Читать книгу The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 21

When I came to my senses I was lying on a wooden floor, my cheek against the boards. My head seemed to be opening and shutting with pain, and when I tried to raise it I found that my face was stuck to the boards with my own dried blood, so that I cried out with the pain as it pulled free.

The first thing I noticed was a pair of boots, of fine yellow leather, on the floor about two yards away; above them were pyjamy trousers and the skirt of a black coat, and then a green sash and two lean hands hooked into it by the thumbs, and above all, a dark, grinning face with pale grey eyes under a spiked helmet. I knew the face, from my visit to Mogala, and even in my confused state I thought: this is bad news. It was my old enemy, Gul Shah.

He sauntered over and kicked me in the ribs. I tried to speak, and the first words that came out, in a hoarse whisper, were: “I’m alive.”

“For the moment,” said Gul Shah. He squatted down beside me, smiling his wolf’s smile. “Tell me, Flashman: what does it feel like to die?”

“What d’ye mean?” I managed to croak.

He jerked his thumb. “Out in the street yonder: you were down, with the knives at your neck, and only my timely intervention saved you from the same fate as Sekundar Burnes. They cut him to pieces, by the way. Eighty-five pieces, to be exact: they have been counted, you see. But you, Flashman, must have known what it was like to die in that moment. Tell me: I am curious.”

I guessed there was no good coming from these questions; the evil look of the brute made my skin crawl. But I thought it best to answer.

“It was bloody horrible,” says I.

He laughed with his head back, rocking on his heels, and others laughed with him. I realised there were perhaps half a dozen others – Ghazis, mostly – in the room with us. They came crowding round to leer at me, and if anything they looked even nastier than Gul Shah.

When he had finished laughing he leaned over me. “It can be more horrible,” says he, and spat in my face. He reeked of garlic.

I tried to struggle up, demanding to know why he had saved me, and he stood up and kicked me again. “Yes, why?” he mocked me. I couldn’t fathom it; I didn’t want to. But I thought I’d pretend to act as though it were all for the best.

“I’m grateful to you, sir,” says I, “for your timely assistance. You shall be rewarded – all of you – and …”

“Indeed we will,” says Gul Shah. “Stand him up.”

They dragged me to my feet, twisting my arms behind me. I told them loudly that if they took me back to the cantonment they would be handsomely paid, and they roared with laughter.

“Any paying the British do will be in blood,” says Gul Shah. “Yours first of all.”

“What for, damn you?” I shouted.

“Why do you suppose I stopped the Ghazis from quartering you?” says he. “To preserve your precious skin, perhaps? To hand you as a peace offering to your people?” He stuck his face into mine. “Have you forgotten a dancing girl called Narreeman, you pig’s bastard? Just another slut, to the likes of you, to be defiled as you chose, and then forgotten. You are all the same, you feringhee swine; you think you can take our women, our country, and our honour and trample them all under foot. We do not matter, do we? And when all is done, when our women are raped and our treasure stolen, you can laugh and shrug your shoulders, you misbegotten pariah curs!” He was screaming at me, with froth on his lips.

“I meant her no harm,” I was beginning, and he struck me across the face. He stood there, glaring at me and panting. He made an effort and mastered himself.

“She is not here,” he said at last, “or I would give you to her and she would give you an eternity of suffering before you died. As it is, we shall do our poor best to accommodate you.”

“Look,” says I. “Whatever I’ve done, I beg your pardon for it. I didn’t know you cared for the wench, I swear. I’ll make amends, any way you like. I’m a rich man, a really rich man.” I went on to offer him whatever he wanted in ransom and as compensation to the girl, and it seemed to quiet him for a minute.

“Go on,” says he, when I paused. “This is good to listen to.”

I would have done, but just the cruel sneer told me he was mocking me, and I fell silent.

“So, we are where we began,” says he. “Believe me, Flashman, I would make you die a hundred deaths, but time is short. There are other throats besides yours, and we are impatient people. But we shall make your passing as memorable as possible, and you shall tell me again what it is like to die. Bring him along.”

They dragged me from the room, along a passage, and I roared for help and called Gul Shah every filthy name I could lay tongue to. He strode on ahead, heedless, and presently threw open a door; they ran me across the threshold and I found I was in a low, vaulted chamber, perhaps twenty yards long. I had half-expected racks and thumbscrews or some such horrors, but the room was entirely bare. The one curious feature of it was that half way it was cut in two by a deep culvert, perhaps ten feet wide and six deep. It was dry, and where it ran into the walls on either side the openings were stopped up with rubble. This had obviously been done only recently, but I could not imagine why.

