Flashman and the Cobra

by Robert Brightwell

  As the midday heat built on the third day, the horse and I found some shade beneath a rocky overhang and settled down to rest. I don’t know about the horse, but I certainly did not hear the other horsemen as they approached and slowly surrounded where I was sleeping.

  “Good afternoon,” a voice said in perfect English as its owner kicked my foot to wake me.

  “Eh, what’s that?” I said, waking. Then automatically I said, “Good afternoon to you too...” But these final words tailed off as I realised that I was surrounded by armed men and had just given away the fact that I was an Englishman. I stared around in alarm and gave a slight groan of despair. All that effort to escape but now my head would be taken anyway.

  “Don’t worry,” said the stranger. “I am sure that you are not the person whose head my master seeks.” And with that he winked at me. “But I have heard tell of another brave Englishman who bayoneted a tiger to death and then escaped five hundred pindaree. So I thought, when I cross into Hyderabad, if I see this man, I will recruit him. For being here on his own, he is surely looking to enlist into the Mahratta army, like many Europeans before him.” Now he gave me an encouraging smile and added, “Is that not so?”

  Once again my brain was struggling to keep up. Quite why I was being recruited instead of being killed I did not understand, but I knew the right response to the question. “Absolutely, old boy, desperate to join up I am. Just show me the way to the recruiting office.”

  “Steady,” said my new friend, suddenly looking grim. “Understand this clearly. While I may not always approve of my master’s methods and I respect men of great courage, I have taken my master’s salt and given my oath to serve. If I find out you are this Flashman, I will be obliged to have you killed. So, my friend, what is your name?”

  “Teddy, I mean Edward Carstairs,” I said without hesitation.

  “Welcome to the army of Daulat Rao Scindia,” said my new friend, putting out his hand for me to shake. “I am James Skinner.”

  Nowadays all India hands have heard of James Skinner, the famous leader who set up his yellow-jacketed cavalry regiments known for their courage and skill, but back then he was just another of Scindia’s officers.

  [Editor’s note: The regiment known as Skinner’s Horse has survived to this day and is now an armoured unit in the present Indian army.]

  He knew full well who I was, but while I gave him scope not to know, he could choose to ignore the blindingly obvious fact that I was the man with the golden head. I wasn’t so sure about his men, though, for a few of them were giving me deuced odd looks. One of them was also looking closely at the markings on my horse and shouted something to Skinner, who barked a reply back. A moment later there was a gunshot and the horse was dead on the ground.

  “It had pindaree markings that would have been difficult to explain if people saw them,” said Skinner. “We will give you a horse and clothes to match your status as one of Prince Scindia’s officers.”

  Within moments a fresh mount was provided and a new uniform jacket to match those of the rest of the troopers. I stripped off my pindaree rig and gathered what few possessions I wanted to keep. I was still wearing my Company cavalry breeches and shirt and so soon looked more like a soldier.

  “Ah, that is better,” said Skinner. “Now we can resume our journey. Come and join me at the head of the column and we can talk.”

  So began one of the more bizarre conversations I have ever had.

  “I was wondering,” said Skinner, “if by chance you had spoken to this Flashman fellow? For I heard that he met my old commander, de Boigne, and I would be interested to know how the general was.”

  “I did meet him, yes,” I replied. “And he told me that the general is well. De Boigne has married again and lives in Paris now, where he is much respected by the French government.”

  “That is good to hear. My master is trying to stop a rumour but there are enemies in his household and the rumour is already abroad. There were previously stories that my master tried to kill the general when he left, but now there are stories that my master was responsible for the old Pateil’s death too.”

  “Old Patiel?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Apologies, patiel means village headman; it was how my previous lord, Mahadji Scindia, liked to be known. He never forgot his humble beginnings despite uniting the whole Mahratta confederacy with de Boigne.”

  “Yes, that is what de Boigne said, at least according to the Flashman fellow, and I think he can be trusted on that point.”

