Flashman and the Mountain of Light

"You were right, Mangla … he's big!" She gave a drunken chuckle, adding an indelicate remark which I won't translate. "Well, must make him comfortable … have him take off his robe … come sit down here, beside me. You, get out …" This to the wrestler, who salaamed himself off in haste. "You too, Mangla … draw the curtains … want to talk with big Englishman."

And not about the Soochet legacy, from the way she patted the cushions and smiled at me over the rim of her glass. Well, I'd heard she was game, but this was informality with a vengeance. I was all for it, mind you, even if s he was as drunk as Taffy's sow and spilling most of the drink down her front—if any ass tells you that there's nothing so disgusting as a beauty in her cups, I can only say she looks a sight more interesting than a sober schoolmarm. I was wondering if I should offer to help her out of her wet things when Mangla got in before me, calling for a cloth, so I hung back, polite-like, and found myself being addressed most affably by a tall young grandee with a flashing smile who made me a pretty little speech, welcoming me to the Court of Lahore, and trusting- that I would have a pleasant stay.

His name was Lal Singh, and I still give him top marks for style. After all, he was Jeendan's principal lover, and here was his mistress cussing like Sowerberry Hagan and having her déshabille mopped in the presence of a stranger whom she'd been about to drag into the wood-shed; it didn't unsettle him a bit as he congratulated me on my Afghan exploits and drew me into conversation with Tej Singh, my fat little warrior of the afternoon, who bobbed up grinning at his elbow to tell me how well I suited the robe he'd given me. By this time I was beginning to feel a trifle confused myself, having in short order survived an assassination plot—what a long time ago it seemed—been filled with strong waters and (I suspected) aphrodisiac, trotted up and down by a half-naked slave girl, verbally assailed in public by the Wazir of the Punjab, and indecently ogled by his drunken flesh-trap of a sister. Now I was discussing, more or less coherently, the merits of the latest Congreve rockets with two knowledgeable military men, while a yard away the Queen Regent was being dried off by her attendants and protesting tipsily, and at my back a vigorous ballet was being danced by a score of young chaps in turbans and baggy trousers, with the orchestra going full steam.

I was new to Lahore, of course, and not au fait with their easygoing ways. I didn't know, for example, that recently, when Lal Singh and Jawaheer had quarrelled publicly, the Maharani had composed things by presenting each of them with a naked houri and telling them to restore their tempers by doing honour to her gifts then and there. Which, by all accounts, they had done. I mention that in case you think my own account is at all exaggerated.

"We must have a longer talk presently," says Lal Singh, taking me by the arm. "You see the deplorable condition of affairs here. It cannot continue—as I am sure Hardinge sahib is aware. He and I have had some correspondence—through your esteemed chief, Major Broadfoot." He flashed me another of his smiles, all beard and teeth. "They are both very practical and expert men. Tell me, you have their confidence—what price do you suppose they would consider fair … for the Punjab?"

Well, I was drunk, and he knew it, which was why he asked the impossible, treasonable question, in the hope 'that my reaction would tell him something. Even fuddled, I knew that Lal Singh was a clever, probably desperate man, and that the best answer to the unanswerable is to put a question of your own. So I said, "Why, does someone want to sell it?" At which he gave me a long smile, while little Tej held his breath; then Lal Singh clapped me on the shoulder.

"We shall have our long talk by day," says he. "The night is for pleasure. Would you care for some opium.? No? Kashmiri opium is the finest obtainable—like Kashmiri women. I would offer you one, or even two, of them, but I fear my lady Jeendan's displeasure. You have aroused some expectation in that quarter, Mr Flashman, as I'm sure you noticed." His smile was as easy and open as though he were telling me she'd be bidding me to tea presently. "May I suggest a fortifying draught?" He beckoned a matey, and I was presented with another beaker of Mangla's Finest Old Inspirator, which I sipped with caution. "I see you treat it with greater respect than does that impossible sot, our Wazir. Look yonder, bahadur … and have pity on us."

For now Jawaheer was to the fore again, reeling noisily in front of Jeendan's booth, with his black tart trying vainly to hold him upright; he was delivering a great tirade against Dinanath, and Jeendan must have sobered somewhat under Mangla's ministrations, for she told him pretty plain, with barely a hiccough, to pull himself together and drink no more.

"Be a man," says she, and indicated his wench. "With her … practise for acting like a man among men. Go on … take her to bed. Make yourself brave!"

"And tomorrow?" cries he, flopping down on his knees before her. He was having another of his blubbering fits, wailing and rocking to and fro.

"Tomorrow," says she, with drunken deliberation, "you'll go out to Khalsa —"

"I cannot!" squeals he. "They'll tear me to pieces!" "You'll go, little brother. And speak to them. Make your peace with 'em … all will be right …"

"You'll come with me?" he pleaded. "You and the child?"

"Be assured … we'll all come. Lal and Tej … Mangla here." Her sleepy gaze travelled to me. "Big Englishman, too … he'll tell the Malki lat and Jangi lat*(*"Lord of War", i.e. Gough.) how the troops acclaimed their Wazir. Cheered him!" She flourished her cup, spilling liquor again. "So they'll know … a man rules in Lahore!"

He stared about vacantly, and his face was that of a frightened ape, all streaked with tears. I doubt if he saw me, for he leaned closer to her, whispering hoarsely: "And then—we'll march on the British? Take them unawares —"

"As God wills," smiles she, and looked at me again—and for an instant she didn't seem drunk at all. She stroked his face, speaking gently, as to a fractious infant. "But first … the Khalsa. You must take them gifts … promises of pay …"

"But … but … how can I pay? Where can I —"

"There is treasure in Delhi, remember," says she, and glanced at me a third time. "Promise them that."

"Perhaps … if I gave them this?" He fumbled in his belt and brought out a little case on a chain. "I shall wear it tomorrow —"

"Why not? But I must wear it tonight." She snatched it from him, laughing, and held it beyond his reach. "Nay, nay—wait! It is for the dance! Would you like that, little brother-who-wishes-he-weren't-a-brother? Mmh?" She slipped her free hand round his neck, kissing him on the lips. "Tomorrow is tomorrow … this is tonight, so we'll take our pleasure, eh?"

She nodded to Mangla, who clapped her hands. The music died away, the dancers skipped off the floor, and there was a general withdrawal by the guests. Jawaheer flopped down beside Jeendan on the cushions, leaning his head against her.

"So government is conducted." Lal Singh spoke in my ear. "Would Hardinge sahib approve, think you? Until tomorrow then, Flashman sahib."

Tej Singh gave another of his greasy chuckles and nudged me. "Remember the saying: `Below the Sutlej there are brothers and sisters; beyond it, only rivals.' " He went off with Lal Singh.

I didn't know what the devil he meant -- nor, in my growing inebriation, did I care. All these gassing intruders were keeping me from the company of that splendid painted trollop who was now wasting her talents in soothing her whining oaf of a brother yonder, cradling him against that superb bosom and pouring drink into him and herself. I was itching to be at her, and even when Mangla came to lead me to the neighbouring booth, I wasn't distracted: I guess my tastes are coarse, and I'd developed a craving for the mistress that wasn't to be satisfied by the maid—who kept the curtains open, anyway, and had a matey standing by to keep me liquored through the entertainment which now began. As I said, most of the courtiers seemed to have gone, leaving the Maharani and her chosen intimates to riot with the performers.

The first of these was a troupe of Kashmiri girls, spanking little creatures in scanty silver armour, with bows and toy swords, who cavorted in a parody of military drill which would have scandalised the General Staff and terrified their horses. This was something from Runjeet's day, Mangla told me: the girls were his female bodyguard, with whom the old lecher had been wont to battle through the night.

Then there was a serious interlude by Indian wrestlers, who are the best on earth outside Cumberland, muscular young bucks who fought like greased lightning, all science and sinew—none of your crude Turkish grunting or the unspeakable Japanese vulgarity. Jeendan, I noticed, roused from her lethargy during these bouts, rising unsteadily to her feet to applaud the falls, and summoning the victors to drink from her cup while she stroked and petted them. Meanwhile their place was taken by female wrestlers, strapping wenches who fought naked (another of old Runjeet's fancies), with the male wrestlers and Kashmiri girls kneeling round the floor, egging them on, and then wrestling with each other, to the inevitable conclusion, while the band played appropriate music. They were all over the floor in no time, seriously impeding a troupe of dancing girls and boys who had come on to frolic in a measure which proved to be a considerable advance on the polka.

Now, you may not credit this, but I'm not much of a hand at orgies. I ain't what you'd all a prude, but I do hold that an Englishman's brothel is his castle, where he should behave according—as many flash-tails as he likes, but none of these troop fornications that the Orientals indulge in. It's not the indecency I mind, but the company of a lot of boozy brutes hallooing and kicking up the deuce of a row when I want to concentrate and give of my best. A regular bacchanalia is something to see, right enough, but I'm with the discriminating Frog who said that one is interesting, but only a cad would make a habit of it.

Still, evil associations corrupt good manners, especially when you're horny as Turvey's bull and full of love-puggle; Mangla'll have to do, thinks I, if I ain't too foxed to carry her out of this bedlam, and I was just looking about for her when there was a great drunken cheer from the floor, and Jeendan came swaying out of her booth, helped by a couple of her dancing-boys. She pushed them away, took a couple of shaky steps, and began to writhe like a Turkish wedding dancer, flaunting her hips and rotating her plump little bottom, flirting the tails of her crimson loin-cloth, giving little squeals of laughter as she turned, stamping, then clapping her hands above her head while the others took up the rhythm and the tom-toms throbbed and the cymbals clashed.

That was my first glimpse of Koh-i-Noor, gleaming in her navel like a live thing as she fluttered her belly in and out—but it didn't hold my attention long, for as she danced she screamed over her shoulder, and one of the dancing-boys leaped in behind her, sliding his hands up her body, unclasping her bodice and letting it fall, fond-ling her as she danced back into him and slowly turned herself until they were face to face. They writhed against each other while the onlookers shrieked with delight and the music beat ever faster, and then he retreated from her slowly, sweat pouring down his body—and burn me if the stone wasn't in his navel now! How the devil they did it, I can't think; Swedish exercises, perhaps. The boy yelled and pirouetted in triumph, and Jeendan staggered into the arms of one of the wrestlers, giggling while he pawed and kissed her. One of the Kashmiri bints flung herself at the boy, clasping him round the waist and wriggling against him; damned if I could see any better this time, but she came away with the stone in turn, undulating to let the onlookers see it, and then subsiding under another youth, the pair of them heaving to wake the dead—but either he was less expert or something else caught their interest, for the diamond slipped out from between them and rolled across the floor, to cat-calls and groans of disappointment.

I was watching all this through a haze of booze and disbelief, taking another refreshing swig, and thinking, wait till I get back to Belgravia and teach 'em the new dance step, and when I looked again there was Jeendan, struggling and laughing wildly in the arms of another dancing-boy, and the great stone was back on her belly again—hollo, thinks I, someone's been handling in the scrimmage. She seized the boy's wine-cup, drained it and tossed it over her shoulder, and then began to dance towards me, the tawny hourglass body agleam as though it had been oiled, her limbs shimmering in their sheaths of gems. Now she was slapping her bare flanks to the tom-tom beat, drawing her fingers tantalisingly up her jewelled thighs and across her body, lifting the fat round breasts and laughing at me out of that painted harlot's face.

"Will you have it, Englishman? Or shall I keep it for Lal—or Jawaheer? Come, take it, gora sahib, my English bahadur!

You mayn't credit it, but I was recalling a line by some poet or other—Elizabethan, I think—who must have witnessed a similar performance, for he wrote of "her brave vibrations each way free.²¹ Couldn't have put it better myself, thinks I, as I made a heroic lurch for her and fell on all fours, but the sweet thoughtful girl sank down before me, arms raised from her sides, making her muscles quiver from her fingertips up her arms and beyond, shuddering her bounties at me, and I seized them with a cry of thanksgiving. She squealed, either in delight or to signify "Foul!", whipped her loincloth off and round my neck, and drew my face towards her open mouth.

"Take it, Englishman!" she gasps, and then she had my robe open, thrusting her belly against mine and kissing me as though I were beefsteak and she'd been fasting for a week. And I don't know who the considerate chap was who drew the curtains to, but suddenly we were alone, and somehow I was on my feet with her clinging to me, her legs clasped round my hips, moaning as I settled her in place and began the slow march, up and down, keeping time to the tom-toms, and I fear I broke the rules, for I removed the jewel manually before it did me a mischief. I doubt if she noticed; didn't mention it, anyway.

Well, I can't think when I've enjoyed a dance so much, unless it was when we set to partners again, an hour or so later, I imagine. I seem to remember we drank consider-able in between, and prosed in an incoherent way—most of it escapes me, but I recall distinctly that she said she purposed to send little Dalip to an English public school when he was older, and I said capital, look what it had done for me, but the devil with going up to Oxford, just a nest of bookworms and bestial, and how the deuce did she do that navel exercise with the diamond? So she tried to teach me, giggling through incredible contortions which culminated in her plunging and squirming astride of me as though I were Running Reins with only a furlong to go—and in the middle of it she screamed a summons and two of her Kashmiri girls popped in and urged her on by whip-ping her with canes—intrusive, I thought, but it was her home ground, after all.

She went to sleep directly we'd passed the post, sprawled on top of me, and the Kashmiris left off lashing her and snickered to each other. I sent them packing, and having heaved her off was composing myself to slumber likewise, when I heard them chattering beyond the curtain, and presently they peeped in again, giggling. Their mistress would wake presently, they said, and it was their duty to see that I was clean, bright, slightly oiled, and ready for service. "Walk-er!" says I, but they insisted, respectfully covering her with a shawl before renewing their pestering of me, telling me I must be bathed and combed and perfumed and made presentable, or there'd be the devil to pay. I saw I'd get no peace, so I lumbered up, cursing, and warning them that their mistress would be out of luck, for I was ruined beyond redemption.

"Wait until we have bathed you," giggles one of the houris. "You will make her scream for mercy."

I doubted that, but told them to lead on, and they conducted me, one holding me up on either side, for I was still well foxed. Beyond the curtains the durbar room was empty now, and the great chandelier was out, with only a few candles on the walls making little pools of light in the gloom. They led me under the staircase, along a dim-lit passage, and down a short flight of stairs to a great stone and marble chamber like a Turkish bath-house; it was in deep shadow about its walls and high ceiling, but in the centre, surrounded by tall slender pillars, was a tiled area with a sunken bath in which water was steaming. There was a brazier close by, and towels piled to hand, while all about stood flagons of oils and soaps and shampoos; altogether it was as luxurious a wallow as you could wish. I asked if this was where the Maharani bathed.

"Not this maharani," says one. "This was the bath of the Lady Chaund Cour, peace be upon her."

"It is altogether finer than our mistress's," says the other, sidling up to me, "and is reserved for those whom she delights to honour." She took a playful tease at me, and her companion drew off my robe, squeaking with admiration. Bahadur, indeed! Oh, fortunate Mai Jeendan!"

She'll be fortunate to get any good out of me after a, bath with you two, thinks I, admiring them boozily as they laid by their little bows and arrows and toy swords, and stripped off their silver skirts and breastplates. Lovely little nymphs they were, and there was much playing and giggling as we stepped down into the bath. It was about three feet deep by seven square, half-filled with warm scented water into which I subsided drowsily, letting it lap over my exhausted frame while one of the Kashmiris cradled my head and gently sponged my face and hair, and the other went to work on my feet and then on to my ankles and calves. You're on the right lines, thinks I, and closed my eyes, reflecting on what a delightful time of it Haroun al-Raschid must have had, and wondering if he'd ever become bored and yearned for the life of a jolly waggoner or productive farm labour in the open air. You wouldn't catch Flashy prowling the streets of Baghdad in disguise, looking for adventure, not while there was soap and water at home …

The lower wench was soaping my knees now, and I opened my eyes, contemplating the ceiling far above, all coloured Persian designs, with a picture in the centre, of a cove with a stiff neck sitting under an awning and lording it over a platoon of bearded wallahs crouched in supplication. That's your sort, thinks I, whoever you are, some Sikh nabob … and that reminded me of the names I'd memorised so painfully from Broadfoot's packets: Heera Singh and Dehan Singh and Soochet Singh and Buggerlugs Singh and Chaund Cour and … Chaund Cour? Where had I heard that name recently …? Why, only a few moments since, from the houris; this was her bath-room—and suddenly a tiny maggot that had been wandering aimlessly through my mind snapped to attention, even as I heard swirling of water and realised that the girl had stopped soaping my knees and was swinging herself nimbly out of the bath … Chaund Cour's bath … Chaund Cour who'd been smashed to pieces while bathing!

