Flashman and the Mountain of Light

"Nay, he was cook to a horse caravan, and a bazaar woman gave him a loathsome disease. He had ointments, from a hakim,*(*Chemist.) to no avail, for his nose fell off and he died, raving. My aunt blamed the ointments. Who knows, with an Afghan hakim?"

"That is how we should slay the British!" cackles an ancient. "Send the Maharani to infect them! Hee-hee, she must be rotten by now!"

I didn't care for that, and neither did a burly cove in a cavalry coat. "Be decent, pig! She is the mother of thy king, who will sit on the throne in London Fort when we of the Khalsa have eaten the Sirkar's army!"

"Hear him!" scoffs the old comedian. "The Khalsa will march on the ocean then, to reach London?"

"What ocean, fool? London lies only a few cos*(*Cos = one and a half miles.) beyond Meerut."

"Is it so far?" says I, playing the yokel. "Have you been there?"

"Myself, no," admitted the Khalsa bird. "But my havildar was there as a camel-driver. It is a poor place, by all accounts, not so great as Lahore."

"Nay, now," cries the one with the poxy uncle. "The houses in London are faced with gold, and even the public privies have doors of silver. This I was told."

"That was before the war with the Afghans," says the Khalsa's prize liar, whose style I was beginning to admire. "It beggared the British, and now they are in debt to the Jews; even Wellesley sahib, who broke Tipoo and the Maharattas aforetime, can get no credit, and the young queen and her waiting-women sell themselves on the streets. So my havildar tells; he had one of them."

"Does he have his nose still?" cries another, and there was great merriment.

"Aye, laugh!" cries the ancient. "But if London is grown poor, where is all this loot on which we are to grow fat when you heroes of the Pure have brought it home?"

"Now God give him wit! Where else but in Calcutta, in the Hebrews' strong-boxes. We shall march on thither when we have taken London and Glash-ka where they grow tobacco and make the iron boats."

About as well-informed, you see, as our own public were about India. I lingered a little longer, until I was thinking in Punjabi, and then, with that well-known hollow feeling in my innards, set off on my reluctant way.

The Shah Boorj is at the south-western corner of Lahore city, less than a mile away as the crow flies, but nearer two when you must pick your way through the winding ways of the old town. Foul ways they were, too, running with filth past hovels tenanted by ugly beggar folk who glared from doorways or scavenged among the refuse with the rats and pi-dogs; the air was so poisonous that I had to wrap my puggaree over my mouth, as though to strain the pestilential vapours as I picked my way past pools of rotting filth. A few fires among the dung-heaps provided the only light, and everywhere there were bright, wicked eyes, human and animal, that shrank away as I approached, lengthening my stride to get through that hellish place, but always I could imagine horrid shapes pressing behind me, and blundered on like the chap in the poem who daren't look back because he knows there's a hideous goblin on his heels.

Presently the going was better, between high tenements and warehouses, and only a few night-lurkers hurrying by. Near the south wall the streets were wider, with decent houses set back behind high walls; a couple of palkis went by, swaying between their bearers, and there was even a chowkidar*(*Constable.) patrolling with his lantern and staff. But I still felt damnably alone, with the squalid, hostile warren between me and home—that was how I now thought of the Fort which I'd approached with such alarm a couple of months ago. Very adaptable, we funks are.

The French Soldiers' cabaret was close to the Buttee Gate, and if the Frog mercenaries whose crude portraits adorned its walls could have seen it, they'd have sought redress at law. They squinted out of their frames on a great, noisy, reek-filled chamber—Ventura, Allard, Court, and even my old chum Avitabile, looking like the Italian bandit he was with his tasselled cap and spiky moustachioes. I'd settle for you alongside this minute, thinks I, as I surveyed the company: villainous two-rupee bravos, painted harpies who should have been perched in trees, a seedy flute-and-tom-tom band accompanying a couple of gyrating nautches whom you wouldn't have touched with a long pole, and Sikh brandy fit to corrode a bucket. I'll never say a word against Boodle's again, says I to myself; at least there you don't have to sit with your back to the wall.

I found a stool between two beauties who'd evidently been sleeping in a camel stable, bought a glass of arrack that I took care not to drink, growled curtly when addressed, and sat like a good little political, using the signals—thumb between the first two fingers and scratching my right armpit from time to time. Half the clientele were clawing themselves in the same way, with good reason, which was disconcerting, but I sat grimly on, wishing I'd gone into Holy Orders and ignoring the blandishments of sundry viragos of the sort you can have for fourpence with a mutton pie and a pint of beer thrown in, but better not, for the pie meat's sure to be off. They sulked or snarled at me, according to taste, but the last one, a henna'd banshee with bad teeth, said I was choosy, wasn't I, and what had I expected in a place like this—Bibi Kalil?

There was so much noise that I doubted if anyone else had heard her, but I waited till she'd flounced off, and another ten minutes for luck. Then I rose and shouldered my way to the door, taking my time; sure enough, she was waiting in the shadow of the porch. Without a word she led on up the alley, and I followed close, my heart thumping and my hand on the pepperbox under my poshteen as I scanned the shadows ahead. We went by twisting ways until she stopped by a high wall with an open wicket. "Through the garden and round the house. Your friend is waiting," she whispered, and vanished into the dark.

I glanced about to mark lines of flight, and went cautiously in. A small bushy enclosure surrounded a tall well-kept house, and directly before me a steep outside stair led up to a little arched porch on the upper floor, with a dimly-lit doorway beyond. Round the angle of the house to my left light was spilling from a ground-floor room that I couldn't see—that was my way, then, but even as I set forward the light in the arch overhead shone brighter as the door beyond was fully opened, and a woman came out silently on to the little porch. She stood looking down into the garden, this way and that, but by then I was in the bushes, taking stock.

Peering up through the leaves I could see her clearly, and if this was Bibi Kalil I didn't mind a bit. She was tall, fine-featured as an Afghan, heavy of hip and bosom in her fringed trousers and jacket, a matronly welterweight and just my style. Then she moved back inside, and since my immediate business was round the corner on the ground floor (alas!), I heaved a sigh and turned that way … and stopped dead as I recalled a word that my guide had used.

"Friend"? That wasn't political talk. "Brother" or "sister" was usual … and whoever had instructed her would have told her the exact words to say. Back to my mind came that other queer phrase in Broadfoot's mess-age: "Say nothing to your orderly …" That hadn't been quite pukka, either. They were just two tiny things, but all of a sudden the dark seemed deeper and the night quieter. Coward's instinct, if you like, but if I'm still here and in good health, bar my creaky kidneys and a tendency to wind, it's because I shy at motes, never mind beams—and I don't walk straight in where I can scout first. So instead of going openly round the house as directed, I skulked round, behind the bushes, until I was past the angle and could squint through the foliage into that well-lit ground floor room with its open screens … and have a quiet apoplectic fit to myself, holding on to a branch for support.

There were half a dozen men in the room, armed and waiting, and they included, inter alia, General Maka Khan, his knife-toting sidekick Imam Shah, and that crazy Akali who'd denounced Jeendan at the durbar. Leading men of the Khalsa, sworn enemies of the Sirkar, waiting for old Flash to roll in … "friends", bigod! And I was meant to believe that Broadfoot had directed me to them?

Well, I didn't, not for an instant—which was the time it took me to realise that something was hellishly, horribly wrong … that this was a trap, and my head was all but in its jaws, and nothing for it but instant flight. You don't stop to reason how or why at times like that—you grit your teeth to keep 'em from chattering, and back away slowly through the bushes with your innards dissolving, taking care not to rustle the leaves, until you're close by the gate, when you think you hear furtive movement out in the alley, and start violently, treading on a stick that snaps with a report like a bloody howitzer, and you squeal and leap three feet—and if you're lucky an angel of mercy in fringed trousers reappears on the porch overhead, hissing: "Flashman sahib! This way, quickly!"

I was up that stair like a fox with an arseful of buckshot, tripping on the top step and falling headlong past the woman and slap into the arms of a burly old ruffian who was hobbling nimbly out of the inner doorway. I had a glimpse of huge white whiskers and glaring eyes under a black turban, but before I could exclaim I was in a bear's grip with a hand like a ham over my mouth.

"Chub'rao! Khabadar!"*(*"Be quiet! Careful!".) growls he. "A thousand hells—get your great infidel foot off my toe! Don't you English know what it is to have the gout, then?" And to the woman: "Have they heard?"

She stood a moment on the porch, listening, and then slid in, closing the door softly. "There are men in the alley, and sounds from the garden room!" Her voice was deep and husky, and in the dim light I could see her poonts bouncing with agitation.

"Shaitan take them!" snarls he. "It's now or not at all, then! Down, chabeli,*(*Sweetheart.) by the secret stair—look for Donkal and the horses!" He was bundling me into the room. "Haste, woman!".

"He won't be there yet!" whispers the woman. "With their look-outs in the streets he must even wait!" She shot me a swift look, moistening her full lips. "Besides, I fear the dark. Do you go, while I wait here with him."

"God, she would flirt on the edge of the Pit!" fumes the old buck. "Have ye no sense of fitness, with the house crawling with foes and my foot like to burst? Away and look out from the street window, I say! You can ravish him another time!"

She glared but went, flitting across the shadowy chamber to a low door in the far wall, while he stood gripping my arm, the great white-whiskered head raised to listen, but the only sounds were my heart hammering and his own gusty breathing. He glanced at me, and spoke hoarse and low.

"Flashman the Afghan killer—aye, ye have the beastly look! They are down there—rats of the Khalsa, lying in wait for you —"

"I know—I saw them! How —"

"You were lured, with a false message. Subtle fellows, these."

I stared, horror-stricken. "But that's impossible! It … it can't be false! No one could —"

"Oho, so you're not here, and neither are they!" says he, grinning savagely. "Wait till their flayers set about you, fool, and you'll change your mind! Are you armed?"

I showed him, and would you believe it, he fell into whispered admiration of my pepperbox? "It turns so? Six shots, you say? A marvel! With one of these, who needs rent collectors? By God, at need we can cut our way out, you with shot and I with steel! Fiend take the woman, where is she? Ogling some prowler, like as not! Ah, my poor foot—they say drink inflames it, but I believe it comes of kneeling at prayer! Alas, why did I rise from my bed this day?"

All this in muttered whispers in the gloom, and me beside myself with fear, not knowing what the devil was up, except that the hosts of Midian were after me, but that I seemed to have found two eccentric friends, thank God—and whoever they might be, they weren't common folk. You don't take careful note at such times, but even in the grip of funk I was aware that while the lady might have a wanton eye, she talked like a sultana; the tiny room was opulent as a palace, with dim lamps shining on silk and silver; and my gouty old sportsman could only be some tremendous swell. Command was in every line of the stout, powerful figure, bold curved nose, and bristling beard, and he was dressed like a fighting raja—a great ruby in his turban, silver studs on the quilted leather jack, black silk pyjamys tucked into high boots, and a jewel-hilted broadsword on his hip. Who on earth was he? Keeping my voice down, I asked him, and he chuckled and answered in his growling whisper, his eye on the door.

"You cannot guess? So much for fame! Ah, but you know me well, Flashman sahib—and that sweet hussy whose tardiness perils our safety. Aye, ye've been busy about our affairs these two months!" He grinned at my bewilderment. "Bibi Kalil is only her pet name—she is the widow of my brother, Soochet Singh, peace be on him. And I am Goolab Singh."

If I stared, it wasn't in disbelief. He fitted the description in Broadfoot's packets, even to the gout. But Goolab Singh, once pretender to the throne, the rebel who'd made himself king in Kashmir in defiance of the durbar, should have been "behind a rock up Jumoo way, with fifty thousand hillmen", as George had put it. He must be the most wanted man in Lahore this minute, for while there had been some in the Khalsa who'd nominated him for Wazir, Jeendan had since exposed him as a British ally—which was fine by me just then, but didn't explain his presence here.

"Let that explain it," says he, as Bibi Kalil emerged from the low door. "This is her house, and the pretty widow has admirers —" he pointed downwards—"men high in the Khalsa panches. She makes them welcome, they talk freely, and I, lying close to Lahore in these days of trouble, hear it all from her. So when they hatch a plot to take you—why, here am I, gout and all, to prove my loyalty to the Sirkar by rescuing its servant —"

"What the hell do they want with me?"

"To talk with you—over a slow fire, I believe … well, little jujube, what of Donkal?"

"No sign of him—Goolab, there are men in the streets, and others in the garden!" Her voice shook, and her eyes were wide in alarm, but she wasn't one of your vapouring pieces. "I heard Imam Shah call for the wench who brought you," she adds to me.

"Aye, well, there's an end to waiting," says Goolab cheerfully. "She'll tell them you entered, they'll beat the bushes—then they'll bethink them of upstairs …" He cocked an ear as distant voices came from the garden below. "Maka Khan grows impatient. Have your revolving gun ready, Englishman!"

