Flashman and the Cobra Read online

  “I would guess he is between forty-five and sixty,” said the sawbones. “The deceased was overweight so not a physical labourer, and the bits of his hand that I found were not calloused. The only clue to his identity is this leather folder we found in the undergrowth near the body. It has the initials HJD on it.”

  Even though the room was stiflingly hot, I felt a chill run down my spine. I was out of my chair at the mention of the word ‘folder’, and sure enough it was the leather folder that had once held the brochures and business cards of Henry Davis of the Boulton and Watt Steam Engine Company.

  “Oh God,” I said as I looked at the folder, which still had dark blood stains on it. For I realised why Davis has been tortured. Someone here in the fort had told the killers about the bank draft and then they must have found out from the bank who had cashed it. They would have tortured Davis to find out what he knew of the mythical wool merchant George Thompson. Of course he had no idea who had given him the draft as I had left it when I had broken into his room. Even if they had tried asking him about a man called Flashman, if he did remember me from the party, he would only remember a man planning to go to Hyderabad.

  “His name is Henry Davis,” I said. “We stayed at the same hotel when I first arrived in Madras. I remember seeing him with that case.”

  I did not add any information about why he might have been attacked. I felt a bit sick. What I had thought was an act of generosity had ended up getting the man killed in the most appalling way. The death also proved that Scindia really did have spies everywhere; even the fort was not as safe as I thought. I was not going to be given time to stow away either as I had been told that the Rajputs would arrive the following morning. I was trapped.

  I had been finding out a bit more about the Rajputs, though, and it seemed that they really were brave as lions and with a strict honour code. One officer told me a story of an attack on a small hill fort occupied by just twenty Rajputs. The British force was over five hundred men and the officer commanding the vanguard who knew about their ways offered to let them withdraw with honour and their weapons, which they started to do. Unfortunately the general commanding whole column countermanded this order and insisted that they surrender as prisoners. Massively outnumbered as they were, the Rajputs calmly returned to their fort and defended it to the last man, taking sixty British lives with them.

  Henry Wellesley also got me thinking by saying that if we could convince the raja of Berar to investigate Mahadji Scindia's death, then killing me would become less important to Dowlat Rao Scindia. My death would not stop the investigation. Strange as it may seem, actually doing my duty may be the least dangerous of a lot of dangerous options. I just had to stay alive that night to meet up with my capable bodyguard.

  They gave me a room at the fort and invited me to dine in the mess, but I was too jumpy for that. There were too many native servants with access to the fort and I had already had one European betray me on the ship, stealing the letter in the first place. They may have other agents here among the garrison. I needed somewhere I could stay for one night, where no one would think to look for me. One option sprang to mind.

  As the officers went in for dinner I went into their mess and picked up a cloak and hat to hide my features and then slipped out to the stables. A few minutes later I was on horseback and trotting across the drawbridge and into town. Several times I stopped to check I was not being followed, but no one seemed to be paying me any attention. I carried on, taking a road out of town, until I reached a familiar bungalow. I walked the horse through some trees and left it tied to one of them. As I moved to the private side door I picked a bunch of flowers from the well-tended flowerbeds. I had already checked that John Freese was not among the officers returning with Wellesley, and so I was all set to give Eliza an unexpected visit as I swung open the door with my flowers in hand.

  “Surprise, I am back,” I called as I moved into the room. But whatever else I was going to say died in my throat as she had a far bigger surprise for me. With astonishment I saw from the candles that she was not alone and white buttocks were moving rhythmically up and down above her. She screamed when she realised I was there and covered her head with a pillow. Major General Arthur Wellesley, however, turned to me with a look of angry indignation.

  “Flashman, what the devil are you doing here?”

  For a moment we both stared at each other in astonishment as the implications of the situation sank in. Eliza’s shoulders started to shake and at first I thought she was crying, but then she moved her pillow and we both saw she was laughing.

  “I am sorry,” she said between giggles. “I am so sorry, my poor John,” she added, referring to her absent husband. “I am a terrible wife, but I just so hate to be alone.”

