Flashman's Lady

  “It’s agony!” I groaned. “I’m bleeding buckets!”

  “No, you ain’t, either. Anyway, a great big hearty chap like you won’t miss a bit of blood. Mustn’t be a milksop. Why, when I got this”—he touched his scar—“I didn’t even cheep. Did I, Stuart?”

  “Yes, you did,” says the fair chap. “Bellowed like a bull and wanted your mother.”

  “Not a word of truth in it. Is there, Paitingi?”

  The red-bearded Arab spat. “You enjoy bein’ hurt,” says he, in a strong Scotch accent. “Ye gaunae leave the man lyin’ here a’ nicht?”

  “We ought to let Mackenzie look at him, J.B.,” says the fair chap. “He’s looking pretty groggy.”

  “Shock,” says my ministering angel, who was knotting his handkerchief round my shoulder, to my accompanying moans. “There, now—that’ll do. Yes, let Mac sew him together, and he’ll be ready to tackle twenty hatchet-men tomorrow. Won’t you, old son?” And the grinning madman winked and patted my head. “Why was this one chasing you, by the way? I see he’s a Black-face; they usually hunt in packs.”

  Between groans, I told him how my palki had been set on by four of them—I didn’t say anything about Madame Sabba—and he stopped grinning and looked murderous.

  “The cowardly, sneaking vagabonds!” cries he. “I don’t know what the police are thinking about—leave it to me and I’d clear the rascals out in a fortnight, wouldn’t I just!” He looked the very man to do it, too. “It’s too bad altogether. You were lucky we happened along, though. Think you can walk? Here, Stuart, help him up. There now,” cries the callous brute, as they hauled me to my feet, “you’re feeling better already, I’ll be bound!”

  At any other time I’d have given him a piece of my mind, for if there’s one thing I detest more than another it’s these hearty, selfish, muscular Christians who are forever making light of your troubles when all you want to do is lie whimpering. But I was too dizzy with the agony of my shoulder, and besides, he and his amazing gang of sailors and savages had certainly saved my bacon, so I felt obliged to mutter my thanks as well as I could. J.B. laughed at this and said it was all in a good cause, and duty-free, and they would see me home in a palki. So while some of them set off hallooing to find one, he and the others propped me against the wall, and then they stood about and discussed what they should do with the dead Chinaman.

  It was a remarkable conversation, in its way. Someone suggested, sensibly enough, that they should cart him along and give him to the police, but the fair chap, Stuart, said no, they ought to leave him lying and write a letter to the “Free Press” complaining about litter in the streets. The Arab, whose name was Paitingi Ali, and whose Scotch accent I found unbelievable, was for giving him a Christian burial, of all things, and the hideous little native, Jingo, jabbering excitedly and stamping his feet, apparently wanted to cut his head off and take it home.

  “Can’t do that,” says Stuart. “You can’t cure it till we get to Kuching, and it’ll stink long before that.”

  “I won’t have it,” says the man J.B., who was evidently the leader. “Taking heads is a beastly practice, and one I am resolved to suppress. Mind you,” he added, “Jingo’s suggestion, by his own lights, has a stronger claim to consideration than yours—it is his head, since he killed the fellow. Hollo, though, here’s Crimble with the palki. In you go, old chap.”

  I wondered, listening to them, if my wound had made me delirious; either that, or I had fallen in with a party of lunatics. But I was too used up to care; I let them stow me in the palki, and lay half-conscious while they debated where they might find Mackenzie—who I gathered was a doctor—at this time of night. No one seemed to know where he might be, and then someone recalled that he had been going to play chess with Whampoa. I had just enough of my wits left to recall the name, and croak out that Whampoa’s establishment would suit me splendidly—the thought that his delectable little Chinese girls might be employed to nurse me was particularly soothing just then.

  “You know Whampoa, do you?” says J.B. “Well, that settles it. Lead on, Stuart. By the way,” says he to me, as they picked up the palki, “my name’s Brooke—James Brooke16—known as J.B. You’re Mr…?”

  I told him, and even in my reduced condition it was a satisfaction to see the blue eyes open wider in surprise.

