The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Presently she got up and went off, returning with a little tray on which there were cups of sherbet, and two big bowls of kefir – just the thing after a hot encounter, when you’re feeling well and contented, and wondering vaguely whether you ought not to slide out before the man of the house comes back, and deciding the devil with him. It was good kefir, too – strangely sweet, with a musky flavour that I couldn’t place, and as I spooned it down gratefully she sat watching me, with those mysterious dark eyes, and murmuring to her kitten as it played with her fingers.

  “Did cruel mistress neglect her darling?” says she. “Ah, do not scold – do I reproach you when you come home with your ears scratched and your fur bedraggled? Do I pester you with impertinent questions? Mmm? Oh, shameless – it is not proper to ask, in his presence. Besides, some little evil bird might hear, and talk … and what then? What of me – and Yakub Beg – and fine dreams of a throne in Kashgar some day? Ah, indeed. And what of our fine angliski? It would go hard with all of us, if certain things were known, but hardest of all with him …”

  “Capital kefir, this,” says I, cleaning round the bowl. “Any more?”

  She gave me another helping, and went on whispering to the cat – taking care that I could hear.

  “Why did we permit him to make love, then? Oh, such a question! Because of his fine shape and handsome head, you think, and the promise of a great baz-bazk oh, whiskered little harlot, have you no blushes? What – because he was fearful, and we women know that nothing so drives out a man’s fear as passion and delight with a beautiful darling? That is an old wisdom, true – is it the poet Firdausi who says ‘The making of life in the shadow of death is the blissful oblivion …’?”

  “Stuff and nonsense, beautiful darling,” says I, wolfing away. “The poet Flashman says that a good gallop needs no philosophic excuse. You’re a lusty little baggage, young Silk One, and that’s all about it. Here, leave that animal a moment, and give us a kiss.”

  “You enjoy your kefir?” says she.

  “The blazes with the kefir,” says I, putting down my spoon. “Here a minute, and I’ll show you.”

  She nuzzled the kitten, watching me thoughtfully. “And if Yakub should return?”

  “Blazes with him, too. Come here, can’t you?”

  But she slipped quickly out of harm’s way, and stood slim and white and graceful, cradling the kitten and smiling at it.

  “You were right, curious tiny leopard – you and Firdausi both. He is much braver now – and he is so very strong, with his great powerful arms and thighs, like the black djinn in the story of es-Sinbad of the sea – he is no longer safe with delicate ladies such as we. He might harm us.” And with that mocking smile she went quickly round the fountain, before I could stop her. “Tell me, angliski,” she said, looking back, but not stopping. “You who speak Persian and know so much of our country – have you ever heard of the Old Man of the Mountains?”

  “No, by jove, I don’t think I have,” says I. “Come back and tell me about him.”

  “After tonight – when the work has been done,” says she, teasing. “Perhaps then I shall tell you.”

  “But I want to know now.”

  “Be content,” says she. “You are a different man from the fearful fellow who came here seeking Yakub an hour ago. Remember the Persian saying: ‘Lick up the honey, stranger, and ask no questions’.”

  And then she was gone, leaving me grinning foolishly after her, and cursing her perversity in a good-humoured way. But, do you know, she was right? I couldn’t account for it, but for some reason I felt full of buck and appetite and great good humour, and I couldn’t even remember feeling doubts or fears or anything much – of course, I knew there was nothing like a good lively female for putting a chap in trim, as her man Firdausi had apparently pointed out. Clever lads, these Persian poets. But I couldn’t recall ever feeling so much the better for it – a new man, in fact, as she’d said.

  * * *

  a Ruffians.

  b The Aral Sea.

  c Hard dung balls used as missiles.

  d Hindu Kush range.

  e Holy war.

  f Pocket-money.

  g Literally, “wearing hunting gloves in one’s belt”, i.e. unarmed.

  h Warehouse.

  i See Flash for Freedom!

  j Illicit love.

  k An indelicate synonym for virility.

  Chapter 9

  Now, you who know me may find what I’ve just written, and what I am about to tell you, extremely strange, coming from me at such a time. But as I’ve said before, there’s nothing in these memoirs that isn’t gospel true, and you must just take my word for it. My memory’s clear, even if my understanding isn’t always perfect, and I’m in no doubt of what happened on that day, or on the night that followed.

