The hanging man gave a sudden cry of anguish as his body took the full stretch of the chains; he hung there moaning and panting until, without really thinking, I scrambled forward and came up beneath him, bearing his trunk across my stooped back. His face was hanging backward beside my own, working with pain.
“God … thank you!” he gasped at last. “My limbs are on fire! But not for long – not for long – if God is kind.” His voice came in a tortured whisper. “Who are you – a Ruski?”
“No,” says I, “an Englishman, a prisoner of the Russians.”
“You speak … our tongue … in God’s name?”
“Yes,” says I, “Hold still, curse you, or you’ll slip!”
He groaned again: he was a devilish weight. And then: “Providence … works strangely,” says he. “An angliski … here. Well, take heart, stranger … you may be … more fortunate … than you know.”
I couldn’t see that, not by any stretch, stuck in a lousy cell with some Asiatic nigger breaking my back. Indeed, I was regretting the impulse which had made me bear him up – who was he to me, after all, that I shouldn’t let him dangle? But when you’re in adversity it don’t pay to antagonize your companions, at least until you know what’s what, so I stayed unwillingly where I was, puffing and straining.
“Who … are you?” says he.
“Flashman. Colonel, British Army.”
“I am Yakub Beg,”36 whispers he, and even through his pain you could hear the pride in his voice. “Kush Begi, Khan of Khokand, and guardian of … the White Mosque. You are my … guest … sent to me … from heaven. Touch … on my knee … touch on my bosom … touch where you will.”
I recognized the formal greeting of the hill folk, which wasn’t appropriate in the circumstances.
“Can’t touch anything but your arse at present,” I told him, and I felt him shake – my God, he could even laugh, with the arms and legs being drawn out of him.
“It is a … good answer,” says he. “You talk … like a Tajik. We laugh … in adversity. Now I tell you … Englishman … when I go hence … you go too.”
I thought he was just babbling, of course. And then the other fellow, who had collapsed, groaned and sat up, and looked about him.
“Ah, God, I was weak,” says he. “Yakub, my son and brother, forgive me. I am as an old wife with dropsy; my knees are as water.”
Yakub Beg turned his face towards mine, and you must imagine his words punctuated by little gasps of pain.
“That ancient creature who grovels on the floor is Izzat Kutebar,”37 says he. “A poor fellow of little substance and less wit, who raided one Ruski caravan too many and was taken, through his greed. So they made him ‘swim upon land’, as I am swimming now, and he might have hung here till he rotted – and welcome – but I was foolish enough to think of rescue, and scouted too close to this fort of Shaitan. So they took me, and placed me in his chains, as the more important prisoner of the two – for he is dirt, this feeble old Kutebar. He swung a good sword once, they say – God, it must have been in Timur’s time!”
“By God!” cries Kutebar. “Did I lose Ak Mechet to the Ruskis? Was I whoring after the beauties of Bokhara when the beast Perovski massacred the men of Khokand with his grapeshot? No, by the pubic hairs of Rustum! I was swinging that good sword, laying the Muscovites in swathes along Syr Daria, while this fine fighting chief here was loafing in the bazaar with his darlings, saying ‘Eyewallah, it is hot today; give me to drink, Miriam, and put a cool hand on my forehead.’ Come out from under him, feringhee, and let him swing for his pains.”
“You see?” says Yakub Beg, craning his neck and trying to grin. “A dotard, flown with dreams. A badawi zhazhkayana who talks as the wild sheep defecate, at random, everywhere. When you and I go hither, Flashman bahadur, we shall leave him, and even the Ruskis will take pity on such a dried-up husk, and employ him to clean their privies – those of the common soldiers, you understand, not the officers.”
If I hadn’t served long in Afghanistan, and learned the speech and ways of the Central Asian tribes, I suppose I’d have imagined that I was in a cell with a couple of madmen. But I knew this trick that they have of reviling those they respect most, in banter, of their love of irony and formal imagery, which is strong in Pushtu and even stronger in Persian, the loveliest of all languages.
