Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
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