Bibi Kalil gave a little gasp, and pressed close to me, trembling, but I was in no case to enjoy it; she put an arm round me, and I clasped her instinctively—for reassurance, not lust, I can tell you. The questions that had been racing pell-mell through my mind—how I'd come to be trapped in this gilded hell-hole, how those Khalsa swine had known I was coming, why Goolab and this palpitating armful were on hand to aid me—mattered nothing beside those terrible words "slow fire", uttered almost idly by this crazy old bandit who, with fifty thousand hillmen at his call, had apparently brought only one who was farting about in the dark … and then my blood froze and I clutched the widow for support, as footsteps sounded on the outside stair.

She clung in return, Goolab's hand dropped to his hilt, and we waited there still as death, until a sharp knock fell on the door. A moment's pause, and then a man's voice:

"Lady? Are you there? My lady?"

She turned those fine eyes on me, helplessly, and then Goolab stepped close, his lips at her ear. "Who is he? D'ye know him?"

Her reply was a faint perfumed breath. "Sefreen Singh. Aide to Maka Khan."

"An admirer?" The old devil was bright with mischief, even now, and it was a moment before she shrugged and whispered: "From a distance."

Another knock. "Lady?"

"Ask him what he wants," whispers Goolab.

I felt her tremble, but she did it well, calling out in a sleepy voice: "Who is it?"

"Sefreen Singh, my lady." A pause. "Are you … pardon me … are you alone?"

She waited and then called: "I'm asleep … what was that? Of course I'm alone …" Goolab grimaced over her head at me—he was enjoying this, rot him!

"A thousand pardons, lady." The voice was all apology. "I have orders to search. There is a badmash about. If you will please to open …"

"Well, he's not here," she was beginning, but Goolab was at her ear again:

"We must let him in! But first … beguile him." He winked. "If he is to enter with a weapon ready, let it not be a steel one."

She glared, but nodded, gave me a melting glance as she disengaged her right tit from my unwitting grasp, and called out impatiently. "Oh, very well … a moment …"

Goolab drew his sabre noiselessly, passed it to me, and took the short sword from my belt, pricking his thumb on the point. "He's mine. If I miss … take off his head." He limped swiftly to the latch side of the door, motioned me to stand behind it, and nodded to the widow. She set her hand on the bolt and spoke softly:

"Sefreen Singh … are you alone?" Honey wouldn't have melted.

"Why … why, yes, my lady!"

"You're sure?" She gave a little murmuring laugh. "In that case … if you promise to stay a while … you may come in …"

She slipped the bolt, opened the door, and turned away, glancing over her shoulder, and in steps Barnacle Bill, not believing his luck, to receive Goolab's updriven point beneath his bearded chin before he'd gone a step. One savage, expert thrust into the brain—he went down without a sound, Goolab breaking his fall, and when I turned from fumbling the door to with a shaking hand the old ruffian was wiping his blade on the dead man's shirt.

"Eighty-two," chuckles he, and Bibi Kalil gave a long, shuddering sigh between clenched teeth; her eyes were shining with excitement. Aye, well, that's India for you.

"Now, away!" snaps Goolab. "This buys us moments, no more! Do you show him the way down, chabeli! I'll bide here until you're at the street door —"

"Why?" cries the widow.

"Oh, to beguile my leisure!" snarls he. "In case others come knocking, you witless heifer! Can I keep up, with my foot afire? But I can hold a door—aye, or parley, perchance! They may think twice before putting steel into Goolab Singh!" He thrust us away. "Out with him, woman, so that he can sing the praise of this night's work to Hardinge sahib! Go! Never fear, I'll follow!"

But first she must embrace him, and he laughed and kissed her, saying that she was a good-sister to be proud of. Then she had me by the hand, and we were through the low door and down stone steps to a passage which ended in an iron grille. Beyond it the alley lay dark and deserted, but she shrank back, gasping that we must wait. Between the danger behind and the unknown perils out yonder, I was scared neutral, and in a moment Goolab came hobbling down, yelping at each step.

"I heard them on the outer stair! God's love, if this doesn't win me the White Queen's seal on Kashmir, there's no gratitude left! What, an empty street! Well, empty or not, we cannot wait! My sabre, Flashman—we stout bellies need a full sweep! Now, harken—back to back if we must, but if it grows hot, each for himself!"

"I'll not leave you, my lord!" cries Bibi Kalil.

"You'll do as I bid, insolence! At all costs, he must win clear, or our labour's wasted! Now one either side of me, and open the gate, softly … "

"But Donkal is not come!" wails the widow.

"Donkal be damned! We have five feet among us, but we'll lack three heads if we linger! Come on!"

We stumbled into the alley, the widow and I supporting his ponderous weight, and blundered ahead into the dark, myself in blind panic, Bibi Kalil whimpering softly, and the Lord of Kashmir gasping blasphemies and encouragement—all we needed was a bowl to put to sea in. From beyond the house we could hear voices raised, and the distant sound of hammering on a door, with someone calling for Sefreen Singh. We reached the alley end, and as Bibi Kalil sped ahead to scout, Goolab hung on my shoulder, panting.

"Aye, get up, Sefreen, and let them in!" croaks he. "All clear, sweetheart? Bless her plump limbs, when we come to Jumoo she'll have a new emerald each day, and singing girls to tell her stories—aye, and twenty stalwart lads as bodyguards—on, on, quickly! Oh, for five sound toes again!"

We stumbled round the corner and on into a little court where four ways met, and a torch guttered in a bracket overhead, casting weird shadows. Bibi Kalil sped to one of the openings—and screamed suddenly, darting back, Goolab stubbed his gouty foot and tumbled down, cursing, and as I hauled him up two men came bounding out of the alley and hurled themselves on us.

If they'd been out to kill, we'd have been done for, with me hauling at the stranded Goolab—but capture was what they were after. The first clutched for my sword-arm, and got my point in the shoulder for his pains. "Shabash, Afghan killer!" roars Goolab, still on his knees, and ran him through the body, but even as the fellow went down, his comrade threw himself on Goolab, choking off the triumphant yell of "Eighty-three!" and bearing him to earth. Bibi Kalil ran in, screaming and tearing at the attacker's face with her nails, while I danced about making shrill noises and looking for a chance to pink him—until it occurred to me that there were better uses for my time than this, and I turned tail up the nearest alley.

Well, Goolab had said each for himself, but I won't pretend that I've ever needed leave to bolt. I hadn't been given the precious gift of life to cast it away in back alleys, brawling on behalf of fat rajas and randy widows, and I was going like a startled fawn and rejoicing in my youth when I saw a glare of torchlight ahead of me, and realised with horror that round the next corner running feet were approaching. Serve you right, poltroon, says you, for leaving pals in the lurch, now you'll get your cocoa—but we practised absconders don't give up so easy, I can tell you. I came to a slithering halt, and as the powers of darkness came surging into view, full of spite and action, I was stock-still and pointing back to the little court, where Goolab and the widow could be seen apparently disembowelling the Second Robber, who wasn't taking it quietly.

"Here they are, brothers!" I shouted. "On, on, and take them! They're ours!"

I even started back towards the court, stumbling artistically to let them catch up—and if you think it was a desperate stratagem … well, it was, but it seldom fails, and it would have succeeded then if I'd had the wit to follow a yard or two farther as they raced past me. But I was too quick to turn again and flee; one of them must have seen me from the tail of his eye and realised that this vociferous badmash wasn't one of the gang, for he pulled up, yelling, and came after me. I held my lead round one corner and the next, saw a convenient opening and dodged through it, and crouched gasping in the shadows as the pursuit went tearing by. I leaned against the wall, eyes closed, utterly done with fear and exertion, getting my breath back, and only when I took a cautious peep out did it strike me that the scenery was familiar … the little wicket in the opening … I squealed aloud, wheeling round, and sure enough, there before me was the outside stairway up to the porch, and two fellows were carrying down the earthly remains of Sefreen Singh, and from various parts of Bibi Kalil's garden about a dozen bearded faces were regarding me with astonishment. Among them, not ten feet away, arms akimbo and scowling like a teetotal magistrate, was General Maka Khan, and beside him, exclaiming with unholy delight, was the Akali fanatic.

I've said I don't give up easy, and it's with pride that I recall tumbling out into the alley and tottering away, calling for the police, but they were on me within five yards, bearing me bodily into the garden, while I announced my name and consequence at the top of my voice, until they stuffed a gag into my mouth. They dragged me round to the garden room and thrust me into a chair, two holding my arms and a third my hair; they were street rascals, but the others who crowded in were Khalsa to a man, some in uniform; apart from Maka and the Akali there were Sikh officers, a burly naik*(*Corporal.) of artillery with a hideously-pitted face, and Imam Shah, knives and all. He threw my blood-stained short sword on the table.

"Two dead in the street, lord general," says he. "And your aide, Sefreen. The others who were with this one have not yet been found —"

"Then stop the search," says Maka Khan. "We have what we want—and if one of the others is who I think he is … the less we see of him the better."

"And the widow?" cries the Akali. "That practising slut who has betrayed us?"

"Let them both go! They'll do us less harm alive than if we had their deaths to answer for." He pointed at me. "Remove the gag."

They did, and I choked down my fear and was beginning my diplomatic bluster, demanding release and safe-conduct and immunity and the rest, but I'd barely got the length of warning them of the consequences of assaulting an accredited envoy when Maka Khan snapped me off short.

"You are no envoy—and you've forgotten what it is to be a soldier!" barks he. "You are a murderer and a spy!"

"It's a lie! I didn't kill him, I swear! It was Goolab Singh! Damn you all, loose me this instant, you villains, or it'll be the worse for you! I'm an agent of Sir Henry Hardinge —"

"An agent of Black-coat Broadfoot!" blazes the Akali, shaking his fist. "You send out cyphers, betraying the secrets of our durbar! You put them in the Holy Book by your bed—blaspheming your own putrid faith!—whence your old punkah-wallah took them to a courier for Simla! Aye, until we found him out two weeks ago, and questioned him," gloats this maniac, "and learned enough to nail your guilt to your forehead! Aye, gape, spy! We know!"

No doubt I was gaping—in part, at the news that the mysterious messenger of Second Thessalonians was not Mangla, as I'd suspected, but that lean-shanked ancient who'd operated my fan so inefficiently … and who must have vanished without my noticing, to be replaced by the clown I'd leathered only last night. But they were bluffing; they could question the old buffoon until Hell froze—those cyphers were Greek to him, and to everyone else, save Broadfoot and me. I wasn't reasoning too clearly, you understand, but I saw the line I must take.

"General Maka Khan!" cries I, no doubt in indignant falsetto. "This is outrageous! I demand to be set free at once! To be sure I send coded messages to my chief—so does every ambassador, and you know it! But to suggest that they contain any … any secrets of the durbar, is … is, why, it's a damnable insult! They … they were my confidential opinions on the Soochet legacy, for Sir Henry and his advisers —"

"Including your opinion that the astrologers' failure to find a date for our march was caused by `a lady's fine Punjabi hand'?" says he, sternly. "Yes, Mr Flashman, we have read that message, and every other that you've sent this ten days past, as well as those coming to you from Simla." So that was why George's correspondence had dried up …

"We have enough to hang you, spy!" shouts the Akali, spraying me with spittle. "But first we would know what else you've betrayed—and you'll tell us, you sneaking dog!"

I wasn't hearing aright … or they were lying. They might have intercepted messages—but they couldn't have deciphered them, not in a century. Yet Maka had just quoted my own words to Broadfoot … and Goolab had spoken of a false message to entrap me. I hadn't had time to ponder that impossibility … no, it couldn't be so! The key to that cypher was based on random words in an English novel that they'd never heard of—and even if they had, it would be as useless to them as a safe to which they didn't know the combination.

"It's all false, I tell you!" I stammered. "General, I appeal to you! Those messages were innocent, on my honour!"

He gave me a long cold stare while I babbled, and then he called out, and in trooped the oddest trio—a bespectacled little weed of a chi-chi in a soiled European suit, and two jelly-fat babus who smirked uneasily among all these rough military men. The chi-chi carried a sheaf of papers which, at a sign from Maka Khan, were thrust before my eyes … and my heart missed a beat. For it was a manuscript, in English, copied exactly, line for line, space for space, and the top sheet bore the unbelievable words:

"Crotchet Castle. By Thomas Love Peacock".

And beneath the title, in a clerkly Indian hand, but again in English, were precise directions for using the book in the encoding of messages.

Reviewing my career in India, I'd say that of all the wonders I saw there, that was the greatest. I dare say one should be prepared for anything in a land where an illiterate peasant girl can give you the square root of a six-figure number at first glance, but when I reflect on the skill and speed of those copyists, and the analytical genius that penetrated that code … well, it can still rob me of breath. Not as entirely as it did at the time, though.

"Your punkah-wallah confessed how you wrote your cyphers with the aid of a book," sneers the Akali. "It was copied in your absence, and compared with the intercepted cyphers by these men, who are skilled in cryptography—an Indian invention, as Major Broadfoot should have borne in mind!"

"Oah, indeed! A veree simple cypher," chirps the chi-chi, while the babus beamed and nodded. "Quite elementaree, you know, page numbers, dates of Christian calendar, initial letters of arl-tarnate lines —"

"That will do," says Maka Khan, and dismissed them, but one of the babus couldn't resist a backward gleek at me. "Doctor Folliott and Mr McQuedy are jolly good fun!" squeaks he, and waddled out as fast as he could go.

