The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Felicitaciones, amigo! You first!” cries he, and wondering I followed him over to where the main party were seated round the great fire, with Gallantin in the place of honour; three hunters were ranged before him, grins on their ugly faces as their mates chaffed them and they answered with lewd boasts and gestures. Then I saw the four Indian women off to one side, and understood; presumably they were the pick of the crop, for all were young, and presentable as squaws can be in dirty buckskin and an agony of fear.

  “He the last?” cries Gallantin, and if you had seen that blotched, fork-bearded face, and the crowd leering and haw-hawing either side of him, you’d ask no better models for Satan and his infernal crew. They’d been brisk and disciplined enough in action, but now they’d been at the tizwin and cactus juice, and the true beastliness was on the surface as they waited eager for their sport.

  “Now, then, Ilario, look alive!” shouts Gallantin, and Ilario faced us with his back to the squaws. “Who shall have her?” Gallantin was pointing at one of the girls, unseen by Ilario, who grinned and kept everyone in suspense before indicating a squat, bearded fellow next to me.

  The brute whooped and rushed to grab his prize – and to my disgust he set about her then and there, in front of everyone! How they yelled and cheered, those charmers; I can see their bestial, grinning faces still, and the bearded man on top of the struggling squaw, his backside going like a fiddler’s elbow. Gallantin yelled above the din for the second girl, and again Ilario named a man; this one at least had the decency to haul her away, half-fainting as she was, to some private place, pursued by the groans of that mob of devils. Then it was the third girl, and this time Ilario pointed to me.

  “Goddam!” yelled the ape beside me. “I wanted that ’un!” and they cat-called with delight at his disappointment. “Hooraw, Jem – don’t ye wish ye cud! Haw-haw, she’s yore sort, though.” And as he made off with the last wench, they egged me on to be at the third one. “Go on, hoss – lay aboard! Whut – he’s th’ Englishman! I say, ole feller, give ’er th’ Union Jack, haw-haw!”

  If she’d been Cleopatra, I wouldn’t have wanted her, not then. I’d never felt less like venery in my life, not in that ghastly place, after the sights I’d seen, and with that obscene mob about me; even apart from that, she did not prepossess – which shows how wrong you can be. As I looked across at her, I saw only an Indian girl in a grubby fringed tunic, with long braids of hair round a chubby, dust-stained face; the only thing different about her was that where the others had cowered and trembled, she was straight as a ramrod and looked dead ahead; if she was frightened, it didn’t show.

  “Go on!” roars Gallantin. “What ails ye, man? Go git ’er!” And he seized her by the shoulder and thrust her forward at my feet. Nice point of etiquette – I didn’t know what to do, in that company, as they roared drunken encouragement and vile instruction, and the bearded man and his victim heaved and gasped on the ground a couple of yards away. Turned on my heel, possibly, or said “Your bird”; my girl scrambled to her feet, eyes wide now and fists clenched, and for no good reason that I can think of, I shook my head at her as I stood irresolute. The mob bayed and bellowed, and then a well-known voice sang out:

  “He can’t! The great soft Limey bugger! Well, here’s one’ll deputise for him, so he will!” And Grattan Nugent-Hare stood forth, a trifle unsteady on his feet, flushed with tizwin, and a triumphant sneer on his face as he reached for the girl.

  Now, I ain’t proud, and I’ll run from a fight as fast as any; if it had been another man I don’t doubt I’d have swallowed the insult and slunk off. But this was the detestable Grattan, who’d bulled Susie unbeknownst, and had a nasty long nose, and gave himself airs – and was three parts foxed, anyway, by the look of him. He was unprepared, too, as he grabbed the girl by the wrist – and my temper boiled over. I lashed out with all my strength and caught him full in the face; he went back like a stone from a sling, into the circle of watchers, who whooped with glee – and then he was on his feet like a cat, his nose spurting blood, mad rage in his eyes and a hatchet in his hand.

