Читать книгу Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 16

If you’ve read Robinson Crusoe you may recall a passage where he weighs up his plight on the desert island like a book-keeper, evil on one side, good on t’other. Dispiriting stuff, mainly, in which he croaks about solitude, but concludes that things might be worse, and God will see him through, with luck. Optimism run mad, if you ask me, but then I’ve never been shipwrecked, much, and philosophy in the face of tribulation ain’t my line. But I did use his system on waking that second day in Lahore, because so much had happened in such short space that I needed to set my mind straight. Thus:

EVIL	GOOD
I am cut off in a savage land which will be at war with my own country presently.	I enjoy diplomatic immunity, for what it’s worth, and am in good health, but ruined.
An attempt has been made to assassinate me. These buggers would sooner murder people than eat their dinners.	It failed, and I am under the protection of the queen bee, who rides like a rabbit. Also, Gardner will look out for me.
My orderly turns out to be the greatest villain since Dick Turpin, and is an American to boot.	Broadfoot chose him, and since I see no reason why he should be hostile to me, I shall watch him like a hawk.
Damn Broadfoot for landing me in this stew, when I could have been safe at home rogering Elspeth.	Rations and quarters are A1, and Mangla sober is a capital mount, though she don’t compare to Jeendan drunk.
If I were a praying man, the Almighty would hear from me in no uncertain terms, and much good it would do me.	Being a pagan (attached C of E) with no divine resources, I shall tread uncommon wary and keep my pepperbox handy.

That was my accounting, cast up in the drowsy hour after Mangla slipped away like a lovely ghost at daybreak, and it could have been worse. My first task must be to make a searching examination of the bold Jassa, or Josiah, before sending off a cypher about him to Broadfoot. So I had him in while I shaved, watching that crafty hill figurehead in my mirror, and listening to the plausible Yankee patter that came out of it. Oddly enough, after the character Gardner had given him, I felt inclined to take him at face value. You see, I’m a knave myself, and know that we wrong ’uns ain’t always bent on mischief; it seemed to me that Jassa, the professional soldier of fortune, was quite likely just marking time in Broadfoot’s employ, as he’d claimed, until something better turned up. The queerest fish swim into the political mill, with not too many questions asked, and I felt I could accept if not trust him. Like Gardner, I was sure he’d had no hand in the plot against my life – if he’d wanted me dead he could have let me drop from the balcony instead of saving me.

It was comforting, too, to have one of my own kind alongside me – and one who knew the Punjab and its politics inside out. “Though how you hoped to pass unrecognised, I don’t see,” says I. “If you were so high under Runjeet, half the country must know you, surely?”

“That was six years ago, behind a full set o’ beard an’ whiskers,” says he. “Clean-shaven, I reckoned to get by – ’cept with Alick, but I planned to keep out o’ his way. But it don’t matter,” he added coolly, “there are no reward notices out for Joe Harlan, here or anywhere else.”

He was such a patent rascal that I took to him – and even now I won’t say I was wrong. He had a fine political nose, too, and had been using it about the Fort that morning.

“Jawaheer seems to be in luck. The whole palace knows he tried to get you, and the talk was that the Maharani would have him arrested. But she had him to her boudoir first thing today, all smiles, embraced him, and drank toasts to his reconciliation to the Khalsa, her maids say. It seems Dinanath and Azizudeen have made his peace for him; they were out talking to the panches at dawn, and Jawaheer’s appearance this afternoon will be a formality. He and the whole royal family will review the troops – and you’ll be invited, no doubt so that you can pass word to Broadfoot that all’s well with the Lahore durbar.” He grinned. “Yes, sir, you’ll have quite a packet of news for Simla. How d’you send out your cyphers – through Mangla?”

“As you said yourself, doctor, why should I tell you what Broadfoot didn’t? Are you really a doctor, by the way?”

“No diploma,” says he frankly, “but I studied surgery back in Pennsylvania. Yep … I’ll bet it’s Mangla; that little puss is in everyone’s pocket, so why not John Company’s? A word of advice, though: cover her all you’ve a mind to, but don’t trust her – or Mai Jeendan.” And before I could damn his impudence he took himself off to change, as he put it, into his mess kit.

