The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  We pushed on, and towards evening I smelled smoke. We went to ground at once, and camped without fires, and in the morning moved ahead cautiously until we caught the scent of charred wood. Sure enough, there it was, a little way off the trail – the blackened shell of a wagon, with little drifts of smoke still coming from it. There were three white corpses sprawled among the wreck, two men and a woman; all had been shot with arrows, scalped, and foully mutilated. Grattan went round the wagon, and cursed; I went to look and wished I hadn’t. On the other side were two more bodies, a man’s and a young girl’s, though it wasn’t easy to tell; they had been spreadeagled and fires lit on top of them. If that Indian in the buffalo cap had ridden a few yards farther, we would have been served the same way.

  We buried them in a cold sweat, and pressed on quickly; oddly enough, though, the knowledge of our escape raised our spirits, and it was with cries and hurrahs that afternoon that we passed the mouth of the Picketwire,24 which joins the Arkansas about fifteen miles below Bent’s. One or two of the savaneros were uneasy that there was still no sign of civilised life so close to the fort; there were normally bands of trappers and traders to be seen, and friendly Indians camped on the Picketwire, they said. But Grattan pointed out that with so large a band of hostiles on the prowl, the normal traffic wasn’t to be expected; they’d be staying snug behind the wall at Bent’s.

  We were all eager to see this famous citadel of the plains, and in camp that night Grattan entertained Susie with a recital of its wonders; to hear him it was like finding Piccadilly in the middle of the Sahara.

  “You’ll be wonderstruck, ma’am,” laughs he. “You haven’t seen a building worth the name since we left Westport, have you? Well, tomorrow, after a thousand miles of desolation, you’ll see a veritable castle on the prairie, with towers and ramparts – oh, and shops, too! It’s a fact, and all as busy as Stephen’s Green. This time tomorrow you’ll be watching the captain here playing skittle pool in the billiard room, with a wee man in a white coat skipping in with refreshment, and you’ll sleep on a down mattress after a hot bath and the best dinner west of St Louis, so you will.”

  We were off at dawn of a brisk, bright day with the breeze fluttering the cottonwoods as we rolled along by the river at our best pace. We nooned without incident; just an hour or two, thinks I, and we’ll be through this horror and can lie up until other trains appear, and then head for Santa Fe in safety, with some other idiot riding wagon-boss. We were all in spirits; Susie was laughing and listening to Grattan as he rode by the carriage, the tarts had their wagon-covers up and were chattering like magpies in the sunshine, and even the invalids had perked up and were telling each other that this was more bracing than Maine, by George; I caught Cleonie’s demure glance as I rode by her wagon, and reflected that Bent’s must be big enough to find a more comfortable private nook than a prairie tent. And then I saw the smoke.

  It was a single puff, above the gentle crest to our right, floating up into the clear sky, and while I was still gaping in consternation, there they were – four mounted Indians on the skyline, trotting down the slope towards us. Grattan swore softly and shaded his eyes, and then swung to the coach driver.

  “Keep going – brisk, but not too fast! Easy, now, captain – that smoke means there’ll be others coming lickety-split; you’ll note we’re only worth a single puff, bad cess to ’em!25 So we must keep ’em at a distance till we get within cry of Bent’s; it can’t be above a couple of miles now!”

  My instinct was to turn and ride for it, but he was right. The four Indians were coming on at a brisk canter now, so with Grattan leading we rode out to head them away, me with my sweat flowing freely – the sight of those oily copper forms, the painted faces, the feathers, and the practised ease with which they managed ponies and lances, would have turned your stomach. They rode along easily, edging only gradually closer.

  “They won’t show fight till the regiment arrives,” says Grattan. “Watch in case they try to side-slip us and scare the wagon-beasts – ah, you bastard, that’s the trick! See, captain!”

  Sure enough, they had their blankets ready in their hands; their leader, riding parallel with us about twenty yards off, raised his and shouted “Tread!”, which I took to mean “trade” – a likely story.

  “Give ’em a hail,” says Grattan, so I shouted “Bugger off!” and made gestures of dismissal. The brave shouted something back, in apparent disappointment, turned his pony slightly aside – and then without warning wheeled sharply and, with his mates following suit as smart as guardsmen, made a dart across our rear towards the wagon-train.

