The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Crackey good gracious,” says he, “you’re eager to be at the peasties the day. What’s the great running, whatever?”

  “Is this piece loaded?” says I, and held it out.

  “What for would it be?” says the clown. “We’ll no’ be near a deer for half an hour yet. There’s no occasion.”

  “Load the dam’ thing,” says I.

  “And have you plowing your pluidy head off, the haste you’re in? She’ll look well then, right enuff.”

  “Damn you, do as you’re told!” says I, so he shrugged and spat and looked his disgust as he put in the charge.

  “Mind, there’s two great pullets in there now,” says he as he handed it back. “If you’ve as much sense as a whaup’s neb you’ll keep the caps in your pooch until we sight the deer.” They’ve no respect, those people.

  I snatched it from him and made off through the wood, and for ten minutes we pushed on, always upwards, through another long gully, and along a rocky ledge over a deep stream, where the mist hung in swirls among the rowan trees, and the foam drifted slowly by on the brown pools. It was as dark as dusk, although it was still early afternoon; there was no sound of another living soul, and nothing moving on the low cliffs above us.

  By this time I was asking myself again if I hadn’t been over-anxious – and at the same time wondering if it wouldn’t be safest to lie up here till dark, and buy the ghillie’s silence with a sovereign, or keep moving to our left to reach the other guns. And then he gave a sudden exclamation and stopped, frowning, and putting a hand on his belly. He gave a little barking cough, and his ruddy face was pale as he turned to me.

  “Oh!” says he. “What’s this? All of a sudden, my pudden’s is pad.”

  “What is it?” says I, impatiently, and he sat down on a rock, holding himself and making strained noises.

  “I – I don’t know. It’s my belly – there’s some mischief in herself – owf!”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Oh, goad – I don’t know.” His face was green. “What do these foreign puggers tak’ to drink? It’s – it must be the spirits yon great hairy fella gave me before we cam’ up – oh, mither, isn’t it hellish? Oh, stop you, till I vomit!”

  But he couldn’t, try as he would, but leaned against the rock, in obvious pain, rubbing at himself and groaning. And I watched him, in horror, for there was no doubt what had happened – Ignatieff’s man had drugged or poisoned him, so that I’d be alone on the hill. The sheer ruthlessness of it, the hellish calculation, had me trembling to my boots – they would come on me alone, and – but wait, whatever he’d been given, it couldn’t be fatal: two corpses on one shoot would be too much to explain away, and one of them poisoned, at that. No, it must just be a drug, to render him helpless, and of course I would turn back down the hill to get help, and they’d be there …

  “Stay where you are – I’ll get help,” says I, and lit out along the ledge, but not in the direction we’d come; it was up and over the hills for Flashy, and my groaning ghillie could be taken care of when time served. I scudded round the corner of rock at the ledge’s end, and through a forest of bracken, out into a clear space, and then into another fir wood, where I paused to get my bearings. If I bore off left – but which way was left? We’d taken so many turnings, among the confounded bogs and gullies, I couldn’t be sure, and there was no sun to help. Suppose I went the wrong way, and ran into them? God knows, in this maze of hills and heather it would be easy enough. Should I go back to the stricken ghillie, and wait with him? I’d be safer, in his company – but they might be up with him by now, lurking on the gully-side, waiting. I stood clutching my gun, sweating.

  It was silent as death under the fir-trees, close as a tomb, and dim. I could see out one side, where there was bracken – that would be the place to lie up, so I stole forward on tip-toe, making no noise on the carpet of mould and needles. Near the wood’s edge I waited, listening: no sound, except my own breathing. I turned to enter the bracken – and stood frozen, biting back a yelp of fear. Behind me, on the far side of the wood, a twig had snapped.

  For an instant I was paralysed, and then I was across the open space of turf and burrowing into the bracken for dear life. I went a few yards, and then writhed round to look back; through the stems and fronds I could see the trees I’d just left, gloomy and silent. But I was deep in cover; if I lay still, not to shake the bracken above me, no one could hope to spot me unless he trod on me. I burrowed down in the sodden grass, panting, and waited, with my ears straining.

