"Flashman, Harry - Flashman and the Mountain of Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flashman Harry)
Mrs Madison gave a gentle snore, and I whipped my hand over her mouth, pinching her nostrils.
"What's that?" says a voice overhead. "Did you hear it?"
There was silence, while I trembled on the verge of heart failure, and then Sale says:
"Those dam' geckoes.*(*House lizards.) Your shot, Sir Hugh."
If that wasn't enough, Mrs Madison, now awake, put her lips to my ear: "When will they leave off? I am ever so cold." I made silent frantic motions, and she thrust her tongue in my ear, so that I missed the next exchange. But I'd heard enough to be sure of one thing - however pacific Hardinge's intentions, war was an odds-on certainty. I don't mean that Broadfoot was ready to, start it himself, but he'd jump at the chance if the Sikhs gave him one - and so no doubt would most of our Army folk; it's a soldier's business, after all. And by the sound of it the Khalsa were ready to oblige - and when they did, I'd be in the middle, galloper to a general who led not only from the front but from the middle of the enemy's blasted army, given the chance. But the prince was talking again, and I strained my ears, trying to ignore Mrs Madison, who was burrowing underneath me, for warmth, presumably.
"But may Sir Henry not be right? Surely there is some Sikh noble capable of restoring order and tranquillity - this Maharani, for example . . . Chunda? Jinda?"
"Jeendan," says Broadfoot. "She's a hoor." They had to translate for the prince, who perked up at once.
"Indeed? One hears astonishing stories. They say she is of incomparable beauty, and . . . ah . . . insatiable appetite ...?"
"Ye've heard of Messalina?" says Broadfoot. "Well, this lady has been known to discard six lovers in a single night."
Mrs Madison whispered: "I don't believe it," and neither did the prince, evidently, for he cries:
"Oh, scandalous rumours always multiply facts! Six in one night, indeed! How can you be sure of that?"
"Eye-witnesses," says Broadfoot curtly, and you could almost hear the prince blinking as his imagination went to work.
Someone else's was also taking flight: Mrs Madison, possibly inspired by all this disgraceful gossip, was becoming attentive again, the reckless bitch, and try as I would to still her, she teased so insistently that I was sure they must hear, and Havelock's coffin face would pop under the curtain at any moment. So what could I do, except hold my breath and comply as quietly as possible - it's an eerie business, I can tell you, in dead silence and palpitating with fear of discovery, and yet it's quite soothing, in a way. I lost all track of their talk, and by the time we were done, and I was near choking with my shirt stuffed into my mouth, they were putting up their cues and retiring, thank God. And then:
"A moment, Broadfoot." It was Gough, his voice down. "D'ye think his highness might talk, at all?"
There could only be the two of them in the room. "As the geese muck," says Broadfoot. "Everywhere. It'll be news to nobody, though. Half the folk in this damned country are spies, and the other half are their agents, on commission. I know how many ears I've got, and Lahore has twice as many, ye can be sure."
"Like enough," says Gough. "Ah, well - 'twill all be over by Christmas, devil a doubt. Now, then - what's this Sale tells me about young Flashman?"
How they didn't hear the sudden convulsion beneath the table, God knows, for I damned near put my head through the slates.
"I must have him, sir. I've lost Leech, and Cust will have to take his place. There isn't another political in sight - and I worked with Flashman in Afghanistan. He's young, but he did well among the Gilzais, he speaks Urdu, Pushtu, and Punjabi -"
"Hold yer horses." says Gough. "Sale's promised him the staff, an' the boy deserves it, none more. Forbye, he's a fightin' soldier, not a clerk. If he's to win his way, he'll do it as he did at Jallalabad, among hot shot an' cold steel -"
"With respect, Sir Hugh!" snaps Broadfoot, and I could imagine the red beard bristling. "A political is not a clerk. Gathering and sifting intelligence -"
"Don't tell me, Major Broadfoot! I was fightin', an' gatherin' intelligence, while your grandfather hadn't got the twinkle in his eye yet. It's a war we're talkin' about - an' a war needs warriors, so now!" God help the poor old soul, he was talking about me.
"I am thinking of the good of the service, sir -"
"An' I'm not, damn yer Scotch impiddence? Och, what the hell, ye're makin' me all hot for nothin'. Now, see here, George, I'm a fair man, I hope, an' this is what I'll do. Flashman is on the staff - an' you'll not say a word to him, mallum?*(*Understand?) But . . . the whole army knows ye've lost Leech, an' there's need for another political. If Flashman takes it into his head to apply for that vacancy - an' havin' been a political he may be mad enough for anythin' - then I'll not stand in his way. But under no compulsion, mind that. Is that fair, now?"
"No, sir," says George. "What young officer would exchange the staff for the political service?"
If I'd had the energy, I'd have given Mrs Madison another run, out of pure thanksgiving.
"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 Scots-man 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*(*Barber.) - and I'll cut your hair myself into some-thing 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*(*Organisation, business) 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*((Little fellow) 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 г140,000 here, in mohurs, ingots, and fashioned gold. Its disposal ... may well depend on you. Tik hai*(*All right.), 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 from a beleaguered fort, while Goolab, who had designs on the Punjab throne at one time, has lately proclaimed himself King of Kashmir, and is sitting behind a rock up Jumoo way, with fifty thousand hillmen at his back. However, we have sure information that both he and the widow are of opinion that the money is fine where it is, for the time being."
He paused, and "Isn't it?" was on the tip of my tongue, for I didn't care for this above half; talk of besieged forts and hillmen unsettles me, and I had horrid visions of Flashy sneaking through the passes with a portmanteau, bearing statements of compound interest to these two eccentric legatees, both of whom were probably dam' dangerous to know.
"A further complication," says Broadfoot, "is that Jawaheer Singh is threatening to make this legacy a cause of war. As you know, peace is in the balance; those three jars down there might tip the scale. Naturally, Sir Henry Hardinge wishes negotiations about the legacy to be reopened at Lahore - not with a view to settlement, of course, but to temporise." He looked at me over his spectacles. "We're not ready yet."
To settle - or to go to war? Having eavesdropped on Broadfoot's opinions, I could guess which. Just as I could see, with sudden horrible clarity, who the negotiator was going to be, in that Court of bhang*(*Indian hemp.)-sodden savages where they murdered each other regular, after supper. But that apart, the thing made no sense at all.
"You want me to go to Lahore - but I ain't a lawyer, dammit! Why, I've only been in a court twice in my life!" Drunk and resisting arrest, and being apprehended on premises known to be a disorderly house, five quid each time, not that it mattered.
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