Flashman and the Dragon. George Fraser MacDonald

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      At the beginning of this memoir I gave you my first Law of Economics; if I have one for Adversity it is that once your essentials are properly trapped in the mangle there’s nothing for it but to holler with a good grace and wait until they roll you out again. Not that hollering does any good, but it relieves the feelings, and mine were in sore need of release after my interview with Parkes. I vented them in a two-day spree in Canton, taking out my evil temper on tarts and underlings, and sleeping off the effects on the mail-boat down to Hong Kong.

      For there was nothing to be done, you see. After three years of truly dreadful service, in which I’d been half-killed, starved, hunted, stretched on a rack, almost eaten by crocodiles, assaulted with shot and sabre, part-strangled by Thugs, and damned near blown from a cannon (oh, and won glorious laurels, for what they were worth), I’d been on the very point of escaping to all that made life worth living – Elspeth, with her superb charms and splendid fortune; ease, comfort, admiration, and debauchery – and through my own folly I’d thrown it away. It was too bad; I ain’t a religious man, but if I had been I swear I’d have turned atheist. But there it was, so I must take stock and consider.

      There was no question of sending in my papers and going home, although it had passed through my mind. My future content rested too much on the enjoyment of my heroic reputation, which would have been dimmed, just a trifle, if I’d been seen to be shirking my duty. A lesser man could have done it, and naught said, but not Sir Harry Flashman, V.C., K.B.; people would have talked, the Queen would have been astonished, Palmerston would have damned my eyes – and done me dirt, too. And when all was said, it wasn’t liable to be much of a campaign; two or three months, perhaps, in which I’d be well clear of any danger that was going, boozing on the staff, frowning at maps, looking tired and interesting, and moving paper about with my hair becomingly ruffled – oh, I knew my intelligence work, never fear.

      So I rolled down to Hong Kong, savouring the revenge I would take on La Belle Phoebe – and what d’you think? She and the gun-running Josiah had cleared out to Singapore, ostensibly to join some missionary society at short notice. A likely tale; give ’em three months and they’d be running the Tongs. But their sudden departure was hardly noticed in a new sensation – Sir Hope Grant had arrived with the advance guard of the fleet and army which was to go up-country, defend Old England’s rights and honour, and teach the Chinks to sing ‘Rule, Britannia’. From Pittan’s Wharf you could see the little white lines of tents where the camp was being laid out on Kowloong, so I decided to tool over and let them see how dam’ lucky they were going to be in their intelligence department.

      There were advance parties from all the regiments; the first thing I saw was Sikh riders in the red puggarees of Fane’s Horse and the blue of Probyn’s, tent-pegging on the beach, with white troopers cheering ’em on – and to my astonishment they were Dragoon Guards. God help you if it rains, my lads, thinks I, for with twenty-one stone in each saddle you’ll be up to your bellies in the paddy-mud in no time. It was first-rate mixed cavalry for all that; I watched a bearded, grey-coated sowar, eyes glaring, whip out a peg and wheel away to yells and cheering, and was glad I wasn’t a Manchoo Tartar.

      It was the infantry coats I wanted to see, though, for (and I’m a horse-soldier as says it) I know what matters. When the guns haven’t come up, and your cavalry’s checked by close country or tutti-putti, and you’re waiting in the hot, dusty hush for the faint rumble of impi or harka over the skyline and know they’re twenty to your one – well, that’s when you realise that it all hangs on that double line of yokels and town scruff with their fifty rounds a man and an Enfield bayonet. Kitchener himself may have placed ’em just so, with D’Israeli’s sanction, The Times’ blessing, and the Queen waving ’em goodbye – but now it’s their grip on the stock, and their eye at the backsight, and if they break, you’re done. Haven’t I stood shivering behind ’em often enough, wishing I could steal a horse from somewhere? Aye, and if I’m still here it’s because they seldom broke in my time.

      So it was with some satisfaction that I noted facings and markers – the old 60th Royal Americans, the Buffs, a fatigue party of the 44th – I felt a cold shudder at the memory of the bloody snow by Gandamack, the starved handful of survivors, and Soutar with the Colours of this same 44th wrapped round his waist as the Ghazis closed in for the kill. Well, we’d have a few Ghazis on our side this time; there were whiskered Pathans chattering round a camp-kettle, СКАЧАТЬ