Читать книгу Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 3: Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, Flashman and the Angel of the Lord - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 14

I’ve been in a good few sieges in my time, from full-dress affairs like Cawnpore, Lucknow, and the Pekin nonsense a few years ago, to more domestic squabbles such as the Kabul residency in ’41. But I can’t think of one worse managed than the moujiks’ attack on Starotorsk. I gathered afterwards that several thousand of them, whipped on by Blank’s fiery oratory, had just up and marched on the house to avenge their priest’s death, seizing what weapons were handiest, and making no attempt at concealment or concerted attack to take the place on all sides at once. They just stamped up the road, roaring, the Cossacks in their little barrack saw them, knocked a few over with rifle fire, and then retired to the main house just as the mob surged into the drive and threw themselves at the front door. And there it was, touch and go, with the moujiks beating on the panels, smashing in the downstairs windows on that side to clamber in, waving their trowels and torches and yelling for Pencherjevsky’s blood.³⁴

As he stood there, clasping Valla and glaring round like a mad thing, I doubt if he fully understood it himself – that his beloved slaves were out to string him from the nearest limb, with his family on either side of him. It was like the sun falling out of the sky for him. But he knew deadly danger when he saw it, and his one thought was for his daughter. He seized me by the arm.

“The back way – to the stables! Quickly! Get her away, both of you! We shall hold them here – the fools, the ingrate clods!” He practically flung her into my arms. “Take a sled and horses, and drive like the wind to the Arianski house – on the Alexandrovsk road! There she will be safe. But hasten, in God’s name!”

I’d have been off at the run, but East, the posturing ass, had to thrust in:

“One of us will stay, sir! Or let a Cossack escort your daughter – it is not fitting that British officers should –”

“You numskull!” bawled Pencherjevsky, seizing him and thrusting him violently towards the back corridor. “Go! They will be in, or round the house, while you stand prating! This is no affair of yours – and I command here!” There was a tearing crash from the front door, several pistol shots amid the clamour of the mob and the shouting of the Cossacks, and over the banisters I saw the door cave in, and a torrent of ragged figures pouring in, driving the Cossacks back towards the foot of the stairs. The smoky glare of their torches turned the place suddenly into a struggling hell, as the Cossacks swung their sabres and nagaikas to force them back.

“Get her away!” Pencherjevsky encircled both me and Valla for an instant in his bear-like hug, his great, bearded face within an inch of my own, and there were tears in his glaring eyes. “You know what is to do, my son! See to her – and to that other life! God be with you!”

And he bundled us into the corridor, and then rushed to the head of the stairs. I had a glimpse of his towering bulk, with the smoky glare beneath him, and then the chorus of yells and screams from the hall redoubled, there was a rushing of feet, a splintering of timber – and East and I were doubling down the back-stairs at speed, Valla sobbing against my chest as I swept her along.

We tore through the kitchen, East pausing to grab some loaves and bottles, while I hurried out into the yard. It was dead still in the moonlight; nothing but the soft stamp of the beasts in their stalls, and the distant tumult muffled on the other side of the house. I was into the coach-building in a flash, bundled Valla into the biggest sled, and was leading round the first of the horses when East joined me, his arms full.

I don’t know the record for harnessing a three-horse sled, but I’ll swear we broke it; I wrenched home the last buckle while East scuttled across the snow to unbar the gate. I jumped into the driver’s seat and tugged the reins, the horses whinnied and reared and then danced forward, any old how – it’s deuced difficult, tooling a sled – and with me swearing at the beasts and East swinging up as we slid past, we scraped through the gateway on to the open road beyond.

There was a bang to our left, and a shot whistled overhead, causing me to duck and the horses to swerve alarmingly. They were rounding the house wall, a bare thirty yards away, a confused, roaring rabble, torches waving, running to head us off. East seized the whip from its mount and lashed at the beasts, and with a bound that nearly overturned us they tore away, down the road, with the mob cursing at our tail, waving their fists, and one last shot singing wide as we distanced them.

We didn’t let up for a mile, though, by which time I had the beasts under control, and we were able to pull up on a gentle rise and look back. It was like a Christmas scene, a great white blanket glittering in the full moon, and the dark house rising up from it, with the red dots of torch-light dancing among the outbuildings, and the thin sound of voices echoing through the frosty air, and the stars twinkling in the purple sky. Very bonny, I suppose – and then East clutched my arm.

“My God! Look yonder!”

There was a dull glow at one corner of the house; it grew into an orange flame, licking upwards with a shower of sparks; the torches seemed to dance more madly than ever, and from the sled behind there was a sudden shrieking sob, and Valla was trying to struggle out – my God, she still had nothing on but her night-dress, and as she half fell out it ripped and sent her tumbling into the snow.

I threw the reins to East, jumped down, and bundled her quickly back into the sled. There were furs there, any amount of them, and I swaddled her in them before the cold could get at her. “Father! Father!” she was moaning, and then she fainted dead away, and I laid her down on the back seat and went forward to East, handing him up one of the furs – for we had nothing but our shirts and breeches and boots, and the cold was crippling.

“Let’s get on,” says I, wrapping up myself, with my teeth chattering. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better. Come on, man, what ails you?”

