01 - Flashman fp-1

by George MacDonald Fraser

  "Excellent! Bahut achha!" said Burnes, puffing a cheroot and peering out of the window. "You see, Charlie, they've drawn off, and presently Elphy will be wondering down in the cantonment what all the row's about, and send someone to see."

  "Won't he send troops, then?" says little Charlie. "Of course. A battalion, probably - that's what I'd send. Since it's Elphy, though, he's as likely to send a brigade, eh, Jim?"

  Broadfoot, squatting at the other window, peered along his pistol barrel, fired, swore, and said: "So long as he sends someone."

  "Don't you fret," says Burnes. "Here, Flashy, have a cheroot.

  Then you can try your hand at potting off some of these chaps beyond the wall. I'd say Elphy'll be on the move inside two hours, and we'll be out of here in three. Good shot, Jim! That's the style!"

  Burnes was wrong, of course. Elphy didn't send troops; indeed, so far as I've been able to learn, he did nothing at all. If even a platoon had arrived in that first hour, I believe the mob would have melted before them; as it was, they began to pluck up courage, and started clambering the wall again, and sneaking round to the rear, where the stables gave them cover. We kept up a good fire from the windows - I shot three myself, including an enormously fat man, at which Burnes said: "Choose the thin ones, Flashy; that chap couldn't have got in the front door anyway." But as two hours passed he joked rather less, and actually made another attempt to talk to our attackers from the balcony, but they drove him inside with a shot or two and a volley of missiles.

  Meanwhile, some of the Ghazis had set fire to the stables, and the smoke began to drift into the house. Burnes swore, and we all strained our eyes peering across the rooftops towards the cantonment, but still no sign of help appeared, and I felt the pumping of fear again in my throat. The howling of the mob had risen again, louder than ever, some of the jawans were looking scared, and even Burnes was frowning.

  "Blast Elphy Bey," says he. "He's cutting it dooced fine. And I believe these brutes have got muskets from some-where at last -

  listen." He was right; there were as many shots coming from outside as from inside the house. They were smacking into the walls and knocking splinters from the shutters, and presently another jawan gave a yelp and staggered back into the room with his shoulder smashed and blood pouring down his shirt.

  "Hm," says Burnes, "this is gettin' warm. Like Montrose at the Fair, eh, Charlie?" Charlie gave him the ghost of a smile; he was scared stiff and trying not to show it.

  "How many rounds have you got, Flashy?" says Burnes. I had only six left, and Charlie had none; the ten jawans had barely forty among them.

  "How about you, Jim?" shouts Burnes to Broadfoot, who was at the far window. Broadfoot shouted something back, but in the din I didn't catch it, and then Broadfoot stood slowly up, and turned towards us, looking down at his shirt-front. I saw a red spot there, and suddenly it grew to a great red stain, and Broadfoot took two steps back and went head first over the window sill. There was a sickening crash as he hit the courtyard, and a tremendous shriek from the mob; the firing seemed to redouble, and from the rear, where the smoke of the burning stables was pouring in on us, came the measured smashing of a ram at the back door.

  Burnes fired from his window, and ducked away. He squatted down near me, spun his pistol by the guard, whistled for a second or two through his teeth, and then said: "Charlie, Flashy, I think it's time to go."

  "Where the hell to?" says I.

  "Out of here," says he. "Charlie, cut along to my room; you'll find native robes in the wardrobe. Bring 'em along. Lively, now." When Charlie had gone, he said to me "It's not much of a chance, but it's all we have, I think. We'll try it at the back door; the smoke looks pretty thick, don't you know, and with all the confusion we might get clear away. Ah, good boy, Charlie. Now send the havildar across to me."

  While Burnes and Charlie struggled into their gowns and puggarees, Burnes talked to the havildar, who agreed that the mob probably wouldn't hurt him and his men, not being feringhees, but would concentrate on looting the place.

  "But you, sahib, they will surely kill," he said. "Go while ye can, and God go with you."

