Flashman and the Cobra

by Robert Brightwell

  Getting back to my time in India, Runjeet was proving to be a very able dubash, introducing me to the ways of the country. I had given him some money to cover ongoing expenses and the cost of the hotel, which was as good as any in town. That is not to say that it was entirely comfortable. We had got used to the heat on the boat but not the mosquitoes. The bed had a mosquito net, but I swiftly discovered that this acted like the doorman at some exclusive dining club. It kept out the riff-raff insects while leaving your body at the mercy of the more experienced bugs that had the foresight to wait for you within its folds. The food left something to be desired too: breakfast was typically green tea and fresh fish while all other meals seemed to comprise a version of mulligatawny soup and grilled chicken and rice.

  When I complained at the lack of variety Runjeet suggested that I rent a bungalow and chef; naturally he had a cousin who could serve in this capacity. I dismissed this at first as an absurd extravagance as I was only planning to be in Madras for a few weeks. Then, as I thought about it, I decided that this would add to my cover. It would show that I was planning to return to Madras after my trip to Hyderabad, which may stop people looking for me elsewhere. I was completely sold on the idea a day later when Runjeet showed me a beautiful little bungalow set in its own tropical garden. It was well maintained with a veranda running around all four sides and came furnished. It was owned by another of Runjeet’s relatives and had previously been let to a Company captain and his wife, who had provided much of the English furniture. The wife had died in childbirth and the captain now preferred to live in the officers’ quarters. As I looked around I regretted that I would not be able to enjoy living there for more than the few weeks that were left before I was due to depart, but Runjeet had me swiftly moved in on the same day.

  By that evening I was enjoying a splendid spiced curry in my own dining room and afterwards I strolled through the grounds enjoying a cigar. You could very easily live like a lord in India. The cook was, as Runjeet promised, excellent and I noticed during the meal that I had also acquired a serving boy to bring food to the table. Then when in the garden I noticed that I now had a gardener too. When I asked Runjeet about this he informed me that both were his cousins and came at very favourable rates of pay. He also told me that in addition to these I had employed a syce or groom to look after the stables, even though I did not own a horse at this point, and two cleaners and a cook’s assistant would be starting tomorrow. When I calculated the wages and rent of the property from ruppees into guineas it did indeed seem very reasonable and I gave Runjeet some more money for expenses. I discovered later that I was paying around double the local market rate, but to be fair the people Runjeet hired, whether actual cousins or not, did an excellent job.

  The next morning, after a breakfast of eggs, bacon and proper toast made with yeast-leavened bread, not the normal flatbreads, I stepped outside to find that overnight I had acquired a fine horse for myself and a smaller pony for the syce and headed into town. For the next few weeks I appeared all over Madras visiting barbers (the hubs of male gossip the world over) barracks, hotels and all manner of other places on the pretext of settling in and telling as many people as I could of my plans to travel to Hyderabad. If Scindia’s men did not try to follow me there, it would not be through lack of effort on my part.

  Henry Wellesley arranged an invite to the officers’ mess of the local Company regiment at the fort one night, which demonstrated the excellent value of a good syce. I had arrived at the officers’ quarters at around seven in the evening, just as the drummers were playing ‘Roast Beef of Old England’ across the barracks to signify that dinner was being served. The officers were gathered on the veranda of their mess enjoying the sea breeze. All were tanned, strong characters, apart from the bruised major, whose forehead and one cheek were still a riot of colour from his beating. He claimed of course that he had fallen off his horse, but his servants had done a fine job of spreading gossip to the servants of half the garrison, many of whom gleefully told their masters. Most present were clearly Europeans; some could have been Anglo-Indians. Given my Spanish blood, I probably could have passed for Anglo-Indian myself.

  Madeira wine was passed around and then we were called into the dining room, with various silver trophies down the table and a servant standing behind each chair. Fish and soup courses were served and then they brought in the largest turkey I had ever seen (at least they said it was turkey) and a huge ham to match. The servants brought you whatever food you desired; there were several curry dishes as well and they topped up your glass after virtually every sip. It was therefore hard to judge what you had taken on board.

  After dinner there was the usual round of twenty-odd toasts to the king, the duke of York and the army, General Baird and the heroes of Seringapatam, other senior officers and officials in the region and then down to some of the people present, such as the surgeon. To cut a long story short, by the end of the evening I was drunker than a Catholic priest on St Paddy’s day. Normally riding a horse, or even finding my horse, in such a state would have been a challenge, but my able syce, seeing me stagger from the mess, was up in a trice and helping me to mount. Then before I could fall off, he was on his own steed and, with a hand firmly grasping my belt to keep me in the saddle, he steered us both back to my veranda. Now you don’t get that kind of service from grooms at home!