That meant his best robes, for our durbar appearance at noon, with Flashy in full fig of frock coat and go-to-meeting roof, making my official bow to little Dalip enthroned in state; you’d not have recognised the lively imp of yesterday in the regal little figure all in silver, nodding his aigretted turban most condescendingly when I was presented by Lal Singh, who was second minister. Jawaheer was nowhere in sight, but Dinanath, old Bhai Ram Singh, and Azizudeen were present, solemn as priests. It was eerie, knowing that they were all well aware that their Wazir had tried to murder me a few hours earlier, and that I’d rioted with their Maharani in this very chamber. There wasn’t so much as a flicker on the handsome, bearded faces; damned good form, the Sikhs.

Behind Dalip’s throne hung a fine lace curtain, the purdah of his mother, the Maharani – it being the custom of quality Indian ladies to seclude themselves, when they ain’t belly-dancing at orgies, that is. By the curtain stood Mangla, unveiled but most modestly dressed, and formal as though we’d never laid eyes on each other. Her duty was to relay conversation to and from her mistress behind the screen, and she did it most properly, welcoming me to Lahore, inviting blessings on my work, and finally, as Jassa had forecast, bidding me to attend his majesty when he reviewed the Khalsa that afternoon.

“You shall ride on an elephant!” squeaks the said majesty, lapsing from kingly dignity for a moment, and then stiffening before the reproving glances of his court. I said gravely that I’d be honoured beyond measure, he shot me a shy little smile, and then I backed from the presence, turning and resuming my tile only when I reached the rug in the doorway, as form demanded. To my surprise, Lal Singh came after me, taking my arm, all smiles, and insisting on giving me a conducted tour of the arsenal and foundry, which were close by the Sleeping Palace. Since I’d spent half the night sporting with his lady love, I found this affability disconcerting, until he took me flat aback by speaking of her with alarming frankness.

“Mai Jeendan had hoped to come out from purdah to greet you after the durbar,” confides he. “Alas, she is a little drunk from toasting her abominable brother, in a vain effort to put some courage into him. You can have no notion what a poltroon he is! The thought of facing the Khalsa quite unmans him, even now when all is settled. But she will certainly send for you afterwards; she has important messages for the envoy of the Sirkar.”

I said I was at her majesty’s service, and he smiled.

“So I have heard.” Seeing me stare, he laughed aloud. “My dear friend, you look at me as though I were a rival! Believe me, with Mai Jeendan there is no such thing! She is no one’s mistress but her own. Let us fortunate fellows thank God for it. Now, you shall give me your opinion of our Punjabi muskets – are they not a match for Brown Bess?”

At the time, I was all suspicion; only later did I realise that Lal Singh meant every word he said – and Mai Jeendan was the least of what he wanted to tell me that day. When we’d examined the small arms, stocked in impressive numbers, and the forges, and the casting of a great white-hot nine-pounder gun, and the rain of lead hitting the steaming vats in the shot tower, and I’d agreed that the Khalsa’s armoury compared well with our own, he took me by the arm as we walked, most confidential.

“You are right,” says he, “but arms are not everything. On the day, victory and defeat rest with the generals. If ever the Khalsa took the field, it might well be under my leadership, and Tej Singh’s.” He sighed, smiling, and shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how we should acquit ourselves against … oh, against such a seasoned campaigner as your Sir Hugh Gough. What would you think, Flashman sahib?”

Wondering, I said that Gough wasn’t the most scientific soldier since Boney, but he was probably the toughest. Lal Singh nodded, stroking his beard, and then laughed merrily. “Well, we must hope it is never put to the test, eh? Now, we set out for Maian Mir in an hour – may I offer you some refreshment?”

They’re so devious, these folk, you never know what they’re up to. Was he hinting that if it came to war, he was ready to fight a cross? Or trying a bamboozle? Or just gassing? Whatever his purpose, he must know that nothing he said could make Gough drop his guard. It was all most interesting, and gave me food for thought until the horns sounded to signal the departure of the royal progress to Maian Mir.

