"Flashman, Harry - Flashman and the Mountain of Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flashman Harry)

A word first, though. You'll have heard it said that the British Empire was acquired in a fit of absence of mind --one of those smart Oscarish squibs that sounds well but is thoroughly fat-headed. Presence of mind, if you like - and countless other things, such as greed and Christianity, decency and villainy, policy and lunacy, deep design and blind chance, pride and trade, blunder and curiosity, passion, ignorance, chivalry and expediency. honest pursuit of right, and determination to keep the bloody Frogs out. And often as not, such things came tumbling together, and when the dust had settled, there we were, and who else was going to set things straight and feed the folk and guard the gate and dig the drains - oh, aye, and take the profit, by all means.
That's what study and eye-witness have taught me, leastways, and perhaps I can prove it by describing what happened to me in '45, in the bloodiest, shortest war ever fought in India, and the strangest, I think, of my whole life. You'll find it contains all the Imperial ingredients I've listed - stay, though, for "Frogs" read "Muslims", and if you like, "Russians" - and a few others you may not believe. When I'm done, you may not be much clearer on how the map of the world came to be one-fifth pink, but at least you should realise that it ain't something to be summed up in an epigram. Absence of mind, my arse. We always knew what we were doing; we just didn't always know how it would pan out.
First of all, you must do as Sale bade me, and look at the map. In '45 John Company held Bengal and the Carnatic and the east coast, more or less, and was lord of the land up to the Sutlej, the frontier beyond which lay the Five Rivers country of the Sikhs, the Punjab.' But things weren't settled then as they are now; we were still shoring up our borders, and that north-west frontier was the weak point, as it still is. That way invasion had always come, from Afghanistan, the vanguard of a Mohammedan tide, countless millions strong, stretching back as far as the Mediterranean. And Russia. We'd tried to sit down in Afghanistan, as you know, and got a bloody nose, and while that had been avenged since, we weren't venturing that way again. So it remained a perpetual threat to India and ourselves - and all that lay between was the Punjab, and the Sikhs.
You know something of them: tall, splendid fellows with uncut hair and beards, proud and exclusive as Jews, and well disliked, as clannish, easily-recognised folk often are - the Muslims loathed them, the Hindoos distrusted I hem, and even today T. Atkins, while admiring them as stout fighters, would rather be brigaded with anyone else - excepting their cavalry, which you'd be glad of anywhere. For my money they were the most advanced people in India - well, they were only a sixth of the Punjab's population, but they ruled the place, so there you are.
We'd made a treaty with these strong, clever, treacherous, civilised savages, respecting their independence north of the Sutlej while we ruled south of it. It was good business for both parties: they remained free and friends with John Company, and we had a tough, stable buffer between us and the wild tribes beyond the Khyber - let the Sikhs guard the passes, while we went about our business in India without the expense and trouble of having to deal with the Afghans ourselves. That's worth bearing in mind when you hear talk of our "aggressive forward policy" in India: it simply wasn't common sense for us to take over the Punjab - not while it was strong and united.
Which it was, until '39, when the Sikh maharaja, old Runjeet Singh, died of drink and debauchery (they say he couldn't tell male from female at the end, but they're like that, you know). He'd been a great man, and a holy terror, who'd held the Punjab solid as a rock, but when he went, the struggle for power over the next six years made the Borgia intrigues look like a vicarage soirщe. His only legitimate son, Kuruk, an opium-guzzling degenerate, was quickly poisoned by his son, who lasted long enough to attend Papa's funeral, where a building collapsed on him, to no one's surprise. Second wicket down was Shere Singh, Runjeet's bastard and a lecher of such enthusiasm that I've heard they had to pry him off a wench to seat him on the throne. He had a fine long reign of two years, surviving mutiny, civil war, and a plot by Chaund Cour, Kuruk's widow, before they finally did for him (and his entire harem, the wasteful swine). Chaund Cour later expired in her bath, under a great stone dropped by her own slave-girls, whose hands and tongues were then removed, to prevent idle gossip, and when various other friends and relations had been taken off sudden-like, and the whole Punjab was close to anarchy, the way was suddenly clear for a most unlikely maharaja, the infant Dalip Singh, who was still on the throne, and in good health, in the summer of '45.