  “Donnybrook!” yells Grattan, and I heard his Colt bang at my elbow. An Indian twisted and fell shrieking, and as the leader’s horse sped past me I gave it a barrel in the neck – in a mêlée you shoot at what you’re sure to hit – and then my heels went in and my head down as I thundered for the wagons.

  The two remaining braves were making for the rear wagon, swooping in, flapping their blankets at the beasts. I roared to the teamsters to whip up; they shouted and swung their snakes, and the wagons lurched and bounced in the ruts as the beasts surged forward. Grattan fired and missed one of the Indians; a teamster, reins in his teeth, let fly a shot that went nowhere, and then the two had wheeled past us and were racing out and away.

  I galloped up the train, all eyes to see where the next danger was coming from. By God, I didn’t have to look far – on the crest to our right there was a round score of the brutes, swerving down towards us. They were perhaps two furlongs off, for the crest had swung away from the river, which was inclining in a big loop to the left, so that as the wagons veered to follow its course, they were also turning away from our pursuers. But in less than three minutes they would close the gap with the lumbering train.

  Ahead of me, Grattan was swinging himself from his saddle over the tailboard of a wagon, and farther ahead the savaneros of the mule-train were doing likewise, their mules running free. In among them came the two braves with blankets, screeching and trying to drive the leaderless brutes in among the wagons; Grattan’s rifle boomed and one of the braves went down; the other tried to throw himself at one of the wagon-teams, but must have missed his hold, for as I galloped by he was losing an argument with a wagon-wheel, and being deuced noisy about it.

  The savaneros were firing now; Grattan yelled to me, pointing forward, and I was in solid agreement, for up yonder somewhere was Bent’s, and I didn’t mind a bit if I was first past the post. Half a dozen revolving rifles were letting go as I thundered up the train, which is just the kind of broadside you need when twenty painted devils are closing in; they weren’t more than two hundred paces off our rear flank now, whooping like be-damned and firing as they came. I was abreast the leading wagon, with only the two invalid carriages and Susie’s coach leaping along ahead; at my elbow the sluts were squealing and cowering behind the wagon-side; I saw a shaft quivering in the timber, and another hissed over my head; it’s time to get off this pony and under cover, thinks I – and in that moment the brute stumbled, and I had only a split second to kick my feet clear and roll before she went headlong.

  It’s odd, what sticks in your mind. There was a grey-bearded face peering from the window of the nearest carriage, absolutely adjusting its spectacles – then earth and sky whirled crazily as I hit the ground with a bone-shaking crash. I hadn’t time to wonder if aught was broken; I grabbed at a trailing rope as a wagon-wheel whirled by close to my face, and managed to get the bight round my elbow; it was almost dislocated as I was hauled half-upright, clawing for a hold. Female voices screamed as I was dragged staggering along, hands clutched at my arms and collar, and I was pulled bodily against the tailboard with my legs going like pistons in mid-air.

  If I’ve a soft spot for harlots, d’you wonder? Somehow they kept me aloft long enough to get an arm round a stanchion and a leg over the tailboard. I gathered my strength to heave, and the whole pack of them screamed in unison and fell back in a panic of crinoline
as an Indian leaped from nowhere, hatchet in hand, and clung to the tailboard not a yard away.

  I may forget that painted, feathered face and screaming mouth one of these days, but I doubt it. I was hanging helpless, the prairie flying along two yards below, as he swung up the hatchet – and then there were squeals of rage, and black Aphrodite was thrashing at him with a parasol, God bless her. He clung like a leech with one hand, stubbornly determined to disembowel me with the other, but the clever, beautiful, resourceful pearl of African womanhood abandoned edge for point, and gave him the ferrule in the groin; he shrieked and tumbled off under the hooves of the team behind, and I hauled myself inboard and looked about to see what fresh horror was offering itself.

