Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter 28

by Technomad

For a while, nothing much happened, but things didn't feel right. When you're as windy as I am, you often get feelings before things start going to sixes-and-sevens. I'd felt this way before. In Kabul, just before things blew up and we had to try to save ourselves. In Meerut, just before the Mutiny erupted. On the trail out West (1) when the Indians were gathering. When we were seeing Princess Myrcella off to Dorne, before things blew up. And more other times than I cared or care to remember.

There was nothing I could do, and even showing that I was nervous would damage my credit with my fellow Britons. I had to keep plugging away at my papers like any Cratchit in an office, keeping a stiff upper lip in public and not letting on that I could feel disaster looming.

Dick Burton was one of the downiest birds I'd ever met. He shared my misgivings. There was little he could do, other than to order our guards to be especially vigilant. Dick, Captain Carter and I inspected every Marine's rifle, making sure that they were all in perfect condition. If we needed them, we would need them very badly indeed. Dick also discreetly ordered the Gatlings to be brought out of storage and set up on the roof of our embassy. Their positions were reinforced with sandbags, since we knew that Stannis Baratheon, damn his eyes, had at least some French-made Minie rifles among his forces.

"We can hope that Stannis hasn't had much time to train his men," Dick commented to me. "I'm glad that all he has...that we know of, at least...is muzzle-loading. In the excitement of battle, soldiers often forget to cap their pieces, or don't notice that they've missed fire. Then they ram another load in on top of the one they already have. Eventually…" he gave me a fiendish grin…."BOOM!"

I knew that he was telling the truth. In the Crimea, in the Mutiny, and in the Yanks' idiotic civil war, I had seen many muskets that had been rendered useless in that way. I remembered one that we'd found in America. It had no less than seventeen loads in it, and the man who'd been carrying it had never noticed that when he pulled his trigger, his piece didn't kick against his shoulder as it should have. When some fool threw it into a fire, the ensuing burst was spectacular. I'd testified at the fool's court-martial.

"We can't count on that, Dick," I reminded him. "We'd best proceed on the assumption that Stannis has his men trained to a fine pitch, and has engaged commanders who know best how to deploy 'em. This'll be a sticky wicket at best, and I don't know how reliable our dear Westerosi allies are. They might show the white feather. Joffrey's regime is not popular here."

That was nothing but the truth. People grumbled at the harsh "justice" to be found in Joffrey's courts, and the scarcity of food affected everybody but the nobles in the Red Keep. I remembered that screaming mob that had tried to kill us all, on the way back from seeing Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. Had I been even a bit less handy with my revolvers, or that horse hadn't come by just when I needed it, I could have shared the fates of some of my companions.

Lady Stokeworth's all-but-unmarriageable daughter, Lollys, had been dragged off by the mob. She'd lost her virginity to a large gang of men, and been found wandering naked somewhere in Flea Bottom. Since then, she'd had even fewer wits to her name than before. And some others, notably the High Septon, were dead. Some of the bodies had been recovered, while others...hadn't. I hoped that just meant that they had been torn into such unrecognizable pieces that nobody could identify them. I'd heard evil rumors about what went into the brown stews down there. Until the food situation was eased, I'd made up my mind to steer well clear of that area. While we British were not particularly unpopular, a lone Briton might be seen as easy prey.

"All we can do is try to see to it that the king's own soldiers are well-trained, " Dick said gloomily. "The new recruits are less trouble than the old sweats. They've less to un-learn, and are in awe of any British soldier. The old hands tend to think we're weak because we don't go charging into battle in full armor, lusting to do or die for Victoria, First of her Name."

"I wish they could have seen Balaklava," I grumbled. "Or Cawnpore. Or Gettysburg. Or Antietam." I snorted. "Put any of those croakers in with the Light Brigade under Lord Cardigan at Balaklava, and see what they think of British courage then!"

"You know that, and I know that," Dick said. "Let's hope that Stannis and his men underestimate us as badly as Joffrey's men seem to." He quirked a grin at me. "Or, at least, most of us!"

The story of my rescue of poor little Lady Sansa had gone the rounds, and had lost nothing in the telling. The latest version had me plunging single-handedly into the raging mob with nothing but my sabre, hacking and slashing, and saving Lady Sansa from a fate worse than death before capturing a horse and galloping back to the castle with my reins in my teeth, Lady Sansa across my saddle and both my barkers blazing.

