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
have a chat with Yakub Beg, as soon as he had recovered from his ordeal, point out that the Russians were our mutual enemies and I was duty bound to get to India at once, thank him for his hospitality, and be off with his blessing and assistance. Not to waste time, I broached the thing that afternoon to Izzat Kutebar, when he invited me to share a dish of kefir with him in the neighbouring tent where he was recovering, noisily, from his captivity and escape.
“Eat, and thank Providence for such delights as this, which you infidels call ambrosia,” says he, while one of his women put the dish of honey-coloured curds before me. “The secret of its preparation was specially given by God to Abraham himself. Personally, I prefer it even to a Tashkent melon – and you know the proverb runs that the Caliph of the Faithful would give ten pearl-breasted beauties from his hareem for a single melon of Tashkent. Myself, I would give five, perhaps, or six, if the melon were a big one.” He wiped his beard. “And you would go to Afghanistan, then, and to your folk in India? It can be arranged – we owe you a debt, Flashman bahadur, Yakub and I and all our people. As you owe one to us, for your own deliverance,” he added gently.
I protested my undying gratitude at once, and he nodded gravely.
“Between warriors let a word of thanks be like a heartbeat – a small thing, hardly heard, but it suffices,” says he, and then grinned sheepishly. “What do I say? The truth is, we all owe our chief debt to that wild witch, Ko Dali’s daughter. She whom they call the Silk One.” He shook his head. “God protect me from a wayward child, and a wanton that goes bare-faced. There will be no holding her in after this – or curbing Yakub Beg’s infatuation with her, either. And yet, my friend, would you and I be sitting here, eating this fine kefir, but for her?”
“Who is she?” I asked, for I’d seen – and felt – just enough of that remarkable female last night to be thoroughly intrigued. She’d have been a phenomenon anywhere, but in a Muslim country, where women are kept firmly in their place, and never dream of intruding in men’s work, her apparent authority had astounded me. “Do you know, Izzat, last night until she … er, kissed me – I was sure she was a man.”
“So Ko Dali must have thought, when the fierce little bitch came yelping into the world,” says he. “Who is Ko Dali? – a Chinese war lord, who had the good taste to take a Khokandian wife, and the ill luck to father the Silk One. He governs in Kashgar, a Chinese city of East Turkestan a thousand miles east of here, below the Issik Kul and the Seven Rivers Country. Would to God he could govern his daughter as well – so should we be spared much shame, for is it not deplorable to have a woman who struts like a khan among us, and leads such enterprises as that which freed you and me last night? Am I, Kutebar, to hold up my head and say: ‘A woman brought me forth of Fort Raim jail’? Aye, laugh, you old cow,” he bellowed at the ancient serving-woman, who had been listening and cackling. “You daughter of shame, is this respect? You take her side, all you wicked sluts, and rejoice to see us men put down. The trouble with the Silk One,” he went on to me, “is that she is always right. A scandal, but there it is. Who can fathom the ways of Allah, who lets such things happen?”
“Well,” says I, “it happened among the Ruskis, you know, Kutebar. They had an empress – why, in my own country, we are ruled by a queen.”
“So I have heard,” says he, “but you are infidels. Besides, does your Sultana, Vik Taria, go unveiled? Does she plan raid and ambush? No, by the black tomb of Timur, I’ll wager she does not.”
“Not that I’ve heard, lately,” I admitted. “But this Silk One – where does she come from? What’s her name, anyway?”