If the wench washing my hair had moved less sharply I'd have been a goner, but when her mate jumped out she dropped my head like a hot brick, and I went under and came out spluttering—to see her in the act of heaving herself out on the tiles, and from the tail of my eye I saw the huge coloured picture in the ceiling overhead start to quiver, with a dreadful scraping sound. For an instant I was frozen, sprawled in the water, and it can only have been instinct that galvanised my flaccid muscles, so that I thrust myself out of the water, turning and clutching for the edge of the bath, my hand closing on the girl's ankle. That hold saved me from toppling back, and gave me a purchase to hurl myself out on to the tiles, while she was catapulted back into the water, her scream of terror lost in a deafening grinding thunder like an avalanche, followed by an almighty crash that seemed to shake the whole building and made the tiles start from their settings beneath my face. I rolled away with a yell of terror, sprawling on the wet tiles and staring back in disbelief.

Where the bath had been there was a flat expanse of rough stone, filling the cavity like a huge plug flush with the surrounding tiles. From that monstrous square of rock great rusty chains snaked up, clanking to and fro, into a gaping hole in the patterned ceiling. Foam was gushing up in a curtain from the narrow fissures between the fallen slab and the sides of the bath, washing over me in a wave, and even as I stared in horror it continued to ooze out, pink at first and then a hideous crimson. Beyond the bath the second Kashmiri was cowering against a pillar, her mouth wide in scream after scream. She turned and ran, water flying from her bare body, and then stopped dead, her shrieks changing to a terrified wail.

Three men were standing just clear of the shadows on that side, drawn scimitars in their hands. They wore only loose grey pyjamy trousers and great wide hoods so deep that their faces were invisible; the girl shrank away from them, blubbering and covering her face; she slipped and fell on the wet tiles and tried to scramble away while they stood like grey statues, and then one stepped forward, lightly hefting his sword, she bounded to her feet, screeching as she turned to run, but before she'd gone a step his point was through her back; it came out like a ghastly silver needle between her breasts, and she pitched forward lifeless on the stone block. Then they were flitting towards me in dead silence, expert assassins of whom two skirted wide to take me in flank while the third came straight for me, his blood-smeared blade out before him. I turned to run, slipped, and came down headlong.

Cowardice has its uses. I'd be long dead without it, for it's driven me to try, in blind panic, ploys which no thinking man would even attempt. A brave man would have scrambled up to run or fling himself at the nearest enemy bare-handed; only Flashy, landing arse over tip on one of the little piles of gear discarded by the Kashmiri girls, would have grabbed at her pathetic tinsel bow, snatched a dart from its quiver, fumbled it gibbering on to the string and let fly at the leading thug as he came leaping over the girl's corpse at me, swinging up his scimitar. It was only a fragile toy, but it was tight-strung, and that small shaft must have been sharp as a chisel, for it sank to the flights in his midriff and he twisted howling in mid-air, his scimitar clashing on the tiles before me. I grabbed it, knowing I was done for, with one of the flank men driving at me, but I managed to turn his thrust and hurl myself sideways, expecting to feel his mate's point searing into my back. There was a yell and clash of steel behind me as I landed on my shoulder and rolled over and up, slashing blindly and bawling like an idiot for help.

Wasted breath, for it had arrived. The other flank man was desperately trying to parry the sweep of a Khyber knife in the hand of a tall robed newcomer—which with a scimitar is rather like opposing a pea-shooter to a rifle. One slash and the scimitar blade was a shattered stump, another and the thug was down with a cloven skull—and the man whose thrust I'd parried leaped back and was off like a hare, dodging for the shadows. The robed apparition turned from his victim without undue haste, took one long stride and brought over his sword-arm like a fast bowler, letting the Khyber knife go; it turned once in the air and drove into the fugitive's back, he hurtled against a pillar, clinging to it with that dreadful cleaver imbedded in his body, and slid slowly to the floor. Twenty seconds earlier I'd been having my knees washed.

The robed man strode past me, recovered his knife, and cursed as blood splashed his coat—and only then did I realise it was a crimson garment in the tartan of the 79th. He stalked back, hunkering down to wash his blade in the water lapping over the tiles, and surveyed the shambles where the bath had been, the great rock that filled it, and the dangling chains.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," says he. "So that's how they did for old lady Chaund Cour. No wonder we never saw the body—guess she didn't look like much with that on top of her." He stood up and barked at me. "Well, sir? You aim to stand around bollock-naked and take your death of cold? Or would you prefer to make tracks before the coroner gets here?"

The words were English. The accent was pure American.

Since I've seen a Welshman in a top hat leading a Zulu impi, and have myself ridden in an Apache war party in paint and breech-clout, I dare say I shouldn't have been surprised to find that Gurdana Khan, the complete Khyberie hillman, could talk the lingo of Brother Jonathan—there were some damned odd fellows about in the earlies, I can tell you. But the circumstances were unusual, you'll allow, and I probably gaped for several seconds before scrambling into my robe. Then reaction seized me, and I vomited, while he stood glowering like a Nonconformist at the three hooded bodies, and the naked white corpse of the poor little Kashmiri slut with the bloody water lapping round her. I say poor slut—she'd done her damnedest to have me squashed flatter than a fluke. The man I'd shot was writhing about, wailing in agony.

"Let him linger," growls Gurdana Khan. "Mistreatment of women is something I cannot endure! Come away."

He strode off to a staircase hidden in the shadows on the other side of the bath-house, ushering me impatiently ahead of him. We ascended, and he chivvied me along miles of turning passages, ignoring my incoherent questions, then across a lofty hall, through a guardroom where black-robed irregulars lounged, and at last into a spacious, comfortable room for all the world like a bachelor's den at home, with prints and trophies on the walls, book cases, and fine leather easy chairs. I was shivering with chill and shock and bewilderment; he sat me down, threw a shawl over my legs, and poured out two stiff pegs—malt whisky, if you please. He laid by his Khyber knife and pulled off his puggaree—he was a Pathan, though, with that close-cropped skull, hawk face, and grizzled beard, for all he grunted " Slainte" as he lifted his tumbler, first clamping his neck in that strange iron collar I'd seen in the after-noon—dear God, was it only twelve hours ago? Having drunk, he stood scowling down at me like a headmaster at an erring fag.

"Now see here, Mr Flashman—where the devil were you this evening? We combed the palace, even looked under your bed, godammit! Well, sir?"

I made no sense of this—all I knew was that someone was trying to murder me, but plainly it wasn't this cross-grained fellow … so I'd risked horrible death hanging out of windows while he and his gang had been looking for me to protect me, by the sound of it! I removed the glass from my chattering teeth.

"I .. I was out. But … who on earth are you?"

"Alexander Campbell Gardner!" snaps he. "Formerly artillery instructor to the Khalsa, presently guard commander to the Maharaja, and recently at your service—and think yourself lucky!"

"But you're an American!"

"That I am." He fixed me with an eye like a gimlet. "From the territory of Wisconsin."

I must have been a picture of idiocy, for he clapped that iron object to his neck again, gulped whisky, and rasped:

"Well, sir? You passed that word, as Broadfoot instructed you should, in an emergency. When, you ask? Dammit, to the little Maharaja, and again to old Ram Singh! It reached me—no matter how—and I came directly to help you, and not a hair of you in sight! Next I hear, you're with the Maharani, playing the Devil and Jenny Golightly! Was that intelligent conduct, sir, when you knew Jawaheer Singh was out to cut your throat?" He emptied his glass, clashed his iron clamp on the table, and glared.

"How the dooce did you know he was after you, anyway?"

This tirade had me all adrift. "I didn't know any such thing! Mr Gardner, I'm at a loss —"

"Colonel Gardner! Then why the blue blazes did you sound the alarm? Hollering Wisconsin to everyone you met, concern it!"

"Did I? I may have said it inadvertently —"

"Inadvertently? Upon my soul, Mr Flashman!"

"But I don't understand … it's all mad! Why should Jawaheer want to kill me? He don't even know me—barely met the fellow, and he was tight as Dick's hat-band!" An appalling thought struck me. "Why, they weren't his people—they were the Maharani's! Her slave-girls! They lured me to that bloody bathroom—they knew what was to happen! She must have ordered them—"

"How dare you, sir!" So help me, it's what he said, with his whiskers crackling. "To suggest that she would .. What, after the … the kindness she had shown you? A fine thing that would be! I tell you those Kashmiris were bribed and coerced by Jawaheer and by Jawaheer alone—those were his villains down there, sent to silence the girls once you'd been disposed of! D'you think I don't know 'em? The Maharani, indeed!" He was in a fine indignation, right enough. "I'm not saying," he went on, "that she's the sort of young woman I'd take home to meet mother … but you mind this, sir!" He rounded on me. "With all her weaknesses—of which you've taken full advantage—Mai Jeendan is a charming and gracious lady and the best hope this god-abandoned territory has seen since Runjeet Singh! You'll remember that, by thunder, if you and I are to remain friends!"

I wasn't alone in my enthusiasm for the lady, it seemed, although I guessed his was of a more spiritual variety. But I was as much in the dark as ever.

"Very well, you say it was Jawaheer—why the devil should he want to murder me?"

"Because he wants a war with the British! That's why! And the surest way to start one is to have a British emissary kiboshed right here in Lahore! Why, man, Gough would be over the Sutlej with fifty thousand bayonets before you could say Jack Robinson—John Company and the Khalsa would be at grips … that's what Jawaheer wants, don't you see?"

I didn't, and said so. "If he wants a war—why doesn't he just order the Khalsa to march on India? They're spoiling for a fight with us, ain't they?"

`"Sure they are—but not with Jawaheer leading them! They've never had any use for him, so the only way he can get 'em to fight is if the British strike first. But dammit, you won't oblige him, however much he provokes you along the border—and Jawaheer has gotten desperate. He's bankrupt, the Khalsa hates and distrusts him and is ready to skin him alive for Peshora's death, they hold him prisoner in his own palace, his balls are in the mangle!" He took a deep breath. "Don't you know anything, Mr Flashman? Jawaheer needs a war, now, to keep the Khalsa occupied and save his own skin. That's why he tried to put you out with the bath water tonight, confound it, don't you see?"

Well, put that way, it made sense. Everyone seemed to want a bloody war except Hardinge and yours truly—but I could see why Jawaheer's need was more urgent than most. I'd heard the Khalsa's opinion of him that after-noon, and seen the almighty funk he was in. That's what he'd meant, by God, when he'd pointed at me and yelled that the British would have cause to come—the evil, vicious bastard! He'd been lying in wait for my arrival … and suddenly a dreadful, incredible suspicion rushed in on me.

"My God! Did Broadfoot know that Jawaheer would try to kill me? Did he send me here to —"

He gave a barking laugh. "Say, you have a high opinion of your betters, don't you? First Mai Jeendan, now Major Broadfoot! No, sir—that is not his style! Why, if he had foreseen such a thing …" He broke off, frowning, then shook his head. "No, Jawaheer hatched his plot in the last few hours, I reckon—your arrival must have seemed to him a heaven-sent opportunity. He'd have taken it, too, if I hadn't been on your tail from the moment you arrived in the durbar room." He blew out his cheeks in disbelief. "I still can't get over that damned bath! You won't linger among the soap-suds again, I reckon."

That was enough to bring me to my feet, reaching for his decanter without even a by-your-leave. God, what a tarantula's nest Broadfoot had plunged me into! I still couldn't put it straight in my mind, numb with the whirlwind of the last few hours. Had I fallen asleep over Crotchet Castle and dreamed it all—my balcony acrobatics, Mangla and Jawaheer and the dazzling spectacle of the durbar room, the drunken ecstatic coupling with Jeendan, the horror of the descending stone, the furious bloody scramble in which five lives were snuffed out in a bare minute, this incredible tartan Nemesis with his Khyber knife and Yankee twang,²² eyeing me bleakly as I punished his malt? Belatedly, I mumbled my thanks, adding that Broadfoot was lucky to have such an agent in Lahore, He snapped my head off.

"I'm not his confounded agent! I'm his friend—and so far as my duty to the Maharaja allows, I'm sympathetic to British interest. Broadfoot knows I'll help, which is why he gave you my watchword." He restrained himself with difficulty. "Inadvertently, by jiminy! But that's all, Mr Flashman. You and I will now go our separate ways, you won't address or even recognise me henceforth except as Gurdana Khan —"

"Henceforth? But I'll be going back—man alive, I can't stay here now, with Jawaheer —"

"The devil you can't! It's your duty, isn't it? Just because the war isn't going to start tomorrow doesn't mean it won't happen eventually. Oh, it will—and that's for years—and even he wouldn't have the hard neck . . You're sure he's a Broadfoot man? And no beard, eh? Well, we'll see! Jemadar, find the orderly, tell him the husoor wants him, double quick—and if he asks, say I'm out at Maian Mir. You sit down, Mr Flashman … I suspect this may interest you."

After the events of the night, I doubted if Lahore could hold any further surprises—but d'you know, what followed was perhaps the most astonishing encounter between two men that ever I saw—and I was at Appomattox, remember, and saw Bismarck and Gully face to face with the mauleys, and held the shotgun when Hickok confronted Wesley Hardin. But what took place in Gardner's room laid over any of them.

We waited in silence until the jemadar knocked, and Jassa slid in, shifty as always. The moment his eye fell on the grim tartan figure he started as though he'd trod on hot coals, but then he recovered and looked inquiringly to me while Gardner viewed him almost in admiration.

"Not bad, Josiah," says he. "You may have the guiltiest conscience east of Suez, but by God you've sure got the brazenest forehead to go with it. I'd never ha' known you, clean-shaven." His voice hardened to a bark. "Now then—what's the game? Speak up, jildi!"

"None o' your goddam' business!" snaps Jassa. "I'm a political agent in British service—ask him if you don't believe me! And that puts me outside your touch, Alick Gardner! So now!"

Said in Pushtu, I'd have held it a good answer—reckless, from what I'd seen of Gardner, but about what you'd expect from a Khyberie tough. But it was said in English—with an accent even more American than Gardner's own! I couldn't credit my ears—one bloody Yankee promenading about in Afghan fig was bad enough—but two? And the second one my own orderly, courtesy of Broadfoot … if I sat open-mouthed, d'you wonder? Gardner exploded.

"British political, my eye! Why, you crooked Quaker, you, if you're working for Broadfoot it must mean he doesn't know who you are! And he doesn't, I'll bet! No, because you're before his time, Josiah—you skipped out of Kabul before the British arrived, and wise you were! Sekundar Burnes knew you, though—for the double-dealing rascal you are! Pollock knows you, too—he ran you out of Burma, didn't he? Damn me if there's a town between Rangoon and Basra that you haven't left a shirt in! So, let's have it—what's your lay this time?"

"I don't answer to you," says Jassa. "Mr Flashman, if you care for this, I don't. You know I'm Major Broad-foot's agent -

"Hold your tongue or I'll have it out!" roars Gardner. "Outside my touch, are you? We'll see! You know this man as Jassa," says he to me. "Well, let me perform the honours by presenting Dr Josiah Harlan of Philadelphia, former packet-rat, impostor, coiner, spy, traitor, revolutionary, and expert in every rascality he can think of—and can't he think, just? No common blackguard, mind you—Prince of Ghor once, weren't you, Josiah, and unfrocked governor of Gujerat, to say nothing of being a pretender (it's the truth, Flashman) to the throne of Afghanistan, no less! You know what they call this beauty up in the high hills? The Man Who Would Be King!" He came forward, thumbs in his belt, and stuck his jaw in Jassa's face. "Well, you have one minute to tell me what you would be in Lahore, doctor! And don't say you're an orderly, pure and simple, because you've never been either!"

