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Someone else’s was also taking flight: Mrs Madison, possibly inspired by all this disgraceful gossip, was 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?
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.
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
– 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
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 jampan with a chota-wallah
to carry your green bag. As befits a man of the law, well versed in widows’ titles.’ He studied me sardonically for a long moment, doubtless enjoying my bewilderment. ‘I think ye’d better have a look at your brief,’ says he, and rose stiffly, cursing his leg.
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 £140,000 here, in mohurs, ingots, and fashioned gold. Its disposal … may well depend on you. Tik hai,
Mahmud.’ He limped aloft again, while I followed in silence, wondering what the devil I was in for this time – not that it looked perilous, thank heaven. Broadfoot settled gratefully in his chair.
‘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 twenty million sterling of Punjab money south of the Sutlej this minute.
‘For two years past the Court of Lahore – which means the regents, Jawaheer Singh and his slut of a sister – have been demanding the return of Soochet’s legacy, on the ground that he was a forfeited rebel. Our line, more or less, has been that “rebel” is an unsatisfactory term, since naebody kens who the Punjab government is from one day to the next, and that the money should go to Soochet’s heirs – his widow, or his brother, Raja Goolab Singh. We’ve taken counsel’s opinion,’ says he, straight-faced, ‘but the position is complicated by the fact that the widow was last heard of fleeing for her life from a beleaguered fort, while Goolab, who had designs on the Punjab throne at one time, has lately proclaimed himself King of Kashmir, and is sitting behind a rock up Jumoo way, with fifty thousand hillmen at his back. However, we have sure information that both he and the widow are of opinion that the money is fine where it is, for the time being.’
He paused, and ‘Isn’t it?’ was on the tip of my tongue, for I didn’t care for this above half; talk of besieged forts and hillmen unsettles me, and I had horrid visions of Flashy sneaking through the passes with a portmanteau, bearing statements of compound interest to these two eccentric legatees, both of whom were probably dam’ dangerous to know.
‘A further complication,’ says Broadfoot, ‘is that Jawaheer Singh is threatening to make this legacy a cause of war. As you know, peace is in the balance; those three jars down there might tip the scale. Naturally, Sir Henry Hardinge wishes negotiations about the legacy to be reopened at Lahore – not with a view to settlement, of course, but to temporise.’ He looked at me over his spectacles. ‘We’re not ready yet.’
To settle – or to go to war? Having eavesdropped on Broadfoot’s opinions, I could guess which. Just as I could see, with sudden horrible clarity, who the negotiator was going to be, in that Court of bhang
-sodden savages where they murdered each other regular, after supper. But that apart, the thing made no sense at all.
‘You want me to go to Lahore – but I ain’t a lawyer, dammit! Why, I’ve only been in a court twice in my life!’ Drunk and resisting arrest, and being apprehended on premises known to be a disorderly house, five quid each time, not that it mattered.
‘They don’t ken that,’ says Broadfoot.
‘Don’t they, though? George, I ain’t puffing myself, but I’m not unknown over there! Man alive, when we had a garrison in Lahore, in ’42, I was being trumpeted all over the shop! Why, you said yourself the fewer who knew Iflassman was back, the better! They know I’m a soldier, don’t they – Bloody Lance, and all that rot?’
‘So they may,’ says he blandly. ‘But who’s to say ye haven’t been eating your dinner in Middle Temple Hall these three years past? If Hardinge sends ye, accredited and under seal, they’re not going to doubt ye. Ye can pick up the jargon, and as much law as ye’ll need, from those.’ He indicated the books.
‘But where’s the point? A real lawyer can spin the thing out ten times better than I can! Calcutta’s full of ’em –’
‘But they can’t speak Punjabi. They can’t be my eyes and ears in Lahore Fort. They can’t take the pulse in that viper’s nest of intrigue. They’re not politicals trained by Sekundar Burnes. And if the grip comes’ – He tapped his desk triumphantly – ‘they can’t turn themselves into a Khye-Keen or Barukzai jezzailchi and slip back over the Sutlej.’
