I slowly raised the musket to my shoulder and tried to aim the musket between its eyes. The long, heavy weapon wavered and it was difficult to hold the aiming point at that exact spot. There were so many factors that could affect the aim: I had never fired this gun before, it could pull to the left or the right, the ball could be misshapen, affecting the flight, or the powder could be damp and it would not fire at all. No, I could not think of that. I lowered my aim to the crouching body to give me a bigger target.
Suddenly, with a grunt, the tiger got up and started to move down the tree trunk, from my left to my right. I tried to track it with the gun but it disappeared behind some foliage, and for a brief second I thought it might have jumped away. But no, it reappeared next to its grisly kill, not even bothering to look at me as it padded down the sloping trunk. With feline grace, it dropped the last few feet onto the ground and turned those yellow eyes back in my direction. It dropped back into a crouch, still around ten yards off, but it felt closer now that the creature was at my level.
I had to take my chance with the musket; it was now or never. They say aim low, as muskets kick up, and so I aimed for the middle of its chest, took a deep breath and started to pull the trigger. It must have sensed my intent, or maybe it heard the click of the hammer, but suddenly the animal exploded forward. As the musket crashed into my shoulder there was a snarl and an orange-and-black blur of movement towards me. God knows where the ball went, but it did not hit the tiger and I did not even have time to scream in terror. I tried to stumble back, but my heel caught in some root and then I was falling and the tiger was springing through the puff of musket smoke. It all happened in a split second, but to me everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I was still holding the musket and falling backwards, those huge teeth and claws were coming towards me and I knew with absolute certainty that I was going to die.
My back hit the dirt at the exact moment that the great beast blocked out the sky above me. There was a deafening snarl and its claws were swinging in. The only reason I did not piss myself in terror was that I had just watered the tree. I shut my eyes, not wanting to watch the final moment, and braced myself for the first rip of my flesh. But it did not come.
There was a groan from the creature and claws bashed my right shoulder and left side. My face was filled with its putrid breath, but I still lived. I opened my eyes and must have whimpered in terror for the nose of the tiger was no more than a few inches above my face, the head hanging down and those terrible great yellow eyes staring directly into mine. For an insane moment I thought that it had been waiting for me to look before it killed me, but then some blood gushed out of its mouth and I felt its claws twitching against me. Something was holding it up. It started to fall to one side and the musket was wrenched from my hand and suddenly it made sense.
When I had fallen backwards over the root I had still been holding the musket with its seventeen-inch bayonet on the end. As the tiger had pounced on me it must have impaled its heart on the bayonet, pressing the butt of the weapon into the ground so that the creature was suspended above me. Now I lay next to the huge cat, which stretched a good three feet longer than me. It still twitched but its eyes had lost their fire, and if it was not dead, it soon would be. The bayonet was embedded right up to the socket. I heard shouting and people crashing back through the trees towards me.
From a distance I clearly heard Poorun Singh’s voice call, “Flashman, what are you doing back there? Why don’t you answer? Have you accidentally shot yourself?”
The damned cheek. Well, I would show him. I reached over and tried to tug the bayonet out of the cat; it was stuck hard between its ribs. In the end I had to stand and put my boot on its chest to get the thing free. Then, holding the weapon as casually as I could, I called out, “Over here. I have killed your tiger.”
They came crashing through the trees even faster after that and suddenly four sowars including Lal were with me, staring in astonishment at the tiger’s corpse that I now rested my foot on. They started shouting in Hindi that the tiger was dead and to come quickly and soon even more were there, first a dozen and then thirty people, all looking in awe at the tiger and the man who had killed it.
Poorun Singh pushed through the crowd to stare himself. “Flashman, how on earth did you do that?”
“He ducked the ball and so I had to kill him with the bayonet,” I said casually, gesturing to the blood-soaked blade at the end of the weapon. The response was instantly translated by Lal into Hindi and spread around the still-growing crowd. It was to be repeated all over the village by nightfall.
“But that is impossible. No one can kill a tiger with a bayonet. You must have shot it first, surely?” Poorun simply could not believe it. He had already built his opinion of me, and it was probably pretty accurate. Coolly bayoneting a charging tiger did not fit it at all. But here was the evidence at his feet.
“The only wound you will find on the tiger is from this,” I said, gesturing again at the blood-covered steel point at the end of the musket.”
Blow me if he didn’t get down on his knees and check. He swiftly found the fatal injury and could clearly see the L-shaped cut that matched the cross-section of a bayonet blade.
I thought I would add some embellishment to my tale and added, “I noticed that there were a lot of flies in this part of the forest and so hung back to investigate. I found the body of the villager in the tree and the tiger soon after.”
Several people followed my glance up into the tree and there were gasps of horror as they saw the half-eaten remains of the poor woman. My hands were starting to shake slightly, from delayed shock, I think, and so I leant the musket against another tree and slid them into my pockets, looking cool as be-damned and feeling pretty pleased with myself.
