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ruling a district, and keeping the Queen’s peace – all this, mind you, without provoking a hostile power which was spoiling for trouble.
‘It can’t last,’ says he cheerfully – and I wondered how long he could, with that impossible task and the mercury at 107. ‘They’re just waitin’ for an excuse, an’ if I don’t give ’em one – why, they’ll roll over the river as soon as the cold weather comes, horse, foot an’ guns, you’ll see. We ought to go in an’ smash ’em now, while they’re in two minds an’ gettin’ over the cholera – five thousand of the Khalsa have died in Lahore, but it’s past its worst.’
He was seeing me down to the ferry at daybreak; when I mentioned the great assembly of our troops I’d seen above Meerut he laughed and pointed back to the cantonment, where the 62nd were drilling, the red and buff figures like dolls in the heat haze.
‘Never mind what’s on the Grand Trunk,’ says he. ‘That’s what’s here, my boy – seven thousand men, one-third British, an’ only light guns. Up there,’ he pointed north, ‘is the Khalsa – one hundred thousand of the finest native army in Asia, with heavy guns. They’re two days’ march away. Our nearest reinforcements are Gilbert’s ten thousand at Umballa, a week’s march away, and Wheeler’s five thousand at Ludhiana – only five days’ march. Strong on mathematics, are you?’
I’d heard vague talk in Simla, as you know, about our weakness on the frontier, but it’s different when you’re on the spot, and hear the figures. ‘But why –?’ I was beginning, and Nicolson chuckled and shook his head.
‘– doesn’t Gough reinforce now?’ he mimicked me. ‘Because it would provoke Lahore – my goodness, it provokes Lahore if one of our sepoys walks north to the latrines! I hear they’re goin’ to demand that we withdraw even the troops we have up here now – perhaps that’ll start the war, even if your Soochet legacy doesn’t.’ He knew about that, and had twitted me about how I’d be languishing at the feet of ‘the fair sultana’ while honest soldiers like him were chasing infiltrators along the river.
‘Mind you, she may be out of office by the time you get there. There’s talk that Prince Peshora – he’s another of old Runjeet’s by-blows – is goin’ to have a try for the throne; they say he has most of the Khalsa on his side. What price a palace revolution, what? Why, if I were you, I’d apply for the job!’
There was a great crowd of refugees camped about the ghat
on the water’s edge, and at the sight of Nicolson they set up a howl and swarmed round him, women mostly and fly-blown chicos
clamouring with hands stretched up. His orderlies pushed them back to let us through. ‘A few hundred more mouths to feed,’ sighs Nicolson, ‘an’ they ain’t even ours. Easy there, havildar!
Oh, chubbarao,
you noisy heathen – Papa’ll bring your bread and milk in a moment! God knows how we’re goin’ to house ’em, though – I’ve screwed as much canvas out of stores as the Q.M. will bear, I think.’
The ferry itself was a huge barge crewed by native boatmen, but with a light gun in the bows, manned by two sepoys. ‘That’s another provocation,’ says Nicolson. ‘We’ve sixty of these tubs on the river, an’ the Sikhs suspect we mean to use ’em as a bridge for invasion. You never know, one o’ these days … Ah, see yonder!’ He shaded his eyes, pointing with his crop across the swollen river; the mist was hanging on the far shore, but through it I could see a party of horsemen waiting, arms gleaming in the sun.
‘There’s your escort, my boy! The vakil sent word they was coming to see you into Lahore in style. Nothin’ too good for an envoy with the scent of cash about him, eh? Well, good luck to you!’ As we pushed off he waved and shouted: ‘It’ll all come out right, you’ll see!’
I don’t know why I remember those words, or the sight of him with that great mob of niggers chattering about him while his orderlies cuffed and pushed them up to the camp where they’d be fed and looked after; he was for all the world like a prepostor marshalling the fags, laughing and swearing by turns, with a chico perched on his shoulder – I’d not have touched the verminous imp for a pension. He was a kindly, cheery ass, working twenty hours a day, minding his frontier. Four months later he got his reward: a bullet. I wonder if anyone else remembers him?
