Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 18

by Technomad

My first impression of Castle Black, and of the Night Watch, was that it was very reminiscent of the Foreign Legion outposts I'd seen in my time in Mexico (1) and also of the outposts along the Northwest Frontier of India, where we redcoats and our native allies struggled to keep the wily Pathan from descending on the fertile Punjab for some recreational pillaging and rapine. The atmosphere was very similar; a group of civilized men, underfunded, ill-respected, and often forgotten, struggling to keep the wild men from beyond at bay. From my own experience of the wildlings, I was not so sure that they were that great a threat, but the locals saw things differently, and I had not enough experience to contradict 'em.

Jon Snow, the chap who'd greeted us, was hellish young, and he looked familiar, somehow. I couldn't put my finger on it. However, I knew that "Snow" was a surname given to bastards in the North, as "Waters" was in the areas around Kings Landing, and I surmised that he was the get of some Stark lordling or other who couldn't keep it in his trousers. Not that I'm one who can talk, myself. I probably had bastard-born get all over the world, although I've only met one to be sure of…in the form of an Indian-raised Army scout who saved my life and hair at Greasy Grass (2). But that's another story, and Greasy Grass is a subject I've already covered in these papers, so I'll waste no more time on it.

Snow was trailed everywhere by the biggest wolf I'd ever seen, a white-furred, blue-eyed monster he addressed as "Ghost." The beast was reserved, but not openly hostile, and you can be very sure I did nothing to provoke it. I wasn't sure that even my barker could take it down before it did me dreadful damage, and Spring and I were far from home. Shooting Snow's pet, I was sure, would land us in worlds of trouble.

While young Snow was friendly enough, there were others of his black-cloaked bretheren who weren't. Since we'd come from north of the Wall, that wasn't terribly surprising. I'd received a rather less-than-cordial welcome when I'd turned up on the Northwest Frontier, having come that way via the Crimea, Central Asia, and then Afghanistan (3). These men were meant to be suspicious of anything from the far side of their mighty Wall, although, for the life of me, I can't see what they were so afraid of. That wall would daunt even Her Majesty's Sappers, much less the gunpowder-less wild folk who prowled north of it.

We were shown into Castle Black, which, to my eye, could have definitely used a good renovation, and seated at a long table. I was expecting some nauseating slop to be put in front of us, being guided by my memories of my days of unwilling service in the Foreign Legion (4), but the food was surprisingly good. As we ate, Snow sat down in front of us, and a bunch of the other blackcloaks gathered 'round. We were something new, a break in the routine, and that was something not to be missed in a desolate outpost such as this. The Legionnaires I had known talked about "le cafard," a malady that afflicted those on duty in desert forts for too long. (5) While it had no definite name, I had seen similar things elsewhere, both on the Northwest Frontier and elsewhere.

We explained who we were, and then had to field dozens of questions about Britain, our world, and the things we could do. The Night's Watch may have been stationed up beyond the arse-end-of-nowhere, but they did get recruits, and those recruits often arrived full of news about what was going on elsewhere.

"Yes," I explained, "we do have ships that can move without sails or oars. They are powered by steam."

This was greeted with general disbelief, until a very fat young man, much too fat (I would have thought) to be a Night's Watchman, said "I believe him! Back at home, one day a pot full of water got its lid stuck on over a fire, and it exploded! A couple of the maids were hurt, and Father was furious!"

Spring and I both nodded. "Aye, that can happen," Spring growled. "Boilers on steam engines do have a tendency to explode, don't they, Sir Harry?" Appealed to, I agreed quickly. I'd have chimed in with agreement on anything Spring said; I hadn't forgotten for an instant how dangerous and unpredictable he could be. And in this case, he was entirely correct. Railroads and steamboats had been victims of dreadful explosions when over-strained boilers burst. For all our engineers could do, there was still much that was not known about metallurgy, and the best-made boilers could have a weak spot that nobody could see.

