The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “It’s a lie!” I shouted. “I didn’t – it was an accident! She fell from the sled – it wasn’t my fault! I was driving, I wasn’t even with her!”

  His reply to this was a gesture to the aide, who struck me with the gloves again.

  “You are a liar,” says Ignatieff. “The officer of the pursuing troop saw you. Pencherjevsky himself has told me how you and your comrade East left Starotorsk, how you basely seized the opportunity to escape …”

  “It wasn’t base … we’d given no parole … we had the right of any prisoners of war … in all honour …”

  “You talk of honour,” says he softly. “You thought to escape all censure, because you believed Pencherjevsky was doomed. Fortunately, he was not a hetman of Cossacks for nothing. He cut his way clear, and in spite of your unspeakable treatment of his daughter, she too survived.”

  “Thank God for that!” cries I. “Believe me, sir, you are quite mistaken. I intended no betrayal of the Count, and I swear I never mistreated his daughter – it was all an accident …”

  “The only accident for you was the one that prevented your escaping. I promise you,” he went on, in that level, sibilant voice, “that you will live to wish that sled had crushed your life out. For by your conduct, you understand, you have lost every right to be treated as an honourable man, or even as a common felon. You are beyond the law of nations, you are beyond mercy. One thing alone can mitigate your punishment.”

  He paused there, to let it sink in, and to take another cigarette. The aide lit it for him, while I waited, quaking and sweating.

  “I require an answer to one question,” says Ignatieff, “and you will supply it in your own language. Lie to me, or try to evade it, and I will have your tongue removed.” His next words were in English. “Why did you try to escape?”

  Terrified as I was, I daren’t tell him the truth. I knew that if he learned that I’d found out about his expedition to India, it was all up with me.

  “Because … because there was the opportunity … and there wasn’t any dishonour in it. And we meant … ah, Miss Pencherjevsky no harm, I swear we didn’t …”

  “You lie. No one, in your situation, would have attempted such a foolhardy escape, let alone such a dishonourable one, without some pressing reason.” The blue-brown eyes seemed to be boring into my brain. “I believe I know what it was – the only thing it could possibly be. And I assure you, in five minutes from now you will be dying, in excruciating agony, unless you can tell me what is meant by –” he paused, inhaling on his cigarette “–Item Seven.” He let the smoke trickle down his nostrils. “If, by chance, you are unaware of what it means, you will die anyway.”

  There was nothing for it; I had to confess. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. Then I stammered out hoarsely, in English:

  “It’s a plan … to invade India. Please, for God’s sake, I found out about it by accident, I …”

  “How did you discover it?”

  I babbled it out, how we had eavesdropped in the gallery and heard him talking to the Tsar. “It was just by chance … I didn’t mean to spy … it was East, and he said we must try to escape … to get word to our people … to warn them! I said it was dishonourable, that we were bound as gentlemen …”

  “And Major East was with you, and overheard?”

  “Yes, yes … it was his notion, you see! I didn’t like it … and when he suggested we escape, when those beastly peasants attacked Starotorsk … what could I do? But I swear we meant no harm, and … and it’s a lie that I mistreated Miss Pencherjevsky – I’ll swear it, by my honour, on the Bible …”

  “Gag him,” says Ignatieff. “Bring him to the courtyard. And bring a prisoner. Any one in the cells will do.”

  They stuffed a rag into my mouth, and bound it, stifling my pleas for mercy, for I was sure he was going to make away with me horribly, now that he had his information. They pinioned my wrists, and thrust me brutally out into the yard; it was freezing, and I had nothing but my shirt and breeches. I waited, trembling with cold and funk, until presently another Cossack appeared, driving in front of him a scared, dirty-looking peasant with fetters on his legs. Ignatieff, who had followed us out, and was pinching the paper of a cigarette, beckoned the Cossack.

  “What was this fellow’s offence?”

  “Insubordination, Lord Count.”

  “Very good,” says Ignatieff, and lit his cigarette.

