throat a mere five days after the war ended.
Kussoor lies a bare thirty miles from Lahore, and Hardinge had installed himself and his retinue in tents near the old town, with the army encamped on the plain around. As I trotted through the lines I could feel that air of contented elation that comes at the end of a campaign: the men are tired, and would like to sleep for a year, but they don't want to miss the warm feeling of survival and comradeship, so they lie blinking in the sun, or rouse themselves to skylark and play leapfrog. I remember the Lancers at baseball, and a young gunner sitting on a limber, licking his pencil and writing to the dictation of a farrier-sergeant with his arm in a sling: '… an' tell Sammy 'is Dad 'as got a Sikh sword wot 'e shall 'ave if 'e's bin good, an' a silk shawl for 'is Mum—stay, make that 'is dear Mum an' my best gel …' Sepoys were at drill, groups of fellows in vests and overalls were boiling their billies on the section fires, the long tent-lines and ruined mosques drowsed in the heat, the bugles sounded in the distance, the reek of native cooking wafted down from the host of camp-followers, fifty thousand of them, camped beyond the artillery park, somewhere a colour sergeant was waking the echoes, and a red-haired ruffian with a black eye was tied to a gun-wheel for field punishment, exchanging genial abuse with his mates. 1 stopped for a word with Bob Napier the sapper,51 who had his easel up and was painting a Bengali sowar sweating patiently in full fig of blue coat, red sash, and white breeches, but took care to avoid Gravedigger Havelock, who sat reading out-side his tent (the Book of Job, most likely). It was all calm and lazy; after sixty days of fire and fury, in which they'd held the gates of India, the Army of the Sutlej was at peace.
They'd earned it, There were 1400 fewer of them than there had been, and 5000 wounded in the Ferozepore barracks; against that, they'd killed 16,000 Punjabis and broken the best army east of Suez. There was a great outcry at home, by the way, over our losses; having seen the savagery of two of the four battles, and knowing the quality of the enemy, I'd say we were lucky the butcher's bill was so small—with Paddy in charge it was nothing short of a miracle.
If there was an unbuttoned air about the troops, head-quarters resembled Horse Guards during a fire alarm. Hardinge had just issued a proclamation to say that the war was over, it had all been the Sikhs' fault, we desired no extension of territory and were fairly bursting with pacific forbearance, but if the local rulers didn't co-operate to rescue the state from anarchy, H.M.G. would have to make 'other arrangements', so there. In consequence, messengers scurried, clerks sweated, armies of bearers ran about with everything from refreshments to furniture, and bouquets of new young aides lounged about looking bored. No doubt I'm uncharitable, but I've noticed that as soon as the last shot's fired, platoons of these exquisites arrive as by magic, vaguely employed, haw-hawing fortissimo, pinching the gin to make 'cock-tails', and stinking of pomade. There was a group outside Lawrence's tent, all guffaws and fly-whisks.
'I say, you, feller,' says one. 'Can't go in there. Major ain't receivin' civilians today.'
'Oh, please, sir,' says I, uncovering, 'it's most awfully important, you know.'
'If you're sellin' spirits,' says he, 'go an' see the—what d'ye call him, Tommy? Oh, yaas, the
'Who shall I say sent me?' says I, humbly. 'Major Lawrence's door-keepers?'
'Mind your manners, my man!' cries he. 'Who the devil are you, anyway?'
'Flashman,' says I, and enjoyed seeing them gape. 'No, no, don't get up—you might land on your arse. And speaking of butlers, why don't you go and help Baxu polish the spoons?'
I felt better after that, and better still when Lawrence, at first sight of me, dismissed his office-wallahs and shook hands as though he meant it. He was leaner and more harassed than ever, in his shirt-sleeves at a table littered with papers and maps, but he listened intently to the recital of my adventures (in which I made no mention whatever of Jassa), and dismissed my failure to deliver Dalip as of no account. 'Not your fault,' snaps he, in his curt style. 'Goolab writes that the boy is well -- that's all that matters. Anyway, that's past. My concern is the future— and what I have to tell you is under the rose. Clear?' He fixed me with that gimlet eye, pushed out his lantern jaw, and pitched in.