That would have been enough to impress my old friend Jeb Stuart, or my old enemy George Armstrong Custer...had it been true. Even Lord Cardigan might have unbent. "Haw-haw," I could all but hear him braying, "perhaps I was wrong, Sir Harry, to urge you out of the Cherrypickers.."(2) Damned idiotic snob. It'd have served him right, thought I, to have stopped a bullet at Balaklava. The charge had not been his fault (3) but between his foolish quarrel with his brother-in-law Lord Lucan, his idiotic refusal to question or query the order he'd been given, and his mindless courage, he'd left two hundred and seventy fine young men wounded or killed on that awful field. To this day, when I'm unwise enough to dine on cheese and lobster, I often dream of that charge.

A few nights later, we were awakened by alarm bells ringing, both in our embassy and in the Red Keep. A servant girl came rushing in. "Ser Harry! Ser Harry! Stannis is attacking! Ser Richard wants you on the parapets, Ser Harry!" Outside our room, I could hear the commotion, as the Royal Marines double-timed up to the roof and the other embassy personnel either armed themselves or headed for shelter.

Beside me, Elspeth looked up, her blue eyes wide. I threw on my clothes. "Sorry, old girl, but duty calls. Get yourself dressed and head for the Great Sept." The mem-sahibs at the embassy had been told to take refuge there in the event of a real siege. While Stannis had apparently converted to the worship of a different god, we hoped that enough of his men still respected the faith of the Seven to leave the Great Sept of Baelor alone.

Elspeth jumped out of bed, scrambling into her clothes much faster than anybody'd believe who'd experienced how long she could take "making herself presentable" for a fancy do. "I know, my jo. You've your duty to do. Isabel and I, and the other ladies, shall do ours." With an unwontedly grim smile, she hauled out a Colt Navy .36 caliber revolver and concealed it under her skirt, stuffing it in through a cleverly-designed slit in one side. "If those filthy barbarians try to molest us, they're in for a few surprises!"

I wasn't terribly startled. With the siege looming on the horizon, the British and other foreign ladies in Kings Landing had taken up weapons practice. I'd seen them out getting in time on the targets in one of the secluded courtyards the Red Keep abounded in, under Captain Carter's and Isabel Burton's unsparing eyes. Captain Carter confined himself to correcting their form, leaving the close-up instruction to Lady Burton. As a woman, she could do things that a man could not, and she'd been through the mill herself, taught by one of the finest fighters I'd ever seen.

We knew all too well that in this medieval hellhole, a successful siege and storming would be followed by a great deal of rape, as well as looting, plundering and burning. For all their airs of not knowing about the seamy facts of life, the womenfolk who'd been game enough to follow their men to this new world were perfectly well aware of that unpleasant fact. And they did not plan to submit quietly. They'd also be saving one last shot for themselves, in extremis. I'd seen that before as well, out West.

Once we were both hurriedly dressed and shod, we flew into each other's arms for a frantic quick kiss, then parted ways. I strapped on my barkers and sabre, grabbed a rifle, and ran upstairs to the parapets, while Elspeth went down another flight of stairs, heading for the Great Sept.

Atop the parapets, I met Dick Burton, Captain Carter, and a large detachment of Royal Marines. Over our heads, the Union Jack was flying. Off to one side, atop a platform, a Royal Navy rating was operating a heliograph. It was night, but with limelights, it shone brightly enough to be visible from HMS Penelope. He was sending out a coded message to the ship.

Ruffian Dick smiled when he saw me. "Ah, the man I wanted to see!" Seeing Dick smiling at me that way put the wind straight up me. While we'd always got on splendidly, I was always aware that there were few, if any, better men of their hands to be found, on Earth or on this world. If he'd taken against me, there was little I could do to defend myself effectively. I'm a fair swordsman, and very handy with a barker, but Dick Burton could have taken me apart without breaking a sweat.

Luckily for me, though, he wasn't angry at me. "Flash, old man, I've a special job for you. I know how unhappy you'll be missing out on the fighting up here, but we need someone to liaise with the Hand. Lord Tyrion's in effective command, since the King's too young."