  There wasn’t time to run. I ducked his murderous stroke and sprang away, and Gallantin yelled: “Hyar, boyee!”, jerked out his Bowie, and flipped it towards me. I fumbled and grabbed it, diving aside as Grattan swiped at me again. His hatchet head nicked the very edge of my left hand, and enraged by pain and terror, I hacked at his face; a Bowie is not a knife, by the way, but a two-foot pointed cleaver, and if I’d got home it would have been brains for supper, but he caught my wrist. In a frenzy of panic I flung my weight at him and down we went, Flashy on top, but drunk or not, he was agile as a lizard and wriggled out from under, letting drive with that razor-sharp axe as we regained our feet. It whisked so close above my head I believe it touched my hair, but before he could swing again I had my left hand on his throat and would have been well set to disembowel him if he hadn’t seized my wrist again. I was bellowing with rage and funk, throwing up my left elbow to hamper his axe-hand; strong as he may have been, he was no match for Flash in brute coward strength, and I bore him back in a great staggering run and with one almighty heave pitched him headlong into the fire.

  There was a terrific yell from the onlookers as he rolled out, sparks flying and his shirt smouldering. I’d have run then, but seeing him helpless I leaped on him, stabbing the earth by mistake in my eagerness. He hacked and clawed, and as we grappled on our knees I butted him hard in the face; it jolted him sideways, but he surged up at me again, axe raised, and I just managed to block his arm as he let drive. The jar of our forearms knocked me back; he hurled himself on top of me, and gave a horrible shriek of agony; his face was only inches from mine, mouth wide and eyes glaring – and then I felt his body go limp and realised that my right hand was being drenched with something warm. It was gripping the Bowie, and the blade had impaled Nugent-Hare as he fell on me.

  I flung him off, and as I scrambled up he rolled over and lay with the hilt protruding from his midriff. For a moment I was rooted with shock; there lay the corpse, and just beyond it was the bearded fellow still on top of his squaw, his eyes round in fear and amazement. That was how quickly it had happened: a mere few seconds of fevered hacking and struggling, with no respite for truce or flight, and Nugent-Hare was in a pool of blood, his eyes sightless in the fire-glare, with that awful thing in his body.

  There was dead silence as I stood in a daze, my right hand dripping blood. I stared round at the faces – astonished, curious, frozen in grins, or just plain interested. Gallantin came forward, stooped, and there was an involuntary gasp from the watchers as he retrieved the knife. He glanced from me to the girl, who stood petrified, her hands to her mouth. Gallantin nodded.

  “Waal, hoss,” says he to me, conversational-like, “I reckon you earned her for the night.”

  That was all. No outcry, no protest, no other observation even. By their lights it had been fair, and that was that. (I put it to a good silk, years later, and he said a civilised court would have given me two years for manslaughter.) At the time, I was numb; he wasn’t the first I’d killed hand-to-hand, by any means – there’d been Iqbal’s nigger at Mogala, a Hova guard in Madagascar, and dear old de Gautet dipping his toe in the water at the Jotunschlucht, but they’d been with my eyes open, so to speak, not in a mad, sudden brawl that was over, thank God, before it had well begun.

  Stupefied as I was, some instinct must have told me not to refuse Gallantin’s invitation a second time – it’s a good rule, as I hope I’ve demonstrated, that when scalp-hunters offer you a squaw, you should take her away quick and quiet, and if you don’t fancy her, then teach her the two times table, or “Tintern Abbey”, or how to tie a sheep-shank. I think I may have taken her wrist, and no doubt my aspect conquered resistance, for next thing I knew I was leaning against a tree in the grove beyond the corral, being sick, while she stood like a graven image and watched me. When I’d recovered I sat down and looked at her, not carnally you understand, but bemused-like. It
was middling dim, away from the fires, and I beckoned her so that I could see her face; she came, and I examined her.

  She was plump-cheeked, as I’ve said, and under the grime by no means ill-favoured. Rather a hooked little nose, small sullen mouth, and slanted eyes under a broad brow; she didn’t smell unpleasant, either, although her tunic was filthy and torn. What was under it looked passable enough, too, but I was too shaken and fagged out to care. She looked down at me wide-eyed, but not fearful – and then she did an extraordinary thing. She suddenly dropped to her knees, took one of my hands between both of hers, stared at me closely, and said: “Gracias.”

  I was quite taken aback. “Entiende Español?”, and she nodded and said: “Si.” Then after a moment she looked back towards the firelight and shivered, and when she turned her face again there were tears in her eyes and her mouth was open and tremulous. “Muchas gracias!” she sobbed, and dropped her head on my knees and clung to my legs and had a fine bawl to herself.