  It was a battle royal. The Indians were strung out along the train, firing bows and pieces, and the savaneros were giving ’em volley for volley. But some of the bolder spirits, like the chap who’d experienced Aphrodite’s caress, were riding in among the wagons, sliding down the offside of their ponies for protection, trying to get close enough to scupper our teams. I saw men and ponies go down; an arrow zipped into the furled canvas overhead, and when I emerged from the trollops for another peep, there was a wicked little red bastard in a war-bonnet alongside the lead mule of the wagon behind, driving his lance into its flank. The poor brute screamed and went down, bringing the others with him in a kicking tangle, the wagon lurched crazily, hung for a sickening moment, and then crashed down, scattering cases of claret all over the trail. Then our own wagon bucked like fury, and I was thrown headlong and fetched up against the sideboard with all the breath driven out of me.

  I scrambled up, and if it isn’t one damned thing it’s another. There was an Indian on our driver’s seat now, disputing the reins with the teamster; the reins fell free as they grappled, and it was a stone certainty that we’d be over in two seconds if steps were not taken. I never join in unless I must, but now there was nothing for it but to fight my way through a press of hysterical whores, of whom there now seemed to be about fifty, rolling underfoot, striking out blindly, or swooning in my path. I lurched over the frontboard and got a fist into the Indian’s braids and hauled; the teamster slashed at him with a Bowie, and as he dropped away, howling, I grabbed the reins and flung my weight on to steady the team. The teamster took hold – and I looked ahead and almost lost my balance in sheer astonishment.

  We were on open plain, with the three carriages flying along before us, and beyond them was one of the most beautiful and unbelievable sights I ever beheld. It was a castle, just as Grattan had said, with two great round towers, massive walls of what looked like brown stone, and a beetling gateway – with the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the breeze. I yelled with joy and amazement as we lumbered down towards it, and then became aware that the shots and yells were dying away behind; I looked back, and there were five wagons spread out across the plain – which meant that two were goners – and in their wake the Indians were slackening in their pursuit, waving their weapons and whooping. I could see some of them clustered round the wrecked wagon, no doubt preparing to sample the claret as soon as the chief had swilled the first glassful round his palate.

  Susie’s carriage was making for the open gateway, and as the invalids’ vehicles slowed my teamster reined in almost to a walk. I jumped down, watching the remaining wagons trundling in; one had smoke rising from its smouldering canvas; another was rolling drunkenly with a displaced axle, but at least they were safe, and Grattan and two of the savaneros were on foot, rifles at the ready, acting as a rearguard.

  The carriages were inside, and as the first wagon followed with its wailing occupants – all but Aphrodite, who was thrashing the tailboard with the remains of her gamp, in a fine berserk fury still – I hurried through the gates. I had a fleeting impression of a great courtyard surrounded by two storeys of buildings, and then I was up a flight of steps to the parapet above the main gate. Just beneath me the last four wagons were crowded in about the gateway; Grattan, his rifle cradled, gave me a wave. Beyond lay the empty plain for quarter of a mile to the bend of the river, where about a dozen Indians were milling to and fro, but making no move towards the fort; behind them I could see the wrecked wagon beside the cottonwoods fringing the river – and then I sank down, in nervous exhaustion, by the wall; my shoulder was skinned and throbbing from my tumble; there was caked blood on the back of my hand; God knew whose it was.

  Feet were running up the steps, and Grattan appeared, his face grimed and grinning. “Will ye have nuts or a cigar, sir?” says he, and I hauled myself up. Beneath us I could hear the great gates being hauled to, and the savaneros’ and teamsters’ voices raised in oaths of relief; down in the courtyard the wagons were any old how, and the beasts were braying and roaring, with the wails of the sluts added to the din; the invalids were climbing out, shaken and bewildered; I saw Susie with her face pale and her hair awry. Then Grattan says: “Jesus Christ!”, and I saw he was staring round in wonder; I stared too – at the crowded courtyard and our dazed following, at the huddle of wagons and beasts, at the silent buildings, the great round towers, the broad upper walks and parapets, at Old Glory over our heads. And I realized why Grattan, that soft-spoken man, had blasphemed.

  There wasn’t a soul in Bent’s Fort but ourselves.

  Chapter 7

  I know now, of course, why it was so – that William Bent was crazy, and had abandoned his wonderful fortress to fate and the death-watch beetle, or whatever bugs they have out there – but at the time it was a mystery beyond belief. Here we were, winded and terrified after a chase by those infernal savages, home by the skin of our teeth – and the place that should have been swarming with people was empty, but with its flag flying and not a chair out of place. For while the teamsters and savaneros mounted guard and saw to the beasts, and the rest occupied the ground-floor rooms and prepared food and tended our two or three injured, Grattan and I went over the whole place from attic to cellar. And there wasn’t so much as a mouse.