I sat sick and trembling. No wonder they'd been able to fake a message to trap me—with one tiny error of style which I'd been fool enough to ignore. What the devil had I written in my cyphers, though … they'd spotted the allusion to Jeendan, but I hadn't named her … but what else had I said …?

"You see?" says Maka Khan. "What you have written of late, we know. What else have you learned, up at the Fort yonder?"

"Nothing, as God's my witness!" I bleated. "General, upon my honour, sir! I protest … your cryptographers are mistaken—or lying! Yes, that's it!" I hollered. "It's a beastly plot, to discredit me—to give you an excuse for war! Well, it won't serve, you scoundrels! What? Yes, it will, I mean—you'll learn fast enough —"

"Let's have him below!" snarls the Akali. "He'll babble as freely as his creature did!" There were growls of agreement from the others, and I fairly neighed in alarm.

"What d'you mean, damn you? I'm a British Officer, and if you lay a finger —" They clapped the gag over my mouth again, and I could only listen in horror while the Akali swore that time was pressing, so the sooner they set about me the better, and they argued to and fro until Maka Khan turned them all out of the room, except for my three guards and the pock-marked naik—his face gave me the shudders, but I took some comfort from the fact that Maka had taken matters on himself; damned uncivil he'd been, what with "spy" and "murderer", but he was a gentleman and a soldier, after all, and like calls to like, you know. Why, standing there tall and erect, glaring at me and twisting his grizzled moustache, he might have been any staff colonel at Horse Guards, bar the turban. Better still, he addressed me in English, so that the others should be none the wiser.

"You spoke of war," says he. "It has begun. Our advance guard is already across the Sutlej.²⁷ In a few days there will be a general engagement between the Khalsa and the Company army under Sir Hugh Gough. I tell you this so that you may understand your position—you are now beyond help from Simla."

So it had finally come, and I was a prisoner of war. Well, better here than there—at least I'd be out of harm's way.

"No, you are not a prisoner!" snaps Maka Khan. "You are a spy! Be quiet!" He took a turn about, and leaned down to stare grimly into my face. "We of the Khalsa know that our queen regent has turned traitor. We also suspect the loyalty of Lal Singh, our Wazir, and Tej Singh, our field commander.. You have been Mai Jeendan's intimate—her lover. We know she has sent assurances through you to Broadfoot—so much is plain from your recent cyphers. But what has she betrayed, in detail, of our plan of campaign—numbers, dispositions, lines of march, objectives, equipment?" He paused, his black eyes boring into mine. "Your one hope, Flashman, lies in full disclosure … immediately."

"But I don't know anything, I tell you! Nothing! I've not heard a word of … of plans or objectives or any such thing! And I haven't even seen Mai Jeendan for weeks —"

"Her woman Mangla visited you last night!" His words came out like rapid fire. "You spent hours together—what did she tell you? How have you passed it to Simla? Through her? Or the man Harlan, who poses as your orderly? Or by some other means? We know you sent no cypher today —"

"As God's my judge, it ain't true! She told me nothing!"

"Then why did she visit you?"

"Why … why … because, well, we've grown friendly, don't you know? I mean … we talk, you see, and … Not a word of politics, I swear! We just … converse … and so forth …"

God, it sounded lame, as the truth often does, and it drove him into a rage. "Either you're a fool, or you think I am!" he rasped. "Very well, I'll waste no more time! Your punkah-wallah spoke under persuasion … in unspeakable pain, which I trust you will spare yourself. You have a choice: speak to me now, in this room … or to this fellow …" He indicated the pock-marked naik, who took a pace forward, scowling "… in the cellar below."

For a moment I didn't believe my ears. Oh, I'd been threatened with torture before, by savages like Gul Shah and those beastly Malagassies—but this was a man of honour, a general, an aristocrat! I wouldn't believe it, not from someone who might have been Cardigan's own brother, dammit -

"You don't mean it!" I yelped. "I don't believe you! It's a trick … a mean, cowardly trick! You wouldn't dare! But you're trying to frighten me, damn you … "

"Yes, I am." His voice and eyes were dead level. "But it is no empty threat. There is too much at stake. We are beyond diplomatic niceties, or the laws of war. Very soon now, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of men will be dying in agony beyond the Sutlej, Indian and British alike. I cannot afford to spare you, when the fate of the war may depend on what you can tell me."

By God, he did mean it—and before that iron stare I broke down utterly, weeping and begging him to believe me.

"But I don't know a damned thing! For Christ's sake, it's the truth! Yes, yes, she's betraying you! She promised to warn us . and, yes! she's delayed, and made the astrologers bungle it —"

"You tell me what I know already!" cries he impatiently.

"But it's all I know, blast you! She never said a word of plans—oh, if she had I'd tell you! Please, sir, for pity's sake, don't let them torture me! I can't bear it—and it'd do no good, damn you, you cruel old bastard, because I've nothing to confess! Oh, God, if I had, I'd tell you, if I could —"

"I doubt it. Indeed, I am sure you would not," says he, and before those words and tone, suddenly so flat, almost weary, I left off blubbering to stare. He was standing ramrod straight, but not in disgust or contempt at my ravings—if anything, he looked regretful, with a touch of ruptured nobility, even. I couldn't fathom it until, to my horrified amazement, he went on, in the same quiet voice:

"You overplay the coward's part too far, Mr Flashman. You would have me believe you an abject, broken thing, dead to honour, a cur who would confess everything, betray everything, at a mere threat—and on whom, there-fore, torture would be wasted." He shook his head. "Major Broadfoot does not employ such people—and your own reputation belies you. No, you will tell nothing … until pain robs' you of your reason. You know your duty, as I know mine. It drives us both to shameful extremes—me, to barbarism for my country's sake; you, to this pretence of cowardice—a legitimate ruse in a political agent, but not convincing from the man who held Piper's Fort! I am sorry." His mouth worked for a moment, and I won't swear there wasn't a tear in his blasted eye. "I can give you an hour … before they begin. For God's sake, use it to see reason! Take him down!"

He turned away, like a strong suffering man who's had the last word. He hadn't, though. "Pretence!" I screamed, as they hauled me from the chair. "You bloody old halfwit, it's true! I'm not shamming, damn you, I swear it! I can't tell you anything! Oh, Jesus! Please, please, let me be! Mercy, you foul old kite! Can't you see I'm telling the truth!"

By that time they were dragging me through the garden to the back of the house, thrusting me through a low iron-shod door and down an immensely long flight of stone steps into the depths of a great cellar, a dank tomb of rough stone walls with only a small window high up on the far side. A choking acrid smell rose to meet us, and as the naik set a burning torch in a bracket by the stair foot, the source of that stench became horribly apparent.

"Are you weary, Daghabazi Sahib?"*(* Daghabazi=treachery.) cries he. "See, we have a fine bed for you to rest on!"

I looked, and almost swooned. In the centre of the earth floor lay a great rectangular tray in which charcoal glowed faintly under a coating of ash, and about three feet above it was a rusty iron grill like a bedstead—with manacles at head and foot. Watching my face, the naik cackled with laughter, and taking up a long poker, went forward and tapped open two little vents on either side of the tray. The charcoal near the vents glowed a little brighter.

"Gently blows the air," gloats he, "and slowly grows the heat." He laid a hand on the grill. "A little warm, only … but in an hour it will be warmer. Daghabazi Sahib will begin to feel it, then. He may even find his tongue." He tossed the poker aside. "Put him to bed!"

I can't describe the horror of it. I couldn't even scream as they ran me forward and flung me down on that diabolic gridiron, snapping the fetters on my wrists and ankles so that I was held supine, unable to do more than writhe on the rusty bars—and then the pock-marked fiend picked up a pair of bellows from the floor, grinning with savage delight.

"You will be in some discomfort when we return, Daghabazi Sahib! Then we shall open the vents a little more—your punkah-wallah cooked slowly, for many hours—did he not, Jan? Oh, he spoke long before he began to roast … that followed, though I think he had no more to tell." He leaned down to laugh in my face. "And if you find it tedious, we may hasten matters—thus!"

He thrust the bellows under the foot of the grill, pumping once, a sudden gust of heat struck my calves—and I found my tongue at last, in a shriek that tore my throat, again and again, as I struggled helplessly. They crowed with laughter, those devils, as I raved in terror and imagined agony, swearing I had nothing to tell, pleading for mercy, promising them anything—a fortune if they'd let me go, rupees and mohurs by the lakh, God knows what else. Then perhaps I swooned in earnest, for all I remember is the naik's jeering voice from far off: "In an hour's time! Rest well, Daghabazi Sahib!" and the clang of the iron door.

There are, in case you didn't know it, five degrees of torture, as laid down by the Spanish Inquisition, and I was now suffering the fourth—the last before the bodily torment begins. How I kept my sanity is a mystery—I'm not sure but that I did go mad, for a spell, for I came out of my swoon babbling: "No, no, Dawson, I swear I didn't peach! 'twasn't me—it was Speedicut! He blabbed on you to her father—not me! I swear it—oh, please, please, Dawson, don't roast me!", and I could see the fat brute's great whiskered moon face leering into mine as he held me before the schoolroom fire, vowing to bake me till I blistered. I know now that that roasting at Rugby was worse, for real corporal anguish, than my ordeal at Lahore—but at least I'd known that Dawson must leave off at the last, whereas in Bibi Kalil's cellar, with the growing heat only beginning to make my back and legs tingle and run rivers of sweat, I knew that it would continue, hotter and ever hotter, to the unspeakable end. That's the horror of the fourth degree, as the Inquisitors knew—but while their heretics and religious idiots could always get off by telling the bloody Dagoes what they wanted to hear, I couldn't. I didn't know.

The mind's a strange mechanism. Chained to that abominable grill, I began to burn, and strained to arch my body away from the bars, until I fainted again—and when I came to my senses, why, I was only uncomfortably warm for a moment—until I remembered where I was, and in an instant my clothes were catching fire, the flames were scorching my flesh, and I shrieked my way into oblivion once more. Yet it was only in my mind; my clothing was barely being singed—whereas Dawson burned my britches' arse out, the fat swine, and I couldn't sit for a week.

I can't tell how long it was before I realised that, while And merrily we'll whoop and holloa!²⁸

Silence, except for my gasps and groans, then a scrambling rush, a thud, and through the suffocating mist a figure was looming over me, and a horrified face was peering into mine.

"Holy Jesus!" cries Jassa—and as the bolt rasped back in the door he fairly flung himself away, burrowing among the rubble in the shadows along the wall. The door swung open, and the naik appeared on the threshold. For a long, awful moment he stood looking down at me as I struggled and panted on the grill—in a frenzy of fear that he'd seen Jassa, that the fatal hour was up . and then he sang out:

"Is the bed to your liking, Daghabazi Sahib? What, not warm enough yet? Oh, patience … only a moment now!"

He guffawed at his own priceless wit, and went out, leaving the door ajar—and here was Jassa, muttering hideous oaths as he worked at my fetters. They were simple bolts, and in a moment he had them loose and I had lurched off that hellish gridiron and was lying face down on the filthy cool earth, panting and retching. Jassa knelt beside me, urging haste, and I forced myself up; my back and legs were smarting, but didn't feel as though they were badly burned, and with the naik plainly about to return at any moment I was in a fever to be away.

"Can you climb?" whispers Jassa, and I saw there was a camel rope dangling from the window fifteen feet above our heads. "I'll go first—if you can't make it, we'll haul you!" He seized the rope and walked up the wall like an acrobat, until he had his legs over the sill. "Up—quick!" he hissed, and I leaned on the wall a second to fetch my breath and my senses, rubbed my hands on the dirt, and laid hold on the rope.

I may not be brave, but I'm strong, and exhausted as I was I climbed by my arms alone, hauling my dead weight hand over hand, bumping and scraping against the wall -no work for a weakling, but my mortal funk was such that I could have done it with Henry VIII-on my back. Up I went, nearly sick with hope, and the sill wasn't a yard above me when I heard the door thrown back in the cell below.

I almost let go my hold in despair, but even as a yell sounded from the doorway, Jassa's hand was on my collar, and I heaved for my life. I got an elbow on the sill, looked down, and saw the naik bounding down the steps with his gang at his heels. Jassa was through the window, hauling at me, and I got a leg over the sill; from the tail of my eye I saw one of the ruffians below swinging back his hand, there was a flash of steel, and I winced away as a thrown knife struck sparks from the wall. Jassa's pistol banged deafeningly before my face, and I saw the naik stagger and fall. I yelled with joy, and then I was over the sill. "Drop!" shouts Jassa, and I fell about ten feet, landing with a jar that sent a stabbing pain through my left ankle. I took one step and went down, bleating, as Jassa dropped beside me and heaved me up again.