The last time I’d crossed the Sutlej had been four years earlier, where there was a British army ahead, and we had posts all the way to Kabul. Now there were no friends before me, and no one to turn to except the Khyberie thug Jassa and our gaggle of bearers – they were there chiefly because Broadfoot had said I should enter Lahore in a jampan, to impress the Sikhs with my consequence. Thanks, George, but I felt damned unimportant as I surveyed my waiting escort (or captors?), and Jassa did nothing to raise my spirits.
‘Gorracharra,’ grunts he, and spat. ‘Irregular cavalry – it is an insult to thee, husoor.
These should have been men of the palace, pukka cavalry. They seek to put shame on us, the Hindoo swine!’
I told him pretty sharp to mind his manners, but I saw what he meant. They were typical native irregulars, splendid cavalry undoubtedly, but dressed and armed any old how, with lances, bows, tulwars,
and ancient firearms, some in mail coats and helmets, others bare-legged, and all grinning most familiarly. Not what you’d call a guard of honour – yet that’s what they were, as I learned when their officer, a handsome young Sikh in a splendid rigout of yellow silk, addressed me by name – and by fame.
‘Sardul Singh, at your service, Flashman bahadur,’
cries he, teeth flashing through his beard. ‘I was by the Turksalee Gate when you came down from Jallalabad, and all men came to see the Afghan Kush.’ So much for Broadfoot’s notion that shaving my whiskers would help me to pass unnoticed – mind you, it was famous to hear myself described as ‘the slayer of Afghans’, if quite undeserved. ‘When we heard you were coming with the book and not the sword – may it be an omen of peace for our peoples – I sought command of your escort – and these are volunteers.’ He indicated his motley squadron. ‘Men of the Sirkar
in their time. A fitter escort for Bloody Lance than Khalsa cavalry.’
Well, this was altogether grand, so I thanked him, raised my civilian kepi to his grinning bandits, saying ‘Salaam, bhai’’,
which pleased them no end. I took the first chance to remind Jassa how wrong he’d been, but the curmudgeon only grunted: ‘The Sikh speaks, the cobra spits – who grows fat on the difference?’ There’s no pleasing some folk.
Between the Sutlej and Lahore lie fifty of the hottest, flattest, scrubbiest miles on earth, and I supposed we’d cover them in a long day’s ride, but Sardul said we should lie overnight at a serai
a few miles from the city: there was something he wanted me to see. So we did, and after supper he took me through a copse to the loveliest place I ever saw in India – there, all unexpected after the heat and dust of the plain, was a great garden, with little palaces and pavilions among the trees, all hung with coloured lanterns in the warm dusk; streams meandered among the lawns and flower-beds, the air was fragrant with night-blooms, soft music sounded from some hidden place, and everywhere couples were strolling hand in hand or deep in lovers’ talk under the boughs. The Chinese Summer Palace, where I walked years later, was altogether grander, I suppose, but there was a magic about that Indian garden that I can’t describe – you could call it perfect peace, with its gentle airs rustling the leaves and the lights winking in the twilight; it was the kind of spot where Scheherazade might have told her unending stories; even its name sounds like a caress: Shalamar.
But this wasn’t the sight that Sardul wanted me to see – that was something unimaginably different, and we viewed it next morning. We left the serai at dawn, but instead of riding towards Lahore, which was in full view in the distance, we went a couple of miles out of our way towards the great plain of Maian Mir where, Sardul assured me mysteriously, the true wonder of the Punjab would be shown to me; knowing the Oriental mind, I could guess it was something designed to strike awe in the visiting foreigner – well, it did all of that. We heard it long before we saw it, the flat crash of artillery at first, and then a great confused rumble of sound which resolved itself into the squealing of elephants, the high bray of trumpets, the rhythm of drums and martial music, and the thunder of a thousand hooves making the ground tremble beneath us. I knew what it was before we rode out of the trees and halted on a bund
to view it in breathtaking panorama: the pride of the Punjab and the dread of peaceful India: the famous Khalsa.