Gul Shah turned to me. “Are you strong, Flashman?”

“Damn you!” I shouted, “You’ll pay for this, you dirty nigger!”

“Are you strong?” he repeated. “Answer, or I’ll have your tongue cut out.”

One of the ruffians grabbed my jaw in his hairy paw and brought the knife up to my mouth. It was a convincing argument. “Strong enough, damn you.”

“I doubt that,” smiled Gul Shah. “We have executed two rascals here of late, neither of them weaklings. But we shall see.” To one of his crew he said: “Bring Mansur. I should explain this new entertainment of mine,” he went on, gloating at me. “It was inspired partly by the unusual shape of this chamber, with its great trench in the middle, and partly by a foolish game which your British soldiers play. Doubtless you have played it yourself, which will add interest for you, and us. Yah, Mansur, come here.”

As he spoke, a grotesque figure waddled into the room. For a moment I could not believe it was a man, for he was no more than four feet high. But he was terrific. He was literally as broad as he was long, with huge knotted arms and a chest like an ape’s. His enormous torso was carried on massive legs. He had no neck that I could see, and his yellow face was as flat as a plate, with a hideous nose spread across it, a slit of a mouth, and two black button eyes. His body was covered in dark hair, but his skull was as smooth as an egg. He wore only a dirty loincloth, and as he shuffled across to Gul Shah the torchlight in that windowless room gave him the appearance of some hideous Nibelung dragging itself through dark burrows beneath the earth.

“A fine manikin, is he not?” said Gul Shah, regarding the hideous imp. “Your soul must be as handsome, Flashman. Which is fitting, for he is your executioner.”

He snapped an order, and the dwarf, with a glance at me and a contortion of his revolting mouth which I took to be a grin, suddenly bounded into the culvert, and with a tremendous spring leaped up the other side, catching the edge and flipping up, like an acrobat. That done he turned and faced us, arms outstretched, a disgusting yellow giant-in-miniature.

The men who held me now dragged my arms in front of me, and bound my wrists tightly with a stout rope. One of them then took the coil and carried it across to the dwarf’s side of the culvert; the manikin made a hideous bubbling noise and held his wrist up eagerly, and they were bound as mine had been. So we stood, on opposite edges of the culvert, bound to ends of the same rope, with the slack of it lying in the great trench between us.

There had been no further word of explanation, and in the hellish uncertainty of what was to come, my nerve broke. I tried to run, but they hauled me back, laughing, and the dwarf Mansur capered on his side of the culvert and snapped his fingers in delight at my terror.

“Let me go, you bastards!” I roared, and Gul Shah smiled and clapped his hands.

“You start at shadows,” he sneered. “Behold the substance. Yah, Asaf.”

One of his ruffians came to the edge of the trench, bearing a leather sack tied at the neck. Cautiously undoing it, and holding it by the bottom, he suddenly up-ended it into the culvert. To my horror, half a dozen slim, silver shapes that glittered evilly in the torchlight, fell writhing into the gap; they plopped gently to the floor of the culvert and then slithered with frightening speed towards the sides. But they could not climb up at us, so they glided about their strange prison in deadly silence. You could sense the vicious anger in them as they slid about beneath us.

“Their bite is death,” said Gul Shah. “Is all now plain, Flashman? It is what you call a tug-of-war – you against Mansur. One of you must succeed in tugging the other into the trench, and then – it takes a few moments for the venom to kill. Believe me, the snakes will be kinder than Narreeman would have been.”

“Help!” I roared, although God knows I expected none. But the sight of those loathsome things, the thought of their slimy touch, of the stab of their fangs – I thought I should go mad. I raged and pleaded, and that Afghan swine clapped his hands and yelled with laughter. The dwarf Mansur hopped in eagerness to begin, and presently Gul Shah stepped back, snapped an order to him, and said to me:

“Pull for your life, Flashman. And present my salaams to Shaitan.”

I had retreated as far as I could go from the culvert’s edge, and was standing, half-paralysed, when the dwarf snapped his wrists impatiently at the rope. The jerk brought me to my senses; as I have said before, terror is a wonderful stimulant. I braced my boot-heels on the rough stone floor, and prepared to resist with all my strength.

