The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light

drill and tactical movement drummed into 'em, not even the Zulus, or Ranavalona's Hova guardsmen. That was the thing about the Khalsa: it was Aldershot in turbans. It was an army.¹⁷

That's worth bearing in mind when you hear some smart alec holding forth about our imperial wars being one-sided massacres of poor club-waving heathen mown down by Gatlings. Oh, it happened, at Ulundi and Washita and Omdurman—but more often than not the Snider and Martini and Brown Bess were facing odds of ten to one against in country where shrapnel and rapid fire don't count for much; your savage with his blowpipe or bow or jezzail*(*Afghan musket) behind a rock has a deuce of an advantage: it's his rock, you see. Anyway, our detractors never mention armies like the Khalsa, every bit as well-armed and equipped as we were. So how did we hold India? You'll see presently.

That morning on Maian Mir the confidence I'd felt, viewing our forces on the Grand Trunk, vanished like Punjabi mist. I thought of Littler's puny seven thousand isolated at Ferozepore, our other troops scattered, waiting to be eaten piecemeal—by this juggernaut, a hundred thousand strong. A score of vivid images stay in my mind: a regiment of Sikh lancers wheeling at the charge in perfect dressing, the glittering points falling and rising as one; a battalion of Jat infantry with moustaches like buffalo horns, white figures with black crossbelts, moving like clockwork as they performed 'at the halt on the left form companies'; Dogra light infantry advancing in skirmishing order, the blue turbans suddenly closing in immaculate line, the bayonet points ripping into the sand-bags to a savage yell of 'Khalsa-ji!'; heavy guns being dragged through swirling dust by trumpeting elephant teams while the gunners trimmed their fuses, the cases being thrust home, the deafening roar of the salvo—and damme! if those shells didn't burst a mile away in perfect unison, all above ground. Even the sight of the light guns cutting their curtain targets to shreds with grape wasn't as sickening as the precision of the heavy batteries. They were as good as Royal Artillery—aye, and with bigger shot.

They made all their own material, too, from Brown Bess to howitzers, in the Lahore foundry, from our regulation patterns. Only one fault could I find with their gunners and infantry: their drill was perfect, but slow. Their cavalry … well, it was fit to ride over Napoleon.

Sardul took good care to let me see all this, pour encourager les feringhees. We tiffened with some of their senior men, all courteous to a fault, and not a word about the likelihood that our armies would be at each other's throats by Christmas—the Sikhs are damned good form, you know. There wasn't a European mercenary in sight, by the way; having built an army, they'd retired for the best of reasons: disgust at the state of the country, and reluctance to find themselves fighting John Company.

I saw another side to the Khalsa when we set out for Lahore after noon, Flashy now riding in state in his jampan, white topper and fly-whisk at the high port, with Jassa kicking the bearers' arses to give tone to our progress. We were swaying along in fine style past the head-quarters tents when we became aware of a crowd of soldiery gathered before the main pavilion, listening to some upper rojer*(Leading light.) on a dais. Sardul reined in to listen, and when I asked Jassa what this might be he growled and spat. 'The panchayats! If old Runjeet had seen the day, he'd have cut his beard!'

So these were the Khalsa's notorious military commit-tees, of whom we'd heard so much. You see, while their field discipline was perfect, Khalsa policy was determined by the panches, where Jack Jawan was as good as his master, and all went by democratic vote—no way to run an army, I agreed with Jassa; small wonder they hadn't crossed the Sutlej yet. They were an astonishing mixture: bare-legged sepoys, officers in red silk, fierce-eyed Akalis¹⁸ in peaked blue turbans and gold beard-nets, a portly old rissaldar-major*(*tCavalry sergeant-major.) with white whiskers a foot wide, irregular sowars in lobster-tail helmets, Dogra musketeers in green, Pathans with long camel guns—there seemed to be every rank, caste, and race crowding round the speaker, a splendid Sikh, six and a half feet tall in cloth of silver, bellowing to make himself heard.

'All that we heard from Attack is true! Young Peshora is dead, and Kashmiri Singh with him, taken in sleep, after the hunting, by Chuttur Singh and Futteh Khan —'

'Tell us what we don't know!' bawls a heckler, and the big fellow raised his arms to still the yells of agreement.

'You don't know the manner of it—the shame and black treachery! Imam Shah was in Attock Fort—let him tell you.'