Now, I’ve taken note of a few heathen armies in my time. The Heavenly Host of Tai’ping was bigger, the black tide of Cetewayo’s legions sweeping into Little Hand was surely more terrifying, and there’s a special place in my nightmares for that vast forest of tipis, five miles wide, that I looked down on from the bluffs over Little Bighorn – but for pure military might I’ve seen nothing outside Europe (and dam’ little inside) to match that great disciplined array of men and beasts and metal on Maian Mir. As far as you could see, among the endless lines of tents and waving standards, the broad maidan
was alive with foot battalions at drill, horse regiments at field exercise, and guns at practice – and they were all uniformed and in perfect order, that was the shocking thing. Black, brown, and yellow armies in those days, you see, might be as brave as any, but they didn’t have centuries of drill and tactical movement drummed into ’em, not even the Zulus, or Ranavalona’s Hova guardsmen. That was the thing about the Khalsa: it was Aldershot in turbans. It was an army.
That’s worth bearing in mind when you hear some smart alec holding forth about our imperial wars being one-sided massacres of poor club-waving heathen mown down by Gatlings. Oh, it happened, at Ulundi and Washita and Omdurman – but more often than not the Snider and Martini and Brown Bess were facing odds of ten to one against in country where shrapnel and rapid fire don’t count for much; your savage with his blowpipe or bow or jezzail
behind a rock has a deuce of an advantage: it’s his rock, you see. Anyway, our detractors never mention armies like the Khalsa, every bit as well-armed and equipped as we were. So how did we hold India? You’ll see presently.
That morning on Maian Mir the confidence I’d felt, viewing our forces on the Grand Trunk, vanished like Punjabi mist. I thought of Littler’s puny seven thousand isolated at Ferozepore, our other troops scattered, waiting to be eaten piecemeal – by this juggernaut, a hundred thousand strong. A score of vivid images stay in my mind: a regiment of Sikh lancers wheeling at the charge in perfect dressing, the glittering points falling and rising as one; a battalion of Jat infantry with moustaches like buffalo horns, white figures with black crossbelts, moving like clockwork as they performed ‘at the halt on the left form companies’; Dogra light infantry advancing in skirmishing order, the blue turbans suddenly closing in immaculate line, the bayonet points ripping into the sandbags to a savage yell of ‘Khalsa-ji!’; heavy guns being dragged through swirling dust by trumpeting elephant teams while the gunners trimmed their fuses, the cases being thrust home, the deafening roar of the salvo – and damme! if those shells didn’t burst a mile away in perfect unison, all above ground. Even the sight of the light guns cutting their curtain targets to shreds with grape wasn’t as sickening as the precision of the heavy batteries. They were as good as Royal Artillery – aye, and with bigger shot.
They made all their own material, too, from Brown Bess to howitzers, in the Lahore foundry, from our regulation patterns. Only one fault could I find with their gunners and infantry: their drill was perfect, but slow. Their cavalry … well, it was fit to ride over Napoleon.
Sardul took good care to let me see all this, pour encourager les feringhees. We tiffened with some of their senior men, all courteous to a fault, and not a word about the likelihood that our armies would be at each other’s throats by Christmas – the Sikhs are damned good form, you know. There wasn’t a European mercenary in sight, by the way; having built an army, they’d retired for the best of reasons: disgust at the state of the country, and reluctance to find themselves fighting John Company.
