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 25

You never can say you’ve seen anything for the last time. I’d have laid a million to one that I’d not return to that little stand of white poplars south of the Moochee Gate where I’d sat by the fire with Gardner – yet here I was, only a few weeks later, with the flames crackling under the billy-can resting on the self-same red stone with the crack in it. To our right the road was busy with the wayfarers of daybreak; under the great Moochee arch the gates were swung back, they were dousing the night torches, and the guard was changing: an uncommon heavy one, it seemed to me, for I counted twenty helmets in and about the archway, and since our arrival in the small hours there had been endless cavalry patrols circling the city walls, red lancers with green puggarees, and great activity of matchlockmen on the parapets.

“Muslim brigade,” says Jassa. “Yes, sir, she’s got this old town laced up tighter’n Jemima’s stays. Waste o’ time, since any plotters’ll be on the inside – prob’ly in the Fort itself, among her own people. Say, I bet Alick Gardner’s sleepin’ light, though!”

It was our third morning on the road, for we had taken a wide cast south, crossing the Sutlej at a ghat near Mundole to avoid any enemy river watchers, and keep clear of the Khalsa’s main traffic on the upper road through Pettee to Sobraon. We’d ridden in cautious stages, Jassa and I and a trusted Pathan ruffian of Broadfoot’s old bodyguard, Ahmed Shah; Gough had wanted to send an N.C. squadron disguised as gorracharra, but Lawrence had turned it down flat, insisting that they’d be bound to give themselves away, and anyway, if all went well three would be enough, while if it went ill a brigade would be too few. No one would give any heed to three obvious Afghan horse-copers with a string of beasts – and thus far, no one had.

I shan’t weary you with my emotions as we waited, shivering in the frosty dawn, round our fire. I’ll say only that in addition to the blue funk I felt at the mere sight of Lahore’s frowning gates and brooding towers, I had the liveliest misgivings about the plan whereby we were to spirit young Dalip out of the cobra’s nest. It was Gardner’s invention, lined out precisely to Jassa, who had repeated it to Lawrence and Van Cortlandt with Flashy palpitating attentively, and since our tartan Pathan wasn’t there to be argued with, it was a case of take it or leave it. I know which I’d ha’ done, but Lawrence had said it should serve admirably – he wasn’t going to be the one sneaking in and out of Lahore Fort in broad daylight, after all.

That seemed to me an unnecessary lunacy: why the devil couldn’t Gardner, with all his powers as governor, have contrived to smuggle the brat out to us? Jassa had explained that the city was tight as a tanner by night, and the panches’ spies had their eye on little Dalip most of the day; the only hour to lift him was his bedtime, to be out and away before curfew, and have all night to make tracks. And we must go into the Fort to do it, for his mother wouldn’t rest unless she saw him placed under my protective wing. (They’d all avoided my eye at this; myself, I hadn’t liked the sound of it above half.) As to our coming and going at the Fort, Gardner would provide; all we need do was be in the vicinity of Runjeet’s Tomb at noon of this, the third day.

So now you see three Kabuli copers herding their beasts through the dust and bustle of the Rushnai Gate, and setting up shop in a crowded square by the Buggywalla Doudy at midday. Ahmed Shah cried our wares, asking exorbitant prices, since the last thing we wanted was to sell our transport, and I held the brutes’ heads and spat and looked ugly, praying that no one would recognise Jassa with a patch over his eye, and his hair and five-day beard dyed orange. He had no such fears, but loafed about freely with the other idlers, gossiping; as he said, there’s no concealment like open display.

I didn’t see the touch made, but presently he ambled off, and I passed the halters to Ahmed and followed across the great square by the marble Barra Deree to the palace gateway where I’d first seen Gardner months before. There were no Palace Guards on the parapet now, only green-jacketed Muslim musketeers with great curling moustachioes, watchful as vultures, who scowled down at the crowds loitering in the square. There must have been several thousand gathered, and enough Sikhs in assorted Khalsa coats among them to set my innards churning; they did nothing but stare up at the walls, muttering among themselves, but you could feel the sullen hostility hanging over the place like a cloud.

“She ain’t venturing abroad this weather, I reckon,” murmurs Jassa as I joined him in the lee of the gateway. “Yep, there’s a sizeable Republican majority right here. Our guide is right behind us, in the palki; when I give the nod, we’ll tote it through the gate.”

I glanced over my shoulder; there was a palki, with its curtains drawn, set down by the wall, but no bearers in sight. So that was how we were to get past the gate guard, who were questioning all incomers; even under my posh-teen I could feel the sweat icy on my skin, and for the twentieth time I fingered the Cooper hidden in my sash – not that six shots would buy much elbow-room if we came adrift.