“When you go hither!” scoffs Kutebar, climbing to his feet and peering at his friend. “When will that be? When Buzurg Khan remembers you? God forbid I should depend on the goodwill of such a one. Or when Sahib Khan comes blundering against this place as you and he did two years ago, and lost two thousand men? Eyah! Why should they risk their necks for you – or me? We are not gold; once we are buried, who will dig us up?”
“My people will come,” says Yakub Beg. “And she will not forget me.”
“Put no faith in women, and as much in the Chinese,” says Kutebar cryptically. “Better if this stranger and I try to surprise the guard, and cut our way out.”
“And who will cut these chains?” says the other. “No, old one, put the foot of courage in the stirrup of patience. They will come, if not tonight, then tomorrow. Let us wait.”
“And while you’re waiting,” says I, “put the shoulder of friendship beneath the backside of helplessness. Lend a hand, man, before I break in two.”
Kutebar took my place again, exchanging insults with his friend, and I straightened up to take a look at Yakub Beg. He was a tall fellow, so far as I could judge, narrow waisted and big shouldered – for he was naked save for his loose pyjamy trousers – with great corded arm muscles. His wrists were horribly torn by his manacles, and while I sponged them with water from a chattib in the corner I examined his face. It was one of your strong hill figureheads, lean and long-jawed, but straight-nosed for once – he’d said he was a Tajik, which meant he was half-Persian. His head was shaved, Uzbek fashion, with a little scalp-lock to one side, and so was his face, except for a tuft of forked beard on his chin. A tough customer, by the look of him; one of those genial mountain scoundrels who’ll tell you merry stories while he stabs you in the guts just for the fun of hearing his knife-hilt bells jingle.
“You are an Englishman,” says he, as I washed his wrists. “I knew one, once, long ago. At least I saw him, in Bokhara, the day they killed him. He was a man, that one – Khan Ali, with the fair beard. ‘Embrace the faith,’ they said. ‘Why should I?’ says he, ‘since you have murdered my friend who forsook his church and became a Muslim. Ye have robbed; ye have killed; what do you want of me?’ And they said, ‘Blood’. Says he: ‘Then make an end.’ And they killed him. I was only a youth, but I thought, when I go, if I am far from home, let me go like that one. He was a ghazi,c that Khan Ali.”38
“Much good it did him,” growled Kutebar, underneath. “For that matter, much good Bokhara ever did anyone. They would sell us to the Ruskis for a handful of millet. May their goats’ milk turn to urine and their girls all breed Russian bastards – which they will do, no doubt, with alarming facility.”
“You spoke of getting out of here,” says I to Yakub Beg. “Is it possible? Will your friends attempt a rescue?”
“He has no friends,” says Kutebar. “Except me, and see the pass I am brought to, propping up his useless trunk.”
“They will come,” says Yakub Beg, softly. He was pretty done, it seemed to me, with his eyes closed and his face ravaged with pain. “When the light fades, you two must leave me to hang – no, Izzat, it is an order. You and Flashman bahadur must rest, for when the Lady of the Great Horde comes over the wall the Ruskis will surely try to kill us before we can be rescued. You two must hold them, with your shoulders to the door.”
“If we leave you to hang you will surely die,” says Kutebar, gloomily. “What will I say to her then?” And suddenly he burst into a torrent of swearing, slightly muffled by his bent position. “These Russian apes! These scum of Muscovy! God smite them to the nethermost pit! Can they not give a man a clean death, instead of racking him apart by inches? Is this their civilizing empire? Is this the honour of the soldiers of the White Tsar? May God the compassionate and merciful rend the bowels from their bodies and –”
“Do you rest, old groaner,” gasps Yakub, in obvious pain from the passionate heaving of his supporter. “Then you may rend them on your own account, and spare the All-wise the trouble. Lay them in swathes along Syr Daria – again.”