My heart went out to Goolab Singh and his gouty foot in that moment, as I thought: crocked, bigod, and only one leg to run with. Jassa had me by the shoulders; he let out a piercing whistle and suddenly there was a man on my other side, stooping beneath my arm. Between them they half-carried me, howling at every step; two shots sounded somewhere to my left, I saw pistol-flashes in the gloom, people were yelling, branches whipped my face as we blundered along, and then we were in an alley, a mounted man was alongside, and Jassa was heaving me almost bodily up behind. I clasped the rider round the waist, turning to look back, and there was Bibi Kalil's gate, and a cowled black figure was cutting with a sabre at someone within and then sprinting after us.

The alley seemed to be full of horsemen—in fact there were only four, including Jassa. Voices were yelling behind us, feet were pounding, a torch was flaring in the gateway—and then we were round the corner.

"Gently does the trick," says Jassa, at my elbow. "They ain't horsed. You doing well there, lieutenant? Right, jemadar, walk-march—trot!" He urged his beast ahead, and we swung in behind him.

However he came there, he was a complete hand, our Philadelphia sawbones. Left to myself I'd have been off full tilt, blundering heaven knows where and coming to grief like as not. Jassa knew just where he wanted to go, and what time he had in hand; we trotted round a corner into a little court which I recognised as the one in which Goolab and I had opened the batting, and lo! there were two more riders on post, and to my astonishment I recognised them, and my rescuers, as black robes of Alick Gardner's. Well, no doubt all would be made clear presently. They led the way up a long lane, and at the end Jassa reined in to look back—by George, there were torches entering the lane at a run, a bare fifty paces behind, and suddenly all my pain and fear and bewilderment vanished in overwhelming blind rage (as often hap-pens when I've been terrified to death, and reckon I'm safe). By God, I'd make 'em pay, the vile, torturing scoundrels; there was a pistol in my rider's saddle holster, and I plucked it out, bellowing, while Jassa demanded to know what the devil I was about.

"I'm going to kill one of those murdering bastards!" I roared. "Lay hands on me, you poxy vermin, you! Broil me on a damned gridiron, will you? Take that, you sons-of-bitches!" I blazed away, and had the satisfaction of seeing the torches scatter, though none of them went down.

"Say, won't that larn 'em, though!" cries Jassa. "You feel better now, lieutenant? You're sure—don't want to go back and burn their barn down? Fine—achha, jemadar, jildi jao!"

Which we did, at a steady canter in the broader ways, and at a walk in the twisting alleys, and as we rode I learned from Jassa what had brought my saviours at the eleventh hour.

He, it seemed, had been keeping a closer eye on me for weeks than ever I knew. He had spotted me leaving the Fort, and trailed me, wondering, to the French Soldiers' canteen and Bibi Kalil's house. Skulking in the shadows, he'd seen me received by the widow, and having a foul mind, supposed I was bedded for the night. Fortunately, he'd skulked farther, spied the Khalsa bigwigs downstairs, and realised that there was villainy afoot. Deciding that he could do nothing alone, he'd legged it for the Fort, and made straight for Gardner.

"I figured you were treed, and needed help in numbers. Alick was the only hope—he may not cotton to me, exactly, but when I told him how you were under the same roof as Maka Khan and the Akali, didn't he jump, just? Didn't come himself, though—bad policy for him to be seen crossing the Khalsa, don't you know? But he told off the jemadar and a detail, and we hit the leather. I scouted the house, but no sign of you. A couple of sentries perambulating in the garden, though, and then I heard you hollering from the back of the house. I took a quiet slant that way, and marked the window your noise seemed to be coming from—say, you're a right audible soldier, ain't you? After that, two of the jemadar's fellows smoothed out the sentries, and took station while he and I slipped along to your window—and here you are. They're cap-able, Alick's boys, no error. But what took you into that bear's den—and what in Creation were they doing to you?"

I didn't tell him. The events of the night were still a hideous jumble in my mind, and reaction had me in its grip. I was shaking so hard I barely kept the saddle, I wanted to vomit, and my ankle was throbbing with pain. Once again, when all seemed well, Lahore had become a nightmare, with enemies all about—the only bright side was that there seemed no lack of worthy souls eager to pluck me out of the soup. God bless America, if you like—they'd turned up trumps again, at no small risk to them-selves, for if the Khalsa got wind that Gardner was aiding enemies of the state, he'd be in queer street.

"Don't you fret about Alick!" snorts Jassa. "He's got more lives'n a cat, and more nuts on the fire than you can count. He's Dalip's man, and Jeendan's man, and best chums with Broadfoot, and he's Goolab Singh's agent in Lahore, and —"

Goolab Singh! That was another who took an uncommon interest in Flashy's welfare. I was beginning to feel like a fives pill being thrashed about in a four-hand fifteen-up, with my seams split and the twine showing. Well, to the devil with it, I'd had enough. I reined in and demanded of Jassa where we were going; I'd been half aware that we were threading our way through the alleys near the south wall, and once or twice we'd skirted under the wall itself; we'd passed the great Looharree Gate and the Halfmoon Battery and were abreast of the Shah Alumee, which meant we were holding east, and were no nearer the Fort than when we'd started. Not that I minded that.

"For I'm not going back there, I can tell you! Broadfoot can peddle his pack and be damned! This bloody place ain't safe —"

"That's what Gardner reckoned," says Jassa. "He thinks you should make tracks for British territory. You know the war's started? Yes, sir, the Khalsa's over the river at half a dozen places between Harree-ke-puttan and Ferozepore—eighty thousand horse, foot, and guns on a thirty-mile front. God knows where Gough is—halfway to Delhi with his tail between his legs if you believe the bazaar, but I doubt it."

Seven thousand at Ferozepore, I was thinking. Well, Littler was done for—Wheeler, too, with his pitiful five thousand at Ludhiana … unless Gough had managed to reinforce. I'd had no sure word for three weeks, but it didn't seem possible that he could have concentrated strongly enough to resist the overwhelming Sikh tide that was pouring over the Sutlej. I thought of the vast horde I'd seen on Maian Mir, the massed battalions of foot, the endless squadrons of horse, those superb guns … and of Gough frustrated at every turn by that ass Hardinge, our sepoys on the edge of desertion or mutiny, our piecemeal garrisons strung along the frontier and down the Meerut road. Now it had come, like a hammer-blow, and we'd been caught napping, as usual. Well, Gough had better have God on his side, for if he didn't … farewell, India.

Which mattered rather less to me than the fact that I was a fugitive with a game ankle in the heart of the enemy camp. So much for Broadfoot's idiot notions—I'd be safe in Lahore during hostilities, indeed! A fat lot of protection Jeendan could give me now, with the Khalsa wise to her treachery; it would be a tulwar, not a diamond, that would be decorating her pretty navel shortly.

"Moochee Gate," says Jassa, and over the low hovels I saw the towers ahead and to our right. We were approaching a broad street leading down to the gate, and the mouth of the alley was crowded with bystanders, even at that time of night, all craning to see; a band of music was playing a spirited march, there was the steady tramp of feet, and down the avenue to the gate came three regiments of Khalsa infantry—stalwart musketeers in white with black cross-belts, their pieces at the shoulder, bayonets fixed; then Dogra light infantry in green, with white trousers, muskets at the trail; a battalion of spearmen in white flowing robes, their sashes bristling with pistols, their broad turbans wound round steel caps surmounted by green plumes. They swung along with a fierce purpose that made my heart sink, the flaring cressets on the wall glittering on that forest of steel as it passed under the arch, the girls showering them with petals as they passed, the chi-cos striding alongside, shrilling with delight—half Lahore seemed to have left its bed that night to see the troops march away to join their comrades on the river.

As each regiment approached the arch it gave a great cheer, and I thanked God for the shadows as I saw that they were saluting a little knot of mounted officers in gorgeous coats, with the rotund figure of Tej Singh at their head. He was wearing a puggaree as big as himself, and enough jewellery to start a shop; he shook a sheathed tulwar over his head in response to the troops' weapons brandished in unison as they chanted: "Khalsa-ji! Wa Guru-ji ko Futteh! To Delhi! To London! Victory!"

After them came cavalry, regular units, lancers in white and dragoons in red, jingling by, and finally a baggage train of camels, and Tej left off saluting, the band gave over, and people turned away to the booths and grog shops. Jassa told the jemadar to have the riders follow us singly, and then my rider dismounted and Jassa began to lead my beast down towards the gate.

"Hold on," says I. "Where away?"

"That's your way home, wouldn't you say?" says he, and when I reminded him that I was all in, dry, famished, and one-legged, he grinned all over his ugly mug and said that would be attended to directly, I'd see. So I let him lead on under the great arch, past the spearmen standing guard in their mail coats and helms; my puggaree, like my sword and pepperbox, had gone during the evening's activities, but one of the riders had lent me a cloak with a hood, which I kept close about my face; no one gave us a second glance.

Beyond the gate were the usual shanties and hovels of the beggars, but farther out on the maidan a few camp fires were winking, and Jassa made for one beside a little grove of white poplars, where a small tent was pitched, with a couple of horses picketed close by. The first streak of dawn was lightening the sky to the east, silhouetting the camels and wagons on the southern road; the night air was dry and bitter cold, and I was shivering as we reached the fire. A man squatting on a rug beside it rose at our approach, and before I saw his face I recognised the long rangy figure of Gardner. He nodded curtly to me, and asked Jassa if there had been any trouble, or pursuit.

"Now, Alick, you know me!" cries that worthy, and Gardner growled, that he did, and how many signatures had he forged along the way. The same genial Gurdana Khan, I could see—but just the sight of that fierce eye and jutting nose made me feel safe for the first time that night.

"What's wrong with your foot?" snaps he, as I climbed awkwardly down and leaned, wincing, on Jassa. I told him, and he swore.

"You have a singular gift for making the sparks fly upward! Let's have a look at it." He prodded, making me yelp. "Damnation! It'll take days to mend! Very well, Doctor Harlan, there's cold water in the chatti—let's see you exercise the medical skill that was the talk of Pennsylvania, I don't doubt! There's curry in the pan, and coffee on the fire."

He picketed the horse while I wolfed curry and chapattis and Jassa bound my ankle with a cold cloth; it was badly sprained and swollen like a football, but he had a soothing touch and made it feel easier. Gardner came back to squat cross-legged beyond the fire, drinking coffee with the aid of his iron neck-clamp and eyeing me sourly. He'd left off his bumbee tartan rig, no doubt to avoid notice, and wore a cowled black robe, with his Khyber knife across his knees: a damned discouraging sight all round, with questions to match.

"Now, Mr Flashman," growls he. "Explain yourself. What folly took you among the Khalsa—and at such a time, too? Well, sir—what were you doing in that house?"

I knew I would be relying on him for my passage home, so I told him—all of it, from the false message to Jassa's rescue, and he listened with a face like flint. The only interruption came from Jassa, when I mentioned my encounter with Goolab Singh.

"You don't say! The old Golden Hen! Now what would he be doing so far from Kashmir?" Gardner rounded on him.

"Minding his own dam' business! And you'll do like-wise, Josiah, you hear me? Not a word about him! Yes … while I think on it, you'd best take yourself out of earshot."

"That's for Mr Flashman to say!" retorts Jassa.

"Mr Flashman agrees with me!" barks Gardner, fixing me with a cold eye, so I nodded, and Jassa loafed off in a pet. "He did well by you tonight," says Gardner, watching him go, "but I still wouldn't trust him across the street. Go on."

I finished my tale, and he observed with grim satisfaction that it had all fallen out for the best. I said I was glad he thought so, and pointed out that it wasn't his arse that had been toasted over a slow fire. He just grunted.

"Maka Khan'd never ha' gone through with it. He'd try to scare you, but torture isn't his style."

"The devil it ain't! Good God, man, I was half-broiled, I tell you! Those swine would have stopped at nothing! Why, they roasted my punkah-wallah to death —"

"So they told you. Even if they did, a no-account nigger's one thing, a white officer's another. Still, you were lucky … thanks to Josiah. Yes, and to Goolab Singh."

I asked him why he thought Goolab and the widow had taken such risks on my behalf, and he stared at me as though I were half-witted.

"He told you plain enough, I'd say! The more good turns he does the British, the better they'll like him. He's promised to stand by 'em in the war, but protecting you is worth a thousand words. He's counting on you to do him credit with Hardinge—and you do it, d'you hear? Goolab's an old fox, but he's a brave man and a strong ruler, and deserves to have your people confirm him as king in Kashmir when this war's over."

It seemed to me he was being optimistic in thinking we'd be in a position to confirm anyone in Kashmir when the Khalsa had done with us, but I didn't care to croak in front of a Yankee, so I said offhand: "You think we'll beat the Khalsa quite handily, then?"

"There'll be some damned long faces in Lahore Fort if you don't," says he bluntly, and before I could ask him to explain that bewildering remark, he added: "But you'll be able to watch the fight from the ringside yourself, before the week's out."

"I don't see that," says I. "I agree I can't stay in Lahore, but I'm in no case to ride for the frontier in a hurry, either—not with this confounded leg. I mean, even in disguise, you never know—I might have to cut and run, and I'd rather have two sound pins for that, what?" So you'd best find me a safe, comfortable spot to lie up in meanwhile, was what I was hinting, and waited for him to agree. He didn't.