So I was to be a spy – in that den of devilment! I sat appalled, stammering out the first objection that came to mind.
‘And a fat chance I’ll have of doing that, with my face shaved!’ He waved it aside.
‘Ye cannot go to Lahore with soldier written all over ye. Forbye, it’ll never come to disguise, or anything desperate. You’ll be a British diplomat, the Governor-General’s envoy, and immune.’
So was McNaghten, I wanted to holler, so was Burnes, so were Connolly and Stoddart and Uncle Tom Cobleigh, it’s on their bloody tombstones. And then he unveiled the full horror of the thing.
‘That immunity will enable you to remain in Lahore after the war has begun … supposing it does. And that is when your real work will begin.’
And I’d exchanged a staff billet for this. The prospect was fit to make me puke – but I daren’t say so, not to Broadfoot. Somehow I contained my emotion, assumed a ruptured frown, and said surely a diplomat would be expelled, or confined at least.
‘Not for a moment.’ Oh, he had it all pat, blast him. ‘From the day you arrive in Lahore – and thereafter, whatever befalls – ye’ll be the most courted man in the Punjab. It’s this way: there’s a war party, and a peace party, and the Khalsa, and the panch committees that control it, and a faction that wants us to take the Punjab, and a faction that wants us driven from India altogether, and some that hop from one side to t’other, and cabals and cliques that don’t ken what they want because they’re too drunk and debauched to think.’ He leaned forward, all eager red whiskers, his eyes huge behind the bottle lenses. ‘But they all want to be on the right side at the finish, and most have wit enough to see that that will be our side. Oh, they’ll shift and swither and plot, and ye’ll be approached (discreetly) with more hints and ploys and assurances of good will than ye can count. From enemies who’ll be friends tomorrow – and vice versa. All of which ye’ll transmit secretly to me.’ He sat back, well pleased with himself, while I kept a straight face with my bowels in my boots. ‘That’s the marrow of the business. Now, for your more particular information …’
He brought out a sheaf of those slim buff packets that I remembered from Burnes’s office at Kabul. I knew what they held: maps, names, places, reports and summaries, laws and customs, biographies and artists’ sketches, heights and distances, history, geography, even weights and measures – all that years of intelligence and espionage had gathered about the Punjab, to be digested and returned. ‘When ye’ve studied these, and the law books, we’ll talk at more length,’ says he, and asked if I had any observations.
I could have made a few, but what was the use? I was sunk – through my own folly, as usual. If I hadn’t thumped that randy baggage Madison, I’d never have overheard Gough and rushed rejoicing into this hellish political stew … it didn’t bear thinking of. All I could do was show willing, for my precious credit’s sake, so I asked him who the friends and enemies in Lahore were likely to be.
‘If I knew that, ye wouldn’t be going. Oh, I ken who our professed sympathisers and ill-willers are at the moment – but where they’ll stand next week …? Take Goolab Singh, Soochet’s fugitive heir – he’s sworn that if the Khalsa marches, he’ll stand by us … well, perhaps he will, in the hope that we’ll confirm him in Kashmir. But if the Khalsa were to give us a wee set-back – where would Goolab and his hillmen be then, eh? Loyal … or thinking about the loot of Delhi?’
I could see where Flashy would be – stranded in Lahore among the raging heathen. I knew better than to ask him what other politicals and trusted agents would be on hand, so I went round about. ‘How shall I report to you – through the vakil?’
‘No such thing – he’s a native, and not a sure one. He can take any letters ye may write about the Soochet legacy, but anything secret will be in cypher notes, which you’ll leave in Second Thessalonians on the bedside table in your quarters –’
‘Second where?’
