Flashman in the Great Game

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pig?’

‘You wear the old coat under your breastplate,’ says I. ‘But belike you stole it from a dead Guide. For no man who had a right to that uniform would spit on Bloody Lance’s shadow.’

That set him back on his heels. ‘Bloody Lance?’ says he. ‘Thou?’ He came closer and stared up at me. ‘Art thou that same Iflass-man who slew the four Gilzais?’

‘At Mogala,’ says I mildly. It had caused a great stir at the time, in the Gilzai country, and won me considerable fame (and my extravagant nickname) along the Kabul road – in fact, old Mohammed Iqbal had killed the four horsemen, while I lit out for the undergrowth, but nobody living knew that.

And obviously the legend endured, for the Pathan gaped and swore again, and then came hastily to attention and threw me a barra salaam

that would have passed at Horse Guards.

‘Sher Khan, havildar

lately of Ismeet Sahib’s company of the Guides,

as your honour says,’ croaks he. ‘Now, shame on me and mine that I put dishonour on Bloody Lance, and knew him not! Think not ill of me, husoor,

for—’

‘Let the ill think ill,’ says I easily. ‘The spittle of a durwan

will not drown a soldier.’ I was watching out of the corner of my eye to see how the ladies were taking this, and noted with satisfaction that they were giggling at the Pathan’s discomfiture. ‘Boast to your children, O Ghazi

-that-was-a-Guide-and-is-now-a-Rani’s-porter, that you spat on Bloody Lance Iflass-man’s shadow – and lived.’ And I walked my horse past him into the courtyard, well pleased; it would be all round Jhansi inside the hour.

It was a trifling enough incident, and I forgot it with my first glance at the interior of the Rani’s palace. Outside it had been all dust and heat and din, but here was the finest garden courtyard you ever saw – a cool, pleasant enclosure where little antelopes and peacocks strutted on the lawns, parrots and monkeys chattered softly in the surrounding trees, and a dazzling white fountain played; there were shaded archways in the carved walls, where well-dressed folk whom I took to be her courtiers sat and talked, waited on by bearers. One of the richest thrones in India, Pam had said, and I could believe it – there were enough silks and jewellery on view there to stuff an army with loot, the statuary was of the finest, in marble and coloured stones that I took to be jade, and even the pigeons that pecked at the spotless pavements had silver rings on their claws. Until you’ve seen it, of course, you can’t imagine the luxury in which these Indian princes keep themselves – and there are folk at home who’ll tell you that John Company were the robbers!

I was kept waiting there a good hour before a major-domo came, salaaming, to lead me through the inner gate and up a narrow winding stair to the durbar room on the first storey; here again all was richness – splendid silk curtains on the walls, great chandeliers of purple crystal hanging from the carved and gilded ceiling, magnificent carpets on the floor (with good old Axminster there among the Persian, I noticed) and every kind of priceless ornament, gold and ivory, ebony and silverwork, scattered about. It would have been in damned bad taste if it hadn’t all been so bloody expensive, and the dozen or so men and women who lounged about on the couches and cushions were dressed to match; the ones down in the courtyard must have been their poor relations. Handsome as Hebe the women were, too – I was just running my eye over one alabaster beauty in tight scarlet trousers who was reclining on a shawl, playing with a parakeet, when a gong boomed somewhere, everyone stood up, and a fat little chap in a huge turban waddled in and announced that the durbar had begun. At which music began to play, and they all turned and bowed to the wall, which I suddenly realised wasn’t a wall at all, but a colossal ivory screen, fine as lace, that cut the room in two. Through it you could just make out movement in the space beyond, like shadows behind thick gauze; this was the Rani’s purdah screen, to keep out prying heathen eyes like mine.

I seemed to be first man in, for the chamberlain led me to a little gilt stool a few feet from the screen, and there I sat while he stood at one end of the screen and cried out my name, rank, decorations, and (it’s a fact) my London clubs; there was a murmur of voices beyond, and then he asked me what I wanted, or words to that effect. I replied, in Urdu, that I brought greetings from Queen Victoria, and a gift for the Rani from Her Majesty, if she would graciously accept it. (It was a perfectly hellish photograph of Victoria and Albert looking in apparent stupefaction at a book which the Prince of Wales was holding in an attitude of sullen defiance; all in a silver frame, too, and wrapped up in muslin.) I handed it over, the chamberlain passed it through, listened attentively, and then asked me who the fat child in the picture was. I told him, he relayed the glad news, and then announced that her highness was pleased to accept her sister-ruler’s gift – the effect was spoiled a trifle by a clatter from behind the screen which suggested the picture had fallen on the floor (or been thrown), but I just stroked my whiskers while the courtiers tittered behind me. It’s hell in the diplomatic, you know.

