clamouring to know when they'd be ordered to march.
'All in good time,' she assured them. 'Let me finish with Goolab. I have told you why he is not the man for you. Now I'll tell you why he is not the man for me. He is ambitious. Make him Wazir, make him commander of the Khalsa, and he'll not rest until he has thrust me aside and mounted to my son's throne. Well, let me tell you, I enjoy my power too much ever to let that happen. She was sitting back at ease, confident, smiling a little as she surveyed them. 'It will never happen with Lal Singh, because I hold him here …' She lifted one small hand, palm upwards, and closed it into a fist. 'He is not present today, by my order, but you may tell him what I say, if you wish … and if you think it wise. You see, I am honest with you. I choose Lal Singh because I will have my way, and at my bidding he will lead you …' She paused for effect, sitting erect now, head high, '… wherever it pleases me to send you!'
That meant only one thing to them, and there was bedlam again, with the whole assembly roaring 'Khalsa- ji!' and 'Jeendan!' as they crowded forward to the edge of the dais, bearing the spokesmen in front of them, shaking the roof with their cheers and applause—and I thought, bigod, I'm seeing something new. A woman as brazen as she looks, with the courage to proclaim absolutely what she is, and what she thinks, bragging her lust of pleasure and power and ambition, and let 'em make of it what they will. No excuses or politician's fair words, but simple, arrogant admission: I'm a selfish, immoral bitch out to serve my own ends, and I don't care who knows it —and because I say it plain, you'll worship me for it.
And they did. Mind you, if she hadn't promised them war, it might have been another story, but she had, and she'd done it in style. She knew men, you see, and was well aware that for every one who shrank from her in disgust and anger and even hatred at the shame she put on them, there were ten to acclaim and admire and tell each other what a hell of a girl she was, and lust after her—that was her secret. Strong, clever women use their sex on men in a hundred ways; Jeendan used hers to appeal to the dark side of their natures, and bring out the worst in them. Which, of course, is what you must do with an army, once you've gauged its temper. She knew the Khalsa's temper to an inch, and how to shock it, flirt with it, frighten it, make love to it, and dominate it, all to one end: by the time she'd done with 'em, you see … they trusted her.
I saw it happen, and if you want confirmation, you'll find it in Broadfoot's reports, and Nicolson's, and all the others which tell of Lahore in '45. You won't find them approving her, mind you—except Gardner, for whom she could do no wrong—but you'll get a true picture of an extraordinary woman.26
Order was restored at last, and their distrust of Lal Singh was forgotten in the assurance that she would be leading them; there was only one question that mattered, and Maka Khan voiced it.
'When, kunwari? When shall we march on India?' 'When you are ready,' says she. 'After the Dasahra.'* (*The ten-day festival in October after which the Sikhs were accustomed to set out on expeditions.)
There were groans of dismay, and shouts that they were ready now, which she silenced with questions of her own.
'You are ready? How many rounds a man has the Povinda division? What remounts are there for the
'You won't go far beyond the Sutlej on that, much less beat the Sirkar's army. We must have time, and money—and you have eaten the Treasury bare, my hungry Khalsa.' She smiled to soften the rebuke. 'So for a season you must disperse the divisions about the country, and live on what you can get—nay, it will be good practice against the day when you come to Delhi and the fat lands to the south!'
That cheered them up—she was telling them to loot their own countryside, you'll notice, which they'd been doing for six years. Meanwhile, she and their new Wazir would see to it that arms and stores were ready in abundance for the great day. Only a few of the older hands expressed doubts.
'But if we disperse, kunwari, we leave the country open to attack,' says the burly Imam Shah. 'The British can make a chapao*(*Sudden attack.) and be in Lahore while we are scattered!'
'The British will not move,' says she confidently. 'Rather, when they see the great Khalsa disperse, they will thank God and stand down, as they always do. Is it not so, Maka Khan?'
The old boy looked doubtful. 'Indeed, kunwari—yet they are not fools. They have their spies among us. There is one at your court now …' He hesitated, not meeting her eye. '… this Iflassman of the Sirkar's Army, who hides behind a fool's errand when all the world knows he is the right hand of the Black-coated Infidel.*(*The Afghan nickname for George Broadfoot.) What if he should learn what passes here today? What if there is a traitor among us to inform him?'