  We were nearing the time of my departure when I received another big invitation, which was to a ball being thrown to welcome the single ladies who had arrived on my ship and one that had docked a week or two after us. Well, they said it was a ball, but it was also a bit like a civilised slave auction. All of local society was there and so it was an excellent place to expound my cover story. Once everyone had arrived a fanfare of sorts was played by the band and the crowd broke apart to leave a corridor down the middle, and one by one the new ladies were led down it to be formally welcomed by some local bigwig. Unlike slave auctions in America, he did not ask them to strip naked, examine their teeth and stand on a block for sale, but he didn’t stop far short. Each girl was asked a series of questions, ostensibly to introduce her to the crowd, but highlighting her genteel background and social skills. The colonel’s wife, who had coached the ladies on our ship for this display, flapped around like a proud overseer. I recalled her coaching the girls to not accept offers to dance from anyone under the rank of major, apart from plain Jenny Graves, who had a squint and whom she thought would do well to claim a captain.

  The dancing resumed, and a few senior officers and wealthy local merchants who were obviously confident that they reached the minimum standard went to claim dances and view the merchandise in more detail. Junior officers, wary of a very public rejection, stood back or danced with the married ladies, who being so claimed could be much more relaxed with their dancing favours. It was at the punch bowl that I met one of these wives. Eliza Freese was a small, very pretty woman with dark hair in long, curled ringlets. She was in her mid-twenties then with a curvaceous figure, having given birth to her second child earlier in the year. A young lieutenant who was pouring her a glass of punch introduced us.

  I was pleasantly surprised when she responded, “Ah, Mr Flashman, I hear you are about to leave us to go up country to Hyderabad.” It was good to hear that news of my departure had spread to people I had yet to meet. “Will you be away a long time?” she added.

  “Yes, quite a while,” I confirmed. “Certainly several months.”

  “Ah, I will have moved on myself by then, so this looks like the only time we are destined to meet. Perhaps you would do me the honour of the next dance.”

  We danced and chatted together happily. She asked me why I was in India and I was vague about selling wool and she told me about how she missed her husband whom ‘dear Arthur’ had been obliged to send away to where he was most needed. Her husband had been sent by Arthur Wellesley to Seringapatam before her son was born, and while the baby had a wet nurse Eliza did not want to travel until the child was older
. As she let slip that her father was General Stuart I guessed that she was well connected and used to doing what she wanted

  At the end of the dance as I made my bow she leaned towards me and whispered, “Perhaps you would save the last dance for me too. I love the last dance, and after four months at sea I’ll wager you are a keen partner.” With an archly alluring smile she then swept away to some other officers’ wives who had been taking turns to dance with the more junior officers.

  Well, there was no mistaking her meaning there, and she was right, now that she mentioned it I did have an itch I needed to scratch. Since my arrival in India I had been so wrapped up in plans for my own survival that I had not given women a thought. I had been surprised at her approach, but she evidently wanted a quick fling with a handsome young man (and I flatter myself I was that then) who would not be around afterwards to cause complications. Now that I looked again around the hall where the event was being held, I guessed that there must be affairs going on all the time. There were a relatively small number of white women in Madras and men were frequently sent away for months at a time. Many, particularly the junior officers, were looking on with lustful eyes, especially at the new arrivals. The prettier girls froze them out with looks of haughty disdain, which resulted in them sitting out many of the dances. In contrast, the plain girl with the squint was enjoying a lot of attention. I suspected that when matches were made hers was likely to be the happiest as she had more choice. But as one of the sailors on the indiaman had said on the voyage over, “You don’t travel halfway around the world to marry for love.”

  The last dance was finally announced and I went to claim my prize. Everyone who could dance was getting up for this final hurrah of the evening, but Eliza steered me through the throng. “Let’s leave now,” she said, “while the crowds are distracted.”

  We slipped out through the door and there, waiting nearby, was her carriage. My syce and the horses were also nearby, but the discreet fellow, seeing I was with company, stood back. I helped her into the carriage and then got in the other side. The only people watching were native grooms and drivers, with just flickering torches around the entrance to the hall, so I was half-hidden in shadow. As soon as the carriage had moved off into the darkness she was at me like a dockyard whore on a paid-off sailor. Within moments my britches were unbuttoned and she was astride and giving the coach springs as well as me a proper workout.

  As we arrived at her bungalow she climbed off, initially sated, and called out to the driver, “Sardul, take us around to the side entrance.” Then she turned to me and whispered, “There is a side door that leads straight to my bedroom, so we can be discreet.”

  I never cease to be amazed by how people think that their servants know only what they tell them. You just knew that once he had finished unhorsing the carriage old Sardul would be in the house recounting how the mistress was acting the trollop again. Doubtless my syce would be seen and invited in to give his views on the situation too. Mind you, it is the same in England: some duchess will confide her most intimate secrets to her lady’s maid in the morning and they are all over the household by luncheon and shared with most of the local tradespeople by dinner.

  That is by the way, but she was a noisy lover and her servants would have had to have been deaf as well as blind not to know what was going on. I might have been without a woman for four months, but I think I made up for that all in one night. I was a hollow husk when Eliza Freese had finished with me. No sooner had I collapsed into an exhausted and well-deserved sleep than she was nudging me and whispering that I should leave before the servants saw me.

  It was well past dawn as I staggered out of the side door. As I stepped off the veranda my grinning syce stepped forward, holding my horse and his pony.

  “Good morning, sahib. Can you still ride?” he asked with a mischievous chuckle.

  Many would have damned his impertinence but in the circumstances that seemed absurd, and so I just grinned back and said, “Only just.”

