The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

“The dog! The insolent garbage! To beard me, at my own door! The priest’s a meddling fool – but that Blank! Anarchist swine! He’ll be less impudent when my fellows have cut the buttocks off him!”

  He stalked away, finally, still cursing, and about an hour later the Cossacks came back, and their leader stumped up the steps to report. Pencherjevsky had simmered down a good deal by this time; he had ordered a brew of punch, and invited East and myself to join him, and we were sipping at the scalding stuff by the hall fire when the Cossack came in, an old, stout, white-whiskered scoundrel with his belt at the last hole.32 He was grinning, and had his nagaika in his hand.

  “Well?” growled Pencherjevsky. “Did you catch that brute and teach him manners?”

  “Aye, batiushka,” says the Cossack, well pleased. “He’s dead. Thirty cuts – and, pouf! He was a weakling, though.”

  “Dead, you say?” Pencherjevsky set down his cup abruptly, frowning. Then he shrugged: “Well, good riddance! No one’ll mourn his loss. One anarchist more or less will not trouble the prefect.”

  “The fellow Blank escaped,” continued the Cossack. “I’m sorry, batiushka –”

  “Blank escaped!” Pencherjevsky’s voice came out in a hoarse scream, his eyes dilating. “You mean – it was the priest you killed! The holy man!” He stared in disbelief, crossing himself. “Slava Bogu!r The priest!”

  “Priest? Do I know?” says the Cossack. “Was it wrong, batiushka?”

  “Wrong, animal? A priest! And you … you flogged him to death!” The Count looked as though he would have a seizure. He gulped, and clawed at his beard, and then he blundered past the Cossack, up the stairs, and we heard his door crash behind him.

  “My God!” says East. The Cossack looked at us in wonder, and then shrugged, as his kind will, and stalked off. We just stood, looking at each other.

  “What will this mean?” says East.

  “Search me,” I said. “They butcher each other so easily in this place – I don’t know. I’d think flogging a priest to death is a trifle over the score, though – even for Russia. Old man Pencherjevsky’ll have some explaining to do, I’d say – shouldn’t wonder if they kick him out of the Moscow Carlton Club.”

  “My God, Flashman!” says East again. “What a country!”

  We didn’t see the Count at dinner, nor Valla, and Aunt Sara was uncommunicative. But you could see in her face, and the servants’, and feel in the very air of the house, that Starotorsk was a place appalled. For once East forgot to talk about escaping, and we went to bed early, saying good-night in whispers.

  I didn’t rest too easy, though. My stove was leaking, and making the room stuffy, and the general depression must have infected me, for when I dozed I dreamed badly. I got my old nightmare of drowning in the pipe at Jotunberg, probably with the stove fumes,33 and then it changed to that underground cell in Afghanistan, where my old flame, Narreeman, was trying to qualify me for the Harem Handicap, and then someone started shooting outside the cell, and shrieking, and suddenly I was awake, lathered with sweat, and the shooting was real, and from beneath me in the house there was an appalling crash and the roar of Pencherjevsky’s voice, and a pattering of feet, and by that time I was out of bed and into my breeches, struggling with my boots as I threw open the door.

  East was in the passage, half-dressed like myself, running for the landing. I reached it on his very heels, crying: “What’s happening? What the devil is it?”, when there was a terrible shriek from Valla’s passage, and Pencherjevsky was bounding up the stairs, bawling over his shoulder to the Cossacks whom I could see in the hall below:

  “Hold them there! Hold the door! My child, Valentina! Where are you?”

  “Here, father!” And she came hurrying in her nightgown, hair all disordered, eyes starting with terror. “Father, they are everywhere – in the garden! I saw them – oh!”

  There was a crash of musket-fire from beyond the front door, splinters flew in the hall, and one of the Cossacks sang out and staggered, clutching his leg. The others were at the hall windows, there was a smashing of glass, and the sound of baying, screaming voices from outside. Pencherjevsky swore, clasped Valla to him with one enormous arm, saw us, and bawled above the shooting:

  “That damned priest! They have risen – the serfs have risen! They’re attacking the house!”

