Flashman At The Charge Part 9

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 hors.e.m.e.n 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 G.o.d!" 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, d.a.m.n you, or you'll have us sunk as well!"

"Rein up!" he bawled, struggling with me. "Rein up - must go back! My G.o.d, Valla! You filthy, inhuman brute - oh, G.o.d!"

"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 s.l.u.ts 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 G.o.d! How could you - oh, little Valla! I'd have gone - gladly! Oh, she'll die - freezing in that horrible waste!"

"Stop that d.a.m.ned 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 - G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 d.a.m.n what East thought, but it would keep him quiet, and stop him doing anything rash even now. "My G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 cl.u.s.ter, and the causeway was narrowing to nothing more than a d.y.k.e, 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 hors.e.m.e.n might well have closed on us with our slowing down for the d.y.k.e, 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, Ara-bat 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 d.a.m.ned thing off me! Ah, G.o.d, 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, d.a.m.n 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, G.o.d - 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 hors.e.m.e.n on the snow!" He flung himself at the sled, pushing futilely. "Oh, give me strength, G.o.d, please! Please!" He strove, thrusting at the sled, and groaning: "I can't . . . I can't shift it! Oh, G.o.d, what shall I do?"

"Push, or dig, or anything, curse you!" I cried. "Get me loose, for G.o.d'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 G.o.d, you can't leave me! Push the b.l.o.o.d.y thing - help me, man! I'm dying!"

"Oh, G.o.d!" 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!"

"d.a.m.n Valla and you, too!" I squealed feebly. "You can't go! You can't leave me! Anyway, she's a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y tears on my brow. "Good-bye, dear old fellow," says he. "G.o.d 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-b.i.t.c.h! Please, stop, come back! I'm dying, d.a.m.n 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, G.o.d, 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, m.u.f.fled from the mouth of the gully.

"Paslusha-tyeh!*(*Ah there) Ah, tam*(*"Listen!) - skorah!"*(*quickly!) 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 hors.e.m.e.n 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!"*(*"Help, please!) One of them leaned forward. "On syer-yaznuh ranyin,"*(*He is badly hurt.) says he, and they both laughed, as at a good joke. Then, to my horror ,the speaker drew his nagaika from his saddle-bow, doubled it back, and leaned down over me.

"Nyeh zashta, "*(*Not at all.) 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.

I suppose my life has been full of poetic justice - an expression customarily used by Holy Joes to cloak the vindictive pleasure they feel when some enterprising fellow fetches himself a cropper. They are the kind who'll say unctuously that I was properly hoist with my own petard at Arabat, and serve the b.a.s.t.a.r.d right. I'm inclined to agree; East would never have abandoned me if I hadn't heaved Valla out of the sled in the first place. He'd have stuck by me and the Christian old school code, and let his military duty go hang. But my treatment of his beloved made it easy for him to forget the ties of comradeship and brotherly love, and do his duty; all his pious protestations about leaving me were really hypocritical moonshine, spouted out to salve his own conscience.

I know my Easts and Tom Browns, you see. They're never happy unless their morality is being tried in the furnace, and they can feel they're doing the right, Christian thing - and never mind the consequences to anyone else. Selfish brutes. d.a.m.ned unreliable it makes 'em, too. On the other hand, you can always count on me. I'd have got the news through to Raglan out of pure cowardice and self-love, and to h.e.l.l with East and Valla both; but your pious Scud had to have a grudge to pay off before he'd abandon me. Odd, ain't it? They'll do for us yet, with their sentiment and morality.

In the meantime he had done for me, handsomely. If you're one of the aforementioned who take satisfaction in seeing the wicked go a.r.s.e over tip into the pit which they have digged, you'll relish the situation of old Flashy, a half-healed crack in his head, a broken rib crudely strapped up with rawhide, lousy after a week in a filthy cell under Fort Arabat, and with his belly muscles fluttering in the presence of Captain Count Nicholas Pavlovitch Ignatieff.

They had hauled me into the guard-room, and there he was, the inevitable cigarette clamped between his teeth, those terrible hypnotic blue-brown eyes regarding me with no more emotion than a snake's. For a full minute he stared at me, the smoke escaping in tiny wreaths from his lips, and then without a change of expression he lashed me across the face with his gloves, back and forth, while I struggled feebly between my Cossack guards, trying to duck my head from his blows.

"Don't!" I cried. "Don't, please! Pajalsta! I'm a prisoner! You've no right to . . . to treat me so! I'm a British officer . . . please! I'm wounded ... for G.o.d's sake, stop!"

