way into the lion’s den, you see – so you needn’t envy the rest of us our wee fight at Ferozeshah!” He stood up. “I’ll speak to Hardinge now, and in a day or two I’ll give you full particulars of what you’ll be doing when you get to Lahore. Until then – take care of that ankle, eh? Sleep well, Badoo!” He winked heavily, pulling back the tent-fly, and paused. “Here, I say, Harry Smith told me a good one today! Why is a soldier of the Khalsa like a beggar? Can you tell, eh? Give it up?”

  “I give up, George.” And, by God, I meant it.

  “Because he’s a Sikh in arms!” cries he. “You twig? A-seekin’ alms!” He guffawed. “Not bad, what? Goodnight, old chap!”

  And he went off chortling. “A Sikh in arms!” They were the last words I ever heard him speak.

  * * *

  a Native bed.

  Chapter 14

  You’ll have difficulty finding Ferozeshah (or Pheeroo Shah, as we Punjabi purists call it) in the atlas nowadays. It’s a scrubby little hamlet about halfway between Ferozepore and Moodkee, but in its way it’s a greater place than Delhi or Calcutta or Bombay, for it’s where the fate of India was settled – appropriately by treachery, folly, and idiot courage beyond belief. And most of all, by blind luck
.

  It was where Lal Singh, on my advice, had left half his force when he marched to meet Gough, and it was where his battered advance guard retired after Moodkee. So there he was now, twenty thousand strong with a hundred splendid guns, all nicely entrenched and snug as bugs. And Gough must attack him at once, for who could tell when Tej Singh, loafing before Ferozepore a mere dozen miles away, would be forced by his colonels to do the sensible thing and join Lal, thereby facing Paddy with a Khalsa of over fifty thousand, outnumbering us more than three to one?

  So it was bundle and go at Moodkee next day, with the last of the dead being shovelled under, the Native Infantry deploying for a night march, the 29th marching in from the Umballa track, their red coats as yellow as their facings with the rolling dust, and the band thumping out “Royal Windsor”, the elephant teams squealing as they hauled up the heavy pieces, camels braying in the lines, fellows shouting and waving papers in every tent opening, the munition carts rolling through, and Gough in his shirtsleeves at an open-air table with his staff scampering round him. And the discerning eye would also have noted a stalwart figure propped up on a charpoy with his leg swathed to the knee in an enormous bandage, cursing the luck which kept him out of the fun.

  “I say, Cust,” cries Abbott, “have you seen? Flashy’s got the gout! Has to have beef tea and sal volatile, and kameela drenches twice a day!”

  “Comes of boozin’ with maharanis at Lahore, I dare say,” says Cust, “while the rest of us poor politicals have to work for a living.”

  “When did politicals ever work?” says Hore. “You stay where you are, Flashy, and keep out of the sun, mind! If the goin’ gets sticky we’ll haul you up to wave your crutch at the Sikhs!”

  “Wait till I’m walking and I’ll wave more than a crutch!” cries I. “You fellows think you’re clever – I’ll be ahead of you all yet, you’ll see!” At which they all made game of me, and said they’d leave a few Sikh wounded for me to cut up. Cheery stuff, you see. Broadfoot himself had pronounced me hors de combat, and I got a deal of sympathy among all the chaff, but Gough insisted that I should be brought along to Ferozeshah anyway, to deal with casualty returns, of which there were likely to be a-plenty. “If he can’t ride he can still write,” says Paddy. “Besides, if I know the boy he’ll be in at the death before all’s done.” Live in hope, old Paddy, thinks I; I’d expected to be left behind at Moodkee with the wounded, but at least I’d be well out of the way at advance headquarters while the rest of them got on with the serious work.

  Broadfoot and his Afghans were out all day, scouting the Sikh position, so I never saw him. I went hot and cold by turns when I thought of the awful prospect he’d unfolded to me the previous night – sneaking back to Lahore in disguise, no doubt to carry treasonable messages to Jeendan, and keep an eye on her and her court of snakes … how the devil was it to be done, and why? But sufficient unto the day; I’d find out soon enough.

  We marched, after a broiling day of confused preparation, in the freezing small hours, the army in column of route and your humble obedient borne in a doolia by minions, which caused much hilarity among the staff-wallopers, who kept stopping by to ask if I needed any gruel or a stone pig to warm my toes. I responded with bluff repartee – and noticed that as the march progressed the comedians fell silent; we came within earshot of the Sikh drums soon after dawn, and by nine were deploying within sight of Ferozeshah. I bade my dooli-bearers set me down in a little grove not far from the headquarters group, to be out of the heat – with interesting results, as you’ll see. For while most of what I tell you of that momentous day is hearsay, one vital incident was played out under my nose alone. This is what happened.

  The scouts had reported that the place was heavily entrenched on all sides, in a rough mile square about the village, with the Sikhs’ heavy guns among the mounds and ditches that enclosed it. On three sides there were jungly patches which would hinder our attack, but on the eastern side facing us it was flat maidan, and Gough, honest man, could see only one way – open up with the guns and sweep straight in, trusting to the bayonets of his twelve thousand to do the trick against twenty thousand Khalsa. During the night Littler had slipped out of Ferozepore with almost his whole seven thousand, leaving Tej guarding an empty town; Paddy’s notion may have been to drive the Sikhs out of Ferozeshah and into Littler’s path, but I ain’t sure.

  At all events, I was reclining in my dooli in the shade, discussing beef and hardtack and coughing contentedly over my cheroot, admiring the view of our army deployed across my front and feeling patriotic, when there was a commotion fifty yards off, where the HQ staff were at breakfast – Hardinge trying to hog the marmalade again, thinks I, but when I peeped out, here was the man himself striding towards my grove, looking stern, and five yards behind, Paddy Gough with his white coat flapping and bright murder in his eye. Hardinge stops just inside the grove and says: “Well, Sir Hugh?”