  We rode on silence for a while and then Skinner said, “It does not matter that this Flashman did not complete his mission, for the rumour is already out and there are already enough rifts among the Mahratta. Have you heard of a chief called Holkar?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “He is a cowardly jackal, but he is shrewd and already he has broken with Scindia and says he will not fight the British. I suspect he hopes that the British and the other Mahratta will fight and weaken each other so that he can then take more land.”

  We rode in silence a while longer and then Skinner continued, “These men are my personal escort and each of them can be trusted. I think it would be best if you became my escort commander; that way you can stay close. I have recently visited my sister, a Mrs Templeton in Calcutta, I have two other sisters also married to Company officers and my father lives in British territory. I like to visit them regularly. As my escort commander you would naturally accompany me. If you chose to stay once we are there, it would be entirely understandable.”

  “Are we going to one of your relatives now?” I asked hopefully.

  “For you, sadly not. I have been given command of a regiment based in Meerut and that is where we must go. It is about a hundred miles north-east of Delhi,” he added, seeing that the name of the town meant nothing to me.

  “But that is in the heart of Mahratta country,” I croaked.

  “Indeed,” smiled Skinner. “Which is why I thought it best to keep you close. But you are free to strike out again on your own if you prefer.”

  Of course I didn’t. I would be safer with Skinner and his men than on my own. I was feeling damn nervous about going into the centre of the enemy territory, but it seemed I did not have a choice. I just had to hope that if I kept my head down then in time I would be able to make my escape.

  Chapter 15

  The journey to Meerut was in many ways similar to travelling with Poorun and the Rajputs in terms of routine. I rode up alongside James Skinner for most of the way and found out a lot about him. His father had been a Scottish officer in the East India Company army who had married a high-ranking Rajput woman. Together they had six children, three boys and three girls. James’s oldest brother, David, had gone to sea, but his younger brother, Robert, was also a soldier, serving another warlord. Tragically the gulf between the cultures of his parents proved too much. While his mother had been happy for her sons to have an education, her husband wanted an education for his daughters too. In Rajput culture it would dishonour a girl to be seen outside the care of her female relatives. When the girls were taken to school their mother felt that they had been violated and so killed herself. James was twelve when this happened and it must have had a big impact on him. He was educated at boarding school for the children of Company officers but was also given an education in his Indian culture too. As a result he could read and write in perfect English, Hindi and Persian.

  His father had ensured that he had a good understanding of both cultures and he seemed remarkably well-balanced as a result. He was a man of great personal integrity, which is why he had kept an eye out for me on his return journey to his regiment. Professing to be a Christian, in a battle a few years ago he had taken a vow to build a church if he survived. When I knew him he was yet to carry out this undertaking but he mentioned it to me as something he fully intended to do. He did it as well and was later buried in his own church. But his Christian faith did not extend to matrimony where he took a more
Indian approach, taking numerous wives and fathering many children. He truly was a man who bridged two cultures.

  On the journey to Meerut I also gained a greater understanding of the Mahratta army. The pindaree were certainly not representative of Scindia’s forces and indeed the professional soldiers despised these bandits, who were as likely to rob their own side as the enemy given the chance.

  “The only places that are truly safe from their ravages are Gwalior and Sardhana,” Skinner told me one day.

  “What is so special about those places?” I asked.

  “Gwalior is Scindia’s original base before he moved to Delhi. As for Sardhana, that is the begum of Samru’s territory and she would have their balls for kebabs if the devils raided there.”

  “Why would a woman frighten the pindaree? Wouldn’t they see a woman ruler as a soft target?”

  Skinner laughed. “There is nothing soft about the begum. I know for my brother Robert works for her. Oh, there must have been something soft when she was a girl, for the story goes that she was a nautch dancer. She had something soft to attract a mercenary called Walter Sombre. She was fourteen then and he was forty-five and a commander of a mercenary army that was for hire to local warlords. There were four battalions totalling about 2,000 men. They married, and despite her age she won the respect of all the key commanders in her husband’s army and often used to advise Sombre. She was just twenty-five when her husband died but she was so well-established that she was accepted as the new commander of the army.”

