"On this mercenary -- yes," says Van Cortlandt curtly. "He's a sure friend. Without him, Flashman would not have left Lahore alive." That's no way to boost Gardner's stock, thinks I. Hardinge raised his brows and sat back, and Lawrence turned to me.
"Harlan arrived an hour ago. It's bad news out of Lahore. Gardner says the Maharani and her son are in grave peril, from their own army. There's talk of plots -- to murder her, to abduct the little Maharaja and place him in the heart of the Khalsa, so that the panches can do as they please, in his name. That would mean the end of Tej Singh, and the appointment of some trusted general, who might well give us a long war." He didn't need to add that it might be a disastrous war, for us; the Khalsa were still in overwhelming strength if they had a leader who knew how to use it.
"The boy's the key," says Lawrence. "Who holds him, holds power. The Khalsa knows it, and so does his mother. She wants him out of Lahore, and under our protection. At once. It will be a week at least before we can finish the Khalsa in battle —"
"'Ten days, more like," says Gough.
"That is the time the plotters have in which to strike." Lawrence paused, and my mouth went dry as I realised they were all watching me, Gough and Van Cortlandt keenly, Hardinge with gloomy disapproval.
"The Maharani wants you to fetch him out, secretly," says Lawrence. "That's her message, given by Gardner to Harlan."
Steady now, thinks I, mustn't puke or burst into tears. Keep a straight face, and remember that the last thing Hardinge wants is to have Flashy stirring the Punjab pot again—that's your hole card, my boy, if this beastly proposal is to be scotched. So I made a lip, thoughtful-like, choked down my supper, and said straight out:
"Very good, sir. I have a free hand, I suppose?"
That did the trick; Hardinge leaped as though he'd been gaffed. "No, sir, you do not! No such thing! You will keep your place, until …" He glared, flustered, from
Lawrence to Gough. "Sir Hugh, I know not what to think! This scheme fills me with misgivings. What do we know of these … these Americans … and this Maharani? If this were a plot to discredit us ."
"Not by Gardner!" snaps Van Cortlandt.
"The Maharani has good cause to fear for her child's safety," says Lawrence. "And her own. If anything befell them … well, when this war is past, we should find our-selves dealing with a state in anarchy. She and the boy are our only hope of a good political solution."
Gough spoke up. "An' if we don't get one, we must conquer the Punjab. I tell ye, Sir Henry, we have not the means for that."
Hardinge's face was a study. He drummed his fingers and fretted. "I cannot like it. Suppose it were made to appear that we were kidnapping the boy—why, it might be charged that we made war on children —"
"Oh, never that!" cries Lawrence. "We'd be protecting him. But if we do nothing, and he is seized by the Khalsa—murdered, perhaps, and his mother with him … well, that would not be seen to our credit, I believe."
I could have kicked him. He'd hit on the best argument to commit Hardinge to this dreadful folly. Credit, that was the thing! What would London think? What would The Times say? You could see our Governor-General imagining the outcry if blasted little Dalip got his weasand slit through our neglect. He went pale, and then his face cleared, while he pretended to ponder the thing.
"Certainly the child's safety must weigh heavily with us," says he solemnly. "Humanity and policy both demand it … Sir Hugh, what is your thought?"
"Get him out," says Paddy. "Ye cannot do other."
Even then Hardinge must make a show of careful judgment, frowning in silence while my heart sank to my boots. Then he sighed. "So be it, then. We must pray that we are not the dupes of some singular intrigue. But I insist, Lawrence, that either you or Van Cortlandt under-takes it." He shot me a baleful glance. "An older head —"
"By your leave, sir," says Lawrence. "Flashman, be good enough to wait in my tent. I'll join you presently."
So I left obediently—and was round the outside of Hardinge's tent like a frightened stoat, tripping over guy-ropes and slithering in the frosty dark before bearing up in the shadows with an ear cocked under the muslin screen of his window. The man himself was in full cry, and I caught the end of it.
"… less suitable for such delicate work, I cannot conceive! His conduct with the Sikh leaders was irresponsible to a degree—taking it upon himself to determine policy, a mere junior political officer, flown with self-esteem —"
"Thank God he did," says good old Paddy.
"Very well, Sir Hugh! Fortune favoured us, but his conduct might have brought us to catastrophe! I tell you what, the man's a swaggerer! No," says this splendid and fat-sighted statesman, "Flashman shall not go to Lahore!"
"He must!" retorted Lawrence, for whom I was conceiving a poisonous dislike. "Who else can pass as a native, speaking Punjabi, and knows the ins and outs of
Lahore Fort? And the little Maharaja worships him, Harlan tells me." He paused. "Besides, the Maharani Jeendan has asked for him by name."
"What's that to the point?" cries Hardinge. "If she wishes her child safe, it is all one whom we send!"
"Perhaps not, sir. She knows Flashman, and …"
Lawrence hesitated. "The fact is, there is a bazaar rumour that she … ah, formed an attachment for him, while he was in Lahore." He coughed and hummed. "As you k now, sir, she is a very lovely young woman , .. of an ardent nature, by all accounts …"
"Good God!" cries Hardinge. "You don't mean —" "The young devil!" chuckles Paddy. "Oh, well, decidedly he must go!"
"We'd best not neglect anything that will dispose her well to us," says Van Cortlandt, damn him. "And as Lawrence says, there is no one else."
Eavesdropping fearfully, my mind filled with the horrid prospect of Lahore and its gridirons and ghastly bathrooms and Akali fanatics and murderous swordsmen, I couldn't help recalling that Broadfoot had counted on my manly charms just as these calculating wretches were doing. It's too bad .. but if you're hell's delight with the fair sex, what would you?
I've no doubt it's what persuaded that pious hypocrite Hardinge, with his mind fixed on political accommodations after the war. By all means let Flashy humour the hitch while he plucked her bloody infant to safety, and wouldn't she be obliged to us, just? He didn't say as much, but you could hear him thinking it as he gave his reluctant consent.
"But hear me, Lawrence—Flashman must understand that he is to proceed in strict accordance to your instructions. He must have no room for independent action of any kind whatsoever—is that clear? This fellow Harlan has brought directions from … what is his name, Gardner?—a fine business, when we must rely on such people, let alone this hare-brained political! You must question Harlan closely on how it is to be effected. Above all, no harm must befall the young prince, Flashman must under-stand that—and the consequences should he fail."
"I doubt if he needs instruction on that head, sir," says Lawrence, pretty cool. "For the rest, I shall give him careful directions."
"Very well. I shall hold you responsible. You have an observation, Sir Hugh?"
"Eh? No, no, Sorr Hinry, nothin' of consequence. I was just after thinkin'," chuckles old Paddy, "that I wish I was young again, an' spoke Punjabi."
You never can say you've seen anything for the last time. I'd have laid a million to one that I'd not return to that little stand of white poplars south of the Moochee Gate where I'd sat by the fire with Gardner—yet here I was, only a few weeks later, with the flames crackling under the billy-can resting on the self-same red stone With the crack in it. To our right the road was busy with the wayfarers of daybreak; under the great Moochee arch the gates were swung back, they were dousing the night torches, and the guard was changing: an uncommon heavy one, it seemed to me, for I counted twenty helmets in and shout the archway, and since our arrival in the small hours there had been endless cavalry patrols circling the city walls, red lancers with green puggarees, and great activity of matchlockmen on the parapets.