And in spite of Kutebar’s protests, Yakub Beg was adamant. When the light began to fade he insisted that we support him no longer, but let him hang at full stretch in his chains. I don’t know how he endured it, for his muscles creaked, and he bit his lip until the blood ran over his check, while Kutebar wept like a child. He was a burly, grizzled old fellow, stout enough for all his lined face and the grey hairs on his cropped head, but the tears fairly coursed over his leathery cheeks and beard, and he damned the Russians as only an Oriental can. Finally he kissed the hanging man on the forehead, and clasped his chained hand, and came over to sit by me against the wall.
Now that I had a moment to think, I didn’t know what to make of it all. My mind was in a whirl. When you have been tranquil for a while, as I had been at Starotorsk, and then dreadful things begin to happen to you, one after another, it all seems like a terrible nightmare; you have to force your mind to steady up and take it all in, and make yourself understand that it is happening. That flight through the snow with East and Valla – was it only four weeks ago? And since then I’d been harried halfway round the world, it seemed, from those freezing snowy steppes, across sea and desert, to this ghastly fort on the edge of nowhere, and here I was – Harry Flashman, rank of Colonel, 17th Lancers, aide-de-camp to Lord Raglan (God, this time last year I’d been playing pool in Piccadilly with little Willy) – here I was, in a cell with two Tajik-Persian bandits who talked a language39 I hadn’t heard in almost fifteen years, and lived in another world that had nothing to do with Raglan or Willy or Piccadilly or Starotorsk or – oh, aye, it had plenty to do with the swine Ignatieff. But they were talking of rescue and escape, as though it were sure to come, and they chained in a stinking dungeon – I had to grip hard to realize it. It might mean – it just might – that when I had least right to expect it, there was a chance of freedom, of throwing off the horrible fear of the death that Ignatieff had promised me. Freedom, and flight, and perhaps, at the end of it, safety?
I couldn’t believe it. I’d seen the fort, and I’d seen the Russian host down on the shore. You’d need an army – and yet, these fellows were much the same as Afghans, and I knew their way of working. The sudden raid, the surprise attack, the mad hacking melee (I shuddered at the recollection), and then up and away before civilized troops have rubbed the sleep from their eyes. There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask Kutebar – but what was the use? They had probably just been talking to keep their spirits up. Nothing would happen; we were stuck, in the grip of the bear, and on that despairing conclusion I must have fallen asleep.
And nothing did happen. Dawn came, and three Russians with it bearing a dish of nauseating porridge; they jeered at us and then withdrew. Yakub Beg was half-conscious, swinging in his fetters, and through that interminable day Kutebar and I took turns to prop him up. I was on the point, once or twice, of rebelling at the work, which didn’t seem worth it for all the slight relief it gave his tortured joints, but one look at Kutebar’s face made me think better of it. Yakub Beg was too weak to joke now, or say much at all, and Kutebar and I just crouched or lay in silence, until evening came. Yakub Beg somehow dragged himself back to sense then, just long enough to order Kutebar hoarsely to let him swing, so that we should save our strength. My back was aching with the strain, and in spite of my depression and fears I went off to sleep almost at once, with that stark figure spread horribly overhead in the fading light, and Kutebar weeping softly beside me.
As so often happens, I dreamed of the last thing I’d seen before I went to sleep, only now it was I, not Yakub Beg, who was hanging in the chains, and someone (whom I knew to be my old enemy Rudi Starnberg) was painting my backside with boot blacking. My late father-in-law, old Morrison, was telling him to spread it thin, because it cost a thousand pounds a bottle, and Rudi said he had gallons of the stuff, and when it had all been applied they would get Narreeman, the Afghan dancing-girl, to ravish me and throw me out into the snow. Old Morrison said it was a capital idea, but he must go through my pockets first; his ugly, pouchy old face was leering down at me, and then slowly it changed into Narreeman’s, painted and mask-like, and the dream became rather pleasant, for she was crawling all over me, and we were floating far, far up above the others, and I was roaring so lustfully that she put her long, slim fingers across my lips, cutting off my cries, and I tried to tear my face free as her grip grew tighter and tighter, strangling me, and I couldn’t breathe; she was murmuring in my ear and her fingers were changing into a hairy paw – and suddenly I was awake, trembling and sweating, with Kutebar’s hand clamped across my mouth, and his voice hissing me to silence.
