“Are ye there, Flash?” says he, in a hoarse whisper you could have heard in Delhi. “We’ll have to be hellish quiet, ye know. Oi think there’s pandies up the bank!”
Since we could see their picquets round the camp-fires not fifty yards away, it was a reasonable conclusion, and we hadn’t stolen twenty yards along the riverside when someone hailed us. I shouted back, and our challenger remarked that it was cold, at which the oaf Kavanaugh petrified me by suddenly bawling out: “Han, bhai, bahut tunder!”b like some greenhorn reciting from a Hindi primer. I hustled him quickly away, took him by the neck, and hissed:
“Will you keep your damned gob shut, you great murphy?”
He apologised in a nervous whisper, and muttered something about Queen and Country; his eye was glittering feverishly. “Oi’ll be more discreet, Flash,” says he, and so we went on, with me answering another couple of challenges before we reached the bridge, and crossed safely over into Lucknow town.
This was the testing part, for here there was lighting in the streets, and passers-by, and Kavanaugh might easily be recognised as counterfeit. The swim hadn’t done his dyed skin any good, and apart from that his outlandish rig, the European walk, the whole cut of the man, was an invitation to disaster. Well, thinks I, if he’s spotted, it’s into the dark for Flashy, and old O’Hooligan can take care of himself.
The worst of it was, he seemed incapable of keeping quiet, but was forever halting to mutter: “The mosque, ah, that’s right, now – and then de little stone bridge – where the divil is it? D’ye see it, Flashy – it ought to be right by hereabouts?” I told him if he must chunter, to do it in Hindi, and he said absent-mindedly “Oi will, Oi will, niver fear. Oi wish to God we had a compass.” He seemed to think he was in Phoenix Park.
It wasn’t too bad at first, because we were moving through gardens, with few folk about, but then we came to the great Chauk Bazaar. Thank God it was ill-lit, but there were groups of pandies everywhere, folk at the stalls, idlers at every corner, and even a few palkis swaying through the narrow ways. I put on a bold front, keeping Kavanaugh between me and the wall, and just swaggered along, spitting. No one gave me a second glance, but by hellish luck we passed close by a group of pandies with some whores in tow, and one of the tarts plucked at Kavanaugh’s sleeve and made an improper suggestion; her sepoy stared and growled resentfully, and my heart was in my mouth as I hustled Kavanaugh along, shouting over my shoulder that he’d just been married the previous day and was exhausted, at which they laughed and let us be. At least that kept him shut up for a spell, but no sooner were we clear of the bazaar than he was chattering with relief, and stopped to pick carrots in a vegetable patch, remarking at the top of his voice that they were “the swaitest little things” he’d tasted in months.
Then he lost our way. “That looks devilish like the Kaiser Bagh,” says he, and fell into a monsoon ditch. I hauled him out, and he went striding off into the dark, and to my horror stopped a little old fellow and asked where we were. The man said “Jangli Ganj”, and hurried off, glancing suspiciously at us. Kavanaugh stood and scratched himself and said it wasn’t possible. “If this is Jangli Ganj,” says he, “then where the hell is Mirza Kera, will ye tell me that? Ye know what, Flashman, that ould clown doesn’t know where he’s at, at all, at all.” After that we blundered about in the dark, two daring and desperate men on our vital secret mission, and then Kavanaugh gave a great laugh and said it was all right, he knew where we were, after all, and that must be Moulvie Jenab’s garden, so we should go left.
We did, and finished up striking matches along Haidar’s Canal – at least, that’s what Kavanaugh said it was, and he should have known, for he was in it twice, thrashing about in the water and cursing. When he had climbed out he was in a thundering rage, swearing the Engineers had got the map of Lucknow all wrong, but we must cross the canal anyway, and bear left until we hit the Cawnpore road. “The bloody thing’s over dere somewhere!” cries he, and since he seemed sure of that, at least, I stifled my growing alarm and off we went, with Kavanaugh tripping over things and stopping every now and then to peer into the gloom wondering: “D’ye think that garden could have been the Char Bagh, now? No, no, niver – and yet agin, it moight be – what d’ye think, Flashy?”
