Flashman at the Charge fp-4

by George MacDonald Fraser

  So my spirits continued to droop, but what shook them worst was an incident on the last morning of our journey when we had halted at a large village only thirty versts [twenty miles] from Starotorsk, the estate to which I was being sent. It wasn't so different, really, from the peasant-thrashing I'd already seen, yet it, and the man involved, branded on my mind the knowledge of what a fearful, barbarous, sickeningly cruel land this Russia was.

  The village lay on what seemed to be an important crossroads; there was a river, I remember, and a military camp, and uniforms coming and going from the municipal building where my civilian took me to report my arrival—everything has to be reported to someone or other in Russia, in this case the local registrar, a surly, bull-necked brute in a grey tunic, who pawed over the papers, eyeing me nastily the while.

  These Russian civil servants are a bad lot—pompous, stupid and rude at the best. They come in various grades, each with a military title—so that General or Colonel So-and-so turns out to be someone who neglects the parish sanitation or keeps inaccurate records of livestock. The brutes even wear medals, and are immensely puffed-up, and unless you bribe them lavishly they will cause you all the trouble they can.

  I was waiting patiently, being eyed curiously by the officials and officers with whom the municipal hall was packed, and the registrar picked his teeth, scowling, and then launched into a great tirade in Russian—I gather it was addressed against all Englishmen in general and me in particular. He made it clear to my escort, and everyone else, that he considered it a gross waste of board and lodging that I should be housed at all—he'd have had me in the salt-mines for a stinking foreigner who had defiled the holy soil of Mother Russia—and so forth, until he got quite worked up, banging his desk and shouting and glaring, so that the noise and talk in the room died away as everyone stopped to listen.

  It was just jack-in-office unpleasantness, and I had no choice but to ignore it. But someone else didn't. One of the officers who had been standing to one side, chatting, suddenly strolled forward in front of the registrar's table, paused to drop his cigarette and set a foot on it, and then without warning lashed the registrar full across the face with his riding crop. The fellow shrieked and fell back in his chair, flinging up his hands to ward another blow; the officer said something in a soft, icy voice, and the trembling hands came down, revealing the livid whip-mark on the coarse bearded face.

  There wasn't a sound in the room, except for the registrar's whimpering, as the officer leisurely raised his crop again, and with the utmost deliberation slashed him across the face a second time, laying the bearded cheek open, while the creature screamed but didn't dare move or protect himself A third slash sent man and chair over, the officer looked at his whip as though it had been in the gutter, dropped it on the floor, and then turned to me.

  "This offal," says he, and to my amazement he spoke in English, "requires correction. With your permission, I shall reinforce the lesson." He looked at the blubbering, bleeding registrar crawling out of the wreck of his chair, and rapped out a string of words in that level, chilly whisper; the stricken man changed course and came wriggling across to my feet, babbling and snuffling at my ankles in a most disgusting fashion, while the officer lit another cigarette and looked on.

  "He will lick your boots," says he, "and I have told him that if he bleeds on them, I shall have him knouted. You wish to kick him in the face?"

  As you know, I'm something in the bullying line myself, and given a moment I dare say I'd have accepted; it isn't every day you have the opportunity. But I was too amazed—aye, and alarmed, too, at the cold, deliberate brutality I'd seen, and the registrar seized the opportunity to scramble away, followed by a shattering kick from my protector.

  "Scum—but rather wiser scum," says he. "He will not insult a gentleman again. A cigarette, colonel?" And he held out a gold case of those paper abominations I'd tried at Sevastopol, but hadn't liked. I let him light one for me; it tasted like dung soaked in treacle.

  "Captain Count Nicholas Pavlovitch Ignatieff,"22 says he, in that cold, soft voice, "at your service." And as our eyes met through the cigarette smoke I thought, hollo, this is another of those momentous encounters. You didn't have to look at this chap twice to remember him forever. It was the eyes, as it so often is—I thought in that moment of Bismarck, and Charity Spring, and Akbar Khan; it had been the eyes with them, too. But this fellow's were different from anything yet: one was blue, but the other had a divided iris, half-blue, half-brown, and the oddly fascinating effect of this was that you didn't know where to look, but kept shifting from one to the other.