It was still night, and the cold in the cell was bitter. Yakub Beg was hanging like a corpse in his chains, but I knew he was awake, for in the dimness I could see his head raised, listening. There wasn’t a sound except Kutebar’s hoarse breathing, and then, from somewhere outside, very faint, came a distant sighing noise, like a sleepy night-bird, dying away into nothing. Kutebar stiffened, and Yakub Beg’s chains clinked as he turned and whispered:
“Bhisti-sawad!d The sky-blue wolves are in the fold!”
Kutebar rose and moved over beneath the window. I heard him draw in his breath, and then, between his teeth, he made that same strange, muffled whistle – it’s the kind of soft, low noise you sometimes think you hear at night, but don’t regard, because you imagine it is coming from inside your own head. The Khokandians can make it travel up to a mile, and enemies in between don’t even notice it. We waited, and sure enough, it came again, and right on its heels the bang of a musket, shattering the night.
There was a cry of alarm, another shot, and then a positive volley culminating in a thunderous roar of explosion, and the dim light from the window suddenly increased as with a lightning flash. And then a small war broke out, shots, and shrieks and Russian voices roaring, and above all the hideous din of yelling voices – the old Ghazi war-cry that had petrified me so often on the Kabul road.
“They have come!” croaked Yakub Beg. “It is Ko Dali’s daughter! Quick, Izzat – the door!”
Kutebar was across the cell in a flash, roaring to me. We threw ourselves against the door, listening for the sounds of our guards.
“They have blown in the main gate with barut,”e cries Yakub Beg weakly. “Listen – the firing is all on the other side! Oh, my darling! Eyah! Kutebar, is she not a queen among women, a najud?f Hold fast the door, for when the Ruskis guess why she has come they will –”
Kutebar’s shout of alarm cut him short. Above the tumult of shooting and yelling we heard a rush of feet, the bolts were rasping back, and a great weight heaved at the door on the other side. We strained against it, there was a roar in Russian, and then a concerted thrust from without. With our feet scrabbling for purchase on the rough floor we held them; they charged together and the door gave back, but we managed to heave it shut again, and then came the sound of a muffled shot, and a splinter flew from the door between our faces.
“Bahnanas!”g bawled Kutebar. “Monkeys without muscles! Can two weak prisoners hold you, then? Must you shoot, you bastard sons of filth?”
Another shot, close beside the other, and I threw myself sideways; I wasn’t getting a bullet in my guts if I could help it. Kutebar gave a despairing cry as the door was forced in; he stumbled back into the cell, and there on the threshold was the big sergeant, torch in one hand and revolver in the other, and two men with bayoneted muskets at his heels.
“That one first!” bawls the sergeant, pointing at Yakub Beg. “Still, you!” he added to me, and I crouched back beside the door as he covered me. Kutebar was scrambling up beyond Yakub Beg; the two soldiers ignored him, one seizing Yakub Beg about the middle to steady him while the other raised his musket aloft to plunge the bayonet into the helpless body.
“Death to all Ruskis!” cries Yakub. “Greetings, Timur –”
But before the bayonet could come down Kutebar had launched himself at the soldier’s legs; they fell in a thrashing tangle of limbs, Kutebar yelling blue murder, while the other soldier danced round them with his musket, trying to get a chance with his bayonet, and the sergeant bawled to them to keep clear and give him a shot.