There was a further exchange of civilities, through the chamberlain, and then I asked for a private audience with the Rani; he replied that she never gave them. I explained that what I had to say was of mutual but private interest to Jhansi and the British government; he looked behind the screen for instructions, and then said hopefully:

‘Does that mean you have proposals for the restoration of her highness’s throne, the recognition of her adopted son, and the restitution of her property – all of which have been stolen from her by the Sirkar?’

Well, it didn’t, of course. ‘What I have to say is for her highness alone,’ says I, solemnly, and he stuck his head round the screen and conferred, before popping back.

‘There are such proposals?’ says he, and I said I could not talk in open durbar, at which there were sounds of rapid female muttering from behind the screen. The chamberlain asked what I could have to say that could not be said by Captain Skene, and I said politely that I could tell that to the Rani, and no other. He conferred again, and I tried to picture the other side of the screen, with the Rani, sharp-faced and thin in her silk shawl, muttering her instructions to him, and puzzled to myself what the odd persistent noise was that I could hear above the soft pipes of the hidden orchestra – a gentle, rhythmic swishing from beyond the screen, as though a huge fan were being used. And yet the room was cool and airy enough not to need one.

The chamberlain popped out again, looking stern, and said that her highness could see no reason for prolonging the interview; if I had nothing new from the Sirkar to impart to her, I was permitted to withdraw. So I got to my feet, clicked my heels, saluted the screen, picked up the second package which I had brought, thanked him and his mistress for their courtesy, and did a smart about-turn. But I hadn’t gone a yard before he stopped me.

‘The packet you carry,’ says he. ‘What is that?’

I’d been counting on this; I told him it was my own.

‘But it is wrapped as the gift to her highness was wrapped,’ says he. ‘Surely it also is a present.’

‘Yes,’ says I, slowly. ‘It was.’ He stared, was summoned behind the screen, and came out looking anxious.

‘Then you may leave it behind,’ says he.

I hesitated, weighing the packet in my hand, and shook my head. ‘No, sir,’ says I. ‘It was my own personal present, to her highness – but in my country we deliver such gifts face to face, as honouring both giver and receiver. By your leave,’ and I bowed again to the screen and walked away.

‘Wait, wait!’ cries he, so I did; the rhythmic sound from behind the screen had stopped now, and the female voice was talking quietly again. The chamberlain came out, red-faced, and to my astonishment he bustled everyone else from the room, shooing the silken ladies and gentlemen like geese. Then he turned to me, bowed, indicated the screen, and effaced himself through one of the archways, leaving me alone with my present in my hand. I listened a moment; the swishing sound had started again.

I paused to give my whiskers a twirl, stepped up to the end of the screen, and rapped on it with my knuckles. No reply. So I said: ‘Your highness?’, but there was nothing except that damned swishing. Well, here goes, I thought; this is what you came to India for, and you must be civil and adoring, for old Pam’s sake. I stepped round the screen, and halted as though I’d walked into a wall.

It wasn’t the gorgeously carved golden throne, or the splendour of the furniture which outshone even what I’d left, or the unexpected sensation of walking on the shimmering Chinese quilt on the floor. Nor was it the bewildering effect of the mirrored ceiling and walls, with their brilliantly coloured panels. The astonishing thing was that from the ceiling there hung, by silk ropes, a great cushioned swing, and sitting in it, wafting gently to and fro, was a girl – the only soul in the room. And such a girl – my first impression was of great, dark, almond eyes in a skin the colour of milky coffee, with a long straight nose above a firm red mouth and chin, and hair as black as night that hung in a jewelled tail down her back. She was dressed in a white silk bodice and sari which showed off the dusky satin of her bare arms and midriff, and on her head was a little white jewelled cap from which a single pearl swung on her forehead above the caste-mark.

I stood and gaped while she swung to and fro at least three times, and then she put a foot on the carpet and let the swing drag to a halt. She considered me, one smooth dusky arm up on the swing rope – and then I recognised her: she was the ladies’ maid who had been standing by the palankeen at the palace gate. The Rani’s maid? – then the lady of the palankeen must be …

‘Your mistress?’ says I. ‘Where is she?’

‘Mistress? I have no mistress,’ says she, tilting up her chin and looking down her nose at me. ‘I am Lakshmibai, Maharani of Jhansi.’

For a moment I didn’t believe it: I had become so used to picturing her over the past three months as a dried-up old shrew with skinny limbs that I just stood and gaped.

