resistance along the Ganges, while at the same time assembling a new force which would march back to Lucknow after Christmas, clear the pandies out properly, and subdue the whole of Oudh kingdom. It was fairly obvious that although mutineers were still thick as mosquitoes every-where, and had several armies in the field, Campbell's methodical operations would have the whole business settled in a few months, if only Calcutta let him alone. I lent my gallant assistance by supervising intelligence work at Unao, just across the river from Cawnpore, where our new army was assembling; easy work, and nothing more dangerous than occasional brawls and turn-ups between the Pathan Horse and the Devil's Own,*(*The Connaught Rangers (88th Foot).) which suited me. The only thing that ruffled my surface at all that winter was a rebuke from Higher Authority when I squired an upper-class half-caste whore to a band parade at Cawnpore,39 which shows you better than anything how things were beginning to quieten down: when generals have nothing better to do than worry about the morals of staff colonels, you may be sure there's no great work on hand.
And indeed, we were beginning to make things so hot for the pandies along the Grand Trunk that winter that it seemed the bulk of their power was being forced farther and farther south, into the Gwalior country, where Tantia Tope had taken his army, and the rebel princelings had still to be dealt with. That was where Jhansi was: I used to see its name daily in the intelligence reports, with increasing references to Lakshmibai—'the rebel Rani' and 'the traitor queen' was what they were calling her now, for in the past few months she'd thrown off the pretence of loyalty which she had maintained after the Jhansi massacre, and cast in her lot with Nana and Tantia and the other mutinous princes. That had shocked me when I first heard it, and yet it wasn't so surprising really — not when I recalled her feelings towards us, and her grievances, and that lovely dark face so grimly set —'Mera Jhansi denge nay! I won't give up my Jhansi!'
She'd have to give it up fast enough, though, presently, with our southern armies under General Rose already advancing north to Gwalior and Bandelkand. She would be crushed along with the other monarchs and their sepoycum-bandit armies, and I didn't care to think about that, much. When my thoughts turned towards her — and for some reason they did increasingly in the leisure of that winter — I couldn't think of her as belonging in this world of turmoil and blood and burning and massacre: when I read about 'the Jhansi Jezebel' plotting with Nana and whipping up revolt, I couldn't reconcile it with my memory of that bewitching figure swinging gently to and fro on her silken swing in that mirrored fairy palace. I found myself wondering if she was still swinging there, or playing with the monkeys and parrots in her sunny garden, or riding in the woods by the river — who with? How many new lovers had she taken since that night in the pavilion? That was enough to set the flutters going low down in my innards — and farther up, in my midriff; for it wasn't only lust. When I thought of those slanting eyes, and the grave little smile, and the smooth dusky arm along the rope of her swing, I was conscious of a strange, empty longing lust for the sight of her, and the sound of her voice. It was downright irritating, for when I reflect on an old love it's usually in terms of tits and buttocks pure and simple — after all, I wasn't a green kid, and I didn't care to find myself thinking like one. What I needed to cure me, I decided, was two weeks' steady rogering at her to get these moon-calf yearnings out of my mind for good, but of course there was no chance of that now.
Or so I thought, in my complacent ignorance, as the winter wore through, and our campaign in the north approached its climax. I knew it was as good as over when Billy Russell of The Times showed up to join Campbell's final march on Lucknow — it's a sure sign of victory when the correspondents gather like vultures. We marched with 30,000 men and strong artillery, myself piling up great heaps of useless paper in Mansfield's intelligence section and keeping out of harm's way. It was an inexorable, pounding business, as our gunners blew the pandy defences systematically to bits, the Highlanders and Irish slaughtered the sepoy infantry whenever it stood, the engineers demolished shrines and temples to show who was master, and everyone laid hands on as much loot as he could carry.
It was a great bloody carnival, with everyone making the most of the war: I recall one incident, in a Lucknow courtyard (I believe it may have been in the Begum's pal-ace) in which I saw Highlanders, their gory bayonets laid aside, smashing open chests that were simply stuffed with jewels, and grinning idiot little Goorkhas breaking mirrors for sheer sport and wiping their knives on silks and fabrics worth a fortune — they didn't know any better. There were Sikh infantry dancing with gold chains and necklaces round their necks, an infantry subaltern staggering under a great enamelled pot overflowing with coins, a naval gunner bleeding to death with a huge shimmering bolt of cloth-of-gold clasped in his' arms — there were dead and dying men everywhere, our own fellows as well as pandies, and desperate hand-to-hand fighting going on just over the courtyard wall; muskets banging, men shrieking, two Irishmen coming to blows over a white marble statuette smeared with blood, and Billy Russell stamping and damning his luck because he had no rupees on him to buy the treasures which private soldiers were willing to trade away for the price of a bottle of rum.