All of a sudden the mutter of the crowd grew to a babble and then to a roar; they were giving back to make way for a body of marching men advancing across the square from the Hazooree gate on the town side – Sikhs almost to a man, from half the divisions of the Khalsa, some of them with bandaged wounds and powder burns on their coats, but swinging along like Guardsmen behind their golden standard which, to my amazement, was borne by the white-whiskered old rissaldar-major I’d seen at Maian Mir, and again at Jeendan’s durbar. And he was weeping, so help me, the tears running down to his beard, his eyes fixed ahead – and there behind him was Imam Shah, he of the ivory knives, bare-headed and with his arm in a sling. I was in behind Jassa double-quick, I can tell you.

The crowd were in a frenzy, waving and wailing and yelling: “Khalsa-ji! Khalsa-ji!”, showering them with petals as they marched by, but not a man so much as glanced aside; on they went, in column of fours, under the palace archway, with the mob surging behind up to the gate, taking up another cry: “See Delhi! See Delhi, heroes of the Khalsa! Wa Guru-ji – to Delhi, to London!”

“Now, who the hell are they?” whispers Jassa. “I guess maybe we got here just in time – I hope! Come on!”

We laid hold on the palki and shouldered our way through the mob to the gateway, where a Muslim subedar^a barred our way and stooped to question our passenger. I heard a woman’s voice, quick and indistinct, and then he had waved us on, and we carried the palki through the gate – and for all my dread at re-entering that fearsome den, I found myself remembering Stumps Harrowell, who’d been the chairman at Rugby when I was a boy, and how we’d run after him, whipping his enormous fat calves, while he could only rage helplessly between the shafts. You should see your tormentor now, Stumps, thinks I; hoist with his own palki, if you like.

Our passenger was calling directions to Jassa, who was between the front shafts, and presently we bore up in a little secluded court, and out she jumped, walking quickly to a low doorway which she unlocked, motioning us to follow. She led us up a long, dim passage, several flights of stairs, and more passages – and then I knew where we were: I had been conducted along this very way to Jeendan’s rose boudoir, and I knew that pretty little rump stirring under the tight sari …

“Mangla!” says I, but she only beckoned us on, to a little ill-furnished room where I’d never been. Only when she had the door closed did she throw off her veil, and I looked again on that lovely Kashmiri face with its slanting gazelle eyes – but there was no insolence in them now, only fear.

“What’s amiss?” snaps Jassa, scenting catastrophe.

“You saw those men of the Khalsa – the five hundred?” Her voice was steady enough, but quick with alarm. “They are a deputation from Tej Singh’s army – men of Moodkee and Ferozeshah. They have come to plead with the Rani for arms and food for the army, and for a leader to take Tej’s place, so that we may still sweep the Jangi lat back to the gates of Delhi!” The way she spat it out, you would have wondered which side she was on; even traitors still have patriotic pride, you see. “But they were not to have audience of the durbar until tomorrow – they have come before their time!”

“Well, what of it?” says I. “She can fob them off – she’s done it before!”

“They were not a beaten army then. They had not been led to defeat by Tej and Lal – or learned to mistrust Mai Jeendan herself. Now, when they come to durbar and find themselves ringed in by Muslim muskets, and call to her for aid which she cannot give them – what then? They are hungry men, and desperate.” She shrugged. “You say she has wheedled them before – aye, but she is not given to soft words these days. She fears for Dalip and herself, she hates the Khalsa for Jawaheer’s sake, and she feeds her rage on wine. She’s like to answer their mutinous clamour by blackening their faces for them – and who knows what they may do if she provokes them?”

Red murder, like as not – and then we’d have some usurper displacing Tej Singh and reviving the Khalsa for another slap at us. And here was I, back on the lion’s lip, thanks to Gardner’s idiot plots … should I throw in now, and bolt for India? Or could we still get Dalip out before all hell broke loose …?

“When’s the durbar?”

“In two hours, perhaps.”

“Can Gardner bring the boy to us beforehand … now?”

“Run in daylight?” cries Jassa. “We’d never make it!”

Mangla shook her head. “The Maharaja must be seen at the durbar. Who knows, Mai Jeendan may answer them well enough – and if she fails, they may still be quiet, with a thousand Muslims ready to fall on them at a word from Gurdana Khan. Then, when you have seen Mai Jeendan –”

“I don’t need to see her – or anyone, except her blasted son! Tell Gardner –”

“Why, here’s a change!” says she, with a flash of the old Mangla. “You were eager enough once. Well, she wishes to see you, Flashman bahadur, and she will have her way –”

“What the devil for?”