  "And remain with you and yours," says Burnes, shaking his hand. "Shabash and salaam, havildar. All ready, Flash? Come on, Charlie."

  And with Burnes in the lead and myself last, we cut out down the staircase, across the hall, and through the passage towards the kitchen. From the back door, out of sight to our right, there came a crackling of breaking timber; I took a quick glance through a loophole, and saw the garden almost alive with Ghazis.

  "Just about in time," says Burnes, as we reached the kitchen door. I knew it led into a little fenced-off pen, where the swill-tubs were kept; once we got into that, and provided we weren't actually seen leaving the house, we stood a fair chance of getting away.

  Burnes slipped the bar quietly from the door, and opened it a crack.

  "Luck of the devil!" says he. "Come on, juldi!"

  We slipped out after him; the pen was empty. It consisted of two high screen walls running from either side of the door; there was no one in sight through the opening at the other end, and the smoke was billowing down in great clouds now, with the mob kicking up the most hellish din on either side of us.

  "Pull her to, Flashy!" snapped Burnes, and I shut the door behind us. "That's it - now, try to batter the damned thing down!" Arid he jumped at the closed door, hammering with his fists. "Open, unbelieving swine!" he bawled. "Feringhee pigs, your hour has come!

  This way, brothers! Death to the bastard Sekundar!"

  Seeing his plan, we hammered along with him, and presently round the end of the pen came a handful of Ghazis to see what was what. All they saw, of course, was three of the Faithful trying to break down a door, so they joined in, and after a moment we left off, Burnes cursing like blazes, and went out of the pen, ostensibly to seek another entrance to hammer at.

  There were Afghans all over the garden and round the burning stables; most of them, it seemed to me, were just berserk and running about and yelling for no particular reason, waving their knives and spears, and presently there was a tremendous howl and a crash as the back door caved in, and a general move in that direction. The three of us kept going for the stable gate, past the burning building; it was a creepy feeling, hurrying through the confused crowd of our enemies, and I was in dread that little Charlie, who was new to native dress, and not nearly as dark as Burnes and I, would do something to be spotted. But he kept his hood well forward over his face, and we got outside the gate in safety, where the hangers-on were congregated, yelling and laughing as they watched the Residency, hoping no doubt to see the bodies of the hated feringhees launched from the upper windows.

  "May dogs defile the grave of the swine Burnes!" roared Sekundar, spitting towards the Residency, and the by-standers gave him a cheer. "So far, so good," he added to me. "Now shall we stroll down to the cantonments and have a word with Elphy? Ready, Charlie? Best foot forward, then, and try to swagger like a regular badmash. Take your cue from Flashy here; ain't he the ugliest-lookin'

  Bashie-Bazouk you ever saw?"

  With Burnes in the lead we pushed out boldly into the street, Sekundar thrusting aside the stragglers who got in the way like any Yusufzai bully; I wanted to tell him to go easy, for it seemed to me he must attract attention, and his face was all too familiar to the Kabulis.

  But they gave way before him, with a curse or two, and we won clear to the end of the street without being spotted; now, thought I, we're home in a canter. The crowd was still fairly thick, but not so noisy, and every stride was taking us nearer the point where, at worst, we could cut and run for it towards the cantonment.

  And then Burnes, the over-confident fool, ruined the whole thing.

  We had reached the end of the street, and he must pause to yell another curse against the feringhees, by way of a final brag: I could imagine him showing off later to the garrison wives, telling them how he'd fooled the Afghans by roaring threats a
gainst himself. But he overdid it; having called himself the grandson of seventy pariah dogs at the top of his voice, he muttered something in an under-tone to Charlie, and laughed at his own witticism.

  The trouble is, an Afghan doesn't laugh like an English-man. He giggles high-pitched, but Burnes guffawed. I saw a head turn to stare at us, and grabbing Burnes by one arm and Charlie by the other I was starting to hurry them down the street when I was pushed aside and a big brute of a Ghazi swung Burnes round by the shoulder and peered at him.

  "Jao, hubshi!" snarled Burnes, and hit his hand aside, but the fellow still stared, and then suddenly shouted:

  "Mashallah! Brothers, it is Sekundar Burnes!"

