Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
water flying from her bare body, and then stopped dead, her shrieks changing to a terrified wail.
Three men were standing just clear of the shadows on that side, drawn scimitars in their hands. They wore only loose grey pyjamy trousers and great wide hoods so deep that their faces were invisible; the girl shrank away from them, blubbering and covering her face; she slipped and fell on the wet tiles and tried to scramble away while they stood like grey statues, and then one stepped forward, lightly hefting his sword, she bounded to her feet, screeching as she turned to run, but before she’d gone a step his point was through her back; it came out like a ghastly silver needle between her breasts, and she pitched forward lifeless on the stone block. Then they were flitting towards me in dead silence, expert assassins of whom two skirted wide to take me in flank while the third came straight for me, his blood-smeared blade out before him. I turned to run, slipped, and came down headlong.
Cowardice has its uses. I’d be long dead without it, for it’s driven me to try, in blind panic, ploys which no thinking man would even attempt. A brave man would have scrambled up to run or fling himself at the nearest enemy bare-handed; only Flashy, landing arse over tip on one of the little piles of gear discarded by the Kashmiri girls, would have grabbed at her pathetic tinsel bow, snatched a dart from its quiver, fumbled it gibbering on to the string and let fly at the leading thug as he came leaping over the girl’s corpse at me, swinging up his scimitar. It was only a fragile toy, but it was tight-strung, and that small shaft must have been sharp as a chisel, for it sank to the flights in his midriff and he twisted howling in mid-air, his scimitar clashing on the tiles before me. I grabbed it, knowing I was done for, with one of the flank men driving at me, but I managed to turn his thrust and hurl myself sideways, expecting to feel his mate’s point searing into my back. There was a yell and clash of steel behind me as I landed on my shoulder and rolled over and up, slashing blindly and bawling like an idiot for help.
Wasted breath, for it had arrived. The other flank man was desperately trying to parry the sweep of a Khyber knife in the hand of a tall robed newcomer – which with a scimitar is rather like opposing a pea-shooter to a rifle. One slash and the scimitar blade was a shattered stump, another and the thug was down with a cloven skull – and the man whose thrust I’d parried leaped back and was off like a hare, dodging for the shadows. The robed apparition turned from his victim without undue haste, took one long stride and brought over his sword-arm like a fast bowler, letting the Khyber knife go; it turned once in the air and drove into the fugitive’s back, he hurtled against a pillar, clinging to it with that dreadful cleaver imbedded in his body, and slid slowly to the floor. Twenty seconds earlier I’d been having my knees washed.
The robed man strode past me, recovered his knife, and cursed as blood splashed his coat – and only then did I realise it was a crimson garment in the tartan of the 79th. He stalked back, hunkering down to wash his blade in the water lapping over the tiles, and surveyed the shambles where the bath had been, the great rock that filled it, and the dangling chains.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” says he. “So that’s how they did for old lady Chaund Cour. No wonder we never saw the body – guess she didn’t look like much with that on top of her.” He stood up and barked at me. “Well, sir? You aim to stand around bollock-naked and take your death of cold? Or would you prefer to make tracks before the coroner gets here?”
The words were English. The accent was pure American.
a “Durbar”, as Flashman employs it, means variously an audience of royalty, the durbar room in which audience is given, and the Punjab government (e.g. “Lahore durbar”).
b Lit. “Lord of the land”, i.e. Sir Henry Hardinge.
c Sweeper.
d Foreigner.
e Kunwar=the son of a maharaja, and kunwari is presumably the female honorific.
f “Lord of War”, i.e. Gough.
Since I’ve seen a Welshman in a top hat leading a Zulu impi, and have myself ridden in an Apache war party in paint and breech-clout, I dare say I shouldn’t have been surprised to find that Gurdana Khan, the complete Khyberie hillman, could talk the lingo of Brother Jonathan – there were some damned odd fellows about in the earlies, I can tell you. But the circumstances were unusual, you’ll allow, and I probably gaped for several seconds before scrambling into my robe. Then reaction seized me, and I vomited, while he stood glowering like a Nonconformist at the three hooded bodies, and the naked white corpse of the poor little Kashmiri slut with the bloody water lapping round her. I say poor slut – she’d done her damnedest to have me squashed flatter than a fluke. The man I’d shot was writhing about, wailing in agony.
“Let him linger,” growls Gurdana Khan. “Mistreatment of women is something I cannot endure! Come away.”
He strode off to a staircase hidden in the shadows on the other side of the bath-house, ushering me impatiently ahead of him. We ascended, and he chivvied me along miles of turning passages, ignoring my incoherent questions, then across a lofty hall, through a guardroom where black-robed irregulars lounged, and at last into a spacious, comfortable room for all the world like a bachelor’s den at home, with prints and trophies on the walls, book cases, and fine leather easy chairs. I was shivering with chill and shock and bewilderment; he sat me down, threw a shawl over my legs, and poured out two stiff pegs – malt whisky, if you please. He laid by his Khyber knife and pulled off his puggaree – he was a Pathan, though, with that close-cropped skull, hawk face, and grizzled beard, for all he grunted “Slàinte” as he lifted his tumbler, first clamping his neck in that strange iron collar I’d seen in the afternoon – dear God, was it only twelve hours ago? Having drunk, he stood scowling down at me like a headmaster at an erring fag.
“Now see here, Mr Flashman – where the devil were you this evening? We combed the palace, even looked under your bed, godammit! Well, sir?”
I made no sense of this – all I knew was that someone was trying to murder me, but plainly it wasn’t this cross-grained fellow … so I’d risked horrible death hanging out of windows while he and his gang had been looking for me to protect me, by the sound of it! I removed the glass from my chattering teeth.
“I … I was out. But … who on earth are you?”
“Alexander Campbell Gardner!” snaps he. “Formerly artillery instructor to the Khalsa, presently guard commander to the Maharaja, and recently at your service – and think yourself lucky!”
“But you’re an American!”
“That I am.” He fixed me with an eye like a gimlet. “From the territory of Wisconsin.”
I must have been a picture of idiocy, for he clapped that iron object to his neck again, gulped whisky, and rasped:
“Well, sir? You passed that word, as Broadfoot instructed you should, in an emergency. When, you ask? Dammit, to the little Maharaja, and again to old Ram Singh! It reached me – no matter how – and I came directly to help you, and not a hair of you in sight! Next I hear, you’re with the Maharani, playing the Devil and Jenny Golightly! Was that intelligent conduct, sir, when you knew Jawaheer Singh was out to cut your throat?” He emptied his glass, clashed his iron clamp on the table, and glared. “How the dooce did you know he was after you, anyway?”
This tirade had me all adrift. “I didn’t know any such thing! Mr Gardner, I’m at a loss –”
“Colonel