  “Did she not remarry?”

  “Oh, she tried, but the army mutinied at the thought of their commander marrying one of her French officers. There are lots of rumours about what happened next. Some say she was fleeing to the British and some say she tricked her new husband to get rid of him and stay in power.”

  “What happened?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Well, Robert says they were married but the army caught up with them when they were trying to make their escape. It seems that they had agreed a suicide pact in case they were captured; at least her new husband, called Le Vassoult, thought they had. As the soldiers crowded round she brandished a knife and screamed and then there was blood on her clothes. Le Vassoult thought she had killed herself and blew his brains out with a pistol. It turned out she had just scratched herself and in a few days she was back in command of the army.”

  “A cunning lady then. How does she get on with Scindia?”

  “He is wary of her. He knows that she would make a very dangerous enemy. The old Mughal emperor also views her as a daughter after she helped quell two rebellions against him. No, Scindia does not need any more enemies. You will get a good idea of how unstable things are when we get to Meerut.”

  He was not wrong there, for even before we got to Meerut we had started to hear rumours of a battle at Poona. Holkar, the Mahratta leader who would not join the Scindia alliance against the British, had accelerated the break-up of the Mahratta Confederation by attacking another Mahratta leader called the peshwa, who had fled to the British for protection.

  “Mr Carstairs, your friend Flashman could not have done a better job of breaking up the Confederation or giving the British an excuse to invade,” murmured Skinner with a grim smile when he heard the news. “The sooner we get to Meerut, the better, but it might be a while before I am able to visit my family again if war is imminent. But then if the British attack the Mahratta states, it might be easier for you to cross the lines.”

  We had been travelling in the Mahratta states for two weeks by then and once we were out of the north of Hyderabad the countryside was less ravished by pindaree and looked more prosperous.

  One morning Skinner woke me up by saying “Happy Christmas, Edward Carstairs” and he gave me a small cloth-wrapped gift. It was a gold ring, a typically generous gift from this big-hearted man, and I regretted that I had nothing to give him in return. He brushed this aside and said that my friendship was enough of a gift in the circumstances. I realised that I had then been travelling for two months, with various bands of companions. Thoughts of Christmas brought memories of home too. This was my first Christmas outside Europe, and fleeing across a strange country under a false name and in fear of my life did not seem an ideal way to partake of the festivities. That said, it was only slightly less dangerous than the traditional Boxing Day hunt at home. Tearing across the countryside amongst a huge crowd of drunken horsemen with a massive hangover and yapping dogs. There were falls and broken bones every year and two riders have been killed in my time alone. I cannot remember us ever taking a fox. Mind you, I normally dropped out to water myself and my horse at an inn early on in the proceedings.

  At Skinner’s suggestion I changed my appearance again on the journey. European officers did not normally have beards, but going back to clean-shaven may remind people of any descriptions of Flashman that had been issued. He proposed that I shave off the beard but retain a moustache and side whiskers, which I did, and judging from my reflection in a scrap of mirror I borrowed, I looked damned dashing as a result.

  We reached Meerut in early January and the town had the appearance of a kicked hornet’s nest, with everyone bustling about but no obvious order. The latest news was that the peshwa had signed a treaty the previous month, ceding territory and power to the British. The peshwa was the nominal leader of the Mahratta, although in practice the power was with more powerful warlords like Scindia and Holkar. The Mughal emperor was old and blind and in effect he had no power either these days. Yes, Mahratta politics were damn confusing, as the people who had the titles of rulers such as emperor and peshwa didn’t or couldn’t actually rule. The real power was held by a crowd of smaller princelings and warlords who were now also fighting amongst themselves.