Old dungeon-fighters like myself – and I’ve had a wealth of experience, from the vaults of Jotunberg, where I was sabre to sabre with Starnberg, to that Afghan prison where I let dear old Hudson take the strain – know that the thing to do on these occasions is find a nice dark corner and crawl into it. But out of sheer self-preservation I daren’t – I knew that if I didn’t take a hand Kutebar and Yakub would be dead inside a minute, and where would Cock Flashy be then, poor thing? The sergeant was within a yard of me, side on, revolver hand extended towards the wrestlers on the floor; there was two feet of heavy chain between my wrists, so with a silent frantic prayer I swung my hands sideways and over, lashing the doubled chain at his forearm with all my strength. He screamed and staggered, the gun dropping to the floor, and I went plunging after it, scrabbling madly. He fetched up beside me, but his arm must have been broken, for he tried to claw at me with his far hand, and couldn’t reach; I grabbed the gun, stuck it in his face, and pulled the trigger – and the bloody thing was a single-action weapon, and wouldn’t fire!
He floundered over me, trying to bite – and his breath was poisonous with garlic – while I wrestled with the hammer of the revolver. His sound hand was at my throat; I kicked and heaved to get him off, but his weight was terrific. I smashed at his face with the gun, and he released my throat and grabbed my wrist; he had a hold like a vice, but I’m strong, too, especially in the grip of fear, and with a huge heave I managed to get him half off me – and in that instant the soldier with the bayonet was towering over us, his weapon poised to drive down at my midriff.
There was nothing I could do but scream and try to roll away; it saved my life, for the sergeant must have felt me weaken, and with an animal snarl of triumph flung himself back on top of me – just as the bayonet came down to spit him clean between the shoulder blades. I’ll never forget that engorged face, only inches from my own – the eyes starting, the mouth snapping open in agony, and the deafening scream that he let out. The soldier, yelling madly, hauled on his musket to free the bayonet; it came out of the writhing, kicking body just as I finally got the revolver cocked, and before he could make a second thrust I shot him through the body.
As luck had it, he fell on top of the sergeant, so there was Flashy, feverishly cocking the revolver again beneath a pile of his slain. The sergeant was dead, or dying, and being damned messy about it, retching blood all over me. I struggled as well as I could with my fettered hands, and had succeeded in freeing myself except for my feet – those damned fetters were tangled among the bodies – when Yakub shouted:
“Quickly, angliski! Shoot!”
The other soldier had broken free from Kutebar, and was in the act of seizing his fallen musket; I blazed away at him and missed – it’s all too easy, I assure you – and he took the chance to break for the door. I snapped off another round at him, and hit him about the hip, I think, for he went hurtling into the wall. Before he could struggle up Kutebar was on him with the fallen musket, yelling some outlandish war-cry as he sank the bayonet to the locking-ring in the fellow’s breast.
The cell was a shambles. Three dead men on the floor, all bleeding busily, the air thick with powder smoke, Kutebar brandishing his musket and inviting God to admire him, Yakub Beg exulting weakly and calling us to search the sergeant for his fetter keys, and myself counting the shots left in the revolver – two, in fact.
“The door!” Yakub was calling. “Make it fast, Izzat – then the keys, in God’s name! My body is bursting!”
We found a key in the sergeant’s pocket, and released Yakub’s ankles, lowering him gently to the cell floor and propping him against the wall with his arms still chained to the corners above his head. He couldn’t stand – I doubted if he’d have the use of his limbs inside a week – and when we tried to unlock his wrist-shackles the key didn’t fit. While Izzat searched the dead man’s clothes, fuming, I kept the door covered; the sounds of distant fighting were still proceeding merrily, and it seemed to me we’d have more Russian visitors before long. We were in a damned tight place until we could get Yakub fully released; Kutebar had changed his tack now, and was trying to batter open a link in the chain with his musket butt.
“Strike harder, feeble one!” Yakub encouraged him. “Has all your strength gone in killing one wounded Ruski?”