He gave me one last swipe, and then looked at his gloves, weighing them in his hand. Then, in that icy whisper, he said: "Burn those," and dropped them at the feet of the aide who stood beside him.

"You," he said to me, and his voice was all the more deadly for not bearing the slightest trace of heat or emotion, "plead for mercy. You need expect none. You are forsworn - a betrayer of the vilest kind. You were treated with every consideration, with kindness even, by a man who turned to you in his hour of need, laying on you the most solemn obligation to protect his daughter. You repaid him by abducting her, by trying to escape, and by abandoning her to her death. You ..."

"It's a lie!" I shouted. "I didn't - it was an accident! She fell from the sled - it wasn't my fault! I was driving, I wasn't even with her!"

His reply to this was a gesture to the aide, who struck me with the gloves again.

"You are a liar," says Ignatieff. "The officer of the pursuing troop saw you. Pencherjevsky himself has told me how you and your comrade East left Starotorsk, how you basely seized the opportunity to escape ..."

"It wasn't base ... we'd given no parole . . . we had the right of any prisoners of war . . . in all honour ..."

"You talk of honour," says he softly. "You thought to escape all censure, because you believed Pencherjevsky was doomed. Fortunately, he was not a hetman of Cossacks for nothing. He cut his way clear, and in spite of your unspeakable treatment of his daughter, she too survived."

"Thank G.o.d for that!" cries I. "Believe me, sir, you are quite mistaken. I intended no betrayal of the Count, and I swear I never mistreated his daughter - it was all an accident . . .

"The only accident for you was the one that prevented your escaping. I promise you," he went on, in that level, sibilant voice, "that you will live to wish that sled had crushed your life out. For by your conduct, you under-stand, you have lost every right to be treated as an honourable man, or even as a common felon. You are beyond the law of nations, you are beyond mercy. One thing alone can mitigate your punishment."

He paused there, to let it sink in, and to take another cigarette. The aide lit it for him, while I waited, quaking and sweating.

"I require an answer to one question," says Ignatieff, "and you will supply it in your own language. Lie to me, or try to evade it, and I will have your tongue removed." His next words were in English. "Why did you try to escape?"

Terrified as I was, I daren't tell him the truth. I knew that if he learned that, I'd found out about his expedition to India, it was all up with me.

"Because ... because there was the opportunity . . and there wasn't any dishonour in it. And we meant .. . ah, Miss Pencherjevsky no harm, I swear we didn't ..."

"You lie. No one, in your situation, would have attempted such a foolhardy escape, let alone such a dishonourable one, without some pressing reason." The blue-brown eyes seemed to be boring into my brain. "I believe I know what it was - the only thing it could possibly be. And I a.s.sure you, in five minutes from now you will be dying, in excruciating agony, unless you can tell me what is meant by -" he paused, inhaling on his cigarette "- Item Seven." He let the smoke trickle down his nostrils. "If, by chance, you are unaware of what it means, you will die anyway."

There was nothing for it; I had to confess. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. Then I stammered out hoa.r.s.ely, in English: "It's a plan ... to invade India. Please, for G.o.d's sake, I found out about it by accident, I ... "

"How did you discover it?"

I babbled it out, how we had eavesdropped in the gallery and heard him talking to the Tsar. "It was just by chance ... I didn't mean to spy . . . it was East, and he said we must try to escape . . . to get word to our people . . . to warn them! I said it was dishonourable, that we were bound as gentlemen ..."

"And Major East was with you, and overheard?"

"Yes, yes . . . it was his notion, you see! I didn't like it ... and when he suggested we escape, when those beastly peasants attacked Starotorsk . . . what could I do? But I swear we meant no harm, and ... and it's a lie that I mistreated Miss Pencherjevsky - I'll swear it, by my honour, on the Bible..."

"Gag him," says Ignatieff. "Bring him to the courtyard. And bring a prisoner. Any one in the cells will do."

They stuffed a rag into my mouth, and bound it, stifling my pleas for mercy, for I was sure he was going to make away with me horribly, now that he had his information. They pinioned my wrists, and thrust me brutally out into the yard; it was freezing, and I had nothing but my shirt and breeches. I waited, trembling with cold and funk, until presently another Cossack appeared, driving in front of him a scared, dirty-looking peasant with fetters on his legs. Ignatieff, who had followed us out, and was pinching the paper of a cigarette, beckoned the Cossack.