“I misjudged you, Flashman huzoor,” murmured Poorun Singh, getting to his feet again. It was the first time he called me ‘huzoor’, which was a mark of respect. He reached a hand into one of his pockets. “I think it is time you wore this on your turban, for you are truly worthy.” And with that he pinned the same regimental badge that the other sowars wore onto my turban. It would be easy to mock his gullibility, but I won’t. For bearing in mind what happened over the next few days, that gesture was one of the biggest, if undeserved, compliments I have ever received. Aye, and that tiger nearly had the last laugh and got me killed then too.
Chapter 12
That night for the first time in our journey we stayed in a village. A feast was given in our honour. Simultaneously the village celebrated their liberation from the tiger and a funeral pyre was lit for the remains of the poor woman. The tiger itself was tied to a pole and brought down for all the villagers to see. I claimed it as a trophy and paid two of the locals with a cart a handsome sum to take the carcass back to Madras to have it skinned for a rug. I have that rug still and you would doubtless expect me to have romped various women on it, but I haven’t. Well, I tried once and got a claw scratch on my left buttock, which shows what happens when you get a tiger skinned on the cheap. But mostly when I look at that skin I remember those fiery yellow eyes both when they were gazing at me in the tree and then when I opened my eyes and found them inches from my own. Those types of thoughts put you off your muttons, and so now the skin is in the study to remind me of my time with those fearless Rajput warriors.
God knows what they put in the village brew but I awoke the next morning with a hell of head. I sobered up pretty fast. I had to, for I was dragged into consciousness by Poorun Singh shaking my shoulder and whispering, “Flashman, wake up. It is grim news. We are being hunted.”
“Go away, damn you,” I moaned before his words sank in, but he persisted.
“I have been speaking to the village headman. There is a price on your head. It is literally worth its weight in gold and he wants us gone before someone tries to claim it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” says I.
“Come to the headman and hear for yourself,” he replied.
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br /> So reluctantly I got dressed and what I heard flushed the hangover out of my body in moments, only for it to be replaced with nauseous fear.
The headman’s hut was only slightly less of a hovel than the rest of the buildings in the village, but he made us welcome: he had his woman serve us tea and then made her and the rest of the family leave the hut entirely. He explained that two days since they had got word that Scindia had sent huge groups of pindaree horsemen into the Nizam’s territories, ostensibly to forage for food but the word was that they were also looking for an English spy.
“This spy is called Iflassman,” said the headman and the word sent a chill down my spine.
We had been riding steadily for weeks now and I had begun to believe that we had shaken off any pursuit from Madras. Well, we had, but Scindia had just set up a new obstacle between us and our destination.
“I know you are English but I do not want to know if you are this Iflassman,” said the village headman; although the look of horror on my face must have given him a pretty good idea. “We are grateful to you for killing our tiger, but there is a great price on your head, just your head, and soon people will think about this gold. You must leave before people are tempted.”
“What do you mean ‘just my head’?” I asked and almost immediately wished I hadn’t.
“Scindia has said if you are found then you are to be killed immediately and he will pay in gold the weight of your severed head. Several heads have been sent to him already, but he has someone in his palace he says who will recognise the true head.”
I reeled back in shock. Things don’t get much more personal than your own head and that much gold would provide a powerful incentive to any bandit or villager. Perhaps even to one of the Rajput troopers? I wondered. No, I could not believe that. They were so obsessed with pride and courage that the rest would feel dishonoured and hunt down anyone who tried it. Scindia was cunning, you had to give him that: his means of payment meant that nobody would keep me alive and he did not run the risk of my being able to spread the rumour.
“How many pindaree are there ahead of us?” I asked.
The village headman named some of the leaders and Poorun Singh, who knew some of their bands, turned and said, “There must be around five thousand.”
Jesus Christ, five thousand bloodthirsty bandits and countless more poor villagers all around us, all looking for my golden noggin. I thanked the village headman for his warning and Poorun and I stepped outside to talk in private.
“Surely we must go back?” I whispered to Poorun.
“No, huzoor, the rumour will have spread behind us; it will even reach Madras. You will not be safe there. We can still complete your assignment. The size of the pindaree bands mean that they cannot stay long in one place or they will starve. They are moving from east to west, so we will go more to the east to go behind them. Your skin is getting darker and your beard strong. From now on you must just speak Hindi when we are with strangers and no one will know that you are British.”
Well, it was true that I had cause to be grateful for my Spanish mother’s complexion; I probably could pass for a native on sight. But while my Hindi was coming on strong, it would still give me away at the moment.
Poorun slapped me on the back and grinned. “For a man who can bayonet a tiger, this is nothing!” And with that he strode off to get the troop ready to leave.