I saw another side to the Khalsa when we set out for Lahore after noon, Flashy now riding in state in his jampan, white topper and fly-whisk at the high port, with Jassa kicking the bearers’ arses to give tone to our progress. We were swaying along in fine style past the headquarters tents when we became aware of a crowd of soldiery gathered before the main pavilion, listening to some upper rojer
on a dais. Sardul reined in to listen, and when I asked Jassa what this might be he growled and spat. ‘The panchayats! If old Runjeet had seen the day, he’d have cut his beard!’
So these were the Khalsa’s notorious military committees, of whom we’d heard so much. You see, while their field discipline was perfect, Khalsa policy was determined by the panches, where Jack Jawan was as good as his master, and all went by democratic vote – no way to run an army, I agreed with Jassa; small wonder they hadn’t crossed the Sutlej yet. They were an astonishing mixture: bare-legged sepoys, officers in red silk, fierce-eyed Akalis
in peaked blue turbans and gold beard-nets, a portly old rissaldar-major
with white whiskers a foot wide, irregular sowars in lobster-tail helmets, Dogra musketeers in green, Pathans with long camel guns – there seemed to be every rank, caste, and race crowding round the speaker, a splendid Sikh, six and a half feet tall in cloth of silver, bellowing to make himself heard.
‘All that we heard from Attock is true! Young Peshora is dead, and Kashmiri Singh with him, taken in sleep, after the hunting, by Chuttur Singh and Futteh Khan –’
‘Tell us what we don’t know!’ bawls a heckler, and the big fellow raised his arms to still the yells of agreement.
‘You don’t know the manner of it – the shame and black treachery! Imam Shah was in Attock Fort – let him tell you.’
A burly bargee in a mail jacket, with a bandolier of ivory-hilted knives round his hips, jumps on the dais, and they fell silent.
‘It was foully done!’ croaks he. ‘Peshora Singh knew it was his time, for they had him in irons, and bore him before the jackal, Chuttur Singh. Peshora looked him in the eye, and called for a sword. “Let me die like a soldier,” says he, but Chuttur would not look on him, but wagged his head and made soft excuses. Again the young hawk cried for a sword. “You are thousands, I am alone – there can be but one end, so let it be straight!” Chuttur sighed, and whined, and turned away, waving his hands. “Straight, coward!” cries Peshora, but they bore him away. All this I saw. They took him to the Kolboorj dungeon, and choked him like a thief with his chains, and cast him in the river. This I did not see. I was told. God wither my tongue if I lie.’
Peshora Singh had been the form horse in the throne stakes, according to Nicolson. Well, that’s politics for you. I wondered if this would mean a change of government, for Peshora had been the Khalsa’s idol, and while his death seemed to be old news, the manner of it seemed to put them in a great taking. They were all yelling at once, and the tall Sikh had to bellow again.
‘We have sent the parwana
to the palace. You all approved it! What is there to do but wait?’
‘Wait – while the snake Jawaheer butchers other true men?’ bawls a voice. ‘He’s Peshora’s murderer, for all he skulks in the Kwabagh
yonder! Let us visit him now, and give him a sleep indeed!’
This got a rousing hand, but others shouted that Jawaheer was the hope of the side, and innocent of Peshora’s death.
‘Who bribed thee to say that?’ roars the rissaldar-major, all fire and whiskers. ‘Did Jawaheer buy thee with a gold chain, boroowa?
Or perchance Mai Jeendan danced for thee, fornicating strumpet that she is!’ Cries of ‘Shame!’, ‘Shabash!’
and the Punjabi equivalent of ‘Mr Chairman!’, some pointing out that the Maharani had promised them fifteen rupees a month to march against the bastardised British pigs (the spectator in the jampan drew his curtain tactfully at this point) and Jawaheer was just the chap to lead them. Another suggested that Jawaheer wanted war only to draw the Khalsa’s fury from his own head, and that the Maharani was an abominable whore of questionable parentage who had lately had a Brahmin’s nose sliced off when he rebuked her depravities, so there. A beardless youth, frothing with loyalty, offered to eat the innards of anyone who impugned the honour of that saintly woman, and the meeting seemed likely to dissolve in riot when a gorgeously robed old general, hawk-faced and commanding, mounted the dais and let them have it straight from the shoulder.