  Two more Cossacks appeared, carrying between them a curious bench, like a vaulting horse with very short legs and a flat top. The prisoner shrieked at the sight of it, and tried to run, but they dragged him to it, tearing off his clothes, and bound him on it face down, with thongs at his ankles, knees, waist and neck, so that he lay there, naked and immovable, but still screaming horribly.

  Ignatieff beckoned one of the Cossacks, who held out to him a curious thick black coil, of what looked for all the world like shiny liquorice. Ignatieff hefted it in his hands, and then stepped in front of me and placed it over my head; I shuddered as it touched my shoulders, and was astonished by the weight of the thing. At a sign from Ignatieff the Cossack, grinning, drew it slowly off my shoulders, and I realized in horror as it slithered off like an obscene black snake that it was a huge whip, over twelve feet long, as thick as my arm at the butt and tapering to a point no thicker than a boot-lace.

  “You will have heard of this,” says Ignatieff softly. “It is called a knout. Its use is illegal. Watch.”

  The Cossack stood opposite the bench with its howling victim, took the knout in both hands, and swept it back over his shoulder so that its hideous lash trailed behind him in the snow. Then he struck.

  I’ve seen floggings, and watched with fascination as a rule, but this was horrible, like nothing imaginable. That diabolical thing cut through the air with a noise like a steam whistle, so fast that you couldn’t see it; there was a crack like a pistol-shot, a fearful, choked scream of agony, and then the Cossack was snaking it back for another blow.

  “Wait,” says Ignatieff, and to me: “Come here.” They pushed me forward to the bench, the bile nearly choking me behind the gag; I didn’t want to look, but they forced me. The wretched man’s buttocks were cut clean across, as by a sabre, and the blood was pouring out.

  “The drawing stroke,” says Ignatieff. “Proceed.”

  Five more shrieking cuts, five more explosive cracks, five more razor gashes, and the snow beneath the bench was sodden with blood. The most horrible thing was that the victim was conscious still, making awful animal noises.

  “Now observe,” says Ignatieff, “the effect of a flat blow.”

  The Cossack struck a seventh time, but this time he didn’t snap the knout, but let it fall smack across the patient’s spine. There was a dreadful sound, like a wet cloth slapped on stone, but from the victim no cry at all. They unstrapped him, and as they lifted the bleeding wreck of his body from the bench, I saw it was hanging horribly limp in the middle.

  “The killing stroke,” said Ignatieff. “It is debatable how many of the drawing blows a man can endure, but with the flat stroke one is invariably fatal.” He turned to look at me, and then at the blood-soaked bench, as though considering, while he smoked calmly. At last he dropped his cigarette in the snow.

  “Bring him inside.”

  I was half-fainting with fear and shock when they dropped me sprawling in a chair, and Ignatieff sat down behind the table and waved them out. He lit himself another cigarette, and then said quietly:

  “That was a demonstration, for your benefit. You see now what awaits you – except that when your turn comes I shall take the opportunity of ascertaining how many of the drawing strokes a vigorous and healthy man can suffer before he dies. Your one hope of escaping that fate lies in doing precisely as you are told – for I have a use for you. If I had not, you would be undergoing destruction by the knout at this moment.”

  He smoked in silence for a minute, never taking his eyes off me, and I watched him like a rabbit before
a snake. Not only the hideous butchery I had watched, but the fact that he had condemned a poor devil to it just to impress me, appalled me utterly. And I knew I would do anything – anything, to escape that abomination.

  “That you had somehow learned of Item Seven I already suspected,” says Ignatieff at last. “Nothing else would have led you to flee. Accordingly, for the past week, we have proceeded on the assumption that intelligence of our expedition would reach Lord Raglan – and subsequently your government in London. We can now be certain that it has done so, since your companion, Major East, has not been recaptured. This betrayal is regrettable, but by no means disastrous. Indeed, it can be made to work to our advantage, for your authorities will suppose that they have seven months to prepare against the blow that is coming. They will be wrong. In four months from now our army will be advancing over the Khyber Pass, thirty thousand strong, with at least half as many Afghan allies eager to descend across the Indus. If every British soldier in India were sent to guard the frontier – which is impossible – it would not serve to stem our advance. No adequate help can arrive from England in time, and your troops will have a rebellious Indian population at their backs while we take them by the throat. Our agents are already at work, preparing that insurrection.