He looked at me as though I’d farted. ‘In your Bible, man!’ You could see him wondering if my bedside reading wasn’t more likely to be Tom and Jerry. ‘The cypher, and coding instructions, are in the packets. Your messages will be … collected, never fear.’
So there was a trusted messenger at the Court – and the fact that I wasn’t to be told who was another thought to chill my blood: what you don’t know you can’t tell if inquisitive folk approach you with hot irons … ‘What if I need to get word to you quickly? I mean, if the Khalsa march, all of a sudden –’
‘I’ll ken that before you do. What you must discover then is why they’ve marched. Who set them on, and for what purpose? If it’s war … what’s behind it, and how came it to begin? That’s what I must know.’ He hunched forward again, intent. ‘Ye see, Flashy … to know precisely why your enemy is making war, what he hopes to gain and fears to lose … is to be half way to winning. Mind that.’
Looking back, I can say it made good sense, though I was in no state to appreciate it then. But I nodded dutifully, with that grim attentive mien which I’ve learned to wear while scheming frantically how to slide out from under.
‘This Soochet legacy, then – it’s all gammon?’
‘By no means. It’s your excuse for being in Lahore, to be sure – as their subtler folk will suspect – but it’s still a genuine cause
which ye’ll argue with their officials. Perhaps even in full durbar with the regents, if they’re sober. In which case, keep your wits about you. Jawaheer’s a frightened degenerate weakling, and Maharani Jeendan seems set on destroying herself by vicious indulgence …’ He paused, fingering his beard, while I perked up a trifle, like Prince Whatsisname. He went on, frowning:
‘I’m not sure about her, though. She had rare spirit and ability once, or she’d never have climbed from the stews to the throne. Aye, courage, too – d’ye know how she once quelled a mob of her mutinous soldiery, and them bent on slaughter?’
I said I’d no notion, and waited breathless.
‘She danced. Aye, put on veils and castanets and danced them daft, and they went home like sheep.’ Broadfoot shook his head in admiration, no doubt wishing he’d been there. ‘Practising her trade – she danced in the Amritsar brothels as a child, before she caught Runjeet’s fancy.’ He gave a grimace of distaste. ‘Aye, and what she learned there has obsessed her ever since, until her mind’s unhinged with it, I think.’
‘Dancing?’ says I, and he shot me a doubtful look – he was a proper Christian, you see, and knew nothing about me beyond my supposed heroics.
‘Debauchery, with men.’ He gave a Presbyterian sniff, hesitating, no doubt, to sully my boyish mind. ‘She has an incurable lust – what the medicos call nymphomania. It’s driven her to unspeakable excesses … not only with every man of rank in Lahore, but slaves and sweepers, too. Her present favourite is Lal Singh, a powerful general – although I hear she abandoned him briefly of late for a stable lad who robbed her of ten lakhs of jewels.’
I was so shocked I couldn’t think what to say, except easy come, easy go.
‘I doubt if the stable lad thought so. He’s in a cage over the Looharree Gate this minute, minus his nose, lips, ears … et cetera, they tell me. That,’ says Broadfoot, ‘is why I say I’m not sure about her. Debauched or not, the lady is still formidable.’
And I’d been looking forward no end to meeting her, too; Flashy’s ideal of womanhood, she’d sounded like – until this, the last grisly detail in the whole hideous business. That night, in my room at Crags, after I’d pored through Broadfoot’s packets, flung the law books in a corner, paced up and down racking my brains for a way out, and found none, I felt so low altogether that I decided to complete my misery by shaving my whiskers – that’s how reduced I was. When I’d done, and stared at my naked chops in the glass, remembering how Elspeth had adored my face-furniture and sworn they were what had first won her girlish heart, I could have wept. ‘Beardie-beardie,’ she used to murmur fondly, and that sent me into a maudlin reverie about that first splendid tumble in the bushes by the Clyde, and equally glorious romps in the Madagascar forest … from which my mind naturally strayed to frenzied gallops with Queen Ranavalona, who hadn’t cared for whiskers at all – leastways, she always used to try to wrench mine out by the roots in moments of ecstasy.