  For the rest, he had gingerish, curling hair and a square, masterful face that was no way impaired by a badly-broken nose. He looked tough, and immensely self-assured; it was in his glance, in the abrupt way he moved, in the slant of the long cigarette between his fingers, in the rakish tilt of his peaked cap, in the immaculate white tunic of the Imperial Guards. He was the kind who knew exactly what was what, where everything was, and precisely who was who—especially himself. He was probably a devil with women, admired by his superiors, hated by his rivals, and abjectly feared by his subordinates. One word summed him up: bastard.

  "I caught your name, in that beast's outburst," says he. He was studying me calmly, as a doctor regards a specimen. "You are the officer of Balaclava, I think. Going to Starotorsk, to be lodged with Colonel Count Pencherjevsky. He already has another English officer—under his care." I tried to meet his eye and not keep glancing at the registrar, who had hauled himself up at a nearby table, and was shakily trying to staunch his gashed face: no one moved a finger to help him. For some reason, I found my cigarette trembling between my fingers; it was foolish, with this outwardly elegant, precise, not unfriendly young gentleman doing no more than make civil conversation. But I'd just seen him at work, and knew the kind of soulless, animal cruelty behind the suave mask. I know my villains, and this Captain Count Ignatieff was a bad one; you could feel the savage strength of the man like an electric wave.

  "I will not detain you, colonel," says he, in that same cold murmur, and there was all the immeasurable arrogance of the Russian nobleman in the way he didn't look or beckon for my civilian escort, but simply turned his head the merest fraction, and the fellow came scurrying out of the silent crowd.

  "We may meet at Starotorsk," says Ignatieff, and with the slightest bow to me he turned away, and my escort was hustling me respectfully out to the telegue, as though he couldn't get away fast enough. I was all for it; the less time you spend near folk like that, the better.

  It left me shaken, that little encounter. Some people are just terrible, in the true sense of the word—I knew now, I thought, how Tsar Ivan had earned that nickname: it implies something far beyond the lip-licking cruelty of your ordinary torturer. Satan, if there is one, is probably a Russian; no one else could have the necessary soulless brutality; it is just part of life to them.

  I asked my civilian who Ignatieff was, and got an unwilling mumble in reply. Russians don't like to talk about their superiors at any time; it isn't safe, and I gathered that Ignatieff was so important, and so high-born—mere captain though he was—that you just didn't mention him at all. So I consoled myself that I'd probably seen the last of him (ha!) and took stock of the scenery instead. After a few miles the bare steppe was giving way to large, well-cultivated fields, with beasts and peasants labouring away, the road improved, and presently, on an eminence ahead of us there was a great, rambling timbered mansion with double wings, and extensive outbuildings, all walled and gated, and the thin smoke of a village just visible beyond. We bowled up a fine gravel drive between well-kept lawns with willow trees on their borders, past the arched entrance of a large courtyard, and on to a broad carriage sweep before the house, where a pretty white fountain played.

  Well, thinks I, cheering up a bit, this will do. Civilization in the midst of barbarism, and very fine, too. Pleasant grounds, genteel accommodation, salubrious out-look, company's own w
ater no doubt, to suit overworked military man in need of rest and recreation. Flashy, my son, this will answer admirably until they sign the peace. The only note out of harmony was the Cossack guard lounging near the front steps, to remind me that I was a prisoner after all.

  A steward emerged, bowing, and my civilian explained that he would conduct me to my apartment, and thereafter I would doubtless meet Count Pencherjevsky. I was led into a cool, light-panelled hall, and if anything was needed to restore my flagging spirits it was the fine furs on the well-polished floor, the comfortable leather furniture, the flowers on the table, the cosy air of civilian peace, and the delightful little blonde who had just descended the stairs. She was so unexpected, I must have goggled at her like poor Willy in the presence of his St John's Wood whore.