  “You may wonder how it is possible to advance the moment of our attack by three months. It is simple. General Khruleff’s original plan for an attack through the Syr Daria country to Afghanistan and India will be adhered to – our army had been preparing to take this route, which was abandoned only lately because of minor difficulties with native bandits and because the southern road, through Persia, offered a more secure and leisurely progress. The change of plan will thus be simple to effect, since the army is still poised for the northern route, and the arrangements for its transport by sea across Caspian and Aral can proceed immediately. This will ensure progress at twice the speed we could hope for if we went through Persia. And we will consolidate our position among the Syr Daria and Amu Daria tribesmen in passing.”

  I didn’t doubt a word of it – not that I cared a patriotic damn. They could have India, China, and the whole bloody Orient for me, if only I could find a way out for myself.

  “It is as well that you should know this,” went on Ignatieff, “so that you may understand the part which I intend that you should play in it. A part for which you are providentially qualified. I know a great deal about you – so much, indeed, that you will be astonished at the extent of my knowledge. It is our policy to garner information, and I doubt,” went on this cocky bastard, “whether any state in Europe can boast such extensive secret dossiers as we possess. I am especially aware of your activities in Afghanistan fourteen years ago – of your work, along with such agents as Burnes and Pottinger, among the Gilzais and other tribes. I know even of the exploit which earned you the extravagant nickname of ‘Bloody Lance’, of your dealings with Muhammed Akbar Khan, of your solitary survival of the disaster which befell the British Armya – a disaster in which, you may be unaware, our own intelligence service played some part.”

  Now, shaken and fearful as I was, one part of my mind was noting something from all this. Master Ignatieff might be a clever and devilish dangerous man, but he had at least one of the besetting weaknesses of youth: he was as vain as an Etonian duke, and it led him to commit the cardinal folly in a diplomatic man. He talked too much.

  “It follows,” says he, “that you can be of use to us in Afghanistan. It will be convenient, when our army arrives there, to have a British officer, of some small reputation in that country, to assist us in convincing the tribal leaders that the decay of British power is imminent, and that it will be in their interests to join in the conquest of India. They will not need much convincing, but even so your betrayal will add to the impression our armed force will make.”

  For all his impassivity, I knew he was enjoying this; it was in the tilt of his cigarette, and the glitter in his gotch eye.

  “It is possible, of course, that you will prefer death – even by the knout – to betrayal of your country. I doubt it, but I must take into consideration the facts which are to be found in your dossier. They tell me of a man brave to the point of recklessness, of proved resource, and of considerable intelligence. My own observation of you tends to contradict this – I do not judge you to be of heroic material, but I may be mistaken. Certainly your conduct at Balaclava, of which I have received eye-witness accounts, is of a piece with your dossier. It does not matter. If, when you have been taken to Afghanistan with our army, you decline to make what the Roman priests call a propaganda on our behalf, we shall derive what advantage we can from displaying you naked in an iron cage along the way. The knouting will take place when we arrive on Indian soil.”

  He had it all splendidly pat, this icy Muscovite bastard, and well pleased with himself he was, too. He pinched another cigarette between his fingers, thinking to himself to see if there was any other unpleasant detail he could rub into me, and deciding there wasn’t, called to the Cossack guard.

  “This man,” says he, “is a dangerous and desperate criminal. He is to be chained wrist and ankle at once, and the keys are to be thrown away. He will accompany us to Rostov tomorrow, and if, while he is in your charge he should escape or die” – he paused, and when he went on it was as casually said as though he were confining them to barracks – “you will be knouted to death. And your families also. Take him away.”