  “Well, indeed, Sorr Hinry!” cries Paddy, Irish with fury. “I’ll tell ye again – you’re lookin’ at the foinest victory that ever was won in India, bigad, an’ –”

  “And I tell you, Sir Hugh, it is not to be thought of! Why, you are outnumbered two to one in men, and even more in cannon – and they are in cover, sir!”

  “And don’t I know that, then? I tell ye still, I’ll put Ferozeshah in your hand by noon! Dear man, our infantry aren’t Portuguese!”

  That was a dig at Hardinge, who’d served with the Portugoosers in the Peninsula. His tone was freezing as he replied: “I cannot entertain it. You must wait for Littler to come up.”

  “An’ if I wait that long, sure’n the rabbits’ll be runnin’ through Ferozeshah! ’Tis the shortest day o’ the year, man! And will ye tell me, plain now – who commands this army?”

  “You do!” snaps Hardinge.

  “And did ye not offer me your services, as a soldier, in whutsoivver capacity, now? Ye did! And I accepted, gratefully! But it seems ye won’t take my orders –”

  “In the field, sir, I shall obey you implicitly! But as Governor-General I shall, if necessary, exert my civil authority over the Commander-in-Chief. And I will not hazard the army in such a risk as this! Oh, my dear Sir Hugh,” he went on, trying to smooth things, but Paddy wasn’t at home.

  “In short, Sorr Hinry, ye’re questionin’ my military judgment!”

  “As to that, Sir Hugh, I have been a soldier as long as you –”

  “I know it! I know also ye haven’t smelt powder since Waterloo, an’ all the staff college lectures in creation don’t make a battlefield general! So, now!”

  Hardinge was a staff college man; Paddy, you may suspect, was not.

  “This is unseemly, sir!” says Hardinge. “Our opinions differ. As Governor-General, I positively forbid an attack until you are supported by Sir John Littler. That is my last word, sir.”

  “And this is mine, sorr – but I’ll be havin’ another one later!” cries Paddy. “If we come adrift through this, with our fellows shootin’ each other in the dark, as they did at Moodkee – well, sorr, I won’t hold myself responsible unless I am!”

  “Thank you, Sir Hugh!”

  “Thank you, Sorr Hinry!”

  And off they stumped, after a conference unique, I believe, in military history.34 As to which was right, God knows. On the one hand, Hardinge had to think of all India, and the odds scared him. Against that, Paddy was the fighting soldier – daft as a brush, granted, but he knew men and ground and the smell of victory or defeat. Heads or tails, if you ask me.

  So Hardinge had his way, and the army set off again, south-west, to meet Littler, crossing the Sikh front with our flank wide as a barn door if they’d care to come out and fall on us. They didn’t, thanks to Lal Singh, who refused to budge while his staff tore their hair at the missed chance. Littler hove in view at Shukoor, and our force turned north again, now eighteen thousand strong, and stormed Ferozeshah.

  I didn’t see the battle, since I was installed in a hut at Misreewallah, more th
an a mile away, surrounded by clerks and runners and sipping grog while I waited for the butcher’s bill. So I shan’t elaborate the bare facts – you can read the full horror in the official accounts if you’re curious. I heard it, though, and saw the results; that was enough for me.

  It was shockingly botched, on both sides. Gough had to launch his force in frontal assault on the south and west entrenchments, which were the strongest, just as the sun was westering. Our fellows were caught in a hail of grape and musketry, with mines going off under them, but they stormed in with the bayonet, and drove the Sikhs from their camp and the village beyond. Just on dusk, the Sikhs’ magazine exploded, and soon there were fires everywhere, and it was slaughter all the way, but there was such confusion in the dark, with regiments going astray, and Harry Smith, as usual, miles ahead of the rest, that Gough decided to re-form – and the retire was sounded. Our fellows, with Ferozeshah in their hands, came out again – and the Sikhs walked back in, resuming the entrenchments we’d taken at such fearful cost. And they wonder why folk go to sea. So we were back where we began, in the freezing night, with the Khalsa sharpshooters hammering our bivouacs and wells. Oh, aye, and Lumley, the Adjutant-General, went off his rocker and ran about telling everyone we must retire on Ferozepore. Luckily no one minded him.

  My memories of that night are a mixture of confused pictures: Ferozeshah, two miles away, like a vision of hell, a sea of flames under red clouds with explosions everywhere; men lurching out of the dark, carrying wounded comrades; the long dark mass of our bivouacs on the open ground, and the unceasing screams and groans of the wounded all night long; bloody hands thrusting bloody papers before me under the storm-lantern – Littler had lost 185 men in only ten minutes, I remember; the crash of our artillery at the Sikh sharpshooters; Hardinge, his hat gone and his coat bloody, calling: “Charles, where are the Ninth – I must visit all my old Peninsulars! See if they have a lady in barracks, what?”;35 a corporal of the 62nd, his trousers soaked in blood, sitting at my hut door with his hussif open, carefully stitching a tear in the white cover of his hat; the sudden blare of bugles and rattle of drums sounding the alarm as a regiment was mustered to make a sortie against a Sikh gun emplacement; a Light Dragoon, face black with powder, and a skinny little bhisti,b buckets in their hands, and the Dragoon crying who’d make a dash with them for the well, ’cos Bill must have water and the chagglesc were dry; the little German prince who’d played billiards while I romped Mrs Madison, putting in his head to ask ever so politely if Dr Hoffmeister, of whom I’d never heard, was on my lists – he wasn’t, but he was dead, anyway; and a hoarse voice singing softly in the dark: