You may say it served me right, and I can’t disagree. If I weren’t such a susceptible, trusting chap where pretty women are concerned, I daresay I’d have smelled a rat on the night when Lakshmibai rescued me from Ignatieff’s rack and then flung herself all over me in her perfumed lair. A less warm-blooded fellow might have thought the lady was protesting rather too much, and been on his guard when she slobbered fondly over him, vowing undying love and accepting his proposal for her escape. He might – or again, he mightn’t.
For myself, I can only say I had no earthly reason to suppose her false. After all, our last previous meeting had been that monumental roll in her pavilion, which had left me with the impression that she wasn’t entirely indifferent to me. Secondly, her acceptance of Rose’s proposal seemed natural and sensible. Thirdly, I’ll admit to being enthralled by her, and fourthly, having just finished a spell on the rack I was perhaps thinking less clearly than usual. Finally, m’lud, if you’d been confronted by Lakshmibai, with that beautiful dusky face looking pleadingly up at you, and those tits quivering under your nose, I submit that you might have been taken in yourself, and glad of it.
In any event, it didn’t make a ha’porth of difference. Even if I’d suspected her then, I was in her power, and she could have wrung all the details of Rose’s scheme out of me and made her escape anyway. I’d have been dragged along at her tail, and finished up in the Gwalior dungeons just the same. And mind you, I’m still not certain how far she was humbugging me; all I know is that if she was play-acting, she seemed to be enjoying her work.
More than I enjoyed Gwalior, at any rate. That’s a fearful place, a huge, rocky fortress of a city, bigger than Jhansi, and said to be the most powerful hold in India. I can speak with authority only about its dungeons, which were a shade worse than a Mexican jail, if you can imagine that. I spent the better part of two months in them, cooped in a bottle-shaped cell with my own filth and only rats, fleas and cockroaches for company, except when Sher Khan came to have a look at me, about once a week, to make sure I hadn’t up and died on him.
He and his fellow-Pathan took me there on Lakshmibai’s orders, and it was one of the most punishing rides I’ve ever endured. I was almost unconscious in the saddle by the time we reached it, for the brutes never took my chain off once in the hundred miles we covered: I think, too, that my spirit had endured more than I could stand, for after all I’d gone through there were moments now when I no longer cared whether I lived or died – and I have to be pretty far down before that happens. When they brought me to Gwalior by night, and half-carried me into the fortress, and dropped me into that stinking, ill-lit cell, I just lay and sobbed like an infant, babbling aloud about Meerut and Cawnpore and Lucknow and Thugs and crocodiles and evil bitches – and now this. Would you believe it, the worst was yet to come?
I don’t care to dwell on it, so I’ll hurry along. While I was in that dungeon at Gwalior, waiting for I didn’t know what, and half-believing that I’d rot there forever, or go mad first, the final innings of the Mutiny was being played out. Campbell was settling things north of the Jumnah, and Rose, having captured Jhansi, was pushing north after Tantia Tope and my ministering angel, Lakshmibai, who’d taken the field with him. He beat them at Calpee and Kanch, driving them towards Gwalior where I was enjoying the local hospitality. The odd thing was, that at the time I was incarcerated there, Gwalior’s ruler, Maharaja Scindia, had remained neutral in the rebellion, and had no business to be allowing his prison to be used for the accommodation of captured British officers. In fact, of course, he (or his chief advisers) were sympathetic to the rebels all along, as was proved in the end. For after their defeat at Calpee, Tantia and Lakshmibai turned to Gwalior, and the Maharaja’s army went over to them, almost without firing a shot. So there they were, the last great rebel force in India, in possession of India’s greatest stronghold – and with Rose closing inexorably in on them.
I knew nothing of all this, of course; mouldering in my cell, with my beard sprouting and my hair matting, and my pandy uniform foul and stinking (for I’d never had it off since I put it on in Rose’s camp), I might as well have been at the North Pole. Day followed day, and week followed week without a cheep from the outside world, for Sher Khan hardly said a word to me, although I raved and pleaded with him whenever he poked his face through the trap into my cell. That’s the worst of that kind of imprisonment – not knowing, and losing count of the days, and wondering whether you’ve been there a month or a year, and whether there is really a world outside at all, and doubting if you ever did more than dream that you were once a boy playing in the fields at Rugby, or a man who’d walked in the Park, or ridden by Albert Gate, saluting the ladies, or played billiards, or followed hounds, or gone up the Mississippi in a side-wheeler, or watched the moon rise over Kuching River, or – you can wonder if any of it ever existed, or if these greasy black walls are perhaps the only world that ever was, or will be … that’s when you start to go mad, unless you can find something to think about that you know is real.