  It was an incredible citadel, though, deserted as it was.

  I suppose it would be about a hundred paces square, but I can’t be sure from memory, with adobe walls twenty feet high and stout enough to resist a battering-ram. There were two huge towers, like martellos, at opposite corners; against the north wall were two storeys of buildings, with fine cool rooms, and opposite them, across the square, a shaded arcade of shops and trade-rooms; inside the gate-wall were chambers for guards and servants, with stoves and fireplaces, and on the west end were a cooper’s and joiner’s shops, a forge, and storehouses. The roofs of all these buildings formed broad walks running inside the upper ramparts; on this level, at the west end, there was even a little house with a porch, for the commandant, and a billiard-room, dammit – which Grattan had sworn to, and I hadn’t believed – with the pills still lying on the baize. I was so astounded that I picked up a cue and slapped the red away – and not ten minutes earlier I’d been hanging upside down from a wagon tail trying to avoid being tomahawked!

  “I don’t believe this bloody place,” says I, while Grattan replaced the balls and blazed away (he made nothing of it). “Where the dooce have they gone?” For that was the eerie thing – the only thing absent was the people themselves. Wherever we went all was in order: a dining-room, with oak furniture and a linen cloth on the table, presses bursting with china and glass, a wine-cooler with bottles of ’42 Burgundy, captain’s biscuits in a barrel, a piece of cheese kicking up a hell of a row in the sideboard, and a portrait of Andrew Jackson on the wall.

  It was the same in the shops – the blacksmith’s tools were there, and the carpenter’s gear; the trade-rooms were stuffed with pelts, buffalo robes, blankets, axes, nails, candles, God knows what – as I live, there was even sealing-wax and writing paper. The store-rooms had provisions for an army, and hogsheads of wine and spirits; in the sleeping-quarters some of the beds were made, there was a posy of withered flowers in a vase on the commandant’s desk, and a neatly-torn newspaper in the privy.


  “Whoever it was,” says Grattan, “cleared out in a hell of a hurry.”

  “But why haven’t the Indians looted the place?”

  “They don’t know,” says he. “Chances are that Bent – or St Vrain, or whoever was here – left within the last couple of days … don’t ask me why. The Injuns can’t know that; I daresay the crowd that chased us are the only ones hereabouts, and new arrivals at that. If they’d known it was deserted, they’d never have left off chasing us.”

  That was reasonable, but provoked a disquieting thought. “D’you suppose … they’ll come back? The Indians, I mean.”

  “Depends,” says he. “There weren’t above thirty of the dear fellows, and we sank nigh on a dozen of those. Maybe more’ll come in, maybe not. One thing’s certain; with our drivers and savaneros we muster about fifteen rifles – and it would take fifty to make this place good against an attack. So we’d best hope that our red friends don’t receive any reinforcements.”

  That had me flying up the ramparts again, to make sure the guards were on the look-out. The Indians were still in view, over by the cottonwoods, but no new members so far as I could see. There was a moon due that night, so they couldn’t surprise us after dark. I took stock; at least we were inside, and the chances were that a caravan, or a party of traders, would heave in sight before enough Indians arrived to make the place too hot to hold. An unfortunate choice of expression, that, as you’ll come to appreciate.

  In the meantime, we were in residence, and once I’d heard Susie’s exclamations of pleasure at the amenities, and the enthusiasm of the trollops as they settled themselves into quarters, and started washing their clothes and chattering in the well-stocked kitchen where our black cook had pans on the boil, I began to feel better. We didn’t make use of the big corral outside the walls, but stabled the beasts in a wagon park off the main square; the teamsters had their own fires going in no time, and were breaking out supplies from the store-rooms; there was laughter and singing, and the great empty place echoed with our noise; the invalids took the air on the walls, and one four-eyed idiot even proposed an evening stroll down to the river; I dissuaded him by pointing out that the locals might be taking their hatchets for a walk at the same time. D’you know, he hadn’t thought of that; I suppose he imagined that the brutes who’d pursued us had been just rather persistent native hawkers trying to interest us in beads and pottery.