“Affairs of state, belike.” She gave her insolent slow smile. “Meanwhile, you must wait; you are safe here. I shall tell Gurdana, and bring word when the durbar begins.”

And she slipped out, having added bewilderment to my fears. What could Jeendan want with me? I’d thought it rum at the time, her insistence that I should be Dalip’s rescuer – to be sure, the kid liked me, but she’d as good as made me a condition of the plan, to Paddy Gough’s ribald amusement. Coarse old brute. But it couldn’t be that, at such a time … mind you, with partial females, you never can tell, especially when they’re foxed.

But all this was small beer beside the menace of the Khalsa deputies. Could she hocus them again, by playing her charms and beguiling them with sweet words and fair promises?

Well, she didn’t even try, as we saw when Mangla returned, after two hours of fretful waiting, to conduct us to that same spyhole from which I’d watched an earlier durbar. This was a different indaba^b altogether; then, there had been tumult and high spirits, laughter even, but now we heard the angry clamour of the deputation and her shrill replies even before we reached the eyrie, when I saw at a glance that this was an ugly business, with the Mother of All Sikhs on her highest horse and damn the consequences.

The five hundred were in uproar in the main body of the great hall before the durbar screen, but keeping their ranks, and it was easy to see why. They were wearing their tulwars, but round the walls of the chamber there must have been a full battalion of Muslim riflemen, with their pieces at the high port, primed and ready. Imam Shah was standing forward, addressing the screen, with the old rissaldar-major a pace behind; the golden standard lay before the throne on which little Dalip sat in lonely state, the tiny figure brave in crimson, and with the Koh-i-Noor ablaze in his aigret.

Behind the purdah more Muslims lined the walls, and before them stood Gardner, in his tartan fig, the point of his naked sabre resting between his feet. Close by the screen Jeendan was pacing to and fro, pausing from time to time to listen, then resuming her furious sentry-go – for she was in a great rage, and well advanced in liquor, by the look of her. She had a cup in hand, and a flagon on the table, but for once she was modestly clad – as modest, anyway, as a voluptuous doll can be in a tight sari of purple silk, with her red hair unbound to her shoulders, and that Delilah face unveiled.

Imam Shah was in full grievance, shouting hoarsely at the screen. “For three days your faithful Khalsa have lived on grain and raw carrots – they are starving, kunwari, and eaten up with cold and want! Only send them the food and munitions you promised and they will sweep the host of the Jangi lat to –”

“Sweep them as you swept them at Ferozeshah and Moodkee?” cries Jeendan. “Aye, there was a fine sweeping – my waiting women could have swept as heartily!” She waited, head thrown back, for the effect of this. Imam stood in silent anger, and she went on: “Goolab has sent you supplies enough – why, every wheat-porter in Kashmir makes an endless train from Jumoo to the river, laden –”

She was drowned in a roar of derision from the five hundred, and Imam advanced a yard to bawl his answer. “Aye, in single file, on pain of mutilation by the Golden Hen, who makes a brave show of assistance, but sends not breakfast for a bird! Chiria-ki-hazri! That’s what we get from Goolab Singh! If he wishes us well, let him come and lead us, in place of that bladder of lard you made our general! Bid him come, kunwari – a word from you, and he’ll be in the saddle for Sobraon!”

Uproar followed – “Goolab! Goolab! Give us the Dogra for general!” – but still they kept their ranks.

“Goolab is under the heel of the Malki lat, and you know it!” snaps Jeendan. “Even so, there are those among you who would make him Maharaja – my loyal Khalsa!” There was silence on the instant. “You send him ambassadors, they tell me … aye, in breach of your sacred oath! You whine for food on the one hand, and make treason on the other – you, the Khalsa, the Pure …” And she reviled them in fishwife terms, as she had at Maian Mir, until Gardner stepped swifty forward and caught her by the arm. She shook him off, but took the hint – and none too soon, for beyond the screen the five hundred were fingering their hilts, and Imam was black with fury.

“That is a lie, kunwari! No man here would serve Goolab as Maharaja – but he can fight, by God! He does not skulk in his tent, like Tej, or flee like your bed-man Lal! He can lead – so let him lead us! To Delhi! To victory!”

