The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “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!” And 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 bystanders 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 foward, 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 against 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 undertone to Charlie, and laughed at his own witticism.

  The trouble is, an Afghan doesn’t laugh like an Englishman. 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

  Chapter 8

  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 wolf’s 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.

&nbs
p; 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 cut 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.

  “A fine manikin, is he not?” said Gul Shah, regarding the hideous imp. “Your soul must be as handsome, Flashman. Which is fitting, for he is your executioner.”

  He snapped an order, and the dwarf, with a glance at me and a contortion of his revolting mouth which I took to be a grin, suddenly bounded into the culvert, and with a tremendous spring leaped up the other side, catching the edge and flipping up, like an acrobat. That done he turned and faced us, arms outstretched, a disgusting yellow giant-in-miniature.

  The men who held me now dragged my arms in front of me, and bound my wrists tightly with a stout rope. One of them then took the coil and carried it across to the dwarf’s side of the culvert; the manikin made a hideous bubbling noise and held his wrist up eagerly, and they were bound as mine had been. So we stood, on opposite edges of the culvert, bound to ends of the same rope, with the slack of it lying in the great trench between us.

  There had been no further word of explanation, and in the hellish uncertainty of what was to come, my nerve broke. I tried to run, but they hauled me back, laughing, and the dwarf Mansur capered on his side of the culvert and snapped his fingers in delight at my terror.

  “Let me go, you bastards!” I roared, and Gul Shah smiled and clapped his hands.

  “You start at shadows,” he sneered. “Behold the substance. Yah, Asaf.”

  One of his ruffians came to the edge of the trench, bearing a leather sack tied at the neck. Cautiously undoing it, and holding it by the bottom, he suddenly up-ended it into the culvert. To my horror, half a dozen slim, silver shapes that glittered evilly in the torchlight, fell writhing into the gap; they plopped gently to the floor of the culvert and then slithered with frightening speed towards the sides. But they could not climb up at us, so they glided about their strange prison in deadly silence. You could sense the vicious anger in them as they slid about beneath us.

  “Their bite is death,” said Gul Shah. “Is all now plain, Flashman? It is what you call a tug-of-war – you against Mansur. One of you must succeed in tugging the other into the trench, and then – it takes a few moments for the venom to kill. Believe me, the snakes will be kinder than Narreeman would have been.”

  “Help!” I roared, although God knows I expected none. But the sight of those loathsome things, the thought of their slimy touch, of the stab of their fangs – I thought I should go mad. I raged and pleaded, and that Afghan swine clapped his hands and yelled with laughter. The dwarf Mansur hopped in eagerness to begin, and presently Gul Shah stepped back, snapped an order to him, and said to me:

  “Pull for your life, Flashman. And present my salaams to Shaitan.”

  I had retreated as far as I could go from the culvert’s edge, and was standing, half-paralysed, when the dwarf snapped his wrists impatiently at the rope. The jerk brought me to my senses; as I have said before, terror is a wonderful stimulant. I braced my boot-heels on the rough stone floor, and prepared to resist with all my strength.

  Grinning, the dwarf scuttled backwards until the rope stretched taut between us; I guessed what his first move would be, and was ready for the sudden jerk when it came. It nearly li
fted me off my feet, but I turned with the rope across my shoulder and gave him heave for heave. The rope drummed like a bowstring, and then relaxed; he leered across at me and made a dribbling, piping noise. Then he bunched his enormous shoulder muscles, and leaning back, began to pull steadily.

  By God, he was strong. I strained until my shoulders cracked and my arms shuddered, but slowly, inch by inch, my heels slithered across the rough surface towards the edge of the trench. The Ghazis urged him on with cries of delight, Gul Shah came to the brink so that he could watch me as I was drawn inexorably to the limit. I felt one of my heels slip into space, my head seemed to be bursting with the effort and my ears roared – and then the tearing pain in my wrists relaxed, and I was sprawled on the very edge, exhausted, with the dwarf prancing and laughing on the other side and the rope slack between us.

  The Ghazis were delighted, and urged him to give me a quick final jerk into the culvert, but he shook his head and backed away again, snapping the rope at me. I glanced down; the snakes seemed almost to know what was afoot, for they had concentrated in a writhing, hissing mass just below me. I scrambled back, wet with fear and rage, and hurled my weight on the rope to try to heave him off balance. But for all the impression I made it might have been anchored to a tree.

  He was playing with me; there was no question he was far the stronger of us two, and twice he hauled me to the lip and let me go again. Gul Shah clapped his hands and the Ghazis cheered; then he snapped some order to the dwarf, and I realised with sick horror that they were going to make an end. In despair I rolled back again from the edge and got to my feet; my wrists were torn and bloody and my shoulder joints were on fire, and when the dwarf pulled on the rope I staggered forward and in doing so I nearly got him, for he had expected a stronger resistance, and almost overbalanced. I hauled for dear life, but he recovered in time, glaring and piping angrily at me as he stamped his feet for a hold.

  When he had finally settled himself he started to draw again on the rope, but not with his full strength, for he pulled me in only an inch at a time. This, I supposed, was the final hideous refinement; I struggled like a fish on a line, but there was no resisting that steady, dreadful pull. I was perhaps ten feet from the lip when he turned away from me, as a tug-of-war team will when it has its opponents on the run, and I realised that if I was to make any last desperate bid it must be now, while I had a little space to play with. I had almost unbalanced him by an accidental yielding; could I do it deliberately? With the last of my strength I dug my heels in and heaved tremendously; it checked him and he glanced over his shoulder, surprise on the hideous face. Then he grinned and exerted his strength, lunging away on the rope. My feet slipped.