"What was this fellow's offence?"

"Insubordination, Lord Count."

"Very good," says Ignatieff, and lit his cigarette.

Two more Cossacks appeared, carrying between them a curious bench, like a vaulting horse with very short legs and a flat top. The prisoner shrieked at the sight of it, and tried to run, but they dragged him to it, tearing off his clothes, and bound him on it face down, with thongs at his ankles, knees, waist and neck, so that he lay there, naked and immovable, but still screaming horribly.

Ignatieff beckoned one of the Cossacks, who held out to him a curious thick black coil, of what looked for all the world like shiny liquorice. Ignatieff hefted it in his hands, and then stepped in front of me and placed it over my head; I shuddered as it touched my shoulders, and was astonished by the weight of the thing. At a sign from Ignatieff the Cossack, grinning, drew it slowly off my shoulders, and I realized in horror as it slithered off like an obscene black snake that it was a huge whip, over twelve feet long, as thick as my arm at the b.u.t.t and tapering to a point no thicker than a boot-lace.

"You will have heard of this," says Ignatieff softly. "It is called a know. Its use is illegal. Watch."

The Cossack stood opposite the bench with its howling victim, took the knout in both hands, and swept it back over his shoulder so that its hideous lash trailed behind him in the snow. Then he struck.

I've seen floggings, and watched with fascination as a rule, but this was horrible, like nothing imaginable. That diabolical thing cut through the air with a noise like a steam whistle, so fast that you couldn't see it; there was a crack like a pistol-shot, a fearful, choked scream of agony, and then the Cossack was snaking it back for another blow.

"Wait," says Ignatieff, and to me: "Come here." They pushed me forward to the bench, the bile nearly choking me behind the gag; I didn't want to look, but they forced me. The wretched man's b.u.t.tocks were cut clean across, as by a sabre, and the blood was pouring out.

"The drawing stroke," says Ignatieff. "Proceed."

Five more shrieking cuts, five more explosive cracks, five more razor gashes, and the snow beneath the bench was sodden with blood. The most horrible thing was that the victim was conscious still, making awful animal noises.

"Now observe," says Ignatieff, "the effect of a flat blow."

The Cossack struck a seventh time, but this time he didn't snap the know, but let it fall smack across the patient's spine. There was a dreadful sound, like a wet cloth slapped on stone, but from the victim no cry at all. They unstrapped him, and as they lifted the bleeding wreck of his body from the bench, I saw it was hanging horribly limp in the middle.

"The killing stroke," said Ignatieff. "It is debatable how many of the drawing blows a man can endure, but with the flat stroke one is invariably fatal." He turned to look at me, and then at the blood-soaked bench, as though considering, while he smoked calmly. At last he dropped his cigarette in the snow.

"Bring him inside."

I was half-fainting with fear and shock when they dropped me sprawling in a chair, and Ignatieff sat down behind the table and waved them out. He lit himself another cigarette, and then said quietly: "That was a demonstration, for your benefit. You see now what awaits you - except that when your turn comes I shall take the opportunity of ascertaining how many of the drawing strokes a vigorous and healthy man can suffer before he dies. Your one hope of escaping that fate lies in doing precisely as you are told - for I have a use for you. If I had not, you would be undergoing destruction by the knout at this moment."

He smoked in silence for a minute, never taking his eyes off me, and I watched him like a rabbit before a snake. Not only the hideous butchery I had watched, but the fact that he had condemned a poor devil to it just to impress me, appalled me utterly. And I knew I would do anything - anything, to escape that abomination.

"That you had somehow learned of Item Seven I already suspected," says Ignatieff at last. "Nothing else would have led you to flee. Accordingly, for the past week, we have proceeded on the a.s.sumption that intelligence of our expedition would reach Lord Raglan - and subsequently your government in London. We can now be certain that it has done so, since your companion, Major East, has not been recaptured. This betrayal is regrettable, but by no means disastrous. Indeed, it can be made to work to our advantage, for your authorities will suppose that they have seven months to prepare against the blow that is coming. They will be wrong. In four months from now our army will be advancing over the Khyber Pa.s.s, thirty thousand strong, with at least half as many Afghan allies eager to descend across the Indus. If every British soldier in India were sent to guard the frontier - which is impossible - it would not serve to stem our advance. No adequate help can arrive from England in time, and your troops will have a rebellious Indian population at their backs while we take them by the throat. Our agents are already at work, preparing that insurrection.