Jassa didn't move a muscle of his ugly, pock-marked face, but turned to me with a little inclination of his head. "Leaving aside the insults, part of what he says is true. I was Prince of Ghor—but Colonel Gardner's memory is at fault. He hasn't told you that Lord Amherst personally appointed me surgeon to His Britannic Majesty's forces in the Burmese campaign —"

"Assistant surgeon, stealing spirits in an artillery field hospital!" scoffs Gardner.

"- or that I held high military command and the governorship of three districts under his late majesty, Raja Runjeet Singh —"

"Who kicked you out for counterfeiting, you damned scamp! Go ahead, tell him how you were ambassador to Dost Mohammed, and tried to start a revolution in Afghanistan, and sold him out more times than he could count! Tell him how you suborned Muhammed Khan to betray Peshawar to the Sikhs! Tell him how you lined your pockets on the Kunduz expedition, and cheated Reffi Bey, and had the gall to plant the Stars and Stripes on the Indian Caucasus, damn your impudence!" He paused for breath while Jassa stood cool as a trout. "But why waste time? Tell him how you passed yourself off on Broadfoot. I'd enjoy hearing that, myself!"

Jassa gave him an inquiring look, as though to make sure he was done, and addressed me. "Mr Flashman, I owe you an explanation, but not an apology. Why should I have told you what your own chief didn't? Broadfoot enlisted me more than a year ago; how much of my history he knows, I can't say—and I don't care. He knows his business and he trusts me, or I wouldn't be here. If you doubt me now, write to him, telling him what you've heard tonight … like everyone who's mixed in diplomacy in these parts, I'm used to having my reputation blown upon —"

"So- hard that it's scattered all over the bloody Himalayas!" snarls Gardner. "If you're so all-fired trust-worthy … where were you tonight when Jawaheer tried to kill Flashman?"

He was clever, Gardner. Knowing his man as he did, the question must have been in his mind from the first, but he'd held it back to take Jassa off guard. He succeeded; Jassa gaped, stared from Gardner to me and back, and gasped hoarsely: "What the hell d'you mean?"

Gardner told him in a few fierce sentences, watching him lynx-eyed, and Jassa was a sight to see. The bounce had quite gone out of him, and all he could do was rub his face and mutter "Jesus!" before turning helplessly to me.

"I … I don't know … I must have been asleep, sir! After I pulled you on to the balcony, and you went off to the durbar room … well, I reckoned you were there for the night …" He avoided my eye. "I … I went to bed, woke up an hour ago, saw you hadn't returned, asked around for you, but no one had seen you … then the jemadar came for me just now. That's the truth." He rubbed his face again, and caught Gardner's eye. "Christ, you don't think —"

"No, I don't!" growls Gardner, and shook his head at me. "Whatever else you are—and that's plenty—you're not a murderer. And if you were, you'd be in the tall timber this minute. No, Josiah," says he with grim satisfaction, "you're just a lousy bodyguard—and I suggest Mr Flashman reports that to Major Broadfoot, too. And until he gets a reply, you can cool your heels in a cell, doctor —"

"The hell I can!" cries Jassa, and turns to me. "Mr Flashman . , . I don't know what to say, sir! I've failed you, I know that—and I'm sorry for it. If Major Broadfoot sees fit to recall me … well, so be it. But it's not his business, sir!" He pointed at Gardner. "As far as he's concerned, I'm under British protection, and entitled to immunity. And with respect, sir—in spite of my failure tonight … I'm still at your service. You mustn't disown me, sir."

Well, I'd had a long day, and night. The shock of discovering that my Afghan orderly was an American medical man²³ (and no doubt as big a villain as Gardner said) was quite small beer after all the rest. No more of a shock than Gardner himself, really. One thing was sure: Jassa, or Josiah, was Broadfoot's man, and he was right, I couldn't disown him on Gardner's suspicions. I said so, and much to my surprise, Gardner didn't shout me down, although he gave me a long hard stare.

"After what I've told you about him? Well, sir, it's on your own head. It's possible you won't rue the day, but I doubt it." He turned to Jassa. "As for you, Josiah … I don't know what brings you back to the Punjab in another of your disguises. I know it wasn't Jawaheer, or anything as simple as British political work … no, it's some dirty little frolic of your own, isn't it? Well, you forget it, doctor—because if you don't, immunity or not, I'll send you back to Broadfoot by tying you over a gun and blowing you clear to Simla. You can count on that. Good-night, Mr Flashman."

The jemadar led us back to my quarters through a maze of corridors that was no more confused than my mind; I was dog-tired and still mortally shaken, and had neither the wit nor the will to question my newly-revealed Afghan-American orderly, who kept up a muttered stream of apology and justification the whole way. He'd never have forgiven himself if any harm had come to me, and I must write to Broadfoot instanter to establish his bona fides; he wouldn't rest until Gardner's calumnies had been disproved.

"Alick means no harm—we've known each other for years, but truth is, you see, he's jealous, us both being American and all, and he hasn't risen any too high, while I've been prince and ambassador, as he said—course, fate hasn't been too kind lately, which is why I took any honourable employment that came … God, I've no words of excuse or apology, sir, for my lapse tonight … what must you think, what will Broadfoot think? Say, though, I'd like him to understand about my losing my governorship—it wasn't coining, no sir! I dabble in chemistry, see, and there was this experiment that went wrong …"

He was still chuntering when we reached my door, where I was reassured to see two stalwart constables, presumably sent by Bhai Ram Singh. Jassa—with that ugly frontier dial and dress I could think of him by no other name—swore he'd be on hand too, from this moment, closer than a brother, why, he'd bed down right here in the passage …

I closed my door, head swimming with fatigue, and rested a moment in blessed solitude and quiet before walking unsteadily through the arch to the bedchamber, where two lights burned dimly either side of the pillow—and stopped, the hairs rising on my neck. There was someone in the bed, and a drift of perfume on the air, and before I could move or cry out, a woman whispered out of the gloom.

"Mai Jeendan must have eaten her fill," says Mangla. "It is almost dawn."

I stepped closer, staring. She was lying naked beneath a flimsy veil of black gauze spread over her like a sheet --they've nothing to learn about erotic display in the Punjab, I can tell you. I looked down at her, swaying, and it shows how fagged out I was, for I asked, like a damfool:

"What are you doing here?"

"Do you not remember?" murmurs she, and I saw her teeth gleam as she smiled up from the pillow, her black hair spread across it like a fan. "After the mistress has supped, it is the maid's turn."

"Oh, my God," says I. "I ain't hungry."

"Are you not?" whispers she. "Then I must whet your appetite." And she sat up, slow and languid, stretching that transparent veil tight against her body, pouting at me. "Will you taste, husoor?

For a moment I was tempted. Altogether used up, fit only for the knacker's yard, I wanted sleep as I wanted salvation. But as I contemplated that magnificent sub-stance stirring beneath the gauze, I thought: to thine own self be true, and put temptation aside.

"Right you are, my dear," says I. "Got any more of that jolly drink, have you?"

She laughed softly and-reached out for the cup beside the bed.

If you've read Robinson Crusoe you may recall a passage where he weighs up his plight on the desert island like a book-keeper, evil on one side, good on t'other. Dispiriting stuff, mainly, in which he croaks about solitude, but concludes that things might be worse, and God will see him through, with luck. Optimism run mad, if you ask me, but then I've never been shipwrecked, much, and philosophy in the face of tribulation ain't my line. But I did use his system on waking that second day in Lahore, because so much had happened in such short space that I needed to set my mind straight. Thus:

I am cut off in a savage land which will be at war with my own country presently.

An attempt has been made to assassinate me. These buggers would sooner murder people than eat their dinners.

Broadfoot chose him, and since I see no reason why he should be hostile to me, I shall watch him like a hawk.

Rations and quarters are A1, and Mangla sober is a capital mount, though she don't compare to Jeendan drunk.

If I were a praying man, the Almighty would hear from me in no uncertain terms, and much good it would do me.

Being a pagan (attached C of E) with no divine resources, I shall tread uncommon wary and keep my pepperbox handy.

That was my accounting, cast up in the drowsy hour after Mangla slipped away like a lovely ghost at daybreak, and it could have been worse. My first task must be to make a searching examination of the bold Jassa, or Josiah, before sending off a cypher about him to Broadfoot, So I had him in while I shaved, watching that crafty hill figure-head in my mirror, and listening to the plausible Yankee patter that came out of it. Oddly enough, after the character Gardner had given him, I felt inclined to take him at face value. You see, Pm a knave myself, and know that we wrong 'uns ain't always bent on mischief; it seemed to me that Jassa, the professional soldier of fortune, was quite likely just marking time in Broadfoot's employ, as he'd claimed, until something better turned up. The queerest fish swim into the political mill, with not too many questions asked, and I felt I could accept if not trust him. Like Gardner, I was sure he'd had no hand in the plot against my life—if he'd wanted me dead he could have let me drop from the balcony instead of saving me.

It was comforting, too, to have one of my own kind alongside me—and one who knew the Punjab and its politics inside out. "Though how you hoped to pass unrecognised, I don't see," says I. "If you were so high under Runjeet, half the country must know you, surely?"

"That was six years ago, behind a full set o' beard an' whiskers," says he. "Clean-shaven, I reckoned to get by—'cept with Alick, but I planned to keep out o' his way. But it don't matter," he added coolly, "there are no reward notices out for Joe Harlan, here or anywhere else."

He was such a patent rascal that I took to him—and even now I won't say I was wrong. He had a fine political nose, too, and had been using it about the Fort that morning.

"Jawaheer seems to be in luck. The whole palace knows he tried to get you, and the talk was that the Maharani would have him arrested. But she had him to her boudoir first thing today, all smiles, embraced him, and drank toasts to his reconciliation to the Khalsa, her maids say. It seems Dinanath and Azizudeen have made his peace for him; they were out talking to the panches at dawn, and Jawaheer's appearance this afternoon will be a formality. He and the whole royal family will review the troops—and you'll be invited, no doubt so that you can pass word to Broadfoot that all's well with the Lahore durbar." He grinned. "Yes, sir, you'll have quite a packet of news for Simla. How d'you send out your cyphers—through Mangla?"

"As you said yourself, doctor, why should I tell you what Broadfoot didn't? Are you really a doctor, by the way?"

"No diploma," says he frankly, "but I studied surgery back in Pennsylvania. Yep … I'll bet it's Mangla; that little puss is in everyone's pocket, so why not John Company's? A word of advice, though: cover her all you've a mind to, but don't trust her—or Mai Jeendan." And before I could damn his impudence he took himself off to change, as he put it, into his mess kit.

That meant his best robes, for our durbar appearance at noon, with Flashy in full fig of frock coat and go-to-meeting roof, making my official bow to little Dalip enthroned in state; you'd not have recognised the lively imp of yesterday in the regal little figure all in silver, nodding his aigretted turban most condescendingly when I was presented by Lal Singh, who was second minister. Jawaheer was nowhere in sight, but Dinanath, old Bhai Ram Singh, and Azizudeen were present, solemn as priests. It was eerie, knowing that they were all well aware that their Wazir had tried to murder me a few hours earlier, and that I'd rioted with their Maharani in this very chamber. There wasn't so much as a flicker on the handsome, bearded faces; damned good form, the Sikhs.

Behind Dalip's throne hung a fine lace curtain, the purdah of his mother, the Maharani—it being the custom of quality Indian ladies to seclude themselves, when they ain't belly-dancing at orgies, that is. By the curtain stood Mangla, unveiled but most modestly dressed, and formal as though we'd never laid eyes on each other. Her duty was to relay conversation to and from her mistress behind the screen, and she did it most properly, welcoming me to Lahore, inviting blessings on my work, and finally, as Jassa had forecast, bidding me to attend his majesty when he reviewed the Khalsa that afternoon.

"You shall ride on an elephant!" squeaks the said majesty, lapsing from kingly dignity for a moment, and then stiffening before the reproving glances of his court. I said gravely that I'd be honoured beyond measure, he shot me a shy little smile, and then I backed from the presence, turning and resuming my tile only when I reached the rug in the doorway, as form demanded. To my surprise, Lal Singh came after me, taking my arm, all smiles, and insisting on giving me a conducted tour of the arsenal and foundry, which were close by the Sleeping Palace. Since I'd spent half the night sporting with his lady love, I found this affability disconcerting, until he took me flat aback by speaking of her with alarming frankness.

"Mai Jeendan had hoped to come out from purdah to greet you after the durbar," confides he. "Alas, she is a little drunk from toasting her abominable brother, in a vain effort to put some courage into him. You can have no notion what a poltroon he is! The thought of facing the Khalsa quite unmans him, even now when all is settled. But she will certainly send for you afterwards; she has important messages for the envoy of the Sirkar."

I said I was at her majesty's service, and he smiled.

"So I have heard." Seeing me stare, he laughed aloud. "My dear friend, you look at me as though I were a rival! Believe me, with Mai Jeendan there is no such thing! She is no one's mistress but her own. Let us fortunate fellows thank God for it. Now, you shall give me your opinion of our Punjabi muskets—are they not a match for Brown Bess?"

At the time, I was all suspicion; only later did I realise that Lal Singh meant every word he said—and Mai Jeendan was the least of what he wanted to tell me that day. When we'd examined the small arms, stocked in impressive numbers, and the forges, and the casting of a great white-hot nine-pounder gun, and the rain of lead hitting the steaming vats in the shot tower, and I'd agreed that the Khalsa's armoury compared well with our own, he took me by the arm as we walked, most confidential.

"You are right," says he, "but arms are not everything. On the day, victory and defeat rest with the generals. If ever the Khalsa took the field, it might well be under my leadership, and Tej Singh's." He sighed, smiling, and shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder how we should acquit ourselves against … oh, against such a seasoned campaigner as your Sir Hugh Gough. What would you think, Flashman sahib?"

Wondering, I said that Gough wasn't the most scientific soldier since Boney, but he was probably the toughest. Lal Singh nodded, stroking his beard, and then laughed merrily. "Well, we must hope it is never put to the test, eh? Now, we set out for Maian Mir in an hour—may I offer you some refreshment?"

They're so devious, these folk, you never know what they're up to. Was he hinting that if it came to war, he was, ready to fight a cross? Or trying a bamboozle? Or just gassing? Whatever his purpose, he must know that nothing he said could make Gough drop his guard. It was all most interesting, and gave me food for thought until the horns sounded to signal the departure of the royal progress to Maian Mir.

The procession was drawn up outside the Bright Gate, and when I saw it I thought: that's India. It was Arabian Nights come to life: two battalions of the Palace Guard in their red and yellow silks, and in their midst half a dozen elephants, gorgeously caparisoned in blue and gold saddle-cloths that swept the ground, jewelled harness on their heads, their tusks and even the mahouts' goads tipped with gold. The howdahs were little coloured palaces topped with minarets and silk canopies which stirred as the great beasts swayed and bellowed, the keepers quieting them as they waited for their royal freight. Horsemen in steel casques that shone like silver in the sunlight rode up and down the elephant line, their sabres drawn; they con-verged like clockwork to. form a lane from the gate for porters who came bearing enormous panniers brimming with coin, preceded by chamberlains who supervised the strapping of the panniers to the howdahs of the third and second elephants, When some of the coins fell in a tinkling \ shower to the dust, there was a great "Oo-h!" from the crowd assembled to see the show; two or three of the horsemen leaned from their saddles, scooping up the rupees and hurling them over the heads of the rigid guardsmen to the mob, who yelled and scuffled for them—for a country that was supposed to be short of blunt, there seemed to be no lack of pice*(*Coppers.) to fling to the beggars.