The procession was drawn up outside the Bright Gate, and when I saw it I thought: that’s India. It was Arabian Nights come to life: two battalions of the Palace Guard in their red and yellow silks, and in their midst half a dozen elephants, gorgeously caparisoned in blue and gold saddle-cloths that swept the ground, jewelled harness on their heads, their tusks and even the mahouts’ goads tipped with gold. The howdahs were little coloured palaces topped with minarets and silk canopies which stirred as the great beasts swayed and bellowed, the keepers quieting them as they waited for their royal freight. Horsemen in steel casques that shone like silver in the sunlight rode up and down the elephant line, their sabres drawn; they converged like clockwork to form a lane from the gate for porters who came bearing enormous panniers brimming with coin, preceded by chamberlains who supervised the strapping of the panniers to the howdahs of the third and second elephants. When some of the coins fell in a tinkling shower to the dust, there was a great “Oo-h!” from the crowd assembled to see the show; two or three of the horsemen leaned from their saddles, scooping up the rupees and hurling them over the heads of the rigid guardsmen to the mob, who yelled and scuffled for them – for a country that was supposed to be short of blunt, there seemed to be no lack of pice^a to fling to the beggars.

Two of the chamberlains mounted the third elephant, and now came a little knot of courtiers, led by Lal Singh, all brave in green and gold; they mounted into the fifth howdah, and a chamberlain who’d been shepherding Jassa and me indicated that we should mount the ladder on the fourth beast. We climbed up and as I seated myself the muted grumble of the crowd took on a new note – I knew exactly why: they were asking each other, who’s the foreigner, then, who takes precedence over the royal courtiers? He must be an infidel of note, doubtless the English Queen’s son, or a Jewish moneylender from Karachi; well, give the unbelieving swine a cheer. I doffed my tile, looking out over that astonishing scene: ahead, the great mammoths with their swaying howdahs, and either side the horsemen, the yellow Guards, and beyond a vast sea of brown faces; the walls flanking the Bright Gate were black with spectators, as were the buildings behind, with the great column of the Summum Boorj towering over all. The baying of the crowd rose again, and now there was a disturbance below my elephant, the yellow line of Guardsmen breaking to let in a wild figure who capered and waved to me: he was a burly Ghazi of a fellow, bandoliered and bearded to the eyebrows, yelling in Pushtu:

“Ai-ee, Bloody Lance! It is I, Shadman Khan! Remember me? Salaam, soldier, heep-heep-heep-hoorah!”

Well, I didn’t remember him, but plainly he was someone from the old days, so I lifted my lid again, calling: “Salaam, Shadman Khan!” and he shouted with delight and yelled, in English: “Stand fast, foortee-foorth!” – and in an instant I was looking down on the bloody snow over Gandamack, with the remnants of the 44th being cut down by the tribesmen swarming over their position … and I wondered which side he’d been on then. (I’ve since remembered that there was a Shadman Khan among those ruffians who held me in Gul Shah’s dungeon, and yet another among the band who saved me from the Thugs at Jhansi in ’57 and stole our horses on the way to Cawnpore. I wonder if they were all the same man. It has no bearing on my present tale, anyway; it was just an incident at the Bright Gate. But I think it was the same man; everybody changed sides in the old days.)

Now there was a sudden hush, broken by the strains of sweet music, and out from the Bright Gate came a native band, followed by a tiny figure in cloth of gold, mounted on a white pony; a thunderous salaam rolled out from the waiting crowd: “Maharaj’! Maharaj’!” as little Dalip was lifted from his saddle by a richly-clad courtier whom I recognised with a shock as Jawaheer Singh. He seemed sober enough now, and I’ve never seen a man grin so eagerly as he perched Dalip on his shoulder and gestured to the crowd, inviting their acclaim. They roared willingly enough, but I detected an undertone of groans which I imagine were meant for Jawaheer himself. He mounted with Dalip to the first elephant, and then out from the gate stalks Gardner, staring grimly right and left, and followed by a party of his black robes, guarding a palki^b beside which Mangla walked unveiled. It stopped, and she drew the curtains and handed out the Maharani Jeendan: she was all in shimmering white, and although she wore a gauzy purdah veil I believe I’d have recognised that hourglass figure anywhere. She’d got over her drunk, by the looks of it, for she walked steadily to the second elephant, and Gardner handed her up to an absolute bellow of cheering – there’s no doubt about it, all the world loves Nell Gwynn. Mangla mounted beside her, and then Gardner stepped back and surveyed the procession, your good bodyguard alert for trouble. His eye passed over me and lingered for a moment on Jassa; then he had given the signal, the band struck up a march, the elephant lurched and bellowed beneath us, and off we swayed with a great creaking of harness and jingling of outriders, while the mob roared again and the dust swirled up from the tramp of the Guardsmen.