Grinning, the dwarf scuttled backwards until the rope stretched taut between us; I guessed what his first move would be, and was ready for the sudden jerk when it came. It nearly lifted me off my feet, but I turned with the rope across my shoulder and gave him heave for heave. The rope drummed like a bowstring, and then relaxed; he leered across at me and made a dribbling, piping noise. Then he bunched his enormous shoulder muscles, and leaning back, began to pull steadily.

By God, he was strong. I strained until my shoulders cracked and my arms shuddered, but slowly, inch by inch, my heels slithered across the rough surface towards the edge of the trench. The Ghazis urged him on with cries of delight, Gul Shah came to the brink so that he could watch me as I was drawn inexorably to the limit. I felt one of my heels slip into space, my head seemed to be bursting with the effort and my ears roared – and then the tearing pain in my wrists relaxed, and I was sprawled on the very edge, exhausted, with the dwarf prancing and laughing on the other side and the rope slack between us.

The Ghazis were delighted, and urged him to give me a quick final jerk into the culvert, but he shook his head and backed away again, snapping the rope at me. I glanced down; the snakes seemed almost to know what was afoot, for they had concentrated in a writhing, hissing mass just below me. I scrambled back, wet with fear and rage, and hurled my weight on the rope to try to heave him off balance. But for all the impression I made it might have been anchored to a tree.

He was playing with me; there was no question he was far the stronger of us two, and twice he hauled me to the lip and let me go again. Gul Shah clapped his hands and the Ghazis cheered; then he snapped some order to the dwarf, and I realised with sick horror that they were going to make an end. In despair I rolled back again from the edge and got to my feet; my wrists were torn and bloody and my shoulder joints were on fire, and when the dwarf pulled on the rope I staggered forward and in doing so I nearly got him, for he had expected a stronger resistance, and almost overbalanced. I hauled for dear life, but he recovered in time, glaring and piping angrily at me as he stamped his feet for a hold.

When he had finally settled himself he started to draw again on the rope, but not with his full strength, for he pulled me in only an inch at a time. This, I supposed, was the final hideous refinement; I struggled like a fish on a line, but there was no resisting that steady, dreadful pull. I was perhaps ten feet from the lip when he turned away from me, as a tug-of-war team will when it has its opponents on the run, and I realised that if I was to make any last desperate bid it must be now, while I had a little space to play with. I had almost unbalanced him by an accidental yielding; could I do it deliberately? With the last of my strength I dug my heels in and heaved tremendously; it checked him and he glanced over his shoulder, surprise on the hideous face. Then he grinned and exerted his strength, lunging away on the rope. My feet slipped.

“Go with God, Flashman,” said Gul Shah ironically.

I scrabbled for a foothold, found it only six feet from the edge, and then bounded forward. The leap took me to the very lip of the culvert, and the dwarf Mansur plunged forward on his face as the rope slackened. But he was up like a jack-in-the-box, gibbering with rage, in an instant; planting his feet, he gave a savage heave on the rope that almost dislocated my shoulders and flung me face down. Then he began to pull steadily, so that I was dragged forward over the floor, closer and closer to the edge, while the Ghazis cheered and roared and I screamed with horror.

“No! No!” I shrieked. “Stop him! Wait! Anything – I’ll do anything! Stop him!”

My hands were over the edge now, and then my elbows; suddenly there was nothing beneath my face, and through my streaming tears I saw the bottom of the culvert with the filthy worms gliding across it. My chest and shoulders were clear, in an instant I should overbalance; I tried to twist my head up to appeal to the dwarf, and saw him standing on the far edge, grinning evilly and coiling the slack rope round his right hand and elbow like a washerwoman with a clothes line. He glanced at Gul Shah, preparing to give the final pull that would launch me over, and then above my own frantic babbling and the roaring in my ears I heard the crash of a door flung open behind me, and a stir among the watchers, and a voice upraised in Pushtu.

The dwarf was standing stock-still, staring beyond me towards the door. What he saw I didn’t know, and I didn’t care; half-dead with fear and exhaustion as I was, I recognised that his attention was diverted, that the rope was momentarily slack between us, and that he was on the very lip of the trench. It was my last chance.

I had only the purchase of my body and legs on the stone; my arms were stretched out ahead of me. I jerked them suddenly back, sobbing, with all my strength. It was not much of a pull, but it took Mansur completely unawares. He was watching the doorway, his eyes round in his gargoyle face; too late he realised that he had let his attention wander too soon. The jerk, slight as it was, unbalanced him, and one leg slipped over the edge; he shrieked and tried to throw himself clear, but his grotesque body landed on the very edge, and he hung for a moment like a see-saw. Then with a horrible piping squeal he crashed sprawling into the culvert.