  * * *

  a Peasants.

  b Renegades.

  c Leader.

  d Father.

  e Cossack whip.

  f Pardon, father, I am guilty.

  g Very well.

  h Lady.

  i Press for crushing feet.

  j Village assembly.

  k Gig.

  l Porter.

  m See Royal Flash.

  n Slavery.

  o Sheepskin coat.

  p Company, band.

  q A peasant with money, a usurer.

  r Glory to God!

  Chapter 5

  I’ve been in a good few sieges in my time, from full-dress affairs like Cawnpore, Lucknow, and the Pekin nonsense a few years ago, to more domestic squabbles such as the Kabul residency in ’41. But I can’t think of one worse managed than the moujiks’ attack on Starotorsk. I gathered afterwards that several thousand of them, whipped on by Blank’s fiery oratory, had just up and marched on the house to avenge their priest’s death, seizing what weapons were handiest, and making no attempt at concealment or concerted attack to take the place on all sides at once. They just stamped up the road, roaring, the Cossacks in their little barrack saw them, knocked a few over with rifle fire, and then retired to the main house just as the mob surged into the drive and threw themselves at the front door. And there it was, touch and go, with the moujiks beating on the panels, smashing in the downstairs windows on that side to clamber in, waving their trowels and torches and yelling for Pencherjevsky’s blood.34

  As he stood there, clasping Valla and glaring round like a mad thing, I doubt if he fully understood it himself – that his beloved slaves were out to string him from the nearest limb, with his family on either side of him. It was like the sun falling out of the sky for him. But he knew deadly danger when he saw it, and his one thought was for his daughter. He seized me by the arm.

  “The back way – to the stables! Quickly! Get her away, both of you! We shall hold them here – the fools, the ingrate clods!” He practically flung her into my arms. “Take a sled and horses, and drive like the wind to the Arianski house – on the Alexandrovsk road! There she will be safe. But hasten, in God’s name!”

  I’d have been off at the run, but East, the posturing ass, had to thrust in:

  “One of us will stay, sir! Or let a Cossack escort your daughter – it is not fitting that British officers should –”

  “You numskull!” bawled Pencherjevsky, seizing him and thrusting him violently towards the back corridor. “Go! They will be in, or round the house, while you stand prating! This is no affair of yours – and I command here!” There was a tearing crash from the front door, several pistol shots amid the clamour of the mob and the shouting of the Cossacks, and over the banisters I saw the door cave in, and a torrent of ragged figures pouring in, driving the Cossacks back towards the foot of the stairs. The smoky glare of their torches turned the place suddenly into a struggling hell, as the Cossacks swung their sabres and nagaikas to force them back.

  “Get her away!” Pencherjevsky encircled both me and Valla for an instant in his bear-like hug, his great, bearded face within an inch of my own, and there were tears in his glaring eyes. “You know what is to do, my son! See to her – and to that other life! God be with you!”

  And he bundled us into the corridor, and then rushed to the head of the stairs. I had a glimpse of his towering bulk, with the smoky glare beneath him, and then the chorus of yells and screams from the hall redoubled, there was a rushing of feet, a splintering of timber – and East and I were doubling down the back-stairs at speed, Valla sobbing against my chest as I swept her along.


  We tore through the kitchen, East pausing to grab some loaves and bottles, while I hurried out into the yard. It was dead still in the moonlight; nothing but the soft stamp of the beasts in their stalls, and the distant tumult muffled on the other side of the house. I was into the coach-building in a flash, bundled Valla into the biggest sled, and was leading round the first of the horses when East joined me, his arms full.

  I don’t know the record for harnessing a three-horse sled, but I’ll swear we broke it; I wrenched home the last buckle while East scuttled across the snow to unbar the gate. I jumped into the driver’s seat and tugged the reins, the horses whinnied and reared and then danced forward, any old how – it’s deuced difficult, tooling a sled – and with me swearing at the beasts and East swinging up as we slid past, we scraped through the gateway on to the open road beyond.