Two of the chamberlains mounted the third elephant, and now came a little knot of courtiers, led by Lal Singh, all brave in green and gold; they mounted into the fifth howdah, and a chamberlain who'd been 'shepherding Jassa and me indicated that we should mount the ladder on the fourth beast. We climbed up and as I seated myself the muted grumble of the crowd took on a new note—I knew exactly why: they were asking each other, who's the foreigner, then, who takes precedence over the royal courtiers? He must be an infidel of note, doubtless the English Queen's son, or a Jewish moneylender from Karachi; well, give the unbelieving swine a cheer. I doffed my tile, looking out over that astonishing scene: ahead, the great mammoths with their swaying howdahs, and either side the horsemen, the yellow Guards, and beyond a vast sea of brown faces; the walls flanking the Bright Gate were black with spectators, as were the buildings behind, with the great column of the Summum Boorj towering over all. The baying of the crowd rose again, and now there was a disturbance below my elephant, the yellow line of Guardsmen breaking to let in a wild figure who capered and waved to me: he was a burly Ghazi of a fellow, bandoliered and bearded to the eyebrows, yelling in Pushtu:

"Ai-ee, Bloody Lance! It is I, Shadman Khan! Remember me? Salaam, soldier, heep-heep-heep-hoorah!"

Well, I didn't remember him, but plainly he was someone from the old days, so I lifted my lid again, calling: "Salaam, Shadman Khan!" and he shouted with delight and yelled, in English: "Stand fast, foorteefoorth!"—and in an instant I was looking down on the bloody snow over Gandamack, with the remnants of the 44th being cut down by the tribesmen swarming over their position … and I wondered which side he'd been on then. (I've since remembered that there was a Shadman Khan among those ruffians who held me in Gul Shah's dungeon, and yet another among the band who saved me from the Thugs at Jhansi in '57 and stole our horses on the way to Cawnpore. I wonder if they were all the same man. It has no bearing on my present tale, anyway; it was just an incident at the Bright Gate. But I think it was the same man; everybody changed sides in the old days.)

Now there was a sudden hush, broken by the strains of sweet music, and out from the Bright Gate came a native band, followed by a tiny figure in cloth of gold, mounted on a white pony; a thunderous salaam rolled out from the waiting crowd: "Maharaj'! Maharaj'!" as little Dalip was lifted from his saddle by a richly-clad courtier whom I recognised with a shock as Jawaheer Singh. He seemed sober enough now, and I've never seen a man grin so eagerly as he perched Dalip on his shoulder and gestured to the crowd, inviting their acclaim. They roared willingly enough, but I detected an undertone of groans which I imagine were meant for Jawaheer himself. He mounted with Dalip to the first elephant, and then out from the gate stalks Gardner, staring grimly right and left, and followed by a party of his black robes, guarding a palki*(*Litter, usually curtained.) beside which Mangla walked unveiled. It stopped, and she drew the curtains and handed out the Maharani Jeendan: she was all in shimmering white, and although she wore a gauzy purdah veil I believe I'd have recognised that hourglass figure anywhere. She'd got over her drunk, by the looks of it, for she walked steadily to the second elephant, and Gardner handed her up to an absolute bellow of cheering—there's no doubt about it, all the world loves Nell Gwynn. Mangla mounted beside her, and then Gardner stepped back and surveyed the procession, your good bodyguard alert for trouble. His eye passed over me and lingered for a moment on Jassa; then he had given the signal, the band struck up a march, the elephant lurched and bellowed beneath us, and off we swayed with a great creaking of harness and jingling of outriders, while the mob roared again and the dust swirled up from the tramp of the Guardsmen.

We skirted under the high city walls, thronged with folk who threw blossoms and shouted blessings on the little Maharaja; they were swarming like bees on the ramparts of the Kashmir Gate, and then as we rounded the angle of the wall beneath the huge Half-moon Battery there came from far ahead the report of cannon—a continuous rumble of firing, one gun after another (a hundred and eighty, I'm told, though I didn't count 'em). The elephants squealed in alarm, and the howdahs bucked from side to side so hard that we had to cling on to prevent being pitched out, with the mahouts flat on their beasts' heads, steadying them with goad and voice. As we came under the Delhi Gate the firing ceased, to be replaced by a distant measured tread, thousands of marching men, and I craned out to look as the procession swung away from the city, and saw an astonishing sight.

Coming towards us, all in immaculate line, were four battalions of the Khalsa, a solid wall of infantry half a mile from wing to wing, the dust rising before them in a low cloud, their drummers and standard bearers to the fore. I didn't know it then, but they were absolutely marching on Lahore to bring Jawaheer out by force, having lost patience after waiting for him all day; you could almost read the purpose in the grim inexorable approach of that disciplined host, the green jackets of Sikh infantry and the blue turbans of the Dogras on the left, the scarlet coats and shakos of regular foot on the right.

Our procession slowed and half-halted, but with the howdahs of Jeendan and the chamberlains in front I couldn't see what was happening with Jawaheer—I could hear him, though, shouting shrilly, and the armoured horsemen converged on his elephant, while the yellow Guardsmen tramped stolidly on. Our procession forged ahead towards the centre of the Khalsa line, and just as it seemed as though we must collide the advancing host split into two, wheeling into columns which advanced down either side of us—and I've never seen anything to match it for drill, not even on Horse Guards. I watched them striding by beyond our yellow Guardsmen, and wondered for a moment if they meant to pass us altogether, but a burly rissaldar-major came tearing out on the flank, reining in midway down the procession, rose in his stirrups, and at the exact moment bawled in a voice you could have heard in Delhi: "Battalions—abou-tah!"

There was the tremendous one-two-three-four crash as they marked time and turned—and then they were marching with us, a solid mass of two thousand infantry on either flank, shakos and red coats to the right, blue and green turbans to the left. Well, thinks I, whether Jawaheer takes it for a prisoner's escort or a guard of honour, he can't complain that they haven't received him in style. I could hear him, crying "Shabash!" in compliment, and on the elephant ahead of us the chamberlains were on their feet, scooping up rupees in little hand-shovels, and hurling them over the yellow Guardsmen at the Khalsa battalions. They glittered in the air like silver rain, falling among the marching Sikhs—and not a man wavered in his step or even glanced aside. The chamberlains shovelled away for dear life, emptying the panniers and spraying the dust with their rupees, screaming to the troops that this was the gift of their loving monarch and his Wazir, Raja Jawaheer Singh, God bless him, but for all the heed the Khalsa paid it might as well have been bird-droppings, and behind me I heard Jassa mutter: "Save your dollars, boys, they ain't buying you a thing."

Another roar from the rissaldar-major and the escorting battalions crashed to a halt, stock-still in the swirling dust. Our procession lumbered on, wheeling left as we emerged from between those grim ranks, and as our beast turned to follow the leaders, there all of a sudden on our right flank was the whole Khalsa, drawn up in review, horse, foot, and guns, squadron upon squadron, battalion upon battalion, as far as the eye could see.

I'd seen it before, and been impressed; what I felt now was awe. Then it had been at exercise; now it was dead still, at attention, eighty thousand men and not a movement except for the gentle stirring of the standards before the battalions, the flutter of pennons on the lances at rest, and the occasional tossing of a horse's mane. And it's strange: the tramp of our Guardsmen and the groaning of the elephants' harness must have been loud enough to wake the dead, but all I remember now is the silence as we passed slowly before that tremendous army.

There was a sudden shrill voice from the second elephant, and damme if Jeendan and Mangla weren't flinging out baksheesh, too, as the chamberlains had done, and calling out to the soldiers to accept their bounty, to remember their oaths to the Maharaja, and to stand true to their salt for the honour of the Khalsa. Still not a man moved, and as the women's voices died away I felt a chill in spite of the heat of the westering sun, and then someone shouted a command to halt, and the elephants lumbered to a standstill.

There was a little cluster of tents ahead, beside the leading beast, and a group of senior officers before it. Akalis were moving down the line, shouting to the mahouts to dismount, and as our elephant sank to its knees I felt nothing but relief—you're uncomfortably conspicuous in a howdah, I can tell you, especially with eighty thousand bearded graven images glaring blindly at you from point-blank range. There was a clatter of hooves, and there was Gardner by the second elephant, ordering servants who helped Jeendan and Mangla down and led them towards one of the pavilions, where hand-maidens were waiting to receive them—pretty butterfly figures in silks and gauzes altogether out of place before that great martial host in leather and serge and steel. Gardner caught my eye and jerked his head, and without waiting for a ladder I dropped to the ground with as much dignity as I could, clutching my topper in place. Jassa followed, and I saw that Lal Singh and the courtiers had also descended. I walked towards Gardner's horse, and noticed that only Jawaheer's elephant was still standing; he was sitting in the howdah, clutching little Dalip to him and complaining shrilly to the Akalis who were angrily ordering his mahout to make the elephant kneel.

Another order was shouted, and now the yellow Guardsmen began to march away, the armoured horsemen cantering ahead of them. At this Jawaheer was on his feet, demanding to know where his escort was going, shouting to his mahout not to take the elephant down; he was in a great passion, and as his head turned I caught the gleam of the great diamond in his turban aigrette—Good Lord, that's Jeendan's belly-button, thinks I, how it does get about … and now Gardner was leaning down from his saddle and addressing me rapidly in English:

"Go and help the Maharaja down—go on, man, quickly! It'll please the troops—make a fine impression! Get him, Flashman!"

It all happened in split seconds. There I was, aware only that Jawaheer was in a fine taking about the reception he was receiving, that Gardner was making what sounded like an excellent diplomatic suggestion—kindly old John Bull giving the heathen princeling a piggy-back before his' powers assembled, and all that—but even as he spoke I saw that an Akali had scrambled up into the howdah and seemed to be trying to pull Dalip away; Jawaheer screamed, the Akali hit him in the face, Jawaheer dropped the child and cowered away, there was a zeep! of drawn steel at my back—and I started round to find half a dozen Sikhs almost on top of me, tulwars drawn and yelling blue murder.

I didn't wait to advise Gardner to help the Maharaja down himself. I was past his horse like a stung whippet—and ran slap into the elephant's arse, fell back with a yell of terror into the path of the charging Sikhs, made a dive to get under the elephant's trailing saddle-cloth, stumbled and became entangled, struggled free—and something hit me an almighty blow across the shoulders, driving me to my knees. I clutched wildly behind me, and found myself with little Dalip in my arms, fallen from aloft, and a mob of raging madmen hurling me aside to get at the elephant.

There was a choking scream from overhead, and there was Jawaheer sprawling over the side of the howdah, arms outstretched, with a spear shaft buried in his chest, blood spewing from his mouth and showering down on me. The attackers were swarming into the howdah, slashing at him; suddenly his face was a bloody mask, his turban slipped from his head, a great length of blood-sodden silk snaking down at me. Gardner's horse reared above me, men were yelling and women shrieking, I could hear the hideous sound of the tulwars cutting into Jawaheer's body, and still he was screaming and blood was everywhere, in my eyes and mouth, on the gold coat of little Dalip in my arms—I tried to throw him away, but the young blighter had me fast round the neck and wouldn't leave go. Someone seized me by the arm—Jassa, a pistol in his free hand. Gardner urged his horse between us and the slaughter, knocking Jassa's pistol from his grasp and shouting to him to get us away, and I blundered towards the tents with that confounded infant hanging from my neck—and not a sound out of him, either.

The turban cloth had draped itself across my face, and as I dragged the disgusting thing clear and sank to my knees, Dalip still clung to me with one hand, and in the other, dripping with his uncle's gore, was the great diamond that had fallen from Jawaheer's aigrette. How the brat had got hold of it, God knows, but there it was, almost filling his small hand, and he stared at me with great round eyes and piped: Koh-i-Noor! Koh-i-Noor! Then he was whisked away from me, and as I came to my feet I saw he was clasped in his mother's arms beside the tent, bloodying her veil and white sari.

"Oh, my Christ!" groans Jassa, and I looked past him and saw Jawaheer, crimson from head to foot, slide over the side of the howdah and fall headlong in the dust with his life flooding out of him—and still those fiends hacked and stabbed at his corpse, while some even emptied their muskets and pistols into it, until the air was thick with the reek of black powder smoke.

It was Gardner who hustled us to one of the smaller tents while his black robes surrounded Jeendan, Dalip, and the screeching women, shepherding them to the main pavilion. He cast a quick glance at the mob struggling about Jawaheer's corpse, and then twitched our tent curtain shut. He was breathing hard, but cool as you please.

"Well, how d'ye like that for a drumhead court-martial, Mr Flashman?" He laughed softly. "Khalsa justice—the damned fools!"

I was a-tremble at the shocking, sudden butchery of it. "You knew that was going to happen?"

"No, sir," says he calmly, "but nothing in this country surprises me. By the holy, you're a sight! Josiah, get some water and clean him up! You're not wounded? Good-now, lie low and be quiet, both of you! It's over and done, see? The damned fools—listen to 'em, celebrating their own funerals! Now, don't you budge till I come back!"

He strode out, leaving us to collect our breath and our wits—and if you wonder what my thoughts were as Jassa sponged the blood from my face and hands, I'll tell you. Relief, and some satisfaction that Jawaheer was receipted and filed, and that I'd come away with nothing worse than a ruined frock coat. Not that they'd been out to get me, but when you walk away from a scrimmage of that sort, you're bound to put it down on Crusoe's good side, in block capitals.

Jassa and I shared my flask, and for about half an hour we sat listening to the babble of shouting and laughter and feux de joie of the murderers' celebration, and the lamentations from the neighbouring tent, while I digested this latest of Lahore's horrors and wondered what might come of it.

I suppose I'd seen the signs the previous day, in the rage of the Khalsa panches, and Jawaheer's own terrors last night—but this morning the talk had been that all was well … aye, designed, no doubt, to bring him out to the Khalsa in false hope, to a doom already fixed, Had his peacemakers, Azizudeen and Dinanath, known what would happen? Had his sister? Had Jawaheer himself known, even, but been powerless to avert it? And now that the Khalsa had shown its teeth … would it march over the Sutlej? Would Hardinge, hearing of yet another bloody coup, decide to intervene? Or would he still wait? After all, it was nothing new in this horrible country.

I didn't know, then, that Jawaheer's murder was a turning-point. To the Khalsa, it was just another demonstration of their own might, another death sentence on a leader who displeased them. They didn't realise they'd handed power to the most ruthless ruler the Punjab had seen since Runjeet Singh … she was in the next tent, having hysterics so strident and prolonged that the noisy mob outside finally gave over celebrating and looting the gear from the royal procession; the shouting and laughter died away, and now there was the sound of her voice alone, sobbing and screaming by turns—and then it was no longer in her tent, but outside, and Gardner slipped back through our curtain, beckoning me to join him at the entrance. I went, and peered out.

It was full dark now, but the space before the tents was lit bright as day by torches in the hands of a vast semi-circle of Khalsa soldiery, thousands strong, staring in silence at the spot where Jawaheer's body still lay on the blood-soaked earth. The elephants and the regiments had gone; all that remained was that great ring of bearded, silent faces (and one of 'em was wearing my tall hat, damn his impudence!), the huddled corpse, and kneeling over it, wailing and beating the earth in an ecstasy of grief, the small white-clad figure of the Maharani. Close by, their hands on their hilts and their eyes on the Khalsa, a group of Gardner's black robes stood guard.

She flung herself across the body, embracing it, calling to it, and then knelt upright again, keening wildly, and began to rock to and fro, tearing at her clothing like a mad thing until she was bare to the waist, her unbound hair flying from side to side. Before that dreadful uncontrolled passion the watchers recoiled a step; some turned away or hid their faces in their hands, and one or two even started towards her but were pulled back by their mates. Then she was on her feet, facing them, shaking her little fists and screaming her hatred.