  Dowlat Rao Scindia was only twenty-four then and Holkar was twenty-seven. There had been a longstanding feud between the two families which the new young rulers had continued. Holkar had destroyed one of the armies Scindia had sent to attack him, while Scindia’s forces had raised to the ground Holkar’s capital of Indore. Scindia was not the only one to use pindaree; Holkar sent hordes of these bandits against both Scindia and the peshwa. In return Scindia had captured a member of the Holkar family and had him executed by being crushed under the feet of an elephant.

  Holkar had sworn revenge and to my mind he seemed to be playing the far smarter game. He had a much smaller standing army, having to rely largely on pindaree and other bandit tribes from the north. By staying out of the Mahratta alliance and then engineering a situation where the other Mahratta would have to fight the British, he was effectively weakening all of his potential enemies. Once the British and Mahratta had fought each other to a standstill then his bandit armies could sweep in and plunder their territories at will and Holkar would replace Scindia as leader of the Mahratta.

  Everyone now expected war but it would take months for the British to gather their forces and more importantly the logistics that could support their army on the long march north. This all meant that I would have to lie low amongst Scindia’s army for several months before I could make my escape. Initially this seemed a worrying prospect, but as we arrived at the Skinner bungalow I could see that it would have its attractions. For three of the prettiest women I had ever seen rushed out and greeted James Skinner very warmly. Whether they were all his wives I was not sure, but from the strength of their greeting I was pretty certain that they were more than good friends. He introduced me as Teddy Carstairs and they greeted me more formally, although one seemed to pass an appreciative eye over me and my new whiskers. Hello, thinks I, maybe this new face furniture will serve as something more than a disguise. It did too, and that very night, although it left an awkward situation afterwards.

  After months on the road Skinner turned in early and his little harem disappeared with him. It seemed his brother officers had tactfully stayed clear on the first night of his return. So apart from a few servants, I tooled around the rest of the bungalow alone. I drank brandy and
smoked on the veranda and tried to ignore the occasional ardent noises coming from the back of the house.

  We had been passing through Mahratta territory for weeks now and I had got used to playing the part of Teddy Carstairs with Skinner to back me up, but nobody had paid me much attention. Now, though, I was in one of Scindia’s main garrison towns and people would look at me more closely. Scindia himself was less than a hundred miles away in Delhi. There were still people looking for Thomas Flashman; the price remained on my head. But finding me was now less important as Holkar’s actions had done more than I ever could to break up the Mahratta confederacy. Whatever happened, I was going to be in the heart of Mahratta territory for several months, one of their most-wanted men disguised as a new officer recruit. I was going to have to act the whole time and a single slip could be fatal. Of course since then I have acted many parts, from a colonel in Napoleon’s army to a Spanish guerrilla and even a Patagonian llama farmer (and try saying that after a skinful of fermented Patagonian llama milk). But back then my only acting had been of a Spanish peasant while acting as a courier in Spain. That had ended disastrously after half an hour as my mission had been betrayed in London and my enemies were waiting for me. So you can understand my apprehension as I strolled up and down that veranda and speculated on the future. I could survive but I would have to be damn careful and lucky to carry this off.

  When things had quietened down I retired to my room and it was a delight to sleep on a proper bed again. I must have been sleeping soundly as it was only when the girl climbed into the bed beside me that I woke up. The room was totally dark, but in the moment of awakening I was able to determine that the intruder was female, as slim as any of Skinner’s harem and wearing nothing but a veil. She giggled as she ran her hand over my body, but she said nothing at all. After months with nothing to ride but a horse it took but a moment for her to coax me to attention and then she was astride and writhing away in a most diverting manner. Now fully awake I decided to show off what I had learnt from the Hindu temples with Mrs Freese and she was soon stifling muffled squeals of delight as we rolled around the bed. Then we upset a bedside table as I tried the monkey god position with just one foot on the floor. She must have seen the same carvings for while I could only feel her body rather than see it, she managed to contort her limbs in the most amazing manner. She had a leg halfway up my back while she bounced around like a jumping Maasai warrior with a scorpion in his loincloth. The delicate bedside table was little more than matchwood when we had finished.