directly after that alms-giving, when we rode out to her pavilion among the trees, and I had just, remarked that what was needed for India was a Poor Law and a few parish workuses, that she suddenly turned in her saddle, and burst out:
'Can you not see that that is not our way — that none of our ways are your ways? You talk of your reforms, and the benefits of British law and the Sirkar's rule — and never think that what seems ideal to you may not suit others; that we have our own customs, which you think strange and foolish, and perhaps they are — but they are ours — our own! You come, in your strength, and your certainty, with your cold eyes and pale faces, like … like machines marching out of your northern ice, and you will have everything in order, tramping in step like your soldiers, whether those you conquer and civilise — as you call it — whether they will or no. Do you not see that it is better to leave people be — to let them alone?'
She wasn't a bit angry, or I'd have agreed straight off, but she was as intense as I'd known her, and the great dark eyes were almost appealing, which was most unusual. I said that all I'd meant was that instead of thousands going sick and ragged and hungry about her city, it might be better to have some system of relief; come cheaper on her, too, if they had the beggars picking yarn or mending roads for their dole.
'You talk of a system!' says she, striking her riding crop on the saddle. 'We do not care for systems. Oh, we admire and respect those which you show us — but we do not want them; we would not choose them for ourselves. You remember we spoke of how twelve Indian babus*(*Clerks.) did the work of one white clerk —'
'Well, that's waste, ma'am,' says I respectfully. 'There's no point —'
'Wasteful or not, does it matter — if people are happy?' says she, impatiently. 'Where lies the virtue of your boasted progress, your telegraphs, your railway trains, when we are content with our sandals and our ox- carts?'
I could have pointed out that the price of her sandals would have kept a hundred Jhansi coolie families all their lives, and that she'd never been within ten yards of an ox-cart, but I was tactful.
'We can't help it, maharaj',' says I. 'We have to do the best we can, don't you know, as we see it. And it ain't just telegraphs and trains — though you'll find those useful enough, in time — why, I'm told there are to be universities, and hospitals —'
'To teach philosophies that we do not want, and sciences that we do not need. And a law that is foreign to us, which our people cannot understand.'
'Well, that doesn't leave 'em far behind the average Englishman,' says I. 'But it's fair law — and with respect that's more than you can say for most of your Indian courts. Look now — when there was a brawl in the street outside your palace two days since, what happened? Your guards didn't catch the culprits — so they laid hands on the first poor soul they met, haled him into your divan,*(*Court) guilty or not — and you have him hanging by his thumbs and sun-drying at the scene of the crime for two solid days. Fellow near died of it — and he'd done nothing! I ask you, ma'am, is that justice?'
'He was a badmash,*(*scoundrel) and well known,' says she, wide-eyed. 'Would you have let him go?'
'For that offence, yes — since he was innocent of it. We punish only the guilty.'
'And if you cannot find them? Is there to be no example made? There will be no more brawls outside the palace, I think.' And seeing my look, she went on: 'I know it is not your way, and it seems unfair and even barbarous to you. But we understand it — should that not be enough? You find it strange — like our religions, and our forbidden things, and our customs. But can your Sirkar not see that they are as precious to us as yours are to you? Why is it not enough to your Company to drive its profit? Why this greed to order people's lives?'
'It isn't greed, highness,' says I. 'But you can't drive trade on a battlefield, now can you? There has to be peace and order, surely, and you can't have 'em without . .well, a strong hand, and a law that's fair for all — or for most people, anyway.' I knew she wouldn't take kindly if I said the law was as much for her as for her subjects. 'And when we make mistakes, well, we try to put 'em right, you see — which is what I'm here for, to see that justice — our justice, if you like — is done to you —'
'Do you think that is all that matters?' says she. We had stopped in the pavilion garden, and the horses were cropping while her attendants waited out of earshot. She was looking at me, frowning, and her eyes were very bright. 'Do you think it is the revenues, and the jewels — even my son's rights; do you think that is all I care for? These are the things that can be redressed — but what of the things that cannot? What of this life, this land, this country that you will change — as you change everything you touch? Today, it is still bright — but you will make it grey; today, it is still free — oh, and no doubt wrong and savage by your lights — and you will make it tame, and orderly, and bleak, and the people will forget what they once were. That is what you will do — and that is why I resist as best I can. As you, and Lord Palmerston would. Tell him,' says she, and by George, her voice was shaking, but the pretty mouth was set and hard, 'when you go home, that whatever happens, I will not give up my Jhansi. Mera Jhansi denge nay. I will not give up my Jhansi!'