  For five minutes nothing happened; there was only the dripping of the fronds, and my own heart thumping. What made the suspense so hellish was the sheer unfairness of my predicament – I’d been in more tight corners before than I care to count, but always in some godless, savage part of the world like Afghanistan or Madagascar or Russia or St Louis – it was damnable that I should be lurking in fear of my life in England – or Scotland, even. I hadn’t been in this kind of terror on British soil since I’d been a miserable fag at Rugby, carrying Bully Dawson’s game bag for him, and we’d had to hide from keepers at Brownsover. They’d caught me, too, and I’d only got off by peaching on Dawson and his pals, and showing the keepers where … and suddenly, where there had been nothing a moment ago, a shadow moved in the gloom beneath the trees, stopped, and took on form in the half-light. Ignatieff was standing just inside the edge of the fir wood.

  I stopped breathing, while he turned his head this way and that, searching the thickets; he had his gun cocked, and by God he wasn’t looking for stags. Then he snapped his fingers, and the moujik came padding out of the dimness of the wood; he was heeled and ready as well, his eyes glaring above his furze of beard. Ignatieff nodded to the left, and the great brute went prowling off that way, his piece presented in front of him; Ignatieff waited a few seconds and then took the way to the right. They both disappeared, noiselessly, and I was left fumbling feverishly for my caps. I slipped them under the hammers with trembling fingers, wondering whether to stay where I was or try to wriggle farther back into the undergrowth. They would be on either side of me shortly, and if they turned into the bracken they might easily … and with the thought came a steady rustling to my left, deep in the green; it stopped, and then started again, and it sounded closer. No doubt of it, someone was moving stealthily and steadily towards my hiding place.

  It takes a good deal to stir me out of petrified fear, but that did it. I rolled on my side, trying to sweep my gun round to cover the sound; it caught in the bracken, and I hauled frantically at it to get it clear. God, what a din I must be making – and then the damned lock must have caught on a stem, for one barrel went off like a thunderclap, and I was on my feet with a yell, tearing downhill through the bracken. I fairly flung myself through the high fronds, there was the crack of a shot behind me, and a ball buzzed overhead like a hornet. I went bounding through, came out in a clearing with firs on either side, sprang over a bank of ferns – and plunged straight down into a peat cutting. I landed belly first in the stinking ooze, but I was up and struggling over the far side in an instant, for I could hear crashing in the bracken above me, and knew that if I lost an instant he’d get a second shot. I was plastered with muck like a tar-and-feather merchant, but I still had my gun, and then I must have trod on a loose stone, for I pitched headlong, and went rolling and bumping down the slope, hit a rock, and finished up winded and battered in a burn, trying frantically to scramble up, and slithering on the slimy gravel underfoot.

  There was a thumping of boots on the bank, I started round, and there was the moujik, not ten yards away. I didn’t even have time to look for my gun; I was sprawling half out of the burn, and the bastard had his piece at his shoulder, the muzzle looking me straight in the face. I yelled and grabbed for a stone, there was the crash of a gunshot – and the moujik dropped his piece, shrieking, and clutched at his arm as he toppled backwards among the rocks.

  “Careful, colonel,” says a voice behind me. “He’s on
ly winged.” And there, standing not five yards off, with a smoking revolver in his hand, was a tall fellow in tweeds; he just gave me a nod, and then jumped lightly over the rocks and stood over the moujik, who was groaning and clutching his bleeding arm.

  “Murderous swine, ain’t you?” says the newcomer conversationally, and kicked him in the face. “It’s the only punishment he’ll get, I’m afraid,” he added, over his shoulder. “No diplomatic scandals, you see.” And as he turned towards me, I saw to my amazement who it was – Hutton, the tall chap with the long jaw who’d taken me to Palmerston only a few nights before. He put his pistol back in his arm-pit and came over to me.

