"But they ain't worth a button now!" cries my pink lad. "The shave is that their sirdars have hooked it, and they're quite without supplies or ammunition. And the hidin' they got yesterday will have knocked all the puff out of 'em, I dare say," he added regretfully. "I say, were you in the thick of it? Lor', don't I just wish I'd had your luck! Of all the beastly sells, to be ploddin' up an' down on river patrol, and not so much as a smell of a Sikh the whole time! What I'd give for a cut at the rascals!"
Between his babble and having to totter into the bushes every half-mile while the troop tactfully looked the other way, I was in poor trim by the time we reached Nuggur Ford, where they slung me a hammock in a makeshift hospital basha, and a native medical orderly filled me with jalap. I gave my little fire-eater a note to be forwarded to Lawrence, wherever he was, describing my whereabouts and condition, and after a couple of days in that mouldering hovel, watching the lizards scuttle along the musty beams and wishing I were dead, received the following reply:
Political Department, Camp, Kussoor. February 13, 1846.
My dear Flashman—I rejoice that you are safe, and trust that when this reaches you, your indisposition will have mended sufficiently to enable you to join me here without delay. The matter is urgent. Yrs Lawrence.
It gave me qualms, I can tell you; "urgent matters" were the last thing I needed just then. But it was reassuring, too, for there was no reference to my Dalip fiasco, and I guessed that Goolab had lost no time in advising Lawrence and Hardinge that he was looking after the lad like a mother hen. Still, I hadn't covered myself with glory, and knowing Hardinge's dislike of me it was surprising to find myself in such demand; I'd have thought he'd be happy to keep me at arm's length until the peace settlement was concluded. I knew too much about the whole Punjabi mischief for anyone's comfort, and now that they'd be patching it all up to mutual satisfaction and profit, with lofty humbug couched in fair terms, neither side would want to be reminded of all the intrigue and knavery that had been consummated at Moodkee and Ferozeshah and Sobraon; things would be easier all round if the prime agent in the whole foul business wasn't leering coyly at the back of the durbar tent when they signed the peace.
And it wasn't just that I'd be a spectre at the diplomatic feast. I suspected that Hardinge's aversion to me was rooted in a feeling that I spoiled the picture he had in mind of the whole Sikh War. My face didn't fit; it was a blot on the landscape, all the more disfiguring because he knew it belonged there. I believe he dreamed of some noble canvas, for exhibition in the great historic gallery of public approval—a true enough picture, mind you, of British heroism and faith unto death in the face of impossible odds; aye, and of gallantry by that stubborn enemy who died on the Sutlej. Well, you know what I think of heroism and gallantry, but I recognise 'em as only a born coward can. But they would be there, rightly, on the noble canvas, with Hardinge stern and forbearing, planting a magisterial boot on a dead Sikh and raising a penitent, awe-struck Dalip by the hand, while Gough (off to one side) addressed heaven with upraised sword before a background of cannon-smoke and resolute Britons bayoneting gnashing niggers and Mars and Mother India floating overhead in suitable draperies. Dam' fine.
Well, you can't mar a spectacle like that with a Punch cartoon border of Flashy rogering dusky damsels and spying and conniving dirty deals with Lal and Tej, can you now?
However, Lawrence's summons had to be obeyed, so I struggled from my bed of pain, removed my beard, obtained a clean set of civilian linens, hastened down to Ferozepore by river barge, and tooled up to Kussoor looking pale and interesting, with a cushion on my saddle.
While I'd been laid up with the dolorous skitters, Gough and Hardinge had been prosecuting the peace with vigour. Paddy had the whole army north of the Sutlej within three days of Sobraon, and Lawrence had been in touch with Goolab, who now figured it was safe to accept openly the Wazirship which the Khalsa had been pressing on him, and come forward to negotiate on their behalf. There were still upward of thirty thousand of them under arms, you remember, and Hardinge was on fire to come to terms before the brutes could work up a new head of steam, For it was a ticklish position, politically: we simply hadn't the men and means, as Paddy had pointed out, to conquer the Punjab; what was needed was a treaty that would give us effective control, dissolve the last remnants of the Khalsa, and keep Goolab, Jeendan, and the rest of the noble scavengers content. So Hardinge, with a speed and zeal which would have been useful months ago, had his terms cut and dried and ready to shove down Goolab's throat a mere five days after the war ended.
Kussoor lies a bare thirty miles from Lahore, and Hardinge had installed himself and his retinue in tents near the old town, with the army encamped on the plain around. As I trotted through the lines I could feel that air of contented elation that comes at the end of a campaign: the men are tired, and would like to sleep for a year, but they don't want to miss the warm feeling of survival and comradeship, so they lie blinking in the sun, or rouse themselves to skylark and play leapfrog. I remember the Lancers at baseball, and a young gunner sitting on a limber, licking his pencil and writing to the dictation of a farrier-sergeant with his arm in a sling: "… an' tell Sammy 'is Dad 'as got a Sikh sword wot 'e shall 'ave if 'e's bin good, an' a silk shawl for 'is Mum—stay, make that 'is dear Mum an' my best gel …" Sepoys were at drill, groups of fellows in vests and overalls were boiling their billies on the section fires, the long tent-lines and ruined mosques drowsed in the heat, the bugles sounded in the distance, the reek of native cooking wafted down from the host of camp-followers, fifty thousand of them, camped beyond the artillery park, somewhere a colour sergeant was waking the echoes, and a red-haired ruffian with a black eye was tied to a gun-wheel for field punishment, exchanging genial abuse with his mates. 1 stopped for a word with Bob Napier the sapper,51 who had his easel up and was painting a Bengali sowar sweating patiently in full fig of blue coat, red sash, and white breeches, but took care to avoid Gravedigger Havelock, who sat reading out-side his tent (the Book of Job, most likely). It was all calm and lazy; after sixty days of fire and fury, in which they'd held the gates of India, the Army of the Sutlej was at peace.
They'd earned it, There were 1400 fewer of them than there had been, and 5000 wounded in the Ferozepore barracks; against that, they'd killed 16,000 Punjabis and broken the best army east of Suez. There was a great outcry at home, by the way, over our losses; having seen the savagery of two of the four battles, and knowing the quality of the enemy, I'd say we were lucky the butcher's bill was so small—with Paddy in charge it was nothing short of a miracle.
If there was an unbuttoned air about the troops, head-quarters resembled Horse Guards during a fire alarm. Hardinge had just issued a proclamation to say that the war was over, it had all been the Sikhs' fault, we desired no extension of territory and were fairly bursting with pacific forbearance, but if the local rulers didn't co-operate to rescue the state from anarchy, H.M.G. would have to make "other arrangements", so there. In consequence, messengers scurried, clerks sweated, armies of bearers ran about with everything from refreshments to furniture, and bouquets of new young aides lounged about looking bored. No doubt I'm uncharitable, but I've noticed that as soon as the last shot's fired, platoons of these exquisites arrive as by magic, vaguely employed, haw-hawing fortissimo, pinching the gin to make "cock-tails", and stinking of pomade. There was a group outside Lawrence's tent, all guffaws and fly-whisks.