The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection George MacDonald Fraser George MacDonald Fraser’s uproarious bestselling Flashman series, now available in one complete ebook for the first time.THE COMPLETE FLASHMAN PAPERS is the entire collection of Flashman’s perilous missions across the world. Spanning from 1839 right through to 1894 the incorrigible Flashman fears all evil and when it comes to voluptuous queens and princesses he has be known to waver from his mission. Filled to the gunnels with escapades of unwavering excitement THE COMPLETE FLASHMAN PAPERS will quench even the most ravenous appetite for Flashman. THE COMPLETE FLASHMAN PAPERS FLASHMAN ROYAL FLASH FLASHMAN’S LADY FLASHMAN & THE MOUNTAIN OF LIGHT FLASH FOR FREEDOM! FLASHMAN & THE REDSKINS FLASHMAN AT THE CHARGE FLASHMAN IN THE GREAT GAME FLASHMAN AND THE ANGEL OF THE LORD FLASHMAN & THE DRAGON FLASHMAN ON THE MARCH FLASHMAN & THE TIGER GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER Copyright (#ulink_07bf9faa-366d-585d-99e5-556cb5b72cb4) These novels are entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in them are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Flashman first published in Great Britain by Herbert Jenkins Ltd 1969 Royal Flash first published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1970 Flashman’s Lady first published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1977 Flashman and the Mountain of Light first published in Great Britain by Harvill 1990 Flash for Freedom! first published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1971 Flashman and the Redskins first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1982 Flashman at the Charge first published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1973 Flashman in the Great Game first published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1975 Flashman and the Angel of the Lord first published in Great Britain by Harvill 1994 Flashman and the Dragon first published in Great Britain by Collins Harvill 1985 Flashman on the March first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2005 Flashman and the Tiger first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1999 Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1969, 1970, 1977, 1990, 1971, 1982, 1973, 1975, 1994, 1985, 2005, 1999 George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of these works A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007532513 Version: 2017-11-06 Contents Cover (#u5f5b14b4-b944-55f4-a5cc-c899269ebecb) Title Page (#u3b1067e5-90af-51c9-a95d-8fa870e330a1) Copyright (#u57358ad0-e7cc-543f-aa85-292947c1eea2) Map (#u2fd6843a-ed35-5038-8615-59ac202a4946) Flashman (#u4ed6a2a2-808a-56a7-be09-d7a31901c860) Royal Flash (#ue0e153f4-37c1-58df-b8fb-7aa2e55fc415) Flashman’s Lady (#u420f6598-528c-5d94-b450-5d2361957b64) Flashman & the Mountain of Light (#u5dfd0288-4a17-51f2-b78b-57ed89e46ed3) Flash for Freedom! (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman & the Redskins (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman at the Charge (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman in the Great Game (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman & the Angel of the Lord (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman & the Dragon (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman on the March (#litres_trial_promo) Flashman & the Tiger (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Also by George MacDonald Fraser (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Map (#ulink_a086f6c7-7649-57ef-9062-bcc4c40a8b01) (#ulink_4a1ab61c-d174-570c-95d8-c71756baef74) FLASHMAN From The Flashman Papers, 1839–42 Edited and Arranged by GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER Copyright (#ulink_8ef21b5c-7bf3-5d8a-99a7-bbb96fe0e930) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by Herbert Jenkins Ltd 1969 Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1969 George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780006511250 Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007325689 Version: 2017-11-06 Dedication (#ulink_94f42658-e294-580a-b4a1-c567027fa0df) FOR KATH Contents Cover (#u4ed6a2a2-808a-56a7-be09-d7a31901c860) Title Page (#uc518d114-1c4d-527f-97ac-591eab8fd84e) Copyright (#ulink_250a06b5-faf7-53a2-850d-25d6eec1dc69) Dedication (#ulink_9c5c2801-69d8-5bb8-8b9f-7d6c5634bc25) Explanatory Note (#udff292db-603f-54ce-b168-a7a1a09ec145) Map (#ubce4b6af-9776-550d-83fb-086214da918a) Chapter 1 (#u6bbd181e-950d-5a7d-a009-380171bfff74) Chapter 2 (#u78b4488b-0c7e-57b9-90aa-f382e6125a59) Chapter 3 (#uedb3ca10-4489-53f4-a1b1-5fbb0f0ca52c) Chapter 4 (#u5f62c1dc-bb2d-5fcd-8c73-3658dc9d08ca) Chapter 5 (#ud2880299-5f27-5d26-a92d-5084ea4226fd) Chapter 6 (#u7e93be46-6983-5b8e-acd3-1da5afb5059e) Chapter 7 (#ua5662e1d-3bd6-5e58-b3f5-747e4390d969) Chapter 8 (#u392af5b2-af91-5a62-98b8-1774ee136e55) Chapter 9 (#u49f31b07-7689-5d00-a54c-dbfbec0faa31) Chapter 10 (#ueac8e98d-d551-5b1f-ae57-de6af558914a) Chapter 11 (#u6b01e378-4c27-53d7-b498-a489ce6863b8) Chapter 12 (#u38588e60-1807-5fac-bfaa-aeff6f81bbe5) Chapter 13 (#ua8ba393f-8f05-52f5-876c-2361d015eeee) Glossary (#u5ddf979b-b78e-5fc9-bdd1-20dffefc9fa8) Notes (#u3eb8934c-c6d7-5070-ba15-d3c99779db4a) Explanatory Note (#ulink_2ca730a9-5314-5f75-8d1b-084a1dde1318) The great mass of manuscript known as the Flashman Papers was discovered during a sale of household furniture at Ashby, Leicestershire, in 1965. The papers were subsequently claimed by Mr Paget Morrison, of Durban, South Africa, the nearest known living relative of their author. A point of major literary interest about the papers is that they clearly identify Flashman, the school bully of Thomas Hughes’ Tom Broun’s Schooldays, with the celebrated Victorian soldier of the same name. The papers are, in fact, Harry Flashman’s personal memoirs from the day of his expulsion from Rugby School in the late 1830s to the early years of the present century. He appears to have written them some time between 1900 and 1905, when he must have been over eighty. It is possible that he dictated them. The papers, which had apparently lain untouched for fifty years, in a tea chest, until they were found in the Ashby saleroom, were carefully wrapped in oilskin covers. From correspondence found in the first packet, it is evident that their original discovery by his relatives in 1915 after the great soldier’s death caused considerable consternation; they seem to have been unanimously against publication of their kinsman’s autobiography – one can readily understand why – and the only wonder is that the manuscript was not destroyed. Fortunately, it was preserved, and what follows is the content of the first packet, covering Flashman’s early adventures. I have no reason to doubt that it is a completely truthful account; where Flashman touches on historical fact he is almost invariably accurate, and readers can judge whether he is to be believed or not on more personal matters. Mr Paget Morrison, knowing of my interest in this and related subjects, asked me to edit the papers. Beyond correcting some minor spelling errors, however, there has been no editing to do. Flashman had a better sense of narrative than I have, and I have confined myself to the addition of a few historical notes. The quotation from Tom Brown’s Schooldays was pasted to the top page of the first packet; it had evidently been cut from the original edition of 1856. G. M. F. One fine summer evening Flashman had been regaling himself on gin-punch, at Brownsover; and, having exceeded his usual limits, started home uproarious. He fell in with a friend or two coming back from bathing, proposed a glass of beer, to which they assented, the weather being hot, and they thirsty souls, and unaware of the quantity of drink which Flashman had already on board. The short result was, that Flashy became beastly drunk. They tried to get him along, but couldn’t; so they chartered a hurdle and two men to carry him. One of the masters came upon them, and they naturally enough fled. The flight of the rest excited the master’s suspicions, and the good angel of the fags incited him to examine the freight, and, after examination, to convoy the hurdle himself up to the School-house; and the Doctor, who had long had his eye on Flashman, arranged for his withdrawal next morning. – THOMAS HUGHES, Tom Brown’s Schooldays. Map (#ulink_4d5b776f-fe1b-5def-8de0-4c1bb35e6f47) Chapter 1 (#ulink_c9e672fb-f52d-5a24-9eca-bb20b046ceb1) Hughes got it wrong, in one important detail. You will have read, in Tom Brown, how I was expelled from Rugby School for drunkenness, which is true enough, but when Hughes alleges that this was the result of my deliberately pouring beer on top of gin-punch, he is in error. I knew better than to mix my drinks, even at seventeen. I mention this, not in self-defence, but in the interests of strict truth. This story will be completely truthful; I am breaking the habit of eighty years. Why shouldn’t I? When a man is as old as I am, and knows himself thoroughly for what he was and is, he doesn’t care much. I’m not ashamed, you see; never was – and I have enough on what Society would consider the credit side of the ledger – a knighthood, a Victoria Cross, high rank, and some popular fame. So I can look at the picture above my desk, of the young officer in Cardigan’s Hussars; tall, masterful, and roughly handsome I was in those days (even Hughes allowed that I was big and strong, and had considerable powers of being pleasant), and say that it is the portrait of a scoundrel, a liar, a cheat, a thief, a coward – and, oh yes, a toady. Hughes said more or less all these things, and his description was pretty fair, except in matters of detail such as the one I’ve mentioned. But he was more concerned to preach a sermon than to give facts. But I am concerned with facts, and since many of them are discreditable to me, you can rest assured they are true. At all events, Hughes was wrong in saying I suggested beer. It was Speedicut who ordered it up, and I had drunk it (on top of all those gin-punches) before I knew what I was properly doing. That finished me; I was really drunk then – “beastly drunk”, says Hughes, and he’s right – and when they got me out of the “Grapes” I could hardly see, let alone walk. They bundled me into a sedan, and then a beak hove in sight and Speedicut lived up to his name and bolted. I was left sprawling in the chair, and up came the master and saw me. It was old Rufton, one of Arnold’s housemasters. “Good God!” he said. “It’s one of our boys – drunk!” I can still see him goggling at me, with his great pale gooseberry eyes and white whiskers. He tried to rouse me, but he might as well have tried to wake a corpse. I just lay and giggled at him. Finally he lost his temper, and banged the top of the chair with his cane and shouted: “Take him up, chairmen! Take him to the School! He shall go before the Doctor for this!” So they bore me off in procession, with old Rufton raging behind about disgusting excesses and the wages of sin, and old Thomas and the chairmen took me to the hospital, which was appropriate, and left me on a bed to sober up. It didn’t take me long, I can tell you, as soon as my mind was clear enough to think what would come of it. You know what Arnold was like, if you have read Hughes, and he had no use for me at the best of times. The least I could expect was a flogging before the school. That was enough to set me in a blue funk, at the very thought, but what I was really afraid of was Arnold himself. They left me in the hospital perhaps two hours, and then old Thomas came to say the Doctor wanted to see me. I followed him downstairs and across to the School-house, with the fags peeping round corners and telling each other that the brute Flashy had fallen at last, and old Thomas knocked at the Doctor’s door, and the voice crying “Come in!” sounded like the crack of doom to me. He was standing before the fireplace, with his hands behind looping up his coat-tails, and a face like a Turk at a christening. He had eyes like sabre-points, and his face was pale and carried that disgusted look that he kept for these occasions. Even with the liquor still working on me a little I was as scared in that minute as I’ve ever been in my life – and when you have ridden into a Russian battery at Balaclava and been chained in an Afghan dungeon waiting for the torturers, as I have, you know what fear means. I still feel uneasy when I think of him, and he’s been dead sixty years. He was live enough then. He stood silent a moment, to let me stew a little. Then: “Flashman,” says he, “there are many moments in a schoolmaster’s life when he must make a decision, and afterwards wonder whether he was right or not. I have made a decision, and for once I am in no doubt that I am right. I have observed you for several years now, with increasing concern. You have been an evil influence in the school. That you are a bully, I know; that you are untruthful, I have long suspected; that you are deceitful and mean, I have feared; but that you had fallen so low as to be a drunkard – that, at least, I never imagined. I have looked in the past for some signs of improvement in you, some spark of grace, some ray of hope that my work here had not, in your case, been unsuccessful. It has not come, and this is the final infamy. Have you anything to say?” He had me blubbering by this time; I mumbled something about being sorry. “If I thought for one moment,” says he, “that you were sorry, that you had it in you to show true repentance, I might hesitate from the step that I am about to take. But I know you too well, Flashman. You must leave Rugby tomorrow.” If I had had my wits about me I suppose I should have thought this was no bad news, but with Arnold thundering I lost my head. “But, sir,” I said, still blubbering, “it will break my mother’s heart!” He went pale as a ghost, and I fell back. I thought he was going to hit me. “Blasphemous wretch!” he cried – he had a great pulpit trick with phrases like those – “your mother has been dead these many years, and do you dare to plead her name – a name that should be sacred to you – in defence of your abominations? You have killed any spark of pity I had for you!” “My father –” “Your father,” says he, “will know how to deal with you. I hardly think,” he added, with a look, “that his heart will be broken.” He knew something of my father, you see, and probably thought we were a pretty pair. He stood there drumming his fingers behind him a moment, and then he said, in a different voice: “You are a sorry creature, Flashman. I have failed in you. But even to you I must say, this is not the end. You cannot continue here, but you are young, Flashman, and there is time yet. Though your sins be as red as crimson, yet shall they be as white as snow. You have fallen very low, but you can be raised up again.…” I haven’t a good memory for sermons, and he went on like this for some time, like the pious old hypocrite that he was. For he was a hypocrite, I think, like most of his generation. Either that or he was more foolish than he looked, for he was wasting his piety on me. But he never realised it. Anyway, he gave me a fine holy harangue, about how through repentance I might be saved – which I’ve never believed, by the way. I’ve repented a good deal in my time, and had good cause, but I was never ass enough to suppose it mended anything. But I’ve learned to swim with the tide when I have to, so I let him pray over me, and when he had finished I left his study a good deal happier than when I went in. I had escaped flogging, which was the main thing; leaving Rugby I didn’t mind a button. I never much cared for the place, and the supposed disgrace of expulsion I didn’t even think about. (They had me back a few years ago to present prizes; nothing was said about expulsion then, which shows that they are just as big hypocrites now as they were in Arnold’s day. I made a speech, too; on Courage, of all things.) I left the school next morning, in the gig, with my box on top, and they were damned glad to see me go, I expect. Certainly the fags were; I’d given them toco in my time. And who should be at the gate (to gloat, I thought at first, but it turned out otherwise) but the bold Scud East. He even offered me his hand. “I’m sorry, Flashman,” he said. I asked him what he had to be sorry for, and damned his impudence. “Sorry you’re being expelled,” says he. “You’re a liar,” says I. “And damn your sorrow, too.” He looked at me, and then turned on his heel and walked off. But I know now that I misjudged him then; he was sorry, heaven knows why. He’d no cause to love me, and if I had been him I’d have been throwing my cap in the air and hurrahing. But he was soft: one of Arnold’s sturdy fools, manly little chaps, of course, and full of virtue, the kind that schoolmasters love. Yes, he was a fool then, and a fool twenty years later, when he died in the dust at Cawnpore with a Sepoy’s bayonet in his back. Honest Scud East; that was all that his gallant goodness did for him. Chapter 2 (#ulink_6eeccc64-55ba-5066-a58c-c4f97cb4c48e) I didn’t linger on the way home. I knew my father was in London, and I wanted to get over as soon as I could the painful business of telling him I had been kicked out of Rugby. So I decided to ride to town, letting my bags follow, and hired a horse accordingly at the “George”. I am one of those who rode as soon as he walked – indeed, horsemanship and my trick of picking up foreign tongues have been the only things in which you could say I was born gifted, and very useful they have been. So I rode to town, puzzling over how my father would take the good news. He was an odd fish, the guv’nor, and he and I had always been wary of each other. He was a nabob’s grandson, you see, old Jack Flashman having made a fortune in America out of slaves and rum, and piracy, too, I shouldn’t wonder, and buying the place in Leicestershire where we have lived ever since. But for all their moneybags, the Flashmans were never the thing – “the coarse streak showed through, generation after generation, like dung beneath a rosebush,” as Greville said. In other words, while other nabob families tried to make themselves pass for quality, ours didn’t, because we couldn’t. My own father was the first to marry well, for my mother was related to the Pagets, who as everyone knows sit on the right hand of God. As a consequence he kept an eye on me to see if I gave myself airs; before mother died he never saw much of me, being too busy at the clubs or in the House or hunting – foxes sometimes, but women mostly – but after that he had to take some interest in his heir, and we grew to know and mistrust each other. He was a decent enough fellow in his way, I suppose, pretty rough and with the devil’s own temper, but well enough liked in his set, which was country-squire with enough money to pass in the West End. He enjoyed some lingering fame through having gone a number of rounds with Cribb, in his youth, though it’s my belief that Champion Tom went easy with him because of his cash. He lived half in town, half in country now, and kept an expensive house, but he was out of politics, having been sent to the knacker’s yard at Reform. He was still occupied, though, what with brandy and the tables, and hunting – both kinds. I was feeling pretty uneasy, then, when I ran up the steps and hammered on the front door. Oswald, the butler, raised a great cry when he saw who it was, because it was nowhere near the end of the half, and this brought other servants: they scented scandal, no doubt. “My father’s home?” I asked, giving Oswald my coat and straightening my neck-cloth. “Your father, to be sure, Mr Harry,” cried Oswald, all smiles. “In the saloon this minute!” He threw open the door, and cried out: “Mr Harry’s home, sir!” My father had been sprawled on a settee, but he jumped up when he saw me. He had a glass in his hand and his face was flushed, but since both those things were usual it was hard to say whether he was drunk or not. He stared at me, and then greeted the prodigal with: “What the hell are you doing here?” At most times this kind of welcome would have taken me aback, but not now. There was a woman in the room, and she distracted my attention. She was a tall, handsome, hussy-looking piece, with brown hair piled up on her head and a come-and-catch-me look in her eye. “This is the new one,” I thought, for you got used to his string of madames; they changed as fast as the sentries at St James’. She was looking at me with a lazy, half-amused smile that sent a shiver up my back at the same time as it made me conscious of the schoolboy cut of my clothes. But it stiffened me, too, all in an instant, so that I answered his question pat: “I’ve been expelled,” I said, as cool as I could. “Expelled? D’ye mean thrown out? What the devil for, sir?” “Drunkenness, mainly.” “Mainly? Good God!” He was going purple. He looked from the woman back to me, as though seeking enlightenment. She seemed much amused by it, but seeing the old fellow in danger of explosion I made haste to explain what had happened. I was truthful enough, except that I made rather more of my interview with Arnold than was the case; to hear me you would suppose I had given as good as I got. Seeing the female eyeing me I acted pretty offhand, which was risky, perhaps, with the guv’nor in his present mood. But to my surprise he took it pretty well; he had never liked Arnold, of course. “Well, I’m damned!” he said, when I had finished, and poured himself another glass. He wasn’t grinning, but his brow had cleared. “You young dog! A pretty state of things, indeed. Expelled in disgrace, by gad! Did he flog you? No? I’d have had the hide off your back – perhaps I will, damme!” But he was smiling now, a bit sour, though. “What d’you make of this, Judy?” he said to the woman. “I take it this is a relative?” she says, letting her fan droop towards me. She had a deep husky voice, and I shivered again. “Relative? Eh? Oh, dammit, it’s my son Harry, girl! Harry, this is Judy … er, Miss Parsons.” She smiled at me now, still with that half-amused look, and I preened myself – I was seventeen, remember – and sized up her points while the father got himself another glass and damned Arnold for a puritan hedge-priest. She was what is called junoesque, broad-shouldered and full-breasted, which was less common then than it is now, and it seemed to me she liked the look of Harry Flashman. “Well,” said my father at last, when he had finished fulminating against the folly of putting prigs and scholars in charge of public schools. “Well, what’s to be done with you, eh? What’ll you do, sir? Now that you’ve disgraced the home with your beastliness, eh?” I had been thinking this over on my way home, and said straight out that I fancied the army. “The army?” he growled. “You mean I’m to buy you colours so that you can live like a king and ruin me with bills at the Guards’ Club, I suppose?” “Not the Guards,” I said. “I’ve a notion for the 11th Light Dragoons.” He stared at this. “You’ve chosen a regiment already? By gad, here’s a cool hand!” I knew the 11th were at Canterbury, after long service in India, and unlikely for that reason to be posted abroad. I had my own notions of soldiering. But this was too fast for the guv’nor; he went on about the expense of buying in, and the cost of army life, and worked back to my expulsion and my character generally, and so back to the army again. The port was making him quarrelsome, I could see, so I judged it best not to press him. He growled on: “Dragoons, damme! D’ye know what a cornet’s commission costs? Damned nonsense. Never heard the like. Impudence, eh, Judy?” Miss Judy observed that I might look very well as a dashing dragoon. “Eh?” said my father, and gave her a queer look. “Aye, like enough he would. We’ll see.” He looked moodily at me. “In the meantime, you can get to your bed,” he said. “We’ll talk of this tomorrow. For the moment you’re still in disgrace.” But as I left them I could hear him blackguarding Arnold again, so I went to bed well pleased, and relieved into the bargain. He was odd fish, all right; you could never tell how he would take anything. In the morning, though, when I met my father at breakfast, there was no talk of the army. He was too busy damning Brougham – who had, I gathered, made a violent attack on the Queen in the House – and goggling over some scandal about Lady Flora Hastings in the Post, to give me much attention, and left presently for his club. Anyway, I was content to let the matter rest just now; I have always believed in one thing at a time, and the thing that was occupying my mind was Miss Judy Parsons. Let me say that while there have been hundreds of women in my life, I have never been one of those who are forever boasting about their conquests. I’ve raked and ridden harder than most, no doubt, and there are probably a number of middle-aged men and women who could answer to the name of Flashman if only they knew it. That’s by the way; unless you are the kind who falls in love – which I’ve never been – you take your tumbles when you’ve the chance, and the more the better. But Judy has a close bearing on my story. I was not inexperienced with women; there had been maids at home and a country girl or two, but Judy was a woman of the world, and that I hadn’t attempted. Not that I was concerned on that account, for I fancied myself (and rightly) pretty well. I was big and handsome enough for any of them, but being my father’s mistress she might think it too risky to frolic with the son. As it turned out, she wasn’t frightened of the guv’nor or anyone else. She lived in the house – the young Queen was newly on the throne then, and people still behaved as they had under the Prince Regent and King Billy; not like later on, when mistresses had to stay out of sight. I went up to her room before noon to spy out the land, and found her still in bed, reading the papers. She was glad to see me, and we talked, and from the way she looked and laughed and let me toy with her hand I knew it was only a question of finding the time. There was an abigail fussing about the room, or I’d have gone for her then and there. However, it seemed my father would be at the club that night, and playing late, as he often did, so I agreed to come back and play ?carte with her in the evening. Both of us knew it wouldn’t be cards we would be playing. Sure enough, when I did come back, she was sitting prettying herself before her glass, wearing a bed-gown that would have made me a small handkerchief. I came straight up behind her, took her big breasts out in either hand, stopped her gasp with my mouth, and pushed her on to the bed. She was as eager as I was, and we bounced about in rare style, first one on top and then the other. Which reminds me of something which has stayed in my head, as these things will: when it was over, she was sitting astride me, naked and splendid, tossing the hair out of her eyes – suddenly she laughed, loud and clearly, the way one does at a good joke. I believed then she was laughing with pleasure, and thought myself a hell of a fellow, but I feel sure now she was laughing at me. I was seventeen, you remember, and doubtless she found it amusing to know how pleased with myself I was. Later we played cards, for form’s sake, and she won, and then I had to sneak off because my father came home early. Next day I tried her again, but this time, to my surprise, she slapped my hands and said: “No, no, my boy; once for fun, but not twice. I’ve a position to keep up here.” Meaning my father, and the chance of servants gossiping, I supposed. I was annoyed at this, and got ugly, but she laughed at me again. I lost my temper, and tried to blackmail her by threatening to let my father find out about the night before, but she just curled her lip. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said. “And if you did, I wouldn’t care.” “Wouldn’t you?” I said. “If he threw you out, you slut?” “My, the brave little man,” she mocked me. “I misjudged you. At first sight I thought you were just another noisy brute like your father, but I see you’ve a strong streak of the cur in you as well. Let me tell you, he’s twice the man you are – in bed or out of it.” “I was good enough for you, you bitch,” I said. “Once,” she said, and dropped me a mock curtsey. “That was enough. Now get out, and stick to servant girls after this.” I went in a black rage, slamming the door, and spent the next hour striding about the Park, planning what I would do to her if I ever had the chance. After a while my anger passed, and I just put Miss Judy away in a corner of my mind, as one to be paid off when the chance came. Oddly enough, the affair worked to my advantage. Whether some wind of what had happened on the first night got to my father’s ears, or whether he just caught something in the air, I don’t know, but I suspect it was the second; he was shrewd, and had my own gift of sniffing the wind. Whatever it was, his manner towards me changed abruptly; from harking back to my expulsion and treating me fairly offhand, he suddenly seemed sulky at me, and I caught him giving me odd looks, which he would hurriedly shift away, as though he were embarrassed. Anyway, within four days of my coming home, he suddenly announced that he had been thinking about my notion of the army, and had decided to buy me a pair of colours. I was to go over to the Horse Guards to see my Uncle Bindley, my mother’s brother, who would arrange matters. Obviously, my father wanted me out of the house, and quickly, so I pinned him then and there, while the iron was hot, on the matter of an allowance. I asked for ?500 a year to add to my pay, and to my astonishment he agreed without discussion. I cursed myself for not asking ?750 but ?500 was twice what I’d expected, and far more than enough, so I was pretty pleased, and set off for Horse Guards in a good humour. A lot has been said about the purchase of commissions – how the rich and incompetent can buy ahead of better men, how the poor and efficient are passed over – and most of it, in my experience, is rubbish. Even with purchase abolished, the rich rise faster in the Service than the poor, and they’re both inefficient anyway, as a rule. I’ve seen ten men’s share of service, through no fault of my own, and can say that most officers are bad, and the higher you go, the worse they get, myself included. We were supposed to be rotten with incompetence in the Crimea, for example, when purchase was at its height, but the bloody mess they made in South Africa recently seems to have been just as bad – and they didn’t buy their commissions. However, at this time I’d no thought beyond being a humble cornet, and living high in a crack regiment, which was one of the reasons I had fixed on the 11th Dragoons. Also, that they were close to town. I said nothing of this to Uncle Bindley, but acted very keen, as though I was on fire to win my spurs against the Mahrattas or the Sikhs. He sniffed, and looked down his nose, which was very high and thin, and said he had never suspected martial ardour in me. “However, a fine leg in pantaloons and a penchant for folly seem to be all that is required today,” he went on. “And you can ride, as I collect?” “Anything on legs, uncle,” says I. “That is of little consequence, anyway. What concerns me is that you cannot, by report, hold your liquor. You’ll agree that being dragged from a Rugby pothouse, reeling, I believe, is no recommendation to an officers’ mess?” I hastened to tell him that the report was exaggerated. “I doubt it,” he said. “The point is, were you silent in your drunken state, or did you rave? A noisy drunkard is intolerable; a passive one may do at a pinch. At least, if he has money; money will excuse virtually any conduct in the army nowadays, it seems.” This was a favourite sneer of his; I may say that my mother’s family, while quality, were not over-rich. However, I took it all meekly. “Yes,” he went on, “I’ve no doubt that with your allowance you will be able either to kill or ruin yourself in a short space of time. At that, you will be no worse than half the subalterns in the service, if no better. Ah, but wait. It was the 11th Light Dragoons, wasn’t it?” “Oh, yes, uncle.” “And you are determined on that regiment?” “Why, yes,” I said, wondering a little. “Then you may have a little diversion before you go the way of all flesh,” said he, with a knowing smile. “Have you, by any chance, heard of the Earl of Cardigan?” I said I had not, which shows how little I had taken notice of military affairs. “Extraordinary. He commands the 11th, you know. He succeeded to the title only a year or so ago, while he was in India with the regiment. A remarkable man. I understand he makes no secret of his intention to turn the 11th into the finest cavalry regiment in the army.” “He sounds like the very man for me,” I said, all eagerness. “Indeed, indeed. Well, we mustn’t deny him the service of so ardent a subaltern, must we? Certainly the matter of your colours must be pushed through without delay. I commend your choice, my boy. I’m sure you will find service under Lord Cardigan – ah – both stimulating and interesting. Yes, as I think of it, the combination of his lordship and yourself will be rewarding for you both.” I was too busy fawning on the old fool to pay much heed to what he was saying, otherwise I should have realised that anything that pleased him would probably be bad for me. He prided himself on being above my family, whom he considered boors, with some reason, and had never shown much but distaste for me personally. Helping me to my colours was different, of course; he owed that as a duty to a blood relation, but he paid it without enthusiasm. Still, I had to be civil as butter to him, and pretend respect. It paid me, for I got my colours in the 11th with surprising speed. I put it down entirely to influence, for I was not to know then that over the past few months there had been a steady departure of officers from the regiment, sold out, transferred, and posted – and all because of Lord Cardigan, whom my uncle had spoken of. If I had been a little older, and moved in the right circles, I should have heard all about him, but in the few weeks of waiting for my commission my father sent me up to Leicestershire, and the little time I had in town I spent either by myself or in the company of such of my relatives as could catch me. My mother had had sisters, and although they disliked me heartily they felt it was their duty to look after the poor motherless boy. So they said; in fact they suspected that if I were left to myself I would take to low company, and they were right. However, I was to find out about Lord Cardigan soon enough. In the last few days of buying my uniforms, assembling the huge paraphernalia that an officer needed in those days – far more than now – choosing a couple of horses, and arranging for my allowance, I still found time on my hands, and Mistress Judy in my thoughts. My tumble with her had only whetted my appetite for more of her, I discovered; I tried to get rid of it with a farm girl in Leicestershire and a young whore in Covent Garden, but the one stank and the other picked my pocket afterwards, and neither was any substitute anyway. I wanted Judy, at the same time as I felt spite for her, but she had avoided me since our quarrel and if we met in the house she simply ignored me. In the end it got too much, and the night before I left I went to her room again, having made sure the guv’nor was out. She was reading, and looking damned desirable in a pale green neglig?e; I was a little drunk, and the sight of her white shoulders and red mouth sent the old tingle down my spine again. “What do you want?” she said, very icy, but I was expecting that, and had my speech ready. “I’ve come to beg pardon,” I said, looking a bit hangdog. “Tomorrow I go away, and before I went I had to apologise for the way I spoke to you. I’m sorry, Judy; I truly am; I acted like a cad … and a ruffian, and, well … I want to make what amends I can. That’s all.” She put down her book and turned on her stool to face me, still looking mighty cold, but saying nothing. I shuffled like a sheepish schoolboy – I could see my reflection in the mirror behind her, and judge how the performance was going – and said again that I was sorry. “Very well, then,” she said at last. “You’re sorry. You have cause to be.” I kept quiet, not looking at her. “Well, then,” she said, after a pause. “Good night.” “Please, Judy,” I said, looking distraught. “You make it very hard. If I behaved like a boor –” “You did.” “– it was because I was angry and hurt and didn’t understand why … why you wouldn’t let me …” I let it trail off and then burst out that I had never known a woman like her before, and that I had fallen in love with her, and only came to ask her pardon because I couldn’t bear the thought of her detesting me, and a good deal more in the same strain – simple enough rubbish, you may think, but I was still learning. At that, the mirror told me I was doing well. I finished by drawing myself up straight, and looking solemn, and saying: “And that is why I had to see you again … to tell you. And to ask your pardon.” I gave her a little bow, and turned to the door, rehearsing how I would stop and look back if she didn’t stop me. But she took me at face value, for as I put my hand to the latch she said: “Harry.” I turned round, and she was smiling a little, and looking sad. Then she smiled properly, and shook her head and said: “Very well, Harry, if you want my pardon, for what it’s worth you have it. We’ll say no …” “Judy!” I came striding back, smiling like soul’s awakening. “Oh, Judy, thank you!” And I held out my hand, frank and manly. She got up and took it, smiling still, but there was none of the old wanton glint about her eye. She was being stately and forgiving, like an aunt to a naughty nephew. The nephew, had she known it, was intent on incest. “Judy,” I said, still holding her hand, “we’re parting friends?” “If you like,” she said, trying to take it away. “Goodbye, Harry, and good luck.” I stepped closer and kissed her hand, and she didn’t seem to mind. I decided, like the fool I was, that the game was won. “Judy,” I said again, “you’re adorable. I love you, Judy. If only you knew, you’re all I want in a woman. Oh, Judy, you’re the most beautiful thing, all bum, belly and bust, I love you.” And I grabbed her to me, and she pulled free and got away from me. “No!” she said, in a voice like steel. “Why the hell not?” I shouted. “Go away!” she said, pale and with eyes like daggers. “Goodnight!” “Goodnight be damned,” says I. “I thought you said we were parting friends? This ain’t very friendly, is it?” She stood glaring at me. Her bosom was what the lady novelists call agitated, but if they had seen Judy agitated in a neglig?e they would think of some other way of describing feminine distress. “I was a fool to listen to you for a moment,” she says. “Leave this room at once!” “All in good time,” says I, and with a quick dart I caught her round the waist. She struck at me, but I ducked it, and we fell on the bed together. I had hold of the softness of her, and it maddened me. I caught her wrist as she struck at me again, like a tigress, and got my mouth on hers, and she bit me on the lip for all she was worth. I yelped and broke away, holding my mouth, and she, raging and panting, grabbed up some china dish and let fly at me. It missed by a long chalk, but it helped my temper over the edge completely. I lost control of myself altogether. “You bitch!” I shouted, and hit her across the face as hard as I could. She staggered, and I hit her again, and she went clean over the bed and on to the floor on the other side. I looked round for something to go after her with, a cane or a whip, for I was in a frenzy and would have cut her to bits if I could. But there wasn’t one handy, and by the time I had got round the bed to her it had flashed across my mind that the house was full of servants and my full reckoning with Miss Judy had better be postponed to another time. I stood over her, glaring and swearing, and she pulled herself up by a chair, holding her face. But she was game enough. “You coward!” was all she would say. “You coward!” “It’s not cowardly to punish an insolent whore!” says I. “D’you want some more?” She was crying – not sobbing, but with tears on her cheeks. She went over to her chair by the mirror, pretty unsteady, and sat down and looked at herself. I cursed her again, calling her the choicest names I could think of, but she worked at her cheek, which was red and bruised, with a hare’s foot, and paid no heed. She did not speak at all. “Well, be damned to you!” says I, at length, and with that I slammed out of the room. I was shaking with rage, and the pain in my lip, which was bleeding badly, reminded me that she had paid for my blows in advance. But she had got something in return, at all events; she would not forget Harry Flashman in a hurry. Chapter 3 (#ulink_9d54e77d-b36a-5059-ab2d-596bf9392f0d) The 11th Light Dragoons at this time were newly back from India, where they had been serving since before I was born. They were a fighting regiment, and – I say it without regimental pride, for I never had any, but as a plain matter of fact – probably the finest mounted troops in England, if not in the world. Yet they had been losing officers, since coming home, hand over fist. The reason was James Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan. You have heard all about him, no doubt. The regimental scandals, the Charge of the Light Brigade, the vanity, stupidity, and extravagance of the man – these things are history. Like most history they have a fair basis of fact. But I knew him, probably as few other officers knew him, and in turn I found him amusing, frightening, vindictive, charming, and downright dangerous. He was God’s own original fool, there’s no doubt of that – although he was not to blame for the fiasco at Balaclava; that was Raglan and Airey between them. And he was arrogant as no other man I’ve ever met, and as sure of his own unshakeable rightness as any man could be – even when his wrong-headedness was there for all to see. That was his great point, the key to his character: he could never be wrong. They say that at least he was brave. He was not. He was just stupid, too stupid ever to be afraid. Fear is an emotion, and his emotions were all between his knees and his breastbone; they never touched his reason, and he had little enough of that. For all that, he could never be called a bad soldier. Some human faults are military virtues, like stupidity, and arrogance, and narrow-mindedness. Cardigan blended all three with a passion for detail and accuracy; he was a perfectionist, and the manual of cavalry drill was his Bible. Whatever rested between the covers of that book he could perform, or cause to be performed, with marvellous efficiency, and God help anyone who marred that performance. He would have made a first-class drill sergeant – only a man with a mind capable of such depths of folly could have led six regiments into the Valley at Balaclava. However, I devote some space to him because he played a not unimportant part in the career of Harry Flashman, and since it is my purpose to show how the Flashman of Tom Brown became the glorious Flashman with four inches in Who’s Who and grew markedly worse in the process, I must say that he was a good friend to me. He never understood me, of course, which is not surprising. I took good care not to let him. When I met him in Canterbury I had already given a good deal of thought to how I should conduct myself in the army. I was bent on as much fun and vicious amusement as I could get – my contemporaries, who praise God on Sundays and sneak off to child-brothels during the week, would denounce it piously as vicious, anyway – but I have always known how to behave to my superiors and shine in their eyes, a trait of mine which Hughes pointed out, bless him. This I had determined on, and since the little I knew of Cardigan told me that he prized smartness and show above all things, I took some pains over my arrival in Canterbury. I rolled up to regimental headquarters in a coach, resplendent in my new uniform, and with my horses led behind and a wagonload of gear. Cardigan didn’t see me arrive, unfortunately, but word must have been carried to him, for when I was introduced to him in his orderly room he was in good humour. “Haw-haw,” said he, as we shook hands. “It is Mr Fwashman. How-de-do, sir. Welcome to the wegiment. A good turn-out, Jones,” he went on to the officer at his elbow. “I delight to see a smart officer. Mr Fwashman, how tall are you?” “Six feet, sir,” I said, which was near enough right. “Haw-haw. And how heavy do you wide, sir?” I didn’t know, but I guessed at twelve and a half stone. “Heavy for a light dwagoon,” said he, shaking his head. “But there are compensations. You have a pwoper figure, Mr Fwashman, and bear yourself well. Be attentive to your duties and we shall deal very well together. Where have you hunted?” “In Leicestershire, my lord,” I said. “Couldn’t be better,” says he. “Eh, Jones? Very good, Mr Fwashman – hope to see more of you. Haw-haw.” Now, no one in my life that I could remember had ever been so damned civil to me, except toad-eaters like Speedicut, who didn’t count. I found myself liking his lordship, and did not realise that I was seeing him at his best. In this mood, he was a charming man enough, and looked well. He was taller than I, straight as a lance, and very slender, even to his hands. Although he was barely forty, he was already bald, with a bush of hair above either ear and magnificent whiskers. His nose was beaky and his eyes blue and prominent and unwinking – they looked out on the world with that serenity which marks the nobleman whose uttermost ancestor was born a nobleman, too. It is the look that your parvenu would give half his fortune for, that unrufflable gaze of the spoiled child of fortune who knows with unshakeable certainty that he is right and that the world is exactly ordered for his satisfaction and pleasure. It is the look that makes underlings writhe and causes revolutions. I saw it then, and it remained changeless as long as I knew him, even through the roll-call beneath Causeway Heights when the grim silence as the names were shouted out testified to the loss of five hundred of his command. “It was no fault of mine,” he said then, and he didn’t just believe it; he knew it. I was to see him in a different mood before the day was out, but fortunately I was not the object of his wrath; quite the reverse, in fact. I was shown about the camp by the officer of the day, a fair young captain, named Reynolds, with a brick-red face from service in India. Professionally, he was a good soldier, but quiet and no blood at all. I was fairly offhand with him, and no doubt insolent, but he took it without comment, confining himself to telling me what was what, finding me a servant, and ending at the stables where my mare – whom I had christened Judy, by the way – and charger were being housed. The grooms had Judy trimmed up with her best leather-work – and it was the best that the smartest saddler in London could show – and Reynolds was admiring her, when who should ride up but my lord in the devil of a temper. He reined in beside us, and pointed with a hand that shook with fury to a troop that had just come in under their sergeant, to the stable yard. “Captain Weynolds!” he bawled, and his face was scarlet. “Is this your twoop?” Reynolds said it was. “And do you see their sheepskins?” bawled Cardigan. These were the saddle sheepskins. “Do you see them, sir? What colour are they, I should like to know? Will you tell me, sir?” “White, my lord.” “White, you say? Are you a fool, sir? Are you colour-blind? They are not white, they are yellow – with inattention and slovenliness and neglect! They are filthy, I tell you.” Reynolds stood silent, and Cardigan raged on. “This was no doubt very well in India, where you learned what you probably call your duty. I will not have it here, do you understand, sir?” His eye rolled round the stable and rested on Judy. “Whose horse is this?” he demanded. I told him, and he turned in triumph on Reynolds. “You see, sir, an officer new joined, and he can show you and your other precious fellows from India their duty. Mr Fwashman’s sheepskin is white, sir, as yours should be – would be, if you knew anything of discipline and good order. But you don’t, sir, I tell you.” “Mr Flashman’s sheepskin is new, sir,” said Reynolds, which was true enough. “They discolour with age.” “So you make excuses now!” snapped Cardigan. “Haw-haw! I tell you, sir, if you knew your duty they would be cleaned, or if they are too old, wenewed. But you know nothing of this, of course. Your slovenly Indian ways are good enough, I suppose. Well, they will not do, let me tell you! These skins will be cwean tomorrow, d’you hear, sir? Cwean, or I’ll hold you wesponsible, Captain Weynolds!” And with that he rode off, head in the air, and I heard his “Haw-haw” as he greeted someone outside the stable yard. I felt quite pleased to have been singled out for what was, in effect, praise, and I fancy I said something of this to Reynolds. He looked me up and down as though seeing me for the first time, and said, in that odd, Welsh-sounding voice that comes with long service in India: “Ye-es, I can see you will do very well, Mr Flashman. Lord Haw Haw may not like us Indian officers, but he likes plungers, and I’ve no doubt you’ll plunger very prettily.” I asked him what he meant by plunging. “Oh,” says he, “a plunger is a fellow who makes a great turnout, don’t you know, and leaves cards at the best houses, and is sought by the mamas, and strolls in the Park very languid, and is just a hell of a swell generally. Sometimes they even condescend to soldier a little – when it doesn’t interfere with their social life. Good-day, Mr Flashman.” I could see that Reynolds was jealous, and in my conceit I was well pleased. What he had said, though, was true enough: the regiment was fairly divided between Indian officers – those who had not left since returning home – and the plungers, to whom I naturally attached myself. They hailed me among them, even the noblest, and I knew how to make myself pleasant. I was not as quick with my tongue as I was to become later, but they knew me for a sporting fellow before I had been there long – good on a horse, good with the bottle (for I took some care at first), and ready for mischief. I toadied as seemed best – not openly, of course, but effectively just the same; there is a way of toadying which is better than fawning, and it consists of acting bluff and hearty and knowing to an inch how far to go. And I had money, and showed it. The Indian officers had a bad time. Cardigan hated them. Reynolds and Forrest were his chief butts, and he was forever pestering them to leave the regiment and make way for gentlemen, as he put it. Why he was so down on those who had served in India, I was never entirely sure; some said it was because they were not of the smart set, or well connected, and this was true up to a point. He was the damnedest snob, but I think his hatred of the Indian officers ran deeper. They were, after all, real soldiers with service experience, and Cardigan had never heard a shot outside the shooting range in his twenty years’ service. Whatever the cause, he made their lives miserable, and there were several resignations in my first six months’ service. Even for us plungers it was bad enough, for he was a devil for discipline, and not all the plungers were competent officers. I saw how the wind set, and studied harder than ever I had at Rugby, mastering my drill, which wasn’t difficult, and perfecting myself in the rules of camp life. I had got an excellent servant, named Basset, a square-headed oaf who knew everything a soldier ought to know and nothing more, and with a genius for boot-polish. I thrashed him early in our acquaintance, and he seemed to think the better of me for it, and treated me as a dog does its master. Fortunately, I cut a good figure on parade and at exercise, which was where it counted with Cardigan. Probably only the regimental sergeant major and one or two of the troop-sergeants were my equals on horseback, and his lordship congratulated me once or twice on my riding. “Haw-haw!” he would say. “Fwashman sits well, I tell you. He will make an aide yet.” I agreed with him. Flashman was sitting very well. In the mess things went well enough. They were a fast crowd, and the money ran pretty free, for apart from parties and the high state which Cardigan demanded we should keep, there was some heavy gaming. All this expense discouraged the Indian men, which delighted Cardigan, who was forever sneering at them that if they could not keep up with gentlemen they had better return to farming or set themselves up in trade – “selling shoes and pots and pans”, he would say, and laugh heartily, as though this were the funniest thing imaginable. Strangely enough, or perhaps not strangely, his Indian prejudice did not extend to the men. They were a tough lot, and excellent soldiers so far as I could see; he was a tyrant to them, and never a week passed without a court-martial for neglect of duty or desertion or drunkenness. The last offence was common but not seriously regarded, but for the other two he punished hard. There were frequent floggings at the rings in the side of the riding school, when we all had to attend. Some of the older officers – the Indian ones – grumbled a good deal and pretended to be shocked, but I guessed they would not have missed it. Myself, I liked a good flogging, and used to have bets with Bryant, my particular crony, on whether the man would cry out before the tenth stroke, or when he would faint. It was better sport than most, anyway. Bryant was a queer little creature who attached himself to me early in my career and clung like a leech. He was your open toady, with little money of his own, but a gift of pleasing and being on hand. He was smart enough, and contrived to cut a decent figure, although never splendid, and he had all the gossip, and knew everybody, and was something of a wit. He shone at parties and mess nights which we gave for the local society in Canterbury, where he was very forward. He was first with all the news, and could recount it in a fashion that amused Cardigan – not that this was too difficult. I found him useful, and tolerated him accordingly, and used him as a court jester when it suited – he was adept in this role, too. As Forrest said, if you kicked Bryant’s arse, he always bounced most obligingly. He had a considerable gift of spite against the Indian officers, which also endeared him to Cardigan – oh, we were a happy little mess, I can tell you – and earned him their hatred. Most of them despised me, too, along with the other plungers, but we despised them for different reasons, so we were square there. But to only one officer did I take an active dislike, which was prophetic, and I guessed that he returned it from the first. His name was Bernier, a tall, hard hawk of a man with a big nose and black whiskers and dark eyes set very close. He was the best blade and shot in the regiment, and until I came on the scene the best rider as well. He didn’t love me for that, I suppose, but our real hatred dated from the night when he made some reference to nabob families of no breeding, and seemed to me to look in my direction. I was fairly wine-flown, or I’d have kept my mouth shut, for he looked like what the Americans call a “killing gentleman” – indeed, he was very like an American whom I knew later, the celebrated James Hickok, who was also a deadly shot. But being part tipsy, I said I would rather be a nabob Briton, and take my chance on breeding, than be half-caste foreign. Bryant crowed, as he always did at my jokes, and said: “Bravo, Flash! Old England forever!” and there was general laughter, for my usual heartiness and general bluffness had earned me the name of being something of a John Bull. Bernier only half-caught what I said, for I had kept my voice low so that only those nearest heard, but someone must have told him later, for he never gave me anything but an icy stare from then on, and never spoke to me. He was sensitive about his foreign name – actually, he was a French Jew, if you went back far enough, which accounts for it. But it was a few months after this incident that I really ran foul of Bernier, and began to make my reputation – the reputation which I still enjoy today. I pass over a good deal of what happened in that first year – Cardigan’s quarrel with the Morning Post, for example, which had the regiment, and the public generally, in a fine uproar, but in which I had no part – and come to the famous Bernier-Flashman duel, which you will still hear talked about. I think of it only with pride and delight, even now. Only two men ever knew the truth of it, and I was one. It was a year almost to the day after I left Rugby that I was taking the air in Canterbury, in the Park, and on my way to some mama’s house or other to make a call. I was in full fig, and feeling generally pleased with myself, when I spied an officer walking under the trees with a lady, arm in arm. It was Bernier, and I looked to see what heifer he was ploughing with. In fact, she was no heifer, but a wicked-looking little black-haired piece with a turned-up nose and a saucy smile. I studied her, and the great thought formed in my head. I had had two or three mistresses in Canterbury, off and on, but nothing in particular. Most of the younger officers maintained a paramour in the town or in London, but I had never set up any establishment like that. I guessed that this was Bernier’s mare of the moment, and the more I looked at her the more she intrigued me. She looked the kind of plump little puss who would be very knowing in bed, and the fact that she was Bernier’s – who fancied himself irresistible to women – would make the tumbling all the sweeter. I wasted no time, but found out her direction by inquiry, chose my time when Bernier was on duty, and called on the lady. She had a pleasant little retreat, very tastefully furnished, but in no great style: Bernier’s purse was less fat than mine, which was an advantage. I pursued it. She was French herself, it turned out, so I could be more direct than with an English girl. I told her straight out that I had taken a fancy to her, and invited her to consider me as a friend – a close friend. I hinted that I had money – she was only a whore, after all, for all her fashionable airs. At first she made a show of being shocked, and la-la’d a good deal, but when I made to leave she changed her tune. My money aside, I think she found me to her fancy; she toyed with a fan and looked at me over it with big, almond-shaped eyes, playing the sly minx. “You have poor opeenion of French girls, then?” says she. “Not I,” says I, charming again. “I’ve the highest opinion of you, for example. What’s your name?” “Josette.” She said it very pretty. “Well, Josette, let’s drink to our future acquaintance – at my expense” – and I dropped my purse on the table, at which her eyes widened. It was not a small purse. You may think me crude. I was. But I saved time and trouble, and perhaps money, too – the money that fools waste in paying court with presents before the fun begins. She had wine in the house, and we drank to each other and talked a good five minutes before I began to tease her into undressing. She played it very prettily, with much pouting and provocative looks, but when she had stripped she was all fire and wickedness, and I was so impatient I had her without getting out of my chair. Whether I found her unusually delectable because she was Bernier’s mistress or because of her French tricks, I can’t say, but I took to visiting her often, and in spite of my respect for Bernier, I was careless. It was within a week, certainly, that we were engaged heavily one evening when there were footsteps on the stair, the door flew open, and there was the man himself. He stood glaring for a moment, while Josette squeaked and dived beneath the covers, and I scrambled to get under the bed in my shirt-tail – the sight of him filled me with panic. But he said nothing; a moment passed, the door slammed, and I came out scrabbling for my breeches. At that moment I wanted only to put as much distance between myself and him as I could, and I dressed in some haste. Josette began to laugh, and I asked her what the devil amused her. “It is so fonnee,” she giggled. “You … you half beneath de bed, and Charles glaring so fierce at your derri?re.” And she shrieked with laughter. I told her to hold her tongue, and she stopped laughing and tried to coax me back to bed again, saying that Bernier had undoubtedly gone, and sitting up and shaking her tits at me. I hesitated, between lust and fright, until she hopped out and bolted the door, and then I decided I might as well have my sport while I could, and pulled off my clothes again. But I confess it was not the most joyous pleasuring I have taken part in, although Josette was at her most spirited; I suspect she was thrilled by the situation. I was in two minds whether to go back to the mess afterwards, for I was sure Bernier must call me out. But, to my surprise, when I pulled my courage together and went in to dinner, he paid me not the slightest notice. I couldn’t make it out, and when next day and the next he was still silent, I took heart again, and even paid Josette another visit. She had not seen him, so it seemed to me that he intended to do nothing at all. I decided that he was a poor-spirited thing after all, and had resigned his mistress to me – not, I was sure, out of fear of me, but because he could not bear to have a trollop who cheated him. Of course the truth was that he couldn’t call me out without exposing the cause, and making himself look ridiculous; and knowing more of regimental custom than I did, he hesitated to provoke an affair of honour over a mistress. But he was holding himself in with difficulty. Not knowing this, I took to throwing my chest out again, and let Bryant into the secret. The toady was delighted, and soon all the plungers knew. It was then only a matter of time before the explosion came, as I should have known it would. It was after dinner one night, and we were playing cards, while Bernier and one or two of the Indian men were talking near by. The game was vingt-et-un, and it happened that at that game I had a small joke concerning the Queen of Diamonds, which I maintained was my lucky card. Forrest had the bank, and when he set down my five-card hand with an ace and the Queen of Diamonds, Bryant, the spiteful ass, sang out: “Hullo! He’s got your queen, Flashy! That’s the biter bit, bigod!” “How d’ye mean?” said Forrest, taking up the cards and stakes. “With Flashy it’s t’other way, you know,” says Bryant. “He makes off with other chaps’ queens.” “Aha,” says Forrest, grinning. “But the Queen of Diamonds is a good Englishwoman, ain’t she, Flash? Mounting French fillies is your style, I hear.” There was a good deal of laughter, and glances in Bernier’s direction. I should have kept them quiet, but I was fool enough to join in. “Nothing wrong in a French filly,” I said, “so long as the jockey’s an English one. A French trainer is well enough, of course, but they don’t last in a serious race.” It was feeble enough stuff, no doubt, even allowing for the port we had drunk, but it snapped the straw. The next I knew my chair had been dragged away, and Bernier was standing over me as I sprawled on the floor, his face livid and his mouth working. “What the devil—” began Forrest, as I scrambled up, and the others jumped up also. I was half on my feet when Bernier struck me, and I lost my balance and went down again. “For God’s sake, Bernier!” shouts Forrest, “are you mad?” and they had to hold him back, or he would have savaged me on the ground, I think. Seeing him held, I came up with an oath, and made to go for him, but Bryant grabbed me, crying “No, no, Flash! Hold off, Flashy!” and they clustered round me as well. Truth is, I was nearly sick with fear, for the murder was out now. The best shot in the regiment had hit me, but with provocation – fearful or not, I have always been quick and clear enough in my thinking in a crisis – and there couldn’t be any way out except a meeting. Unless I took the blow, which meant an end to my career in the army and in society. But to fight him was a quick road to the grave. It was a horrible dilemma, and in that moment, as they held us apart, I saw I must have time to think, to plan, to find a way out. I shook them off, and without a word stalked out of the mess, like a man who must remove himself before he does someone a mischief. It took me five minutes of hard thinking, and then I was striding back into the mess again. My heart was hammering, and no doubt I looked pretty furious, and if I shook they thought it was anger. The chatter died away as I came in; I can feel that silence now, sixty years after, and see the elegant blue figures, and the silver gleaming on the table, and Bernier, alone and very pale, by the fireplace. I went straight up to him. I had my speech ready. “Captain Bernier,” I said, “you have struck me with your hand. That was rash, for I could take you to pieces with mine if I chose.” This was blunt, English Flashman, of course. “But I prefer to fight like a gentleman, even if you do not.” I swung round on my heel. “Lieutenant Forrest, will you act for me?” Forrest said yes, like a shot, and Bryant looked piqued. He expected I would have named him, but I had another part for him to play. “And who acts for you?” I asked Bernier, very cool. He named Tracy, one of the Indian men, and I gave Tracy a bow and then went over to the card table as though nothing had happened. “Mr Forrest will have the details to attend to,” I said to the others. “Shall we cut for the bank?” They stared at me. “By gad, Flash, you’re a cool one!” cries Bryant. I shrugged, and took up the cards, and we started playing again, the others all very excited – too excited to notice that my thoughts were not on my cards. Luckily, vingt-et-un calls for little concentration. After a moment Forrest, who had been conferring with Tracy, came over to tell me that, with Lord Cardigan’s permission, which he was sure must be forthcoming, we should meet behind the riding school at six in the morning. It was assumed I would choose pistols – as the injured party I had the choice. I nodded, very offhand, and told Bryant to hurry with the deal. We played a few more hands, and then I said I was for bed, lit my cheroot and strolled out with an airy goodnight to the others, as though the thought of pistols at dawn troubled me no more than what I should have for breakfast. Whatever happened, I had grown in popular esteem for this night at least. I stopped under the trees on the way to my quarters, and after a moment, as I had expected, Bryant came hurrying after me, full of excitement and concern. He began to babble about what a devil of a fellow I was, and what a fighting Turk Bernier was, but I cut him off short. “Tommy,” says I. “You’re not a rich man.” “Eh?” says he. “What the—” “Tommy,” says I. “Would you like ten thousand pounds?” “In God’s name,” says he. “What for?” “For seeing that Bernier stands up at our meeting tomorrow with an unloaded pistol,” says I, straight out. I knew my man. He goggled at me, and then began to babble again. “Christ, Flash, are you crazy? Unloaded … why …” “Yes or no,” says I. “Ten thousand pounds.” “But it’s murder!” he squealed. “We’d swing for it!” No thought of honour you see, or any of that rot. “Nobody’s going to swing,” I told him. “And keep your voice down, d’ye hear? Now, then, Tommy, you’re a sharp man with the sleight of hand at parties – I’ve seen you. You can do it in your sleep. For ten thousand?” “My God, Flash,” says he, “I don’t dare.” And he began babbling again, but in a whisper this time. I let him ramble for a moment, for I knew he would come round. He was a greedy little bastard, and the thought of ten thousand was like Aladdin’s cave to him. I explained how safe and simple it would be; I had thought it out when first I left the mess. “Go and borrow Reynolds’ duelling pistols, first off. Take ’em to Forrest and Tracy and offer to act as loader – you’re always into everything, and they’ll be glad to accept, and never think twice.” “Won’t they, by God?” cried he. “They know I’m hellish thick with you, Flashy.” “You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I reminded him. “Now who will imagine for a moment that you would stoop to such a treacherous act, eh? No, no, Tommy, it’s cut and dried. And in the morning, with the surgeon and seconds standing by, you’ll load up – carefully. Don’t tell me you can’t palm a pistol ball.” “Oh, aye,” says he, “like enough. But—” “Ten thousands pounds,” I said, and he licked his lips. “Jesus,” he said at length. “Ten thousand. Phew! On your word of honour, Flash?” “Word of honour,” I said, and lit another cheroot. “I’ll do it!” says he. “My God! You’re a devil, Flash! You won’t kill him, though? I’ll have no part in murder.” “Captain Bernier will be as safe from me as I’ll be from him,” I told him, “Now, cut along and see Reynolds.” He cut on the word. He was an active little rat, that I’ll say for him. Once committed he went in heart and soul. I went to my quarters, got rid of Basset who was waiting up for me, and lay down on my cot. My throat was dry and my hands were sweating as I thought of what I had done. For all the bluff front I had shown to Bryant, I was in a deathly funk. Suppose something went wrong and Bryant muffed it? It had seemed so easy in that moment of panicky thought outside the mess – fear stimulates thought, perhaps, but it may not be clear thought, because one sees the way out that one wants to see, and makes headlong for it. I thought of Bryant fumbling, or being too closely overseen, and Bernier standing up in front of me with a loaded pistol in a hand like a rock, and the muzzle pointing dead at my breast, and felt the ball tearing into me, and myself falling down screaming, and dying on the ground. I almost shouted out at the horror of it, and lay there blubbering in the dark room; I would have got up and run, but my legs would not let me. So I began to pray, which I had not done, I should say, since I was about eight years old. But I kept thinking of Arnold and hell – which is no doubt significant – and in the end there was nothing for it but brandy, but it might as well have been water. I did no sleeping that night, but listened to the clock chiming away the quarters, until dawn came, and I heard Basset approaching. I had just sense enough left to see that it wouldn’t do for him to find me red-eyed and shivering, so I made believe to sleep, snoring like an organ, and I heard him say: “If that don’t beat! Listen to ’im, sound as a babby. Isn’t he the game-cock, though?” And another voice, another servant’s, I suppose, replied: “Thay’s all alike, bloody fools. ’E won’t be snorin’ tomorrow mornin’, after Bernier’s done with ’im. ’E’ll be sleepin’ too sound for that.” Right, my lad, whoever you are, I thought, if I come through this it’ll be strange if I can’t bring you to the rings at the riding school, and we’ll see your backbone when the farrier-sergeant takes the cat to you. We’ll hear how loud you can snore yourself. And with that surge of anger I suddenly felt confidence replacing fear – Bryant would see it through, all right – and when they came for me I was at least composed, if not cheerful. When I am frightened, I go red in the face, not pale, as most men do, so that in me fear can pass for anger, which has been convenient more than once. Bryant tells me that I went out to the riding school that morning wattled like a turkey cock; he said the fellows made sure I was in a fury to kill Bernier. Not that they thought I had a chance, and they were quiet for once as we walked across the parade just as the trumpeter was sounding reveille. They had told Cardigan of the affair, of course, and some had thought he might intervene to prevent it. But when he had heard of the blow, he had simply said: “Where do they meet?” and gone back to sleep again, with instructions to be called at five. He did not approve of duelling – although he duelled himself in famous circumstances – but he saw that in this case the credit of the regiment would only be hurt if the affair were patched up. Bernier and Tracy were already there, with the surgeon, and the mist was hanging a little under the trees. Our feet thumped on the turf, which was still wet with dew, as we strode across to them, Forrest at my side, and Bryant with the pistol case beneath his arm following on with the others. About fifty yards away, under the trees by the fence, was a little knot of officers, and I saw Cardigan’s bald head above his great caped coat. He was smoking a cigar. Bryant and the surgeon called Bernier and me together, and Bryant asked us if we would not resolve our quarrel. Neither of us said a word; Bernier was pale, and looked fixedly over my shoulder, and in that moment I came as near to turning and running as ever I did in my life. I felt that my bowels would squirt at any moment, and my hands were shuddering beneath my cloak. “Very good, then,” says Bryant, and went with the surgeon to a little table they had set up. He took out the pistols, and from the corner of my eye I saw him spark the flints, pour in the charges, and rummage in the shot-case. I daren’t watch him closely, and anyway Forrest came just then and led me back to my place. When I turned round again the surgeon was stopping to pick up a fallen powder flask, and Bryant was ramming home a wad in one of the barkers. They conferred a moment, and then Bryant paced over to Bernier and presented a pistol to him; then he came to me with the other. There was no one behind me, and as my hand closed on the butt, Bryant winked quickly. My heart came up into my mouth, and I can never hope to describe the relief that flooded through my body, tingling every limb. I was going to live. “Gentlemen, you are both determined to continue with this meeting?” Bryant looked at each of us in turn. Bernier said: “Yes,” hard and clear. I nodded. Bryant stepped back to be well out of the line of fire; the seconds and the surgeon took post beside him, leaving Bernier and me looking at each other about twenty paces apart. He stood sideways to me, the pistol at his side, staring straight at my face, as though choosing his spot – he could clip the pips from a card at this distance. “The pistols fire on one pressure,” called Bryant. “When I drop my handkerchief you may level your pistols and fire. I shall drop it in a few seconds from now.” And he held up the white kerchief in one hand. I heard the click of Bernier cocking his pistol. His eyes were steady on mine. Sold again, Bernier, I thought; you’re all in a stew about nothing. The handkerchief fell. Bernier’s right arm came up like a railway signal, and before I had even cocked my pistol I was looking into his barrel – a split second and it shot smoke at me and the crack of the charge was followed by something rasping across my cheek and grazing it – it was the wad. I fell back a step. Bernier was glaring at me, aghast that I was still on my feet, I suppose, and someone shouted: “Missed, by Jesus!” and another cried angrily for silence. It was my turn, and for a moment the lust was on me to shoot the swine down where he stood. But Bryant might have lost his head, and it was no part of my design, anyway. I had it in my power now to make a name that would run through the army in a week – good old Flashy, who stole another man’s girl and took a blow from him, but was too decent to take advantage of him, even in a duel. They stood like statues, every eye on Bernier, waiting for me to shoot him down. I cocked my pistol, watching him. “Come on, damn you!” he shouted suddenly, his face white with rage and fear. I looked at him for a moment, then brought my pistol up no higher than hip level, but with the barrel pointing well away to the side. I held it negligently almost, just for a moment, so that everyone might see I was firing deliberately wide. I squeezed the trigger. What happened to that shot is now regimental history; I had meant it for the ground, but it chanced that the surgeon had set his bag and bottle of spirits down on the turf in that direction, maybe thirty yards off, and by sheer good luck the shot whipped the neck off the bottle clean as a whistle. “Deloped, by God!” roared Forrest. “He’s deloped!” They hurried forward, shouting, the surgeon exclaiming in blasphemous amazement over his shattered bottle. Bryant slapped me on the back, Forrest wrung my hand, Tracy stood staring in astonishment – it seemed to him, as it did to everyone, that I had spared Bernier and at the same time given proof of astounding marksmanship. As for Bernier, he looked murder if ever a man did, but I marched straight up to him with my hand held out, and he was forced to take it. He was struggling to keep from dashing his pistol into my face, and when I said: “No hard feelings, then, old fellow?” he gave an incoherent snarl, and turning on his heel, strode off. This was not lost on Cardigan, who was still watching from a distance, and presently I was summoned from a boozy breakfast – for the plungers celebrated the affair in style, and waxed fulsome over the way I had stood up to him, and then deloped. Cardigan had me to his office, and there was the adjutant and Jones, and Bernier looking like thunder. “I won’t have it, I tell you!” Cardigan was saying. “Ha, Fwashman, come here! Haw-haw. Now then, shake hands directly, I say, Captain Bernier, and let me hear that the affair is done and honour satisfied.” I spoke up. “It’s done for me, and indeed I’m sorry it ever happened. But the blow was Captain Bernier’s, not mine. But here’s my hand, again.” Bernier said, in a voice that shook: “Why did you delope? You have made a mock of me. Why didn’t you take your shot at me like a man?” “My good sir,” I said. “I didn’t presume to tell you where to aim your shot; don’t tell me where I should have aimed mine.” That remark, I am told, has found its way since into some dictionary of quotations; it was in The Times within the week, and I was told that when the Duke of Wellington heard it, he observed: “Damned good. And damned right, too.” So that morning’s work made a name for Harry Flashman – a name that enjoyed more immediate celebrity than if I had stormed a battery alone. Such is fame, especially in peacetime. The whole story went the rounds, and for a time I even found myself pointed out in the street, and a clergyman wrote to me from Birmingham, saying that as I had shown mercy, I would surely obtain mercy, and Parkin, the Oxford Street gunmaker, sent me a brace of barkers in silver mountings, with my initials engraved – good for trade, I imagine. There was also a question in the House, on the vicious practice of duelling, and Macaulay replied that since one of the participants in the recent affair had shown such good sense and humanity, the Government, while deploring such meetings, hoped this might prove a good example. (“Hear, hear,” and cheers.) My Uncle Bindley was heard to say that his nephew had more to him than he supposed, and even Basset went about throwing a chest at being servant to such a cool blade. The only person who was critical was my own father, who said in one of his rare letters: “Don’t be such an infernal fool another time. You don’t fight duels in order to delope, but to kill your adversary.” So, with Josette mine by right of conquest – and she was in some awe of me, I may say – and a reputation for courage, marksmanship, and downright decency established, I was pretty well satisfied. The only snag was Bryant, but I dealt with that easily. When he had finished toadying me on the day of the duel, he got round to asking about his ten thousand – he knew I had great funds, or at least that my father did, but I knew perfectly well I could never have pried ten thousand out of my guv’nor. I told Bryant so, and he gaped as though I had kicked him in the stomach. “But you promised me ten thousand,” he began to bleat. “Silly promise, ain’t it? – when you think hard about it,” says I. “Ten thousand quid, I mean – who’d pay out that much?” “You lying swine!” shouts he, almost crying with rage. “You swore you’d pay me!” “More fool you for believing me,” I said. “Right, by God!” he snarled. “We’ll see about this! You won’t cheat me, Flashman, I’ll—” “You’ll what?” says I. “Tell everyone all about it? Confess that you sent a man into a duel with an unloaded gun? It’ll make an interesting story. You’d be confessing to a capital offence – had you thought of that? Not that anyone’d believe you – but they’d certainly kick you out of the service for conduct unbecoming, wouldn’t they?” He saw then how it lay, and there was nothing he could do about it. He actually stamped and tore his hair, and then he tried pleading with me, but I laughed at him, and he finished up swearing to be even yet. “You’ll live to regret this!” he cried. “By God, I’ll get you yet!” “More chance of that then you have of getting ten thousand anyway,” I told him, and he slunk off. He didn’t worry me; what I’d said was gospel true. He daren’t breathe a word, for his own safety’s sake. Of course if he had thought at all he would have sniffed something fishy about a ten thousand bribe in the first place. But he was greedy, and I’ve lived long enough to discover that there isn’t any folly a man won’t contemplate if there’s money or a woman at stake. However, if I could congratulate myself on how the matter had turned out, and can look back now and say it was one of the most important and helpful incidents of my life, there was trouble in store for me very quickly as a result of it. It came a few weeks afterwards, and it ended in my having to leave the regiment for a while. It had happened not long before that the regiment had been honoured (as they say) by being chosen to escort to London the Queen’s husband-to-be, Albert, when he arrived in this country. He had become Colonel of the Regiment, and among other things we had been given a new-designed uniform and had our name changed to the Eleventh Hussars. That by the way; what mattered was that he took a close interest in us, and the tale of the duel made such a stir that he took special notice of it, and being a prying German busybody, found out the cause of it. That almost cooked my goose for good. His lovely new regiment, he found, contained officers who consorted with French whores and even fought duels over them. He played the devil about this, and the upshot was that Cardigan had to summon me and tell me that for my own good I would have to go away for a while. “It has been demanded,” said he, “that you weave the wegiment – I take it the official intention is that that should be permanent, but I intend to interpwet it as tempowawy. I have no desire to lose the services of a pwomising officer – not for His Woyal Highness or anyone, let me tell you. You might go on weave, of course, but I think it best you should be detached. I shall have you posted, Fwashman, to another unit, until the fuss has died down.” I didn’t much like the idea, and when he announced that the regiment he had chosen to post me to was stationed in Scotland, I almost rebelled. But I realised it would only be for a few months, and I was relieved to find Cardigan still on my side – if it had been Reynolds who had fought the duel it would have been a very different kettle of fish, but I was one of his favourites. And one must say it of old Lord Haw Haw, if you were his favourite he would stand by you, right, reason or none. Old fool. Chapter 4 (#ulink_aeac87ca-8385-51ef-a68b-bd15226f084d) I have soldiered in too many countries and known too many peoples to fall into the folly of laying down the law about any of them. I tell you what I have seen, and you may draw your own conclusions. I disliked Scotland and the Scots; the place I found wet and the people rude. They had the fine qualities which bore me – thrift and industry and long-faced holiness, and the young women are mostly great genteel boisterous things who are no doubt bedworthy enough if your taste runs that way. (One acquaintance of mine who had a Scotch clergyman’s daughter described it as like wrestling with a sergeant of dragoons.) The men I found solemn, hostile, and greedy, and they found me insolent, arrogant, and smart. This for the most part; there were exceptions, as you shall see. The best things I found, however, were the port and the claret, in which the Scotch have a nice taste, although I never took to whisky. The place I was posted to was Paisley, which is near Glasgow, and when I heard of the posting I as near as a toucher sold out. But I told myself I should be back with the 11th in a few months, and must take my medicine, even if it meant being away from all decent living for a while. My forebodings were realised, and more, but at least life did not turn out to be boring, which was what I had feared most. Very far from it. At this time there was a great unrest throughout Britain, in the industrial areas, which meant very little to me, and indeed I’ve never troubled to read up the particulars of it. The working people were in a state of agitation, and one heard of riots in the mill towns, and of weavers smashing looms, and Chartists being arrested, but we younger fellows paid it no heed. If you were country-bred or lived in London these things were nothing to you, and all I gathered was that the poor folk were mutinous and wanted to do less work for more money, and the factory owners were damned if they’d let them. There may have been more to it than this, but I doubt it, and no one has ever convinced me that it was anything but a war between the two. It always has been, and always will be, as long as one man has what the other has not, and devil take the hindmost. The devil seemed to be taking the workers, by and large, with government helping him, and we soldiers were the government’s sword. Troops were called out to subdue the agitators, and the Riot Act was read, and here and there would be clashes between the two, and a few killed. I am fairly neutral now, with my money in the bank, but at that time everyone I knew was damning the workers up and down, and saying they should be hung and flogged and transported, and I was all for it, as the Duke would say. You have no notion, today, how high feeling ran; the mill-folk were the enemy then, as though they had been Frenchmen or Afghans. They were to be put down whenever they rose up, and we were to do it. I was hazy enough, as you see, on the causes of it all, but I saw further than most in some ways, and what I saw was this: it’s one thing leading British soldiers against foreigners, but would they fight their own folk? For most of the troopers of the 11th, for example, were of the class and kind of the working people, and I couldn’t see them fighting their fellows. I said so, but all I was told was that discipline would do the trick. Well, thought I, maybe it will and maybe it won’t, but whoever is going to be caught between a mob on one side and a file of red coats on the other, it isn’t going to be old Flashy. Paisley had been quiet enough when I was sent there, but the authorities had a suspicious eye on the whole area, which was regarded as being a hotbed of sedition. They were training up the militia, just in case, and this was the task I was given – an officer from a crack cavalry regiment instructing irregular infantry, which is what you might expect. They turned out to be good material, luckily; many of the older ones were Peninsular men, and the sergeant had been in the 42nd Regiment at Waterloo. So there was little enough for me to do at first. I was billeted on one of the principal mill-owners of the area, a brass-bound old moneybags with a long nose and a hard eye who lived in some style in a house at Renfrew, and who made me welcome after his fashion when I arrived. “We’ve no high opeenion o’ the military, sir,” said he, “and could well be doing without ye. But since, thanks to slack government and that damnable Reform nonsense, we’re in this sorry plight, we must bear with having soldiers aboot us. A scandal! D’ye see these wretches at my mill, sir? I would have the half of them in Australia this meenit, if it was left to me! And let the rest feel their bellies pinched for a week or two – we’d hear less of their caterwaulin’ then.” “You need have no fear, sir,” I told him. “We shall protect you.” “Fear?” he snorted. “I’m not feart, sir. John Morrison doesnae tremble at the whine o’ his ain workers, let me tell you. As for protecting, we’ll see.” And he gave me a look and a sniff. I was to live with the family – he could hardly do less, in view of what brought me there – and presently he took me from his study through the gloomy hall of his mansion to the family’s sitting-room. The whole house was hellish gloomy and cold and smelled of must and righteousness, but when he threw open the sitting-room door and ushered me in, I forgot my surroundings. “Mr Flashman,” says he, “this is Mistress Morrison and my four daughters.” He rapped out their names like a roll-call. “Agnes, Mary, Elspeth, and Grizel.” I snapped my heels and bowed with a great flourish – I was in uniform, and the gold-trimmed blue cape and pink pants of the 11th Hussars were already famous, and looked extremely well on me. Four heads inclined in reply, and one nodded – this was Mistress Morrison, a tall, beaknosed female in whom one could detect all the fading beauty of a vulture. I made a hasty inventory of the daughters: Agnes, buxom and darkly handsome – she would do. Mary, buxom and plain – she would not. Grizel, thin and mousy and still a schoolgirl – no. Elspeth was like none of the others. She was beautiful, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and pink-cheeked, and she alone smiled at me with the open, simple smile of the truly stupid. I marked her down at once, and gave all my attention to Mistress Morrison. It was grim work, I may tell you, for she was a sour tyrant of a woman and looked on me as she looked on all soldiers, Englishmen, and men under fifty years of age – as frivolous, Godless, feckless, and unworthy. In this, it seemed, her husband supported her, and the daughters said not a word to me all evening. I could have damned the lot of them (except Elspeth), but instead I set myself to be pleasant, modest, and even meek where the old woman was concerned, and when we went into dinner – which was served in great state – she had thawed to the extent of a sour smile or two. Well, I thought, that is something, and I went up in her estimation by saying “Amen” loudly when Morrison said grace, and struck while the iron was hot by asking presently – it was Saturday – what time divine service was next morning. Morrison went so far as to be civil once or twice, after this, but I was still glad to escape at last to my room – dark brown tomb though it was. You may wonder why I took pains to ingratiate myself with these puritan boors, and the answer is that I have always made a point of being civil to anyone who might ever be of use to me. Also, I had half an eye to Miss Elspeth, and there was no hope there without the mother’s good opinion. So I attended family prayers with them, and escorted them to church, and listened to Miss Agnes sing in the evening, and helped Miss Grizel with her lessons, and pretended an interest in Mistress Morrison’s conversation – which was spiteful and censorious and limited to the doings of her acquaintances in Paisley – and was entertained by Miss Mary on the subject of her garden flowers, and bore with old Morrison’s droning about the state of trade and the incompetence of government. And among these riotous pleasures of a soldier’s life I talked occasionally with Miss Elspeth, and found her brainless beyond description. But she was undeniably desirable, and for all the piety and fear of hell-fire that had been drummed into her, I thought there was sometimes a wanton look about her eye and lower lip, and after a week I had her as infatuated with me as any young woman could be. It was not so difficult; dashing young cavalrymen with broad shoulders were rare in Paisley, and I was setting myself to charm. However, there’s many a slip ’twixt the crouch and the leap, as the cavalry used to say, and my difficulty was to get Miss Elspeth in the right place at the right time. I was kept pretty hard at it with the militia during the day, and in the evenings her parents chaperoned her like shadows. It was more for form’s sake than anything else, I think, for they seemed to trust me well enough by this time, but it made things damnably awkward, and I was beginning to itch for her considerably. But eventually it was her father himself who brought matters to a successful conclusion – and changed my whole life, and hers. And it was because he, John Morrison, who had boasted of his fearlessness, turned out to be as timid as a mouse. It was on a Monday, nine days after I had arrived, that a fracas broke out in one of the mills; a young worker had his arm crushed in one of the machines, and his mates made a great outcry, and a meeting of workmen was held in the streets beyond the mill gates. That was all, but some fool of a magistrate lost his head and demanded that the troops be called “to quell the seditious rioters”. I sent his messenger about his business, in the first place because there seemed no danger from the meeting – although there was plenty of fist-shaking and threat-shouting, by all accounts – and in the second because I do not make a practice of seeking sorrow. Sure enough, the meeting dispersed, but not before the magistrate had spread panic and alarm, ordering the shops to close and windows in the town to be shuttered and God knows what other folly. I told him to his face he was a fool, ordered my sergeant to let the militia go home (but to have them ready on recall), and trotted over to Renfrew. There Morrison was in a state of despair. He peeped at me round the front door, his face ashen, and demanded: “Are they comin’, in Goad’s name?” and then “Why are ye not at the head of your troops, sir? Are we tae be murdered for your neglect?” I told him, pretty sharp, that there was no danger, but that if there had been, his place was surely at his mill, to keep his rascals in order. He whinnied at me – I’ve seldom seen a man in such fright, and being a true-bred poltroon myself, I speak with authority. “My place is here,” he yelped, “defendin’ my hame and bairns!” “I thought they were in Glasgow today,” I said, as I came into the hall. “My wee Elspeth’s here,” said he, groaning. “If the mob was tae break in …” “Oh, for God’s sake,” says I, for I was well out of sorts, what with the idiot magistrate and now Morrison, “there isn’t a mob. They’ve gone home.” “Will they stay hame?” he bawled. “Oh, they hate me, Mr Flashman, damn them a’! What if they were to come here? O, wae’s me – and my poor wee Elspeth!” Poor wee Elspeth was sitting on the window-seat, admiring her reflection in the panes and perfectly unconcerned. Catching sight of her, I had an excellent thought. “If you’re nervous for her, why not send her to Glasgow, too?” I asked him, very unconcerned. “Are ye mad, sir? Alone on the road, a lassie?” I reassured him: I would escort her safely to her Mama. “And leave me here?” he cried, so I suggested he come as well. But he wouldn’t have that; I realised later he probably had his strongbox in the house. He hummed and hawed a great deal, but eventually fear for his daughter – which was entirely groundless, as far as mobs were concerned – overcame him, and we were packed off together in the gig, I driving, she humming gaily at the thought of a jaunt, and her devoted parent crying instruction and consternation after us as we rattled off. “Tak’ care o’ my poor wee lamb, Mr Flashman,” he wailed. “To be sure I will, sir,” I replied. And I did. The banks of the Clyde in those days were very pretty; not like the grimy slums that cover them now. There was a gentle evening haze, I remember, and a warm sun setting on a glorious day, and after a mile or two I suggested we stop and ramble among the thickets by the waterside. Miss Elspeth was eager, so we left the pony grazing and went into a little copse. I suggested we sit down, and Miss Elspeth was eager again – that glorious vacant smile informed me. I believe I murmured a few pleasantries, played with her hair, and then kissed her. Miss Elspeth was more eager still. Then I got to work in earnest, and Miss Elspeth’s eagerness knew no bounds. I had great red claw-marks on my back for a fortnight after. When we had finished, she lay in the grass, drowsy, like a contented kitten, and after a few pleased sighs she said: “Was that what the minister means when he talks of fornication?” Astonished, I said, yes, it was. “Um-hm,” said she. “Why has he such a down on it?” It seemed to me time to be pressing on towards Glasgow. Ignorant women I have met, and I knew that Miss Elspeth must rank high among them, but I had not supposed until now that she had no earthly idea of elementary human relations. (Yet there were even married women in my time who did not connect their husbands’ antics in bed with the conception of children.) She simply did not understand what had taken place between us. She liked it, certainly, but she had no thought of anything beyond the act – no notion of consequences, or guilt, or the need for secrecy. In her, ignorance and stupidity formed a perfect shield against the world: this, I suppose, is innocence. It startled me, I can tell you. I had a vision of her remarking happily: “Mama, you’ll never guess what Mr Flashman and I have been doing this evening …” Not that I minded too much, for when all was said I didn’t care a button for the Morrisons’ opinion, and if they could not look after their daughter it was their own fault. But the less trouble the better: for her own sake I hoped she might keep her mouth shut. I took her back to the gig and helped her in, and I thought what a beautiful fool she was. Oddly enough, I felt a sudden affection for her in that moment, such as I hadn’t felt for any of my other women – even though some of them had been better tumbles than she. It had nothing to do with rolling her in the grass; looking at the gold hair that had fallen loose on her cheek, and seeing the happy smile in her eyes, I felt a great desire to keep her, not only for bed, but to have her near me. I wanted to watch her face, and the way she pushed her hair into place, and the steady, serene look that she turned on me. Hullo, Flashy, I remember thinking; careful, old son. But it stayed with me, that queer empty feeling in my inside, and of all the recollections of my life there isn’t one that is clearer than of that warm evening by the Clyde, with Elspeth smiling at me beneath the trees. Almost equally distinct, however, but less pleasant, is my memory of Morrison, a few days later, shaking his fist in my face and scarlet with rage as he shouted: “Ye damned blackguard! Ye thieving, licentious, raping devil! I’ll have ye hanged for this, as Goad’s my witness! My ain daughter, in my ain hoose! Jesus Lord! Ye come sneaking here, like the damned viper that ye are …” And much more of the same, until I thought he would have apoplexy. Miss Elspeth had almost lived up to my expectation – only it had not been Mama she had told, but Agnes. The result was the same, of course, and the house was in uproar. The only calm person was Elspeth herself, which was no help. For of course I denied old Morrison’s accusation, but when he dragged her in to confront me with my infamy, as he called it, she said quite matter-of-fact, yes, it had happened by the river on the way to Glasgow. I wondered, was she simple? It is a point on which I have never made up my mind. At that, I couldn’t deny it any longer. So I took the other course and damned Morrison’s eyes, asking him what did he expect if he left a handsome daughter within a man’s reach? I told him we were not monks in the army, and he fairly screamed with rage and threw an inkstand at me, which fortunately missed. By this time others were on the scene, and his daughters had the vapours – except Elspeth – and Mrs Morrison came at me with such murder in her face that I turned tail and ran for dear life. I decamped without even having time to collect my effects – which were not sent on to me, by the way – and decided that I had best set up my base in Glasgow. Paisley was likely to be fairly hot, and I resolved to have a word with the local commandant and explain, as between gentlemen, that it might be best if other duties were found for me that would not take me back there. It would be somewhat embarrassing, of course, for he was another of these damned Presbyterians, so I put off seeing him for a day or two. As a result I never called on him at all. Instead I had a caller myself. He was a stiff-shouldered, brisk-mannered fellow of about fifty; rather dapper in an almost military way, with a brown face and hard grey eyes. He looked as though he might be a sporting sort, but when he came to see me he was all business. “Mr Flashman, I believe?” says he. “My name is Abercrombie.” “Good luck to you, then,” says I. “I’m not buying anything today, so close the door as you leave.” He looked at me sharp, head on one side. “Good,” says he. “This makes it easier. I had thought you might be a smooth one but I see that you’re what they call a plunger.” I asked him what the devil he meant. “Quite simple,” says he, taking a seat as cool as you please. “We have a mutual acquaintance. Mrs Morrison of Renfrew is my sister. Elspeth Morrison is my niece.” This was an uneasy piece of news, for I didn’t like the look of him. He was too sure of himself by half. But I gave him a stare and told him he had a damned handsome niece. “I’m relieved that you think so,” said he. “I’d be distressed to think that the Hussars were not discriminating.” He sat looking at me, so I took a turn round the room. “The point is,” he said, “that we have to make arrangements for the wedding. You’ll not want to lose time.” I had picked up a bottle and glass, but I set them down sharp at this. He had taken my breath away. “What the hell d’ye mean?” says I. Then I laughed. “You don’t think I’ll marry her, do you? Good God, you must be a lunatic.” “And why?” says he. “Because I’m not such a fool,” I told him. Suddenly I was angry, at this damned little snip, and his tone with me. “If every girl who’s ready to play in the hay was to get married, we’d have damned few spinsters left, wouldn’t we? And d’you suppose I’d be pushed into a wedding over a trifle like this?” “My niece’s honour.” “Your niece’s honour! A mill-owner’s daughter’s honour! Oh, I see the game! You see an excellent chance of a match, eh? A chance to marry your niece to a gentleman? You smell a fortune, do you? Well, let me tell you—” “As to the excellence of the match,” said he, “I’d sooner see her marry a Barbary ape. I take it, however, that you decline the honour of my niece’s hand?” “Damn your impudence! You take it right. Now, get out!” “Excellent,” says he, very bright-eyed. “It’s what I hoped for.” And he stood up, straightening his coat. “What’s that meant to mean, curse you?” He smiled at me. “I’ll send a friend to talk to you. He will arrange matters. I don’t approve of meetings, myself, but I’ll be delighted, in this case, to put either a bullet or a blade into you.” He clapped his hat on his head. “You know, I don’t suppose there has been a duel in Glasgow these fifty years or more. It will cause quite a stir.” I gaped at the man, but gathered my wits soon enough. “Lord,” says I, with a sneer, “you don’t suppose I would fight you?” “No?” “Gentlemen fight gentlemen,” I told him, and ran a scornful eye over him. “They don’t fight shop-keepers.” “Wrong again,” says he, cheerily. “I’m a lawyer.” “Then stick to your law. We don’t fight lawyers, either.” “Not if you can help it, I imagine. But you’ll be hard put to it to refuse a brother officer, Mr Flashman. You see, although I’ve no more than a militia commission now, I was formerly of the 93rd Foot – you have heard of the Sutherlands, I take it? – and had the honour to hold the rank of captain. I even achieved some little service in the field.” He was smiling almost benignly now. “If you doubt my bona fides may I refer you to my former chief, Colonel Colin Campbell? Good day, Mr Flashman.” He was at the door before I found my voice. “To hell with you, and him! I’ll not fight you!” He turned. “Then I’ll enjoy taking a whip to you in the street. I really shall. Your own chief – my Lord Cardigan, isn’t it? – will find that happy reading in The Times, I don’t doubt.” He had me in a cleft stick, as I saw at once. It would mean professional ruin – and at the hands of a damned provincial infantryman, and a retired one at that. I stood there, overcome with rage and panic, damning the day I ever set eyes on his infernal niece, with my wits working for a way out. I tried another tack. “You may not realise who you’re dealing with,” I told him, and asked if he had not heard of the Bernier affair: it seemed to me that it must be known about, even in the wilds of Glasgow, and I said so. “I think I recollect a paragraph,” says he. “Dear me, Mr Flashman, should I be overcome? Should I quail? I’ll just have to hold my pistol steady, won’t I?” “Damn you,” I shouted, “wait a moment.” He stood attentive, watching me. “All right, blast you,” I said. “How much do you want?” “I thought it might come to that,” he said. “Your kind of rat generally reaches for its purse when cornered. You’re wasting time, Flashman. I’ll take your promise to marry Elspeth – or your life. I’d prefer the latter. But it’s one or the other. Make up your mind.” And from that I could not budge him. I pleaded and swore and promised any kind of reparation short of marriage; I was almost in tears, but I might as well have tried to move a rock. Marry or die – that was what it amounted to, for I’d no doubt he would be damnably efficient with the barkers. There was nothing for it: in the end I had to give in and say I would marry the girl. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather fight?” says he, regretfully. “A great pity. I fear the conventions are going to burden Elspeth with a rotten man, but there.” And he passed on to discussion of the wedding arrangements – he had it all pat. When at last I was rid of him I applied myself to the brandy, and things seemed less bleak. At least I could think of no one I would rather be wedded and bedded with, and if you have money a wife need be no great encumbrance. And presently we should be out of Scotland, so I need not see her damnable family. But it was an infernal nuisance, all the same – what was I to tell my father? I couldn’t for the life of me think how he would take it – he wouldn’t cut me off, but he might be damned uncivil about it. I didn’t write to him until after the business was over. It took place in the Abbey at Paisley, which was appropriately gloomy, and the sight of the pious long faces of my bride’s relations would have turned your stomach. The Morrisons had begun speaking to me again, and were very civil in public – it was represented as being a sudden love-match, of course, between the dashing hussar and the beautiful provincial, so they had to pretend I was their beau ideal of a son-in-law. But the brute Abercrombie was never far away, to see I came up to scratch, and all in all it was an unpleasant business. When it was done, and the guests had begun to drink themselves blind, as is the Scottish custom, Elspeth and I were seen off in a carriage by her parents. Old Morrison was crying drunk, and made a disgusting spectacle. “My wee lamb!” he kept snuffling. “My bonny wee lamb!” His wee lamb, I may say, looked entrancing, and no more moved than if she had just been out choosing a pair of gloves, rather than getting a husband – she had taken the whole thing without a murmur, neither happy nor sorry, apparently, which piqued me a little. Anyway, her father slobbered over her, but when he turned to me he just let out a great hollow groan, and gave place to his wife. At that I whipped up the horses, and away we went. For the life of me I cannot remember where the honeymoon was spent – at some rented cottage on the coast, I remember, but the name has gone – and it was lively enough. Elspeth knew nothing, but it seemed that the only thing that brought her out of her usual serene lethargy was a man in bed with her. She was a more than willing playmate, and I taught her a few of Josette’s tricks, which she picked up so readily that by the time we came back to Paisley I was worn out. And there the shock was waiting: it hit me harder, I think, than anything had in my life. When I opened the letter and read it, I couldn’t speak at first; I had to read it again and again before it made sense. “Lord Cardigan [it read] has learned of the marriage contracted lately by Mr Flashman of this regiment, and Miss Morrison, of Glasgow. In view of this marriage, his lordship feels that Mr Flashman will not wish to continue to serve with the 11th Hussars (Prince Albert’s), but that he will wish either to resign or to transfer to another regiment.” That was all. It was signed “Jones” – Cardigan’s toady. What I said I don’t recall, but it brought Elspeth to my side. She slid her arms round my waist and asked what was the matter. “All hell’s the matter,” I said. “I must go to London at once.” At this she raised a cry of delight, and babbled with excitement about seeing the great sights, and society, and having a place in town, and meeting my father – God help us – and a great deal more drivel. I was too sick to heed her, and she never seemed to notice me as I sat down among the boxes and trunks that had been brought in from the coach to our bedroom. I remember I damned her at one point for a fool and told her to hold her tongue, which silenced her for a minute; but then she started off again, and was debating whether she should have a French maid or an English one. I was in a furious rage all the way south, and impatient to get to Cardigan. I knew what it was all about – the bloody fool had read of the marriage and decided that Elspeth was not “suitable” for one of his officers. It will sound ridiculous to you, perhaps, but it was so in those days in a regiment like the 11th. Society daughters were all very well, but anything that smacked of trade or the middle classes was anathema to his lofty lordship. Well, I was not going to have his nose turned up at me, as he would find. So I thought, in my youthful folly. I took Elspeth home first. I had written to my father while we were on honeymoon, and had had a letter back saying: “Who is the unfortunate chit, for God’s sake? Does she know what she has got?” So all was well enough in its way on that front. And when we arrived there who should be the first person we met in the hall but Judy, dressed for riding. She gave me a tongue-in-the-cheek smile as soon as she saw Elspeth – the clever bitch probably guessed what lay behind the marriage – but I got some of my own back by my introduction. “Elspeth,” I said, “this is Judy, my father’s tart.” That brought the colour into her face, and I left them to get acquainted while I looked for the guv’nor. He was out, as usual, so I went straight off in search of Cardigan, and found him at his town house. At first he wouldn’t see me, when I sent up my card, but I pushed his footman out of the way and went up anyway. It should have been a stormy interview, with high words flying, but it wasn’t. Just the sight of him, in his morning coat, looking as though he had just been inspecting God on parade, took the wind out of me. When he had demanded to know, in his coldest way, why I intruded on him, I stuttered out my question: why was he sending me out of the regiment? “Because of your marriage, Fwashman,” says he. “You must have known very well what the consequences would be. It is quite unacceptable, you know. The lady, I have no doubt, is an excellent young woman, but she is – nobody. In these circumstances your resignation is imperative.” “But she is respectable, my lord,” I said. “I assure you she is from an excellent family; her father—” “Owns a factory,” he cut in. “Haw-haw. It will not do. My dear sir, did you not think of your position? Of the wegiment? Could I answer, sir, if I were asked: ‘And who is Mr Fwashman’s wife?’ ‘Oh, her father is a Gwasgow weaver, don’t you know?’” “But it will ruin me!” I could have wept at the pure, blockheaded snobbery of the man. “Where can I go? What regiment will take me if I’m kicked out of the 11th?” “You are not being kicked out, Fwashman,” he said, and was being positively kindly. “You are wesigning. A very different thing. Haw-haw. You are twansferring. There is no difficulty. I wike you, Fwashman; indeed, I had hopes of you, but you have destwoyed them with your foolishness. Indeed, I should be extwemely angwy. But I shall help in your awwangements: I have infwuence at the Horse Guards, you know.” “Where am I to go?” I demanded miserably. “I have given thought to it, let me tell you. It would be impwoper to twansfer to another wegiment at home; it will be best if you go overseas, I think. To India. Yes—” “India?” I stared at him in horror. “Yes, indeed. There are caweers to be made there, don’t you know? A few years’ service there, and the matter of your wesigning fwom my wegiment will be forgotten. You can come home and be gazetted to some other command.” He was so bland, so sure, that there was nothing to say. I knew what he thought of me now: I had shown myself in his eyes no better than the Indian officers whom he despised. Oh, he was being kind enough, in his way; there were “caweers” in India, all right, for the soldier who could get nothing better – and who survived the fevers and the heat and the plague and the hostile natives. At that moment I was at my lowest; the pale, haughty face and the soft voice seemed to fade away before me; all I was conscious of was a sullen anger, and a deep resolve that wherever I went, it would not be India – not for a thousand Cardigans. “So you won’t, hey?” said my father, when I told him. “I’m damned if I do,” I said. “You’re damned if you don’t,” chuckled he, very amused. “What else will you do, d’you suppose?” “Sell out,” says I. “Not a bit of it,” says he. “I’ve bought your colours, and by God, you’ll wear ’em.” “You can’t make me.” “True enough. But the day you hand them back, on that day the devil a penny you’ll get out of me. How will you live, eh? And with a wife to support, bigad? No, no, Harry, you’ve called the tune, and you can pay the piper.” “You mean I’m to go?” “Of course you’ll go. Look you, my son, and possibly my heir, I’ll tell you how it is. You’re a wastrel and a bad lot – oh, I daresay it’s my fault, among others, but that’s by the way. My father was a bad lot, too, but I grew up some kind of man. You might, too, for all I know. But I’m certain sure you won’t do it here. You might do it by reaping the consequences of your own lunacy – and that means India. D’you follow me?” “But Elspeth,” I said. “You know it’s no country for a woman.” “Then don’t take her. Not for the first year, in any event, until you’ve settled down a bit. Nice chit, she is. And don’t make piteous eyes at me, sir; you can do without her a while – by all accounts there are women in India, and you can be as beastly as you please.” “It’s not fair!” I shouted. “Not fair! Well, well, this is one lesson you’re learning. Nothing’s fair, you young fool. And don’t blubber about not wanting to go and leave her – she’ll be safe enough here.” “With you and Judy, I suppose?” “With me and Judy,” says he, very softly. “And I’m not sure that the company of a rake and a harlot won’t be better for her than yours.” That was how I came to leave for India; how the foundation was laid of a splendid military career. I felt myself damnably ill-used, and if I had had the courage I would have told my father to go to the devil. But he had me, and he knew it. Even if it hadn’t been for the money part of it, I couldn’t have stood up to him, as I hadn’t been able to stand up to Cardigan. I hated them both, then. I came to think better of Cardigan, later, for in his arrogant, pigheaded, snobbish way he was trying to be decent to me, but my father I never forgave. He was playing the swine, and he knew it, and found it amusing at my expense. But what really poisoned me against him was that he didn’t believe I cared a button for Elspeth. Chapter 5 (#ulink_10500e67-3fb7-56f1-a83b-a593fe4bf28c) There may be better countries for a soldier to serve in than India, but I haven’t seen them. You may hear the greenhorns talk about heat and flies and filth and the natives and the diseases; the first three you must get accustomed to, the fifth you must avoid – which you can do, with a little common sense – and as for the natives, well, where else will you get such a docile humble set of slaves? I liked them better than the Scots, anyhow; their language was easier to understand. And if these things were meant to be drawbacks, there was the other side. In India there was power – the power of the white man over the black – and power is a fine thing to have. Then there was ease, and time for any amount of sport, and good company, and none of the restrictions of home. You could live as you pleased, and lord it among the niggers, and if you were well-off and properly connected, as I was, there was the social life among the best folk who clustered round the Governor-General. And there were as many women as you could wish for. There was money to be had, too, if you were lucky in your campaigns and knew how to look for it. In my whole service I never made half as much in pay as I got from India in loot – but that is another story. I knew nothing of this when we dropped anchor in the Hooghly, off Calcutta, and I looked at the red river banks and sweated in the boiling sun, and smelt the stink, and wished I was in hell rather than here. It had been a damnable four-months voyage on board the crowded and sweltering Indiaman, with no amusement of any kind, and I was prepared to find India no better. I was to join one of the Company’s native lancer regiments in the Benares District, but I never did. Army inefficiency kept me kicking my heels in Calcutta for several weeks before the appropriate orders came through, and by that time I had taken fortune by the foreskin, in my own way. In the first place, I messed at the Fort with the artillery officers in the native service, who were a poor lot, and whose messing would have sickened a pig. The food was bad to begin with, and by the time the black cooks had finished with it you would hardly have fed it to a jackal. I said so at our first dinner, and provoked a storm among these gentlemen, who considered me a Johnny Newcome. “Not good enough for the plungers, eh?” says one. “Sorry we have no foie gras for your lordship, and we must apologise for the absence of silver plate.” “Is it always like this?” I asked. “What is it?” “What is the dish, your grace?” asked the wit. “Why, it’s called curry, don’t you know? Kills the taste of old meat.” “If that’s all it kills, I’m surprised,” says I, disgusted. “No decent human being could stomach this filth.” “We stomach it,” said another. “Ain’t we human beings?” “You know best about that,” I said. “If you take my advice you’ll hang your cook.” And with that I stalked out, leaving them growling after me. Yet their mess, I discovered, was no worse than any other in India, and better than some. The men’s messes were indescribable, and I wondered how they survived such dreadful food in such a climate. The answer was, of course, that many of them didn’t. However, it was obvious to me that I would be better shifting for myself, so I called up Basset, whom I had brought with me from England – the little bastard had blubbered at the thought of losing me when I left the 11th, God knows why – gave him a fistful of money, and told him to find a cook, a butler, a groom, and half a dozen other servants. These people were to be hired for virtually nothing. Then I went myself to the guard room, found a native who could speak English passably well, and went out to find a house. I found one not far from the Fort, a pleasant place with a little garden of shrubs, and a verandah with screens, and my nigger fetched the owner, who was a great fat rogue with a red turban; we haggled in the middle of a crowd of jabbering blacks, and I gave him half what he asked for and settled into the place with my establishment. First of all I sent for the cook, and told him through my nigger: “You will cook, and cook cleanly. You’ll wash your hands, d’ye see, and buy nothing but the finest meat and vegetables. If you don’t, I’ll have the cat taken to you until there isn’t a strip of hide left on your back.” He jabbered away, nodding and grinning and bowing, so I took him by the neck and threw him down and lashed him with my riding whip until he rolled off the verandah, screaming. “Tell him he’ll get that night and morning if his food’s not fit to eat,” I told my nigger. “And the rest of them may take notice.” They all howled with fear, but they paid heed, the cook most of all. I took the opportunity to flog one of them every day, for their good and my own amusement, and to these precautions I attribute the fact that in all my service in India I was hardly ever laid low with anything worse than fever, and that you can’t avoid. The cook was a good cook, as it turned out, and Basset kept the others at it with his tongue and his boot, so we did very well. My nigger, whose name was Timbu-something-or-other, was of great use at first, since he spoke English, but after a few weeks I got rid of him. I’ve said that I have a gift of language, but it was only when I came to India that I realised this. My Latin and Greek had been weak at school, for I paid little attention to them, but a tongue that you hear spoken about you is a different thing. Each language has a rhythm for me, and my ear catches and holds the sounds; I seem to know what a man is saying even when I don’t understand the words, and my tongue slips easily into any new accent. In any event, after a fortnight listening to Timbu and asked him questions, I was speaking Hindustani well enough to be understood, and I paid him off. For one thing, I had found a more interesting teacher. Her name was Fetnab, and I bought her (not officially, of course, although it amounted to the same thing) from a merchant whose livestock consisted of wenches for the British officers and civilian residents in Calcutta. She cost me 500 rupees, which was about 50 guineas, and she was a thief’s bargain. I suppose she was about sixteen, with a handsome enough face and a gold stud fixed in her nostril, and great slanting brown eyes. Like most other Indian dancing girls, she was shaped like an hour-glass, with a waist that I could span with my two hands, fat breasts like melons, and a wobbling backside. If anything she was a shade too plump, but she knew the ninety-seven ways of making love that the Hindus are supposed to set much store by – though mind you, it is all nonsense, for the seventy-fourth position turns out to be the same as the seventy-third, but with your fingers crossed. But she taught me them all in time, for she was devoted to her work, and would spend hours oiling herself with perfume all over her body and practising Hindu exercises to keep herself supple for night-time. After my first two days with her I thought less and less about Elspeth, and even Josette paled by comparison. However, I put her to other good uses. In between bouts we would talk, for she was a great chatterbox, and I learned more of the refinements of Hindi from her than I would have done from any munshi. I give the advice for what it is worth: if you wish to learn a foreign tongue properly, study it in bed with a native girl – I’d have got more of the classics from an hour’s wrestling with a Greek wench than I did in four years from Arnold. So this was how I passed my time in Calcutta – my nights with Fetnab, my evenings in one of the messes, or someone’s house, and my days riding or shooting or hunting, or simply wandering about the town itself. I became quite a well-known figure to the niggers, because I could speak to them in their own tongue, unlike the vast majority of officers at that time – even those who had served in India for years were usually too bored to try to learn Hindi, or thought it beneath them. Another thing I learned, because of the regiment to which I was due to be posted, was how to manage a lance. I had been useful at sword exercise in the Hussars, but a lance is something else again. Any fool can couch it and ride straight, but if you are to be any use at all you must be able to handle all nine feet of it so that you can pick a playing card off the ground with the point, or pink a running rabbit. I was determined to shine among the Company men, so I hired a native rissalder of the Bengal Cavalry to teach me; I had no thought then of anything beyond tilting at dummies or wild pig sticking, and the thought of couching a lance against enemy cavalry was not one that I dwelt on much. But those lessons were to save my life once at least – so that was more well-spent money. They also settled the question of my immediate future, in an odd way. I was out on the maidan one morning with my rissalder, a big, lean, ugly devil of the Pathan people of the frontier, named Muhammed Iqbal. He was a splendid horseman and managed a lance perfectly, and under his guidance I was learning quickly. That morning he had me tilting at pegs, and I speared so many that he said, grinning, that he must charge me more for my lessons. We were trotting off the maidan, which was fairly empty that morning, except for a palankeen escorted by a couple of officers, which excited my curiosity a little, when Iqbal suddenly shouted: “See, huzoor, a better target than little pegs!” and pointed towards a pariah dog which was snuffling about some fifty yards away. Iqbal couched his lance and went for it, but it darted out of his way, so I roared “Tally-ho!” and set off in pursuit. Iqbal was still ahead of me, but I was only a couple of lengths behind when he made another thrust at the pi-dog, which was racing ahead of him, swerving and yelping. He missed again, and yelled a curse, and the pi-dog suddenly turned almost beneath his hooves and leaped up at his foot. I dropped my point and by great good luck spitted the beast through the body. With a shout of triumph I heaved him, twisting and still yelping, high into the air, and he fell behind me. Iqbal cried: “Shabash!” and I was beginning to crow over him when a voice shouted: “You there! You, sir! Come here, if you please, this moment.” It came from the palankeen, towards which our run had taken us. The curtains were drawn, and the caller was revealed as a portly, fierce-looking gentleman in a frock coat, with a sun-browned face and a fine bald head. He had taken off his hat, and was waving insistently, so I rode across. “Good morning,” says he, very civil. “May I inquire your name?” It did not need the presence of the two mounted dandies by the palankeen to tell me that this was a highly senior officer. Wondering, I introduced myself. “Well, congratulations, Mr Flashman,” says he. “Smart a piece of work as I’ve seen this year: if we had a regiment who could all manage a lance as well as you we’d have no trouble with damned Sikhs and Afghans, eh, Bennet?” “Indeed not, sir,” said one of the exquisite aides, eyeing me. “Mr Flashman; I seem to know the name. Are you not lately of the 11th Hussars, at home?” “Eh, what’s that?” said his chief, giving me a bright grey eye. “Bigod, so he is; see his Cherrypicker pants” – I was still wearing the pink breeches of the Hussars, which strictly I had no right to do, but they set off my figure admirably – “so he is, Bennet. Now, dammit, Flashman, Flashman – of course, the affair last year! You’re the deloper! Well I’m damned. What are you doing here, sir, in God’s name?” I explained, cautiously, trying to hint without actually saying so, that my arrival in India had followed directly from my meeting with Bernier (which was almost true, anyway), and my questioner whistled and exclaimed in excitement. I suppose I was enough of a novelty to rouse his interest, and he asked me a good deal about myself, which I answered fairly truthfully; in my turn I learned as he questioned me that he was General Crawford, on the staff of the Governor-General, and as such a commander of influence and importance. “Bigod, you’ve had bad luck, Flashman,” says he. “Banished from the lofty Cherrypickers, eh? Damned nonsense, but these blasted militia colonels like Cardigan have no sense. Eh, Bennet? And you’re bound for Company service, are you? Well, the pay’s good, but it’s a damned shame. Waste your life teaching the sowars how to perform on galloping field days. Damned dusty work. Well, well, Flashman, I wish you success. Good day to you, sir.” And that would have settled that, no doubt, but for a queer chance. I had been sitting with my lance at rest, the point six feet above my head, and some of the pi-dog’s blood dribbled down onto my hand; I gave an exclamation of disgust, and turning to Iqbal, who was sitting silently behind, I said: “Khabadar, rissaldar! Larnce sarf karo, juldi!” which is to say, “Look out, sergeant-major. Take this lance and get it clean, quickly.” And with that I tossed it to him. He caught it, and I turned back to take my leave of Crawford. He had stopped in the act of pulling his palankeen curtains. “Here, Flashman,” says he. “How long have you been in India? What, three weeks, you say? But you speak the lingo, dammit!” “Only a word or two, sir.” “Don’t tell me, sir; I heard several words. Damned sight more than I learned in thirty years. Eh, Bennet? Too many ‘ee’s’ and ‘um’s’ for me. But that’s damned extraordinary, young man. How’d you pick it up?” I did more explaining, about my gift for languages, and he shook his bald head and said he’d never heard the like. “A born linguist and a born lancer, bigod. Rare combination – too dam’ good for Company cavalry – all ride like pigs, anyway. Look here, young Flashman, I can’t think at this time in the morning. You call on me tonight, d’ye hear? We’ll go into this further. Hey, Bennet?” And presently away he went, but I did call on him that evening, resplendent in my Cherrypicker togs, as he called them, and he looked at me and said: “By God, Emily Eden mustn’t miss this! She’d never forgive me!” To my surprise, this was his way of indicating that I should go with him to the Governor-General’s palace, where he was due for dinner, so of course I went, and had the privilege of drinking lemonade with their excellencies on their great marble verandah, while a splendid company stood about, like a small court, and I saw more quality in three seconds than in my three weeks in Calcutta. Which was very pleasant, but Crawford almost spoiled it by telling Lord Auckland about my duel with Bernier, at which he and Lady Emily, who was his sister, looked rather stiff – they were a stuffy pair, I thought – until I said fairly coolly to Crawford that I would have avoided the whole business if I could, but it had been forced upon Me. At this Auckland nodded approval, and when it came out that I had been under Arnold at Rugby, the old bastard became downright civil. Lady Emily was even more so – thank God for Cherrypicker pants – and when she discovered I was only nineteen years old she nodded sadly, and spoke of the fair young shoots on the tree of empire. She asked about my family, and when she learned I had a wife in England, she said: “So young to be parted. How hard the service is.” Her brother observed, fairly drily, that there was nothing to prevent an officer having his wife in India with him, but I muttered something about winning my spurs, an inspired piece of nonsense which pleased Lady E. Her brother remarked that an astonishing number of young officers somehow survived the absence of a wife’s consolation, and Crawford chortled, but Lady E. was on my side by now, and giving them her shoulder, asked where I was to be stationed. I told her, and since it seemed to me that if I played my cards right I might get a more comfortable posting through her interest – Governor-General’s aide was actually in my mind – I indicated that I had no great enthusiasm for Company service. “Don’t blame him, either,” said Crawford. “Man’s a positive Pole on horseback; shouldn’t be wasted, eh, Flashman? Speaks Hindustani, too. Heard him.” “Really?” says Auckland. “That shows a remarkable zeal in study, Mr Flashman. But perhaps Dr Arnold may be to thank for that.” “Why must you take Mr Flashman’s credit away from him?” says Lady E. “I think it is quite unusual. I think he should be found a post where his talents can be properly employed. Do you not agree, General?” “Own views exactly, ma’am,” says Crawford. “Should have heard him. ‘Hey, rissaldar’, says he, ‘um-tiddly-o-karo’, and the fellow understood every word.” Now you can imagine that this was heady stuff to me; this morning I had been any old subaltern, and here I was hearing compliments from a Governor-General, and General, and the First Lady of India – foolish old trot though she was. You’re made, Flashy, I thought; it’s the staff for you, and Auckland’s next words seemed to bear out my hopes. “Why not find something for him, then?” says he to Crawford. “General Elphinstone was saying only yesterday that he would need a few good gallopers.” Well, it wasn’t the top of the tree, but galloper to a General was good enough for the time being. “Bigod,” says Crawford, “your excellency’s right. What d’you say, Flashman? Care to ride aide to an army commander, hey? Better than Company work at the back of beyond, what?” I naturally said I would be deeply honoured, and was starting to thank him, but he cut me off. “You’ll be more thankful yet when you know where Elphinstone’s service’ll take you,” says he, grinning. “By gad, I wish I was your age and had the same chance. It’s a Company army mostly, of course, and a damned good one, but it took ’em a few years of service – as it would have taken you – to get where they wanted to be.” I looked all eagerness, and Lady E. sighed and smiled together. “Poor boy,” she said. “You must not tease him.” “Well, it will be out by tomorrow, anyway,” says Crawford. “You don’t know Elphinstone, of course, Flashman – commands the Benares Division, or will do until midnight tonight. And then he takes over the Army of the Indus – what about that, eh?” It sounded all right, and I made enthusiastic noises. “Aye, you’re a lucky dog,” says Crawford, beaming. “How many young blades would give their right leg for the chance of service with him? In the very place for a dashing lancer to win his spurs, bigad!” A nasty feeling tickled my spine, and I asked where that might be. “Why, Kabul, of course,” says he. “Where else but Afghanistan?” The old fool actually thought I must be delighted at this news, and of course I had to pretend to be. I suppose any young officer in India would have jumped at the opportunity, and I did my best to look gratified and eager, but I could have knocked the grinning idiot down, I was so angry. I had thought I was doing so well, what with my sudden introduction to the exalted of the land, and all it had won me was a posting to the hottest, hardest, most dangerous place in the world, to judge by all accounts. There was talk of nothing but Afghanistan in Calcutta at that time, and of the Kabul expedition, and most of it touched on the barbarity of the natives, and the unpleasantness of the country. I could have been sensible, I told myself, and had myself quietly posted to Benares – but no, I had had to angle round Lady Emily, and now looked like getting my throat cut for my pains. Thinking quickly, I kept my eager smile in place but wondered whether General Elphinstone might not have preferences of his own when it came to choosing an aide; there might be others, I thought, who had a better claim … Nonsense, says Crawford, he would go bail Elphinstone would be delighted to have a man who could talk the language and handle a lance like a Cossack, and Lady Emily said she was sure he would find a place for me. So there was no way out; I was going to have to take it and pretend that I liked it. That night I gave Fetnab the soundest thrashing of her pampered life and broke a pot over the sweeper’s head. I was not even given a decent time to prepare myself. General Elphinstone (or Elphy Bey, as the wags called him) received me next day, and turned out to be an elderly, fussy man with a brown wrinkled face and heavy white whiskers; he was kind enough, in a doddering way, and as unlikely a commander of armies as you could imagine, being nearly sixty, and not too well either. “It is a great honour to me,” says he, speaking of his new command, “but I wish it had fallen on younger shoulders – indeed, I am sure it should.” He shook his head, and looked gloomy, and I thought, well, here’s a fine one to take the field with. However, he welcomed me to his staff, damn him, and said it was most opportune; he could use me at once. Since his present aides were used to his service, he would keep them with him just now, to prepare for the journey; he would send me in advance to Kabul – which meant, I supposed, that I was to herald his coming, and see that his quarters were swept out for his arrival. So I had to gather up my establishment, hire camels and mules for their transport, lay in stores for the journey, and generally go to a deal of expense and bother. My servants kept well out of my way in those days, I can tell you, and Fetnab went about whimpering and rolling her eyes. I told her to shut up or I would give her to the Afghans when we got to Kabul, and she was so terrified that she actually kept quiet. However, after my first disappointment I realised there was no sense crying over spilt milk, and looked on the bright side. I was, after all, to be aide to a general, which would be helpful in years to come, and gave one great distinction. Afghanistan was at least quiet for the moment, and Elphy Bey’s term of command could hardly last long, at his age. I could take Fetnab and my household with me, including Basset, and with Elphy Bey’s influence I was allowed to enlist Muhammed Iqbal in my party. He spoke Pushtu, of course, which is the language of the Afghans, and could instruct me as we went. Also, he was an excellent fellow to have beside you, and would be an invaluable companion and guide. Before we started out, I got hold of as much information as I could about matters in Afghanistan. They seemed to stand damned riskily to me, and there were others in Calcutta – but not Auckland, who was an ass – who shared this view. The reason we had sent an expedition to Kabul, which is in the very heart of some of the worst country in the world, was that we were afraid of Russia. Afghanistan was a buffer, if you like, between India and the Turkestan territory which Russia largely influenced, and the Russians were forever meddling in Afghan affairs, in the hope of expanding southwards and perhaps seizing India itself. So Afghanistan mattered very much to us, and thanks to that conceited Scotch buffoon Burnes the British Government had invaded the country, if you please, and put our puppet king, Shah Sujah, on the throne in Kabul, in place of old Dost Mohammed, who was suspected of Russian sympathies. I believe, from all I saw and heard, that if he had Russian sympathies it was because we drove him to them by our stupid policy; at any rate, the Kabul expedition succeeded in setting Sujah on the throne, and old Dost was politely locked up in India. So far, so good, but the Afghans didn’t like Sujah at all, and we had to leave an army in Kabul to keep him on his throne. This was the army that Elphy Bey was to command. It was a good enough army, part Queen’s troops, part Company’s, with British regiments as well as native ones, but it was having its work cut out trying to keep the tribes in order, for apart from Dost’s supporters there were scores of little petty chiefs and tyrants who lost no opportunity of causing trouble in the unsettled times, and the usual Afghan pastimes of blood-feud, robbery, and murder-for-fun were going ahead full steam. Our army prevented any big rising – for the moment, anyway – but it was forever patrolling and manning little forts, and trying to pacify and buy off the robber chiefs, and people were wondering how long this could go on. The wise ones said there was an explosion coming, and as we started out on our journey from Calcutta my foremost thought was that whoever got blown up, it should not be me. It was just my luck that I was going to end up on top of the bonfire. Chapter 6 (#ulink_744d9fa3-4e0c-5d27-93c4-e34c8a2dd61d) Travelling, I think, is the greatest bore in life, so I’ll not weary you with an account of the journey from Calcutta to Kabul. It was long and hot and damnably dull; if Basset and I had not taken Muhammed Iqbal’s advice and shed our uniforms for native dress, I doubt whether we would have survived. In desert, on scrubby plain, through rocky hills, in the forests, in the little mud villages and camps and towns – the heat was horrible and ceaseless; your skin scorched, your eyes burned, and you felt that your body was turning into a dry bag of bones. But in the loose robes and pyjamy trousers one felt cooler – that is, one fried without burning quite black. Basset, Iqbal and I rode horses, the servants tramped behind with Fetnab in a litter, but our pace was so slow that after a week we got rid of them all but the cook. The servants we turned off, amid great lamentations, and Fetnab I sold to a major in the artillery, whose camp we passed through. I regretted that, for she had become a habit, but she was peevish on the journey and too tired and mopish at night to be much fun. Still, I can’t recall a wench I enjoyed more. We pushed on faster after that, west and then northwest, over the plains and great rivers of the Punjab, through the Sikh country, and up to Peshawar, which is where India ends. There was nothing to remind you of Calcutta now; here the heat was dry and glaring, and so were the people – lean, ugly, Jewish-looking creatures, armed and ready for mischief by the look of them. But none was uglier or looked readier for mischief than the governor of the place, a great, grey-bearded ox of a man in a dirty old uniform coat, baggy trousers, and gold-tasselled forage cap. He was an Italian, of all things, with the spiky waxed moustache that you see on organ-grinders nowadays, and he spoke English with a dreadful dago American accent. His name was Avitabile, and the Sikhs and Afghans were more scared of him than of the devil himself; he had drifted to India as a soldier of fortune, commanded Shah Sujah’s army, and now had the job of keeping the passes open to our people in Kabul. He did it admirably, in the only way those brutes understood – by fear and force. There were five dead Afghans swinging in the sunlight from his gateway arch when we rode through, which was both reassuring and unnerving at once. No one minded them more than if they had been swatted flies, least of all Avitabile, who had strung them up. “Goddam, boy,” says he, “how you think I keep the peace if I don’ keep killing these bastards? These are Gilzais, you know that? Good Gilzais, now I’ve ’tended to them. The bad Gilzais are up in the hills, between here and Kabul, watchin’ the passes and lickin’ their lips and thinkin’ – but thinkin’s all they do just now, ’cos of Avitabile. Sure, we pay ’em to be quiet; you think that would stop them? No, sir, fear of Avitabile” – and he jerked a huge thumb at his chest – “fear’s what stops ’em. But if I stopped hangin’ ’em now and then, they’d stop bein’ afraid. See?” He had me to dinner that night, and we ate an excellent stew of chicken and fruit on a terrace looking over the dirty rooftops of Peshawar, with the sounds and smells of the bazaar floating up to us. Avitabile was a good host, and talked all night of Naples and women and drink; he seemed to take a fancy to me, and we got very drunk together. He was one of your noisy, bellowing drunkards, and we sang uproariously, I remember, but at dawn, as we were staggering to our beds, he stopped outside my room, with his great dirty hand on my shoulder, and looked at me with his bright grey eyes, and said in a very sober, quiet voice: “Boy, I think you are another like me, at heart: a condottieri, a rascal. Maybe with a little honour, a little courage. I don’t know. But, see now, you are going beyond the Khyber, and some day soon the Gilzais and others will be afraid no longer. Against that day, get a swift horse and some Afghans you can trust – there are some, like the Kuzzilbashis – and if the day comes, don’t wait to die on the field of honour.” He said it without a sneer. “Heroes draw no higher wages than the others, boy. Sleep well.” And he nodded and stumped off down the passage, with his gold cap still firmly on his head. In my drunken state I took little heed of what he had said, but it came back to me later. In the morning we rode north into one of the world’s awful places – the great pass of the Khyber, where the track twists among the sun-scorched cliffs and the peaks seem to crouch in ambush for the traveller. There was some traffic on the road, and we passed a commissary train on its way to Kabul, but most of those we saw were Afghan hillmen, rangy warriors in skull caps or turbans and long coats, with immensely long rifles, called jezzails, at their shoulders, and the Khyber knife (which is like a pointed cleaver) in their belts. Muhammed Iqbal was gay at returning to his own place, and had me airing my halting Pushtu on those we spoke to; they seemed taken aback to find an English officer who had their own tongue, however crudely, and were friendly enough. But I didn’t like the look of them; you could see treachery in their dark eyes – besides, there is something odd about men who look like Satan and yet wear ringlets and love-locks hanging out beneath their turbans. We were three nights on the road beyond the Khyber, and the country got more hellish all the way – it beat me how a British army, with all its thousands of followers and carts and wagons and guns had ever got over those flinty paths. But at last we came to Kabul, and I saw the great fortress of Bala Hissar lowering over the city, and beyond it to the right the neat lines of the cantonment beside the water’s edge, where the red tunics showed like tiny dolls in the distance and the sound of a bugle came faintly over the river. It was very pretty in the summer’s evening, with the orchards and gardens before us, and the squalor of Kabul Town hidden behind the Bala Hissar. Aye, it was pretty then. We crossed the Kabul River bridge and when I had reported myself and bathed and changed into my regimentals I was directed to the general commanding, to whom I was to deliver despatches from Elphy Bey. His name was Sir Willoughby Cotton, and he looked it, for he was round and fat and red-faced. When I found him he was being hectored by a tall, fine-looking officer in faded uniform, and I at once learned two things – in the Kabul garrison there was no sense of privacy or restraint, and the most senior officers never thought twice about discussing their affairs before their juniors. “… the biggest damned fool this side of the Indus,” the tall officer was saying when I presented myself. “I tell you, Cotton, this army is like a bear in a trap. If there’s a rising, where are you? Stuck helpless in the middle of a people who hate your innards, a week from the nearest friendly garrison, with a bloody fool like McNaghten writing letters to that even bloodier fool Auckland in Calcutta that everything’s all right. God help us! And they’re relieving you –” “God be thanked,” said Cotton. “– and sending us Elphy Bey, who’ll be under McNaghten’s thumb and isn’t fit to command an escort anyway. The worst of it is, McNaghten and the other political asses think we are safe as on Salisbury Plain! Burnes is as bad as the rest – not that he thinks of anything but Afghan women – but they’re all so sure they’re right! That’s what upsets me. And who the devil are you?” This was to me. I bowed and presented my letters to Cotton, who seemed glad of the interruption. “Glad to see you, sir,” says he, dropping the letters on the desk. “Elphy’s herald, eh? Well, well. Flashman, did you say? Now that’s odd. There was a Flashman with me at Rugby, oh, forty years ago. Any relation?” “My father, sir.” “Ye don’t say? Well, I’m damned. Flashy’s boy.” And he beamed all over his red face. “Why, it must be forty years … He’s well, I trust? Excellent, excellent. What’ll you have, sir? Glass of wine? Here, bearer. Of course, your father will have spoke of me, eh? I was quite a card at school. Got expelled, d’ye know.” This was too good a chance to miss, so I said: “I was expelled from Rugby, too, sir.” “Good God! You don’t say! What for, sir?” “Drunkenness, sir.” “No! Well, damme! Who’d have believed they would kick you out for that? They’ll be expellin’ for rape next. Wouldn’t have done in my time. I was expelled for mutiny, sir – yes, mutiny! Led the whole school in revolt! Splendid! Well, here’s your health, sir!” The officer in the faded coat, who had been looking pretty sour, remarked that expulsion from school was all very well but what concerned him was expulsion from Afghanistan. “Pardon me,” said Cotton, wiping his lips. “Forgot my manners. Mr Flashman, General Nott. General Nott is up from Kandahar, where he commands. We were discussing the state of the army in Afghanistan. No, no, Flashman, sit down. This ain’t Calcutta. On active service the more you know the better. Pray proceed, Nott.” So I sat, a little bewildered and flattered, for generals don’t usually talk before subalterns, while Nott resumed his tirade. It seemed that he had been offended by some communication from McNaghten – Sir William McNaghten, Envoy to Kabul, and head British civilian in the country. Nott was appealing to Cotton to support him in protest, but Cotton didn’t seem to care for the idea. “It is a simple question of policy,” said Nott. “The country, whatever McNaghten may think, is hostile, and we have to treat it as such. We do this in three ways – through the influence which Sujah exerts on his unwilling subjects, which is little enough; through the force of our army here, which with respect is not as all-powerful as McNaghten imagines, since you’re outnumbered fifty to one by one of the fiercest warrior nations in the world; and thirdly, by buying the good will of important chiefs with money. Am I right?” “Talking like a book,” said Cotton. “Fill your glass, Mr Flashman.” “If one of those three instruments of policy fails – Sujah, our strength, or our money – we’re done for. Oh, I know I’m a ‘croaker’, as McNaghten would say; he thinks we are as secure here as on Horse Guards. He’s wrong, you know. We exist on sufferance, and there won’t be much of that if he takes up this idea of cutting the subsidy to the Gilzai chiefs.” “It would save money,” said Cotton. “Anyway, it’s no more than a thought, as I understand.” “It would save money if you didn’t buy a bandage when you were bleeding to death,” said Nott, at which Cotton guffawed. “Aye, laugh, Sir Willoughby, but this is a serious matter. Cutting the subsidy is no more than a thought, you say. Very good, it may never happen. But if the Gilzais so much as suspect it might, how long will they continue to keep the passes open? They sit above the Khyber – your lifeline, remember – and let our convoys come and go, but if they think their subsidy is in danger they’ll look for another source of revenue. And that will mean convoys ambushed and looted, and a very pretty business on your hands. That is why McNaghten’s a fool even to think of cutting the subsidy, let alone talk about it.” “What do you want me to do?” says Cotton, frowning. “Tell him to drop the notion at all costs. He won’t listen to me. And send someone to talk to the Gilzais, take a few gifts to old what’s-his-name at Mogala – Sher Afzul. He has the other Gilzai khans under his thumb, I’m told.” “You know a lot about this country,” said Cotton, wagging his head. “Considering this ain’t your territory.” “Someone’s got to,” said Nott. “Thirty years in the Company’s service teaches you a thing or two. I wish I thought McNaghten had learned as much. But he goes his way happily, seeing no farther than the end of his nose. Well, well, Cotton, you’re one of the lucky ones. You’ll be getting out in time.” Cotton protested at this that he was a “croaker” after all – I soon discovered that the word was applied to everyone who ventured to criticise McNaghten or express doubts about the safety of the British force in Kabul. They talked for a while, and Cotton was very civil to me and seemed intent on making me feel at home. We dined in his headquarters, with his staff, and there for the first time I met some of the men, many of them fairly junior officers, whose names were to be household words in England within the next year – “Sekundar” Burnes, with his mincing Scotch voice and pretty little moustache; George Broadfoot, another Scotsman, who sat next to me; Vincent Eyre, “Gentleman Jim” Skinner, Colonel Oliver, and various others. They talked with a freedom that was astonishing, criticising or defending their superiors in the presence of general officers, condemning this policy and praising that, and Cotton and Nott joined in. There was not much good said about McNaghten, and a general gloom about the army’s situation; it seemed to me they scared rather easily, and I told Broadfoot so. “Wait till ye’ve been here a month or two, and ye’ll be as bad as the rest,” he said brusquely. “It’s a bad place, and a bad people, and if we don’t have war on our hands inside a year I’ll be surprised. Have you heard of Akbar Khan? No? He’s the son of the old king, Dost Mohammed, that we deposed for this clown Sujah, and he’s in the hills now, going from this chief to that, gathering support for the day when he’ll raise the country against us. McNaghten won’t believe it, of course, but he’s a gommeril.” “Could we not hold Kabul?” I asked. “Surely with a force of five thousand it should be possible, against undisciplined savages.” “These savages are good men,” says he. “Better shots than we are, for one thing. And we’re badly placed here, with no proper fortifications for the cantonment – even the stores are outside the perimeter – and an army that’s going downhill with soft living and bad discipline. Forbye, we have our families with us, and that’s a bad thing when the bullets are flying – who thinks of his duty when he has his wife and weans to care for? And Elphy Bey is to command us when Cotton goes.” He shook his head. “You’ll know him better than I, but I’d give my next year’s pay to hear he wasn’t coming and we had Nott instead. I’d sleep at nights, anyway.” This was depressing enough, but in the next few weeks I heard this kind of talk on all hands – there was obviously no confidence in the military or political chiefs, and the Afghans seemed to sense this, for they were an insolent crowd and had no great respect for us. As an aide to Elphy Bey, who was still on his road north, I had time on my hands to look about Kabul, which was a great, filthy sprawling place full of narrow lanes and smelling abominably. But we seldom went there, for the folk hardly made us welcome, and it was pleasant out by the cantonment, where there was little attention to soldiering but a great deal of horseracing and lounging in the orchards and gossiping on the verandahs over cool drinks. There were even cricket matches, and I played myself – I had been a great bowler at Rugby, and my new friends made more of the wickets I took than of the fact that I was beginning to speak Pushtu better than any of them except Burnes and the politicals. It was at one of these matches that I first saw Shah Sujah, the king, who had come down as the guest of McNaghten. He was a portly, brown-bearded man who stood gravely contemplating the game, and when McNaghten asked him how he liked it, said: “Strange and manifold are the ways of God.” As for McNaghten himself, I despised him on sight. He had a clerk’s face, with a pointed nose and chin, and peered through his spectacles suspiciously, sniffing at you. He was vain as a peacock, though, and would strut about in his tall hat and frock-coat, lording it greatly, with his nose turned up. It was evident, as someone said, that he saw only what he wanted to see. Anyone else would have realised that his army was in a mess, for one thing, but not McNaghten. He even seemed to think that Sujah was popular with the people, and that we were honoured guests in the country; if he had heard the men in the bazaar calling us “kaffirs” he might have realised his mistake. But he was too lofty to hear. However, I passed the time pleasantly enough. Burnes, the political agent, when he heard about my Pushtu, took some interest in me, and as he kept a splendid table, and was an influential fellow, I kept in with him. He was a pompous fool, of course, but he knew a good deal about the Afghans, and would go about from time to time in native dress, mixing with the crowds in the bazaar, listening to gossip and keeping his nose to the wind generally. He had another reason for this, of course, which was that he was forever in pursuit of some Afghan woman or other, and had to go to the city to find them. I went with him on these expeditions frequently, and very rewarding they were. Afghan women are handsome rather than pretty, but they have this great advantage to them, that their own men don’t care for them overmuch. Afghan men would as soon be perverts as not, and have a great taste for young boys; it would sicken you to see them mooning over these painted youths as though they were girls, and our troops thought it a tremendous joke. However, it meant that the Afghan women were always hungry for men, and you could have your pick of them – tall, graceful creatures they were, with long straight noses and proud mouths, running more to muscle than fat, and very active in bed. Of course, the Afghans didn’t care for this, which was another score against us where they were concerned. The first weeks passed, as I say, pleasantly, and I was beginning to like Kabul, in spite of the pessimists, when I was shaken out of my pleasant rut, thanks to my friend Burnes and the anxieties of General Nott, who had gone back to Kandahar but left his warnings ringing in Sir Willoughby Cotton’s ears. They must have rung an alarm, for when he sent for me to his office in the cantonment he was looking pretty glum, with Burnes at his elbow. “Flashman,” says Cotton. “Sir Alexander here tells me you get along famously with the Afghans.” Thinking of the women, I agreed. “Hm, well. And you talk their frightful lingo?” “Passably well, sir.” “That means a dam’ sight better than most of us. Well, I daresay I shouldn’t do it, but on Sir Alexander’s suggestion” – here Burnes gave me a smile, which I felt somehow boded no good – “and since you’re the son of an old friend, I’m going to give you some work to do – work which’ll help your advancement, let me say, if you do it well, d’you see?” He stared at me a moment, and growled to Burnes: “Dammit, Sandy, he’s devilish young, y’know.” “No younger than I was,” says Burnes. “Umph. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right. Now, look here, Flashman – you know about the Gilzais, I suppose? They control the passes between here and India, and are devilish tricky fellows. You were with me when Nott was talking about their subsidy, and how there were rumours that the politicals would cut it, dam’ fools, with all respect, Sandy. Well, it will be cut – in time – but for the present it’s imperative they should be told that all’s well, d’you see? Sir William McNaghten has agreed to this – fact is, he’s written letters to Sher Afzul, at Mogala, and he’s the leader of the pack, so to speak.” This seemed to me a pretty piece of duplicity on McNaghten’s part, but it was typical of our dealings with the Afghans, as I was to discover. “You’re going to be our postman, like Mr Rowland Hill’s fellows at home. You’ll take the messages of good will to Sher Afzul, hand ’em over, say how splendid everything is, be polite to the old devil – he’s half-mad, by the way – set his mind at rest if he’s still worried about the subsidy, and so forth.” “It will all be in the letters,” says Burnes. “You must just give any added reassurances that may be needed.” “All right, Flashman?” says Cotton. “Good experience for you. Diplomatic mission, what?” “It’s very important,” says Burnes. “You see, if they thought there was anything wrong, or grew suspicious, it could be bad for us.” It could be a damned sight worse for me, I thought. I didn’t like this idea above half – all I knew of the Gilzais was that they were murderous brutes, like all country Afghans, and the thought of walking into their nests, up in the hills, with not the slightest hope of help if there was trouble – well, Kabul might not be Hyde Park, but at least it was safe for the present. And what the Afghan women did to prisoners was enough to start my stomach turning at the thought – I’d heard the stories. Some of this must have showed in my face, for Cotton asked fairly sharply what was the matter. Didn’t I want to go? “Of course, sir,” I lied. “But – well, I’m pretty raw, I know. A more experienced officer …” “Don’t fret yourself,” says Burnes, smiling. “You’re more at home with these folk than some men with twenty years in the service.” He winked. “I’ve seen you, Flashman, remember. Hah-ha! And you’ve got what they call a ‘fool’s face’. No disrespect: it means you look honest. Besides, the fact that you have some Pushtu will win their confidence.” “But as General Elphinstone’s aide, should I not be here …” “Elphy ain’t due for a week,” snapped Cotton. “Dammit, man, this is an opportunity. Any young feller in your shoes would be bursting to go.” I saw it would be bad to try to make further excuses, so I said I was all eagerness, of course, and had only wanted to be sure I was the right man, and so forth. That settled it: Burnes took me to the great wall map, and showed me where Mogala was – needless to say, it was at the back of nowhere, about fifty miles from Kabul, in hellish hill country south of the Jugdulluk Pass. He pointed out the road we should take, assuring me I should have a good guide, and produced the sealed packet I was to deliver to the half-mad (and doubtless half-human) Sher Afzul. “Make sure they go into his own hands,” he told me. “He’s a good friend to us – just now – but I don’t trust his nephew, Gul Shah. He was too thick with Akbar Khan in the old days. If there’s ever trouble among the Gilzais, it will come from Gul, so watch out for him. And I don’t have to tell you to be careful of old Afzul – he’s sharp when he’s sane, which he is most of the time. He’s lord of life and death in his own parish, and that includes you. Not that he’s likely to offer you harm, but keep on his good side.” I began to wonder if I could manage to fall ill in the next hour or two – jaundice, possibly, or something infectious. Cotton set the final seal on it. “If there’s trouble,” says he, “you must just ride for it.” To this fatherly advice he and Burnes added a few words about how I should conduct myself if the matter of subsidy was discussed with me, bidding me be reassuring at all costs – no thought of who should reassure me, I may say – and dismissed me. Burnes said they had high hopes of me, a sentiment I found it difficult to share. However, there was nothing for it, and next morning found me on the road east, with Iqbal and an Afghan guide on either side and five troopers of the 16th Lancers for escort. It was a tiny enough guard to be useless against anything but a stray robber – and Afghanistan never lacked for those – but it gave me some heart, and what with the fresh morning air, and the thought that all would probably be well and the mission another small stepping stone in the career of Lieutenant Flashman, I felt rather more cheerful. The sergeant in charge of the Lancers was called Hudson, and he had already shown himself a steady and capable man. Before setting out he had suggested I leave behind my sabre – they were poor weapons, the Army swords, and turned in your grip – and take instead one of the Persian scimitars that some of the Afghans used. They were light and strong, and damned sharp. He had been very business-like about it, and about such matters as rations for the men and fodder for the horses. He was one of those quiet, middle-sized, square-set men who seem to know exactly what they are doing, and it was good to have him and Iqbal at my back. Our first day’s march took us as far as Khoord-Kabul, and on the second we left the track at Tezeen and went south-east into the hills. The going had been rough enough on the path, but now it was frightful – the land was all sun-scorched rock and jagged peaks, with stony defiles that were like ovens, where the ponies stumbled over the loose stones. We hardly saw a living creature for twenty miles after we left Tezeen, and when night came we were camped on a high pass, in the lee of a cliff that might have been the wall of hell. It was bitter cold, and the wind howled up the pass; far away a wolf wailed, and we had barely enough wood to keep our fire going. I lay in my blanket cursing the day I got drunk at Rugby, and wishing I were snug in a warm bed with Elspeth or Fetnab or Josette. Next day we were picking our way up a long stony slope when Iqbal muttered and pointed, and far ahead on a rocky shoulder I made out a figure which vanished almost as soon as I saw it. “Gilzai scout,” said Iqbal, and in the next hour we saw a dozen more of them; as we rode upwards we were aware of them in the hills on either side, behind boulders or on the ledges, and in the last few miles there were horsemen shadowing us on either side and behind. Then we came out of a defile, and the guide pointed ahead to a height crowned with a great grey fortress, with a round tower behind its outer wall, and a cluster of huts outside its embattled gate. This was Mogala, stronghold of the Gilzai chieftain, Sher Afzul. I seldom saw a place I liked less at first sight. We went forward at a canter, and the horsemen who had been following us galloped into the open on either side, keeping pace to the fort, but not approaching too close to us. They rode Afghan ponies, carried long jezzails and lances, and were a tough-looking crowd; some wore mail over their robes, and a few had spiked helmets; they looked like warriors from an Eastern fairy tale, with their outlandish clothes and fierce bearded faces – and of course, they were. Close by the gate was a row of four wooden crosses, and to my horror I realised that the blackened, twisted things nailed to them were human bodies. Sher Afzul obviously had his own notions of discipline. One or two of the troopers muttered at the sight, and there were anxious glances at our shadowers, who had lined up on either side of the gateway. I was feeling a trifle wobbly myself, but I thought, to hell with these blackamoors, we are Englishmen, and so I said, “Come on, lads, ride to attention,” and we clattered under the frowning gateway. I suppose Mogala is about a quarter of a mile from wall to wall, but inside its battlements, in addition to its huge keep, there were barracks and stables for Sher Afzul’s warriors, storehouses and armouries, and the house of the Khan himself. In fact, it was more of a little palace than a house, for it stood in a pretty garden under the shadow of the outer wall, shaded by cypress tress, and it was furnished inside like something from Burton’s Arabian Nights. There were tapestries on the walls, carpets on the paved floor, intricately carved wood screens in the archways, and a general air of luxury – he did himself well, I thought, but he took no chances. There were sentries all over the place, big men and well armed. Sher Afzul turned out to be a man about sixty, with a beard dyed jet black, and a lined, ugly face whose main features were two fierce, burning eyes that looked straight through you. He received me civilly enough in his fine presence chamber, where he sat on a small throne with his court about him, but I couldn’t doubt Burnes’s assertion that he was half-mad. His hands twitched continuously, and he had a habit of jerking his turbanned head in a most violent fashion as he spoke. But he listened attentively as one of his ministers read aloud McNaghten’s letter, and seemed satisfied, and he and his people exclaimed with delight over the present that Cotton had sent – a pair of very handsome pistols by Manton, in a velvet case, with a matching shot pouch and powder flask. Nothing would do but we must go straight into the garden for the Khan to try them out; he was a rotten shot, but at the fourth attempt he managed to blow the head off a very handsome parrot which sat chained on a perch, screeching at the explosions until the lucky shot put an end to it. There was loud applause, and Sher Afzul wagged his head and seemed well pleased. “A splendid gift,” he told me, and I was pleased to find that my Pushtu was quite good enough for me to follow him. “You are the more welcome, Flashman bahadur, in that your guns are true. By God, it is a soldier’s weapon!” I said I was delighted, and had the happy idea of presenting one of my own pistols on the spot to the Khan’s son, a bright, handsome lad of about sixteen, called Ilderim. He shouted with delight, and his eyes shone as he handled the weapon – I was off to a good start. Then one of the courtiers came forward, and I felt a prickle up my spine as I looked at him. He was a tall man – as tall as I was – with those big shoulders and the slim waist of an athlete. His coat was black and well fitting, he wore long boots, and there was a silk sash round his waist to carry his sabre. On his head he had one of those polished steel casques with vertical prongs, and the face under it was strikingly handsome in the rather pretty Eastern way which I personally don’t like. You have seen them – straight nose, very full lips, woman’s cheeks and jaw. He had a forked beard and two of the coldest eyes I ever saw. I put him down as a nasty customer, and I was right. “I can kill parrots with a sling,” he said. “Are the feringhee pistols good for anything else?” Sher Afzul damned his eyes, more or less, for casting doubts on his fine new weapons, and thrusting one into the fellow’s hand, told him to try his luck. And to my amazement, the brute turned straight about, drew a bead on one of the slaves working in the garden, and shot him on the spot. I was shaken, I can tell you. I stared at the twitching body on the grass, and the Khan wagging his head, and at the murderer handing back the pistol with a shrug. Of course, it was only a nigger he had killed, and I knew that among Afghans life is dirt cheap; they think no more of killing a human being than you and I do of shooting a pheasant or catching a fish. But it’s a trifle unsettling to a man of my temperament to know that he is in the power – for, guest or no, I was in their power – of blackguards who kill as wantonly and readily as that. That thought, more than the killing itself, rattled me. Young Ilderim noticed this, and rebuked the black-coated man – not for murder, mark you, but for discourtesy to a guest! “One does not bite the coin of the honoured stranger, Gul Shah,” was what he said, meaning you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. For the moment I was too fascinated at what I had seen to pay much heed, but as the Khan, talking rapidly, escorted me inside again, I remembered that this Gul Shah was the customer Burnes had warned me about – the friend of the arch-rebel, Akbar Khan. I kept an eye on him as I talked with Sher Afzul, and it seemed to me he kept an eye on me in return. Sher Afzul talked sanely enough, mostly about hunting and blood-letting of a sterner kind, but you couldn’t miss the wild gleam in his eye, or the fact that his evil temper was never far from the surface. He was used to playing the tyrant, and only to young Ilderim, whom he adored, was he more than civil. He snarled at Gul from time to time, but the big man looked him in the eye and didn’t seem put out. That evening we dined in the Khan’s presence chamber, sitting about on cushions forking with our fingers into the bowls of stew and rice and fruit, and drinking a pleasant Afghan liquor which had no great body to it. There would be about a dozen there, including Gul Shah, and after we had eaten and belched accordingly, Sher Afzul called for entertainment. This consisted of a good conjurer, and a few weedy youths with native flutes and tom-toms, and three or four dancing girls. I had pretended to be amused by the conjurer and musicians, but one of the dancing girls struck me as being worth more than a polite look: she was a glorious creature, very tall and long-legged, with a sulky, cold face and hair that had been dyed bright red and hung down in a tail to her backside. It was about all the covering she had; for the rest she wore satin trousers clasped low on her hips, and two brass breastplates which she removed at Sher Afzul’s insistence. He beckoned her to dance close in front of him, and the sight of the golden near-naked body writhing and quivering made me forget where I was for the moment. By the time she had finished her dance, with the tom-toms throbbing and the sweat glistening on her painted face, I must have been eating her alive with my eyes; as she salaamed to Sher Afzul he suddenly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him, and I noticed Gul Shah lean forward suddenly on his cushion. Sher Afzul saw it too, for he looked one way and the other, grinning wickedly, and with his free hand began to fondle the girl’s body. She took it with a face like stone, but Gul was glowering like thunder. Sher Afzul cackled and said to me: “You like her, Flashman bahadur? Is she the kind of she-cat you delight to scratch with? Here, then, she is yours!” And he shoved her so hard towards me that she fell headlong into my lap. I caught her, and with an oath Gul Shah was on his feet, his hand dropping to his hilt. “She is not for any Frank dog,” he shouted. “By God, is she not?” roared Sher Afzul. “Who says so?” Gul Shah told him who said so, and there was a pretty little exchange which ended with Sher Afzul ordering him from the room – and it seemed to me that the girl’s eyes followed him with disappointment as he stamped off. Sher Afzul apologised for the disturbance, and said I must not mind Gul Shah, who was an impudent bastard, and very greedy where women were concerned. Did I like the girl? Her name was Narreeman, and if she did not please me I was not to hesitate to flog her to my heart’s content. All this, I saw, was deliberately aimed at Gul Shah, who presumably lusted after this female himself, thus giving Sher Afzul a chance to torment him. It was a dilemma for me: I had no desire to antagonise Gul Shah, but I could not afford to refuse Sher Afzul’s hospitality, so to speak – also the hospitality was very warm and naked, and was lying across my lap, gasping still from the exertion of her dance, and causing me considerable excitement. So I accepted at once, and waited impatiently while the time wore on with Sher Afzul talking interminably about his horses and his dogs and his falcons. At last it was over, and with Narreeman following I was conducted to the private room that had been allotted to me – it was a beautiful, balmy evening with the scents wafting in from the garden, and I was looking forward to a sleepless night. As it turned out, it was a tremendous sell, for she simply lay like a side of beef, staring at the roof as though I weren’t there. I coaxed at first, and then threatened, and then taking Sher Afzul’s advice I pulled her across my knees and smartened her up with my riding switch. At this she suddenly rounded on me like a panther, snarling and clawing, and narrowly missed raking my eyes. I was so enraged that I laid into her for all I was worth, but she fought like fury, naked as she was, and only when I got home a few good cuts did she try to run for it. I hauled her away from the door, and after a vicious struggle I managed to rape her – the only time in my life I have found it necessary, by the way. It has its points, but I shouldn’t care to do it regularly. I prefer willing women. Afterwards I shoved her out – I’d no wish to get a thumbnail in my eye during the night – and the guards took her away. She had not uttered a word the whole time. Sher Afzul, seeing my scratched face in the morning, demanded details, and he and his toadies crowed with delight when I told them. Gul Shah was not present, but I had no doubt willing tongues would bear the tale to him. Not that I cared, and there I made a mistake. Gul was only a nephew of Sher Afzul, and a bastard at that, but he was a power among the Gilzais for his fighting skill, and was itching to topple old Sher Afzul and steal his throne. It would have been a poor look-out for the Kabul garrison if he had succeeded, for the Gilzais were trembling in the balance all the time about us, and Gul would have tipped the scale. He hated the British, and in Afzul’s place would have closed the passes, even if it had meant losing the lakhs that were paid from India to keep them open. But Afzul, although ageing, was too tough and clever to be deposed just yet, and Ilderim, though only a boy, was well liked and regarded as certain to succeed him. And both of them were friendly, and could sway the other Gilzai chieftains. A good deal of this I learned in the next two days, in which I and my party were the honoured guests of Mogala. I kept my eyes and ears open, and the Gilzais were most hospitable, from Afzul down to the villagers whose huts crouched outside the wall. This I will say for the Afghan – he is a treacherous, evil brute when he wants to be, but while he is your friend he is a first-rate fellow. The point is, you must judge to a second when he is going to cease to be friendly. There is seldom any warning. Looking back, though, I can say that I probably got on better with the Afghans than most Britons do. I imagine Thomas Hughes would have said that in many respects of character I resembled them, and I wouldn’t deny it. However it may be, I enjoyed those first two days: we had horse races and other riding competitions, and I earned a good deal of credit by showing them how a Persian pony can be put over the jumps. Then there was hawking, in which Sher Afzul was an adept, and tremendous feasting at nights, and Sher Afzul gave me another dancing girl, with much cackling and advice on how to manage her, which advice proved to be unnecessary. But while it was pleasant enough, you could never forget that in Afghanistan you are walking a knife-edge the whole time, and that these were cruel and blood-thirsty savages. Four men were executed on the second day, for armed robbery, in front of a delighted crowd in the courtyard, and a fifth, a petty chieftain, was blinded by Sher Afzul’s physician. This is a common punishment among the Afghans: if a man is too important to be slaughtered like an ordinary felon, they take away his sight so that he can do no more harm. It was a sickening business, and one of my troopers got into a fight with a Gilzai over it, calling them filthy foreigners, which they could not understand. “A blind man is a dead man,” was how they put it, and I had to make excuses to Sher Afzul and instruct Sergeant Hudson to give the trooper a punishment drill. In all this I had nearly forgotten Gul Shah and the Narreeman affair, which was careless. I had my reminder on the third morning, when I was least expecting it. Sher Afzul had said we must go boar-hunting, and we had a good hour’s sport in the thicketed gullies of the Mogala valley, where the wild pigs bred. There were about twenty of us, including Hudson, Muhammed Iqbal and myself, with Sher Afzul directing operations. It was exciting work, but difficult in that close country, and we were frequently separated. Muhammed Iqbal and I made one sortie which took us well away from the main body, into a narrow defile where the forest ended, and there they were waiting for us – four horsemen, with spears couched, who made not a sound but thundered straight down on us. Instinctively I knew they were Gul’s people, bent on murdering me – and no doubt compromising Sher Afzul with the British at the same time. Iqbal, being a Pathan and loving a fight, gave a yell of delight, “Come on, huzoor!” and went for them. I didn’t hesitate; if he wanted to take on odds it was his affair; I wheeled my pony and went hell-for-leather for the forest, with one eye cocked over my shoulder for safety. Whether he realised I was leaving him alone, I don’t know; it wouldn’t have made any difference to him. Like me, he had a lance, but in addition he had a sword and pistol in his belt, so he got rid of the lance at once, hurling it into the chest of the leading Gilzai, and driving into the other three with his sabre swinging. He cut one down, but the other two swerved past him – it was me they wanted. I dug my spurs in as they came tearing after me, with Iqbal wheeling after them in turn. He was bawling at me to turn and fight, the fool, but I had no thought but to get away from those hellish lance-points and the wolf-like bearded faces behind them. I rode like fury – and then the pony stumbled and I went over his head, crashing into the bushes and finishing up on pile of stones with all the breath knocked out of me. The bushes saved me, for the Gilzais couldn’t come at me easily. They had to swerve round the clump, and I scrambled behind a tree. One of the ponies reared up and nearly knocked the other off balance; the rider yelled and had to drop his lance to save being thrown, and then Iqbal was on them, howling his war-cry. The Gilzai who was clutching his pony’s mane was glaring at me and cursing, and suddenly the snarling face was literally split down the middle as Iqbal’s sabre came whistling down on his head, shearing through cap and skull as if they had been putty. The other rider, who had been trying to get in a thrust at me round the tree-trunk, wheeled as Iqbal wrenched his sword free, and the pair of them closed as their ponies crashed into each other. For one cursing, frantic moment they were locked together, Iqbal trying to get his point into the other’s side, and the Gilzai with his dagger out, thrusting at Iqbal’s body. I heard the thuds as the blows struck, and Iqbal shouting: “Huzoor! huzoor!” and then the ponies parted and the struggling men crashed into the dust. From behind my tree I suddenly noticed that my lance was lying within a yard of me, where it had dropped in my fall. Why I didn’t follow the instinct of a lifetime and simply run for it and leave them to fight it out, I don’t know – probably I had some thought of possible disgrace. Anyway, I darted out and grabbed the lance, and as the Gilzai struggled uppermost and raised his bloody knife, I jammed the lance-point squarely into his back. He screamed and dropped the knife, and then lurched into the dust, kicking and clutching, and died. Iqbal tried to struggle up, but he was done for. His face was grey, and there was a great crimson stain welling through his shirt. He was glaring at me, and as I ran to him he managed to rear up on one elbow. “Soor kabaj,” he gasped. “Ya, huzoor! Soor kabaj!” Then he groaned and fell back, but as I knelt over him his eyes opened for a moment, and he gave a little moan and spat in my face, as best he could. So he died, calling me “son of a swine” in Hindi, which is the Muslim’s crowning insult. I saw his point of view, of course. So there I was, and there also were five dead men – at least, four were dead and the one whom Iqbal had sabred first was lying a little way up the defile, groaning with the side of his skull split. I was shaken by my fall and the scuffle, but it came to me swiftly that the quicker that one breathed his last, the better, so I hurried up with my lance, took a rather unsteady aim, and drove it into his throat. And I had just jerked it out, and was surveying the shambles, when there was a cry and a clatter of hooves, and Sergeant Hudson came galloping out of the wood. He took it in at a glance – the corpses, the blood-stained ground, and the gallant Flashy standing in the middle, the sole survivor. But like the competent soldier he was, as soon as he realised that I was all right, he went round the bodies, to make sure no one was playing possum. He whistled sadly over Iqbal, and then said quietly: “Orders, sir?” I was getting my wind and my senses back, and wondering what to do next. This was Gul’s work, I was sure, but what would Sher Afzul do about it? He might argue that here was his credit destroyed with the British anyway, and make the best of a bad job by cutting all our throats. This was a happy thought, but before I had time to digest it there was a crashing and hallooing in the woods, and out came the rest of the hunting party, with Afzul at their head. Perhaps my fear sharpened my wits – it often does. But I saw in a flash that the best course was to take a damned high hand. So before they had done more than shout their astonishment and call on the name of God and come piling off their ponies, I had strode forward to where Afzul was sitting his horse, and I shook the bloody lance point under his nose. “Gilzai hospitality!” I roared. “Look on it! My servant murdered, myself escaped by a miracle! Is this Gilzai honour?” He glared at me like someone demented, his mouth working horribly, and for a minute I thought we were done for. Then he covered his face with his hands, and began bawling about shame and disgrace and the guests who had eaten his salt. He was mad enough at the moment, I think, and probably a good thing too, for he kept wailing on in the same strain, and tearing at his beard, and finally he rolled out of the saddle and began beating at the ground. His creatures hurried round him, lamenting and calling on Allah – all except young Ilderim, who simply gazed at the carnage and said: “This is Gul Shah’s doing, my father!” This brought old Afzul up short, and he set off on a new tack, raving about how he would tear out Gul’s eyes and entrails and hang him on hooks to die by inches, and more excellent ideas. I turned my back on him, and mounted the pony which Hudson had brought, and at this Afzul came hurrying up to me, and grabbed my boot, and swore, with froth on his lips, that this assault on my person and his honour would be most horribly avenged. “My person is my affair,” says I, very British-officer-like, “and your honour is yours. I accept your apology.” He raved some more at this, and then began imploring me to tell him what he could do to put things right. He was in a rare taking for his honour – and no doubt his subsidy – and swore that anything I named should be done: only let him and his be forgiven. “My life! My son’s life! Tribute, treasure, Flashman bahadur! Hostages! I will go to McNaghten huzoor, and humble myself! I will pay!” He went babbling on, until I cut him short by saying that we did not accept such things as payment for debts of honour. But I saw that I had better go a little easier while his mood lasted, so I ended by saying that, but for the death of my servant, it was a small matter, and we would put it from our minds. “But you shall have pledges of my honour!” cries he. “Aye, you shall see that the Gilzai pay the debt! In God’s name! My son, my son Ilderim, I will give as a hostage to you! Carry him to McNaghten huzoor, as a sign of his father’s faith! Let me not be shamed, Flashman huzoor, in my old age!” Now this business of hostages was a common one with the Afghans, and it seemed to me that it had great advantages in this case. With Ilderim in my keeping, it wasn’t likely that this hysterical old lunatic, when his madness took a new turn, would try any mischief. And young Ilderim looked pleased enough at the idea; he was probably thinking of the excitement of going to Kabul, and seeing the great Queen’s army, and riding with it, too, as my prot?g?. So there and then I took Sher Afzul at his word, and swore that the dishonour would be wiped out, and Ilderim would ride with me until I released him. At this the old Khan grew maudlin, and hauled out his Khyber knife and made Ilderim swear on it that he would be my man, which he did, and there was general rejoicing, and Sher Afzul went round and kicked all the corpses of the Gilzais and called on God to damn them good and proper. After which we rode back to Mogala, and I resisted the old Khan’s entreaties to stay longer in proof of friendship: I had orders, I said, and must go back to Kabul. It would not do, I added, for me to linger when I had so important a hostage as the son of the Khan of Mogala to take back. He took this most seriously, and swore that his son would go as befitted a prince (which was stretching it a bit), and gave him a dozen Gilzai riders as escort, to stay with him and me. So there was more oath-swearing, and Sher Afzul finished up in excellent humour, vowing it was an honour to the Gilzais to serve such a splendid warrior as Flashman huzoor, who had accounted for four enemies single-handed (Iqbal being conveniently forgotten), and who would forever be dear to the Gilzais for his courage and magnanimity. As proof of which he would send me Gul Shah’s ears, nose, eyes, and other essential organs as soon as he could lay hold of them. So we left Mogala, and I had collected a personal following of Afghan tribesmen, and a reputation, as a result of the morning’s work. The twelve Gilzais and Ilderim were the best things I found in Afghanistan, and the nickname “Bloody Lance”, which Sher Afzul conferred, did me no harm either. Incidentally, as a result of all this Sher Afzul was keener than ever to maintain his alliance with the British, so my mission was a success as well. I was pretty pleased with myself as we set off for Kabul. Of course, I had not forgotten that I had also made an outstanding enemy in Gul Shah. How bitter an enemy I was to find out in time. Chapter 7 (#ulink_ebad3e33-d5e9-5e28-9a96-ba5fbb804da6) Any excitement that the affair at Mogala might have caused in Kabul when we got back and told our tale was overshadowed by the arrival on the same day of the new army commander, General Elphinstone, my chief and sponsor. I was piqued at the time, for I thought I had done pretty well, and was annoyed to find that no one thought my skirmish with the Gilzais and securing of hostages worth more than a cocked eyebrow and an “Oh, really?” But looking back I can say that, all unwittingly, Kabul and the army were right to regard Elphy’s arrival as an incident of the greatest significance. It opened a new chapter: it was a prelude to events that rang round the world. Elphy, ably assisted by McNaghten, was about to reach the peak of his career; he was going to produce the most shameful, ridiculous disaster in British military history. No doubt Thomas Hughes would find it significant that in such a disaster I would emerge with fame, honour, and distinction – all quite unworthily acquired. But you, having followed my progress so far, won’t be surprised at all. Let me say that when I talk of disasters I speak with authority. I have served at Balaclava, Cawnpore, and Little Big Horn. Name the biggest born fools who wore uniform in the nineteenth century – Cardigan, Sale, Custer, Raglan, Lucan – I knew them all. Think of all the conceivable misfortunes that can arise from combinations of folly, cowardice, and sheer bad luck, and I’ll give you chapter and verse. But I still state unhesitatingly, that for pure, vacillating stupidity, for superb incompetence to command, for ignorance combined with bad judgement – in short, for the true talent for catastrophe – Elphy Bey stood alone. Others abide our question, but Elphy outshines them all as the greatest military idiot of our own or any other day. Only he could have permitted the First Afghan War and let it develop to such a ruinous defeat. It was not easy: he started with a good army, a secure position, some excellent officers, a disorganised enemy, and repeated opportunities to save the situation. But Elphy, with the touch of true genius, swept aside these obstacles with unerring precision, and out of order wrought complete chaos. We shall not, with luck, look upon his like again. However, I tell you this not as a preface to a history of the war, but because if you are to judge my career properly, and understand how the bully expelled from Rugby became a hero, you have to know how things were in that extraordinary year of 1841. The story of the war and its beginnings is the background of the picture, although dashing Harry Flashman is the main figure in the foreground. Elphy came to Kabul, then, and was met with great junketings and packed streets. Sujah welcomed him at the Bala Hissar, the army in the cantonment two miles outside the city paraded for him, the ladies of the garrison made much of him, McNaghten breathed a sigh of relief at seeing Willoughby Cotton’s back, and there was some satisfaction that we had got such a benevolent and popular commander. Only Burnes, it seemed to me on that first day, when I reported to him, did not share the gaiety. “I suppose it is right to rejoice,” he told me, stroking in his conceited way at his little black moustache. “But, you know, Elphy’s arrival changes nothing. Sujah is no firmer on his throne, and the defences of the cantonment are no better, simply because Elphy turns the light of his countenance on us. Oh, I daresay it will be all right, but it might have been better if Calcutta had sent us a stronger, brisker man.” I suppose I should have resented this patronising view of my chief a little, but when I saw Elphy Bey later in the day there was no doubt that Burnes was right. In the weeks since I had parted from him in Calcutta – and he had not been in the best of health then – he had gone downhill. There was this wasted, shaky look about him, and he preferred not to walk much; his hand trembled as he shook mine, and the feel of it was of a bundle of dry sticks in a bag. However, he was pleased to see me. “You have been distinguishing yourself among the Gilzais, Flashman,” he said. “Sir Alexander Burnes tells me you have won hostages of importance; that is excellent news, especially to our friend the Envoy,” and he turned to McNaghten, who was sitting by drinking tea and holding his cup like an old maid. McNaghten sniffed. “The Gilzais need not concern us very much, I think,” says he. “They are great brigands, of course, but only brigands. I would rather have hostages for the good behaviour of Akbar Khan.” “Shall we send Mr Flashman to bring some?” says Elphy, smiling at me to show I shouldn’t mind McNaghten’s snub. “He seems to have gifts in that direction.” And he went on to ask for details of my mission, and told me that I must bring young Ilderim Khan to meet him, and generally behaved very civilly to me. But it was an effort to remember that this frail old gentleman, with his pleasant small talk, was the commander of the army. He was too polite and vague, even in those few minutes, and deferred too much to McNaghten, to inspire confidence as a military leader. “How would he do, do you think, if there was any trouble with the Afghans?” says Burnes later. “Well, let’s hope we don’t have to find out.” In the next few weeks, while I was in fairly constant attendance on Elphy, I found myself sharing his hope. It was not just that Elphy was too old and feeble to be much use as an active leader: he was under McNaghten’s thumb from the start, and since McNaghten was determined to believe that all was well, Elphy had to believe it, too. And neither of them got on with Shelton, a rude boor of a man who was Elphy’s second-in-command, and this dissension at the top made for uneasiness and mistrust further down. If that was not bad enough, the situation of the army made it worse. The cantonment was a poor place for a garrison to be, without proper defences, with its principal stores outside its walls, and some of the principal officers – Burnes himself, for example – quartered two miles away in Kabul City. But if protests were made to McNaghten – and they were, especially by active men like Broadfoot – they were dismissed as “croaking”, and it was pointed out sharply that the army was unlikely to be called on to fight anyway. When this kind of talk gets abroad, there is no confidence, and the soldiers get slack. Which is dangerous anywhere, but especially in a strange country where the natives are unpredictable. Of course, Elphy pottering about the cantonment and McNaghten with his nose deep in correspondence with Calcutta, saw nothing to indicate that the peaceful situation was an uneasy one. Nor did most of the army, who were ignorantly contemptuous of the Afghans, and had treated the Kabul expedition as a holiday from the first. But some of us did. A few weeks after Elphy’s arrival Burnes obtained my detachment from the staff because he wanted to make use of my Pushtu and my interest in the country. “Oh dear,” Elphy complained, “Sir Alexander is so busy about everything. He takes my aides away, even, as though I could readily spare them. But there is so much to do, and I am not well enough to be up to it.” But I was not sorry to go; being about Elphy was like being an orderly in a medical ward. Burnes was keen that I should get about and see as much of the country as I could, improve my command of the language, and become known to as many influential Afghans as possible. He gave me a number of little tasks like the Mogala one – it was carrying messages, really, but it was valuable experience – and I travelled to towns and villages about Kabul, meeting Douranis and Kohistanis and Baruzkis and so on, and “getting the feel of the place”, as Burnes put it. “Soldiering’s all very well,” he told me, “but the men who make or break the army in a foreign country are we politicals. We meet the men who count, and get to know ’em, and sniff the wind; we’re the eyes and ears – aye, and the tongues. Without us the military are blind, deaf, and dumb.” So although boors like Shelton sneered at “young pups gadding about the hills playing at niggers”, I listened to Burnes and sniffed the wind. I took Ilderim with me a good deal, and sometimes his Gilzais, too, and they taught me some of the lore of the hills, and the ways of the people – who mattered, and what tribes were better to deal with, and why, and how the Kohistanis were more friendly disposed to us than the Abizai were, and which families were at feud with each other, and how the feeling ran about the Persians and the Russians, and where the best horses could be obtained, and how millet was grown and harvested: all the trivial information which is the small change of a country’s life. I don’t pretend that I became an expert in a few weeks, or that I ever “knew” Afghanistan, but I picked up a little here and there, and began to realise that those who studied the country only from the cantonment at Kabul knew no more about it than you would learn about a strange house if you stayed in one room of it all the time. But for anyone with eyes to look beyond Kabul the signs were plain to see. There was mischief brewing in the hills, among the wild tribes who didn’t want Shah Sujah for their king, and hated the British bayonets that protected him in his isolation in the Bala Hissar fortress. Rumours grew that Akbar Khan, son of old Dost Mohammed whom we had deposed, had come down out of the Hindu Kush at last and was gathering support among the chiefs; he was the darling of the warrior clans, they said, and presently he would sweep down on Kabul with his hordes, fling Sujah from his throne, and either drive the feringhees back to India or slaughter them all in their cantonment. It was easy, if you were McNaghten, to scoff at such rumours from your pleasantly furnished office in Kabul; it was something else again to be up on the ridges beyond Jugdulluk or down towards Ghuznee and hear of councils called and messengers riding, of armed assemblies harangued by holy men and signal fires lit along the passes. The covert smiles, the ready assurances, the sight of swaggering Ghazis, armed to the teeth and with nothing apparent to do, the growing sense of unease – it used to make the hairs crawl on my neck. For don’t mistake me, I did not like this work. Riding with my Gilzais and young Ilderim, I was made welcome enough, and they were infallible eyes and ears – for having eaten the Queen’s salt they were ready to serve her against their own folk if need be – but it was dangerous for all that. Even in native dress, I would meet black looks and veiled threats in some places and hear the British mocked and Akbar’s name acclaimed. As a friend of the Gilzais and a slight celebrity – Ilderim lost no opportunity of announcing me as “Bloody Lance” – I was tolerated, but I knew the toleration might snap at any moment. At first I went about in a continual funk, but after a while one became fatalistic; possibly it came from dealing with people who believe that every man’s fortune is unchangeably written on his forehead. So the clouds began to gather on the mountains, and in Kabul the British army played cricket and Elphinstone and McNaghten wrote letters to each other remarking how tranquil everything was. The summer wore on, the sentries drowsed in the stifling heat of the cantonment, Burnes yawned and listened idly to my reports, dined me royally and took me off whoring in the bazaar – and one bright day McNaghten got a letter from Calcutta complaining at the cost of keeping our army in Kabul, and looked about for economies to make. It was unfortunate that he happened, about this time, to be awaiting his promotion and transfer to the Governorship of Bombay; I think the knowledge that he was leaving may have made him careless. At any rate, seeking means of reducing expenditure, he recalled the idea which had appalled General Nott, and decided to cut the Gilzais’ subsidy. I had just come back to Kabul from a visit to Kandahar garrison, and learned that the Gilzai chiefs had been summoned and told that instead of 8,000 rupees a year for keeping the passes open, they were now to receive 5,000. Ilderim’s fine young face fell when he heard it, and he said: “There will be trouble, Flashman huzoor. He would have been better offering pork to a Ghazi than cheat the Gilzais of their money.” He was right, of course: he knew his own people. The Gilzai chiefs smiled cheerfully when McNaghten delivered his decision, bade him good afternoon, and rode quietly out of Kabul – and three days later the munitions convoy from Peshawar was cut to ribbons in the Khoord-Kabul pass by a force of yelling Gilzais and Ghazis who looted the caravan, butchered the drivers, and made off with a couple of tons of powder and ball. McNaghten was most irritated, but not concerned. With Bombay beckoning he was not going to alarm Calcutta over a skirmish, as he called it. “The Gilzais must be given a drubbing for kicking up this kind of row,” said he, and hit on another bright idea: he would cut down expense by sending a couple of battalions back to India, and they could take a swipe at the Gilzais on their way home. Two birds with one stone. The only trouble was that his two battalions had to fight damned nearly every inch of the way as far as Gandamack, with the Gilzais potting at them from behind rocks and sweeping down in sudden cavalry charges. This was bad enough, but what made it worse was that our troops fought badly. Even under the command of General Sale – the tall, handsome “Fighting Bob” who used to invite his men to shoot him when they felt mutinous – clearing the passes was a slow, costly process. I saw some of it, for Burnes sent me on two occasions with messages to Sale from McNaghten, telling him to get on with it. It was a shocking experience the first time. I set off thinking it was something of a joy-ride, which it was until the last half-mile into Sale’s rearguard, which was George Broadfoot’s camp beyond Jugdulluk. Everything had been peaceful as you please, and I was just thinking how greatly exaggerated had been the reports arriving in Kabul from Sale, when out of a side-nullah came a mounted party of Ghazis, howling like wolves and brandishing their knives. I just clapped in my spurs, put my head down, and cut along the track as if all the fiends of hell were behind me – which they were. I tumbled into Broadfoot’s camp half-dead with terror, which he fortunately mistook for exhaustion. George had the bad taste to find it all rather funny; he was one of those nerveless clods, and was in the habit of strolling about under the snipers’ fire polishing his spectacles, although his red coat and even redder beard made him a marked man. He seemed to think everyone else was as unconcerned as he was, too, for he sent me back to Kabul that same night with another note, in which he told Burnes flatly that there wasn’t a hope of keeping the passes open by force; they would have to negotiate with the Gilzais. I backed this up vehemently to Burnes, for although I had had a clear run back to Kabul, it was obvious to me that the Gilzais meant business, and at all the way stations there had been reports of other tribesmen massing in the hills above the passes. Burnes gave me some rather odd looks as I made my report; he thought I was scared and probably exaggerating. At any rate, he made no protest when McNaghten said Broadfoot was an ass and Sale an incompetent, and that they had better get a move on if they were to have cleared a way to Jallalabad – which was about two-thirds of the way from Kabul to Peshawar – before winter set in. So Sale’s brigade was left to struggle on, and Burnes (who was much preoccupied with the thought of getting McNaghten’s job as Envoy when McNaghten went to Bombay) wrote that the country was “in the main very tranquil”. Well, he paid for his folly. A week or two later – it was now well into October – he sent me off again with a letter to Sale. Little progress was being made in clearing the passes, the Gilzais were as active as ever and out-shooting our troops all the time, and there were growing rumours of trouble brewing in Kabul itself. Burnes had sense enough to show a little concern, although McNaghten was still as placidly blind as ever, while Elphy Bey simply looked from one to the other, nodding agreement to whatever was said. But even Burnes showed no real urgency about it all; he just wanted to nag at Sale for not keeping the Gilzais quiet. This time I went with a good escort of my Gilzais, under young Ilderim, on the theory that while they were technically sworn to fight their own kinsfolk, they would be unlikely in practice to get into any shooting scrapes with them. However, I never put this to the test, for it became evident as we rode eastward through the passes that the situation was worse than anyone in Kabul had realised, and I decided that I, at any rate, would not try to get through to Sale. The whole country beyond Jugdulluk was up, and the hills were swarming with hostile Afghans, all either on their way to help beat up Sale’s force, or else preparing for something bigger – there was talk among the villagers of a great jehad or holy war, in which the feringhees would be wiped out; it was on the eve of breaking out, they said. Sale was now hopelessly cut off; there was no chance of relief from Jallalabad, or even from Kabul – oh, Kabul was going to be busy enough looking after itself. I heard this shivering round a camp-fire on the Soorkab road, and Ilderim shook his head in the shadows and said: “It is not safe for you to go on, Flashman huzoor. You must return to Kabul. Give me the letter for Sale; although I have eaten the Queen’s salt my own people will let me through.” This was such obvious common sense that I gave him the letter without argument and started back for Kabul that same night, with four of the Gilzai hostages for company. At that hour I wanted to get as many miles as possible between me and the gathering Afghan tribes, but if I had known what was waiting for me in Kabul I would have gone on to Sale and thought myself lucky. Riding hard through the next day, we came to Kabul at nightfall, and I never saw the place so quiet. Bala Hissar loomed over the deserted streets; the few folk who were about were grouped in little knots in doorways and at street corners; there was an air of doom over the whole place. No British soldiers were to be seen in the city itself, and I was glad to get to the Residency, where Burnes lived in the heart of the town, and hear the courtyard gates grind to behind me. The armed men of Burnes’s personal guard were standing to in the yard, while others were posted on the Residency walls; the torches shone on belt-plates and bayonets, and the place looked as though it was getting ready to withstand a siege. But Burnes himself was sitting reading in his study as cool as a minnow, until he saw me. At the sight of my evident haste and disorder – I was in Afghan dress, and pretty filthy after days in the saddle – he started up. “What the deuce are you doing here?” says he. I told him, and added that there would probably be an Afghan army coming to support my story. “My message to Sale,” he snapped. “Where is it? Have you not delivered it?” I told him about Ilderim, and for once the dapper little dandy forgot his carefully cultivated calm. “Good God!” says he. “You’ve given it to a Gilzai to deliver?” “A friendly Gilzai,” I assured him. “A hostage, you remember.” “Are you mad?” says he, his little moustache all a-quiver. “Don’t you know that you can’t trust an Afghan, hostage or not?” “Ilderim is a khan’s son and a gentleman in his own way,” I told him. “In any event, it was that or nothing. I couldn’t have got through.” “And why not? You speak Pushtu; you’re in native dress – God knows you’re dirty enough to pass. It was your duty to see that message into Sale’s own hand – and bring an answer. My God, Flashman, this is a pretty business, when a British officer cannot be trusted …” “Now, look you here, Sekundar,” says I, but he came up straight like a little bantam and cut me off. “Sir Alexander, if you please,” says he icily, as though I’d never seen him with his breeches down, chasing after some big Afghan bint. He stared at me and took a pace or two round the table. “I think I understand,” says he. “I have wondered about you lately, Flashman – whether you were to be fully relied on, or … Well, it shall be for a court-martial to decide—” “Court-martial? What the devil!” “For wilful disobedience of orders,” says he. “There may be other charges. In any event, you may consider yourself under arrest, and confined to this house. We are all confined anyway – the Afghans are allowing no one to pass between here and the cantonment.” “Well, in God’s name, doesn’t that bear out what I’ve been telling you?” I said. “The country’s all up to the eastward, man, and now here in Kabul …” “There is no rising in Kabul,” says he. “Merely a little unrest which I propose to deal with in the morning.” He stood there, cock-sure little ass, in his carefully pressed linen suit, with a flower in his button-hole, talking as though he was a schoolmaster promising to reprimand some unruly fags. “It may interest you to know – you who turn tail at rumours – that I have twice this evening received direct threats to my life. I shall not be alive by morning, it is said. Well, well, we shall see about that.” “Aye, maybe you will,” says I. “And as to your fine talk that I turn tail at rumours, you may see about that, too. Maybe Akbar Khan will come to show you himself.” He smiled at me, not pleasantly. “He is in Kabul; I have even had a message from him. And I am confident that he intends no harm to us. A few dissidents there are, of course, and it may be necessary to read them a lesson. However, I trust myself for that.” There was no arguing with his complacency, but I pitched into him hard on his threat of a court-martial for me. You might have thought that any sensible man would have understood my case, but he simply waved my protests aside, and finished by ordering me to my room. So I went, in a rare rage at the self-sufficient folly of the man, and heartily hoping that he would trip over his own conceit. Always so clever, always so sure – that was Burnes. I would have given a pension to see him at a loss for once. But I was to see it for nothing. It came suddenly, just before breakfast-time, when I was rubbing my eyes after a pretty sleepless night which had dragged itself away very slowly, and very silently for Kabul. It was a grey morning, and the cocks were crowing; suddenly I became aware of a distant murmur, growing to a rumble, and hurried to the window. The town lay still, with a little haze over the houses; the guards were still on the wall of the Residency compound, and in the distance, coming closer, the noise was identifiable as the tramping of feet and the growing clamour of a mob. There was a shouted order in the courtyard, a clatter of feet on the stairs, and Burnes’s voice calling for his brother, young Charlie, who lived in the Residency with him. I snatched my robe from its peg and hurried down, winding my puggaree on to my head as I went. As I reached the courtyard there was the crack of a musket shot, and a wild yell from beyond the wall; a volley of blows hammered on the gate, and across the top of the wall I saw the vanguard of a charging horde streaming out from between the nearest houses. Bearded faces, flashing knives, they surged up to the wall and fell back, yelling and cursing, while the guards thrust at them with their musket butts. For a moment I thought they would charge again and sweep irresistibly over the wall, but they hung back, a jostling, shrieking crowd, shaking their fists and weapons, while the guardsmen lining the wall looked anxiously back for orders and kept their thumbs poised on their musket-locks. Burnes strolled out of the front door and stood in full view at the top of the steps. He was as fresh and calm as a squire taking his first sniff of the morning, but at the sight of him the mob redoubled its clamour and rolled up to the wall, yelling threats and insults while he looked right and left at them, smiling and shaking his head. “No shooting, havildar,” says he to the guard commander. “It will all quieten down in a moment.” “Death to Sekundar!” yelled the mob. “Death to the feringhee pig!” Jim Broadfoot, who was George’s younger brother, and little Charlie Burnes, were at Sekundar’s elbow, both looking mighty anxious, but Burnes himself never lost his poise. Suddenly he raised his hand, and the mob beyond the wall fell quiet; he grinned at that, and touched his moustache in that little, confident gesture he had, and then he began to talk to them in Pushtu. His voice was quiet, and must have carried only faintly to them, but they listened for a little as he coolly told them to go home, and stop this folly, and reminded them that he had always been their friend and had done them no harm. It might have succeeded, for he had the gift of the gab, but show-off that he was, he carried it just too far, and patronised them, and first there were murmurs, and then the clamour swelled up again, more savage than before. Suddenly one Afghan started forward and hurled himself on to the wall, knocking down a sentry; the nearest guard drove at the Afghan with his bayonet, someone in the crowd fired his jezzail, and with one hellish roar the whole mob swept forward, scrambling up the wall. The havildar yelled an order, there was the ragged crash of a volley, and the courtyard was full of struggling men, crazy Afghans with their knives hacking and the guard falling back, stabbing with their bayonets and going down beneath the rush. There was no holding them; I saw Broadfoot grab Burnes and hustle him inside the house, and a moment later I was inside myself, slamming the side door in the face of a yelling Ghazi with a dozen of his fellows bounding at his heels. It was a stout door, thank God, like the others in the Residency; otherwise we should all have been butchered within five minutes. Blows shattered on the far side of it as I slipped the bar home, and as I hurried along the passage to the main hallway I could hear, above the shrieking and shooting outside, the crash and thud of countless fists and hilts on panels and shutters – it was like being inside a box with demented demons pounding on the lid. Suddenly above the din there was the crash of an ordered volley from the courtyard, and then another, and as the yelling subsided momentarily the havildar’s voice could be heard urging the remnant of the guard into the house. Little bloody odds it would make, I thought; they had us cornered, and it was a case of having our throats cut now or later. Burnes and the others were in the hallway, and Sekundar as usual was showing off, affecting carelessness in a tight spot. “Wake Duncan with thy knocking,” he quoted, cocking his head on one side at the pounding of the mob. “How many of the guard are inside, Jim?” Broadfoot said about a dozen, and Burnes said: “That’s splendid. That makes, let’s see, twelve, and the servants, and us three – hullo, here’s Flashman! Mornin’ Flash; sleep well? Apologise for this rude awakening – about twenty-five, I’d say; twenty fighting men, anyway.” “Few enough,” says Broadfoot, examining his pistols. “The niggers’ll be inside before long – we can’t cover every door and window, Sekundar.” A musket ball crashed through a shutter and knocked a cloud of plaster off the opposite wall. Everyone ducked, except Burnes. “Nonsense!” says he. “Can’t cover ’em from down here, I grant you, but we don’t have to. Now Jim, take the guard, all of ’em, upstairs, and have ’em shoot down from the balconies. That’ll clear these mad fellows away from the sides of the house. There ain’t many guns among them, I fancy, so you can get a good sight of them without fear of being hit – much. Up you go, laddie, look sharp!” Broadfoot clattered away, and a moment later the red-coated jawans were mounting the stairs, with Burnes shouting “Shabash!” to encourage them while he belted his sword over his suit and stuck a pistol in his belt. He seemed positively to be enjoying himself, the bloody ass. He clapped me on the shoulder and asked didn’t I just wish I’d galloped on to Sale after all – but never a word of acknowledgement that my warning had proved correct. I reminded him of it, and pointed out that if he had listened then, we shouldn’t be going to get our throats cut now, but he just laughed and straightened his button-hole. “Don’t croak so, Flashy,” says he. “I could hold this house with two men and a whore’s protector.” There was a sound of ragged firing over our heads. “You see? Jim’s setting about ’em already. Come on, Charlie, let’s see the fun!” And he and his brother hurried upstairs, leaving me alone in the hall. “What about my bloody court-martial?” I shouted after him, but he never heard. Well, his plan worked, at first. Broadfoot’s men did clear away the rascals from round the walls, shooting down from the upper windows and balcony, and when I joined them on the upper floor there were about twenty Ghazi corpses in the courtyard. A few shots came the other way, and one of the jawans was wounded in the thigh, but the main mob had now retreated to the street, and contented themselves with howling curses from the cover of the wall. “Excellent! Bahut achha!” said Burnes, puffing a cheroot and peering out of the window. “You see, Charlie, they’ve drawn off, and presently Elphy will be wondering down in the cantonment what all the row’s about, and send someone to see.” “Won’t he send troops, then?” says little Charlie. “Of course. A battalion, probably – that’s what I’d send. Since it’s Elphy, though, he’s as likely to send a brigade, eh, Jim?” Broadfoot, squatting at the other window, peered along his pistol barrel, fired, swore, and said: “So long as he sends someone.” “Don’t you fret,” says Burnes. “Here, Flashy, have a cheroot. Then you can try your hand at potting off some of these chaps beyond the wall. I’d say Elphy’ll be on the move inside two hours, and we’ll be out of here in three. Good shot, Jim! That’s the style!” Burnes was wrong, of course. Elphy didn’t send troops; indeed, so far as I’ve been able to learn, he did nothing at all. If even a platoon had arrived in that first hour, I believe the mob would have melted before them; as it was, they began to pluck up courage, and started clambering the wall again, and sneaking round to the rear, where the stables gave them cover. We kept up a good fire from the windows – I shot three myself, including an enormously fat man, at which Burnes said: “Choose the thin ones, Flashy; that chap couldn’t have got in the front door anyway.” But as two hours passed he joked rather less, and actually made another attempt to talk to our attackers from the balcony, but they drove him inside with a shot or two and a volley of missiles. Meanwhile, some of the Ghazis had set fire to the stables, and the smoke began to drift into the house. Burnes swore, and we all strained our eyes peering across the rooftops towards the cantonment, but still no sign of help appeared, and I felt the pumping of fear again in my throat. The howling of the mob had risen again, louder than ever, some of the jawans were looking scared, and even Burnes was frowning. “Blast Elphy Bey,” says he. “He’s cutting it dooced fine. And I believe these brutes have got muskets from somewhere at last – listen.” He was right; there were as many shots coming from outside as from inside the house. They were smacking into the walls and knocking splinters from the shutters, and presently another jawan gave a yelp and staggered back into the room with his shoulder smashed and blood pouring down his shirt. “Hm,” says Burnes, “this is gettin’ warm. Like Montrose at the Fair, eh, Charlie?” Charlie gave him the ghost of a smile; he was scared stiff and trying not to show it. “How many rounds have you got, Flashy?” says Burnes. I had only six left, and Charlie had none; the ten jawans had barely forty among them. “How about you, Jim?” shouts Burnes to Broadfoot, who was at the far window. Broadfoot shouted something back, but in the din I didn’t catch it, and then Broadfoot stood slowly up, and turned towards us, looking down at his shirt-front. I saw a red spot there, and suddenly it grew to a great red stain, and Broadfoot took two steps back and went head first over the window sill. There was a sickening crash as he hit the courtyard, and a tremendous shriek from the mob; the firing seemed to redouble, and from the rear, where the smoke of the burning stables was pouring in on us, came the measured smashing of a ram at the back door. Burnes fired from his window, and ducked away. He squatted down near me, spun his pistol by the guard, whistled for a second or two through his teeth, and then said: “Charlie, Flashy, I think it’s time to go.” “Where the hell to?” says I. “Out of here,” says he. “Charlie, cut along to my room; you’ll find native robes in the wardrobe. Bring ’em along. Lively, now.” When Charlie had gone, he said to me “It’s not much of a chance, but it’s all we have, I think. We’ll try it at the back door; the smoke looks pretty thick, don’t you know, and with all the confusion we might get clear away. Ah, good boy, Charlie. Now send the havildar across to me.” While Burnes and Charlie struggled into their gowns and puggarees, Burnes talked to the havildar, who agreed that the mob probably wouldn’t hurt him and his men, not being feringhees, but would concentrate on looting the place. “But you, sahib, they will surely kill,” he said. “Go while ye can, and God go with you.” “And remain with you and yours,” says Burnes, shaking his hand. “Shabash and salaam, havildar. All ready, Flash? Come on, Charlie.” And with Burnes in the lead and myself last, we cut out down the staircase, across the hall, and through the passage towards the kitchen. From the back door, out of sight to our right, there came a crackling of breaking timber; I took a quick glance through a loophole, and saw the garden almost alive with Ghazis. “Just about in time,” says Burnes, as we reached the kitchen door. I knew it led into a little fenced-off pen, where the swill-tubs were kept; once we got into that, and provided we weren’t actually seen leaving the house, we stood a fair chance of getting away. Burnes slipped the bar quietly from the door, and opened it a crack. “Luck of the devil!” says he. “Come on, juldi!” We slipped out after him; the pen was empty. It consisted of two high screen walls running from either side of the door; there was no one in sight through the opening at the other end, and the smoke was billowing down in great clouds now, with the mob kicking up the most hellish din on either side of us. “Pull her to, Flashy!” snapped Burnes, and I shut the door behind us. “That’s it – now, try to batter the damned thing down!” And he jumped at the closed door, hammering with his fists. “Open, unbelieving swine!” he bawled. “Feringhee pigs, your hour has come! This way, brothers! Death to the bastard Sekundar!” Seeing his plan, we hammered along with him, and presently round the end of the pen came a handful of Ghazis to see what was what. All they saw, of course, was three of the Faithful trying to break down a door, so they joined in, and after a moment we left off, Burnes cursing like blazes, and went out of the pen, ostensibly to seek another entrance to hammer at. There were Afghans all over the garden and round the burning stables; most of them, it seemed to me, were just berserk and running about and yelling for no particular reason, waving their knives and spears, and presently there was a tremendous howl and a crash as the back door caved in, and a general move in that direction. The three of us kept going for the stable gate, past the burning building; it was a creepy feeling, hurrying through the confused crowd of our enemies, and I was in dread that little Charlie, who was new to native dress, and not nearly as dark as Burnes and I, would do something to be spotted. But he kept his hood well forward over his face, and we got outside the gate in safety, where the hangers-on were congregated, yelling and laughing as they watched the Residency, hoping no doubt to see the bodies of the hated feringhees launched from the upper windows. “May dogs defile the grave of the swine Burnes!” roared Sekundar, spitting towards the Residency, and the bystanders gave him a cheer. “So far, so good,” he added to me. “Now shall we stroll down to the cantonments and have a word with Elphy? Ready, Charlie? Best foot foward, then, and try to swagger like a regular badmash. Take your cue from Flashy here; ain’t he the ugliest-lookin’ Bashie-Bazouk you ever saw?” With Burnes in the lead we pushed out boldly into the street, Sekundar thrusting aside the stragglers who got in the way like any Yusufzai bully; I wanted to tell him to go easy, for it seemed to me he must attract attention, and his face was all too familiar to the Kabulis. But they gave way before him, with a curse or two, and we won clear to the end of the street without being spotted; now, thought I, we’re home in a canter. The crowd was still fairly thick, but not so noisy, and every stride was taking us nearer the point where, at worst, we could cut and run for it towards the cantonment. And then Burnes, the over-confident fool, ruined the whole thing. We had reached the end of the street, and he must pause to yell another curse against the feringhees, by way of a final brag: I could imagine him showing off later to the garrison wives, telling them how he’d fooled the Afghans by roaring threats against himself. But he overdid it; having called himself the grandson of seventy pariah dogs at the top of his voice, he muttered something in an undertone to Charlie, and laughed at his own witticism. The trouble is, an Afghan doesn’t laugh like an Englishman. He giggles high-pitched, but Burnes guffawed. I saw a head turn to stare at us, and grabbing Burnes by one arm and Charlie by the other I was starting to hurry them down the street when I was pushed aside and a big brute of a Ghazi swung Burnes round by the shoulder and peered at him. “Jao, hubshi!” snarled Burnes, and hit his hand aside, but the fellow still stared, and then suddenly shouted: “Mashallah! Brothers, it is Sekundar Burnes!” There was an instant’s quiet, and then an almighty yell. The big Ghazi whipped out his Khyber knife, Burnes locked his arm and snapped it before he could strike, but then about a dozen others were rushing in on us. One jumped at me, and I hit him so hard with my fist that I overbalanced; I jumped up, clawing for my own sword, and saw Burnes throwing off the wounded Ghazi and shouting: “Run, Charlie, run!” There was a side-alley into which Charlie, who was nearest, might have escaped, but he hesitated, standing white-faced, while Burnes jumped between him and the charging Afghans. Sekundar had his Khyber knife out now; he parried a blow from the leader, closed with him, and shouted again: “Get out, Charlie! Cut, man!” And then, as Charlie still hesitated, petrified, Burnes yelled in an agonised voice: “Run, baby, please! Run!” They were the last words he spoke. A Khyber knife swept down on his shoulder and he reeled back, blood spouting; then the mob was on top of him, hacking and striking. He must have taken half a dozen mortal cuts before he even hit the ground. Charlie gave a frenzied cry, and ran towards him; they cut him down before he had gone three steps. I saw all this, because it happened in seconds; then I had my own hands full. I jumped over the man I had hit and dived for the alley, but a Ghazi was there first, screaming and slashing at me. I had my own sword out, and turned his cut, but the way was blocked and the mob was howling at my heels. I turned, slashing frantically, and they gave back an instant; I got my back to the nearest wall as they surged in again, the knives flashed before my eyes. I thrust at the snarling faces and heard the screams and curses. And then something hit me a dreadful blow in the stomach and I went down before the rush of bodies; a foot stamped on my hip, and even as I thought, oh, sweet Jesus, this is death, I had one fleeting memory of being trampled in the scrimmage in the Schoolhouse match. Something smashed against my head, and I waited for the horrible bite of sharp steel. And then I remember nothing more. Chapter 8 (#ulink_e5603153-b73a-51e9-8cf7-c804099c1da4) When I came to my senses I was lying on a wooden floor, my cheek against the boards. My head seemed to be opening and shutting with pain, and when I tried to raise it I found that my face was stuck to the boards with my own dried blood, so that I cried out with the pain as it pulled free. The first thing I noticed was a pair of boots, of fine yellow leather, on the floor about two yards away; above them were pyjamy trousers and the skirt of a black coat, and then a green sash and two lean hands hooked into it by the thumbs, and above all, a dark, grinning face with pale grey eyes under a spiked helmet. I knew the face, from my visit to Mogala, and even in my confused state I thought: this is bad news. It was my old enemy, Gul Shah. He sauntered over and kicked me in the ribs. I tried to speak, and the first words that came out, in a hoarse whisper, were: “I’m alive.” “For the moment,” said Gul Shah. He squatted down beside me, smiling his wolf’s smile. “Tell me, Flashman: what does it feel like to die?” “What d’ye mean?” I managed to croak. He jerked his thumb. “Out in the street yonder: you were down, with the knives at your neck, and only my timely intervention saved you from the same fate as Sekundar Burnes. They cut him to pieces, by the way. Eighty-five pieces, to be exact: they have been counted, you see. But you, Flashman, must have known what it was like to die in that moment. Tell me: I am curious.” I guessed there was no good coming from these questions; the evil look of the brute made my skin crawl. But I thought it best to answer. “It was bloody horrible,” says I. He laughed with his head back, rocking on his heels, and others laughed with him. I realised there were perhaps half a dozen others – Ghazis, mostly – in the room with us. They came crowding round to leer at me, and if anything they looked even nastier than Gul Shah. When he had finished laughing he leaned over me. “It can be more horrible,” says he, and spat in my face. He reeked of garlic. I tried to struggle up, demanding to know why he had saved me, and he stood up and kicked me again. “Yes, why?” he mocked me. I couldn’t fathom it; I didn’t want to. But I thought I’d pretend to act as though it were all for the best. “I’m grateful to you, sir,” says I, “for your timely assistance. You shall be rewarded – all of you – and …” “Indeed we will,” says Gul Shah. “Stand him up.” They dragged me to my feet, twisting my arms behind me. I told them loudly that if they took me back to the cantonment they would be handsomely paid, and they roared with laughter. “Any paying the British do will be in blood,” says Gul Shah. “Yours first of all.” “What for, damn you?” I shouted. “Why do you suppose I stopped the Ghazis from quartering you?” says he. “To preserve your precious skin, perhaps? To hand you as a peace offering to your people?” He stuck his face into mine. “Have you forgotten a dancing girl called Narreeman, you pig’s bastard? Just another slut, to the likes of you, to be defiled as you chose, and then forgotten. You are all the same, you feringhee swine; you think you can take our women, our country, and our honour and trample them all under foot. We do not matter, do we? And when all is done, when our women are raped and our treasure stolen, you can laugh and shrug your shoulders, you misbegotten pariah curs!” He was screaming at me, with froth on his lips. “I meant her no harm,” I was beginning, and he struck me across the face. He stood there, glaring at me and panting. He made an effort and mastered himself. “She is not here,” he said at last, “or I would give you to her and she would give you an eternity of suffering before you died. As it is, we shall do our poor best to accommodate you.” “Look,” says I. “Whatever I’ve done, I beg your pardon for it. I didn’t know you cared for the wench, I swear. I’ll make amends, any way you like. I’m a rich man, a really rich man.” I went on to offer him whatever he wanted in ransom and as compensation to the girl, and it seemed to quiet him for a