She let the shouting die, and spoke in a cold voice, ringing with scorn: “I have said I will not have Goolab Singh – and he will not have you! Who’s to blame him? Are you worth having, you heroes who strut out to battle with your banners and brave songs – and crawl back whimpering that you are hungry? Can you do nothing but complain –”

“We can fight!” roars a voice, and in a moment they were echoing it, stirring forward in their ranks, shaking their fists, some even weeping openly. They’d come for supplies, and what they were getting was shame and insult. Keep a civil tongue in your head, can’t you, I was whispering, for it was plain they’d had their fill of her abuse. “Give us guns! Give us powder and shot!”

“Powder and shot!” cries Jeendan, and for a moment I thought she was going to be out and at them. “Did I not give you both, and to spare? Arms and food and great guns – never was such an army seen in Hindoostan! And what did you make of it? The food you’ve guzzled, the British have your great guns, and the arms you flung away, doubtless, as you ran cheeping like mice – from what? From a tired old man in a white coat with a handful of red-faced infidels and Bengali sweepers!”

Her voice rose to a shriek as she faced the curtain, fists clenched, face contorted, and foot stamping – and beside me Jassa gasped and Mangla gave a little sob as we saw the ranks of the five hundred start forward, and there was steel glittering amongst them. She’d gone too far, the drunken slut, for Imam Shah was on the dais, the Khalsa coats were surging behind him, shouting with rage, Gardner was turning to snap an order, the Muslim muskets were dropping to the present – and Jeendan was fumbling beneath her skirt, swearing like a harpy, there was a rending of cloth, and in an instant she had whirled her petticoat into a ball and hurled it over the screen. It fell at Imam’s feet, draping over his boot – there was no doubting what it was, and in the shocked silence her voice rang out:

“Wear that, you cowards! Wear it, I say! Or I’ll go in trousers and fight myself!”

It was as though they’d been stricken by a spell. While you could count ten there wasn’t a sound. I see them yet – an Akali, his sword half-out, poised like a gladiator’s statue; Imam Shah staring down at the scarlet shift; the old rissaldar-major, mouth open, hands raised in dismay; little Dalip like a graven image on his throne; the mass of men still as death, staring at the screen – and then Imam Shah picked up the golden standard, raised it, and shouted in a voice of thunder:

“Dalip Singh Maharaja! We go to die for your kingdom! We go to die for the Khalsa-ji!” Then he added, almost in a whisper, though it carried round the hall: “We will go to the sacrifice.”

He thrust the standard into the rissaldar-major’s hand – and in that moment, unprompted, little Dalip stood up. A second’s pause, and the whole five hundred roared: “Maharaja! Maharaja! Khalsa-ji!” Then they turned as one man and marched out of the open double doors behind them. Gardner was at the corner of the screen in four quick strides, staring after them, then coming out to take Dalip’s hand. Behind the purdah, Jeendan yawned, shook her red hair and stirred her shoulders as though to ease them, took a deep drink, and began to straighten her sari.

Now that is exactly what I saw, and so did Alick Gardner, as his memoirs testify – and neither of us can explain it. Those Khalsa fanatics, stung to madness by her insults, would have rushed the purdah and cut her down, I’m certain, and been slaughtered by the Muslims; God knows what would have followed. But she threw her petticoat at them, and they went out like lambs, prepared to do or die. “Intuition” on her part, Gardner calls it; very well, it did the business. Mind you, young Dalip stood up at exactly the right time.⁴³

Jassa was breathing relief, and Mangla was smiling. Below us came a series of thunderous crashes as the Muslims ordered arms and began to file out of the chamber. Little Dalip was behind the purdah, being enfolded in Mama’s tipsy embrace, but Gardner had disappeared. Mangla touched my arm, and signing to Jassa to wait, led me up to the rose boudoir – I felt exhausted even looking at it – and through to the passage beyond and a little room which I guessed must be the schoolroom of Dalip and his playfellows, for there were half a dozen little desks, and a blackboard, and even a globe, and fairy-tale pictures on the walls. There she left me, and a moment later Gardner strode in, breathing fire and wonder.

“You saw that just now? Goddam, but that woman’s a bearcat for nerve – a bearcat, sir! Petticoats, by thunder! I wouldn’t ha’ credited it! Sometimes I think …” He paused, eyeing me with a curious frown. “… I think she’s a mite de-ranged, what with drink and … well, no matter. And George Broadfoot’s dead? Well, that’s hard hearing. You didn’t see it? Well, you have one as good in Henry Lawrence, let me tell you that. Maybe even better, as an Agent. Not a better man, mind you. No, sir, they don’t come better than the Black-coated Infidel.”