  “Not the Afghan chap? Well, I’m blessed! Why, I’ve wanted to meet you this two years past! And to think that if we hadn’t happened along, you’d have been…”

  My head was swimming with pain and fatigue, and I didn’t hear any more. I have a faint recollection of the palki jogging, and of the voices of my escort singing:

  “Oh, say have you seen the plantation boss,

  With his black-haired woman and his high-tail hoss,

  Sing ‘Johnny come down to Hilo’,

  Poor…old…man!”

  But I must have gone under, for the next thing I remember is the choking stench of ammonia beneath my nose, and when I opened my eyes there was a glare of light, and I was sitting in a chair in Whampoa’s hall. My coat and shirt had been stripped away, and a burly, black-bearded chap was making me wince and cry out with a scalding hot cloth applied to my wound—sure enough, though, at his elbow was one of those almond-eyed little beauties, holding a bowl of steaming water. She was the only cheery sight in the room, for as I blinked against the light reflected from the magnificence of silver and jade and ivory I saw that the ring of faces watching me was solemn and silent and still as statues.

  There was Whampoa himself, in the centre, impassive as ever in his splendid gown of black silk; next to him Catchick Moses, his bald head gleaming and his kindly Jewish face pale with grief; Brooke, not smiling now—his jaw and mouth were set like stone, and beside him the fair boy Stuart was a picture of pity and horror—what the h--l are they staring at, I wondered, for I ain’t as ill as all that, surely? Then Whampoa was talking, and I understood, for what he said made the terror of that night, and the pain of my wound, seem insignificant. He had to repeat it twice before it sank in, and then I could only sit staring at him in horror and disbelief.

  “Your beautiful wife, the lady Elspet’, has gone. The man Solomon Haslam has stolen her. The Sulu Queen sailed from Singapore this night, no one knows where.”

  [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, July—, 1844]

  Lost! lost! lost! I have never been so Surprised in my life. One moment secure in Tranquillity and Affection, among Loving Friends and Relations, shielded by the Devotion of a Constant Husband and Generous Parent—the next, horribly ravished stolen away by one whom who that I had esteemed and trusted almost beyond any gentleman of my acquaintance (excepting of course H. and dear Papa). Shall I ever see them again? What terrible fate lies ahead—ah, I can guess all too well, for I have seen the Loathsome Passion in his eyes, and it is not to be thought that he has so ruthlessly abducted me to any end but one! I am so distracted by Shame and Terror that I believe my Reason will be unseated—lest it should, I must record my Miserable Lot while clarity of thought remains, and I can still hold my trembling pen!

  Oh, alas, that I parted from my darling H. in discord and sulks—and over the Merest Trifle, because he threw the coffee pot against the wall and kicked the servant—which was no more than that minion deserved, for his bearing had been Careless and Familiar, and he would not clean his nails before waiting upon us. And I, sullen Wretch that I was, reproved my Dearest One, and took that Bad Servant’s part, so that we were at odds over breakfast, and exchanged only the most Brief Remarks for the better part of the day, with Pouting and Missishness on my unworthy part, and Dark Looks and Exclamations from my Darling—but I see now how forbearing he was with such a Perverse and Contrary creature as me I. Oh, Unhappy, unworthy woman that I am, for it was in Cruel Huff that I accompanied Don S., that Viper, on his proposed excursion, thinking to Punish my dear, patient, sweet Protector—oh, it is I who am punished for my selfish and spiteful conduct!

  All went well until our
picnic ashore, although I believe the champagne was flat, and made me feel strangely drowsy, so that I must go aboard the vessel to lie down. With no thought of Peril, I slept, and awoke to find we were under way, with Don S. upon deck instructing his people to make all speed. “Where is Papa?” I cried, “and why are we sailing away from Land? See, Don Solomon, the sun is sinking; we must return!” His face was Pale, despite his warm complection, and his look was Wild. With brutal frankness, yet in a Moderate Tone, he told me I should Resign myself, for I should never see my dear Papa again.

  “What do you mean, Don Solomon?” I cried. “We are bidden to Mrs Alec Middleton’s for dinner!” It was then, in a voice which shook with Feeling, so unlike his usual Controll’d form of address, although I could see he was striving to master his Emotion, that he told me there could be no going back; that he was subject to an Overmastering Passion for me, and had been from our Moment of First Meeting. “The die is cast,” he declared. “I cannot live without you, so I must make you my own, in the face of the world and your husband, tho’ it means I must cut all my ties with civilised life, and take you beyond pursuit, to my own distant kingdom, where, I assure you, you will rule as Queen not only over my Possessions, but over my Heart.”

