together. Why — why the hell should they do this? — I found myself blubbering it aloud. I've seen death and horror more than most men, but this was worse than anything — it was beyond bestiality. Gobinda? Pir Ali? Old Sardul? Ram Mangal, even? They couldn't have done this -- they wouldn't have done it to the wives of their bitterest enemies. But it had been done — if not by them, then by men like them. It was mad, senseless, incredible — but it was there, and if I tell you of it now, it is not to horrify, but to let you understand what happened in India in '57, and how it was like nothing that any of us had ever seen before. And none of us — not even I — was ever the same again.
You know me, and what a damned coward and scoundrel I am, and not much moved by anything — but I did an odd thing in that house. I couldn't bring myself to touch Mrs Leslie, or even to look again at that ghastly head, with its frizzy red hair and staring eyes — but before I left I went to Mrs Captain MacDowall, and forced the vase from her fingers, and I collected the flowers and put them in it. I was going to set it on the floor beside her, and then I remembered that carping Scotch voice, and her contemptuous sniff- so I set it on a little table instead, with a napkin under it, just so. I took one more look round — at the wreckage of the place that my bearers had made the finest house on the station; the polished wood scarred and broken, the ornaments smashed, the rug matted with blood, the fine chandelier that had been Miss Blanche's pride wantonly shattered in a corner — and I went out of that house with such hate in my heart as I've never felt before or since. There was something I wanted to do — and quickly; I had my chance in the next five minutes, as I slipped up to the corner of the drive, and looked westward along the Mall.
The shots were still crackling in the British Town — were there any of our folk left alive down there, I wondered. How many bungalows, burned or whole, contained the same horrors that I'd found? I wasn't going to look — and I wasn't going a step farther, either. Burning buildings, screaming mobs, death and wreckage — they were all there, ahead of me; as I looked north through the trees I could see torchlight and hear yelling between me and the British lines. Whatever Hewitt and Carmichael-Smith and the rest of them were doing — supposing they were still alive — I'd now decided they could do without me: all I wanted was to get out of Meerut, and away from that hell, as fast as I could, and find peace and safety, and rest the hellish pain in my wounded head. But first I must do what I lusted above all things to do — and here came the chance, in the shape of a trooper, cantering along the Mall, swaying in his saddle, singing drunkenly to himself as he rode. Behind him, against the distant flames, there were a few parties of sepoys straggling on the Mall; eastward the road was quite empty.
I stepped into the Mall as he rode up; he had a bloody tulwar in one hand, a foolish animal grin on his filthy black face, and the grey coat of the 3rd Cavalry on his back. Seeing me in the same rig he let out a whoop and reined in unsteadily.
'Ram-ram, *(*Hello.) sowar,' says I, and forced myself to leer at him. 'Have you slain as many as I have, eh? And whose blood is that?' I pointed at his sword.
'Hee-hee-hee-hee,' giggles he, lurching in the saddle. 'Is it blood? It is? Whose — why, maybe it is Carmik- al-Ismeet's?' He waved the blade, goggling drunkenly. 'Or Hewitt Sahib's? Nay, nay, nay!'
'Whose, then?' says I, genially, and laid a hand on his crupper.
'Ah, now,' says he, studying the blade. 'The Riding-Master Langley Sahib's — eh? That son of a stinking mangy pork-eating dog! Nay, nay, nay!' He leaned precariously from the saddle. 'Not Langley. Hee-hee-hee-hee! He will have no grand-children by his daughter! Hee-hee-hee-hee!'
And I'd chased her growling, off the verandah, just the previous night. I had to hold on to his leather to keep my balance, biting back the bile that came into my mouth. I took another quick glance along the Mall; the nearest sepoys were still some distance off.
'Shabash!' says I. 'That was a brave stroke.' And as he leered and chortled I brought my hand up with the Colt in it, aimed carefully just above his groin, and fired.
