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 states-man 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 "Khalsa-ji!" 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."*(*The ten-day festival in October after which the Sikhs were accustomed to set out on expeditions.)
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 chapao*(*Sudden attack.) 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.*(*The Afghan nickname for George Broadfoot.) 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?"
"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, hair-brushes, 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".
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.
The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light fp-9 Page 14