  I mounted and we trotted down the drive. The syce turned to head home but I stopped him, remembering we had somewhere else to go first. Eliza Freese was not the only person I had met at the ball last night.

  Midway through the evening I had run into a Henry Davis of the Boulton and Watt Steam Engine Company. Mr Davis was an evangelical, not of religion but of the power of steam. He was nearly fifty, fat and balding but his enthusiasm on his subject was irrepressible. He had waxed lyrical to me for a quarter of an hour on the benefits that steam would bring to the world. Already, he told me, they had done trials using steam to drive boats, and soon ships would be powered with it without the need for wind. Steam was doing the work of hundreds in pumping out mines and its potential was huge. He presented me his card and even showed me a pamphlet on engines produced by his company at their Soho works in Birmingham, and that is what gave me the idea.

  When I travelled I was not going to use my own name and I certainly was not going to use the George Thompson name provided by the governor general. I was sure that Scindia’s spies would know of both names very soon. I was going to assume a third identity but I had no documents to support it. As I did not plan to meet anyone at the other end, I was originally going to fake some letters of introduction, but now a much better opportunity beckoned. I had made up my mind to act when I learned that Henry Davis was staying in the hotel owned by Runjeet’s cousin and that he would be attending a breakfast levee held by the governor general this very morning.

  We trotted slowly into town to arrive after the levee had started. I pulled up at the hotel and asked which room Davis was in and went upstairs. I already knew I could pick the hotel locks as I had practised my new lock-picking skills on them in an idle afternoon while I still stayed there. Within a couple of minutes I was inside Henry Davis’s room. He was evidently not the tidiest of men but there on a table was what I was looking for: a leather folder containing over a hundred brochures on steam engines and a greater quantity of business cards. I took twenty of each, which would be enough to support my use of his identity for the brief while I needed it. I had liked the man and felt a twinge of guilt at stealing from him, and so on an impulse I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Inside it I kept the bill for twenty guineas in the name of George Thompson. Picking up a pen on the desk and dipping it in the ink, I endorsed the bill over to Henry Davis and signed it George Thompson. I could not use the money and it was a shame to waste it. As Henry Davis looked nothing like me he was unlikely to be confused with the young courier from England by Scindia’s agents.

  I left feeling well pleased with myself. I had a new identity, Runjeet was making the travel arrangements to leave in three days’ time and I had enjoyed a damned good gallop with Mrs Freese. In fact we had made arrangements to have a final meeting the next day, to give me time to recover. She was going to take me out to see some of the temples in the area after I asked whether there really were temples to lovemaking as the sailor had told me.

  A day later and with an Indian guide for propriety, Mrs Freese and I set off once more. My head was soon swimming with the Indian pantheon of gods. There were human ones, humans with multiple arms, animal ones such as monkeys and then mixtures of animal and humans such as Ganesh who was human with an elephant head. He seemed to be the god of parties, wine and having a good time, which made him my favourite. But it was the carvings that took your breath away. There were several temples like tall pyramids with flattened tops that had every inch covered in intricate stone carvings. Some had been painted in colour too and they looked astonishing. Westminster Abbey looked like a road mender’s hut in comparison, and when you went inside the detail was similarly impressive.

  The Indian guide seemed to know what we wanted, and he took us to one temple and directed us to a particular corner while he retired outside. Well, it was an education for both of us, I think. There were carvings there that would have made a sailor blush. Every conceivable position was featured and some that I could not
conceive, unless Indians are routinely double jointed. There were couples and groups and some seemed to include several of the human and animal gods. Mrs Freese seemed very excited, and to avoid alarming her servants we spent the afternoon and evening at my bungalow. To cries of “No, Thomas, the monkey god had his ankle on the girl’s shoulder” and “Well, the elephant-faced god could manage it from there” we worked our way through several yards of wall carvings.

  To be honest, you can have too many instructions even for lovemaking. I am a big believer in making it up as you go along and so I was not sorry when Mrs Freese left that evening. My back was aching, I had nearly dislocated my shoulder when we fell over during one contortion and I was looking forward to starting my journey the next morning. I wanted to be well gone before Scindia’s men got here. While Runjeet had gone on ahead to make transport arrangements, he had promised that there would be a surprise waiting for me the next morning to start the journey.

  Chapter 9

  I found the surprise on my lawn the next morning. It was a four-ton elephant called Tara. My bungalow was on the road from the centre of Madras towards Hyderabad and so, having announced that was my destination, I had to be seen leaving in that direction. However, we then had to cut across the jungle to get onto the road to Seringapatam, which was my real destination. The elephant was Runjeet’s idea as it would make sure people noticed me leaving town and was also the ideal transport for moving through the forest between the two roads. With Tara came her mahout and his family: a wife, a five-year-old girl and a baby the wife carried on her hip. The syce was on hand too with his pony and my horse in case we needed to go a bit faster than the four- to five-miles-an-hour speed of an elephant. A couple of Runjeet’s cousins were also there on horseback and well armed as bodyguards. I had a pair of pistols tucked into my belt too, just in case Scindia’s men somehow caught up with us early.