  And she was worth a long stare. About middle height, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, plump-bosomed, tiny in the waist, with a saucy little upturned nose, pink, dimpled cheeks and a cloud of silvery-blonde hair, she was fit to make your mouth water especially if you hadn't had a woman in two months, and had just finished a long, dusty journey through southern Russia, gaping at misshapen peasants. I stripped, seized, and mounted her in a twinkling of my mind's eye, as she tripped past, I bowing my most military bow, and she disregarding me beyond a quick, startled glance from slanting grey eyes. May it be a long war, thinks I, watching her bouncing out of sight, and then my attention was taken by the major-domo, muttering the eternal "Pajalsta, excellence," and leading me up the broad, creaky staircase, along a turning passage, and finally halting at a broad door. He knocked, and an English voice called:

  "Come in—no, hang it all—khadee-tyeh!"

  I grinned at the friendly familiar sound, and strode in, saying: "Hollo, yourself, whoever you are," and putting out my hand. A man of about my own age, who had been reading on the bed, looked up in surprise, swung his legs to the ground, stood up, and then sank back on the bed again, gaping as though I were a ghost. He shook his head, stuttering, and then got out:

  "Flashman! Good heavens!"

  I stopped short. The face was familiar, somehow, but I didn't know from where. And then the years rolled away, and I saw a boy's face under a tile hat, and heard a boy's voice saying: "I'm sorry, Flashman." Yes, it was him all right—Scud East of Rugby.

  For a long moment we just stared at each other, and then we both found our voices in the same phrase: ".What on earth are you doing here?" And then we stopped, uncertainly, until I said:

  "I was captured at Balaclava, three weeks back."

  "They took me at Silistria, three months ago. I've been here five weeks and two days."

  And then we stared at each other some more, and finally I said:

  "Well, you certainly know how to make a fellow at home. Ain't you going to offer me a chair, even?"

  He jumped up at that, colouring and apologizing—still the same raw Scud, I could see. He was taller and thinner than I remembered; his brown hair was receding, too, but he still had that quick, awkward nervousness I remembered.

  "I'm so taken aback," he stuttered, pulling up a chair for me. "Why—why, I am glad to see you, Flashman! Here, give me your hand, old fellow! There! Well—well—my, what a mountainous size you've grown, to be sure! You always were a big … er, a tall chap, of course, but … I say, isn't this a queer fix, us meeting again like this … after so long! Let's see, it must be fourteen, no fifteen, years since … since … ah …"

  "Since Arnold kicked me out for being pissy drunk?" He coloured again. "I was going to say, since we said goodbye."

  "Aye. Well, ne'er mind. What's your rank, Scud? Major, eh? I'm a colonel."

  "Yes," says he. "I see that." He gave me an odd, almost shy grin. "You've done well—everyone knows about you all the fellows from Rugby talk about you, when one meets 'em, you know … "

  "Do they, though? Not with any great love, I'll be bound, eh, young Scud?"

  "Oh, come!" cries he. "What d'you mean? Oh, stuff! We were all boys then, and boys never get on too well, 'specially when some are bigger and older and … why, that's all done with years ago! Why—everyone's proud of you, Flashman! Brooke and Green—and young Brooke—he's in the Navy, you know." He paused. "The Doctor would have been proudest of all, I'm sure."

  Aye, he probably would, thinks I, the damned old hypocrite.

  … everyone knows about Afghanistan, and India, and all that," he ran on. "I was out there myself, you know, in the Sikh campaign, when you were winning another set of laurels. All I got was a shot wound, a hole in my ribs, and a broken arm. "23 He laughed ruefully. "Not much to show, I'm afraid—and then I bought out of the 101st, and—but heavens, how I'm rattling on! Oh, it is good to see you, old fellow! This is the best, most famous thing! Let me have a good look at you! By George, those are some whiskers, though!"

  I couldn't be sure if he meant it, or not. God knows, Scud East had no cause to love me, and the sight of him had so taken me back to that last black day at Rugby that I'd momentarily forgotten we were men now, and things had changed—perhaps even his memories of me. For he did seem pleased to see me, now that he'd got over his surprise—of course, that could just be acting on his part, or making the best of a bad job, or just Christian decency. I found myself weighing him up; I'd knocked him about a good deal, in happier days, and it came as a satisfaction to realize that I could probably still do it now, if it came to the pinch; he was still smaller and thinner than I. At that, I'd never detested him as much as his manly-mealy little pal, Brown; he'd had more game in him than the others, had East, and now—well, if he was disposed to be civil, and let bygones be bygones … We were bound to be stuck together for some months at least.

