The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “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. Al
though 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

  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 S
ahib’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.