‘Silence! Are ye soldiers or fish-wives? Ye have heard Pirthee Singh – the parwana has been sent, summoning Jawaheer to come out to us on the sixth of Assin, to answer for Peshora’s death or show himself guiltless. There is no more to be said, but this …’ He paused, and you could have heard a pin drop as his cold eye ranged over them. ‘We are the Khalsa, the Pure, and our allegiance is to none but our Maharaja, Dalip Singh, may God protect his innocence! Our swords and lives are his alone!’ Thunderous cheers, the old rissaldar-major spouting tears of loyalty. ‘As to marching against the British … that is for the panchayats to decide another day. But if we do, then I, General Maka Khan’ – he slapped his breast – ‘shall march because the Khalsa wills it, and not for the wiles of a naked cunchunee
or the whim of a drunken dancing boy!’
With that summary of the regents’ characters the day’s business concluded, and I was relieved, as Sardul led us past the dispersing soldiery, to note that any glances in my direction were curious rather than hostile; indeed, one or two saluted, and you may be sure I responded civilly. This heartened me, for it suggested that Broadfoot was right, and whatever upheavals in government took place – dramatic ones, by the sound of it – the stranger Flashy would be respected within their gates, their opinion of his country notwithstanding.
We approached Lahore roundabout, skirting the main town, which is a filthy maze of crooked streets and alleys, to the northern side, where the Fort and palace building dominate the city. Lahore’s an impressive place, or was then, more than a mile across and girdled by towering thirty-foot walls which overlooked a deep moat and massive earthworks – since gone, I believe. In those days you were struck by the number and grandeur of its gates, and by the extent of the Fort and palace on their eminence, with the great half-octagon tower, the Summum Boorj, thrusting up like a giant finger close to the northern ramparts.
It loomed above us as we entered by the Rushnai, or Bright Gate, past the swarms of dust-covered workmen labouring on old Runjeet’s mausoleum, and into the Court Garden. To the right a tremendous flight of steps led up to Badshai Musjit, the great triple mosque said to be the biggest on earth – mind you, the Samarkandians say the same of their mosque – and to the left was the inner gate up to the Fort, a bewildering place full of contradictions, for it contains not only the Sleeping Palace but a foundry and arsenal close by, the splendid Pearl Mosque which is used as a treasury, and over one of the gates a figure of the Virgin Mary, which they say Shah Jehan put up to keep the Portugee traders happy. But there was something stranger still: I’d just bidden farewell to Sardul’s escort and my jampan, and was being conducted on foot by a yellow-clad officer of the Palace Guard, when I noticed an extraordinary figure lounging in an embrasure above the gate, swigging from an enormous tankard and barking orders at a party of Guardsmen drilling with the light guns on the wall. He was a real Pathan mercenary, with iron moustaches and a nose like a hatchet – but he was dressed from top to toe, puggaree,
robe, and pyjamys, in the red tartan of the 79th Highlanders! Well, I’ve seen a Madagascar nigger in a Black Watch kilt, but this beat all. Stranger still, he carried a great metal collar in one hand, and each time before he drank he would clamp it round his throat, almost as though he expected the liquor to leak out through his Adam’s apple.
I turned to remark on this to Jassa – and dammit, he’d vanished. Nowhere to be seen. I stared about, and demanded of the officer where he had got to, but he hadn’t seen him at all, so in the end I found myself being led onward alone, with all my former alarms rushing back at the gallop.
