Flashman in the Great Game. George Fraser MacDonald
Читать онлайн книгу.
bested him before. You see, I know all about you, Flashman,’ you old fool, I wanted to shout, you don’t know anything of the bloody sort; you ain’t fit to be Prime Minister, if that’s what you think, ‘and I know of no one else so fitted to this work. How old are you? Thirty-four – young enough to go a long way yet – for your country and yourself.’ And the old buffoon tried to look sternly inspiring, with his teeth gurgling.
It was appalling. God knows I’ve had my crosses to bear, but this beat all. As so often in the past, I was the victim of my own glorious and entirely unearned reputation – Flashy, the hero of Jallalabad, the last man out of the Kabul retreat and the first man into the Balaclava battery, the beau sabreur of the Light Cavalry, Queen’s Medal, Thanks of Parliament, darling of the mob, with a liver as yellow as yesterday’s custard, if they’d only known it. And there was nothing, with Pam’s eye on me, and Ellenborough and Wood looking solemnly on, that I could do about it. Oh, if I’d followed my best instincts, I could have fled wailing from the room, or fallen blubbering at some convenient foot – but of course I didn’t. With sick fear mounting in my throat, I knew that I’d have to go, and that was that – back to India, with its heat and filth and flies and dangers and poxy niggers, to undertake the damnedest mission since Bismarck put me on the throne of Strackenz.
But this was infinitely worse – Bismarck’s crew had been as choice a collection of villains as ever jumped bail or slit a throat, but they were civilised by comparison with Ignatieff. The thought of dealing with that devil, as Pam so nicely put it, was enough to send me into a decline. And if that wasn’t enough, I was to sneak about some savage Indian kingdom (Thug country, for a bonus), spying on some withered old bitch of an Indian princess and trying to wheedle her to British interest against her will – and she probably the kind of hag whose idea of fun would be to chain malefactors to a rogue elephant’s foot. (Most Indian rulers are mad, you know, and capable of anything.) But there wasn’t the slightest chance to wriggle; all I could do was put on my muscular Christian expression, look Palmerston fearlessly in the eye, like Dick Champion when the headmaster gives him the job of teaching the fags not to swear, and say I’d do my best.
‘Well enough,’ says he. ‘I know you will. Who knows – perhaps the signs are false, what? Tokens of mutiny, in a place where Russia’s been stirrin’ the pot, an’ the local ruler’s chafin’ under our authority – it’s happened before, an’ it may amount to nothin’ in the end. But if the signs are true, make no mistake –’ and he gave me his steady stare ‘– it’s the gravest peril our country has faced since Bonaparte. It’s no light commission we’re placin’ in your hands, sir – but they’re the safest hands in England, I believe.’
So help me God, it’s absolutely what he said; it makes you wonder how these fellows ever get elected. I believe I made some manly sounds, and as usual my sick terror must have been manifesting itself by making me red in the face, which in a fellow of my size is often mistaken for noble resolution. It must have satisfied Pam, anyway, for suddenly he was smiling at me, and sitting back in his chair.
‘Now you know why you’re sittin’ here talkin’ to the Prime Minister, what? Been sittin’ on eggshells, haven’t you? Ne’er mind – I’m glad to have had the opportunity of instructin’ you myself – of course, you’ll be more fully informed, before you sail, of all the intelligence you’ll need – his lordship here, an’ Mangles at the Board in London, will be talkin’ to you. When d’you take leave of Her Majesty? Another week? Come, that’s too long. When does the India sloop sail, Barrington? Monday – you’d best be off to Town on Friday, then. Leave pretty little Mrs Flashman to take care of royalty, what? Stunnin’ gal, that – never see her from my window on Piccadilly but it sets me in humour – must make her acquaintance when you come home. Bring her along to Number 96 some evenin’ – dinner, an’ so forth, what?’