Not only was Joffrey far too young and green for command...in Britain, even with his noble blood and wealth, he'd not have been able to buy an ensign's commission...but after some acquaintance, I thought he could have pulled a defeat out of the jaws of the most assured victory ever seen on a battlefield. Against him, Ambrose E. Burnside or Elphy Bey (4) would look like Napoleon Bonaparte or the Duke of Wellington.

I knew how to play my part. "Dick, with all respect to your office, I'd rather stay here. I'll be able to lend a hand more effectively." Which was the most fearful gammon, but sounded like the sort of thing a lover of desperate deeds would say. And I knew I'd feel safer with red coats and rifles around me, instead of armored idiots with a few obsolete muskets.

Dick shook his head. "Here, you're just one more rifle. With the King and Hand, you can help them with the defence and make sure they utilize us to their best advantage." And stay well out of the line of fire, I devoutly wished. I could see Stannis' fleet coming in, beating up the river, and hoped that Tyrion's chain was strong enough for what he had in mind.

When I got to where the royal command post was, sure enough, Tyrion was there, in specially-made armour. So was Joffrey, with several of his Kingsguard around him. I exchanged wary nods with Sandor Clegane. The light of the torches made his half-ruined face into the mask of a demon.

"Your Majesty! Lord Tyrion! I'm here to help you coordinate with the British forces!" At the sight of me, Tyrion lit up in a smile. Joffrey looked less pleased, but out in public, with so many eyes on him, he really couldn't throw the kind of display he often indulged in in private.

"We are pleased to see you, Ser Harry. With the aid of the Seven, and the wonderful new weapons you've sold us, we should be able to see my rebel uncle's forces off." That was perfectly unexceptionsable, but I knew that in public, even Joffrey had to play a part. For a second, I had a twinge of sympathy for him, but then the thought of how he'd mistreated his subjects, and Lady Sansa very much in particular, arose in me and I quelled all sympathy for the little monster.

"We've been practicing with these new weapons, Ser Harry," Tyrion informed me. "Some of your soldiers have been talking with our men, and have explained how they are best utilized. We've also hired in some British folk with experience in your army." He swept his arm to one side. "Such as Sergeant Armstrong here!"

A fellow with the mark of the British army all over him stepped forward and saluted. "Good day to you, Sir Harry!" he said. "You'd not remember me, but we were in the Crimea together!" He gave me a gap-toothed smile. "I was watching when you charged at Balaklava! My mates and I couldn't believe our eyes!"

"What do you mean, Sergeant?" asked Tyrion.

"It was during the war in the Crimea, in our world, my lord," Sergeant Armstrong explained. "Sir Harry was with the 11th Hussars. They were ordered to charge to take out a battery of artillery." Tyrion raised his eyebrows, inviting Sergeant Armstrong to continue his story. "They charged down a valley, with artillery firing at them from both sides and ahead of them. Even though they were being cut down by the dozen, they kept charging right ahead, and, by God, they took that damned battery!"

"Is this true, Ser Harry?" asked Tyrion.

I nodded, all false modesty. "Aye, m'lord. 'Twas quite a day, I must admit. I'd been with the Heavy Brigade, and the Highlanders, before I was sent over to liaise with Lord Cardigan."

Tyrion didn't miss much. "Lord Cardigan? From what I've heard, Ser Harry, you and the noble lord aren't on good terms." While we were stuck together in the sky cell at the Eyrie, I'd regaled Tyrion with tales of my life in Britain and elsewhere, and Lord Cardigan had, I admit, featured prominently.

"Too true, m'lord," I answered. "He took against my Elspeth after we were married, and I had to transfer to another regiment. As for why I was with him...it's a long story. If we're both alive after this day, I'll tell you all about it."

"I'll hold you to that, Ser Harry. Stay close by me. I may have need of you." Tyrion turned to his nephew, who was gloating over some prisoners. They'd been stripped, tied up, and had antlers nailed to their heads.

The King grinned at us. "These are the Antler Men, Ser Harry! They plotted to open the gates to my traitor uncle! And I'm going to send them to him! With a catapult!" He pointed up to a higher tower, where a large catapult stood. "They can plot...but can they fly, Ser Harry?"

