The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I told you the worst was still to come, didn’t I? Well, you’ve read my chronicle of the Great Mutiny, and if you’ve any humanity you’re bound to admit that I’d had my share of sorrow already, and more – even Campbell later said that I’d seen hard service, so there. But Rose himself declared that if he hadn’t been told the circumstance of my awakening at Gwalior by an eyewitness, he wouldn’t have believed it – it was the most terrible thing, he said, that he had ever heard of in all his experience of war, or anybody else’s, either. He wondered that I hadn’t lost my reason. I agreed then, and I still do. This is what happened.

  I came back to life, as is often the case, with my last waking moment clear in my mind. I had been on horseback, riding hard, seeing a shot strike home in a sandy nullah – so why, I wondered irritably, was I now standing up, leaning against something hard, with what seemed to be a polished table top in front of me? There was a shocking pain in my head, and a blinding glare of light burning my eyes, so I shut them quickly. I tried to move, but couldn’t, because something was holding me; my ears were ringing, and there was a jumble of voices close by, but I couldn’t make them out. Why the hell didn’t they shut up, I wondered, and I tried to tell them to be quiet, but my voice wouldn’t work – I wanted to move, to get away from the thing that was pressing against my chest, so I tugged, and an unspeakable pain shot through my left arm and into my chest, a stabbing, searing pain so exquisite that I screamed aloud, and again, and again, at which a voice cried in English, apparently right in my ear.

  “’Ere’s another as can’t ’old ’is bleedin’ row! Stick a gag in this bastard an’ all, Andy!”

  Someone grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, and I shrieked again, opening my eyes wide with the pain, to see a blinding light sky, and a red, sweating face within a few inches of mine. Before I could make another sound, a foul wet rag was stuffed brutally into my mouth, choking me, and a cloth was whipped across it and knotted tight behind my head. I couldn’t utter a sound, and when I tried to reach up to haul the filthy thing away, I realised why I hadn’t been able to move. My hands were lashed to the object that was pressing into my body. Stupefied, blinking against the glare, in agony with my arm and head and the gag that was suffocating me, I tried to focus my eyes; for a few seconds there was just a whirl of colours and shapes – and then I saw.

  I was tied across the muzzle of a cannon, the iron rim biting into my body, with my arms securely lashed on either side of the polished brown barrel. I was staring along the top of that barrel, between the high wheels, to where two British soldiers were standing by the breech, poking at the touch-hole, and one was saying to the other:

  “No, by cripes, none o’ yer Woolwich models. No lanyards, Jim my boy – we’ll ’ave to stick a fuse in, an’ stand well clear.”

  “She’s liable to blow ’er flamin’ wheels off, though, ain’t she?” says the other. “There’s a four-pahnd cartridge in there, wiv a stone shot. S’pose it’ll splinter, eh?”

  “Ask ’im – arterwards!” says the first, gesturing at me, and they both laughed uproariously. “You’ll tell us, won’t yer, Sambo?”

  For a moment I couldn’t make it out – what the devil were they talking about? And how dared the insolent dogs address a colonel as “Sambo” – and one of ’em with a pipe stuck between his grinning teeth? Fury surged up in me, as I stared into those red yokel faces, leering at me, and I shouted “Damn your eyes, you mutinous bastards! How dare you – d’ye know who I am, you swine? I’ll flog the ribs out of you …” but it didn’t come out as a shout, only as a soundless gasp deep in my throat behind that stifling gag. Then, ever so slowly, it dawned on me where I was, and what was happening, and my brain seemed to explode with the unutterable horror of it. As Rose said afterwards, I ought to have gone mad; for an instant I believe I did.

  I don’t have to elaborate my sensations – anyway, I couldn’t. I can only say that I was sane enough after that first spasm of dreadful realisation, because behind the fog of panic I saw in a second what had happened – saw it with blinding certainty. I had been knocked on the head, presumably by a splinter of flying debris, and picked up senseless by our gallant troops. Of course they’d taken me for a pandy – with my matted hair and beard and filthy and ragged sepoy uniform; they’d seen I wasn’t dead, and decided to execute me in style, along with other prisoners. For as I flung my head round in an ecstasy of such fear as even I had never known before, I saw that mine was only one in a line of guns, six or seven of them, and across the muzzle of each was strapped a human figure. Some were ragged pandies, like me, others were just niggers; one or two were gagged, as I was, the rest were not; some had been tied face to the gun, but most had the muzzles in their backs. And shortly these brutes who loafed about the guns at their ease, spitting and smoking and chaffing to each other, would touch off the charges, and a mass of splintering stone would tear through my vitals – and there was nothing I could do to stop them! If I hadn’t screamed when I regained consciousness, I wouldn’t have been gagged, and three words would have been enough to show them their ghastly error – but now I couldn’t utter a sound, but only watch with bulging eyes as one of the troopers, in leisurely fashion, pushed a length of fuse into the touch-hole, winked at me, and then sauntered back to rejoin his mates, who were standing or squatting in the sunlight, obviously waiting for the word to start the carnage.

  “Come on, come on, where the ’ell’s the captain?” says one. “Still at mess, I’ll lay. Christ, it’s ’ot! I want ter get on my charpoy, I do, an’ bang me bleedin’ ear-’ole. ’E couldn’t blow the bloody pandies away arter supper, could ’e? Oh, no, not ’im.”

  “Wot we blowin’ ’em up for?” says one pale young trooper. “Couldn’t they ’ang the pore sods – or shoot ’em? It ’ud be cheaper.”

  “Pore sods my arse,” says the first. “You know what they done, these black scum? You shoulda bin at Delhi, see the bloody way they ripped up wimmen an’ kids – fair sicken yer, wot wi’ tripes an’ innards all over the plice. Biowin’ away’s too—good for ’em.”

  “Not as cruel as ’angin’, neither,” says a third. “They don’t feel nothin’.” He strolled past my gun, and to my horror he patted me on the head. “So cheer up, Sambo, you’ll soon be dead. ’Ere, wot’s the matter wiv ’im, Bert, d’ye reckon?”

  I was writhing frenziedly in my bonds, almost fainting with the agony of my wounded arm, which was gashed and bleeding, flinging my head from side to side as I tried to spit out that horrible gag, almost bursting internally in my effort to make some sound, any sound, that would make him understand the ghastly mistake they’d made. He stood, grinning stupidly, and Bert sauntered up, knocking his pipe out on the gun.

  “Matter? Wot the ’ell d’yer think’s the matter, you duffer? ’E don’t want ’is guts blew all the way to Calcutta – that’s wot’s the matter! Gawd, ’e’ll kill ’isself wiv apple-plexy by the look of ’im.”

  “Funny, though, ain’t it?” says the first. “An’ look at the rest of ’em – jes’ waitin’ there, an’ not even a squeak from ’em, as if they didn’t care. Pathetic, ain’t it?”

  “That’s their religion,” pronounced Bert. “They fink they’re goin’ to ’eaven – they fink they’re goin’ to get ’arf-a-dozen rum bints apiece, an’ bull ’em till Judgement Day. Fact.”

  “Go on! They don’t look all that bleedin’ pleased, then, do they?”

  They turned away, and I flopped over the gun, near to suffocation and with my heart ready to burst for misery and fear. Only one word – that was all I needed – Christ, if I could only get a hand free, a finger even! Blood from my wounded arm had run on to the gun, drying almost at once on the burning metal – if I could even scrawl a message on it – or just a letter – they might see it, and understand. I must be able to do something – think, think, think, I screamed inside my head, fighting back the madness, straining with all my power to tear my right wrist free, almost dislocating my neck in a futile effort to
work the gag-binding loose. My mouth was full of its filthy taste, it seemed to be slipping farther into my gullet, choking me – God, if they thought I was choking, would they pull it out, even for a second? … that was all I needed, oh God, please, please, let them – I couldn’t die like this, like a stinking nigger pandy, after all I’d suffered – not by such cruel, ghastly, ill-luck …

