Flashman's Lady

by George MacDonald Fraser

  She scampered off to show it to the others, calling on Solomon to admire it, and Whampoa says quietly to me:

  “You have known Mr Solomon Haslam for a long time?”

  I said a year or so, in London, and he nodded his great bald head and turned his Buddha-like face to me.

  “He is taking you on a cruise round his plantations, I believe. That will be interesting—I must ask him where they are. I should much like to visit them myself some day.”

  I said I thought they were on the peninsula, and he nodded gravely and sipped his sherry.

  “No doubt they are. He is a man of sufficient shrewdness and enterprise, I think—he does business well.” The sound of Elspeth’s laughter sounded from the dining-room, and Whampoa’s fat yellow face creased in a sudden smile. “How fortunate you are, Mr Flashman. I have, in my humble way—which is not at all humble, you understand—a taste for beautiful things, and especially in women. You have seen”—he fluttered his hand, with its beastly long nails—“that I surround myself with them. But when I see your lady, Elspet’, I understand why the old story-tellers always made their gods and goddesses fair-skinned and golden-haired. If I were forty years younger, I should try to take her from you”—he sluiced down some more Amontillado—“without success, of course. But so much beauty—it is dangerous.”

  He looked at me, and I can’t think why, but I felt a chill of sudden fear—not of him, but of what he was saying. Before I could speak, though. Elspeth was back, to exclaim again over her present, and prattle her thanks, and he stood smiling down at her, like some benign, sherry-soaked heathen god.

  “Thank me, beautiful child, by coming again to my humble palace, for hereafter it will truly be humble without your presence,” says he. Then we joined the others, and the thanks and compliments flew as we took our leave in that glittering place, and everything was cheery and happy—but I found myself shivering as we went out, which was odd, for it was a warm and balmy night.

  I couldn’t account for it, after such a jolly affair, but I went to bed thoroughly out of sorts. At first I put it down to foul Chinese grub, and certainly something gave me the most vivid nightmares, in which I was playing a single-wicket match up and downstairs in Whampoa’s house, and his silky little Chinese tarts were showing me how to hold my bat—that part of it was all right, as they snuggled up, whispering fragrantly and guiding my hands, but all the time I was conscious of dark shapes moving behind the screens, and when Daedalus Tighe bowled to me it was a Chinese lantern that I had to hit, and it went ballooning up into the dark, bursting into a thousand rockets, and Old Morrison and the Duke came jumping out at me in sarongs, crying that I must run all through the house to score a single, at compound interest, and I set off, blundering past the screens, where nameless horrors lurked, and I was trying to catch Solomon, who was flitting like a shadow before me, calling out of the dark that there was no danger, because he carried ten guns, and I could feel someone or something drawing closer behind me, and Elspeth’s voice was calling, fainter and fainter, and I knew if I looked back I should see something terrible—and there I was, gasping into the pillow, my face wet with sweat, and Elspeth snoring peacefully beside me.

  It rattled me, I can tell you, because the last time I’d had a nightmare was in Gul Shah’s dungeon, two years before, and that was no happy recollection. (It’s a strange thing, by the way, that I usually have my worst nightmares in jail; I can remember some beauties, in Fort Raim prison, up on the Aral Sea, where I imagined old Morrison and Rudi Starnberg were painting my backside with boot polish, and in Gwalior Fort, where I waltzed in chains with Captain Charity Spring conducting the band, and the beastliest of all was in a Mexican clink during the Juarez business, when I dreamed I was charging the Balaclava guns at the head of a squadron of skeletons in mortar-boards, all chanting “Ab and absque, coram de”, while just ahead of me Lord Cardigan was sailing in his yacht, leering at me and tearing Elspeth’s clothes off. Mind you, I’d been living on chili and beans for a week.)

  In any event, I didn’t sleep well after Whampoa’s party, and was in a fine fit of the dismals next day, as a result of which Elspeth and I quarrelled, and she wept and sulked until Solomon came to propose a picnic on the other side of the island. We would sail round in the Sulu Queen, he said, and make a capital day of it. Elspeth cheered up at once, and old Morrison was game, too, but I cried off, pleading indisposition. I knew what I needed to lift my gloom, and it wasn’t an al fresco lunch in the mangrove swamps with those three; let them remove themselves, and it would leave me free to explore China Town at closer quarters, and perhaps sample the menu at one of those exclusive establishments that Solomon had mentioned; the Temple of Heaven was the name that stuck in my mind. Why, they might even have dainty little waitresses like Whampoa’s, to teach you how to use your chopsticks.

  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 realised 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 realised 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 direction; 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 by 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.”