“Am I a blacksmith?” says Kutebar. “By the seven pools of Eblis, do I have iron teeth? I save your life – again – and all you can do is whine. We have been at work, this feringhi and I, while you swung comfortably – God, what a fool’s labour is this!”
“Cease!” cries Yakub. “Watch the door!”
There were feet running, and voices; Kutebar took the other side from me, his bayonet poised, and I cocked the revolver. The feet stopped, and then a voice called “Yakub Beg?” and Kutebar flung up his hands with a crow of delight.
“Inshallah! There is good in the Chinese after all! Come in, little dogs, the work is done! Come and look on the bloody harvest of Kutebar!”
The door swung back, and before you could say Jack Robinson there were half a dozen of them in the cell – robed, bearded figures with grinning hawk faces and long knives – I never thought I’d be glad to see a Ghazi, and these were straight from that stable. They fell on Kutebar, embracing and slapping him, while the others either stopped short at the sight of me or hurried on to Yakub Beg, slumped against the far wall. And foremost was a lithe black-clad figure, tight-turbaned round head and chin, with a flowing cloak – hardly more than a boy. He stooped over Yakub Beg, cursing softly, and then shouted shrilly to the tribesmen:
“Hack through those chains! Bear him up – gently – ah, God, my love, my love, what have they done to you?”
He was positively weeping, and then suddenly he was clasping the wounded man, smothering his cheeks with kisses, cupping the lolling head between his hands, murmuring endearments, and finally kissing him passionately on the mouth.
Well, the Pathans are like that, you know, and I wasn’t surprised to find these near-relations of theirs similarly inclined to perversion; bad luck on the girls, I always think, but all the more skirt for chaps like me. Disgusting sight, though, this youth slobbering over him like that.
Our rescuers were eyeing me uncertainly, until Kutebar explained whose side I was on; then they all turned their attention to Oscar and Bosie. One of the tribesmen had hacked through Yakub’s chains, and four of them were bearing him towards the door, while the black-clad boy flitted alongside, cursing them to be careful. Kutebar motioned me to the door, and I followed him up the steps, still clutching my revolver; the last of the tribesmen paused, even at that critical moment, to pass his knife carefully across the throats of the three dead Russians, and then joined us, giggling gleefully.
“The hallal!”h says he. “Is it not fitting, for the proper despatch of animals?”
“Blasphemer!” says Kutebar. “Is this a time for jest?”
The boy hissed at them, and they were silent. He had authority, this little spring violet, and when he snapped a command they jumped to it, hurrying along between the buildings, while he brought up the rear, glancing back towards the sound of shooting from the other side of the fort. There wasn’t a Russian to be seen where we were, but I wasn’t surprised. I could see the game – a sudden attack, with gunpowder and lots of noise, at the main gate, to draw every Russian in that direction, while the lifting party sneaked in through some rear bolt-hole. They were probably inside before the attack began, marking the sentries and waiting for the signal – but they hadn’t bargained, apparently, for the sergeant and his men having orders to kill Yakub Beg as soon as a rescue was attempted. We’d been lucky there.
Suddenly we were under the main wall, and there were figures on the cat-walk overhead; Yakub Beg’s body, grotesquely limp, was being hauled up, with the boy piping feverishly at them to be easy with him. Not fifty feet away, to our left, muskets were blazing from one of the guard towers, but they were shooting away from us. Strong lean hands helped me as I scrambled clumsily at a rope-ladder; voices in Persian were muttering around us in the dark, robed figures were crouching at the embrasures, and then we were sliding down the ropes on the outside, and I fell the last ten feet, landing on top of the man beneath, who gave a brief commentary on my parentage, future, and personal habits as only a hillman can, and then called softly:
“All down, Silk One, including the clown Kutebar, your beloved the Atalik Ghazi, and this misbegotten pig of a feringhi with the large feet.”