minute. “Go on,” says he, when I paused. “This is good to listen to.” I would have done, but just the cruel sneer told me he was mocking me, and I fell silent. “So, we are where we began,” says he. “Believe me, Flashman, I would make you die a hundred deaths, but time is short. There are other throats besides yours, and we are impatient people. But we shall make your passing as memorable as possible, and you shall tell me again what it is like to die. Bring him along.” They dragged me from the room, along a passage, and I roared for help and called Gul Shah every filthy name I could lay tongue to. He strode on ahead, heedless, and presently threw open a door; they ran me across the threshold and I found I was in a low, vaulted chamber, perhaps twenty yards long. I had half-expected racks and thumbscrews or some such horrors, but the room was entirely bare. The one curious feature of it was that half way it was cut in two by a deep culvert, perhaps ten feet wide and six deep. It was dry, and where it ran into the walls on either side the openings were stopped up with rubble. This had obviously been done only recently, but I could not imagine why. Gul Shah turned to me. “Are you strong, Flashman?” “Damn you!” I shouted, “You’ll pay for this, you dirty nigger!” “Are you strong?” he repeated. “Answer, or I’ll have your tongue cut out.” One of the ruffians grabbed my jaw in his hairy paw and brought the knife up to my mouth. It was a convincing argument. “Strong enough, damn you.” “I doubt that,” smiled Gul Shah. “We have executed two rascals here of late, neither of them weaklings. But we shall see.” To one of his crew he said: “Bring Mansur. I should explain this new entertainment of mine,” he went on, gloating at me. “It was inspired partly by the unusual shape of this chamber, with its great trench in the middle, and partly by a foolish game which your British soldiers play. Doubtless you have played it yourself, which will add interest for you, and us. Yah, Mansur, come here.” As he spoke, a grotesque figure waddled into the room. For a moment I could not believe it was a man, for he was no more than four feet high. But he was terrific. He was literally as broad as he was long, with huge knotted arms and a chest like an ape’s. His enormous torso was carried on massive legs. He had no neck that I could see, and his yellow face was as flat as a plate, with a hideous nose spread across it, a slit of a mouth, and two black button eyes. His body was covered in dark hair, but his skull was as smooth as an egg. He wore only a dirty loincloth, and as he shuffled across to Gul Shah the torchlight in that windowless room gave him the appearance of some hideous Nibelung dragging itself through dark burrows beneath the earth. “A fine manikin, is he not?” said Gul Shah, regarding the hideous imp. “Your soul must be as handsome, Flashman. Which is fitting, for he is your executioner.” He snapped an order, and the dwarf, with a glance at me and a contortion of his revolting mouth which I took to be a grin, suddenly bounded into the culvert, and with a tremendous spring leaped up the other side, catching the edge and flipping up, like an acrobat. That done he turned and faced us, arms outstretched, a disgusting yellow giant-in-miniature. The men who held me now dragged my arms in front of me, and bound my wrists tightly with a stout rope. One of them then took the coil and carried it across to the dwarf’s side of the culvert; the manikin made a hideous bubbling noise and held his wrist up eagerly, and they were bound as mine had been. So we stood, on opposite edges of the culvert, bound to ends of the same rope, with the slack of it lying in the great trench between us. There had been no further word of explanation, and in the hellish uncertainty of what was to come, my nerve broke. I tried to run, but they hauled me back, laughing, and the dwarf Mansur capered on his side of the culvert and snapped his fingers in delight at my terror. “Let me go, you bastards!” I roared, and Gul Shah smiled and clapped his hands. “You start at shadows,” he sneered. “Behold the substance. Yah, Asaf.” One of his ruffians came to the edge of the trench, bearing a leather sack tied at the neck. Cautiously undoing it, and holding it by the bottom, he suddenly up-ended it into the culvert. To my horror, half a dozen slim, silver shapes that glittered evilly in the torchlight, fell writhing into the gap; they plopped gently to the floor of the culvert and then slithered with frightening speed towards the sides. But they could not climb up at us, so they glided about their strange prison in deadly silence. You could sense the vicious anger in them as they slid about beneath us. “Their bite is death,” said Gul Shah. “Is all now plain, Flashman? It is what you call a tug-of-war – you against Mansur. One of you must succeed in tugging the other into the trench, and then – it takes a few moments for the venom to kill. Believe me, the snakes will be kinder than Narreeman would have been.” “Help!” I roared, although God knows I expected none. But the sight of those loathsome things, the thought of their slimy touch, of the stab of their fangs – I thought I should go mad. I raged and pleaded, and that Afghan swine clapped his hands and yelled with laughter. The dwarf Mansur hopped in eagerness to begin, and presently Gul Shah stepped back, snapped an order to him, and said to me: “Pull for your life, Flashman. And present my salaams to Shaitan.” I had retreated as far as I could go from the culvert’s edge, and was standing, half-paralysed, when the dwarf snapped his wrists impatiently at the rope. The jerk brought me to my senses; as I have said before, terror is a wonderful stimulant. I braced my boot-heels on the rough stone floor, and prepared to resist with all my strength. Grinning, the dwarf scuttled backwards until the rope stretched taut between us; I guessed what his first move would be, and was ready for the sudden jerk when it came. It nearly lifted me off my feet, but I turned with the rope across my shoulder and gave him heave for heave. The rope drummed like a bowstring, and then relaxed; he leered across at me and made a dribbling, piping noise. Then he bunched his enormous shoulder muscles, and leaning back, began to pull steadily. By God, he was strong. I strained until my shoulders cracked and my arms shuddered, but slowly, inch by inch, my heels slithered across the rough surface towards the edge of the trench. The Ghazis urged him on with cries of delight, Gul Shah came to the brink so that he could watch me as I was drawn inexorably to the limit. I felt one of my heels slip into space, my head seemed to be bursting with the effort and my ears roared – and then the tearing pain in my wrists relaxed, and I was sprawled on the very edge, exhausted, with the dwarf prancing and laughing on the other side and the rope slack between us. The Ghazis were delighted, and urged him to give me a quick final jerk into the culvert, but he shook his head and backed away again, snapping the rope at me. I glanced down; the snakes seemed almost to know what was afoot, for they had concentrated in a writhing, hissing mass just below me. I scrambled back, wet with fear and rage, and hurled my weight on the rope to try to heave him off balance. But for all the impression I made it might have been anchored to a tree. He was playing with me; there was no question he was far the stronger of us two, and twice he hauled me to the lip and let me go again. Gul Shah clapped his hands and the Ghazis cheered; then he snapped some order to the dwarf, and I realised with sick horror that they were going to make an end. In despair I rolled back again from the edge and got to my feet; my wrists were torn and bloody and my shoulder joints were on fire, and when the dwarf pulled on the rope I staggered forward and in doing so I nearly got him, for he had expected a stronger resistance, and almost overbalanced. I hauled for dear life, but he recovered in time, glaring and piping angrily at me as he stamped his feet for a hold. When he had finally settled himself he started to draw again on the rope, but not with his full strength, for he pulled me in only an inch at a time. This, I supposed, was the final hideous refinement; I struggled like a fish on a line, but there was no resisting that steady, dreadful pull. I was perhaps ten feet from the lip when he turned away from me, as a tug-of-war team will when it has its opponents on the run, and I realised that if I was to make any last desperate bid it must be now, while I had a little space to play with. I had almost unbalanced him by an accidental yielding; could I do it deliberately? With the last of my strength I dug my heels in and heaved tremendously; it checked him and he glanced over his shoulder, surprise on the hideous face. Then he grinned and exerted his strength, lunging away on the rope. My feet slipped. “Go with God, Flashman,” said Gul Shah ironically. I scrabbled for a foothold, found it only six feet from the edge, and then bounded forward. The leap took me to the very lip of the culvert, and the dwarf Mansur plunged forward on his face as the rope slackened. But he was up like a jack-in-the-box, gibbering with rage, in an instant; planting his feet, he gave a savage heave on the rope that almost dislocated my shoulders and flung me face down. Then he began to pull steadily, so that I was dragged forward over the floor, closer and closer to the edge, while the Ghazis cheered and roared and I screamed with horror. “No! No!” I shrieked. “Stop him! Wait! Anything – I’ll do anything! Stop him!” My hands were over the edge now, and then my elbows; suddenly there was nothing beneath my face, and through my streaming tears I saw the bottom of the culvert with the filthy worms gliding across it. My chest and shoulders were clear, in an instant I should overbalance; I tried to twist my head up to appeal to the dwarf, and saw him standing on the far edge, grinning evilly and coiling the slack rope round his right hand and elbow like a washerwoman with a clothes line. He glanced at Gul Shah, preparing to give the final pull that would launch me over, and then above my own frantic babbling and the roaring in my ears I heard the crash of a door flung open behind me, and a stir among the watchers, and a voice upraised in Pushtu. The dwarf was standing stock-still, staring beyond me towards the door. What he saw I didn’t know, and I didn’t care; half-dead with fear and exhaustion as I was, I recognised that his attention was diverted, that the rope was momentarily slack between us, and that he was on the very lip of the trench. It was my last chance. I had only the purchase of my body and legs on the stone; my arms were stretched out ahead of me. I jerked them suddenly back, sobbing, with all my strength. It was not much of a pull, but it took Mansur completely unawares. He was watching the doorway, his eyes round in his gargoyle face; too late he realised that he had let his attention wander too soon. The jerk, slight as it was, unbalanced him, and one leg slipped over the edge; he shrieked and tried to throw himself clear, but his grotesque body landed on the very edge, and he hung for a moment like a see-saw. Then with a horrible piping squeal he crashed sprawling into the culvert. He was up again with a bound, and springing for the rim, but by the grace of God he had landed almost on top of one of those hellish snakes, and even as he came upright it struck at his bare leg. He screamed and kicked at it, and the delay gave a second brute the chance to fix itself in his hand. He lashed out blindly, making a most ghastly din, and staggered about with at least two of the things hanging from him. He ran in his dreadful waddling way in a little circle, and fell forward on his face. Again and again the serpents struck at him; he tried feebly to rise, and then collapsed, his misshapen body twitching. I was dead beat, with exertion and shock; I could only lie heaving like a bellows. Gul Shah strode to the edge of the culvert and screamed curses at his dead creature; then he turned, pointing to me, and shouted: “Fling that bastard in beside him!” They grabbed me and ran me to the pit’s edge, for I could make no resistance. But I remember I protested that it wasn’t fair, that I had won, and deserved to be let go. They held me on the edge, hanging over the pit, and waited for the final word from my enemy. I closed my eyes to blot out the sight of the snarling faces and those dreadful reptiles, and then I was pulled back, and the hands fell away from me. Wondering, I turned wearily; they had all fallen silent, Gul Shah with the rest of them. A man stood in the doorway. He was slightly under middle height, with the chest and shoulders of a wrestler, and a small, neat head that he turned from side to side, taking in the scene. He was simply dressed in a grey coat, clasped about with a belt of chain mail, and his head was bare. He was plainly an Afghan, with something of the pretty look that was so repulsive in Gul Shah, but here the features were stronger and plumper; he carried an air of command, but very easily, without any of the strutting arrogance that so many of his race affected. He came forward, nodding to Gul Shah and eyeing me with polite interest. I noticed with astonishment that his eyes, oriental though they were in shape, were of vivid blue. That and the slightly curly dark hair gave him a European look, which suited his bluff, sturdy figure. He sauntered to the edge of the culvert, clicked his tongue ruefully at the dead dwarf, and asked conversationally: “What has happened here?” He sounded like a vicar in a drawing-room, he was so mild, but Gul Shah kept mum, so I burst out: “These swine have been trying to murder me!” He gave me a brilliant smile. “But without success,” cried he. “I felicitate you. Plainly you have been in terrible danger, but have escaped by your skill and bravery. A notable feat, and what a tale for your children’s children!” It was really too much. Twice in hours I had been on the brink of violent death, I was battered, exhausted, and smeared with my own blood, and here I was conversing with a lunatic. I almost broke down in tears, and I certainly groaned: “Oh, Jesus.” The stout man raised an eyebrow. “The Christian prophet? Why, who are you then?” “I’m a British officer!” I cried. “I have been captured and tortured by these ruffians, and they’d have killed me, too, with their hellish snakes! Whoever you are, you must—” “In the hundred names of God!” he broke in. “A feringhee officer? Plainly there has almost been a very serious accident. Why did you not tell them who you were?” I gaped at him, my head spinning. One of us must be mad. “They knew,” I croaked. “Gul Shah knew.” “Impossible,” says the stout fellow, shaking his head. “It could not be. My friend Gul Shah would be incapable of such a thing; there has been an unfortunate error.” “Look,” I said, reaching out towards him, “you must believe me: I am Lieutenant Flashman, on the staff of Lord Elphinstone, and this man has tried to do me to death – not for the first time. Ask him,” I shouted, “how I came here! Ask the lying, treacherous bastard!” “Never try to flatter Gul Shah,” said the stout man cheerfully. “He’ll believe every word of it. No, there has been a mistake, regrettably, but it has not been irreparable. For which God be thanked – and my timely arrival, to be sure.” And he smiled at me again. “But you must not blame Gul Shah, or his people: they did not know you for what you were.” Now, as he said those words, he ceased to be a waggish madman; his voice was as gentle as ever, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath. Suddenly things became real again, and I understood that the kindly smiling man before me was strong in a way that folk like Gul Shah could never be: strong and dangerous. And with a great surge of relief I realised too that with him by I was safe: Gul Shah must have sensed it also, for he roused himself and growled that I was his prisoner, feringhee officer or not, and he would deal with me. “No, he is my guest,” said the stout man reprovingly. “He has met with a mishap on his way here, and needs refreshment and care for his wounds. You have mistaken again, Gul Shah. Now, we shall have his wrists unbound, and I shall take him to such entertainment as befits a guest of his importance.” My bonds were cut off in a moment, and two of the Ghazis – the same evil-smelling brutes that a few moments ago had been preparing to hurl me to the snakes – supported me from that hellish place. I could feel Gul Shah’s eyes boring into my back, but he said not a word; it seemed to me that the only explanation was that this must be the stout man’s house, and under the strict rules of Musselman hospitality his word was law. But in my exhausted state I couldn’t attempt to make sense of it all, and was only glad to stagger after my benefactor. They took me to a well-furnished apartment, and under the stout man’s supervision the crack in my head was bathed, the blood washed from my torn wrists and oiled bandages applied, and then I was given strong mint tea and a dish of bread and fruit. Although my head ached damnably I was famishing, not having eaten all day, and while I ate the stout man talked. “You must not mind Gul Shah,” he said, sitting opposite me and toying with his small beard. “He is a savage – what Gilzai isn’t? – and now that I think on your name I connect you with the incident at Mogala some time ago. ‘Bloody Lance’, is it not?” And he gave me that tooth-flashing smile again. “I imagine you had given him cause for resentment—” “There was a woman,” I said. “I didn’t know she was his woman.” Which wasn’t true, but that was by the way. “There is so often a woman,” he agreed. “But I imagine there was more to it than that. The death of a British officer at Mogala would have been convenient politically for Gul – yes, yes, I see how it may have been. But that is past.” He paused, and looked at me reflectively. “And so is the unfortunate incident in the cellar today. It is best, believe me, that it should be so. Not only for you personally, but for all your people here.” “What about Sekundar Burnes and his brother?” said I. “Your soft words won’t bring them back.” “A terrible tragedy,” he agreed. “I admired Sekundar. Let us hope that the ruffians who slew him will be apprehended, and meet with a deserved judgement.” “Ruffians?” says I. “Good God, man, those were Akbar Khan’s warriors, not a gang of robbers. I don’t know who you are, or what your influence may be, but you’re behind the times where news is concerned. When they murdered Burnes and sacked his Residency, that was the beginning of a war. If the British haven’t marched from their cantonment into Kabul yet, they soon will, and you can bet on that!” “I think you exaggerate,” he said mildly. “This talk of Akbar Khan’s warriors, for example—” “Look you,” I said, “don’t try to tell me. I rode in from the east last night: the tribes are up along the passes from here to Jugdulluk and beyond, thousands of ’em. They’re trying to wipe out Sale’s force, they’ll be here as soon as Akbar has a mind to take Kabul and slit Shah Sujah’s throat and seize his throne. And God help the British garrison and loyalists like yourself who help them as you’ve helped me. I tried to tell Burnes this, and he laughed and wouldn’t heed me. Well, there you are.” I stopped; all that talk had made me thirsty. When I had taken some tea I added: “Believe it or not as you like.” He sat quiet for a moment, and then remarked that it was an alarming story, but that I must be mistaken. “If it were as you say, the British would have moved by now – either out of Kabul, or into the Bala Hissar fort, where they would be safe. They are not fools, after all.” “You don’t know Elphy Bey, that’s plain,” says I. “Or that ass McNaghten. They don’t want to believe it, you see; they want to think all’s well. They think Akbar Khan is still skulking away in the Hindu Kush; they refuse to believe the tribes are rallying to him, ready to sweep the British out of Afghanistan.” He sighed. “It may be as you say: such delusions are common. Or they may be right, and the danger smaller than you think.” He stood up. “But I am a thoughtless host. Your wound is paining you, and you need rest, Flashman huzoor. I shall weary you no longer. Here you can have peace, and in the morning we can talk again; among other things, of how to return you safely to your people.” He smiled, and the blue eyes twinkled. “We want no more ‘mistakes’ from hotheads like Gul Shah. Now, God be with you.” I struggled up, but I was so weak and weary that he insisted I be seated again. I told him I was deeply grateful for all his kindness, that I would wish to reward him, but he laughed and turned to go. I mumbled some more thanks to him, and it occurred to me that I still didn’t know who he was, or how he had the power to save me from Gul Shah. I asked him, and he paused in the curtained doorway. “As to that,” he said, “I am the master of this house. My close friends call me Bakbook, because I incline to talk. Others call me by various names, as they choose.” He bowed. “You may call me by my given name, which is Akbar Khan. Good night, Flashman huzoor, and a pleasant rest. There are servants within call if you need them.” And with that he was gone, leaving me gaping at the doorway, and feeling no end of a fool. Chapter 9 (#ulink_6294d3c3-3ebb-5143-914d-d001e8e392ab) In fact, Akbar Khan did not return next day, or for a week afterwards, so I had plenty of time to speculate, I was kept under close guard in the room, but comfortably enough; they fed me well and allowed me to exercise on a little closed verandah with a couple of armed Barukzis to keep an eye on me. But not a word would anyone say in answer to my questions and demands for release. I couldn’t even discover what was going on in Kabul, or what our troops were doing – or what Akbar Khan himself might be up to. Or, most important of all, why he was keeping me prisoner. Then, on the eighth day, Akbar returned, looking very spruce and satisfied. When he had dismissed the guards he inquired after my wounds, which were almost better, asked if I was well cared for and so forth, and then said that if there was anything I wished to know he would do his best to inform me. Well, I lost no time in making my wishes known, and he listened smiling and stroking his short black beard. At last he cut me off with a raised hand. “Stop, stop, Flashman huzoor. I see you are like a thirsty man; we must quench you a little at a time. Sit down now, and drink a little tea, and listen.” I sat, and he paced slowly about the room, a burly, springy figure in his green tunic and pyjamys which were tucked into short riding boots. He was something of a dandy, I noticed; there was gold lace on the tunic, and silver edging to the shirt beneath it. But again I was impressed by the obvious latent strength of the man; you could see it even in his stance, with his broad chest that looked always as though he was holding a deep breath, and his long, powerful hands. “First,” he said, “I keep you here because I need you. How, you shall see later – not today. Second, all is well in Kabul. The British keep to their cantonment, and the Afghans snipe at them from time to time and make loud noises. The King of Afghanistan, Shah Sujah” – here he curled his lip in amusement – “sits doing nothing among his women in the Bala Hissar, and calls to the British to help him against his unruly people. The mobs rule Kabul itself, each mob under its leader imagining that it alone has frightened the British off. They do a little looting, and a little raping, and a little killing – their own people, mark you – and are content for the moment. There you have the situation, which is most satisfactory. Oh, yes, and the hill tribes, hearing of the death of Sekundar Burnes, and of the rumoured presence in Kabul of one Akbar Khan, son of the true king Dost Mohammed, are converging on the capital. They smell war and plunder. Now, Flashman huzoor, you are answered.” Well, of course, in answering half a dozen questions he had posed a hundred others. But one above all I had to be satisfied about. “You say the British keep to their cantonment,” I cried. “But what about Burnes’s murder? D’you mean they’ve done nothing?” “In effect, nothing,” says he. “They are unwise, for their inaction is taken as cowardice. You and I know they are not cowards, but the Kabuli mobs don’t, and I fear this may encourage them to greater excesses than they have committed already. But we shall see. However, all this leads me to my purpose in visiting you today – apart from my desire to inquire into your welfare.” And he grinned again, that infectious smile which seemed to mock but which I couldn’t dislike. “You understand that if I satisfy your curiosity here and there, I also have questions which I would wish answered.” “Ask away,” says I, rather cautious. “You said, at our first meeting – or at least you implied – that Elfistan Sahib and McLoten Sahib were … how shall I put it? … sometimes less than intelligent. Was that a considered judgement?” “Elphinstone Sahib and McNaghten Sahib,” says I, “are a pair of born bloody fools, as anyone in the bazaar will tell you.” “The people in the bazaar have not the advantage of serving on Elfistan Sahib’s staff,” says he drily. “That is why I attach importance to your opinion. Now, are they trustworthy?” This was a deuced odd question, from an Afghan, I thought, and for a moment I nearly replied that they were English officers, blast his eyes. But you would have been wasting your time talking that way to Akbar Khan. “Yes, they’re trustworthy,” I said. “One more than the other? Which would you trust with your horse, or your wife – I take it you have no children?” I didn’t think long about this. “I’d trust Elphy Bey to do his best like a gentleman,” I said. “But it probably wouldn’t be much of a best.” “Thank you, Flashman,” says he, “that is all I need to know. Now, I regret that I must cut short our most interesting little discussion, but I have many affairs to attend to. I shall come again, and we shall speak further.” “Now, hold on,” I began, for I wanted to know how long he intended to keep me locked up, and a good deal more, but he turned me aside most politely, and left. And there I was, for another two weeks, damn him, with no one but the silent Barukzis for company. I didn’t doubt what he had told me about the situation in Kabul was true, but I couldn’t understand it. It made no sense – a prominent British official murdered, and nothing done to avenge him. As it proved, this was exactly what had happened. When the mob looted the Residency and Sekundar was hacked to bits, old Elphy and McNaghten had gone into the vapours, but they’d done virtually nothing. They had written notes to each other, wondering whether to march into the city, or move into the Bala Hissar fort, or bring Sale – who was still bogged down by the Gilzais at Gandamack – back to Kabul. In the end they did nothing, and the Kabuli mobs roamed the city, as Akbar said, doing what they pleased, and virtually besieging our people in the cantonment. Elphy could, of course, have crushed the mobs by firm action, but he didn’t; he just wrung his hands and took to his bed, and McNaghten wrote him stiff little suggestions about the provisioning of the cantonment for the winter. Meanwhile the Kabulis, who at first had been scared stiff when they realised what they had done in murdering Burnes, got damned uppish, and started attacking the outposts near the cantonment, and shooting up our quarters at night. One attempt, and only one, was made to squash them, and that foul-tempered idiot, Brigadier Shelton, bungled it handsomely. He took a strong force out to Beymaroo, and the Kabulis – just a damned drove of shopkeepers and stablehands, mark you, not real Afghan warriors – chased him and his troops back to the cantonment. After that, there was nothing to be done; morale in the cantonment went to rock-bottom, and the countryside Afghans, who had been watching to see what would happen, decided they were on a good thing, and came rampaging into the city. The signs were that if the mobs and the tribesmen really settled down to business, they could swarm over the cantonment whenever they felt like it. All this I learned later, of course. Colin Mackenzie, who was through it all, said it was pathetic to see how old Elphy shilly-shallied and changed his mind, and McNaghten still refused to believe that disaster was approaching. What had begun as mob violence was rapidly developing into a general uprising, and all that was wanting on the Afghan side was a leader who would take charge of events. And, of course, unknown to Elphy and McNaghten and the rest of them, there was such a leader, watching events from a house in Kabul, biding his time and every now and then asking me questions. For after a fortnight’s lapse Akbar Khan came to me again, polite and bland as ever, and talked about it and about, speculating on such various matters as British policy in India and the rate of march of British troops in cold weather. He came ostensibly to gossip, but he pumped me for all he was worth, and I let him pump. There was nothing else I could do. He began visiting me daily, and I got tired of demanding my release and having my questions deftly ignored. But there was no help for it; I could only be patient and see what this jovial, clever gentleman had in mind for me. Of what he had in mind for himself I was getting a pretty fair idea, and events proved me right. Finally, more than a month after Burnes’s murder, Akbar came and told me I was to be released. I could have kissed him, almost, for I was fed up with being jailed, and not even an Afghan bint to keep me amused. He looked mighty serious, however, and asked me to be seated while he spoke to me “on behalf of the leaders of the Faithful”. He had three of his pals with him, and I wondered if he meant them. One of them, his cousin, Sultan Jan, he had brought before, a leery-looking cove with a fork beard. The others were called Muhammed Din, a fine-looking old lad with a silver beard, and Khan Hamet, a one-eyed thug with the face of a horse-thief. They sat and looked at me, and Akbar talked. “First, my dear friend Flashman,” says he, all charm, “I must tell you that you have been kept here not only for your own good but for your people’s. Their situation is now bad. Why, I do not know, but Elfistan Sahib has behaved like a weak old woman. He has allowed the mobs to rage where they will, he has left the deaths of his servants unavenged, he has exposed his soldiers to the worst fate of all – humiliation – by keeping them shut up in cantonments while the Afghan rabble mock at them. Now his own troops are sick at heart; they have no fight in them.” He paused, picking his words. “The British cannot stay here now,” he went on. “They have lost their power, and we Afghans wish to be rid of them. There are those who say we should slaughter them all – needless to say, I do not agree.” And he smiled. “For one thing, it might not be so easy—” “It is never easy,” said old Muhammed Din. “These same feringhees took Ghuznee Fort; I saw them, by God.” “—and for another, what would the harvest be?” went on Akbar. “The White Queen avenges her children. No, there must be a peaceful withdrawal to India; this is what I would prefer myself. I am no enemy of the British, but they have been guests in my country too long.” “One of ’em a month too long,” says I, and he laughed. “You are one feringhee, Flashman, who is welcome to stay as long as he chooses,” says he. “But for the rest, they have to go.” “They came to put Sujah on the throne,” says I. “They won’t leave him in the lurch.” “They have already agreed to do so,” said Akbar smoothly. “Myself, I have arranged the terms of withdrawal with McLoten Sahib.” “You’ve seen McNaghten?” “Indeed. The British have agreed with me and the chiefs to march out to Peshawar as soon as they have gathered provisions for the journey and struck their camp. Sujah, it is agreed, remains on the throne, and the British are guaranteed safe conduct through the passes.” So we were quitting Kabul; I didn’t mind, but I wondered how Elphy and McNaghten were going to explain this away to Calcutta. Inglorious retreat, pushed out by niggers, don’t look well at all. Of course, the bit about Sujah staying on the throne was all my eye; once we were out of the way they’d blind him quietly and pop him in a fortress and forget about him. And the man who would take his place was sitting watching how I took the news. “Well,” says I at last, “there it is, but what have I to do with it? I mean, I’ll just toddle off with the rest, won’t I?” Akbar leaned forward. “I have made it sound too simple, perhaps. There are problems. For example, McLoten has made his treaty to withdraw not only with myself, but with the Douranis, the Gilzais, the Kuzzilbashies, and so on – all as equals. Now, when the British have gone, all these factions will be left behind, and who will be the master?” “Shah Sujah, according to you.” “He can rule only if he has a united majority of the tribes supporting him. As things stand, that would be difficult, for they eye each other askance. Oh, McLoten Sahib is not the fool you think him, he has been at work to divide us.” “Well, can’t you unite them? You’re Dost Mohammed’s son, ain’t you – and all through the passes a month ago I heard nothing but Akbar Khan and what a hell of a fellow he was.” He laughed and clapped his hands. “How gratifying! Oh, I have a following, it is true—” “You have all Afghanistan,” growls Sultan Jan. “As for Sujah—” “I have what I have,” Akbar interrupted him, suddenly chilly. “It is not enough, if I am to support Sujah as he must be supported.” There was a moment of silence, not very comfortable, and Akbar went on: “The Douranis dislike me, and they are powerful. It would be better if their wings were clipped – theirs and a few others. This cannot be done after the British have left. With British help it can be done in time.” Oho, I thought, now we have it. “What I propose is this,” says Akbar, looking me in the eye. “McLoten must break his treaty so far as the Douranis are concerned; he must assist me in their overthrow. In return for this, I will allow him – for with the Douranis and their allies gone I shall have the power – to stay in Kabul another eight months. In that time I shall become Sujah’s Vizier, the power at his elbow. The country will be so quiet then – so quiet, that the cheep of a Kandahar mouse will be heard in Kabul – that the British will be able to withdraw in honour. Is not this fair? The alternative now is a hurried withdrawal, which no one here can guarantee in safety, for none has the power to restrain the wilder tribes. And Afghanistan will be left to warring factions.” I have observed, in the course of a dishonest life, that when a rogue is outlining a treacherous plan, he works harder to convince himself than to move his hearers. Akbar wanted to cook his Afghan enemies’ goose, that was all, and perfectly understandable, but he wanted to look like a gentleman still – to himself. “Will you carry my proposal secretly to McLoten Sahib, Flashman?” he asked. If he’d asked me to carry his proposal of marriage to Queen Victoria I’d have agreed, so of course I said “Aye” at once. “You may add that as part of the bargain I shall expect a down payment of twenty lakhs of rupees,” he added, “and four thousand a year for life. I think McLoten Sahib will find this reasonable, since I am probably preserving his political career.” And your own, too, thinks I. Sujah’s Vizier, indeed. Once the Douranis were out of the way it would be farewell Sujah, and long live King Akbar. Not that I minded; after all, I would be able to say I was on nodding terms with a king – even if he was only a king of Afghanistan. “Now,” went on Akbar, “you must deliver my proposals to McLoten Sahib personally, and in the presence of Muhammed Din and Khan Hamet here, who will accompany you. If it seems” – he flashed his smile – “that I don’t trust you, my friend, let me say that I trust no one. The reflection is not personal.” “The wise son,” croaked Khan Hamet, opening his mouth for the first time, “mistrusts his mother.” Doubtless he knew his own family best. I pointed out that the plan might appear to McNaghten to be a betrayal of the other chiefs, and his own part in it dishonourable; Akbar nodded, and said gently: “I have spoken with McLoten Sahib, remember. He is a politician.” He seemed to think that was answer enough, so I let it be. Then Akbar said: “You will tell McLoten that if he agrees, as I think he will, he must come to meet me at Mohammed’s Fort, beyond the cantonment walls, the day after tomorrow. He must have a strong force at hand within the cantonment, ready to emerge at the word and seize the Douranis and their allies, who will be with me. Thereafter we will dispose matters as seems best to us. Is this agreed?” And he looked at his three fellows, who nodded agreement. “Tell McLoten Sahib,” said Sultan Jan, with a nasty grin, “that if he wills he may have the head of Amenoolah Khan, who led the attack on Sekundar Burnes’s Residency. Also, that in this whole matter we of the Barukzis have the friendship of the Gilzais.” If both Gilzais and Barukzis were in the plot, it seemed to me that Akbar was on solid ground; McNaghten would think so too. But to me, sitting looking at those four faces, bland Akbar and his trio of villains, the whole thing stank like a dead camel. I would have trusted the parcel of them as much as Gul Shah’s snakes. However, I kept a straight face, and that afternoon the guard at the cantonment’s main gate was amazed by the sight of Lieutenant Flashman, clad in the mail of a Barukzi warrior, and accompanied by Muhammed Din and Khan Hamet, riding down in state from Kabul City. They had thought me dead a month ago, chopped to bits with Burnes, but here I was larger than life. The word spread like fire, and when we reached the gates there was a crowd waiting for us, with tall Colin Mackenzie at their head. “Where the devil have you come from?” he demanded, his blue eyes wide open. I leaned down so that no one else should hear and said, “Akbar Khan”; he stared at me hard, to see if I was mad or joking, and then said: “Come to the Envoy at once,” and cleared a way through the crowd for us. There was a great hubbub and shouting of questions, but Mackenzie shepherded us all three straight to the Envoy’s quarters and into McNaghten’s presence. “Can’t it wait, Mackenzie?” says he peevishly. “I’m just about to dine.” But a dozen words from Mackenzie changed his tune. He stared at me through his spectacles, perched as always on the very tip of his nose. “My God, Flashman! Alive! And from Akbar Khan, you say? And who are these?” And he indicated my companions. “Once you suggested I should bring you hostages from Akbar, Sir William,” says I. “Well, here they are, if you like.” He didn’t take it well, but snapped to me to come in directly to dinner with him. The two Afghans, of course, wouldn’t eat at an unbeliever’s table, so they waited in his office, where food was brought to them. Muhammed Din reminded me that Akbar’s message must be delivered only in their presence, so I contented myself by telling McNaghten that I felt as though I was loaded with explosives, but that it must wait till after dinner. However, as we ate I was able to give him an account of Burnes’s murder and my own adventures with Gul Shah; I told it very plain and offhand, but McNaghten kept exclaiming “Good God!” all the way through, and at the tale of my tug-of-war his glasses fell into his curry. Mackenzie sat watching me narrowly, pulling at his fair moustache, and when I was done and McNaghten was spluttering his astonishment, Mackenzie just said: “Good work, Flash.” This was praise, from him, for he was a tough, cold ramrod of a man, and reckoned the bravest in the Kabul garrison, except maybe for George Broadfoot. If he told my tale – and he would – Flashy’s stock would rise to new heights, which was all to the good. Over the port McNaghten tried to draw me about Akbar, but I said it must wait until we joined the two Afghans; not that I minded, much, but it made McNaghten sniffy, which was always excuse enough for me. He said sarcastically that I seemed to have gone native altogether, and that I did not need to be so nice, but Mackenzie said shortly that I was right, which put His Excellency into the sulks. He muttered that it was a fine thing when important officials could be bearded by military whipper-snappers, and the sooner we got to business the better it would be. So we adjourned to his study, and presently Muhammed and Hamet came in, greeted the Envoy courteously, and received his cool nod in reply. He was a conceited prig, sure enough. Then I launched into Akbar’s proposal. I can see them still: McNaughten sitting back in his cane chair, legs crossed, finger-tips together, staring at the ceiling; the two silent Afghans, their eyes fixed on him; and the tall, fair Mackenzie, leaning against the wall, puffing a cheroot, watching the Afghans. No one said a word as I talked, and no one moved. I wondered if McNaghten understood what I was saying; he never twitched a muscle. When I was finished he waited a full minute, slowly took off his glasses and polished them, and said quietly: “Most interesting. We must consider what the Sirdar Akbar has said. His message is of the greatest weight and importance. But of course it is not to be answered in haste. Only one thing will I say now: the Queen’s Envoy cannot consider the suggestion of bloodshed contained in the offer of the head of Amenoolah Khan. That is repugnant to me.” He turned to the two Afghans. “You will be tired, sirs, so we will detain you no longer. Tomorrow we will talk again.” It was still only early evening, so he was talking rot, but the two Afghans seemed to understand diplomatic language; they bowed gravely and withdrew. McNaghten watched the door close on them; then he sprang to his feet. “Saved at the eleventh hour!” cried he. “Divide and conquer! Mackenzie, I had dreamed of something precisely like this.” His pale, worn face was all smiles now. “I knew, I knew, that these people were incapable of keeping faith with one another. Behold me proved right!” Mackenzie studied his cigar. “You mean you’ll accept?” “Accept? Of course I shall accept. This is a heaven-sent opportunity. Eight months, eh? Much can happen in that time: we may never leave Afghanistan at all, but if we do it will be with credit.” He rubbed his hands and set to among the papers on his desk. “This should revive even our friend Elphinstone, eh, Mackenzie?” “I don’t like it,” says Mackenzie. “I think it’s a plot.” McNaghten stopped to stare at him. “A plot?” Then he laughed, short and sharp. “Oho, a plot! Let me alone for that – trust me for that!” “I don’t like it a bit,” says Mackenzie. “And why not, pray? Tell me why not. Isn’t it logical? Akbar must be cock o’ the walk, so out must go his enemies, the Douranis. He’ll use us, to be sure, but it is to our own advantage.” “There’s a hole in it,” says Mac. “He’ll never serve as Vizier to Sujah. He’s lying in that, at least.” “What of it? I tell you, Mackenzie, it doesn’t matter one per cent whether he or Sujah rules in Kabul, we shall be secured by this. Let them fight among themselves as they will; it makes us all the stronger.” “Akbar isn’t to be trusted,” Mac was beginning, but McNaghten pooh-poohed him. “You don’t know one of the first rules of politics: that a man can be trusted to follow his own interest. I see perfectly well that Akbar is after undisputed power among his own people; well, who’s to blame him? And I tell you, I believe you wrong Akbar Khan; in our meetings he has impressed me more than any other Afghan I have met. I judge him to be a man of his word.” “The Douranis are probably saying that, too,” says I, and had the icy spectacles turned on me for my pains. But Mackenzie took me up fast enough, and asked me what I thought. “I don’t trust Akbar either,” says I. “Mind you, I like the chap, but he ain’t straight.” “Flashman probably knows him better than we do,” says Mac, and McNaghten exploded. “Now, really, Captain Mackenzie! I believe I can trust my own judgement, do you know? Against even that of such a distinguished diplomatist as Mr Flashman here.” He snorted and sat down at his desk. “I should be interested to hear precisely what Akbar Khan has to gain by treachery towards us? What purpose his proposal can have other than that which is apparent? Well, can you tell me?” Mac just stubbed out his cheroot. “If I could tell you, sir, – if I could see a definite trick in all this – I’d be a happier man. Dealing with Afghans, it’s what I don’t see and don’t understand that worries me.” “Lunatic philosophy!” says McNaghten, and wouldn’t listen to another word. He was sold on Akbar’s plan, plain enough, and so determined that next morning he had Muhammed and Hamet in and signified his acceptance in writing, which they were to take back to Akbar Khan. I thought that downright foolish, for it was concrete evidence of McNaghten’s part in what was, after all, a betrayal. One or two of his advisers tried to dissuade him from putting pen to paper, at least, but he wouldn’t budge. “Trouble is the man’s desperate,” Mackenzie told me. “Akbar’s proposal came at just the right moment, when McNaghten felt the last ray of hope was gone, and he was going to have to skulk out of Kabul with his tail between his legs. He wants to believe Akbar’s offer is above board. Well, young Flash, I don’t know about you, but when we go out to see Akbar tomorrow I’m taking my guns along.” I was feeling pretty nervous about it myself, and I wasn’t cheered by the sight of Elphy Bey, when McNaghten took me along to see him that afternoon. The old fellow was lying on a daybed on his verandah, while one of the garrison ladies – I forget who – was reading the Scriptures to him. He couldn’t have been more pleased to see me, and was full of praise for my exploits, but he looked so old and wasted, in his night-cap and gown, that I thought, my God, what chance have we with this to command us? McNaghten was pretty short with him, for when Elphy heard of Akbar’s plan he looked down in the mouth, and asked if McNaghten wasn’t afraid of some treachery. “None at all,” says McNaghten. “I wish you to have two regiments and two guns got ready, quickly and quietly, for the capture of Mohammed Khan’s fort, where we shall met Sirdar Akbar tomorrow morning. The rest you can leave to me.” Elphy looked unhappy about this. “It is all very uncertain,” says he, fretting. “I fear they are not to be trusted, you know. It is a very strange plot, to be sure.” “Oh, my God!” says McNaghten. “If you think so, then let us march out and fight them, and I am sure we shall beat them.” “I can’t, my dear Sir William,” says old Elphy, and it was pathetic to hear his quavering voice. “The troops aren’t to be counted on, you see.” “Well, then, we must accept the Sirdar’s proposals.” Elphy fretted some more, and McNaghten was nearly beside himself with impatience. Finally he snapped out: “I understand these things better than you!” and turned on his heel, and stamped off the verandah. Elphy was much distressed, and lamented on about the sad state of affairs, and the lack of agreement. “I suppose he is right, and he does understand better than I. At least I hope so. But you must take care, Flashman; all of you must take care.” Between him and McNaghten I felt pretty down, but evening brought my spirits up, for I went to Lady Sale’s house, where there was quite a gathering of the garrison and wives, and found I was something of a lion. Mackenzie had told my story, and they were all over me. Even Lady Sale, a vinegary old dragon with a tongue like a carving knife, was civil. “Captain Mackenzie has given us a remarkable account of your adventures,” says she. “You must be very tired; come and sit here, by me.” I pooh-poohed the adventures, of course, but was told to hold my tongue. “We have little enough to our credit,” says Lady Sale, “so we must make the most of what we have. You, at least, have behaved with courage and common sense, which is more than can be said for some older heads among us.” She meant poor old Elphy, of course, and she and the other ladies lost no time in taking his character to pieces. They did not think much of McNaghten either, and I was surprised at the viciousness of their opinions. It was only later that I understood that they were really frightened women; they had cause to be. However, everyone seemed to enjoy slanging Elphy and the Envoy, and it was quite a jolly party. I left about midnight; it was snowing, and bright moonlight, and as I walked to my billet I found myself thinking of Christmastime in England, and the coach-ride back from Rugby when the half ended, and warm brandy-punch in the hall, and the roaring fire in the dining-room grate with Father and his cronies talking and laughing and warming their backsides. I wished I was there, with my young wife, and at the thought of her my innards tightened. By God, I hadn’t had a woman in weeks and there was nothing to be had in the cantonments. That was something I would speedily put right after we had finished our business with Akbar in the morning, and things were back to normal. Perhaps it was reaction from listening to those whining females, but it seemed to me as I went to sleep that McNaghten was probably right, and our plot with Akbar was all for the best. I was up before dawn, and dressed in my Afghan clothes; it was easier to hide a brace of pistols beneath them than in a uniform. I buckled on my sword, and rode over to the gate where McNaghten and Mackenzie were already waiting, with a few native troopers; McNaghten, in his frock coat and top hat, was sitting a mule and damning the eyes of a Bombay Cavalry cornet; it seemed the escort was not ready, and Brigadier Shelton had not yet assembled the troops who were to overpower the Douranis. “You may tell the Brigadier there is never anything ready or right where he is concerned,” McNaghten was saying. “It is all of a piece; we are surrounded by military incompetents; well, it won’t do. I shall go out to the meeting, and Shelton must have his troops ready to advance within the half hour. Must, I say! Is that understood?” The cornet scuttled off, and McNaghten blew his nose and swore to Mackenzie he would wait no longer. Mac urged him to hold on at least till there was some sign that Shelton was moving, but McNaghten said: “Oh, he is probably in his bed still. But I’ve sent word to Le Geyt; he will see the thing attended to. Ah, here are Trevor and Lawrence; now gentlemen, there has been time enough wasted. Forward!” I didn’t like this. The plan had been that Akbar and the chiefs, including the Douranis, should be assembled near Mohammed’s Fort, which was less than a quarter of a mile from the cantonment gates. Once McNaghten and Akbar had greeted each other, Shelton was to emerge from the cantonment at speed, and the Douranis would be surrounded and overcome between our troops and the other chiefs. But Shelton wasn’t ready, we didn’t even have an escort, and it seemed to me that the five of us and the native troopers – who were only half a dozen or so strong – might have an uncomfortable time before Shelton came on the scene. Young Lawrence thought so, too, for he asked McNaghten as we trotted through the gate if it would not be better to wait; McNaghten snapped his head off and said we could simply talk to Akbar until Shelton emerged, when the thing would be done. “Suppose there’s treachery?” says Lawrence. “We’d be better to have the troops ready to move at the signal.” “I can’t wait any longer!” cries McNaghten, and he was shaking, but whether with fear or cold or excitement I didn’t know. And I heard him mutter to Lawrence that he knew there might be treachery, but what could he do? We must just hope Akbar would keep faith with us. Anyway, McNaghten would rather risk his own life than be disgraced by scuttling hangdog out of Kabul. “Success will save our honour,” says he, “and make up for all the rest.” We rode out across the snowy meadow towards the canal. It was a sparkling clear morning, bitterly cold; Kabul City lay straight ahead, grey and silent; to our left Kabul River wound its oily way beneath the low banks, and beyond it the great Bala Hissar fort seemed to crouch like a watchdog over the white fields. We rode in silence now, our hooves crunching the snow; from the four in front of me the white trails of breath rose over their shoulders. Everything was very quiet. We came to the canal bridge, and just beyond it was the slope running down from Mohammed’s Fort beside the river. The slope was dotted with Afghans; in the centre, where a blue Bokhara carpet was spread on the snow, was a knot of chieftains with Akbar in their midst. Their followers waited at a distance, but I reckoned there must be fifty men in view – Barukzis, Gilzais, Douranis, yes, by God, and Ghazis. That was a nasty sight. We’re mad, I thought, riding into this; why, even if Shelton advances at the double, we could have our throats cut before he’s half way here. I looked back over my shoulder to the cantonment, but there was no sign of Shelton’s soldiers. Mind you, at this stage that was just as well. We rode to the foot of the slope, and what I was shivering with was not the cold. Akbar rode down to meet us, on a black charger, and himself very spruce in a steel back-and-breast like a cuirassier, with his spiked helmet wrapped about with a green turban. He was all smiles and called out greetings to McNaghten; Sultan Jan and the chiefs behind were all looking as jovial as Father Christmas, and nodding and bowing towards us. “This looks damned unhealthy,” muttered Mackenzie. The chiefs were advancing straight to us, but the other Afghans, on the slopes on either side, seemed to me to be edging forward. I gulped down my fear, but there was nothing for it but to go on now; Akbar and McNaghten had met, and were shaking hands in the saddle. One of the native troopers had been leading a lovely little white mare, which he now took forward, and McNaghten presented it to Akbar, who received it with delight. Seeing him so cheerful, I tried to tell myself it was all right – the plot was laid, McNaghten knew what he was doing. I really had nothing to fear. The Afghans were round us now, anyway, but they seemed friendly enough still; only Mackenzie showed, by the cock of his head and his cold eye, that he was ready to drop his hand on his pistol butt at the first sign of a false move. “Well, well,” cries Akbar. “Shall we dismount?” We did, and Akbar led McNaghten on to the carpet. Lawrence was right at their heels, and looking pretty wary; he must have said something, for Akbar laughed and called out: “Lawrence Sahib need not be nervous. We’re all friends here.” I found myself with old Muhammed Din beside me, bowing and greeting me, and I noticed that Mackenzie and Trevor, too, were being engaged in friendly conversation. It was all so pally that I could have sworn there was something up, but McNaghten seemed to have regained his confidence and was chatting away smoothly to Akbar. Something told me not to stand still, but to keep on the move; I walked towards McNaghten, to hear what was passing between him and Akbar, and the ring of Afghans seemed to draw closer to the carpet. “You’ll observe also that I’m wearing the gift of pistols received from Lawrence Sahib,” Akbar was saying. “Ah, there is Flashman. Come up, old friend, and let me see you. McLoten Sahib, let me tell you that Flashman is my favourite guest.” “When he comes from you, prince,” says McNaghten, “he is my favourite messenger.” “Ah, yes,” says Akbar, flashing his smile. “He is a prince of messengers.” Then he turned to look McNaghten in the eye, and said: “I understand that the message he bore found favour in your excellency’s sight?” The buzz of voices around us died away, and it seemed that everyone was suddenly watching McNaghten. He seemed to sense it, but he nodded in reply to Akbar. “It is agreed, then?” says Akbar. “It is agreed,” says McNaghten, and Akbar stared him full in the face for a few seconds, and then suddenly threw himself forward, clapping his arms round McNaghten’s body and pinning his hands to his sides. “Take them!” he shouted, and I saw Lawrence, who had been just behind McNaghten, seized by two Afghans at his elbows. Mackenzie’s cry of surprise sounded beside me, and he started forward towards McNaghten, but one of the Barukzis jumped between, waving a pistol. Trevor ran at Akbar, but they wrestled him down before he had gone a yard. I take some pride when I think back to that moment; while the others started forward instinctively to aid McNaghten, I alone kept my head. This was no place for Flashman, and I saw only one way out. I had been walking towards Akbar and McNaghten, remember, and as soon as I saw the Sirdar move I bounded ahead, not at him, but past him, and so close that my sleeve brushed his back. Just beyond him, on the edge of the carpet, stood the little white mare which McNaghten had brought as a gift; there was a groom at her head, but I was too fast for him. I mounted in one flying leap, and the little beast reared in astonishment, sending the groom flying and causing the others to give back from her flashing fore-hooves. She curvetted sideways before I got her under control with a hand in her mane; one wild glance round for a way out was all I had time for, but it showed me the way. On all sides Afghans were running in towards the group on the carpet; the knives were out and the Ghazis were yelling blue murder. Straight downhill, ahead of me, they seemed thinnest; I jammed my heels into the mare’s sides and she leaped forward, striking aside a ruffian in a skullcap who was snatching at her head. The impact caused her to swerve, and before I could check her she was plunging towards the struggling crowd in the centre of the carpet. She was one of your pure-bred, mettlesome bitches, all nerves and speed, and all I could do was clamp my knees to her flanks and hang on. One split second I had to survey the scene before she was in the middle of it; McNaghten, with two Afghans holding his arms, was being pushed headlong down the hill, his tall hat falling from his head, his glasses gone, and his mouth open in horror. Mackenzie I saw being thrown like a bolster over the flanks of a horse with a big Barukzi in the saddle, and Lawrence was being served the same way; he was fighting like a mad thing. Trevor I didn’t see, but I think I heard him; as my little mare drove into the press like a thunderbolt there was a horrid, bubbling scream, and an exultant yell of Ghazi voices. I had no time for anything but clinging to the mare, yet even in my terror I noticed Akbar, sabre in hand, thrusting back a Ghazi who was trying to come at Lawrence with a knife. Mackenzie was shouting and another Ghazi thrust at him with a lance, but Akbar, cool as you please, struck the lance aside with his sword and shouted with laughter. “Lords of my country, are you?” he yelled. “You’ll protect me, will you, Mackenzie Sahib?” Then my mare had bounded past them. I had a few yards to steady her and to move in, and I set her head downhill. “Seize him!” shouted Akbar. “Take him alive!” Hands grabbed at the mare’s head and at my legs, but we had the speed, thank God, and burst through them. Straight downhill, across the canal bridge, there was the level stretch beside the river, and beyond lay the cantonment. Once over the bridge, on this mare, there wasn’t a mounted Afghan who could come near me. Gasping with fear, I clung to the mane and urged her forward. It must have taken longer to seize my mount, burst through the press, and take flight than I had imagined, for I was suddenly aware that McNaghten and the two Afghans who were carrying him off were twenty yards down the hill, and almost right in my path. As they saw me bearing down on them one of them sprang back, grasping a pistol from his belt. There was no way of avoiding the fellow, and I lugged out my sword with one hand, holding on grimly with the other. But instead of shooting at me, he levelled his piece at the Envoy. “For God’s sake!” McNaghten cried, and then the pistol banged and he staggered back, clutching at his face. I rode full tilt into the man who had shot him, and the mare reared back on her haunches; there was a mob around us now, slashing at McNaghten as he fell, and bounding over the snow at me. I yelled in rage and panic, and swung my sword blindly; it whistled through the empty air, and I nearly overbalanced, but the mare righted me, and I slashed again and this time struck something that crunched and fell away. The air was full of howls and threats; I lunged furiously and managed to shake off a hand that was clutching at my left leg; something cracked into the saddle beside my thigh, and the mare shrieked and bounded forward. Another leap, another blind slash of my sword and we were clear, with the mob cursing and streaming at our heels. I put my head down and my heels in, and we went like a Derby winner in the last furlong. We were down the slope and across the bridge when I saw ahead of me a little party of horsemen trotting slowly in our direction. In front I recognised Le Geyt – this was the escort that was to have guarded McNaghten, but of Shelton and his troops there was no sign. Well, they might just be in time to convoy his corpse, if the Ghazis left any of it; I stood up in the stirrups, glancing behind to make sure the pursuit was distanced, and hallooed. But the only effect was that the cowardly brutes turned straight round and made for the cantonment at full pelt; Le Geyt did make some effort to rally them, but they paid no heed. Well, I am a poltroon myself, but this was ridiculous; it costs nothing to make a show, when all is said. Acting on the thought, I wheeled my mare; sure enough, the nearest Afghans were a hundred yards in my rear, and had given up chasing me. As far again beyond them a crowd was milling round the spot where McNaghten had fallen; even as I watched they began to yell and dance, and I saw a spear upthrust with something grey stuck on the end of it. Just for an instant I thought: “Well, Burnes will get the job now,” and then I remembered, Burnes was dead. Say what you like, the political service is a chancy business. I could make out Akbar in his glittering steel breastplate, surrounded by an excited crowd, but there was no sign of Mackenzie or Lawrence. By God, I thought, I’m the only survivor, and as Le Geyt came spurring up to me I rode forward a few paces, on impulse, and waved my sword over my head. It was impressively bloody from having hit somebody in the scramble. “Akbar Khan!” I roared, and on the hillside faces began to turn to look down towards me. “Akbar Khan, you forsworn, treacherous dog!” Le Geyt was babbling at my elbow, but I paid no heed. “Come down, you infidel!” I shouted. “Come down and fight like a man!” I was confident that he wouldn’t, even if he could hear me, which was unlikely. But some of the nearer Afghans could; there was a move in my direction. “Come away, sir, do!” cries Le Geyt. “See, they are advancing!” They were still a safe way off. “You dirty dog!” I roared. “Have you no shame, you that call yourself Sirdar? You murder unarmed old men, but will you come and fight with Bloody Lance?” And I waved my sabre again. “For God’s sake!” cries Le Geyt. “You can’t fight them all!” “Haven’t I just been doing that?” says I. “By God, I’ve a good mind—” He grabbed me by the arm and pointed. The Ghazis were advancing, straggling groups of them were crossing the bridge. I didn’t see any guns among them, but they were getting uncomfortably close. “Sending your jackals, are you?” I bawled. “It’s you I want, you Afghan bastard! Well, if you won’t, you won’t, but there’ll be another day!” With which I wheeled about, and we made off for the cantonment gate, before the Ghazis got within charging distance; they can move fast, when they want to. At the gate all was chaos; there were troops hastily forming up, and servants and hangers-on scattering everywhere; Shelton was wrestling into his sword-belt and bawling orders. Red in the face, he caught sight of me. “My God, Flashman! What is this? Where is the Envoy?” “Dead,” says I. “Cut to bits, and Mackenzie with him, for all I know.” He just gaped. “Who – what? – how?” “Akbar Khan cut ’em up, sir,” says I, very cool. And I added: “We had been expecting you and the regiment, but you didn’t come.” There was a crowd round us – officers and officials and even a few of the troops who had broken ranks. “Didn’t come?” says Shelton. “In God’s name, sir, I was coming this moment. This was the time appointed by the General!” This astonished me. “Well, he was late,” says I. “Damned late.” There was a tremendous hubbub about us, and cries of “Massacre!” “All dead but Flashman!” “My God, look at him!” “The Envoy’s murdered!” and so on. Le Geyt pushed his way through them, and we left Shelton roaring to his men to stand fast till he found what the devil was what. He spurred up beside me, demanding to know what had taken place, and when I told him all of it, damning Akbar for a treacherous villain. “We must see the General at once,” says he. “How the devil did you come off alive, Flashman?” “You may well ask, sir,” cries Le Geyt. “Look here!” And he pointed to my saddle. I remembered having felt a blow near my leg in the skirmish, and when I looked, there was a Khyber knife with its point buried in the saddle bag. One of the Ghazis must have thrown it; two inches either way and it would have disabled me or the mare. Just the thought of what that would have meant blew all the brag I had been showing clean away. I felt ill and weak. Le Geyt steadied me in the saddle, and they helped me down at Elphy’s front door, while the crowd buzzed around. I straightened up, and as Shelton and I mounted the steps I heard Le Geyt saying: “He cut his way through the pack of ’em, and even then he would have ridden back in alone if I hadn’t stopped him! He would, I tell you, just to come at Akbar!” That lifted my spirits a little, and I thought, aye, give a dog a good name and he’s everyone’s pet. Then Shelton, thrusting everyone aside, had us in Elphy’s study, and was pouring out his tale, or rather, my tale. Elphy listened like a man who cannot believe what he sees and hears. He sat appalled, his sick face grey and his mouth moving, and I thought again, what in God’s name have we got for a commander? Oddly enough, it wasn’t the helpless look in the man’s eyes, the droop of his shoulders, or even his evident illness that affected me – it was the sight of his skinny ankles and feet and bedroom slippers sticking out beneath his gown. They looked so ridiculous in one who was a general of an army. When we had done, he just stared and said: “My God, what is to be done? Oh, Sir William, Sir William, what a calamity!” After a few moments he pulled himself together and said we must take counsel what to do; then he looked at me and said: “Flashman, thank God you at least are safe. You come like Randolph Murray, the single bearer of dreadful news. Tell my orderly to summon the senior officers, if you please, and then have the doctors look at you.” I believe he thought I was wounded; I thought then, and I think now, that he was sick in mind as well as in body. He seemed, as my wife’s relatives would have said, to be “wandered”. We had proof of this in the next hour or two. The cantonment, of course, was in a hubbub, and all sorts of rumours were flying. One, believe it or not, was that McNaghten had not been killed at all, but had gone into Kabul to continue discussions with Akbar, and in spite of having heard my story, this was what Elphy came round to believing. The old fool always fixed on what he wanted to believe, rather than what common sense suggested. However, his daydream didn’t last long. Akbar released Lawrence and Mackenzie in the afternoon, and they confirmed my tale – They had been locked up in Mohammed Khan’s fort, and had seen McNaghten’s severed limbs flourished by the Ghazis. Later the murderers hung what was left of him and Trevor on hooks in the butchers’ stalls of the Kabul bazaar. Looking back, I believe that Akbar would rather have had McNaghten alive than dead. There is still great dispute about this, but it’s my belief that Akbar had deliberately lured McNaghten into a plot against the Douranis to test him; when McNaghten accepted Akbar knew he was not to be trusted. He never intended to hold power in Afghanistan in league with us: he wanted the whole show for himself, and McNaughten’s bad faith gave him the opportunity to seize it. But he would rather have held McNaghten hostage than kill him. For one thing, the Envoy’s death could have cost Akbar all his hopes, and his life. A more resolute commander than Elphy – anyone, in fact – would have marched out of the cantonment to avenge it, and swept the killers out of Kabul. We could have done it, too; the troops that Elphy had said he couldn’t rely on were furious over McNaghten’s murder. They were itching for a fight, but of course Elphy wouldn’t have it. He must shilly-shally, as usual, so we skulked all day in the cantonment, while the Afghans themselves were actually in a state of fear in case we might attack them. This I learned later; Mackenzie reckoned if we had shown face the whole lot would have cut and run. Anyway, this is history. At the time I only knew what I had seen and heard, and I didn’t like it a bit. It seemed to me that having slaughtered the Envoy the Afghans would now start on the rest of us, and having seen Elphy wringing his hands and croaking I couldn’t see what was to stop them. Perhaps it was the shock of my morning escape, but I was in the shivering dumps for the rest of the day. I could feel those Khyber knives and imagine the Ghazis yelling as they cut us to bits; I even wondered if it might not be best to get a fast horse and make off from Kabul as quickly as I could, but that prospect was as dangerous as staying. But by the next day things didn’t look quite so bad. Akbar sent some of the chiefs down to express his regrets for McNaghten’s death, and to resume the negotiations – as if nothing had happened. And Elphy, ready to clutch at anything, agreed to talk; he didn’t see what else he could do, he said. The long and short of it was that the Afghans told us we must quit Kabul at once, leaving our guns behind, and also certain married officers and their wives as hostages! It doesn’t seem credible now, but Elphy actually accepted. He offered a cash subsidy to any married officer who would go with his family as hostages to Akbar. There was a tremendous uproar over this; men were saying they would shoot their wives sooner than put them at the mercy of the Ghazis. There was a move to get Elphy to take action for once, by marching out and occupying the Bala Hissar, where we could have defied all Afghanistan in arms, but he couldn’t make up his mind, and nothing was done. The day after McNaghten’s death there was a council of officers, at which Elphy presided. He was in terribly poor shape; on top of everything else, he had had an accident that morning. He had decided to be personally armed in view of the emergency, and had sent for his pistols. His servant had dropped one while loading it, and the pistol had gone off, the ball had passed through Elphy’s chair, nicking his backside but doing no other damage. Shelton, who could not abide Elphy, made the most of this. “The Afghans murder our people, try to make off with our wives, order us out of the country, and what does our commander do? Shoots himself in the arse – doubtless in an attempt to blow his brains out. He can’t have missed by much.” Mackenzie, who had no great regard for Elphy either, but even less for Shelton, suggested he might try to be helpful instead of sneering at the old fellow. Shelton rounded on him. “I will sneer at him, Mackenzie!” says he. “I like sneering at him!” And after this, to show what he thought, he took his blankets into the council and lay on them throughout, puffing at a cheroot and sniffing loudly whenever Elphy said anything unusually foolish; he sniffed a good deal. I was at the council, in view of my part in the negotiations, I suppose, and for pure folly it matches anything in my military career – and I was with Raglan in the Crimea, remember. It was obvious from the first that Elphy wanted to do anything that the Afghans said he must do; he desired to be convinced that nothing else was possible. “With poor Sir William gone, we are at a nonplus here,” he kept repeating, looking around dolefully for someone to agree with him. “We can serve no purpose that I can see by remaining in Afghanistan.” There were a few spoke out against this, but not many. Pottinger, a smart sort of fellow who had succeeded by default to Burnes’s job, was for marching into the Bala Hissar; it was madness, he said, to attempt to retreat through the passes to India in midwinter with the army hampered by hundreds of women and children and camp followers. Anyway, he didn’t trust Akbar’s safe conduct; he warned Elphy that the Sirdar couldn’t stop the Ghazis cutting us up in the passes, even if he wanted to. It seemed good sense to me: I was all for the Bala Hissar myself, so long as someone else led the way and Flashy was at his post beside Elphy Bey, with the rest of the army surrounding us. But the voices were all against Pottinger; it wasn’t that they agreed with Elphy, but they didn’t fancy staying in Kabul through the winter under his command. They wanted rid of him, and that meant getting him and the army back to India. “God knows what he’ll do if we stay here,” someone muttered. “Make Akbar Political Officer, probably.” “A quick march through the passes,” says another. “They’ll let us go rather than risk trouble.” They argued on, until at last they were too tired and dispirited to talk any further. Elphy sat glooming round in the silence, but not giving any decision, and finally Shelton got up, ground out his cheroot, and snaps: “Well, I take it we go? Upon my word, we must have a clear direction. Is it your wish, sir, that I take order for the army to remove to India with all possible speed?” Elphy sat looking miserable, his fingers twitching together in his lap. “It will be for the best, perhaps,” he said at last. “I could wish it were otherwise, and that you had a commander not incapacitated by disease. Will you be so kind, Brigadier Shelton, as to take what order you think most fitting?” So with no proper idea of what lay ahead, or how we should go, with the army dispirited and the officers divided, and with a commander announcing hourly that he was not fit to lead us, the decision was taken. We were to quit Kabul. It took about a week to conclude the agreement with the Aghans, and even longer to gather up the army and all its followers and make it even half-fit for the road. As Elphy’s aide I had my hands full, carrying his orders, and then other orders to countermand the first ones, and listening to his bleating and Shelton’s snarling. One thing I was determined on, that Flashy at any rate was going to get back to India, whoever else did not. I had my idea about how this should be done, and it did not consist of taking my simple chance with the rest. The whole business of getting the army to pull up its roots, and provisioned and equipped for the journey, proved to be such a mess that I was confident most of them would never see Jallalabad, beyond the passes, where Sale was now holding out and we could count ourselves safe. So I looked out Sergeant Hudson, who had been with me at Mogala, and was as reliable as he was stupid. I told him I wanted twelve picked lancers formed into a special detail under my command – not my Gilzais, for in the present state of the country I doubted whether they would be prepared to get their throats cut on my behalf. The twelve would make as good an escort as I could hope for, and when the time came for the army to founder, we could cut loose and make Jallalabad on our own. I didn’t tell Hudson this, of course, but explained that this troop and I would be employed on the march as a special messenger corps, since orders would be forever passing up and down the column. I told Elphy the same thing, and added that we could also act as mounted scouts and general busybodies. He looked at me like a tired cow. “This will be dangerous work, Flashman,” says he. “I fear it will be a perilous journey, and this will expose you to the brunt of it.” “Never say die, sir,” says I, very manful. “We’ll come through, and anyway, there ain’t an Afghan of the lot of them that’s a match for me.” “Oh, my boy,” says he, and the silly old bastard began piping his eye. “My boy! So young, so valiant! Oh, England,” says he, looking out of the window, “what dost thou not owe to thy freshest plants! So be it, Flashman. God bless you.” I wanted rather more insurance than that, so I made certain that Hudson packed our saddlebags with twice as much hardtack as we would need; supplies were obviously going to be short, and I believed in getting our blow in first. In addition to the lovely little white mare I had taken from Akbar, I picked out another Afghan pony for my own use; if one mount sank I should have the other. These were the essentials for the journey, but I had an eye to the luxuries as well. Confined to the cantonments as we were, I had not had a woman for an age, and I was getting peckish. To make it worse, in that Christmas week a messenger had come through from India with mails; among them was a letter from Elspeth. I recognised the handwriting, and my heart gave a skip; when I opened it I got a turn, for it began, “To my most beloved Hector,” and I thought, by God, she’s cheating on me, and has sent me the wrong letter by mistake. But in the second line was a reference to Achilles, and another to Ajax, so I understood she was just addressing me in terms which she accounted fitting for a martial paladin; she knew no better. It was a common custom at that time, in the more romantic females, to see their soldier husbands and sweethearts as Greek heroes, instead of the whoremongering, drunken clowns most of them were. However, the Greek heroes were probably no better, so it was not so far off the mark. It was a commonplace enough letter, I suppose, with news that she and my father were well, and that she was Desolate without her True Love, and Counted the Hours till my Triumphant Return from the Cannon’s Mouth, and so on. God knows what young women think a soldier does for a living. But there was a good deal about how she longed to clasp me in her arms, and pillow my head on her breast, and so on (Elspeth was always rather forthright, more so than an English girl would have been), and thinking about that same breast and the spirited gallops we had taken together, I began to get feverish. Closing my eyes, I could imagine her soft, white body, and Fetnab’s, and Josette’s, and what with dreaming to this tune I rapidly reached the point where even Lady Sale would have had to cut and run for it if she had happened to come within reach. However, I had my eye on younger game, in the excellent shape of Mrs Parker, the merry little wife of a captain in the 5th Light Cavalry. He was a serious, doting fellow, about twenty years older than she, and as fondly in love as only a middle-aged man with a young bride can be. Betty Parker was pretty enough, in a plump way, but she had buck teeth, and if there had been Afghan women to hand I would hardly have looked at her. With Kabul City out of all bounds there was no hope of that, so I went quickly to work in that week after Christmas. I could see she fancied me, which was not surprising in a woman married to Parker, and I took the opportunity at one of Lady Sale’s evenings – for the old dragon kept open house in those days, to show that whoever was dismayed, she was full of spirit – to play loo with Betty and some others, and press knees with her beneath the table. She didn’t seem to mind by half, so I tested the ground further later on; I waited till I could find her alone, and gave her tits a squeeze when she least expected it. She jumped, and gasped, but since she didn’t swoon I guessed that all was well and would be better. The trouble was Parker. There was no hope of doing anything while we remained in Kabul, and he was sure to stick close as a mother hen on the march. But chance helped me, as she always does if you keep your wits about you, although she ran it pretty fine and it was not until a couple of days before we were due to depart that I succeeded in removing the inconvenient husband. It was at one of those endless discussions in Elphy’s office, where everything under the sun was talked about and nothing done. In between deciding that our men must not be allowed to wear rags round their legs against the snow as the Afghans did to keep off frost-bite, and giving instructions what fodder should be carried along for his fox-hounds, Elphy Bey suddenly remembered that he must send the latest instructions about our departure to Nott at Kandahar. It would be best, he said, that General Nott should have the fullest intelligence of our movements, and Mackenzie, coming as near to showing impatience as I ever knew him, agreed that it was proper that one half of the British force in Afghanistan should know what the other half was doing. “Excellent,” says Elphy, looking pleased, but not for long. “Who shall we send to Kandahar with the despatches?” he wondered, worrying again. “Any good galloper will do,” says Mac. “No, no,” says Elphy, “he must be a man in whom we can repose the most perfect trust. An officer of experience is required,” and he went rambling on about maturity and judgement while Mac drummed his fingernails on his belt. I saw a chance here; ordinarily I never intruded an opinion, being junior and not caring a damn anyway, but now I asked if I might say a word. “Captain Parker is a steady officer,” says I, “if it ain’t out of place for me to say so. And he’s as sure in the saddle as I am, sir.” “Didn’t know that,” says Mac. “But if you say he’s a horseman, he must be. Let it be Parker, then,” says he to Elphy. Elphy hummed a bit. “He is married, you know, Mackenzie. His wife would be deprived of his sustaining presence on our journey to India, which I fear may be an arduous one.” The old fool was always too considerate by half “She will be a prey to anxiety for his safety …” “He’ll be as safe on the road to Kandahar as anywhere,” says Mac. “And he’ll ride all the harder there and back. The fewer loving couples we have on this march the better.” Mac was a bachelor, of course, one of these iron men who are married to the service and have their honeymoon with a manual of infantry drill and a wet towel round their heads; if he thought sending off Parker would cut down the number of loving couples he was going to be mistaken; I reckoned it would increase it. So Elphy agreed, shaking his head and chuntering, and I rounded off the morning’s work later by saying to Mac when we were outside that I was sorry for naming Parker, and that I’d forgotten he was a married man. “You too?” says Mac. “Has Elphy infected you with his disease of worrying over everything that don’t matter and forgetting those that do? Let me tell you, Flash, we shall spend so much time wagging our heads over nonsenses like Parker and Elphy’s dogs and Lady McNaghten’s chest-of-drawers that we’ll be lucky if we ever see Jallalabad.” He stepped closer and looked at me with those uncomfortable cold eyes of his. “You know how far it is? Ninety miles. Have you any notion how long it will take, with an army fourteen thousand strong, barely a quarter of ’em fighting troops, and the rest a great rabble of Hindoo porters and servants, to say nothing of women and children? And we’ll be marching through a foot of snow on the worst ground on earth, with the temperature at freezing. Why, man, with an army of Highland ghillies I doubt if it could be done in under a week. If we’re lucky we might do it in two – if the Afghans let us alone, and the food and firing hold out, and Elphy doesn’t shoot himself in the other buttock.” I’d never seen Mackenzie in such a taking before. Usually he was as cool as a trout, but I suppose being a serious professional and having to work with Elphy had worn him thin. “I wouldn’t say this to anybody but you, or George Broadfoot if he were here,” says he, “but if we come through it’ll be by pure luck, and the efforts of one or two of us, like you and me. Aye, and Shelton. He’s a surly devil, but he’s a fighting soldier, and if Elphy will let him alone he might get us to Jallalabad. There, now, I’ve told you what I think, and it’s as near to croaking as I hope I’ll ever get.” He gave me one of his wintry smiles. “And you’re worried about Parker!” Having heard this, I was worried only about me. I knew Mackenzie; he wasn’t a croaker, and if he thought our chances were slim, then slim they were. Of course, I knew from working in Elphy’s office that things weren’t shaping well; the Afghans were hampering us at every turn in getting supplies together, and there were signs that the Ghazis were moving out of Kabul along the passes – Pottinger was sure they were going to lie in wait for us, and try to cut us up in the really bad defiles, like Khoord-Kabul and Jugdulluk. But I had reasoned that an army fourteen thousand strong ought to be safe, even if a few fell by the wayside; Mac had put it in a different light, and I began to feel again that looseness low down in my guts and the sick sensation in my throat. I tried to tell myself that soldiers like Shelton and Mackenzie, yes, and Sergeant Hudson, weren’t going to be stopped by a few swarms of Afghans, but it was no good. Burnes and Iqbal had been good soldiers, too, and that hadn’t saved them; I could still hear the hideous chunk of those knives into Burnes’s body, and think of McNaghten swinging dead on a hook, and Trevor screaming when the Ghazis got him. I came near to vomiting. And half an hour back I had been scheming so that I could tumble Mrs Parker in a tent on the way back to Jallalabad; that reminded me of what Afghan women do to prisoners, and it didn’t bear thinking about. I was hard put to it to keep a good face on things at Lady Sale’s last gathering, two nights before we left. Betty was there, and the look she gave me cheered me up a little; her lord and master would be half way to Kandahar by now, and I toyed with the notion of dropping in at her bungalow that night, but with so many servants about the cantonment it would be too risky. Better to wait till we’re on the road, thinks I, and nobody knows one tent from another in the dark. Lady Sale spent the evening as usual, railing about Elphy and the general incompetence of the staff. “There never was such a set of yea-and-nays. The only certain thing is that our chiefs have no mind for two minutes on end. They seem to think of nothing but contradicting each other, when harmony and order are most needed.” She said it with satisfaction, sitting in her last chair while they fed her furniture into the stove to keep the room tolerably warm. Everything had gone except her chest-of-drawers, which was to provide fuel to cook her meals before our departure; we sat round on the luggage which was piled about the walls, or squatted on the floor, while the old harpy sat looking down her beaky nose, her mittened hands folded in front. The strange thing was that no one thought of her as a croaker, although she complained unendingly; she was so obviously confident that she would get to Jallalabad in spite of Elphy’s bungling that it cheered people up. “Captain Johnson informs me,” says she, sniffing, “that there is food and fodder for ten days at the most, and that the Afghans have no intention of providing us with an escort through the passes.” “Better without ’em,” says Shelton. “The fewer we see the better I’ll like it.” “Indeed? And who, then, is to guard us from the badmashes and brigands lurking in the hills?” “Good God, ma’am,” cries Shelton, “aren’t we an army? We can protect ourselves, I hope.” “You may hope so, indeed. I am not so sure that some of your native troops will not take the first opportunity to make themselves scarce. We shall be quite without friends, and food, and firewood.” She then went on to tell us cheerfully that the Afghans certainly meant to try to destroy our whole force, in her opinion, that they meant to get all our women into their possession, and that they would leave only one man alive, “who is to have his legs and hands cut off and is to be placed at the entrance of the Khyber pass, to deter all feringhees from entering the country again.” “My best wishes to the Afghan who gets her,” growled Shelton as we were leaving. “If he’s got any sense he’ll stick her up in the Khyber – that’ll keep the feringhees out with a vengeance.” The next day I spent making sure that my picked lancers were all in order, that our saddle-bags were full, and that every man had sufficient rounds and powder for his carbine. And then came the last night, and the chaos of last-minute preparations in the dark, for Shelton was determined to be off before first light so that we might pass Khoord-Kabul in the first day’s march, which meant covering fifteen miles. Chapter 10 (#ulink_9cf5b720-4752-5566-9c39-982a861f2a06) Possibly there has been a greater shambles in the history of warfare than our withdrawal from Kabal; probably there has not. Even now, after a lifetime of consideration, I am at a loss for words to describe the superhuman stupidity, the truly monumental incompetence, and the bland blindness to reason of Elphy Bey and his advisers. If you had taken the greatest military geniuses of the ages, placed them in command of our army, and asked them to ruin it utterly as speedily as possible, they could not – I mean it seriously – have done it as surely and swiftly as he did. And he believed he was doing his duty. The meanest sweeper in our train would have been a fitter commander. Shelton was not told that we would march on the morning of the 6th January, until evening on the 5th. He laboured like a madman through the night, loading up the huge baggage train, assembling the troops within the cantonment in their order of march, and issuing orders for the conduct and disposal of the entire force. It is a few words on paper: as I remember it, there was a black night of drifting snow, with storm lanterns flickering, troops tramping unseen in the dark, a constant babble of voices, the neighing and whining of the great herd of baggage animals, the rumble of wagons, messengers dashing to and fro, great heaps of luggage piled high outside the houses, harassed officers demanding to know where such-and-such a regiment was stationed, and where so-and-so had gone, bugle calls ringing in the night wind, feet stamping, children crying, and on the lighted verandah of his office, Shelton, red-faced and dragging at his collar, with his staff scurrying about him while he tried to bring some order out of the inferno. And as the sun came up from the Seeah Sung hills, it seemed that he had done it. The army of Afghanistan was standing ready to march – everyone was dead tired, of course – strung out through the length of the cantonment, with everything loaded (except sufficient food), and all the troops fallen in and armed (with hardly any powder and ball among them), and Shelton shouting his last orders in a voice gone hoarse, while Elphy Bey finished an unhurried breakfast of devilled ham, omelette, and a little pheasant. (I know because he invited me to join him with the other staff officers.) And while he was making his final toilet, with his staff and servants fussing round him, and the army waiting in the cold, I rode out to the cantonment gate to see what was happening over towards Kabul. The city was alive, with crowds on the roof-tops and scattered over the snowy ground from Bala Hissar to the river; they were there to watch the feringhees go, but they seemed quiet enough just now. The snow was falling gently; it was damned cold. In the cantonments the bugles shrilled together, and “Forward!” was the command, and with a great creaking and groaning and shuffling and bellowing the march began. First out came Mackenzie with his jezzailchis, the wild hill marksmen who were devoted to him; like me, he was wearing poshteen cloak and turban, with his pistols stuck in his belt, and he looked the genuine Afridi chief with his long moustache and his ugly rascals behind him. Then Brigadier Anquetil with the 44th, the only British infantry regiment in the army, very dapper in their shakos and red coats with white crossbelts; they looked fit to sweep away all the hordes of Afghanistan, and my spirits rose at the sight of them. They had a few fifes playing “Yankee Doodle”, of all things, and stepped out smartly. A squadron of Sikh cavalry, escorting the guns and sappers and miners, came next, and then in a little group the English women and families, all on camels or ponies, the children and older ladies travelling in camel howdahs, the younger women riding. And of course Lady Sale was to the fore, wearing an enormous turban and riding a tiny Afghan pony side-saddle. “I was saying to Lady McNaghten that I believe we wives would make the best troopers of all,” she cries out. “What do you think, Mr Flashman?” “I’d take your ladyship into my troop any time,” says I, at which she simpered horribly – “but the other horses might be jealous,” I says to myself quietly, at which the lancers set up a great laugh. There were about thirty white women and children, from tiny babies to grandmothers, and Betty Parker gave me a knowing smile and a wave as she trotted past. Thinks I, wait till tonight, there’ll be one snug blanket-roll on the Jallalabad road anyway. Then came Shelton, blown and weary but cursing as loud as ever, on his charger, and the three Indian regiments of foot, black faces, red coats and white trousers, their naked feet churning up the slush. And behind them the herd – for that was what it was – of baggage animals, lowing and roaring with their tottering bundles and creaking carts. There were hundreds of camels, and the stench was furious; they and the mules and ponies churned the cantonment road into a sea of liquid chocolate, through which the hordes of camp followers and their families waded up to the knee, babbling and shouting. There were thousands of them, men, women, and children, with no order whatever, their few belongings carried on their backs, and all in great consternation at the thought of the march back to India; no proper provision had been made for feeding them on the way, or quartering them at night. They were apparently just to forage what they could and sleep in the drifts. This great brown mob surged by, and then came the rearguard of Indian infantry and a few cavalry troops. The great procession was all strung out across the plain to the river, a sprawling, humming mass that stumbled slowly through the snow; steam rose from it like smoke. And then last of all Elphy Bey’s entourage came out to canter up the line and take its place with the main body beside Shelton, but Elphy was already beset by doubts, and I heard him debating loudly with Grant whether it might not be better to delay setting off. Indeed, he actually sent a messenger to stop the vanguard at the river, but Mackenzie deliberately disobeyed and pushed on; Elphy wrung his hands and cried: “He mustn’t do it! Tell Mackenzie to stop, I say!” but by that time Mac was over the bridge, so Elphy had to give up and come along with the rest. We were no sooner out of the compound than the Afghans were in. The crowds that had been watching had moved round slowly, keeping a safe distance from us, but now they rushed into the cantonments, yelling and burning, looting what was left in the houses and even opening fire on the rearguard. There was some rough work at the gates, and a few Indian troopers were knocked from their saddles and butchered before the rest got clear. One effect of this was to cause a panic among the porters and camp-followers, many of whom flung away their loads and ran for dear life. The snow on either side of the road was soon dotted with bundles and sacks, and it has been reckoned that a good quarter of our stores were lost this way before we had even reached the river. With the mob hanging on the heels of the column we got across, marched past the Bala Hissar, and turned on to the Jallalabad road. We were travelling at a snail’s pace, but already some of the Indian servants were beginning to fall out, plumping down and wailing in the snow, while the bolder spirits among the Afghan spectators came close to jeer and pelt us with stones. There was some scuffling and a shot or two, but in the main the Kabulis just seemed glad to let us go – and so far we were glad enough to be going. If we had even dreamed what lay ahead we would have turned back as one, even if all Afghanistan had been pursuing, but we did not know. On Elphy’s instructions Mackenzie and I and our troops kept up a constant patrol along the flanks of the column, to discourage the Afghans from coming too close and prevent straggling. Some bodies of Afghans were moving along with us, but well out on either side of the road, and we kept a sharp eye on them. One of these groups, drawn up on a little knoll, took my eye; I decided to keep well clear of them, until I heard my name called, and who should be sitting at their head, large as life, but Akbar Khan. My first instinct was to turn tail for the column, but he rode a little forward from his companions, calling to me, and presently I edged my pony up to within a short pistol shot of him. He was all in his steel back-and-breast, with his spiked helmet and green turban, and smiling all over his face. “What the devil do you want?” says I, beckoning Sergeant Hudson up beside me. “To bid you God speed and a good journey, old friend,” says he, quite cheerful. “Also to give you a little advice.” “If it’s the kind you gave Trevor and McNaghten, I don’t need it,” says I. “As God is my judge,” says he, “that was no fault of mine. I would have spared him, as I would spare all of you, and be your friend. For this reason, Flashman huzoor, I regret to see you marching off before the escort is ready that I was assembling for your safety.” “We’ve seen some of your escorts before,” says I. “We’ll do very well on our own.” He rode closer, shaking his head. “You do not understand. I, and many of us, wish you well, but if you go off to Jallalabad before I have taken proper measures for your protection on the march, why then, it is no fault of mine if you meet disaster. I cannot control the Ghazis, or the Gilzais.” He seemed serious, and quite sincere. To this day I cannot be sure whether Akbar was a complete knave or a fairly honest man caught up in a stream of circumstances which he could not resist. But I wasn’t trusting him in a hurry, after what had happened. “What d’ye want us to do?” says I. “Sit down in the snow and wait for you to round up an escort while we freeze to death?” I wheeled my pony round. “If you have any proposals to make, send them to Elfistan Sahib, but I doubt if he’ll listen to ’em. Man alive, your damned Kabulis have been sniping at our rearguard already; how’s that for keeping faith?” I was for riding off, but he suddenly spurred up closer yet. “Flashman,” says he, speaking very fast and low. “Don’t be a fool. Unless Elfistan Sahib lets me help him, by providing an escort in exchange for hostages, you may none of you reach Jallalabad. You can be one of those hostages; I swear on the grave of my mother you would be safe. If Elfistan Sahib will wait, it shall be arranged. Tell him this, and let him send you out again with a reply.” He was so earnest that I was half-convinced. I imagine now that what he was chiefly interested in was hostages, but it is also possible that he genuinely believed that he could not control his tribesmen, and that we should be massacred in the passes. If that happened, Afghanistan might well see another British army the following year, and it would be shooting as it came. At the time, however, I was more concerned about his interest in me. “Why should you want to preserve my life?” says I. “What do you owe me?” “We have been friends,” says he, grinning that sudden grin of his. “Also I admired the compliments you paid me as you rode away from Mohammed Khan’s fort the other day.” “They weren’t meant to flatter you,” says I. “The insults of an enemy are a tribute to the brave,” laughs he. “Think on what I have said, Flashman. And tell Elfistan Sahib.” He waved and rode back up the hill, and the last I saw of his troop they were following slowly on our flank, the tips of their spears winking on the snowy hillside. All that afternoon we toiled on, and we were long short of Khoord-Kabul when night came freezing down. The Afghans hung on our flanks, and when men – aye, and women and children – dropped by the wayside, they were pounced on as soon as the column had passed and murdered. The Afghans saw that our chiefs were not prepared to fight back, so they snapped at our heels, making little sorties on the baggage train, cutting up the native drivers, and scattering into the rocks only when our cavalry approached. Already the column was falling into utter disorder; the main body gave no thought to the thousands of native camp-followers, who were bitterly affected by the cold and want of food; hundreds fell by the way, so that in our wake there was a litter not only of bundles and baggage, but of corpses. And this was within a twenty-minute gallop of Kabul. I had taken Akbar’s message to Elphy when I rejoined the column, and it sent him into a great taking. He dithered and consulted his staff, and eventually they decided to push on. “It will be for the best,” bleated Elphy, “but we should maintain our relations with the Sirdar in the meantime. You shall ride to him tomorrow, Flashman, and convey my warmest good wishes. That is the proper way of it.” The stupid old bastard seemed oblivious of the chaos around him. Already his force was beginning to wither at the edges. When we camped it was a question of the troops simply lying down on the snow, in huddled groups for warmth, while the unfortuate niggers wailed and whimpered in the dark. There were some fires, but no field kitchens or tents for the men; much of the baggage was already lost, the order of march had become confused, some regiments had food and others none, and everyone was frozen to the bone. The only ones fairly well off were the British women and their children. The dragon Lady Sale saw to it that their servants pitched little tents or shelters; long after dark her sharp, high voice could be heard carping on above the general moan and whimper of the camp-followers. My troopers and I were snug enough in the lee of some rocks, but I had left them at dusk to help with the ladies’ tents, and in particular to see where Betty was installed. She seemed quite gay, despite the cold, and after I had made sure that Elphy was down for the night, I returned to the little group of wagons where the women were. It was now quite dark, and starting to snow, but I had marked her little tent, and found it without difficulty. I scratched on the canvas, and when she called out who was there I asked her to send away her servant, who was in the tent with her for warmth. I wanted to talk to her, I said, keeping my voice down. The native woman who served her came snuffling out presently, and I helped her into the dark with my boot. I was too cock-a-hoop to care whether she gossiped or not; she was probably too frightened, like the rest of the niggers, to worry about anything except her own skin that night. I crawled under the low canvas, which was only about two feet high, and heard Betty move in the darkness. There was a pile of blankets covering the floor of the tent, and I felt her body beneath them. “What is it, Mr Flashman?” says she. “Just a friendly call,” says I. “Sorry I couldn’t send in a card.” She giggled in the dark. “You are a great tease,” she whispered, “and very wrong to come in like this. But I suppose the conditions are so unusual, and it is kind of you to look after me.” “Capital,” says I, and without wasting more time I dived under the blankets and took hold of her. She was still half-dressed against the cold, but gripping that young body sent the fire running through me, and in a moment I was on top of her with my mouth on hers. She gave a gasp, and then a yelp, and before I knew it she was writhing away, striking at me, and squeaking like a startled mouse. “How dare you!” she squealed. “Oh, how dare you! Get away! Get away from me this instant!” And lunging in the dark she caught me a great crack on the eye. “What the devil!” says I. “What’s the matter?” “Oh, you brute!” she hissed – for she had the sense to keep her voice down – “you filthy, beastly brute! Get out of my tent at once! At once, d’you hear?” I could make nothing of this, and said so. “What have I done? I was only being friendly. What are you acting so damned missish for?” “Oh, base!” says she. “You … you …” “Oh, come now,” says I. “You’re in very high ropes, to be sure. You weren’t so proper when I squeezed you the other night.” “Squeezed me?” says she, as though I had uttered some unmentionable word. “Aye, squeezed. Like this.” And I reached over and, with a quick fumble in the dark, caught one of her breasts. To my amazement, she didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, that!” she says. “What an evil creature you are! You know that is nothing; all gentlemen do that, in affection. But you, you monstrous beast, presume on my friendship to try to … Oh, oh, I could die of shame!” If I had not heard her I shouldn’t have believed it. God knows I have learned enough since of the inadequacies of education given to young Englishwomen, but this was incredible. “Well,” says I, “if you’re accustomed to gentlemen doing that to you, in affection, you know some damned queer gentlemen.” “You … you foul person,” says she, in indignation. “It is no more than shaking hands!” “Good God!” says I. “Where on earth were you brought up?” At this, by the sound of it, she buried her face in the blankets and began to weep. “Mrs Parker,” says I, “I beg your pardon. I have made a mistake, and I am very sorry for it.” The quicker I got out of this, the better, or she might start shouting rape round the camp. I’ll say this for her, ignorant and full of amazing misconceptions as she was, she had appeared angry rather than frightened, and had kept her abuse of me down to a whisper. She had her own reputation to think about, of course. “I shall go,” says I, and started crawling for the flap. “But I may tell you,” I added, “that in polite society it ain’t usual for gentlemen to squeeze ladies’ tits, whatever you may have been told. And it ain’t usual, either, for ladies to let gentlemen do it; it gives the gentlemen a wrong impression, you know. My apologies, again. Good night.” She gave one last muffled squeak, and then I was out in the snow. I had never heard anything like it in my life, but I didn’t know, then, how astonishingly green young women could be, and what odd notions they could get. Anyway, I had been well set down, for certain; by the looks of it I should have to contain my enthusiasm until we reached India again. And that, as I huddled down in my blankets beside my troopers, with the cold getting keener every minute, was no consolation at all. Looking back on it now, I suppose it is funny enough, but lying shivering there and thinking of the pains I had been at to get Captain Parker out of the way, I could have twisted Mrs Betty’s pretty neck for her. It was a bitter, biting night, and there was little sleep to be had, for if the cold was not bad enough the niggers kept up a great whining and wailing to wake the dead. And by morning not a few of the poor devils were dead, for they had no more than a few rags of clothing to cover them. Dawn broke on a scene that was like something from an icy hell; everywhere there were brown corpses lying stiff in the drifts, and the living crackled as they struggled up in their frozen clothes. I saw Mackenzie actually crying over the body of a tiny native child; he was holding her in his arms, and when he saw me he cried out: “What are we to do? These people are all dying, and those that don’t will be slaughtered by those wolves on the hillside yonder. But what can we do?” “What, indeed?” says I. “Let ’em be; there’s no help for it.” He was remarkably concerned, it seemed to me, over a nigger. And he was such a ramrod of a man, too. “If only I could take her with me,” says he, laying the small body back in the snow. “You couldn’t take ’em all,” says I. “Come on, man, let’s get some breakfast.” He saw this was sensible advice, and we were lucky enough to get some hot mutton at Elphy’s tent. Getting the column under way was tremendous work; half the sepoys were too frost-bitten to be able to lift their muskets, and the other half had deserted in the night, skulking back to Kabul. We had to flog them into line, which warmed everyone up, but the camp followers needed no such urging. They were crowding ahead in panic in case they should be left behind, and threw Anquetil’s vanguard into tremendous confusion. At this point a great cloud of mounted Ghazis suddenly came yelling out of a nullah in the hillside, and rode into the mob, cutting down everything in their way, soldiers and civilians, and made off with a couple of Anquetil’s guns before he could stop them. He made after them, though, with a handful of cavalry, and there was a warm skirmish; he couldn’t get back the guns, but he spiked them, while the 44th stood fast and did nothing. Lady Sale damned them for cowards and hang-backs – the old baggage should have been in command, instead of Elphy – but I didn’t blame the 44th myself. I was farther down the column, and in no hurry to get near the action until Anquetil was riding back, when I brought my lancers up at the canter (true to life, Tom Hughes, eh?). The guns were going to be no use to us, anyway. We blundered along the road for a mile or two, with troops of Afghans hanging on our flanks and every now and then swooping down at a weak part of the column, cutting up a few folk, snatching at the stores, and riding off again. Shelton kept roaring for everyone to hold his place and not be drawn in pursuit, and I took the opportunity to damn his eyes and demand to know what we were soldiers for, if not to fight our enemies when we saw them in front of us. “Steady on, old Flash,” says Lawrence, who was with Shelton just then. “It’s no use chasing ’em and getting cut up in the hills; they’ll be too many for you.” “It’s too bad!” I bawled, slapping my sabre. “Are we just to wait for ’em to chew us up as they please, then? Why, Lawrence, I could clear that hillside with twenty Frenchmen, or old ladies!” “Bravo!” cries Lady Sale, clapping her hands. “You hear, gentlemen?” There was a knot of the staff round Elphy’s palankeen, with Shelton in the middle of them, and they were none too pleased to hear the old dragon crowing at them. Shelton bristled up, and told me to hold my place and do as I was told. “At your orders, sir,” says I, mighty stiff, and Elphy joined in. “No, no, Flashman,” says he. “The Brigadier is right. We must preserve order.” This, in the middle of a column that was a great sprawling mass of troops and people and animals, with no direction at all, and their baggage scattered. Mackenzie, coming up, told me that my party and his jezzailchis must flank the column closely, watching the likely places, and driving in hard when the Afghans appeared – what the Americans call “riding herd”. You can guess what I thought of this, but I agreed heartily with Mac, especially when it came to picking out the most likely spots for attack, so that I could keep well clear of them. It was simple enough, really, for the Afghans would only come where we were not, and at this time they were less interested in killing soldiers than in cutting up the unarmed niggers and pillaging the baggage animals. They made pretty good practice at this during the morning, running in and slitting a throat and running off again. I did pretty well, halloo-ing to my lancers and thundering along the line of march, mostly near the headquarters section. Only once, when I was down by the rearguard, did I come face to face with a Ghazi; the fool must have mistook me for a nigger, in my poshteen and turban, for he came yelling down on a party of servants close by and cut up an old woman and a couple of brats. There was a troop of Shah’s cavalry not far off, so I couldn’t hang back; the Ghazi was on foot, so I let out a great roar and charged him, hoping he would sheer off at the sight of a mounted soldier. He did, too, and like an ass I tried to ride him down, thinking it would be safe enough to have a swipe at him. But the brute whipped round and slashed at me with his Khyber knife, and only by the grace of God did I take the cut on my sabre. I drove on past him, and wheeled just in time to see one of my lancers charging in to skewer him beautifully. Still, I had a good hack at him, for luck, and was able to trot up the line presently looking stern, and with my point impressively bloody. It had been a lesson to me, though, and I took even greater care to be out of distance whenever they made a sortie out of the hills. It was nerve-racking work, and it was all I could do to maintain a bold-looking front as the morning wore on; the brutes were getting braver all the time, and apart from their charges there was an uncomfortable amount of sniping taking place. At last Elphy got fed up, and ordered a halt, which was the worst thing he could have done. Shelton swore and stamped, and said we must push on; it was our only hope to get through Khoord-Kabul before dark. But Elphy insisted we must stop and try and make some sort of peace with the Afghan leaders, and so stop the slow bleeding to death of the army at the hands of the harassing tribesmen. I was for this, and when Pottinger spotted a great mass of Afghans far up the slope, with Akbar at their head, he had no difficulty in persuading Elphy to send out messengers to him. By God, I was sorry to be on hand when that happened, for of course Elphy’s eye lighted on me. There was nothing I could do about it, of course; when he said I must ride to Akbar and demand to know why the safe-conduct was not being observed, I had to listen to his orders as though my guts were not dissolving inside me, and say, “Very good, sir,” in a steady voice. It was no easy task, I can tell you, for the thought of riding out to meet those ruffians chilled me to the backbone. What was worse, Pottinger said I should go alone, for the Afghans might mistake a party for an attacking force. I could have kicked Pottinger’s fat backside for him; he was so damned full of self-importance, standing there looking like Jesus Christ, with his lovely brown beard and whiskers. But I just had to nod as though it was all in the day’s work; there was a fair crowd round, for the womenfolk and English families naturally clung as close to Elphy’s presence as they could – much to Shelton’s annoyance – and half the officers in the main body had come up to see what was happening. I noticed Betty Parker, in a camel howdah, looking bewildered and mimmish until she caught my eye, when she looked quickly away. So I made the best of it. As I wheeled my pony I shouted out to Gentleman Jim Skinner: “If I don’t come back, Jim, settle Akbar Khan for me, will you?” Then I clapped in the spurs and went at the slope hell-for-leather; the faster I went the less chance I stood of getting picked off, and I had a feeling that the closer I got to Akbar Khan the safer I should be. Well, it was right enough; no one came near me, and the Ghazi parties on the hill just stared as I swept by; as I came up towards where Akbar sat his horse before his host – for there must have been five or six hundred of them – he waved to me, which was a cheering sight. “Back again, prince of messengers,” he sings out. “What news from Elfistan Sahib?” I pulled up before him, feeling safer now that I was past the Ghazi outliers. I didn’t believe Akbar would let me be harmed, if he could help it. “No news,” says I. “But he demands to know if this is how you keep faith, setting on your men to pillage our goods and murder our people.” “Did you not tell him?” says he, jovial as ever. “He himself broke faith, by leaving Kabul before the escort was ready for him. But here it is –” and he gestured at the ranks behind him “– and he may go forward in peace and safety.” If this was true, it was the best news I had heard in months. And then, glancing past him at the ranks behind, I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach: immediately in his rear, and glaring at me with his wolf smile, was my old enemy, Gul Shah. Seeing him there was like a dash of cold water in the face; here was one Afghan who did not want to see Flashman, at least, depart in peace and safety. Akbar saw my look, and laughed. Then he brought his horse up closer to mine, so that we were out of earshot, and said: “Have no fear of Gul Shah. He no longer makes mistakes, such as the one which was almost so unfortunate for yourself. I assure you, Flashman, you need not mind him. Besides, his little snakes are all back in Kabul.” “You’re wrong,” says I. “There are a damned lot of them sitting either side of him.” Akbar threw back his head, and laughed again, flashing those white teeth. “I thought the Gilzais were friends of yours.” says he. “Some of them,” says I. “Not Gul Shah’s.” “It is a pity,” says Akbar, “for you know that Gul is now Khan of Mogala? No? Oh, the old man – died, as old men will. Gul has been very close to me, as you know, and as a reward for faithful service I granted him the lordship.” “And Ilderim?” I asked. “Who is Ilderim? A friend of the British. It is not fashionable, Flashman, greatly though I deplore it, and I need friends myself – strong friends, like Gul Shah.” Well, it didn’t matter to me, but I was sorry to see Gul Shah advanced, and sorrier still to see him here, watching me the way a snake watches a mouse. “But Gul is difficult to please, you know,” Akbar went on. “He and many others would gladly see your army destroyed, and it is all I can do to hold them back. Oh, my father is not yet King again in Afghanistan; my power is limited. I can guarantee you safe-conduct from the country only on conditions, and I fear that my chiefs will make those conditions harsher the longer Elfistan Sahib resists them.” “As I understand it,” says I, “your word is pledged already.” “My word? Will that heal a cut throat? I talk of what is; I expect Elfistan Sahib to do the same. I can see him safe to Jallalabad if he will deliver up six hostages to me here, and promises me that Sale will leave Jallalabad before your army reaches it.” “He can’t promise that,” I protested. “Sale isn’t under his command now; he’ll hold Jallalabad till he is given orders from India to leave.” Akbar shrugged. “These are the terms. Believe me, old friend, Elfistan Sahib must accept them – he must!” And he thumped his fist against my shoulder. “And for you, Flashman; if you are wise you will be one of the six hostages. You will be safer with me than down yonder.” He grinned, and reined back his pony. “Now, go with God, and come again soon with a wise answer.” Well, I knew better than to expect any such thing from Elphy Bey, and sure enough, when I carried Akbar’s message to him he croaked and dithered in his best style. He must consider, he said, and in the meantime the army was so exhausted and confused that we should march no farther that day. It was only two o’clock. Shelton flew into a great passion at this, and stormed at Elphy that we must press on. One more good march would take us through Khoord-Kabul Pass and, what was more important, out of the snow, for beyond the pass the ground dropped away. If we spent another night in the freezing cold, said Shelton, the army must die. So they argued and wrangled, and Elphy had his way. We stayed where we were, thousands of shivering wretches on a snow-swept road, with nearly half our food already gone, no fuel left, and some of the troops even reduced to burning their muskets and equipment to try to keep a tiny flicker of warmth in their numb bodies. The niggers died in droves that night, for the mercury was far below freezing, and the troops kept alive only by huddling together in huge groups, burrowing in among each other like animals. I had my blankets, and enough dried meat in my saddlebags not to go hungry. The lancers and I slept in a tight ring, as the Afghans do, with our cloaks above; Hudson had seen to it that each man carried a flask of rum, and so we kept out the cold tolerably well. In the morning we were covered with snow, and when I clambered out and saw the army, thinks I, this is as far as we’ll go. Most of them were too frozen to move at first, but when the Afghans were seen gathering on the slopes in the dawn light, the camp-followers flew into a panic and blundered off down the road in a great mob. Shelton managed to heave the main body of troops up in their wake, and so we stumbled on, like a great wounded animal with no brain and no heart, while the crackle of that hellish sniping started afresh, and the first casualties of the day began to totter from the ranks to die in the drifts on either side. From other accounts of that frightful march that I have read – mostly Mackenzie’s and Lawrence’s and Lady Sale’s – I can fit a few of my recollections into their chronicle, but in the main it is just a terrible, bloody nightmare even now, more than sixty years after. Ice and blood and groans and death and despair, and the shrieks of dying men and women and the howling of the Ghazis and Gilzais. They rushed and struck, and rushed and struck again, mostly at the camp-followers, until it seemed there was a slashed brown body every yard of the way. The only place of safety was in the heart of Shelton’s main body, where the sepoys still kept some sort of order; I suggested to Elphy when we set off that I and my lancers should ride guard on the womenfolk, and he agreed at once. It was a wise move on my part, for the attacks on the flanks were now so frequent that the work we had been doing yesterday was becoming fatally dangerous. Mackenzie’s jezzailchis were cut to ribbons stemming the sorties. As we neared Khoord-Kabul the hills rose up on either side, and the mouth of that awful pass looked like a gateway into hell. Its walls were so stupendous that the rocky bottom was in perpetual twilight; the dragging tread of the army, the bellowing of the beasts, the shouts and groans and the boom of shots echoed and rang from its cliffs. The Afghans were on the ledges, and when Anquetil saw them he halted the vanguard, because it seemed certain death to go on. There was more consulting and arguing around Elphy, until Akbar and his people were seen among the rocks near the pass mouth. Then I was sent off again, and it was to tell him that at last Elphy had seen reason: we would give up six hostages, on condition that Akbar called off his killers. He agreed, clapping me on the shoulders and swearing that all should now be well; I should come as one of the hostages, he said, and a merry time we would have of it. I was torn two ways about this; the farther away I could keep from Gul Shah, the better; on the other hand, how safe would it be to remain with the army? It was settled for me, for Elphy himself called on Mackenzie, Lawrence, and Pottinger to give themselves over to Akbar. They were among the best we had, and I suppose he thought Akbar would be the more impressed by them. Anyway, if Akbar kept his word it did not matter much who remained with the army, since it would not have to fight its way to Jallalabad. Lawrence and Pottinger agreed at once; Mac took a little longer. He had been a trifle cool with me – I suppose because my lancers had not shared the fighting that day, and his folk had been so badly mauled. But he said nothing, and when Elphy put it to him he didn’t answer, but stood staring out over the snow. He was in a sad pass, with his turban gone and his hair all awry, his poshteen spattered with blood and a drying wound on the back of his hand. Presently he drew his sword, and dropped it point first into the ground, and walked over without a word to join Pottinger and Lawrence. Watching his tall figure moving away I felt a little chill touch me; being a ruffian, perhaps I know a good man when I see one better than most, and Mac was one of the mainstays of our force. A damned prig, mind you, and given to immense airs, but as good a soldier – for what that’s worth – as I’ve met. Akbar wanted Shelton as well, but Shelton wouldn’t have it. “I trust that black bastard as far as I’d trust a pi-dog,” says he. “Anyway, who’s to look after the army if I’m gone?” “I shall be in command still,” says Elphy, taken aback. “Aye,” says Shelton, “that’s what I mean.” This started another bickering match, of course, which ended with Shelton turning on his heel and stumping off, and Elphy whining about discipline. And then the order to march sounded again, and we turned our faces towards Khoord-Kabul. At first it was well enough, and we were unmolested. It looked as though Akbar had his folk under control, and then suddenly the jezzails began to crack from the ledges, and men began to fall, and the army staggered blindly in the snow. They were pouring fire into the pass at almost point-blank range, and the niggers began to scream and run, and the troops broke their ranks, with Shelton bawling, and then in a moment everyone was running or riding full tilt through that hellish defile. It was just a great wild rush, and the devil take the hindmost; I saw a camel with two white women and two children shot, and it staggered into the snow and threw them out. An officer ran to help, and went down with a ball in his belly, and then the crowd surged over them all. I saw a Gilzai mounted warrior seize on a little girl of about six and swing her up screaming to his saddlebow and make off; she kept shrieking “Mummy! Mummy!” as he bore her away. Sepoys were throwing down their muskets and running blindly forward, and I saw an officer of the Shah’s Cavalry riding in among them, belabouring them with the flat of his sword and yelling his head off. Baggage was being flung recklessly away, the drivers were abandoning their animals, no one had any thought but to rush through the pass as fast as possible, away from that withering fire. I can’t say I wasted much time myself: I put my head down to my pony’s neck, dug in my heels and went like billy-be-damned, threading through the pack and praying to God I wasn’t hit by a stray ball. The Afghan ponies are as sure-footed as cats, and she never stumbled once. Where my lancers were I had no idea, not that I cared; it was every man (and woman) for himself, and I wasn’t too particular who I rode over in my flight. It was nip and tuck like a steeplechase, with the shots crashing and echoing and thousands of voices yelling; only once did I check for an instant, when I saw young Lieutenant Sturt shot out of his saddle; he rolled into a drift and lay there screaming, but it would have done no good to stop. No good to Flashy, anyway, and that was what mattered. How long it took to make the passage I don’t know, but when the way began to widen and the mass of fugitives ahead and around began to slow down I reined in to take stock. The firing had slackened, and Anquetil’s vanguard were forming up to cover the flight of those still coming behind. Presently there was a great mob streaming out of the defile, troops and people all mixed together, and when they reached the light of day they just collapsed in the snow, dead beat. Three thousand people died in Khoord-Kabul, they say, most of them niggers, and we lost all our remaining baggage. When we made camp beyond the eastern limit of the pass we were in the middle of a snow-storm, all order was completely lost; stragglers kept coming in after dark, and I remember one woman who arrived having carried her baby on foot the whole way. Lady Sale had been shot in the arm, and I can see her now holding her hand out to the surgeon and shutting her eyes tight while he cut the ball out; she never flinched, the tough old bitch. There was a major struggling with his hysterical wife, who wanted to go back for her lost child; he was weeping and trying to stop the blows she was aiming wildly at his chest. “No, no, Jenny!” he kept saying. “She’s gone! Pray to Jesus to look after her!” Another officer, I forget who, had gone snow-blind, and kept walking about in circles until someone led him away. Then there was a British trooper, reeling drunk on an Afghan pony and singing a barrack-room song; where he had got the liquor, God knows, but there was plenty of it, apparently, for presently he fell into the snow and lay there snoring. He was still there next morning, frozen dead. Night was hell again, with the darkness full of crying and groaning. There was only a handful of tents left, and the English women and children all crowded into one of them. I wandered about all night, for it was freezing too bitterly to sleep, and anyway I was in a fearful funk. I could see now that the whole army was going to be destroyed, and myself with it; being a hostage with Akbar would be no better, for I had convinced myself by this that when he had finished butchering the army he would kill his prisoners too. There was only one hope that I could see, and that was to wait with the army until we were clear of the snow, and then strike out by night on my own. If the Afghans spotted me I would ride for it. Next day we hardly advanced at all, partly because the whole force was so frozen and starved as to be incapable of going far, but also because Akbar sent a messenger into camp saying that we should halt so that he could have provisions brought up. Elphy believed him, in spite of Shelton’s protests; Shelton almost went on his knees to Elphy, urging that if we could only keep going till we were out of the snow, we might come through yet. But Elphy doubted if we could get even that far. “Our only hope is that the Sirdar, taking pity on our plight, will succour us at this late hour,” says he. “You know, Shelton, he is a gentleman; he will keep his word.” Shelton just walked away in disgust and rage. The supplies never came, of course, but the following day comes another messenger from Akbar, suggesting that since we were determined to march on, the wives and families of the British officers should be left in his care. It was just this suggestion, made back in Kabul, that had provoked such indignation, but now every married man leaped at it. Whatever anyone might say openly, however much Elphy might talk as though he still expected to march to Jallalabad, everyone knew that the force as it stood was doomed. Frost-bitten, starving, cluttered still with camp-followers like brown skeletons who refused to die, with its women and children slowing it down, with the Ghazis and Gilzais sniping and harrying, death stared the army in the face. With Akbar, at least, the women and children would stand a chance. So Elphy agreed, and we watched the little convoy, on the last of the camels, set off into the snow, the married men going along with their wives. I remember Betty riding bareheaded, looking very pretty with the morning sun shining on her hair, and Lady Sale, her wounded arm in a sling, poking her head out of a camel howdah to rebuke the nigger who was trotting alongside carrying the last of her belongings in a bundle. But I didn’t share the general satisfaction that they were leaving us; I was keeping as well out of harm’s way as I could by staying next to Elphy, but even that was not going to be safe for long. I still had dried mutton enough left in my saddle-bags, and Sergeant Hudson seemed to have a secret store of fodder for his horse and those of the lancers who survived – there were about half a dozen left of my original party, I think, but I didn’t count. But even clinging to Elphy’s palankeen, on the pretext of riding bodyguard, I was in no doubt of what must happen eventually. In the next two days the column was under constant attack; in about ten miles we lost the last of the camp-followers, and in one terrible affray which I heard behind us but took good care not to see, the last of the sepoy units were fairly wiped out. To tell the truth, my memories of that period are hazy; I was too exhausted and afraid to pay much heed. Some things, though, are clear in my mind; images like coloured pictures in a magic lantern that I shall never forget. Once, for example, Elphy had all the officers of the force line up at the rearguard, to show a “united front”, as he called it, to our pursuers. We stood there for a full half hour, like so many scarecrows, while they jeered at us from a distance, and one or two of us were shot down. I remember Grant, the Adjutant-General, clapping his hands over his face and shouting, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” and falling down in the snow, and the young officer next to me – a boy with yellow side-whiskers covered with frost – saying, “Oh, poor old fellow!” I saw an Afghan boy, once, chuckling to himself as he stabbed and stabbed again at a wounded sepoy; the boy was not over ten years old. And I remember the glazed look in the eyes of dying horses, a pair of brown feet marching in front of me that left bloody footprints on the ice. I remember Elphy’s grey face, with his jowls wobbling, and the rasping sound of Shelton’s voice, and the staring eyes in the dark faces of the few Indians that were left, soldiers and camp-followers – but mostly I remember the fear that cramped my stomach and seemed to turn my legs to jelly as I listened to the crackle of firing before and behind, the screams of stricken men, and the triumphant screeching of the Afghans. I know now that when we were five days out from Kabul, and had reached Jugdulluk, the army that had been fourteen thousand strong was just over three thousand, of whom a bare five hundred were fighting troops. The rest, apart from a few hostages in the hands of the enemy, were dead. And it was here that I came to my senses, in a barn at Jugdulluk where Elphy had made his quarters. It was as though I came out of a dream to hear him arguing with Shelton and some of the staff over a proposal that had come from Akbar that Elphy and Shelton should go to see him under a flag of truce, to negotiate. What they were to negotiate, God knows, but Shelton was dead against it; he stood there, his red cheeks fallen in, but his moustache still bristling, swearing that he would go on for Jallalabad if he had to do it alone. But Elphy was for negotiating; he would go and see Akbar, and Shelton must come, too; he would leave Anquetil to command the army. Aye, thought I, and somehow my brain was as clear as ice again, this is where Flashman takes independent action. They would never come back from Akbar, of course; he would never let such valuable hostages go. If I, too, let myself fall into Akbar’s hands, I would be in imminent danger from his henchman, Gul Shah. If I stayed with the army, on the other hand, I would certainly die with it. One obvious course suggested itself. I left them wrangling, and slipped out in search of Sergeant Hudson. I found him dressing his horse, which was so thin and jaded now it looked like a run-down London hack. “Hudson,” says I, “you and I are riding out.” He never blinked. “Yes, sir,” says he. “Where to, sir?” “India,” says I. “Not a word to anyone; these are special orders from General Elphinstone.” “Very good, sir,” says he, and I left him knowing that when I came back he would have our beasts ready, saddlebags as full as he could manage, and everything prepared. I went back to Elphy’s barn, and there he was, preparing to leave to see Akbar. He was fussing as hard as ever, over such important matters as the whereabouts of his fine silver flask, which he intended to take as a gift to the Sirdar – this while the remnants of his army were dying in the snow round Jugdulluk. “Flashman,” says he, gathering his cloak round him and pulling his woollen cap over his head, “I am leaving you for only a little time, but in these desperate days it is not wise to count too far ahead. I trust I find you well enough in a day or two, my boy. God bless you.” And God rot you, you old fool, I thought; you won’t find me in a day or two, not unless you ride a damned sight faster than I think you can. He sniffed some more about his flask, and shuffled out, helped by his valet. Shelton wasn’t yet ready, apparently, and the last words I heard Elphy say were: “It is really too bad.” They should be his epitaph; I raged inwardly at the time when I thought of how he had brought me to this; now, in my maturer years, I have modified my view. Whereas I would have cheerfully shot him then, now I would hang, draw and quarter him for a bungling, useless, selfish old swine. No fate could be bad enough for him. Chapter 11 (#ulink_9a7fa58b-e5c5-5a3e-b43c-8005f865c246) Hudson and I waited for night, and then we simply saddled up and slipped off into the dark, striking due east. It was so easy I could have laughed; no one challenged us, and when about ten minutes out we met a party of Gilzais in the dark I gave them good night in Pushtu and they left us alone. There was no moon, but light enough for us to pick our way easily enough through the snowy rocks, and after we had ridden a couple of hours I gave the order to halt, and we bedded down for the night in the lee of a little cliff. We had our blankets, and with no one to groan around us I slept the best sleep I had had in a week. When I woke it was broad day, and Sergeant Hudson had a little fire going and was brewing coffee. It was the first hot drink I had tasted in days; he even has a little sugar for it. “Where the devil did you come by this, Hudson?” says I, for there had been nothing but dried mutton and a few scraps of biscuit on the last few days of the march. “Foraged, sir,” says he, cool as you please, so I asked no more questions, but sipped contentedly as I lay in my blankets. “Hold on, though,” I said, as he dropped more sticks on his fire. “Suppose some damned Ghazi sees your smoke; we’ll have the whole pack of’em down on us.” “Beg pardon, sir,” says he, “but this hardwood don’t make no smoke worth mentioning.” And neither it did, when I came to look at it. A moment later he was begging my pardon again, and asking if I intended we should ride on shortly, or perhaps rest for that day where we were. He pointed out that the ponies were used up, what with lack of fodder, but that if they were rested and given a good feed next morning, we should be out of the snow soon and into country where we might expect to come by grazing. I was in two minds about this, for the more distance we put between ourselves and Akbar’s ruffians – and Gul Shah especially – the better I would like it. On the other hand, both the beasts and ourselves would be the better of rest and in this broken country it didn’t seem likely that we would be spotted, except by sheer chance. So I agreed, and found myself considering this Sergeant Hudson for the first time, for beyond noting that he was a steady man I had given him not much notice before. After all, why should one notice one’s men very much? He was about thirty, I suppose, powerfully built, with fair hair that had a habit of falling over one eye, when he would brush it away. He had one of those square tough faces that you see on working men, with grey eyes and a cleft in his chin, and he did everything very deft and smartly. By his accent I would have said he was from somewhere in the west, but he was well spoken enough, and, although he knew his place, was not at all your ordinary trooper, half-yokel, half-guttersnipe. It seemed to me as I watched him tending the fire, and presently rubbing down the ponies, that I had made a lucky choice in him. Next morning we were up and off before dawn, Hudson having given the beasts the last of the fodder which he confessed he had been hoarding in his bags – “just in case we was going to need one last good day’s gallop”. Using the sun, I set off south-east, which meant we had the main road from Kabul to India somewhere away to our right; it was my intention to follow this line until we came to the River Soorkab, which we would ford and follow along its southern bank to Jallalabad, about sixty miles away. That should keep us well clear of the road, and of any wandering bands of Afghans. I was not greatly concerned about what tale we would tell when we got there; God knew how many folk had become separated from the main army, like Hudson and myself, or how many would eventually turn up at Jallalabad. I doubted if the main force would ever get there, and that would give everyone too much to think about to worry about a few strays like us. At need I could say we had become separated in the confusion; Hudson wasn’t likely to blab my remark about being despatched on orders from Elphy – and God knew when Elphy would return to India, if he ever did. So I was in excellent fettle as we threaded our way through the little snowy passes, and well before noon we crossed the Soorkab and made capital speed along its southern shore. It was rocky enough, to be sure, but there were occasional places where we could raise a gallop, and it seemed to me that at this rate we should soon be out of the snows and on to easier, drier going. I pressed on hard, for this was Gilzai country, and Mogala, where Gul Shah lorded it when he was at home, was not far away. The thought of that grim stronghold, with the crucifixes at the gates, cast a shadow over my mind, and at that moment Sergeant Hudson edged his pony up beside mine. “Sir,” says he. “I think we’re being followed.” “What d’ye mean?” says I, nastily startled. “Who is it?” “Dunno,” says he, “but I can feel it, if you know what I mean, sir.” He looked round us; we were on a fairly clear stretch, with the river rumbling away to our left, and broken hills to our right. “Mebbe this way isn’t as lonely as we thought.” I’d been long enough in the hills to know that when a seasoned soldier has that instinct, he is generally right; a less experienced and less nervous officer might have pooh-poohed his fears, but I knew better. At once we turned away from the river and up a narrow gully into the hill country; if there were Afghans behind us we would let them pass on while we took a long loop into the hills. We could still hold our course for Jallalabad, but midway between the Soorkab and the main road. It was slower going, of course, but after an hour or so Hudson said he felt we were clear of whoever had been behind us. Still I kept well away from the river, and then another interruption came: from far away to our right, very faint on the afternoon air, came the sound of firing. It was ragged, but there was enough of it to suggest that a fair-sized force was involved. “By God!” says Hudson. “It’s the army, sir!” The same thought struck me; it might be that the army, or what was left of it, would have got this far on the road. I guessed that Gandamack would be somewhere up ahead of us, and as I knew that the Soorkab swings south in that area, we had no choice but to ride towards the firing if we were not to risk running into our mysterious pursuers on the river. So we pushed on, and always that damned firing came closer. I guessed it couldn’t be more than a mile off now, and was just about to call to Sergeant Hudson, who had forged ahead, when he turned in his saddle and waved to me in great excitement. He had come to a place where two great rocks reared up at the mouth of a gully that ran down steeply in the direction of the Kabul road; between them we had a clear view down from the heights, and as I reined in and looked I saw a sight I shall never forget. Beneath us, and about a mile away, lay a little cluster of huts, with smoke rising from them, that I guessed must be Gandamack village. Close by, where the road swung north again, was a gentle slope, strewn with boulders, rising to a flat summit about a hundred yards across. That whole slope was crawling with Afghans; their yells came clearly up the gully to us. On the summit of the slope was a group of men, maybe a company strong; at first, seeing their blue poshteens, I took them for Afghans, but then I noticed the shakos, and Sergeant Hudson’s voice, shaking with excitement, confirmed me: “That’s the 44th! Look at ’em, sir! It’s the 44th, poor devils!” They were in a ragged square, back to back on the hilltop, and even as we watched I saw the glitter of bayonets as they levelled their pieces, and a thin volley crashed out across the valley. The Afghans yelled louder than ever, and gave back, but then they surged in again, the Khyber knives rising and falling as they tried to hack their way into the square. Another volley, and they gave back yet again, and I saw one of the figures on the summit flourishing a sword as though in defiance. He looked for all the world like a toy soldier, and then I noticed a strange thing; he seemed to be wearing a long red, white and blue weskit beneath his poshteen. I must have said something of this to Hudson, for he shouted out: “By God, it’s the colours! Damn the black bastards, give it to ’em, 44th! Give ’em hot hell!” “Shut up, you fool!” says I, although I needn’t have worried, for we were too far away to be heard. But Hudson stopped shouting, and contented himself with swearing and whispering encouragement to the doomed men on the hilltop. For they were doomed. Even as we watched the grey and black robed figures came charging up the slope again, from all sides, another volley cracked out, and then the wave had broken over them. It boiled and eddied on the hilltop, the knives and bayonets flashing, and then it rolled slowly back with one great, wailing yell of triumph, and on the hilltop there were no figures standing up. Of the man with the colours round his waist there was no sign; all that remained was a confusion of vague shapes scattered among the rocks, and a haze of powder smoke that presently drifted off into nothing on the frosty air. Somehow I knew that I had just seen the end of the army of Afghanistan. Of course one would have expected the 44th to be the last remnant, as the only British regiment in the force, but even without that I would have known. This was what Elphy Bey’s fine army of more than fourteen thousand had come to, in just a week. There might be a few prisoners; there would be no other survivors. I was wrong, as it turned out; one man, Dr Brydon, cut his way out and brought the news to Jallalabad, but there was no way of knowing this at the time. There is a painting of the scene at Gandamack, which I saw a few years ago, and it is like enough the real thing as I remember it. No doubt it is very fine and stirs martial thoughts in the glory-blown asses who look at it; my only thought when I saw it was, “You poor bloody fools!” and I said so, to the disgust of other viewers. But I was there, you see, shivering with horror as I watched, unlike the good Londoners, who let the roughnecks and jailbirds keep their empire for them; they are good enough for getting cut up at the Gandamacks which fools like Elphy and McNaghten bring ’em to, and no great loss to anybody. Sergeant Hudson was staring down, with tears running over his cheeks. I believe, given a chance, he would have gone charging down to join them. All he would say was, “Bastards! Black bastards!” until I gave him the right about, pretty sharp, and we hurried away on our path, letting the rocks shut off the hellish sight behind us. I was shaken by what we had seen, and to get as far away from Gandamack as we could was the thought that drove me on that day at a dangerous pace. We clattered along the rocky paths, and our ponies scrambled down the screes in such breakneck style that I go cold to look back on it. Only darkness stopped us, and we were well on our way next morning before I would rein in. By this time we had left the snow-line far behind us, and feeling the sun again raised my spirits once more. It was as certain as anything could be that we were the only survivors of the army of Afghanistan still moving eastward in good order. This was a satisfactory thought. Why shouldn’t I be frank about it? Now that the army was finished, there was little chance of meeting hostile tribesmen farther east than the point where it had died. So we were safe, and to come safe out of a disaster is more gratifying than to come safe out of none at all. Of course, it was a pity about the others, but wouldn’t they have felt the same gratification in my place? There is great pleasure in catastrophe that doesn’t touch you, and anyone who says there isn’t is a liar. Haven’t you seen it in the face of a bearer of bad news, and heard it in the unctuous phrases at the church gate after a funeral? So I reflected, and felt mighty cheery, and perhaps this made me careless. At any rate, moralists will say I was well served for my thoughts, as our ponies trotted onwards, for what interrupted them was the sudden discovery that I was looking along the barrel of a jezzail into the face of one of the biggest, ugliest Afridi badmashes I have ever seen. He seemed to grow out of the rocks like a genie, and a dozen other ruffians with him, springing out to seize our bridles and sword-arms before we could say galloping Jesus. “Khabadar, sahib!” says the big jezzailchi, grinning all over his villainous face, as though I needed telling to be careful. “Get down,” he added, and his mates hauled me from the saddle and held me fast. “What’s this?” says I, trying to brave it out. “We are friends, on our way to Jallalabad. What do you want with us?” “The British are everyone’s friends,” grins he, “and they are all going to Jallalabad – or were.” And his crew cackled with laughter. “You will come with us,” and he nodded to my captors, who had a thong round my wrists and tied to my own stirrup in a trice. There was no chance of putting up a fight, even if all the heart had not gone out of me. For a moment I had hoped they were just broken men of the hills, who might have robbed us and let us go, but they were intent on holding us prisoner. For ransom? That was the best I could hope for. I played a desperate card. “I am Flashman huzoor,” cries I, “the friend of Akbar Khan Sirdar. He’ll have the heart and guts of anyone who harms Bloody Lance!” “Allah protect us!” says the jezzailchi, who was a humorist in his way, like all his lousy kind. “Guard him close, Raisul, or he’ll stick you on his little spear, as he did to the Gilzais at Mogala.” He hopped into my saddle and grinned down at me. “You can fight, Bloody Lance. Can you walk also?” And he set the pony off at a brisk trot, making me run alongside, and shouting obscene encouragement. They had served Hudson the same way, and we had no choice but to stumble along, jeered at by our ragged conquerors. It was too much; to have come so far, to have endured so much, to have escaped so often, to be so close to safety – and now this. I wept and swore, called my captor every filthy name I could lay tongue to, in Pushtu, Urdu, English, and Persian, pleaded with him to let us go in return for a promise of great payment, threatened him with the vengeance of Akbar Khan, beseeched him to take us to the Sirdar, struggled like a furious child to break my bonds – and he only roared so hard with laughter that he almost fell from the saddle. “Say it again!” he cried. “How many lakhs of rupees? Ya’llah, I shall be made for life. What was that? Noseless bastard offspring of a leprous ape and a gutter-descended sow? What a description! Note it, Raisul, my brother, for I have no head for education, and I wish to remember. Continue, Flashman huzoor; share the riches of your spirit with me!” So he mocked me, but he hardly slackened pace, and soon I could neither swear nor plead nor do anything but stumble blindly on. My wrists were burning with pain, and there was a leaden fear in my stomach; I had no idea where we were going, and even after darkness fell the brutes still kept going, until Hudson and I dropped from sheer fatigue. Then we rested a few hours, but at dawn they had us up again, and we staggered on through the hot, hellish day, resting only when we were too exhausted to continue, and then being forced up and dragged onwards at the stirrups. It was just before dusk when we halted for the last time, at one of those rock forts that are dotted on half the hillsides of Afghanistan. I had a vision of a gateway, with a rickety old gate swung back on rusty hinges, and beyond it an earth courtyard. They did not take us so far, but cut the thongs that held us and shoved us through a narrow door in the gatehouse wall. There were steps leading down, and a most fearsome stink coming up, but they pushed us headlong down and we stumbled on to a floor of mixed straw and filth and God knows what other debris. The door slammed shut, and there we were, too worn out to move. I suppose we lay there for hours, groaning with pain and exhaustion, before they came back, bringing us a bowl of food and a chatti of water. We were famished, and fell on it like pigs, while the big jezzailchi watched us and made funny remarks. I ignored him, and presently he left us. There was just light enough from a high grating in one wall for us to make out our surroundings, so we took stock of the cellar, or dungeon, whichever it was. I have been in a great variety of jails in my life, from Mexico (where they are truly abominable) to Australia, America, Russia, and dear old England, and I never saw a good one yet. That little Afghan hole was not too bad, all round, but it seemed dreadful at the time. There were bare walls, pretty high, and a roof lost in shadow, and in the middle of the filthy floor two very broad flat stones, like a platform, that I didn’t like the look of. For above them, swinging down from the ceiling, was a tangle of rusty chains, and at the sight of them a chill stabbed through me, and I thought of hooded black figures, and the Inquisition, and torture chambers that I had gloated over in forbidden books at school. It’s very different when you are actually in one. I told Hudson what I thought of them, and he just grunted and spat and then begged my pardon. I told him not to be such a damned fool, that we were in a frightful fix, and he could stop behaving as though we were on Horse Guards. I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony anywhere, and here it was just ridiculous. But it took Hudson time to get used to talking to an officer, and at first he just listened to me, nodding and saying, “Yes, sir,” and “Very good, sir,” until I swore with exasperation. For I was in a funk, of course, and poured out my fears to him. I didn’t know why they were holding us, although ransom seemed most likely. There was a chance Akbar might get to hear of our plight, which was what I hoped – but at the back of my mind was the awful thought that Gul Shah might hear of us just as easily. Hudson, of course, didn’t understand why I should be so horrified at this, until I told him the whole story – about Narreeman, and how Akbar had rescued me from Gul’s snakes in Kabul. Heavens, how I must have talked, but when I tell you that we were in the cellar a week together, without ever so much as seeing beyond the door, and myself in a sweat of anxiety about what our fate might be, you will understand that I needed an audience. Your real coward always does, and the worse his fear the more he blabs. I babbled something sickening in that dungeon to Hudson. Of course, I didn’t tell him the story as I’ve told it here – the Bloody Lance incident, for example, I related in a creditable light. But I convinced him at least that we had every reason to fear if Gul Shah got wind that we were in Afghan hands. It was difficult to tell how he took it. Mostly he just listened, staring at the wall, but from time to time he would look at me very steady, as though he was weighing me up. At first I hardly noticed this, any more than one does notice a common trooper looking at one, but after a while it made me feel uncomfortable, and I told him pretty sharp to leave off. If he was scared at the fix we were in, he didn’t show it, and I admit there were one or two occasions when I felt a sneaking regard for him; he didn’t complain, and he was very civil in his speech, and would ask me very respectfully to translate what the Afridi guards said when they brought us our food – for he had no Pushtu or Hindustani. This was little enough, and we had no way of telling how true it was. The big jezzailchi was the most talkative, but mostly he would only recall how badly the British had been cut up on the march from Kabul, so that not a single man had been left alive, and how there would soon be no feringhees left in Afghanistan at all. Akbar Khan was advancing on Jallalabad, he said, and would put the whole garrison to the sword, and then they would sweep down through the Khyber and drive us out of India in a great jehad that would establish the True Faith from Peshawar to the sea. And so on, all bloody wind and water, as I told Hudson, but he considered it very thoughtfully and said he didn’t know how long Sale could hold out in Jallalabad if they laid proper siege to it. I stared at this, an ordinary trooper passing opinion on a general’s business. “What do you know about it?” says I. “Not much, sir,” says he. “But with respect to General Elphinstone, I’m powerful glad it’s General Sale that’s laying in Jallalabad and not him.” “Is that so, and be damned to you,” says I. “And what’s your opinion of General Elphinstone, if you please?” “I’d rather not say, sir,” says he. And then he looked at me with those grey eyes. “He wasn’t with the 44th at Gandamack, was he, sir? Nor a lot of the officers wasn’t. Where were they, sir?” “How should I know? And what concern is that of yours?” He sat looking down for a moment. “None at all, sir,” says he at last. “Beg pardon for asking.” “I should damned well think so,” says I. “Anyway, whatever you think of Elphy Bey, you can rely on General Sale to give Akbar the right about turn if he shows his nose at Jallalabad. And I wish to God we were there, too, and away from this hellish hole, and these stinking Afridis. Whether it’s ransom or not, they don’t mean us any good, I can tell you.” I didn’t think much of Hudson’s questions about Gandamack and Elphy at the time; if I had done I would have been as much amused as angry, for it was like a foreign language to me then. But I understand it now, although half our modern generals don’t. They think their men are a different species still – fortunately a lot of ’em are, but not in the way the generals think. Well, another week went by in that infernal cell, and both Hudson and I were pretty foul by now and well bearded, for they gave us nothing to wash or shave with. My anxieties diminished a little, as they will when nothing happens, but it was damned boring with nothing to do but talk to Hudson, for we had little in common except horses. He didn’t even seem interested in women. We talked occasionally of escape, but there was little chance of that, for there was no way out except through the door, which stood at the top of a narrow flight of steps, and when the Afridis brought our food one of them always stood at the head of them covering us with a huge blunderbuss. I wasn’t in any great hurry to risk a peppering from it, and when Hudson talked of trying a rush I ordered him to drop it. Where would we have got to afterwards, anyway? We didn’t even know where we were, except that it couldn’t be far to the Kabul road. But it wasn’t worth the risk, I said – if! had known what was in store for us I’d have chanced that blunderbuss and a hundred like it, but I didn’t. God, I’ll never forget it. Never. It was late one afternoon, and we were lying on the straw dozing, when we heard the clatter of hooves at the gate outside, and a jumble of voices approaching the door of the cell. Hudson jumped up, and I came up on my elbow, my heart in my mouth, wondering who it might be. It might be a messenger bringing news of ransom – for I believed the Afridis must be trying that game – and then the bolts scraped back and the door burst open, and a tall man strode in to the head of the steps. I couldn’t see his face at first, but then an Afridi bustled past him with a flaring torch which he stuck in a crevice in the wall, and its light fell on the newcomer’s face. If it had been the Devil in person I’d have been better pleased, for it was a face I had seen in nightmares, and I couldn’t believe it was true, the face of Gul Shah. His eye lit on me, and he shouted with joy and clapped his hands. I believe I cried out in horror, and scrambled back against the wall. “Flashman!” he cried, and came half down the steps like a big cat, glaring at me with a hellish grin. “Now, God is very good. When I heard the news I could not believe it, but it is true. And it was just by chance – aye, by the merest chance, that word reached me you were taken.” He sucked in his breath, never taking his glittering eyes from me. I couldn’t speak; the man struck me dumb with cold terror. Then he laughed again, and the hairs rose on my neck at the sound of it. “And here there is no Akbar Khan to be importunate,” says he. He signed to the Afridis and pointed at Hudson. “Take that one away above and watch him.” And as two of them rushed down on Hudson and dragged him struggling up the steps, Gul Shah came down into the room and with his whip struck the hanging shackles a blow that set them rattling. “Set him” – and he points at me – “here. We have much to talk about.” I cried out as they flung themselves on me, and struggled helplessly, but they got my arms over my head and set a shackle on each wrist, so that I was strung up like a rabbit on a poulterer’s stall. Then Gul dismissed them and came to stand in front of me, tapping his boot with his whip and gloating over me. “The wolf comes once to the trap,” says he at last. “But you have come twice. I swear by God you will not wriggle out of it this time. You cheated me once in Kabul, by a miracle, and killed my dwarf by foul play. Not again, Flashman. And I am glad – aye, glad it fell out so, for here I have time to deal with you at my leisure, you filthy dog!” And with a snarl he struck me backhanded across the face. The blow loosened my tongue, for I cried out: “Don’t, for God’s sake! What have I done? Didn’t I pay for it with your bloody snakes?” “Pay?” sneers he. “You haven’t begun to pay. Do you want to know how you will pay, Flashman?” I didn’t, so I didn’t answer, and he turned and shouted something towards the door. It opened, and someone came in, standing in the shadows. “It was my great regret, last time, that I must be so hurried in disposing of you,” says Gul Shah. “I think I told you then, did I not, that I would have wished the woman you defiled to share in your departure? By great good fortune I was at Mogala when the word of your capture came, so I have been able to repair the omission. Come,” says he to the figure at the top of the steps, and the woman Narreeman advanced slowly into the light. I knew it was she, although she was cloaked from head to foot and had the lower half of her face shrouded in a flimsy veil: I remembered the eyes, like a snake’s, that had glared up at me the night I took her in Mogala. They were staring at me again, and I found them more terrifying than all Gul’s threats. She didn’t make a sound, but glided down the steps to his side. “You do not greet the lady?” says Gul. “You will, you will. But of course, she is a mere slut of a dancing girl, although she is the wife of a prince of the Gilzai!” He spat the words into my face. “Wife?” I croaked. “I never knew … believe me, sir, I never knew. If I …” “It was not so then,” says Gul. “It is so now – aye, though she has been fouled by a beast like you. She is my wife and my woman none the less. It only remains to wipe out the dishonour.” “Oh, Christ, please listen to me,” says I. “I swear I meant no harm … how was I to know she was precious to you? I didn’t mean to harm her, I swear I didn’t! I’ll do anything, anything you wish, pay anything you like …” Gul leered at me, nodding, while the woman’s basilisk eyes stared at me. “You will pay indeed. No doubt you have heard that our Afghan women are delicately skilled in collecting payment? I see from your face that you have. Narreeman is very eager to test that skill. She has vivid recollections of a night at Mogala; vivid recollections of your pride …” He leaned forward till his face was almost touching mine. “Lest she forget it, she wishes to take certain things from you, very slowly and cunningly, for a remembrance. Is it not just? You had your pleasure from her pain; she will have hers from yours. It will take much longer, and be infinitely more artistic … a woman’s touch.” He laughed. “That will be for a beginning.” I didn’t believe it; it was impossible, outrageous, horrible; it was enough to strike me mad just listening to it. “You can’t!” I shrieked. “No, no, no, you can’t! Please, please, don’t let her touch me! It was a mistake! I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to hurt her!” I yelled and pleaded with him, and he crowed with delight and mocked me, while she never moved a muscle, but still stared into my face. “This will be better than I had hoped,” says he. “Afterwards, we may have you flayed, or perhaps roasted over hot embers. Or we may take out your eyes and remove your fingers and toes, and set you to some slave-work in Mogala. Yes, that will be best, for you can pray daily for death and never find it. Is the price too high for your night’s pleasure, Flashman?” I was trying to close my ears to this horror, trying not to believe it, and babbling to him to spare me. He listened, grinning, and then turned to the woman and said: “But business before pleasure. My dove, we will let him think of the joyous reunion that you two will have – let him wait for – how long? He must wonder about that, I think. In the meantime, there is a more urgent matter.” He turned back to me. “It will not abate your suffering in the slightest if you tell me what I wish to know; but I think you will tell me, anyway. Since your pathetic and cowardly army was slaughtered in the passes, the Sirdar’s army has advanced towards Jallalabad. But we have no word of Nott and his troops at Kandahar. It is suggested that they have orders – to march on Kabul? On Jallalabad? We require to know. Well?” It took a moment for me to clear my mind of the hellish pictures he had put there, and understand his question. “I don’t know,” I said. “I swear to God I don’t know.” “Liar,” said Gul Shah. “You were an aide to Elfistan; you must know.” “I don’t! I swear I don’t!” I shouted. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, can I?” “I am sure you can,” says he, and motioning Narreeman aside he flung off his poshteen and stood in his shirt and pyjamy trousers, skull-cap on head and whip in hand. He reached out and wrenched my shirt from my back. I screamed as he swung the whip, and leaped as it struck me. God, I never knew such pain; it was like a fiery razor. He laughed and swung again and again. It was unbearable, searing bars of burning agony across my shoulders, my head swam and I shrieked and tried to hurl myself away, but the chains held me and the whip seemed to be striking into my very vitals. “Stop!” I remember shrieking, and over and over again. “Stop!” He stepped back, grinning, but all I could do was mouth and mumble at him that I knew nothing. He lifted the whip again; I couldn’t face it. “No!” I screamed. “Not me! Hudson knows! The sergeant who was with me – I’m sure he knows! He told me he knew!” It was all I could think of to stop that hellish lashing. “The havildar knows, but not the officer?” says Gul. “No, Flashman, not even in the British army. I think you are lying.” And the fiend set about me again, until I must have fainted from the pain, for when I came to my senses, with my back raging like a furnace, he was picking his robe from the floor. “You have convinced me,” says he, sneering. “Such a coward as I know you to be would have told me all he knew at the first stroke. You are not brave, Flashman. But you will be even less brave soon.” He signed to Narreeman, and she followed him up the steps. At the door he paused to mock me again. “Think on what I have promised you,” says he. “I hope you will not go mad too soon after we begin.” The door slammed shut, and I was left sagging in my chains, sobbing and retching. But the pain on my back was as nothing to the terror in my mind. It wasn’t possible, I kept saying, they can’t do it … but I knew they would. For some awful reason, which I cannot define even now, a recollection came to me of how I had tortured others – oh, puny, feeble little tortures like roasting fags at school; I babbled aloud how sorry I was for tormenting them, and prayed that I might be spared, and remembered how old Arnold had once said in a sermon: “Call on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.” God, how I called; I roared like a bull calf, and got nothing back, not even echoes. I would do it again, too, in the same position, for all that I don’t believe in God and never have. But I blubbered like an infant, calling on Christ to save me, swearing to reform and crying gentle Jesus meek and mild over and over again. It’s a great thing, prayer. Nobody answers, but at least it stops you from thinking. Suddenly I was aware of people moving into the cell, and shrieked in fear, closing my eyes, but no one touched me, and when I opened them there was Hudson again, chained up beside me with his arms in the air, staring at me in horror. “My God, sir,” says he, “what have the devils done to you?” “They’re torturing me to death!” I roared. “Oh, dear saviour!” And I must have babbled on, for when I stopped he was praying, too, the Lord’s Prayer, I think, very quietly to himself. We were the holiest jail in Afghanistan that night. There was no question of sleep; even if my mind had not been full of the horrors ahead, I could not have rested with my arms fettered wide above my head. Every time I sagged the rusty manacles tore cruelly at my wrists, and I would have to right myself with my legs aching from standing. My back was smarting, and I moaned a good deal; Hudson did his best to cheer me up with the kind of drivel about not being done yet and keeping one’s head up which is supposed to raise the spirits in time of trouble – it has never done a damned thing for mine. All I could think of was that woman’s hating eyes coming closer, and Gul smiling savagely behind her, and the knife pricking my skin and then slicing – oh, Jesus, I couldn’t bear it, I would go raving mad. I said so, at the top of my voice, and Hudson says: “Come on, sir, we ain’t dead yet.” “You bloody idiot!” I yelled at him. “What do you know, you clod? They aren’t going to cut your bloody pecker off! I tell you I’ll have to die first! I must!” “They haven’t done it yet, sir,” says he. “Nor they won’t. While I was up yonder I see that half them Afridis have gone off – to join up wi’ the others at Jallalabad, I reckon – an’ there ain’t above half a dozen left, besides your friend and the woman. If I can just …” I didn’t heed him; I was too done up to think of anything except what they would do to me – when? The night wore away, and except for one visit at noon next day, when the jezzailchi came to give us some water and food, no one came near us before evening. They left us in our chains, hanging like stuck pigs, and my legs seemed to be on fire one minute and numb the next. I heard Hudson muttering to himself from time to time, as though he was working at something, but I never minded; then, just when the light was beginning to fade, I heard him gasp with pain, and exclaim: “Done it, by God!” I turned to look, and my heart bounded like a stag. He was standing with only his left arm still up in the shackle; the right one, bloody to the elbow, was hanging at his side. He shook his head, fiercely, and I was silent. He worked his right hand and arm for a moment, and then reached up to the other shackle; the wrist-pieces were kept apart by a bar, but the fastening of the manacles was just a simple bolt. He worked at it for a moment, and it fell open. He was free. He came over to me, an ear cocked towards the door. “If I let you loose, sir, can you stand?” I didn’t know if I could, but I nodded, and two minutes later I was crouched on the floor, groaning with the pain in my shoulders and legs that had been cramped in one position so long. He massaged my joints, and swore softly over the weals that Gul Shah’s whip had left. “Filthy nigger bastard,” says he. “Look’ee, sir, we’ve got to look sharp they don’t take us unawares. When they come in we’ve got to be standing up, with the chains on our wrists, pretendin’ we’re still trussed up, like.” “What then?” says I. “Why, sir, they’ll think we’re helpless, won’t they? We can take ’em by surprise.” “Much good that’ll do,” says I. “You say there’s half a dozen apart from Gul Shah.” “They won’t all come,” says he. “For God’s sake, sir, it’s our only hope.” I didn’t think it was much of one, and said so. Hudson said, well, it was better than being sliced up by that Afghan tart, wasn’t it, begging my pardon, sir, and I couldn’t disagree. But I guessed we would only get slaughtered for our pains, at best. “Well,” says he, “we can make a bloody good fight of it. We can die like Englishmen, ’stead of like dogs.” “What difference does it make whether you die like an Englishman or like a bloody Eskimo?” says I, and he just stared at me and then went on chafing my arms. Pretty soon I could stand and move as well as ever, but we took care to stay close by the chains, and it was as well we did. Suddenly there was a shuffling at the door, and we barely had time to take our positions, hands up on the shackles, when it was thrown back. “Leave it to me, sir,” whispered Hudson, and then drooped in his fetters. I did the same, letting my head hang but watching the door out of the corner of my eye. There were three of them, and my heart sank. First came Gul Shah, with the big jezzailchi carrying a torch, and behind was the smaller figure of Narreeman. All my terrors came rushing back as they descended the steps. “It is time, Flashman,” says Gul Shah, sticking his sneering face up to mine. “Wake up, you dog, and prepare for your last love play.” And he laughed and struck me across the face. I staggered, but held tight to the chains. Hudson never moved a muscle. “Now, my precious,” says Gul to Narreeman. “He is here, and he is yours.” She came forward to his side, and the big jezzailchi, having placed the torch, came on her other side, grinning like a satyr. He stood about a yard in front of Hudson, but his eyes were fixed on me. The woman Narreeman had no veil now; she was turbanned and cloaked, and her face was like stone. Then she smiled, and it was like a tigress showing its teeth; she hissed something to Gul Shah, and held out her hand towards the dagger at his belt. Fear had me gripped, or I would have let go the chains and rushed blindly past them. Gul put his hand on his hilt, and slowly, for my benefit, began to slide the blade from its sheath. Hudson struck. His right hand shot down to the big jezzailchi’s waist band, there was a gleam of steel, a gasp, and then a hideous shriek as Hudson drove the man’s own dagger to the hilt in his belly. As the fellow dropped Hudson tried to spring at Gul Shah, but he struck against Narreeman and they both went sprawling. Gul leaped back, snatching at his sabre, and I let go my chains and threw myself out of harm’s way. Gul swore and aimed a cut at me, but he was wild and hit the swinging chains; in that moment Hudson had scrambled to the dying jezzailchi, grabbed the sabre from his waist, and was bounding up the steps to the door. For a moment I thought he was deserting me, but when he reached the doorway it was to slam the door to and shoot the inside bolt. Then he turned, sabre in hand, and Gul, who had sprung to pursue him, halted at the foot of the steps. For a moment the four of us were stock still, and then Gul bawls out: “Mahmud! Shadman! Idderao, juldi!” “Watch the woman!” sings out Hudson, and I saw Narreeman in the act of snatching up the bloody dagger he had dropped. She was still on hands and knees, and with one step I caught her a flying kick in the middle that flung her breathless against the wall. Out of the tail of my eye I saw Hudson spring down the steps, sabre whirling, and then I had thrown myself at Narreeman, catching her a blow on the head as she tried to rise, and grabbing her wrists. As the steel clashed behind me, and the door reechoed to pounding from outside, I dragged her arms behind her back and held them, twisting for all I was worth. “You bitch!” I roared at her, and wrenched so that she screamed and went down, pinned beneath me. I held her so, got my knee on the small of her back, and looked round for Hudson. He and Gul were going at it like Trojans in the middle of the cell. Thank God they teach good swordsmanship in the cavalry, even to lancers, for Gul was as active as a panther, his point and edge whirling everywhere while he shouted oaths and threats and bawled to his rascals to break in. The door was too stout for them, though. Hudson fought coolly, as if he was in the gymnasium, guarding every thrust and sweep, then shuffling in and lunging so that Gul had to leap back to save his skin. I stayed where I was, for I daren’t leave that hell-cat for a second, and if I had Gul might have had an instant to take a swipe at me. Suddenly he rushed Hudson, slashing right and left, and the lancer broke ground; that was what Gul wanted, and he sprang for the steps, intent on getting to the door. Hudson was right on his heels, though, and Gul had to swing round halfway up the steps to avoid being run through from behind. He swerved outside Hudson’s thrust, slipped on the steps, and for a moment they were locked, half-lying on the stairway. Gul was up like a rubber ball, swinging up his sabre for a cut at Hudson, who was caught all a-sprawl; the sabre flashed down, ringing on the stone and striking sparks, and the force of the blow made Gul overbalance. For a moment he was crouched over Hudson, and before he could recover I saw a glittering point rise out of the centre of his back; he gave a choked, awful cry, straightened up, his head hanging back, and crashed down the steps to the cell floor. He lay there writhing, mouth gaping and eyes glaring; then he was still. Hudson scrambled down the steps, his sabre red to the forte. I let out a yell of triumph. “Bravo, Hudson! Bravo, shabash!” He took one look at Gul, dropped his sabre, and to my amazement began to pull the dead man out of the middle of the floor to the shadowy side of the cellar. He laid him flat on his back, then hurried over to me. “Make her fast, sir,” says he, and while I trussed Narreeman’s arms with the jezzailchi’s belt, Hudson stuffed a gag into her mouth. We dropped her on the straw, and Hudson says: “Only once chance, sir. Take the sabre – the clean one – and stand guard over that dead bugger. Put your point to his throat, an’ when I open the door, tell ’em you’ll slaughter their chief unless they do as we say. They won’t see he’s a corp, in this light, an’ the bint’s silenced. Now, sir, quick.” There could be no argument; the door was creaking under the Afridis’ hammering. I ran to Gul’s side, snatching up his sabre on the way, and stood astride him, the point on his breast. Hudson took one look round, leaped up the steps, whipped back the bolt, and regained the cell floor in a bound. The door swung open, and in surged the lads of the village. “Halt!” roars I. “Another move, and I’ll send Gul Shah to make his peace with Shaitan! Back, you sons of owls and pigs!” They bore up sharp, five or six of them, hairy brutes, at the head of the steps. When they saw Gul apparently helpless beneath me one lets out an oath and another a wail. “Not another inch!” I shouted. “Or I’ll have his life!” They stayed where they were, gaping, but for the life of me I didn’t know what to do next. Hudson spoke up, urgently. “Horses, sir. We’re right by the gate; tell ’em to bring two – no, three ponies to the door, and then all get back to the other side o’ the yard.” I bawled the order at them, sweating in case they didn’t do it, but they did. I suppose I looked desperate enough for anything, stripped to the waist, matted and bearded, and glaring like a lunatic. It was fear, not rage, but they weren’t to know that. There was a great jabbering among them, and then they scrambled back through the doorway; I heard them yelling and swearing out in the dark, and then a sound that was like music – the clatter of ponies’ hooves. “Tell ’em to keep outside, sir, an’ well away,” says Hudson, and I roared it out with a will. Hudson ran to Narreeman, swung her up into his arms with an effort, and set her feet on the steps. “Walk, damn you,” says he, and grabbing up his own sabre he pushed her up the steps, the point at her back. He disappeared through the doorway, there was a pause, and then he shouts: “Right, sir. Come out quick, like, an’ bolt the door.” I never obeyed an order more gladly. I left Gul Shah staring up sightlessly, and raced up the steps, pulling the door to behind me. It was only as I looked round the courtyard, at Hudson astride one pony, with Narreeman bound and writhing across the other, at the little group of Afghans across the yard, fingering their knives and muttering – only then did I realise that we had left our hostage. But Hudson was there, as usual. “Tell ’em I’ll spill the bint’s guts all over the yard if they stir a finger. Ask ’em how their master’ll like that – an’ what he’ll do to ’em afterwards!” And he dropped his point over Narreeman’s body. It held them, even without my repetition of the threat, and I was able to scramble aboard the third pony. The gate was before us; Hudson grabbed the bridle of Narreeman’s mount, we drove in our heels, and in a clatter of hooves we were out and away, under a glittering moon, down the path that wound from the fort’s little hill to the open plain. When we reached the level I glanced back; Hudson was not far behind, although he was having difficulty with Narreeman, for he had to hold her across the saddle of the third beast. Behind, the ugly shape of the fort was outlined against the sky, but there was no sign of pursuit. When he came up with me he said: “I reckon down yonder we’ll strike the Kabul road, sir. We crossed it on the way in. Think we can chance it, sir?” I was so trembling with reaction and excitement that I didn’t care. Of course we should have stayed off the road, but I was for anything that would get that damned cellar far behind us, so I nodded and we rode on. With luck there would be no one moving on the road at night, and anyway, only on the road could we hope to get our bearings. We reached it before very long, and the stars showed us the eastern way. We were a good three miles from the fort now, and it seemed, if the Afridis had come out in pursuit, that they had lost us. Hudson asked me what we should do with Narreeman. At this I came to my senses again; as I thought back to what she had been preparing to do my gorge rose, and all I wanted to do was tear her apart. “Give her to me,” says I, dropping my reins and taking a grip on the sabre hilt. He had one hand on her, sliding her out of the saddle; she slipped down on to the ground and wriggled up on her knees, her hands tied behind her, the gag across her mouth. She was glaring like a mad thing. As I moved my pony round, Hudson suddenly reined into my way. “Hold on, sir,” says he. “What are you about?” “I’m going to cut that bitch to pieces,” says I. “Out of my way.” “Here, now, sir,” says he. “You can’t do that.” “Can’t I, by God?” “Not while I’m here, sir,” says he, very quiet. I didn’t credit my ears at first. “It won’t do, sir,” says he. “She’s a woman. You’re not yourself, sir, what wi’ the floggin’ they gave you, an’ all. We’ll let her be, sir; cut her hands free an’ let her go.” I started to rage at him, for a mutinous dog, but he just sat there, not to be moved, shaking his head. So in the end I gave in – it occurred to me that what he could do to Gul Shah he might easily do to me – and he jumped down and loosed her hands. She flew at him, but he tripped her up and remounted. “Sorry, miss,” says he, “but you don’t deserve better, you know.” She lay there, gasping and staring hate at us, a proper handsome hell-cat. It was a pity there wasn’t time and leisure, or I’d have served her as I had once before, for I was feeling more my old self again. But to linger would have been madness, so I contented myself with a few slashes at her with my long bridle, and had the satisfaction of catching her a ringing cut over the backside that sent her scurrying for the rocks. Then we turned east and drove on down the road towards India. It was bitter cold, and I was half-naked, but there was a poshteen over the saddle, and I wrapped up in it. Hudson had another, and covered his tunic and breeches with it; between us we looked a proper pair of Bashi-Bazouks, but for Hudson’s fair hair and beard. We camped before dawn, in a little gully, but not for long, for when the sun came up I recognised that we were in the country just west of Futtehabad, which is a bare twenty miles from Jallalabad itself. I wouldn’t feel safe till we had its walls around us, so we pushed on hard, only leaving the road when we saw dust-clouds ahead of us that indicated other travellers. We took to the hills for the rest of the day, skirting Futtehabad, and lay up by night, for we were both all in. In the morning we pressed on, but kept away from the road, for when we took a peep down at it, there were Afghans thick on it, all travelling east. There was more movement in the hills now, but no one minded a pair of riders, for Hudson shrouded his head in a rag to cover his blond hair, and I always looked like a Khyberi badmash anyway. But as we drew nearer to Jallalabad I got more and more anxious, for by what we had seen on the road, and the camps we saw dotted about in the gullies, I knew we must be moving along with an army. This was Akbar’s host, pushing on to Jallalabad, and presently in the distance we heard the rattle of musketry, and knew that the siege must be already under way. Well, this was a pretty fix; only in Jallalabad was there safety, but there was an Afghan army between us and it. With what we had been through I was desperate; for a moment I thought of by-passing Jallalabad and making for India, but that meant going through the Khyber, and with Hudson looking as much like an Afghan as a Berkshire hog we could never have made it. I cursed myself for having picked a companion with fair hair and Somerset complexion, but how could I have foreseen this? There was nothing for it but to push on and see what the chances were of getting into Jallalabad and of avoiding detection on the way. It was a damned risky go, for soon we came into proper encampments, with Afghans as thick as fleas everywhere, and Hudson nearly suffocating inside the turban rag which hooded his whole head. Once we were hailed by a party of Pathans, and I answered with my heart in my mouth; they seemed interested in us, and in my panic all I could think to do was start singing – that old Pathan song that goes: There’s a girl across the river With a bottom like a peach – And alas, I cannot swim. They laughed and let us alone, but I thanked God they weren’t nearer than twenty yards, or they might have realised that I wasn’t as Afghan as I looked at a distance. It couldn’t have lasted long. I was sure that in another minute someone would have seen through our disguise, but then the ground fell away before us, and we were sitting our ponies at the top of a slope running down to the level, and on the far side of it, maybe two miles away, was Jallalabad, with the Kabul river at its back. It was a scene to remember. On the long ridge on either side of us there were Afghans lining the rocks and singing out to each other, or squatting round their fires; down in the plain there were thousands of them, grouped any old way except near Jallalabad, where they formed a great half-moon line facing the city. There were troops of cavalry milling about, and I saw guns and wagons among the besiegers. From the front of the half-moon you could see little prickles of fire and hear the pop-pop of musketry, and farther forward, almost up to the defences, there were scores of little sangars dotted about, with white-robed figures lying behind them. It was a real siege, no question, and as I looked at that tremendous host between us and safety my heart sank: we could never get through it. Mind you, the siege didn’t seem to be troubling Jallalabad unduly. Even as we watched the popping increased, and we saw a swarm of figures running hell-for-leather back from before the earthworks – Jallalabad isn’t a big place, and had no proper walls, but the sappers had got some good-looking ramparts out before the town. At this the Afghans on the heights on either side of us set up a great jeering yell, as though to say they could have done better than their retreating fellows. From the scatter of figures lying in front of the earthworks it looked as though the besiegers had been taking a pounding. Much good that was to us, but then Hudson sidled his pony up to mine, and says, “There’s our way in, sir.” I followed his glance, and saw below and to our right, about a mile from the foot of the slope and maybe as far from the city, a little fort on an eminence, with the Union Jack fluttering over its gate, and flashes of musketry from its walls. Some of the Afghans were paying attention to it, but not many; it was cut off from the main fortifications by Afghan outposts on the plain, but they obviously weren’t caring much about it just now. We watched as a little cloud of Afghan horsemen swooped down towards it and then sheered off again from the firing on its walls. “If we ride down slow, sir,” says Hudson, “to where them niggers are lying round sniping, we could make a dash for it.” And get shot from our saddles for our pains, thinks I; no thank ’ee. But I had barely had the thought when someone hails us from the rocks on our left, and without a word we put our ponies down the slope. He bawled after us, but we kept going, and then we hit the level and were riding forward through the Afghans who were lying spread out among the rocks watching the little fort. The horsemen who had been attacking were wheeling about to our left, yelling and cursing, and one or two of the snipers shouted to us as we passed them by, but we kept on, and then there was just the last line of snipers and beyond it the little fort, three-quarters of a mile off, on top of its little hill, with its flag flying. “Now, sir,” snaps Hudson, and we dug in our heels and went like fury, flying past the last sangars. The Afghans there yelled out in surprise, wondering what the devil we were at, and we just put our heads down and made for the fort gate. I heard more shouting behind us, and thundering hooves, and then shots were whistling above us – from the fort, dammit. Oh Jesus, thinks I, they’ll shoot us for Afghans, and we can’t stop now with the horsemen behind us! Hudson flung off his poshteen, and yelled, rising in his stirrups. At the sight of the blue lancer tunic and breeches there was a tremendous yelling behind, but the firing from the fort stopped, and now it was just a race between us and the Afghans. Our ponies were about used up, but we put them to the hill at top speed, and as the walls drew near I saw the gate open. I whooped and rode for it, with Hudson at my heels, and then we were through, and I was slipping off the saddle into the arms of a man with enormous ginger whiskers and a sergeant’s stripes on his arm. “Damme!” he roars. “Who the hell are ye?” “Lieutenant Flashman,” says I, “of General Elphinstone’s army,” and his mouth opened like a cod’s. “Where’s your commanding officer?” “Blow me!” says he. “I’m the commanding officer, so far’s there is one. Sergeant Wells, Bombay Grenadiers, sir. But we thought you was all dead …” It took us a little time to convince him, and to learn what was happening. While his sepoys cracked away from the parapet overhead at the disappointed Afghans, he took us into the little tower, sat us on a bench, gave us pancakes and water – which was all they had – and told us how the Afghans had been besieging Jallalabad three days now, in ever-increasing force, and his own little detachment had been cut off in this outlying fort for that time. “It’s a main good place for them to mount guns, d’ye see, sir, if they could run us out,” says he. “So Cap’n Little – ’e’s back o’ the tower ’ere, wi’ is ’ead stove in by a bullet, sir – said as we ’ad to ’old out no matter what. ‘To the last man, sergeant,’ ’e sez, an’ then ’e died – that was yesterday evenin’, sir. They’d bin ’ittin’ us pretty ’ard, sir, an’ ’ave bin since. I dunno as we can last out much longer, ’cos the water’s runnin’ low, an’ they damn near got over the wall last night, sir.” “But can’t they relieve you from Jallalabad, for God’s sake?” says I. “I reckon they got their ’ands full, sir,” says he, shaking his head. “They can ’old out there long enough; ol’ Bob Sale – Gen’l Sale, I should say – ain’t worried about that. But makin’ a sortie to relieve us ’ud be another matter.” “Oh, Christ,” says I, “out of the frying pan into the fire!” He stared at me, but I was past caring. There seemed no end to it; there was some evil genie pursuing me through Afghanistan, and he meant to get me in the end. To have come so far, yet again, and to be dragged down within sight of safety! There was a palliasse in the corner of the tower, and I just went and threw myself down on it; my back was still burning, I was half-dead with fatigue, I was trapped in this hellish fort – I swore and wept with my face in the straw, careless of what they thought. I heard them muttering, Hudson and the sergeant, and the latter’s voice saying: “Well, strike me, ’e’s a rum one!” and they must have gone outside, for I heard them no more. I lay there, and must have fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, for when I opened my eyes again it was dark in the room. I could hear the sepoys outside, talking; but I didn’t go out; I got a drink from the pannikin on the table and lay down again and slept until morning. Some of you will hold up your hands in horror that a Queen’s officer could behave like this, and before his soldiers, too. To which I would reply that I do not claim, as I’ve said already, to be anything but a coward and a scoundrel, and I’ve never play-acted when it seemed pointless. It seemed pointless now. Possibly I was a little delirious in those days, from shock – Afghanistan, you’ll admit, hadn’t been exactly a Bank Holiday outing for me – but as I lay in that tower, listening to the occasional crackle of firing outside, and the yelling of the besiegers, I ceased to care at all for appearances. Let them think what they would; we were all surely going to be cut up, and what do good opinions matter to a corpse? However, appearances still mattered to Sergeant Hudson. It was he who woke me after that first night. He looked pouch-eyed and filthy as he leaned over me, his tunic all torn and his hair tumbling into his eyes. “How are you, sir?” says he. “Damnable,” says I. “My back’s on fire. I ain’t going to be much use for a while, I fear, Hudson.” “Well, sir,” says he, “let’s have a look at your back.” I turned over, groaning, and he looked at it. “Not too bad,” says he. “Skin’s only broke here an’ there, and not mortifying. For the rest, it’s just welts.” He was silent a moment. “Thing is, sir, we need every musket we can raise. The sangars are closer this morning, an’ the niggers are massing. Looks like a proper battle, sir.” “Sorry, Hudson,” says I, rather weak. “I would if I could, you know. But whatever my back looks like, I can’t do much just yet. I think there’s something broken inside.” He stood looking down at me. “Yes, sir,” says he at length. “I think there is.” And then he just turned and walked out. I felt myself go hot all over as I realised what he meant by that; for a moment I almost jumped off the palliasse and ran after him. But I didn’t, for at that moment there was a sudden yelling on the parapets, and the musketry crashed out, and Sergeant Wells was bawling orders; but above all I heard the blood-curdling shrieks of the Ghazis, and I knew they were rushing the wall. It was all too much for me; I lay shuddering on the straw while the sounds of fighting raged outside. It seemed to go on forever, and every moment I expected to hear the Afghan war-cries in the yard, hear the rush of feet, and see the bearded horrors dashing in the door with their Khyber knives. I could only hope to God that they would finish me off quickly. As I say, I may genuinely have had a shock, or even a fever, at this time, although I doubt it; I believe it was just simple fear that was almost sending me out of my mind. At all events, I have no particular idea of how long that fight lasted, or when it stopped and the next assault began, or even how many days and nights passed by. I don’t recall eating and drinking, although I suppose I must have, or even answering the calls of nature. That, incidentally, is one effect that fear does not have on me; I do not wet or foul myself. It has been a near thing once or twice, I admit. At Balaclava, for example, when I rode with the Light Brigade – you know how George Paget smoked a cigar all the way to the guns? Well, my bowels moved all the way to the guns, but there was nothing inside me but wind, since I hadn’t eaten for days. But in that fort, at the very end of my tether, I seemed to lose my sense of time; delirium funkens had me in its grip. I know Hudson came in to me, I know he talked, but I can’t remember what he said, except for a few isolated passages, and those I think were mostly towards the end. I do remember him telling me Wells had been killed, and myself replying, “That’s bad luck, by God, is he much hurt?” For the rest, my waking moments were less clear than my dreams, and those were vivid enough. I was back in the cell, with Gul Shah and Narreeman, and Gul was laughing at me, and changing into Bernier with his pistol raised, and then into Elphy Bey saying, “We shall have to cut off all your essentials, Flashman, I’m afraid there is no help for it. I shall send a note to Sir William.” And Narreeman’s eyes grew greater and greater, until I saw them in Elspeth’s face – Elspeth smiling and very beautiful, but fading in her turn to become Arnold, who was threatening to flog me for not knowing my construe. “Unhappy boy, I wash my hands of you; you must leave my pit of snakes and dwarves this very day.” And he reached out and took me by the shoulder; his eyes were burning like coals and his fingers bit into my shoulder so that I cried out and tried to pull them free, and found myself scrabbling at Hudson’s fingers as he knelt beside my couch. “Sir,” says he, “you’ve got to get up.” “What time is it?” says I. “And what d’ye want? Leave me, can’t you, leave me be – I’m ill, damn you.” “It’s no go, sir. You can’t stay here any longer. You must stand up and come outside with me.” I told him to go to the devil, and he suddenly lunged forward and seized me by the shoulders. “Get up!” he snarled at me, and I realised his face was far more haggard than I’d ever seen it, drawn and fierce like an animal’s. “Get up! You’re a Queen’s officer, by God, an’ you’ll behave like one! You’re not ill, Mr Precious Flashman, you’re plain white-livered! That’s all your sickness! But you’ll get up an’ look like a man, even if you aren’t one!” And he started to drag me from the straw. I struck out at him, calling him a mutinous dog, and telling him I’d have him flogged through the army for his insolence, but he stuck his face into mine and hissed: “Oh, no, you won’t! Not now nor never. Because you an’ me ain’t going back where there’s drum-heads an’ floggings or anything, d’ye see? We’re stuck here, an’ we’ll die here, because there’s no way out! We’re done for, lieutenant; this garrison is finished! We haven’t got nothing to do, except die!” “Damn you, then, what d’ye want me for? Go and die in your own way, and leave me to die in mine.” I tried to push him away. “Oh, no sir. It ain’t as easy as that. I’m all that’s left to fight this fort, me and a score of broken-down sepoys – and you. And we’re going to fight it, Mr Flashman. To the last inch, d’ye hear?” “You bloody fight it!” I shouted at him. “You’re so confounded brave! You’re a bloody soldier! All right, I’m not! I’m afraid, damn you, and I can’t fight any more – I don’t care if the Afghans take the fort and Jallalabad and the whole of India!” The tears were running down my cheeks as I said it. “Now go to hell and let me alone!” He knelt there, staring at me, and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I know it,” he said. “I half-knew it from the minute we left Kabul, an’ I was near sure back in that cellar, the way you carried on. But I was double certain sure when you wanted to kill that poor Afghan bitch – men don’t do that. But I couldn’t ever say so. You’re an officer and a gentleman, as they say. But it doesn’t matter now, sir, does it? We’re both going, so I can speak my mind.” “Well, I hope you enjoy doing it,” says I. “You’ll kill a lot of Afghans that way.” “Maybe I will, sir,” says he. “But I need you to help. And you will help, for I’m going to stick out here as long as I can.” “You poor ninny,” says I. “What good’ll that do, if they kill you in the end?” “This much good, that I’ll stop those niggers mounting guns on this hill. They’ll never take Jallalabad while we hold out – and every hour gives General Sale a better chance. That’s what I’m going to do, sir.” One meets them, of course. I’ve known hundreds. Give them a chance to do what they call their duty, let them see a hope of martyrdom – they’ll fight their way on to the cross and bawl for the man with the hammer and nails. “My best wishes,” says I. “I’m not stopping you.” “Yes, you will, sir, if I let you. I need you – there’s twenty sepoys out there who’ll fight all the better if there’s an officer to sick ’em on. They don’t know what you are – not yet.” He stood up. “Anyway, I’m not arguing, sir. You’ll get up – now. Or I’ll drag you out and I’ll cut you to bits with a sabre, a piece at a time.” His face was dreadful to see just then, those grey eyes in that drawn, worn skin. He meant it; not a doubt of it. “So just get up, sir, will you?” I got up, of course. I was well enough in body; my sickness was purely moral. I went outside with him, into a courtyard with half a dozen or so sepoy bodies laid in a row with blankets over them near the gate; the living ones were up on the parapet. They looked round as Hudson and I went up the rickety ladder to the roof, their black faces tired and listless under their shakos, their skinny black hands and feet ridiculous protruding from red uniform jackets and white trousers. The roof of the tower was no more than ten feet square, and just a little higher than the walls surrounding it; they were no more than twenty yards long – the place was less a fort than a toy castle. From the tower roof I could see Jallalabad, a mile away, apparently unchanged, except that the Afghan lines seemed to be closer. On our own front they were certainly nearer than they had been, and Hudson hustled me quickly under cover before the Afghans could get a bead on us. We were watching them, a great crowd of horsemen and hillmen on foot, milling about out of musket shot, when Hudson pointed out to me a couple of cannon that had been rolled up on their right flank. They had been there since dawn, he said, and he expected they would start up as soon as powder and shot had been assembled. We were just speculating when this might be – or rather, Hudson was, for I wasn’t talking to him – when there was a great roar from the horsemen, and they started to roll forward towards our fort. Hudson thrust me down the ladder, across the yard, and up to the parapet; a musket was shoved into my hands, and I was staring through an embrasure at the whole mob surging at us. I saw then that the ground outside the walls was thick with dead; before the gate they were piled up like fish on a slab. The sight was sickening, no doubt, but not so sickening as the spectacle of those devils whooping in towards the fort. I reckoned there were about forty of them, with footmen trailing along behind, all waving their knives and yelling. Hudson shouted to hold fire, and the sepoys behaved as though they’d been through this before – as they had. When the chargers were within fifty yards, and not showing any great enthusiasm, it seemed to me, Hudson bawled “Fire!”; the volley crashed out, and about four went down, which was good shooting. At this they wavered, but still came on, and the sepoys grabbed up their spare muskets, rolling their eyes at Hudson. He roars “Fire!” again, and another half dozen were toppled, at which the whole lot sheered off. “There they go!” yells Hudson. “Reload, handily now! By God,” says he, “if they had the bottom for one good charge they could bowl us over like ninepins!” This had occurred to me. There were hundreds of Afghans out yonder, and barely twenty men in the fort; with a determined rush they could have carried the walls, and once inside they would have chewed us up in five minutes. But I gathered that this had been their style all along – half-hearted charges that had been beaten off, and only one or two that had reached the fort itself. They had lost heavily; I believe that they didn’t much care about our little place, really, but would rather have been with their friends attacking Jallalabad, where the loot was. Sensible fellows. But it was not going to last; I could see that. For all that our casualties had not been heavy, the sepoys were about done; there was only a little flour left for food, and barely a pannikin of water a man in the big butt down by the gate; Hudson watched it like a hawk. There were three more charges that day, or maybe four, and none more successful than the first. We banged away and they cleared out, and my mind began to go dizzy again. I slumped beside my embrasure, with a poshteen draped over me to try to keep off the hellish heat; flies buzzed everywhere, and the sepoy on my right moaning to himself incessantly. By night it was as bad; the cold came, so bitter that I sobbed to myself at the pain of it; there was a huge moon, lighting everything in brilliant silver, but even when it set the dark wasn’t sufficient to enable the Afghans to creep up on us, thank God. There were a few alarms and shots, but that was all. Dawn came, and the snipers began to crack away at us; we kept down beneath the parapet, and the shots chipped flakes off the tower behind us. I must have been dozing, for I was shaken awake by an almighty crash and a thunderous explosion; there was a great cloud of dust swirling about, and as it cleared I saw that a corner of the tower had gone, and a heap of rubble was lying in the courtyard. “The cannon!” shouts Hudson. “They’re using the cannon!” Out across the plain, there it was, sure enough – one of their big guns, directed at the fort, with a mob of Afghans jostling round it. Five minutes it took them to reload, and then the place shook as if an earthquake had hit it, and there was a gaping hole in the wall beside the gate. The sepoys began to wail, and Hudson roared at them to stand fast; there was another terrific crash, and then another; the air was full of flying dust and stones; a section of the parapet along from me gave way, and a screaming sepoy went down with it. I launched myself for the ladder, slipped, and rolled off into the debris, and something must have struck my head, for the next thing I knew I was standing up, not knowing where I was, looking at a ruined wall beyond which there was an empty plain with figures running towards me. They were a long way away, and it took me a moment to realise that they were Afghans; they were charging, sure enough, and then I heard a musket crack, and there at the ruined wall was Hudson, fumbling with a ramrod and swearing, the side of his face caked with blood. He saw me, and bawled: “Come on! Come on! Lend a hand, man!” I walked towards him, my feet weighing a ton apiece; a red-coated figure was moving in the shadow of the wall, beside the gate; it was one of the sepoys. Curiously, the wall had been shot in on either side, but the gate was still standing, with the flag trailing at its staff on top, and the cords hanging down. As the shrieks of the Ghazis drew nearer, a thought entered my head, and I stumbled over towards the gate and laid hold of the cords. “Give in,” I said, and tugged at the cords. “Give in, and make ’em stop!” I pulled at the cords again, and then there was another appalling crash, the gates opened as though a giant hand had whirled them inwards, the arch above them fell, and the flagstaff with it; the choking dust swirled up, and I blundered through it, my hands out to grab the colours that were now within reach. I knew quite clearly what I wanted to do; I would gather up the flag and surrender it to the Afghans, and then they would let us alone; Hudson, even in that hellish din and horror, must have guessed somehow what was in my mind, for I saw him crawling towards the colours, too. Or perhaps he was trying to save them, I don’t know. But he didn’t manage it; another round shot ploughed into the rubble before me, and the dirty, blue-clad figure was suddenly swept away like a rag doll into an engulfing cloud of dust and masonry. I staggered forward over the stones, touched the flagstaff and fell on my knees; the cloth of the flag was within reach, and I caught hold of it and pulled it up from the rubbish. From somewhere there came a volley of musketry, and I thought, well, this is the finish, and not half as bad as I thought it would be, but bad enough for all that, and God, I don’t want to die yet. There was a thunder like a waterfall, and things were falling on me; a horrible pain went through my right leg, and I heard the shriek of a Ghazi almost in my car. I was lying face down, clutching at the flag, mumbling, “Here, take the bloody thing; I don’t want it. Please take it; I give in.” The musketry crashed again, the roaring noise grew louder, and then sight and hearing died. Chapter 12 (#ulink_898b1e17-7c3e-589f-b9cc-a90bc7bbc6c3) There are a few wakenings in your life that you would wish to last forever, they are so blissful. Too often you wake in a bewilderment, and then remember the bad news you went to sleep on, but now and then you open your eyes in the knowledge that all is well and safe and right, and there is nothing to do but lie there with eyes gently shut, enjoying every delicious moment. I knew it was all fine when I felt the touch of sheets beneath my chin, and a soft pillow beneath my head. I was in a British bed, somewhere, and the rustling sound above me was a punkah fan. Even when I moved, and a sudden anguish stabbed through my right leg, I wasn’t dismayed, for I guessed at once that it was only broken, and there was still a foot to waggle at the end of it. How I had got there I didn’t care. Obviously I had been rescued at the last minute from the fort, wounded but otherwise whole, and brought to safety. Far away I could hear the tiny popping of muskets, but here there was peace, and I lay marvelling at my own luck, revelling in my present situation, and not even bothering to open my eyes, I was so contented. When I did, it was to find myself in a pleasant, whitewashed room, with the sun slanting through wooden shutters, and a punkah wallah dozing against the wall, automatically twitching the string of his big fan. I turned my head, and found it was heavily bandaged; I was conscious that it throbbed at the back, but even that didn’t discourage me. I had got clear away, from pursuing Afghans and relentless enemies and beastly-minded women and idiot commanders – I was snug in bed, and anyone who expected any more from Flashy – well, let him wish he might get it! I stirred again, and my leg hurt, and I swore, at which the punkah wallah jumps up, squeaking, and ran from the room crying that I was awake. Presently there was a bustling, and in came a little spectacled man with a bald head and a large canvas jacket, followed by two or three Indian attendants. “Awake at last!” says he. “Well, well, this is gratifying. Don’t move, sir. Still, still. You’ve a broken leg here and a broken head there, let’s have peace between ’em, what?” He beamed at me, took my pulse, looked at my tongue, told me his name was Bucket, pulled his nose, and said I was very well, considering. “Fractured femur, sir – thigh bone; nasty, but uncomplicated. Few months and you’ll be bounding over the jumps again. But not yet – no; had a nasty time of it, eh? Ugly cuts about your back – ne’er mind, we’ll hear about that later. Now Abdul,” says he, “run and tell Major Havelock the patient’s awake, juldi jao. Pray don’t move, sir. What’s that? – yes, a little drink. Better? Head still, that’s right – nothing to do for the present but lie properly still.” He prattled on, but I wasn’t heeding him. Oddly enough, it was the sight of the blue coat beneath the canvas jacket that put me in mind of Hudson – what had become of him? My last recollection was of seeing him hit and probably killed. But was he dead? He had better be, for my sake – for the memory of our latter relations was all too vivid in my mind, and it suddenly rushed in on me that if Hudson was alive, and talked, I was done for. He could swear to my cowardice, if he wanted to – would he dare? Would he be believed? He could prove nothing, but if he was known as a steady man – and I was sure he would be – he might well be listened to. It would mean my ruin, my disgrace – and while I hadn’t cared a button for these things when I believed death was closing in on me and everyone else in that fort, well, I cared most damnably for them now that I was safe again. Oh, God, says I to myself, let him be dead; the sepoys, if any survived, don’t know, and wouldn’t talk if they did, or be believed. But Hudson – he must be dead! Charitable thoughts, you’ll say. Aye, it’s a hard world, and while bastards like Hudson have their uses, they can be most inconvenient, too. I wanted him to be dead, then, as much as I ever wanted anything. My suspense must have been written on my face, for the little doctor began to babble soothingly to me, and then the door opened and in walked Sale, his big, kind, stupid face all beaming as red as his coat, and behind him a tall, flinty-faced, pulpit-looking man; there were others peeping round the lintel as Sale strode forward and plumped down into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward to take my hand in his own. He held it gently in his big paw and gazed at me like a cow in milk. “My boy!” says he, almost in a whisper. “My brave boy!” Hullo, thinks I, this don’t sound too bad at all. But I had to find out, and quickly. “Sir,” says I – and to my astonishment my voice came out in a hoarse quaver, it had been so long unused, I suppose – “sir, how is Sergeant Hudson?” Sale gave a grunt as though he had been kicked, bowed his head, and then looked at the doctor and the gravedigger fellow with him. They both looked damned solemn. “His first words,” says the little doctor, hauling out a handkerchief and snorting into it. Sale shook his head sadly, and looked back at me. “My boy,” says he, “it grieves me deeply to tell you that your comrade – Sergeant Hudson – is dead. He did not survive the last onslaught on Piper’s Fort.” He paused, staring at me compassionately, and then says: “He died – like a true soldier.” “‘And Nicanor lay dead in his harness’,” says the gravedigger chap, taking a look at the ceiling. “He died in the fullness of his duty, and was not found wanting.” “Thank God,” says I. “God help him, I mean – God rest him, that is.” Luckily my voice was so weak that they couldn’t hear more than a mumble. I looked downcast, and Sale squeezed my hand. “I think I know,” says he, “what his comradeship must have meant to you. We understand, you see, that you must have come together from the ruins of General Elphinstone’s army, and we can guess at the hardships – oh, my boy, they are written all too plainly on your body – that you must have endured together. I would have spared you this news until you were stronger …” He made a gesture and brushed his eye. “No, sir,” says I, speaking a little stronger, “I wanted to know now.” “It is what I would have expected of you,” says he, wringing my hand. “My boy, what can I say? It is a soldier’s lot. We must console ourselves with the thought that we would as gladly sacrifice ourselves for our comrades as they do for us. And we do not forget them.” “‘Non omnis moriar’,” says the gravedigger. “Such men do not wholly die.” “Amen,” says the little doctor, sniffing. Really, all they needed was an organ and a church choir. “But we must not disturb you too soon,” says Sale. “You need rest.” He got up. “Take it in the knowledge that your troubles are over, and that you have done your duty as few men would have done it. Aye, or could have done it. I shall come again as soon as I may; in the meantime, let me say what I came to tell you: that I rejoice from my heart to see you so far recovered, for your delivery is the finest thing that has come to us in all this dark catalogue of disasters. God bless you, my boy. Come, gentlemen.” He stumped out, with the others following; the gravedigger bowed solemnly and the little doctor ducked his head and shooed the nigger attendants before him. And I was left not only relieved but amazed by what Sale had said – oh, the everyday compliments of people like Elphy Bey are one thing, but this was Sale, after all, the renowned Fighting Bob, whose courage was a byword. And he had said my deliverance was “the finest thing”, and that I had done my duty as few could have done it – why, he had talked as though I was a hero, to be reverenced with that astonishing pussy-footing worship which, for some reason, my century extended to its idols. They treated us (I can say “us”) as though we were too delicate to handle normally, like old Chinese pots. Well, I had thought, when I woke up, that I was safe and in credit, but Sale’s visit made me realise that there was more to it than I had imagined. I didn’t find out what, though, until the following day, when Sale came back again with the gravedigger at his elbow – he was Major Havelock, by the way, a Bible-moth of the deepest dye, and a great name now. Old Bob was in great spirits, and entertained me with the latest news, which was that Jallalabad was holding out splendidly, that a relief force under Pollock was on its way, and that it didn’t matter anyway, because we had the measure of the Afghans and would probably sally out and break the siege whenever we felt like it. Havelock looked a bit sour at this; I gathered he didn’t hold a high opinion of Sale – nobody did, apart from admiring his bravery – and was none too sure of his capabilities when it came to raising sieges. “And this,” says Bob, beaming with enthusiasm, “this we owe to you. Aye, and to the gallant band who held that little fort against an army. My word, Havelock, did I not say to you at the time that there never was a grander thing? It may not pay for all, to be sure; the catastrophe of Afghanistan will call forth universal horror in England, but at least we have redeemed something. We hold Jallalabad, and we’ll drive this rabble of Akbar’s from our gates – aye, and be back in Kabul before the year is out. And when we do –” and he swung round on me again “– it will be because a handful of sepoys, led by an English gentleman, defied a great army alone, and to the bitter end.” He was so worked up by his own eloquence that he had to go into the corner and gulp for a little, while Havelock nodded solemnly, regarding me. “It had the flavour of heroism,” says he, “and heaven knows there has been little enough of that to date. They will make much of it at home.” Well, I’m not often at a nonplus (except when there is physical danger, of course), but this left me speechless. Heroism? Well, if they cared to think so, let ’em; I wouldn’t contradict them – and it struck me that if I did, if I were idiot enough to let them know the truth, as I am writing it now, they would simply have thought me crazy as a result of my wounds. God alone knew what I was supposed to have done that was so brave, but doubtless I should learn in time. All I could see was that somehow appearances were heavily on my side – and who needs more than that? Give me the shadow every time, and you can keep the substance – it’s a principle I’ve followed all my life, and it works if you know how to act on it. What was obvious was that nothing must now happen to spoil Sale’s lovely dream for him; it would have been cruel to the old fellow. So I addressed myself to the task at once. “We did our duty, sir,” says I, looking uncomfortable, and Havelock nodded again, while old Bob came back to the bed. “And I have done mine,” says he, fumbling in his pocket. “For I conceived it no less, in sending my latest despatch to Lord Ellenborough – who now commands in Delhi – to include an account of your action. I’ll read it,” says he, “because it speaks more clearly than I can at present, and will enable you to see how others judged your conduct.” He cleared his throat, and began. “Humph – let’s see – Afghans in strength – demands that I surrender – aye, aye – sharp engagement by Dennie – ah, here we have it. ‘I had despatched a strong guard under Captain Little to Piper’s Fort, commanding an eminence some way from the city, where I feared the enemy might establish gun positions. When the siege began, Piper’s Fort was totally cut off from us, and received the full force of the enemy’s assault. In what manner it resisted I cannot say in detail, for of its garrison only five now survive, four of them being sepoys, and the other an English officer who is yet unconscious with his wounds, but will, as I trust, soon recover. How he came in the fort I know not, for he was not of the original garrison, but on the staff of General Elphinstone. His name is Flashman, and it is probable that he and Dr Brydon are the only survivors of the army so cruelly destroyed at Jugdulluk and Gandamack. I can only assume that he escaped the final massacre, and so reached Piper’s Fort after the siege began.” He looked at me. “You shall correct me, my boy, if I go wrong, but it is right you should know what I have told his excellency.” “You’re very kind sir,” says I, humbly. Too kind by a damned sight, if you only knew. “‘The siege continued slowly on our own front, as I have already informed you,’” says Sale, reading on, “‘but the violence of the assaults on Piper’s Fort was unabated. Captain Little was slain, with his sergeant, but the garrison fought on with the utmost resolution. Lieutenant Flashman, as I learn from one of the sepoys, was in a case more suited to a hospital than to a battlefield, for he had evidently been prisoner of the Afghans, who had flogged him most shockingly, so that he was unable to stand, and must lie in the fort tower. His companion, Sergeant Hudson, assisted most gallantly in the defence, until Lieutenant Flashman, despite his wounds, returned to the action. “‘Charge after charge was resisted, and the enemy most bloodily repulsed. To us in Jallalabad, this unexpected check to the Sirdar’s advance was an advantage beyond price. It may well have been decisive.’” Well, Hudson, thinks I, that was what you wanted, and you got it, for all the good it did you. Meanwhile, Sale laid off for a minute, took a wipe at his eye, and started in again, trying not to quaver. I suspect he was enjoying his emotion. “‘But there was no way in which we could succour Piper’s Fort at this time, and, the enemy bringing forward cannon, the walls were breached in several places. I had now resolved on a sortie, to do what could be done for our comrades, and Colonel Dennie advanced to their relief. In a sharp engagement over the very ruins of the fort – for it had been pounded almost to pieces by the guns – the Afghans were entirely routed, and we were able to make good the position and withdraw the survivors of the garrison which had held it so faithfully and well.’” I thought the old fool was going to weep, but he took a great pull at himself and proceeded: “‘With what grief do I write that of these there remained only five? The gallant Hudson was slain, and at first it seemed that no European was left alive. Then Lieutenant Flashman was found, wounded and unconscious, by the ruins of the gate, where he had taken his final stand in defence not only of the fort, but of his country’s honour. For he was found, in the last extremity, with the colours clutched to his broken body, his face to the foemen, defiant even unto death.’” Hallelujah and good-night, sweet prince, says I to myself, what a shame I hadn’t a broken sword and a ring of my slain around me. But I thought too soon. “‘The bodies of his enemies lay before him,’” says old Bob, “‘At first it was thought he was dead, but to our great joy it was discovered that the flame of life still flickered. I cannot think that there was ever a nobler deed than this, and I only wish that our countrymen at home might have seen it, and learned with what selfless devotion their honour is protected even at the ends of the earth. It was heroic! and I trust that Lieutenant Flashman’s name will be remembered in every home in England. Whatever may be said of the disasters that have befallen us here, his valour is testimony that the spirit of our young manhood is no whit less ardent than that of their predecessors who, in Pitt’s words, saved Europe by their example.’” Well, thinks I, if that’s how we won the battle of Waterloo, thank God the French don’t know or we shall have them at us again. Who ever heard such humbug? But it was glorious to listen to, mind you, and I glowed at the thought of it. This was fame! I didn’t understand, then, how the news of Kabul and Gandamack would make England shudder, and how that vastly conceited and indignant public would clutch at any straw that might heal their national pride and enable them to repeat the old and nonsensical lie that one Englishman is worth twenty foreigners. But I could still guess what effect Sale’s report would have on a new Governor-General, and through him on the government and country, especially by contrast with the accounts of the inglorious shambles by Elphy and McNaghten that must now be on their way home. All I must do was be modest and manly and wait for the laurel wreaths. Sale had shoved his copy of the letter back in his pocket, and was looking at me all moist and admiring. Havelock was stern; I guessed he thought Sale was laying it on a deal too thick, but he couldn’t say so. (I gathered later that the defence of Piper’s Fort wasn’t quite so important to Jallalabad as Fighting Bob imagined; it was his own hesitation that made him hold off so long attacking Akbar, and in fact he might have relieved us sooner.) It was up to me, so I looked Sale in the eye, man to man. “You’ve done us great credit, sir,” says I. “Thank’ee. For the garrison, it’s no less then they deserve, but for myself, well you make it sound … a bit too much like St George and the Dragon, if you don’t mind my saying so. I just … well, pitched in with the rest, sir, that was all.” Even Havelock smiled at this plain, manly talk, and Sale nearly burst with pride and said it was the grandest thing, by heaven, and the whole garrison was full of it. Then he sobered down, and asked me to tell him how I had come to Piper’s Fort, and what had happened to separate Hudson and me from the army. Elphy was still in Akbar’s hands, along with Shelton and Mackenzie and the married folk, but for the rest they had thought them all wiped out except Brydon, who had come galloping in alone with a broken sabre trailing from his wrist. With Havelock’s eye on me I kept it brief and truthful. We had come adrift from the army in the fighting about Jugdulluk, I said, had escaped by inches through the gullies with Ghazis pursuing us, and had tried to rejoin the army at Gandamack, but had only been in time to see it slaughtered. I described the scene accurately, with old Bob groaning and damning and Havelock frowning like a stone idol, and then told how we had been captured and imprisoned by Afridis. They had flogged me to make me give information about the Kandahar force and other matters, but thank God I had told them nothing (“bravo!” says old Bob), and had managed to slip my fetters the same night. I had released Hudson and together we had cut our way past our captors and escaped. I said nothing of Narreeman – least said soonest mended – but concluded with an account of how we had skulked through the Afghan army, and then ridden into the fort hell-for-leather. There I left it, and old Bob exclaimed again about courage and endurance, but what reassured me most was that Havelock, without a word, shook my right hand in both of his. I can say that I told it well – off-hand, but not over-modest; just a blunt soldier reporting to his seniors. It calls for nice judgement, this art of bragging; you must be plain, but not too plain, and you must smile only rarely. Letting them guess more than you say is the kernel of it, and looking uncomfortable when they compliment you. They spread the tale, of course, and in the next few days I don’t suppose there was an officer of the garrison who didn’t come in to shake hands and congratulate me on coming through safe. George Broadfoot was among the first, all red whiskers and spectacles, beaming and telling me what a devil of a fellow I was – and this from Broadfoot, mind you, whom the Afghans called a brave among braves. To have people like him and Mayne and Fighting Bob making much of me – well, it was first-rate, I can tell you, and my conscience didn’t trouble me a bit. Why should it? I didn’t ask for their golden opinions; I just didn’t contradict ’em. Who would? It was altogether a splendid few weeks. While I lay nursing my leg, the siege of Jallalabad petered out, and Sale finally made another sortie that scattered the Afghan army to the winds. A few days after that Pollock arrived with the relief force from Peshawar, and the garrison band piped them in amongst universal cheering. Of course, I was on hand; they carried me out on to the verandah, and I saw Pollock march in. Later that evening Sale brought him to see me, and expounded my gallantries once again, to my great embarrassment, of course. Pollock swore it was tremendous, and vowed to avenge me when he marched on to Kabul; Sale was going with him to clear the passes, bring Akbar to book, if possible, and release the prisoners – who included Lady Sale – should they still be alive. “You can stay here and take your well-earned repose while your leg mends,” says Fighting Bob, at which I decided a scowl and a mutter might be appropriate. “I’d rather come along,” says I. “Damn this infernal leg.” “Why, hold on,” laughs Sale, “we’d have to carry you in a palankeen. Haven’t you had enough of Afghanistan?” “Not while Akbar Khan’s above ground,” says I. “I’d like to take these splints and make him eat ’em.” They laughed at this, and Broadfoot, who was there, cries out: “He’s an old war-horse already, our Flashy. Ye want tae be in at the death, don’t ye, ye great carl? Aye, well, ye can leave Akbar tae us; forbye, I doubt if the action we’ll find about Kabul will be lively enough for your taste.” They went off, and I heard Broadfoot telling Pollock what a madman I was when it came to a fight – “when we were fighting in the passes, it was Flashman every time that was sent out as galloper to us with messages; ye would see him fleein’ over the sangars like a daft Ghazi, and aye wi’ a pack o’ hostiles howling at his heels. He minded them no more than flies.” That was what he made out of the one inglorious occasion when I had been chased for my life into his encampment. But you will have noticed, no doubt, that when a man has a reputation good or bad, folk will always delight in adding to it; there wasn’t a man in Afghanistan who knew me but who wanted to recall having seen me doing something desperate, and Broadfoot, quite sincerely, was like all the rest. Pollock and Sale didn’t catch Akbar, as it turned out, but they did release the prisoners he had taken, and the army’s arrival in Kabul quieted the country. There was no question of serious reprisals; having been once bitten, we were not looking for trouble a second time. The one prisoner they didn’t release, though, was old Elphy Bey; he had died in captivity, worn out and despairing, and there was a general grief in which I, for one, didn’t share. No doubt he was a kindly old stick, but he was a damned disaster as a commander. He, above all others, murdered the army of Afghanistan, and when I reckon up the odds against my own survival in that mess – well, it wasn’t Elphy’s fault that I came through. But while all these stirring things were happening, while the Afghans were skulking back into their hills, and Sale and Pollock and Nott were showing the flag and blowing up Kabul bazaar for spite; while the news of the catalogue of disasters was breaking on a horrified England; while the old Duke of Wellington was damning Auckland’s folly for sending an army to occupy “rocks, sands, deserts, ice and snow”; while the general public and Palmerston were crying out for vengeance, and the Prime Minister was retorting that he wasn’t going to make another war for the sake of spreading the study of Adam Smith among that Pathans – while all this was happening I was enjoying a triumphal progress back to India. With my leg still splinted, I was being borne south as the hero – or, at least, the most convenient of a few heroes – of the hour. It is obvious now that the Delhi administration regarded me as something of a godsend. As Greville said later of the Afghan war, there wasn’t much cause for triumph in it, but Ellenborough in Delhi was shrewd enough to see that the best way to put a good gloss on the whole horrible nonsense was to play up its few creditable aspects – and I was the first handy one. So while he was trumpeting in orders of the day about “the illustrious garrison” who had held Jallalabad under the noble Sale, he found room to beat the drum about “gallant Flashman”, and India took its cue from him. While they drank my health they could pretend that Gandamack hadn’t happened. I got my first taste