  Well, one likes to be appreciated, so I patted her head and murmured some commonplace, at which she raised her face and looked at me dumbly; then she heaved a great sniffing sigh, but rather spoiled the effect by turning aside to spit copiously. She mopped at her tears, and continued to watch me, very grave, so to cheer her up I tapped her cheek and gave her the polite smile I reserve for females on whom I have no designs. She smiled back timidly, showing rather pretty teeth; it occurred to me that when washed and combed and stripped she’d be perfectly presentable, and since I was feeling rather more settled now I placed a hand gently on her shoulder. Her eyes widened a fraction, but no more, so I gave her my impish grin and very slowly slid my hand inside her tunic neck, so that she had every opportunity to start or shudder. She didn’t; her eyes were as solemn as ever, but her lips parted on a little gasp, and she kneeled upright as I took hold – by Jove, it was A1 material, and quite restored me. I squeezed and stroked her lightly, asking myself was she all for it or merely steeling herself for the inevitable; I do prefer ’em willing, so I kissed her lightly and asked: “Con su permiso?”

  She started at that, quite bewildered for a moment; then her eyes lowered, and I’ll swear she stifled a smile, for she glanced at me sidelong and gave that little lift of the chin that’s the coquette’s salute from Tunbridge Wells to Pago Pago, as she murmured: “Como quiera usted.”

  I pulled her on to my knee, and kissed her properly – and if you’ve been told that Indians don’t know how, it’s a lie. And I was just slipping her tunic from her shoulders when an odd movement in the distant firelight caught my eye through the thin branches which partly shielded us.

  A man appeared to be dancing beside the fire – and then I saw it was not a dance but an agonised stagger, as he clutched at something protruding from his neck. His scream echoed through the trees, to be drowned in a crash of gunfire and whistle of shafts, figures leaped up around the fire, men shouted and ran and fell in confusion, and my pearl of the forest was hurled aside as I sprang to my feet. From the woods all about sounded blood-freezing whoops, shots boomed and echoed along the valley, bodies were rushing through the thickets. All this in a second; I could see Gallantin by the fire, rifle raised, and then he and the whole scene before me slowly turned upside down and slid from view; my body shook and a numbness in my head turned to a blinding pain as I fell forward into darkness.

  * * *

  h J. P. Dunn’s famous Massacres of the Mountains, 1886.

  Chapter 11

  There’s no question that a public school education is an advantage. It may not make you a scholar or a gentleman or a Christian, but it does teach you to survive and prosper – and one other invaluable thing: style. I’ve noted that Grattan-Hare didn’t have it, and you know what happened to him. I, on the other hand, have always had style by the cart-load, and it saved my life in the Gila forest in ’49, no error.

  Thus: any other of Gallantin’s band, given possession of my Apache lass, would have gone at her bull at a gate. I, once I’d decided on reflection that I might as well rattle her as not, set about it with a deal of finesse – chiefly, I admit, because it’s better sport that way. But I knew how to go about it, that’s the point, patiently and smoothly and with … style.

  You must understand the effect of this, of Flashy imposing his winning ways on that fortunate native wench. There she was, a helpless prisoner in the hands of the most abominable ruffians in North America, who had butchered her menfolk before her eyes and were about to subject her to repeated rape, possible torture, and certain death. Up jumps this strapping chap with splendid whiskers, who not only kills out of hand the cad who is molesting her, but thereafter treats her kindly, pets her patiently, and absolutely asks permission to squeeze her boobies. She is astonished, nay gratified, and, since she’s a randy little minx at bottom, ready to succumb with pleasure. All thanks to style, as inculcated by Dr Arnold, though I wouldn’t expect him to claim credit for it.

  And mark the sequel. When other of her tribesmen, having got wind of the massacre, attack the scalp-hunters by night, she is alarmed for her protector. If he joins in the scrap – the last thing I’d have done, but she wasn’t to know that – harm may come to him, so being a lass of spirit she ensures his neutrality by clouting him behind the ear with a rock. Then, when her tribesmen have wiped out or captured most of the marauders (Gallantin and a few others alone escaped)33 she is at pains to preserve her saviour from the general vengeance. Had he been a man without style, she’d have been the first to set about him with a red-hot knife.

