The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I had to think quickly about this. If I could have looked at myself in the mirror, I suppose I was just the sort of ruffian I’d have picked myself, in Duff Mason’s shoes. Pathans make the best orderly-bodyguards-comrades there are, as I’d discovered with Muhammad Iqbal and Ilderim. And it would be a pleasant change from barracks – but it was risky. It would draw attention to me; on the other hand my character was established by now, and any lapses into Englishness might be explained from the past which Mason and Carmichael-Smith had wished upon me. I hesitated, and he said quietly:

  “If you’re thinking that coming out of the ranks may expose you to greater danger of – being recognised by the police, say, or some inconvenient acquaintance from the past … have no fear of that. At need, there’ll always be a fast horse and a dustuckr to see you back to the Black Mountain again.”

  It was ironic – he thought I went in fear of discovery as a deserter or Border raider, when my only anxiety was that I’d be unmasked as a British officer. Bit of a lark, really – and on that thought I said very good, I’d accept his offer.

  “Thank you, Makarram Khan,” says he, and nodded to a table that was set behind his chair, against the chick: there was a drawn sabre lying on it, and I knew what was expected of me. I went past him, and put my hand on the blade – it had been so arranged that with my body in between, he couldn’t see from where he sat whether I was touching the steel or not. The old dodge, thinks I, but I said aloud:

  “On the haft and hilt, I am thy man and soldier.”

  “Good,” says he, and as I turned he held out his hand. I took it, and just for devilment I said:

  “Have no fear, husoor – you will smell the onion on your fingers.” I knew, you see, that in anticipation of the oath, he would have rubbed onion on the blade, so that he could tell afterwards if I’d truly touched it while I swore. A Pathan who intended to break his oath wouldn’t have put his hand on the steel, and consequently wouldn’t have got the onion-smell on his fingers.

  “By Jove!” says he, and quickly sniffed his hand. Then he laughed, and said I was a Pathan for wiliness, all right, and we would get along famously.

  Which I’m bound to say we did – mind you, our association wasn’t a long one, but while it lasted I thoroughly enjoyed myself, playing major-domo in his household, for that’s what it amounted to, as I soon discovered. His bungalow was a pretty big establishment, you see, just off the east end of the Mall, near the British infantry lines, with about thirty servants, and since there was no proper mem-sahib, and his khansamahs was almost senile, there was no order about the place at all. Rather than have me spend my time dogging him about his office, where there wasn’t much for me to do except stand looking grim and impressive, Duff Mason decided I should make a beginning by putting his house and its staff into pukka order (as I gathered Ayub Jan had done in his time) and I set about it. Flashy, Jack-of-all-trades, you see: in the space of a few months I’d already been a gentleman of leisure, staff officer, secret political agent, ambassador, and sepoy, so why not a nigger butler for a change?

  You may think it odd – and looking back it seems damned queer to me, too – but the job was just nuts to me. I was leading such an unreal existence, anyway, and had become so devilish bored in the sepoy barracks, that I suppose I was ready enough for anything that occupied my time without too much effort. Duff Mason’s employ was just the ticket: it gave me the run of a splendid establishment, the best of meat and drink, a snug little bunk of my own, and nothing to do but bully menials, which I did with a hearty relish that terrified the brutes and made the place run like clockwork. All round, I couldn’t have picked a softer billet for my enforced sojourn in Meerut if I’d tried. (Between ourselves, I’ve a notion that had I been born in a lower station in life I’d have made a damned fine butler for some club or Town house, yes-me-lording the Quality, ordering flunkeys about, putting upstarts in their place, and pinching the port and cigars with the best of them.)

  I’ve said there were no proper mem-sahibs in the house, by which I mean that there was no colonel’s lady to supervise it – hence the need for me. But in fact there were two white women there, both useless in management – Miss Blanche, a thin, twitchy little spinster who was Duff Mason’s sister, and Mrs Leslie, a vague relative who was either a grass widow or a real one, and reminded me rather of a sailor’s whore – she was a plumpish, pale-skinned woman with red frizzy hair and a roving eye for the garrison officers, with whom she went riding and flirting when she wasn’t lolling on the verandah eating sweets. (I didn’t do more than run a brisk eye over either of ’em when Duff Mason brought me to the house, by the way – we nigger underlings know our place, and I’d already spotted a nice fat black little kitchen-maid with a saucy lip and a rolling stern.)