  I went striding back down the valley, then, singing “A-hunting we will go”, if I remember rightly, and was just in time to see Yakub and Kutebar return from their meeting with Buzurg Khan in a fine rage: the overlord had refused to risk any of his people in what he, the shirking recreant, regarded as a lost hope. I couldn’t believe such poltroonery, myself, and said so, loudly. But there it was: the business was up to us and our five thousand sabres, and when Yakub jumped on a pile of camel bales in the valley market, and told the mob it was do or die by themselves for the honour of Old Khokand, and explained how we were going to assault the beach that night and blow up the powder-ships, the whole splendid crowd rose to him as a man. There was just a sea of faces, yellow and brown, slit-eyed and hook-nosed, bald-pated and scalp-locked or turbaned and hairy, all yelling and laughing and waving their sabres, with the wilder spirits cracking off their pistols and racing their ponies round the outskirts of the crowd in an ecstasy of excitement, churning up the dust and whooping like Arapahoes.

  And when Kutebar, to a storm of applause, took his place beside Yakub, and thundered in his huge voice: “North, south, east, and west – where shall you find the Kirgiz? By the silver hand of Alexander, they are here!” the whole place exploded in wild cheering, and they crowded round the two leaders, promising ten Russian dead for every one of ours, and I thought, why not give ’em a bit of civilized comfort, too, so I jumped up myself, roaring “Hear, hear!”, and when they stopped to listen I gave it to them, straight and manly.

  “That’s the spirit, you fellows!” I told them. “I second what these two fine associates of mine have told you, and have only this to add. We’re going to blow these bloody Russians from Hell to Huddersfield – and I’m the chap who can do it, let me tell you! So I shall detain you no longer, my good friends – and Tajiks, and niggers, and what-not – but only ask you to be upstanding and give a rousing British cheer for the honour of the dear old Schoolhouse – hip, hip, hip, hurrah!”

  And didn’t they cheer, too? Best speech I ever made, I remember thinking, and Yakub clapped me on the back, grinning all over, and said by the beard of Mohammed, if we had proposed a march on Moscow every man-jack would have been in his saddle that minute, riding west. I believed him, too, and said it was a damned good idea, but he said no, the powder ships were enough for just now, and I must take pains to instruct the band of assistants whom he’d told off to help me with the rockets when we got to the beach.

  So I got them together – and Ko Dali’s daughter was there, too, lovely girl and so attentive, all in black, now, shirt, pyjamys, boots and turban, very business-like. And I lectured them about Congreves – it was remarkable how well I remembered each detail about assembling the firing-frame and half-pipes, and adjusting the range-screws and everything; the excellent fellows took it all in, spitting and exclaiming with excitement, and you could see that even if they weren’t the kind to get elected to the Royal Society for their mechanical aptitude, their hearts were in the right place. I tried to get Ko Dali’s daughter aside afterwards for some special instruction, but she excused herself, so I went off to the grindstone merchant to get a sabre sharpened, and got Kutebar to find me a few
rounds for my German revolver.

  “The only thing that irks me,” I told him, “is that we are going to be stuck in some stuffy go-down, blazing away with rockets, while Yakub and the others have got the best of the evening. Damn it, Izzat, I want to put this steel across a few Ruski necks – there’s a wall-eyed rascal called Ignatieff, now, have I told you about him? Two rounds from this pop-gun into his midriff, and then a foot of sabre through his throat – that’s all he needs. By gad, I’m thirsty tonight, I tell you.”

  “It is a good thirst,” says he approvingly. “But think, angliski, of the countless hundreds infidel pigs – your pardon, when I say infidels, I mean Ruskis – whom we shall send to the bottom of Aral with these fine ra-kets. Is that not worthy work for a warrior?”

  “Oh, I daresay,” I grumbled. “But it ain’t the same as jamming a sword in their guts and watching ’em wriggle. That’s my sort, now. I say, have I ever told you about Balaclava?”