I’ve heard of chaps who kept themselves sane in solitary confinement by singing all the hymns they knew, or proving the propositions of Euclid, or reciting poetry. Each to his taste: I’m no hand at religion, or geometry, and the only repeatable poem I can remember is an Ode of Horace which Arnold made me learn as a punishment for farting at prayers. So instead I compiled a mental list of all the women I’d had in my life, from that sweaty kitchen-maid in Leicestershire when I was fifteen, up to the half-caste piece I’d been reprimanded for at Cawnpore, and to my astonishment there were four hundred and seventy-eight of them, which seemed rather a lot, especially since I wasn’t counting return engagements. It’s astonishing, really, when you think how much time it must have taken up.
Perhaps because I’d been listing them I had a frightful dream one night in which I had to dance with all of them at a ball on the slave-deck of the Balliol College, with the demoniac Captain Spring conducting the music in a cocked hat and white gloves. They were all there – Lola Montez and Josette and Judy (my guvnor’s mistress, she was), and the Silk One and Susie from New Orleans and fat Baroness Pechmann and Nareeman the nautch, and all the others, and each one left her slave-fetters with me so that I must dance on loaded and clanking, crying out with exhaustion, but when I pleaded for rest Spring just rolled his eyes and made the music go faster, with the big drum booming. Elspeth and Palmerston waltzed by, and Pam gave me his false teeth and cried: “You’ll need ’em for eating chapattis with your next partner, you know” – and it was Lakshmibai, naked and glitter-eyed over her veil, and she seized me and whirled me round the floor, almost dead with fatigue and the cruel weight of the chains, while the drum went boom-boom-boom faster and faster – and I was awake, gasping and clutching at my filthy straw with the sound of distant gunfire in my ears.
It went on all that day, and the next, but of course I couldn’t tell what it meant or who was firing, and I was too done to care. All through the morning of the third day it continued, and then suddenly my trap was thrown open, and I was being dragged out by Sher Khan and another fellow, and I hardly knew where I was. When you’re hauled out of a dead captivity like that, everything seems frighteningly loud and fast – I know there was a courtyard, full of nigger soldiers running about and shouting, and their pipes blaring, and the gunfire crashing louder than ever – but the shock of release was too much for me to make sense of it. I was half-blinded just by the light of the sky, although it was heavy with red and black monsoon clouds, and I remember thinking, it’ll be capital growing weather soon.
It wasn’t till they thrust me on a pony that I came to myself – instinct, I suppose, but when I felt the saddle under me, and the beast stirring, and the smell of horse in my nostrils and my feet in stirrups, I was awake again. I knew this was Gwalior fortress, with the massive gate towering in front of me, and a great gun being dragged through it by a squealing elephant, with a troop of red-coated nigger-prince’s cavalry waiting to ride out, and a bedlam of men shouting orders: the din was still deafening, but as Sher Khan mounted his pony beside me I yelled:
“What’s happening? Where are we going?”
“She wants you!” cries he, and grinned as he tapped his hilt. “So she shall have you. Come!”
He thrust a way for us through the crowd milling in the gateway, and I followed, still trying to drink in the sights and sounds of this madhouse that I had all but forgotten – men and carts and bullocks and dust and the clatter of arms: a bhisti running with his water-skin, a file of pandy infantry squatting by the roadside with their muskets between their knees, a child scrambling under a bullock’s belly, a great-chested fellow in a spiked cap with a green banner on a pole over his shoulder, a spindly-legged old nigger shuffling along regardless of them all, the smell of cooking ghee, and through it all that muffled crash of cannon in the distance.
I stared ahead as we emerged from the gate, trying to understand what was happening. Gunfire – that meant that British troops were somewhere near, and the sight that met my eyes confirmed it. Before me there was miles of open plain, stretching to distant hills, and the plain was alive with men and animals and all the tackle of war. Perhaps a mile ahead, in the haze, there were tents, and the unmistakable ranks of infantry, and gun emplacements, and squadrons of horse on the move – a whole army stretched across a front of perhaps two miles. I steadied myself as Sher Khan urged me forward, trying to take it in – it was a rebel army, no error, for there were pandy formations moving back towards us, and native state infantry and riders in uniforms I didn’t know, men in crimson robes with little shields and curved tulwars, and gun-teams with artillery pieces fantastically carved in the native fashion.
