The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  When I did, it was to find myself in a pleasant, whitewashed room, with the sun slanting through wooden shutters, and a punkah wallah dozing against the wall, automatically twitching the string of his big fan. I turned my head, and found it was heavily bandaged; I was conscious that it throbbed at the back, but even that didn’t discourage me. I had got clear away, from pursuing Afghans and relentless enemies and beastly-minded women and idiot commanders – I was snug in bed, and anyone who expected any more from Flashy – well, let him wish he might get it!

  I stirred again, and my leg hurt, and I swore, at which the punkah wallah jumps up, squeaking, and ran from the room crying that I was awake. Presently there was a bustling, and in came a little spectacled man with a bald head and a large canvas jacket, followed by two or three Indian attendants.

  “Awake at last!” says he. “Well, well, this is gratifying. Don’t move, sir. Still, still. You’ve a broken leg here and a broken head there, let’s have peace between ’em, what?” He beamed at me, took my pulse, looked at my tongue, told me his name was Bucket, pulled his nose, and said I was very well, considering. “Fractured femur, sir – thigh bone; nasty, but uncomplicated. Few months and you’ll be bounding over the jumps again. But not yet – no; had a nasty time of it, eh? Ugly cuts about your back – ne’er mind, we’ll hear about that later. Now Abdul,” says he, “run and tell Major Havelock the patient’s awake, juldi jao. Pray don’t move, sir. What’s that? – yes, a little drink. Better? Head still, that’s right – nothing to do for the present but lie properly still.”

  He prattled on, but I wasn’t heeding him. Oddly enough, it was the sight of the blue coat beneath the canvas jacket that put me in mind of Hudson – what had become of him? My last recollection was of seeing him hit and probably killed. But was he dead? He had better be, for my sake – for the memory of our latter relations was all too vivid in my mind, and it suddenly rushed in on me that if Hudson was alive, and talked, I was done for. He could swear to my cowardice, if he wanted to – would he dare? Would he be believed? He could prove nothing, but if he was known as a steady man – and I was sure he would be – he might well be listened to. It would mean my ruin, my disgrace – and while I hadn’t cared a button for these things when I believed death was closing in on me and everyone else in that fort, well, I cared most damnably for them now that I was safe again.

  Oh, God, says I to myself, let him be dead; the sepoys, if any survived, don’t know, and wouldn’t talk if they did, or be believed. But Hudson – he must be dead!

  Charitable thoughts, you’ll say. Aye, it’s a hard world, and while bastards like Hudson have their uses, they can be most inconvenient, too. I wanted him to be dead, then, as much as I ever wanted anything.

  My suspense must have been written on my face, for the little doctor began to babble soothingly to me, and then the door opened and in walked Sale, his big, kind, stupid face all beaming as red as his coat, and behind him a tall, flinty-faced, pulpit-looking man; there were others peeping round the lintel as Sale strode forward and plumped down into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward to take my hand in his own. He held it gently in his big paw and gazed at me like a cow in milk.

  “My boy!” says he, almost in a whisper. “My brave boy!”

  Hullo, thinks I, this don’t sound too bad at all. But I had to find out, and quickly.

  “Sir,” says I – and to my astonishment my voice came out in a hoarse quaver, it had been so long unused, I suppose – “sir, how is Sergeant Hudson?”

  Sale gave a grunt as though he had been kicked, bowed his head, and then looked at the doctor and the gravedigger fellow with him. They both looked damned solemn.

  “His first words,” says the little doctor, hauling out a handkerchief and snorting into it.

  Sale shook his head sadly, and looked back at me.

  “My boy,” says he, “it grieves me deeply to tell you that your comrade – Sergeant Hudson – is dead. He did not survive the last onslaught on Piper’s Fort.” He paused, staring at me compassionately, and then says: “He died – like a true soldier.”

  “‘And Nicanor lay dead in his harness’,” says the gravedigger chap, taking a look at the ceiling. “He died in the fullness of his duty, and was not found wanting.”

  “Thank God,” says I. “God help him, I mean – God rest him, that is.” Luckily my voice was so weak that they couldn’t hear more than a mumble. I looked downcast, and Sale squeezed my hand.

