This sounded to me like a man riding his pet hobby; I couldn't see why any of this should do anything but please the people.
"The people don't count! They never do. It's the rulers that matter, the rajas and the nabobs — like this rani of yours in Jhansi. They've squeezed this country for centuries, and Dalhousie put a stop to it. Of course it's for the benefit of the poor folk, but they don't know that — they believe what their princes tell 'em. And what they tell 'em is that the British Sirkar is their enemy, because it stops them burning their widows, and murdering each other in the name of Kali, and will abolish their religion and force Christianity on them if it can."
"Oh, come, John," says I, "they've been saying that for years."
"Well, there's something in it." He looked troubled, in a stuffy religious way. "I'm a Christian, I hope, or try to be, and I pray I shall see the day when the Gospel is the daily bread of every poor benighted soul on this continent, and His praise is sung in a thousand churches. But I could wish our people went more carefully about it. These are a devout people, Flashman, and their beliefs, misguided though they are, must not be taken lightly. What do they think, when they hear Christianity taught in the schools — in the jails, even — and when colonels preach to their regiments?5 Let the prince, or the agitator, whisper in their ears ‘See how the British will trample on thy holy things, which they respect not. See how they will make Christians of you.’ They will believe him. And they are such simple folk, and their eyes are closed. D'you know," he went on, "there's a sect in Kashmir that even worships me?"
"Good for you," says I. "D'ye take up a collection?"
"I try to reason with them — but it does no good. I tell you, India won't be converted in a day, or in years. It must come slowly, if surely. But our missionaries — good, worthy men — press on apace, and cannot see the harm they may do." He sighed. "Yet can one find it in one's heart to blame them, old fellow, when one considers the blessings that God's grace would bring to this darkened continent? It is very hard." And he looked stern and nobly anguished; Arnold would have loved him. Then he frowned and growled, and suddenly burst out:
"It wouldn't be so bad, if we weren't so confounded soft! If we would only carry things with a high hand — the reforms, and the missionary work, even. Either let well alone, or do the thing properly. But we don't, you see; we take half-measures, and are too gentle by a mile. If we are going to pull down their false gods, and reform their old and corrupt states and amend their laws, and make 'em worthy men and women — then let us do it with strength! Dalhousie was strong, but I don't know about Canning. I know if I were he, I'd bring these oily, smirking, treacherous princes under my heel —" his eyes flashed as he ground his boot in the dust. "I'd give 'em government, firm and fair. I'd be less soft with the sepoys, too — and with some of our own people. That's half the trouble — you haven't been back long enough, but depend upon it, we send some poor specimens out to the army nowadays, and to the Company offices.‘Broken-down tapsters and serving men's sons’, eh? Well, you'll see 'em — ignorant, slothful fellows of poor class, and we put 'em to officer high-caste Hindoos of ten years' service. They don't know their men, and treat 'em like children or animals, and think of nothing but drinking and hunting, and — and … " he reddened to the roots of his enormous beard and looked aside. "Some of them consort with … with the worst type of native women." He cleared his throat and patted my arm. "There, I'm sorry, old fellow; I know it's distasteful to talk of such things, but it's true, alas."
I shook my head and said it was heart-breaking.
"Now you see why your news concerns me so? These omens at Jhansi — they may be the spark to the tinder, and I've shown you, I hope, that the tinder exists in India, because of our own blindness and softness. If we were stronger, and dealt firmly with the princes, and accompanied our enlightenment of the people with proper discipline — why, the spark would be stamped out easily enough. As it is —" he shook his head again. "I don't like it. Thank God they had the wit to send someone like you to Jhansi — I only wish I could come with you, to share whatever perils may lie ahead. It's a strange, wild place, from all I've heard," says this confounded croaker with pious satisfaction, as he shook my hand. "Come, old fellow, shall we pray together — for your safety and guidance in whatever dangers you may find yourself?"
And he plumped down there and then on his knees, with me alongside, and gave God his marching orders in no uncertain fashion, telling him to keep a sharp eye on his servant. I don't know what it was about me, but holy fellows like Nicholson were forever addressing heaven on my behalf — even those who didn't know me well seemed to sense that there was a lot of hard graft to be done if Flashy was ever to smell salvation. I can see him yet — his great dark head and long nose against the sunset, his beard quivering with exhortation, and even the freckles on the back of his clasped hands. Poor wild John — he should have canvassed the Lord on his own behalf, perhaps, for while I'm still here after half a century, he was stiff inside the year, shot in the midriff by a pandy sniper in the attack on Delhi, and left to die by inches at the roadside. That's what his duty earned for him; if he'd taken proper precautions he'd have made viceroy. And Delhi would have fallen just the same.6
Whatever his prayers accomplished for my solid flesh, his talk about Jhansi had done nothing for my spirits. "A strange wild place," he'd said, and talked of the Pindari bandits and Thugs and Maharatta scoundrels — well, I knew it had been hell's punch-bowl in the old days, but I'd thought since we'd annexed it that it must be quieter now. Mangles, at the Board of Control in London, had described it as "tranquil beneath the Company's benevolent rule", but he was a pompous ass with a talent for talking complete bosh about subjects on which he was an authority.
As I pushed on into Bandelkand it began to look as though he was wrong and Nicholson was right — it was broken, hilly country, with jungle on the slopes and in the valleys, never a white face to be seen, and the black ones getting uglier by the mile. The roads were so atrocious, and the hackery jolted and rolled so sickeningly, that I was forced to take to my Pegu pony; there was devil a sign of civilisation, but only walled villages and every so often a sinister Maharatta fort squatting on a hilltop to remind you who really held the power in this land. "The toughest nut south of the Khyber" — I was ready to believe it, as I surveyed those unfriendly jungly hills, seeing nothing cheerier than a distant tiger skulking among the waitabit thorn. And this was the country that we were "ruling" — with one battalion of suspect sepoy infantry and a handful of British civilians to collect the taxes.
My first sight of Jhansi city wasn't uplifting either. We rounded a bend on the hill road, and there it was under a dull evening sky — a massive fort, embattled and towered, on a great steep rock, and the walled city clustered at its foot. It was far bigger than I'd imagined; the walls must have been four miles round at least, and the air over the city was thick with the smoke of a thousand cooking fires. On this side of the city lay the orderly white lines of the British camp and cantonment — God, it looked tiny and feeble, beneath that looming vastness of Jhansi fort. My mind went back to Kabul, and how our camp had seemed dwarfed by the Bala Hissar — and even at Kabul, with an army of ten thousand, only a handful of us had escaped. I told myself that here it was different — that less than a hundred miles ahead of me there were our great garrisons along the Grand Trunk, and that however forbidding Jhansi might look, it was a British state nowadays, and under the Sirkar's protection. Only there wasn't much sign of that protection — just our pathetic little village like a flea on the lion's lip, and somewhere in that great citadel, where our troops never went, that brooding old bitch of a Rani scheming against us, with her thousands of savage subjects waiting for her word. Thus my imagination — as if it hadn't been full enough already, what with Ignatieff' and Thugs and wild Pindaris and dissident sepoys and Nicholson's forebodings.