  All this in a second's consideration—and you may think, what a mean and calculating nature, or what a guilty conscience. Never you mind; I know my own nature hasn't changed in eighty years, so why should anyone else's? And I never forget an injury—I've done too many of 'em.

  So I didn't quite enter into his joyous spirit of reunion, but was civil enough, and after he had got over his sham-ecstasies at meeting his dear old school-fellow again, I said:

  "What about this place, then—and this fellow Pencherjevsky?"

  He hesitated a moment, glanced towards the wall, got up, and as he walked over to it, said loudly: "Oh, it is as you see it—a splendid place. They've treated me well—very well indeed." And then he beckoned me to go over beside him, at the same time laying a finger on his lips. I went, wondering, and followed his pointing finger to a curious protuberance in the ornate carving of the panelling beside the stove. It looked as though a small funnel had been sunk into the carving, and covered with a fine metal grille, painted to match the surrounding wood.

  "I say, old fellow," says East, "what d'you say to a walk? The Count has splendid gardens, and we are free of them, you know."

  I took the hint, and we descended the stairs to the hall, and out on to the lawns. The lounging Cossack looked at us, but made no move to follow. As soon as we were at a safe distance, I asked:

  "What on earth was it?"

  "Speaking-tube, carefully concealed," says he. "I looked out for it as soon as I arrived—there's one in the next room, too, where you'll be. I fancy our Russian hosts like to be certain we're not up to mischief."

  "Well, I'm damned! The deceitful brutes! Is that any way to treat gentlemen? And how the deuce did you know to look for it?"

  "Oh, just caution," says he, offhand, but then he thought for a moment, and went on: "I know a little about such things, you see. When I was taken at Silistria, although I was officially with the Bashi-Bazouk people, I was more on the political side, really. I think the Russians know it, too. When they brought me up this way I was most carefully examined at first by some very shrewd gentlemen from their staff—I speak some Russian, you see. Oh, yes, my mother's family married in this direction, a few generations ago, and we had a sort of great-aunt who taught me enough to whet my interest. Anyway, on top of their suspicions of me, that accomplishment is eno
ugh to make 'em pay very close heed to H. East, Esq."

  "It's an accomplishment you can pass on to me as fast as you like," says I. "But d'you mean they think you're a spy?"

  "Oh, no, just worth watching—and listening to. They're the most suspicious folk in the world, you know; trust no one, not even each other. And for all they're supposed to be thick-headed barbarians, they have some clever jokers among em."

  Something made me ask: "D'you know a chap called Ignatieff- Count Ignatieff?"

  "Do I not!" says he. "He was one of the fellows who ran the rule over me when I came up here. That's Captain Swing with blue blood, that one—why, d'you know him?"

  I told him what had happened earlier in the day, and he whistled. "He was there to have a look and a word with you, you may depend on it. We must watch what we say, Flashman—not that our consciences aren't clear, but we may have some information that would be useful to them." He glanced about. "And we won't feed their suspicions by talking too much where they can't hear us. Another five minutes, and we'd better get back to the room. If we want to be private there, at any time, we'll hang a coat over their confounded tube—you may believe me, that works. But before we go in, I'll tell you, as quickly as I may, those things that are better said in the open air."

  It struck me, he was a cool, assured hand, this East—of course, he had been all that as a boy, too.

  "Count Pencherjevsky—an ogre, loud-mouthed, brutal, and a tyrant. He's a Cossack, who rose to command a hussar regiment in the army, won the Tsar's special favour, and retired here, away from his own tribal land. He rules his estate like a despot, treats his serfs abominably, and will surely have his throat cut one day. I can't abide him, and keep out of his way, although I sometimes dine with the family, for appearance's sake. But he's been decent enough, I'll admit; gives me the run of the place, a horse to ride, that sort of thing."