That was the first fact: the second was that they were retreating, and on the edge of rout. For the formations were moving towards us, and the road itself was choked with men and beasts and vehicles heading for Gwalior. A horse-artillery team was careering in, the gunners clinging to the limbers and their officer lashing at the beasts, a platoon of pandies was coming at the double-quick, their ranks ragged, their faces streaked with dust and sweat, and all along the road men were running or hobbling back, singly and in little groups: I’d seen the signs often enough, the gaping mouths, the wide eyes, the bloody bandages, the high-pitched voices, the half-ordered haste slipping into utter confusion, the abandoned muskets at the roadside, the exhausted men sitting or lying or crying out to those who passed by – this was the first rush of a defeat, by gum! and Sher Khan was dragging me into it.
“What the blazes is happening?” I asked him again, but all I got was a snarl as he whipped my pony to a gallop, and we clattered down the roadside, he keeping just to rear of me, past the mob of men and beasts streaming back to Gwalior. The formations were closer now, and not all of them were retreating: we passed artillery teams who were unlimbering and siting their guns, and regiments of infantry waiting in the humid heat, their faces turned towards the distant hills, their ranks stretched out in good order across the plain. Not far in front artillery was thundering away, with smoke wreathing up in the still air, and bodies of cavalry, pandy and irregular, were waiting – I remember a squadron of lancers, in green coats, with lobster-tail helmets and long ribbons trailing from their lance-heads, and a band of native musicians, squealing and droning fit to drown the gunfire. But less than half a mile ahead, where the dust-clouds were churning up, and the flashes of cannon shone dully through the haze, I knew what was happening – the army’s vanguard was slowly breaking, falling back on the main body, with the weaker vessels absolutely flying down the road.
We crossed a deep nullah, and Sher Khan wheeled me off along its far lip, towards a grove of palm and thorn, where tents were pitched. A line of guns to my left was crashing away towards the unseen enemy on the hills – enemy, by God, that was my army! – and round the oasis of tents and trees there was a screen of horsemen. With a shock I recognised the long red coats of the Jhansi royal guard, but for the rest they were only the ragged ghosts of the burly Pathans I remembered, their uniforms torn and filthy, their mounts lean and ungroomed. We passed through them, in among the tents, to where a carpet was spread before the biggest pavilion of all; there were guardsmen there, and a motley mob of niggers, military and civilian, and then Sher Khan was pulling me from the saddle, thrusting me forward, and crying out:
“He is here, highness – as you ordered.”
She was in the doorway of the tent, alone – or perhaps I just don’t remember any others. She was sipping a glass of sherbet as she turned to look at me, and believe it or not I was suddenly conscious of the dreadful, scarecrow figure I cut, in my rags and unkempt hair. She was in her white jodhpurs, with a mail jacket over her blouse, and a white cloak; her head was covered by a cap of polished steel like a Roman soldier’s, with a white scarf wound round it and under her chin. She looked damned elegant, I know, and even when you noticed the shadows on that perfect coffee-coloured face, beneath the great eyes, she was still a vision to take your breath away. She frowned at sight of me, and snapped at Sher Khan:
“What have you done to him?”
He mumbled something, but she shook her head impatiently and said it didn’t matter. Then she looked at me again, thoughtfully, while I waited, wondering what the devil was coming, dimly aware that the volume of gunfire was increasing. Finally she said, simply:
“Your friends are over yonder,” and indicated the hills. “You may go to them if you wish.”
That was all, and for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything to say. I suppose I was still bemused and in a shocked condition – otherwise I might have pointed out that there was a battle apparently raging between me and those friends of mine. But it all seemed unreal, and the word which I finally managed to croak out was: “Why?”
She frowned again at that, and then put her chin up and snapped her cloak with one hand and said quickly:
“Because it is finished, and it is the last thing I can do for you – colonel.” I couldn’t think when she’d last called me that. “Is that not enough? Your army will be in Gwalior by tomorrow. That is all.”
