The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
I was properly on the boil, and intent on giving her the business then and there, but to my frustration the palki was one of those double sedans, where you sit opposite each other, and all I could do was paw at her frontage in the dark, swearing as I tried to unbutton her dress, and squeezing at the delights beneath it, while she kissed and fondled, laughing, telling me not to be impatient, and the palki men jogged along, bouncing us in a way that made it impossible to get down to serious work. Where they were taking us I didn’t care; what with champagne and passion I was lost to everything but the scented beauty teasing me in the dark; at last I managed to get one tit clear and was nibbling away when the palki stopped, and Madame Sabba gently disengaged herself.
“A moment,” says she, and I could imagine her adjusting her gown in the darkness. “Wait here,” her fingers gently stroked my lips, there was a glimpse of dusk as she slipped through the palki curtain – and then silence.
I waited, fretting and anticipating, for perhaps half a minute, and then stuck my head out. For a moment I couldn’t make out anything in the gloom, and then I saw that the palki was stopped in a mean-looking street, between dark and shuttered buildings – but of the palki men and Madame Sabba there wasn’t a sign. Just deserted shadow, not a light anywhere, and not a sound except the faint murmur of the town a long way off.
My blank astonishment lasted perhaps two seconds, to be replaced by rage as I tore back the palki curtain and stumbled out, cursing. I hadn’t had time to feel the first chill of fear before I saw the black shapes moving out of the shadows at the end of the street, gliding silently towards me.
I’m not proud of what happened in the next moment. Of course, I was very young and thoughtless, and my great days of instant flight and evasion were still ahead of me, but even so, with my Afghan experience and my native cowardice to boot, my reaction was inexcusable. In my riper years I’d have lost no precious seconds in bemused swearing; long before those stealthy figures even appeared, I’d have realized that Madame Sabba’s disappearance portended deadly danger, and been over the nearest wall and heading for the high country. But now, in my youthful folly and ignorance, I absolutely stood there gaping, and calling out:
“Who the d---l are you, and what d’ye want? Where’s my whore, confound it?”
And then they were running towards me, on silent feet, and I saw in a flash that I’d been lured to my death. Then, at last, was seen Flashy at his best, when it was all but too late. One scream, three strides, and I was leaping for the rickety fence between two houses; for an instant I was astride of it, and had a glimpse of four lean black shapes converging on me at frightening speed; something sang past my head and then I was down and pelting along the alley beyond, hearing the soft thuds behind as they vaulted over after me. I tore ahead full tilt, bawling “Help!” at the top of my lungs, shot round the corner, and ran for dear life down the street beyond.
It was my yellow belly that saved me, nothing else. A hero wouldn’t have stood and fought – not against those odds, in such a place – but he’d at least have glanced back, to see how close the pursuit was, or maybe even have drawn rein to consider which way to run next. Which would have been fatal, for the speed at which they moved was fearful. One glimpse I caught of the leader as I turned the corner – a fell black shape moving like a panther, with something glittering in his hand – and in pure panic I went hurtling on, from one street to another, leaping every obstruction, screaming steadily for aid, but going at my uttermost every stride. That’s what you young chaps have got to remember – when you run, run, full speed, with never a thought for anything else; don’t look or listen or dither even for an instant; let terror have his way, for he’s the best friend you’ve got.
He kept me ahead of the field for a good quarter of a mile, I reckon, through deserted streets and lanes, over fences and yards and ditches, and never a glimpse of a human soul, until I turned a corner and found myself looking down a narrow alley which obviously led to a frequented street, for at the far end there were lanterns and figures moving, and beyond that, against the night sky, the spars and masts of ships under riding lights.
“Help!” I bawled. “Murder! Assassins! H--l and d--ation! Help!”
I was pelting down the alley as I shouted, and now, like a fool, I stole a glance back – there he was, like a black avenging angel gliding round the corner a bare twenty yards behind. I raced on, but in turning my head I’d lost my direction; suddenly there was an empty handcart in my path – left by some infernally careless coolie in the middle of the lane – and in trying to clear it I caught my foot and went sprawling. I was afoot in an instant, ahead of me someone was shouting, but my pursuer had halved the distance behind me, and as I shot another panic-stricken glance over my shoulder I saw his hand go back behind his head, something glittered and whirled at me, a fearful pain drove through my left shoulder, and I went sprawling into a pile of boxes, the flung hatchet clattering to the ground beside me.
He had me now; he came over the handcart like a hurdle racer, landed on the balls of his feet, and as I tried vainly to scramble to cover among the wrecked boxes, he plucked a second hatchet from his belt, poised it in his hand, and took deliberate aim. Behind me, along the alley, I could hear boots pounding, and a voice shouting, but they were too late for me – I can still see that horrible figure in the lantern light, the glistening black paint like a mask across the skull-like Chinese head, the arm swinging back to hurl the hatchet—
“Jingo!” a voice called, and pat on the word something whispered in the air above my head, the hatchet-man shrieked, his body twisted on tip-toe, and to my amazement I saw clearly in silhouette that an object like a short knitting-needle was protruding from beneath his upturned chin. His fingers fluttered at it, and then his whole body seemed to dissolve beneath him, and he sprawled motionless in the alley. Without being conscious of imitation, I followed suit.
If I fainted, though, with pain and shock, it can only have been for a moment, for I became conscious of strong hands raising me, and an English voice saying: “I say, he’s taken a bit of a cut. Here, sit him against the wall.” And there were other voices, in an astonishing jumble: “How’s the Chink?” “Dead as mutton – Jingo hit him full in the crop.” “By Jove, that was neat – I say, look here, though, he’s starting to twitch!” “Well, I’m blessed, the poison’s working, even though he’s dead. If that don’t beat everything!” “Trust our little Jingo – cut his throat and poison him afterwards, just for luck, what?”
I was too dazed to make anything of this, but one word in their crazy discussion struck home in my disordered senses.
“Poison!” I gasped. “The axe – poisoned! My G-d, I’m dying, get a doctor – my arm’s gone dead already—”
And then I opened my eyes, and saw an amazing sight. In front of me was crouching a squat, hideously-featured native, naked save for a loin-cloth, gripping a long bamboo spear. Alongside him stood a huge Arab-looking chap, in white ducks and crimson sash, with a green scarf round his hawk head and a great red-dyed beard rippling down to his waist. There were a couple of other near-naked natives, two or three obvious seamen in ducks and caps, and kneeling at my right side a young, fair-haired fellow in a striped jersey. As motley a crowd as ever I opened eyes on, but when I turned my head to see who was poking painfully at my wounded shoulder, I forgot all about the others – this was the chap to look at.
It was a boy’s face; that was the first impression, in spite of the bronzed, strong lines of it, the touches of grey in the dark curly hair and long side-whiskers, the tough-set mouth and jaw, and the half-healed sword cut that ran from his right brow onto his cheek. He was about forty, and they hadn’t been quiet years, but the dark blue eyes were as innocent as a ten-year-old’s and when he grinned, as he was doing now, you thought at once of stolen apples and tacks on the master’s chair.
“Poison?” says he, ripping away my blood-sodden sleeve. “Not a bit of it. Chink hatchet-men don’t go in for it, you know. That’s for ignorant savages like Jingo here – say ‘How-de-do’ to the gentleman, Jingo.” And while the savage with the spear bobbed his head at me with a frightful grin, this chap left off mauling my shoulder, and reaching over towards the body of my fallen pursuer, pulled the knitting-needle thing from his