across the kala pani,* (*Black water, i.e., the ocean.) for if these folk are riding thy tail, then this land is death to thee; there will not be a safe nook from the Deccan to the Khyber Gate.'
I sat limp and trembling, taking this horror in; I was afraid to ask the question, but I had to know.
'This fakir,' I croaked. 'Who is he?'
'No one knows — except that he is from the north, a one-eyed man with a fair skin from beyond the passes. There are those who think he is a sahib, but not of thy people. He has money, and followers in secret, and he preaches against the sahib-log*(* lord-people, i.e., the British.) in whispers …'
Ignatieff — I almost threw up. So it had happened, as Pam had thought it might: the bastard was back, and had tracked me down — and devil a doubt he knew all about my mission, too, somehow — and he and his agents were spreading their poison everywhere, and seeking to revive the devilish thugee cult against us, with me at the top of the menu — and Ilderim was right, there wasn't a hope unless I could get out of India — but I couldn't! This was what I was meant to be here for — why Pam in his purblind folly had sent me out: to tackle Ignatieff at his own game and dispose of him. I couldn't run squealing to Bombay or Calcutta bawling 'Gangway — and a first-class ticket home, quick!' This was the moment I was meant to earn my corn — against bloody dacoits and Ruski agents? I gulped and sweated — and then another thought struck me.
Was Lakshmibai part of this? God knew she'd no cause to love the Sirkar — was she another of the spiders in this devilish web, playing Delilah for the Russians? — but no, no, even to my disordered mind one thing remained clear: she'd never have walloped the mattress with me like that if she'd been false. No, this was Ignatieff, impure and anything but simple, and I had to think as I'd never thought before, with Ilderim's eye on me while I took my head in my hands and wondered, Christ, how can I slide out this time. And then inspiration dawned, slowly — I couldn't leave India, or be seen to be running away, but I'd told Skene that if the crisis came I might well vanish from sight, locally, to go after Ignatieff in my own way — well, now I would vanish, right enough; that shouldn't be difficult. I schemed it fast, as I can when I'm truly up against it, and turned to Ilderim.
'Look, brother,' says I. 'This is a great political affair, as you guessed. I cannot tell thee, and I cannot leave India —'
'Then thou art dead,' says he, cheerfully. 'Kali's hand will be on thee, through these messengers —' and he pointed at the dead Thug.
'Hold on,' says I, sweating. 'They're looking for Colonel Flashman — but if Colonel Flashman becomes, say — a Khyekeen pony-pedlar, or an Abizai who has done his time in the Guides or lancers, how will they find him then? I've done it before, remember? Dammit, I speak Pushtu as well as you do, and Urdu even better — wasn't I an agent with Sekundar Sahib? All I need is a safe place for a season, to lie up and sniff the wind before —' and I started lying recklessly, for effect ' — before I steal out again, having made my plans, to break this one-eyed fakir and his rabble of stranglers and loose-wallahs. D'you see?'
'Inshallah!' cries he, grinning all over his evil face. 'It is the great game! To lie low in disguise, and watch and listen and wait, and conspire with the other palitikal sahibs of the Sirkar, until the time is ripe — and then go against these evil subverters in a secret razzia!*(*An attack on unbelievers.) And when that time comes — I may share the sport, and hallal*(*Ritual throat-cutting.) these Hindoo and foreign swine, with my lads? — thou wouldst not forget thy old friend then?' He grabbed my hand, the bloodthirsty devil. 'Thou'd send me word, surely, when the knives are out — thy brother Ilderim?'
You'll wait a long time for it, my lad, thinks I; give me a good disguise and a pony and you'll not see me again — not until everything has safely blown over, and some other idiot has disposed of Ignatieff and his bravos. That's when I'd emerge, with a good yarn to spin to Calcutta (and Pam) about how I'd gone after him secretly, and dammit, I'd missed the blighter, bad luck. That would serve, and sound sufficiently mysterious and convincing — but for the moment my urgent need was a disguise and a hiding-place at a safe distance. Some jungly or desert spot might be best; I'd lived rough that way before, and as I'd told Ilderim, I could pass as a frontiersman or Afghan with any of 'em.
'When there are Ruski throats to be cut, you'll be the first to know,' I assured him, and he embraced me, chuckling, and swearing I was the best of brothers.
