The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “That’ll mak’ him a man afore his mither,” says Moyes quietly, and for flat, careless contempt I never heard its equal. He stood like a rock – and suddenly the axe flashed down, with a hideous thud, his body was sent hurtling back, and I was face down in the dirt, gasping bile and sobbing with horror.

  That was how it happened – the stories that he laughed in defiance, or made a speech about not bowing his head to any heathen, or recited a prayer, or even the tale that he died drunk – they’re false. I’d say he was taken flat aback at the mere notion of kow-towing, and when it sank in, he wasn’t having it, not if it cost him his life. You may ask, was he a hero or just a fool, and I’ll not answer – for I know this much, that each man has his price, and his was higher than yours or mine. That’s all. I know one other thing – whenever I hear someone say “Proud as Lucifer”, I think, no, proud as Private Moyes.22

  But I’d no time for philosophy just then; I was numb with shock and a blinding pain in my wounded head as they dragged us back to our cell, still in mortal fear of our lives; someone, I believe it was a coolie, loosed my bonds and poured water over my face and down my throat, and I remember the excruciating pain as the blood flowed back to my hands and feet. Gradually it eased, and I must have slept in that bed of stinking mud, for suddenly I was awake, and it was freezing cold, and though my skull was still aching dully, I was clear-headed – and I was alone in the cell and the door was open.

  By the cold, and the dim light, it could only be dawn, and there was a cannonading shaking the ground, from not far away. It stopped of a sudden, with much Chinese yelling, and then came the crash of exploding Armstrongs, followed by a distant rattle of musketry, growing closer, and culminating in a babble of voices cheering. More shots, and steps pounding outside, and a voice bellowing excitedly: “En avant! En avant! Chat huant! Chat huant!”, and as I scrambled up, soaked in mud, I was thinking: “Frogs, and Bretons, at that!”23 and I stumbled from the cell into the arms of a big cove in a blue overcoat and kepi, who gave back roaring in disgust from this muddy spectre pawing at him.

  This was how it was. I’d been taken prisoner by the Tartars on the afternoon of August 12, and carried by them to the village of Tang-ku, the last Chink outpost before Taku Forts. I’d been groggy with the clout on my head until next day, when we’d been dragged out to the yard where Moyes was murdered. I must have lain in the cell through the next night, and when our people attacked Tang-ku at dawn on the 14th, and the Chinese fired a few salvoes and abandoned the place, leaving us unheeded – why, there I was. Where the Irishman and the coolies had gone, I’d no notion, but I gave it some thought while a Frog rifleman helped me back to a field dressing-station – and decided to be French for the moment. I mort-de-ma-vied and sacred-blued like anything while an orderly flung water over me to disperse my filth and then clapped a cold compress on my battered scalp. I gave him a torrent of garlic gratitude and withdrew from the bedlam of the station, muttering like an Apache, and considering, now that the peril was past, how to preserve my precious credit.

  You see, I’d grovelled, and been seen to grovel, to that infernal Chink warlord – but only by a Paddy sergeant who didn’t know me from Adam; besides, I’d been in khaki mufti and so plastered with dung as to be unrecognisable. I doubted if the Mick had even seen me at the grog-cart, it had all happened so quickly – so now, if I minded my step for a while, and covered my tracks, there was no earthly reason why the inconvenient Fenian (wherever he was) or anyone else, should ever identify the spruce and heroic Flashy, who would shortly appear at head-quarters, with the craven scarecrow who’d been first to knock head before the heathen’s feet. Ve-ry good; all we needed was a razor and somebody’s clean shirt and trousers …

  It’s a crying shame, as I keep telling Royal Commissions, that among all the military manuals there ain’t a line about foraging and decorating, those essential arts whereby the soldier keeps body and soul together in adversity. Offered to write ’em one, but they wouldn’t have it, more fool them, for I’ve lifted everything from chickens to Crown Jewels, and could have set generations of young fellows right, if they’d let me. It was child’s play to kit myself out after Tang-ku; the two miles back to Sinho was a carnival of support troops and baggage following the advance, setting up tents and quarters, and a great confusion through which I ambled, airing my French when I had to, and being taken, no doubt, for a rather unkempt commissariat-wallah, or a correspondent, or a Nonconformist missionary. Within ten minutes I’d replaced my soiled garments with a fine tussore coat, coolie pants, solar helmet, and umbrella, with a handsome morocco toilet case in my back pocket – and if you think that outlandish, let me tell you that armies were a deal more informally attired in my day. Campbell at Lucknow looked like a bus conductor, and old Raglan in the Crimea appeared to have robbed a jumble sale.

  So when I’d shaved in a quiet corner, got rid of my bandages, and covered my cracked sconce with the topi, I was in pretty good fig, though feeling like a stretcher case. I hopped aboard an empty Frog ammunition cart going back to Sinho, spied Grant’s marker by a covered wagon, and strolled up to report, swinging my gamp. Two staff infants were within, Addiscombe all over ’em.

  “Hollo, my sons!” cries I cheerily, with my head splitting. “I’m Flashman. Not a bit of it, sit down, sit down! Don’t tell me you haven’t learned the great headquarters rule yet!”

  They looked at each other, blushing and respectful in the presence of the celebrated beau sabreur. “No, sir,” says one, nervously. “What’s that?”

  “Hark’ee, my boy. If bread is the staff of life, what is the life of the staff?”

  “Dunno, sir,” says he, grinning.

  “One long loaf,” says I, winking. “So take your ease, and tell me where’s Sir Hope Grant?”

  They said he was with the 60th, and when I inquired for Elgin, they looked astonished and told me he was back at Pehtang.

  “You mean I’ve trekked all across those confounded mudflats for nothing? Now, that’s too bad! Ah, well, Pehtang it must be. My compliments to Sir Hope, and tell Wolseley that if I hear he’s been fleecing you young chaps at piquet, I’ll call him out. So long, my sons!”

  Alibi nicely established, you see, with two gratified young gallopers reporting that Flashy had just tooled in from the coast (which was true, give or take a couple of days). I could now depart for Pehtang in the certainty that no one would ever imagine I’d been near Tang-ku, and the scene of my shame. It’s just a question of taking thought and pains, and well worth it.

  I was feeling decidedly flimsy by now, and wondering if I’d last as far as Pehtang, but by good luck the first man I ran into outside Grant’s wagon was Nuxban Khan, who’d been second to my blood-brother, Ilderim Khan, in the irregular horse at Jhansi. He hailed me with a great whoop and roarings in Pushtu, a huge Afghan thug in a sashed coat and enormous top-boots, grinning all over his dreadful face as he demanded how I did, and recalling those happy days when the Thugs all but had me outside the Rani’s pavilion until he and Ilderim and the rest of the Khyber Co-operative Society arrived to carve them up so artistically. He was a great man now, rissaldar in Fane’s Horse, and when he heard where I was bound nothing would do but I must travel in style in the regimental gig.

  “Shall Bloody Lance walk, or ride like a common sowar? No, by God! Thou’lt ride like a rajah, old friend – ah, the Colonel husoor’s pardon! – for the honour of Ilderim’s band! Aye, Ilderim! He ate his last salt at Cawnpore, peace be with him!” Suddenly there were tears running down his evil face. “Bismillah! Where are such friends as Ilderim today? Or such foes? Have ye seen these Tartars, Bloody Lance? Mice! Aye, but we’ll go mouse-hunting anon, thou and I!” Then he was shouting. “Hey, Probyn Sahib! Probyn Sahib! See who is here!”

  And now he was making me known to Probyn, whom I’d never met – tall, handsome, soft-spoken Probyn, whom some called the best irregular cavalryman since Skinner (though I’d have rated Grant above both). He was only a subaltern in
his regular regiment, yet here he was, with an independent command of his own, and a V.C. to boot. He in turn presented a few of his officers, Afghans to a man, and as ugly a crowd as ever crossed the border, and it made me feel downright odd, when he indicated me as “Flashman bahadur”, to see how they straightened and beamed and clicked their heels.

  D’you know, it was like coming home? Suddenly, among those wicked friendly faces, with Nuxban exclaiming and Probyn smiling and eyeing me respectfully, the terror of the past two days melted away, and even my head didn’t ache so fierce. I realised what it was – for the first time, in China, I wasn’t alone: I had the best army on earth with me, the bravest of the brave, terrible men who hailed me as a comrade, and an admired comrade, at that – unless your belly’s as yellow as mine, you can’t imagine what it means. I felt downright proud, and safe at last.

  Probyn rode along with me when I rolled off in Nuxban’s gig, and for the first time I had a proper look at the great British and French army camped outside Sinho. On either side of the causeway road stretched the long lines of tents, white and khaki and green, with the guidons fluttering and the troops at exercise or loafing: here was a company of Frogs with their overcoats and great packs counter-marching on the right of the road to “Marche Lorraine”, in competition with a Punjabi battalion, very trim in beards and tight puggarees, drilling to “John Peel” on the left; there was a Spahi squadron practising wheels at the gallop, the long cloaks flying, and a line of Probyn’s riders, Sikhs and Afghans in shirt-sleeves, taking turns to ride full tilt past an officer who was tossing oranges in the air – they were taking ’em with their sabres on the fly, roars of applause greeting each successful cut.

  “Fane’s boys will be doing it with grapes tomorrow, I expect,” says Probyn.

  I said it was a pity the Chinese Emperor couldn’t see ’em, and be brought to his senses – the neat artillery parks and rocket batteries, the endless lines of supply carts and ordnance wagons, manned by the milling Coolie Corps, whiskered Madrassis wrestling in their loin-cloths, brawny Gunners playing cricket on a mat wicket, bearded Sikhs grinding their lance-points on the emery wheel, green-jacketed 60th riflemen close-order-drilling like clockwork, a squadron of Dragoon Guards trotting by, each pith helmet and sloped sabre at an identical angle, Royals in their shirt-sleeves mingling with the Tirailleurs to swap baccy and gossip (it’s damned sinister, if you ask me, how the Jocks and Frogs always drift together), and something that would have made his Celestial Majesty’s eyes start from his princely head – two sowars of Fane’s in full fig being carried carefully to their horses by their mates for guard-mounting, so that no speck of dust should blemish the perfection of tunic and long boots, or the polish of lance, sword, pistols, and carbine. Probyn eyed them jaundiced-like, stroking his fair moustache.

  “If they take the stick24 again, Fane’ll be insufferable,” says he. “What, you’d like the Manchoo Emperor to see all this? Don’t fret, old fellah – he will.”

  He left me at the causeway, and I drove on alone to Pehtang, a moth-eaten village on the river boasting one decent house, where Elgin and his staff were quartered. I tiffined first with Temple of the military train, who deafened me with complaints about the condition of our transport – poor forage for the beasts, useless coolies, officers over-worked (“for a miserly nine and sixpence a day buckshee, let me tell you!”), the native ponies were hopeless, the notion of issuing a three-day cooked ration in this climate was lunacy, and it was a rooten, piddling war, anyway, which no one at home would mind a bit. It sounded like every military train I’d seen.

  “Frogs just a damned nuisance, of course – no proper provision, an’ three days late,” says he with satisfaction. “How the blazes Bonaparte ever got ’em on parade beats me. We should go without ’em.”

  Everyone says that about the French, and it’s gospel true – until it’s Rosalie’s breakfast timea, and then Froggy’ll be first into the breach ahead of us, just out of spite.

  Elgin was in the backyard of his house, stamping about in his shirt-sleeves, snapping dictation at Loch, his secretary, while my Canton inquisitor, Parkes, sat by. I heard Elgin’s sharp, busy voice before I saw him; as I halted in the gateway he turned, glaring like a belligerent Pickwick, and hailed me in mid-sentence with a bark and a wave.

  “… and I have the honour to refer your excellency to the Superintendent’s letter of whenever-it-was … Ha, Flashman! At last! … and to repeat the assertion … wait, Loch, make that warning … aye, the warning conveyed in my notes of so-and-so and so-and-so … that unless we have your assurance … solemn assurance … that our ultimatum will be complied with directly …”

  Still dictating, he rummaged in a letter-case and shoved a packet at me; to my astonishment it was addressed in my wife’s simpleton scrawl, and I’d have pocketed it, but Elgin waved me peremptorily to read it, so I did, while he went on dictating full spate.

