Flashman And The Tiger

So I did, not from choice but ’cos I was too used up to run, employing the rotten swordsman’s last resort, the Khyber-knife guard of the Maltese Cross, up-down-across with all your might. No opponent can touch you, but he don’t need to, since you’ll die of apoplexy from exertion, as I’d discovered back in ’60, when old Ghengiz the Mongol and I repelled Sam Collinson' s bannermen at the Summer Palace—leastways, old Ghengiz did while I lit out for pastures new.[See Flashman and the Dragon] But there was no Ghengiz now to bear the brunt, and I knew I couldn’t last but a few moments more, and then my aching arm and shoulder must fail, and this grinning, handsome sadist would beat down my feeble guard and drive his old steel through my shrinking carcase … and it would end here, in this clammy cavern, with the two tiny mannikins hacking away across its floor and the echoes of clashing swords resounding from the great stone arch overhead. I’d be cut down to death in this forgotten desolation, I who had survived Balaclava and Cawnpore and Greasy Grass, Fort Raim dungeon and Gettysburg and the guns of Gwalior, slaughtered by this mountebank who wasn’t more than half a swordsman anyway, for all his academic antics, or he’d have settled an old crock like me ages ago, and the hellish injustice and meanness of it all was like gall to my craven soul as I felt my strength ebbing and gave voice yet again to what I dare say will be my dying words one day:

"It ain’t fair! I don’t deserve this—no, no, wait, for God’s sake, not yet … a-hhh, I’m done for … the doctor was right …" And I dropped my sabre, clutching at my heart, face contorted in agony, and sank to my knees.

"What the devil!" cries Willem, as I clasped both hands to my bosom, groaning in unutterable pain, gaping wide to emit a croaking wheeze—and he stopped dead, sabre raised for the coup de grace.

"You’re shammin', you old sod!" cries he … but he came that vital step closer, and I hurled myself forward, my right fist aimed at his groin—and I missed, God damn it to Hell, for my blow caught him on the thigh and sent him staggering but not disabled, and as I grabbed my sabre and let go an almighty cut that should have taken his leg off, the brute parried it and came in hand and foot, eyes blazing.

I turned and ran, shrieking in anticipation of his point in my back, eyes closed in panic, felt myself stumbling down an incline, and plunged flat on my face in freezing water. I was floundering in the shallows of the little lake, and as he came bounding to the margin, sabre raised for a downward cut, I scrambled away until I was knee-deep and out of reach. I daren’t go farther, for the cold of that hell-created tarn was fit to freeze Grendel, numbing my feet and calves in seconds, and I knew that immersion would mean death in minutes. He stopped on the brink, measuring the distance, but too wary to come after me, for the water must hinder his feet. He swore, snaking his point at me, and made as downright foolish a statement as ever I heard.

"Come out of that, blast you! You can’t run forever!"

"You callous swine!" I yammered. "Go away, you dirty rotter, let me alone, can’t you? Oh, Lor', my legs are freezing, you hound!"

"Well, come out, then! I ain’t stoppin' you!"

"Damned if I will! You’d cut me down foul, while I was climbing out!"

"Don’t be an ass! As if I needed to. Oh, well, freeze or drown, as you please!"

He backed up to the level, and I took a step towards the brink, where my sabre lay.

"Come on, pick it up!" says he. "’Pon my soul, you’re as good as a play, you are!

"You won’t take me unawares?" cries I, crouching furtive-like, extending a wary hand towards my sabre. "You’ll give me a moment … Bill? Please? My feet are frozen solid … won’t answer …"

"God forbid that the renowned Flashman should die with cold feet!" He laughed impatiently. "Never fear, I’ll wait." And as I put a foot on the dry stone, gasping elaborately, he half-turned away in contempt—and I thought, now or never, put my hand on forte of the blade, grasped it, and launched it spear-fashion with all my remaining strength at his unguarded flank.

For an instant I thought I’d got him, for the sabre flew true as an arrow, but his speed saved him. He’d no time to dodge, but his sword-hand moved like lightning, the blades rang together, and the flying sabre was swept high into the air to fall clattering almost at the mouth of the tunnel. By which time I was on him, fists and cold feet flying, grappling him, and down we went together in a tangle of limbs, Flashy roaring and Willem spitting curses. I took a wild punch at his head and missed, yelping as my knuckles struck the stone, and as I rolled away blind with pain he was on his feet, cutting down at me. His sword struck sparks within an inch of my head, I scrambled on to all fours and came erect—and there he was, extending himself in a lunge that there was no avoiding, and I died in that split second as his point sank home in my unprotected body.