to a field dressing-station – and decided to be French for the moment. I mort-de-ma-vied and sacred-blued like anything while an orderly flung water over me to disperse my filth and then clapped a cold compress on my battered scalp. I gave him a torrent of garlic gratitude and withdrew from the bedlam of the station, muttering like an Apache, and considering, now that the peril was past, how to preserve my precious credit.
You see, I’d grovelled, and been seen to grovel, to that infernal Chink warlord – but only by a Paddy sergeant who didn’t know me from Adam; besides, I’d been in khaki mufti and so plastered with dung as to be unrecognisable. I doubted if the Mick had even seen me at the grog-cart, it had all happened so quickly – so now, if I minded my step for a while, and covered my tracks, there was no earthly reason why the inconvenient Fenian (wherever he was) or anyone else, should ever identify the spruce and heroic Flashy, who would shortly appear at head-quarters, with the craven scarecrow who’d been first to knock head before the heathen’s feet. Ve-ry good; all we needed was a razor and somebody’s clean shirt and trousers …
It’s a crying shame, as I keep telling Royal Commissions, that among all the military manuals there ain’t a line about foraging and decorating, those essential arts whereby the soldier keeps body and soul together in adversity. Offered to write ’em one, but they wouldn’t have it, more fool them, for I’ve lifted everything from chickens to Crown Jewels, and could have set generations of young fellows right, if they’d let me. It was child’s play to kit myself out after Tang-ku; the two miles back to Sinho was a carnival of support troops and baggage following the advance, setting up tents and quarters, and a great confusion through which I ambled, airing my French when I had to, and being taken, no doubt, for a rather unkempt commissariat-wallah, or a correspondent, or a Nonconformist missionary. Within ten minutes I’d replaced my soiled garments with a fine tussore coat, coolie pants, solar helmet, and umbrella, with a handsome morocco toilet case in my back pocket – and if you think that outlandish, let me tell you that armies were a deal more informally attired in my day. Campbell at Lucknow looked like a bus conductor, and old Raglan in the Crimea appeared to have robbed a jumble sale.
So when I’d shaved in a quiet corner, got rid of my bandages, and covered my cracked sconce with the topi, I was in pretty good fig, though feeling like a stretcher case. I hopped aboard an empty Frog ammunition cart going back to Sinho, spied Grant’s marker by a covered wagon, and strolled up to report, swinging my gamp. Two staff infants were within, Addiscombe all over ’em.
“Hollo, my sons!” cries I cheerily, with my head splitting. “I’m Flashman. Not a bit of it, sit down, sit down! Don’t tell me you haven’t learned the great headquarters rule yet!”
They looked at each other, blushing and respectful in the presence of the celebrated beau sabreur. “No, sir,” says one, nervously. “What’s that?”
“Hark’ee, my boy. If bread is the staff of life, what is the life of the staff?”
“Dunno, sir,” says he, grinning.
“One long loaf,” says I, winking. “So take your ease, and tell me where’s Sir Hope Grant?”
They said he was with the 60th, and when I inquired for Elgin, they looked astonished and told me he was back at Pehtang.
“You mean I’ve trekked all across those confounded mudflats for nothing? Now, that’s too bad! Ah, well, Pehtang it must be. My compliments to Sir Hope, and tell Wolseley that if I hear he’s been fleecing you young chaps at piquet, I’ll call him out. So long, my sons!”
Alibi nicely established, you see, with two gratified young gallopers reporting that Flashy had just tooled in from the coast (which was true, give or take a couple of days). I could now depart for Pehtang in the certainty that no one would ever imagine I’d been near Tang-ku, and the scene of my shame. It’s just a question of taking thought and pains, and well worth it.
I was feeling decidedly flimsy by now, and wondering if I’d last as far as Pehtang, but by good luck the first man I ran into outside Grant’s wagon was Nuxban Khan, who’d been second to my blood-brother, Ilderim Khan, in the irregular horse at Jhansi. He hailed me with a great whoop and roarings in Pushtu, a huge Afghan thug in a sashed coat and enormous top-boots, grinning all over his dreadful face as he demanded how I did, and recalling those happy days when the Thugs all but had me outside the Rani’s pavilion until he and Ilderim and the rest of the Khyber Co-operative Society arrived to carve them up so artistically. He was a great man now, rissaldar in Fane’s Horse, and when he heard where I was bound nothing would do but I must travel in style in the regimental gig.
“Shall Bloody Lance walk, or ride like a common sowar? No, by God! Thou’lt ride like a rajah, old friend – ah, the Colonel husoor’s pardon! – for the honour of Ilderim’s band! Aye, Ilderim! He ate his last salt at Cawnpore, peace be with him!” Suddenly there were tears running down his evil face. “Bismillah! Where are such friends as Ilderim today? Or such foes? Have ye seen these Tartars, Bloody Lance? Mice! Aye, but we’ll go mouse-hunting anon, thou and I!” Then he was shouting. “Hey, Probyn Sahib! Probyn Sahib! See who is here!”
And now he was making me known to Probyn, whom I’d never met – tall, handsome, soft-spoken Probyn, whom some called the best irregular cavalryman since Skinner (though I’d have rated Grant above both). He was only a subaltern in his regular regiment, yet here he was, with an independent command of his own, and a V.C. to boot. He in turn presented a few of his officers, Afghans to a man, and as ugly a crowd as ever crossed the border, and it made me feel downright odd, when he indicated me as “Flashman bahadur”, to see how they straightened and beamed and clicked their heels.
D’you know, it was like coming home? Suddenly, among those wicked friendly faces, with Nuxban exclaiming and Probyn smiling and eyeing me respectfully, the terror of the past two days melted away, and even my head didn’t ache so fierce. I realised what it was – for the first time, in China, I wasn’t alone: I had the best army on earth with me, the bravest of the brave, terrible men who hailed me as a comrade, and an admired comrade, at that – unless your belly’s as yellow as mine, you can’t imagine what it means. I felt downright proud, and safe at last.
Probyn rode along with me when I rolled off in Nuxban’s gig, and for the first time I had a proper look at the great British and French army camped outside Sinho. On either side of the causeway road stretched the long lines of tents, white and khaki and green, with the guidons fluttering and the troops at exercise or loafing: here was a company of Frogs with their overcoats and great packs counter-marching on the right of the road to “Marche Lorraine”, in competition with a Punjabi battalion, very trim in beards and tight puggarees, drilling to “John Peel” on the left; there was a Spahi squadron practising wheels at the gallop, the long cloaks flying, and a line of Probyn’s riders, Sikhs and Afghans in shirt-sleeves, taking turns to ride full tilt past an officer who was tossing oranges in the air – they were taking ’em with their sabres on the fly, roars of applause greeting each successful cut.
“Fane’s boys will be doing it with grapes tomorrow, I expect,” says Probyn.
I said it was a pity the Chinese Emperor couldn’t see ’em, and be brought to his senses – the neat artillery parks and rocket batteries, the endless lines of supply carts and ordnance wagons, manned by the milling Coolie Corps, whiskered Madrassis wrestling in their loin-cloths, brawny Gunners playing cricket on a mat wicket, bearded Sikhs grinding their lance-points on the emery wheel, green-jacketed 60th riflemen close-order-drilling like clockwork, a squadron of Dragoon Guards trotting by, each pith helmet and sloped sabre at an identical angle, Royals in their shirt-sleeves mingling with the Tirailleurs to swap baccy and gossip (it’s damned sinister, if you ask me, how the Jocks and Frogs
