Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 2: Flashman and the Mountain of Light, Flash For Freedom!, Flashman and the Redskins. George Fraser MacDonald
for his pains. “Shabash, Afghan killer!” roars Goolab, still on his knees, and ran him through the body, but even as the fellow went down, his comrade threw himself on Goolab, choking off the triumphant yell of “Eighty-three!” and bearing him to earth. Bibi Kalil ran in, screaming and tearing at the attacker’s face with her nails, while I danced about making shrill noises and looking for a chance to pink him – until it occurred to me that there were better uses for my time than this, and I turned tail up the nearest alley.
Well, Goolab had said each for himself, but I won’t pretend that I’ve ever needed leave to bolt. I hadn’t been given the precious gift of life to cast it away in back alleys, brawling on behalf of fat rajas and randy widows, and I was going like a startled fawn and rejoicing in my youth when I saw a glare of torchlight ahead of me, and realised with horror that round the next corner running feet were approaching. Serve you right, poltroon, says you, for leaving pals in the lurch, now you’ll get your cocoa – but we practised absconders don’t give up so easy, I can tell you. I came to a slithering halt, and as the powers of darkness came surging into view, full of spite and action, I was stock-still and pointing back to the little court, where Goolab and the widow could be seen apparently disembowelling the Second Robber, who wasn’t taking it quietly.
“Here they are, brothers!” I shouted. “On, on, and take them! They’re ours!”
I even started back towards the court, stumbling artistically to let them catch up – and if you think it was a desperate stratagem … well, it was, but it seldom fails, and it would have succeeded then if I’d had the wit to follow a yard or two farther as they raced past me. But I was too quick to turn again and flee; one of them must have seen me from the tail of his eye and realised that this vociferous badmash wasn’t one of the gang, for he pulled up, yelling, and came after me. I held my lead round one corner and the next, saw a convenient opening and dodged through it, and crouched gasping in the shadows as the pursuit went tearing by. I leaned against the wall, eyes closed, utterly done with fear and exertion, getting my breath back, and only when I took a cautious peep out did it strike me that the scenery was familiar … the little wicket in the opening … I squealed aloud, wheeling round, and sure enough, there before me was the outside stairway up to the porch, and two fellows were carrying down the earthly remains of Sefreen Singh, and from various parts of Bibi Kalil’s garden about a dozen bearded faces were regarding me with astonishment. Among them, not ten feet away, arms akimbo and scowling like a teetotal magistrate, was General Maka Khan, and beside him, exclaiming with unholy delight, was the Akali fanatic.
I’ve said I don’t give up easy, and it’s with pride that I recall tumbling out into the alley and tottering away, calling for the police, but they were on me within five yards, bearing me bodily into the garden, while I announced my name and consequence at the top of my voice, until they stuffed a gag into my mouth. They dragged me round to the garden room and thrust me into a chair, two holding my arms and a third my hair; they were street rascals, but the others who crowded in were Khalsa to a man, some in uniform; apart from Maka and the Akali there were Sikh officers, a burly naikk of artillery with a hideously-pitted face, and Imam Shah, knives and all. He threw my bloodstained short sword on the table.
“Two dead in the street, lord general,” says he. “And your aide, Sefreen. The others who were with this one have not yet been found –”
“Then stop the search,” says Maka Khan. “We have what we want – and if one of the others is who I think he is … the less we see of him the better.”
“And the widow?” cries the Akali. “That practising slut who has betrayed us?”
“Let them both go! They’ll do us less harm alive than if we had their deaths to answer for.” He pointed at me. “Remove the gag.”
They did, and I choked down my fear and was beginning my diplomatic bluster, demanding release and safe-conduct and immunity and the rest, but I’d barely got the length of warning them of the consequences of assaulting an accredited envoy when Maka Khan snapped me off short.
“You are no envoy – and you’ve forgotten what it is to be a soldier!” barks he. “You are a murderer and a spy!”
“It’s a lie! I didn’t kill him, I swear! It was Goolab Singh! Damn you all, loose me this instant, you villains, or it’ll be the worse for you! I’m an agent of Sir Henry Hardinge –”
“An agent of Black-coat Broadfoot!” blazes the Akali, shaking his fist. “You send out cyphers, betraying the secrets of our durbar! You put them in the Holy Book by your bed – blaspheming your own putrid faith! – whence your old punkah-wallah took them to a courier for Simla! Aye, until we found him out two weeks ago, and questioned him,” gloats this maniac, “and learned enough to nail your guilt to your forehead! Aye, gape, spy! We know!”
No doubt I was gaping – in part, at the news that the mysterious messenger of Second Thessalonians was not Mangla, as I’d suspected, but that lean-shanked ancient who’d operated my fan so inefficiently … and who must have vanished without my noticing, to be replaced by the clown I’d leathered only last night. But they were bluffing; they could question the old buffoon until Hell froze – those cyphers were Greek to him, and to everyone else, save Broadfoot and me. I wasn’t reasoning too clearly, you understand, but I saw the line I must take.
“General Maka Khan!” cries I, no doubt in indignant falsetto. “This is outrageous! I demand to be set free at once! To be sure I send coded messages to my chief – so does every ambassador, and you know it! But to suggest that they contain any … any secrets of the durbar, is … is, why, it’s a damnable insult! They … they were my confidential opinions on the Soochet legacy, for Sir Henry and his advisers –”
“Including your opinion that the astrologers’ failure to find a date for our march was caused by ‘a lady’s fine Punjabi hand’?” says he, sternly. “Yes, Mr Flashman, we have read that message, and every other that you’ve sent this ten days past, as well as those coming to you from Simla.” So that was why George’s correspondence had dried up …
“We have enough to hang you, spy!” shouts the Akali, spraying me with spittle. “But first we would know what else you’ve betrayed – and you’ll tell us, you sneaking dog!”
I wasn’t hearing aright … or they were lying. They might have intercepted messages – but they couldn’t have deciphered them, not in a century. Yet Maka had just quoted my own words to Broadfoot … and Goolab had spoken of a false message to entrap me. I hadn’t had time to ponder that impossibility … no, it couldn’t be so! The key to that cypher was based on random words in an English novel that they’d never heard of – and even if they had, it would be as useless to them as a safe to which they didn’t know the combination.
“It’s all false, I tell you!” I stammered. “General, I appeal to you! Those messages were innocent, on my honour!”
He gave me a long cold stare while I babbled, and then he called out, and in trooped the oddest trio – a bespectacled little weed of a chi-chi in a soiled European suit, and two jelly-fat babus who smirked uneasily among all these rough military men. The chi-chi carried a sheaf of papers which, at a sign from Maka Khan, were thrust before my eyes … and my heart missed a beat. For it was a manuscript, in English, copied exactly, line for line, space for space, and the top sheet bore the unbelievable words:
“Crotchet Castle. By Thomas Love Peacock”.
And beneath the title, in a clerkly Indian hand, but again in English, were precise directions for using the book in the encoding of messages.
a Aboard an East Indiaman. The reference is to the Company’s flag.
b Rupees.
c Civilian trousers.