It was at this moment that I heard shouting behind us, but I paid it no heed, not even when some fellow came running and calling to her, and she called something to him. I was wrestling with my memory, and it will give you some notion of how foundered I was when I tell you that I absolutely burst out:
“But you said I would be your bargain – didn’t you?”
She looked puzzled, and then she smiled and said to Sher Khan: “Give the colonel sahib a horse,” and was turning away, when I found my tongue.
“But … but you! Lakshmibai! I don’t understand … what are you going to do?” She didn’t answer, and I heard my own voice hoarse and harsh: “There’s still time! I mean – if you … if you think it’s finished – well, dammit, they ain’t going to hang you, you know! I mean Lord Canning has promised … and – and General Rose!” Sher Khan was growling at my elbow, but I shook him off. “Look here, if I’m with you, it’s sure to be all right. I’ll tell ’em –”
God knows what else I said – I think I was out of my wits just then. Well, when the shot’s flying I don’t as a rule think of much but my own hide, and here I was absolutely arguing with the woman. Maybe the dungeon had turned my brain a trifle, for I babbled on about surrender and honourable terms while she just stood looking at me, and then she broke in:
“No – you do not understand. You did not understand when you came back to me at Jhansi. But it was for me you came – for my sake. And so I pay my debt at the end.”
“Debt?” I shouted. “You’re havering, woman! You said you loved me – oh, I know now you were tricking me, too, but … but don’t it count for anything, then?”
Before she could answer there was a flurry of hooves, and some damned interfering scoundrel in an embroidered coat flung himself off his horse and started shouting at her; behind me there was a crackle of musketry, and shrieks and orders, and a faint trumpet note whispering beyond the cannon. She cried an order, and a groom hurried forward, pulling her little mare. I was roaring above the noise, at her, swearing I loved her and that she could still save herself, and she shot me a quick look as she took the mare’s bridle – it was just for an instant, but it’s stayed with me fifty years, and you may think me an old fool and fanciful, but I’ll swear there were tears in her eyes – and then she was in the saddle, shouting, and the little mare reared and shot away, and I was left standing on the carpet.
Sher Khan had disappeared. I was staring and yelling after her, as her riders closed round her, for beyond them the gunners were racing towards us, with pandy riflemen in amongst them, turning and firing and running again. There were horsemen at the guns, and sabres flashing, and above the hellish din the trumpet was blaring clear in the “Charge!” and over the limbers came blue tunics and white helmets, and I couldn’t believe my eyes, for they were riders of the Light Brigade, Irish Hussars, with an officer up in his stirrups, yelling, and the troopers swarming behind him. They came over the battery like a wave, and the scarlet-clad Pathan horsemen were breaking before them. And I’ll tell you what I saw next, as plain as I can.
Lakshmibai was in among the Pathans, and she had a sabre in her hand. She seemed to be shouting to them, and then she took a cut at a Hussar and missed him as he swept by, and for a moment I lost her in the mêlée. There were sabres and pistols going like be-damned, and suddenly the white mare was there, rearing up, and she was in the saddle, but I saw her flinch and lose the reins; for a moment I thought she was gone, but she kept her seat as the mare turned and raced out of the fight – and my heart stopped as I saw that she was clutching her hands to her stomach, and her head was down. A trooper drove his horse straight into the mare, and as it staggered he sabred at Lakshmibai back-handed – I shrieked aloud and shut my eyes, and when I looked again she was in the dust, and even at that distance I could see the crimson stain on her jodhpurs.
I ran towards her and there must have been riders charging past me as I ran, but I don’t remember them – and then I stumbled and fell. As I scrambled up I saw she was writhing in the dust; her scarf and helmet were gone, she was kicking and clawing at her body, and her face was twisted and working in agony, with her hair half across it. It was hideous, and I could only crouch there, gazing horrified. Oh, if it were a novel I could tell you that I ran to her, and cradled her head against me and kissed her, while she looked up at me with a serene smile and murmured something before she closed her eyes, as lovely in death as she’d been in life – but that ain’t how people die, not even the Rani of Jhansi. She arched up once, still tearing at herself, and then she flopped over, face down, and I knew she was a goner.47
It was only then, I believe, that I began to think straight again.
There was one hell of a skirmish in progress barely twenty yards away, and I was unarmed and helpless, on all fours in the dirt. Above all other considerations, I’m glad to say, one seemed paramount – to get to hell out of this before I got hurt. I was on my feet and running before the thought had consciously formed – running in no particular direction, but keeping a weather eye open for a quiet spot or a riderless horse. I dived into the nullah, barged into someone, stumbled up and raced along it, past a group of pandies in pill-box hats who were scrambling into position at the nullah’s edge to open fire, leaped over a wrecked cart – and then, wondrous sight, there was a horse, with a wounded nigger on his knees holding the bridle. One kick and he was sprawling, I was aboard and away; I put my head down and fairly flew – a fountain of dirt rose up just ahead of me as a cannon-shot from somewhere ploughed into the nullah bank, and the last thing I remember is the horse rearing up, and something smashing into my left arm with a blinding pain; a great weight seemed to be pressing down on my head and a red smoke was drifting above me, and then I lost consciousness.
I told you the worst was still to come, didn’t I? Well, you’ve read my chronicle of the Great Mutiny, and if you’ve any humanity you’re bound to admit that I’d had my share of sorrow already, and more – even Campbell later said that I’d seen hard service, so there. But Rose himself declared that if he hadn’t been told the circumstance of my awakening at Gwalior by an eyewitness, he wouldn’t have believed it – it was the most terrible thing, he said, that he had ever heard of in all his experience of war, or anybody else’s, either. He wondered that I hadn’t lost my reason. I agreed then, and I still do. This is what happened.
I came back to life, as is often the case, with my last waking moment clear in my mind. I had been on horseback, riding hard, seeing a shot strike home in a sandy nullah – so why, I wondered irritably, was I now standing up, leaning against something hard, with what seemed to be a polished table top in front of me? There was a shocking pain in my head, and a blinding glare of light burning my eyes, so I shut them quickly. I tried to move, but couldn’t, because something was holding me; my ears were ringing, and there was a jumble of voices close by, but I couldn’t make them out. Why the hell didn’t they shut up, I wondered, and I tried to tell them to be quiet, but my voice wouldn’t work – I wanted to move, to get away from the thing that was pressing against my chest, so I tugged, and an unspeakable pain shot through my left arm and into my chest, a stabbing, searing pain so exquisite that I screamed aloud, and again, and again, at which a voice cried in English, apparently right in my ear.
“’Ere’s another as can’t ’old ’is bleedin’ row! Stick a gag in this bastard an’ all, Andy!”
Someone grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, and I shrieked again, opening my eyes wide with the pain, to see a blinding light sky, and a red, sweating face within a few inches of mine. Before I could make another sound, a foul wet rag was stuffed brutally into my mouth, choking me, and a cloth was whipped across it and knotted tight behind my head. I couldn’t utter a sound, and when I tried to reach up to haul the filthy thing away, I realised why I hadn’t been able to move. My hands were lashed to the object that was pressing into my body. Stupefied, blinking against the glare, in agony with my arm and head and the gag that was suffocating me, I tried to focus my eyes; for a few seconds there was just a whirl of colours and shapes – and then I saw.
I was tied across the muzzle of a cannon, the iron rim biting into my body, with my arms securely lashed on either side of the polished brown barrel. I was staring along the top of that barrel, between the high wheels, to where two British soldiers were standing by the breech, poking at the touch-hole, and one was saying to the other:
“No, by cripes, none o’ yer Woolwich models. No lanyards, Jim my boy – we’ll ’ave to stick a fuse in, an’ stand well clear.”
“She’s liable to blow ’er flamin’ wheels off, though, ain’t she?” says the other. “There’s a four-pahnd cartridge in there, wiv a stone shot. S’pose it’ll splinter, eh?”
“Ask ’im – arterwards!” says the first, gesturing at me, and they both laughed uproariously. “You’ll tell us, won’t yer, Sambo?”
For a moment I couldn’t make it out – what the devil were they talking about? And how dared the insolent dogs address a colonel as “Sambo” – and one of ’em with a pipe stuck between his grinning teeth? Fury surged up in me, as I stared into those red yokel faces, leering at me, and I shouted “Damn your eyes, you mutinous bastards! How dare you – d’ye know who I am, you swine? I’ll flog the ribs out of you …” but it didn’t come out as a shout, only as a soundless gasp deep in my throat behind that stifling gag. Then, ever so slowly, it dawned on me where I was, and what was happening, and my brain seemed to explode with the unutterable horror of it. As Rose said afterwards, I ought to have gone mad; for an instant I believe I did.