of this when I left Jallalabad in a palankeen, to go down the Khyber with a convoy, and the whole garrison turned out to hurrah me off. Then at Peshawar there was old Avitabile, the Italian rascal, who welcomed me with a guard of honour, kissed me on both cheeks, and made me and himself riotously drunk in celebration of my return. That night was memorable for one thing – I had my first woman for months, for Avitabile had in a couple of lively Afghan wenches, and we made splendid beasts of ourselves. It isn’t easy, I may say, handling a woman when your leg is broken, but where there’s a will there’s a way, and in spite of the fact that Avitabile was almost sick laughing at the spectacle of me getting my wench buckled to, I managed most satisfactorily. From there it was the same all the way – at every town and camp there were garlands and congratulations and smiling faces and cheering, until I could almost believe I was a hero. The men gripped my hand, full of emotion, and the women kissed me and sniffled; colonels had my health drunk in their messes, Company men slapped me on the shoulder, an Irish subaltern and his young wife got me to stand godfather to their new son, who was launched into life with the appalling name of Flashman O’Toole, and the ladies of the Church Guild at Lahore presented me with a silk scarf in red, white, and blue with a scroll embroidered “Steadfast”. At Ludhiana a clergyman preached a tremendous sermon on the text, “Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends” – he admitted, in a roundabout way, that I hadn’t actually laid down mine, but it hadn’t been for want of trying, and had been a damned near thing altogether. Better luck next time was about his view of it, and meanwhile hosannah and hurrah for Flashy, and let us now sing “Who would true valour see”. All this was nothing to Delhi, where they actually had a band playing “Hail the conquering hero comes”, and Ellenborough himself helped me out of the palankeen and supported me up the steps. There was a tremendous crowd, all cheering like billy-o, and a guard of honour, and an address read out by a fat chap in a red coat, and a slap-up dinner afterwards at which Ellenborough made a great speech which lasted over an hour. It was dreadful rubbish, about Thermopylae and the Spanish Armada, and how I had clutched the colours to my bleeding breast, gazing proudly with serene and noble brow o’er the engorged barbarian host, like Christian before Apollyon or Roland at Roncesvalles, I forget which, but I believe it was both. He was a fearful orator, full of bombast from Shakespeare and the classics, and I had no difficulty in feeling like a fool long before he was finished. But I sat it out, staring down the long white table with all Delhi society gaping at me and drinking in Ellenborough’s nonsense; I had just sense enough not to get drunk in public, and by keeping a straight face and frowning I contrived to look noble; I heard the women say as much behind their fans, peeping at me and no doubt wondering what kind of a mount I would make, while their husbands thumped the table and shouted “bravo!” whenever Ellenborough said something especially foolish. Then at the end, damned if he didn’t start croaking out “For he’s a jolly good fellow!” at which the whole crowd rose and roared their heads off, and I sat red-faced and trying not to laugh as I thought of what Hudson would have said if he could have seen me. It was too bad, of course, but they would never have made such a fuss about a sergeant, and even if they had, he couldn’t have carried it off as I did, insisting on hobbling up to reply, and having Ellenborough say that if I must stand, it should be his shoulder I should lean on, and by God, he would boast about it ever after. At this they roared again, and with his red face puffing claret beside me I said that this was all too much for one who was only a simple English gentleman (“amen to that,” cries Ellenborough, “and never was proud title more proudly borne”) and that what I had done was my duty, no more or less, as I hoped became a soldier. And while I didn’t believe there was any great credit to me in it (cries of “No! No!”), well, if they said there was, it wasn’t due to me but to the country that bore me, and to the old school where I was brought up as a Christian, I hoped, by my masters. (What possessed me to say this I shall never understand, unless it was sheer delight in lying, but they raised the roof) And while they were so kind to me they must not forget those others who had carried the flag, and were carrying it still (“hear! hear!”), and who would beat the Afghans back to where they came from, and prove what everyone knew, that Englishmen never would be slaves (thunderous applause). And, well, what I had done hadn’t been much, but it had been my best, and I hoped I would always do it. (More cheering, but not quite as loud, I thought, and I decided to shut up.) So God bless them all, and let them drink with me to the health of our gallant comrades still in the field. “Your simple honesty, no less than your manly aspect and your glorious sentiments, won the admiration and love of all who heard you,” Ellenborough told me afterwards. “Flashman, I salute you. Furthermore,” says he, “I intend that England shall salute you also. When he returns from his victorious campaign, Sir Robert Sale will be despatched to England, where I doubt not he will receive those marks of honour which become a hero.” (He talked like this most of the time, like a bad actor. Many people did, sixty years ago.) “As is fitting, a worthy herald shall precede him, and share his glory. I mean, of course, yourself. Your work here is done, and nobly done, for the time being. I shall send you to Calcutta with all the speed that your disability allows, there to take ship for England.” I just stared at the man; I had never thought of this. To get out of this hellish country – for if, as I’ve said, I can now consider that India was kind to me, I was still overjoyed at the thought of leaving it – to see England again, and home, and London, and the clubs and messes and civilised people, to be f?ted there as I had been assured I would be, to return in triumph when I had set out under a cloud, to be safe beyond the reach of black savages, and heat, and filth, and disease, and danger, to see white women again, and live soft, and take life easy, and sleep secure at nights, to devour the softness of Elspeth, to stroll in the park and be pointed out as the hero of Piper’s Fort, to come back to life again – why, it was like waking from a nightmare. The thought of it all set me shaking. “There are further reports to be made on affairs in Afghanistan,” says Ellenborough, “and I can think of no more fitting messenger.” “Well, sir,” says I. “I’m at your orders. If you insist, I’ll go.” Chapter 13 (#ulink_3cd6ed4a-6c9f-5430-a795-fa444f65e53e) It took four months to sail home, just as it had taken four months to sail out, but I’m bound to say I didn’t mind this time. Then I had been going into exile; now I was coming home a hero. If I’d had any doubts of that the voyage dispelled them. The captain and his officers and the passengers were as civil as butter, and treated me as if I were the Duke himself; when they found I was a cheery sort who liked his bottle and talk we got along famously, for they never seemed to tire of hearing me tell of my engagements with Afghans – male and female – and we got drunk most nights together. One or two of the older chaps were a bit leery of me, and one even hinted that I talked a deal too much, but I didn’t care for this, and said so. They were just sour old package-rats, anyway, or jealous civilians. I wonder, now, looking back, that the defence of Jallalabad made such a stir, for it was a very ordinary business, really. But it did, and since I was the first out of India who had been there, and borne a distinguished part, I got the lion’s share of admiration. It was so on the ship, and was to prove so in England. During the voyage my broken leg recovered almost entirely, but there was not much activity on shipboard anyway, and no women, and, boozing with the boys apart, I had a good deal of time to myself. This, and the absence of females, naturally turned me to thoughts of Elspeth; it was strange and delightful to think of going home to a wife, and I got that queasy feeling deep in my bowels whenever I found myself dreaming about her. It wasn’t all lust, either, not more than about nine-tenths – after all, she wasn’t going to be the only woman in England – but when I conjured up a picture of that lovely, placid face and blonde hair I got a tightness in my throat and a trembling in my hands that was quite apart from what the clergy call carnal appetites. It was the feeling I had experienced that first night I rattled her beside the Clyde – a kind of hunger for her presence and the sound of her voice and the dreamy stupidity of her blue eyes, I wondered if I was falling in love with her, and decided that I was, and that I didn’t care, anyway – which is a sure sign. So in this moonstruck state I whiled away the long voyage, and by the time we docked among the forest of shipping in London pool I was in a fine sweat, romantic and horny all at once. I made great haste for my father’s house, full of excitement at the thought of surprising her – for of course she had no idea that I was coming – and banged the knocker so hard that passers-by turned to stare at the big, brown-faced fellow who was in such a devilish hurry. Old Oswald opened, just as he always did, and gaped like a sheep as I strode past him, shouting. The hall was empty, and both strange and familiar at once, as things are after a long absence. “Elspeth!” I roared. “Halloo! Elspeth! I’m home!” Oswald was gabbling at my elbow that my father was out, and I clapped him on the back and pulled his whiskers. “Good for him,” says I, “I hope they have to carry him home tonight. Where’s your mistress? Elspeth! Hallo!” He just went on clucking at me, between delight and amazement, and then I heard a door open behind me, and looked round, and who should be standing there but Judy. That took me aback a bit; I hadn’t thought she would still be here. “Hallo,” says I, not too well pleased, although she was looking as handsome as ever. “Hasn’t the guv’nor got a new whore yet?” She was about to say something, but at that moment there was a step on the staircase, and Elspeth was standing there, staring down at me. God, what a picture she was: corn-gold hair, red lips parted, blue eyes wide, breast heaving – no doubt she was wearing something, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. She looked like a startled nymph, and then the old satyr Flashy was bounding up the stairs, grabbing her, and crying: “I’m home! I’m home! Elspeth! I’m home!” “Oh, Harry!” says she, and then her arms were round my neck and her lips were on mine. If the Brigade of Guards had marched into the hall just then to command me to the Tower I’d not have heard them. I picked her up bodily, tingling at the feel of her, and without a word spoken carried her into the bedroom, and tumbled her there and then. It was superb, for I was half-drunk with excitement and longing, and when it was over I simply lay there, listening to her prattle a thousand questions, clasping her to me, kissing every inch of her, and answering God knows what. How long we spent there I can’t imagine, but it was a long, golden afternoon, and ended only when the maid tapped on the door to say that my father was home again, and demanding to see me. So we must get dressed, and straighten ourselves, giggling like naughty children, and when Elspeth had herself in order the maid came tapping again to say that my father was growing impatient. Just to show that heroes weren’t to be hurried, I caught my darling up again, and in spite of her muffled squeals of protest, mounted her once more, without the formality of undressing. Then we went down. It should have been a splendid evening, with the family welcoming the prodigal Achilles, but it wasn’t. My father had aged in two years; his face was redder and his belly bigger, and his hair was quite white at the temples. He was civil enough, damned me for a young rascal, and said he was proud of me: the whole town had been talking over the reports from India, and Ellenborough’s eulogies for myself and Sale and Havelock were all over the place. But his jollity soon wore off, and he drank a good deal too much at dinner, and fell into a silence at last. I could see then there was something wrong, although I didn’t pay him much heed. Judy dined with us, and I gathered she was now entirely one of the household, which was bad news. I didn’t care for her any better now than I had two years before, after our quarrel, and I made it pretty plain. It seemed rather steep of my father to keep his dolly at home with my wife there, and treat them as equals, and I decided to speak to him about it. But Judy was cool and civil, too, and I gathered she was ready to keep the peace if I did. Not that I minded her or my father much. I was all over Elspeth, revelling in the dreamy way she listened to my talk – I had forgotten what a ninny she was, but it had its compensations. She sat wide-eyed at my adventures, and I don’t suppose anyone else got a word in edgeways all through the meal. I just bathed myself in that simple, dazzling smile of hers and persuaded her of what a wonderful husband she had. And later, when we went to bed, I persuaded her more so. It was then, though, that the first little hint of something odd in her behaviour crossed my mind. She had dropped off to sleep, and I was lying there exhausted, listening to her breathing, and feeling somehow dissatisfied – which was strange, considering. Then it came to me, this little doubt, and I dismissed it, and then it came back. I had had plenty of experience with women, as you know, and can judge them in bed as well as anyone, I reckon. And it seemed to me, however hard I pushed the thought away, that Elspeth was not as she had been before I went away. I’ve often said that she only came to life when she was at grips with a man – well, she had been willing enough in the few hours of my homecoming, I couldn’t deny, but there hadn’t been any of the rapturous passion on her part that I remembered. These are fine things, and difficult to explain – oh, she was active enough at the time, and content enough afterwards, but she was easier about it all, somehow. If it had been Fetnab or Josette, I wouldn’t have noticed, I dare say; it was their work as well as their play. But I had a different emotion about Elspeth, and it told me there was something missing. It was just a shadow, and when I woke next morning I had forgotten it. If I hadn’t, the morning’s events would have driven it from my mind. I came down late, and cornered my father in his study before he could slip out to his club. He was sitting with his feet along the couch, preparing for the rigours of the day with a glass of brandy, and looking liverish, but I plunged right in, and told him my thoughts about Judy. “Things have changed,” says I, “and we can’t have her seen about the place nowadays.” You’ll gather that two years among the Afghans had changed my attitude to parental discipline; I wasn’t so easy to cow as I had been. “Oh, aye,” says he, “and how have things changed?” “You’ll find,” I told him, “that I’m known about the town henceforth. What with India and so on. We’ll be more in the public eye now, and folk will talk. It won’t do for Elspeth, for one thing.” “Elspeth likes her,” says he. “Does she, though? Well, that’s no matter. It ain’t what Elspeth likes that counts, but what the town likes. And they won’t like us if we keep this … this pet pussy in the house.” “My, we’re grown very nice.” He sneered and took a good pull at his brandy. I could see the flush of temper on his face, and wondered why he hadn’t lost it yet. “I didn’t know India bred such fine sensibilities,” he went on. “Quite the reverse, I’d have thought.” “Oh, look, father, it won’t do and you know it. Send her up to Leicestershire if you want, or give her a maison of her own – but she can’t stay here.” He looked at me a long while. “By God, maybe I’ve been wrong about you all along. I know you’re a wastrel, but I never thought you had the stuff to be brave – in spite of all the tales from India. Perhaps you have, or perhaps it’s just insolence. Anyway, you’re on the wrong scent, boy. As I said, Elspeth likes her – and if she don’t want her away, then she stays.” “In God’s name, what does it matter what Elspeth likes? She’ll do as I tell her.” “I doubt it,” says he. “What’s that?” He put down his glass, wiped his lips, and said: “You won’t like it, Harry, but here it is. Who pays the piper calls the tune. And your Elspeth and her damned family have been calling the tune this year past. Hold on, now. Let me finish. You’ll have plenty to say, no doubt, but it’ll wait.” I could only stare at him, not understanding. “We’re in Queer Street, Harry. I hardly know how, myself, but there it is. I suppose I’ve been running pretty fast, all my life, and not taking much account of how the money went – what are lawyers for, eh? I took some bad tumbles on the turf, never heeded the expenses of this place, or Leicestershire, didn’t stint any way at all – but it was the damned railway shares that really did the trick. Oh, there are fortunes being made out of ’em – the right ones. I picked the wrong ones. A year ago I was a ruined man, up to my neck with the Jews, ready to be sold up. I didn’t write to you about it – what was the point? This house ain’t mine, nor our place in Leicestershire; it’s hers – or it will be, when old Morrison goes. God rot and damn him, it can’t be too soon.” He jumped up and walked about, finally stopping before the fireplace. “He met the bill, for his daughter’s sake. Oh, you should have seen it! More canting, head-wagging hypocrisy than I’ve seen in years in Parliament, even! He had the effrontery to stand in my own hall, by God, and tell me it was a judgement on him for letting his daughter marry beneath herself! Beneath herself, d’ye hear? And I had to listen to him, and keep myself from flooring the old swine! What could I do? I was the poor relation; I still am. He’s still paying the bills – through the simpering nitwit you married. He lets her have what she wants, and there you are!” “But if he’s settled an allowance on her …” “He’s settled nothing! She asks him, and he provides. Damned if I would if I was him – but, there, perhaps he thinks it worth while. He seems to dote on her, and I’ll say this for the chit, she’s not stingy. But she’s the pay-mistress, Harry, my son, and you’d best not forget it. You’re a kept man, d’you see, so it don’t become you, or me, to say who’ll come and who’ll go. And since your Elspeth is astonishingly liberal-minded – why, Miss Judy can stay, and be damned to you!” I heard him out, flabbergasted at first, but perhaps because I was a more practical man than the guv’nor, or had fewer notions of gentility, through having an aristocratic mother, I took a different view of the matter. While he splashed more brandy into his glass, I asked: “How much does he let her have?” “Eh? I told you, whatever she wants. The old bastard seems to be warm enough for ten. But you can’t get your hands on it, I tell you.” “Well, I don’t mind,” says I. “As long as the money’s there, it don’t signify who draws the orders.” He gaped at me. “Jesus,” he said, in a choked voice, “have you no pride?” “Probably as much as you have,” says I, very cool. “You’re still here, ain’t you?” He took on the old familiar apoplectic look, so I slid out before he threw a bottle at me, and went upstairs to think. It wasn’t good news, of course, but I didn’t doubt I could come to a good understanding with Elspeth, which was all that mattered. The truth was, I didn’t have his pride; it wasn’t as if I should have to sponge off old Morrison, after all. No doubt I should have been upset at the thought of not inheriting my father’s fortune – or what had been his fortune – but when old Morrison ceased to trouble the world I’d have Elspeth’s share of the will, which would quite probably make up for all that. In the meantime, I tackled her on the subject at the first opportunity, and found her all brainless agreement, which was highly satisfactory. “What I have is yours, my love,” says she, with that melting look. “You know you have only to ask me for anything – anything at all.” “Much obliged,” says I. “But it might be a little inconvenient, sometimes. I was thinking, if there was a regular payment, say, it would save all the tiresome business for you.” “My father would not allow that, I’m afraid. He has been quite clear, you see.” I saw, all right, and worked away at her, but it was no use. A fool she might be, but she did what Papa told her, and the old miser knew better than to leave a loophole for the Flashman family to crawl in and lighten him. It’s a wise man that knows his own son-in-law. So it was going to have to be cash on demand – which was better than no cash at all. And she was ready enough with fifty guineas when I made my first application – it was all cut and dried, with a lawyer in Johnson’s Court, who advanced her whatever she asked for, in reason. However, apart from these sordid matters there was quite enough to engage me in those first days at home. No one at the Horse Guards knew quite what to do with me, so I was round the clubs a good deal, and it was surprising how many people knew me all of a sudden. They would hail me in the Park, or shake hands in the street, and there was a steady stream of callers at home; friends of my father’s whom he hadn’t seen for years popped up to meet me and greet him; invitations were showered on us; letters of congratulation piled up on the hall table and spilled on to the floor; there were paragraphs in the press about “the first of the returned heroes from Cabool and Jellulabad”, and the new comic paper Punch had a cartoon in its series of “Pencillings” which showed a heroic figure, something like me, wielding an enormous scimitar like a pantomime bandit, with hordes of blackamoors (they looked no more like Afghans than Eskimos) trying to wrest the Union Jack from me in vain. Underneath there was the caption: “A Flash(ing) Blade”, which give you some idea of the standard of humour in that journal. However, Elspeth was enchanted with it, and bought a dozen copies; she was in whirl of delight at being the centre of so much attention – for the hero’s wife gets as, many of the garlands as he does, especially if she’s a beauty. There was one night at the theatre when the manager insisted on taking us out of our seats to a box, and the whole audience cheered and stamped and clapped. Elspeth was radiant and stood there squeaking and clasping her hands with not the least trace of embarrassment, while I waved, very good-natured, to the mob. “Oh, Harry!” says she, sparkling. “I’m so happy I could die! Why, you are famous, Harry, and I …” She didn’t finish, but I know she was thinking that she was famous too. At that moment I loved her all the more for thinking it. The parties in that first week were too many to count, and always we were the centre of attraction. They had a military flavour, for thanks to the news from Afghanistan, and China – where we had also been doing well – the army was in fashion more than usual. The more senior officers and the mamas claimed me, which left Elspeth to the young blades. This delighted her, of course, and pleased me – I wasn’t jealous, and indeed took satisfaction in seeing them clustering like flies round a jampot which they could watch but couldn’t taste. She knew a good many of them, and I learned that during my absence in India quite a few of the young sparks had squired her in the Park or ridden in the Row with her – which was natural enough, she being an army wife. But I just kept an eye open, all the same, and cold-shouldered one or two when they came too close – there was one in particular, a young Life Guards captain called Watney, who was often at the house, and was her riding partner twice in the week; he was a tall, curly-lipped exquisite with a lazy eye, who made himself very easy at home until I gave him the about-turn. “I can attend Mrs Flashman very well, thank’ee,” says I. “None better,” says he, “I’m sure. I had only hoped that you might relinquish her for a half-hour or so.” “Not for a minute,” says I. “Oh, come now,” says he, patronising me, “this is very selfish. I am sure Mrs Flashman wouldn’t agree.” “I’m sure she would.” “Would you care to test it?” says he, with an infuriating smile. I could have boxed his ears, but I kept my temper very well. “Go to the devil, you mincing pimp,” I told him, and left him standing in the hall. I went straight to Elspeth’s room, told her what had happened, and cautioned her against seeing Watney again. “Which one is he?” she asked, admiring her hair in the mirror. “Fellow with a face like a horse and a haw-haw voice.” “There are so many like that,” says she. “I can’t tell one from the other. Harry, darling, would I look well with ringlets, do you think?” This pleased me, as you can guess, and I forgot the incident at once. I remember it now, for it was that same day that everything happened all at once. There are days like that; a chapter in your life ends and another one begins, and nothing is the same afterwards. I was to call at the Horse Guards to see my Uncle Bindley, and I told Elspeth I would not be home until the afternoon, when we were to go out to tea at someone-or-others. But when I got to Horse Guards my uncle bundled me straight into a carriage and bore me off to meet – of all people – the Duke of Wellington. I’d never seen him closer than a distance, and it made me fairly nervous to stand in his ante-room after Bindley had been ushered in to him, and hear their voices murmuring behind the closed door. Then it opened, and the Duke came out; he was white-haired and pretty wrinkled at this time, but that damned hooked nose would have marked him anywhere, and his eyes were like gimlets. “Ah, this is the young man,” says he, shaking hands. For all his years he walked with the spring of a jockey, and was very spruce in his grey coat. “The town is full of you just now,” says he, looking me in the eyes. “It is as it should be. It was a damned good bit of work – about the only good thing in the whole business, by God, whatever Ellenborough and Palmerston may say.” Hudson, thinks I, you should see me now; short of the heavens opening, there was nothing to be added. The Duke asked me a few sharp questions, about Akbar Khan, and the Afghans generally, and how the troops had behaved on the retreat, which I answered as well as I could. He listened with his head back, and said “Hmm,” and nodded, and then said briskly: “It is a thorough shame that it has been so shockingly managed. But it is always the way with these damned politicals; there is no telling them. If I had had someone like McNaghten with me in Spain, Bindley, I’d still be at Lisbon, I dare say. And what is to happen to Mr Flashman? Have you spoken to Hardinge?” Bindley said they would have to find a regiment for me, and the Duke nodded. “Yes, he is a regimental man. You were in the 11th Hussars, as I remember? Well, you won’t want to go back there,” and he gave me a shrewd look. “His lordship is no better disposed to Indian offiers now than he ever was, the more fool he. I have thought of telling him, more than once, that I’m an Indian officer myself, but he would probably just have given me a setdown. Well, Mr Flashman, I am to take you to Her Majesty this afternoon, so you must be here at one o’clock.” And with that he turned back to his room, said a word to Bindley, and shut the door. Well, you can guess how all this dazzled me; to have the great Duke chatting to me, to learn that I was to be presented to the Queen – all this had me walking on the clouds. I went home in a rosy dream, hugging myself at the way Elspeth would take the news; this would make her damned father sit up and take notice, all right, and it would be odd if I couldn’t squeeze something out of him in consequence, if I played my cards well. I hurried upstairs, but she wasn’t in her room; I called, and eventually old Oswald appeared and said she had gone out. “Where away?” says I. “Well, sir,” says he, looking mighty sour, “I don’t rightly know.” “With Miss Judy?” “No, sir,” says he, “not with Miss Judy. Miss Judy is downstairs, sir.” There was something damned queer about his manner, but there was nothing more to be got from him, so I went downstairs and found Judy playing with a kitten in the morning room. “Where’s my wife?” says I. “Out with Captain Watney,” says she, cool as you please. “Riding. Here, kitty-kitty. In the Park, I dare say.” For a minute I didn’t understand. “You’re wrong,” says I. “I sent him packing two hours ago.” “Well, they went riding half an hour ago, so he must have unpacked.” She picked up the kitten and began to stroke it. “What the devil d’you mean?” “I mean they’ve gone out together. What else?” “Dammit,” says I, furious. “I told her not to.” She went on stroking, and looked at me with her crooked little smile. “She can’t have understood you, then,” says she. “Or she would not have gone, would she?” I stood staring at her, feeling a chill suddenly settle on my insides. “What are you hinting, damn you?” I said. “Nothing at all. It is you who are imagining. Do you know, I believe you’re jealous.” “Jealous, by God! And what have I to be jealous about?” “You should know best, surely.” I stood looking thunder at her, torn between anger and fear of what she seemed to be implying. “Now, look’ee here,” I said, “I want to know what the blazes you’re at. If you have anything to say about my wife, by God, you’d best be careful …” My father came stumping into the hall at that minute, curse him, and calling for Judy. She got up and walked past me, the kitten in her arms. She stopped at the door, gave me a crooked, spiteful smile, and says: “What were you doing in India? Reading? Singing hymns? Or did you occasionally go riding in the Park?” And with that she slammed the door, leaving me shot to bits, with horrible thoughts growing in my mind. Suspicion doesn’t come gradually; it springs up suddenly, and grows with every breath it takes. If you have a foul mind, as I have, you think foul thoughts readier than clean ones, so that even as I told myself that Judy was a lying bitch trying to frighten me with implications, and that Elspeth was incapable of being false, at the same time I had a vision of her rolling naked in a bed with her arms round Watney’s neck. God, it wasn’t possible! Elspeth was an innocent, a completely honest fool, who hadn’t even known what “fornication” meant when I first met her … That hadn’t stopped her bounding into the bushes with me, though, at the first invitation. Oh, but it was still unthinkable! She was my wife, and as amiable and proper as a girl could be; she was utterly different from swine like me, she had to be. I couldn’t be as wrong in my judgement as that, could I? I was standing torturing myself with these happy notions, and then common sense came to the rescue. Good God, all she had done was go riding with Watney – why, she hadn’t even known who he was when I warned her against him that morning. And she was the most scatterbrained thing in petticoats; besides, she wasn’t of the mettle that trollops are made of. Too meek and gentle and submissive by half – she wouldn’t have dared. The mere thought of what I’d do would have terrified … what would I do? Disown her? Divorce her? Throw her out? By God, I couldn’t! I didn’t have the means; my father was right! For a moment I was appalled. If Elspeth was making a mistress for Watney, or anyone else, there was nothing I could do about it. I could cut her to ribbons, oh, aye, and what then? Take to the streets? I couldn’t stay in the army, or in town, even, without means … Oh, but to the devil with this. It was pure moonshine, aye, and deliberately put into my mind to make me jealous by that brown-headed slut of my father’s. This was her making mischief to get her own back for the hammering I’d given her three years ago. That was it. Why, I didn’t have the least reason to think ill of Elspeth; everything about her denied Judy’s imputations – and, by God, I’d pay that cow out for her lies and sneers. I’d find a way, all right, and God help her when I did. With my thoughts back in more genial channels, I remembered the news I’d been coming home to tell Elspeth – well, she would have to wait for it until after I’d been to the Palace. Serve her right for going out with Watney, damn him. In the meantime, I spent the next hour looking out my best clothes, arranging my hair, which was grown pretty long and romantic, and cursing Oswald as he helped me with my cravat – I’d have been happier in uniform, but I didn’t have a decent one to my name, having spent my time in mufti since I came home. I was so excited that I didn’t bother to lunch, but dandied myself up to the nines, and then hurried off to meet His Nose-ship. There was a brougham at his door when I arrived, and I didn’t have to wait two minutes before he came down, all dressed and damning the secretary and valet who were stalking along behind him. “There probably isn’t a damned warming-pan in the place,” he was barking. “And it is necessary that everything should be in the finest order. Find out if Her Majesty takes her own bed-linen when she travels. I imagine she does, but don’t for God’s sake go inquiring indiscreetly. Ask Arbuthnot; he’ll know. You may be sure that something will be amiss, in the end, but it can’t be helped. Ah, Flashman,” and he ran his eye over me like a drill sergeant. “Come along, then.” There was a little knot of urchins and people to raise a cheer as he came out, and some shouted: “There’s the Flash cove! Hurrah!” by which they meant me. There was a little wait after we got in, because the coachman had some trouble with his reins, and a little crowd gathered while the Duke fretted and swore. “Dammit, Johnson,” growls he, “hurry up or we shall have all London here.” The crowd cheered and we rolled off in the pleasant autumn sunshine, with the guttersnipes running behind whooping and people turning on the pavements to lift their hats as the Great Duke passed by. “If I knew how news travelled I’d be a wiser man,” says he. “Can you imagine it? I’ll lay odds they know in Dover by this time that I am taking you to Her Majesty. You’ve never had any dealings with royalty, I take it?” “Only in Afghanistan, my lord,” says I, and he barked a little short laugh. “They probably have less ceremonial than we do,” he says. “It is a most confounded bore. Let me tell you, sir, never become a field-marshal and commander-in-chief. It is very fine, but it means your sovereign will honour you by coming to stay, and not a bed in the place worth a damn. I have more anxiety over the furnishing of Walmer, Mr Flashman, than I did over the works at Torres Vedras.” “If you are as successful this time as you were then, my lord,” says I, buttering him, “you have no cause for alarm.” “Huh!” says he, and gave me a sharp look. But he was silent for a minute or two and then asked me if I felt nervous. “There is no need why you should be,” says he. “Her Majesty is most gracious, although it is never as easy, of course, as it was with her predecessors. King William was very easy, very kind, and made people entirely at home. It is altogether more formal now, and pretty stiff, but if you stay by me and keep your mouth shut, you’ll do.” I ventured to say that I’d felt happier at the prospect of charging into a band of Ghazis than I did at going to the palace, which was rubbish, of course, but I thought was probably the thing to say. “Damned nonsense,” says he, sharply. “You wouldn’t rather anything of the sort. But I know that the feeling is much the same, for I’ve experienced both myself. The important thing is never to show it, as I am never tired of telling young men. Now tell me about these Ghazis, who I understand are the best soldiers the Afghans can show.” He was on my home ground there, and I told him about the Ghazis and Gilzais and Pathans and Douranis, to which he listened very carefully until I realised that we were rolling through the palace gates, and there were the Guards presenting arms, and a flunkey running to hold the door and set the steps, and officers clicking to attention, and a swarm of people about us. “Come on,” says the Duke, and led the way through a small doorway, and I have a hazy recollection of stairs and liveried footmen, and long carpeted corridors, and great chandeliers, and soft-footed officials escorting us – but my chief memory is of the slight, grey-coated figure in front of me, striding along and people getting out of his way. We brought up outside two great double doors with a flunkey in a wig at either side, and a small fat man in a black tail coat bobbed in front of us, and darted forward muttering to twitch at my collar and smooth my lapel. “Apologies,” he twittered. “A brush here.” And he snapped his fingers. A brush appeared and he flicked at my coat, very deftly, and shot a glance in the Duke’s direction. “Take that damned thing away,” says the Duke, “and stop fussing. We know how to dress without your assistance.” The little fat man looked reproachful and stood aside, motioning to the flunkeys. They opened the door, and with my heart thumping against my ribs I heard a rich, strong voice announce: “His Grace the Duke of Wellington. Mr Flashman.” It was a large, magnificently furnished drawing-room, with a carpet stretching away between mirrored walls and a huge chandelier overhead. There were a few people at the other end, two men standing near the fireplace, a girl sitting on a couch with an older woman standing behind, and I think another man and a couple of women near by. We walked forward towards them, the Duke a little in advance, and he stopped short of the couch and bowed. “Your Majesty,” says he, “may I have the honour to present Mr Flashman.” And only then did I realise who the girl was. We are accustomed to think of her as the old queen, but she was just a child then, rather plump, and pretty enough beneath the neck. Her eyes were large and popped a little, and her teeth stuck out too much, but she smiled and murmured in reply – by this time I was bowing my backside off, naturally. When I straightened up she was looking at me, and Wellington was reciting briskly about Kabul and Jallalabad – “distinguished defence”, “Mr Flashman’s notable behaviour” are the only phrases that stay in my mind. When he stopped she inclined her head at him, and then said to me: “You are the first we have seen of those who served so bravely in Afghanistan, Mr Flashman. It is really a great joy to see you returned safe and well. We have heard the most glowing reports of your gallantry, and it is most gratifying to be able to express our thanks and admiration for such brave and loyal service.” Well, she couldn’t have said fairer than that I suppose, even if she did recite it like a parrot. I just made a rumbling sound in my throat and ducked my head again. She had a thick, oddly-accented voice, and came down heavy on her words every now and then, nodding as she did so. “Are you entirely recovered from your wounds?” she asked. “Very well, thank’ee, your majesty,” says I. “You are exceedingly brown,” says one of the men, and the heavy German accent startled me. I’d noticed him out of the tail of my eye, leaning against the mantel, with one leg crossed over the other. So this is Prince Albert, I thought; what hellish-looking whiskers. “You must be as brown as an Aff-ghan,” says he, and they laughed politely. I told him I had passed for one, and he opened his eyes and said did I speak the language, and would I say something in it. So without thinking I said the first words that came into my head: “Hamare ghali ana, achha din,” which is what the harlots chant at passers-by, and means “Good day, come into our street”. He seemed very interested, but the man beside him stiffened and stared hard at me. “What does it mean, Mr Flashman?” says the Queen. “It is a Hindu greeting, marm,” says the Duke, and my guts turned over as I recalled that he had served in India. “Why, of course,” says she, “we are quite an Indian gathering, with Mr Macaulay here.” The name meant nothing to me then; he was looking at me damned hard, though, with his pretty little mouth set hard. I later learned that he had spent several years in government out there, so my fat-headed remark had not been lost on him, either. “Mr Macaulay has ben reading us his new poems,” says the Queen, “They are quite stirring and fine. I think his Horatius must have been your model, Mr Flashman, for you know he defied great odds in defence of Rome. It is a splendid ballad, and very inspiring. Do you know the story, Duke?” He said he did, which put him one up on me, and added that he didn’t believe it, at which she cried out and demanded to know why. “Three men can’t stop an army, marm,” says he. “Livy was no soldier, or he would hardly have suggested they could.” “Oh, come now,” says Macaulay. “They were on a narrow bridge, and could not be outnumbered.” “You see, Duke?” says the Queen. “How could they be overcome?” “Bows and arrows, marm,” says he. “Slings. Shoot ’em down. That’s what I’d have done.” At this she said that the Tuscans were more chivalrous than he was, and he agreed that very likely they were. “Which is perhaps why there are no Tuscan empires today, but an extensive British one,” says the Prince quietly. And then he leaned forward and murmured something to the Queen, and she nodded wisely, and stood up – she was very small – and signed to me to come forward in front of her. I went, wondering, and the Duke came to my elbow, and the Prince watched me with his head on one side. The lady who had been behind the couch came forward, and handed something to the Queen, and she looked up at me, from not a foot away. “Our brave soldiers in Afghanistan are to have four medals from the Governor-General,” she said. “You will wear them in course of time, but there is also a medal from their Queen, and it is fitting that you should wear it first of all.” She pinned it on my coat, and she had to reach up to do it, she was so small. Then she smiled at me, and I felt so overcome I didn’t know what to say. Seeing this, she went all soulful about the eyes. “You are a very gallant gentleman,” says she. “God bless you.” Oh, lor’, I thought, if only you knew, you romantic little woman, thinking I’m a modern Horatius. (I made a point of studying Macaulay’s “Lays” later, and she wasn’t too far off, really; only the chap I resembled was False Sextus, a man after my own heart.) However, I had to say something, so I mumbled about her majesty’s service. “England’s service,” said she, looking intense. “The same thing, ma’am,” says I, flown with inspiration, and she cast her eyes down wistfully. The Duke gave what sounded like a little groan. There was a pause, and then she asked if I was married. I told her I was, but that I and my wife had been parted for the past two years. “What a cruel separation”, says she, as one might say “What delicious strawberry jam”. But she was sure, she said, that our reunion must be all the sweeter for that parting. “I know what it means to be a devoted wife, with the dearest of husbands,” she went on, glancing at Albert, and he looked fond and noble. God, I thought, what a honeymoon that must have been. Then the Duke chimed in, making his farewells, and I realised that this was my cue. We both bowed, and backed away, and she sat looking dumpy on the couch, and then we were in the corridor again, and the Duke was striding off through the hovering attendants. “Well,” says he, “you’ve got a medal no one else will ever have. Only a few of ’em struck, you see, and then Ellenborough announced that he was giving four of his own, which did not please her majesty at all. So her medal is to be stopped.” He was right as it turned out; no one else ever received the medal, with its pink and green ribbon (I suspect Albert chose the colours), and I wear it on ceremonial days along with my Victoria Cross, my American Medal of Honour (for which the republic graciously pays me ten dollars a month), my San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth (richly deserved), and all the other assorted tinware which serves to disguise a cowardly scoundrel as a heroic veteran. We passed through the covey of saluting Guardsmen, bowing officials, and rigid flunkeys to our coach, but there was no getting through the gates at first for the crowd which had collected and was cheering its head off. “Good old Flashy! Hurrah for Flash Harry! Hip! hip! hooray!” They clamoured at the railings, waving and throwing up their hats, jostling the sentries, surging in a great press round the gateway, until at last the gates were pushed open and the brougham moved slowly through the struggling mass, all the faces grinning and shouting and the handkerchiefs waving. “Take off your hat, man,” snaps the Duke, so I did, and they roared again, pressing forward against the sides of the coach, reaching in to clasp my hand, beating on the panels, and making a tremendous racket. “He’s got a medal!” roars someone. “God save the Queen!” At that they woke the echoes, and I thought the coach must overturn. I was laughing and waving to them, but what do you suppose I was thinking? This was real glory! Here was I, the hero of the Afghan war, with the Queen’s medal on my coat, the world’s greatest soldier at my side, and the people of the world’s greatest city cheering me to the echo – me! while the Duke sat poker-faced snapping: “Johnson, can’t you get us out of this damned mess?” What was I thinking? About the chance that had sent me to India? About Elphy Bey? About the horror of the passes on the retreat, or the escape at Mogala when Iqbal died? Of the nightmare of Piper’s Fort or that dreadful dwarf in the snake-pit? About Sekundar Burnes? Or Bernier? Or the women – Josette, Narreeman, Fetnab and the rest? About Elspeth? About the Queen? None of these things. Strange, but as the coach won clear and we rattled off down the Mall with the cheers dying behind us, I could hear Arnold’s voice saying, “There is good in you, Flashman,” and I could imagine how he would have supposed himself vindicated at this moment, and preach on “Courage” in chapel, and pretend to rejoice in the redeemed prodigal – but all the time he would know in his hypocrite heart that I was a rotter still. But neither he nor anyone else would have dared to say so. This myth called bravery, which is half-panic, half-lunacy (in my case, all panic), pays for all; in England you can’t be a hero and bad. There’s practically a law against it. Wellington was muttering sharply about the growing insolence of the mob, but he left off to tell me he would set me down at the Horse Guards. When we arrived and I was getting out and thanking him for his kindness, he looks sharply at me, and says: “I wish you every good fortune, Flashman. You should go far. I don’t imagine you’re a second Marlborough, mind, but you appear to be brave and you’re certainly damned lucky. With the first quality you may easily gain command of an army or two, and lead ’em both to ruin, but with your luck you’ll probably lead ’em back again. You have made a good beginning, at all events, and received today the highest honour you can hope for, which is your monarch’s mark of favour. Goodbye to you.” We shook hands, and he drove off. I never spoke to him again. Years later, though, I told the American general, Robert Lee, of the incident, and he said Wellington was right – I had received the highest honour any soldier could hope for. But it wasn’t the medal; for Lee’s money it was Wellington’s hand. Neither, I may point out, had any intrinsic value. I was the object of general admiration at the Horse Guards, of course, and at the club, and finally I took myself home in excellent fettle. It had been raining cats and dogs, but had stopped, and the sun was shining as I ran up the steps. Oswald informed me that Elspeth was above stairs; oho! thinks I, wait till she hears where I’ve been and who I’ve seen. She’ll be rather more attentive to her lord and master now, perhaps, and less to sprigs of Guardees; I was smiling as I went upstairs, for the events of the afternoon had made my earlier jealousy seem silly, and simply the work of the little bitch Judy. I walked into the bedroom keeping my left hand over the medal, to surprise her. She was sitting before her glass, as usual, with her maid dressing her hair. “Harry!” she cries out, “where have you been? Have you forgot we are to take tea with Lady Chalmers at four-thirty?” “The devil with Lady Chalmers, and all Chalmerses,” says L “Let ’em wait.” “Oh, how can you say so?” she laughed at me in the mirror. “But where have you been, looking so splendid?” “Oh, visiting friends, you know. Young couple, Bert and Vicky. You wouldn’t know ’em.” “Bert and Vicky!” If Elspeth had developed a fault in my long absence, it was that she had become a complete snob – not uncommon among people of her class. “Whoever are they?” I stood behind her, looking at her reflection, and exposed the medal. I saw her eyes light on it, and widen, and then she swung round. “Harry! What … ?” “I’ve been to the palace. With the Duke of Wellington. I had this from the Queen – after we had chatted a little, you know, about poetry and …” “The Queen!” she squeals. “The Duke! The palace!” And she leaped up, clapping her hands, throwing her arms round my neck, while her maid clucked and fussed and I, laughing, swung her round and kissed her. There was no shutting her up, of course; she rained questions on me, her eyes shining, demanding to know who was there, and what they said, and what the Queen wore, and how the Queen spoke to me, and what I replied, and every mortal thing. Finally I pushed her into a chair, sent the maid packing, and sat down on the bed, reciting the whole thing from start to finish. Elspeth sat, round-eyed and lovely, listening breathlessly, and squealing with excitement every now and then. When I told her the Queen had asked about her she gasped and turned to look at herself in the mirror, I imagine to see if there was a smut on her nose. Then she demanded that I go through it all again, and I did, but not before I had stripped off her gown and pulled her on top of me on the bed, so that between gasps and sighs the breathtaking tale was re-told. I lost track of it several times, I admit. Even then she was still marvelling at it all, until I pointed out that it was after four o’clock, and what would Lady Chalmers say? She giggled, and said we had better go, and chattered incessantly while she dressed and I lazily put myself in order. “Oh, it is the most wonderful thing!” she kept saying. “The Queen! The Duke! Oh, Harry!” “Aye,” says I, “and where were you, eh? Sparking in the Row all afternoon with one of your admirers.” “Oh, he is the greatest bore,” says she laughing. “Nothing to talk of but his horses. We spent the entire afternoon riding in the Park, and he spoke of nothing else for two hours on end!” “Did he, begad,” says I. “Why, you must have been soaked.” She was in a cupboard by now, among her dresses, and didn’t hear, and idly I reached out, not thinking, and touched the bottle-green riding coat that lay across the end of the bed. I felt it, and my heart suddenly turned to stone. The coat was bone-dry. I twisted round to look at the boots standing by a chair; they shone glossy, with not a mark or a splash on them. I sat, feeling sick, listening to my heart thumping, while she chattered away. It had rained steadily from the time I had left Wellington at the Horse Guards until I had left the club more than an hour later and come home. She could not have been riding in the Park in that downpour. Well, where the devil had she and Watney been, then, and what …? I felt rage mounting inside me, rage and spite, but I held myself in, telling myself I might be wrong. She was patting her face with a rabbit’s foot before the glass, never minding me, so I said, very easy like: “Whereabouts did you go for your ride?” “Oh, in the Park, as I said. Nowhere at all in particular.” Now that’s a lie for certain, thinks I, and yet I couldn’t believe it. She looked so damned innocent and open, so feather-headed and full of nonsense as she went on and on about my wonderful, wonderful hour at the palace; why, only ten minutes ago she had been coupling with me on the bed, letting me … aye, letting me. Suddenly the ugly thought of the first night home came rushing back to me – how I had fancied she was less ardent than I remembered her. Perhaps I had been right; perhaps she had been less passionate. Well she might be, if in my absence she had found some jockey who was more to her fancy over the jumps than I was. By God, if that were true I would … I sat there shaking, my head turned away so that she would not see me in the mirror. Had that slut Judy been hinting at the truth, then? Was Watney cuckolding me – and heaven knew who else besides him? I was fairly boiling with shame and anger at the thought. But it couldn’t be true! No, not Elspeth. And yet there was Judy’s sneer, and those boots winking their wickedness at me – they hadn’t been near the Park this afternoon, by God! While the maid came back and attended to Elspeth’s hair again, and I tried to close my ears to the shrill feminine trilling of her talk, I tried to take hold of myself. Maybe I was wrong – oh, God, I hoped so. It wasn’t just that strange yearning that I had about Elspeth, it was my … well, my honour, if you like. Oh, I didn’t give a damn about what the world calls honour, but the thought of another man, or men, frollicking in the hay with my wife, who should have been unable to imagine a more masterful or heroic lover than the great Flashman – the hero whose name was on everyone’s lips, God help us – the thought of that! … Pride is a hellish thing; without it there isn’t any jealousy or ambition. And I was proud of the figure I cut – in bed and in barracks. And here was I, the lion of the hour, medal and all, the Duke’s handshake and the Queen’s regard still fresh – and I was gnawing my innards out about a gold-headed filly without a brain to her name. And I must bite my lip and not say a word, for fear of the row there would be if I let slip a breath of my suspicions – right or wrong, the fat would be in the fire, and I couldn’t afford that. “Well, how do I look?” says she, coming to stand in front of me in her gown and bonnet. “Why, Harry, you have gone quite pale! I know, it is the excitement of this day! My poor dear!” And she tilted up my head and kissed me. No, I couldn’t believe it, looking into those baby-blue eyes. Aye, and what about those baby-black boots? “We shall go out to Lady Chalmers’s,” said she, “and she will be quite over the moon when she hears about this. I expect there will be quite a company there, too. I shall be so proud, Harry – so proud! Now, let me straighten your cravat; bring a brush, Susan – what an excellent coat it is. You must always go to that tailor – which is he again? There now; oh, Harry, how handsome you look! See yourself in the glass!” I looked, and seeing myself so damned dashing, and her radiant and fair beside me, I fought down the wretchedness and rage. No, it couldn’t be true … “Susan, you have not put away my coat, silly girl. Take it at once, before it creases.” By God, though, I knew it was. Or I thought I knew. To the devil with the consequences, no little ninny in petticoats was going to do this to me. “Elspeth,” says I, turning. “Hang it carefully, now, when you’ve brushed it. There. Yes, my love?” “Elspeth …” “Oh, Harry, you look so strong and fierce, on my word. I don’t think I shall feel easy in my mind when I see all these fancy London ladies making eyes at you.” And she pouted very pretty and touched her finger on my lips. “Elspeth, I –” “Oh, I had nearly forgot – you had better take some money with you. Susan, bring me my purse. In case of any need that may arise, you know. Twenty guineas, my love.” “Much obliged,” says I. What the devil, you have to make do as best you can; if the tide’s there, swim with it and catch on to whatever offers. You only go by once. “Will twenty be sufficient, do you think?” “Better make it forty.” (At this point the first packet of The Flashman Papers ends abruptly). Glossary (#ulink_3b189611-e233-5c66-953f-f628af6af11d) Notes (#ulink_bc64070f-a83b-54b4-b937-d19b739c2c72) (#ulink_11c14193-e5d8-50fa-b518-b66e15897699) ROYAL FLASH From The Flashman Papers, 1842–43 and 1847–48 Edited and Arranged by GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER Copyright (#ulink_781ce8d3-8383-56b9-9c4c-50620a3a613c) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1970 Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1970 George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780006511267 Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007449507 Version: 2017-11-06 Dedication (#ulink_82ab4b69-e1e7-5b22-bdd2-4130668c1a78) For Kath, again, and for Ronald Coleman, Douglas Fairbanks, jun., Errol Flynn, Basil Rathbone, Louis Hayward, Tyrone Power, and all the rest of them Contents Cover (#ue0e153f4-37c1-58df-b8fb-7aa2e55fc415) Title Page (#ufcdf4a79-a83a-5083-9f83-1b39dee8cfe4) Copyright (#ulink_b7062cc6-172d-5994-b6cc-a65cec5744ee) Dedication (#ulink_233b11c4-c820-5b3c-8678-a8eddb17413d) Explanatory Note (#ulink_04a46e7a-8e28-5d9c-abe5-b178047957d4) Maps (#u7e61f863-d9a2-5a24-a9a3-d7a8209b9c7a) Chapter 1 (#ulink_724a4827-31f7-5c1c-b192-c8ef39ee3340) Chapter 2 (#ulink_dcef0638-0ce9-5d11-82e8-3ce97c6e4ba9) Chapter 3 (#ulink_3fe21403-ad36-5b65-b129-0fbb52f98eac) Chapter 4 (#ulink_1c1a8320-8298-5108-bd5c-d890c2fdbc12) Chapter 5 (#ulink_2d9c7408-dd53-57e2-95ff-52f0e01c7d98) Chapter 6 (#ulink_e534115a-29f2-521d-a754-71d713be1a33) Chapter 7 (#ulink_1be4e4c3-2629-5e4e-ad0f-88a3ed3ed6eb) Chapter 8 (#ulink_1182269f-4a28-5fcd-a470-2773a99530ec) Chapter 9 (#ulink_784be40f-b877-5554-ac35-4382962c94ab) Chapter 10 (#ulink_9294fd5f-810f-5e3b-ae10-f98a40ba55d7) Appendix I: The Prisoner of Zenda (#ulink_a08892a4-68bb-5744-80d7-7a20f8eb6dbd) Appendix II: Lola Montez (#ulink_edbe45e1-3c0b-5555-b96e-2ad0634aaba2) Notes (#ulink_2472d9ae-0bf9-5531-bd2a-112182273f4c) Explanatory Note (#ulink_87441cfd-329c-5bff-9afd-a3d03be93cb6) The second packet of the Flashman Papers—that great collection of manuscript discovered in a saleroom in Leicestershire in 1965—continues the career of the author, Harry Flashman, from the point where the first instalment ended in the autumn of 1842. The first packet described his expulsion from Rugby School in 1839 (as previously referred to in Thomas Hughes’ Tom Brown’s Schooldays) and followed his subsequent military career in England, India, and Afghanistan; the second packet covers two separate periods of several months in 1842–43 and 1847–48. There is an intriguing four-year gap which the author seems to indicate he has covered elsewhere in his memoirs. The present instalment is of historical importance insofar as it describes Flashman’s encounters with several persons of international celebrity—including one most eminent statesman whose character and actions may now be subjected to some reappraisal by historians. It also establishes a point of some literary interest, for there can be no doubt that a link exists between Flashman’s German adventure and one of the best-selling novels in the Victorian period. As with the first packet (entrusted to me by Mr Paget Morrison, the owner of the Flashman Papers) I have confined myself to correcting the author’s occasional lapses in spelling. Where Flashman touches on known history he is remarkably accurate, especially when one considers that he was writing in his eighties; wherever he appears to make a minor slip I have left it uncorrected in the text (as, for example, where he describes the pugilist Nick Ward as “the Champion” in 1842, when in fact Ward had lost his title the previous year), but I have added such notes and comments as seemed appropriate. Like most memorialists, Flashman is vague about exact dates; where these can be established I have entered them in the notes. G.M.F. Maps (#ulink_2b72a156-ac5d-5a8f-884a-b73f55e4d250) Chapter 1 (#ulink_b3336b62-e987-5d30-a45f-c3cb4bb30eeb) If I had been the hero everyone thought I was, or even a half-decent soldier, Lee would have won the battle of Gettysburg and probably captured Washington. That is another story, which I shall set down in its proper place if brandy and old age don’t carry me off first, but I mention the fact here because it shows how great events are decided by trifles. Scholars, of course, won’t have it so. Policies, they say, and the subtly laid schemes of statesmen, are what influence the destinies of nations; the opinions of intellectuals, the writings of philosophers, settle the fate of mankind. Well, they may do their share, but in my experience the course of history is as often settled by someone’s having a belly-ache, or not sleeping well, or a sailor getting drunk, or some aristocratic harlot waggling her backside. So when I say that my being rude to a certain foreigner altered the course of European history, it is a considered judgement. If I had dreamed for a moment how important that man was going to be, I’d have been as civil as the devil to him, yes-me-lording and stroking his back. But in my youth and ignorance I imagined that he was one of those to whom I could be rude with impunity—servants, tarts, bagmen, shopkeepers, and foreigners—and so I gave my unpleasant tongue free rein. In the long run it nearly cost me my neck, quite apart from changing the map of the world. It was in ’42, when I was barely out of my ’teens, but already famous. I had taken a distinguished part in the fiasco known as the First Afghan War, emerged with a hero’s laurels, been decorated by the Queen, and lionised all over London. The fact that I had gone through the campaign in a state of abject terror—lying, deceiving, bluffing, and running for dear life whenever possible—was known to no one but myself. If one or two suspected, they kept quiet. It wouldn’t have been fashionable to throw dirt at the valiant Harry Flashman just then. (If you have read the first packet of my memoirs, you will know all this. I mention it here in case the packets should get separated, so that you will know at once that this is the true story of a dishonest poltroon who takes a perverse pride in having attained to an honoured and admired old age, in spite of his many vices and entire lack of virtue—or possibly because of them.) So there I was, in ’42, big, bluff, handsome Harry, beloved of London society, admired at the Horse Guards (although I was only a captain), possessed of a beautiful wife, apparently affluent, seen in the best company, gushed at by the mamas, respected by the men as the perfect beau sabreur. The world was my oyster, and if it wasn’t my sword that had opened it, no one was any the wiser. They were golden days, those. The ideal time to be a hero is when the battle is over and the other fellows are dead, God rest ’em, and you take the credit. Even the fact that Elspeth was cheating me made no real difference. You would never have thought, to see her angelic face, golden hair, and expression of idiotic innocence, that she was the biggest trollop that ever wore out a mattress. But I was certain, before I’d been home a month, that she was having it off with at least two others; at first I was furious and plotting revenge, but she had the money, you see, through that damned old Scotch moneybags of a father of hers, and if I had played the outraged husband I’d have been in Queer Street, without even a roof over my head. So I kept quiet, and paid her out by whoring to my heart’s content. It was a strange situation; we both knew what was what (at least, I think she did, but she was such a fool you could never tell), but we pretended to be a happily married couple. We still bounced about in bed together from time to time, and enjoyed it. But the real life was to be had outside; respectable society apart, I was in with the fast set, idling, gaming, drinking, and raking about the town. It was the end of the great days of the bucks and blades; we had a queen on the throne, and her cold white hand and her poker-backed husband’s were already setting their grip on the nation’s life, smothering the old wild ways in their come-to-Jesus hypocrisy. We were entering into what is now called the Victorian Age, when respectability was the thing; breeches were out and trousers came in; bosoms were being covered and eyes modestly lowered; politics was becoming sober, trade and industry were becoming fashionable, the odour of sanctity was replacing the happy reek of brandy, the age of the Corinthian, the plunger, and the dandy was giving way to that of the prig, the preacher, and the bore. At least I was in at the death of that wicked era, and did my bit to make it die hard. You could still gamble in the hells about Hanover Square, carouse with the toughs in the Cyder Cellars or Leicester Fields, take your pick of the wenches in Piccadilly, set on the police at Whitehall and pinch their belts and hats, break windows and sing bawdy songs all the way home. Fortunes were still lost at cards and hazard, duels were fought (although I stayed well clear of that; my only duel, from which I emerged by fraud with tremendous credit, had taken place some years before, and I had no intention of risking another). Life could still be openly wild, if you cared for it. It has never been the same since; they tell me that young King Edward does what he can nowadays to lower the moral tone of the nation, but I doubt if he has the style for it. The man looks like a butcher. One night my chum Speedicut, who had been with me at Rugby, and had come sucking round me since my rise to fame (he was well off) suggested we should go to a new haunt in St James—I think it was the Minor Club, in fact. We could try our luck at the tables first, and then at the wenches upstairs, he said, and afterwards go to the Cremorne and watch the fireworks, topping the night off with devilled ham and a bowl of punch, and perhaps some more girls. It sounded all right, so after collecting some cash from Elspeth, who was going to Store Street to listen to one Mr Wilson sing Scottish songs (my God), I set off with Speed for St James. It was a frost from the start. On the way to the club Speed was taken with the notion of boarding one of the new buses; he wanted to argue with the cad about the fare and provoke him into swearing: the bus cads were quite famous for their filthy language, and Speed reckoned it would be fun to have him get in a bate and horrify the passengers. But the cad was too clever for Speed; he just turned us off without so much as a damn-your-eyes, and the passengers tittered to see us made asses of, which did nothing for our dignity or good temper. And the club turned out to be a regular hell—the prices even for arrack and cheroots were ruinous, and the faro table was as crooked as a line of Russian infantry and a damned sight harder to beat. It’s always the same; the more genteel the company, the fouler the play. In my time I’ve played nap in the Australian diggings with gold-dust stakes, held a blackjack bank on a South Sea trader, and been in a poker game in a Dodge City livery stable with the pistols down on the blanket—and I’ve met less sharping in all of ’em put together than you’d find in one evening in a London club. We dropped a few guineas, and then Speed says: “This ain’t much fun. I know a better game.” I believed him, so we picked up two of the Cyprians in the gaming-room and took them upstairs to play loo for each others’ clothes. I had my eye on the smaller of the two, a pert little red-haired piece with dimples; thinks I, if I can’t get this one stripped for action in a dozen hands then I’ve lost my talent for palming and dealing from the bottom. But whether I’d taken too much drink—for we had punished a fair amount of arrack, dear as it was—or the tarts were cheating too, the upshot was that I was down to my shirt-tail before my little minx had removed more than her shoes and gloves. She was trilling with laughter, and I was getting impatient, when a most unholy din broke out on the floor below. There was a pounding of feet, and shouting, whistles blowing and dogs barking, and then a voice yelled: “Cut and run! It’s the traps!” “Christ!” says Speed, grabbing for his breeches. “It’s a raid! Let’s get out of this, Flash!” The whores squeaked with panic, and I swore and struggled into my clothes. It’s no joke trying to dress when the peelers are after you, but I had sense enough to know that there wasn’t a hope of escaping unless we were fully clad—you can’t run through St James on a fine evening with your trousers in your hand. “Come on!” Speed was shouting. “They’ll be on us in a moment!” “What shall we do?” wails the red-haired slut. “Do what you dam’ well please,” says I, slipping on my shoes. “Good-night, ladies.” And Speed and I slipped out into the corridor. The place was in uproar. It sounded like a battle royal down on the gaming-floor, with furniture smashing and the Cyprians screaming, and someone bawling: “In the Queen’s name!” On our landing there were frightened whores peeping out of the doorways, and men in every stage of undress hopping about looking for somewhere to run to. One fat old rascal, stark naked, was beating on a door bawling: “Hide me, Lucy!” He beat in vain, and the last I saw of him he was trying to burrow under a sofa. People nowadays don’t realise that in the forties the law was devilish hot on gaming-hells. The police were forever trying to raid them, and the hell-owners used to keep guard-dogs and scouts to watch out for them. Most hells also had special hiding places for all gambling equipment, so that cards, dice, and boards could be swept out of sight in a moment, for the police had no right of search, and if they couldn’t prove that gaming had been going on they could be sued for wrongful entry and trespass. Evidently they had caught the Minor St James Club napping with a vengeance, and it would be police court and newspaper scandal for us if we couldn’t cut out pretty sharp. A whistle shrilled at the foot of the stairs, the trollops screamed and slammed their doors, and feet came pounding upwards. “This way,” says I to Speed, and we darted up the next flight. It was another empty landing—the top one—and we crouched by the bannisters, waiting to see what happened. They were hammering on the doors below, and presently someone came scampering up. He was a fair, chinless youth in a pink coat. “Oh, my God!” says he, “what will mother say?” He stared wildly round. “Where can I hide?” “In there,” says I, thinking quickly, and pointed at a closed door. “God bless you,” says he. “But what will you do?” “We’ll hold ’em off,” says I. “Get out of it, you fool.” He vanished inside, and I winked at Speed, whipped his handkerchief from his breast, and dropped it outside the closed door. Then we tip-toed to a room on the other side of the landing, and took cover behind its door, which I left wide open. From the lack of activity on this floor, and the dust-sheets in the room, it obviously wasn’t in use. Presently the peelers came crashing up, spotted the kerchief, gave a great view halloo, and dragged out the pink youth. But as I had calculated, they didn’t bother with our room, seeing the door open and naturally supposing that no one could be hiding in it. We stood dead still while they tramped about the landing, shouting orders and telling the pink youth to hold his tongue, and presently they all trooped off below, where by the sound of things they were marshalling their prisoners, and being pretty rough about it. It wasn’t often they raided a hell successfully, and had a chance to mistreat their betters. “By George, Flashy,” whispered Speed at last. “You’re a foxy one, and no mistake. I thought we were done.” “When you’ve been chased by bloody Afghans,” says I, “you learn all there is to know about lying low.” But I was pleased at the way my trick had worked, just the same. We found a skylight, and as luck had it there was a convenient flat roof close by over what proved to be an empty house. We prised up another skylight, crept down two flights of stairs, and got out of a back window into a lane. So far, excellent, but Speed thought it would be capital to go round the front and watch from a safe distance while the peelers removed their victims. I thought it would be fun, too, so we straightened our clothes and then sauntered round into the end of the street. Sure enough, there was a crowd outside the Minor Club to see the sport. The bobbies were there in their high hats and belts, clustering round the steps while the prisoners were brought down to the closed carts, the men silent and shame-faced or damning their captors for all they were worth, and the trollops crying for the most part, although some had to be carried out kicking and scratching. If we had been wise we would have kept well clear, but it was growing dusk, and we thought we’d have a closer look. We strolled up to the fringe of the crowd, and as bad luck had it, who should be brought out last, wailing and white-faced, but the youth in the pink coat. Speed guffawed at the woebegone look of him, and sang out to me: “I say, Flashy, what will mother say?” The youth must have heard; he twisted round and saw us, and the spiteful little hound gave a yelp and pointed in our direction. “They were there, too!” he cries. “Those two, they were hiding as well!” If we had stood fast we could have brazened it out, I dare say, but my instinct to run is too deep ingrained; I was off like a hare before the bobbies had even started towards us, and seeing us run they gave chase at once. We had a fair start, but not enough to be able to get out of view and duck into a doorway or area; St James is a damned bad district to fly from the police in—streets too broad and no convenient alleyways. They were perhaps fifty yards behind for the first two streets, but then they began to gain—two of them, with their clubs out, yelling after us to stop. I could feel myself going lame in the leg I had broken earlier in the year at Jallalabad; the muscles were still stiff, and pains shot through my thigh at every stride. Speed saw what was up and slackened his pace. “Hallo, Flash,” says he, “are you done for?” “Leg’s gone,” says I. “I can’t keep up any longer.” He glanced over his shoulder. In spite of the bad name Hughes gives him in Tom Brown’s Schooldays, Speedicut was as game as a terrier and ready for a turn-up any time—not like me at all. “Oh, well, then,” says he, “the deuce with this. Let’s stand and have it out with ’em. There’s only two—no, wait though, there are more behind, damn ’em. We’ll just have to do the best we can, old son.” “It’s no use,” I gasped. “I’m in no state to fight.” “You leave ’em to me,” cries he. “I’ll hold ’em off while you get out of it. Don’t stand there, man; don’t you see it won’t do for the hero of Afghanistan to be dragged in by the traps? Hellish scandal. Doesn’t matter for me, though. Come on, you blue-bellied bastards!” And he turned in the middle of the road, sparring away and daring them to come on. I didn’t hesitate. Anyone who is ass enough to sacrifice himself for Flashy deserves all he gets. Over my shoulder I saw him stop one trap with a straight left, and close with the other. Then I was round the corner, hobbling away as fast as my game leg would carry me. It took me along that street and into the square beyond, and still no bobbies hove in view. I doubled round the central garden, and then my leg almost folded under me. I rested, gasping, against the railings. Faintly behind me I could hear Speed still singing defiance, and then the nearer patter of feet. Looking round for somewhere to hide I saw a couple of carriages drawn up outside a house fronting onto the railed garden; they weren’t far, and the two drivers were together, talking by the horses in the first one. They hadn’t seen me; if I could hobble to the rear coach and crawl in, the peelers would pass me by. Hopping quietly is difficult, but I got to the coach unseen by the drivers, opened the door and climbed in. I squatted down out of sight, heaving to get my breath back and listening for sounds of pursuit. But for several moments all was still; they must be off the scent, thinks I, and then I heard a new sound. Men’s and women’s voices were coming from the doorway of one of the houses; there was laughter and cries of goodnight, some chattering on the pavement and the sound of footsteps. I held my breath, my heart pounding, and then the carriage door opened, light came in, and I found myself staring into the surprised face of one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen in my life. No—the loveliest. When I look back and review the beautiful women I have known, blonde and dark, slim and buxom, white and brown, hundreds of the creatures—still, I doubt if there was one to touch her. She was standing with one foot on the step, her hands holding back the skirts of her red satin gown, bending forward to display a splendid white bosom on which sparkled a row of brilliants matching the string in her jet-black hair. Dark blue eyes, very large, stared down at me, and her mouth, which was not wide but very full and red, opened in a little gasp. “God save me!” exclaims she. “A man! What the devil are you doing, sir?” It wasn’t the kind of greeting you commonly heard from ladies in the young Queen’s day, I may tell you. Any other would have screamed and swooned. Thinking quickly, I decided that for once truth would answer best. “I’m hiding,” says I. “I can see that,” says she smartly. She had a most lovely Irish lilt to her voice. “Who from, and why in my carriage, if you please?” Before I could answer, a man loomed up at her elbow, and at sight of me he let out a foreign oath and started forward as though to protect her. “Please, please, I mean no harm,” I said urgently. “I’m being pursued … the police … no, I’m not a criminal, I assure you. I was in a club that was raided.” The man just stared at me, but the woman showed her teeth in a delightful smile and then threw her head back, chuckling. I smiled as ingratiatingly as I could, but for all the effect my charm had on her companion I might as well have been Quasimodo. “Step out at once,” snaps he, in a cold clipped voice. “At once, do you hear?” I conceived an instant dislike for him. It was not only his manner and his words, but the look of him. He was big, as big as I was, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, but he was also damned handsome. He had bright grey eyes and one of those clean-cut faces beneath fair hair that make you think of moral Norse gods, too splendid altogether to be in the company of the beauty beside him. I started to say something, but he barked at me again, and then the woman came to my aid. “Oh, let him be, Otto,” says she. “Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?” I would have thanked her gratefully, but at that moment there were heavy feet on the pavement, and a grave voice inquiring if the gentleman had seen anyone running through the square. The peelers were on the scent again, and this time I was cornered. But before I could move or speak the lady had seated herself in the coach and hissed: “Get up off the floor, you booby!” I obeyed, in spite of my leg, and dropped gasping into the seat beside her. And then her companion, damn his eyes, was saying: “Here is your man, constable. Arrest him, if you please.” A police sergeant poked his head in at the door, surveyed us, and said to the fair man, doubtfully: “This gentleman, sir?” “Of course. Who else?” “Well …” The bobby was puzzled, seeing me sitting there large as life. “Are you sure, sir?” The fair man rapped out another foreign oath, and said of course he was sure. He called the sergeant a fool. “Oh, stop it, Otto,” says the lady suddenly. “Really, sergeant, it’s too bad of him; he’s making game of you. This gentleman is with us.” “Rosanna!” The fair man looked outraged. “What are you thinking of? Sergeant, I—” “Don’t play the fool, Otto,” says I, taking my cue, and delighted to have my hand squeezed by the lady. “Come on, man, get in and let’s be off home. I’m tired.” He gave me a look of utter fury, and then a fine altercation broke out between him and the sergeant, which the lady Rosanna seemed to find vastly amusing. The coachee and another constable joined in, and then suddenly the sergeant, who had been frowning oddly in my direction while the argument raged, stuck his head into the coach again, and says: “Wait a minnit. I know you, don’t I? You’re Cap’n Flashman, bigod!” I admitted it, and he swore and slapped his fist. “The ’ero of Julloolabad!” cries he. I smiled modestly at Miss Rosanna, who was looking at me wide-eyed. “The defender of Piper’s Fort!” cries the sergeant. “Well, well,” says I, “it’s all right, sergeant.” “The ’Ector of Afghanistan!” cries the sergeant, who evidently studied the press. “Damme! Well, ’ere’s a go!” He was beaming all over his face, which didn’t suit my denouncer at all. Angrily he demanded that I be arrested. “He is a fugitive,” he declared. “He invaded our coach without permission.” “I don’t give a dam’ if ’e invaded Buckin’am Palace without permission,” says the sergeant, turning back to me. “Corporal Webster, sir, Third Guards, under Major Macdonald at ’Ougoumont, sir.” “Honoured to know you, sergeant,” says I, shaking his hand. “Honour’s mine, sir, ’deed it is. Now then, you, sir, let’s ’ave no more of this. You’re not English, are you?” “I am a Prussian officer,” says the man called Otto, “and I demand—” “Cap’n Flashman is a British officer, so you don’t demand nothink,” says the sergeant. “Now, then! Let’s ’ave no trouble.” He touched his hat to us and gave me a broad wink. “Wish you good-night, sir, an’ you, ma’am.” I thought the German would have an apoplexy, he looked so wild, and his temper was not helped by the lovely Rosanna’s helpless laughter. He stood glaring at her for a moment, biting his lip, and then she controlled herself sufficiently to say: “Oh, come along, Otto, get into the coach. Oh, dear, oh, dear,” and she began laughing again. “I am happy you are amused,” says he. “You make a fool of me: it is of a piece with your conduct of this evening.” He looked thoroughly vicious. “Very good, madam, perhaps you will regret it.” “Don’t be so pompous, Otto,” says she. “It’s just a joke; come and—” “I prefer choicer company,” says he. “That of ladies, for example.” And clapping on his hat he stepped back from the carriage door. “Oh, the devil fly away with you then!” cried she, suddenly angry. “Whip up, driver!” And then I had to open my mouth. Leaning across her, I called to him: “How dare you talk so to a lady, damn you!” says I. “You’re a foul-mouthed foreign dog!” I believe if I had kept silent he would have forgotten me, for his temper was concentrated on her. But now he turned those cold eyes on me, and they seemed to bore like drills. For a moment I was frightened of the man; he had murder on his face. “I shall remember you,” says he. And then, oddly, I saw a look of curiosity come into his eyes, and he stepped a pace closer. Then it was gone, but he was memorising me, and hating me at the same time. “I shall remember you,” he said a second time, and the coach jerked forward and left him standing by the gutter. In spite of the momentary fear he had awakened in me, I didn’t give a button for his threats—the danger was past, I had recovered my breath, and I could devote my attention to the important question of the beauty alongside me. I had time to examine the splendour of her profile—the broad brow and raven-black hair, the small ever so slightly curved nose, the pouting red cupid’s bow, the firm little chin, and the white round breasts pushing themselves impudently up from the red satin gown. The scent of her perfume, the sidelong look of her dark blue eyes, and the wanton husky Irish voice, were all invitations. As anyone will tell you, put Harry Flashman next to a woman like that and one of two things is inevitable—there will either be screams and slaps, or the lady will surrender. Sometimes both. In this case, just from the look of her, I knew there would be no screaming and slapping, and I was right. When I kissed her it was only a moment before her mouth opened under mine, and I promptly suggested that since my leg was still painful, a woman’s touch on it would soothe the cramp out of my muscles. She complied, very teasingly, and with her free hand was remarkably skilful at fending off my advances until the coach reached her house, which was somewhere in Chelsea. By this time I was in such a state of excitement that I could barely keep my hands still while she dismissed her maid and conducted me to her salon, talking gaily about anything and acting the cool minx. I soon put a stop to that by popping her breasts out the minute the door was closed, and bearing her down on to the settee. Her reaction was startling; in a moment she was grappling with me, digging her nails into me and twining her limbs round mine. The fury of her love-making was almost frightening—I’ve known eager women, plenty of them, but Miss Rosanna was like a wild animal. The second time, later in the night, was even more feverish than the first. We were in bed by then, and I had no clothing to protect me from her biting and raking nails; I protested, but it was like talking to a mad woman. She even began to leather me with something hard and heavy—a hair-brush, I believe—and by the time she had stopped writhing and moaning I felt as though I had been coupling with a roll of barbed wire. I was bruised, scratched, bitten, and stabbed from neck to backside. In between, she was a different creature, gay, talkative, witty, and of a gentleness to match her voice and looks. I learned that she was Marie Elizabeth Rosanna James, no less, the wife of a fellow-officer who was conveniently out of town on garrison duty. Like myself, she was recently returned from India, where he had been stationed; she found life in London deadly dull; such friends as she knew were stiff and boring; there was hardly any of the bright life she craved; she wished she was back in India, or anywhere she might have some fun. That was why my appearance in her carriage had been so welcome; she had spent a preposterously dull evening with her husband’s relatives, escorted by the German Otto, whom she found stuffy to a degree. “Just the sight of a man who looked as though he had some—oh, some spunk in him—was enough for me,” says she. “I wouldn’t have turned you over to the police, my dear, not if you had been a murderer. And it was a chance to take down that conceited Prussian muff—would you believe that a man who looks so splendid could have ice and vinegar in his veins?” “Who is he?” I asked. “Otto? Oh, one of these Germans making the Grand Tour in reverse. Sometimes I think there’s a bit of the devil in him, but he keeps it well hid; he behaves so properly because like all foreigners he likes to impress the English. Tonight, just to try and breathe some life into that collection of prigs, I offered to show them a Spanish dance—you would have thought I’d said something indecent. They didn’t even say, ‘Oh, my dear!’ Just turned their heads to one side, the way these English women do, as though they were going to be sick.” She tossed her head enchantingly, kneeling on the bed like a naked nymph. “But I saw the glitter in Otto’s eyes, just for an instant. I’ll be bound he’s not so prim among the German wenches at Schonhausen, or wherever it is.” I thought there was too much of Otto, and said so. “Oh, yes, are you jealous, then?” says she sticking out her lip at me. “You’ve made a bad enemy there, my dear. Or is the famous Captain Flashman careless of enemies?” “They don’t concern me, German, French, or nigger,” says I. “I don’t think much of your Otto at all.” “Well, you should,” says she, teasing. “For he’s going to be a great man some day—he told me so. ‘I have a destiny’, he said. ‘What’s that?’ I asked him. ‘To rule’, says he. So I told him I had ambitions, too—to live as I please, love as I please, and never grow old. He didn’t think much of that, I fancy; he told me I was frivolous, and would be disappointed. Only the strong, he said, could afford ambitions. So I told him I had a much better motto than that.” “What was that?” says I, reaching out for her, but she caught my hands and held them apart, looking wicked. “‘Courage—and shuffle the cards’,” says she. “Damned sight better motto than his,” says I, pulling her down on top of me. “And I’m a greater man than he is, anyway.” “Prove it—again,” said Miss Rosanna, biting at my chin. And, at the cost of more scratches and bruises, I did. That was the beginning of our affair, and a wild, feverish one it was, but it couldn’t last long. For one thing, she was so demanding a mistress that she came near to wearing me out, and if she was a novelty, she was one I didn’t altogether enjoy. She was too imperious, and I prefer softer women who understand that it is my pleasure that counts. Not with Miss Rosanna, though; she used men. It was like being eaten alive, and God help you if you weren’t ready to command. Everything had to be at her whim, and I got sick of it. It was about a week after our first meeting that I finally lost my temper. We had had a tempestuous night, but when I wanted to go to sleep she had to chatter on—and even a husky Irish voice can get sickening when you’ve heard too much of it. And seeing me inattentive, she suddenly shouts, “On guard!” which was her war-cry before a tumble, and jumped on me again. “In heaven’s name!” says I. “Get off. I’m tired.” “Nobody gets tired of me,” she flashed back, and started teasing me into action, but I was pegged out, and told her to let me alone. For a moment she persisted, and then she was sulky, and then in an instant she was in a raging fury, and before I knew it I had given her the back of my hand and she was coming at me like a wildcat, screaming and clawing. Now, I’ve dealt with raging women before, but I’d never met anything like her. She was dangerous—a beautiful, naked savage, flinging everything that came within reach, calling me the foulest names, and—I admit it freely—terrorising me to the point where I grabbed my clothes and ran for it. “Bastard and coward!” was the least of it, I remember, and a chamber pot smashing on the door-jamb as I blundered through. I roared threats at her from the corridor, at which she darted out, white with fury, flourishing a bottle, and I didn’t stay for more. One way and another, I’ve probably had more practice in dressing running than most men, but this time I didn’t bother until I’d got out of shot at the foot of the stairs. Chapter 2 (#ulink_7f95d0a0-d854-564f-9486-bc353216157f) I was badly shaken, I can tell you, and not my own man again till I was well away from her house and pondering, in my philosophic way, on means of getting my own back on the vicious, bad-tempered slut. It will seem to you to be the usual, sordid conclusion to so many Flashman amours, but I have dwelt on it at some length for good reason. It wasn’t only that she was, in her way, as magnificent a creature as I’ve ever had the good fortune to mount, and comes back to my mind whenever I see a hair-brush. That alone would not be sufficient. No, my excuse is that this was my first encounter with one of the most remarkable women in my life—or in the life of anyone in the nineteenth century, for that matter. Who could have guessed then that Marie Elizabeth Rosanna James would turn a crowned head, rule a great kingdom, and leave a name to compare with Dubarry or Nell Gwynn? Well, she was Flashy’s girl for a week, at least, which is something to boast of. But I was glad to be shot of her at the time, and not just because of the way she treated me: I discovered soon after that she hadn’t been altogether truthful about herself. She hadn’t mentioned, for example, that her soldier husband was in the process of divorcing her, which would have been enough to scare me away to less controversial beds if I’d known it sooner. Apart from the unpleasant social aspects of being cited, I couldn’t have afforded it. But she was important in my life in another way—she had been the means of my meeting the splendid Otto. You could say that it was through her that the mischief was born between him and me, and our enmity shaped his future, and the world’s. Nothing might have come of it, though, had I not run into him again, by pure chance, a month or so later. It was at Tom Perceval’s place in Leicestershire, where I joined a party to see Nick Ward fight some local pug, and to do a little hunting in Tom’s coverts. Young Conyngham, who was a fool of a gambler, was there, and old Jack Gully, who had once been Champion of England and was now a rich ironmaster and retired from the House of Commons as well; there were about a dozen others whom I’ve forgotten, and Speedicut, too—when I’d told him how I’d spent the night of his arrest, he just roared with laughter and cried “Flashy’s luck! Well, only the brave deserve the fair!” And he insisted on telling everyone how it had happened, himself lying in a dirty cell full of drunkards while I was bumping a beauty. Most of the company were at Tom’s place when I arrived, and when he met me in the hall he told me: “They’re all old acquaintances but one, a foreigner that I can’t get rid of, damn him. Friend of my uncle’s, and wants to see something of our rustic ways while he’s here. Trouble is, he’s full of bounce, and some of the fellows are rather sick of it already.” It meant nothing until I went into the gunroom with him, where the boys were cheering up the cold night with punch and a roaring fire, and who should be there, very formal in long coat and trousers among all the buffs and boots, but Otto. He stiffened at the sight of me, and I brought up short. The fellows gave a hurrah when I came in, and thrust punch and cheroots at me, while Tom did his duty by the stranger. “Baron,” says he—the brute has a title, thinks I—“permit me to present Captain Flashman. Flash, this is Baron Otto von … er, dammit … von Schornhausen, ain’t it? Can’t get my confounded tongue round it.” “Schonhausen,” says Otto, bowing stiffly with his eyes on mine. “But that is, in fact, the name of my estate, if you will pardon my correction. My family name is Bismarck.” It’s an old man’s fancy, no doubt, but it seemed to me that he said it in a way that told you you would hear it again. It meant nothing to me, of course, at the time, but I was sure that it was going to. And again I felt that prickle of fear up my back; the cold grey eyes, the splendid build and features, the superb arrogance of the man, all combined to awe me. If you’re morally as soft as butter, as I am, with a good streak of the toad-eater in you, there’s no doing anything with people like Bismarck. You can have all the fame that I had then, and the good looks and the inches and the swagger—and I had those, too—but you know you’re dirt to him. If you have to tangle with him, as the Americans say, you know you’ll have to get drunk first; I was sober, so I toadied. “Honoured to make your acquaintance, Baron,” says I, giving him my hand. “Trust you’re enjoying your visit.” “We are already acquainted, as I’m sure you remember,” says he, shaking hands. He had a grip like a vice; I guessed he was stronger than I was, and I was damned strong, in body at least. “You recollect an evening in London? Mrs James was present.” “By God!” says I, all astounded. “So I do! Well, well! And here you are, eh? Damme, I never expected … well, Baron, I’m glad to see you. Aye, hum. I trust Mrs James is well?” “Surely I should ask you?” says he, with a thin smile. “I have not seen the … lady, since that evening.” “No? Well, well. I haven’t seen a great deal of her lately myself.” I was prepared to be pleasant, and let bygones be bygones, if he was. He stood, smiling with his mouth, considering me. “Do you know,” says he at length, “I feel sure I have seen you before, but I cannot think where. That is unusual, for I have an excellent memory. No, not in England. Have you ever been in Germany, perhaps?” I said I hadn’t. “Oh, well, it is of no interest,” says he coolly, meaning that I was of no interest, and turned away from me. I hadn’t liked him before, but from that moment I hated Bismarck, and decided that if ever the chance came to do him a dirty turn, I wouldn’t let it slip past me. Tom had said he was full of bounce, and at supper that night we got a good dose of it. It was very free and easy company, as you can imagine, with no women present, and we ate and drank and shouted across the table to our heart’s content, getting pretty drunk and nobody minding his manners much. Bismarck ate like a horse and drank tremendously, although it didn’t seem to show on him; he didn’t say much during the meal, but when the port went round he began to enter the conversation, and before long he was dominating it. I’ll say this for him, he wasn’t an easy man to ignore. You would have thought that a foreigner would have kept mum and watched and listened, but not he. His style was to ask a question, get an answer, and then deliver judgement—for instance, he says to Tom, what was the hunting like, and Tom remarking that it was pretty fair, Bismarck said he looked forward to trying it, although he doubted if chasing a fox could hold a candle to the boar-hunting he had done in Germany. Since he was a guest, no one pulled his leg, although there were a few odd looks and laughs, but he sailed on, lecturing us about how splendid German hunting was, and how damned good at it he was, and what a treat we were missing, not having wild pigs in England. When he had done, and there was one of those silences, Speed broke it by remarking that I had done some boar-hunting in Afghanistan; the fellows seemed to be looking to me to take the talk away from Bismarck, but before I had the chance he demanded: “In Afghanistan? In what capacity were you there, Captain Flashman?” Everyone roared with laughter at this, and Tom tried to save his guest embarrassment by explaining that I had been soldiering there, and had pretty well won the war single-handed. He needn’t have minded, for Bismarck never turned a hair, but began to discourse on the Prussian Army, of all things, and his own lieutenant’s commission, and how he regretted that there were so few chances of active service these days. “Well,” says I, “you can have any that come my way, and welcome.” (This is the kind of remark that folk love to hear from a hero, of course.) The fellows roared, but Bismarck frowned. “You would avoid dangerous service?” says he. “I should just think I would,” say I, winking at Speed. If only they had known how true that was. “Damned unpleasant, dangerous service. Bullets, swords, chaps killing each other—no peace and quiet at all.” When the laughter had died down, Tom explained that I was joking; that I was, in fact, an exceptionally brave man who would miss no chance of battle and glory. Bismarck listened, his cold eye never leaving me, and then, would you believe it, began to lecture us on a soldier’s duty, and the nobility of serving one’s country. He obviously believed it, too, he rolled it out so solemnly, and it was all some of the younger men could do to keep their faces straight. Poor old Tom was in an anguish in case we offended his guest, and at the same time obviously nearly out of patience with Bismarck. “I wish to God my uncle had found some other poor devil to bear-lead him,” says he later to Speedicut and me. “Was there ever a bigger bore and ass? How am I to deal with the fellow, eh?” We couldn’t help him; in fact I resolved to keep as far out of Bismarck’s way as possible. He unsettled me; he was so damned superior. Tom was wrong in one thing: Bismarck wasn’t an ass, whatever else he might be. In some ways he was like that outstanding idiot Cardigan, under whom I had served in the 11th Hussars, but only on the surface. He had the same splendid certainty in everything he said and did; he looked on the world as created for him alone; he was right, and that was that. But where Cardigan’s arrogant eye had the shallow stare of the born fool, Bismarck’s didn’t. You could see the brain at work behind it, and those who listened only to his rather monotonous sermonisings and noticed only his lack of humour—of our kind of humour, anyway—and put him down as a pompous dullard were well wide of the mark. I wanted nothing to do with him, anyway, but in that short visit at Tom’s place Bismarck still contrived to touch me on the raw twice—and in the only two things that I am any good at, too. Coward and rascal that I’ve always been, I have had two talents, for foreign tongues and for horses. I can master almost any language in short time, and ride anything with a mane and tail. Looking back, I can almost believe that Bismarck smelled these two gifts and set out to hip me over them. I don’t remember how the conversation at one breakfast came to touch on foreign speech—usually it was women and drink and horses and pugs, with an occasional high flight on something like the scandalous rate of income tax at 7d in the pound. But it did, and my gift was mentioned. Bismarck, lounging back in his chair, gave a sneering little laugh and said that it was a useful talent in head-waiters. I was furious, and tried to think of some cutting retort, but couldn’t. Later it occurred to me that I might have fixed him with a look and said it was also a useful gift in German pimps, but it was too late then. And you could never be quite sure with his remarks whether he was jibing or simply stating what he thought was a fact, so I just had to ignore him. The second set-down came on a day’s hunting, when we had had poor sport and were riding home. Conyngham, drawing rein on top of a slight rise from which you could see miles of rolling countryside in every direction, points to a church which was just visible in the distance through the late afternoon haze, and cries out: “Who’s for a steeplechase?” “Oh, too much of a fag,” says Tom. “Anyway, it’s getting dark and the beasts may go wrong. I vote for home.” “Steeplechase?” says Bismarck. “What is that?” It was explained to him that the object was to race straight across country for the steeple, and he nodded and said it was an excellent sport. “Good for you!” cries Conyngham. “Come on, you fellows! You, Flashy, are you game?” “Too far,” says I, for like Tom I didn’t fancy taking hedges on wettish country with the light starting to fail. “Nonsense!” cries Bismarck. “What, gentlemen, are the English backward in their own game? Then you and I, Marquis, shall we have it out together?” “With you! Tally-ho!” yells Conyngham, and of course the other asses took off after them. I couldn’t hang back, so cursing Bismarck I clapped in my heels and gave chase. Conyngham led the field over the first meadows, with Bismarck close behind, but a couple of hedges checked them, and the rest of us caught up. I hung back a little, for steeplechasing in the style of your old-fashioned bucks, when you just go hell-for-leather at everything, is as quick a road to a broken neck as I know. If you have an eye for ground, and watch how the leaders jump and land, you can reap the benefit of their discoveries without the risk of going first. So I rode a nice easy chase for the first mile or so, and then we came into light woodland, with trees well spaced out, and I touched my hunter and moved up. There is a moment every jockey knows, when he feels his mount surge forward, and he lies with his head down being brushed by the mane, and sees the gap narrowing ahead of him, and knows he has the legs of the field. I felt it then as I thundered past the ruck, hearing the thud of the hooves and seeing the clods thrown up from the wet turf, feeling the wind in my face as the trees flew past; even now I see the scarlet coats in the fading light, and smell the rain-sodden country, and hear the yelps of the fellows as they cheered each other on and laughed and cursed. God, it was good to be young and English then! We thundered through the woodland like a charge of dragoons and were out on a long, rising incline. Conyngham held the lead to the crest, but as we came over and down it was the turn of the heavier men; Bismarck went past him, and then I, too; we pounded down to the hedgerow, Bismarck went over like a bird—he could ride, I may say—and I launched my hunter at the same gap and came through on his heels. I stayed with him, over hedges, lanes, ditches, and fences, until I saw the steeple perhaps half a mile away, and now, thinks I, is the time to get my nose in front. I had the speed in hand; his head came round as I drew level, and he hammered in his heels and plied his crop, but I knew I had the distance of him. He was leading by half a length as we took a rail fence; then we were on pasture with only one hedge between us and the common that ran up to the churchyard. I inched up level and then led by a head, scanning the distant hedge for a good jump. It was a nasty one, high hawthorn with trees at intervals throwing their shade over the hedgerow; there was one place that looked likely, where the hawthorn thinned and only a couple of rails covered the gap. I clapped in my heels and made for it; first over was a certain winner. As we closed in, with me half a length in front, I realised that even at the rails the jump was a good five feet; I didn’t half fancy it, for as Hughes pointed out, Flashman was good only at those games which didn’t entail any physical risk. But there was nothing for it; I had Bismarck headed and must keep my lead, so I steadied the hunter for the jump, and then out of nowhere came Bismarck’s grey at my elbow, challenging for the jump. “Give way!” I roared. “My jump, damn your eyes!” By God, he paid not the slightest heed, but came boring in, neck and neck with me for the fence. We were almost knee to knee as we rushed down on it. “Get out, blast you!” I yelled again, but he was just staring ahead, teeth clenched and whip going, and I knew in an instant that it was a case of pull up or have the most unholy smash as two horses tried to take a jump where there was only space for one. As it was, I came within an ace of a hellish tumble; I reined back and at the same time tried to swerve from the gap; the hunter checked and swung away and we scraped along the face of the hedge with no more damage than a few scratches, while Master Bismarck cleared the rails with ease. By the time I had trotted back, cursing most foully, the rest of the chase was thundering up; Bismarck was waiting at the lychgate looking cool and smug when we arrived. “Don’t you know to give way to the leader?” says I, boiling angry. “We might have broken our necks, thanks to you!” “Come, come, Captain Flashman,” says he, “it would have been thanks to you if we had, for you would have been foolishly challenging the stronger rider.” “What?” says I. “And who the devil says you are the stronger rider?” “I won, did I not?” says he. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that he had ridden foul, but the way the other chaps were hallooing, and telling him what a damned fine race he had ridden, I thought better of it. He had gone up in their estimation; he was a damned good-plucked ’un, they shouted, and they clapped him on the back. So I contented myself with suggesting that he learn the rules of horsemanship before he rode in England again, at which the others laughed and cried: “That’s right, Flash, damn his eyes for him!” and made a joke out of bluff Flashy’s bad temper. They hadn’t been close enough to see exactly what had happened, and none of them would have imagined for a minute that neck-or-nothing Flashman would give way in the breach; but Bismarck knew, and it showed in his eyes and the cold smile he gave me. But I had my own back on him before the week was out, and if my initial rudeness in London was the first spark in the mischief between us, what was now to come really started the fire. It was on the last day, after we had been to see the fight between Nick Ward the Champion, and the local pug. It was a good afternoon’s sport, with the pug getting his nose broken and half his teeth knocked out; Bismarck was greatly interested, and seemed to enjoy watching the loser being battered as much as I did myself. At supper that night the talk was naturally of the fight, and old Jack Gully, who had refereed, held the floor. He wasn’t normally an over-talkative man, despite the fact that he had been an M.P., but on his two loves—the prize ring and horseflesh—he was always worth listening to. Though it was more than thirty years since he had held the belt himself—and since retiring he had become most prosperous and was well received everywhere—he had known and seen all the greatest pugs, and was full of stories of such giants as Cribb and Belcher and the Game Chicken. Of course, the company would have listened all night—I don’t suppose there was a man in England, Peel, Russell, or any of them, who could have commanded such universal attention as this quiet old boxing champion. He must have been close to sixty then, and white-haired, but you could see he was still fit as a flea, and when he talked of the ring he seemed to light up and come alive. Bismarck, I noticed, didn’t pay him much attention, but when Jack paused after a story, our German suddenly says: “You make very much of this boxing, I see. Now, it is an interesting enough spectacle, two of the lower orders thrashing each other with their fists, but does it not become boring after a while? Once, or even twice, perhaps, one might go to watch, but surely men of education and breeding must despise it.” There was a growl round the table, and Speed says: “You don’t understand it because you’re a foreigner. It is our game in England. Why, in Germany, according to what you’ve said, fellows fight duels without any intent to kill each other, but just to get scars on their heads. Well, we wouldn’t think much of that, let me tell you.” “The schlager endows a man with honourable scars,” says Bismarck. “What honour is there in beating an opponent with your fists? Besides, our duelling is for gentlemen.” “Well, as to that, mynheer,” says Gully, smiling, “gentlemen in this country ain’t ashamed to use their fists. I know I wish I’d a guinea for every coroneted head I’ve touched with a straight left hand.” “Mine for one, any time you please, Jack,” cries Conyngham. “But in the use of the schlager there is soldierly skill,” Bismarck insisted, and rapped his fist on the table. Oho, thinks I, what’s this? Has our Prussian friend perhaps got a little more liquor on board than usual? He was a mighty drinker, as I’ve said, but it occurred to me that he might not be holding it so well tonight. “If you think there’s no skill in prize-fighting, my friend, you’re well out of court,” says one of the others, a heavy-faced Guardee named Spottswood. “Didn’t you see Ward, this afternoon, take the starch out of a chap three stone heavier than himself?” “Oh, your fellow Ward was swift and strong,” says Bismarck. “But speed and strength are common enough. I saw no sign of skill in that butchery.” And he emptied his glass as though that settled the matter. “Well, sir,” says old Jack, smiling, “there was skill a-plenty, and you can take my word for it. You wouldn’t see it, ’cos you don’t know what to look for, just as I wouldn’t know what to look for in your schlag-what-you-call-ems.” “No,” says Bismarck, “likely you would not.” And the tone of his voice made Gully look sharp at him, although he said nothing. Then Tom Perceval, sensing that there might be trouble if the subject wasn’t changed, started to say something about hunting, but I had seen my chance to set this arrogant Prussian down, and I interrupted him. “Perhaps you think boxing is easy,” says I to Bismarck. “D’ye fancy you could hold your own in a mill?” He stares at me across the table. “With one of those brawlers?” says he at length. “A gentleman does not come to physical contact with those people, surely?” “We don’t have serfs in England,” says I. “There isn’t a man round this table wouldn’t be glad to put ’em up with Nick Ward—aye, and honoured, too. But in your case—suppose there was a sporting German baron whose touch wouldn’t sully you? Would you be ready to try it with him?” “Hold on, Flash—” says Perceval, but I carried on. “Or a gentleman from among ourselves, for example? Would you be ready to go a round or two with one of us?” Those cold eyes of his were damned uncomfortable on me, but I held his gaze, for I knew I’d got him. He considered a moment, and then said: “Is this a challenge?” “Good God, no,” says I. “Only you think that our good old game is just a brawl, and I’d like to show you different. If I were asked, I’d be ready enough to try my hand at this schlager business of yours. Well, what d’ye say?” “I see you are smarting for revenge after our race the other day,” says he, smiling. “Very well, Captain, I shall try a round with you.” I believe he had weighed me up for a coward who wouldn’t be much good, in which he was right, and that he also thought—like many another ignoramus—that boxing was pure brute force and nothing more, in which he was wrong. Also, he had seen that a good part of it was body wrestling, of which no doubt he had some experience. And he knew he was pretty well as big and strong as I. But I had a surprise in store for him. “Not with me,” says I. “I’m no Nick Ward. Anyway, my idea is instruction, not revenge, and the best instructor in the whole wide world is sitting within ten feet of you.” And I nodded at Gully. All I intended was to make a fool of Bismarck, which I knew Gully could do with one hand behind his back, and so cut his comb for him. I hadn’t any hope that Gully would hurt him, for unfortunately old Jack, like most champions, was a gentle, kindly sort of fool. Indeed, at my proposal, he burst out laughing. “Lord, Flashy,” says he. “D’ye know how much I used to be paid to come up to scratch? And you want to see it free, you dog!” But Bismarck wasn’t laughing. “That is a foolish proposal,” says he. “Mr Gully is too old.” Gully’s laugh was wiped off his face at once. “Now, wait a moment, mynheer,” says he, but I was ahead of him again. “Oh, is that it?” says I. “You wouldn’t be chary about milling with a professional, would you?” Everyone was talking at once, of course, but Bismarck’s voice cut through them. “I have no interest in whether he is a professional or not— “Or the fact that he was once in jail?” says I. “—but only in the fact that he is very much older than I. As to his being in prison, what has that to do with anything?” “You know best about that,” says I, sneering. “Now, dammit, hold on here,” says Perceval. “What the devil is all this? Flashy—” “Ah, I’m sick of his airs,” says I, “and his sneers at Jack there. All right, he’s your guest, Tom, but he goes a bit far. Let him put up or shut up. I only suggested he should try a round with a real boxer, to show him that his jibes were wide of the mark, and he turns up his nose as though Gully weren’t good enough for him. It’s the wrong side of enough, I say.” “Not good enough?” roars Jack. “What’s this …?” “No one said anything of the sort,” cries Tom. “Flashy, I don’t know what you’re driving at, but—” “Captain Flashman’s intention is apparently to annoy me,” says Bismarck. “He has not succeeded. My only objection to boxing with Mr Gully was on the score of his age.” “That’ll do about my age, thank’ee!” says Jack, going red. “I’m not so old I can’t deal with anyone who don’t know his place!” They calmed him down, and there was a lot of hubbub and noise and nonsense, and the upshot was that most of them, being slightly fuddled anyway, got the notion that I had suggested, friendly-like, to Bismarck, that he try a round with Gully, and that somehow he had insulted old Jack and looked down on him. It was Spottswood who calmed things over, and said there was no cause for shouting or hard feelings. “The point is, does the Baron want to try his hand in a friendly spar? That’s all. If so, Jack’ll oblige, won’t you, Jack?” “No, no,” says Jack, who was cooled again. “Why, I haven’t stood in a ring for thirty years, man. Besides,” he added, with a smile, “I didn’t understand that our guest was eager to try me.” That brought him a lofty look from Bismarck, but Spottswood says: “Tell ye what, Jack; if you’ll spar a round or two with him, I’ll sell you Running Ribbons.” He knew Jack’s weak spot, you see; Running Ribbons was own brother to Running Reins, and a prime goer. Jack hummed and hawed a bit, saying no, no, his fighting days were long done, but the fellows, seeing him waver, and delighted at the thought of watching the famous Gully in action (and no doubt of lowering Bismarck a peg or two) urged him on, cheering him and slapping him on the shoulder. “Well, well,” says Jack at last, for his flash of ill-temper had quite gone now, and he was his placid self, “if you must have it, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. To convince the Baron here, that there’s maybe more in the Noble Art than meets his eye, I’ll engage to stand up in front of him, with my hands down, and let him try to plant me a few facers. What d’ye say to that, sir?” he asks Bismarck. The German, who had been sitting very disdainful, looked interested despite himself. “You mean you will let me strike you, without defending yourself?” Jack grins at him. “I mean I’ll let you try,” says he. “But I must strike you—unless you run away.” “I reckon you’re not too clever in our lingo yet,” says Jack, smiling, but looking keen. “What with ‘too old’ and ‘running away’, you know. But don’t worry, mynheer—I’ll stand my ground.” There was a great commotion while the table was thrust against one wall, and the carpet rolled up, and everyone piled furniture to the sides of the room to leave space for the exhibition. Perceval was the only one who wasn’t delighted at the prospect; “’Tain’t fair,” says he, “not to a guest; I don’t like it. Ye’ll not hurt him, Jack, d’ye hear?” “Not a hair of his head,” says old Jack. “But his vanity may be a bit bruised when he discovers it ain’t so easy to hit a good milling cove as he imagines,” says Speed, laughing. “That’s what I don’t like either,” says Perceval. “It looks as though we’re making a fool of him.” “Not us,” says I. “He’ll be doing it himself.” “And serve the German windbag right,” says Spottswood. “Who’s he to tell us our faults, damn him?” “I still don’t like it,” says Perceval. “Curse you, Flash, this is your doing.” And he mooched away, looking glum. At the other end of the room Conyngham and one of the other chaps were helping Bismarck off with his coat. You could see he was wondering how the devil he had got into this, but he put a good face on it, pretending to be amused and interested when they fastened the gloves on him and Jack, and explained what was expected of him. Spottswood led the two of them to the centre of the floor, where a line had been chalked on the boards, and holding one on either hand, called for silence. “This ain’t a regular mill,” says he (“Shame!” cries someone). “No, no,” says Spottswood, “This is a friendly exhibition in the interests of good sportsmanship and friendship between nations. (‘Hurrah!’ ‘Rule Britannia!’ from the fellows). Our old and honoured friend, Jack Gully, champion of champions—” at this there was a great hurrah, which set old Jack grinning and bobbing—“has generously engaged to let Herr Otto von Bismarck stand up to him and try, if he can, to hit him fair on the head and body. Mr Gully engages further not to hit back, but may, if he wishes, use his hands for guarding and blocking. I shall referee”—cries of “Shame!” “Watch out for him, Baron, he’s a wrong ’un!”—“and at my word the contestants will begin and leave off. Agreed? Now, Baron, you may hit him anywhere above the waist. Are you ready?”. He stepped back, leaving the two facing each other. It was a strange picture: the big candelabra lit the room as clear as day, shining on the flushed faces of the spectators sitting or squatting on the furniture piled round the panelled walls; on the sporting prints and trophies hung above them; on the wide, empty polished floor; on the jumble of silver and bottles and piled plates on the table with its wine-stained cloths; on the two men toe to toe at the chalk line. There was never a stranger pair of millers in the history of the game. Bismarck, in his shirt and trousers and pumps, with the big padded mauleys on his fists, may have been awkward and uncertain, but he looked well. Tall, perfectly built and elegant as a rapier, with his fair cropped head glistening under the light, he reminded me again of a nasty Norse god. His lips were tight, his eyes narrow, and he was studying his man carefully before making a move. Gully, on the other hand—oh, Gully! In my time I’ve seen Mace and Big Jack Heenan and little Sayers, and I watched Sullivan beat Ryan and took $10 off Oscar Wilde over that fight, too, but I doubt if any of them could have lived with Gully at his best. Not that I ever saw that best, but I saw him face up to Bismarck, nearly sixty years old, and that is enough for me. Like most poltroons, I have a sneaking inward regard for truly fearless, strong men, fools though they may be, and I can have an academic admiration for real skill, so long as I don’t suffer by it. Gully was fearless and strong and incredibly skilful. He stood on the balls of his feet, head sunk between his massive shoulders, hands down, his leathery brown face smiling ever so slightly, his eyes fixed on Bismarck beneath beetling brows. He looked restful, confident, indestructible. “Time!” cries Spottswood, and Bismarck swung his right fist. Jack swayed a little and it went past his face. Bismarck stumbled, someone laughed, and then he struck again, right and left. The right went past Jack’s head, the left he stopped with his palm. Bismarck stepped back, looking at him, and then came boring in, driving at Jack’s midriff, but he just turned his body sideways, lazily almost, and the German went blundering by, thumping the air. Everyone cheered and roared with laughter, and Bismarck wheeled round, white-faced, biting his lip. Jack, who didn’t seem to have moved more than a foot, regarded him with interest, and motioned him to come on again. Slowly, Bismarck recovered himself, raised his hands and then shot out his left hand as he must have seen the pugs do that afternoon. Jack rolled his head out of the way and then leaned forward a little to let Bismarck’s other hand sail past his head. “Well done, mynheer,” he cried. “That was good. Left and right, that’s the way. Try again.” Bismarck tried, and tried again, and for three minutes Jack swayed and ducked and now and then blocked a punch with his open hand. Bismarck flailed away, and never looked like hitting him, and everyone cheered and roared with laughter. Finally Spottswood called, “Time”, and the German stood there, chest heaving and face crimson with his efforts, while Jack was as unruffled as when he started. “Don’t mind ’em, mynheer,” says he. “There’s none of ’em would ha’ done better, and most not so well. You’re fast, and could be faster, and you move well for a novice.” “Are you convinced now, Baron?” says Spottswood. Bismarck, having got his breath back, shook his head. “That there is skill, I admit,” says he, at which everyone raised an ironical cheer. “But I should be obliged,” he goes on to Jack, “if you would try me again, and this time try to hit me in return.” At this the idiots cheered, and said he was damned game and a sportsman, and Perceval said he wouldn’t have it, and demanded that the bout should stop at once. But old Jack, smiling his crooked smile, says: “No, no, Tom. This fellow’s more of a boxing man than any of you know. I’d not care to mill with anyone who didn’t hit back. I’ll spar, gentle-like, and when he goes home he can say he’s been in a fight.” So they went to it again, and Jack moved about now, smooth as a dancer for all his years, and tapped his glove on Bismarck’s head and chin and body, while the other smashed away at him and hit nothing. I encouraged him by haw-hawing every time he missed, for I wanted him to realise what an ass he looked, and he bore in all the harder, flailing at Jack’s head and shoulders while the old champion turned, feinted and slipped away, leaving him floundering. “That’s enough!” shouts someone. “Time out, you fellows, and let’s drink to it!” and there were several voices which cried aye, aye, at which Jack dropped his hands and looked to Spottswood. But Bismarck rushed in, and Jack, in fending him off with a left, tapped him a little harder than he meant to, and bloodied his nose. That stopped the German in his tracks, and Jack, all crestfallen, was stepping in to apologise, when to everyone’s amazement Bismarck ran at him, seized him round the waist, swung him off his feet, and hurled him to the floor. He landed with a tremendous crash, his head striking the boards, and in a moment everyone was on his feet, shouting and cheering. Some cried “Foul!” while others applauded the German—they were the drunker ones—and then there was a sudden hush as Jack shook his head and slowly got to his feet. He looked shaken, and furious, too, but he had himself in hand. “All right, mynheer,” says he. “I didn’t know we was holding and throwing.” I don’t suppose anything like it had happened to him in his life before, and his pride was wounded far worse than his body. “My own fault, for not looking out,” says he. “Well, well, let it go. You can say you’ve downed John Gully,” and he looked round the room, slowly, as though trying to read what everyone was thinking. “Best stop now, I think,” says he at last. “You do not wish to continue?” cries Bismarck. He looked fairly blown, but the arrogant note in his voice was there, as ever. Gully stared at him a moment. “Best not,” says he. The room was uncomfortably quiet, until Bismarck laughed his short laugh and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, very well,” says, he, “since you do not wish it.” Two red spots came into Jack’s pale cheeks. “I think it’s best to stop now,” says he, in a hard voice. “If you’re wise, mynheer, you’ll make the most of that.” “As you please,” says Bismarck, and to my delight he added: “It is you who are ending the bout, you know.” Jack’s face was a study. Spottswood had a hand on his shoulder, and Perceval was at his side, while the rest were crowding round, chattering excitedly, and Bismarck was looking about him with all his old bounce and side. It was too much for Jack. “Right,” says he, shaking Spottswood off. “Put your hands up.” “No, no,” cries Perceval, “this has gone far enough.” “I quit to nobody,” says Jack, grim as a hangman. “‘End the bout’, is it? I’ll end it for him, sure enough.” “For God’s sake, man,” says Perceval. “Remember who you are, and who he is. He’s a guest, a stranger—” “A stranger who threw me foul,” says old Jack. “He don’t know the rules.” “It was a mistake.” “It was a fair throw.” “No t’wasn’t.” Old Jack stood breathing heavily. “Now, look’ee,” says he. “I give it him he threw me not knowing it was an unfair advantage, when I was off guard on account of having tapped his claret. I give it him he was angry and didn’t think, ’cos I’d been making a pudding of him. I’ll shake hands wi’ him on all of that—but I won’t have him strutting off and saying I asked to end the fight. Nobody says that to me—no, not Tom Cribb himself, by God.” Everyone began to yammer at once, Perceval trying to push them away and calm Jack down, but most of us well content to see the mischief increase—it wasn’t every day one could see Gully box in earnest, which he seemed ready to do. Tom appealed to Bismarck, but the German, smiling his superior smile, just says: “I am prepared to continue.” After that, try as Tom might, he was over-ruled, and presently they were facing up to each other again. I was delighted, of course; this was more than I had hoped for, although I feared that Gully’s good nature would make him let Bismarck off lightly. His pride was hurt, but he was a fair-minded fool, and I guessed he would just rap the German once or twice, smartly, to show him who was master and let it go at that. Perceval was hoping so, at all events. “Go easy, Jack, for God’s sake,” he cried, and then they set to. I don’t know what Bismarck hoped for. He wasn’t a fool, and Gully had demonstrated already that the German was a child in his hands. I can only suppose that he thought he had a chance of throwing Gully again, and was too damned conceited to escape gratefully. At any rate, he went in swinging both arms, and Jack rapped him over the heart and then cracked him a neat left on the head when he was off balance, which knocked him down. “Time!” cries Spottswood, but Bismarck didn’t understand, and bounding up he rushed at Gully, and with a lucky swing, caught him on the ear. Jack staggered, righted himself, and as if by instinct smacked two blows into Bismarck’s belly. He went down, gasping and wheezing, and Perceval ran forward, saying that this was the end, he would have no more of it. But the German, when he had straightened up, got his breath back and wiped the trickle of blood from his nose, was determined to go on. Gully said no, and Bismarck sneered at him, and the upshot was that they squared away again, and Gully knocked him off his feet. But still he got up, and now Gully was sickened, and refused to go on, and when he held out his hand Bismarck struck at him, at which Gully hammered him one in the face, which sent him headlong, and on the instant Gully was cursing himself for a bad-tempered fool, and calling for Spottswood to take off his gloves, and Tom was raising Bismarck off the floor, and a splendidly gory face he presented, too. And there was a tremendous hubbub, with drunk chaps crying “Shame!” and “Stop the fight!” and “Hit him again!” and Perceval almost crying with mortification, and Gully stamping off in a corner, swearing he hadn’t meant to hurt the fellow, but what could he do? and Bismarck white-faced, being helped into one of the chairs, where they sponged his face and gave him brandy. There were apologies, and protestations, and Gully and Bismarck finally shook hands, and Jack said he was ashamed of himself, as an Englishman, and would Bismarck forgive him? Bismarck, with his mouth puffed and split where Jack’s last blow had caught him, and his fine aristocratic nose crusted with his own blood—I’d have given twenty guineas to see it properly smashed—said it was nothing, and he was obliged to Mr Gully for the instruction. He then added that he was capable of continuing, and that the fight had not been stopped at his request, at which old Jack took a big breath but said nothing, and the others cheered and Conyngham cried: “Good for the Prussian! A dam’ game bird he is! Hurrah!” This was the signal for the drinking to start again, in earnest, while two of the company, flown with pugilistic ardour, put on the mauleys and began to spar away drunkenly, and losing their tempers, finished up savaging each other on the floor. Perceval stayed by Bismarck, muttering apologies while the German waved them away and sipped brandy through his battered mouth. Gully simply went over to the sideboard and poured drink into himself until he was completely foxed; no one had ever seen him so shaken and unhappy before, or known him drink more than the most modest amount. But I knew why he was doing it; he was ashamed. It is a terrible thing to have ideals and a conscience, to say nothing of professional pride. He told me later he would have been better to suffer being thrown; beating Bismarck had been the most shameful thing he ever did, he said. I’d have been delighted to do it, personally, if I’d had his skill; I’d have left that German upstart without a tooth in his head. As it was, when the boozing was at its height, and the uproar was deafening, I chanced by where Bismarck was still sitting, sipping delicately at his glass. He turned and caught my eye, frowned, and said: “Still I cannot place you, Captain. It is most intriguing; but it will come back, no doubt. However, I trust you were not disappointed with your evening’s entertainment.” “It might have been better,” says I, grinning at him. “Even so, you contrived very well. I have you to thank for these,” and he touched his lips and reddened nose. “One day I shall hold you to your promise, and show you the schlager play. I look forward to that; we shall see how much credit you obtain from my country’s sport.” “More than you’ve got from mine, I hope,” says I, laughing. “Let us hope so,” says he. “But I doubt it.” “Go to the devil,” says I. He turned away, chuckling to himself. “After you, I think.” Chapter 3 (#ulink_a220a08b-12ce-5aec-9323-ad85bbae9ea5) One of the difficulties of writing your memoirs is that they don’t run smooth, like a novel or play, from one act to the next. I’ve described how I met Rosanna James and Otto, but beyond a paragraph in The Times announcing her divorce from Captain James towards the end of the year, I didn’t hear of her again for months. As for Bismarck, it was a few years before I ran into him again, and then it was too soon. So in the first place I must skip over a few months to my second meeting with Rosanna, which was brought about because I have a long memory and a great zeal in paying off old scores. She had put herself on the debit side of Flashy’s ledger, and when the chance came to pay her out I seized on it. It was the following summer, while I was still in London, officially waiting for Uncle Bindley at the Horse Guards to find me an appointment, and in fact just lounging about the town and leading the gay life. It wasn’t quite so gay as it had been, for while I was still something of an idol in military circles, my gloss was beginning to wear a bit thin with the public. Yesterday’s hero is soon forgotten, and while Elspeth and I had no lack of invitations during the season, it seemed to me that I wasn’t quite so warmly f?ted as I had been. I wasn’t invariably the centre of attraction any longer; some chaps even seemed to get testy if I mentioned Afghanistan, and at one assembly I heard a fellow say that he personally knew every damned stone of Piper’s Fort by now, and could have conducted sightseers over the ruins. That’s by the way, but it was one of the reasons that I began to find life boring me in the months that followed, and I was all the readier for mischief when the chance came. I forget exactly what took me to one of the Haymarket theatres on an afternoon in May—there was an actress, or an acrobat she may have been, whom I was pushing about just then, so it may have been her. In any event, I was standing in the wings with some of the Gents and Mooners, during a rehearsal, when I noticed a female practising dance-steps on the other side of the stage. It was her shape that caught my eye, for she was in the tight fleshings that ballet-dancers wear, and I was admiring her legs when she turned in profile and to my astonishment I recognised Rosanna. She was wearing her hair in a new way, parted in the centre, and held behind her head in a kerchief, but there was no mistaking the face or the figure. “Splendid piece, ain’t she?” says one of the Mooners. “They say Lumley”—he was the manager—“pays her a fortune. ’Pon my soul, I would myself, what?” Oho, I thought to myself, what’s this? I asked the Mooner, offhand, who she might be. “Why, she’s his new danseuse, don’t you know,” says he. “It seems that opera hasn’t been bringing in the tin lately, so Lumley imported her specially to dance between the acts. Thinks she’ll make a great hit, and with those legs I’ll be bound she will. See here.” And he pushed a printed bill into my hand. It read: HER MAJESTY’S THEATRE Special Attraction Mr Benjamin Lumley begs to announce that between the acts of the Opera, Donna Lola Montez, of the Teatro Real, Seville, will have the honour to make her first appearance in England in the Original Spanish dance, El Oleano. “Ain’t she a delight, though?” says the Mooner. “Gad, look at ’em bouncing when she struts!” “That’s Donna Lola Montez, is it?” says I. “When does she perform, d’ye know?” “Opens next week,” says he. “There’ll be a crowd and a half, shouldn’t wonder. Oh, Lovely Lola!” Well, I’d never heard of Lola Montez, but I saw there was something here that needed going into. I made a few discreet inquiries, and it seemed that half the town was talking about her already, for Lumley was making a great to-do about his beautiful new attraction., The critics were slavering in advance about “the belle Andalusian”, and predicting a tremendous success, but nobody had any notion that she wasn’t a genuine Spanish artiste at all. But I was in no doubt about her; I’d been close enough to Rosanna James to be sure. At first I was just amused, but then it occurred to me that here was a heaven-sent opportunity to have my own back on her. If she was exposed, denounced for what she really was, that would put paid to her making a hit. It would also teach her not to throw piss-pots at me. But how to do it best? I pondered, and in five minutes I had it pat. I remembered, from the conversations we had had during our passionate week, her mention of Lord Ranelagh, who was one of the leading boys about town just then. She was forever chattering about her admirers, and he was one she had turned down; snubbed him dead, in fact. I knew him only to see, for he was a very top-flight Corinthian, and didn’t take much heed even of heroes if they weren’t out of the top drawer (and I wasn’t). But all I’d heard suggested that he was a first-class swine, and just the man for me. I hunted him out at his club, slid inside when the porter wasn’t looking, and found him in the smoke-room. He was lying on a couch, puffing a cigar with his hat over his brows; I spoke right out. “Lord Ranelagh,” says I. “How are you? I’m Flashman.” He cocked an eye lazily under the brim of his hat, damned haughty. “I’m certain I haven’t had the honour,” says he. “Good day to you.” “No, no, you remember me,” says I. “Harry Flashman, you know.” He pushed his hat right back, and looked at me as if I was a toad. “Oh,” says he at length, with a sneer, “The Afghan warrior. Well, what is it?” “I took the liberty of calling on your lordship,” says I, “because I chanced to come across a mutual acquaintance.” “I cannot conceive that we have any,” drawls he, “unless you happen to be related to one of my grooms.” I laughed merrily at this, although I felt like kicking his noble backside for him. But I needed him, you see, so I had to toad-eat him. “Not bad, not bad,” says I. “But this happens to be a lady. I’m sure she would be of interest to you.” “Are you a pimp, by any chance? If so—” “No, my lord, I’m not,” says I. “But I thought you might be diverted to hear of Mrs James—Mrs Elizabeth Rosanna James.” He frowned, and blew ash off his ridiculous beard, which covered half his shirt-front. “What of her, and what the devil has she to do with you?” “Why, nothing, my lord,” says I. “But she happens to be taking the stage at Her Majesty’s next week, masquerading as a famous Spanish dancer. Donna Lola Montez, she calls herself, and pretends to be from Seville. An impudent imposture.” He digested this, while I watched his nasty mind working. “How d’ye know this?” says he. “I’ve seen her at rehearsal,” says I, “and there’s no doubt about it—she’s Rosanna James.” “And why should this be of interest to me?” I shrugged at this, and he asked what my purpose was in telling him. “Oh, I was sure you would wish to be at her first performance—to pay your respects to an old friend,” says I. “And if so, I would solicit a place for myself in your party. I entertain the same affection for her that I’m sure your lordship does.” He considered me. “You’re a singularly unpleasant creature,” says he. “Why don’t you expose her yourself, since that’s obviously what you want?” “Your lordship, I’m sure, has a style in these things. And you are well known, while I …” I didn’t want to be the centre of any scandal, although I wanted to have a front seat to see the fun. “I can do your dirty work, eh? Well, well.” “You’ll go?” “That is no concern of yours,” says he. “Good day.” “May I come?” “My dear sir, I cannot prevent you going where you choose. But I forbid you absolutely to address me in public.” And he turned over on his side, away from me. But I was satisfied; no doubt he would go, and denounce “Donna Lola”. He had his own score to pay off, and was just the sort of mean hound who would do it, too. Sure enough, when the fashionable crowd was arriving at Her Majesty’s the following Monday, up rolls Lord Ranelagh with a party of bloods, in two coaches. I was on hand, and tailed on to them at the door; he noticed me, but didn’t say anything, and I was allowed to follow into the omnibus-box which he had engaged directly beside the stage. One or two of his friends gave me haughty stares, and I took my seat very meek, at the back of the box, while his lordship showed off at the front, and his friends and he talked and laughed loudly, to show what first-rate bucks they were. It was a splendid house—quite out of proportion to the opera, which was “The Barber of Seville”. In fact, I was astonished at the gathering: there was the Queen Dowager in the Royal Box, with a couple of foreign princelings; old Wellington, wrinkled and lynx-eyed, with his Duchess; Brougham, the minister, the Baroness de Rothschild, Count Esterhazy, the Belgian ambassador, and many others. All the most eminent elderly lechers of the day, in fact, and I hadn’t a doubt that it wasn’t the music they had come for. Lola Montez was the attraction of the night, and the talk through the pit was of nothing else. Rumour had it that at certain select gatherings for the highest grandees in Spain, she had been known to dance nude; it was also being said that she had once been the leading light of a Turkish harem. Oh, they were in a fine state of excitement by the time the curtain went up. My own idea of theatrical entertainment, I admit, is the music-hall; strapping wenches and low comedians are my line, and your fine drama and music bore me to death. So I found “The Barber of Seville” a complete fag: fat Italians screeching, and not a word to be understood. I read the programme for a bit, and found more entertainment in the advertisements than there was on the stage—“Mrs Rodd’s anatomical ladies’ stays, which ensure the wearer a figure of astonishing symmetry”; I remember thinking that the leading lady in “The Barber” could have profited by Mrs Rodd’s acquaintance. Also highly spoken of were Jackson’s patent enema machines, as patronised by the nobility when travelling. I wasn’t alone, I noticed, in finding the opera tedious; there were yawns in the pit, and Wellington (who was near our box) began to snore until his Duchess dug him in the ribs. Then the first act ended, and when the applause died away everyone sat up, expectant; there was a flourish of Spanish music from the orchestra, and Lola (or Rosanna) shot dramatically on to the stage. I’m no authority on the dance; the performer, not the performance, is what I pay to see. But it seemed to me that she was damned good. Her striking beauty brought the pit up with a gasp: she was in a black bodice, cut so low that her breasts seemed to be in continual danger of popping out, and her tiny pink skirt showed off her legs to tremendous advantage. The slim white neck and shoulders, the coal-black hair, the gleaming eyes, the scarlet lips curled almost in contempt—the whole effect was startling and exotic. You know these throbbing, Spanish rhythms; well, she swayed and shook and stamped her way through them in splendid passion, and the audience sat spellbound. She was at once inviting and challenging; I doubt if there was any gesture or movement in the whole dance that a magistrate could have taken exception to, and yet the whole effect of it was sensual. It seemed to say “Bed me—if you dare”, and every man in the place was taking her clothes off as he watched. What the women thought I can’t imagine, but I guess they admired her almost as much as they disliked her. When she finished abruptly, with a final smash of her foot and clash of cymbals from the orchestra, the theatre went wild. They cheered and stamped, and she stood for a moment still as a statue, staring proudly down at them, and then swept straight off the stage. The applause was deafening, but she didn’t come back, and there were sighs and a few groans when the curtain went up again on the next act of the opera, and those damned Macaronis began yelping again. Through all this Ranelagh had sat forward in his chair, staring at her, but never said a word. He didn’t pay the least attention to the opera, but when Lola came on for her second dance, which was even more tempestuous than the first, he made a great show of examining her through his glasses. Everyone else was doing the same, of course, in the hope that her bodice would burst, which it seemed likely to do at any moment, but when the applause broke out, wilder than ever, he kept his glasses glued to his eyes, and when she had gone he was seen to be frowning in a very puzzled way. This was all leading up to the denouement, of course, and when she bounced on, snapping her fan, for the third time, I heard him mutter to his nearest neighbour: “You chaps keep your eyes on me. I’ll give the word, mind, and then we’ll see some fun.” She swirled through the dance, showing splendid amounts of her thighs, and gliding about sinuously while peeping over her fan, and at the finish there was a perfect torrent of clapping and shouting, with bouquets plopping down on to the stage and chaps standing up and clapping wildly. She smiled now, for the first time, bowing and blowing kisses before the curtain, and then suddenly, from our box there was a great hissing in unison, at which the applause faltered and died away. She turned to stare furiously in our direction, and as the hissing rose louder than ever there were angry shouts and cries from the rest of the theatre. People craned to see what the row was about, and then Ranelagh climbs to his feet, an imposing figure with his black beard and elegant togs, and cries out, very distinctly: “Why, this is a proper swindle, ladies and gentlemen! That woman isn’t Lola Montez. She’s an Irish girl, Betsy James!” There was a second’s silence, and then a tremendous hullabaloo. The hissing started again, with cries of “Fraud!” and “Impostor!”, the applause began and sputtered out, and angry cat-calls and boos sounded from the gallery. In a moment the whole mood of the theatre had changed; taking their cue from Ranelagh and his toadies, they began to howl her down; a few coins clattered on the stage; the conductor, gaping at the audience with his mouth open, suddenly flung down his baton and stamped out; and then the whole place was in a frenzy, stamping and calling for their money back, and shouting to her angrily to get back to the bogs of Donegal. She was standing blazing with fury, and when she moved towards our box some of the chaps scrambled back to get out of harm’s way. She stood a moment, her bosom heaving, her eyes sweeping the box—oh, yes, she recognised me all right, and when she began to curse at us I think it was me as much as Ranelagh she was getting at. Unfortunately, she swore in English, and the mob caught it and yelled louder than ever. Then she dashed down the bouquet she was holding, stamped on it, kicked it into the orchestra, and with one last damnation in our direction, ran from the stage as the curtain fell. I must say I was delighted; I hadn’t thought it could go off so well. As we crowded out of the place—“The Barber”, of course, was entirely forgotten in the sensation—I came up to Ranelagh’s elbow and congratulated him; I couldn’t have paid her out so splendidly myself, and I told him so. He gave me a cold nod and sailed off, the snobbish bastard, but I wasn’t in a mood to mind too much; that was me quits with Mistress Lola for her brickbats and insults, and I went home in high good humour. She was finished on the London stage, of course. Lumley dismissed her, and although one or two attempts were made to present her at other theatres, the damage was done. All sorts of people now seemed to remember her as Mrs James, and although she wrote a letter of denial to the press, no one believed it. A few weeks later she had disappeared and that, thought I, was the end of Lola Montez so far as I was concerned, and good riddance. A brilliant bed-mate, I don’t deny, in her way, and even now the picture of her kneeling naked among the bed-clothes can set me itching—but I’d never liked her particularly, and was glad to see her sent packing. But it wasn’t the end of her, by any means. Although it was some years before I saw her again—in circumstances that I couldn’t have dreamed of—one heard of her from time to time through the papers. And always it was sensational news; she seemed to have a genius for thrusting herself into high places and creating scandal. First there was a report of her horse-whipping a policeman in Berlin; next she was dancing on the tables during a civic banquet in Bonn, to the outrage of Prince Albert and our Queen, who were on a State visit at the time. Then she was performing in Paris, and when the audience didn’t take to her she stripped off her garters and drawers and flung them at the gallery; she started a riot in the streets of Warsaw, and when they tried to arrest her she held the peelers off with pistols. And of course there were scores of lovers, most of them highly-placed: the Viceroy of Poland, the Tsar of Russia (although I doubt if that’s true), and Liszt the musician. She took up with him two or three times, and once to get rid of her he locked her in a hotel room and sneaked out by the back door. I met him, later on, by the way, and we discussed the lovely Lola and found ourselves much in agreement. Like me, he admired her as a tumble, but found her all too overpowering. “She is a consuming fire,” he told me, shaking his white head ruefully, “and I’ve been scorched—oh, so often.” I sympathised; she had urged me on in love-making with a hair-brush, but with him it had been a dog-whip, and he was a frail sort of fellow, you know. At all events, these scraps of gossip reached me from time to time over the next few years. In that time I was out of England a good deal—as will be set down in another packet of my memoirs, if I’m spared to write them. My doings in the middle forties of the century don’t fit in with my present tale, though, so I pass them over for the moment and come to the events to which my meeting with Lola and Otto Bismarck was the prelude. Chapter 4 (#ulink_3c914dfc-00ed-5902-b301-37a9678b081e) I can see, now, that if I hadn’t deserted Speedicut that night, hadn’t been rude to Bismarck, hadn’t set Jack Gully on to give him a beating, and finally, hadn’t taken my spite out on Lola by peaching on her to Ranelagh—without all these “if’s” I would have been spared one of the most frightening and incredible experiences of my life. Another glorious chapter in the heroic career of Harry Flashman would not have been written, and neither would a famous novel. However, I’ve seen too much of life to fret over if’s and but’s. There’s nothing you can do about them, and if you find yourself at the end of the day an octogenarian with money in the bank and drink in the house—well, you’d be a fool to wish that things had fallen out differently. Anyway, I was home again in London in ’47, with cash in my pocket for once—my own cash, too, dishonestly got, but no dirtier than the funds which old Morrison, my father-in-law, doled out as charity to keep us respectable “for my wee daughter’s sake”. His wee daughter, my Elspeth, was as pleased to see me as she ever was; we still suited very well between the sheets, however much she was playing loose with her admirers. I had ceased worrying about that, too. However, when I arrived home, hoping for a few months’ rest to recover from the effects of a pistol-ball which had been dug out of the small of my back, there was a nasty shock awaiting me. My dear parents-in-law, Mr and Mrs Morrison of Paisley, were now in permanent residence in London; I hadn’t seen much of them, thank God, since I had married their beautiful, empty-headed trollop of a daughter several years before, when I was a young subaltern in Cardigan’s Hussars. We had detested each other then, they and I, and time hadn’t softened the emotion, on either side. To make matters worse, my father was away from home. In the past year or two the old fellow had been hitting the bottle pretty hard—and pretty hard for him meant soaking up liquor in every waking moment. Once or twice they had to put him away in a place in the country where the booze was sweated out of him and the pink mice which nibbled at his fingers and toes were shoo’ed away—that was what he said, anyway—but it seemed that they kept coming back, and he was off getting another “cure”. “A fine thing,” sniffed old Morrison—we were at dinner on my first evening home, and I had hoped to have it in bed with Elspeth, but of course we had to do “the polite” by her parents—“a fine thing, indeed. He’ll drink himsel’ intae the grave, I suppose.” “Probably,” says I. “His father and grand-father did, so I don’t see why he shouldn’t.” Mrs Morrison, who in defiance of probability had grown with the years even more like a vulture, gave a gasp of disgust at this, and old Morrison said he didn’t doubt that the son of the house would follow in his ancestors’ besotted footsteps. “Shouldn’t wonder,” says I, helping myself to claret. “I’ve got a better excuse than they had.” “And whit does that mean, sir?” bridled old Morrison. I didn’t bother to tell him, so he started off on a great rant about ingratitude and perversity, and the dissolute habits of myself and my family, and finished up with his age-old lamentation about his daughter having married a wastrel and a ruffian, who hadn’t even the decency to stay at home with his wife like a Christian, but must be forever wandering like Ishmael … “Hold on,” says I, for I was sick of this. “Since I married your daughter I have been twice abroad, on my country’s service, and on the first occasion at least I came home with a good deal of credit. I’ll wager you weren’t slow to boast about your distinguished son-in-law when I came back from India in ’42.” “And what have ye made of it?” sneers he. “What are ye? A captain still, and like to remain one.” “You’re never tired of reminding Elspeth in your letters that you keep this family, this house, and the rest of it. Buy me a majority, if military rank means so much to you.” “Damn yer impudence!” says he. “Is it no’ enough that I keep you and yer drunken father oot o’ the poor’s-hoose, where ye belong?” “I’d have thought so,” says I, “but if you want me to shoot up the military tree as well—why, it costs money, you know.” “Aye, weel, deil’s the penny ye’ll get from me,” snaps he. “Enough is bein’ spent on wanton folly as it is,” and it seemed to me he darted a look at his vinegary spouse, who sniffed and coloured a bit. What’s this, I wondered: surely she hasn’t been asking him to buy her a pair of colours: Horse Guards wouldn’t have taken her, anyway, not for a commission: farrier-sergeant, perhaps, but no higher. No more was said at dinner, which ended in a merry atmosphere of poisonous ill-will, but I got the explanation from Elspeth when we had retired for the night. It seemed that her mother had been growing increasingly concerned at her inability to get Elspeth’s two virgin sisters married off: the oldest girl, Mary, had been settled on some commercial creature in Glasgow, and was breeding at a rare rate, but Agnes and Grizel were still single. I said surely there were enough fortune-hunters in Scotland ready to take a shot at her father’s money, but she said no, her mother had discouraged them. She was flying higher, reasoning that if Elspeth had been able to get me, who had titled relatives and was at least half-way into the great world of fashionable society, Agnes and Grizel could do even better. “She’s mad,” says I. “If they had your looks it might be a half-chance, but one sight of your dear parents is going to scare any eligible sprig a mile off. Sorry, m’dear, but they ain’t acceptable, you know.” “My parents certainly lack the advantages,” says Elspeth seriously. Marrying me had turned her into a most wonderful snob. “That I admit. But father is extremely rich, as you are aware—” “To hear him, it’s no fault of ours if he is.” “—and you know, Harry, that quite a few of our titled acquaintances are not too nice to look above a fine dowry. I think, with the right introductions, that Mama might find very suitable husbands for them. Agnes is plain, certainly, but little Grizel is really pretty, and their education has been quite as careful as my own.” It isn’t easy for a beautiful woman with blue eyes, a milky complexion, and corn-gold hair to look pompous, especially when she is wearing only a French corset decorated with pink ribbons, but Elspeth managed it. At that moment I was overcome again with that yearning affection for her that I sometimes felt, in spite of her infidelities; I can’t explain it, beyond saying that she must have had some magic quality, something to do with the child-like, thoughtful look she wore, and the pure, helpless stupidity in her eyes. It is very difficult not to like a lovely idiot. “Since you’re so well-educated,” says I, pulling her down beside me, “let’s see how much you remember.” And I put her through a most searching test which, being Elspeth, she interrupted from time to time with her serious observations on Mrs Morrison’s chances of marrying off the two chits. “Well,” says I, when we were exhausted, “so long as I ain’t expected to help launch ’em in Society, I don’t mind. Good luck to it, I say, and I hope they get a Duke apiece.” But of course, I had to be dragged into it: Elspeth was quite determined to use my celebrity for what it was still worth, on her sisters’ behalf, and I knew that when she was insistent there was no way of resisting her. She controlled the purse-strings, you see, and the cash I had brought home wouldn’t last long at my rate of spending, I knew. So it was a fairly bleak prospect I had come back to: the guv’nor away in the grip of the quacks and demon drink, old Morrison in the house carping and snuffling, Elspeth and Mrs Morrison planning their campaign to inflict her sisters on unsuspecting London, and myself likely to be roped in—which meant being exposed in public alongside my charming Scotch relations. I should have to take old Morrison to my club, and stand behind Mrs Morrison’s chair at parties—no doubt listening to her teaching some refined mama the recipe for haggis—and have people saying: “Seen Flashy’s in-laws? They eat peat, don’t you know, and speak nothing but Gaelic. Well, it wasn’t English, surely?” Oh, I knew what to expect, and determined to keep out of it. I thought of going to see my Uncle Bindley at the Horse Guards, and beseeching him to arrange an appointment for me to some regiment out of town—I was off the active list just then, and was not relishing the idea of half-pay anyway. And while I was hesitating, in those first few days at home, the letter came that helped to solve my difficulties for me and incidentally changed the map of Europe. It came like the answer to a pagan’s prayer, along with a dun from some tailor or other, an anti-popish tract, a demand for my club subscription, and an invitation to buy railway shares—all the usual trash. Why I should remember the others, I don’t know. I must have a perverse memory, for the contents of the big white envelope should have been enough to drive them out of my head. It was a fine, imposing cover—best quality paper, with a coat-of-arms on the back, which I have before me now. There was a shield, quartered red, blue, blue, and white, and in the quarters were a sword, a crowned lion, what looked like a fat whale, and a pink rose. Plainly it was either from someone of tremendous rank or the manufacturers of a new brand of treacle. Inside there was a letter, and stamped at the top in flowery letters, surrounded by foliage full of pink-bottomed cupids, were the words, “Gr?fin de Landsfeld”. And who the deuce, I wondered, might she be, and what did she want with me. The letter I reproduce exactly as it now lies in my hand, very worn and creased after sixty years, but still perfectly legible. It is, I think, quite the most remarkable communication I have ever received—even including the letter of thanks I got from Jefferson Davis and the reprieve I was given in Mexico. It said: Most Honoured Sir, I write to you on instruction of Her Grace, the Countess de Landsfeld, of whom you had the honour to be acquainted in Londres some years ago. Her Grace commands me to inform you that she holds the warmest recollection of your friendship, and wishes to convey her strongest greetings on this occasion. I made nothing of this. While I couldn’t have recited the names of all the women I had known, I was pretty clear that there weren’t any foreign countesses that had slipped my mind. It went on: Sir, while Her Grace doubts not that your duties are of the most important and exacting nature, she trusts that you will have opportunity to consider the matter which, on her command, I am now to lay before you. She is confident that the ties of your former friendship, no less than the chivalrous nature of which she has such pleasing memory, will prevail upon you to assist her in a matter of the most extreme delicate. Now he’s certainly mad, this fellow, thinks I, or else he’s got the wrong chap. I don’t suppose there are three women in the world who ever thought me chivalrous, even on short acquaintance. Her Grace therefore directs me to request that you will, with all speed after receiving this letter, make haste to present yourself to her in M?nchen, and there receive, from her own lips, particulars of the service which it is her dearest wish you will be obliged to render to her. She hastens to assure you that it will be of no least expense or hardship to you, but is of such particular nature that she feels that you, of all her many dear friends, are most suitable to its performing. She believes that such is the warmth of your heart that you will at once agree with her, and that the recollection of her friendship will bring you at once as an English gentleman is fitting. Honoured Sir, in confidence that you will wish to assist Her Grace, I advise you that you should call on William Greig & Sons, attorneys, at their office in Wine Office Court, Londres, to receive instruction for your journey. They will pay ?500 in gold for your travelling, etc. Further payments will be received as necessary. Sir, Her Grace commands me to conclude with the assurance of her deepest friendship, and her anticipation of the satisfaction of seeing you once again. Accept, dear Sir, etc., R. Lauengram, Chamberlain. My first thought was that it was a joke, perpetrated by someone not quite right in the head. It made no sense; I had no idea who the Gr?fin de Landsfeld might be, or where “M?nchen” was. But going over it again several times, it occurred to me that if it had been a fake, whoever had written it would have made his English a good deal worse than it was, and taken care not to write several of the sentences without howlers. But if it was genuine, what the devil did it mean? What was the service (without expense or hardship, mark you) for which some foreign titled female was willing to slap ?500 into my palm—and that only a first instalment, by the looks of it? I sat staring at the thing for a good twenty minutes, and the more I studied it the less I liked it. If I’ve learned one thing in this wicked life, it is that no one, however rich, lays out cash for nothing, and the more they spend the rummer the business is likely to be. Someone, I decided, wanted old Flashy pretty badly, but I couldn’t for the life of me think why. I had no qualification that I knew of that suited me for a matter of the most “extreme delicate”: all I was good at was foreign languages and riding. And it couldn’t be some desperate risk in which my supposed heroism would be valuable—they’d as good as said so. No, it beat me altogether. I have always kept by me as many books and pamphlets on foreign tongues as I can collect, this being my occasional hobby, and since I guessed that the writer of the letter was pretty obviously German I turned up an index and discovered that “M?nchen” was Munich, in Bavaria. I certainly knew no one there at all, let alone a Gr?fin, or Countess; for that matter I hardly knew any Germans, had never been in Germany, and had no acquaintance with the language beyond a few idle hours with a grammar some years before. However, there was an obvious way of solving the mystery, so I took myself off to Wine Office Court and looked up William Greig & Sons. I half expected they would send me about my business, but no; there was as much bowing and scraping and “Pray to step this way, sir” as if I had been a royal duke, which deepened my mystification. A young Mr Greig smoothed me into a chair in his office; he was an oily, rather sporty-looking bargee with a very smart blue cutaway and a large lick of black hair—not at all the City lawyer type. When I presented my letter and demanded to know what it was all about, he gave me a knowing grin. “Why, all in order, my dear sir,” says he. “A draft for ?500 to be issued to you, on receipt, with proof of identity—well, we need not fret on that score, hey? Captain Flashman is well enough known, I think, ha-ha. We all remember your famous exploits in China—” “Afghanistan,” says I. “To be sure it was. The draft negotiable with the Bank of England. Yes, all in perfect order, sir.” “But who the devil is she?” “Who is who, my dear sir?” “This Gr?fin what’s-her-name—Landsfeld.” His smile vanished in bewilderment. “I don’t follow,” says he, scratching a black whisker. “You cannot mean that you don’t have the lady’s acquaintance? Why, her man writes to you here …” “I’ve never heard of her,” says I, “to my knowledge.” “Well,” says he, giving me an odd look. “This is dam—most odd, you know. My dear sir, are you sure? Quite apart from this letter, which seems to suggest a most, ah … cordial regard, well, I had not thought there was a man in England who had not heard of the beauteous Countess of Landsfeld.” “Well, you’re looking at one now,” says I. “I can’t believe it,” cries he. “What, never heard of the Queen of Hearts? La Belle Espagnole? The monarch, in all but name, of the Kingdom of Bavaria? My dear sir, all the world knows Donna Maria de—what is it again?” and he rummaged among some papers—“aye, here it is ‘Donna Maria de Dolores de los Montez, Countess of Landsfeld’. Come, come, sir, surely now …” At first the name meant nothing, and then it broke on me. “De los Montez? You don’t mean Lola Montez?” “But who else, sir? The close friend—indeed, some say more than friend—of King Ludwig. Why, the press is never without some fresh sensation about her, some new scandal …” and he went on, chattering and smirking, but I never heeded him. My head was in a spin. Lola Montez, my Rosanna—a Countess, a monarch in all but name, a royal mistress by the sound of it. And she was writing to me, offering me hard cash—plainly I needed more information. “Forgive me, sir,” says I, breaking in on his raptures. “The title misled me, for I’d never heard it before. When I knew Lola Montez she was plain Mrs James.” “Oh, dear me, my dear sir,” says he, very whimsical. “Those days are far behind us now! Our firm, in fact, represented a Mrs James some years ago, but we never talk of her! Oh, no, I daresay not! But the Countess of Landsfeld is another matter—a lady of quite a different colour, ha-ha!” “When did she come by the title?” “Why, some months ago. How you should not …” “I’ve been abroad,” says I. “Until this week I hadn’t seen an English newspaper in almost a year. I’ve heard of Lola Montez’s doings, of course, any time over the past three years, but nothing of this.” “Oh, and such doings, hey?” says he, beaming lewdly. “Well, my dear sir, your friend at court—ha-ha—is a very great lady indeed. She has the kingdom under her thumb, makes and breaks ministers, dictates policies—and sets all Europe by the ears, upon my word! Some of the stories—why, there is an article in one of the sheets calling her ‘The Modern Messalina’”—he dropped his voice and pushed his greasy face towards me—“and describing her picked bodyguard of splendid young men—what, sir, hey? She goes abroad with a guard of cuirassiers riding behind her coach, sets her dogs on whoever dares to cross her path—why, there was some unfortunate who didn’t doff his cap, sir—flogged almost to death! True, sir. And none dare say her nay. The King dotes on her, his courtiers and ministers hate her but go in fear and trembling, the students worship her. For luxury and extravagance there has been nothing like her since La Pompadour, they say. Why, sir, she is the nine-day wonder!” “Well, well,” says I. “Little Mrs James.” “Pray, sir!” He pretended distress. “Not that name, I beg you. It is the Countess of Landsfeld who is your friend, if I may be so bold as to remind you.” “Aye, so it is,” says I. “Will you tell me what she wants of me, then?” “My dear sir,” says he, smirking. “A matter of ‘the most delicate’, is it not? What that may be—surely you are in a better position than I to say, eh? Ha-ha. But you will be going to Bavaria, I take it, to hear the particulars ‘from her own lips’?” That was what I was asking myself. It was unbelievable, of course: Lola a queen, to all intents—that was wild enough. But Lola seeking my help—when our last encounter had been distinguished by the screaming of abuse and the crashing of chamberpots—to say nothing of the furore at the theatre when she had seen me among her betrayers … well, I know women are fickle, but I doubted if she remembered me with any affection. And yet the letter was practically fawning, and she must have dictated the sense of it, if not the words. It might be she had decided to let bygones be bygones—she was a generous creature in her way, as so many whores are. But why? What could she want me for—all she knew of me was my prowess in bed. Did the ma?tresse en titre want to instal me as her lover? My mind, which is at its liveliest in amorous imagination, opened on a riotous vision of Flashy, Pride of the Hareem … but no. I have my share of conceit, but I could not believe that with the pick of all the young stallions of a palace guard, she was yearning for my bonny black whiskers. And yet here was a lawyer, authorised on her behalf, ready to advance me ?500 to go to Munich—ten times more than was necessary for the journey. It made no sort of sense—unless she was in love with me. But that was out of court; I’d been a good enough mount for a week or so, no doubt, but there had been nothing deeper than that, I was certain. What service, then, could I perform that was so obviously of importance? I have a nose for risk; the uneasy feeling that had come over me on first reading her letter was returning. If I had any sense, I knew, I would bid the greasy Mr Greig good-day and tell him to tear his draft up. But even the biggest coward doesn’t run until some hint of danger appears, and there was none here at all—just my uneasy instinct. Against which there was the prospect of getting away from my damned relations—oh, God, and the horrors of accompanying the Morrisons into Society—and the certainty of an immediate tidy sum, with more to follow, and sheer curiosity, too. If I did go to Bavaria, and the signs were less pleasant than appeared at present—well, I could cut stick if I wanted. And the thought of renewing acquaintance with Lola—a ‘warm’ and ‘friendly’ Lola—tickled my darker fancies: from Greig’s reports, even if they were only half true, it sounded as though there was plenty of sport at the Court of Good King Ludwig. Palace orgies of Roman proportions suggested themselves, with old Flashy waited on like a Sultan, and Lola mooning over me while slaves plied me with pearls dissolved in wine, and black eunuchs stood by armed with enormous gold-mounted hair-brushes. And while cold reason told me there was a catch in it somewhere—well, I couldn’t see the catch, yet. Time enough when I did. “Mr Greig,” says I, “where can I cash this draft?” Chapter 5 (#ulink_fbde9a89-0b67-5e8a-ab76-f827534498c9) Getting away from London was no great bother. Elspeth pouted a little, but when I had given her a glimpse—a most fleeting one—of Lauengram’s signature and of the letter’s cover, and used expressions like “special military detachment to Bavaria” and “foreign court service", she was quite happily resigned. The idea that I would be moving in high places appealed to her vacant mind; she felt vaguely honoured by the association. The Morrisons didn’t half like it, of course, and the old curmudgeon flew off about godless gallivanting, and likened me to Cartaphilus, who it seemed had left a shirt and breeches in every town in the ancient world. I was haunted by a demon, he said, who would never let me rest, and it was an evil day that he had let his daughter mate with a footloose scoundrel who had no sense of a husband’s responsibilities. “Since that’s the case,” says I, “the farther away from her I am, the better you should be pleased.” He was aghast at such cynicism, but I think the notion cheered him up for all that. He speculated a little on the bad end that I would certainly come to, called me a generation of vipers, and left me to my packing. Not that there was much of that. Campaigning teaches you to travel light, and a couple of valises did my turn. I took my old Cherrypicker uniform—the smartest turnout any soldier ever had anywhere—because I felt it would be useful to cut a dash, but for the rest I stuck to necessaries. Among these, after some deliberation, I included the duelling pistols that a gunsmith had presented to me after the Bernier affair. They were beautiful weapons, accurate enough for the most fastidious marksman, and in those days when revolving pistols were still crude experimental toys, the last word in hand guns. But I pondered about taking them. The truth was, I didn’t want to believe that I might need them. When you are young and raw and on the brink of adventure, you set great store by having your side-arms just right, because you are full of romantic notions of how you will use them. Even I felt a thrill when I first handled a sabre at practice with the 11th Light Dragoons, and imagined myself pinking and mowing down hordes of ferocious but obligingly futile enemies. But when you’ve seen a sabre cut to the bone, and limbs mangled by bullets, you come out of your daydream pretty sharp. I knew, as I hesitated with those pistols in my hands, that if I took them I should be admitting the possibility of my own sudden death or maiming in whatever lay ahead. This was, you see, another stage in my development as a poltroon. But I’d certainly feel happier with ’em, uncomfortable reminders though they were, so in they went. And while I was at it, I packed along a neat little seaman’s knife. It isn’t an Englishman’s weapon, of course, but it’s devilish handy sometimes, for all sorts of purposes. And experience has taught me that, as with all weapons, while you may not often need it, when you do you need it badly. So, with a word to Uncle Bindley at Horse Guards—who said acidly that the British Army might survive my absence a while longer—and with half of my ?500 in my money belt (the other half was safe in the bank), I was ready for the road. Only one thing remained to do. I spent a day searching out a German waiter in the town, and when I had found a likely fellow I offered him his fare home and a handsome bonus, just to travel along with me; I had no German at all, but with my gift for languages I knew that if I applied myself on the journey to Munich I should have at least a smattering by the time I arrived there. I’ve often said that the ideal way to learn a language is in bed with a wench, but failing that an alert, intelligent travelling companion is as good a teacher as any. And learning a new tongue is no hardship to me; I enjoy it. The fellow I picked on was a Bavarian, as luck had it, and jumped at the chance of getting home. His name, I think, was Helmuth, but at any rate he was a first-rate choice. Like all Germans, he had a passion for taking pains, and when he saw what I wanted he was all enthusiasm. Hour after hour, in boat, train, and coach, he talked away to me, repeating words and phrases, correcting my own pronunciation, explaining grammatical rules, but above all giving me that most important thing of all—the rhythm of the language. This is something which only a few people seem to have, and I am lucky to be one. Let me catch the rhythm, and I seem to know what a man is saying even if I haven’t learned all the words he uses. I won’t pretend that I learned German in a fortnight, but at the end of that time I could pass my own elementary test, which is to say to a native: “Tell me, speaking slowly and carefully, what were your father’s views on strong drink,” or religion, or horses, or whatever came to mind—and understand his reply fairly well. Helmuth was astonished at my progress. We did not hurry on the journey, which was by way of Paris, a city I had often wanted to visit, having heard that debauchery there was a fine art. I was disappointed: whores are whores the world over, and the Parisian ones are no different from any other. And French men make me sick; always have done. I’m degenerate, but they are dirty with it. Not only in the physical sense, either; they have greasy minds. Other foreigners may have garlic on their breaths, but the Frogs have it on their thoughts as well. The Germans are different altogether. If I wasn’t an Englishman, I would want to be a German. They say what they think, which isn’t much as a rule, and they are admirably well ordered. Everyone in Germany knows his place and stays in it, and grovels to those above him, which makes it an excellent country for gentlemen and bullies. In England, even in my young day, if you took liberties with a working man you would be as likely as not to get a fist in your face, but the lower-class Germans were as docile as niggers with white skins. The whole country is splendidly disciplined and organised, and with all their docility the inhabitants are still among the finest soldiers and workers on earth—as my old friend Bismarck has shown. The basis of all this, of course, is stupidity, which you must have in people before you can make them fight or work successfully. Well, the Germans will trouble the world yet, but since they are closer to us than anyone else, we may live to profit by it. However, all this I was yet to discover, although I had an inkling of it from studying Helmuth on our journey. I don’t bore you with details of our travels, by the way; nothing happened out of the ordinary, and what I chiefly remember is a brief anxiety that I had caught the pox in Paris; fortunately, I hadn’t, but the scare I got prejudiced me still further against the French, if that were possible. Munich, when we reached it, I liked the look of very well. It was clean and orderly on the surface, prices were far below our own (beer a halfpenny a pint, and a servant could be hired at two shillings a week), the folk were either civil or servile, and the guide-book which I had bought in London described it as “a very dissolute capital”. The very place for old Flash, thinks I, and looked forward to my stay. I should have known better; my eagerness to see Lola again, and my curiosity about what she wanted, had quite driven away those momentary doubts I had felt back in London. More fool I; if I had known what was waiting round the corner I would have run all the way home and felt myself lucky to be able to run. We arrived in Munich on a Sunday, and having dismissed Helmuth and found a hotel in the Theresienstrasse, I sat down to consider my first move. It was easy enough to discover that Lola was installed in a personal palace which the besotted Ludwig had built specially for her in the Barerstrasse; presumably I might stroll round and announce my arrival. But it pays to scout whenever you can, so I decided to put in an hour or two mooning round the streets and restaurants to see what news I could pick up first. I might even gain some hint of a clue to why she wanted me. I strolled about the pleasant streets for a while, seeing the Hofgarten and the fine Residenz Palace where King Ludwig lived, and drank the excellent German beer in one of their open-air beer-gardens while I watched the folk and tried out my ear on their conversation. It could hardly have been more peaceful and placid; even in late autumn it was sunny, and the stout contented burghers with their pleasant-faced wives were either sitting and drinking and puffing at their massive pipes, or sauntering ponderously on the pavements. No one hurried, except the waiters; here and there a group of young fellows in long cloaks and gaudy caps, whom I took to be students, stirred things a little with their laughter, but for the rest it was a drowsy, easy afternoon, as though Munich was blinking contentedly in the fine weather, and wasn’t going to be bustled by anybody. However, one way and another, by finding a French newspaper and getting into talk with people who spoke either French or English, I picked up some gossip. I soon found that one did not need to ask about Lola; the good Muncheners talked about her as Britons do about the weather, and with much the same feeling—in other words, they thought she was bad and would get worse, but that nothing could be done about her anyway. She was, it seemed, the supreme power in Bavaria. Ludwig was right under her thumb, she had swept out the hostile Ultramontane cabinet and had it replaced largely with creatures of her own, and despite the fact that she was a staunch Protestant, the Catholic hierarchy were powerless against her. The professors, who count for much more there than do ours in England, were solidly against her, but the students were violently split. Some detested her, and had rioted before her windows, but others, calling themselves the Allemania, constituted themselves her champions and even her bodyguard, and were forever clashing with her opponents. Some of these Allemania were pointed out to me, in their bright scarlet caps; they were a tough-looking crew, tight-mouthed and cold-eyed and given to strutting and barking, and people got out of their way pretty sharp. However, with Ludwig infatuated by her, Lola was firmly in the saddle, and according to one outspoken French journalist whose story I read, her supremacy was causing alarm far outside Bavaria. There were rumours that she was an agent of Palmerston, set on to foment revolution in Germany; to the other powers, striving to hold down a growing popular discontent that was spreading throughout Europe, she appeared to be a dangerous threat to the old regime. At least one attempt had been made to assassinate her; Metternich, the arch-reactionary master of Austria, had tried to bribe her to leave Germany for good. The truth was that in those days the world was on the edge of general revolution; we were coming out of the old age and into the new, and anything that was a focus of disorder or instability was viewed with consternation by the authorities. So Lola was not popular; the papers fumed against her, clergymen damned her in their sermons as a Jezebel and a Sempronia, and the ordinary folk were taught to regard her as a fiend in human shape—all the worse because the shape was beautiful. Here ends Professor Flashman’s historical lecture, much of it cribbed from a history book, but some of it at least learned that first day in the Munich beer-gardens. One thing I was pretty sure of, and it flies in the face of history: whatever may be said, Lola was secretly admired by the common people. They might shake their heads and look solemn whenever her cavalry escort drove a way for her through a crowd of protesting students; they might look shocked when they heard of the orgies in the Barerstrasse palace; they might exclaim in horror when her Allemania horse-whipped an editor and smashed his presses—but the men inwardly loved her for the gorgeous hoyden she was, and the women hid their satisfaction that one of their own sex was setting Europe by the ears. Whenever the insolent, tempestuous Montez provoked some new scandal, there was no lack of those who thought, “Good for you,” and quite a few who said it openly. And what the devil did she want with me? Well, I had come to Munich to find out, so I scribbled a note that Sunday evening, addressed to the Chamberlain Lauengram, saying that I had arrived and was at his disposal. Then I wandered over to the Residenz Palace, and looked at Lola’s portrait in the public gallery—that “Gallery of Beauties” in which Ludwig had assembled pictures of the loveliest women of his day. There were princesses, countesses, actresses, and the daughter of the Munich town-crier, among others, and Lola looking unusually nun-like in a black dress and wearing a come-to-Jesus expression. Underneath it was inscribed a verse written by the king, who was given to poetry, which finished up: Oh, soft and beauteous as a deer Art thou, of Andalusian race! Well, he was probably in a position to know about that. And to think that only a few years ago she had been a penniless dancer being hooted off a London stage. I had hoped, considering the urgency of Lauengram’s original letter to me, to be bidden to Lola’s palace on the Monday, but that day and the next went by, and still no word. But I was patient, and kept to my hotel, and on the Wednesday morning I was rewarded, I was finishing breakfast in my room, still in my dressing-gown, when there was a great flurry in the passage, and a lackey came to announce the arrival of the Freiherr von Starnberg, whoever he might be. There was much clashing and stamping, two cuirassiers in full fig appeared behind the lackey and stationed themselves like statues on either side of my doorway, and then in between them strolled the man himself, a gay young spark who greeted me with a flashing smile and outstretched hand. “Herr Rittmeister Flashman?” says he. “My privilege to welcome you to Bavaria. Starnberg, very much at your service.” And he clicked his heels, bowing. “You’ll forgive my French, but it’s better than my English.” “Better than my German, at any rate,” says I, taking stock of him. He was about twenty, of middle height and very slender, with a clean-cut, handsome face, brown curls, and the wisp of a moustache on his upper lip. A very cool, jaunty gentleman, clad in the tight tunic and breeches of what I took to be a hussar regiment, for he had a dolman over his shoulder and a light sabre trailing at his hip. He was sizing me up at the same time. “Dragoon?” says he. “No, hussar.” “English light cavalry mounts must be infernally strong, then,” says he, coolly. “Well, no matter. Forgive my professional interest. Have I interrupted your breakfast?” I assured him he had not. “Splendid. Then if you’ll oblige me by getting dressed, we’ll lose no more time. Lola can’t abide to be kept waiting.” And he lit a cheroot and began to survey the room. “Damnable places, these hotels. Couldn’t stay in one myself.” I pointed out that I had been kept kicking my heels in one for the past three days, and he laughed. “Well, girls will be girls, you know,” says he. “We can’t expect ’em to hurry for mere men, however much they expect us to jump to it. Lola’s no different from the rest—in that respect.” “You seem to know her very well,” says I. “Well enough,” says he negligently, sitting himself on the edge of a table and swinging a polished boot. “For a messenger, I mean,” says I, to take some of the starch out of him. But he only grinned. “Oh, anything to oblige a lady, you know. I fulfil other functions, when I’m so inclined.” And he regarded me with an insolent blue eye. “I don’t wish to hurry you, old fellow, but we are wasting time. Not that I mind, but she certainly will.” “And we mustn’t have that.” “No, indeed. I imagine you have some experience of the lady’s fine Latin temper. By God, I’d tame it out of her if she was mine. But she’s not, thank heaven. I don’t have to humour her tantrums.” “You don’t, eh?” “Not hers, nor anyone else’s,” says Master von Starnberg, and took a turn round the room whistling. Cocksure men irritate me as a rule, but it was difficult to take offence at this affable young sprig, and I had a feeling that it wouldn’t do me much good if I did, so while he lounged in my sitting-room I retired to the bed-chamber to dress. I decided to wear my Cherrypicker rig, with all the trimmings of gold-laced blue tunic and tight pants, and when I emerged Starnberg cocked an eye and whistled appreciatively. “Saucy regimentals,” says he. “Very pretty indeed. Lola may not mind too much having been kept waiting, after all.” “Tell me,” I said, “since you seem to know so much: why do you suppose she sent for me?—I’m assuming you know that she did.” “Oh, aye,” says he. “Well, now, knowing Lola, I suggest you look in your mirror. Doesn’t that suggest an answer?” “Come now,” says I, “I know Lola, too, and I flatter as easily as the next man. But she would hardly bring me all the way from England, just to …” “Why not?” says he. “She brought me all the way from Hungary. Shall we go?” He led the way down to the street, the two cuirassiers marching at our heels, and showed me into a coach that was waiting at the door. As he swung himself in beside me, with his hand on the window-frame, his sleeve was slightly pulled back, and I saw the star-shaped white scar of a bullet-wound on his wrist. It occurred to me that this von Starnberg was a tougher handful than he looked at first sight; I had noticed the genuine cavalry swing, toes pointing, as he walked, and for all his boyishness there was a compact sureness about him that would have sat on a much older man. This is one to keep an eye on, thinks I. Lola’s house was in the best part of Munich, by the Karolinen Platz. I say “house”, but it was in fact a little palace, designed by King Ludwig’s own architect, regardless of expense. It was the sight of it, shining new, like a little fairy-tale castle from Italy, with its uniformed sentries at the gate, its grilled windows (a precaution against hostile crowds), its magnificent gardens, and the flag fluttering from its roof, that brought it home to me just how high this woman had flown. This magnificence didn’t signify only money, but power—unlimited power. So why could she want me? She couldn’t need me. Was she indulging some whim—perhaps going to repay me for being in Ranelagh’s box the night she was hissed off the stage? She seemed to be capable of anything. In a moment, after clapping eyes on her palace, I was cursing myself for having come—fear springs eternal in the coward’s breast, especially when he has a bad conscience. After all, if she was so all-powerful, and happened to be vindictive, it might be damned unpleasant … “Here we are,” says Starnberg, “Aladdin’s cave.” It almost justified the description. There were flunkeys to hand us out, and more uniformed sentries in the hall, all steel and colour, and the splendour of the interior was enough to take your breath away. The marble floor shone like glass, costly tapestries hung on the walls, great mirrors reflected alcoves stuffed with white statuary and choice furniture, above the staircase hung a chandelier which appeared to be of solid silver, and all of it was in a state of perfection and brilliance that suggested an army of skivvies and footmen working full steam. “Aye, it’s a roof over her head, I suppose,” says Starnberg, as we gave our busbies to a lackey. “Ah, Lauengram, here is Rittmeister Flashman; is the Gr?fin receiving?” Lauengram was a dapper little gentleman in court-dress, with a thin, impassive face and a bird-like eye. He greeted me in French—which I learned later was spoken a good deal out of deference to Lola’s bad German—and led us upstairs past more lackeys and sentries to an anteroom full of pictures and people. I have a soldier’s eye for such things, and I would say the loot value of that chamber would have kept a regiment for life, with a farm for the farrier-sergeant thrown in. The walls appeared to be made of striped silk, and there was enough gold on the frames to start a mint. The folk, too, were a prosperous-looking crew, courtly civilians and military in all the colours of the rainbow; some damned handsome women among them. They stopped their chattering as we entered, and I took advantage of my extra three inches on Starnberg to make a chest, touch my moustache, and give them all the cool look-over. He had barely started to introduce me to those nearest when a door at the far end of the room opened, and a little chap came out backwards, stumbling over his feet, and protesting violently. “It is no use, madame!” cries he, to someone in the far room. “I have not the power! The Vicar-General will not permit! Ach, no, lieber Herr Gott!” He cowered back as some piece of crockery sailed past him and shattered on the marble floor, and then Lola herself appeared in the doorway, and my heart took a bound at the sight of her. She was beautiful in her royal rage, just as I remembered, although now she had clothes on. And although her aim seemed as vague as ever, she appeared to have her wrath under better control these days. At all events, she didn’t scream. “You may tell Dr Windischmann,” says she, her rich husky voice charged with contempt, “that if the king’s best friend desires a private chapel and confessor, she shall have one, and he shall provide it if he values his office. Does he think he can defy me?” “Oh, madame, please,” cries the little chap. “Only be reasonable! There is not a priest in Germany could accept such a confession. After all, your highness is a Lutheran, and—” “Lutheran, fiddlesticks! I’m a royal favourite, you mean! That’s why your master has the impertinence to flout me. Let him be careful, and you, too, little man. Lutheran or not, favourite or not, if I choose to have a chapel of my own I shall have it. Do you hear? And the Vicar-General himself shall hear my confession, if I think fit.” “Please, madame, oh, please!” The little fellow was on the verge of tears. “Why do you abuse me so? It is not my fault. Dr Windischmann objects only to the suggestion of a private chapel and confessor. He says …” “Well, what does he say?” The little man hesitated. “He says,” he gulped, “he says that there is a public confessional at Notre-Dame, and you can always go there when you want to accuse yourself of any of the innumerable sins you have committed.” His voice went up to a squeal. “His words, madame! Not mine! Oh, God have mercy!” As she took one furious step forward he turned and ran for his life past us, his hands over his ears, and we heard his feet clatter on the stairs. Lola stamped her foot, and shouted after him, “Damned papist hypocrite!”, and at this the sycophantic crowd in the ante-chamber broke out in a chorus of sympathy and reproach. “Jesuit impertinence!” “Intolerable affront!” “Scandalous insolence!” “Silly old bastard.” (This was Starnberg’s contribution.) “Impossible arrogance of these prelates,” says a stout, florid man near me. “I’m Church of England myself,” says I. This had the effect of turning attention on me. Lola saw me for the first time, and the anger died out of her eyes. She surveyed me a moment, and then slowly she smiled. “Harry Flashman,” says she, and held out a hand towards me—but as a monarch does, palm down and pointing to the ground between us. I took my cue, stepping forward and taking her fingers to kiss. If she wanted to play Good Queen Bess, who was I to object? She held my hand for a moment afterwards, looking up at me with her glowing smile. “I believe you’re even handsomer than you were,” says she. “I would say the same to you, Rosanna,” says I, cavalier as be-damned, “but handsome is too poor a word for it.” Mind you, it was true enough. I’ve said she was the most beautiful girl I ever met, and she was still all of that. If anything, her figure was more gorgeous than I remembered, and since she was clad in a loose gown of red silk, with apparently nothing beneath it, I could study the subject without difficulty. The effect of her at close quarters was dazzling: the magnificent blue eyes, the perfect mouth and teeth, the white throat and shoulders, and the lustrous black hair coiled up on her head—yes, she was worth her place in Ludwig’s gallery. But if she had ripened wonderfully in the few years since I had last seen her, she had changed too. There was a composure, a stateliness that was new; you would always have caught your breath at her beauty, but now you would feel a little awe as well as lust. I was leering fondly down at her when Starnberg chimes in. “‘Rosanna’?” says he. “What’s this, Lola? A pet name?” “Don’t be jealous, Rudi,” says she. “Captain Flashman is an old, very dear friend. He knew me long before—all this,” and she gestured about her. “He befriended me when I was a poor little nobody, in London.” And she took my arm in both of hers, reached up, and kissed me, smiling with her old mischief. Well, if that was how she chose to remember our old acquaintance, so much the better. “Listen, all of you,” she called out, and you could have heard a pin drop. “The Rittmeister Flashman is not only the closest to my heart of all my English friends—and those, you remember, include the noblest in the land—but the bravest soldier in the British Army. You see his decorations”—she leaned across me to touch my medals, and the presence of two almost naked, beautifully rounded breasts just beneath my face was delightfully diverting. Lola was always vain of her bosom, and wore it all but outside her gown; I wished I had had a pinch of snuff to offer her. “Who ever saw a young captain with five medals?” she continued, and there was a chorus of murmured admiration. “So you see, he is to be honoured for more reasons than that he is my guest. There is no soldier in Germany with a higher reputation as a Christian champion.” I had sense enough to look quizzical and indulgent at this, for I knew that the most popular heroes are those who take themselves lightly. I had heard this kind of rot time without count in the past few years, and knew how to receive it, but it amused me to see that the audience, as usual, took it perfectly seriously, the men looking noble and the women frankly admiring. Having delivered her little lecture, Lola took me on a tour of introduction, presenting Baron this and Countess that, and everyone was all smirks and bows and polite as pie. I could sense that they were all scared stiff of her, for although she was her old gay self, laughing and chattering as she took me from group to group, she was still the grande dame under the happy surface, with a damned imperious eye. Oh, she had them disciplined all right. Only when she had taken me apart, to a couch where a flunkey served us Tokay while the others stood at a respectful distance, did she let the mask drop a little, and the Irish began to creep back into her voice. “Let me look at you comfortably now,” says she, leaning back and surveying me over her glass. “I like the moustaches, Harry, they become you splendidly. And the careless curl; oh, it’s the bonny boy still.” “And you are still the most beautiful girl in the world,” says I, not to be outdone. “So they say,” says she, “but I like to hear it from you. After all, when you hear it from Germans it’s no compliment—not when you consider the dumpy cows they’re comparing you with.” “Some of ’em ain’t too bad,” says I carelessly. “Ain’t they, though? I can see I shall have to keep an eye on you, my lad. I saw Baroness Pechman wolfing you up a moment ago when she was presented.” “Which one was she?” “Come, that’s better. The last one you met—over there, with the yellow hair.” “She’s fat. Overblown.” “Ye-es, poor soul, but some men like it, I’m told.” “Not I, Rosanna.” “Rosanna,” she repeated, smiling. “I like that. You know that no one ever calls me by that name now. It reminds me of England—you’ve no notion how famous it is to hear English again. In conversation, I mean, like this.” “Was that why you sent for me—for my conversation?” “That—and other things.” “What other things?” says I, seeing a chance to get down to business. “What’s this very delicate matter that your chamberlain talked about?” “Oh, that.” She put on a coy look. “That can wait a little. You must know I have a new motto since I came to Bavaria: ‘pleasure before business’.” She gave me a sleepy look from beneath those glorious black lashes that made my heart skip a little. “You wouldn’t be so ungallant as to hurry me, would you, Harry?” “Not where business is concerned,” says I, leering again. “Pleasure’s another matter.” “Wicked,” she says, smiling lazily, like a sleek black cat. “Wicked, wicked, wicked.” It is remarkable what fatuities you can exchange with a beautiful woman. I can think shame when I consider the way I sat babbling with Lola on that couch; I would ask you only to remember that she was as practised a seductress as ever wore out bed linen, and just to be beside her, even in a room full of people, was in itself intoxicating. She was overpowering, like some rich tropical flower, and she could draw a man like a magnet. The same Dr Windischmann, Vicar-General, whose name she had been taking in vain so recently, once said that there was not even a priest in his charge who could have been trusted with her. Liszt put it more bluntly and accurately when he observed to me: “As soon as you meet Lola, your mind leaps into bed.” Anyway, I mention this to explain how it was that after a few moments with her I had forgotten entirely my earlier misgivings about her possible recollection of our parting in London, and my fears that she might harbour a grudge against me for the Ranelagh affair. She had charmed me, and I use the word exactly. Laughing and talking with her over the Tokay, only one thought was in my mind: to get her bedded as swiftly as might be, and the devil with anything else. While we were chatting so amiably and I, poor ass, was succumbing to her spell, more people were arriving in the ante-room, and presently she had them called up, with Lauengram playing the major-domo, and talked to them in turn. These lev?es of hers were quite famous in Munich, apparently, and it was her habit to hold court to all sorts of folk: not just distinguished visitors and such odds and ends as artists and poets, but even statesmen and ambassadors. I don’t recall who was there that morning, for between Lola and the Tokay I was not paying much heed, but I know they scraped and fawned to her no end. Presently she announced that we would all go to see her cuirassiers at exercise, and there was a delay while she went off to change; when she returned it was in full Hussar rig, which showed off her curves admirably and would have caused the police to be called in London. The sycophants “Ooh-ed” and “Aah-ed” and cried “Wundersch?n!”, and we all trooped after her to the stables and rode out to a nearby park where a couple of squadrons of cavalry were going through their paces. Lola, who was riding a little white mare, took great pleasure in the spectacle, pointing with her whip and exclaiming authoritatively on the manoeuvres. Her courtiers echoed her applause faithfully, all except Rudi Starnberg, who I noticed was watching with a critical eye, like myself. I ought to know something about cavalry, and certainly Lola’s cuirassiers were a smart lot on parade, and looked very well as they thundered past at the charge. Starnberg asked me what I thought of them; very fine, I said. “Better than the British?” says he, with his cocky grin. “I’ll tell you that when I’ve seen ’em fight,” says I, bluntly. “You won’t deny they’re disciplined to perfection,” cries he. “On parade,” says I. “No doubt they’d charge well in a body, too. But let’s see ’em in a m?l?e, every man for himself; that’s where good cavalry prove themselves.” This is true; of course, no one would run faster from a m?l?e than I, but Starnberg wasn’t to know that. For the first time he looked at me almost with respect, nodding thoughtfully, and admitted I was probably right. Lola got bored after half an hour or so, and we returned to her palace, but then we had to turn out again because she wanted to exercise her dogs in the garden. It seemed that whatever she did, everyone else was expected to tag after her, and by God, her amusements were trivial. After the dogs, there was music indoors, with a fat bastard of a tenor sobbing his soul out, and then Lola sang herself—she had a fine contralto, as it happens—and the mob raised the roof. Then there was a reading of poetry, which was damnable, but would probably have been even more painful if I had been able to understand it fully, and then more conversation in the ante-room. The centre of it was a long-jawed, tough-looking fellow whose name meant nothing to me at the time; he talked interminably, about music and liberal politics, and everyone lionised him sickeningly, even Lola. When we went into an adjoining room for a buffet—“erfrischung” as the Germans call it—she introduced him to me as Herr Wagner, but the only conversation we had was when I passed him the ginger and he said “danke”. (I’ve dined out on that incident since, by the way, which shows how ridiculous people can be where celebrities are concerned. Of course, I usually expand the story, and let on that I told him that “Drink, puppy, drink” and “The British Grenadiers” were better music than any damned opera, but only because that is the sort of exaggeration that goes well at dinner parties, and suits my popular character.) But my memories of that afternoon are necessarily vague, in view of what the night was to bring forth. Briefly, I stayed at the palace all day, being unconscionably bored, and impatient to get Lola by herself, which looked like being damned difficult, there was such a crowd always in attendance on her. From time to time we had a word or two, but always with others present, and when we dined I was halfway down the table, with the fat Baroness Pechman on one side of me, and an American whose name I’ve forgotten on the other. I was pretty piqued with Lola for this; quite apart from the fact that I thought I deserved a place near her at the table top, the Yankee was the damnedest bore you ever met, and the giggling blonde butterball on my other side was infuriating in her shrieks of amusement at my halting German. She also had a tendency to let her hand stray on to my thigh beneath the table—not that I minded the compliment, and she would have been pretty enough in a baby-faced way if she had weighed about six stones less, but my mind was on the lovely Lola, and she was a long way off. Being bored, I was careless, and didn’t keep too close an eye on my glass. It was a magnificent dinner, and the wines followed each other in brilliant succession. Everyone else punished them tremendously, as the Germans always do, and I simply followed suit. It was understandable, but foolish; I learned in later years that the only safe place to get drunk is among friends in your own home, but that evening I made a thorough pig of myself, and the long and short of it was that “Flashy got beastly drunk”, to quote my old friend Tom Hughes. Not that I was alone; the talk got steadily louder, faces got redder, jokes got coarser—the fact that half those present were women made no difference—and eventually they were roaring and singing around the table, or staggering out to be sick, no doubt, and what conversation there was consisted of shouting at full pitch. I remember there was an orchestra playing incessantly at one end of the hall, and at one point my American companion got up unsteadily on to his chair, amid the cheers of the multitude, and conducted them with a knife and fork. Presently he tumbled down, and rolled under the table. This is an orgy, thinks I, but not a proper orgy. I got it into my head—quite understandably—that such a bacchanalia should be concluded in bed, and naturally looked round for Lola. She had left the table, and was standing off in an alcove at one side, talking to some people; I got up and weaved my way through such of the guests as were standing about—those who were fit to stand, that is—until I fetched up in front of her. I must have been heroically drunk, for I can remember her face swimming in and out of focus; she had a diamond circlet in her dark hair, and the lights from the chandelier made it glitter dazzlingly. She said something, I don’t recall what, and I mumbled: “Let’s go to bed, Lola. You an’ me.” “You should lie down, Harry,” says she. “You’re very tired.” “Not too tired,” says I. “But I’m damned hot. Come on, Lola, Rosanna, let’s go to bed.” “Very well. Come along, then.” I’m sure she said that, and then she turned away, and I followed her out of the din and stuffiness of the banqueting chamber into a corridor; I was weaving pretty recklessly, for I walked into the wall once, but she waited for me, and guided me to a doorway, which she opened. “In here,” she said. I stumbled past her, and caught the musky sweetness of her perfume; I grabbed at her, and dragged her to me in the darkness. She was soft and thrilling against me, and for a moment her open mouth was under mine; then she slipped away, and I lost my balance and half-fell on to a couch. I called out to her to come back, and heard her say, “A moment; just in a moment,” and then the door shut softly. I half-lay on the couch, my head swimming with drink and my mind full of lustful thoughts, and I believe I must have passed into a brief stupor, for suddenly I was aware of dim light in the room, and a soft hand was stroking my cheek. “Lola,” says I, like a moon-calf, and then there were arms round my neck and a soft voice murmuring in my ear, but it was not Lola. I blinked at the face before me, and my hands came in contact with bare, plump flesh—any amount of it. My visitor was Baroness Pechman, and she was stark naked. I tried to shove her off, but she was too heavy; she clung to me like a leech, murmuring endearments in German, and pushing me back on the couch. “Go away, you fat slut,” says I, heaving at her. “Gehen Sie weg, dammit. Don’t want you; want Lola.” I might as well have tried to move St Paul’s; she was all over me, trying to kiss me, and succeeding, her fat face against mine. I cursed and struggled, and she giggled idiotically and began clawing at my breeches. “No, you don’t,” says I, seizing her wrist, but I was too tipsy to be able to defend myself properly, or else she was strong for all her blubber. She pinned me down, calling me her duckling, of all things, and her chicken, and then before I knew it she had suddenly hauled me upright and had my fine Cherrypicker pants round my knees, and was squirming her fat backside against me. “Oh, eine hammelkeule!” she squeaked. “Kolossal!” No woman does that to me twice; I’m too susceptible. I seized handfuls of her and began thrusting away. She was not Lola, perhaps, but she was there, and I was still too foxed and too randy to be choosy. I buried my face in the blonde curls at the nape of her neck, and she squealed and plunged in excitement. And I was just settling to work in earnest when there was a rattle at the door handle, the door opened, and suddenly there were men in the room. There were three of them; Rudi Starnberg and two civilians in black. Rudi was grinning in delight at the sight of me, caught flagrante seducto, as we classical scholars say, but I knew this was no joke. Drunk as I was, I sensed that here was danger, dreadful danger when I had least expected it. It was in the grim faces of the two with him, hard, tight-lipped fellows who moved like fighters. I shoved my fat baroness quickly away, and she went down sprawling flabbily on her stomach. I jumped back, trying to pull up my breeches, but cavalry pants fit like a skin, and the two were on me before I could adjust myself. Each grabbed an arm, and one of them growled in execrable French: “Hold still, criminal! You are under arrest!” “What the devil for?” I shouted. “Take your hands off me, damn you! What does this mean, Starnberg?” “You’re arrested,” says he. “These are police officers.” “Police? But, my God, what am I supposed to have done?” Starnberg, arms akimbo, glanced at the woman who had climbed to her feet, and was hastening to cover herself with a robe. To my amazement, she was giggling behind her hand; I wondered was she mad or drunk. “I don’t know what you call it in English,” says he coolly, “but we have several impolite names for it here. Off you go, Gretchen,” and he jerked a thumb towards the door. “In God’s name, that’s not a crime!” I shouted, but seeing him silent and smiling grimly, I struggled for all I was worth. I was sober enough now, and horribly frightened. “Let me go!” I yelled. “You must be mad! I demand to see the Gr?fin Landsfeld! I demand to see the British Ambassador!” “Not without your trousers, surely,” says Rudi. “Help!” I roared. “Help! Let me loose! You scoundrels, I’ll make you pay for this!” And I tried in frenzy to break from the grip of the policemen. “Ein starker mann,” observed Rudi. “Quiet him.” One of my captors shifted quickly behind me, I tried to turn, and a splitting pain shot through the back of my head. The room swam round me, and I felt my knees strike the floor before my senses left me. I wonder sometimes if any man on earth has come to in a cell more often than I have. It has been happening to me all my life; perhaps I could claim a record. But if I did some American would be sure to beat it at once. This awakening was no different from most of the others: two damnable pains, one inside and one outside my skull, a stomachful of nausea, and a dread of what lay ahead. The last was quickly settled, at any rate; just as grey light was beginning to steal through the bars of my window—which I guessed was in a police station, for the cell was decent—a uniformed guard brought me a mug of coffee, and then conducted me along a corridor to a plain, panelled room containing a most official-looking desk, behind which sat a most official-looking man. He was about fifty, with iron grey hair and a curling moustache, and cold eyes flanking a beaky nose. With him, standing at a writing pulpit beside the desk, was a clerk. The guard ushered me in, bleary, unshaven, blood-stained, and in the fiend’s own temper. “I demand to be allowed to communicate with my ambassador this instant,” I began, “to protest at the outrageous manner in which—” “Be quiet,” says the official. “Sit down.” And he indicated a stool before the desk. I wasn’t having this. “Don’t dare to order me about, you cabbage-eating bastard,” says I. “I am a British officer, and unless you wish to have a most serious international incident to answer for, you will—” “I will certainly have you whipped and returned to your cell if you do not curb your foul tongue,” says he coldly. “Sit.” I was staring, flabbergasted at this, when a cheerful voice behind me said: “Better sit down, old fellow; he can do it, you know,” and I wheeled round to find Rudi Starnberg lolling against a table by the door, which had hidden him from me when I came in. He was fresh and jaunty, with his undress cap tilted forward rakishly over one eye, smoking a cheroot in a holder. “You!” cried I, and got no further. He shushed me with a gesture and pointed to the stool; at the same time the official rapped smartly on his table, so I decided to sit. My head was aching so much I doubt if I could have stood much longer anyway. “This is Doctor Karjuss,” says Rudi. “He is a magistrate and legal authority; he has something to say to you.” “Then he can start by telling me the meaning of this dastardly ill-treatment,” cries I. “I’ve been set upon, my skull cracked, thrown into a filthy cell, denied the right to see my ambassador, and God knows what else. Yes, by the lord, I’ve been threatened with flogging, too!” “You were placed under arrest last night,” says Karjuss, who spoke tolerable French. “You resisted the officers. They restrained you; that is all.” “Restrained me? They bloody well half-killed me! And what is this damned nonsense about arrest? What’s the charge, hey?” “As yet, none has been laid,” says Karjuss. “I repeat, as yet. But I can indicate what they may be.” He sat very prim and precise, his cold eyes regarding me with distaste. “First, obscene and indecent conduct; second, corruption of public morals; third, disorderly behaviour; fourth, resisting the police; fifth—” “You’re mad!” I shouted. “This is ridiculous! D’you imagine any court in the world would convict me of any of this, on the strength of what happened last night? Good God, there is such a thing as justice in Bavaria, I suppose—” “There is indeed,” snaps he. “And I can tell you, sir, that I do not merely imagine that a court could convict you—I know it could. And it will.” My head was reeling with all this. “Oh, to the devil! I’ll not listen to this! I want to see my ambassador. I know my rights, and—” “Your ambassador would be of no help to you. I have not yet mentioned the most serious complaint. It is possible that a charge of criminal assault on a female may be brought against you.” At this I staggered to my feet in horror. “That’s a lie! A damned lie! My God, she practically raped me. Why, she—” “That would not be the evidence she would give before a judge and jury.” His voice was stone cold. “Baroness Pechman is known as a lady of irreproachable character. Her husband is a former Commissioner of Police for Munich. I can hardly imagine a more respectable witness.” “But … but …” I was at a loss for words, but a horrible thought was forming in my brain. “This is a plot! That’s it! It’s a deliberate attempt to discredit me!” I wheeled on Starnberg, who was negligently regarding his nails. “You’re in this, you rascal! You’ve given false witness!” “Don’t be an ass,” says he. “Listen to the magistrate, can’t you?” Stunned and terrified, I sank on to the stool. Karjuss leaned forward, a thin hand tapping the table before him. I had the impression he was enjoying himself. “You begin to see the seriousness of your position, sir. I have indicated the charges which could be brought—and without doubt, proved—against you. I speak not as an examining magistrate, but as a legal adviser, if you like. These are certainties. No doubt you would persist in denial; against you there would be at least four witnesses of high character—the two police officers who apprehended you, Baroness Pechman, and the Freiherr von Starnberg here. Your word—the word of a known duellist over women, a man who was expelled for drunken behaviour from his school in England—” “How the devil did you know that?” “Our gathering of information is thorough. Is it not so? You can guess what your word would count for in the circumstances.” “I don’t care!” I cried. “You can’t hope to do this! I’m a friend of the Gr?fin Landsfeld! She’ll speak for me! By God, when she hears of this, the boot will be on the other foot …” I went no further. Another horrid thought had struck me. Why hadn’t the all-powerful Lola, whose lightest word was law in Bavaria, intervened by now? She must know all about it; why, the ghastly affair had happened in her own palace! She had been with me not five minutes before … And then, in spite of my aching, reeling head, the full truth of it was plain. Lola knew all about it, yes; hadn’t she lured me to Munich in the first place? And here I was, within twenty-four hours of meeting her again, trapped in what was obviously a damnable, deliberate plot against me. God! Was this her way of punishing me for what had happened years before, when I had laughed at her humiliation in London? Could any woman be so fiendishly cruel, hating so long and bitterly that she would go to such lengths? I couldn’t believe it. And then Karjuss spoke to confirm my worst fears. “You can hope for no assistance whatever from the Gr?fin Landsfeld,” says he. “She has already disclaimed you.” I took my aching head in my hands. This was a nightmare; I couldn’t believe it was happening. “But I’ve done nothing!” I burst out, almost sobbing. “Oh, I galloped that fat trot, yes, but where’s the crime in that? Don’t Germans do it, for Christ’s sake? By God, I’ll fight this! My ambassador—” “A moment.” Karjuss was impatient. “It seems I have talked to no purpose. Can I not convince you that, legally, you are without hope? And, on conviction, I assure you, you could be imprisoned for life. Even on the minor charges, it would be possible to ensure a maximum sentence of some years. Is that clear? This, inevitably, is what will happen if, by insisting on seeing your ambassador, and enlisting his interest, you cause the whole scandal to become public. At the moment, I would remind you, no charges have been formulated.” “And they needn’t be,” says Rudi from behind me. “Unless you insist, of course.” This was too much for me; it made no sense whatever. “No one wants to be unpleasant,” says Rudi, all silky. “But we have to show you where you stand, don’t you see? To let you see what might happen—if you were obstinate.” “You’re blackmailing me, then!” I stared from the thin-lipped Karjuss to the debonair stripling. “In God’s name, why? What have I done? What d’ye want me to do?” “Ah!” says he. “That’s better.” He tapped me twice smartly on the shoulder with his riding-switch. “Much better. Do you know, Doctor,” he went on, turning to Karjuss, “I believe there is no need to trouble you any longer. I’m sure the Rittmeister Flashman has at least realised the—er, gravity of his situation, and will be as eager as we all are to find a mutually satisfactory way out of it. I’m deeply obliged to you, Doctor.” Even in my scared and bewildered state, I noticed that Karjuss took his dismissal as a lackey does from a master. He stood up, bowed to Starnberg, and with his clerk at his heels, strode out of the room. “That’s better too,” said young Rudi. “I can’t endure these damned scriveners, can you? I wouldn’t have troubled you with him, really, but there’s no doubt he explains legal technicalities well. Cigar? No?” “He’s explained nothing, except that I’m the object of a damned conspiracy! God, why do you do this to me? Is it that damned bitch Lola? Is this how she takes her revenge on me?” “Tut-tut,” says Rudi. “Be calm.” He seated himself on the edge of Karjuss’s desk, swung his legs a moment, and looked at me thoughtfully. Then he gave a slow chuckle. “It’s too bad, really. I don’t blame you for being annoyed. The truth is, we haven’t been quite honest with you. You’re sure you won’t have a cigar? Oh, well, here’s how it is.” He lit himself another weed, and held forth. “I think Karjuss has convinced you that you’re in a most devilish mess. If we choose, we can shut you up for ever, and your own ambassador, and your government, would be the first to say ‘Amen’. Considering the charges, I mean.” “Trumped-up lies!” I shouted. “False blasted witnesses!” “But of course. As you yourself said, a dastardly plot. But the point is—you’re caught in it, with no choice but to do as you’re told. If you refuse—the charges are brought, you’re convicted, and good-night.” And the insolent young hound grinned pleasantly at me and blew a smoke-ring. “You devil!” cries I. “You—you dirty German dog!” “Austrian, actually. Anyway, you appreciate your position?” Oh, I appreciated it, no question of that. I didn’t understand how, or why, they had done this to me, but I was in no doubt of what the consequences would be if I didn’t play their infernal game for them—whatever it was. Blustering hadn’t helped me, and a look at Rudi’s mocking face told me that whining wouldn’t either. Robbed of the two cards which I normally play in a crisis, I was momentarily lost. “Will you tell me why you’ve done this—why to me? What can you want of me, in heaven’s name?” “There is a service—a very important service—which only you can perform,” says he. “More than that I can’t say, at the moment. But that is why you were brought to Munich—oh, it was all most carefully planned. Lola’s letter—dictated by me, incidentally—was not altogether inaccurate. ‘Most delicate’ really sums it up.” “But what service could there possibly be that only I—” “You’ll have to wait and see, and for heaven’s sake stop expostulating like the victim in a melodrama. Take my word for it, we didn’t go to so much trouble for nothing. Now, you’re a sensible man, I’m sure. Will you bow to the inevitable, like a good chap?” “That bitch Lola!” I growled. “She’s up to the neck in this—this villainy, I suppose.” “Up to a point, not up to the neck. She was the means of getting you to Germany, but it wasn’t her idea. We employed her assistance—” “‘We’? Who the devil’s ‘we’?” “My friends and I. But you shouldn’t be too hard on her, you know. I doubt if she bears you any ill-will—in fact, I think she’s rather sorry for you—but she knows which side her bread is buttered. And powerful as she is, there are those in Germany whom even she finds it wise to oblige. Now, no more silly questions: are you going to be a good boy or aren’t you?” “It seems I’ve no choice.” “Excellent. Now, we’ll have that crack in your head seen to, get you a bath and some clean linen, and then—” “What then?” “You and I will make a little journey, my dear Flashman. Or, may I call you Harry? You must address me as Rudi, you know; ‘dirty dog’ and ‘devil’ and ‘swine’ and so on are all very well between comparative strangers, but I feel that you and I may be on the brink of a really fruitful and profitable friendship. You don’t agree? Well, I’m sorry, but we’ll see. Now, if you’ll come along, I have a closed carriage waiting which will take us to a little place of mine where we’ll have you repaired and made all klim-bim, as the Prussians say. Devilish places, these jails, aren’t they; no proper facilities for a gentleman at all …” Well, what could I do, but trot along at his heels with a mouthful of apprehension? Whatever “they” were up to, I was in for it, and in the meantime there was nothing to do but go with the tide. With my sure instinct, I knew that the “service” I was being blackmailed into was sure to be unpleasant, and quite likely damned dangerous, but my queasy guts didn’t interfere with my logical process. I’m a realist, and it was already in my mind that in whatever lay ahead—a journey, initially, according to Rudi—some opportunity of escape must surely present itself. Unless you are actually locked up, escapes are not as difficult as many folk think; you simply bolt, seize the first available horse, and go like hell for safety—in this case probably the Austrian frontier. Or would Switzerland be better? It was farther, but Rudi and his sinister friends probably had influence in Austria. And they would not reckon on me trying a forced ride to the Swiss border … “Oh, by the way,” says Rudi, as we left the police office and he handed me into a carriage, “to a man of action like yourself it may seem that an opportunity will arise of giving me the slip. Don’t try it. I would kill you before you’d gone five yards.” And he smiled genially as he settled himself opposite me. “You’re mighty sure of yourself,” growls I. “With cause,” says he. “Look here.” He gave his right arm a shake, and there was a pocket pistol in his right hand. “I’m a dead shot, too.” “Naturally,” says I, but I decided it was probably true. Anyone who keeps a pistol in his sleeve can usually use it. “And, in all modesty, I’m probably your master with the sabre as well—or with a knife,” says Master Rudi, putting his pistol away. “So you see, it wouldn’t pay you to run for it.” I said nothing, but my spirits sank a few notches lower. He was going to be an efficient watch-dog, rot him, the more so since he believed me to be “a man of action”. He knew enough of my reputation, no doubt, to put me down as a desperate, dangerous fellow who didn’t give a damn for risks. If he’d known me for the poltroon I was he might have been less alert. So in the meantime, I was at the mercy of Freiherr Rudolf von Starnberg, and if I’d known him then as I knew him later I’d have been even more nervous than I was. For this gay, devil-may-care youngster, with his curly head and winning smile, was one of the hardest cases I’ve ever encountered—a thoroughly bad, unscrupulous and fatally dangerous ruffian—and, as you can imagine, I have known a few. Not many of them, scoundrels that they were, delighted in wickedness for its own sake, but Rudi did. He enjoyed killing, for example, and would kill laughing; he was without shame where women were concerned, and without pity, too. I dare say there may have been crimes he didn’t commit, but it can only have been for want of opportunity. He was an evil, vicious, cruel rascal. We got on very well, really, I suppose, all things considered. This was not just because I shared most of his vices, but because he believed erroneously that I shared his only virtue, which was courage. He was too young to know what fear was, and he imagined that I was as big a daredevil as he was himself—my Afghan reputation was pretty glorious, after all. But in addition I must admit that he could be a good companion when he chose—he had a great fund of amiable conversation and a filthy mind, and loved the good things of life—so it was not difficult to get along with him. He was all consideration that first day. At the house he took me to there was a most competent French valet who dressed and bathed my head, provided me with a bath and a suit of my own clothes—for they had brought my baggage from my hotel—and later cooked us both a most splendid omelette before we set off for the station. Rudi was in haste to catch the train: we were bound for Berlin, he told me, but beyond that I could get nothing out of him. “Wait and see,” says he. “And while you’re waiting, I’d be obliged if you would stop talking French and practise your German—you’re going to need it.” With that mysterious instruction I had to be content—and I had to be obedient, too, for devil a word of French would he say or listen to from then on. However, with a bottle of hock inside me, the unknown future looked a little less bleak, and when we boarded the evening train I was at least momentarily resigned to my situation. Time enough to start fretting again when we reached Berlin. The journey took us three days, although nowadays you would do it in a matter of hours. But those were the early years of railways, and the line between Munich and Berlin was not complete. I know we did part of the trip by coach, but I can’t recall where; one night we spent in Leipzig, certainly, but I was paying no great heed to my surroundings. As the miles went by my apprehension was growing again—what the devil did “they” want me for? I tried several times to pump Rudi, but without success. “You’ll find out in good time,” was all he would say, with a knowing grin. “I’ll tell you this much—I’d do the job in a moment if I had the chance. I envy you, indeed. But you’re the only man for it—and don’t fret: it’s well within your powers.” That should have cheered me up, but it didn’t. After all, my powers, so far as he and the world knew them, were all concerned with war, slaughter, and heroism, and I wanted none of that if I could help it. But I had sense enough not to let him get a glimpse of my lily liver; no doubt, if my worst fears were realised, he’d see all he wanted of it, in time. We spent much of our time in the train playing piquet and ?cart?, and recognised each other as fairish sharps, but neither of us was able to take much interest in the game. I was too inwardly nervous, and he was too busy keeping an eye on me—he was one of these extraordinary folk who can be on the hair trigger of action for days and nights on end, and not once in that journey was there a decent chance to take him unawares. Not that I’d have dared to try if there had been; I had got a healthy respect for young Rudi by now, and didn’t doubt that he would shoot me without the slightest hesitation, and take his chance on the consequences. So we came to Berlin, on a night of bitter snow and wind, and there was another coach at the station to whirl us away through the busy lamp-lit streets. Even with our fur-collared coats, and rugs and hot bricks, it was damnably chilly in that coach after the warmth of the train, and I wasn’t cheered by the fact that our journey was obviously not going to be a short one—that much was clear from the fact that we had a couple of hampers of food with us and a basket of bottles as well. It lasted another three days, what with snow-choked roads and the coach shedding a wheel, and damned uncomfortable it was. I guessed we were travelling west, at about twenty miles a day, but beyond that there was nothing to be learned from the dreary German landscape. The snow stuck to the windows, and the coach was like an ice-house; I cursed and grumbled a good deal, but Starnberg sat patiently in his corner, huddled in his great-coat, whistling softly through his teeth—his observations were either insolently cheerful or caustic, and I couldn’t decide which I disliked more. It was towards evening on the third day that I awoke from a doze to find Rudi with the window down, peering out into the dusk. The snow had stopped for the moment, but there was a keen wind whistling into the coach, and I was about to tell him brusquely to shut the window before we froze, when he pulled his head in and said: “Journey’s end, thank God. Now for some decent food at last and a proper bed.” I leaned forward to look out, and I’ve seen cheerier prospects. We were rolling slowly up a long avenue of trees towards a huge, bleak house, half mansion, half castle; in the fading light, with the wintry sky behind it, it looked in silhouette like the setting for some gothic novel, all towers and spires and rugged stonework. There were lights in some of the windows, and a great lantern shone yellow above the pointed archway of its main door, but they served only to exaggerate the ancient gloom of the place. Childe Flashy to the Dark Tower came, thinks I, and tried not to imagine what lay within. It proved to be a match for the exterior. We were shown into an immense, stone-flagged hall, hung round with faded tapestries and a few old trophies of arms and the chase; there were archways without doors leading out of it, and in keeping with a general air of medieval ghastliness, there were even torches burning in brackets on the walls. The place felt like a tomb, and the ancient butler who received us would have made an excellent gravedigger. But what daunted me most of all was the presence in the hall of a strapping trio of fellows, all of military