We skirted under the high city walls, thronged with folk who threw blossoms and shouted blessings on the little Maharaja; they were swarming like bees on the ramparts of the Kashmir Gate, and then as we rounded the angle of the wall beneath the huge Half-moon Battery there came from far ahead the report of cannon – a continuous rumble of firing, one gun after another (a hundred and eighty, I’m told, though I didn’t count ’em). The elephants squealed in alarm, and the howdahs bucked from side to side so hard that we had to cling on to prevent being pitched out, with the mahouts flat on their beasts’ heads, steadying them with goad and voice. As we came under the Delhi Gate the firing ceased, to be replaced by a distant measured tread, thousands of marching men, and I craned out to look as the procession swung away from the city, and saw an astonishing sight.

Coming towards us, all in immaculate line, were four battalions of the Khalsa, a solid wall of infantry half a mile from wing to wing, the dust rising before them in a low cloud, their drummers and standard bearers to the fore. I didn’t know it then, but they were absolutely marching on Lahore to bring Jawaheer out by force, having lost patience after waiting for him all day; you could almost read the purpose in the grim inexorable approach of that disciplined host, the green jackets of Sikh infantry and the blue turbans of the Dogras on the left, the scarlet coats and shakos of regular foot on the right.

Our procession slowed and half-halted, but with the howdahs of Jeendan and the chamberlains in front I couldn’t see what was happening with Jawaheer – I could hear him, though, shouting shrilly, and the armoured horsemen converged on his elephant, while the yellow Guardsmen tramped stolidly on. Our procession forged ahead towards the centre of the Khalsa line, and just as it seemed as though we must collide the advancing host split into two, wheeling into columns which advanced down either side of us – and I’ve never seen anything to match it for drill, not even on Horse Guards. I watched them striding by beyond our yellow Guardsmen, and wondered for a moment if they meant to pass us altogether, but a burly rissaldar-major came tearing out on the flank, reining in midway down the procession, rose in his stirrups, and at the exact moment bawled in a voice you could have heard in Delhi: “Battalions – abou-tah!”

There was the tremendous one-two-three-four crash as they marked time and turned – and then they were marching with us, a solid mass of two thousand infantry on either flank, shakos and red coats to the right, blue and green turbans to the left. Well, thinks I, whether Jawaheer takes it for a prisoner’s escort or a guard of honour, he can’t complain that they haven’t received him in style. I could hear him, crying “Shabash!” in compliment, and on the elephant ahead of us the chamberlains were on their feet, scooping up rupees in little hand-shovels, and hurling them over the yellow Guardsmen at the Khalsa battalions. They glittered in the air like silver rain, falling among the marching Sikhs – and not a man wavered in his step or even glanced aside. The chamberlains shovelled away for dear life, emptying the panniers and spraying the dust with their rupees, screaming to the troops that this was the gift of their loving monarch and his Wazir, Raja Jawaheer Singh, God bless him, but for all the heed the Khalsa paid it might as well have been bird-droppings, and behind me I heard Jassa mutter: “Save your dollars, boys, they ain’t buying you a thing.”

Another roar from the rissaldar-major and the escorting battalions crashed to a halt, stock-still in the swirling dust. Our procession lumbered on, wheeling left as we emerged from between those grim ranks, and as our beast turned to follow the leaders, there all of a sudden on our right flank was the whole Khalsa, drawn up in review, horse, foot, and guns, squadron upon squadron, battalion upon battalion, as far as the eye could see.

