The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  So when the three of them had left, Elspeth with her nose in the air because I wasn’t disposed to make up, I loafed about until evening and then whistled up a palki. My bearers jogged away through the crowded streets, and presently, just as dusk was falling, we reached our destination in what seemed to be a pleasant residential district inland from China Town, with big houses half-hidden in groves of trees from which paper lanterns hung; all very quiet and discreet.

  The Temple of Heaven was a large frame house on a little hill, entirely surrounded by trees and shrubs, with a winding drive up to the front verandah, which was all dim lights and gentle music and Chinese servants scurrying to make the guests at home. There was a large cool dining-room, where I had an excellent European meal with a bottle and a half of champagne, and I was in capital fettle and ready for mischief when the Hindoo head waiter sidled up to ask if all was in order, and was there anything else that the gentleman required? Would I care to see a cabaret, or an exhibition of Chinese works of art, or a concert, if my tastes were musical, or …

  “The whole d----d lot,” says I, “for I ain’t going home till morning, if you know what I mean. I’ve been six months at sea, so drum ’em up, Sambo, and sharp about it.”

  He smiled and bowed in his discreet Indian way, clapped his hands, and into the alcove where I was sitting there stepped the most gorgeous creature imaginable. She was Chinese, with blue-black hair coiled above a face that was pearl-like in its perfection and colour, with great slanting eyes, and her gown of crimson silk clung to a shape which English travellers are wont to describe as “a thought too generous for the European taste” but which, if I’d been a classical sculptor, would have had me dropping my hammer and chisel and reaching for the meat. Her arms were bare, and she spread them in the prettiest curtsey, smiling with perfect teeth between lips the colour of good port.

  “This is Madame Sabba,” says the waiter. “She will conduct you, if your excellency will permit …?”

  “I may, just about,” says I. “Which way’s upstairs?”

  I imagined it was the usual style, you see, but Madame Sabba, indicating that I should follow, led the way through an arch and down a long corridor, glancing behind to see that I was following. Which I was, breathing heavy, with my eyes on that trim waist and wobbling bottom; I caught her up at the end door, and was just clutching a handful when I realized that we were on a porch, and she was slipping out of my fond embrace and indicating a palki which was waiting at the foot of the steps.

  “What’s this?” says I.

  “The entertainment,” says she, “is a little way off. They will take us there.”

  “The entertainment,” says I, “is on this very spot.” And I took hold of her, growling, and hauled her against me. By George, she was a randy armful, wriggling against me and pretending she wanted to break loose, while I nuzzled into her, inhaling her perfume and munching away at her lips and face.

  “But I am only your guide,” she giggled, turning her face aside. “I shall take you—”

  “Just to the nearest bed, ducky. I’ll do the guiding after that.”

  “You like – me?” says she, playing coy, while I overhauled her lustfully. “Why, then – this is not suitable, here. We must go a little way – but I believe that when you see what else is offered, you will not care for Sabba.” And she stuck her tongue into my mouth and then pulled me towards the palki. “Come – they will take us quickly.”

  “If it’s more than ten yards, it’ll be a wasted trip,” says I, pawing away as we clambered aboard and pulled the curtains. I was properly on the boil, and intent on giving her the business then and there, but to my frustration the palki was one of those double sedans, where you sit opposite each other, and all I could do was paw at her frontage in the dark, swearing as I tried to unbutton her dress, and squeezing at the delights beneath it, while she kissed and fondled, laughing, telling me not to be impatient, and the palki men jogged along, bouncing us in a way that made it impossible to get down to serious work. Where they were taking us I didn’t care; what with champagne and passion I was lost to everything but the scented beauty teasing me in the dark; at last I managed to get one tit clear and was nibbling away when the palki stopped, and Madame Sabba gently disengaged herself.

  “A moment,” says she, and I could imagine her adjusting her gown in the darkness. “Wait here,” her fingers gently stroked my lips, there was a glimpse of dusk as she slipped through the palki curtain – and then silence.

  I waited, fretting and anticipating, for perhaps half a minute, and then stuck my head out. For a moment I couldn’t make out anything in the gloom, and then I saw that the palki was stopped in a mean-looking street, between dark and shuttered buildings – but of the palki men and Madame Sabba there wasn’t a sign. Just deserted shadow, not a light anywhere, and not a sound except the faint murmur of the town a long way off.