cut, who welcomed Rudi and weighed me up with cold, professional eyes. One was a massive, close-cropped, typical Prussian, whose fleshy face was wealed with a great sabre cut from brow to chin; the second was a tall, supple, sinister gentleman with sleek black hair and a vulpine smile; the third was stocky and stout, balding and ugly. All were in undress uniforms, and as tough-looking a set of customers as you could wish for; my spirits sank even farther as I realised that with this crew on hand my chances of escape had dwindled out of sight. Rudi performed introductions. “My friends Kraftstein”—the big Prussian clicked his heels—“de Gautet”—a bow from the sinister Scaramouche—“and Bersonin”—the bald ugly one barely nodded. “Like you and me, they are military men, as you see. You’ll find they are devoted to your welfare and er … safekeeping,” says Master Rudi pleasantly, “and any one of them is almost as tough as I am, nicht wahr?” “Ich glaube es,” says the sleek de Gautet, showing his teeth. Another confident bastard, and decidedly unpleasant. While he and Kraftstein stayed talking with Rudi, I was conveyed to a room on the second floor by Bersonin, and while he kept a bleak eye on me I was graciously permitted to change, wash, and eat a meal which the ancient butler brought. It was tolerable food, with an excellent Rhenish, and I invited the taciturn Bersonin to join me in a glass, but he shook his head. I tried my German on him, but getting nothing but grunts for my pains I turned my back on him and devoted myself to my meal. If he wanted to play the jailer, he could be treated like one. Presently back comes Master Rudi, very debonair in a clean shirt, freshly-pressed breeches and polished boots, with the Brothers Grimm, Kraftstein and de Gautet, at his heels. “All fed and watered?” says he. “Capital. I can see you two have been getting along famously. I trust our good Bersonin hasn’t overwhelmed you with his inconsequential chatter. No?” He grinned impudently at Bersonin, who shrugged and scowled. “My, what a madcap he is,” went on Rudi, who had evidently dined too, and was back at the top of his most amiable form. “Well, come along with me, and we’ll see what other entertainment this charming establishment can offer.” “All the entertainment I want is to find out what the devil I’m doing here,” says I. “Oh, you haven’t long to wait now,” says he, and he conducted me down the corridor, up another stairway, and into a long gallery. Just as we set foot in it, there sounded from somewhere ahead of us the unmistakable crack of a pistol-shot; I jumped, but Rudi only grinned over his shoulder. “Rats,” says he. “The place is thick with ’em. We’ve tried poison and dogs, but our host believes in more direct methods. There he goes again,” he added, as another shot sounded. “They must be out in force tonight.” He paused in front of a stout, metal-studded door. “Here we are,” cries he, throwing it wide, and waving me in. “Your patience is rewarded.” It was a fine, spacious room, far better appointed than anything I had seen so far, with carpet on the flags, a bright fire in the huge grate, solid-looking leather furniture, several shelves of books round the panelled walls, and a long, narrow polished table running down the centre under a brilliant candelabra. At the far end of the table sat a man, his feet cocked up on the board, reloading a long pistol, and at the sight of him I stopped as though I had walked into a wall. It was Otto von Bismarck. Chapter 6 (#ulink_230682b4-56f1-586e-a6a5-48ea929783e7) In a lifetime that has included far too many unpleasant surprises, I can think of few nastier shocks than that moment. Strange as it seems, from the very start of this German affair, Bismarck had never even crossed my mind—probably because I didn’t want to remember him. Having done the dirty on him in England with John Gully, I’d had no wish ever to meet him again—especially at such a disadvantage as now. Well, when you’ve caused a man to be cut up by a prize pug, and made him look an idiot into the bargain, you bar renewing his acquaintance in a lonely castle with four of his hired thugs ushering you into his presence. Equally alarming was the discovery that he was at the bottom of the plot that had snared me: if it had looked sticky before, it looked a lot worse now. “Welcome to Sch?nhausen, Mr Flashman,” says he, with the vaguest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Pray be seated.” Bersonin set a chair for me at the table end opposite Bismarck, and then took station by the door. The other three stood by the fireplace, Rudi leaning against the overmantel. Bismarck studied me along the table’s length: he looked as nasty as ever, with those pale blue eyes and his arrogant stare. His face had roughened up a bit, though, since I first knew him, and he was sporting a heavy moustache; booze and guzzling had added a good deal of flesh to him, especially about the neck. My heart was thumping like a hammer, and as always when I am scared half out of my wits my face was going red. Bismarck misread the signs. “You don’t appear pleased to see me,” says he, laying aside his pistol. “But then, why should you? There is a score to settle on my side; I still miss a tooth, thanks to your pugilist friend.” He paused, while I quaked. “However, don’t imagine that I contrived your coming all the way here from England just to settle a personal difference. It happens, amazing though it may seem, that I need you. What do you think of that?” “My God,” says I, “if that’s so, why the devil didn’t you ask me, like a civilised human being, instead of going through that damned charade in Munich? Of all the ridiculous, dangerous—yes, and damned bad-mannered—” “Don’t be a fool. We will not pretend that if I had asked you, you would have come. It was necessary to use guile and force, in turn, to ensure your presence here. And to further ensure that you would be—pliable. For you have been left in no doubt what will happen to you if you do not do exactly what I require.” “I’ve been left in no doubt that I’ve been bloody well kidnapped! And assaulted and falsely accused! I’ve been left in no doubt that you’re a damned villain. And—” “Shall we leave these vapourings?” he broke in harshly. “You know something of what I am, and I know exactly what you are—a brutal, lecherous ruffian. Yes, but with certain abilities, which you will use as I direct.” “What the devil is it you want, curse you? What use can I possibly be to you?” “That is better. Give him a brandy, Kraftstein, and a cigar. Now then, Mr Flashman, you will listen to me, and what I tell you will never be repeated—never, as you love your life.” As I think back on it now, it is still difficult to believe that it happened—that I really sat in that long room, with a glass and a cigar, while that cold, masterful man who was to be the greatest statesman of his age, outlined to me the amazing plan which was to be the first, small stepping-stone in his great career. It was mad, incredible nonsense, but it is true. Bismarck then was nothing—in the political sense, anyway. But he had dreamed his dreams (as Lola had told me years before) and now he was setting about in that cold, German certainty, to make them realities. Strange, isn’t it, that without me he could not have begun as he did? He needed the lecherous, brutal ruffian (an incomplete description, but Bismarck always was a great one for half-truths). “Let me begin by asking you a question,” says he. “What do you know of Schleswig and Holstein?” “Never even met ’em,” says I. Rudi laughed aloud, and de Gautet gave his sidelong smile. Bismarck didn’t show any amusement. “They are states,” he said, “not persons. I shall tell you about them.” And he began to explain what historians call “the Schleswig-Holstein question”. I won’t bore you with it here, because even diplomats agree that it is the most infernally complex affair that ever bedevilled European politics. Nobody has ever got to the bottom of it—indeed, Palmerston once said that only three people understood it: one was Pam himself, and he had forgotten it, another was a famous statesman, and he was dead, and the third was a German professor, and he had gone mad thinking about it. So there. But the nub was that the two states, which lay directly between Denmark and the German Confederacy, were nominally ruled by the King of Denmark, although most of the inhabitants were Germans. Both Germany and Denmark claimed Schleswig and Holstein, and the people living there were forever arguing about who they should belong to. That, then, was the famous question —and of course, Bismarck knew the answer. “It is beyond dispute,” says he, “that these two states are German by right. It has become of the first import that they should be German in fact.” I couldn’t see what the devil this had to do with me, and said so. “Be silent, and listen,” he snarled. “You will see very soon. Now, answer me: in the intervals between your drinking and whoring and hunting, do you take any interest in politics?” “Well, I’m a Tory, I suppose. Haven’t ever bothered to vote, mind you. Why?” “Gerrechter Herr Gott,” says he. “This, gentlemen”—he glanced at the others—“is a specimen of the ruling caste of the most powerful country on earth—for the present. Incredible, is it not?” His eyes scornful, he turned back to me. “You know, in effect, nothing of affairs of state—your own, or any others. Very good. But even you, Mr Flashman, must be aware that of late, all over Europe, there have been storm clouds gathering. There is a dangerous sentiment of liberalism, fostered by so-called progressive groups of intellectuals, which is infecting the populaces of states. Discontent and disaffection have been created; everywhere there are movements for reform”—he spat the word out—“reform, that slogan of the shiftless by which they mean destruction of stability in the hope that they will find some pickings among the ruins. Reform! Yes, your own country has given in to it, as probably even you have heard—” “Should think I have. My guv’nor lost his seat in the House.” “—and with what result? Concession has bred anarchy, as it always does. Are your masses satisfied? Of course not: they never are.” “Not that he ever spent much time there, of course …” “But as yet England has not reaped the full consequence of her statesmen’s stupidity. It will come in time, just as it is coming all over Europe. We have been wasted and enfeebled by peace these thirty years past, until there is hardly a man in Europe—I except Metternich—with the vision to see beyond the borders of his own state, to look past the petty trivialities of his own domestic politics, at the dark picture of the continent. They blind themselves to what is happening all about them; they consider only how to safeguard their own miserable little countries, with no thought for the whole. They cannot see, it seems, that unless those who lead and rule Europe stand together for the preservation of order and government, they will be swept away piecemeal on a rising tide of revolution.” He had worked himself into a mild passion by this time; his eyes were bright and he was crouched forward in his chair, hurling his words down the table at me. “Well,” says I, “I grant you things are a bit slack, here and there, and my wife has remarked that good servants are getting damned hard to find. But if you think England’s in for revolution, you’re well off the mark. We leave that sort of thing to Frogs and niggers.” “I am not interested in your imbecile observations. I tell you what is, in Europe, and what its consequences must be unless measures are taken to prevent it. Here, in Germany, we have the cancer in a malignant form: the liberal movements are afoot throughout the confederacy. As a member of the Prussian Diet I see them at work openly in Berlin; as a rural landowner I am aware of them even in the countryside. I see them sapping the strength of the German people. If such insidious doctrines have their way, in a loose, undisciplined confederacy such as ours, the result will be chaotic. Germany, and especially German unity, for which far-sighted men have laboured for generations, will receive a mortal blow, from which it might take a century to recover. That she cannot afford. The world is on the move: the great nations are already jockeying for position in the race for power which is sure to move with incredible swiftness, now that science and industry are providing the impetus. If Germany is to take her place among the leaders, she must have unity, she must have strength, she must have discipline”—his great fist smacked the table with each phrase—“she must submit herself to the guidance and government of a supreme authority, who will do for her what Napoleon did for France, what Washington did for America. These were not liberals, Mr Flashman; these were not progressive intellectuals. Germany must have her Napoleon, if she is to have her—” “Waterloo?” I was sick of all his bombast. Mind you, the moment I’d said it, I wished I hadn’t, for he stopped dead and stared at me in silence with those blazing blue eyes. Then he sat back in his chair, and spoke quietly. “There will be no Waterloo. However, this is academic, and certainly wasted on a mind such as yours. I have said enough, I think, to explain to you the necessity for ensuring that the spread of liberal thought must be checked before it breeds revolution proper. For this, there must be measures, wherever possible, to buttress existing government, and to preserve order. Stability must be maintained wherever seditious influences are at work. And nowhere are they more in evidence than in Schleswig and Holstein.” “I wondered when we should get back to them,” says I, and glanced at the others to see how they had taken Bismarck’s tirade. Young Rudi was blowing smoke rings at the ceiling, but de Gautet was all ears, and as for Kraftstein, he was pointing like a damned retriever, as though ready to bark in admiration. It occurred to me that if he found Bismarck’s claptrap absorbing, there was probably no lack of other idiots in Germany who would do so too. “If you care to study the map of Europe above that bookcase,” Bismarck continued, “you will see that at the eastern limit of Holstein, where it adjoins Mecklenburg, there is a small duchy called Strackenz. It, like Schleswig and Holstein, has ties both with Germany and Denmark; like them, also, it is riven internally by contending parties. Being a rural, backward province, it is of less apparent importance than its larger neighbours, but this is an illusion. In fact, it is the spark on the tinder; if the dissension between the contending parties in Strackenz were to erupt into disorder, this would undoubtedly be used by revolutionary elements as an excuse to foment unrest in the neighbouring provinces; Denmark and Germany could become involved—believe me, great wars have begun over smaller matters than Strackenz. “Is it plain to you that the peace must be kept in this little province? If it is, then given time, German diplomacy will ensure the incorporation of Schleswig and Holstein into the German confederacy, and the process of our national unification will have begun. But if in the immediate future anything should occur to plunge Strackenz into unrest, if the rival factions there should be given any crisis to exploit—then, my work will be ruined before it has been commenced.” I can’t say I gave a tuppenny damn about his work, or the building of a united German state, and I couldn’t for the life of me see what all this had to do with me. Still, I could only listen. Bismarck was leaning forward again, staring at me and tapping the table. “Such a crisis is at hand. Here are the facts. Strackenz is ruled by a Duchess Irma, who has recently reached marriageable age. She is exceedingly popular with her subjects, being young and personable and therefore supremely fitted to rule, in the eyes of superstitious peasants. It has been arranged that she should marry a prince of the Danish royal family, a nephew, in fact, of King Christian himself, one Prince Carl Gustaf. This informs you of the importance that Denmark attaches to even such a tiny province as Strackenz. The point is that the marriage will be hailed by the Danish faction in Strackenz, who are an unusually troublesome group—possibly because they are so far away from Denmark itself. And if they are contented, Strackenz will continue in peace. Its German population will know how to wait,” he added with confidence. I confess I stifled a yawn, but he ignored it. “Politically, then, the match is not only desirable, but essential. Its stabilising influence apart, I am not without hopes of Carl Gustaf, with whom I am acquainted. He would make a popular consort and ruler in Strackenz.” He hesitated, his eyes unwinking on mine, and I stirred impatiently. “Well, then,” says I, “good luck to the happy couple, and God bless ’em all-and Tiny Tim. Will you come to the point as far as I’m concerned—if I am at all, which I’m beginning to doubt.” “Oh, you are,” says he, nodding grimly. “I said there was a crisis in Strackenz. It is this: as things stand, the wedding, which is to be solemnised in six weeks’ time, cannot take place.” “Can’t it, now? Why not?” “Prince Carl Gustaf, who is in many ways an admirable young man, has nevertheless his share of young men’s folly.” Bismarck paused. “He has contracted a social disease, which makes it impossible that he marry, at least for the time being.” “A what?” “A social disease.” “You mean he’s got a dose of clap?” I let loose a guffaw. “Well, that’s damned inconsiderate of him. Bad luck on Duchess what’s-her-name, too. Still, boys will be boys, eh? But that makes things awkward, I agree. What are you going to do about it?” Bismarck didn’t reply for a moment. There was a dead silence in the room, an expectant silence that made me uneasy. “Well,” says I at length. “What next?” Bismarck stood up abruptly, went over to a desk against the wall, and took a small object from it. He weighed it in his hand as he paced slowly back to the table. “If the wedding does not take place, Strackenz will explode. The Danish party will see to it; liberal agitators will whip up anti-German feeling with tales of a plot. But it is obviously impossible for Prince Carl to marry for several months, when his … condition has responded to treatment.” He seemed to expect a comment, so I suggested the wedding be postponed. “On what pretext? If the real reason were known, the marriage could never take place at all, obviously. And the Strackenz pot would boil over. At the moment, no one knows of Carl Gustaf’s malady except his own physician, and two highly-placed Danish ministers. The rest of Denmark, like Germany and Strackenz, suspects nothing amiss, and expects the wedding to go forward.” “You say only three people know that this Prince has Cupid’s measles? Then how do you …” “I have my own sources. The three I mentioned, the Prince, and ourselves are the only people who know, rest assured.” He juggled the object in his hand. “The wedding must take place.” “Well, he’ll just have to marry her, clap and all, won’t he? What else …” “Out of the question,” says de Gautet, speaking for the first time. “Humanitarian reasons apart, it would surely be discovered afterwards, and the ensuing scandal would have as disastrous an effect as a postponement of the marriage.” “Well, then, talk sense,” says I. “If the Prince can’t marry her in six weeks, the wedding’s off, ain’t it? You’ll have to think of something else.” “We have,” says Bismarck. “And the wedding will take place.” “You’re talking bloody nonsense,” says I. “Anyway, what the hell do I care? What has all this to do with me?” Bismarck tossed down on the table the thing he had been holding. It slithered along the length of the wood and stopped in front of me. I saw it was a gold case, oval and about four inches long. “Open it,” says Bismarck. I touched the catch, and the thing sprang open. In it was a miniature, in very fine colour, showing a man in uniform, youngish, but with a completely bald head which gave him an unnatural look. He wasn’t bad-looking, though, and it seemed to me I knew him … and then the case dropped from my fingers, and the room seemed to swim about me. For I did know him; saving the bald head, the face in the miniature was my own. It was all too familiar from my own mirror: the likeness was uncanny, exact. “Prince Carl Gustaf of Denmark,” says Bismarck, and his voice seemed to be coming through a fog. I’m not often at a loss for words, but at that moment I sat stricken dumb. The enormity of the idea—for it was as plain as a pikestaff in an instant—was beyond reasonable comment. I just sat and gaped from them to the miniature and back, and Rudi’s jovial laugh rang out. “Magnificent!” cries he. “I’d not have missed that moment for a dukedom! I wish you could have seen your face—your own face, I mean.” “You will remember,” says Bismarck, “that when we first met in London I was puzzled to remember where I had seen you before. I had not, of course—but I had seen the young Prince Carl when he visited Berlin. I realised then that you were doppelg?ngers, identical bodies, and regarded it as an interesting fact; no more. Three months ago, when I first learned of the Prince’s indisposition, and that his response to treatment was too slow to make it possible that he be married on the required date, I remembered the fact again. I perceived that here lay a way out. At first, as you may appreciate, I rejected the notion as absurd. Then I applied myself to study it minutely, and saw that it was possible. Incredible, perhaps, but still possible. I planned it step by step, and saw that with proper care and preparation it was more than that—it was virtually certain of success. My decision taken, I set in motion the events that have brought you here to Sch?nhausen.” At last I found my tongue. “You’re mad!” I shouted. “You’re a raving lunatic! You’d substitute me … for him … to … to … pose … to attempt the maddest, most ridiculous …” “Silence!” he shouted, and came round the table, his face working with passion. “Do you suppose I have entered on this matter lightly? That I have not examined it, time and time again, before I determined on it? Do you imagine I designed the plan that has brought you here, and spent the time and money I have used, without being certain that I could complete the whole business?” He bent down, his face close to mine, and spoke rapidly and quietly. “Consider, if you have the intelligence, the minute thoroughness of the stratagem that has brought you this far. Planned, my English numbskull, with a care and precision that your slow wits cannot conceive.” “Genius,” says Kraftstein, jerking his head like a doll. “Only one thing was a matter of chance—your presence in England. It was the prerequisite, and by good fortune it was there. The rest—organisation.” Bismarck took a breath and straightened up. “And as we have begun, so we will proceed.” Well, I saw one thing: he was mad; they all were. And, by God, if they thought they were dragging me into their lunacy, they had got the wrong man. “I won’t touch it,” says I, “and that’s flat. D’you think I’m as big a fool as you are? Good God, man, the thing’s impossible; I wouldn’t last five minutes as … a substitute for this poxed-up Danish fellow. And what then, eh?” Bismarck considered me a moment. Then: “Fill his glass, Kraftstein.” He walked back to his seat, and stretched his legs. “It is, perhaps, unreasonable to expect you to accept the scheme without being convinced of its soundness. Tell me, why do you suppose it might fail?” There were about seven hundred answers to that, and I burst out with the first one that came to mind. “I couldn’t get away with it! How could I pretend to be a Danish prince?” “Take my word for it that you could. The likeness, believe me, is astounding. No one would suspect the imposture for a moment.” “But I don’t speak Danish, dammit!” “But you have a gift for languages, remember? In the few weeks available, you can be given a smattering. No more than that will be necessary, for His Highness speaks German indifferently well, as you will before you take his place. You have a tolerable fluency as it is.” “But … but … well, how the devil do you propose that I should take his place? Go to Denmark, I suppose, and present suitable references! Balderdash!” “You need not go to Denmark. I have been in constant communication with Prince Carl Gustaf. Naturally, he does not know of our plan, but he does have great faith in me. One of the ministers I mentioned is in my employ. Through him, all has been arranged. The Prince will set out from Denmark when the time comes with his retinue; he has been led to believe that I have found a way out of his difficulties. He is rather a simple fellow, although amiable, and supposes that I can arrange matters. In that belief he will come to Holstein, en route to Strackenz, and in Holstein the substitution will take place. The mechanics you may leave to me.” It was like listening to some grotesque fairy-tale. The cool, precise way in which he told it was staggering. “But … but this retinue—his people, I mean …” “The minister who is my agent will accompany the Prince. His name is Detchard. With him at your side, you need have no fears. And no one will suspect you: why should they?” “Because I’ll give myself away in a hundred things, man! My voice, my actions—God knows what!” “That is not so,” said Bismarck. “I tell you, I know the Prince, his voice, his mannerisms—all of it. And I tell you that if you shave your head and upper lip, your own mothers would not know you apart.” “It’s true,” says Rudi, from the fireplace. “You aren’t just alike: you’re the same man. If you learn a few of his habits—gestures, that sort of thing—it can’t fail.” “But I’m not an actor! How can I—” “You wandered in Afghanistan disguised as a native, did you not?” says Bismarck. “I know as much about you as you do yourself, you see. If you can do that, you can easily do this.” He leaned forward again. “All this has been thought of. If you were not a man of action, of proved resource and courage, of geist und geschicklichkeit, wit and aptitude, I would not have entertained this scheme for a moment. It is because you have all these things, and have proved them, that you are here now.” Well, that was all he knew. God help him, he believed the newspapers, and my huge, overblown reputation—he thought I was the daredevil Flash Harry of popular report, the Hero of Jallalabad, and all that tommy-rot. And there was no hope that I could persuade him otherwise. “But my God!” says I, appalled. “What you are proposing is that I should go to Strackenz and marry this damned woman! I mean—I’m married already!” “You are a Protestant. This will be a Roman ceremony. It will be in no way binding on you, morally or in fact.” “Who cares about that? What I mean is—I’d have to live with her, as King of Strackenz, or whatever it is. How could I? What about the real Prince Carl?” “He will be kept close under lock and key, in a convenient place in Mecklenburg. He will there recover from his illness. And in due course I will explain matters to him—the full truth. I will point out to him that he has no choice but to continue with the remainder of my plan.” “And what’s that, in God’s name?” “When he has recovered—in perhaps a month or two after your marriage—you will go hunting from a certain lodge. You will become separated from your companions. They will find you, eventually, or rather they will find the real Prince. He will have fallen from his horse, and taken a slight graze on the head. It will necessitate some days’ rest and recovery. Thereafter he will return to Strackenz City and his bride. If she notices any difference in him, it will be attributed to the effect of his head wound. But it will hardly cause her to suspect that he is not the man she married. I expect that they will live and rule long and happily together.” “And what the hell happens to me?” “You, my dear sir, will by then be far over the frontiers of Germany—with ten thousand pounds sterling in your pocket.” Bismarck permitted himself a smile. “We do not ask you to work for nothing, you see. Your silence will be assured—for if you decided to tell your incredible tale, who would believe it? But why should you? You will have come out of the affair most profitably.” Aye, profitably for you, thinks I, with a bullet in the back of my head or a knife between my ribs. It was as clear as day that at the end of the affair I’d be a heap safer dead than alive, from their point of view. I looked from Bismarck to the cheerfully smiling Rudi, who had perched himself on the table edge; to Kraftstein, frowning at me from his massive height; to de Gautet, with his snake’s eyes—I even glanced round at Bersonin, glowering in silence by the door. By gum, I’ve seen some pretty sets of villains in my time, but I believe that if I were ever asked to recruit a band of cut-throats for some nefarious enterprise, Bismarck’s beauties would head my list. “I see what is in your mind,” says Bismarck. He rose, taking out his cigar case, and presented me with a weed, which he lit for me from a candle. “You do not trust me. You believe that afterwards I should have you destroyed, nicht wahr? That I would break my promise.” “Oh, well,” says I, “the thought hadn’t occurred, but now that you mention it …” “My dear Mr Flashman,” says he, “credit me with some intelligence. I have only to put myself in your shoes—as I’m sure you have just been putting yourself in mine. I should be highly suspicious, if I were you. I should require to be convinced that all was—above board, is it not?” I said nothing, and he took a turn round the table. “Ask yourself,” says he, “what I have to gain by playing you false. Security? Hardly so, since you will be in no case, living, to do harm to us. As I’ve said, no one would believe your story, which indeed would incriminate you if you were foolish enough to tell it. What else? Killing you would present … problems. You are not a child, and disposing of you might well cause some unforeseen complication in my plans.” “We’re honest with you, you see,” says Rudi, and Kraftstein nodded vigorously. De Gautet tried to smile reassuringly, like a contrite wolf. “And ten thousand pounds, you may believe me, is neither here nor there,” went on Bismarck. “It is a cheap price to pay for laying the foundation of the new Germany—and that is what is at stake here. You may think we are daydreaming, that we are foolish visionaries—you may even think us villains. I do not care. It does not matter. It is a great thing that we are going to do, and you are only a tiny pawn in it—but, like all tiny pawns, vital. I need you, and I am willing to pay for what I need.” He drew himself up, virile, commanding, and full of mastery. “You seek guarantees of my good faith. I have tried to show you that it is in my interest, and Germany’s, to keep faith. To this I add my word as a junker, a soldier, and a gentleman: I swear on my honour that what I have promised I shall fulfil, and that when you have concluded your part in this scheme you shall have safe-conduct out of Germany, with your reward, and that no harm shall come to you.” He swung about on his heel and went back to his chair; the others sat dead still. And then, after just the right interval had elapsed, he added: “If you wish, I can swear it on the Bible. For my own part, I believe that a man who will tell a lie will swear one also. I do neither. But I am at your disposal.” It was very prettily said. For a moment he almost had me believing him. But I’d moved in just as seedy company as friend Bismarck, and was up to all the dodges. “I don’t care about Bible oaths,” says I. “And, anyway, I’m not sure that I like your little plot. I’m no pauper, you know—” which was a damned lie, but there—“and I’m not sweatin’ to earn your ten thousand. It’s dishonest, it’s deceitful, and it’s downright dangerous. If there was a slip, it would cost me my head—” “And ours, remember,” says de Gautet. “You would be in a position to betray us, if you were taken.” “Thanks very much,” says I. “That would be a great consolation. But, d’you know, I don’t think I care for the whole thing. I’m all for a quiet life, and—” “Even in a Bavarian prison,” says young Rudi sweetly, “serving ten years as a ravisher?” “That cock won’t fight,” says I. “Even suppose you took me back to Munich now, how would you explain my absence between the supposed crime and my arrest? It might not be so easy.” That made them think, and then Bismarck chimed in. “This is to waste time. Whatever pressures were used on you initially, the point is that you are here, now, and I need hardly tell you what will happen if you refuse my offer. We are very lonely here. None saw you come; none would ever see you go. Am I plain? You have no choice, in fact, but to do as I require, and collect the fee which, I promise, will be paid.” So there we were; the good old naked threat. They could slit my throat as neat as ninepence if they chose, and none the wiser. I was in a most hellish fix, and my innards were churning horribly. But there was no way out—and they might be honest at the end of the day. By God, I could use ten thou. But I couldn’t believe they would come up to scratch (I wouldn’t have, in Bismarck’s place, once I’d got what I wanted). I didn’t even dare think of the risks of their hare-brained impersonation scheme, but on the other hand I couldn’t contemplate the alternative if I refused. On the one side, a lunatic adventure fraught with frightful danger, and possibly a handsome reward; on the other side—death, no doubt at the bare hands of Herr Kraftstein. “Tell you what, Bismarck,” says I. “Make it fifteen thousand.” He stared at me coldly. “That is too much. The reward is ten thousand, and cannot be increased.” I tried to look glum, but this had cheered me up. If he was intending to play me false in the end, he wouldn’t have hesitated to raise the stakes; the fact that he didn’t suggested he might be going to level after all. “You’re no pauper, you know,” chuckled Rudi, damn him. I sat like a man undecided, and then I cried: “I’ll do it, then.” “Good man!” cries Rudi, and clapped me on the back. “I swear you’re one after my own heart!” De Gautet shook my hand, and announced that they were damned lucky to have such a resolute, resourceful, cool hand in the business with them; Kraftstein brought me another glass of brandy and pledged me; even Bersonin deserted his post at the door and joined in the toast. Bismarck, however, said no more than “Very good. We will begin our further preparations tomorrow,” and then took himself off, leaving me with the four jacks in the pack. They were all affability now; we were comrades in fortune, and jolly good fellows, and they did their best to get me gloriously fuddled. I didn’t resist; I was shaking with the strain and in need of all the fortifying liquor I could get. But through all their noisy bonhomie and back-slapping one thought kept pounding in my brain; oh, Jesus, in the soup again; how in God’s name shall I get out this time? You can guess how much sleep I had that first night at Sch?nhausen. Well liquored as I was when Bersonin and Kraftstein helped me to bed and pulled my boots off, my mind was all too clear; I lay there, fully clothed, listening to the wind whining round the turrets, and watching the candle shadows flickering on the high ceiling, and my heart was pumping as though I had run a race. The room was dank as a tomb, but the sweat fairly ran off me. How the devil had it all happened? And what the devil was I to do? I actually wept as I damned the folly that had ever made me come to Germany. I could have been safe at home, pleasuring myself groggy with Elspeth and sponging off her skinflint father, facing nothing worse than the prospect of bear-leading her family in Society, and here I was imprisoned in a lonely castle with five dangerous lunatics bent on dragooning me into a hare-brained adventure that was certain to put my head in a noose. And if I resisted, or tried to escape, they would wipe me out of existence as readily as they would swat a fly. However, as usual, once I had cursed and blubbered myself empty, my mind started searching for some ray of comfort—anything to cling to, for if you are coward enough your vainest hopes can be magnified beyond all reason. Six weeks, Bismarck had said, before this impossible wedding—say five weeks or a month at least before my substitution for Carl Gustaf had to take place. Surely much could happen in that time. Clever and wary as they were, Bismarck’s gang couldn’t watch me all the time—in four weeks there must be a moment when such a practised absconder as myself could cut and run for it. A horse, that was all I needed, and a look at the sun or the stars, and I was confident that my terror could outstrip Bismarck’s vengeance. God knew how far away the frontier was, but I was willing to wager my neck that I could reach it faster than any rider living. My neck, of course, was exactly what I would be wagering. With these jolly musings I passed the night, imagining a score of madcap means of escape—and as many nightmares in which Bismarck caught me in the act. It was all a waste of time, of course; within me I knew that anyone who could plot as subtly as he had done wasn’t going to give me the ghost of a hope of escaping. And I had a shrewd suspicion that if a chance did arise, I’d be too funky to take it. These fellows would stop at nothing. They proved it, too, on my first morning at Sch?nhausen. The great oaf Kraftstein summoned me at dawn, and I was pulling on my boots when Rudi strode in, very fresh and whistling cheerfully, rot him. “And did your highness sleep well?” says he. “I trust your highness is sufficiently rested after your journey.” I told him sourly that I wasn’t in a mood for his comedy. “Oh, no comedy at all,” says he. “High drama, and unless you want it to develop into tragedy you’ll act as you’ve never acted before. From this moment you are His Highness Prince Carl Gustaf, blood royal and Lord’s anointed. Do you follow me? You speak German, and nothing else—your Danish we’ll take care of presently—and you will comport yourself as a member of the Danish ruling house.” “Talk sense,” I growled. “I don’t know how.” “No, but we’re going to teach you—your highness,” says he, and for once his eyes had no laughter in them. “So. The first thing is to make you look the part. All right, Kraftstein.” And then and there, despite my protests, Kraftstein sat me in a chair and set to work, first cropping my hair and whiskers, and then soaping and shaving my skull. It was a long and unpleasant process, and when it was done and I looked in the glass I could have burst into tears. The ghastly creature with his great, gleaming dome of a skull was a horrid parody of me—my face, surmounted by a naked convict head. “Damn you!” I burst out. “Damn you! You’ve ruined me!” I expected them to mock me, of course, but neither twitched so much as a muscle. “Your highness will be under the necessity of shaving your head daily,” murmured Rudi. “Kraftstein will instruct you. Now, may I suggest that your highness wears uniform today?” They had that, too; rather a trim rig, I had to admit, in bottle green, which fitted me perfectly and would have given me a fine dashing air if it hadn’t been for that bald monstrosity above the collar. “Admirable,” says Rudi, standing back from me. “May I compliment your highness on your appearance?” “Drop that, blast you!” I snarled at him. “If I have to play your damned game, you’ll spare me your infernal nonsense until it starts, at least. I’m your prisoner, ain’t I? Isn’t that enough for you?” He waited a moment, and then says, in exactly the same tone: “May I compliment your highness on your appearance? I stood glaring at him, on the point of swinging my fist into his impassive face, but he just stared me down, and I found myself saying: “All right. If you must—all right.” “Very good, your highness,” says he gravely. “May I respectfully suggest that we go down to breakfast. I find that Sch?nhausen gives one a rare appetite—the country air, of course. Will you lead on, Kraftstein?” I wasn’t hungry, but Rudi attacked his food in good spirits, and chattered away throughout the meal. He treated me with a nice blend of familiarity and respect, and you would never have guessed if you had seen us that it was all a sham. He was a splendid actor, and although it would have made me feel a complete fool if I hadn’t been too miserable to mind, I began to realise even then that there was method in what he was doing. Kraftstein just put his head down and gorged, but on the one occasion he addressed me, he too called me “highness”. Bismarck came in just as we were finishing, and he for one wasn’t playing charades. He stopped dead on the threshold, though, at sight of me, and then came into the room slowly, studying my face, walking round me, and examining me carefully for a minute or more. Finally he says: “The likeness is astounding. In effect, he is Carl Gustaf.” “So your friends have been trying to convince me,” I muttered. “Excellent. It is not quite perfect, though. Two small details remain.” “What’s that?” says Rudi. “The scars. One either side, the left immediately above the ear, the one on the right an inch lower and running slightly downward—so.” And he drew his finger across my shaven skin; the touch sent mice scampering down my spine. “By heaven, you’re right,” says Rudi. “I’d forgotten. How do we give him those?” My innards turned to water as Bismarck surveyed me with his icy smile. “Surgery? It is possible. I’ve no doubt Kraftstein here could employ his razor most artistically …” “You’re not cutting my bloody head, you bastard!” I shouted, and tried to struggle out of my chair, but Kraftstein seized me with his enormous hands and thrust me back. I yelled and struggled, and he clamped his paw across my jaws and squeezed until the pain made me subside, terrified. “But there is a better way,” says Bismarck. “They can be administered in the proper form—with the schlager. De Gautet can do it without difficulty.” He added, with a nasty look at me: “And it will satisfy a small debt that I owe to our friend here.” “Aye,” says Rudi doubtfully, “but can he do it exactly—they must be in precisely the right places, mustn’t they? No use giving him a wound where Carl Gustaf doesn’t have one.” “I have every confidence in de Gautet,” says Bismarck. “With a sabre he can split a fly on the wing.” I was listening to them appalled; these two monsters calmly discussing the best means of giving me a slashed head. If there is one thing I can’t endure, it is pain, and the thought of cold steel slicing into my skull nearly made me swoon. As soon as Kraftstein took his hand away I was yammering at them; Bismarck listened scornfully for a few seconds, and then says: “Silence him, Kraftstein.” The giant seized the nape of my neck, and a fearful pain shot down my back and across my shoulders. He must have fixed on some nerve, and I screamed and writhed in his grasp. “He can go on doing that until you die,” says Bismarck. “Now get up, and stop behaving like an old woman. It won’t kill you to have a couple of cuts from a schlager. Every German youth is proud to take them; a little drink from the ‘soup-plate of honour’ will do you good.” “For God’s sake!” I burst out. “Look, I’ve agreed to do what you want, but this is abominable! I won’t—” “You will,” says Bismarck. “Prince Carl Gustaf has two duelling scars, received while he was a student at Heidelberg. There is no question of your impersonating him without them. I am sure,” he went on, smiling unpleasantly, “that de Gautet will administer them as painlessly as possible. And if they cause you some trifling smart, you may console yourself that they have been paid for in advance, by your amiable friend Mr Gully. You recall the occasion?” I recalled it all right, and it was no consolation at all. So now the swine was going to get his own back, and if I resisted I’d have Kraftstein pulling pieces out of me with his bare hands for my pains. There was nothing for it but to submit, and so I allowed myself to be led down to a big bare room off the courtyard where there were fencing masks and foils hung on the walls, and chalk lines on the floor, like a fencing school. “Our gymnasium,” says Bismarck. “You will spend some time here during your preparation—you are heavier than Carl Gustaf by a pound or two, I should judge. Perhaps we can relieve you of some of it this morning.” Coming from a man with sausages of fat beginning to bulge over his collar, this was pretty cool, but I was too busy gulping down my fear to mind. Presently de Gautet arrived, looking even more snake-like than he had the previous night, and when Bismarck explained what was to do, you could see the rascal’s mouth start to water. “You must be exact to the inch,” says Bismarck. “Look here.” He stood in front of me, drawing from his pocket the little miniature he had shown me last night, glancing at it and then at me and frowning. “You see how they run—so and so. Now, the crayon.” And to my horror he took a fat black pencil which Kraftstein held out, and with great care began to mark on the skin of my head the places where the cuts were to go. It was the final obscene touch that brought the bile up into my mouth, so that I almost spewed at him. He stood there, his face close to mine, hissing gently through his teeth and sketching away on my crawling flesh as though it had been a blackboard. I shuddered away, and he growled at me to be still. I was paralysed—I don’t think that of all the beastly things that man ever did, or all the terror he caused me, that there was anything as loathsome as that casual marking of my skin for de Gautet to cut at. There is only one word for it—it was German. And if you don’t understand what I mean, thank God for it. At last he was done, and Kraftstein could arm us for the schlager play. It seemed horrible to me at the time, but looking back from the safety of old age I can see that it is more childish than anything else. For all their pride in taking scars to impress everyone with how manly they are, the Germans are damned careful not to cause themselves any serious damage. Kraftstein fitted big metal caps onto the crowns of our heads; they were equipped with spectacles of iron in front to protect the eyes and nose, and there were heavy padded stocks to go round our necks. Then there was a quilted body armour to buckle round our middles, with flaps to cover the thighs, and a padded bandage to wrap round the right arm from wrist to shoulder. By the time we were fully equipped I felt like Pantaloon with dropsy; it was so ridiculous that I almost forgot to be afraid. Even when the schlager was put into my hand it looked such a ludicrous weapon that I couldn’t take it seriously. It was more than a yard long, with a triangular blade, and had a huge metal bowl at the hilt to protect the hand: it must have been about a foot across. “The soup-plate of honour,” says Bismarck. “You have used a sabre, I suppose?” “Ask your man about that when we’ve finished,” says I, blustering with a confidence I didn’t feel: de Gautet was swishing his schlager in a frighteningly professional way. “Very good,” says Bismarck. “You will observe that your opponent’s head is covered, as is yours, at all points except for the cheeks and lower temples. These are your targets—and his. I may tell you that, with de Gautet, you are as likely to hit those targets as I was to strike Mr Gully. You may cut, but not thrust. Do you understand? I shall call you to begin and to desist.” He stepped back, and I found myself facing de Gautet across the chalked floor; Rudi and Kraftstein had taken their places along the walls, but Bismarck stayed within a couple of yards of us, armed with a schlager to strike up our blades if need be. De Gautet advanced, saluting with a flourish; in his padding he looked like some kind of sausage-doll, but his eyes were bright and nasty through the spectacles. I didn’t salute, but came on guard sabre-fashion, right hand up above my head and blade slanting down before my face. “Salute!” snaps Bismarck. “Pish to you!” says I, guessing that it would offend his fine Teutonic spirit to ignore the formalities. I was getting cocky, you see, because all this paraphernalia had convinced me that the business wasn’t really serious at all. I’m not a sabre expert—a strong swordsman, rather than a good one, was how the master-at-arms in the 11th Hussars had described me—and if I have to use one I’d rather it wasn’t in single combat, but in a m?l?e, where you can hang about on the outskirts, roaring your heart out and waiting for an opponent with his back turned. However, it seemed to me now that I ought to be able to guard the unprotected areas that de Gautet would be cutting at. He came on guard, the blades grated between us, and then he twitched his wrist, quick as light, right and left, aiming deft little cuts at the sides of my head. But Flashy’s nobody’s fool; I turned my wrist with his, and caught the cuts on my own blade. He cut again, and the blade rang on my cap, but I broke ground and let go a regular roundhouse slash at him, like a dragoon full of drink. With the schlager, I learned later, you are supposed to employ only wrist cuts, but I was just an ignorant foreigner. My sweep, if it had landed, would have loosed Mr de Gautet’s guts all over the floor, but he was quick and turned it with the forte of his blade. He came in again, on guard, his narrow eyes on mine, and the blades rasped together. He feinted and cut hard, but I was there again, and as we strained against each other I sneered at him over the crossed blades and exerted all my strength to bear down his guard. I felt his blade giving before mine, and then it whirled like lightning and it was as though a red-hot iron had been laid against my right temple. The pain and shock of it sent me staggering back, I dropped my schlager and grabbed at my face, and as Bismarck jumped between us I saw the most unpleasant sight I know, which is my own blood; it coursed down my cheek and on to my hand, and I howled and dabbed at the wound to try to staunch it. “Halt!” cries Bismarck, and strode over to inspect my wound—not because he gave a tuppenny damn about me, but to see if it was in the right place. He seized my head and peered. “To an inch!” he exclaimed, and tipped his hand triumphantly to de Gautet, who smirked and bowed. “Fahren sie fort!” cries Bismarck, stepping back, and signing to me to pick up my schlager. Shaking with pain and rage, and with the blood feeling as though it were streaming out of me, I told him what he could do with it; I wasn’t going to stand up to be cut to bits for his amusement. He went red with fury. “Pick it up,” he rasped, “or I’ll have Kraftstein hold you down and we’ll set the other scar on you with a rusty saw!” “It’s not fair!” I shouted. “I think my skull’s fractured!” He damned me for a coward, snatched up the schlager, and thrust it into my hand. And in case worse should happen, I squared up to de Gautet again, resolving to take the other cut as quickly as possible, and then to settle the account in my own way, if I could. He shuffled in, full of bounce, cutting smartly right and left. I parried them, tried a quick cut of my own, and then flicked up my point to leave my left side unguarded. Instinctively he slashed at the gap, and I took it with my eyes shut and teeth gritted against the pain. My God, but it hurt, and I couldn’t repress a shriek; I reeled, but kept a tight grip on my schlager, and as de Gautet stepped back, satisfied with his butchery, and glanced towards Bismarck, I forced myself into a sudden lunge that sent my point through his lousy body. The next thing I knew I had been hurled to the floor, and as I lay there, blinded with my own blood, all hell broke loose. Someone fetched me a tremendous kick in the ribs, I heard Rudi shouting and de Gautet groaning—delightful sound—and then I must have fainted, for when I opened my eyes I was sprawled on one of the benches, with Kraftstein sponging the blood from my face. My first thought was: they’ll settle my hash now, for certain, and then I realised that Bismarck and de Gautet had vanished, and only young Rudi was left, grinning down at me. “I couldn’t have done better myself,” says he. “Not much, anyhow. Our friend de Gautet won’t be quite so cock-a-hoop another time. Not that you’ve damaged him much—you barely nicked his side—but he’ll ache for a day or two. So will you, of course. Let’s have a look at your honourable scars.” My head was aching abominably, but when he and Kraftstein had examined it, they pronounced it satisfactory—from their point of view. De Gautet had laid his cuts exactly, and provided the wounds were left open they would quickly heal into excellent scars, Kraftstein assured me. “Give you a most distinguished appearance,” says Rudi. “All the little Prussian girls will be fluttering for you.” I was too sick and shocked even to curse at him. The pain seemed to be searing into my brain, and I was half-swooning as Kraftstein bandaged my skull and the pair of them supported me upstairs and laid me down on my bed. The last thing I heard before I slipped into unconsciousness was Rudi saying that it would be best if my highness rested for a while, and I remember thinking it odd that he had slipped out of his play-actor’s role for a while and then back into it. That was my only experience of schlager-play, and it was one too many. But it taught me something, and that was a fearful respect for Otto Bismarck and his ruffians. If they were capable of that kind of cold-blooded mutilation then there was nothing they wouldn’t do; from that moment I put all thought of trying to escape from Sch?nhausen out of my mind. I hadn’t the game for it. As to the scars, they healed quickly under Kraftstein’s care. I’ll carry them to my grave, one close to my right ear, the other slightly higher, but just visible now that my hair is thinner. Neither is disfiguring, fortunately; indeed, as Rudi observed, there is something quite dashing-romantic about them. They’ve been worth a couple of campaigns, I often think, in giving people the wrong impression of my character. They hurt most damnably for a couple of days, though, during which I kept to my room. That was all the convalescence they would allow me, for they were in a great sweat to begin what Rudi was pleased to call my “princely education”. This consisted of some of the hardest brain work I’ve ever had in my life. For a solid month, every waking hour, I lived, talked, walked, ate and drank Prince Carl Gustaf until I could have screamed at the thought of him—and sometimes did. At its worst it amounted to gruelling mental torture, but in recalling it now I have to admit that it was brilliantly done. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but the three of them—Rudi, Kraftstein, and Bersonin—came as close as one humanly could to turning me into another person. They did it, subtly and persistently, by pretending from the first that I was Carl Gustaf, and spending hour after hour reminding me about myself. I suppose to approach the thing in any other way would have been useless, for it would have been constant admission of the imposture, and what an idiot, hare-brained scheme it was. They took me through that Danish bastard’s life a hundred times, from the cradle upwards, until I swear I must have known more about him than he did himself. His childhood ailments, his relatives, his ancestors, his tutors, his homes, his playmates, his education, his likes, his dislikes, his habits—there wasn’t a call of nature that he had answered in twenty years that I wasn’t letter-perfect in by the time they had done. Hour after hour, day after day, they had me sitting at that long table while they poured fact after fact into me—what food he liked, what pets he had had, what he read, what colour his sister’s eyes were, what nursery name his governess had called him (Tutti, of all things), how long he had lived at Heidelberg, what his musical tastes were (“Fra Diavolo”, by one Auber, had apparently impressed him, and he was forever whistling an air from it; it says something for their teaching that I’ve whistled it off and on for fifty years now). Where they had got all their information, God only knows, but they had two huge folders of papers and drawings which seemed to contain everything that he had ever done and all that was known about him. I couldn’t tell you my own grandmother’s Christian name, but God help me I know that Carl Gustaf’s great-uncle’s mastiff was called Ragnar, and he lived to be twenty-three. “And what was your highness’s favourite game when you were little?” Rudi would ask. “Playing at sailors,” I would reply. “What was the English ship you boasted to your mother you had captured at Copenhagen?” “The Agamemnon.” “How did you come to capture it?” “How the blazes do I know? I was only three, wasn’t I? I can’t remember.” “You have been told. It was stuck in a mudbank. In your infant re-enactment you covered yourself in mud in a garden pond, don’t you remember?” That was the kind of thing I had to know, and when I protested that no one was ever likely to ask me what games I had played when I was little, they wouldn’t argue, but would pass patiently on—to remind me of the fever I had had when I was fourteen, or the time I broke my arm falling from an apple tree. All our talk was conducted in German, at which I made capital progress—indeed, Rudi’s one fear was that I might be too proficient, for Carl Gustaf apparently didn’t speak it too well, for all his Heidelberg education. Bersonin, who despite his taciturnity was a patient teacher, instructed me in Danish, but possibly because he himself only spoke it at second hand, I didn’t take to it easily. I never learned to think in it, which is unusual for me, and I found it ugly and dull, with its long vowels that make you sound as though you had wind. But the real curse of my days was being instructed in the actual impersonation. We had the tremendous advantage, as I was to see for myself later, that Carl Gustaf and I were real doppelg?ngers, as like as two tits. Even our voices were the same, but he had mannerisms and tricks of speech that I had to learn, and the only way was for me to try attitudes and phrases over and over, in different styles, until Rudi would snap his fingers and exclaim: “Er ist es selbst! Now say it again, and yet again.” For example, it seemed that if you asked Carl Gustaf a question to which the normal answer would have been “yes” or “of course”, he, instead of contenting himself with “ja”, would often say “sicher”, which means “positively, certainly”, and he would say it with a jaunty air, and a little stab of his right fore-finger. Again, in listening to people, he would look past them, giving tiny occasional nods of his head and making almost inaudible grunts of agreement. Lots of people do this, but I don’t happen to be one of them, so I had to practise until I found myself doing it almost without thinking. And he had a quick, brisk laugh, showing his teeth—I worked at that until my throat smarted and my jaws ached. But this was easy compared with the contortions I went through in trying to mimic his trick of raising one eyebrow by itself; I came near to setting up a permanent twitch in one check, and eventually they decided to let it be, and hope that no one noticed that my eyebrows perversely worked together. Fortunately, Carl Gustaf was a cheerful, easy-going chap, much as I am myself, but I had to work hard to try to correct the sulky look I get when I’m out of sorts, and my habit of glowering and sticking out my lower lip. This ray of Danish sunshine didn’t glower, apparently; when he was in the dumps he showed it with an angry frown, so of course I had to knit my brows until they ached. How well I learned my lessons you may judge when I tell you that to this day I have his trick of rubbing one hand across the back of the other (when thinking deeply), and that I entirely lost my own habit of scratching my backside (when puzzled). Royalty—I have Bersonin’s solemn word for it—never claw at their arses to assist thought. Now the result of all this, day after day, and of the unbroken pretence that my captors kept up, was remarkable and sometimes even frightening. I suppose I’m a good actor, to begin with—after all, when you’ve been shamming all your life, as I have, it must come pretty natural—but there were times when I forgot that I was acting at all, and began to half-believe that I was Carl Gustaf. I might be practising before the long cheval glass, with Rudi and Bersonin watching and criticising, and I would see this bald-headed young fellow in the green hussar rig flashing his smile and stabbing his forefinger, and think to myself, “Aye, that’s me”—and then my mind would try to recapture the picture of the dark, damn-you-me-lad-looking fellow with the curly hair and whiskers—and I would discover that I couldn’t do it. That was when I found it frightening—when I had forgotten what my old self looked like. Mind you, my character didn’t change; these flashes were only momentary. But I certainly began to believe that we would carry off the imposture, and the terror that I had originally felt about it subsided to a mere craven apprehension of what the end of it all might be—when payday came and the real Carl Gustaf had come back into his own. However, that was in the future, and in the meantime I was floating with the tide, as is my habit, and letting my puppet-handlers think that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. For their part, they seemed delighted with my progress, and one day, about three weeks after I had come to Sch?nhausen, on an evening when Bismarck joined the rest of us at supper, I did something which convinced Rudi and Bersonin that the first round was won at least. We were sitting down to table, myself at the head, as usual, and Bismarck plumped down in his chair before I did. Now I was so used by this time to being seated first that I simply stared at him, more in curiosity, I imagine, than anything else; and he, catching my glance, actually began to get to his feet. Rudi, who missed nothing, couldn’t repress a chuckle and a delighted slap of his thigh. “Right royal, Otto,” says he to Bismarck. “He had you feeling like a bad-mannered little schoolboy there, I’ll swear. Bravo, your highness, you’ll do.” This was rather more familiarity with me than Rudi had allowed himself since my duel with de Gautet. It didn’t matter to me, of course, but Bersonin was shocked, and muttered that Rudi was forgetting himself. It occurred to me then that I was not the only one who was beginning to believe in my own royalty. Anyway, I played up by remarking to Bersonin casually that the Freiherr was still at an age when impudence took precedence before dignity, and was this hock that we were to drink again to night? Bismarck observed all this impassively, but I felt sure he was secretly impressed by the naturalness of my princely behaviour, and even more by his own momentary reaction to it. I should say in passing that Bismarck’s appearance that night was a rare one. For days at a time I never saw him, but from casual conversation among the others I gathered that he was frequently in Berlin—he was a member of their Parliament, apparently, when he wasn’t kidnapping useful Englishmen and plotting l?se majest?. I also learned that he had a wife in the capital, which surprised me; somehow I had come to think of him as brooding malevolently in his lonely castle, wishing he was Emperor of Germany. I remembered that Lola had thought he was a cold fish where women were concerned, but it seemed that this was only a pose; before his marriage, apparently, he had been saddling up with all the wenches on his estate and breeding bastards like a buck rabbit. They called him the Sch?nhausen Ogre in those days, but of late he had been devoting himself to politics and his new wife, Bersonin said, and taking a serious interest in his farm property. A likely tale, thinks I; his only interest in politics was to get personal power, no matter how, and to gorge himself with food, drink, and women along the way. Nasty brute. However, as I say, we didn’t see much of him, or of anyone else for that matter. They kept me pretty well confined to one wing of the house, and although there must have been servants I never saw one except the old butler. There wasn’t a woman in the place, which was a dead bore, and when I suggested to Rudi that he might whistle up a wench or two to pass the evenings he just shook his head and said it was out of the question. “Your highness must contain yourself in patience,” says he. “May I respectfully remind you that your wedding is not far off?” “Thanks very much,” says I. “And may I respectfully remind you that I’m feeling randified now, and in no mood to hold myself in until my wedding to some young German cow who probably looks like a boatswain’s mate.” “Your highness need have no fears on that score,” says he, and he showed me a portrait of Duchess Irma of Strackenz which I must say cheered me up considerably. She looked very young, and she had one of those cold, narrow disdainful faces that you find on girls who have always had their own way, but she was a beauty, no question. Her hair was long and blonde, and her features very fine and regular; she made me think of a story I remembered from my childhood about a snow princess who had a heart of ice. Well, I could warm this one up, always assuming our enterprise got that far. “In the meantime,” says I, “what say to some nice, hearty country girl? She could teach me some more German, you know, and I could teach her anatomy.” But he wouldn’t hear of it. So the weeks ran by, and I suppose that gradually the nightmare impossibility of my position must have begun to seem less incredible than it looks now, half a century after; whatever happens to you, however far-fetched, you get used to eventually, I’ve found, and when the time came to leave Sch?nhausen I was ready for it. I was in a fair funk, of course, but so heartily thankful to be getting out of that draughty mausoleum that even the ordeal ahead seemed endurable. It must have been a week or so after the meeting with Bismarck that I’ve just described that I was summoned late one evening to his library. They were all there, Rudi, Bismarck, and the Three Wise Men, and I knew at once that something was up. Bismarck was still in his greatcoat, with the last snowflakes melting on its shoulders, and a little pool of water forming round each boot as he stood before the fire. He looked me over bleakly, hands behind his back, and then says: “The scars are still too livid. Any fool can see they are recent.” This seemed an excellent reason to me for calling off the whole thing, but Kraftstein said in his ponderous way that he could attend to them; he had a salve which could disguise their pinkness and make them look like old wounds. This seemed to satisfy Bismarck, for he grunted and turned to Rudi. “Otherwise he is ready? He can play the part? Your head depends on this, remember.” “His highness is ready to resume his duties,” says Rudi. Bismarck snorted. “His highness! He is an actor, hired to play a part. Better he should remember that, and the consequences of missing a cue—he’ll be less liable to bungle it. Oh, yes Bersonin, I know all about your theories; I prefer realities. And the reality of this, Mr Flashman, is that tomorrow you leave for Strackenz. You know what is to do, the reward of success—and the price of failure.” His cold eyes played over me. “Are you dismayed?” “Oh, no,” says I. “when it’s all over I intend to go back to England and take the place of Prince Albert, don’t you know.” Rudi laughed, but I saw Kraftstein shake his head—no doubt he was thinking that I didn’t look enough like Prince Albert to get away with it. “Sit down,” says Bismarck. “Give him a brandy, de Gautet.” He came to stand at the table head, looking down at me. “Listen to me carefully. When you leave here tomorrow you will be accompanied by Freiherr von Starnberg and de Gautet. They will take you by coach to the rendezvous we have appointed—you need to know nothing more than that it is a country mansion owned by a nobleman who is to play host to Prince Carl Gustaf for one night during his journey to Strackenz. The journey to the house will take two days, but we are allowing three, for safety. “On the appointed day Carl Gustaf and his retinue will arrive at the mansion in the afternoon. It stands in wooded country, but is easily accessible; you will be waiting for evening, and when it comes von Starnberg and de Gautet will take you into the grounds under cover of darkness. You will be admitted by a man who is one of the only three in the world, outside this room, who is in our plot. His name is Detchard, a Danish minister entirely faithful to me. He will conduct you secretly to the Prince’s apartment; in the meantime von Starnberg will be effecting the … removal of the real Prince. Have I made myself clear so far?” By God he had, and as I listened all my old fears came galloping back with a vengeance. The thing was obvious lunacy, and this outrageous creature, standing so straight and immaculate in his greatcoat, was a dangerous maniac. “But … but, look here,” I began, “suppose something goes wrong—I mean, suppose somebody comes …” He banged his fist on the table and glared at me. “Nothing will go wrong! No one will come! Righteous Lord God! Do you suppose I know nothing? Do you imagine I have not planned every detail? De Gautet! Tell him—what is the name of the serving-maid whose duty it will be to change the Prince’s bed linen while he is at the house?” “Heidi Gelber,” says de Gautet. “Starnberg—how do you reach the Prince’s dressing-room from the door where Detchard will admit you?” “Twelve paces along a passage, up the stairway to the right, left at the first landing, then ten paces along to a passage on the right. The Prince’s dressing-room is the first door on the left.” “From door to door—fifty seconds,” says Bismarck. “If you wish, I can tell you the precise nature of the furnishings in the Prince’s chamber, and their positions in the room. For example, there is a statuette of a kneeling cupid on the overmantel. Now—are you convinced that my organisation is sound, and my information complete?” “How do you know that some drunk footman won’t come blundering along in the middle of everything?” I cried. I thought he would hit me, but he restrained himself. “It will not happen,” he said. “Everything will fall out exactly as I have said.” There was no point in arguing, of course; I sat in despair while he went on. “Once inside that room, you will be Prince Carl Gustaf. That is the fact of paramount importance. From that moment Flashman no longer exists—you understand? With you will be Detchard and the Prince’s physician, Orsted, who is also privy to our plans. If at any moment you are in doubt, they will guide you. And when you set out next morning on your royal progress across the border into Strackenz, you will find that among the dignitaries who will greet you will be both de Gautet and Starnberg—it has been arranged that they will join your train as gentlemen of honour. So you will not lack for friends,” he added grimly. “Now drink your brandy.” I gulped it down; I needed it. At the back of my mind I suppose there had still been some futile hope that I would be able to slip out of this at the last moment, but Bismarck had squashed it flat. I was going to have to go through with it, with Rudi and de Gautet hovering alongside ready, at the first false move, to put a bullet into me, I didn’t doubt. Why the hell, I asked myself for the thousandth time, had I ever come to this bloody country? “The wedding will take place on the day after your arrival in the city of Strackenz,” Bismarck went on, for all the world as though he had been telling me the time of day. “You have already received some instruction in the details of the ceremony, of course. And then—all plain sailing, as your people say.” He sat down, and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter. He sipped at it, while I sat mute, staring at my glass. “Well, Mr Flashman; what have you to say?” “What the hell does it matter what I say?” I burst out. “I’ve no choice, damn you!” To my amazement, he actually chuckled. He stretched his legs and twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers. “None at all,” says he, grinning. “Flashman, you should be glad. You will be making history—aye, great history. Do you realise, I wonder, the magnitude of what we are doing? We are nailing a little hinge to a door, a great door which will open to reveal the destiny of a greater Germany! And you—a half-pay officer of no account, a pawn even in your own country’s affairs—you are going to make it possible! Can you imagine what it means?” The man was positively beaming now, with a kind of fierce joy in his eyes. “For we are going to win! We six here, we are staking ourselves, our lives, everything—and we are going to succeed! I look at you, and I know we cannot fail. God has sent you to Germany, and I send you now to Strackenz.” There was a nice little comparison there, all right. “And in Strackenz you will play such a game as has never been played before in the history of the world. And you will not fail—I know it! What a destiny! To be one of the architects of the new Fatherland!” He lifted his glass. “I salute you, and drink to our enterprise!” Believe it or not, he actually raised my spirits a little with that. Of course, it was all humbug, designed to put some backbone into me—that was all he knew—but the man was so supremely confident it was infectious: if he really believed we could bring it off—well, perhaps we could. The others cheered and we all drank, and Bismarck sighed and refilled his glass. I’d never seen him anything like this before; for the moment he was almost jovial, showing an entirely new side of his nature—all carefully calculated for my benefit, I imagine. “How will we look back on this?” he mused. “When we are old, and in our country places, and the bold lads of a new day are elbowing for power in the chancelleries? I wonder.” He shook his head. “I think I will wear leather breeches and allow myself to be laughed at in Stettin wool market, and sell two thalers cheaper to anyone who calls me ‘baron’. And you, Flashman—you will sit in your club in St James, and grow fat on port and your memories. But we will have lived, by God! We will have fought! We will have won! Is it not something to have moved great affairs, and shaped the course of time?” No doubt I should have shared his enthusiasm, like Kraftstein, who was hanging on every word, and looking like a ruptured bullock. But all I could think to myself was, God, I wish John Gully had really set to work on you. What I said aloud was: “Herr Bismarck, I am much moved. And now, with your permission, I intend to get as drunk as possible. Afterwards, tomorrow, I shall be at your service, since I can’t do anything else. But if I’m to shape the destiny of Europe, I’ll need a good skinful of liquor inside me to set me off. So will you kindly oblige me with the bottle, and a cigar, and as many dirty drinking songs as you and your friends can remember? And if this seems to you a coarse and pagan spirit in which to approach our glorious adventure for the Fatherland, well—you’ve made your preparations; let me now make mine.” Chapter 7 (#ulink_58cb6354-1d7e-5cd5-8d2f-81e51d512444) As a result of the night’s excesses, which Bismarck didn’t discourage, I had a raging headache and a heaving stomach on the morning of my departure from Sch?nhausen. So I remember very little of it, which is no loss. For that matter my recollections of the journey north to Strackenz are hazy, too; I’ve travelled too far in my time to be anything but bored by it, and there was nothing to see that I recall except flat snowy fields, the occasional village, and bleak woodlands of bare black trees. Rudi was full of spirits as usual, and de Gautet was his smooth, civil self, but I knew he wouldn’t forget or forgive that schlager-thrust in the guts. I hadn’t forgotten the two cuts I owed him, either, so we were even there. He never referred to our encounter, but now and then in the coach I would catch his dark eyes on me, and then they would slide away, looking anywhere but at me. He was one who wouldn’t be sorry of the excuse to draw a bead on my back if I tried to run for it. Following Bismarck’s lead, both of them had dropped the pretence of calling me “highness”—Bersonin’s “theory”, as Bismarck had called it, being well enough in my training period, I suppose, but now considered unnecessary. But they lost no chance of lecturing me on such subjects as the geography of Strackenz, the ceremonial forms of its court, and the details of the wedding ceremony. I suppose I took it all in, for there was nothing else to do, but it has all gone now. We were three days on the road, and the last afternoon of the journey took us deep into forest-country, all ghostly and silent under the snow. It was very beautiful and solemn, with never a soul to be seen along the rough track winding among the trees, until about four in the afternoon we stopped in a little clearing where a small hut stood, with thin smoke wreathing up from its chimney into the steely sky. There were two or three brisk-looking fellows in peasant clothes to rub down the horses and usher us into the cottage—not that I took them for peasants, for I heard two of them in talk with Rudi. They were gentlemen, by German standards, but tough, active customers for all that—the kind who’ll cut your throat and send back the wine at dinner afterwards. We had a meal, Rudi and I, while de Gautet paced up and down and peered out at the darkening sky and consulted his watch and fidgeted generally until Rudi told him to leave off, and made him sit down and have a glass of wine with us. I was getting fairly twitchy myself as the hours passed, and Rudi gave me a stiff brandy to steady me. “Three hours from now,” says he, “and you’ll be tucked up in a silk night-gown with C.G. embroidered on it. God! I wish I was in your shoes. How many commoners have the chance to be royalty!” “I’ll show you one who’s ready to resign his crown any time,” says I. The shivers were beginning to run up my spine. “Nonsense. Give you two days, and you’ll be behaving as though you’d been born to the purple. Issuing royal decrees against virginity, probably. What time is it, de Gautet?” “We should be moving.” I heard the strain in his voice. “Heigh-ho,” says Rudi, stretching; he was as cool as though he was off for an evening stroll. “Come along, then.” There was a slight altercation just before setting out when de Gautet, officiously helping me into my cloak, discovered my pistols in the pockets. I’d had them concealed in a pair of boots in my baggage at Sch?nhausen, and was determined that they were going with me. Rudi shook his head. “Royalty don’t carry side-arms, except for ceremony.” “I do,” says I. “Either they go with me, or I don’t go at all.” “What good d’you suppose they’ll be, man?” “None, I hope. But if the worst happens they’ll perhaps buy me a little elbow-room.” De Gautet was in a sweat to be off, so in the end Rudi cursed and grinned and let me keep them. He knew I wouldn’t be fool enough to make a bolt for it now. With de Gautet leading, Rudi and I behind, and two of the others in the rear, we struck out through the trees, plodding ankle-deep through the snow. It was still as death all round, and hellish dark, but de Gautet led on unerringly for perhaps quarter of an hour, when we came to a high stone wall running across our front. There was a wicket, and then we were skirting past a thicket of high bushes which, by their regular spacing, must be in the garden of some great estate. Even in the darkness I could make out the level sweep of lawn under the snow, and then ahead of us were the blazing lights of a huge mansion, surrounded by terraces, and hedged about by avenues of clipped bushes. De Gautet strode noiselessly up one of these, with us hard on his heels. There were stone steps rising to a wing of the house that seemed to be in darkness, and then we were clustered round a small doorway under a great stone lintel, and Rudi was softly whistling (of all things) “Marlbroug s’en va-t’en guerre”. For a few seconds we waited, breathing hoarsely like schoolboys who have robbed an orchard, and then the door opened. “Detchard?” De Gautet went in, and we followed. There was a man in a frock-coat in the dimly-lit passage; he closed the door quickly behind us—the other two were still outside somewhere—and motioned us to silence. He was a tall, distinguished old file with a beaky nose and heavy lower lip; he had grey hair and a beard like a muffler round his jaw-line. He glanced keenly at me, muttered “Donner!”, and turned to Rudi. “A complication. His highness has retired early. He is already in his apartments.” Aha, thinks I, clever little Bismarck’s bandobast didn’t allow for this; oh, Jesus, we’re done for … “No matter,” says Rudi easily. “He has three rooms; he can’t be in all of them at once.” This was gibberish to me, but it seemed to reassure Detchard. Without another word he led us along the passage, up a stair, into a well-lighted and carpeted corridor, and round a corner to a large double-door. He paused, listening, cautiously turned the handle, and peered in. A moment later we were all inside. Detchard stood for a moment, and I could hear my heart thumping like a paddle-wheel. The sound of voices came softly through an adjoining door from the next room. “His highness is in his bed-chamber,” whispers Detchard. Rudi nodded. “Strip,” says he to me, and de Gautet bundled up my gear as I tore it off. He knotted it all in my cloak—I had just sense enough to remember my pistols, and thrust them hurriedly under a cushion—and then I was standing there, mother-naked, while Detchard listened with his ear to the panels of the communicating door. “Lucky little Duchess Irma,” murmurs Rudi, and I saw him grinning at me. “Let’s hope the real prince is as royally endowed.” He tipped me a mock salute, very debonair. “Bonne chance, your highness. Ready, de Gautet?” Together they went to the communicating door, Rudi nodded, and in a moment they had opened it and slipped through, with Detchard behind them. There was a second in which the murmur of voices sounded louder, and then the door closed, and I was left, stark in a royal dressing-room in a German mansion, all alone and palpitating. For a moment there wasn’t a sound, and then something tumbled next door. Minutes passed, a door was shut somewhere, there was a muttering of voices in the corridor that sent me scampering behind the curtains, and then silence. Several minutes passed, and my teeth began to chatter with cold and apprehension. At last I peeped out, to see if there wasn’t a gown or something to wrap up in: there was plenty of furniture in the room, the main article being an enormous decorated commode—it struck me as my usual luck that whereas most royal successions lead to a throne, mine had got me nothing so far but a thunderbox—but devil a rag of clothing beyond a couple of towels. So I wrapped up in the curtain as well as I could, and waited fearfully. Then the door opened, and Detchard’s voice said softly: “Wo sind sie?” I poked my head out. He was carrying a big silk dressing-gown, thank God, and I grabbed at it, shuddering. “His highness has left the house,” says he. “Everything is in train. Is all well with you?” “Oh, splendid—except that I’m almost frozen to death. Isn’t there a fire, in God’s name?” “There is a stove in the bedroom,” says he, and ushered me through to a splendid apartment, thickly-carpeted, with a huge four-poster bed richly-curtained, and a fine stove with its doors thrown wide to warm the room. While I thawed out Detchard stood with his grey head cocked, considering me and toying with his seals. “It is truly amazing,” says he, at last. “I did not believe it—but you are the same man. Wonderful!” “Well, I hope the other one’s warmer than I am. Haven’t you any brandy?” He poured me a glass, very carefully, and watched me gulp it down. “You are nervous,” says he. “Naturally. However, you will have the night to accustom yourself to the—ah, novelty of your situation. His highness retired early, with a slight headache no doubt brought on by the fatigue of his journey, so you will be undisturbed. Your host, Count von Tarlenheim, has given particular instructions. You will meet him briefly tomorrow, by the way, before we set out for the border. An amiable dotard. His highness—or I should say, your highness—has been quite formal with him so far, so there will be no questions asked if you are no more forthcoming tomorrow than politeness demands.” “Thank God for that,” says I. I wanted time to play myself in, so to speak, and the thought of chattering to a breakfast table was out of court altogether. “The only people who have been close to you on the journey, apart from myself, are Dr Ostred, your physician, and young Josef, your valet. He has been in your service only a day, your old valet, Einar, having become indisposed shortly after we set out.” “Convenient,” says I. “Will he live?” “Of course. You are much concerned about him.” He turned, and I leaped violently as the door opened, and a little anxious-looking chap came in. “Ah, Ostred,” says Detchard, and the little chap blinked, looked at me, at Detchard, and back at me again. “I thought …” he stammered. “That is—your pardon, highness. I supposed … you had retired … that you would be in bed.” He looked helplessly to Detchard, and I thought, by heaven, he thinks I’m the real man. He couldn’t make out what had gone wrong. So here was a first-rate chance to put the thing to the test; if I could fool my own doctor I could fool anyone. “I have a headache,” says I, quite gently. “That doesn’t mean that I have to take to my bed.” “No, no … of course not, highness.” He licked his lips. “Perhaps you might take his highness’s pulse, doctor,” says Detchard, and the little fellow came over and took my wrist as though it was made of porcelain. There were beads of sweat on his brow. “A little swift,” he muttered, and glanced at my face. He was scared and puzzled, and then he literally leaped back as though he had seen a ghost. “He … he …” he exclaimed, pointing. “No, Ostred,” says Detchard. “He is not the prince.” “But—” the little doctor gargled speechlessly, and I couldn’t help laughing. “But he is—identical! Dear Jesus! I could not believe it! I was sure, when I saw him, that something had gone amiss—that it was still the prince. My God!” “What gave him away?” asks Detchard. “The scars. They are new, and pink.” Detchard snapped his teeth in annoyance. “The scars, of course. I had forgotten. That might have cost us dear. However, we have the means to put it right.” And he took out a flask, which I suppose Rudi had given him, and daubed at my wounds until he and the doctor were satisfied. “There,” says Detchard. “When did you last shave your head?” “Last night.” “It will do for the moment. Ostred will attend to it again tomorrow.” He pulled out his watch. “Now, it may be best if you and I, doctor, return to our hosts.” For my benefit he rattled off a few more details about Tarlenheim and the arrangements for the morning. “Your valet will look in shortly, to see you to bed,” he concluded. “You may sleep easily, believe me. Now that I have seen you, my doubts are at rest. I seriously question if your own father would detect the imposture. Ha! You see—I said ‘your’ own father.” He smiled grimly. “I half believe in you myself. And so, your highness, I have the honour to bid you good-night.” They withdrew, bowing, and left me trembling—but for once it wasn’t funk. I was elated—I had fooled Ostred. By God, it was going to work. I took a turn round the room, grinning to myself, drank another glass of brandy, and another, and stood beaming at myself in the mirror. Well, Prince Harry, thinks I, if only Elspeth could see you now. And old moneybags Morrison. And Lord God-almighty Cardigan. He’d be glad enough to have royalty back in his flea-bitten 11th Hussars. For I was royal, for the moment—a full-blown prince of the blood, no less, until—aye, until Bismarck’s little game was played out. And then—oh, the blazes with him. I had another glass of brandy and took stock of my royal surroundings. Sumptuous wasn’t the word for them—silk sheets, lace pillow, solid silver cup and plate by the bed—with breast of chicken under a napkin, bigod, in case I felt peckish. I resisted a temptation to slip the plate into a pocket—plenty of time for lifting the lumber later. This was only a staging-post on the journey, after all; the pick of the loot would be in the palace of Strackenz. But I felt I could rough it here for the night—excellent liquor, a warm fire, cigars in a tooled leather box, even the pot under the bed was of the best china, with little fat-arsed cherubs running round it. I plumped back on the bed—it was like floating on a cloud. Well, thinks I, they may talk about cares of state, and uneasy lies the head and all that tommy-rot, but this is the life for old Flashy. You may take my word for it, next time you hear about the burdens of monarchy, that royalty do themselves damned proud. I’ve been one; I know. My eye fell on an ornament on the mantel; a carved kneeling figure. A little prickle ran through me as I realised that this was the cupid Bismarck had mentioned—by jove, he knew his business, that one. Down to the last detail. I rolled off the bed and looked at it, and felt a slight glow of pleasure as I realised it wasn’t a cupid after all—it was a nymph. The great Otto wasn’t infallible then, after all. It was most obviously a nymph, and contemplating it I realised there was one thing missing from my princely paradise. Bronze nymphs don’t compare to real ones: I hadn’t had a woman since the blubbery Baroness Pechman had been so rudely plucked from my embrace—and I hadn’t really been able to get to proper grips with her before Rudi had interrupted us. Fat and all as she was, the thought of her was making me feverish, and at that moment there was a soft tap at the door and a slim, very sober-looking fellow slipped in. This was obviously Josef, my valet. I was on guard again in a moment. “Is there anything your highness requires?” says he. “I don’t think so, Josef,” says I, and gave a yawn. “Just going to bed.” And then a splendid idea occurred to me. “You may send up a chambermaid to turn down the covers.” He looked surprised. “I can do that, sir.” Now, Flashy would have growled: “Damn your eyes, do as you’re bloody well told.” But Prince Carl Gustaf merely said, “No, send the chambermaid.” He hesitated a second, his face expressionless. Then: “Very good, your highness.” He bowed and went to the door. “Goodnight, highness.” Of course, it was a dam-fool thing to do, but what with the brandy and my randy thoughts, I didn’t care. Anyway, wasn’t I a prince? And the real Carl Gustaf was no monk, by all accounts—and damned careless about it, too. So I waited in lustful anticipation, until there was another knock, and a girl peeped in when I called out to enter. She was a pretty, plump little thing, curly-haired and as broad as she was long, but just the thing for me with my thoughts running on Baroness Pechman. She had a bright eye, and it occurred to me that Josef was perhaps no fool. She curtsied and tripped across to the bed, and when I sauntered over—slipping the door-bolt on the way—and stood beside her, she giggled and made a great show of smoothing out my pillow. “All work and no play isn’t good for little girls,” says I, and sitting on the bed I pulled her on to my knee. She hardly resisted, only trying to blush and look demure, and when I pulled down her bodice and kissed her breasts she cooed and wriggled her body against mine. In no time we were thrashing about in first-rate style, and I was making up for weeks of enforced abstinence. She was an eager little bundle, all right, and by the time she had slipped away, leaving me to seek a well-earned rest, I was most happily played out. I’ve sometimes wondered what the result of that encounter was, and if there is some sturdy peasant somewhere in Holstein called Carl who puts on airs in the belief that he can claim royal descent. If there is, he can truly be called an ignorant bastard. There are ways of being drunk that have nothing to do with alcohol. For the next few days, apart from occasional moments of panic-stricken clarity, I was thoroughly intoxicated. To be a king—well, a prince—is magnificent; to be fawned at, and deferred to, and cheered, and adulated; to have every wish granted—no, not granted, but attended to immediately by people who obviously wish they had anticipated it; to be the centre of attention, with everyone bending their backs and craning their necks and loving you to ecstasy—it is the most wonderful thing. Perhaps I’d had less of it than even ordinary folk, especially when I was younger, and so appreciated it more; anyway, while it lasted I fairly wallowed in it. Of course, I’d had plenty of admiration when I came home from Afghanistan, but that was very different. Then they’d said: “There’s the heroic Flashman, the bluff young lionheart who slaughters niggers and upholds old England’s honour. Gad, look at those whiskers!” Which was splendid, but didn’t suggest that I was more than human. But when you’re royalty they treat you as though you’re God; you begin to feel that you’re of entirely different stuff from the rest of mankind; you don’t walk, you float, above it all, with the mob beneath, toadying like fury. I had my first taste of it the morning I left Tarlenheim, when I breakfasted with the Count and about forty of his crowd—goggling gentry and gushing females—before setting out. I was in excellent shape after bumping the chambermaid and having a good night’s rest, and was fairly gracious to one and all—even to old Tarlenheim, who could have bored with the best of them in the St James clubs. He remarked that I looked much healthier this morning—the solicitous inquiries after my headache would have put a Royal Commission on the plague to shame—and encouraged, I suppose, by my geniality, began to tell me about what a hell of a bad harvest they’d had that year. German potatoes were in a damnable condition, it seemed. However, I put up with him, and presently, after much hand-kissing and bowing, and clanking of guardsmen about the driveway, I took my royal leave of them, and we bowled off by coach for the Strackenz border. It was a fine, bright day, with snow and frost all over the place, but warm enough for all that. My coach was a splendid machine upholstered in grey silk, excellently sprung, and with the Danish Royal arms on the panels. (I remembered that the coach Wellington had once taken me in looked like a public cab, and rattled like a wheelbarrow.) There were cuirassiers bumping along in escort—smart enough—and a great train of other coaches bringing up the rear. I lounged and had a cheroot, while Detchard assured me how well things had gone, and would continue to go—he needn’t have bothered, for I was in an exalted state of confidence—and then presently we rolled through our first village, and the cheering began. All along the road, even at isolated houses, there were smiling faces and fluttering handkerchiefs; squires and peasants, farm-girls and ploughmen, infants waving the red and white Danish colours and the curious thistle-like emblem which is the badge of Holstein, labourers in their smocks staring, mounted officials saluting—the whole countryside seemed to have converged on the Strackenz road to see my royal highness pass by. I beamed and waved as we rushed past, and they hallooed and waved back all the harder. It was a glorious dream, and I was enjoying it to the full, and then Detchard reminded me drily that these were only Holsteiners, and I might save some of my royal energy for the Strackenzians. It was at the border, of course, that the real circus began. There was a great crowd waiting, the toffs to the fore and the mob craning and hurrahing at a more respectful distance. I stepped out of the coach, at Detchard’s instruction, and the cheers broke out louder than ever—the crashing three-fold bark that is the German notion of hip-hip-hip-hooray. An elderly cove with snow-white hair, thin and hobbling stiffly, came forward bowing and hand-kissing, to bid me welcome in a creaking voice. “Marshal von Saldern, Constable of Strackenz,” whispered Detchard, and I grasped the old buffer’s hand while he gushed over me and insisted that this was the greatest day in Strackenz’s history, and welcome, thrice welcome, highness. In turn I assured him that no visitor to Strackenz had ever arrived more joyfully than I, and that if their welcome was any foretaste of what was to come then I was a hell of a fortunate fellow, or words to that effect. They roared and clapped at this, and then there were presentations, and I inspected a guard of honour of the Strackenz Grenadiers, and off we went again, with von Saldern in my coach, to point out to me objects of interest, like fields and trees and things—the old fellow was as jumpy as a cricket, I realised, and babbled like anything, which I accepted with royal amiability. And then he had to leave off so that I could devote myself to waving to the people who were now lining the road all the way, and in the distance there was the sound of a great throng and a tremendous bustle; far away guns began to boom in salute, and we were rolling through the suburbs of the city of Strackenz itself. The crowds were everywhere now, massed on the pavements, waving from the windows, crouching precariously on railings, and all yelling to beat the band. There were flags and bunting and the thumping of martial music, and then a great archway loomed ahead, and the coach rolled slowly to a halt. The hubbub died away a little, and I saw a small procession of worthies in robes and flat caps approaching the coach. Ahead was a stalwart lad carrying a cushion with something on it. “The keys to the city,” quavered von Saldern. “For your highness’s gracious acceptance.” Without a thought, I opened the door and jumped down, which I gather was unexpected, but was a happy act, as it turned out. The crowds roared at the sight of me, the band began booming away, and the little burgomaster took the keys—huge heavy things on an enormous collar—and begged me to accept them as an earnest of the loyalty and love of the city. “Your city, highness,” he squeaked. “And your home!” I knew enough to say that I was deeply sensible of the great honour done me, and to give him the keys back again. And being somewhat exalted, I felt it appropriate to slip my sword-belt over my head, present the weapon to him, and say that it would be ever-ready in the defence of Strackenzian honour and independence, or some such stuff. I didn’t know it, but that brief speech had an enormous political implication, the Danish-Strackenzians being in a great sweat about the German threat to their liberty, and the German-Strackenzians bursting to get away from Danish sovereignty. Anyway, the yell of applause that greeted it was startling, the little burgomaster went red with emotion, and taking the sword he pressed it back on me, tears in his eyes, and calling me the champion of Strackenzian freedom. I don’t know which side he was on, but it didn’t seem to matter; I believe if I’d shouted “Chairs to mend!” they’d have cheered just as loud. I was then invited to enter the city, and it seemed a good notion to me to ride in on horseback rather than go in the coach. There was delight and confusion at this; orders were shouted, officers scampered to and fro, and then a cavalryman led forward a lovely black gelding, speed written in every line of him, and I mounted amid scenes of enthusiasm. I must have looked pretty fine, if I say it myself; they had dressed me that morning all in pale blue, with the blue sash of the Order of the Elephant over my shoulder (I’ve worn it in the last few years, by the way, at London functions, to the surprise and scandal of the Danish Embassy, who wondered where the deuce I’d got it. I referred them to former Chancellor Bismarck). The uniform set off my excellent stature famously, and since my disgusting bald head was covered by a plumed helmet, ? la Tin-bellies, I’ve no doubt I looked sufficiently dashing. The band played, the cheering re-echoed, and I rode through the gateway into the city of Strackenz. Flowers were showered from the balconies, girls blew kisses, the troops lining the street struggled to hold back the press, and I waved and inclined my princely head, left and right, and smiled on my loyal subjects-to-be. “Well, he can ride,” someone called out, and a wit in the crowd shouted back “Aye, Duchess Irma will find out all about that,” at which there was some commotion. I was aware that for all the adulation and hurrahing, there were those in the crowd who stood silent, and even some who looked positively hostile. These would be the Germans, no doubt, who didn’t want to see the state bound any closer to Denmark. However, they were a small minority, in the city at all events, and for the most part it was flowers and laughter all the way, with Prince Charming flashing his smile to the prettiest girls and feeling no end of a fellow. Probably because I was enjoying myself so much, it was no time at all to the town hall. I should say that Strackenz isn’t much of a city, being no greater than one of our market towns, although it has a cathedral and a ducal palace of some pretension. For that matter the whole duchy isn’t more than a dozen miles across by about thirty in length, having been whittled down over the centuries from a fair-sized province. But it was a perfect hotbed of nationalist emotions, German and Danish, and fiercely proud of its traditions, including its ducal house. The Danish faction were overjoyed at the impending marriage, hence their tumultuous welcome of me. At the town hall there were more dignitaries, and bowing and scraping, and I was presented with an ornamental casket bearing the city’s arms, and invited to sign an order for a jail clearance—it being the custom here, as elsewhere, to celebrate joyous occasions by letting all the hooligans and harlots out of the local clink. How this is supposed to add to the general jollity I’ve never understood—furthermore, although I’ve been in half the lock-ups between Libby Prison and Botany Bay myself, no one has ever held a clearance that benefited me. I’m against ’em, on principle, but I saw nothing for it here but to sign, until the moment I actually took the pen in my hand and realised, with a fearful qualm, that one thing my instructors hadn’t taught me was how to forge Carl Gustaf’s signature. I didn’t even know what his writing looked like. Probably I could have signed my own fist and no one would ever have spotted a difference, but at the time I didn’t dare to risk it. For what seemed a year I hesitated, at the great burgomaster’s table, with the long roll of parchment stretched out in front of me, and my pen poised, while the crowd goggled expectantly and the little burgomaster stood waiting to pounce on my signature with the sand-caster. And then my mother-wit came back to me, and I laid down the pen and said, very quietly and seriously, that before signing such a delivery—which I reminded them was a grave matter indeed—I would wish to hear a report from the justices assuring me that no malefactor who might prove a danger to the commonweal would be enlarged by the amnesty. It could wait, I said firmly, for a day or two, and added that I would find other and better ways of marking this happy occasion of my arrival. That pious old hypocrite, Arnold, my headmaster, would have loved every word of it, but there was a general air of disappointment round the table, although one or two of the toadies muttered about a prudent prince and wagged their heads approvingly. The little burgomaster looked ready to cry, but agreed that my wishes would be met to the letter. They all cheered up, though, at the next act of the comedy, when a small child was led in to present me with a peach that they had been preparing for me in the hothouse of the local orphanage. I say led in, because the child was so lame he had to go on little crutches, and there were sighings and affected cooings from the females present. I’m no hand with children at all, and have found them usually to be detestable, noisy, greedy little brats, but it seemed best to be monstrously pleasant to this one. So instead of just accepting the gift I racked my brains quickly for a touching gesture, and was inspired to pick him up—he was no size at all—and sit him on the table, and talk to him, and insisted that we eat the peach between us, then and there. He laughed and cried together, and when I patted his head according to form, he fastened on to my hand, and kissed it. The females were all snivelling foully by this time, and the men were looking pitying and noble. I felt ashamed, and still do. It is the only time in my life I have felt ashamed, which is why I put it on record here, and I still don’t know why. Anyway, I left the town hall in a thoroughly ill temper, and when they told me that next on the programme was a visit to the local academy, I as near as not told them I’d had enough of their damned infants for one day. But I didn’t, of course, and presently I was being conducted through the school by the professor, who made an oration in my honour in Greek and then put up his best boys to construe for my entertainment. The things these honest asses imagine will delight royalty! Of course the selected pupils were the usual mealy wretches who are put up in all schools everywhere on such occasions. Pious, manly little villains of the type I used to oppress myself in happier days—Tom Brown could have made a football side out of ’em, I don’t doubt, and had them crying “Play up!” and telling the truth fit to sicken you. So I decided on a bit of mischief, and looked to the back of the school for the local Flashman—aye, there he was, a big, surly lout biting his nails and sneering to himself. “There’s a likely lad, professor,” says I. “Let’s hear him construe.” So, willy-nilly, they had to put the brute up, and he was paper-colour at the shock of it. Of course he floundered and grunted and glared round for inspiration, and the goody-goodies giggled and nudged each other, and the professor’s frown grew blacker every minute. “Stand down, sir,” says he grimly, and to me: “He shall be corrected, highness, I assure you.” “That’s your sort, professor,” says I. “Lay on with a will.” And I left in excellent humour. There would be a raw backside in that school by night, or I was mistaken—mind you, I’d sooner it had happened to the clever little sneaks, but no doubt my counterpart would pass his smarts on to them in turn. The crowds still filled the streets for my final progress to the palace, which was a fine imposing pile on the outskirts of town, with pillars and balconies, and the running lion flag of Strackenz floating from its roof with the Danish colours alongside. The people were jammed up to the railings, and the sweep of the drive beyond was lined with the yellow-jacketed infantry of the Duchess’s guard, all in glittering back-and-breasts, with drawn swords. Trumpeters blew a fanfare, the crowd surged and shouted, and I cantered up the gravel to the broad palace steps. There I turned and waved, for the last time, and wondered why people will make such a fuss over royalty. It’s the same with us; we have our tubby little Teddy, whom everyone pretends is the first gentleman of Europe, with all the virtues, when they know quite well he’s just a vicious old rake—rather like me, but lacking my talent for being agreeable to order. Anyway, I was aboard Lily Langtry long before he was. That by the way; all such lofty philosophical thoughts were driven from my mind when I entered the palace, for there I met the Duchess I was to marry next day in the old Cathedral of Strackenz, and it is a tribute to her that while I have only the haziest memories of the brilliant throng that crowded the marble staircase and great ballroom, my first glimpse of her remains fresh in my mind to this day. I can still see her, standing slim and straight on the dais at the far end of the room, with the ducal throne framed in crimson behind her, watching me as I approached, with the spectators suddenly hushed, and only the sound of my marching feet echoing through the silence. This was one of the moments when it struck me: this is all a fraud, it isn’t real. Here was I, not Prince Carl Gustaf of the ancient royal house of Oldenbourg, but rascally old Flashy of the vulgar and lately-arrived house of Flashman, striding ahead to claim my noble bride. God, I remember thinking, the things people get me into, and that thought probably prevented me from wearing the devil-may-care leer that I normally assume in the presence of beautiful women. She was beautiful, too—far more so than her portrait had made her out. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, but already she had the hard, cold loveliness that you find only among Northern women, with their fine, long features looking as though they had been carved from marble. Her figure, in an ivory dress with a train that spread out behind her, was perhaps a trifle on the slim side, with a hint of boyishness about it, but everything was there and in good parade order. She was crowned with a little silver diadem sparking with stones, and her shining fair hair was pulled back and rolled into some kind of jewelled net behind her head. The effect of it all—so pale and pure and perfect—was rather awe-inspiring; I felt almost afraid of her. The way she looked at me didn’t help matters—the grey eyes were cold and proud, and I thought: this is a spoiled, arrogant madame if ever I saw one. Whatever her feelings might be about a duty marriage, she didn’t seem to care for me at first glance; I knew she was looking at my glistening bald head, and I thought angrily what a damned shame it was I hadn’t my natural adornments of curly mane and whiskers. The hand she held out for me to kiss was as pale and chilly as mist in a cemetery, and just about as welcoming. I took it, murmuring about pleasure and honour and deeply heartfelt felicitous gratification, and felt it quiver ever so slightly before it was withdrawn. So there we stood together on the dais, with me wondering what to say next, and then someone in the watching multitude began to clap, and in a moment they were crowding forward to get a closer look, I suppose, at the pair of us, and everyone was pleased and happy and clapping away like mad. I found myself grinning and nodding at them, but her grace stood there quite serene, with never a smile, as though this was her due, and rather a bore. Well, thinks I, this is going to be a chilly wooing, and then an old cove in a frock coat with orders on his breast came bowing up beside us, and turned to the throng with his hand raised for silence. This turned out to be the Chief Minister, one Schwerin; he made a neat little speech in which he managed to wrap up a nice complimentary welcome for me, a note of homage for the duchess (who couldn’t get too much of it, as I discovered), a patriotic boost for Strackenz, coupled with the state of Denmark, and a hint to the mob to keep their distance and stay out of the buffet next door until her grace and I saw fit to lead the way. That was about the size of it, and the good folk—who were a very well-trained court—chattered respectfully among themselves while Schwerin brought forward the more distinguished to be presented to me. These included the various emissaries to Strackenz, the British one among them, and I found myself thanking God that I’d never moved in diplomatic circles at home, or he might have remembered me. As it was, he and the others made their bows, and when they had withdrawn the Duchess indicated to me that we should sit down. We did so, both rather stiff, and while the noble assembly pretended not to notice, we began to get acquainted. It was formality carried to nonsense, of course, and if I didn’t have a clear memory of our opening exchanges I wouldn’t believe them. Duchess Irma: I trust your highness’s journey has not been tedious. Flashy: Indeed, no, although I confess I have counted every moment in my impatience to be here. Duchess: Your highness is very gracious. We of Strackenz can only hope that you are not too disappointed in us—we are very small and provincial here. Flashy (very gallant): No one could be disappointed who was welcomed by so beautiful and noble a hostess. Duchess: Oh. (Pause). Was the weather cold on your journey? Flashy: At times. Occasionally it was quite warm. Nowhere so warm, however, as I find it here. (This with a flashing smile.) Duchess: You are too hot? I shall order the windows opened. Flashy: Christ, no. That is … I mean, the warmth of your welcome … and the people in the streets, cheering … Duchess: Ah, the people. They are rather noisy. Well, I don’t give up easy, but I confess I was fairly stumped here. Usually, with young women, I get along all too well. Formal chit-chat isn’t my style—a little gallantry, a few jocularities to see if she will or she won’t, a pinch on the buttocks, and off we go. Either that, or off I go. But I couldn’t make anything of the Duchess Irma; she kept her head tilted high and looked past me, so composed and regal that I began to wonder, was she perhaps terrified out of her wits? But before I could take soundings on that, she rose, and I found myself escorting her into the antechamber, where great tables were laid out with silver plate and crystal, and a most scrumptious spread was served by flunkies while a little orchestra struck up in the gallery overhead. I was sharp-set, and while one of the Duchess’s ladies looked after her, I laid into the ham and cold fowls, and chatted affably to the nobs and their ladies, who were making the most of the grub themselves, as the Germans always do. This kind of function normally bores me out of mind, and beyond the fact that the food was unusually excellent, and that the Duchess seemed intent on not being left alone with me for more than a moment at a time, I haven’t any sharp recollection of it. I remember turning once, in that gay company with its buzz of well-bred conversation, and catching her eyes fixed on me; she looked quickly away, and I thought, my God, I’m marrying that woman tomorrow. My heart took a skip at the thought; she was unutterably lovely. And then it took a lurch as I remembered the appalling risk that I ran every moment I was in Strackenz, and wondered what the penalty might be for marrying the heir to the throne under false pretences. Death, certainly. I tried to smile politely at the eager, sycophantic faces around me, and to listen to their incredible inanities of small-talk, while my mind raced away looking for a way out, even although I knew it didn’t exist. I probably drank a little more than I should have done—although I was pretty careful—but at any rate the desperate feeling passed. The good will of the Strackenzians towards me was so evident, and so fulsomely expressed, that I suppose it overcame me and banished my fears. I found I could even talk to the Duchess without embarrassment, although it was obvious to me, if not to anyone else, that she didn’t like me; she remained haughty and distant—but then, she seemed to be the same to everyone, and they swallowed it and sucked up to her. Afterwards old Schwerin and a couple of his ministerial colleagues—I forget their names—took me aside and discussed the next day’s ceremony. They were fairly vague, as I remember, and gassed a good deal about the political advantage of the match, and the popular satisfaction, and how it would have a good and stabilising effect. “Her grace is very young, of course,” says old Schwerin. “Very young.” He gave me rather a sad smile. “Your highness is not so very much older, but your education, at a great court, and your upbringing have perhaps prepared you better for what lies before you both.” (You little know, old son, thinks I.) “It is a great responsibility for you, but you will bear it honourably.” I murmured noble nothings, and he went on: “It is much to ask of two young folk—I often feel that such marriages of state would be the better of—ah—longer preparation. Perhaps I am a sentimentalist,” says he, with a senile smirk, “but it has always seemed to me that a courtship would not be out of place, even between royal personages. Love, after all, does not come in a day.” It depends what you mean by love, thinks I, and one of the others says to Schwerin: “You have a great heart, Adolf.” “I hope I have. I hope so. And your highness, I know, has a great heart also. It will know how to understand our—our little Irma. She is very much like a daughter to us, you see”—he was going pink about the eyes by this time—“and although she seems so serene and proud beyond her years, she is still very much a child.” Well, I could agree with him that she was an unusually arrogant little bitch for her age, but I kept a princely silence. He looked almost pleading. “Your highness,” he said at last, “will be kind to our treasure.” Strange, my own father-in-law had struck something of the same note before I married Elspeth; it’s a polite way of suggesting that you don’t make too much of a beast of yourself on the honeymoon. I assumed a look of manly understanding. “Sirs,” says I. “What can I say, except that I trust I shall always bear myself to your duchess as I would to the daughter of my oldest and dearest friend.” That cheered them up no end, and presently the reception began to draw to a close, and the noble guests imperceptibly melted away; Schwerin beamed paternally on the Duchess and myself, and hinted that as the next day was going to be an exhausting one, we should take all the rest we could beforehand. It was still only early afternoon, but I was dog-tired with the novelty and excitement of the morning, and so we said our formal goodbyes to each other. I made mine as pleasant as I could, and the Duchess Irma received it with an inclination of her head and gave me her hand to kiss. It was like talking to a walking statue. Then Detchard, who had been hovering off my port quarter for several hours, closed in and with attendant flunkies escorted me to the suite reserved for me in the west wing of the palace. They would have made a great fuss of me, but he shooed them away, and what I thought rather odd, he also dismissed Josef, who was waiting to unbutton me and remove my boots. However, I realised he wished us to be private, and when we passed through into my main salon I understood why, for Rudi Starnberg and de Gautet were waiting for us. The sight of them damped my spirits; it was a reminder of what I was here for, with my custodians dogging me all the time. From being the prince I was become play-actor Flashy again. Rudi sauntered across and without so much as by-your-leave took hold of my wrist and felt my pulse. “You’re a cool hand,” says he. “I watched you down below, and on my oath, you looked a most condescending tyrant. How does it feel to play the prince?” I hadn’t been used to this kind of talk in the past few hours, and found myself resenting it. I damned his impudence and asked where the blazes he had been all day—for he and de Gautet had been supposed to meet me with the others at the frontier. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Regal airs, eh? Well, highness, we’ve been busy about affairs of state if you please. Your affairs, your state. You might show a little appreciation to your loyal servants.” He grinned insolently. “But of course, the gratitude of princes is proverbial.” “Then don’t presume on it—even with temporary royalty,” I growled. “You can both go to the devil. I want to rest.” De Gautet considered me. “A little drunk perhaps?” “Damn you, get out!” “I do believe the infection has really taken,” chuckled Rudi. “He’ll be calling the guard in a moment. Now, seriously, friend Flashman”—and here he tapped me on the chest—“you can put away your ill-temper, for it won’t answer. It ain’t our fault if the Duchess hasn’t languished at you. No, you needn’t damn my eyes, but listen. Certain things have happened which may—I say may only—affect our plans.” My stomach seemed to turn to ice. “What d’ye mean?” “By ill chance, one of the Danish Embassy at Berlin—a fellow Hansen, a senior official—arrived today in Strackenz. He was on his way home, and broke his journey here to attend the wedding. There was no convenient way to get rid of him, so he will be there tomorrow.” “Well, what about it?” says I. “There will be plenty of Danes in the Cathedral, won’t there? What’s one more or less?” Detchard spoke from behind me. “Hansen has been a friend of Carl Gustaf’s from childhood. Indeed, the most intimate of all his companions.” “Your resemblance to Carl Gustaf is uncanny,” put in de Gautet. “But will it deceive his oldest playmate?” “Jesus!” I sat stricken. “No, no, by God, it won’t! It can’t! He’ll know me!” I jumped up. “I knew it! I knew it! We’re done for! He’ll denounce me! You … you bloody idiots, see what you’ve done, with your lunatic schemes! We’re dead men, and …” “Lower your voice,” says Rudi, “and take a grip on your nerves.” He pushed me firmly back into my chair. “Your mind’s disordered—which is not surprising. Bersonin warned us that even a strong man may show signs of hysteria in the kind of position you’re in … “He’s no fool, that one, is he?” cried I. “What the hell can I do? He’ll give me away, this Hansen, and …” “He will not,” says Rudi firmly. “Take my word for it. I can see this thing clearly, which you can’t, being the principal actor, and I tell you there is not the slightest risk—provided you keep your head. He’ll meet you for a moment at the reception after the wedding, shake your hand, wish you well, and whist!—that is all. He’s not looking for an impostor, remember. Why should he?” “We would not have told you,” said Detchard, “if it could have been avoided. But if we had not you might unwittingly have made some fatal blunder.” “That’s it exactly,” says Rudi. “You had to be ready for him. Now, we have decided what you shall say when he approaches you in the reception line. Detchard here will be at your elbow, and will whisper ‘Hansen’ when he reaches you. At the sight of him you’ll start, look as delighted as you know how, seize his right hand in both of yours, shake it hard, and exclaim: ‘Erik, old friend, where did you spring from?’ Then, whatever he says in reply, you’ll give your merriest laugh and say: ‘This is the happiest surprise of this happy day. God bless you for coming to wish me joy.’ And that will be all. I’ll see to it that he doesn’t get near you before you leave for the lodge at Strelhow, where your honeymoon is being spent.” “And suppose he sees through me, what then?” This news had left me sick with fright. “Suppose he isn’t to be put off with this nonsense about happy surprises, and I have to talk to him longer?” I had a dreadful vision. “Suppose he shouts, ‘That’s not the prince?’ What’ll you do then?” “I’ll have done it long before he shouts anything,” says Rudi quietly. “You may rely on that.” I wasn’t so easily reassured. My cowardly instincts were in full cry, and it took all Rudi’s and Detchard’s arts of persuasion to convince me that the risk wasn’t so terrible—indeed, that if I played my part properly, it was barely a risk at all. “Conduct yourself as you were doing an hour ago,” says Rudi, “and the thing’s as safe as sleep. Courage, man. The worst’s past. You’ve pulled the wool over all the eyes in Strackenz this day, and right royally, too.” I thought there was even a hint of envy in his voice. “All that’s to do now is stand up in church with the delightful Duchess, say your vows, and then off for a blissful idyll in your forest love-nest. Aye, let your mind run on the pleasures of putting that dainty little pullet to bed.” He nudged me and winked lewdly. “I’ll wager the next Duke of Strackenz has fine curly whiskers, for all that his father won’t have a hair on his face to bless himself with.” Of course, as so often turns out, there wasn’t time to be frightened. Ostred gave me a sleeping draught that night, and in the morning it was all mad bustle and hurry, with never fewer than a dozen folk round me from the moment I rose, dressing me, pushing me, instructing me, reminding me—I felt like a prize beast in the ring as I was conducted down the great marble staircase to the waiting coach that was to carry me to the Cathedral. As we paused on the steps, the sound thundered up from the waiting thousands beyond the palace railings, the cannon boomed in the park, and a great cheer rolled across the steep roofs of Strackenz City. “God save Prince Carl!” “Wherever he may be,” muttered Rudi. “Forward, your highness!” It should have been a day to remember, I suppose, but how much of detail does one recall of one’s own wedding?—and it was my second, as you know. It seems now like a strange dream, driving through the packed streets in the sunshine, with the roar of the people buffeting my ears, the blare of the trumpets, the clatter of hooves, and the coloured bunting fluttering bravely in the morning breeze—but what sticks in my mind is the red birthmark on the back of the coachman’s head, which under his hat was as bald as my own. And then there was the sudden dimness and hush of the great Cathedral, the pungent smell of the church, the soaring stained glass and the carpeted stone flags underfoot. There was the rustle as hundreds of people rose to their feet, the solemn booming of a great organ, and the hollow thud of my own footsteps on the stones. And there was the shrill sweetness of the choristers, and people softly moving to and fro about me, and the splendid figure of the Bishop of Strackenz, bearded to the eyes, and for all the world like Willie Grace, the great cricket champion nowadays. I remember standing very lonely and afraid, wondering if perhaps there was such a place as Hell after all—a question which had occupied me a good deal as a small boy, especially when Arnold had been terrifying us with sermons about Kibroth-Hattaavah, where I gathered all kinds of fornication and fun took place. Well, what I was doing in that Cathedral would have ensured me a single ticket to damnation, no doubt of that, but I consoled myself with the thought that the hereafter was the last thing to worry about just then. And I remember, too, the Duchess suddenly at my side, pale and wondrously lovely in her white gown, with her golden hair crowned with a fillet of brilliant stones. And her tiny hand slipping into mine, her clear voice answering the Bishop, and then my own, husky and nervous. They pressed a ring into my hand, and I fumbled it on to her tiny finger, my palms sweating, and kissed her on the cheek when the old Bishop gave the word. She stood like a wax dummy, and I thought, poor old Carl Gustaf, having to live with this cold fish all his life, and the choir let go a great blast of sound as they placed the ducal coronets on our heads, and the Duchess took the gold staff of her sovereignty and the Sword of State was buckled round my waist. Then the whole congregation rose and sang a hymn of rejoicing, and various minor clergy decked us out in the remaining Crown Jewels. I must say that for a small state Strackenz was remarkably well off in this respect; apart from the coronets and staff, there were rings for my fingers and a magnificent solid gold chain set with emeralds which they hung round my unworthy neck; it had a star of diamonds pendent from it that must have weighed half a pound. The Duchess did rather better, she being the reigning prince while poor old Flash was just her consort. (It struck me then, and it strikes me now, that the Salic Law was a damned sound idea.) She had a collar of solid gems, and her rings would have knocked mine all to pieces. Soldierly instinct dies hard, and as the hymn drew to a close I was mentally computing the worth of all this jewelled splendour, and how it could best be stowed: emerald chain in one side pocket, collar in t’other, rings and similar trifles in the fobs—the coronets would be bulky, but they could probably be bent flat for convenience. And the staff was slender enough to stick down your boot. Of course, I’d probably never have the chance to lay my itchy fingers on this magnificent collection of loot again, but it does no harm to take stock in advance: you never know what opportunities may arise. The Crown Jewels of the Duchy of Strackenz would have kept me and a dozen like me in tremendous style for life, and they looked eminently portable. I decided to keep them in mind. There was a final hallelujah and amen, and then we were out in the sunlight again with the crowd deafening us and the great bells of the Cathedral pealing overhead. There was an open State coach in which we rode side by side, with the Duchess’s bridesmaids facing us, and I played up to the mob and waved and beamed, while my bride stirred a languid hand in their direction. She did manage a smile or two, though, and even condescended to exchange a few civilities with me, which was a great advance. Never mind, thinks I, it’ll soon be ho for the hunting lodge and beddy-byes, and then we’ll bring the roses back to those pearly cheeks. We drove slowly, so that the populace could get a good look at us, and their enthusiasm was so tremendous that the infantry lining the road had to link arms to hold them back. There were children waving flags and screaming, girls fluttering their handkerchiefs, fellows throwing their hats in the air, and old women sobbing and mopping at themselves. At one point the troops gave way, and the crowd clamoured right up to the coach, stretching over to touch us as though we were holy relics: if only they’d known they’d have scampered off far enough in case they caught Flashy’s Evil. The Duchess wasn’t too pleased at being adored so closely, and looked ahead pretty stiff, but I shook hands like a good ’un and they cheered me hoarse. At this point there was an odd incident. Above the cheering I was aware of a voice shouting from the back of the crowd—no, not shouting, but declaiming. It was a strong, harsh trumpet of a voice, although its words were lost in the tumult, and its owner was a most odd-looking fellow who had scrambled up onto some kind of hand-cart and was haranguing the mob full blast. There were soldiers struggling through the press to get at him, and a knot of sturdy, sober-looking chaps round the cart as though to shield the orator, so I gathered he must be denouncing us, or threatening a breach of the peace. He wasn’t a big chap, in height, but he was built like a bull across the shoulders, with a huge, shaggy head and a beard like a sweep’s broom. Even at that distance I could see the flashing eyes as he thundered out his message, thumping the air with his fist and laying it off like a Mississippi camp-meeting preacher full of virtue and forty-rod whisky. The people nearest him and his group were shouting threats at him, but he kept bawling away, and it looked to me as though an excellent brawl was in prospect; unfortunately, just as the soldiers reached him and were trying to haul him down, the coach moved out of vision, so I didn’t see how it came out. The Duchess had seen it, too, and we were no sooner at the palace than she summoned Schwerin to the ante-room where we were resting and pitched straight into him. “Who was that agitator? How dared he raise his voice against me, and whose neglect allowed it to happen?” Her voice was perfectly level, but she was obviously in a furious bait, and the old minister fairly cowered before the slip of a girl. “Have he and his rabble been arrested?” Schwerin wrung his hands. “Highness, that this should have happened! It is deplorable. I do not know who the man was, but I will ascertain. I believe he was one of the socialist orators—” “Orator?” says the Duchess, in a tone that would have frozen brandy. “Revolutionary upstart! And on my wedding day!” She turned to me. “It is my shame, and my country’s, that this affront should have taken place in your highness’s presence, on this sacred occasion.” Well, I didn’t mind. I was more interested in her cold rage at what she conceived an affront to her noble dignity; she had a fine, spoiled conceit of herself to be sure. I suggested that the man was probably drunk, and that he had done no harm anyway. “Denmark must be fortunate in its security against such dangerous criminals,” says she. “In Strackenz we find it prudent to take sterner measures against these … these orators! Schwerin, I hold you responsible; let me hear presently that they have been arrested and punished.” It would have sounded pompous from a bench of bishops; from a nineteen-year-old girl it was ridiculous, but I kept a straight face. I was learning fast about my little Irma; an imperious young piece. I found myself hoping that she would be thwarted of her vengeance on my big-headed revolutionary; whoever he was, he had looked the kind of likely lad who would sooner spar with the peelers than eat his dinner, and keep things lively all round. When she had sent Schwerin packing, and her ladies had adjusted invisible flaws in her appearance, we proceeded with tremendous ceremony to the great ballroom, where the brilliant throng had already assembled for the reception. This is a bigger “do” than old Morrison gave for Elspeth and me in Paisley, thinks I, but I’ll wager they can’t drink more than those Scotch rascals did. The place was a blaze of splendid uniforms and gowns; orders, medals, and jewellery twinkled everywhere; aristocratic backs bent and a hundred skirts rustled in curtsies as we took our place on the dais for the guests to file by with their respectful congratulations. You never saw such a pack of noble toadies in your life, smirking their way past. They all fawned over the Duchess, of course, the square-heads clicking their heels and bowing stiffly, the dagoes bending double—for we had a fine selection from half the countries in Europe. After all, Duchess Irma was the cousin of our own Britannic Majesty—which made me a sort-of-cousin-in-law to her and Albert, I suppose—and everyone wanted to have a grovel to us. I was delighted to see, though, that the British Ambassador confined himself to a jerky little bow and a “Felicitations, ma’am, and much happiness to both your highnesses.” That’s the style, thinks I; good old England and damn all foreigners. I just stood there, nodding my head up and down until my neck creaked, smiling and murmuring my thanks to each passing face—fat, thin, sweating, straining, smiling, adoring, they came in all sizes and expressions. And then Detchard’s voice behind me whispered “Hansen,” and I glanced sharply to see a fair-haired, long-jawed young fellow just straightening up from his bow to the Duchess. He turned to me, smiling expectantly, and in my sudden nervousness I took a step forward, grinning like a death’s head, I shouldn’t wonder, grabbed him by the hand, and cried: “Erik, old friend, this is the most springing surprise of my happy day!” or something equally garbled; I know that I bungled the words hopelessly, but he just laughed and pumped my hand. “Dear Carl—highness—I had to come to wish you joy.” He had that manly, sentimental look, misty-eyed yet smiling, which I personally can only manage in drink. “God bless you both!” “God bless you, too, old friend,” says I, wringing hard at him, and then his smile faded, a puzzled look came into his eyes, and he stepped back. God knows I’ve had my bad moments, but seldom such a qualm of sickening dread as I experienced then. I kept my aching grin, because I was so paralysed with panic that I couldn’t move a muscle, waiting for the denunciation which I was certain was on his lips. For a second he stared, and then he made a sudden, nervous gesture of apology and smiled again. “Pardon,” he said. “Your pardon, highness … Carl.” He moved quickly aside to let in the next guest, bowed again, and then moved off towards the buffets, where the other guests were assembling. There I saw him turn, staring back at me, and presently he rubbed his brow with his fingers, gave his head a quick shake as a man will who is putting some trifle out of his mind, and gave his attention to a waiter who was proffering champagne. I knew I was crimson with the shock, and one knee was trembling violently, but I forced myself to smile steadily as the guest before me bobbed in a deep curtsey, and her escort swept me a bow. I saw the concern in their faces—when I turn red I’m a daunting sight—so I forced a laugh. “Forgive me,” I told them. “I’m out of breath with saying ‘thank you’ to several hundred people.” They were delighted at being so familiarly addressed by royalty, and then the crisis was past and I had time to steady myself. But it had been a horrible moment, and I must have gone through the rest of that reception like a man in a dream, for I can remember nothing more until I was back in my own room, alone with Detchard, Rudi and de Gautet, drinking brandy from a glass that rattled against my teeth. “It was a bad moment,” was Rudi’s verdict. “For a second I thought we were gone. I had him covered from my pocket, and I swear if he had taken an instant longer to smile I’d have shot him down and claimed he was preparing to assassinate you. And God knows what might have come of that. Phew!” “But he saw I wasn’t the Prince!” I beat on the arm of my chair. “He saw through me! Didn’t he? You saw him, de Gautet—didn’t he?” “I doubt it,” says he. “For a moment he thought there was something strange about you—and then he told himself it was his own imagination. You saw him shake his head—he had tried to puzzle it out, but couldn’t—and now he no more doubts you than he doubts himself.” “By God, I hope so.” I attacked the brandy again. “Suppose he thinks better of it, though—becomes suspicious?” “He’s being watched every moment he is in Strackenz,” says Rudi. “We have other reasons for keeping a sharp eye on Master Hansen.” “What’s that?” “Oh, his journey here wasn’t only to dance at your wedding. We know that for months now he and other members of the Danish government have been in correspondence with the more militant Danish faction in Strackenz—people like the Eider Danes over the border, only rather more dangerous. They watch everything German like hawks, hold secret meetings, that sort of thing. There’s talk of a clandestine organisation, the ‘Sons of the Volsungs’, dedicated to fly to arms in the event of any threat from Berlin to Strackenzian independence.” Rudi grinned pleasantly. “We’ll settle with those gentlemen when the time comes. For the present, neither they nor friend Hansen need trouble you. The game’s all but won, my boy”—and he slapped me on the shoulder. “With the wedding behind us there’s nothing to do but sit out the weeks until Otto gives the word that our good Carl Gustaf is ready to resume the r?le in which you are proving such a distinguished understudy. Then back to merry England for you—and let’s hope the delectable Irma isn’t too disappointed in the change, shall we?” This was all very well, but I was by no means sure that the worst was past. I’d had some nasty turns in my brief life as Prince Carl Gustaf, and it seemed odds on there being a few more before they’d sweated the clap out of him and he could succeed me on the consort’s throne. And even then, would Bismarck keep faith? I didn’t want to think about that just yet, but it was always at the back of my mind. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, but you have to watch your step at night, too. I was still shaking with the Hansen business, and for that matter I was probably suffering from the strain of two days’ imposture—at any rate, I punished a half bottle of brandy there and then without noticeable effect, which is always a sign that the funks have got me good and proper. Rudi, although he watched me closely, whistling through his teeth, didn’t say me nay; there was no further official business that day, only the drive to the hunting lodge at Strelhow, ten miles from the city, and I didn’t have to be stone-cold sober for that. We were to set out in mid-afternoon, and presently Josef and various minions were admitted to begin my preparations for the road. There was a great bustle as trunks and boxes were taken below stairs, and I was divested of my ceremonial uniform and kitted out in cutaway and topper, as befitted a gentleman bent on his honeymoon. I was sufficiently recovered from my nervous condition—or else the booze was beginning to work—to be able to discuss with Rudi the merits of checked or striped trousers, which had been the great debate among the London nobs that year. I was a check-er myself, having the height and leg for it, but Rudi thought they looked bumpkinish, which only shows what damned queer taste they had in Austria in those days. Of course, if you’ll put up with Metternich you’ll put up with anything. While we were talking, an officer of the palace guard put in an appearance, with an escort carrying drawn sabres, to collect the crown jewellery which Josef had removed with my uniform. They had taken my coronet and State sword on our return from the cathedral, but my chain and rings remained, and these were now carefully stowed in velvet-lined cases and given to the guard to carry away. “Pretty things,” says Rudi, cocking his cheroot thoughtfully between his teeth. “Where are you taking them, Fahnrich?” “To the clock-room, herr baron,” says the young officer, clicking his heels. “Aye, that’s a strange place, surely. Wouldn’t a dungeon be safer?” “If you please, herr baron, the clock-room is in the top of the main tower of the palace. The tower has one stair, which is under constant guard.” The youth hesitated. “I believe they are kept there because in the old Duke’s time it was his grace’s delight to visit the clock-room every day and examine the state treasure.” I was taking this in, for what it was worth, and noting that Rudi von Starnberg was showing an uncommon interest in it, too. Dishonest young pup; I knew what he was thinking. We left the palace on the stroke of three, to be cheered out of town by the loyal Strackenzians, who had been making the most of the free buffets and unlimited wine being dispensed in all the public buildings. The whole population seemed to be half-shot, and the applause as we drove through the streets was abandoned and hilarious. I sat with the Duchess in an open landau, accompanied by Rudi and a strikingly pretty red-haired lady-in-waiting whose foot he kept stroking with his boot during the journey. Otherwise he was on his best behaviour, which meant that his conduct stopped just short of open insolence. However, Irma was in no frame of mind to notice; she was in something of a pet, chiefly, I gathered, because Schwerin had not been able to report the apprehension of the agitator who had been abusing us on our drive from the cathedral. And there had been difficulties with her trousseau, the people who were waving us goodbye were over-familiar in their expressions, the open carriage was not suitable for such a cold day—and so on, every damned thing seemed to be wrong, for no obvious reason. To me it seemed that, whatever the rest of her trousseau was like, her blue travelling gown and fur hat, ? la hussar, became her admirably. I said so, and she condescended to acknowledge the compliment, but very formally. We were still as distant as dowagers in church, and it struck me again that for all her prim composure, she was probably quaking underneath. I found this gratifying, and resolved to let her stew in it for a while; I wasn’t over-solicitous, and for most of the journey we rode in silence. It was a sunny afternoon, and warm in spite of Irma’s complaint. The road from Strackenz runs through some splendid forest country, which encloses an unusual feature for that part of the world in a short range of little crags and cliffs called the Jotun Gipfel. They are very pretty, very wild, as our late Queen would say, and rather like the English lake hills in miniature. Apart from a few shepherds’ huts they are fairly empty, most of the inhabitants of Strackenz province living down in the flat lands near the city, but they contain one or two beautiful mountain tarns, in one of which stands the old castle of Jotunberg, which was the stronghold of the Dukes of Strackenz in the bad old days. It was kept now by the B?low family, a Strackenzian branch of the great German house of that name. The hunting lodge of Strelhow stands some miles from the Jotun Gipfel, tucked away in the woods a little distance off the main road. It has been the country seat of the ruling house for generations, and is an excellent little box, all rough timber and fur rugs, with fine open fires, leaded windows, comfortable appointments, and plenty of room—altogether a bang-up place. We were travelling fairly informally; there were two Strackenzian aides for me, apart from de Gautet and Rudi, and the Duchess had three ladies and about five maids—God knows why she needed all those. Detchard had come, too, but elected to stay in the village, and of course I had Josef with me. There were other servants, and various grooms and attendants, and it looked like being quite a lively country party. And it was—lively and deathly. We arrived at the lodge just before dusk. My bride was nervous and irritable, and had the servants who came out to greet us scurrying in all directions. There was a meal prepared in the panelled dining-room, with a cheery blaze in the grate, and all looking mighty snug and inviting, but she excused herself and went off above-stairs with her lady-in-waiting and a cloud of lackeys hovering in her wake. However, we men-folk were sharp-set and fell on supper with a will, and after that the port and brandy, and before long we were making a good roaring evening of it. What with sensing that her haughty highness was out of sorts, and the food and wine, I was in excellent trim, and although de Gautet was his usual saturnine self—I was growing to loathe that sleek, silent smile—Rudi and the two Strackenzians took their cue from me and caroused like cricketers. For all their other faults, I must own that Germans are excellent fellows at a gorging-and-drinking party. Rudi was in fine fettle, with his tunic undone and his curly hair a-tumble, leading the singing in a capital baritone (but his eyes were still bright and clear; I doubt if he was ever the worse for drink in his life, that one). I was ladling the liquor down at a fair rate, and had just reached that state where I begin to search for mischief, when a footman brought down word that her grace the duchess was about to retire, and requested that the disturbance of the evening should cease. At this the others fell silent. Rudi sat back in his chair and smiled into his glass; the Strackenzians glanced uneasily at each other. I got to my feet, staggering a little and upsetting my chair, and said that if her grace was retiring, so was I. I bade them goodnight, and walked—rather unsteadily, I imagine—to the door. One of the Strackenzian aides jumps up, and asked, could he help my highness? “No, thank’ee, my son,” says I. “I’m of age, you know.” At which he fell back, blushing, and as I strode out I heard Rudi laughing and calling out: “Gentlemen, a toast! The Prince Carl Gustaf, coupled, if you follow me, with her grace the Duchess of Strackenz.” I blundered upstairs, shed my clothes in my dressing-room, thrust Josef out, threw on a gown, and strode through into the bedroom. I was full of booze and lewdness, and the sight of Irma, caught unawares, standing there in a white nightgown, did nothing to sober me. Her cold, proud beauty brought out the worst in me, I threw off the gown, and she shrieked and covered her eyes. “Cheer up, little wife,” says I, “there won’t be any more singing downstairs,” and I stooped and whipped the nightdress clean off, over her head. She gave a little cry, and since I maintain that the best way to deal with nervous females is to treat ’em hearty, I lifted her up bodily, popped her on, and stumped round the room singing: “This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot.” As near as I can remember I sang it in English, but I doubt if she noticed. At all events I know we finished the business on the bed, with me laughing weakly and babbling about “hobble-dee, hobble-dee, and down in a ditch” and assuring her that she was a damned fine duchess and a credit to her country. I suppose I dozed off, but I woke up and had at her again, and being slightly more sober by this time I was aware that she lay as still as a corpse, and didn’t enter into the fun of the thing at all. If it had been any other woman I’d have smartened her up with a few cuts across the rump, but with a duchess one ought to practise patience, I felt. And I was right, you see, because after that I went to sleep, leaving her lying there, with her eyes closed, like a beautiful ghost in the candlelight, and what should awaken me—I don’t know how many hours later—but a tiny hand creeping across my thigh, and long hair snuggling up to my face, and I thought, well, damme, royal or not, they’re all alike under the skin. I was beat, I can tell you, but one must act like a gentleman, so I went to work again, and this time she clung like a leech. Just like Elspeth, I remember thinking—all chaste purity to look at, maidenly beauty personified, and randy as a monkey. I’ve known too many women, far too many, to claim to understand ’em. Their minds work in ways too mysterious for me to fathom; anyway, my studies have generally been confined to their bodies, which perhaps accounts for it. But I know that Duchess Irma of Strackenz was a different woman after that night—to me, at any rate. She had been a proud, autocratic, thoroughly spoiled little brat the day before; nervous as a mouse and as cold as a whale’s backside. And I’d not have been surprised if after the way I’d handled her, she’d been put off men for good. But next morning she was positively meek, in a thoughtful but apparently contented way, and very attentive to me; she seemed to be in a state of wonder, almost, and yet she was ready to talk to me, and what was even more remarkable, listen to me, too—not that I’m a great hand at conversation in the mornings. I don’t mention this in a boastful way, or to suggest that with a chap like me it’s just a matter of catch ’em young, treat ’em rough, roger ’em hard, and they eat out of my hand. Far from it; I’ve used women that way, and had them try to repay me with cold steel, or run a mile next time I looked at them. But with Irma, for some reason, it had quite the opposite effect; I can say that from that night on, as long as I knew her, she treated me with something near to worship. Which shows you how stupid a love-struck young woman can be. All this, of course, made for a most happy sojourn at Strelhow. There was plenty to do during the day, what with picnic parties—for although some snow still lay, it was pleasantly warm for the season—and shooting in the woods, and riding (on horses) in the afternoon, and in the evening we had musical entertainment from the ladies, or played billiards, and the food and drink were of the best. I began to feel like royalty again, with people waiting on me hand and foot, and jumping to my slightest wish, and it is mighty pleasant to have a beautiful young duchess hanging on your arm, adoring you, even if she does keep you from getting much sleep at nights. It was the life, all right—lazing, feasting, shooting, tickling the pills in the billiard room and sweating it out in bed with Irma—all the trivial amusements that are simply nuts to chaps like me. Rudi and de Gautet were the only flies in the ointment, for their very presence was a constant jog to my memory of the business in hand. But strangely enough, I became a little closer to de Gautet, for I discovered that he shared one of my chief interests, which is horseflesh. He was an authority, of the true kind who never pretends more than he knows, and in the saddle he was nearly as good as I was myself, which is to say he would have been top-notch among any horsemen in the world—even the Cheyennes of the American plains, who are the best I know. We rode together a good deal, but I made sure we always had one of the Strackenzians or a couple of grooms along—I’m nervous about going into the woods alone with fellows whom I’ve cut open with a schlager, and who I’m pretty sure haven’t forgotten it. De Gautet, at any rate, was a silent, unassertive fellow, which was more than could be said of the bold Rudi. Now that he was confident I could play my role in perfect safety, he was treating me exactly as he would have used the real Prince Carl, which is to say with his customary impertinence. Of course, he cared for no one, and even let his bright eye play over Irma, while he would address her with that half-mocking deference which he seemed to reserve for his social superiors. She was woman enough to be taken by his good looks and easy charm, but she sensed, I think, that here was a real wrong ’un, and confessed to me on one occasion that she was sure he was not a gentleman. I promised to replace him with a new aide when we returned to the city—and took some malicious pleasure in telling him about it later, so that he should realise that one woman, at least, had read him correctly. But he was only amused. “I knew the chit had no taste,” says he. “Why, she’s taken to you. But don’t imagine you can get rid of me so easily, your highness—I’m your loyal, obedient, and ever-present servant until the time comes to end our little comedy.” He blew a smoke-ring and eyed me, tongue in check. “I think you’ll be sorry when it’s over, won’t you? Princely life suits you, or I’m mistaken.” In fact, he was mistaken. Oh, it was very idyllic there in Strelhow, and I was idler than even royalty usually are, but already I had a notion that the future that faced Carl Gustaf wasn’t going to be all roses and wine. It may seem rare to be a crowned head, and no doubt if you’re an absolute monarch with unlimited power, it’s right enough—but a prince consort, which is more or less what I was, isn’t quite the same thing. He can’t trim the heads off those he don’t like, or order up any good-looking skirt who takes his fancy. He’s always one step behind his adoring spouse, and even if she dotes on him—and who knows how long that will last?—he still has to get his own way, if he wants it, through her good leave. Even in those blissful early days with Irma, I could see how it would be, and I didn’t much like it. God knows how our late lamented Albert stuck it out, poor devil. If I’d been him, six months would have seen me on the boat back to Saxe-Coburg or wherever it was. But perhaps he didn’t mind playing second fiddle—he wasn’t English. However, I consoled myself that I was having the best of both worlds—my luxurious enslavement was both enjoyable and temporary. Now and then I fretted a little over what the outcome of the comedy would be, but there was nothing to be done about it. Either Bismarck would keep his bargain or he wouldn’t—and I forced myself to put the latter possibility out of my mind. This is the real coward’s way, of course—I wanted to believe he would play fair, and so I did, even though common sense should have warned me that he wouldn’t. And as so often happens, I almost fell a prey to my own comfortable, lily-livered hopes. We had been about ten days at Strelhow, I suppose, when one evening we were in the billiard room, and the talk turned to horses. Someone—Rudi, I think—mentioned the fine stable kept by a gentleman over beyond the Jotun Gipfel; I expressed interest, and it was suggested that next day we should ride over and call on him. It was all very easy and casual, like any of the other expeditions and picnics we had enjoyed, and I gave it no thought at all. So next morning de Gautet and one of the Strackenzian aides and I set off. The quickest way was through the Jotun Gipfel on horseback, and Irma came with us by carriage as far as the road allowed. Thereafter we turned off towards the crags, she fluttering her handkerchief lovingly after her departing lord, and presently we were climbing into the hills by one of the bridle-paths that are the only tracks through that wild and picturesque little region. It was a splendid day for such a jaunt, clear and sunny, and the scenery was pleasant—any of our Victorian artists would have sketched it in a moment, with its nice little crags and trees and occasional waterfalls, and would have thrown in a couple of romantic shepherds with whiskers and fat calves for good measure. But we saw no one as we moved up towards the summit, and I was enjoying the ride and musing on last night’s sporting with Irma, when the Strackenzian aide’s horse went lame. I’ve often wondered how they arranged that, for the horse was certainly lame, and I doubt if the aide—his name was Steubel, just a boy—had anything to do with it. I cursed a bit, and de Gautet suggested we turn and go back. The boy wouldn’t hear of it; he would walk his horse slowly down to Strelhow, he said, and we should go on. De Gautet looked doubtful—he was a clever actor, that one—but I was fool enough to agree. I can’t think, now, how I was so green, but there it was. I never thought of foul play—I, who normally throw myself behind cover if someone breaks wind unexpectedly, was completely off guard. I had my pistols, to be sure, and even my knife, for I’d got into the wise habit of going armed whenever I left the lodge; but de Gautet’s manner must have disarmed me completely. We went on together, and about twenty minutes after parting from Steubel we had reached the summit, a pleasant little tree-fringed plateau, split by a deep gorge through which a river rushed, throwing up clouds of mist against the rocky sides. The whole table-top was hemmed in by trees, but there was a clear patch of turf near the edge of the gorge, and here we dismounted to have a look down into the bottom, a hundred feet below. I don’t care for heights, but the scene was so pleasant and peaceful that I never felt a moment’s unease, until de Gautet spoke. “The Jotunschlucht,” says he, meaning the gorge, and something in his voice sounded the alarm in my brain. It may have been the flatness of his tone, or the fact that he was closer behind me than I felt he should have been, but with the instinct of pure panic I threw myself sideways on the turf, turning as I fell to try to face him. If his pistol hadn’t misfired he would have got me; I heard the click even as I moved, and realised that he had been aiming point-blank at my back. As I tried to scramble up he dropped it with an oath, drew its mate from beneath his tunic, and levelled it at me. I screamed, “No! No!” as he thumbed back the lock, and he hesitated a split second, to see if I should leap again, and to make sure of his aim. In a novel, of course, or a play, murders are not committed so; the villain leers and gloats, and the victim pleads. In my practical experience, however, killing gentlemen like de Gautet are far too practised for such nonsense; they shoot suddenly and cleanly, and the job’s done. I knew I had perhaps a heart-beat between me and damnation, and in sheer terror I snatched the seaman’s knife from the top of my boot and hurled it at him with all my force, sprawling down again as I did so. If I’ve had more than my share of bad luck in my life, I’ve had some good to make up for it. I had some now; the knife only hit him butt first, on the leg, but it caused him to take a quick step back, his heel caught on a stone or tuft, he overbalanced, the pistol cracked, the ball went somewhere above my head, and then I was on top of him, smashing blindly with my fists, knees, and anything else, trying to beat him into the ground. He was tall and active, but nothing like my weight, and Flashy in the grip of mortal fear, with nowhere to run to and no choice but to fight, is probably a dreadful opponent. I was roaring at the top of my voice and clawing at him for dear life; he managed to shove me off once, but he made the error of lunging for the fallen knife, and I was able to get one solid, full-blown boot against the side of his head. He groaned and fell back, his eyes rolling up in his head, and collapsed limply on the turf. For a moment I thought I’d killed him, but I didn’t wait about to see. The training of years asserted itself, and I turned and bolted headlong down the path, with no thought but to put as much distance as I could between me and the scene of possible danger. Before I’d gone far I had to stop to be sick—no doubt from the shock of my narrow escape—and during the pause I had time to consider what I was doing. Where could I run to? Not back to Strelhow, for certain; the Bismarck gang had shown their hand now, and my life wouldn’t be worth a china orange if I went anywhere they could come at me. And why had they tried to kill me now? What purpose was there in having me dead before the real Carl Gustaf was ready to take my place? Maybe he was ready—although if he’d been rotten with pox they had tidied him up mighty quick. Or had Bismarck’s whole tale been pure moonshine? Maybe Carl Gustaf was dead, maybe—oh, maybe a thousand things. I had no way of knowing. As I think I’ve said before, while fear usually takes control of my limbs, particularly my running equipment, it seldom prevents me from thinking clearly. Even as I stood there spewing I knew what had to be done. It was essential that I make tracks out of Strackenz at once. But reason told me that to do that in safety I must have a clear notion of what my enemies were up to, and the only man who could tell me that was de Gautet, if he was still alive. The longer I hesitated, the longer he had to revive; my pistols were in my saddle holsters at the summit, so back up the track I went at full speed, pausing only near the top to have a stealthy skulk and see how the land lay. The horses had gone, scared no doubt by the pistol shot, but de Gautet was still where I had left him. Was he shamming? It would have been like the foxy bastard, so I lay low and watched him. He didn’t stir, so I tossed a stone at him. It hit him, but he didn’t move. Reassured, I broke cover, snatched up the knife, and crouched panting beside him. He was dead to the world, but breathing, with a fine red lump on his skull; in a moment I had his belt off and trussed his elbows with it; then I pulled off his boots, secured his ankles with my own belt, and felt comfortably safer. Several excellent ideas were already forming in my mind about how to deal with Master de Gautet when he came to, and I waited with a pleasant sense of anticipation. He had a hole in one sock, I noticed; there would be holes in more than that before I’d finished with the murderous swine. Presently he groaned and opened his eyes, and I had the pleasure of watching his expression show bewilderment, rage, and fear all in turn. “Well, de Gautet,” says I. “What have you got to say, you back-shooting rat, you?” He stayed mum, glaring at me, so I tickled him up with the knife and he gasped and cursed. “That’s it,” says I, “get some practice. And see here: I’m not going to waste time with you. I’m going to ask questions, and you’ll answer ’em, smartly, d’you see? Because if you don’t—well, I’ll show you the advantages of an English public school education, that’s all. Now, first, why did you try to kill me? What are you and our good friend Otto Bismarck up to?” He struggled, but saw it was no go and lay still. “You will learn nothing from me,” says he. “Your error,” says I. “See here.” By good luck I had a piece of string with me, which I looped over two of his toes, placing a nice sharp pebble in between them. I put a stick through the loop and twisted it a little. It always used to liven the Rugby fags up, although of course one couldn’t go too far with them, and de Gautet’s response was gratifying. He squealed and writhed, but I held his legs down easily. “You see, my boy,” says I, “You’d better open your potato trap or it’ll be the worse for you.” “You villain!” cries he, sweating with fear. “Is this how you treat a gentleman?” “No,” says I, enjoying myself. “It’s how I treat a dirty, cowardly, murdering ruffian.” And I twisted the stick, hard. He screamed, but I kept on twisting, and his yells were such that I had to stuff my glove in his mouth to quiet him. I’d no real fear of interruption, for he had been at such pains to get me alone that I doubted if any of his precious friends were in the district, but it seemed best to keep him as mum as possible. “Nod your head when you’ve had enough, de Gautet,” says I cheerfully. “When I’ve broken all your toes I’ll show you how the Afghan ladies treat their husbands’ prisoners.” And I went back to work on him. I confess that I thoroughly enjoyed it, as only a true coward can, for only your coward and bully really understand how terrible pain can be. De Gautet wasn’t much braver than I am; a few more twists and he was jerking his head up and down like Punch, and for some reason this put me into a great fury. I gave him a few more twists for luck, until the string broke. Then I pulled the gag out. He was groaning and calling me filthy names, so I taught him manners with the point of the knife in his leg. “Now, you bastard, why did you try to kill me?” “It was the Baron’s order. Ah, dear God!” “Never mind God. What for? What about my ten thousand pounds, damn you?” “It … it was never intended that you would be paid.” “You mean I was to be murdered from the start, is that it?” He rolled over, moaning and licking his lips, looking at me with terror in his eyes. “If I tell you … all … oh, my feet! If I tell you … do you swear, on your honour as a gentleman, to let me go?” “Why should I? You’ll tell me anyway. Oh, all right then, on my honour as a gentleman. Now, then.” But he insisted that I swear on my mother’s memory, too—what he thought all that swearing was worth I can’t imagine, but he wasn’t feeling himself, I dare say, and foreigners tend to take an Englishman’s word when he gives it. That’s all they know. So I swore his oaths, and it all came tumbling out. The Prince Carl Gustaf hadn’t had pox at all; he was clean as an old bone. But Bismarck had plotted with Detchard to spirit him away and put me in his place—as they had indeed done. The pox story had simply been an excuse for my benefit, and if it seems ludicrously thin now I can only assert that it seemed damned convincing coming from Bismarck in his lonely stronghold with Kraftstein waiting to fillet me if I didn’t believe it. Anyway, their little plan was that after a few days, when Strackenz was convinced it had got a genuine consort for its Duchess, I was to be murdered, in the Jotun Gipfel, and de Gautet was to vanish over the German border. There would be a hue and cry, and my body would be found and carried back to Strackenz amid general consternation. And then, wonder of wonders, papers would be found in my clothing to suggest that I wasn’t Prince Carl at all, but a daring English impostor called Flashman, an agent of Lord Palmerston, if you please, and up to God-knows-what mischief against the security and well-being of the Duchy of Strackenz. There would be chaos and confusion, and a diplomatic upheaval of unprecedented proportions. I couldn’t take it in at first. “You bloody liar! D’ye expect me to believe this cock-and-bull? For that matter, who in the world would credit it?” “Everyone.” His face was working with pain. “You are not the Prince—you would be identified for what you really are—even if it took time, witnesses who knew you could be brought. Who would doubt it?—it is true.” My brain was reeling. “But, in God’s name, what for? What could Bismarck gain from all this?” “The discredit of England—your Lord Palmerston. Utter bewilderment and rage, in Strackenz. Dane and German are on a knife-edge here—there would be bloodshed and disorder. That is what the Baron wants—ah, Herr Gott, my feet are on fire!” “Damn your feet! Why the hell does he want bloodshed and disorder?” “As a—pretext. You know that Strackenz and Schleswig and Holstein are bitterly divided between Dane and German. Disorder in one would spread to the others—the old rivalry between Berlin and Copenhagen would be fanned into flame—for the sake of German interest, Berlin would march into Strackenz, then into the other two. Who could stop her? It is only the—excuse—that is lacking. “And how would my murder be explained, in God’s name?” “It would not need—explaining. That you were an English agent—that would be enough.” Well, that seemed the silliest bit of all, to me, and I said so—who was going to buy me as an agent? “Feel the lining of your tunic—on the right side.” For all his pain, he couldn’t keep a grin of triumph off his face. “It is there—feel.” By God, it was. I ripped out the lining with my knife, and there was a paper, covered in tiny cryptograms—God knows what they meant, but knowing Bismarck I’ll wager it was good, sound, incriminating stuff. I sat gazing at it, trying to understand what de Gautet had been telling me. “It has all been exactly planned,” says he. “It could not fail. Confusion and riot must follow on your death—and Germany would seize the opportunity to march.” I was trying vainly to make sense of the whole, incredible scheme—and to find a flaw in it. “Aha, hold on,” says I. “This is all very fine—but just because Bismarck has fine ideas about marching into Strackenz don’t mean a thing. There’s a government in Berlin, I believe—suppose they don’t share his martial ardour—what then?” “But it is planned, I tell you,” cries he. “He has friends – men of power—in high places. It is concerted—and when the chance comes in Strackenz, they will act as he says. He can force the thing—he has the vision—das genie.” Aye, perhaps he had the genius. Now, of course, I know that he could have done it—I doubt if there was any diplomatic coup that that brilliant, warped intelligence couldn’t have brought off; for all that he was the most dreadful bastard who ever sat in a chancellery, he was the greatest statesman of our time. Yes, he could have done it—he did, didn’t he, in the end, and where is Strackenz now? Like Schleswig and Holstein, it is buried in the German empire that Otto Bismarck built. It was just my bad luck that I had been cast—through the sheer chance of an uncanny resemblance—to be the first foundation-stone of his great dream. This was to be his initial step to power, the opening move in his great game to unify Germany and make it first of the world’s states. Squatting there, on the damp turf of the Jotun Gipfel, I saw that the crazy scheme in which he had involved me had a flawless logic of its own—all he needed was something to strike a spark in Strackenz, and I was the tinder. Thereafter, with him gently guiding from the wings, the tragic farce could run its course. De Gautet groaned, and brought me back to earth. He was lying there, this foul brute who would have put a bullet in my back—aye, and had already planted his sabre cuts in my skull. In a rage I kicked him—this was the pass that he and his damned friends had brought me to, I shouted, stranded in the middle of their blasted country, incriminated, helpless, certain to be either murdered by Bismarck’s crew or hanged by the authorities. He roared and pleaded with me to stop. “Aye, you can howl now,” says I. “You were ready enough an hour ago to show me no mercy, curse you!” A thought struck me. “I don’t suppose you showed any to that poor Danish sod, either. Where’s Carl Gustaf, then? Lying somewhere with his throat cut and a letter in his pocket saying: “A present from Flashy and Lord Palmerston’?” “No, no—he is alive—I swear it! He is being kept—safe.” “What for? What use is he to bloody Bismarck?” “He was not to be—nothing was to befall him—until—until …” “Until I’d had my weasand slit? That’s it, isn’t it? You dirty dogs, you! Where is he then, if he’s still alive?” At first he wouldn’t say, but when I flourished the knife at him he changed his mind. “In Jotunberg—the old castle of the Duke. Yonder, over the crags—in the Jotunsee. I swear it is true. He is under guard there—he knows nothing. The Baron leaves nothing to chance—if aught had gone wrong, he might have been needed—alive.” “You callous hound! And otherwise—he would have got a bullet, too, eh?” I had to give him some more toe-leather before he would answer, but when he did it was in some detail. To ensure that no mischance should lead to his being rescued, Carl Gustaf was in a dungeon in the castle, with a handy shaft in its floor that came out somewhere under the Jotunsee. His body would never be found once they popped him down there—which they would certainly do once they heard that my corpse had been delivered back to Strackenz, and the uproar over my identity was going nicely. Well, it looked bad for Carl Gustaf in any event—not that it was any concern of mine, but it helped to fan my righteous indignation, which was powerful enough on my own behalf, I can tell you. “De Gautet,” says I. “You’re a foul creature—you don’t deserve to live another minute—” “You swore!” He babbled, struggling in his bonds. “You gave me your solemn promise!” “So I did,” says I. “To let you go, wasn’t it? Well, I will. Come along, let’s have you up.” I dragged him to his feet, and took my belt from round his ankles. He could hardly stand with the pain of his toes, and I had to support him. “Now, de Gautet,” says I. “I’m going to let you go—but where, eh? That’s the point, ain’t it?” “What do you mean?” His eyes were staring with fear. “You promised!” “So did Bismarck—so did you. You’re a dirty creature, de Gautet; I think you need a wash.” I propelled him to the edge of the precipice, and held him for a second. “I’ll let you go, all right, you murderous cur—down there.” He let out a shriek you could have heard in Munich, and tried to wrench free, but I held him fast and let him look, just to let him know he was really going to die. Then I said: “Gehen sie weg, de Gautet,” and gave him a push. For an instant he tottered on the brink, trying to keep his balance, and screaming hoarsely; then he fell out and down, and I watched him turn slowly over in the air, crash onto the jutting rocks half-way down the cliff, and spin outwards, like a rag doll with his legs waving, before he vanished into the spray at the precipice foot. It was an interesting sight. I’d killed before, of course, although never in what you might call cold blood, but I’ve never felt anything but satisfaction over the end of de Gautet. He deserved to die, if anyone ever did. He was a heartless, cruel rascal, and I’d have been lucky to come off as easily if things had been the other way round. I’m not justifying myself, either for torturing him or killing him, for I don’t need to. Both had to be done—but I’m honest enough to admit I enjoyed doing them. He was a good horseman, though. However, his death, though first-rate in its way, solved nothing so far as my immediate comfort and safety were concerned. I was still in the very devil of a pickle, I realised, as I gazed round the empty clearing and tried to decide what to do next. It was certain that de Gautet had arranged some means of getting word quickly to Rudi and Co. to say that Flashy was a goner and all was well. How long would it be before they realised something had gone wrong? An hour or two? A day? I must assume it would be sooner rather than later—and then the hunt would be up with a vengeance, with me as the poor little fox. I had to get out of Strackenz at once—but where to? These thoughts put me into a blue funk, of course, and I paced up and down that summit muttering “Where? where? Oh, Jesus, how can I get out of this?” Then I steadied up, telling myself that when you’ve been hounded by Afghans and come safe home, you need hardly take the vapours over a pack of Germans. Which is just rubbish, of course, as I assured myself a second later; one’s as beastly dangerous as the other. Still, this was a comparatively civilised country, I spoke the language tolerably, and I’d had enough experience of skulking, surely, to get me out of it. I hadn’t a horse, and only a knife for protection—de Gautet’s empty pistols were useless—but the first thing was to get down from the Jotun Gipfel, and plot my course as I went. Before starting out, I burned the incriminating papers they had sewn in my tunic. Then I took to the woods at right angles from the path we had been following, scrambling down over mossy rocks and through thick brushwood; it wasn’t easy going, but I was too busy with my thoughts to notice much. One point stuck clear in my mind, and it was the advice given by the late lamented Sergeant Hudson when he and I were on the run from the Afridis on the Jallalabad road: “When the bastards are after you, go in the direction where they’ll never think o’ looking for you—even if it’s right back in their faces.” Well, I wasn’t going to Strelhow, that was flat. But if I was Bismarck or Rudi, where would I expect Flashy to run? North, for certain, towards the coast, less than a hundred miles away. So that was out of court. Of the other directions, which was the least likely for a fugitive? All were hazardous, since they would take me long journeys through Germany, but south seemed the most dangerous of all. By God, the last place they would expect me to make for was Munich, at the far end of the country, where all the bother had begun. My legs trembled at the thought, but the more I considered it the better it seemed. They’d never believe I’d risk it, so they wouldn’t look thereaway. It was horribly chancy, but I was certain that if Hudson had been with me that was the way he’d have pointed. Let me get a horse—no matter how—and I could be over the Strackenz border by nightfall and galloping south. I’d have to beg, hire, borrow, or steal, changes on the way—well, it wouldn’t be the first time. I might even use the railway, if it seemed safe to do so. At any rate I was free, for the moment, and if they could catch old Flashy with the wind up him—well, they were smarter fellows than I thought they were. I hurried on down the hillside, and found myself after half an hour or so on more level land, where the trees thinned out. There was a wisp of smoke coming from behind a copse, and I stole forward cautiously to have a look-see. There was a little farm-building with great trees behind it, but no one about except a few cows in the field to one side and an old dog drowsing in the yard. It didn’t look like the kind of place where the new ducal consort of Strackenz would be known, which suited me—the fewer folk who got a glimpse of me, the less chance Bismarck’s bullies had of getting on my track. I was wondering whether to go forward boldly, or scout round for a horse to pinch, when the farm door opened and an old man in gaiters and a sugar-loaf hat came out. He was a peasant, with a face like a walnut, and when he saw me he brought up short and stood glowering at me, the way country folk do at everyone who hasn’t got dung on his boots. I gave him a civil good day, and told him my horse had thrown me while I was riding in the Jotun Gipfel; could he oblige me with a remount, for which I would pay generously? And I showed him a handful of crowns. He mumbled a bit, watching me with the wary, hostile eyes of the old, and then said that his daughter was in the house. She turned out to be a big, strapping creature, plain enough in the face, but just about my weight, so I gave her my best bow and repeated my request with a charming smile. The long and short of it was that they sat me down in the kitchen with some excellent beer and bread and cheese while the old man went off round the house, and presently came back to say that Franz had gone to find Willi, who would be able to borrow Wolf’s horse, no doubt, and if the gentleman would be pleased to rest and eat, it would be along in a little while. I was happy enough with this, for neither of them seemed to have any notion of who I was—or rather, who I was supposed to be—and it gave me the chance to get something under my belt. They were both a little in awe, though, at having such a fine gentleman in their humble home, and seemed too tongue-tied to say much. If the dotard hadn’t been there I dare say I could have had the buxom piece dancing the mattress quadrille within the hour, but as it was I had to confine my refreshment to the victuals and beer. After an hour had passed, though, I began to get restless. I’d no wish to linger here, with Rudi possibly combing the Jotun Gipfel for me already, and when a second hour passed, and then a third, I became feverish. The old clod kept assuring me, in answer to my impatient demands, that Wolf or Franz or Willi would soon be along, with the horse. An excellent horse, he added. And there seemed to be nothing to do but wait, chewing my nails, while the old man sat silent, and the woman went very soft-footed about her work. It was four hours before they came, and they didn’t have a horse. What they did have, though, was weapons. There were four of them, hefty lads in peasant clothes, but with a purposeful look about them that suggested they didn’t give all their time to ploughing. Two had muskets, another had a pistol in his belt, and the leader, who was a blond giant at least a head taller than I, had a broadsword, no less, hanging at his side. I was on my feet, quaking, at the sight of them, but the big fellow held up a hand and made me a jerky bow. “Highness,” says he, and the others bobbed their heads behind him. My bald head was evidently better known than I’d realised. Uneasily, I tried to put on a bold front. “Well, my lads,” says I cheerfully, “have you a horse for me?” “No highness,” says the big one. “But if you will please to come with us, my master will attend to all your needs.” I didn’t like the sound of this, somehow. “Who is your master, then?” “If you please, highness, I am to ask you only to come with us. Please, highness.” He was civil enough, but I didn’t like it. “I want a horse, my good fellow, not to see your master. You know who I am, it seems. Well, bring me a horse directly.” “Please, highness,” he repeated stolidly. “You will come with us. My master commands.” At this I became very princely and peremptory, but it didn’t do a straw’s worth of good. He just stood there insisting, and my bowels went more chilly every moment. I hectored and stormed and threatened, but in the end there was nothing for it. I went with them, leaving the farm couple round-eyed behind us. To my consternation they led me straight back towards the Jotun Gipfel, but although I protested they held their course, the big fellow turning every now and then to mutter apologies, while his pals kept their muskets handy and their eyes carefully on me. I was beside myself with fright and anger; who the devil were they, I demanded, and where was I being taken? But not a word of sense was to be had from them, and the only consolation I could take was a vague feeling that whoever they were, they weren’t Rudi’s creatures, and didn’t seem to mean me any harm—as yet. How far we tramped I don’t know, but it must have taken fully two hours. I wouldn’t have believed the Jotun Gipfel was so extensive, or so dense, but we seemed to be moving into deeper forest all the time, along the foot of the crags. The sun was westering, so far as I could judge, when I saw people ahead, and then we were in a little clearing with perhaps a dozen fellows waiting for us; stalwart peasants like my four guards, and all of them armed. There was a little cabin half-hidden among the bushes at the foot of a small cliff that ran up into the overhanging forest, and before the cabin stood two men. One was a tall, slender, serious-looking chap dressed like a quality lawyer, and grotesquely out of place here; the other was burly and short, in a corduroy suit and leggings, the picture of a country squire or retired military man. He had grizzled, close-cropped hair, a bulldog face, and a black patch over one eye. He was smoking a pipe. They stood staring at me, and then the tall one turned and said urgently to his companion: “He is wrong. I am sure he is wrong.” The other knocked out his pipe on his hand. “Perhaps,” says he. “Perhaps not.” He took a step towards me. “May I ask you, sir, what is your name?” There was only one answer to that. I took a deep breath, looked down my nose, and said: “I think you know it very well. I am Prince Carl Gustaf. And I think I may be entitled to ask, gentlemen, who you may be, and what is the explanation of this outrage?” For a man with his heart in his mouth, I think I played it well. At any rate, the tall one said excitedly: “You see! It could not be otherwise. Highness, may I …” “Save your apologies, doctor,” says the short one. “They may be in order, or they may not.” To me he went on: “Sir, we find ourselves in a quandary. I hear you say who you are; well, my name is Sapten, and this is Dr Per Grundvig, of Strackenz. Now, may I ask what brings you to Jotun Gipfel, with your coat muddied and your breeches torn?” “You ask a good deal, sir!” says I hotly. “Must I remind you who I am, and that your questions are an impertinence? I shall …” “Aye, it sounds like the real thing,” says Sapten, smiling a grim little smile. “Well, we’ll see.” He turned his head. “Hansen! Step this way, if you please!” And out of the hut, before my horrified gaze, stepped the young man who had greeted me at the wedding reception—Erik Hansen, Carl Gustaf’s boyhood friend. I felt my senses start to swim with sick terror; he had sensed something wrong then—he couldn’t fail to unmask me now. I watched him through a haze as he walked steadily up to me and gazed intently at my face. “Prince Carl?” he said at last. “Carl? Is it you? Is it really you?” I forced myself to try to smile. “Erik!” God, what a croak it was. “Why, Erik, what brings you here?” He stepped back, his face white, his hands trembling. He looked from Sapten to the doctor, shaking his head. “Gentlemen, I don’t know … it’s he … and yet … I don’t know …” “Try him in Danish,” says Sapten, his single grey eye fixed on me. I knew then I was done for. Bersonin’s efforts had been insufficient to give me more than the crudest grasp of one of the hardest tongues in Europe. It must have shown in my face as Erik turned back to me, for the damned old villain Sapten added: “Ask him something difficult.” Erik thought a moment, and then, with an almost pleading look in his eyes, spoke in the soft, slipshod mutter that had baffled my ear at Sch?nhausen. I caught the words “Hvor boede” and hardly anything else. Christ, he wanted to know where somebody lived, God knows who. Desperately I said: “Jeg forstar ikke” to show that I didn’t understand, and it sounded so hellish flat I could have burst into tears. Slowly an ugly look came over his fair young face. “Ny,” he said slowly. “De forstar my ikke.” He turned to them, and said in a voice that shook: “He may be the devil himself. It is the Prince’s face and body. But it is not Carl Gustaf—my life on it!” There wasn’t a sound in the clearing, except for my own croaking breaths. Then Sapten put his pipe in his pocket. “So,” says he. “Right, my lad, into that hut with you, and if you make a wrong move, you’re with your Maker. Jacob,” he shouted. “Sling a noose over the branch yonder.” Chapter 8 (#ulink_40a06166-ebc2-51c6-bbd7-e1e08958e8f3) Cowards, as Shakespeare has wisely observed, die many times before their deaths, but not many of them can have expired in spirit more often than I. And I’ve seldom had better reason than when Sapten threw that order to his followers; there was an air of grim purpose about the man that told you he would do exactly what he promised, and that offhand instruction was more terrible than any mere threat could have been. I stumbled into the hut and collapsed on a bench, and the three followed me and closed the door. “Now,” says Sapten, folding his arms, “who are you?” There was no question of brazening it out, any more than there was hope of making a run for it. My only chance lay in talking my way out of the noose—not that the three grim faces offered any encouragement. But anyway, here goes, thought I, reminding myself that there’s no lie ever invented that’s as convincing as half-truth. “Gentlemen,” I began, “believe me, I can explain this whole fearful business. You’re quite right; I am not Prince Carl Gustaf. But I most solemnly assure you that these past few days I have had no choice but to pretend that I was that man. No choice—and I believe when you have heard me out you will agree that the true victim of this abominable hoax is my unhappy self.” “Like enough,” says Sapten, “since you’ll certainly hang for it.” “No, no!” I protested. “You must hear me out. I can prove what I say. I was forced to it—dreadfully forced, but you must believe me innocent.” “Where is the Prince?” burst out Hansen. “Tell us that, you liar!” I ignored this, for a good reason. “My name is Arnold—Captain Thomas Arnold. I’m a British Army officer”—and my idiot tongue nearly added “of no fixed abode”—“and I have been kidnapped and tricked into this by enemies of Strackenz.” That threw them into a talking; both Grundvig and Hansen started volleying questions at me, but Sapten cut them off. “British Army, eh?” says he. “How many regiments of foot guards have you?—quick, now.” “Why, three.” “Humph,” says he. “Go on.” “Well,” says I. “It’s an incredible tale … you won’t believe it …” “Probably not,” says Sapten, whom I was liking less and less. “Get to the point.” So I told it them, from the beginning, sticking as close as I could to the truth. My brain was working desperately as I talked, for the tale wouldn’t do entirely as it stood. I left Lola Montez out of it, and invented a wife and child for myself who had accompanied me to Germany—I was going to need them. I described my abduction in Munich, without reference to Baroness Pechman, and related the Sch?nhausen episode exactly as it had happened. “Otto Bismarck, eh?” says Sapten. “I’ve heard of him. And young Starnberg—aye, we know of that one.” “This is unbelievable,” exclaims Grundvig. “The man is plainly lying in everything he says. Why, who could …” “Easy, doctor,” says Sapten. “Unbelievable—yes.” He pointed at me. “He’s unbelievable, too—but he’s sitting here in front of us.” He nodded to me. “Continue.” Thank God there was at least one cool head among them. I went on, relating how I came to Strackenz, how I had gone through the farce in the Cathedral, how de Gautet had tried to murder me, and how I had killed him in fair fight at the top of the Jotun Gipfel that morning. Sapten’s icy eye never left my face, but Grundvig kept giving exclamations of incredulity and horror, and finally Hansen could contain himself no longer. “Why did you do it? My God, you villain, why? Have you no shame, no honour? How could you live, and commit such a monstrous crime?” I looked him full in the face, like a man struggling with tremendous emotion. (I was, and it was funk, but I tried to look as though I was bursting with wrought-up indignation and distress.) “Why, sir?” says I. “You ask ‘why’. Do you suppose I would have consented to this infamy—have played this awful masquerade—unless they had compelled me with a weapon that no man, however honourable, could resist?” I gave a mighty gulp. “They held my wife and child, sir. Do you realise what that means?” I shouted the question at him, and decided that this was the time to break down. “My God, my God!” I exclaimed. “My precious jewels! My little golden-headed Amelia! Shall I ever see thee again?” It would have had them thumping on the seat-backs in any theatre in London, I’ll swear, but when I raised my head from my hands there was no sign of frantic applause from this audience. Hansen looked bewildered and Grundvig’s long face was working with rage; Sapten was filling his pipe. “And Prince Carl Gustaf—where’s he?” he asked. I had thought, at the beginning, that eventually I might bargain with them—my life for the information—but now instinct told me that it wouldn’t answer. Sapten would have hanged me on the spot, I’m sure—anyway, it wouldn’t have suited the character I was trying desperately to establish. In that, I saw, lay my only hope—to make them believe that I had been a helpless victim of a dastardly plot. And God help me, wasn’t it true? So I told them about Jotunberg, and the plans for disposing of Carl Gustaf. Grundvig clasped his temples, Hansen exclaimed in horror, Sapten lit his pipe and puffed in silence. “Aye,” says he, “and then what? This fellow tried to murder you—you killed him, you say. What did you propose to do next?” “Why—why—I hardly knew. I was distraught—my wife and child—the fate of the prince—I was half-mad with anxiety.” “To be sure,” says he, and puffed some more. “And this was all played out, you tell us, so that this Otto Bismarck could start to build a German Empire? Well, well.” “You’ve heard what I’ve told you, sir,” says I. “I warned you it was incredible, but it’s true—every word of it.” Grundvig, who had been pacing up and down, spun on his heel. “I for one cannot believe it! It is impossible! Major, Erik! Would anyone but a madman credit such a story? It is not to be imagined!” He glared at me. “This man—this scoundrel—can you believe anyone as infamous as he has confessed himself to be?” “Not I, for one,” says Hansen. Sapten scratched his grizzled head. “Just so,” says he, and my heart sank. “But I suggest, doctor, and you too, Erik, that there’s a question to be asked. Can either of you—” and his bright eye went from one to the other—“looking at this fellow here, a man who we know has successfully imposed himself for two weeks on a whole nation—can either of you, in the face of the fact, suggest a better story than he’s told us?” They stared at him. He nodded at me. “There he is. Account for him.” He knocked out his pipe. “If he has lied—then what’s the true explanation?” They babbled a good deal at this, but of course there was no answering him. My story was enough to defy imagination, Sapten agreed—but any alternative must be equally incredible. “If we can accept that a doppelg?nger of the Prince’s can take his place for two weeks—and we know that has happened—then I for one can accept anything,” says he. “You mean you believe him?” cries Grundvig. “For want of evidence to disprove his story—yes.” My heart fluttered up like a maiden’s prayer, “You see,” says Sapten grimly, “it fits. Haven’t we been starting at every German shadow this twenty years back? You know that, Grundvig. Isn’t fear for the security of our duchy the reason we’re here? What are we Sons of the Volsungs for?” He shook his head. “Show me a hole in this fellow’s tale, for I can’t see one.” At this they went into a frantic discussion, which of course got them nowhere. Baffled, they turned back on me. “What are we to do with him?” says Grundvig. “Hang him,” snaps Hansen. “The swine deserves it.” “For the crime he has committed against our duchess,” says Grundvig, glowering at me, “he deserves no less.” They were all looking like Scotch elders in a brothel, but I saw that here was my cue again. I looked bewildered, and then let outraged indignation take its place. “What do you mean by that?” I cried. “You were married to her for more than a week,” says Sapten significantly. I made hoarse noises of fury. “You infamous old man!” I shouted. “D’you dare to suggest? … My God, sir, have you forgotten that I am a British officer? Have you the effrontery to imply that I would …” I choked as with great rage, but I doubt if Sapten was much impressed. The other two looked doubtful, though. “I am not so dead to honour,” says I, trying to look noble and angry together, “that I would stoop to carry my imposture as far as that. There are some things that no gentleman …” And I broke off as though it was too much for me. “It must have been thought strange,” mutters Grundvig. Palpitating, I maintained a stiff silence. They were quiet for a moment, contemplating their duchess’s virginity, I suppose. Then Grundvig said: “Do you swear … that … that …” “My word of honour,” says I, “as a British officer.” “Oh, well, that settles it,” says Sapten, and I’ll swear his mouth twitched under his moustache. “And at the risk of seeming disloyal, gentlemen, I’d suggest that the fate of Prince Carl Gustaf is perhaps as important as what may or mayn’t have happened to … well, let it be.” He swung round on me. “You’ll stay here. If you move outside this hut you’re a dead man—which you may be, anyway, before we’re done. I suggest we continue our deliberations elsewhere, doctor. If what we have learned today is true, we haven’t much time to prevent our duchess becoming a widow before she’s been a bride. To say nothing of saving her duchy for her. Come.” The door slammed behind them, and I was left alone with my thoughts. Not pleasant ones, but they could have been worse. They seemed to have accepted my story, and I was pretty sure that the fictitious parts of it would defy their efforts to pick holes—they weren’t important lies, anyway, but merely colour to enhance my character of innocent-in-the-grip-of-cruel-fate. Best of all, I was reasonably sure they weren’t going to hang me. Sapten was the strong mind among them, and while I read him as one who wouldn’t think twice about taking human life if he had to, there didn’t seem any good reason why they should do away with me. He was a realist, and not swayed by emotion like Grundvig and Hansen. But Grundvig, too, I believed would stop short of murder—he seemed a decent, sensitive sort of fool. Hansen was the one I offended most, probably because he was the Prince’s close friend. He would have slaughtered me for old time’s sake, so to speak, but I fancied he would be out-voted. So there I was, with nothing to do but wait and think. At least I was safe from Bismarck’s bravos, which was something. If these were the Sons of the Volsungs—the clandestine Danish sympathisers whom Rudi had spoken of with contempt—I couldn’t be in better hands, from that point of view. Rudi, it seemed to me, had under-estimated them; I had no idea what they could do about rescuing their precious prince from Jotunberg, and didn’t care either, but they looked a lively and workmanlike lot. It was pleasant to think that they might put a spoke in bloody Otto’s little wheel, after all—Sapten was just the man for that, if I knew anything. He was steady, and saw quickly to the heart of things, and seemed to be full of all the best virtues, like resolution and courage and what-not, without being over-hampered by scruple. Given him on the retreat from Kabul our army would have got home safe enough, and probably brought all the loot of the Bala Hissar into the bargain. Anyway, I wasn’t too displeased with my own situation, and passed the time wondering when they would let me go. God knows why I was so optimistic—reaction, possibly, after having escaped unpleasant death twice in one day—but I ought to have known better. If I had been thinking clearly I’d have realised that from their point of view, the safest place for me was six feet under, where I couldn’t cause any scandal. As it was, what they got me into was very nearly as bad, and caused me to die several more of Shakespeare’s deaths. I was left alone for several hours, during which time the only soul I saw was the big peasant, who brought me some food and beer (still addressing me as “highness”, but in a rather puzzled way). It was night before my three inquisitors returned, and I noticed that both Sapten and Hansen were splashed with mud about the legs, as though they’d ridden hard. Sapten set down a lamp on the table, threw aside his cloak, and eyed me grimly. “Captain Arnold,” says he, “if that is your name, you puzzle me. I don’t like being puzzled. As these gentlemen here have pointed out, no sane man would believe your story for a moment. Well, maybe I’m not sane, but I’ve decided to believe it—most of it anyway. I don’t know whether you’re the biggest knave or the unluckiest wretch who ever drew breath—I incline to the first view, personally, having a nice nose for knavery—no, don’t bother to protest, we’ve heard all that. But I can’t be sure, you see, and it suits me to assume that you’re honest—up to a point. So there.” I kept quiet, fearful and hopeful together. He produced his pipe and began to rub tobacco. “Fortunately, we can test you and serve our own ends at the same time,” he went on. “Now then,”—he fixed me with that cold eye—“here’s the point. Victim or scoundrel, whichever you may be, you’ve committed a monstrous wrong. Are you prepared to help to set it right?” With those three grim faces on me in the lamplight, I was in no doubt about the right answer here—no doubt at all. “Gentlemen,” says I, “God bless you. Whatever I can do”—and I couldn’t think, thank God, that there was much—“that I shall do, with all the power at my command. I have been thinking, as I sat here, of the terrible—” “Aye, we know,” Sapten cut in. “You needn’t tell us.” He lit his pipe, pup-pup-pup, and blew smoke. “All we want is yes or no, and I take it the answer’s yes.” “With all my heart,” I cried earnestly. “I doubt it,” says Sapten, “but never mind. You’re a soldier, you say. Tell me—have you seen much service?” Well, I could answer truthfully to that—I had seen plenty, and I didn’t see any need to tell him that I’d been sweating with panic all through it. Like a fool, I implied that I’d been in some pretty sharp stuff, and come out with (in all manly modesty) some distinction. The words were out before I realised that I might be talking myself into more trouble. “So,” says he, “well enough—you’ve the look of a man of your hands. We may have cause to be glad of that. Now then, here’s the position. You tell us that Prince Carl Gustaf is in Jotunberg under guard of Bismarck’s men, and that they can do away with him—and leave no evidence—at the first sign of alarm. They’ll weight his body, shove it down this hell-hole of theirs—and good-bye.” I noticed Grundvig shudder. “So if we were to storm the place—and it wouldn’t be easy—all that we would find would be a party of gentlemen who no doubt would have an innocent tale of being the guests of Adolf B?low, the owner—he’s tactfully out of the country, by the way. And we’d have lost Prince Carl. The Jotunsee is deep, and we’d never even find his body.” Hansen gave a little gasp, and I saw there were absolute tears on his cheek. “So that won’t do,” says Sapten, puffing away. “Now—suppose we leave Jotunberg alone. Suppose we return you to Strelhow, and wait and see what our German friends in the castle do then. It would gain us time.” By God, I didn’t like this. De Gautet might have failed with me, but some one else would surely succeed—the last place I wanted to be was anywhere on public view in Strackenz. “They would hardly murder the prince,” says Grundvig, “while you were on the consort’s throne. At least, they have not done it yet.” “It offers us time,” repeated Sapten slowly, “but what could we do with it, eh?” I tried to think of something—anything. “Perhaps if I were to abdicate,” I suggested hurriedly. “I mean … if it would help …” “Waiting increases the risks, though,” went on Sapten, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Of your discovery; of the Prince’s murder.” “We cannot leave him there, with those villains!” burst out Hansen. “No, so we’ve rejected that,” says Sapten. “And we come back to the only course—a desperate and dangerous one, for it may cost his life in the end. But nothing else remains.” He paused, and I felt my spine dissolve. Oh, Jesus, here it was again—whenever I hear the words “desperate and dangerous” I know that I’m for it. I could only wait to hear the worst. “To storm Jotunberg is impossible,” says Sapten. “It stands in the lake of the Jotunsee, and only at one point is it accessible from the shore, where a causeway runs out towards it. There were two guards on the causeway tonight, at the outer end, where the gap between causeway and castle is spanned by a drawbridge. That bridge is raised, which is a sign that those within know that their plans have gone astray. Doubtless when the man you killed this morning failed to return to his friends, they took alarm. Two of them, at any rate, rode into the castle tonight—Hansen and I saw them; a youngster, a gay spark, for all he looked little more than a boy, and a big ruffian along with him—” “Starnberg and Kraftstein,” says I. “Major Sapten, they are a devilish pair—they’ll stop at nothing!” “Well, how many more were already in the castle, we don’t know. Probably no more than a handful. But we could never hope to surprise them. So we must find another way, and quickly.” He sat back. “Erik, it is your scheme. Let him hear it.” One look at Hansen’s face—his eyes were glittering like a fanatic’s—prepared me for the worst. “Where a storming party must fail, we may prevail by stealth. Two brave men could cross the Jotunsee at night from the opposite bank, by boat as close as they dared, and then by swimming. Part of the fortress is in ruin; they could land in the darkness, enter the castle silently, and discover where the prince is hidden. Then, while one guarded him, the other would hasten to the drawbridge and lower it so that our people, hidden on the shore, could storm across the causeway. They could easily overpower its garrison—but somehow the prince’s life would have to be preserved while the fighting lasted. Whether this could be done—” he shrugged. “At least the two who had entered first could die trying.” And the very fact that they were telling me this informed me who one of those two was going to be. Of all the lunatic, no-hope schemes I ever heard, this seemed to be the primest yet. If they thought they were going to get me swimming into that place in the dark, with the likes of Rudi and Kraftstein waiting for me, they didn’t know their man. The mere thought was enough to set my guts rumbling with fright. I’d see them damned first. I’d sooner be—swinging at the end of Sapten’s rope? That was what would happen, of course, if I refused. While I was gulping down these happy thoughts, Grundvig—whom I’d known from the first was a clever chap—sensibly suggested that where two men could swim, so could a dozen, but Hansen shook his fat head with determination. “No. Two may pass unobserved, but not more. It is out of the question.” He turned to look at me, his face set, his eyes expressionless. “I shall be one of the two—Carl Gustaf is my friend, and if he is to die I shall count myself happy to die with him. You do not know him—yet without you, he would not be where he is. Of all people, you at least owe him a life. Will you come with me?” Whatever I may be, I’m not slow-witted. If ever there was a situation made for frantic pleading in the name of common sense, I was in it now—I could have suggested that they try to bargain with Rudi, or send a messenger to Bismarck (wherever he was) and tell him that they were on to his games; I could have gone into a faint, or told them that I couldn’t swim, or that I got hay fever if I went out after dark—I could simply have roared for mercy. But I knew it wouldn’t do; they were deadly serious, frightened men—frightened for that Danish idiot, instead of for themselves, as any sane man would have been—and if I hesitated, or argued, or did anything but accept at once they would rule me out immediately for a coward and a hypocrite and a backslider. And then it would be the Newgate hornpipe for Flashy, with the whole damned crew of Sons of the Volsungs hauling on the rope. I knew all this in the few seconds that I sat there with my bowels melting, and I heard a voice say in a deadly croak: “Yes, I’ll come.” Hansen nodded slowly. “I do not pretend that I take you from choice; I would sooner take the meanest peasant in our band. But you are a soldier, you are skilled in arms and in this kind of work.” (Dear lad, I thought, how little you know.) “You are a man of resource, or you could never have done the infamous thing that has brought you here. Perhaps there is a queer fate at work in that. At all events, you are the man for this.” I could have discussed that with some eloquence, but I knew better. I said nothing, and Hansen said: “It will be for tomorrow night, then,” and he and Grundvig got up and went without another word. Sapten lingered, putting on his cloak, watching me. At last he spoke. “It is one of the lessons a man learns as he grows old,” says he, “to put away desires and emotions—aye, and even honour—and to do what must be done with the tools to hand, whatever they may be. So I let you go with Hansen tomorrow. Succeed in what is to do, for as God’s my witness, if you don’t I’ll kill you without pity.” He turned to the door. “Perhaps I misjudge you; I don’t know. In case I am guilty of that, I promise that whatever befalls, I shall not rest until I have ensured the safety of that wife and daughter who so concerned you earlier today, but whom you seem to have forgotten tonight. Take comfort from the knowledge that little golden-haired Amelia is in my thoughts.” He opened the door. “Goodnight, Englishman.” And he went out, no doubt very pleased with himself. I spent the next hour frantically trying to dig under the wall of the cabin with my bare hands, but it was no go. The earth was too hard, and full of roots and stones; I made a pitifully small scrape, and then hurriedly filled it in again and stamped it down in case they saw what I’d been up to. Anyway, even if I had succeeded in breaking out, they’d have run me to earth in the forest; they were trained woodsmen and I’d no idea where I was. Once my initial panic had passed, I could only sit in miserable contemplation. There was a slim chance that before tomorrow evening something might happen to change Hansen’s lunatic plan—or I might receive a heaven-sent opportunity to escape, although I doubted that. Failing these things, I should certainly be launched—literally, too—into the most dangerous adventure of my life, and with precious little prospect of coming through it. So I would end here, in a god-forsaken miserable German ruin, trying to rescue a man I’d never met—I, who wouldn’t stir a finger to rescue my own grandmother. It was all too much, and I had a good self-pitying blubber to myself, and then I cursed and prayed a bit, invoking the God in whom I believe only in moments of real despair to intervene on my behalf. I tried to console myself that I’d come out of desperate straits before—aye, but wasn’t my luck about due to run out, then? No, no, Jesus would see the repentant sinner right, and I would never swear or fornicate or steal or lie again—I strove to remember the seven deadly sins, to make sure I missed none of them, and then cudgelled my brains for the Ten Commandments, so that I could promise never to break them again—although, mind you, I’d never set up a graven image in my life. I should have felt purified and at peace after all this, but I found I was just as terrified as ever, so I ended by damning the whole system. I knew it would make no difference, anyway. That next day was interminable; my heart was in my mouth every time footsteps approached the cabin door, and it was almost a relief when Sapten and his two companions came for me in the evening. They brought a good deal of gear with them, explaining that we should make all our preparations here before setting out, and just the activity of getting ready took my mind momentarily off the horrors ahead. First Hansen and I stripped right down, so that we could be rubbed all over with grease as a protection against the cold when we took to the water. Sapten whistled softly when he saw my scars—the place where a pistol ball had burrowed from my side towards my spine, the whip-marks left by the swine Gul Shah, and the white weal on my thigh where my leg was broken at Piper’s Fort. It was an impressive collection—and even if most of them were in the rear, they weren’t the kind of decorations you normally see on a coward. “You’ve been lucky,” says he. “So far.” When we had been thoroughly greased, we put on rough woollen underclothes—a most disgusting process—and then heavy woollen shirts and smocks, tucked into our breeches. We wore stockings and light shoes, and Sapten bound bandages round our wrists and ankles to keep our clothing gathered in place. “Now, then,” says he, “to arms,” and produced a couple of heavy broadswords and an assortment of hunting knives. “If you want fire-arms you’ll have to persuade our friends in Jotunberg to give you some,” he added. “Useless to try to take them with you.” Hansen took a sword and a long dagger, but I shook my head. “Haven’t you a sabre?” Sapten looked doubtful, but a search among his band of brigands outside produced the required article—it was old but a good piece of steel, and I shuddered inwardly at the sight of it. But I took it—if I have to fight, God forbid, I’ll do it with a weapon I understand, and if I was no Angelo with a sabre, at least I’d been trained in its use. For the rest, they gave me back my seaman’s knife, and each of us was provided with a flask of spirits. We carried the swords on our backs, looped securely at shoulder and waist, and Hansen bound a length of cord round his middle. There was some debate as to whether we should take flint and steel, but there seemed no point to it. Finally, we each had an oilskin packet containing some meat and bread and cheese, in case, as Sapten cheerfully remarked, we had time to stop for a snack. “You may feel the need of something when you get out of the water,” he added. “Eat and drink if chance serves. Now, then, Mr Thomas Arnold, attend to me. From here we ride to the Jotunsee, which will take us the best part of three hours. There the boat is waiting, with two stout men at the oars; they will take you as close to the castle as seems advisable—there is a moon, but we can’t help that. The clouds are thick, so you should get close in unobserved. Then you swim for it—and remember, they will be watching and listening in yonder.” He let me digest this, his head cocked and his hands thrust deep in his pockets—strange how these pictures stay with one—and then went on: “Once inside the castle, Hansen is in command, you understand? He will decide how to proceed—who is to guard the prince, who to lower the bridge. So far as we know, it is wound up and down by a windlass. Knock out the pin and the bridge will fall. That will be our signal to storm the causeway—fifty men, led by myself and Grundvig here.” He paused, pulling out his pouch. “It is not our intention to leave any survivors of the garrison.” “They must all die,” says Grundvig solemnly. “To the last man,” says Hansen. It seemed to call for something from me, so I said: “Hear, hear.” “Serve us well in this,” added Sapten, “and the past will be forgotten. Try to play us false—” He left it unspoken. “Now, is all clear?” It was clear, right enough, all too clear; I did my best not to think of it. I didn’t want to know any more dreadful details—indeed, the only question in my mind was a completely unimportant one, and had nothing to do with what lay ahead. But I was curious, so I asked it. “Tell me,” I said to Hansen. “Back in Strackenz City—what made you think I wasn’t Carl Gustaf?” He stared at me in surprise. “You ask now? Very well—I was not sure. The likeness is amazing, and yet … there was something wrong. Then I knew, in an instant, what it was. Your scars are in the wrong places—the left one is too low. But there was more than that, too. I don’t know—you just were not Carl Gustaf.” “Thank’ee,” says I. Poor old Bismarck—wrong again. “How did you come by these scars?” asked Sapten. “They cut them in my head with a schlager,” says I, offhand, and Grundvig drew in his breath. “Oh, yes,” I added to Hansen, “this is no kindergarten you are venturing into, my lad. These are very practical men, as you may discover.” I was eager to take some of the bounce out of him. “That’ll do,” growls Sapten. “All ready, then? Lassen sie uns gehen.” There were horses outside, and men moving about us in the gloom; we rode in silent cavalcade through the woods, along a path that wound upwards into the Jotun Gipfel, and then down through dense thickets of bush and bracken. There was no chance of escape, even if I had dared; two men rode at my stirrups all the way. We halted frequently—while scouts went ahead, I suppose—and I took the opportunity to sample the contents of my flask. It held brandy, about half a pint, and it was empty by the time the journey was half done. Not that it made much odds, except to warm me; I could have drunk a gallon without showing it just then. At last we halted and dismounted; shadowy hands took my bridle, and I was pushed forward through the bushes until I found myself on the banks of a tiny creek, with water lapping at my feet. Hansen was beside me, and there was much whispering in the dark; I could see the vague outline of a boat and its rowers, and then the moon came out from behind the clouds, and through the tangled branches at the creek’s mouth I saw the choppy grey water of the lake, and rising out of it, not three furlongs off, the stark outline of Jotunberg. It was a sight to freeze your blood and make you think of monsters and vampires and bats squeaking in gloomy vaults—a gothic horror of dark battlements and towers with cloud-wrack behind it, silent and menacing in the moonlight. My imagination peopled it with phantom shapes waiting at its windows—and they wouldn’t have been any worse than Rudi and Kraftstein. Given another moment I believe I would have sunk down helpless on the shore, but before I knew it I was in the boat, with Hansen beside me. “Wait for the moon to die.” Sapten’s hoarse whisper came out of the dark behind, and presently the light was blotted out, and Jotunberg was only a more solid shadow in the dark. But it was still there, and all the more horrid in my mind’s eye. I had to grip my chin to stop my teeth chattering. Sapten muttered again in the gloom, the boat stirred as the dim forms of the rowers moved, and we were sliding out of the creek onto the face of the Jotunsee. The breeze nipped as we broke cover, and then the bank had vanished behind us. It was as black as the earl of hell’s weskit, and deadly silent except for the chuckle of water under our bow and the soft rustle as the oarsmen heaved. The boat rocked gently, but we were moving quite quickly, with the dim shape of the castle growing bigger and uglier every moment. It seemed to me that we were rowing dangerously close to it; I could see the faint glare of a light at one of the lower windows, and then Hansen softly said “Halt”, and the oarsmen stopped rowing. Hansen touched my shoulder. “Ready?” I was trying to suppress the bile of panic that was welling up into my throat, so I didn’t answer. “Folgen sie mir ganz nahe,” says he, and then he had slipped over the side like an otter, with hardly a sound. For the life of me I couldn’t bring myself to follow; my limbs were like jelly; I couldn’t move. But petrified though I was, I knew I daren’t stay either; let me refuse now, and Sapten would make cold meat of me very shortly afterwards. I leaned over the side of the boat, clumsily trying to copy Hansen, and then I had overbalanced, and with an awful, ponderous roll I came off the gunwale and plunged into the Jotunsee. The cold was hideous, cutting into my body like a knife, and I came up spluttering with the sheer pain of it. As I gasped for breath Hansen’s face came out of the darkness, hissing at me to be quiet, his hand searching for me underwater. “Geben sie acht, idiot! Stop splashing!” “This is bloody madness!” I croaked at him. “Christ, it’s mid-winter, man! We’ll freeze to death!” He grabbed my shoulder while we trod water, snarling at me to be quiet. Then, turning from the boat, he began to strike out slowly for the castle, expecting me to follow. For a second I considered the possibility, even at this late hour, of making for the shore and taking my chance in the woods, but I realised I could never swim the distance—not at this temperature, and with the sabre strapped to my back and my sodden clothes dragging at me. I had to stay with Hansen, so I struck out after him, as quietly as I could, sobbing with fear and frustration. God, I remember thinking, this is too bad. What the hell had I done to deserve this? Left alone I’m a harmless enough fellow, asking nothing but meat and drink and a whore or two, and not offending anyone much—why must I be punished in this hellish fashion? The cold seemed to be numbing my very guts; I knew I couldn’t go much longer, and then a blinding pain shot through my left leg, and I was under water, my mouth filling as I tried to yell. Flailing with my good leg I came up, bleating for Hansen. “Cramp!” I whimpered. “Christ, I’ll drown!” Even then, I had sense enough to keep my voice down, but it was loud enough to reach him, for next time I went under he hauled me up again, swearing fiercely at me to be quiet, and to stop thrashing about. “My leg! my leg!” I moaned. “Jesus, I’m done for. Save me, you selfish bastard! Oh, God, the cold!” My leg was one blinding pain, but with Hansen gripping me and holding my face above water I was able to rest until gradually it subsided to a dull ache; I stretched it cautiously, and it seemed to be working again. When he was sure I could swim on, he whispered that we must hurry, or the cold would get us for certain. I was almost past caring, and told him so; he and his bloody prince and Sapten and the rest of them could rot in hell for me, I said, and he struck me across the face and threatened to drown me if I didn’t keep quiet. “It’s your life, too, fool!” he hissed. “Now be silent, or we’re lost.” I called him the filthiest names I knew (in a whisper), and then he swam on, with me behind him, striking out feebly enough, but it wasn’t far now; another couple of freezing minutes and we were under the lee of the castle wall, where it seemed to rise sheer out of the water, and there wasn’t a sight or sound to suggest we had been heard. Hansen trod water in front of me, and when I came up with him he pointed ahead, and I saw what seemed to be a shadowy opening at the foot of the wall. “There,” says he. “Silence.” “I can’t take much more of this,” I whispered feebly. “I’ll freeze, I tell you—I’m dying—I know I am. God damn you, you scabby-headed Danish swine, you … wait for me!” He was swimming slowly into the gap in the wall; and at that moment the moon chose to come out again, striking its cold light on the rearing battlement above us, and showing that the gap was in fact a tiny harbour, cut out of the rock of the Jotunberg itself. To the left and ahead it was enclosed by the castle wall; to the right the wall seemed to be ruined, and there were dark areas of shadow where the moonlight didn’t penetrate. I felt a chill that was not from the water as I paddled slowly towards it; exhausted and shocked as I was, I could smell danger from the place. When you burgle a house, you don’t go in by the open front door. But Hansen was already out of sight in the shadow; I swam after him round an angle of the rock, and saw him treading water with his hand up on the stone ledge that bordered the harbour. When he saw me he turned face on to the stone, put up his other hand, and heaved himself out of the water. For a second he hung there, poised, straining to pull his body onto the ledge; the moonlight was full on him, and suddenly something glittered flying above the water and smacked between his shoulder blades; his head shot up and his body heaved convulsively; for a second he hung, motionless, and then with a dreadful, bubbling sigh he flopped face down on the stone and slid slowly back into the water. As he slipped under I could distinctly see the knife-hilt standing out of his back; then he was floating, half-submerged, and I was scrabbling frantically away from him choking back the shriek of terror in my throat. There was a low, cheerful laugh out of the shadows above me, and then someone whistled a line or two of “Marlbroug s’en va t-en guerre”. “Swim this way, Flashman, Prince of Denmark,” said Rudi’s voice. “I have you beaded, and you won’t float long if I put lead ballast into you. Come along, there’s a good chap; you don’t want to catch cold, do you?” He watched me as I clambered miserably out, shaking with fright and cold, and stood hand on hip, smiling easily at me. “This is a not entirely unexpected pleasure,” says he. “I had a feeling you would turn up, somehow. Eccentric way you have of arriving, though.” He nodded towards the water. “Who’s our dead friend?” I told him. “Hansen, eh? Well, serve him right for a meddling fool. I did him rather proud, I think—twenty-five feet, an uncertain light, and a rather clumsy hunting-knife—but I put it right between his shoulders. Rather pretty work, wouldn’t you say? But you’re trembling, man!” “I’m cold,” I chattered. “Not as cold as he is,” chuckled this hellish ruffian. “Well, come along. Ah, but first, the formalities.” He snapped his fingers, and two men came out of the shadows behind him. “Michael, take the gentleman’s sabre, and that most un-English knife in his belt. Excellent. This way.” They took me through a ruined archway, across a paved yard, through a postern-like door in what seemed to be the main keep, and into a vast vaulted hall with a great stone stairway winding round its wall. To my left was a lofty arch through which I could see dimly the outline of massive chains and a great wheel: I supposed this would be the drawbridge mechanism—not that it mattered now. Rudi, humming merrily, led the way upstairs and into a chamber off the first landing. By contrast with the gloomy medieval stonework through which we had come, it was pleasantly furnished in an untidy bachelor way, with clothes, papers, dog-whips, bottles, and so on scattered everywhere; there was a fire going and I made straight for it. “Here,” says he, pushing a glass of spirits into my hand. “Michael will get you some dry clothes.” And while I choked over the drink, and then stripped off my soaking weeds, he lounged in an armchair. “So,” says he, once I had pulled on the rough clothes they brought, and we were alone, “de Gautet bungled it, eh? I told them they should have let me do the business—if I’d been there you would never even have twitched. Tell me what happened.” Possibly I was light-headed with the brandy and the shock of what I had been through, or my fear had reached that stage of desperation where nothing seems to matter; anyway, I told him how I had disposed of his colleague, and he chuckled appreciatively. “You know, I begin to like you better and better; I knew from the first that we’d get along splendidly. And then what? Our Dansker friends got hold of you, didn’t they?” Seeing me hesitate, he leaned forward in his chair. “Come along, now; I know much more than you may think, and can probably guess the rest. And if you hold back, or lie to me—well, Mr Play-actor, you’ll find yourself going for a swim with friend Hansen, I promise you. Who sent you here? It was the Danish faction, wasn’t it—Sapten’s precious bandits?” “The Sons of the Volsungs,” I admitted. I daren’t try to deceive him—and what would have been the point? “Sons of the Volsungs! Sons of the Nibelungs would be more appropriate. And you and Hansen were to try to rescue Carl Gustaf? I wonder,” he mused, “how they found out about him. No matter. What did you expect to accomplish, in heaven’s name? Two of you couldn’t hope … ah, but wait a moment! You were the mine under the walls, weren’t you? To open the way for the good Major Sapten’s patriotic horde.” He gave a ringing laugh. “Don’t look so surprised, man! D’ye think we’re blind in here? We’ve been watching them scuttle about the shore all day. Why, with a night-glass in the tower we watched your boat set out an hour ago! Of all the bungling, ill-judged, badly-managed affairs! But what would one expect from that pack of yokels?” He roared with laughter again. “And how did they coerce you into this folly? A knife at your back, no doubt. Well, well, I wonder what they’ll think of next?” Now, I was beginning to get some of my senses back, what with the warmth and the rest of sitting down. I was out of the frying-pan into the fire, no question, but I couldn’t for the life of me see why he had killed Hansen and taken me prisoner—unless it was for information. And when he had got all that he wanted, what was he going to do with me? I could guess. “Yes, what will they think of next?” He sauntered in front of the fireplace, slim and elegant in his tight-fitting black tunic and breeches, and turned to flash his teeth at me. “Suppose you tell me?” “I don’t know,” says I. “It was … as you’ve guessed. We were to try to release him and let down the bridge.” “And if that failed?” “They didn’t say.” “Mm. Do they know our garrison?” “They think … only a few.” “Well guessed—or well spied out. Not that it’ll help them. If they try to storm the place their dear Prince will be feeding the fishes in the Jotunsee before they’re over the causeway—do they know that, I wonder?” I nodded. “They know all about it.” He grinned happily. “Well, then, we needn’t fret about them, need we? It gives us time to consider. How many men have they over yonder, by the way? And be very, very careful how you answer.” “I heard them say fifty.” “Wise Flashman. I knew, you see.” Suddenly he clapped me on the shoulder. “Would you like to meet your royal twin? I’ve been longing to bring the pair of you face to face, you know—and you can see, at the same time, the excellent arrangements we have for his … shall we say, security?