  I didn’t know when I’d felt so blood-lusty, and it got worse as the evening wore on. By the time we saddled up I was full of hate against a vague figure who was Ignatieff in a Cossack hat with the Tsar’s eagle across the front of his shirt; I wanted to settle him, gorily and painfully, and all the way on our ride across the Kizil Kum in the gathering dark I was dreaming fine nightmares in which I despatched him. But from time to time I felt quite jolly, too, and sang a few snatches of “The Leather Bottel” and “John Peel” and other popular favourites, while the riders grinned and nudged each other, and Kutebar muttered that I was surely bewitched. And all the way the Silk One rode knee to knee with me – not so close that I could give her a squeeze, unfortunately, and silent most of the time, although she seemed to be watching me closely. Well, what girl doesn’t – especially when she’s just had her first taste of Flashy? I recalled it fondly, and promised myself I would continue her education, for she deserved it, the dear child – but not until I’d satisfied my yearning for slaughter of Russians. That was the main thing, and by the time we had trotted silently into the scrubby wood that lies a bare half-mile from Fort Raim, I was fairly dribbling to be at them.

  It took a good hour in the cold dark to bring all the riders quietly into the safety of the wood, each man holding his horse’s nostrils or blanketing its head, while I fidgeted with impatience. It was the waiting that infuriated me, when we could have been down on the beach killing Russians, and I spoke pretty sharp to Yakub Beg about it when he emerged out of the shadows, very brave in spiked helmet and red cloak, to say that we should move when the moon hid behind the cloud bank.

  “Come along, come along, come along,” says I. “What are we about, then? The brutes’ll be sounding reveille in a moment.”

  “Patience, blood brother,” says he, giving me a puzzled look, and then a grin. “You shall have your rockets at their throats presently. God keep you. Kutebar, preserve that worthless carcase if you can, and you, beloved Silk One –” he reached out and pressed her head to his breast, whispering to her. Bully for some, thinks I: wonder if you can do it on a trotting horse? Have to try some time – and then Yakub was calling softly into the dark.

  “In the name of God and the Son of God! Kirgiz, Uzbek, Tajik, Kalmuk, Turka – remember Ak Mechet! The morning rides behind us!” And he made that strange, moaning Khokand whistle, and with a great rumbling growl and a drumming of hooves the whole horde went surging forward beneath the trees and out on to the empty steppe towards Fort Raim.

  If I’d been a sentry on those walls I’d have had apoplexy. One moment an empty steppe, and the next it was thick with mounted men, pouring down on the fort; we must have covered a quarter of a mile before the first shot cracked, and then we were tearing at full tilt towards the gap between fort and river, with the shouts of alarm sounding from the walls, and musketry popping, and then with one voice the yell of the Ghazi war-cry burst from the riders (one voice, in fact, was crying “Tally-ho! Ha-ha!”), five thousand mad creatures thundering down the long slope with the glittering sea far ahead, and the ships riding silent and huge on the water, and on to the cluttered beach, with men scattering in panic as we swept in among the great piles of bales, sabring and shooting, leaping crazily in the gloom over the boxes and low shelters, Yakub’s contingent streaming out to the left among the sheds and go-downs, while our party and Sahib Khan’s drove for the pier.

  God, what a chaos it was! I was galloping like a dervish at Kutebar’s heels roaring “Hark forrard! Ha, ha, you bloody foreigners, Flashy’s here!”, careering through the narrow spaces between the sheds, with the muskets banging off to our left, startled sleepers crying out, and everyone yelling like be-damned. As we burst headlong onto the last stretch of open beach, and swerved past the landward end of the pier, some stout Russian was bawling and letting fly with a pistol; I left off singing “Rule, Britannia” to take a shot at him, but missed, and there ahead someone was waving a torch and calling, and suddenly there were dark figures all around us, clutching at our bridles, almost pulling us from the saddles towards a big go-down on the north side of the pier.

  I was in capital fettle as I strode into the go-down, which was full of half-naked natives with torches, all in a ferment of excitement.

  “Now, then, my likely lads,” cries I, “where are these Congreves, eh? Look alive, boys, we haven’t got all night, you know.”