  “No bones broken? Bless me, but you’re a sight.” He pulled me to my feet. “I’ll say this, colonel – you’re the fastest man over rough country I ever hope to follow. I lost you in five minutes, but I kept track of our friends, all right. Nice pair, ain’t they, though? I wish to God it had been the other one I pulled trigger on – oh, we won’t see him again, never fret. Not until everyone’s down the hill, and he’ll turn up cool as you like, never having been near you all day, what?”

  “But – but … you mean, you expected this?”

  “No-o – not exactly, anyway. But I’ve been pretty much on hand since the Russian brotherhood arrived, you know. We don’t believe in taking chances, eh? Not with customers like Master Ignatieff – enterprising chap, that. So when I heard he’d decided to join the shoot today, I thought I’d look along – just as well I did, I think,” says this astonishing fellow. “Now, if you’ve got your wind back, I suggest we make our way down. Never mind our little wounded bird yonder – if he don’t bleed to death he’ll find his way back to his master. Pity he shot himself by accident, ain’t it? That’ll be their story, I dare say – and we won’t contradict it – here, what are you about, sir?”

  I was lunging for my fallen gun, full of murderous rage now that the danger was past. “I’m going to blow that bloody peasant’s head off!” I roared, fumbling with the lock. “I’ll teach –”

  “Hold on!” cries he, catching my arm, and he was positively grinning. “Capital idea, I agree – but we mustn’t, you see. One bullet in him can be explained away by his own clumsiness – but not two, eh? We mustn’t have any scandal, colonel – not involving her majesty’s guests. Come along now – let’s be moving down, so that Count Ignatieff, who I’ve no doubt is watching us this minute, can come to his stricken servant’s assistance. After you, sir.”

  He was right, of course; the irony of it was that although Ignatieff and his brute had tried to murder me, we daren’t say so, for diplomacy’s sake. God knows what international complications there might have been. This didn’t sink in with me at once – but his reminder that Ignatieff was still prowling about was enough to lend me wings down the hill. Not that even he’d have tried another shot, with Hutton about, but I wasn’t taking chances.

  I’ll say this for the secret service – which is what Hutton was, of course – they’re damned efficient. He had a gig waiting on the road, one of his assistants was dispatched to the help of my ghillie, and within a half-hour I was back in Balmoral through the servants’ entrance, being cleaned up and instructed by Hutton to put it about that I’d abandoned the shoot with a strained muscle.

  “I’ll inform my chiefs in London that Colonel Flashman had a fortunate escape from an unexpected danger, arising from a chance encounter with an old Russian friend,” says he, “and that he is now fit and well to proceed on the important task ahead of him. And that, in the meantime, I’m keeping an eye on him. No, sir, I’m sorry – I can’t answer any of your questions, and I wouldn’t if I could.”

  Which left me in a fine state of consternation and bewilderment, wondering what to make of it all. My immediate thought was that Palmerston had somehow arranged the whole thing, in the hope that I’d kill Ignatieff, but even in my excited condition that didn’t make sense. A likelier explanation was that Ignatieff, coming innocently to Balmoral and finding me on the premises, had decided to take advantage of the chance to murder me, in revenge for the way I’d sold him the previous year. That, knowing the man and his ice-cold recklessness, was perfectly sound reasoning – but there was also the horrid possibility that he had found out about the job Palmerston had given me (God alone knew how – but he’d at least discovered from the idiot Elspeth that I was going to India) and had been out to dispose of me in the way of business.

  “A preposterous notion,” was Ellenborough’s answer when I voiced my fears to him that night. “He could not know – why, the Board decision was highly secret, and imparted only to the Prime Minister’s most intimate circle. No, this is merely another example of the naked savagery of the Russian bear!” He was full of port, and wattling furiously. “And virtually in her majesty’s presence, too! Damnable! But, of course, we can say nothing, Flashman. It only remains,” says he, booming sternly, “for you to mete out conclusive justice to this villain, if you chance to encounter him in India. In the meantime, I’ll see that the Lord Chamberlain excludes him from any diplomatic invitations which may be extended to St Petersburg in future. By gad, I will!”