—in the event of burglars. Come along.” He flung open the door. “Oh, and Flashman,” he added, carelessly smiling. “You will bear in mind that I’m not de Gautet, won’t you? You’ll do nothing foolish, I mean? You see, it would be a great waste, because I think … I think we may be able to try out a little scheme of mine together, you and I. We’ll see.” He bowed and waved me through. “After you, your highness.” We went down to the great hall, and there Rudi turned into a side-passage, and down a steep flight of stone steps which spiralled into the depths of the castle. There were oil lamps at intervals, glistening on the nitre which crusted the bare stone, and in places the steps were slippery with moss. We came out into a flagged cloister, with mighty, squat columns supporting the low ceiling; the place was in shadow, but ahead of us light shone from an archway, and passing through we were in a broad stone chamber where two men sat over cards at a rough table. They looked up at our approach, one with his hand on a pistol; they were burly, tall fellows in what looked like cavalry overalls, and their sabres hung at their elbows, but I wasn’t concerned with them. Beyond them was a great iron grille, stretching from floor to ceiling, and before it stood Kraftstein, his huge hands on his hips, like an ogre in the flickering lamplight. “Here he is, Kraftstein,” says Rudi lightly. “Our old drinking-companion from Sch?nhausen. Aren’t you pleased, now, that I didn’t let you shoot him in the water? Kraftstein’s got no manners, you know,” he added over his shoulder to me. “And how is our royal guest this evening?” Kraftstein said nothing, but having glowered at me he turned and drew a bolt in the grille. Rudi waved me through the gate as it groaned back on its hinges, and with the hair prickling on my neck, but spurred by curiosity, I passed through. The grille, I saw, cut off the end of the vault, and we were in an enclosure perhaps forty feet deep and half as wide. At the end, opposite me, a man lay on a low couch set against the wall; there was a table with a lamp beside him, and at the sound of the creaking hinge he sat up, shading his eyes and peering towards us. For some reason I felt a nervousness that had nothing to do with the danger of my situation; I felt I was about to see something uncanny—and this although I knew what it was going to be. “Guten abend, highness,” says Rudi, as we went forward. “Here’s a visitor for you.” The man took his hand from his face, and I couldn’t help letting out an exclamation. For there I sat, looking at me—my own face, puzzled, wary, and then in an instant, blank with amazement, the mouth open and eyes staring. He shrank back, and then suddenly he was on his feet. “What is this?” his voice was strained and hoarse. “Who is this man?” As he moved, there was a heavy, clanking noise, and with a thrill of horror I saw that there was a heavy chain on his left ankle, fettering him to a great stone weight beside the bed. “May I have the honour to present an old acquaintance, highness?” says Rudi. “I’m sure you remember him, from your mirror?” It was a weird experience, looking at that face, and hearing that voice when he spoke again—perhaps a trifle deeper than my own, I fancied, and now that I looked at him, he was a shade slimmer than I, and less tall by a fraction. But it was an amazing resemblance, none the less. “What does it mean?” he demanded. “In God’s name, who are you?” “Until recently, he was Prince Carl Gustaf of Denmark,” says Rudi, obviously enjoying himself. “But you’d regard him as a most presumptive heir to the title, I’m sure. In fact, he’s an Englishman, your highness, who has been kind enough to deputise for you during your holiday here.” He took it well, I’ll say that for him. After all, I’d known for weeks that my spitten image was walking about somewhere, but it was all new to him. He stared at me for a long moment, and I stared back, tongue-tied, and then he said slowly: “You’re trying to drive me mad. Why, I don’t know. It is some filthy plot. In God’s name, tell me, if you have any spark of pity or decency, what it means. If it is money you want, or ransom, I have told you—say so! If it is my life—well, damn you! take it!” He tried to stride forward, but the chain wrenched at his ankle and almost upset him. “Damn you!” he roared again, shaking his fist at us. “You vile, cowardly villains! Let me loose, I say, and I’ll send that creature with my face straight to hell—and you, too, you grinning mountebank!” He was a fearsome sight, wrestling at his chain, and cursing like a Smithfield porter. Rudi clicked his tongue. “Royal rage,” says he. “Gently, your highness, gently. Don’t promise what you couldn’t perform.” For a moment I thought Carl Gustaf would burst himself with rage; his face was purple. And then his temper subsided, he strove to compose himself, and he jerked back his lips in that gesture that I had spent so many weary hours trying to copy. “I forget myself, I think,” he said, breathing hard. “To what end? Who you are, fellow, I don’t know—or what this means. I’ll not entertain you by inquiring any further. When you choose to tell me—if you choose to tell me—well! But understand,” and he dropped his voice in a way which I knew so well, because I do it myself, “that you had better kill me and have done, because if you do not, by God’s help I’ll take such a revenge on you all …” He left it there, nodding at us, and I had to admit that whatever our resemblance in looks, he was as different from me in spirit as day from night. You wouldn’t have got me talking as big as that, chained up in a dungeon—well, I’ve been in that very situation, and I blubbered for mercy till I was hoarse. I know what’s fitting. But he didn’t, and much good his defiance was doing him. “Oh, never fear, highness,” says Rudi. “We’ll certainly kill you when the time is ripe. Remember the royal progress we have prepared for you.” And he pointed off to the side of the great cell; I looked, and my heart gave a lurch at what I saw. To that side the flags sloped down in a depression, perhaps a dozen feet across and about four feet deep. The sloping stones looked smooth and slippery, and at the bottom of the shallow funnel which they formed there was a gaping hole, circular and more than a yard wide. Carl Gustaf’s face went pale as he, too, looked, and his mouth twitched, but he said nothing. My skin crawled at the thought of what lay beyond the mouth of that shaft. “Merry lads, the old lords of Jotunberg,” says Rudi. “When they tired of you, down you went, suitably weighted—as our royal guest is here—and hey, splash! It’s not a trip I’d care to take myself—but your highness may not mind so much when I tell you that one of your friends is waiting for you in the Jotunsee. Hansen, his name was.” “Hansen? Erik Hansen?” The prince’s hand shook. “What have you done to him, you devil?” “He went swimming at the wrong time of year,” says Rudi cheerily. “So rash—but there. Young blood. Now, your highness, with your gracious permission, we’ll withdraw.” He made a mocking bow, and waved me ahead of him towards the grille. As we reached it, Carl Gustaf suddenly shouted: “You—you with my face! Haven’t you a tongue in your head? Why don’t you speak, damn you?” I blundered out; that hellish place was too much for me; I could imagine all too clearly slithering down into that shaft—ugh! And these murdering monsters would do it to me as soon as to him, if it suited them. Young Rudi’s laughter rang after me as I stumbled through the vault; he strode up beside me, clapping his hand round my shoulders and asking eagerly what I had thought of meeting my double face to face—had it made me wonder who I was? Had I noticed the amazement of Carl Gustaf, and what did I suppose he was making of it all? “I’ll swear I hadn’t realised how alike you were till I saw you together,” says he, as we reached his room again. “It’s supernatural. Do you know … it makes me wonder if Otto Bismarck didn’t miss the true possibility of his scheme. By God!” he stopped dead, rubbing his chin. Then: “You remember a few moments ago I spoke of a plan that you and I might try together? I’ll be frank; it occurred to me the moment I saw you swimming in the lake, and realised that I had both the court cards in my hand, with no one but the worthy Kraftstein to interfere—and he doesn’t count. The two court cards,” he repeated, grinning, “and one of them a knave. Have a drink, play-actor. And listen.” You’ll have noticed that since my arrival in Jotunberg I had said very little—and, of course, the situation was really beyond comment. Events in the past forty-eight hours had brought me to the point where intelligent thought, let alone speech, was well-nigh impossible. The only conscious desire I felt was to get out of this nightmare as fast as possible, by any means. And yet, the hectoring way in which this cocksure young upstart shoved me into a chair and commanded me to listen, stirred a resentment beneath my miserable fear. I was heartily sick of having people tell me to listen, and ordering me about, and manipulating me like a damned puppet. Much good it had done me to take it all meekly—it had been one horror after another, and only by the luck of the devil was I still in one piece. And here, unless I mistook the look in Starnberg’s eye, was going to be another brilliant proposal to put me through the mill. Open defiance wasn’t to be thought of, naturally, but in that moment I felt that if I did manage to muster my craven spirits to do something on my own behalf, it probably couldn’t be any worse than whatever he had in mind for me. “Look here,” says he, “how many of these damned Danes know that you are really an impostor?” I could think of Grundvig and Sapten for certain; their peasant followers I wasn’t sure of, but Rudi brushed them aside as unimportant. “Two who matter,” says he. “And on my side—Bismarck, Bersonin and Kraftstein—we can forget Detchard and that squirt of a doctor. Now—suppose our captive Prince goes down that excellent pipe tonight, and we let down the bridge to encourage your friends to attack? It would be possible to arrange a warm reception for them—warm enough to ensure that Grundvig and Sapten never got off that causeway alive, anyhow. Kraftstein could easily meet with a fatal accident during the fight—somehow I’m sure he would—and by the time the Sons of the Volsungs had fought their way in and cut up the survivors, you and I could be on our way to the shore, by boat. Then, back to Strackenz and the acclaim of everyone who has been wondering where their beloved prince has been. Oh, we could invent some tale—and who would there be to give you away? Detchard and the doctor daren’t. Your Danish friends couldn’t, being dead. And by this time Bismarck and Bersonin are far too busy, I’ll be bound, to worry about Strackenz.” Seeing my bewildered look, he explained. “You haven’t heard the news, of course. Berlin is alive with alarms, it seems. The revolution’s coming, my boy; the student rabble and the rest will have the King of Prussia off his throne in a week or two. So dear Otto has other fish to fry for the moment. Oh, it’s not only in Germany, either; I hear that France is up in arms, and Louis-Phillipe’s deposed, they say. It’s spreading like wildfire.” He laughed joyously. “Don’t you see, man? It’s a heaven-sent chance. We could count on weeks—nay, months—before anyone gave a thought to this cosy little duchy—or to the identity of the duchess’s consort.” “And what use would that be to us?” “God, you’re brainless! To hold the reins of power—real power—in a European state, even a little one like Strackenz? If we couldn’t squeeze some profit out of that—enough to set us up for life—before we took leave of ’em, then we aren’t the men I think we are. D’you know what the revenues of a duchy amount to?” “You’re mad,” I said. “Raving mad. D’you think I’d put my neck into that again?” “Why not? Who’s to stop you?” “We wouldn’t last a week—why, half the bloody peasants in Strackenz probably know that there are two Carl Gustafs loose about the place! They’ll talk, won’t they?” “Bah, where’s your spirit, play-actor?” he jeered. “Who would listen to them? And it’s only for a few weeks—you’ve done it once already, man! And think of the fun it would be!” They are rare, but they do exist, and you can only call them adventurers. Rudi was one; it was the excitement, the mischief, that he lived for, more than the reward; the game, not the prize. Mad as hatters, mark you, and dangerous as sharks—they are not to be judged by the standards of yellow-bellies like me. Flashy don’t want anything to do with ’em, but he knows how their minds work. Because of this, I was wondering furiously how to deal with him. “You can go back to your pretty duchess, too,” says he. “Don’t want her,” says I. “I’ve had her, anyway.” “But there’s a fortune in it, man!” “I’d rather be alive and poor, thank’ee.” He stood considering. “You don’t trust me, is that it?” “Well,” says I, “now that you mention it …” “But that’s the point!” He clapped his hands. “We are the ideal partners—neither of us trusts the other an inch, but we need each other. It’s the only guarantee in any business. You’re as big a rascal as I am; we would sell each other tomorrow, but there isn’t the need.” Our financiers know all this, of course, but I’ve often thought that our diplomatists and politicians could have gone to school to Professor Starnberg. I can see him still, arms akimbo, flashing eyes, curly head, brilliant smile, and ready to set fire to an orphan asylum to light his cheroot. I’m a dirty scoundrel, but it has come to me naturally; Rudi made a profession out of it. “Come on, man, what d’you say?” I caught the note of impatience in his voice; careful, now, I thought, or he’ll turn vicious. His scheme was unthinkable, but I daren’t tell him so. What was the way out, then? I must pretend to go along with him for the moment; would a chance of escape offer? It was growing on me that the only safe way out—or the least risky—was to find some way of doing what Sapten had wanted. How could I get the drawbridge down; would I survive the assault that would follow? Aye, but for the moment, pretend. “Could we make certain of Sapten and Grundvig?” I asked doubtfully. “Be sure of that,” says he. “There are two little cannon below stairs—ornamental things, but they’ll work. Load ’em with chain, and we’ll sweep that causeway from end to end when the rescuers come charging home.” “There are fifty of them, remember; have you enough here to man the guns and hold the place until we can get away?” “Two of us, the three you saw in the cellar, and another three in the tower,” says he. “Then there are two on the causeway, but they’ll go in the first rush. They needn’t concern us.” Oh, he was a born leader, all right. But now I knew how many men he had, and where they were. The vital fact was that there was no one, apparently, guarding the drawbridge mechanism on the inside. “So,” he cried, “you’re with me?” “Well,” says I, doubtfully, “if we can be sure of holding those damned Volsungs on the bridge long enough …” “We’ll concentrate all our force by the guns at the drawbridge arch,” says he. “Why, we can have all ready in half an hour. Then, down with the bridge, and let the flies come streaming towards our parlour.” His eyes were shining with excitement, and he put out his hand. “And then, my friend, we embark on our profitable partnership.” Suddenly it struck me that it was now or never; he would move fast, and somehow I had to forestall him while his small forces were still scattered about the castle and all unsuspecting. I fought down my rising fear of what was to do, steeling myself for a desperate effort. My hand was sweating in his grasp. “Let’s drink to it!” cries he exultantly, and turned to the table, where the bottles stood. Oh, Jesus, good luck to me, I thought. I moved up to his side, and as he splashed brandy into the glasses I made a swift examination of the other bottles standing by. A sturdy flask caught my eye, and I made a careless show of examining it, turning it by the neck to see the label. He was so confident in his youth and strength and arrogance that he never thought of being caught off-guard—why should he worry, in a castle held by his men, with only the feeble-spirited Flashman to be watched? “Here,” says he, turning with a glass, and I breathed a silent prayer, shifted my hand on the bottle neck, and swung it with all my force at his head. He saw the movement, but had no time to duck; the flask shattered on his temple with an explosion like a pistol-shot, and he staggered back, wine drenching his hair and tunic, and hurtled full length to the floor. I was beside him in a flash, but he was dead to the world, with a great ugly gash welling blood among his curls. For a few seconds I waited, listening, but there was no sound from without. I rose, my heart pounding, and strode quickly across the room, pausing only to take up a sabre from a rack in the corner. I’d done it now, and was in a state of active funk, but there was nothing for it but to hurry ahead and hope. The door creaked abominably as I pulled it gently open and peeped out. All was still; the stair-lamps shone dimly on the great empty hall. There was no sound of footsteps. I closed the door softly and tiptoed to the top of the stairs, keeping close to the wall. Through the great arch across the hall I could see the wheel and chains of the drawbridge; they looked gigantic, and I wondered uneasily could I lower the bridge single-handed, and would I have the time to do it before someone came into the hall? I cursed myself for not finishing Starnberg off while I had the chance; suppose he came to? Should I go back and settle him? But I baulked at that, and every second I lingered now increased the chance of discovery. Gulping down my fear I sped down the steps and across the hall, taking cover in the shadows of the archway, holding my breath and trying to listen above the thumping of my heart. Still no sound, and the lighted entrance to the passage leading to the dungeons, which I could see from my hiding-place, remained empty. I stole across to the great wheel, gently laid my sabre on the flags, and tried to make out how the mechanism worked. There was a big handle on the wheel, with room for at least two men; that was how they wound it up. But there must be a brake on the wheel to hold it; I fumbled in the dark, chittering with fright, and could find nothing that seemed to answer the case. The chains were taut with strain, and when I went farther into the arch I found that its outer end was closed by the raised wooden bridge itself; it was at least ten feet broad and might be three times that in length, for its upper end was lost in the dark above my head; faint streaks of moonlight came through at either side. Well, at least there were no doors or portcullis to worry about; once the bridge was down the way was open—if I could get it down, and if it survived the fall. The bloody thing looked as though it weighed a ton; when it crashed down across the gap to the causeway there would be no need of any further signal to Sapten and his boarding-party—they would hear the row in Strackenz City. Aye, that would wake the castle, all right, and young Flash would have to light out full tilt for cover before the shooting started. But I had to get the damned thing down first, by God; how long was it since I had left Rudi? Suppose he was stirring? In a panic I scurried back to the wheel, kicked my sabre in the dark, and sent it clattering across the flags, making a most hellish din. I grabbed at it, whispering curses, and at that moment came the blood-chilling sound of footsteps from the passage-way across the hall. I actually clapped my hand across my own mouth, and dived for the shelter of the wheel, burrowing in close at its foot and trying not to breathe while the steps tramped out into the hall. There were two of them, Kraftstein and another. They stopped in the middle of the hall, and Kraftstein glanced upwards towards the room where I had left Rudi. Oh my God, I thought, please don’t let them go up; let the lousy bastards go away. “Was machen sie?” said the second one, and Kraftstein grunted something in reply which I didn’t catch. The other one shrugged and said he was fed up with sitting in the cellar with Carl Gustaf for company, and Kraftstein remarked that at least he was better off than the guards out on the causeway. They laughed at that, and both looked towards the arch where I was hiding; I lay still as a corpse, my nerves almost snapping, watching them through the spokes of the wheel. And then I saw something that brought the icy sweat starting out of me: the hall light, casting its shaft into the mouth of my archway, was glittering on the point of the sabre that lay where I had knocked it, half in and half out of the shadow. Oh Christ, they couldn’t help but see it—it was shining like a blasted lighthouse. They were standing there, staring straight in my direction, not a dozen paces away; another few seconds and I believe I’d have come bolting out like a rabbit, and then the second one yawned enormously and said: “Gott, Ich bin m?de; wie viel uhr glauben sie dass es sei?” Kraftstein shook his head. “’Ist sp?t. Gehen sie zu bette.” I was willing them feebly both to go to bed, and at last the other one mooched off on his own; Kraftstein took a turn round the hall while my pulse increased to a sickening gallop, and then he went back into the passage leading below. I waited, trembling, until his footsteps had died away, and then stole out and retrieved my sabre. To my disordered imagination it seemed incredible that there was still no sound from Rudi’s room—though in fact it probably wasn’t five minutes since I had left him. I came back to the wheel, forcing myself to inspect it calmly; it must be held at some point. I felt it all over, both sides, feeling sicker every moment—and then I saw it. Where its rims almost touched the ground there was a bolt thrust through one of the spokes into the housing of the windlass; if it was withdrawn, I guessed, the wheel would be released, but it wasn’t going to be a simple business of pulling it out. It was going to have to be driven out with force. Well, in God’s name, there had to be something handy to knock it clear; I fumbled about in the shadows, ears pricked and whimpering nonsensical instructions to myself, but the best thing I could find was a heavy billet of wood among some rubbish in the corner. I could only hope that it would do; I was desperate by now, anyway, and I fairly sped round the other side of the windlass, praying audibly as I went, and bashed at the protruding end of the bolt with all my strength. The thumping was fit to wake the dead; oh, Jesus, it wasn’t moving! I belaboured the bolt frantically, swearing at it, and it moved in a fraction. I hammered away, and suddenly it shot out of sight, there was an ear-splitting clang, the wheel whirred round like some huge animal springing to life, and the handle shot by within an inch of braining me. I flung myself out of the way, my ears filled with the shrieking and clanking of the chains as they rasped over their rollers; it sounded like a thousand iron demons banging on anvils in hell. But the bridge was falling; I saw it yawn away from the outer arch, and moonlight flooded in, and then with an appalling crash the great mass of wood fell outwards, smashing against the stonework of the causeway, leaping as if it were alive, and settling—oh, thank God!—across the gap. The clap of the explosion was in my ears as I grabbed my sabre and took cover at the side of the archway. My first thought was to rush out across the bridge—anywhere out of that damned castle—but an outcry from the causeway stopped me. The guards! I couldn’t see them, but they were there, all right, and then I saw a pin-point of light from the far end of the causeway, and the crack of a shot hard behind it. Sapten’s merry men must be getting into action; there was a ragged volley from the shore and a scream, and I hesitated no longer. Anything emerging across that bridge was going to be a prime target; this was no place for Harry Flashman, and I fled back into the hall, looking for a safe corner to hide in until the forthcoming passage of arms was over. By God, I had done my share, and no mistake; not for me to try to steal all the glory which the Sons of the Volsungs so richly deserved. Someone was running and yelling in the passage from the dungeons; another voice was bellowing from up aloft. The hall was going to be fairly busy in a moment or two, so I scampered towards a doorway hitherto unnoticed, midway between the main gate and the dungeon passage. It was locked; I battered on it for a futile moment, and then swung round to look for another bolthole. But it was too late; Kraftstein was leaping across the hall, sword drawn, bawling to everyone to come and lend a hand; two more were emerging from beyond the stairs. I shrank back in the doorway—fortunately it was fairly deep, and they hadn’t seen me, being intent on their yawning front door. “Pistols!” roared Kraftstein. “Quickly, they’re coming across! Heinrich! Back this way, man! Come on!” He vanished into the archway, with the other two close behind him; I heard them start shooting, and congratulated myself on having left them a clear field in that direction. Sapten wasn’t going to have things all his own way, by the sound of things, and presently two more of the garrison came racing out of the dungeon arch, and another from the stairs; unless I had miscounted, the whole of the Jotunberg friendly society was now gathered in the main entrance—all except Rudi, who was presumably still stretched out above stairs, and bleeding to death, with any luck. I wondered if the last man up from below had cut Carl Gustaf’s throat and sent him down the pipe; not that I cared much, but the besiegers would probably feel better disposed towards me if they found him alive. However, he could take his chance; in the meantime, it seemed reasonable that I should seek out another refuge elsewhere; if I made a quick bolt for it there seemed little chance that the defenders would notice me—they were warmly engaged by the sound of yelling and banging from the direction of the drawbridge. I peeped cautiously out; the dungeon passage seemed a good place, for I recollected openings off it where I ought to be able to lurk in comparative safety. The hall was empty; I made sure there was no one in sight at the main arch, and was flitting stealthily out when a voice from the stairway stopped me dead in my tracks, yelping as I did so. “Hold on, play-actor! The comedy’s not finished yet!” Rudi was standing on the bottom step, leaning against the stone balustrade. He was grinning, but his face was ghastly pale, except down the right side, where the blood had dried in a dark streak. He had a sabre in his free hand, and he lifted the point in my direction. “Bad form to sneak away without saying goodbye to your host,” says he. “Damned bad form. Didn’t they teach you manners at that English school of yours?” I made a dart towards the dungeon passage, but with a speed that astonished me, considering the wound on his head, he bounded off the step and was there before me, slashing at me so close that I had to leap back out of harm’s way. He laughed savagely and feinted to lunge, tossing the curls out of his eyes. “Not quick enough, were we? It isn’t de Gautet this time, you know.” I circled away from him, and he followed me with his eyes, smiling grimly and making his point play about in front of me. I heard a movement behind me, towards the arch, but before I could turn, he sang out: “No, no, don’t shoot! You attend to the rats outside! I’ll settle the one in here!” He advanced slowly, his eyes flashing as the light caught them. “It isn’t played out yet, you know,” says he. “Perhaps your friends will find Jotunberg a tougher nut to crack than they imagined. And if they do—well, they’ll find twin corpses to cheer ’em up!” He flicked out his point, and I parried it and sprang away. He laughed at that. “Don’t like cold steel, do we? We’ll like it even less in a minute. Come on guard, curse you!” I couldn’t fly; he’d have had his point through my back in a twinkling. So I had to fight. Not many foemen have seen old Flashy’s face in battle, but Rudi was destined to be one of them, and I couldn’t have had a more deadly opponent. I knew he would be as practised with a sword as he was with a knife or a pistol, which put him well above my touch, but there was nothing for it but to grip my hilt with a sweating hand and defend myself as long as I could. I could see only one faint hope; if he was so greedy for my blood that he wasn’t going to let his pals intervene, there was just a chance that I might hold him off long enough for Sapten to overcome the defenders—if I wasn’t a swordsman of his brilliance, I was at least as good as the master-at-arms of the 11th Hussars could make me, and I was strong enough, while Rudi must be weakened by the smash on the head I had given him. Perhaps the thought showed in my face, for he laughed again and took a cut at me. “You can have your choice of how you die,” jeers he. “A nice thrust? Or a good backhand cut—it can take a head off very pretty, as I’m sure you know!” And with that he came in, foot and hand, and had me fighting for my life as I fell back across the hall. His blade was everywhere, now darting at my face, now at my chest; now slashing at my left flank, now at my head—how I parried those thrusts and sweeps is beyond me, for he was faster than any man I’d ever met, and his wrist was like a steel spring. He drove me back to the foot of the stairs and then dropped his point, laughing, while he glanced towards the main gate, where the pistols were cracking away, and the smoke was drifting back like mist into the hall. “Stand to ’em, Kraftstein!” he shouted. “What, they’re only a pack of ploughmen! Fire away, boys! Sweep ’em into the lake!” He waved his sabre in encouragement, and I seized the chance to take a wild slash at his head. By God, I nearly had him, too, but his point was up in the nick of time, and then he was driving in at me again, snarling and thrusting with such speed that I had to duck under his blade and run for it. “Stand and fight, damn you!” cries he, coming after me. “Are you all white-livered, you damned British? Stand and fight!” “What for?” I shouted. “So that you can show off your sabre-work, you foreign mountebank? Come and get me if you’re so bloody clever! Come on!” It was the last thing I’d have thought of saying to anybody, normally, but I knew what I was doing. I’d noticed, as he turned to follow me, that he had staggered a little, and as he stood now, poised to lunge, he was swaying unsteadily from side to side. He was groggy from his wound, and tiring, too; for all his speed and skill he wasn’t as strong a man as I. If I could lure him away from the hall, away from the chance to call in his men, I might be able to exhaust him sufficiently to disable or kill him; at least I might hold him in play until Sapten and his damned dilatory Danes came on the scene. So I fell back towards the dungeon doorway, calling him an Austrian pimp, a bedroom bravo, a Heidelberg whoremaster, and anything else that came to mind. Possibly he didn’t need this kind of encouragement; it only seemed to amuse him, but he came after me hard enough, stamp-stamp-stamp, with arm and sabre straight as a lance when he lunged. I retreated along the passage nimbly, keeping him at full stretch, and got my footing on the steps. After that it was easier, for whoever had built the steps had known his business; they spiralled down to the right, so that I could fight with the wall to cover my open flank, while his was exposed. “You can’t run forever,” cries he, cutting back-handed. “So they told Wellington,” says I, taking it on my hilt. “Why didn’t you learn to fence properly, you opera-house buffoon?” “Sticks and stones,” laughs he. “We’ll have room enough in a moment, and see how well you can fence without a wall to burrow under.” He came down the stairs at a run, thrusting close to the wall, and I had to jump away and scramble downwards for dear life. He was at my back on the instant, but I won clear with a couple of swinging cuts and went headlong down the steps, stumbling at the bottom and only regaining my balance just in time as he followed me into the open. “Close thing that time, play-actor,” says he, pausing to brush the hair out of his eyes. He was breathing heavy, but so was I; if he didn’t tire soon I was done for. He came at me slowly, circling his point warily, and then sprang, clash-clash, and I fell back before him. We were in the low cloister now, with plenty of pillars for me to dodge round, but try as I might I found him forcing me back towards the lighted arch leading to the guardroom and Carl Gustaf’s cell. He was fighting at full pitch, his point leaping at me like quicksilver, and it was all I could do to keep my skin intact as he drove me through into the lighted area. “Not much farther to run now,” says he. “D’ye know any prayers, you English coward?” I was labouring too hard to answer him with a taunt of my own; the sweat was coming off me like water, and my right wrist was aching damnably. But he was almost spent, too; as he cut at me and missed he staggered, and in desperation I tried the old Flashman triple pass—a sudden thrust at the face, a tremendous kick at his essentials, and a full-blooded downward cut. But where I had been to school, Rudi had graduated with honours; he side-stepped thrust and kick, and if I hadn’t postponed my intended cut in favour of an original parry—a blind sideways sweep accompanied by a squeal of alarm—he would have had me. As it was his point raked my left forearm before I could get out of range. He paused, panting, to jeer at me. “So that’s the way gentlemen fight in England, is it?” says he. “No wonder you win your wars.” “You should talk, you back-stabbing guttersnipe.” I was scared sick at the narrowness of my escape, and glad of the respite. “When did you last fight fair?” “Let’s see, now,” says he, falling on guard again and trying another thrust. “It would be ’45, I think, or ’46—I was young then. But I was never as crude as you—see now.” And making a play at my head he suddenly spat straight at me, and as I hesitated in astonishment he tried to run me through, but his tiredness betrayed him, and his point went wide. “Now who’s a gentleman?” I shouted, but his only answer was a laugh and a sudden rush that drove me back almost to the grille of Carl Gustaf’s cell. One backward glance I had to take—God, the grille door was open, and I went through it like a jack rabbit, slamming it as he came rushing after. He got a foot in, and we heaved and cursed at each other. My weight must have told, but suddenly there was a shout behind me, and something crashed against the bars close to my head. It was a pewter pot—that damned Carl Gustaf was not only still alive but hurling his furniture at me. I must have relaxed instinctively, for Rudi forced the door back, and I went reeling into the middle of the chamber just as the royal idiot behind me let fly with a stool, which fortunately missed. “I’m on your side, you crazy bastard!” I shouted. “Throw them at him!” But he had nothing left now but his lamp, and he didn’t apparently fancy leaving us in the dark; he stood staring while Rudi rushed me, slashing for all he was worth. I hewed desperately back; the sabres clanged hilt to hilt, and we grappled, kicking and tearing at each other until he broke free. I caught him a cut on the left shoulder, and he swore foully and sprang into the attack again. “You’ll go together, then!” he shouted, and drove me back across the cell. His face and shoulder were bleeding, he was all in, but he laughed in my face as he closed in for the kill. “This way! This way!” bawls Carl Gustaf. “To me, man!” I couldn’t have done it, not for a kingdom; I could feel my arm failing before Starnberg’s cuts. One I stopped a bare inch from my face, and lurched back; his arm straightened for the thrust—and then in a moment he stopped dead, his head turning towards the grille, as a shot sounded from the stairs. “Help!” yelled Carl Gustaf. “Quickly! This way!” Rudi swore and sprang back to the grille door; there was the sound of shouting and feet clattering on the steps. He waited only an instant, and glanced back at me. “Another time, damn you,” he cried. “Au revoir, your highnesses!”, and he swung his sabre once and let it fly at me, whirling end over end. It sailed over my head, ringing on the stones, but I had started back instinctively, my feet slipped out from under me, and I came crashing down on the flags. Christ! they weren’t level! I was sliding backwards, and in a moment of paralysing horror I remembered the funnel and that ghastly pit at its base. I heard Carl Gustaf’s cry of warning too late and Rudi’s exultant yell of laughter; they seemed to slide upwards out of my sight as I clawed frantically at the slippery stone. I couldn’t stop myself; my foot caught for an instant and I slewed round sprawling, helpless as a cod on a fishmonger’s slab. Now I was sliding head first; I had an instant’s glimpse of that hellish black hole as I slithered towards it, then my head was over the void, my arms were flailing empty air, and I shot over the lip, screaming, into the depths. Jesus, down the drain, went through my mind as I hurtled headlong towards certain death. The pipe ran at an angle; my shoulders, hips and knees crashed against its sides as I rushed into the inky blackness. For sheer horror I have known nothing to come near it, for this without doubt was the end—the frightful, unspeakable finish; I was being shot into the bowels of hell beyond all hope, into eternal dark. Down I went, the ghastly wail of my own screams in my ears, and ever down, down, and then with shattering force I was plunged into icy water, plummeting through it like a stone until it gradually drew me to a halt, and I felt myself rising. For a moment I thought I must have shot out into the Jotunsee, a moment of frantic hope, but before I had risen a foot my back bumped against the pipe. Christ! I was trapped like a rat, for the shaft was too narrow to turn; I was head down with nothing to do but drown! That I didn’t go mad in that moment is still a wonder to me. I honestly believe that a brave man would have lost his reason, for he would have known he was beyond hope; only one of my senseless, unreasoning cowardice would have struggled still, stretching down with frantic fingers and clawing at the pipe beneath me. I had had no time to take breath before hitting the water; my mouth and nose were filling as my hands clawed at the pipe and found a ledge. I hauled with the strength of despair, and slid a little farther down the pipe; my fingers found another ledge and hauled again, but then my strength went and I found myself turning on my back. I was gulping water; the stifling agony in my throat was spreading to my chest; I beat feebly at the roof of the pipe, thinking Christ, Christ, don’t let me die, don’t let me die, but I am dying, I am—and as I felt my senses going I was dimly aware that my face was not against the pipe, but only my chest and body. I can’t remember thinking clearly what this meant, but I know that my hands came up beside my face, which had in fact come out of the pipe’s end, and pushed punily at the stone that was imprisoning me. I must have thrust outwards, for I felt my body rasp slowly along the pipe as I tilted upwards. There was a dreadful roaring in my ears, and nothing but crimson before my eyes, but I could feel myself rising, rising, and I know a vague thought of floating up to heaven went through what remained of my consciousness. And then there was air on my face—cold, biting air—only for a second before the water enveloped me again. But half-dead as I was, my limbs must have answered to the knowledge, for my head came into the air again, and this time I thrashed feebly and kept it above the surface. My sight cleared, and there was a starry sky above me, with a huge, white cold moon, and I was spewing and retching on the surface of the Jotunsee. Somehow I kept afloat while the agony in my chest subsided and my senses came back enough for me to realise that the water was freezing cold, and threatening to suck me down once more. Sobbing and belching water, I paddled feebly with my hands, and looked about me; to my right the lake stretched away forever, but there on my left, looming upwards, was the great rock of Jotunberg with its beautiful, welcoming, splendid castle. It was a bare twenty yards away; I struggled with all my strength, kicking out against the water, and by the grace of God the rock when I reached it was shelving. I got my head and shoulders on to it and clawed my way out, and then I lay, helpless as a baby, with my face on that blessed cold wet stone, and went into a dead faint. I think I must have lain there only a few minutes; perhaps the mental shock of the ghastly experience I had endured was greater than the physical one, for the next thing I remember is stumbling slowly over the rocks by the waterside, without knowing where or who I was. I sat down, and gradually it all came back, like a terrible nightmare; it took some moments before I could assure myself that I was alive again. Looking back, of course, I realise that from the moment I slipped into the funnel in the dungeon until I clambered ashore again on the Jotunberg, can hardly have been more than two minutes. My initial plunge must have taken me to within a foot or two of the pipe’s outlet; I had scrambled out by sheer panicky good luck, and floated to the surface. It was a miracle, no doubt, but a truly horrifying one. If I’m a coward, haven’t I cause to be? Only those who know what it is to die can really fear death, I think, and by God I knew. It haunts me still; any time I have a bellyful of cheese or lobster I try to stay awake all night, for if I drop off, sure as fate, there I am again in that hellish sewer beneath Jotunberg, drowning upside down. However, at the time, when I realised that I wasn’t dead yet, but that I would be if I sat there much longer, of cold and exhaustion, I took stock of the situation. At the point where I had left the scene of the action so abruptly, it had sounded as though help had arrived. Presumably Kraftstein and his cronies had been overcome, and with any luck Rudi had met a well-deserved end into the bargain. Happy thought! maybe they had slung him down the pipe after me. I couldn’t think of anyone I would rather have had it happen to. Anyway, they were probably getting Carl Gustaf out of his fetters by now, and all would be jollity. How would they respond to my reappearance? It would be a bit of a blow to them, after I had appeared to die so conveniently—would they be tempted to do the job properly this time? No, surely not—not after all I’d done for them, much against my will though it had been. Anyway, it was settled for me. If I stayed there any longer I would certainly freeze to death. I must just go into the castle and take my chance. From where I stood I could see the causeway, about a hundred yards ahead, and as I stumbled round the base of the island the drawbridge came into view. There were figures in the castle gateway, and they looked like Volsungs; sure enough, as I came closer, I saw that they were, so I hallooed and scrambled up the little rocky path that ended at the bridge’s foot. Three gaping, sturdy peasants, they helped me up and led me through the debris-strewn archway into the hall. God, what a mess it was. Kraftstein lay beside the wheel, with his skull split and his great hands crooked like talons; I remembered their grip and shuddered. Nearby were half a dozen other bodies—Sapten had kept his word, then; there would be no survivors of the Jotunberg garrison. There was a pool of blood in the very centre of the hall, and lying in it was the fellow who had complained to Kraftstein of boredom; well, ennui wouldn’t trouble him any longer. The smell of powder was harsh in my nostrils, and a faint cloud of it still hung in the shadows overhead. The peasants pushed me down on to a bench, and while one helped me strip my sodden clothes—the second time that night—another washed the stinging gash in my arm and bandaged it round. The third, practical fellow, realising that I had to be clad in something, was pulling the garments off one of the corpses—he chose one who had been neatly shot in the head, and had been considerate enough not to bleed much—and I can’t say that I felt any revulsion at all about wearing dead men’s weeds. In fact, they fitted uncommon well. Then they presented me with a flask of schnapps, and I sent half of it down my throat at once, and felt the fiery warmth running back along my limbs. I poured a little into my palm and rubbed it on my face and neck—a trick Mackenzie taught me in Afghanistan; nothing like it for the cold, if you can spare the liquor. I sipped the rest slowly, looking round. There were several Volsungs in the hall, staring curiously about them, and I could hear the voices of others in the upper rooms; they seemed to have everything in hand. Of Sapten and Grundvig there was no sign. Well, this was fine, so far as it went. I was beginning to feel excellent, now that the shock—no, the series of hellish frights—of the evening were wearing off, and I was savouring the blissful knowledge that here I was, hale and whole, with drink in me, warm clothes, and nothing more to fear. With every moment, as I realised what I had endured and escaped, my spirits rose; I could contemplate the future, for the first time in months, without feeling my bowels drooping down into my legs. “Where’s Major Sapten, then?” says I, and they told me he was down in the dungeon still; on no account, they said, was anyone to intrude. Well, I knew the prohibition wouldn’t include me, so I brushed aside their protests with a show of princely authority—remarkable how habits stick, once learned—and marched across to the passage. I checked at the archway, though, and asked if they were sure all the defenders were dead, and they beamed and chorused “Jah, jah.” I took a sabre along anyway—not for protection, but because I knew it would look well, and went down the staircase and into the cloister. Through the far archway I heard the murmur of voices, and as I came closer Sapten was saying: “—Hansen’s body in the moat. I wish we had laid Starnberg by the heels, though; that’s one overdue in hell.” That was bad news; I took a hurried look round, and then cursed my nervousness. Wherever Rudi was, it wouldn’t be here. “It all passes belief,” said another voice, and I recognised it as Carl Gustaf’s. “Can it be true? A man who could take my place … an English impostor … and yet he came here, alone with Hansen, to try to save me.” “He didn’t have much choice,” growls Sapten. “It was that or a rope.” Well, damn him; there was gratitude. “Nay, nay, you wrong him.” It was Grundvig now, excellent chap. “He tried to make amends, Sapten; no man could have done more. Without him …” “Do I not know it?” says Carl Gustaf. “I saw him fight; he saved me from that scoundrel. My God! what a death!” There was a pause, and then Sapten says: “Aye, well, give him the benefit of the doubt. But, I have to say it, in dying he performed you a service, highness, for alive he might have been a confounded embarrassment.” Well, I wasn’t standing for this—besides, I know a cue when I hear one. I stepped softly through the archway. “Sorry to be inconvenient, major,” says I, “but embarrassment or not, I am still here to serve his highness.” It produced a most satisfactory effect; Sapten spun round on his heel, his pipe clattering on the floor; Grundvig sprang up, staring in amazement; the Prince, who had been seated at the table, swore in astonishment; there were two others there, behind the Prince’s chair, and doubtless they were suitably stricken, too. Well, there was a fine babble and cries of wonder and inquiry, I can tell you; they were certainly surprised to see me, even if they weren’t exactly overjoyed. Of course, it was a difficult situation for them; heroes are so much less of a nuisance when they’re dead. There was even a hint of resentment, I thought, in the questions they poured at me—how had I escaped, where had I come from; I’ll swear Sapten was on the brink of demanding what the devil I meant by it. I answered fairly offhand, describing the plumbing system of Jotunberg briefly, and how I had escaped from the lake. Grundvig and the Prince agreed it was a marvel; Sapten recovered his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. “And so,” says I, in conclusion, “I came back to offer my further services—if they are needed.” And I laid my sabre gently on the table and stood back. This chap Irving has nothing on me. There was an awkward, very long silence. Sapten puffed—he wasn’t going to break it; Grundvig fidgeted, and then the Prince, who had been frowning at the table, looked up. God, he was like me. “Sir,” says he slowly, “these gentlemen have been telling me … what has happened in Strackenz of late. It—it defies understanding … mine at least. It seems you have been party to the most dastardly deception, the strangest plot, I ever heard of. Yet it seems it was against your will—is this not so?” He looked at the others, and Grundvig nodded and looked bewildered. “Perhaps I am not clear in my mind,” the Prince went on, “after all this—” and he gestured about him, like a man in a fog, “—but at least I have the evidence of my eyes. Whoever you are, whatever the reasons for what you did …” he broke off, at a loss, and then pulled himself together. “You saved my life tonight, sir. That much I know. If there has been wrong on your side—well, that is for your soul. But it has been cancelled out, for me at least.” He looked at the others, Grundvig still nodding, Sapten puffing grimly and staring at his boots. Then Carl Gustaf stood up, and held out his hand. I took it, very manly, and we shook and looked each other in the eye. It was not canny, that resemblance, and I know he felt the same eeriness as I did, for his hand fell away. “Indeed, I think I am in your debt,” says he, a little shaky. “If there is anything I can do … I don’t know.” Well, to tell the truth, I hadn’t been thinking of rewards, but he seemed to be hinting at something. However, I knew the best policy was to shut up, so I simply waited, and another uncomfortable silence fell. But this time it was Sapten who broke it. “There’s no question of debt,” says he, deliberately. “Mr Arnold may be said to have made amends. He’s lucky to go off with his life.” But at this Grundvig and the Prince cried out. “At least we owe him civility,” says the Prince. “Mr Arnold, you have had my thanks; understand it is the thanks of Strackenz and Denmark also.” “Aye, very fine,” sneers Sapten. “But with your highness’s leave, a clear passage to our frontier is the most, I think, that Mr Arnold will expect.” He was pretty angry, all right; I began to understand that if Carl Gustaf hadn’t survived it would have been waltzing matilda for Flashy if Sapten had had his way. I didn’t think it politic to mention his promise on behalf of little golden-headed Amelia; the less said about her the better. “At least he must be allowed to rest first,” says the Prince, “and then conveyed in safety to the border. We owe him that.” “He can’t stay here,” croaked Sapten. “In God’s name, look at his face! We’ll have difficulty preventing a scandal as it is. If there are two men with the prince’s figurehead in the state, we’ll never keep it quiet.” The Prince bit his lip, and I saw it was time for a diplomatic intervention. “If your highness pleases,” says I, “Major Sapten is right. Every moment I continue in Strackenz is dangerous, for both of us, but especially for you. I must go, and quickly. Believe me, it is for the best. And as the major has remarked, there is no debt.” Wasn’t there, though! I kept my face smooth, but underneath I was beginning to smart with hurt and anger. I hadn’t asked to be embroiled in the politics of their tin-pot little duchy, but I had been bloody near killed more times than I could count, cut and wounded and half-drowned, scared out of my wits—and all I was getting at the end of it was the sneers of Sapten and the handshake of his blasted highness. Ten minutes before I had been thankful to come out with a whole skin, but suddenly now I felt full of spite and anger towards them. There was a bit of mumbling and grumbling, but it was all hypocrisy; indeed, I don’t doubt that if Carl Gustaf had been given an hour or two longer to recover from the scare he had had, and his consequent gratitude to me, he would have been ready to listen to a suggestion from Sapten that I should be slipped back down the pipe for a second time—with my hands tied this time. After all, his face was like mine, so his character might be, too. For the moment, though, he had the grace to look troubled; he probably thought he owed it to his princely dignity to do something for me. But he managed to fight it down—they usually do—and the upshot of it was that they agreed that I should ride out as quickly as possible. They would stay where they were for the night, so that his highness could rest and take counsel, and there was a broad hint that I had better be over the frontier by morning. Grundvig seemed the only one who was unhappy about my sudden dismissal; he was an odd one, that, and I gathered from what he said that he alone had come round to the view that I was more sinned against than sinning. He actually seemed rather sorry for me, and he was the one who eventually escorted me up from that dungeon, and ordered a horse to be found, and stood with me in the castle gateway while they went to the mainland for it. “I am a father, too, you see,” says he, pacing up and down. “I understand what it must mean to a man, when his loved ones are torn from him, and used as hostages against him. Who knows? I, too, might have acted as you did. I trust I should have behaved as bravely when the time came.” Silly bastard, I thought, that’s all you know. I asked him what had happened to Rudi, and he said he didn’t know. They had seen him vanish through a side door in the outer cell, and had given chase, but had lost him in the castle. Presumably he knew its bolt-holes, and had got away. I didn’t care for the sound of this, but it was long odds I wouldn’t run into him again, anyway. I wasn’t planning on lingering—just long enough for the notion that was beginning to form in my mind. Then one of the peasants returned with a horse, and a cloak for me. I asked a few directions of Grundvig, accepted a flask and a pouch of bread and cheese, and swung into the saddle. Just the feel of the horse moving under me was heartening; I could hardly wait to be away from that beastly place and everything in it. Grundvig didn’t shake hands, but he waved solemnly, and then I turned the horse’s head, touched her with my heel, and clattered away across the bridge, out of the lives of Carl Gustaf, the Sons of the Volsungs, Old Uncle Tom Cobley, and all. I took the Strackenz City road, and never looked back at the cold pile of Jotunberg. I hope they all caught pneumonia. Chapter 9 (#ulink_66ad8392-01af-50be-82cc-9ffc1c00c4e9) You would think, no doubt, that after what I had gone through, I would have no thought but to get out of Strackenz and Germany as fast as a clean pair of heels could take me. Looking back, I wonder that I had any other notion, but the truth is that I did. It’s a queer thing; while I’m the sorriest coward in moments of danger, there is no doubt that escape produces an exhilaration in me. Perhaps it is simple reaction; perhaps I become light-headed; perhaps it is that in my many aftermaths I have usually had the opportunity of some strong drink—as I had now—and that all three combine to produce a spirit of folly. God knows it isn’t courage, but I wish I had a guinea for every time I’ve come through some hellish crisis, babbling thankfully to be still alive—and then committed some idiocy which I wouldn’t dare to contemplate in a rational moment. And in this case I was angry, too. To be harried and bullied and exposed to awful danger—and then just cut adrift with hardly a thank-you-damn-your-eyes from a man who, but for me, would have been feeding the fishes—God, I found myself hating that shilly-shally Carl Gustaf, and that sour-faced old turd Sapten—aye, and that mealy Grundvig, with his pious maundering. I’d pay them out, by gum, would I. And it would be poetic justice, too, in a way—Bismarck had promised me a grand reward; well, I’d come out of Strackenz with something for my pains. And, of course, it was really safe enough. There was hardly any risk at all, for I had a certain start of several hours, and I’d know how to cover my tracks. By God, I’d show them; they’d learn that a little gratitude would have been starvation cheap. I could do their dirty work for them, and then I could just piss off, could I? They’d learn to think a little more of Harry Flashman than that, the mean bastards. So I reasoned, in my logical way. But the main thing was, I was sure there was no danger in what I intended. And what is there, I ask you, that a man will not dare, so long as he has a fast horse and a clear road out of town? The night sky was just beginning to lighten when I came to Strackenz city, with the dawn wind rustling the trees along the landstrasse. The suburbs were quiet as I cantered through, my hooves ringing on the cobbles; I skirted the old city to come to the ducal palace, where two sleepy sentries stared open-mouthed at me through the railings. “Oeffnen!” says I, and while one tried to present arms and dropped his musket, the other made haste to swing open the gates. I clattered through, leaving them to marvel at the sight of their new prince, whose absence must have been the talk of the duchy, arriving unkempt and unshaven at this hour of the day. There were more guards at the door, to whom I gave sharp orders to have a strong horse saddled and ready for me within ten minutes. I issued further instructions that no one was on any account to be allowed to leave the palace, nor was anyone to be admitted without reference to me. They saluted and stamped and fell over themselves in their hurry to obey; one flung open the doors for me, and I strode masterfully into the hall—this was going to be easy, thinks I. A sleepy major-domo or night porter came starting out of the chair where he had been dozing; he cried out at the sight of me, and would have roused the place, but I hushed him with a word. “Send someone to the kitchen,” says I. “Get them to put together such cold foods as will go into a saddle-bag, and bring it here. Also some wine and a flask of spirits. Oh, and some money—bring a purse. Now, go.” “Your highness is riding out again?” quavers he. “Yes,” I snapped. “Beeilen sie sich.” “But, highness … I have instructions … her highness the duchess must be informed.” “The duchess? She’s here? Not at Strelhow?” “No, indeed, sir. She returned last night, after … after you were not to be found.” His eyes were round with fright. “There has been terrible concern, highness. Orders have been issued that if word came about you, her highness was to know at once.” I hadn’t counted on this; she ought to have been at Strelhow still, damn her. It complicated matters—or did it? I stood thinking quickly, while the major-domo hopped from one foot to the other, and made up my mind. “Well, I’ll tell her myself,” says I. “Now, my good fellow, do exactly as I have told you—and the less said about my return the better—understand?” I left him chattering obedience, and went up the great staircase four at a time, and strode along to the duchess’s apartments. There were the usual yellow-jacketed sentries at her door, stiffening to attention at the sight of me, and rolling their eyes in astonishment—wouldn’t have done for the 11th Hussars, I’ll tell you. I thumped on the panels, and after a moment a feminine voice called out sleepily: “Wer klopft?” “Carl Gustaf,” says I, and to the sentries: “Let no one pass.” There was a feminine squeaking from within, and the door opened on the pert little red-haired lady-in-waiting whom Rudi had fancied; she was staring in astonishment with one eye and rubbing the sleep out of the other—a very pretty picture of disarray, with one tit peeping out of her night-dress. It’s as well I’m leaving Strackenz, thinks I, for I wouldn’t have been a faithful husband for long. “Where’s your mistress?” says I, and at that moment the inner door opened, and Irma appeared, a gown pulled hastily round her shoulders. “What is it, Helga? Who was knock—”, and then at the sight of me she gave a little scream, swayed for a moment, and then flung herself forward into my arms. “Carl! Oh, Carl! Carl!” Oh, well, I might have been faithful for a while, anyway; the feel of that warm young body against mine was like an electric shock, and it was no pretence when I hugged her to me and returned the kisses that she rained on my lips and cheeks. “Oh, Carl!” She stared up at me, tears on her lovely face. “Oh, my dear, what has happened to your head?” For a moment I didn’t understand; then I remembered. My fine bald poll hadn’t had the razor over it for two or three days now, and I was sporting a fine black bristle, like an old brush. Trust a woman to hit on the least important thing! “Nothing, my dear darling,” says I, and smothered her lovingly. “All’s well, now that I have you again.” “But what has happened? Where have you been? I was mad with anxiety—” She gave a little scream. “You are wounded! Your arm—” “There, there, sweeting,” says I, giving her another squeeze for luck. “Set your fears at rest. It’s a scratch, nothing more.” I turned her round, murmuring endearments, and led her into her own bedchamber, away from the delighted and curious gaze of young Helga. I shut the door, and at once her questions broke out afresh. I hushed her and sat down on the edge of the bed—it would have been splendid to curl up with her, but there wasn’t time. “There has been a rebellion—a plot, rather, against the duchy. Your throne, our lives, were threatened.” I cut short her cry of dismay. “It is all over—nearly over, at any rate. There is a little still to do, but thanks to the loyalty of certain of your subjects—our subjects—the worst is passed, and there is no more to fear.” “But … but I don’t understand,” she began, and then that beautiful face hardened. “Who was it? Those agitators—those creatures of the gutter! I knew it!” “Now, now,” says I soothingly, “calm yourself. It is all past; Strackenz is safe—and most of all, you are safe, my sweet.” And I wrapped her up again, most enjoyably. She began to tremble, and then to sob. “Oh, Carl, oh, thank God! You have really come back! Oh, my dear, I have been ready to die! I thought … I thought you were …” “Ah, well, you see, I wasn’t. There, there. Now dry your eyes, my darling, and listen.” She blinked at me, dabbing at her eyelashes—God, she was a beauty, in her flimsy night-rail—they seemed to be wearing them very low in Strackenz that winter, and I was beginning to come all over of a heat, what with her nearness and the scent of her hair, and the troubled adoration in her lovely eyes. “It is quite crushed, this—this plot,” says I. “No, hear me out—I shall explain everything in time, but for the moment you must trust me, and do precisely as I say. It is done—finished—safe, all but for a few details, which require my attention …” “Details? What details?” “There’s no time now. I must be away again.” She cried out at this. “It is only for a moment, darling—a few hours, and I shall be with you, and we’ll never be parted again—never.” She started to weep again, clinging to me, refusing to let me go, protesting that I would be going into danger, and all the rest of it. I tried to comfort her, and then the baggage opened her mouth on mine, and pushed her hand between my thighs, murmuring to me to stay. By gum, it agitated me; I wondered if I had time? No, by God, I daren’t—I had lost precious minutes already. She was stroking away, and my head was swimming with her, but I just put lust second to common sense for once, and forced her gently away. “You must stay here,” says I firmly. “With a strong guard on the palace and on your room itself. Oh, darling, believe me, it is vital! I would not go, but I must—and you must remember that you are a duchess, and the protector of your people—and, and all that. Now will you trust me, and believe me that I do this for the safety of Strackenz and my own darling?” These royal wenches are made of stern stuff, of course; tell ’em it’s for their country’s sake and they become all proudly dutiful and think they’re Joan of Arc. I gave her some more patriotism mixed with loving slush, and at last she agreed to do what she was told. I swore I’d be back in an hour or two, and hinted that we would stay in bed for a week, and at this she flung herself on me again. “Oh, my darling!” says she, wriggling against me. “How can I let you go?” “Just for a bit,” says I. “And then—ah, but I can’t stop now.” She was getting me into a fever. “No, I promise I shall take care. I won’t get hurt—and if I do, there’ll be another chap along shortly—that is, no … I mean … I shall return, my darling.” I gave her one last tremendous hug, and left her stretching out her arms to me. It was quite touching, really—she loved me, you know, and if I hadn’t been in such a damned hurry I’d have been quite sorry to leave her. Next door Mistress Helga had restored herself to decency, but from the flush on her cheeks I suspected she’d been listening at the door. I instructed her sternly to look after her mistress and to see that she kept to her room; then I stepped out into the passage. The sentries were stiff as ramrods; I repeated my orders that no one was to pass, either way, and set off for the clock tower. It wasn’t difficult to find, up another flight of the main stairs—there were two more sentries at the top, whom I sent to join Irma’s guard—and then up a spiral stairway and along a short passage to a wrought-iron gateway. Just before the gate there was a little guard-room, where I found an ensign and two sentries; the men were playing cards and the ensign was lounging in a chair, but at sight of me they were on their feet in an instant, goggling and fumbling with buttons. I lost no time. “Fahnrich,” says I, “there has been an attempt at a coup d’?tat. The duchess’s life has been threatened.” They stared at me aghast. “No time to tell you more,” I went on briskly. “The situation is in hand, but I have to leave the palace at once in order to take charge at the scene of the outbreak. You understand? Now, then, what’s your name?” “W-w-wessel, please your highness,” he stammered. “Very good, Fahnrich Wessel. Now, attend to me. For the safety of the duchess, I have already mounted a guard on her apartments. You, with your men here, will proceed there at once, and you will take command. You will permit no one—no one, you understand—to pass into her highness’s apartment until I return. Is that clear?” “Why—why, yes, your highness. But our post here—the crown jewels …” “There is a jewel, infinitely more precious to us all, to be guarded,” says I portentously. “Now, take your men and go quickly.” “Of course, highness … on the instant.” He hesitated. “But, pardon, highness—it is the first order of the palace guard that never shall the jewels be left unwatched. These are explicit instructions …” “Fahnrich Wessel,” says I, “do you wish to be a lieutenant some day? Or would you prefer to be a private? I know the sacred value of the regalia as well as you, but there are times when even jewels are unimportant.” (I couldn’t think of one, offhand, but it sounded well.) “So, off with you. I take full responsibility. Indeed, I’ll do better. Give me the keys, and I shall carry them myself.” That settled it. He clicked his heels, squeaked at his men, and sent them off at the double. He took the keys from his own belt, and passed them to me as though they were red-hot; then he gathered up his sabre and cap and was off, but I called him back. “Wessel,” says I, in a softer voice. “You are not married?” “No, highness.” “But you are perhaps a lover?” He went pink. “Highness, I …” “You understand, I think.” I frowned and forced a smile together—one of those grimaces of the strong man moved—and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of her for me, won’t you?” He was one of those very young, intense creatures of the kind you see addressing heaven in the background of pictures showing Napoleon crossing the Alps in dancing pumps; he went red with emotion. “With my life, highness,” says he, gulping, and he snatched my hand, kissed it, and sped away. Well, that was Ensign Wessel taken care of. He’d cut the whole bloody German army to bits before he let anyone near Irma. Likewise, and more important, he didn’t doubt his prince for a minute. Ah, the ideals of youth, I thought, as I sorted out the keys. There were three of them; one to the ironwork gate, a second to the door beyond it, and a third to the little cage, shrouded in velvet, which stood on a table in the centre of the small jewel-room. It was so easy I could have cheered. There was a valise in the guard-room, and I laid it open beside the table and went to work. God, what a haul it was! There were the rings, the staff of sovereignty, the diamond-and-emerald gold chain, the duchess’s collar, and the two crowns—they didn’t have to be bent, after all. The Sword of State I left behind, as too unwieldy, but there were a couple of necklaces I hadn’t seen before and a jewelled casket, so in they went. I was sweating, not with exertion but excitement, as I shut the valise and strapped it up; it weighed about a ton, and suddenly I was asking myself: where was I going to fence this collection? Oh, well, time to worry about that when I was safe over the border, and back in England or France. Thank God the only name Sapten and Co. knew me by was Thomas Arnold—they were welcome to call at his tombstone if they felt like it, and ask for their money back. They had no way of tracing me, even if they dared—for if they ever did ferret me out, what could they do that wouldn’t cause an unholy international scandal? But they’d never even know where to look in England—I was safe as houses. Aye—once I’d got away: time was flying. It was full dawn outside by now. I locked the cage, arranged its velvet cover, locked the door and the gate, and set off down the stairs, lugging my bag with me. I emerged cautiously at the head of the grand staircase—thanks to my sending the sentries away there wasn’t a soul in sight. I stole down, and was tip-toeing towards the head of the last flight when I heard footsteps along the passage. Quickly I thrust the valise behind the base of a statue; I was just in time. Old Schwerin, the Chief Minister, still with his nightcap on and a robe-de-chambre flapping round his ankles, was hobbling along towards me, with a little knot of attendants fussing in his wake. He was in a tremendous taking, of course; I thought the old ass would have a seizure. Forcing myself not to panic at the delay, I stilled his questions with the same recital of tommy-rot that I’d served up to Irma and the ensign—well, I say I stilled them, but he babbled on, demanding details and explanations, and eventually I only shut him up by taking a strong line, insisting on the need for haste on my part—I had to get back to the scene of the action at once, I told him. “Oh, God!” groans he, and sank down on a sofa. “Oh, the unhappy country! What shall we do?” “Nonsense, sir,” says I, stifling a sudden desire to run for it, “I have told you the alarm is over—all but over, anyway. What remains to do is to see that no disorders follow—to quiet our contending factions, Danish and German, in the city itself. This shall be your first concern.” And for some reason I asked: “Which side are you on, by the way?” He stopped moaning and gazed up at me like a dying retriever. “I am for Strackenz, highness,” says he. He was no fool, this one, for all he was an old woman. “Excellent!” I cried. “Then summon the ministers at once—you’d better get dressed first—and send these people”—I indicated his followers—“to wait upon the duchess.” It was going to be like a galloping field day at her apartments, but the more of them were out of the way the better. “Above all,” says I, “try to communicate as little disquiet as possible. Now set about it, if you please.” He gathered himself up, and shooed away the crowd. “And yourself, highness?” he quavered. “You are going into danger? But you will take a strong escort with you?” “No,” says I, “the fewer who see me go, the better.” That was God’s truth, too. “Not another word, sir. For the duchess’s sake, do as I have bidden you.” “You will have a care, highness?” he pleaded. “I beg of you. For her sake—and for our country’s. Oh, but must you go?” I was almost bursting with anxiety, but I had to humour the senile bastard. “Sir,” says, I, “have no fear. Briefly as I have been in Strackenz, I owe a debt to this duchy already, and I intend to pay it in full.” He drew himself upright and straightened his night-cap. “God bless you, highness,” says he, all moist and trembling. “You are in the true mould of the Oldenbourgs.” Well, from what I’ve seen of European royalty, he may well have been right. I gave him my manliest smile, pressed his hand, and watched him totter away to guard the destiny of the duchy, God help it. He was going to have his work cut out. As soon as he was round the corner I heaved out my valise, adjusted it over my shoulder by a strap, and pulled my riding-cloak over that side. The swag had a tendency to clank as I walked, so I paced slowly down the broad staircase and across the hall; the little major-domo was waiting, hopping in anxiety. There was a horse at the door, he pointed out, and its saddle-bags were packed. I thanked him and walked out into the morning. There were guardsmen there, of course, and a couple of officers all agog at the rumours that must have been flying about. I instructed them to post their men at the palace railings, and to let no one pass without my orders—with any luck they might blow Sapten’s grizzled head off when he arrived. Then I mounted, very carefully, which is damned difficult to do when you have a stone or two of loot swinging under your cloak, took the reins in my free hand, and addressed the officers again: “I ride to Jotunberg!” I cantered off down the great carriage-sweep, and they opened the gates at my approach. I stopped at the sentry and quietly inquired which was the western road to Lauenburg, and he told me—that would reach Sapten’s ears, for certain, and should set him on the wrong track. Five minutes later I was clattering out of Strackenz City, making south-east towards Brandenburg. Chapter 10 (#ulink_324efb5d-3d80-53e6-9705-bbc9c41bf2e9) I’ve noticed that in novels, when the hero has to move any distance at all, he leaps on to a mettlesome steed which carries him at breakneck speed over incredible distances—without ever casting a shoe, or going lame, or simply running out of wind and strength. On my flight from Strackenz, admittedly, my beast bore up remarkably well, despite the fact that I rode him hard until we were over the border and into Prussia. After that I went easier, for I’d no wish to have him founder under me before I’d put some distance between myself and possible pursuit. But thirty miles, with my weight to carry, is asking a lot of any animal, and by afternoon I was looking for a place to lie up until he was fit for the road again. We found one, in an old barn miles from anywhere, and I rubbed him down and got him some fodder, before using up some of my store of cold food for myself. I took a tack to the south next day, for it seemed to me on reflection that the wider I could pass from Berlin, the better. I know my luck—I was going to have to go closer to Sch?nhausen than was comfortable, and it would have been just like it if I’d run into dear Otto on the way. (As it happened, I needn’t have worried; there was plenty to occupy him in Berlin just then.) But I had planned out my line of march: acting on the assumption that the safest route was through the heart of Germany to Munich, where I could choose whether to go on to Switzerland, Italy, or even France, I had decided to make first of all for Magdeburg, where I could take to the railway. After that it should be plain sailing to Munich, but in the meantime I would ride by easy stages, keeping to the country and out of sight so far as possible—my baggage wouldn’t stand examination, if I ran across any of the great tribe of officials who are always swarming in Germany, looking for other folk’s business to meddle in. In fact, I was being more cautious than was necessary. There was no telegraph in those days to overtake the fugitive, and even if there had been, and the Strackenzians had been silly enough to use it, no one in Germany would have had much time for me. While I was sneaking from one Prussian hedge to another with my bag of loot, Europe was beginning to erupt in the greatest convulsion she had known since Napoleon died. The great revolts, of which I had heard a murmur from Rudi, were about to burst on an astonished world: they had begun in Italy, where the excitable spaghettis were in a ferment; soon Metternich would be scuttling from Vienna; the French had proclaimed yet another republic; Berlin would see the barricades up within a month, and Lola’s old leaping-partner, Ludwig, would shortly be bound for the knacker’s yard. I knew nothing of all these things, of course, and I take some pride in the fact that while thrones were toppling and governments melting away overnight, I was heading for home with a set of crown jewels. There’s a moral there, I think, if I could only work out what it was. Possibly it doesn’t apply only to me, either. You will recall that while the continent was falling apart, old England went her way without revolutions or disturbances beyond a few workers’ agitations. We like to think we are above that sort of thing, of course; the Englishman, however miserably off he is, supposes that he’s a free man, poor fool, and pities the unhappy foreigners raging against their rulers. And his rulers, of course, trade on that feeling, and keep him underfoot while assuring him that Britons never shall be slaves. Mark you, our populace may be wiser than it knows, for so far as I can see revolutions never benefited the ordinary folk one bit; they have to work just as hard and starve just as thin as ever. All the good they may get from rebellion is perhaps a bit of loot and rape at the time—and our English peasantry doesn’t seem to go in for that sort of thing at home, possibly because they’re mostly married men with responsibilities. Anyway, the point I’m making is that I’ve no doubt the revolts of ’48 did England a bit of good—by keeping out of them and making money. And that, as you’ve gathered, was the intention of H. Flashman, Esq., also. However, things never go as you intend, even in European revolutions. My third night on the road I came down with a raging fever—fiery throat, belly pumping, and my head throbbing like a steam engine. I suppose it was sure to happen, after being immersed in icy water twice in one night, taking a wound, and being three parts drowned—to say nothing of the nervous damage I had suffered into the bargain. I had just enough strength to stumble out of the copse where I’d been lying up, and by sheer good luck came on a hut not far away. I pounded on the door, and the old folk let me in, and all I remember is their scared faces and myself staggering to a truckle bed, kicking my precious valise underneath, and then collapsing. I was there for the best part of a week, so near as I know, and if they were brave enough to peep into my bag while I was unconscious—which I doubt—they were too frightened to do anything about it. They were simple, decent peasants, and as I discovered when I was well enough to sit up, went in some awe of me. Of course they could guess from my cut that I wasn’t any common hobbledehoy; they hovered round me, and I suppose the old woman did a fair job of nursing me, and all told I counted myself lucky to have come upon them. They fed me as well as they could, which was damned badly, but the old chap managed to look after my horse, so that eventually I was able to take the road again in some sort of order, though still a trifle shaky. I gave them a nicely-calculated payment for their trouble—too little or too much might have had them gossiping—and set out southward again. I was within ride of Magdeburg, but having lost so much time by my sickness I was in a nervous sweat in case a hue and cry should have run ahead of me. However, no one paid me any heed on the road, and I came to Magdeburg safely, abandoned my horse (if I knew anything it would soon find an owner, but I didn’t dare try to sell it), and took a train southward. There was a shock for me at the station, though. Magdeburg had been one of the earliest cities in Germany to have the railway, but even so the sum of thalers they took for my fare left me barely enough to keep myself in food during the journey. I cursed myself for not trying to realise something on my horse, but it was too late now, so I was carried south with a fortune in jewels in my valise and hardly the price of a shave in my pocket. Needless to say, this shortage of blunt worried me a good deal. I could get to Munich, but how the devil was I to travel on from there? Every moment I was in Germany increased the chances of my coming adrift somehow. I wasn’t worried about being in Bavaria, for I was persuaded that Rudi’s threats of criminal charges in Munich had been all trumped-up stuff to frighten me, and there was no danger on that score. And I was a long way from Strackenz, in the last place that Sapten—or Bismarck—would have looked for me. But that damned valise full of booty was an infernal anxiety; if anyone got a whiff of its contents I was scuppered. So I gnawed my nails the whole way—God knows I was hungry enough—and finally reached Munich in a rare state of jumps, my belly as hollow as a coffin, and my problem still unsolved. As soon as I stepped from the station, clutching my bag and huddling in my cloak, I felt the hairs rising on my neck. There was something in the air, and I’ve sensed it too often to be mistaken. I had felt it in Kabul, the night before the Residency fell; I was to know it again at Lucknow, and half a dozen other places—the hushed quiet that hangs over a place that is waiting for a blow to fall. You sense it in a siege, or before the approach of a conquering army; folk hurry by with soft footsteps, and talk in low voices, and there is an emptiness about the streets. The life and bustle die, and the whole world seems to be listening, but no one knows what for. Munich was expectant and fearful, waiting for the whirlwind that was to rise within itself. It was a dim, chilly evening, with only a little wind, but shops and houses were shuttered as against an impending storm. I found a little beer shop, and spent the last of my coppers on a stein and a piece of sausage. As I munched and drank I glanced over a newspaper that someone had left on the table; there had been student rioting, apparently over the closure of the university, and troops had been called out. There had been some sharp clashes, several people had been wounded, property had been destroyed, and the houses of prominent people had been virtually besieged. The paper, as I recall, didn’t think much of all this, but it seemed to be on the students’ side, which was odd. There were a few hints of criticism of King Ludwig, which was odder still, journalists being what they are, and knowing which side their bread is buttered—at all events, they didn’t see a quick end to the general discontent, unless the authorities “heeded the voice of popular alarm and purged the state of those poisons which had for all too long eaten into the very heart of the nation”—whatever that meant. All in all, it looked as though Munich was going to be a warm town, and no place for me, and I was just finishing my sausage and speculating on how the devil to get away, when a tremendous commotion broke out down the street, there was a crash of breaking glass, and the voice of popular alarm was raised with a vengeance. Everyone in the shop jumped to his feet, and the little landlord began roaring for his assistants to get the shutters up and bar the door; there was a rising chorus of cheering out in the dark, the thunder of a rushing crowd, the shop window was shattered, and almost before I had time to get under the table with my bag there was a battle royal in progress in the street. Amidst the din of shouts and cheers and cracking timber, to say nothing of the babble in the shop itself, I grabbed my bag and was making for the back entrance, but a stout old chap with grey whiskers seized hold of me, bellowing to make himself heard. “Don’t go out!” he roared. “Here we are safe! They will cut you to pieces out there!” Well, he knew what he was talking about, as I realised when the sound of the struggle had passed by, and we took a cautious peep out. The street looked as though a storm had swept through it; there wasn’t a whole window or shutter left, half a dozen bodies, dead or unconscious, were lying on the road, and the pavement was a litter of brickbats, clubs, and broken glass. A hundred yards down the street a handcart was being thrown on to an improvised bonfire; there were perhaps a score of fellows dancing round it, and then suddenly there were cries of alarm and they broke and ran. Round the corner behind came a solid mob of youths, rushing in pursuit with their vanguard carrying a banner and howling their heads off; some carried torches and I had a glimpse of red caps as they bore down, chanting “Allemania! Allemania!” More than that I didn’t see, for we all ducked back inside again, and then they had stormed past like a charge of heavy cavalry, the sound of their chanting dying into the distance, and the occasional smashing of glass and crash of missiles grew fainter and fainter. The old chap with whiskers was swearing fearfully beside me. “Allemania! Scum! Young hounds of hell! Why don’t the soldiers sabre them down? Why are they not crushed without mercy?” I remarked that crushing them was probably easier said than done, from what I’d seen, and asked who they were. He turned pop-eyes on me. “Where have you been, sir? The Allemania? I thought everyone knew they were the hired mob of that she-devil Montez, who is sent to trouble the world, and Munich in particular!” And he called her several unpleasant names. “Ah, she won’t trouble it much longer, though,” says another one, a thin cove in a stove-pipe hat and mittens. “Her time is almost run.” “God be thanked for it!” cries the old chap. “The air of Munich will be sweeter without her and her filthy bordello perfumes.” And he and the thin cove fell to miscalling her with a will. Now, as you can guess, I pricked up my ears at this, for it sounded like excellent news. If the good Muncheners were kicking Lola out at last, they would get three cheers and a tiger from me. She had been in my mind, of course, ever since I’d decided to make for Munich, although I’d determined to keep well clear of her and the Barerstrasse. But if she had fallen from favour I was agog to hear all about it; I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather listen to. I pressed the stout old fellow for details, and he supplied them. “The king has given way at last,” says he. “He has thrown her out—the one good thing to come out of all this civil unrest that is sweeping the country. Herr Gott! the times we live in!” He looked me up and down. “But you, then, are a stranger to Munich, sir?” I said I was, and he advised me to continue to be one. “This is no place for honest folk these days,” says he. “Continue your journey, I say, and thank God that wherever you come from has not been ruined by the rule of a dotard and his slut.” “Unless,” says the thin chap, grinning, “you care to linger for an hour or two and watch Munich exorcising its demon. They stoned her house last night, and the night before; I hear the crowds are in the Barerstrasse this evening again; perhaps they’ll sack the place.” Well, this was splendid altogether. Lola, who had dragged me into the horror of Sch?nhausen and Jotunberg at Bismarck’s prompting, was being hounded out of Munich by the mob, while I, the poor dupe and puppet, would be strolling out with my pockets lined with tin. She was losing everything—and I was gaining a fortune. It isn’t often justice is so poetic. True, I still had to solve my immediate problem of getting out of Munich without funds. I daren’t try to pop any of my swag, and short of waylaying someone in an alley—and I hadn’t the game for that—I could see no immediate way of raising the wind. But it was a great consolation to know that Lola’s troubles were infinitely more pressing—by the sound of it she’d be lucky to get through the night alive. Would they sack her palace? The thought of being on hand to gloat from a safe distance was a famous one—if it was safe, of course. “What about her Allemania?” I asked. “Won’t they defend her?” “Not they,” says the thin man, sneering. “You’ll find few of them near the Barerstrasse tonight—they riot down here, where they conceive themselves safe, but they’ll risk no encounter with the folk who are crying ‘Pereat Lola’ at her gates. No,” says he, rubbing his mittens, “our Queen of Harlots will find she has few friends left when the mob flush her out.” Well, that settled it; I wasn’t going to miss the chance of seeing the deceitful trollop ridden out of town on a rail—supposing the Germans had picked up that fine old Yankee custom. I could spare an hour or two for that, so off we set, the thin chap and I, for the Barerstrasse. A mob is a frightening thing, even when it is a fairly orderly German one, and you happen to be part of it. As we came to the Barerstrasse, across the Karolinen Platz, we found ourselves part of a general movement; in ones and twos, and in bigger groups, folk were moving towards the street where Lola’s bijou palace stood; long before we reached it we heard the rising murmur of thousands of voices, swelling into a sullen roar as we came close to the fringes of the mob itself. The Barerstrasse was packed by an enormous crowd, the front ranks pressing up against the railings. I lost the thin chap somewhere in the press, but being tall, and finding a step on the opposite side to stand on, I could look out across the sea of heads to the line of cuirassiers drawn up inside the palace railings—she still had her guard, apparently—and see the lighted windows towards which the crowd were directing a steady stream of catcalls and their favourite chant of “Pereat Lola! Pereat Lola!” Splendid stuff; I wondered if she was quite such a proud and haughty madame now, with this pack baying for her blood. There wasn’t much sign that they would do anything but chant, however; I didn’t know, then, that they were mostly there in the expectation of seeing her go, for apparently the word had gone round that she was leaving Munich that night. I was to be privileged to see that remarkable sight—and to share in it; I would have been better crawling out of Munich on my hands and knees, and all the way to the frontier, but I wasn’t to know that, either. I had been there about half an hour, I suppose, and was getting weary of it, and starting to worry again about my valise, which I was gripping tightly under my coat. It didn’t look as though they were going to break in and drag her out, anyway, which was what I’d have liked, and I was wondering where to go next, when a great roar went up, and everyone began craning to see what was happening. A carriage had come from the back of the palace, and was drawn up at the front door; you could feel the excitement rising up from the mob like steam as they jostled for a better look. I could see over their heads beyond the line of guardsmen to the front door; there were figures moving round the coach, and then a tremendous yell went up as the door opened. A few figures emerged, and then one alone; even at that distance it was obviously a woman, and the crowd began to hoot and roar all the louder. “Pereat Lola! Pereat Lola!” It was her, all right; as she came forward into the light that shone from the big lanterns on either side of the doorway I could recognise her quite easily. She was dressed as for travelling, with a fur beaver perched on her head, and her hands in a muff before her. She stood looking out, and the jeers and abuse swelled up to a continuous tumult; the line of guardsmen gave back ever so slightly as the folk in front shook their fists and menaced her through the railings. There was a moment’s pause, and some consultation among the group round her on the steps; then there were cries of surprise from the street as the coach whipped up and wheeled down towards the gates, for Lola was still standing in the doorway. “She’s not going!” someone sang out, and there was consternation as the gates opened and the coach rolled slowly forward. The crowd gave back before it, and it was able to move through the lane they made; the coachee was looking pretty scared, and keeping his whip to himself, but the mob weren’t interested in him. He drove a little way, and then stopped not twenty yards from where I was; the crowd, murmuring in bewilderment, couldn’t make out what it was all about. There was a man in the coach, but no one seemed to know who he was. Lola was still standing on the steps of the house, but now she came down them and began to walk towards the gate, and in that moment the roar of the mob died away. There was a mutter of astonishment, and then that died, too, and in an almost eery silence she was walking steadily past the line of cuirassiers, towards the crowd waiting in the street. For a minute I wondered if she was mad; she was making straight for the crowd who had been roaring threats and curses at her only a moment before. They’ll kill her, I thought, and felt the hairs prickling on the nape of my neck; there was something awful in the sight of that small, graceful figure, the hat perched jauntily on her black hair, the muff swinging in one hand, walking quite alone down to the open gates. There she stopped, and looked slowly along the ranks of the mob, from side to side. They were still silent; there was a cough, a stifled laugh, an isolated voice here and there, but the mass of them made never a sound, watching her and wondering. She stood there a full half-minute, and then walked straight into the front rank. They opened up before her, people jostling and treading on each other and cursing to move out of her way. She never faltered, but made straight ahead, and the lane to her coach opened up again, the people falling back on both sides to let her through. As she drew closer I could see her lovely face under the fur hat; she was smiling a little, but not looking to either side, as unconcerned as though she had been the hostess at a vicarage garden party moving among her guests. And for all their hostile eyes and grim faces, not one man-jack made a move against her, or breathed a word, as she went by. Years later I heard a man who had been in that crowd—an embassy chap, I think he was—describing the scene to some others in a London club. “It was the bravest thing, by gad, I ever saw in my life. There she was, this slip of a girl, walking like a queen—my stars, what a beauty she was, too! Straight into that mob she went, that had been howling for her life and would have torn her limb from limb if one of them had given the lead. She hardly noticed them, dammit; just smiled serenely, with her head high. She was quite unguarded, too, but on she walked, quite the thing, while those cabbage-eating swabs growled and glared—and did nothing. Oh, she had the measure of those fellows, all right. But to see her, so small and defenceless and brave! I tell you, I never was so proud to be an Englishman as in that moment; I wanted to rush forward to her side, to show her there was a countryman to walk with her through that damned, muttering pack of foreigners. Yes, by gad, I would have been happy—proud and happy—to come to her assistance, to be at her side.” “Why didn’t you, then?” I asked him. “Why not, sir? Because the crowd was too thick, damme. How could I have done?” No doubt he was damned glad of the excuse, too; I wouldn’t have been at her side for twice the contents of my valise. The risk she ran was appalling, for it would probably have taken only one spark to set them rushing in on her—the way they had been baying for her only a few minutes before would have frozen any ordinary person’s blood. But not Lola; there was no cowing her; she was showing them, deliberately putting herself at their mercy, daring them to attack her—and she knew them better than they knew themselves, and they let her pass without a murmur. It was pure idiot pride on her part, of course; typically Montez—and of a piece with what she had done, I heard, in the previous night’s disturbance, when they were throwing brickbats at her windows, and the crazy bitch came out on her balcony, dressed in her finest ball gown and littered with gems, and toasted them in champagne. The plain truth about her was that she didn’t care a damn—and they went in awe of her for it. She reached the coach and the chap inside hopped out and handed her in, but the coachee couldn’t whip up until the crowd began to disperse. They went quietly, almost hang-dog; it was the queerest thing you ever saw. And then the coach began to go forward, at a walk, and the coachee still didn’t whip up, even when the way was quite clear. I tagged along a little way in the rear, marvelling at all this and not a little piqued to see her get off scot-free. Why, the brutes hadn’t even given her a rotten egg to remember them by, but that is like the Germans. Let anyone stand up to ’em and they shuffle and look at each other and touch their forelocks to him. An English crowd, now—they’d either have murdered her or carried her shoulder-high, cheering, but these square-heads didn’t have the bottom to do either. The coach went slowly across the Karolinen Platz, where there was hardly any crowd at all, and into the street at the far side. I was still following on, to see if something was going to happen, but nothing did; no one seemed to be paying any attention to it now, as it rolled slowly up the street—and in that moment I was suddenly struck by a wonderful idea. I had to get out of Munich—suppose I caught up with the coach and begged her to take me with her? She couldn’t still be holding a grudge against me, surely—not after what I’d suffered through her contrivance? She’d paid off any score she owed me over Lord Ranelagh, a dozen times over—if she didn’t know that, I could damned soon tell her. And she was no longer in any position to have me arrested, or locked up; dammit, anyway, we had been lovers, once; surely she wouldn’t cast me adrift? If I’d had a moment to think, I dare say I wouldn’t have done it, but it was a decision taken on the edge of an instant. Here was a chance to get out of Munich, and Germany too, probably, before the traps got after me—and in a moment I was running after the coach, gripping my valise, and calling out to it to stop. Possibly it was just my natural instinct: when in danger, get behind a woman’s skirts. The coachee heard me, and of course at once whipped up, thinking, I suppose, that some particularly bloodthirsty hooligan in the mob had changed his mind, and was bent on mischief. The coach rumbled forward, and I ran roaring in its wake, cursing at the driver to rein in, and trying to make him understand. “Halt, dammit!” I shouted. “Lola! It’s me—Harry Flashman! Hold on, can’t you?” But he just went faster than ever, and I had to run like billy-o, splashing through the puddles and bellowing. Luckily he couldn’t go too fast over the cobbles, and I hove alongside, just about blown, and swung myself onto the side step. “Lola!” I roared, “Look—it’s me!” and she called out to the coachee to pull up. I opened the door and tumbled in. The chap with her, her little servant, was ready to leap at me, but I pushed him off. She was staring at me as though I were a ghost. “In heaven’s name!” she exclaimed. “You!—what are you doing here? And what the devil have you done to your head?” “Oh, my God, Lola!” says I, “I’ve had the very deuce of a time! Lola, you must help me! I’ve no money, d’you see, and that damned Otto Bismarck is after me! Look—you ask about my head? He and his ruffians tried to murder me! They did—several times! Look here.” And I showed her the bandage sticking out of my left cuff. “Where have you been?” she demanded, and I looked in vain for that womanly concern in her splendid eyes. “Where have you come from?” “Up in the north,” says I. “Strackenz—my God, I’ve had a terrible time. I’m desperate, Lola—no money, not a damned farthing, and I must get out of Germany, you see? It’s life or death for me. I’ve been at my wit’s end, and I was coming to you because I knew you’d help—” “You were, were you?” says she. “—and I saw you back there, with those villains menacing you—my God! you were magnificent, my darling! I’ve never seen such splendid spirit, and I’ve been in some tight spots, as you know. Lola—please, dear Lola, I’ve been through hell—and it was partly because of you. You won’t fail me now, will you? Oh, my darling, say you won’t.” I must say it was pretty good, on the spur of the moment; the distraught, pleading line seemed the best to follow, and I must have looked pretty wild—and yet harmless. She looked at me, stony-faced, and my spirits sank. “Get out of my coach,” says she, very cold. “Why should I help you?” “Why—after what I’ve suffered? Look, they slashed me with sabres, those damned friends of yours—Bismarck and that swine Rudi! I’ve escaped by a miracle, and they’re still after me—they’ll kill me if they find me, don’t you understand?” “You’re raving,” says she, sitting there cold and beautiful. “I don’t know what you’re talking about; it has nothing to do with me.” “You can’t be so heartless,” says I. “Please, Lola, all I ask is to be allowed to leave Munich with you—or if you’ll lend me some money, I’ll go alone. But you can’t refuse me now—I’m punished for whatever you had against me, aren’t I? Good God, I wouldn’t cast you adrift—you know that! We’re both English, my darling, after all …” I have an idea that I went down on my knees—it’s all the harder to tip a grovelling creature out of a coach, after all, and she bit her lip and swore and looked both ways in distraction. Her little servant settled it for the time being. “Let him stay, madame; it is not wise to linger here. We should hurry on to Herr Laibinger’s house without delay.” She still hesitated, but he was insistent, and I raised the roof with my entreaties, so eventually she snapped to the coachee to drive on. I was loud in my gratitude, and would have described the events leading up to my present situation at some length, but she shut me up pretty sharp. “I have some concerns of my own to occupy me,” says she. “Where you have been or what devilment you’ve been doing you may keep to yourself.” “But Lola—if I could only explain—” “The devil take your explanation!” snaps she, and her Irish was as thick as Paddy’s head. “I’ve no wish to hear it.” So I sat back meekly, with my valise between my feet, and she sat there opposite me, thoughtful and angry. I recognised the mood—it was one step short of her piss-pot flinging tantrum—perhaps that mad walk through the crowd had shaken her, after all, or she was simply fretting about tomorrow. I tried one placatory remark: “I’m most awfully sorry, Lola—about what has happened, I mean. They seem to have treated you shamefully—” But she paid no attention, though, so I shut up. It came back to me, all of a sudden, how it was in a coach I had first met her, years ago—and I had been a fugitive then, and she had rescued me. If necessary I might remind her of it, but not now. But thinking of it, I made comparisons; yes, even in my present desperation, I could appreciate that she was as lovely now as she had been then—if I made up to her, carefully, who knew but she might relent her present coldness (that Ranelagh business must have bitten deep). She might even let me accompany her all the way out of Germany—the prospect of another tumble or two presented themselves to my ever-ready imagination, and very delightful thoughts they were. “Stop leering like that!” she shot at me suddenly. “I beg your pardon, Lola, I—” “If I help you—and I say ‘if—you’ll behave yourself with suitable humility.” She considered me. “Where do you want to go?” “Anywhere, darling, out of Munich—out of Germany, if possible. Oh, Lola, darling—” “I’ll take you out of Munich, then, tomorrow. After that you can fend for yourself—and it’s more than you deserve.” Well, that was something. I’m still, even now, at a loss to know why she was so hard on me that night—I do believe it was not so much dislike of me as that she was distraught at falling from power and having to leave Bavaria in disgrace. And yet, it may have been that she had still not forgiven me for having her hooted off the London stage. At any rate, it seemed that her kindness to me when I first came to Munich had been all a sham to lull me into easy prey for Rudi. Oh, well, let her dislike me as long as she gave me a lift. It was better here than tramping round Munich, starting at every shadow. We stayed that night at a house in the suburbs, and I was graciously permitted to share a garret with her servant, Papon, who snored like a horse and had fleas. At least, I got fleas, so they must have been his. In the morning word came that the station was closed, as a result of the recent disorders, and we had to wait a day, while Lola fretted and I sat in my attic and nursed my valise. Next day the trains were still uncertain, and Lola vowed she wouldn’t stay another night in Munich, which pleased me considerably. The sooner we were off, the better. So she decided that we should drive out of town a day’s journey and catch a train at some village station or other—I’ve forgotten the name now. All these arrangements, of course, were made without any reference to me; Lola determined everything with the people of the house, while poor old Flashy lurked humbly in the background, out of sight, and expecting to be asked to clean the master’s boots at any minute. However, in the wasted day that we spent waiting, Lola did speak to me, and was even civil. She didn’t inquire about what had happened to me in the time since she had helped to have me shanghaied out of Munich by Rudi, and when I took advantage of the thaw in her manner to try to tell her, she wouldn’t have it. “There is no profit in harking back,” says she. “Whatever has happened, we shall let bygones be bygones.” I was quite bucked up at this, and tried to tell her how grateful I was, and how deeply I realised how unworthy I was of her kindness, etc., and she did give me a rather quizzical smile, and said we would not talk about it, but we got no warmer than that. However, when it came time to set out on the day after, I found she had gone to the trouble of getting me a clean shirt from the master of the house, and she was quite charming as we got into the coach, and even called me Harry. Come, thinks I, this is better and better; at this rate I’ll be mounting her again in no time. So I set myself to be as pleasant as I know, and we talked away quite the thing (but not about the past few months). It got better still during the morning; she began to laugh again, and even to rally me in her old Irish style—and when Lola did that, turning on you the full glory of those brilliant eyes—well, unless you were blind or made of wood you were curling round her little finger in no time at all. I must say I was a little puzzled by this change of mood towards me at first—but, after all, I said to myself, she was always an unpredictable piece—melting one minute, raging the next, cold and proud, or gay and captivating, a queen and a little girl all in one. I must also say again that she had uncanny powers of charming men, far beyond the simple spell of her beauty, and by afternoon we were back on our old best terms again, and her big eyes were taking on that wanton, languorous look that had used to set me twitching and thinking lewdly of beds and sofas. Altogether, by afternoon it was understood that she would not part company with me as she had intended; we would catch the train together, with Papon, of course, and travel on south. She had still not decided where to go, but she talked gaily of plans for what she might do in Italy, or France, or whatever place might take her fancy. Wherever it was, she would rebuild her fortune, and perhaps even find another kingdom to play with. “Who cares a snap for Germany?” says she. “Why, we have the whole world before us—the courts, the cities, the theatres, the fun!” She was infectious in her gaiety, and Papon and I grinned like idiots. “I want to live before I die!” She said that more than once; another of her mottoes, I suppose. So we talked and joked as the coach rattled along, and she sang little Spanish songs—gay, catchy ditties—and coaxed me to sing, too. I gave them “Garryowen”, which she liked, being Irish, and “The British Grenadiers”, at which she and Papon laughed immoderately. I was in good spirits; it was gradually dawning on me at last that I was going to get away high, wide, and handsome, jewels and all, and I was warm at the thought that all the time the brilliant, lovely Lola never suspected what she was helping me to escape with. At our village we discovered there was a train south next day, so we put up at the local inn, a decent little place called Der Senfbusch—the Mustard-Pot—I remember Lola laughing over the name. We had a capital dinner, and I must have drunk a fair quantity, for I have only vague memories of the evening, and of going to bed with Lola in a great creaking four-poster which swayed and squealed when we got down to business—she giggled so much at the row we made that I was almost put off my stroke. Then we had a night-cap, and my last memory of her before she blew out the candle is of those great eyes and smiling red lips and the black hair tumbling down over my face as she kissed me. “Your poor head,” says she, stroking my bristling skull. “I do hope it grows curly again—and those lovely whiskers, too. You’ll wear them again for me, won’t you, Harry?” Then we went to sleep, and when I woke I was alone in the bed, with the sun streaming bright in at the window, and a most devilish headache to keep me company. I ploughed out, but there was no sign of her; I called for Papon, but no reply. The landlord must have heard me, for he came up the stairs to see what I wanted. “Madame—where is she?” says I, rubbing my eyes. “Madame?” He seemed puzzled. “Why—she has gone, sir. With her servant. They went to the station above three hours ago.” I gaped at him, dumbfounded. “What the devil d’ye mean—gone? We were travelling together, man—she can’t have gone without me?” “I assure you, sir, she has gone.” He fumbled beneath his apron. “She left this for your excellency, to be given to you when you woke.” And the lout held out a letter, smirking. I took it from him; sure enough, there was Lola’s hand on the cover. And then an awful thought struck me—I sped back into my room, blundering over a chair, and tearing open the cupboard door with a mounting fear in my throat. Sure enough—my valise was gone. I couldn’t believe it for a moment. I hunted under the bed, behind the curtains, everywhere in the room, but of course it was not to be seen. I was shaking with rage, mouthing filthy curses to myself, and then I flung down on the bed, beating at it with my fists. The thieving slut had robbed me—God, and after what I had been through for that swag! I called her every foul name I could think of, futile, helpless curses—for it didn’t take an instant’s thought to see that there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t lay an accusation of theft for stuff I had lifted myself; I couldn’t pursue, because I hadn’t the means. I had lost it—everything, to a lovely, loving, tender harlot who had charmed me into carelessness—aye, and drugged me, too, by the state of my tongue and stomach—and left me stranded while she went off with my fortune. I sat there raging, and then I remembered the letter, crumpled in my fist, and tore it open. God! It even had her coat-of-arms on the sheet. I cleared my eyes and read: My dear Harry, My need is greater than thine. I cannot begin to guess where you came by such a treasure trove, but I know it must have been dishonestly, so I do not shrink from removing it. After all, you have a rich wife and family to keep you, and I am alone in the world. You will find a little money in your coat pocket; it should get you out of Germany if you are careful. Try not to think too hardly of me; after all, you would have played me false when it suited you. I trust we shall not meet again—and yet I say it with some regret, dear worthless, handsome Harry. You may not believe it, but there will always be a place for you in the heart of Rosanna. P.S. Courage! And shuffle the cards. I sat there, speechless, goggling at it. So help me God, if I could have come at her in that moment, I would have snapped her neck in cold blood, for a lying, canting, thieving, seducing, hypocritical, smooth-tongued, two-faced slut. To think that only yesterday I had been laughing up my sleeve about how she was helping me on my way home with a fortune unsuspected, while she was going to have to go back to regular whoring to earn a living! And now she was away, beyond hope of recovery, and my britches arse was hanging out again, and she would live in the lap of luxury somewhere on my hard-gotten booty. When I thought of the torture and risk I had gone through for that priceless haul, I raved aloud. Well, it was no wonder I was put out then. Now, after so many years, it doesn’t seem to matter much. I have that letter still; it is old and worn and yellow—like me. She never became like that; she died as lovely as she had always been, far away in America—having lived before she died. I suppose I’m maudlin, but I don’t think particularly hard of her now—she was in the game for the same things as the rest of us—she got more of them, that’s all. I’d rather think of her as the finest romp that ever pressed a pillow—the most beautiful I ever knew, anyway. And I still wear my whiskers. One doesn’t forget Lola Montez, ever. Conniving bitch. Of course, when you’re old and fairly well pickled in drink you can forgive most things past, and reserve your spite for the neighbours who keep you awake at night and children who get under your feet. In youth it’s different, and my fury that morning was frightful. I rampaged about that room, and hurled the furniture about, and when the landlord came to protest I knocked him down and kicked him. There was a tremendous outcry then, the constable was summoned, and it was a damned near thing that I wasn’t hauled before a magistrate and jailed. In the end, there was nothing for it but to pack up what little I had and make back for Munich. I had a little cash now, thanks to Lola—God, that was the crowning insult—so that at long last I was able to make for home, weary and angry and full of venom. I left Germany poorer than I came in—although of course there was still ?250 of Lola’s (or Bismarck’s) money in the bank at home. I had two sabre cuts and a gash on my arm, a decent grasp of the German language, and several white hairs, I imagine, after what I’d been through. Oh, that was another thing, of course—I had a scalp that looked like a hog’s back for bristles, although it grew right in time. And to make my temper even worse, by the time I reached the Channel I heard news that Lola was in Switzerland, fornicating with Viscount Peel, the old prime minister’s son—no doubt he was well peeled, too, by the time she had finished with him. I’ve only once been back to Germany. Indeed, I don’t include it even among the garrulous reminiscences that have made me the curse of half the clubs in London—those that’ll have me. Only once did I tell the tale, and that was privately some years ago, to young Hawkins, the lawyer—I must have been well foxed, or he was damned persuasive—and he has used it for the stuff of one of his romances, which sells very well, I’m told. He made it into a heroic tale, of course, but whether he believed it or not when I told it, I’ve no idea; probably not. It’s a good deal stranger than fiction, and yet not so strange, because such resemblances as mine and Carl Gustaf’s do happen. Why, I can think of another case, connected with this very story, and I saw it when the Duchess Irma came to London in the old Queen’s diamond year—they were related, as I’ve said. It’s the only time I’ve seen Irma since—I kept well in the background, of course, but I had a good look at her, and even at seventy she was a damned handsome piece, and set me itching back over the years. She was a widow then, Carl Gustaf having died of a chill on the lungs back in the ’60’s, but she had her son with her; he was a chap in his forties, I should say, and the point is that he was the living spit of Rudi von Starnberg—well, that can only have been coincidence, of course. It gave me quite a turn, though, and for a moment I was glancing nervously round for a quick retreat. Rudi I last heard of with the Germans when they marched on Paris; there was a rumour of his death, so he’s probably been stoking Lucifer’s fires these thirty years and good luck to him. Unlike Mr Rassendyll I did not exercise myself daily in arms in expectation of trying another round with him: one was enough to convince me that with fellows like young Rudi the best weapon you can have is a long pair of legs and a good start. Bismarck—well, all the world knows about him. I suppose he was one of the greatest statesmen of the age, a shaper of destiny and all the rest of it. He got to his feet for me, though, when I looked down my nose at him—I like to think back on that. And it is queer to consider that but for me, the course of history in Europe might have been very different—though who’s to know? Bismarck, Lola, Rudi, Irma, and I—the threads come together, and then run very wide, and are all gathered together again, and go into the dark in the end. You see, I can be philosophical—I’m still here. I wasn’t feeling so philosophical, though, when I journeyed back from Munich to London, and arrived home at last, soaked and shivering with weariness and our damned March weather. I seem to have come home to that front door so many times—covered with glory once or twice, and other times limping along with my boots letting in. This was one of the unhappier homecomings, and it wasn’t improved by the fact that when I was let into the hall, my dear father-in-law, old Morrison, was just coming downstairs. That was almost the last straw—my bloody Scotch relatives were still on the premises when I had hoped that they might have gone back to their gloomy sewer in Renfrew. The only bright spot I had been able to see was that I would be able to celebrate my return in bed with Elspeth, and here was this curmudgeon welcoming me in true Celtic style. “Huh!” says he; “it’s you. You’re hame.” And he muttered something about another mouth to feed. I gripped my temper as I gave my coat to Oswald, bade him good afternoon, and asked if Elspeth was at home. “Oh, aye,” says he, looking me over sourly. “She’ll be glad tae see ye, nae doot. Ye’re thinner,” he added, with some satisfaction. “I take it Germany didnae agree wi’ ye—if that’s where ye’ve been.” “Yes, it’s where I’ve been,” says I. “Where’s Elspeth?” “Oh, in the drawin’-room—takin’ tea wi’ her friends, I suppose. We have all the fashionable habits in this hoose—includin’ your ain faither’s intemperance.” “He’s well again?” I asked, and Oswald informed me that he was upstairs, lying down. “His accustomed position,” says old Morrison. “Weel, ye’d better go up, sir, and be reunited wi’ the wife ye’ll have been yearning for. If ye make haste ye’ll be in time for tea, from her fine new silver service—aye, a’ the luxuries o’ the Saltmarket.” And to the sound of his whining I ran upstairs and into the drawing-room, feeling that tightness in my chest that I always felt when I was coming back again to Elspeth. She gave a little cry at the sight of me, and rose, smiling, from behind the tray from which she had been dispensing tea to the females who were sitting about, all bonnets and gentility. She looked radiantly stupid, as ever, with her blonde hair done a different way, in ringlets that framed her cheeks. “Oh, Harry!” She came forward, and stopped. “Why—Harry! Whatever have you done to your head?” I should have expected that, of course, and kept my hat on, or worn a wig, or anything to prevent the repetition of that dam-fool question. Oh, well, I was home again, and in one piece, and Elspeth was holding out her hands and smiling and asking: “What did you bring me from Germany, Harry?” (The end of the second packet of The Flashman Papers) APPENDIX I: The Prisoner of Zenda (#ulink_998b5e16-c0b2-5d08-8b16-e9f46203b4e3) Whether Flashman’s real-life experiences in Germany provided Anthony Hope with the basis of his famous romance, The Prisoner of Zenda, is a matter which readers must decide for themselves. Flashman is quite definite in the text in two places—especially where he refers to “Hawkins”, which was Hope’s real name. There is certainly some similarity in events, and names like Lauengram, Kraftstein, Detchard, de Gautet, Bersonin, and Tarlenheim are common to both stories; Flashman’s “Major Sapten” is literary twin brother to Hope’s “Colonel Sapt”, and no amateur of romantic fiction will fail to identify Rudi von Starnberg with the Count of Hentzau. APPENDIX II: Lola Montez (#ulink_e5b7933f-cb3f-5af3-9cb4-14b30e572473) Although several of the notes following this appendix refer to Lola Montez, she deserves fuller mention than can be conveniently included there. She was, after all, one of the most remarkable adventuresses in history, with an intellect and personality to match her looks; for these gifts, rather than her capacity for scandalous behaviour, she is worth remembering. Her real name was Marie Dolores Eliza Rosanna Gilbert, and she was born in Limerick in 1818, the daughter of a British Army officer. He was probably Scottish; her mother was part-Spanish, and Lola was brought up in India, in Scotland, and on the continent. When she was 18 she ran off with a Captain James, and after living in India, returned to England in 1841. She seems to have begun on her long succession of lovers while still in her ’teens, and James divorced her in 1842. Her career as a Spanish dancer followed, and after a series of Continental appearances, lovers, and scandals, she became the mistress of Ludwig of Bavaria. It has been suggested that his interest in her was purely intellectual; that is a matter of opinion. What is not to be doubted is that she was the ruler of Bavaria—and there have been worse governors of nations—until the revolution of 1848 forced her to leave the country. She later went to America, where she lectured on such subjects as beauty and fashion, and died in New York in 1861, when she was only 43. Apart from Captain James she had two other husbands, a young officer named Heald, who died, and a San Francisco editor, Patrick Hall, who divorced her. This is the briefest outline of her short life; there is no room to include all the lovers, real and reputed (apart from those mentioned by Flashman, gossip included even Lord Palmerston), or the endless catalogue of scandals, scenes, escapes, and triumphs. These can be found in her biographies, of which The Magnificent Montez, by Horace Wyndham, is particularly recommended. Flashman’s account of Lola’s behaviour, and his assessment of her character, seem both authentic and fair. His enthusiasm for her looks and personality were generally shared (even by his old Indian acquaintance, the Hon. Emily Eden); there is ample evidence of her promiscuity, her optimistic cheerfulness, her sudden furious rages, and her tendency to physical violence—the men she horsewhipped included a Berlin policeman, the boots of a Munich hotel, and the editor of the Ballarat Times, Australia. But none of her contemporaries has left such an intimate portrait of her as Flashman has, or come closer to explaining the magnetism she exerted. And in spite of his conduct towards her, he obviously respected her deeply. Notes (#ulink_3658e568-7920-581d-9ed3-5f9e4f26100a) (#ulink_dacb8e5a-8b1b-5651-a43f-6ce015e1958a) FLASHMAN’S LADY From The Flashman Papers, 1842–45 Edited and Arranged by GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER Copyright (#ulink_4fbf1108-fc00-58af-a6f0-b16e39403fc4) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by Barrie & Jenkins Ltd 1977 Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1977 George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverseengineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780006513018 Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007449491 Version: 2017-11-06 Dedication (#ulink_f510091b-3d3b-5a3b-90fd-8cd9dbfc1632) For K, 6 Contents Cover (#u420f6598-528c-5d94-b450-5d2361957b64) Title Page (#u8a45658f-6fdf-5723-8b27-578246d889fb) Copyright (#u1b9aeecc-093d-5017-83a8-a26e3e491a9f) Dedication (#ulink_8181b193-5b7d-5f48-a676-aa0062f5b6cb) Explanatory Note (#uf8042305-2dca-5585-b18a-28f28401cac3) Maps (#u7cd6f04a-3b2f-591e-8662-9428f918fcec) Chapter 1 (#ue4264181-bae7-5b69-8482-89c92b90ed27) Chapter 2 (#u7844942c-db0b-595a-9303-091a865d3917) Chapter 3 (#u36186bc0-48ba-5c37-a3ea-c2aa45bd0b87) Chapter 4 (#u67f019fe-93c6-5f6a-bf2f-ccf0f38f6bc3) Chapter 5 (#u7572a2c7-1b29-5430-bd23-4bb6e17cf8ec) Chapter 6 (#u0852199a-6338-5f05-b506-e1feb6770513) Chapter 7 (#u44407f06-ab07-5bb4-9b13-9ba0e61d9fff) Chapter 8 (#u56be4024-bdeb-512a-a655-674598a284c5) Chapter 9 (#u58be3791-44ac-5595-88f9-6bee6b259c15) Chapter 10 (#u268ec7b6-17de-5653-940b-635b9e24c6b7) Chapter 11 (#u1a150e9f-ecb3-540f-b1e4-ef8c45a9fc33) Chapter 12 (#uc8019d7c-816c-50be-9f80-503151cffeb9) Chapter 13 (#u8129bd5b-8040-5a62-801b-9f45eaf1178c) Appendix 1: Cricket in the 1840s (#u1f9664d8-81d8-5e03-b571-4977f59b30bd) Appendix 2: The White Raja (#u881836b5-29fc-55f4-973d-8df7df2f62d8) Appendix 3: Queen Ranavalona I (#u6b91cc04-a771-5494-91cc-3786ecfd46b2) Notes (#uf04814e8-3413-542a-bd5a-b8ba0872cad2) Explanatory Note (#ulink_5c2cddb3-3d02-528b-9baf-9ca5ae5e63ce) Since the memoirs of Flashman, the notorious Rugby School bully and Victorian military hero, first came to light ten years ago, and have been laid before the public as each successive packet of manuscript was opened and edited, a question has arisen which many readers have found intriguing. The five volumes published so far have been in chronological order, spanning the period from 1839, when Flashman was expelled and entered the Army, to 1858, when he emerged from the Indian Mutiny. But not all the intervening years have been covered in the five volumes; one gap occurs between his first meeting with Bismarck and Lola Montez in 1842–3, and his involvement in the Schleswig-Holstein Question in 1848: yet another between 1849, when he was last seen on the New Orleans waterfront in the company of the well-known Oxford don and slave-trader, Captain Spring, MA, and 1854, when duty called him to the Crimea. It has been asked, what of the “missing years”? The sixth packet of the Flashman Papers supplies a partial answer, since it deals with its author’s remarkable adventures from 1842 to 1845. It is clear from his manuscript that a chance paragraph in the sporting columns of a newspaper caused him to interrupt his normal chronological habit, to fill in this hiatus in his earlier years, and from the bulk of unopened manuscript remaining it appears that his memoirs of the Taiping Rebellion, the US Civil War, and the Sioux and Zulu uprisings are still to come. (Indeed, since a serving officer of the United States Marines has informed me that his Corps’ records contain positive pictorial evidence of Flashman’s participation in the Boxer Rebellion of 1900, there is no saying where it may end.) The historical significance of the present instalment may be thought to be threefold. As a first-hand account of the early Victorian sporting scene (on which Flashman now emerges as a distinguished if deplorable actor) it is certainly unique; on a different plane it provides an eye-witness description of that incredible, forgotten private war in which a handful of gentlemen-adventurers pushed the British imperial frontier eastwards in the 1840s. Lastly, it sheds fresh light on the characters of two great figures of the time – one a legendary Empire-builder, the other an African queen who has been unfavourably compared to Caligula and Nero. A small point which may be of interest to students of Flashman’s earlier memoirs is that the present manuscript shows signs of having been lightly edited – as was one previous volume – by his sister-in-law, Grizel de Rothschild, probably soon after his death in 1915. She has modified his blasphemies, but has not otherwise tampered with the old soldier’s narrative; indeed, she has embellished it here and there with extracts from the private diary of her sister Elspeth, Flashman’s wife, and with her own pungent marginal comments. In the presence of such distinguished editing, I have confined myself to supplying foot-notes and appendices, and satisfying myself of the accuracy of Flashman’s account of historical events so far as these can be checked. G.M.F. Maps (#ulink_bcf65f6d-07a0-5c27-ad68-a37452d8dcb7) Chapter 1 (#ulink_52dc1817-9ba3-539e-b2d9-65c4445aec77) So they’re talking about amending the leg-before-wicket rule again. I don’t know why they bother, for they’ll never get it right until they go back to the old law which said that if you put your leg in front of the ball a-purpose to stop it hitting the stumps, you were out, and d----d good riddance to you. That was plain enough, you’d have thought, but no; those mutton-brains in the Marylebone club have to scratch their heads over it every few years, and gas for days on end about the line of delivery and the point of pitch, and the L--d knows what other rubbish, and in the end they cross out a word and add another, and the whole thing’s as incomprehensible as it was before. Set of doddering old women. It all comes of these pads that batters wear nowadays. When I was playing cricket we had nothing to guard our precious shins except our trousers, and if you were fool enough to get your ankle in the way of one of Alfie Mynn’s shooters, why, it didn’t matter whether you were in front of the wicket or sitting on the pavilion privy – you were off to get your leg in plaster, no error. But now they shuffle about the crease like yokels in gaiters, and that great muffin Grace bleats like a ruptured choirboy if a fast ball comes near him. Wouldn’t I just have liked to get him on the old Lord’s wicket after a dry summer, with the pitch rock-hard, Mynn sending down his trimmers from one end and myself going all-out at t’other – they wouldn’t have been calling him the “Champion” then, I may tell you; the old b-----’s beard would have been snow-white after two overs. And the same goes for that fat black nawab and the pup Fry, too. From this you may gather that I was a bowler myself, not a batter, and if I say I was a d----d good one, well, the old scores are there to back me up. Seven for 32 against the Gentlemen of Kent, five for 12 against the England XI, and a fair number of runs as a tail-end slogger to boot. Not that I prided myself on my batting; as I’ve said, it could be a risky business against fast men in the old days, when wickets were rough, and I may tell you privately that I took care never to face up to a really scorching bowler without woollen scarves wrapped round my legs (under my flannels) and an old tin soup-bowl over my essentials; sport’s all very well, but you mustn’t let it incapacitate you for the manliest game of all. No, just let me go in about number eight or nine, when the slow lobbers and twisters were practising their wiles, and I could slash away in safety, and then, when t’other side had their innings – give me that ball and a thirty-pace run-up and just watch me make ’em dance. It may strike you that old Flashy’s approach to our great summer game wasn’t quite that of your school-storybook hero, apple-cheeked and manly, playing up unselfishly for the honour of the side and love of his gallant captain, revelling in the jolly rivalry of bat and ball while his carefree laughter rings across the green sward. No, not exactly; personal glory and cheap wickets however you could get ’em, and d--n the honour of the side, that was my style, with a few quid picked up in side-bets, and plenty of skirt-chasing afterwards among the sporting ladies who used to ogle us big hairy fielders over their parasols at Canterbury Week. That’s the spirit that wins matches, and you may take my word for it, and ponder our recent disastrous showing against the Australians while you’re about it. Of course, I speak as one who learned his cricket in the golden age, when I was a miserable fag at Rugby, toadying my way up the school and trying to keep a whole skin in that infernal jungle – you took your choice of emerging a physical wreck or a moral one, and I’m glad to say I never hesitated, which is why I’m the man I am today, what’s left of me. I snivelled and bought my way to safety when I was a small boy, and bullied and tyrannized when I was a big one; how the d---l I’m not in the House of Lords by now, I can’t think. That’s by the way; the point is that Rugby taught me only two things really well, survival and cricket, for I saw even at the tender age of eleven that while bribery, fawning, and deceit might ensure the former, they weren’t enough to earn a popular reputation, which is a very necessary thing. For that, you had to shine at games, and cricket was the only one for me. Not that I cared for it above half, at first, but the other great sport was football, and that was downright dangerous; I rubbed along at it only by limping up late to the scrimmages yelping: “Play up, you fellows, do! Oh, confound this game leg of mine!” and by developing a knack of missing my charges against bigger men by a fraction of an inch, plunging on the turf just too late with heroic gasps and roarings. Cricket was peace and tranquillity by comparison, without any danger of being hacked in the members – and I turned out to be uncommon good at it. I say this in all modesty; as you may know, I have three other prime talents, for horses, languages, and fornication, but they’re all God-given, and no credit that I can claim. But I worked to make myself a cricketer, d----d hard I worked, which is probably why, when I look back nowadays on the rewards and trophies of an eventful life – the medals, the knighthood, the accumulated cash, the military glory, the drowsy, satisfied women – all in all, there’s not much I’m prouder of than those five wickets for 12 runs against the flower of England’s batters, or that one glorious over at Lord’s in ’42 when – but I’ll come to that in a moment, for it’s where my present story really begins. I suppose, if Fuller Pilch had got his bat down just a split second sooner, it would all have turned out different. The Skrang pirates wouldn’t have been burned out of their h--lish nest, the black queen of Madagascar would have had one lover fewer (not that she’d have missed a mere one, I dare say, the insatiable great b---h), the French and British wouldn’t have bombarded Tamitave, and I’d have been spared kidnapping, slavery, blowpipes, and the risk of death and torture in unimaginable places – aye, old Fuller’s got a lot to answer for, God rest him. However, that’s anticipating – I was telling you how I became a fast bowler at Rugby, which is a necessary preliminary. It was in the ’thirties, you see, that round-arm bowling came into its own, and fellows like Mynn got their hands up shoulder-high. It changed the game like nothing since, for we saw what fast bowling could be – and it was fast – you talk about Spofforth and Brown, but none of them kicked up the dust like those early trimmers. Why, I’ve seen Mynn bowl to five slips and three long-stops, and his deliveries going over ’em all, first bounce right down to Lord’s gate. That’s my ticket, thinks I, and I took up the new slinging style, at first because it was capital fun to buzz the ball round the ears of rabbits and funks who couldn’t hit back, but I soon found this didn’t answer against serious batters, who pulled and drove me all over the place. So I mended my ways until I could whip my fastest ball onto a crown piece, four times out of five, and as I grew tall I became faster still, and was in a fair way to being Cock of Big Side – until that memorable afternoon when the puritan prig Arnold took exception to my being carried home sodden drunk, and turfed me out of the school. Two weeks before the Marylebone match, if you please – well, they lost it without me, which shows that while piety and sobriety may ensure you eternal life, they ain’t enough to beat the MCC. However, that was an end to my cricket for a few summers, for I was packed off to the Army and Afghanistan, where I shuddered my way through the Kabul retreat, winning undeserved but undying fame in the siege of Jallalabad. All of which I’ve related elsewhere; (#ulink_f28006e2-ba17-5861-b099-369d85a95cb7) sufficient to say that I bilked, funked, ran for dear life and screamed for mercy as occasion demanded, all through that ghastly campaign, and came out with four medals, the thanks of Parliament, an audience of our Queen, and a handshake from the Duke of Wellington. It’s astonishing what you can make out of a bad business if you play your hand right and look noble at the proper time. Anyway, I came home a popular hero in the late summer of ’42, to a rapturous reception from the public and my beautiful idiot wife Elspeth. Being lionized and f?ted, and making up for lost time by whoring and carousing to excess, I didn’t have much time in the first few months for lighter diversions, but it chanced that I was promenading down Regent Street one afternoon, twirling my cane with my hat on three hairs and seeking what I might devour, when I found myself outside “The Green Man”. I paused, idly – and that moment’s hesitation launched me on what was perhaps the strangest adventure of my life. It’s long gone now, but in those days “The Green Man” was a famous haunt of cricketers, and it was the sight of bats and stumps and other paraphernalia of the game in the window that suddenly brought back memories, and awoke a strange hunger – not to play, you understand, but just to smell the atmosphere again, and hear the talk of batters and bowlers, and the jargon and gossip. So I turned in, ordered a plate of tripe and a quart of home-brewed, exchanged a word or two with the jolly pipe-smokers in the tap, and was soon so carried away by the homely fare, the cheery talk and laughter, and the clean hearty air of the place, that I found myself wishing I’d gone on to the Haymarket and got myself a dish of hot spiced trollop instead. Still, there was time before supper, and I was just calling the waiter to settle up when I noticed a fellow staring at me across the room. He met my eye, shoved his chair back, and came over. “I say,” says he, “aren’t you Flashman?” He said it almost warily, as though he didn’t wish quite to believe it. I was used to this sort of thing by now, and having fellows fawn and admire the hero of Jallalabad, but this chap didn’t look like a toad-eater. He was as tall as I was, brown-faced and square-chinned, with a keen look about him, as though he couldn’t wait to have a cold tub and a ten-mile walk. A Christian, I shouldn’t wonder, and no smoking the day before a match. So I said, fairly cool, that I was Flashman, and what was it to him. “You haven’t changed,” says he, grinning. “You won’t remember me, though, do you?” “Any good reason why I should try?” says I. “Here, waiter!” “No, thank’ee,” says this fellow. “I’ve had my pint for the day. Never take more during the season.” And he sat himself down, cool as be-d----d, at my table. “Well, I’m relieved to hear it,” says I, rising. “You’ll forgive me, but—” “Hold on,” says he, laughing. “I’m Brown. Tom Brown – of Rugby. Don’t say you’ve forgotten!” Well, in fact, I had. Nowadays his name is emblazoned on my memory, and has been ever since Hughes published his infernal book in the ’fifties, but that was still in the future, and for the life of me I couldn’t place him. Didn’t want to, either; he had that manly, open-air reek about him that I can’t stomach, what with his tweed jacket (I’ll bet he’d rubbed down his horse with it) and sporting cap; not my style at all. “You roasted me over the common-room fire once,” says he, amiably, and then I knew him fast enough, and measured the distance to the door. That’s the trouble with these snivelling little sneaks one knocks about at school; they grow up into hulking louts who box, and are always in prime trim. Fortunately this one appeared to be Christian as well as muscular, having swallowed Arnold’s lunatic doctrine of love-thine-enemy, for as I hastily muttered that I hoped it hadn’t done him any lasting injury, he laughed heartily and clapped me on the shoulder. “Why, that’s ancient history,” cries he. “Boys will be boys, what? Besides, d’ye know – I feel almost that I owe you an apology. Yes,” and he scratched his head and looked sheepish. “Tell the truth,” went on this amazing oaf, “when we were youngsters I didn’t care for you above half, Flashman. Well, you treated us fags pretty raw, you know – of course, I guess it was just thoughtlessness, but, well, we thought you no end of a cad, and – and … a coward, too.” He stirred uncomfortably, and I wondered was he going to fart. “Well, you caught us out there, didn’t you?” says he, meeting my eye again. “I mean, all this business in Afghanistan … the way you defended the old flag … that sort of thing. By George,” and he absolutely had tears in his eyes, “it was the most splendid thing … and to think that you … well, I never heard of anything so heroic in my life, and I just wanted to apologize, old fellow, for thinking ill of you – ’cos I’ll own that I did, once – and ask to shake your hand, if you’ll let me.” He sat there, with his great paw stuck out, looking misty and noble, virtue just oozing out of him, while I marvelled. The strange thing is, his precious pal Scud East, whom I’d hammered just as generously at school, said almost the same thing to me years later, when we met as prisoners in Russia – confessed how he’d loathed me, but how my heroic conduct had wiped away all old scores, and so forth. I wonder still if they believed that it did, or if they were being hypocrites for form’s sake, or if they truly felt guilty for once having harboured evil thoughts of me? D----d if I know; the Victorian conscience is beyond me, thank G-d. I know that if anyone who’d done me a bad turn later turned out to be the Archangel Gabriel, I’d still hate the b----d; but then, I’m a scoundrel, you see, with no proper feelings. However, I was so relieved to find that this stalwart lout was prepared to let bygones be bygones that I turned on all my Flashy charms, pumped his fin heartily, and insisted that he break his rule for once, and have a glass with me. “Well, I will, thank’ee,” says he, and when the beer had come and we’d drunk to dear old Rugby (sincerely, no doubt, on his part) he puts down his mug and says: “There’s another thing – matter of fact it was the first thought that popped into my head when I saw you just now – I don’t know how you’d feel about it, though – I mean, perhaps your wounds ain’t better yet?” He hesitated. “Fire away,” says I, thinking perhaps he wanted to introduce me to his sister. “Well, you won’t have heard, but my last half at school, when I was captain, we had no end of a match against the Marylebone men – lost on first innings, but only nine runs in it, and we’d have beat ’em, given one more over. Anyway, old Aislabie – you remember him? – was so taken with our play that he has asked me if I’d like to get up a side, Rugby past and present, for a match against Kent. Well, I’ve got some useful hands – you know young Brooke, and Raggles – and I remembered you were a famous bowler, so … What d’ye say to turning out for us – if you’re fit, of course?” It took me clean aback, and my tongue being what it is, I found myself saying: “Why, d’you think you’ll draw a bigger gate with the hero of Afghanistan playing?” “Eh? Good lord, no!” He coloured and then laughed. “What a cynic you are, Flashy! D’ye know,” says he, looking knowing, “I’m beginning to understand you, I think. Even at school, you always said the smart, cutting things that got under people’s skins – almost as though you were going out of your way to have ’em think ill of you. It’s a contrary thing – all at odds with the truth, isn’t it? Oh, aye,” says he, smiling owlishly, “Afghanistan proved that, all right. The German doctors are doing a lot of work on it – the perversity of human nature, excellence bent on destroying itself, the heroic soul fearing its own fall from grace, and trying to anticipate it. Interesting.” He shook his fat head solemnly. “I’m thinking of reading philosophy at Oxford this term, you know. However, I mustn’t prose. What about it, old fellow?” And d--n his impudence, he slapped me on the knee. “Will you bowl your expresses for us – at Lord’s?” I’d been about to tell him to take his offer along with his rotten foreign sermonizing and drop ’em both in the Serpentine, but that last word stopped me. Lord’s – I’d never played there, but what cricketer who ever breathed wouldn’t jump at the chance? You may think it small enough beer compared with the games I’d been playing lately, but I’ll confess it made my heart leap. I was still young and impressionable then and I almost knocked his hand off, accepting. He gave me another of his thunderous shoulder-claps (they pawed each other something d--nable, those hearty young champions of my youth) and said, capital, it was settled then. “You’ll want to get in some practice, no doubt,” says he, and promptly delivered a lecture about how he kept himself in condition, with runs and exercises and foregoing tuck, just as he had at school. From that he harked back to the dear old days, and how he’d gone for a weep and a pray at Arnold’s tomb the previous month (our revered mentor having kicked the bucket earlier in the year, and not before time, in my opinion). Excited as I was at the prospect of the Lord’s game, I’d had about my bellyful of Master Pious Brown by the time he was done, and as we took our leave of each other in Regent Street, I couldn’t resist the temptation to puncture his confounded smugness. “Can’t say how glad I am to have seen you again, old lad,” says he, as we shook hands. “Delighted to know you’ll turn out for us, of course, but, you know, the best thing of all has been – meeting the new Flashman, if you know what I mean. It’s odd,” and he fixed his thumbs in his belt and squinted wisely at me, like an owl in labour, “but it reminds me of what the Doctor used to say at confirmation class – about man being born again – only it’s happened to you – for me, if you understand me. At all events, I’m a better man now, I feel, than I was an hour ago. God bless you, old chap,” says he, as I disengaged my hand before he could drag me to my knees for a quick prayer and a chorus of “Let us with a gladsome mind”. He asked which way I was bound. “Oh, down towards Haymarket,” says I. “Get some exercise, I think.” “Capital,” says he. “Nothing like a good walk.” “Well … I was thinking more of riding, don’t you know.” “In Haymarket?” He frowned. “No stables thereaway, surely?” “Best in town,” says I. “A few English mounts, but mostly French fillies. Riding silks black and scarlet, splendid exercise, but d----d exhausting. Care to try it?” For a moment he was all at a loss, and then as understanding dawned he went scarlet and white by turns, until I thought he would faint. “My G-d,” he whispered hoarsely. I tapped him on the weskit with my cane, all confidential. “You remember Stumps Harrowell, the shoemaker, at Rugby, and what enormous calves he had?” I winked while he gaped at me. “Well, there’s a German wench down there whose poonts are even bigger. Just about your weight; do you a power of good.” He made gargling noises while I watched him with huge enjoyment. “So much for the new Flashman, eh?” says I. “Wish you hadn’t invited me to play with your pure-minded little friends? Well, it’s too late, young Tom; you’ve shaken hands on it, haven’t you?” He pulled himself together and took a breath. “You may play if you wish,” says he. “More fool I for asking you – but if you were the man I had hoped you were, you would—” “Cry off gracefully – and save you from the pollution of my company? No, no, my boy – I’ll be there, and just as fit as you are. But I’ll wager I enjoy my training more.” “Flashman,” cries he, as I turned away, “don’t go to – to that place, I beseech you. It ain’t worthy—” “How would you know?” says I. “See you at Lord’s.” And I left him full of Christian anguish at the sight of the hardened sinner going down to the Pit. The best of it was, he was probably as full of holy torment at the thought of my foul fornications as he would have been if he’d galloped that German tart himself; that’s unselfishness for you. But she’d have been wasted on him, anyway. However, just because I’d punctured holy Tom’s daydreams, don’t imagine that I took my training lightly. Even while the German wench was recovering her breath afterwards and ringing for refreshments, I was limbering up on the rug, trying out my old round-arm swing; I even got some of her sisters in to throw oranges to me for catching practice, and you never saw anything jollier than those painted dollymops scampering about in their corsets, shying fruit. We made such a row that the other customers put their heads out, and it turned into an impromptu innings on the landing, whores versus patrons (I must set down the rules for brothel cricket some day, if I can recall them; cover point took on a meaning that you won’t find in “Wisden”, I know). The whole thing got out of hand, of course, with furniture smashed and the sluts shrieking and weeping, and the madame’s bullies put me out for upsetting her disorderly house, which seemed a trifle hard. Next day, though, I got down to it in earnest, with a ball in the garden. To my delight none of my old skill seemed to have deserted me, the thigh which I’d broken in Afghanistan never even twinged, and I crowned my practice by smashing the morning-room window while my father-in-law was finishing his breakfast; he’d been reading about the Rebecca Riots over his porridge, it seemed, and since he’d spent his miserable life squeezing and sweating his millworkers, and had a fearful guilty conscience according, his first reaction to the shattering glass was that the starving mob had risen at last and were coming to give him his just deserts. “Ye d----d Goth!” he spluttered, fishing the fragments out of his whiskers. “Ye don’t care who ye maim or murder; I micht ha’e been killed! Have ye nae work tae go tae?” And he whined on about ill-conditioned loafers who squandered their time and his money in selfish pleasure, while I nuzzled Elspeth good morning over her coffee service, marvelling as I regarded her golden-haired radiance and peach-soft skin that I had wasted strength on that suety frau the evening before, when this had been waiting between the covers at home. “A fine family ye married intae,” says her charming sire. “The son stramashin’ aboot destroyin’ property while the feyther’s lyin’ abovestairs stupefied wi’ drink. Is there nae mair toast?” “Well, it’s our property and our drink,” says I, helping myself to kidneys. “Our toast, too, if it comes to that.” “Aye, is’t, though, my buckie?” says he, looking more like a spiteful goblin than ever. “And who peys for’t? No’ you an’ yer wastrel parent. Aye, an’ ye can keep yer sullen sniffs to yersel’, my lassie,” he went on to Elspeth. “We’ll hae things aboveboard, plump an’ plain. It’s John Morrison foots the bills, wi’ good Scots siller, hard-earned, for this fine husband o’ yours an’ the upkeep o’ his hoose an’ family; jist mind that.” He crumpled up his paper, which was sodden with spilled coffee. “Tach! There my breakfast sp’iled for me. ‘Our property’ an’ ‘our drink’, ye say? Grand airs and patched breeks!” And out he strode, to return in a moment, snarling. “And since you’re meant tae be managin’ this establishment, my girl, ye’ll see tae it that we hae marmalade after this, and no’ this d----d French jam! Con-fee – toor! Huh! Sticky rubbish!” And he slammed the door behind him. “Oh, dear,” sighs Elspeth. “Papa is in his black mood. What a shame you broke the window, dearest.” “Papa is a confounded blot,” says I, wolfing kidneys. “But now that we’re rid of him, give us a kiss.” You’ll understand that we were an unusual menage. I had married Elspeth perforce, two years before when I had the ill-fortune to be stationed in Scotland, and had been detected tupping her in the bushes – it had been the altar or pistols for two with her fire-eating uncle. Then, when my drunken guv’nor had gone smash over railway shares, old Morrison had found himself saddled with the upkeep of the Flashman establishment, which he’d had to assume for his daughter’s sake. A pretty state, you’ll allow, for the little miser wouldn’t give me or the guv’nor a penny direct, but doled it out to Elspeth, on whom I had to rely for spending money. Not that she wasn’t generous, for in addition to being a stunning beauty she was also as brainless as a feather mop, and doted on me – or at least, she seemed to, but I was beginning to have my doubts. She had a hearty appetite for the two-backed game, and the suspicion was growing on me that in my absence she’d been rolling the linen with any chap who’d come handy, and was still spreading her favours now that I was home. As I say, I couldn’t be sure – for that matter, I’m still not, sixty years later. The trouble was and is, I dearly loved her in my way, and not only lustfully – although she was all you could wish as a nightcap – and however much I might stallion about the town and elsewhere, there was never another woman that I cared for besides her. Not even Lola Montez, or Lakshmibai, or Lily Langtry, or Ko Dali’s daughter, or Duchess Irma, or Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman, or Valentina, or … or, oh, take your choice, there wasn’t one to come up to Elspeth. For one thing, she was the happiest creature in the world, and pitifully easy to please; she revelled in the London life, which was a rare change from the cemetery she’d been brought up in – Paisley, they call it – and with her looks, my new-won laurels, and (best of all) her father’s shekels, we were well-received everywhere, her “trade” origins being conveniently forgotten. (There’s no such thing as an unfashionable hero or an unsuitable heiress.) This was just nuts to Elspeth, for she was an unconscionable little snob, and when I told her I was to play at Lord’s, before the smartest of the sporting set, she went into raptures – here was a fresh excuse for new hats and dresses, and preening herself before the society rabble, she thought. Being Scotch, and knowing nothing, she supposed cricket was a gentleman’s game, you see; sure enough, a certain level of the polite world followed it, but they weren’t precisely the high cream, in those days – country barons, racing knights, well-to-do gentry, maybe a mad bishop or two, but pretty rustic. It wasn’t quite as respectable as it is now. One reason for this was that it was still a betting game, and the stakes could run pretty high – I’ve known ?50,000 riding on a single innings, with wild side-bets of anything from a guinea to a thou on how many wickets Marsden would take, or how many catches would fall to the slips, or whether Pilch would reach fifty (which he probably would). With so much cash about, you may believe that some of the underhand work that went on would have made a Hays City stud school look like old maid’s loo – matches were sold and thrown, players were bribed and threatened, wickets were doctored (I’ve known the whole eleven of a respected county side to sneak out en masse and p--s on the wicket in the dark, so that their twisters could get a grip next morning; I caught a nasty cold myself). Of course, corruption wasn’t general, or even common, but it happened in those good old sporting days – and whatever the purists may say, there was a life and stingo about cricket then that you don’t get now. It looked so different, even; if I close my eyes I can see Lord’s as it was then, and I know that when the memories of bed and battle have lost their colours and faded to misty grey, that at least will be as bright as ever. The coaches and carriages packed in the road outside the gate, the fashionable crowd streaming in by Jimmy Dark’s house under the trees, the girls like so many gaudy butterflies in their summer dresses and hats, shaded by parasols, and the men guiding ’em to chairs, some in tall hats and coats, others in striped weskits and caps, the gentry uncomfortably buttoned up and the roughs and townies in shirt-sleeves and billycocks with their watch-chains and cutties; the bookies with their stands outside the pavilion, calling the odds, the flash chaps in their mighty whiskers and ornamented vests, the touts and runners and swell mobsmen slipping through the press like ferrets, the pot-boys from the Lord’s pub thrusting along with trays loaded with beer and lemonade, crying “Way, order, gents! Way, order!”; old John Gully, the retired pug, standing like a great oak tree, feet planted wide, smiling his gentle smile as he talked to Alfred Mynn, whose scarlet waist-scarf and straw boater were a magnet for the eyes of the hero-worshipping youngsters, jostling at a respectful distance from these giants of the sporting world; the grooms pushing a way for some doddering old Duke, passing through nodding and tipping his tile, with his poule-of-the-moment arm-in-arm, she painted and bold-eyed and defiant as the ladies turned the other way with a rustle of skirts; the bowling green and archery range going full swing, with the thunk of the shafts mingling with the distant pomping of the artillery band, the chatter and yelling of the vendors, the grind of coach-wheels and the warm hum of summer ebbing across the great green field where Stevie Slatter’s boys were herding away the sheep and warning off the bob-a-game players; the crowds ten-deep at the nets to see Pilch at batting practice, or Felix, agile as his animal namesake, bowling those slow lobs that seemed to hang forever in the air. Or I see it in the late evening sun, the players in their white top-hats trooping in from the field, with the ripple of applause running round the ropes, and the urchins streaming across to worship, while the old buffers outside the pavilion clap and cry “Played, well played!” and raise their tankards, and the Captain tosses the ball to some round-eyed small boy who’ll guard it as a relic for life, and the scorer climbs stiffly down from his eyrie and the shadows lengthen across the idyllic scene, the very picture of merry, sporting old England, with the umpires bundling up the stumps, the birds calling in the tall trees, the gentle evenfall stealing over the ground and the pavilion, and the empty benches, and the willow wood-pile behind the sheep pen where Flashy is plunging away on top of the landlord’s daughter in the long grass. Aye, cricket was cricket then. Barring the last bit, which took place on another joyous occasion, that’s absolutely what it was like on the afternoon when the Gentlemen of Rugby, including your humble servant, went out to play the cracks of Kent (twenty to one on, and no takers). At first I thought it was going to be a frost, for while most of my team-mates were pretty civil – as you’d expect, to the Hector of Afghanistan – the egregious Brown was decidedly cool, and so was Brooke, who’d been head of the school in my time and was the apple of Arnold’s eye – that tells you all you need to know about him; he was clean-limbed and handsome and went to church and had no impure thoughts and was kind to animals and old ladies and was a midshipman in the Navy; what happened to him I’ve no idea, but I hope he absconded with the ship’s funds and the admiral’s wife and set up a knocking-shop in Valparaiso. He and Brown talked in low voices in the pavilion, and glanced towards me; rejoicing, no doubt, over the sinner who hadn’t repented. Then it was time to play, and Brown won the toss and elected to bat, which meant that I spent the next hour beside Elspeth’s chair, trying to hush her imbecile observations on the game, and waiting for my turn to go in. It was a while coming, because either Kent were going easy to make a game of it, or Brooke and Brown were better than you’d think, for they survived the opening whirlwind of Mynn’s attack, and when the twisters came on, began to push the score along quite handsomely. I’ll say that for Brown, he could play a deuced straight bat, and Brooke was a hitter. They put on thirty for the first wicket, and our other batters were game, so that we had seventy up before the tail was reached, and I took my leave of my fair one, who embarrassed me d--nably by assuring her neighbours that I was sure to make a score, because I was so strong and clever. I hastened to the pavilion, collared a pint of ale from the pot-boy, and hadn’t had time to do more than blow off the froth when there were two more wickets down, and Brown says: “In you go, Flashman.” So I picked up a bat from beside the flagstaff, threaded my way through the crowd who turned to look curiously at the next man in, and stepped out on to the turf – you must have done it yourselves often enough, and remember the silence as you walk out to the wicket, so far away, and perhaps there’s a stray handclap, or a cry of “Go it, old fellow!”, and no more than a few spectators loafing round the ropes, and the fielding side sit or lounge about, stretching in the sun, barely glancing at you as you come in. I knew it well enough, but as I stepped over the ropes I happened to glance up – and Lord’s truly smote me for the first time. Round the great emerald field, smooth as a pool table, there was this mighty mass of people, ten deep at the boundary, and behind them the coaches were banked solid, wheel to wheel, crowded with ladies and gentlemen, the whole huge multitude hushed and expectant while the sun caught the glittering eyes of thousands of opera-glasses and binocles glaring at me – it was d----d unnerving, with that vast space to be walked across, and my bladder suddenly holding a bushel, and I wished I could scurry back into the friendly warm throng behind me. You may think it odd that nervous funk should grip me just then; after all, my native cowardice has been whetted on some real worthwhile horrors – Zulu impis and Cossack cavalry and Sioux riders, all intent on rearranging my circulatory and nervous systems in their various ways; but there were others to share the limelight with me then, and it’s a different kind of fear, anyway. The minor ordeals can be d----d scaring simply because you know you’re going to survive them. It didn’t last above a second, while I gulped and hesitated and strode on, and then the most astounding thing happened. A murmur passed along the banks of people, and then it grew to a roar, and suddenly it exploded in the most deafening cheering you ever heard; you could feel the shock of it rolling across the ground, and ladies were standing up and fluttering their handkerchieves and parasols, and the men were roaring hurrah and waving their hats, and jumping up on the carriages, and in the middle of it all the brass band began to thump out “Rule, Britannia”, and I realized they weren’t cheering the next man in, but saluting the hero of Jallalabad, and I was fairly knocked sideways by the surprise of it all. However, I fancy I played it pretty well, raising my white topper right and left while the music and cheering pounded on, and hurrying to get to the wicket as a modest hero should. And here was slim little Felix, in his classroom whiskers and charity boy’s cap, smiling shyly and holding out his hand – Felix, the greatest gentleman bat in the world, mark you, leading me to the wicket and calling for three cheers from the Kent team. And then the silence fell, and my bat thumped uncommon loud as I hit it into the blockhole, and the fielders crouched, and I thought, oh G-d, this is the serious business, and I’m bound to lay an egg on the scorer, I know I am, and after such a welcome, too, and with my bowels quailing I looked up the wicket at Alfred Mynn. He was a huge man at the best of times, six feet odd and close on twenty stone, with a face like fried ham garnished with a double helping of black whisker, but now he looked like Goliath, and if you think a man can’t tower above you from twenty-five yards off, you ain’t seen young Alfie. He was smiling, idly tossing up the ball which looked no bigger than a cherry in his massive fist, working one foot on the turf – pawing it, bigod. Old Aislabie gave me guard, quavered “Play!” I gripped my bat, and Mynn took six quick steps and swung his arm. I saw the ball in his hand, at shoulder height, and then something fizzed beside my right knee, I prepared to lift my bat – and the wicket-keeper was tossing the ball to Felix at point. I swallowed in horror, for I swear I never saw the d----d thing go, and someone in the crowd cries, “Well let alone, sir!” There was a little puff of dust settling about four feet in front of me; that’s where he pitches, thinks I, oh J---s, don’t let him hit me! Felix, crouching facing me, barely ten feet away, edged just a little closer, his eyes fixed on my feet; Mynn had the ball again, and again came the six little steps, and I was lunging forward, eyes tight shut, to get my bat down where the dust had jumped last time. I grounded it, my bat leaped as something hit it a hammer blow, numbing my wrists, and I opened my eyes to see the ball scuttling off to leg behind the wicket. Brooke yells “Come on!”, and the lord knows I wanted to, but my legs didn’t answer, and Brooke had to turn back, shaking his head. This has got to stop, thinks I, for I’ll be maimed for life if I stay here. And panic, mingled with hate and rage, gripped me as Mynn turned again; he strode up to the wicket, arm swinging back, and I came out of my ground in a huge despairing leap, swinging my bat for dear life – there was a sickening crack and in an instant of elation I knew I’d caught it low down on the outside edge, full swipe, the b----y thing must be in Wiltshire by now, five runs for certain, and I was about to tear up the pitch when I saw Brooke was standing his ground, and Felix, who’d been fielding almost in my pocket, was idly tossing the ball up in his left hand, shaking his head and smiling at me. How he’d caught it only he and Satan know; it must have been like snatching a bullet from the muzzle. But he hadn’t turned a hair, and I could only trudge back to the pavilion, while the mob groaned in sympathy, and I waved my bat to them and tipped my tile – after all I was a bowler, and at least I’d taken a swing at it. And I’d faced three balls from Alfred Mynn. We closed our hand at 91, Flashy caught Felix, nought, and it was held to be a very fair score, although Kent were sure to pass it easily, and since it was a single-hand match that would be that. In spite of my blank score – how I wished I had gone for that single off the second ball! – I was well received round the pavilion, for it was known who I was by now, and several gentlemen came to shake my hand, while the ladies eyed my stalwart frame and simpered to each other behind their parasols; Elspeth was glowing at the splendid figure I had cut in her eyes, but indignant that I had been out when my wicket hadn’t been knocked down, because wasn’t that the object of the game? I explained that I had been caught out, and she said it was a most unfair advantage, and that little man in the cap must be a great sneak, at which the gentlemen around roared with laughter and ogled her, calling for soda punch for the lady and swearing she must be taken on to the committee to amend the rules. I contented myself with a glass of beer before we went out to field, for I wanted to be fit to bowl, but d---e if Brown didn’t leave me loafing in the outfield, no doubt to remind me that I was a whoremonger and therefore not fit to take an over. I didn’t mind, but lounged about pretty nonchalant, chatting with the townies near the ropes, and shrugging my shoulders eloquently when Felix or his partner made a good hit, which they did every other ball. They fairly knocked our fellows all over the wicket, and had fifty up well within the hour; I observed to the townies that what we wanted was a bit of ginger, and limbered my arm, and they cheered and began to cry: “Bring on the Flash chap! Huzza for Afghanistan!” and so forth, which was very gratifying. I’d been getting my share of attention from the ladies in the carriages near my look-out, and indeed had been so intent on winking and swaggering that I’d missed a long hit, at which Brown called pretty sharply to me to mind out; now one or two of the more spirited ladybirds began to echo the townies, who egged them on, so that “Bring on the Flash chap!” began to echo round the ground, in gruff bass and piping soprano. Finally Brown could stand it no longer, and waved me in, and the mob cheered like anything, and Felix smiled his quiet smile and took fresh guard. On the whole he treated my first over with respect, for he took only eleven off it, which was better than I deserved. For of course I flung my deliveries down with terrific energy, the first one full pitch at his head, and the next three horribly short, in sheer nervous excitement. The crowd loved it, and so did Felix, curse him; he didn’t reach the first one, but he drew the second beautifully for four, cut the third on tip-toe, and swept the last right off his upper lip and into the coaches near the pavilion. How the crowd laughed and cheered, while Brown bit his lip with vexation, and Brooke frowned his disgust. But they couldn’t take me off after only one turn; I saw Felix say something to his partner, and the other laughed – and as I walked back to my look-out a thought crept into my head, and I scowled horribly and clapped my hands in disgust, at which the spectators yelled louder than ever. “Give ’em the Afghan pepper, Flashy!” cries one, and “Run out the guns!” hollers another; I waved my fist and stuck my hat on the back of my head, and they cheered and laughed again. They gave a huge shout when Brown called me up for my second turn, and settled themselves to enjoy more fun and fury. You’ll get it, my boys, thinks I, as I thundered up to the wicket, with the mob counting each step, and my first ball smote about half-way down the pitch, flew high over the batsman’s head, and they ran three byes. That brought Felix to face me again, and I walked back, closing my ears to the shouting and to Brown’s muttered rebuke. I turned, and just from the lift of Felix’s shoulders I could see he was getting set to knock me into the trees; I fixed my eye on the spot dead in line with his off stump – he was a left-hander, which left the wicket wide as a barn door to my round delivery – and ran up determined to bowl the finest, fastest ball of my life. And so I did. Very well, I told you I was a good bowler, and that was the best ball I ever delivered, which is to say it was unplayable. I had dropped the first one short on purpose, just to confirm what everyone supposed from the first over – that I was a wild chucker, with no more head than flat beer. But the second had every fibre directed at that spot, with just a trifle less strength than I could muster, to keep it steady, and from the moment it left my hand Felix was gone. Granted I was lucky, for the spot must have been bald; it was a shooter, skidding in past his toes when he expected it round his ears, and before he could smother it his stump was cart-wheeling away. The yell that went up split the heaven, and he walked past me shaking his head and shooting me a quizzy look while the fellows slapped my back, and even Brooke condescended to cry “Well bowled!” I took it very offhand, but inside I was thinking: “Felix! Felix, by G-d!” – I’d not have swapped that wicket for a peerage. Then I was brought back to earth, for the crowd were cheering the new man in, and I picked up the ball and turned to face the tall, angular figure with the long-reaching arms and the short-handled bat. I’d seen Fuller Pilch play at Norwich when I was a young shaver, when he beat Marsden of Yorkshire for the single-wicket championship of England; so far as I ever had a boyhood hero, it was Pilch, the best professional of his day – some say of any day, although it’s my belief this new boy Rhodes may be as good. Well, Flash, thinks I, you’ve nothing to lose, so here goes at him. Now, what I’d done to Felix was head bowling, but what came next was luck, and nothing else. I can’t account for it yet, but it happened, and this is how it was. I did my d----dest to repeat my great effort, but even faster this time, and in consequence I was just short of a length; whether Pilch was surprised by the speed, or the fact that the ball kicked higher than it had any right to do, I don’t know, but he was an instant slow in reaching forward, which was his great shot. He didn’t ground his bat in time, the ball came high off the blade, and I fairly hurled myself down the pitch, all arms and legs, grabbing at a catch I could have held in my mouth. I nearly muffed it, too, but it stuck between finger and thumb, and the next I knew they were pounding me on the back, and the townies were in full voice, while Pilch turned away slapping his bat in vexation. “B----y gravel!” cries he. “Hasn’t Dark got any brooms, then?” He may have been right, for all I know. By now, as you may imagine, I was past caring. Felix – and Pilch. There was nothing more left in the world just then, or so I thought; what could excel those twin glorious strokes? My grandchildren will never believe this, thinks I, supposing I have any – by George, I’ll buy every copy of the sporting press for the next month, and paper old Morrison’s bedroom with ’em. And yet the best was still to come. Mynn was striding to the crease; I can see him now, and it brings back to me a line that Macaulay wrote in that very year: “And now the cry is ‘Aster’! and lo, the ranks divide, as the great Lord of Luna comes on with stately stride.” That was Alfred the Great to a “t”, stately and magnificent, with his broad crimson sash and the bat like a kid’s paddle in his hand; he gave me a great grin as he walked by, took guard, glanced leisurely round the field, tipped his straw hat back on his head, and nodded to the umpire, old Aislabie, who was shaking with excitement as he called “Play!” Well, I had no hope at all of improving on what I’d done, you may be sure, but I was determined to bowl my best, and it was only as I turned that it crossed my mind – old Aislabie’s a Rugby man, and it was out of pride in the old school that he arranged this fixture; honest as God, to be sure, but like all enthusiasts he’ll see what he wants to see, won’t he? – and Mynn’s so tarnation big you can’t help hitting him somewhere if you put your mind to it, and bowl your fastest. It was all taking shape even as I ran up to the wicket: I’d got Felix by skill, Pilch by luck, and I’d get Mynn by knavery or perish in the attempt. I fairly flung myself up to the crease, and let go a perfect snorter, dead on a length but a good foot wide of the leg stump. It bucked, Mynn stepped quickly across to let it go by, it flicked his calf, and by that time I was bounding across Aislabie’s line of sight, three feet off the ground, turning as I sprang and yelling at the top of my voice: “How was he there, sir?” Now, a bowler who’s also a Gentleman of Rugby don’t appeal unless he believes it; that gooseberry-eyed old fool Aislabie hadn’t seen a d----d thing with me capering between him and the scene of the crime, but he concluded there must be something in it, as I knew he would, and by the time he had fixed his watery gaze, Mynn, who had stepped across, was plumb before the stumps. And Aislabie would have been more than human if he had resisted the temptation to give the word that everyone in that ground except Alfie wanted to hear. “Out!” cries he. “Yes, out, absolutely! Out! Out!” It was bedlam after that; the spectators went wild, and my team-mates simply seized me and rolled me on the ground; the cheering was deafening, and even Brown pumped me by the hand and slapped me on the shoulder, yelling “Bowled, oh, well bowled, Flashy!” (You see the moral: cover every strumpet in London if you’ve a mind to, it don’t signify so long as you can take wickets.) Mynn went walking by, shaking his head and cocking an eyebrow in Aislabie’s direction – he knew it was a crab decision, but he beamed all over his big red face like the sporting ass he was, and then did something which has passed into the language: he took off his boater, presented it to me with a bow, and says: “That trick’s worth a new hat any day, youngster.” (I’m d----d if I know which trick he meant, and I don’t much care; I just know the leg-before-wicket rule is a perfectly splendid one, if they’ll only let it alone.) After that, of course, there was only one thing left to do. I told Brown that I’d sprained my arm with my exertions – brought back the rheumatism contracted from exposure in Afghanistan, very likely … horrid shame … just when I was finding a length … too bad … worst of luck … field all right, though … (I wasn’t going to run the risk of having the other Kent men paste me all over the ground, not for anything). So I went back to the deep field, to a tumultuous ovation from the gallery, which I acknowledged modestly with a tip of Mynn’s hat, and basked in my glory for the rest of the match, which we lost by four wickets. (If only that splendid chap Flashman had been able to go on bowling, eh? Kent would have been knocked all to smash in no time. They do say he has a jezzail bullet in his right arm still – no it ain’t, it was a spear thrust – I tell you I read it in the papers, etc., etc.) It was beer all round in the pavilion afterwards, with all manner of congratulations – Felix shook my hand again, ducking his head in that shy way of his, and Mynn asked was I to be home next year, for if the Army didn’t find a use for me, he could, in the casual side which he would get together for the Grand Cricket Week at Canterbury. This was flattery on the grand scale, but I’m not sure that the sincerest tribute I got wasn’t Fuller Pilch’s knitted brows and steady glare as he sat on a bench with his tankard, looking me up and down for a full two minutes and never saying a word. Even the doddering Duke came up to compliment me and say that my style reminded him absolutely of his own – “Did I not remark it to you, my dear?” says he to his languid tart, who was fidgeting with her parasol and stifling a yawn while showing me her handsome profile and weighing me out of the corner of her eye. “Did I not observe that Mr Flashman’s shooter was just like the one I bow out Beauclerk with at Maidstone in ’06? – directed to had off stump, sir, caught him goin’ back, you understand pitched just short, broke and shot, middle stump, bowled all over his wicket – ha! ha! what?” I had to steady the old fool before he tumbled over demonstrating his action, and his houri, assisting, took the opportunity to rub a plump arm against me. “No doubt we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Canterbury next summer, Mr Flashman,” she murmurs, and the old pantaloon cries aye, aye, capital notion, as she helped him away; I made a note to look her up then, since she’d probably have Killed him in the course of the winter. It wasn’t till I was towelling myself in the bathhouse, and getting outside a brandy punch, that I realized I hadn’t seen Elspeth since the match ended, which was odd, since she’d hardly miss a chance to bask in my reflected glory. I dressed and looked about; no sign of her among the thinning crowd, or outside the pavilion, or at the ladies’ tea tables, or at our carriage; coachee hadn’t seen her either. There was a fairish throng outside the pub, but she’d hardly be there, and then someone plucked my sleeve, and I turned to find a large, beery-faced individual with black button eyes at my elbow. “Mr Flashman, sir, best respex,” says he, and tapped his low-crown hat with his cudgel. “You’ll forgive the liberty, I’m sure – Tighe’s the monicker, Daedalus Tighe, ev’yone knows me, agent an’ accountant to the gentry—” and he pushed a card in my direction between sweaty fingers. “Takin’ the hoppor-toonity, my dear sir an’ sportsman, of presentin’ my compliments an’ best vishes, an’—” “Thank’ee,” says I, “but I’ve no bets to place.” “My dear sir!” says he, beaming. “The werry last idea!” And he invited his cronies, a seedy-flash bunch, to bear him witness. “My makin’ so bold, dear sir, was to inwite you to share my good fortun’, seein’ as ’ow you’ve con-tribooted so ’and some to same – namely, an’ first, by partakin’ o’ some o’ this ’ere French jam-pain – poodle’s p--s to some, but as drunk in the bes’ hestablishments by the werriest swells such as – your good self, sir. Wincent,” says he, “pour a glass for the gallant—” “Another time,” says I, giving him my shoulder, but the brute had the effrontery to catch my arm. “’Old on, sir!” cries he. “’Arf a mo’, that’s on’y the sociable pree-liminary. I’m vishful to present to your noble self the—” “Go to the d---l!” snaps I. He stank of brandy. “—sum of fifty jemmy o’ goblins, as an earnest o’ my profound gratitood an’ respeck. Wincent!” And d----d if the weasel at his elbow wasn’t thrusting a glass of champagne at me with one hand and a fistful of bills in the other. I stopped short, staring. “What the deuce …?” “A triflin’ token of my hes-teem,” says Tighe. He swayed a little, leering at me, and for all the reek of booze, the flash cut of his coat, the watch-chain over his flowery silk vest, and the gaudy bloom in his lapel – the marks of the vulgar sport, in fact – the little eyes in his fat cheeks were as hard as coals. “You vun it for me, my dear sir – an’ plenty to spare, d---e. Didn’t ’e, though?” His confederates, crowding round, chortled and raised their glasses. “By the sweat – yore pardon, sir – by the peerspyration o’ yore brow – an’ that good right arm, vot sent back Felix, Pilch, ’an Alfred Mynn in three deliveries, sir. Look ’ere,” and he snapped a finger to Vincent, who dropped the glass to whip open a leather satchel at his waist – it was stuffed with notes and coin. “You, sir, earned that. You did, though. Ven you put avay Fuller Pilch – an’, veren’t that a ’andsome catch, now? – I sez to Fat Bob Napper, vot reckons e’s king o’ the odds an’ evens – ‘Napper,’ sez I, ‘that’s a ’ead bowler, that is. Vot d’ye give me ’e don’t put out Mynn, first ball?’ ‘Gammon,’ sez ’e. ‘Three in a row – never! Thahsand to one, an’ you can pay me now.’ Generous odds, sir, you’ll allow.” And the rascal winked and tapped his nose. “So – hon goes my quid – an’ ’ere’s Napper’s thahsand, cash dahn, give ’im that – an’ fifty on it’s yore’s, my gallant sir, vith the grateful compliments of Daedalus Tighe, Hesk-wire, agent an’ accountant to the gentry, ’oo ’ereby salutes” – and he raised his glass and belched unsteadily – “yore ’onner’s pardon, b----r them pickles – ’oo salutes the most wicious right harm in the noble game o’ cricket today! Hip-hip-hip – hooray!’ I couldn’t help being amused at the brute, and his pack of rascals – drunken bookies and touts on the spree, and too far gone to appreciate their own impudence. “My thanks for the thought, Mr Tighe,” says I, for it don’t harm to be civil to a bookie, and I was feeling easy, “you may drink my health with it.” And I pushed firmly past him, at which he staggered and sat down heavily in a froth of cheap champagne, while his pals hooted and weaved in to help him. Not that I couldn’t have used the fifty quid, but you can’t be seen associating with cads of that kidney, much less accepting their gelt. I strode on, with cries of “Good luck, sir!” and “Here’s to the Flash cove!” following me. I was still grinning as I resumed my search for Elspeth, but as I turned into the archery range for a look there, the smile was wiped off my lips – for there were only two people in the long alley between the hedges: the tall figure of a man, and Elspeth in his arms. I came to a dead halt, silent – for three reasons. First, I was astonished. Secondly, he was a big, vigorous brute, by what I could see of him – which was a massive pair of shoulders in a handsomely-cut broadcloth (no expense spared there), and thirdly, it passed quickly through my mind that Elspeth, apart from being my wife, was also my source of supply. Food for thought, you see, but before I had even an instant to taste it, they both turned their heads and I saw that Elspeth was in the act of stringing a shaft to a ladies’ bow – giggling and making a most appealing hash of it – while her escort, standing close in behind her, was guiding her hands, which of course necessitated putting his arms about her, with her head against his shoulder. All very innocent – as who knows better than I, who’ve taken advantage of many such situations for an ardent squeeze and fondle? “Why, Harry,” cries she, “where have you been all this while? See, Don Solomon is teaching me archery – and I have been making the sorriest show!” Which she demonstrated by fumbling the shaft, swinging her bow arm wildly, and letting fly into the hedge, squeaking with delighted alarm. “Oh, I am quite hopeless, Don Solomon, unless you hold my hands!” “The fault is mine, dear Mrs Flashman,” says he, easily. He managed to keep an arm round her, while bowing in my direction. “But here is Mars, who I’m sure is a much better instructor for Diana than I could ever be.” He smiled and raised his hat. “Servant, Mr Flashman.” I nodded, pretty cool, and looked down my nose at him, which wasn’t easy, since he was all of my height, and twice as big around – portly, you might say, if not fat, with a fleshy, smiling face, and fine teeth which flashed white against his swarthy skin. Dago, for certain, perhaps even Oriental, for his hair and whiskers were blue-black and curly, and as he came towards me he was moving with that mincing Latin grace, for all his flesh. A swell, too, by the elegant cut of his togs; diamond pin in his neckercher, a couple of rings on his big brown hands – and, by Jove, even a tiny gold ring in one ear. Part-nigger, not a doubt of it, and with all a rich nigger’s side, too. “Oh, Harry, we have had such fun!” cries Elspeth, and my heart gave a little jump as I looked at her. The gold ringlets under her ridiculous bonnet, the perfect pink and white complexion, the sheer innocent beauty of her as she sparkled with laughter and reached out a hand to me. “Don Solomon has shown me bowling, and how to shoot – ever so badly! – and entertained me – for the cricket came so dull when you were not playing, with those tedious Kentish people popping away, and—” “Hey?” says I, astonished. “You mean you didn’t see me bowl?” “Why, no, Harry, but we had the jolliest time among the side-shows, with ices and hoop-la …” She prattled on, while the greaser raised his brows, smiling from one to the other of us. “Dear me,” says he, “I fear I have lured you from your duty, dear Mrs Flashman. Forgive me,” he went on to me, “for I have the advantage of you still. Don Solomon Haslam, to command,” and he nodded and flicked his handkerchief. “Mr Speedicut, who I believe is your friend, presented me to your so charming lady, and I took the liberty of suggesting that we … take a stroll. If I had known you were to be put on – but tell me … any luck, eh?” “Oh, not too bad,” says I, inwardly furious that while I’d been performing prodigies Elspeth had been fluttering at this oily flammer. “Felix, Pilch and Mynn, in three balls – if you call it luck. Now, my dear, if Mr Solomon will excuse—” To my amazement he burst into laughter. “I would call it luck!” cries he. “That would be a daydream, to be sure! I’d settle for just one of ’em!” “Well, I didn’t,” says I, glaring at him. “I bowled Felix, caught out Pilch, and had Mynn leg before – which probably don’t mean much to a foreigner—” “Good G-d!” cries he. “You don’t mean it! You’re bamming us, surely?” “Now, look’ee, whoever you are—” “But – but – oh, my G-d!” He was fairly spluttering, and suddenly he seized my hand, and began pumping it, his face alight. “My dear chap – I can’t believe it! All three? And to think I missed it!” He shook his head, and burst out laughing again. “Oh, what a dilemma! How can I regret an hour spent with the loveliest girl in London – but, oh, Mrs Flashman, what you’ve cost me! Why, there’s never been anything like it! And to think that we were missing it all! Well, well, I’ve paid for my susceptibility to beauty, to be sure! Well done, my dear chap, well done! But this calls for celebration!” I was fairly taken aback at this, while Elspeth looked charmingly bewildered, but nothing must do but he bore us off to where the liquor was, and demanded of me, action by action, a description of how I’d bowled out the mighty three. I’ve never seen a man so excited, and I’ll own I found myself warming to him; he clapped me on the shoulder, and slapped his knee with delight when I’d done. “Well, I’m blessed! Why, Mrs Flashman, your husband ain’t just a hero – he’s a prodigy!” At which Elspeth glowed and squeezed my hand, which banished the last of my temper. “Felix, Pilch, and Mynn! Extraordinary. Well – I thought I was something of a cricketer, in my humble way – I played at Eton, you know – we never had a match with Rugby, alas! but I fancy I’d be a year or two before your time, anyway, old fellow. But this quite beats everything!” It was fairly amusing, not least for the effect it was having on Elspeth. Here was this gaudy foreign buck, who’d come spooning round her, d----d little flirt that she was, and now all his attention was for my cricket. She was between exulting on my behalf and pouting at being overlooked, but when we parted from the fellow, with fulsome compliments and assurances that we must meet again soon, on his side, and fair affability on mine, he won her heart by kissing her hand as though he’d like to eat it. I didn’t mind, by now; he seemed not a bad sort, for a ’breed, and if he’d been to Eton he was presumably half-respectable, and obviously rolling in rhino. All men slobbered over Elspeth, anyway. So the great day ended, which I’ll never forget for its own splendid sake: Felix, Pilch, and Mynn, and those three ear-splitting yells from the mob as each one fell. It was a day that held the seed of great events, too, as you’ll see, and the first tiny fruit was waiting for us when we got back to Mayfair. It was a packet handed in at the door, and addressed to me, enclosing bills for fifty pounds, and a badly-printed note saying “With the compliments of D. Tighe, Esq.” Of all the infernal impudence; that b----y bookie, or whatever he was, having the starch to send cash to me, as though I were some pro. to be tipped. I’d have kicked his backside to Whitechapel and back, or taken a cane to him for his presumption, if he’d been on hand. Since he wasn’t, I pocketed the bills and burned his letter; it’s the only way to put these upstarts in their place. [Extract from the diary of Mrs H. Flashman, undated, 1842] … to be sure, it was very natural of H. to pay some attention to the other ladies at Lord’s, for they were so forward in their admiration of him – and am I to blame you, less fortunate sisters? He looked so tall and proud and handsome, like the splendid English Lion that he is, that I felt quite faint with love and pride … to think that this striking man, the envy and admiration of all, is – my husband!! He is perfection, and I love him more than I can tell. Still, I could wish that he had been a little less attentive to those ladies near us, who smiled and waved to him when he was in the field, and some even so far forgot the obligations of modesty upon our tender sex, as to call out to him! Of course, it is difficult for him to appear indifferent, so Admired as he is – and he has such an unaffected, gallant nature, and feels, I know, that he must acknowledge their flatteries, for fear that he should be thought lacking in that easy courtesy which becomes a gentleman. He is so Generous and Considerate, even to such d?class? persons as that odious Mrs Leo Lade, the Duke’s companion, whose admiration of H. was so open and shameless that it caused some remark, and made me blush for her reputation – which to be sure, she hadn’t any!!! But H.’s simple, boyish goodness can see no fault in anyone – not even such an abandoned female as I’m sure she is, for they say … but I will not sully your fair page, dear diary, with such a Paltry Thing as Mrs Leo. Yet mention of her reminds me yet again of my Duty to Protect my dear one – for he is still such a boy, with all a boy’s naivet? and high spirit. Why, today, he looked quite piqued and furious at the attention shown to me by Don S.H., who is quite sans reproche and the most distinguished of persons. He has over fifty thousand a year, it is said, from estates and revenues in the Far East Indies, and is on terms with the Best in Society, and has been received by H.M. He is entirely English, although his mother was a Spanish Donna, I believe, and is of the most engaging manners and address, and the jolliest person besides. I confess I was not a little amused to find how I captivated him, which is quite harmless and natural, for I have noticed that Gentlemen of his Complexion are even more ardent in their addresses to the fair than those of Pure European Blood. Poor H. was not well pleased, I fear, but I could not help thinking it would do him no harm to be made aware that both sexes are wont to indulge in harmless gallantries, and if he is to be admired by such as Mrs L.L., he cannot object to the Don’s natural regard for me. And to be sure, they are not to be compared, for Don S.H.’s addresses are of the utmost discretion and niceness; he is amusing, with propriety, engaging without familiarity. No doubt we shall see much of him in Society this winter, but not so much, I promise, as will make my Dear Hero too jealous – he has such sensibility … [End of extract – G. de R.] (#ulink_7ea6f998-f0d6-53e3-846c-a328b321acaa) See Flashman. Chapter 2 (#ulink_09eeb890-3cfd-5c1b-919a-4273517214e8) It was eight months before I so much as gave a thought to cricket again, but I’m bound to say that even if it had been blazing summer from October to March I’d still have been too busy. You can’t conduct a passionate affair with Lola Montez, in which you fall foul of Otto Bismarck – which is what I was doing that autumn – and still have much time for recreation. Besides, this was the season when my fame was at its zenith, what with my visit to the Palace for the Kabul medal; in consequence I was in demand everywhere, and Elspeth, in her eagerness for the limelight, saw to it that I never had a moment’s peace – balls and parties and receptions, and d---l a minute for serious raking. It was splendid, of course, to be the lion of the hour, but confounded exhausting. But little enough happened to the point of my story, except that the stout Don Solomon Haslam played an increasingly lively part in our doings that winter. That was an odd fish, decidedly. Nobody, not even his old Eton chums, seemed to know much about him except that he was some kind of nabob, with connections in Leadenhall Street, but he was well received in Society, where his money and manners paid for all. And he seemed to be right in the know wherever he went – at the embassies, the smart houses, the sporting set, even at the political dinners; he was friendly with Haddington and Stanley at one end of the scale, and with such rascals as Deaf Jim Burke and Brougham at t’other. One night he would be dining with Aberdeen, and the next at Rosherville Gardens or the Cider Cellars, and he had a quiet gift of being first with the word from all quarters: if you wanted to know what was behind the toll riots, or the tale of Peel’s velveteens, ask Solomon; he had the latest joke about Alice Lowe, or Nelson’s Column, could tell you beforehand about the new race cup for Ascot, and had songs from the “Bohemian Girl” played in his drawing-room months before the opera was seen in London. It wasn’t that he was a gossip or couch-whisperer, either; whatever way the talk turned, he just knew the answers. He ought to have been detestable, but strangely enough he wasn’t, for he didn’t push or show off. His entertainment was lavish, in his house on Brook Street, where he gave a Chinese Party that was said to have cost twenty thou., and was the talk for weeks, and his appearance was what the ladies called Romantic – I’ve told you about the earring, enough said – but with it all he managed to appear modest and unaffected. He could charm, I’ll say that for him, for he had the true gift of flattery, which is to show the keenest possible interest – and, of course, he had money to burn. I didn’t mind him much, myself; he went out of his way to be pleasant to me, and once I had satisfied myself that his enthusiasm for Elspeth wasn’t likely to go the length, I tolerated him. She was ready to flirt with anything in breeches – and more than flirt, I suspected, but there were horny captains I was far leerier of than the Don. That b-----d Watney, for one, and the lecherous snob Ranelagh, and I fancy young Conyngham was itching after her, too. But Solomon had no name as a rake; didn’t even keep a mistress, apparently, and did no damage round Windmill Street or any of my haunts, leastways. Another odd thing: he didn’t touch liquor, in any form. Oddest of all, though, was the way that my father-in-law took to him. From time to time during that winter old Morrison came south from his lair in Paisley to inflict himself on us and carp about expense, and it was during one of these visits that we had Solomon to dine. Morrison took one look at the fashionable cut of his coat and Newgate knockers, (#ulink_02f2d0de-49d6-50c2-953d-90e285a94ff0) sniffed, and muttered about “anither scented gommeril wi’ mair money than sense”, but before that dinner was through Solomon had him eating out of his palm. Old Morrison had started off on one of his usual happy harangues about the state of the nation, so that for the first course we had cockaleekie soup, halibut with oyster sauce, and the income tax, removed with minced chicken patties, lamb cutlets, and the Mines Act, followed by a second course of venison in burgundy, fricassee of beef, and the Chartists, with grape ices, bilberry tart, and Ireland for dessert. Then the ladies (Elspeth and my father’s mistress, Judy, whom Elspeth had a great fancy for, G-d knows why) withdrew, and over the port we had the miners’ strike and the General Ruin of the Country. Fine stuff, all of it, and my guv’nor went to sleep in his chair while Morrison held forth on the iniquity of those scoundrelly colliers who objected to having their infants dragging tubs naked through the seams for a mere fifteen hours a day. “It’s the infernal Royal Commission,” cries he. “Makin’ mischief – aye, an’ it’ll spread, mark me. If bairns below the age o’ ten year is no’ tae work underground, how long will it be afore they’re prohibitin’ their employment in factories, will ye tell me? D--n that whippersnapper Ashley! ‘Eddicate them,’ says he, the eejit! I’d eddicate them, would I no’! An’ then there’s the Factory Act – that’ll be the next thing.” “The amendment can’t pass for another two years,” says Solomon quietly, and Morrison glowered at him. “How d’ye ken that?” “It’s obvious, surely. We have the Mines Act, which is all the country can digest for the moment. But the shorter hours will come – probably within two years, certainly within three. Mr Horne’s report will see to that.” His easy certainty impressed Morrison, who wasn’t used to being lectured on business; however, the mention of Horne’s name set him off again – I gathered this worthy was to publish a paper on child employment, which would inevitably lead to bankruptcies all round for deserving employers like my father-in-law, with free beer and holidays for the paupers, a workers’ rebellion, and invasion by the French. “Not quite so much, perhaps,” smiles Solomon. “But his report will raise a storm, that’s certain. I’ve seen some of it.” “Ye’ve seen it?” cries Morrison. “But it’s no’ oot till the New Year!” He glowered a moment. “Ye’re gey far ben, (#ulink_179b6cea-0611-51b2-bc04-8543e3b9884c) sir.” He took an anxious gulp of port. “Does it – was there … that is, did ye chance tae see any mention o’ Paisley, maybe?” Solomon couldn’t be certain, but said there was some shocking stuff in the report – infants tied up and lashed unmercifully by overseers, flogged naked through the streets when they were late; in one factory they’d even had their ears nailed down for bad work. “It’s a lie!” bawls Morrison, knocking over his glass. “A d----d lie! Never a bairn in oor shop had hand laid on it! Ma Goad – prayers at seeven, an’ a cup o’ milk an’ a piece tae their dinner – oot o’ ma ain pocket! Even a yard o’ yarn, whiles, as a gift, an’ me near demented wi’ pilferin’—” Solomon soothed him by saying he was sure Morrison’s factories were paradise on earth, but added gravely that between the Horne report and slack trade generally, he couldn’t see many good pickings for manufacturers for some years to come. Overseas investment, that was the thing; why, there were millions a year to be made out of the Orient, by men who knew their business (as he did), and while Morrison sniffed a bit, and called it prospectus talk, you could see he was interested despite himself. He began to ask questions, and argue, and Solomon had every answer pat; I found it a dead bore, and left them prosing away, with my guv’nor snoring and belching at the table head – the most sensible noises I’d heard all night. But later, old Morrison was heard to remark that yon young Solomon had a heid on his shoothers, richt enough, a kenspeckle lad – no’ like some that sauntered and drank awa’ their time, an’ sponged off their betters, etc. One result of all this was that Don Solomon Haslam was a more frequent visitor than ever, dividing his time between Elspeth and her sire, which was perverse variety, if you like. He was forever talking Far East trade with Morrison, urging him to get into it – he even suggested that the old b-----d should take a trip to see for himself, which I’d have seconded, nem. con. I wondered if perhaps Solomon was some swell magsman trying to diddle the old rascal of a few thou.; some hopes, if he was. Anyway, they got along like a matched pair, and since Morrison was at this time expanding his enterprises, and Haslam was well-connected in the City, I dare say my dear relative found the acquaintance useful. So winter and spring went by, and then in June I had two letters. One was from my Uncle Bindley at the Horse Guards, to say that negotiations were under way to procure me a lieutenancy in the Household Cavalry; this great honour, he was careful to point out, was due to my Afghan heroics, not to my social desirability, which in his opinion was negligible – he was from the Paget side of our family, you see, and affected to despise us common Flashmans, which showed he had more sense than manners. I was quite flown by this news, and almost equally elated by the other letter, which was from Alfred Mynn, reminding me of his invitation to play in his casual side at Canterbury. I’d been having a few games for the Montpeliers at the old Beehive field, and was in form, so I accepted straight off. It wasn’t just for the cricket, though: I had three good reasons for wanting to be out of Town just then. First, I had just encompassed Lola Montez’s ruin on the London stage, and had reason to believe that the mad b---h was looking for me with a pistol – she was game for anything, you know, including murder; secondly, a female acrobat whom I’d been tupping was pretending that she was in foal, and demanding compensation with tears and menaces; and thirdly, I recalled that Mrs Lade, the Duke’s little piece, was to be in Canterbury for the Cricket Week. So you can see a change of scene was just what old Flashy needed; if I’d known the change I was going to get I’d have paid off the acrobat, let Mrs Lade go hang, and allowed Montez one clear shot at me running – and thought myself lucky. But we can’t see into the future, thank God. I’d intended to go down to Canterbury on my own, but a week or so beforehand I happened to mention my visit to Haslam, in Elspeth’s presence, and right away he said famous, just the thing; he was keen as mustard on cricket himself, and he’d take a house there for the week: we must be his guests, he would get together a party, and we’d make a capital holiday of it. He was like that, expense was no object with him, and in a moment he had Elspeth clapping her hands with promises of picnic and dances and all sorts of junketings. “Oh, Don, how delightful!” cries she. “Why, it will be the jolliest thing, and Canterbury is the most select place, I believe – yes, there is a regiment there – but, oh, what shall I have to wear? One needs a very different style out of London, you see, especially if many of our lunches are to be al fresco, and some of the evening parties are sure to be out of doors – oh, but what about poor, dear Papa?” I should have added that another reason for my leaving London was to get away from old Morrison, who was still infesting our premises. In fact, he’d been taken ill in May – not fatally, unfortunately. He claimed it was overwork, but I knew it was the report of the child employment commission which, as Don Solomon had predicted, had caused a shocking uproar when it came out, for it proved that our factories were rather worse than the Siberian salt mines. Names hadn’t been named, but questions were being asked in the Commons, and Morrison was terrified that at any moment he’d be exposed for the slave-driving swine he was. So the little villain had taken to his bed, more or less, with an attack of the nervous guilts, and spent his time d---ing the commissioners, snarling at the servants, and snuffing candles to save money. Of course Haslam said he must come with us; the change of air would do him good; myself, I thought a change from air was what the old pest required, but there was nothing I could do about it, and since my first game for Mynn’s crew was on a Monday afternoon, it was arranged that the party should travel down the day before. I managed to steer clear of that ordeal, pleading business – in fact, young Conyngham had bespoken a room at the Magpie for a hanging on the Monday morning, but I didn’t let on to Elspeth about that. Don Solomon convoyed the party to the station for the special he’d engaged, Elspeth with enough trunks and bandboxes to start a new colony, old Morrison wrapped in rugs and bleating about the iniquity of travelling by railroad on the sabbath, and Judy, my father’s bit, watching the performance with her crooked little smile. She and I never exchanged a word, nowadays. I’d rattled her (once) in the old days, when the guv’nor’s back was turned, but then she’d called a halt, and we’d had a fine, shouting turn-up in which I’d blacked her eye. Since then we’d been on civil-sneer terms, for the guv’nor’s sake, but since he’d recently been carted away again to the blue-devil factory to have the booze bogies chased out of his brain, Judy was devoting her time to being Elspeth’s companion – oh, we were a conventional little menage, sure enough. She was a handsome, knowing piece, and I squeezed her thigh for spite as I handed her into the carriage, got a blood-freezing glare for my pains, and waved them farewell, promising to meet them in Canterbury by noon next day. I forget who they hung on the Monday, and it don’t matter anyway, but it was the only Newgate scragging I ever saw, and I had an encounter afterwards which is part of my tale. When I got to the Magpie on Sunday evening, Conyngham and his pals weren’t there, having gone across to the prison chapel to see the condemned man attend his last service; I didn’t miss a great deal apparently, for when they came back they were crying that it had been a dead bore – just the chaplain droning away and praying, and the murderer sitting in the black pen talking to the turnkey. “They didn’t even have him sitting on his coffin,” cries Conyngham. “I thought they always had his coffin in the pew with him – d--n you, Beresford, you told me they did!” “Still, t’aint every day you see a chap attend his own burial service,” says another. “Don’t you just wish you may look as lively at your own, Conners?” After that they all settled down to cards and boozing, with a buffet supper that went on all evening, and of course the girls were brought in – Snow Hill sluts that I wouldn’t have touched with a long pole. I was amused to see that Conyngham and the other younger fellows were in a rare sweat of excitement – quite feverish they got in their wining and wenching, and all because they were going to see a chap turned off. It was nothing to me, who’d seen hangings, beheadings, crucifixions and the L--d knows what in my wanderings; my interest was to see an English felon crapped in front of an English crowd, so in the meantime I settled down to ?cart? with Speedicut, and by getting him well foxed I cleaned him out before midnight. By then most of the company were three-parts drunk or snoring, but they didn’t sleep long, for in the small hours the gallows-builders arrived, and the racket they made as they hammered up the scaffold in the street outside woke everyone. Conyngham remembered then that he had a sheriff’s order, so we all trooped across to Newgate to get a squint at the chap in the condemned cell, and I remember how that boozy, rowdy party fell silent once we were in Newgate Yard, with the dank black walls crowding in on either side, our steps sounding hollow in the stone passages, breathing short and whispering while the turnkey grinned horribly and rolled his eyes to give Conyngham his money’s worth. I reckon the young sparks didn’t get it, though, for all they saw in the end was a man lying fast asleep on his stone bench, with his jailer resting on a mattress alongside; one or two of our party, having recovered their spunk by that time, wanted to wake him up, in the hope that he’d rave and pray, I suppose; Conyngham, who was wilder than most, broke a bottle on the bars and roared at the fellow to stir himself, but he just turned over on his side, and a little beadle-like chap in a black coat and tall hat came on the scene in a tearing rage to have us turned out. “Vermin!” cries he, stamping and red in the face. “Have you no decency? Dear G-d, and these are meant to be the leaders of the nation! D--n you, d--n you, d--n you all to h--l!” He was incoherent with fury, and vowed the turnkey would lose his place; he absolutely threw Conyngham out bodily, but our bold boy wasn’t abashed; when he’d done giving back curse for curse he made a drunken dash for the scaffold, which was erected by now, black beams, barriers, and all, and managed to dance on the trap before the scandalized workmen threw him into the road. His pals picked him up, laughing and cheering, and got him back to the Magpie; the crowd that was already gathering in the warm summer dawn grinned and guffawed as we went through, though there were some black looks and cries of “Shame!” The first eel-piemen were crying their wares in the street, and the vendors of tiny model gibbets and Courvoisier’s confession and pieces of rope from the last hanging (cut off some chandler’s stock that very morning, you may be sure) were having their breakfast in Lamb’s and the Magpie common room, waiting for the real mob to arrive; the lower kind of priggers and whores were congregating, and some family parties were already established at the windows, making a picnic of it; carters were putting their vehicles against the walls and offering places of vantage at sixpence a time; the warehousemen and porters who had their business to do were d--ning the eyes of those who obstructed their work, and the constables were sauntering up and down in pairs, moving on the beggars and drunks, and keeping a cold eye on the more obvious thieves and flash-tails. A bluff-looking chap in clerical duds was watching with lively interest as Conyngham was helped into the Magpie and up the stairs; he nodded civilly to me. “Quiet enough so far,” says he, and I noticed that he carried his right arm at an odd angle, and his hand was crooked and waxy. “I wonder, sir, if I might accompany your party?” He gave me his name, but I’m shot if I recall it now. I didn’t mind, so he came abovestairs, into the wreck of our front room, with the remains of the night’s eating and drinking being cleared away and breakfast set, and the sluts being chivvied out by the waiters, complaining shrilly; most of our party were looking pretty seedy, and didn’t make much of the chops and kidneys at all. “First time for most of them,” says my new acquaintance. “Interesting, sir, most interesting.” At my invitation he helped himself to cold beef, and we talked and ate in one of the windows while the crowd below began to increase, until the whole street was packed tight as far as you could see both sides of the scaffold; a great, seething mob, with the peelers guarding the barriers, and hardly room enough for the dippers and mobsmen to ply their trade – there must have been every class of mortal in London there; all the dross of the underworld rubbing shoulders with tradesmen and City folk; clerks and counter-jumpers; family men with children perched on their shoulders; beggar brats scampering and tugging at sleeves; a lord’s carriage against a wall, and the mob cheering as its stout occupant was heaved on to the roof by his coachmen; every window was jammed with onlookers at two quid a time; there were galleries on the roofs with seats to let, and even the gutters and lamp-brackets had people clinging to them. A ragged little urchin came swinging along the Magpie’s wall like a monkey; he clung to our window-ledge with naked, grimy toes and fingers, his great eyes staring at our plates; my companion held out a chop to him, and it vanished in a twinkling into the ugly, chewing face. Someone hailed from beneath our window, and I saw a burly, pug-nosed fellow looking up; my crooked-arm chap shouted down to him, but the noise and hooting and laughter of the crowd was too much for conversation, and presently my companion gave up, and says to me: “Thought he might be here. Capital writer, just you watch; put us all in the shade presently. Did you follow Miss Tickletoby last summer?” From which I’ve since deduced that the cove beneath our window that day was Mr William Makepeace Thackeray. That was my closest acquaintance with him, though. “It’s a solemn thought,” went on my companion, “that if executions were held in churches, we’d never lack for congregations – probably get much the same people as we do now, don’t you think? Ah – there we are!” As he spoke the bell boomed, and the mob below began to roar off the strokes in unison: “One, two, three …” until the eighth peal, when there was a tremendous hurrah, which echoed between the buildings, and then died away in a sudden fall, broken only by the shrill wail of an infant. My companion whispered: “St Sepulchre’s bell begins to toll, The Lord have mercy on his soul.” As the chatter of the crowd grew again, we looked across that craning sea of humanity to the scaffold, and there were the constables hurrying out of the Debtors’ Door from the jail, with the prisoner bound between them, up the steps, and on to the platform. The prisoner seemed to be half-asleep (“drugged,” says my companion; “they won’t care for that”). They didn’t, either, but began to stamp and yell and jeer, drowning out the clergyman’s prayer, while the executioner made fast the noose, slipped a hood over the condemned man’s head, and stood by to slip the bolt. There wasn’t a sound now, until a drunk chap sings out, “Good health, Jimmy!” and there were cries and laughter, and everyone stared at the white-hooded figure under the beam, waiting. “Don’t watch him” whispers my friend. “Look at your companions.” I did, glancing along at the next window: every face staring, every mouth open, motionless, some grinning, some pale with fear, some in an almost vacant ecstasy. “Keep watching ’em,” says he, and pat on his words came the rattle and slam of the drop, an almighty yell from the crowd, and every face at the next window was eagerly alight with pleasure – Speedicut grinning and crowing, Beresford sighing and moistening his lips, Spottswood’s heavy face set in grim satisfaction, while his fancy woman clung giggling to his arm, and pretended to hide her face. “Interesting, what?” says the man with the crooked arm. He put on his hat, tapped it down, and nodded amiably. “Well, I’m obliged to you, sir,” and off he went. Across the street the white-capped body was spinning slowly beneath the trap, a constable on the platform was holding the rope, and directly beneath me the outskirts of the crowd was dissolving into the taverns. Over in a corner of the room Conyngham was being sick. I went downstairs and stood waiting for the crowd to thin, but most of ’em were still waiting in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the hanging corpse, which they couldn’t see for the throng in front. I was wondering how far I’d have to walk for a hack, when a man loomed up in front of me, and after a moment I recognized the red face, button eyes, and flash weskit of Mr Daedalus Tighe. “Vell, vell, sir,” cries he, “here ve are again! I hears as you’re off to Canterbury – vell, you’ll give ’em better sport than that, I’ll be bound!” And he nodded towards the scaffold. “Did you ever see poorer stuff, Mr Flashman? Not vorth the vatchin’, sir, not vorth the vatchin’. Not a word out o’ him – no speech, no repentance, not even a struggle, blow me! That’s not vot ve’d ’ave called a ’angin’, in my young day. You’d think,” says he, sticking his thumbs in his vest, “that a young cribsman like that there, vot ’adn’t no upbringin’ to speak of, nor never amounted to nothin’ – till today – you’d think, sir, that on the great hocassion of ’is life, ’e’d show appreciation, ’stead o’ lettin’ them drug ’im vith daffy. Vere vas his ambition, sir, allowin’ ’imself to be crapped like that there, ven ’e might ’ave reckernized the interest, sir, of all these people ’ere, an’ responded to same?” He beamed at me, head on one side. “No bottom, Mr Flashman; no game. Now, you, sir – you’d do your werry best if you vas misfortinit enough to be in his shoes – vhich Gawd forbid – an’ so should I, eh? Ve’d give the people vot they came for, like good game Henglishmen. “Speakin’ of game,” he went on, “I trust you’re in prime condition for Canterbury. I’m countin’ on you, sir, countin’ on you, I am.” Something in his tone raised a tiny prickle on my neck. I’d been giving him a cool stare, but now I made it a hard one. “I don’t know what you mean, my man,” says I, “and I don’t care. You may take yourself—” “No, no, no, my dear young sir,” says he, beaming redder than ever. “You’ve mistook me quite. Vot I’m indicatin’, sir, is that I’m interested – werry much interested, in the success of Mr Mynn’s Casual XI, vot I hexpec’ to carry all before ’em, for your satisfaction an’ my profit.” He closed an eye roguishly. “You’ll remember, sir, as ’ow I expressed my appreciation o’ your notable feat at Lord’s last year, by forwardin’ a token, a small gift of admiration, reelly—” “I never had a d----d thing from you,” says I, perhaps just a shade too quickly. “You don’t say, sir? Vell, blow me, but you astonish me, sir – you reelly do. An’ me takin’ werry partikler care to send it to yore direction – an’ you never received same! Vell, vell,” and the little black eyes were hard as pebbles. “I vonder now, if that willain o’ mine, Wincent, slipped it in ’is cly (#ulink_67a3b050-9e8c-5d81-b557-8521ec6ed796), ’stead o’ deliverin’ same to you? Hooman vickedness, Mr Flashman, sir, there ain’t no end to it. Still, sir, ve needn’t repine,” and he laughed heartily, “there’s more vere that come from, sir. An’ I can tell you, sir, that if you carries yore bat against the Irreg’lars this arternoon – vell, you can count to three hundred, I’ll be bound, eh?” I stared at him, speechless, opened my mouth – and shut it. He regarded me benignly, winked again, and glanced about him. “Terrible press, sir; shockin’. Vhy the peelers don’t chivvy these d----d magsmen an’ cly-fakers – vhy, a gent like you ain’t safe; they’ll ’ave the teeth out yore ’ead, ’less you looks sharp. Scandalous, sir; vot you need’s a cab; that’s vot you need.” He gave a nod, a burly brute close by gave a piercing whistle, and before you could wink there was a hack pushing through the crowd, its driver belabouring all who didn’t clear out fast enough. The burly henchman leaped to the horse’s head, another held the door, and Mr Tighe, hat in hand, was ushering me in, beaming wider than ever. “An’ the werry best o’ luck this arternoon, sir,” cries he. “You’ll bowl them Irreg’lars aht in no time, I’ll wager, an’” – he winked again – “I do ’ope as you carries your bat, Mr Flashman. London Bridge, cabby!” And away went the cab, carrying a very thoughtful gentleman, you may be sure. I considered the remarkable Mr Tighe all the way to Canterbury, too, and concluded that if he was fool enough to throw money away, that was his business – what kind of odds could he hope to get on my losing my wicket, for after all, I batted well down the list, and might easily carry my bat through the hand? Who’d wager above three hundred on that? Well, that was his concern, not mine – but I’d have to keep a close eye on him, and not become entangled with his sort; at least he wasn’t expecting me to throw the game, but quite the reverse; he was trying to bribe me to do well, in fact. H’m. The upshot of it was, I bowled pretty well for Mynn’s eleven, and when I went to the wicket to bat, I stuck to my blockhole like glue, to the disappointment of the spectators, who expected me to slog. I was third last man in, so I didn’t have to endure long, and as Mynn himself was at t’other end, knocking off the runs, my behaviour was perfectly proper. We won by two wickets, Flashy not out, nil – and next morning, after breakfast, there was a plain packet addressed to me, with three hundred in bills inside. I near as a toucher sealed it up again and told the footman to give it back to whoever had brought it – but I didn’t. Warm work – but three hundred is three hundred – and it was a gift, wasn’t it? I could always deny I’d ever seen it – G-d, I was an innocent then, for all my campaign experience. This, of course, took place at the house which Haslam had taken just outside Canterbury, very splendid, gravel walks, fine lawns, shrubbery and trees, gaslight throughout, beautifully-appointed rooms, best of food and drink, flunkeys everywhere, and go-as-you-please. There were about a dozen house guests, for it was a great rambling place, and Haslam had seen to every comfort. He gave a sumptuous party on that first Monday night, at which Mynn and Felix were present, and the talk was all cricket, of course, but there were any number of ladies, too, including Mrs Leo Lade, smouldering at me across the table from under a heap of sausage curls, and in a dress so d?collet? that her udders were almost in her soup. That’s one over we’ll bowl this week that won’t be a maiden, thinks I, and flashed my most loving smile to Elspeth, who was sparkling radiantly beside Don Solomon at the top of the table. Presently, however, her sparkle was wiped clean away, for Don Solomon was understood to say that this week would be his last fling in England; he was leaving at the end of the month to visit his estates in the East, and had no notion when he would return; it might be years, he said, at which there were genuine expressions of sorrow round the table, for those assembled knew a dripping roast when they saw one. Without the lavish Don Solomon, there would be one luxurious establishment less for the Society hyenas to guzzle at. Elspeth was quite put out. “But dear Don Solomon, what shall we do? Oh, you’re teasing – why, your tiresome estates will do admirably without you, for I’m sure you employ only the cleverest people to look after them.” She pouted prettily. “You would not be so cruel to your friends, surely – Mrs Lade, we shan’t let him, shall we?” Solomon laughed and patted her hand. “My dear Diana,” says he – Diana had been his nickname for her ever since he’d tried to teach her archery – “you may be sure nothing but harsh necessity would take me from such delightful company as your own – and Harry’s yonder, and all of you. But – a man must work, and my work is overseas. So—” and he shook his head, his smooth, handsome face smiling ruefully. “It will be a sore wrench – sorest of all in that I shall miss both of you” – and he looked from Elspeth to me and back again – “above all the rest, for you have been to me like a brother and sister.” And, d---e, the fellow’s great dark eyes were positively glistening; the rest of the table murmured sympathetically, all but old Morrison, who was champing away at his blancmange and finding bones in it, by the sound of him. At this Elspeth was so overcome that she began piping her eye, and her tits shook so violently that the old Duke, on Solomon’s other side, coughed his false teeth into his wine glass and had to be put to rights by the butler. Solomon, for once, was looking a little embarrassed; he shrugged and gave me a look that was almost appealing. “I’m sorry, old boy,” says he, “but I mean it.” I couldn’t fathom this – he might be sorry to miss Elspeth; what man wouldn’t? But had I been so friendly? – well, I’d been civil enough, and I was her husband; perhaps that charming manner of mine which Tom Hughes mentioned had had its effect on this emotional dago. Anyway, something seemed called for. “Well, Don,” says I, “we’ll all be sorry to lose you, and that’s a fact. You’re a d----d stout chap – that is, I mean, you’re one of the best, and couldn’t be better if … if you were English.” I wasn’t going to gush all over him, you understand, but the company murmured “Hear, hear,” and after a moment Mynn tapped the table to second me. “Well,” says I, “let’s drink his health, then.” And everyone did, while Solomon gave me his bland smile, inclining his head. “I know,” says he, “just how great a compliment that is. I thank you – all of you, and especially you, my dear Harry. I only wish—” and then he stopped, shaking his head. “But no, that would be too much to ask.” “Oh, ask anything, Don!” cries Elspeth, all idiot-imploring. “You know we could not refuse you!” He said no, no, it had been a foolish thought, and at that of course she was all over him to know what it was. So after a moment, toying with his wine-glass, he says: “Well, you’ll think it a very silly notion, I daresay – but what I was about to propose, my dear Diana, for Harry and yourself, and for your father, whom I count among my wisest friends—” and he inclined his head to old Morrison, who was assuring Mrs Lade that he didn’t want any blancmange, but he’d like anither helpin’ o’ yon cornflour puddin’ “—I was about to say, since I must go – why do the three of you not come with me?” And he smiled shyly at us in turn. I stared at the fellow to see if he was joking; Elspeth, all blonde bewilderment, looked at me and then at Solomon, open-mouthed. “Come with you?” “It’s only to the other side of the world, after all,” says he, whimsically. “No, no – I am quite serious; it is not as bad as that. You know me well enough to understand that I wouldn’t propose anything that you would not find delightful. We should cruise, in my steam-brig – it’s as well-appointed as any royal yacht, you know, and we’d have the most splendid holiday. We would touch wherever we liked – Lisbon, Cadiz, the Cape, Bombay, Madras – exactly as the fancy took us. Oh, it would be quite capital!” He leaned towards Elspeth, smiling. “Think of the places we’d see! The delight it would give me, Diana, to show you the wonder of Africa, as one sees it at dawn from the quarterdeck – such colours as you cannot imagine! The shores of the Indian Ocean – yes, the coral strand! Ah, believe me, until you have anchored off Singapore, or cruised the tropical coasts of Sumatra and Java and Borneo, and seen that glorious China Sea, where it is always morning – oh, my dear, you have seen nothing!” Nonsense, of course; the Orient stinks. Always did. But Elspeth was gazing at him in rapture, and then she turned eagerly to me. “Oh, Harry – could we?” “Out o’ the question,” says I. “It’s the back of beyond.” “In these days?” cries Solomon. “Why, with steam you may be in Singapore in – oh, three months at most. Say, three months as my guests while we visit my estates – and you would learn, Diana, what it means to be a queen in the Orient, I assure you – and three months to return. You’d be home again by next Easter.” “Oh, Harry!” Elspeth was positively squeaking with joy. “Oh, Harry – may we? Oh, please, Harry!” The chaps at the table were nodding admiringly, and the ladies murmuring enviously; the old Duke was heard to say that it was an adventure, d----d if it wasn’t, and if he was a younger man, by George, wouldn’t he jump at the chance? Well, they weren’t getting me East again; once had been enough. Besides, I wasn’t going anywhere on the charity of some rich dago show-off who’d taken a shine to my wife. And there was another reason, which enabled me to put a good face on my refusal. “Can’t be done, m’dear,” says I. “Sorry, but I’m a soldier with a living to make. Duty and the Life Guards call, what? I’m desolate to deny you what I’m sure would be the jolliest trip” – I felt a pang, I’ll admit, at seeing that lovely child face fall – “but I can’t go, you see. I’m afraid, Don, we’ll have to decline your kind offer.” He shrugged good-humouredly. “That’s settled, then. A pity, but—” he smiled consolingly at Elspeth, who was looking down-in-the-mouth “—perhaps another year. Unless, in Harry’s enforced absence, your father could be persuaded to accompany us?” It was said so natural it took my breath away, but as it sank home I had to bite back an angry refusal. You b-----d, thinks I, that’s the game, is it? Wait till old Flashy’s put himself out of the running, and then innocently propose a scheme to get my wife far away where you can cock a leg over her at leisure. It was plain as a pikestaff; all my dormant suspicions of this smooth tub of nigger suet came back with a rush, but I kept mum while Elspeth looked down the table towards me – and, bless her, it was a doubtful look. “But … but it would be no fun without Harry,” says she, and if ever I loved the girl it was then. “I … I don’t know – what does Papa say?” Papa, who appeared to be still tunnelling away at his pudding, had missed nothing, you may be sure, but he kept quiet while Solomon explained the proposal. “You remember, sir, we spoke of the possibility that you might accompany me to the East, to see for yourself the opportunities of business expansion,” he was adding, but Morrison cut him short in his charming way. “You spoke of it, no’ me,” says he, busily engulfing blancmange. “I’ve mair than enough o’ affairs here, withoot gallivantin’ tae China at my time o’ life.” He waved his spoon. “Forbye, husband an’ wife should be thegither – it was bad enough when Harry yonder had tae be away in India, an’ my wee lassie near heartbroken.” He made a noise which the company took for a sentimental sniff; myself I think it was another spoonful being pried loose. “Na, na – I’ll need a guid reason afore I’ll stir forth o’ England.” And he got it – to this day I can’t be certain that it was contrived by Solomon, but I’ll wager it was. For next morning the old hound was taken ill again – I don’t know if surfeit of blancmange can cause nervous collapse, but by afternoon he was groaning in bed, shuddering as with a fever, and Solomon insisted on summoning his own medico from Town, a dundreary-looking cove with a handle to his name and a line in unctuous gravity that must have been worth five thousand a year in Mayfair. He looked down solemnly at the sufferer, who was huddled under the clothes like a rat in its burrow, two beady eyes in a wrinkled face, and his nose quivering in apprehension. “Overstrained,” says the sawbones, when he had completed his examination and caught the tune of Morrion’s whimpering. “The system is simply tired; that is all. Of organic deterioration there is no sign whatever; internally, my dear sir, you are sound as I am – as I hope I am, ha-ha!” He beamed like a bishop. “But the machine, while not in need of repair, requires a rest – a long rest.” “Is it serious, docter?” quavers Morrison. Internally, as the quack said, he might be in A1 trim, but his exterior suggested James I dying. “Certainly not – unless you make it so,” says the poultice-walloper. He shook his head in censorious admiration. “You captains of commerce – you sacrifice yourselves without thought for personal health, as you labour for family and country and mankind. But, my dear sir, it won’t do, you know. You forget that there is a limit – and you have reached it.” “Could ye no’ gi’ me a line for a boatle?” croaks the captain of commerce, and when this had been translated the medico shook his head. “I can prescribe,” says he, “but no medicine could be as efficacious as – oh, a few months in the Italian lakes, or on the French coast. Warmth, sunshine, rest – complete rest in congenial company – that is my ‘line’ for you, sir. I won’t be answerable for the consequences if you don’t take it.” Well, there it was. In two seconds I had foreseen what was to follow – Solomon’s recollection that he had only yesterday proposed just such a holiday, the quack’s booming agreement that a sea voyage in comfort was the ideal thing, Morrison’s reluctance being eventually overborne by Elspeth’s entreaties and the pill-slinger’s stern admonition – you could have set it all to music and sung the d----d thing. Then they all looked at me, and I said no. There followed painful private scenes between Elspeth and me. I said if old Morrison wanted to sail away with Don Solomon, he was more than welcome. She replied that it was unthinkable for dear Papa to go without her to look after him; it was absolutely her duty to accept Don Solomon’s generous offer and accompany the old goat. If I insisted on staying at home in the Army, of course she would be desolate without me – but why, oh why, could I not come anyway? – what did the Army matter, we had money enough, and so forth. I said no again, and added that it was a piece of impudence of Solomon’s even to suggest that she should go without me, at which she burst into tears and said I was odiously jealous, not only of her, but of Don Solomon’s breeding and address and money, just because I hadn’t any myself, and I was spitefully denying her a little pleasure, and there could be no possible impropriety with dear Papa to chaperon her, and I was trying to shovel the old sod into an early grave, or words to that effect. I left her wailing, and when Solomon tried to persuade me later himself, took the line that military duty made the trip impossible for me, and I couldn’t bear to be parted from Elspeth. He sighed, but said he understood only too well – in my shoes, he said with disarming frankness, he’d do the same. I wondered for a moment if I had wronged him – for I know I tend to judge everyone by myself, and while I’m usually not far wrong to do so, there are decent and disinterested folk about, here and there. I’ve seen some. Old Morrison, by the way, didn’t say a word; he could have forced my hand, of course, but being as true a Presbyterian hypocrite as ever robbed an orphan, he held that a wife should abide by her husband’s rule, and wouldn’t interfere between Elspeth and me. So I continued to say “no”, and Elspeth sulked until the time came to put on her next new bonnet. So a couple of days passed, in which I played cricket for Mynn’s side, tumbling a few wickets with my shiverers, and slogging a few runs (not many, but 18 in one innings, which pleased me, and catching out Pilch again, one hand, very low down, when he tried to cut Mynn past point and I had to go full length to it. Pilch swore it was a bump, but it wasn’t – you may be sure I’d tell you if it had been). Meanwhile Elspeth basked in admiration and the gay life, Solomon was the perfect host and escort, old Morrison sat on the terrace grumbling and reading sermons and share prices, and Judy promenaded with Elspeth, looking cattish and saying nothing. Then on Friday things began to happen, and as so often is the case with catastrophe, all went splendidly at first. All week I’d been trying to arrange an assignation with the tantalizing Mrs Leo Lade, but what with my own busy affairs and the fact that the old Duke kept a jealous eye on her, I’d been out of luck. It was just a question of time and place, for she was as ready as I; indeed, we’d near got to grips on the Monday after dinner, when we strolled in the garden, but I’d no sooner got her panting among the privet with her teeth half-way through my ear than that bl----d minx Judy came to summon us to hear Elspeth sing “The Ash Grove” in the drawing-room; it would be Judy, smiling her knowing smile, telling us to be sure not to miss the treat. However, on Friday morning Elspeth went off with Solomon to visit some picture gallery, Judy was shopping with some of the guests, the house was empty except for old Morrison on the terrace, and Mrs Lade bowled up presently to say that the Duke was abed with an attack of gout. For show’s sake we made small talk with Morrison, which infuriated him, and then went our separate ways in leisurely fashion, meeting again in the drawing-room in a fine frenzy of fumbling and escaping steam. We weren’t new to the business, either of us, so I had her breasts out with one hand and my breeches down with the other while I was still kicking the door to, and she completed her undressing while we were positively humping the mutton all the way to the couch, which argued sound training on her part. By George, she was a heavy woman, but nimble as an eel for all her elegant poundage; I can’t think offhand of a partner who could put you through as many different mounting-drills in the course of one romp, except perhaps Elspeth herself when she had a drink in her. It was exhilarating work, and I was just settling myself for the finish, and thinking, we’ll have to have more of this another time, when I heard a sound that galvanized me so suddenly that it’s a wonder the couch didn’t give way – rapid footsteps were approaching the drawing-room door. I took stock – breeches down, one shoe off, miles from the window or any convenient cover, Mrs Lade kneeling on the couch, me peering from behind through her feathered headdress (which she had forgotten to remove; quite a compliment, I remember thinking), the doorknob turning. Caught, hopeless, not a chance of escape – nothing for it but to hide my face in the nape of her neck and trust that the visible side of me wouldn’t be recognized by whoever came in. For they wouldn’t linger – not in 1843 – unless it was the Duke, and those footsteps didn’t belong to a gout patient. The door opened, the footsteps stopped – and then there was what a lady novelist would call a pregnant pause, lasting about three hours, it seemed to me, and broken only by Mrs Lade’s