  There was a bang to our left, and a shot whistled overhead, causing me to duck and the horses to swerve alarmingly. They were rounding the house wall, a bare thirty yards away, a confused, roaring rabble, torches waving, running to head us off. East seized the whip from its mount and lashed at the beasts, and with a bound that nearly overturned us they tore away, down the road, with the mob cursing at our tail, waving their fists, and one last shot singing wide as we distanced them.

  We didn’t let up for a mile, though, by which time I had the beasts under control, and we were able to pull up on a gentle rise and look back. It was like a Christmas scene, a great white blanket glittering in the full moon, and the dark house rising up from it, with the red dots of torch-light dancing among the outbuildings, and the thin sound of voices echoing through the frosty air, and the stars twinkling in the purple sky. Very bonny, I suppose – and then East clutched my arm.

  “My God! Look yonder!”

  There was a dull glow at one corner of the house; it grew into an orange flame, licking upwards with a shower of sparks; the torches seemed to dance more madly than ever, and from the sled behind there was a sudden shrieking sob, and Valla was trying to struggle out – my God, she still had nothing on but her night-dress, and as she half fell out it ripped and sent her tumbling into the snow.

  I threw the reins to East, jumped down, and bundled her quickly back into the sled. There were furs there, any amount of them, and I swaddled her in them before the cold could get at her. “Father! Father!” she was moaning, and then she fainted dead away, and I laid her down on the back seat and went forward to East, handing him up one of the furs – for we had nothing but our shirts and breeches and boots, and the cold was crippling.

  “Let’s get on,” says I, wrapping up myself, with my teeth chattering. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better. Come on, man, what ails you?”

  He was sitting staring ahead, his mouth open, and when he swung round to me, he was positively laughing.

  “Flashman!” he cried. “This is our chance! Heaven-sent! The sled – the horses – and a clear start! We’re away, old fellow – and no one to stop us!”

  It shows you what a hectic scramble it had been, with not a moment’s pause to collect one’s wits from the shock of waking until now, but for a second I didn’t see what he was driving at. And then it struck me – escape. We could light out for Yenitchi, and East’s causeway, and not a living soul would know we had gone. One couldn’t be sure, of course, but I doubted whether any civilized being would survive what was happening at Starotorsk; it might be days before the police or the army came on the scene and realized that there were three persons not accounted for. And by then we could be in Sevastopol – always assuming we got through the Russian army. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t much care for the Alexandrovsk road, either, wherever that was – God knew how far the insurrection would spread, and to be caught up in it, with Pencherjevsky’s daughter in tow, would be asking to be torn limb from limb.

  Even as the thoughts rushed through my mind, I was glancing at the stars, picking out the Plough and judging our line south. That way, even if we hit the coast fifty versts either side of Yenitchi, we at least stood a decent chance of finding our road to it in the end, for we had time on our side.

  “Right,” says I. “Let’s be off. We’re sure to hit some farm or station where we can change horses. We’ll drive in turns, and –”

  “We must take Valla with us,” cries he, and even in that ghostly light I’ll swear he was blushing. “We cannot abandon her – God knows what kind of villages these will be we shall pass through – we could not leave her, not knowing what … I mean, if we can reach the camp at Sevastopol, she will be truly safe … and … and …”

  And he would be able to press his suit, no doubt, the poor skirt-smitten ninny, if he ever plucked up courage enough. I wonder what he’d have thought if he’d known I had been pupping his little Ukrainian angel for weeks. And there she was, in the sled, with not a stitch to her name.

  “You’re right!” I cried. “We must take her. You are a noble fellow, Scud! Off we go, then, and I’ll take the ribbons as soon as you’re tired.”

  I jumped in the back, and off we swept, over the snowy plain, and far behind us the red glow mounted to the night sky. I peered back at it, wondering if Pencherjevsky was dead yet, and what had happened to Aunt Sara. Whatever it was, I found myself hoping that for her, at least, it had been quick. And then I busied myself putting the sled in some order.