Well, some women don’t like ’em. I reflected idly that the Maharani Jeendan, who evidently counted all time lost when she wasn’t being bulled by Sikhs, must be partial to beards … then again, she might welcome a change. By George, that would ease the diplomatic burden; no place like bed for state secrets … useful patroness, too, in troubled times. Mind you, if she wore out six strong men in a night, Lahore bazaar had better be well stocked with stout and oysters …
Mere musing, as I say – but something similar may have been troubling the mind of Major Broadfoot, G., for while I was still admiring my commanding profile in the glass, in he tooled, looking middling uneasy, I thought. He apologised for intruding, and then sat down, prodding the rug with his stick and pondering. Finally:
‘Flashy … how old are ye?’ I told him, twenty-three.
He grunted. ‘Ye’re married, though?’ Wondering, I said I’d been wed five years, and he frowned and shook his head.
‘Even so … dear me, you’re young for this Lahore business!’ Hope sprang at once, then he went on: ‘What I mean is, it’s the deuce of a responsibility I’m putting on you. The price of fame, I suppose – Kabul, Mogala, Piper’s Fort … man, it’s a brave tale, and you just a bit laddie, as my grandam would have said. But this thing,’ says he seriously, ‘… perhaps an older head … a man of the world … aye, if there was anyone else …’
I know when not to snatch at a cue, I can tell you. I waited till I saw him about to continue, and then got in first, slow and thoughtful:
‘George … I know I’m dead green, in some ways, and it’s true enough, I’m more at home with a sabre than a cypher, what? I’d never forgive myself, if I … well, if I failed you of all people, old fellow. Through inexperience, I mean. So … if you want to send an older hand … well …’ Manly, you see, putting service before self, hiding my disappointment. All it got me was a handclasp and a noble gleam of his glasses.
‘Flashy, ye’re a trump. But the fact is, there’s no one in your parish for this work. Oh, it’s not just the Punjabi, or that you’ve shown a stout front and a cool head – aye, and resource beyond your years. I think you’ll succeed in this because ye have a gift with … with folk, that makes them take to you.’ He gave a little uneasy laugh, not meeting my eye. ‘It’s what troubles me, in a way. Men respect you; women … admire you … and …’
He broke off, taking another prod at the carpet, and I’d have laid gold to groceries his thoughts were what mine had been before he came in. I’ve wondered since what he’d have done if I’d said: ‘Very good, George, we both suspect that this horny bitch will corrupt my youthful innocence, but if I pleasure her groggy enough, why, I may turn her mind inside out, which is what you’re after. And how d’ye want me to steer her then, George, supposing I can? What would suit Calcutta?’
Being Broadfoot, he’d probably have knocked me down. He was honest that far; if he’d been the hypocrite that most folk are, he’d not have come up to see me at all. But he had the conscience of his time, you see, Bible-reared and shunning sin, and the thought that my success in Lahore might depend on fornication set him a fine ethical problem. He couldn’t solve it – I doubt if Dr Arnold and Cardinal Newman could, either. (‘I say, your eminence, what price Flashy’s salvation if he breaks the seventh commandment for his country’s sake?’ ‘That depends, doctor, on whether the randy young pig enjoyed it.’) Of course, if it had been slaughter, not adultery, that was necessary, none of my pious generation would even have blinked – soldier’s duty, you see.
I may tell you that, in Broadfoot’s shoes, with so much at stake, I’d have told my young emissary: ‘Roger’s the answer’, and wished him good hunting – but then, I’m a scoundrel.
But I mustn’t carp at old George, for his tortured conscience saved my skin, in the end. I’m sure it made him feel that, for some twisted reason, he owed me something. So he bent his duty, just a little, by giving me a lifeline, in case things went amiss. It wasn’t much, but it might have imperilled another of his people, so as an amend I reckon it pretty high.