He reared up, and I clutched the bridle to steady the horse as he went flying from the saddle; a second and I had it managed, then I was up and in his place, and he was threshing on the ground, screaming in agony — with luck he would take days to die. I circled him once, snarling down at him, looked back along the Mall, at those distant black figures like Dante's demons against the burning inferno behind them, and then I was thundering eastward, past the last bungalows, and the sights and sounds of horror were fading behind me.27
• • •
God knows how far I rode that night — probably no great distance. I don't think I was quite right in the head, partly from the shock of what I'd seen, but much more from the pain of my wound, which began to act up most damnably. It felt as though my left temple was wide open, and white heat was getting into my brain; I could hardly see out of my left eye, and was haunted by the fear that the cut would send me blind. I had enough sense, though, to know which way I wanted to go — south by east at first to skirt Meerut city, and then south by west until I struck the Delhi road at a safe distance. Delhi meant the safety of a great British garrison (or so I thought), and since there were telegraph lines between it and Meerut I felt certain that I'd meet help coming along it. I wasn't to know that the fool Hewitt hadn't even sent a message to tell of the Meerut outbreak.
So that was the course I followed, half-blind with pain, and constantly losing my bearings, even in the bright moonlight, so that I had to stop and cast about among the groves and hamlets. I forged ahead, and when I came on the Delhi road at last, what did I see but two companies of sepoys tramping along under the moon, in fair order, singing and chanting as they went, with their muskets slung and the havildars calling the step. For an instant I thought they must be reliefs from Delhi, and then it dawned on me that they were marching in the wrong direction — but I was too done up to care; I just sat my pony by the roadside, and when they spotted me half a dozen of them broke ranks, crying that it was a 3rd Cavalryman, and cheering me until they saw the blood on my face and coat. Then they helped me down, and sponged my head and gave me a drink, and their havildar says:
'You're in no case to catch your pultan tonight, bhai.*(* Brother.) They must be half-way to Delhi by now,' at which the rest of them cheered and threw up their hats.
'Are they so?' says I, wondering what the devil he meant.
'Aye, first among the loot, as usual,' cries another. 'They have the advantage of us, on their ponies — but we'll be there, too!' And they all cheered and laughed again, black faces with grinning white teeth looking down at me. Even in my bemused state this seemed to mean only one thing.
'Has Delhi fallen, then?' I asked, and the havildar says, not yet, but the three regiments there would surely rise, and with the whole of the Meerut garrison marching to help them the sahibs would be overthrown and slaughtered within the day.
'We were only the beginning!' says he, sponging away at my wound. 'Soon Delhi — then Agra, Cawnpore, Jaipur — aye, and Calcutta itself! The Madras army is on the move also, and from one end of the Grand Trunk to the other the sahibs have been driven into their compounds like mice into their holes. The North is rising — there, lie still, man — there will be sahibs enough for your knife-edge, when your wound is healed. Best come with us, if you can travel; see, we hold together in good company, like soldiers — lest the sahibs send out riders who may snap us up piecemeal.'
'No — no,' says I, struggling up. 'I'll ride on to join my pultan.' And despite their protests I clambered on to my pony again.
'He thirsts for white blood!' shouts one. 'Shabash, sowar! But leave enough for the rest of us to drink!'
I shouted something incoherent, about wanting to be first in at the death, and as they halloed encouragement after me I put my pony to a trot, hanging on grimly, and set off down the road. The other company was yelling and singing as I passed — I remember noting that they were wearing flower garlands round their necks. I carried on until I had distanced them, my head splitting at every step and swelling up like a balloon, and then I remember swinging off into the forest, and blundering until I slumped out of the saddle and lay where I fell, utterly exhausted.
When I came to — if you can call it that — I was extremely ill. I've no clear idea of what followed, except that there were long periods of confused dreaming, and moments of vivid clarity, but it's difficult to tell one from the other. I'm sure that at one point I was lying face-down in a tank, gulping down brackish water while a little girl with a goat stood and watched me — I can even remember that the goat had a red thread round its horns. On the other hand, I doubt if Dr Arnold truly did come striding through the trees in an enormous turban, crying: 'Flashman, you have been fornicating with Lakshmibai during first lesson; how often must I tell you there is to be no galloping after morning prayers, sir!' Or that John Charity Spring stood there four-square shouting: 'Amo, amas, amat! Lay into him, doctor! The horny young bastard is always amo-ing! Hae nugae in seria ducent mala, *(*These trifles will lead