'Gi'es a hunnerd rupees, now!' one of the Micks was shouting, as he flourished a gold chain set with rubies — they were as big as gull's eggs. 'Jist a hunnerd, yer honour, an' dey're yours!'
'But … but they're worth fifty times that!' cries Russell, torn between greed and honesty.
'Ah, the divil wid that!' cries Paddy. 'Oi'm sayin' a hunnerd, an' welcome!'
All right, says Russell, but the man must come to his tent for the money that night. But at this Paddy cries out:
'Oh, God, Oi can't, sorr! How do Oi know you or me won't be dead by then? Ready money, yer honour — say jist fifty chips, an' yer spirit flask! Come, now?'
But Billy hadn't even fifty rupees, so the Mick shook his head sorrowfully and swore he couldn't trade, except for cash down. Finally he burst out:
'But Oi can't see a gintleman in yer honour's position goin' empty-handed! Here, take dis for nuthin', an' say a prayer for O'Halloran, Private Michael,' and he thrust a diamond brooch into Russell's hand and ran off, whooping, to join his mates.
You may wonder what I was doing there, so close to the fighting: the answer is I was keeping an eye on my two Rajput orderlies, who were picking up gold and jewellery for me at bargain prices, using intelligence section funds. I paid it all back, mind, out of profits, no irregularities, and finished with the handsome surplus which built Gandamack Lodge, Leicestershire, for my declining years. (My Rajputs bought O'Halloran's ruby chain, by the way, for ten rupees and two ounces of baccy — say for ?2 all told. I sold it to a Calcutta jeweller for ?7,500, which was about half its true value, but not a bad stroke of business, I think.)40
I asked Billy later what value he would have put on all the loot that we saw piled up and scrambled for in that one yard, and he said curtly: 'Millions of pounds, blast it!' I'd believe it, too: there were solid gold and silver vessels and ornaments, crusted with gems, miles of jewel-sewn brocade, gorgeous pictures and statues that the troops just hacked and smashed, beautiful enamel and porcelain trampled underfoot, weapons and standards set with rubies and emeralds which were gouged and hammered from their settings — all this among the powder-smoke and blood, with native soldiers who'd never seen above ten rupees in their lives, and slum-ruffians from Glasgow and Liverpool, all staggering about drunk on plunder and killing and destruction. One thing I'm sure of: there was twice as much treasure destroyed as carried away, and we officers were too busy bagging our share to do anything about it. I daresay a philosopher would have made heavy speculation about that scene, if he'd had time to spare from tilling his pockets.
I was well satisfied with my winnings, and pondered that night on how I'd employ them when I went home, which couldn't be long now: I remember thinking 'This is the end of the war, Flash, old buck, or near as dammit, and well out of it you are.' I was very much at ease, sitting round the mess-fire in the dusk of a Lucknow garden, smoking and swigging port and listening to the distant thump of the night guns, while I yarned idly with Russell and 'Rake' Hodson (who'd fagged me at Rugby) and Macdonald the Peeler and Sam Browne and little Fred Roberts, who wasn't much more than a griff,41 but knew enough to hang around us older hands, warming himself in the glow of our fame. Thinking of them, it strikes me how many famous men I've run across in the dawn of their careers — not that Hodson had long to go, since he was shot while looting next day, with his glory all behind him. But Roberts has gone to the very top of the tree (pity I wasn't more civil to him when he was green; I might have been higher up the ladder myself now), and I suppose Sam Browne's name is known today in every army on earth. Just because he lost an arm and invented a belt, too — get them to call some useful article of clothing after you, and your fame's assured, as witness Sam and Raglan and Cardigan. If I had my time over again I'd patent the Flashman fly-button, and go down in history.42
I don't remember much of what we discussed, except that Billy was full of indignation over how he'd seen some' Sikhs burning a captured pandy alive, with white soldiers looking on and laughing: he and Roberts said such cruelty oughtn't to be allowed, but Hodson, who was as near a wild beast as I ever met, even among British
