Flashman and the Throne of Swords

Chapter Thirty

by Technomad

I've known many fools who thought that generals and commanders were safe on the battlefield. 'Tain't so, as Flashy can testify. Many's the general I've seen lying cold and stark, dead as the commonest foot-slogger. After the Battle of Franklin (1), when that utter fool John Bell Hood spent the last of the Confederacy's strength in a futile lunge at Kentucky, I saw a windrow of Reb generals laid out in a row. And that's not the only time I saw such a thing. After Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg, I saw poor General Armistead, who'd led the charge (while Flashy was vainly trying to find a safe place to be) lying dying on the field, very near the place where the Johnnies had got as far north as they were ever going to get. Not to mention the Crimea, the Mutiny, and a dozen other places I'd have preferred to avoid.

In Westeros, if anything, it was worse. Lords and kings were expected to lead their armies, charging gloriously into the thick of the fight, just like Cardigan at Balaklava. All very glorious for them, but pity the poor aides and squires who had to follow them into the jaws of Hell! (2) The late King Robert, from all accounts, had reveled in such action, personally killing the last Targaryen prince in the rebellion that turfed the Targaryens off the Iron Throne. Joffrey, that lucky little wretch, was still too young to be expected to follow his guv'nor's example and take the field in person. That job was left to others.

I was up in the top of the Red Keep, watching Stannis' fleet burning, when all of a sudden, a rhythmic crashing assailed my ears. Tyrion whirled, his face going pale.

"Oh, Seven save us," he said, Stannis has a force on land, and they're at the Main Gate! We've got to get there, fast! Before I could figure out a plausible excuse for staying behind, we were all a-horse, galloping through the twisty narrow streets, heading for the Main Gate.

As we thundered by where Sir Richard and the Royal Marines were stationed, he saw us, my red coat unmistakable among the locals' cloaks and armour. Next thing I knew, he'd got himself and some of the Jollies mounted, and was riding out to join us.

"Hullo, Harry!" he cried. "I should have known you couldn't stay away from the action! May we join you, Lord Tyrion?" Typical. Burton never knew a second of fear in his life, which was why he'd gone into so many places that were reputed to be certain death. (3)

"Of course, Ser Richard!" called Tyrion. "The more the merrier!" So, trapped and silently cursing the day I'd first been fool enough to put on a red coat, I charged along with the others toward the Great Gate. It's hell having a reputation that traps you in insane situations. If I'd been an ordinary English gentleman, or even an ordinary British officer, I'd have been tucked up safe in bed in London.

At the Gate, the situation was dire. Despite its construction of thick oak timbers, the gate was visibly straining as Stannis' men battered merrily away at it. I could hear their yells and cries as they anticipated the moment the gate would give way and they'd be in the city.

I could see that the locals knew the gate would give way. Off at the edges, some of them were slipping away, heading back into the city, hoping not to be noticed. Sensible chaps, I thought. I wished I could join them. But with Ruffian Dick standing right there, not to mention a dozen or so Royal Marines, all of whom knew me as "Flash Harry," the hero of endless heroic exploits, I had no choice but to force a smile and play my part.

Tyrion had noticed the shirkers, too. And he was furious. He climbed up on a nearby staircase. "They say I'm half a man!" he shouted. "If I am, what does that make you?" I had to admit, he had a good point. Those men were all more able-bodied and larger than Tyrion, but clearly the dwarf lord had more heart for the battle than any of them. Some of the shirkers came drifting back, curious to hear what else he might say.

"Don't fight for the king! Don't fight for the kingdom!" Tyrion yelled. "Don't fight for honor, or for riches! You won't get any!" Tyrion had always struck me as one of the cleverest people I had ever met, and this proved it. The unexpected approach had grabbed the soldiers' attention, and they were all hanging on his next word.

"This is your city, not mine!" Tyrion continued. "That's your gate Stannis is trying to destroy! If his men get in, it'll be your houses they'll burn! It'll be your gold and silver they'll steal! It'll be your women they rape!" At this, he even captured me. The thought of my Elspeth undergoing the sort of horrors that had come to the women captured after Cawnpore filled me with an unfamiliar feeling. Instead of my usual fear, I was filled with rage. I wanted to kill anybody who would do such a thing.

