Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 3: Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald

       Chapter 8

      There are some parts of my life that I’d be glad to relive any time – and some that I don’t care to remember at all. But there aren’t many that I look back on and have to pinch myself to believe that they really happened. The business of the Khokandian Horde of the Red Sands is one of these, and yet it’s one of the few episodes in my career that I can verify from the history books if I want to. There are obscure works on Central Asia by anonymous surveyors and military writers,⁴⁰ and I can look in them and find the names and places – Yakub Beg, Izzat Kutebar and Katti Torah; Buzurg Khan and the Seven Khojas, the Great and Middle Hordes of the Black Sands and the Golden Road, the Sky-blue Wolves of the Hungry Steppe, Sahib Khan, and the remarkable girl they called the Silk One. You can trace them all, if you are curious, and learn how in those days they fought the Russians inch by inch from the Jaxartes to the Oxus, and if it reads to you like a mixture of Robin Hood and the Arabian Nights – well, I was there for part of it, and even I look back on it as some kind of frightening fairy-tale come true.

      And when I’ve thumbed through the books and maps, and mumbled the names aloud as an old man does, looking out of my window at the cabs clopping past by the Park in twentieth-century London, and the governesses stepping demurely with their little charges (deuced smart, some of these governesses), I’ll go and rummage until I’ve found that old clumsy German revolver that I took from the Russian sergeant under Fort Raim, and for a threadbare scarf of black silk with the star-flowers embroidered on it – and I can hear again Yakub’s laughter ringing behind me, and Kutebar’s boastful growling, and the thunder of a thousand hooves and the shouting of the turbaned Tajik riders that makes me shiver still. But most of all I smell the wraith of her perfume, and see those slanting black eyes – “Lick up the honey, stranger, and ask no questions.” That was the best part.

      On the night of the rescue from Fort Raim, of course, I knew next to nothing about them – except that they were obviously of the warlike tribes constantly warring with the Russians who were trying to invade their country and push the Tsar’s dominions south to Afghanistan and east to the China border. It was a bloody, brutal business that, and the wild people – the Tajiks, the Kirgiz-Kazaks, the Khokandians, the Uzbeks and the rest – were being forced back up the Syr Daria into the Hungry Steppe and the Red Sands, harrying all the way, raiding the new Russian outposts and cutting up their caravans.

      But they weren’t just savages by any means. Behind them, far up the Syr Daria and the Amu Daria, were their great cities of Tashkent and Khokand and Samarkand and Bokhara, places that had been civilized when the Russians were running round bare-arsed – these were the spots that Moscow was really after, and which Ignatieff had boasted would be swept up in the victorious march to India. And leaders like Yakub and Kutebar were waging a desperate last-ditch fight to stop them in the no-man’s-land east of the Aral Sea along the Syr Daria.

      It was to the brink of that no-man’s-land that they carried us on the night of our deliverance from Fort Raim – a punishing ride, hour after hour, through the dark and the silvery morning, over miles of desert and gully and parched steppe-land. They had managed to sever my ankle chain, so that I could back a horse, but I rode in an exhausted dream, only half-conscious of the robed figures flanking me, and the smell of camel-hair robes, and sinking on to a blessed softness to sleep forever.

      It was a good place, that – an oasis deep in the Red Sands of the Kizil Kum, where the Russians still knew better than to venture. I remember waking there, to the sound of rippling water, and crawling out of the tent in bright sunlight, and blinking at a long valley, crowded with tents, and a little village of beautiful white houses on the valley side, with trees and grass, and women and children chattering, and Tajik riders everywhere, with their horses and camels – lean, ugly, bearded fellows, bandoliered and booted, and not the kind of company I care to keep, normally. But one of them sings out: “Salaam, angliski!” as he clattered by, and one of the women gave me bread and coffee, and all seemed very friendly.

      Somewhere – I believe it’s in my celebrated work, Dawns and Departures of a Soldier’s Life – I’ve written a good deal about that valley, and the customs and manners of the tribesfolk, and what a little Paradise it seemed after what I’d been through. So it was, and some fellows would no doubt have been content to lie back, wallowing in their freedom, thanking Providence, and having a rest before thinking too hard about the future. That’s not Flashy’s way; given a moment’s respite I have to be looking ahead to the next leap, and that very first morning, while the local smith was filing off my fetters in the presence of a grinning, admiring crowd, I was busy thinking, aye, so far so good, but where next? That Russian army at Fort Raim was still a long sight too close for comfort, and I wouldn’t rest easy until I’d reached real safety – Berkeley Square, say, or a little ale-house that I know in Leicestershire.

      Afghanistan looked the best bet – not that it’s a place I’d ever venture into gladly, but there was no other way to India and my own people, and I figured that Yakub Beg would see me safe along that road, as a return for services rendered to him in our cell at Fort Raim. We jail-birds stick together, and he was obviously a man of power and influence – why, he was probably on dining-out terms with half the badmashes^a and cattle-thieves between here and Jallalabad, and if necessary he’d give me an escort; we could travel as horse-copers, or something, for with my Persian and Pushtu I’d have no difficulty passing as an Afghan. I’d done it before. And there would be no lousy Russians along the road just yet, thank God – and as my thoughts went bounding ahead it suddenly struck me, the magnificent realization – I was free, within reach of India, and I had Ignatieff’s great secret plan of invasion! Oh, East might have taken it to Raglan, but that was nothing in the gorgeous dream that suddenly opened up before me – the renowned Flashy, last seen vanishing into the Russian army at Balaclava with boundless energy, now emerging in romantic disguise at Peshawar with the dreadful news for the British garrison.

      “You might let the Governor-General know,” I would tell my goggling audience, “that there’s a Russian army of thirty thousand coming down through the Khyber shortly, with half Afghanistan in tow, and if he wants to save India he’d better get the army up here fairly smart. Yes, there’s no doubt of it – got it from the Tsar’s secret cabinet. They probably know in London by now – fellow called East got out through the Crimea, I believe – I’d been wounded, you see, and told him to clear out and get the news through at any price. So he left me – well, you take your choice, don’t you? Friendship or duty? – anyway, it don’t signify. I’m here, with the news, and it’s here we’ll have to stop ’em. How did I get here? Ha-ha, my dear chap, if I told you, it wouldn’t make you any wiser. Half-way across Russia, through Astrakhan, over the Aral Sea (Caspian, too, as a matter of fact) and across the Hindu Kush – old country to me, of course. Rough trip? No-o, not what I’d call rough, really – be glad when these fetter-marks have healed up, though – Russian jailers, I don’t mind telling you, have a lot to learn from English chambermaids, what? Yes, I assure you, I am Flashman – yes, the Flashman, if you like. Now, do be a good fellow and get it on the telegraph to Calcutta, won’t you? Oh, and you might ask them to forward my apologies to Lord Raglan that I wasn’t able to rejoin him at Balaclava, owing to being unavoidably detained. Now, I’d give anything for a bath, and a pair of silk socks and a hairbrush, if you don’t mind …”

      Gad, the Press would be full of it. Hero of Afghanistan, and now Saviour of India – assuming the damned place was saved. Still, I’d have done my bit, and East’s scuttle through the snow would look puny by comparison. I’d give him a careful pat on the back, of course, pointing out that he’d only done his duty, even if it did mean sacrificing his old chum. “Really, I think that in spite of everything, I had the easier part,” I would say gravely. “I didn’t have