Well, you can imagine how I felt. Having by chance earned the admiration of our gallant commander, he now assumed that I was braver than one of those ancient British warriors who used to attack the Romans while naked, painted bright blue and high on narcotic mushrooms. Even if I showed my true colours and begged and pleaded for him to take me to a British port, I suspected he would still take me, willing or unwilling, to Berar to complete his own orders. And what was the safest option? Striking out on my own would be fatal. It would be open season for poor Flashy with every bandit, villager and itinerant beggar on the lookout for the chance to cut off the head that paid its weight in gold. Staying with the troop offered my best chance of maintaining my disguise, but word would spread from the village we were in that a strange Englishman was travelling with Company cavalry and we would have to stay ahead of that rumour to stand a chance.
We were saddled up and ready to go within the hour. The family of the woman who had been killed came over to give their final thanks for killing the tiger. I was already getting jumpy and checking their belts for knives and making sure some troopers were around me. The sowars had evidently all heard the rumour, but Lal, Flora and Daisy and several others came up and assured me that we would get through or die trying. I really wished they would not keep going on about the dying bit.
We left the village, heading west. Before we set off, Poorun had waited until some villagers were nearby before discussing with his corporal, or daffadar, how long it would take us to reach another town to the west, so that there was no uncertainty as to the direction we were going. In fact we did travel to the west for a full day. Poorun explained that fifty horses are easy to track and if we turned east too soon the villagers may find the trail and pass it on to others trailing us. We reached a river and wading our horses in, turned eastwards and trotted on through the shallows for several miles until we found a ford and crossed.
We headed north-east for another week, skirting around villages and sometimes travelling at night so that we would not be seen. Poorun now sent four men as scouts ahead and left four men behind as a rearguard, with proper pickets on duty every time we camped. Lal, Flora and Daisy worked hard on helping me improve my Hindi and I was now able to have basic conversations if they spoke slowly. As we travelled the country changed; there were fewer trees and big expanses of plain.
On the sixth day we came across a village that the pindaree raiders must have been through before. It was completely deserted. Poorun said that there would be villagers hiding out in the surrounding scrub who would have run away when they first saw our scouts. We pressed on and came to a wide, arid-looking plain that we had to cross. We all felt dangerously exposed on that featureless expanse. Poorun assured me that there was a hill fort in the middle of it and we hoped to get there by evening so that we could at least water our horses before moving on.
Late afternoon one of the forward scouts rode back to say that he had seen no pindaree bandits and that the fort was empty. You could see it by then in the distance, built on a huge lump of rock standing up from the plain. These hill forts looked impressive, often standing on sheer-sided rocky outcrops, but the walls were dangerously exposed to cannon. This one was small but it still looked impressive close to, at least to me. We walked our horses around it to the north side where a large, stone-rimmed water tank had been built in the shade of the rock to hold monsoon water drained from the rock and some of the surrounding fields. There were water wheels and abandoned irrigation systems and crops that were dead in the fields. The occupants must have left when they heard that the pindaree bandits were coming. We watered the horses and relaxed in the shade before starting the final climb to the fort.
“Would this be their only water?” I asked Poorun. “Is that why they deserted the fort, because they have no water supply inside?”
“No, it is too deep to dig a well down to water underground from the top of that rock, but they will have cut down a channel to below the level of this tank and then another tunnel to the water. The tank acts like a cistern so that there is always water at the bottom of the well in the fort.”
“So why did they abandon the fort?”
“This is the only water and good vantage point for miles. If a large number of pindaree were coming this way, the people in the fort would expect them to come here. If the garrison was not strong enough to defend the ramparts then the sensible step would be to abandon it. Pindaree are nomads; they would not stay here. They would soon move on and, when safe, the people will come back.”
The truth of these words was evident when we got to the top of the rock. The big gat
e had several holes it in, which must have come from a small, horse-drawn cannon that the pindaree had brought. One ball had evidently smashed the locking bar on the gate and the pindaree must have stormed in. We found evidence of this inside as the fort had not been completely abandoned. There were around twenty bodies of soldiers piled up around the walls and some other bodies of elderly inhabitants who had been too old or ill too travel. All had been slaughtered and the bodies were in an advanced state of decay. The stench was appalling.
We took doors off some of the buildings inside, loaded the corpses on those and carried them outside the fort, then unceremoniously tipped them off the cliff. Some of the bodies burst on impact and even fifty feet above them the smell of released putrification made you gag. After one body-run, to avoid doing another, I volunteered to draw water from the well to wash down where they had been lying. Mind you, it was bloody hard work hauling the huge well bucket full of water up over fifty feet.
We had been so busy we did not notice the little dust cloud to the south when it first appeared on the horizon. But it was still miles away when one of the sowars was sent up onto the ramparts to scan the horizon. “A small group of horsemen,” he reported. Poorun and I went up to take a look in the fading light of the evening. He studied the cloud with his telescope.
“Do you think they have been following us?” I asked.
“Possibly, but from the size of the dust cloud there are no more than twenty of them. They won’t reach here before morning, and if they try to get in our way then we can sabre them aside.”
Flashman and the Cobra Page 12