Flashman's Lady

  For a moment I thought I was back in Jallalabad, in that blissful awakening after the battle. There was a soft bed under me, sheets at my chin, and a cool breeze; I opened my eyes, and saw that it came from a port-hole opposite me. That wasn’t right, though; no port holes in the Khyber country—I struggled with memory, and then a figure blocked the light, a huge figure in green sarong and sleeveless tunic, with a krees in his girdle, and fingering his earring as he stared down at me, his heavy brown face as hard as a curling-stone.

  “You should have died,” says Don Solomon Haslam.

  Just what an awakening invalid needs, of course, but it brought the nightmare flooding back—the reeking waters of the Skrang, the overwhelmed spy-boat, the dart in my side—I was conscious of a dull ache in my ribs, and of bandages. But where the d---l was I? In the Sulu Queen, sure enough, but even in that dizzy moment of waking I was aware that her motion was a slow, steady heave, there were no jungle noises, and the air blowing from the port was salt. I tried to speak, and my voice came in a parched croak.

  “What…what am I doing here?”

  “Surviving,” says he. “For the moment.” And then to my amazement he thrust his face into mine and snarled: “But you couldn’t die decently, could you? Oh no, not you! Hundreds perished in that river—but you survive! Every man of Paitingi’s—good men—Lingas who fought to the last—Paitingi himself, who was worth a thousand. All lost! But not you, blubbering in the water where my men found you! They should have left you to drown. I should have—bah!” He wheeled away, fuming.

  Well. I hadn’t expected him to be pleased to see me, but even in my confused state so much passion seemed a mite unreasonable. Was I delirious?—but no, I felt not bad, and when I tried to ease myself up on the pillows I found I could do it without much discomfort; one doesn’t care to be raved at lying down, you understand. A hundred questions and fears were jumbled in my mind, but the first one was:

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two weeks.” He eyed me malevolently. “And if you wonder where, the Sulu Queen is approximately ten south seventy east, heading west-sou’-west.” Then, bitterly: “What the d---l else was I to do, once those fools had hauled you from the water? Let you die of gangrene—treat you as you deserved? Ha! That was the one thing I could not do!”

  Being still half-stupid with prolonged unconsciousness, I couldn’t make much of this. The last time I’d seen him, we’d been boon-companions, more or less, but since then he’d tried to murder me, kidnapped my wife, and turned out to be the arch-pirate of the Orient, which shed a different light on things. I tried to steady my whirling thoughts, but couldn’t. Anyway, he was obviously in a fearful wax because he’d felt obliged, G-d only knew why, not to let me perish of blow-pipe poison. Difficult to know what to say, so I didn’t.

  “You can guess why you are alive,” says he. “It is because of her—whose husband you were.”

  For a dreadful second I thought he meant she was dead; then my mind leaped to the conclusion that he meant he had taken her from me, and done the dirty deed on her—and at the very thought of my little Elspeth being abused by this vile nigger pirate, this scum of the East, my confusion and discretion vanished together in rage.

  “You b----y liar! I am her husband! She’s my wife! You kidnapped her, you filthy pirate, and—”

  “Kidnapped? Saved, you mean!” His eyes were blazing. “Rescued her from a man—no, from a brute—who wasn’t fit to kiss her feet! Oh, no—it’s not kidnapping to take a pearl from a swine, who fouls her with his very touch, who treats her as a mere concubine, who betrays her—”

  “It’s a lie! I—”

  “Didn’t I see you with my own eyes? Coupling with that slut in my own library—”

  “Drawing-room—”

  “—that harlot Lade? Isn’t your name a byword in London for debauchery and vice, for every kind of lewdness and depravity?”

  “Not every kind! I never—”

  “A rake, a cheat, a bully and a whoremonger—that’s what I rescued that sweet, brave woman from. I took her from the hell of life with you—”

  “You’re mad!” I croaked. “She never said it was hell! She loves me, curse you—as I love her—”

  His hand swept across my face, knocking me back on my pillow, and I had sense enough to stay there, for he was a fearsome sight, shaking with fury, his mouth working.