  You may not credit it, but my feelings as they thrust me down into my underground pit, clamped chains on my wrists and ankles, and slammed the door on me, were of profound relief. For one thing, I was out of the presence of that evil madman with his leery optic – that may seem small enough, but you haven’t been closeted with him, and I have. Point two, I was not only alive but due to be preserved in good health for at least four months – and I was old soldier enough to know that a lot can happen in that time. Point three, I wasn’t going into the unknown: Afghanistan, ghastly place though it is, was a home county hunt to me, and if once I could get a yard start, I fancied I could survive the going a sight better than any Russian pursuers.

  It was a mighty “if,” of course, but funny things happen north of the Khyber – come to that, I wondered if Ignatieff and his brother-thugs knew exactly what they were tackling in taking an army through that country. We’d tried it, and God knew we were fitter to go to war than the Russians ever were, yet we’d come most horribly undone. I remembered my old sparring chums, the Gilzais and Baluchis and Khels and Afridis – and those fiends of Ghazis – and wondered if the Ruskis knew precisely the kind of folk they’d be relying on for safe-conduct and alliance.

  They had their agents in Afghanistan, to be sure, and must have a shrewd notion of how things were; I wondered if they had secured their alliances in advance, perhaps with the King? And one thing was certain, the Afghans hated the British, and would join in an attack on India like Orangemen on the Twelfth. It would be all up with the Honourable East India Company then, and no bones about it.

  Thinking about that, I could make a guess that if there was a point where the Russian force might run into trouble, it would be in the wild country that they must pass through before they reached Afghanistan. In my days at Kabul, Sekundar Burnes had told me a bit about it – of the independent Khanates at Bokhara and Samarkand and the Syr Daria country, where the Russians had even then been trying to extend their empire, and getting a bloody nose in the process. Fearsome bastards those northern tribes were, Tajiks and Uzbeks and the remnants of the great hordes, and from the little I’d heard from folk like Pencherjevsky, they were still fiercely resisting Russian encroachment. We’d had a few agents up that way ourselves, in my time, fellows like Burnes and Stoddart, trying to undermine Russian influence, but with our retreat from Afghanistan it was well out of our bailiwick now, and the Russians would no doubt eat up the tribes at their leisure. That’s what Ignatieff had hinted, and I couldn’t see the wild clans being able to stand up to an army of thirty thousa
nd, with ten thousand Cossack cavalry and artillery trains and the rest of it.

  No, setting aside a few minor rubs, this Russian expedition looked to me to be on a good firm wicket – but that mattered nothing as far as I was concerned. What I had to bide my time for was Afghanistan, and the moment when they brought me out of my blinkers to make what Ignatieff called a propaganda on Russia’s behalf. That would be the moment to lift up mine eyes unto the hills, or the tall trees, or the nearest hole in the ground – anywhere at all, so long as it offered a refuge from Ignatieff. I didn’t even think about the price of failure to escape – it was quite unthinkable.

  You may think it strange, knowing me, that even in the hellish mess I found myself, with the shadow of horrible death hanging over me, I could think ahead so clearly. Well, it wasn’t that I’d grown any braver as I got older – the reverse, if anything – but I’d learned, since my early days, that there’s no point in wasting your wits and digestion blubbering over evil luck and folly and lost opportunities. I’ll admit, when I thought how close I’d been to winning clear, I could have torn my hair – but there it was. However fearful my present predicament, however horrid the odds and dangers ahead, they’d get no better with being fretted over. It ain’t always easy, if your knees knock as hard as mine, but you must remember the golden rule: when the game’s going against you, stay calm – and cheat.

  In this state of philosophic apprehension, then, I began my journey from Fort Arabat the following day – a journey such as I don’t suppose any other Englishman has ever made. You can trace it on the map, all fifteen hundred miles of it, and your finger will go over places you never dreamed of, from the edge of civilization to the real back of beyond, over seas and deserts to mountains that perhaps nobody will ever climb, through towns and tribes that belong to the Arabian Nights rather than to the true story of a reluctant English gentleman (as the guide books would say) with two enormous scowling Cossacks brooding over him the whole way.