Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
sight.
Coming towards us, all in immaculate line, were four battalions of the Khalsa, a solid wall of infantry half a mile from wing to wing, the dust rising before them in a low cloud, their drummers and standard bearers to the fore. I didn’t know it then, but they were absolutely marching on Lahore to bring Jawaheer out by force, having lost patience after waiting for him all day; you could almost read the purpose in the grim inexorable approach of that disciplined host, the green jackets of Sikh infantry and the blue turbans of the Dogras on the left, the scarlet coats and shakos of regular foot on the right.
Our procession slowed and half-halted, but with the howdahs of Jeendan and the chamberlains in front I couldn’t see what was happening with Jawaheer – I could hear him, though, shouting shrilly, and the armoured horsemen converged on his elephant, while the yellow Guardsmen tramped stolidly on. Our procession forged ahead towards the centre of the Khalsa line, and just as it seemed as though we must collide the advancing host split into two, wheeling into columns which advanced down either side of us – and I’ve never seen anything to match it for drill, not even on Horse Guards. I watched them striding by beyond our yellow Guardsmen, and wondered for a moment if they meant to pass us altogether, but a burly rissaldar-major came tearing out on the flank, reining in midway down the procession, rose in his stirrups, and at the exact moment bawled in a voice you could have heard in Delhi: “Battalions – abou-tah!”
There was the tremendous one-two-three-four crash as they marked time and turned – and then they were marching with us, a solid mass of two thousand infantry on either flank, shakos and red coats to the right, blue and green turbans to the left. Well, thinks I, whether Jawaheer takes it for a prisoner’s escort or a guard of honour, he can’t complain that they haven’t received him in style. I could hear him, crying “Shabash!” in compliment, and on the elephant ahead of us the chamberlains were on their feet, scooping up rupees in little hand-shovels, and hurling them over the yellow Guardsmen at the Khalsa battalions. They glittered in the air like silver rain, falling among the marching Sikhs – and not a man wavered in his step or even glanced aside. The chamberlains shovelled away for dear life, emptying the panniers and spraying the dust with their rupees, screaming to the troops that this was the gift of their loving monarch and his Wazir, Raja Jawaheer Singh, God bless him, but for all the heed the Khalsa paid it might as well have been bird-droppings, and behind me I heard Jassa mutter: “Save your dollars, boys, they ain’t buying you a thing.”
Another roar from the rissaldar-major and the escorting battalions crashed to a halt, stock-still in the swirling dust. Our procession lumbered on, wheeling left as we emerged from between those grim ranks, and as our beast turned to follow the leaders, there all of a sudden on our right flank was the whole Khalsa, drawn up in review, horse, foot, and guns, squadron upon squadron, battalion upon battalion, as far as the eye could see.
I’d seen it before, and been impressed; what I felt now was awe. Then it had been at exercise; now it was dead still, at attention, eighty thousand men and not a movement except for the gentle stirring of the standards before the battalions, the flutter of pennons on the lances at rest, and the occasional tossing of a horse’s mane. And it’s strange: the tramp of our Guardsmen and the groaning of the elephants’ harness must have been loud enough to wake the dead, but all I remember now is the silence as we passed slowly before that tremendous army.
There was a sudden shrill voice from the second elephant, and damme if Jeendan and Mangla weren’t flinging out baksheesh, too, as the chamberlains had done, and calling out to the soldiers to accept their bounty, to remember their oaths to the Maharaja, and to stand true to their salt for the honour of the Khalsa. Still not a man moved, and as the women’s voices died away I felt a chill in spite of the heat of the westering sun, and then someone shouted a command to halt, and the elephants lumbered to a standstill.
There was a little cluster of tents ahead, beside the leading beast, and a group of senior officers before it. Akalis were moving down the line, shouting to the mahouts to dismount, and as our elephant sank to its knees I felt nothing but relief – you’re uncomfortably conspicuous in a howdah, I can tell you, especially with eighty thousand bearded graven images glaring blindly at you from point-blank range. There was a clatter of hooves, and there was Gardner by the second elephant, ordering servants who helped Jeendan and Mangla down and led them towards one of the pavilions, where handmaidens were waiting to receive them – pretty butterfly figures in silks and gauzes altogether out of place before that great martial host in leather and serge and steel. Gardner caught my eye and jerked his head, and without waiting for a ladder I dropped to the ground with as much dignity as I could, clutching my topper in place. Jassa followed, and I saw that Lal Singh and the courtiers had also descended. I walked towards Gardner’s horse, and noticed that only Jawaheer’s elephant was still standing; he was sitting in the howdah, clutching little Dalip to him and complaining shrilly to the Akalis who were angrily ordering his mahout to make the elephant kneel.
Another order was shouted, and now the yellow Guardsmen began to march away, the armoured horsemen cantering ahead of them. At this Jawaheer was on his feet, demanding to know where his escort was going, shouting to his mahout not to take the elephant down; he was in a great passion, and as his head turned I caught the gleam of the great diamond in his turban aigrette – Good Lord, that’s Jeendan’s belly-button, thinks I, how it does get about … and now Gardner was leaning down from his saddle and addressing me rapidly in English:
“Go and help the Maharaja down – go on, man, quickly! It’ll please the troops – make a fine impression! Get him, Flashman!”
It all happened in split seconds. There I was, aware only that Jawaheer was in a fine taking about the reception he was receiving, that Gardner was making what sounded like an excellent diplomatic suggestion – kindly old John Bull giving the heathen princeling a piggy-back before his powers assembled, and all that – but even as he spoke I saw that an Akali had scrambled up into the howdah and seemed to be trying to pull Dalip away; Jawaheer screamed, the Akali hit him in the face, Jawaheer dropped the child and cowered away, there was a zeep! of drawn steel at my back – and I started round to find half a dozen Sikhs almost on top of me, tulwars drawn and yelling blue murder.
I didn’t wait to advise Gardner to help the Maharaja down himself. I was past his horse like a stung whippet – and ran slap into the elephant’s arse, fell back with a yell of terror into the path of the charging Sikhs, made a dive to get under the elephant’s trailing saddle-cloth, stumbled and became entangled, struggled free – and something hit me an almighty blow across the shoulders, driving me to my knees. I clutched wildly behind me, and found myself with little Dalip in my arms, fallen from aloft, and a mob of raging madmen hurling me aside to get at the elephant.
There was a choking scream from overhead, and there was Jawaheer sprawling over the side of the howdah, arms outstretched, with a spear shaft buried in his chest, blood spewing from his mouth and showering down on me. The attackers were swarming into the howdah, slashing at him; suddenly his face was a bloody mask, his turban slipped from his head, a great length of blood-sodden silk snaking down at me. Gardner’s horse reared above me, men were yelling and women shrieking, I could hear the hideous sound of the tulwars cutting into Jawaheer’s body, and still he was screaming and blood was everywhere, in my eyes and mouth, on the gold coat of little Dalip in my arms – I tried to throw him away, but the young blighter had me fast round the neck and wouldn’t leave go. Someone seized me by the arm – Jassa, a pistol in his free hand. Gardner urged his horse between us and the slaughter, knocking Jassa’s pistol from his grasp and shouting to him to get us away, and I blundered towards the tents with that confounded infant hanging from my neck – and not a sound out of him, either.
The turban cloth had draped itself across my face, and as I dragged the disgusting thing clear and sank to my knees, Dalip still clung to me with one hand, and in the other, dripping with his uncle’s gore, was the great diamond that had fallen from Jawaheer’s aigrette. How the brat had got hold of it, God knows, but there it was, almost filling his small hand, and he stared at me with great round eyes and piped: “Koh-i-Noor! Koh-i-Noor!” Then he was whisked away from me, and as I came to my feet I saw he was clasped in his mother’s arms beside the tent, bloodying her veil and white sari.
“Oh,