  “What did you ever know of love?” cries he. “Let me hear that word on your lips again, and I’ll have them sewn together, with a scorpion in your mouth!”

  Well, when he put it like that, I saw there was no point in arguing. I lay there quaking, while he mastered himself and went on, more quietly:

  “Love is not for animals like you. Love is what I felt—for the first time—on an afternoon at Lord’s, when I saw her. I knew then, as surely as I know there is One God, that there could be no other woman, that I should worship her for life, a life that would be death without her. Yes. I knew then—what love was.”

  He let out a great breath, and he was trembling. By George, thinks I, we’ve got a maniac here—he means it. He heaved a minute, and then went on, like a poet on opium.

  “She filled my life from that moment; there was nothing else. But it was a pure love—she would have been sacred to me, had she been married to a husband truly worthy of her. But when I saw the truth—that she was shackled to the basest kind of brute”—he shot me a withering look—“I asked why my life, and hers (which was infinitely more precious) should be ruined by a stupid convention which, after all, meant nothing to me. Oh, I was a gentleman, trained in the English way, at an English school—but I was also a prince of the House of Magandanu, descended from the Prophet himself—and I was a pirate, as you of the West know the word. Why should I respect your customs; when I could offer her a destiny as high above life with you as the stars are above the slime, why should I hesitate? I could make her a queen, instead of the chattel of a drunken, licentious bully who had only married her at pistol point!”

  “That ain’t fair! She was d----d glad to get me, and if that poxy little varmint Morrison says other—don’t hit me! I’m wounded!”

  “Not by one word, by one gesture, did she complain! Her loyalty, like everything else about her, is perfect—even to a worm like you! But I knew, and I determined to save her for a love worthy of her. So I worked, carefully, patiently, for both our sakes—it was torture to impose on that sweet innocence, but I knew that in time she would bless me for the subterfuge. I was ready to sacrifice anything—millions, what were they to me? I, who was half of the East, half of the West, was prepared to put myself beyond the law, beyond civilisation, for her sake. I would give her a throne, a fortune—and true love. For I still have my kingdom of the East, and she shall share it with me.”

  Well, you won’t want me as British Ambassador, thinks I, but I kept mum, tactfully. He paced about the cabin, looking masterful as he prated on.

  “So I took her, and I fought for her—in the face of that vicious madman Brooke! Oh, he’ll come too often to Borneo, that one, with his lying piety and promises—he that is the bloodiest pirate of us all! No doubt he made a fine pretext of rescuing her, so that he could come again and harry and burn us, butcher our people—” He was working into a fine froth now, waving his hands. “What’s it to him, how we live? What sacred right has he to war on us and our ways? I’d have eaten his fleet alive on the Skrang, but for Paitingi! As it was, I slipped him in the creeks and came downriver, with this one vessel. He thinks he’s finished Suleiman Usman, does he? Let him come to Maludu, when I return there!”

  He paced some more, chewing over Brooke, and then rounded on me. “But he doesn’t matter—not now. You do. You’re here, and you’re inopportune.” He paused, considering me. “Yes…you should have died.”

  I wished to G-d he’d stop harping on that—you could see where it was going to lead. This wasn’t Don Solomon of Brook Street any longer, not so you’d notice—this was a beastly abo
rigine who went plundering about in ships festooned with skulls, and I was an inconvenient husband, ’nuff said. In addition, he clearly had more screws loose than a drunk sapper—all that moonshine about worshipping Elspeth, not being able to live without her, making her a queen—well! It would have been laughable if it hadn’t been true; after all, when a man kidnaps a married woman and fights a war over her, it ain’t just a passing fancy.

  But one thing was plain—his wooing hadn’t prospered, or I’d have been overside long ago, with a bag of coal round my ankles. Why the h--l couldn’t he have rattled her in London, and got tired of it, and we’d have been spared all this? But here we were, in a pickle whose delicacy made my flesh crawl. I considered, took a deep breath, and tried not to talk shrill.