I was astonished; I'd never been in doubt that under the delectable feminine surface there was a tigress of sorts, but I hadn't thought it was such a passionately sentimental animal. D'you know, for a moment I was almost moved, she seemed such a damned spunky little woman; I felt like saying 'There, there', or stroking her hand, or squeezing her tits, or something — and then she had taken a breath, and sat upright in the saddle, as though recovering herself, and she looked so damned royal and so damned lovely that I couldn't help myself.
'Maharaj' — you don't need me to say it. Go to London yourself, and tell Lord Palmerston — and I swear he'll not only give you Jhansi but Bombay and Hackney Wick as well.' And I meant it; she'd have been a sensation — had 'em eating out of her dusky little palm. 'See the Queen herself- why don't you?'
She stared thoughtfully ahead for a moment, and then murmured under her breath: 'The Queen … God save the Queen — what strange people you British are.'
'Don't you worry about the British,' says I, 'they'll sing ‘God save the Queen’, all right — and they'll be thinking of the Queen of Jhansi.'
'Now that is disloyal, colonel,' says she, and the languid smile was back in her eyes, as she turned her horse and trotted off with me following.
Now, you may be thinking to yourself, what's come over old Flash? He ain't going soft on this female, surely? Well, you know, I think the truth is that I was a bit soft on all my girls — Lola and Cassie and Valla and Ko Dali's daughter and Susie the Bawd and Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman and the rest of 'em. Don't mistake me; it was always the meat that mattered, but I had a fair affection for them at the same time — every now and then, weather permitting. You can't help it; feeling randy is a damned romantic business, and it's my belief that Galahad was a bigger beast in bed than ever Lancelot was. That's by the way, but worth remembering if you are to understand about me and Lakshmibai — and I've told you a good deal about her on purpose, because she was such a mysterious, contrary female that I can't hope to explain her (any more than historians can) but must just leave you to judge for yourselves from what I've written — and from what was to follow.
For on the morning after that talk at the pavilion — two weeks to the day since I'd arrived in Jhansi — things began to happen in earnest. To me, at any rate.
I sensed there was something up as soon as I presented myself in the durbar room; she was perfectly pleasant, vivacious even, as she told me about some new hunting-cheetah she'd been given, but her vakeel and chief minister weren't meeting her eye, and her foot was tap-tapping under the edge of her gold sari; ah, thinks I, someone's been getting the sharp side of missy's tongue. She didn't have much mind to business, either, and once or twice I caught her eyeing me almost warily, when she would smile quickly — with anyone else I would have said it was nervousness. Finally she cut the discussion off abruptly, saying enough for today, and we would watch the guardsmen fencing in the courtyard.
Even there, I noticed her finger tapping on the balcony as we looked down at the Pathans sabring away — damned active, dangerous lads they looked, too — but in a little while she began to take notice, talking about the swordplay and applauding the hits, and then she. glanced sidelong at me, and says:
'Do you fence as well as you ride, colonel?'
I said, pretty fair, and she gave me her lazy smile and says:
'Then we shall try a bout,' and blow me if she didn't order a couple of foils up to the durbar room, and go off to change into her jodhpurs and blouse. I waited, wondering — of course, Skene had said she'd been brought up with boys, and could handle arms with the best of them, but it seemed deuced odd — and then she was back, ordering her attendants away, tying up her hair in a silk scarf, and ordering me on guard very business-like. They'll never believe this at home, thinks I, but I obeyed, indulgently enough, and she touched me three times in the first minute. So I settled down, in earnest, and in the next minute she hit me only once, laughing, and told me to try