  However, if neither of the resident ladies was any help in setting me about my duties, there was another who was – Mrs Captain MacDowall, who lived farther down the Mall, and who bustled in on my first afternoon on the pretext of taking tea with Miss Blanche, but in fact to see that Duff Mason’s new orderly started off on the right foot. She was a raw-boned old Scotch trot, not unlike my mother-in-law; the kind who loves nothing better than to interfere in other folk’s affairs, and put their lives in order for them. She ran me to earth just as I was stowing my kit; I salaamed respectfully, and she fixed me with a glittering eye and demanded if I spoke English.

  “Now then, Makarram Khan, this is what you’ll do,” says she. “This house is a positive disgrace; you’ll make it what it should be – the best in the garrison after General Hewitt’s, mind that. Ye can begin by thrashing every servant in the place – and if you’re wise you’ll do it regularly. My father,” says she, “believed in flogging servants every second day, after breakfast. So now. Have you the slightest – the slightest notion – of how such an establishment as this should be run? I don’t suppose ye have.”

  I said, submissively, that I had been in a sahib’s house before.

  “Aye, well,” says she, “attend to me. Your first charge is the kitchen – without a well-ordered kitchen, there’s no living in a place. Now – I dined here two nights since, and I was disgusted. So I have lists here prepared –” she whipped some papers from her bag. “Ye can’t read, I suppose? No, well, I’ll tell you what’s here, and you’ll see to it that the cook – who is none too bad, considering – prepares her menus accordingly. I shouldn’t need to be doing this –” she went on, with a withering glance towards the verandah, where Miss Blanche and Mrs Leslie were sitting (reading “The Corsair” aloud, I recall) “– but if I don’t, who will, I’d like to know? Hmf! Poor Colonel Mason!” She glared at me. “That’s none of your concern – you understand?” She adjusted her spectacles. “Breakfast … aye. Chops-steaks-quail-fried-fish-baked-minced-chicken-provided-the-bird’s-no-more-than-a-day-old. No servants in the breakfast room – it can all be placed on the buffet. Can ye make tea – I mean tea that’s fit to drink?”

  Bemused by these assaults, I said I could.

  “Aye,” says she, doubtfully. “A mistress should always make the tea herself, but here …” She sniffed. “Well then, always two teapots, with no more than three spoonfuls to each, and a pinch of carbonate of soda in the milk. See that the cook makes coffee, very strong, first thing in the morning, and adds boiling water during the course of the day. Boiling, I said – and fresh hot milk, or cold whipped cream. Now, then –” and she consulted another list.

  “Luncheon – also on the buffet. Mutton-broth-almond-soup-mulligatawny-white-soup-cold-clear-soup-milk-pudding-stewed-fruit. No heavy cooked dishes –” this with a glare over her spectacles. “They’re unhealthy. Afternoon tea – brown bread and butter, scones, Devonshire cream, and cakes. Have ye any apostle spoons?”

  “Mem-sahib,” says I, putting my hands together and ducking my head. “I am only a poor soldier, I do not know what –”

  “I’ll have two dozen sent round. Dinner – saddle-of-mutton-boiled-fowls-roast-beef … ach!” says she,
“I’ll tell the cook myself. But you –” she wagged a finger like a marlin-spike “– will mind what I’ve said, and see that my instructions are followed and that the food is cleanly and promptly served. And see that the salt is changed every day, and that no one in the kitchen wears woollen clothes. And if one of them cuts a finger – straight round with them to my bungalow. Every inch of this house will be dusted twice a day, before callers come between noon and two, and before dinner. Is that clear?”

