Flashman Papers Omnibus

by Fraser George MacDonald

  “I’m so glad you got out, in the end, though, Flashman. I … I hated leaving you, old fellow.”

  “Yes,” says I. “The Cossacks were all for it, though.”

  “I … I hope they didn’t – I mean, they didn’t use you too badly … that they didn’t …” He was making a truly dreadful hash of it, much to my enjoyment. “It’s been on my conscience, you know … having to go off like that.”

  Whiting was looking at the ceiling by this. Thomson was frowning, and the delectable Bella had stopped reading to listen.

  “Well,” says I, after a moment, “it’s all one now, you know.” I gave a little sigh. “Don’t fret about it, young Scud. If the worst comes to the worst here – I won’t leave you behind.”

  It hit him like a blow; he went chalk-white, and gasped, and then he turned on his heel and hurried off. Whiting said, “Good God!” and Thomson asked incredulously: “Did I understand that right? He absolutely cut out and left you – saved his own skin?”

  “Um? What’s that?” says I, and frowned. “Oh, now, that’s a bit hard. No use both of us being caught and strung up in a dungeon and …” I stopped there and bit my lip. “That would just have meant the Cossacks would have had two of us to … play with, wouldn’t it? Doubled the chance of one of us cracking and telling ’em what they wanted to know. That’s why I wasn’t sorry he cleared out … I knew I could trust myself, you see … But, Lord, what am I rambling about? It’s all past.” I smiled bravely at them. “He’s a good chap, young East; we were at school together, you know.”

  I limped off then, leaving them to discuss it if they wanted to, and what they said I don’t know, but later than evening Thomson sought me out at my place on the parapet, and shook my hand without a word, and then Bella Blair came, biting her lip, and kissed me quickly on the cheek and hurried off. It’s truly remarkable, if you choose a few words carefully, how you can enhance your reputation and damage someone else’s – and it was the least I could do to pay back that pious bastard East. Between me and his own precious Arnold-nurtured conscience he must have had a happy night of it.

  I didn’t sleep too well myself. A cupful of horse stew and a handful of flour don’t settle you, especially if you’re shaking with the horrors of your predicament. I even toyed with the idea of resuming my Pathan dress – which I had exchanged for army shirt and breeches – slipping over the parapet, lame as I was, and trying to escape, but the thought of being caught in the pandy lines was more than I could bear. I just lay there quaking, listening to the distant crack of the rebel snipers, and the occasional crump of a shot landing in the enclosure, tortured by thirst and hunger cramps, and I must have dozed off, for suddenly I was being shaken, and all round me people were hurrying, and a brazen voice was bawling “Stand to! Stand to! Loading parties, there!” A bugle was blaring, and orders were being shouted along the parapet – the fellow next me was ramming in a charge hurriedly, and when I demanded what was the row he just pointed out over the barricade, and invited me to look for myself.

  It was dawn, and across the flat maidan, in front of the pandy gun positions, men were moving – hundreds of them. I could see long lines of horsemen in white tunics, dim through the light morning mist, and in among the squadrons were the scarlet coats and white breeches of native infantry. Even as I looked there was the red winking of fire from the gun positions, and then the crash of the explosions, followed by the whine of shot and a series of crashes from the barracks behind. Clouds of dust billowed down from the wall, to the accompaniment of yells and oaths, and a chorus of wails from the children. A kettledrum was clashing, and here were the loading parties, civilians and followers and even some of the women, and a couple of bhistis,b and then Wheeler himself, with Moore at his heels, bawling orders, and behind him on the barrack-roof the torn Union Jack was being hauled up to flap limply in the warm dawn air.

  “They’re coming, rot ’em!” says the man next to me. “Look at ’em, yonder – 56th N.I., Madras Fusiliers. An’ Bengal Cavalry, too – don’t I know it! Those are my own fellows, blast the scoundrels – or were. All right, my bucks, your old riding-master’s waiting for you!” He slapped the stock of his rifle. I’ll give you more pepper than I ever did at stables!”

