Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 1: Flashman, Royal Flash, Flashman’s Lady. George Fraser MacDonald
off again from the firing on its walls.
“If we ride down slow, sir,” says Hudson, “to where them niggers are lying round sniping, we could make a dash for it.”
And get shot from our saddles for our pains, thinks I; no thank ’ee. But I had barely had the thought when someone hails us from the rocks on our left, and without a word we put our ponies down the slope. He bawled after us, but we kept going, and then we hit the level and were riding forward through the Afghans who were lying spread out among the rocks watching the little fort. The horsemen who had been attacking were wheeling about to our left, yelling and cursing, and one or two of the snipers shouted to us as we passed them by, but we kept on, and then there was just the last line of snipers and beyond it the little fort, three-quarters of a mile off, on top of its little hill, with its flag flying.
“Now, sir,” snaps Hudson, and we dug in our heels and went like fury, flying past the last sangars. The Afghans there yelled out in surprise, wondering what the devil we were at, and we just put our heads down and made for the fort gate. I heard more shouting behind us, and thundering hooves, and then shots were whistling above us – from the fort, dammit. Oh Jesus, thinks I, they’ll shoot us for Afghans, and we can’t stop now with the horsemen behind us!
Hudson flung off his poshteen, and yelled, rising in his stirrups. At the sight of the blue lancer tunic and breeches there was a tremendous yelling behind, but the firing from the fort stopped, and now it was just a race between us and the Afghans. Our ponies were about used up, but we put them to the hill at top speed, and as the walls drew near I saw the gate open. I whooped and rode for it, with Hudson at my heels, and then we were through, and I was slipping off the saddle into the arms of a man with enormous ginger whiskers and a sergeant’s stripes on his arm.
“Damme!” he roars. “Who the hell are ye?”
“Lieutenant Flashman,” says I, “of General Elphinstone’s army,” and his mouth opened like a cod’s. “Where’s your commanding officer?”
“Blow me!” says he. “I’m the commanding officer, so far’s there is one. Sergeant Wells, Bombay Grenadiers, sir. But we thought you was all dead …”
It took us a little time to convince him, and to learn what was happening. While his sepoys cracked away from the parapet overhead at the disappointed Afghans, he took us into the little tower, sat us on a bench, gave us pancakes and water – which was all they had – and told us how the Afghans had been besieging Jallalabad three days now, in ever-increasing force, and his own little detachment had been cut off in this outlying fort for that time.
“It’s a main good place for them to mount guns, d’ye see, sir, if they could run us out,” says he. “So Cap’n Little – ’e’s back o’ the tower ’ere, wi’ is ’ead stove in by a bullet, sir – said as we ’ad to ’old out no matter what. ‘To the last man, sergeant,’ ’e sez, an’ then ’e died – that was yesterday evenin’, sir. They’d bin ’ittin’ us pretty ’ard, sir, an’ ’ave bin since. I dunno as we can last out much longer, ’cos the water’s runnin’ low, an’ they damn near got over the wall last night, sir.”
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