ecstatic moanings; I gathered she was unaware that we were observed. I stole a peep through her feathers at the mirror above the fireplace – and almost had convulsions, for it was Solomon reflected in the doorway, his hand on the latch, taking in the scene. He never even blinked an eye; then, as other footsteps sounded somewhere behind him he stepped back, and as the door closed I heard him saying: “No, there is no one here; let us try the conservatory.” Dago or not, he was a d----d considerate host, that one. The door hadn’t closed before I was trying to disengage, but without success, for Mrs Lade’s hands reached back in an instant, clamping her claws into my rear, her head tilting back beside mine. “No, no, no, not yet!” gasps she, chewing away at me. “Don’t go!” “The door,” I explained. “Must lock the door. Someone might see.” “Don’t leave me!” she cried, and I doubt if she knew where she was, even, for her eyes were rolling in her head, and d----d if I could get loose. Mind you, I was reluctant; torn two ways, as it were. “The key,” I mumbled, thrusting away. “Only take a moment-back directly.” “Take me with you!” she moans, and I did, heaven knows how, hobbling along with all that flesh to carry. Fortunately it all ended happily just as my legs gave way, and we collapsed at the threshold in joyous exhaustion; I even managed to get the key turned. Whether she could dress as quickly as she stripped, I can’t say, for she was still swooning and gasping against the panels, with her feathers awry, when I flung on my last garment and shinned down the ivy. Feverish work it had been, and the sooner I was elsewhere, establishing an alibi, the better. A brisk walk was what I needed just then – anyway, I had a match in the afternoon, and wanted to be in trim. [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, June –, 1843] … never have I felt so guilty – and yet, what could I do? My heart warned me, when Don S. cut short our visit to the gallery – and there were some Exquisite Water-colours which I would have liked to view at leisure – that he had some Purpose in returning early to the house. What my Foreboding was I cannot explain, but alas! it was justified, and I am the most Wretched Creature in the world!! The house was quite deserted, except for Papa asleep on the terrace, and Something in Don S.’s manner – it may have been the Ardent Expression in his eyes – led me to insist that we should seek out my Dear H. at once. Oh, would that we had found him! We looked everywhere, but there was no one to be seen, and when we came to the conservatory, Don S. filled me with Alarm and Shame by declaring himself in the most forward manner – for the atmosphere of the plants, being extremely Oppressive, and my own agitation, made me feel so faint that I was forced to support myself by leaning on his arm, and find relief by resting my head on his shoulder. [A likely story!!! – G. de R.] In that moment of faintness, picture my utter distress when he took advantage of the situation to press his lips to mine!! I was so affronted that it was some moments a moment before I could find the strength to make him desist, and it was only with difficulty that I at last Escaped his Embrace. He used the most Passionate Expressions to me, calling me his Dear Diana and his Golden Nymph (which struck me, even in that Moment of Perturbation, as a most poetic conceit), and the Effect was so weakening that I was unable to resist when he clasped me to his bosom yet again, and Kissed me with even greater Force than before. Fortunately, one of the gardeners was heard approaching, and I was able to make good my retreat, with my wits quite disordered. My Shame and Remorse may be imagined, and if aught could have increased them it was the sudden sight of my darling H. in the garden, taking his exercise, he explained, before his match in the afternoon. The sight of his flushed, manly countenance, and the knowledge that he had been engaged in such a healthy, innocent pursuit while I had been helpless in the Heated Embrace of another, however much against my will, were as a knife in my heart. To make it worse, he called me his Jolly Old Girl, and asked eagerly after the picture gallery; I was moved almost to tears, and when we went together to the terrace, and found Mrs L.L., I could not but remark that H. paid her no more than the barest civility (and, indeed, there was very little about her to Entice any man, for she appeared quite bedraggled), but was all kindness and attentiveness to me, like the dear best of husbands that he is. But what am I to think of Don S.’s conduct? I must try not to judge him too harshly, for he is of such a warm temperament, and given to passionate disclosure of it in every way, that it is not to be wondered at if he is Susceptible to that which he finds attractive. But surely I am not to blame if – through no fault of mine – I have been cast by Kind Nature in a form and feature which the Stronger Sex find pleasing? I console myself with the thought that it is Woman’s Portion, if she is fortunate in her endowments, to be adored, and she has little to reproach herself with so long as she does not Encourage Familiarity, but comports herself with Proper Modesty … [Conceit and humbug! End of extract – G. de R.] (#ulink_13bee81a-5ca8-511e-b7f1-24dec6f1ee25) Side-whiskers. (#ulink_1535a1a1-f3d2-531b-8f83-85f41db26177) In the know, well-informed. (#ulink_9278fca4-9214-59d7-8e83-c0745721cb8a) Pocket. Chapter 3 (#ulink_ef57f183-8ff3-5e88-96cc-1b77438fcfba) There’s no doubt that a good gallop before work is the best training you can have, for that afternoon I bowled the best long spell of my life for Mynn’s Casuals against the All-England XI: five wickets for 12 in eleven overs, with Lillywhite leg before and Marsden clean bowled amongst them. I’d never have done that on cold baths and dumbbells, so you can see that what our present Test match fellows need is some sporting female like Mrs Leo Lade to look after ’em, then we’d have the Australians begging for mercy. The only small cloud on my horizon, as we took tea afterwards in the marquee among the fashionable throng, with Elspeth clinging to my arm and Mynn passing round bubbly in the challenge cup we’d won, was whether Solomon had recognized me in the drawing-room that morning, and if so, would he keep his mouth shut? I wasn’t over concerned, for all he’d had in view was my stalwart back and buttocks heaving away and Mrs Lade’s stupefied face reflected in the mirror – it didn’t matter a three-ha’penny what he said about her, and even if he’d recognized me as t’other coupler, it wasn’t likely that he’d bruit it about; chaps didn’t, in those days. And there wasn’t even a hint of a knowing twinkle in his eye as he came over to congratulate me, all cheery smiles, refilling my glass and exclaiming to Elspeth that her husband was the most tearaway bowler in the country, and ought to be in the All-England side himself, blessed if he shouldn’t. A few of those present cried, “Hear, hear,” and Solomon wagged his head admiringly – the artful, conniving scoundrel. “D’ye know,” says he, addressing those nearest, who included many of his house party, as well as Mynn and Felix and Ponsonby-Fane, “I shouldn’t wonder if Harry wasn’t the fastest man in England just now – I don’t say the best, in deference to distinguished company” – and he bowed gracefully towards Mynn – “but certainly the quickest; what d’you think, Mr Felix?” Felix blinked and blushed, as he always did at being singled out, and said he wasn’t sure; when he was at the crease, he added gravely, he didn’t consider miles per hour, but any batter who faced Mynn at one end and me at t’other would have something to tell his grandchildren about. Everyone laughed, and Solomon cries, lucky men indeed; wouldn’t tyro cricketers like himself just jump at the chance of facing a few overs from us. Not that they’d last long, to be sure, but the honour would be worth it. “I don’t suppose,” he added, fingering his earring and looking impish at me, “you’d consider playing me a single-wicket match, would you?” Being cheerful with bubbly and my five for 12, I laughed and said I’d be glad to oblige, but he’d better get himself cover from Lloyd’s, or a suit of armour. “Why,” says I, “d’you fancy your chance?” and he shrugged and said no, not exactly; he knew he mightn’t make much of a show, but he was game to try. “After all,” says he, tongue in cheek, “you ain’t Fuller Pilch as a batter, you know.” There are moments, and they have a habit of sticking in memory, when light-hearted, easy fun suddenly becomes dead serious. I can picture that moment now; the marquee with its throng of men in their whites, the ladies in their bright summer confections, the stuffy smell of grass and canvas, the sound of the tent-flap stirring in the warm breeze, the tinkle of plates and glasses, the chatter and the polite laughter, Elspth smiling eagerly over her strawberries and cream, Mynn’s big red face glistening, and Solomon opposite me – huge and smiling in his bottle-green coat, the emerald pin in his scarf, the brown varnished face with its smiling dark eyes, the carefully-dressed black curls and whiskers, the big, delicately-manicured hand spinning his glass by the stem. “Just for fun,” says he. “Give me something to boast about, anyway – play on my lawn at the house. Come on” – and he poked me in the ribs – “I dare you, Harry,” at which they chortled and said he was a game bird, all right. I didn’t know, then, that it mattered, although something warned me that there was a hint of humbug about it, but with the champagne working and Elspeth miaowing eagerly I couldn’t see any harm. “Very good,” says I, “they’re your ribs, you know. How many a side?” “Oh, just the two of us,” says he. “No fieldsmen; bounds, of course, but no byes or overthrows. I’m not built for chasing,” and he patted his guts, smiling. “Couple of hands, what? Double my chance of winning a run or two.” “What about stakes?” laughs Mynn. “Can’t have a match like this for just a tizzy (#ulink_0404d593-9f0d-57a1-8596-84b55898573c),” winking at me. “What you will,” says Solomon easily. “All one to me – fiver, pony, monkey, thou. – don’t matter, since I shan’t be winning it anyway.” Now that’s the kind of talk that sends any sensible man diving for his hat and the nearest doorway, usually; otherwise you find yourself an hour later scribbling IOUs and trying to think of a false name. But this was different – after all, I was first-class, and he wasn’t even thought about; no one had seen him play, even. He couldn’t hope for anything against my expresses – and one thing was sure, he didn’t need my money. “Hold on, though,” says I. “We ain’t all nabob millionaires, you know. Lieutenant’s half-pay don’t stretch—” Elspeth absolutely reached for her reticule, d--n her, whispering that I must afford whatever Don Solomon put up, and while I was trying to hush her, Solomon says: “Not a bit of it – I’ll wager the thou., on my side; it’s my proposal, after all, so I must be ready to stand the racket. Harry can put up what he pleases – what d’ye say, old boy?” Well, everyone knew he was filthy rich and careless with it, so if he wanted to lose a thousand for the privilege of having me trim him up, I didn’t mind. I couldn’t think what to offer as a wager against his money, though, and said so. “Well, make it a pint of ale,” says he, and then snapped his fingers. “Tell you what – I’ll name what your stake’s to be, and I promise you, if you lose and have to stump up, it’s something that won’t cost you a penny.” “What’s that?” says I, all leery in a moment. “Are you game?” cries he. “Tell us my stake first,” says I. “Well, you can’t cry off now, anyway,” says he, beaming triumphantly. “It’s this: a thou, on my side, if you win, and if I win – which you’ll admit ain’t likely” – he paused, to keep everyone in suspense – “if I win, you’ll allow Elspeth and her father to come on my voyage.” He beamed round at the company. “What’s fairer than that, I should like to know?” The bare-faced sauce of it took my breath away. Here was this fat upstart, with his nigger airs, who had proclaimed his interest in my wife and proposed publicly to take her jaunting while I was left cuckolded at home, had been properly and politely warned off, and was now back on the same tack, but trying to pass it off as a jolly, light-hearted game. My skin burned with fury – had he cooked this up with Elspeth? – but one glance told me she was as astonished as I was. Others were smiling, though, and I saw two ladies whispering behind their parasols; Mrs Lade was watching with amusement. “Well, well, Don,” says I, deliberately easy. “You don’t give up in a hurry, do you?” “Oh, come, Harry,” cries he. “What hope have I? It’s just nonsense, for you’re sure to win. Doesn’t he always win, Mrs Lade?” And he looked at her, smiling, and then at me, and at Elspeth, without a flicker of expression – by G-d, had he recognized my heaving stern in the drawing-room, after all, and was he daring to say: “Accept my wager, give me this chance, or I’ll blow the gaff"? I didn’t know – but it made no odds, for I realized I had to take him on, for my credit’s sake. What – Flashy, the heroic sport, back down against a mere tyro, and thereby proclaim that he was jealous of his wife where this fat swaggerer was concerned? No – I had to play, and look pleasant. He had, as the Duke would say, humbugged me, by G-d. But what was he hoping for? A fluke in a million? Single-wicket’s a chancy game, but even so, he couldn’t hope to beat me. And yet, he was so set on having his way, like the spoiled, arrogant pup he was (for all his modest air), that any chance, however slim, he’d snatch at. He’d nothing to lose except a thousand quid, and that was ha’pence to him. Very well, then – I’d not only beat the brute; I’d milk him for the privilege. “Done, then,” says I, cheerfully, “but since you’ve set my stake, I’ll set yours. If you lose, it’ll cost you two thousand – not one. Suit you?” Of course he had to agree, laughing and saying I drove such a hard bargain I must give him the tie as well – which meant that if the scores finished even, I would forfeit my stake. I had to win to collect – but it was a trivial thing, since I was bound to drub him handsomely. Just to be sure, though, I asked Felix then and there if he’d stand umpire; I wasn’t having some creature of Solomon’s handing him the game in a box. So the match was made, and Elspeth had the grace not to say she hoped I would lose; indeed, she confided later that she thought Don Solomon had been just a little sharp, and not quite refined in taking her for granted. “For you know, Harry, I would never accompany him with Papa against your wishes. But if you choose to accept his wager, that is different – and, oh! it would be such fun to see India and … all those splendid places! But of course, you must play your best, and not lose on my account—” “Don’t worry, old girl,” says I, climbing aboard her, “I shan’t.” That was before dinner. By bed-time I wasn’t so sure. I was taking a turn about the grounds while the others were at their port, and had just strolled abreast the gates, when someone goes “Psst!” from the shadows, and to my astonishment I saw two or three dark figures lurking in the roadway. One of them advanced, and I choked on my cheroot when I recognized the portly frame of Daedalus Tighe, Heskwire. “What the d---l are you doing here?” I demanded. I’d seen the brute at one or two of the games, but naturally had avoided him. He touched his hat, glanced about in the dusk, and asked for a word with me, if he might make so bold. I told him to go to blazes. “Oh, never that, sir!” says he. “You couldn’t vish that, now – not you. Don’t go, Mr Flashman; I promise not to detain you – vhy, the ladies an’ gents will be waitin’ in the drorin’-room, I dare say, and you’ll want to get back. But I hear as ’ow you’re playin’ a single-wicket match tomorrow, ’gainst that fine sportsman Mr Solomon Haslam – werry esteemed cove ’e is, quite the slap-up—” “What d’ye know about his cricket?” says I, and Mr Tighe chuckled beerily. “Well, sir, they do say ’e plays a bit – but, lor’ bless yer, ’e’ll be a babby against the likes o’ you. Vhy, in the town I could get fifty to one against ’im, an’ no takers; mebbe even a hundred—” “I’m obliged to you,” says I and was turning away when he said: “Mind you, sir, there might be some as would put money on ’im, just on the chance that ’e’d win – vhich is himpossible, o’ course, ’gainst a crack player like you. Then again, even cracks lose sometimes – an’ if you lost, vhy, anyone who’d put a thousand on Haslam – vell spread about, o’ course – vhy, he’d pick up fifty thousand, wouldn’t ’e? I think,” he added, “me calkerlation is about right.” I nearly swallowed my cheroot. The blind, blazing impudence of it was staggering – for there wasn’t the slightest doubt what the scoundrel was proposing. (And without even a word of what cut he was prepared to offer, rot his insolence.) I hadn’t been so insulted all day, and I d----d his eyes in my indignation. “I shouldn’t raise your voice, sir,” says he. “You wouldn’t want to be over’eard talkin’ to the likes o’ me, I’m sure. Or to ’ave folks know that you’ve ’ad some o’ my rhino, in the past, for services rendered—” “You infernal liar!” cries I. “I’ve never seen a penny of your d----d money!” “Vell, think o’ that, now,” says he. “D’you suppose that Wincent ’as been pocketin’ it again? I don’t see ’ow ’e could ha’ done, neither – seein’ as my letters to you vas writ an’ sealed, vith cash henclosed, in the presence of two reliable legal friends o’ mine, who’d swear that same vos delivered to your direction. An’ you never got ’em, you say? Vell, that Wincent must be sharper than I thought; I’ll just ’ave to break ’is b----y legs to learn ’im better. Still, that’s by the by; the point is” – and he poked me in the ribs – “if my legal friends vos to svear to vot they know – there’s some as might believe you’d been takin’ cash from a bookie – oh, to win, granted, but it’d make a nasty scandal. Werry nasty it would be.” “D--n you!” I was nearly choking with rage. “If you think you can scare me—” He raised his hands in mock horror. “I’d never think any such thing, Mr Flashman! I know you’re brave as a lion, sir – vhy, you ain’t even afraid to walk the streets o’ London alone at nights – some rare strange places you gets to, I b’lieve. Places vhere young chaps ’as come adrift afore now – set on by footpads an’ beat almost to death. Vhy, a young friend o’ mine – veil, ’e vosn’t much of a friend, ’cos ’e velched on me, ’e did. Crippled for life, sir, I regret to say. Never did catch the willains that done it, neither. Course, the peelers is shockin’ lax these days—” “You villain! Why, I’ve a mind to—” “No, you ’avcn’t, Mr Flashman. Werry inadwisable it vould be for you to do anythin’ rash, sir. An’ vhere’s the necessity, arter all?” I could imagine the greasy smile, but all I could see was shadow. “Mr Haslam just ’as to vin termorror – an’ I’ll see you’re five thahsand richer straight avay, my dear sir. My legal friends’ll forget … vot they know … an’ I dare say no footpads nor garroters von’t never come your vay, neither.” He paused, and then touched his hat again. “Now, sir, I shan’t detain you no more – your ladies vill be gettin’ impatient. A werry good night to you – an’ I’m mortal sorry you ain’t goin’ to vin in the mornin’. But think of ’ow cock-a-hoop Mr Haslam’ll be, eh? It’ll be such a hunexpected surprise for ’im.” And with that he faded into the darkness; I heard his beery chuckle as he and his bullies went down the road. When I’d got over my indignation, my first thought was that Haslam was behind this, but saner judgement told me he wouldn’t be such a fool – only young idiots like me got hooked by the likes of Daedalus Tighe. G-d, what a purblind ass I’d been, ever to touch his dirty money. He could make a scandal, not a doubt of that – and I didn’t question either that he was capable of setting his roughs on to waylay me some dark night. What the d---l was I to do? If I didn’t let Haslam win – no, by G-d, I was shot if I would! Let him go fornicating round the world with Elspeth while I rotted in my tin belly at St James’s? Not likely. But if I beat him, Tighe would split, for certain, and his thugs would pulp me in some alley one fine night … You can understand that I didn’t go to bed in any good temper, and I didn’t sleep much, either. It never rains but it pours, though. I was still wrestling with my dilemma next morning when I received another blow, this time through the smirking agency of Miss Judy, the guv’nor’s trull. I had been out on the gravel watching Solomon’s gardeners roll the wicket on the main lawn for our match, smoking furiously and drumming my fingers, and then took a restless turn round the house; Judy was sitting in one of the arbours, reading a journal. She didn’t so much as glance up as I walked by, ignoring her, and then her voice sounded coolly behind me: “Looking for Mrs Leo Lade?” That was a nasty start, to begin with. I stopped, and turned to look at her. She leafed over a page and went on: “I shouldn’t, if I were you. She isn’t receiving this morning, I fancy.” “What the d---l have I to do with her?” says I. “That’s what the Duke is asking, I dare say,” says Miss Judy, giving the journal her sly smile. “He has not directed his inquiries to you as yet? Well, well, all in good time, no doubt.” And she went on reading cool as be-d----d, while my heart went like a hammer. “What the h--l are you driving at?” says I, and when she didn’t answer I lost my temper and knocked the paper from her hand. “Ah, that’s my little man!” says she, and now she was looking at me, sneering in scornful pleasure. “Are you going to strike me, as well? You’d best not – there are people within call, and it would never do for them to see the hero of Kabul assaulting a lady, would it?” “Not ‘lady’!” says I. “Slut’s the word.” “It’s what the Duke called Mrs Lade, they tell me,” says she, and rose gracefully to her feet, picking up her parasol and spreading it. “You mean you haven’t heard? You will, though, soon enough.” “I’ll hear it now!” says I, and gripped her arm. “By G-d, if you or anyone else is spreading slanders about me, you’ll answer for it! I’ve nothing to do with Mrs Lade or the Duke, d’you hear?” “No?” She looked me up and down with her crooked smile and suddenly jerked her arm free. “Then Mrs Lade must be a liar – which I dare say she is.” “What d’you mean? You’ll tell me, this instant, or—” “Oh, I wouldn’t deny myself the pleasure,” says she. “I like to see you wriggle and mouth first, though. Well, then – a little bird from the Duke’s hotel tells me that he and Mrs Lade quarrelled violently last night, as I believe they frequently do – his gout, you know. There were raised voices – his, at first, and then hers, and all manner of names called – you know how these things develop, I’m sure. Just a little domestic scene, but I’m afraid Mrs Lade is a stupid woman, because when the talk touched on his grace’s … capabilities – how it did, I can’t imagine – she was ill-advised enough to mention your name, and make unflattering comparisons.” Miss Judy smiled sweetly, and patted her auburn curls affectedly. “She must be singularly easy to please, I think. Not to say foolish, to taunt her admirer so. In any event, his grace was so tender as to be jealous—” “It’s a d----d lie! I’ve never been near the b---h!” “Ah, well, no doubt she is confusing you with someone else. It is probably difficult for her to keep tally. However, I dare say his grace believed her; jealous lovers usually think the worst. Of course, we must hope he will forgive her, but his forgiveness won’t include you, I’ll be bound, and—” “Shut your lying mouth!” cries I. “It’s all false – if that slattern has been lying about me, or if you are making up this malicious gossip to discredit me, by G-d I’ll make you both wish you’d never been born—” “Again, you’re quoting the Duke. A hot-tempered old gentleman, it seems. He spoke – at the top of his voice, according to a guest at the hotel – of setting a prizefighter on to you. It seems he is the backer of some persons called Caunt and the Great Gun – but I don’t know about such things …” “Has Elspeth heard this foul slander?” I shouted. “If I thought she would believe it, I would tell her myself,” says the malicious tart. “The sooner she knows what a hound she has married, the better. But she’s stupid enough to worship you – most of the time. Whether she’ll still find you so attractive when the duke’s pugilists have done with you is another matter.” She sighed contentedly and turned away up the path. “Dear me, you’re shaking, Harry – and you will need a steady hand, you know, for your match with Don Solomon. Everyone is so looking forward to it …” She left me in a fine state of rage and apprehension, as you can imagine. It almost passed belief that the idiot heifer Lade had boasted to her protector of her bout with me, but some women are stupid enough for anything, especially when tempers are flying – and now that doddering, vindictive old pander of a Duke would sick his bullies onto me – on top of Tighe’s threats of the previous evening it was the wrong side of enough. Couldn’t the selfish old lecher realize that his flashtail needed a young mount from time to time, to keep her in running condition? But here I was, under clouds from all directions, still undecided what I should do in my match with Solomon – and at that moment Mynn hove up to bear me away to the pitch for the great encounter. I wasn’t feeling like cricket one little bit. Our party, and a fair number of local quality riff-raff, were already arranging themselves on chairs and couches set on the gravel before the house – the Duke and Mrs Lade weren’t there, thank G-d: probably still flinging furniture at each other in the hotel – but Elspeth was the centre of attraction, with Judy at her side looking as though she’d just swallowed the last of the cream. Tattling trollop – I gritted my teeth and vowed I’d be even with her yet. On the other sides of the lawn was the popular mob, for Solomon had thrown open his grounds for the occasion, and had set up a marquee where free beer and refreshments were being doled out to the thirsty; well, if the d----d show-off wanted to let ’em see him being thoroughly beat, that was his business. Oh, Ch---t, though – was I going to beat him? And to compound my confusion, what should I see among a group of flash coves under the trees but the scarlet weskit and face of Daedalus Tighe, Heskwire, come to oversee his great coup, no doubt; he had some likely-looking hard cases with him, too, all punishing the ale and chortling. “Breakfast disagree with you, Flashy?” says Mynn. “You look a mite peaky – hollo, though, there’s your opponent all ready. Come along.” Solomon was already on the lawn, very business-like in corduroys and pumps, with a straw hat on his black head, smiling at me and shaking hands while the swells clapped politely and the popular crowd shouted and rattled their pots. I stripped off my coat and donned my pumps, and then little Felix spun the bat; I called “blade”, and so it was. “Very good,” says I to Solomon, “you’ll bat first.” “Capital!” cries he, with a flash of teeth. “Then may the better man win!” “He will,” says I, and called for the ball, while Solomon, rot his impudence, went across to Elspeth and made great play of having her wish him luck; he even had the gall to ask her for her handkerchief to tie in his belt – “for I must carry the lady’s colours, you know,” cries he, making a great joke of it. Of course she obliged him, and then, catching my glare, fluttered that of course I must carry her colours, too, to show no favouritism. But she hadn’t another wipe, so the minx Judy said she must borrow hers to give me – and I finished up with that sly slut’s snot-rag in my belt, and she sitting with her acid tongue in her cheek. We went out to the wicket together, and Felix gave Solomon guard; he took his time over it, too, patting his block-hole and feeling the pitch before him, very businesslike, while I fretted and swung my arm. It was spongy turf, I realized, so I wasn’t going to get much play out of it – no doubt Solomon had taken that into account, too. Much good might it do him. “Play!” calls Felix, and a hush fell round the lawn, everyone expectant for the first ball. I tightened my belt, while Solomon waited in his turn, and then let him have one of my hardest – I’ll swear he went pale as it shot past his shins and went first bounce into the bushes. The mob cheered, and I turned and bowled again. He wasn’t a bad batter. He blocked my next ball with his hanging guard, played the third straight back to me, and then got a great cheer when he ran two off the fourth. Hollo, thinks I, what have we here? I gave him a slower ball, and he pulled it into the trees, so that I had to plough through the chattering mob to reach it, while he ran five; I was panting and furious when I got back to the crease, but I held myself in and gave him a snorter, dead straight; he went back, and pushed it to his off-side for a single. The crowd yelled with delight, and I ground my teeth. I was beginning to realize what a desperate business single-wicket can be when you haven’t got fieldsmen, and have to chase every run yourself. You’re tuckered in no time, and for a fast bowler that won’t do. Worse still, no fieldsmen meant no catches behind the stumps, which is how fast men like me get half their wickets. I had to bowl or catch him out myself, and what with the plump turf and his solid poking away, it looked like being the deuce of a job. I took a slow turn, recovering my breath, and then bowled him four of my fastest; the first shaved his stumps, but he met the other three like a game-cock, full on the blade, and they brought him another five runs. The crowd applauded like anything, and he smiled and tipped his hat. Very good, thinks I, we’ll have to see to this in short order. I bowled him another score or so of balls – and he took another eight runs, carefully – before I got what I wanted, which was a push shot up the wicket, slightly to my left. I slipped deliberately as I went to gather it, and let it run by, at which Solomon, who had been poised and waiting, came galloping out to steal a run. Got you, you b----rd, thinks I, and as I scrambled up, out of his path, pursuing the ball, I got him the deuce of a crack on the knee with my heel, accidental-like. I heard him yelp, but by then I was lunging after the ball, scooping it up and throwing down the wicket, and then looking round all eager, as though to see where he was. Well, I knew where he was – lying two yards out of his ground on his big backside, holding his knee and cursing. “Oh, bad luck, old fellow!” cries I. “What happened? Did you slip?” “Aaarr-h!” says he, and for once he wasn’t smiling. “You hacked me on the leg, confound it!” “What?” cries I. “Oh, never! Good l--d, did I? Look here, I’m most fearfully sorry. I slipped myself, you know. Oh, my G-d!” says I, clapping my brow. “And I threw down your wicket! If I’d realized – I say, Felix, he don’t have to be out, does he? I mean, it wouldn’t be fair?” Felix said he was run out, no question; it hadn’t been my fault I’d slipped and had Solomon run into me. I said, no, no, I wouldn’t have it, I couldn’t take advantage, and he must carry on with his innings. Solomon was up by now, rubbing his knee, and saying, no, he was out, it couldn’t be helped; his grin was back now, if a bit lop-sided. So we stood there, arguing like little Christians, myself stricken with remorse, pressing him to bat on, until Felix settled it by saying he was out, and that was that. (About time, too; for a moment I’d thought I was going to convince him.) So it was my turn to bat, shaking my head and saying what a d----d shame it had been; Solomon said it was his clumsiness, and I mustn’t fret, and the crowd buzzed with admiration at all this sporting spirit. “Kick ’im in the crotch next time!” bawls a voice from the trees, and the quality pretended not to hear. I took guard; twenty-one he’d scored; now we’d see how he bowled. It was pathetic. As a batter he’d looked sound, if dull, with some good wrist-work, but from the moment I saw him put the ball to his eye and waddle up with that pregnant-duck look of earnestness on his face, I knew he was a duffer with the ball. Quite astonishing, for he was normally a graceful, sure-moving man, and fast for all his bulk, but when he tried to bowl he was like a shire horse on its way to the knackers. He lobbed with the solemn concentration of a dowager at a coconut shy, and I gloated inwardly, watched it drop, drove with confidence – and mishit the first ball straight down his throat for the simplest of catches. The spectators yelled in amazement, and by George, they weren’t alone. I flung down my bat, cursing; Solomon stared in disbelief, half-delighted, half-frowning. “I believe you did that on purpose,” cries he. “Did I—!” says I, furious. I’d meant to hit him into the next county – but ain’t it the way, if a task is too easy, we botch it often as not? I could have kicked myself for my carelessness – thinking like a cricketer, you understand. For with 21 runs in it, I might easily lose the match now – the question was: did I want to? There was Tighe’s red waistcoat under the trees – on the other hand, there was Elspeth, looking radiant, clapping her gloved hands and crying “Well played!” while Solomon tipped his hat gracefully and I tried to put on a good face. By Jove, though, it was him she was looking at – no doubt picturing herself under a tropic moon already, with inconvenient old Flashy safely left behind – no, by G-d, to the d---l with Tighe, and his threats and blackmail – I was going to win this match, and be d----d to everyone. We had a sandwich and a glass, while the swells chattered round us, and the Canterbury professional rubbed embrocation on Solomon’s knee. “Splendid game, old fellow!” cries the Don, raising his lemonade in my direction. “I’ll have some more of my lobs for you directly!” I laughed and said I hoped they weren’t such twisters as his first one, for it had had me all at sea, and he absolutely looked pleased, the b----y farmer. “It is so exciting!” cries Elspeth. “Oh, who is going to win? I don’t think I could bear it for either of them to lose – could you, Judy?” “Indeed not,” says Judy. “Capital fun. Just think, my dear – you cannot lose, either way, for you will gain a jolly voyage if the Don wins, or if Harry succeeds, why, he will have two thousand pounds to spend on you.” “Oh I can’t think of it that way!” cries my darling spouse. “It is the game that counts, I’m sure.” D----d idiot. “Now then, gentlemen,” cries Felix, clapping his hands. “We’ve had more eating and drinking than cricket so far. Your hand, Don,” and he led us out for the second innings. I had learned my lesson from my first bowling spell, and had a good notion now of where Solomon’s strength and weakness lay. He was quick, and sure-footed, and his back game was excellent, but I’d noticed that he wasn’t too steady with his forward strokes, so I pitched well up to him, on the leg stump; the wicket was getting the green off it, with being played on, and I’d hopes of perhaps putting a rising ball into his groin, or at least making him hop about. He met my attack pretty well, though, and played a hanging guard, taking the occasional single on the on side. But I pegged away, settling him into place, with the ball going into his legs, and then sent one t’other way; he didn’t come within a foot of it, and his off-stump went down flat. He’d made ten runs that hand, so I had 32 to get to win – and while it ain’t many against a muffin of a bowler, well, you can’t afford a single mistake. And I wasn’t a batter to trade; however, with care I should be good enough to see Master Solomon away – if I wanted to. For as I took guard, I could see Tighe’s red weskit out of the corner of my eye, and felt a tremor of fear up my spine. By George, if I won and sent his stake money down the drain, he’d do his best to ruin me, socially and physically, no error – and what was left the Duke’s bruisers would no doubt share between ’em. Was anyone ever in such a cursed fix – but here was Felix calling “Play!” and the Don shuffling up to deliver his donkey-drop. It’s a strange thing about bad bowling – it can be deuced difficult to play, especially when you know you have only one life to lose, and have to abandon your usual swiping style. In an ordinary game, I’d have hammered Solomon’s rubbish all over the pasture, but now I had to stay cautiously back, while he dropped his simple lobs on a length – no twist at all but dead straight – and I was so nervous that I edged some of them, and would have been a goner if there’d been even an old woman fielding at slip. It made him look a deal better than he was, and the crowd cheered every ball, seeing the slogger Flashy pinned to his crease. However, I got over my first shakes, tried a drive or two, and had the satisfaction of seeing him tearing about and sweating while I ran a few singles. That was a thing about single wicket; even a good drive might not win you much, for to score one run you had to race to the bowler’s end and back, whereas in an ordinary match the same work would have brought you two. And all his careering about the outfield didn’t seem to trouble his bowling, which was as bad – but still as straight – as ever. But I hung on, and got to a dozen, and when he sent me a full pitch, I let fly and hit him clean over the house, running eight while he vanished frantically round the building, with the small boys whooping in his wake, and the ladies standing up and squeaking with excitement. I was haring away between the wickets, with the mob chanting each run, and was beginning to think I’d run past his total when he hove in sight again, trailing dung and nettles, and threw the ball across the crease, so that I had to leave off. So there I was, with 20 runs, 12 still needed to win, and both of us blowing like whales. And now my great decision could be postponed no longer – was I going to beat him, and take the consequences from Tighe, or let him win and have a year in which to seduce Elspeth on his confounded boat? The thought of him murmuring greasily beside her at the taffrail while she got drunk on moonlight and flattery fairly maddened me, and I banged his next delivery against the front door for another three runs – and as I waited panting for his next ball, there under the trees was the beast Tighe, hat down on his brows and thumbs hooked in his weskit, staring at me, with his cudgel-coves behind him. I swallowed, missed the next ball, and saw it shave my bails by a whisker. What the blazes should I do? Tighe was saying a word over his shoulder to one of his thugs – and I swung wildly at the next ball and sent it high over Solomon’s head. I was bound to run, and that was another two – seven to get to win. He bowled again, and for once produced a shooter; I poked frantically at it, got the edge, and it went scuttling away in front of the bounds for a single. Six to get, and the spectators were clapping and laughing and egging us on. I leaned on my bat, watching Tighe out of the corner of my eye and conjuring up nameless fears – no, they weren’t nameless. I couldn’t face the certainty of it being published that I’d taken money from a tout, and having his assassins walk on my face in a Haymarket alley into the bargain. I must lose – and if Solomon rogered Elspeth all over the Orient, well, I’d not be there to see it. I turned to look in her direction, and she stood up and waved to me, ever so pretty, calling encouragement; I looked at Solomon, his black hair wet with perspiration and his eyes glittering as he ran up to bowl – and I roared “No, by G-d!” and cut him square and hard, clean through a ground-floor window. How they cheered, as Solomon thundered through the quality seats, the ladies fluttering to let him by, and the men laughing fit to burst; he hurtled through the front door, and as I completed my second run I turned to see that ominous figure in the red weskit; he and his cronies were the only still, silent members of that whole excited assembly. D--n Solomon – was he going to take all day finding the b----y ball? I had to run, with my nerve failing again; I lumbered up the pitch, and there was a great howl from the house; Solomon was emerging dishevelled and triumphant as I made the third run – only another three and the match was mine. But I couldn’t face it; I knew I daren’t win – after all, I wasn’t any too confident of Elspeth’s virtue as it was; one Solomon more or less wasn’t going to make all that much difference – better be a cuckold than a disgraced cripple. I had wobbled in intent all through the past half-hour, but now I did my level best to hand Solomon the game. I swiped and missed, but my wicket remained intact; I prodded a catch at him, and it fell short; I played a ball to the off, went for a single that I hadn’t a hope of getting-and the great oaf, with nothing to do but throw down my wicket for victory, shied wildly wide in his excitement. I stumbled home, with the mob yelling delightedly; Solomon 31, Flashy 30, and even little Felix was hopping from one leg to the other as he signalled Solomon to bowl on. There wasn’t a whisper round the field now. I waited at the crease, bowels dissolving, as Solomon stood doubled over, regaining his breath, and then picked up the ball. I was settled in my mind now: I’d wait for a straight one and miss it, and let myself be bowled out. Would you believe it, his next three balls were as squint as a Jew’s conscience? He was dead beat with running, labouring like a cow in milk, and couldn’t keep direction at all. I let ’em go by, while the crowd groaned in disappointment, and when his next one looked like going wide altogether I had to play at it, like it or not; I scrambled across, trying desperately to pull it in his direction, muttering to myself: “If you can’t bowl me, for Ch---t’s sake catch me out, you ham-fisted buttock,” and in my panic I stumbled, took a frantic swipe – and drove the confounded ball miles over his head, high into the air. He turned and raced to get under it, and there was nothing I could do but leg it for the other end, praying to G-d he’d catch it. It was still in the air when I reached the bowler’s crease and turned, running backwards to watch; he was weaving about beneath it with his mouth open, arms outstretched, while the whole field waited breathless – down it came, down to his waiting hands, he clutched at it, held it, stumbled, fumbled-and to my horror and a great shriek from the mob, it bounced free – he made a despairing grab, measured his length on the turf, and there was the b----y ball rolling across the grass away from him. “You – oh, you butter-fingered b-----d!” I roared, but it was lost in the tumult. I had regained my crease having scored one – but I was bound to try for the second, winning run with Solomon prostrate and the ball ten yards from him. “Run!” they were yelling, “run, Flashy!” and poor despairing Flashy couldn’t do anything else but obey – the match was in my grasp, and with hundreds watching I couldn’t be seen deliberately ignoring the chance to win it. So I bounded forward again, full of sham eagerness, tripping artistically to give him a chance to reach the ball and run me out; I went down, rolling, and d---e, the brute was still grovelling after his dropped catch. I couldn’t lie there forever, so I went plunging on, as slowly as possible, like a man exhausted; even so, I had reached the bowler’s crease before he’d recovered the ball, and now his only chance was to shy the thing a full thirty yards and hit my wicket as I careered back to the batter’s end. I knew he hadn’t a hope in h--l, at that distance; all I could do was forge ahead to victory – and ruin at the hands of Tighe. The crowd were literally dancing as I bore down on the crease – three more strides would see me home and doomed – and then the ground rose up very gently in front of me, crowd and wicket vanished from view, the noise died away into a soothing murmur, and I was nestling comfortably against the turf, chewing placidly at the grass, thinking, this is just the thing, a nice, peaceful rest, how extremely pleasant … I was staring up at the sky, with Felix in between, peering down anxiously, and behind him Mynn’s beefy face saying: “Get his head up – give him air. Here, a drink” – and a glass rattling against my teeth and the burning taste of brandy in my mouth. There was the deuce of a pain in the back of my head, and more anxious faces, and I heard Elspeth’s voice in distant, shrill inquiry, amidst a babble of chatter. “What – what happened?” says I, as they raised me; my legs were like jelly, and Mynn had to hold me up. “It’s all right!” cries Felix. “He tried to shy down your wicket – and the ball hit you crack on the back of the skull. Why, you went down like a shot rabbit!” “He threw down your wicket, too – afterwards,” says Mynn. “D--n him.” I blinked and touched my head; there was a lump growing like a football. Then here was Solomon, panting like a bellows, clasping my hand and crying: “My dear Harry – are you all right? My poor chap – let me see!” He was volleying out apologies, and Mynn was looking at him pretty cool, I noticed, while Felix fidgeted and the assembling mob were gaping at the sensation. “You mean – I was out?” says I, trying to collect my wits. “I’m afraid so!” cries Solomon. “You see, I was so confused, when I shied the ball, I didn’t realize it had hit you … saw you lying there, and the ball loose … well, in my excitement I just ran in and snatched it … and broke your wicket. I’m sorry,” he repeated, “for of course I’d never have taken advantage … if I’d had time to think. It all happened so quickly, you see.” He looked round at the others, smiling whimsically. “Why – it was just like our accident in the first innings – when Flashy put me out.” At that the chatter broke out, and then Elspeth was all over me, exclaiming about my poor head, and calling for salts and hartshorn. I quieted her while I regained my wits and listened to the debate: Mynn was maintaining stoutly that it wasn’t fair, running a chap out when he was half-stunned, and Felix said, well, according to the rules, I was fairly out, and anyway, the same sort of thing had happened in Solomon’s first hand, which was extraordinary, when he came to think of it – Mynn said that was different, because I hadn’t realized Solomon was crocked, and Felix said, ah well, that was the point, but Solomon hadn’t realized I was crocked, either, and Mynn muttered, didn’t he, by George, and if that was the way they played at Eton, he didn’t think much of it … “But … who has won?” demanded Elspeth. “No one,” says Felix. “It’s a tie. Flashy ran one run, which made the scores level at 31, and was run out before he could finish the second. So the game’s drawn.” “And if you remember,” says Solomon – and although his smile was as bland as ever, he couldn’t keep the triumphant gleam out of his eye – “you gave me the tie, which means” – and he bowed to Elspeth – “that I shall have the joy of welcoming you, my dear Diana, and your father, aboard my vessel for our cruise. I’m truly sorry our game ended as it did, old chap – but I feel entitled to claim my wager.” Oh, he was indeed, and I knew it. He’d paid me back in my own coin, for felling him in the first innings – it was no consolation that I’d done my dirty work a sight more subtly than he had – not with Elspeth hopping with excitement, clapping her hands, exulting and trying to commiserate with me all at once. “Tain’t cricket,” Mynn mutters to me, “but there’s nothing for it. Pay up, look pleasant – that’s the d---able thing about being English and playing against foreigners; they ain’t gentlemen.” I doubt if Solomon heard him; he was too busy beaming, with his arm round my shoulders, calling out that there was champagne and oysters in the house, and more beer for the groundlings. So he’d won his bet, without winning the match – well, at least I was clear where Tighe was concerned, for … and then the horrid realization struck me, at the very moment when I looked up and saw that red weskit on the outskirts of the crowd, with the boozy, scowling face above it – he was glaring at me, tight-lipped, shredding what I guessed was a betting-slip between his fingers. He nodded at me twice, ominously, turned on his heel, and stalked away. For Tighe had lost his bet, too. He’d backed me to lose, and Solomon to win – and we had tied. With all my floundering indecision and bad luck, I’d achieved the worst possible result all round. I’d lost Elspeth to Solomon and his d----d cruise (for I couldn’t oil out of paying now) and I’d cost Tighe a thousand to boot. He’d expose me for taking his money, and set his ruffians after me – oh, J---s, and there was the Duke, too, vowing vengeance on me for deflowering his tiger lily. What a b----y pickle— “Why, are you all right, old fellow?” cries Solomon. “You’ve gone pale again – here, help me get him into the shade – fetch some ice for his head—” “Brandy,” I croaked. “No, no, I mean … I’m first-rate; just a passing weakness – the bump, and my old wound, you know. I just need a moment … to recover … collect my thoughts …” Horrid thoughts they were, too – how the deuce was I going to get out of this mess? And they say cricket’s an innocent pastime! [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, June—, 1843] The most famous thing has happened – darling Harry has consented to come with us on our voyage!!! and I am happy beyond all telling! He has even put aside the Prospect of his Appointment in the Life Guards – and all for Me! It was so unexpected (but that is so like my Dear Hero), for almost as soon as the match was over, and Don S. had claimed his Prize, H. said very seriously, that he had thought the matter over, and while he was reluctant to decline the Military Advancement that had been offered him, he could not bear to be parted from me!! Such Proof of his Devotion moved me to tears, and I could not forbear to embrace him – which display I suppose caused some remark, but I don’t care! Don S., of course, was very warm in agreeing that H. should come, once he had satisfied himself that my dear one was quite determined. Don S. is so good; he reminded H. of what a signal honour he was declining, in not going to the Life Guards, and asked was he perfectly certain he wished to come with us, explaining that he would not have H. make any sacrifice on our account. But My Darling said “No, thank’ee, I’ll come, if you don’t mind,” in that straightforward way of his, rubbing his poor head, and looking so pale but determined. I was overjoyed, and longed to be private with him, so that I might better express my Deep Gratification at his decision, as well as my undying love. But – alas! – that is denied me for the moment, for almost at once H. announced that his decision necessitated his immediate departure for Town, where he has many Affairs to attend to before we sail. I offered to accompany him, of course, but he wouldn’t hear of it, so reluctant is he to interrupt my holiday here – he is the Dearest of Husbands! So considerate. He explained that his Business would take him about a good deal, and he could not say where he would be for a day or so, but would join us at Dover, whence we sail for the Mysterious Orient. So he has gone, not even staying to answer an invitation from our dear friend the Duke, to call upon him. I am instructed to say to all inquiries that he is gone away, on Private Business – for of course there are always People anxious to see and solicit my darling, so celebrated as he has become – not only Dukes and the like, but quite Ordinary Mortals as well, who hope to shake his hand, I dare say, and then tell their Acquaintances of it afterwards. In the meantime, dear diary, I am left alone – except for the company of Don S., of course, and dear Papa – to anticipate the Great Adventure which lies before us, and await that Joyous Reunion with my Beloved at Dover, which will be but the Prelude, I trust, to our Fairy-tale Journey into the Romantic Unknown … [End of extract – G. de R.] (#ulink_55e10e92-735e-5b1b-b605-ab16e8aecf3d) Sixpence. Chapter 4 (#ulink_59409aa2-67d4-555a-96b1-bf868509abd0) It was one thing to decide to go on Solomon’s cruise, but quite another to get safe aboard; I had to spend ten days lurking in and about London like a gunpowder plotter, starting at my own shadow and keeping an eye skinned for the Duke’s pluggers – and Daedalus Tighe’s. You may think I was over-timid, and the danger none so great, but you don’t know what people like the Duke were capable of in my young days; they thought they were still in the eighteenth century, and if you offended ’em they could have their bullies thrash you, and then trust to their title to keep them clear of the consequences, I was never a Reform Bill man myself, but there’s no doubt the aristocracy needed its comb cutting. In any event, it required no great arithmetic to decide to flee the country for a spell. It was sickening to have to give up the Life Guards, but if Tighe spread a scandal about me it might well force me to resign anyway – you could be an imbecile viscount with a cleft palate and still fit to command in the Household Brigade, but if they found you were taking a bookie’s tin for favours, heaven help you, however famous a soldier you were. So there was nothing for it but to lie doggo until the boat sailed, and make one furtive visit to Horse Guards to tip Uncle Bindley the bad news. He quivered with disbelief down the length of his aristocratic spine when I told him. “Do I apprehend,” says he, “that you are refusing an appointment – free of purchase, may I remind you – in the Household Brigade, which has been specially procured for you at Lord Wellington’s instance, in order to go junketing abroad with your wife, her extraordinary father, and this … this person from Threadneedle Street?” He shuddered. “It is nothing short of commercial travelling.” “Can’t be helped,” says I. “There’s no staying in England just now.” “You realize this is tantamount to refusing an honour from the Throne itself? That you can never again hope for any similar mark of favour? I know that you are dead to most dictates of decent behaviour and common discretion, but surely even you can see—” “D---t, uncle!” cries I. “I’ve got to go!” He squinted down his long nose. “You sound almost desperate. Am I right in supposing there will be some scandal if you do not?” “Yes,” says I, reluctantly. “Well, then that is entirely different,” cries he. “Why could you not say so at once? I suppose it is some woman or other.” I admitted it, and dropped a hint that the Duke of—was involved, but that it was all a misunderstanding, and Bindley sniffed again and said he had never known a time when the quality of the House of Peers was quite so low. He would speak to Wellington, he said, and since it was advisable for the family’s credit that I should not be seen to be cutting the painter, he would see if some official colour couldn’t be given to my Far Eastern visit. The result was that a day or two later, at the room over the pawn-shop where I was hiding out, I got a note instructing me to proceed forthwith to Singapore, there to examine and approve the first consignment of Australian horses which would be arriving next spring for the Company’s Indian Army. Well done, old Bindley; he had his uses. So then it was just a question of skulking down to Dover for the last of the month, which I accomplished, arriving after dark and legging it along the crowded quay with my valise, hoping to G-d that neither Tighe nor the Duke had camped out their ruffians to intercept me (they hadn’t, of course, but if I’ve lived this long it’s because I’ve always feared the worst and been ready for it). A boat took me out to Solomon’s steam-brig, and there was a great reunion with my loved ones – Elspeth all over me clamouring to know where I had been, she was quite distracted, and Old Morrison grunting: “Huh, ye’ve come, at the coo’s tail as usual, “and muttering about a thief in the night. Solomon seemed delighted to see me, but I wasn’t fooled – he was just masking his displeasure that he wouldn’t have a clear run at Elspeth. That quite consoled me to making the voyage; it might be d---lish inconvenient, in some ways, and I couldn’t be quite easy in my mind at venturing East again, but at least I’d have my flighty piece under my eye. Indeed, when I reflected, that was my prime reason for going, and rated even above escaping Tighe and the Duke; looking back from mid-Channel, they didn’t seem nearly so terrible, and I resigned myself to enjoying the cruise; why, it might turn out to be quite fun. I’ll give it to Solomon, he hadn’t lied about the luxury of his brig, the Sulu Queen. She was quite the latest thing in screw vessels, driven by a wheel through her keel, twin-masted for sail, and with her funnel well back, so that the whole forward deck, which was reserved for us, was quite free of the belching smoke which covered the stern with smuts and left a great black cloud in our wake. Our cabins were under-deck aft, though, out of the reek, and they were tip-top; oak furniture screwed down, Persian carpets, panelled bulkheads with watercolour paintings, a mirrored dressing-table that had Elspeth clapping her hands, Chinese curtains, excellent crystal and a well-stocked cellarette, clockwork fans, and a double bed with silk sheets that would have done credit to a New Orleans sporting-house. Well, thinks I, this is better than riding the gridiron (#ulink_d2995127-c49a-55c6-9032-58a6d1e88b86); we’ll be right at home here. The rest of the appointment was to match; the saloon, where we dined, couldn’t have been bettered for grub, liquor and service – even old Morrison, who’d been groaning reluctantly, I gathered, ever since he’d agreed to come, had his final doubts settled when they set his first sea meal before him; he was even seen to smile, which I’ll bet he hadn’t done since he last cut the mill-hands’ wages. Solomon was a splendid host, with every thought for our comfort; he even spent the first week pottering about the coast while we got our sea-legs, and was full of consideration for Elspeth – when she discovered that she had left her toilet water behind he had her maid landed at Portsmouth to go up to Town for some, with instructions to meet us at Plymouth; it was royal treatment, no error, and d--n all expense. Only two things raised a prickle with me in all this idyllic luxury. One was the crew: there wasn’t a white face among ’em. When I was helped aboard that first night, it was by two grinning yellow-faced rascals in reefer jackets and bare feet; I tried ’em in Hindi, but they just grinned with brown fangs and shook their heads. Solomon explained that they were Malays; he had a few half-caste Arabs aboard as well, who were his engineers and black gang, but no Europeans except the skipper, a surly enough Frog with a touch of nigger in his hair, who messed in his cabin, so that we never saw him, hardly. I didn’t quite care for the all-yellow crew, though – I like to hear a British or Yankee voice in the foc’sle; it’s reassuring-like. Still, Solomon was a Far East trader, and part-breed himself, so it was perhaps natural enough. He had ’em under his heel, too, and they kept well clear of us, except for the Chink stewards, who were sleek and silent and first-rate. The other thing was that the Sulu Queen, while she was fitted like a floating palace, carried ten guns, which is about as many as a brig will bear. I said it seemed a lot for a pleasure-yacht, and Solomon smiled and says: “She is too valuable a vessel to risk, in Far Eastern waters, where even the British and Dutch navies can afford little protection. And” – bowing to us – “she carries a precious cargo. Piracy is not unknown in the islands, you know, and while its victims are usually defenceless native craft – well, I believe in being over-cautious.” “Ye mean – there’s danger?” goggled Morrison. “Not,” says Solomon, “with ten guns aboard.” And to settle old Morrison’s qualms, and show off to Elspeth, he had all forty of his crew perform a gun practice for our benefit. They were handy, all right, scampering about the white-scrubbed deck in their tunics and short breeches, running out the pieces and ramming home cold shot to the squeal of the Arab bosun’s pipe, precise as guardsmen, and afterwards standing stock-still by their guns, like so many yellow idols. Then they performed cutlass-drill and arms drill, moving like clockwork, and I had to admit that trained troops couldn’t have shaped better; what with her speed and handiness, the Sulu Queen was fit to tackle anything short of a man-of-war. “It is merely precaution piled on precaution,” says Solomon. “My estates lie on peaceful lanes, on the Malay mainland for the most part, and I take care never to venture where I might be blown into less friendly waters. But I believe in being prepared,” and he went on to talk about his iron water-tanks, and stores of sealed food – I’d still have been happier to see a few white faces and brown whiskers around us. We were three white folk – and Solomon himself, of course – and we were outward bound, after all. However, these thoughts were soon dispelled in the interest of the voyage. I shan’t bore you with descriptions, but I’m bound to say it was the pleasantest cruise of my life, and we never noticed how the weeks slipped by. Solomon had spoken of three months to Singapore; in fact, it took us more than twice as long, and we never grudged a minute of it. Through the summer we cruised gently along the French and Spanish coasts, looking in at Brest and Vigo and Lisbon, being entertained lavishly by local gentry – for Solomon seemed to have a genius for easy acquaintance – and then dipping on down the African coast, into the warm latitudes. I can look back now and say I’ve made that run more times than I can count, in everything from an Indiaman to a Middle Passage slaver, but this was not like any common voyage – why, we picnicked on Moroccan beaches, made excursions to desert ruins beyond Casablanca, were carried on camels with veiled drivers, strolled in Berber market-places, watched fire-dancers under the massive walls of old corsair castles, saw wild tribesmen run their horse races, took coffee with turbaned, white-bearded governors, and even bathed in warm blue water lapping on miles and miles of empty silver sand with palms nodding in the breeze – and every evening there was the luxury of the Sulu Queen to return to, with its snowy cloths and sparkling silver and crystal, and the delicate Chink stewards attending to every want in the cool dimness of the saloon. Well, I’ve been a Crown Prince, once, in my wanderings, but I’ve never seen the like of that voyage. “It is a fairy-tale!” Elspeth kept exclaiming, and even old Morrison admitted it wasn’t half bad – the old b----rd became positively mellow, as why shouldn’t he, waited on hand and foot, with two slant-eyed and muscular yellow devils to carry him ashore and bear him in a palki on our excursions? “It’s daein’ me guid,” says he, “I can feel the benefit.” And Elspeth would sigh dreamily while they fanned her in the shade, and Solomon would smile and beckon the steward to put more ice in the glasses – oh, aye, he even had a patent ice-house stowed away somewhere, down by the keel. Farther south, along the jungly and desert coasts, there was no lack of entertainment – a cruise up a forest river in the ship’s launch, with Elspeth wide-eyed at the sight of crocodiles, which made her shudder deliciously, or laughing at the antics of monkeys and marvelling at the brilliance of foliage and bird-life. “Did I not tell you, Diana, how splendid it would be?” Solomon would say, and Elspeth would exclaim rapturously, “Oh, you did, you did – but this is quite beyond imagination!” Or there would be flying-fish, and porpoises, and once we were round the Cape – where we spent a week, dining out ashore and attending a ball at the Governor’s, which pleased Elspeth no end – there was the real deep blue sea of the Indian Ocean, and more marvels for my insatiable relatives. We began the long haul across to India in perfect weather, and at night Solomon would fetch his guitar and sing dago dirges in the dusk, with Elspeth drowsing on a daybed by the rail, while Morrison cheated me at ?cart?, or we would play whist, or just laze the time contentedly away. It was tame stuff, if you like, but I put up with it – and kept my eye on Solomon. For there was no doubt about it, he changed as the voyage progressed. He took the sun pretty strong, and was soon the brownest thing aboard, but in other ways, too, I was reminded that he was at least half-dago or native; instead of the customary shirt sleeves and trousers he took to wearing a tunic and sarong, saying jokingly that it was the proper tropical style; next it was bare feet, and once when the crew were shark-fishing Solomon took a hand at hauling in the huge threshing monster – if you had seen him, stripped to the waist, his great bronze body dripping with sweat, yelling as he heaved on the line and jabbering orders to his men in coast lingo … well, you’d have wondered if it was the same chap who’d been bowling slow lobs at Canterbury, or talking City prices over the port. Afterwards, when he came to sit on the deck for an iced soda, I noticed Elspeth glancing at his splendid shoulders in a lazy sort of way, and the glitter in his dark eyes as he swept back his moist black hair and smiled at her – he’d been the perfect family friend for months, mind you, never so much as a fondling paw out of place – and I thought, hollo, he’s looking d----d dashing and romantic these days. To make it worse, he’d started growing a chin-beard, a sort of nigger imperial; Elspeth said it gave him quite the corsair touch, so I made a note to roger her twice that night, just to quell these girlish fancies. All this reading Byron ain’t good for young women. It was the very next day that we came on deck to see a huge green coastline some miles to port; jungle-clad slopes beyond the beach, and mountains behind, and Elspeth cried out to know where it might be. Solomon laughed in an odd way as he came to the rail beside us. “That’s the strangest country, perhaps, in the whole wide world,” says he. “The strangest – and the most savage and cruel. Few Europeans go there, but I have visited it – it’s very rich, you see,” he went on, turning to old Morrison, “gums and balsam, sugar and silk, indigo and spices – I believe there is coal and iron also. I have hopes of improving on the little trade I have started there. But they are a wild, terrible people; one has to tread warily – and keep an eye on your beached boat.” “Why, Don Solomon!” cries Elspeth. “We shall not land there, surely?” “I shall,” says he, “but not you; the Sulu Queen will lie well off – out of any possible danger.” “What danger?” says I. “Cannibals in war canoes?” He laughed. “Not quite. Would you believe it if I told you that the capital of that country contains fifty thousand people, half of ’em slaves? That it is ruled by a monstrous black queen, who dresses in the height of eighteenth-century fashion, eats with her fingers from a table laden with gold and silver European cutlery, with place-cards at each chair and wall-paper showing Napoleon’s victories on the wall – and having dined she will go out to watch robbers being burned alive and Christians crucified? That her bodyguard go almost naked – but with pipe-clayed cartridge belts, behind a band playing ‘The British Grenadiers’? That her chief pleasures are torture and slaughter – why, I have seen a ritual execution at which hundreds were buried alive, sawn in half, hurled from—” “No, Don Solomon, no!” squeals Elspeth, covering her ears, and old Morrison muttered about respecting the presence of ladies – now, the Don Solomon of London would never have mentioned such horrors to a lady, and if he had, he’d have been profuse in his apologies. But here he just smiled and shrugged, and passed on to talk of birds and beasts such as were known nowhere else, great coloured spiders in the jungle, fantastic chameleons, and the curious customs of the native courts, which decided guilt or innocence by giving the accused a special drink and seeing whether he spewed or not; the whole place was ruled by such superstitions and crazy laws, he said, and woe betide the outsider who tried to teach ’em different. “Odd spot it must be,” says I. “What did you say it was called?” “Madagascar,” says he, and looked at me. “You have been in some terrible places, Harry – well, if ever you chance to be wrecked there” – and he nodded at the green shore – “pray that you have a bullet left for yourself.” He glanced to see that Elspeth was out of earshot. “The fate of any stranger cast on those shores is too shocking to contemplate; they say the queen has only two uses for foreign men – first, to subdue them to her will, if you follow me, and afterwards, to destroy them by the most fearful tortures she can devise.” “Playful little lady, is she?” “You think I’m joking? My dear chap, she kills between twenty and thirty thousand human beings each year – she means to exterminate all tribes except her own, you see. When she came to the throne, some years ago, she had twenty-five thousand enemies rounded up, forced to kneel all together in one great enclosure, and at a given signal, swish! They were all executed at once. She kept a few thousand over, of course, to hang up sewed in ox skins until they rotted – or to be boiled or roasted to death, by way of a change. That’s Madagascar.” “Ah, well,” says I, “Brighton for me next year, I think. And you’re going ashore?” “For a few hours. The governor of Tamitave, up the coast, is a fairly civilized savage – all the ruling class are, including the queen: Bond Street dresses, as I said, and a piano in the palace. That’s a remarkable place, by the way – big as a cathedral, and covered entirely by tiny silver bells. G-d knows what goes on in there.” “You’ve visited it?” “I’ve seen it – but not been to tea, as you might say. But I’ve talked to those who have been inside it, and who’ve even seen Queen Ranavalona and lived to tell the tale. Europeans, some of ’em.” “What are they doing there, for G-d’s sake?” “The Europeans? Oh, they’re slaves.” At the time, of course, I suspected he was drawing the long bow to impress the visitors – but he wasn’t. No, every word he’d said about Madagascar was gospel true – and not one-tenth of the truth. I know; I found out for myself. But from the sea it looked placid enough. Tamitave was apparently a very large village of yellow wooden buildings set out in orderly rows back from the shore; there was a fairish-sized fort with a great stockade some distance from the town, and a few soldiers drilling outside it. While Haslam was ashore, I examined them through the glass – big buck niggers in white kilts, with lances and swords, very smart, and moving in time, which is unusual among black troops. They weren’t true niggers, though, it seemed to me; when Haslam was rowed out to the ship again there was an escorting boat, with a chap in the stern in what was a fair imitation of our naval rig: blue frock coat, epaulettes, cocked hat and braid, saluting away like anything – he looked like a Mexican, if anything, with his round, oily black face, but the rowers were dark brown and woolly haired, with straight noses and quite fine features. That was the closest I got to the Malagassies, just then, and you may come to agree that it was near enough. Solomon seemed well satisfied with whatever business he had done ashore, and by next morning we were far out to sea with Madagascar forgotten behind us. Now, I said I wouldn’t weary you with our voyage, so I shall do no more than mention Ceylon and Madras – which is all they deserve, anyway, and take you straight away across the Bengal Bay, past the infernal Andamans, south by the heel of Great Nicobar, and into the steaming straits where the great jellyfishes swim between the mainland of Malaya and the strange jungle island of Sumatra with its man-monkeys, down to the sea where the sun comes from, and the Islands lie ahead of you in a great brilliant chain that runs thousands of miles from the South China Sea to Australia and the far Pacific on the other side of the world. That’s the East – the Islands; and you may take it from one who has India in his bones, there’s no sea so blue, no lands so green, and no sun so bright, as you’ll find beyond Singapore. What was it Solomon had said – “where it’s always morning.” So it was, and in that part of my imagination where I keep the best memories, it always will be. That’s one side of it. I wasn’t to know, then, that Singapore was the last jumping-off place from civilization into a world as terrible as it was beautiful, rich and savage and cruel beyond belief, of land and seas still unexplored where even the mighty Royal Navy sent only a few questing warships, and the handful of white adventurers who voyaged in survived by the speed of their keels and slept on their guns. It’s quiet now, and the law, British and Dutch, runs from Sunda Strait to the Solomons; the coasts are tamed, the last trophy heads in the long-houses are ancient and shrivelled, and there’s hardly a man alive who can say he’s heard the war gongs booming as the great robber fleets swept down from the Sulu Sea. Well, I heard ’em, only too clearly, and for all the good I’ve got to say of the Islands, I can tell you that if I’d known on that first voyage what I learned later, I’d have jumped ship at Madras. But I was happily ignorant, and when we slipped in past the green sugar-loaf islands one fine April morning of ’44, and dropped anchor in Singapore roads, it looked safe enough to me. The bay was alive with shipping, a hundred square-riggers if there was one: huge Indiamen under the gridiron flag, tall clippers of the Southern Run wearing the Stars and Stripes, British merchantmen by the bucketful, ships of every nationality – Solomon pointed out the blue crossed anchors of Russia, the red and gold bars of Spain, the blue and yellow of Sweden, even a gold lion which he said was Venice. Closer in, the tubby junks and long trading praus were packed so close it seemed you could have walked on them right across the bay, fairly seething with half-naked crews of Malays, Chinese, and every colour from pale yellow to jet black, deafening us with their high-pitched chatter as Solomon’s rowers threaded the launch through to the river quay. There it was bedlam; all Asia seemed to have congregated on the landing, bringing their pungent smells and deafening sounds with them. There were coolies everywhere, in straw hats or dirty turbans, staggering half-naked under bales and boxes – they swarmed on the quays, on the sampans that choked the river, round the warehouses and go-downs, and through them pushed Yankee captains in their short jackets and tall hats, removing their cheroots from their rat-trap jaws only to spit and cuss; Armenian Jews in black coats and long beards, all babbling; British blue-jackets in canvas shirts and ducks; long-moustached Chinese merchants in their round caps, borne in palkis; British traders from the Sundas with their pistols on their hips; leathery clipper men in pilot caps, shouting oaths of Liverpool and New York; planters in wideawakes making play among the niggers with their stout canes; a file of prisoners tramping by in leg-irons, with scarlet-coated soldiers herding them and bawling the step – I heard English, Dutch, German, Spanish, and Hindi all in the first minute, and most of the accents of England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and the American seaboards to boot. God knows what the native tongues were, but they were all being used at full pitch, and after the comparative quiet we’d been used to it was enough to make you dizzy. The stink was fearful, too. Of course, waterfronts are much the same everywhere; once you were away from the river, out on the “Mayfair” side of the town, which lay east along Beach Road, it was pleasant, and that was where Solomon had his house, a fine two-storey mansion set in an extensive garden, facing the sea. We were installed in cool, airy rooms, all complete with fans and screens, legions of Chinese servants to look after us, cold drinks by the gallon, and nothing to do but rest in luxury and recover from the rigours of our voyage, which we did for the next three weeks. Old Morrison was all for it; he had gluttonized to such a tune that he’d put on flesh alarmingly, and all he wanted to do was lie down, belching and refreshing his ill nature in a hot climate. Elspeth, on the other hand, must be up and doing at once; she was off almost before she’d changed her shift, carried in a palki by menials, to pay calls on what she called The Society People, find out who was who, and squander money in the shops and bazaars. Solomon pointed her in the right directions, made introductions, and then explained apologetically that he had weeks of work to do in his ’changing-house at the quays; after that, he assured us, we would set off on our tour of his possessions, which I gathered lay somewhere on the east coast of the peninsula. So there was I, at a loose end – and not before time. I didn’t know when I had been so d---ably bored; a cruise of wonders was all very well, but I’d had my bellyful of Solomon and his floating mansion with its immaculate appointments and unvarying luxury and everything so exactly, confoundedly right, and the finest foods and wines coming out of my ears – I was surfeited with perfection, and sick of the sight of old Morrison’s ugly mug, and the sound of Elspeth’s unwearying imbecile chatter, and having not a d----d thing to do but stuff myself and sleep. I’d not had a scrap of vicious amusement for six months – and, for me, that’s a lifetime of going hungry. Well, thinks I, if Singapore, the fleshpot of the Orient, can’t supply my urgent needs, and give me enough assorted depravity in three weeks to last the long voyage home, there’s something amiss; just let me shave and change my shirt, and we’ll stand this town on its head. I took a long slant, to get my bearings, and then plunged in, slavering. There were eight cross-streets in the Mayfair section, where all the fine houses were, and a large upland park below Governor’s Hill where Society congregated in the evening – and, by Jove, wasn’t it wild work, though? Why, you might raise your hat to as many as a hundred couples in two hours, and when you were fagged out with this, there was the frantic debauch of a gig drive along Beach Road, to look at the ships, or a dance at the assembly rooms, where a married woman might even polka with you, provided your wife and her husband were on hand – unmarried ladies didn’t waltz, except with each other, the daring little hussies. Then there were dinners at Dutranquoy’s Hotel, with discussions afterwards about whether the Raffles Club oughtn’t to be revived, and how the building of the new Chinese Pauper Hospital was progressing, and the price of sugar, and the latest leaderette in the “Free Press”, and for the wilder spirits, a game of pyramids on the hotel billiard table – I played twice, and felt soiled at my beastly indulgence. Elspeth was indefatigable, of course, in her pursuit of pleasure, and dragged me to every soir?e, ball, and junket that she could find, including church twice each Sunday, and the subscription meetings for the new theatre, and several times we even met Colonel Butter worth, the Governor – well, thinks I, this is Singapore, to be sure, but I’m shot if I can stand this pace for long. Once, I asked a likely-looking chap – you could tell he was a rake; he was using pomade – where the less respectable entertainments were to be found, supposing there were any, and he coloured a bit and shuffled and said: “Well, there are the Chinese processions – but not many people would care to be seen looking at them, I dare say. They begin in the – ahem – native quarter, you know.” “By George,” says I, “that’s bad. Perhaps we could look at ’em for just a moment, though – we needn’t stay long.” He didn’t care for it, but I prevailed on him, and we hurried down to the promenade, with him muttering that it wasn’t at all the thing, and what Penelope would say if she got to hear of it, he couldn’t imagine. He had me in a fever of excitement, and I was palpitating by the time the procession hove in view – twenty Chinks beating gongs and letting off smoke and whistles, and half a dozen urchins dressed in Tartar costumes with umbrellas, all making a h--l of a din. “Is that it?” says I. “That’s it,” says he. “Come along, do – or someone will see us. It’s – it’s not done, you know, to be seen at these native displays, my dear Flashman.” “I’m surprised the authorities allow it,” says I, and he said the “Free Press” was very hot against it, but the Indian processions were even worse, with chaps swinging on poles and carrying torches, and he’d even heard rumours that there were fakirs walking on hot coals, on the other side of the river. That was what put me on the right track. I’d seen the waterfront, of course, with its great array of commercial buildings and warehouses, but the native town that lay beyond it, on the west bank, had looked pretty seedy and hardly worth exploring. Being desperate by this time, I ventured across one evening when Elspeth was at some female gathering, and it was like stepping into a brave new world. Beyond the shanties was China Town – streets brilliantly-lit with lanterns, gaming houses and casinos roaring away on every corner, side-shows and acrobats – Hindoo fire-walkers, too, my pomaded chum had been right – pimps accosting you every other step, with promises of their sister who was, of course, every bit as voluptuous as Queen Victoria (how our sovereign lady became the carnal yardstick for the entire Orient through most of the last century, I’ve never been able to figure; possibly they imagined all true Britons lusted after her), and on all sides, enough popsy to satisfy an army – Chinese girls with faces like pale dolls at the windows; tall, graceful Kling tarts from the Coromandel, swaying past and smiling down their long noses; saucy Malay wenches giggling and beckoning from doorways, popping out their boobies for inspection; it was Vanity Fair come true – but it wouldn’t do, of course. Poxed to a turn, most of ’em; they were all right for the drunken sailors lounging on the verandahs, who didn’t care about being fleeced – and possibly knifed – but I’d have to find better quality than that. I didn’t doubt that I would, and quickly, now that I knew where to begin, but for the present I was content to stroll and look about, brushing off the pimps and the more forward whores, and presently walking back to the river bridge. And who should I run slap into but Solomon, coming late from his office. He stopped short at sight of me. “Good G-d,” says he, “you ain’t been in bazaar-town, surely? My dear chap, if I’d known you wanted to see the sights, I’d have arranged an escort – it ain’t the safest place on earth, you know. Not quite your style, either, I’d have thought.” Well, he knew better than that, but if he wanted to play innocent, I didn’t mind. I said it had been most interesting, like all native towns, and here I was, safe and sound, wasn’t I? “Sure enough,” says he, laughing and taking my arm. “I was forgetting – you’ve seen quite a bit of local colour in your time. But Singapore’s – well, quite a surprising place, even for an old hand. You’ve heard about our Black-faced gangs, I suppose? Chinese, you know – nothing to do with the tongs or hues, who are the secret societies who rule down yonder – but murderous villains, just the same. They’ve even been coming east of the river lately, I’m told – burglary, kidnapping, that sort of thing, with their faces blacked in soot. Well, an unarmed white civilian on his own – he’s just their meat. If you want to go again” – he gave me a quick look and away – “let me know; there are some really fine eating-houses on the north edge of the native town – the rich Chinese go there, and it’s much more genteel. The Temple of Heaven’s about the best – no sharking or rooking, or anything of that kind, and first-class service. Good cabarets, native dancing … that order of thing, you know.” Now why, I wondered, was Solomon offering to pimp for me – for that’s what it struck me he was doing. To keep me sinfully amused while he paid court to Elspeth, perhaps – or just in the way of kindness, to steer me to the best brothels in town? I was pondering this when he went on: “Speaking of rich Chinese – you and Elspeth haven’t met any yet, I suppose? Now they are the most interesting folk in this settlement, altogether – people like Whampoa and Tan Tock Seng. I must arrange that – I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you all shockingly, but when one’s been away for three years – well, there’s a great deal to do, as you can guess.” He grinned whimsically. “Confess it – you’ve found our Singapore gaiety just a trifle tedious. Old Butterworth prosing – and Logan and Dyce ain’t quite Hyde Park style, are they? Ne’er mind – I’ll see to it that you visit one of old Whampoa’s parties – that won’t bore, I promise you!” And it didn’t. Solomon was as good as his word, and two nights later Elspeth and I and old Morrison were driven out to Whampoa’s estate in a four-wheel palki; it was a superb place, more like a palace than a house, with the garden brilliant with lanterns, and the man himself bowing us in ceremonially at the door. He was a huge, fat Chinese, with a shaven head and a pigtail down to his heels, clad in a black silk robe embroidered with shimmering green and scarlet flowers – straight from Aladdin, except that he had a schooner of sherry in one paw; it never left him, and it was never empty either. “Welcome to my miserable and lowly dwelling,” says he, doubling over as far as his belly would let him. “That is what the Chinese always say, is it not? In fact, I think my home is perfectly splendid, and quite the best in Singapore – but I can truthfully say it has never entertained a more beautiful visitor.” This was to Elspeth, who was gaping round at the magnificence of lacquered panelling, gold-leafed slender columns, jade ornaments, and silk hangings, with which Whampoa’s establishment appeared to be stuffed. “You shall sit beside me at dinner, lovely golden-haired lady, and while you exclaim at the luxury of my house, I shall flatter your exquisite beauty. So we shall both be assured of a blissful evening, listening to what delights us most.” Which he did, keeping her entranced beside him, sipping continually at his sherry, while we ate a Chinese banquet in a dining-room that made Versailles look like a garret. The food was atrocious, as Chinese grub always is – some of the soups, and the creamed walnuts, weren’t bad, though – but the servants were the most delightful little Chinese girls, in tight silk dresses each of a different colour; even ancient eggs with sea-weed dressing and carrion sauce don’t seem so bad when they’re offered by a slant-eyed little goer who breathes perfume on you and wriggles in a most entrancing way as she takes your hand in velvet fingers to show you how to manage your chop-sticks. D----d if I could get the hang of it at first; it took two of ’em to show me, one either side, and Elspeth told Whampoa she was sure I’d be much happier with a knife and fork. There were quite a few in the party, apart from us three and Solomon – Balestier, the American consul, I remember, a jolly Yankee planter with a fund of good stories, and Catchick Moses, a big noise in the Armenian community, who was the decentest Jew I ever met, and struck up an immediate rapport with old Morrison – they got to arguing about interest rates, and when Whampoa joined in, Balestier said he wouldn’t rest until he’d made up a story which began “There was a Chinaman, a Scotchman, and a Jew”, which caused great merriment. It was the cheeriest party I’d struck yet, and no lack of excellent drink, but after a while Whampoa called a halt, and there was a little cabaret, of Chinese songs, and plays, which were the worst kind of pantomime drivel, but very pretty costumes and masks, and then two Chinese dancing girls – exquisite little trollops, but clad from head to foot, alas. Afterwards Whampoa took Elspeth and me on a tour of his amazing house – all the walls were carved screens, in ivory and ebony, which must have been h---ish draughty, but splendid to look at, and the doors were all oval in shape, with jade handles and gold frames – I reckon half a million might have bought the place. When we were finished, he presented me with a knife, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in the shape of a miniature scimitar – to prove its edge, he dropped a filmy scrap of muslin on the blade, and it fell in half, sheared through by its own insignificant weight. (I’ve never sharpened it since, and it’s as keen as ever, after sixty years.) To Elspeth he gave a model jade horse, whose bridle and stirrups were tiny jade chains, all cut out of one solid block – G-d knows what it was worth. She scampered off to show it to the others, calling on Solomon to admire it, and Whampoa says quietly to me: “You have known Mr Solomon Haslam for a long time?” I said a year or so, in London, and he nodded his great bald head and turned his Buddha-like face to me. “He is taking you on a cruise round his plantations, I believe. That will be interesting – I must ask him where they are. I should much like to visit them myself some day.” I said I thought they were on the peninsula, and he nodded gravely and sipped his sherry. “No doubt they are. He is a man of sufficient shrewdness and enterprise, I think – he does business well.” The sound of Elspeth’s laughter sounded from the dining-room, and Whampoa’s fat yellow face creased in a sudden smile. “How fortunate you are, Mr Flashman. I have, in my humble way – which is not at all humble, you understand – a taste for beautiful things, and especially in women. You have seen” – he fluttered his hand, with its beastly long nails – “that I surround myself with them. But when I see your lady, Elspet’, I understand why the old story-tellers always made their gods and goddesses fair-skinned and golden-haired. If I were forty years younger, I should try to take her from you” – he sluiced down some more Amontillado – “without success, of course. But so much beauty – it is dangerous.” He looked at me, and I can’t think why, but I felt a chill of sudden fear – not of him, but of what he was saying. Before I could speak, though, Elspeth was back, to exclaim again over her present, and prattle her thanks, and he stood smiling down at her, like some benign, sherry-soaked heathen god. “Thank me, beautiful child, by coming again to my humble palace, for hereafter it will truly be humble without your presence,” says he. Then we joined the others, and the thanks and compliments flew as we took our leave in that glittering place, and everything was cheery and happy – but I found myself shivering as we went out, which was odd, for it was a warm and balmy night. I couldn’t account for it, after such a jolly affair, but I went to bed thoroughly out of sorts. At first I put it down to foul Chinese grub, and certainly something gave me the most vivid nightmares, in which I was playing a single-wicket match up and downstairs in Whampoa’s house, and his silky little Chinese tarts were showing me how to hold my bat – that part of it was all right, as they snuggled up, whispering fragrantly and guiding my hands, but all the time I was conscious of dark shapes moving behind the screens, and when Daedalus Tighe bowled to me it was a Chinese lantern that I had to hit, and it went ballooning up into the dark, bursting into a thousand rockets, and Old Morrison and the Duke came jumping out at me in sarongs, crying that I must run all through the house to score a single, at compound interest, and I set off, blundering past the screens, where nameless horrors lurked, and I was trying to catch Solomon, who was flitting like a shadow before me, calling out of the dark that there was no danger, because he carried ten guns, and I could feel someone or something drawing closer behind me, and Elspeth’s voice was calling, fainter and fainter, and I knew if I looked back I should see something terrible – and there I was, gasping into the pillow, my face wet with sweat, and Elspeth snoring peacefully beside me. It rattled me, I can tell you, because the last time I’d had a nightmare was in Gul Shah’s dungeon, two years before, and that was no happy recollection. (It’s a strange thing, by the way, that I usually have my worst nightmares in jail; I can remember some beauties, in Fort Raim prison, up on the Aral Sea, where I imagined old Morrison and Rudi Starnberg were painting my backside with boot polish, and in Gwalior Fort, where I waltzed in chains with Captain Charity Spring conducting the band, and the beastliest of all was in a Mexican clink during the Juarez business, when I dreamed I was charging the Balaclava guns at the head of a squadron of skeletons in mortar-boards, all chanting “Ab and absque, coram de”, while just ahead of me Lord Cardigan was sailing in his yacht, leering at me and tearing Elspeth’s clothes off. Mind you, I’d been living on chili and beans for a week.) In any event, I didn’t sleep well after Whampoa’s party, and was in a fine fit of the dismals next day, as a result of which Elspeth and I quarrelled, and she wept and sulked until Solomon came to propose a picnic on the other side of the island. We would sail round in the Sulu Queen, he said, and make a capital day of it. Elspeth cheered up at once, and old Morrison was game, too, but I cried off, pleading indisposition. I knew what I needed to lift my gloom, and it wasn’t an al fresco lunch in the mangrove swamps with those three; let them remove themselves, and it would leave me free to explore China Town at closer quarters, and perhaps sample the menu at one of those exclusive establishments that Solomon had mentioned; the Temple of Heaven was the name that stuck in my mind. Why, they might even have dainty little waitresses like Whampoa’s, to teach you how to use your chopsticks. So when the three of them had left, Elspeth with her nose in the air because I wasn’t disposed to make up, I loafed about until evening and then whistled up a palki. My bearers jogged away through the crowded streets, and presently, just as dusk was falling, we reached our destination in what seemed to be a pleasant residential district inland from China Town, with big houses half-hidden in groves of trees from which paper lanterns hung; all very quiet and discreet. The Temple of Heaven was a large frame house on a little hill, entirely surrounded by trees and shrubs, with a winding drive up to the front verandah, which was all dim lights and gentle music and Chinese servants scurrying to make the guests at home. There was a large cool dining-room, where I had an excellent European meal with a bottle and a half of champagne, and I was in capital fettle and ready for mischief when the Hindoo head waiter sidled up to ask if all was in order, and was there anything else that the gentleman required? Would I care to see a cabaret, or an exhibition of Chinese works of art, or a concert, if my tastes were musical, or … “The whole d----d lot,” says I, “for I ain’t going home till morning, if you know what I mean. I’ve been six months at sea, so drum ’em up, Sambo, and sharp about it.” He smiled and bowed in his discreet Indian way, clapped his hands, and into the alcove where I was sitting there stepped the most gorgeous creature imaginable. She was Chinese, with blue-black hair coiled above a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with great slanting eyes, and her gown of crimson silk clung to a shape which English travellers are wont to describe as “a thought too generous for the European taste” but which, if I’d been a classical sculptor, would have had me dropping my hammer and chisel and reaching for the meat. Her arms were bare, and she spread them in the prettiest curtsey, smiling with perfect teeth between lips the colour of good port. “This is Madame Sabba,” says the waiter. “She will conduct you, if your excellency will permit …?” “I may, just about,” says I. “Which way’s upstairs?” I imagined it was the usual style, you see, but Madame Sabba, indicating that I should follow, led the way through an arch and down a long corridor, glancing behind to see that I was following. Which I was, breathing heavy, with my eyes on that trim waist and wobbling bottom; I caught her up at the end door, and was just clutching a handful when I realized that we were on a porch, and she was slipping out of my fond embrace and indicating a palki which was waiting at the foot of the steps. “What’s this?” says I. “The entertainment,” says she, “is a little way off. They will take us there.” “The entertainment,” says I, “is on this very spot.” And I took hold of her, growling, and hauled her against me. By George, she was a randy armful, wriggling against me and pretending she wanted to break loose, while I nuzzled into her, inhaling her perfume and munching away at her lips and face. “But I am only your guide,” she giggled, turning her face aside. “I shall take you—” “Just to the nearest bed, ducky. I’ll do the guiding after that.” “You like – me?” says she, playing coy, while I overhauled her lustfully. “Why, then – this is not suitable, here. We must go a little way – but I believe that when you see what else is offered, you will not care for Sabba.” And she stuck her tongue into my mouth and then pulled me towards the palki. “Come – they will take us quickly.” “If it’s more than ten yards, it’ll be a wasted trip,” says I, pawing away as we clambered aboard and pulled the curtains. I was properly on the boil, and intent on giving her the business then and there, but to my frustration the palki was one of those double sedans, where you sit opposite each other, and all I could do was paw at her frontage in the dark, swearing as I tried to unbutton her dress, and squeezing at the delights beneath it, while she kissed and fondled, laughing, telling me not to be impatient, and the palki men jogged along, bouncing us in a way that made it impossible to get down to serious work. Where they were taking us I didn’t care; what with champagne and passion I was lost to everything but the scented beauty teasing me in the dark; at last I managed to get one tit clear and was nibbling away when the palki stopped, and Madame Sabba gently disengaged herself. “A moment,” says she, and I could imagine her adjusting her gown in the darkness. “Wait here,” her fingers gently stroked my lips, there was a glimpse of dusk as she slipped through the palki curtain – and then silence. I waited, fretting and anticipating, for perhaps half a minute, and then stuck my head out. For a moment I couldn’t make out anything in the gloom, and then I saw that the palki was stopped in a mean-looking street, between dark and shuttered buildings – but of the palki men and Madame Sabba there wasn’t a sign. Just deserted shadow, not a light anywhere, and not a sound except the faint murmur of the town a long way off. My blank astonishment lasted perhaps two seconds, to be replaced by rage as I tore back the palki curtain and stumbled out, cursing. I hadn’t had time to feel the first chill of fear before I saw the black shapes moving out of the shadows at the end of the street, gliding silently towards me. I’m not proud of what happened in the next moment. Of course, I was very young and thoughtless, and my great days of instant flight and evasion were still ahead of me, but even so, with my Afghan experience and my native cowardice to boot, my reaction was inexcusable. In my riper years I’d have lost no precious seconds in bemused swearing; long before those stealthy figures even appeared, I’d have realized that Madame Sabba’s disappearance portended deadly danger, and been over the nearest wall and heading for the high country. But now, in my youthful folly and ignorance, I absolutely stood there gaping, and calling out: “Who the d---l are you, and what d’ye want? Where’s my whore, confound it?” And then they were running towards me, on silent feet, and I saw in a flash that I’d been lured to my death. Then, at last, was seen Flashy at his best, when it was all but too late. One scream, three strides, and I was leaping for the rickety fence between two houses; for an instant I was astride of it, and had a glimpse of four lean black shapes converging on me at frightening speed; something sang past my head and then I was down and pelting along the alley beyond, hearing the soft thuds behind as they vaulted over after me. I tore ahead full tilt, bawling “Help!” at the top of my lungs, shot round the corner, and ran for dear life down the street beyond. It was my yellow belly that saved me, nothing else. A hero wouldn’t have stood and fought – not against those odds, in such a place – but he’d at least have glanced back, to see how close the pursuit was, or maybe even have drawn rein to consider which way to run next. Which would have been fatal, for the speed at which they moved was fearful. One glimpse I caught of the leader as I turned the corner – a fell black shape moving like a panther, with something glittering in his hand – and in pure panic I went hurtling on, from one street to another, leaping every obstruction, screaming steadily for aid, but going at my uttermost every stride. That’s what you young chaps have got to remember – when you run, run, full speed, with never a thought for anything else; don’t look or listen or dither even for an instant; let terror have his way, for he’s the best friend you’ve got. He kept me ahead of the field for a good quarter of a mile, I reckon, through deserted streets and lanes, over fences and yards and ditches, and never a glimpse of a human soul, until I turned a corner and found myself looking down a narrow alley which obviously led to a frequented street, for at the far end there were lanterns and figures moving, and beyond that, against the night sky, the spars and masts of ships under riding lights. “Help!” I bawled. “Murder! Assassins! H--l and d--ation! Help!” I was pelting down the alley as I shouted, and now, like a fool, I stole a glance back – there he was, like a black avenging angel gliding round the corner a bare twenty yards behind. I raced on, but in turning my head I’d lost my direction; suddenly there was an empty handcart in my path – left by some infernally careless coolie in the middle of the lane – and in trying to clear it I caught my foot and went sprawling. I was afoot in an instant, ahead of me someone was shouting, but my pursuer had halved the distance behind me, and as I shot another panic-stricken glance over my shoulder I saw his hand go back behind his head, something glittered and whirled at me, a fearful pain drove through my left shoulder, and I went sprawling into a pile of boxes, the flung hatchet clattering to the ground beside me. He had me now; he came over the handcart like a hurdle racer, landed on the balls of his feet, and as I tried vainly to scramble to cover among the wrecked boxes, he plucked a second hatchet from his belt, poised it in his hand, and took deliberate aim. Behind me, along the alley, I could hear boots pounding, and a voice shouting, but they were too late for me – I can still see that horrible figure in the lantern light, the glistening black paint like a mask across the skull-like Chinese head, the arm swinging back to hurl the hatchet— “Jingo!” a voice called, and pat on the word something whispered in the air above my head, the hatchet-man shrieked, his body twisted on tip-toe, and to my amazement I saw clearly in silhouette that an object like a short knitting-needle was protruding from beneath his upturned chin. His fingers fluttered at it, and then his whole body seemed to dissolve beneath him, and he sprawled motionless in the alley. Without being conscious of imitation, I followed suit. If I fainted, though, with pain and shock, it can only have been for a moment, for I became conscious of strong hands raising me, and an English voice saying: “I say, he’s taken a bit of a cut. Here, sit him against the wall.” And there were other voices, in an astonishing jumble: “How’s the Chink?” “Dead as mutton – Jingo hit him full in the crop.” “By Jove, that was neat – I say, look here, though, he’s starting to twitch!” “Well, I’m blessed, the poison’s working, even though he’s dead. If that don’t beat everything!” “Trust our little Jingo – cut his throat and poison him afterwards, just for luck, what?” I was too dazed to make anything of this, but one word in their crazy discussion struck home in my disordered senses. “Poison!” I gasped. “The axe – poisoned! My G-d, I’m dying, get a doctor – my arm’s gone dead already—” And then I opened my eyes, and saw an amazing sight. In front of me was crouching a squat, hideously-featured native, naked save for a loin-cloth, gripping a long bamboo spear. Alongside him stood a huge Arab-looking chap, in white ducks and crimson sash, with a green scarf round his hawk head and a great red-dyed beard rippling down to his waist. There were a couple of other near-naked natives, two or three obvious seamen in ducks and caps, and kneeling at my right side a young, fair-haired fellow in a striped jersey. As motley a crowd as ever I opened eyes on, but when I turned my head to see who was poking painfully at my wounded shoulder, I forgot all about the others – this was the chap to look at. It was a boy’s face; that was the first impression, in spite of the bronzed, strong lines of it, the touches of grey in the dark curly hair and long side-whiskers, the tough-set mouth and jaw, and the half-healed sword cut that ran from his right brow onto his cheek. He was about forty, and they hadn’t been quiet years, but the dark blue eyes were as innocent as a ten-year-old’s and when he grinned, as he was doing now, you thought at once of stolen apples and tacks on the master’s chair. “Poison?” says he, ripping away my blood-sodden sleeve. “Not a bit of it. Chink hatchet-men don’t go in for it, you know. That’s for ignorant savages like Jingo here – say ‘How-de-do’ to the gentleman, Jingo.” And while the savage with the spear bobbed his head at me with a frightful grin, this chap left off mauling my shoulder, and reaching over towards the body of my fallen pursuer, pulled the knitting-needle thing from his neck. “See there,” says he, holding it gingerly, and I saw it was a thin dart about a foot long. “That’s Jingo’s delight – saved your life, I dare say, didn’t it, Jingo? Of course, any Iban worth his salt can hit a farthing at twenty yards, but Jingo can do it at fifty. Radjun poison on the tip – not fatal to humans, as a rule, but it don’t need to be if the dart goes through your jugular, does it?” He tossed the beastly thing aside and poked at my wound again, humming softly: “Oh, say was you ever in Mobile bay, A-screwin’ cotton at a dollar a day, Sing ‘Johnny come down to Hilo’.” I yelped with pain and he clicked his tongue reprovingly. “Don’t swear,” says he. “Just excite yourself, and you won’t go to heaven when you die. Anyway, squeaking won’t mend it – it’s just a scrape, two stitches and you’ll be as right as rain.” “It’s agony!” I groaned. “I’m bleeding buckets!” “No, you ain’t, either. Anyway, a great big hearty chap like you won’t miss a bit of blood. Mustn’t be a milksop. Why, when I got this” – he touched his scar – “I didn’t even cheep. Did I, Stuart?” “Yes, you did,” says the fair chap. “Bellowed like a bull and wanted your mother.” “Not a word of truth in it. Is there, Paitingi?” The red-bearded Arab spat. “You enjoy bein’ hurt,” says he, in a strong Scotch accent. “Ye gaunae leave the man lyin’ here a’ nicht?” “We ought to let Mackenzie look at him, J.B.,” says the fair chap. “He’s looking pretty groggy.” “Shock,” says my ministering angel, who was knotting his handkerchief round my shoulder, to my accompanying moans. “There, now – that’ll do. Yes, let Mac sew him together, and he’ll be ready to tackle twenty hatchet-men tomorrow. Won’t you, old son?” And the grinning madman winked and patted my head. “Why was this one chasing you, by the way? I see he’s a Black-face; they usually hunt in packs.” Between groans, I told him how my palki had been set on by four of them – I didn’t say anything about Madame Sabba – and he stopped grinning and looked murderous. “The cowardly, sneaking vagabonds!” cries he. “I don’t know what the police are thinking about – leave it to me and I’d clear the rascals out in a fortnight, wouldn’t I just!” He looked the very man to do it, too. “It’s too bad altogether. You were lucky we happened along, though. Think you can walk? Here, Stuart, help him up. There now,” cries the callous brute, as they hauled me to my feet, “you’re feeling better already, I’ll be bound!” At any other time I’d have given him a piece of my mind, for if there’s one thing I detest more than another it’s these hearty, selfish, muscular Christians who are forever making light of your troubles when all you want to do is lie whimpering. But I was too dizzy with the agony of my shoulder, and besides, he and his amazing gang of sailors and savages had certainly saved my bacon, so I felt obliged to mutter my thanks as well as I could. J.B. laughed at this and said it was all in a good cause, and duty-free, and they would see me home in a palki. So while some of them set off hallooing to find one, he and the others propped me against the wall, and then they stood about and discussed what they should do with the dead Chinaman. It was a remarkable conversation, in its way. Someone suggested, sensibly enough, that they should cart him along and give him to the police, but the fair chap, Stuart, said no, they ought to leave him lying and write a letter to the “Free Press” complaining about litter in the streets. The Arab, whose name was Paitingi Ali, and whose Scotch accent I found unbelievable, was for giving him a Christian burial, of all things, and the hideous little native, Jingo, jabbering excitedly and stamping his feet, apparently wanted to cut his head off and take it home. “Can’t do that,” says Stuart. “You can’t cure it till we get to Kuching, and it’ll stink long before that.” “I won’t have it,” says the man J. B., who was evidently the leader. “Taking heads is a beastly practice, and one I am resolved to suppress. Mind you,” he added, “Jingo’s suggestion, by his own lights, has a stronger claim to consideration than yours – it is his head, since he killed the fellow. Hollo, though, here’s Crimble with the palki. In you go, old chap.” I wondered, listening to them, if my wound had made me delirious; either that, or I had fallen in with a party of lunatics. But I was too used up to care; I let them stow me in the palki, and lay half-conscious while they debated where they might find Mackenzie – who I gathered was a doctor – at this time of night. No one seemed to know where he might be, and then someone recalled that he had been going to play chess with Whampoa. I had just enough of my wits left to recall the name, and croak out that Whampoa’s establishment would suit me splendidly – the thought that his delectable little Chinese girls might be employed to nurse me was particularly soothing just then. “You know Whampoa, do you?” says J.B. “Well, that settles it. Lead on, Stuart. By the way,” says he to me, as they picked up the palki, “my name’s Brooke – James Brooke – known as J.B. You’re Mr …?” I told him, and even in my reduced condition it was a satisfaction to see the blue eyes open wider in surprise. “Not the Afghan chap? Well, I’m blessed! Why, I’ve wanted to meet you this two years past! And to think that if we hadn’t happened along, you’d have been …” My head was swimming with pain and fatigue, and I didn’t hear any more. I have a faint recollection of the palki jogging, and of the voices of my escort singing: “Oh, say have you seen the plantation boss, With his black-haired woman and his high-tail hoss, Sing ‘Johnny come down to Hilo’, Poor … old … man!” But I must have gone under, for the next thing I remember is the choking stench of ammonia beneath my nose, and when I opened my eyes there was a glare of light, and I was sitting in a chair in Whampoa’s hall. My coat and shirt had been stripped away, and a burly, black-bearded chap was making me wince and cry out with a scalding hot cloth applied to my wound – sure enough, though, at his elbow was one of those almond-eyed little beauties, holding a bowl of steaming water. She was the only cheery sight in the room, for as I blinked against the light reflected from the magnificence of silver and jade and ivory I saw that the ring of faces watching me was solemn and silent and still as statues. There was Whampoa himself, in the centre, impassive as ever in his splendid gown of black silk; next to him Catchick Moses, his bald head gleaming and his kindly Jewish face pale with grief; Brooke, not smiling now – his jaw and mouth were set like stone, and beside him the fair boy Stuart was a picture of pity and horror – what the h--l are they staring at, I wondered, for I ain’t as ill as all that, surely? Then Whampoa was talking, and I understood, for what he said made the terror of that night, and the pain of my wound, seem insignificant. He had to repeat it twice before it sank in, and then I could only sit staring at him in horror and disbelief. “Your beautiful wife, the lady Elspet’, has gone. The man Solomon Haslam has stolen her. The Sulu Queen sailed from Singapore this night, no one knows where.” [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, July—, 1844] Lost! lost! lost! I have never been so Surprised in my life. One moment secure in Tranquillity and Affection, among Loving Friends and Relations, shielded by the Devotion of a Constant Husband and Generous Parent – the next, horribly ravished stolen away by one whom who that I had esteemed and trusted almost beyond any gentleman of my acquaintance (excepting of course H. and dear Papa). Shall I ever see them again? What terrible fate lies ahead – ah, I can guess all too well, for I have seen the Loathsome Passion in his eyes, and it is not to be thought that he has so ruthlessly abducted me to any end but one! I am so distracted by Shame and Terror that I believe my Reason will be unseated – lest it should, I must record my Miserable Lot while clarity of thought remains, and I can still hold my trembling pen! Oh, alas, that I parted from my darling H. in discord and sulks – and over the Merest Trifle, because he threw the coffee pot against the wall and kicked the servant – which was no more than that minion deserved, for his bearing had been Careless and Familiar, and he would not clean his nails before waiting upon us. And I, sullen Wretch that I was, reproved my Dearest One, and took that Bad Servant’s part, so that we were at odds over breakfast, and exchanged only the most Brief Remarks for the better part of the day, with Pouting and Missishness on my unworthy part, and Dark Looks and Exclamations from my Darling – but I see now how forbearing he was with such a Perverse and Contrary creature as me I. Oh, Unhappy, unworthy woman that I am, for it was in Cruel Huff that I accompanied Don S., that Viper, on his proposed excursion, thinking to Punish my dear, patient, sweet Protector – oh, it is I who am punished for my selfish and spiteful conduct! All went well until our picnic ashore, although I believe the champagne was flat, and made me feel strangely drowsy, so that I must go aboard the vessel to lie down. With no thought of Peril, I slept, and awoke to find we were under way, with Don S. upon deck instructing his people to make all speed. “Where is Papa?” I cried, “and why are we sailing away from land? See, Don Solomon, the sun is sinking; we must return!” His face was Pale, despite his warm complection, and his look was Wild. With brutal frankness, yet in a Moderate Tone, he told me I should Resign myself, for I should never see my dear Papa again. “What do you mean, Don Solomon?” I cried. “We are bidden to Mrs Alec Middleton’s for dinner!” It was then, in a voice which shook with Feeling, so unlike his usual Controll’d form of address, although I could see he was striving to master his Emotion, that he told me there could be no going back; that he was subject to an Overmastering Passion for me, and had been from our Moment of First Meeting. “The die is cast,” he declared. “I cannot live without you, so I must make you my own, in the face of the world and your husband, tho’ it means I must cut all my ties with civilized life, and take you beyond pursuit, to my own distant kingdom, where, I assure you, you will rule as Queen not only over my Possessions, but over my Heart.” “This is madness, Don Solomon,” I cried. “I have no clothes with me. Besides, I am a married woman, with a Position in Society.” He said it was no matter for that, and Seizing me suddenly in his Powerful Embrace, which took my breath away, he vowed that I loved him too – that he had known it from Encouraging Signs he had detected in me – which, of course, was the Odious Construction which his Fever’d Brain had placed on the common civilities and little pleasantries which a Lady is accustomed to bestow on a Gentleman. I was quite overcome at the fearful position in which I found myself, so unexpectedly, but not so much that I lost my capacity for Careful Consideration. For having pleaded with him to repent this madness, which could lead only to shame for myself, and Ruin for him, and even having demeaned myself to the extent of struggling vainly in his crushing embrace, so Brutally Strong and inflexible, as well as calling loudly for assistance and kicking his shins, I became calmer, and feigned to Swoon. I recollected that there is no Emergency beyond the Power of a Resolute Englishwoman, especially if she is Scotch, and took heart from the lesson enjoined by our dominie, Mr Buchanan, at the Renfrew Academy for Young Ladies and Gentlewomen – ah, dear home, am I parted forever from the Scenes of Childhood? – that in Moments of Danger, it is of the first importance to take Accurate Measurements and then act with boldness and dispatch. Accordingly, I fell limp in my Captor’s cruel – altho’ no doubt he meant it to be Affectionate – clasp, and he relaxing his vigilance, I broke free and sped to the rail, intending to cast myself upon the mercy of the waves, and swim ashore – for I was a Strong Swimmer, and hold the West of Scotland Physical Improvement Society’s certificate for Saving Life from Drowning, having been among the First to receive it when that Institution was founded in 1835, or it may have been 1836, when I was still a child. It was not very far to the shore, either, but before I could fling myself into the sea, in the Trust of Almighty God, I was seized by one of Don S.’s Hideous and Smelling natives, and despite my struggles, I was carried below, at Don S.’s orders, and am confined in the saloon, where I write this melancholy account. What shall I do? Oh, Harry, Harry, darling Harry, come and save me! Forgive my Thoughtless and Wayward behaviour, and Rescue me from the Clutches of this Improper Person. I think he must be mad – and yet, such Passionate Obsessions are not uncommon, I believe, and I am not insensible of the Regard that I have been shown by others of his sex, who have praised my attractions, so I must not pretend that I do not understand the reason for his Horrid and Ungallant Conduct. My dread is that before Aid can reach me, his Beast may overpower his Finer Feelings – and even now I cannot suppose that he is altogether Dead to Propriety, though how long such Restraint will continue I cannot say. So come quickly, quickly, my own love, for how can I, weak and defenceless as I am, resist him unaided? I am in terror and distraction at 9 p.m. The weather continues fine. [End of extract – this is what comes of forward and immodest behaviour – G. de R.] (#ulink_b4bbf04d-3b96-5a8c-bde2-0b74430a64da) Travelling on an East Indiaman. Chapter 5 (#ulink_35d1c86d-df32-5750-9a19-41bfd9eed146) “I blame myself,” says Whampoa, sipping his sherry. “For years one does business with a man, and if his credit is good and his merchandise sound, one clicks the abacus and sets aside the doubts one feels on looking into his eyes.” He was enthroned behind his great desk, impassive as Buddha, with one of his little tarts beside him holding the Amontillado bottle. “I knew he was not safe, but I let it go, even when I saw how he watched your golden lady two evenings since. It disturbed me, but I am a lazy, stupid and selfish fool, so I did nothing. You shall tell me so, Mr Flashman, and I shall bow my unworthy head beneath your deserved censure.” He nodded towards me while his glass was refilled, and Catchick Moses burst out: “Not as stupid as I, for G-d’s sake, and I’m a man of business, they say! Yeh! Haven’t I for the past week been watching him liquidate his assets, closing his warehouses, selling his stock to my committee, auctioning his lighters?” He spread his hands. “Who cared? He was a cash-on-the-table man, so did I mind where he came from, or that nobody knew him before ten years back? He was in spice, they said, and silk, and antimony, and G-d-knows-what, with plantations up the coast and something-or-other in the Islands – and now you tell us, Whampoa, that no one has ever seen these estates of his?” “That is my information in the past few hours,” says Whampoa gravely. “It amounts to this: he has great riches, but no one knows where they come from. He is a Singapore middle-man, but he is not alone in that. His name was good, because he did good business—” “And now he has done us!” cries Catchick. “This, in Singapore! Under our very noses, in the most respectable community in Asia, he steals a great English lady – what will they say in the world, hey? Where’s our reputation, our good name, I should like to know. It’s gone out yonder, heaven knows where, aboard his accursed brig! Pirates, they’ll call us – thieves and kidnappers! I tell you, Whampoa, this could ruin trade for five years—” “In G-d’s name, man!” cries Brooke. “It could ruin Mrs Flashman for ever!” “Oi-hoi!” cries Catchick, clutching his head with his hands, and then he came trotting across to me and dropped his hand on my shoulder, kneading away at me. “Oh, my poor friend, forgive me!” he groans. “My poor friend!” It was just on dawn, and we had been engaged in such useful conversation for two hours past. At least, they had; I had been sitting in silence, sick with shock and pain, while Catchick Moses apostrophized and tore his whiskers, Whampoa reviled himself in precise, grammatical terms and sank half a gallon of Manzanilla, Balestier, the American consul, who had been summoned, d----d Solomon to Hades and beyond, and two or three other leading citizens shook their heads and exclaimed from time to time. Brooke just listened, mostly, having sent his people out to pick up news; there was a steady trickle of Whampoa’s Chinese, too, coming in to report, but adding little to what we already knew. And that was knowledge enough, stark and unbelievable. Most of it came from old Morrison, who had been abandoned on the bay island where the party had picnicked. He had gone to sleep, he said – full of drugged drink, no doubt, and had come to in the late evening to find the Sulu Queen hull down on the horizon, steaming away east – this was confirmed by the captain of an American clipper, one Waterman, who had passed her as he came into port. Morrison had been picked up by some native fishermen and had arrived at the quay after nightfall to pour out his tale, and now the whole community was in uproar. Whampoa had taken it upon himself to get to the bottom of the thing – he had feelers every where, of course – and had put Morrison to bed upstairs, where the old goat was in a state of prostration. The Governor had been informed, with the result that brows were being clutched, oaths sworn, fists shaken, and sal volatile sold out in the shops, no doubt. There hadn’t been a sensation like it since the last Presbyterian Church jumble sale. But of course nothing was done. At first, everyone had said it was a mistake; the Sulu Queen was off on some pleasure jaunt. But when Catchick and Whampoa pieced it all together, that wouldn’t do: it was discovered that Solomon had been quietly selling up in Singapore, that when all was said, no one knew a d----d thing about him, and that all the signs were that he was intending to clear out, leaving not a wrack behind. Hence the loud recriminations, and the dropped voices when they remembered that I was present, and the repeated demands as to what should be done now. Only Brooke seemed to have any notions, and they weren’t much help. “Pursuit,” cries he, with his eyes blazing. “She’s going to be rescued, don’t doubt that for a moment.” He dropped a hand on my uninjured shoulder. “I’m with you in this; we all are, and as I’ve a soul to save I won’t rest until you have her safe back, and this evil rascal has received condign punishment. So there – we’ll find her, if we have to rake the sea to Australia and back! My word on it.” The others growled agreement, and looked resolute and sympathetic and scratched themselves, and then Whampoa signs to his girl for more liquor and says gravely: “Indeed, everyone supports your majesty in this” – it says much about my condition that I never thought twice about that remarkable form of address to an English sailor in a pea-jacket and pilot cap – “but it is difficult to see how pursuit can be made until we have precise information about where they have gone.” “My G-d, that is the truth,” groans Catchick Moses. “They may be anywhere. How many millions of miles of sea, how many islands, half of them uncharted – two thousand, five, ten? Does anyone know, even? And such islands – swarming with pirates, cannibals, head-takers – in G-d’s name, my friend, this rascal may have taken her anywhere. And there is no vessel in port fit to pursue a steam-brig.” “It’s a job for the Royal Navy,” says Balestier. “Our navy boys, too – they’ll have to track this villain, run him to earth, and—” “Jeesh!” cries Catchick, heaving himself up. “What are you saying? What Royal Navy? What navy boys? Where is Belcher with his squadron – two t’ousand miles away, chasing the Lanun brigands round Mindanao! Where is your one American navy boat? Do you know, Balestier? Somewhere between Japan and New Zealand – maybe! Where is Seymour’s Wanderer, or Hastings with the Harlequin—?” “Dido’s due from Calcutta in two or three days,” says Balestier. “Keppel knows these seas as well as anyone—” “And how well is that?” croaks Catchick, flapping his hands and stalking about. “Be practical! Be calm! It is terra incognita out yonder – as we all know, as everyone knows! And it is vast! If we had the whole Royal Navy, American and Dutch as well, from all the oceans of the world, they could search to the end of the century and never cover half the places where this rascal may be hiding – why, he may have gone anywhere. Don’t we know his brig can sail round the world if need be?” “I think not,” says Whampoa quietly. “I have reason – I fear I may have reason – to believe that he will not sail beyond our Indies.” “Even then – haven’t I told you that there are ten million lurking places between Cochin and Java?” “And ten million eyes that won’t miss a steam-brig, and will pass word to us wherever she anchors,” snaps Brooke. “See here—” and he slapped the map they had unrolled on Whampoa’s desk. “The Sulu Queen was last seen heading cast, according to Bully Waterman. Very well – he won’t double back, that’s certain; Sumatra’s no use to him, anyway. And I don’t see him turning north – that’s either open sea or the Malay coast, where we’d soon have word of him. South – perhaps, but if he runs through Karamata we’ll hear of it. So I’ll stake my head he’ll stay on the course he’s taken – and that means Borneo.” “Oi-hoi!” cries Catchick, between derision and despair. “And is that nothing, then? Borneo – where every river is a pirate nest, where every bay is an armed camp – where even you don’t venture far, J.B., without an armed expedition at your back. And when you do, you know where you are going – not like now, when you might hunt forever!” “I’ll know where I’m going,” says Brooke. “And if I have to hunt forever … well, I’ll find him, sooner or later.” Catchick shot an uneasy glance across at me where I sat in the corner, nursing my wound, and I saw him pluck at Brooke’s sleeve and mutter something of which I caught only the words “… too late by then.” At that they fell silent, while Brooke pored over his map and Whampoa sat silent, sipping his d----d sherry. Balestier and the others talked in low voices, and Catchick slumped in a chair, hands in pockets, the picture of gloom. You may wonder what I was thinking while all this hot air was being expelled, and why I wasn’t taking part as a bereaved and distracted husband should – wild cries of impotent rage and grief, prayers to heaven, vows of revenge, and all the usual preliminaries to inaction. The fact was, I had troubles enough – my shoulder was giving me gyp, and having not recovered from the terror I’d faced myself that night, I didn’t have much emotion left to spare, even for Elspeth, once the first shock of the news had worn off. She was gone – kidnapped by that half-caste scum, and what feelings I had were mostly about him. The slimy, twisting, insinuating hound had planned all this, over months – it was incredible, but he must have been so infatuated with her that he was prepared to steal her, make himself an outcast and outlaw, put himself beyond the bounds of civilization for good, just on her account. There was no sense in it – no woman’s worth that. Why, as I sat there, trying to take it in, I knew I wouldn’t have done it, not for Elspeth and a pound of tea – not for Aphrodite herself and ten thousand a year. But I’m not a rich, spoiled dago, of course. Even so, it was past belief. Don’t misunderstand me – I loved Elspeth, pretty well, no error; still do, if being used to having her about the place is anything to go by, and missing her if she’s too long gone. But there are limits, and I was suddenly aware of them now. On the one hand, she was a rare beauty, the finest mount I’d ever struck, and an heiress to boot, but on t’other, I hadn’t wed her willingly, we’d spent most of our married life apart, and no harm done, and I couldn’t for the life of me work up a frenzy of anxiety on her account now. After all, the worst that could happen, to her, was that this scoundrel would roger her, if he hadn’t done it already while my back was turned – well, that was nothing new to her; she’d had me, and enjoyed it, and I hadn’t been her only partner, I was certain. So being rattled stupid by Solomon would be no fate worse than death to her; if I knew the little trollop, she’d revel in it. Beyond that, well, if he didn’t tire of her (and considering the sacrifices he’d made to get her, he presumably intended to keep her) he’d probably look after her well enough; he wasn’t short of blunt, and could no doubt support her in luxury in some exotic corner of the world. She’d miss England, of course, but taking the long view, her prospects weren’t unendurable. It would make a change for her. But that was only one side of it, of course – her side, which shows, since I’ve put it first, that I ain’t so selfish after all. What did twist my innards with fury was shame and injured pride. Here was my wife – the beloved of the heroic Flashy – stolen from him by a swarthy, treacherous, lecherous, Etonian nigger, who’d be bulling her all over the shop, and what the deuce was I to do about it? He was cuckolding me, by G-d, as he might well have done twenty times already – by George, there was a fine thought – who was to say she hadn’t gone with him willingly? But no, idiot and flirt that she was, she knew better than that. Either way, though, I looked d----d ridiculous, and there wasn’t a thing to be done. Oh, there would have to be racing and chasing after her and Solomon, to no avail – in those first hours, you see, I was certain that she was gone for good: Catchick was right, we hadn’t a hope of getting her back. What then? There would still have to be months, perhaps years, of fruitless searching, for form’s sake, expensive, confounded risky, and there I’d be, at the end of it, going home, and when people asked after her, saying: “Oh, she was kidnapped, don’t you know, out East. No, never did discover what happened to her.” J---s, I’d be the laughing-stock of the country – Flashy, the man whose wife was pinched by a half-breed millionaire … “Close friend of the family, too … well, they say she was pinched, but who knows? … probably tired of old Flash, what? – felt like some Oriental mutton for a change, ha-ha.” I ground my teeth and cursed the day I’d ever set eyes on her, but above all, I felt such hatred of Solomon as I’ve never felt for any other human being. That he’d done this to me – there was no fate too horrible for the greasy rat, but precious little chance of inflicting it, so far as I could see at the moment. I was helpless, while that b----y wop steamed off with my wife – I could just picture him galloping away at her while she pretended maiden modesty, and the world roared with laughter at me, and in my rage and misery I must have let out a muffled yowl, for Brooke turned away from his map, strode across, dropped on one knee beside my chair, gripped my arm, and cries: “You poor chap! What must you be feeling! It must be unbearable – the thought of your loved one in the hands of that dastard. I can share your anguish,” he went on, “for I know how I should feel if it were my mother. We must trust in God and our own endeavours – and don’t you fret, we shall win her back.” He absolutely had tears in his eyes, and had to turn his head aside to hide his emotions; I heard him mutter about “a captive damosel” and “blue eyes and golden hair of hyacinthine flow” or some fustian of that sort. Then, having clasped my hand, he went back to his map and said that if the b----r had taken her to Borneo he’d turn the place inside out. “An unexplored island the size of Europe,” says Catchick mournfully. “And even then you are only guessing. If he has gone east, it may as well be to the Celebes or the Philippines.” “He burns wood, doesn’t he?” says Brooke. “Then he’ll touch Borneo – and that’s my bailiwick. Let him show his nose there, and I’ll hear of it.” “But you are not in Borneo, my friend—” “I will be, though, within a week of Keppel’s getting here in Dido. You know her – eighteen guns, two hundred blue-jackets, and Keppel would sail her to the Pole and back on a venture like this!” He was fairly glittering with eagerness. “He and I have run more chases than you can count, Catchick. Once we get this fox’s scent, he can double and turn till he’s dizzy, but we’ll get him! Aye, he can sail to China—” “Needle in a haystack,” says Balestier, and Catchick and the others joined in, some supporting Brooke and others shaking their heads; while they were at it, one of Whampoa’s Chinese slipped in and whispered in his master’s ear for a full minute, and our host put down his sherry glass and opened his slit eyes a fraction wider, which for him was the equivalent of leaping to his feet and shouting “Great Scott!” Then he tapped the table, and they shut up. “If you will forgive my interruption,” says Whampoa, “I have information which I believe may be vital to us, and to the safety of the beautiful Mrs Flashman.” He ducked his head at me. “A little time ago I ventured the humble opinion that her abductor would not sail beyond the Indies waters; I had developed a theory, from the scant information in my possession; my agents have been testing it in the few hours that have elapsed since this deplorable crime took place. It concerned the identity of this mysterious Don Solomon Haslam, whom Singapore has known as a merchant and trader – for how long?” “Ten years or thereabouts,” says Catchick. “He came here as a young man, in about ’35.” Whampoa bowed acknowledgement. “Precisely; that accords with my own recollection. Since then, when he established a warehouse here, he has visited our port only occasionally, spending most of his time – where? No one knows. It was assumed that he was on trading ventures, or on these estates about which he talked vaguely. Then, three years ago, he returned to England, where he had been at school. He returns how, with Mr and Mrs Flashman, and Mr Morrison.” “Well, well,” cries Catchick. “We know all this. What of it?” “We know nothing of his parentage, his birth, or his early life,” says Whampoa. “We know he is fabulously rich, that he never touches strong drink, and I gather – from conversation I have had with Mr Morrison – that on his brig he commonly wore the sarong and went barefoot.” He shrugged. “These are small things; what do they indicate? That he is half-caste, we know; I suggest the evidence points to his being a Muslim, although there is no proof that he ever observes the rituals of that faith. Now then, a rich Muslim, who speaks fluent Malay—” “The Islands are full of ’em,” cries Brooke. “What are you driving at?” “—who has been known in these waters for ten years, except for the last three, when he was in England. And his name is Solomon Haslam, to which he attaches the Spanish honorific ‘Don’.” They were still as mice, listening. Whampoa turned his expressionless yellow face, surveying them, and tapped his glass, which the wench refilled. “This suggests nothing to you? Not to you, Catchick? Mr Balestier? Your majesty?” This to Brooke, who shook his head. “It did not to me, either,” Whampoa continued, “until I considered his name, and something stirred in my poor memory. Another name. Your majesty knows, I am sure, the names of the principal pirates of the Borneo coast for several years back – could you recall some of them to us now?” “Pirates?” cries Brooke. “You’re not suggesting—” “If you please,” says Whampoa. “Why – well then, let’s see,” Brooke frowned. “There’s Jaffir, at Fort Linga; Sharif Muller of the Skrang – nearly cornered him on the Rajang last year – then there’s Pangeran Suva, out of Brunei; Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one’s heard of him for long enough; Sharif Sahib of Patusan; Ranu—” He broke off, for Catchick Moses had let fly one of his amazing Hebrew exclamations, and was staring at Whampoa, who nodded placidly. “You noticed, Catchick. As I did – I ask myself why I did not notice five years ago. That name,” and he looked at Brooke, and sipped his sherry. “‘Suleiman Usman of Maludu, but no one has heard of him for long enough’,” he repeated. “I think – indeed, I know, that no one has heard of him for precisely three years. Suleiman Usman – Solomon Haslam.” He put down his sherry glass. For a moment there was stupefied silence, and then Balestier burst out: “But that can’t be! What – a coast pirate, and you suggest he set up shop here, amongst us, as a trader, and carried on business, and went a-pirating on the side? That’s not just too rich – it’s downright crazy—” “What better cover for piracy?” wonders Whampoa. “What better means of collecting information?” “But d--n it, this fellow Haslam’s a public school man!” cries Brooke. “Isn’t he?” “He attended Eton College,” says Whampoa gravely, “but that is not, in itself, necessarily inconsistent with a later life of crime.” “But consider!” cries Catchick. “If it were as you say, would any sane man adopt an alias so close to his own name? Wouldn’t he call himself Smith, or Brown; or – or anything?” “Not necessarily,” says Whampoa. “I do not doubt that when his parent – or whoever it was – arranged for his English education, he entered school under his true name, which might well be rendered into English as Solomon Haslam. The first name is an exact translation; the second, an English name reasonably close to Usman. And there is nothing impossible about some wealthy Borneo raja or sharif sending his child to an English school – unusual, yes, but it has certainly happened in this case. And the son, following in his father’s footsteps, has practised piracy, which we know is the profession of half the population of the Islands. At the same time, he has developed business interests in England and Singapore – which he has now decided to cut.” “And stolen another man’s wife, to carry her off to his pirate lair?” scoffs Balestier. “Oh, but this is beyond reason—” “Hardly more unreasonable than to suppose that Don Solomon Haslam, if he were not a pirate, would kidnap an English lady,” says Whampoa. “Oh, but you’re only guessing!” cries Catchick. “A coincidence in names—” “And in times. Solomon Haslam went to England three years ago – and Suleiman Usman vanished at the same time.” That silenced them, and then Brooke says slowly: “It might be true, but if it was, what difference does it make, after all—” “Some, I think. For if it is true you need look no farther than Borneo for the Sulu Queen’s destination. Maludu lies north, beyond the Papar river, in unexplored country. He may go there, or take cover among his allies on the Seribas river or the Batang Lupar—” “If he does, he’s done for!” cries Brooke excitedly. “I can bottle him there, or anywhere between Kuching and Serikei Point!” Whampoa sluiced down some more sherry. “It may not be so easy. Suleiman Usman was a man of power; his fort at Maludu was accounted impregnable, and he could draw at need on the great pirate fleets of the Lanun and Balagnini and Maluku of Gillalao. You have fought pirates, your majesty, I know – but hardly as many as these.” “I’d fight every sea-robber from Luzon to Sumatra in this quarrel,” says Brooke. “And beat ’em. And swing Suleiman Usman from the Dido’s foretop at the end of it.” “If he is the man you are looking for,” says Catchick. “Whampoa may be wrong.” “Undoubtedly, I make frequent mistakes, in my poor ignorance,” says Whampoa. “But not, I think, in this. I have further proof. No one among us, I believe, has ever seen Suleiman Usman of Maludu – or met anyone who has? No. However, my agents have been diligent tonight, and I can now supply a brief description. About thirty years old, over two yards in height, of stout build, unmarked features. Is it enough?” It was enough for one listener, at any rate. Why not – it was no more incredible than all the rest of the events of that fearful night; indeed, it seemed to confirm them, as Whampoa pointed out. “I would suggest also,” says he, “that we need look no further for an explanation of the attack by Black-faces on Mr Flashman,” and they all turned to stare at me. “Tell me, sir – you dined at a restaurant, before the attack? The Temple of Heaven, as I understand—” “By G-d!” I croaked. “It was Haslam who recommended it!” Whampoa shrugged. “Remove the husband, and the most ardent pursuer is disposed of. Such an assassination might be difficult to arrange, for an ordinary Singapore merchant, but to a pirate, with his connections with the criminal community, it would be simple.” “The cowardly swine!” cries Brooke. “Well, his ruffians were out of luck, weren’t they? The pursuer’s ready for the chase, ain’t you, Flashman? And between us we’ll make this scoundrel Usman or Haslam rue the day he dared to cast eyes on an Englishwoman. We’ll smoke him out, and his foul crew with him. Oh, let me alone for that!” I wasn’t thinking that far ahead, I confess, and I didn’t know James Brooke at this moment for anything but a smiling madman in a pilot-cap, with an odd taste in friends and followers. If I’d known him for what he truly was, I’d have been in an even more agitated condition when our discussion finally ended, and I was helped up Whampoa’s staircase to a magnificent bed-chamber, and tucked in between silk sheets, bandaged shoulder and all, by his stewards and Dr Mackenzie. I hardly knew where I was; my mind was in a perfect spin, but when they’d left me, and I was lying staring up at the thin rays of sunlight that were breaking through the screens – for it was now full day outside – there broke at last the sudden dreadful realization of what had happened. Elspeth was gone; she was in the clutches of a nigger pirate, who could take her beyond the maps of Europeans, to some horrible stronghold where she’d be his slave, where we could never hope to find her – my beautiful, idiot Elspeth, with her creamy skin and golden hair and imbecile smile and wonderful body, lost to me, forever. I ain’t sentimental, but suddenly I could feel the tears running down my face, and I was muttering her name in the darkness, over and over, alone in my empty bed, where she ought to have been, all soft and warm and passionate – and just then there was a scratching at my door, and when it opened, there was Whampoa, bowing from his great height on the threshold. He came forward beside the bed, his hands tucked into his sleeves, and looked down at me. Was my shoulder, he asked, giving me great pain? I said it was agony. “But no greater,” says he, “than your torment of mind. That, too, nothing can alleviate. The loss you have suffered of the loveliest of companions, is a deprivation which cannot but excite compassion in any man of feeling. I know that nothing can take the place of the beautiful golden lady, and that every thought of her must be a pang of the most exquisite agony. But as some small, poor consolation to your grief of mind and body, I humbly offer the best that my poor establishment provides.” He said something in Chinese, and through the door, to my amazement, glided two of his little Chink girls, one in red silk, t’other in green. They came forward and stood either side of the bed, like voluptuous little dolls, and began to unbutton their dresses. “These are White Tigress and Honey-and-Milk,” says Whampoa. “To offer you the services of only one would have seemed an insulting comparison with the magic of your exquisite lady, therefore I send two, in the hope that quantity may be some trivial amend for a quality which they cannot hope to approach. Triflingly inadequate as they are, their presence may soothe your pains in some infinitesimal degree. They are skilful by our mean standards, but if their clumsiness and undoubted ugliness are offensive, you should beat them for their correction and your pleasure. Forgive my presumption in presenting them.” He bowed, retreating, and the door closed behind him just as the two dresses dropped to the floor with a gentle swish, and two girlish giggles sounded in the dimness. You must never refuse an Oriental’s hospitality, you know. It doesn’t do, or they get offended; you just have to buckle to and pretend it’s exactly what you wanted, whether you like it or not. For four days I was confined in Whampoa’s house with my gashed shoulder, recuperating, and I’ve never had a more blissfully ruinous convalescence in my life. It would have been interesting, had there been time, to see whether my wound healed before Whampoa’s solicitous young ladies killed me with their attentions; my own belief is that I would have expired just about the time the stitches were ready to come out. As it was, my confinement was cut short by the arrival and swift departure of HMS Dido, commanded by one Keppel, RN; willy-nilly, I had to sail with her, staggering aboard still weak with loss of blood, et cetera, clutching the gangway not so much for support as to prevent my being wafted away by the first puff of breeze. You see, it was taken for granted that as a devoted husband and military hero, I was in a sweat to be off in quest of my abducted spouse and her pirate ravisher – that was one of the disadvantages of life on the frontiers of Empire in the earlies, that you were expected to do your own avenging and recovering, with such assistance as the authorities might lend. Not my style at all; left to old Flash it would have been a case of tooling round to the local constabulary, reporting a kidnapped wife, leaving my name and address, and letting ’em get on with it. After all, it’s what they’re paid for, and why else was I stumping up sevenpence in the pound income tax? I said as much to old Morrison, thinking it was the kind of view that would appeal to him, but all I got for my pains was tears and curses. “You’re tae blame!” whimpers he, for he was far too reduced to bawl; he looked fit to pass away, his eyes sunk and his cheeks blenched, but still full of spite against me. “If you had been daein’ your duty as a husband, this would never have happened. Oh, Goad, ma puir wee lamb! My wee bit lassie – and you, where were ye? Whoorin’ away in some hoose o’ ill fame, like enough, while—” “Nothing of the sort!” cries I indignantly. “I was at a Chinese restaurant,” at which he set up a great wail, burying his head in the bed-clothes and bawling about his wee bairn. “Ye’ll bring her back!” he croaks presently. “Ye’ll save her – you’re a military man, wi’ decorations, an’ she’s the wife o’ your boozum, so she is! Say ye’ll bring her back tae her puir auld faither? Aye, ye’ll dae that – ye’re a guid lad, Harry – ye’ll no’ fail her.” And more in the same nauseating vein, interspersed with curses that he had ever set foot outside Glasgow. No doubt it was very pitiable, and if I’d been less disturbed myself and hadn’t despised the little swine so heartily, I might have felt sorry for him. I doubt it, though. I left him lamenting, and went off to nurse my shoulder and reflect gloomily that there was no help for it – I would have to be first in the field when the pursuit got under way. The fellow Brooke, who – for reasons that I couldn’t fathom just then – seemed to have taken on himself the planning of the expedition, obviously took it for granted that I would go, and when Keppel arrived and agreed at once to put Dido and her crew into the business, there was no hanging back any longer. Brooke was in a great lather of impatience to be away, and stamped and ground his teeth when Keppel said it would be at least three days before he could sail; he had treasure from Calcutta to unload, and must lay in stores and equipment for the expedition. “It’ll be river fighting, I dare say,” says he, yawning; he was a dry, likely-looking chap with blazing red hair and sleepy, humorous eyes. “Cutting out, jungle work, ambushes, that sort of thing? Ye-es, well, we know what happens if you rush into it at half-cock – remember how Belcher ripped the bottom out of Samarang on a shoal last year? I’ll have to restow Dido’s ballast, for one thing, and take on a couple of extra launches.” “I can’t wait for that!” cries Brooke. “I must get to Kuching, for news of this villain Suleiman and to get my people and boats together. I hear Harlequin’s been sighted; I’ll go ahead in her – Hastings will take me when I tell him how fearfully urgent it is. We must run down this scoundrel and free Mrs Flashman without a moment’s delay!” “You’re sure it’ll be Borneo, then?” says Keppel. “It has to be!” cried Brooke. “No ship from the south in the last two days has sighted him. Depend upon it, he’ll either run for Maludu or the rivers.” It was all Greek to me, and sounded horribly active and risky, but everyone deferred to Brooke’s judgement, and next day off he sailed in Harlequin. Because of my wound I was to rest in Singapore until Dido sailed two days later, but perforce I must be down at the quay when Brooke was rowed out with his motley gang by Harlequin’s boat crew. He seized my hand at parting. “By the time you reach Kuching, we’ll be ready to run up the flag and run out the guns!” cried he. “You’ll see! And don’t fret yourself, old fellow – we shall have your dear lady back safe and sound before you know it. Just you limber up that sword-arm, and between us we’ll give these dogs a bit of your Afghan sauce. Why, in Sarawak we do this sort of thing before breakfast! Don’t we, Paitingi? Eh, Mackenzie?” I watched them go – Brooke in the stern with his pilot-cap tipped at a rakish angle, laughing and slapping his knee in eagerness; the enormous Paitingi at his elbow, the black-bearded Mackenzie with his medical bag, and the other hard-cases disposed about the boat, with the hideous little Jingo in his loin-cloth nursing his blow-pipe spear. That was the fancy-dress crowd that I was to accompany on what sounded like a most hair-raising piece of madness – it was a dreadful prospect, and on the heels of my apprehension came fierce resentment at the frightful luck that was about to pitch me headlong into the stew again. D--n Elspeth, for a hare-brained, careless, wanton, ogling little slut, and d--n Solomon for a horny thief who hadn’t the decency to be content with women of his own beastly colour, and d--n this officious, bloodthirsty lunatic Brooke – who the d---l was he to go busybodying about uninvited, dragging me into his idiot enterprises? What right had he, and why did everyone defer to him as though he was some mixture of God and the Duke of Wellington? I found out, the evening Dido sailed, after I had taken my fond farewells – whining and shouting with Morrison, stately and generous with the hospitable Whampoa, and ecstatically frenzied in the last minute of packing with my dear little nurses. I went aboard almost on my hands and knees, as I’ve said, with Stuart helping me, for he had stayed behind to bear me company and execute some business for Brooke. It was while we were at the stern rail of the corvette, watching the Singapore islands sinking black into the fiery sunset sea, that I dropped some chance remark about his crazy commander – as you know, I still had precious little idea who he was, and I must have said so, for Stuart started round, staring at me. “Who’s J.B.?” he cried. “You can’t mean it! Who’s J.B.? You don’t know? Why, he’s the greatest man in the East, that’s all! You’re not serious – bless me, how long have you been in Singapore?” “Not long enough, evidently. All I know is that he and you and your … ah, friends … rescued me mighty handy the other night, and that since then he’s very kindly taken charge of operations to do the same for my wife.” He blessed himself again, heartily, and enlightened me with frightening enthusiasm. “J.B. – His Royal Highness James Brooke – is the King of Sarawak, that’s who he is. I thought the whole world had heard of the White Raja! Why, he’s the biggest thing in these parts since Raffles – bigger, even. He’s the law, the prophet, the Grand Panjandrum, the tuan besara – the whole kitboodle! He’s the scourge of every pirate and brigand on the Borneo coast – the best fighting seaman since Nelson, for my money – he tamed Sarawak, which was the toughest nest of rebels and head-hunters this side of Papua, he’s its protector, its ruler, and to the natives, its saint! Why, they worship him down yonder – and more power to ’em, for he’s the truest friend, the fairest judge, and the noblest, whitest man in the whole wide world! That’s who J.B. is.” “My word, I’m glad he happened along,” says I. “I didn’t know we had a colony in – Sarawak, d’you call it?” “We haven’t. It’s not British soil. J.B. is nominal governor for the Sultan of Brunei – but it’s his kingdom, not Queen Victoria’s. How did he get it? Why, he sailed in there four years ago, after the d-mfool Company Army pensioned him off for overstaying his furlough. He’d bought this brig, the Royalist, you see, with some cash his guv’nor left him, and just set off on his own account.” He laughed, shaking his head. “G-d, we were mad! There were nineteen of us, with one little ship, and six six-pounder guns, and we got a kingdom with it! J.B. delivered the native people from slavery, drove out their oppressors, gave ’em a proper government – and now, with a few little boats, his loyal natives, and those of us who’ve survived, he’s fighting single-handed to drive piracy out of the Islands and make them safe for honest folk.” “Very commendable,” says I. “But isn’t that the East India Company’s job – or the navy’s?” “Bless you, they couldn’t even begin it!” cries he. “There’s barely a British squadron in all these enormous waters – and the pirates are numbered in tens upon tens of thousands. I’ve seen fleets of five hundred praus and bankongs – those are their warboats – cruising together, crammed with fighting men and cannon, and behind them hundreds of miles of coastline in burning ruin – towns wiped out, thousands slaughtered, women carried off as slaves, every peaceful vessel plundered and sunk – I tell you, the Spanish Main was nothing to it! They leave a trail of destruction and torture and abomination wherever they go. They set our navy and the Dutch at defiance, and hold the Islands in terror – they have a slave-market at Sulu where hundreds of human beings are bought and sold daily; even the kings and rajas pay them tribute – when they aren’t pirates themselves. Well, J.B. don’t like it, and he means to put a stop to it.” “Hold on, though – what can he do, if even the navy’s powerless?” “He’s J.B.,” says Stuart, simply, with that drunk, smug look you see on a child’s face when his father mends a toy. “Of course, he gets the navy to help – why, we had three navy vessels at Murdu in February, when he wiped out the Sumatra robbers – but his strength is with the honest native peoples – some of ’em were once pirates themselves, and head-hunters, like the Sea Dyaks, until J.B. showed ’em better. He puts spirit into them, bullies and wheedles the rajas, gathers news of the pirates, and when they least expect it, takes his expeditions against their forts and harbours, fights ’em to a standstill, burns their ships, and either makes ’em swear to keep the peace, or else! That’s why everyone in Singapore jumps when he whistles – why, how long d’you think it would have taken them to do anything about your missus – months, years even? But J.B. says “Go!” and don’t they just! And if I’d gone along Beach Road this morning looking for people to bet that J.B. couldn’t rescue her, good as new, and destroy this swine Suleiman Usman – well, I’d not have got a single taker, at a hundred to one. He’ll do it, all right. You’ll see.” “But why?” says I, without thinking, and he frowned. “I mean,” I added, “he hardly knows me – and he’s never even met my wife – but the way he’s gone about this, you’d think we were – well, his dearest relatives.” “Well, that’s his way, you know. Anything for a friend – and with a lady involved, of course, that makes it all the more urgent – to him. He’s a bit of a knight-errant, is J.B. Besides, he likes you.” “What? He don’t even know me.” “Don’t he, though! Why, I remember when we got the news of the great deeds you’d done at Kabul, J.B. talked of nothing else for days, read all the papers, kept exclaiming over your defence of Piper’s Fort. ‘That’s the man for me!’ he kept saying. ‘By Jingo, what wouldn’t I give to have him out here! We’d see the last pirate out of the China Sea between us!’ Well, now he’s got you – I shouldn’t wonder if he doesn’t move heaven and earth to keep you.” You can guess how this impressed me. I could see, of course, that J.B. was just the man for the task in hand – if anyone could bring Elspeth off, more or less undamaged, it was probably he, for he seemed to be the same kind of desperate, stick-at-nothing adventurer I’d known in Afghanistan – wild men like Georgie Broadfoot and Sekundar Burnes. The trouble with fellows like those is that they’re d----d dangerous to be alongside; it would be capital if I could arrange it that Brooke went off a-rescuing while I stayed safe in the rear, hallooing encouragement, but my wound was healing nicely, b---t it, and the outlook was disquieting. It was a question which was still vexing me four days later when the Dido, under sweeps, came gliding over a sea like blue glass to the mouth of the Kuching river, and I saw for the first time those brilliant golden beaches washed with foam, the low green flats of mangrove creeping to the water’s edge among the little islands, the palm-fringed creeks, and in the distant southern haze the mountains of Borneo. “Paradise!” exclaims Stuart, breathing in the warm air, “and I don’t give a d--n if I never see Dover cliffs again. Look at it – half a million square miles of the loveliest land in the world, unexplored, except for this little corner. Sarawak’s where civilization begins and ends, you know – go a day’s march in yonder” – he pointed towards the mountains – “and if you’re still alive you’ll be among head-hunters who’ve never seen a white man. Ain’t it capital, though?” I couldn’t say it was. The river, as we went slowly up it, was broad enough, and the land green and fertile, but it had that steamy look that spells fever, and the air was hot and heavy. We passed by several villages, some of them partly built over the water on stilts, with long, primitive thatched houses; the water itself was aswarm with canoes and small boats, manned by squat, ugly, grinning little men like Jingo; I don’t suppose one of them stood more than five feet, but they looked tough as teak. They wore simple loin-cloths, with rings round their knees, and head-cloths; some had black and white feathers in their hair. The women were fairer than the men, although no taller, and decidedly good-looking, in an impudent, pug-nosed way; they wore their hair long, down their backs, and went naked except for kilts, swinging their bums and udders in a way that did your heart good to see. (They couple like stoats, by the way, but only with men of proved bravery. In a country where the usual engagement ring is a human head, it follows that you have to be bloodthirsty in order to get your muttons.) “Sea Dyaks,” says Stuart. “The bravest, cheeriest folk you’ll ever see – fight like tigers, cruel as the grave, but loyal as Swiss. Listen to ’em jabber – that’s the coast lingua franca, part Malay, but with Portuguese, French, Dutch, and English thrown in. Amiga sua!” cries he, waving to one of the boatmen – that, I learned, means “my friend”, which gives you some notion. Sarawak, as Stuart said, might be the civilized corner of Borneo, but as we drew closer to Kuching you could see that it was precious like an armed camp. There was a huge log boom across the river, which had to be swung open so that Dido could warp through, and on the low bluffs either side there were gun emplacements, with cannon peeping through the earthworks; there were cannon, too, on the three strange craft at anchor inside the boom – they were like galleys, with high stern and forecastles, sixty or seventy feet long, with their great oars resting in the water like the legs of some monstrous insect. “War praus,” cries Stuart. “By Jove, there’s something up – those are Lundu boats. J. B.’s mustering his forces with a vengeance!” We rounded a bend, and came in sight of Kuching proper; it wasn’t much of a place, just a sprawling native town, with a few Swiss cottages on the higher ground, but the river was jammed with ships and boats of every description – at least a score of praus and barges, light sailing cutters, launches, canoes, and even a natty little paddle-steamer. The bustle and noise were tremendous, and as Dido dropped anchor in mid-stream she was surrounded by swarms of little boats, from one of which the enormous figure of Paitingi Ali came swinging up to the deck, to present himself to Keppel, and then come over to us. “Aye, weel,” says he, in that astonishing accent which sounded so oddly with his occasional pious Muslim exclamations. “He was right again. The Praise tae the One.” “What d’ye mean?” cries Stuart. “A spy-boat came in frae Budraddin yesterday. A steam-brig – which cannae be any other than the Sulu Queen – put into Batang Lupar four days ago, and went upriver. Budraddin’s watching the estuary, but there’s nae fear she’ll come out again, for the word along the coast is that the great Suleiman Usman is back, and has gone up tae Fort Linga tae join Sharif Sahib. He’s in there, a’ richt; a’ we have tae do is gang in an’ tak’ him.” “Huzza!” roars Stuart, capering and seizing his hand. “Good old J.B.! Borneo he said it would be, and Borneo it is!” He swung to me. “You hear that, Flashman – it means we know where your lady is, and that kidnapping rascal, too! J.B. guessed exactly right – now do you believe that he’s the greatest man in the east?” “Will ye tell me how he does it?” growled Paitingi. “If I didnae ken he was a guid Protestant I’d say he was in league wi’ Shaitan. Come awa’ – he’s up at the hoose, gey pleased wi’ himsel’. Bismillah! Perhaps when he’s told you in person he’ll be less insufferable.” But when we went ashore to Brooke’s house, “The Grove”, as it was called, the great man hardly referred to Paitingi’s momentous news – I discovered later that this was delicacy on his part; he didn’t want to distress me by even talking about Elspeth’s plight. Instead, when we had been conducted to that great shady bungalow on its eminence, commanding a view of the teeming river and landing-places, he sat us down with glasses of arrack punch, and began to talk, of all things, about – roses. “I’m goin’ to make ’em grow here if it kills me,” says he. “Imagine that slope down to the river below us, covered with English blooms; think of warm evenings in the dusk, and the perfume filling the verandah. By George, if I could raise Norfolk apples as well, that would be perfect – great, red beauties like the ones that grow on the roadside by North Walsham, what? You can keep your mangoes and paw-paws, Stuart – what wouldn’t I give for an honest old apple, this minute! But I might manage the roses, one day.” He jumped up. “Come and see my garden, Flashman – I promise you won’t see another like it in Borneo, at any rate!” So he took me round his place, pointing out his jasmine and sundals and the rest, exclaiming about their night scents, and suddenly snatching up a trowel and falling on some weeds. “These confounded Chinese gardeners!” cries he. “I’d be better served by Red Indians, I believe. But I suppose it’s asking too much to expect,” he cries, trowelling away, “that a people as filthy, ugly, and ungraceful as the Chinks should have any feeling for flowers. Mind you, they’re industrious and cheery, but that ain’t the same.” He chattered on, pointing out how his house was built carefully on palm piles to defy the bugs and damp, and telling me how he had come to design it. “We’d had the deuce of a scrap with Lundu head-hunters just across the river yonder, and were licking our wounds in a dirty little kampong, waiting for ’em to attack again – it was evening, and we were out of water altogether, and pretty used up, down to our last ounces of powder, too – and I thought to myself, what you need, J.B. my boy, is an easy chair and an English newspaper and a vase of roses on the table. It seemed such a splendid notion – and I resolved that I’d make myself a house, with just those things, so that wherever I went in Borneo, it would always be here to return to.” He waved at the house. “And there she is – all complete, except for the roses. I’ll get those in time.” It was true enough; his big central room, with the bedrooms arranged round it, and an opening on to his front verandah, was for all the world like a mixture of drawing-room and gun-room at home, except that the furniture was mostly bamboo. There were easy chairs, and old copies of The Times and Post neatly stacked, couches, polished tables, an Axminster, flowers in vases, and all manner of weapons and pictures on the walls. “If ever I want to forget wars and pirates and fevers and ong-ong-ongs – that’s my own word for anything Malay, you know – I just sit down and read about how it rained in Bath last year, or how some rascal was jailed for poaching at Exeter Assizes,” says he. “Even potato prices in Lancashire will do – oh, I say … I’d meant to put that away …” I’d stopped to look at a miniature on the table, of a most peachy blonde girl, and Brooke jumped up and reached out towards it. I seemed to know the face. “Why,” says I, “that’s Angie Coutts, surely?” “You know her?” cries he, and he was pink to the gills, and right out of countenance for once. “I have never had the honour of meeting her,” he went on, in a hushed, stuffed way, “but I have long admired her, for her enlightened opinions, and unsparing championship of worthy causes.” He looked at the miniature like a contemplative frog. “Tell me – is she as … as … well – ah – as her portrait suggests?” “She’s a stunner, if that’s what you mean,” says I, for like every other grown male in London I, too, had admired little Angie, though not entirely for her enlightened opinions – more for the fact that she had a superb complexion, tits like footballs, and two million in the bank, really. I’d taken a loving fumble at her myself, during blind-man’s-buff at a party in Stratton Street, but she’d simply stared straight ahead of her and dislocated my thumb. Wasteful little prude. “Perhaps, one of these days, when I return to England, you will present me,” says he, gulping, and shovelled her picture into a drawer. Well, well, thinks I, who’d have thought it: the mad pirate-killer and rose-fancier, spoony on Angie Coutts’s picture – I’ll bet that every time he contemplates it the local Dyak lasses have to scamper for cover. I must have said something to this effect, in my tasteful way, that same evening to Stuart, no doubt with my lewd Flashy nudge and leer, but he was such an innocent that he just shook his head and sighed deeply. “Miss Burdett-Coutts?” says he. “Poor old J.B. He has told me of his deep regard for her, although he’s a very secret man about such things. I dare say they’d make a splendid match, but it can’t be, of course – even if he realized his ambition to meet her.” “Why not?” says I. “He’s a likely chap, and just the kind to fire a romantic piece like young Angie. Why, they’d go like duck and green peas.” Kindly old match-maker Flash, you see. “Impossible,” says Stuart, and then he went red in the face and hesitated. “You see – it’s a shocking thing – but J.B. can never marry – it wouldn’t do, at all.” Hollo, thinks I, he ain’t one of the Dick’s hatband brigade, surely? – I’d not have thought it. “It is never mentioned, of course,” says Stuart, uncomfortably, “but it is as well you should know – in case, in conversation, you unwittingly made any reference that might … well, be wounding. It was in Burma, you see, when he was in the army. He received an … incapacitating injury in battle. It was put about that it was a bullet in the lung … but in fact … well, it wasn’t.” “Good G-d, you don’t mean to say,” cries I, genuinely appalled, “that he got his knocker shot off?” “Let’s not think about it,” says he, but I can tell you I went about wincing for the rest of the evening. Poor old White Raja – I mean, I’m a callous chap enough, but there are some tragedies that truly wring the heart. Mad about that delectable little bouncer Angie Coutts, despot of a country abounding with the juiciest of dusky flashtails just itching for him to exercise the droit de seigneur, and there he was with a broken firing-pin. I don’t know when I’ve been more deeply moved. Still, if J.B. was the first man in to rescue Elspeth, she’d be safe enough. It was an appropriate thought, for that same evening, after dinner at The Grove, we held the council at which Brooke announced his plan of operations. It followed a dinner as formal in its way as any I’ve ever attended – but that was Brooke all over: when we had our pegs on the verandah beforehand he was laughing and sky-larking, playing leap-frog with Stuart and Crimble and even the dour Paitingi, the bet being that he could jump over them one after another with a glass in one hand, and not spill a drop – but when the bell sounded, everyone quieted down, and filed silently into his great room. I can still see it, Brooke at the head of the table in his big armchair, stiff in his white collar and carefully-tied black neckercher, with black coat and ruffled cuffs, the eager brown face grave for once, and the only thing out of place his untidy black curls – he could never get ’em to lie straight. On one side of him was Keppel, in full fig of uniform dress coat and epaulette, with his best black cravat, looking sleepy and solemn; Stuart and I in the cleanest ducks we could find; Charlie Wade, Keppel’s lieutenant; Paitingi Ali, very brave in a tunic of dark plaid trimmed with gold and with a great crimson sash, and Crimble, another of Brooke’s lieutenants, who absolutely had a frock coat and fancy weskit. There was a Malay steward behind each chair, and over in the corner, silent but missing nothing, the squint-faced Jingo; even he had exchanged his loin-cloth for a silver sarong, with hornbill feathers in his hair and decorating the shaft of his sumpitanb standing handy against the wall. I never saw him without it, or the little bamboo quiver of his beastly darts. I don’t remember much of the meal, except that the food was good and the wine execrable, and that conversation consisted of Brooke lecturing interminably; like most active men, he had all the makings of a thoroughgoing bore. “There shan’t be a missionary in Borneo if I can help it,” I remember him saying, “for there are only two kinds, bad ones and Americans. The bad ones ram Christianity down the natives’ throats and tell them their own gods are false—” “Which they are,” says Keppel quietly. “Of course, but a gentleman doesn’t tell ’em so,” says Brooke. “The Yankees have the right notion; they devote themselves to medicine and education, and don’t talk religion or politics. And they don’t treat natives as inferiors – that’s where we’ve gone wrong in India,” says he, wagging his finger at me, as though I had framed British policy. “We’ve made them conscious of their inferiority, which is a great folly. After all, if you’ve a weaker younger brother, you encourage him to think he can run as fast as you can, or jump as far without a race, don’t you? He knows he can’t, but that don’t matter. In the same way, natives know they’re inferior, but they’ll love you all the better if they think you are unconscious of it.” “Well, you may be right,” says Charlie Wade, who was Irish, “but I don’t for the life of me see how you can ever expect ’em to grow up, at that rate, or achieve any self-respect at all.” “You can’t,” says Brooke briskly. “No Asiatic is fit to govern, anyway.” “And Europeans are?” says Paitingi, snorting. “Only to govern Asiatics,” says Brooke. “A glass of wine with you, Flashman. But I’ll give you this, Paitingi – you can rule Asiatics only by living among them. You cannot govern them from London, or Paris, or Lisbon—” “Aye, but Dundee, now?” says Paitingi, stroking his red beard, and when the roar of laughter had died down Brooke cries: “Why, you old heathen, you have never been nearer to Dundee than Port Said! Observe,” says he to me, “that in old Paitingi you have the ultimate flowering of a mixture of east and west – an Arab-Malay father and a Caledonian mother. Ah, the cruel fate of the half-caste – he has spent fifty years trying to reconcile the Kirk with the Koran.” “They’re no’ that different,” says Paitingi, “an’ at least they’re baith highly superior tae the Book o’ Common Prayer.” I was interested to see the way they railed at each other, as only very close friends do. Brooke obviously had an immense respect for Paitingi Ali; however, now that the talk had touched on religion, he began to hold forth again on an interminable prose about how he had recently written a treatise against Article 90 of the “Oxford Tracts”, whatever they were, which lasted to the end of the meal. Then, with due solemnity, he proposed the Queen, which was drunk sitting down, Navy fashion, and while the rest of us talked and smoked, Brooke went through a peculiar little ceremony which, I suppose, explained better than anything else the hold he had on his native subjects. All through the meal, a most curious thing had been happening. While the courses and wine had come with all due ceremony, and we had been buffing in, I’d noticed that every few minutes a Malay, or Dyak, or half-breed would come into the room, touch Brooke’s hand as they passed his chair, and then go to squat near the wall by Jingo. No one paid them any notice; they seemed to be all sorts, from a near-naked beggarly rascal to a well-dressed Malay in gold sarong and cap, but they were all armed – I learned later that it was a great insult to come into the White Raja’s presence without your krees, which is the strange, wavy-bladed knife of the people. In any event, while the rest of us gassed, Brooke turned his chair, beckoned each suppliant in turn, and talked with him quietly in Malay. One after another they came to hunker down beside him, putting their cases or telling their tales, while he listened, leaning forward with elbows on knees, nodding attentively. Then he would pronounce, quietly, and they would touch hands again and go; the rest of us might as well not have been there. When I asked Stuart about it later, he said: “Oh, that’s J.B. ruling Sarawak. Simple, ain’t it?” When the last native had gone Brooke sat in a reverie for a moment or two, and then swung abruptly to the table. “No singing tonight,” says he. “Business. Let’s have that map, Crimble.” We crowded round, the lamps were turned up, shining on the ring of sunburned faces under the wreath of cigar smoke, and Brooke tapped the table. I felt my belly muscles tightening. “We know what’s to do, gentlemen,” cries he, “and I’ll answer that the task is one that strikes a spark in the heart of every one of us. A fair and gentle lady, the beloved wife of one here, is in the hands of a bloody pirate; she is to be saved, and he destroyed. By God’s grace, we know where the quarry lies, not sixty miles from where we sit, on the Batang Lupar, the greatest lair of robbers in these Islands, save Mindanao itself. Look at it” – his finger stabbed the map – “first, Sharif Jaffir and his slaver fleet, at Fort Linga; beyond him, the great stronghold of Sharif Sahib at Patusan; farther on, at Undup, the toughest nut of all – the fortress of the Skrang pirates under Sharif Muller. Was ever a choicer collection of villains on one river? Add to ’em now the arch-d---l, Suleiman Usman, who has stolen away Mrs Flashman in dastardly fashion. She is the key to his vile plan, gentlemen, for he knows we cannot leave her in his clutches an hour longer than we must.” He gave my shoulder a manly squeeze; everyone else was carefully avoiding my eye. “He realizes that chivalry will not permit us to wait. You know him, Flashman; is this not how his scheming mind will reason?” I didn’t doubt it, and said so. “He’s made a fortune in the City, too, and plays a d----d dirty game of single-wicket,” I added, and Brooke nodded sympathetically. “He knows I dare not delay, even if it means going after him with only the piecemeal force I have here – fifty praus and two thousand men, a third of which I must leave to garrison Kuching. Even so, Usman knows I must take at least a week to prepare – a week in which he can muster his praus and savages, outnumbering us ten to one, and make ready his ambushes along the Lupar, confident that we’ll stumble into them half-armed and ill-prepared—” “Stop it, before I start wishin’ I was on their side,” mutters Wade, and Brooke laughed in his conceited fashion and threw back his black curls. “Why, he’ll wipe us out to the last man!” cries he. “That’s his beastly scheme. That,” he smiled complacently round at us, “is what Suleiman Usman thinks.” Paitingi sighed. “But, of course, he’s wrong, the puir heathen,” says he with heavy sarcasm. “Ye’ll tell us how.” “You may wager the Bank to a tinker’s dam he’s wrong!” cries Brooke, his face alive with swank and excitement. “He expects us in a week – he shall have us in two days! He expects us with two-thirds of our strength – well, we’ll show him all of it! I’ll strip Kuching of every man and gun and leave it defenceless – I’ll stake everything on this throw!” He beamed at us, bursting with confidence. “Surprise, gentlemen – that’s the thing! I’ll catch the rascal napping before he’s laid his infernal toils! What d’you say?” I know what I’d have said, if I’d been talking just then. I’d never heard such lunacy in my life, and neither had the others by the look of them. Paitingi snorted. “Ye’re mad! It’ll no’ do.” “I know, old fellow,” grins Brooke. “What then?” “Ye’ve said it yersel’! There’s a hundred mile o’ river between Skrang creek and the sea, every yard o’ it hotchin’ wi’ pirates, slavers, nata-hutan, (#ulink_d0493cda-48b8-5788-8b54-93adcf9cb2e8) an’ heid-hunters by the thousand, every side-stream crawlin’ wi’ war-praus an’ bankongs, tae say nothin’ o’ the forts! Surprise, says you? By Eblis, I ken who’ll be surprised! We’ve done oor share o’ river-fightin’, but this—” he waved a great red hand. “Withoot a well-fitted expedition in strength – man, it’s fatal folly.” “He’s right, J.B.,” says Keppel. “Anyway, even the poor force we’ve got couldn’t be ready in two days—” “Yes, it can, though. In one, if necessary.” “Well, even then – you might catch Fort Linga unprepared, but after that they’ll be ready for you upriver.” “Not at the speed I’ll move!” cries Brooke. “The messenger of disaster from Linga to Patusan will have us on his heels! We’ll carry all before us, all the way to Skrang if need be!” “But Kuching?” Stuart protested. “Why, the Balagnini or those beastly Lanun could sweep it up while our back was turned.” “Never!” Brooke was exultant. “They won’t know it’s naked! And suppose they did – why, we’d just have to begin all over again, wouldn’t we? You talk about the odds against us on the Lupar – were they a whit better at Seribas, or Murdu? Were they any better when you and I, George, took all Sarawak with six guns and a leaky pleasure-yacht? I tell you, gentlemen, I can have this thing over and done in a fortnight! D’you doubt me? Have I ever failed, and will I fail now, when there is a poor, weak creature crying out for rescue, and I, a Briton, hear that cry? When I have the stout hearts and good keels that will do the thing, and crush this swarm of hornets, too, before they can scatter on their accursed errands? What? I tell you, all the Queen’s ships and all the Queen’s men could not bring such a chance together again, and I mean to take it!” I’d never seen it before, although I’ve seen it more times than I care to count since – one man, mad as a hatter and drunk with pride, sweeping sane heads away against their better judgement. Chinese Gordon could do it, and Yakub Beg the Kirghiz; so could J. E. B. Stuart, and that almighty maniac George Custer. They and Brooke could have formed a club. I can see him still; erect, head thrown back, eyes blazing, like the worst kind of actor mouthing the Agincourt speech to a crowd of yokels in a tent theatre in the backwoods. I don’t believe he convinced them – Stuart and Crimble, perhaps, but not Keppel and the others; certainly not Paitingi. But they couldn’t resist him, or the force that beat out of him. He was going to have his way, and they knew it. They stood silent; Keppel, I think, was embarrassed. And then Paitingi says: “Aye. Ye’ll want me to have charge o’ the spy-boats, I suppose?” That settled it, and at once Brooke quieted down, and they set to earnestly to discuss ways and means, while I sat back contemplating the horror of the whole thing, and wondering how I could weasel out of it. Plainly they were going to catastrophe, lugging me along with them, and not a thing to be done about it. I turned over a dozen schemes in my mind, from feigning insanity to running away; finally, when all but Brooke had hurried off to begin the preparations which were to take them all night and the following day, I had a feeble shot at turning him from his hare-brained purpose. Perhaps, I suggested diffidently, it might be possible to ransom Elspeth; I’d heard of such things being done among the Oriental pirates, and old Morrison was stiff with blunt which he’d be glad … “What?” cries Brooke, his brow darkening. “Treat with these scoundrels? Never! I should not contemplate such – ah, but I see what it is!” He came over all compassionate, and laid a hand on my arm. “You are fearful for your dear one’s safety, when battle is joined. You need have no such fear, old fellow; no harm will come to her.” Well, it was beyond me how he could guarantee that, but then he explained, and I give you my word that this is what he said. He sat me down in my chair and poured me a glass of arrack first. “It is natural enough, Flashman, that you should believe this pirate’s motives to be of the darkest kind … where your wife is concerned. Indeed, from what I have heard of her grace and charm of person, they are such as might well excite … ah, that is, they might awaken – well, unworthy passion – in an unworthy person, that is.” He floundered a bit, and took a pull at his glass, wondering how to discuss the likelihood of her being rogered without causing me undue distress. At last he burst out: “He won’t do it! – I mean, that is – I cannot believe she will be … ill-used, in any way, if you follow me. I am confident that she is but a pawn in a game which he has planned with Machiavellian cunning, using her as a bait to destroy me. That,” says this swollen-headed lunatic smugly, “is his true purpose, for he and his kind can know no safety while I live. His design is not principally against her, of that I am certain. For one thing, he is married already, you know. Oh, yes, I have gleaned much information in the past few days, and it’s true – five years ago he took to wife the daughter of the Sultan of Sulu, and while Muslims are not, of course, monogamous,” he went on earnestly, “there is no reason to suppose that their union was not a … a happy one.” He took a turn round the room, while I gaped, stricken speechless. “So I’m sure your dear lady is perfectly safe from any … any … anything like that. Anything …” he waved his glass, sloshing arrack broadcast “… anything awful, you know.” Well, that is what he said, as I hope to die. I couldn’t credit my ears. For a moment I wondered if having his love-muscle shot off had affected his brain; then I realized that, in his utterly daft way, he was simply talking all this rubbish to reassure me. Possibly he thought I was so distraught that I’d be ready to believe anything, even that a chap with one wife would never think of bulling another. Maybe he even believed it himself. “She will be restored to you …” he searched for a suitable word, and found one, “unblemished, you may be sure. Indeed, I am certain that her preservation must be his first concern, for he must know what a terrific retribution will follow if any harm should come to her, either in the violence of battle or … in any other way. And after all,” says he, apparently quite struck with the thought, “he may be a pirate, but he has been educated as an English gentleman, I cannot believe that he is dead to all feelings of honour. Whatever he has become – here, let me fill your glass, old chap – we must remember that there was a time when he was, well … one of us. I think you can take comfort in that thought, what?” [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, August—, 1844] I am now Beyond Hope, and Utterly Desolate in my Captivity, like the Prisoner of Chillon, except that he was in a dungeon and I am in a steamship, which I am sure is a thousand times worse, for at least in a dungeon one stays still, and is not conscious of being carried away far beyond the reach of Loving Friends! A week have I been in durance – nay, it seems like a Year!! I can only pine my lost love, and await in Terror whatever Fate is in store for me at the hands of my heartless abductor. My knees tremble at the thought and my heart fails me – how enviable does the lot of the Prisoner of Chillon seem (see Above), for no such Dread hung over his captivity, and at least he had mice to play with, laying their wrinkly wee noses in his hand in sympathy. Although to be sure I don’t like mice, but no more than I don’t like the Odious Native who brings my food, which I cannot endure to eat anyway, although there have been some Pleasant Fruits added to my diet the last day or two, when we came in sight of land as I saw from my porthole. Is this strange and hostile tropic shore to be the Scene of my Captivity? Shall I be sold on Indian Soil? Oh, dear Father – and kind, noble, generous H., thou art lost to me forever!! Yet even such loss is no worse than the Suspense which wracks my brain. Since the first dreadful day of my abduction I have not seen Don S., which at first I supposed was because he was so a prey to Shame and Remorse, that he could not look me in the eye. I pictured him, Restless on his Prow, torn by pangs of conscience, gnawing at his nails and Oblivious of his sailors’ requests for directions, as the vessel plow’ed on heedless over the waves. Oh, how well deserved his Torment! – and yet it is extremely strange, after his Passionate Protestations, that he should Restrain himself for seven whole days from seeing me, the Object of his Madness. I don’t understand it, for I don’t believe he feels Remorse at all, and the affairs of his boat cannot take all his time, surely! Why, then, does the Cruel Wretch not come to gloat over his Helpless Prey, and Jeer at her sorry condition, for my white taffeta is now quite soiled, and so oppressively hot in the confines of my cabin, that I have perforce discarded it in favour of some of the native dresses called sarongas, which have been provided by the creeping little Chinese woman who waits upon me, a sallow creature, and not a word of English, tho’ not as handless as some I’ve known. I have a saronga of red silk which is, I think, the most becoming, and another in blue and gold embroidery, quite pretty, but of course they are very simple and slight, and would not be the thing at all for European Wear, except in d?shabill?. But to these am I reduced, and the left heel of my shoe broken, so I must put them both off, and no proper articles for toilette, and my hair a positive fright. Don S. is a Brute and Beast, first to wrench me away, and then so heartlessly to neglect me in this sorry condition! Post merid P.M. He came at last, and I am distraught! While I was repairing as best I might the ravages slight disorders in my appearance which my cruel confinement has wrought, and trying how my saronga (the red one) might fold most elegantly – for it is an excellent rule that in all Circumstances a Gentlewoman should make the best of things, and strive to present a collected appearance – I was of a sudden Aware of his Presence. To my Startled Protest, he replied with an insinuating compliment on how well my saronga became me, and such a Look of ardent yearning that I at once regretted my poor discarded taffeta, fearing the base ardour that the sight of me in Native Garb might kindle in him. To my instant and repeated demands that I be taken Home at once, and my Upbraidings for his scandalous usuage and neglect of me, he replied with the utmost composure and odiously solicitous inquiries for my Comfort! I replied with icy disdain. “Restore me instantly to my family, and keep your tiresome comforts!” He received this rebuff quite unabashed, and said I must put such hopes from my mind forever. “What!” I cried, “you will deny me even some suitable clothing, and proper toilet articles, and a change of bed linen every day, and a proper variety in diet, instead of roast pork, of which I am utterly tired, and a thorough airing and cleaning of my accommodation?” “No, no,” he protested, “these things you shall have, and whatever else your heart desires, but as for returning to your family, it is out of the question, for the die is cast!” “We shall see about that, my lad!” I cried, masking the Terror which his Grim and Unrelenting manner inspired in my Quaking Bosom, and presenting a Bold Front, at which to my astonishment he dropped to his knees, and taking my hand – but with every sign of respect – he spoke in so moving and pleading a manner, protesting his worship, and vowing that when I returned his Love, he would make me a Queen Indeed, and my lightest whim instantly obeyed, that I could not but be touched. Seeing me weaken, he spoke earnestly of the Kindness and Companionship which we had shared, at which, despising my own Frailty, I was moved to tears. “Why, oh, why, Don S., did you have to spoil it all by this thoughtless and ungenteel behaviour, and after such a jolly cruise?” I cried. “It is most disobliging of you!” “I could not bear the torture of seeing you possessed by another!” cried he. I asked, “Why, whom who do you mean, Don S.?” “Your husband!” cries he, “but, by h----n, he shall be your husband no longer!” and springing up, he cried that my Spirit was as matchless as my Beauty, which he praised in terms that I cannot bring myself to repeat, although I daresay the compliment was kindly intended, and adding fiercely that he should win me, at whatever cost. Despite my struggles and reproaches, and feeble cries for an Aid which I knew could not be forthcoming, he repeatedly subjected me to the assault of his salutes upon my lips, so fervently that I fainted into a Merciful Oblivion for between five and ten minutes, after which, by the Intervention of Heaven, he was called on deck by one of his sailors, leaving me, with repeated oaths of his Fidelity, in a state of perturbed delicacy. There is still no sign of pursuit by H., which I had so wildly hoped for. Am I, then, forgotten by those dearest to me, and is there no hope indeed? Am I doomed to be carried off forever, or will Don S. yet repent the intemperate regard for me – nay, for my mere Outward Show – which drove him to this inconsiderate folly? I pray it may be so, and hourly I lament – nay, I curse – that Fairness of Form and Feature of which I was once so vain. Ah, why could I not have been born safe and plain like my dearest sister Agnes, or our Mary, who is even less favoured, altho’ to be sure her complection is none too bad, or ………… (#ulink_fb9d7188-5c75-5867-a064-bad8103b530c) Oh, sweet sisters three, gone beyond hope of recall! Could you but know, and pity me in my affliction! Where is H.? Don S. has sent down a great posy of flowers to my cabin, jungle blossoms, pretty but quite gaudy. [End of extract, which passes belief for shamelessness, hypocrisy, and unwarranted conceit! – G. de R.] Great lord. Blowpipe. (#ulink_e10d1424-f202-5634-84b3-b06f009f1293) “Wood devils”, i.e. users of the sumpitan. (#ulink_ebdba37a-d6e5-5738-a2c8-1b169579d638) At this point a heavy deletion of two lines occurs in the manuscript, doubtless to excise some unflattering reference to Lady Flashman’s third sister, Grizel de Rothschild, who edited the journal. Chapter 6 (#ulink_6099d9d7-7994-5a3a-9b62-5c315c595b93) We dropped down Kuching river on the evening tide of the day following, a great convoy of ill-assorted boats gliding silently through the opened booms, and down between banks dark and feathery in the dusk to the open sea. How Brooke had done it I don’t know – I daresay you can read in his journal, and Keppel’s, how they armed and victualled and assembled their ramshackle war fleet of close on eighty vessels, loaded with the most unlikely crew of pirates, savages, and lunatics, and launched them on to the China Sea like a d----d regatta; I don’t remember it too clearly myself, for all through a night and a day it had been bedlam along the Kuching wharves, in which, being new to the business, I’d borne no very useful part. I have my usual disjointed memories of it, though. I remember the long war-praus with their steep sheers and forests of oars, being warped one after another into the jetty by sweating, squealing Malay steersmen, and the Raja’s native allies pouring aboard – a chattering, half-naked horde of Dyaks, some in kilts and sarongs, others in loin-cloths and leggings, some in turbans, some with feathers in their hair, but all grinning and ugly as sin, loaded with their vile sumpitan-pipes and arrows, their kreeses and spears, all fit to frighten the French. Then there were the Malay swordsmen who filled the sampans – big, flat-faced villains with muskets and the terrible, straight-bladed kampilan cleavers in their belts; the British tars in their canvas smocks and trousers and straw hats, their red faces grinning and sweating while they loaded Dido’s pinnace, singing “Whisky, Johnny” as they stamped and hauled; the silent Chinese cannoneers whose task it was to lash down the small guns in the bows of the sampans and longboats, and stow the powder kegs and matches; the slim, olive-skinned Linga pirates who manned Paitingi’s spy-boats – astonishing craft these, for all the world like Varsity racing-shells, slim frail needles with thirty paddles that could skim across the water as fast as a man can run. They darted among the other vessels – the long, stately praus, the Dido’s pinnace, the cutters and launches and canoes, the long sloop Jolly Bachelor, which was Brooke’s own flagship; and the flower of our fleet, the East India paddle-steamer Phlegethon, with her massive wheel and platform, and her funnel belching smoke. They all packed the river, in a great tangle of oars and cordage and rubbish, and over it rang the constant chorus of curses and commands in half a dozen languages; it looked like a waterman’s picnic gone mad. The variety of weapons was an armourer’s nightmare; aside from those I’ve mentioned there were bows and arrows, every conceivable kind of sword, axe, and spear, modern rifled muskets, pepper-pot revolvers, horse-pistols, needle-guns, fantastically-carved Chinese flintlocks, six-pounder naval guns, and stands of Congreve rockets with their firing-frames mounted on the forecastles of three of the praus. God help whoever gets in the way of this collection, thinks I – noting especially a fine comparison on the shore: a British naval officer in tail-coat and waterproof hat testing the hair-triggers of a pair of Mantons, his blue-jackets sharpening their brass-hilted cutlasses on a grindstone, and within a yard of them a jabbering band of Dyaks dipping their langa darts in a bubbling cauldron of the beastly white radjun poison. “Let’s see you puff your pop-gun, Johnny,” cries one of the tars, and they swung a champagne cork on a string as a target, twenty yards off; one of the grinning little brutes slipped a dart into his sumpitan, clapped it to his mouth – and in a twinkling there was the cork, jerking on its string, transfixed by the foot-long needle. “Ch---t!” says the blue-jacket reverently, “don’t point that b----y thing at my backside, will you?” and the others cheered the Dyak, and offered to swap their gunner for him. So you can see the kind of army that James Brooke took to sea from Kuching on the morning of August 5, 1844, and if, like me, you had shaken your head in despair at the motley, rag-bag confusion of it as it assembled by the wharves, you would have held your breath in disbelief as you watched it sweeping in silent, disciplined order out on to the China Sea in the breaking dawn. I’ll never forget it: the dark purple water, ruffled by the morning wind; the tangled green mangrove shore a cable’s length to our right; the first blinding rays of silver turning the sea into a molten lake ahead of our bows as the fleet ploughed east. First went the spy-boats, ten of them in line abreast a mile long, seeming to fly just above the surface of the sea, driven by the thin antennae of their oars; then the praus, in double column, their sails spread and the great sweeps thrashing the water, with the smaller sampans and canoes in tow; the Dido’s pinnace and the Jolly Bachelor under sail, and last, shepherding the flock, the steamer Phlegethon, her big wheel thumping up the spray, with Brooke strutting under her awning, monarch of all he surveyed, discoursing to the admiring Flashy. (It wasn’t that I sought his company, but since I had to go along, I’d figured it would be safest to stick close by him, on the biggest boat available; something told me that whoever came home feet first, it wasn’t going to be him, and the rations would probably be better. So I toadied him in my best style, and he bored me breathless in return.) “There’s something better than inspecting stirrup straps on Horse Guards!” cries he gaily, flourishing a hand at our fleet driving over the sunlit sea. “What more could a man ask, eh! – a solid deck beneath, the old flag above, stout fellows alongside, and a bitter foe ahead. That’s the life, my boy!” It seemed to me it was more likely to be the death, but of course I just grinned and agreed that it was capital. “And a good cause to fight in,” he went on. “Wrongs to punish, Sarawak to defend – and your lady to rescue, of course. Aye, it’ll be a sweeter, cleaner coast by the time we’ve done with it.” I asked him if he meant to devote his life to chasing pirates, and he came all over solemn, gazing out over the sea with the wind ruffling his hair. “It may well be a life’s work,” says he. “You see, what our people at home will not understand is that a pirate here is not a criminal, in our sense; piracy is the profession of the Islands, their way of life – just as trading or keeping shop is with Englishmen. So it is not a question of rooting out a few scoundrels, but of changing the minds of whole nations, and turning them to honest, peaceful pursuits.” He laughed and shook his head. “It will not be easy – d’you know what one of them said to me once? – and this was a well-travelled, intelligent head-man – he said: ‘I know your British system is good, tuan besar, I have seen Singapura and your soldiers and traders and great ships. But I was brought up to plunder, and I laugh when I think that I have fleeced a peaceful tribe right down to their cooking-pots.’ Now, what d’you do with such a fellow?” “Hang him,” says Wade, who was sitting on the deck with little Charlie Johnson, one of Brooke’s people, playing main chatter. (#ulink_183a8eb1-b69f-5f5a-8872-0cd7431bd49c) “That was Makota, wasn’t it?” “Yes, Makota,” says Brooke, “and he was the finest of ’em. One of the stoutest friends and allies I ever had – until he deserted to join the Sadong slavers. Now he supplies labourers and concubines to the coast princes who are meant to be our allies, but who deal secretly with the pirates for fear and profit. That’s the kind of thing we have to fight, quite apart from the pirates themselves.” “Why d’you do it?” I asked, for in spite of what Stuart had told me, I wanted to hear it from the man himself; I always suspect these buccaneer-crusaders, you see. “I mean, you have Sarawak; don’t that keep you busy enough?” “It’s a duty,” says he, as one might say it was warm for the time of year. “I suppose it began with Sarawak, which at first seemed to me like a foundling, which I protected with hesitation and doubt, but it has repaid my trouble. I have freed its people and its trade, given it a code of laws, encouraged industry and Chinese immigration, imposed only the lightest of taxes, and protected it from the pirates. Oh, I could make a fortune from it, but I content myself with a little – I’m either a man of worth, you see, or a mere adventurer after gain, and God forbid I should ever be that. But I’m well rewarded,” says he blandly, “for all the good that I do ministers to my satisfaction.” Pity you couldn’t set it to music and sing it as an anthem, thinks I. Old Arnold would have loved it. But all I said was that it was undoubtedly God’s work, and it was a crying shame that it went unrecognized; worth a knighthood at least, I’d have said. “Titles?” cries he, smiling. “They’re like fine clothes, penny trumpets, and turtle soup – all of slight but equal value. No, no, I’m too quiet to be a hero. All my wish is for the good of Borneo and its people – I’ve shown what can be done here, but it is for our government at home to decide what means, if any, they put at my disposal to extend and develop my work.” His eyes took on that glitter that you see in camp-meeting preachers and company accountants. “I’ve only touched the surface here – I want to open the interior of this amazing land, to exploit it for the benefit of its people, to correct the native character, to improve their lot. But you know our politicians and departments – they don’t care for foreign ventures, and they’re jolly wary of me, I can tell you.” He laughed again. “They suspect me of being up to some job or other, for my own good. And what can I tell ’em? – they don’t know the country, and the only visits I ever get are brief and official. Well, what can an admiral learn in a week? If I’d any sense I’d vamp up a prospectus, get a board of directors, and hold public meetings. ‘Borneo Limited’, what? That’d interest ’em, all right! But it would be the wrong thing, you see – and it’d only convince the government that I’m a filibuster myself – Blackbeard Teach with a clean shirt on. No, no, it wouldn’t do.” He sighed. “Yet how proud I should be, some day, to see Sarawak, and all Borneo, under the British flag – for their good, not ours. It may never happen, more’s the pity – but in the meantime, I have my duty to Sarawak and its people. I’m their only protector, and if I leave my life in the business, well, I shall have died nobly.” Well, I’ve seen pure-minded complacency in my time, and done a fair bit in that line myself, when occasion demanded, but J.B. certainly beat all. Mind you, unlike most Arnoldian hypocrites, I think he truly believed what he said; at least, he was fool enough to live up to it, so far as I could see, which is consistent with my conclusion that he was off his head. And when you remember that he excited the wrath of Gladstone – well, that speaks volumes in a chap’s favour, doesn’t it? But at the time I was just noting him down as another smug, lying, psalm-smiter devoted to prayer and profit, when he went and spoiled it all by bursting into laughter and saying: “Mind you, if it’s in a good cause, it’s still the greatest fun! I don’t know that I’d enjoy the protection and improvement of Sarawak above half, if it didn’t involve fighting these piratical, head-taking vagabonds! It’s just my good luck that duty combines with pleasure – maybe I’m not so different from Makota and the rest of these villains after all. They go a-roving for lust and plunder, and I go for justice and duty. It’s a nice point, don’t you think? You’ll think me crazy, I dare say” – he little knew how right he was – “but sometimes I think that rascals like Sharif Sahib and Suleiman Usman and the Balagnini sea-wolves are the best friends I’ve got. Perhaps our radical MPs are right, and I’m just a pirate at heart.” “Well, you look enough like one, J.B.,” says Wade, getting up from the board. “Main chatter, sheikh matter – it’s my game, Charlie.” He came to the rail and pointed, laughing, at the Dyaks and Malay savages who were swarming on the platform of the prau just ahead of us. “They don’t look exactly like a Sunday School treat, do they, Flashman? Pirates, if you like!” “Flashman hasn’t seen real pirates yet,” says Brooke. “He’ll see the difference then.” I did, too, and before the day was out. We cruised swiftly along the coast all day, before the warm breeze, while the sun swung over and dropped like a blood-red rose behind us, and with the cooler air of evening we came at last to the broad estuary of the Batang Lupar. It was miles across, and among the little jungly islands of its western shore we disturbed an anchorage of squalid sailor-folk in weather-beaten sampans – orang laut, the Malays called them, “sea-gipsies”, the vagrants of the coast, who were always running from one debt-collector to another, picking up what living they could. Paitingi brought their headman, a dirty, bedraggled savage, to the Phlegethon in one of the spy-boats, and after Brooke had talked to him he beckoned me to follow him down into Paitingi’s craft, saying I should get the “feel” of a spy-boat before we got into the river proper. I didn’t much care for the sound of it, but took my seat behind him in the prow, where the gunwales were tight either side, and you put your feet delicately for fear of sending them clean through the light hull. Paitingi crouched behind me, and the Linga look-out straddled above me, a foot on either gunwale. “Don’t like it altogether,” says Brooke. “Those bajoos say there are villages burning up towards the Rajang, and that ain’t natural, when all that’s sinful should be congregated up the Lupar, getting ready for us. We’ll take a sniff about. Give way!” The slender spy-boat shot away like a dart, trembling most alarmingly under my feet, with the thirty paddlers sweeping us silently forward. We threaded through the little islands, Brooke staring over towards the far shore, which was fading in the gathering dusk. There was a light mist coming down behind us, concealing our fleet, and a great bank of it was slowly rolling in from the sea, ghostly above the oily water. It was dead calm now, and the dank air made your flesh crawl; Brooke checked our pace, and we glided under the overhanging shelter of a mangrove bank, where the fronds dripped eerily. I saw Brooke’s head turning this way and that, and then Paitingi stiffened behind me. “Bismillah! J.B.!” he whispered. “Listen!” Brooke nodded, and I strained my ears, staring fearfully across that limpid water at the fog blanket creeping towards us. Then I heard something – at first I thought it was my heart, but gradually it resolved itself into a faint, regular, throbbing boom, coming faintly out of the mist, growing gradually louder. It was melodious but horrible, a deep metallic drumming that raised the hairs on my neck; Paitingi whispered behind me: “War-gong. Bide you; don’t even breathe!” Brooke gestured for silence, and we lay hidden beneath the mangrove fronds, waiting breathlessly, while that h---ish booming grew to a slow thunder, and it seemed to me that behind it I could hear a rushing, as of some great thing flying along; my mouth was dry as I stared at the fog, waiting for some horror to appear – and then suddenly it was upon us, like a train rushing from a tunnel, a huge, scarlet shape bursting out of the mist. I only had a glimpse as it swept by, but the image is stamped on my memory of that long, gleaming red hull with its towering forecastle and stern; the platform over its bulwark crowded with men – flat yellow faces with scarves round their brows, lank hair flowing down over their sleeveless tunics; the glitter of swords and spear-heads, the ghastly line of white bobbing globes hanging like a horrible fringe from stem to stern beneath the platform – skulls, hundreds of them; the great sweeps churning the water; the guttering torches on the poop; the long silken pennants on the upper works writhing in the foggy air like coloured snakes; the figure of a half-naked giant beating the oar-stroke on a huge bronze gong – and then it was gone as swiftly as it had come, the booming receding into the mist as it drove up the Batang Lupar. The sweat was starting out on me as we waited, while two more praus like the first emerged and vanished in its wake; then Brooke looked past me at Paitingi. “That’s inconvenient,” says he. “I made ’em Lanun, the first two; the third one Maluku. What d’ye think?” “Lagoon pirates from Mindanao,” says Paitingi, “but what the h--l are they doin’ here?” He spat into the water. “There’s an end tae our expedition, J.B. – there’s a thousand men on each o’ those devil-craft, more than we muster all told, and—” “—and they’ve gone to join Usman,” says Brooke. He whistled softly to himself, scratching his head beneath the pilot-cap. “Tell you what, Paitingi – he’s taking us seriously, ain’t he just?” “Aye, so let’s pay him the same compliment. If we beat back tae Kuching in the mornin’, we can put oursel’s in a state o’ defence, at least, because, by G-d’s beard, we’re goin’ tae have such a swarm roond oor ears—” “Not us,” says Brooke. “Them.” His teeth showed white in the gathering dark; he was quivering with excitement. “D’ye know what, old ’un? I think this is just what we wanted – now I know what we can expect! I’ve got it all plain now – just you watch!” “Aye, weel, if we get home wi’ all speed—” “Home nothing!” says Brooke. “We’re going in tonight! Give way, there!” For a moment I thought Paitingi was going to have the boat over; he exploded in a torrent of disbelief and dismay, and expostulations concerning Scottish Old Testament fiends and the hundred names of Allah flew over my head; Brooke just laughed, fidgeting with impatience, and Paitingi was still cursing and arguing when our spy-boat reached Phlegethon again. A hasty summons brought the commanders from the other vessels, and Brooke, who looked to me as though he was in the grip of some stimulating drug, held a conference on the platform by the light of a single storm lantern. “Now’s the time – I know it!” says he. “Those three lagoon praus will be making for Linga – they’ve been butchering and looting on the coast all day, and they’ll never go farther tonight. We’ll find ’em tied up at Linga tomorrow dawn. Keppel, you’ll take the rocket-praus – burn those pirates at their anchorage, land the blue-jackets to storm the fort, and boom the Linga river to stop anything coming down. You’ll find precious little fight in Jaffir’s people, or I’m much mistaken. “Meanwhile, the rest of us will sweep past upriver, making for Patusan. That’s where we’ll find the real thieves’ kitchen; we’ll strike it as soon as Keppel’s boats have caught us up—” “You’ll leave no one at Linga?” says Keppel. “Suppose more praus arrive from Mindanao?” “They won’t,” says Brooke confidently. “And if they do, we’ll turn in our tracks and blow them all the way back to Sulu!” His laugh sent shivers down my spine. “Mind, Keppel, I want those three praus destroyed utterly, and every one of their crews killed or scattered! Drive ’em into the jungle; if they have slaves or captives, bring ’em along. Paitingi, you’ll take the lead to Linga, with one spy-boat; we don’t need more while the river’s still wide. Now then, what time is it?” It may have been my army training, or my experience in Afghanistan, where no one even relieved himself without a staff conference’s approval, but this haphazard, neck-or-nothing style appalled me. We were to go careering upriver in the dark, after those three horrors that I’d seen streaking out of the mist – I shuddered at the memory of the evil yellow faces and that hideous skull fringe – and tackle them and whatever other cut-throat horde happened to be waiting at this Linga fort. He was crazy, whipped into a drunken enthusiasm by his own schoolboy notions of death or glory; why the devil didn’t Keppel and the other sane men take him in hand, or drop him overboard, before he wrecked us all? But there they were, setting their watches, hardly asking a question even, suggesting improvisations in an offhand way that made your hair curl, no one so much as hinting at a written order – and Brooke laughing and slapping Keppel on the back as he went down into his longboat. “And mind now, Paitingi,” he cries cheerily, “don’t go skedaddling off on your own. As soon as those praus are well alight, I want to see your ugly old mug heading back to Phlegethon, d’you hear? Look after him, Stuart – he’s a poor old soul, but I’m used to him!” The spy-boat vanished into the dark, and we heard the creak of the longboats’ oars as they dispersed. Brooke rubbed his hands and winked at me. “Now’s the day and now’s the hour,” says he. “Charlie Johnson, pass my compliments to the engineer, and tell him I want steam up. We’ll have Fort Linga for our chota hazri!” (#ulink_62bdf162-9f67-5cc4-8890-217ace374bc3) It sounded like madman’s babble at the time, but as I look back, it seems reasonable enough – for, being J.B., he got what he wanted. He spent all night in the Phlegethon’s wheel-house, poring over maps and sipping Batavia arrack, issuing orders to Johnson or Crimble from time to time, and as we thrashed on into the gloom the spy-boats would come lancing out of the misty darkness, hooking on, and then gliding away again with messages for the fleet strung out behind us; one of them kept scuttling to and fro between Phlegethon and the rocket-praus, which were somewhere up ahead. How the deuce they kept order I couldn’t fathom, for each ship had only one dark lantern gleaming faintly at its stern, and the mist seemed thick all round. There was no sign, in that clammy murk, of the river-banks, a mile either side of us, and no sound except the steady thumping of Phlegethon’s engines; the night was both chill and sweating at once, and I sat huddled in wakeful apprehension in the lee of the wheel-house, drawing what consolation I could from the knowledge that Phlegethon would be clear of the morning’s action. She had a grandstand seat, though; when dawn came pale and sudden, we were thrashing full tilt up the oily river, a bare half-mile from the jungle-covered bank to starboard, and nothing ahead of us but one spy-boat, loitering on the river bend. Even as we watched here, there was a distant crackle of musketry from up ahead, and from the spy-boat a blue light shot into the foggy air, barely visible against the pale grey sky; “Keppel’s there!” yells Brooke. “Full ahead, Charlie!” and right on the heels of his words came a thunderous explosion that seemed to send a tremor across the swirling water. Phlegethon tore down on the spy-boat, and then as we rounded the bend, I saw a sight I’ll never forget. A mile away, on the right-hand shore, was a great clearing, with a big native village sprawling down to the shore, and behind it, on the fringe of the forest, a stockaded fort on a slight rise, with a green banner waving above its walls. There were twists of smoke, early cooking-fires, rising above the village, but down on the river-bank itself there was a great pall of sooty cloud rising from the glittering red war-prau which I recognized as one of those we had seen the previous evening; there was orange flame creeping up her steep side. Beyond her lay the two other praus, tied up to the bank and swinging gently in the current. Keppel’s praus were standing in towards them, in line ahead, like ghost ships floating on the morning mist which swirled above the river’s surface. There was white smoke wreathing up from Keppel’s own prau, and now the prau behind rocked and shuddered as fire blinked on her main-deck, and the white trails of the Congreves went streaking out from her side; you could see the rockets weaving in the air before they smashed into the sides of the anchored vessels at point-blank range; orange balls of fire exploded into torrents of smoke, with debris, broken sweeps, and spars flying high into the air, and then across the water came the thunder of the explosions, seconds later. There were human figures swarming like ants on the stricken pirate vessels, dropping into the river or scattering up the shore; another salvo of rockets streaked across the smoking water, and as the reek of the explosions cleared we could see that all three targets were burning fiercely, the nearest one, a flaming wreck, already sinking in the shallows. From each of Keppel’s craft a longboat was pulling off for the shore, and even without the glass I could make out the canvas shirts and straw hats of our salts. As the boats pulled past the blazing wrecks and touched shore, Keppel’s rockets began firing at higher elevation, towards the stockaded fort, but at that range the rockets weaved and trailed all over the place, most of them plunging down somewhere in the jungle beyond. Brooke handed me his glass. “That’s cost the Sultan of Sulu a penny or two,” says he. “He’ll think twice before he sends his skull-fanciers this way again.” I was watching our seamen landing through the glass: there was Wade’s burly figure leading them at a fast trot through the village towards the fort, the cutlasses glittering in the early light. Behind, the boat crews were hauling their bow-chasers ashore, manhandling them on to wheeled sledges to run them forward so that they could be brought to play against the fort. Others were trailing bamboo ladders, and from one of the boats there were landing a group of Malay archers, with firepots – it was beginning to dawn on me that for all his bull-at-a-gate style, Brooke – or someone – knew his business; they had all the right gear, and were moving like clockwork. Keppel’s praus must have rounded the bend and come in sight of the town at the precise minute when there was light enough to shoot by; any later and their approach might have been seen, and the pirates been on the q.v. “Wonder if Sharif Jaffir’s awake yet, what?” Brooke was striding about the platform, grinning like a schoolboy. “What d’you bet, Charlie, he’ll be scampering out of the fort this minute, taking to the jungle? We can leave it to Keppel, now, I think – full ahead!” While we had been watching, the rest of our fleet had passed by, and was surging upriver, the sweeps going like billy-oh, and the square sails of the praus set to catch the light sea-breeze. A spy-boat was scooting out towards us from Keppel’s prau, the burly figure of Paitingi in the bow; beyond him the village was half-hidden by the smoke from the pirate praus, which were burning down to the waterline, and the rockets were firing again, this time against the smaller praus which were assembled farther up, near the Linga river mouth. I watched until my eye ached, and just before the Phlegethon rounded the next bend, a couple of miles upstream, cheering broke out from the vessels around us – I turned my glass, and saw that the green flag on the distant fort was coming down, and the Union Jack was running up in its place. Well, I was thinking, if it’s as easy as this, we don’t need to break much sweat; with any luck you’ll have a quiet passage, Flash, my boy – and at that very moment Brooke was at my elbow. “Tame work for you?” says he. “Don’t you fret, old fellow, you’ll get a swipe at them presently, when we come to Patusan! There’ll be some capital fun there, you’ll see!” And just to give me the idea, he took me below and offered me the choice of some Jersey revolvers with barrels as long as my leg. “And a cutlass, of course,” says he, “you’ll feel naked without that.” He little knew that I could feel naked in a suit of armour in the bowels of a dreadnought being attacked by an angry bumboat-woman. But one has to show willing, so I accepted his weapons with a dark scowl, and tried a cut or two with the cutlass for display, muttering professionally and praying to God I’d never have the chance to use it. He nodded approvingly, and then laid a hand on my shoulder. “That’s the spirit!” says he, “but, I say, Flashman – I know you feel you’ve got a lot to repay, and the thought of that dear, sweet creature of yours – well, I can see from your face the rage that is in you – and I don’t blame you, mind. But, d’you know what? – whenever I go to battle, I try to remember that Our Saviour, when He had laid out those money-changing chaps in the temple, felt remorse, didn’t He, for having got in such a bait? So I try to restrain my anger, and temper justice with mercy – not a bad mixture, what? God bless you, old chap.” And off he went, no doubt for another gloat over the burning praus. He baffled me, but then so many good Christians do, probably because I’m such a d----d bad one myself. And not having much of a conscience, I’m in no position to judge those that are apparently made of indiarubber – not that I gave a rap how many pirates he’d roasted before giving me his cautionary pi-jaw. As it turned out, not many – when Keppel caught us up he reported that the fort had fallen without a shot, Sharif Jaffir having legged it for the jungle with most of the Lanun pirates in tow; those remaining had thrown in their hand when they saw their vessels destroyed and the size of our fleet. So that was all good business, and what pleased Brooke most was that Keppel had brought along three hundred women whom the Lanuns had been carrying off as slaves; he visited them on Keppel’s prau, patting their heads and promising them they’d soon be safe home again; I’d have consoled some of ’em more warmly than that, myself – good taste, those Lanun pirates had – but of course there was none of that, under our peckerless leader. Thereafter he had a quick look at the pirates and slavers who’d been taken prisoner, and ordered the execution of two of them on the spot. One of them was the renegade Makota, I think; at any rate he and Brooke conversed earnestly for about five minutes, while the squat little villain grinned and shuffled his bare feet, looking bashful – according to Stuart, he was confessing to indescribable tortures which he and his pal had inflicted on some of the women prisoners the previous evening – Keppel’s party had found the grisly evidence in the village. Finally, when Brooke told him his course was run, the horrid fellow nodded cheerfully, touched hands, and cries “Salaam, tuan besar”, the hovering Jingo slipped a mosquito net and a rope over his head, and pfft! – one quick jerk and that was Makota off to the happy head-hunting grounds. The other condemned chap kicked up a frightful row at this, exclaiming “Krees, krees!” and eyeing the rope and mosquito net as though they were port being passed to the right. What his objection to strangulation was, I’m not certain, but they humoured him, taking him ashore so as not to make a mess. I watched from the rail; he stood up straight, his toad-like face impassive, while Jingo laid his krees point delicately inside the clavicle on the left side, and thrust down hard. The fellow never even twitched. “A sorry business,” says Brooke, “but before such atrocities I find it hard to remain composed.” After that it was all aboard the Skylark again, bound for Patusan, which lay about twenty miles farther upstream. “They’ll stand and fight there, where the river narrows,” says Keppel. “Two hundred praus, I dare say, and their jungle-men peppering us with blow-pipes from the trees.” “That don’t matter,” says Brooke. “It’ll be a case of bursting the booms, and then run up and board, hand-to-hand. It’s the forts that count – five of ’em, and you may be sure there’ll be a thousand men in each – we must smoke ’em out with rockets and cannon and then charge home, in the old style. That’ll be your innings, Charles, as usual,” says he to Wade, and to my horror he added: “We’ll take Flashman with us – make use of your special talents, what?” And he grinned at me as though it were my birthday. “Couldn’t be better!” cries Wade, slapping me on the back. “Sure an’ we’ll show you some pretty mixed scrappin’, old son. Better than Afghanistan, and you may lay to that. I’ll wager ye didn’t see many praus rammed in the Khyber Pass, or have obligin’ Paythans droppin’ tree-trunks on you! What the d---l, though – as long as ye can run, swim, scale a bamboo wall, an’ keep your sword-arm swingin’, ye’ll soon get the hang of it. Like Trafalgar an’ Waterloo rolled into one, with a row in a Silver Street pub thrown in!” They all crowed at this delightful prospect, and Stuart says: “Remember Seribas last year, When they dropped the booms behind us? My stars, that was a go! Our Ibans had to shoot ’em out of the trees with sumpitans!” “An’ Buster Anderson got shot in the leg when he boarded that bankong – the one that was sinkin’,” cries Wade, “an’ Buster had to swim for it, wi’ the pirates one side of him an’ crocodiles on t’other – an’ he comes rollin’ ashore, plastered wi’ mud an’ gore, yellin’: ‘Anyone seen me baccy pouch? – it’s got me initials on it!’” They roared again, and said Buster was a rare card, and Wade recalled how he’d gone ploughing through the battle, performing prodigies in search of his pouch. “The best of it was,” says he, spluttering, “Buster didn’t smoke!” This tickled them immensely of course, and Keppel asked where old Buster was these days. “Alas, we lost him at Murdu,” says Brooke. “Same cutting-out party I got this” – he tapped his scar – “and a slug in the bicep. Balagnini jumped on him as he was scrambling up their stern-cable – Buster’s pistol misfired – he was the most confounded careless chap imaginable with firearms, you know – and the Balagnini took the dear old chap’s head almost clean off with his parang. Bad business.” They shook their heads and agreed it was a d----d shame, but cheered up presently when someone recalled that Jack Penty had settled the Balagnini with a lovely backhand cut soon after, and from this they passed to recalling similar happy memories of old pals and enemies, most of ’em deceased in the most grisly circumstances, apparently. Just the kind of thing I like to hear before breakfast – but, d’you know, I learned from Brooke afterwards, that they’d absolutely been trying to raise my spirits. “Forgive their levity,” says he, “it is kindly meant. Charlie Wade sees you are quite down in the dumps, fretting about your lady, and he tries to divert you with his chatter about battles past and brave actions ahead – well, when the warhorse hears the trumpets, he don’t think about much else, does he? If you just give your mind to what’s to do – and I know you’re itching to be at it – you’ll feel ever so much better.” He muttered something else about my heart being tender enough to suffer, but tough enough not to break, and tooled off to see that we were still headed in the right direction. By this time I was ready to bolt, but that’s the trouble with being afloat – you can only run in circles. There was land not far off, of course, if one could have reached it through water that was no doubt well-stocked with crocodiles, and was prepared to wander in unexplored jungle full of head-hunters. And the prospect got worse through that steaming, fevered day; the river twisted and got narrower, until there was a bare few hundred yards of sluggish water either side of the vessels, with a solid jungle wall hemming us in. Whenever a bird screamed in the undergrowth I almost had a seizure, and we were tormented by mosquito clouds which added their unceasing buzzing to the monotonous throb of Phlegethon’s engines and the rhythmic swish of the praus’ sweeps. Worst of all was the stench – the farther we went on, the closer the jungle loomed in on us, the more unbearable became that rotten, musky, choking atmosphere, stifling in its steaming intensity. It conjured up nightmares of corpses decaying in loathsome swamps – I found the sweat which bathed me turning to ice as I watched that hostile green forest wall, conjuring up hideous faces in its shadows, imagining painted horrors lurking in its depths, waiting. If day was bad, night was ten times worse. Dark found us still a few miles from Patusan, and the mist came with the dusk; as we swung at anchor in midstream there was nothing to be seen but pale white wraiths coming and going in the festering gloom. With all engines stopped you could hear the water gurgling oozily by, even above the d---l’s chorus of screams and yells from the darkness – I was new to jungle, and had no conception of the appalling din with Which it is filled at night. I stayed on deck about ten minutes, in which time I saw at least half a dozen skull-laden praus crammed with savages starting to emerge from the shadows, at which point they dissolved into shadows themselves – after that I decided I might as well turn in, which I did by plumbing the depths of that sweltering iron tub, finding a hole in the corner of the engine-room, and crouching there with my Colt in my fist, listening to the evil whispers of head-hunters congregating on the other side of the half-inch plate. And barely ten days before I’d been unbuttoning in that Singapore chop-house, bursting with best meat and drink, and running a lascivious eye over Madame Sabba! Now, thanks to Elspeth’s wantoning, I was on the eve of death, or worse – if I get out of this, thinks I, I’ll divorce the b---h, that’s flat. I’d been a fool ever to marry her – and brooding on that I must have dozed, for I could see her in that sunny field by the river, golden hair tumbled in the grass, cheeks moist and pink from the ecstasy of our first acquaintance, smiling at me. That lovely white body – and then like a black shadow came the recollection of the hideous fate of those captive women at Linga – those same bestial savages had Elspeth at their mercy – even now she might be being ravished by some filthy dacoit, or suffering unmentionable agonies … I was awake, gasping, drenched on the cold iron. “They shan’t hurt you, old girl!” I was absolutely croaking in the dark. “They shan’t! I’ll – I’ll—” What would I do? Rush to her rescue, like Dick Dauntless, against the kind of human ghouls I’d seen on that pirate prau? I wouldn’t dare – it wasn’t a question I’d even have asked myself, normally, for the great advantage to real true-blue cowardice like mine, you see, was that I’d always been able to take it for granted and no regrets or qualms of conscience; it had served its turn, and I’d never lost a wink over Hudson or old Iqbal or any of the other honoured dead who’d served me as stepping-stones to safety. But Elspeth … and to haunt me in that stinking stokehold came the appalling question: suppose it was my skin or hers – would I turn tail then? I didn’t know, but judging by the form-book I could guess, and for once the alternative to suffering and death was as horrible as death itself. I even found myself wondering if there was perhaps a limit to my funk, and that was such a fearful thought that between it and the terrors ahead I was driven to prayer, along the lines of Oh, kind God, forgive all the beastly sins I’ve committed, and a few that I’ll certainly commit if I get out of this, or rather, pay no attention to ’em, Heavenly Father, but turn all Thy Grace on Elspeth and me, and save us both – but if it’s got to be one or t’other of us, for Ch----’s sake don’t leave the decision to me. And whatever Thy will, don’t let me suffer mutilation or torment – if it’ll save her, you can even blot me out suddenly so that I don’t know about it – no, hold on, though, better still, take Brooke – the h–’s been asking for it, and he’ll adore a martyr’s crown, and be a credit to Thy company of saints. But save Elspeth, and me, too, for I’ll get no benefit from her salvation if I’m dead … Which was all wasted piety, if you like, since Elspeth was presumably snug in Solomon’s bed aboard the Sulu Queen and a d----d sight safer than I was, but there’s nothing like the fear of violent death for playing havoc with reason and logic. I dare say if Socrates had been up the Batang Lupar that night he might have put my thoughts in order – not that he’d have had much chance; he’d have had a Colt thrust into his fist and been pushed over the side with instructions to lay on like fury, look out for a blonde female in distress, and give me a shout when the coast was clear. As it was, having no counsel but my own, I went to sleep. [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, August—, 1844] An extremely uncomfortable night – oppressive heat – and much plagued by Insects. The noise of the Natives is too much to be borne. Why should they beat their Gongs after dark? No doubt it has some Religious Purpose; if so, it is trying to a degree. I despair of sleep, even in Nature’s Garb, so intense is the heat and drumliness of the air; it is with difficulty that I pen even these few lines; the paper is quite damp, and blots most provokingly. No sign of Don S. since this morning, when I was allowed briefly on deck for air and exercise. Almost forgot my pitiful condition in the interest of what I saw, of which I have Rough Notes, and a few modest sketches. The colours of the Forest Blooms are most exquisite, but Pale to Nothing before the Extravagance of the Natives themselves. So many Splendid and Barbaric galleys, adorned with streamers and flags, like Corsairs of yore, manned by Swarthy Crews, many of repulsive appearance, but others quite commanding. As I stood in the bows, one such galley swept by on the bosom of the stream, urged on by the oars plied by Dusky Argonauts, and at the back of the boat, plainly its Chief, a Tall and Most Elegantly Shaped Young Barbarian, clad in a saronga of Shimmering Gold, with many ornaments on his exposed arms and legs – really a most Noble Carriage and quite handsome for a Native, who inclined his head to me and smiled pleasantly, very respectfully, yet with a Natural Dignity. Not at all Yellow, but quite pale of skin, as I had imagined an Aztec God. His name, as I discovered by discreet inquiry of Don S., is Sheriff Saheeb, and I suppose from this title that he is at least a Justice of the Peace. I believe he would have come aboard our vessel, but Don S. spoke to him from the Gangway, which I confess was a Disappointment, for he seemed a Personage of some gentility – if one may use the word of a Heathen – and I should have liked time to sketch him, and try if I could not capture some of that Savage Nobility of his bearing. However, I have not passed my time in idle staring, but recollecting what Lord Fitzroy Somerset told me at the Guards Ball, have made careful count of all the armaments I have seen, and the disposition of the Enemy’s Strength, which I have noted separately, both the number of large guns and ships, or galleys. There seem to be a vast host of these people, on land and water, which fills me with dread – how can I hope to be delivered? – but I shall not waste my pen on that, or other vain repining. A diverting occurrence, which I should not record, I know – I am a sadly undutiful daughter. Among the animals and birds (of the most beautiful plumage) I have seen, was a most droll Ape on one of the native boats, where I guess he is a pet creature – a most astonishing Pug, for never was anything more like a Human – quite as tall as a small man, and covered with an overcoat of red hair of remarkable Luxuriance. He had such a Melancholy Expression, but with so appealing a “glint tae his e’en”, and the aspect of a dour wee old man, that I was greatly amused, and his captors, seeing my interest, made him perform most divertingly, for he had the trick of Perfect Imitation, and even essay’d to kindle a fire as they did, putting together twigs to himself – but poor Pug, they did not take light by themselves, as he expected they would! He was quite cast down, and Annoy’d, and it was when he Mouthed his Discontent and scattered his twigs in Temper, that I saw he was the Speaking Likeness of dear Papa, even to the way he screwed up his eyes! Almost I expected him to express himself with a round “De’il tak’ it!” What a preposterous fancy, to see a resemblance in that Brute to one’s parent – but he did look exactly like Papa in one of his tantrums! But this awoke such Poignant Memories, that I could not look long. So to my Prison again, and Forebodings, which I put resolutely from me. I am alive, so I hope – and will not be cast down!!! Don S. continues attentive, though I see little of him; he tells me the name of my Ape is Man of the Forest. I close this day with a Prayer to my Merciful Father in Heaven – oh, let him send my H. soon to me! [End of extract – and a most malicious libel on a good and honest Parent who, whatever his faults, deserved kinder usage from an Ungrateful Child whom he indulged far too much!! – G. de R.] (#ulink_c6199056-e472-57fe-a239-3cf73efff413) Malay chess, an interesting variant of the game in which the king can make the knight’s move when checked. (#ulink_22075b92-5a83-5f1e-8073-16d528f19e1f) Early morning tea. Chapter 7 (#ulink_53003037-1f24-561f-82c9-3d0325f4c71a) I was back in Patusan just a few years ago, and it’s changed beyond belief. Now, past the bend of the river, there is a sleepy, warm little village of bamboo huts and booths, hemmed in by towering jungle trees, drowsing in the sunlight; fowls scratching in the dirt, women cooking, and no greater activity than a child tumbling and crying. However much I walked round, and squinted at it from odd angles, I couldn’t match it to my memory of bristling stockades along the banks, with five mighty wooden forts fringing the great clearing – the jungle must have been farther back then, and even the river has changed: it is broad and placid now, but I remember it narrow and choppy, and everything more cramped and enclosed; even the sky seems farther away nowadays, and there’s a great peace where once there was pandemonium of smoke and gunfire and rending timber and bloody water. They were waiting for us when we swept round the bend in line abreast, Phlegethon and the rocket-praus leading, with our spy-boats lurking under the counters waiting to strike. Although it was broad dawn you couldn’t see the water at all; there was a blanket of mist a yard deep on its surface, cutting off not only sight but sound, so that even the Phlegethon’s wheel gave only a muffled thump as it hit the water, and the splash of the sweeps was a dull, continuous churning as we ploughed the fog. There was a huge log-boom just visible above the mist fifty yards ahead, and beyond it a sight to freeze your blood – from bank to bank, a line of great war-praus, swarming with armed men, pennants hanging from their masts, skull-fringes bobbing, and as we came into view, a hideous yell going up from every deck, the war-gongs booming, and that d---l’s horde shaking their fists and brandishing their weapons. It was taken up from the manned stockades on the right bank, and the wooden forts behind – and then the fort guns and the praus’ bow-chasers belched smoke, and the air was thick with screaming shot, whining overhead, driving up jets of water from the misty surface or crashing home into the timbers of our craft. The rocket-praus fired back, and in a moment the still air was criss-crossed with the smoky vapour trails, and the pirate battle-line shuddered under the pounding of the Congreves; shattering explosions on their decks, bursts of flame and smoke, men diving from their upper works, and then their cannon roaring back again, turning the narrow river into an inferno of noise and destruction. “Spy-boats away!” bawls Brooke from the Phlegethon’s rail, and out from under the counters raced half a dozen of Paitingi’s shells, darting in towards the boom, only the rowers visible above the mist, so that each crew was just a line of heads and shoulders cleaving through that woolly blanket. Just beyond the boom the foggy water was thick with enemy canoes, their musketeers firing raggedly at our spy-boats. I saw heads vanish here and there as the shots took effect, but the spy-boats forged on, and now the pirates were closing on the boom itself, scrambling on to the huge logs, swords and parangs in hand, to deny our men a foot-hold. And above both sides the great gun duel continued, between our praus and theirs, in one continuous h---lish din of explosion and crashing timber, punctuated by screams of wounded men and bellowed commands. You couldn’t hear yourself think, but at such times it’s best not to, anyway. I was at Brooke’s elbow, straining every nerve to keep his body between mine and the enemy’s fire without being too obvious about it. Now he was directing our musketeers’ fire from the Phlegethon’s bow, to cover our spy-boatmen, who were fighting furiously to drive the pirates from the boom so that the great binding-ropes could be cut and the boom broken to give our vessels passage; I flung myself down, yelling nonsense, between two of our riflemen, seizing a piece myself and making great play at loading it. Brooke, on his feet, was walking from man to man, pointing out targets. “That one in the yellow scarf – lively, now! Got him! The big fellow with the spear – the Malay beyond Paitingi – there, now, the fat one in the stern of yon canoe. Blaze away, boys! They’re failing – go on, Stuart, get the axes going on those cables! Come on, Flashman, off we go!” He slapped me on the shoulder – just when I’d got myself nice and snug behind the sandbags, too – and perforce I had to tumble after him over the Phlegethon’s side into the Jolly Bachelor, which was bobbing alongside, packed with Dido’s men. I heard a shot clang on the Phlegethon’s plates just above my head as I went sprawling into the sloop, and then hands were hauling me upright, and a bearded tar was grinning and yelling: “’Ere we go, sir! Twice round the light’ouse for a penny!” I plunged after Brooke, stumbling over the cursing, cheering men who squatted on the deck, and fetched up beside him near the bow-chaser, where he was trying to make himself heard above the din, and pointing ahead. We were driving in towards the boom, under a canopy of rocket-smoke, and now the gunfire was dispersing the mist, and you could see the oily water, already littered with broken timbers, and even a body here and there, rolling limp. On the boom it was a hand-to-hand m?l?e between the pirate canoes and our spy-boatmen, a slippering, slashing dog-fight of glittering parangs and thrusting spears, with crashing musketry at point-blank range over the logs. I saw Paitingi, erect on the boom, laying about him with a broken oar; Stuart, holding off a naked pirate with his cutlass, shielding two Chinese who were swinging their axes at the great rattan cables securing the boom. Even as I watched, the cables parted, and the logs rolled, sending friend and foe headlong into the water; the Jolly Bachelor gave a great yell of triumph, and we were heading for the gap, into the smoke, while from our bow a blue light went up to signal the praus. There was a frantic five minutes while we backed water in the space between the broken sides of the boom, Brooke and the bow-chaser crew spraying grape ahead of us, and the rest of us banging away at anything that looked like a hostile shape, either on the boom itself or in the canoes beyond. I used my Colt sparingly, crouched down by the bulwark, and keeping as well snuggled into the mob of tars as possible; once, when a canoe came surging out of the smoke, with a great yellow d---l in a quilted tunic and spiked helmet in the prow, brandishing a barbed lance, I took a steady sight and missed him twice, but my third shot got him clean amidships as he was preparing to leap for our rail, and he tumbled into the water. “Bravo, Flashman!” cries Brooke. “Here, come up beside me!” And there I was again, red in the face with panic, stumbling up beside him as he leaned over the side, helping to haul Stuart out of the water – he’d swum from the broken boom, and was gasping on the deck, sodden wet, with a trickle of blood running from his left sleeve. “Steady all!” roars Brooke. “Ready, oarsmen! Every musket primed? Right, hold on, there! Wait for the praus!” Beyond the tangle of wreckage and foundering canoes, beyond the struggling swimmers and floating bodies, the two ends of the boom were now a good fifty yards apart, drifting slowly behind us on the current. The spy-boats had done their work, and our praus were moving ahead under their sweeps, coming up into line, half a dozen on either side, while the rocket-praus, farther back, were still cannonading away at the pirate line, perhaps two cables’ lengths ahead. Three or four of them were burning furiously, and a great reek of black smoke was surging down river towards us, but their line was still solid, and their bow guns fired steadily, sending up clouds of water round our praus and battering their upper works. Between them and us their canoes were in retreat, scurrying for the safety of the larger craft; Brooke nodded with satisfaction. “So far, so good!” cries he, and standing up in the bows, he waved his hat. “Now then, you fellows, put your backs into it! Two blue lights, there – signal the advance! Cutlasses and small arms, everyone – tally-ho!” The blue-jackets yelled and stamped, and as the blue lights went up the cheering spread along our line, and on either side the praus drove forward, bow-chasers blazing away, musketeers firing from the platforms, the crews crowding forward to the bows. As our line steadied the gunfire rose to a new crescendo; we were crouching down as the shot whined above us, and suddenly there was an appalling smash, a chorus of shrieks, and I found myself sodden with blood, staring in horror at two legs and half a body thrashing feebly on the deck in front of me, where an instant before a seaman had been ramming shot into the bow-chaser. I sat down heavily, pawing at the disgusting mess, and then Brooke had me on my feet again, yelling to know if I was all right, and I was yelling back that the corn on my big toe was giving me h--l – G-d knows why one says these things, but he gave a wild laugh and pushed me forward to the bow rail. I crouched down, shuddering and ready to vomit, helpless with fear – but who would have recognized it then? Suddenly the cannonading died, and for a few seconds there was a silence in which you could hear the water chuckling under the Jolly Bachelor’s forefoot as she went gliding forward. Then the musketry crashed out again, as our sharpshooters on the praus poured their fire into the pirate line, and the pirates gave us back volley for volley. Thank G-d the Jolly Bachelor was too low and too close now for them to get at us with cannon, but as we drove in towards them the water either side was boiling with their small shot, and behind me there were cries and oaths of men hit; our whole line was charging across the water, praus on the flanks, Jolly Bachelor in the centre, towards the pirate vessels; they were barely fifty yards off, and I could only stare in horror at the nearest one, dead ahead, the platform which jutted out from her rails crowded with savage howling faces, brandished steel, and smoking barrels – “They’ll shoot us to pieces! We’ll founder – Jesus loves me!” someone was shouting, but nobody heard me in that fearful din. A seaman at my elbow screamed and stood up, tearing at a sumpitan dart in his arm; as I dived for the cover of the rail another stood quivering in a cable a foot from my face; Brooke leaned over, grinning, snapped it off, tossed it away, and then did an unbelievable thing. I didn’t credit it then, and scarcely do now, but it’s a fact. He stood up, full height in the bows, one foot on the rail, threw away his straw hat, and folded his arms, staring straight ahead at that yelling, grimacing Death that was launching shot, steel, and poisoned arrows at us in clouds. He was smiling serenely, and seemed to be saying something. “Get down, you mad b----r!” I shouted, but he never even heard, and then I realized that he wasn’t speaking – he was singing. Above the crash of musketry, the whistle and thump of those horrid darts, the screams and the yells, you could hear it: “Come, cheer up, my lads, ’Tis to glory we steer, To add something new To this wonderful year—” He was turning now, one hand on a stay for balance, thumping the time with his other fist, his face alight with laughter, roaring to us to sing – and from the mob behind it came thundering out: “Heart of oak are our ships, Jolly tars are our men, We always are ready, Steady, boys, steady, We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again!” The Jolly Bachelor shuddered in the water as we scraped under the platform of the pirate prau, and then shrieking, slashing figures were dropping among us; I went sprawling on the deck, with someone treading on my head, and came up to find myself staring into a contorted, screaming yellow face; I had an instant’s glimpse of a jade earring carved like a half-moon, and a scarlet turban, and then he had gone over the side with a cutlass jammed to the hilt in his stomach; I fired at him as he fell, slipped in the blood on the deck, and finishing up in the scuppers, glaring about me in panic. The deck was in turmoil, resolving itself into knots of blue-jackets, each killing a struggling pirate in their midst and heaving the bodies overside; the prau we had scraped was behind us now, and Brooke was yelling: “Steady, oarsmen! Pull with a will! There’s our quarry, you chaps! Straight ahead!” He was pointing to the right bank, where the stockade, hit by rocket fire, was collapsed in smouldering ruin; beyond it lay one of the forts, its stockade blazing fiercely, with figures scattering away, and a gallant few trying to douse the flames. Behind us was an unbelievable carnage; our praus and the pirates’ locked together in a bloody hand-to-hand struggle, and through the gaps our longboats surging in the wake of the Jolly Bachelor, loaded with Malay swordsmen and Dyaks. The water was littered with smoking wreckage and struggling forms; men were falling from the platforms, and our boats were picking them up when they were friends, or butchering them in the bloody current if they were pirates. Smoke from the burning praus was swirling in a great pall above the infernal scene; I remembered that line about “a death-shade round the ships” – and then someone was shaking my arm, and Brooke was shouting at me, pointing ahead to the nearing shore and the smoking breach in the stockade. “Take that fort!” he was yelling. “Lead the blue-jackets! Charge in, d’ye hear, no covering, no halting! Just tear in with the cutlass – watch out for women and kids, and prisoners! Chase ’em, Flashy! Good luck to you!” I inquired tactfully if he was b----y mad, but he was ten yards away by then, plunging through the shallows as our boat scraped into the shelving bank; he scrambled up the shore, waving to the other longboats to close on him; they were turning at his signal – and there was I, revolver in shaking fist, staring horrified over the bows at the charred ruins of the stockade, and beyond it, a good hundred yards of hard-beaten earth, already littered with cannon casualties, and beyond that again, the blazing barrier of the fort’s outer wall. Ch---t knew how many slashing fiends were waiting in there, ready to blast us with musketry and then rip us up at close quarters – if we ever got that far. I looked round at the Jolly Bachelor, crammed with yelling sailors, straw hats, bearded faces, white smocks, glaring eyes, cutlasses at the ready, waiting for the word. And the word, no doubt about it, was with old Flash. Well, whatever you may say of me, I know my duty, and if there was one thing Afghanistan had taught me, it was the art of leadership. In a trice I had seized a cutlass, thrust it aloft, and turned to the maddened crew behind me. “Ha, ha, you fellows!” I bellowed. “Here we go, then! Who’ll be first after me into yonder fort?” I sprang to the bank, waved my cutlass again, and bawled, “Follow me!” They came tumbling out of the boat on my heels, yelling and cheering, brandishing their weapons, and as I stood shouting, “On! On! Rule, Britannia!” they went pouring up the shore, scattering the embers of the stockade. I advanced with them, of course, pausing only to encourage those in the rear with manly cries, until I reckoned there were about a score in front of me; then I lit out in pursuit of the vanguard, not leading from behind, exactly – more from the middle, really, which is the safest place to be unless you’re up against civilized artillery. We charged across the open space, howling like hounds; as we ran, I saw that on our right flank Brooke was directing the Malay swordsmen towards another fort; they were drawing those dreadful kampilans with the hair-tufts on their hilts, and behind them came a second wave from the boats, of half-naked Iban, carrying their sumpitan spears and screeching “Dyak! Dyak!” as they ran. But none of ’em matched the speed and fury of my tars, who were now almost up to the blazing fort stockade; just as they reached it the whole thing, by great good luck, fell inwards with a great whooshing of sparks and smoke, and as the foremost leaped through the burning rubbish I was able to see how wise I’d been in not leading the charge myself – there, in a ragged double line, was a troop of pirate musketeers presenting their pieces. Out crashed their volley, knocking over one or two of our first fellows, and then the rest were into them, cutlasses swinging, with old Flash arriving full of noble noise at the point where our chaps were thickest. It seemed to me that I could employ my best efforts picking off the enemy with my Colt, and this gave me the opportunity to watch something which is worth going a long way to see, provided you can find a safe vantage – the terrible cut-and-thrust, shoulder to shoulder, of British blue-jackets in a body. I daresay the Navy has been teaching it since Blake’s day, and Mr Gilbert, who never dreamed what it was like, makes great fun of it nowadays, but I’ve seen it – and I know now why we’ve been ruling the oceans for centuries. There must have been a hundred pirates to our first line of twenty, but the tars just charged them in a solid wedge, cutlasses raised for the backhand cut – stamp and slash, then thrust, stamp and slash, then thrust, stamp-slash-thrust, and that pirate line melted into a fallen tangle of gashed faces and shoulders, through which the sailors ploughed roaring. Those pirates who still stood, turned tail and fairly pelted for the fort gates, with our chaps chasing and d--ning ’em for cowardly swabs – made me quite proud to be British, I can tell you. I was fairly close up with the front rank, by now, bellowing the odds and taking a juicy swipe at any wounded who happened to be looking t’other way. The defenders had obviously hoped their musketeers would hold us beyond the gate, but we were in before they knew it. There was a party of pirates trying to swing a great gun round to blast us at the entrance; one of ’em was snatching at a linstock, but before he could touch it off there were half a dozen thrown sheath-knives in his body, and he sprawled over the gun while the others turned and fled. We were in, and all that remained was to ferret out every pirate for the place to be ours. This presented no difficulty, since there weren’t any – for the simple reason that the cunning b-----ds had all sneaked out the back way, and were even now scurrying round to take us in the rear at the gate. I didn’t know this, of course, at the time; I was too busy despatching armed parties under petty officers to overrun the interior, which was like no fort I’d ever seen. In fact, it was Sharif Sahib’s personal bamboo palace and headquarters, a great labyrinth of houses, some of ’em even three storeys high, with outside staircases, connecting walkways, verandahs, and screened passages everywhere. We had just begun to ransack and loot, and had discovered the Sharif’s private wardrobe – an astonishing collection which included such varying garments as cloth-of-gold turbans, jewelled tiaras, toppers, and morning dress – when all h--l broke out from the direction of the main gate, and there was a general move in that direction. General, but not particular – while the loyal tars surged off in search of further blood, I was skipping nimbly out of Sharif Sahib’s wardrobe in the opposite direction. I didn’t know where it would lead, but it was at least away from the firing – I’d seen enough gore and horror for one day, and I sped quickly across a bamboo bridge into the adjoining house, which appeared to be deserted. There was a long passage, with doors on one side, and I was hesitating over which would be the safest bolt-hole, when one of them shot open and out rushed the biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life. He was at least seven feet tall, and as hideous as he was big – a great yellow, globular face set on massive shoulders, with a tasselled cap on top, staring pop-eyes, and a great sword clutched in his pudgy hands. He screamed at the sight of me, backing down the passage in a strange, waddling run, and then he swung his sword back over his head, squealing like a steam-whistle, overbalanced, and vanished with a rending crash down a steep flight of stairs. By the sound of it he must have carried away two floors with him, but I wasn’t waiting about for any more like him – I leaped through the nearest door, and stopped dead in my tracks, unable to believe my eyes. I was in a great room full of women. I closed my eyes, and opened them, wondering if I was dreaming, or having hallucinations after my trying day. It was still there, like something out of Burton’s “Arabian Nights” – the illustrated one that you can only get on the Continent. Silken hangings, couches, carpets, cushions, a stink of perfume coming at you in waves – and the ladies, a round score of them – beautifully round, I realized, and evidently proud of it, for there wasn’t clothing enough among the lot of ’em to cover one body respectably. A few sarongs, wisps of silk, bangles, satin trousers, a turban or two, but not worth a d--n when it came to concealing those splendid limbs, shapely hips, plump buttocks, and pouting tits. I could only gape, disbelieving, and tear my eyes from the bodies to the faces – every shade from coffee and beige to honey and white, and all beautiful; red lips parted and trembling, dark, kohl-fringed eyes wide with terror. I wondered for a moment if I’d been killed in the fight and transported to some delightful paradise; but celestial or earthly, I couldn’t pass up a chance like this, and the thought must have shown in my expression, for with one accord the whole gorgeous assembly screamed in unison, and turned to flee – mind, I don’t blame ’em, for Flashy leering in your doorway, covered in blood and grime, pistol in one hand and bloody cutlass in t’other, ain’t quite the vicar dropping in to tea. They ran pell-mell, falling over cushions, blundering into each other, scrambling for the other doors in the room, and it seemed only common sense to grab for the nearest, a voluptuous little thing whose entire wardrobe was a necklace and gauzy trousers; it may have been my hand on her ankle, or her top-heavy bosom, that made her overbalance; either way, she fell through a curtained alcove and slithered headlong down a narrow stairway, scrambling and shrieking with Flashy in hot pursuit. She fetched up against a screen wall at the bottom, I seized her joyfully – and in that moment I was recalled to a sense of my true position by a sound that drove all carnal thoughts from my mind: a deafening volley of musketry crashed in the street just outside the flimsy house-wall, there was a clash of steel, a jabber of native voices – pirates, for certain – and in the distance an English voice bawling orders to take cover. It seemed a capital notion; I pinned the wriggling wench to the floor, brandished my pistol, and mouthed at her to be silent. She lay shuddering in my grip, her face working with terror – lovely little face it was, part Chink-Indian-Malay, probably, great eyes filled with tears, short nose, plump little lips – and, by George, she was handsomely built, too; more by instinct than a-purpose, I found myself taking an appraising fondle, and she trembled under my hand, but had sense enough to keep her mouth shut. I listened fearfully; the pirates were moving just beyond our screen wall, and then suddenly they were blazing away again, yelling and cursing or crying out in agony, feet running and shots whining horribly near – I clapped a hand over her mouth and gripped her close, terrified that she would scream and bring some bestial savage cleaving through the flimsy wall to fillet me; we lay there, in the stuffy dimness of the stair-foot, with the noise of battle pounding by not six feet away, and once, during a second’s lull in the tumult, I heard the sounds of squealing and wailing somewhere overhead – the other young ladies of the Patusan finishing school waiting to be ravished and murdered, presumably. I found I was hissing hysterically in her ear: “Quiet, quiet, quiet, for G-d’s sake!” and to my astonishment she was whimpering tearfully back, “Amiga sua, amiga sua!” stroking my sweating face with her hand, a look of terrified entreaty in her eyes – she was even trying to smile, too, a pathetic little grimace, straining to bring her slobbering lips up to mine, making little moaning noises. Well, I’ve seen women in the grip of terror often enough, but I couldn’t account for this passionate frenzy – until I realized that my shuddering was of a curiously rhythmic nature, that I had a quivering tit in one hand and a plump thigh in the other, that our nether garments seemed to have come adrift somehow, and that my innards were convulsing with another sensation besides fear. I was so startled I nearly broke stride – I’d never have believed that I could gallop a female without realizing I was doing it, yet here we were, thundering away like King Hal on honeymoon, after all I’d been through that day, and with battle, murder, and sudden death raging around us. It just shows how your better instinct will prevail in a crisis – some fall to prayer, others cry upon Queen and Country, but here’s one, I’m proud to say, who instinctively fornicated in the jaws of death, gibbering with fright and reckless lust, but giving of his best, for when you realize it may be your last ride you make the most of it. And, d’you know, it may well be true that perfect love casteth out fear, as Dr Arnold used to say; leastways, I doubt if I can ever have been in finer tupping trim, for in the last ecstatic moment my partner fainted clean away, and you can’t do better by ’em than that. They were still going at it hammer and tongs outside, but after a while the action seemed to move along, and when presently I heard in the distance the unmistakable sound of a British cheer, I judged it was safe to venture forth again. My wench had come to, and was lying limp and blubbering, too scared to stir; I had to lay the flat of my sword across her rump to drive her up the stairs, and then, after a cautious prowl, I sallied out. It was all over by then. My blue-jackets, who didn’t seem to have missed me, had driven off the pirate attack, and were busy emptying the fort of its valuables before it was burned, for Brooke was determined to destroy the pirate nests utterly. I told ’em that during the fighting I’d heard the cries of women in one of the buildings, and that the poor creatures must be sought out and treated with all consideration – I was very stern about that, but when they went to look it appeared that the whole gaggle had decamped into the jungle; there wasn’t a living soul left in the place, so I went off to find Brooke and report. Outside the fort it was a nightmare. The open space down to the river was littered with enemy corpses – most of them headless, for the victorious Dyaks had been busy at their ghastly work of collecting trophies, and the river itself was just a mess of smoking wreckage. The pirate praus had either been burned in the battle or had fled upriver; fewer than a quarter of them had escaped, scores of their crews had been killed or driven into the jungle, and great numbers of wounded and prisoners had been herded into one of the captured forts. All five of them had been taken, and two of them were already alight; when night came down on Patusan it was still as bright as day from the orange flare of the burning buildings, the heat was so intense that for a time we had to retire to our boats, but all through the night the work had to go on – prisoners to be guarded and fed, our own wounded to be cared for, the loot of the forts assessed and shipped, our vessels repaired, stores replenished, fresh weapons and ammunition issued, dead counted, and the whole sickening confusion restored to some sort of order. I’ve seen the aftermath of battle fifty times if I’ve seen it once, and it’s h-ll, but through all the foulness and exhaustion there’s always one cheery thought – I’m here. Sick and sore and weary, perhaps, but at least alive and sound with a place to lie down – and I’d had a good if somewhat alarming rattle into the bargain. The one snag was that there’d been no sign of the Sulu Queen, so the whole filthy business would have to be gone through again, which was not to be contemplated. I said as much to Brooke, in the faint hope that I might get him to give up – of course, I played it full of manly anguish, torn between love of Elspeth and concern at what her rescue had already cost. “T’ain’t right, raja,” says I, looking piously constipated. “I can’t ask this kind of … of sacrifice from you and your people. G-d knows how many lives will be lost – how many noble fellows … no, it won’t do. She’s my wife, and – well, it’s up to me, don’t you see …” It was dreadful humbug, hinting I’d take on the job single-handed, in some unspecified fashion – given the chance I’d have legged it for Singapore that instant, sent out reward notices, and sat back out of harm’s way. From which you may gather that a busy day among the Borneo pirates had quite dissipated the conscientious lunacy which had temporarily come over me in the stokehold the previous night. But I was wasting my time, of course; he just gripped my hand with tears in his eyes and cried: “Do you truly think there’s a man of us who would fail you now? We’ll win her back at any cost! Besides,” and he gritted his teeth, “there are these pirate rascals to stamp out still – we’ve won the decisive battle, thanks to valour such as yours, but we must give ’em the coup de gr?ce! So you see, I’d be bound to go on, even if your loved one were not in their foul hands.” He gripped my shoulder. “You’re a white man, Flashman – and I know you’d go on alone if you had to; well, you can count on J.B. to blazes and beyond, so there!” That was what I’d been afraid of. We were another two days at Patusan, waiting for news from Brooke’s spies and keeping to windward of the Dyaks’ funeral pyres on the river-bank, before word came that the Sulu Queen had been sighted twenty miles farther upstream, with a force of enemy praus, but when we cruised up there on the 10th the birds had flown to Sharif Muller’s fort on the Undup river, so for two more days we must toil after them, plagued by boiling heat and mosquitoes, the stream running stronger all the time and our pace reduced to a struggling crawl. The Phlegethon had to be left behind because of the current and snags, to which the pirates had added traps of tree-trunks and sunken rattan nets to trammel our sweeps; every few minutes there would have to be a halt while we cut our way loose, hacking at the creeper ropes, and then hauling on, drenched with sweat and oily water, panting for breath, eyes forever turning to that steaming olive wall that hemmed us in either side, waiting for the whistle of a sumpitan dart that every now and then would come winging out of the jungle to strike a paddler or quiver in the gunwales. Beith, Keppel’s surgeon, was up and down the fleet constantly, digging the beastly things out of limbs and cauterizing wounds; fortunately they were seldom fatal, but I reckoned we were suffering a casualty every half-hour. It wouldn’t have been too bad if I’d still had the Phlegethon’s iron sheets to skulk behind, but I had been assigned to Paitingi’s spy-boat, which was as often as not in the lead; only at night did I go back aboard the Jolly Bachelor with Brooke, and that wasn’t much comfort – huddled up for sleep at the foot of her ladder after the tintacks had been scattered on her deck against night attack, sweating in the cramped dark, filthy and unkempt, listening to the screaming noise of the jungle and the occasional distant throb of a war-gong – doom, doom, doom, out of the misty dark. “Drum away, Muller,” Brooke would say, “we’ll be playing you a livelier tune presently, just you wait. We’ll see some fun then – eh, Flashy?” By his lights, I suppose that what happened on the third day along the Undup was fun – a dawn attack on Muller’s fort, which was a great stockaded bamboo castle on a steep hill. The rocket-praus pounded it, and the remnants of the pirate fleet in their anchorage, and then Dido’s men and the Dyaks swarmed ashore, the latter war-dancing on the landing-ground before the assault, leaping, shaking their sumpitans and yelling “Dyak!” (“that’s aye their way,” says Paitingi to me as we watched from the spy-boat, “they’d sooner yelp than fight” – which I thought pretty hard). Poor Charlie Wade was killed storming the fort; I heard later he’d been shot while carrying a Malay child to shelter, which shows what Christian charity gets you. The only part I took in the fight, though, was when a prau broke free from the pirate anchorage and made off upriver, sweeps going like blazes and war-gong thundering. Paitingi danced up and down, roaring in Scotch and Arabic that he could see Muller’s personal banner on her, so our spy set off in pursuit. The prau foundered, burning from rocket-fire, but Muller, a persevering big villain in quilted armour and black turban, took to a sampan; we overhauled it, banging away, and I was having the horrors at the thought of boarding when the sensible chap dived overboard with his gang at his heels and swam for it. We lost him near the jungle-edge, and Paitingi tore his beard, cussing as only an Arab can. “Come back and fight, ye son-of-a-Malay-b---h!” cries he, shaking his fist. “Istagfurallah! Is it thus that pirates prove their courage? Aye, run to the jungle, ye Port Said pimp, you! By the Seven Heroes, I shall give thy head to my Lingas yet, thou uncircumcised carrion! Ach! Burn his grandmither – he’s awa’ wi’ it, so he is!” By this time the fort was taken, and we left it burning, and the dead unburied, for it had been discovered from a prisoner that our principal quarry, Suleiman Usman, with the Sulu Queen – and presumably my errant wife – had taken refuge up the Skrang river with a force of praus. So it was back down the Undup again, a good deal faster than we had come up, to the mainstream, where Phlegethon was guarding the junction. “You can’t run much farther now, Usman, my son,” says Brooke. “Skrang’s navigable for a few miles at most; if he takes Sulu Queen any distance up he’ll ground her. He’s bound to stand and fight – why, he’s still got more men and keels than we have, and while we’ve been chasing Muller he’s had time to put ’em in order. He must know we’re pretty used up and thinned out, too.” That was no lie, either. The faces round the table in Phlegethon’s tiny ward-room were puffy and hollow-eyed with fatigue; Keppel, the spruce naval officer of a week ago, looked like a scarecrow with his unshaven cheeks and matted hair, his uniform coat cut and torn and the epaulette burned away; Charlie Johnson, with his arm in a bloodstained sling, was dozing and waking like a clockwork doll; even Stuart, normally the liveliest of fellows, was sitting tuckered out, with his head in his hands, his half-cleaned revolver on the table before him. (I can see it now, with the little brass ram-rod sticking out of the barrel, and a big black moth perched on the foresight, rubbing its feelers.) Only Brooke was still as offensively chipper as ever, clean-shaven and alert, for all that his eyes looked like streaky bacon; he glanced round at us, and I could guess that he was thinking: this pack can’t follow much longer. “However,” says he, grinning slyly, “we ain’t as used up as all that, are we? I reckon there’s three days’ energy left in every man here – and four in me. I tell you what …” he squared his elbows on the table “… I’m going to give a dinner-party tomorrow night – full dress for everyone, of course – on the eve of what is going to be our last fight against these rascals—” “Bismillah! I’d like tae believe that,” says Paitingi. “Well, our last on this expedition, anyway,” cries Brooke. “It’s bound to be – either we wipe them up or they finish us – but that ain’t going to happen, not after the drubbings we’ve given ’em already. I’ve got a dozen of champagne down below, and we’ll crack ’em to our crowning success, eh?” “Wouldn’t it be better to keep ’em for afterwards?” says Keppel, but at this Stuart raised his head and shook it, smiling wearily. “Might not all be here by then. This way, everyone’s sure of a share beforehand – that’s what you said the night before we went in against the Lingas in the old Royalist, ain’t it, J.B.? Remember – the nineteen of us, five years ago? ‘There’s no drinking after death.’ By Jove, though – there ain’t many of the nineteen left …” “Plenty of new chums, though,” says Brooke quickly, “and they’re going to sing for their supper, just the way we did then, and have done ever since.” He shoved Charlie Johnson’s nodding head to and fro. “Wake up, Charlie! It’s singing night, if you want your dinner tomorrow! Come on, or I’ll shove a wet sponge down your back! Sing, laddie, sing! George has given you the lead!” Johnson blinked and stammered, but Brooke gave tongue with “Here’s a health to the King, and a lasting peace”, thumping the table, and Charlie came in, croaking, on the lines “So let us drink while we have breath For there’s no drinking after death” and carried on solo to the end, goggling like an owl, while Brooke beat the table and cried, good boy, Charlie, sick ’em, pup. The others looked embarrassed, but Brooke rounded on Keppel, badgering him to sing; Keppel didn’t want to, at first, and sat looking annoyed and sheepish, but Brooke worked away at him, full of high spirits, and what else was the chap to do? So he sang “Spanish Ladies” – he sang well, I’m bound to say, in a rolling bass – and by this time even the tiredest round the table were grinning and joining in the chorus, with Brooke encouraging and keeping time, and watching us like a hawk. He sang “The Arethusa” himself, and even coaxed Paitingi, who gave us a psalm, at which Charlie giggled hysterically, but Keppel joined in like thunder, and then Brooke glanced at me, nodding quietly, so I found myself giving ’em “Drink, puppy, drink”, and they stamped and thumped to make the cabin shiver. It was a shameful performance – so forced and false it was disgusting, this jolly lunatic putting heart into his men by making ’em sing, and everyone hating it. But they sang, you’ll notice, and me along with ’em, and at the finish Brooke jumps up and cries: “Come, that’s none so bad! We’ll have a choir yet. Spy-boats will lead tomorrow – 5 a.m. sharp, then Dido’s pinnace, the two cutters, gig, Jolly Bachelor, then the small boats. Dinner at seven, prompt. Good night, gentlemen!” And off he went, leaving us gawking at each other; then Keppel shook his head, smiling, and sighed, and we dispersed, feeling pretty foolish, I dare say. I found myself wondering why they tolerated Brooke and his schoolboy antics, which were patently pathetic; why did they humour him? – for that is what it was. It wasn’t fear, or love, or even respect; I suspect they felt it would somehow be mean to disappoint him, and so they fell in with every folly, whether it was charging a pirate prau in a jolly-boat or singing shanties when they ought to have been nursing their wounds or crawling away to sink into an exhausted sleep. Yes, they did humour him – G-d only knows why. Mind you, mad and dangerous as he was, I’m bound to say he was difficult to refuse, in anything. I managed it later that night, though, admittedly not to his face. I was snug under the Jolly Bachelor’s ladder when the pirates came sneaking silently out of the mist in sampans and tried to take us by surprise. They were on the deck and murdering our lookouts before we were any the wiser, and if it hadn’t been that the deck was littered with tacks to catch their bare feet, that would have been the end of the ship, and everyone aboard, including me. As it was, there was the deuce of a scrap in the dark, with Brooke yelling for everyone to pitch in – I burrowed closer into cover myself, clutching my pistol, until the hurroosh had died down, when I scuttled up quickly and blundered about, glaring and letting on that I’d been there all the time. I did yeoman work helping to heave dead pirates overside, and then we stood to until daylight, but they didn’t trouble us again. Next day it began to rain like fury, and we set off up the Skrang into a perfect sheet of water which cut visibility almost to nothing and pitted the river like small-shot. All day we toiled slowly into the murk, with the river narrowing until it was a bare furlong wide, and d---l an enemy did we see. I sat sodden in Paitingi’s spy-boat, reduced to the nadir of misery, baling constantly until my whole body cried out with one great ache; by dark I was dropping with fatigue – and then, when we anchored, d--n my skin if we didn’t have to shave and wash and dig out clean duds for Brooke’s dinner-party on the Jolly Bachelor. Looking back, I can’t imagine why I put up with it – I don’t attempt to fathom the minds of the others; they all dressed in their best, soaking wet, and I couldn’t show unwilling, could I? We assembled in the Jolly Bachelor’s cabin, steaming and dripping, and there was the table laid for dinner, silver, glass, and all, with Brooke in his blue swallow-tail and brass buttons, welcoming us like a b----y governor-general, taking wine with Keppel, waving us to our seats, and frowning because the turtle soup was cold. I don’t believe this is happening, thinks I; it’s all a terrible nightmare, and Stuart isn’t sitting opposite me in his black broadcloth with his string-cravat tied in a fancy bow, and this ain’t real champagne I’m drinking by the light of reeking slush-lamps, with everyone crowded round the board in the tiny cabin, and they’re not listening breathlessly while I tell ’em about getting Alfred Mynn leg-before at Lord’s. There aren’t any pirates, really, and we’re not miles up some stinking creek in Borneo, drinking the loyal toast with the thunder bellowing outside and the rain gushing down the companion, and Brooke clipping cigars and passing them round while the Malay steward puts the port on the table. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that all round us was a fleet of sampans and spy-boats, loaded with Dyaks and blue-jackets and other assorted savages, and that tomorrow we would be reliving the horror of Patusan all over again; it was all too wild and confused and unreal, and although I must have accounted for a bottle of warm champagne, and about a pint of port, I got up from that table as sober as I sat down. It was real enough in the morning, though – the morning of that last dreadful day on the Skrang river. The weather had cleared like magic just before dawn, and the narrow waterway ahead was gleaming brown and oily in the sunlight between its olive walls of jungle. It was deathly hot, and for once the forest was comparatively silent, but there was an excitement through the fleet that you could almost feel beating in waves through the muggy air; it wasn’t only that Brooke had predicted that this would be the last battle – I believe there was a realization too that if we didn’t reach conclusions with the pirates lurking somewhere ahead, our expedition would come to a halt through sheer exhaustion, and there would be nothing for it but to turn downriver again. It bred a kind of wild desperation in the others; Stuart was shivering with impatience as he dropped beside me into Paitingi’s spy-boat, drawing his pistol and shoving it back in his belt, then doing the same thing over again; even Paitingi, in the bow, was taut as a fiddle-string, snapping at the Lingas and twitching at his red beard. My own condition I leave you to guess. Our boy hero, of course, was his usual jaunty self. He was perched in the Jolly Bachelor’s bows as our spy-boat shoved off, straw hat on head, issuing his orders and cracking jokes fit to sicken you. “They’re there, old ’un,” cries he to Paitingi. “All right, I dare say you can’t smell ’em, but I can. We’ll fetch up with them by afternoon at latest, probably sooner. So keep a sharp lookout, and don’t get more than a pistol-shot ahead of the second spy, d’you hear?” “Aye, aye,” says Paitingi. “I don’t like it, J.B. It’s gey quiet. Suppose they’ve taken to the side-creeks – scattered and hid?” “Sulu Queen can’t hide,” calls Brooke. “She’s bound to hold to the mainstream, and that’s going to shoal on her before long. She’s the quarry, mind – take her, and the snake’s head is cut clean off. Here, have a mango.” He threw the fruit to Paitingi. “Never you mind the side-creeks; the instant you sight that steam-brig, up with a blue light and hold your station. We’ll do the rest.” Paitingi muttered something about ambush in the narrow water, and Brooke laughed and told him to stop croaking. “Remember the first chap you ever fought against?” cries he. “Well, what’s a parcel of pirates compared to him? Off you go, old lad – and good luck.” He waved as we shot away, the paddles skimming us into midstream and up to the first bend, with the other spies lining out in our wake and the Dido’s pinnace and Jolly Bachelor leading the heavier craft behind. I asked Stuart what Brooke had meant about the first chap Paitingi had fought, and he laughed. “That was Napoleon. Didn’t you know? Paitingi was in the Turkish army at the Battle of the Pyramids – weren’t you, gaffer?” “Aye,” growls Paitingi. “And got weel beat for my pains. But I tell ye, Stuart, I felt easier that day than I do this.” He fidgeted in the bow, leaning on the carronade to stare upriver under his hand. “There’s something no’ canny; I can feel it. Listen.” We strained our ears above the swish of the paddles, but except for the cries of birds in the forest, and the hum of the insect clouds close inshore, there was nothing. The river was empty, and by the sound of it the surrounding jungle was, too. “Don’t hear anything out o’ the way,” says Stuart. “Precisely,” says Paitingi. “No war-gongs – yet we’ve heard them every day for this week past. What ails them?” “Dunno,” says Stuart. “But ain’t that a good sign?” “Ask me this evening,” says Paitingi. “I hope I’ll be able to tell ye then.” His uneasiness infected me like the plague, for I knew he had as good a nose as any fighting-man I’d ever struck, and when such a one starts to twitch, look out. I had lively recollections of Sergeant Hudson sniffing trouble in the bleak emptiness of the Jallalabad road – by G-d, he’d been right, against all the signs, and here was Paitingi on the same tack, cocking his head, frowning, standing up from time to time to scan the impenetrable green, glancing at the sky, tugging his whiskers – it got on my nerves, and Stuart’s, too, yet there wasn’t sight nor smell of trouble as we glided up the silent river in the bright sunshine, slow mile after slow mile, through the brilliant bends and reaches, and always the stream brown and empty as far as we could see ahead. The air was empty and still; the sound of a mugger slipping with its heavy splash off a sandbank had us jumping up, reaching for our pistols; then a bird would screech on the other shore, and we would start round again, sweating cold in that steamy loneliness – I don’t know any place where you feel as naked and exposed as an empty jungle river, with that vast, hostile age-old forest all about you. Just like Lord’s, but no pavilion to run to. Paitingi stood it for a couple of hours and then lost patience. He had been using his glass to rake the mouths of the little, overhung side-creeks that we passed every now and then, dim, silent tunnels into the wild; now he glowered back at the second spy-boat, a hundred yards in our wake, and snapped an order to the paddlers to increase their stroke. The spy surged ahead, trembling beneath us; Stuart looked back anxiously at the widening gap. “J.B. said not more than a pistol-shot ahead,” says he, and Paitingi rounded on him. “If J.B. has his way, we’ll spring the trap wi’ our whole fleet! Then where’ll he be? D’ye think he kens more about handling a spy-boat than I do?” “But we’re to hold steady till we come up with the Sulu Queen—” “Shaitan take the Sulu Queen! She’s lying up in one o’ these creeks, whatever J.B. likes tae think. They’re not ahead of us, I tell ye – they’re either side! Sit doon, d--n ye!” he snaps at me. “Stuart! Pass the word – port paddles be ready to back water at my signal. Keep the stroke going! We’ll win him a half-mile of water to manoeuvre in, if we’re lucky! Steady – and wait for my word!” I couldn’t make anything of this, but it was plainly dreadful news. By what he said, we were inside the jaws of the trap already, and the woods full of hidden fiends waiting to pounce, and he was forging ahead to spring the ambush before the rest of our boats got well inside. I sat gagging with fear, staring at that silent wall of leaves, at the eddies swirling round the approaching bend, at Paitingi’s broad back as he crouched over the prow. The river had narrowed sharply in the last mile, to a bare hundred paces or so; the banks were so close I imagined I could see through the nearest trees, into the dark shadows beyond – was there something stirring there, could I hear some awful presence? – the spy-boat was fairly flying round the bend, and behind us the river was empty for a couple of furlongs, we were alone, far ahead— “Now!” roars Paitingi, dropping to his knees and clutching the gunwales, and as the port paddlers backed water the spy-boat spun crazily on her heel, her bow rearing clear out of the water so that we had to cling like grim death to avoid being hurled out. For an awful instant she hung suspended at a fearful angle, with the water a good six feet beneath my left elbow, then she came smashing down as though she would plunge to the bottom, wallowed with the water washing over her sides – and we were round and driving downriver, with Paitingi yelling to us to bale for our lives. The water was ankle deep as I scooped at it with my hat, dashing it over the side; the paddlers were gasping like leaky engines, the current helping to scud us along at a frightening pace – and then there was a yell from Paitingi, I raised my head to look, and saw a sight that froze me in my seat. A hundred yards ahead, downriver, something was moving from the tangle of the bank – a raft, poling slowly out on the bosom of the stream, crowded with men. At the same moment there was a great rending, tearing noise from the jungle on the opposite bank; the forest seemed to be moving slowly outward, and then it detached itself into one huge tree, a mass of tangled green, falling ponderously with a mighty splash to block a third of the stream on our port bow. From the jungle either side came the sudden thunderous boom of war-gongs; behind the first raft another was setting out; there were small canoes sprouting like black fingers from the banks ahead, each loaded with savages – where a moment since the river had been silent and empty it was now vomiting a horde of pirate craft, baying their war-cries, their boats alive with steel and yelling, cruel faces, cutting us off, swarming towards us. There were others on the banks on our beams, archers and blowpipemen; the whist-whist-whist of shafts came lancing towards us. “There – ye see?” roars Paitingi. “Whaur’s your clever J.B. now, Stuart? Sulu Queen, says he! Aye, weel, he’s got clear water tae work in – small thanks to himsel’! These sons o’ Eblis looked to trap a fleet – they’ve got one wee spy-boat!” And he stood up, roaring with laughter and defiance. “Drive for the gap, steersman! On, on! Charge!” There are moments in life which defy description – in my black moods they seem to have occurred about once a week, and I have difficulty distinguishing them. The last minutes at Balaclava, the moment when the Welsh broke at Little Hand Rock and the Zulus came bounding over our position, the breaching of Piper’s Fort gate, the neck-or-nothing race for Reno’s Bluff with the Sioux braves running among the shattered rabble of Custer’s Seventh – I’ve stretched my legs in all of those, knowing I was going to die, and being d----d noisy at the prospect. But in Paitingi’s spy-boat running was impossible – so, depressingly, was surrender. I observed those flat, evil faces sweeping down on us behind their glittering lance-heads and kampilans, and decided they weren’t open to discussion; there was nothing for it but to sit and blaze away in panic – and then a red-hot pain shot through my left ribs, and I looked down bewildered to see a sumpitan shaft in my side. Yellow, it was, with a little black tuft of lint on its butt, and I pawed at it, whimpering, until Stuart reached over and wrenched it clear, to my considerable discomfort. I screamed, twisted, and went over the side. I dare say it was that that saved me, although I’m blessed if I know how. I took a glance at the official account of the action before I wrote this, and evidently the historian had a similar difficulty in believing that anyone survived our little water-party, for he states flatly that every man-jack of Paitingi’s crew was slaughtered. He notes that they had got too far ahead, were cut off by a sudden ambush of rafts and praus, and by the time Brooke’s fleet had come storming up belatedly to the rescue, Paitingi and his followers had all been killed – there’s a graphic account of twenty boats jammed together in a bloody m?l?e, of thousands of pirates yelling on the bank, of the stream running crimson, with headless corpses, wreckage, and capsized craft drifting downstream – but never a word about poor old Flashy struggling half-foundered, dyeing the water with his precious gore, spluttering “Wait, you callous b-----s, I’m sinking!” Quite hurtful, being ignored like that, although I was glad enough of it at the time, when I saw how things were shaping. It was, I’ve since gathered, touch and go that Brooke’s whole fleet wasn’t wiped out; indeed, if it hadn’t been for Paitingi’s racing ahead, sacrificing his spy-boat like the gallant idiot he was, the pirates would have jumped the whole expedition together, but as it was, Brooke had time to dress his boats into line and charge in good order. It was a horrid near-run thing, though; Keppel confessed later that when he saw the fighting horde that was waiting for him, “for a moment I was at a loss what steps to take” – and there was one chap, treading water upstream with a hole in his belly and roaring for succour, who shared his sentiments exactly. I was viewing the action from t’other side, so to speak, but it looked just as confused and interesting to me as it did to Keppel. I was busy, of course, holding my wounded guts with one hand and clutching at a piece of wreckage with the other, trying to avoid being run down by boats full of ill-disposed persons with swords, but as I came up for the tenth time, I saw the last seconds of Paitingi’s spy-boat, crashing into the heart of the enemy, its bow-gun exploding to tear a bloody cleft through the crew of a raft. Then the pirate wave swept over them; I had a glimpse of Stuart, stuck like a pin-cushion with sumpitan darts, toppling into the water; of a Linga swordsman clearing a space with his kampilan swinging in a shining circle round his head; of another in the water, stabbing fiercely up at the foes above him; of the steersman, on hands and knees on the raft, being hacked literally into bits by a screaming crowd of pirates; of Paitingi, a bristling, red giant, his turban gone, roaring “Allah-il-Allah!” with a pirate swung up in his huge arms – and then there was just the shell of the spy-boat, overturned, in the swirling, bloody water, with the pirate boats surging away from it, turning to meet the distant, unseen enemy downstream. I didn’t have time to see any more. The water was roaring in my ears, I could feel my strength ebbing away through the tortured wound in my side, my fingers slipping from their grip on the wreckage, the sky and treetops were spinning slowly overhead, and across the surface of the water something – a boat? a raft? – was racing down on me with a clamour of voices. Air and water were full of the throbbing of war-gongs, and then I was hit a violent blow on the head, something scraped agonizingly over my body, forcing me down, choking with water, my ears pounding, lungs bursting … And then, as old Wild Bill would have said: “Why, boys – I drowned!” Chapter 8 (#ulink_54e1593a-e213-5910-bcb0-8dd4f04d0953) For a moment I thought I was back in Jallalabad, in that blissful awakening after the battle. There was a soft bed under me, sheets at my chin, and a cool breeze; I opened my eyes, and saw that it came from a porthole opposite me. That wasn’t right, though; no portholes in the Khyber country – I struggled with memory, and then a figure blocked the light, a huge figure in green sarong and sleeveless tunic, with a krees in his girdle, and fingering his earring as he stared down at me, his heavy brown face as hard as a curling-stone. “You should have died,” says Don Solomon Haslam. Just what an awakening invalid needs, of course, but it brought the nightmare flooding back – the reeking waters of the Skrang, the overwhelmed spy-boat, the dart in my side – I was conscious of a dull ache in my ribs, and of bandages. But where the d---l was I? In the Sulu Queen, sure enough, but even in that dizzy moment of waking I was aware that her motion was a slow, steady heave, there were no jungle noises, and the air blowing from the port was salt. I tried to speak, and my voice came in a parched croak. “What … what am I doing here?” “Surviving,” says he. “For the moment.” And then to my amazement he thrust his face into mine and snarled: “But you couldn’t die decently, could you? Oh no, not you! Hundreds perished in that river – but you survive! Every man of Paitingi’s – good men – Lingas who fought to the last – Paitingi himself, who was worth a thousand. All lost! But not you, blubbering in the water where my men found you! They should have left you to drown. I should have – bah!” He wheeled away, fuming. Well, I hadn’t expected him to be pleased to see me, but even in my confused state so much passion seemed a mite unreasonable. Was I delirious? – but no, I felt not bad, and when I tried to ease myself up on the pillows I found I could do it without much discomfort; one doesn’t care to be raved at lying down, you understand. A hundred questions and fears were jumbled in my mind, but the first one was: “How long have I been here?” “Two weeks.” He eyed me malevolently. “And if you wonder where, the Sulu Queen is approximately ten south seventy east, heading west-sou’-west.” Then, bitterly: “What the d---l else was I to do, once those fools had hauled you from the water? Let you die of gangrene – treat you as you deserved? Ha! That was the one thing I could not do!” Being still half-stupid with prolonged unconsciousness, I couldn’t make much of this. The last time I’d seen him, we’d been boon-companions, more or less, but since then he’d tried to murder me, kidnapped my wife, and turned out to be the arch-pirate of the Orient, which shed a different light on things. I tried to steady my whirling thoughts, but couldn’t. Anyway, he was obviously in a fearful wax because he’d felt obliged, G-d only knew why, not to let me perish of blow-pipe poison. Difficult to know what to say, so I didn’t. “You can guess why you are alive,” says he. “It is because of her – whose husband you were.” For a dreadful second I thought he meant she was dead; then my mind leaped to the conclusion that he meant he had taken her from me, and done the dirty deed on her – and at the very thought of my little Elspeth being abused by this vile nigger pirate, this scum of the East, my confusion and discretion vanished together in rage. “You b----y liar! I am her husband! She’s my wife! You kidnapped her, you filthy pirate, and—” “Kidnapped? Saved, you mean!” His eyes were blazing. “Rescued her from a mart – no, from a brute – who wasn’t fit to kiss her feet! Oh, no – it’s not kidnapping to take a pearl from a swine, who fouls her with his very touch, who treats her as a mere concubine, who betrays her—” “It’s a lie! I—” “Didn’t I see you with my own eyes? Coupling with that slut in my own library—” “Drawing-room—” “—that harlot Lade? Isn’t your name a byword in London for debauchery and vice, for every kind of lewdness and depravity?” “Not every kind! I never—” “A rake, a cheat, a bully and a whoremonger – that’s what I rescued that sweet, brave woman from. I took her from the hell of life with you—” “You’re mad!” I croaked. “She never said it was hell! She loves me, curse you – as I love her—” His hand swept across my face, knocking me back on my pillow, and I had sense enough to stay there, for he was a fearsome sight, shaking with fury, his mouth working. “What did you ever know of love?” cries he. “Let me hear that word on your lips again, and I’ll have them sewn together, with a scorpion in your mouth!” Well, when he put it like that, I saw there was no point in arguing. I lay there quaking, while he mastered himself and went on, more quietly: “Love is not for animals like you. Love is what I felt – for the first time – on an afternoon at Lord’s, when I saw her. I knew then, as surely as I know there is One God, that there could be no other woman, that I should worship her for life, a life that would be death without her. Yes, I knew then – what love was.” He let out a great breath, and he was trembling. By George, thinks I, we’ve got a maniac here – he means it. He heaved a minute, and then went on, like a poet on opium. “She filled my life from that moment; there was nothing else. But it was a pure love – she would have been sacred to n e, had she been married to a husband truly worthy of her. But when I saw the truth – that she was shackled to the basest kind of brute” – he shot me a withering look – “I asked why my life, and hers (which was infinitely more precious) should be ruined by a stupid convention which, after all, meant nothing to me. Oh, I was a gentleman, trained in the English way, at an English school – but I was also a prince of the House of Magandanu, descended from the Prophet himself – and I was a pirate, as you of the West know the word. Why should I respect your customs; when I could offer her a destiny as high above life with you as the stars are above the slime, why should I hesitate? I could make her a queen, instead of the chattel of a drunken, licentious bully who had only married her at pistol point!” “That ain’t fair! She was d----d glad to get me, and if that poxy little varmint Morrison says other – don’t hit me! I’m wounded!” “Not by one word, by one gesture, did she complain! Her loyalty, like everything else about her, is perfect – even to a worm like you! But I knew, and I determined to save her for a love worthy of her. So I worked, carefully, patiently, for both our sakes – it was torture to impose on that sweet innocence, but I knew that in time she would bless me for the subterfuge. I was ready to sacrifice anything – millions, what were they to me? I, who was half of the East, half of the West, was prepared to put myself beyond the law, beyond civilization, for her sake. I would give her a throne, a fortune – and true love. For I still have my kingdom of the East, and she shall share it with me.” Well, you won’t want me as British Ambassador, thinks I, but I kept mum, tactfully. He paced about the cabin, looking masterful as he prated on. “So I took her, and I fought for her – in the face of that vicious madman Brooke! Oh, he’ll come too often to Borneo, that one, with his lying piety and promises – he that is the bloodiest pirate of us all! No doubt he made a fine pretext of rescuing her, so that he could come again and harry and burn us, butcher our people—” He was working into a fine froth now, waving his hands. “What’s it to him, how we live? What sacred right has he to war on us and our ways? I’d have eaten his fleet alive on the Skrang, but for Paitingi! As it was, I slipped him in the creeks and came downriver, with this one vessel. He thinks he’s finished Suleiman Usman, does he? Let him come to Maludu, when I return there!” He paced some more, chewing over Brooke, and then rounded on me. “But he doesn’t matter – not now. You do. You’re here, and you’re inopportune.” He paused, considering me. “Yes … you should have died.” I wished to G-d he’d stop harping on that – you could see where it was going to lead. This wasn’t Don Solomon of Brook Street any longer, not so you’d notice – this was a beastly aborigine who went plundering about in ships festooned with skulls, and I was an inconvenient husband, ’nuff said. In addition, he clearly had more screws loose than a drunk sapper – all that moonshine about worshipping Elspeth, not being able to live without her, making her a queen – well! It would have been laughable if it hadn’t been true; after all, when a man kidnaps a married woman and fights a war over her, it ain’t just a passing fancy. But one thing was plain – his wooing hadn’t prospered, or I’d have been overside long ago, with a bag of coal round my ankles. Why the h--l couldn’t he have rattled her in London, and got tired of it, and we’d have been spared all this? But here we were, in a pickle whose delicacy made my flesh crawl. I considered, took a deep breath, and tried not to talk shrill. “Well, now, Don Solomon,” says I, “I take note of what you’ve said, and – ah – I’m glad we’ve had this little prose together, you know, and you’ve told me – um – what you think. Yes – you’ve put it very fair, and while I can’t but deplore what you’ve done, mind – well, I understand your feelings, as any man of sensibility must – and I’m that, I hope – and I see you were deeply affected by … well, by my wife – and I know what it’s like, of course – I mean, she’s a little stunner, we agree-heavens yes,” I babbled on, while he gaped in bewilderment, small blame to him. “But you’ve got it quite wrong you know; we’re a devoted couple, Elspeth – Mrs Flashman – and I, ask anyone – never a cross word – sublimely happy—” “And that whore Lade?” he snarled. “Is that your devotion?” “Why, my dear chap! The merest accident – I mean, that I noticed her at all – pure jealousy at seeing my wife flattered by your attentions – a man of your address, I mean, polished manners, charming, stinking rich – no, no, I mean, I found myself quite cut out – and Mrs Lade, well … heat of the moment – you know yourself how one can be carried away—” It was touch and go that he didn’t savage me on the bed, considering the drivel I was talking – but it sometimes works, rubbish with a ring of sincerity, when you’re stuck with a hopeless case. It didn’t here; he strode to the bed, seized me by the shoulder, and drew back his great fist. “You infernal liar!” cries he. “D’you think you can gammon me with your snivelling?” “I’m not!” I bawled. “I love Elspeth, and she loves me, and you know it! She don’t want you!” I’d done it now, I could see, so I went roaring on: “That’s why you wish I’d died – because you know if you harm me now, your last hope of winning her is gone! Don’t – I’m an invalid – my wound!” His fingers bit my shoulder like a vice; suddenly he flung me back and straightened up, with an ugly laugh. “So that’s what you’re counting on! Why, you miserable toad, she doesn’t even know you’re here. I could drop you overboard, and she’d never know. Aye, you go pale at—” “I don’t believe you! If that were true you’d have done me in already – you tried it in Singapore, rot you, with your foul black gangsters!” He stared at me. “I’ve no notion what you’re talking about,” and he sounded sincere, curse him. “I don’t expect you to understand it, Flashman, but the reason you’re still alive is that I’m a man of honour. When I take her to her throne – and I shall – it will be with a clean hand, not one fouled with a husband’s blood – even a husband like you.” That was reassuring enough to banish my immediate terrors; I even recovered sufficiently for a cautious sneer. “Talk’s cheap, Solomon. Honour, says you – but you ain’t above wife-stealing, and cheating at cricket – oh, aye, breaking a chap’s wicket when you’ve laid him out foul! If you’re such a man of honour,” I taunted him, “you’d let Elspeth choose for herself – but you daren’t, ’cos you know she’d plump for me, warts and all!” He stood stock still, just looking at me, without expression, fingering his earring again. Then after a moment, he nodded, slowly. “Yes,” says he quietly. “It must come to that, must it not? Very well.” He threw open the door, and barked an order, glancing oddly at me while we waited. Feet sounded – and I felt my heart begin to thump uncontrollably as I sat up in bed; G-d knows why, but I was suddenly dizzy – and then she was there in the doorway, and for a moment I thought it was someone else – this was some Eastern nymph, in a clinging sarong of red silk, her skin tanned to the gold of honey, whereas Elspeth’s was like milk. Her blonde hair was bleached almost white by the sun – and then I saw those magnificent blue eyes, round with bewilderment like her lips, and I heard a sob coming out of me: “Elspeth!” She gave a little scream, and stumbled in the doorway, putting her hand to her eyes – and then she was running to my arms, crying “Harry! Oh, Harry!” flinging herself at me, her mouth against mine, clutching my head in wild hands, sobbing hysterically, and I forgot Solomon, and the ache of my wound, and fear, and danger, as I pressed that lovely softness against me and kissed and kissed her until she went suddenly limp, and slid from my arms to the floor in a dead faint. It was only then, as I scrambled out, clutching my bandaged side, that I realized the door was closed, and Solomon was gone. I tried to haul her up to the bed, but I was still weak as a kitten from my wound and confinement, and couldn’t manage it. So I had to be content with pawing and fondling until her eyes fluttered open, and then she clung to me, muttering my name, and after we had babbled thankfully for a few minutes and exchanged our news, so to speak, we got down to the reunion in earnest – and in the middle of it, while I was just wondering if my wound was about to come asunder, she suddenly pulled her mouth free of mine and cried: “Harry – what is Mrs Leo Lade to you?” “Hey?” I yelped. “What? What d’ye mean? Who’s she? I mean—” “You know her very well! The Duke’s … companion, who paid you such singular attention. What is between you?” “Good G-d! At a time like this – Elspeth, my dear, what has Mrs Lade to do with anything?” “That is what I am asking. No, desist – Don Solomon said … hinted … of an attachment. Is this true?” You wouldn’t credit it – here she was, on a pirate ship, having been abducted, shanghaied round half the East, through war, ambush, and confounded head-hunters, reunited with her long-lost spouse, and just as he was proving his undying affection at grievous risk to his health, her jealous little pea-brain was off on another tack altogether. Unbelievable – and most unflattering. But I was equal to the occasion. “Solomon!” cries I. “That viper! Has he been trying to poison your mind against me with his lies? I might have guessed it! Not content with stealing you, the villain traduces me to you – don’t you see? He’ll stop at nothing to win you away from me.” “Oh.” She frowned up at me – G-d, she was lovely, if half-witted. “You mean he – oh, how could he be so base? Oh, Harry” – and she began to cry, trembling all down her body in a way that almost brought me to the boil – “all the rest I could bear – the fear and shame and … and all of it, but the thought that you might have been untrue … as he suggested – ah, that would have broken my heart! Tell me it wasn’t so, my love!” “Course it wasn’t! Good l--d, that raddled pudding Lade! How could you think it? I despise the woman – and as though I could even look at her, or any other, when I have my own perfect, angelic, Aphrodite—” I tried a couple of cautious thrusts as I saw the suspicion dying in her eyes, but since attack’s the best form of defence I suddenly stopped, frowning thunderously. “That foul kite Solomon! He will stoop to any depth. Oh, dearest, I have been mad these past weeks – the thought of you in his clutches.” I gulped in manly torment. “Tell me – in your ordeal – did he … I mean – well … did he, the scoundrel?” She was flushed with my attentions anyway, but at this she went crimson, and moaned softly, those innocent eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, how can you ask? Would I be alive now, if … if … Oh, Harry, I cannot believe it is you, holding me safe! Oh, my love!” Well, that was that settled (so far as it ever is with Elspeth; I’ve never been able to read those child-like eyes and butter-melting lips, so the d---l with it), and Mrs Lade disposed of, at least until we had finished the business in hand and were lying talking in the growing dusk of the cabin. Naturally, Elspeth’s story came flooding out in an excited stream, and I was listening with my mind in a great confusion, what with my weakened state, the crazy shock of our reunion, and the anxiety of our predicament – and suddenly, in the middle of describing the rations they’d fed her during her captivity, she suddenly said: “Harry – you are sure you have not been astride Mrs Lade?” I was so amazed she had to say it twice. “Eh? Good G-d, girl, what d’you mean?” “Have you mounted her?” I can’t think how I’ve kept my sanity, talking to that woman for sixty years. Of course, at this time we’d only been married for five, and I hadn’t plumbed the depths of her eccentricity. I could only gargle and exclaim: “D----t, I’ve told you I haven’t! And where on earth – it is shocking to use expressions of that kind!” “Why? You use them – I heard you, at Lady Chalmers’, when you were talking to Jack Speedicut, and you were both remarking on Lottie Cavendish, and whatever her husband could see in such a foolish creature, and you said you expected he found her a good mount. I dare say I was not meant to hear.” “I should think not! And I can have said no such thing – and anyway, ladies ain’t meant to understand such … such vulgar words.” “The ladies who get mounted must understand them.” “They ain’t ladies!” “Why not? Lottie Cavendish is. So am I, and you have mounted me – lots of times.” She sighed, and nestled close, G-d help us. “Well, I have not … done any such thing with Mrs Lade, so there.” “I’m so glad,” says she, and promptly fell asleep. Now, I’ve told you this, partly because it’s all of the conversation that I remember of that reunion, and also to let you understand what a truly impossible scatterhead Elspeth was – and still is. There’s something missing there; always has been, and it makes her senselessly unpredictable. (Heaven knows what idiocy she’ll come out with on her deathbed, but I’ll lay drunkard’s odds it’s nothing to do with dying. I only hope I ain’t still above ground to hear it, though.) She’d been through an ordeal that would have driven most women out of their wits – not that she had many to start with – but now she was back with me, safe as she supposed, she seemed to have no notion of the peril in which we both stood; why, when Solomon’s Malays took her away to her own quarters that first night, she was more concerned about the sunburn she’d taken, and if it would spoil her complexion, than about the fate Solomon might have in store for us. What can you do with a woman like that? Mind you, there was a dead weight off my heart at having seen her, and knowing she’d come to no bodily harm. At least her captivity hadn’t changed her – come to think of it, if she’d wept and raved about her sufferings, or sat numb and shocked, or been terrified of her situation, like a normal woman – she wouldn’t have been Elspeth, and that would have been worse than anything, somehow. For the next two days I was confined to my cabin, and didn’t see a living soul except the Chink steward who brought my food, and he was deaf to all my demands and questions. I’d no notion what was happening, or where we were going; I knew from what Solomon had said that we were in the South Indian Ocean, and the sun confirmed that we were westering steadily, but that was all. What did Solomon intend? – the one thing that grew on me was that he wasn’t likely to do me in, praise God, not now that Elspeth had seen me, for that would have scuppered any hopes he had of winning her. And that was the nub of it. You see, lunatic though his behaviour had been, the more I thought about it the more I believed him: the blighter was really mad about her, and not just to board and scuttle her, either, but with all the pure, romantic trimmings, like Shelley or one of those chaps. Astonishing – well, I love her myself, always have, but not to put me off my food. But Solomon had it to the point of obsession, where he’d been willing to kidnap and kill and give up civilization for her. And he’d believed that, in spite of his behaving like a b----y Barbary corsair, he could eventually woo and win her, given time. But then he’d seen her run to my arms, sobbing, and had realized it was no go; shocking blow it must have been. He’d probably been gnawing his futile passion ever since, realizing that he’d bought outlawry and the gallows for nothing. But what was he to do now? Unless he chopped us both (which seemed far-fetched, pirate and Old Etonian though he was) it seemed to me he had no choice but to set us free with apologies, and sail away, grief-stricken, to join the Foreign Legion, or become a monk, or an American citizen. Why, he’d as good as thrown up the sponge in letting Elspeth and me spend hours together alone; he’d never have done that if he hadn’t given up all hope of her, surely? He was in no hurry to repeat his generosity, however. On the third day a little Chink doctor visited me with the steward, but he didn’t have a word of English, and busied himself impassively examining the sumpitan-wound in my guts – which was fairly healed, and barely ached – while remaining deaf to my demands to see Solomon. In the end I lost patience, and made for the door, roaring for attention, but at this two of the Malay crew appeared, all bulging muscles and evil phizzes, and indicated that if I didn’t hold my tongue they’d hold it for me. So I did, until they’d gone, and then I set about the door with my boots, bawling for Elspeth, and calling Solomon every name I could think of – indulging my natural insolence, if you like, since I figured it was safe enough. By George, wasn’t I young and innocent, though? The response to that was nil, and an icy finger of fear traced down my back. For the past two days, with my belly still in a sling, it had seemed natural enough to be in the cabin – but now that the doctor had been, and seemed satisfied, why weren’t they letting me out – of why, at least, wasn’t Solomon coming to see me? Why weren’t they letting me see Elspeth? Why weren’t they letting me take exercise? It didn’t make sense, to keep me cooped here, if he was going to let us go, and – if he was going to let us go. It suddenly rushed in on me that that was pure assumption, probably brought on by my blissful reunion with Elspeth, which had been paradise after the weeks of peril and terror. Suppose I was wrong? I don’t know anyone who despairs faster than I do – mind you, I’ve had cause – and the hours that followed found me in the depths. I didn’t know what to think or believe, my fears mounted steadily, and by next morning I was my normal self, in a state of abject funk. I was even drawing sinister significance from the fact that this cabin I was in was obviously in the forward part of the vessel, with the engines between me and the civilized quarters where Elspeth – and Solomon – would be. G-d, was he ravishing her, now that he knew he could never seduce her? Was he bargaining with her for my life, threatening to feed me to the sharks unless she buckled to with him? That was it, for certain – it’s what I’d have done in his place – and I tore my hair at the thought that like as not she’d defy him; she was forever reading trashy novels in which proud heroines drew themselves upright and pointed to the door, crying: “Do your worst, sinister man; my husband would die rather than be the price of my dishonour!” Would he, by jingo? – surrender, you stupid b---h, if that’s all he wants, I found myself muttering; what’s another more or less? Charming husband, ain’t I? Well, why not? Honour’s all very well, but life matters. Besides, I’d do the same to save Elspeth, if any lustful woman threatened me. They never do, though. With such happy thoughts, in a torture of uncertainty, I passed the days that followed – how many I’m not sure, but I guess about a week. In all that time, no one came near me except the steward, with a Malay thug to back him up – I was alone, hour after hour, night after night, in that tiny box, alternating between shivering panic and black despair – not knowing. That was the worst of it; I didn’t even know what to be afraid of, and by the end of the week I was ready for anything, if it would only end my misery. It’s a dangerous state to be in, as I know, now that I’m old and experienced; I didn’t realize, then, that things can always get worse. Then I saw the American ship, by chance, as I paced past my porthole. She was maybe half a mile off, a sleek black Southern Run clipper with Old Glory at her jackstaff; the morning sun was shining like silver on her topsails as they flapped from the reefs and were sheeted home. Now I’m no shellback, but I’d seen that setting a score of times, when a vessel was standing out from port – G-d, were we near some harbour of civilization, where the big ships ran? I hallooed for all I was worth, but of course they were too far off to hear, and then I was rummaging feverishly for matches to start a fire – anything to attract attention and bring that Yankee to my rescue. But of course I couldn’t find any; I nearly broke my neck trying to squint out of the port in search of land, but there was nothing but blue rollers, and the Yankee dwindling towards the eastern horizon. All day I sat fretting, wondering, and then in mid-afternoon I saw little native craft from my port, and a low green mainland beyond them. Gradually a beach came into view, and a few huts, and then wooden houses with steep roofs – no flags, and nothing but niggers in loin-cloths – no, there was a uniform, an unmistakable navy coat, black with gold braid, and a cocked hat, among a group on a little jetty. But there was the rumble of the Sulu Queen’s cable – we were anchoring a good quarter of a mile out. Never mind, that was close enough for me; I was in a fever of excitement as I tried to figure where it might be – we’d been westering, Southern Indian Ocean, and here was a small port, still important enough for a Yankee clipper to touch. It couldn’t be the Cape, with that coastline. Port Natal – surely we weren’t that far west? I tried to conjure up the map of that huge sea east of Africa – of course, Mauritius! The navy coat, the niggers, the Arabi-looking small craft – they all fitted. And Mauritius was British soil. I was trembling as I took stock. What the d---l was Solomon thinking of, putting into Mauritius? Wood and water – he’d probably had no chance of either since bolting from the Skrang. And with me cooped tight, and Elspeth probably likewise, what had he to fear? But it was my chance – there’d never be another like it. I could swim the distance easily … and the lock scraped in my door at that moment. There are split seconds when you can’t afford to plan. I watched the steward setting down my tray, and without making a conscious decision I turned slowly towards the door where the Malay thug was hovering, beckoned him, and pointed, frowning, to the corner of the cabin. He advanced a pace, squinting up where I was pointing – and the next instant his courting tackle was half-way up inside his torso, impelled by my right boot, he was flying across the cabin, screaming, and Flashy was out and racing – where? There was a ladder, but I ducked past it instinctively, and tore along a short passage, the Chinese steward squealing in my rear. Round the corner – and there was a piece of open deck, Malays coiling rope, and iron doors flung wide to the sunshine and sea. As I ploughed through the startled Malays, scattering them, I had a glimpse of small craft between me and the shore, a distant jetty and palms, and then I was through those doors like a hot rivet, in an enormous dive, hitting the water with an almighty splash, gliding to the surface, and then striking out, head down, for dear life towards the distant land. I reckon it took about ten seconds from my cabin to the water, and as many minutes before I was alongside the piles of the wharf. I was half-conscious with the exertion of my swim, and had to cling to the slimy wood while curious niggers in small boats drew up to gape at me, chattering like magpies. I looked back at the Sulu Queen, and there she was, riding peacefully, with a few native craft round her. I looked landward – there was the beach, and a fair-sized native town behind it, and a big building with a verandah and a flag-pole – it was a deuced odd-looking flag, striped and blazoned – some shipping line, perhaps. I hauled myself wearily along the piles, found a ladder, dragged myself up it, and lay panting and sodden on the wooden jetty, conscious of a small crowd forming round me. They were all niggers, in loin-cloths or white robes – some pretty Arab-looking, by their noses and head-gear. But there was the navy coat, pushing towards me, and the crowd falling back. I tried to pull myself up, but couldn’t, and then the navy trousers stopped beside me, and their owner was bending down towards me. I tried to control my panting. “I’m … a British … army officer,” I wheezed. “Escaped from … that ship … pirate …” I raised my head, and the words died on my lips. The fellow bending towards me was in full navy rig, right enough, even to the hat and epaulette – the green sash looked strange, though. But that wasn’t the half of it. The face beneath the cocked hat was jet black. I stared at him, and he stared back. Then he said something, in a language I couldn’t understand, so I shook my head and repeated that I was an army officer. Where was the commandant? He shrugged, showed his yellow teeth in a grin, and said something, and the crowd giggled. “D--n your eyes!” cries I, struggling up. “What the h--l’s going on here? Where’s the harbour-master? I’m a British army officer, Captain Flashman, and—” I was stabbing him on the chest with my finger, and now, to my utter amazement, he struck my hand angrily aside and snapped something in his heathen lingo, right in my face! I fell back, appalled at the brute’s effrontery – and then there was a commotion behind, and I looked to see a small boat ploughing up at the seaward end of the jetty, and Solomon, of all people, springing from her bows and striding towards us along the planking, a massive figure in his tunic and sarong, with a face like thunder. Right, my hearty, thinks I, this is where you receive your ration allowance, once these people realize you’re a b----y pirate, and I flung out a hand to denounce him to my epauletted nigger. But before I could get a word out Solomon had seized me by the shoulder and spun me round. “You infernal fool!” cries he. “What have you done?” You can be sure I told him, a trifle incoherently, at the top of my voice, drawing the nigger’s attention to the fact that here was the notorious pirate and brigand, Suleiman Usman, delivered into his hands, and would he mind arresting him and his ship and restoring me and my wife to liberty. “And you can swing till the crows peck you, you kidnapping tyke!” I informed Solomon. “You’re done for.” “In G-d’s name, where d’you think you are?” His voice was shrill. “Mauritius, ain’t it?” “Mauritius?” He suddenly pulled me aside. “You booby, this is Tamitave – Madagascar!” Well, that startled me, I admit. It explained the nigger in uniform, I supposed, but I couldn’t see it made much difference. I was saying so, when the nigger stepped up and addressed Solomon, pretty sharp, and to my amazement the Don shrugged, apologetically, as though it had been a white official, and replied in French! But it was his abject tone as much as the language that bewildered me. “Your pardon, excellency – a most unfortunate mistake. This man is one of my crew – a little drunk, you understand. With your permission I shall take him—” “Balderdash!” I roared. “You’ll take me nowhere, you lying dago!” I swung to the nigger. “You speak French, do you? Well, so do I, and I’m no more one of his crew than you are. He’s a d----d pirate, who has abducted me and my wife—” “Be quiet, you clown!” cries Solomon in English, thrusting me aside. “You’ll destroy us! Leave him to me,” and he began to patter to the black again, in French, but the other silenced him with a flap of his hand. “Silence,” says he, as if he were the b----y Duke. “The commandant approaches.” Sure enough, there was a file of soldiers coming from the landward end of the jetty, strapping blacks in white loin-cloths and bandoliers, with muskets at the shoulder. And behind them, carried by coolies in an open sedan, came an unbelievable figure. It is solemn truth – he was black as your boot, and he wore a turban on his head, a flowered red and yellow shirt, and a 42nd Highlanders kilt. He had sandals on his feet, a sabre at his hip, white gloves, and a rolled brolly in his hand. I’ve gone mad, thinks I; it’s been the strain, or the sun. That thing can’t be real. Solomon was hissing urgently in my ear. “Don’t say a word! Your one chance is to pretend to be one of my crew—” “Are you mad?” says I. “After what you’ve done, you—” “Please!” And unless my ears deceived me he was pleading. “You don’t understand – I intend you no harm – you shall both go free – Mauritius, if I can do it safely – I swear—” “You swear! D’you imagine I’d trust you for an instant?” And then the black’s voice, speaking harsh French, cut across his reply. “You.” He was pointing at me. “You say you were a prisoner on that ship. And you are English. Is it so?” I looked at the commandant, leaning forward from his sedan in that ludicrous Hallowe’en rig, his great ebony head cocked on one side, bloodshot eyes regarding me. As I nodded in reply to the officer’s question, the commandant took a peeled mango from one of his minions and began to cram it into his mouth, juice spurting over his gloved hand and over his ridiculous kilt. He tossed the stone away, wiped his hand on his shirt, and said in careful French, in a croaking rasp: “And your wife, you say, is also a prisoner of this man?” “Pardon, excellency.” Solomon pushed forward. “This is a great misunderstanding, as I have tried to explain. This man is of my ship’s company, and is covered by my safe-conduct and trading licence from her majesty. I beg you to allow—” “He denies it,” croaked the commandant. He cleared his throat and spat comprehensively, hitting one of the soldiers on the leg. “He swam ashore. And he is English.” He shrugged. “Shipwrecked.” “Oh, Ch---t,” muttered Solomon, licking his lips. The commandant wagged a finger the size of a black cucumber, peering at Solomon. “He is plainly not covered by your licence or safe-conduct. Nor is his wife. That licence, Monsieur Suleiman, does not exempt you from Malagassy law, as you should know. It is only by special favour that you yourself escape the fanompoana – what you call … corv?e?” He gestured at me. “In his case, there is no question.” “What the dooce is he talking about?” says I to Solomon. “Where’s the British consul? I’ve had enough—” “There’s no such thing, you fool!” Solomon was positively wringing his hands; suddenly he was a fat, frightened man. “Excellency, I implore you to make an exception – this man is not a castaway – I can swear he intended no harm in her majesty’s dominions—” “He will do none,” says the commandant and jabbered curtly at the officer. “He is lost” – a phrase whose significance escaped me just then. The coolies lifted the sedan, and away it swayed, the officer barked an order, and a file of his soldiers trotted past us, their leader bawling to one of the boatmen, summoning his craft to the jetty. “No – wait!” Solomon’s face was contorted with anguish. “You idiot!” he shrieked at me, and then he started first this way and that, calling to the commandant, and then running down the jetty after the file of soldiers. The black officer laughed, indicated me, and snapped an order to two of his men. It wasn’t till they grabbed my arms and began to run me off the jetty that I came to my senses; I roared and struggled, bawling for Solomon, shouting threats of what would happen to them for laying their filthy hands on an Englishman. I lashed out, and a musket-butt sprawled me half-conscious on the planking. Then they dragged me up, and one of them, his great black face blasting foul breath all over me, snapped shackles on my wrists; they seized the chain and hauled me headlong up the street, with the blacks eyeing me curiously and children running alongside, squealing and laughing. That was how I became a captive in Madagascar. As you know – or rather, you don’t, but if you’re intelligent you’ll have guessed – I’m a truthful man, at least where these memoirs are concerned. I’ve got nothing to lie for any longer, who lied so consistently – and successfully – all my life. But every now and then, in writing, I feel I have to remind you, and myself, that what I tell you is unvarnished fact. There are things that strain belief, you see, and Madagascar was one of them. So I will only say that if, at any point, you doubt what follows, or think old Flash is telling stretchers, just go to your local libraries, and consult the memoirs of my dear old friend Ida Pfeiffer, of the elastic-sided boots, or Messrs Ellis and Oliver, or the letters of my fellow-captives, Laborde of Bombay and Jake Heppick the American shipmaster, or Hastie the missionary. Then you’ll realize that the utterly unbelievable things I tell you of that h--lish island, straight out of “Gulliver”, are simple, sober truth. You couldn’t make ’em up. Now I won’t bore you by describing the shock and horror I experienced, either at the beginning, when I realized I had escaped from Solomon’s frying-pan into something infinitely worse, or later, as further abominations unfolded. I’ll just recount what I saw and experienced, as plain as I can. My first thoughts, when they threw me chained and battered, into a stuffy go-down at Tamitave, were that this must be some bad dream from which I should soon awake. Then my mind turned to Elspeth; from what had passed on the jetty it had seemed that they’d been going to drag her ashore, too – for what fate I could only guess. You see, I was at a complete nonplus, quite out of my depth; once I’d had my usual little rave and blubber to myself, I tried to remember what Solomon had told me about Madagascar on the voyage out, which hadn’t been much, and what I recalled was far from comforting. Wild and savage beyond description, he’d said … weird customs and superstitions … half the population in slavery … a she-monster of a queen who aped European fashions and held ritual executions by the thousand … a poisonous hatred of all foreigners – well, my present experience confirmed that, all right. But could it truly be as awful as Solomon had painted it? I hadn’t believed him above half, but when I thought of that frightful nigger commandant in his bumbee tartan kilt and brolly … well. Fortunately for my immediate peace of mind I didn’t know one of the worst things about Madagascar, which was that once you were inside it, you were beyond hope of rescue. Even the most primitive native countries, in my young days, were at least approachable, but not this one; its capital, Antananarivo (Antan’, to you), might as well have been on the moon. There was no appeal to outside, or even communication; no question of Pam or the Frogs or Yanks sending a gunboat, or making diplomatic representations, even. You see, no one knew about Madagascar, hardly. Barring a few pirates like Kidd and Avery in the old days, and a handful of British and French missionaries – who’d soon been cleared out or massacred – no one had visited it much except heeled-and-ready traders like Solomon, and they walked d----d warily, and did their business from their own decks offshore. We’d had a treaty with an earlier Malagassy king, sending him arms on condition that he stopped slave-trading, but when Queen Ranavalona came to the throne (by murdering all her relatives) in 1828, she’d broken off all traffic with the outside world, forbidden Christianity and tortured all converts to death, revived slavery on a great scale, and set about exterminating all tribes except her own. She was quite mad, of course, and behaved like Messalina and Attila the Hun, either of whom would have taken one look at her and Written to The Times, protesting. To give you some notion of the kind of blood-stained bedlam the country was, she’d already slaughtered one-half of her subjects, say a million or so, and passed decrees providing for a wall round the whole island to keep out foreigners (it would only have had to be three thousand miles long), four gigantic pairs of scissors to be set up on the approaches to her capital, to snip invaders in two, and the building of massive iron plates from which the cannon-shots of European ships would rebound and sink them. Eccentric, what? Of course, all this was unknown to me when I landed; I began to find out about it, painfully, when they hauled me out of the cooler next morning, still – in my innocence – protesting and demanding to see my lawyer. My French-speaking officer had disappeared, so all my entreaties earned was blows and kicks. I’d had no food or drink for hours, but now they gave me a stinking mess of fish, beans, and rice, and a leaf-spoon to eat it with. I gagged it down with the help of their vile brown rice-water, and then, despite my objections, I and a gang of other unfortunates, all black of course, were herded up through the town, heading inland. Tamitave’s not much of a settlement. It has a fort, and a few hundred wooden houses, some of them quite large, with the high-pitched Malagassy thatches. At first sight it looks harmless enough, like the people: they’re black, but not Negro, I’d say, perhaps a touch of Malay or Polynesian, well-built, not bad-looking, lazy, and stupid. The folk I saw at first were poorer-class peasants, slaves, and provincials, both men and women wearing simple loin-cloths or sarongs, but occasionally we encountered one of the better-off, being toted about in a sedan – no rich or aristocratic Malagassy will walk a hundred yards, and there’s a multitude of slaves, bearers, and couriers to carry ’em. The nobs wore lambas – robes not unlike Roman togas, although in Antan’ itself their clothing was sometimes of the utmost outlandish extravagance, like my commandant. That’s the extraordinary thing about Madagascar – it’s full of parodies of the European touch gone wrong, and their native culture and customs are bizarre enough to start with, G-d knows. For example, they have their markets at a distance from their villages and towns – nobody knows why. They hate goats and pigs, and will lay babies out in the street to see if their births are “fortunate” or not; they are unique, I believe, in the whole world in having no kind of organized religion – no priests, no shrines or temples – but they worship a tree or a stone if they feel like it, or personal household gods called sampy, or charms, like the famous idol Rakelimalaza, which consists of three dirty little bits of wood wrapped in silk – I’ve seen it. Yet they’re superstitious beyond belief, even to the extent of dispraising those things they value most, to avert jealous evil spirits, and believing that when a man is dying you must stuff his mouth with food at the last minute – mind you, that may be because they’re the most amazing gluttons, and drunkards, too. But, as with so many of their practices, you sometimes feel they are just determined to be different from the rest of the world. I noticed that the soldiers who escorted our chain-gang were of a different stamp from the rest of the people – tall, narrow-headed fellows who marched in step, to a mixture of English and French words of command. They were brutes, who thrashed us along if we lagged, and treated the populace like dirt. I learned later they were from the Queen’s tribe, the Hovas, once the pariahs of the island, but now dominant by reason of their cunning and cruelty. I’ve endured some horrible journeys in my time – Kabul to the Khyber, Crimea to Middle Asia, for a couple – but I can’t call to mind anything worse than that march from Tamitave to Antan’. It was 140 miles, and it took us eight days of blistered feet and chafing chains, trudging along, at first over scrubby desert, then through open fields, with peasants stopping in their work to stare at us indifferently, then through forest country, with the great jungly mountains of the interior coming slowly closer. We passed mud-walled villages and farms, but at night our captors just made us lie and sleep where we stopped; they carried no rations, but took what they wanted from unprotesting villagers, and we prisoners got the scraps. We were sodden by rain, burned agonizingly by the sun, bitten raw by mosquitoes, punished by blows and welts – but the worst of it was ignorance. I didn’t know where I was, where I was going, what had happened to Elspeth, or even what was being said around me. There was nothing for it but to be herded on, like an animal, in pain and despair. After the first day or so I was beyond thought; all that mattered was survival. To make matters worse, there was no road to travel – oh no, the Malagassies won’t have ’em, for fear they might be used by an invader. Examine the perverse logic of that, if you like. The only exception is when the Queen travels anywhere, in which case they build a road in front of her, mile by mile, twenty thousand slaves grubbing with picks and rocks, and a great army following, with the court; why, every night they build a town, walls and all, and then leave it empty next day. We were privileged to see this, when we reached the high plain midway on our journey, The first thing I noticed was dead bodies scattered about the place, and then groups of wailing, exhausted natives along our line of march. They were the road-builders; there were no rations provided for ’em, you see, so they just fell out and died like flies. This was the Queen’s annual buffalo-hunt, and ten thousand slaves perished on it, inside a week. The stench was indescribable, especially along the road itself – which cut perversely across our line of march – where they were lying in rows, men, women, and children. Some of them would haul themselves up as we passed, and crawl towards us, whimpering for food; the Hovas just kicked them aside. To add to the horrors, we passed occasional gallows, on which victims were hung or crucified, or simply tied to die by inches. One abomination I’ll never forget – five staggering skeletons yoked together at the neck by a great iron wheel. They put them in it, and turn them loose, wandering together, until they starve or break each other’s necks. The Queen’s procession had passed by long before, up the rough, rock-paved furrow of the road which ran straight as a die through forest and over mountain. She had twelve thousand troops with her, I learned later, and since the Malagassy army has no system of supply or rations they had just picked the country clean, so in addition to the slaves, thousands of peasants starved to death as well. You may wonder why they endured it. Well, they didn’t, always. Over the years thousands had fled, in whole tribes and communities, to escape her tyranny, and the jungles were full of these people, living as brigands. She sent regular expeditions against them, as well as against those distant tribes who weren’t Hovas; I’ve heard it reckoned that the slaughter of fugitives, criminals, and those whom her majesty simply disliked, amounted to between twenty and thirty thousand annually, and I believe it. (Far better, of course, than wicked colonial government by Europeans – or so the Liberals would have us believe. G-d, what I’d have given to get Gladstone and that pimp Asquith on the Tamitave road in the earlies; they’d have learned all they needed to know about “enlightened rule by the indigenous population”. Too late now, though; nothing for it but to hire a few roughs to smash windows at the Reform Club – as though I care.) In the meantime, I’d little sympathy to spare; my own case, as we finally approached Antan’ after more than a week of tortured tramping, was deplorable. My shirt and trousers were in rags, my shoes were worn out, I was bearded and foul – but strangely enough, having plumbed the depths, I was beginning to perk up a trifle. I wasn’t dead, and they weren’t bringing me all this way to kill me – I was even feeling a touch of light-headed recklessness, probably with hunger. I was lifting my head again, and my recollections of the end of the march are clear enough. We passed a great lake along the road, and the guards made us shout and sing all the way past it; I later heard it was to placate the ghost of a dissolute princess buried nearby – dissolute female royalty being Madagascar’s strong suit, evidently. We crossed a great river – the Mangaro – and steaming geysers bubbling out of pools of boiling mud, before we came out on a level grass plain, and beyond it, on a great hill, we beheld Antananarivo. It took my breath away – of course, I didn’t even know what it was, then, but it was like nothing you’d expect in a primitive nigger country. There was this huge city of houses, perhaps two miles across, walled and embattled in wood, and dominated by a hill on the top of which stood an enormous wooden palace, four storeys high, with another building alongside it which seemed to be made of mirrors, for it shimmered bright as a burning-glass in the sunlight. I stared at it until I was almost blinded, but I couldn’t make out what it was – and in the meantime there were other wonders closer at hand, for as we approached the city across the plain which was dotted with huts and crowded with village people, I thought I must be dreaming – in the distance I could hear a military band playing, horribly flat, but there could be no doubt that the tune was “The Young May Moon"! And here, sure enough, came a regiment in full fig – red tunics, shakos, arms at the shoulder, bayonets fixed, and every man-jack of them black as Satan. I stood and fairly gaped; past they went in column, throwing chests, and shaping dooced well – and at their head, G-d help me, half a dozen officers on horseback, dressed as Arabs and Turks. I was beyond startling now – when a couple of sedans, draped in velvet, passed by bearing black women done up in Empire dresses and feathered hats, I didn’t even give ’em a second glance. They, and the rest of the crowds, were moving across the front of the city, and that was the way our guards drove us, so that we skirted the city wall until we came presently to a great natural amphitheatre in the ground, dominated by a huge cliff – Ambohipotsy, they call it, and there can be no more accursed place on earth. There must have been close on a quarter of a million people thronging the slopes of that great hollow below the cliff – certainly more than I’ve ever seen in one congregation. This great tide of black humanity was gazing down to the foot of the cliff; our guards brought us up short and pointed, grinning, and looking down that vast slope of people I saw that in a clear space long narrow pits had been dug, and in the pits were scores of human beings, tied to stakes. At the end of each pit huge cauldrons were fixed, above roaring fires, and even as we watched a gong boomed out, the enormous chattering crowd fell silent, and a gang of black fiends tilted the first of the cauldrons, slowly, slowly, while the poor devils in the pits shrieked and writhed; boiling water slopped over the cauldron’s lip, first in a small stream, then in a scalding cascade, surging down into the pit with a horrible sizzling cloud of steam that blotted out the view. When it cleared I saw to my horror that it only filled the pit waist deep – the victims were boiling alive by inches, while the onlookers bayed and cheered in a tumult of sound that echoed across that ghastly amphitheatre of death. There were six pits; they filled them one by one. That was the main performance, you understand. After that, figures appeared at the top of the cliff, which was three hundred feet up, and the luckier condemned were thrown off, the crowd giving a great rising whistle as each struggling body took flight, and a mighty howl when it struck the ground below – there was particular applause if one landed in the water-pits, which were still steaming mistily with the contorted figures hanging from their stakes. They didn’t just throw the condemned people down the cliff, by the way – they suspended ’em first by ropes, to let the mob have a good look, and then cut them free to drop. I make no comment myself – because as I watched this beastly spectacle I seemed to hear the voice of my little Newgate friend in my ear – “Interesting, isn’t it?” – and see again the yelling, gloating audience outside the Magpie and Stump; they were much the same, I suppose, as their heathen brethren. And if you tell me indignantly that hanging is a very different thing from boiling alive – or burning, flaying, flogging, sawing, impaling, and live burial, all of which I’ve seen at Ambohipotsy – I shall only remark that if these spectacles were offered in England it would be a case of “standing room only” – for the first few shows, anyway. However, if the relation of such atrocities nauseates you, I can only say that I swore to tell the truth of what I saw, and any qualms you may suffer were as nothing to poor old Flashy’s mental distress as we were herded away from the scene of execution – I’ll swear we were only there because our guards didn’t want to miss it – and through one of the massive gates into Antan’ town proper. Its name, by the way, means “City of a Thousand Towns”, and it was as impressive at first hand as it had been from a distance. Wide, clean streets were lined by fine wooden buildings, some of them two and three storeys high (all building must be of wood, by law) and starved and shaken with terror as I was, I could not but marvel at the air of richness there was about the place. Well-stocked booths, shady avenues, neatly-robed folk bustling about their business, expensively-carved and painted sedans swaying through the streets, carrying the better sort, some in half-European clobber, others in splendid sarongs, and lambas of coloured silk. There was no making sense of it – on the one hand, the horrors I had just watched, and on the other this pleasant, airy, civilized-looking city – with Captain Harry Flashman and friends being kicked and flogged through the middle of it, and no one giving us more than a casual glance. Oh, aye – every building had a European lightning conductor. They locked us in an airy, reasonably clean warehouse for the night, took off our fetters, and gave us our first decent meal for a week – a spicy mutton stew, bread and cheese, and more of their infernal rice-piddle. We scoffed it like wolves – a dozen woolly niggers snuffling over their bowls and one English gentleman dining with refinement, I don’t think. But if it did something for my aching, filthy body, it did nothing for my spirits – this nightmare of existence seemed to have endured forever, and it was mad, incredible, out of all reason. But I must hang on – I had played cricket once, and bowled Felix; I had been to Rugby, and Horse Guards, and Buckingham Palace; I had an address in Mayfair; I had dined at White’s – as a guest, granted – and strolled on Pall Mall. I wasn’t just a lost soul in a lunatic black world, I was Harry Flashman, ex-11th Hussars, four medals and Thanks of Parliament, however undeserved. I must hang on – and surely, in the city I’d seen, there must be some civilized person in authority who spoke French or English, to whom I could state my case and receive the treatment that was my due as a British officer and citizen. After all, they weren’t real savages, not with streets and buildings like these – a touch colourful in the way they disposed of malefactors, no doubt, and no poor relief worth a d--n, but no society’s perfect. I must talk to someone. The difficulty was – who? When they turned us out next morning, we were taken in charge by a couple of black overseers, who spoke nothing but jabber; they thrust us along a narrow alley, and out into a crowded square in which there was a long platform, railed off to one side, with guards stationed at its corners, to keep the mob back. It looked like a public meeting; there were a couple of black officials on the platform, and two more seated at a small table before it. We were pushed up a flight of steps to the platform, and made to stand in line; I was still blinking from the sunlight, wondering what this might portend, as I looked out over the crowd – blacks in lambas and robes for the most part, a few knots of officers in comic-opera uniforms, plenty of sedans with wealthy Malagassies sitting under striped umbrellas. I scanned the faces of the officers eagerly; those would be the French-speakers, and I was just about to raise a halloo to attract their attention when a face near the front of the crowd caught my eye like a magnet, and my heart leaped with excitement. He was a tall man, wide-shouldered but lean, wearing a bright embroidered shirt under a blue broadcloth coat, and with a silk scarf tied like a cravat; he and his neighbour, a portly sambo resplendent in sarong and cocked hat, were taking snuff in the local fashion, the lean chap accepting a pinch from the other’s box on the palm of his hand and engulfing it with a quick flick of his tongue (it tastes beastly, I can tell you). He grimaced and raised his eyes; they met mine, and stared – they were bright blue eyes, in a face burned brown under a mane of greying hair. But there was no doubt of it – he was a white man. “You!” I roared. “You, sir! Monsieur! Parlez-vous fran?ais? anglais? Hindi? Latin? B----y Greek, even? Listen to me – I must talk to you!” One of the guards was striding forward to thrust me back, but the lean man was pushing his way through the mob, to my unutterable relief, and at a word from him to the officials he was allowed to approach the platform. He looked up at me, frowning, as I knelt down to be close to him. “Fran?ais?” says he. “I’m English – a prisoner, from a boat that came in at Tamitave! In G-d’s name, how can I get out of this? No one listens to me – they’ve been dragging me all over the bl----d country for weeks! I must—” “Gently, gently,” says he, and at the sound of the English words I could have wept. Then: “Smile, monsieur. Smile-what is the word – broadly? Laugh, if you can – but converse quietly. It is for your own good. Now, who are you?” I didn’t understand, but I forced a ghastly grin, and told him who I was, what had happened, and my total ignorance of why I’d been brought here. He listened intently, those vivid eyes playing over my face, motioning me to speak softly whenever my voice rose – which, as you can imagine, it tended to do. All the time he was plainly avoiding glancing at my guards or the officials, but he was listening for them. When I had finished he fingered his cravat, nodding, as though I’d been telling him the latest for “Punch”, and smiling pleasantly. “Eh bien,” says he. “Now attend, and not interrupt. If my English she is not perfect, I use French, but better not. No? Whatever I say, betray no amaze’, do you see? Smile, if you please. Good. I am Jean Laborde, once of the Emperor’s cavalry. I have been here thirteen years, I am a citizen. You do not know Madagascar?” I shook my head, and he put back his head and laughed softly, plainly for the onlookers’ benefit. “They detest all Europe, and English especially. Since you land without permission, they treat you as naufrag? – how you call? – shipwreck? Castaway? By their law – please to smile, monsieur, very much – all such persons must be made slaves. This is a slave-market. They make you a slave – forever.” The smiling brown face with its blue eyes swam in front of me; I had to hold on to the edge of the platform. Laborde was speaking again, quickly, and the smile had vanished. “Say nothing. Wait. Wait. Do not despair. I will make inquiry. I see you again. Only wait, don’t despair. Now, my friend – forgive me.” On the heels of the last word he suddenly shouted something in what I took to be Malagassy, gesturing angrily. Heads came round, my guard stooped and wrenched at my shoulder, and Laborde struck me full in the face with his open hand. “Sc?l?rat!” he cried. “Canaille!” He swung angrily on his heel and pushed his way back into the grinning crowd, while the guard kicked me upright and thrust me back into line. I tried to call to Laborde, but I was choked with horror and my own tears, and then one of the officials mounted a rostrum, shouting an announcement, the chatter of the crowd died away, the first of our coffle was pushed forward, and the bidding began. Chapter 9 (#ulink_8ee62ae1-1abc-5c8d-89c6-7fbc05f00db4) No one who has not stood on the block can truly understand the horror of slavery. To be thrust up in public, before a crowd of leering niggers, waiting your turn while your fellow-unfortunates are knocked down, one by one to the highest bidder, and you stand like a beast in a pen, all dignity, manhood, even humanity gone. Aye, it’s h--l. It’s even worse when nobody buys you. I couldn’t credit it – not even an opening bid! Imagine it – “here’s Flashy, gentlemen, young and in prime fettle, no previous owners, guaranteed of sound wind, no heelbug, highly recommended by superiors and ladies of quality, well set-up when he’s shaved, talks like a book, and a b----r to ride! Who’ll say a hundred? Fifty? Twenty? Come, come gentlemen, the hair on his head’s worth more than that! Do I hear ten? Five, then? Three? For a capital bargain with years of wear in him? Do I hear one? Not for a fellow who dismissed Felix, Pilch, and Mynn in three deliveries? Oh, well, Ikey, put him back on the shelf, and tell the knackers to come and collect him.” It was downright humiliating, especially with the bidding for my black companions as brisk as a morning breeze. Mind you, the thought of being bought by one of those disgusting Malagassies was revolting – still, I couldn’t but feel disgruntled when they shoved me back in the warehouse alone, the Selling Plater nobody wanted. It was night before I found out the reason – for night brought Laborde, past bribed officials and guards, with soap, a gourd of water, a razor, and enough bad news to last a lifetime. “It is simple,” says he, when he had slipped a coin to the sentry and we were locked in alone. He spoke French now, which he’d been afraid to do in public for fear of eavesdroppers. “I had no time to tell you. The other slaves were being sold for debt, or crime. You, as a castaway, are in effect crown property; your display on the block was a mere formality, for no one would dare to bid. You belong to the Queen – as I did, when I was shipwrecked years ago.” “But … but you ain’t a slave! Can’t you get away?” “No one gets away,” says he, flatly, and it was now I learned a good deal of what I’ve told you already – of the monstrous tyranny of Queen Ranavalona, her hatred of foreigners which had caused Madagascar to be quite cut off from the world, of the diabolical practice of “losing” – which is their word for enslaving – all strangers. “For five years I served that terrible woman,” Laborde concluded. “I am an engineer – you will have seen my lightning rods on the houses. I am also skilled in the making of armaments, and I cast cannon for her. My reward was freedom” – he laughed shortly – “but not freedom to leave. I shall never escape – nor will you, unless—” He broke off, and then hurried on. “But refresh yourself, my friend. Wash and shave, at least, while you tell me more of your own misfortune. We have little time.” He glanced towards the door. “The guards are safe for the moment, but safety lasts a short while in Madagascar.” So I told him my tale in full, while I washed and shaved by the flickering light of his lantern, and sponged the filth from the shreds in which I was clothed. While I talked I got a good look at him – he was younger than I’d thought, about fifty, and almost as big as I, a handsome, decent-looking cove, fast and active, but plainly as nervous as a cat; he was forever starting at sounds outside, and when he talked it was in an urgent whisper. “I shall inquire about your wife,” says he when I’d done. “They will have brought her ashore almost certainly – they lose no chance of enslaving foreigners. This man Solomon I know of – he trades in guns and European goods, in exchange for Malagassy spices, balsam, and gums. He is tolerated, but he will have been powerless to protect your lady. I shall find out where she is, and then – we shall see. It may take time, you understand; it is dangerous. They are so suspicious, these people – I run great risk by coming to see you, even.” “Then why d’you do it?” says I, for I’m inclined to be leery of gifts brought at peril to the giver; I was nothing to him, after all. He muttered something about befriending a fellow-European, and the comradeship of men-at-arms, but I wasn’t fooled. Kindness might be one of his motives, but there were others, too, that he wasn’t telling about, or I was much mistaken. However, that could wait. “What’ll they do with me?” I asked, and he looked me up and down, and then glanced away, uneasily. “If the Queen is pleased with you, she may give you a favoured position – as she did with me.” He hesitated. “It is for this reason I help you to make yourself presentable – you are very large and … personable. Since you are a soldier, and the army is her great passion, it is possible that you will be employed in its instruction – drilling, manoeuvring, that kind of thing. You have seen her soldiers, so you are aware that they have been trained by European methods – there was a British bandmaster here, many years ago, under the old treaty, but nowadays such windfalls are rare. Yes …” he gave me that odd, wary glance again, “your future could be assured – but I beg of you, as you value your life, be careful. She is mad, you see – if you give the least offence, in any way, or if she suspects you – even the fact that I, a fellow-foreigner, have spoken to you, could be sufficient, which is why I struck you publicly today …” He was looking thoroughly scared, although I felt instinctively he wasn’t a man who scared easy. “If you displease her – then it will be the perpetual corv?e – the forced labour. Perhaps even the pits, which you saw yesterday.” He shook his head. “Oh, my friend, you do not even begin to understand. That happens daily here. Rome under Nero – it was nothing!” “But in G-d’s name! Can nothing be done? Why don’t they … make away with her? Haven’t you tried to escape, even?” “You will see,” says he. “And please, do not ask such questions – do not even think them. Not yet.” He seemed to be on the point of saying more, but decided not to. “I will speak of you to Prince Rakota – he is her son, and as great an angel as his mother is a devil. He will help you if he can – he is young, but he is kind. If only he … but there! Now, what can I tell you? The Queen speaks a little French, a few of her courtiers and advisers also, so when you encounter me hereafter, as you will, remember that. If you have anything secret to say, speak English, but not too much, or they will suspect you. What else? When you approach the Queen, advance and retire right foot first; address her in French as ‘God’ – ‘ma Dieu’, you understand? Or as ‘great glory’, or ‘great lake supplying all water”. You must give her a gift, or rather, two gifts – they must always be presented in pairs. See, I have brought you these.” And he handed me two silver coins – Mexican dollars, of all things. “If, in her presence, you happen to notice a carved boar’s tusk, with a piece of red ribbon attached to it – it may be on a table, or somewhere – fall down prostrate before it.” I was gaping at him, and he stamped, Frog-like, with impatience. “You must do these things – they will please her! That tusk is Rafantanka, her personal fetish, as holy as she is herself. But above all-whatever she commands, do it at once, without an instant’s hesitation. Betray no surprise at anything. Do not mention the numbers six or eight, or you are finished. Never, on your life, say of a thing that it is ‘as big as the palace’. What else?” He struck his forehead. “Oh, so many things! But believe me, in this lunatic asylum, they matter! They may mean the difference between life and – horrible death.” “My G-d!” says I, sitting down weakly, and he patted me on the shoulder. “There, my friend. I tell you these things to prepare you, so that you may have a better chance to … to survive. Now I must go. Try to remember what I’ve said. Meanwhile, I shall find out what I can about your wife – but for G-d’s sake, do not mention her existence to another living soul! That would be fatal to you both. And … do not give up hope.” He looked at me, and for a second the apprehension had died out of his face; he was a tough, steady-looking lad when he wanted to be. “If I have frightened you – well, it is because there is much to fear, and I would have you on guard so far as may be.” He slapped my arm. “Bien. Dieu vous garde.” Then he was at the door, calling softly for the guard, but even as it opened he was back again, cat-footed, whispering. “One other thing – when you approach the Queen, remember to lick her feet, as a slave should. It will tell in your favour. But not if they are dusted with pink powder. That is poison.” He paused. “On second thoughts, if they are so dusted, lick them thoroughly. It will certainly be the quickest way to die. A bient?t!” If I had my head in my hands, do you wonder? It couldn’t be true – where I was, what I’d heard, what lay ahead. But it was, and I knew it, which was why I plumped down on my knees, blubbering, and prayed like a drunk Methodist, just on the offchance that there is a God after all, for if He couldn’t help me, no one else could. I felt much worse for it; probably Arnold was right, and insincere prayers are just so much blasphemy. So I had a good curse instead, but that didn’t serve, either. Whichever way I tried to ease my mind, I still wasn’t looking forward to meeting royalty. At least they didn’t keep me in suspense. At the crack of dawn they had me out, a file of soldiers under an officer to whom I tried to suggest that if I was going to be presented, so to speak, I’d be the better for a change of clothes. My shirt was reduced to a wisp, and my trousers no better than a ragged loin-cloth with one leg. But he just sneered at my sign-language, slashed me painfully with his cane, and marched me off up-hill through the streets to the great palace of Antan’, which I now saw properly for the first time. I wouldn’t have thought anything could have distracted my attention at such a time, but that palace did. How can I describe the effect of it, except by saying that it’s the biggest wooden building in the world? From its towering steepled roof to the ground is a hundred and twenty feet, and in between is a vast spread of arches and balconies and galleries – for all the world like a Venetian palazzo made of the most intricately-carved and coloured wood, its massive pillars consisting of single trunks more than one hundred feet long. The largest of them, I’m told, took five thousand men to lift, and they brought it from fifty miles away; all told, fifteen thousand died in building the place – but I guess that’s small beer to a Malagassy contractor working for royalty. Even more amazing though, is the smaller palace beside it. It is covered entirely in tiny silver bells, so that when the sun is on it, you can’t even look, for the blinding glare. As the breeze changes, so does the volume of that perpetual tingling of a million silver tongues; it’s indescribably beautiful to see and hear, like something in a fairy-tale – and yet it housed the cruellest Gorgon on earth, for that’s where Ranavalona had her private apartments. I’d little time to marvel, though, before we were inside the great hall of the main palace itself, with its soaring arched roof like a cathedral nave. It was thronged with courtiers bedecked in such a fantastic variety of clothing that it looked like a fancy-dress ball, with nothing but black guests. There were crinolines and saris, sarongs and state gowns, muslins and taffetas of every period and colour – I recall one spindly female in white silk with a powdered wig on her head ? la Marie Antoinette, talking to another who seemed to be entirely hung in coloured glass beads. The contrast and confusion was bewildering: mantillas and loin-cloths, bare feet and high-heeled shoes, long gloves and barbaric feather headdresses – it would have been exotic but for the unfortunate fact that Malagassy women are d----d ugly, for the most part, tending to be squat and squashed, like black Russian peasants, if you can imagine. Mind you, I saw a lissom backside in a sari here and there, and a few pairs of plumptious bouncers hanging out of low corsages, and thought to myself, there’s a few here who’d repay care and attention – and they’d probably be glad of it, too, for a more sawn-off and runty collection than their menfolk I never did see. It’s curious that the male nobility are far poorer specimens than the common men; Dago blood somewhere, I suspect. They were got up as fantastically as the women, though, in the usual hotch-potch of uniforms, with knee breeches, buckled shoes, and even a stovepipe hat thrown in. There was a nigger orchestra pumping away abominably somewhere, and the whole throng were chattering like magpies, as Malagassies always do, bowing and scraping and leering and flirting in the most grotesque caricature of polite society – I couldn’t help thinking of apes that I’d seen at the circus in childhood, decked out in human clothes. A white man in rags cut no ice at all, and no one spared me more than a glance as I was marched up a side staircase, along a short passage, and into a small ante-room. Here, to my astonishment, I was left alone; they shut the door on me, and that was that. Steady, Flash, thinks I, what’s this? It looked an innocent room enough, overcrowded with artistically-carved native furniture, large pots containing reeds, some fine ornaments in ivory and ebony, and on the walls several prints depicting niggers in uniform which I wouldn’t have given house-room to, myself. I stood listening, and through a large muslin-screened inner window heard the murmur and music of the great hall; by standing on a table I could just peep over the sill and through the muslin observe the assembly below. My window was in a corner, and from beneath it a broad gallery ran clean across the top end of the hall, high above the crowd. There were a dozen Hova guardsmen in sarongs and helmets ranged along the balcony rail. Somewhere deep in the palace a bell rang, and at once the chatter and music died, and the whole crowd below turned to stare up at the balcony. There was the wailing of what sounded like a native trumpet, and a figure stepped out on to the balcony almost directly beneath me – a stalwart black in a gold metal headdress and leopard-skin loin-cloth, with massive muscular arms stretched out before him, carrying a slender silver spear in ceremonial fashion. (#ulink_baaaf109-a85f-57f7-af79-043232b0e504) The assembled cream of Malagassy society gave him a good hand, and as he stepped aside four young girls in flowered saris appeared, carrying a kind of three-sided tent of coloured silk, but with no roof to it. Then, to the accompaniment of clashing cymbals and a low, sonorous chanting that made my hair stand on end, there came out a couple of old coves in black robes fringed with silver, swinging little packets on the ends of strings, but not making much of it; they stood to one side, and to a sudden thunderous yell from the crowd of “Manjaka! Manjaka!” four more wenches trooped out, carrying a purple canopy on four slender ivory poles. Beneath it walked a stately figure enveloped in a scarlet silk cloak, but I couldn’t see the face at all, for it was hidden by a tall sugar-loaf hat of golden straw, bound under the chin by a scarf. So this is Her Nibs, thinks I, and despite the warmth, I found myself shivering. She paced slowly to the front of the balcony and the sycophantic mob beneath went wild, clapping and calling and stretching out their hands. Then she stepped back, the girls with the silk tent contraption carried it round her, shielding her from all curious eyes except the two that were goggling down, unsuspected, from above; I waited, breathless, and two more girls went in beside her, and slipped the cloak from her shoulders. And there she was, stark naked except for her ridiculous hat. Well, even from above and through a muslin screen there was no doubt that she was female, and no need for stays to make the best of it, either; she stood like an ebony statue as the two wenches began to bathe her from bowls of water. Some vulgar lout grunted lasciviously, and realizing who it was I shrank back a trifle in sudden anxiety that I’d been overheard. They splashed her thoroughly, while I watched enviously, and then clapped the robe round her shoulders again. The screen was removed, and she took what looked like an inlaid ebony horn from one of her attendants and stepped forward to sprinkle the crowd. They fairly crowed with delight, and then she withdrew to a great shout of applause, and I scrambled down from my window thinking, by George, we’ve never seen little Vicky doing that from the balcony at Buck House – but then, she ain’t quite equipped the way this one is. What I’d seen, you may care to know, was the public part of the annual ceremony of the Queen’s Bath. The private proceedings are less formal – although, mind you, I can speak with authority only for 1844, or as it is doubtless known in Malagassy court circles, Flashy’s year. The procedure is simple. Her Majesty retires to her reception room in the Silver Palace, which is the most astonishing chamber, containing as it does a gilded couch of state, gold and silver ornaments in profusion, an enormous and luxurious bed, a piano with “Selections from Scarlatti” on the music stand, and off to one side, a sunken bath lined with mother-of-pearl; there are also pictures of Napoleon’s victories round the walls, between silk curtains. There she concludes the ceremony by receiving homage from various officials, who grovel out backward, and then, with several of her maids still in attendance, turns her attention to the last item on the agenda, the foreign castaway who has been brought in for her inspection, and who is standing with his bowels dissolving between two stalwart Hova guardsmen. One of her maids motions the poor fool forward, the guardsmen retire – and I tried not to tremble, took a deep breath, looked at her, and wished I hadn’t come. She was still wearing the sugar-loaf hat, and the scarf framed features that were neither pretty nor plain. She might have been anywhere between forty and fifty, rather round-faced, with a small straight nose, a fine brow, and a short, broad-lipped mouth; her skin was jet black and plump – and then you met the eyes, and in a sudden chill rush of fear realized that all you had heard was true, and the horrors you’d seen needed no further explanation. They were small and bright and evil as a snake’s, unblinking, with a depth of cruelty and malice that was terrifying; I felt physical revulsion as I looked at them – and then, thank G-d, I had the wit to take a pace forward, right foot first, and hold out the two Mexican dollars in my clammy palm. She didn’t even glance at them, and after a moment one of her girls scuttled forward and took them. I stepped back, right foot first, and waited. The eyes never wavered in their repellent stare, and so help me, I couldn’t meet them any longer. I dropped my gaze, trying feverishly to remember what Laborde had told me – oh, h--l, was she waiting for me to lick her infernal feet? I glanced down; they were hidden under her scarlet cloak; no use grubbing for ’em there. I stood, my heart thumping in the silence, noticing that the silk of her cloak was wet – of course, they hadn’t dried her, and she hadn’t a stitch on underneath – my stars, but it clung to her limbs in a most fetching way. My view from on high had been obscured, of course, and I hadn’t realized how strikingly endowed was the royal personage. I followed the sleek scarlet line of her leg and rounded hip, noted the gentle curve of waist and stomach, the full-blown poonts outlined in silk – my goodness, though, she was wet – catch her death … One of the female attendants gave a sudden giggle, instantly smothered – and to my stricken horror I realized that my indecently torn and ragged trousers were failing to conceal my instinctive admiration of her majesty’s matronly charms – oh, J---s, you’d have thought quaking fear and my perilous situation would have banished randy reaction, but love conquers all, you see, and there wasn’t a d----d thing I could do about it. I shut my eyes and tried to think of crushed ice and vinegar, but it didn’t do the slightest good – I daren’t turn my back on royalty – had she noticed? H--l’s bells, she wasn’t blind – this was l?se-majest? of the most flagrant order – unless she took it as a compliment, which it was, ma’am, I assure you, and no disrespect intended, far from it … I stole another look at her, my face crimson. Those awful eyes were still on mine; then, slowly, inexorably, her glance went down. Her expression didn’t change in the least, but she stirred on her couch – which did nothing to quell my ardour – and without looking away, muttered a guttural instruction to her maids. They fluttered out obediently, while I waited quaking. Suddenly she stood up, shrugged off the silk cloak, and stood there naked and glistening; I gulped and wondered if it would be tactful to make some slight advance – grabbing one of ’em, for instance … it would take both hands … better not, though; let royalty take precedence. So I stood stock still for a full minute, while those wicked, clammy eyes surveyed me; then she came forward and brought her face close to mine, sniffing warily like an animal and gently rubbing her nose to and fro across my cheeks and lips. Starter’s gun, thinks I; one wrench and my breeches were a rag on the floor, I hooked into her buttocks and kissed her full on the mouth – and she jerked away, spitting and pawing at her tongue, her eyes blazing, and swung a hand at my face. I was too startled to avoid the blow; it cracked on my ear – I had a vision of those boiling pits – and then the fury was dying from her eyes, to be replaced by a puzzled look. (I had no notion, you see, that kissing was unknown on Madagascar; they rub noses, like the South Sea folk.) She put her face to mine again, touching my lips cautiously with her own; her mouth tasted of aniseed. She licked me tentatively, so I nuzzled her a moment, and then kissed her in earnest, and this time she entered into the spirit of the thing like a good ’un. Then she reached down and led me across the room to the bath, undid her scarf and hat and tossed them aside, revealing long straight hair tied tight to her head, and heavy silver earrings that hung to her shoulders. She slipped into the bath, which was deep enough to swim in, and motioned me to follow, which I did, nearly bursting by this time. But she swam and played about in the water in a most provoking way, teasing and rubbing noses and kissing – but never a smile or a word or the least softening of those basilisk eyes – and then suddenly she clapped her long legs round me and we were away, rolling and plunging like d---ation, one moment on the surface, the next three feet under. She must have had lungs like bellows, for she could stay under an agonizing time, working away like a lecherous porpoise, and then surfacing for a gasp of air and down again for more ecstatic heaving on the bottom. Well, it was novel, and highly stimulating; the only time I’ve completed the carnal act while somersaulting with my nose full of water was in Ranavalona’s bath. Afterwards I clung to the edge, gasping, while she swam lazily up and down, turning those ugly, glinting eyes on me from time to time, with her face like stone. Yet the most startling event was still to come. When she had got out of the bath and I had followed obediently, she crossed to the bed and disposed herself on it, contemplating me sullenly while I stood hesitant, wondering what to do next. I mean, usually one gives ’em a slap on the rump by way of congratulation, whistles up refreshments, and has a cosy chat, but I could guess this wasn’t her style. She just lay there stark, all black and shiny, staring at me while I tried to shiver nonchalantly, and then she grunted something in Malagassy and pointed to the piano. I explained, humbly, that I didn’t play; she stared some more, and three seconds later I was on the piano stool, my wet posterior clinging uncomfortably to the seat, picking out “Drink, Puppy Drink”, with one finger. My audience didn’t begin to throw things, so I ventured on the other half of my repertoire, “God Save the Queen”, but a warning growl sent me skittering back to “Drink, Puppy Drink” once more. I played it for about ten minutes, conscious of that implacable stare on the back of my neck, and then by way of variety began to sing the verse. I heard the bed creak, and desisted; another growl, and I was giving tongue lustily again, and the Silver Palace of Antananarivo re-echoed to: “Here’s to the fox With his den among the rocks, And here’s to the trail that we follo-o-ow! And here’s to the hound With his nose upon the ground, An’ merrily we’ll whoop and holl-o-o-o!” And then the chorus, with vim – it’s a rousing little ditty, as you probably know, and I bellowed it until I was hoarse. Just as I was thinking my voice would crack, blowed if she didn’t glide up at my elbow, glowering without expression from my face to the keys; what the d---l, thinks I, in for a penny, in for a pound, so while pounding away with one hand I pulled her on to the stool with the other, squeezing lustfully and bawling “He’ll grow into a hound, so we’ll pass the bottle round”, and after a moment’s impassive staring she began to accompany me in a most disconcerting way. This time, though, we repaired to the bed for the serious business – and I received a mighty shock, for as I was waiting for her to assume the supine position she suddenly picked me up bodily (I’m six feet and upwards of thirteen stone), flung me down, and began galloping me with brutal abandon, grunting and snarling and even drumming on me with her fists. It was like being assailed by a horny gorilla, but I gather she enjoyed it – not that she smiled, or gave maidenly sighs, but at the end she stroked her nose against mine and growled a Malagassy word in my ear several times … “Zanahary … zanahary (#ulink_a5eae8bc-d2f0-55fb-b3f1-dd055e89d73e) …” which I later discovered was complimentary. So that was my first encounter with Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, the most horrible woman I’ve ever met, bar none. Unfortunately, it was by no means the last, for although she never ceased to regard me with that Gorgon stare, she took an unquenchable fancy to me. Possibly it was my piano-playing, for normally she went through lovers like a rat through cheese, and I was in constant dread in the weeks that followed that she’d tire of me – as she had of Laborde and several hundred others. He had merely been discarded, but as often as not her used-up beaux were subjected to the dreadful ordeal of the tanguin test, and then sent to the pits, or dismembered, or sewn up in buffalo hides with only their heads out and hung up to rot. No, pleasuring Queenie wasn’t a trade you could settle to, and to make it worse she was a brutally demanding lover. I don’t mean that she enjoyed inflicting pain on her men, like dear Lola with her hairbrush, or the elfin Mrs Mandeville of Mississippi, who wore spurred riding boots to bed, or Aunt Sara the Mad Bircher of the Steppes – my, I’ve known some little turtle doves in my time, haven’t I just? No, Ranavalona was simply an animal, coarse and insatiable, and you ached for days afterwards. I suffered a cracked rib, a broken finger, and G-d knows how many strains and dislocations in my six months as stallion-en-titre, which gives you some idea. But enough of romance; suffice to say that my initiation was successful, and I was taken on the strength of her establishment as a foreign slave who might be useful not only as a paramour but also, in view of my army experience, as a staff officer and military adviser. There was no question about this in the minds of the court officials who assigned me to my duties – no thought that I might demur, or wish to be sent home, or count myself anything but fortunate to be so honoured by them. I had come to Madagascar, and here I would stay until I died, that was flat. It was their national philosophy: Madagascar was the world, and perfect, and there could be no greater treachery than to think otherwise. I got an inkling of this the same afternoon, when I had been dismissed the royal presence, considerably worn and shaken, and was conducted to an interview with the Queen’s private secretary. He proved to be a jolly little black butterball in a blue cutaway coat with brass buttons, and plaid trousers, who beamed at me from the depths of an enormous collar and floored me by crying: “Mr Flashman, what pleasure to see you! I being Mr Fankanonikaka, very personal and special secretary to her majesty, Queen Ranavalona, the Great Cloud Shading the World, ain’t I just, though? Not above half, I don’t think.” He rubbed his little black paws, chortling at my dumbstruck look, and went on: “How I speak English much perfect, so as to astonish you, I being educated in London, at Highgate School, Highgate, confounded in year of Christ 1565, seven years reigning Good Queen Bess, I say. Please sitting there exactly, and attending then to me. I being an old boy.” And he bowed me to a chair. I was learning to accept anything in this extraordinary country – and why not? In my time I’ve seen an Oxford don commanding a slave-ship, a professor of Greek skinning mules on the Sacramento stage run, and a Welshman in a top hat leading a Zulu impi – even a Threadneedle Street nigger acting as secretary to the Queen of Madagascar ain’t too odd alongside that lot. But hearing English – even his amazing brand of the language – took me so aback that I almost committed the indiscretion of asking how the blazes I was to escape from this madhouse – and that could have been fatal in a country where one wrong word usually means death by torture. Fortunately I remembered Laborde’s warning in time, and asked cautiously how he knew my name. “Ha-ha, we are knowing all manner, no humbuggery or gammon, please,” cries he, his fat face shining like boot polish. “You coming ashore from ship of Suleiman Usman, we speaking of him maybe, finding much.” He cocked his head, button eyes considering me. “You telling me now of personal life yourself, where coming from, what trade, so to speak, my old covey.” So I did – at least, that I was English, an army officer, and how I’d fallen into Usman’s hands. Again, remembering Laborde, I didn’t mention Elspeth, although I was consumed with anxiety about her. He nodded pleasantly, and then said: “You coming Madagascar, you knowing someone here, right enough?” I assured him he was wrong, and he stuck out a fat finger and says: “M’sieur Laborde.” “Who’s he?” says I, playing innocent, and he grinned and cries: “M’sieur Laborde talking you in slave place, hitting you punch in face, but then coming you cheep-cheep quiet, with dollars for give Queen, razor for shaving, how peculiaring, ain’t it?” He giggled and waved a hand. “But not mattering, since you being old boy, Laborde old boy and European chum, my stars, much shake hand hollo old fellow. I understanding, being old boy also, Highgate like. And not mattering, since Queen, may she live thousand year, liking you so much. Good gracious times much! Jig-a-jig-jig and jolly muttons!” cries this jackanapes, making obscene gestures. “Much pleasure, hurrah. Maybe you slave five, six year, pleasing Queen” – his eyes rounded eagerly – “perhaps giving boy child with rogerings, what? Anyway, five year, you not being lost, no more, being free, marrying any fine lady, being great person like me, or someone else. All from Queen liking.” He beamed happily; he had my future nicely in hand, it seemed. “But you slave now – lost!” he added sternly. “Must working hard, not only jig-a-jig. Soldier working, much needed, keeping army best in world, spit and polish, d---e, no mistake. You liking that, staying Madagascar, making fine colonel, maybe sergeant-major, shouting soldiers, left-right-left, pick ’em up, farting about like Horse Guards, quick march, just fine style. I being Highgate, long time, seeing guns Hyde Park, when little boy, at school.” The smile faded from his face, and he looked crestfallen. “Little black boy, seeing soldiers, big guns, horses, tantara and galloping.” He sniffed and knuckled his eye. “In London. Still raining, not half? Much tuck-shop, footballing, jolly times.” He sighed. “I speaking Queen, making you great soldier, knowing latest dodges, keeping army smart like Hector and Lysander, bang-up tip-top, hey? Yes, I speaking Queen.” You may say that was how I joined the Malagassy army, and if Mr Fankanonikaka was a dooced odd recruiting agent he was also an uncommon efficient one. Before night fell I was on the ration strength, with the unique rank of sergeant-general, which I suspect was Fankanonikaka’s own invention, and not inappropriate as it turned out. They quartered me in two rooms at the back of the main palace, with an orderly who spoke a little French (and spied on me night and day), and there I sat down and wept, with my head spinning, trying to figure out what to do next. What, for that matter, could I do, in this nest of intrigue and terror, where my life depended on the whim of a diabolical despot who was undoubtedly mad, fickle, dangerous, and fiendishly cruel? (Not unlike my first governess, in a way, except that their notions of bath-time for little Harry were somewhat different.) I could only wait, helpless, for Laborde, and pray that he might have some news of Elspeth, and bring me hope of escape from this appalling pickle – and I was just reconciling myself to this unhappy prospect, when who should walk in but the man himself. I was amazed, overjoyed, and terrified all in the space of two heartbeats; he was smiling, but looking pale and breathing heavy, like a man who has just had a nasty start and survived it – which he had. “I have just come from the Queen,” says he – and he spoke in French, pretty loud. “My dear friend, I congratulate you. You have pleased her – as I hoped you would. When I was summoned, I confess” – he laughed with elaborate nonchalance – “I thought there had been some misunderstanding about my visit to you last night – that it had been reported, and false conclusions drawn—” “Frankathingammybob knew all about it,” says I. “He told me. For G-d’s sake, is there any news—” He cut me off with a grimace and a jerk of his head towards the door. “I believe it was on the suggestion of her majesty’s secretary that I was called to audience,” says he clearly. “He was much impressed by your qualifications, and wished me, as a loyal servant of the Queen’s, to add my recommendations to his own. I told her what I could – that you were a distinguished officer in the British service – which does not compare, of course, to the glorious army of Madagascar – and that you were full of zeal to serve her in a military capacity.” He winked heavily at me, nodding, and I cottoned on. “But of course!” cries I, ringing tones. “It is my dearest ambition – has been for years. I don’t know how many times the Duke of Wellington’s said to me: ‘Flash, old son, you won’t be a soldier till you’ve done time with the Malagassies. G-d help us if Boney had had a battalion of them at Waterloo.’ And I’m beside myself with happiness at the thought of serving a monarch of such graciousness, magnanimity, and peerless beauty.” If some eavesdropper was taking notes for the awful black b---h’s benefit, I might as well lay it on with a shovel. “I would gladly lay down my life at her feet.” There was a fair chance of that, too, if we had many gallops like that afternoon’s. Laborde looked satisfied, and launched into raptures about my good fortune, and how blessed lucky we were to have such a benevolent ruler. He couldn’t say enough for her, and of course I joined in, writhing with impatience to hear what news he might have of Elspeth. He knew what he was doing, though, for while he talked he fiddled with a gourd on the table, and when he took his hand away there was a slip of paper under the vessel. I waited five minutes after he’d gone, in case of prying eyes, palmed it, and read it surreptitiously as I stretched out on the bed. “She is safe in the house of Prince Rakota, the Queen’s son” (it read). “He has bought her. Have no fear. He is only sixteen, and virtuous. You shall see her when it is safe. Meanwhile, say nothing, as you value her life, and your own. Destroy this message instantly.” So I ate the d----d thing, speculating feverishly on the thought of Elspeth helpless in the hands of a nigger prince who had probably been covering every woman within reach since he was eight. Virtuous, eh? Just like his dear mama? If he was such a b----y paragon, why had he bought her – to iron his linen? Laborde must be off his head – why, when I was sixteen, I know what I’d have done if I’d seen Elspeth in a shop window with a sale ticket on her. It was too horrible to contemplate, so I went to sleep instead. After all, whatever was happening to Elspeth, I’d had a trying day myself. [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, October—, 1844] Madagaskar is the most Singular and Interesting Isle, and I count myself most fortunate to have been so kindly received here – which is due entirely to the Sagacity and Energy of my darling H., who somehow contrived most cleverly to slip ashore from Don S.’s ship and make arrangements for our Enlargement and reception. Oh, happy, happy deliverance!! I know not how he accomplished it, for I have not seen my Brave Hero since we landed, but my Love and Admiration for him know no bounds, as I shall make plain to him when once again I know the Rapture of being enfolded in his arms! I am at present residing in the Palace of Prince Rakoota, in the capital city (whose outlandish name I cannot attempt to reproduce, but it sounds like a dinner bell being rung!), having been brought here yesterday after a journey of many Starts and Adventures. I was brought ashore from Don S.’s ship by some Black Gentlemen – so I must call them, for they are people of consequence, and indeed, everybody’s black here. Don S. protested most violently, and became quite distracted, so that the black soldiers had to restrain him – but I was not much moved, for his Importunities of late had been most marked, and his conduct quite wild, and I was Heartily Sick of him. He has behaved odiously, for despite his protestations of Devotion to me, he has put me to the greatest inconvenience, very selfishly – and dear H. also, who received a horrid Graze on his person. I shall say no more of Don S., except that I am sorry so Refined and Agreeable a gentleman should have proved so wanting in behaviour, and been a deep Disappointment to me. But while glad to be shot of him, I was a trifle Uneasy with our Black hosts, the chief of whom I did not like at all, he was so Gross and Offhand, and stared at me in a horrid, familiar fashion, and even forgot himself so far as to handle my hair, growling to his friends in their Language (although he speaks tolerable French, for I heard him), so I addressed him in that Tongue, and said: “Your behaviour to a Gentlewoman is not becoming, sir, especially in one who wears the tartan of the 42nd, but I’m sure I suspect you have no right to it, for my Uncle Dougal was in the 93rd, and I never heard from him that any persons of your Colour were mustered in the Highland Brigade, not in Glasgow in any event. But if I am wrong I’m sure I apologize. I am very hungry, and where is my Husband?” This being received in discourteous silence, they put me in a sedan or palankeen, and brought me into the Country, although I objected strenuously and spoke quite sharply, but to no avail. I was in such distress of mind at having no word of dearest H., or knowing where I was being taken, and the people we passed came to Stare at me, which was disagreeable, although they seemed to be in some awe, and I decided that it was, that they had never seen a Lady of fair Hair and Complexion before, they are that Primitive. But I bore this Insolence with Dignity and Reserve, and boxed one of them over the lugs, after which they kept a more respectful distance. To help compose my fears I gave myself into Tranquil Contemplation of the marvels I saw en route, the Scenery being beyond description, the flowers of Brilliant Colours, and the Animal life of boundless variety and interest – especially a darling little beastie called the Eye-Eye, which is half-monkey, half-rat with the drollest wistful eyes – which I suppose is why they call it Eye-Eye, and they won’t kill it. Its antics are diverting. However, I shall write later at leisure on the Attractions of this singular countryside, when the Descriptive Muse is upon me. Also about the great city of Madagaskar, and my Introduction to his RH Prince Rakoota, by a French resident, M. La Board, who is on terms of Intimacy with the Prince. From him I learnt that dear H. has been engaged on Military Business of Importance by no less a Personage than HM The Queen of Madagaskar – and I jalouse that my darling very cleverly offered them his Services in exchange for our reception here. They, naturally, would be Eager to avail themselves of so Distinguished an Officer, which doubtless explains the Haste with which he left from the Coast, without even seeing me – which caused me some pique, although I am sure he knows best. I don’t quite understand it, but M. La Board impressed on me the delicate nature of the work, and since he and the Prince are insistent that nothing must prejudice it, I resign myself with Good Humour and composure to wait and see, as a good wife should, and only hope my Hero will soon be spared from his Duties to visit me. I am v. comfortable in the Prince’s delightful Palace, and receive every Consideration and Kindness. The Prince is just a laddie, but speaks good French with a pretty hesitation, and is all amiability. He is v. black, well-grown and handsome, smiling readily, and I flatter myself he is more than a little fetched by me, but he is so young and boyish that an expression of Admiration which might be thought a little forward in a person more mature, may be excused in him as a natural youthful gallantry. He is a little shy, and has a wistful regard. I could wish that I had my proper wardrobe, for I am in some hope that, when dearest H. returns, he may take me to visit the Queen, who seems from all I have heard to be a Remarkable Person and held in great Esteem. However, if I am so Honoured, I shall make do with what I have, and rely on my natural breeding and appearance to uphold my Country’s credit among these People, for as our Beloved Bard has it, the rank is but the Guinea Stamp, and I’m sure that an English Lady may move Unashamed in any Society, especially if she has the Grace and Looks to carry it off. [End of extract – “natural breeding”, indeed! And where did you come by that, miss? Paisley, like the rest of us!! – G. de R.] (#ulink_8aa917a4-fa0d-576a-b6a3-665de431cdde) This spear was known as the “Hater of Lies”. (#ulink_591b2144-27df-573d-9127-183a2939866f) Supernatural, divine; (colloq.) wonderful. Chapter 10 (#ulink_051bd374-4aae-51e5-aad8-1edc2159c612) It’s been my experience that however strange or desperate the plight you may find yourself in, if there’s nothing else for it, you just get on with the business in hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. By various quirks of fate I’ve landed up as an Indian butler, a Crown Prince, a cottonfield slave-driver, a gambling-hell proprietor, and G-d knows what besides – all occupations from which I’d have run a mile if I’d been able. But I couldn’t, so I made the best of ’em, and before I knew it I was fretting about silver polish or court precedent or how we were to get the crop in by November or whether the blackjack dealer was holding out, and almost forgetting that the real world to which I rightly belonged was still out there somewheres. Self-defence, I suppose – but it keeps you sane when by rights you ought to be sinking into madness and despair. So when they gave me the army of Madagascar to drill and train, I simply shut my mind to the horrors of my situation and went at it like Frederick the Great with a wasp in his pants. I believe it saw me through one of the blackest periods of my life – a time so confused, when I look back, that I have difficulty in placing the events of those first few weeks in their proper order, or even making much sense of them. I knew so little then about the place, and that little was so strange and horrid that it left the mind numb. Only gradually did I come to have a clear picture of that savage, mock-civilized country, with its amazing people and customs, and understand my own peculiar station in it, and begin trying to scheme a way out. At first it was just a frightening turmoil, in which I could only do what I had to do, but I’ll describe it as best I can, so that you may learn about it as I did, and have the background to the astonishing events that followed. I had the army, then, to reform and instruct, and if you think that an uncommon responsible job for the newest arrived foreign slave, remember that it was European-modelled, but that they hadn’t seen a white instructor in years. There was another good reason, too, for my appointment, but I didn’t find out about that until much later. Anyway, there it was, and I’m bound to say the work was as near to being a pleasure as anything could be in that place. For they were absolutely first-class, and as soon as I saw this, when I had the regiments reviewed on the great plain outside the city, I thought to myself, right, my boy, perfection is our ticket. They’re good, but there’s nothing easier than spending ten hours a day hounding their commanders to make ’em better. And that’s what I did. Fankanonikaka had told me I had a free hand; he came down with me to that first review, when the five regiments stationed at Antan’, and the palace guard, marched past under my critical eye. “Like changing guard, left right, boom-boom, mighty fine!” cries he. “Being best soldiers in world, not half, eh? Right turning, shouldering arms, altogether, ha-ha!” He beamed at the comic opera generals and colonels who were standing with us, puffed up with pride as they watched their battalions. “You liking greatly, Sergeant-General Flashman?” I just grunted, had them halted, and plunged straight in among the ranks, looking for the first fault I could find. There was a black face badly shaven, so I stamped and swore and raved as though they’d just lost a battle, while the staff stared and shook, and little Fankanonikaka was ready to burst into tears. “Soldiers?” I bellowed. “Look at that slovenly brute, tripping over his bl----d beard! Has he shaved today? Has he ever shaved? Stand still, you mangy b----rds, or I’ll flog every second man! Slouch in front of me, will you, with your chins like a monkey’s backside? I’ll show you, my pretties! Oh, yes, we’ll take note of this! Mr Fankanonikaka, I thought you spoke to me of an army – you weren’t referring to this mouldy rabble, I suppose?” Of course, it put them into fits. There were generals gaping and protesting and falling over their sabres, while I strode about hazing right and left – dull buttons, unpolished leather, whatever I could find. But I wouldn’t let ’em touch the offending soldier – ah, no. I degraded his section commander on the spot, ordered his colonel into arrest, and scarified the staff; that’s the way to get ’em hopping. And when I’d done roaring, I had the whole outfit, officers and all, marched and wheeled and turned across that square for three solid hours, and then, when they were fit to drop, I made ’em stand for forty minutes stock-still, at the present, while I ranged among them, sniffing and growling, with Fankanonikaka and the staff trotting miserably at my heels. I was careful to snarl a word of praise here and there, and then I singled out the unshaven chap, slapped him, told him not to do it again, pinched his ear ? la Napoleon, and said I had high hopes of him. (Talk about discipline; come to old Flash and I’ll learn you things they don’t teach at Sandhurst.) After that it was plain sailing. They realized they were in the grip of a mad martinet, and went crazy perfecting their drill and turn-out, with their officers working ’em till they dropped, while Flashy strolled about glaring, or sat in his office yelling for lists and returns of everything under the sun. With my ready ear for languages, I picked up a little Malagassy, but for the most part transmitted my orders in French, which the better-educated officers understood. I built a fearsome reputation through stickling over trivialities, and set the seal on it by publicly flogging a colonel (because one of his men was late for roll-call) at the first of the great fortnightly reviews which the Queen and court attended. This shocked the officers, entertained the troops, and delighted her majesty, if the glitter in her eye was anything to go by. She sat like a brooding black idol most of the time, in her red sari and ceremonial gold crown under the striped brolly of state, but as soon as the lashing started I noticed her hand clenching at every stroke, and when the poor d---l began to squeal, she grunted with satisfaction. It’s a great gift, knowing the way to a woman’s heart. I was careful, though, in my disciplinary methods. I soon got a notion of who the important and influential senior officers were, and toadied ’em sickening in my bluff, soldierly way, while oppressing their subordinates most d--nably, and keeping the troops in a state of terrified admiration. Given time I dare say I’d have ruined the morale of that army for good and all. Since most of the leading aristocrats held high military rank, and took their duties seriously in a pathetically incompetent way (just like our own, really), I gradually became acquainted – not to say friendly – with the governing class, and began to see how the land lay in court, camp, city, and countryside. It was simple enough, for society was governed by a rigid caste system even stricter than that of India, although there was no religious element at all. There were eleven castes, starting at the bottom with the black Malagassy slaves; above them, in tenth place, were the white slaves, of whom there weren’t many apart from me, and I was special, as I’ll explain – but ain’t that interesting, that a black society held white superior to black, in the slave line? We were, of course, but it didn’t make much odds, since all of us were far below the ninth caste, which consisted of the general public, who had to work for a living, and included everyone from professional people and merchants right down to the free labourers and peasantry. Then there were six castes of nobles, from the eighth to the third, and what the differences were I never found out, except that they mattered immensely. The Malagassy upper crust are fearful snobs, and put on immense airs with each other – a third-rank count or baron (these are the titles they give themselves) will be far more civil to a slave than to a sixth-rank nobleman, and the caste rules governing them are harsher even than for the lower orders. For example, a male noble can’t marry a woman of superior caste; he can marry beneath himself, but he mustn’t marry a slave – if he does, he’s sold into slavery himself and the woman is executed. Simple, says you, they just won’t marry slaves, then – but the silly b-----s do, quite often, because they’re crazy, like their infernal country. The second caste consisted of the monarch’s family, poor souls, and at the top came the first caste, an exclusive group of one – the Queen, who was divine, although quite what that meant wasn’t clear, since they don’t have gods in Madagascar. What was certain, though, was that she was the most absolute of absolute tyrants, governing solely by her own whim and caprice, which, since she was stark mad and abominably cruel, made for interesting times all round. That much you have probably gathered already, from my description of her and of the horrors I’d seen, but you have to imagine what it was like to be living at the mercy of that creature, day in day out, without hope of release. Fear spread from her like a mist, and if her court was a proper little viper’s nest of intrigue and spying and plotting, it wasn’t because her noble and advisers were scheming for power, but for sheer survival. They went in terror of those evil snake eyes and that flat grunting voice so rarely heard – and then usually to order arrest, torture, and horrible death. Those are easy words to write, and you probably think they’re an exaggeration; they’re not. That beastly slaughter I’d witnessed under the cliff at Ambohipotsy was just a piece of the regular ritual of purge and persecution and butchery which was everyday at Antan’ in my time; her appetite for blood and suffering was insatiable, and all the worse because it was unpredictable. It wouldn’t have seemed so horrible, perhaps, if Madagascar had been some primitive nigger tribal state where everyone ran about naked chanting mumbo-jumbo and living in huts. Well, I remember my old chum King Gezo of Dahomey, sitting slobbering like a beast before his death-house (built of skulls, if you please) tucking into his luncheon while his fighting women chopped prisoners into bloody gobbets within a yard of him. But he was an animal, and looked like one; Ranavalona wasn’t – quite. She had not bad taste in clothes, for example, and knew enough to hang pictures on the walls, and have her banquets laid with knives and forks just so, and place-cards (Solomon was right: I saw ’em – “Serjeant-General Flatchman, Esq., yours truly” was what mine said on one occasion, in copperplate handwriting). I mean, she had carpets, and silk sheets, and a piano, and her nobles wore trousers and frock coats, and addressed their women-folk as “Mam’selle” – my G-d, haven’t I seen a couple of her Comtesses, sitting at a palace dinner, chattering like civilized women, with silver and crystal and linen before them, ignoring the cutlery and gobbling food with their fingers, and then one turning to t’other and twittering: “Permittez-moi, ch?rie,” and proceeding to delouse her neighbour’s hair. That was Madagascar – savagery and civilization combined into a horrid comic-opera, a world turned upside down. And at the head of the table she would sit, in a fine yellow satin gown from Paris, a feather boa stuck through her crown, pearls on her black bosom and in her long earrings, chewing on a chicken leg, holding up her goblet to be refilled, and getting drunker and drunker – for when it came to lowering the booze she could have seen a sergeants’ mess under the table. It didn’t show in her face; the plump black features never changed expression, only the eyes glittered in their piercing uncanny stare. She wouldn’t smile; her talk would be an occasional growl to the terrified sycophants sitting beside her, and when she rose at last, wiping her sullen mouth, everyone would spring up and bow and scrape while two of her generals, perspiring, would escort her down the room and out on to the great balcony, lending her an arm if she staggered, and over the great crowd waiting in the courtyard below would fall a terrible silence – the silence of death. I’ve seen her, leaning on that verandah, with her creatures about her, gazing down on the scene below; the ring of Hova guardsmen, the circle of torches flaming over the archways, the huddled groups of unfortunates, male and female, from mere striplings to old decrepit folk, cowering and waiting. They might be recaptured slaves, or fugitives hunted out of the forests and mountains, or criminals, or non-Hova tribesmen, or suspected Christians, or anyone who, under her tyranny, had merited punishment. She would look down for a long time, and then nod at one group and grunt: “Burning,” and then at another, “Crucifixion,” and at a third, “Boiling.” And so on, through the ghastly list – starvation, or flaying alive, or dismembering, or whatever horror occurred to her monstrous taste. Then she would go inside – and next day the sentences would be carried out at Ambohipotsy in front of a cheering mob. Sometimes she attended herself, watching unmoved, and then going home to the palace to spend hours praying to her personal idols under the paintings in her reception room. While most of her cruelties were practised on common folk and slaves, her court was far from immune. I remember at one of her lev?es, at which I was in humble attendance with the military, she suddenly accused a young nobleman of being a secret Christian. I’ve no idea whether he was or not, but there and then he was submitted to ordeal – they have any number of ingenious forms of this, including swimming rivers infested by crocodiles, but in his case they boiled up a cauldron of water, right in front of her seat, and she sat staring fixedly at his face as he tried to snatch coins out of the bubbling pot, plucking, and screaming while the rest of us watched, trying not to be sick. He failed, of course – I can still see that pathetic figure writhing on the floor, clutching his scalded arm, before they carried him out and sawed him in half. Not quite what we’re accustomed to at Balmoral, you’ll agree, but at least Ranavalona didn’t go in for tartan carpets. Her wants were simple: just give her an ample supply of victims to mutilate and gloat over and she was happy – not that you’d have guessed it to look at her, and indeed I’ve heard some say that she was just plain mad and didn’t know what she was doing. That’s an old excuse which ordinary folk take refuge in because they don’t care to believe there are people who enjoy inflicting pain. “He’s mad,” they’ll say – but they only say it because they see a little of themselves in the tyrant, too, and want to shudder away from it quickly, like well-bred little Christians. Mad? Aye, Ranavalona was mad as a hatter, in many ways – but not where cruelty was concerned. She knew quite what she was doing, and studied to do it better, and was deeply gratified by it, and that’s the professional opinion of kindly old Dr Flashy, who’s a time-served bully himself. So you see what a jolly, carefree life it was for her court, of whom I suppose I was one in my capacity of mount of the moment. It was a privileged position, as I soon realized; you recall I told you how I took pains to curry favour with the top military nobles – well, I soon discovered that the compliment was returned, slave though I was officially. They toadied me something pitiful, those black sweating faces and trembling paws in gaudy uniforms – they assumed, you see, that I only had to whisper the word in her ear and they’d be off to the pits and the cross. They needn’t have fretted; I never knew one of ’em from t’other, hardly, and anyway I was too alarmed for my own safety to do anything with her d----d black ear but chew it, loving-like. You may wonder how I stuck it out; or how I could bring myself to make love to that female beast. Well, I’ll tell you; if it’s a choice between romping and being boiled or roasted, you can bring yourself to it, believe me. She wasn’t bad-looking beneath the neck, after all, and she seemed to like me, which always helps – you may find it difficult to believe (I do myself) but there were even moments, on warm, silent afternoons, when we would be drowsing on the bed, or by her bath, and I would steal a glance along the pillow at that placid black face, comely enough with the eyes closed, and feel even a touch of affection for her. You can’t hate a woman you sleep with, I suppose. Mind you, once that black eyelid lifted, and that eye was on you, it was another story. One thing, though, I feel inclined to say in her defence, having said so much ill of her, and rightly. At least some of her excesses, especially in the persecution of Christians (I wasn’t one, by the way, during my Madagascar sojourn, as I took pains to point out to anyone who’d listen), were inspired by her idol-keepers. I’ve said there was no religion in her country, which is true – their superstition was not on an organized basis – but there were these fellows who read omens and looked after the stones and sticks and lumps of mud which passed for household gods. (Ranavalona had two, a boar tusk and a bottle, which she used to mutter to.) Well, the idol-keepers had helped her to the throne when she was a young woman, after her husband the king died, and his nephew, the rightful heir, had been all set to ascend the throne. The idol-keepers, in their role as augurs, had said the omens favoured Ranavalona instead, and since she at the same time was busily organizing a coup d’?tat, slaughtering the unlucky nephew and all her other immediate relatives, you couldn’t say the idol-keepers were wrong: they’d picked the winner. They obtained such influence with her that they even persuaded her to kill off the lovers who had helped her coup, and she relied on them for guidance ever after. I was always very civil to them myself, with a cheery “Good morning” and a dollar or two, mangy brutes though they were, shuffling through the palace with their bits of rag and string and ribbon – which were probably idols of terrific potency, if I’d only known. They helped Ranavalona determine her policy by throwing beans on a kind of chess-board, and working out the combinations, which usually resulted in massacre for someone, just like a Cabinet decision; she would admit them at all times of day – I’ve seen her sitting on her throne, with her girls helping her try on French slippers, while the lads crouched alongside, mumbling over their beans, and she would nod balefully at their pronouncements, take a squint at her bottle or tusk for reassurance, and pronounce sentence. They once walked in when she and I were having a bath together – deuced embarrassing it was, performing while they cast the bones, but Ranavalona didn’t seem to mind a bit. If there was any other influence in her life, apart from the mumbo-jumbo men and her own mad passions, it was her only son, Prince Rakota – the chap to whom Laborde had managed to steer Elspeth. He was the heir to the throne, although he wasn’t the old king’s son, but the offspring of one of her lovers whom she’d later had pulled apart, naturally. However, under Malagassy law, any children a widow may have, legitimate or not, are considered sons of her dead husband, so Rakota was next in line, and my impression was that Madagascar couldn’t wait to cry “Long live the King!” You see, despite my misgivings when I’d first heard about him, he was the complete opposite of his atrocious mother – a kindly, cheerful, good-natured youth who did what he could to restrain his bloodthirsty parent. It was common knowledge that if he happened along as they were about to butcher someone on her instructions, and he told them to let the chap go, they would – and mama never said a word about it. He’d have had to spend all his time sprinting round the country shouting “Lay off!” to make much impression on the slaughter rate, but he did what he could, and the populace blessed and loved him, as you’d expect. Why Ranavalona didn’t do away with him, I couldn’t fathom; some fatal weakness in her character, I suppose. However, mention of Rakota advances my tale, for about three weeks after I’d taken up my duties, I met him, and was reunited, if only briefly, with the wife of my bosom. I’d seen Laborde once or twice beforehand, when he’d figured it was safe to approach me, and pestered him to take me to Elspeth, but he’d impressed on me that it was highly dangerous, and would have to wait on a favourable opportunity. It was like this, you see: Laborde had told Rakota that Elspeth was my wife, and pleaded with him to look after her, and keep her tucked away out of sight, for if the Queen ever discovered that her new buck and favoured slave had a wife within reach – well, it would have been good night, Mrs Flashman, and probably young Harry as well. Jealous old b---h. Rakota, being a kindly lad, had agreed, so there was Elspeth snug and well cared for, not treated as a slave at all, but rather as a guest. While I, mark you, was having to pleasure that insatiable female baboon for my very life’s sake. They hadn’t told Elspeth that, thank G-d, but jollied her along with the tale that I had taken up an important military post, which was true enough. A strange state of affairs, you’ll allow – but nothing out of the way for Madagascar, and no more incredible than some of the things that I’ve known and heard of in my time. I was so bemused with what had happened over the past few months anyway, that I just accepted the bizarre situation; only two things worried and puzzled me. How had the Queen, who found out everything through her system of spies, which was directed by Mr Fankanonikaka, failed to get word of the golden-haired slave in her son’s palace? And why – this was the real conundrum – were Laborde and Prince Rakota in such a sweat to help Elspeth and me? What was I to them, after all? I’m a suspicious brute, you see, and don’t put much stock in altruistic virtue; there was something up here. I was right, too. Laborde presented me to the Prince on an afternoon when Ranavalona was safely out of the way, watching a bullfight, which was her prime hobby. It was a byword that the fighting bulls were the only living things she had any feelings for; the only times she was known to weep was when one of them died, or was badly gored in the ring. So it was deemed safe for me to take an hour off from parade, and with Fankanonikaka, Laborde, and a leading general named Count Rakohaja, I was borne out to the Prince’s garden palace in the suburbs of Antan”. Rakota received me in his throne room, where I was graciously permitted to prostrate myself before him and his Princess. They were tiny folk – he wasn’t more than five feet tall, and dressed like a Spanish matador, in gold tunic and breeches, buckled shoes, and a Mexican sombrero. He was about sixteen, lively and smiling all over his round olive face; he had the beginnings of a moustache. His wife was much the same, a dumpy little bundle in yellow silk; if anything, her moustache was further along than his. They spoke good French, and when I’d clambered upright Rakota said he had brilliant reports of the way I was training the troops, especially the royal guardsmen. “Sergeant-General Flashman has worked wonders with the men, and the best officers,” agreed Count Rakohaja; he was a big, lean Hova aristocrat with a scar on his cheek, dressed in a coat and trousers which would have been perfect St James’s, if they hadn’t been made of bright green velvet. “Your highness will be enchanted to learn that he has already won the loyalty of all under his command, and has shown himself a most dependable and trustworthy officer.” Which was doing it rather too brown, but the Prince beamed on me. “Most gratifying,” says he. “Winning the confidence of the troops is the first essential in a leader. As commander-in-chief – under the sublime authority of Her Majesty, The Great Cow Who Nourishes All The World With Her Milk, of course – I congratulate you, sergeant-general, and assure you that your zeal and loyalty will be amply rewarded.” It seemed a trifle odd. I wasn’t a commander, but a glorified drill instructor, and everyone knew it. However, I responded politely that I didn’t doubt the troops would follow me from h--l to Huddersfield and back, which seemed to please his highness, for he ordered up chocolate and we stood about sipping it from silver bowls, two-handed. (The Malagassies have no idea of quantity; there must have been a gallon of the sickly muck in each bowl, and the gurgling of the royal consumption was something to hear.) It seemed to me that Prince and Princess were slightly nervous; he kept darting glances at Rakohaja and Fankanonikaka, and his little chubby consort, whenever she caught my eye, smiled timidly and bobbed like a charwoman seeking employment. The Prince asked me a few more questions, in an offhand way – about the quality of the lower-rank commanders, the equipment of palace pickets, the standard of marksmanship, and so on, which I answered satisfactorily, noting that he seemed specially interested in the household troops. Then he took one last gulp and belch at his chocolate, wiped his moustache on his sleeve, and says to me, with a little smile and wave: “You are permitted to withdraw to the other end of the room,” and began to talk in Malagassy to the others. Mystified, I bowed and retreated, a door at the far end opened, and there was Elspeth, smiling radiantly, and dressed in the worst possible taste in a garden-party confection of purple taffeta – purple on a blonde, G-d help us – tripping towards me with her arms out. In a moment Madagascar was forgotten, with its Queen and horrors and dressed-up mountebanks; I had her in my arms, kissing her, and she was murmuring endearments in my ear. Then propriety returned, and I glanced round at the others. They were ignoring us – all except Fankanonikaka, who was having a sly peep – so I enfolded her again, inhaling her perfume while she prattled her delight at seeing me. “… for it has been so long, and while their highnesses have been kindness itself, I have been yearning for you night and day, my love. Do you like my new dress? – her highness chose it for me herself, and we think it most becoming, and it is so heavenly to have proper clothes again, after those dreadful sarongas – but we will not talk of that, and the hateful separation, and the odious behaviour of that… that man Don Solomon – but now we are rid of him, and safely here, and it is such fun – if it were not that your duties keep you from me. Oh, Harry, must they? But I must be a good wife, as I always promised, and not put myself forward where your duty is concerned, and indeed I know the separation is as cruel for you as for me – and, oh, I do miss you …” Here she embraced me again, and drew me down on to a settle – the others were deep in their own conversation, although the dumpy little Princess fluttered her fingers at us shyly, and Elspeth must rise to curtsey – even black royalty was just nuts to her, obviously – before resuming her headlong discourse. I never got a word in edgeways, as usual, but I doubt if I’d have been coherent anyway. For to my amazement, Elspeth seemed to have not a care in the world – well, I’ve always known she had a slate loose, and was incapable of seeing farther than her pretty nose – which reminded me to kiss it, tenderly – but this was beyond belief. We were prisoners in this heathen h--l-hole, and to hear her you might have imagined it was a holiday at Brighton. Slowly it dawned on me that she had no true notion of the ghastliness of our plight, or even of what Madagascar was like at all, and as she babbled I began to understand why. “… of course, I should like to see more of the country, for the people seemed not disagreeable, but the Prince informs me that the position of foreigners here is delicate, and it is not advisable for me to be seen abroad. For you, of course, it is different, since you are employed by her majesty – oh, tell me, Harry, what she looks like, and what she says! How does she dress? Shall I be presented? Is she young and well-favoured? I should be so jealous – for she cannot fail to be attracted by the handsomest man in England! Oh, Harry, I much admire your uniform – it is quite the style!” I’d taken advantage of the custom of the country to wear all red, with a black sash, pretty raffish, I admit. Elspeth fairly glowed at me. “But I have so much to tell you, for the Prince and Princess have been so good, and I have the prettiest rooms, and the garden is so beautiful, and there is some very select company in the evenings – all black, of course, and a leetle outr? – but most agreeable and considerate. I am most happy and interested – but when shall we go home to England, Harry? I hope it is not too long – for I sometimes feel anxiety for dear Papa, and while it is very pleasant here, it is not quite the same. But I know you will not detain us here longer than must be, for you are the kindest of husbands – but I am sure your work here will be of the greatest service to you, for it is sure to be a valuable experience. I only wish” – her lip suddenly trembled, despite her efforts to smile – “that we could be together again … in the same house … oh, Harry, darling, I miss you so!” And the little clothhead began piping her eye, leaning on my shoulder – as though she had anything worth weeping about! It was a d----d letdown, for I’d been looking forward to pouring out my woes and complaints to her, bemoaning my lot, describing the horrors of my plight – the respectable bits, anyway – and generally making her flesh creep with my anxieties. But there seemed no point now in alarming her – she’d just have done something idiotic, and with the others almost in earshot, the less I said the better. So I just patted her shoulder to cheer her up. “Now then, old girl,” says I, “don’t be a fool. What’ll their highnesses think of your bleating and bawling? Wipe your nose – you’re a lot better off than some, you know.” “I know. I am very foolish,” says she, sniffing, and presently, when the Prince and Princess withdrew, she was all smiles again, curtseying like billy-ho, and kissing me a tender farewell. I remarked to Laborde as we returned to the palace that my wife seemed happily ignorant of my predicament, and he turned his steady eyes on me. “It is as well, is it not? She could be a great danger to you – to both of you. The less she knows, the better.” “But in G-d’s name, man! She’ll have to find out sooner or later! What then? What when she realizes that she and I are slaves in this frightful country – that there’s no hope – no escape?” I grabbed his arm – we had left our sedans at the entrance to my quarters at the rear of the palace, Fankanonikaka having parted from us at the main gate. “For the love of heaven, Laborde – there must be a way out of this! I can’t go on drilling niggers and piling into that black slut for the rest of my life—” “Your life will last no time at all if you don’t control yourself!” snaps he, pulling loose. He glanced round, anxiously, then took a deep breath. “Look you – I will do whatever I can. In the meantime, you must be discreet. I do not know what can be achieved. But the Prince was pleased with you today. That may mean something. We shall see. Now I must go – and remember, be careful. Do your work, say nothing. Who knows?” He hesitated, and tapped me quickly on the arm. “We may drink caf? au lait on the Champs Elys?es yet. ? bient?t.” And he was off, leaving me staring, mystified – but with something stirring inside me that I hadn’t felt in months: hope. Chapter 11 (#ulink_99fe0bb3-7a84-58f1-bf02-ec9ebb0b07d0) It didn’t stir for long, of course; it never does. You hear news, or a rumour, or an enigmatic remark like Laborde’s, and your imagination takes wing with wild optimism – and then nothing happens, and your spirits plunge, only to revive for a spell, and then down again, and up and down, while time slips away almost unnoticed. I’m glad I ain’t one of these cool hands who can take a balanced view, for any logical appraisal of my situation in Madagascar would have driven me to suicide. As it was, my alternate hopes and glooms were probably my salvation, as the months went by. For it was months – six of them, although looking back it’s hard to believe it was more than a few weeks. Memory may hold on to horrid incidents, but it’s a great obliterator of dull, protracted misery, especially if you help it with heavy drinking. There’s a fine potent aniseed liquor on Madagascar, and I sopped it up like a country parson, so between sleep and stupor I don’t suppose I was in my wits more than half the time. And as I’ve remarked, when needs must, you just carry on with the work in hand, so I drilled and bullied my troops, and attended the Queen when called upon, and warily enlarged my circle of acquaintances among the senior military, and cultivated Mr Fankanonikaka, and found out everything I could that might serve when the time came – if it ever did … but it must, it must! For while with every passing week my servitude in Madagascar began to seem more natural and inevitable, there would be moments of sudden violent reaction, as when I’d just seen Elspeth, or been appalled by some new atrocity of the Queen’s, or the musky wood and dust smell grew unbearable in my nostrils, and then there was nothing for it but to walk out alone on the parade ground before Antan’ and stare at the distant mountains, and tell myself fiercely that Lord’s was still over there somewhere with Felix bowling his slow lobs while the crowd clapped and the rooks cawed in the trees; there would be green fields, and English rain, parsons preaching, yokels ploughing, children playing, cads swearing, virgins praying, squires drinking, whores rogering, peelers patrolling – that was home, and there must be a road to it. So I kept my eye skinned and learned … that Tamitave, while it had taken days to cover on the slave-march, was a bare hundred and forty miles away; that foreign ships put in about twice a month – for Fankanonikaka, whose office I visited a good deal, used to receive notice of them … the Samson of Toulon, the Culebra of Havana, the Alexander Hamilton of New York, the Mary Peters of Madras – I saw the names, and my heart would stop. They might only anchor in the roads, to exchange cargo – but if I could time my bolt from Antan’ precisely, and reach Tamitave when a foreign vessel was in … I’d swum ashore, I could swim aboard – then let ’em try to get me on their cursed land again! How to reach Tamitave, though, ahead of pursuit? The army had some horses, poor screws, but they’d do – one to ride, three to lead for changes … oh, G-d, Elspeth! I must get her away, too – mustn’t I? … unless I escaped and came back for her in force – by Jove, Brooke would jump at the chance of crusading against Ranavalona – if Brooke was still alive – no, I couldn’t face another of his campaigns … D--n Elspeth! And so my thoughts raced, only to return to the dusty heat and grind of Antan’, and the misery of existence. There were some slight blessings, though. I became interested in my army work, and enjoyed putting the troops through their manoeuvres, teaching them complicated wheels in line, slow marches, and so forth; I became quite friendly with senior men like Rakohaja, who began more and more to treat me as an equal, and even entertained me at their homes, the patronizing monkeys. Fankanonikaka noted this and was pleased. “Doing much fine, what? Dining nibs, much grub, happy boozing like h--l, tip-top society, how-de-do so pleased to meet you, hey? I seeing you Count Rakohaja, Baron Andriama, Chancellor Vavalana, other best swells. Watching Vavalana careful, however, sly dog, peeping or tittle-tattling for Queen. So looking sharp, that’s the ticket for soup, rotten rascal Vavalana, him hating old boy Fankanonikaka, hating you too, much jealousing you mounting Queen, happying her much boom-boom not above half, maybe getting boy child I don’t know, Vavalana not liking that, mischief you if possible. Watch out him, I telling you. Meantime you pleasing Queen all while, hearty lovings, she admiring, ain’t she just, though, ha-ha?” And the dirty little rascal would tap his pug nose and chortle. I wasn’t so sure myself, for as time went by Ranavalona’s demands on me slowly diminished, and while it was a relief in one way – for at first, when I had been summoned to the palace almost every day on her majesty’s service, it was so exhausting I daren’t wave my hand for fear I floated away – it was worrying, too. Was she tiring of me? It was a dreadful thought, but I was reassured by the fact that she still seemed to like my company, and even began to talk to me. Not that it was elevating chat – how were the troops? was the ration of jaka (#ulink_8695a9e4-2946-574e-b021-b2986ffd5560) sufficient? why did I never wear a hat? were my quarters comfortable? why did I never kill soldiers by way of punishment? had I ever seen the English queen? You must imagine her, either sitting on her throne in a European gown, with one of her girls fanning her, or reclining on her bed in her sari, propped up on one elbow, slowly grunting out her questions, fingering her long earring and never taking those black unblinking eyes from mine. Unnerving work it was, for I was in constant dread that I’d say something to offend; it didn’t help that I never discovered how informed or educated she was, for she volunteered no information or opinions, only questions, and no answers seemed either to please or displease her. She would just brood silently, and then ask something else, in the same flat, muttered French. It was impossible to guess what she thought, or even how her mind worked. Well, to give you an example, I was alone with her one day, standing by obediently while she sat on the bed gazing at Manjakatsiroa (her bottle gourd) and mumbling to herself, when she looked up at me slowly and growled: “Does this dress please you?” It was a white silk sarong, in fact, and became her not too badly, but of course I went into raptures about it. She listened sullenly, fidgeted a moment, and then got up, stripped the thing off, and says: “It is yours.” Well, it wasn’t my style at all, but of course I grovelled gratefully and said I couldn’t do it justice, but I’d treasure it forever, make it my household idol, in fact, splendid idea … she paid not the slightest attention but sauntered over, bare as the back of my hand, to her great mirror and stared at herself. Then she turned to me, slapped her belly thoughtfully two or three times, put her hands on her hips, stared bleakly at me, and says: “Do you like fat women?” If the hairs on my neck crawled, d’you wonder? For if you can think of a tactful answer, I couldn’t. I stood tongue-tied, the sweat starting out on me as visions of boiling pits and crucifixion flitted across my mind, and I couldn’t restrain a moan of despair – which I immediately had the mother-wit to turn into a lustful growl as I advanced on her, grappling amorously and praying that actions would speak louder than words. Since she didn’t press the point, I gather my answer was the right one. Another anxiety, of course, during those long weeks, was that she would get word of Elspeth, or that my dear little wife herself would get restive and commit some folly which would attract attention. She didn’t, though, and on the occasional visits I was allowed to make to the Prince’s palace, she seemed as cheerful as ever – I still don’t understand this, although I’ll admit that Elspeth has an unusually serene and stupid disposition which can make the best of anything. She bemoaned the fact that we were kept apart, of course, and never ceased to ask me when we would be going home, but since we were never left alone together there was no opportunity to tell her the fearful truth, and it would have served no good purpose anyway. So I jollied her along, and she seemed content enough. It was on the last visit I paid her that I saw the first signs of distress, and guessed it had at last penetrated into that beautiful fat head that Madagascar wasn’t quite the holiday she imagined. She was pale, and looked as though she’d been crying, but for once we had no opportunity of a private t?te-?-t?te, for the occasion was a tea-party given by the Princess, and I was held in military small talk by the Prince and Rakohaja throughout. Only when I was leaving did I have a brief word with Elspeth, and she didn’t say much, except to grip my hand tight, and repeat her eternal question about going home. I couldn’t guess what had upset her, but I could see the tears weren’t far away, so I startled her out of her glooms in the only way I know how. “What’s this, old girl?” says I, looking thunderous. “Have you been flirting with that young Prince, then?” She looked blank, but her dismals vanished at once. “Why, Harry, what can you mean? What a question to ask—” “Is it, though?” says I grimly. “I don’t know – I can see he has more than an eye to you, the presumptuous young pup – yes, and you ain’t discouraging him exactly, are you? I’m not well pleased, my lady-just because I can’t be here all the time, is no reason for you to go setting your cap at other fellows – oh, yes, I saw you fluttering at him when he spoke to you – and a married man, too. Anyway,” I whispered, “you’re far too pretty for him.” She was pink by this time – not with guilty confusion, mark you, but with pleasure at the thought that she’d stirred the passion in yet another male breast. If there was one thing that could divert the little trollop’s attention, it was male admiration; she’d have stood preening herself in the track of a steam road roller if someone had so much as winked at her. I saw by her blushing protests how delighted she was, and that her unhappiness – whatever it was – had been quite forgotten. But now I was being called to the Prince, with Rakohaja at his elbow. “No doubt we shall see you tonight, sergeant-general, at her majesty’s ball,” says his highness, and it seemed to me his voice was unduly shrill, and his smile a trifle glassy. “It is to be a very splendid occasion.” I knew about the Queen’s dances and parties, of course, although I’d never been to one. Being officially a slave, you see, however much authority I had in the army, I occupied a curious social position. But Rakohaja put my doubt at rest. “Sergeant-General Flashman will be present, highness.” He turned his big scarred face to stare at me. “I shall bring him in my own party.” “Excellent,” twitters the Prince, looking everywhere but at me. “Excellent. That will be … ah … most agreeable.” I bowed myself away, wondering what this portended. I didn’t have long to wait to find out. The Queen’s galas were famous affairs. They took place every two or three months, on the anniversaries of her birth, accession, marriage – or the jubilee of her first massacre, I shouldn’t wonder – and were attended by the flower of Malagassy society, all in their fanciest costumes, crowding into the great courtyard before the palace, where they danced, ate, drank, and revelled all through the night. Proper orgies, from all I’d heard, so I was ready prompt enough, in full fig, when Rakohaja came for me early in the evening. There was a great crowd of the commonalty waiting at the palace gates as we passed through, peeping to get a look at their betters, who were already whooping it up to some tune. The whole vast courtyard was ablaze with Chinese lanterns slung on chains, potted palms and even whole trees and flower-beds had been brought in for decoration, the arches of the palace front were twined with rammage and cords of tinsel, a fountain had been specially constructed in the centre of the yard, the water playing over glass jars in which were imprisoned clusters of the famous Malagassy fire-flies – brilliant little emerald green jewels which winked and fluttered through the spray with dazzling effect. Among the trees and arbours which lined the square long tables were set, piled with delicacies, especially the local beef rice which is consumed in honour of the Queen – don’t ask me why, because it’s mere coarse belly fodder. The military band were on hand, pounding away at “Aupr?s de ma blonde”, and getting most of the notes wrong; I noticed they were all half-tipsy, their black faces grinning sweatily and their uniform collars undone, while their bandmaster, resplendent in tartan dressing-gown and bowler hat, was weaving about cackling and losing his silver-rimmed spectacles. He grovelled on the ground hunting for them and waving his baton crazily, but the band played on undaunted, falling off their seats, and the row was deafening. Mind you, if they were drunk, you could see where they’d got the idea. There must have been several hundred of the upper crust present already, each one with about a gallon of raw spirit aboard to judge by their antics; I counted four fellows in the fountain when we arrived, and any number staggering about; the greater number were standing unsteadily in groups of anything from six to sixty, making polite conversation at the tops of their voices, yelling and back-slapping, seizing glasses from the loaded trays which the servants passed among them, bawling toasts, spilling liquor all over each other, apologizing elaborately, tumbling down, and acting quite civilized on the whole. There was the usual fantastic display of fashion – men in Arab, Turkish, Spanish, and European costume, or mixtures of all of them, women in every conceivable colour of sarong, sari, elaborate gown, and party frock. There was abundance of uniform, too, velvet, brocade, superfine, and broadcloth, with crusts of silver and gold braid, but I noticed there was more of a Spanish note than usual – black swallow-tails, cummerbunds, funnel pants, and sashes among the men, mantillas, high heels, flounced skirts, lace fans, and flowers among the women. The reason, I discovered, was that it was Rakota’s coming of age, and since he favoured dago fashion the revellers were decked out in his honour. The heat from that shouting, swaying, celebrating throng came at you like a wave, with the band crowning the bedlam of noise with its incessant pounding. “The dinner has not yet begun,” says Rakohaja to me. “Shall we anticipate the others?” He led the way under the trees, where the waiters stood, most of ’em pretty flushed, and waved me and his aides to chairs. There was fine china and glass on the tables, but Rakohaja simply uncorked a bottle, pulled up his sleeve, scooped up a huge handful of beef rice, and proceeded to stuff it into his face, taking occasional pulls of liquor to help it down. Not wishing to be thought ignorant, I used my fingers on a whole chicken, and the aides, of course, ploughed in like cannibals. Half-way through our collation the more sober of the palace attendants cleared the guests from the main square, and there was terrific plunging, tripping, swearing, and profuse apologizing as they staggered to seat themselves at the surrounding buffets. Whole tables were overturned, chaps fell into the undergrowth, women shrieked tipsily and had to be helped, crockery crashed and glass shattered, all to the accompaniment of cries of: “Ah, mam’selle, pardon my absurd clumsiness,” “Permit me, sir, to assist you to your feet,” “Hol?, gar?on, place a chair beneath madame – beneath her posterior, you clumsy rascal!” “Delightful, is it not, Mam’selle Bomfomtabellilaba; such select company, exquisite taste and decoration,” “Forgive me, madame, I am about to vomit a while,” and so forth. Eventually, to a chorus of cries, smashing, retching, and polite whispers, they were all down, at various levels, and the cabaret began. This consisted of a hundred dancing girls, in white saris, with green fire-flies bound in their hair, undulating in perfect time across the courtyard to weird nigger music; ugly little squirts for the most part, but drilled like guardsmen, and I’ve never seen a pantomime chorus to equal them. They swayed and weaved among each other like clockwork in the most complex patterns, and the mob, in the intervals of stuffing and swilling, rose to them in drunken appreciation. Flowers and ribbons and even plates of food were thrown, fellows clambered on the tables to applaud and yell, the ladies scattered change from their purses, and in the middle of it the military band regained consciousness as one man and began to play “Aupr?s de ma blonde” again. The bandmaster fell into the fountain to prolonged cheering, one of the aides at our table subsided face down in a dish of curry, General Rakohaja lit a cheroot, about twenty chaps ran in among the dancing-girls and began an impromptu waltz, the Prince and Princess made their entrance in sedans draped with cloth-of-gold and borne shoulder-high by Hova guardsmen, the whole assembly raved and staggered in loyal greeting, and at the next table a slant-eyed yellow gal with slim bare shoulders glanced lingeringly in my direction, lowered her eyelids demurely, and stuck out her tongue at me behind her fan. Before I could respond with a courtly inclination of my head there was a sudden blare of trumpets, drowning out the hubbub; it rose in a piercing fanfare, and as it died away the entire congregation staggered to its feet with a renewed clattering of overturned chairs, breaking of dishes, subdued swearing and apology, and stood more or less silent, leaning on each other and breathing stertorously. On the centre of the first balcony of the palace, lanterns were blazing, guardsmen were forming, and a brazen-lunged major-domo was shouting commands. Handmaidens appeared bearing the striped umbrella, cymbals clashed, a couple of idol-keepers scurried out with their little bundles, the Silver Spear was borne forward, and here came the founder of the feast, the guest of honour, the captain of the side, imperial in her crimson gown and golden crown, to be greeted by a roar of acclamation which beat everything that had gone before. The wave of adulation beat up and echoed against the towering walls, “Manjaka, manjaka! Ranavalona, Ranavalona!” as she moved slowly forward to the balcony, her stately progress marred only by the obvious fact that she, too, was drunker than David’s sow. She swayed dangerously as she stood looking down, a couple of guardsmen lending a discreet elbow on either side, and then the band, in a triumph of instinct over intoxication, burst into the national anthem, “May the Queen Live a Thousand Years”, rendered with heroic enthusiasm by the diners, most of whom seemed to be accompanying themselves by beating spoons on plates. It ended in a furore of cheering, and her majesty retired about five seconds, I’d say, before collapsing in a heap. We hallooed her out of sight, and now that the loyal toast was drunk, so to speak, the party began in earnest. There was a concerted rush into the square, in which I found myself carried along, willy-nilly, and with the band surpassing itself, a frenzied polka was danced; I found myself partnering an enormously fat hippo of a woman in crinoline, who used me as a battering-ram to drive a way through the press, screaming like a steam whistle as she did so. I may say that in keeping with the spirit of the evening, I had taken a fairish cargo of drink aboard myself, and it was making me feel reckless, for I kept craning over the heads of the throng in the hope of a sight of the yellow gal who had been eyeing me. Which was madness, of course, but even the thought of a jealous Ranavalona ain’t proof against several pints of aniseed liquor and Malagassy champagne – besides, after months of galloping royalty I was crying out for a change, and that slender charmer would supply it splendidly – there she was, with a frog-like black partner clinging to her for support; she caught my glance as the dance swept her past and opened her eyes invitingly at me. It was the work of a moment to kick my partner’s massive legs from under her and thrust her squawking under the feet of the prancing throng; I fought my way to the sidelines, scooping the yellow gal out of her partner’s drunken embrace en route, and he blundered on blindly while I bore off the prize with one arm round her lissom waist. She was shrieking with laughter as I swept her into the undergrowth – it was bedlam in there, too, for it seemed that the accepted way of sitting out a dance in Antan’ was to crawl into the bushes and fornicate; half the guests appeared to be there before us, black bottoms everywhere, but I found a clear space and was just settling down, choking lustfully in the waves of scent which my lady affected, when some brute kicked me in the ribs, and there was Rakohaja standing over us. I was about to d--n his eyes heartily, but he just jerked his head and moved behind a tree, and since my yellow gal chose that moment to be sick, I lost no time in joining him, cursing my luck just the same. I was pretty unsteady on my feet, but I realized that he was cold sober; the lean black face was grim and steady, and there was something about the way he glanced either side, at the hullabaloo of the dance and the dim forms grunting and gasping in the shadows about us, that made me check my angry protest. He drew on his cheroot a moment, then, pitching it away, he took my arm and ushered me under the trees, along a narrow path, and so by a dimly-lighted passage into a little open garden space, which I guessed must be to the side of the palace proper. It was moonlight, and the little space was full of shadows; I was about to demand to know what the dooce this was all about when I realized that there were at least two men half-hidden in the gloom, but Rakohaja paid them no attention. He crossed to a little summer-house, with a chink of light showing beneath its door, and tapped. I stood trying to get my head clear, suddenly scared; faintly in the distance I could hear the sounds of music and drunken revelry, and then the door was opened, and I was being ushered inside, blinking in the lantern-light as I stared round, panic mounting in my throat. There were four men seated there, looking at me. To my left, in dark shirt, breeches, and boots, his face vulpine in the lantern-ray, was Laborde; next to him, solemn for once, his fat chops framed in his high collar, was Fankanonikaka; to the right, slimly elegant in his full court dress, was one of the young Malagassy nobles whom I knew by sight, although I’d hardly spoken to him, Baron Andriama. And in the centre, his handsome young face tense and strained, was Prince Rakota himself. His glance went past me as the door closed. “No one saw you?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “No one,” says Rakohaja behind me. “It is safe to begin.” I doubted that – I really did. Drunk or not, I can smell a conspiracy when it’s pushed under my nose, and the presence of royalty and several of Madagascar’s most eminent citizens notwithstanding, I knew at once that there was mischief brewing here, but Rakohaja’s hand was on my shoulder, firmly guiding me to a seat, and any lingering doubt was dispelled as the Prince nodded to Laborde, who addressed me. “There is very little time,” says he, “so I shall be brief. Do you wish to return to England, in safety, with your wife?” The honest answer to that was high treason, and the knowledge must have shown in my face, for little Fankanonikaka broke in quickly; it was a sign of his agitation that he spoke, not in fluent French, but in his bastard English. “Not frightening, no alarms, all’s well, Flashman. Friends here, liking you, telling truth, like old boys, ain’t we? If the Queen’s own son, and her secretary and most trusted minister were in it – whatever it was – there could be no point in lying. “Yes,” says I, and the Prince sighed with relief, and broke into a torrent of Malagassy, but Laborde cut him short. “Pardon, highness, we must not delay.” He turned to me again. “The time has come to depose the Queen. All of us whom you see here are agreed on that. We are not alone; there are others, trusted friends, who are in the plot with us. We have a plan – simple, effective, and involving no bloodshed, by which her majesty will be removed from power, and his highness crowned in her place. He will give you his royal word, that in return for your faithful service in this, he will set you and your wife at liberty, and return you to your homeland.” He paused; his words had come out in a swift, incisive rush, but now he spoke slowly. “Will you join us?” Could it be a trap? Some d---lish device of Ranavalona’s to test my loyalty – she was fiend enough to be capable of it. Laborde’s face said nothing; Fankanonikaka was nodding at me, as though willing me to agree. I glanced at the Prince, and the almost wistful expression in the fine dark eyes convinced me – nearly. I was sober enough now, and as frightened as any decent coward has any right to be; it might be dangerous to agree, but just the feel of Rakohaja’s grim presence at my elbow told me it would be downright fatal to refuse. “What d’you want me to do?” I said. For the life of me, I couldn’t see why they needed me at all, unless they wanted me to strangle the black slut in her bath – the mind shuddered at the thought – no, it couldn’t be that – no bloodshed, Laborde had said— “We need someone,” Laborde went on, as though he’d been reading my mind, “who is in the Queen’s confidence, entirely above suspicion, yet with the power so to dispose of the armed forces that they will be unable to protect her. Someone who can ensure that when the moment comes, her Hova guard regiment will not be able to intervene. Those guards within the palace can be dealt with easily – provided there is no reinforcement to assist them. That is the key to the whole plan. And you hold the key.” So many thoughts and terrors were jumbling in my mind by now that I couldn’t give them coherent utterance for a moment. The prospect of freedom – of escape from that monstrous Poppaea and her ghastly country – I shivered with excitement at the thought … but Laborde must be crazy, for what could I do about her infernal soldiers? – I might be G-d Almighty on the drill-ground, telling them where to put their clodhopping feet, but I’d no authority beyond that. Their plot might be A1, and I was all for it, provided I was safe out of harm’s way – but the thought of doing anything! One hint of suspicion in those terrible eyes— “How can I do that?” I stuttered. “I mean, I’ve no power. General Rakohaja here, he could order—” “Not possible, Queen not liking, all thinking bad of General, chop undoubtedly—” Fankanonikaka waved his hands, and Rakohaja’s deep voice sounded behind me. “If I, or any other noble, attempted to move the Hova Guards more than a mile from the city, the Queen’s suspicions would be instantly aroused. And I do not have to tell you what follows on her suspicions. It has been tried, once before, and General Betimseraba lingered in agony for days, without arms or legs or eyes, hanging in a buffalo skin at Ambohipotsy. He was plotting, as we are, but not so carefully. He forgot that the Queen has spies in every corner – spies that even Fankanonikaka does not know about. Yet all he did was try to detach two companies of the guard to Tamitave. Nothing was proved – but he failed the tanguin – and died.” “But … but – I can’t move the Guards—” “You have done so, twice already.” It was Andriama, speaking for the first time. “Did you not give them training marches, one of two days, the other of three? Nothing was said; the Queen was undisturbed. What would excite immediate suspicion, if done by a noble of whom the Queen is jealous – and she is insanely jealous of all of us – may be easily accomplished by the sergeant-general, who is only a slave, and well beloved by the Queen.” Fankanonikaka was nodding eagerly; his lips seemed to be framing the words “jig-a-jig-a-jig”. I was going faint at the thought of the risk I’d already run, quite unawares. “Don’t you understand?” says Laborde. “Don’t you see – from the moment I saw you in the slave-market, months ago, we have been scheming, Fankanonikaka and I, to bring you to the position where you could do this thing? The Queen trusts you – because she has no reason to suspect you, who are only a lost foreigner. She thinks of you only as the slave who drills her troops – and as a lover. You know how cautiously we have proceeded – so that no hint of suspicion could attach to you; his highness has kept your wife in safety, even beyond the eyes and ears of his mother’s spies. We have waited and waited – oh, long before you came to Madagascar. This is not the first time we have plotted in secret—” “She is mad!” the Prince burst out. “You know she is mad – and terrible – a woman of blood! She is my mother – and … and …” He was shaking, twisting his hands together. “I do not seek the throne for greed, or for power! I do it to save this country – to save all of us, before she destroys us utterly, or brings down the vengeance of the world upon us! And she will – she will! The Powers will not stand by forever!” He stared from Laborde to Rakohaja and back again. “You know it! We all know it!” I couldn’t fathom this, until Laborde explained. “You are not alone, Flashman. Only last month a brig named the Marie Laure was driven ashore near Tamitave; her master, one Jacob Heppick, an American, was taken and sold into slavery, like you. I had him bought, through friends of mine—” He snorted suddenly. “There are five European slaves whom I have bought secretly this year, to save them from worse; castaways, unfortunates, like you and your wife. They are hidden with my friends. But there have been inquiries from their governments – inquiries which the Queen has answered with insults and threats. She has even been foolish enough to abuse the few foreign traders who put in here – men have been taken from their vessels, put to forced labour, virtually enslaved. How long will France and England and America endure this? “Even now” – he leaned forward, tapping my knee – “there is a British warship in Tamitave roads, whose commander has sent protests to the Queen. She will reject them, as she always does – and burn another hundred Christians alive to show her contempt of foreigners! How long before that one British warship is a squadron, landing an army to march on Antan’ and pull her from her throne? Does she think London and Paris will endure her forever?” And what the d---l, I nearly burst out, is wrong with that? I never heard such splendid stuff in all my life – G-d, to think of British regiments and blue-jackets storming into her beastly capital, blowing her lousy Hova rascals to blazes, stringing her up, with any luck – and then it occurred to me that these Malagassy gentlemen might not view the prospect with quite as much enthusiasm. They wouldn’t relish being another British or French dominion; no, but let good King Rakota mount the throne, and behave like a civilized being, and the Powers would be happy enough to leave him and his country alone. So that was why they were in such a sweat to get rid of mama, before she provoked an invasion. But why should Laborde care – he wasn’t a Malagassy? No, but he was a conniving Frog, and he didn’t want the Union Jack over Antan’ any more than the others did. I wasn’t in the political service for nothing, you know. “She will destroy us!” Rakota cries again. “She will bring us to war – and in her madness there is no horror she will not—” “No, highness,” says Rakohaja. “She will not – for we will not let her. This time we shall succeed.” “You understand,” says Laborde, eyeing me, “what is to be done? You must send the Guards on a march to the Ankay, a mere thirty miles away. Nothing more than that. A training march, lasting three days, under their subordinate commanders, as usual.” “That will leave the Teklave and Antaware regiments at Antan’,” says Rakohaja. “They will do nothing; their generals will be with us as soon as our coup is seen to be successful.” “We shall strike on the second night after the Guards have gone,” says Andriama. “I shall be in attendance on the Queen. I shall have thirty men in the palace. At a given signal they will take the Queen prisoner, and dispose of her guards within the palace, if that is necessary. General Rakohaja will summon the commanders of the lesser regiments, and with Mr Fankanonikaka will proclaim the new King. It will be done within an hour – and when word of the coup reaches the Hova Guards at Ankay, it will be too late. The enthusiasm of the people will ensure our success—” “They will rally to me,” says Rakota earnestly. “They will see why I do this thing, that I will be a liberator, and—” “Yes, highness,” says Rakohaja, “you may trust us to see to all that.” I couldn’t help noticing that they used Rakota pretty offhand, for their future monarch; who would rule Madagascar, I couldn’t help wondering? But that was small beer – my mind was racing over this thunderclap that they’d burst on me. They weren’t laggard conspirators, these lads, and I’d hardly had time to get my breath. They had it all pat – but, by jingo, it was an appalling risk! Suppose something went wrong – as it had done before, apparently? The mere thought of the vengeance Ranavalona would take set my innards quivering – and I’d be in the middle of the stew, too. I could have wept at the thought that there was a British warship, this very minute, not four days’ ride away to the eastward. Was there any way I could – no, that wasn’t on the cards. Suppose Laborde could bring it off? Suppose the Queen got wind of it? She had spies – I even found myself looking at Fankanonikaka, and wondering. Who knew – she might have penetrated this conspiracy already – she might be gloating up yonder, biding her time. I thought of those awful pits, and the fellow screaming before her throne, with his arm parboiled … “Then you are with us?” says Laborde, and I realized they were all staring at me – Fankanonikaka, round-eyed, eager but scared; the Prince almost appealing, Andriama and Rakohaja grimly, Laborde with his head back, weighing me. In the silence of the little summer-house I could still hear, faintly, the sounds of the distant music. There was a foolish, useless question in my mind – but funk that I was, I had to ask it, although the answer wouldn’t settle my terrors a bit. “You’re sure the Queen doesn’t suspect already?” says I. “I’ve heard of thirty men who’ll do the thing – how d’ye know there isn’t a spy among ’em? Those two sentries outside—” “One of the sentries,” says Andriama, “is my brother. The other my oldest friend. The thirty whom I shall lead are men from the forests – outlaws, brigands, men under sentence of death already. They can be trusted, for if they betrayed us, they would join us in the pits.” “Neither the Queen nor Chancellor Vavalana suspects,” says Rakota quickly. “I am certain of it.” He fidgeted and looked at me, smiling hopefully. “When will my wife and I be free to leave?” says I, looking him in the eye, but it was Laborde who answered. “Three days from now. For you must send the Guards to Ankay tomorrow, and we will strike on the night of the day following. From that moment, you are free.” If I’m still alive, thinks I. I knew I was red in the face, which is a sure sign that I’m paralysed with fear – but what could I do but accept? Hadn’t they cut it fine, though? Not giving old Flash much time to play ’em false, if he’d been so minded, the cunning scoundrels. Even so, they felt it would do no harm to drop a reminder in my ear, for when the Prince had said a few well-chosen words to wind up our little social gathering, and we had dispersed quietly into the dark, and I was making my way tremulously back to the courtyard, where they were still racketing fit to wake the dead, Rakohaja suddenly surged up at my elbow. “A moment, sergeant-general, if you please.” He had a cheroot going again; he glanced around, drawing on it, before continuing. “I was watching you; I do not think you are a calm man.” Heaven alone knew what could have given him that impression. To demonstrate my sang-froid I uttered a falsetto moan of inquiry. “Calm is necessary,” says the big b----rd, laying a hand on my arm. “A nervous man, in your situation, might give way to fear. He might conceive, foolishly, that his interest would be best served by betraying our plot to her majesty.” I started to babble, but he cut me short. “That would be fatal. Any gratitude which the Queen might feel – supposing she felt any at all – would be more than outweighed by her jealous rage on discovering that her lover had been unfaithful. Mam’selle Bomfomtabellilaba is an attractive woman, as you are aware. You seemed to be finding her so when I summoned you earlier this evening. The Queen would be most displeased with you if she heard of it.” He took my arm as we approached the courtyard. “I remember one of her earlier … favourites, who was indiscreet enough only to smile at one of her majesty’s waiting-women. He never smiled again – at least, I do not think he did, but it is difficult to tell after a man’s skin has been removed, inch by inch, in one piece. Shall we find something to eat? – I am quite famished.” (#ulink_4cec1d8a-da1d-53a4-baf4-8cec5c6424bf) Preserved fried beef, a form of pemmican. Chapter 12 (#ulink_3bfbdf90-e872-52aa-a3f3-acc77c5dcf42) While I can lie and dissemble with the best as a rule, I’m not much hand at conspiracy; you’re too dependent on knavery other than your own. Mind you, they seemed a steady enough gang, and the one blessing was that there was little time left for anything to go wrong; if I’d had to wait days, or weeks, I don’t doubt my nerve would have cracked, or I’d have given myself away. When I went on parade next dawn, having had not a wink of sleep, I was twitching like a landed fish; I’d even started guiltily when my orderly brought my shaving-water – what was behind it, eh? wasn’t it suspicious that his behaviour was exactly the same as it had been for months? Did he know something? By the time I got to my office, and issued my orders of the day to my small staff of instructors, I was seeing spies everywhere, and behaving like a nervous actor in “Macbeth”. The shocking problem, as I stared at the impassive black faces of my staff and tried to keep my hands still, was to devise a sufficient excuse for sending the Guards off to Ankay. G-d, how had I got into this? I couldn’t just order ’em off – that would excite comment for certain. They didn’t need the exercise, they’d been behaving well on parade – I couldn’t see any way, but I had them mustered in case, trusting the Lord would provide. And He did. The men were steady and well-turned out, as usual, but their junior officers had been at the Queen’s party all night, and came on parade half-soused. Seeing my chance, I set ’em to drill their columns, and in five minutes that muster looked like the Battle of Borodino, with Hovas walking into each other, whole companies going astray, and little drunk officers staggering about shrieking and weeping. In happy inspiration I had the band paraded to accompany the drill, and since most of them were still cross-eyed and blowing into the wrong end of their instruments, the shambles was only increased. At this I flew into a frightful passion, placed the drunker officers under arrest, harangued the parade at the top of my voice, and told them they could d--n well march in full kit until they were sober and respectable again. Ankay was the place, I said; they could camp out on the plain without tents or blankets, and if one of ’em dared to get fever I’d flog him stupid. It must have sounded convincing, and presently off they went, led by the band playing three different marches at once; I watched them fade into the dusty haze and thought, well, that’s my part well done – and if the whole plot goes agley, I can still plead that my actions have been perfectly normal. But that’s small comfort to a conscience like mine. I was a prey to increasing terror all day, fretting about what Laborde and the others might be doing – there was another day and night for word of the plot to leak out, and I started at every voice and footfall. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice; no doubt they attributed my jumps, like their own, to the excesses of the previous night. There was no word from the palace, no hint of anything untoward; evening came, and I prepared to turn in early with a bottle of aniseed to quiet my dark hours. I lay there, listening to the distant sounds of the palace, sucking at my flask, and telling myself for the thousandth time there was no reason why all shouldn’t be well – why, given luck, in two days Elspeth and I would be riding down in style to Tamitave, with Rakota’s blessing; then the first English ship, and home and safety, far from this h--lish place. It mightn’t be so bad, of course, with Ranavalona out of the way – might be financial advantage to be had – rich country, new market – trading ventures, expert advice to City merchants in return for ten per cent of the profits – not to be sneezed at. Wonder what they’d do with Good Queen Randy – exile to the southern province, likely, with a platoon of Hova bucks to keep her warm … serve her right … The knock on my door sounded thunderously, and I came bolt upright, sweating. I heard my orderly’s voice, and here he was, as I scrabbled for my boots, and behind him, the ominous figures of Hova guardsmen, bandoliers and all, their bare chests gleaming black in the lamplight. There was an under-officer, summoning me to the royal apartments; the words pierced my drowsy brain like drops of acid – oh, Ch---t, I was done for. I had to hold on to the edge of my cot as I pulled on my breeches; what could she want, at this hour, and why should she send a guard of soldiers, unless the worst had happened? The gaff was blown, it must be – steady, though, it might be nothing after all – I must keep a straight face, whatever it was. Panic shook me – should I try a bolt? No, that would be fatal, and my legs wouldn’t answer; it was all they could do to walk steady as the officer led the way round to the front of the palace, past the broad steps – was it imagination that there seemed to be more sentries than usual? – and across the court to the Silver Palace, gleaming dimly under the rising moon, its million bells tinkling softly in the night air. Up the stairs, along the broad corridor, with my legs like jelly and the Hova boots pounding stolidly behind me – I wasn’t happy about those boots, I remembered; I’d toyed with the idea of trying ’em in sandals, but hadn’t been sure how they’d stand up to long marching – ye G-ds, what a thing to think about, with my life in the balance, and now the great doors were opening, the officer was waving me in, and here, in a blaze of light, was the reception room, and I was striding in and bowing automatically, while the picture was emblazoned in my mind. She was there, black and still, on her throne. It must be midnight, surely, but d---e if she wasn’t wearing a taffeta afternoon dress, all blue flounces, and a hat with an ostrich plume. I came up from my bow, feeling the chill stare, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. A couple of her girl attendants alongside, then the lean, robed figure of Vavalana the Chancellor, his head cocked, looking at me out of his crafty eyes; Fankanonikaka – I struggled for composure, but his bland black face told me nothing. And then my heart leaped sickeningly, and I almost cried out. To one side, between two guardsmen, stood Baron Andriama. His shirt was torn, his face contorted, and his hands were bound; he seemed barely able to stand. There was a filthy mess on the floor near him – and the word shot into my mind: tanguin. She knew, then – it was all up. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her watching me, her hand at her earring. Then she muttered something, and Vavalana shuffled forward, his staff tapping. His grizzled head and skinny black face looked curiously bird-like; he blinked at me like a cheeky old robin. “Speak before the Queen,” says he, and his voice was a gentle croak. “Why did you send the Guards to Ankay?” I tried to look slightly puzzled, and to keep my voice steady. “May the Queen live a thousand years. I sent the Guards on a punishment march – because they were drunk and slovenly. So was the band.” I frowned at him, and spoke louder. “They were not fit to be seen – I have five of their officers in arrest. Fifty miles in full kit is what they need, to teach ’em to behave like soldiers – and when they come back I’ll send them out again, if they haven’t learned their lesson!” It sounded well, I think – the right touch of puzzled indignation and martial severity, although how I managed it G-d alone knows. Vavalana was studying me, and behind him that black face and beady eyes beneath the ostrich plume were as fixed as a stone idol’s. I must not falter, or betray fear— “They were not sent away on the orders of that man?” says Vavalana, and his scrawny hand pointed at Andriama, sagging between his guards. “Baron Andriama?” says I, bewildered. “He has no authority over the troops. Why – does he say he ordered me? He has never shown any interest in their training – he’s not a soldier, even. I don’t understand, Chancellor—” “But you knew” – cries Vavalana, his finger stabbing at me – “you knew he plotted against the life of the Great Lake Supplying Water! Why else should you remove her shield, her trusted soldiers?” I let my jaw drop in amazement, then I laughed right in his face – and for the first time saw Ranavalona startled. She jumped like a jerked puppet, for I don’t suppose anyone had ever laughed aloud in her presence before. “A plot, you say? Is this a joke, Chancellor? If so, it’s in poor taste.” I stopped laughing and scowled, seeing the doubt in his eyes – now’s your chance, my boy, I thought, rage and indignation, carry it off for all you’re worth, bluff loyal old Harry. “Who would dare plot against her majesty, or say that I knew of it?” I almost shouted the words, red in the face, and Vavalana absolutely fell back a step. Then: “Enough!” Ranavalona took her hand from her earring. “Come here.” I stepped forward, forcing myself to look into those hypnotic eyes, my mouth dry with fear. Had the bluff worked? Did she believe me? The glazed, frozen pupils surveyed me for a full minute, then she reached out and took my hand. My spirits leaped as she held it – and then she grunted one word: “Tanguin.” My heart lurched, and I almost fell. For it meant she didn’t believe me, or at least wasn’t sure, which was just as bad; she was holding my hand, sentencing me to trial by ordeal, that horrible, lunatic test of Madagascar, which gave barely a chance of survival. I heard my own teeth chattering, and then I was grovelling and pleading, protesting my loyalty, swearing she was the darlingest, loveliest queen who ever was – only the blind certainty that confession meant sure and unspeakable death stopped me from whimpering out the whole plot; for at least the tanguin gave me a slender chance, and I suppose I knew it. The sullen face didn’t change. She let go my hand and gestured to the guards. I could only crouch there while they made their beastly preparations, aware of nothing except the black, muscular hands holding the little tanguin stone and scraping it with a knife, so that the grey powdery flakes fell on to the platter on which lay the three dried scraps of chicken-skin. There it was, my poisoned death; one of the guards jerked me roughly to my feet, gripping my arms behind me; the other advanced, lifting the plate up to my face. He seized my jaw – and then paused as the Queen spoke, but it wasn’t a reprieve: she was signing to one of her maids, and everything must wait, me with my eyes popping at that venomous offal I was going to have to swallow, while the girl scurried away and came back with a purse, from which the Queen solemnly counted twenty-four dollars into Vavalana’s hand. At that final callousness, that obscene adherence to the letter of their heathen ritual, my nerve broke. “No!” I screamed. “Let me go! I’ll tell – I swear I’ll tell!” By the grace of God I shouted in English, which no one except Fankanonikaka understood. “Mercy! They made me do it! I’ll tell—” My jaw was wrenched cruelly open; bestial fingers were holding it, and I choked as my mouth filled with the filthy odour of the tanguin. I struggled, gagging, but the scraps of chicken were thrust cruelly to the back of my mouth; then muscular hands clamped my jaws shut and pinched my nostrils, I struggled and heaved, trying not to swallow, my throat was on fire with that vile dust, I was choking horribly, my lungs bursting, but it was no use. I gulped agonizingly – and then I was staggering free, sobbing and trying to retch, glaring round in panic, knowing I was dying – yet even then aware of the curiosity in the watching eyes of Vavalana and the guards, and the blank indifference of the creature motionless on the throne. I screamed, again and again, clutching at my burning throat, while the room spun giddily round me – and then the guards had seized me once more, little Fankanonikaka was jabbering at me while they forced a bowl to my lips. “Buvez! Buvez! Drinking – quickly!” and a torrent of rice-water was being poured into me, filling my mouth and nostrils, soaking my whole head; my very lungs seemed to be filling with the stuff. I swallowed and swallowed until I felt I must burst, feeling the relief as that corrosive pain was washed from my mouth – and then an agonizing convulsion gripped my stomach, and then another, and another. I was on hands and knees, crawling blindly – oh, G-d, if this was death it was worse than anything I’d imagined. I opened my mouth to scream, and in that moment I spewed as never before, again and again, and collapsed in a shuddering heap, wailing feebly and all but dead to the world, while the spectators gathered round to take stock. This is the interesting part of the tanguin ordeal, you see: will the victim vomit properly? It’s true – that’s the test. They force that deadly poison into you, douse you with rice-water to help digestion, and await events – but it ain’t enough just to be sick, you know, you must bring up the three pieces of chicken skin as well, and if you do, it’s handshakes all round and a tanner from the poor box. If you don’t, then you’ve failed the test, your guilt is established – and her majesty has endless fun disposing of you. Delightful, ain’t it? And just about as logical as the proceedings of our police courts, if rather more upsetting to the accused. At least you don’t have to wait in suspense while they sift the evidence, for you’re too racked and exhausted to care; I lay, coughing and whining with my eyes blurred with tears of pain, until someone seized my hair and jerked me upright, and there was Vavalana, solemnly surveying three sodden little objects on his palm, and Fankanonikaka beaming relief at his elbow, nodding at me, and I was still too dazed to take it in as the guards thrust me forward on to my knees, snuffling and blubbering before the throne. Then followed the most astonishing thing of all. Ranavalona held out her hand, and Vavalana carefully placed eight dollars in her palm. She passed them to her maid, and he then gave her another eight, which she held out to me. I was too used up to recollect that this was the token that I’d survived the ordeal successfully, but then she made it abundantly clear. When I took the money she closed her hand round mine and leaned forward from her throne until our faces were almost touching, and to my utter disbelief I saw that there were tears in those dreadful snake eyes. Very gently she rubbed her nose against mine, and touched my face with her lips. Then she was upright again, turning her glare on the unfortunate Andriama, and hissing something in Malagassy – she may have been reminding him to wear wool next his skin, but I doubt it, for he shrieked with terror and flung himself grovelling in front of her, nuzzling at her feet while the guards fell on him and dragged him writhing towards the doors. My hair stood up shuddering on my scalp as his screams died away; a less comprehensive spew, and that would have been me wailing. Fankanonikaka was at my elbow, and taking my cue from him I bowed unsteadily, backing out of the presence. As the doors closed on us, Ranavalona was still seated, the ostrich plume nodding as she muttered to her bottle idol; her maids were starting to mop the floor in a disconsolate way. “Much touching, Queen loving you greatly, so pleased you puking pretty, much happy tanguin not dying!” Fankanonikaka was absolutely snivelling with sentiment as he hurried. “She never loving so deep, except royal bulls, which aren’t human being. But now hurrying, much danger still, for you, for me, for all, when Andriama telling plots.” He thrust me along the passages, and so to his little office, where he shot the bolt and stood gasping. “What about Andriama? What happened?” He rolled his eyes. “Who knowing, someone betraying, awful humbug Vavalana maybe spy keyholing, hearing somethings. Queen suspicioning Andriama, giving tanguin, he puking no good, not like you. I not there in time, no helping, like for you, with salt, little-little cascara in rice-water, making mighty sickings, jolly happy, all right and tight, I say.” No wonder I’d been sick. I could have kissed the little blighter, but he was fairly twitching with alarm. “Andriama telling soon. Awful torturings now, worse from Spanish Inquizzing, burnings and cutting away private participles—” He shuddered, his hands over his face. “He crying about plot, me, you, Rakohaja, Laborde—” “For G-d’s sake, talk French!” “—everything be knowing to Vavalana and Queen. Maybe little time yet, then clink for us, torturings too, then Tyburn jig, I’ll wager! Only hope, making plot now – tonight Guards not here, marching Ankay left-right! Must telling Rakohaja, Laborde, Queen suspicioning, Andriama blowing gaff soon …” He babbled on while I tried desperately to think. He was right, of course: Malagassies are brave and tough as teak, but Andriama would never stand the horrors that Ranavalona’s beauties were probably inflicting on him while we stood talking. He’d break, and soon, and we’d be dead men – by George, though, she fancied me, didn’t she just, piping her eye when I survived the tanguin, the tender-hearted little bundle? Aye, and no doubt she’d weep into her pillow after I’d been flayed alive for treason, too. If we could reach Laborde or Rakohaja, could they bring off the coup at once? Where were Andriama’s thirty villains? Did Rakota know what had been happening? Rakota – dear G-d, Elspeth! What would become of her? I pounded my fist in a fury of despair, while Fankanonikaka twittered in Malagassy and pidgin English, and suddenly I saw that there was only one way, and a slender hope at that, but it was that or unspeakable death. The Flashman gambit – when in doubt, run. “Look, Fankanonikaka,” says I, “leave this to me. I’ll find Laborde and Rakohaja. But if I’m to move quickly, I must have a horse. Can you give me an order on the royal stables? They won’t let me take a beast without authority. Come on, man! I can’t run all over b----y Antan’ on foot! Wait, though – I may need more than one. Write me an order for a dozen horses, so that I can give ’em to Laborde, or Rakohaja – they’ll have to assemble those men of Andriama’s somehow.” He goggled at me in consternation. “But what reason? If order say taking all horse, someone suspicioning, crying fire and Bow Street—” “Say they’re for the Guards’ officers I sent marching to Ankay! Say the Queen’s sorry for ’em, and they can ride back! Any d----d excuse will do! Hurry, man – Andriama’s probably crying uncle this instant!” That decided him; he grabbed a quill and scribbled as I hovered at his shoulder, shuddering with impatience. The minutes were flying, and with every one my chances were growing dimmer. I pocketed the order; there was one more item I must have. “Have you a pistol? A sword, then – I must have a weapon – in case.” I hoped to heaven there’d be no in case about it, but I couldn’t go unarmed. He scurried about and found one in a nearby drawing-room – only a ceremonial rapier with a curved ivory hilt and no guard, but it would have to do. As I took it an appalling thought struck me – why not cut upstairs and kill the black b---h where she sat … or sick Fankanonikaka on to do it? He fairly squealed with alarm and indignation. “No, no, no bloodings! Gentle deposings only – great Queen, poor lady – oh, so barmy! If only she peace and quiet, ourselves not needing d--n plottings, not above half! Now all to smash, kicking up rows, arrests and cruellings!” He wrung his hands. “You hurrying Laborde fastly, I waiting sentry, oh my stars, someone maybe nabbing, or Queen suspicioning—” “Not a bit of it,” says I. “Tell you what, though – you’re a sharp hand at slipping things into chap’s drinks, ain’t you? Well, try and find a way of sending poor old Andriama some refreshment – put him out of his misery before he blabs, what? And don’t fret, Fankanonikaka! We all old boys, jolly times together. Floreat Highgate and to h--l with the Bluecoat School, hey?” Then I was off, leaving him twittering, forcing myself to walk slowly as I descended the great staircase, past the incurious palace guardsmen, across the court and out into the street beyond. It was the small hours, but there was plenty of traffic about, for in the royal district of Antan’ society folk kept late hours, and there was sure to be much dining-out and discussing of last night’s orgy at the palace. They delight in scandal, you know, just like their civilized brethren and sisters. The streets were well-lit, but no one paid me any heed as I made my way past the strolling pedestrians and the sedans jogging under the trees. I had got a long cloak from Fankanonikaka, to wear over my boots and breeches and to cover my sword – for slaves didn’t ought to have such things – and apart from my white face and whiskers I was just like any other passer-by. The stables were only five minutes’ walk, and I lounged about in a fever of nonchalance while the under-officer laboriously spelled out Fankanonikaka’s note and looked surly. He didn’t have much French, but I supplemented the written order as best I could, and since he recognized me as the sergeant-general he did what he was told. “Two horses for me,” says I, “and the other dozen for the Guards’ officers out at Ankay. Send ’em out now, with a groom, and tell him to follow the Guards’ track, but not to hurry. I don’t want the cattle worn out, d’you see?” “No grooms,” says he, sulky-like. “Then get one,” says I, “or I’ll mention you to the Queen, may she live a thousand years. Been out to Ambohipotsy lately, have you? You’ll find yourself observing it from the top of the cliff, unless you look sharp – and put a water-bottle, filled, with each horse, and plenty of jaka in the saddle-bags.” I left him as pale as only a scared nigger can be, and rode at a gentle pace in the direction of Prince Rakota’s palace, leading the second horse. I daren’t hurry, for a mounted man was rare enough in Antan’ at any time, and a hastening rider in the middle of the night would have had them hollering peeler. This is the worst of all, when every second’s precious but you have to dawdle – I think of strolling terrified through the pandy lines at Lucknow with Campbell’s message, or that nerve-racking wait on the steamboat wharf at Memphis with a disguised slave-girl on my elbow and the catchers at our very heels; you must idle along carelessly with your innards screaming – had Andriama talked yet? Did the Queen know it all by now? Was Fankanonikaka, perhaps, already shrieking under the knives? Were the city gates still open? They never closed ’em, as a rule; if I found them shut, that would be a sure sign that the caper was blown – heaven help us then. Rakota’s place in the suburbs stood well apart from the other houses, behind a stockade approached through a belt of small trees and bushes. I left the horses there, out of sight, breathed a silent prayer that Malagassy hacks knew enough not to stray or neigh, and set forward boldly for the front gate. There was a porter dozing under the lantern, but he let me in ready enough – they don’t care much, these folk – and presently I was kicking the jigger-dubber (#ulink_c399e47f-7233-57fe-9672-45eaec8fc2f1) awake on the front steps, boldly announcing myself from the Silver Palace with a message for his royal highness. This presently produced a butler, who knew my face, but when I demanded instant audience, he cocked his frosty head disdainfully. “Their highnesses are not returned … ah … sergeant-general. They are dining with Count Potrafanton. You can wait – on the porch.” That was a blow; I hadn’t a moment to spare. I hesitated, and then saw there was nothing for it but the high hand. “It’s no matter, porter,” says I, briskly. “My message is that the foreign woman who is here is to be sent to the Silver Palace immediately. The Queen wishes to see her.” If my nerves hadn’t been snapping, I dare say I’d have been quite entertained at the expressions which followed each other across his wrinkled black face. I was only tenth-caste foreign rubbish, a mere slave, he was thinking; on the other hand, I was sergeant-general, with impressive if undefined power, and much more to the point, I was the Queen’s current favourite and riding-master, as all the world knew. And I brought a command ostensibly from the throne itself. All this went through the woolly head – how much he’d been told by his master about the need to keep Elspeth’s presence secret, I couldn’t guess, but eventually he saw which way wisdom – and Ambohipotsy – lay. “I shall inform her,” says he, stiffly, “and arrange an escort.” “That won’t be necessary,” says I, harshly. “I have a sedan waiting beyond the gates.” Butlers are the b----y limit; he was ready to argue, so eventually I just blazed at him, and threatened if he didn’t have her down and on parade in a brace of shakes, I’d march straight back to the palace and tell the Queen her son’s butler had said “Snooks!” and slammed the door on me. He quivered at that, more in anger than sorrow, and then marched off, all black dignity, to fetch her. You could see he was wondering what things were coming to nowadays. I waited, chewing my knuckles, pacing the porch, and groaning at the recollection of how long it took the bl----d woman to dress. Ten to one she was peering at herself in the glass, patting her curls and making moues, while Andriama was probably blabbing, and plot, alarm, and arrest were breaking out with a vengeance; Ranavalona’s tentacles might be reaching out through the city this moment, in search of me – I stamped and cursed aloud in a fever of impatience, and then strode through the open door at the sound of a female voice. Sure enough, there she was, in cloak and bonnet, prattling her way down the stairs, and the butler carrying what looked like a hat-box, of all things. She gave a little shriek at the sight of me, but before I could frown her into silence another sound had me wheeling round, hackles rising, my hand starting towards my sword-hilt. Through the open door I could see down the long drive to the main gate. It was dim down yonder, under the flickering lantern, but some kind of commotion was going on. There was a clatter of metal, a voice raised in command, a steady tread advancing – and into my horrified view, their steel and leather glittering in the beams cast by the front door lamps, came a file of Hova guardsmen. (#ulink_202f8b6c-033f-593b-8712-26cb4a9ee84c) Door-keeper. Chapter 13 (#ulink_ef4bf14d-c930-5347-a0b1-1c00c5dd0c27) I may not be good for much, but if I have a minor talent it’s for finding the back door when coppers, creditors, and outraged husbands are coming in the front. I had the advantage of having my pants up and my boots on this time, and even hampered by the need to drag Elspeth along, I was going like a rat to a drainpipe before the butler even had his mouth open. Elspeth gave one shriek of astonishment as I bundled her along a passage beneath the stairs. “Harry! Where are you going – we have left my band-box—!” “D--n your band-box!” I snapped. “Keep quiet and run!” I whirled round a corner; there was a corridor obviously leading to the back, and I pounded along it, my protesting helpmeet clutching her bonnet and squeaking in alarm. A startled black face popped out of a side-door; I hit it in panic and Elspeth screamed. The corridor turned at right angles; I swore and plunged into an empty room – a glimpse of a long table and dining chairs in the silent dark, and beyond, French windows. I hurtled towards them, hauling her along, and wrenched them open. We were in the garden, dim in the moon-shadows; I cocked an ear and heard – nothing. “Harry!” She was squealing in my ear. “What are you about? Leave go my arm – I won’t be hustled, do you hear?” “You’ll either be hustled or dead!” I hissed. “Silence! We are in deadly danger – do you understand? They are coming to arrest us – to kill us! For your life’s sake, do as I tell you – and shut up!” There was a path, running between high hedges; we sped along it, she demanding in breathless whispers to know what was happening: at the end I got my bearings; we were to the side of the building, in shrubbery, with the front drive round to our left, and from the hidden front door I could hear a harsh voice raised – in Malagassy, unfortunately, but I caught enough words to chill my blood. “Sergeant-general … arrest … search.” I groaned softly, and Elspeth began babbling again. “Oh, my dress is torn! Harry, it is too bad! What are you – why are we – ow!” I had clapped a hand over her mouth. “Be quiet, you silly mort!” I whispered. “We’re escaping! There are soldiers hunting us! The Queen is trying to kill me!” She made muffled noises, and then got her mouth free. “How dare you call me that horrid word! What does it mean? Let me go this instant! You are hurting my wrist, Harry! What is this absurd nonsense about the Quee—” The shrill torrent was cut off as I imprisoned her mouth again. “For G-d’s sake, woman – they’ll hear us!” I pulled her in close to the wall. “Keep your voice down, will you?” I took my hand away, unwisely. “But why?” At least she had the wit to whisper. “Why are we – oh, I think you are gammoning me! Well, it is a very poor joke, Harry Flashman, and I—” “Please, Elspeth!” I implored, shaking my fist in her face. “It’s true, I swear! If they hear us – we’re dead!” My grimacing frenzy may have half-convinced her; at least her pretty mouth opened and closed again with a faint “Oh!” And then, as I crouched, straining my ears for any sound of the searchers, came the tiniest whisper: “But Harry, my band-box …” I glared her into silence, and then ventured a peep round the angle of the wall. There was a Hova trooper on the porch, leaning on his spear; I could hear faint sounds of talk from the hall – that d----d butler giving the game away, no doubt. Suddenly from behind us, in the dark towards the back of the house, came the crash of a shutter and a harsh voice shouting. Elspeth squeaked, I jumped, and the Hova on the porch must have heard the shout too, for he called to the hall – and here, to my horror, came an under-officer, bounding down the porch steps sword in hand, and running along the front of the house towards our corner. There was only one thing for it. I seized Elspeth and thrust her down on her face in the deep shadow at the foot of the wall, sprawling on top of her and hissing frantically to her to keep quiet and lie still. We were only in the nick of time – he rounded the angle of the house and came to a dead stop almost on top of us, his boots spurning the gravel within a yard of Elspeth’s head. For a terrible instant I thought he’d seen us – the great black figure towered above us, silhouetted against the night sky, the sword glittering in his hand, but he didn’t move, and I realized he was staring towards the back of the house, listening. I could feel Elspeth palpitating beneath me, her turned face a faint white blur just beneath my own – oh, Ch---t, I prayed, don’t let him look down! Suddenly he bawled something in Malagassy, and took a half-step forward – my blood froze as his boot descended within inches of Elspeth’s face – but right on top of her hand! She started violently beneath me – and then he must have shifted his weight, for as in a nightmare I heard a tiny crack, and her whole body shuddered. Paralysed, I waited for her scream – he must glance down now! – but a voice was shouting from the back of the house, his was bellowing right above us in reply, he plunged forward, his leg brushing my curls, and then he was gone, striding away down the path behind us into the dark, and Elspeth’s breath came out in a little, shivering moan. I was afoot in an instant, hauling her upright, half-carrying her into the denser shrubbery on the lawn, knowing we hadn’t an instant to lose, bundling her along and hoping to heaven she wouldn’t faint. If we could get quickly through the shrubbery unobserved, moving parallel with the drive, and so come to the gate – would they have left a sentry there? Fortunately the shrubbery screened our blundering progress entirely; we plunged through the undergrowth and fetched up gasping beneath a great clump of ferns not ten yards from the gate. Far back to our left the Hova was still on the house porch beneath the lamp; through the bushes ahead I could make out the faint gleam of the gate – lantern, but no sound, except from far behind us, where there were distant voices at the back of the house – were they coming nearer …? I peered cautiously through the fringe of bushes towards the gate – oh, G-d, there was a d----d great Hova, not five yards away, his spear held across his body, looking back towards the house. The light gleamed dully on his massive bare arms and chest, on his gorilla features and gleaming spearhead – my innards quailed at the sight; I couldn’t hope to pass that, not with Elspeth in tow – and at that moment my loved one decided to give voice again. “Harry!” She was hissing in my ear. “That man – that man stood on my hand! I’m sure my finger is broke!” I recall noting that it must have been indignation rather than complaint, for she added a word which frankly I didn’t think she knew. “Ssht!” I had my lips against her ear. “I know! We’ll … we’ll mend it presently. There’s a guard on the gate – must get past him!” The voices at the back of the house were growing louder – it was now or never. “Can you walk?” “Of course I can walk! It is my poor finger—” “Sssht, for Ch---t’s sake! Look, old girl – we must distract his attention, d’you see? The chap on the gate, d— it!” I wouldn’t have thought I could yammer and whisper simultaneously – but then I wouldn’t have thought I’d be stuck in the bushes in Madagascar plotting escape with a blonde imbecile whose mind, I’ll swear, was divided evenly between her wounded finger and her lost band-box. “Yes, he’s out there! Now, listen – you must count to five – five, you know – and then stand up and walk out on to the drive! Can you, dearest? – just walk out, there’s a good girl! Nod, curse you!” I saw her lips framing “Why?” but then she nodded – and suddenly kissed me on the cheek. Then I was sliding away to the right, fumbling for my hilt beneath the cloak … three … four … five. There was a rustle as she stood up; she seemed to sway for a moment, and then she had stepped through the bushes and turned to face the gate. The Hova leaped about four feet, stood with eyes bulging, and let out a yell as he started towards her. Two paces brought him level with me; I clutched the hilt in a frenzy of fear (if it had been any other woman I believe I’d have bolted straight for the gate, but one’s wife, you know …) and launched myself through the ferns at his flank, drawing as I sprang. There wasn’t time to use the point; I continued the draw in a desperate sweep, and as he whirled to meet me the blade took him clean across the face with a sickening jar. I had an instant’s glimpse of blood spurting from the gashed mouth and cheek, and then he tripped and fell, screaming. “Run!” I bawled, and she was past him, her bonnet awry, her skirts kilted up. I turned with her, plunging for the gate – and out from the shadows of the watchman’s hut leaped another of the swine, plumb in our path, whipping up his spear into the on-guard. I stopped dead – but by the grace of God Elspeth didn’t, and as he swung to cover her I lunged at his naked chest. He parried, jumping side, and Elspeth was through the gate, squeaking, but now he was thrusting at me, stumbling in his eagerness. His point went past my shoulder, I cut at him but he turned the blade quick as light, and there we were, face to face across the gateway, his eyes glaring and rolling as he poised, looking for an opening. “Make for the trees!” I yelled, and saw Elspeth scamper away, holding her bonnet on. There was shouting from the house, footsteps running – and the Hova struck, his spear darting at my face. By sheer instinct I deflected it, straightening my arm in an automatic lunge – God bless you, dear old riding-master of the 11th Hussars! – and he screamed like the d----d as my point took him in the chest, his own rush driving it into his body. His fall wrenched the hilt from my hand, and then I was high-tailing after Elspeth, turning her into the trees, where the horses still stood patiently, cropping at the grass. I heaved her bodily on to one of them, her skirts riding up any old how, vaulted aboard the other, and with a hand to steady her, forced the beasts out on to the road beyond. There was a tumult of hidden voices by the gate, but I knew we were clear if she didn’t fall – she was always a decent horsewoman, and was clinging to the mane with her good hand. We ploughed off knee to knee, in a swaying canter that took us to the end of one road and down the next, and then I eased up. No sounds behind, and if we heard any we could gallop at need. I clasped her to me, swearing with relief, and asked how her hand was. “Oh, it is painful!” cries she. “But Harry, what does it mean? Those dreadful people – I thought I should swoon! And my dress torn, and my finger broke, and every bone in my body shaken! Oh!” She shuddered violently. “Those fearful black soldiers! Did you … did you kill them?” “I hope so,” says I, looking back fearfully. “Here – take my cloak – muffle your head as well. If they see what you are, we’re sunk!” “But who? Why are we running? What has happened? I insist you tell me directly! Where are we going—” “There’s an English ship on the coast! We’re going to reach her, but we’ve got to get out of this h--lish city first – if the gates are closed I don’t—” “But why?” cries she, like a d--n parrot, sucking her finger and trying to order her skirts, which wasn’t easy, since she was astride. “Oh, this is so uncomfortable! Why are we being pursued – why should they – oh!” Her eyes widened. “What have you done, Harry? Why are they chasing you? Have you done some wrong? Oh, Harry, have you offended the Queen?” “Not half as much as she’s offended me!” I snarled. “She’s a … a … monster, and if she lays hands on us we’re done for. Come on, confound it!” “But I cannot believe it! Why, of all the absurd things! When I have been so kindly treated – I am sure, whatever it is, if the Prince were to speak to her—” I didn’t quite tear my hair, but it was a near-run thing. I gripped her by the shoulders instead, and speaking as gently as I could with my teeth chattering, impressed on her that we must get out of the city quickly; that we must proceed slowly, by back streets, to the gates, but there we might have to ride for it; I would explain later— “Very good,” says she. “You need not raise your voice. If you say so, Harry – but it is all extremely odd.” I’ll say that for her, once she understood the urgency of the situation – and even that pea-brain must have apprehended by now that something unusual was taking place – she played up like a good ’un. She didn’t take fright, or weep, or even plague me with further questions; I’ve known clever women, and plenty like Lakshmibai and the Silk One who were better at rough riding and desperate work, but none gamer than Elspeth when the stakes were on the blanket. She was a soldier’s wife, all right; pity she hadn’t married a soldier. But if she was cool enough, I was in a ferment as we picked our way by back-roads to the city wall, and followed it round towards the great gates. By this time there were hardly any folk about, and although the sight of two riders brought some curious looks, no one molested us. But I was sure the alarm must have gone out by now – I wasn’t to know that Malagassy bandobast (#ulink_fe444542-9adf-586f-8f92-d2f2726ef33d) being what it was, the last thing they’d have thought to do was close the gates. They never had, so why bother now? I could have shouted with relief when we came in view of the gate-towers, and saw the way open, with only the usual lounging sentinels and a group of loafers round a bonfire. We just held steadily forward, letting ’em see it was the sergeant-general; they stared at the horses, but that was all, and with my heart thumping we ambled through under the towers, and then trotted forward among the scattered huts on the Antan’ plain. Ahead of us the sky was lightening in the summer dawn, and my spirits with it – we were clear, free, and away! – and beyond those distant purple hills there was a British warship, and English voices, and Christian vittles, and safety behind British guns. Four days at most – if the horses I’d sent to Ankay were waiting ahead of us. In that snail-pace country, where any pursuit was sure to be on foot, no one could hope to overtake us, no alarm could outstrip us – I was ready to whoop in my saddle until I thought of that menacing presence still so close, that awful city crouching just behind us, and I shook Elspeth’s bridle and sent us forward at a hand-gallop. But our luck was still with us. We sighted the change horses just before dawn, raising the dust with the groom jogging along on the leader, and I never saw a jollier sight. They weren’t the pick of the light cavalry, but they had fodder and jaka in their saddle-bags, and I knew they’d see us there, if we spelled ’em properly. Thirty miles is as far as any beast can carry me, but that would be as much as Elspeth could manage at a stretch in any event. I dismissed the bewildered groom, and on we went at a good round trot. A small horse-herd ain’t difficult to manage, if you’ve learned your trade in Afghanistan. My chief anxiety now was Elspeth. She’d ridden steady – and commendably silent – until now, but as we forged ahead into the empty downland, I could see the reaction at work; she was swaying in the saddle, eyes half-closed, fair hair tumbling over her face, and although I was in a sweat to push on I felt bound to swing off into a little wood to rest and eat. I lifted her out of the saddle beside a stream, and blow me if she didn’t go straight off to sleep in my arms. For three hours she never stirred, while I kept a weather eye on the plain, but saw no sign of pursuit. She was all demands and chatter again, though, when she awoke, and while we chewed our jaka, and I bathed her finger – which wasn’t broke, but badly bruised – I tried to explain what had happened. D’you know, of all the astonishing things that had occurred since we’d left England, I still feel that that conversation was the most incredible of all. I mean, explaining anything to Elspeth is always middling tough – but there was something unreal, as I look back, about sitting opposite her, in a Madagascar wood, while she stared round-eyed in her torn, soiled evening dress with her finger in a splint, listening to me describing why we were fleeing for our lives from an unspeakable black despot whom I’d been plotting to depose. Not that I blame her for being sceptical, mind you; it was the form her scepticism took which had me clutching my head. At first she just didn’t believe a word of it; it was quite contrary, she said, to what she had seen of Madagascar, and to prove the point she produced, from the recesses of her under-clothing, a small and battered notebook from which she proceeded to read me her “impressions” of the country – so help me, it was all about b----y butterflies and wild flowers and Malagassy curtain materials and what she’d had for dinner. It was at this point that it dawned on me that the conclusion I’d formed on my visits to her at Rakota’s palace had been absolutely sound – she’d spent six months in the place without having any notion of what it was really like. Well, I knew she was mutton-headed, but this beat all, and so I told her. “I cannot see that,” says she. “The Prince and Princess were all politeness and consideration, and you assured me that all was well, so why should I think otherwise?” I was still explaining, and being harangued, when we took the road again, and for the best part of the day, which took us to the eastern edge of the downs, near Angavo, where we camped in another wood. By that time I had finally got it into her head what a h--l of a place Madagascar was, and what a hideous fate we were escaping; you’d have thought that would have reduced her to terrified silence, but then, you don’t know my Elspeth. She was shocked – not a bit scared, apparently, just plain indignant. It was deplorable, and ought not to be allowed, was how she saw it; why had we (by which I took it she meant Her Britannic Majesty) taken no steps to prevent such misgovernment, and what was the Church thinking about? It was quite disgusting – I just sat munching jaka, but I couldn’t help, listening to her, being reminded of that old harridan Lady Sale, tapping her mittened fingers while the jezzail bullets whistled round her on the Kabul retreat, and demanding acidly why something was not done about it. Aye, it’s comical in its way – and yet, when you’ve seen the memsahibs pursing their lips and raising indignant brows in the face of dangers and horrors that set their men-folk shaking, you begin to understand why there’s all the pink on the map. It’s vicarage morality, nursery discipline, and a thorough sense of propriety and sanitation that have done it – and when they’ve gone, and the memsahibs with them, why, the map won’t be pink any longer. The one thing Elspeth couldn’t accept, though, was that the outrageous condition of Madagascar was Ranavalona’s fault. Queens, in her conception of affairs, did not behave in that way at all; the mother of Prince Rakota (“a most genteel and obliging young man”) would never have countenanced such things. No, it could only be that she was badly advised, and kept in ignorance, no doubt, by her ministers. She had been civil enough to me, surely? – this was asked in an artless way which I knew of old. I said, well, she was pretty plain and ill-natured from the little I’d seen of her, but of course I’d hardly exchanged a word with her (which, you’ll note, was true; I said nothing of bathing and piano-playing). Elspeth sighed contentedly at this, and then after a moment said softly: “Have you missed me, Harry?” Looking at her, sitting in the dusk with the green leaves behind her, in her dusty gown, with the tangled gold hair framing that lovely face, so serene in its stupidity, I suddenly realized there was only one sensible way to answer her. What with the shock and haste and fear of our flight it absolutely hadn’t occurred to me until that moment. And afterwards, lying in the grass, while she stroked my cheek, it seemed the most natural thing – as if this wasn’t Madagascar at all, with dreadful danger behind and unknown hardship before – in that blissful moment I dreamed of the very first time, under the trees by the Clyde, on just such a golden evening, and when I spoke of it she began to cry at last, and clung to me. “You will bring us there again – home,” says she. “You are so brave and strong and good, and keep me safe. Do you know,” she wiped her eyes, looking solemn, “I never saw you fight before? Oh, I knew, to be sure, from the newspapers, and what everyone said – that you were a hero, I mean – but I did not know how it was. Women cannot, you know. Now I have seen you, sword in hand – you are rather terrible, you know, Harry – and so quick!” She gave a little shiver. “Not many women are lucky enough to see how brave their husbands are – and I have the bravest, best man in the whole world.” She kissed me on the forehead, her cheek against mine. I thought of her finger, under that crushing boot, of the way she’d stood up in the bushes and walked straight out, of the bruising ride from Antan’, of all she’d endured since Singapore – and I didn’t feel ashamed, exactly, because you know it ain’t my line. But I felt my eyes sting, and I lifted her chin with my hand. “Old girl,” says I, “you’re a trump.” “Oh, no!” says she, wide-eyed. “I am very silly, and weak, and … and not a trump at all! Feckless, Papa says. But I love to be your ‘old girl’” – she snuggled her head down on my chest – “and to think that you like me a little, too … better than you like the horrid Queen of Madagascar, or Mrs Leo Lade, or those Chinese ladies we saw in Singapore, or Kitty Stevens, or – my dearest, whatever is the matter?” “Who the h--l,” roars I, “is Kitty Stevens?” “Oh, do you not remember? That slim, dark girl with the poor complexion and soulful eyes she thinks so becoming – although how she supposes that mere staring will make her attractive I cannot think – you danced with her twice at the Cavalry Ball, and assisted her to negus at the buffet …” We were off again before dawn, crossing the Angavo Pass which leads to the upland Ankay Plain, going warily because I knew the Hova Guard regiment which I’d sent out couldn’t be far away. I kept casting north, and we must have outflanked them, for we saw not a soul until the Mangaro ford, where the villagers turned out in force to stare at us as we crossed the river with our little herd. It was level going then until the jungle closed in and the mountains began, but we were making slower time than I’d hoped for; it began to look like a five-day trek instead of four, but I wasn’t much concerned. All that mattered was that we should keep ahead of pursuit; the frigate would still be there. I was sure of this because it was bound to wait for an answer to the protest which, according to Laborde, had only reached the Queen a couple of days ago. Her answer, even if she’d sent it at once, would take more than a week to reach Tamitave, so if we kept up our pace we’d be there with time in hand. I kept telling myself this on the third day, when our rate slowed to a walk with the long, twisting climb up the red rutted track that led into the great mountains. Here we were walled in by forest on either hand, with only that tortuous path for a guide. I knew it because I’d been flogged over it in the slave-coffle, and I had to gulp down my fears as we approached each bend – suppose we met someone, in this place where we couldn’t take to our heels, where to stray ten yards from the path would be certain death by wandering starvation? Suppose the path petered out, or had been overgrown? Suppose swift Hova runners overtook us? I was in a fever of anxiety – not made any easier by the childish pleasure Elspeth seemed to be taking in our journey. She was forever clapping her hands and exclaiming at the saucer-eyed white monkeys who peered at us, or the lace-plumed birds that fluttered among the creepers; even the hideous water-snakes which cruised the streams, with their heads poking out, excited her – she barred the spiders, though, great marbled monsters as big as my hand, scuttling on webs the size of blankets. And once she fled in terror from a sight which had our horses neighing and bucking in the narrow way – a troop of great apes, bounding across the path in leaps of incredible length, both feet together. We watched them crash into the undergrowth, and not for the first time I cursed the luck that I hadn’t even a clasp-knife with me for defence, for G-d knew what else might be lurking in that dark, cavernous forest. Elspeth wished she had her sketch-book. There’s forty miles of that forest, but thanks to good Queen Ranavalona we didn’t have to cross it all, as you would today. The jungle track runs clear across towards Andevoranto, whence you travel up the coast to Tamitave, but in 1845 there was a short-cut – the Queen’s buffalo road, cut straight through the hilly jungle to the coastal plain. This was the track, hacked out by thousands of slaves, which I’d seen on the way up; we reached it on the fourth day, a great avenue through the green, with the mountain mist hanging over it in wraiths. It was eerie and foreboding, but at least it was flat, and with half our beasts already abandoned in exhaustion, I was glad of the easier going. It’s strange, as I look back on that remarkable journey, that it wasn’t nearly as punishing as it might have been. Elspeth still swears that she quite enjoyed it; I dare say if I hadn’t been so apprehensive – about our beasts foundering, or losing our way if the mist settled down, or being overtaken by pursuers (although I knew there was scant chance of that), or how we were going to make our final dash to the frigate – I might have marvelled that we came through it so easily. But we did; our luck held through hill and jungle, we hardly saw a native the whole way, and on the fourth afternoon we were trotting down through the strange little conical hillocks that line the sandy coastal plain, with nothing ahead of us but a few scattered villages and easy level going until we should come to Tamitave. Of course, I should have been on my guard. I should have known it had gone too smooth. I should have remembered the horror that lay no great way behind, and the mad hatred and bloodlust of that evil woman. I should have thought of the soldier’s first rule, to put yourself in the enemy’s shoes and ask what you would do. If I’d been that terrible b---h, and my ingrate lover had tried to ruin me, cut up my guardsmen, and lit out for the coast – what would I have done, given unlimited power and a maniac’s vengeance to slake? Sent out my fleetest couriers, over plain and jungle and mountain, to carry the alarm, rouse the garrisons, cut off escape – that’s what I’d have done. How far can good runners travel in a day – forty miles over rough going? Say four days, perhaps five, from Antan’ to the coast. We were approaching Tamitave on the evening of the fourth day. Aye, I should have been on my guard – but when you’re within the last lap of safety, when all has gone far better than you’d dared hope, when you’ve seen the Tamitave track and know that the coast is only a few scant miles away over the low hills, when you have the gamest, loveliest girl in the world riding knee to knee with you, that eager idiot smile on her face and her tits bouncing famously, when the dark terrors have receded behind you – above all, when you’ve hardly slept in four nights and are fit to topple from the saddle with sheer weariness … then hope can fuddle your wits a little, and you let the last of your rations slip from your hand, and the dusk begins to swim round you, and your head is on the turf and you slip down the long slide into unconsciousness – until someone miles away is shaking you, and yelping urgently in your ear, and you come awake in bleary alarm, staring wildly about you in the dawn. “Harry! Oh, Harry – quickly! Look, look!” She had me by the wrist, tugging me to my feet. Where was I? – yes, this was the little hollow we’d camped in, there were the horses, the first ray of dawn was just peeping over the low downs to the east, but Elspeth was pulling me t’other way, to the lip of the hollow, pointing. “Look, Harry – yonder! Who are those people?” I stared back, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes – the distant mountains were in a wall of mist, and on the rolling land between there were long trails of fog hanging on the slopes. Nothing else – no! there was movement on the crest a mile behind us, figures of men coming into plain view, a dozen – twenty perhaps, in an irregular line abreast. I felt an awful clutch at my heart as I stared, disbelieving what I saw, for they were advancing at a slow trot, in an ominously disciplined fashion; I recognized that gait, even as I took in the first twinkle of steel along the line and made out the white streaks of the bandoliers – I’d taught ’em how to advance in skirmishing order myself, hadn’t I? But it was impossible … “It can’t be!” I heard my voice cracking. “They’re Hova guardsmen!” If any confirmation were needed it came in the faint, wailing yell drifting on the dawn air, as they came jogging down the slope to the plain. “I thought I had better rouse you, Harry,” Elspeth was saying, but by then I was leaping for the horses, yelling to her to get aboard. She was still babbling questions as I bundled her up bareback, and flung myself on to a second mount. I slashed at the three other beasts remaining to us, and as they fled neighing from the hollow I spared another wild glance back; three-quarters of a mile away the skirmishing line was coming steadily towards us, cutting the distance at frightening speed. G-d, how had they done it on foot in the time? Where had they come from, for that matter? Interesting questions, to which I still don’t know the answer, and they didn’t occupy me above a split second just then. In the nick of time I stifled my coward’s instinct to gallop wildly away from them, and surveyed the ground ahead of us. Two, perhaps three miles due east, across rolling sandy plain, was the crest from which, I was pretty sure, we’d look down on the shore; there was the Tamitave track a mile or so to our right, with a few villagers already on it. I struggled to clear my wits – if we rode straight ahead we ought to come out just above the Tamitave fort, north of the town proper – the frigate would be lying in the roads – Ch---t, how were we going to reach her, for there’d be no time to stop and scheme, with these d---ls on our heels. I looked again; they were well out on the plain by now, and coming on fast … I gripped Elspeth’s wrist. “Follow me close! Ride steady, watch your footing, and for G-d’s sake don’t slip! They can’t catch us if we keep up a round canter, but if we tumble we’re done!” She was pale as a sheet, but she nodded and for once didn’t ask me who these strange gentlemen were, or what they wanted, or if her hair was disarranged. I wheeled and set off down the slope, with her close behind, and the yell as they saw us turn was clear enough now; a savage hunting cry that had me digging in my heels despite myself. We drummed down the hill, and I forced myself not to look back until we’d crossed the little valley and come to the next crest – we’d gained on them, but they were still coming, and I gulped and gestured furiously to Elspeth to keep up. I’d have to count up all the battles I’ve been in to tell you how often I’ve fled in panic, and I’ve made a few other strategic withdrawals, too, but this was as horrid as any. There was the time Scud East and I went tearing along the Arrow of Arabat in a sled with the Cossacks behind us, and the jolly little jaunt I had with Colonel Sebastian Moran in the ammunition cart after Isandhlwana, with the Udloko Zulus on our tail – and couldn’t they cover the ground, just? But in the present case the snag was that very shortly we were going to reach the sea, and unless our embarkation went smoothly – G-d, the frigate must be there! … I stole another look over my shoulder – we were a clear mile ahead now, surely, but there they were still, just appearing on a crest and streaming over it in fine style. I took a look at our horses; they weren’t labouring, but they weren’t fit to enter the St Leger either. Would they last? Suppose one went lame – why the blazes hadn’t I thought to drive the spare beasts ahead? But it was too late now. “Come on,” says I, and Elspeth gave me a trembling look and kicked in her heels, clinging to the mane. The last slope was half a mile ahead; as we dropped our pace for the ascent I looked back again, but there was nothing in sight for a good mile. “We’ll do it yet!” I shouted, and we covered the last few yards to the top through slippery sand, the sun blazed in our eyes as we reached the crest, the breeze was suddenly stiff in our faces – and there below us, down a long sandy slope, was the spreading panorama of beach and blue water, with the surf foaming not a mile away. Far off to the right was Tamitave town, the smoke rising in thin trails above the thatched roofs; closer, but still to the right, was the fort, a massive circular stone tower, with its flag a-flutter, and its outer wooden palisade; there were white-coated troops, about a platoon strong, marching towards it from the town, and looking down from our point of vantage I could see great activity in the central square of the fort itself, and round the gun emplacements on its wall. The sun was shining straight towards us out of a blue, cloudless sky, the rays coming over a thick bank of mist which mantled the surface of the sea a mile off-shore. A beautiful sight, the coral strand with its palms, the gulls wheeling, the gentle roll of bright blue sea – there was only one thing missing. From golden beach to pearly bank of mist, from pale clear distance in the north to the vague smokiness of the town waterfront to the south, the sea was as bare as a miser’s table. There was no British frigate in Tamitave roads. There wasn’t even a bl----d bumboat. And behind us, as I turned my frantic gaze in their direction, the Hovas were just coming in sight on the hillside a scant mile away. I can’t recall whether I screamed aloud or not; I may well have done, but if I did it was a poor expression of the sick despair that engulfed me in that moment. I know the thought that was in my mind, as I pounded my knee with my fist in an anguish of rage, fear, and disappointment, was: “But it must be there! It has to wait for her message!” and then Elspeth was turning solemn blue eyes on me and asking: “But Harry, where is the ship? You said it would be here—” And then, putting two and two together, I suppose, she added: “Whatever shall we do now?” It was a question which had occurred to me, as I stared palsied from the empty sea in front to our pursuers behind – they had halted on the far crest, which was an irony, if you like. They could crawl on their bellies towards us now, for all it mattered – we were trapped, helpless, with nothing to do but wait until they came up with us at their leisure, to seize and drag us back to the abominable fate that would be waiting for us in Antan’. I could picture those snake-like eyes, the steaming pits at Ambohipotsy, the bodies turning in the air from the top of the cliff, the blood-curdling shriek of the mob – I realized I was babbling out a flood of oaths, as I stared vainly round for an escape which I knew wasn’t there. Elspeth was clutching my hand, white-faced – and then, because it was the only way to go, I was urging her down the slope to our left, towards a long grove of palms which began about two furlongs from the fort and ran away into the distance along the coastline northwards. That’s one thing about a sound cowardly instinct – it turns you directly to cover, however poor and useless it may be. They’d find us there in no time, but if we could reach the trees undetected from the fort, we might at least be able to flee north – to what? There was nothing for us yonder except blind flight until we dropped from exhaustion, or our horses foundered, or those black hounds came up with us, and I knew it, but it was better than stopping where we were to be run down like sheep. “Oh, Harry!” Elspeth was wailing in my rear as we thundered down the slope, but I didn’t check; another minute would have us in the shelter of the grove, if no one in the fort saw us first. Crouched over my beast’s neck, I stole a look down towards the stone battlements at the foot of the hill – Elspeth’s voice behind me rose in a sudden scream, I whirled in my seat, and to my amazement saw that she was hauling in her mount by the mane. I yelled to her to ride, cursing her for an idiot, but she was pointing seaward, crying out, and I wrestled my brute to a slithering halt, staring where she pointed – and, d’you know, I couldn’t blame her. Out in the roads something was moving in that rolling bank of mist. At first it was just a shadow, towering in the downy radiance of the fog; then a long black spar was jutting out, and behind it masts and rigging were taking shape. In disbelief I heard the faint, unmistakable squeal of sheaves as she came into view, a tall, slim ship under topsails, drifting slowly out of the mist, turning before my eyes, showing her broad, white-striped side – her ports were up, there were guns out, men moving on the decks, and from her mizzen trailed a flag – blue, white, red – dear G-d, she was a Frog warship – and there, to her right, another shadow was breaking clear, another ship, turning as the first had done, another Frenchie, guns, colours and all! Elspeth was beside me, I was hugging her almost out of her seat as we watched them spellbound, our flight, the fort, pursuit all forgotten – she yelped in my ear as a third shadow loomed up in the wake of the ships, and this time it was the real thing, no error, and I found myself choking tears of joy, for that was the dear old Union Jack at the truck of the frigate which came gliding out on to the blue water. I was shouting, G-d knows what, and Elsepth was clapping her hands, and then a gun boomed suddenly from the fort, only a few hundred yards away, and a white plume of smoke billowed up from the battlements. The three ships were standing in towards the fort; the leading Frog tacked with a cracking of canvas, and suddenly its whole side exploded in a thunder of flame and smoke, there was a series of tremendous crashes from the fort as the broadsides struck home – and here came her two consorts, each in turn letting fly while sea and sky echoed to the roar of their cannonade, a mighty pall of grey smoke eddying around them as they put about and came running in again. It was a badly-aimed shot screaming overhead that reminded me we were in the direct line of fire. I yelled to Elspeth, and we careered down to the trees, crashing into the thickets and sliding from our mounts to stare at the extraordinary scene being played out in the bay. “Harry – why are they shooting? Do you suppose they are come to rescue us?” She was clutching my hand, all agog. “Will they know we are here? Should we not wave, or light a fire, or some such thing? Will you not call to them, my love?” This, with forty guns blazing away not a quarter of a mile off, for the fort was firing back as well; the leading Frog was almost at point-blank range. Clouds of dust and smoke surged up from the fort wall; the Frog seemed to stagger in the water, and Elspeth shrieked as his foretop sagged and then fell slowly into the smoke, with a wreckage of sail and cordage. In came the second ship, letting off her broadside any old how in lubberly, garlic-eating fashion, and the fort thumped her handsomely in reply, serve her right. My G-d, thinks I, are the Crapauds going to be beat? For the second Frog lost her mizzen top and sheered away blind with the spars littering her poop – and then in came the British frigate, and while I ain’t got much use for our navy people, as a rule, I’ll allow that she showed up well in front of the foreigners, for she ran in steady and silent, biding her time, while the fort hammered at her and the splinters flew from her bulwarks. Through the clear air we could see every detail – the leadsman in the chains swinging away, the white-shirted tars on her decks, the blue-coated officers on the quarterdeck, even a little midshipman in the rigging with his telescope trained on the fort. Silently she bore in until I was sure she must run aground, and then a voice called from the poop, there was a rush of men and a flapping of canvas, she wore round, and every gun crashed out as one in a deafening inferno of sound. The wave of the broadside hit us in a blast of air, the fort battlements seemed to vanish in smoke and dust and flying fragments – but when all cleared, there the fort still stood, and her guns banging irregularly in reply. The frigate was tacking away neatly, but neither she nor the injured Frogs looked like coming in again – the appalling thought struck me that they might be sheering off, and I couldn’t restrain myself at such cowardly behaviour. “Come back, you sons of b-----s!” I roared, fairly dancing up and down. “D--nation, they’re only a parcel of niggers! Lay into them, rot you! It’s what you’re paid for!” “But, see, Harry!” squeaks Elspeth, pointing. “Look, my love, they are coming! See – the boats!” Sure enough, there were longboats creeping out from behind the Frogs, and another from the British ship. As the three vessels stood to again, firing at the fort, the smaller boats came heading in for the shore, packed with men – they were going to storm the fort, under the covering guns of the squadron. I found I was dancing and blaspheming with excitement – for this must be our chance! We must run to them when they got ashore – I ploughed back through the fronds, staring at the hill behind, to see how our Hova friends were doing – and there they were, dropping down from the crest beind us, making for the landward side of the fort. They were running any old how, but an under-officer was shouting in the rear, and it seemed to me he was pointing towards our grove. Yes, some of the Hovas were checking – he was sending them in our direction – d--n the black villain, didn’t he know where his duty lay, with foreign vessels attacking his b----y island? “What shall we do, Harry?” Elspeth was at my elbow. “Should we not hasten to the beach? It may be dangerous to linger.” She ain’t quite the fool she looks, you know – but fortunately neither am I. The boats were into the surf, only a moment from the shore; the temptation to run towards them was almost more than a respectable poltroon could bear – but if we broke cover too soon, with three hundred yards of naked sand between us and the spot where the nearest Frog boat would touch, we’d be within easy musket-shot from the fort to our right. We must lie up in the grove until the landing-party had got up the beach and rushed the fort – that would keep the black musketeers busy, and it would be safe to race for the boats, waving a white flag – I was tearing away at Elspeth’s petticoat, hushing her squeals of protest, peering back through the undergrowth at the approaching Hovas. There were three of ’em, trotting towards the grove, with their officer far behind waving them on; the leading one was almost into the trees, looking stupid, turning to seek instructions from his fellows; then the flat, brutal face turned in our direction, and he began to pick his way into the grove, his spear balanced, his face turning this way and that. I hissed to Elspeth and drew her towards the seaward side of the grove, under a thicket, listening for everything at once – the steady boom and crash of gunfire, the faint shouts from the fort walls, the slow crunch of the Hova’s feet on the floor of the grove. He seemed to be moving away north behind us – and then Elspeth put her lips to my ear and whispered: “Oh, Harry, do not move, I pray! There is another of those natives quite close!” I turned my head, and almost gave birth. On the other side of our thicket, visible through the fronds, was a black shape, not ten yards away – and at that moment the first Hova gave a startled yell, there was a frantic neighing – J---s, I’d forgotten our horses, and the brute must have walked into them! The black shape through the thicket began to run – away from us, mercifully, a crackle of musketry sounded from the beach, and I remembered my dear little woman’s timely suggestion, and decided we should linger no longer. “Run!” I hissed, and we broke out of the trees, and went haring for the shore. There was a shout from behind, a whisp! in the air overhead, and a spear went skidding along the soft sand before us. Elspeth shrieked, we raced on; the boats were being beached, and already armed men were charging towards the fort – Frog sailors in striped jerseys, with a little chap ahead waving a sabre and making pronouncements about la gloire, no doubt, as the grape from the walls kicked up the sand among him and his party. “Help!” I roared, stumbling and waving Elspeth’s shift. “We’re friends! Halloo, mes amis! Nous sommes Anglais, pour l’amour de Dieu! Don’t shoot! Vive la France!” They didn’t pay us the slightest heed, being engaged by that time in hacking a way through the fort’s outer wooden palisade. We stumbled out of the soft sand to firmer going, making for the boats, all of which were beached just above the surf. I looked back, but the Hovas were nowhere to be seen, clever lads; I pushed Elspeth, and we veered away to be out of shot from the fort; the beach ahead was alive with running figures by now, French and British, storming ahead and cheering. There was the dooce of a dogfight going on at the outer palisade, white and striped jerseys on one side, black skins on t’other, cutlasses and spears flashing, musketry crackling from the inner fort and being answered from our people farther down the beach. Then there were sounds of British cheering and cries of excited Frogs, and through the smoke I could see they were up to the inner wall, clambering up on each other’s shoulders, popping away with pistols, obviously racing to see which should be up first, French or British. Good luck to you, my lads, thinks I, for I’m tired. At the same moment, Elspeth cries: “Oh, Harry, Harry, darling Harry!” and clung to me. “Do you think,” she whispered faintly, “that we might sit down now?” With that she went into a dead swoon, and we sank to the wet sand in each other’s arms, between the boats and the landing party. I was too tuckered and dizzy to do anything except sit there, holding her, while the battle raged at the top of the beach, and I thought, by Jove, we’re clear at last, and soon I’ll be able to sleep … “You, sir!” cries a voice. “Yes, you – what are you about, sir? Great Scott! – is that a woman you have there?” A party of British sailors, carrying empty stretchers, were racing across our front to the fort, and with them this red-faced chap with a gold strip on his coat, who’d checked to pop his eyes at us. He was waving a sword and pistol. I yelled to him above the din of firing that we were escaped prisoners of the Malagassies, but he only went redder than ever. “What’s that you say? You’re not with the landing party? Then get off the beach, sir – get off this minute! You’ve no business here! This is a naval operation! What’s that, bos’un? – I’m coming, bl--t you! On, you men!” He scampered off, brandishing his weapons, but I didn’t care. I knew I was too done to carry Elspeth down to the boats a hundred yards off, but we were out of effective musket shot of the fort, so I was content to sit and wait until someone should have time to attend to us. They were all busy enough at the moment, in all conscience; the ground before the palisade was littered with dead and crawling wounded, and through the breaches they’d broken I could see them spiking the guns while the scaling parties were still trying to get up the thirty-foot wall behind. They had ladders, crowded with tars and matelots, their steel flashing in the smoke at the top of the wall, where the defenders were slashing and firing away. Above the crashing musketry there was a sudden cheer; the big black-and-white Malagassy flag on the fort wall was toppling down on its broken staff, but a Malagassy on the battlements caught it as it fell; the fighting boiled around him, but at that moment a returning stretcher party charged across my line of vision, bearing stricken men back to the boats, so I didn’t see what happened to him. Still no one paid any mind to Elspeth and me; we were slightly out of the main traffic up and down the beach, and although one party of Frog sailors stopped to stare curiously at us, they were soon chivvied away by a bawling officer. I tried to raise her, but she was still slumped unconscious against my breast, and I was labouring away when I saw that the landing party were beginning to fall back from the fort. The walking wounded came hobbling first, supported by their mates, and then the main parties all jumbled up together, British and French, with the petty officers swearing and bawling orders as the men tried to find their right divisions. They were squabbling and jostling in great disorder, the British tars cursing the Frogs, and the Frogs grimacing and gesticulating back. I called out for assistance, but it was like talking in a madhouse – and then over all the trampling and babble the distant guns from the ships began to boom again, and shot whistled overhead to crash into the fort, for our rearguard was clear now, skirmishing away in goodish order, exchanging musket fire with the battlements which they’d failed to overcome. All they seemed to have captured was the Malagassy flag; in among the retiring skirmishers, with the enemy shot peppering them, a disorderly mob of French and English seamen were absolutely at blows with each other for possession of the confounded thing, with cries of “Ah, voleurs!” and “Belay, you sod!”, the Frogs kicking and the Britons lashing out with their fists, while two of their officers tried to part them. Finally the English officer, a great lanky fellow with his trouser leg half torn off and a bloody bandage round his knee, succeeded in wrenching the banner away, but the Frog officer, who was about four feet tall, grabbed an end of it, and they came stumbling down in my direction, yelling at each other in their respective lingoes, with their crews joining in. “You shall not have it!” cries the Frog. “Render it to me, monsieur, this instant!” “Sheer off, you greasy half-pint!” roars John Bull. “You take your paw away directly, or you’ll get what for!” “Sacred English thief! It fell to my men, I tell you! It is a prize of France!” “Will you leave off, you Frog-eating ape? D---e, if you and your cowardly jackanapes had fought as hard as you squeal we’d have had that fort by now! Let go, d’ye hear?” “Ah, you resist me, do you?” cries the Frog, who came about up to the Englishman’s elbow. “It is sufficient, this! Release it, this flag, or I shall pistol you!” “Give over, rot you!” They were almost on top of us by now, the sturdy Saxon holding the flag above his head and the tiny Frog clinging to it and hacking at his shins. “I’ll cast anchor in you, you prancing swab, if— Good G-d, that’s a woman!” His jaw dropped as he caught sight of me at his feet, with Elspeth in my arms. He stared, speechless, oblivious of the Frenchman, who was now drumming at his chest with tiny fists, eyes tight shut. “If you’ve a moment,” says I, “I’d be obliged if you’d assist my wife to your boats. We’re British, and we’ve escaped from captivity in the interior.” I had to repeat it before he took it in, with a variety of oaths, while the Frog, who had stopped drumming, glared suspiciously. “What does he say, then?” cries he. “Does he conspire, the rascal? Ah, but I shall have the flag – death of the devil, what is this? A woman, beneath our feet, then?” I explained to him, in French, and he goggled and removed his hat. “A lady? An English lady? Incredible! But a lady so beautiful, by example, and in a condition of swoon! Ah, but the poor little! M?decin-major Narcejac! M?decin-major Narcejac! Come quickly – and do you, sir, be calm?” He was fairly dancing in agitation. “Attend, you others, and guard madame!” They were all crowding round, gaping, and while a Frog sawbones knelt beside Elspeth, whose eyelids were fluttering, a couple of tars helped me up, and the English officer demanding to know who I was, I told him, and he said, not Flashman of Afghanistan, surely, and I said, the very same, and he said, well, he was d----d, and he was Kennedy, second of the frigate Conway, and proud to meet me. During this the little Frog officer was hopping excitedly, informing me that he was Lieutenant Boudancourt, of the Zel?e, that madame would receive every comfort, and sal volatile, that the entire French marine was at her service, name of a name, and he, Boudancourt who spoke, would personally supervise her tranquil removal without delay— “Avast there, Crapaud!” roars Kennedy. “What’s he saying? Jenkins, Russell! The lady’s British, an’ she’ll come in a British boat, by G-d! Can you walk, marm?” Elspeth, supported by the Frog doctor, was still so faint, either from fatigue or all this male attention, that she could only gesture limply, and Boudancourt squawked his indignation at Kennedy. “Do not raise the voice above the half, if you please! Ah, but see, you have returned madame to a decline!” “Shut your trap!” cries Kennedy, and then, to a seaman who was tugging at his sleeve, “What the h--l is it now?” “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, Mister Heseltine’s compliments, an’ the blacks is makin’ a sally, looks like, sir.” He was pointing up the beach: sure enough, black figures in white loin-cloths were emerging through the broken palisade, braving the shot from the ships and our rearguard’s musketry. Some of them were firing towards us; there was the alarming swish of bullets overhead. “H--l and d--nation!” cries Kennedy. “Frogs, women, an’ niggers! It’s too bad! Mister Cliff, I’ll be obliged if you’ll get those men off the beach! Cover ’em, sharpshooters! Russell, run to the boat – tell Mister Partridge to load the two-pounder with grape and let ’em have it if they come within range! Fall back, there! Get off the beach!” Boudancourt was yelling similar instructions to his own people; among them, the m?decin-major and a matelot were helping Elspeth down to the nearest boat. “Well, go with her, you fool!” cries Kennedy to me. “You know what these b----y Frogs are like, don’t you?” He was limping along on his injured leg, the Malagassy flag trailing from his hand, little Boudancourt snapping at his heels. “Ah, but a moment, monsieur! You forget, I think, that you still carry that which is the rightful property of Madame la R?publique! Be pleased to yield me that flag!” “I’ll be d--ned if I do!” “Villain, do you defy me still? You shall not leave this shore alive!” “Shove off, you little squirt!” I could hear their squabbling above the din as I reached the gunwale of the French boat, with men floundering about her knee-deep in water. Elspeth was being helped to the stern-sheets through a jabbering, groaning, shouting crowd of Frenchmen – some were standing in the bows, firing up the beach, others were preparing to shove off, there were wounded crying or lying silent against the thwarts, a midshipman was yelling shrill orders to the men at the sweeps. There was a deafening explosion as the British cutter nearby fired her bow-gun; the Malagassies were streaming out of the fort in numbers now, skirmishing down the beach, taking pot-shots – they’d be forming up for a charge in a moment – and Kennedy and Boudancourt, the last men off the beach, were splashing through the shallows, tugging at the flag and yelling abuse at each other. “Let go, G-d rot your boots!” “English bully, you shall not escape!” I think of them sometimes, when I hear idiot politicians blathering about “entente cordiale” – Kennedy shaking his fist, Boudancourt blue in the face, with that dirty, useless piece of calico stretched taut between them. And I’m proud to think that in that critical moment, with confusion all around and disaster imminent, my diplomatic skill asserted itself to save the day – for I believe they’d have been there yet if I hadn’t snatched a knife from the belt of a matelot beside me and slashed at the flag, cursing hysterically. It didn’t do more than tear it slightly, but that was enough – the thing parted with a rending sound, Kennedy swore, Boudancourt shrieked, and we scrambled aboard as the bow-chasers roared for the last time and the boats ground over the shingle and wallowed in the surf. “Assassin!” cries Boudancourt, brandishing his half. “Pimp!” roars Kennedy, from the neighbouring boat. That was how we came away from Madagascar. More than a score of French and British dead it cost, that mismanaged, lunatic operation, but since it saved my life and Elspeth’s by sheer chance, you’ll forgive me if I don’t complain. All that I could think, as I huddled beside her in the stern, my head swimming with fatigue and my body one great throbbing ache, was – by Jove, we’re clear. Mad black queens, Solomon, Brooke, Hovas, head-hunters, Chink hatchetmen, poison darts, boiling pits, skull ships, tanguin poison – they’re all gone, and we’re pulling across blue water, my girl and I, to a ship that’ll take us home … “Pardon, monsieur,” Boudancourt, beside me, was frowning at the piece of sodden flag in his hands. “Can you say,” says he, pointing at the black script on it, “what these words signify?” I couldn’t read ’em, of course, but I’d learned enough of Malagassy heraldry to know what they were. “That says ‘Ranavalona’,” I told him. “She’s the queen of that b----y island, and you can thank your stars you’ll never get closer to her than this. I could tell you—” I was going on, but I felt Elspeth stir against me and thought, no, least said soonest mended. I glanced at her; she was awake, all right, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes appeared to be demurely downcast, which I couldn’t fathom until I noticed that her dress was so torn that her bare legs were uncovered, and every libidinous Frog face in that boat was leering in her direction. And didn’t she know it, though? By George, thinks I, that’s how this whole confounded business started, because this simpering slut allowed herself to be ogled by lewd fellows— “D’ye mind?” says I to Boudancourt, and taking the torn banner from his hand I disposed it decently across her knees, scowling at the disgruntled Frogs. She looked at me, all innocent wonder, and then smiled and snuggled up to my shoulder. “Why, Harry,” sighs she. “You take such good care of me.” [Final extract from the journal of Mrs Flashman, July—, 1845] … to be sure it is very tiresome to be parted again so soon from my dear, dear H., especially after the Cruel Separation which we have endured, and just at a time when we supposed we could enjoy the repose and comfort of each other’s company in Blissful Peace at last, and in the safety of Old England. But H.E. the Governor at Mauritius was quite determined that H. must go to India, for it seems that there is growing turmoil there among the Seekh people, and that homeward bound regiments have had to be sent back again, and every Officer of proved experience is required in case of war. So of course my darling, being on the Active List, must be despatched to Bombay, not without Vigorous Protest on his part, and he even went so far as to threaten to send in his Papers, and quit the Service altogether, but this they would not permit at all. So I am left lamenting, like Lord Ullin’s daughter, or was it her father, I don’t perfectly remember which, while the Husband of my Bosom returns to his Duty, and indeed I hope he takes care with the Seekhs, who appear to be most disagreeable. My only Consolation is the knowledge that my dearest would rather far have accompanied me home himself, and it was this Dear Concern and Affection for me that caused him to resist so fiercely when they said he must go to India (and indeed he grew quite violent on the subject, and called H.E. the Governor many unpleasant things which I shan’t set down, they were so shocking). But I could never have him forsake the Path of Honour, which he loves so well, for my sake, and there really was no reason why he should, for I am extremely comfortable and well taken care of aboard the good ship Zel?e, whose commander, Captain Feiseck, has been so obliging as to offer me passage to Toulon, rather than await an Indiaman. He is most Agreeable and Attentive, with the most polished manners and full of consideration to me, as are all his officers, especially Lieutenants Homard and St Just and Delincourt and Ambr?e and dear little Boudancourt and even the Midshipmen … [End of extract – Humbug, vanity and affectation to the last! And a very proper wifely concern, indeed!!! – G. de R.] (On this note of impatience from its original editor, the manuscript of the sixth packet of the Flashman Papers comes to an end.) (#ulink_004db27e-ec8f-5e0c-bef1-ad345164be57) Organization. APPENDIX 1: Cricket in the 1840s (#ulink_84093dd1-a272-5a27-8955-71130d846318) Flashman had a highly personal approach to cricket, as to most things, but there can be no doubt that through his usual cynicism there shines a genuine love of the game. This is not surprising, since it is perhaps the subtlest and most refined outdoor sport ever devised, riddled with craft and gamesmanship, and affording endless scope to a character such as his. Also, he played it well, according to his own account and that of Thomas Hughes, who may be relied on, since he was not prone to exaggerate anything to Flashman’s credit. Indeed, if he had not been so fully occupied by military and other pursuits, Flashman might well have won a place in cricket history as a truly great fast bowler – the dismissal of such a trio as Felix, Pilch, and Mynn (the early Victorian equivalents of Hobbs, Bradman, and Keith Miller) argues a talent far above the ordinary. How reliable a guide he is to the cricket of his day may be judged from reference to the works listed at the end of this appendix. His recollection of Lord’s in its first golden age is precise, as are his brief portraits of the giants of his day – the huge and formidable Mynn, the elegant Felix, and the great all-rounder Pilch (although most contemporaries show Pilch as being a good deal more genial than Flashman found him). His technical references to the game are sound, although he has a tendency to mix the jargon of his playing days with that of sixty years later, when he was writing – thus he talks not of batsmen, but of “batters”, which is correct 1840s usage, as are shiver, trimmer, twister, and shooter (all descriptive of bowling); at the same time he refers indiscriminately to both “hand” and “innings”, which mean the same thing, although the former is long obsolete, and he commits one curious lapse of memory by referring to “the ropes” at Lord’s in 1842; in fact, boundaries were not introduced until later, and in Flashman’s time all scores had to be run for. Undoubtedly the most interesting of his cricket recollections is his description of his single-wicket match with Solomon; this form of the game was popular in his day, but later suffered a decline, although attempts have been made to revive it recently. The rules are to be found in Charles Box’s The English Game of Cricket (1877), but these varied according to preference; there might be any number of players, from one to six, on either side, but if there were fewer than five it was customary to prohibit scoring or dismissals behind the line of the wicket. Betting on such games was widespread, and helped to bring them into disrepute. However, it should be remembered that the kind of wagering indulged in by Flashman, Solomon, and Daedalus Tighe was common in their time; heavy, eccentric, and occasionally crooked it undoubtedly was, but it was part and parcel of a rough and colourful sporting era in which even a clergyman might make a handsome income in cricket side-bets, when games could be played by candlelight, and enthusiasts still recalled such occasions as the Greenwich Pensioners’ match in which spectators thronged to see a team of one-legged men play a side who were one-armed. (The one-legged team won, by 103 runs; five wooden legs were broken during the game.) Indeed, we may echo Flashman: cricket is not what it was. (See Box; W. W. Read’s Annals of Cricket, 1896; Eric Parker’s The History of Cricket, Lonsdale Library (with Sir Spencer Ponsonby-Fane’s description of Lord’s in “Lord’s and the MCC”); W. Denison’s Sketches of the Players, 1888; Nicholas (“Felix”) Wanostrocht’s Felix on the Bat, 1845; and the Rev. J. Pycroft’s Oxford Memories, 1886.) APPENDIX 2: The White Raja (#ulink_12580462-9c3c-551e-84a0-96e3c30a4875) Nowadays, when it is fashionable to look only on the dark side of imperialism, not much is heard of James Brooke. He was one of those Victorians who gave empire-building a good name, whose worst faults, perhaps, were that he loved adventure for its own sake, had an unshakeable confidence in the civilizing mission of himself and his race, and enjoyed fighting pirates. His philosophy, being typical of his class and time, may not commend itself universally today, but an honest examination of what he actually did will discover more to praise than to blame. The account of his work which Steward gave to Flashman is substantially true – Brooke went to Sarawak for adventure, and ended as its ruler and saviour. He abolished the tyranny under which it was held, revived trade, drew up a legal code, and although virtually without resources and with only a handful of adventurers and reformed head-hunters to help him, fought his single-handed war against the pirates of the Islands. It took him six years to win, and considering the savagery and overwhelming numbers of his enemies, the organized and traditional nature of the piracy, the distances and unknown coasts involved, and the small force at his disposal, it was a staggering achievement. That it was a brutal and bloody struggle we know, and it was perhaps inevitable that at the end of it Brooke should find himself described by one newspaper as “pirate, wholesale murderer, and assassin”, and that demands were made in Parliament, by Hume, Cobden, and Gladstone (who admired Brooke, but not his methods) for an inquiry into his conduct. Palmerston, equally inevitably, defended Brooke as a man of “unblemished honour”, and Catchick Moses and the Singapore merchants rallied to his support. In the event, the inquiry cleared Brooke completely, which was probably a fair decision; his distant critics might think that he had pursued head-hunters and sea-robbers with excessive enthusiasm, but the coast villagers who had suffered generations of plundering and slavery took a different view. So did the great British public. They were not short of heroes to worship in Victoria’s reign, but among the Gordons, Livingstones, Stanleys, and the rest, James Brooke deservedly occupied a unique place. He was, after all, the storybook English adventurer of an old tradition – independent, fearless, upright, priggish and cheerfully immodest, and just a little touched with the buccaneer; it was no wonder that a century of boys’ novelists should take him as their model. Which was a great compliment, but no greater than that paid to him by the tribesmen of Borneo; to them, one traveller reported, he was simply superhuman. The pirates of the Islands might well have agreed. (#ulink_517751f8-b74f-55a6-8f4f-b4cfd3e5c26f) * (#ulink_e2b1c6c0-2c8a-55f3-8a78-eb1acbd1ce48) Suleiman Usman among them. Brooke ran him to earth at Maludu, North Borneo, in August 1845, only a few weeks after the Flashmans were rescued from Madagascar, from which it appears that Usman, having lost Elspeth, returned to his own waters. He was certainly at Maludu when the British force under Admiral Cochrane attacked and destroyed it; one report states that Usman was wounded, believed killed, in the action, and he does not appear to have been heard of again. APPENDIX 3: Queen Ranavalona I (#ulink_a660ab33-92f4-5dc1-b9a3-91d5c85c6419) “One of the proudest and most cruel women on the face of the earth, and her whole history is a record of blood and deeds of horror.” Thus Ida Pfeiffer, who knew her personally. Other historians have called her “the modern Messalina”, “a terrible woman … possessed by the lust of power and cruelty”, “female Caligula”, and so forth; to M. Ferry, the French Foreign Minister, she was simply “l’horrible Ranavalo”. (#ulink_87a7023d-b35f-52f9-bb8f-b06313a6db69) Altogether there is a unanimity which, with the well-documented atrocities of her reign, justifies the worst that even Flashman has to say of her. That he has reported his personal acquaintance with her accurately there is no reason to doubt. His account of Madagascar and its strange customs accords with other sources, as do his descriptions of such minutiae as the Queen’s eccentric wardrobe, her Napoleonic paintings, furniture, idols, place-cards at dinner, drinking habits, and even musical preferences. His picture of her fantastically dressed court, her midnight party, and the public ceremony of the Queen’s bath can be verified in detail. As to her behaviour with him, it is known that she had lovers – possibly even before her husband’s death, although that admittedly is pure speculation based on a study of the events which brought her to the throne, on which Flashman touches only briefly. King Radama, her husband, had died suddenly at the age of 36 in 1828. Since they had no children, the heir was the king’s nephew, Rakotobe; his supporters, foreseeing a power struggle, concealed the news of the king’s death for some days to enable Rakotobe to consolidate his claim. In the meantime, however, a young officer named Andriamihaja, who was ostensibly among Rakotobe’s supporters, betrayed the news of the king’s death to Ranavalona, for reasons which are not disclosed. She promptly got the leading military men on her side, put it about that the idols favoured her claim to the throne, and ruthlessly slaughtered all who resisted, including the unfortunate Rakotobe. She rewarded Andriamihaja’s treachery by making him commander-in-chief and taking (or confirming) him as her lover – he was presently accused of treachery, put to the tanguin, and executed. (See Oliver, vol. i.) The next 35 years were a reign of terror, religious persecution, and genocide on a scale (considering Madagascar’s size and limited population) hardly matched until our own times. That Ranavalona escaped assassination or deposition is testimony to the strength with which she wielded her absolute power, and to her capacity for surviving plots. How many of these there were, we cannot know, but none succeeded-including the Flashman coup of 1845, and a later conspiracy in which Ida Pfeiffer, then aged 60, found herself involved, to her considerable alarm: she describes in her Travels how Prince Rakota (still evidently intent on getting rid of mother) showed her the arsenal he intended to use in his revolt, and how she then went to bed and had nightmares about the tanguin test. Since we know that Rakota and Laborde both survived the plot which Flashman describes, it seems likely that it simply died stillborn, or that the Queen, for some reason, forebore to take vengeance on the conspirators. It would be pleasant to think that Mr Fankanonikaka, at least, was spared to continue his devoted service to his queen and country. * (#ulink_231700e2-4408-51bf-8cdb-0d766c1eb9f7) Speech to the Chamber of Deputies, Paris, 1884. Notes (#ulink_8cfc41e3-0fed-511a-bd0e-422ece70fa91) (#ulink_99a3f85d-a9b8-5bc9-9d90-818e33f6e7b9) FLASHMAN AND THE MOUNTAIN OF LIGHT From The Flashman Papers, 1845–46 Edited and Arranged by GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER Copyright (#ulink_97586393-e3a4-5afa-b7a8-2443aa9b2b14) This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by Harvill 1990 Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1990 George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9780006513049 Ebook Edition © 1990 ISBN: 9780007325719 Version: 2017-11-06 Dedication (#ulink_8fd5c5e9-1438-5c4f-9f54-3c7cd11805f1) For Kath, as always, and with salaams to Shadman Khan and Sardul Singh, wherever they are. Contents Cover (#u5dfd0288-4a17-51f2-b78b-57ed89e46ed3) Title Page (#u6d70d6db-7585-52cb-84f9-187852e3af61) Copyright (#u4db93252-7510-54f7-a4e5-cdaed32c6974) Dedication (#u7c9728a6-c1c2-51c1-9d94-70d5bcf44b94) Explanatory Note (#u48c93fe9-f463-5327-805a-16a0065367d6) Map (#uaebf40da-4d46-52e3-b93b-19e7d93da670) Chapter 1 (#ud217d4cd-40b8-58e3-84a8-24c151143a73) Chapter 2 (#u724c567d-480b-5b52-9136-1354314709e0) Chapter 3 (#u25c61e2b-88ce-588c-89a6-37752708d80a) Chapter 4 (#u764f58bb-a60e-5059-9efe-be52e9fa4fa9) Chapter 5 (#u7f299032-c475-5d86-8b4f-7ed778aecc6d) Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Appendix I: The Sutlej Crisis (#litres_trial_promo) Appendix II: Jeendan and Mangla (#litres_trial_promo) Appendix III: The Koh-i-Noor (#litres_trial_promo) Glossary (#litres_trial_promo) Notes (#litres_trial_promo) Explanatory Note (#ulink_2476e384-594a-5d2b-a48b-b598fd6255aa) The life and conduct of Sir Harry Flashman, VC, were so irregular and eccentric that it is not surprising that he was also erratic in compiling his memoirs, that picturesque catalogue of misadventure, scandal, and military history which came to light, wrapped in oilskin packets, in a Midlands saleroom more than twenty years ago, and has since been published in a series of volumes, this being the ninth. Beginning, characteristically, with his expulsion from Rugby in 1839 for drunkenness (and thus identifying himself, to the astonishment of literary historians, with the cowardly bully of Tom Brown’s Schooldays), the old Victorian hero continued his chronicle at random, moving back and forth in time as the humour took him, until the end of his eighth packet found him, again the worse for drink, being shanghaied from a Singapore billiard-room after the China War of 1860. Along the way he had ranged from the First Afghan War of 1842 to the Sioux campaign of 1876 (with a brief excursion, as yet unpublished, to a brawl in Baker Street as far ahead as 1894, when he was in his seventy-second year); it goes without saying that many gaps in his story remain to be filled, but with the publication of the present volume, which reverts to his early manhood, the first half of his life is almost complete; only an intriguing gap in the early 1850s remains, and a few odd months here and there. Thus far, it is not an improving tale, and this latest chapter is consistent in its depiction of an immoral and unscrupulous rascal whose only commendable quality (terms like “virtue” and “saving grace” are not to be applied to one who gloried in having neither) was his gift of accurate observation; it was this, and the new and often unexpected light which it enabled him to cast on great events and famous figures of his time, that excited the interest of historians, and led to comparison of his memoirs with the Boswell Papers. Be that as it may, it was a talent fully if nervously employed in the almost forgotten imperial campaign described in this volume – “the shortest, bloodiest … and strangest, I think, of my whole life”. Indeed it was strange, not least in its origins, and Flashman’s account is a remarkable case-history of how a war can come about, and the freaks and perfidies and intrigues of its making and waging. It is also the story of a fabulous jewel, and of an extraordinary quartet – an Indian queen, a slave-girl, and two mercenary adventurers – who would be dismissed as too outlandish for fiction (although Kipling seems to have made use of one of them) if their careers were not easily verifiable from contemporary sources. This, as with previous packets of Flashman’s papers entrusted to me by their owner, Mr Paget Morrison, has been my chief concern – to satisfy myself that Flashman’s narrative tallies with historic fact, so far as it can be tested. Beyond that I have only corrected occasional lapses in spelling, and supplied the usual footnotes, appendices and glossary. G.M.F. Map (#ulink_bcd5a850-b4c1-520a-829d-f83f4000ad1b) Chapter 1 (#ulink_f1c3de5c-5b60-5bfd-a1e3-17fdf8eb4999) “Now, my dear Sir Harry, I must tell you,” says her majesty, with that stubborn little duck of her head that always made Palmerston think she was going to butt him in the guts, “I am quite determined to learn Hindoostanee.” This at the age of sixty-seven, mark you. I almost asked her what the devil for, at her time of life, but fortunately my idiot wife got in first, clapping her hands and exclaiming that it was a most splendid idea, since nothing so Improved the Mind and Broadened the Outlook as acquaintance with a Foreign Tongue, is that not so, my love? (Elspeth, I may tell you, speaks only English – well, Scotch, if you like – and enough nursery French to get her through Customs and bullyrag waiters, but anything the Queen said, however wild, always sent her into transports of approval.) I seconded loyally, of course, saying it was a capital notion, ma’am, bound to come in handy, but I must have looked doubtful, for our sovereign lady refilled my teacup pretty offhand, leaving out the brandy, and said severely that Dr Johnson had learned Dutch at the age of seventy. “And I have an excellent ear,” says she. “Why, I still recollect precisely those Indian words you spoke, at my dearest one’s request, so many long years ago.” She sighed, and sipped, and then to my dismay trotted them out. “Hamare ghali ana, achha din. Lord Wellington said it was a Hindoo greeting, I recall.” Well, it’s what the Bengali whores used to cry to attract customers, so she wasn’t far wrong. They’d been the only words I could think of, God help me, on that memorable day in ’42 when the Old Duke had taken me to the Palace after my Afghan heroics; I’d stood trembling and half-witted before royalty, and when Albert asked me to say something in Hindi, out they popped. Luckily, Wellington had had the wit not to translate. The Queen had been a pretty slip of a girl then, smiling timidly up as she pinned on the medal I didn’t deserve; now she was a stout little old body, faded and grey, fussing over the teacups at Windsor and punishing the meringues. Her smile was still there, though; aye, cavalry whiskers, even white ones, still fetched little Vicky. “It is such a cheerful language,” says she. “I am sure it must have many jokes, does it not, Sir Harry?” I could think of a few, but thought it best to give her the old harmless one that begins: “Doh admi joh nashe men the, rail ghari men safar kar raha ta –” “But what does it mean, Sir Harry?” “Well, ma’am, it means that two fellows were travelling by train, you see, and they were, I regret to say, intoxicated –” “Why, Harry!” cries Elspeth, acting shocked, but the Queen just took another tot of whisky in her tea and bade me continue. So I told her that one chap said, where are we, and t’other chap replied, Wednesday, and the first chap said, Heavens, this is where I get out. Needless to say, it convulsed them – and while they recovered and passed the gingerbread, I asked myself for the twentieth time why we were here, just Elspeth and me and the Great White Mother, taking tea together. You see, while I was used enough, in those later years, to being bidden to Balmoral each autumn to squire her about on drives, and fetch her shawl, and endure her prattle and those damned pipers of an evening, a summons to Windsor in the spring was something new, and when it included “dear Lady Flashman, our fair Rowena” – the Queen and she both pretended a passion for Scott – I couldn’t think what was up. Elspeth, when she’d recovered from her ecstasy at being “commanded to court”, as she put it, was sure I was to be offered a peerage in the Jubilee Honours (there’s no limit to the woman’s mad optimism); I damped her by observing that the Queen didn’t keep coronets in the closet to hand out to visitors; it was done official, and anyway even Salisbury wasn’t so far gone as to ennoble me; I wasn’t worth bribing. Elspeth said I was a horrid cynic, and if the Queen herself required our attendance it must be something grand, and whatever was she going to wear? Well, the grandeur turned out to be Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show – I concluded that I’d been dragged in because I’d been out yonder myself, and was considered an authority on all that was wild and woolly – and we sat in vile discomfort at Earl’s Court among a great gang of Court toadies, while Cody pranced on a white horse, waving his hat and sporting a suit of patent buckskins that would have laid ’em helpless with laughter along the Yellowstone. There was enough paint and feathers to outfit the whole Sioux Nation, the braves whooped and ki-yik-ked and brandished their hatchets, the roughriders curvetted, a stagecoach of terrified virgins was ambushed, the great man arrived in the nick of time blazing away until you couldn’t see for smoke, and the Queen said it was most curious and interesting, and what did the strange designs of the war paint signify, my dear Sir Harry? God knows what I told her; the fact is, while everyone else was cheering the spectacle, I was reflecting that only eleven years earlier I’d been running like hell from the real thing at Little Bighorn, and losing my top hair into the bargain – a point which I mentioned to Cody later, after he’d been presented. He cried, yes, by thunder, that was one war-party he’d missed, and didn’t he envy me the trip, though? Lying old humbug. That’s by the way; I realised, when the Queen bore Elspeth and me back to Windsor, and bade us to tea ? trois next day, that our presence at the show had been incidental, and the real reason for our invitation was something else altogether. A trifling matter, as it turned out, but it inspired this memoir, so there you are. She wanted our opinion, she said, on a matter of the first importance – and if you think it odd that she should confide in the likes of us, the retired imperial roughneck of heroic record but dubious repute, and the Glasgow merchant’s daughter … well, you don’t know our late lamented Queen Empress. Oh, she was a stickler and a tartar, no error, the highest, mightiest monarch that ever was, and didn’t she know it, just – but if you were a friend, well, that was a different palaver. Elspeth and I were well out of Court, and barely half-way into Society, even, but we’d known her since long ago, you see – well, she’d always fancied me (what woman didn’t?), and Elspeth, aside from being such an artless, happy beauty that even her own sex couldn’t help liking her, had the priceless gift of being able to make the Queen laugh. They’d taken to each other as young women, and now, on the rare occasions they met t?te-?-t?te, they blethered like the grandmothers they were – why, on that very day (when I was safely out of earshot) she told Elspeth that there were some who wanted her to mark her Golden Jubilee by abdicating in favour of her ghastly son, Bertie the Bounder, “but I shall do no such thing, my dear! I intend to outlive him, if I can, for the man is not fit to reign, as none knows better than your own dear husband, who had the thankless task of instructing him.” True, I’d pimped for him occasional, but ’twas wasted effort; he’d have been just as great a cad and whoremaster without my tuition. However, it was about the Jubilee she wanted our advice, “and yours especially, Sir Harry, for you alone have the necessary knowledge”. I couldn’t figure that; for one thing, she’d been getting advice and to spare for months on how best to celebrate her fiftieth year on the throne. The whole Empire was in a Jubilee frenzy, with loyal addresses and f?tes and junketings and school holidays and water-trough inaugurations and every sort of extravagance on the rates; the shops were packed with Jubilee mugs and plates and trumpery blazoned with Union Jacks and pictures of her majesty looking damned glum; there were Jubilee songs on the halls, and Jubilee marches for parades, and even Jubilee musical bustles that played “God Save the Queen” when the wearer sat down – I tried to get Elspeth to buy one, but she said it was disrespectful, and besides people might think it was her. The Queen, of course, had her nose into everything, to make sure the celebrations were dignified and useful – only she could approve the illuminations for Cape Town, the chocolate boxes for Eskimo children, the plans for Jubilee parks and gardens and halls and bird-baths from Dublin to Dunedin, the special Jubilee robes (it’s God’s truth) for Buddhist monks in Burma, and the extra helpings of duff for lepers in Singapore: if the world didn’t remember 1887, and the imperial grandmother from whom all blessings flowed, it wouldn’t be her fault. And after years in purdah, she had taken to gallivanting on the grand scale, to Jubilee dinners and assemblies and soir?es and dedications – dammit, she’d even visited Liverpool. But what had tickled her most, it seemed, was being photographed in full fig as Empress of India; it had given her quite an Indian fever, and she was determined that the Jubilee should have a fine flavour of curry – hence the resolve to learn Hindi. “But what else, Sir Harry, would best mark our signal regard for our Indian subjects, do you think?” Baksheesh, booze, and bints was the answer to that, but I chewed on a muffin, looking grave, and said, why not engage some Indian attendants, ma’am, that’d go down well. It would also infuriate the lordly placemen and toad-eaters who surrounded her, if I knew anything. After some thought, she nodded and said that was a wise and fitting suggestion – in the event, it was anything but, for the Hindi-wallah she fixed on as her special pet turned out to be not the high-caste gent he pretended, but the son of a puggle-walloper in Agra jail; if that wasn’t enough, he spread her secret Indian papers all over the bazaars, and drove the Viceroy out of his half-wits. Aye, old Flashy’s got the touch. At the time, though, she was all for it – and then she got down to cases in earnest. “For now, Sir Harry, I have two questions for you. Most important questions, so please to attend.” She adjusted her spectacles and rummaged in a flat case at her elbow, breathing heavy and finally unearthing a yellowish scrap of paper. “There, I have it. Colonel Mackeson’s letter …” She peered at it with gooseberry eyes. “… dated the ninth of February, 1852 … now where is … ah, yes! The Colonel writes, in part: ‘On this head, it will be best to consult those officers in the Company service who have seen it, and especially Lieutenant Flashman …’” She shot me a look, no doubt to make sure I recognised the name “‘… who is said to have been the first to see it, and can doubtless say precisely how it was then worn’.” She laid the letter down, nodding. “You see, I keep all letters most carefully arranged. One cannot tell when they may be essential.” I made nothing of this. Where the deuce had I been in ’52, and what on earth was “it” on whose wearing I was apparently an authority? The Queen smiled at my mystification. “It may be somewhat changed,” says she, “but I am sure you will remember it.” She took a small leather box from the case, set it down among the tea things, and with the air of a conjurer producing a rabbit, raised the lid. Elspeth gave a little gasp, I looked – and my heart gave a lurch. It ain’t to be described, you must see it close to … that glittering pyramid of light, broad as a crown piece, alive with an icy fire that seems to shine from its very heart. It’s a matchless, evil thing, and shouldn’t be a diamond at all, but a ruby, red as the blood of the thousands who’ve died for it. But it wasn’t that, or its terrible beauty, that had shaken me … it was the memory, all unexpected. Aye, I’d seen it before. “The Mountain of Light,” says the Queen complacently. “That is what the nabobs called it, did they not, Sir Harry?” “Indeed, ma’am,” says I, a mite hoarse. “Koh-i-Noor.” “A little smaller than you remember it, I fancy. It was recut under the directions of my dear Albert and the Duke of Wellington,” she explained to Elspeth, “but it is still the largest, most precious gem in all the world. Taken in our wars against the Sikh people, you know, more than forty years ago. But was Colonel Mackeson correct, Sir Harry? Did you see it then in its native setting, and could you describe it?” By God, I could … but not to you, old girl, and certainly not to the wife of my bosom, twittering breathlessly as the Queen lifted the gleaming stone to the light in her stumpy fingers. “Native setting” was right: I could see it now as I saw it first, blazing in its bed of tawny naked flesh – in the delectable navel of that gorgeous trollop Maharani Jeendan, its dazzling rays shaming the thousands of lesser gems that sleeved her from thigh to ankle and from wrist to shoulder … that had been her entire costume, as she staggered drunkenly among the cushions, laughing wildly at the amorous pawings of her dancing-boys, draining her gold cup and flinging it aside, giggling as she undulated voluptuously towards me, slapping her bare hips to the tom-toms, while I, heroically foxed but full of good intentions, tried to crawl to her across a floor that seemed to be littered with Kashmiri houris and their partners in jollity … “Come and take it, my Englishman! Ai-ee, if old Runjeet could see it now, eh? Would he leap from his funeral pyre, think you?” Dropping to her knees, belly quivering, the great diamond flashing blindingly. “Will you not take it? Shall Lal have it, then? Or Jawaheer? Take it, gora sahib, my English bahadur!” The loose red mouth and drugged, kohl-stained eyes mocking me through a swirling haze of booze and perfume … “Why, Harry, you look quite upset! Whatever is the matter?” It was Elspeth, all concern, and the Queen clucked sympathetically and said I was distr?e, and she was to blame, “for I am sure, my dear, that the sudden sight of the stone has recalled to him those dreadful battles with the Sikhs, and the loss of, oh, so many of our gallant fellows. Am I not right?” She patted my hand kindly, and I wiped my fevered brow and confessed it had given me a start, and stirred painful recollections … old comrades, you know, stern encounters, trying times, bad business all round. But yes, I remembered the diamond; among the Crown Jewels at the Court of Lahore, it had been … “Much prized, and worn with pride and reverence, I am sure.” “Oh, absolutely, ma’am! Passed about, too, from time to time.” The Queen looked shocked. “Not from hand to hand?” From navel to navel, in fact, the game being to pass it round, male to female, without using your hands, and anyone caught waxing his belly-button was disqualified and reported to Tattersalls … I hastened to assure her that only the royal family and their, ah, closest intimates had ever touched it, and she said she was glad to hear it. “You shall write me an exact description of how it was set and displayed,” says she. “Of course, I have worn it myself in various settings, for while it is said to be unlucky, I am not superstitious, and besides, they say it brings ill fortune only to men. And while it was presented by Lord Dalhousie to me personally, I regard it as belonging to all the women of the Empire.” Aye, thinks I absently, your majesty wears it on Monday and the scrubwoman has it on Tuesday. “That brings me to my second question, and you, Sir Harry, knowing India so well, must advise me. Would it be proper, do you think, to have it set in the State Crown, for the great Jubilee service in the Abbey? Would it please our Indian subjects? Might it give the least offence to anyone – the princes, for example? Consider that, if you please, and give me your opinion presently.” She regarded me as though I were the Delphic oracle, and I had to clear my mind of memories to pay heed to what she was saying. So that, after all the preamble, was her question of “first importance” – of all the nonsense! As though one nigger in a million would recognise the stone, or knew it existed, even. And those who did would be fat crawling rajas ready to fawn and applaud if she proposed painting the Taj Mahal red white and blue with her damned diamond on top. Still, she was showing more delicacy of feeling that I’d have given her credit for; well, I could set her mind at rest … if I wanted to. On reflection, I wasn’t sure about that. It was true, as she’d said, that Koh-i-Noor had been bad medicine only for men, from Aladdin to Shah Jehan, Nadir, old Runjeet, and that poor pimp Jawaheer – I could hear his death-screams yet, and shudder. But it hadn’t done Jeendan much good, either, and she was as female as they come … “Take it, Englishman” – gad, talk about your Jubilee parties … No, I wouldn’t want it to be unlucky for our Vicky. Don’t misunderstand; I ain’t superstitious either. But I’ve learned to be leery of the savage gods, and I’ll admit that the sight of that infernal gewgaw winking among the teacups had taken me flat aback … forty years and more … I could hear the tramp of the Khalsa again, rank on bearded rank pouring out through the Moochee Gate: “Wah Guru-ji! To Delhi! To London!” … the thunder of guns and the hiss of rockets as the Dragoons came slashing through the smoke … old Paddy Gough in his white “fighting coat”, twisting his moustaches – “Oi nivver wuz bate, an’ Oi nivver will be bate!” … a lean Pathan face under a tartan turban – “You know what they call this beauty? The Man Who Would Be King!” … an Arabian Nights princess flaunting herself before her army like a nautch-dancer, mocking them … and defying them, half-naked and raging, sword in hand … coals glowing hideously beneath a gridiron … lovers hand in hand in an enchanted garden under a Punjab moon … a great river choked with bodies from bank to bank … a little boy in cloth of gold, the great diamond held aloft, blood running through his tiny fingers … “Koh-i-Noor! Koh-i-Noor! …” The Queen and Elspeth were deep in talk over a great book of photographs of crowns and diadems and circlets, “for I know my weakness about jewellery, you see, and how it can lead me astray, but your taste, dear Rowena, is quite faultless … Now, if it were set so, among the fleurs-de-lys …” I could see I wasn’t going to get a word in edgeways for hours, so I slid out for a smoke. And to remember. Chapter 2 (#ulink_a9e9f7d0-d8f3-5c3e-a0a4-4aff5a36b25c) I’d vowed never to go near India again after the Afghan fiasco of ’42, and might easily have kept my word but for Elspeth’s loose conduct. In those salad days, you see, she had to be forever flirting with anything in britches – not that I blame her, for she was a rare beauty, and I was often away, or ploughing with other heifers. But she shook her bouncers once too often, and at the wrong man: that foul nigger pirate Solomon who kidnapped her the year I took five for 12 against All-England, and a hell of a chase I had to win her back. I’ll set it down some day, provided the recounting don’t scare me into the grave; it’s a ghastly tale, about Brooke and the headhunting Borneo rovers, and how I only saved my skin (and Elspeth’s) by stallioning the mad black queen of Madagascar into a stupor. Quaint, isn’t it? The end of it was that we were rescued by the Anglo-French expedition that bombarded Tamitave in ’45, and we were all set for old England again, but the officious snirp who governed Mauritius takes one look at me and cries: “’Pon my soul, it’s Flashy, the Bayard of Afghanistan! How fortunate, just when it’s all hands to the pumps in the Punjab! You’re the very man; off you go and settle the Sikhs, and we’ll look after your missus.” Or words to that effect. I said I’d swim in blood first. I hadn’t retired on half pay just to be pitched into another war. But he was one of your wrath-of-God tyrants who won’t be gainsaid, and quoted Queen’s Regulations, and bullied me about Duty and Honour – and I was young then, and fagged out with tupping Ranavalona, and easily cowed. (I still am, beneath the bluster, as you may know from my memoirs, as fine a catalogue of honours won through knavery, cowardice, taking cover, and squealing for mercy as you’ll ever strike.) If I’d known what lay ahead I’d have seen him damned first – those words’ll be on my tombstone, so help me – but I didn’t, and it would have shot my hard-earned Afghan laurels all to pieces if I’d shirked, so I bowed to his instruction to proceed to India with all speed and report to the C-in-C, rot him. I consoled myself that there might be advantages to stopping abroad a while longer: I’d no news from home, you see, and it was possible that Mrs Leo Lade’s noble protector and that greasy bookie Tighe might still have their bruisers on the lookout for me – it’s damnable, the pickle a little harmless wenching and welching can land you in. So I bade Elspeth an exhausting farewell, and she clung to me on the dockside at Port Louis, bedewing my linen and casting sidelong glances at the moustachioed Frogs who were waiting to carry her home on their warship – hollo, thinks I, we’ll be calling the first one Marcel at this rate, and was about to speak to her sternly when she lifted those glorious blue eyes and gulped: “I was never so happy as in the forest, just you and me. Come safe back, my bonny jo, or my heart will break.” And I felt such a pang, as she kissed me, and wanted to keep her by me forever, and to hell with India – and I watched her ship out of sight, long after the golden-haired figure waving from the rail had grown too small to see. God knows what she got up to with the Frogs, mind you. I had hopes of a nice leisurely passage, to Calcutta for choice, so that whatever mischief there was with the Sikhs might be settled long before I got near the frontier, but the Cape mail-sloop arrived next day, and I was bowled up to Bombay in no time. And there, by the most hellish ill-luck, before I’d got the ghee-smell in my nostrils or even thought about finding a woman, I ran slap into old General Sale, whom I hadn’t seen since Afghanistan, and was the last man I wanted to meet just then. In case you don’t know my journal of the Afghan disaster, I must tell you that I was one of that inglorious army which came out in ’42 a dam’ sight faster than it went in – what was left of it. I was one of the few survivors, and by glorious misunderstanding was hailed as the hero of the hour: it was mistakenly believed that I’d fought the bloodiest last-ditch action since Hastings – when in fact I’d been blubbering under a blanket – and when I came to in dock at Jallalabad, who should be at my bedside, misty with admiration, but the garrison commander, Fighting Bob Sale. He it was who had first trumpeted my supposed heroism to the world – so you may picture his emotion when here I was tooling up three years later, apparently thirsting for another slap at the paynim. “This is the finest thing!” cries he, beaming. “Why, we’d thought you lost to us – restin’ on your laurels, what? I should ha’ known better! Sit down, sit down, my dear boy! Kya-hai, matey! Couldn’t keep away, you young dog! Wait till George Broadfoot sees you – oh, aye, he’s on the leash up yonder, and all the old crowd! Why, ’twill be like old times – except you’ll find Gough’s no Elphy Bey, what?” He clapped me on the shoulder, fit to burst at the prospect of bloodshed, and added in a whisper they could have heard in Benares: “Kabul be damned – there’ll be no retreat from Lahore! Your health, Flashman.” It was sickening, but I looked keen, and managed a groan of dismay when he admitted that the war hadn’t started yet, and might not at all if Hardinge, the new Governor-General, had his way. Right, thinks I, count me as one of the Hardinge Ring, but of course I begged Bob to tell me how the land lay, feigning great eagerness – in planning a campaign, you see, you must know where the safe billets are likely to be. So he did, and in setting it down I shall add much information which I came by later, so that you may see exactly how things were in the summer of ’45, and understand all that followed. A word first, though. You’ll have heard it said that the British Empire was acquired in a fit of absence of mind – one of those smart Oscarish squibs that sounds well but is thoroughly fat-headed. Presence of mind, if you like – and countless other things, such as greed and Christianity, decency and villainy, policy and lunacy, deep design and blind chance, pride and trade, blunder and curiosity, passion, ignorance, chivalry and expediency, honest pursuit of right, and determination to keep the bloody Frogs out. And often as not, such things came tumbling together, and when the dust had settled, there we were, and who else was going to set things straight and feed the folk and guard the gate and dig the drains – oh, aye, and take the profit, by all means. That’s what study and eye-witness have taught me, leastways, and perhaps I can prove it by describing what happened to me in ’45, in the bloodiest, shortest war ever fought in India, and the strangest, I think, of my whole life. You’ll find it contains all the Imperial ingredients I’ve listed – stay, though, for “Frogs” read “Muslims”, and if you like, “Russians” – and a few others you may not believe. When I’m done, you may not be much clearer on how the map of the world came to be one-fifth pink, but at least you should realise that it ain’t something to be summed up in an epigram. Absence of mind, my arse. We always knew what we were doing; we just didn’t always know how it would pan out. First of all, you must do as Sale bade me, and look at the map. In ’45 John Company held Bengal and the Carnatic and the east coast, more or less, and was lord of the land up to the Sutlej, the frontier beyond which lay the Five Rivers country of the Sikhs, the Punjab. But things weren’t settled then as they are now; we were still shoring up our borders, and that north-west frontier was the weak point, as it still is. That way invasion had always come, from Afghanistan, the vanguard of a Mohammedan tide, countless millions strong, stretching back as far as the Mediterranean. And Russia. We’d tried to sit down in Afghanistan, as you know, and got a bloody nose, and while that had been avenged since, we weren’t venturing that way again. So it remained a perpetual threat to India and ourselves – and all that lay between was the Punjab, and the Sikhs. You know something of them: tall, splendid fellows with uncut hair and beards, proud and exclusive as Jews, and well disliked, as clannish, easily-recognised folk often are – the Muslims loathed them, the Hindoos distrusted them, and even today T. Atkins, while admiring them as stout fighters, would rather be brigaded with anyone else – excepting their cavalry, which you’d be glad of anywhere. For my money they were the most advanced people in India – well, they were only a sixth of the Punjab’s population, but they ruled the place, so there you are. We’d made a treaty with these strong, clever, treacherous, civilised savages, respecting their independence north of the Sutlej while we ruled south of it. It was good business for both parties: they remained free and friends with John Company, and we had a tough, stable buffer between us and the wild tribes beyond the Khyber – let the Sikhs guard the passes, while we went about our business in India without the expense and trouble of having to deal with the Afghans ourselves. That’s worth bearing in mind when you hear talk of our “aggressive forward policy” in India: it simply wasn’t common sense for us to take over the Punjab – not while it was strong and united. Which it was, until ’39, when the Sikh maharaja, old Runjeet Singh, died of drink and debauchery (they say he couldn’t tell male from female at the end, but they’re like that, you know). He’d been a great man, and a holy terror, who’d held the Punjab solid as a rock, but when he went, the struggle for power over the next six years made the Borgia intrigues look like a vicarage soir?e. His only legitimate son, Kuruk, an opium-guzzling degenerate, was quickly poisoned by his son, who lasted long enough to attend Papa’s funeral, where a building collapsed on him, to no one’s surprise. Second wicket down was Shere Singh, Runjeet’s bastard and a lecher of such enthusiasm that I’ve heard they had to pry him off a wench to seat him on the throne. He had a fine long reign of two years, surviving mutiny, civil war, and a plot by Chaund Cour, Kuruk’s widow, before they finally did for him (and his entire harem, the wasteful swine). Chaund Cour later expired in her bath, under a great stone dropped by her own slave-girls, whose hands and tongues were then removed, to prevent idle gossip, and when various other friends and relations had been taken off sudden-like, and the whole Punjab was close to anarchy, the way was suddenly clear for a most unlikely maharaja, the infant Dalip Singh, who was still on the throne, and in good health, in the summer of ’45. It was claimed he was the child of old Runjeet and a dancing-girl named Jeendan whom he’d married shortly before his death. There were those who doubted the paternity, though, since this Jeendan was notorious for entertaining the lads of the village four at a time, and old Runjeet had been pretty far gone when he married her; on the other hand, it was pointed out that she was a practised professional whose charms would have roused a stone idol, so old Runjeet might have done the deed before rolling over and going to God. So now she was Queen Mother and joint regent with her drunken brother Jawaheer Singh, whose great party trick was to dress as a female and dance with the nautch-girls – by all accounts it was one continuous orgy at the Court of Lahore, with Jeendan galloping every man in sight, her lords and ladies all piling in, no one sober for days on end, treasure being spent like the wave of the sea, and the whole polity sliding downhill to luxurious ruin. I must say, it sounded quite jolly to me, bar the normal murders and tortures, and the furious plotting which apparently occupied everyone’s sober moments. And looming like a genie over all this delightful corruption was the Khalsa – the Sikh army. Runjeet had built it, hiring first-class European mercenaries who had turned it into a truly formidable machine, drilled, disciplined, modern, 80,000 strong – the finest army in India, barring the Company’s (we hoped). While Runjeet lived, all had been well, but since his death the Khalsa had realised its power, and wasn’t prepared to be cat’s paw to the succession of rascals, degenerates, and drunkards who’d tumbled on and off the throne; it had defied its officers, and governed itself by soldiers’ committees, called panches, joining in the civil strife and bloodshed when it suited, slaughtering, looting, and raping in disciplined fashion, and supporting whichever maharaja took its fancy. One thing was constant about the Khalsa: it hated the British, and was forever demanding to be led against us south of the Sutlej. Jeendan and Jawaheer controlled it as their predecessors had done, with huge bribes of pay and privileges, but with lakhs being squandered on their depravities, even the fabulous wealth of the Punjab was beginning to run dry – and what then? For years we’d been watching our northern buffer dissolve in a welter of blood and decay, in which we were treaty-bound not to intervene; now the crisis was come. How long could Jawaheer and Jeendan keep the Khalsa in hand? Could they prevent it (did they even want to?) taking a slap at us with the loot of all India as the prize? If the Khalsa did invade, would our own native troops stand true, and if they didn’t … well, no one, except a few canny folk like Broadfoot, cared to think about that, or contemplate the kind of thing that half-happened twelve years later, in the Mutiny. So that’s how things stood in August ’45, but my alarms, as usual, were entirely personal. Meeting Sale had scuppered my hopes of lying low for a spell: he would see to it that I had a place on Gough’s staff, says he, beaming paternally while I frisked in feigned enthusiasm with my bowels dissolving, for I knew that being old Paddy’s galloper would be a one-way trip to perdition if the bugles blew in earnest. He was Commander-in-Chief, was Gough, an ancient Irish squireen who’d fought in more battles than any man living and was forever looking for more; loved by the troops (as such lunatics always are), and much sympathised with just then, when he was sweating to secure the frontier against the coming storm, and calling down Celtic curses on the head of that sensible chap Hardinge in Calcutta, who was forever cautioning him not to provoke the Sikhs, and countermanding his troop movements. But I had no way out; Sale was off now post-haste to resume his duties as Quartermaster-General on the frontier, with poor Flashy in tow, wondering how I could catch measles or break a leg. Mind you, as we rode north I was much reassured by the assembly of men and material along the Grand Trunk Road: from Meerut up it was aswarm with British regiments, Native Infantry, dragoons, lancers, Company cavalry, and guns by the park – the Khalsa’ll never tackle this crowd, thinks I; they’d be mad. Which of course they were. But I didn’t know the Sikhs then, or the incredible shifts and intrigues that can make an army march to suicide. Gough wasn’t at headquarters in Umballa, which we reached early in September; he’d gone up to Simla for a breather, and since Sale’s wife was living there we pushed straight on, to my delight. I’d heard of it as a great place for high jinks and good living, and, I foolishly supposed, safety. It was a glorious spot then, before Kipling’s vulgarians and yahoos had arrived, a little jewel of a hill station ringed in by snow-clad peaks and pine forests, with air that you could almost drink, and lovely green valleys like the Scotch border country – one of ’em was absolutely called Annandale, where you could picnic and f?te to heart’s content. Emily Eden had made it the resort in the ’30s, and already there were fine houses on the hillsides, and stone bungalows with log fires where you could draw the curtains and think you were back in England; they were building the church’s foundations then, on the ridges above the Bazaar, and laying out the cricket ground; even the fruits and flowers were like home – we had strawberries and cream, I remember, that first afternoon at Lady Sale’s house. Dear dreadful Florentia. If you’ve read my Afghan story, you know her, a raw-boned old heroine who’d ridden with the army all through that nightmare retreat over the passes from Kabul, when a force of 14,000 was whittled almost to nothing by the Dourani snipers and Khyber knives. She hadn’t shut up the whole way, damning the administration and bullying her bearers: Colin Mackenzie said it was a near thing which was more fearsome – a Ghazi leaping from the rocks yelling murder, or Lady Sale’s red nose emerging from a tent demanding to know why the water was not thoroughly boiling. She hadn’t changed, bar the rheumatics from which she could get relief only by cocking a foot up on the table – damned unnerving it was, to have her boot beside your cup, and a great lean shank in red flannel among the muffins. “Flashman keeps staring at my ankle, Sale!” cries she. “They are all alike, these young men. Don’t make owl eyes at me, sir – I remember your pursuit of Mrs Parker at Kabul! You thought I had not noticed? Ha! I and the whole cantonment! I shall watch you in Simla, let me tell you.” This between a harangue about Hardinge’s incompetence and a blistering rebuke to her khansamah for leaving the salt out of the coffee. You’ll gather I was a favourite of hers, and after tea she had me reviving Afghan memories by rendering “Drink, puppy, drink” in my sturdy baritone while she thumped the ivories, my performance being marred by a sudden falsetto when I remembered that I’d last sung that jolly ditty in Queen Ranavalona’s boudoir, with her black majesty beating time in a most unconventional way. That reminded me that Simla was famous for its diversions, and since the Sales were giving dinner that night to Gough and some cabbage-eating princeling who was making the Indian tour, I was able to cry off, Florentia dropping a hint that I should be home before the milk. I tooled down the hill to the dirt road that has since become the famous Mall, taking the air among the fashionable strollers, admiring the sunset, the giant rhododendrons, and Simla’s two prime attractions – hundreds of playful monkeys and scores of playful women. Unattached, the women were, their men-folk being hard at it down-country, and the pickings were choice: civilian misses, saucy infantry wives, cavalry mares, and bouncing grass widows. I ran my eye over ’em, and fastened on a fortyish Juno with a merry eye and full nether lip who gave me a thoughtful smile before turning in to the hotel, where by the strangest chance I presently encountered her in a secluded corner of the tea verandah. We conversed politely, about the weather and the latest French novels (she found The Wandering Jew affecting, as I recall, while I stood up for the Musketeers), and she ate a dainty water-ice and started to claw at my thigh under the table. I like a woman who knows her mind; the question was, where? and I couldn’t think of anywhere cosier than the room I’d been allotted at the back of Sale’s mansion – Indian servants have eyes in their buttocks, of course, but the walls were solid, not chick, and with dusk coming down we could slide in by the french windows unseen. Her good name had plainly died in the late ’20s, for she said it was a capital lark, and presently we were slipping through the bushes of Sale’s garden, keeping clear of the dinner guests’ jampan bearers, who were squatting by the front verandah. We paused for a lustful grapple among the deodars before mounting the steps to the side verandah – and dammit, there was a light in my room, and the sound of a bearer hawking and shuffling within. I stood nonplussed while my charmer (a Mrs Madison, I think) munched on my ear and tore at my buttons, and at that moment some interesting Oriental came round the corner of the house, expectorating hugely, and without thinking I whisked her through the door next to mine, closing it softly. It proved to be the billiard-room – dark, empty and smelling of clergymen, and since my little flirt now had my pants round my ankles and was trying to plumb my depths, I decided it would have to do. The diners would be beating their plates for hours yet, and Gough hadn’t the look of a pool-shark, somehow, but caution and delicacy forbade our galloping on the open floor, and since there were little curtains between the legs of the table … There ain’t as much deck clearance under a billiard table as you might suppose, but after a cramped and feverish partial disrobing we settled down to play fifty up. And Mrs Madison proved to be a most expert tease, tittering mischievously and spinning things out, so that we must have been everywhere from beneath the baulk to the top cushion and back before I had her trapped by the middle pockets and was able to give of my best. And after she had subsided with tremulous whimpers, and I had got my breath back, it seemed quite cosy, don’t you know, and we whispered and played in the stuffy dark, myself drowsy and she giggling at what a frolic it was, and I was beginning to consider a return fixture when Sale decided he’d like a game of billiards. I thought I was sent for. The door crashed open, light shone through the curtains, bearers came scurrying in to remove the cover and light the table candles, heavy footsteps sounded, men’s voices laughing and talking, and old Bob crying: “This way, Sir Hugh … your highness. Now, what shall it be? A round game or sides, hey?” Their legs were vague shadows beyond the curtains as I bundled Mrs Madison to the centre – and the abandoned trot was positively shaking with laughter! I hissed soundlessly in her ear, and we lay half-clad and quivering, she with mirth and I with fright, while the talk and laughter and clatter of cues sounded horrid close overhead. Of all the damned fixes! But there was nothing for it but to lie doggo, praying we didn’t sneeze or have the conniptions. I’ve had similar experiences since – under a sofa on which Lord Cardigan was paying court to his second wife, beneath a dago president’s four-poster (that’s how I won the San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth), and one shocking time in Russia when discovery meant certain death. But the odd thing is, quaking as you are, you find yourself eavesdropping for dear life; I lay with one ear between Mrs Madison’s paps, and the other taking it all in – and it’s worth recounting, for it was frontier gossip from our head men, and will help you understand what followed. In no time I knew who was in the room: Gough, and Sale, and a pimpish affected lisp which could belong only to the German princeling, the pulpit growl of old Gravedigger Havelock (who’d ha’ thought that he’d frequent pool-rooms?), and the high, arrogant Scotch burr that announced the presence of my old Afghan chum George Broadfoot, now exalted as Agent for the North-west Frontier. He was in full complaint, as usual: “… and Calcutta rebukes me for taking a high hand with the Maharani and her drunken durbar! I must not provoke them, says Hardinge. Provoke, indeed – while they run raids on us, and ignore my letters, and seduce our sepoys! Half the brothel bints in Ludhiana are Sikh agents, offering our jawans double pay to desert to the Khalsa.” “Double for infantry, six-fold for sowars,” says Sale. “Temptin’, what? Spot or plain, prince?” “Spot, if you please. But do many of your native soldiers desert, then?” “Och, a few.” This was Gough, in his pig-sty brogue. “Mind you, if ever the Khalsa invaded, God knows how many might jump on what they thought was the winnin’ nag. Or refuse to fight agin’ fellow-Injuns.” The pills clicked, and the prince says: “But the British will always be the winning side. Why, all India holds your army invincible.” There was a long pause, then Broadfoot says: “Not since Afghanistan. We went in like lions and came out like-sheep – and India took note. Who knows what might follow a Sikh invasion? Mutiny? It’s possible. A general revolt –” “Oh, come!” cries the prince. “A Sikh invasion would be promptly repelled, surely! Is that not so, Sir Hugh?” More pill-clicking, and then Gough says: “Put it this way, sorr. If John Sepoy turned tail – which I don’t believe, mind – I’d be left wi’ our British regiments alone agin’ one hunnert t’ousand of the best fightin’ fellows in India – European trained, mark’ee, wi’ modern arms … How many do I get for a cannon, will ye tell me? Two? Mother o’ God, is it worth it? Well, here goes.” Click. “Damnation, me eyes is failin’. As I was sayin’, your highness – I wouldn’t have to make too many mistakes, now, would I?” “But if there is such danger – why do you not march into the Punjab now, and nip it in the bud?” Another long silence, then Broadfoot: “Breach of treaty if we did – and conquest isn’t popular in England, since Sind. No doubt it’ll come to that in the end – and Hardinge knows it, for all he says British India’s big enough already. But the Sikhs must strike first, you see, and Sir Hugh’s right – that’s our moment of peril, when they’re south of the Sutlej in force, and our own sepoys may join ’em. If we struck first, treaty or not, and tackled the Khalsa in the Punjab, our stock would rise with the sepoys, they wouldn’t waver, and we’d win hands down. We’d have to stay, in a territory London don’t want – but India would be safe from Muslim invasion forever. A nice, circular problem, is it not?” The Prince says thoughtfully: “Sir Henry Hardinge has a dilemma, it seems.” “That’s why he waits,” says Sale, “in the faint hope that the present Lahore government will restore stability.” “Meanwhile reproving me and hindering Sir Hugh, in case we ‘provoke’ Lahore,” says Broadfoot. “‘Armed observation’ – that’s to be our ticket.” Mrs Madison gave a gentle snore, and I whipped my hand over her mouth, pinching her nostrils. “What’s that?” says a voice overhead. “Did you hear it?” There was silence, while I trembled on the verge of heart failure, and then Sale says: “Those dam’ geckoes. Your shot, Sir Hugh.” If that wasn’t enough, Mrs Madison, now awake, put her lips to my ear: “When will they leave off? I am ever so cold.” I made silent frantic motions, and she thrust her tongue in my ear, so that I missed the next exchange. But I’d heard enough to be sure of one thing – however pacific Hardinge’s intentions, war was an odds-on certainty. I don’t mean that Broadfoot was ready to start it himself, but he’d jump at the chance if the Sikhs gave him one – and so no doubt would most of our Army folk; it’s a soldier’s business, after all. And by the sound of it the Khalsa were ready to oblige – and when they did, I’d be in the middle, galloper to a general who led not only from the front but from the middle of the enemy’s blasted army, given the chance. But the prince was talking again, and I strained my ears, trying to ignore Mrs Madison, who was burrowing underneath me, for warmth, presumably. “But may Sir Henry not be right? Surely there is some Sikh noble capable of restoring order and tranquillity – this Maharani, for example … Chunda? Jinda?” “Jeendan,” says Broadfoot. “She’s a hoor.” They had to translate for the prince, who perked up at once. “Indeed? One hears astonishing stories. They say she is of incomparable beauty, and … ah … insatiable appetite …?” “Ye’ve heard of Messalina?” says Broadfoot. “Well, this lady has been known to discard six lovers in a single night.” Mrs Madison whispered: “I don’t believe it,” and neither did the prince, evidently, for he cries: “Oh, scandalous rumours always multiply facts! Six in one night, indeed! How can you be sure of that?” “Eye-witnesses,” says Broadfoot curtly, and you could almost hear the prince blinking as his imagination went to work. Someone else’s was also taking flight: Mrs Madison, possibly inspired by all this disgraceful gossip, was becoming attentive again, the reckless bitch, and try as I would to still her, she teased so insistently that I was sure they must hear, and Havelock’s coffin face would pop under the curtain at any moment. So what could I do, except hold my breath and comply as quietly as possible – it’s an eerie business, I can tell you, in dead silence and palpitating with fear of discovery, and yet it’s quite soothing, in a way. I lost all track of their talk, and by the time we were done, and I was near choking with my shirt stuffed into my mouth, they were putting up their cues and retiring, thank God. And then: “A moment, Broadfoot.” It was Gough, his voice down. “D’ye think his highness might talk, at all?” There could only be the two of them in the room. “As the geese muck,” says Broadfoot. “Everywhere. It’ll be news to nobody, though. Half the folk in this damned country are spies, and the other half are their agents, on commission. I know how many ears I’ve got, and Lahore has twice as many, ye can be sure.” “Like enough,” says Gough. “Ah, well – ’twill all be over by Christmas, devil a doubt. Now, then – what’s this Sale tells me about young Flashman?” How they didn’t hear the sudden convulsion beneath the table, God knows, for I damned near put my head through the slates. “I must have him, sir. I’ve lost Leech, and Cust will have to take his place. There isn’t another political in sight – and I worked with Flashman in Afghanistan. He’s young, but he did well among the Gilzais, he speaks Urdu, Pushtu, and Punjabi –” “Hold yer horses.” says Gough. “Sale’s promised him the staff, an’ the boy deserves it, none more. Forbye, he’s a fightin’ soldier, not a clerk. If he’s to win his way, he’ll do it as he did at Jallalabad, among hot shot an’ cold steel –” “With respect, Sir Hugh!” snaps Broadfoot, and I could imagine the red beard bristling. “A political is not a clerk. Gathering and sifting intelligence –” “Don’t tell me, Major Broadfoot! I was fightin’, an’ gatherin’ intelligence, while your grandfather hadn’t got the twinkle in his eye yet. It’s a war we’re talkin’ about – an’ a war needs warriors, so now!” God help the poor old soul, he was talking about me. “I am thinking of the good of the service, sir –” “An’ I’m not, damn yer Scotch impiddence? Och, what the hell, ye’re makin’ me all hot for nothin’. Now, see here, George, I’m a fair man, I hope, an’ this is what I’ll do. Flashman is on the staff – an’ you’ll not say a word to him, mallum? But … the whole army knows ye’ve lost Leech, an’ there’s need for another political. If Flashman takes it into his head to apply for that vacancy – an’ havin’ been a political he may be mad enough for anythin’ – then I’ll not stand in his way. But under no compulsion, mind that. Is that fair, now?” “No, sir,” says George. “What young officer would exchange the staff for the political service?” “Any number – loafers, an’ Hyde Park hoosars – no disrespect to your own people, or to young Flashman. He’ll do his duty as he sees it. Well, George, that’s me last word to you. Now, let’s pay our respects to Lady Sale …” If I’d had the energy, I’d have given Mrs Madison another run, out of pure thanksgiving. a (#ulink_317cd6b1-c533-563d-8579-8d8432d733e0) See Flashman’s Lady. b (#ulink_8a724a2b-703a-5352-92d2-2cd60d692531) See Flashman. c (#ulink_26800d10-921d-5b80-8c84-cc75fa30ffae) Butler. d (#ulink_522ad1f2-5049-5325-b530-b2bad9f1ea9f) A kind of sedan chair. e (#ulink_a4885431-af54-536d-899b-917e43417ffe) Native infantryman. f (#ulink_90da0ebb-83d9-5f01-a7f4-c6e482e170c4) Cavalry trooper. g (#ulink_7c7fc0f6-d42a-503b-b489-5612b281148b) House lizards. h (#ulink_ddc7a84f-92d3-5a38-90e9-f49eaa2eed9e) Understand? Chapter 3 (#ulink_6ee92304-34f7-5e01-96ed-d2c80145343a) “I suppose ye know nothing at all,” says Broadfoot, “about the law of inheritance and widows’ rights?” “Not a dam’ thing, George,” says I cheerily. “Mind you, I can quote you the guv’nor on poaching and trespass – and I know a husband can’t get his hands on his wife’s gelt if her father won’t let him.” Elspeth’s parent, the loathly Morrison, had taught me that much. Rotten with rhino he was, too, the little reptile. “Haud yer tongue,” says Broadfoot. “There’s for your education, then.” And he pushed a couple of mouldering tomes across the table; on top was a pamphlet: Inheritance Act, 1833. That was my reintroduction to the political service. You see, what I’d heard under Sale’s pool-table had been the strains of salvation, and I’ll tell you why. As a rule, I’d run a mile from political work – skulking about in nigger clobber, living on millet and sheep guts, lousy as the tinker’s dog, scared stiff you’ll start whistling “Waltzing Matilda” in a mosque, and finishing with your head on a pole, like Burnes and McNaghten. I’d been through all that – but now there was going to be a pukka war, you see, and in my ignorance I supposed that the politicals would retire to their offices while the staff gallopers ran errands in the cannon’s mouth. Afghanistan had been one of those godless exceptions where no one’s safe, but the Sikh campaign, I imagined, would be on sound lines. More fool me. So, having thanked the Fates that had guided me to roger Mrs Madison under the green baize, and taken soundings to satisfy myself that Leech and Cust had been peaceably employed, I’d lost no time in running into Broadfoot, accidental-like. Great hail-fellowings on both sides, although I was quite shocked at the change in him: the hearty Scotch giant, all red beard and thick spectacles, was quite fallen away – liver curling at the edges, he explained, which was why he’d moved his office to Simla, where the quacks could get a clear run at him. He’d taken a tumble riding, too, and went with a stick, gasping when he stirred. I commiserated, and told him my own troubles, damning the luck that had landed me on Gough’s staff (“poodle-faking, George, depend upon it, and finding the old goat’s hat at parties”), and harking back to the brave days when he and I had dodged Afridis on the Gandamack Road, having endless fun. (Jesus, the things I’ve said.) He was a downy bird, George, and I could see him marvelling at this coincidence, but he probably concluded that Gough had dropped me a hint after all, for he offered me an Assistant’s berth on the spot. So now we were in the chummery of Crags, his bungalow on Mount Jacko, with me looking glum at the law books and reflecting that this was the price of safety, and Broadfoot telling me testily that I had better absorb their contents, and sharp about it. That was another change: he was a sight sterner than he’d been, and it wasn’t just his illness. He’d been a wild, agin-the-government fellow in Afghanistan, but authority had put him on his dignity, and he rode a pretty high horse as Agent – once, for a lark, I called him “major”, and he didn’t even blink; ah, well, thinks I, there’s none so prim as a Scotsman up in the world. In fairness, he didn’t blink at “George”, either, and was easy enough with me, in between the snaps and barks. “Next item,” says he. “Did many folk see ye in Umballa?” “Shouldn’t think so. What’s it matter? I don’t owe money –” “The fewer natives who know that Iflassman the soldier is on hand, the better,” says he. “Ye haven’t worn uniform since ye landed? Good. Tomorrow, ye’ll shave off your moustache and whiskers – do it yourself, no nappy-wallah – and I’ll cut your hair myself into something decently civilian – give ye a touch of pomade, perhaps –” The sun had got him, not a doubt. “Hold on, George! I’ll need a dam’ good reason –” “I’m telling ye, and that’s reason enough!” snarls he; liver in rough order, I could see. Then he managed a sour grin. “This isn’t the kind of political bandobast ye’re used to; ye’ll not be playing Badoo the Badmash this time.” Well, that was something. “No, you’re a proper wee civilian henceforth, in a tussore suit, high collar and tall hat, riding in a jampan with a chota-wallah to carry your green bag. As befits a man of the law, well versed in widows’ titles.” He studied me sardonically for a long moment, doubtless enjoying my bewilderment. “I think ye’d better have a look at your brief,” says he, and rose stiffly, cursing his leg. He led me into the little hall, through a small door, and down a short flight of steps into a cellar where one of his Pathan Sappers (he’d had a gang of them in Afghanistan, fearsome villains who’d cut your throat or mend your watch with equal skill) was squatting under a lamp, glowering at three huge jars, all of five feet high, which took up most of the tiny cell. Two of them were secured with silk cords and great red seals. Broadfoot leaned on the wall to ease his leg, and signed to the Pathan, who removed the lid from the unsealed jar, holding the lamp to shine on its contents. I looked, and was sufficiently impressed. “What’s up, George?” says I. “Don’t you trust the banks?” The jar was packed to the brim with gold, a mass of coin glinting under the light. Broadfoot gestured, and I picked up a handful, cold and heavy, clinking as it trickled back into the jar. “I am the bank,” says Broadfoot. “There’s ?140,000 here, in mohurs, ingots, and fashioned gold. Its disposal … may well depend on you. Tik hai , Mahmud.” He limped aloft again, while I followed in silence, wondering what the devil I was in for this time – not that it looked perilous, thank heaven. Broadfoot settled gratefully in his chair. “That treasure,” says he, “is the legacy of Raja Soochet Singh, a Punjabi prince who died two years ago, leading sixty followers against an army of twenty thousand.” He wagged his red head. “Aye, they’re game lads up yonder. Well, now, like most Punjabi nobles in these troubled times, he had put his wealth in the only safe place – in the care of the hated British. Infidels we may be, but we keep honest books, and they know it. There’s a cool twenty million sterling of Punjab money south of the Sutlej this minute. “For two years past the Court of Lahore – which means the regents, Jawaheer Singh and his slut of a sister – have been demanding the return of Soochet’s legacy, on the ground that he was a forfeited rebel. Our line, more or less, has been that ‘rebel’ is an unsatisfactory term, since naebody kens who the Punjab government is from one day to the next, and that the money should go to Soochet’s heirs – his widow, or his brother, Raja Goolab Singh. We’ve taken counsel’s opinion,” says he, straight-faced, “but the position is complicated by the fact that the widow was last heard of fleeing for her life from a beleaguered fort, while Goolab, who had designs on the Punjab throne at one time, has lately proclaimed himself King of Kashmir, and is sitting behind a rock up Jumoo way, with fifty thousand hillmen at his back. However, we have sure information that both he and the widow are of opinion that the money is fine where it is, for the time being.” He paused, and “Isn’t it?” was on the tip of my tongue, for I didn’t care for this above half; talk of besieged forts and hillmen unsettles me, and I had horrid visions of Flashy sneaking through the passes with a portmanteau, bearing statements of compound interest to these two eccentric legatees, both of whom were probably dam’ dangerous to know. “A further complication,” says Broadfoot, “is that Jawaheer Singh is threatening to make this legacy a cause of war. As you know, peace is in the balance; those three jars down there might tip the scale. Naturally, Sir Henry Hardinge wishes negotiations about the legacy to be reopened at Lahore – not with a view to settlement, of course, but to temporise.” He looked at me over his spectacles. “We’re not ready yet.” To settle – or to go to war? Having eavesdropped on Broadfoot’s opinions, I could guess which. Just as I could see, with sudden horrible clarity, who the negotiator was going to be, in that Court of bhang -sodden savages where they murdered each other regular, after supper. But that apart, the thing made no sense at all. “You want me to go to Lahore – but I ain’t a lawyer, dammit! Why, I’ve only been in a court twice in my life!” Drunk and resisting arrest, and being apprehended on premises known to be a disorderly house, five quid each time, not that it mattered. “They don’t ken that,” says Broadfoot. “Don’t they, though? George, I ain’t puffing myself, but I’m not unknown over there! Man alive, when we had a garrison in Lahore, in ’42, I was being trumpeted all over the shop! Why, you said yourself the fewer who knew Iflassman was back, the better! They know I’m a soldier, don’t they – Bloody Lance, and all that rot?” “So they may,” says he blandly. “But who’s to say ye haven’t been eating your dinner in Middle Temple Hall these three years past? If Hardinge sends ye, accredited and under seal, they’re not going to doubt ye. Ye can pick up the jargon, and as much law as ye’ll need, from those.” He indicated the books. “But where’s the point? A real lawyer can spin the thing out ten times better than I can! Calcutta’s full of ’em –” “But they can’t speak Punjabi. They can’t be my eyes and ears in Lahore Fort. They can’t take the pulse in that viper’s nest of intrigue. They’re not politicals trained by Sekundar Burnes. And if the grip comes” – He tapped his desk triumphantly – “they can’t turn themselves into a Khye-Keen or Barukzai jezzailchi and slip back over the Sutlej.” So I was to be a spy – in that den of devilment! I sat appalled, stammering out the first objection that came to mind. “And a fat chance I’ll have of doing that, with my face shaved!” He waved it aside. “Ye cannot go to Lahore with soldier written all over ye. Forbye, it’ll never come to disguise, or anything desperate. You’ll be a British diplomat, the Governor-General’s envoy, and immune.” So was McNaghten, I wanted to holler, so was Burnes, so were Connolly and Stoddart and Uncle Tom Cobleigh, it’s on their bloody tombstones. And then he unveiled the full horror of the thing. “That immunity will enable you to remain in Lahore after the war has begun … supposing it does. And that is when your real work will begin.” And I’d exchanged a staff billet for this. The prospect was fit to make me puke – but I daren’t say so, not to Broadfoot. Somehow I contained my emotion, assumed a ruptured frown, and said surely a diplomat would be expelled, or confined at least. “Not for a moment.” Oh, he had it all pat, blast him. “From the day you arrive in Lahore – and thereafter, whatever befalls – ye’ll be the most courted man in the Punjab. It’s this way: there’s a war party, and a peace party, and the Khalsa, and the panch committees that control it, and a faction that wants us to take the Punjab, and a faction that wants us driven from India altogether, and some that hop from one side to t’other, and cabals and cliques that don’t ken what they want because they’re too drunk and debauched to think.” He leaned forward, all eager red whiskers, his eyes huge behind the bottle lenses. “But they all want to be on the right side at the finish, and most have wit enough to see that that will be our side. Oh, they’ll shift and swither and plot, and ye’ll be approached (discreetly) with more hints and ploys and assurances of good will than ye can count. From enemies who’ll be friends tomorrow – and vice versa. All of which ye’ll transmit secretly to me.” He sat back, well pleased with himself, while I kept a straight face with my bowels in my boots. “That’s the marrow of the business. Now, for your more particular information …” He brought out a sheaf of those slim buff packets that I remembered from Burnes’s office at Kabul. I knew what they held: maps, names, places, reports and summaries, laws and customs, biographies and artists’ sketches, heights and distances, history, geography, even weights and measures – all that years of intelligence and espionage had gathered about the Punjab, to be digested and returned. “When ye’ve studied these, and the law books, we’ll talk at more length,” says he, and asked if I had any observations. I could have made a few, but what was the use? I was sunk – through my own folly, as usual. If I hadn’t thumped that randy baggage Madison, I’d never have overheard Gough and rushed rejoicing into this hellish political stew … it didn’t bear thinking of. All I could do was show willing, for my precious credit’s sake, so I asked him who the friends and enemies in Lahore were likely to be. “If I knew that, ye wouldn’t be going. Oh, I ken who our professed sympathisers and ill-willers are at the moment – but where they’ll stand next week …? Take Goolab Singh, Soochet’s fugitive heir – he’s sworn that if the Khalsa marches, he’ll stand by us … well, perhaps he will, in the hope that we’ll confirm him in Kashmir. But if the Khalsa were to give us a wee set-back – where would Goolab and his hillmen be then, eh? Loyal … or thinking about the loot of Delhi?” I could see where Flashy would be – stranded in Lahore among the raging heathen. I knew better than to ask him what other politicals and trusted agents would be on hand, so I went round about. “How shall I report to you – through the vakil?” “No such thing – he’s a native, and not a sure one. He can take any letters ye may write about the Soochet legacy, but anything secret will be in cypher notes, which you’ll leave in Second Thessalonians on the bedside table in your quarters –” “Second where?” He looked at me as though I’d farted. “In your Bible, man!” You could see him wondering if my bedside reading wasn’t more likely to be Tom and Jerry. “The cypher, and coding instructions, are in the packets. Your messages will be … collected, never fear.” So there was a trusted messenger at the Court – and the fact that I wasn’t to be told who was another thought to chill my blood: what you don’t know you can’t tell if inquisitive folk approach you with hot irons … “What if I need to get word to you quickly? I mean, if the Khalsa march, all of a sudden –” “I’ll ken that before you do. What you must discover then is why they’ve marched. Who set them on, and for what purpose? If it’s war … what’s behind it, and how came it to begin? That’s what I must know.” He hunched forward again, intent. “Ye see, Flashy … to know precisely why your enemy is making war, what he hopes to gain and fears to lose … is to be half-way to winning. Mind that.” Looking back, I can say it made good sense, though I was in no state to appreciate it then. But I nodded dutifully, with that grim attentive mien which I’ve learned to wear while scheming frantically how to slide out from under. “This Soochet legacy, then – it’s all gammon?” “By no means. It’s your excuse for being in Lahore, to be sure – as their subtler folk will suspect – but it’s still a genuine cause which ye’ll argue with their officials. Perhaps even in full durbar with the regents, if they’re sober. In which case, keep your wits about you. Jawaheer’s a frightened degenerate weakling, and Maharani Jeendan seems set on destroying herself by vicious indulgence …” He paused, fingering his beard, while I perked up a trifle, like Prince Whatsisname. He went on, frowning: “I’m not sure about her, though. She had rare spirit and ability once, or she’d never have climbed from the stews to the throne. Aye, courage, too – d’ye know how she once quelled a mob of her mutinous soldiery, and them bent on slaughter?” I said I’d no notion, and waited breathless. “She danced. Aye, put on veils and castanets and danced them daft, and they went home like sheep.” Broadfoot shook his head in admiration, no doubt wishing he’d been there. “Practising her trade – she danced in the Amritsar brothels as a child, before she caught Runjeet’s fancy.” He gave a grimace of distaste. “Aye, and what she learned there has obsessed her ever since, until her mind’s unhinged with it, I think.” “Dancing?” says I, and he shot me a doubtful look – he was a proper Christian, you see, and knew nothing about me beyond my supposed heroics. “Debauchery, with men.” He gave a Presbyterian sniff, hesitating, no doubt, to sully my boyish mind. “She has an incurable lust – what the medicos call nymphomania. It’s driven her to unspeakable excesses … not only with every man of rank in Lahore, but slaves and sweepers, too. Her present favourite is Lal Singh, a powerful general – although I hear she abandoned him briefly of late for a stable lad who robbed her of ten lakhs of jewels.” I was so shocked I couldn’t think what to say, except easy come, easy go. “I doubt if the stable lad thought so. He’s in a cage over the Looharree Gate this minute, minus his nose, lips, ears … et cetera, they tell me. That,” says Broadfoot, “is why I say I’m not sure about her. Debauched or not, the lady is still formidable.” And I’d been looking forward no end to meeting her, too; Flashy’s ideal of womanhood, she’d sounded like – until this, the last grisly detail in the whole hideous business. That night, in my room at Crags, after I’d pored through Broadfoot’s packets, flung the law-books in a corner, paced up and down racking my brains for a way out, and found none, I felt so low altogether that I decided to complete my misery by shaving my whiskers – that’s how reduced I was. When I’d done, and stared at my naked chops in the glass, remembering how Elspeth had adored my face-furniture and sworn they were what had first won her girlish heart, I could have wept. “Beardie-beardie,” she used to murmur fondly, and that sent me into a maudlin reverie about that first splendid tumble in the bushes by the Clyde, and equally glorious romps in the Madagascar forest … from which my mind naturally strayed to frenzied gallops with Queen Ranavalona, who hadn’t cared for whiskers at all – leastways, she always used to try to wrench mine out by the roots in moments of ecstasy. Well, some women don’t like ’em. I reflected idly that the Maharani Jeendan, who evidently counted all time lost when she wasn’t being bulled by Sikhs, must be partial to beards … then again, she might welcome a change. By George, that would ease the diplomatic burden; no place like bed for state secrets … useful patroness, too, in troubled times. Mind you, if she wore out six strong men in a night, Lahore bazaar had better be well stocked with stout and oysters … Mere musing, as I say – but something similar may have been troubling the mind of Major Broadfoot, G., for while I was still admiring my commanding profile in the glass, in he tooled, looking middling uneasy, I thought. He apologised for intruding, and then sat down, prodding the rug with his stick and pondering. Finally: “Flashy … how old are ye?” I told him, twenty-three. He grunted. “Ye’re married, though?” Wondering, I said I’d been wed five years, and he frowned and shook his head. “Even so … dear me, you’re young for this Lahore business!” Hope sprang at once, then he went on: “What I mean is, it’s the deuce of a responsibility I’m putting on you. The price of fame, I suppose – Kabul, Mogala, Piper’s Fort … man, it’s a brave tale, and you just a bit laddie, as my grandam would have said. But this thing,” says he seriously, “… perhaps an older head … a man of the world … aye, if there was anyone else …” I know when not to snatch at a cue, I can tell you. I waited till I saw him about to continue, and then got in first, slow and thoughtful: “George … I know I’m dead green, in some ways, and it’s true enough, I’m more at home with a sabre than a cypher, what? I’d never forgive myself, if I … well, if I failed you of all people, old fellow. Through inexperience, I mean. So … if you want to send an older hand … well …” Manly, you see, putting service before self, hiding my disappointment. All it got me was a handclasp and a noble gleam of his glasses. “Flashy, ye’re a trump. But the fact is, there’s no one in your parish for this work. Oh, it’s not just the Punjabi, or that you’ve shown a stout front and a cool head – aye, and resource beyond your years. I think you’ll succeed in this because ye have a gift with … with folk, that makes them take to you.” He gave a little uneasy laugh, not meeting my eye. “It’s what troubles me, in a way. Men respect you; women … admire you … and …” He broke off, taking another prod at the carpet, and I’d have laid gold to groceries his thoughts were what mine had been before he came in. I’ve wondered since what he’d have done if I’d said: “Very good, George, we both suspect that this horny bitch will corrupt my youthful innocence, but if I pleasure her groggy enough, why, I may turn her mind inside out, which is what you’re after. And how d’ye want me to steer her then, George, supposing I can? What would suit Calcutta?” Being Broadfoot, he’d probably have knocked me down. He was honest that far; if he’d been the hypocrite that most folk are, he’d not have come up to see me at all. But he had the conscience of his time, you see, Bible-reared and shunning sin, and the thought that my success in Lahore might depend on fornication set him a fine ethical problem. He couldn’t solve it – I doubt if Dr Arnold and Cardinal Newman could, either. (“I say, your eminence, what price Flashy’s salvation if he breaks the seventh commandment for his country’s sake?” “That depends, doctor, on whether the randy young pig enjoyed it.”) Of course, if it had been slaughter, not adultery, that was necessary, none of my pious generation would even have blinked – soldier’s duty, you see. I may tell you that, in Broadfoot’s shoes, with so much at stake, I’d have told my young emissary: “Roger’s the answer”, and wished him good hunting – but then, I’m a scoundrel. But I mustn’t carp at old George, for his tortured conscience saved my skin, in the end. I’m sure it made him feel that, for some twisted reason, he owed me something. So he bent his duty, just a little, by giving me a lifeline, in case things went amiss. It wasn’t much, but it might have imperilled another of his people, so as an amend I reckon it pretty high. After he’d finished havering, and not saying what couldn’t be said, he turned to go, still looking uneasy. Then he stopped, hesitated, and came out with it. ‘See here,’ says he, ‘I should not be saying this, but if the grip does come – which I don’t believe it will, mind – and ye find yourself in mortal danger, there’s a thing you can do.” He glowered at me, mauling his whiskers. “As a last resort only, mallum? Ye’ll think it strange, but it’s a word – a password, if ye like. Utter it anywhere within the bounds of Lahore Fort – dropped into conversation, or shouted from the housetops if need be – and the odds are there’ll be those who’ll pass it, and a friend will come to you. Ye follow? Well, the word is ‘Wisconsin’.” He was as deadly serious as I’d ever seen him. “‘Wisconsin’,” I repeated, and he nodded. “Never breathe it unless ye have to. It’s the name of a river in North America.” It might have been the name of a privy in Penzance for all the good it seemed likely to be. Well, I was wrong there. a (#ulink_8afe7f9f-264b-5a4a-8a3f-75907679489a) Barber. b (#ulink_78729494-cb67-51a0-a996-5e3443dcb8a2) Organisation, business. c (#ulink_78729494-cb67-51a0-a996-5e3443dcb8a2) Little fellow. d (#ulink_5f248a4a-c526-5bfc-a116-15df71762008) All right. e (#ulink_a2632aa6-7c01-59e0-9eee-ab7ffff793b9) Indian hemp. f (#ulink_de2a052e-53ea-5c48-8b06-d8fe32c3701a) An agent, in this case Broadfoot’s official representative in Lahore, through whom everyday business was openly transacted, and diplomatic messages exchanged. Chapter 4 (#ulink_86bf178a-dfcc-543c-9e69-d6a0f0f4cfae) I’ve set out on my country’s service more times than I can count, always reluctantly, and often as not in a state of alarm; but at least I’ve usually known what I was meant to be doing, and why. The Punjab business was different. As I wended my sweltering, dust-driven way to Ferozepore on the frontier, the whole thing seemed more unlikely by the mile. I was going to a country in uproar, whose mutinous army might invade us at any moment. I was to present a legal case at a court of profligate, murderous intriguers on whom, war or no war, I was also to spy – both being tasks for which I was untrained, whatever Broadfoot might say. I had been assured that the work was entirely safe – and told almost in the same breath that when all hell broke loose I had only to holler “Wisconsin!” and a genie or Broadfoot’s grandmother or the Household Brigade would emerge from a bottle and see me right. Just so. Well, I didn’t believe a word of it. You see, tyro though I was, I knew the political service and the kind of larks it could get up to, like not telling a fellow until it was too late. Two fearsome possibilities had occurred to my distrustful mind: either I was a decoy to distract the enemy from other agents, or I was being placed in the deep field to receive secret instructions when war started. In either case I foresaw fatal consequences, and to make matters worse, I had dark misgivings about the native assistant Broadfoot had assigned to me – you remember, the “chota-wallah” who was to carry my green bag. His name was Jassa, and he wasn’t chota. I had envisaged the usual fat babu or skinny clerk, but Jassa was a pock-marked, barrel-chested villain, complete with hairy poshteen, skull-cap, and Khyber knife – just the man you’d choose, as a rule, to see you through rough country, but I was leery of this one from the start. For one thing, he pretended to be a Baloochi dervish, and wasn’t – I put him down for Afghan chi-chi, for he was grey-eyed, had no greater a gap between his first and second toes than I did, and possessed something rare among Europeans at that time, let alone natives – a vaccination mark. I spotted it at Ferozepore when he was washing at the tank, but didn’t let on; he was from Broadfoot’s stable, after all, and plainly knew his business, which was to act as orderly, guide, shield-on-shoulder, and general adviser on country matters. Still, I didn’t trust him above half. Ferozepore was the last outpost of British India then, a beastly hole not much better than a village, beyond which lay the broad brown flood of the Sutlej – and then the hot plain of the Punjab. We had just built a barracks for our three battalions, one British and two Native Infantry, who garrisoned the place, God help them, for it was hotter than hell’s pavement; you boiled when it rained, and baked when it didn’t. In my civilian role, I didn’t call on Littler, who commanded, but put up with Peter Nicolson, Broadfoot’s local Assistant. He was suffering for his country, that one, dried out and hollow-cheeked with the worst job in India – nursemaiding the frontier, finding shelter for the endless stream of refugees from the Punjab, sniffing out the trouble-makers sent to seduce our sepoys and disaffect the zamindars, chasing raiding parties, disarming badmashes, ruling a district, and keeping the Queen’s peace – all this, mind you, without provoking a hostile power which was spoiling for trouble. “It can’t last,” says he cheerfully – and I wondered how long he could, with that impossible task and the mercury at 107. “They’re just waitin’ for an excuse, an’ if I don’t give ’em one – why, they’ll roll over the river as soon as the cold weather comes, horse, foot an’ guns, you’ll see. We ought to go in an’ smash ’em now, while they’re in two minds an’ gettin’ over the cholera – five thousand of the Khalsa have died in Lahore, but it’s past its worst.” He was seeing me down to the ferry at daybreak; when I mentioned the great assembly of our troops I’d seen above Meerut he laughed and pointed back to the cantonment, where the 62nd were drilling, the red and buff figures like dolls in the heat haze. “Never mind what’s on the Grand Trunk,” says he. “That’s what’s here, my boy – seven thousand men, one-third British, an’ only light guns. Up there,” he pointed north, “is the Khalsa – one hundred thousand of the finest native army in Asia, with heavy guns. They’re two days’ march away. Our nearest reinforcements are Gilbert’s ten thousand at Umballa, a week’s march away, and Wheeler’s five thousand at Ludhiana – only five days’ march. Strong on mathematics, are you?” I’d heard vague talk in Simla, as you know, about our weakness on the frontier, but it’s different when you’re on the spot, and hear the figures. “But why –?” I was beginning, and Nicolson chuckled and shook his head. “– doesn’t Gough reinforce now?” he mimicked me. “Because it would provoke Lahore – my goodness, it provokes Lahore if one of our sepoys walks north to the latrines! I hear they’re goin’ to demand that we withdraw even the troops we have up here now – perhaps that’ll start the war, even if your Soochet legacy doesn’t.” He knew about that, and had twitted me about how I’d be languishing at the feet of “the fair sultana” while honest soldiers like him were chasing infiltrators along the river. “Mind you, she may be out of office by the time you get there. There’s talk that Prince Peshora – he’s another of old Runjeet’s by-blows – is goin’ to have a try for the throne; they say he has most of the Khalsa on his side. What price a palace revolution, what? Why, if I were you, I’d apply for the job!” There was a great crowd of refugees camped about the ghat on the water’s edge, and at the sight of Nicolson they set up a howl and swarmed round him, women mostly and fly-blown chicos clamouring with hands stretched up. His orderlies pushed them back to let us through. “A few hundred more mouths to feed,” sighs Nicolson, “an’ they ain’t even ours. Easy there, havildar! Oh, chubbarao, you noisy heathen – Papa’ll bring your bread and milk in a moment! God knows how we’re goin’ to house ’em, though – I’ve screwed as much canvas out of stores as the Q.M. will bear, I think.” The ferry itself was a huge barge crewed by native boatmen, but with a light gun in the bows, manned by two sepoys. “That’s another provocation,” says Nicolson. “We’ve sixty of these tubs on the river, an’ the Sikhs suspect we mean to use ’em as a bridge for invasion. You never know, one o’ these days … Ah, see yonder!” He shaded his eyes, pointing with his crop across the swollen river; the mist was hanging on the far shore, but through it I could see a party of horsemen waiting, arms gleaming in the sun. “There’s your escort, my boy! The vakil sent word they was coming to see you into Lahore in style. Nothin’ too good for an envoy with the scent of cash about him, eh? Well, good luck to you!” As we pushed off he waved and shouted: “It’ll all come out right, you’ll see!” I don’t know why I remember those words, or the sight of him with that great mob of niggers chattering about him while his orderlies cuffed and pushed them up to the camp where they’d be fed and looked after; he was for all the world like a prepostor marshalling the fags, laughing and swearing by turns, with a chico perched on his shoulder – I’d not have touched the verminous imp for a pension. He was a kindly, cheery ass, working twenty hours a day, minding his frontier. Four months later he got his reward: a bullet. I wonder if anyone else remembers him? The last time I’d crossed the Sutlej had been four years earlier, where there was a British army ahead, and we had posts all the way to Kabul. Now there were no friends before me, and no one to turn to except the Khyberie thug Jassa and our gaggle of bearers – they were there chiefly because Broadfoot had said I should enter Lahore in a jampan, to impress the Sikhs with my consequence. Thanks, George, but I felt damned unimportant as I surveyed my waiting escort (or captors?), and Jassa did nothing to raise my spirits. “Gorracharra,” grunts he, and spat. “Irregular cavalry – it is an insult to thee, husoor. These should have been men of the palace, pukka cavalry. They seek to put shame on us, the Hindoo swine!” I told him pretty sharp to mind his manners, but I saw what he meant. They were typical native irregulars, splendid cavalry undoubtedly, but dressed and armed any old how, with lances, bows, tulwars, and ancient firearms, some in mail coats and helmets, others bare-legged, and all grinning most familiarly. Not what you’d call a guard of honour – yet that’s what they were, as I learned when their officer, a handsome young Sikh in a splendid rigout of yellow silk, addressed me by name – and by fame. “Sardul Singh, at your service, Flashman bahadur,” cries he, teeth flashing through his beard. “I was by the Turksalee Gate when you came down from Jallalabad, and all men came to see the Afghan Kush.” So much for Broadfoot’s notion that shaving my whiskers would help me to pass unnoticed – mind you, it was famous to hear myself described as “the slayer of Afghans”, if quite undeserved. “When we heard you were coming with the book and not the sword – may it be an omen of peace for our peoples – I sought command of your escort – and these are volunteers.” He indicated his motley squadron. “Men of the Sirkar in their time. A fitter escort for Bloody Lance than Khalsa cavalry.” Well, this was altogether grand, so I thanked him, raised my civilian kepi to his grinning bandits, saying “Salaam, bhai’”, which pleased them no end. I took the first chance to remind Jassa how wrong he’d been, but the curmudgeon only grunted: “The Sikh speaks, the cobra spits – who grows fat on the difference?” There’s no pleasing some folk. Between the Sutlej and Lahore lie fifty of the hottest, flattest, scrubbiest miles on earth, and I supposed we’d cover them in a long day’s ride, but Sardul said we should lie overnight at a serai a few miles from the city: there was something he wanted me to see. So we did, and after supper he took me through a copse to the loveliest place I ever saw in India – there, all unexpected after the heat and dust of the plain, was a great garden, with little palaces and pavilions among the trees, all hung with coloured lanterns in the warm dusk; streams meandered among the lawns and flower-beds, the air was fragrant with night-blooms, soft music sounded from some hidden place, and everywhere couples were strolling hand in hand or deep in lovers’ talk under the boughs. The Chinese Summer Palace, where I walked years later, was altogether grander, I suppose, but there was a magic about that Indian garden that I can’t describe – you could call it perfect peace, with its gentle airs rustling the leaves and the lights winking in the twilight; it was the kind of spot where Scheherazade might have told her unending stories; even its name sounds like a caress: Shalamar. But this wasn’t the sight that Sardul wanted me to see – that was something unimaginably different, and we viewed it next morning. We left the serai at dawn, but instead of riding towards Lahore, which was in full view in the distance, we went a couple of miles out of our way towards the great plain of Maian Mir where, Sardul assured me mysteriously, the true wonder of the Punjab would be shown to me; knowing the Oriental mind, I could guess it was something designed to strike awe in the visiting foreigner – well, it did all of that. We heard it long before we saw it, the flat crash of artillery at first, and then a great confused rumble of sound which resolved itself into the squealing of elephants, the high bray of trumpets, the rhythm of drums and martial music, and the thunder of a thousand hooves making the ground tremble beneath us. I knew what it was before we rode out of the trees and halted on a bund to view it in breathtaking panorama: the pride of the Punjab and the dread of peaceful India: the famous Khalsa. Now, I’ve taken note of a few heathen armies in my time. The Heavenly Host of Tai’ping was bigger, the black tide of Cetewayo’s legions sweeping into Little Hand was surely more terrifying, and there’s a special place in my nightmares for that vast forest of tipis, five miles wide, that I looked down on from the bluffs over Little Bighorn – but for pure military might I’ve seen nothing outside Europe (and dam’ little inside) to match that great disciplined array of men and beasts and metal on Maian Mir. As far as you could see, among the endless lines of tents and waving standards, the broad maidan was alive with foot battalions at drill, horse regiments at field exercise, and guns at practice – and they were all uniformed and in perfect order, that was the shocking thing. Black, brown, and yellow armies in those days, you see, might be as brave as any, but they didn’t have centuries of drill and tactical movement drummed into ’em, not even the Zulus, or Ranavalona’s Hova guardsmen. That was the thing about the Khalsa: it was Aldershot in turbans. It was an army. That’s worth bearing in mind when you hear some smart alec holding forth about our imperial wars being one-sided massacres of poor club-waving heathen mown down by Gatlings. Oh, it happened, at Ulundi and Washita and Omdurman – but more often than not the Snider and Martini and Brown Bess were facing odds of ten to one against in country where shrapnel and rapid fire don’t count for much; your savage with his blowpipe or bow or jezzail behind a rock has a deuce of an advantage: it’s his rock, you see. Anyway, our detractors never mention armies like the Khalsa, every bit as well-armed and equipped as we were. So how did we hold India? You’ll see presently. That morning on Maian Mir the confidence I’d felt, viewing our forces on the Grand Trunk, vanished like Punjabi mist. I thought of Littler’s puny seven thousand isolated at Ferozepore, our other troops scattered, waiting to be eaten piecemeal – by this juggernaut, a hundred thousand strong. A score of vivid images stay in my mind: a regiment of Sikh lancers wheeling at the charge in perfect dressing, the glittering points falling and rising as one; a battalion of Jat infantry with moustaches like buffalo horns, white figures with black crossbelts, moving like clockwork as they performed “at the halt on the left form companies”; Dogra light infantry advancing in skirmishing order, the blue turbans suddenly closing in immaculate line, the bayonet points ripping into the sandbags to a savage yell of “Khalsa-ji!”; heavy guns being dragged through swirling dust by trumpeting elephant teams while the gunners trimmed their fuses, the cases being thrust home, the deafening roar of the salvo – and damme! if those shells didn’t burst a mile away in perfect unison, all above ground. Even the sight of the light guns cutting their curtain targets to shreds with grape wasn’t as sickening as the precision of the heavy batteries. They were as good as Royal Artillery – aye, and with bigger shot. They made all their own material, too, from Brown Bess to howitzers, in the Lahore foundry, from our regulation patterns. Only one fault could I find with their gunners and infantry: their drill was perfect, but slow. Their cavalry … well, it was fit to ride over Napoleon. Sardul took good care to let me see all this, pour encourager les feringhees. We tiffened with some of their senior men, all courteous to a fault, and not a word about the likelihood that our armies would be at each other’s throats by Christmas – the Sikhs are damned good form, you know. There wasn’t a European mercenary in sight, by the way; having built an army, they’d retired for the best of reasons: disgust at the state of the country, and reluctance to find themselves fighting John Company. I saw another side to the Khalsa when we set out for Lahore after noon, Flashy now riding in state in his jampan, white topper and fly-whisk at the high port, with Jassa kicking the bearers’ arses to give tone to our progress. We were swaying along in fine style past the headquarters tents when we became aware of a crowd of soldiery gathered before the main pavilion, listening to some upper rojer on a dais. Sardul reined in to listen, and when I asked Jassa what this might be he growled and spat. “The panchayats! If old Runjeet had seen the day, he’d have cut his beard!” So these were the Khalsa’s notorious military committees, of whom we’d heard so much. You see, while their field discipline was perfect, Khalsa policy was determined by the panches, where Jack Jawan was as good as his master, and all went by democratic vote – no way to run an army, I agreed with Jassa; small wonder they hadn’t crossed the Sutlej yet. They were an astonishing mixture: bare-legged sepoys, officers in red silk, fierce-eyed Akalis in peaked blue turbans and gold beard-nets, a portly old rissaldar-major with white whiskers a foot wide, irregular sowars in lobster-tail helmets, Dogra musketeers in green, Pathans with long camel guns – there seemed to be every rank, caste, and race crowding round the speaker, a splendid Sikh, six and a half feet tall in cloth of silver, bellowing to make himself heard. “All that we heard from Attock is true! Young Peshora is dead, and Kashmiri Singh with him, taken in sleep, after the hunting, by Chuttur Singh and Futteh Khan –” “Tell us what we don’t know!” bawls a heckler, and the big fellow raised his arms to still the yells of agreement. “You don’t know the manner of it – the shame and black treachery! Imam Shah was in Attock Fort – let him tell you.” A burly bargee in a mail jacket, with a bandolier of ivory-hilted knives round his hips, jumps on the dais, and they fell silent. “It was foully done!” croaks he. “Peshora Singh knew it was his time, for they had him in irons, and bore him before the jackal, Chuttur Singh. Peshora looked him in the eye, and called for a sword. ‘Let me die like a soldier,’ says he, but Chuttur would not look on him, but wagged his head and made soft excuses. Again the young hawk cried for a sword. ‘You are thousands, I am alone – there can be but one end, so let it be straight!’ Chuttur sighed, and whined, and turned away, waving his hands. ‘Straight, coward!’ cries Peshora, but they bore him away. All this I saw. They took him to the Kolboorj dungeon, and choked him like a thief with his chains, and cast him in the river. This I did not see. I was told. God wither my tongue if I lie.” Peshora Singh had been the form horse in the throne stakes, according to Nicolson. Well, that’s politics for you. I wondered if this would mean a change of government, for Peshora had been the Khalsa’s idol, and while his death seemed to be old news, the manner of it seemed to put them in a great taking. They were all yelling at once, and the tall Sikh had to bellow again. “We have sent the parwana to the palace. You all approved it! What is there to do but wait?” “Wait – while the snake Jawaheer butchers other true men?” bawls a voice. “He’s Peshora’s murderer, for all he skulks in the Kwabagh yonder! Let us visit him now, and give him a sleep indeed!” This got a rousing hand, but others shouted that Jawaheer was the hope of the side, and innocent of Peshora’s death. “Who bribed thee to say that?” roars the rissaldar-major, all fire and whiskers. “Did Jawaheer buy thee with a gold chain, boroowa? Or perchance Mai Jeendan danced for thee, fornicating strumpet that she is!” Cries of “Shame!”, “Shabash!” and the Punjabi equivalent of “Mr Chairman!”, some pointing out that the Maharani had promised them fifteen rupees a month to march against the bastardised British pigs (the spectator in the jampan drew his curtain tactfully at this point) and Jawaheer was just the chap to lead them. Another suggested that Jawaheer wanted war only to draw the Khalsa’s fury from his own head, and that the Maharani was an abominable whore of questionable parentage who had lately had a Brahmin’s nose sliced off when he rebuked her depravities, so there. A beardless youth, frothing with loyalty, offered to eat the innards of anyone who impugned the honour of that saintly woman, and the meeting seemed likely to dissolve in riot when a gorgeously-robed old general, hawk-faced and commanding, mounted the dais and let them have it straight from the shoulder. “Silence! Are ye soldiers or fish-wives? Ye have heard Pirthee Singh – the parwana has been sent, summoning Jawaheer to come out to us on the sixth of Assin, to answer for Peshora’s death or show himself guiltless. There is no more to be said, but this …” He paused, and you could have heard a pin drop as his cold eye ranged over them. “We are the Khalsa, the Pure, and our allegiance is to none but our Maharaja, Dalip Singh, may God protect his innocence! Our swords and lives are his alone!” Thunderous cheers, the old rissaldar-major spouting tears of loyalty. “As to marching against the British … that is for the panchayats to decide another day. But if we do, then I, General Maka Khan” – he slapped his breast – “shall march because the Khalsa wills it, and not for the wiles of a naked cunchunee or the whim of a drunken dancing-boy!” With that summary of the regents’ characters the day’s business concluded, and I was relieved, as Sardul led us past the dispersing soldiery, to note that any glances in my direction were curious rather than hostile; indeed, one or two saluted, and you may be sure I responded civilly. This heartened me, for it suggested that Broadfoot was right, and whatever upheavals in government took place – dramatic ones, by the sound of it – the stranger Flashy would be respected within their gates, their opinion of his country notwithstanding. We approached Lahore roundabout, skirting the main town, which is a filthy maze of crooked streets and alleys, to the northern side, where the Fort and palace building dominate the city. Lahore’s an impressive place, or was then, more than a mile across and girdled by towering thirty-foot walls which overlooked a deep moat and massive earthworks – since gone, I believe. In those days you were struck by the number and grandeur of its gates, and by the extent of the Fort and palace on their eminence, with the great half-octagon tower, the Summum Boorj, thrusting up like a giant finger close to the northern ramparts. It loomed above us as we entered by the Rushnai, or Bright Gate, past the swarms of dust-covered workmen labouring on old Runjeet’s mausoleum, and into the Court Garden. To the right a tremendous flight of steps led up to Badshai Musjit, the great triple mosque said to be the biggest on earth – mind you, the Samarkandians say the same of their mosque – and to the left was the inner gate up to the Fort, a bewildering place full of contradictions, for it contains not only the Sleeping Palace but a foundry and arsenal close by, the splendid Pearl Mosque which is used as a treasury, and over one of the gates a figure of the Virgin Mary, which they say Shah Jehan put up to keep the Portugee traders happy. But there was something stranger still: I’d just bidden farewell to Sardul’s escort and my jampan, and was being conducted on foot by a yellow-clad officer of the Palace Guard, when I noticed an extraordinary figure lounging in an embrasure above the gate, swigging from an enormous tankard and barking orders at a party of Guardsmen drilling with the light guns on the wall. He was a real Pathan mercenary, with iron moustaches and a nose like a hatchet – but he was dressed from top to toe, puggaree, robe, and pyjamys, in the red tartan of the 79th Highlanders! Well, I’ve seen a Madagascar nigger in a Black Watch kilt, but this beat all. Stranger still, he carried a great metal collar in one hand, and each time before he drank he would clamp it round his throat, almost as though he expected the liquor to leak out through his Adam’s apple. I turned to remark on this to Jassa – and dammit, he’d vanished. Nowhere to be seen. I stared about, and demanded of the officer where he had got to, but he hadn’t seen him at all, so in the end I found myself being led onward alone, with all my former alarms rushing back at the gallop. You may wonder why, just because my orderly had gone astray. Aye, but he’d done it at the very moment of entering the lion’s den, so to speak, and the whole mission was mysterious and chancy enough to begin with, and I’m God’s own original funk, so there. And I smelled mischief here, in this maze of courts and passages, with high walls looming about me. I didn’t even care for the splendid apartments to which I was conducted. They were on an upper storey of the Sleeping Palace, two lofty, spacious rooms joined by a broad Moorish arch, with mosaic tiles and Persian murals, a little marble balcony overlooking a secluded fountain court, silks on the bed, silent bearers to stow my kit, two pretty little maids who shimmied in and out, bringing water and towels and tea (I didn’t even think of slapping a rump, which tells you how jumpy I was), and a cooling breeze provided by an ancient punkah-wallah in the passage, when the old bugger was awake, which was seldom. For some reason, the very luxury of the place struck me as sinister, as though designed to lull my fears. At least there were two doors, one from either chamber – I do like to know there’s a line of retreat. I washed and changed, still fretting about Jassa’s absence, and was about to lie down to calm my nerves when my eye lit on a book on the bedside table – and I sat up with a start. For it was a Bible, placed by an unknown hand – in case I’d forgotten my own, of course. Broadfoot, thinks I, you’re an uneasy man to work for, but by God you know your business. It reminded me that I wasn’t quite cut off; I found I was muttering “Wisconsin”, then humming it shakily to the tune of “My bonnie is over the ocean”, and on the spur of the moment I dug out my cypher key – Crotchet Castle, the edition of 1831, if you’re interested – and began to write Broadfoot a note of all that I’d heard on Maian Mir. And I had just completed it, and inserted it carefully at Second Thessalonians, and was glumly pondering a verse that read “Pray without ceasing”, and thinking a fat lot of good that’ll do, when the door slammed open, there was a blood-curdling shriek, a mad dwarf flourishing a gleaming sabre leaped into the archway, and I rolled off the bed with a yell of terror, scrabbling for the pepperbox in my open valise, floundering round to cover the arch, my finger snatching at the trigger ring … In the archway stood a tiny boy, not above seven years old, one hand clutching his little sabre, the other pressed to his teeth, eyes shining with delight. My wavering pistol fell away, and the little monster fairly crowed with glee, clapping his hands. “Mangla! Mangla, come and see! Come on, woman – it is he, the Afghan killer! He has a great gun, Mangla! He was going to shoot me! Oh, shabash, shabash!” “I’ll give you shabash, you little son-of-a-bitch!” I roared, and was going for him when a woman came flying into the archway, scooping him up in her arms, and I stopped dead. For one thing, she was a regular plum – and for another the imp was glaring at me in indignation and piping: “No! No! You may shoot me – but don’t dare strike me! I am a maharaja!” a (#ulink_c252586e-2c5b-50f3-8ec0-8f7558ab834d) Coat. b (#ulink_c252586e-2c5b-50f3-8ec0-8f7558ab834d) Half-caste. c (#ulink_dcc5a4ea-5c24-5081-acfd-1ed748511b3f) Land-holders. d (#ulink_dcc5a4ea-5c24-5081-acfd-1ed748511b3f) Ruffians. e (#ulink_60d60b4c-d155-59a9-abd6-953232bc75fc) River-landing. f (#ulink_60d60b4c-d155-59a9-abd6-953232bc75fc) Children. g (#ulink_60d60b4c-d155-59a9-abd6-953232bc75fc) Sergeant. h (#ulink_60d60b4c-d155-59a9-abd6-953232bc75fc) Shut up! i (#ulink_8da9c257-7dc5-5550-a8e8-eef1b1eac513) Sir, lord. j (#ulink_df632336-1f8e-5af1-be7b-839050bd3fdd) Sikh swords. k (#ulink_f1c03de0-02ef-51ec-80e1-87a9497ab735) Champion. l (#ulink_f1c03de0-02ef-51ec-80e1-87a9497ab735) British government. m (#ulink_be766fbe-1770-5c9c-9cd9-eacb7477c10a) “Greetings, brothers.” n (#ulink_366af8ef-ca7b-5d01-b42b-864684e486ff) Inn, rest-house. o (#ulink_0614fc63-4e49-5fe9-96d8-e629eac40e1c) Embankment. p (#ulink_592485fa-639d-5376-881d-a7caa73b445e) Plain. q (#ulink_7bb98de7-a3ab-5bde-94d2-6b5af8d0099c) Afghan musket. r (#ulink_d1da21dc-60ee-5f5f-8dbc-2cc0f6f91551) Leading light. s (#ulink_18ba6662-585a-5034-bc59-2e090d7c0915) Cavalry sergeant-major. t (#ulink_eae7a4da-d36b-5975-9ece-b395c7465acf) Summons. u (#ulink_a4a7aa69-412c-534a-81c4-76fa70e10eb5) Sleeping Palace. v (#ulink_c81634c4-49ac-5999-aa67-f060c4097dd7) Pimp. w (#ulink_c81634c4-49ac-5999-aa67-f060c4097dd7) Bravo! x (#ulink_5e1c81b2-88d0-57c8-a583-716200a62e2f) Dancing-girl. y (#ulink_73322011-87ec-5f57-895c-d4580cdd7351) Turban. Chapter 5 (#ulink_2fe4eec3-70f2-5b60-8330-9c95050a138c) I’ve met royalty unexpected a number of times – face to face with my twin, Carl G?staf, in the Jotunberg dungeon, quaking in my rags before the black basilisk Ranavalona, speechless as Lakshmibai regarded me gravely from her swing, stark naked and trussed in the presence of the future Empress of China – and had eyes only for the principal, but in the case of Dalip Singh, Lord of the Punjab, my attention was all for his protectress. She was a little spanker, this Mangla – your true Kashmiri beauty, cream-skinned and perfect of feature, tall and shapely as Hebe, eyes wide at me as she clasped him to her bosom, the lucky lad. He didn’t know when he was well off, though, for he slapped her face and yelled: “Set me down, woman! Who bade thee interfere? Let me go!” I’d have walloped the tyke, but after another searching glance at me she set him down and stepped back, adjusting her veil with a little coquettish toss of her head – even with my panic still subsiding I thought, aha! here’s another who fancies Flash at short notice. The ungrateful infant gave her a push for luck, straightened his shoulders, and made me a jerky bow, hand over heart, royal as bedamned in his little aigretted turban and gold coat. “I am Dalip Singh. You are Flashman bahadur, the famous soldier. Let me see your gun!” I resisted an impulse to tan his backside, and bowed in turn. “Forgive me, maharaj’. I would not have drawn it in your presence, but you took me unawares.” “No, I didn’t!” cries he, grinning. “You move as the cobra strikes, too quickly to see! Oh, it was fine, and you must be the bravest soldier in the world – now, your gun!” “Maharaj’, you forget yourself!” Mangla’s voice was sharp, and not at all humble. “You have not given proper welcome to the English lord sahib – and it is unmannerly to burst in on him, instead of receiving him in durbar. What will he think of us?” Meaning, what does he think of me, to judge from another glance of those fine gazelle eyes. I gave her my gallant leer, and hastened to toady her overlord. “His majesty honours me. But will you not sit, maharaj’, and your lady also?” “Lady?” He stared and laughed. “Why, she’s a slave! Aren’t you, Mangla?” “Your mother’s slave, maharaj’,” says she coldly. “Not yours.” “Then go and wait on my mother!” cries the pup, not meeting her eye. “I wish to speak with Flashman bahadur.” You could see her itching to upend him, but after a moment she gave him a deep salaam and me a last appraisal, up and down, which I returned, admiring her graceful carriage as she swayed out, while the little pest tried to disarm me. I told him firmly that a soldier never gives his weapon to anyone, but that I’d hold it for him to see, if he showed me his sword in the same way. So he did, and then stared at my pepperbox , mouth open. “When I am a man,” says he, “I shall be a soldier of the Sirkar, and have such a gun.” I asked, why the British Army and not the Khalsa, and he shook his head. “The Khalsa are mutinous dogs. Besides, the British are the best soldiers in the world, Zeenan Khan says.” “Who’s Zeenan Khan?” “One of my grooms. He was flank-man-first-squadron-fifth-Bengal-Cavalry-General-Sale-Sahib-in-Afghanistan.” Rattled out as Zeenan must have taught him. He pointed at me. “He saw you at Jallalabad Fort, and told me how you slew the Muslims. He has only one arm, and no pinshun.” Now that’s a pension we’ll see paid, with arrears, thinks I: an ex-sowar of Bengal Cavalry who has a king’s ear is worth a few chips a month. I asked if I could meet Zeenan Khan. “If you like, but he talks a lot, and always the same story of the Ghazi he killed at Teizin. Did you kill many Ghazis? Tell me about them!” So I lied for a few minutes, and the bloodthirsty little brute revelled in every decapitation, eyes fixed on me, his small face cupped in his hands. Then he sighed and said his Uncle Jawaheer must be mad. “He wants to fight the British. Bhai Ram says he’s a fool – that an ant can’t fight an elephant. But my uncle says we must, or you will steal my country from me.” “Your uncle is mistaken,” says diplomatic Flashy. “If that were true, would I be here in peace? No – I’d have a sword!” “You have a gun,” he pointed out gravely. “That’s a gift,” says I, inspired, “which I’ll present to a friend of mine, when I leave Lahore.” “You have friends in Lahore?” says he, frowning. “I have now,” says I, winking at him, and after a moment his jaw dropped, and he squealed with glee. Gad, wasn’t I doing my country’s work, though? “I shall have it! That gun? Oh! Oh!” He hugged himself, capering. “And will you teach me your war-cry? You know, the great shout you gave just now, when I ran in with my sword?” The small face puckered as he tried to say it: “Wee … ska … see …?” I was baffled – and then it dawned: Wisconsin. Gad, my instinct for self-preservation must be working well, for me to squeal that without realising it. “Oh, that was nothing, maharaj’. Tell you what, though – I’ll teach you to shoot.” “You will? With that gun?” He sighed ecstatically. “Then I shall be able to shoot Lal Singh!” I remembered the name – a general, the Maharani’s lover. “Who’s Lal Singh, maharaj’?” He shrugged. “Oh, one of my mother’s bed-men.” Seven years old, mark you. “He hates me, I can’t tell why. All her other bed-men like me, and give me sweets and toys.” He shook his head in perplexity, hopping on one leg, no doubt to assist thought. “I wonder why she has so many bed-men? Ever so many –” “Cold feet, I dare say … look, younker – maharaj’, I mean – hadn’t you better be running along? Mangla will be –” “Mangla has bed-men, too,” insists this fount of scandal. “But Uncle Jawaheer is her favourite. Do you know what Lady Eneela says they do?” He left off hopping, and took a deep breath. “Lady Eneela says they –” Fortunately, before my delicacy could receive its death blow, Mangla suddenly reappeared, quite composed considering she’d plainly had her ear at the keyhole, and informed his garrulous majesty peremptorily that his mother commanded him to the durbar room. He pouted and kicked his heels, but finally submitted, exchanged salaams, and allowed her to shoo him into the passage. To my surprise, she didn’t follow, but closed the door and faced me, mighty cool – she didn’t look at all like a slave-girl, and she didn’t talk like one. “His majesty speaks as children do,” says she. “You will not mind him. Especially what he says of his uncle, Wazir Jawaheer Singh.” No “sahib”, or downcast eyes, or humble tone, you notice. I took her in, from the dainty Persian slippers and tight silk trousers to the well-filled bodice and the calm lovely face framed by the flimsy head veil, and moved up for a closer view. “I care nothing about your Wazir, little Mangla,” smiles I. “But if our small tyrant speaks true … I envy him.” “Jawaheer is not a man to be envied,” says she, watching me with those insolent gazelle eyes, and a drift of her perfume reached me – heady stuff, these slave-girls use. I reached out and drew a glossy black tress from beneath the veil, and she didn’t blink; I stroked her cheek with it, and she smiled, a provocative parting of the lips. “Besides, envy is the last deadly sin I’d expect from Flashman bahadur.” “But you can guess the first, can’t you?” says I, and gathered her smoothly in by tit and buttock, not omitting a chaste salute on the lips, to which the coy little creature responded by slipping her hand down between us, taking hold, and thrusting her tongue halfway down my throat – at which point that infernal brat Dalip began hacking at the door, clamouring for attention. “To hell with him!” growls I, thoroughly engrossed, and for a moment she teased with hand and tongue before pulling her trembling softness away, panting bright-eyed. “Yes, I know the first,” she murmurs, taking a last fond stroke, “but this is not the time –” “Ain’t it, by God? Never mind the pup – he’ll go away, he’ll get tired –” “It is not that.” She pushed her hands against my chest, pouting and shaking her head. “My mistress would never forgive me.” “Your mistress? What the blazes – ?” “Oh, you will see.” She disengaged my hands, with a pretty little grimace as that whining whelp kicked and yammered at the panels. “Be patient, Flashman bahadur – remember, the servant may sup last, but she sups longest.” Her tongue flickered at my lips again, and then she had slipped out, closing the door to the accompaniment of shrill childish reproaches, leaving me most randily frustrated – but in better trim than I’d been for days. There’s nothing like a brisk overhaul of a sporty female, with the certainty of a treat in store, for putting one in temper. And it goes to show – whiskers ain’t everything. I wasn’t allowed to spend long in lustful contemplation, though, for who should loaf in now but the bold Jassa, looking fit for treason, and no whit put out when I damned his eyes and demanded where he’d been. “About the husoor’s business,” was all the answer I got, while he took a wary prowl through the two rooms, prodding a hanging here and tapping a panel there, and remarking that these Hindoo swine did themselves uncommon well. Then he motioned me out on to the little balcony, took a glance up and down, and says softly: “Thou has seen the little raja, then – and his mother’s pimp?” “What the devil d’ye mean?” “Speak low, husoor. The woman Mangla – Mai Jeendan’s spy and partner in all mischief. A slave – that stands by her mistress’s purdah in durbar, and speaks for her. Aye, and makes policy on her own account, and is grown the richest woman in Lahore. Think on that, husoor. She is Jawaheer’s whore – and betrayer, like enough. Not a doubt but she was sent to scout thee … for whatever purposes.” He grinned his evil, pock-marked grin, and cut me off before I could speak. “Husoor, we are together in this business, thou and I. If I am blunt, take it not amiss, but harken. They will come at thee all ways, these folk. If some have sleek limbs and plump breasts, why then … take thy pleasure, if thou’rt so minded,” says this generous ruffian, “but remember always what they are. Now … I shall be here and there awhile. Others will come presently to woo thee – not so well favoured as Mangla, alas!” Well, damn his impudence – and thank God for him. And he was right. For the next hour Flashy’s apartments were like London Bridge Station in Canterbury week. First arrival was a tall, stately, ancient grandee, splendidly attired and straight from a Persian print. He came alone, coldly begging my pardon for his intrusion, and keeping an ear cocked; damned uneasy he seemed. His name was Dewan Dinanath, familiar to me from Broadfoot’s packets, where he was listed as an influential Court adviser, inclined to the peace party, but a weathercock. His business was simple: did the Sirkar intend to return the Soochet fortune to the Court of Lahore? I said that would not be known until I’d reported to Calcutta, where the decision would be taken, and he eyed me with bleak disapproval. “I have enjoyed Major Broadfoot’s confidence in the past,” sniffs he. “You may have equal confidence in me.” Both of which were damned lies. “This treasure is vast, and its return might be a precedent for other Punjab monies at present in the … ah, care of the British authorities. In the hands of our government, these funds would have a stabilising effect.” They’d help Jawaheer and Jeendan to keep the Khalsa happy, he meant. “A word in season to me, of Hardinge sahib’s intentions …” “I’m sorry, sir,” says I. “I’m only an advocate.” “A young advocate,” snaps he, “should study conciliation as well as law. It is to go to Goolab, is it?” “Or Soochet Singh’s widow. Or the Maharaja’s government. Unless it is retained by Calcutta, for the time being. That’s all I can tell you, sir, I’m afraid.” He didn’t like me, I could see, and might well have told me so, but a sound caught his ear, and he was through into my bedchamber like an elderly whippet. I heard the door close as my next unexpected guests arrived: two other grave seniors, Fakir Azizudeen, a tough, shrewd-looking heavyweight, and Bhai Ram Singh, portly, jovial, and bespectacled – staunch men of the peace party, according to the packets. Bhai Ram was the one who thought Jawaheer a fool, according to little Dalip. He opened the ball, with genial compliments about my Afghan service. “But now you come to us in another capacity … as an advocate. Still of the Army, but in Major Broadfoot’s service.” He twinkled at me, stroking his white beard. Well, he probably knew the colour of George’s drawers, too. I explained that I’d been studying law at home –. “At the Inns of Court, perhaps?” “No, sir – firm in Chancery Lane. I hope to read for the Bar some day.” “Excellent,” purrs Bhai Ram, beaming. “I have a little law, myself.” I’ll lay you do, thinks I, bracing myself. Sure enough, out came the legal straight left. “I have been asking myself what difficulty might arise, if in this Soochet business, it should prove that the widow had a coparcener.” He smiled at me inquiringly, and I looked baffled, and asked how that could possibly affect matters. “I do not know,” says he blandly. “That is why I ask you.” “Well, sir,” says I, puzzled, “the answer is that it don’t apply, you see. If the lady were Soochet’s descendant, and had a sister – a female in the same degree, that is – then they’d take together. As coparceners. But she’s his widow, so the question doesn’t arise.” So put that in your pipe and smoke it, old Cheeryble; I hadn’t sat up in Simla with towel round my head for nothing. He regarded me ruefully, and sighed, with a shrug to Fakir Azizudeen, who promptly exploded. “So he is a lawyer, then! Did you expect Broadfoot to send a farmer? As if this legacy matters! We know it does not, and so does he!” This with a gesture at me. He leaned forward. “Why are you here, sahib? Is it to take up time, with this legal folly? To whet the hopes of that drunken fool Jawaheer –” “Gently, gently,” Bhai Ram reproved him. “Gently – on the brink of war? When the Five Rivers are like to run red?” He swung angrily on me. “Let us talk like sane men, in God’s name! What is in the mind of the Malki lat? Does he wait to be given an excuse for bringing his bayonets across the Sutlej? If so, can he doubt it will be given him? Then why does he not come now – and settle it at a blow? Forget your legacy, sahib, and tell us that!” He was an angry one this, and the first straight speaker I’d met in the Punjab. I could have fobbed him as I had Dinanath, but there was no point. “Hardinge sahib hopes for peace in the Punjab,” says I. He glared at me. “Then tell him he hopes in vain!” snarls he. “Those madmen at Maian Mir will see to it! Convince him of that, sahib, and your journey will not have been wasted!” And on that he stalked out, by way of the bedroom. Bhai Ram sighed and shook his head. “An honest man, but impetuous. Forgive his rudeness, Flashman sahib – and my own impertinence.” He chuckled. “Coparceners! Hee-hee! I will not embarrass you by straining your recollection of Bracton and Blackstone on inheritance.” He heaved himself up, and set a chubby hand on my arm. “But I will say this. Whatever your purpose here – oh, the legacy, of course! – do what you can for us.” He regarded me gravely. “It will be a British Punjab in the end – that is certain. Let us try to achieve it with as little pain as may be.” He smiled wanly. “It will bring order, but little profit for the Company. I am ungenerous enough to wonder if that is why Lord Hardinge seems so reluctant.” He tooled off through the bedroom, but paused at the door. “Forgive me – but this Pathan orderly of yours … you have known him long?” Startled, I said, not long, but that he was a picked man. He nodded. “Just so … would it be forward of me to offer the additional services of two men of my own?” He regarded me benevolently over his specs. “A needless precaution, no doubt … but your safety is important. They would be discreet, of course.” You may judge that this put the wind up me like a full gale – if this wily old stick thought I was in danger, that was enough for me. I was sure he meant me no harm; Broadfoot had marked him A3. So, affecting nonchalance, I said I’d be most obliged, while assuring him I felt as safe in Lahore as I would in Calcutta or London or Wisconsin, even, ha-ha. He gave me a puzzled look, said he would see to it, and left me in a rare sweat of anxiety, which was interrupted by my final visitor. He was a fat and unctuous villain with oily eyes, one Tej Singh, who waddled in with a couple of flunkeys, greeting me effusively as a fellow-soldier – he sported an enormous jewelled sabre over a military coat crusted with bullion, his insignia as a Khalsa general. He was full of my Afghan exploits, and insisted on presenting me with a superb silk robe – not quite a dress of honour, he explained fawning, but rather more practical in the sultry heat. He was such a toad, I wondered if the robe was poisoned, but after he’d Heeped his way out, assuring me of his undying friendship and homage, I decided he was just dropping dash where he thought it might do good. A fine garment it was, too; I peeled down and donned it, enjoying its silky coolness while I reflected on the affairs of the day. Broadfoot and Jassa had been right: I was receiving attention from all kinds of people. What struck me was their impatience – I wasn’t even here yet, officially, and wouldn’t be until I’d been presented in durbar, but they’d come flocking like sparrows to crumbs. Most of their motives were plain enough; they saw through the legacy sham, and recognised me as Broadfoot’s ear trumpet. But it was reassuring that they thought me worth cultivating – Tej Singh, a Khalsa big-wig, especially; if that damned old Bhai Ram hadn’t shown such concern for my safety, I’d have been cheery altogether. Well, I had more news for Broadfoot, for what it was worth; at this rate, Second Thessalonians was going to take some traffic. I ambled through to the bedside table, picked up the Bible – and dropped it in surprise. The note I’d placed in it a bare two hours earlier was gone. And since I’d never left the room, Broadfoot’s mysterious messenger must be one of those who had called on me. Jassa was my first thought, instantly dismissed – George would have told me, in his case. Dinanath and Fakir Azizudeen had each passed alone through my bedroom … but they seemed most unlikely. Tej Singh hadn’t been out of sight, but I couldn’t swear to his flunkeys – or the two little maids. Little Dalip was impossible, Bhai Ram hadn’t been near my bedside, nor had Mangla, worse luck … could she have sneaked in unobserved while I was with Dalip, beyond the arch? I sifted the whole thing while I ate a solitary supper, hoping it was Mangla, and wondering if she’d be back presently … it was going to be a lonely night, and I cursed the Indian protocol that kept me in purdah, so to speak, until I was summoned to durbar, probably next day. It was dark outside now, but the maids (working tandem to avoid molestation, no doubt) had lit the lamps, and the moths were fluttering at the mosquito curtain as I settled down with Crotchet Castle, enjoying for the hundredth time the passage where old Folliott becomes agitated in the presence of bare-arsed statues of Venus … which set me thinking of Mangla again, and I was idly wondering which of the ninety-seven positions taught me by Fetnab would suit her best, when I became aware that the punkah had stopped. The old bastard’s caulked out again, thinks I, and hollered, without result, so I rolled up, seized my crop, and strode forth to give him an enjoyable leathering. But his mat was empty, and so was the passage, stretching away to the far stairs, with only a couple of lamps shining faint in the gloom. I called for Jassa; nothing but a hollow echo. I stood a moment; it was damned quiet, not a sound anywhere, and for the first time my silk robe felt chill against my skin. I went inside again, and listened, but apart from the faint pitter of the moths at the screen, no sound at all. To be sure, the Kwabagh was a big place, and I’d no notion where I was within it, but you’d have expected some noise … distant voices, or music. I went through the screen on to the little balcony, and looked over the marble balustrade; it was a long drop, four storeys at least, to the enclosed court, high enough to make my crotch contract; I would just hear the faint tinkle of the fountain, and make out the white pavement in the gloom, but the walls enclosing the court were black; not a light anywhere. I found I was shivering, and it wasn’t the night air. My skin was crawling with a sudden dread in that lonely, sinister darkness, and I was just about to turn hurriedly back into my room when I saw something that brought the hair bristling up on my neck. Far down in the court, on the pale marble by the fountain, there was a shadow where none had been before. I stared, thrilling with horror as I realised it was a man, in black robes, his upturned face hidden in a dark hood. He was looking up at my balcony, and then he stepped back into the shadows, and the court was empty. I was inside and streaking across the room in an instant – and if you say I start at shadows, I’ll agree with you, pointing out only that behind every shadow there’s substance, and in this case it wasn’t out for an evening stroll. I yanked open the door, preparing to speed down the passage in search of cheer and comfort – and my foot wasn’t over the threshold before I froze in my tracks. At the far end of the passage, beyond the last light, dark figures were advancing, and I caught the gleam of steel among them. I skipped back, slamming the door, looking wildly about for a bolt-hole which I knew didn’t exist. There wasn’t time to get my pepperbox; they’d be at the door in a second – there was nothing for it but to slip through the screen to the balcony, shuddering back against the balustrade even as I heard the door flung open and men bursting in. In unthinking panic I swung over the side of the balustrade, close to the wall, clutching its pillars from the outside, cowering low with my toes scrabbling for a hold and that appalling drop beneath me, while heavy footsteps and harsh voices rang out from my room. It was futile, of course. They’d be ravening out on the balcony in a moment, see me through the pillars – I could hear the yell of triumph, feel the agony of steel slicing through my fingers, sending me hurtling to hideous death. I crouched lower, gibbering like an ape, trying to peer under the balcony – God, there was a massive stone bracket supporting it, only inches away! I thrust a foot through it, slipped, and for a ghastly instant was hanging at full stretch before I got one leg crooked over the bracket, made a frantic grab, and found myself clinging to it like a bloody sloth, upside down beneath the balcony, with my fine silk robe billowing beneath me. I’ve no head for heights, did I tell you? That yawning black void was dragging my mind down, willing me to let go, even as I clung for dear life with locked ankles and sweating fingers – I must drag myself up and over the bracket somehow, but even as I braced myself a voice sang out just overhead, and the toe of a boot appeared between the pillars only a yard above my upturned face. Thank God the balcony rail was a broad projecting slab which hid me from view as he shouted down – and only then did I remember blasted Romeo below, who must have been watching my frantic acrobatics … “Ai, Nurla Bey – what of the feringhee?” cries the voice above – a rasping croak in Pushtu, and I could hear my muscles creaking with the awful strain as I waited to be announced. “He came out a moment since, Gurdana Khan,” came the answer – Jesus, it sounded a mile down. “Then he went back within.” He hadn’t seen me? Pondering it later – which you ain’t inclined to do while hanging supine under a balcony of murderers – I concluded that he must have been looking elsewhere or relieving himself when I made my leap for glory, and my robe being dark green, he couldn’t make me out in the deep shadow beneath the balcony. I embraced the bracket, blubbering silently, while Gurdana Khan swore by the Seven Lakes of Hell that I wasn’t in the room, so where the devil was I? “Perchance he has the gift of invisibility,” calls up the wag in the court. “The English are great chemists.” Gurdana damned his eyes, and for no sane reason I found myself thinking that this was the kind of crisis in which, Broadfoot had said, I might drop the magic word “Wisconsin” into the conversation. I didn’t care to interrupt, though, just then, while Gurdana stamped in fury and addressed his followers. “Find him! Search every nook, every corner in the palace! Stay, though – he may have gone to the durbar room!” “What – into the very presence of Jawaheer?” scoffs another. “His best refuge, fool! Even thou wouldst not cut his throat in open durbar. Away, and search! Nurla, thou dirt – back to the gate!” For a split second, as he shouted down, his sleeve came into view – and even in the poor light there was no mistaking that pattern. It was the tartan of the 79th, and Gurdana Khan was the Pathan officer I’d seen that afternoon – dear God, the Palace Guard were after me! How I held on for those last muscle-cracking moments, with fiery cramps searing my arms, I can’t fathom, much less how I manged to struggle up astride of the bracket. But I did, and sat gasping and shaking in the freezing dark. They were gone, and I must steel myself to reach out and up for a hold on the balcony pillars, and somehow find the strength to drag myself to safety. I knew it was death to try, but equally certain death to remain, so I drew myself into a crouch, feet on the bracket like some damned cathedral gargoyle, leaned out, and reached slowly up with one trembling hand, too terrified to make the snatch which had to be made … A hideous face shot over the balustrade, glaring down at me, I squealed in terror, my foot slipped, I clawed wildly at thin air as I began to fall – and a hand like a vice clamped on my wrist, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. For two bowel-chilling seconds I swung free, wailing, then another hand seized my forearm, and I was dragged up and over the balustrade, collapsing in a quaking heap on the balcony, with Jassa’s ugly face peering into mine. I’m not certain what line our conversation took, once I’d heaved up my supper, because I was in that state of blind funk and shock where talk don’t matter, and I made it worse – once I’d recovered the strength to crawl indoors – by emptying my pint flask of brandy in about three great gulps, while Jassa asked damfool questions. That brandy was a mistake. Sober, I’d have begun to reason straight, and let him talk some sense into me, but I sank the lot, and the short result was that, in the immortal words of Thomas Hughes, Flashy became beastly drunk. And when I’m foxed, and shuddering scared into the bargain … well, I ain’t responsible. The odd thing is, I keep all my faculties except common sense; I see and hear clearly, and remember, too – and I know I had only one thought in mind, seared there by that tartan villain who was bent on murdering me: “The durbar room – his best refuge!” If there’s one thing I respect, drunk or sober, it’s a professional opinion, and if my hunters thought I’d be safe there then by God not Jassa or fifty like him were going to keep me from it. He must have tried to calm me, for I fancy I took him by the throat, to make my intentions clear, but all I’m sure of is that I went blundering off along the passage, and then along another, and down a long spiral staircase that grew lighter as I descended, with the sound of music coming closer, and then I was in a broad carpeted gallery, where various interesting Orientals glanced at me curiously, and I was looking out at a huge chandelier gleaming with a thousand candles, and below it a broad circular floor on which two men and a woman were dancing, three brilliant figures whirling to and fro. There were spectators down there, too, in curtained booths round the walls, all in extravagant costumes – aha, thinks I, this is the spot, and a fancy dress party in progress, too; capital, I’ll go as a chap in a green silk robe with bare feet. It’s a terrible thing, drink. “Flashman bahadur! Why, have you received the parwana, then?” I turned, and there was Mangla walking towards me along the gallery, wearing a smile of astonishment and very little besides. Plainly it was fancy dress, and she’d come as a dancer from some select brothel (which wasn’t far out, in fact). She wore a long black sash low on her hips, knotted so that it hung to her ankles before and behind, leaving her legs bare; her fine upper works were displayed in a bodice of transparent gauze, her hair hung in a black tail to her waist, she tinkled with bangles, and there were silver castanets on her fingers. A cheering sight, I can tell you, at any time, but even more so when you’ve been hanging out of windows to avoid the broker’s men. “No parwana, I’m afraid,” says I. “Here, I say, that’s a fetching rig! Well, now … is that the durbar room down yonder?” “Why, yes – you wish to meet their highnessses?” She came closer, eyeing me curiously. “Is all well with you, bahadur? Why, you are shaking! Are you ill?” “Not a bit of it!” says I. “Took a turn in the night air … chilly, eh?” Some drunken instinct told me to keep mum about my balcony adventure, at least until I met higher authority. She said I needed something to warm me, and a lackey serving the folk in the gallery put a beaker in my hand. What with brandy and funk I was parched as a camel’s oxter, so I drank it straight off, and another – dry red wine, with a curious effervescent tang to it. D’you know, it settled me wonderfully; a few more of these, thinks I, and they can bring the nigger in. I took another swig, and Mangla laid a hand on my arm, smiling roguishly. “That is your third cup, bahadur. Have a care. It is … strangely potent, and the night has only begun. Rest a moment.” I didn’t mind. With the liquor taking hold I felt safe among the lights and music, with this delectable houri to hand. I slipped an arm round her waist as we looked down on the dancers; the guests reclining in the booths around the floor were clapping to the music and throwing silver; others were drinking and eating and dallying – it looked a thoroughly jolly party, with most of the women as briefly attired as Mangla. One black charmer, naked to the waist, was supporting a shouting reveller as he weaved his way across the floor, there was excited laughter and shrill voices, and one or two of the booths had their curtains discreetly closed … and not a Pathan in sight. “Their highnesses are merry,” says Mangla. “One of them, at least.” A man’s voice was shouting angrily below, but the music and celebration continued uninterrupted. “Never fear, you will find a welcome – come and join our entertainment.” Capital, thinks I, we’ll entertain each other in one of those curtained nooks, so I let her lead me down a curved stair giving on to an open space at one side of the floor, where there were buffets piled high with delicacies and drink. The angry man’s voice greeted us as we descended, and then he was in view beside the tables: a tall, well-made fellow, handsome in the pretty Indian way, with a curly beard and moustache, a huge jewelled turban on his head and only baggy silk pantaloons on the rest of him. He was staggering tight, with a goblet in one hand and the other round the neck of the black beauty who’d been helping him across the floor. Before him stood Dinanath and Azizudeen, grim and furious as he railed at them, stuttering drunkenly. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/george-fraser-macdonal/the-flashman-papers-the-complete-12-book-collection/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.