  “This is madness, Don Solomon,” I cried. “I have no clothes with me. Besides, I am a married woman, with a Position in Society.” He said it was no matter for that, and Seizing me suddenly in his Powerful Embrace, which took my breath away, he vowed that I loved him too—that he had known it from Encouraging Signs he had detected in me—which, of course, was the Odious Construction which his Fever’d Brain had placed on the common civilities and little pleasantries which a Lady is accustomed to bestow on a Gentleman.

  I was quite overcome at the fearful position in which I found myself, so unexpectedly, but not so much that I lost my capacity for Careful Consideration. For having pleaded with him to repent this madness, which could lead only to shame for myself, and Ruin for him, and even having demeaned myself to the extent of struggling vainly in his crushing embrace, so Brutally Strong and inflexible, as well as calling loudly for assistance and kicking his shins, I became calmer, and feigned to Swoon. I recollected that there is no Emergency beyond the Power of a Resolute Englishwoman, especially if she is Scotch, and took heart from the lesson enjoined by our dominie, Mr Buchanan, at the Renfrew Academy for Young Ladies and Gentlewomen—ah, dear home, am I parted forever from the Scenes of Childhood?—that in Moments of Danger, it is of the first importance to take Accurate Measurements and then act with boldness and dispatch.

  Accordingly, I fell limp in my Captor’s cruel—altho’ no doubt he meant it to be Affectionate—clasp, and he relaxing his vigilance, I broke free and sped to the rail, intending to cast myself upon the mercy of the waves, and swim ashore—for I was a Strong Swimmer, and hold the West of Scotland Physical Improvement Society’s certificate for Saving Life from Drowning, having been among the First to receive it when that Institution was founded in 1835, or it may have been 1836, when I was still a child. It was not very far to the shore, either, but before I could fling myself into the sea, in the Trust of Almighty God, I was seized by one of Don S.’s Hideous and Smelling natives, and despite my struggles, I was carried below, at Don S.’s orders, and am confined in the saloon, where I write this melancholy account.

  What shall I do? Oh, Harry, Harry, darling Harry, come and save me! Forgive my Thoughtless and Wayward behaviour, and Rescue me from the Clutches of this Improper Person. I think he must be mad—and yet, such Passionate Obsessions are not uncommon, I believe, and I am not insensible of the Regard that I have been shown by others of his sex, who have praised my attractions, so I must not pretend that I do not understand the reason for his Horrid and Ungallant Conduct. My dread is that before Aid can reach me, his Beast may overpower his Finer Feelings—and even now I cannot suppose that he is altogether Dead to Propriety, though how long such Restraint will continue I cannot say.

  So come quickly, quickly, my own love, for how can I, weak and defenceless as I am, resist him unaided? I am in terror and distraction at 9 p.m. The weather continues fine.

  [End of extract—this is what comes of forward and immodest behaviour—G. de R.]

  *Travelling on an East Indiaman.

  “I blame myself,” says Whampoa, sipping his sherry. “For years one does business with a man, and if his credit is good and his merchandise sound, one clicks the abacus and sets aside the doubts one feels on looking into his eyes.” He was enthroned behind his great desk, impassive as Buddha, with one of his little tarts beside him holding the Amontillado bottle. “I knew he was not safe, but I let it go, even when I saw how he watched your golden lady two evenings since. It disturbed me, but I am a lazy, stupid and selfish fool, so I did nothing. You shall tell me so, Mr Flashman, and I shall bow my unworthy head beneath your deserved censure.”

  He nodded towards me while his glass was refilled, and Catchick Moses burst out:

  “Not as stupid as I, for G-d’s sake, and I’m a man of business, they say! Yeh! Haven’t I for the past week been watching him liquidate his assets, closing his warehouses, selling his stock to my committee, auctioning his lighters?” He spread his hands. “Who cared? He was a cash-on-the-table man, so did I mind where he came from, or that nobody knew him before ten years back? He was in spice, they said, and silk, and antimony, and G-d-knows-what, with plantations up the coast and something-or-other in the Islands—and now you tell us, Whampoa, that no one has ever seen these estates of his?”