  Mind you, luck was on my side, too. Had she been any common Indian wench, it would have been Flashy, b. 1822, d. 1849, R.I.P. and not even a line in the Gazette, for her rescuers wouldn’t have heeded her for an instant; I’d have been just another white scalp-hunter on whom to practise their abominations. But since she happened to be Sonsee-array, the Morning-Star-Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman, fourth and dearest daughter of Mangas Colorado, the great Red Sleeves, chief of the Mimbreno, lord of the Gila, and scourge of plain, forest and mountain from the Llanos Estacados to the Big-Canyon-Dug-by-God, and since she was also famous for having more beads and trinkets than any other female since time began, and for never having worked in her young life – well, even a Bronco brave with blood in his eye takes notice, and decides to humour her.

  So they contented themselves with stripping and hanging my unconscious carcase upside down from the cotton-woods, along with those of a dozen other scalp-hunters who’d been unlucky enough to survive the attack. They then built fires under us in the approved fashion, but at Sonsee-array’s insistence refrained from lighting mine until she had stated her case to the great man. Meanwhile they beguiled the time by slowly removing the skins from my fellow-unfortunates, a process in which she and the other squaws gleefully joined. Mercifully, I was dead to the world.

  When I came to I was blind, with a thunderstorm drumming in my skull, and my whole body in torment; to make matters worse, a voice nearby was alternately babbling for mercy in Spanish and screeching in agony – that, though I didn’t know it, was Ilario being flayed alive on the next tree. The screams died away to a whimper, with an awful distant chorus of cries and groans and hellish laughter; closer at hand voices were talking in a mixture of Spanish and some language I didn’t understand.

  I struggled to force my eyes open, trying to get to my feet but not able to find ground anywhere – that’s what it’s like to come awake when you’re hanging upside down. I was floating, it seemed, while my feet were being torn away; then my eyes opened, I could smell smoke and blood, and before me were human figures the wrong way up – and then I realised where I was, and the ghastly sight of those bodies at the hacienda flashed across my mind, and I tried to scream, but couldn’t.

  “Por qué no?” were the first words I made out. “Why not?”, in a double bass croak so deep it was difficult to believe it came from a human being (I’m not so sure, from my later acquaintance with him, that it did). A woman’s voice answered, high and fie
rce, mostly in Spanish, but there were men’s voices trying to interrupt her, and in shouting them down she sometimes lapsed into the unknown tongue which I guessed must be Apache.

  “Because he was good to me! When the others, like that dog-dirt there—” there was a horrid smack, and yells of laughter as she took a swipe at the unhappy Ilario “—would have raped and killed me – he fought for me, and slew a man, and used me gently! Are you all deaf? He is not evil, like these others!”

  “He has white eyes!” shouts some curmudgeon. “Why should he be spared?”

  “Because I say so! Because he saved me while you cowards were asleep, or hiding, or … or defecating under a bush! I say he shall not die! I ask my father for his life! And his eyes are not white – they are dark!”

  “He is pinda-lickoyee – the enemy! He is Americano, scalp-taker, butcher of children! Look at the bodies of our people, mutilated by these beasts—”

  “He did not do it – if he had, why should he help me?”

  “Huh!” sulkily, and knowing grunts. “All men help you! Evil men as well as good – you know the art of getting help.”

  “Liar! Pig! Bastard! Ugly lump of rotten buffalo dung—”

  “Basta!” It was the bass voice again. “If he doesn’t die, what will you do with him? Make him a slave?”

  That seemed to be a facer for her; she wasn’t sure, and there were sceptical grunts and sneers, which drove her wild. In a passion she cried that she was a chief’s daughter and would please herself. The sense of the meeting seemed to be, oh, hoity-toity miss, and the leader of the opposition said no doubt she would want to marry the white-eyed villain … you understand that I give you the gist of the conversation, so well as I heard and understood it.

  “And if I chose to, what then?” cries madam. “He is braver and more beautiful than any of you! You stink! Black Knife stinks! El Chico stinks! The Yawner stinks! And you, Vasco – you stink worst of all!”