  “You mean you and Flashman...” said Wellesley as the penny dropped and he climbed off the bed. He was naked and looked around for something to cover himself. Eliza had pulled the sheet up to her chin and so he picked up her robe and wrapped himself in that.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you sent John away and then went away yourself for months. I met Thomas last week and he was going away too. I didn’t think I would see him again.”

  Well, they gave us some etiquette classes at Rugby, how to greet royalty, that sort of thing. Strangely this situation was not included. I mean, what is the correct behaviour when two men meet while intent on rogering the wife of someone else? Do you both withdraw or form an orderly queue?

  Wellesley stared at me across the bed. Whenever he is being too starchy I think back to him at that moment, hair dishevelled and looking more than faintly ridiculous in a robe that was too small for him and embroidered with flowers. Eliza was smiling nervously at him, but to my surprise he grinned and shook his head at the absurdness of the situation. “Flashman, give us a few minutes, would you.”

  “Of course,” I said and, leaving my flowers on the nightstand, I turned and went out the way I had come in. As I stepped out in the grounds I saw that old Sardul, the coachman, had untied my horse and was taking it to the stables, muttering as he went. Doubtless he was complaining that his mistress had the morals of a Bengali bazaar whore, for he was shaking his head in disgust. When he saw me he stopped to see if I wanted the horse returned; he seemed only slightly relieved that Eliza was not taking clients two at a time. I had nowhere else to go and so I waved the horse away and went out to the little summer house on the lawn to collect my thoughts.

  A few moments later Sardul re-appeared with a tray on which there was a decanter of brandy, a glass and some cigars together with a candle. He would have made an excellent knocking shop attendant that one; he really knew how to look after the patrons. It was as he was pouring the brandy that we first heard a squeal. It seemed that after I had gone Wellesley had got back in the saddle. Sardul moved to one side, muttering again. I had said before that she was a noisy lover and she must have woken the household again that night. Over the next ten minutes her cries and groans rose to a crescendo that only just managed to drown out the grinding teeth and growls of her disapproving retainer.

  I was halfway down the cigar when Wellesley joined me. Sardul fetched him another glass and we sat there for a while smoking and drinking brandy in silence, neither of us sure what to say.

  “I would be grateful for your discretion, Flashman,” started Wellesley. “For the lady’s, I mean Eliza’s, reputation as well as mine.”

  “Of course I won’t say anything. I am a gentleman, you know.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I didn’t mean to imply...” Wellesley tailed off. “I did need to send John to Seringapatam, you know, it wasn’t just so that Eliza and I could, er...” and he tailed off again. “It’s all bloody embarrassing,” he finished.

  “She is a striking woman,” I replied.

  “Was it you that she took to the temples?” he asked, looking directly at me for the first time. “She mentioned that she had been there recently and thought we ought to go.”

  “Yes. Th
e wall carvings were somewhat educational.”

  “I see,” he said.

  But I was not sure he did, so I added, “There is a position involving an elephant-headed god that she was keen on. If you value your back, I would not risk it.”

  “Good grief!” he said as he fully understood and then took a large swig of brandy.

  We sat in silence a while longer. I was twenty one and he was thirty-three, a major general in the Company’s army who was yet to win a battle. His rank had been either bought for him or appointed by his brother, and he was desperate to prove himself. In that private moment you could almost sense that hunger in him.

  “I am grateful for your help with the raja of Berar,” he said at length. “Richard’s enemies will see him replaced soon and if I, I mean if we, have not subdued the Mahrattas by then, there may not be another opportunity.”

  “You do know that there are no French troops among the Mahrattas, don’t you?” I said, remembering de Boigne’s comments.

  “Yes, but if they stay unified, they could beat us aside. Their army has beaten us before, you know. If a French army ever gets to India, the number of French mercenaries amongst the Mahratta will mean that they will side with the French against us. British interests in India will not be secure until they are subdued. Of course, all the Company sees is this year’s profits; they refuse to take a longer-term view.” I sensed that this statement was one that both Wellesley brothers had rehearsed to justify their actions, which were as much about achieving or securing rank for themselves as protecting the nation’s interests.

