Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 1: Flashman, Royal Flash, Flashman’s Lady. George Fraser MacDonald
and patronised them, and first there were murmurs, and then the clamour swelled up again, more savage than before. Suddenly one Afghan started forward and hurled himself on to the wall, knocking down a sentry; the nearest guard drove at the Afghan with his bayonet, someone in the crowd fired his jezzail, and with one hellish roar the whole mob swept forward, scrambling up the wall.
The havildar yelled an order, there was the ragged crash of a volley, and the courtyard was full of struggling men, crazy Afghans with their knives hacking and the guard falling back, stabbing with their bayonets and going down beneath the rush. There was no holding them; I saw Broadfoot grab Burnes and hustle him inside the house, and a moment later I was inside myself, slamming the side door in the face of a yelling Ghazi with a dozen of his fellows bounding at his heels.
It was a stout door, thank God, like the others in the Residency; otherwise we should all have been butchered within five minutes. Blows shattered on the far side of it as I slipped the bar home, and as I hurried along the passage to the main hallway I could hear, above the shrieking and shooting outside, the crash and thud of countless fists and hilts on panels and shutters – it was like being inside a box with demented demons pounding on the lid. Suddenly above the din there was the crash of an ordered volley from the courtyard, and then another, and as the yelling subsided momentarily the havildar’s voice could be heard urging the remnant of the guard into the house. Little bloody odds it would make, I thought; they had us cornered, and it was a case of having our throats cut now or later.
Burnes and the others were in the hallway, and Sekundar as usual was showing off, affecting carelessness in a tight spot.
“Wake Duncan with thy knocking,” he quoted, cocking his head on one side at the pounding of the mob. “How many of the guard are inside, Jim?”
Broadfoot said about a dozen, and Burnes said: “That’s splendid. That makes, let’s see, twelve, and the servants, and us three – hullo, here’s Flashman! Mornin’ Flash; sleep well? Apologise for this rude awakening – about twenty-five, I’d say; twenty fighting men, anyway.”
“Few enough,” says Broadfoot, examining his pistols. “The niggers’ll be inside before long – we can’t cover every door and window, Sekundar.”
A musket ball crashed through a shutter and knocked a cloud of plaster off the opposite wall. Everyone ducked, except Burnes.
“Nonsense!” says he. “Can’t cover ’em from down here, I grant you, but we don’t have to. Now Jim, take the guard, all of ’em, upstairs, and have ’em shoot down from the balconies. That’ll clear these mad fellows away from the sides of the house. There ain’t many guns among them, I fancy, so you can get a good sight of them without fear of being hit – much. Up you go, laddie, look sharp!”
Broadfoot clattered away, and a moment later the red-coated jawans were mounting the stairs, with Burnes shouting “Shabash!” to encourage them while he belted his sword over his suit and stuck a pistol in his belt. He seemed positively to be enjoying himself, the bloody ass. He clapped me on the shoulder and asked didn’t I just wish I’d galloped on to Sale after all – but never a word of acknowledgement that my warning had proved correct. I reminded him of it, and pointed out that if he had listened then, we shouldn’t be going to get our throats cut now, but he just laughed and straightened his button-hole.
“Don’t croak so, Flashy,” says he. “I could hold this house with two men and a whore’s protector.” There was a sound of ragged firing over our heads. “You see? Jim’s setting about ’em already. Come on, Charlie, let’s see the fun!” And he and his brother hurried upstairs, leaving me alone in the hall.
“What about my bloody court-martial?” I shouted after him, but he never heard.
Well, his plan worked, at first. Broadfoot’s men did clear away the rascals from round the walls, shooting down from the upper windows and balcony, and when I joined them on the upper floor there were about twenty Ghazi corpses in the courtyard. A few shots came the other way, and one of the jawans was wounded in the thigh, but the main mob had now retreated to the street, and contented themselves with howling curses from the cover of the wall.
“Excellent! Bahut achha!” said Burnes, puffing a cheroot and peering out of the window. “You see, Charlie, they’ve drawn off, and presently Elphy will be wondering down in the cantonment what all the row’s about, and send someone to see.”
“Won’t he send troops, then?” says little Charlie.
“Of course. A battalion, probably – that’s what I’d send. Since it’s Elphy, though, he’s as likely to send a brigade, eh, Jim?”
Broadfoot, squatting at the other window, peered along his pistol barrel, fired, swore, and said: “So long as he sends someone.”
“Don’t you fret,” says Burnes. “Here, Flashy, have a cheroot. Then you can try your hand at potting off some of these chaps beyond the wall. I’d say Elphy’ll be on the move inside two hours, and we’ll be out of here in three. Good shot, Jim! That’s the style!”
Burnes was wrong, of course. Elphy didn’t send troops; indeed, so far as I’ve been able to learn, he did nothing at all. If even a platoon had arrived in that first hour, I believe the mob would have melted before them; as it was, they began to pluck up courage, and started clambering the wall again, and sneaking round to the rear, where the stables gave them cover. We kept up a good fire from the windows – I shot three myself, including an enormously fat man, at which Burnes said: “Choose the thin ones, Flashy; that chap couldn’t have got in the front door anyway.” But as two hours passed he joked rather less, and actually made another attempt to talk to our attackers from the balcony, but they drove him inside with a shot or two and a volley of missiles.
Meanwhile, some of the Ghazis had set fire to the stables, and the smoke began to drift into the house. Burnes swore, and we all strained our eyes peering across the rooftops towards the cantonment, but still no sign of help appeared, and I felt the pumping of fear again in my throat. The howling of the mob had risen again, louder than ever, some of the jawans were looking scared, and even Burnes was frowning.
“Blast Elphy Bey,” says he. “He’s cutting it dooced fine. And I believe these brutes have got muskets from somewhere at last – listen.” He was right; there were as many shots coming from outside as from inside the house. They were smacking into the walls and knocking splinters from the shutters, and presently another jawan gave a yelp and staggered back into the room with his shoulder smashed and blood pouring down his shirt.
“Hm,” says Burnes, “this is gettin’ warm. Like Montrose at the Fair, eh, Charlie?” Charlie gave him the ghost of a smile; he was scared stiff and trying not to show it.
“How many rounds have you got, Flashy?” says Burnes. I had only six left, and Charlie had none; the ten jawans had barely forty among them.
“How about you, Jim?” shouts Burnes to Broadfoot, who was at the far window. Broadfoot shouted something back, but in the din I didn’t catch it, and then Broadfoot stood slowly up, and turned towards us, looking down at his shirt-front. I saw a red spot there, and suddenly it grew to a great red stain, and Broadfoot took two steps back and went head first over the window sill. There was a sickening crash as he hit the courtyard, and a tremendous shriek from the mob; the firing seemed to redouble, and from the rear, where the smoke of the burning stables was pouring in on us, came the measured smashing of a ram at the back door.
Burnes fired from his window, and ducked away. He squatted down near me, spun his pistol by the guard, whistled for a second or two through his teeth, and then said: “Charlie, Flashy, I think it’s time to go.”
“Where the hell to?” says I.
“Out of here,” says he. “Charlie, cut along to my room; you’ll find native robes in the wardrobe. Bring ’em along. Lively, now.” When Charlie had gone, he said to me “It’s not much of a chance, but it’s all we have, I think. We’ll try it at the back door; the