'Among the Khalsa?' She was scornful. 'You do your comrades little honour, general. As to this Englishman .. he learns what I wish him to learn, no more and no less. It will not disturb his masters.'
She had a way with a drawled line, and the lewd brutes went into ribald guffaws—it's damnable, the way gossip gets about. But it was eerie to hear her talk as though I were miles away, when she knew I was listening to every word. Well, no doubt I'd discover eventually what she was about—I glanced at Mangla, who smiled mysteriously and motioned me to silence, so I must sit and speculate as that remarkable durbar drew to a close with renewed cheers of loyal acclaim and enthusiastic promises of what they'd do to John Company when the time came. Thereafter they all trooped out in high good humour, with a last rouse for the small red and gold figure left in solitary state on her throne, toying with her silver scarf.
Mangla led me aloft again to the rose-pink boudoir, leaving the sliding panel ajar, and busied herself pouring wine into a beaker that must have held near a quart—anticipating her mistress's needs, you see. Sure enough, a stumbling step and muttered curse on the stair heralded the appearance of the Mother of All Sikhs, looking obscenely beautiful and gasping for refreshment; she drained the cup without even sitting down, gave a sigh that shuddered her delightfully from head to foot, and subsided gratefully on the divan.
'Fill it again … another moment and I should have died! Oh, how they stank!' She drank greedily. 'Was it well done, Mangla?'
'Well indeed, kunwari. They are yours, every man.' 'Aye, for the moment. My tongue didn't trip? You're sure? My feet did, though …' She giggled and sipped. 'I know, I drink too much—but could I have faced them sober? D'you think they noticed?'
'They noticed what you meant them to notice,' says Mangla dryly.
'Baggage! It's true enough, though … Men!' She gave her husky laugh, raised a shimmering leg and admired its shapeliness complacently. 'Even that beast of an Akali couldn't stare hard enough … heaven help some wench tonight when he vents his piety on her. Wasn't he a godsend, though? I should be grateful to him. I wonder if he …' She chuckled, drank again, and seemed to see me for the first time. 'Did our tall visitor hear it all?'
'Every word, kunwari.'
'And he was properly attentive? Good.' She eyed me over the rim of her cup, set it aside, and stretched luxuriously like a cat, watching me to gauge the effect of all that goodness trying to burst out of the tight silk; no modest violet she. My expression must have pleased her, for she laughed again. 'Good. Then we'll have much to talk about, when I've washed away the memory of those sweaty warriors of mine. You look warm, too, my Englishman … show him where to bathe, Mangla—and keep your hands off him, d'you hear?'
'Why, kunwari!'
'`Why kunwari' indeed! Here, unbutton my waist.' She laughed and hiccoughed, glancing over her shoulder as Mangla unfastened her at the back. 'She's a lecherous slut, our Mangla. Aren't you, my dear? Lonely, too, now that Jawaheer's gone—not that she ever cared two pice for him.' She gave me her Delilah smile. 'Did you enjoy her, Englishman? She enjoyed you. Well, let me tell you, she is thirty-one, the old trollop—five years my senior and twice as old in sin, so beware of her.'
She reached for her cup again, knocked it over, splashed wine across her midriff, cursed fluently, and pulled the diamond from her navel. 'Here, Mangla, take this. He doesn't like it, and he'll never learn the trick.' She rose, none too steadily, and waved Mangla impatiently away. 'Go on, woman—show him where to bathe, and set out the oil, and then take yourself off! And don't forget to tell Rai and the Python to be within call, in case I need them.'
I wondered, as I had a hasty wash-down in a tiny chamber off the boudoir, if I'd ever met such a blatant strumpet in my life—well, Ranavalona, of course, but you don't expect coy flirtation from a female ape. Montez hadn't been one to stand on ceremony either, crying 'On guard!' and brandishing her hairbrush, and Mrs Leo Lade could rip the britches off you with a sidelong glance, but neither had paraded their dark desires as openly as this
