Flashman In The Great Game fp-5

by George MacDonald Fraser

  "It cannot be," says he. "That mission is over, and we need every hand at the plough. The fate of this country is in the balance, and I can ill spare such a seasoned soldier as yourself. There is a work of cleansing and purging before us," he went on, and you could see by the holy fire in his eyes that he was just sweating to get to grips with it. "I shall take you on to my staff, Flashman — nay, sir, never thank me; it is I shall be the gainer, rather than you."

  I was ready to agree with him there, but I knew there was no point in arguing with the likes of Havelock — anyway, before I could think of anything to say he was scribbling orders for hanging a few more pandies, and dictating a crusty note to Neill, and roaring for his adjutant; he was a busy old Baptist in those days, right enough.

  So there I was, and it might have been worse. I'd had no real hope of being sent home — no high command in their right mind would have dispensed with the famous Flash when there was a campaign on hand, and since I had to be here I'd rather be under Havelock's wing than anyone's. He was a good soldier, you see, and as canny as Campbell in his own way; there'd be no massacres or Last Stands round the Union Jack with the Gravedigger in charge.

  So I settled in as Havelock's intelligence aide — a nice safe billet in the circumstances, but if you would learn the details of how I fared with him you must consult my official history, Dawns and Departures of a Soldier's Life (in three handsomely-bound morocco volumes, price two gns. each or five gns. the set, though you may have difficulty laying hands on Volume III, since it had to be called in and burned by the bailiffs after that odious little Whitechapel sharper D'Israeli egged on one of his toadies to sue me for criminal information. Suez Canal shares, eh? I'll blacken the bastard's memory yet, though, just see if I don't. Truth will out).

  However, the point is that my present tale isn't truly concerned with the main course of the Mutiny henceforth — although I bore my full reluctant part in that — but still with that mad mission on which Pam had sent me out in the first place, to Jhansi and the bewitching Lakshmibai. For I wasn't done with her, whatever Havelock might think, and however little I guessed it myself; the rest of the Mutiny was just the road that led me back to her, and to that final terrible adventure of the Jhansi flight and the guns of Gwalior when — but I'll come to that presently.

  In the meantime I'll tell you as briskly as I can what happened in the few months after I joined Havelock at Cawnpore. At first it was damned bad news all round: the Mutiny kept spreading, Nana had sheered off after losing Cawnpore and was raising cain farther up-country, Delhi was still held by the pandies with our people banging away at it, and Havelock at Cawnpore didn't have the men or means to relieve Lucknow, only forty miles away, where Lawrence's garrison was hemmed in. He tried hard enough, but found that the pandy forces, while they didn't make best use of their overwhelming numbers, fought better defensive actions than anyone had expected, and Havelock got a couple of black eyes before he'd gone ten miles, and had to fall back. To make matters worse, Lloyd's advance guard got cut up at Arah, and no one down in Calcutta seemed to have any notion of overall strategy — that clown Canning was sitting like a fart in a trance, they tell me, and no proper order was taken.

  I wasn't too upset, though. For one thing I was snug at the Cawnpore headquarters, making a great bandobast*(*Organisation, administration.) over collecting information from our spies and passing the gist on to Havelock (intelligence work is nuts to me, so long as I can stay close to bed, bottle and breakfast and don't have to venture out). And for another, I could sense that things were turning our way; once the first flood of pandy successes had spent itself, there could only be one end, and old Campbell, who was the best general in the business, was coming out to take command-in-chief.

  In September we moved on Lucknow in style, with fresh troops under Outram, a dirty-looking little chap on a waler horse, more like a Sheeny tailor than a general. They tell me it was a hell of a march; certainly it rained buckets all the way, and there was some stern fighting at Mangalwarh and at the Alum Bagh near Lucknow town — I know, because I got reports of it in my intelligence ghari at the rear of the column, where I was properly ensconced writing reports, examining prisoners, and getting news from friendly natives — at least, they were friendly by the time my Rajput orderlies had basted 'em a bit. From time to time I poked my head out into the rain, and called cheery encouragement to the reinforcements, or sent messages to Havelock — I remember one of them was that Delhi had fallen at last, and that old Johnny Nicholson had bought a bullet, poor devil. I drank a quiet brandy to him, listening to the downpour and the guns booming, and thought God help poor soldiers on a night like this.