  “Well, now, Don Solomon,” says I, “I take note of what you’ve said, and—ah—I’m glad we’ve had this little prose together, you know, and you’ve told me—urn—what you think. Yes—you’ve put it very fair, and while I can’t but deplore what you’ve done, mind—well, I understand your feelings, as any man of sensibility must—and I’m that, I hope—and I see you were deeply affected by…well, by my wife—and I know what it’s like, of course—I mean, she’s a little stunner, we agree—heavens yes.” I babbled on, while he gaped in bewilderment, small blame to him.

  “But you’ve got it quite wrong you know; we’re a devoted couple, Elspeth—Mrs Flashman—and I, ask anyone—never a cross word—sublimely happy—”

  “And that whore Lade?” he snarled. “Is that your devotion?”

  “Why, my dear chap! The merest accident—I mean, that I noticed her at all—pure jealousy at seeing my wife flattered by your attentions—a man of your address, I mean, polished manners, charming, stinking rich—no, no, I mean, I found myself quite cut out—and Mrs Lade, well…heat of the moment—you know yourself how one can be carried away—”

  It was touch and go that he didn’t savage me on the bed, considering the drivel I was talking—but it sometimes works, rubbish with a ring of sincerity, when you’re stuck with a hopeless case. It didn’t here; he strode to the bed, seized me by the shoulder, and drew back his great fist.

  “You infernal liar!” cries he. “D’you think you can gammon me with your snivelling?”

  “I’m not!” I bawled. “I love Elspeth, and she loves me, and you know it! She don’t want you!” I’d done it now, I could see, so I went roaring on: “That’s why you wish I’d died—because you know if you harm me now, your last hope of winning her is gone! Don’t—I’m an invalid—my wound!”

  His fingers bit my shoulder like a vice; suddenly he flung me back and straightened up, with an ugly laugh.

  “So that’s what you’re counting on! Why, you miserable toad, she doesn’t even know you’re here. I could drop you overboard, and she’d never know. Aye, you go pale at—”

  “I don’t believe you! If that were true you’d have done me in already—you tried it in Singapore, rot you, with your foul black gangsters!”

  He stared at me. “I’ve no notion what you’re talking about,” and he sounded sincere, curse him. “I don’t expect you to understand it, Flashman, but the reason you’re still alive is that I’m a man of honour. When I take her to her throne—and I shall—it will be with a clean hand, not one fouled with a husband’s blood—even a husband like you.”

  That was reassuring enough to banish my immediate terrors; I even recovered sufficiently for a cautious sneer.

  “Talk’s cheap, Solomon. Honour, says you—but you ain’t above wife-stealing, and cheating at cricket—oh, aye, breaking a chap’s wicket when you’ve laid him out foul! If you’re such a man of honour,” I taunted him, “you’d let Elspeth choose for herself—but you daren’t, ’cos you know she’d plump for me, warts and all!”

  He stood stock still, just looking at me, without expression, fingering his earring again. Then after a moment, he nodded, slowly.

  “Yes,” says he quietly. “It must come to that, must it not? Very well.”

  He threw open the door, and barked an order, glancing oddly at me while we waited. Feet sounded—and I felt my heart begin to thump uncontrollably as I sat up in bed; G-d knows why, but I was suddenly dizzy—and then she was there in the doorway, and for a moment I thought it was someone else—this was some Eastern nymph, in a clinging sarong of red silk, her skin tanned to the gold of honey, whereas Elspeth’s was like milk. Her blonde hair was bleached almost white by the sun—and then I saw those magnificent blue eyes, round with bewilderment like her lips, and I heard a sob coming out of me: “Elspeth!”

  She gave a little scream, and stumbled in the doorway, putting her hand to her eyes—and then she was running to my arms, crying “Harry! Oh. Harry!” flinging herself at me, her mouth against mine, clutching my head in wild hands, sobbing hysterically, and I forgot Solomon, and the ache of my wound, and fear, and danger, as I pressed that lovely softness against me and kissed and kissed her until she went suddenly limp, and slid from my arms to the floor in a dead faint. It was only then, as I scrambled out, clutching my bandaged side, that I realised the door was closed, and Solomon was gone.