  “Here is the devil-fire, oh slayer of thousands,” says someone, and there sure enough was a huge pile of boxes, and in the smoky torchlight I could see the broad arrow, and make out the old familiar lettering on them: “Royal Small Arms Factory. Handle with Extreme Care. Explosives. Danger. This side up.”

  “And how the deuce did this lot get here, d’ye suppose?” says I to Kutebar. “Depend upon it, some greasy bastard in Birmingham with a pocketful of dollars could tell us. Right-o, you fellows, break ’em out, break ’em out!” And as they set to with a will, I gave them another chorus of “John Peel” and strode to the sea end of the go-down, which of course was open, and surveyed the bay.

  Ko Dali’s daughter was at my elbow, with a chattering nigger pointing out which ship was which. There were two steamers, the farther one being the Obrucheff, three vessels with masts, of which the Mikhail was farthest north, and a ketch, all riding under the moon on the glassy sea, pretty as paint.

  “That’s the ticket for soup!” says I. “We’ll have ’em sunk in half a jiffy. How are you, my dear – I say, that’s a fetching rig you’re wearing!” And I gave her a squeeze for luck, but she wriggled free.

  “The firing-frame, angliski – you must direct them,” says she, and I turned reluctantly from surveying the bay and listening to the war that was breaking out along the beach – hell of a din of shooting and yelling, and it stirred my blood to action. I strode in among the toilers, saw the firing-frame broken from its crate, and showed them where to position it, at the very lip of the go-down, just above the small boats and barges which were rocking gently at their moorings on the water six feet below our feet.

  Putting up the frame was simple – it’s just an iron fence, you see, with supports both sides, and half-pipes running from the ground behind to the top of the fence, to take the rockets. I’ve never known my fingers so nimble as I tightened the screws and adjusted the half-pipes in their sockets; everyone else seemed slow by comparison, and I cursed them good-naturedly and finally left Ko Dali’s daughter to see to the final adjustments while I went off to examine the rockets.

  They had them broken out by now, the dull grey three-foot metal cylinders with their conical heads – I swore when I saw that, as I’d feared, they were the old pattern, without fins and needing the fifteen-foot sticks.43 Sure enough, there were the sticks, in long canvas bundles; I called for one, and set to work to fit it into a rocket head, but the thing was corroded to blazes.

  “Now blast these Brummagem robbers!” cries I. “This is too bad – see how British workmanship gets a bad name! At this rate the Yankees will be streets ahead of us. Break out another box!”


  “Burst it open! off with the lid, sons of idleness!” bawls Kutebar, fuming with impatience. “If it was Russian gold within, you’d have them open fast enough!”

  “They will open in God’s time, father of all wisdom,” says one of the riders. “See, there they lie, like the silver fish of See-ah – are they not pretty to behold?”

  “Prettier yet when they strike those Ruski ships of Eblis!” roars Kutebar. “Bring me a stick that I may arm one of these things! What science is here! Wisdom beyond that of the great astronomer of Samarkand has gone to the making of these fine instruments. I salute you, Flashman bahadur, and the genius of your infidel professors of Anglistan. See, there it stands, ready to blow the sons of pigs straight up Shaitan’s backside!” And he flourished the stick, with the rockethead secured – upside down, which made me laugh immoderately.

  I was interrupted by the Silk One, tugging urgently at my sleeve, imploring me to hurry – I couldn’t see what all the fuss was, for I was enjoying things thoroughly. The battle was going great guns outside, with a steady crackle of gunfire, but no regular volleys, which meant, as I pointed out, that the Ruskis hadn’t come to order yet.

  “Lots of time, darling,” I soothed her. “Now, how’s the frame? Very creditable, very handy, you fellows – well done. Right-ho, Izzat, let’s have some of those rockets along here, sharp now! Mustn’t keep ladies waiting, what?” And I took a slap at her tight little backside – I don’t know when I’ve felt so full of beans.

  It was a fine, sweaty confusion in the go-down as they dragged the rockets down to the firing-frame, and I egged ’em on, and showed them how to lay a rocket in the half-pipe – no corrosion there, thank God, I noted, and the Silk One fairly twitched with impatience – strange girl, she was, tense as a telegraph wire at moments like this, but all composure when she was at home – while I lectured her on the importance of unrusted surfaces, so that the rockets flew straight.