'Sir Henry Hardinge doesn't like you, Flashman. He thinks you're a whippersnapper, too independent, and careless of authority. Your conduct in the war—with which I'm well pleased, let me tell you—doesn't please him. `Broadfoot antics', you understand. I may tell you that when he learned that Goolab had got the boy, he spoke of court-martialling you. Even wondered if you had acted in collusion with Gardner. That's the curse of Indian politics, they make you suspect everyone. Anyway, I soon disabused him.' For an instant I'll swear the dour horse face was triumphant, then he was glowering again. 'At all events, he doesn't care for you, or regard you as reliable.'
My own sentiments about Hardinge exactly, but I held my peace.
'Now, Goolab Singh comes here tomorrow, to learn the treaty terms—and I'm sending you to meet him and conduct him into camp. That's why I summoned you. You have the old fox's confidence, if anyone does, and I wish that to be seen and known. Especially by Sir Henry. He mayn't like it, but I want him to understand that you are necessary. Is that clear?'
I said it was, but why?
'Because when this treaty is settled—I can't tell you the terms; they're secret until Goolab hears them—it is likely that a British presence will be required at Lahore, with a Resident, to keep the durbar on a tight rein. I'll be that Resident—and I want you as my chief assistant.'
Coming from the great Henry, I guess it was as high a compliment as Wellington's handshake, or one of Elspeth's ecstatic moans. But it was so unexpected, and ridiculous, that I almost laughed aloud.
'That's why I'm putting you forward now. Goolab will be the eminence grise, and if he is seen to respect and trust you, it will help me to win the G.G. over to your appointment.' He gave a sour grin. 'They don't call us politicals for nothing. I'll have to persuade Currie, too, and the rest of the Calcutta wallahs. But I'll manage it.'
When I think of the number of eminent men—and women—who have taken me at face value, and formed a high opinion of my character and abilities, it makes me tremble for my country's future. I mean, if they can't spot me as a wrong 'un, who can they spot? Still, it's pleasant to be well thought of, and has made my fortune, at the expense of some hellish perils—and minor difficulties such as conveying tactfully to Henry Lawrence that I wouldn't have touched his disgusting proposal with a long pole. My prime reason being that I was sick to loathing of India, and the service, the Sikhs, and bloody carnage and deadly danger, and being terrified and bullied and harried and used, when all I wanted was the fleshpots of home, and bulling Elspeth and civilised women, and never to stir out of England again. I daren't tell him that, but fortunately there was a way out.
'That's most kind of you, sir,' says I. 'I'm honoured, 'deed I am. But I'm afraid I have to decline.'
'What's that you say?' He was bristling in an. instant; ready to fight with his own shadow if it contradicted him, was H.M.L.
'I can't stay in the Punjab, sir. And now that the war's over, I intend to go home.'
'Do you indeed? And may I ask why?' He was fairly boiling.
'It's not easy to explain, sir. I'd take it as a favour … if you'd just allow me to decline—with regret, I assure you—'
'I'll do no such thing! Can't stay in the Punjab, indeed!' He calmed abruptly, eyeing me. 'Is this because of Hardinge?'
'No, sir, not at all. I'm simply applying to be sent home.'
He sat back, tapping a finger. 'You've never shirked—so there must be a good reason for this … this nonsense! Come, man—what is it? Out with it!'
'Very well, sir—since you press me.' I figured it was time to explode my mine. 'The fact is, you ain't the only one who wants me at Lahore. There is a lady there … who has intentions—honourable, of course—and … well, it won't do, you see. She's—'
'Good God!' I'm probably the only man who ever made Henry Lawrence take the name of the Lord in vain. 'Not the Maharani?'
'Yes, sir. She's made it perfectly plain, I'm afraid. And I'm married, you know.' For some reason, God knows what, I added: 'Mrs Flashman wouldn't like it a bit.'
He didn't say anything for about three minutes—d'you know, I'm sure the blighter was absolutely wondering what advantage there might be to having the Queen Mother of the Punjab panting for his assistant. They're all alike, these blasted politicals. Finally, he shook his head, and said he took my point, but while it ruled out Lahore, there was no reason why I should not be employed elsewhere -
'No, sir,' says I, firmly. 'I'm going home. If necessary, I'll sell out.' Perhaps it was that I hadn't got over my illness, but I was sick and tired and ready for a stand-up tight if he wanted one. I think he sensed it, for he became
