Imam Shah was in full grievance, shouting hoarsely at the screen. 'For three days your faithful Khalsa have lived on grain and raw carrots—they are starving, kunwari, and eaten up wiith cold and want! Only send them the food and munitians you promised and they will sweep the host of the Jangilat to —'
'Sweep them as you swept them at Ferozeshah and Moodkee?' cries Jeendan. 'Aye, there was a fine sweeping—my waiting women could have swept as heartily!' She waited, head thrown back, for the effect of this. Imam stood in silent anger, and she went on: 'Goolab has sent you supplies enough—why, every wheat-porter in Kashmir makes an endless train from Jumoo to the river, laden -—'
She was drowned in a roar of derision from the five hundred, and Imam advanced a yard to bawl his answer. 'Aye, in single file, on pain of mutilation by the Golden Hen, who makes a brave show of assistance, but sends not breakfast for a bird! Chiria-ki-hazrif That's what we get from Goolab Singh! If he vishes us well, let him come and lead us, in place of that bladder of lard you made our' general! Bid him come, kunwari—a word from you, and he'll be in the saddle for Sobraon!'
Uproar followed—'Goolab! Goolab! Give us the Dogra for general!'—but still they kept their ranks.
'Goolab is under the heel of the Malki lat, and you know it!' snaps Jeendan. 'Even so, there are those among you who would make him Maharaja—my loyal Khalsa!' There was silence on the instant. 'You send him ambassadors, they tell me … aye, in breach of your sacred oath! You whine for food on the one hand, and make treason on the other—you, the Khalsa, the Pure …' And she reviled them in fishwife terms, as she had at Maian Mir, until Gardner stepped swiftly forward and caught her by the arm. She shook him off, but took the hint—and none too soon , for beyond the screen the five hundred were fingering their hilts, and Imam was black with fury.
'That is a lie, kunwari! No man here would serve Goolab as Maharaja—but he can fight, by God! He does not skulk in his tent, like Tej, or flee like your bed-man Lull He can lead—so let him lead us! To Delhi! To victory!'
She let the shouting die, and spoke in a cold voice, ringing with scorn: 'I have said I will not have Goolab Singh—and he will not have you! Who's to blame him? Are you worth having, you heroes who strut out to battle with your banners and brave songs—and crawl back whimpering that you are hungry? Can you do nothing but complain —'
'We can fight!' roars a voice, and in a moment they were echoing it, stirring forward in their ranks, shaking their fists, some even weeping openly. They'd come for supplies, and what they were getting was shame and insult. Keep a civil tongue in your head, can't you, I was whispering, for it was plain they'd had their fill of her abuse. 'Give us guns! Give us powder and shot!'
'Powder and shot!' cries Jeendan, and for a moment I thought she was going to be out and at them. 'Did I not give you both, and to spare? Arms and food and great guns—never was such an army seen in Hindoostan! And what did you make of it? The food you've guzzled, the British have your great guns, and the arms you flung away, doubtless, as you ran cheeping like mice—from what? From a tired old man in a white coat with a handful of red- faced infidels and Bengali sweepers!'
Her voice rose to a shriek as she faced the curtain, fists clenched, face contorted, and foot stamping—and beside me Jassa gasped and Mangla gave a little sob as we saw the ranks of the five hundred start forward, and there was steel glittering amongst them. She'd gone too far, the drunken slut, for Imam Shah was on the dais, the Khalsa coats were surging behind him, shouting with rage, Gardner was turning to snap an order, the Muslim muskets were dropping to the present—and Jeendan was fumbling beneath her skirt, swearing like a harpy, there was a rending of cloth, and in an instant she had whirled her petticoat into a ball and hurled it over the screen. It fell at Imam's feet, draping over his boot—there was no doubting what it was, and in the shocked silence her voice rang out:
'Wear that, you cowards! Wear it, I say! Or I'll go in trousers and fight myself!'
It was as though they'd been stricken by a spell. While you could count ten there wasn't a sound. I see them yet—an Akali, his sword half-out, poised like a gladiator's statue; Imam Shah staring down at the scarlet shift; the old rissaldar-major, mouth open, hands raised in dismay; little Dalip like a graven image on his throne; the mass of men still as death, staring at the screen—and then Imam Shah picked up the golden standard, raised it, and shouted in a voice of thunder:
'Dalip Singh Maharaja! We go to die for your kingdom! We go to die for the Khalsa-ji!' Then he added, almost in a whisper, though it carried round the hall: 'We will go to the sacrifice.'