  I ventured the cautious suggestion that it might be better, after what had happened, to send someone else to Jhansi – just in case Ignatieff had tumbled to me – but Ellenborough wasn’t even listening. He was just full of indignation at Ignatieff’s murderous impudence – not on my account, you’ll note, but because it might have led to a scandal involving the Queen. (Admittedly, you can’t have it getting about that her guests have been trying to slaughter each other; the poor woman probably had enough trouble getting people to visit, with Albert about the place.)

  So, of course, we kept mum, and as Hutton had foreseen, it was put about and accepted that Ignatieff’s loader had had an accident with a gun, and everyone wagged their heads in sympathy, and the Queen sent the poor unfortunate fellow some shortbread and a tot of whisky. Ignatieff even had the crust to thank her after dinner, and I could feel Ellenborough at my elbow fairly bubbling with suppressed outrage. And to cap it all, the brute had the effrontery to challenge me to a game of billiards – and beat me hollow, too, in the presence of Albert and half a dozen others: I had to be certain there was a good crowd on hand, for God knows what he’d have tried if we’d gone to the pool-room alone. I’ll say it for Nicholas Ignatieff – he was a bear-cat for nerve. He’d have been ready to brain me and claim afterwards that it was a mis-cue.

  So now – having heard the prelude to my Indian Mutiny adventure, you will understand why I don’t care much for Balmoral. And if what happened there that September was trivial by comparison with what followed – well, I couldn’t foresee that. Indeed, as I soothed my bruised nerves with brandy fomentations that night, I reflected that there were worse places than India; there was Aberdeenshire, with Ignatieff loose in the bracken, hoping to hang my head on his gunroom wall. I hadn’t been able to avoid him here, but if we met again on the coral strand, it wasn’t going to be my fault.

  I’ve never been stag-shooting from that day to this, either. Ellenborough was right: the company’s too damned mixed.

  Chapter 3

  I remember young Fred Roberts (who’s a Field-Marshal now, which shows you what pull these Addiscombe wallahs have got) once saying that everyone hated India for a month and then loved it forever. I wouldn’t altogether agree, but I’ll allow that it had its attractions in the old days; you lived like a lord without having to work, waited on hand and foot, made money if you set your mind to it, and hardly exerted yourself at all except to hunt the beasts, thrash the men, and bull the women. You had to look sharp to avoid active service, of course, of which there was a lot about; I never fell very lucky that way. But even so, it wasn’t a half-bad station, most of the time.

  Personally, I put that down to the fact that in my young days India was a middle-class place for the British, where society people didn’t serve if they could help it. (Cardigan, for example, took one look and fled.) It’s differ
ent now, of course; since it became a safe place many of our best and most highly-connected people have let the light of their countenances shine on India, with the results you might expect – prices have gone up, service has gone down, and the women have got clap. So they tell me.

  Mind you, I could see things were changing even in ’56, when I landed at Bombay. My first voyage to India, sixteen years before, had lasted four months on a creaking East Indiaman; this time, in natty little government steam sloops, it had taken just about half that time, even with a vile journey by camel across the Suez isthmus in between. And even from Bombay you could get the smell of civilisation; they’d started the telegraph, and were pushing ahead with the first railways, there were more white faces and businesses to be seen, and people weren’t talking, as they’d used to, of India as though it were a wild jungle with John Company strongholds here and there. In my early days, a journey from Calcutta to Peshawar had seemed half round the world, but no longer. It was as though the Company was at last seeing India as one vast country – and realising that now the wars with the Sikhs and Maharattas and Afghans were things of the past, it was an empire that had to be ruled and run, quite apart from fighting and showing a nice profit in Leadenhall Street.

  It was far busier than I remembered it, and somehow the civilians seemed more to the fore nowadays than the military. Once the gossip on the verandahs had all been about war in the north, or the Thugs, or the bandit chiefs of the Ghats who’d have to be looked up some day; now it was as often as not about new mills or factories, and even schools, and how there would be a railroad clear over to Madras in the next five years, and you’d be able to journey from Mrs Blackwell’s in Bombay to the Auckland in Calcutta without once putting on your boots.