You may wonder why, just because my orderly had gone astray. Aye, but he’d done it at the very moment of entering the lion’s den, so to speak, and the whole mission was mysterious and chancy enough to begin with, and I’m God’s own original funk, so there. And I smelled mischief here, in this maze of courts and passages, with high walls looming about me. I didn’t even care for the splendid apartments to which I was conducted. They were on an upper storey of the Sleeping Palace, two lofty, spacious rooms joined by a broad Moorish arch, with mosaic tiles and Persian murals, a little marble balcony overlooking a secluded fountain court, silks on the bed, silent bearers to stow my kit, two pretty little maids who shimmied in and out, bringing water and towels and tea (I didn’t even think of slapping a rump, which tells you how jumpy I was), and a cooling breeze provided by an ancient punkah-wallah in the passage, when the old bugger was awake, which was seldom. For some reason, the very luxury of the place struck me as sinister, as though designed to lull my fears. At least there were two doors, one from either chamber – I do like to know there’s a line of retreat.
I washed and changed, still fretting about Jassa’s absence, and was about to lie down to calm my nerves when my eye lit on a book on the bedside table – and I sat up with a start. For it was a Bible, placed by an unknown hand – in case I’d forgotten my own, of course.
Broadfoot, thinks I, you’re an uneasy man to work for, but by God you know your business. It reminded me that I wasn’t quite cut off; I found I was muttering ‘Wisconsin’, then humming it shakily to the tune of ‘My bonnie is over the ocean’, and on the spur of the moment I dug out my cypher key – Crotchet Castle, the edition of 1831, if you’re interested – and began to write Broadfoot a note of all that I’d heard on Maian Mir. And I had just completed it, and inserted it carefully at Second Thessalonians, and was glumly pondering a verse that read ‘Pray without ceasing’, and thinking a fat lot of good that’ll do, when the door slammed open, there was a blood-curdling shriek, a mad dwarf flourishing a gleaming sabre leaped into the archway, and I rolled off the bed with a yell of terror, scrabbling for the pepperbox in my open valise, floundering round to cover the arch, my finger snatching at the trigger ring …
In the archway stood a tiny boy, not above seven years old, one hand clutching his little sabre, the other pressed to his teeth, eyes shining with delight. My wavering pistol fell away, and the little monster fairly crowed with glee, clapping his hands.
‘Mangla! Mangla, come and see! Come on, woman – it is he, the Afghan killer! He has a great gun, Mangla! He was going to shoot me! Oh, shabash, shabash!’
‘I’ll give you shabash, you little son-of-a-bitch!’ I roared, and was going for him when a woman came flying into the archway, scooping him up in her arms, and I stopped dead. For one thing, she was a regular plum – and for another the imp was glaring at me in indignation and piping:
‘No! No! You may shoot me – but don’t dare strike me! I am a maharaja!’
I’ve met royalty unexpected a number of times – face to face with my twin, Carl Gustaf, in the Jotunberg dungeon, quaking in my rags before the black basilisk Ranavalona, speechless as Lakshmibai regarded me gravely from her swing, stark naked and trussed in the presence of the future Empress of China – and had eyes only for the principal, but in the case of Dalip Singh, Lord of the Punjab, my attention was all for his protectress. She was a little spanker, this Mangla – your true Kashmiri beauty, cream-skinned and perfect of feature, tall and shapely as Hebe, eyes wide at me as she clasped him to her bosom, the lucky lad. He didn’t know when he was well off, though, for he slapped her face and yelled:
‘Set me down, woman! Who bade thee interfere? Let me go!’
I’d have walloped the tyke, but after another searching glance at me she set him down and stepped back, adjusting her veil with a little coquettish toss of her head – even with my panic still subsiding I thought, aha! here’s another who fancies Flash at short notice. The ungrateful infant gave her a push for luck, straightened his shoulders, and made me a jerky bow, hand over heart, royal as bedamned in his little aigretted turban and gold coat.
‘I am Dalip Singh. You are Flashman bahadur, the famous soldier. Let me see your gun!’
I resisted an impulse to tan his backside, and bowed in turn. ‘Forgive me, maharaj’. I would not have drawn it in your presence, but you took me unawares.’