  “I think I know,” says he, “what his comradeship must have meant to you. We understand, you see, that you must have come together from the ruins of General Elphinstone’s army, and we can guess at the hardships – oh, my boy, they are written all too plainly on your body – that you must have endured together. I would have spared you this news until you were stronger …” He made a gesture and brushed his eye.

  “No, sir,” says I, speaking a little stronger, “I wanted to know now.”

  “It is what I would have expected of you,” says he, wringing my hand. “My boy, what can I say? It is a soldier’s lot. We must console ourselves with the thought that we would as gladly sacrifice ourselves for our comrades as they do for us. And we do not forget them.”

  “‘Non omnis moriar’,” says the gravedigger. “Such men do not wholly die.”

  “Amen,” says the little doctor, sniffing. Really, all they needed was an organ and a church choir.

  “But we must not disturb you too soon,” says Sale. “You need rest.” He got up. “Take it in the knowledge that your troubles are over, and that you have done your duty as few men would have done it. Aye, or could have done it. I shall come again as soon as I may; in the meantime, let me say what I came to tell you: that I rejoice from my heart to see you so far recovered, for your delivery is the finest thing that has come to us in all this dark catalogue of disasters. God bless you, my boy. Come, gentlemen.”

  He stumped out, with the others following; the gravedigger bowed solemnly and the little doctor ducked his head and shooed the nigger attendants before him. And I was left not only relieved but amazed by what Sale had said – oh, the everyday compliments of people like Elphy Bey are one thing, but this was Sale, after all, the renowned Fighting Bob, whose courage was a byword. And he had said my deliverance was “the finest thing”, and that I had done my duty as few could have done it – why, he had talked as though I was a hero, to be reverenced with that astonishing pussy-footing worship which, for some reason, my century extended to its idols. They treated us (I can say “us”) as though we were too delicate to handle normally, like old Chinese pots.

  Well, I had thought, when I woke up, that I was safe and in credit, but Sale’s visit made me realise that there was more to it than I had imagined. I didn’t find out what, though, until the following day, when Sale came back again with the gravedigger at his elbow – he was Major Havelock, by the way, a Bible-moth of the deepest dye, and a great name now.22 Old Bob was in great spirits, and entertained me with the latest news, which was that Jallalabad was holding out splendidly, that a relief force under Pollock was on its way, and that it didn’t matter anyway, because we had the measure of the Afghans and would probably sally out and break the siege whenever we felt like it. Havelock looked a bit sour at this; I gathered he didn’t hold a high opinion of Sale – nobody did, apart from admiring his bravery – and was none too sure of his capabilities when it came to raising sieges.

  “And this,” says Bob, beaming with enthusiasm, “this we owe to you. Aye, and to the gallant band who held that little fort against an army. My word, Havelock, did I not say to you at the time that there never was a grander thing? It may not pay for all, to be sure; the catastrophe of Afghanistan will call forth universal horror in England, but at least we have redeemed something. We hold Jallalabad, and we’ll drive this rabble of Akbar’s from our gates – aye, and be back in Kabul before the year is out. And when we do –” and he swung round on me again “– it will be because a handful of sepoys, led by an Engl
ish gentleman, defied a great army alone, and to the bitter end.”

  He was so worked up by his own eloquence that he had to go into the corner and gulp for a little, while Havelock nodded solemnly, regarding me.

  “It had the flavour of heroism,” says he, “and heaven knows there has been little enough of that to date. They will make much of it at home.”

  Well, I’m not often at a nonplus (except when there is physical danger, of course), but this left me speechless. Heroism? Well, if they cared to think so, let ’em; I wouldn’t contradict them – and it struck me that if I did, if I were idiot enough to let them know the truth, as I am writing it now, they would simply have thought me crazy as a result of my wounds. God alone knew what I was supposed to have done that was so brave, but doubtless I should learn in time. All I could see was that somehow appearances were heavily on my side – and who needs more than that? Give me the shadow every time, and you can keep the substance – it’s a principle I’ve followed all my life, and it works if you know how to act on it.

