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

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СКАЧАТЬ It was he who woke me after that first night. He looked pouch-eyed and filthy as he leaned over me, his tunic all torn and his hair tumbling into his eyes.

      “How are you, sir?” says he.

      “Damnable,” says I. “My back’s on fire. I ain’t going to be much use for a while, I fear, Hudson.”

      “Well, sir,” says he, “let’s have a look at your back.” I turned over, groaning, and he looked at it.

      “Not too bad,” says he. “Skin’s only broke here an’ there, and not mortifying. For the rest, it’s just welts.” He was silent a moment. “Thing is, sir, we need every musket we can raise. The sangars are closer this morning, an’ the niggers are massing. Looks like a proper battle, sir.”

      “Sorry, Hudson,” says I, rather weak. “I would if I could, you know. But whatever my back looks like, I can’t do much just yet. I think there’s something broken inside.”

      He stood looking down at me. “Yes, sir,” says he at length. “I think there is.” And then he just turned and walked out.

      I felt myself go hot all over as I realised what he meant by that; for a moment I almost jumped off the palliasse and ran after him. But I didn’t, for at that moment there was a sudden yelling on the parapets, and the musketry crashed out, and Sergeant Wells was bawling orders; but above all I heard the blood-curdling shrieks of the Ghazis, and I knew they were rushing the wall. It was all too much for me; I lay shuddering on the straw while the sounds of fighting raged outside. It seemed to go on forever, and every moment I expected to hear the Afghan war-cries in the yard, hear the rush of feet, and see the bearded horrors dashing in the door with their Khyber knives. I could only hope to God that they would finish me off quickly.

      As I say, I may genuinely have had a shock, or even a fever, at this time, although I doubt it; I believe it was just simple fear that was almost sending me out of my mind. At all events, I have no particular idea of how long that fight lasted, or when it stopped and the next assault began, or even how many days and nights passed by. I don’t recall eating and drinking, although I suppose I must have, or even answering the calls of nature. That, incidentally, is one effect that fear does not have on me; I do not wet or foul myself. It has been a near thing once or twice, I admit. At Balaclava, for example, when I rode with the Light Brigade – you know how George Paget smoked a cigar all the way to the guns? Well, my bowels moved all the way to the guns, but there was nothing inside me but wind, since I hadn’t eaten for days.

      But in that fort, at the very end of my tether, I seemed to lose my sense of time; delirium funkens had me in its grip. I know Hudson came in to me, I know he talked, but I can’t remember what he said, except for a few isolated passages, and those I think were mostly towards the end. I do remember him telling me Wells had been killed, and myself replying, “That’s bad luck, by God, is he much hurt?” For the rest, my waking moments were less clear than my dreams, and those were vivid enough. I was back in the cell, with Gul Shah and Narreeman, and Gul was laughing at me, and changing into Bernier with his pistol raised, and then into Elphy Bey saying, “We shall have to cut off all your essentials, Flashman, I’m afraid there is no help for it. I shall send a note to Sir William.” And Narreeman’s eyes grew greater and greater, until I saw them in Elspeth’s face – Elspeth smiling and very beautiful, but fading in her turn to become Arnold, who was threatening to flog me for not knowing my construe. “Unhappy boy, I wash my hands of you; you must leave my pit of snakes and dwarves this very day.” And he reached out and took me by the shoulder; his eyes were burning like coals and his fingers bit into my shoulder so that I cried out and tried to pull them free, and found myself scrabbling at Hudson’s fingers as he knelt beside my couch.

      “Sir,” says he, “you’ve got to get up.”

      “What time is it?” says I. “And what d’ye want? Leave me, can’t you, leave me be – I’m ill, damn you.”

      “It’s no go, sir. You can’t stay here any longer. You must stand up and come outside with me.”

      I told him to go to the devil, and he suddenly lunged forward and seized me by the shoulders.

      “Get up!” he snarled at me, and I realised his face was far more haggard than I’d ever seen it, drawn and fierce like an animal’s. “Get up! You’re a Queen’s officer, by God, an’ you’ll behave like one! You’re not ill, Mr Precious Flashman, you’re plain white-livered! That’s all your sickness! But you’ll get up an’ look like a man, even if you aren’t one!” And he started to drag me from the straw.

      I struck out at him, calling him a mutinous dog, and telling him I’d have him flogged through the army for his insolence, but he stuck his face into mine and hissed:

      “Oh, no, you won’t! Not now nor never. Because you an’ me ain’t going back where there’s drum-heads an’ floggings or anything, d’ye see? We’re stuck here, an’ we’ll die here, because there’s no way out! We’re done for, lieutenant; this garrison is finished! We haven’t got nothing to do, except die!”

      “Damn you, then, what d’ye want me for? Go and die in your own way, and leave me to die in mine.” I tried to push him away.

      “Oh, no sir. It ain’t as easy as that. I’m all that’s left to fight this fort, me and a score of broken-down sepoys – and you. And we’re going to fight it, Mr Flashman. To the last inch, d’ye hear?”

      “You bloody fight it!” I shouted at him. “You’re so confounded brave! You’re a bloody soldier! All right, I’m not! I’m afraid, damn you, and I can’t fight any more – I don’t care if the Afghans take the fort and Jallalabad and the whole of India!” The tears were running down my cheeks as I said it. “Now go to hell and let me alone!”

      He knelt there, staring at me, and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I know it,” he said. “I half-knew it from the minute we left Kabul, an’ I was near sure back in that cellar, the way you carried on. But I was double certain sure when you wanted to kill that poor Afghan bitch – men don’t do that. But I couldn’t ever say so. You’re an officer and a gentleman, as they say. But it doesn’t matter now, sir, does it? We’re both going, so I can speak my mind.”

      “Well, I hope you enjoy doing it,” says I. “You’ll kill a lot of Afghans that way.”

      “Maybe I will, sir,” says he. “But I need you to help. And you will help, for I’m going to stick out here as long as I can.”

      “You poor ninny,” says I. “What good’ll that do, if they kill you in the end?”

      “This much good, that I’ll stop those niggers mounting guns on this hill. They’ll never take Jallalabad while we hold out – and every hour gives General Sale a better chance. That’s what I’m going to do, sir.”

      One meets them, of course. I’ve known hundreds. Give them a chance to do what they call their duty, let them see a hope of martyrdom – they’ll fight their way on to the cross and bawl for the man with the hammer and nails.

      “My best wishes,” says I. “I’m not stopping you.”

      “Yes, you will, sir, if I let you. I need you – there’s twenty sepoys out there who’ll fight all the better if there’s an officer to sick ’em on. They don’t know what you are – not yet.” He stood up. “Anyway, I’m not arguing, sir. You’ll get up – now. Or I’ll drag you out and I’ll cut you to bits with a sabre, a piece at a time.” His face was СКАЧАТЬ