“Who knows? She is Ko Dali’s daughter. And she came, on a day – it would be two years ago, after the Ruskis had built that devil’s house, Fort Raim, and were sending their soldiers east of the Aral, in breach of all treaty and promise, to take our country and enslave our people. We were fighting them, as we are fighting still, Yakub and I and the other chiefs – and then she was among us, with her shameless bare face and bold talk and a dozen Chinese devil-fighters attending on her. It was a troubled time, with the world upside down, and we scratching with our fingernails to hold the Ruskis back by foray and ambuscade; in such disorders, anything is possible, even a woman fighting-chief. And Yakub saw her, and …” He spread his hands. “She is beautiful, as the lily at morning – and clever, it is not to be denied. Doubtless they will marry, some day, if Yakub’s wife will let him – she lives at Julek, on the river. But he is no fool, my Yakub – perhaps he loves this female hawk, perhaps not, but he is ambitious, and he seeks such a kingdom for himself as Kashgar. Who knows, when Ko Dali dies, if Yakub finds the throne of Khokand beyond his reach, he may look to Ko Dali’s daughter to help him wrest Kashgar province from the Chinese. He has spoken of it, and she sits, devouring him with those black Mongolian eyes of hers. It is said,” he went on confidentially, “that she devours other men also, and that it was for her scandalous habits that the governor of Fort Raim, Engmann the Ruski – may wild hogs mate above his grave! – had her head shaved when she was taken last year, after the fall of Ak Mechet. They say –”
“They lie!” screeched the old woman, who had been listening. “In their jealousy they throw dirt on her, the pretty Silk One!”
“Will you raise your head, mother of discord and miner of good food?” says Izzat. “They shaved her scalp, I say, which is why she goes with a turban about her always – for she has kept it shaved, and vowed to do so until she has Engmann’s own head on a plate at her feet. God, the perversity of women! But what can one do about her? She is worth ten heads in the council, she can ride like a Kazak, and is as brave as … as … as I am, by God! If Yakub and Buzurg Khan of Khokand – and I, of course – hold these Russian swine back from our country, it will be because she has the gift of seeing their weaknesses, and showing us how they may be confounded. She is touched by God, I believe – which is why our men admit her, and heed her – and turn their heads aside lest they meet her eye. All save Yakub Beg, who has ever championed her, and fears nothing.”
“And you say she’ll make him a king one day, and be his queen? An extraordinary girl, indeed. Meanwhile she helps you fight the Ruskis.”
“She helps not me, by God! She may help Yakub, who fights as chief of the Tajiks and military governor under Buzurg Khan, who rules in Khokand. They fight for their state, for all the Kirgiz-Kazak people, against an invader. But I, Izzat Kutebar, fight for myself and my own band. I am no statesman, I am no governor or princeling. I need no throne but my saddle. I,” says this old ruffian, with immense pride, “am a bandit, as my fathers were. For upwards of thirty years – since I first ambushed the Bokhara caravan, in fact – I have robbed the Russians. Let me wear the robe of pride over the breastplate of distinction, for I have taken more loot and cut more throats of theirs since they put their thieving noses east of the Blue Lakeb than any –”
“And a chit of a girl had to lift you from Fort Raim prison,” cries the crone, busy among her pots. “Was it an earthquake they had in Samarkand last year – nay, it was Timur turning in his grave for the credit of the men of Syr Daria! Heh-heh!”
“… and it is as a bandit that I fight the Ruskis,” says he, ignoring the interruption. “Shall I not be free to rob, in my own country? Is that not as just a cause as Yakub’s, who fights for his people’s freedom, or Buzurg’s, who fights for his throne and his fine palace and revenue and dancing-women? Or Sahib Khan, who fights to avenge the slaughter of his family at Ak Mechet? Each to his own cause, I say. But you shall see for yourself, when we go to greet Yakub tonight – aye, and you shall see the Silk One, too, and judge what manner of thing she is. God keep me from the marriage-bed of such a demon, and when I find Paradise, may my houris not come from China.”
So that evening, when I had bathed, trimmed my beard, and had the filthy rags of my captivity replaced by shirt, pyjamy trousers, and soft Persian boots, Kutebar took me through the crowded camp, with everyone saluting him as he strutted by, with his beard oiled and his silver-crusted belt and broad gold medal worn over his fine green coat, and the children crowding about him for the sweets which he carried for them. A robber he might be, but I never saw a man better liked – mind you,