Suddenly my prayers were answered for through a break in the trees I could see a smooth plain to our right.
“Come on,” I shouted. “This way!” I reined my horse to the right and we burst out of the trees and onto the plain and then we were really flying along.
“Well done, Flash,” called Carstairs. His horse was keeping up pretty well. He stared over his shoulder and added, “We are leaving them behind already.”
I looked back too and the Mahratta had galloped onto the plain but were making no real effort to catch us; perhaps their horses were already blown in the search for us, I thought. The reason did not matter. We were leaving them well behind.
We rode on for a mile and by then they were way in the distance.
“They will give up soon,” I panted at Carstairs. “Once we reach the end of this plain we can slow down and get our bearings.”
“Yes, I hope the others got away,” gasped Carstairs from his horse, which was still alongside me. Then he suddenly shouted “Bloody hell!” and frantically started to rein his horse in. I followed his gaze and was then desperately hauling on my reins too, for we had just found out why the Mahratta were not rushing to catch us.
We both came within a couple of yards of just galloping off the edge, for the plain ended suddenly in a sheer drop. We could not see the bottom, just blackness, and I remembered that a massive cliff protected the inner fort and wondered if this was part of the same precipice. We could not go back and so we rode our horses along the edge, but more slowly now so that we would have time to stop. When I looked back again I could see the Mahratta still riding towards us but spread out now in a line. The cliff edge started to turn back towards the Mahratta, and with a sinking feeling I realised that we were trapped. That was why the Mahratta had not chased us. They knew that we would either ride over the edge to our deaths or that we would be up against their lance points.
“Shall we charge them?” asked Carstairs, drawing his sabre.
“There are twelve of them, with lances,” I replied resignedly. “They would spit you on a lance point long before you were able to use the sabre.”
“What do we do then?” he asked, seemingly puzzled as though the obvious solution had not occurred to him.
“We surrender, of course.”
I had not had three months of liberty since my last captivity but here I was a prisoner again. Once they saw that we were not going to try to run the Mahratta slowed to a trot with their lance points lowered. Then two dropped from their saddles to take our swords, pistols, tie our hands and grab the reins of our horses. We were led back the way we had come. As the night got truly black the leading horsemen lit torches to see their way and we pressed on, following the horses in front. Four Mahratta rode behind us in case we got any ideas of escaping in the night.
We had ridden the previous night across the plain and then spent the day climbing to the fort either on horseback or on foot. We were already exhausted, but there was to be no rest. Our captors evidently wanted us in the fort by dawn. A couple of times during that night I saw other torches flickering on the hillside, but for the most part I half-dozed in the saddle. Perhaps it was the tiredness, but unlike my previous captivity, I was feeling more relaxed. Being a prisoner was a lot better than being a pile of mashed bones at the bottom of a cliff or being skewered on the end of a lance. I also thought that the Mahratta would be less likely to mistreat prisoners as they knew the British were coming.
“Do you think they will kill us?” asked Carstairs at one point.
“No, we are more use to them alive as messengers or hostages. They must know the British are planning to besiege the place.”
“Will they torture us for Wellesley’s plan of attack then?”
Carstairs was a ray of sunshine in a tight spot; I had not thought of that. For a moment my nerves jangled as I thought of a previous time I had narrowly avoided being tortured, but then I relaxed as I thought it through.
“No, they won’t need to torture us because I will tell them the plan if they ask.”
“You can’t do that,” gasped Carstairs. “Hundreds of our men could be lost if they know what to expect.”
“Nonsense, there is only one way to attack: through the outer fort. A child could work it out, and our presence surveying the ground has confirmed it.”
He was quiet after that. What I had said was true, but I had also seen what torture could do and I knew I could not have withstood it. Most people think that they would not talk, but trust me, when you are tied up in a dank cell with a sadistic bastard and no hope of rescue, you tell him anything to stop the pain.
My mood was not brightened as we rode in the grey light of dawn through the gate of the outer fortress. There we saw the bodies of ten of our troopers lying in the courtyard. Two more wounded men were being bandaged against a wall and I called out to them about the rest of our party.
“They got away, sahib,” called back the sowar before he was cuffed and told to keep quiet.
That was a relief; Johnston was our best engineer. His capture would have extended the siege and our captivity. I had no doubt that the fortress would be taken, but back then I did not know its secret.
I had spent so long in the saddle that I virtually had to be helped off the horse.
“What are your names?” a court flunkey asked us.
We told them while guards searched us for hidden weapons. It was not a thorough search as they did not find the gems sewn into my coat lining, but they took my small fruit knife.
Carstairs and I were taken to a small cell in the gatehouse and left with a water jug and a bucket. Immediately after the door shut Carstairs started asking inane questions and talking of escape, but I told him quite sharply to shut up. I needed some sleep and made myself as comfortable as I could.
Chapter 29
“How did you get this sword?”
I was being roughly shaken awake and as I opened my eyes I saw my previously confiscated gold-hilted sword being held in front of me.