He was sitting staring ahead, his mouth open, and when he swung round to me, he was positively laughing.

“Flashman!” he cried. “This is our chance! Heaven-sent! The sled – the horses – and a clear start! We’re away, old fellow – and no one to stop us!”

It shows you what a hectic scramble it had been, with not a moment’s pause to collect one’s wits from the shock of waking until now, but for a second I didn’t see what he was driving at. And then it struck me – escape. We could light out for Yenitchi, and East’s causeway, and not a living soul would know we had gone. One couldn’t be sure, of course, but I doubted whether any civilized being would survive what was happening at Starotorsk; it might be days before the police or the army came on the scene and realized that there were three persons not accounted for. And by then we could be in Sevastopol – always assuming we got through the Russian army. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t much care for the Alexandrovsk road, either, wherever that was – God knew how far the insurrection would spread, and to be caught up in it, with Pencherjevsky’s daughter in tow, would be asking to be torn limb from limb.

Even as the thoughts rushed through my mind, I was glancing at the stars, picking out the Plough and judging our line south. That way, even if we hit the coast fifty versts either side of Yenitchi, we at least stood a decent chance of finding our road to it in the end, for we had time on our side.

“Right,” says I. “Let’s be off. We’re sure to hit some farm or station where we can change horses. We’ll drive in turns, and –”

“We must take Valla with us,” cries he, and even in that ghostly light I’ll swear he was blushing. “We cannot abandon her – God knows what kind of villages these will be we shall pass through – we could not leave her, not knowing what … I mean, if we can reach the camp at Sevastopol, she will be truly safe … and … and …”

And he would be able to press his suit, no doubt, the poor skirt-smitten ninny, if he ever plucked up courage enough. I wonder what he’d have thought if he’d known I had been pupping his little Ukrainian angel for weeks. And there she was, in the sled, with not a stitch to her name.

“You’re right!” I cried. “We must take her. You are a noble fellow, Scud! Off we go, then, and I’ll take the ribbons as soon as you’re tired.”

I jumped in the back, and off we swept, over the snowy plain, and far behind us the red glow mounted to the night sky. I peered back at it, wondering if Pencherjevsky was dead yet, and what had happened to Aunt Sara. Whatever it was, I found myself hoping that for her, at least, it had been quick. And then I busied myself putting the sled in some order.

They are splendid things, these three-horse sleighs, less like a coach than a little room on runners. They are completely enclosed with a great hood, lashed down all round, with flaps which can be secured on all the window spaces, so that when they are down the whole thing is quite snug, and if you have furs enough, and a bottle or two, you can be as warm as toast. I made sure everything was secure, set out the bread, and a leg of ham, which East had thoughtfully picked up, on the front seat, and counted the bottles – three of brandy, one of white wine. Valla seemed to be still unconscious; she was wrapped in a mountain of furs between the seats, and when I opened the rear window-flap for light to examine her, sure enough, she was in that uneasy shocked sleep that folk sometimes go into when they’ve been terribly scared. The shaft of moonlight shone on her silvery hair, and on one white tit peeping out saucily from the furs – I had to make sure her heart was beating, of course, but beyond that I didn’t disturb her – for the moment. Fine sledges these: the driver is quite walled off.

So there we were; I huddled in my fur, took a pull at the brandy, and then crawled out under the side flap on to the mounting of the runner; the wind hit me like a knife, with the snow furrowing up round my legs from the runner-blades. We were fairly scudding along as I pulled myself up on to the driving seat beside East and gave him a swig at the brandy.

He was chattering with cold, even in his fur wrap, so I tied it more securely round him, and asked how we were going. He reckoned, if we could strike a village and get a good direction, we might make Yenitchi in five or six hours – always allowing for changes of horses on the way. But he was sure we wouldn’t be able to stand the cold of driving for more than half an hour at a time. So I took the ribbons and he crept back perilously into the sled – one thing I was sure of: Valla would be safe with him.

If it hadn’t been for the biting cold, I’d have enjoyed that moonlight drive. The snow was firm and flat, so that it didn’t ball in the horses’ hooves, and the runners hissed across the snow – it was strange, to be moving at that speed with so little noise. Ahead were the three tossing manes, with the vapour streaming back in the icy air, and beyond that – nothing. A white sheet to the black horizon, a magnificent silver moon, and that reassuring Pole star dead astern when I looked back.

I was about frozen, though, when I spotted lights to starboard after about twenty minutes, and swerved away to find a tumble-down little village, populated by the usual half-human peasants. After consultation with East, I decided to ask the distance and direction to Osipenke; East was carrying a rough table of places and directions in his head, out of the book he had studied, and from the peasants’ scared answers – for they were in awe of any strangers – we were able to calculate our proper course, and swerve away south-west.

East had taken over the reins. Valla had come to while he was in the sled – I wondered if he’d been chancing his arm, but probably not – and had had mild hysterics, about her father, and Aunt Sara, who had been sitting up with a sick Cossack woman in the barracks, and had presumably been cut off there.

“The poor little lamb,” says East, as he took the reins. “It tore my heart to see her grief, Flashman – so I have given her a little laudanum from a phial which … which I carry always with me. She should sleep for several hours; it will be best so.”