I don’t have to elaborate my sensations – anyway, I couldn’t. I can only say that I was sane enough after that first spasm of dreadful realisation, because behind the fog of panic I saw in a second what had happened – saw it with blinding certainty. I had been knocked on the head, presumably by a splinter of flying debris, and picked up senseless by our gallant troops. Of course they’d taken me for a pandy – with my matted hair and beard and filthy and ragged sepoy uniform; they’d seen I wasn’t dead, and decided to execute me in style, along with other prisoners. For as I flung my head round in an ecstasy of such fear as even I had never known before, I saw that mine was only one in a line of guns, six or seven of them, and across the muzzle of each was strapped a human figure. Some were ragged pandies, like me, others were just niggers; one or two were gagged, as I was, the rest were not; some had been tied face to the gun, but most had the muzzles in their backs. And shortly these brutes who loafed about the guns at their ease, spitting and smoking and chaffing to each other, would touch off the charges, and a mass of splintering stone would tear through my vitals – and there was nothing I could do to stop them! If I hadn’t screamed when I regained consciousness, I wouldn’t have been gagged, and three words would have been enough to show them their ghastly error – but now I couldn’t utter a sound, but only watch with bulging eyes as one of the troopers, in leisurely fashion, pushed a length of fuse into the touch-hole, winked at me, and then sauntered back to rejoin his mates, who were standing or squatting in the sunlight, obviously waiting for the word to start the carnage.
“Come on, come on, where the ’ell’s the captain?” says one. “Still at mess, I’ll lay. Christ, it’s ’ot! I want ter get on my charpoy, I do, an’ bang me bleedin’ ear-’ole. ’E couldn’t blow the bloody pandies away arter supper, could ’e? Oh, no, not ’im.”
“Wot we blowin’ ’em up for?” says one pale young trooper. “Couldn’t they ’ang the pore sods – or shoot ’em? It ’ud be cheaper.”
“Pore sods my arse,” says the first. “You know what they done, these black scum? You shoulda bin at Delhi, see the bloody way they ripped up wimmen an’ kids – fair sicken yer, wot wi’ tripes an’ innards all over the plice. Biowin’ away’s too—good for ’em.”
“Not as cruel as ’angin’, neither,” says a third. “They don’t feel nothin’.” He strolled past my gun, and to my horror he patted me on the head. “So cheer up, Sambo, you’ll soon be dead. ’Ere, wot’s the matter wiv ’im, Bert, d’ye reckon?”
I was writhing frenziedly in my bonds, almost fainting with the agony of my wounded arm, which was gashed and bleeding, flinging my head from side to side as I tried to spit out that horrible gag, almost bursting internally in my effort to make some sound, any sound, that would make him understand the ghastly mistake they’d made. He stood, grinning stupidly, and Bert sauntered up, knocking his pipe out on the gun.
“Matter? Wot the ’ell d’yer think’s the matter, you duffer? ’E don’t want ’is guts blew all the way to Calcutta – that’s wot’s the matter! Gawd, ’e’ll kill ’isself wiv apple-plexy by the look of ’im.”
“Funny, though, ain’t it?” says the first. “An’ look at the rest of ’em – jes’ waitin’ there, an’ not even a squeak from ’em, as if they didn’t care. Pathetic, ain’t it?”
“That’s their religion,” pronounced Bert. “They fink they’re goin’ to ’eaven – they fink they’re goin’ to get ’arf-a-dozen rum bints apiece, an’ bull ’em till Judgement Day. Fact.”
“Go on! They don’t look all that bleedin’ pleased, then, do they?”
