Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
shall have our long talk by day,” says he. “The night is for pleasure. Would you care for some opium? No? Kashmiri opium is the finest obtainable – like Kashmiri women. I would offer you one, or even two, of them, but I fear my lady Jeendan’s displeasure. You have aroused some expectation in that quarter, Mr Flashman, as I’m sure you noticed.” His smile was as easy and open as though he were telling me she’d be bidding me to tea presently. “May I suggest a fortifying draught?” He beckoned a matey, and I was presented with another beaker of Mangla’s Finest Old Inspirator, which I sipped with caution. “I see you treat it with greater respect than does that impossible sot, our Wazir. Look yonder, bahadur … and have pity on us.”
For now Jawaheer was to the fore again, reeling noisily in front of Jeendan’s booth, with his black tart trying vainly to hold him upright; he was delivering a great tirade against Dinanath, and Jeendan must have sobered somewhat under Mangla’s ministrations, for she told him pretty plain, with barely a hiccough, to pull himself together and drink no more.
“Be a man,” says she, and indicated his wench. “With her … practise for acting like a man among men. Go on … take her to bed. Make yourself brave!”
“And tomorrow?” cries he, flopping down on his knees before her. He was having another of his blubbering fits, wailing and rocking to and fro.
“Tomorrow,” says she, with drunken deliberation, “you’ll go out to Khalsa –”
“I cannot!” squeals he. “They’ll tear me to pieces!”
“You’ll go, little brother. And speak to them. Make your peace with ’em … all will be right …”
“You’ll come with me?” he pleaded. “You and the child?”
“Be assured … we’ll all come. Lal and Tej … Mangla here.” Her sleepy gaze travelled to me. “Big Englishman, too … he’ll tell the Malki lat and Jangi latf how the troops acclaimed their Wazir. Cheered him!” She flourished her cup, spilling liquor again. “So they’ll know … a man rules in Lahore!”
He stared about vacantly, and his face was that of a frightened ape, all streaked with tears. I doubt if he saw me, for he leaned closer to her, whispering hoarsely: “And then – we’ll march on the British? Take them unawares –”
“As God wills,” smiles she, and looked at me again – and for an instant she didn’t seem drunk at all. She stroked his face, speaking gently, as to a fractious infant. “But first … the Khalsa. You must take them gifts … promises of pay …”
“But … but … how can I pay? Where can I –”
“There is treasure in Delhi, remember,” says she, and glanced at me a third time. “Promise them that.”
“Perhaps … if I gave them this?” He fumbled in his belt and brought out a little case on a chain. “I shall wear it tomorrow –”
“Why not? But I must wear it tonight.” She snatched it from him, laughing, and held it beyond his reach. “Nay, nay – wait! It is for the dance! Would you like that, little brother-who-wishes-he-weren’t-a-brother? Mmh?” She slipped her free hand round his neck, kissing him on the lips. “Tomorrow is tomorrow … this is tonight, so we’ll take our pleasure, eh?”
She nodded to Mangla, who clapped her hands. The music died away, the dancers skipped off the floor, and there was a general withdrawal by the guests. Jawaheer flopped down beside Jeendan on the cushions, leaning his head against her.
“So government is conducted.” Lal Singh spoke in my ear. “Would Hardinge sahib approve, think you? Until tomorrow then, Flashman sahib.”
Tej Singh gave another of his greasy chuckles and nudged me. “Remember the saying: ‘Below the Sutlej there are brothers and sisters; beyond it, only rivals.’” He went off with Lal Singh.
I didn’t know what the devil he meant – nor, in my growing inebriation, did I care. All these gassing intruders were keeping me from the company of that splendid painted trollop who was now wasting her talents in soothing her whining oaf of a brother yonder, cradling him against that superb bosom and pouring drink into him and herself. I was itching to be at her, and even when Mangla came to lead me to the neighbouring booth, I wasn’t distracted: I guess my tastes are coarse, and I’d developed a craving for the mistress that wasn’t to be satisfied by the maid – who kept the curtains open, anyway, and had a matey standing by to keep me liquored through the entertainment which now began. As I said, most of the courtiers seemed to have gone, leaving the Maharani and her chosen intimates to riot with the performers.
The first of these was a troupe of Kashmiri girls, spanking little creatures in scanty silver armour, with bows and toy swords, who cavorted in a parody of military drill which would have scandalised the General Staff and terrified their horses. This was something from Runjeet’s day, Mangla told me: the girls were his female bodyguard, with whom the old lecher had been wont to battle through the night.
Then there was a serious interlude by Indian wrestlers, who are the best on earth outside Cumberland, muscular young bucks who fought like greased lightning, all science and sinew – none of your crude Turkish grunting or the unspeakable Japanese vulgarity. Jeendan, I noticed, roused from her lethargy during these bouts, rising unsteadily to her feet to applaud the falls, and summoning the victors to drink from her cup while she stroked and petted them. Meanwhile their place was taken by female wrestlers, strapping wenches who fought naked (another of old Runjeet’s fancies), with the male wrestlers and Kashmiri girls kneeling round the floor, egging them on, and then wrestling with each other, to the inevitable conclusion, while the band played appropriate music. They were all over the floor in no time, seriously impeding a troupe of dancing girls and boys who had come on to frolic in a measure which proved to be a considerable advance on the polka.
Now, you may not credit this, but I’m not much of a hand at orgies. I ain’t what you’d call a prude, but I do hold that an Englishman’s brothel is his castle, where he should behave according – as many flash-tails as he likes, but none of these troop fornications that the Orientals indulge in. It’s not the indecency I mind, but the company of a lot of boozy brutes hallooing and kicking up the deuce of a row when I want to concentrate and give of my best. A regular bacchanalia is something to see, right enough, but I’m with the discriminating Frog who said that one is interesting, but only a cad would make a habit of it.
Still, evil associations corrupt good manners, especially when you’re horny as Turvey’s bull and full of love-puggle; Mangla’ll have to do, thinks I, if I ain’t too foxed to carry her out of this bedlam, and I was just looking about for her when there was a great drunken cheer from the floor, and Jeendan came swaying out of her booth, helped by a couple of her dancing-boys. She pushed them away, took a couple of shaky steps, and began to writhe like a Turkish wedding dancer, flaunting her hips and rotating her plump little bottom, flirting the tails of her crimson loin-cloth, giving little squeals of laughter as she turned, stamping, then clapping her hands above her head while the others took up the rhythm and the tom-toms throbbed and the cymbals clashed.
That was my first glimpse of Koh-i-Noor, gleaming in her navel like a live thing as she fluttered her belly in and out – but it didn’t hold my attention long, for as she danced she screamed over her shoulder, and one of the dancing-boys leaped in behind her, sliding his hands up her body, unclasping her bodice and letting it fall, fondling her as she danced back into him and slowly turned herself until they were face to face. They writhed against each other while the onlookers shrieked with delight and the music beat ever faster, and then he retreated from her slowly, sweat pouring down his body – and burn me if the stone wasn’t in his navel now! How the devil they did it, I can’t think; Swedish exercises, perhaps. The boy yelled and pirouetted in triumph, and Jeendan staggered into the arms of one of the wrestlers, giggling while he pawed and kissed her. One of the Kashmiri bints flung herself at the boy, clasping him round the waist and wriggling against him; damned if I could see any better this time, but she came away with the stone in