I’d seen it before, and been impressed; what I felt now was awe. Then it had been at exercise; now it was dead still, at attention, eighty thousand men and not a movement except for the gentle stirring of the standards before the battalions, the flutter of pennons on the lances at rest, and the occasional tossing of a horse’s mane. And it’s strange: the tramp of our Guardsmen and the groaning of the elephants’ harness must have been loud enough to wake the dead, but all I remember now is the silence as we passed slowly before that tremendous army.

There was a sudden shrill voice from the second elephant, and damme if Jeendan and Mangla weren’t flinging out baksheesh, too, as the chamberlains had done, and calling out to the soldiers to accept their bounty, to remember their oaths to the Maharaja, and to stand true to their salt for the honour of the Khalsa. Still not a man moved, and as the women’s voices died away I felt a chill in spite of the heat of the westering sun, and then someone shouted a command to halt, and the elephants lumbered to a standstill.

There was a little cluster of tents ahead, beside the leading beast, and a group of senior officers before it. Akalis were moving down the line, shouting to the mahouts to dismount, and as our elephant sank to its knees I felt nothing but relief – you’re uncomfortably conspicuous in a howdah, I can tell you, especially with eighty thousand bearded graven images glaring blindly at you from point-blank range. There was a clatter of hooves, and there was Gardner by the second elephant, ordering servants who helped Jeendan and Mangla down and led them towards one of the pavilions, where handmaidens were waiting to receive them – pretty butterfly figures in silks and gauzes altogether out of place before that great martial host in leather and serge and steel. Gardner caught my eye and jerked his head, and without waiting for a ladder I dropped to the ground with as much dignity as I could, clutching my topper in place. Jassa followed, and I saw that Lal Singh and the courtiers had also descended. I walked towards Gardner’s horse, and noticed that only Jawaheer’s elephant was still standing; he was sitting in the howdah, clutching little Dalip to him and complaining shrilly to the Akalis who were angrily ordering his mahout to make the elephant kneel.

Another order was shouted, and now the yellow Guardsmen began to march away, the armoured horsemen cantering ahead of them. At this Jawaheer was on his feet, demanding to know where his escort was going, shouting to his mahout not to take the elephant down; he was in a great passion, and as his head turned I caught the gleam of the great diamond in his turban aigrette – Good Lord, that’s Jeendan’s belly-button, thinks I, how it does get about … and now Gardner was leaning down from his saddle and addressing me rapidly in English:

“Go and help the Maharaja down – go on, man, quickly! It’ll please the troops – make a fine impression! Get him, Flashman!”

It all happened in split seconds. There I was, aware only that Jawaheer was in a fine taking about the reception he was receiving, that Gardner was making what sounded like an excellent diplomatic suggestion – kindly old John Bull giving the heathen princeling a piggy-back before his powers assembled, and all that – but even as he spoke I saw that an Akali had scrambled up into the howdah and seemed to be trying to pull Dalip away; Jawaheer screamed, the Akali hit him in the face, Jawaheer dropped the child and cowered away, there was a zeep! of drawn steel at my back – and I started round to find half a dozen Sikhs almost on top of me, tulwars drawn and yelling blue murder.

I didn’t wait to advise Gardner to help the Maharaja down himself. I was past his horse like a stung whippet – and ran slap into the elephant’s arse, fell back with a yell of terror into the path of the charging Sikhs, made a dive to get under the elephant’s trailing saddle-cloth, stumbled and became entangled, struggled free – and something hit me an almighty blow across the shoulders, driving me to my knees. I clutched wildly behind me, and found myself with little Dalip in my arms, fallen from aloft, and a mob of raging madmen hurling me aside to get at the elephant.

There was a choking scream from overhead, and there was Jawaheer sprawling over the side of the howdah, arms outstretched, with a spear shaft buried in his chest, blood spewing from his mouth and showering down on me. The attackers were swarming into the howdah, slashing at him; suddenly his face was a bloody mask, his turban slipped from his head, a great length of blood-sodden silk snaking down at me. Gardner’s horse reared above me, men were yelling and women shrieking, I could hear the hideous sound of the tulwars cutting into Jawaheer’s body, and still he was screaming and blood was everywhere, in my eyes and mouth, on the gold coat of little Dalip in my arms – I tried to throw him away, but the young blighter had me fast round the neck and wouldn’t leave go. Someone seized me by the arm – Jassa, a pistol in his free hand. Gardner urged his horse between us and the slaughter, knocking Jassa’s pistol from his grasp and shouting to him to get us away, and I blundered towards the tents with that confounded infant hanging from my neck – and not a sound out of him, either.