And yet, as I looked at her, there couldn’t be any doubt: the richness of her clothes shouted royalty at you, and the carriage of her head, with its imperious dark eyes, told you as nothing else could that here was a woman who’d never asked permission in her life. There was strength in every line of her, too, for all her femininity – by George, I couldn’t remember when I’d seen bouncers like those, thrusting like pumpkins against the muslin of her blouse, which was open to the jewelled clasp at her breast bone – if it hadn’t been for a couple of discreetly embroidered flowers on either side, there would have been nothing at all concealed. I could only stand speechless before such queenly beauty, wondering what it would be like to tear the muslin aside, thrust your whiskers in between ’em, and go brrrrr!

‘You have a gift to present,’ says she, speaking in a quick, soft voice which had me recollecting myself and clicking my heels as I presented my packet. She took it, weighed it in her hand, still half-reclining in her swing, and asked sharply: ‘Why do you stare at me so?’

‘Forgive me, highness,’ says I. ‘I did not expect to find a queen who looked so …’ I’d been about to say ‘young and lovely’, but changed it hurriedly for a less personal compliment. ‘So like a queen.’

‘Like that queen?’ says she, and indicated the picture of Vicky and Albert, which was lying on a cushion.

‘Each of your majesties,’ says I, with mountainous diplomacy, ‘looks like a queen in her own way.’

She considered me gravely, and then held the packet out to me. ‘You may open it.’

I pulled off the wrapping, opened the little box, and took out the gift. You may smile, but it was a bottle of perfume – you see, Flashy ain’t as green as he looks; it may be coals to Newcastle to take perfume to India, but in my experience, which isn’t inconsiderable, there’s not a woman breathing who isn’t touched by a gift of scent, and it don’t matter what age she is, either. And it was just the gift a blunt, honest soldier would choose, in his simplicity – furthermore, it was from Paris, and had cost the dirty old goat who presented it to Elspeth a cool five sovs. (She’d never miss it.) I handed it over with a little bow, and she touched the stopper daintily on her wrist.

‘French,’ says she. ‘And very costly. Are you a rich man, colonel?’

That took me aback; I muttered something about not calling on a queen every day of my life.

‘And why have you called?’ says she, very cool. ‘What is there that you have to say that can be said only face to face?’ I hesitated, and she suddenly stood up in one lithe movement – by Jove, they jumped like blancmanges in a gale. ‘Come and tell me,’ she went on, and swept off out on to the terrace at that end of the room, with a graceful swaying stride that stirred the seat of her sari in a most disturbing way. She jingled as she walked – like all rich Indian females, she seemed to affect as much jewellery as she could carry, with bangles at wrist and ankle, a diamond collar beneath her chin, and even a tiny pearl cluster at one nostril. I followed, admiring the lines of the tall, full figure, and wondering for the umpteenth time what I should say to her, now that the moment had come.

Pam and Mangles, you see, had given me no proper directions at all: I was supposed to wheedle her into being a loyal little British subject, but I’d no power to make concessions to any of her grievances. And it wasn’t going to be easy; an unexpected stunner she might be, and therefore all the easier for me to talk to, but there was a directness about her that was daunting. This was a queen, and intelligent and experienced (she even knew French perfume when she smelled it); she wasn’t going to be impressed by polite political chat. So what must I say? The devil with it, thinks I, there’s nothing to lose by being as blunt as she is herself.

So when she’d settled herself on a daybed, and I’d forced myself to ignore that silky midriff and the shapely brown ankle peeping out of her sari, I set my helmet on the ground and stood up four-square.

‘Your highness,’ says I, ‘I can’t talk like Mr Erskine, or Captain Skene even. I’m a soldier, not a diplomat, so I won’t mince words.’ And thereafter I minced them for all I was worth, telling her of the distress there was in London about the coolness that existed between Jhansi on the one hand and the Company and Sirkar on the other; how this state of affairs had endured for four years to the disadvantage of all parties; how it was disturbing the Queen, who felt a sisterly concern for the ruler of Jhansi not only as a monarch, but as a woman, and so on – I rehearsed Jhansi’s grievances, the willingness of the Sirkar to repair them so far as was possible, threw in the information that I came direct from Lord Palmerston, and finished on a fine flourish with an appeal to her to open her heart to Flashy, plenipotentiary extraordinary, so that we could all be friends and live happy ever after. It was the greatest gammon, but I gave it my best, with noble compassion in my eye and a touch of ardour in the curl shaken down over my brow. She heard me out, not a muscle moving in that lovely face, and then asked:

‘You have the power to make redress, then? To alter what has been done?’

I said I had the power to report direct to Pam, and she said that so, in effect, had Skene. Her agents in London had spoken direct to the Board of Control, without avail.

‘Well,’ says I, ‘this is a little different, highness, don’t you see? His lordship felt that if I heard from you at first-hand, so to speak, and we talked—’

‘There is nothing to talk about,’ says she. ‘What can I say that has not been said – that the Sirkar does not know? What can you—’

‘I can ask, maharaj’, what actions by the Sirkar, short of removing from Jhansi and recognising your adopted son, would satisfy your grievances – or go some way to satisfying them.’