  My blank astonishment lasted perhaps two seconds, to be replaced by rage as I tore back the palki curtain and stumbled out, cursing. I hadn’t had time to feel the first chill of fear before I saw the black shapes moving out of the shadows at the end of the street, gliding silently towards me.

  I’m not proud of what happened in the next moment. Of course, I was very young and thoughtless, and my great days of instant flight and evasion were still ahead of me, but even so, with my Afghan experience and my native cowardice to boot, my reaction was inexcusable. In my riper years I’d have lost no precious seconds in bemused swearing; long before those stealthy figures even appeared, I’d have realized that Madame Sabba’s disappearance portended deadly danger, and been over the nearest wall and heading for the high country. But now, in my youthful folly and ignorance, I absolutely stood there gaping, and calling out:

  “Who the d---l are you, and what d’ye want? Where’s my whore, confound it?”

  And then they were running towards me, on silent feet, and I saw in a flash that I’d been lured to my death. Then, at last, was seen Flashy at his best, when it was all but too late. One scream, three strides, and I was leaping for the rickety fence between two houses; for an instant I was astride of it, and had a glimpse of four lean black shapes converging on me at frightening speed; something sang past my head and then I was down and pelting along the alley beyond, hearing the soft thuds behind as they vaulted over after me. I tore ahead full tilt, bawling “Help!” at the top of my lungs, shot round the corner, and ran for dear life down the street beyond.

  It was my yellow belly that saved me, nothing else. A hero wouldn’t have stood and fought – not against those odds, in such a place – but he’d at least have glanced back, to see how close the pursuit was, or maybe even have drawn rein to consider which way to run next. Which would have been fatal, for the speed at which they moved was fearful. One glimpse I caught of the leader as I turned the corner – a fell black shape moving like a panther, with something glittering in his hand – and in pure panic I went hurtling on, from one street to another, leaping every obstruction, screaming steadily for aid, but going at my uttermost every stride. That’s what you young chaps have got to remember – when you run, run, full speed, with never a thought for anything else; don’t look or listen or dither even for an instant; let terror have his way, for he’s the best friend you’ve got.

  He kept me ahead of the field for a good quarter of a mile, I reckon, through deserted streets and lanes, over fences and yards and ditches, and never a glimpse of a human soul, until I turned a corner and found myself looking down a narrow alley which obviously led to a frequented street, for at the far end there were lanterns and figures moving, and beyond that, against the night sky, the spars and masts of ships under riding lights.

  “Help!” I bawled. “Murder! Assassins! H--l and d--ation! Help!”

  I was pelting down the alley as I shouted, and now, like a fool, I stole a glance back – there he was, like a black avenging angel gliding round the corner a bare twenty yards behind. I raced on, but in turning my head I’d lost my direc
tion; suddenly there was an empty handcart in my path – left by some infernally careless coolie in the middle of the lane – and in trying to clear it I caught my foot and went sprawling. I was afoot in an instant, ahead of me someone was shouting, but my pursuer had halved the distance behind me, and as I shot another panic-stricken glance over my shoulder I saw his hand go back behind his head, something glittered and whirled at me, a fearful pain drove through my left shoulder, and I went sprawling into a pile of boxes, the flung hatchet clattering to the ground beside me.

  He had me now; he came over the handcart like a hurdle racer, landed on the balls of his feet, and as I tried vainly to scramble to cover among the wrecked boxes, he plucked a second hatchet from his belt, poised it in his hand, and took deliberate aim. Behind me, along the alley, I could hear boots pounding, and a voice shouting, but they were too late for me – I can still see that horrible figure in the lantern light, the glistening black paint like a mask across the skull-like Chinese head, the arm swinging back to hurl the hatchet—

  “Jingo!” a voice called, and pat on the word something whispered in the air above my head, the hatchet-man shrieked, his body twisted on tip-toe, and to my amazement I saw clearly in silhouette that an object like a short knitting-needle was protruding from beneath his upturned chin. His fingers fluttered at it, and then his whole body seemed to dissolve beneath him, and he sprawled motionless in the alley. Without being conscious of imitation, I followed suit.

  If I fainted, though, with pain and shock, it can only have been for a moment, for I became conscious of strong hands raising me, and an English voice saying: “I say, he’s taken a bit of a cut. Here, sit him against the wall.” And there were other voices, in an astonishing jumble: “How’s the Chink?” “Dead as mutton – Jingo hit him full in the crop.” “By Jove, that was neat – I say, look here, though, he’s starting to twitch!” “Well, I’m blessed, the poison’s working, even though he’s dead. If that don’t beat everything!” “Trust our little Jingo – cut his throat and poison him afterwards, just for luck, what?”

  I was too dazed to make anything of this, but one word in their crazy discussion struck home in my disordered senses.

  “Poison!” I gasped. “The axe – poisoned! My G-d, I’m dying, get a doctor – my arm’s gone dead already—”

  And then I opened my eyes, and saw an amazing sight. In front of me was crouching a squat, hideously-featured native, naked save for a loin-cloth, gripping a long bamboo spear. Alongside him stood a huge Arab-looking chap, in white ducks and crimson sash, with a green scarf round his hawk head and a great red-dyed beard rippling down to his waist. There were a couple of other near-naked natives, two or three obvious seamen in ducks and caps, and kneeling at my right side a young, fair-haired fellow in a striped jersey. As motley a crowd as ever I opened eyes on, but when I turned my head to see who was poking painfully at my wounded shoulder, I forgot all about the others – this was the chap to look at.

  It was a boy’s face; that was the first impression, in spite of the bronzed, strong lines of it, the touches of grey in the dark curly hair and long side-whiskers, the tough-set mouth and jaw, and the half-healed sword cut that ran from his right brow onto his cheek. He was about forty, and they hadn’t been quiet years, but the dark blue eyes were as innocent as a ten-year-old’s and when he grinned, as he was doing now, you thought at once of stolen apples and tacks on the master’s chair.

  “Poison?” says he, ripping away my blood-sodden sleeve. “Not a bit of it. Chink hatchet-men don’t go in for it, you know. That’s for ignorant savages like Jingo here – say ‘How-de-do’ to the gentleman, Jingo.” And while the savage with the spear bobbed his head at me with a frightful grin, this chap left off mauling my shoulder, and reaching over towards the body of my fallen pursuer, pulled the knitting-needle thing from his neck.

  “See there,” says he, holding it gingerly, and I saw it was a thin dart about a foot long. “That’s Jingo’s delight – saved your life, I dare say, didn’t it, Jingo? Of course, any Iban worth his salt can hit a farthing at twenty yards, but Jingo can do it at fifty. Radjun poison on the tip – not fatal to humans, as a rule, but it don’t need to be if the dart goes through your jugular, does it?” He tossed the beastly thing aside and poked at my wound again, humming softly:

  “Oh, say was you ever in Mobile bay,

  A-screwin’ cotton at a dollar a day,

  Sing ‘Johnny come down to Hilo’.”

  I yelped with pain and he clicked his tongue reprovingly.

  “Don’t swear,” says he. “Just excite yourself, and you won’t go to heaven when you die. Anyway, squeaking won’t mend it – it’s just a scrape, two stitches and you’ll be as right as rain.”

  “It’s agony!” I groaned. “I’m bleeding buckets!”

  “No, you ain’t, either. Anyway, a great big hearty chap like you won’t miss a bit of blood. Mustn’t be a milksop. Why, when I got this” – he touched his scar – “I didn’t even cheep. Did I, Stuart?”

  “Yes, you did,” says the fair chap. “Bellowed like a bull and wanted your mother.”

  “Not a word of truth in it. Is there, Paitingi?”

  The red-bearded Arab spat. “You enjoy bein’ hurt,” says he, in a strong Scotch accent. “Ye gaunae leave the man lyin’ here a’ nicht?”

  “We ought to let Mackenzie look at him, J.B.,” says the fair chap. “He’s looking pretty groggy.”

  “Shock,” says my ministering angel, who was knotting his handkerchief round my shoulder, to my accompanying moans. “There, now – that’ll do. Yes, let Mac sew him together, and he’ll be ready to tackle twenty hatchet-men tomorrow. Won’t you, old son?” And the grinning madman winked and patted my head. “Why was this one chasing you, by the way? I see he’s a Black-face; they usually hunt in packs.”