“Go!” said the boy’s voice from the top of the wall, and as they thrust me forward in the dark a long keening wail broke out from overhead; it was echoed somewhere along the wall, and even above the sound of firing I heard it farther off still. I was stumbling along in my chains, clutching at the hand of the man who led me.
“Where are we going?” says I. “Where are you taking me?”
“Ask questions in the council, infidel, not in the battle,” says he. “Can you ride, you feringhi who speaks Persian? Here, Kutebar, he is your friend; do you take him, lest he fall on me again.”
“Son of dirt and dung,” says Kutebar, lumbering out of the dark. “Did he not assist me in slaying Ruskis, who would undoubtedly have cut our throats before your tardy arrival? What would the Silk One have said to you then, eh? A fine rescue, by God! The whores of Samarkand market could have done it better!”
I thought that a trifle hard, myself; it had been as neat a jail clearance, for my money, as heart could desire, and I doubt if ten minutes had passed since I’d woken with Kutebar’s hand on my mouth. I’d killed one man, perhaps two, and their blood was still wet on my face – but I was free! Whoever these fine chaps were, they were taking me out of the clutches of that rascal Ignatieff and his beastly knouts and nagaikas – I was loose again, and living, and if my fetters were galling me and my joints aching with strain and fatigue, if my body was foul and fit to drop, my heart was singing. You’ve sold ’em again, old son, I thought; good for you – and these accommodating niggers, of course.
About half a mile from the fort there was a gully, with cypress trees, and horses stamping in the dark, and I just sat on the ground, limp and thankful, beside Kutebar, while he reviled our saviours genially. Presently the boy in black came slipping out of the shadows, kneeling beside us.
“I have sent Yakub away,” says he. “It is far to the edge of the Red Sands. We wait here, for Sahib Khan and the others – God grant they have not lost too many!”
“To build the house, trees must fall,” says Kutebar complacently. I agreed with him entirely, mind you. “And how is His Idleness, the Falcon on the Royal Wrist – God, my back is broken, bearing him up! How many days did I carry his moping carcase, in that filthy cell, with never a word of complaint from my patient lips? Has my labour been in vain?”
“He is well, God be thanked,” says the boy, and then the furious little pansy began to snivel like a girl. “His poor limbs are torn and helpless – but he is strong, he will mend! He spoke to me, Kutebar! He told me how you – cared for him, and fought for him just now – you and the feringhi here. Oh, old hawk of the hills, how can I bless you enough?”
And the disgusting young lout flung his arms round Kutebar’s neck, murmuring gratefully and kissing him, until the old fellow pushed him away – he was normal, at least.
“Shameless thing!” mutters he. “Respect my grey hairs! Is there no seemliness among you Chinese, then? Away, you bare-faced creature – practise your gratitude on this angliski if you must, but spare me!”
“Indeed I shall,” says the youth, and turning to me, he put his hands on my shoulders. “You have saved my love, stranger; therefore you have my love, forever and all.” He was a nauseatingly pretty one this, with his full lips and slanting Chinese eyes, and his pale, chiselled face framed by the black turban. The tears were still wet on his cheeks, and then to my disgust he leaned forward, plainly intending to kiss me, too.
“No thank’ee!” cries I. “No offence, my son, but I ain’t one for your sort, if you don’t mind …”
But his arms were round my neck and his lips on mine before I could stop him – and then I felt two firm young breasts pressing against my chest, and there was no mistaking the womanliness of the soft cheek against mine. A female, bigad – leading a Ghazi storming-party on a neck-or-nothing venture like this! And such a female, by the feel of her. Well, of course, that put a different complexion on the thing entirely, and I suffered her to kiss away to her heart’s content, and mine. What else could a gentleman do?
a A wild babbler.
b Water-jug.
c Champion.
d Heavenly!
e Gunpowder.
f A woman of intelligence and good shape.
g Apes.
h Ritual throat-cutting.