  What was obvious was that nothing must now happen to spoil Sale’s lovely dream for him; it would have been cruel to the old fellow. So I addressed myself to the task at once.

  “We did our duty, sir,” says I, looking uncomfortable, and Havelock nodded again, while old Bob came back to the bed.

  “And I have done mine,” says he, fumbling in his pocket. “For I conceived it no less, in sending my latest despatch to Lord Ellenborough – who now commands in Delhi – to include an account of your action. I’ll read it,” says he, “because it speaks more clearly than I can at present, and will enable you to see how others judged your conduct.”

  He cleared his throat, and began.

  “Humph – let’s see – Afghans in strength – demands that I surrender – aye, aye – sharp engagement by Dennie – ah, here we have it. ‘I had despatched a strong guard under Captain Little to Piper’s Fort, commanding an eminence some way from the city, where I feared the enemy might establish gun positions. When the siege began, Piper’s Fort was totally cut off from us, and received the full force of the enemy’s assault. In what manner it resisted I cannot say in detail, for of its garrison only five now survive, four of them being sepoys, and the other an English officer who is yet unconscious with his wounds, but will, as I trust, soon recover. How he came in the fort I know not, for he was not of the original garrison, but on the staff of General Elphinstone. His name is Flashman, and it is probable that he and Dr Brydon are the only survivors of the army so cruelly destroyed at Jugdulluk and Gandamack. I can only assume that he escaped the final massacre, and so reached Piper’s Fort after the siege began.”

  He looked at me. “You shall correct me, my boy, if I go wrong, but it is right you should know what I have told his excellency.”

  “You’re very kind sir,” says I, humbly. Too kind by a damned sight, if you only knew.

  “‘The siege continued slowly on our own front, as I have already informed you,’” says Sale, reading on, “‘but the violence of the assaults on Piper’s Fort was unabated. Captain Little was slain, with his sergeant, but the garrison fought on with the utmost resolution. Lieutenant Flashman, as I learn from one of the sepoys, was in a case more suited to a hospital than to a battlefield, for he had evidently been prisoner of the Afghans, who had flogged him most shockingly, so that he was unable to stand, and must lie in the fort tower. His companion, Sergeant Hudson, assisted most gallantly in the defence, until Lieutenant Flashman, despite his wounds, returned to the action.

  “‘Charge after charge was resisted, and the enemy most bloodily repulsed. To us in Jallalabad, this unexpected check to the Sirdar’s advance was an advantage beyond price. It may well have been decisive.’”

  Well, Hudson, thinks I, that was what you wanted, and you got it, for all the good it did you. Meanwhile, Sale laid off for a minute, took a wipe at his eye, and started in again, trying not to quaver. I suspect he was enjoying his emotion.

  “‘But there was no way in which we could succour Piper’s Fort at this time, and, the enemy bringing forward cannon, the walls were breached in several places. I had now resolved on a sortie, to do what could be done for our comrades, and Colonel Dennie advanced to their relief. In a sharp engagement over the very ruins of the fort – for it had been pounded almost to pieces by the guns – the Afghans were entirely routed, and we were able to make good the position and withdraw the survivors of the garrison which had held it so faithfully and well.’”

  I thought the old fool was going to weep, but he took a great pull at himself and proceeded:

  “‘With what grief do I write that of these there remained only five? The gallant Hudson was slain, and at first it seemed that no European was left alive. Then Lieutenant Flashman was found, wounded and unconscious, by the ruins of the gate, where he had taken his final stand in defence not only of the fort, but of his country’s honour. For he was found, in the last extremity, with the colours clutched to his broken body, his face to the foemen, defiant even unto death.’”

  Hallelujah and good-night, sweet prince, says I to myself, what a shame I hadn’t a broken sword and a ring of my slain around me. But I thought too soon.