After he’d finished havering, and not saying what couldn’t be said, he turned to go, still looking uneasy. Then he stopped, hesitated, and came out with it.
‘See here,’ says he, ‘I should not be saying this, but if the grip does come – which I don’t believe it will, mind – and ye find yourself in mortal danger, there’s a thing you can do.’ He glowered at me, mauling his whiskers. ‘As a last resort only, mallum? Ye’ll think it strange, but it’s a word – a password, if ye like. Utter it anywhere within the bounds of Lahore Fort – dropped into conversation, or shouted from the housetops if need be – and the odds are there’ll be those who’ll pass it, and a friend will come to you. Ye follow? Well, the word is “Wisconsin”.’
He was as deadly serious as I’d ever seen him. ‘“Wisconsin”,’ I repeated, and he nodded.
‘Never breathe it unless ye have to. It’s the name of a river in North America.’
It might have been the name of a privy in Penzance for all the good it seemed likely to be. Well, I was wrong there.
I’ve set out on my country’s service more times than I can count, always reluctantly, and often as not in a state of alarm; but at least I’ve usually known what I was meant to be doing, and why. The Punjab business was different. As I wended my sweltering, dust-driven way to Ferozepore on the frontier, the whole thing seemed more unlikely by the mile. I was going to a country in uproar, whose mutinous army might invade us at any moment. I was to present a legal case at a court of profligate, murderous intriguers on whom, war or no war, I was also to spy – both being tasks for which I was untrained, whatever Broadfoot might say. I had been assured that the work was entirely safe – and told almost in the same breath that when all hell broke loose I had only to holler ‘Wisconsin!’ and a genie or Broadfoot’s grandmother or the Household Brigade would emerge from a bottle and see me right. Just so. Well, I didn’t believe a word of it.
You see, tyro though I was, I knew the political service and the kind of larks it could get up to, like not telling a fellow until it was too late. Two fearsome possibilities had occurred to my distrustful mind: either I was a decoy to distract the enemy from other agents, or I was being placed in the deep field to receive secret instructions when war started. In either case I foresaw fatal consequences, and to make matters worse, I had dark misgivings about the native assistant Broadfoot had assigned to me – you remember, the ‘chota-wallah’ who was to carry my green bag.
His name was Jassa, and he wasn’t chota. I had envisaged the usual fat babu or skinny clerk, but Jassa was a pock-marked, barrel-chested villain, complete with hairy poshteen,
skull-cap, and Khyber knife – just the man you’d choose, as a rule, to see you through rough country, but I was leery of this one from the start. For one thing, he pretended to be a Baloochi dervish, and wasn’t – I put him down for Afghan chi-chi,
for he was grey-eyed, had no greater a gap between his first and second toes than I did, and possessed something rare among Europeans at that time, let alone natives – a vaccination mark. I spotted it at Ferozepore when he was washing at the tank, but didn’t let on; he was from Broadfoot’s stable, after all, and plainly knew his business, which was to act as orderly, guide, shield-on-shoulder, and general adviser on country matters. Still, I didn’t trust him above half.
Ferozepore was the last outpost of British India then, a beastly hole not much better than a village, beyond which lay the broad brown flood of the Sutlej – and then the hot plain of the Punjab. We had just built a barracks for our three battalions, one British and two Native Infantry, who garrisoned the place, God help them, for it was hotter than hell’s pavement; you boiled when it rained, and baked when it didn’t. In my civilian role, I didn’t call on Littler, who commanded, but put up with Peter Nicolson, Broadfoot’s local Assistant. He was suffering for his country, that one, dried out and hollow-cheeked with the worst job in India – nursemaiding the frontier, finding shelter for the endless stream of refugees from the Punjab, sniffing out the trouble-makers sent to seduce our sepoys and disaffect the zamindars,
chasing raiding parties, disarming badmashes,