"Scum! Vermin! Lice! Butchers! Coward sons of dishonoured mothers! A hundred thousand of you against one—you gallant champions of the Punjab, you wondrous heroes of the Khalsa, you noseless bastard offspring of owls and swine who boast of your triumphs against the Afghans and the prowess you'll show against the British! You, who would run in terror from one English camp sweeper and a Kabuli whore! Oh, you have the courage of a pack of pi-dogs, to set on a poor soul unarmed—aiee, my brother, my brother, my Jawaheer, my prince!" From raging she was sobbing again, rocking from side to side, trailing her long hair across the body, then stooping to cradle the horrid thing against her breast while she wailed on a tremulous high note that slowly died away. They watched her, some grim, some impassive, but most` shocked and dismayed at the violence of her grief.

Then she laid down the body, picked up a fallen tulwar from beside it, rose to her feet, and began slowly to pace to and fro before them, her head turned to watch their faces. It was a sight to shiver your spine: that small, graceful figure, her white sari in rags about her hips, her bare arms and breasts painted with her brother's blood, the naked sword in her hand. She looked like some avenging Fury from legend as she threw back her hair with a toss of her head and her glare travelled along that silent circle of faces. A stirring sight, if you know what I mean—there's a picture I once saw that could have been drawn from her: Clytemnestra after Agamemnon's death, cold steel and brazen boobies and bedamned to you. Suddenly she stopped by the body, facing them, and her voice was hard and clear and cold as ice as she passed her free hand slowly over her breasts and throat and face.

"For every drop of this blood, you will give a million. You, the Khalsa, the pure ones. Pure as pig dung, brave as mice, honoured as the panders of the bazaar, fit only for —" I shan't tell you what they were fit for, but it sounded all the more obscene for being spoken without a trace of anger. And they shrank from it—oh, there were angry scowls and clenched fists here and there, but the mass of them could only stare like rabbits before a snake. I've seen women, royal mostly, who could cow strong men: Ranavalona with her basilisk stare, or Irma (my second wife, you know, the Grand Duchess) with her imperious blue eye; Lakshmibai of Jhansi could have frozen the Khalsa in its tracks with a lift of her pretty chin. Each in her own way—Jeendan did it by shocking 'em out of their senses, flaunting her body while she lashed them quietly with the language of the gutter. At last one of them could take no more of it—an old white-bearded Sikh flung down his torch and cries:

"No! No! It was no murder—it was the will of God!"

Some murmured in support of him, others cried him down, and she waited until they were silent again.

"The will of God. Is that your excuse … you will blaspheme, and hide behind God's will? Then hear mine—the will of your Maharani, mother of your king!" She paused, looking from one side to the other of the silent crowd. "You will give me the murderers, so that they may pay. You will give them to me, or by that God with whose will you make so free, I shall throw the snake in your bosom!"

She struck the tulwar into the earth on the last word, turned her back on them and walked quickly towards the tents—Clytemnestra as ever was. With this difference, that where Mrs Agamemnon had committed one murder, she was contemplating a hundred thousand. As she passed into her tent the light from within fell full on her face, and (here wasn't a trace of grief or anger. She was smiling.²⁴

If there was one thing worse than Jawaheer's murder it was his funeral, when his wives and slave-girls were roasted alive along with his corpse, according to custom. Like much beastliness in the world, suttee is inspired by religion, which means there's no sense or reason to it—I've yet to meet an Indian who could tell me why it's done, even, except that it's a hallowed ritual, like posting a sentry to mind the Duke of Wellington's horse fifty years after the old fellow had kicked the bucket. That, at least, was honest incompetence; if you want my opinion of widow-burning, the main reason for it is that it provides the sort of show the mob revels in, especially if the victims are young and personable, as they were in Jawaheer's case. I wouldn't have missed it myself, for it's a fascinating horror—and I noticed, in my years in India, that the breast-beating Christians who denounced it were always first at the ringside.

No, my objection to it is on practical, not moral grounds; it's a shameful waste of good womanhood, and all the worse because the stupid bitches are all for it. They've been brought up to believe it's meet and right to be broiled along with the head of the house, you see—why, Alick Gardner told me of one funeral in Lahore where some poor little lass of nine was excused burning as being too young, and the silly chit threw herself off a high building. They burned her corpse anyway. That's what comes of religion and keeping women in ignorance. The most educated (and devout) Indian female I ever knew, Rani Lakshmibai, thought suttee beneath contempt; when I asked her why, as a widow, she hadn't hopped on the old man's pyre herself, she looked at me in disbelief and asked: "Do you think I'm a fool?"

She wasn't, but her Punjabi sisters knew no better.

Jawaheer's body was brought, in several pieces, to the city on the day after his death, and the procession to the ground of cremation took place under a red evening sky, before an enormous throng, with little Dalip and Jeendan and most of the nobility prostrating themselves before the suttees—two wives, stately handsome girls, and three Kashmiri slaves, the prettiest wenches ever you saw, all in their best finery with jewelled studs in their ears and noses and gold embroidery on their silk trousers. I ain't a soft man, but it would have broken your heart to see those five little beauties, who were made for fun and love and laughter, walking to the pyre like guardsmen, heads up and not a blink of fear, serenely scattering money to the crowd, according to custom—and you wouldn't credit it, those unutterable bastards of Sikh soldiers who were meant to be guarding 'em, absolutely tore the money from their hands, and yelled taunts and insults at them when they tried to protest. Even when they got to the pyre, those swine were tearing their jewels and ornaments from them, and when the fire was lit one villain reached through the smoke and tore the gold fringe from one of the slaves' trousers—and these, according to their religion, were meant to be sacred women.

There were groans from the crowd, but no one dared do anything against the all-powerful military—and then an astounding thing happened. One of the wives stood up among the flames, and began to curse them. I can see her still, a tall lovely girl all in white and gold, blood on her face where her nose-stud had been ripped away, one hand gripping her head-veil beneath her chin, the other raised as she damned 'em root and branch, foretelling that the race of Sikhs would be overthrown within the year, their women widowed, and their land conquered and laid waste—and suttees, you know, are supposed to have the gift of prophecy. One of the spoilers jumped on the pyre and swung his musket butt at her, and she fell back into the fire where the--four others were sitting calmly as the flames rose and crackled about them. None of them made a sound.²⁵

I saw all this from the wall, the black smoke billowing up to mingle with the low clouds under the crimson dusk, and came away in such a boiling rage as I never felt on behalf of anyone except myself. Aye, thinks I, let there be a war (but keep me out of it) so that we can stamp these foul woman-butchers flat, and put an end to their abominations. I guess I'm like Alick Gardner: I can't abide wan-ton cruelty to good-looking women. Not by other folk, anyway.

That brave lass's malediction filled the crowd with superstitious awe, but it had an even more important effect—it put the fear of God into the Khalsa, and that shaped their fate at a critical time. For after Jawaheer's death they were in a great state of uncertainty and division, with the hotheads clamouring for an immediate war against us, and the more loyal element, who'd been dismayed by Jeendan's harangue at Maian Mir, insisting that nothing could be done until they'd made their peace with her, the regent of their lawful king. The trouble was, making peace meant surrendering those who'd plotted the murder of Jawaheer, and they were a powerful clique. So the debate raged among them, and meanwhile Jeendan played her hand to admiration, refusing even to acknowledge the Khalsa's existence, going daily to weep at Jawaheer's tomb, heavily veiled and bowed with grief, and winning the admiration of all for her piety; the rumour ran that she'd even sworn off drink and fornication—a portent that reduced the Khalsa to a state of stricken wonder by all accounts.

In the end they gave in, and in response to their appeals for audience she summoned them not to durbar but to the yard under the Summum Boorj, receiving them in cold silence while she sat veiled and swathed in her mourning weeds, and Dinanath announced her terms. These sounded impressively severe—total submission to her will, and instant delivery of the murderers—but were in fact part of an elaborate farce stage-managed by Mangla. She and Lal Singh and a few other courtiers had been taken prisoner by the Khalsa at the time of the murder, but released soon after, since when they'd been politicking furiously with Dinanath and the panches, arranging a compromise.

It amounted to this: the Khalsa grovelled to Jeendan, gave up a few token prisoners, and promised to deliver Pirthee Singh and the other leading plotters (who had already decamped to the hills, by previous arrangement) as soon as they were caught. In the meantime, would she please forgive her loyal Khalsa, since they were showing willing, and consider making war on the damned British in the near future? For their part, they swore undying loyalty to her as Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs. To this she replied through Dinanath that while it was hardly good enough, she was graciously pleased to accept their submission, and hand back the token prisoners as a liberal gesture. (Sensation and loyal cheers.) They must now give her a little time to complete her mourning and recover from the grievous shock of her brother's death; thereafter she would receive them in full durbar to discuss such questions as making war and appointing a new Wazir.

It was the kind of face-saving settlement that's arranged daily at Westminster and in parish councils, and no one's fooled except the public—and not all of them, either.

You may ask, where was Flashy during all these stirring events? To which the answer is that, having mastered an impulse to steal a horse and ride like hell for the Sutlej, I was well in the background, doing what I'd ostensibly come to Lahore for—namely, negotiate about the Soochet legacy. This entailed sitting in a pleasant, airy chamber for several hours a day, listening to interminable submissions from venerable government officials who cited precedents from Punjabi and British law, the Bible, the Koran, The Times, and the Bombay Gazette. They were the most tireless old bores you ever struck, red herring worshippers to a man, asking nothing from me beyond an occasional nod and an instruction to my babu to make a note of that point. That kept 'em happy, and was good for another hour's prose—none of which advanced the cause one iota, but since the Punjabi taxpayers were stumping up their salaries, and I was content to sit under the punkah sipping brandy and soda, all was for the best in the best of all possible civil services. We could have been there yet—my God, they probably are.

I was busy enough in my spare time, though, chiefly writing cypher reports for Broadfoot and committing them to Second Thessalonians, from which they vanished with mysterious speed. I still couldn't figure who the post-man (or postmistress) was, but it was a most efficient service to Simla and back; within a week of my writing off about Jassa a note turned up in my Bible saying, among other things: "Number 2 A2", which meant that, notwithstanding his colourful past, my orderly was trustworthy to the second degree, which meant only a step below Broad-foot and his Assistants, including myself. I didn't tell Jassa this, but contrived a quick word with Gardner to give him the glad tidings. He grunted: "Broadfoot must be sicker than I thought," and passed on, the surly brute.

For the rest, Broadfoot's communication amounted to little more than "Carry on, Flash". The official news from British India, through the vakil, was that Calcutta deplored the untimely death of Wazir Jawaheer and trusted that his successor would have better luck—that was the sense of it, along with a pious hope that the Punjab would now settle down to a period of tranquillity under Maharaja Dalip, the only ruler whom the British power was prepared to recognise. The message was clear: murder each other as often as you please, but any attempt to depose Dalip and we shall be among you, horse, foot and guns.

So there it was, status quo, the question of the hour being, would Jeendan, for her own and Dalip's safety, give way before the Khalsa's demand for war, and turn 'em loose over the Sutlej? I couldn't for the life of me see why she should, in spite of her half-promise to them; she seemed to be able to deal with them as her brother had failed to do, dividing and ruling and keeping them guessing; if she could hold the rein on them while she tightened her grip on the government of the country, I couldn't see how war would be in her interest.

Time would tell; a more pressing matter began to vex me as the first week lengthened into the second. Lal Singh had assured me that Jeendan was anxious to know me better, politically and personally, but devil a sign of it had there been for almost a fortnight, and I was champing at the bit. As the horrors of those first two days receded, the pleasures became more vivid, and I was plagued by fond memories of that painted little trollop writhing against me in the durbar room, and strutting wantonly before her troops at Maian Mir. Quite fetching, those recollections were, and bred a passion which I knew from experience could be satisfied by the lady herself and no other. I'm a faithful soul, you see, in my fashion, and when a new bundle takes my fancy more than ordinary, as about a score have done over the years, I become quite devoted for a spell. Oh, I'd done the polite by Mangla (and repeated the treatment when she called clandestine three nights later) but that was journeyman work which did nothing to quench my romantic lust to put Jeendan over the jumps again, and the sooner the better.

I can't account for these occasional infatuations, but then neither can the poets—uncommon randy, those versifiers. In my own case, though, I have to own that I've been particularly susceptible to crowned heads—empres- ses and queens and grand duchesses and so forth, of whom I've encountered more than a few. I dare say the trappings and luxury had something to do with it, and the know-ledge that the treasury would pick up any bills that were going, but that ain't the whole story, I'm sure. If I were a German philosopher, I'd no doubt reflect on Superman's subjection of the Ultimate Embodiment of the Female, but since I ain't I can only conclude that I'm a galloping snob. At all events, there's a special satisfaction to rattling royalty, I can tell you, and when they have Jeendan's training and inclinations it only adds to the fun.

Like most busy royal women, she had the habit of mixing sport with politics, and contrived our next encounter so that it dealt with both, on the day of her emergence from mourning for her eagerly-awaited durbar with the Khalsa panches. I'd tiffened in my quarters, and was preparing for an afternoon's drowse with the Soochet-wallahs when Mangla arrived unannounced; at first I sup-posed she'd looked in for another quarter-staff bout, but she explained that I was summoned to royal audience, and must follow quietly and ask no questions. Nothing loth, I let her conduct me, and had quite a let-down when she ushered me into a nursery where little Dalip, attended by a couple of nurses, was wreaking carnage with his toy soldiers. He jumped up, beaming, at the sight of me, and then stopped short to compose himself before advancing, bowing solemnly, and holding out his hand.

"I have to thank you, Flashman bahadur, says he, "for your care of me … that … that afternoon …" Suddenly he began to weep, head lowered, and then stamped and dashed his tears away angrily. "I have to thank you for your care of me …" he began, gulping, and looked at Mangla.

"… and for the great service …," she prompted him.

.. and for the great service you rendered to me and my country!" He choked it out pretty well, head up and lip trembling. "We are forever in your debt. Salaam, bahadur.

I shook his hand and said I was happy to be of service, and he nodded gravely, glanced sidelong at the women, and murmured: "I was so frightened."

"Well, you didn't look it, maharaj'," says I—which was the honest truth. "I was frightened, too."

"Not you?" cries he, shocked. "You are a soldier!"

"The soldier who is never frightened is only half a soldier," says I. "And d'ye know who told me that? The greatest soldier in the world. His name's Wellington; you'll hear about him some day."

He shook his head in wonder at this, and deciding but-ter wouldn't hurt I asked if I might be shown his toys. He squeaked with delight, but Mangla said it must be another time, as I had important affairs to attend to. He kicked over his castle and pouted, but as I was salaaming my way out he did the strangest thing, running to me and hugging me round the neck before trotting back to his nurses with a little wave of farewell. Mangla gave me an odd look as she closed the door behind us, and asked if I had children of my own; I said I hadn't.

"I think you have now," says she.

I'd supposed that was the end of the audience, but now she conducted me through that labyrinth of palace pass-ages until I was quite lost, and from her haste and the stealthy way she paused at corners for a look-see, I thought, aha, we're bound for some secret nook where she means to have her wicked will of me. Watching her neat little bottom bobbing along in front of me, I didn't mind a bit—tho' I'd rather it had been Jeendan—and when she ushered me into a pretty boudoir, all hung in rose silk and containing a large divan, I lost no time in seizing her opportunities; she clung for a moment, and then slipped away, cautioning me to wait. She drew the curtain from a small alcove, pressed a spring, and a panel slid noiselessly back to reveal a narrow stairway leading down. Sounds of distant voices came from somewhere below. Having had experience of their architecture, I hesitated, but she drew me towards it with a finger to her lips.

"We must make no sound," she breathed. "The Maharani is holding durbar."

"Capital," says I, kneading her stern with both hands. "Let's have a durbar ourselves, shall we?"