It was claimed he was the child of old Runjeet and a dancing-girl named Jeendan whom he'd married shortly before his death. There were those who doubted the paternity, though, since this Jeendan was notorious for entertaining the lads of the village four at a time, and old Runjeet had been pretty far gone when he married her; on the other hand, it was pointed out that she was a practised professional whose charms would have roused a stone idol, so old Runjeet might have done the deed before rolling over and going to God.
So now she was Queen Mother and joint regent with her drunken brother Jawaheer Singh, whose great party trick was to dress as a female and dance with the nautch-girls - by all accounts it was one continuous orgy at the Court of Lahore, with Jeendan galloping every man in sight, her lords and ladies all piling in, no one sober for days on end, treasure being spent like the wave of the sea, and the whole polity sliding downhill to luxurious ruin. I must say, it sounded quite jolly to me, bar the normal murders and tortures, and the furious plotting which apparently occupied everyone's sober moments.
And looming like a genie over all this delightful corruption was the Khalsa - the Sikh army. Runjeet had built it, hiring first-class European mercenaries who had turned it into a truly formidable machine, drilled, disciplined, modern, 80,000 strong - the finest army in India, barring the Company's (we hoped). While Runjeet lived, all had been well, but since his death the Khalsa had realised its power, and wasn't prepared to be cat's paw to the succession of rascals, degenerates, and drunkards who'd tumbled on and off the throne; it had defied its officers, and governed itself by soldiers' committees, called panches, joining in the civil strife and bloodshed when it suited, slaughtering, looting, and raping in disciplined fashion, and supporting whichever maharaja took its fancy. One thing was constant about the Khalsa: it hated the British, and was forever demanding to be led against us south of the Sutlej.
Jeendan and Jawaheer controlled it as their predecessors had done, with huge bribes of pay and privileges, but with lakhs being squandered on their depravities, even the fabulous wealth of the Punjab was beginning to run dry - and what then? For years we'd been watching our northern buffer dissolve in a welter of blood and decay, in which we were treaty-bound not to intervene; now the crisis was come. How long could Jawaheer and Jeendan keep the Khalsa in hand? Could they prevent it (did they even want to?) taking a slap at us with the loot of all India as the prize? If the Khalsa did invade, would our own native troops stand true, and if they didn't . . . well, no one, except a few canny folk like Broadfoot, cared to think about that, or contemplate the kind of thing that half-happened twelve years later, in the Mutiny.
So that's how things stood in August '45,6 but my alarms, as usual, were entirely personal. Meeting Sale had scuppered my hopes of lying low for a spell: he would see to it that I had a place on Gough's staff, says he, beaming paternally while I frisked in feigned enthusiasm with my bowels dissolving, for I knew that being old Paddy's galloper would be a one-way trip to perdition if the bugles blew in earnest. He was Commander-in-Chief, was Gough, an ancient Irish squireen who'd fought in more battles than any man living and was forever looking for more; loved by the troops (as such lunatics always are), and much sympathised with just then, when he was sweating to secure the frontier against the coming storm, and calling down Celtic curses on the head of that sensible chap Hardinge in Calcutta, who was forever cautioning him not to provoke the Sikhs, and countermanding his troop movements.'
But I had no way out; Sale was off now post-haste to resume his duties as Quartermaster-General on the frontier, with poor Flashy in tow, wondering how I could catch measles or break a leg. Mind you, as we rode north I was much reassured by the assembly of men and material along the Grand Trunk Road: from Meerut up it was aswarm with British regiments, Native Infantry, dragoons, lancers, Company cavalry, and guns by the park - the Khalsa'll never tackle this crowd, thinks I; they'd be mad. Which of course they were. But I didn't know the Sikhs then, or the incredible shifts and intrigues that can make an army march to suicide.
Gough wasn't at headquarters in Umballa, which we reached early in September; he'd gone up to Simla for a breather, and since Sale's wife was living there we pushed straight on, to my delight. I'd heard of it as a great place for high jinks and good living, and, I foolishly supposed, safety.
It was a glorious spot then,8 before Kipling's vulgarians and yahoos had arrived, a little jewel of a hill station ringed in by snow-clad peaks and pine forests, with air that you could almost drink, and lovely green valleys like the Scotch border country - one of 'em. was absolutely called Annandale, where you could picnic and fete to heart's content. Emily Eden had made it the resort in the '30s, and already there were fine houses on the hillsides, and stone bungalows with log fires where you could draw the curtains and think you were back in England; they were building the church's foundations then, on the ridges above the Bazaar, and laying out the cricket ground; even the fruits and flowers were like home - we had strawberries and cream, I remember, that first afternoon at Lady Sale's house.