He was standing, arms akimbo, staring at the floor, and I sensed disturbance – not because he hadn’t greeted me, or made reference to my recent adventures, for that was never his style. But there was something on his mind, for all that he tried to cover it with a show of briskness.

“It’s past four, and you and Josiah must be clear of the gates before six. You’ll go as you came, bearing the palki, but this time Dalip will be your freight, dressed as a girl. My subedar will have the palace gate, so you’ll be clear there. Once beyond the Rushnai, keep to the doab, due south-east, and dawn should see you at Jupindar – it’s about forty miles, and not on the map, but you’ll see it clear enough. It’s a big cluster of black rocks, among low hillocks, the only ones for miles around. There you’ll be met –”

“By whom? Our people? Gough wanted to –”

“By sure people.” He gave me a hard stare. “All you need do is get that far – and I don’t have to tell you that you’re carrying the Punjab on your back. Whoever gets that boy, it must not be the Khalsa, mallum? He’s a good little horseman, by the way, so you can keep up the pace. Dawn, at Jupindar, mind that. Due south-east and you’ll fall over it.”

For the first time, I felt excitement rather than fear. He had it pat, and it would do. We were going to bring it off.

“What else?” says he. “Ah, yes, one thing … Dr Josiah Harlan. I gave him a bad name to you, and he deserved every word. But I allow he’s played a straight hand this time, and I incline to revise my opinion. That being the case, you’d better keep a closer eye on him than ever. Well, that’s all, I guess …” He paused, avoiding my eye. “Once you’ve paid your respects to the Maharani … you can be off.”

Now there was something up. Gardner uneasy was a sight I’d never thought to see, but he was scratching his grizzled beard and keeping his face averted, and I felt a strange foreboding. He cleared his throat.

“Ah … did Mangla say nothing to you? No, well … oh, dooce take it!” He looked me full in the face. “Mai Jeendan wants to marry you! There, now!”

Heaven knows why, my first reaction was to look in the mirror on the classroom wall. A fierce-eyed Khyberie ruffian stared back at me, which was no help. Nor was my recollection of what I looked like when civilised. And possibly the Punjab had exhausted my capacity for astonishment, for once the first shock of that amazing proposal had been absorbed, I felt nothing but immense gratification – after all, it’s one thing to win a maiden heart, and very fine, but when a man-eater who’s sampled the best from Peshawar to Poona cries “Eureka!” over you, well, it’s no wonder if you glance at the mirror. At the same time, it’s quite a facer, and my first words, possibly instinctive, were:

“Christ, she ain’t pregnant, is she?”

“How the devil should I know?” cries Gardner, astonished. “On my word! Now, sir, I’ve told you! So there you are!”

“Well, she can’t! I’m married, dammit!”

“I know that – but she does not, and it’s best she should not … for the moment.” He glared at me, and took a turn round the room, while I sank on to one of the infants’ stools, which gave way beneath me. Gardner swore, yanked me to my feet, and thrust me into the teacher’s chair.

“See here, Mr Flashman,” says he, “this is how it is. Mai Jeendan is a woman of strange character and damned irregular habits, as you’re well aware – but she’s no fool. For years now she’s had it in mind to marry a British officer, as security for herself and her son’s throne. Well, that’s sound policy, especially now when Britain’s hand is on the Punjab. For months past – this is sober truth – her agents in India have been sending her portraits of eligible men. She’s even had young Hardinge’s likeness in her boudoir, God help me! As you know, she has your own – well, ’twas the only one she took to Amritsar, and the rest (a score of ’em) have been with the lumber ever since.”

Nothing to say to that, of course. I kept a straight face, and he took station in front of me, mighty stern.

“Very well, it’s impossible. You have a wife, and even if you hadn’t, I dare say you’d not care to pass your days as consort to an Eastern queen. Myself, while I admire her many good qualities,” says he with feeling, “I’d not hitch with Jeendan for all the cotton in Dixie, so help me Hannah! But she has a deep fondness for you – and this is no time to blight that affection! Northern India’s in the balance, and she’s the pivot – steady enough, but not to be disturbed … in any way.” He stooped suddenly and seized my wrist, staring into my eyes, grim as a frost giant. “So when you see her presently … you will not disappoint her hopes. Oh, she’ll make no direct proposal – that’s not Punjabi royal style. But she’ll sound you out – probably offer you employment in Sikh service, for after the war – with a clear hint of her intentions … to all of which you’d best give eager assent – for all our sakes, especially your own. Hell hath no fury, you remember.” He let go, straightening up. “I guess you know how to …”

“Jolly her along? Oh, aye … by God, it’s a rum go, though! What’ll happen later, when she finds I ain’t a starter?”