The turban cloth had draped itself across my face, and as I dragged the disgusting thing clear and sank to my knees, Dalip still clung to me with one hand, and in the other, dripping with his uncle’s gore, was the great diamond that had fallen from Jawaheer’s aigrette. How the brat had got hold of it, God knows, but there it was, almost filling his small hand, and he stared at me with great round eyes and piped: “Koh-i-Noor! Koh-i-Noor!” Then he was whisked away from me, and as I came to my feet I saw he was clasped in his mother’s arms beside the tent, bloodying her veil and white sari.

“Oh, my Christ!” groans Jassa, and I looked past him and saw Jawaheer, crimson from head to foot, slide over the side of the howdah and fall headlong in the dust with his life flooding out of him – and still those fiends hacked and stabbed at his corpse, while some even emptied their muskets and pistols into it, until the air was thick with the reek of black powder smoke.

It was Gardner who hustled us to one of the smaller tents while his black robes surrounded Jeendan, Dalip, and the screeching women, shepherding them to the main pavilion. He cast a quick glance at the mob struggling about Jawaheer’s corpse, and then twitched our tent curtain shut. He was breathing hard, but cool as you please.

“Well, how d’ye like that for a drumhead court-martial, Mr Flashman?” He laughed softly. “Khalsa justice – the damned fools!”

I was a-tremble at the shocking, sudden butchery of it. “You knew that was going to happen?”

“No, sir,” says he calmly, “but nothing in this country surprises me. By the holy, you’re a sight! Josiah, get some water and clean him up! You’re not wounded? Good—now, lie low and be quiet, both of you! It’s over and done, see? The damned fools – listen to ’em, celebrating their own funerals! Now, don’t you budge till I come back!”

He strode out, leaving us to collect our breath and our wits – and if you wonder what my thoughts were as Jassa sponged the blood from my face and hands, I’ll tell you. Relief, and some satisfaction that Jawaheer was receipted and filed, and that I’d come away with nothing worse than a ruined frock coat. Not that they’d been out to get me, but when you walk away from a scrimmage of that sort, you’re bound to put it down on Crusoe’s good side, in block capitals.

Jassa and I shared my flask, and for about half an hour we sat listening to the babble of shouting and laughter and feux de joie of the murderers’ celebration, and the lamentations from the neighbouring tent, while I digested this latest of Lahore’s horrors and wondered what might come of it.

I suppose I’d seen the signs the previous day, in the rage of the Khalsa panches, and Jawaheer’s own terrors last night – but this morning the talk had been that all was well … aye, designed, no doubt, to bring him out to the Khalsa in false hope, to a doom already fixed. Had his peacemakers, Azizudeen and Dinanath, known what would happen? Had his sister? Had Jawaheer himself known, even, but been powerless to avert it? And now that the Khalsa had shown its teeth … would it march over the Sutlej? Would Hardinge, hearing of yet another bloody coup, decide to intervene? Or would he still wait? After all, it was nothing new in this horrible country.

I didn’t know, then, that Jawaheer’s murder was a turning-point. To the Khalsa, it was just another demonstration of their own might, another death sentence on a leader who displeased them. They didn’t realise they’d handed power to the most ruthless ruler the Punjab had seen since Runjeet Singh … she was in the next tent, having hysterics so strident and prolonged that the noisy mob outside finally gave over celebrating and looting the gear from the royal procession; the shouting and laughter died away, and now there was the sound of her voice alone, sobbing and screaming by turns – and then it was no longer in her tent, but outside, and Gardner slipped back through our curtain, beckoning me to join him at the entrance. I went, and peered out.