Dear dreadful Florentia. If you've read my Afghan story, you know her, a raw-boned old heroine who'd rid-den with the army all through that nightmare retreat over the passes from Kabul, when a force of 14,000 was whittled almost to nothing by the Dourani snipers and Khyber knives. She hadn't shut up the whole way, damning the administration and bullying her bearers: Colin Mackenzie said it was a near thing which was more fearsome - a Ghazi leaping from the rocks yelling murder, or Lady Sale's red nose emerging from a tent demanding to know why the water was not thoroughly boiling. She hadn't changed, bar the rheumatics from which she could get relief only by cocking a foot up on the table - damned unnerving it was, to have her boot beside your cup, and a great lean shank in red flannel among the muffins.9
"Flashman keeps staring at my ankle, Sale!" cries she. "They are all alike, these young men. Don't make owl eyes at me, sir - I remember your pursuit of Mrs Parker at Kabul! You thought I had not noticed? Ha! I and the whole cantonment! I shall watch you in Simla, let me tell you." This between a harangue about Hardinge's incompetence and a blistering rebuke to her khansamah*(*Butler.) for leaving the salt out of the coffee. You'll gather I was a favourite of hers, and after tea she had me reviving Afghan memories by rendering "Drink, puppy, drink" in my sturdy baritone while she thumped the ivories, my performance being marred by a sudden falsetto when I remembered that I'd last sung that jolly ditty in Queen Ranavalona's boudoir, with her black majesty beating time in a most unconventional way.
That reminded me that Simla was famous for its diversions, and since the Sales were giving dinner that night to Gough and some cabbage-eating princeling who was making the Indian tour, I was able to cry off, Florentia drop-ping a hint that I should be home before the milk. I tooled down the hill to the dirt road that has since become the famous Mall, taking the air among the fashionable strollers, admiring the sunset, the giant rhododendrons, and Simla's two prime attractions - hundreds of playful monkeys and scores of playful women. Unattached, the women were, their men-folk being hard at it down-country, and the pickings were choice: civilian misses, saucy infantry wives, cavalry mares, and bouncing grass widows. I ran my eye over 'em,' and fastened on a fortyish Juno with a merry eye and full nether lip who gave me a thoughtful smile before turning in to the hotel, where by the strangest chance I presently encountered her in a secluded corner of the tea verandah. We conversed politely, about the weather and the latest French novels (she found The Wandering Jew affecting, as I recall, while I stood up for the Musketeers) ,10 and she ate a dainty water-ice and started to claw at my thigh under the table.
I like a woman who knows her mind; the question was, where? and I couldn't think of anywhere cosier than the room I'd been allotted at the back of Sale's mansion - Indian servants have eyes in their buttocks, of course, but the walls were solid, not chick, and with dusk coming down we could slide in by the french windows unseen. Her good name had plainly died in the late '20s, for she said it was a capital lark, and presently we were slipping through the bushes of Sale's garden, keeping clear of the dinner guests' jampan*(*A kind of sedan chair.) bearers, who were squatting by the front verandah. We paused for a lustful grapple among the deodars before mounting the steps to the side verandah - and dammit, there was a light in my room, and the sound of a bearer hawking and shuffling within. I stood nonplussed while my charmer (a Mrs Madison, I think) munched on my ear and tore at my buttons, and at that moment some interesting Oriental came round the corner of the house, expectorating hugely, and without thinking I whisked her through the door next to mine, closing it softly.
It proved to be the billiard-room - dark, empty and smelling of clergymen, and since my little flirt now had my pants round my ankles and was trying to plumb my depths, I decided it would have to do. The diners would be beating their plates for hours yet, and Gough hadn't the look of a pool-shark, somehow, but caution and delicacy forbade our galloping on the open floor, and since there were little curtains between the legs of the table .. .
There ain't as much deck clearance under a billiard table as you might suppose, but after a cramped and feverish partial disrobing we settled down to play fifty up. And Mrs Madison proved to be a most expert tease, tittering mischievously and spinning things out, so that we must have been everywhere from beneath the baulk to the top cushion and back before I had her trapped by the middle pockets and was able to give of my best. And after she had subsided with tremulous whimpers, and I had got my breath back, it seemed quite cosy, don't you know, and we whispered and played in the stuffy dark, myself drowsy and she giggling at what a frolic it was, and I was beginning to consider a return fixture when Sale decided he'd like a game of billiards.
