“I will not detain you, colonel,” says he, in that same cold murmur, and there was all the immeasurable arrogance of the Russian nobleman in the way he didn’t look or beckon for my civilian escort, but simply turned his head the merest fraction, and the fellow came scurrying out of the silent crowd.
“We may meet at Starotorsk,” says Ignatieff, and with the slightest bow to me he turned away, and my escort was hustling me respectfully out to the telegue, as though he couldn’t get away fast enough. I was all for it; the less time you spend near folk like that, the better.
It left me shaken, that little encounter. Some people are just terrible, in the true sense of the word – I knew now, I thought, how Tsar Ivan had earned that nickname: it implies something far beyond the lip-licking cruelty of your ordinary torturer. Satan, if there is one, is probably a Russian; no one else could have the necessary soulless brutality; it is just part of life to them.
I asked my civilian who Ignatieff was, and got an unwilling mumble in reply. Russians don’t like to talk about their superiors at any time; it isn’t safe, and I gathered that Ignatieff was so important, and so high-born – mere captain though he was – that you just didn’t mention him at all. So I consoled myself that I’d probably seen the last of him (ha!) and took stock of the scenery instead. After a few miles the bare steppe was giving way to large, well-cultivated fields, with beasts and peasants labouring away, the road improved, and presently, on an eminence ahead of us there was a great, rambling timbered mansion with double wings, and extensive outbuildings, all walled and gated, and the thin smoke of a village just visible beyond. We bowled up a fine gravel drive between well-kept lawns with willow trees on their borders, past the arched entrance of a large courtyard, and on to a broad carriage sweep before the house, where a pretty white fountain played.
Well, thinks I, cheering up a bit, this will do. Civilization in the midst of barbarism, and very fine, too. Pleasant grounds, genteel accommodation, salubrious outlook, company’s own water no doubt, to suit overworked military man in need of rest and recreation. Flashy, my son, this will answer admirably until they sign the peace. The only note out of harmony was the Cossack guard lounging near the front steps, to remind me that I was a prisoner after all.
A steward emerged, bowing, and my civilian explained that he would conduct me to my apartment, and thereafter I would doubtless meet Count Pencherjevsky. I was led into a cool, light-panelled hall, and if anything was needed to restore my flagging spirits it was the fine furs on the well-polished floor, the comfortable leather furniture, the flowers on the table, the cosy air of civilian peace, and the delightful little blonde who had just descended the stairs. She was so unexpected, I must have goggled at her like poor Willy in the presence of his St John’s Wood whore.
And she was worth a long stare. About middle height, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, plump-bosomed, tiny in the waist, with a saucy little upturned nose, pink, dimpled cheeks and a cloud of silvery-blonde hair, she was fit to make your mouth water – especially if you hadn’t had a woman in two months, and had just finished a long, dusty journey through southern Russia, gaping at misshapen peasants. I stripped, seized, and mounted her in a twinkling of my mind’s eye, as she tripped past, I bowing my most military bow, and she disregarding me beyond a quick, startled glance from slanting grey eyes. May it be a long war, thinks I, watching her bouncing out of sight, and then my attention was taken by the major-domo, muttering the eternal “Pajalsta, excellence,” and leading me up the broad, creaky staircase, along a turning passage, and finally halting at a broad door. He knocked, and an English voice called:
“Come in – no, hang it all – khadee-tyeh!”
I grinned at the friendly familiar sound, and strode in, saying: “Hollo, yourself, whoever you are,” and putting out my hand. A man of about my own age, who had been reading on the bed, looked up in surprise, swung his legs to the ground, stood up, and then sank back on the bed again, gaping as though I were a ghost. He shook his head, stuttering, and then got out:
“Flashman! Good heavens!”
I stopped short. The face was familiar, somehow, but I didn’t know from where. And then the years rolled away, and I saw a boy’s face under a tile hat, and heard a boy’s voice saying: “I’m sorry, Flashman.” Yes, it was him all right – Scud East of Rugby.
For a long moment we just stared at each other, and then we both found our voices in the same phrase: “What on earth are you doing here?” And then we stopped, uncertainly, until I said:
“I was captured at Balaclava, three weeks back.”
“They took me at Silistria, three months ago. I’ve been here five weeks and two days.”
And then we stared at each other some more, and finally I said:
“Well, you certainly know how to make a fellow at home. Ain’t you going to offer me a chair, even?”
He jumped up at that, colouring and apologizing – still the same raw Scud, I could see. He was taller and thinner than I remembered; his brown hair was receding, too, but he still had that quick, awkward nervousness I remembered.
“I’m so taken aback,” he stuttered, pulling up a chair for me. “Why – why, I am glad to see you, Flashman! Here, give me your hand, old fellow! There! Well – well – my, what a mountainous size you’ve grown, to be sure! You always were a big … er, a tall chap, of course, but … I say, isn’t this a queer fix, us meeting again like this … after so long! Let’s see, it must be fourteen, no fifteen, years since … since … ah …”
“Since Arnold kicked me out for being pissy drunk?”
He coloured again. “I was going to say, since we said goodbye.”
“Aye. Well, ne’er mind. What’s your rank, Scud? Major, eh? I’m a colonel.”
“Yes,” says he. “I see that.” He gave me an odd, almost shy grin. “You’ve done well – everyone knows about you – all the fellows from Rugby talk about you, when one meets ’em, you know …”
“Do they, though? Not with any great love, I’ll be bound, eh, young Scud?”
“Oh, come!” cries he. “What d’you mean? Oh, stuff! We were all boys then, and boys never get on too well, ’specially when some are bigger and older and … why, that’s all done with years ago! Why – everyone’s proud of you, Flashman! Brooke and Green – and young Brooke – he’s in the Navy, you know.” He paused. “The Doctor would have been proudest of all, I’m sure.”
Aye, he probably would, thinks I, the damned old hypocrite.
“… everyone knows about Afghanistan, and India, and all that,” he ran on. “I was out there myself, you know, in the Sikh campaign, when you were winning another set of laurels. All I got was a shot wound, a hole in my ribs, and a broken arm.”23 He laughed ruefully. “Not much to show, I’m afraid – and then I bought out of the 101st, and – but heavens, how I’m rattling on! Oh, it is good to see you, old fellow! This is the best, most famous thing! Let me have a good look at you! By George, those are some whiskers, though!”
I couldn’t be sure if he meant it, or not. God knows, Scud East had no cause to love me, and the sight of him had so taken me back to that last black day at Rugby that I’d momentarily forgotten we were men now, and things had changed