The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ with a nasty grin, “that if he wills he may have the head of Amenoolah Khan, who led the attack on Sekundar Burnes’s Residency. Also, that in this whole matter we of the Barukzis have the friendship of the Gilzais.”

      If both Gilzais and Barukzis were in the plot, it seemed to me that Akbar was on solid ground; McNaghten would think so too. But to me, sitting looking at those four faces, bland Akbar and his trio of villains, the whole thing stank like a dead camel. I would have trusted the parcel of them as much as Gul Shah’s snakes.

However, I kept a straight face, and that afternoon the guard at the cantonment’s main gate was amazed by the sight of Lieutenant Flashman, clad in the mail of a Barukzi warrior, and accompanied by Muhammed Din and Khan Hamet,¹⁵ riding down in state from Kabul City. They had thought me dead a month ago, chopped to bits with Burnes, but here I was larger than life. The word spread like fire, and when we reached the gates there was a crowd waiting for us, with tall Colin Mackenzie¹⁶ at their head.

      “Where the devil have you come from?” he demanded, his blue eyes wide open.

      I leaned down so that no one else should hear and said, “Akbar Khan”; he stared at me hard, to see if I was mad or joking, and then said: “Come to the Envoy at once,” and cleared a way through the crowd for us. There was a great hubbub and shouting of questions, but Mackenzie shepherded us all three straight to the Envoy’s quarters and into McNaghten’s presence.

      “Can’t it wait, Mackenzie?” says he peevishly. “I’m just about to dine.” But a dozen words from Mackenzie changed his tune. He stared at me through his spectacles, perched as always on the very tip of his nose. “My God, Flashman! Alive! And from Akbar Khan, you say? And who are these?” And he indicated my companions.

      “Once you suggested I should bring you hostages from Akbar, Sir William,” says I. “Well, here they are, if you like.”

      He didn’t take it well, but snapped to me to come in directly to dinner with him. The two Afghans, of course, wouldn’t eat at an unbeliever’s table, so they waited in his office, where food was brought to them. Muhammed Din reminded me that Akbar’s message must be delivered only in their presence, so I contented myself by telling McNaghten that I felt as though I was loaded with explosives, but that it must wait till after dinner.

      However, as we ate I was able to give him an account of Burnes’s murder and my own adventures with Gul Shah; I told it very plain and offhand, but McNaghten kept exclaiming “Good God!” all the way through, and at the tale of my tug-of-war his glasses fell into his curry. Mackenzie sat watching me narrowly, pulling at his fair moustache, and when I was done and McNaghten was spluttering his astonishment, Mackenzie just said: “Good work, Flash.” This was praise, from him, for he was a tough, cold ramrod of a man, and reckoned the bravest in the Kabul garrison, except maybe for George Broadfoot. If he told my tale – and he would – Flashy’s stock would rise to new heights, which was all to the good.

      Over the port McNaghten tried to draw me about Akbar, but I said it must wait until we joined the two Afghans; not that I minded, much, but it made McNaghten sniffy, which was always excuse enough for me. He said sarcastically that I seemed to have gone native altogether, and that I did not need to be so nice, but Mackenzie said shortly that I was right, which put His Excellency into the sulks. He muttered that it was a fine thing when important officials could be bearded by military whipper-snappers, and the sooner we got to business the better it would be.

      So we adjourned to his study, and presently Muhammed and Hamet came in, greeted the Envoy courteously, and received his cool nod in reply. He was a conceited prig, sure enough. Then I launched into Akbar’s proposal.

      I can see them still: McNaughten sitting back in his cane chair, legs crossed, finger-tips together, staring at the ceiling; the two silent Afghans, their eyes fixed on him; and the tall, fair Mackenzie, leaning against the wall, puffing a cheroot, watching the Afghans. No one said a word as I talked, and no one moved. I wondered if McNaghten understood what I was saying; he never twitched a muscle.

      When I was finished he waited a full minute, slowly took off his glasses and polished them, and said quietly:

      “Most interesting. We must consider what the Sirdar Akbar has said. His message is of the greatest weight and importance. But of course it is not to be answered in haste. Only one thing will I say now: the Queen’s Envoy cannot consider the suggestion of bloodshed contained in the offer of the head of Amenoolah Khan. That is repugnant to me.” He turned to the two Afghans. “You will be tired, sirs, so we will detain you no longer. Tomorrow we will talk again.”

      It was still only early evening, so he was talking rot, but the two Afghans seemed to understand diplomatic language; they bowed gravely and withdrew. McNaghten watched the door close on them; then he sprang to his feet.

      “Saved at the eleventh hour!” cried he. “Divide and conquer! Mackenzie, I had dreamed of something precisely like this.” His pale, worn face was all smiles now. “I knew, I knew, that these people were incapable of keeping faith with one another. Behold me proved right!”

      Mackenzie studied his cigar. “You mean you’ll accept?”

      “Accept? Of course I shall accept. This is a heaven-sent opportunity. Eight months, eh? Much can happen in that time: we may never leave Afghanistan at all, but if we do it will be with credit.” He rubbed his hands and set to among the papers on his desk. “This should revive even our friend Elphinstone, eh, Mackenzie?”

      “I don’t like it,” says Mackenzie. “I think it’s a plot.”

      McNaghten stopped to stare at him. “A plot?” Then he laughed, short and sharp. “Oho, a plot! Let me alone for that – trust me for that!”

      “I don’t like it a bit,” says Mackenzie.

      “And why not, pray? Tell me why not. Isn’t it logical? Akbar must be cock o’ the walk, so out must go his enemies, the Douranis. He’ll use us, to be sure, but it is to our own advantage.”

      “There’s a hole in it,” says Mac. “He’ll never serve as Vizier to Sujah. He’s lying in that, at least.”

      “What of it? I tell you, Mackenzie, it doesn’t matter one per cent whether he or Sujah rules in Kabul, we shall be secured by this. Let them fight among themselves as they will; it makes us all the stronger.”

      “Akbar isn’t to be trusted,” Mac was beginning, but McNaghten pooh-poohed him.

      “You don’t know one of the first rules of politics: that a man can be trusted to follow his own interest. I see perfectly well that Akbar is after undisputed power among his own people; well, who’s to blame him? And I tell you, I believe you wrong Akbar Khan; in our meetings he has impressed me more than any other Afghan I have met. I judge him to be a man of his word.”

      “The Douranis are probably saying that, too,” says I, and had the icy spectacles turned on me for my pains. But Mackenzie took me up fast enough, and asked me what I thought.

      “I don’t trust Akbar either,” says I. “Mind you, I like the chap, but he ain’t straight.”

      “Flashman probably knows him better than we do,” says Mac, and McNaghten exploded.

      “Now, really, Captain Mackenzie! I believe I can trust my own judgement, do you know? Against even that of such a distinguished diplomatist as Mr Flashman here.” He snorted and sat down at his desk. “I should be interested to hear precisely what Akbar Khan has to gain by treachery СКАЧАТЬ