He sat there, beaming like Pickwick. It turned my stomach at the time, and small wonder, considering the stew he was launching me into – and yet, when I think back on Pam nowadays, that’s how I see him, painted whiskers, sloppy false teeth and all, grinning like a happy urchin. You never saw such young peepers in a tired old face. I can say it now, from the safety of my declining years: in spite of the hellish pickle he landed me in, I’d swap any politician I ever met for old Pam – damn him.4
However, now that he’d put the doom on me, he couldn’t get rid of me fast enough; before I’d been properly shooed out of the room he was snapping at Barrington to find some American telegraph or other, and chivvying at Wood that they must soon be off to catch their special train at Aberdeen. It must have been about three in the morning, but he was still full of bounce, and the last I saw of him he was dictating a letter even as they helped him into his coat and muffler, with people bustling around him, and he was breaking off to peer again at the chapattis on the table and ask Ellenborough did the Hindoos eat ’em with meat, or any kind of relish.
‘Blasted buns,’ says he. ‘Might do with jam, d’you think, what? No … better not … crumble an’ get under my confounded teeth, probably …’ He glanced up and caught sight of me bowing my farewell from the doorway. ‘Good night to you, Flashman,’ he sings out, ‘an’ good huntin’. You look out sharp for yourself, mind.’
So that was how I got my marching orders – in a snap of the fingers almost. Two hours earlier I’d been rogering happily away, with not a care in the world, and now I was bound for India on the most dangerous lunatic mission I’d ever heard of – by God, I cursed the day I’d written that report to Dalhousie, glorifying myself into the soup. And fine soup it promised to be – rumours of mutiny, mad old Indian princesses, Thugs, and Ignatieff and his jackals lurking in the undergrowth.
You can imagine I didn’t get much rest in what was left of the night. Elspeth was fast asleep, looking glorious with the candlelight on her blonde hair tumbled over the pillow, and her rosebud lips half open, snoring like the town band. I was too fretful to rouse her in her favourite way, so I just shook her awake, and I must say she bore the news of our impending parting with remarkable composure. At least, she wept inconsolably for five minutes at the thought of being bereft while her Hector (that’s me) was Braving the Dangers of India, fondled my whiskers and said she and little Havvy would be quite desolate, whimpered sadly while she teased me, in an absent-minded way, into mounting her, and then remembered she had left her best silk gloves behind at the evening’s party and that she had a spot on her left shoulder which no amount of cream would send away. It’s nice to know you’re going to be missed.
I had three days still left at Balmoral, and the first of them was spent closeted with Ellenborough and a sharp little creature from the Board of Control, who lectured me in maddening detail about my mission to Jhansi, and conditions in India – I won’t weary you with it here, for you’ll learn about Jhansi and its attendant horrors and delights in due course. Sufficient to say it did nothing but deepen my misgivings – and then, on the Wednesday morning, something happened which drove everything else clean out of my mind It was such a shock, such an unbelievable coincidence in view of what had gone before (or so it seemed at the time) that I can still think back to it with disbelief – aye, and start sweating at the thought.
I’d had a thoroughly drunken night at Abergeldie, to take my mind off the future, and when I woke cloth-headed and surly on the Wednesday morning, Elspeth suggested that instead of breakfast I’d be better going for a canter. I damned her advice and sent for a horse, left her weeping sulkily into her boiled egg, and ten minutes later was galloping the fumes away along the Balmoral road. I reached the castle, and trotted up as far as the carriage entrance; beyond it, on the far side of the gravel sweep, one of the big castle coaches that brought quality visitors from Aberdeen station was drawn up, and flunkeys were handing down the arrivals and bowing them towards the steps leading to the side door.
Some more poor fools of consequence about to savour the royal hospitality, thinks I, and was just about to turn my horse away when I happened to glance again at the group of gentlemen in travelling capes who were mounting the steps. One of them turned to say something to the flunkeys – and I nearly fell from the saddle, and only saved myself by clutching the mane with both hands. I believe I nearly fainted – for it was something infinitely worse than