The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “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 mêlée 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.