"Not now!" whispers she, trying to wriggle free. "Ah, no! It is by her command … you are to watch and listen … no, please! … they must not hear us … follow me close … and make no noise …" Well, she was at a splendid disadvantage, so I held her fast and played with her for a moment or two, until she began to tremble and bite her lip, moaning softly for me to leave off or we'd be overheard, and when I had her nicely on the boil and fit to dislocate herself—why, I let her go, reminding her that we must be quiet as mice. I'll learn 'em to lure me into boudoirs on false pretences. She gulped her breath back, gave me a look that would have splintered glass, and led the way cautiously down.

It was a dim, steep spiral, thickly carpeted against sound, and as we descended the murmur of voices grew ever louder; it sounded like a meeting before the chair-man brings 'em to order. At the stair foot was a small landing, and in the wall ahead an aperture like a horizontal arrow-slit, very narrow on our side but widening to the far side of the wall so that it gave a full view of the room beyond.

We were looking down on the durbar room, at a point directly above the purdah curtain which enclosed one end of it. To the right, in the body of the room before the empty throne and dais, was a great, jostling throng of men, hundreds strong—the panches of the Khalsa, much as I'd seen them that first day at Maian Mir, soldiers of every rank and regiment, from officers in brocaded coats and aigretted turbans to barefoot jawans; even in our eyrie we could feel the heat and impatience of the close-packed throng as they pushed and craned and muttered to each other. Half a dozen of their spokesmen stood to the fore: Maka Khan, the imposing old general who'd harangued them at Maian Mir; the burly Imam Shah, who'd described Peshora's death; my rissaldar- .major of the heroic whiskers, and a couple of tall young Sikhs whom I didn't recognise. Maka Khan was holding forth in a loud, irritated way; I suppose you feel a bit of an ass, addressing two hundred square feet of embroidery.

To our left, hidden from their view by the great curtain, and paying no heed at all to Maka Khan's oratory, the Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs was making up for her recent enforced abstinence from drink and frivolity. For two weeks she'd been appearing in public sober, grief-stricken, and swathed in mourning apparel; now she was enjoying a leisurely toilet, lounging goblet in hand against a table loaded with cosmetics and fripperies, while her maids fluttered silently about her, putting the finishing touches to an appearance plainly calculated to enthrall her audience when she emerged. Watching her drain her cup and have it refilled, I wondered if she'd be sober enough; if she wasn't, the Khalsa would miss a rare treat.

From mourning she had gone to the other extreme, and was decked out in a dancing-girl's costume which, in any civilised society, would have led to her arrest for breach of the peace. Not that it was unduly scanty: her red silk trousers, fringed with silver lace, covered her from hip to ankle, and her gold weskit was modestly opaque, but since both garments had evidently been designed for a well-grown dwarf I could only wonder how she'd been squeezed into them without bursting the seams. For the rest she wore a head veil secured by a silver circlet above her brows, and a profusion of rings and wrist-bangles; the lovely, sullen face was touched with rouge and kohl, and one of her maids was painting her lips with vermilion while another held a mirror and two more were gilding her finger and toe nails.

They were all intent as artists at a canvas, Jeendan pouting critically at the mirror and directing the maid to touch up the corner of her mouth; then they all stood back to admire the result before making another titivation—and beyond the purdah her army coughed and shuffled and waited and Maka Khan ploughed on.

"Three divisions have declared for Goolab Singh as Wazir," cries he. "Court's, Avitabile's, and the Povinda. They wish the durbar to summon him from Kashmir with all speed."

Jeendan continued to study her mouth in the mirror, opening and closing her lips; satisfied, she drank again, and without looking aside gestured to her chief maid, who called out: "What say the other divisions of the Khalsa?"

Maka Khan hesitated. "They are undecided …"

"Not about Goolab Singh!" shouts the rissaldar-major. "We'll have no rebel as Wazir, and the devil with Court's and the Povinda!" There was a roar of agreement, and Maka Khan tried to make himself heard. Jeendan took another pull at her goblet before whispering to the chief maid, who called: "There is no majority, then, for Goolab Singh?"

A great bellow of "No!" and "Raja Goolab!" with the leaders trying to quiet them; one of the young Sikh spokesmen shouted that his division would accept whoever the Maharani chose, which was greeted with cheering and a few groans, to the amusement of Jeendan and the delight of the maids, who were now holding up three long pier-glasses so that she might survey herself from all sides. She turned and posed, emptied her cup, pulled her trouser waist lower on her stomach, winked at her chief maid, then raised a finger as Maka Khan shouted hoarsely:

"We can do nothing until the kunwari speaks her mind! Will she have Goolab Singh or no?"

There was a hush at that, and Jeendan whispered to the chief maid, who stifled a fit of the giggles and called back:

"The Maharani is only a woman, and can't make up her mind. How is she to choose, when the great Khalsa cannot?"

That sent them into noisy confusion, and the maids into stitches. One of them was bringing something from the table on a little velvet cushion, and to my astonishment I saw it was the great Koh-i-Noor stone which I'd last seen streaked with blood in Dalip's hand. Jeendan took it, smiling a question at her maids, and the wicked sluts all nodded eagerly and clustered round as the Khalsa fumed and bickered beyond the curtain and one of the young Sikhs shouted:

"We have asked her to choose! Some say she favours Lal Singh!" A chorus of groans. "Let her come out to us and speak her mind!"

"It is not seemly that her majesty should come out!" cries the chief maid. "She is not prepared!" This while her majesty, with the diamond now in place, was flexing her stomach to make it twinkle, and her maids hugged themselves, giggling, and egged her on. "It is shameful to ask her to break her purdah in durbar. Where is your respect for her, to whom you swore obedience?"

At this there was a greater uproar than ever, some crying that her wish was their command and she should stay where she was, others that they'd seen her before and no harm done. The older men scowled and shook their heads, but the youngsters fairly bayed for her to come out, one bold spirit even demanding that she dance for them as she had done in the past; someone started up a song about a Kashmiri girl who fluttered her trouser fringes and shook the world thereby, and then from the back of the room they began to chant "Jeendan! Jeendan!" The conservatives swore in protest at this indecent levity, and a big lean Akali with eyes like coals and hair hanging to his waist burst out of the front rank yelling that they were a pack of whore-mongers and loose-livers who had been seduced by her wiles, and that the Children of God the Immortal (meaning his own set of fanatics) would stand no more of it.

"Aye, let her come out!" bawls he. "Let her come humbly, as befits a woman, and let her forswear her scandalous life that is a byword in the land, and appoint a Wazir of our approving—such a one as will lead us to glory against the foreigners, Afghan and English alike …"

The rest was lost in pandemonium, some howling him down, others taking up his cry for war, Maka Khan and the spokesmen helpless before the storm of noise. The Akali, frothing at the mouth, leaped on to the front of the dais, raving at them that they were fools if they gave obedience to a woman, and a loose woman at that; let her take a suitable husband and leave men's affairs to men, as was fitting and decent—and behind the purdah Jeendan nodded to her chief maid, draped a silver scarf over one arm, took a last look at her reflection, and walked quickly and fairly steadily round the end of the curtain.

Speaking professionally, I'd say she wasn't more than half-soused, but drunk or sober, she knew her business. She didn't sidle or saunter or play any courtesan tricks, but walked a few paces and stopped, looking at the Akali. There had been a startled gasp from the mob at her appearance—well, dammit, she might as well have been stark naked, painted scarlet from the hips down and gilded across her top hamper. There was dead silence—and then the Akali stepped down from the dais like an automaton, and without another glance she continued to the throne, seated herself without haste, arranged her scarf just so on the arm-rest to cushion her elbow, leaned back comfortably with a finger to her cheek, and surveyed the gathering with a cool little smile.

"Here are many questions to be considered at once." Her voice was slightly slurred, but carried clearly enough. "Which will you take first, general?" She spoke past the Akali, who was glaring from side to side in uncertainty, and Maka Khan, looking as though he wished she'd stayed out of sight, drew himself up and bowed.

"It is said, kunwari, that you would make Lal Singh Wazir. Some hold that he is no fit man —"

"But others have bound themselves to accept my choice," she reminded him. "Very well, it is Lal Singh." This brought the Akali to life again, an arm flung out in denunciation. "Your bed-man!" he bawled. "Your paramour! Your male whore!"

There was a yell of rage at this, and some started forward to fall on him, but she checked them with a raised finger and answered the Akali directly, in the same calm voice.

"You would prefer a Wazir who has not been my bed-man? Then you can't have Goolab Singh, for one. But if you wish to nominate yourself, Akali, I'll vouch for you."

There was a moment's stunned hush, followed by scandalised gasps—and then a huge bellow of laughter echoing through the great room. Insults and obscene jests were showered on the Akali, who stood mouthing and shaking his fists, the rowdies at the back began to stamp and cheer, Maka Khan and the seniors stood like men poleaxed, and then as the tumult grew the old soldier roused himself and thrust past the Akali to the foot of the dais. In spite of the din, every word reached us through that cunningly-designed spy-hole.

"Kunwari, this is not seemly! It is to shame … to shame the durbar! I beg you to withdraw … it can wait till another day …"

"You didn't bid that thing withdraw, when he brayed his spite against me," says she, indicating the Akali, and as it was seen that she was speaking, the noise died on the instant. "What are you afraid of—the truth that everyone knows? Why, Maka Khan, what an old hypocrite you are!" She was laughing at him. "Your soldiers are not children. Are you?" She raised her voice, and of course the mob roared "No!" with a vengeance, applauding her.

"So let him have his say." She flirted a hand at the Akali. "Then I shall have mine."

Maka Khan was staring in dismay, but with the others shouting at him to give way, he could only fall back, and she turned her painted smile on the Akali. "You rebuke me for my lovers—my male whores, you call them. Very well …" She looked beyond him, and the thick heavy voice was raised again. "Let every man who has never visited a brothel step forward!"

I was lost in admiration. The most beardless innocent there wasn't going to confess his unworldliness to his mates—and certainly not with that mocking Jezebel watching. Even Tom Brown would have hesitated before stepping forth for the honour of the old School-house. The Akali, who hadn't the advantage of Arnold's Christian instruction, was simply too dumbfounded to stir. She timed it well, though, looking him up and down in affected wonder before he'd collected his wits, and drawling:

"There he stands, rooted as the Hindoo Kush! Well, at least he is honest, this wayward Child of God the Immortal. But not, I think, in a position to rebuke my frailty."

That was the moment when she put them in her pocket. If the laughter had been loud before, now it was thunderous—even Maka Khan's lips twitched, and the rissaldar-major fairly stamped with delight and joined in the chorus of abuse at the Akali. All he could do was rage at her, calling her shameless and wanton, and drawing attention to her appearance, which he likened to that of a harlot plying for hire—he was a braver man than I'd have been, with those fine eyes regarding him impassively out of that cruel mask of a face. I remembered the story of the Brahmin whose nose had been sliced off because he'd rebuked her conduct; looking at her, I didn't doubt it.

The Akalis are a privileged sect, to be sure, and no doubt he counted on that. "Get you gone!" he bawled. "You are not decent! It offends the eye to look at you!"

"Then turn your eyes away … while you still have them," says she, and as he fell back a pace, silenced, she rose, keeping a firm grip of the throne to steady herself, and stood straight, posing to let them have a good view. "In my private place, I dress as you see me, to please myself. I would not have come out, but you called me. If the sight of me displeases you, say so, and I shall retire."

That had them roaring for her to stay, absolutely, which was just as well, for without the throne to cling to I believe she'd have measured her length on the floor. She swayed dangerously, but managed to resume her seat with dignity, and as some of the younger men startled to hustle the Akali away, she stopped them.

"A moment. You spoke of a suitable husband for me … have you one in mind?"

The Akali was game. He flung off the hands pulling at him and growled: "Since you cannot do without a man, choose one—only let him be a sirdar,*(*Chief.) or a wise man, or a Child of God the Immortal!"

"An Akali?" She stared in affected astonishment, then clapped her hands. "You are making me a proposal! Oh, but I am confused … it is not fitting, in open durbar, to a poor widow woman!" She turned her head bashfully aside, and of course the mob crowed with delight. "Ah, but no, Akali … I cannot deliver my innocence to one who admits openly that he frequents brothels and chases the barber's little girls. Why, I should never know where you were! But I thank you for your gallantry." She gave him a little ironic how, and her smile would have chilled Medusa. "So, you may keep your sheep's eyes … this time."

He was glad to escape into the jeering crowd, and having entertained them by playing the flirt, the fool, and the tyrant in short order, she waited till they were attentive again, and gave them her Speech from the Throne, taking care not to stutter.

"Some of you call for Goolab Singh as Wazir. Well, I'll not have him, and I'll tell you why. Oh, I could laugh him out of your esteem by saying that if he is as good a states-man as he was a lover, you'd be better with Balloo the Clown." The young ones cheered and guffawed, while the older men scowled and looked aside. "But it would not be true. Goolab is a good soldier, strong, brave, and cunning—too cunning, for he corresponds with the British. I can show you letters if you wish, but it is well known. Is that the man you want—a traitor who'll sell you to the Malki lat in return for the lordship of Kashmir? Is that the man to lead you over the Sutlej?"

That touched the chord they all wanted to hear, and they roared "Khalsa-ji!" and "Wa Guru-ji ko Futteh!", clamouring to know when they'd be ordered to march.

"All in good time," she assured them. "Let me finish with Goolab. I have told you why he is not the man for you. Now I'll tell you why he is not the man for me. He is ambitious. Make him Wazir, make him commander of the Khalsa, and he'll not rest until he has thrust me aside and mounted to my son's throne. Well, let me tell you, I enjoy my power too much ever to let that happen. She was sitting back at ease, confident, smiling a little as she surveyed them. "It will never happen with Lal Singh, because I hold him here …" She lifted one small hand, palm upwards, and closed it into a fist. "He is not present today, by my order, but you may tell him what I say, if you wish … and if you think it wise. You see, I am honest with you. I choose Lal Singh because I will have my way, and at my bidding he will lead you …" She paused for effect, sitting erect now, head high, "… wherever it pleases me to send you!"

That meant only one thing to them, and there was bedlam again, with the whole assembly roaring "Khalsa-ji!" and "Jeendan!" as they crowded forward to the edge of the dais, bearing the spokesmen in front of them, shaking the roof with their cheers and applause—and I thought, bigod, I'm seeing something new. A woman as brazen as she looks, with the courage to proclaim absolutely what she is, and what she thinks, bragging her lust of pleasure and power and ambition, and let 'em make of it what they will. No excuses or politician's fair words, but simple, arrogant admission: I'm a selfish, immoral bitch out to serve my own ends, and I don't care who knows it—and because I say it plain, you'll worship me for it.

And they did. Mind you, if she hadn't promised them war, it might have been another story, but she had, and she'd done it in style. She knew men, you see, and was well aware that for every one who shrank from her in disgust and anger and even hatred at the shame she put on them, there were ten to acclaim and admire and tell each other what a hell of a girl she was, and lust after her—that was her secret. Strong, clever women use their sex on men in a hundred ways; Jeendan used hers to appeal to the dark side of their natures, and bring out the worst in them. Which, of course, is what you must do with an army, once you've gauged its temper. She knew the Khalsa's temper to an inch, and how to shock it, flirt with it, frighten it, make love to it, and dominate it, all to one end: by the time she'd done with 'em, you see … they trusted her.

I saw it happen, and if you want confirmation, you'll find it in Broadfoot's reports, and Nicolson's, and all the others which tell of Lahore in '45. You won't find them approving her, mind you—except Gardner, for whom she could do no wrong—but you'll get a true picture of an extraordinary woman.²⁶

Order was restored at last, and their distrust of Lal Singh was forgotten in the assurance that she would be leading them; there was only one question that mattered, and Maka Khan voiced it.

"When, kunwari? When shall we march on India?" "When you are ready," says she. "After the Dasahra."*(*The ten-day festival in October after which the Sikhs were accustomed to set out on expeditions.)

There were groans of dismay, and shouts that they were ready now, which she silenced with questions of her own.

