Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
she turned up the lamp to reveal herself clad only in oil and bangles, did I suspect that further proof of my devotion was required. “I liked you better shaven,” whispers she (which settled that), and Dalip or no Dalip, there was nothing for it but to give eager consent, as Gardner had put it. Luckily she was no protractor of the capital act, as I knew, and I didn’t even need to take my boots off; a quick plunge round the room, horse artillery style, and she was squealing her soul out, and then it was back to the wine-cup and exhausted ecstatic sighs, mingled with tipsy murmurs about the loneliness of widowhood and what bliss it would be to have a man about the house again … fairly incoherent, you understand, but not to be misunderstood, so I responded with rapturous endearments.
“You will abide with me always?” whispers she, nuzzling in, and I said I’d like to see anyone stop me, just. Did I love her truly? Well, to be sure I did. She muttered something about writing to Hardinge, and I thought, by George, that’ll spoil his toast and coffee for him, no error, but mostly it was fond drunken babble and clinging kisses, before she turned over and began to snore.
Well, that’s that, and you’ve done your duty, thinks I, as I repaired the sweet disorder in my dress and slid out – with a last backward glance at that jolly rump glistening in the lamplight. I imagined, you see, that I was looking my last on her, and I do like to carry away happy memories – but twenty minutes later, when Jassa and I were fretting impatiently in the schoolroom, and Gardner was damning Mangla’s tardiness in bringing young Dalip, in comes a waiting woman to say that the kunwari and the Maharaja were awaiting us in her drawing-room. This was a fine apartment close by the boudoir, and there was the Mother of All Sikhs, enthroned in her armchair, as respectable a young matron as ever you saw, and not more than half-soused; how the deuce she’d got into parade order in the time was beyond me.
She was soothing young Dalip, who was standing by in a black fury and a child’s sari, with veil and bangles and a silk shawl round his small shoulders.
“Don’t look at me!” cries he, turning his face away, and she petted him and kissed away his tears, whispering that he must be a Maharaja, for he was going among the White Queen’s soldiers, and must do credit to his house and people.
“And this goes with you, the symbol of your kingship,” says she, and held out a silver locket, with the great Koh-i-Noor glittering in a bed of velvet. She closed the case and hung its chain about his neck. “Guard it well, dearest, for it was your father’s treasure, and remains your people’s honour.”
“With my life, mama,” sobs he, and hung upon her neck. She wept a little, holding him close, and then stood up and led him to me.
“Flashman sahib will take care of you,” says she, “so mind you obey him in all things. Farewell, my little prince, my own darling.” She kissed him and put his hand in mine. “God speed you, sahib – until we meet again.” She extended a hand, and I kissed it; one warm, glassy look she gave me, with that little curl of her thick lips; she was swaying slightly, and her waiting woman had to step lively to steady her.
Then Gardner was bustling us away, with Jassa carrying Dalip for greater speed, and it was bundle-and-go down to the palki in the little court, with Mangla at my elbow insisting that his majesty must eat no oranges, for they gave him the trots, and here was a lotion for the rash on his arm, and a letter for the governess who must be engaged for him in India – “a Kashmiri lady, gentle and well-read, if one can be found, but not some stern English mem-sahib, for he is but a little fellow; I have written of his diet and his lessons.” Kidnapping ain’t just a matter of lifting the infant, you see, and on my other side Gardner was snarling that the gates would be closing in half an hour. We bundled Dalip into the palki, and now he was blubbering that he didn’t want to go, and clinging to Mangla, and Gardner was fuming while two of his black robes scouted ahead to see that all was clear, and Jassa and I got between the shafts, and Mangla kissed me quickly on the cheek, leaving a drift of perfume as she hurried away, and Gardner turned to me in the fading light of the little court.
“Due south-east, forty miles, Jupindar rocks,” snaps he. “I guess we won’t see you in Lahore again, Mr Flashman. If I was you, I’d stay well south of the Sutlej for the next fifty years or so. And that goes double for you, Josiah – you stretched your luck, doctor; come nigh me again and I’m liable to snap it for you! Jao!”
“Yes, you an’ the Continental Congress!” retorts Jassa. “Go change your sentries, Gardner – that’s your sort!”
“Jao, I say!” growls Gardner, and the last I remember of him is the brown hawk face with its fierce moustache, twisted in a sour grin under the tartan puggaree.
We came down to the Buggywalla Doudy just as the sun was dipping behind the Badshai Musjit mosque, through the bustling noisy crowds all unaware that the two stalwart palki-bearers were spiriting their ruler away to the enemy, and him moping fretfully behind the curtains in his little sari and bangles. Ahmed Shah was in a foul humour because he’d had to sell two of our beasts, leaving only five besides our own screws, which meant only one remount for the four of us. We slung the palki between two of the led horses, and when I put my head in to see how Dalip did, he whimpered something piteous.
“Oh, Flashman sahib – when can I put off these garments of shame? See, Mangla has put my man’s clothes in this bag … aye, and cakes and little sweets! She always remembers,” says he, and his lip came out. “Why could she not come with us? Now I shall have no song before I sleep!” And he began to weep. “I wish Mangla were here!”
Mangla, you’ll note, not Mama. Well, I’d not have turned her away myself. “See here, maharaj’,” whispers I, “you’ll put on your own clothes directly, and ride with us like a soldier, but now you must stay close and quiet. And when we come to journey’s end – see what I have for you!” I was far enough within the palki to slip the Cooper from my sash for an instant, and he squeaked and fell back on the cushions, covering his eyes in joy.
We passed under the Rushnai arch even as the chowkidars were crying the curfew, and skirted the city walls to the little stand of white poplars, crimson in the last of the sunset. In the gloaming they were beyond eyeshot of the gate, and we lost no time in rousting out little Dalip, for I wanted him in the saddle without delay, so that we could abandon the cumbersome palki and put distance between us and Lahore.
He tumbled out eagerly, tearing off his sari and veil and scattering his bangles with childish curses, and was shivering in his vest while Jassa helped him into his little jodhpurs, when there was a clatter of hooves, and out of the deepening dusk came a troop of gorracharra, making for the city in haste before the gates closed. There was no time to hide the imp; we must stand pat while they cantered by – and then their officer reined up, staring at the sight of a half-clad infant surrounded by three burly copers and their beasts.
“Where away at this hour, horse-sellers?” cries he.
I answered offhand, hoping to keep him at a distance, for even in the fading light it was ten to one he’d recognise his own monarch if he came any closer.
“Amritsar, captain sahib!” says I. “We take my master’s son to his grandmother, who is ill, and calls for him. Hurry, Yakub, or the child will catch cold!” This to Jassa, who was helping Dalip into his coat, and thrusting him up into the saddle. I swung aboard my own screw, with my heart pounding, ignoring the officer, hoping to heaven the inquisitive brute would ride on after his troop, who had vanished into the twilight.
“Wait!” He was sitting forward, staring harder than ever – and with a thrill of horror I realised that Dalip’s coat was his ceremonial cloth of gold, packed by that imbecile Mangla, and even in that uncertain light proclaiming its wearer a most unlikely companion for three frontier ruffians. “Your master’s son, you say? Let’s have a look at him!” He wheeled his horse towards us, his hand dropping to his pistol butt – and the three of us acted as one man.
Jassa vaulted into his saddle and snatched Dalip’s bridle even as I slashed my reins across the beast’s rump, and Ahmed Shah dug in his heels and charged slap into the advancing Sikh, rolling him from the saddle. Then