"We can't wait for your leg to mend! This war is liable to be won and lost in a few days at most—which means you must be across the Sutlej without delay, even if you have to be carried!" He glared at me, whiskers bristling. "The fate of India may well depend on that, Mr Flashman!"

The sun couldn't have got him, not in December, and he wasn't tight. Tactfully I asked him how the fate of India came into it, since I had no vital intelligence to take with me, and my addition to the forces of the Company, while no doubt welcome in its small way, could hardly be decisive.

"Forces of the Company my aunt's petticoat!" snarls he. "You're going in with the Khalsa!"

If life has taught me anything at all, it's how to keep my countenance in the presence of strong, authoritative men whose rightful place is in a padded cell. I've known a power of them, to my cost, and Alick Gardner's a minor figure in a list that includes the likes of Bismarck, Palmerston, Lincoln, Gordon, John Charity Spring, M.A., George Custer, and the White Raja, to say nothing of my beloved mentor, Dr Arnold, and my old guv'nor (who did end his days in a blue-devil factory, bless him). Many of them men of genius, no doubt, but all sharing the delusion that they could put any proposal, however lunatic, to young Flashy and make him like it. There's no arguing with such fellows, of course; all you can do, if you're lucky, is nod and say: "Well, sir, that's an interesting notion, to be sure—just before you tell me more about it, would you excuse me for a moment?" and once you're round the corner, make for the high ground. I've seldom had that chance, unfortunately, and there's nothing for it but to sit with an expression of attentive idiocy trying to figure a way out. Which is what I did with Gardner while he elaborated his monstrous suggestion.

"You're going with the Khalsa," says he, "to ensure its defeat. It's doomed and damned already, thanks to Mai Jeendan—but you can make it certain."

You see what I mean—the man was plainly must,*(*Must is the madness of the rogue elephant. Doolali=insane, from Deolali Camp, inland from Bombay, where generations of British soldiers (including the editor) were received in India, and supposedly were affected by sunstroke. doolali, afflicted of Allah, too long in the hills altogether—but one doesn't like to say so, straight out, not to a chap who affects tartan pants and has a Khyber knife across his lap. So I avoided the main point for a lesser but equally curious one.

"I don't quite follow, Gardner, old fellow," says I. "You say the Khalsa's doomed … and it's Jeendan's doing? But … she never wanted this war, you know. She's been working to avoid it—hocussing the Khalsa, delaying 'em, holding 'em back. They know it, too—Maka Khan told me. And now they've broken loose, in spite of her —"

"In spite of … why, you jackass!" cries he, glaring like the Ancient Mariner. "She started it! Don't you under-stand—she's been planning this war for months! Why? To destroy the Khalsa, of course—to see it exterminated, root and branch! Sure, she held 'em back—until the cold weather, until she'd fixed it so they have the worst possible generals, until she'd bought time for Gough! But not to avoid war, no sir! Just to make sure that when she did send 'em in, the Khalsa would get whipped five ways to Sunday! Don't you know that?"

"Talk sense—why should she want to destroy her own army?"

"Because if she doesn't, it will sure as hell destroy her in the end!" He fetched a deep breath. "See here … you know the Khalsa's gotten too big for its britches, don't you? For six years it's been ruining the Punjab, defying government, doing as it dam' well pleases —"

"I know all that, but —"

"Well, don't you see, the ruling clique—Jeendan and the nobles—have had their power and fortunes wiped out, their very existence threatened? So of course they want the Khalsa crushed—and the only force on earth that can do that is John Company! That's why they've been trying to provoke a war—that's why Jawaheer wanted one! But they murdered him—and that's another score Mai Jeendan has to settle. You remember her that night at Maian Mir, don't you? She was sentencing the Khalsa then, Mr Flashman—now she's executing them!"

I remembered her screaming hate at the Khalsa over Jawaheer's body—but Gardner still wasn't making sense. "Dammit, if the Khalsa goes under, she'll go with it!" I protested. "She's their queen—and you say she's set them on! Well, if they lose, she'll be finished, won't she?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "Son, it won't even take the dander out of her hair. When they lose, she's won. Consider … Britain doesn't want to conquer the Punjab—too much trouble. It just wants it nice and quiet, with no Khalsa running wild, and a stable Sikh government who'll do what Hardinge tells 'em. So … when the Khalsa's licked, your chiefs won't annex the Punjab—no, sir! They'll find it convenient to keep little Dalip on the throne, with Jeendan as regent—which means that she and the nobles will be riding high again, squeezing the fat out of the country just like old times—and with no Khalsa to worry about."

"Hold on! Are you saying that this war's a put-up job—that they know, in Simla, that Jeendan is hoping we'll destroy her army, for her own benefit? I won't have that! Why, it'd be collusion … conspiracy … aiding and abetting —"

"No such thing! Oh, they know in Simla what she's after—or they suspect, leastways. But what can they do about it? Give the Khalsa free passage to Delhi?" He snorted. "Hardinge's got to fight, whether he likes it or not! And while he may not welcome the war, there are plenty of `forward policy' men like Broadfoot who do. But that doesn't mean they're in cahoots with Mai Jeendan—the way she's fixed things, they don't need to be!"

I sat silent, trying to take it in … and feeling no end of a fool. Evidently I had misjudged the lady. Oh, I'd guessed there was steel inside my drunken, avid little houri, but hardly of the temper that could slaughter scores of thousands of men just for her own political convenience and personal comfort. Mind you, what other reasons do statesmen and princes ever have for making war, when all the sham's been stripped away? Oh, and she had her sot of a brother to avenge, to be sure. But I wondered if her calculations were right; I could spot one almighty imponderable, and I voiced it to Gardner, whether it sounded like croaking or not.

"But suppose we don't beat the Khalsa? How can she be so sure we will? There's a hell of a lot of 'em, and we're spread thin … Wait, though! Maka Khan was in a great sweat in case she'd betrayed their plans of campaign! Well, has she?"

Gardner shook his head. "She's done better than that. She's put the conduct of the war in the hands of Lal Singh, her Wazir and lover, and Tej Singh, her commander-in-chief who'd set fire to his own mother to keep warm." He nodded grimly. "They'll see to it that Gough doesn't have too much trouble."

Suddenly I remembered Lal Singh's words to me … "I wonder how we should acquit ourselves against such a seasoned campaigner as Sir Hugh Gough …?"

"My God," says I, with reverence. "You mean they're ready to … to fight a cross? To sell the pass? But … does Gough know? I mean, have they arranged with him -?"

"No, sir. That's your part. That's why you have to join the Khalsa." He leaned forward, the hawk face close to mine. "You're going to Lal Singh. By tomorrow he'll be lying before Ferozepore with twenty thousand gorracharra. He'll tell you his plans, and Tej Singh's—numbers, armaments, dispositions, intentions, all of it—and you'll carry them to Gough and Hardinge. And then … well, it should be an interesting little war … what's the matter?"

I'd been struggling for speech during this fearful recital, but when I found words it wasn't to protest, or argue, or scream, but to pose a profound military question:

"But … hell's bells! Look here … they can give away plans—arrange for a few regiments to go astray—lose a battle on purpose, I dare say … But, man alive, how do they betray an army of a hundred thousand men? I mean … how d'you sell a whole war?"

"It'll take management, no denying. As I said, an interesting little war." He tossed another billet on the fire, and rose. "When it's over, and you're back in Lahore with the British peace mission—you can tell me all about it."

My first thought, as I sat by the fire with my head in my hands, was: this is Broadfoot's doing. He's planned the whole hideous thing, start to finish, and kept me in the dark till the last moment, the treacherous, crooked, conniving, Scotch … political! Well, I was doing him an injustice; for once, George was innocent. He might welcome the war, as Gardner had said, and have a shrewd notion that Jeendan was launching the Khalsa in the hope of seeing it wrecked, but neither he nor anyone else in Simla knew that the Sikhs' two leading commanders were under her orders to give the whole game away. Nor could he guess the base use that was being made of his prize agent, Lieutenant Flashman, late 11th Hussars, in this hour of crisis.

The notion that I should be the messenger of betrayal had been another inspiration of Jeendan's, according to Gardner. How long she'd had me in mind for the role of go-between, he didn't know; she'd confided it to him only the previous day, and he and Mangla would have brought me my marching orders that same night—if I hadn't been away gallivanting with the Khalsa and Goolab and the merry widow. Most inconsiderate of me, but all's ill that ends ill—here I was still, ankle crocked and guts fermenting with fright, meet to be hurled into the soup in furtherance of that degenerate royal doxy's intrigues, and no way to cry off that I could see.

I tried, you may be sure, pleading my ankle, and the impossibility of taking orders from any but my own chiefs, and the folly of venturing again among enemies who'd already toasted me to a turn—Gardner answered every objection with the blunt fact that someone had to take Lal's plans to Gough, and no one else had my qualifications. It was my duty, says he, and if you wonder that I bowed to his authority—well, take a squint at the portrait in his Memoirs; that should convince you.

I'm still not sure, by the way, exactly where his loyalties lay. To Dalip and Jeendan, certainly: what she ordered, he performed. But he played a staunch game on our behalf, too, and on Goolab Singh's. When I ventured to ask him where he stood, he looked down that beak of a nose and snapped: "On my own two feet!" So there.

He had Jeendan's infernal scheme all pat, and after I'd had a couple of hours' sleep and Jassa had rebound my swollen ankle, he lined it out to me; horrid risky it sounded.

"You ride straight hence to Lal's camp beyond the Sutlej, with four of my men as escort, all of you disguised as gorracharra. Ganpat there will act as leader and spokesman; he's a safe man. This was his jemadar, a lean Punjabi with an Abanazar moustache; he and the half-dozen other riders had come out from the city by now, and were loafing round the fire, chewing betel and spitting, while Gardner bullied me privately.

"You'll arrive by night, presenting yourselves as messengers from the durbar; that'll see you into Lal's presence. He'll be expecting you; word of mouth goes to him today from Jeendan."

"Suppose Maka Khan or that bloody Akali turn up—they'll recognise me straight off —"

"They'll be nowhere near! They're infantrymen—Lal commands only cavalry and horse guns. Besides, no one's going to know you in gorracharra gear—and you won't be in their camp long enough to signify. A few hours at most—just long enough to learn what Lal and Tej mean to do."

"They'll take Ferozepore," says I. "That's plain. They're bound to put Littler out of the game before Gough can relieve him."

He gave an impatient snarl. "That's what they'd do if they wanted to win the goddam war! They don't! But their brigadiers and colonels do, so Lal and Tej are going to have to look as though they're trying like hell! Lal's going to have to think of some damned good reason for not storming Ferozepore, and since he's a duffer of a soldier as well as a yellow-belly, he's liable to go cross-eyed if his subordinates present him with a sound plan … Now what?"

"It won't do!" I bleated. "Maka Khan told me the Khalsa already suspect them of disloyalty. Well, heavens above, the moment Lal makes a move, or gives an order, even, that looks fishy … why, they'll see he's pissing on his own wicket!"

"Will they? Who's to say what's a fishy move, or why it's being made? You were in Afghanistan—how many times did Elphinstone do the sensible thing, tell me that? He was always wrong, godammit!"

"Yes, but that was fat-headedness—not treachery!"

"Who knows the difference, confound it? You did what you were told, and so will the Khalsa colonels! What do they know, if they're told to march from A to B, or retire from C, or open a candy store at D? They can't see the whole canvas, only their own corner of it. Sure, they know Lal and Tej are cowardly rascals who'd turn tail sooner than eat, but they're still bound to obey." He gnawed his whiskers, growling. "I said it'll take managing, by Lal and Tej—and by Gough, once he's learned from you what they're about." He stabbed me with a bony finger. "From you—that's the point! If Lal sent a native agent, promising betrayal, Gough wouldn't give him the time of day. But he knows you, and can trust what you tell him!"

And much good it would do him, I thought, for however Lal and Tej mismanaged the Khalsa, they couldn't alter its numbers, or the zeal of its colonels, or the quality of its soldiers, or the calibre of its guns. They might supply Gough with full intelligence, but he was still going to have to engage and break a disciplined army of a hundred thousand men, with a Company force one-third the size and under-gunned. I'd not have wagered two pice on his chances.

But then, you see, I didn't know him. For that matter, I didn't know much about war: Afghanistan had been a rout, not a campaign, and Borneo an apprenticeship in piracy. I'd never seen a pukka battle, or the way a seasoned commander (even one as daft as Paddy Gough) can manage an army, or the effect of centuries of training and discipline, or that phenomenon which I still don't understand but which I've watched too often to doubt: the British peasant looking death in the face, and hitching his belt, and waiting.

My chief concern, of course, was the prospect of venturing into the heart of the Khalsa and conspiring with a viper like Lal Singh—with a game leg to prevent me lighting out at speed if things went amiss, as they were bound to do. Even sitting a mount hurt like sin, and to make matters worse, Gardner said Jassa must stay behind. I couldn't demur: half the Punjab knew that crafty phiz, and that he was my orderly. But he'd pulled me clear twice now, and I'd feel naked without him.

