The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light

to forget my own perilous situation and praying that Lal Singh could brow-beat his staff into obedience before the effect of the snuff wore off. I wonder if there was ever such a conspiracy in the history of war: two generals intent on scuppering their own army, confabulating sotto voce with an agent from the enemy, while their commanders waited impatiently out-side for the word that (with luck) would send them marching to ruin? You would think not, but knowing human nature and the military mind, I'd not wager on it.

I stayed hidden when Lal and Tej went out in the after-noon to announce their intentions to the divisional commanders. Lal was brave in silver armour, with a desperate glitter in his eye—half fear, half hashish, I would guess—and they held their conference on horseback, with Ferozepore in view. Tej told me later that the Wazir was in capital form, lining out my plan like a drill sergeant and snarling down any hint of opposition, of which there was less than I'd feared. The fact was, you see, that the strategy looked sound enough, but what impressed them most, apparently, was Lal's refusal to engage any commander except Gough himself. That argued pride and confidence, and they cheered him to the echo, and couldn't wait to get under way. The gorracharra were riding east before dusk, and Tej, by his own account, made a great meal of sending orders to mobilise his foot and guns, with gallopers riding in all directions, bugles blowing, and the Commander-in-Chief finally retiring to Lal's tent, having issued orders which with luck would take days to untangle.

The final scene of the comedy took place that night before I rode out. Lal was keen that I should make straight for Gough, to let him know what good boys Lal and Tej were being, offering up the Khalsa for destruction, but I wasn't having that. Gough might be anywhere over the eastern horizon, and I had no intention of hunting him through country which by now was swarming with gorracharra; far better, I said, if I rode the couple of miles to Ferozepore, where Littler would see that Gough got the glad news in good time (and Flashy could take a well-earned repose). Tej agreed, and said I should go under a flag of truce, ostensibly carrying the Wazir's final demand to Littler to surrender. Lal boggled at that, but Tej grew excited, pointing out the risk if I tried to sneak into Littler's lines unobserved.

'Suppose he were shot by a sentry?' squeaks he, waving his podgy hands. 'Then the Jangi Iat would never know of our good will to him, or the plans we have made for the destruction of these Khalsa swine! And our dear friend'—that was me—'would have died in vain! It is not to be thought of!' I found myself liking Tej Singh's style better by the minute.

'But will the colonels not suspect treason, if they see a courier sent to Littler Sahib?' cries Lal. The puggle had worn off by now, and he was lying exhausted on his silken bed, fretting himself witless.

'They will not even know!' cries Tej. 'And only think—once our dear bahadur has spoken with Littler Sahib, our credit with the Sirkar is assured! Whatever may hap-pen, our friendship will have been made plain!'

That was the great thing with him—to stand well with Simla, whatever happened to the Khalsa. He even pro-posed that I carry a written message, expressing Lal's undying devotion to the Sirkar; it would be so much more convincing than mere word of mouth. This so horrified Lal that he almost hid under the sheets.

'A written message? Are you mad? What if it went astray? Am I to sign my own death-warrant?' He flung about in a passion. 'You write it, then! You announce your treason, over your signature! Why not, you're Commander-in-Chief, you fat tub of dung —'

'You are Wazir!' retorts Tej. 'This is a high political affair, and what am I but a soldier?' He shrugged complacently. 'You need say nothing of military matters; a mere expression of friendship will suffice.'

Lal said he'd see him damned first, and they snarled and whined, with Lal weeping and tearing the bedclothes. Finally he gave in, and penned the following remarkable note to Nicolson, the political: 'I have crossed with the Khalsa. You know my friendship for the British. Tell me what to do. ³⁰ He bilked at signing, though, and after more shrill bickering Tej turned to me.

'It will have to do. Tell Nicolson Sahib it is from the Wazir!'

'From both of us, you greasy bastard!' yelps Lal. 'Make that clear, Flashman bahadur! Both of us! And tell them, in God's name, that we and the bibi sahiba* (*Jeendan.) are their loyal friends, and that we beg them to cut up these badmashes and burchast*(*Ruffians.) of the Khalsa, and free us all from this evil! Tell them that!'