  We chatted, smoked and drank in this vein for a while, but as the brandy took hold Wellesley was more open. He admitted that he knew many of his subordinates had more battle experience and that until he had won an action his men would not fully trust him. He talked about his first battle, which had been a disaster, and swore he would never fight a night action again, and he never did.

  In the end he offered me a bed for the night at Government House. I don’t think this was generosity on his part; he was just worried that I might try that side door again if he left me behind. Knowing Eliza, even after everything that happened, she would probably have let me in too!

  Chapter 11

  I spent that night in the most comfortable bed I had been in since I arrived in India and had one of the best dreams too. There I was back in Eliza’s bedroom, with her welcoming me dressed just in her flowery robe. Behind her, outside the window, there was Wellesley in a monsoon shower shouting “Mr Flashman, Mr Flashman” and knocking on the glass. Why he was being quite so formal I could not tell or care, as Eliza was slipping off the robe and I was growling in anticipation. Now, somehow, Wellesley had got into the room and was shaking my shoulder shouting “Mr Flashman, your escort is here”, which seemed deuced strange, and then with a start I awoke to find that some elderly Wellesley family retainer was indeed shaking my shoulder and saying the same.

  I am always in a bad mood when woken from a deep sleep, especially when such an enticing fantasy has been interrupted, and so I told him to go the devil and tried to turn over. But the infernal pest persisted and explained that my native escort was waiting outside, ready to set off with me on my journey. Well dammit, I was a guest of the governor general and not someone at the beck and call of some insomniac corporal. I told the old duffer to double down to the escort and tell them that I would be down when I was good and ready and I wanted my breakfast first. He squeaked in alarm at this, but I told him to get moving and then tried to settle down again between the covers.

  I couldn’t sleep again now and noticed from the window that the sun already seemed quite high in the sky. My earlier anger was slowly replaced with a nagging doubt. Whoever this escort commander was, I should not antagonise him as my life would depend on him for the next few weeks. I crept out of bed and took a quick peek from the side of the window. The governor’s mansion was a two-storey affair, and looking down from my room I saw fifty cavalry men all drawn up in four ruler-straight rows with their commander sitting on his horse, front and centre. My God, they looked a businesslike bunch too, with yellow turbans, long, red Company jackets with sashes and swords around their waists and everyone holding a razor-sharp lance. You could not tell expressions as they all had glossy black beards, but they sat damn tall and proud in the saddle. As I watched, the retainer trotted out and gave the commander my message. I was regretting that now. The commander looked furious and glared up at the windows. I ducked back as quickly as I could but I was not sure if he saw me. Well, the die is cast now, old boy, I thought. You have set yourself out as some aristocratic martinet; you will have to see it through or lose face.

  Things were not getting off to a good start when I looked at my clothes. They were the ones I had been riding in for the previous two days and the hat and cloak I had stolen from the officers’ mess yesterday. All had seen better days and would look shabby against the spotless perfection outside. Just as I was wondering if I could borrow some clothes from the Wellesleys there was a knock at the door. That little hero Runjeet had tracked me down and stood there with a small valise of clothes and my two pistols, which I had left behind when I had been abducted from his company earlier in the week. He asked for some money to pay off the caravan and keep the bungalow going, and I was so grateful that I broke my ‘golden’ rule and took some of my hidden gold coins from my belt in front of him. His eyes glittered at the sight of them but I didn’t care. The way things were, I would be mightily relieved if I lived long enough to have him drain me of the rest by the time I came back.