Tyrion pointed to a small sally port. Apparently Stannis' men had not noticed it, or had decided it was too small to use. "We can go out through this, catch them unaware and f*ck them in the arse!" he shouted. "There are brave men out there, knocking at our door! Let's go kill them!" He opened the sally port, with his squire, Podrick Payne, at his side, and charged out. The rest of us (me, with great reluctance) yelled and charged out after him.

We'd caught the enemy completely by surprise. They were focussed on the gate, and before they knew it or could defend themselves effectively, we were on them, swords slashing and British barkers blazing. I knew I couldn't get out of fighting, so I concentrated on everything I knew about combat, firing a revolver in either hand into the mass of the enemy. Normally, don't y'know, that's not a good idea. But when you're as close as I was and the enemy is clumped together that tightly, it's impossible to miss. I'd say every shot struck home. When my barkers were both empty, I holstered them and drew my sabre, wading into the other side with a scream that although it might have sounded fierce, was pure terror.

Ruffian Dick was also giving a very good account of himself. He'd been in many desperate fights as I had, although not as many battles, and was one of the best swordsmen in Europe or Westeros. Beside him, the Royal Marines had emptied their Sniders, and were doing yeoman work with their bayonets. Bayoneted rifles are a very effective weapon. At Rorke's Drift, later on, I saw those crazy Taffies standing up to Cetshwayo's best men, bayonets against assegais, and giving 'em all the pepper they could have wanted.

After a minute or two (which felt like an hour to my terrified mind) the fight was over. Stannis' men were dead or fled, and we'd taken the huge ram. "Yeah!" yelled one of Tyrion's men. "Let's chop it up for firewood!" Since fuel had been short in the city due to the blockade, this met with universal approval.

I was busy reloading my barkers when Tyrion suddenly shouted: "Seven save us! Stannis' men are crossing the river!" I looked where he was pointing, and my blood froze in my veins. There was a huge jam of ships in the river, and a big group of enemy soldiers was crossing it, heading right straight for our position.

"We've got to counterattack! Follow me!" That half-sized madman went running straight for the side of the "bridge," waving his sword. Beside him, a young fellow whom I vaguely recognised as his squire was following him. The Kings Landing men yelled and followed, and, perforce, we British were swept along.

"We've got one chance! We stop them here or they may take Kings Landing yet!" yelled Dick Burton. He was keeping up easily with Tyrion, with his Royal Marines (and, much against my will, me) right with him. I hoped the Jollies still had ammunition for their Snider rifles. I could see some of Stannis' men had firearms, and I hoped they were stolen or copied Brown Besses, not Enfields or US-made Springfields. I'd seen how deadly those could be in the Crimea and in the Yanks' idiotic civil war, and we were well within range of them.

Fighting on a bridge of boats is an experience I'd not had before, and I can't recommend it to any of you young people who may chance to read this (preferably, long after I'm gone. While I admit my reputation is entirely fraudulent, I do find it useful. Hence, once I'm done with these memoirs, they'll be locked away safely.) The footing was treacherous, having to clamber over slippery, canting decks and climb over gunwales, with Stannis' men making things more interesting with bullets and arrows. More than once, I heard one of their little greetings singing past my ear, and shuddered at the thought that if that had been a little better-aimed, that would have done for poor Flashy.

Stannis' men came charging forth to greet us, and we were back to hand-to-hand. I blazed away with my barkers, keeping my sabre ready in my other hand. Contrary to what a lot of fools believe, shooting two-handed is a recipe for using up ammunition to no effect, unless you're at least as good as Wild Bill Hickok or Colonel Sebastian Moran (both of whom I have seen in action.) When I was out of shots, I had no choice but to buckle to with my sabre, slashing and hacking frantically at any enemy that got near me.

The whole mess of shipwrecks suddenly pulled free from the riverbanks, under the impetus of the river's current, and we were drifting downstream. Even by my standards, this was an utterly mad situation to find myself in. With what little of my mind I could spare from the task of keeping myself alive and unharmed, I cursed Tyrion, Dick Burton, our gracious Queen, and myself for getting me into yet another insane adventure. I could have been snug in bed in London, either with Elspeth or some other light o'love, but instead, I was fighting for my life in a medieval morass in a war I wasn't even offically supposed to be involved in.

The whole mess shuddered to a halt as it hit a snag. I noticed that Tyrion, much to my surprise, was still very much alive. He was a better man of his hands than one would have expected, and had more spunk and pluck than many of those who towered over him and sneered at him. We were stuck up against another ship, and at least had a chance of getting out of this alive. Stannis' men seemed to have abandoned the fight, either taking their chances at swimming away (good luck to them! The sort of heavy plate armour worn in Westeros is not exactly what I'd choose for a refreshing dip in the river!) surrendering, or dying. Tyrion, Richard, and I scrambled to the grounded ship, with our surviving men behind us.

"Lord Tyrion! Take my hand!" That was Ser Mandon, a knight of the Kingsguard whom I vaguely recognised. He was reaching out to Tyrion with his hand. His left hand. With a thrill of horror, I saw that he had his sword ready in his right hand, and was preparing to cut Tyrion down.

Ruffian Dick saw the same thing. When Mandon swung his sword, we parried it with both of ours. Our swords were lighter than those big broadswords the Westerosi use, but we were able to save Tyrion from being cleaved in two. Tyrion leaped back with a horrified shout. "You treacherous scum! I'll have your head off!"

Mandon may have been a treacherous cur, but he was no coward. In his shoes, I'd have turned tail and run. Instead, he tried to make a fight of it. He was one against two, though, and neither Dick Burton nor I was in any mood to fight chivalrously, knights though we both were. Very soon, we were pressing him back, until he was backed against the ship's railing. He gritted his teeth visibly and tried to counterattack, but he had no real chance. As I've said, Dick Burton's one of the finest, most scientific swordsmen I know of, and I'd had enough experience with Westerosi swordsmen to know how they operated.

Dick skewered him through the throat while I hamstrung him with a slash to the back of his left knee. He howled with pain, throwing himself backward to escape our blades, and over-balanced. He fell, and the last I knew of him was a resounding splash. I've not seen him again, but I hope he drowned. Drowning was an easier fate than the traitorious scum deserved.

Tyrion looked from one of us to the other, his eyes wide and wild. "Ser Richard...Ser Harry...it seems we Lannisters' debt to you mounts and mounts!" Then he grinned. "And you know that a Lannister always pays his debts!"

"Right now, my lord, we need to concentrate on the important things. How goes the battle?" Dick Burton didn't have my extensive (and reluctantly gained) experience with such things, but he was no fool and had been in quite a few dangerous situations himself. He knew how to cut to the core of a question.

We looked around, to find that the fighting seemed to have ceased. Atop the walls of Kings Landing, and all around it, Baratheon and Lannister banners were flying. Peering at the Red Keep, I could see the Union Jack, flying proud and free, proof that my countrymen had lived through the fight. I looked out to sea, to see HMS Penelope riding at anchor, in the middle of wreckage. I'm no sailor, but if ships can look smug, that one sure did. I could all but her her saying "Snooks to you!" to the hapless locals that had thought to take her on. Britannia rules the waves, and now these Westerosi barbarians knew that fact as surely as any Frenchman, Dutchman or Spaniard that ever breathed.

Tyrion swept his blond hair back. He looked unutterably weary. "Well, Ser Richard, Ser Harry," he said, "shall we go ashore and find out what has transpired behind our backs?"

That sounded like a dam' fine idea to me. I was just as worn out as he was, and I could see that even Ruffian Dick would be glad of a soft bed and some sleep. Neither of us was as young as we'd once been, and a battle such as the one we'd been in would drain even the most strong youths.

With Podrick Payne, and our surviving companions, behind us, we came up to the city gates. Once in, we were pounced on by some men in royal livery. "My lord Tyrion! The King commands you to attend upon him and report to him on the battle!"

