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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Jack Robinson there were half a dozen of them in the cell – robed, bearded figures with grinning hawk faces and long knives – I never thought I’d be glad to see a Ghazi, and these were straight from that stable. They fell on Kutebar, embracing and slapping him, while the others either stopped short at the sight of me or hurried on to Yakub Beg, slumped against the far wall. And foremost was a lithe black-clad figure, tight-turbaned round head and chin, with a flowing cloak – hardly more than a boy. He stooped over Yakub Beg, cursing softly, and then shouted shrilly to the tribesmen:
“Hack through those chains! Bear him up – gently – ah, God, my love, my love, what have they done to you?”
He was positively weeping, and then suddenly he was clasping the wounded man, smothering his cheeks with kisses, cupping the lolling head between his hands, murmuring endearments, and finally kissing him passionately on the mouth.
Well, the Pathans are like that, you know, and I wasn’t surprised to find these near-relations of theirs similarly inclined to perversion; bad luck on the girls, I always think, but all the more skirt for chaps like me. Disgusting sight, though, this youth slobbering over him like that.
Our rescuers were eyeing me uncertainly, until Kutebar explained whose side I was on; then they all turned their attention to Oscar and Bosie. One of the tribesmen had hacked through Yakub’s chains, and four of them were bearing him towards the door, while the black-clad boy flitted alongside, cursing them to be careful. Kutebar motioned me to the door, and I followed him up the steps, still clutching my revolver; the last of the tribesmen paused, even at that critical moment, to pass his knife carefully across the throats of the three dead Russians, and then joined us, giggling gleefully.
“The hallal!”h says he. “Is it not fitting, for the proper despatch of animals?”
“Blasphemer!” says Kutebar. “Is this a time for jest?”
The boy hissed at them, and they were silent. He had authority, this little spring violet, and when he snapped a command they jumped to it, hurrying along between the buildings, while he brought up the rear, glancing back towards the sound of shooting from the other side of the fort. There wasn’t a Russian to be seen where we were, but I wasn’t surprised. I could see the game – a sudden attack, with gunpowder and lots of noise, at the main gate, to draw every Russian in that direction, while the lifting party sneaked in through some rear bolt-hole. They were probably inside before the attack began, marking the sentries and waiting for the signal – but they hadn’t bargained, apparently, for the sergeant and his men having orders to kill Yakub Beg as soon as a rescue was attempted. We’d been lucky there.
Suddenly we were under the main wall, and there were figures on the cat-walk overhead; Yakub Beg’s body, grotesquely limp, was being hauled up, with the boy piping feverishly at them to be easy with him. Not fifty feet away, to our left, muskets were blazing from one of the guard towers, but they were shooting away from us. Strong lean hands helped me as I scrambled clumsily at a rope-ladder; voices in Persian were muttering around us in the dark, robed figures were crouching at the embrasures, and then we were sliding down the ropes on the outside, and I fell the last ten feet, landing on top of the man beneath, who gave a brief commentary on my parentage, future, and personal habits as only a hillman can, and then called softly:
“All down, Silk One, including the clown Kutebar, your beloved the Atalik Ghazi, and this misbegotten pig of a feringhi with the large feet.”
“Go!” said the boy’s voice from the top of the wall, and as they thrust me forward in the dark a long keening wail broke out from overhead; it was echoed somewhere along the wall, and even above the sound of firing I heard it farther off still. I was stumbling along in my chains, clutching at the hand of the man who led me.
“Where are we going?” says I. “Where are you taking me?”
“Ask questions in the council, infidel, not in the battle,” says he. “Can you ride, you feringhi who speaks Persian? Here, Kutebar, he is your friend; do you take him, lest he fall on me again.”
“Son of dirt and dung,” says Kutebar, lumbering out of the dark. “Did he not assist me in slaying Ruskis, who would undoubtedly have cut our throats before your tardy arrival? What would the Silk One have said to you then, eh? A fine rescue, by God! The whores of Samarkand market could have done it better!”
I thought that a trifle hard, myself; it had been as neat a jail clearance, for my money, as heart could desire, and I doubt if ten minutes had passed since I’d woken with Kutebar’s hand on my mouth. I’d killed one man, perhaps two, and their blood was still wet on my face – but I was free! Whoever these fine chaps were, they were taking me out of the clutches of that rascal Ignatieff and his beastly knouts and nagaikas – I was loose again, and living, and if my fetters were galling me and my joints aching with strain and fatigue, if my body was foul and fit to drop, my heart was singing. You’ve sold ’em again, old son, I thought; good for you – and these accommodating niggers, of course.
About half a mile from the fort there was a gully, with cypress trees, and horses stamping in the dark, and I just sat on the ground, limp and thankful, beside Kutebar, while he reviled our saviours genially. Presently the boy in black came slipping out of the shadows, kneeling beside us.
“I have sent Yakub away,” says he. “It is far to the edge of the Red Sands. We wait here, for Sahib Khan and the others – God grant they have not lost too many!”
“To build the house, trees must fall,” says Kutebar complacently. I agreed with him entirely, mind you. “And how is His Idleness, the Falcon on the Royal Wrist – God, my back is broken, bearing him up! How many days did I carry his moping carcase, in that filthy cell, with never a word of complaint from my patient lips? Has my labour been in vain?”
“He is well, God be thanked,” says the boy, and then the furious little pansy began to snivel like a girl. “His poor limbs are torn and helpless – but he is strong, he will mend! He spoke to me, Kutebar! He told me how you – cared for him, and fought for him just now – you and the feringhi here. Oh, old hawk of the hills, how can I bless you enough?”
And the disgusting young lout flung his arms round Kutebar’s neck, murmuring gratefully and kissing him, until the old fellow pushed him away – he was normal, at least.
“Shameless thing!” mutters he. “Respect my grey hairs! Is there no seemliness among you Chinese, then? Away, you bare-faced creature – practise your gratitude on this angliski if you must, but spare me!”
“Indeed I shall,” says the youth, and turning to me, he put his hands on my shoulders. “You have saved my love, stranger; therefore you have my love, forever and all.” He was a nauseatingly pretty one this, with his full lips and slanting Chinese eyes, and his pale, chiselled face framed by the black turban. The tears were still wet on his cheeks, and then to my disgust he leaned forward, plainly intending to kiss me, too.
“No thank’ee!” cries I. “No offence, my son, but I ain’t one for your sort, if you don’t mind …”
But his arms were round my neck and his lips on mine before I could stop him – and then I felt two firm young breasts pressing against my chest, and there was no mistaking the womanliness of the soft cheek against mine. A female, bigad – leading a Ghazi storming-party on a neck-or-nothing venture like this! And such a female, by the feel of her. Well, of course, that put a different complexion on the thing entirely, and I suffered her to kiss away to her heart’s content, and mine. What else could a gentleman do?
a A wild babbler.
b Water-jug.
c Champion.
d Heavenly!