What I thought you may guess; we must have been wandering for hours, and for all we knew we might be heading back towards the Residency. Kavanaugh’s slippers had given out, and when he lost one of them we had to grope about in a melon patch until he found it; his feet were in a deplorable condition, and he’d lost his shield, but he was still convinced our plight was all the fault of the ancient he had asked the way from. He thought we might try a cast to our right, so we did, and found ourselves wandering in Dilkoosha Park, which was full of pandy artillery; even I knew we were quite out the way, and Kavanaugh said, yes, he had made a mistake, but such mishaps were of frequent occurrence. We must bear away south, so we tried that, and I asked a peasant sitting out with his crops if he would guide us to the Alam Bagh. He said he was too old and lame, and Kavanaugh lost his temper and roared at him, at which the fellow ran off shrieking, and the dogs began to bark and we had to run for it and Kavanaugh went headlong into a thorn bush. (And this, as he’d remarked, was one of the Deeds that Saved the Empire; it’s in all the books.)
There was no end to the fellow’s capacity for disaster, apparently. Given a choice of paths, he headed along one which brought us full tilt into a pandy patrol, and I had to talk our way out of it by saying we were poor men going to Umroula to tell a friend the British had shot his brother. Arriving in a village, he wandered into a hut when I wasn’t looking, and blundered about in the dark, seized a woman by the thigh – fortunately she was too terrified to cry out, and we got away. After that he took to crying out “That’s Jafirabad, Oi’m certain sure. And that’s Salehnagar, over there, yes.” Pause. “Oi think.” The upshot of that was that we landed in a swamp, and spent over an hour ploshing about in the mud, and Kavanaugh’s language was shocking to hear. We went under half a dozen times before we managed to find dry land, and I spotted a house not far off, with a light in an upper window, and insisted that Kavanaugh must rest while I found out where we were. He agreed, blaspheming because the last of his dye had rubbed off with repeated immersions.
I went to the house, and who should be at the window but the charmingest little brown girl, who said we were not far from Alam Bagh, but the British had arrived there, and people were running away. I thanked her, inwardly rejoicing, and she peeped at me over the sill and says:
“You are very wet, big man. Why not come in and rest, while you dry your clothes? Only five rupees.”
By George, thinks I, why not? I was tired, and sick, and it had been the deuce of a long time, what with sieges and cholera and daft Irishmen falling in bogs; this was just the tonic I needed, so I scrambled up, and there she was, all chubby and brown and shiny, giggling on her charpoy and shaking her bouncers at me. I seized hold, nearly crying at this unexpected windfall, and in a twinkling was marching her round the room, horse artillery fashion, while she squeaked and protested that for five rupees I shouldn’t be so impatient. I was, though, and it was just as well, for I’d no sooner finished the business than Kavanaugh was under the window, airing his Urdu plaintively in search of me, and wanting to know what was the delay?
I leaned out and cadged five rupees off him, explaining it was a bribe for an old sick man who knew the way; he passed it up, I struggled into my wet fugs, kissed my giggling Delilah goodnight, and scrambled down, feeling fit for anything.
It took us another two hours, though, for Kavanaugh was about done, and we had to keep dodging behind trees to avoid parties of peasants who were making for Lucknow. I was getting a mite alarmed, because the moon was up, and I knew that dawn couldn’t be far off; if we were caught by daylight, with Kavanaugh looking as pale as Marley’s ghost, we were done for. I cursed myself for a fool, whoring and wasting time when we should have been pushing on – wha
t had I been thinking of? D’you know, I suddenly realised that in my exasperation with Kavanaugh, and all that aimless wandering in wrong directions, and watching him fall in tanks and canals, I’d forgotten the seriousness of the whole thing – perhaps I was still a trifle light-headed from my illness, but I’d even forgotten my fears. They came back now, though, in full force, as we staggered along; I was about as tuckered as he was, my head was swimming, and I must have covered the last mile in a walking dream, because the next thing I remember is bearded faces barring our way, and blue-tunicked troopers with white puggarees, and thinking, “These are 9th Lancers.”
