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

skidding along the soft sand before us. Elspeth shrieked, we raced on; the boats were being beached, and already armed men were charging towards the fort – Frog sailors in striped jerseys, with a little chap ahead waving a sabre and making pronouncements about la gloire, no doubt, as the grape from the walls kicked up the sand among him and his party.

      “Help!” I roared, stumbling and waving Elspeth’s shift. “We’re friends! Halloo, mes amis! Nous sommes Anglais, pour l’amour de Dieu! Don’t shoot! Vive la France!”

      They didn’t pay us the slightest heed, being engaged by that time in hacking a way through the fort’s outer wooden palisade. We stumbled out of the soft sand to firmer going, making for the boats, all of which were beached just above the surf. I looked back, but the Hovas were nowhere to be seen, clever lads; I pushed Elspeth, and we veered away to be out of shot from the fort; the beach ahead was alive with running figures by now, French and British, storming ahead and cheering. There was the dooce of a dogfight going on at the outer palisade, white and striped jerseys on one side, black skins on t’other, cutlasses and spears flashing, musketry crackling from the inner fort and being answered from our people farther down the beach. Then there were sounds of British cheering and cries of excited Frogs, and through the smoke I could see they were up to the inner wall, clambering up on each other’s shoulders, popping away with pistols, obviously racing to see which should be up first, French or British.

      Good luck to you, my lads, thinks I, for I’m tired. At the same moment, Elspeth cries:

      “Oh, Harry, Harry, darling Harry!” and clung to me. “Do you think,” she whispered faintly, “that we might sit down now?” With that she went into a dead swoon, and we sank to the wet sand in each other’s arms, between the boats and the landing party. I was too tuckered and dizzy to do anything except sit there, holding her, while the battle raged at the top of the beach, and I thought, by Jove, we’re clear at last, and soon I’ll be able to sleep …

      “You, sir!” cries a voice. “Yes, you – what are you about, sir? Great Scott! – is that a woman you have there?”

      A party of British sailors, carrying empty stretchers, were racing across our front to the fort, and with them this red-faced chap with a gold strip on his coat, who’d checked to pop his eyes at us. He was waving a sword and pistol. I yelled to him above the din of firing that we were escaped prisoners of the Malagassies, but he only went redder than ever.

      “What’s that you say? You’re not with the landing party? Then get off the beach, sir – get off this minute! You’ve no business here! This is a naval operation! What’s that, bos’un? – I’m coming, bl--t you! On, you men!”

      He scampered off, brandishing his weapons, but I didn’t care. I knew I was too done to carry Elspeth down to the boats a hundred yards off, but we were out of effective musket shot of the fort, so I was content to sit and wait until someone should have time to attend to us. They were all busy enough at the moment, in all conscience; the ground before the palisade was littered with dead and crawling wounded, and through the breaches they’d broken I could see them spiking the guns while the scaling parties were still trying to get up the thirty-foot wall behind. They had ladders, crowded with tars and matelots, their steel flashing in the smoke at the top of the wall, where the defenders were slashing and firing away.

      Above the crashing musketry there was a sudden cheer; the big black-and-white Malagassy flag on the fort wall was toppling down on its broken staff, but a Malagassy on the battlements caught it as it fell; the fighting boiled around him, but at that moment a returning stretcher party charged across my line of vision, bearing stricken men back to the boats, so I didn’t see what happened to him.

      Still no one paid any mind to Elspeth and me; we were slightly out of the main traffic up and down the beach, and although one party of Frog sailors stopped to stare curiously at us, they were soon chivvied away by a bawling officer. I tried to raise her, but she was still slumped unconscious against my breast, and I was labouring away when I saw that the landing party were beginning to fall back from the fort. The walking wounded came hobbling first, supported by their mates, and then the main parties all jumbled up together, British and French, with the petty officers swearing and bawling orders as the men tried to find their right divisions. They were squabbling and jostling in great disorder, the British tars cursing the Frogs, and the Frogs grimacing and gesticulating back.

      I called out for assistance, but it was like talking in a madhouse – and then over all the trampling and babble the distant guns from the ships began to boom again, and shot whistled overhead to crash into the fort, for our rearguard was clear now, skirmishing away in goodish order, exchanging musket fire with the battlements which they’d failed to overcome. All they seemed to have captured was the Malagassy flag; in among the retiring skirmishers, with the enemy shot peppering them, a disorderly mob of French and English seamen were absolutely at blows with each other for possession of the confounded thing, with cries of “Ah, voleurs!” and “Belay, you sod!”, the Frogs kicking and the Britons lashing out with their fists, while two of their officers tried to part them.

      Finally the English officer, a great lanky fellow with his trouser leg half torn off and a bloody bandage round his knee, succeeded in wrenching the banner away, but the Frog officer, who was about four feet tall, grabbed an end of it, and they came stumbling down in my direction, yelling at each other in their respective lingoes, with their crews joining in.

      “You shall not have it!” cries the Frog. “Render it to me, monsieur, this instant!”

      “Sheer off, you greasy half-pint!” roars John Bull. “You take your paw away directly, or you’ll get what for!”

      “Sacred English thief! It fell to my men, I tell you! It is a prize of France!”

      “Will you leave off, you Frog-eating ape? D---e, if you and your cowardly jackanapes had fought as hard as you squeal we’d have had that fort by now! Let go, d’ye hear?”

      “Ah, you resist me, do you?” cries the Frog, who came about up to the Englishman’s elbow. “It is sufficient, this! Release it, this flag, or I shall pistol you!”

      “Give over, rot you!” They were almost on top of us by now, the sturdy Saxon holding the flag above his head and the tiny Frog clinging to it and hacking at his shins. “I’ll cast anchor in you, you prancing swab, if— Good G-d, that’s a woman!” His jaw dropped as he caught sight of me at his feet, with Elspeth in my arms. He stared, speechless, oblivious of the Frenchman, who was now drumming at his chest with tiny fists, eyes tight shut.

      “If you’ve a moment,” says I, “I’d be obliged if you’d assist my wife to your boats. We’re British, and we’ve escaped from captivity in the interior.”

      I had to repeat it before he took it in, with a variety of oaths, while the Frog, who had stopped drumming, glared suspiciously.

      “What does he say, then?” cries he. “Does he conspire, the rascal? Ah, but I shall have the flag – death of the devil, what is this? A woman, beneath our feet, then?”

      I explained to him, in French, and he goggled and removed his hat.

      “A lady? An English lady? Incredible! But a lady so beautiful, by example, and in a condition of swoon! Ah, but the poor little! Médecin-major Narcejac! Médecin-major Narcejac! Come quickly – and do you, sir, be calm?” He was fairly dancing in agitation. “Attend, you others, and guard madame!”

      They were all crowding round, gaping, and while a Frog sawbones knelt beside Elspeth, whose eyelids were fluttering, a couple of tars helped me up, and the English officer demanding to know who I was, I told him, and he said, not Flashman of Afghanistan, surely, and I said, the very same, and he said, well, he was d----d, and he was Kennedy, second of the frigate Conway, and proud to meet me. During this the little Frog officer was hopping excitedly, informing me that he was Lieutenant Boudancourt, of the Zelée, that madame would receive every comfort, and sal volatile, that the entire French marine was at her service, name of a name, and he, Boudancourt who spoke, would personally supervise her tranquil removal without delay—

      “Avast