Compared to some of the dreadful punishments I'd seen (and nearly had inflicted on me, more than once)...things like being blown from the muzzle of a cannon, which I had only escaped in India due to uncommon presence of mind (5) this was nothing out of the ordinary. "Sounds like a splendid idea, Your Majesty!" I assured him, in my most hearty manner. "And you should be there to supervise it personally!" I'd known many monarchs...Theodore of Abyssinia, Lakshmibai, Mangas Colorado, and the list goes on...who'd have already thought of just that.

"Excellent idea!" With that, Joffrey turned and began giving orders. His guards manhandled the terrified Antler Men away, to be launched into Stannis' armies. Tyrion gave me a wink. He knew just why I'd made that suggestion. Without his mini-brained nephew jiggling his elbow, Tyrion could get on with directing the defense of Kings Landing in relative peace.

"He's a right brave boy," said one of the bystanders. I couldn't tell who it was. Tyrion gave whoeever'd spoken a very quizzy look.

"He'd better remain a right live boy. If aught happens to him, his mother will have a bunch of heads on spikes!" The speaker gulped and fell silent.

Tyrion peered out into the harbour. Much of Stannis' fleet, flying his flag of a Baratheon crowned stag on a background of flames, was gathered in the harbour. They were clearly preparing to land and attack the seaside walls. He nodded to himself. "It's time. Signal Bronn."

As the signaler began waving two hand-held torches in a semaphore not unlike what I'd seen used in our own army, I began to grasp the essentials of Tyrion's plan. Slowly, the huge chain he'd bought from us in Britain were emerging as they were tightened. I could see sweating men working on huge capstans, straining to get the chain up and as tight as could be.

With the chain stretched across the mouth of the harbour, Stannis' fleet was trapped. They couldn't break the chain, at least not without a lot more impetus than they could get up in the restricted area of the harbour. While there were other enemy ships on the outside, they were not really a factor. They had avoided HMS Penelope so far, which showed uncommon wisdom and prudence. The local people did not know that she was an ironclad and could shrug off nearly anything they could throw at her. At least, as far as we knew. God or the Devil only knew what that damned witch Melisandre had managed to tell Stannis, not to mention those damned Frenchmen and other foreigners might have spilled.

Tyrion nodded. "Now for Part Two. Signal the Pyromancers." The signalman nodded, waving his torches in a different pattern to the one he'd used before. Green sparks arched out from the sea walls, and where they landed, green fire ignited, on the water itself as well as on Stannis' ships. More and more sparks came flying, until the harbour was a lake of green fire.

Involuntarily, I muttered: "Ignis graecus!" I'd read about Greek fire during my studies at Rugby, and the accounts I'd read corresponded closely to what I was seeing. When I realised what I'd said, I had to smile to myself. John Charity Spring, damn him, would have been pleased to hear that I hadn't completely forgotten my Latin!

Just then, the first screams came, echoing over the water, and I shuddered. While I was safe enough up on those nearly-impregnable walls, those poor fools out on the water had the choices of burning to death or drowning. I could see them leaping off their burning ships to take their chances in the water, heedless of the patches of green fire that drifted about.

[1] During his first trip into the American West, Flashman had found himself in command of a wagon train after the original captain died on the trail. See Flashman and the Redskins.

[2] After Flashman's enforced marriage to Elspeth Morrison (following his seduction of her while staying at her father's house in Glasgow to help quell rioters), Lord Cardigan required him to resign from the 11th Hussars. Cardigan objected to Elspeth's lack of a noble title and the fact that her father had made his money "in trade." Flashman never forgave him this affront.

[3] While Lord Cardigan led the Light Brigade in its famous charge, the charge was not his fault. The charge resulted from a badly-written order, poor phrasing in a verbal clarification, and personality clashes between Cardigan and the other cavalry commander on the spot, Lord Lucan, his brother-in-law. Flashman was present at the exchange between Cardigan and Lucan. See Flashman at the Charge.

[4] "Elphy Bey" was the nickname in general use for the commander of the first British expediton to Kabul in 1842, General William Elphinstone. He contributed greatly to the disastrous end of that campaign through indecisiveness and unfitness for command due to age. This is detailed in Flashman.

[5] After the fall of Jhansi during the Indian Mutiny, Flashman was found alive, but in native garb. Mistaken for a mutineer, he was tied across the muzzle of a cannon, but was able to signal to a nearby Englishman that he was also English. See Flashman in the Great Game.