It was full dark now, but the space before the tents was lit bright as day by torches in the hands of a vast semi-circle of Khalsa soldiery, thousands strong, staring in silence at the spot where Jawaheer’s body still lay on the blood-soaked earth. The elephants and the regiments had gone; all that remained was that great ring of bearded, silent faces (and one of ’em was wearing my tall hat, damn his impudence!), the huddled corpse, and kneeling over it, wailing and beating the earth in an ecstasy of grief, the small white-clad figure of the Maharani. Close by, their hands on their hilts and their eyes on the Khalsa, a group of Gardner’s black robes stood guard.

She flung herself across the body, embracing it, calling to it, and then knelt upright again, keening wildly, and began to rock to and fro, tearing at her clothing like a mad thing until she was bare to the waist, her unbound hair flying from side to side. Before that dreadful uncontrolled passion the watchers recoiled a step; some turned away or hid their faces in their hands, and one or two even started towards her but were pulled back by their mates. Then she was on her feet, facing them, shaking her little fists and screaming her hatred.

“Scum! Vermin! Lice! Butchers! Coward sons of dishonoured mothers! A hundred thousand of you against one – you gallant champions of the Punjab, you wondrous heroes of the Khalsa, you noseless bastard offspring of owls and swine who boast of your triumphs against the Afghans and the prowess you’ll show against the British! You, who would run in terror from one English camp sweeper and a Kabuli whore! Oh, you have the courage of a pack of pi-dogs, to set on a poor soul unarmed – aiee, my brother, my brother, my Jawaheer, my prince!” From raging she was sobbing again, rocking from side to side, trailing her long hair across the body, then stooping to cradle the horrid thing against her breast while she wailed on a tremulous high note that slowly died away. They watched her, some grim, some impassive, but most shocked and dismayed at the violence of her grief.

Then she laid down the body, picked up a fallen tulwar from beside it, rose to her feet, and began slowly to pace to and fro before them, her head turned to watch their faces. It was a sight to shiver your spine: that small, graceful figure, her white sari in rags about her hips, her bare arms and breasts painted with her brother’s blood, the naked sword in her hand. She looked like some avenging Fury from legend as she threw back her hair with a toss of her head and her glare travelled along that silent circle of faces. A stirring sight, if you know what I mean – there’s a picture I once saw that could have been drawn from her: Clytemnestra after Agamemnon’s death, cold steel and brazen boobies and bedamned to you. Suddenly she stopped by the body, facing them, and her voice was hard and clear and cold as ice as she passed her free hand slowly over her breasts and throat and face.

“For every drop of this blood, you will give a million. You, the Khalsa, the pure ones. Pure as pig dung, brave as mice, honoured as the panders of the bazaar, fit only for –” I shan’t tell you what they were fit for, but it sounded all the more obscene for being spoken without a trace of anger. And they shrank from it – oh, there were angry scowls and clenched fists here and there, but the mass of them could only stare like rabbits before a snake. I’ve seen women, royal mostly, who could cow strong men: Ranavalona with her basilisk stare, or Irma (my second wife, you know, the Grand Duchess) with her imperious blue eye; Lakshmibai of Jhansi could have frozen the Khalsa in its tracks with a lift of her pretty chin. Each in her own way – Jeendan did it by shocking ’em out of their senses, flaunting her body while she lashed them quietly with the language of the gutter. At last one of them could take no more of it – an old white-bearded Sikh flung down his torch and cries:

“No! No! It was no murder – it was the will of God!”

Some murmured in support of him, others cried him down, and she waited until they were silent again.

“The will of God. Is that your excuse … you will blaspheme, and hide behind God’s will? Then hear mine – the will of your Maharani, mother of your king!” She paused, looking from one side to the other of the silent crowd. “You will give me the murderers, so that they may pay. You will give them to me, or by that God with whose will you make so free, I shall throw the snake in your bosom!”

She struck the tulwar into the earth on the last word, turned her back on them and walked quickly towards the tents – Clytemnestra as ever was. With this difference, that where Mrs Agamemnon had committed one murder, she was contemplating a hundred thousand. As she passed into her tent the light from within fell full on her face, and there wasn’t a trace of grief or anger. She was smiling.²⁴

a Coppers.

b Litter, usually curtained.