They turned away, and I flopped over the gun, near to suffocation and with my heart ready to burst for misery and fear. Only one word – that was all I needed – Christ, if I could only get a hand free, a finger even! Blood from my wounded arm had run on to the gun, drying almost at once on the burning metal – if I could even scrawl a message on it – or just a letter – they might see it, and understand. I must be able to do something – think, think, think, I screamed inside my head, fighting back the madness, straining with all my power to tear my right wrist free, almost dislocating my neck in a futile effort to work the gag-binding loose. My mouth was full of its filthy taste, it seemed to be slipping farther into my gullet, choking me – God, if they thought I was choking, would they pull it out, even for a second? … that was all I needed, oh God, please, please, let them – I couldn’t die like this, like a stinking nigger pandy, after all I’d suffered – not by such cruel, ghastly, ill-luck …
“Aht pipes, straighten up – orficer comin’,” cries one of the troopers, and they scrambled up hastily, adjusting their kepis, doing up their shirt-buttons, as two officers came strolling across from the tents a couple of hundred yards away. I gazed towards them like a man demented, as though by staring I could attract their attention; my right wrist was raw and bleeding with my dragging at it, but the rope was like a band of steel round it, and I couldn’t do more than scrabble with my fingers at the hot metal. I was crying, uncontrollably; my head was swimming – but no, no, I mustn’t faint! Anything but that – think, think, don’t faint, don’t go mad! They’ve never got you yet – you’ve always slid out somehow …
“All ready, sergeant?” The leading officer was glancing along the line of guns, and my eyes nearly started from my head as I saw it was Clem Hennidge48 – Dandy Clem of the 8th Hussars, whom I’d ridden with at Balaclava. He was within five yards of me, nodding to the sergeant, glancing briefly round, while beside him a fair young lieutenant was staring with pop-eyes at us trussed victims, going pale and looking ready to puke. By heaven, he wasn’t the only one!
He shuddered, and I heard him mutter to Hennidge: “Christ! I shan’t be writing to mother about this, though!”
“Beastly business,” says Hennidge, slapping his crop on his palm. “Orders, though, what? Very good, sergeant – we’ll touch ’em off all together, if you please. All properly shotted and primed? Very good, then.”
“Yessir! Beg pardon, sir, usual orders is to touch ’em off one arter the other, sir. Leastways, that’s ’ow we done it at Calpee, sir!”
“Good God!” says Hennidge, and contained himself. “I’ll be obliged if you’ll fire all together, sergeant, on this occasion!” He muttered something to the lieutenant, shaking his head as in despair.
Two men ran forward to my gun, one of them pulling matches from his pocket. He glanced nervously back and called.
“Sarn’t – sir! This ’un ain’t got no lock, nor lanyard, please! See, sir, it’s one o’ them nigger guns – can’t fire it ’cept with a fuse, sir!”
“What’s that?” cries Hennidge, coming forward, “Oh – I see. Very well, then, light the fuse at the signal, then, and – Good God, is this fellow having a fit?”
I had made one last desperate effort to pull free, hauling like a mad thing, flinging myself as far as my lashing would allow, tossing my head, jerking to and fro, my head swimming with the pain of my arm. Hennidge and the boy were staring at me – the boy’s face was green.
“’E’s been carryin’ on like that since we triced ’im up, sir,” says one of the gunners. “Screamin’, ’e was – we ’ad ter gag him, sir.”
Hennidge swallowed, and then nodded curtly, and turned away, but the lieutenant seemed to be rooted with horrified fascination, as though he couldn’t tear his eyes away from me.
“Ready!” bawls the sergeant, and “Light the fuse now, Bert,” says the man at my gun. Through a red haze I saw the match splutter, and go out. Bert cursed, struck a second, and touched it to the fuse. A moment, and it fizzed, and the gunners retreated.
“Best stand back, sir!” cries Bert. “Gawd knows what’ll happen when she goes off – might blow wide open!”
The lieutenant shuddered, and seemed to collect himself, and then the strangest thing happened. For I absolutely heard a voice, and it seemed to be very close in my ear, and the oddest thing was, it was Rudi Starnberg, my old enemy from Jotunberg, and as clear as a bell across the years I heard him laughing: “The comedy’s not finished yet! Come on, play-actor!”
No doubt it was the product of a disordered mind, as I stared at Death in the spluttering fuse, but just for a second I realised that if there was the ghost of a chance left, it depended on keeping ice-cold – as Rudi would have done, of course. The lieutenant’s eyes were just on mine for an instant before he turned away, and in that instant I raised my brows and lowered them, twice, quickly. It stopped him, and very carefully, as he stared, I closed one eye in an enormous wink. It must have been a grotesque sight; his mouth dropped open, and then I opened my eye, turned my head deliberately, and stared fixedly at my right hand. He must look, he must! My wrist was as fast as ever, but I could just turn my hand, palm upwards, fold the thumb and last three fingers slowly into my palm, and beckon with my fore-finger, once, twice, thrice – and still beckoning, I stared at him again.
