The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
was an empty plain with figures running towards me.
They were a long way away, and it took me a moment to realise that they were Afghans; they were charging, sure enough, and then I heard a musket crack, and there at the ruined wall was Hudson, fumbling with a ramrod and swearing, the side of his face caked with blood. He saw me, and bawled:
“Come on! Come on! Lend a hand, man!”
I walked towards him, my feet weighing a ton apiece; a red-coated figure was moving in the shadow of the wall, beside the gate; it was one of the sepoys. Curiously, the wall had been shot in on either side, but the gate was still standing, with the flag trailing at its staff on top, and the cords hanging down. As the shrieks of the Ghazis drew nearer, a thought entered my head, and I stumbled over towards the gate and laid hold of the cords.
“Give in,” I said, and tugged at the cords. “Give in, and make ’em stop!” I pulled at the cords again, and then there was another appalling crash, the gates opened as though a giant hand had whirled them inwards, the arch above them fell, and the flagstaff with it; the choking dust swirled up, and I blundered through it, my hands out to grab the colours that were now within reach.
I knew quite clearly what I wanted to do; I would gather up the flag and surrender it to the Afghans, and then they would let us alone; Hudson, even in that hellish din and horror, must have guessed somehow what was in my mind, for I saw him crawling towards the colours, too. Or perhaps he was trying to save them, I don’t know. But he didn’t manage it; another round shot ploughed into the rubble before me, and the dirty, blue-clad figure was suddenly swept away like a rag doll into an engulfing cloud of dust and masonry. I staggered forward over the stones, touched the flagstaff and fell on my knees; the cloth of the flag was within reach, and I caught hold of it and pulled it up from the rubbish. From somewhere there came a volley of musketry, and I thought, well, this is the finish, and not half as bad as I thought it would be, but bad enough for all that, and God, I don’t want to die yet.
There was a thunder like a waterfall, and things were falling on me; a horrible pain went through my right leg, and I heard the shriek of a Ghazi almost in my car. I was lying face down, clutching at the flag, mumbling, “Here, take the bloody thing; I don’t want it. Please take it; I give in.” The musketry crashed again, the roaring noise grew louder, and then sight and hearing died.
There are a few wakenings in your life that you would wish to last forever, they are so blissful. Too often you wake in a bewilderment, and then remember the bad news you went to sleep on, but now and then you open your eyes in the knowledge that all is well and safe and right, and there is nothing to do but lie there with eyes gently shut, enjoying every delicious moment.
I knew it was all fine when I felt the touch of sheets beneath my chin, and a soft pillow beneath my head. I was in a British bed, somewhere, and the rustling sound above me was a punkah fan. Even when I moved, and a sudden anguish stabbed through my right leg, I wasn’t dismayed, for I guessed at once that it was only broken, and there was still a foot to waggle at the end of it.
How I had got there I didn’t care. Obviously I had been rescued at the last minute from the fort, wounded but otherwise whole, and brought to safety. Far away I could hear the tiny popping of muskets, but here there was peace, and I lay marvelling at my own luck, revelling in my present situation, and not even bothering to open my eyes, I was so contented.
When I did, it was to find myself in a pleasant, whitewashed room, with the sun slanting through wooden shutters, and a punkah wallah dozing against the wall, automatically twitching the string of his big fan. I turned my head, and found it was heavily bandaged; I was conscious that it throbbed at the back, but even that didn’t discourage me. I had got clear away, from pursuing Afghans and relentless enemies and beastly-minded women and idiot commanders – I was snug in bed, and anyone who expected any more from Flashy – well, let him wish he might get it!
I stirred again, and my leg hurt, and I swore, at which the punkah wallah jumps up, squeaking, and ran from the room crying that I was awake. Presently there was a bustling, and in came a little spectacled man with a bald head and a large canvas jacket, followed by two or three Indian attendants.
“Awake at last!” says he. “Well, well, this is gratifying. Don’t move, sir. Still, still. You’ve a broken leg here and a broken head there, let’s have peace between ’em, what?” He beamed at me, took my pulse, looked at my tongue, told me his name was Bucket, pulled his nose, and said I was very well, considering. “Fractured femur, sir – thigh bone; nasty, but uncomplicated. Few months and you’ll be bounding over the jumps again. But not yet – no; had a nasty time of it, eh? Ugly cuts about your back – ne’er mind, we’ll hear about that later. Now Abdul,” says he, “run and tell Major Havelock the patient’s awake, juldi jao. Pray don’t move, sir. What’s that? – yes, a little drink. Better? Head still, that’s right – nothing to do for the present but lie properly still.”
He prattled on, but I wasn’t heeding him. Oddly enough, it was the sight of the blue coat beneath the canvas jacket that put me in mind of Hudson – what had become of him? My last recollection was of seeing him hit and probably killed. But was he dead? He had better be, for my sake – for the memory of our latter relations was all too vivid in my mind, and it suddenly rushed in on me that if Hudson was alive, and talked, I was done for. He could swear to my cowardice, if he wanted to – would he dare? Would he be believed? He could prove nothing, but if he was known as a steady man – and I was sure he would be – he might well be listened to. It would mean my ruin, my disgrace – and while I hadn’t cared a button for these things when I believed death was closing in on me and everyone else in that fort, well, I cared most damnably for them now that I was safe again.
Oh, God, says I to myself, let him be dead; the sepoys, if any survived, don’t know, and wouldn’t talk if they did, or be believed. But Hudson – he must be dead!
Charitable thoughts, you’ll say. Aye, it’s a hard world, and while bastards like Hudson have their uses, they can be most inconvenient, too. I wanted him to be dead, then, as much as I ever wanted anything.
My suspense must have been written on my face, for the little doctor began to babble soothingly to me, and then the door opened and in walked Sale, his big, kind, stupid face all beaming as red as his coat, and behind him a tall, flinty-faced, pulpit-looking man; there were others peeping round the lintel as Sale strode forward and plumped down into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward to take my hand in his own. He held it gently in his big paw and gazed at me like a cow in milk.
“My boy!” says he, almost in a whisper. “My brave boy!”
Hullo, thinks I, this don’t sound too bad at all. But I had to find out, and quickly.
“Sir,” says I – and to my astonishment my voice came out in a hoarse quaver, it had been so long unused, I suppose – “sir, how is Sergeant Hudson?”
Sale gave a grunt as though he had been kicked, bowed his head, and then looked at the doctor and the gravedigger fellow with him. They both looked damned solemn.
“His first words,” says the little doctor, hauling out a handkerchief and snorting into it.
Sale shook his head sadly, and looked back at me.
“My boy,” says he, “it grieves me deeply to tell you that your comrade – Sergeant Hudson – is dead. He did not survive the last onslaught on Piper’s Fort.” He paused, staring at me compassionately, and then says: “He died – like a true soldier.”
“‘And Nicanor lay dead in his harness’,” says the gravedigger chap, taking a look at the ceiling. “He died in the fullness of his duty, and was not found wanting.”
“Thank God,” says I. “God help him, I mean – God rest him, that is.” Luckily my voice was so weak that they couldn’t hear more than a mumble. I looked downcast, and Sale squeezed my hand.