  There was an instant's quiet, and then an almighty yell. The big Ghazi whipped out his Khyber knife, Burnes locked his arm and snapped it before he could strike, but then about a dozen others were rushing in on us. One jumped at me, and I hit him so hard with my fist that I overbalanced; I jumped up, clawing for my own sword, and saw Burnes throwing off the wounded Ghazi and shouting:

  "Run, Charlie, run!"

  There was a side-alley into which Charlie, who was nearest, might have escaped, but he hesitated, standing white-faced, while Burnes jumped between him and the charging Afghans. Sekundar had his Khyber knife out now; he parried a blow from the leader, closed with him, and shouted again:

  "Get out, Charlie! Cut, man!"

  And then, as Charlie still hesitated, petrified, Burnes yelled in an agonised voice:

  "Run, baby, please! Run!"

  They were the last words he spoke. A Khyber knife swept down on his shoulder and he reeled back, blood spouting; then the mob was on top of him, hacking and striking. He must have taken half a dozen mortal cuts before he even hit the ground. Charlie gave a frenzied cry, and ran towards him; they cut him down before he had gone three steps.

  I saw all this, because it happened in seconds; then I had my own hands full. I jumped over the man I had hit and dived for the alley, but a Ghazi was there first, screaming and slashing at me. I had my own sword out, and turned his cut, but the way was blocked and the mob was howling at my heels. I turned, slashing frantically, and they gave back an instant; I got my back to the nearest wall as they surged in again, the knives flashed before my eyes. I thrust at the snarling faces and heard the screams and curses. And then something hit me a dreadful blow in the stomach and I went down before the rush of bodies; a foot stamped on my hip, and even as I thought, oh, sweet Jesus, this is death, I had one fleeting memory of being trampled in the scrimmage in the Schoolhouse match. Something smashed against my head, and I waited for the horrible bite of sharp steel. And then I remember nothing more.(14)

  When I came to my senses I was lying on a wooden floor, my cheek against the boards. My head seemed to be opening and shutting with pain, and when I tried to raise it I found that my face was stuck to the boards with my own dried blood, so that I cried out with the pain as it pulled free.

  The first thing I noticed was a pair of boots, of fine yellow leather, on the floor about two yards away; above them were pyjamy trousers and the skirt of a black coat, and then a green sash and two lean hands hooked into it by the thumbs, and above all, a dark, grinning face with pale grey eyes under a spiked helmet. I knew the face, from my visit to Mogala, and even in my confused state I thought: this is bad news. It was my old enemy, Gul Shah.

  He sauntered over and kicked me in the ribs. I tried to speak, and the first words that came out, in a hoarse whisper, were: "I'm alive."

  "For the moment," said Gul Shah. He squatted down beside me, smiling his wolfs smile. "Tell me, Flashman: what does it feel like to die?"

  "What d'ye mean?" I managed to croak.

  He jerked his thumb. "Out in the street yonder: you were down, with the knives at your neck, and only my timely intervention saved you from the same fate as Sekundar Burnes. They cut him to pieces, by the way. Eighty-five pieces, to be exact: they have been counted, you see. But you, Flashman, must have known what it was like to die in that moment. Tell me: I am curious."

  I guessed there was no good coming from these questions; the evil look of the brute made my skin crawl. But I thought it best to answer.

  "It was bloody horrible," says I.

  He laughed with his head back, rocking on his heels, and others laughed with him. I realised there were perhaps half a dozen others -

  Ghazis, mostly - in the room with us. They came crowding round to leer at me, and if anything they looked even nastier than Gul Shah.

  When he had finished laughing he leaned over me. "It can be more horrible," says he, and spat in my face. He reeked of garlic.

  I tried to struggle up, demanding to know why he had saved me, and he stood up and kicked me again. "Yes, why?" he mocked me. I couldn't fathom it; I didn't want to. But I thought I'd pretend to act as though it were all for the best.

