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

N.C. sowars for escort, had given me the blue devils and done my game ankle no good at all, and on reaching Moodkee I’d had a most horrid shock. We’d come in at sunset from the south, and so saw nothing of the battlefield, but they were burying the dead in scores, and I’d chanced to glance aside through an open tent-fly, and there, wrapped in a cloak, was the body of old Bob Sale.

      It quite undid me. He’d been such a hearty, kind old soul – I could see him mopping the noble tears from his red cheeks at my bedside in Jallalabad, or grinning from his table-head at Florentia’s wilder flights, or thumping his knee: “There’ll be no retreat from Lahore, what?” Now they were blowing retreat over him, old Fighting Bob; the grapeshot had got him when they stormed the jungle – the Quartermaster-General charging with the infantry! Well, thank God I wouldn’t have to break the news to her.

      But poor old Bob was soon forgotten in the presence of the G.G. and the army chief, for now I must tell my tale again, to that distinguished audience – Thackwell, the cavalry boss, was there, and Hardinge’s son Charlie, and young Gough, Paddy’s nephew, but only three faces counted: Hardinge, cold and grave, his finger laid along his cheek; Gough leaning forward, the brown, handsome old face alight with interest, tugging his white moustache; and Broadfoot, all red whiskers and bottle glasses, watching them to see how they took it, like a master while his prize boy construes. It sounded well, and I told it straight, with no false-modest tricks which I knew would be wasted here – bogus message, Goolab Singh, Maka Khan, gridiron, escape, Gardner’s intervention (I daren’t omit him, with George there), my meeting with Lal and Tej. When I’d done there was a silence, into which George stepped, laying down the law.

      “May I say at once, excellency, that I support all Mr Flashman’s actions unreservedly. They are precisely such as I should have wished him to take.”

      “Hear, hear,” says Gough, and tapped the table. “Good lad.”

      Hardinge didn’t care for it. I guessed that, like Littler, he thought I’d taken a heap too much on myself, but unlike Littler he wasn’t prepared to admit that I’d been right.

      “Fortunately, no harm appears to have been done,” says he coldly. “However, the less said of this the better, I think. You will agree, Major Broadfoot, that any publication of the Sikhs’ treachery might have the gravest consequences.” Without waiting for George’s reply, he went on, to me: “And I would not wish your ordeal at the hands of the enemy to be noised abroad. It was a dreadful thing” – he might have been discussing the weather – “and I congratulate you on your deliverance, but if it were to become known it must have an inflammatory effect, and that could serve no good end.” Never mind the inflammatory effect it had had on my end; even in the middle of a war he was fretting about our harmonious relations with the Punjab when it was all over, and Flashy’s scorched arse mustn’t be allowed to mar the prospect. I hadn’t liked Henry Hardinge before, but now I loathed him. So I agreed at once, like a good little toady, and Gough, who’d been fidgeting impatiently, got a word in:

      “Tell me this, my boy – an’ if you’re proved wrong I’ll not hold it against ye. This Tej Singh, now … ye know the man. Can we rely on him to do his worst, by his own side?”

      “Yes, sir,” says I. “I believe so. He’d sit in front of Ferozepore forever. But his officers may force his hand for him.”

      “I think, Sir Hugh,” drawls Hardinge, “that it would be wiser to weigh the facts we know, rather than Mr Flashman’s opinion.”

      Gough frowned at the tone, but nodded. “No doubt, Sorr Hinry. But whatever, it must be Ferozeshah. And as soon as maybe.”

I was dismissed after that, but not before Gough had insisted on drinking my health – Hardinge barely lifted his glass from the table. The hell with him, I was too fagged to care, and ready to sleep for a year, but did I get the chance? I’d barely pulled my boots off, and was soaking my extremity in cold water, when my tent was invaded by Broadfoot, bearing a bottle and full of bounce and congratulations, which included himself for being so dam’ clever in sending me to Lahore in the first place. I said Hardinge didn’t seem to think so, and he snorted and said Hardinge was an ass, and a puffed-up snob who had no use for politicals – but never mind that, I must tell him all about Lahore, every word, and down he plumped on my charpoy,^a spectacles a-gleam, to hear it.

      Well, you know it all, and by midnight, so did he – bar the jolly parts with Jeendan and Mangla, which I had too much delicacy to mention. I made much of my friendship with little Dalip, spoke in admiring terms of Gardner, and put in a word for Jassa – d’you know, he’d been aware of that remarkable rascal’s identity all along, but had kept it from me on principle. When I’d finished, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

      “All this will be of the greatest value. What matters, of course, is that you have gained the confidence of the young Maharaja … and his mother …” He glanced sharply at me, and I met his eye with boyish innocence, at which he went pink, and polished his glasses. “Yes, and Goolab Singh, also. Those three will be the vital figures, when all this is over. Yes …” He went off into one of his Celtic trances for a moment, and then roused himself.

      “Flashy – I’m going to ask you to do a hard thing. You won’t like it, but it must be done. D’ye see?”

      Oh, Jesus, thinks I, what now? He wants me to go to Burma, or dye my hair green, or kidnap the King of Afghanistan – well, the blazes with it! I’ve run my mile, and be damned to him. So, of course, I asked him eagerly what it might be, and he glanced at my injured ankle which I’d laid, still pink and puffy, on a wet towel.

      “Still painful, I see. But it didn’t stop ye riding thirty miles today – and if there’s a cavalry charge against the Khalsa tomorrow, you’ll be in it if it kills you, won’t you?”

      “I should dam’ well hope so!” cries I, with my heart in my boots at the mere thought, and he shook his head in stern admiration.

      “I knew it! No sooner out o’ the frying pan than you’re itching to be at the fire. Ye were just the same on the Kabul retreat.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, I’m sorry, my boy – it’s not to be. Tomorrow, I don’t want you to be able to walk a step, let alone back a horse – d’ye follow?”

      I didn’t – but I smelled something damned fishy.

      “It’s this way,” says he earnestly. “Last night we fought the sternest action I ever saw. These Sikhs are the starkest, bravest fellows on earth – worth two Ghazis, every man of ’em. I killed four myself,” says he solemnly, “and I tell ye, Flashy, they died hard! They did that.” He paused, frowning. “Have you ever noticed … how soft a man’s head is?³³ Aye, well … what we did last night, we’ll be doing again presently. Gough must destroy Lal’s half of the Khalsa at Ferozeshah – and unless I’m mistaken it’ll be the bloodiest day that ever was seen in India.” He wagged a finger. “It may well decide this war –”

      “Yes, yes!” cries I, all eagerness, feeling ready to puke. “But what’s all this gammon about me not being able to walk –?”

      “At all costs,” says he impressively, “you must be kept out of the fighting. One reason is that the credit and confidence you’ve achieved with the folk who’ll be ruling the Punjab under our thumb next year – is far too valuable to be risked. I won’t allow it. So, when Gough asks for you as a galloper tomorrow – which I know he will – well, he can’t have you. But I don’t choose to tell him why, because he has no more political sense than the minister’s cat, and wouldn’t understand. So we must hoodwink him, and the rest of the Army, and your game leg will serve our turn.” He laid a hand on my shoulder, owling at me. “It’s not a nice thing, but it’s for the good o’ the service. I know it’s asking a deal, from you of all men, that you stand back when the rest of us fall in, but … what d’ye say, old fellow?”

      You can picture my emotion. That’s the beauty of a heroic reputation