The matter of disguise reminded me that I was still stark naked, and shivering; I told him I wanted a kit exactly like that of his sowars, and he swore I'd have it, and a pony, too.
'And you may tell Skene sahib from me,' says I, 'that the time has come — and he can start feeling sorry for the Ruskis — he'll understand.' For I wasn't going back to the cantonment; I wanted to ride out tonight, wherever I was going. 'Tell him of the one-eyed fakir, that the Thugs are abroad again, and the axles are getting hot. You may say I've had a brush with the enemy already — but you needn't tell him what else I was doing tonight.' I winked at him. 'Understand? Oh, aye — and if he has inquiries after me from the Rani of Jhansi, he may say I have been called away, and present my apologies.'
'The Rani?' says he, and his eye strayed towards the pavilion. 'Aye.' He coughed and grinned. 'That was some rich lady's palankeen I saw tonight, and many servants. Perchance, was it —
'‘A Gilzai and a grandmother for scandal’,' I quoted. 'Mind your own dam' business. And now, be a good lad, and get me that outfit and pony.'
He summoned one of his rascals, and asked if the tortured Thug was dead yet.
'Nay, but he has no more to tell,' says the other. 'For he said nothing when I —' You wouldn't wish to know what he said next. 'Shall I pass him some of his own tobacco?'12 he added.
'Aye,' says Ilderim. 'And tell Rafik Tamwar I want all his clothes, and his knife, and his horse. Go thou.'
For answer the sowar nodded, took out his Khyber knife, and stepped back under the trees to where his companions were guarding the prisoner, or what was left of him. I heard him address the brute — even at that time and place it was an extraordinary enough exchange to fix itself in my mind; one of the most astonishing things I ever heard, even in India.
'It is over, deceiver,' says he. 'Here is the knife — in the throat or the heart? Choose.'
The Thug's reply was hoarse with agony. 'In the heart, then — quickly!'
'You're sure? As you wish.'
'No — wait!' gasps the Thug. 'Put the point … behind … my ear — so. Thrust hard — thus I will bleed less, and go undisfigured. Now!'
There was a pause, and then the sowar's voice says: 'He was right — he bleeds hardly at all. Trust a deceiver to know.'
A few moments later and Rafik Tamwar appeared, grumbling, in a rag of loin-cloth, with his clothes over his arm, and leading a neat little pony. I told Ilderim that Skene sahib must see his kit replaced, and he could have my own Pegu pony, at which the good Tamwar grinned through his beard, and said he would willingly make such an exchange every day. I slipped into his shirt and cavalry breeches, drew on the soft boots, donned his hairy poshteen,*(*Sheepskin coat.) stuck the Khyber cleaver in my sash, and was winding the puggaree round my head and wishing I had a revolver as well, when Ilderim says thoughtfully:
'Where wilt thou go, Flashman — have ye an eyrie to wait in where no enemy can find thee?'
I confessed I hadn't, and asked if he had any suggestions, at which he frowned thoughtfully, and then smiled, and then roared with laughter, and rolled on his back, and then stood up, peering and grinning at me.
'Some juice for thy skin,' says he. 'Aye, and when thy beard has grown, thou'lt be a rare Peshawar ruiner — so ye swagger enough, and curl thy hair round thy finger, and spit from the back of thy throat —'
'I know all about that,' says I, impatiently. 'Where d'you suggest I do all these things?'
'In the last place any ill-willer would ever look for a British colonel sahib,' says he, chortling. 'Look now — wouldst thou live easy for a spell, and eat full, and grow fat, what time thou art preparing to play the game against these enemies of the Raj? Aye, and get well paid for it — 24 rupees a month, and batta*(*Field allowance.) also?' He slapped his hands together at my astonishment. 'Why not — join the Sirkar's army! What a recruit for the native cavalry — why, given a month they'll make thee a daffadar!'*(*Cavalry commander of ten.) He stuck his tongue in his cheek. 'Maybe a rissaldar in time — who knows?'
'Are you mad?' says I. 'Me — enlist as a sowar? And how the devil d'you expect me to get away with that?'
'What hinders? Thou hast passed in Kabul bazaar before today, and along the Kandahar road. Stain thy face, as I said, and grow thy beard, and thou'lt be the properest Sirkar's bargain in India! Does it not meet thy need — and will it not place thee close to affairs — within reach of thine own folk, and ready to move at a finger-