"You are ready? How many rounds a man has the Povinda division? What remounts are there for the gorracharra? How much forage for the artillery teams? You don't know? I'll tell you: ten rounds, no remounts, forage for five days." Alick Gardner's been priming you, thinks I. It silenced them, though, and she went on:

"You won't go far beyond the Sutlej on that, much less beat the Sirkar's army. We must have time, and money—and you have eaten the Treasury bare, my hungry Khalsa." She smiled to soften the rebuke. "So for a season you must disperse the divisions about the country, and live on what you can get—nay, it will be good practice against the day when you come to Delhi and the fat lands to the south!"

That cheered them up—she was telling them to loot their own countryside, you'll notice, which they'd been doing for six years. Meanwhile, she and their new Wazir would see to it that arms and stores were ready in abundance for the great day. Only a few of the older hands expressed doubts.

"But if we disperse, kunwari, we leave the country open to attack," says the burly Imam Shah. "The British can make a chapao*(*Sudden attack.) and be in Lahore while we are scattered!"

"The British will not move," says she confidently. "Rather, when they see the great Khalsa disperse, they will thank God and stand down, as they always do. Is it not so, Maka Khan?"

The old boy looked doubtful. "Indeed, kunwari—yet they are not fools. They have their spies among us. There is one at your court now …" He hesitated, not meeting her eye. "… this Iflassman of the Sirkar's Army, who hides behind a fool's errand when all the world knows he is the right hand of the Black-coated Infidel.*(*The Afghan nickname for George Broadfoot.) What if he should learn what passes here today? What if there is a traitor among us to inform him?"

"Among the Khalsa?" She was scornful. "You do your comrades little honour, general. As to this Englishman .. he learns what I wish him to learn, no more and no less. It will not disturb his masters."

She had a way with a drawled line, and the lewd brutes went into ribald guffaws—it's damnable, the way gossip gets about. But it was eerie to hear her talk as though I were miles away, when she knew I was listening to every word. Well, no doubt I'd discover eventually what she was about—I glanced at Mangla, who smiled mysteriously and motioned me to silence, so I must sit and speculate as that remarkable durbar drew to a close with renewed cheers of loyal acclaim and enthusiastic promises of what they'd do to John Company when the time came. Thereafter they all trooped out in high good humour, with a last rouse for the small red and gold figure left in solitary state on her throne, toying with her silver scarf.

Mangla led me aloft again to the rose-pink boudoir, leaving the sliding panel ajar, and busied herself pouring wine into a beaker that must have held near a quart—anticipating her mistress's needs, you see. Sure enough, a stumbling step and muttered curse on the stair heralded the appearance of the Mother of All Sikhs, looking obscenely beautiful and gasping for refreshment; she drained the cup without even sitting down, gave a sigh that shuddered her delightfully from head to foot, and subsided gratefully on the divan.

"Fill it again … another moment and I should have died! Oh, how they stank!" She drank greedily. "Was it well done, Mangla?"

"Well indeed, kunwari. They are yours, every man." "Aye, for the moment. My tongue didn't trip? You're sure? My feet did, though …" She giggled and sipped. "I know, I drink too much—but could I have faced them sober? D'you think they noticed?"

"They noticed what you meant them to notice," says Mangla dryly.

"Baggage! It's true enough, though … Men!" She gave her husky laugh, raised a shimmering leg and admired its shapeliness complacently. "Even that beast of an Akali couldn't stare hard enough … heaven help some wench tonight when he vents his piety on her. Wasn't he a godsend, though? I should be grateful to him. I wonder if he …" She chuckled, drank again, and seemed to see me for the first time. "Did our tall visitor hear it all?"

"Every word, kunwari."

"And he was properly attentive? Good." She eyed me over the rim of her cup, set it aside, and stretched luxuriously like a cat, watching me to gauge the effect of all that goodness trying to burst out of the tight silk; no modest violet she. My expression must have pleased her, for she laughed again. "Good. Then we'll have much to talk about, when I've washed away the memory of those sweaty warriors of mine. You look warm, too, my Englishman … show him where to bathe, Mangla—and keep your hands off him, d'you hear?"

"Why, kunwari!"

"`Why kunwari' indeed! Here, unbutton my waist." She laughed and hiccoughed, glancing over her shoulder as Mangla unfastened her at the back. "She's a lecherous slut, our Mangla. Aren't you, my dear? Lonely, too, now that Jawaheer's gone—not that she ever cared two pice for him." She gave me her Delilah smile. "Did you enjoy her, Englishman? She enjoyed you. Well, let me tell you, she is thirty-one, the old trollop—five years my senior and twice as old in sin, so beware of her."

She reached for her cup again, knocked it over, splashed wine across her midriff, cursed fluently, and pulled the diamond from her navel. "Here, Mangla, take this. He doesn't like it, and he'll never learn the trick." She rose, none too steadily, and waved Mangla impatiently away. "Go on, woman—show him where to bathe, and set out the oil, and then take yourself off! And don't forget to tell Rai and the Python to be within call, in case I need them."

I wondered, as I had a hasty wash-down in a tiny chamber off the boudoir, if I'd ever met such a blatant strumpet in my life—well, Ranavalona, of course, but you don't expect coy flirtation from a female ape. Montez hadn't been one to stand on ceremony either, crying "On guard!" and brandishing her hairbrush, and Mrs Leo Lade could rip the britches off you with a sidelong glance, but neither had paraded their dark desires as openly as this tipsy little houri. Still, one must conform to the etiquette of the country, so I dried myself with feverish speed and strode forth as nature intended, eager to ambush her as she emerged from her bathroom—and she was there ahead of me.

She was half-reclining on a broad silken quilt on the floor, clad in her head-veil and bangles—and I'd been looking forward to easing her out of those pants, too. She was fortifying herself with her wine cup, as usual, and it struck me that unless I went to work without delay she'd be too foxed to perform. But she could still speak and see, at least, for she surveyed me with glassy-eyed approval, licked her lips, and says:

"You're impatient, I see…. No, wait, let me look at you … Mm-m … Now, come here and lie down beside me … and wait. I said we should talk, remember. There are things you must know, so that you can speak my mind to Broadfoot sahib and the Malki lat." Another sip of puggle and a drunken chuckle. "As you English say, business before pleasure."

I was boiling to contradict her by demonstration, but as I've observed, queens are different—and this one had told Mangla to have "Rai and the Python" standing by; they didn't sound like lady's maids, exactly. Also, if she had something for Hardinge, I must hear it. So I stretched out, nearly bursting at the prospect of the abundances thrusting at me within easy reach, and the wicked slut bobbed them with one hand while she poured tipple into herself with the other. Then she put down the cup, scooped her hand into a deep porcelain bowl of oil at her side, and kneeling forward above me, let it trickle on to my manly breast; then she began to rub it in ever so gently with her finger-tips, all over my torso, murmuring to me to lie still, while I gritted my teeth and clawed at the quilt, and tried to remember what an ablative absolute was—I had to humour her, you see, but with that painted harlot's face breathing warm booze at me, and those superb poonts quivering overhead with every teasing movement, and her fingers caressing … well, it was distracting, you know. To make things worse, she talked in that husky whisper, and I must try to pay attention.

Jeendan: This is what killed Runjeet Singh, did you know? It took a full bowl of oil … and then he died … smiling …

Flashy (a trifle hoarse): You don't say! Any last words, were there?

J: It was my duty to apply the oil while we discussed the business of the state. It relieved the tedium of affairs, he used to say, and reminded him that life is not all policy.

F (musing): No wonder the country went to rack and ruin … Ah, steady on! Oh, lor'! State business, eh? Well, well…

J: You find it … stimulating? It is a Persian custom, you know. Brides and grooms employ it on their wedding night, to dispel their shyness and enhance their enjoyment of each other.

F (through clenched teeth): It's a fact, you can always learn something new. Oh, Holy Moses! I say, don't you care for a spot of oil yourself … after your bath, I mean … mustn't catch COLD! I'd be glad to -

J: Presently . not yet. What splendid muscles you have, my Englishman.

F: Exercise and clean living—oh, God! See here, kunwari, I think that'll do me nicely, don't you know -

J: I can judge better than you. Now, be still, and listen. You heard all that passed at my durbar? So … you can assure Broadfoot sahib that all is well, that my brother's death is forgotten, and that I hold the Khalsa in the hollow of my hand … like this … no, no, be still—I was only teasing! Tell him also that I entertain the friendliest feelings towards the Sirkar, and there is nothing to fear. You understand?

F (whimpering): Absolutely. Speaking of friendly feelings -

J: A little more oil, I think … But you must warn him to withdraw no regiments from the Sutlej, is that clear? They must remain at full strength … like you, my mighty English elephant … There now, I have teased you long enough. You must be rewarded for your patience. (Leaves off and kneels back, reaching for drink.)

F: Not before time -

J (fending him off): No, no—it is your turn to take the oil! Not too much, and begin at my finger-tips, so … very gently … smooth it into my hands … good … now the wrists … You will inform Broadfoot sahib that the Khalsa will be dispersed until after the Dasahra, when I shall instruct the astrologers to choose a day for opening the war … now my elbows. But no day will be propitious for many weeks. I shall see to that . . now slowly up to the shoulders … softly, a little more oil … Yes, I shall know how to postpone and delay … so the Sirkar will have ample time to prepare for whatever may come … The shoulders, I said! Oh, well, you have been patient, so why not? More oil, on both hands … more . . ah, delicious! But gently, there is more news for Broadfoot sahib -

F (oiling furiously): Bugger Broadfoot!

J: Patience, beloved, you go too fast. Pleasure hasted is pleasure wasted, remember … Tell him Lal Singh and Tej Singh will command the Khalsa—are you listening? Lal and Tej—don't forget their names … There, now, all is told—so lie down again, elephant, and await your mahout's pleasure … so-o … oh, gods! Ah-h-h …! Wait, lie still—and observe this time-glass, which tells the quarter-hour … its sands must run out before yours, do you hear? So, now, slowly … you remember the names? Lal and Tej … Lal and Tej … Lal and …

Young chaps, who fancy themselves masterful, won't credit it, but these driving madames who insist on calling the tune can give you twice the sport of any submissive slave, if you handle them right. If they want to play the princess lording it over the poor peasant, let 'em; it puts them on their mettle, and saves you no end of hard work. I've known any number of the imperious bitches, and the secret is to let them set the pace, hold back until they've shot their bolt, and then give 'em more than they bargained for.

Knowing Jeendan's distempered appetite, I'd thought to be hard put to stay the course, but now that I was sober, which I hadn't been at our first encounter, it was as easy as falling off a log—which is what she did, if you follow me, after a mere five minutes, wailing with satisfaction. Well, I wasn't having that, so I picked her up and bulled her round the room until she hollered uncle. Then I let her have the minute between rounds, while I oiled her lovingly, and set about her again—turning the time-glass in the middle of it, and drawing her attention to the fact, although what with drink and ecstasy I doubt if she could even see it. She was whimpering to be let alone, so I finished the business leisurely as could be, and damned if she didn't faint—either that or it was the booze.

After a while she came to, calling weakly for a drink, so I fed her a few sips while I debated whether to give her a thrashing or sing her a lullaby—you must keep 'em guessing, you know. The first seemed inadvisable, so far from home, so I carried her to and fro humming "Rockabye, baby", and so help me she absolutely went to sleep, nestling against me. I laid her on the divan, thinking this'll give us time to restore our energies, and went into the wash-room to rid myself of the oil—I've known randy women have some odd tastes: birches, spurs, hair-brushes, peacock feathers, baths, handcuffs, God knows what, but Jeendan's the only grease-monkey I can recall.

I was scrubbing away, whistling "Drink, puppy, drink", when I heard a hand-bell tinkle in the boudoir. You'll have to wait a while, my dear, thinks I, but then I heard voices and realised she had summoned Mangla, and was giving instructions in a dreamy, exhausted whisper.

"You may dismiss Rai and the Python," murmurs she. "I shall have no need of them today … perhaps not tomorrow …"

I should think not, indeed. So I sang "Rule, Britannia".

If you consult the papers of Sir Henry Hardinge and Major Broadfoot for October, 1845 (not that I recommend them as light reading), you'll find three significant entries early in the month: Mai Jeendan's court moved to Amritsar, Hardinge left Calcutta for the Sutlej frontier, and Broadfoot had a medical examination and went on a tour of his agencies. In short, the three principals in the Punjab crisis took a breather—which meant no war that autumn. Good news for everyone except the dispersed Khalsa, moping in their outlying stations and spoiling for a fight.

My own immediate relief was physical. Jeendan's departure came in the nick of time for me, for one more amorous joust with her would have doubled me up for-ever. I've seldom known the like: you'd have thought, after the wild passage I've just described, that she'd have rested content for a spell, but no such thing. A couple of hours' sleep, a pint of spirits, and drum up the town bull again, was her style, and I doubt if I saw daylight for three days, as near as I could judge, for you tend to lose count of time, you know. We may well have set a record, but I didn't keep tally (some Yankee would be sure to claim best, anyway). All I'm sure of is that my weight went down below twelve and a half stone, and that ain't healthy for a chap my size. I was the one who needed medical inspection, I can tell you, never mind Broadfoot.

And on the fourth morning, when I was a mere husk of a man, wondering if there was a monastery handy, what d'you think she did? Absolutely had a chap in to paint my portrait. At first, when he dragged his easel and colours into the boudoir, and started waving his brush, I thought it was another of her depraved fancies, and she was going to have him sketch us performing at the gallop; the devil with this, thinks I, if I'm to be hung at the next Punjab Royal Academy it'll be with my britches on and my hair brushed. But it proved to be a pukka sitting, Flashy fully clad in romatic native garb like Lord Byron, looking noble with a hookah to hand and a bowl of fruit in the fore-ground, while Jeendan lounged at the artist's elbow, prompting, and Mangla made helpful remarks. Between the two of them he was in a fine sweat, but did a capital likeness of me in no time—it's in a Calcutta gallery now, I believe, entitled Company Officer in Seekh Costume, or something of the sort. Ruined Stag at Bay, more like.

"So that I shall remember my English bahadur, says Jeendan, smiling slantendicular, when I asked her why she wanted it. I took it as a compliment—and wondered if it was a dismissal, too, for it was in the same breath that she announced she was taking little Dalip to Amritsar, which is the Sikhs' holy city, for the Dasahra, and wouldn't return for some weeks. I feigned dismay, concealing the fact that she'd reduced me to a state where I didn't care if I never saw a woman again.

My first act, when I'd staggered back to my quarters, was to scribble a report of her durbar and subsequent conversation with me, and commit it to Second Thessalonians. That report was what convinced Hardinge and Broadfoot that they had time in hand: no war before win-ter. I was right enough in that; fortunately I didn't give them my further opinion, which was that there probably wouldn't be a war even then.

You see, I was convinced that Jeendan didn't want one. If she had, and believed the Khalsa could beat us and make her Queen of all Hindoostan, she'd have turned 'em loose over the Sutlej by now. By hocussing them into delay she'd spoiled their best chance, which would have been to invade while the hot weather lasted, and our white troops were at their feeblest; by the cold months, our sick would be on their feet again, dry weather and low rivers would assist our transport and defensive movement, and the freezing nights, while unpleasant for us, would plague the Khalsa abominably. She was also double-dealing 'em by warning us to stay on guard, and promising ample notice if they did break loose in spite of her.

Now there, you'll say, is a clever lass who knows how to keep in with both sides—and will cross either of 'em if it suits her. But already she'd ensured that, if war did come, the odds were in our favour—and there was no profit to her in getting beat.

All that aside, I didn't believe war was in her nature. Oh, I knew she was a shrewd politician, when she roused herself, and no doubt as cruel and ruthless as any other Indian ruler—but I just had to think of that plump, pleasure-sodden face drowsing on the pillow, too languid for anything but drink and debauchery, and the notion of her scheming, let alone directing, a war was quite out of court. Lord love us, she was seldom sober enough to plot anything beyond the next erotic experiment. No, if you'd seen her as I did, slothful with booze and romping, you'd have allowed that Broadfoot was right, and that here was a born harlot killing herself with kindness, a fine spirit too far gone to undertake any great matter.