“The war’ll be over then, and it won’t signify,” says he bleakly. “I dare say she’ll get over it. Dirty game, politics … she’s a great woman, you know, drunk and all as she is. You ought to be flattered. By the by, have you any aristocratic kinfolk?”

“My mother was a Paget.”

“Is that high style? Better make her a duchess, then. Mai Jeendan likes to think that you’re a lord – after all, she was once married to a Maharaja.”⁴⁴

As it happened, my lineage, aristocratic and otherwise, was not discussed in the rose boudoir, mainly because there wasn’t time. When Gardner had spoken of not disappointing her, I’d supposed (and have no doubt that he meant) that I must not dash her hopes of becoming Mrs Flashman; accordingly, I bowled in prepared for an exchange of nods and becks and coy blushes on her part, and ardent protestations on mine. Only when I stood blinking in the dark, and two plump arms encircled me from behind, that familiar drunken chuckle sounded in my ear, and she turned up the lamp to reveal herself clad only in oil and bangles, did I suspect that further proof of my devotion was required. “I liked you better shaven,” whispers she (which settled that), and Dalip or no Dalip, there was nothing for it but to give eager consent, as Gardner had put it. Luckily she was no protractor of the capital act, as I knew, and I didn’t even need to take my boots off; a quick plunge round the room, horse artillery style, and she was squealing her soul out, and then it was back to the wine-cup and exhausted ecstatic sighs, mingled with tipsy murmurs about the loneliness of widowhood and what bliss it would be to have a man about the house again … fairly incoherent, you understand, but not to be misunderstood, so I responded with rapturous endearments.

“You will abide with me always?” whispers she, nuzzling in, and I said I’d like to see anyone stop me, just. Did I love her truly? Well, to be sure I did. She muttered something about writing to Hardinge, and I thought, by George, that’ll spoil his toast and coffee for him, no error, but mostly it was fond drunken babble and clinging kisses, before she turned over and began to snore.

Well, that’s that, and you’ve done your duty, thinks I, as I repaired the sweet disorder in my dress and slid out – with a last backward glance at that jolly rump glistening in the lamplight. I imagined, you see, that I was looking my last on her, and I do like to carry away happy memories – but twenty minutes later, when Jassa and I were fretting impatiently in the schoolroom, and Gardner was damning Mangla’s tardiness in bringing young Dalip, in comes a waiting woman to say that the kunwari and the Maharaja were awaiting us in her drawing-room. This was a fine apartment close by the boudoir, and there was the Mother of All Sikhs, enthroned in her armchair, as respectable a young matron as ever you saw, and not more than half-soused; how the deuce she’d got into parade order in the time was beyond me.

She was soothing young Dalip, who was standing by in a black fury and a child’s sari, with veil and bangles and a silk shawl round his small shoulders.

“Don’t look at me!” cries he, turning his face away, and she petted him and kissed away his tears, whispering that he must be a Maharaja, for he was going among the White Queen’s soldiers, and must do credit to his house and people.

“And this goes with you, the symbol of your kingship,” says she, and held out a silver locket, with the great Koh-i-Noor glittering in a bed of velvet. She closed the case and hung its chain about his neck. “Guard it well, dearest, for it was your father’s treasure, and remains your people’s honour.”

“With my life, mama,” sobs he, and hung upon her neck. She wept a little, holding him close, and then stood up and led him to me.

“Flashman sahib will take care of you,” says she, “so mind you obey him in all things. Farewell, my little prince, my own darling.” She kissed him and put his hand in mine. “God speed you, sahib – until we meet again.” She extended a hand, and I kissed it; one warm, glassy look she gave me, with that little curl of her thick lips; she was swaying slightly, and her waiting woman had to step lively to steady her.

Then Gardner was bustling us away, with Jassa carrying Dalip for greater speed, and it was bundle-and-go down to the palki in the little court, with Mangla at my elbow insisting that his majesty must eat no oranges, for they gave him the trots, and here was a lotion for the rash on his arm, and a letter for the governess who must be engaged for him in India – “a Kashmiri lady, gentle and well-read, if one can be found, but not some stern English mem-sahib, for he is but a little fellow; I have written of his diet and his lessons.” Kidnapping ain’t just a matter of lifting the infant, you see, and on my other side Gardner was snarling that the gates would be closing in half an hour. We bundled Dalip into the palki, and now he was blubbering that he didn’t want to go, and clinging to Mangla, and Gardner was fuming while two of his black robes scouted ahead to see that all was clear, and Jassa and I got between the shafts, and Mangla kissed me quickly on the cheek, leaving a drift of perfume as she hurried away, and Gardner turned to me in the fading light of the little court.