  I tried to haul her up to the bed, but I was still weak as a kitten from my wound and confinement, and couldn’t manage it. So I had to be content with pawing and fondling until her eyes fluttered open, and then she clung to me, muttering my name, and after we had babbled thankfully for a few minutes and exchanged our news, so to speak, we got down to the reunion in earnest—and in the middle of it, while I was just wondering if my wound was about to come asunder, she suddenly pulled her mouth free of mine and cried:

  “Harry—what is Mrs Leo Lade to you?”

  “Hey?” I yelped. “What? What d’ye mean? Who’s she? I mean—”

  “You know her very well! The Duke’s…companion, who paid you such singular attention. What is between you?”

  “Good G-d! At a time like this—Elspeth, my dear, what has Mrs Lade to do with anything?”

  “That is what I am asking. No, desist—Don Solomon said…hinted…of an attachment. Is this true?”

  You wouldn’t credit it—here she was, on a pirate ship, having been abducted, shanghaied round half the East, through war, ambush, and confounded head-hunters, reunited with her long-lost spouse, and just as he was proving his undying affection at grievous risk to his health, her jealous little pea-brain was off on another tack altogether. Unbelievable—and most unflattering. But I was equal to the occasion.

  “Solomon!” cries I. “That viper! Has he been trying to poison your mind against me with his lies? I might have guessed it! Not content with stealing you, the villain traduces me to you—don’t you see? He’ll stop at nothing to win you away from me.”

  “Oh.” She frowned up at me—G-d, she was lovely, if half-witted. “You mean he—oh, how could he be so base? Oh, Harry”—and she began to cry, trembling all down her body in a way that almost brought me to the boil—“all the rest I could bear—the fear and shame and…and all of it, but the thought that you might have been untrue…as he suggested—ah, that would have broken my heart! Tell me it wasn’t so, my love!”

  “Course it wasn’t! Good l--d, that raddled pudding Lade! How could you think it? I despise the woman—and as though I could even look at her, or any other, when I have my own perfect, angelic Aphrodite—” I tried a couple of cautious thrusts as I saw the suspicion dying in her eyes, but since attack’s the best form of defence I suddenly stopped, frowning thunderously. “That foul kite Solomon! He will stoop to any depth. Oh, dearest, I have been mad these past weeks—the thought of you in his clutches.” I gulped in manly torment. “Tell me—in your ordeal—did he…I mean—well…did he, the scoundrel?”

  She was flushed with my attentions anyway, but at this she went crimson, and moaned softly, those innocent eyes brimming with tears.

  “Oh, how can you ask? Would I be alive now, if…if…Oh, Harry, I cannot believe it is you, holding me safe! Oh, my love!”

  Well, that w
as that settled (so far as it ever is with Elspeth; I’ve never been able to read those child-like eyes and butter-melting lips, so the d---l with it), and Mrs Lade disposed of, at least until we had finished the business in hand and were lying talking in the growing dusk of the cabin. Naturally, Elspeth’s story came flooding out in an excited stream, and I was listening with my mind in a great confusion, what with my weakened state, the crazy shock of our reunion, and the anxiety of our predicament—and suddenly, in the middle of describing the rations they’d fed her during her captivity, she suddenly said:

  “Harry—you are sure you have not been astride Mrs Lade?”

  I was so amazed she had to say it twice.

  “Eh? Good G-d, girl, what d’you mean?”

  “Have you mounted her?”

  I can’t think how I’ve kept my sanity, talking to that woman for sixty years. Of course, at this time we’d only been married for five, and I hadn’t plumbed the depths of her eccentricity. I could only gargle and exclaim:

  “D----t. I’ve told you I haven’t! And where on earth—it is shocking to use expressions of that kind!”

  “Why? You use them—I heard you, at Lady Chalmers’, when you were talking to Jack Speedicut, and you were both remarking on Lottie Cavendish, and whatever her husband could see in such a foolish creature, and you said you expected he found her a good mount. I dare say I was not meant to hear.”

  “I should think not! And I can have said no such thing—and anyway, ladies ain’t meant to understand such…such vulgar words.”

  “The ladies who get mounted must understand them.”

  “They ain’t ladies!”

  “Why not? Lottie Cavendish is. So am I, and you have mounted me—lots of times.” She sighed, and nestled close, G-d help us.