“I killed its previous owner,” I mumbled and then immediately regretted it as I saw a look of fury cross the face of my questioner. Now I saw he was wearing a white robe and it was, I admit, stupidity of the highest degree. My only defence is that I had slept for just two hours in two days.
Before I knew it I was being half-dragged and half-thrown out of the cell, blinking in the bright sunlight of the morning.
“You are a liar,” snarled my new guard. “Abu Saleem would never allow himself to be killed by a worm like you, unless you shot him in the back.”
“I took him with a sword,” I shouted back as I struggled to get to my feet and look around. My new captor was a big man, an Arab by the look of him, and I guessed he must have been one of Abu Saleem’s officers. There were four other soldiers with him, also in the white robes I had seen at Argaum.
“We will see,” said my captor and then to the soldiers he added “Bring him” before marching off.
I was grabbed and hauled after him none too gently. After a moment I realised that we were heading towards the gate for the inner fort. We stepped through the archway and onto the ravine path and I began to understand why Gawilghur would be so hard to capture. To my left the path twisted down slightly into the ravine before going up again to the gate of the inner fort. To my right the path went past the wall of the outer fort and down into the ravine itself, leading all the way to the plain below. It was a narrow path, just big enough for a small cart, and had a cliff face on one side and a sheer drop into the ravine on the other. Any enemy coming up this path would only be able to march three or four abreast and would be directly opposite the guns of the outer fort, which could sweep the path clear with grape shot.
I thought I understood now why the place had never been taken, but what I had seen was just the start of the obstacles. The big secret was just inside the gate. As Wellesley had heard, when you went inside the gate of the inner fort you had to turn left, where there was a gate that was protected from cannon. He t
hought he would have men with axes take care of this, but when I looked up the walls were covered with embrasures to protect men who would shoot down at the poor bastards doing the chopping. But once through that gate there were another three more massive gates in a long passage packed with more gun embrasures. In short, it was a huge trap. Our men would, if they were lucky, hack their way through the first gate just to find another, and then another. The casualties would be enormous. The passage would be blocked with our dead long before they reached the fourth gate.
Of course, now the gates were all open and we marched straight through and on up to a building that I took to be the palace. It was not a grand residence like some I had visited. The walls were mostly plain and there were no rich hangings or furniture. It was the home of a person with either little money or simple tastes. In a few moments we were entering an audience chamber where half a dozen men lounged on couches or cushions at the far end. As we walked towards them the captain of my little guard grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me so that I fell, sprawling, to the floor.
“This is the man who had Abu Saleem’s sword,” he called to the assembled company. “The worm claims he took it in a fair fight.”
Well, I have made better entrances. I looked up at the quality, which was staring at me in curiosity, and I decided to try to recover some of my dignity.
“Now look here,” I said and I started to get back on my feet. “I am a British officer and I demand...”
The next thing I knew I was back on my knees and there was a blade at my throat.
“You demand nothing,” my guard commander said in my ear. He pressed the edge of his blade deeper into my skin, which was a persuasive argument. “You are in the presence of Manu Bappoo, brother to the raja of Berrar and the commander of his army. You will address him as Excellency.”
I looked up. In the centre of the group in front of me a man was watching me closely with dark eyes. He wore richly embroidered robes and a turban and had a neatly clipped beard; I guessed his age at early forties because his beard was starting to go grey. The others glanced nervously between him and me and so I realised he must be the raja’s brother.
“Your Excellency,” I began. “I am a British officer and...”
“How did you kill Abu Saleem?” interrupted Manu Bappoo. He spoke quietly but with unmistakeable authority. “He was one of my closest friends and the finest swordsman I have ever known. Yet my men tell me you carry his sword and ride his horse but gave up without a fight.” As he spoke one of the guards handed the golden sword to Manu Bappoo, who put it on the floor by his stool.
“I killed him at Argaum, Excellency,” I said, sensing a sudden chill in the room despite the sweat trickling down my spine.
“I know where he died. I commanded my brother’s forces at Argaum. I asked you how he died. Be warned, if you lie I will get Khaled there to cut out your tongue before he arranges a slow death for you.”
“He shot him in the back, Excellency. It is the only explanation.”
“Be quiet, Khaled. Let him speak.”
You can imagine how my mind was spinning. The way I had killed Abu Saleem was so implausible no one would believe it, but they would never believe that I had beaten him in a fair fight either. I stood frozen, unsure what to say. A few minutes before I had been asleep in a cell, expecting that I would be released in a few days. Now I knew that any attack on the inner fort was doomed and that I would be lucky to survive the next hour. Twice I opened my mouth to say something, but I did not know how to start.
“Did you shoot him?” prompted Manu Bappoo, watching me closely.
“Only at the end,” I blurted out. Khaled, beside me, started to growl in anger and I hastily added, “In the chest, to speed his end, and he wanted me to do it.”
“So how did you beat him with a sword?” asked Manu Bappoo again.
I took a deep breath and decided that the only way forward was to tell the truth. “It was towards the end of the battle. The Highlanders were driving the last of the Arab mercenaries back over the hill. I looked up and I saw a man on a white horse charging with his sabre pointing right at me.”
