Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
toilet, lounging goblet in hand against a table loaded with cosmetics and fripperies, while her maids fluttered silently about her, putting the finishing touches to an appearance plainly calculated to enthrall her audience when she emerged. Watching her drain her cup and have it refilled, I wondered if she’d be sober enough; if she wasn’t, the Khalsa would miss a rare treat.
From mourning she had gone to the other extreme, and was decked out in a dancing-girl’s costume which, in any civilised society, would have led to her arrest for breach of the peace. Not that it was unduly scanty: her red silk trousers, fringed with silver lace, covered her from hip to ankle, and her gold weskit was modestly opaque, but since both garments had evidently been designed for a well-grown dwarf I could only wonder how she’d been squeezed into them without bursting the seams. For the rest she wore a head veil secured by a silver circlet above her brows, and a profusion of rings and wrist-bangles; the lovely, sullen face was touched with rouge and kohl, and one of her maids was painting her lips with vermilion while another held a mirror and two more were gilding her finger and toe nails.
They were all intent as artists at a canvas, Jeendan pouting critically at the mirror and directing the maid to touch up the corner of her mouth; then they all stood back to admire the result before making another titivation – and beyond the purdah her army coughed and shuffled and waited and Maka Khan ploughed on.
“Three divisions have declared for Goolab Singh as Wazir,” cries he. “Court’s, Avitabile’s, and the Povinda. They wish the durbar to summon him from Kashmir with all speed.”
Jeendan continued to study her mouth in the mirror, opening and closing her lips; satisfied, she drank again, and without looking aside gestured to her chief maid, who called out: “What say the other divisions of the Khalsa?”
Maka Khan hesitated. “They are undecided …”
“Not about Goolab Singh!” shouts the rissaldar-major. “We’ll have no rebel as Wazir, and the devil with Court’s and the Povinda!” There was a roar of agreement, and Maka Khan tried to make himself heard. Jeendan took another pull at her goblet before whispering to the chief maid, who called: “There is no majority, then, for Goolab Singh?”
A great bellow of “No!” and “Raja Goolab!” with the leaders trying to quiet them; one of the young Sikh spokesmen shouted that his division would accept whoever the Maharani chose, which was greeted with cheering and a few groans, to the amusement of Jeendan and the delight of the maids, who were now holding up three long pier-glasses so that she might survey herself from all sides. She turned and posed, emptied her cup, pulled her trouser waist lower on her stomach, winked at her chief maid, then raised a finger as Maka Khan shouted hoarsely:
“We can do nothing until the kunwari speaks her mind! Will she have Goolab Singh or no?”
There was a hush at that, and Jeendan whispered to the chief maid, who stifled a fit of the giggles and called back: “The Maharani is only a woman, and can’t make up her mind. How is she to choose, when the great Khalsa cannot?”
That sent them into noisy confusion, and the maids into stitches. One of them was bringing something from the table on a little velvet cushion, and to my astonishment I saw it was the great Koh-i-Noor stone which I’d last seen streaked with blood in Dalip’s hand. Jeendan took it, smiling a question at her maids, and the wicked sluts all nodded eagerly and clustered round as the Khalsa fumed and bickered beyond the curtain and one of the young Sikhs shouted:
“We have asked her to choose! Some say she favours Lal Singh!” A chorus of groans. “Let her come out to us and speak her mind!”
“It is not seemly that her majesty should come out!” cries the chief maid. “She is not prepared!” This while her majesty, with the diamond now in place, was flexing her stomach to make it twinkle, and her maids hugged themselves, giggling, and egged her on. “It is shameful to ask her to break her purdah in durbar. Where is your respect for her, to whom you swore obedience?”
At this there was a greater uproar than ever, some crying that her wish was their command and she should stay where she was, others that they’d seen her before and no harm done. The older men scowled and shook their heads, but the youngsters fairly bayed for her to come out, one bold spirit even demanding that she dance for them as she had done in the past; someone started up a song about a Kashmiri girl who fluttered her trouser fringes and shook the world thereby, and then from the back of the room they began to chant “Jeendan! Jeendan!” The conservatives swore in protest at this indecent levity, and a big lean Akali with eyes like coals and hair hanging to his waist burst out of the front rank yelling that they were a pack of whore-mongers and loose-livers who had been seduced by her wiles, and that the Children of God the Immortal (meaning his own set of fanatics) would stand no more of it.
“Aye, let her come out!” bawls he. “Let her come humbly, as befits a woman, and let her forswear her scandalous life that is a byword in the land, and appoint a Wazir of our approving – such a one as will lead us to glory against the foreigners, Afghan and English alike …”
The rest was lost in pandemonium, some howling him down, others taking up his cry for war, Maka Khan and the spokesmen helpless before the storm of noise. The Akali, frothing at the mouth, leaped on to the front of the dais, raving at them that they were fools if they gave obedience to a woman, and a loose woman at that; let her take a suitable husband and leave men’s affairs to men, as was fitting and decent – and behind the purdah Jeendan nodded to her chief maid, draped a silver scarf over one arm, took a last look at her reflection, and walked quickly and fairly steadily round the end of the curtain.
Speaking professionally, I’d say she wasn’t more than half-soused, but drunk or sober, she knew her business. She didn’t sidle or saunter or play any courtesan tricks, but walked a few paces and stopped, looking at the Akali. There had been a startled gasp from the mob at her appearance – well, dammit, she might as well have been stark naked, painted scarlet from the hips down and gilded across her top hamper. There was dead silence – and then the Akali stepped down from the dais like an automaton, and without another glance she continued to the throne, seated herself without haste, arranged her scarf just so on the arm-rest to cushion her elbow, leaned back comfortably with a finger to her cheek, and surveyed the gathering with a cool little smile.
“Here are many questions to be considered at once.” Her voice was slightly slurred, but carried clearly enough. “Which will you take first, general?” She spoke past the Akali, who was glaring from side to side in uncertainty, and Maka Khan, looking as though he wished she’d stayed out of sight, drew himself up and bowed.
“It is said, kunwari, that you would make Lal Singh Wazir. Some hold that he is no fit man –”
“But others have bound themselves to accept my choice,” she reminded him. “Very well, it is Lal Singh.”
This brought the Akali to life again, an arm flung out in denunciation. “Your bed-man!” he bawled. “Your paramour! Your male whore!”
There was a yell of rage at this, and some started forward to fall on him, but she checked them with a raised finger and answered the Akali directly, in the same calm voice.
“You would prefer a Wazir who has not been my bed-man? Then you can’t have Goolab Singh, for one. But if you wish to nominate yourself, Akali, I’ll vouch for you.”
There was a moment’s stunned hush, followed by scandalised gasps – and then a huge bellow of laughter echoing through the great room. Insults and obscene jests were showered on the Akali, who stood mouthing and shaking his fists, the rowdies at the back began to stamp and cheer, Maka Khan and the seniors stood like men poleaxed, and then as the tumult grew the old soldier roused himself and thrust past the Akali to the foot of the dais. In spite of the din, every word reached us through that cunningly-designed spy-hole.
“Kunwari, this is not seemly! It is to shame … to shame the durbar! I beg you to withdraw … it can wait till another day …”
“You didn’t bid that thing withdraw, when he brayed his spite against me,” says she, indicating