A burly bargee in a mail jacket, with a bandolier of ivory-hilted knives round his hips, jumps on the dais, and they fell silent.

'It was foully done!' croaks he. 'Peshora Singh knew it was his time, for they had him in irons, and bore him before the jackal, Chuttur Singh. Peshora looked him in the eye, and called for a sword. `Let me die like a soldier,' says he, but Chuttur would not look on him, but wagged his head and made soft excuses. Again the young hawk cried for a sword. 'You are thousands, I am alone—there can be but one end, so let it be straight!' Chuttur sighed, and whined, and turned away, waving his hands. `Straight, coward!' cries Peshora, but they bore him away. All this I saw. They took him to the Kolboorj dungeon, and choked him like a thief with his chains, and cast him in the river. This I did not see. I was told. God wither my tongue if I lie.'

Peshora Singh had been the form horse in the throne stakes, according to Nicolson. Well, that's politics for you. I wondered if this would mean a change of government, for Peshora had been the Khalsa's idol, and while his death seemed to be old news, the manner of it seemed to put them in a great taking. They were all yelling at once, and the tall Sikh had to bellow again.

'We have sent the parwana*(*Summons.) to the palace. You all approved it! What is there to do but wait?'

'Wait—while the snake Jawaheer butchers other true men?' bawls a voice. 'He's Peshora's murderer, for all he skulks in the Kwabagh*(*Sleeping Palace) yonder! Let us visit him now, and give him a sleep indeed!'

This got a rousing hand, but others shouted that Jawaheer was the hope of the side, and innocent of Peshora's death.

'Who bribed thee to say that?' roars the rissaldar-major, all fire and whiskers. 'Did Jawaheer buy thee with a gold chain, boroowa?*(*Pimp) Or perchance Mai Jeendan danced for thee, fornicating strumpet that she is!' Cries of 'Shame!', 'Shabash!'*(*Bravo!) and the Punjabi equivalent of 'Mr Chairman!', some pointing out that the Maharani had promised them fifteen rupees a month to march against the bastardised British pigs (the spectator in the jampan drew his curtain tactfully at this point) and Jawaheer was just the chap to lead them. Another suggested that Jawaheer wanted war only to draw the Khalsa's fury from his own head, and that the Maharani was an abominable whore of questionable parentage who had lately had a Brahmin's nose sliced off when he rebuked her depravities, so there. A beardless youth, frothing with loyalty, offered to eat the innards of anyone who impugned the honour of that saintly woman, and the meeting seemed likely to dissolve in riot when a gorgeously-robed old general, hawk-faced and commanding, mounted the dais and let them have it straight from the shoulder.

'Silence! Are ye soldiers or fish-wives? Ye have heard Pirthee Singh—the parwana has been sent, summoning Jawaheer to come out to us on the sixth of Assin, to answer for Peshora's death or show himself guiltless. There is no more to be said, but this …' He paused, and you could have heard a pin drop as his cold eye ranged over them. 'We are the Khalsa, the Pure, and our allegiance is to none but our Maharaja, Dalip Singh, may God protect his innocence! Our swords and lives are his alone!' Thunderous cheers, the old rissaldar-major spouting tears of loyalty. 'As to marching against the British … that is for the panchayats to decide another day. But if we do, then I, General Maka Khan'—he slapped his breast—'shall march because the Khalsa wills it, and not for the wiles of a naked cunchunee*(*Dancing-girl.) or the whim of a drunken dancing-boy!'

With that summary of the regents' characters the day's business concluded, and I was relieved, as Sardul led us past the dispersing soldiery, to note that any glances in my direction were curious rather than hostile; indeed, one or two saluted, and you may be sure I responded civilly. This heartened me, for it suggested that Broadfoot was right, and whatever upheavals in government took place—dramatic ones, by the sound of it—the stranger Flashy would be respected within their gates, their opinion of his country notwithstanding.

We approached Lahore roundabout, skirting the main town, which is a filthy maze of crooked streets and alleys, to the northern side, where the Fort and palace building dominate the city. Lahore's an impressive place, or was then, more than a mile across and girdled by towering thirty-foot walls which overlooked a deep moat and massive earthworks—since gone, I believe. In those days you were struck by the number and grandeur of its gates, and by the extent of the Fort and palace on their eminence, with the great half-octagon tower, the Summum Boorj, thrusting up like a giant finger close to the northern ramparts.