becoming attentive again, the reckless bitch, and try as I would to still her, she teased so insistently that I was sure they must hear, and Havelock's coffin face would pop under the curtain at any moment. So what could I do, except hold my breath and comply as quietly as possible—it's an eerie business, I can tell you, in dead silence and palpitating with fear of discovery, and yet it's quite soothing, in a way. I lost all track of their talk, and by the time we were done, and I was near choking with my shirt stuffed into my mouth, they were putting up their cues and retiring, thank God. And then:
'A moment, Broadfoot.' It was Gough, his voice down. 'D'ye think his highness might talk, at all?'
There could only be the two of them in the room. 'As the geese muck,' says Broadfoot. 'Everywhere. It'll be news to nobody, though. Half the folk in this damned country are spies, and the other half are their agents, on commission. I know how many ears I've got, and Lahore has twice as many, ye can be sure.'
'Like enough,' says Gough. 'Ah, well—'twill all be over by Christmas, devil a doubt. Now, then—what's this Sale tells me about young Flashman?'
How they didn't hear the sudden convulsion beneath the table, God knows, for I damned near put my head through the slates.
'I must have him, sir. I've lost Leech, and Cust will have to take his place. There isn't another political in sight—and I worked with Flashman in Afghanistan. He's young, but he did well among the Gilzais, he speaks Urdu, Pushtu, and Punjabi —'
'Hold yer horses.' says Gough. 'Sale's promised him the staff, an' the boy deserves it, none more. Forbye, he's a fightin' soldier, not a clerk. If he's to win his way, he'll do it as he did at Jallalabad, among hot shot an' cold steel —'
'With respect, Sir Hugh!' snaps Broadfoot, and I could imagine the red beard bristling. 'A political is not a clerk. Gathering and sifting intelligence —'
'Don't tell me, Major Broadfoot! I was fightin', an' gatherin' intelligence, while your grandfather hadn't got the twinkle in his eye yet. It's a war we're talkin' about—an' a war needs warriors, so now!' God help the poor old soul, he was talking about me.
'I am thinking of the good of the service, sir —'
'An' I'm not, damn yer Scotch impiddence? Och, what the hell, ye're makin' me all hot for nothin'. Now, see here, George, I'm a fair man, I hope, an' this is what I'll do. Flashman is on the staff—an' you'll not say a word to him, mallum?*(*Understand?) But … the whole army knows ye've lost Leech, an' there's need for another political. If Flashman takes it into his head to apply for that vacancy—an' havin' been a political he may be mad enough for anythin'—then I'll not stand in his way. But under no compulsion, mind that. Is that fair, now?'
'No, sir,' says George. 'What young officer would exchange the staff for the political service?'
'Any number—loafers, an' Hyde Park hoosars—no disrespect to your own people, or to young Flashman. He'll do his duty as he sees it. Well, George, that's me last word to you. Now, let's pay our respects to Lady Sale …'
If I'd had the energy, I'd have given Mrs Madison another run, out of pure thanksgiving.
'I suppose ye know nothing at all,' says Broadfoot, 'about the law of inheritance and widows' rights?'
'Not a dam' thing, George,' says I cheerily. 'Mind you, I can quote you the guv'nor on poaching and trespass—and I know a husband can't get his hands on his wife's gelt if her father won't let him.' Elspeth's parent, the loathly Morrison, had taught me that much. Rotten with rhino he was, too, the little reptile.
'Haud yer tongue,' says Broadfoot. 'There's for your education, then.' And he pushed a couple of mouldering tomes across the table; on top was a pamphlet: Inheritance Act, 1833. That was my reintroduction to the political service.