  “Han mem-sahib, han mem-sahib,” says I, nodding vigorously, heaven help me. She regarded me grimly, and said she would be in from time to time to see that all was going as it should, because Colonel Mason must be properly served, and if she didn’t attend to it, and see that I kept the staff hard at their duties, well … This with further sniffy looks towards the verandah, after which she went to bully the cook, leaving me to reflect that there was more in an orderly’s duties than met the eye.19

  I tell you this, because although it may seem not to have much to do with my story, it strikes me it has a place; if you’re to understand India, and the Mutiny, and the people who were caught up in it, and how they fared, then women like Mrs Captain MacDowall matter as much as Outram or Lakshmibai or old Wheeler or Tantia Tope. Terrible women, in their way – the memsahibs. But it would have been a different country without ’em – and I’m not sure the Raj would have survived the year ’57, if they hadn’t been there, interfering.

  At all events, under her occasional guidance and blistering rebukes, I drove Mason’s menials until the place was running like a home-bound tea clipper. You’ll think it trivial, perhaps, but I got no end of satisfaction in this supervising – there was nothing else to occupy me, you see, and as Arnold used to say, what thy hand findeth to do … I welted the backsides off the sweepers, terrorised the mateys,t had the bearers parading twice a day with their dusters, feather brooms, and polish bottles, and stalked grimly about the place pleased as punch to see the table-tops and silver polished till they gleamed, the floors bone-clean, and the chota hazriu and darwazabandv trays carried in on the dot. Strange, looking back, to remember the pride I felt when Duff Mason gave a dinner for the garrison’s best, and I stood by the buffet in my best grey coat and new red sash and puggaree, with my beard oiled, looking dignified and watching like a hawk as the khansamah and his crew scuttled round the candle-lit table with the courses. As the ladies withdrew Mrs Captain for calling-cards. MacDowall caught my eye, and gave just a little nod – probably as big a compliment, in its way, as I ever received.

  So a few more weeks went by, and I was slipping into this nice easy life, as is my habit whenever things are quiet. I reckoned I’d give it another month or so, and then slide out one fine night for Jhansi, where I’d surprise Skene by turning up à la Pathan and pitch him the tale about how I’d been pursuing Ignatieff in secret and getting nowhere. I’d see Ilderim, too, and find if the Thugs were still out for me; if it seemed safe I’d shave, become Flashy again, and make tracks for Calcutta, protesting that I’d done all that could be done. Might even pay my respects to Lakshmibai on the way … however, in the meantime I’d carry on as I was, eating Duff Mason’s rations, seeing that his bearer laid out his kit, harrying his servants, and tupping his kitchen-maid – she was a poor substitute for my Rani, and once or twice, when it seemed to me that Mrs Leslie’s eye lingered warmly on my upstanding Pathan figure or my swarthy bearded countenance, I toyed with the idea of having a clutch at her. Better not, though – too many prying eyes in a bungalow household, which is what made life hard for grass widows and unattached white females in Indian garrisons – they couldn’t do more than flirt in safety.

  Every now and then I had to go back to barracks. Carmichael-Smith had been willing enough to detach me to Duff Mason, but I still had to muster on important parades, when all sepoys on the regimental strength were called in. It was on one of these that I heard the rumour flying that the 19th N.I. had rioted at Behrampore over the greased cartridge, as sepoy Ram Mangal had predicted.

  “They have been disbanded by special court,” says he to me out of the corner of his mouth as we clattered back to the armoury to hand in our rifles; he was full of excitement. “The sahibs have sent the jawans home, because the Sirkar fears to keep such spirited fellows under arms! So much for the courage of your British colonels – they begin to fear. Aye, presently they will have real cause to be fearful!”

  “It will need to be better cause than a pack of whining monkeys like the 19th,” says Pir Ali. “Who minds if a few Hindoos get cow-grease on their fingers?”

  “Have you seen this, then?” Mangal whipped a paper from under his jacket and thrust it at him. “Here are your own people – you Mussulmen who so faithfully lick the sahibs’ backsides – even they are beginning to find their manhood! Read here of the great jihadw that your mullahsx are preaching against the infidels – not just in India, either, but Arabia and Turkestan. Read it – and learn that an Afghan army is preparing to seize India, with Ruski guns and artillerymen – what does it say? ‘Thousands of Ghazis, strong as elephants’.” He laughed jeeringly. “They may come to help – but who knows, perhaps they will be behind the fair? The goddess Kali may have destroyed the British already – as the wise men foretold.”