He thrust the standard into the rissaldar-major's hand—and in that moment, unprompted, little Dalip stood up. A second's pause, and the whole five hundred roared: 'Maharaja! Maharaja! Khalsa-ji!' Then they turned as one man and marched out of the open double doors behind them. Gardner was at the corner of the screen in four quick strides, staring after them, then coming out to take Dalip's hand. Behind the purdah, Jeendan yawned, shook her red hair and stirred her shoulders as though to ease them, took a deep drink, and began to straighten her sari.
Now that is exactly what I saw, and so did Alick Gardner, as his memoirs testify—and neither of us can explain it. Those Khalsa fanatics, stung to madness by her insults, would have rushed the purdah and cut her down, I'm certain, and been slaughtered by the Muslims; God knows what would have followed. But she threw her petticoat at them, and they went out like lambs, prepared to do or die. ''Intuition' on her part, Gardner calls it; very well, it did the business. Mind you, young Dalip stood up at exactly the right time.43
Jassa was breathing relief, and Mangla was smiling. Ile low us came a series of thunderous crashes as the Muslims ordered arms and began to file out of the chamber. Little Dalip was behind the purdah, being enfolded in Mama's tipsy embrace, but Gardner had disappeared. Mangla touched my arm, and signing to Jassa to wait, led me up to the rose boudoir—I felt exhausted even looking at it and through to the passage beyond and a little room which I guessed must be the schoolroom of Dalip and his playfellows, for there were half a dozen little desks, and a Blackboard, and even a globe, and fairy-tale pictures on the walls. There she left me, and a moment later Gardner strode in, breathing fire and wonder.
'You saw that just now? Goddam, but that woman's a bearcat for nerve—a bearcat, sir! Petticoats, by thunder! I Wouldn't ha' credited it! Sometimes I think …' He used, eyeing me with a curious frown. '… I think she's a mite de-ranged, what with drink and … well, no matter. And George Broadfoot's dead? Well, that's hard hearing. You didn't see it? Well, you have one as good in Henry Lawrence, let me tell you that. Maybe even better, as an Agent. Not a better man, mind you. No, sir, they don't come better than the Black-coated Infidel.'
He was standing, arms akimbo, staring at the floor, and I sensed disturbance—not because he hadn't greeted me, or made reference to my recent adventures, for that was never his style. But there was something on his mind, for aII that he tried to cover it with a show of briskness.
'It's past four, and you and Josiah must be clear of the gates before six. You'll go as you came, bearing the palki, but this time Dalip will be your freight, dressed as a girl. My subedar will have the palace gate, so you'll be clear there. Once beyond the Rushnai, keep to the doab, due south-east, and dawn should see you at Jupindar—it's about forty miles, and not on the map, but you'll see it clear enough. It's a big cluster of black rocks, among low hillocks, the only ones for miles around. There you'll be met —'
'By whom? Our people? Gough wanted to —'
'By sure people.' He gave me a hard stare. 'All you need do is get that far—and I don't have to tell you that you're carrying the Punjab on your back. Whoever gets that boy, it must not be the Khalsa, mallum? He's a good little horseman, by the way, so you can keep up the pace. Dawn, at Jupindar, mind that. Due south-east and you'll fall over it.'
For the first time, I felt excitement rather than fear. He had it pat, and it would do. We were going to bring it off.
'What else?' says he. 'Ah, yes, one thing … Dr Josiah Harlan. I gave him a bad name to you, and he deserved every word. But I allow he's played a straight hand this time, and I incline to revise my opinion. That being the case, you'd better keep a closer eye on him than ever. Well, that's all, I guess …' He paused, avoiding my eye. 'Once you've paid your respects to the Maharani … you can be off.'
Now there was something up. Gardner uneasy was a sight I'd never thought to see, but he was scratching his grizzled beard and keeping his face averted, and I felt a strange foreboding, He cleared his throat.
'Ah … did Mangla say nothing to you? No, well … oh, dooce take it!' He looked me full in the face. 'Mai Jeendan wants to marry you! There, now!'
Heaven knows why, my first reaction was to look in the mirror on the classroom wall. A fierce-eyed Khyberie ruffian stared back at me, which was no help. Nor was my recollection of what I looked like when civilised. And possibly the Punjab had exhausted my capacity for astonishment, for once the first shock of that amazing proposal had been absorbed, I felt nothing but immense gratification—after all, it's one thing to win a maiden heart, and very