The idea of ships that moved without sails or oars captivated our audience. Then someone asked about the "English bangsticks," of which he had heard from a brother who'd apparently been in Kings Landing when we first made contact and demonstrated some of the things we could do for the edification of King Robert and his courtiers.

This got everybody's undivided attention. Food was forgotten as everybody awaited our answer. Spring and I both nodded. "Aye," said Spring, "we have 'em. We've some along with us although the magical powder that makes 'em spit fire and death is all but used up. As we've said, we were stranded when our ship went off and left us. Luckily, the wild folk took us in, and brought us here, since they knew we belonged on this side of the Wall."

"Do you have enough left to show us what they can do?" Jon Snow's voice was calm and gentle, but I could hear the authority in it. Aye, thought I, this is a lord's son, born on the wrong side of the blanket or not! I checked my pouch, and I did have enough rounds for my Whitworth and Baby Dragoon to fire them a few times. I didn't want to use up all my ammunition, but keeping the Watchmen sweet was important. We were a long way from anywhere, and two Englishmen could disappear very easily with no one to say what had happened.

We went outside, and I had them set up a couple of ratty old helmets as targets. First thing I did was to draw the Baby Dragoon, after cautioning the Watchmen to keep well behind me and be ready for loud noises. Then I let loose, firing two rounds rapid into each of the helmets, sending them spinning off the posts they'd been set on. The Watchmen picked them up and exclaimed to each other in low voices, poking their fingers into the holes I'd put into those helms.

"Stand back!" I said. I put one of the helms back up on its post, turned, and walked away a much greater distance than I'd used firing my revolver. My Whitworth was loaded, and all I needed to do was to put a percussion cap on the nipple and cock back the hammer to let fly.

"Ser Harry…are you sure about this? That helm would be a difficult target for even a master archer!" That was Sam Tarly, the fat fellow. He seemed like a nice enough chap, like Jon Snow, and unlike a lot of his soi-disant comrades. I thought of the hell of teasing and torment he'd no doubt undergone when he first arrived as a new bug up at Castle Black, and remembered what I'd been through my first years at Rugby. I was very glad I was the age I was, and protected, insofar as I was protected at all in this hellish place, by my rank and position.

When showing off for primitives, a show of confidence is essential. I had shown that earlier among the wild tribesmen of the Vale, when I'd been challenged to a contest of horsemanship. This was little different, for all that the Night's Watch would have howled to hear themselves compared to such as Shagga son of Dolf, or Timett son of Timett. From my perspective, there was little distance between 'em.

"Watch and learn!" I raised the Whitworth to my shoulder, wrapped the sling around my arm to make a good rest, took very careful aim, and fired. The Whitworth roared and bucked against my shoulder, and a yell rose from the black-clad watchers. When the smoke cleared, I saw that the helm was lying beside the post, all but split in two. The Whitworth is very accurate, and hits very hard, much harder than any pistol I've ever seen. Even a Walker Colt Dragoon, which is a monstrous big barker.

The Night's Watchmen who were there were all silent, staring at me with huge eyes. "Ser Harry," one of them asked, "do you think you could sell us some of those wonderful weapons?"

John Charity Spring's eyes lit up. "Why, if you have money, or something to trade, we can certainly work something out!" I could see the greed dancing in his eyes. The Night's Watch's gold was as good as anybody else's, and Spring, after all, was there to make fortunes. Unlike me, he was there of his own free will. Proof, if proof was needed, that he was insane.

Now that we had shown that some of our claims were nothing but simple fact, the atmosphere grew more friendly. We went back inside, and bottles started being passed around. After a while, the existence of a brothel nearby, that catered to lonely Watchmen, was mentioned.

This didn't surprise me one bit. I knew enough from my experience on Earth to know that the ostensibly-celibate types are usually the randiest stoats around, willing to roger a rock pile if they thought there was a snake under it. I was fresh enough from sweet Ylva's arms to not feel very sharp-set, though, and I could imagine the sort of doxies that would be willing to travel to the arse-end of beyond…old enough to be these men's mothers, and poxed to the eyebrows, I'd wager.