"Broadfoot needs a foot on the ground here, anyway," says Gardner. "Never fear, dear Josiah will be safe under my wing—and under my eye. While the war lasts I'm to be governor of Lahore—which between ourselves is liable to consist of protecting Mai Jeendan when her disappointed soldiery come pouring back over the river. Yes, sir—we surely earn our wages." He surveyed me in my gorracharra outfit, of which the most important part was a steel cap, like a Roundhead's, with long cheek-pieces that helped conceal my face. "You'll do. Let your beard grow, and leave the talking to Ganpat. You'll make Kussoor this afternoon; lie up there and go down to the river ghat after dark and you should fetch up with Lal Singh around dawn tomorrow. I'll ride along with you a little ways."

We set off, the six of us, at about ten o'clock, riding parallel with the south road. It was heavy with traffic for the Khalsa—baggage and ration carts, ammunition wagons, even teams of guns, for we were riding with the rearguard of the army, a vast host spread across the dusty plain, moving slowly south and east. Ahead of us the doab*(*The name given to the tracts between the rivers of the Punjab.) would be alive with the main body as far as the Sutlej, beyond which Lal Singh was already investing Ferozepore and Tej Singh's infantry would be advancing … whither? We rode at a fast trot, which troubled my ankle, but Gardner insisted we must keep up the pace if I was to reach Lal in time.

"He's been over the Sutlej two days now. Gough must be moving, and Lal's going to have to take order pretty sharp, or his colonels will want to know why. I only hope," says Gardner grimly, "that the weak-kneed son-of-a-bitch doesn't run away—in which case we might just have the gorracharra under the command of someone who knows what the hell he's doing."

The more I thought of it, the madder the whole thing sounded—but the maddest part of it was still to be revealed. We'd made our noon halt, and Gardner was turning back to Lahore, but first he rode a little way apart with me to make sure I had it all straight. We were on a little knoll about a furlong from the road, along which a battalion of Sikh infantry was marching, tall stalwarts all in olive green, with their colonel riding ahead, colours flying, drums beating, bugles sounding a rousing air. Gardner may have said something to prompt my question, but I don't recall; at any rate, I asked him:

"See here … I know the Khalsa's been spoiling for this—but if they know their own maharani has been conspiring with the enemy, and suspect their own commanders … well, even the rank and file must have a shrewd idea their rulers want to see 'em beat. So … why are they allowing themselves to be sent to war at all?"

He pondered this, and gave one of his rare wintry smiles. "They reckon they can whip John Company. Whoever may be crossing or betraying 'em, don't matter—they think they can be champions of England. In which case, they'll be the masters of Hindoostan, with an empire to plunder. Maybe Mai Jeendan has that possibility in mind, too, and figures she'll win, either way. Oh, she could charm away the suspicions of treason; most of 'em still worship her. Another reason they have for marching is that they believe you British will invade them sooner or later, so they might as well strike first."

He paused for a moment, frowning, and then said: "But that's not the half of it. They're going to war because they've taken their oaths to Dalip Singh Maharaja, and he's sent them out in his name—never mind who put the words in his mouth. So even if they knew they were doomed beyond a doubt … they'd go to the sacrifice." He turned to look at me. "You don't know the Sikhs, sir. I do. They'll fight their way to hell and back … for that little boy. And for their salt."

He sat gazing across the plain, where the marching battalion was disappearing into the heat haze, the sun twinkling on the bayonets, the sound of the bugles dying away. He shaded his eyes, and it was as though he was talking to himself.

"And when the Khalsa's beat, and Jeendan and her noble crew are firm in the saddle again, and the Punjab's quiet under Britannia's benevolent eye, and little Dalip's getting his hide tanned at Eton College … why then"—he gestured towards the road—"then, sir, John Company will find he has a hundred thousand of the best recruits on earth, ready to fight for the White Queen. Because that's their trade. And it'll all have turned out best for everybody, I guess. Lot of good men will have died first, though. Sikh. Indian. British." He glanced at me, and nodded. "That's why Hardinge has held off all this time. He's probably the only man in India who thinks the price is too high. Now it's going to be paid."

He was a strange bird this—all bark and fury most of the time, then quiet and philosophical, which sorted most oddly with his Ghazi figurehead. He chucked the reins and wheeled his pony. "Good luck, soldier. Give my salaams to old Georgie Broadfoot."

I've never cared, much, for service with foreign forces. At best it's unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and the rations are liable to play havoc with your innards. The American Confederates weren't bad, I suppose, bar their habit of spitting on carpets, and the worst I can say of the Yankees is that they took soldiering seriously and seemed to be under the impression that they had invented it. But the Malagassy army, of which I was Sergeant-General, was simply disgusting; the Apaches stink and know dam' all about camp discipline; no one in the Foreign Legion speaks decent French, the boots don't fit, and the bayonet scabbard is a clanking piece of scrap. All round, the only aliens in whose military employ I could ever be called happy were the Sky-Blue Wolves of Khokand—and that was only because I was full of hashish administered by their general's mistress after I'd rogered her in his absence, As for the Khalsa, the one good thing about my service in its ranks (or perhaps I should say on its general staff) was that it was short and to the point.

I count it from the moment we set out south, the six of us in column of twos, gorracharra to the life in our oddments of mail and plate and eccentric weapons; Gardner had furnished me with two pistols and a sabre, and while I'd have swapped the lot for my old pepperbox, I consoled myself that with luck I'd never need to use them.

I was in two minds as we cantered down towards Loolianee. On the one hand, I was relieved to elation at leaving the horrors of Lahore behind me; when I thought of that hellish gridiron, and Chaund Cour's bath, and the ghastly fate of Jawaheer, even the knowledge that I was venturing into the heart of the Khalsa didn't seem so fearful. A glance at the scowling unshaven thug reflected in Gardner's pocket mirror had told me that I needn't fear detection; I might have come straight from Peshawar Valley and no questions asked. And Lal Singh, being up to his arse in treason, would be sure to speed me on my way in quick time; in two days at most I'd be with my own people again—with fresh laurels, too, as the Man Who Brought the News that Saved the Army. If it did save it, that is.

That was t'other side of the coin, and as we rode into the thick of the invading army, all my old fears came flooding back. We kept clear of the road, which was choked with transport trains, but even on the doab we found ourselves riding through regiment after regiment marching in open order across the great sunbaked plain. Twice, as you know, I'd seen the Khalsa mustered, but it seemed that the half hadn't been shown unto me: now they covered the land to the horizon, men, wagons, horses, camels, and elephants, churning up the red dust into a great haze that hung overhead in the windless air, making noontide like dusk and filling the eyes and nostrils and lungs. When we came to Kussoor late in the afternoon, it was one great park of artillery, line upon line of massive guns, 32 and 48 pounders—and I thought of our pathetic 12 and 16 pounders and horse artillery, and wondered how much use Lal's betrayal would be. Well, whatever befell, I'd just have to play my game leg for all it was worth, and keep well clear of the action.

There's great debate, by the way, about how large the Khalsa was, and how long it took to cross the Sutlej, but the fact is that even the Sikhs don't know. I reckoned about a hundred thousand were on the move from Lahore to the river, and I know now that they'd been crossing in strength for days and already had fifty thousand on the south bank, while Gough and Hardinge were trying to scramble their dispersed thirty thousand together. But muster rolls don't win wars. Concentration does—not only getting there fustest with the mostest, as the chap said, but bringing 'em to bear in the right place. That's the secret—and if you run into Lars Porsena he'll be the first to tell you.²⁹

At the time, I only knew what I could see—camp fires all about us in a vast twinkling sea as we came down by night to the Ferozepore ghat. Even in the small hours they were swarming over the ferry in an endless tide; great burning bales had been set on high poles on either bank, glaring red on the three hundred yards of oily water, and men and guns and beasts and wagons were being poled across on anything that could float—barges and rafts and even rowing boats. There were whole regiments waiting in the dark to take their turn, and the ghat itself was Bedlam, but Ganpat thrust ahead, bawling that we were durbar couriers, and we were given passage in a fisher craft carrying a general and his staff. They ignored us poor gorracharra, and presently we came to the noisy confusion of the southern bank, and made our way by inquiry to the Wazir's headquarters.

Ferozepore itself lay a couple of miles or so from the river, with the Sikhs in between, and how far their camp extended up the south bank, God alone knows. They'd been crossing as far up as Hurree-ke, and I suppose they'd made a bridgehead of about thirty miles, but I ain't certain. As near as I've been able to figure, Lal's head-quarters lay about two miles due north of Ferozepore, but it was still dark when we passed through the lines of tent-lanes, all ablaze with torches. Most of his force were gorracharra, like ourselves, and my memory is of fierce bearded faces and steel caps, beasts stamping in the dark, and the steady throb of drums that they kept up all night, doubtless to encourage Littler in his beleaguered outpost two miles away.

Lal's quarters were in a pavilion big enough to hold Astley's circus—it even had smaller tents within it to house him and his retinue of staff and servants and personal bodyguard. These last were tall villains with long chainmail headdresses and ribbons on their muskets; they barred our way until Ganpat announced our business, which caused a great scurry and consultation with chamberlains and butlers. Although it was still the last watch, and the great man was asleep, it was decided to wake him at once, so we didn't have to wait above an hour before being ushered into his sleeping pavilion, a silken sanctum decked out like a bordello, with Lal sitting up naked in bed while one wench dressed his hair and combed his beard, another sprayed him with perfume, and a third plied him with drink and titbits.

I've never seen a man in such a funk in my life. At our previous meetings he'd been as cool, urbane, and commanding as a handsome young Sikh noble can be; now he was like a virgin with the vapours. He gave me one terrified glance and looked quickly away, his fingers tugging nervously at the bedclothes while the wenches completed his toilet, and when one of them dropped her comb he squealed like a spoiled child, slapped her, and drove them out with shrill curses. Ganpat followed them, and the moment he'd gone Lal was tumbling out of bed, hauling his robe about him and yammering at me in a hoarse whisper.

"Praise God you are here at last! I thought you would never come! What is to be done?" He was fairly quivering with fright. "I've been at my wits' end for two days—and Tej Singh is no help, the swine! He sits at Arufka, pretending he must supervise the assembly, and leaves me here alone! Everyone is looking to me for orders—what in God's name am Ito say to them?"

"What have you said already?"

"Why, that we must wait! What else can I say, man? But we can't wait forever! They keep telling me that Ferozepore can be plucked like a ripe fruit, if I will but give the word! And how can I answer them? How can I justify delay? I don't know!" He seized me by the wrist, pleading. "You are a soldier—you can think of reasons! What shall I tell them?"

I hadn't reckoned on this. I'd always thought myself God's own original coward, but this fellow could have given me ten yards in the hundred, and won screaming. Well, Gardner had warned me of that, and also that Lal might have difficulty thinking of reasons for not attacking Ferozepore—but I hadn't expected to find him at such a complete nonplus as this. The man was on the edge of hysterics, and plainly the first thing to be done was to calm his panic (before it infected me, for one thing) and find out how the land lay. I began by pointing out that I was an invalid—I'd only been able to limp into his presence with the aid of a stick—and that my first need was food, drink, and a doctor to look at my ankle. That took him aback—it always does, when you remind an Oriental of his manners—and his women were summoned to bring refreshments while a little hakim clucked over my swollen joint and said I must keep my bed for a week. What they thought, to see a hairy gorracharra sowar treated with such consideration by their Wazir, I don't know. Lal fretted up and down, and couldn't wait to drive them out again, and renew his appeals for guidance.

By that time I'd got my thoughts into some order, at least as far as his Ferozepore dilemma was concerned. There are always a hundred good reasons for doing nothing, and I'd hit on a couple—but first I must have information. I asked him how many men he had ready to march.

"At hand, twenty-two thousand cavalry—they are lying a bare mile from Ferozepore, with the enemy lines in full view, I tell you! And Littler Sahib has a bare seven thousand—only one British regiment, and the rest sepoys ready to desert to us! We know this from some who have already come over!" He gulped at his cup, his teeth chattering on the rim. "We could overrun him in an hour! Even a child can see that!"

"Have you sent messengers to him?"

"As if I would dare! Who could I trust? Already these Khalsa bastards look at me askance—let them suspect that I traffic with the enemy, and …" He rolled his eyes and flung his cup away in a passion. "And that drunken bitch in Lahore gives me no help, no orders! While she couples with her grooms, I wait to be butchered like Jawaheer —"

"Now, see here, Wazir!" says I roughly, for his whining was starting to give me the shakes. "You take hold, d'you hear? Your position ain't all that desperate —"

"You see a way out?" quavers he, clutching at me again. "Oh, my dear friend, I knew you would not fail me! Tell me, tell me, then—and let me embrace you!"

"You keep your bloody distance," says I. "What's Littler doing?"

"Fortifying his lines. Yesterday he came out with his whole garrison, and we thought he meant to attack us, and held our ground. But my colonels say it was a feint to gain time, and that I must storm his trenches! Oh, God, what can I —"

"Hold on—he's entrenched, you say? Is he still digging? Capital—you can tell your colonels he's mining his defences!"

"But will they believe me?" He wrung his hands. "Sup-pose the deserters deny it?"