  The pandy guns were crashing away full tilt now, and the whistle of small arms shot was sounding overhead. I was fumbling with my revolver, pressing in the loads; all down the parapet there was the scraping of ram-rods, and Wheeler was shouting:

  “Every piece loaded, mind! Loading parties be ready with fresh charges! Three rifles to each man! All right, Delafosse! Moore, call every second man from the south side – smartly, now! Have the fire-parties stand by! Sergeant Grady, I want an orderly with bandages every ten yards on this parapet!”

  He could hardly be heard above the din of the enemy firing and the crash of the shots as they plumped home; the space between the parapet and the barracks was swirling with dust thrown up by the shot, and we lay with our heads pressed into the earth below the top of the barrier. Someone came forward at a crouching run and laid two charged muskets on the ground beside me; to my astonishment I saw it was Bella Blair – the fat babu I’d seen reading the previous night was similarly arming the riding-master, and the chap on t’other side of me had as his loader a very frail-looking old civilian in a dust-coat and cricket cap. They lay down behind us; Bella was pale as death, but she smiled at me and pushed the hair out of her eyes; she was wearing a yellow calico dress, I recall, with a band tied round her brows.

  “All standing to!” roars Wheeler. He alone was on his feet, gaunt and bare-headed, with his white hair hanging in wisps down his cheeks; he had his revolver in one hand, and his sabre stuck point-first in the ground before him. “Masters – I want a ration of flour and half a cup of water to each –”

  A terrific concerted salvo drowned out the words; the whole entrenchment seemed to shake as the shots ploughed into it and smashed clouds of brick dust from the barracks. Farther down the line someone was screaming, high-pitched, there was a cry for the stretchers, the dust eddied round us and subsided, and then the noise gradually ebbed away, even the screams trailed off into a whimper, and a strange, eery stillness fell.

  “Steady, all!” It was Wheeler, quieter now. “Riflemen – up to the parapet! Now hold your fire, until I give you the word! Steady, now!”

  I peered over the parapet. Across the maidan there was silence, too, suddenly broken by the shrill note of a trumpet. There they were, looking like a rather untidy review – the ranks of red-coated infantry, in open order, just forward of the ruined buildings, and before them, within shot, the horse squadrons, half a dozen of them well spaced out. A musket cracked somewhere down the parapet, and Wheeler shouted:

  “Confound it, hold that fire! D’you hear?”

  We waited and watched as the squadrons formed, and the riding-master cursed under his breath.

  “Sickenin’,” says he, “when you think I taught ’em that. As usual – C Troop can’t dress! That’s Havildar Ram Hyder for you! Look at ’em, like a bloody Paul Jones! Take a line from the right-hand troop, can’t you? Rest of ’em look well enough, though, don’t they? There now, steady up. That’s better, eh?”

  The man beyond him said something, and the riding-master laughed. “If they must charge us I’d like to see ’em do it proper, for my own credit’s sake, that’s all.”

  I tore my eyes away from that distant mass of men, and glanced round. The babu, flat on the ground, was turning his head to polish his spectacles; Bella Blair had her face hidden, but I noticed her fists were clenched. Wheeler had clapped his hat on, and was saying something to Moore; one of the bhistis was crawling on hands and knees along the line, holding a chaggle for the fellows to drink from. Suddenly the distant trumpet sounded again, there was a chorus of cries from across the maidan, a volley of orders, and now the cavalry were moving, at a walk, and then at a trot, and there was a bright flicker along their lines as the sabres came out.

  Oh, Ch
rist, I thought, this is the finish. There seemed to be hordes of them, advancing steadily through the wisps of mist, the dust coming up in little clouds behind them, and the crackle of the sharpshooters started up again, the bullets whining overhead.

  “Steady, all!” roars Wheeler again. “Wait for the word, remember!”

  I had laid by my revolver and had my musket up on the parapet. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow – I was remembering those masses of horsemen that had poured down from the Causeway Heights at Balaclava, and how disciplined fire had stopped them in their tracks – but those had been Campbell’s Highlanders shooting then, and we had nothing but a straggling line of sick crocks and civilians. They must break over us like a wave, brushing past our feeble volleys –

  “Take aim!” yells Wheeler, “make every shot tell, and wait for my command!”