  “‘The bodies of his enemies lay before him,’” says old Bob, “‘At first it was thought he was dead, but to our great joy it was discovered that the flame of life still flickered. I cannot think that there was ever a nobler deed than this, and I only wish that our countrymen at home might have seen it, and learned with what selfless devotion their honour is protected even at the ends of the earth. It was heroic! and I trust that Lieutenant Flashman’s name will be remembered in every home in England. Whatever may be said of the disasters that have befallen us here, his valour is testimony that the spirit of our young manhood is no whit less ardent than that of their predecessors who, in Pitt’s words, saved Europe by their example.’”

  Well, thinks I, if that’s how we won the battle of Waterloo, thank God the French don’t know or we shall have them at us again. Who ever heard such humbug? But it was glorious to listen to, mind you, and I glowed at the thought of it. This was fame! I didn’t understand, then, how the news of Kabul and Gandamack would make England shudder, and how that vastly conceited and indignant public would clutch at any straw that might heal their national pride and enable them to repeat the old and nonsensical lie that one Englishman is worth twenty foreigners. But I could still guess what effect Sale’s report would have on a new Governor-General, and through him on the government and country, especially by contrast with the accounts of the inglorious shambles by Elphy and McNaghten that must now be on their way home.

  All I must do was be modest and manly and wait for the laurel wreaths.

  Sale had shoved his copy of the letter back in his pocket, and was looking at me all moist and admiring. Havelock was stern; I guessed he thought Sale was laying it on a deal too thick, but he couldn’t say so. (I gathered later that the defence of Piper’s Fort wasn’t quite so important to Jallalabad as Fighting Bob imagined; it was his own hesitation that made him hold off so long attacking Akbar, and in fact he might have relieved us sooner.)

  It was up to me, so I looked Sale in the eye, man to man.

  “You’ve done us great credit, sir,” says I. “Thank’ee. For the garrison, it’s no less then they deserve, but for myself, well you make it sound … a bit too much like St George and the Dragon, if you don’t mind my saying so. I just … well, pitched in with the rest, sir, that was all.”

  Even Havelock smiled at this plain, manly talk, and Sale nearly burst with pride and said it was the grandest thing, by heaven, and the whole garrison was full of it. Then he sobered down, and asked me to tell him how I had come to Piper’s Fort, and what had happened to separate Hudson and me from the army. Elphy was still in Akbar’s hands, along with Shelton and Mackenzie and the married folk, but for the rest they had thought them all wiped out except Brydon, who had come galloping in alone with a broken sabre trailing from his
wrist.

  With Havelock’s eye on me I kept it brief and truthful. We had come adrift from the army in the fighting about Jugdulluk, I said, had escaped by inches through the gullies with Ghazis pursuing us, and had tried to rejoin the army at Gandamack, but had only been in time to see it slaughtered. I described the scene accurately, with old Bob groaning and damning and Havelock frowning like a stone idol, and then told how we had been captured and imprisoned by Afridis. They had flogged me to make me give information about the Kandahar force and other matters, but thank God I had told them nothing (“bravo!” says old Bob), and had managed to slip my fetters the same night. I had released Hudson and together we had cut our way past our captors and escaped.

  I said nothing of Narreeman – least said soonest mended – but concluded with an account of how we had skulked through the Afghan army, and then ridden into the fort hell-for-leather.

  There I left it, and old Bob exclaimed again about courage and endurance, but what reassured me most was that Havelock, without a word, shook my right hand in both of his. I can say that I told it well – off-hand, but not over-modest; just a blunt soldier reporting to his seniors. It calls for nice judgement, this art of bragging; you must be plain, but not too plain, and you must smile only rarely. Letting them guess more than you say is the kernel of it, and looking uncomfortable when they compliment you.

  They spread the tale, of course, and in the next few days I don’t suppose there was an officer of the garrison who didn’t come in to shake hands and congratulate me on coming through safe. George Broadfoot was among the first, all red whiskers and spectacles, beaming and telling me what a devil of a fellow I was – and this from Broadfoot, mind you, whom the Afghans called a brave among braves. To have people like him and Mayne and Fighting Bob making much of me – well, it was first-rate, I can tell you, and my conscience didn’t trouble me a bit. Why should it? I didn’t ask for their golden opinions; I just didn’t contradict ’em. Who would?