"Why should you trust deserting sepoys? How d'ye know Littler hasn't sent 'em to give you false reports of his strength, eh? To lure you into attacking him? Ferozepore's a ripe fruit, is it? Come, raja, you know the British—foxy bastards, every one of us! Deuced odd, ain't it, that we've left a weak garrison, cut off, just asking to be attacked, what?"

He stared wide-eyed. "Is this true?"

"I doubt it—but you don't know that," says I, warming to my work. "Anyway, it's a dam' good reason to give your colonels for not attacking headlong. Now then, what force has Tej Singh, and where?"

"Thirty thousand infantry, with heavy guns, behind us along the river." He shuddered. "Thank God I have only light artillery—with heavy pieces I should have no excuse for not blowing Littler's position to rubble!"

"Never mind Littler! What news of Gough?"

"Two days ago he was at Lutwalla, a hundred miles away! He will be here in two days—but word is that he has scarcely ten thousand men, only half of them British! If he comes on, we are sure to defeat him!" He was almost crying, wrenching off his beard net and trembling like a fever case. "What can I do to prevent it? Even if I give reasons for not taking Ferozepore, I cannot avoid battle with the Jangi lat! Help me, Flashman bahadur! Tell me what I must do!"

Well, this was a real facer, if you like. Gardner, for all his misgivings about Lal, had been sure that he and Tej would have some scheme for leading their army to destruction—that was what I was here for, dammit, to carry their plans to Gough! And it was plain as a pikestaff that they hadn't any. And Lal expected me, a junior officer, to plot his own defeat for him. And as I stared at that shivering, helpless clown, it came to me with awful clarity that if I didn't, no one else would.

It ain't the kind of problem you meet every day. I doubt if it's ever been posed at Staff College … "Now then, Mr Flashman, you command an army fifty thousand strong, with heavy guns, well supplied, their lines of communication protected by an excellent river. Against you is a force of only ten thousand, with light guns, exhausted after a week's forced marching, short of food and fodder and damned near dying of thirst. Now then, sir, answer directly, no hedging—how do you lose, hey? Come, come, you've just given excellent reasons for not taking a town that's lying at your mercy! This should be child's play to a man with your God-given gift of catastrophe! Well, sir?"

Lal was gibbering at me, his eyes full of terrified entreaty—and I knew that if I wavered now it would be all up with him. He'd break, and his colonels would either hang or depose him, and put a decent soldier in his place—the very thing that Gardner had feared. And that would be the end of Gough's advancing force, and perhaps the war, and British India. And no doubt, of me. But if I could rally this spineless wreck, and think of some plan that would satisfy his colonels and at the same time bring the Khalsa to destruction … Aye, just so.

To gain time, I asked for a map, and he pawed among his gear and produced a splendid illuminated document with all the forts in red and the rivers in turquoise, and little bearded wallahs with tulwars chasing each other round the margin on elephants. I studied it, trying to think, and gripping my belt to keep my hand from trembling.

I've told you I didn't know much about war, in those days. Tactically, I was a novice who could bungle a section flanking movement with the worst of them—but strategy's another matter. At its simplest, it's mere common sense—and if the First Sikh War was anything, it was simple, thank God. Also, strategy seldom involves your own neck. So I conned the map, weighing the facts that Lal had given me, and applied the age-old laws that you learn in the school playground.

To win, the Khalsa need only take Ferozepore and wait for Gough to come and be slaughtered by overwhelming odds and big guns. To lose, they must be divided, and the weaker part sent to meet Gough with as little artillery as possible. If I could contrive that the first battle was on near level terms, or even odds of three to two against us, I'd have given Gough victory on a lordly dish. Daft he might, be, but he could still out-manoeuvre any Sikh commander, and if they didn't have their big guns along, British cavalry and infantry would do the business. Gough believed in the bayonet: give him a chance to use it, and the Khalsa were beat—in the first battle, at least. After that, Paddy would have to take care of the war himself.

So I figured, with the sweat cold on my skin, my ankle giving me hell's delight, and Lal mumping at my elbow. D'you know, that steadied me—encountering a liver whiter than my own. Well, it don't happen that often. This is what I told him:

"Call your staff together—generals and brigadiers, no colonels. Tej Singh as well. Tell 'em you won't attack Ferozepore, because it's mined, you don't trust the deserters' tale of Littler's weakness, and as Wazir it's beneath your dignity to engage anyone but the Jangi lat himself. Also, there's a risk that if you get embroiled with Littler, and Gough arrives early, you may be caught between two fires. Don't let 'em argue. Simply say that Ferozepore don't matter, d'you see—it can be wiped up when you've settled Gough. Lay down the law, high-handed. Very good?"

He nodded, rubbing his face and biting his knuckle—he had the wind up to such a tune that I swear if I'd told him to march on Ceylon, he'd have cried amen.

"Now, your gorracharra are deployed already—send them against Gough with their horse artillery, pointing out that they outnumber him two to one. You'll meet him somewhere between here and Woodnee, and if you detach some of your force to entrench at Ferozeshah or Sultan Khan Wallah, you'll reduce the odds, d'you see? Gough will do the rest —"

"But Tej Singh?" he bleated. "He has thirty thousand infantry, and the heavy guns —"

"He's to sit down here and watch Littler, in place of your gorracharra. Yes, yes, I know—that don't take thirty thousand men. He must divide his force in turn, leaving only enough to watch Ferozepore, while the rest follow you as slowly as Tej can decently arrange—it'll take him time to bring 'em down here from the river, and if he sets about it in the right spirit he can waste the best part of a week, I dare say —"

"But to divide the Khalsa?" goggles he. "It is not good strategy, surely? The generals will not permit —"

"To hell with the generals—you're the Wazir!" cries I. "It's bloody good strategy, you can tell 'em, to send your most mobile troops to meet the Jangi lat when he leasts expects 'em and his own men are so fagged they'll be marching on their chinstraps! Tej Singh will back you up, if you prime him first —"

"But suppose … suppose we beat the Jangi lat—he has only ten thousand, and as you say, they will be tired —"

"Tired or not, they'll tear your gorracharra to pieces if the odds ain't too heavy! And I doubt if Gough's as weak as you think. Good God, man, he's got another twenty thousand somewhere between Ludhiana and Umballa—he ain't going to send 'em on furlough, you know! And the Khalsa will be in three parts, don't you see? Well, none of those three parts is going to be a match for Paddy Gough's boys, let me tell you!"

I believed it, too, and if I wasn't altogether right it was because I lacked experience. I was trusting to the old maxim that one British soldier is worth any two niggers any day. It's a fair rule of thumb, mind you, but I can look back now on my military career and count four exceptions who always gave Atkins a damned good run for his money. Three of them were Zulu, John Gurkha, and Fuzzy-wuzzy. I wasn't to know, then, that the fourth one was the Sikh.

It took me another hour of explanation and argument to convince Lal that my scheme was his only hope of getting his army properly leathered. It was hard sledding, for he was the kind of coward who's too far gone even to clutch at straws—not my kind of funk at all. In the end I gave him Jeendan's recipe to Jawaheer, which you'll recall was to rattle a wench to put him in fighting trim, but whether Lal took it or not I can't say, for I caulked out in an alcove of his pavilion, and didn't wake until noon. By that time Tej Singh had arrived, still fat as butter and quite as reliable, to judge from the furtive enthusiasm with which he greeted me. But while he was every bit as windy as Lal, he was a sight smarter, and once the Flashman Plan had been expounded he hailed it as a masterpiece; let my directions be followed and Gough would have the Khalsa looking like a Frenchman's knapsack in no time, was Tej's view. I guessed that what really commended my scheme to him was that he'd be well away from the firing, but he showed a good grasp of the details, and had some sound notions of his own: one, I remember, was that he would take care to keep his guarding force on the north and west of Ferozepore, so that Littler would be able to slip away and join Gough without hindrance if he wanted to. That, as you'll see, proved to be of prime importance, so I reckon Tej earned himself a Ferozeshah medal for that alone, if everyone had his due.

You must imagine our conference being carried on in lowered voices in Lal's sleeping quarters, and a bonny trio we were. Our gallant Wazir, when he wasn't peeping out to make sure there were no eavesdroppers, was brisking himself up with copious pinches of Peshawar snuff which I suspect contained something a sight more stimulating than powdered tobacco; he seemed to take heart from the confidence of Tej Singh, who paced the apartment like Napoleon at Marengo, heaving his guts before him and tripping over his sabre while describing to me, in a gloating whisper, how the Khalsa would flee in disorder at the first setback; I lay nursing my ankle, trying to forget my own perilous situation and praying that Lal Singh could brow-beat his staff into obedience before the effect of the snuff wore off. I wonder if there was ever such a conspiracy in the history of war: two generals intent on scuppering their own army, confabulating sotto voce with an agent from the enemy, while their commanders waited impatiently out-side for the word that (with luck) would send them marching to ruin? You would think not, but knowing human nature and the military mind, I'd not wager on it.

I stayed hidden when Lal and Tej went out in the after-noon to announce their intentions to the divisional commanders. Lal was brave in silver armour, with a desperate glitter in his eye—half fear, half hashish, I would guess—and they held their conference on horseback, with Ferozepore in view. Tej told me later that the Wazir was in capital form, lining out my plan like a drill sergeant and snarling down any hint of opposition, of which there was less than I'd feared. The fact was, you see, that the strategy looked sound enough, but what impressed them most, apparently, was Lal's refusal to engage any commander except Gough himself. That argued pride and confidence, and they cheered him to the echo, and couldn't wait to get under way. The gorracharra were riding east before dusk, and Tej, by his own account, made a great meal of sending orders to mobilise his foot and guns, with gallopers riding in all directions, bugles blowing, and the Commander-in-Chief finally retiring to Lal's tent, having issued orders which with luck would take days to untangle.

The final scene of the comedy took place that night before I rode out. Lal was keen that I should make straight for Gough, to let him know what good boys Lal and Tej were being, offering up the Khalsa for destruction, but I wasn't having that. Gough might be anywhere over the eastern horizon, and I had no intention of hunting him through country which by now was swarming with gorracharra; far better, I said, if I rode the couple of miles to Ferozepore, where Littler would see that Gough got the glad news in good time (and Flashy could take a well-earned repose). Tej agreed, and said I should go under a flag of truce, ostensibly carrying the Wazir's final demand to Littler to surrender. Lal boggled at that, but Tej grew excited, pointing out the risk if I tried to sneak into Littler's lines unobserved.

"Suppose he were shot by a sentry?" squeaks he, waving his podgy hands. "Then the Jangi Iat would never know of our good will to him, or the plans we have made for the destruction of these Khalsa swine! And our dear friend"—that was me—"would have died in vain! It is not to be thought of!" I found myself liking Tej Singh's style better by the minute.

"But will the colonels not suspect treason, if they see a courier sent to Littler Sahib?" cries Lal. The puggle had worn off by now, and he was lying exhausted on his silken bed, fretting himself witless.

"They will not even know!" cries Tej. "And only think—once our dear bahadur has spoken with Littler Sahib, our credit with the Sirkar is assured! Whatever may hap-pen, our friendship will have been made plain!"

That was the great thing with him—to stand well with Simla, whatever happened to the Khalsa. He even pro-posed that I carry a written message, expressing Lal's undying devotion to the Sirkar; it would be so much more convincing than mere word of mouth. This so horrified Lal that he almost hid under the sheets.

"A written message? Are you mad? What if it went astray? Am I to sign my own death-warrant?" He flung about in a passion. "You write it, then! You announce your treason, over your signature! Why not, you're Commander-in-Chief, you fat tub of dung —"

"You are Wazir!" retorts Tej. "This is a high political affair, and what am I but a soldier?" He shrugged complacently. "You need say nothing of military matters; a mere expression of friendship will suffice."

Lal said he'd see him damned first, and they snarled and whined, with Lal weeping and tearing the bedclothes. Finally he gave in, and penned the following remarkable note to Nicolson, the political: "I have crossed with the Khalsa. You know my friendship for the British. Tell me what to do. ³⁰ He bilked at signing, though, and after more shrill bickering Tej turned to me.

"It will have to do. Tell Nicolson Sahib it is from the Wazir!"

"From both of us, you greasy bastard!" yelps Lal. "Make that clear, Flashman bahadur! Both of us! And tell them, in God's name, that we and the bibi sahiba*(*Jeendan.) are their loyal friends, and that we beg them to cut up these badmashes and burchast*(*Ruffians.) of the Khalsa, and free us all from this evil! Tell them that!"

So it was that in the small hours a gorracharra rider with a game leg and a white flag on his lance rode out of the Khalsa lines and down to Ferozepore, leaving behind two Sikh generals, one fat and frightened and t'other having hysterics with a pillow over his face, both conscious of duty well done, I don't doubt. As for me, I went half a mile and sat down under a thorn tree to wait for dawn; for one thing, now that I was so nearly home, I wanted a moment to study how best to wring credit out of my unexpected arrival with such momentous news, and for another, flag of truce or not, I wasn't risking a bullet from a nervous sepoy in the half-light. I was dog-tired, what with lack of sleep, funk, and bodily anguish, but I was a happy man, I can tell you—and happier yet, three hours later, when I'd been admitted by a sentry of the 62nd whose Whitechapel challenge was music to my ears, and hobbled painfully into the presence of Peter Nicolson, who'd seen me off across the Sutlej three months ago.

