The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald

I paced past my porthole. She was maybe half a mile off, a sleek black Southern Run clipper with Old Glory at her jackstaff; the morning sun was shining like silver on her topsails as they flapped from the reefs and were sheeted home. Now I’m no shellback, but I’d seen that setting a score of times, when a vessel was standing out from port – G-d, were we near some harbour of civilization, where the big ships ran? I hallooed for all I was worth, but of course they were too far off to hear, and then I was rummaging feverishly for matches to start a fire – anything to attract attention and bring that Yankee to my rescue. But of course I couldn’t find any; I nearly broke my neck trying to squint out of the port in search of land, but there was nothing but blue rollers, and the Yankee dwindling towards the eastern horizon.

      All day I sat fretting, wondering, and then in mid-afternoon I saw little native craft from my port, and a low green mainland beyond them. Gradually a beach came into view, and a few huts, and then wooden houses with steep roofs – no flags, and nothing but niggers in loin-cloths – no, there was a uniform, an unmistakable navy coat, black with gold braid, and a cocked hat, among a group on a little jetty. But there was the rumble of the Sulu Queen’s cable – we were anchoring a good quarter of a mile out. Never mind, that was close enough for me; I was in a fever of excitement as I tried to figure where it might be – we’d been westering, Southern Indian Ocean, and here was a small port, still important enough for a Yankee clipper to touch. It couldn’t be the Cape, with that coastline. Port Natal – surely we weren’t that far west? I tried to conjure up the map of that huge sea east of Africa – of course, Mauritius! The navy coat, the niggers, the Arabi-looking small craft – they all fitted. And Mauritius was British soil.

      I was trembling as I took stock. What the d---l was Solomon thinking of, putting into Mauritius? Wood and water – he’d probably had no chance of either since bolting from the Skrang. And with me cooped tight, and Elspeth probably likewise, what had he to fear? But it was my chance – there’d never be another like it. I could swim the distance easily … and the lock scraped in my door at that moment.

      There are split seconds when you can’t afford to plan. I watched the steward setting down my tray, and without making a conscious decision I turned slowly towards the door where the Malay thug was hovering, beckoned him, and pointed, frowning, to the corner of the cabin. He advanced a pace, squinting up where I was pointing – and the next instant his courting tackle was half-way up inside his torso, impelled by my right boot, he was flying across the cabin, screaming, and Flashy was out and racing – where? There was a ladder, but I ducked past it instinctively, and tore along a short passage, the Chinese steward squealing in my rear. Round the corner – and there was a piece of open deck, Malays coiling rope, and iron doors flung wide to the sunshine and sea. As I ploughed through the startled Malays, scattering them, I had a glimpse of small craft between me and the shore, a distant jetty and palms, and then I was through those doors like a hot rivet, in an enormous dive, hitting the water with an almighty splash, gliding to the surface, and then striking out, head down, for dear life towards the distant land.

      I reckon it took about ten seconds from my cabin to the water, and as many minutes before I was alongside the piles of the wharf. I was half-conscious with the exertion of my swim, and had to cling to the slimy wood while curious niggers in small boats drew up to gape at me, chattering like magpies. I looked back at the Sulu Queen, and there she was, riding peacefully, with a few native craft round her. I looked landward – there was the beach, and a fair-sized native town behind it, and a big building with a verandah and a flag-pole – it was a deuced odd-looking flag, striped and blazoned – some shipping line, perhaps. I hauled myself wearily along the piles, found a ladder, dragged myself up it, and lay panting and sodden on the wooden jetty, conscious of a small crowd forming round me. They were all niggers, in loin-cloths or white robes – some pretty Arab-looking, by their noses and head-gear. But there was the navy coat, pushing towards me, and the crowd falling back. I tried to pull myself up, but couldn’t, and then the navy trousers stopped beside me, and their owner was bending down towards me. I tried to control my panting.

      “I’m … a British … army officer,” I wheezed. “Escaped from … that ship … pirate …” I raised my head, and the words died on my lips.

      The fellow bending towards me was in full navy rig, right enough, even to the hat and epaulette – the green sash looked strange, though. But that wasn’t the half of it. The face beneath the cocked hat was jet black.

      I stared at him, and he stared back. Then he said something, in a language I couldn’t understand, so I shook my head and repeated that I was an army officer. Where was the commandant? He shrugged, showed his yellow teeth in a grin, and said something, and the crowd giggled.

      “D--n your eyes!” cries I, struggling up. “What the h--l’s going on here? Where’s the harbour-master? I’m a British army officer, Captain Flashman, and—” I was stabbing him on the chest with my finger, and now, to my utter amazement, he struck my hand angrily aside and snapped something in his heathen lingo, right in my face! I fell back, appalled at the brute’s effrontery – and then there was a commotion behind, and I looked to see a small boat ploughing up at the seaward end of the jetty, and Solomon, of all people, springing from her bows and striding towards us along the planking, a massive figure in his tunic and sarong, with a face like thunder. Right, my hearty, thinks I, this is where you receive your ration allowance, once these people realize you’re a b----y pirate, and I flung out a hand to denounce him to my epauletted nigger. But before I could get a word out Solomon had seized me by the shoulder and spun me round.

      “You infernal fool!” cries he. “What have you done?”

      You can be sure I told him, a trifle incoherently, at the top of my voice, drawing the nigger’s attention to the fact that here was the notorious pirate and brigand, Suleiman Usman, delivered into his hands, and would he mind arresting him and his ship and restoring me and my wife to liberty.

      “And you can swing till the crows peck you, you kidnapping tyke!” I informed Solomon. “You’re done for.”

      “In G-d’s name, where d’you think you are?” His voice was shrill.

      “Mauritius, ain’t it?”

      “Mauritius?” He suddenly pulled me aside. “You booby, this is Tamitave – Madagascar!”

      Well, that startled me, I admit. It explained the nigger in uniform, I supposed, but I couldn’t see it made much difference. I was saying so, when the nigger stepped up and addressed Solomon, pretty sharp, and to my amazement the Don shrugged, apologetically, as though it had been a white official, and replied in French! But it was his abject tone as much as the language that bewildered me.

      “Your pardon, excellency – a most unfortunate mistake. This man is one of my crew – a little drunk, you understand. With your permission I shall take him—”

      “Balderdash!” I roared. “You’ll take me nowhere, you lying dago!” I swung to the nigger. “You speak French, do you? Well, so do I, and I’m no more one of his crew than you are. He’s a d----d pirate, who has abducted me and my wife—”

      “Be quiet, you clown!” cries Solomon in English, thrusting me aside. “You’ll destroy us! Leave him to me,” and he began to patter to the black again, in French, but the other silenced him with a flap of his hand.

      “Silence,” says he, as if he were the b----y Duke. “The commandant approaches.”

      Sure enough, there was a file of soldiers coming from the landward end of the jetty, strapping blacks in white loin-cloths and bandoliers, with muskets at the shoulder. And behind them, carried by coolies in an open sedan, came an unbelievable figure. It is solemn truth – he was black as your boot, and he wore a turban on his head, a flowered red and yellow shirt, and a 42nd Highlanders kilt. He had sandals on his feet, a sabre at his hip, white gloves, and a rolled brolly in his hand. I’ve gone mad, thinks I; it’s been the strain, or the sun. That thing can’t be real.

      Solomon was hissing urgently in my ear. “Don’t say a word! Your one chance is to pretend to be one of my crew—”

      “Are you