Then there was an officer holding me by the shoulders, and to my astonishment it was Gough, to whom I’d served brandy and smokes on the verandah at Meerut. He didn’t know me, but he poured spirits into us, and had us borne down into the camp, where the bugles were blowing, and the cavalry pickets were falling in, and the flag was going up, and it all looked so brisk and orderly and safe you would have wept for relief – but the cheeriest sight of all, to me, was that crumpled, bony figure outside the headquarter tent, and the dour, wrinkled old face under the battered helmet. I hadn’t seen Campbell close to, not since Balaclava; he was an ugly old devil, with a damned caustic tongue and a graveyard sense of humour, but I never saw a man yet who made me feel more secure.
He must have been a rare disappointment to Kavanaugh, though, for at the sight of him my blundering Paddy threw off his tiredness, and made a tremendous parade of announcing who he was, fishing out the message, and presenting it like the last gallant survivor stumbling in with the News; you never saw suffering nobility like it as he explained how we’d come out of Lucknow, but Campbell, listening and tugging at his dreary moustache, just said “Aye”, and sniffed, and added after a moment: “That’s surprising.” Kavanaugh, who had probably expected stricken admiration, looked quite deflated, and when Campbell told him to “Away you and lie down”, he obeyed pretty huffily.
I knew Campbell, of course, so I wasn’t a bit astonished at the way he greeted me, when he realised who I was.
“It’s no’ you again?” says he, like a Free Kirk elder to the town drunk. “Dearie me – ye’re not looking a whit better than when I saw ye last. I doot ye’ve nae discretion, Flashman.” He sighed and shook his head, but just as he was turning away to his tent he looked back and says: “I’m glad tae see ye, mind.”
I suppose there are those who’d say that there’s no higher honour than that, coming from Old Slowcoach; if that’s so, I must make the most of it, for it’s all the thanks I ever got for convoying Kavanaugh out of Lucknow. Not that I’m complaining, mind, for God knows I’ve had my share of undeserved credit, but it’s a fact that Kavanaugh stole all the limelight when the story came out; I’m certain it was sheer lust for glory that had made him undertake the job in the first place, for when I joined him in the rest-tent after we’d left Campbell, he broke off the kneeling-and-praying which he was engaged in, looked up at me with his great freckled yokel face, and says anxiously:
“D’yez think they’ll give us the Victoria Cross?”
Well, in the end they did give him the V.C. for that night’s work, while all I got was a shocking case of dysentery. He was a civilian, of course, so they were bound to make a fuss of him, and there was so much V.C.-hunting going on just then that I suppose they thought recognised heroes like me could be passed over – ironic, ain’t it? Anyway, I wasn’t recommended at the time for any decoration at all, and he was, which seemed fairly raw, although I don’t deny he was brave, you understand. Anyone who’s as big a bloody fool as that, and goes gallivanting about seeking sorrow, must be called courageous. Still … if it hadn’t been for me, finding his blasted slipper for him, and fishing him out of canals – and most important of all, getting the right direction from that little brown banger – friend Kavanaugh might still have been traipsing along Haidar’s Canal asking the way. But thinking back, perhaps I got the better of the bargain – she was a lissome little wriggler, and it was Kavanaugh’s five rupees, after all.36
* * *
a Organisation, administration.
b “Yes, brother, very cold!”
Chapter 12
If Campbell was sparing with his compliments, he was equally careful of his soldiers’ lives, especially his precious 93rd Highlanders. He took a week to relieve Lucknow, feeling his way in along the route our message had suggested, battering the pandies with his artillery, and only turning his kilties and Sikhs on them when he had to. They butchered everything in sight, of course, between them, but it was a slow business, and he was much abused for it afterwards. In my opinion, he was dead right – as he and Mansfield, his staff chief, were when they wouldn’t risk lives simply to pursue and punish fleeing mutineers. A general’s job is to win campaigns with as little loss as may be, but of course that don’t suit the critics in clubs and newspaper offices – they’re at a safe distance, and they want blood, rot them, so they sneer at Old Slowcoach, and call him a stick-in-the-mud soldier.37
In fact, his relief of Lucknow, in the face of odds that were sometimes fifteen to one, was a model of sound sense. He got in, he took the garrison out, and he retired in good order, scratching his ear and looking glum, while ignorant asses like Kavanaugh danced with impatience. D’ye know, that Irish lunatic absolutely ran the gauntlet of pandy fire to get back into Lucknow, and bring out Outram and Havelock in person (with the poor old Gravedigger hardly able to hobble along) just so that they could greet Sir Colin as he covered the last few furlongs? Bloody nonsense, but it looked very gallant, and has since been commemorated in oils, with camels and niggers looking on admiringly, and the Chiefs all shaking hands. (I’m there, too, like John the Baptist on horseback, with one aimless hand up in the air, which is rot, because at the time I was squatting in the latrine working the dysentery bugs out of my system and wishing I was dead.)38
Poor old Gravedigger – he didn’t last more than a few days after. The dysentery bugs did for him in earnest, and we buried him under a palm tree by the Alam Bagh at the start of the retreat. I guess that suited him, and I remember the text running through my head, “And Nicanor lay dead in his harness” – it was what he’d said to me fifteen years earlier, when he’d told me of Sergeant Hudson dying at Piper’s Fort. Aye, well, none of us lives forever.