He didn't know me at first, and then he was on his feet, steadying me as I staggered artistically, bravely gritting my teeth against the agony of my ankle (which was feeling much better, by the way).

"Flashman! What on earth are you doin' here? Good lord, man, you're all in—are you wounded?"

"That don't matter!" gasps I, subsiding on his cot. "Small memento from a Khalsa dungeon, what? See here, Peter, there's no time to lose!" I shoved Lal's note at him, and gave him the marrow of the business in a few brief sentences, insisting that a galloper must ride to Gough at once to let him know that the Philistines were on the move and ready to be smitten hip and thigh. I didn't add "courtesy of H. Flashman", just then; that was a conclusion they could leap to presently.

He was a smart political, Nicolson: he grasped the thing at once, bawled for his orderly to fetch Colonel Van Cortlandt, pumped my hand in delight, said he could hardly credit it, but it was the finest piece of work he'd ever heard—I'd come through the Khalsa in disguise, been with Lal and Tej, made 'em split their forces, come away with their plans? Good God, he'd never heard the like, etc., etc.

Jallalabad all over again, thinks I contentedly, and while he strode out shouting that a galloper must ride directly to Littler, who was out on a reconnoitre, I heaved up for a dekko in the mirror over his washstand. Gad, I looked like the last survivor of Fort Nowhere … capital! I slumped back on the cot, and had to be revived with brandy when he and Van Cortlandt arrived, full of questions. I rallied gamely, and described in detail what I'd told Lal and Tej to do; Van Cortlandt, whom I'd heard of as a former mercenary with Runjeet Singh, and a knowing bird, just nodded grimly, while Nicolson slapped his forehead.

"Was ever such a pair of villains! Sellin' their own comrades, the dastards! My stars, it passes belief!"

"No, it don't," says Van Cortlandt. "It fits exactly with our information that the durbar wants the Khalsa destroyed—and with what I know of Lal Singh." He eyed me, frowning. "When did you learn they were ready to sell out? Did they approach you in Lahore?"

This was the moment for my tired boyish grin, with a little gasp as I moved my leg. I could have told 'em the whole horrid tale, and made their hair stand on end—but that ain't the way to do it, you see. Offhand and laconic, that's the ticket, and let their imaginations do the rest. I shook my head, weary-like.

"No, sir, I approached them … just a few hours ago, in their camp over there. I'd had word, two nights ago in Lahore, that they were ready to turn traitor —"

"Who told you?" demands Van Cortlandt.

"Perhaps I'd better not say, sir … just yet." I was shot if I was giving Gardner credit, when I'd done all the bloody work. "I reckoned I'd better get to Lal, and see what he was up to. But I had a spot o' trouble, getting clear of Lahore … fact is, if old Goolab Singh hadn't popped up in a tight corner —"

"Goolab Singh!" cries he incredulously.

"Why, yes—we had to cut our way out, you see, but he ain't as spry as he was … and I was rearguard, so to speak, and … well, the Khalsa's bulldogs laid hold of me —"

"You said somethin' about a dungeon!" cries Nicolson.

"Did I? Oh, aye …" I brushed it aside, and then bit my lip, shifting my foot. "No, no, don't fuss, Peter … I doubt if it's broken … just held me up a bit … ah!" I clenched my teeth, recovered, and spoke urgently to Van Cortlandt. "But, see here, sir … what happened in Lahore don't matter—or how I got to Lal! It's what he and Tej are doing now, don't you see? Sir Hugh Gough must be warned …

"He will be, never fear!" says Van Cortlandt, looking keen and noble. "Flashman …" He hesitated, nodded, and gave me a quick clap on the shoulder. "You lie down, young feller. Nicolson, we must see Littler as soon as he returns. Have two gallopers ready—this is one message that mustn't miscarry! Let's see that map . . if Gough's approaching Maulah, and the Sikhs have reached Ferozeshah, they should meet about Moodkee … in a few hours! Well … touch wood! In the meantime, young Flashman, we'll have that leg seen too … good lord, he's gone fast asleep!"

There was a pause. "Fellows often do, when they've had a bad time," says Nicolson anxiously. "God knows what he's been through. I say, d'you think the swine … tortured him? I mean, he didn't say so, but —"

"He's not the kind who would, from all I've heard," says Van Cortlandt. "Sale told me that after the Piper's Fort business they couldn't get a word out of him … about himself, I mean. Only about … his men. Heavens … he's just a boy!"

"Broadfoot says he's the bravest man he's ever met," says Nicolson reverently.

"There you are, then. Come on, let's find Littler."

You see what I mean? It would be all over camp within the hour, and the Army soon after. Good old Flashy's done it again—and this time, if I says it myself, didn't I deserve their golden opinions, even if I had been passing wind the whole way? I felt quite virtuous, and put on a game show, trying to struggle to my feet and having to be restrained, when they returned presently with Littler, a wiry old piece of teak who looked as though he'd swallowed the poker. He was very trim in spotless overalls, chin thrust out and hands behind his back as he ran a brisk eye over me. More compliments, thinks I—until he spoke, in a cold, level voice.

"Let me understand this. You say that twenty thousand Sikh cavalry are moving to attack the Commander-in-Chief … and this is at your prompting? I see." He took a deliberate breath through his thin nose, and I've seen kinder eyes on a cobra. "You, a junior political officer, took it upon yourself to direct the course of the war. You did not think fit, although you knew these two traitors were bent on courting defeat, to send or bring word to the nearest general officer—myself? So that their actions might be directed by someone of less limited military experience?" He paused, his mouth like a rat-trap. "Well, sir?"

I don't know what I thought, only what I said, once I'd recovered from the shock of the icy son-of-a-bitch's sarcasm. It was so unexpected that I could only blurt out: "There wasn't time, sir! Lal Singh was desperate—if I hadn't told him something, God knows what he'd have done!" Nicolson was standing mum; Van Cortlandt was frowning. "I … I acted as I thought best, sir!" I could have burst into tears.

"Quite so." It sounded like a left and right with a sabre. "And from your vast political experience, you are confident that the Wazir's . . desperation … was genuine—and that he has indeed acted on your ingenious instructions? He could not have been deceiving you, of course … and perhaps making quite other dispositions of his army?"

"With respect, sir," put in Van Cortlandt, "I'm quite sure —"

"Thank you, Colonel Van Cortlandt. I recognise your concern for a fellow political officer. Your certainty, however, is by the way. I am concerned with Mr Flashman's."

"Christ! Yes, I'm sure —"

"You will not blaspheme in my presence, sir." The steely voice didn't rise even a fraction. Deliberately he went on: "Well. We must hope that you are right. Must we not? We must resign ourselves to the fact that the fate of the Army rests on the strategic acumen of one self-sufficient subaltern. Distinguished in his way, no doubt." He gave me one last withering glance. "Unfortunately, that distinction has not been gained in command of any formation larger than a troop of cavalry."

I lost my head, and my temper with it. I can't explain it, for I'm the last man to defy authority—it may have been the sneering voice and supercilious eye, or the contrast with the decency of Van Cortlandt and Nicolson, or all the fear and pain and weariness of weeks boiling up, or the sheer injustice, when for once I'd done my best and my duty (not that I'd had any choice, I grant you) and this was the thanks I got! Well, it was the wrong side of enough, and I heaved half off the bed, almost weeping with rage and indignation.

"Damnation!" I bawled. "Very well—sir! What should I have done, then? It ain't too late, you know! Tell me what you'd have done, and I'll ride back to Lal Singh this very minute! He's still cowering in bed, I'll be bound, not two bloody miles away! He'll be glad to change his orders, if he knows they come from you—sir!"

I knew, even in my childish fury, that there wasn't a chance he'd take me at my word, or I'd have confined myself to cussing, you may be sure. Nicolson had me by the arm, begging me to be calm, and Van Cortlandt was muttering excuses on my behalf.

Littler didn't turn a hair. He waited until Nicolson had settled me. Then:

"I doubt if that would be prudent," says he quietly. "No. We can only wait upon events. Whether our messengers find Sir Hugh or not, he will still face the battle which you, Mr Flashman, have made inevitable." He moved forward to look at me, and his face was like flint. "If all goes well, he and his army will, very properly, receive the credit. If, on the other hand, he is defeated, then you, sir"—he inclined his head towards me—"will bear the blame alone. You will certainly be broken, probably imprisoned, possibly even shot." He paused. "Do not misunderstand me, Mr Flashman. The questions I have asked you are only those that will be put to you by the prosecution at your court-martial—a proceeding at which, let me assure you, I shall be the first witness on your behalf, to testify that, in my judgment, you have done your duty with exemplary courage and resource, and in the highest traditions of the service."

Unusual chap, Littler, and not only because he came from Cheshire, which not many people do, in my experience. I can't recall a man who so scared the innards out of me, and yet was so reassuring, all in one go. For he was right, you know. I had done the proper thing, and done it well—and much good it'd do me, whatever befell. If Gough was wiped up, they'd need a scapegoat, and who so handy as one of those cocky politicals whom the rest of the Army detested? Contrariwise, if the Khalsa was beat, the last thing John Bull would want to hear was that it had been managed by a dirty deal with two treacherous Sikh generals—where's the glory to Britannia's arms in that? So it would be kept quiet … as it has been, to this very day.

You may wonder, then, how I found any reassurance in Littler's tirade. Well, the thought of having that acid little iceberg in my corner, if it came to a court-martial, was decidedly comforting; I've prosecuted myself, and God be thanked I never ran into a defence witness like him. And Broadfoot would stand by me, and Van Cortlandt—and my Afghan reputation must tell in my favour. I got a whiff of that later in the day, when I was nursing my leg and chewing my nails on the verandah after tiffen, and heard Littler's three brigadiers talking behind the chick; Nicol-son must have been spreading the tale of my exploits, and they were full of it.

"Sikhs are doin' what Flashman told 'em? Off his own bat? I'll be damned! No end to the cheek o' these politicals."

"Not to Flashman's, anyway. Ask any woman in Simla."

"Oh? In the skirt line, is he? Odd, that … wife's a regular stunner. Seen her. Blonde gel, blue eyes." "She does sound a stunner, is she?"

"Tip-top, altogether."

"I say … lady's name. Not in the mess."

"Haven't mentioned her name. Just that she's a stunner. Money, too, I'm told."

"Scamps like Flashman always seem to get both. Noticed that."

"Popular chap, of course."

"Not with Cardigan. Kicked him out o' the Cherrypickers."

"Somethin' in the lad's favour. What for?"

"Don't recall. Feller like that, might be anythin'." "True. Well, God help him if Gough gets bowled out." "God will, you'll see. They can't break the man who saved Jallalabad."

"When did Cardigan do that?"

"Didn't. Flashman did. In '42. You were in Tenasserim."

"Was I? Ah, yes, I recollect now. He held some fort or other. Oh, they can't touch him, then."

"Dam' well think not. Public wouldn't stand for it." "Not if his wife's a stunner."

All of which was heartening, though I didn't care to hear Elspeth bandied about quite so freely. But it was still a long day, waiting in the baking heat of the Ferozepore lines, with the 62nd sweating in their red coats in the entrenchments, and the blue-jacketed sepoy gunners lying in the shade of their pieces, while only two miles away the sun twinkled on the arms of Tej Singh's mighty host. Littler and his staff spent all day in the saddle, riding out south-east to scan the hazy distance: Gough was somewhere out yonder, marching to meet the gorracharra that Lal Singh had dispatched against him—if he had dispatched them. Suppose he hadn't—suppose he'd ignored my plan, or bungled it? Suppose Littler's fear was well-founded, and Lal had been humbugging me—but, no, that couldn't be, the fellow had been almost out of his wits. He must be advancing to meet Gough … but would he mind what I'd said about detaching regiments along the way, so as to even the odds? Suppose … oh, suppose any number of things! All I could do was wait, keeping out of Littler's way, limping gamely around the mess, aware of the eyes that glanced and looked away.

It was about four, and the sun was starting to dip, when we heard the first rumble to eastward, and Huthwaite, the gunner colonel, stood stock-still on the verandah, mouth open, listening, and then cries: "Those are big fellows! 48s! Sikh, for certain!"

"How far?" asks someone.

"Can't tell—twenty miles at least, might be thirty …" "That's Moodkee, then!"

"Quiet, can't you?" Huthwaite had his eyes closed. "'Those are howitzers!³¹ That's Gough!"

And it was, white fighting coat and all, with an exhausted army at his heels, ill-fed, ill-watered, and in no kind of order, out-gunned but not, thank God, outnumbered, and going for his enemy in the only style he knew, bull-at-a-gate and damn the consequences. We knew nothing of that, at the time; we could only stand on the verandah, with the moths clustering round the lamps, listening to the distant cannonade which went on hour after hour, long after sunset, when we could even see the flashes reflected on the distant night sky. Not until one of Harriott's light cavalry scouts came back, choked with dust and excitement, did we have any notion of what was happening in that astonishing action, the first in the great Sikh War: Midnight Moodkee.