"You may wonder how it is possible to advance the moment of our attack by three months. It is simple. General Khruleffs original plan for an attack through the Syr Daria country to Afghanistan and India will be adhered to - our army had been preparing to take this route, which was abandoned only lately because of minor difficulties with native bandits and because the southern road, through Persia, offered a more secure and leisurely progress. The change of plan will thus be simple to effect, since the army is still poised for the northern route, and the arrangements for its transport by sea across Caspian and Aral can proceed immediately. This will ensure progress at twice the speed we could hope for if we went through Persia. And we will consolidate our position among the Syr Daria and Amu Daria tribesmen in pa.s.sing."

I didn't doubt a word of it - not that I cared a patriotic d.a.m.n. They could have India, China, and the whole b.l.o.o.d.y Orient for me, if only I could find a way out for myself.

"It is as well that you should know this," went on Ignatieff, "so that you may understand the part which I intend that you should play in it. A part for which you are providentially qualified. I know a great deal about you - so much, indeed, that you will be astonished at the extent of my knowledge. It is our policy to garner information, and I doubt," went on this c.o.c.ky b.a.s.t.a.r.d, "whether any state in Europe can boast such extensive secret dossiers as we possess. I am especially aware of your activities in Afghanistan fourteen years ago - of your work, along with such agents as Burnes and Pottinger, among the Gilzais and other tribes. I know even of the exploit which earned you the extravagant nickname of 'b.l.o.o.d.y Lance', of your dealings with Muhammed Akbar Khan, of your solitary survival of the disaster which befell the British Army*(*See Flashman.) - a disaster in which, you may be unaware, our own intelligence service played some part."

Now, shaken and fearful as I was, one part of my mind was noting something from all this. Master Ignatieff might be a clever and devilish dangerous man, but he had at least one of the besetting weaknesses of youth: he was as vain as an Etonian duke, and it led him to commit the cardinal folly in a diplomatic man. He talked too much.

"It follows," says he, "that you can be of use to us in Afghanistan. It will be convenient, when our army arrives there, to have a British officer, of some small reputation in that country, to a.s.sist us in convincing the tribal leaders that the decay of British power is imminent, and that it will be in their interests to join in the conquest of India. They will not need much convincing, but even so your betrayal will add to the impression our armed force will make."

For all his impa.s.sivity, I knew he was enjoying this; it was in the tilt of his cigarette, and the glitter in his gotch eye.

"It is possible, of course, that you will prefer death - even by the knout - to betrayal of your country. I doubt it, but I must take into consideration the facts which are to be found in your dossier. They tell me of a man brave to the point of recklessness, of proved resource, and of considerable intelligence. My own observation of you tends to contradict this - I do not judge you to be of heroic material, but I may be mistaken. Certainly your conduct at Balaclava, of which I have received eye-witness accounts, is of a piece with your dossier. It does not matter. If, when you have been taken to Afghanistan with our army, you decline to make what the Roman priests call a propaganda on our behalf, we shall derive what advantage we can from displaying you naked in an iron cage along the way. The knouting will take place when we arrive on Indian soil."

He had it all splendidly pat, this icy Muscovite b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and well pleased with himself he was, too. He pinched another cigarette between his fingers, thinking to himself to see if there was any other unpleasant detail he could rub into me, and deciding there wasn't, called to the Cossack guard.

"This man," says he, "is a dangerous and desperate criminal. He is to be chained wrist and ankle at once, and the keys are to be thrown away. He will accompany us to Rostov tomorrow, and if, while he is in your charge he should escape or die" - he paused, and when he went on it was as casually said as though he were confining them to barracks - "you will be knouted to death. And your families also. Take him away."

You may not credit it, but my feelings as they thrust me down into my underground pit, clamped chains on my wrists and ankles, and slammed the door on me, were of profound relief. For one thing, I was out of the presence of that evil madman with his leery optic - that may seem small enough, but you haven't been closeted with him, and I have. Point two, I was not only alive but due to be preserved in good health for at least four months - and I was old soldier enough to know that a lot can happen in that time. Point three, I wasn't going into the unknown: Afghanistan, ghastly place though it is, was a home county hunt to me, and if once I could get a yard start, I fancied I could survive the going a sight better than any Russian pursuers.