You see, what I'd heard under Sale's pool-table had been the strains of salvation, and I'll tell you why. As a rule, I'd run a mile from political work—skulking about in nigger clobber, living on millet and sheep guts, lousy as the tinker's dog, scared stiff you'll start whistling 'Waltzing Matilda' in a mosque, and finishing with your head on a pole, like Burnes and McNaghten. I'd been through all that—but now there was going to be a pukka war, you see, and in my ignorance I supposed that the politicals would retire to their offices while the staff gallopers ran errands in the cannon's mouth. Afghanistan had been one of those godless exceptions where no one's safe, but the Sikh campaign, I imagined, would be on sound lines. More fool me.14
So, having thanked the Fates that had guided me to roger Mrs Madison under the green baize, and taken soundings to satisfy myself that Leech and Cust had been peaceably employed, I'd lost no time in running into Broadfoot, accidental-like. Great hail-fellowings on both sides, although I was quite shocked at the change in him: the hearty Scotch giant, all red beard and thick spectacles, was quite fallen away—liver curling at the edges, he explained, which was why he'd moved his office to Simla, where the quacks could get a clear run at him. He'd taken a tumble riding, too, and went with a stick, gasping when he stirred.
I commiserated, and told him my own troubles, damning the luck that had landed me on Gough's staff ('poodle-faking, George, depend upon it, and finding the old goat's hat at parties'), and harking back to the brave days when he and I had dodged Afridis on the Gandamack Road, having endless fun. (Jesus, the things I've said.) He was a downy bird, George, and I could see him marvelling at this coincidence, but he probably concluded that Gough had dropped me a hint after all, for he offered me an Assistant's berth on the spot.
So now we were in the chummery of Crags, his bungalow on Mount Jacko, with me looking glum at the law books and reflecting that this was the price of safety, and Broadfoot telling me testily that I had better absorb their contents, and sharp about it. That was another change: he was a sight sterner than he'd been, and it wasn't just his illness. He'd been a wild, agin-the-government fellow in Afghanistan, but authority had put him on his dignity, and he rode a pretty high horse as Agent—once, for a lark, I called him 'major', and he didn't even blink; ah, well, thinks I, there's none so prim as a Scotsman up in the world. In fairness, he didn't blink at 'George', either, and was easy enough with me, in between the snaps and barks.
'Next item,' says he. 'Did many folk see ye in Umballa?'
'Shouldn't think so. What's it matter? I don't owe money -'
'The fewer natives who know that Iflassman the soldier is on hand, the better,' says he. 'Ye haven't worn uniform since ye landed? Good. Tomorrow, ye'll shave off your moustache and whiskers -- do it yourself, no nappy- wallah*(*Barber.)—and I'll cut your hair myself into something decently civilian—give ye a touch of pomade, perhaps —'
The sun had got him, not a doubt. 'Hold on, George! I'll need a dam' good reason —'
'I'm telling ye, and that's reason enough!' snarls he; liver in rough order, I could see. Then he managed a sour grin. 'This isn't the kind of political bandobast*(*Organisation, business) ye're used to; ye'll not be playing Badoo the Badmash this time.' Well, that was something. 'No, you're a proper wee civilian henceforth, in a tussore suit, high collar and tall hat, riding in a
He led me into the little hall, through a small door, and down a short flight of steps into a cellar where one of his Pathan Sappers (he'd had a gang of them in Afghanistan, fearsome villains who'd cut your throat or mend your watch with equal skill) was squatting under a lamp, glowering at three huge jars, all of five feet high, which took up most of the tiny cell. Two of them were secured with silk cords and great red seals.
Broadfoot leaned on the wall to ease his leg, and signed to the Pathan, who removed the lid from the unsealed jar, holding the lamp to shine on its contents. I looked, and was sufficiently impressed.
'What's up, George?' says I. 'Don't you trust the banks?'
The jar was packed to the brim with gold, a mass of coin glinting under the light. Broadfoot gestured, and I picked up a handful, cold and heavy, clinking as it trickled back into the jar.
'I am the bank,' says Broadfoot. 'There's L140,000 here, in mohurs, ingots, and fashioned gold. Its disposal … may well depend on you.
'That treasure,' says he, ' is the legacy of Raja Soochet Singh, a Punjabi prince who died two years ago, leading sixty followers against an army of twenty thousand.' He wagged his red head. 'Aye, they're game lads up yonder. Well, now, like most Punjabi nobles in these troubled times, he had put his wealth in the only safe place—in the care of the hated British. Infidels we may be, but we keep honest books, and they know it. There's a cool