She came up on one elbow at that, frowning at me with those magnificent eyes. For what I was hinting at – without the least authority, mind you – was concessions, and devil a smell of those she’d had in four years.

‘Why,’ says she, thoughtfully. ‘They know well enough. They have been told my grievances, my just demands, for four years now. And yet they have denied me. How can repetition serve?’

‘A disappointed client may find a new advocate,’ says I, with my most disarming smile, and she gave me a long stare, and then got up and walked over to the balustrade, looking out across the city. ‘If your highness would speak your mind to me, openly—’

‘Wait,’ says she, and stood for a moment, frowning, before she turned back to me. She couldn’t think what to make of this, she was suspicious, and didn’t dare to hope, and yet she was wondering. God, she was a black beauty, sure enough – if I’d been the Sirkar, she could have had Jhansi and a pound of tea with it, just for half an hour on the daybed.

‘If Lord Palmerston,’ says she at last – and old Pam himself would have been tempted to restore her throne just to hear the pretty way she said ‘Lud Pammer-stan’ – ‘wishes me to restate the wrongs that have been done me, it can only be because he has discovered some interest to serve by redressing them – or promising redress. I do not know what that interest is, and you will not tell me. It is no charitable desire to set right injustices done to my Jhansi—’ and she lifted her head proudly. ‘That is certain. But if he wishes my friendship, for whatever purpose of his own, he may give an earnest of his good will by restoring the revenues which should have come to me since my husband’s death, but which the Sirkar has confiscated.’ She stopped there, chin up, challenging, so I said:

‘And after that, highness? What else?’

‘Will he concede as much? Will the Company?’

‘I can’t say,’ says I. ‘But if a strong case can be made – when I report to Lord Palmerston …’

‘And you will put the case, yourself?’

‘That is my mission, maharaj’.’

‘And such other … cases … as I may advance?’ She looked the question, and there was just a hint of a smile on her mouth. ‘So. And I must first put them to you – and no doubt you will suggest to me how they may best be phrased … or modified. You will advise, and … persuade?’

‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’ll help your highness as I can …’

To my astonishment she laughed, with a flash of white teeth, her head back, and shaking most delightfully.

‘Oh, the subtlety of the British!’ cries she. ‘Such delicacy, like an elephant in a swamp! Lord Palmerston wishes, for his own mysterious reasons of policy, to placate the Rani of Jhansi. So he invites her to repeat the petition which has been repeatedly denied for years. But does he send a lawyer, or an advocate, or even an official of the Company? No – just a simple soldier, who will discuss the petition with her, and how it may best be presented to his lordship. Could not a lawyer have advised her better?’ She folded her hands and came slowly forward, sauntering round me. ‘But how many lawyers are tall and broad-shouldered and … aye, quite handsome – and persuasive as Flashman bahadur?

Not a doubt but he is best fitted to convince a silly female that a modest claim is most likely to succeed – and she will abate her demands for him, poor foolish girl, and be less inclined to insist on fine points, and stand upon her rights. Is this not so?’

‘Highness, you misunderstand entirely … I assure you—’

‘Do I?’ says she, scornfully, but laughing still. ‘I am not sixteen, colonel; I am an old lady of twenty-nine. And I may not know Lord Palmerston’s purpose, but I understand his methods. Well, well. It may not have occurred to his lordship that even a poor Indian lady may be persuasive in her turn.’ And she eyed me with some amusement, confident in her own beauty, the damned minx, and the effect it was having on me. ‘He paid me a poor compliment, do you not think?’

What could I do but grin back at her? ‘Do his lordship justice, highness,’ says I. ‘He’d never seen you. How many have, since you are purdah-nishin?’

‘Enough to have told him what I am like, I should have hoped. How did he instruct you – humour her, whatever she is, fair or foul, young and silly or old and ugly? Charm her, so that she keeps her demands cheap? Captivate her, as only a hero can.’ She stirred an eyebrow. ‘Who could resist the champion who killed the four Gilzais – where was it?’

‘At Mogala, in Afghanistan – as your highness heard at the gate. Was it to test me that you had the Pathan spit on my shadow?’

‘His insolence needed no instruction,’ says she. ‘He is now being flogged for it.’ She turned away from me and sauntered back into the durbar room. ‘You may have the tongue which insulted you torn out, if you wish,’ she added over her shoulder.

That brought me up sharp, I can tell you. We’d been rallying away famously, and I’d all but forgotten who and what she was – an Indian prince, with all the capricious cruelty of her kind under that lovely hide. Unless she was just mocking me with the reminder – whether or no, I would play my character.