‘No, I didn’t!’ cries he, grinning. ‘You move as the cobra strikes, too quickly to see! Oh, it was fine, and you must be the bravest soldier in the world – now, your gun!’
‘Maharaj’, you forget yourself!’ Mangla’s voice was sharp, and not at all humble. ‘You have not given proper welcome to the English lord sahib – and it is unmannerly to burst in on him, instead of receiving him in durbar.
What will he think of us?’ Meaning, what does he think of me, to judge from another glance of those fine gazelle eyes. I gave her my gallant leer, and hastened to toady her overlord.
‘His majesty honours me. But will you not sit, maharaj’, and your lady also?’
‘Lady?’ He stared and laughed. ‘Why, she’s a slave! Aren’t you, Mangla?’
‘Your mother’s slave, maharaj’,’ says she coldly. ‘Not yours.’
‘Then go and wait on my mother!’ cries the pup, not meeting her eye. ‘I wish to speak with Flashman bahadur.’
You could see her itching to upend him, but after a moment she gave him a deep salaam and me a last appraisal, up and down, which I returned, admiring her graceful carriage as she swayed out, while the little pest tried to disarm me. I told him firmly that a soldier never gives his weapon to anyone, but that I’d hold it for him to see, if he showed me his sword in the same way. So he did, and then stared at my pepperbox,
mouth open.
‘When I am a man,’ says he, ‘I shall be a soldier of the Sirkar, and have such a gun.’
I asked, why the British Army and not the Khalsa, and he shook his head. ‘The Khalsa are mutinous dogs. Besides, the British are the best soldiers in the world, Zeenan Khan says.’
‘Who’s Zeenan Khan?’
‘One of my grooms. He was flank-man-first-squadron-fifth-Bengal-Cavalry-General-Sale-Sahib-in-Afghanistan.’ Rattled out as Zeenan must have taught him. He pointed at me. ‘He saw you at Jallalabad Fort, and told me how you slew the Muslims. He has only one arm, and no pinshun.’
Now that’s a pension we’ll see paid, with arrears, thinks I: an ex-sowar of Bengal Cavalry who has a king’s ear is worth a few chips a month. I asked if I could meet Zeenan Khan.
‘If you like, but he talks a lot, and always the same story of the Ghazi he killed at Teizin. Did you kill many Ghazis? Tell me about them!’
So I lied for a few minutes, and the bloodthirsty little brute revelled in every decapitation, eyes fixed on me, his small face cupped in his hands. Then he sighed and said his Uncle Jawaheer must be mad.
‘He wants to fight the British. Bhai Ram says he’s a fool – that an ant can’t fight an elephant. But my uncle says we must, or you will steal my country from me.’
‘Your uncle is mistaken,’ says diplomatic Flashy. ‘If that were true, would I be here in peace? No – I’d have a sword!’
‘You have a gun,’ he pointed out gravely.
‘That’s a gift,’ says I, inspired, ‘which I’ll present to a friend of mine, when I leave Lahore.’
‘You have friends in Lahore?’ says he, frowning.
‘I have now,’ says I, winking at him, and after a moment his jaw dropped, and he squealed with glee. Gad, wasn’t I doing my country’s work, though?
‘I shall have it! That gun? Oh! Oh!’ He hugged himself, capering. ‘And will you teach me your war-cry? You know, the great shout you gave just now, when I ran in with my sword?’ The small face puckered as he tried to say it: ‘Wee … ska … see …?’
I was baffled – and then it dawned: Wisconsin. Gad, my instinct for self-preservation must be working well, for me to squeal that without realising it. ‘Oh, that was nothing, maharaj’. Tell you what, though – I’ll teach you to shoot.’
‘You will? With that gun?’ He sighed ecstatically. ‘Then I shall be able to shoot Lal Singh!’
I remembered the name – a general, the Maharani’s lover.