So I thought—well, I misjudged her, especially in her capacity for hatred. I misjudged the Khalsa, too. Mind you, I don't blame myself too much; there seems to have been a conspiracy to keep Flashy in the dark just then—Jeendan, Mangla, Gardner, Jassa, and even the Sikh generals had me in mind as they pursued their sinister ends, but I'd no way of knowing that.

Indeed, I was feeling pretty easy on the October morning when the court departed for Amritsar, and I turned out to doff my tile as the procession wound out of the Kashmir Gate. Little Dalip was to the fore on his state elephant, acknowledging the cheers of the mob as cool as you like, but twinkling and waving gaily at sight of me. Lal Singh, brave as a peacock and riding with a proprietary air beside Jeendan's palki, didn't twinkle exactly; when she nodded and smiled in response to my salute he gave me a stuffed smirk as much as to say, back to the pavilion, infidel, it's my innings now. You're welcome, thinks I; plenty of Chinese ginger and rhinoceros powder and you may survive. Mangla, in the litter following, was the only one who seemed to be sorry to be leaving me behind, waving and glancing back until the crowd swallowed her up.

The great train of beasts and servants and guards and musicians was still going by as Jassa and I turned away and rode round to the Rushnai Gate. Have a jolly Dasahra at Amritsar, all of you, thinks I, and by the time you get hack Gough will have the frontier reinforced, and Hardinge will be on hand to talk sense to you face to face; among you all you can keep the Khalsa in order, every-thing can be peacefully settled, and I can go home. I said its much to Jassa, and he gave one of his Yankee-Pathan grunts.

"You reckon? Well, if I was you, lieutenant, I'd not say that till I was riding the gridiron again."*(*"'Aboard an East Indiaman. The reference is to the Company's flag.)

"Why not—have you heard something?"

"Just the barra choop," says he, grinning all over his ugly mug.

"What the devil's that?"

"You don't know—an old Khyber hand like you? Barra (hoop—the silent time before the tempest." He cocked his head. "Yes, sir, I can hear it, all right."

"Oh, to blazes with your croaking! Heavens, man, the Khalsa's scattered all over the place, and by the time they're mustered again Gough will have fifty thousand bayonets at the river —"

"If he does, it'll be a red rag to a Punjabi bull," says this confounded pessimist. "Then they'll be sure he means to invade. Besides, your lady friend's promised the Khalsa a war come November—they're going to be mighty sore if they don't get it."

"They'll be a dam' sight sorer if they do!"

"You know that—but maybe they don't." He turned in the saddle to look back at the long procession filing along the dusty Amritsar road, shading his eyes, and when he spoke again it was in Pushtu. "See, husoor, we have in the Punjab the two great ingredients of mischief: an army loose about the land, and a woman's tongue unbridled in the house." He spat. "Together, who knows what they may do?"

I told him pretty sharp to keep his proverbs to himself; if there's one thing I bar it's croakers disturbing my peace of mind, especially when they're leery coves who know their business. Mind you, I began to wonder if he did, for now, after the terrors and transports of my first weeks in Lahore, there came a long spell in which nothing happened at all. We prosed daily about the Soochet legacy, and damned dull it was. The Inheritance Act of 1833 ain't a patch on the Police Gazette, and after weeks of listening to the drivel of a garlic-breathing dotard in steel spectacles on the precise meaning of "universum jus" and "seisin" I was bored to the point where I almost wrote to Elspeth. Barra choop, indeed.

But if there was no sign of the tempest foretold by Jassa, there was no lack of rumour. As the Dasahra passed, and October lengthened into November, the bazaars were full of talk of British concentration on the river, and Dinanath, of all people, claimed publicly that the Company was preparing to annex Sikh estates on the south bank of the Sutlej; it was also reported that he had said that "the Maharani was willing for war to defend the national honour". Well, we'd heard that before; the latest definite word was that she'd moved from Amritsar to Shalamar, and was rioting the nights away with Lal. I was surprised that he was still staying the course; doubtless Rai and the Python were spelling him.

Then late in November things began to happen which caused me, reluctantly, to sit up straight. The Khalsa began to reassemble on Maian Mir, Lal was confirmed as Wazir and Tej as commander-in-chief, both made proclamations full of fire and fury, and the leading generals took their oaths on the Granth, pledging undying loyalty to young Dalip with their hands on the canopy of Runjeet's tomb. You may be sure I saw none of this; diplomatic immunity or not, I was keeping my head well below the parapet, but Jassa gave me eye-witness accounts, taking cheerful satisfaction at every new alarm, curse him.

"They're just waiting for the astrologers to name the day," says he. "Even the order of march is cut and dried—Tej Singh to Ferozepore with 42,000 foot, while Lal crosses farther north with 20,000 gorracharra. Yes, sir, they're primed and ready to fire."

Not wanting to believe him, I pointed out that strategically the position was no worse than it had been two months earlier.

"Except that there isn't a rupee left in the Pearl Mosque, and nothing to pay 'em with. I tell you, they either march or explode. I just hope Gough's ready. What does Broadfoot say?"

That was the most disquieting thing of all—for two weeks I hadn't had a line from Simla. I'd been cyphering away until Second Thessalonians was dog-eared, without reply. I didn't tell Jassa that, but reminded him that the final word lay with Jeendan; she'd charmed the Khalsa into delay before, and she could do it again.

"I've got ten chips*(*Rupees.) says she can't," says he. `"Once the astrologers say the word, it'd be more than her pretty little hide was worth to hold back. If those stars say `Go', she's bound to give 'em their heads—and God help Ferozepore!"

He lost his bet. "I shall instruct the astrologers," she had told me, and she must have done, for when the wise men took a dekko at the planets, they couldn't make head or tail of them. Finally, they admitted that the propitious day was obvious enough, but unfortunately it had been last week and they hadn't noticed, dammit. The panches weren't having that, and insisted that another date be found, and sharp about it; the astrologers conferred, and admitted that there was a pretty decent-looking day about a fortnight hence, so far as they could tell at this distance. That didn't suit either, and the soldiery were ready to string them up, at which the astrologers took fright and said tomorrow was the day, not a doubt of it; couldn't think how they'd missed it before. Their credit was pretty thin by this time, and although the gorracharra were ordered out of Lahore, Lal took them only a little way beyond Shalamar before hurrying back to the city and the arms of Jeendan, who was once more in residence at the Fort. Tej sent off the infantry by divisions, but stayed at home himself, and the march was petering out, Jassa reported.

I heaved a sigh of relief; plainly Jeendan was being as good as her word. Now that she was back, under the same roof, I considered and instantly dismissed the notion of trying to have a word with her; nothing could have been worse just then than talk spreading in the bazaar and the camp that she'd been colloguing with a British officer. So I sat down to compose a cypher to Broadfoot, describing the confusion caused by the astrologers, and how the Khalsa were marching round in rings without their two leading generals. "In all this (I concluded) I think we may discern a certain lady's fine Punjabi hand." Elegant letter-writers, we politicals were in those days—sometimes too elegant for our own good.

I sent it off by way of the Scriptures, and suggested to Jassa that he might canvass Gardner, who had returned with Jeendan, to find out the state of play, but my faithful orderly demurred, pointing out that he was the last man in whom Gardner would confide at any time, "and if the jealous son-of-a-bitch gets the idea that I'm nosing about right now, he's liable to do me harm. Oh, sure, he's Broadfoot's friend—but it's Dalip's salt he eats—and Mai Jeendan's. Don't forget that. If it comes to war, he can't be on our side."

I wasn't sure about that, but there was nothing to do but wait—for news of the Khalsa's intentions, and word from Broadfoot. Three days went by, and then a week, in which Lahore buzzed with rumours: the Khalsa were marching, the British were invading, Goolab Singh had declared first for one side then for the other, the Raja of Nabla had announced that he was the eleventh incarnation of Vishnu and was raising a holy war to sweep the foreigners out of India -- all the usual twaddle, contradicted as soon as it was uttered, and I could do nothing but endure the Soochet legacy by day, and pace my balcony impatiently in the evening, watching the red dusk die into purple, star-filled night over the fountain court, and listen to the distant murmur of the great city, waiting, like me, for peace or war.

It was nervous work, and lonely, and then on the seventh night, when I had just climbed into bed, who should slip in, all unannounced, but Mangla. News at last, thinks I, and was demanding it as I turned up the lamp, but all the reply she made was to pout reproachfully, cast aside her robe, and hop into bed beside me.

"After six weeks I have not come to talk politics," says she, rubbing her bumpers across my face. "Ah, taste, bahadur—and then eat to your heart's content! Have you missed me?"

"Eh? Oh, damnably!" says I, taking a polite munch. "But hold on … what's the news? Have you a message from your mistress? What's she doing?"

"This—and this—and this," says she, teasing busily. "With Lal Singh. Rousing his manhood—but whether for an assault on herself or on the frontier, who knows? Are you jealous of him, then? Am I so poor a substitute?"

"No, dammit! Hold still, can't you? Look, woman, what's happening, for heaven's sake? One moment I hear the Khalsa's marching, the next that it's been recalled—is it peace or war? She swore she'd give warning—here, don't take 'em away! But I must know, don't you see, so that I can send word —"

"Does it matter?" murmurs the randy little vixen. "At this moment … does it truly matter?"

She was right, of course; there's a time for everything. So for the next hour or so she relieved the tedium of affairs and reminded me that life isn't all policy, as old Runjeet said before expiring blissfully. I was ready for it, too, for since my protracted bout with Jeendan I hadn't seen a skirt except my little maids, and they weren't worth turning to for.

Afterwards, though, when we lay beneath the punkah, drowsing and drinking, there wasn't a scrap of news to be got out of her. To all my questions she shrugged her pretty shoulders and said she didn't know—the Khalsa were still on the leash, but what was in Jeendan's mind no one could tell. I didn't believe it; she must have some word for me.

"Then she has not told me. Do you know," says Mangla, gnawing at my ear, "I think we talk too much of Jeendan—and you have ceased to care for her, I know. All men do. She is too greedy of her pleasure. So she has no lovers—only bed-men. Even Lal Singh takes her only out of fear and ambition. Now I," says the saucy piece, teasing my lips with hers, "have true lovers, because I delight to give pleasure as well as to take it—especially with my English bahadur. Is it not so?"

D'you know, she was right again. I'd had enough of Punjabi royalty to last a lifetime, and she'd put her dainty finger on the reason: with Jeendan, it had been like making love to a steam road roller. But I still had to know what was in her devious Indian mind, and when Mangla continued to protest ignorance I got in a bate and swore that if she didn't talk sense I'd thrash it out of her—at which she clapped her hands and offered to get my belt.

So the night wore out, and a jolly time we had of it, with only one interruption, when Mangla complained of the cold draft from the fan. I bawled to the punkah-wallah to go easy, but with the door closed he didn't hear, so I turned out, cursing. It wasn't the usual ancient, but another idiot—they're all alike, fast asleep when you want a cool waft, and freezing you with a nor'easter in the small hours. I leathered the brute, and scampered back for some more Kashmiri culture; it was taxing work, and when I awoke it was full morning, Mangla had gone … and there was a cypher from Broadfoot waiting in Second 'Thessalonians.

So Jassa had been right—she was the secret courier after alL Well, the little puss … mixing business with pleasure, if you like. I'd wondered if it was she, you remember, on that first day, when she and others had had the opportunity to be at my bedside table. She was the perfect go-between, when you thought about it, able to come and go about the palace as she pleased … the slave-girl who was the richest woman in Lahore—easy for her to bribe and command other couriers, one of whom must have deputised while she was away in Amritsar. How the deuce had Broadfoot recruited her? My respect for my chief had always been high, but it doubled now, I can tell you.

Which was just as well, for if anything could have shaken my faith it was the contents of that cypher. When I'd decoded it I sat staring at the paper for several minutes, and then construed it again, to be sure I had it right. No mistake, it was pukka, and the sweat prickled on my skin as I read it for the tenth time:

Most urgent to Number One alone. On the first night after receipt, you will go in native dress to the French Soldiers' cabaret between the Shah Boorj and the Buttee Gate. Use the signals and wait for word from Bibi Kalil. Say nothing to your orderly.

Not even an "I remain" or "Believe me as all.

*

The trouble with the political service, you know, is that they can't tell truth from falsehood. Even members of Parliament know when they're lying, which is most of the time, but folk like Broadfoot simply ain't aware of their own prevarications. It's all for the good of the service, you see, so it must be true—and that makes it uncommon hard for straightforward rascals like me to know when we're being done browner than an ape's behind. Mind you, I'd feared the worst when he'd assured me: "It'll never come to disguise, or anything desperate." Oh, no, George, never that! Honestly, you'd be safer dealing with lawyers.

And now here it was, my worst fears realised. Flashy was being sent into the deep field—clean-shaven, too, and never a bolt-hole or friend-in-need to bless himself with. Come, you may say, what's the row—it's only a rendezvous in disguise, surely? Aye … and then? Who the blazes was this Bibi Kalil—the name might mean anything from a princess to a bawd—and what horror would she steer me to at Broadfoot's bidding? Well, I'd find out soon enough.

The disguise was the least of it. I had a poshteen in my valise, and had gathered a few odds and ends since coming to Lahore—Persian boots, pyjamys and sash for lounging on the hotter days, and the like. My own shirt would do, once I'd trampled it underfoot, and I improvised a puggaree from a couple of towels. Ordinarily I'd have borrowed Jassa's gear, but he was to be kept in the dark—that was something about the cypher that struck me as middling odd: the last sentence was unnecessary, since the word "alone" at the beginning meant that the whole thing was secret to me. Presumably George was just "makin' siccar", as he would say.

Leaving the Fort was less simple. I'd strolled out once or twice of an evening, but never beyond the market at the Hazooree Gate on the inner wall, which was the better-class bazaar serving the quality homes which lay south of the Fort, before you came to the town proper. I daren't assume my disguise inside the palace, so I stuffed it into a handbag, all but the boots, which I put on under my unutterables.*(*Civilian trousers.) Then it was a case of making sure that Jassa wasn't on hand, and slipping out to the gardens after dark. There were few folk about, and in no time I was behind a bush, staggering about with my foot tangled in my pants, damning Broadfoot and the mosquitoes. I wrapped the puggaree well forward over my head, dirtied my face, put the bag with my civilised duds into a cleft in the garden wall, prayed that I might return to claim them, and sallied forth.

Now, I've "gone native" more times than I can count, and it's all a matter of confidence. Your amateur gives himself away because he's sure everyone can see through his disguise, and behaves according. They can't, of course; for one thing, they ain't interested, and if you amble along doing no harm, you'll pass. I'll never forget sneaking out of Lucknow with T. H. Kavanaugh during the siege;*(*See Flashman in the Great Game.) he was a great Irish murphy without sense or a word of Hindi, figged out like the worst kind of pantomime pasha with the lamp-black fairly running off his fat red cheeks, and cursing in Tipperary the whole way -and not a mutineer gave him a second look, hardly. Now, my beardless chops were my chief anxiety, but I'm dark enough, and an ugly scowl goes a long way.

I had my pepperbox, but I bought a belt and a Kashmiri short sword in the market for added security, and to test my appearance and elocution. I'm at my easiest as a Pathan ruffler speaking Pushtu or; in this case, bad Punjabi, so I spat a good deal, growled from the back of my throat, and beat the booth-wallah down to half-price; he didn't even blink, so when I reached the alleys of the native town I stopped at a stall for a chapatti and a gossip, to get the feel of things and pick up any shave*(*Rumour.) that might be going. The lads of the village were full of the impending war, and how the gorracharra had crossed the river unopposed at the Harree ghat, and the British were abandoning Ludhiana—which wasn't true, as it happened.

"They have lost the spirit," says one know-all. "Afghanistan was the death of them."

"Afghanistan is everyone's death," says another. "Didn't my own uncle die at Jallalabad, peace be on him?"

"In the British war?"