  They are splendid things, these three-horse sleighs, less like a coach than a little room on runners. They are completely enclosed with a great hood, lashed down all round, with flaps which can be secured on all the window spaces, so that when they are down the whole thing is quite snug, and if you have furs enough, and a bottle or two, you can be as warm as toast. I made sure everything was secure, set out the bread, and a leg of ham, which East had thoughtfully picked up, on the front seat, and counted the bottles – three of brandy, one of white wine. Valla seemed to be still unconscious; she was wrapped in a mountain of furs between the seats, and when I opened the rear window-flap for light to examine her, sure enough, she was in that uneasy shocked sleep that folk sometimes go into when they’ve been terribly scared. The shaft of moonlight shone on her silvery hair, and on one white tit peeping out saucily from the furs – I had to make sure her heart was beating, of course, but beyond that I didn’t disturb her – for the moment. Fine sledges these: the driver is quite walled off.

  So there we were; I huddled in my fur, took a pull at the brandy, and then crawled out under the side flap on to the mounting of the runner; the wind hit me like a knife, with the snow furrowing up round my legs from the runner-blades. We were fairly scudding along as I pulled myself up on to the driving seat beside East and gave him a swig at the brandy.

  He was chattering with cold, even in his fur wrap, so I tied it more securely round him, and asked how we were going. He reckoned, if we could strike a village and get a good direction, we might make Yenitchi in five or six hours – always allowing for changes of horses on the way. But he was sure we wouldn’t be able to stand the cold of driving for more than half an hour at a time. So I took the ribbons and he crept back perilously into the sled – one thing I was sure of: Valla would be safe with him.

  If it hadn’t been for the biting cold, I’d have enjoyed that moonlight drive. The snow was firm and flat, so that it didn’t ball in the horses’ hooves, and the runners hissed across the snow – it was strange, to be moving at that speed with so little noise. Ahead were the three tossing manes, with the vapour streaming back in the icy air, and beyond that – nothing. A white sheet to the black horizon, a magnificent silver moon, and that reassuring Pole star dead astern when I looked back.

  I was about frozen, though, when I spotted lights to starboard after about twenty minutes, and swerved away to find a tumble-down little village, populated by the usual half-human peasants. After consultation with East, I decided to ask the distance and direction to Osipenke; East was carrying a rough table of places and directions in his head, out of the book he had studied, and from the peasants’ sca
red answers – for they were in awe of any strangers – we were able to calculate our proper course, and swerve away south-west.

  East had taken over the reins. Valla had come to while he was in the sled – I wondered if he’d been chancing his arm, but probably not – and had had mild hysterics, about her father, and Aunt Sara, who had been sitting up with a sick Cossack woman in the barracks, and had presumably been cut off there.

  “The poor little lamb,” says East, as he took the reins. “It tore my heart to see her grief, Flashman – so I have given her a little laudanum from a phial which … which I carry always with me. She should sleep for several hours; it will be best so.”

  I could have kicked him, for if there’s one thing I’d fancy myself good at, it’s comforting a bereaved and naked blonde under a fur rug. But he had put her to sleep, no error, and she was snoring like a walrus. So I had to amuse myself with bread and ham, and try to snatch a nap myself.

  We made good progress, and after a couple of hours found a way-station, by great good luck, on what must have been the Mariupol road. We got three new nags, and bowled away famously, but what with lack of sleep it was getting to be hard work now, and a couple of hours after sun-rise we pulled up in the first wood we’d seen – a straggly little affair of stunted bushes, really – and decided to rest ourselves and the horses. Valla was still out to the wide, and East and I took a seat apiece and slept like the dead.

  I woke first, and when I put my head out the sky was already dimming in the late afternoon. It was bleak and grey, and freezing starvation, and looking through the twisted branches at the pale, endless waste, I felt a shiver running through me that had nothing to do with cold. Not far away there were two or three of those funny little mounds called koorgans, which I believe are the barrows of long-forgotten barbarian peoples; they looked eerie and uncanny in the failing light, like monstrous snowmen. The stillness was awful; you could feel it, not even a breath of wind, but just the cold and the weight of emptiness hanging over the steppe. It was unnerving, and suddenly I could hear Kit Carson’s strained quiet voice in the dread silence of the wagon road west of Leavenworth: “Nary a sight nor sound anywhere – not even a sniff o’ danger. That’s what frets me.”