For a moment he just gaped, and closed his eyes, and gaped again, and I thought, oh Christ, the young idiot’s going to stand there until the bloody fuse has burned down! He stared at me, licking his lips, obviously flabbergasted, turned to glance at Hennidge, looked back at me – and then, as I tried to bore into his brain, and crooked my finger again and again, he suddenly yelled “Wait! Sergeant, don’t fire!” and striding forward, he yanked the burning fuse from the touch-hole. Clever boys they had in the Light Brigade in those days.
“What the devil? John – what on earth are you doing?” cries Hennidge. “Sergeant, hold on there!” He came striding up, demanding to know what was up, and the lieutenant, pale and sweating, stood by the breech pointing at me.
“I don’t know! That chap – he beckoned, I tell you! And he winked! Look, my God, he’s doing it again! He’s … he’s trying to say something!”
“Hey? What?” Hennidge was peering across at me, and I wobbled my eyebrows as ludicrously as I could, and tried to munch my lips at the same time. “What the deuce – I believe you’re right … you, there, get that gag out of his mouth – sharp, now!”
“Arise, Sir Harry” was one of the sweetest sounds I ever heard; so was Abe Lincoln’s voice in that house at Portsmouth, Ohio, asking “What do you want with me?” when the slave-catchers were on my tail. I can think of many others, but so help me God, none of them rang such peals of hope and joy in my ears as those words of Hennidge’s beside the guns at Gwalior. Even as the cloth was wrenched loose, though, and the gag was torn out of my mouth, and I was gasping in air, I was thinking frantically what I must say to prevent the appalling chance of their disbelieving me – something to convince them instantly, beyond any doubt, and what I croaked out when my breath came was:
“I’m Flashman – Flashman, d’ye hear! You’re Clem Hennidge! The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, God save the Queen. I’m English – English – I’m in disguise! Ask General Rose! I’m Flashman, Harry Flashman! Cut me loose, you bastards! I’m Flashman!”
You never saw such consternation in your life; for a moment they just made pop-eyed noises, and then Hennidge cries out:
“Flashman? Harry Flashman? But … but it’s impossible – you can’t be!”
Somehow I didn’t start to rave, or swear, or blubber. Instead I just leered up at him and croaked:
“You give me the lie, Hennidge, and I’ll call you out, d’you know? I called a man out in ’39, remember? He was a cavalry captain, too. So – would you mind just cutting these damned ropes – and mind my arm, ’cos I think it’s broken …”
“My God, you are Flashman!” cries he, as if he was looking at a ghost. Then he just stuttered and gaped, and signed to the gunners to cut me loose, which they did, lowering me gently to the ground, horror and dismay all over their faces, I was glad to see. But I’ll never forget what Hennidge said next, as the lieutenant called for a water-bottle and pressed it to my lips; Hennidge stood staring down at me appalled, and then he said ever so apologetically:
“I say, Flashman – I’m most frightfully sorry!”
Mark you, what else was there to say? Oh, aye, there was something – I hadn’t reasoned it, as you can imagine, but it leaped into my mind as I sat there, almost swooning with relief, not minding the pains in my head and arms, and happened to glance along the guns. I was suddenly shuddering horribly, and bowing my head in my sound hand, trying to hold back the sobs, and then I says, as best I could:
“Those niggers tied to the guns. I want them cut loose – all of ’em, directly!”
“What’s that?” says he. “But they’ve been condem –”
“Cut ’em loose, damn you!” My voice was shaking and faint. “Every mother’s son-of-a-bitch, d’you hear?” I glared up at him, as I sat there in the dust in my rags, with my back to the gun-wheel – I must have been a rare sight. “Cut ’em loose, and tell ’em to run away – away, as far as they know how – away from us, and never to get caught again! Blast you, don’t stand there gawping – do as I say!”
“You’re not well,” says he. “You’re distraught, and –”
“I’m also a bloody colonel!” I hollered. “And you’re a bloody captain! I’m in my right mind, too, and I’ll break you, by God, if you don’t attend to me this minute. So … set – them – loose! Be a good chap, Clem – very well?”
So he gave the orders, and they turned them free, and the young lieutenant knelt beside me with the water-bottle, very respectful and moist-eyed.
“That was merciful,” says he.
“Merciful be damned,” says I. “The way things are hereabouts, one of ’em’s probably Lord Canning.”