"And we mustn't disappoint the King, must we?" muttered Tyrion. I knew that he privately thought the King was a vicious little runt with no redeeming qualities, but in public, he kept up the pretense of being a loyal, obedient subject. Being no stranger to such behavior myself, I understood his motivations.

"We'll see you tomorrow, Lord Tyrion," Richard said. As Tyrion and Podrick were led away to grovel before their spoilt royal master, Richard turned to me and grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the soot all over his face and under his thick moustachios. "I'll warrant that a soft bed is what you want, isn't it, Harry?"

I had to nod. "That sounds like an excellent plan, Ambassador!" We went up to the front door of the British Embassy, with the surviving Royal Marines behind us, all of us looking like the battlefield survivors we were. The servants gasped, but admitted us, and soon I was climbing the stairs to my own chamber, feeling more and more done in with every step. When I saw my own bed, I fell into it without bothering to take off my clothes. Some servant would have a spot of bother cleaning the sheets, thought I. As sleep took me, my last thought was "Snooks to the servants!"

When I awoke, Elspeth was there in bed with me, sleeping just as soundly as I had. I thought about surprising her with a touch of Harry in the night, but decided regretfully against it. I knew we'd get caught up shortly. Rolling out of bed, I undressed and found some clean togs, but smelling my clothes told me that a bath was most definitely in order.

I rang for servants and explained what I wanted, and shortly I was luxuriating in hot water, watching as what looked like half the topsoil of Westeros rolled off of me. When I was properly clean, I got into my fresh clothes, and after combing my hair, I took a look in the mirror. I looked gentlemanly enough to pass, at least in private, although I'd not have gone to a formal ball or audience with the Queen in such a state willingly.

Elspeth had awakened, and her blue eyes went wide to see me. "Harry? You're back, my jo!" she murmured. Then she was in my arms, sobbing. "Oh, my jo...I'd never seen a battle before...I never kent what you face when you go out there...I was feart I might lose ye…"

I murmured soothingly: "There, there, Elspeth. I came through, all right. How could I not? Don't I have the best reason to survive of anybody out there?" She looked at me uncomprehendingly, until I tweaked her nose gently and explained: "You. You're my reason to survive. It's thanks to you that I always come through. How could I die and leave such loveliness behind?"

For some incomprehensible female reason, this didn't reassure her. She howled even louder and buried her face in my shirt bosom. I applied myself to comforting her, and soon the comforting took a distinctly familiar turn. Just as we were moving toward the bed, a loud knock on the door interrupted us.

Releasing Elspeth, I roared: "Whoever you are, go away!"

A voice from outside answered: "Beg pardon, Ser Harry, but Ser Richard sent me to tell you that you and he are wanted in the Great Hall. The King and Hand await the reports of what you British did on the field of battle."

"Now?" I asked, hardly able to believe my ears. Even for a nasty little monster like Joffrey, this was unheard-of impudence.

"Yes, now. Please accompany me."

Elspeth was looking distinctly ominous, so I gave her a kiss. "We'll get back to this later, but when a king calls, we commoners have to obey." Slipping out, I followed the servant to the Great Hall.

[1] The Second Battle of Franklin, in 1864, was the Confederacy's last great offensive in the western theater of operations. General John Bell Hood hurled the Army of Tennessee at entrenched Union troops, and shattered it. Six Confederate generals, and nearly six thousand other Confederates, died in this action.

[2] Flashman had had this experience himself. During the First Sikh War, at a crucial point, General Hugh Gough had ridden out to an exposed place at the far edge of the Sikhs' weapons' range, exposing himself to draw their fire on him and away from his men. Much against his will, Flashman rode along with him. See Flashman and the Mountain of Light.

[3] Richard Francis Burton had done the Hajj disguised as a Muslim, despite the law mandating death for any non-Muslim entering Mecca or Medina. He had also been the first European to enter the African city of Harar, forbidden to all outsiders. With a partner, John Hanning Speke, he had traveled deep into Africa to try to find the source of the Nile, and nearly did it (his partner did make it, although Burton himself was laid low by illness.)