  "I'm grateful to you, sir," says I, "for your timely assistance. You shall be rewarded - all of you - and ..."

  "Indeed we will," says Gul Shah. "Stand him up."

  They dragged me to my feet, twisting my arms behind me. I told them loudly that if they took me back to the cantonment they would be handsomely paid, and they roared with laughter.

  "Any paying the British do will be in blood," says Gul Shah.

  "Yours first of all."

  "What for, damn you?" I shouted.

  "Why do you suppose I stopped the Ghazis from quartering you?"

  says he. "To preserve your precious skin, perhaps? To hand you as a peace offering to your people?" He stuck his face into mine. "Have you forgotten a dancing girl called Narreeman, you pig's bastard? Just another slut, to the likes of you, to be defiled as you chose, and then forgotten. You are all the same, you feringhee swine; you think you can take our women, our country, and our honour and trample them all under foot. We do not matter, do we? And when all is done, when our women are raped and our treasure stolen, you can laugh and shrug your shoulders, you misbegotten pariah curs!" He was screaming at me, with froth on his lips.

  "I meant her no harm," I was beginning, and he struck me across the face. He stood there, glaring at me and panting. He made an effort and mastered himself.

  "She is not here," he said at last, "or I would give you to her and she would give you an eternity of suffering before you died. As it is, we shall do our poor best to accommodate you."

  "Look," says I. "Whatever I've done, I beg your pardon for it. I didn't know you cared for the wench, I swear. I'll make amends, any way you like. I'm a rich man, a really rich man." I went on to offer him whatever he wanted in ransom and as compensation to the girl, and it seemed to quiet him for a minute.

  "Go on," says he, when I paused. "This is good to listen to."

  I would have done, but just the cruel sneer told me he was mocking me, and I fell silent.

  "So, we are where we began," says he. "Believe me, Flashman, I would make you die a hundred deaths, but time is short. There are other throats besides yours, and we are impatient people. But we shall make your passing as memorable as possible, and you shall tell me again what it is like to die. Bring him along."

  They dragged me from the room, along a passage, and I roared for help and called Gul Shah every filthy name I could lay tongue to.

  He strode on ahead, heedless, and presently threw open a door; they ran me across the threshold and I found I was in a low, vaulted chamber, perhaps twenty yards long. I had half-expected racks and thumbscrews or some such horrors, but the room was entirely bare.

  The one curious feature of it was that half way it was cut in two by a deep culvert, perhaps ten feet wide and six deep. It was dry, and where it ran into the walls on either side the openings were stopped up with rubble. This had obviously been done only recently, but I could not imagine why.

  Gul Shah turned to me. "Are you strong, Flashman?"

  "Damn you!" I shouted. "You'll pay for this, you dirty nigger!"

  "Are you strong?" he repeated. "Answer, or I'll have your tongue c
ut out."

  One of the ruffians grabbed my jaw in his hairy paw and brought the knife up to my mouth. It was a convincing argument. "Strong enough, damn you."

  "I doubt that," smiled Gul Shah. "We have executed two rascals here of late, neither of them weaklings. But we shall see." To one of his crew he said: "Bring Mansur. I should explain this new entertainment of mine," he went on, gloating at me. "It was inspired partly by the unusual shape of this chamber, with its great trench in the middle, and partly by a foolish game which your British soldiers play.

  Doubtless you have played it yourself, which will add interest for you, and us. Yah, Mansur, come here."

  As he spoke, a grotesque figure waddled into the room. For a moment I could not believe it was a man, for he was no more than four feet high. But he was terrific. He was literally as broad as he was long, with huge knotted arms and a chest like an ape's. His enormous torso was carried on massive legs. He had no neck that I could see, and his yellow face was as flat as a plate, with a hideous nose spread across it, a slit of a mouth, and two black button eyes. His body was covered in dark hair, but his skull was as smooth as an egg. He wore only a dirty loincloth, and as he shuffled across to Gul Shah the torchlight in that windowless room gave him the appearance of some hideous Nibelung dragging itself through dark burrows beneath the earth.