  Between groans, I told him how my palki had been set on by four of them – I didn’t say anything about Madame Sabba – and he stopped grinning and looked murderous.

  “The cowardly, sneaking vagabonds!” cries he. “I don’t know what the police are thinking about – leave it to me and I’d clear the rascals out in a fortnight, wouldn’t I just!” He looked the very man to do it, too. “It’s too bad altogether. You were lucky we happened along, though. Think you can walk? Here, Stuart, help him up. There now,” cries the callous brute, as they hauled me to my feet, “you’re feeling better already, I’ll be bound!”

  At any other time I’d have given him a piece of my mind, for if there’s one thing I detest more than another it’s these hearty, selfish, muscular Christians who are forever making light of your troubles when all you want to do is lie whimpering. But I was too dizzy with the agony of my shoulder, and besides, he and his amazing gang of sailors and savages had certainly saved my bacon, so I felt obliged to mutter my thanks as well as I could. J.B. laughed at this and said it was all in a good cause, and duty-free, and they would see me home in a palki. So while some of them set off hallooing to find one, he and the others propped me against the wall, and then they stood about and discussed what they should do with the dead Chinaman.

  It was a remarkable conversation, in its way. Someone suggested, sensibly enough, that they should cart him along and give him to the police, but the fair chap, Stuart, said no, they ought to leave him lying and write a letter to the “Free Press” complaining about litter in the streets. The Arab, whose name was Paitingi Ali, and whose Scotch accent I found unbelievable, was for giving him a Christian burial, of all things, and the hideous little native, Jingo, jabbering excitedly and stamping his feet, apparently wanted to cut his head off and take it home.

  “Can’t do that,” says Stuart. “You can’t cure it till we get to Kuching, and it’ll stink long before that.”

  “I won’t have it,” says the man J. B., who was evidently the leader. “Taking heads is a beastly practice, and one I am resolved to suppress. Mind you,” he added, “Jingo’s suggestion, by his own lights, has a stronger claim to consideration
than yours – it is his head, since he killed the fellow. Hollo, though, here’s Crimble with the palki. In you go, old chap.”

  I wondered, listening to them, if my wound had made me delirious; either that, or I had fallen in with a party of lunatics. But I was too used up to care; I let them stow me in the palki, and lay half-conscious while they debated where they might find Mackenzie – who I gathered was a doctor – at this time of night. No one seemed to know where he might be, and then someone recalled that he had been going to play chess with Whampoa. I had just enough of my wits left to recall the name, and croak out that Whampoa’s establishment would suit me splendidly – the thought that his delectable little Chinese girls might be employed to nurse me was particularly soothing just then.

  “You know Whampoa, do you?” says J.B. “Well, that settles it. Lead on, Stuart. By the way,” says he to me, as they picked up the palki, “my name’s Brooke – James Brooke16 – known as J.B. You’re Mr …?”

  I told him, and even in my reduced condition it was a satisfaction to see the blue eyes open wider in surprise.

  “Not the Afghan chap? Well, I’m blessed! Why, I’ve wanted to meet you this two years past! And to think that if we hadn’t happened along, you’d have been …”

  My head was swimming with pain and fatigue, and I didn’t hear any more. I have a faint recollection of the palki jogging, and of the voices of my escort singing:

  “Oh, say have you seen the plantation boss,

  With his black-haired woman and his high-tail hoss,

  Sing ‘Johnny come down to Hilo’,

  Poor … old … man!”

  But I must have gone under, for the next thing I remember is the choking stench of ammonia beneath my nose, and when I opened my eyes there was a glare of light, and I was sitting in a chair in Whampoa’s hall. My coat and shirt had been stripped away, and a burly, black-bearded chap was making me wince and cry out with a scalding hot cloth applied to my wound – sure enough, though, at his elbow was one of those almond-eyed little beauties, holding a bowl of steaming water. She was the only cheery sight in the room, for as I blinked against the light reflected from the magnificence of silver and jade and ivory I saw that the ring of faces watching me was solemn and silent and still as statues.