Manu Bappoo nodded. “He had sworn to avenge his dead by killing an officer of the white troops who had destroyed his soldiers. So what did you do?”
“I did not have time to do much, just parry his blow and his back cut, and then we were turning to each other again. We both crossed in front of each other’s horses and then I managed to get a lucky blow that caught him in the neck.”
Manu Bappoo’s eyes narrowed slightly as he asked, “How exactly did you get this lucky blow?”
I paused nervously, wondering if these might be the final sentences that my tongue would ever be able to utter. “I took a big swing at him but missed. He was riding his horse in front of mine.” I took another breath and then added the fateful words: “I had accidentally cut off the top of my horse’s right ear and the horse threw me into the air over Abu Saleem. I cut him in the neck before he could get his sword up and then landed on top of him.”
There was a stunned silence; you could have heard a pin drop and I could certainly hear my heart pounding. Manu Bappoo was watching my face closely, looking stern, but then slowly he smiled and let out a great guffaw of laughter.
“The greatest swordsman Abu Saleem, killed by a man falling from his horse,” he gasped between laughter. “It is a poetic death indeed.”
“You surely do not believe this dog, Excellency,” called out Khaled, astonished. “Give me half an hour with him and I will get you the truth.”
“Come now, Khaled, you knew Abu as well as me. Would he not have found this funny if it had happened to someone else? Surely this is a story that no one would have made up.”
“He lies, Excellency. I have found out he is the British spy Iflassman whom Lord Scindia hunted because he told lies about the death of the Old Patiel.”
“Really,” said Manu Bappoo, looking interested again.
I wracked my brains for some detail that would prove what I said, and then I had it.
“Was Abu Saleem Jewish?” I asked.
Manu Bappoo gaped in astonishment. “Of course he was not Jewish. He was one of the most devout Muslims I have ever met. What on earth makes you say such a thing?”
“It is just that when he died the last thing he said before he gestured for me to shoot was ‘Solomon’.”
Now it was Khaled’s turn to look surprised and he stared at Manu Bappoo as though this meant something to both of them.
“I think perhaps,” said Manu Bappoo gently, “that the word was ‘Salome’, could it have been that?”
“Yes, it could,” I admitted. “He was gasping in pain at the time and it was hard to hear.”
“So he loved her to the end,” said Khaled thoughtfully.
“It seems so,” agreed Manu Bappoo. He saw me looking puzzled and explained. “Many years ago in Arabia, Abu Saleem fell in love with the daughter of a rich and powerful merchant. Her name was Salome. The merchant forbade the match but the couple eloped over the mountains and across the sea to India. Unfortunately the girl died of fever a few months after they arrived here. Abu stayed as a penance and had mourned her ever since.”
“Is that what the inscription on the sword is all about?”
“Ah, yes.” Manu Bappoo reached down and picked up the golden sword. “The inscription is from a famous Arabic poem, which talks about people who are apart looking up at the same moon and stars.” He paused, weighing the sword in his hand and looking at the words. “I think you should have this sword back. You may have done my friend the greatest service in returning him to his love. You clearly had divine help to beat Abu, and I cannot think of anyone else who should have it.”
“Excellency!” said Khaled, who seemed set to protest.
“Do you know of anyone else who deserves Abu’s sword?” asked Manu Bappoo sternly. “Abu would want it to go to the man who beat him. Now that this Iflassman officer knows its hi
story, I am sure he will treat it with respect.”
I nodded eagerly in agreement. I was happy to escape this encounter with my tongue and my life – the sword was an unexpected bonus.
“Now take him to stay in a room in the north wing. He has seen the inner gateway; I want him kept in the inner fort. Mr Iflassman, I would be grateful if you would join me for dinner later.
“It’s Flashman, sir, and I would be honoured.”
I had to wait five days for that dinner, but I was kept in comfortable lodgings, a lot better than the guardroom cell I had shared with Carstairs. I did wonder if he would be allowed to join me, but they evidently decided that the fewer Englishman who knew the secret of the gates, the better. The sword was returned and I kept it on the small table in my cell, but I noticed that every time the door to my room was opened there were two guards with pikes on hand in case I was tempted to fight my way out. Khaled looked in on me once each day, and on the second day he asked me if Abu Saleem had really died as I had described. I looked him the eye and confirmed that he had. He stared at me for a while and then nodded and went away without saying another word.
I was left to ponder my fate. Call me the eternal optimist, but I did not think they would kill me or they would have done so already. Equally I could not understand why they thought it worthwhile to keep me in comfortable lodgings. I found out on the fifth day when I was summoned to join Manu Bappoo for dinner. I was told to leave the sword behind and was taken down various staircases and corridors until I was shown into a large but plainly decorated room with a table and chairs set for dinner in the European style, instead of the couches and lower seating that would be normal for a meal in an Indian palace.
“You see, I am trying to make you feel at home,” called Manu Bappoo, smiling as he got up to welcome me.
I was instantly on my guard: why should he make such an effort when he held me prisoner and was in an impregnable fortress?
“There was no need to go to so much trouble, Excellency,” I replied, shaking his offered hand.
Flashman and the Cobra Page 30