Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 3: Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald
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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 enough 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.”
“Ain’t they worried you might ride for it?” says I.
“Where to? We’re two hundred miles north of the Crimea here, with nothing but naked country in between. Besides, the Count has a dozen or so of his old Cossacks in his service – they’re all the guard anyone needs. Kubans, who could ride down anything on four legs. I saw them bring back four serfs who ran away, soon after I got here – they’d succeeded in travelling twenty miles before the Cossacks caught them. Those devils brought them back tied by the ankles and dragged behind their ponies – the whole way!” He shuddered. “They were flayed to death in the first few miles!”
I felt my stomach give one of its little heaves. “But, anyway, those were serfs,” says I. “They wouldn’t do that sort of thing to –”
“Wouldn’t they, though?” says he. “Well, perhaps not. But this ain’t England, you know, or France, or even India. This is Russia – and these land-owners are no more accountable than … than a baron in the Middle Ages. Oh, I dare say he’d think twice about mishandling us – still, I’d think twice about getting on his wrong side. But, I say, I think we’d best go back, and treat ’em to some harmless conversation – if anyone’s bothering to listen.”
As we strolled back, I asked him a question which had been exercising me somewhat. “Who’s the fair beauty I saw when I arrived?”
He went red as a poppy, and I thought, o-ho, what have we here, eh? Young Scud with lecherous notions – or pure Christian passion, I wonder which?
“That would be Valentina,” says he, “the Count’s daughter. She and her Aunt Sara – and an old deaf woman who is a cousin of sorts – are his only family. He is a widower.” He cleared his throat nervously. “One sees very little of them, though – as I said, I seldom dine with the family. Valentina … ah … is married.”
I found this vastly amusing – it was my guess that young Scud had gone wild about the little bundle – small blame to him – and like the holy little humbug he was, preferred to avoid her rather than court temptation. One of Arnold’s shining young knights, he was. Well, lusty old Sir Lancelot Flashy had galloped into the lists now – too bad she had a husband, of course, but at least she’d be saddle-broken. At that, I’d have to see what her father was like, and how the land lay generally. One has to be careful about these things.
I met the family at dinner that afternoon, and a most fascinating occasion it turned out to be. Pencherjevsky was worth travelling a long way to see in himself – the first sight of him, standing at his table head, justified East’s description of ogre, and made me think of Jack and the Beanstalk, and smelling the blood of Englishmen, which was an unhappy notion, when you considered it.
He must have been well over six and a half feet tall, and even so, he was broad enough to appear squat. His head and face were just a mass of brown hair, trained to his shoulders and in a splendid beard that rippled down his chest. His eyes were fine, under huge shaggy brows, and the voice that came out of his beard was one of your thunderous Russian basses. He spoke French well, by the way, and you would never have guessed from the glossy colour of his hair, and the ease with which he moved his huge bulk, that he was over sixty. An enormous man, in every