  It was just another scurrilous pamphlet, no doubt, but the sight of that grinning black ape gloating over his sedition riled me; I snatched the paper and rubbed it deliberately on the seat of my trousers. Pir Ali and some of the sepoys grinned, but the rest looked pretty glum, and old Sardul shook his head.

  “If the 19th have been false to their salt, it is an ill thing,” says he, and Mangal broke in excitedly to say hadn’t the sahibs broken faith first, by trying to defile the sepoys’ caste?

  “First Behrampore – then where?” cries he. “Which pultan will be next? It is coming, brothers – it is coming!” And he nodded smugly, and went off chattering with his cronies.20

  I didn’t value this, at the time, but it crossed my mind again a couple of nights later, when Duff Mason had Archdale Wilson, the binky-nabob,y and Hewitt and Carmichael-Smith and a few others on his verandah, and I heard Jack Waterfield, a senior man in the 3rd Native Cavalry, talking about Behrampore, and wondering if it was wise to press ahead with the issue of the new cartridge.

  “Of course it is,” snaps Carmichael-Smith. “Especially now, when it’s been refused at Behrampore. Give way on this – and where will it end? It’s a piece of damned nonsense – some crawling little agitator fills the sepoys’ heads with rubbish about beef-grease and pig-fat, when it’s been made perfectly plain by the authorities that the new cartridge contains nothing that could possibly offend Muslim or Hindoo. But it serves as an excuse for the troublemakers – and there are always some.”

  “Fortunately not in our regiment,” says another – Plowden, who commanded my own company. By God, thinks I, that’s all you know, and then Carmichael-Smith was growling on that he’d like to see one of his sepoys refuse the issue, by God he would.

  “No chance of that, sir,” says another major of the 3rd, Richardson. “Our fellows are too good soldiers, and no fools. Can’t think what happened with the 19th – too many senior officers left regimental service for the staff, I shouldn’t wonder. New men haven’t got the proper grip”

  “But suppose our chaps did refuse?” says one young fellow in the circle. “Mightn’t it –”

  “That is damned croaking!” says Carmichael-Smith angrily. “You don’t know sepoys, Gough, and that’s plain. I do, and I won’t countenance the suggestion that my soldiers would have their heads turned by this … this seditious bosh. What the devil – they know their duty! But if they get the notion that any of us have doubts, or might show weakness – well, that’s the worst thing imaginable. I’ll be obliged if you’ll keep your half-baked observations to yourself!”

  That shut up Gough, sharp enough, and Duff Mason tried to get the pepper out of the air by saying he was sure Carmichael-Smith was right, and if Gough had mi
sgivings, why not settle them then and there.

  “Your colonel won’t mind, I’m sure, if I put it to one of his own sowars – don’t fret, Smith, he’s a safe man.” And he beckoned me from where I stood in the shadows by the serving-table from which the bearers kept the glasses topped up.

  “Now, Makarram Khan,” says he. “You know about this cartridge nonsense. Well – you’re a Muslim … will you take it?”

  I stood respectfully by his chair, glancing round the circle of faces – Carmichael-Smith red and glistening, Waterfield thin and shrewd, young Gough flustered, old Hewitt grinning and belching quietly.

  “If it will drive a ball three hundred yards, and straight, husoor,” says I, “I shall take it.”

  They roared, of course, and Hewitt said there was a real Pathan answer, what?

  “And your comrades?” asks Archdale Wilson.

  “If they are told, truly, by the colonel sahib, that the cartridge is clean, why should they refuse?” says I, and they murmured agreement. Well, thinks I, that’s a plain enough hint, and Carmichael-Smith can put Master Mangal’s croaking into the shade.

  He might have done, too, but the very next day the barracks was agog with a new rumour – and we heard for the first time a name that was to sweep across India and the world.

  “Pandy?” says I to Pir Ali. “Who may he be?”

  “A sepoy of the 34th, at Barrackpore,” says he. “He shot at his captain sahib on the parade-ground – they say he was drunk with sharab or bhang, and called on the sepoys to rise against their officers.21 What do I know? Perhaps it is true, perhaps it is rumour – Ram Mangal is busy enough convincing those silly Hindoo sheep that it really happened.”