  I felt much better with a fresh set of duds, and went down and enjoyed a hearty breakfast too. From the clock in the morning room I discovered it was now half past ten, which was mighty late in those parts as people liked to do things before the heat of the day, but it was too late to worry about that now. Deciding I would continue as I started, I sent Runjeet off to ask the leader of my band of cavalrymen to join me for coffee so that we could discuss the route. I thought that might help me assert some authority. As I waited I looked out of the window and nearly choked on my toast, for there among the roses was a pair of the aforementioned fearless warriors wandering through the flowers, holding each other’s hand. It seemed their leader had given them permission to fall out and they were enjoying the surroundings. No matter how long I spent in India I never got used the sight of men walking together holding hands. They do it quite naturally and it doesn’t signify that they are of the more ‘artistic’ persuasion. But it looked deuced odd, especially when you saw two fierce soldiers at it.

  The leader of my escort arrived a few minutes later. He was taller than me by several inches, broader too, and he had black eyes that glittered dangerously. He introduced himself as Risaldar-Major Poorun Singh and was stiffly formal. He saluted so sharply he could have cracked a walnut in his elbow joint and refused my offer of a seat and coffee.

  “Is the sahib now ready to leave?” he asked stiffly.

  “Soon,” I replied. “I just wanted to discuss the route first. Do you have a map?”

  He looked coldly at me and replied, “I do not need a map, I know the way well.” Then, as a challenge to me, he added, “Do you know India well?”

  “I think we both know that I have only been in the country a few weeks,” I retorted. Then, to regain control, I said, “But I do know enough not to go riding out into strange lands without a pretty good idea of where I am going and why. Perhaps you would be good enough to show me our route using this map on the wall.”

  He had to loosen up a bit after that as he struggled to understand the English spellings of some of the landmarks and we had to work together, with him saying place names and me finding them on the map to be able to chart our route. I quickly realised that as well as being as proud as Lucifer, he was a capable man and had thought out the route carefully.

  Berar lay to the north of the province of Hyderabad, which was friendly to the British. The nizam of Hyderabad had provided soldiers
to help with the Mysore campaign and had pledged to support any action against the Mahrattas. The nizam was a Muslim and the Mahrattas were largely Hindu, but the split was not along religious lines as most of the nizam’s people were Hindus too. The rift was due to the fact that the Mahrattas supported pindaree bandits. Pindaree were tribes of nomadic thieves who lived off the land and robbed farmers of crops and raided towns and villages. The Mahrattas tolerated them because in times of war the pindaree leaders would bring hordes of horsemen to serve as cavalry. I had heard earlier from an army colonel that these horsemen lacked what he called ‘bottom’; i.e. they would not attack a strong hostile force. But if an army was in disarray or retreating then they would charge in to loot and kill, like the robbers they were. To protect their own people the Mahratta leaders encouraged the pindaree to raid their neighbours such as Hyderabad, which explained why the nizam was keen to help the British.

  Poorun Singh thought that Scindia could have sent the pindaree out to look for me and so he suggested that we avoid the main routes through Hyderabad and go the backcountry way. He clearly described the route, which he evidently knew well. Once we were near Berar he had the name of a trusted man we could use to arrange a meeting with the raja. That was the bit that worried me, but we had the best part of eight hundred miles to ride first, which would take nearly a month.

  When he had finished explaining the route Poorun Singh gave another of his nut-shattering salutes and said, “We are ready to leave immediately.” With a dark, unreadable face, he strode from the room. I had thought the Flashy charm was starting to win him round, but clearly he had not forgotten my earlier offhand orders.

  As I prepared to leave, putting on a smart blue coat and black hat, I heard a trumpeter sound some signal. Judging from the speed at which the hand-holding Flora and Daisy sped from the flower garden to the front of the house, it was the recall. Well, if Singh wanted to play the punctilious soldier I could continue the martinet role and he would have to take the consequences. So I strolled out of the front door of the governor’s mansion, determined to show that I could keep these natives in their place, only to stop dead in astonishment. Runjeet was leading away my fine thoroughbred horse and in its place a trooper, or sowar as they were called in the Company cavalry, was leading forward a wiry pony, similar to those that the other soldiers rode. Before I could say anything about that I noticed that by my feet was a pile of well-worn clothes, a sowar’s uniform.