  However, having got Lucknow, Havelock and Outram didn't know what the devil to do with it, for the pandies were still thick around as fleas, and it soon became evident that far from raising the siege, our forces were nothing but reinforcement to the garrison. So we were all besieged, for another seven weeks, and the deuce of a business it must have been, with bad rations and the pandies forever trying to tunnel in under our defences, and our chaps fighting 'em in the mines which were like a warren underground. I say "must have been", for I knew nothing about it; the night we entered Lucknow my bowels began to explode in all directions, and before morning I was flat on my back with cholera, for the second time in my life.

  For once, it was a blessing, for it meant I was spared knowledge of a siege that was Cawnpore all over again, if not quite as bad. I gather I raved a good deal of the time, and I know I spent weeks lying on a cot in a beastly little cellar, as weak as a rat and not quite in my right mind. It was only in the last fortnight of the siege that I began to get about again, and by that time the garrison was cheery with the news that Campbell was on his way. I limped about gamely at first, looking gaunt and noble, and asking "Is the flag flying still?" and "Is there anything I can do, sir? — I'm much better than I look, I assure you." I was, too, but I took care to lean on my stick a good deal, and sit down, breathing hard. In fact, there wasn't much to do, except wait, and listen to the pandies sniping away — they didn't hit much.

  In the last week, when we knew for certain that Camp-bell was only a few days away, with his Highlanders and naval guns and all, I was careless enough to look like a whole man again — it seemed safe enough now, for you must know that at Lucknow, unlike Cawnpore, we were defending a large area, and if one kept away from the outer works, which unemployed convalescents like me were entitled to do, one could promenade about the Residency gardens without peril. There were any number of large houses, half-ruined now, but still habitable, and we occupied them or camped out in the grounds — when I came out of my cellar I was sent to the bungalow, where Havelock was quartered with his staff people, but he packed me off to Outram's headquarters, in case I should be of some use there. Havelock himself was pretty done by this time, and not taking much part in the command; he spent most of his time in Gubbins's garden, reading some bilge by Macaulay — and was greatly intrigued to know that I'd met Lord Know-all and discussed his "Lays" with the Queen; I had to tell Havelock all about that.

  For the rest, I yarned a good deal with Vincent Eyre, who'd been in the Kabul retreat with me, and was now one of the many wounded in the garrison, or chaffed with the ladies in the old Residency garden, twitting them about their fashions — for after a six-month siege everyone was dressed any old how, with scraps and curtains and even towels run up into clothes. I was hailed everywhere, of course — jovial Flash, the hero on the mend — and quizzed about my adventures from Meerut to, Cawnpore. I never mind telling a modest tale, if the audience is pretty enough, so I did, and entertained them by imitating Makarram Khan, too, which attracted much notice and laughter. It was an idiot thing to do, as you'll see — it earned another man the V.C., and nearly won me a cut throat.

  What happened was this. One morning, it must have been about November 9th or loth, there was a tremendous commotion over on the southern perimeter, where some-one in Anderson's Post claimed he had
heard Campbell's pipers in the distance; there was huge excitement, with fellows and ladies and niggers and even children hastening through the ruined buildings, laughing and cheering — and then everything went deadly still as we stood to listen, and sure enough, above the occasional crack of firing, far, far away there was the faintest whisper on the breeze of a pig in torment, and someone sings out, "The Campbells are coming, hurrah, hurrah!" and people were embracing and shaking hands and leaping in the air, laughing and crying all together, and a few dropping to their knees to pray, for now the siege was as good as over. So there was continued jubilation throughout the garrison, and Outram sniffed and grunted and chewed his cheroot and called a staff conference.

  He had been smuggling out messages by native spies all through the siege, and now that the relief force was so close he wanted to send explicit directions to Campbell on the best route to take in fighting his way through the streets and gardens of Lucknow to the Residency. It was a great maze of a place, and our folk had had the deuce of a struggle getting in two months earlier, being cut up badly in the alleys. Outram wanted to be sure Campbell didn't have the same trouble, for he had a bare 5,000 men against 60,000 pandies, and if they strayed or were ambushed it might be the end of them — and consequently of us.

