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,21 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 abov
e 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.”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 23