Anyway, Lucknow had to be left in rebel hands, and Campbell took our army back to Cawnpore, where Tantia Tope was raging around the garrison; Campbell whipped him in quick time, and then started clearing up rebel resistance along the Ganges, while at the same time assembling a new force which would march back to Lucknow after Christmas, clear the pandies out properly, and subdue the whole of Oudh kingdom. It was fairly obvious that although mutineers were still thick as mosquitoes everywhere, and had several armies in the field, Campbell’s methodical operations would have the whole business settled in a few months, if only Calcutta let him alone. I lent my gallant assistance by supervising intelligence work at Unao, just across the river from Cawnpore, where our new army was assembling; easy work, and nothing more dangerous than occasional brawls and turn-ups between the Pathan Horse and the Devil’s Own,a which suited me. The only thing that ruffled my surface at all that winter was a rebuke from Higher Authority when I squired an upper-class half-caste whore to a band parade at Cawnpore,39 which shows you better than anything how things were beginning to quieten down: when generals have nothing better to do than worry about the morals of staff colonels, you may be sure there’s no great work on hand.
And indeed, we were beginning to make things so hot for the pandies along the Grand Trunk that winter that it seemed the bulk of their power was being forced farther and farther south, into the Gwalior country, where Tantia Tope had taken his army, and the rebel princelings had still to be dealt with. That was where Jhansi was: I used to see its name daily in the intelligence reports, with increasing references to Lakshmibai – “the rebel Rani” and “the traitor queen” was what they were calling her now, for
in the past few months she’d thrown off the pretence of loyalty which she had maintained after the Jhansi massacre, and cast in her lot with Nana and Tantia and the other mutinous princes. That had shocked me when I first heard it, and yet it wasn’t so surprising really – not when I recalled her feelings towards us, and her grievances, and that lovely dark face so grimly set – “Mera Jhansi denge nay! I won’t give up my Jhansi!”
She’d have to give it up fast enough, though, presently, with our southern armies under General Rose already advancing north to Gwalior and Bandelkand. She would be crushed along with the other monarchs and their sepoy-cum-bandit armies, and I didn’t care to think about that, much. When my thoughts turned towards her – and for some reason they did increasingly in the leisure of that winter – I couldn’t think of her as belonging in this world of turmoil and blood and burning and massacre: when I read about “the Jhansi Jezebel” plotting with Nana and whipping up revolt, I couldn’t reconcile it with my memory of that bewitching figure swinging gently to and fro on her silken swing in that mirrored fairy palace. I found myself wondering if she was still swinging there, or playing with the monkeys and parrots in her sunny garden, or riding in the woods by the river – who with? How many new lovers had she taken since that night in the pavilion? That was enough to set the flutters going low down in my innards – and farther up, in my midriff, for it wasn’t only lust. When I thought of those slanting eyes, and the grave little smile, and the smooth dusky arm along the rope of her swing, I was conscious of a strange, empty longing just for the sight of her, and the sound of her voice. It was downright irritating, for when I reflect on an old love it’s usually in terms of tits and buttocks pure and simple – after all, I wasn’t a green kid, and I didn’t care to find myself thinking like one. What I needed to cure me, I decided, was two weeks’ steady rogering at her to get these moon-calf yearnings out of my mind for good, but of course there was no chance of that now.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 283