Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 3: Flashman at the Charge, Flashman in the Great Game, Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald

kill, they will enslave: they have said as much. They will sweep us clean, from Persia to Balkash and the Roof of the World. How can we prevent them? I took seven thousand men against Ak Mechet two winters since, and saw them routed; I went again with twice as many, and saw my thousands slain. The Russians lost eighteen killed. Oh, if it were sabre to sabre, horse to horse, man to man, I would not shirk the odds – but against their artillery, their rifles, what can our riders do?”

      “Fight,” growls Kutebar. “So it is the last fight, let it be one they will remember. A month, you say? In that time we can run the horse-tail banner to Kashgar and back; we can raise every Muslim fighting-man from Turgai to the Killer-of-Hindus,^d from Khorassan to the Tarm Desert.” His voice rose steadily from a growl to a shout. “When the Chinese slew the Kalmucks in the old time, what was the answer given to the faint hearts: ‘Turn east, west, north, south, there you shall find the Kirgiz’. Why should we lie down to a handful of strangers? They have arms, they have horses – so have we. If they come in their thousands, these infidels, have we not the Great Horde of the far steppes, the people of the Blue Wolf,⁴² to join our jihad?^e We may not win, but by God, we can make them understand that the ghosts of Timur and Chinghiz Khan still ride these plains; we can mark every yard of the Syr Daria with a Russian corpse; we can make them buy this country at a price that will cause the Tsar to count his change in the Kremlin palace!”

      Sahib Khan chimed in again: “So runs the proverb: ‘While the gun-barrel lies in its stock, and the blade is unbroken’. It will be all that is left to us, Yakub.”

      Yakub Beg sighed, and then smiled at me. He was one of your spirited rascals who can never be glum for more than a moment. “It may be. If they overrun us, I shall not live to see it; I’ll make young bones somewhere up by Ak Mechet. You understand, Flashman bahadur, we may buy you a little time here, in Syr Daria – no more. Your red soldiers may avenge us, but only God can help us.”

      “And He has a habit of choosing the winning side, which will not be ours,” says Kutebar. “Well, I’m overdue for Paradise; may I find it by a short cut and a bloody one.”

      Ko Dali’s daughter spoke for the first time, and I was surprised how high and yet husky her voice was – the kind that makes you think of French satin sofas, with the blinds down and purple wall-paper. She was lying prone now, tickling the kitten’s belly and murmuring to it.

      “Do you hear them, little tiger, these great strong men? How they enjoy their despair! They reckon the odds, and find them heavy, and since fighting is so much easier than thinking they put the scowl of resignation on the face of stupidity, and swear most horribly.” Her voice whined in grotesque mimicry. “‘By the bowels of Rustum, we shall give them a battle to remember – hand me my scimitar, Gamal, it is in the woodshed. Aye, we shall make such-and-such a slaughter, and if we are all blown to the ends of Eblis – may God protect the valorous! – we shall at least be blown like men. Eyewallah, brothers, it is God’s will; we shall have done our best.’ This is how the wise warriors talk, furry little sister – which is why we women weep and children go hungry. But never fear – when the Russians have killed them all, I shall find myself a great, strong Cossack, and you shall have a lusty Russian torn, and we shall live on oranges and honey and cream forever.”

      Yakub Beg just laughed, and silenced Kutebar’s angry growl. “She never said a word that was not worth listening to. Well, Silk One, what must we do to be saved?”

      Ko Dali’s daughter rolled the kitten over. “Fight them now, before they have moved, while they have their backs to the sea. Take all your horsemen, suddenly, and scatter them on the beach.”

      “Oh, cage the wind, girl!” cries Kutebar. “They have thirty thousand muskets, one-third of them Cossack cavalry. Where can we raise half that number?”

      “Send to Buzurg Khan to help you. At need, ask aid from Bokhara.”

      “Bokhara is lukewarm,” says Yakub Beg. “They are the last to whom we can turn for help.”

      The girl shrugged. “When the Jew grows poor, he looks to his old accounts. Well, then, you must do it alone.”

      “How, woman? I have not the gift of human multiplication; they outnumber us.”

      “But their ammunition has not yet come – this much we know from your spies at Fort Raim. So the odds are none so great – three to one at most. With such valiant sabres as Kutebar here, the thing should be easy.”

      “Devil take your impudence!” cries Kutebar. “I could not assemble ten thousand swords within a week, and by then their powder and cartridge ships will have arrived.”

      “Then you should have assembled them before this,” was the tart rejoinder.

      “Heaven lighten your understanding, you perverse Chinese bitch! How could I, when I was rotting in jail?”

      “That was clever,” says she, “that was sound preparation, indeed. Hey, puss-puss-puss, are they not shrewd, these big strong fellows?”

      “If there were a hope of a surprise attack on their camp succeeding, I should have ordered it,” says Yakub Beg. “To stop them here, before their advance has begun …” He looked at me. “That would solve your need as well as ours, Englishman. But I see no way. Their powder ships will arrive in a week, and three days, perhaps four thereafter, they will be moving up Syr Daria. If something is to be done, it must be done soon.”