"It is not for the envoy of a beaten foe to come in state and pride!" says he. "I am but a poor suppliant, seeking mercy from the Malki lat, and so I dress the part. And a single soldier comes to meet me—albeit a distinguished one. Ah, well, these are hard times."
I asked him where Dalip was. "In good hands. A wilful child, who shows me no respect; he has been too much among women, so doubtless they will be his downfall some day. Presently I shall bring him—leading him by the hand, remember?" He chuckled and looked sly. "But only when the treaty is agreed beyond peradventure; until then I keep the bird in my hand."
We were moving at a walk towards the Kussoor lines, for he seemed in no hurry; indeed, fora man bound on a delicate embassy he was uncommon carefree, joking and making small talk, with an air of great contentment. Only when I mentioned that I'd be going home in a day or two, did he rein up in astonishment.
"But why? When fortune awaits you here? No—not that royal slut in Lahore Fort! Gurdana has told me of that; you would not be such a fool! As well mate with a krait.. But in Kashmir, with me!" He was grinning and frowning together. "Did you doubt me, when I promised you a golden future yonder? Regiments to command, a general's rank, lordships and revenues—Gurdana has accepted already! Aye, he leaves Lahore, to come to me! And why should not you? Is the Bloody Lance of Afghanistan less of a soldier than Gurdana, or that dog-dirt Harlan, who lorded it under Runjeet, or Avitabile and the rest?" He struck me on the shoulder. "And we have stood up together, you and I—and who stands with Goolab has a friend!"
If that was how he remembered our scuffle in the Lahore alleys, let him—but wasn't there a movement to recruit Flashy these days, just? Reputation and credit, there's no currency to touch them. Lawrence, Goolab . . even a queen setting her cap at me. Aye, but they ain't home. I thanked him, explaining politely that I wasn't a soldier of fortune, and he shook his head, threw up his great shoulders, and let it go. I asked him if he was so sure of getting Kashmir, and he said it was in the treaty. It was my turn to stare.
"But the terms are secret—you don't know 'em yet!"
"Do I not? Oh, not from Lawence Sahib, or any of your people." He rumbled with laughter. "Is this the Punjab, and shall I not know what passes? A treaty of sixteen articles, whereby the durbar will give up to Britain the Sutlej banks, and the Jullundur Doab, and keep only a kutch-*(*Inferior.) Khalsa of a mere 20,000 bayonets and 12,000 horse, and pay a mighty indemnity of a million and a half sterling …" He burst out laughing at my amazement. "You need not tell Lawrence Sahib and the Malki lat that I know it all—let them sleep at nights! But if you should, it is no matter—they will keep the bargain, because it is all they need—a rich province of the Punjab, to punish us and show the world the folly of challenging the Sirkar; a tiny, feeble Khalsa—oh, aye, to be commanded by that lion among warriors, Tej Singh, with Lal as Wazir; and a sub-missive durbar to do your bidding, with Dalip and his mother obedient puppets—handsomely subsidised, to be sure, So the Punjab remains free—but its mistress is the White Queen."
I didn't doubt his information—in a land of spies there are no secrets. And it was the best of bargains for us: control without conquest. One thing, though, I couldn't see.
"How on earth is the Lahore durbar to pay a fine of a million and a half? They're bankrupt, ain't they?"
"Assuredly. So, having no money, they will pay in kind—by ceding Kashmir and the hill country to the British."
"And we'll give you Kashmir, for services rendered?"
He sighed. "No … you will sell me Kashmir, for half a million. Your countrymen don't overlook opportunities for profit. And they say the Jews are sharp! The price is not mentioned in the treaty—nor is another item which is to be surrendered as a token of Punjabi good faith and loyalty."
"What's that?"
"You have heard of our Mountain of Light Koh-i-Noor, the great diamond of Golconda? Well, that too is to be taken from us, as a trophy for your Queen."
"Ye don't say? Her Majesty's share of the loot, eh? Well, well!"
"Let her have it," says Goolab magnanimously, "To the strong, the prize. And to the patient, gold-bought slave … Kashmir."
Hardinge evidently hadn't been warned that I was infesting headquarters again, for he started visibly when I ushered Goolab into the big durbar tent, and darted an indignant glance at Lawrence. There was a fine gallery, including Mackeson, who had narrowly lost the Agent's post to Lawrence after Broadfoot's death; Currie, the government secretary; and any number of "Calcutta wallahs", as Lawrence had called them. As I presented "His Highness, the Raja Goolab Singh", I could almost read Hardinge's mind: conspiracy, he was thinking, the little bugger's been wangling a 99-year lease on the Khyber Pass. He was all frost and dignity to Goolab, who truckled like a good 'un, leaning on a stick and making much of his gouty foot in the hope of being asked to sit, which he wasn't; Hardinge returned his greeting with a formal statement conveying (but without saying so, for he was a dab hand at diplomatic chat) that the terms which he would shortly hear had been designed to cut the Punjab down to size, and they could think themselves lucky to get off so lightly. He then turned the old chief over to Currie and Lawrence, who would explain the treaty, and they took him off. Hardinge gave me another cold glare, and for a moment I thought he was going to address me, but he changed his mind; from the way the Calcutta toadies sniffed and eyed me askance I could see that the word was out that Flashy was a Bad Penny, so I lit a cheroot, hoping to be rebuked; I wasn't, so I tooled out to take the air.
Lawrence had told me that morning that I should_ go down to Umballa the following day (and so home, thank God!), so when I left the durbar I made a few calls, to collect letters and any trinkets that my comrades might want transported—quicker and safer than the Army post, you see. There was general lamentation at my departure (for as Thomas Hughes has told you, I had a gift of popularity), and dear old Paddy Gough absolutely called me into his command tent and insisted on my having a glass with him.
"The best men always get kilt, or married, or retire!" says he, pledging me. "Ye've done the last two, Flash-man, my son—here's wishin' you never do the first! Which reminds me—did ye give that neckercher back after Ferozeshah? Ye did nott, ye light-fingered young divil! Would ye believe it, Smith—a staff galloper that plunders his own gineral's effects in the presence o' the inimy? He did, though! Ye nivver saw the like o' that in the Peninsula, I'll be bound!"
This was to Harry Smith, looking more like Wellington than usual. "Never trust a political," says he. "Health, Flashman." And as they drank, d'ye know, I felt quite moved, for Paddy had been having some conference or other, and his marquee was full of leading men -- Joe Thackwell, and Gilbert with his arm in a sling from Sobraon, and the Gravedigger, and younger fellows like Edwardes, and Johnny Nicholson, and Rake Hodson, and Hope Grant. Well, 'tisn't every day you have your health drunk by chaps like those.53
Their talk was all of Sobraon, of course: the Grave-digger had had his fifth horse of the campaign shot out from under him, and Thackwell said they'd have to start charging him for remounts; Harry Smith said it was the fourth worst scrap he'd ever been in, the first three being Waterloo, Badajoz, and New Orleans, in that order, which set them arguing; old M'Gregor, the poultice-walloper, enthralled me with a charming dissertation on the different effects on the frame of a musket ball and a grapeshot, with a tasteful description of knee-wounds;54 and I made them laugh with my account of Tej Singh's funkhole, and a modestly doctored version of my escape across the Sutlej.