  I didn't have much part in their deliberations, beyond helping Outram draft his message in the secret Greek code he employed, and making a desperate hash of it. One of the Sappers had the best route all plotted out, and while they talked about that I went into the big verandah room adjoining to rest from the noon heat, convalescent-like. I sprawled on the cot, with my boots off, and must have dozed off, for when I came to it was late afternoon, the murmur of many voices from beyond the chick screen had gone, and there were only two people talking. Outram was saying:

  … it is a hare-brained risk, surely — a white man proposing to make his way disguised as a native through a city packed with hostiles! And if he's caught — and the message falls into their hands? What then, Napier?"

  "True enough," says Napier, "but to get a guide out to Campbell — a guide who can point his way for him — is better than a thousand messages of direction. And Kavanaugh knows the streets like a bazaar-wallah."

  "No doubt he does," mutters Outram, "but he'll no more pass for a native than my aunt's parrot. What — he's more than six feet tall, flaming red hair, blue eyes, and talks poor Hindi with a Donegal accent! Kananji may not be able to guide Campbell, but at least we can be sure he'll get a message to him."

  "Kananji swears he won't go if Kavanaugh does. He's ready to go alone, but he says Kavanaugh's bound to be spotted."

  "There you are, then!" I could hear Outram muttering and puffing on a fresh cheroot. "Confound it, Napier — he's a brave man … and I'll own that if he could reach Campbell his knowledge of the byways of Lucknow would be beyond price — but he's harder to disguise than … damme, than any man in this garrison."

  I listened with some interest to this. I knew Kavanaugh, a great freckled Irish bumpkin of a civilian who'd spent the siege playing tig with pandy besiegers in the tunnels beneath our defences — mad as a hatter. And now madder still, by the sound of it, if he proposed to try to get through the enemy lines to Campbell. I saw Outram's problem — Kavanaugh was the one man who'd be a reliable guide to Campbell, if only he could get to him. But it was Tattersall's to a tin can that the pandies would spot him, torture his message out of him, and be ready and waiting for Campbell when he advanced. Well, thank God I wasn't called on to decide …

  … if he can disguise himself well enough to pass muster with me, he can go," says Outram at last. "But I wish to heaven Kananji would accompany him — I don't blame him for refusing, mind … but if only there were someone else who could go along — some cool hand who can pass as a native without question, to do the talking if they're challenged by the pandies — for if they are, and if Kavanaugh has to open that great Paddy mouth of his … stop, though! Of course, Napier — the very man! Why didn't it occur … "

  I was off the cot and moving before Outram was half-way through his speech; I knew before he did himself whose name was going to pop into his mind as the ideal candidate for this latest lunacy. I paused only to scoop up my boots and was tip-toeing at speed for the verandah rail; a quick vault into the garden, and then let them try to find me before sunset if they could … but blast it, I hadn't gone five steps when the door was flung open, and there was Outram, pointing his cheroot, looking like Sam Grant after the first couple of drinks, crying:

  "Flashman! That's our man, Napier! Can you think of a better?"

  Of course, Napier couldn't — who could, with the famous Flashy on hand, ripe to be plucked and hurled into the bloody soup? It's damnable, the way they pick on a fellow — and all because of my swollen reputation for derring-do and breakneck gallantry. As usual, there was nothing I could do, except stand blinking innocently in my stocking-soles while Outram repeated all that I'd heard already, and pointed out that I was the very man to go along on this hideous escapade to hold the great Fenian idiot's hand for him. I heard him in mounting terror, concealed behind a stern and thoughtful aspect, and replied that, of course, I was at his disposal, but really, gentlemen, was it wise? Not that I cared about the risk (Jesus, the things I've had to say), but I earnestly doubted whether Kavanaugh could pass … my convalescent condition, of course, was a trifling matter … even so, one wouldn't want to fail through lack of strength … not when a native could be certain of getting through …

  "There isn't a loyal sepoy in this garrison who can come near you for skill and shrewdness," says Outram briskly, "or who'd stand half the chance of seeing Kavanaugh safe. Weren't you playing your old Pathan role the other day for the ladies? As to the toll of your illness — I've a notion your strength will always match your spirit, whatever happens. This thing's your meat and drink, Flashman, and you know it — and you've been fairly itching to get into harness again. Eh?"