I could have kicked him, for if there’s one thing I’d fancy myself good at, it’s comforting a bereaved and naked blonde under a fur rug. But he had put her to sleep, no error, and she was snoring like a walrus. So I had to amuse myself with bread and ham, and try to snatch a nap myself.

We made good progress, and after a couple of hours found a way-station, by great good luck, on what must have been the Mariupol road. We got three new nags, and bowled away famously, but what with lack of sleep it was getting to be hard work now, and a couple of hours after sun-rise we pulled up in the first wood we’d seen – a straggly little affair of stunted bushes, really – and decided to rest ourselves and the horses. Valla was still out to the wide, and East and I took a seat apiece and slept like the dead.

I woke first, and when I put my head out the sky was already dimming in the late afternoon. It was bleak and grey, and freezing starvation, and looking through the twisted branches at the pale, endless waste, I felt a shiver running through me that had nothing to do with cold. Not far away there were two or three of those funny little mounds called koorgans, which I believe are the barrows of long-forgotten barbarian peoples; they looked eerie and uncanny in the failing light, like monstrous snowmen. The stillness was awful; you could feel it, not even a breath of wind, but just the cold and the weight of emptiness hanging over the steppe. It was unnerving, and suddenly I could hear Kit Carson’s strained quiet voice in the dread silence of the wagon road west of Leavenworth: “Nary a sight nor sound anywhere – not even a sniff o’ danger. That’s what frets me.”

It fretted me, too, at this minute; I roused East, and then we made all fast, and I took the reins and off we slid silently south-west, past those lonely koorgans, into the icy wilderness. I had a bottle, and some bread, but nothing could warm me; I was scared, but didn’t know of what – just the silence and the unknown, I suppose. And then from somewhere far off to my right I heard it – that thin, dismal sound that is the terror of the empty steppe, unmistakable and terrifying, drifting through the vast distance: the eldritch cry of the wolf.

The horses heard it too, and whinnied, bounding forward in fear with a stumble of hooves, until we were flying at our uttermost speed. My imagination was flying even faster; I remembered Pencherjevsky’s story of the woman who had thrown her children out when those fearful monsters got on the track of her sled, and had been executed for it, and countless other tales of sleds run down by famished packs and their occupants literally eaten alive. I daren’t look back for fear of what I might see loping over the snow behind me.

The cry was not repeated, and after a few more miles I breathed easier; there was a twinkle of light dead ahead, and when we reached it, we found it was a moujik’s cabin, and the man himself at the door, axe in hand, glowering at us. We asked him the nearest town, and could have cried with relief when he said Yenitchi: it was only forty versts away – a couple of hours’ driving, if the beasts held up and weren’t pressed too hard. East took the reins, I climbed in behind – Valla was sleeping still, uneasily, and mumbling incoherently – and we set off on what I prayed was the last stage of our mainland journey.

For rather more than an hour nothing happened; we drove on through the silence, I took another turn, and then I halted not far from another clump of koorgans to let East climb into the driver’s seat again. I had my foot on the runner, and he was just chuckling to the horses, when it came again – that bloodchilling wail, far closer this time, and off to the left. The horses shrieked, and the sled shot forward so fast that for a moment I was dragged along, clinging to the side by main strength, until I managed to drag myself inboard, tumbling on to the back seat. Valla was stirring, muttering sleepily, but I’d no time for her; I thrust out my head, staring fearfully across the snow, trying to pierce the dusk, but there was nothing to be seen. East was letting the horses go, and the sled was swaying with the speed – and then it came again, closer still, like the sound of a lost soul falling to hell. I heard East shouting to the horses, cracking his whip; I clutched the side, feeling the sweat pouring off me in spite of the cold.

Still nothing, as we fairly flew along; there was another cluster of koorgans just visible in the mirk a quarter of a mile or so to our left. As I watched them – was that something moving beyond them? My heart flew to my mouth – no, they stood bleak and lonely, and I found I was panting with fear as I dashed the sweat from my eyes and peered again. Silence, save for the muffled thump of the hooves and the hissing of the runners – and there was something flitting between the last two koorgans, a low, long dark shape rushing over the snow, and another behind it, and another, speeding out now into the open, and swerving towards us.

“Jesus!” I shrieked. “Wolves!”

East yelled something I couldn’t hear, and the sled rocked horribly as he bore on his offside rein; then we righted, and as I gazed over the side, the hellish baying broke out almost directly behind us. There they were – five of them, gliding in our wake; I could see the leader toss up his hideous snout as he let go his evil wail, and then they put their heads down and came after us in dead silence.

I’ve seen horror in my time, human, animal, and natural, but I don’t know much worse than that memory – those dim grey shapes bounding behind us, creeping inexorably closer, until I could make out the flat, wicked heads and the snow spurting up under their loping paws. I must have been petrified, for God knows how long I just stared at them – and then my wits came back, and I seized the nearest rug and flung it out to the side, as far as I could.