  “That is my information in the past few hours,” says Whampoa gravely. “It amounts to this: he has great riches, but no one knows where they come from. He is a Singapore middleman, but he is not alone in that. His name was good, because he did good business—”

  “And now he has done us!” cries Catchick. “This, in Singapore! Under our very noses, in the most respectable community in Asia, he steals a great English lady—what will they say in the world, hey? Where’s our reputation, our good name, I should like to know. It’s gone out yonder, heaven knows where, aboard his accursed brig! Pirates, they’ll call us—thieves and kidnappers! I tell you, Whampoa, this could ruin trade for five years—”

  “In G-d’s name, man!” cries Brooke. “It could ruin Mrs Flashman forever!”

  “Oi-hoi!” cries Catchick, clutching his head with his hands, and then he came trotting across to me and dropped his hand on my shoulder, kneading away at me. “Oh, my poor friend, forgive me!” he groans. “My poor friend!”

  It was just on dawn, and we had been engaged in such useful conversation for two hours past. At least, they had; I had been sitting in silence, sick with shock and pain, while Catchick Moses apostrophised and tore his whiskers, Whampoa reviled himself in precise, grammatical terms and sank half a gallon of Manzanilla. Balestier, the American consul, who had been summoned, d----d Solomon to Hades and beyond, and two or three other leading citizens shook their heads and exclaimed from time to time. Brooke just listened, mostly, having sent his people out to pick up news; there was a steady trickle of Whampoa’s Chinese, too, coming in to report, but adding little to what we already knew. And that was knowledge enough, stark and unbelievable.

  Most of it came from old Morrison, who had been abandoned on the bay island where the party had picnicked. He had gone to sleep, he said—full of drugged drink, no doubt, and had come to in the late evening to find the Sulu Queen hull down on the horizon, steaming away east—this was confirmed by the captain of an American clipper, one Waterman, who had passed her as he came into port. Morrison had been picked up by some native fishermen and had arrived at the quay after nightfall to pour out his tale, and now the whole community was in uproar. Whampoa had taken it upon himself to get to the bottom of the thing—he had feelers everywhere, of course—and had put Morrison to bed upstairs, where the old goat was in a state of prostration. The Governor had been informed, with the result that brows were being clutched, oaths sworn, fists shaken, and sal volatile sold
out in the shops, no doubt. There hadn’t been a sensation like it since the last Presbyterian Church jumble sale. But of course nothing was done.

  At first, everyone had said it was a mistake; the Sulu Queen was off on some pleasure jaunt. But when Catchick and Whampoa pieced it all together, that wouldn’t do: it was discovered that Solomon had been quietly selling up in Singapore, that when all was said, no one knew a d----d thing about him, and that all the signs were that he was intending to clear out, leaving not a wrack behind. Hence the loud recriminations, and the dropped voices when they remembered that I was present, and the repeated demands as to what should be done now.

  Only Brooke seemed to have any notions, and they weren’t much help. “Pursuit,” cries he, with his eyes blazing. “She’s going to be rescued, don’t doubt that for a moment.” He dropped a hand on my uninjured shoulder. “I’m with you in this; we all are, and as I’ve a soul to save I won’t rest until you have her safe back, and this evil rascal has received condign punishment. So there—we’ll find her, if we have to rake the sea to Australia and back! My word on it.”

  The others growled agreement, and looked resolute and sympathetic and scratched themselves, and then Whampoa signs to his girl for more liquor and says gravely:

  “Indeed, everyone supports your majesty in this”—it says much about my condition that I never thought twice about that remarkable form of address to an English sailor in a pea-jacket and pilot cap—“but it is difficult to see how pursuit can be made until we have precise information about where they have gone.”

  “My G-d, that is the truth,” groans Catchick Moses. “They may be anywhere. How many millions of miles of sea, how many islands, half of them uncharted—two thousand, five, ten? Does anyone know, even? And such islands—swarming with pirates, cannibals, head-takers—in G-d’s name, my friend, this rascal may have taken her anywhere. And there is no vessel in port fit to pursue a steam-brig.”