I thought I was sent for. The door crashed open, light shone through the curtains, bearers came scurrying in to remove the cover and light the table candles, heavy foot-steps sounded, men's voices laughing and talking, and old Bob crying: "This way, Sir Hugh . . . your highness. Now, what shall it be? A round game or sides, hey?"
Their legs were vague shadows beyond the curtains as I bundled Mrs Madison to the centre - and the abandoned trot was positively shaking with laughter! I hissed soundlessly in her ear, and we lay half-clad and quivering, she with mirth and I with fright, while the talk and laughter and clatter of cues sounded horrid close overhead. Of all the damned fixes! But there was nothing for it but to lie doggo, praying we didn't sneeze or have the conniptions.
I've had similar experiences since - under a sofa on which Lord Cardigan was paying court to his second wife, beneath a dago president's four-poster (that's how I won the San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth), and one shocking time in Russia when discovery meant certain death. But the odd thing is, quaking as you are, you find yourself eavesdropping for dear life; I lay with one ear between Mrs Madison's paps, and the other taking it all in - and it's worth recounting, for it was frontier gossip from our head men, and will help you understand what followed.
In no time I knew who was in the room: Gough, and Sale, and a pimpish affected lisp which could belong only to the German princeling, the pulpit growl of old Grave-digger Havelock (who'd ha' thought that he'd frequent pool-rooms?), and the high, arrogant Scotch burr that announced the presence of my old Afghan chum George Broadfoot, now exalted as Agent for the North-west Frontier." He was in full complaint, as usual:
" .. and Calcutta rebukes me for taking a high hand with the Maharani and her drunken durbar! I must not provoke them, says Hardinge. Provoke, indeed - while they run raids on us, and ignore my letters, and seduce our sepoys! Half the brothel bints in Ludhiana are Sikh agents, offering our jawans*(*Native infantryman.) double pay to desert to the Khalsa."
"Double for infantry, six-fold for sowars," *(*Cavalry trooper) says Sale.
"Temptin', what?12 Spot or plain, prince?"
"Spot, if you please. But do many of your native
soldiers desert, then?"
"Och, a few." This was Gough, in his pig-sty brogue.
"Mind you, if ever the Khalsa invaded, God knows how many might jump on what they thought was the winnin'
nag. Or refuse to fight agin' fellow-Injuns."
The pills clicked, and the prince says: "But the British
will always be the winning side. Why, all India holds your army invincible." There was a long pause, then Broadfoot
says:
"Not since Afghanistan. We went in like lions and came
out like sheep - and India took note. Who knows what might follow a Sikh invasion? Mutiny? It's possible. A
general revolt -"
"Oh, come!" cries the prince. "A Sikh invasion would
be promptly repelled, surely! Is that not so, Sir Hugh?" More pill-clicking, and then Gough says: "Put it this
way, sorr. If John Sepoy turned tail - which I don't
believe, mind - I'd be left wi' our British regiments alone agin' one hunnert t'ousand of the best fightin' fellows in
India - European trained, mark'ee, wi' modern arms .. . How many do I get for a cannon, will ye tell me? Two?
Mother o' God, is it worth it? Well, here goes." Click. "Damnation, me eyes is failin'. As I was sayin', your highness - I wouldn't have to make too many mistakes,
now, would I?"
"But if there is such danger - why do you not march
into the Punjab now, and nip it in the bud?"
Another long silence, then Broadfoot: "Breach of treaty if we did - and conquest isn't popular in England, since Sind.l3 No doubt it'll come to that in the end - and Hardinge knows it, for all he says British India's big enough already. But the Sikhs must strike first, you see, and Sir Hugh's right -- that's our moment of peril, when they're south of the Sutlej in force, and our own sepoys may join 'em. If we struck first, treaty or not, and tackled the Khalsa in the Punjab, our stock would rise with the sepoys, they wouldn't waver, and we'd win hands down. We'd have to stay, in a territory London don't want - but India would be safe from Muslim invasion forever. A nice, circular problem, is it not?"
The Prince says thoughtfully: "Sir Henry Hardinge has a dilemma, it seems."
"That's why he waits," says Sale, "in the faint hope that the present Lahore government will restore stability."