Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins
the swine … tortured him? I mean, he didn’t say so, but –”
“He’s not the kind who would, from all I’ve heard,” says Van Cortlandt. “Sale told me that after the Piper’s Fort business they couldn’t get a word out of him … about himself, I mean. Only about … his men. Heavens … he’s just a boy!”
“Broadfoot says he’s the bravest man he’s ever met,” says Nicolson reverently.
“There you are, then. Come on, let’s find Littler.”
You see what I mean? It would be all over camp within the hour, and the Army soon after. Good old Flashy’s done it again – and this time, if I says it myself, didn’t I deserve their golden opinions, even if I had been passing wind the whole way? I felt quite virtuous, and put on a game show, trying to struggle to my feet and having to be restrained, when they returned presently with Littler, a wiry old piece of teak who looked as though he’d swallowed the poker. He was very trim in spotless overalls, chin thrust out and hands behind his back as he ran a brisk eye over me. More compliments, thinks I – until he spoke, in a cold, level voice.
“Let me understand this. You say that twenty thousand Sikh cavalry are moving to attack the Commander-in-Chief … and this is at your prompting? I see.” He took a deliberate breath through his thin nose, and I’ve seen kinder eyes on a cobra. “You, a junior political officer, took it upon yourself to direct the course of the war. You did not think fit, although you knew these two traitors were bent on courting defeat, to send or bring word to the nearest general officer – myself? So that their actions might be directed by someone of less limited military experience?” He paused, his mouth like a rat-trap. “Well, sir?”
I don’t know what I thought, only what I said, once I’d recovered from the shock of the icy son-of-a-bitch’s sarcasm. It was so unexpected that I could only blurt out: “There wasn’t time, sir! Lal Singh was desperate – if I hadn’t told him something, God knows what he’d have done!” Nicolson was standing mum; Van Cortlandt was frowning. “I … I acted as I thought best, sir!” I could have burst into tears.
“Quite so.” It sounded like a left and right with a sabre. “And from your vast political experience, you are confident that the Wazir’s … desperation … was genuine – and that he has indeed acted on your ingenious instructions? He could not have been deceiving you, of course … and perhaps making quite other dispositions of his army?”
“With respect, sir,” put in Van Cortlandt, “I’m quite sure –”
“Thank you, Colonel Van Cortlandt. I recognise your concern for a fellow political officer. Your certainty, however, is by the way. I am concerned with Mr Flashman’s.”
“Christ! Yes, I’m sure –”
“You will not blaspheme in my presence, sir.” The steely voice didn’t rise even a fraction. Deliberately he went on: “Well. We must hope that you are right. Must we not? We must resign ourselves to the fact that the fate of the Army rests on the strategic acumen of one self-sufficient subaltern. Distinguished in his way, no doubt.” He gave me one last withering glance. “Unfortunately, that distinction has not been gained in command of any formation larger than a troop of cavalry.”
I lost my head, and my temper with it. I can’t explain it, for I’m the last man to defy authority – it may have been the sneering voice and supercilious eye, or the contrast with the decency of Van Cortlandt and Nicolson, or all the fear and pain and weariness of weeks boiling up, or the sheer injustice, when for once I’d done my best and my duty (not that I’d had any choice, I grant you) and this was the thanks I got! Well, it was the wrong side of enough, and I heaved half off the bed, almost weeping with rage and indignation.
“Damnation!” I bawled. “Very well – sir! What should I have done, then? It ain’t too late, you know! Tell me what you’d have done, and I’ll ride back to Lal Singh this very minute! He’s still cowering in bed, I’ll be bound, not two bloody miles away! He’ll be glad to change his orders, if he knows they come from you – sir!”
I knew, even in my childish fury, that there wasn’t a chance he’d take me at my word, or I’d have confined myself to cussing, you may be sure. Nicolson had me by the arm, begging me to be calm, and Van Cortlandt was muttering excuses on my behalf.
Littler didn’t turn a hair. He waited until Nicolson had settled me. Then:
“I doubt if that would be prudent,” says he quietly. “No. We can only wait upon events. Whether our messengers find Sir Hugh or not, he will still face the battle which you, Mr Flashman, have made inevitable.” He moved forward to look at me, and his face was like flint. “If all goes well, he and his army will, very properly, receive the credit. If, on the other hand, he is defeated, then you, sir” – he inclined his head towards me – “will bear the blame alone. You will certainly be broken, probably imprisoned, possibly even shot.” He paused. “Do not misunderstand me, Mr Flashman. The questions I have asked you are only those that will be put to you by the prosecution at your court-martial – a proceeding at which, let me assure you, I shall be the first witness on your behalf, to testify that, in my judgment, you have done your duty with exemplary courage and resource, and in the highest traditions of the service.”
a Jeendan.
b Ruffians.
Unusual chap, Littler, and not only because he came from Cheshire, which not many people do, in my experience. I can’t recall a man who so scared the innards out of me, and yet was so reassuring, all in one go. For he was right, you know. I had done the proper thing, and done it well – and much good it’d do me, whatever befell. If Gough was wiped up, they’d need a scapegoat, and who so handy as one of those cocky politicals whom the rest of the Army detested? Contrariwise, if the Khalsa was beat, the last thing John Bull would want to hear was that it had been managed by a dirty deal with two treacherous Sikh generals – where’s the glory to Britannia’s arms in that? So it would be kept quiet … as it has been, to this very day.
You may wonder, then, how I found any reassurance in Littler’s tirade. Well, the thought of having that acid little iceberg in my corner, if it came to a court-martial, was decidedly comforting; I’ve prosecuted myself, and God be thanked I never ran into a defence witness like him. And Broadfoot would stand by me, and Van Cortlandt – and my Afghan reputation must tell in my favour. I got a whiff of that later in the day, when I was nursing my leg and chewing my nails on the verandah after tiffen, and heard Littler’s three brigadiers talking behind the chick; Nicolson must have been spreading the tale of my exploits, and they were full of it.
“Sikhs are doin’ what Flashman told ’em? Off his own bat? I’ll be damned! No end to the cheek o’ these politicals.”
“Not to Flashman’s, anyway. Ask any woman in Simla.”
“Oh? In the skirt line, is he? Odd, that … wife’s a regular stunner. Seen her. Blonde gel, blue eyes.”
“She does sound a stunner, is she?”
“Tip-top, altogether.”
“I say … lady’s name. Not in the mess.”
“Haven’t mentioned her name. Just that she’s a stunner. Money, too, I’m told.”
“Scamps like Flashman always seem to get both. Noticed that.”
“Popular chap, of course.”
“Not with Cardigan. Kicked him out o’ the Cherrypickers.”
“Somethin’ in the lad’s favour. What for?”
“Don’t recall. Feller