“Due south-east, forty miles, Jupindar rocks,” snaps he. “I guess we won’t see you in Lahore again, Mr Flashman. If I was you, I’d stay well south of the Sutlej for the next fifty years or so. And that goes double for you, Josiah – you stretched your luck, doctor; come nigh me again and I’m liable to snap it for you! Jao!”

“Yes, you an’ the Continental Congress!” retorts Jassa. “Go change your sentries, Gardner – that’s your sort!”

“Jao, I say!” growls Gardner, and the last I remember of him is the brown hawk face with its fierce moustache, twisted in a sour grin under the tartan puggaree.

We came down to the Buggywalla Doudy just as the sun was dipping behind the Badshai Musjit mosque, through the bustling noisy crowds all unaware that the two stalwart palki-bearers were spiriting their ruler away to the enemy, and him moping fretfully behind the curtains in his little sari and bangles. Ahmed Shah was in a foul humour because he’d had to sell two of our beasts, leaving only five besides our own screws, which meant only one remount for the four of us. We slung the palki between two of the led horses, and when I put my head in to see how Dalip did, he whimpered something piteous.

“Oh, Flashman sahib – when can I put off these garments of shame? See, Mangla has put my man’s clothes in this bag … aye, and cakes and little sweets! She always remembers,” says he, and his lip came out. “Why could she not come with us? Now I shall have no song before I sleep!” And he began to weep. “I wish Mangla were here!”

Mangla, you’ll note, not Mama. Well, I’d not have turned her away myself. “See here, maharaj’,” whispers I, “you’ll put on your own clothes directly, and ride with us like a soldier, but now you must stay close and quiet. And when we come to journey’s end – see what I have for you!” I was far enough within the palki to slip the Cooper from my sash for an instant, and he squeaked and fell back on the cushions, covering his eyes in joy.

We passed under the Rushnai arch even as the chowkidars were crying the curfew, and skirted the city walls to the little stand of white poplars, crimson in the last of the sunset. In the gloaming they were beyond eyeshot of the gate, and we lost no time in rousting out little Dalip, for I wanted him in the saddle without delay, so that we could abandon the cumbersome palki and put distance between us and Lahore.

He tumbled out eagerly, tearing off his sari and veil and scattering his bangles with childish curses, and was shivering in his vest while Jassa helped him into his little jodhpurs, when there was a clatter of hooves, and out of the deepening dusk came a troop of gorracharra, making for the city in haste before the gates closed. There was no time to hide the imp; we must stand pat while they cantered by – and then their officer reined up, staring at the sight of a half-clad infant surrounded by three burly copers and their beasts.

“Where away at this hour, horse-sellers?” cries he.

I answered offhand, hoping to keep him at a distance, for even in the fading light it was ten to one he’d recognise his own monarch if he came any closer.

“Amritsar, captain sahib!” says I. “We take my master’s son to his grandmother, who is ill, and calls for him. Hurry, Yakub, or the child will catch cold!” This to Jassa, who was helping Dalip into his coat, and thrusting him up into the saddle. I swung aboard my own screw, with my heart pounding, ignoring the officer, hoping to heaven the inquisitive brute would ride on after his troop, who had vanished into the twilight.

“Wait!” He was sitting forward, staring harder than ever – and with a thrill of horror I realised that Dalip’s coat was his ceremonial cloth of gold, packed by that imbecile Mangla, and even in that uncertain light proclaiming its wearer a most unlikely companion for three frontier ruffians. “Your master’s son, you say? Let’s have a look at him!” He wheeled his horse towards us, his hand dropping to his pistol butt – and the three of us acted as one man.

Jassa vaulted into his saddle and snatched Dalip’s bridle even as I slashed my reins across the beast’s rump, and Ahmed Shah dug in his heels and charged slap into the advancing Sikh, rolling him from the saddle. Then we were away across the maidan, Dalip and Jassa leading, Ahmed and I behind, with the led horses thundering alongside. There was a shout from the dusk, and the crack of a shot, and little Dalip yelled with delight, dragging his bridle from Jassa’s grip. “I can ride, fellow! Let me alone! Ai-ee, shabash, shabash!”