Neither Spring nor I was interested, so some of the younger men eventually went off brothel-wards, leaving us with the older Watchmen…and Jon Snow and Sam Tarly, I noticed. Snow leaned forward. "Now that we can speak without the fools listening, I want to know what's going on in the wider world. You are British; you stand outside the quarrels of our land. What is the situation?"

Spring and I exchanged glances. Spring finally growled: "You're the diplomat, Sir Harry. Tell the nice young man what he wants to know!" He grinned at me wickedly. The swine knew that I'd had troubles with the Starks, and if this young man wasn't a Stark of some sort, I'd cheerfully eat my Victoria Cross and the rest of my gongs. And the Starks were up to their hairlines in the troubles currently wracking Westeros.

Gathering my thoughts, I began: "Well, you know King Robert died recently, which surprised everybody. While he was fat, he was still vigorous and hearty, and a devoted hunter. That was what did for him…he went after one boar too many, and the boar got him." I left out the speculations that had been rife around the British Embassy, about how King Robert's daily wine intake had been admixed somehow with strongwine, making him an easier target for the boar, or any other ill-wishers who'd been on that hunt. Quite a few of the people who'd been along were Cersei's people, and she'd been suspiciously dry-eyed and quick off the mark once her unloved husband had breathed his last.

"Right after that, Lord Stark was arrested on treason charges," put in Spring. I saw Snow's face darken with anger at that. Sure enough, he was a Stark. "He made a very forced-sounding confession, and was beheaded. Right after that, his son, Lord Robb Stark, raised his banners and marched south. A little while later, Stannis Baratheon, King Joffrey's uncle, raised his banners and made his own claim."

"That's part of why we're here, sir," I went on. "Our embassy sent us to Stannis on Dragonstone, to look him over. There was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and as we left, we were swept off course by a storm, and landed on the shores of the wild lands, looking to make repairs. The local people found us and brought us here, which is why we're here now. We do need to get back to Kings Landing, though. What would be the best way to do it?"

Snow thought about it. "Well…we could send you by sea, from Eastwatch-on-the-Sea, but the seas are dangerous." I suppressed a snort by main force. As if all of bloody Westeros wasn't dangerous! "We had some trouble recently, and sent Ser Alliser Thorne south that way, to warn the court in Kings Landing and see if he could drum up some new recruits. We need every man we can get."

It sounded to me as though the wildlings had had a go at the Wall, which rather surprised me, although I knew that the wildlings had no love for those who had built the Wall, or those who lived south of it. I'd not have tried to get through without the services of Her Majesty's Sappers, and a wall of that size and thickness might have daunted even them. I reflected that it was just as well that the wildlings were so poor; I knew quite a few instances in history where bribes had worked where force could not. And, looking around myself, I saw quite a few men whom I'd not have trusted near my malt, my maidservant or my money.

"Can you detail a few men to escort us south? We're British, and neutral. And you say the Night's Watch is seen as neutral by all Westeros." That was Spring. He'd been following the conversation closely, but, thank the god that watches over us unbelievers, had let me do the talking. He'd plenty of experience with savages, from the Oriel common room to the coasts of Africa, but soldiers were, I thought, rather beyond his ken.

Snow looked rather doubtful. Spring pressed him: "You know, you're short-handed here, and we British have many men who'd probably jump at the chance to join the Night's Watch. Once we're back in Kings Landing and can communicate with our own country, we can put out the word that you're looking for recruits, and I'll warrant that you'll get some!" He smiled, a frightening thing to see for one who knew him as well as I.

"A lot of our recruits come to us because they've no choice," Snow admitted, ruefully. "In the old days, we got lords' younger sons who preferred the black to eking out existence as hedge knights, as often as not. These days, I regret to say, a lot of our men were given the choice of the dungeon, or the beheading block, or the Wall."

"That's no problem!" Spring spread his hands. "In our last large war, a lot of our sailors were what we call 'pressed men,' basically swept off the streets and forced into the navy! And they were often better off at sea than they'd have been on land. At least at sea they got reasonable food, and the punishments were less there than on land. Things they'd've been hanged for on land, got them a whipping, at most, at sea."