So it was that in the small hours a gorracharra rider with a game leg and a white flag on his lance rode out of the Khalsa lines and down to Ferozepore, leaving behind two Sikh generals, one fat and frightened and t'other having hysterics with a pillow over his face, both conscious of duty well done, I don't doubt. As for me, I went half a mile and sat down under a thorn tree to wait for dawn; for one thing, now that I was so nearly home, I wanted a moment to study how best to wring credit out of my unexpected arrival with such momentous news, and for another, flag of truce or not, I wasn't risking a bullet from a nervous sepoy in the half- light. I was dog-tired, what with lack of sleep, funk, and bodily anguish, but I was a happy man, I can tell you—and happier yet, three hours later, when I'd been admitted by a sentry of the 62nd whose Whitechapel challenge was music to my ears, and hobbled painfully into the presence of Peter Nicolson, who'd seen me off across the Sutlej three months ago.

He didn't know me at first, and then he was on his feet, steadying me as I staggered artistically, bravely gritting my teeth against the agony of my ankle (which was feeling much better, by the way).

'Flashman! What on earth are you doin' here? Good lord, man, you're all in—are you wounded?'

'That don't matter!' gasps I, subsiding on his cot. 'Small memento from a Khalsa dungeon, what? See here, Peter, there's no time to lose!' I shoved Lal's note at him, and gave him the marrow of the business in a few brief sentences, insisting that a galloper must ride to Gough at once to let him know that the Philistines were on the move and ready to be smitten hip and thigh. I didn't add 'courtesy of H. Flashman', just then; that was a conclusion they could leap to presently.

He was a smart political, Nicolson: he grasped the thing at once, bawled for his orderly to fetch Colonel Van Cortlandt, pumped my hand in delight, said he could hardly credit it, but it was the finest piece of work he'd ever heard—I'd come through the Khalsa in disguise, been with Lal and Tej, made 'em split their forces, come away with their plans? Good God, he'd never heard the like, etc., etc.

Jallalabad all over again, thinks I contentedly, and while he strode out shouting that a galloper must ride directly to Littler, who was out on a reconnoitre, I heaved up for a dekko in the mirror over his washstand. Gad, I looked like the last survivor of Fort Nowhere … capital! I slumped back on the cot, and had to be revived with brandy when he and Van Cortlandt arrived, full of questions. I rallied gamely, and described in detail what I'd told Lal and Tej to do; Van Cortlandt, whom I'd heard of as a former mercenary with Runjeet Singh, and a knowing bird, just nodded grimly, while Nicolson slapped his forehead.

'Was ever such a pair of villains! Sellin' their own comrades, the dastards! My stars, it passes belief!'

'No, it don't,' says Van Cortlandt. 'It fits exactly with our information that the durbar wants the Khalsa destroyed—and with what I know of Lal Singh.' He eyed me, frowning. 'When did you learn they were ready to sell out? Did they approach you in Lahore?'

This was the moment for my tired boyish grin, with a little gasp as I moved my leg. I could have told 'em the whole horrid tale, and made their hair stand on end—but that ain't the way to do it, you see. Offhand and laconic, that's the ticket, and let their imaginations do the rest. I shook my head, weary-like.

'No, sir, I approached them … just a few hours ago, in their camp over there. I'd had word, two nights ago in Lahore, that they were ready to turn traitor —'

'Who told you?' demands Van Cortlandt.

'Perhaps I'd better not say, sir … just yet.' I was shot if I was giving Gardner credit, when I'd done all the bloody work. 'I reckoned I'd better get to Lal, and see what he was up to. But I had a spot o' trouble, getting clear of Lahore … fact is, if old Goolab Singh hadn't popped up in a tight corner —'

'Goolab Singh!' cries he incredulously.

'Why, yes—we had to cut our way out, you see, but he ain't as spry as he was … and I was rearguard, so to speak, and … well, the Khalsa's bulldogs laid hold of me —'

'You said somethin' about a dungeon!' cries Nicolson.

'Did I? Oh, aye …' I brushed it aside, and then bit my lip, shifting my foot. 'No, no, don't fuss, Peter … I doubt if it's broken … just held me up a bit … ah!' I clenched my teeth, recovered, and spoke urgently to Van Cortlandt. 'But, see here, sir … what happened in Lahore don't matter—or how I got to Lal! It's what he and Tej are doing now, don't you see? Sir Hugh Gough must be warned …