There had been nothing else for it, with detection certain, and as I pulled out my compass and roared to Jassa to change course to port, I was reckoning that no great harm had been done. We were on fresh horses, while the gorracharra had been in the saddle all day; it would take time to mount any kind of pursuit from the city – supposing they thought it worth while, with night coming down; the odds were they’d make inquiry first to see if any child of a wealthy family was missing, for I was sure the officer had taken us for common kidnappers – he’d never have risked a shot at us if he’d known who Dalip was. And if, by some astonishing chance, it was discovered that the Mahajara had taken wing – well, we’d be over the river and far away by then.

I called a halt after the first couple of miles, to tighten girths, take stock, and make certain of my bearing, and then we rode on more slowly. It was pitch dark by now, and while we might have trotted on a road we daren’t go above a brisk walk over open country. The moon wouldn’t be up for six or seven hours yet, so we must contain ourselves in the sure knowledge that the dark was our friend, and no pursuers could hope to find us while it lasted. Meanwhile we bore on south-east, with Dalip asleep in the crook of my arm – what with distress and elation, he was quite used up, and being lulled by “Tom Bowling” instead of Mangla’s song didn’t trouble him a bit.

“Is this how soldiers sleep?” yawns he. “Then you must wake me when it is my time to ride guard, and you shall rest …”

It was a wearisome trek, and a cold one, hour after hour in the freezing dark, but at least it was without alarm, and by the time we had put twenty miles behind us I was convinced that there would be no pursuit. At about midnight we pulled up to water the horses at a little stream, and stamp some warmth back into our limbs; there was a faint starshine over the doab now, and I was remarking to Jassa that we’d be able to raise the pace, when. Ahmed Shah called to us.

He was squatting down by a big peepal tree, with his sabre driven into the trunk just above the ground, and his finger on the foible of the blade. I exclaimed, for I knew that trick of old, from Gentleman Jim Skinner on the road above Gandamack. Sure enough, after a moment Ahmed shook his head, looking grim.

“Horsemen, husoor. Twenty, perhaps thirty, coming south. They are a scant five cos behind us.”

If I’m a firm believer in headlong flight as a rule, it’s probably because I’ve known such a horrid variety of pursuers in my time – Apaches in the Jornada, Udloko Zulus on the veldt, Cossacks along the Arrow of Arabat, Amazons in the Dahomey forest, Chink hatchetmen through the streets of Singapore … no wonder my hair’s white. But there are times when you should pause and consider, and this was one. No one was riding the Bari Doab that night for recreation, so it was a fair bet that the inquisitive officer had deduced who our costly-clad infant was, and that every rider from the Lahore garrison was sweeping the land from Kussoor to Amritsar. Still, we had spare mounts, so a sprain or a cast shoe was no matter; our pursuers must be riding blind, since even an Australian bushman couldn’t have tracked us, on that ground; seven miles is a long lead with only fifteen to go; and there were friends waiting at the finish. Even so, having your tail ridden is nervous work, and we didn’t linger over the next few miles, not pausing to listen, and keeping steadily south-east.

When the moon came up we changed to our remounts; Ahmed’s ear to the ground detected nothing, and there was no movement on the plain behind us. It was fairly open country now, with a few scrubby thickets, occasional belts of jungle, and now and then a village. When I reckoned we had only about five miles to go, and still three hours to dawn, we eased to a walk, for Dalip had awoken, demanding food, and after we’d halted for a bite and there was still no sign of pursuers, it seemed sensible to go at a pace that would let him sleep. Of course, he wouldn’t, and kept up such a stream of questions and drivel that I came close to fetching him a clip over the head. I didn’t, mind you, for it don’t pay to offend royalty, however junior: they grow up.

There was still no sign of the Jupindar rocks, and I guessed we’d come a degree or two off course, so I climbed the first tall tree we came to, for a dekko about. The moonlight gave a clear sight for miles around, and sure enough, about three miles to our left, the ground rose in a long slope to a summit of tangled rocks – Jupindar, for certain. And I was just preparing to swing down when I took a last look astern, and almost fell out of the tree.

We’d just come through a jungly strip, and behind it the doab lay flat as a flagstone to the horizon. Halfway across it, a bare mile away, a line of horsemen were coming at the canter – a full troop, well spread in line. Only regular cavalry ride like that, and only when they’re searching.

I was out of that tree like a startled monkey, yelling to Jassa, who was standing guard while young Dalip squatted in the bushes – the little bastard must have had an orange cached somewhere, for he’d done his bit three times since midnight. A precious minute was lost while he got himself to rights, bleating that he wasn’t done yet, and Jassa fairly threw him into the saddle; then we were away, drumming across the doab