He was up again with a bound, and springing for the rim, but by the grace of God he had landed almost on top of one of those hellish snakes, and even as he came upright it struck at his bare leg. He screamed and kicked at it, and the delay gave a second brute the chance to fix itself in his hand. He lashed out blindly, making a most ghastly din, and staggered about with at least two of the things hanging from him. He ran in his dreadful waddling way in a little circle, and fell forward on his face. Again and again the serpents struck at him; he tried feebly to rise, and then collapsed, his misshapen body twitching.

I was dead beat, with exertion and shock; I could only lie heaving like a bellows. Gul Shah strode to the edge of the culvert and screamed curses at his dead creature; then he turned, pointing to me, and shouted:

“Fling that bastard in beside him!”

They grabbed me and ran me to the pit’s edge, for I could make no resistance. But I remember I protested that it wasn’t fair, that I had won, and deserved to be let go. They held me on the edge, hanging over the pit, and waited for the final word from my enemy. I closed my eyes to blot out the sight of the snarling faces and those dreadful reptiles, and then I was pulled back, and the hands fell away from me. Wondering, I turned wearily; they had all fallen silent, Gul Shah with the rest of them.

A man stood in the doorway. He was slightly under middle height, with the chest and shoulders of a wrestler, and a small, neat head that he turned from side to side, taking in the scene. He was simply dressed in a grey coat, clasped about with a belt of chain mail, and his head was bare. He was plainly an Afghan, with something of the pretty look that was so repulsive in Gul Shah, but here the features were stronger and plumper; he carried an air of command, but very easily, without any of the strutting arrogance that so many of his race affected.

He came forward, nodding to Gul Shah and eyeing me with polite interest. I noticed with astonishment that his eyes, oriental though they were in shape, were of vivid blue. That and the slightly curly dark hair gave him a European look, which suited his bluff, sturdy figure. He sauntered to the edge of the culvert, clicked his tongue ruefully at the dead dwarf, and asked conversationally:

“What has happened here?”

He sounded like a vicar in a drawing-room, he was so mild, but Gul Shah kept mum, so I burst out:

“These swine have been trying to murder me!”

He gave me a brilliant smile. “But without success,” cried he. “I felicitate you. Plainly you have been in terrible danger, but have escaped by your skill and bravery. A notable feat, and what a tale for your children’s children!”

It was really too much. Twice in hours I had been on the brink of violent death, I was battered, exhausted, and smeared with my own blood, and here I was conversing with a lunatic. I almost broke down in tears, and I certainly groaned: “Oh, Jesus.”

The stout man raised an eyebrow. “The Christian prophet? Why, who are you then?”

“I’m a British officer!” I cried. “I have been captured and tortured by these ruffians, and they’d have killed me, too, with their hellish snakes! Whoever you are, you must—”

“In the hundred names of God!” he broke in. “A feringhee officer? Plainly there has almost been a very serious accident. Why did you not tell them who you were?”

I gaped at him, my head spinning. One of us must be mad. “They knew,” I croaked. “Gul Shah knew.”

“Impossible,” says the stout fellow, shaking his head. “It could not be. My friend Gul Shah would be incapable of such a thing; there has been an unfortunate error.”

“Look,” I said, reaching out towards him, “you must believe me: I am Lieutenant Flashman, on the staff of Lord Elphinstone, and this man has tried to do me to death – not for the first time. Ask him,” I shouted, “how I came here! Ask the lying, treacherous bastard!”

“Never try to flatter Gul Shah,” said the stout man cheerfully. “He’ll believe every word of it. No, there has been a mistake, regrettably, but it has not been irreparable. For which God be thanked – and my timely arrival, to be sure.” And he smiled at me again. “But you must not blame Gul Shah, or his people: they did not know you for what you were.”

Now, as he said those words, he ceased to be a waggish madman; his voice was as gentle as ever, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath. Suddenly things became real again, and I understood that the kindly smiling man before me was strong in a way that folk like Gul Shah could never be: strong and dangerous. And with a great surge of relief I realised too that with him by I was safe: Gul Shah must have sensed it also, for he roused himself and growled that I was his prisoner, feringhee officer or not, and he would deal with me.

“No, he is my guest,” said the stout man reprovingly. “He has met with a mishap on his way here, and needs refreshment and care for his wounds. You have mistaken again, Gul Shah. Now, we shall have his wrists unbound, and I shall take him to such entertainment as befits a guest of his importance.”

My bonds were cut off in a moment, and two of the Ghazis – the same evil-smelling brutes that a few moments ago had been preparing to hurl me to the snakes – supported me from that hellish place. I could feel Gul Shah’s eyes boring into my back, but he said not a word; it seemed to me that the only explanation was that this must be the stout man’s house, and under the strict rules of Musselman hospitality his word was law. But in my exhausted state I couldn’t attempt to make sense of it all, and was only glad to stagger after my benefactor.

They took me to a well-furnished apartment, and under the stout man’s supervision the crack in my head was bathed, the blood washed from my torn wrists and oiled bandages applied, and then I was given strong mint tea and a dish of bread and fruit. Although my head ached damnably I was famishing, not having eaten all day, and while I ate the stout man talked.

“You must not mind Gul Shah,” he said, sitting opposite me and toying with his small beard. “He is a savage – what Gilzai isn’t? – and now that I think on your name I connect you with the incident at Mogala some time ago. ‘Bloody Lance’, is it not?” And he gave me that tooth-flashing smile again. “I imagine you had given him cause for resentment—”

“There was a woman,” I said. “I didn’t know she was his woman.” Which wasn’t true, but that was by the way.

“There is so often a woman,” he agreed. “But I imagine there was more to it than that. The death of a British officer at Mogala would have been convenient politically for Gul – yes, yes, I see how it may have been. But that is past.” He paused, and looked at me reflectively. “And so is the unfortunate incident in the cellar today. It is best, believe me, that it should be so. Not only for you personally, but for all your people here.”

“What about Sekundar Burnes and his brother?” said I. “Your soft words won’t bring them back.”

“A terrible tragedy,” he agreed. “I admired Sekundar. Let us hope that the ruffians who slew him will be apprehended, and meet with a deserved judgement.”

“Ruffians?” says I. “Good God, man, those were Akbar Khan’s warriors, not a gang of robbers. I don’t know who you are, or what your influence may be, but you’re behind the times where news is concerned. When they murdered Burnes and sacked his Residency, that was the beginning of a war. If the British haven’t marched from their cantonment into Kabul yet, they soon will, and you can bet on that!”

“I think you exaggerate,” he said mildly. “This talk of Akbar Khan’s warriors, for example—”

“Look you,” I said, “don’t try to tell me. I rode in from the east last night: the tribes are up along the passes from here to Jugdulluk and beyond, thousands of ’em. They’re trying to wipe out Sale’s force, they’ll be here as soon as Akbar has a mind to take Kabul and slit Shah Sujah’s throat and seize his throne. And God help the British garrison and loyalists like yourself who help them as you’ve helped me. I tried to tell Burnes this, and he laughed and wouldn’t heed me. Well, there you are.” I stopped; all that talk had made me thirsty. When I had taken some tea I added: “Believe it or not as you like.”

He sat quiet for a moment, and then remarked that it was an alarming story, but that I must be mistaken. “If it were as you say, the British would have moved by now – either out of Kabul, or into the Bala Hissar fort, where they would be safe. They are not fools, after all.”

“You don’t know Elphy Bey, that’s plain,” says I. “Or that ass McNaghten. They don’t want to believe it, you see; they want to think all’s well. They think Akbar Khan is still skulking away in the Hindu Kush; they refuse to believe the tribes are rallying to him, ready to sweep the British out of Afghanistan.”

He sighed. “It may be as you say: such delusions are common. Or they may be right, and the danger smaller than you think.” He stood up. “But I am a thoughtless host. Your wound is paining you, and you need rest, Flashman huzoor. I shall weary you no longer. Here you can have peace, and in the morning we can talk again; among other things, of how to return you safely to your people.” He smiled, and the blue eyes twinkled. “We want no more ‘mistakes’ from hotheads like Gul Shah. Now, God be with you.”

I struggled up, but I was so weak and weary that he insisted I be seated again. I told him I was deeply grateful for all his kindness, that I would wish to reward him, but he laughed and turned to go. I mumbled some more thanks to him, and it occurred to me that I still didn’t know who he was, or how he had the power to save me from Gul Shah. I asked him, and he paused in the curtained doorway.

“As to that,” he said, “I am the master of this house. My close friends call me Bakbook, because I incline to talk. Others call me by various names, as they choose.” He bowed. “You may call me by my given name, which is Akbar Khan. Good night, Flashman huzoor, and a pleasant rest. There are servants within call if you need them.”

And with that he was gone, leaving me gaping at the doorway, and feeling no end of a fool.