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

b See Flashman.

      c Butler.

      d A kind of sedan chair.

      e Native infantryman.

      f Cavalry trooper.

      g House lizards.

      h Understand?

       Chapter 3

      “I suppose ye know nothing at all,” says Broadfoot, “about the law of inheritance and widows’ rights?”

      “Not a dam’ thing, George,” says I cheerily. “Mind you, I can quote you the guv’nor on poaching and trespass – and I know a husband can’t get his hands on his wife’s gelt if her father won’t let him.” Elspeth’s parent, the loathly Morrison, had taught me that much. Rotten with rhino he was, too, the little reptile.

      “Haud yer tongue,” says Broadfoot. “There’s for your education, then.” And he pushed a couple of mouldering tomes across the table; on top was a pamphlet: Inheritance Act, 1833. That was my reintroduction to the political service.

      You see, what I’d heard under Sale’s pool-table had been the strains of salvation, and I’ll tell you why. As a rule, I’d run a mile from political work – skulking about in nigger clobber, living on millet and sheep guts, lousy as the tinker’s dog, scared stiff you’ll start whistling “Waltzing Matilda” in a mosque, and finishing with your head on a pole, like Burnes and McNaghten. I’d been through all that – but now there was going to be a pukka war, you see, and in my ignorance I supposed that the politicals would retire to their offices while the staff gallopers ran errands in the cannon’s mouth. Afghanistan had been one of those godless exceptions where no one’s safe, but the Sikh campaign, I imagined, would be on sound lines. More fool me.¹⁴

      So, having thanked the Fates that had guided me to roger Mrs Madison under the green baize, and taken soundings to satisfy myself that Leech and Cust had been peaceably employed, I’d lost no time in running into Broadfoot, accidental-like. Great hail-fellowings on both sides, although I was quite shocked at the change in him: the hearty Scotch giant, all red beard and thick spectacles, was quite fallen away – liver curling at the edges, he explained, which was why he’d moved his office to Simla, where the quacks could get a clear run at him. He’d taken a tumble riding, too, and went with a stick, gasping when he stirred.

      I commiserated, and told him my own troubles, damning the luck that had landed me on Gough’s staff (“poodle-faking, George, depend upon it, and finding the old goat’s hat at parties”), and harking back to the brave days when he and I had dodged Afridis on the Gandamack Road, having endless fun. (Jesus, the things I’ve said.) He was a downy bird, George, and I could see him marvelling at this coincidence, but he probably concluded that Gough had dropped me a hint after all, for he offered me an Assistant’s berth on the spot.

      So now we were in the chummery of Crags, his bungalow on Mount Jacko, with me looking glum at the law books and reflecting that this was the price of safety, and Broadfoot telling me testily that I had better absorb their contents, and sharp about it. That was another change: he was a sight sterner than he’d been, and it wasn’t just his illness. He’d been a wild, agin-the-government fellow in Afghanistan, but authority had put him on his dignity, and he rode a pretty high horse as Agent – once, for a lark, I called him “major”, and he didn’t even blink; ah, well, thinks I, there’s none so prim as a Scotsman up in the world. In fairness, he didn’t blink at “George”, either, and was easy enough with me, in between the snaps and barks.

      “Next item,” says he. “Did many folk see ye in Umballa?”

      “Shouldn’t think so. What’s it matter? I don’t owe money –”

“The fewer natives who know that Iflassman the soldier is on hand, the better,” says he. “Ye haven’t worn uniform since ye landed? Good. Tomorrow, ye’ll shave off your moustache and whiskers – do it yourself, no nappy-wallah^a – and I’ll cut your hair myself into something decently civilian – give ye a touch of pomade, perhaps –”

      The sun had got him, not a doubt. “Hold on, George! I’ll need a dam’ good reason –”

“I’m telling ye, and that’s reason enough!” snarls he; liver in rough order, I could see. Then he managed a sour grin. “This isn’t the kind of political bandobast^b ye’re used to; ye’ll not be playing Badoo the Badmash this time.” Well, that was something. “No, you’re a proper wee civilian henceforth, in a tussore suit, high collar and tall hat, riding in a jampan with a chota-wallah^c to carry your green bag. As befits a man of the law, well versed in widows’ titles.” He studied me sardonically for a long moment, doubtless enjoying my bewilderment. “I think ye’d better have a look at your brief,” says he, and rose stiffly, cursing his leg.

      He led me into the little hall, through a small door, and down a short flight of steps into a cellar where one of his Pathan Sappers (he’d had a gang of them in Afghanistan, fearsome villains who’d cut your throat or mend your watch with equal skill) was squatting under a lamp, glowering at three huge jars, all of five feet high, which took up most of the tiny cell. Two of them were secured with silk cords and great red seals.

      Broadfoot leaned on the wall to ease his leg, and signed to the Pathan, who removed the lid from the unsealed jar, holding the lamp to shine on its contents. I looked, and was sufficiently impressed.

      “What’s up, George?” says I. “Don’t you trust the banks?”

      The jar was packed to the brim with gold, a mass of coin glinting under the light. Broadfoot gestured, and I picked up a handful, cold and heavy, clinking as it trickled back into the jar.

“I am the bank,” says Broadfoot. “There’s £140,000 here, in mohurs, ingots, and fashioned gold. Its disposal … may well depend on you. Tik hai^d, Mahmud.” He limped aloft again, while I followed in silence, wondering what the devil I was in for this time – not that it looked perilous, thank heaven. Broadfoot settled gratefully in his chair.

      “That treasure,” says he, “is the legacy of Raja Soochet Singh, a Punjabi prince who died two years ago, leading sixty followers against an army of twenty thousand.” He wagged his red head. “Aye, they’re game lads up yonder. Well, now, like most Punjabi nobles in these troubled times, he had put his wealth in the only safe place – in the care of the hated British. Infidels we may be, but we keep honest books, and they know it. There’s a cool twenty million sterling of Punjab money south of the Sutlej this minute.

      “For two years past the Court of Lahore – which means the regents, Jawaheer Singh and his slut of a sister – have been demanding the return of Soochet’s legacy, on the ground that he was a forfeited rebel. Our line, more or less, has been that ‘rebel’ is an unsatisfactory term, since naebody kens who the Punjab government is from one day to the next, and that the money should go to Soochet’s heirs – his widow, or his brother, Raja Goolab Singh. We’ve taken counsel’s opinion,” says he, straight-faced, “but the position is complicated by the fact that the widow was last heard of fleeing for her life