It was a mighty "if', of course, but funny things hap-pen north of the Khyber - come to that, I wondered if Ignatieff and his brother-thugs knew exactly what they were tackling in taking an army through that country. We'd tried it, and G.o.d knew we were fitter to go to war than the Russians ever were, yet we'd come most horribly undone. I remembered my old sparring chums, the Gilzais and Baluchis and Khels and Afridis - and those fiends of Ghazis - and wondered if the Ruskis knew precisely the kind of folk they'd be relying on for safe-conduct and alliance.

They had their agents in Afghanistan, to be sure, and must have a shrewd notion of how things were; I wondered if they had secured their alliances in advance, perhaps with the King? And one thing was certain, the Afghans hated the British, and would join in an attack on India like Orangemen on the Twelfth. It would be all up with the Honourable East India Company then, and no bones about it.

Thinking about that, I could make a guess that if there was a point where the Russian force might run into trouble, it would be in the wild country that they must pa.s.s through before they reached Afghanistan. In my days at Kabul, Sekundar Burnes had told me a bit about it - of the independent Khanates at Bokhara and Samarkand and the Syr Daria country, where the Russians had even then been trying to extend their empire, and getting a b.l.o.o.d.y nose in the process. Fearsome b.a.s.t.a.r.ds those northern tribes were, Tajiks and Uzbeks and the remnants of the great hordes, and from the little I'd heard from folk like Pencherjevsky, they were still fiercely resisting Russian encroachment. We'd had a few agents up that way ourselves, in my time, fellows like Burnes and Stoddart, trying to undermine Russian influence, but with our retreat from Afghanistan it was well out of our bailiwick now, and the Russians would no doubt eat up the tribes at their leisure. That's what Ignatieff had hinted, and I couldn't see the wild clans being able to stand up to an army of thirty thousand, with ten thousand Cossack cavalry and artillery trains and the rest of it.

No, setting aside a few minor rubs, this Russian expedition looked to me to be on a good firm wicket - but that mattered nothing as far as I was concerned. What I had to bide my time for was Afghanistan, and the moment when they brought me out of my blinkers to make what Ignatieff called a propaganda on Russia's behalf. That would be the moment to lift up mine eyes unto the hills, or the tall trees, or the nearest hole in the ground - anywhere at all, so long as it offered a refuge from Ignatieff. I didn't even think about the price of failure- to escape - it was quite unthinkable.

You may think it strange, knowing me, that even in the h.e.l.lish mess I found myself, with the shadow of horrible death hanging over me, I could think ahead so clearly. Well, it wasn't that I'd grown any braver as I got older the reverse, if anything - but I'd learned, since my early days, that there's no point in wasting your wits and digestion blubbering over evil luck and folly and lost opportunities. I'll admit, when I thought how close I'd been to winning clear, I could have torn my hair - but there it was. However fearful my present predicament, however horrid the odds and dangers ahead, they'd get no better with being fretted over. It ain't always easy, if your knees knock as hard as mine, but you must remember the golden rule: when the game's going against you, stay calm - and cheat.

In this state of philosophic apprehension, then, I began my journey from Fort Arabat the following day - a journey such as I don't suppose any other Englishman has ever made. You can trace it on the map, all fifteen hundred miles of it, and your finger will go over places you never dreamed of, from the edge of civilization to the real back of beyond, over seas and deserts to mountains that perhaps n.o.body will ever climb, through towns and tribes that belong to the Arabian Nights rather than to the true story of a reluctant English gentleman (as the guide books would say) with two enormous scowling Cossacks brooding over him the whole way.

The first part of the journey was all too familiar, by sled back along the Arrow of Arabat, over the bridge at Yenitchi, and then east along that dreary winter coast to Taganrog, where the snow was already beginning to melt in the foul little streets, and the locals still appeared to be recovering from the excesses of the great winter fair at Rostov. Russians, in my experience, are part-drunk most of the time, but if there's a sober soul between the Black Sea and the Caspian for weeks after the Rostov kermesse he must be a Baptist hermit; Taganrog was littered with returned revellers. Rostov I don't much remember, or the famous river Don, but after that we took to telegues, and since the great Ignatieff was riding at the front of our little convoy of six vehicles, we made good speed. Too good for Flashy, b.u.mping along uncomfortably on the straw in one of the middle wagons; my chains were beginning to be d.a.m.ned uncomfortable, and every jolt of those infernal telegues bruised my wrists and ankles. You may think fetters are no more than an inconvenience, but when every move you make means lifting a few pounds of steel, which chafes your flesh and jars your bones, and means you can never lie without their biting into you, they become a real torture. I pleaded to have them removed, if only for an hour or two, and got a kick in my half-mended rib for my pains.