Flashman in the Great Game. George Fraser MacDonald

Flashman in the Great Game - George Fraser MacDonald


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out to him.

      ‘This is splendid, old fellow!’ says I, gripping him as though he were my long-lost brother. ‘Wherever have you been keeping yourself?’ One or two of them smiled, to see bluff Flash Harry so delighted at meeting an old enemy – just what they’d have expected, of course. And when the Queen had been made quite au fait with the situation, she said it was exactly like Fitzjames and Roderick Dhu.

      So after that it was quite jolly, and Albert made a group with Ignatieff and Ellenborough and me, and questioned me about our acquaintance, and I made light of my captivity and escape, and said what a charming jailer Ignatieff had been, and the brute just stood impassive, with his tawny head bowed over his cup, and looking me over with that amazing half-blue, half-brown eye. He was still the same handsome, broken-nosed young iceberg I remembered – if I’d closed my eyes I could have heard the lash whistling and cracking in Arabat courtyard, with the Cossacks’ grip on my arms.

      Albert, of course, was much struck by the coincidence of our meeting again, and preached a short sermon about the brotherhood of men-at-arms, to which Ignatieff smiled politely and I cried ‘Hear, hear!’ It was difficult to guess, but I judged my Muscovite monster wasn’t enjoying this too much; he must have been wondering why I pretended to be so glad to see him. But I was all affability; I even presented him to Elspeth, and he bowed and kissed her hand; she was very demure and cool, so I knew she fancied him, the little trollop.

      The truth is, my natural insolence was just asserting itself, as it always does when I feel it’s safe; when a moment came when Ignatieff and I were left alone together, I thought I’d stick a pin in him, just for sport, so I asked, quietly:

      ‘Brought your knout with you, Count?’

      He looked at me a moment before replying. ‘It is in Russia,’ says he. ‘Waiting. So, I have no doubt, is Count Pencherjevsky’s daughter.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ says I. ‘Little Valla. Is she well, d’you know?’

      ‘I have no idea. But if she is, it is no fault of yours.’ He glanced away, towards Elspeth and the others. ‘Is it?’

      ‘She never complained to me,’ says I, grinning at him. ‘On that tack – if I’m well, it’s no fault of yours, either.’

      ‘That is true,’ says he, and the eye was like a sword-point. ‘However, may I suggest that the less we say about our previous acquaintance, the better? I gather from your … charade, a little while ago – designed, no doubt, to impress your Queen – that you are understandably reluctant that the truth of your behaviour there should be made public.’

      ‘Oh, come now,’ says I. ‘’Twasn’t a patch on yours, old boy. What would the Court of Balmoral think if they knew that the charming Russian nobleman with the funny eye was a murderous animal who flogs innocent men to death and tortures prisoners of war? Thought about that?’

      ‘If you think you were tortured, Colonel Flashman,’ says he, poker-faced, ‘then I congratulate you on your ignorance.’ He put down his cup. ‘I find this conversation tedious. If you will excuse me,’ and he turned away.

      ‘Oh, sorry if you’re bored,’ says I. ‘I was forgetting – you probably haven’t cut a throat or burned a peasant in a week.’

      It was downright stupid of me, no doubt – two hours earlier I’d been quaking at the thought of meeting him again, and here I was sassing him to my heart’s content. But I can never resist a jibe and a gloat when the enemy’s hands are tied, as Thomas Hughes would tell you. Ignatieff didn’t seem nearly as fearsome here, among the teacups, with chaps toadying the royals, and cress sandwiches being handed round, and Ellenborough flirting ponderously with Elspeth while the Queen complained to old Aberdeen that it was the press which had killed Lord Hardinge, in her Uncle Leopold’s opinion. No, not fearsome at all – without his chains and gallows and dungeons and power of life and death, and never so much as a Cossack thug to bless himself with. I should have remembered that men like Nicholas Ignatieff are dangerous anywhere – usually when you least expect it.

      And I was far from expecting anything the next day, the last full one I was to spend at Balmoral. It was a miserable, freezing morning, I remember, with flurries of sleet among the rain, and low clouds rolling down off Lochnagar; the kind of day when you put your nose out once and then settle down to punch and billiards with the boys, and build the fire up high. But not Prince Albert; there were roe deer reported in great numbers at Balloch Buie, and nothing would do but we must be drummed out, cursing, for a stalk.

      I’d have slid back to Abergeldie if I could, but he nailed me in the hall with Ellenborough. ‘Why, Colonel Flash-mann, where are your gaiters? Haff you nott called for your loader yet? Come, gentlemen, in this weather we haff only a few hours – let us be off!’

      And he strutted about in his ridiculous Alpine hat and tartan cloak, while the loaders were called and the brakes made ready, and the ghillies loafed about grinning on the terrace with the guns and pouches – they knew I loathed it, and that Ellenborough couldn’t carry his guts more than ten yards without a rest, and the brutes enjoyed our discomfiture. There were four or five other guns in the party, and presently we drove off into the rain, huddling under the tarpaulin covers as we jolted away from the castle on the unmade road.

      The country round Balmoral is primitive at the best of times; on a dank autumn day it’s like an illustration from Bunyan’s Holy War, especially near our destination, which was an eerie, dreary forest of firs among the mountains, with great patches of bog, and gullies full of broken rocks, and heather waist-deep on the valley sides. The road petered out there, and we clambered out of the brakes and stood in the pouring wet while Albert, full of energy and blood-lust, planned the campaign. We were to spread out singly, with our loaders, and drive ahead up to the high ground, because the mist was hanging fairly thick by this time, and if we kept together we might miss the stags altogether.

      We were just about to start on our squelching climb, when another brake came rolling up the road, and who should pile out but the Russian visitors, with one of the local bigwigs, all dressed for the hill. Albert of course was delighted.

      ‘Come, gentlemen,’ cries he, ‘this is capital! What? There are no bearss in our Scottish mountains, but we can show you fine sport among the deer. General Menshikof, will you accompany me? Count Ignatieff – ah, where iss Flash-mann?’ I was having a quick swig from Ellenborough’s flask, and as the Prince turned towards me, and I saw Ignatieff at his elbow, very trim in tweeds and top boots, with a fur cap on his head and a heavy piece under his arm, I suddenly felt as though I’d been kicked in the stomach. In that second I had a vision of those lonely, gully-crossed crags above us, with their great reaches of forest in which you could get lost for days, and mist blotting out sight and sound of all companions – and myself, alone, with Ignatieff down-wind of me, armed, and with that split eye of his raking the trees and heather for a sight of me. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might be in the shooting party, but here he came, strolling across, and behind him a great burly unmistakable moujik, in smock and boots, carrying his pouches.

      Ellenborough stiffened and shot a glance at me. For myself, I was wondering frantically if I could plead indisposition at the last minute. I opened my mouth to say something, and then Albert was summoning Ellenborough to take the left flank, and Ignatieff was standing watching me coolly, with the rain beating down between us.

      ‘I have my own loader,’ says he, indicating the moujik. ‘He is used to heavy game – bears, as his royal highness says, and wolves. However, he has experience of lesser animals, and vermin, even.’

      ‘I … I …’ It had all happened so quickly that I couldn’t think of what to say, or do. Albert was despatching the others to their various starting-points; the first of them were already moving off into the mist. As I stood, dithering, Ignatieff stepped closer, glanced at my own ghillie, who was a few yards away, and said quietly in French:

      ‘I did not know you were going to India, Colonel. My congratulations on your … appointment? A regimental command, perhaps?’

      ‘Eh?


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