  “Aht pipes, straighten up – orficer comin’,” cries one of the troopers, and they scrambled up hastily, adjusting their kepis, doing up their shirt-buttons, as two officers came strolling across from the tents a couple of hundred yards away. I gazed towards them like a man demented, as though by staring I could attract their attention; my right wrist was raw and bleeding with my dragging at it, but the rope was like a band of steel round it, and I couldn’t do more than scrabble with my fingers at the hot metal. I was crying, uncontrollably; my head was swimming – but no, no, I mustn’t faint! Anything but that – think, think, don’t faint, don’t go mad! They’ve never got you yet – you’ve always slid out somehow …

  “All ready, sergeant?” The leading officer was glancing along the line of guns, and my eyes nearly started from my head as I saw it was Clem Hennidge48 – Dandy Clem of the 8th Hussars, whom I’d ridden with at Balaclava. He was within five yards of me, nodding to the sergeant, glancing briefly round, while beside him a fair young lieutenant was staring with pop-eyes at us trussed victims, going pale and looking ready to puke. By heaven, he wasn’t the only one!

  He shuddered, and I heard him mutter to Hennidge: “Christ! I shan’t be writing to mother about this, though!”

  “Beastly business,” says Hennidge, slapping his crop on his palm. “Orders, though, what? Very good, sergeant – we’ll touch ’em off all together, if you please. All properly shotted and primed? Very good, then.”

  “Yessir! Beg pardon, sir, usual orders is to touch ’em off one arter the other, sir. Leastways, that’s ’ow we done it at Calpee, sir!”

  “Good God!” says Hennidge, and contained himself. “I’ll be obliged if you’ll fire all together, sergeant, on this occasion!” He muttered something to the lieutenant, shaking his head as in despair.

  Two men ran forward to my gun, one of them pulling matches from his pocket. He glanced nervously back and called.

  “Sarn’t – sir! This ’un ain’t got no lock, nor lanyard, please! See, sir, it’s one o’ them nigger guns – can’t fire it ’cept with a fuse, sir!”

  “What’s that?” cries Hennidge, coming forward, “Oh – I see. Very well, then, light the fuse at the signal, then, and – Good God, is this fellow having a fit?”

  I had made one last desperate effort to pull free, hauling like a mad thing, flinging myself as far as my lashing would allow, tossing my head, jerking to and fro, my head swimming with the pain of my arm. Hennidge and the boy were staring at me – the boy’s face was green.

  “’E’s been carryin’ on like that since we triced ’im up, sir,” says one of the gunners. “Screamin’, ’e was – we ’ad ter gag him, sir.”

  Hennidge swallowed, and then nodded curtly, and turned away, but the lieutenant seemed to be rooted with horrified fascination, as though he couldn’t tear his eyes away from me.

  “Ready!” bawls the sergeant, and “Light the fuse now, Bert,” says the man at my gun. Through a red haze I saw the match splutter, and go out. Bert cursed, struck a second, and touched it to the fuse. A moment, and it fizzed, and the gunners retreated.

  “Best stand back, sir!” cries Bert. “Gawd knows what’ll happen when she goes off – might blow wide open!”

  The lieutenant shuddered, and seemed to collect himself, and then the strangest thing happened. For I absolutely heard a voice, and it seemed to be very close in my ear, and the oddest thing was, it was Rudi Starnberg, my old enemy from Jotunberg, and as clear as a bell across the years I heard him laughing: “The comedy’s not finished yet! Come on, play-actor!”

  No doubt it was the product of a disordered mind, as I stared at Death in the spluttering fuse, but just for a second I realised that if there was the ghost of a chance left, it depended on keeping ice-cold – as Rudi would have done, of course. The lieutenant’s eyes were just on mine for an instant before he turned away, and in that instant I raised my brows and lowered them, twice, quickly. It stopped him, and very carefully, as he stared, I closed one eye in an enormous wink. It must have been a grotesque sight; his mouth dropped open, and then I opened my eye, turned my head deliberately, and stared fixedly at my right hand. He must look, he must! My wrist was as fast as ever, but I could just turn my hand, palm upwards, fold the thumb and last three fingers slowly into my palm, and beckon with my fore-finger, once, twice, thrice – and still beckoning, I stared at him again.

