The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
twitched.
“A sorry business,” says Brooke, “but before such atrocities I find it hard to remain composed.”
After that it was all aboard the Skylark again, bound for Patusan, which lay about twenty miles farther upstream. “They’ll stand and fight there, where the river narrows,” says Keppel. “Two hundred praus, I dare say, and their jungle-men peppering us with blow-pipes from the trees.”
“That don’t matter,” says Brooke. “It’ll be a case of bursting the booms, and then run up and board, hand-to-hand. It’s the forts that count – five of ’em, and you may be sure there’ll be a thousand men in each – we must smoke ’em out with rockets and cannon and then charge home, in the old style. That’ll be your innings, Charles, as usual,” says he to Wade, and to my horror he added: “We’ll take Flashman with us – make use of your special talents, what?” And he grinned at me as though it were my birthday.
“Couldn’t be better!” cries Wade, slapping me on the back. “Sure an’ we’ll show you some pretty mixed scrappin’, old son. Better than Afghanistan, and you may lay to that. I’ll wager ye didn’t see many praus rammed in the Khyber Pass, or have obligin’ Paythans droppin’ tree-trunks on you! What the d---l, though – as long as ye can run, swim, scale a bamboo wall, an’ keep your sword-arm swingin’, ye’ll soon get the hang of it. Like Trafalgar an’ Waterloo rolled into one, with a row in a Silver Street pub thrown in!”
They all crowed at this delightful prospect, and Stuart says:
“Remember Seribas last year, When they dropped the booms behind us? My stars, that was a go! Our Ibans had to shoot ’em out of the trees with sumpitans!”
“An’ Buster Anderson got shot in the leg when he boarded that bankong – the one that was sinkin’,” cries Wade, “an’ Buster had to swim for it, wi’ the pirates one side of him an’ crocodiles on t’other – an’ he comes rollin’ ashore, plastered wi’ mud an’ gore, yellin’: ‘Anyone seen me baccy pouch? – it’s got me initials on it!’”
They roared again, and said Buster was a rare card, and Wade recalled how he’d gone ploughing through the battle, performing prodigies in search of his pouch. “The best of it was,” says he, spluttering, “Buster didn’t smoke!”
This tickled them immensely of course, and Keppel asked where old Buster was these days.
“Alas, we lost him at Murdu,” says Brooke. “Same cutting-out party I got this” – he tapped his scar – “and a slug in the bicep. Balagnini jumped on him as he was scrambling up their stern-cable – Buster’s pistol misfired – he was the most confounded careless chap imaginable with firearms, you know – and the Balagnini took the dear old chap’s head almost clean off with his parang. Bad business.”
They shook their heads and agreed it was a d----d shame, but cheered up presently when someone recalled that Jack Penty had settled the Balagnini with a lovely backhand cut soon after, and from this they passed to recalling similar happy memories of old pals and enemies, most of ’em deceased in the most grisly circumstances, apparently. Just the kind of thing I like to hear before breakfast – but, d’you know, I learned from Brooke afterwards, that they’d absolutely been trying to raise my spirits.
“Forgive their levity,” says he, “it is kindly meant. Charlie Wade sees you are quite down in the dumps, fretting about your lady, and he tries to divert you with his chatter about battles past and brave actions ahead – well, when the warhorse hears the trumpets, he don’t think about much else, does he? If you just give your mind to what’s to do – and I know you’re itching to be at it – you’ll feel ever so much better.” He muttered something else about my heart being tender enough to suffer, but tough enough not to break, and tooled off to see that we were still headed in the right direction.
By this time I was ready to bolt, but that’s the trouble with being afloat – you can only run in circles. There was land not far off, of course, if one could have reached it through water that was no doubt well-stocked with crocodiles, and was prepared to wander in unexplored jungle full of head-hunters. And the prospect got worse through that steaming, fevered day; the river twisted and got narrower, until there was a bare few hundred yards of sluggish water either side of the vessels, with a solid jungle wall hemming us in. Whenever a bird screamed in the undergrowth I almost had a seizure, and we were tormented by mosquito clouds which added their unceasing buzzing to the monotonous throb of Phlegethon’s engines and the rhythmic swish of the praus’ sweeps.
Worst of all was the stench – the farther we went on, the closer the jungle loomed in on us, the more unbearable became that rotten, musky, choking atmosphere, stifling in its steaming intensity. It conjured up nightmares of corpses decaying in loathsome swamps – I found the sweat which bathed me turning to ice as I watched that hostile green forest wall, conjuring up hideous faces in its shadows, imagining painted horrors lurking in its depths, waiting.
If day was bad, night was ten times worse. Dark found us still a few miles from Patusan, and the mist came with the dusk; as we swung at anchor in midstream there was nothing to be seen but pale white wraiths coming and going in the festering gloom. With all engines stopped you could hear the water gurgling oozily by, even above the d---l’s chorus of screams and yells from the darkness – I was new to jungle, and had no conception of the appalling din with Which it is filled at night. I stayed on deck about ten minutes, in which time I saw at least half a dozen skull-laden praus crammed with savages starting to emerge from the shadows, at which point they dissolved into shadows themselves – after that I decided I might as well turn in, which I did by plumbing the depths of that sweltering iron tub, finding a hole in the corner of the engine-room, and crouching there with my Colt in my fist, listening to the evil whispers of head-hunters congregating on the other side of the half-inch plate.
And barely ten days before I’d been unbuttoning in that Singapore chop-house, bursting with best meat and drink, and running a lascivious eye over Madame Sabba! Now, thanks to Elspeth’s wantoning, I was on the eve of death, or worse – if I get out of this, thinks I, I’ll divorce the b---h, that’s flat. I’d been a fool ever to marry her – and brooding on that I must have dozed, for I could see her in that sunny field by the river, golden hair tumbled in the grass, cheeks moist and pink from the ecstasy of our first acquaintance, smiling at me. That lovely white body – and then like a black shadow came the recollection of the hideous fate of those captive women at Linga – those same bestial savages had Elspeth at their mercy – even now she might be being ravished by some filthy dacoit, or suffering unmentionable agonies … I was awake, gasping, drenched on the cold iron.
“They shan’t hurt you, old girl!” I was absolutely croaking in the dark. “They shan’t! I’ll – I’ll—”
What would I do? Rush to her rescue, like Dick Dauntless, against the kind of human ghouls I’d seen on that pirate prau? I wouldn’t dare – it wasn’t a question I’d even have asked myself, normally, for the great advantage to real true-blue cowardice like mine, you see, was that I’d always been able to take it for granted and no regrets or qualms of conscience; it had served its turn, and I’d never lost a wink over Hudson or old Iqbal or any of the other honoured dead who’d served me as stepping-stones to safety. But Elspeth … and to haunt me in that stinking stokehold came the appalling question: suppose it was my skin or hers – would I turn tail then? I didn’t know, but judging by the form-book I could guess, and for once the alternative to suffering and death was as horrible as death itself. I even found myself wondering if there was perhaps a limit to my funk, and that was such a fearful thought that between it and the terrors ahead I was driven to prayer, along the lines of Oh, kind God, forgive all the beastly sins I’ve committed, and a few that I’ll certainly commit if I get out of this, or rather, pay no attention to ’em, Heavenly Father, but turn all Thy Grace on Elspeth and me, and save us both – but if it’s got to be one or t’other of us, for Ch----’s sake don’t leave the decision to me. And whatever Thy will, don’t let me suffer mutilation or torment – if it’ll save her, you can even blot me out suddenly so that I don’t know about it – no, hold on, though, better still,