  They were coming at the gallop now, perhaps three hundred yards off, and the sabres steady against the shoulders; they were keeping line damned well, and I heard my riding-master muttering:

  “Look at ’em come, though! Ain’t that a sight? – and ain’t they shaping well! Hold ’em in there, rissaldar, mind the dressing –”

  The thunder of the beating hooves was like surf; there was a sudden yell, and all the points came down, with the black blobs of faces behind them as the riders crouched forward and the whole line burst into the charge. They came sweeping in towards the entrenchment, I gripped my piece convulsively, and Wheeler yelled “Fire!”

  The volley crashed out in a billow of smoke – but it didn’t stop them. Horses and men went down, and then we were seizing our second muskets and blazing away, and then our third – and still they came, into that hell of smoke and flame, yelling like madmen; Bella Blair ws beside me, thrusting a musket into my hand, and hurrying feverishly to reload the others. I fired again, and as the smoke cleared we looked out onto a tangle of fallen beasts and riders, but half of them were still up and tearing in, howling and waving their sabres. I seized my revolver and blasted away; there were three of them surging in towards my position, and I toppled one from the saddle, another went rolling down with his mount shot under him, and the third came hurtling over the entrenchment, with the man on my right slashing at him as he passed.

  Behind him pressed the others – white coats, black faces, rearing beasts, putting their horses to the parapet; I was yelling incoherent obscenities, scrabbling up the muskets as fast as they were reloaded, firing into the mass; men were struggling all along the entrenchment, bayonets and swords against sabres, and still the firing crashed out. I heard Bella scream, and then there was a dismounted rider scrambling up the barrier directly before me; I had a vision of glaring eyes in a black face and a sabre upraised to strike, and then he fell back shrieking into the smoke. Behind me Wheeler was roaring, and I was grabbing for another musket, and then they were falling back, thank God, wheeling and riding back into the smoke, and the bhisti was at my elbow, thrusting his chaggle at my lips.

  “Stand to!” shouts Wheeler, “they’re coming again!”

  They were re-forming, a bare hundred yards off; the ground between was littered with dead and dying beasts and men. I had barely time to gulp a mouthful of warm, muddy water and seize my musket before they were howling in at us once more, and this time there were pandy infantrymen racing behind them.

  “One more volley!” bawls Wheeler. “Hold your fire, there! Aim for the horses! No surrender! Ready, present – fire!”

  The whole wall blasted fire, and the charge shook and wavered before it came rushing on again; half a dozen of them were rearing and plunging up to the entrenchment, the sabres were swinging about our heads, and I was rolling away to avoid the smashing hooves of a rider coming in almost on top of me. I scrambled to my feet, and there was a red-coated black devil leaping at me from the parapet; I smashed at him with my musket butt and sent him flying, and then another one was at me with his sabre, lunging. I shrieked as it flew past my head, and then we had closed, and I was clawing at his face, bearing him down by sheer weight. His sabre fell, and I plunged for it; another pandy was rushing past me, musket and bayonet extended, but I got my hand on the fallen hilt, slashing blindly; I felt a sickening shock on my head, and fell, a dead weight landed on top of me, and the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, with the earth swimming round me, and Wheeler was bawling,

  “Cease fire! Cease fire! Stretchers, there!”

  and the noise of yelling and banging had died away, while the last of the smoke cleared above the ghastly shambles of the parapet.

  There seemed to be dead and dying everywhere. There must have been at least a dozen pandies sprawled within ten yards of where I knelt; the ground was sticky with blood. Wheeler himself was down on one knee, supporting the fat babu, who was wailing with a shattered leg; the frail civilian was lying asprawl, his cricket cap gone and his head just a squashed red mess. One of the pandies stirred, and pulled himself up on one knee; Wheeler, his arm still round the babu, whipped up his revolver and fired, and the pandy flopped back in the dust. The stretcher parties were hurrying up; I looked out over the parapet, across a maidan littered with figures of men that crawled or lay still; there were screaming horses trying to rise, and others that lay dead among the fallen riders. Two hundred yards off there were men running – the other way, thank God; farther down the parapet someone sent up a cheer, and it gradually spread along the entrenchment in a ghastly, croaking yell. My mouth was too dry, and I was too dazed to cheer – but I was alive.