I knew Spring was telling the truth. While the scope of the press had been exaggerated by romantic novelists in the decades since Napoleon went to St. Helena, (6) there had been cases of men pulled from jail, or from off the streets. This wasn't done often; no sane captain wanted a bunch of handless landlubbers getting in the way aboard his ship, and jailbirds often didn't make particularly good sailors. The press had mainly concentrated on men who already "followed the sea," as the phrase went, but in times of great need, a lot of those rules went straight out the window. And the sort of men who'd have been grabbed almost never had connections or influence that would win them free of the grip of the navy.

"We can send you south in a few days, I think. In the meantime, you might as well enjoy our hospitality, for all that this isn't Kings Landing or Lannisport." With that, the party broke up, and Spring and I were escorted to a chamber where, it appeared, we would spend the night. The place was rather comfortless, but compared to many places I had been, it was as inviting as my own bed at Gandamack Lodge or Berkeley Square.

Spring and I made ready to turn in. Before I blew out the light, I asked Spring: "Captain…did you mean it when you said you would send to Britain and see if men would be willing to come here? This place is less inviting than the Foreign Legion! And I would know!" Since I knew that there might be listeners, I spoke in French, which I knew Spring could speak fluently.

Spring nodded. "Aye. There are plenty of desperate men in London, and elsewhere, who would consider this place, even with its drawbacks, a big step up in the world. Are you trying to tell me that you've never gone into the East End (7) or the Holy Land (8)?" He quirked a sardonic eyebrow at me.

I had to shake my head. Like other gentlemen, I often visited the areas he mentioned, in search of various sorts of vicious amusement. While most of the people there dressed very shabbily (even more shabby than Spring and I were at the moment) there were enough men in "square-rigged togs" about that we didn't stand out too much. And a man who knew where to go and whom to talk to could find anything he wanted there. My pious contemporaries would gasp in horror at many of the things I knew of. Brothels existed offering anything from children to crones, in both sexes.

[1] Flashman served for a while with the Foreign Legion while in Mexico, during the reign of the ill-starred Emperor Maximilian.

[2] "Greasy Grass" is the English translation of the native name for the battlefield of Little Bighorn. As detailed in Flashman and the Redskins, Flashman was present at the battle, albeit unwillingly, and his life was saved by his son by an American whore, the Indian-raised Frank "Standing Bear" Grouard.

[3] This is detailed, at least sketchily, in Flashman At the Charge. Flashman had been captured by the Russians, and was to be used in an attempt to stir up rebellion in India, but escaped with the help of local people, foiled the Russians' plans, and came through Afghanistan to the British outposts along the present-day Pakistani-Afghan border.

[4] The Foreign Legion is not known for setting a good table.

[5] "Le cafard" is an affliction similar to cabin fever, and is characterized by depression, introversion and odd behavior. Foreign Legionnaires serving long terms in isolated outposts, where even going outside the walls was dangerous, were often subject to it.

[6] Flashman is quite correct; apparently he had perused the relevant records for reasons of his own. The scope and cruelty of the "press," while by no means nonexistent, have been greatly exaggerated by novelists, including C.S. Forester, author of the popular (and generally well-researched) "Hornblower" series.

[7] The "East End" of London existed on the east side of a line that started just east of the Tower of London and went north. It was the industrial section of London, home of many smelly, dirty industries, and famous worldwide for its huge slums. It later earned worldwide fame as the site of the "Jack the Ripper" murders, and even though much of it was bombed flat in World War II and rebuilt, the old ways stay strong there. The famous Kray twins were from the East End, and many criminals still come from that area.

[8] The so-called "Holy Land" was a slum separate from the East End, in the St. Giles area of central London. It was the home of many dens of vice, and a perennial problem for the authorities, since criminals based there could easily raid the homes of the wealthy, finding refuge in the nearly-impenetrable slum. Attempts to clear it out were unsuccessful, but by the end of the Victorian era it was a fading memory.