  “Oh, my Darlingest Dear One, how I long to see you!” it began, and plunged straight into an account of how Mrs Potter was positive that the laundry were pinching our Best Linen sheets and sending back rubbish, so she had approved Mrs Potter’s purchase of one of Williamson’s new patent washing-machines and did I think it a Great Extravagance? “I am sure it must prove Useful, and a Great Saving. Shirts require no hand-rubbing! Qualified Engineers are prompt to carry out repairs, tho’ such are seldom necessary Mrs Potter says.” She (Elspeth, not Mrs Potter) loved me Excessively and had noticed in the press an Item which she was sure I must find droll – a Bishop’s duaghter had married the Rev. Edward Cheese! Such a comical name! She had been to Hanover Square to hear Mr Ryder read “MacBeth” – most moving altho’ Shakespeare’s notions of Scottish speech were outlandish and silly, and she and Jane Speedicut had been twice to “The Pilgrim of Love” at the Haymarket, and Jane had wept in a most Affected way “just to attract Attention, which she needn’t have bothered in that unfortunate lilac gown, so out of style!!” She missed me, and please, I must not mind about the washing-machine for if she hadn’t Mrs P. might have Given Notice! Little Havvy hoped his Papa would kill a Chinaman, and enclosed a picture of Jesus which he had drawn at school. “Oh, come to us soon, soon, dear Hero, to the fond arms of your Loving, Adoring Elspeth. x x x x x!!!”

  I ain’t given to sentimental tears, but it was a close thing, standing in that hot, dusty yard with the smell of China in my nostrils, holding that letter which I could picture her writing, sighing and frowning and nibbling her pen, rumpling her golden curls for inspiration, burrowing in her dictionary to see how many s’s in “necessary”, smiling fondly as she kissed young Havvy’s execrable drawing – eleven years old the little brute was, and apparently thought Christ had a green face and feathers in his hair. If she’d written pages of Undying Devotion and slop, as she had in our young days, I’d have yawned at it – but all the nonsense about washing-machines and “MacBeth” and Jane’s dress and the man Cheese was so … so like Elspeth, if you know what I mean, and I felt such a longing for her, just to sit by her, and have her hand in mind, and look into those beautiful wide blue eyes, and tear off her corset, and –

  “Flashman!” Elgin was grasping my hand, demanding my news. “Ha! I’m glad to see you! You were despaired of at Shanghai!” The sharp eyes twinkled for an instant. “So you’ll write directly to reassure that bonny little wife whose letter I brought, hey? She’s in blooming health. Well, sit down, sit down! Tell me of Nanking.”

  So I did, and he listened with his bare forearms set on the table, John Bull to the life; he’d be fifty then, the Big Barbarian, as the Chinese called him, bald as an egg save for a few little white wisps, with his bulldog lip and sudden barks of anger or laughter. A peppery old buffer, and a deal kinder than he looked – how many ambassadors would call on a colonel’s wife to carry a letter to her man? – and the shrewdest diplomatic of his day, hard as a hammer and subtle as a Spaniard. Best of all, he had common sense.

  He’d made a name in the West Indies and Can
ada, negotiated the China treaty which we were now going to enforce, and had saved India, no question, by diverting troops from China at the outbreak of the Mutiny, without waiting orders from home. As to his diplomatic style – when the Yankees still had their eye on Canada, and looked like trying annexation, Elgin went through Washington’s drawing-rooms like a devouring flame, wining and dining every Southern Democrat he could find, dazzling ’em with his blue blood, telling ’em racy stories, carrying on like Cheeryble – and hinting, ever so delicate, that if Canada joined the Great Republic, it would give the Northern Yankees a fine majority in Congress, with all those long-nosed Scotch Calvinists (to say nothing of French Papists) becoming American voters overnight. That set the fire-bells ringing from Charleston to the Gulf, and with the South suddenly dead set against annexation – why Canada never did join the U.S.A., did she? Wily birds, these earls – this one’s father had pinched all the best marbles in Greece, so you could see they were a family to be watched.25

  “An unsavoury crew of fanatics,” was his comment when I’d told him of the Taipings. “Well, thanks to you, we should be able to keep them from Shanghai, and once the treaty’s signed, their bolt’s shot. The Imperial Chinese Government can set about ’em in earnest – with our tacit support, but not our participation. Eh, Parkes?”

  “Yes … the trouble is, my lord,” says Parkes, “that those two terms have a deplorable habit of becoming synonymous.”

  “Synonymous be damned!” snaps Elgin. “H.M.G. will not be drawn into war against the Taipings. We’d find ourselves with a new empire in China before we knew it.” He heaved up from the table and poured coffee from a spirit kettle. “And I have no intention, Parkes, of presiding over any extension of the area in which we exhibit the hollowness of our Christianity and our civilisation. Coffee, Flashman? Yes, you can light one of your damned cheroots if you want to – but blow the smoke the other way. Poisoning mankind!”