  Bella Blair was dead. She was lying on her side, her hands clutched on the stock of a musket whose bayonet was buried in her body. I heard a moan behind me, and there was the riding-master, flopped against the parapet, his shirt soaked in blood, trying to reach for the fallen water-chaggle. I stumbled over to him, and held it up to his lips; he sucked it, groaning, and then let his head fall back.

  “Beat ’em, did we?” says he, painfully. I could only nod; I took a gulp at the chaggle myself, and offered him another swig, but he turned his head feebly aside. There was nothing to be done for him; his life was running out of him where he lay.

  “Beat ’em,” says he again. “Dam’ good. Thought … they was going to ride … clean over us there … for a moment.” He coughed blood, and his voice trailed away into a whisper. “They shaped well, though … didn’t they … shape well? My Bengalis …” He closed his eyes. “I thought they shaped … uncommon well …”

  I looked down the entrenchment. About half the defenders were on their feet at the parapet, I reckoned. In between, the sprawled, silent figures, the groaning, writhing wounded waiting for the stretchers, the tangle of gear and fallen weapons, the bloody rags – and now the pandy guns again, pounding anew at the near-dead wreck of the Cawnpore garrison, with its tattered flag still flapping from the mast. Well, thinks I, they can walk in now, any time they like. There’s nothing left to stop ’em.

  But they didn’t. That last great assault of June twenty-third, which had come within an ace of breaking us, had sickened the pandies. The maidan was strewn with their dead, and although they pounded us with gunfire for another two terrible days, they didn’t have the stomach for another frontal attack. If only they’d known it, half the men left on our parapet were too done up with fatigue and starvation to lift a musket, the barrack was choked with more than three hundred wounded and dying, the well was down to stinking ooze, and our remaining flour was so much dust. We couldn’t have lasted two minutes against a determined assault – yet why should they bother, when hunger and heat and the steady rate of casualties from bombardment were sure to finish us soon anyway?

  Three folk went mad, as I remember, in those forty-eight hours; I only wonder now that we all didn’t. In the furnace of the barrack the women and children were too reduced by famine even to cry; even the younger officers seemed to be overcome by the lethargy of approaching certain death. For that, Wheeler now admitted, was all that remained.

  “I have sent a last message out to L
awrence,” he told us senior men on the second night. “I have told him that we have nothing left but British spirit, and that cannot last forever. We are like rats in a cage. Our best hope is that the rebels will come in again, and give us a quick end; better that than watch our women and little ones die by inches.”29

  I can still see the gaunt faces in the flickering candlelight round his table; someone gave a little sob, and another swore softly, and after a moment Vibart asked if there was no hope that Lawrence might yet come to our relief.

  Wheeler shook his head. “He would come if he could, but even if he marched now he could not reach us in under two days. By then … well, you know me, gentlemen. I haven’t croaked in fifty years’ soldiering, and I’m not croaking now, when I say that short of a miracle it is all up. We’re in God’s hands, so let each one of us make his preparations accordingly.”

  I was with him there, only my preparations weren’t going to be spiritual. I still had my Pathan rig-out stowed away, and I could see that the time was fast approaching when, game ankle or no, Flashy was going to have to take his chance over the wall. It was that or die in this stinking hole, so I left them praying and went to my place on the parapet to think it out; I was in a blue funk at the thought of trying to decamp, but the longer I waited, the harder it might become. I was still wrestling with my fears when someone hove up out of the gloom beside me, and who should it be but East.

  “Flashman,” says he, “may I have a word with you?”

  “If you must,” says I. “I’ll be obliged if you’ll make it a brief one.”

  “Of course, of course,” says he. “I understand. As Sir Hugh said, it is time for each of us to make his own soul; I won’t intrude on your meditations a moment longer than I must, I promise. The trouble is … my own conscience. I … I need your help, old fellow.”