  For a moment he just gaped, and closed his eyes, and gaped again, and I thought, oh Christ, the young idiot’s going to stand there until the bloody fuse has burned down! He stared at me, licking his lips, obviously flabbergasted, turned to glance at Hennidge, looked back at me – and then, as I tried to bore into his brain, and crooked my finger again and again, he suddenly yelled “Wait! Sergeant, don’t fire!” and striding forward, he yanked the burning fuse from the touch-hole. Clever boys they had in the Light Brigade in those days.

  “What the devil? John – what on earth are you doing?” cries Hennidge. “Sergeant, hold on there!” He came striding up, demanding to know what was up, and the lieutenant, pale and sweating, stood by the breech pointing at me.

  “I don’t know! That chap – he beckoned, I tell you! And he winked! Look, my God, he’s doing it again! He’s … he’s trying to say something!”

  “Hey? What?” Hennidge was peering across at me, and I wobbled my eyebrows as ludicrously as I could, and tried to munch my lips at the same time. “What the deuce – I believe you’re right … you, there, get that gag out of his mouth – sharp, now!”

  “Arise, Sir Harry” was one of the sweetest sounds I ever heard; so was Abe Lincoln’s voice in that house at Portsmouth, Ohio, asking “What do you want with me?” when the slave-catchers were on my tail. I can think of many others, but so help me God, none of them rang such peals of hope and joy in my ears as those words of Hennidge’s beside the guns at Gwalior. Even as the cloth was wrenched loose, though, and the gag was torn out of my mouth, and I was gasping in air, I was thinking frantically what I must say to prevent the appalling chance of their disbelieving me – something to convince them instantly, beyond any doubt, and what I croaked out when my breath came was:

  “I’m Flashman – Flashman, d’ye hear! You’re Clem Hennidge! The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, God save the Queen. I’m English – English – I’m in disguise! Ask General Rose! I’m Flashman, Harry Flashman! Cut me loose, you bastards! I’m Flashman!”

  You never saw such consternation in your life; for a moment they just made pop-eyed noises, and then Hennidge cries out:

  “Flashman? Harry Flashman? But … but it’s impossible – you can’t be!”

  Somehow I didn’t start to rave, or swear, or blubber. Instead I just leered up at him and croaked:

  “You give me the lie, Hennidge, and I’ll call you out, d’you know? I called a man out in ’39, remember? He was a cavalry captain, too. So – would you mind just cutting these damned ropes – and mind my arm, ’cos I think it’s broken …”

  “My God, you are Flashman!” cries he, as if he was looking at a ghost. Then he just stuttered and gaped, and signed to the gunners to cut me loose, which they did, lowering me gently to the ground, horror and dismay all over their faces, I was glad to see. But I’ll never forget what Hennidge said next, as the lieutenant called for a water-bottle and pressed it to my lips; Hennidge stood staring down at me appalled, and then he said ever so apologetically:

  “I say, Flashman – I’m most frightfully sorry!”

  Mark you, what else was there to say? Oh, aye, there was something – I hadn’t reasoned it, as you can imagine, but it leaped into my mind as I sat there, al
most swooning with relief, not minding the pains in my head and arms, and happened to glance along the guns. I was suddenly shuddering horribly, and bowing my head in my sound hand, trying to hold back the sobs, and then I says, as best I could:

  “Those niggers tied to the guns. I want them cut loose – all of ’em, directly!”

  “What’s that?” says he. “But they’ve been condem –”

  “Cut ’em loose, damn you!” My voice was shaking and faint. “Every mother’s son-of-a-bitch, d’you hear?” I glared up at him, as I sat there in the dust in my rags, with my back to the gun-wheel – I must have been a rare sight. “Cut ’em loose, and tell ’em to run away – away, as far as they know how – away from us, and never to get caught again! Blast you, don’t stand there gawping – do as I say!”

  “You’re not well,” says he. “You’re distraught, and –”

  “I’m also a bloody colonel!” I hollered. “And you’re a bloody captain! I’m in my right mind, too, and I’ll break you, by God, if you don’t attend to me this minute. So … set – them – loose! Be a good chap, Clem – very well?”

  So he gave the orders, and they turned them free, and the young lieutenant knelt beside me with the water-bottle, very respectful and moist-eyed.

  “That was merciful,” says he.

  “Merciful be damned,” says I. “The way things are hereabouts, one of ’em’s probably Lord Canning.”