As one beast they swerved, and were on it in a twinkling, tearing it among them. Only for a second, and then they were after us again – probably all the fiercer for being fooled. I grabbed another rug and hurled it, and this time they never even broke stride, but shot past it, closing in on the sled until they were a bare twenty paces behind, and I could see their open jaws – I’ve never been able to look an Alsatian in the face since – and delude myself that I could even make out their glittering eyes. I’d have given my right arm, then, for the feel of my faithful old Adams in my grip – “You wouldn’t run so fast with a forty-four bullet in you, damn you!” I yelled at them – and they came streaking up, while the horses screamed with fear and tore ahead, widening the gap for about ten blessed seconds. I was cursing and scrabbling in the back looking for something else to throw – a bottle, that was no use, but by George, if I smashed one at the bottom it might serve as a weapon when the last moment came and they were ravening over the tailboard – in desperation I seized a loaf (we’d finished the ham) and hurled it at the nearest of them, and I am here to tell you that wolves don’t eat bread – they don’t even bloody well look at it, for that matter. I heard East roaring something, and cracking his whip like a madman, and God help me, I could see the eyes behind us now, glaring in those viciously pointed heads, with their open jaws and gleaming teeth, and the vapour panting out between them. The leader was a bare five yards behind, bounding along like some hound of hell; I grabbed another rug, balled it, prayed, and flung it at him, and for one joyous moment it enveloped him; he stumbled, recovered, and came on again, and East sang out from the box to hold tight. The sled rocked, and we were shooting along between high snow banks on either side, with those five devils barely a leap from us – and suddenly they were falling back, slackening their lope, and I couldn’t believe my eyes, and then a cabin flashed by on the right, and then another, with beautiful, wonderful light in its windows, and the five awful shapes were fading into the gloom, and we were gliding up a street, between rows of cottages on either side, and as East brought the sled slowly to a halt I collapsed, half-done, on the seat. Valla, I remember, muttered something and turned over in her rugs.

You would not think much of Yenitchi, I dare say, or its single mean street, but to me Piccadilly itself couldn’t have looked better. It was five minutes before I crawled out, and East and I faced the curious stares of the folk coming out of the cabins; the horses were hanging in their traces, and we had no difficulty in convincing them that we needed a change. There was a post-station at the end of the street, beside a bridge, and a drunk postmaster who, after much swearing and cajoling, was induced to produce a couple of fairly flea-bitten brutes; East wondered if we should rest for a few hours, and go on with our own nags refreshed, but I said no – let’s be off while the going’s good. So when we had got some few items of bread and sausages and cheese from the postmaster’s wife, and a couple of female garments for Valla to wear when she woke up, we put the new beasts to and prepared to take the road again.

It was a dismal prospect. Beyond the bridge, which spanned a frozen canal, we could see the Arrow of Arabat, a long, bleak tongue of snow-covered land running south like a huge railway embankment into the Azov Sea. The sea proper, which was frozen – at least as far out as we could see – lay to the left; on the right of the causeway lies a stinking inland lagoon, called the Sivache, which is many miles wide in places, but narrows down as you proceed along the Arrow, until it peters away altogether where the causeway reaches Arabat, on the eastern end of the Crimea. The lagoon seems to be too foul to freeze entirely, even in a Russian winter, and the stench from it would poison an elephant.

We were just preparing to set off, when Valla woke up, and after we had told her where she was, and reassured her that all was well, and she had wept a little, and I’d helped her out discreetly to answer a call of nature – well, she’d been asleep for the best of twenty-four hours – we decided after all to have a caulk before setting out again. East and I were both pretty done, but I wouldn’t allow more than two hours’ rest – having got this far, I’d no wish to linger. We had some food, and now Valla was beginning to come to properly, and wanted to know where we were taking her.

“We’re going back to our own army,” I told her. “We must take you with us – we can’t leave you here, and you’ll be well cared for. I believe your father is all right – we saw him and his Cossacks escaping as we drove away – and I know he would wish us to see you safe, and there’s nowhere better than where we’re going, d’you see?”

It served, after a deal of questioning and answering; whether she was still under the influence of the laudanum or not, I wasn’t certain, but she seemed content enough, in a sleepy sort of way, so we plied her with nips of brandy to keep out the cold – she refused outright the clothes we had got, and stayed curled up in her rugs – and being a Russian girl, she was ready to drink all we offered her.

“If she’s half-tight, so much the better,” says I to East. “Distressing, of course, but she’ll be less liable to give the game away if we run into trouble.”

“It is terrible for her – to be subjected to this nightmare,” says he. “But that was a noble lie you told, about her father – I wanted to shake your hand on that, old boy.” And he wrung it then and there. “I still think I must be dreaming,” says he. “This incredible country, and you and I – and this dear girl – fleeing for our lives! But we are nearly home, old fellow – a bare sixty miles to Arabat, and then eight hours at most will see us at Sevastopol, God willing. Will you pray with me, Flashman, for our deliverance?”

I wasn’t crawling about in the snow, not for him or anyone, but I stood while he mumped away with his hands folded, beseeching the Lord that we might quit ourselves like men, or something equally useful, and then we climbed in and took our forty winks. Valla was dozing, and the brandy bottle was half-empty – if ever they start the Little White Ribboners in Russia, all the members will have to be boys, for they’ll never get the women to take the pledge.

The rest did me little good. The scare we’d had from the wolves, and the perils ahead, had my nerves jangling like fiddle-strings, and after a bare hour of uneasy dozing I roused East and said we should be moving. The moon was up by now, so we should have light enough to ensure we didn’t stray from the causeway; I took the driver’s seat, and we slid away over the bridge and out on to the Arrow of Arabat.

For the first few miles it was quite wide, and as I kept to the eastern side there was a great expanse of hummocky snow to my right. But then the causeway gradually narrowed to perhaps half a mile, so that it was like driving along a very broad raised road, with the ground falling away sharply on either side to the snow-covered frozen waters of Azov and the Sivache lagoon; the salty charnel reek was awful, and even the horses didn’t like it, tossing their heads and pulling awkwardly, so that I had to look sharp to manage them. We passed two empty post-stations, East and I exchanging at each one, and after about four hours he took the reins for what we hoped would be the last spell into Arabat.

I climbed into the back of the sled and made all the fastenings secure as we started off again, and was preparing to curl up on the back seat when Valla stirred sleepily in the darkness, murmuring “Harr-ee?” as she stretched restlessly in her pile of furs on the floor. I knelt down beside her and took her hand, but when I spoke to her she just mumbled and turned over; the laudanum and brandy still had her pretty well foxed, and there was no sense to be got out of her. It struck me she might be conscious enough to enjoy some company, though, so I slipped a hand beneath the furs and encountered warm, plump flesh; the touch of it sent the blood pumping in my head.

“Valla, my love,” I whispered, just to be respectable; I could smell the sweet musky perfume of her skin, even over the brandy. I stroked her belly, and she moaned softly, and when I felt upwards and cupped her breast she turned towards me, her lips wet against my cheek. I was shaking as I put my mouth on hers, and then in a trice I was under the rugs, wallowing away like a sailor on shore leave, and half-drunk as she was she clung to me passionately. It was an astonishing business, for the furs were crackling with electricity, shocking me into unprecedented efforts – I thought I knew everything in the galloping line, but I’ll swear there’s no more alarming way of doing it than under a pile of skins in a sled skimming through the freezing Russian night; it’s like performing on a bed of fire-crackers.

Engrossing as the novelty was, it was also exhausting, and I must have dozed off afterwards with Valla purring in her unconsciousness beside me. And then I became dimly conscious that the sled was slowing down, and gliding to a halt; I sat up, wondering what the blazes was wrong, buttoning myself hastily, and then I heard East jump down. I stuck my head out; he was standing by the sled, his head cocked, listening.

“Hush!” says he, sharply. “Do you hear anything?”

It crossed my mind that he’d overheard the heaving and crackling of my contortions with Valla, but his next words drove that idea out of my head, and implanted a new and disturbing one.

“Behind us,” says he. “Listen!”

I scrambled out on to the snow, and we stood there, in the silent moonlight, straining our ears. At first there was nothing but the gentle sigh of the wind, the restless movement of the horses, and our own hearts thumping in the stillness – and then? Was there the tiniest murmur from somewhere back on the causeway, an indistinct but regular sound, softly up and down, up and down? I felt the hairs rise on my neck – it couldn’t be wolves, not here, but what was it, then? We stared back along the causeway; it was very narrow now, only a couple of hundred yards across, but we had just come on to a stretch where it began to swerve gently towards the east, and it was difficult to make out anything in the gloom beyond the bend about a quarter of a mile behind us. Snow was falling gently, brushing our faces.

“I thought I heard …” Scud said slowly. “But perhaps I was wrong.”

“Whatever it is, or isn’t, there’s no sense waiting here for it!” says I. “How far d’you reckon we are from Arabat?”

“Six miles, perhaps – surely not much more. Once there, we should be all right. According to that book of mine, there are little hills and gullies beyond the town, and we can lose ourselves in ’em if we want to, so …”

“The devil with dallying here, then!” cries I, in a fine stew. “Why the deuce are we wasting time, man? Let’s be off from this blasted place, where there’s nowhere to hide! Up on the box with you!”

“You’re right, of course,” says he. “I just … Hark, though! what’s that?”

I listened, gulping – and there was a sound, a sound that I knew all too well. Very faintly, somewhere behind us, there was a gentle but now distinct drumming, and a tiny tinkling with it. There were horsemen on the causeway!

“Quick!” I shouted. “They’re after us! Hurry, man – move those horses!”

He tumbled up on to the box, and as I swung myself on to the runner-mounting he cracked his whip and we slid forward across the snow. I clung to the side of the sled, peering back fearfully through the thin snow-fall, trying to make out if anything was showing beyond the bend in the causeway. We increased speed, and with the hiss of the runners it was impossible to listen for that frightening tell-tale sound.

“It may be just other travellers some distance back!” cries Scud from the box. “No one could be pursuing us!”

“Travellers at this time of night?” says I. “For God’s sake, man, hurry those beasts!”

We were gathering speed now, cracking along at a good clip, and I was just about to swing myself under the cover – but I paused for another look back along the causeway, and what I saw nearly made me loose my hold. Very dimly through the falling flakes, I could just make out the causeway bend, and there, moving out on to the straight on this side of it, was a dark, indistinct mass – too big and irregular to be anything like a sled. And then the moonlight caught a score of twinkling slivers in the gloom, and I yelled at East in panic:

“It’s cavalry – horsemen! They’re after us, man!”

At the same time they must have seen us, for a muffled cry reached my ears, and now I could see the mass was indeed made up of separate pieces – a whole troop of them, coming on at a steady hand-gallop, and even as I watched they lengthened their stride, closing the distance. East was flogging at the horses, and the sled swayed and shuddered as we tore along – were they gaining on us? I clung there, trying to measure the distance, but I couldn’t be sure; perhaps terror was colouring my judgment, making me see what I wanted to see, but so far as I could judge it looked as though we were holding our own for the moment.

“Faster!” I bawled to East. “Faster, man, or they’ll have us!”

If only the bloody ass hadn’t halted to listen – if only we hadn’t wasted that precious hour dozing at Yenitchi! I couldn’t begin to guess who these people were, or how they had got after us – but there they were, scudding along behind as fast as they could ride – four hundred yards, five hundred? Maybe five or more – I couldn’t see whether they were hussars or dragoons or what, but I had a feeling they were heavies. Pray God they might be! I swung under the covers and threw myself on to the back seat, peering out through the window-flap. No, they weren’t closing the distance – not yet. They were fanned out on the causeway as far as they could – good riding, that, for in column the rear files would have been ploughing into the churned snow of the men in front. Trust Russian cavalry to know about that.

But if they weren’t gaining, they weren’t dropping back, either. There was nothing in it – it’s a queer thing, but where a horseman can easily overhaul a coach, or even a racing phaeton, a good sled on firm snow is another matter entirely. A horse with a load on his back makes heavy weather in snow, but unladen they can spank a sled along at nearly full gallop.

But how long could our beasts keep up their present pace? They were far from fresh – on the other hand, our pursuers didn’t look too chipper, either. I watched them, my heart in my mouth, through the falling snow – was it getting thicker? By God, it was! If it really set in, and we could hold them as far as Arabat, we might be able to lose them – and even as the thought crossed my mind I felt the pace of the sled slacken just a little. I stared back at the distant horsemen, my throat dry, fixing on the centre man until my eyes ached and he seemed to be swimming mistily before me. He was just a vague blur – no, I could make out the shape of his head now – they were gaining, ever so little, but still gaining, creeping gradually up behind, yard by yard.

I couldn’t stand it. I plunged to the side of the sled, stuck my head out, and bawled at East.

“They’re closing, you fool! Faster! Can’t you stir those bloody cattle!”

He shot a glance over his shoulder, cracked on the reins, and cried:

“It’s no go … horses are almost played out! Can’t … We’re too heavy! Throw out some weight … the food … anything!”

I looked back; they were certainly gaining now, for the pale blobs of their faces were dimly visible even through the driving snow. They couldn’t be much more than two hundred yards away, and one of ’em was shouting; I could just catch the voice, but not the words.

“Damn you!” I roared. “Russian bastards!” And fell back into the sled, scrabbling for our supplies, to hurl them out and lighten the sled. It was ridiculous – a few loaves and a couple of bottles – but out they went anyway, and not a scrap of difference did it make. The cover? If I let it go, would that help – it would cut down the wind resistance at least. I struggled with the buckles, stiff with the cold as they were, bruising my fingers and swearing feebly. There were eight of them, two to each side, and I just had the wit to undo the rear ones first, and the front ones last, whereupon the whole thing flew off, billowing away before it flopped on the snow. Perhaps it helped a trifle, but nothing like enough – they were still closing, almost imperceptibly, but closing nonetheless.

I groaned and cursed, while the freezing wind whipped at me, casting about for anything else to jettison. The furs? We’d freeze without them, and Valla didn’t have a stitch – Valla! For an instant even I was appalled – but only for an instant. There was eight stone of her if there was an ounce – her loss would lighten us splendidly! And that wasn’t all – they’d be bound to check, at least, if she came bouncing over the back. Gallant Russian gentlemen, after all, don’t abandon naked girls in the snow. It would gain us seconds, anyway, and the loss of weight would surely do the rest.

I stooped over her, fighting to balance myself in the rocking sled. She was still unconscious, wrapped in her furs, looking truly lovely with her silver hair shining in the moonlight, murmuring a little in her half-drunken sleep. I heaved her upright, keeping the fur round her as best I could, and dragged her to the back seat. She nestled against me, and even in that moment of panic I found myself kissing her goodbye – well, it seemed the least I could do. Her lips were chill, with the snow driving past us in the wind; there’ll be more than your lips cold in a moment, thinks I. At least her eyes were shut, and our pursuers would see to her before she froze.

“Good-bye, little one,” says I. “Sleep tight,” and I slipped my arm beneath her legs and bundled her over the back in one clean movement; there was a flash of white limbs as the furs fell away from her, and then she was sprawling on the snow behind us. The sled leaped forward as though a brake had been released, East yelled with alarm, and I could guess he was clinging to the reins for dear life; I gazed back at the receding dark blur where the fur lay beside Valla in the snow. She was invisible in the white confusion, but I saw the riders suddenly swerve out from the centre, a thin shout reached me, and then the leader and his immediate flankers were reining up, the riders on the wings were checking, too, but then they came on, rot them, while a little knot of the centre men halted and gathered, and I saw a couple of them swinging down from their saddles before they were lost in the snowy night.

And the dozen or so riders from the wings were losing ground, too! The lightened sled was fairly racing along. I yelled with delight, tossing my hands in the air, and scrambled forward, over the front of the sled, heaving myself up beside East on the box.

“On, Scud, on!” I shouted. “We’re leaving ’em! We’ll beat them yet!”

“What was it?” he cried. “What did you do? What did you throw out?”

“Useless baggage!” shouts I. “Never mind, man! Drive for your life!”

He shouted at the beasts, snapping the reins, and then cries:

“What baggage? We had none!” He glanced over his shoulder, at where the horsemen were dim shapes now in the distance, and his eyes fell on the sled. “Is Valla all –” and then he positively screamed. “Valla! Valla! My God!” He reeled in his seat, and I had to grab the reins as they slipped from his fingers. “You – you – no, you couldn’t! Flashman, you …”

“Hold on, you infernal fool!” I yelled. “It’s too late now!” He made a grab at the reins, and I had to sweep him back by main force, as I clutched the ribbons in one hand. “Stop it, damn you, or you’ll have us sunk as well!”

“Rein up!” he bawled, struggling with me. “Rein up – must go back! My God, Valla! You filthy, inhuman brute – oh, God!”

“You idiot!” I shouted, lunging with all my weight to keep him off. “It was her or all of us!” Divine inspiration seized me. “Have you forgotten what we’re doing, curse you? We’ve got to get to Raglan, with our news! If we don’t – what about Ignatieff and his cursed plans? By heaven, East, I don’t forget my duty, even if you do, and I tell you I’d heave a thousand Russian sluts into the snow for my country’s sake!” And ten thousand for my own, but that’s no matter. “Don’t you see – it was that or be captured? And we’ve got to get through – whatever the cost!”

It stopped him struggling for the reins, at any rate; I felt him go limp beside me, and then he was sobbing like a man in torment, feebly beating with his fist against his temple.

“Oh, my God! How could you – oh, little Valla! I’d have gone – gladly! Oh, she’ll die – freezing in that horrible waste!”

“Stop that damned babbling!” says I, stern duty personified. “Do you think I wouldn’t have gone myself? And if I had, and some accident had then happened to you, where would our mission have been? While we’re both free we double our hope of success.” I snapped the reins, blinking against the driving snow as we sped along, and then stole a glance behind – nothing but whirling snow over the empty causeway; our pursuers were lost in the distance, but they’d still be there; we daren’t check for an instant.

East was clinging to the box as we rocked along, a man stricken. He kept repeating Valla’s name over and over again, and groaning. “Oh, it’s too much! Too high a price – God, have you no pity, Flashman? Are you made of stone?”

“Where my duty’s concerned – aye!” cries I, in a fine patriotic fever. “You may thank God for it! If you’d had your way, we’d have died with Pencherjevsky, or be getting sabred to bits back yonder – and would that have served our country?” I decided a little manly rave would do no harm – not that I gave a damn what East thought, but it would keep him quiet, and stop him doing anything rash even now. “My God, East! Have you any notion what this night’s work has cost me? D’you think it won’t haunt me forever? D’you think I … I have no heart?” I dashed my knuckles across my eyes in a fine gesture. “Anyway, it’s odds she’ll be all right – they’re her people, after all, and they’ll wrap her up nice as ninepence.”

He heaved a great shuddering breath. “Oh, I pray to God it may be so! But the horror of that moment – it’s no good, Flashman – I’m not like you! I have not the iron will – I am not of your mettle!”

You’re right there, boy, thinks I, turning again to look back. Still nothing, and then through the dimness ahead there was a faint glimmer of light, growing to a cluster, and the causeway was narrowing to nothing more than a dyke, so that I had to slow the sled for fear we should pitch down the banks to the frozen sea. There was a big square fort looming up on our right, and a straggle of buildings on the left, whence the lights came; between, the road ran clear on to broad snowfields.

I snapped the whip, calling to the horses, and we drove through, never heeding a voice that called to us from the fort wall overhead. The horsemen might well have closed on us with our slowing down for the dyke, and there wasn’t a second to spare. We scudded across the snowfield, casting anxious glances behind; the ground was becoming broken ahead, with little mounds and valleys, and stunted undergrowth – once into that, with the light snow still falling to blot out our tracks, we could twist away and lose them for certain.

“Bravo!” cries I, “we’re almost there!” Behind us, Arabat and its fort were fading into the dark; the glimmer of the lights was diminishing as we breasted the first gentle slope and made for a broad gully in the rising ground. We sped silently into it, the sled rocking on the uneven surface; I reined in gently as we went down the reverse slope – and then the lead horse stumbled, whinnying, and came slithering down, the near-side beast swerved sharply, wrenching the reins from my hands, the sled slewed horribly, struck something with a fearful jar, East went flying over the side, and I was hurled headlong forward. I went somersaulting through the air, roaring, felt my back strike the rump of the near-side horse, and then I was plunging into the snow. I landed on my back, and there above me was the sled, hanging poised: I screamed and flung up my hands to save my head. The sled came lumbering over, slowly almost, on top of me, a fiery pain shot through my left side, a crushing weight was across my chest; I shrieked again, and then it settled, pinning me in the snow like a beetle on a card.

I beat at it with my fists, and tried to heave up, but its weight and the agony in my side stopped me – there was a rib gone for sure, if nothing worse. One of the horses was floundering about in the snow, neighing madly, and then I heard East’s voice:

“Flashman! Flashman, are you all right?”

“I’m pinned!” I cried. “The sled – get the damned thing off me! Ah, God, my back’s broken!”

He came blundering through the snow, and knelt beside me. He put his shoulder to the sled, heaving for all he was worth, but he might as well have tried to shift St Paul’s. It didn’t give so much as an inch.

“Get it off!” I groaned. “It’s killing me – oh, Christ! Push, damn you – are you made of jelly?”

“I can’t!” he whispered, straining away. “It won’t … budge. Ah!” And he fell back, panting.

“Rot you, it’s crushing my guts out!” I cried. “Oh, God – I know my spine’s gone – I can feel it! I’m –”

“Silence!” he hissed, and I could see he was listening, staring back towards Arabat. “Oh, no! Flashman – they’re coming! I can hear the horsemen on the snow!” He flung himself at the sled, pushing futilely. “Oh, give me strength, God, please! Please!” He strove, thrusting at the sled, and groaning: “I can’t … I can’t shift it! Oh, God, what shall I do?”

“Push, or dig, or anything, curse you!” I cried. “Get me loose, for God’s sake! What are you doing, man? What is it?” For he was standing up now, staring back over the mouth of the gully towards Arabat; for half a minute he stood motionless, while I babbled and pawed at the wreck, and then he looked down at me, and his voice was steady.

“It’s no go, old fellow. I know I can’t move it. And they’re coming. I can just see them, dimly – but they’re heading this way.” He dropped on one knee. “Flashman – I’m sorry. I’ll have to leave you. I can hide – get away – reach Raglan. Oh, my dear comrade – if I could give my life, I would, but –”

“Rot you!” cries I. “My God, you can’t leave me! Push the bloody thing – help me, man! I’m dying!”

“Oh, God!” he said. “This is agony! First Valla – now you! But I must get the news through – you know I must. You have shown me the way of duty, old chap – depend upon it, I shan’t fail! And I’ll tell them – when I get home! Tell them how you gave … But I must go!”

“Scud,” says I, babbling, “for the love of –”

“Hush,” says he, clapping a hand over my lips, “don’t distress yourself – there’s no time! I’ll get there – one of the horses will serve, and if not – you remember the Big Side run by Brownsover, when we were boys? I finished, you know – I’ll finish again, Flash, for your sake! They shan’t catch me! Trust an old Rugby hare to distance a Russian pack – I will, and I’ll hear you hallooing me on! I’ll do it – for you, and for Valla – for both your sacrifices!”

“Damn Valla and you, too!” I squealed feebly. “You can’t go! You can’t leave me! Anyway, she’s a bloody Russian! I’m British, you swine! Help me, Scud!”

But I don’t think he so much as heard me. He bent forward, and kissed me on the forehead, and I felt one of his manly bloody tears on my brow. “Good-bye, dear old fellow,” says he. “God bless you!”

And then he was ploughing away over the snow, to where the near-side horse was standing; he pulled the traces free of its head, and hurried off, pulling it along into the underbrush, with me bleating after him.

“Scud! For pity’s sake, don’t desert me! You can’t – not your old school-fellow, you callous son-of-a-bitch! Please, stop, come back! I’m dying, damn you! I order you – I’m your superior officer! Scud! Please! Help me!”

But he was gone, and I was pinned, weeping, beneath that appalling weight, with the snow falling on my face, and the cold striking into my vitals. I would die, freezing horribly – unless they found me – oh, God, how would I die then? I struggled feebly, the pain lancing at my side, and then I heard the soft thumping of hooves on the snow, and a shout, and those cursed Russian voices, muffled from the mouth of the gully.

“Paslusha-tyeh! Ah, tam – skorah!”^a

The jingle of harness was close now, and the pad of hooves – a horse neighed on the other side of the sled, and I squeezed my eyes shut, moaning. At any moment I expected to feel the agony of a lance-point skewering into my chest; then there was the snorting of a horse almost directly over my face, and I shrieked and opened my eyes. Two horsemen were sitting looking down on me, fur-wrapped figures with those stringy Cossack caps pulled down over their brows; fierce moustached faces peering at me.

“Help!” I croaked. “Pamagityeh, pajalsta!”^b

One of them leaned forward. “On syer-yaznuh ranyin,”^c says he, and they both laughed, as at a good joke. Then, to my horror, the speaker drew his nagaika from his saddlebow, doubled it back, and leaned down over me.

“Nyeh zashta,”^d says he, leering. His hand went up, I tried in vain to jerk my head aside, a searing pain seemed to cleave my skull, and then the dark sky rushed in on me.

a “Listen! Ah there – quickly!”

b “Help, please!”

c “He is badly hurt.”

d “Not at all.”