  "I'll hazard a guess," says Napier, smiling, "that he's more concerned for Kavanaugh than for himself — isn't that so, Flashman?"

  "Well, sir, since you've said it —"

  "I know," says Outram, frowning at his damned cheroot. "Kavanaugh has a wife and family — but he has volunteered, you see, and he's the man for Campbell, not a doubt of it. It only remains to get him there." And the brute simply gave me a sturdy look and shook my hand as though that were the thing settled.

  Which of course it was. What could I do, without ruining my reputation? — although such was my fame by this time that if I'd thrown myself on the floor weeping with fright, they'd probably not have taken me seriously, but thought it was just one of my jokes in doubtful taste. Give a dog a bad name — by God, it doesn't stick half as hard as a good one.

  So I spent the evening dyeing myself with soot and ghee, shuddering with apprehension and cursing my folly and ill luck. This, at the eleventh hour! I thought of having another shot at Napier, pleading my illness, but I didn't dare; he had a hard eye, and Outram's would be even worse if they suspected I was shirking. I near as a toucher cried off, though, when I saw Kavanaugh; he was got up like Sinbad the Sailor, with nigger minstrel eyes, hareem slippers, and a great sword and shield. I stopped dead in the doorway, whispering to Napier:

  "My God, man, he won't fool a child! We'll have the bloody pandies running after us shouting, ‘Penny for Guy Fawkes!’ "

  But he said reassuringly that it would be pretty dark, and Outram and the other officers agreed that Kavanaugh might just do. They were full of admiration for my get-up — which was my usual one of bazaar-ruffler — and Kavanaugh came up to me with absolute tears in his eyes and said I was the stoutest chap alive to stand by him in this. I nearly spat in his eye. The others were full of sallies about our appearance, and then Outram banded Kavanaugh the message for Campbell, biting on his cheroot and looking hard at us.

  "I need not tell you," says he, "that it must never tall into enemy hands. That would be disaster for us all."

  Ju
st to rub the point in, he asked if we were fully armed (so that we could blow our brains out if necessary), and then gave us our directions. We were to swim the river beyond the northern rampart, recross it by the bridge west of the Residency, and cut straight south through Lucknow city and hope to run into Campbell's advance picquets on the other side. Kavanaugh, who knew the streets, would choose our path, but I would lead and do the talking.

  Then Outram looked us both in the eye, and blessed us, and everyone shook hands, looking noble, while I wondered if I'd time to go to the privy Kavanaugh, shaking with excitement, cleared his throat and says:

  "We know what is to be done, sorr — an' we'll give our lives gladly in the attempt. We know the risks, ould fellow, do we not?" he added, turning to me.

  "Oh, aye," says I, "that bazaar'll be full of fleas — we'll be lousy for weeks." Since there was no escape, I might as well give 'em another Flashy bon mot to remember.

  It moved them, as only jocular heroism can; Outram's aide, Hardinge, was absolutely piping his eye, and said England would never forget us, everyone patted us on the back with restrained emotion, and shoved us off in the direction of the rampart. I could hear Kavanaugh breathing heavily — the brute positively panted in Irish — and whispered to him again to remember to leave any talking to me. "Oi will, Flashy, Oi will," says he, lumbering along and stumbling over his ridiculous sword.

  The thing was a farce from the start. By the time we had slipped over the rampart and made our way through the pitch dark down to the bank of the Goomtee, I had realised that I was in company with an irresponsible lunatic, who had no real notion of what he was doing. Even while we were stripping for our swim, he suddenly jerked his head up, at the sound of a faint plop out on the water.

  "That's trout afther minnow," says he, and then there was another louder plop. "An' that's otter afther trout," says he, with satisfaction. "Are ye a fisherman, are ye?" Before I could hush his babbling, he had suddenly seized my hand — and him standing there bollock-naked with his togs piled on his head — and said fervently: