Читать книгу Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 1: Flashman, Royal Flash, Flashman’s Lady - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 13

The 11th Light Dragoons at this time were newly back from India, where they had been serving since before I was born. They were a fighting regiment, and – I say it without regimental pride, for I never had any, but as a plain matter of fact – probably the finest mounted troops in England, if not in the world. Yet they had been losing officers, since coming home, hand over fist. The reason was James Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan.

You have heard all about him, no doubt. The regimental scandals, the Charge of the Light Brigade, the vanity, stupidity, and extravagance of the man – these things are history. Like most history they have a fair basis of fact. But I knew him, probably as few other officers knew him, and in turn I found him amusing, frightening, vindictive, charming, and downright dangerous. He was God’s own original fool, there’s no doubt of that – although he was not to blame for the fiasco at Balaclava; that was Raglan and Airey between them. And he was arrogant as no other man I’ve ever met, and as sure of his own unshakeable rightness as any man could be – even when his wrong-headedness was there for all to see. That was his great point, the key to his character: he could never be wrong.

They say that at least he was brave. He was not. He was just stupid, too stupid ever to be afraid. Fear is an emotion, and his emotions were all between his knees and his breastbone; they never touched his reason, and he had little enough of that.

For all that, he could never be called a bad soldier. Some human faults are military virtues, like stupidity, and arrogance, and narrow-mindedness. Cardigan blended all three with a passion for detail and accuracy; he was a perfectionist, and the manual of cavalry drill was his Bible. Whatever rested between the covers of that book he could perform, or cause to be performed, with marvellous efficiency, and God help anyone who marred that performance. He would have made a first-class drill sergeant – only a man with a mind capable of such depths of folly could have led six regiments into the Valley at Balaclava.

However, I devote some space to him because he played a not unimportant part in the career of Harry Flashman, and since it is my purpose to show how the Flashman of Tom Brown became the glorious Flashman with four inches in Who’s Who and grew markedly worse in the process, I must say that he was a good friend to me. He never understood me, of course, which is not surprising. I took good care not to let him.

When I met him in Canterbury I had already given a good deal of thought to how I should conduct myself in the army. I was bent on as much fun and vicious amusement as I could get – my contemporaries, who praise God on Sundays and sneak off to child-brothels during the week, would denounce it piously as vicious, anyway – but I have always known how to behave to my superiors and shine in their eyes, a trait of mine which Hughes pointed out, bless him. This I had determined on, and since the little I knew of Cardigan told me that he prized smartness and show above all things, I took some pains over my arrival in Canterbury.

I rolled up to regimental headquarters in a coach, resplendent in my new uniform, and with my horses led behind and a wagonload of gear. Cardigan didn’t see me arrive, unfortunately, but word must have been carried to him, for when I was introduced to him in his orderly room he was in good humour.

“Haw-haw,” said he, as we shook hands. “It is Mr Fwashman. How-de-do, sir. Welcome to the wegiment. A good turn-out, Jones,” he went on to the officer at his elbow. “I delight to see a smart officer. Mr Fwashman, how tall are you?”

“Six feet, sir,” I said, which was near enough right.

“Haw-haw. And how heavy do you wide, sir?”

I didn’t know, but I guessed at twelve and a half stone.

“Heavy for a light dwagoon,” said he, shaking his head. “But there are compensations. You have a pwoper figure, Mr Fwashman, and bear yourself well. Be attentive to your duties and we shall deal very well together. Where have you hunted?”

“In Leicestershire, my lord,” I said.

“Couldn’t be better,” says he. “Eh, Jones? Very good, Mr Fwashman – hope to see more of you. Haw-haw.”

Now, no one in my life that I could remember had ever been so damned civil to me, except toad-eaters like Speedicut, who didn’t count. I found myself liking his lordship, and did not realise that I was seeing him at his best. In this mood, he was a charming man enough, and looked well. He was taller than I, straight as a lance, and very slender, even to his hands. Although he was barely forty, he was already bald, with a bush of hair above either ear and magnificent whiskers. His nose was beaky and his eyes blue and prominent and unwinking – they looked out on the world with that serenity which marks the nobleman whose uttermost ancestor was born a nobleman, too. It is the look that your parvenu would give half his fortune for, that unrufflable gaze of the spoiled child of fortune who knows with unshakeable certainty that he is right and that the world is exactly ordered for his satisfaction and pleasure. It is the look that makes underlings writhe and causes revolutions. I saw it then, and it remained changeless as long as I knew him, even through the roll-call beneath Causeway Heights when the grim silence as the names were shouted out testified to the loss of five hundred of his command. “It was no fault of mine,” he said then, and he didn’t just believe it; he knew it.

I was to see him in a different mood before the day was out, but fortunately I was not the object of his wrath; quite the reverse, in fact.

I was shown about the camp by the officer of the day, a fair young captain, named Reynolds,³ with a brick-red face from service in India. Professionally, he was a good soldier, but quiet and no blood at all. I was fairly offhand with him, and no doubt insolent, but he took it without comment, confining himself to telling me what was what, finding me a servant, and ending at the stables where my mare – whom I had christened Judy, by the way – and charger were being housed.

The grooms had Judy trimmed up with her best leather-work – and it was the best that the smartest saddler in London could show – and Reynolds was admiring her, when who should ride up but my lord in the devil of a temper. He reined in beside us, and pointed with a hand that shook with fury to a troop that had just come in under their sergeant, to the stable yard.

“Captain Weynolds!” he bawled, and his face was scarlet. “Is this your twoop?”

Reynolds said it was.

“And do you see their sheepskins?” bawled Cardigan. These were the saddle sheepskins. “Do you see them, sir? What colour are they, I should like to know? Will you tell me, sir?”

“White, my lord.”

“White, you say? Are you a fool, sir? Are you colour-blind? They are not white, they are yellow – with inattention and slovenliness and neglect! They are filthy, I tell you.”

Reynolds stood silent, and Cardigan raged on.

“This was no doubt very well in India, where you learned what you probably call your duty. I will not have it here, do you understand, sir?” His eye rolled round the stable and rested on Judy. “Whose horse is this?” he demanded.

I told him, and he turned in triumph on Reynolds.

“You see, sir, an officer new joined, and he can show you and your other precious fellows from India their duty. Mr Fwashman’s sheepskin is white, sir, as yours should be – would be, if you knew anything of discipline and good order. But you don’t, sir, I tell you.”

“Mr Flashman’s sheepskin is new, sir,” said Reynolds, which was true enough. “They discolour with age.”

“So you make excuses now!” snapped Cardigan. “Haw-haw! I tell you, sir, if you knew your duty they would be cleaned, or if they are too old, wenewed. But you know nothing of this, of course. Your slovenly Indian ways are good enough, I suppose. Well, they will not do, let me tell you! These skins will be cwean tomorrow, d’you hear, sir? Cwean, or I’ll hold you wesponsible, Captain Weynolds!”

And with that he rode off, head in the air, and I heard his “Haw-haw” as he greeted someone outside the stable yard.

I felt quite pleased to have been singled out for what was, in effect, praise, and I fancy I said something of this to Reynolds. He looked me up and down as though seeing me for the first time, and said, in that odd, Welsh-sounding voice that comes with long service in India:

“Ye-es, I can see you will do very well, Mr Flashman. Lord Haw Haw may not like us Indian officers, but he likes plungers, and I’ve no doubt you’ll plunger very prettily.”

I asked him what he meant by plunging.

“Oh,” says he, “a plunger is a fellow who makes a great turnout, don’t you know, and leaves cards at the best houses, and is sought by the mamas, and strolls in the Park very languid, and is just a hell of a swell generally. Sometimes they even condescend to soldier a little – when it doesn’t interfere with their social life. Good-day, Mr Flashman.”

I could see that Reynolds was jealous, and in my conceit I was well pleased. What he had said, though, was true enough: the regiment was fairly divided between Indian officers – those who had not left since returning home – and the plungers, to whom I naturally attached myself. They hailed me among them, even the noblest, and I knew how to make myself pleasant. I was not as quick with my tongue as I was to become later, but they knew me for a sporting fellow before I had been there long – good on a horse, good with the bottle (for I took some care at first), and ready for mischief. I toadied as seemed best – not openly, of course, but effectively just the same; there is a way of toadying which is better than fawning, and it consists of acting bluff and hearty and knowing to an inch how far to go. And I had money, and showed it.

The Indian officers had a bad time. Cardigan hated them. Reynolds and Forrest were his chief butts, and he was forever pestering them to leave the regiment and make way for gentlemen, as he put it. Why he was so down on those who had served in India, I was never entirely sure; some said it was because they were not of the smart set, or well connected, and this was true up to a point. He was the damnedest snob, but I think his hatred of the Indian officers ran deeper. They were, after all, real soldiers with service experience, and Cardigan had never heard a shot outside the shooting range in his twenty years’ service.⁴

Whatever the cause, he made their lives miserable, and there were several resignations in my first six months’ service. Even for us plungers it was bad enough, for he was a devil for discipline, and not all the plungers were competent officers. I saw how the wind set, and studied harder than ever I had at Rugby, mastering my drill, which wasn’t difficult, and perfecting myself in the rules of camp life. I had got an excellent servant, named Basset, a square-headed oaf who knew everything a soldier ought to know and nothing more, and with a genius for boot-polish. I thrashed him early in our acquaintance, and he seemed to think the better of me for it, and treated me as a dog does its master.

Fortunately, I cut a good figure on parade and at exercise, which was where it counted with Cardigan. Probably only the regimental sergeant major and one or two of the troop-sergeants were my equals on horseback, and his lordship congratulated me once or twice on my riding.

“Haw-haw!” he would say. “Fwashman sits well, I tell you. He will make an aide yet.”

I agreed with him. Flashman was sitting very well.

In the mess things went well enough. They were a fast crowd, and the money ran pretty free, for apart from parties and the high state which Cardigan demanded we should keep, there was some heavy gaming. All this expense discouraged the Indian men, which delighted Cardigan, who was forever sneering at them that if they could not keep up with gentlemen they had better return to farming or set themselves up in trade – “selling shoes and pots and pans”, he would say, and laugh heartily, as though this were the funniest thing imaginable.

Strangely enough, or perhaps not strangely, his Indian prejudice did not extend to the men. They were a tough lot, and excellent soldiers so far as I could see; he was a tyrant to them, and never a week passed without a court-martial for neglect of duty or desertion or drunkenness. The last offence was common but not seriously regarded, but for the other two he punished hard. There were frequent floggings at the rings in the side of the riding school, when we all had to attend. Some of the older officers – the Indian ones – grumbled a good deal and pretended to be shocked, but I guessed they would not have missed it. Myself, I liked a good flogging, and used to have bets with Bryant, my particular crony, on whether the man would cry out before the tenth stroke, or when he would faint. It was better sport than most, anyway.

Bryant was a queer little creature who attached himself to me early in my career and clung like a leech. He was your open toady, with little money of his own, but a gift of pleasing and being on hand. He was smart enough, and contrived to cut a decent figure, although never splendid, and he had all the gossip, and knew everybody, and was something of a wit. He shone at parties and mess nights which we gave for the local society in Canterbury, where he was very forward. He was first with all the news, and could recount it in a fashion that amused Cardigan – not that this was too difficult. I found him useful, and tolerated him accordingly, and used him as a court jester when it suited – he was adept in this role, too. As Forrest said, if you kicked Bryant’s arse, he always bounced most obligingly.

He had a considerable gift of spite against the Indian officers, which also endeared him to Cardigan – oh, we were a happy little mess, I can tell you – and earned him their hatred. Most of them despised me, too, along with the other plungers, but we despised them for different reasons, so we were square there.

But to only one officer did I take an active dislike, which was prophetic, and I guessed that he returned it from the first. His name was Bernier, a tall, hard hawk of a man with a big nose and black whiskers and dark eyes set very close. He was the best blade and shot in the regiment, and until I came on the scene the best rider as well. He didn’t love me for that, I suppose, but our real hatred dated from the night when he made some reference to nabob families of no breeding, and seemed to me to look in my direction.

I was fairly wine-flown, or I’d have kept my mouth shut, for he looked like what the Americans call a “killing gentleman” – indeed, he was very like an American whom I knew later, the celebrated James Hickok, who was also a deadly shot. But being part tipsy, I said I would rather be a nabob Briton, and take my chance on breeding, than be half-caste foreign. Bryant crowed, as he always did at my jokes, and said: “Bravo, Flash! Old England forever!” and there was general laughter, for my usual heartiness and general bluffness had earned me the name of being something of a John Bull. Bernier only half-caught what I said, for I had kept my voice low so that only those nearest heard, but someone must have told him later, for he never gave me anything but an icy stare from then on, and never spoke to me. He was sensitive about his foreign name – actually, he was a French Jew, if you went back far enough, which accounts for it.

But it was a few months after this incident that I really ran foul of Bernier, and began to make my reputation – the reputation which I still enjoy today. I pass over a good deal of what happened in that first year – Cardigan’s quarrel with the Morning Post,⁵ for example, which had the regiment, and the public generally, in a fine uproar, but in which I had no part – and come to the famous Bernier-Flashman duel, which you will still hear talked about. I think of it only with pride and delight, even now. Only two men ever knew the truth of it, and I was one.

It was a year almost to the day after I left Rugby that I was taking the air in Canterbury, in the Park, and on my way to some mama’s house or other to make a call. I was in full fig, and feeling generally pleased with myself, when I spied an officer walking under the trees with a lady, arm in arm. It was Bernier, and I looked to see what heifer he was ploughing with. In fact, she was no heifer, but a wicked-looking little black-haired piece with a turned-up nose and a saucy smile. I studied her, and the great thought formed in my head.

I had had two or three mistresses in Canterbury, off and on, but nothing in particular. Most of the younger officers maintained a paramour in the town or in London, but I had never set up any establishment like that. I guessed that this was Bernier’s mare of the moment, and the more I looked at her the more she intrigued me. She looked the kind of plump little puss who would be very knowing in bed, and the fact that she was Bernier’s – who fancied himself irresistible to women – would make the tumbling all the sweeter.

I wasted no time, but found out her direction by inquiry, chose my time when Bernier was on duty, and called on the lady. She had a pleasant little retreat, very tastefully furnished, but in no great style: Bernier’s purse was less fat than mine, which was an advantage. I pursued it.

She was French herself, it turned out, so I could be more direct than with an English girl. I told her straight out that I had taken a fancy to her, and invited her to consider me as a friend – a close friend. I hinted that I had money – she was only a whore, after all, for all her fashionable airs.

At first she made a show of being shocked, and la-la’d a good deal, but when I made to leave she changed her tune. My money aside, I think she found me to her fancy; she toyed with a fan and looked at me over it with big, almond-shaped eyes, playing the sly minx.

“You have poor opeenion of French girls, then?” says she.

“Not I,” says I, charming again. “I’ve the highest opinion of you, for example. What’s your name?”

“Josette.” She said it very pretty.

“Well, Josette, let’s drink to our future acquaintance – at my expense” – and I dropped my purse on the table, at which her eyes widened. It was not a small purse.

You may think me crude. I was. But I saved time and trouble, and perhaps money, too – the money that fools waste in paying court with presents before the fun begins. She had wine in the house, and we drank to each other and talked a good five minutes before I began to tease her into undressing. She played it very prettily, with much pouting and provocative looks, but when she had stripped she was all fire and wickedness, and I was so impatient I had her without getting out of my chair.

Whether I found her unusually delectable because she was Bernier’s mistress or because of her French tricks, I can’t say, but I took to visiting her often, and in spite of my respect for Bernier, I was careless. It was within a week, certainly, that we were engaged heavily one evening when there were footsteps on the stair, the door flew open, and there was the man himself. He stood glaring for a moment, while Josette squeaked and dived beneath the covers, and I scrambled to get under the bed in my shirt-tail – the sight of him filled me with panic. But he said nothing; a moment passed, the door slammed, and I came out scrabbling for my breeches. At that moment I wanted only to put as much distance between myself and him as I could, and I dressed in some haste.

Josette began to laugh, and I asked her what the devil amused her.

“It is so fonnee,” she giggled. “You … you half beneath de bed, and Charles glaring so fierce at your derrière.” And she shrieked with laughter.

I told her to hold her tongue, and she stopped laughing and tried to coax me back to bed again, saying that Bernier had undoubtedly gone, and sitting up and shaking her tits at me. I hesitated, between lust and fright, until she hopped out and bolted the door, and then I decided I might as well have my sport while I could, and pulled off my clothes again. But I confess it was not the most joyous pleasuring I have taken part in, although Josette was at her most spirited; I suspect she was thrilled by the situation.

I was in two minds whether to go back to the mess afterwards, for I was sure Bernier must call me out. But, to my surprise, when I pulled my courage together and went in to dinner, he paid me not the slightest notice. I couldn’t make it out, and when next day and the next he was still silent, I took heart again, and even paid Josette another visit. She had not seen him, so it seemed to me that he intended to do nothing at all. I decided that he was a poor-spirited thing after all, and had resigned his mistress to me – not, I was sure, out of fear of me, but because he could not bear to have a trollop who cheated him. Of course the truth was that he couldn’t call me out without exposing the cause, and making himself look ridiculous; and knowing more of regimental custom than I did, he hesitated to provoke an affair of honour over a mistress. But he was holding himself in with difficulty.

Not knowing this, I took to throwing my chest out again, and let Bryant into the secret. The toady was delighted, and soon all the plungers knew. It was then only a matter of time before the explosion came, as I should have known it would.

It was after dinner one night, and we were playing cards, while Bernier and one or two of the Indian men were talking near by. The game was vingt-et-un, and it happened that at that game I had a small joke concerning the Queen of Diamonds, which I maintained was my lucky card. Forrest had the bank, and when he set down my five-card hand with an ace and the Queen of Diamonds, Bryant, the spiteful ass, sang out:

“Hullo! He’s got your queen, Flashy! That’s the biter bit, bigod!”

“How d’ye mean?” said Forrest, taking up the cards and stakes.

“With Flashy it’s t’other way, you know,” says Bryant. “He makes off with other chaps’ queens.”

“Aha,” says Forrest, grinning. “But the Queen of Diamonds is a good Englishwoman, ain’t she, Flash? Mounting French fillies is your style, I hear.”

There was a good deal of laughter, and glances in Bernier’s direction. I should have kept them quiet, but I was fool enough to join in.

“Nothing wrong in a French filly,” I said, “so long as the jockey’s an English one. A French trainer is well enough, of course, but they don’t last in a serious race.”

It was feeble enough stuff, no doubt, even allowing for the port we had drunk, but it snapped the straw. The next I knew my chair had been dragged away, and Bernier was standing over me as I sprawled on the floor, his face livid and his mouth working.

“What the devil—” began Forrest, as I scrambled up, and the others jumped up also. I was half on my feet when Bernier struck me, and I lost my balance and went down again.

“For God’s sake, Bernier!” shouts Forrest, “are you mad?” and they had to hold him back, or he would have savaged me on the ground, I think. Seeing him held, I came up with an oath, and made to go for him, but Bryant grabbed me, crying “No, no, Flash! Hold off, Flashy!” and they clustered round me as well.

Truth is, I was nearly sick with fear, for the murder was out now. The best shot in the regiment had hit me, but with provocation – fearful or not, I have always been quick and clear enough in my thinking in a crisis – and there couldn’t be any way out except a meeting. Unless I took the blow, which meant an end to my career in the army and in society. But to fight him was a quick road to the grave.

It was a horrible dilemma, and in that moment, as they held us apart, I saw I must have time to think, to plan, to find a way out. I shook them off, and without a word stalked out of the mess, like a man who must remove himself before he does someone a mischief.

It took me five minutes of hard thinking, and then I was striding back into the mess again. My heart was hammering, and no doubt I looked pretty furious, and if I shook they thought it was anger.

The chatter died away as I came in; I can feel that silence now, sixty years after, and see the elegant blue figures, and the silver gleaming on the table, and Bernier, alone and very pale, by the fireplace. I went straight up to him. I had my speech ready.

“Captain Bernier,” I said, “you have struck me with your hand. That was rash, for I could take you to pieces with mine if I chose.” This was blunt, English Flashman, of course. “But I prefer to fight like a gentleman, even if you do not.” I swung round on my heel. “Lieutenant Forrest, will you act for me?”

Forrest said yes, like a shot, and Bryant looked piqued. He expected I would have named him, but I had another part for him to play.

“And who acts for you?” I asked Bernier, very cool. He named Tracy, one of the Indian men, and I gave Tracy a bow and then went over to the card table as though nothing had happened.

“Mr Forrest will have the details to attend to,” I said to the others. “Shall we cut for the bank?”

They stared at me. “By gad, Flash, you’re a cool one!” cries Bryant.

I shrugged, and took up the cards, and we started playing again, the others all very excited – too excited to notice that my thoughts were not on my cards. Luckily, vingt-et-un calls for little concentration.

After a moment Forrest, who had been conferring with Tracy, came over to tell me that, with Lord Cardigan’s permission, which he was sure must be forthcoming, we should meet behind the riding school at six in the morning. It was assumed I would choose pistols – as the injured party I had the choice.⁶ I nodded, very offhand, and told Bryant to hurry with the deal. We played a few more hands, and then I said I was for bed, lit my cheroot and strolled out with an airy goodnight to the others, as though the thought of pistols at dawn troubled me no more than what I should have for breakfast. Whatever happened, I had grown in popular esteem for this night at least.

I stopped under the trees on the way to my quarters, and after a moment, as I had expected, Bryant came hurrying after me, full of excitement and concern. He began to babble about what a devil of a fellow I was, and what a fighting Turk Bernier was, but I cut him off short.

“Tommy,” says I. “You’re not a rich man.”

“Eh?” says he. “What the—”

“Tommy,” says I. “Would you like ten thousand pounds?”

“In God’s name,” says he. “What for?”

“For seeing that Bernier stands up at our meeting tomorrow with an unloaded pistol,” says I, straight out. I knew my man.

He goggled at me, and then began to babble again. “Christ, Flash, are you crazy? Unloaded … why …”

“Yes or no,” says I. “Ten thousand pounds.”

“But it’s murder!” he squealed. “We’d swing for it!” No thought of honour you see, or any of that rot.

“Nobody’s going to swing,” I told him. “And keep your voice down, d’ye hear? Now, then, Tommy, you’re a sharp man with the sleight of hand at parties – I’ve seen you. You can do it in your sleep. For ten thousand?”

“My God, Flash,” says he, “I don’t dare.” And he began babbling again, but in a whisper this time.

I let him ramble for a moment, for I knew he would come round. He was a greedy little bastard, and the thought of ten thousand was like Aladdin’s cave to him. I explained how safe and simple it would be; I had thought it out when first I left the mess.

“Go and borrow Reynolds’ duelling pistols, first off. Take ’em to Forrest and Tracy and offer to act as loader – you’re always into everything, and they’ll be glad to accept, and never think twice.”

“Won’t they, by God?” cried he. “They know I’m hellish thick with you, Flashy.”

“You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I reminded him. “Now who will imagine for a moment that you would stoop to such a treacherous act, eh? No, no, Tommy, it’s cut and dried. And in the morning, with the surgeon and seconds standing by, you’ll load up – carefully. Don’t tell me you can’t palm a pistol ball.”

“Oh, aye,” says he, “like enough. But—”

“Ten thousands pounds,” I said, and he licked his lips.

“Jesus,” he said at length. “Ten thousand. Phew! On your word of honour, Flash?”

“Word of honour,” I said, and lit another cheroot.

“I’ll do it!” says he. “My God! You’re a devil, Flash! You won’t kill him, though? I’ll have no part in murder.”

“Captain Bernier will be as safe from me as I’ll be from him,” I told him, “Now, cut along and see Reynolds.”

He cut on the word. He was an active little rat, that I’ll say for him. Once committed he went in heart and soul.

I went to my quarters, got rid of Basset who was waiting up for me, and lay down on my cot. My throat was dry and my hands were sweating as I thought of what I had done. For all the bluff front I had shown to Bryant, I was in a deathly funk. Suppose something went wrong and Bryant muffed it? It had seemed so easy in that moment of panicky thought outside the mess – fear stimulates thought, perhaps, but it may not be clear thought, because one sees the way out that one wants to see, and makes headlong for it. I thought of Bryant fumbling, or being too closely overseen, and Bernier standing up in front of me with a loaded pistol in a hand like a rock, and the muzzle pointing dead at my breast, and felt the ball tearing into me, and myself falling down screaming, and dying on the ground.

I almost shouted out at the horror of it, and lay there blubbering in the dark room; I would have got up and run, but my legs would not let me. So I began to pray, which I had not done, I should say, since I was about eight years old. But I kept thinking of Arnold and hell – which is no doubt significant – and in the end there was nothing for it but brandy, but it might as well have been water.

I did no sleeping that night, but listened to the clock chiming away the quarters, until dawn came, and I heard Basset approaching. I had just sense enough left to see that it wouldn’t do for him to find me red-eyed and shivering, so I made believe to sleep, snoring like an organ, and I heard him say:

“If that don’t beat! Listen to ’im, sound as a babby. Isn’t he the game-cock, though?”

And another voice, another servant’s, I suppose, replied:

“Thay’s all alike, bloody fools. ’E won’t be snorin’ tomorrow mornin’, after Bernier’s done with ’im. ’E’ll be sleepin’ too sound for that.”

Right, my lad, whoever you are, I thought, if I come through this it’ll be strange if I can’t bring you to the rings at the riding school, and we’ll see your backbone when the farrier-sergeant takes the cat to you. We’ll hear how loud you can snore yourself. And with that surge of anger I suddenly felt confidence replacing fear – Bryant would see it through, all right – and when they came for me I was at least composed, if not cheerful.

When I am frightened, I go red in the face, not pale, as most men do, so that in me fear can pass for anger, which has been convenient more than once. Bryant tells me that I went out to the riding school that morning wattled like a turkey cock; he said the fellows made sure I was in a fury to kill Bernier. Not that they thought I had a chance, and they were quiet for once as we walked across the parade just as the trumpeter was sounding reveille.

They had told Cardigan of the affair, of course, and some had thought he might intervene to prevent it. But when he had heard of the blow, he had simply said:

“Where do they meet?”

and gone back to sleep again, with instructions to be called at five. He did not approve of duelling – although he duelled himself in famous circumstances – but he saw that in this case the credit of the regiment would only be hurt if the affair were patched up.

Bernier and Tracy were already there, with the surgeon, and the mist was hanging a little under the trees. Our feet thumped on the turf, which was still wet with dew, as we strode across to them, Forrest at my side, and Bryant with the pistol case beneath his arm following on with the others. About fifty yards away, under the trees by the fence, was a little knot of officers, and I saw Cardigan’s bald head above his great caped coat. He was smoking a cigar.

Bryant and the surgeon called Bernier and me together, and Bryant asked us if we would not resolve our quarrel. Neither of us said a word; Bernier was pale, and looked fixedly over my shoulder, and in that moment I came as near to turning and running as ever I did in my life. I felt that my bowels would squirt at any moment, and my hands were shuddering beneath my cloak.

“Very good, then,” says Bryant, and went with the surgeon to a little table they had set up. He took out the pistols, and from the corner of my eye I saw him spark the flints, pour in the charges, and rummage in the shot-case. I daren’t watch him closely, and anyway Forrest came just then and led me back to my place. When I turned round again the surgeon was stopping to pick up a fallen powder flask, and Bryant was ramming home a wad in one of the barkers.

They conferred a moment, and then Bryant paced over to Bernier and presented a pistol to him; then he came to me with the other. There was no one behind me, and as my hand closed on the butt, Bryant winked quickly. My heart came up into my mouth, and I can never hope to describe the relief that flooded through my body, tingling every limb. I was going to live.

“Gentlemen, you are both determined to continue with this meeting?” Bryant looked at each of us in turn. Bernier said: “Yes,” hard and clear. I nodded.

Bryant stepped back to be well out of the line of fire; the seconds and the surgeon took post beside him, leaving Bernier and me looking at each other about twenty paces apart. He stood sideways to me, the pistol at his side, staring straight at my face, as though choosing his spot – he could clip the pips from a card at this distance.

“The pistols fire on one pressure,” called Bryant. “When I drop my handkerchief you may level your pistols and fire. I shall drop it in a few seconds from now.” And he held up the white kerchief in one hand.

I heard the click of Bernier cocking his pistol. His eyes were steady on mine. Sold again, Bernier, I thought; you’re all in a stew about nothing. The handkerchief fell.

Bernier’s right arm came up like a railway signal, and before I had even cocked my pistol I was looking into his barrel – a split second and it shot smoke at me and the crack of the charge was followed by something rasping across my cheek and grazing it – it was the wad. I fell back a step. Bernier was glaring at me, aghast that I was still on my feet, I suppose, and someone shouted: “Missed, by Jesus!” and another cried angrily for silence.

It was my turn, and for a moment the lust was on me to shoot the swine down where he stood. But Bryant might have lost his head, and it was no part of my design, anyway. I had it in my power now to make a name that would run through the army in a week – good old Flashy, who stole another man’s girl and took a blow from him, but was too decent to take advantage of him, even in a duel.

They stood like statues, every eye on Bernier, waiting for me to shoot him down. I cocked my pistol, watching him.

“Come on, damn you!” he shouted suddenly, his face white with rage and fear.

I looked at him for a moment, then brought my pistol up no higher than hip level, but with the barrel pointing well away to the side. I held it negligently almost, just for a moment, so that everyone might see I was firing deliberately wide. I squeezed the trigger.

What happened to that shot is now regimental history; I had meant it for the ground, but it chanced that the surgeon had set his bag and bottle of spirits down on the turf in that direction, maybe thirty yards off, and by sheer good luck the shot whipped the neck off the bottle clean as a whistle.

“Deloped, by God!” roared Forrest. “He’s deloped!”

They hurried forward, shouting, the surgeon exclaiming in blasphemous amazement over his shattered bottle. Bryant slapped me on the back, Forrest wrung my hand, Tracy stood staring in astonishment – it seemed to him, as it did to everyone, that I had spared Bernier and at the same time given proof of astounding marksmanship. As for Bernier, he looked murder if ever a man did, but I marched straight up to him with my hand held out, and he was forced to take it. He was struggling to keep from dashing his pistol into my face, and when I said:

“No hard feelings, then, old fellow?” he gave an incoherent snarl, and turning on his heel, strode off.

This was not lost on Cardigan, who was still watching from a distance, and presently I was summoned from a boozy breakfast – for the plungers celebrated the affair in style, and waxed fulsome over the way I had stood up to him, and then deloped. Cardigan had me to his office, and there was the adjutant and Jones, and Bernier looking like thunder.

“I won’t have it, I tell you!” Cardigan was saying. “Ha, Fwashman, come here! Haw-haw. Now then, shake hands directly, I say, Captain Bernier, and let me hear that the affair is done and honour satisfied.”

I spoke up. “It’s done for me, and indeed I’m sorry it ever happened. But the blow was Captain Bernier’s, not mine. But here’s my hand, again.”

Bernier said, in a voice that shook: “Why did you delope? You have made a mock of me. Why didn’t you take your shot at me like a man?”

“My good sir,” I said. “I didn’t presume to tell you where to aim your shot; don’t tell me where I should have aimed mine.”

That remark, I am told, has found its way since into some dictionary of quotations; it was in The Times within the week, and I was told that when the Duke of Wellington heard it, he observed:

“Damned good. And damned right, too.”

So that morning’s work made a name for Harry Flashman – a name that enjoyed more immediate celebrity than if I had stormed a battery alone. Such is fame, especially in peacetime. The whole story went the rounds, and for a time I even found myself pointed out in the street, and a clergyman wrote to me from Birmingham, saying that as I had shown mercy, I would surely obtain mercy, and Parkin, the Oxford Street gunmaker, sent me a brace of barkers in silver mountings, with my initials engraved – good for trade, I imagine. There was also a question in the House, on the vicious practice of duelling, and Macaulay replied that since one of the participants in the recent affair had shown such good sense and humanity, the Government, while deploring such meetings, hoped this might prove a good example. (“Hear, hear,” and cheers.) My Uncle Bindley was heard to say that his nephew had more to him than he supposed, and even Basset went about throwing a chest at being servant to such a cool blade.

The only person who was critical was my own father, who said in one of his rare letters:

“Don’t be such an infernal fool another time. You don’t fight duels in order to delope, but to kill your adversary.”

So, with Josette mine by right of conquest – and she was in some awe of me, I may say – and a reputation for courage, marksmanship, and downright decency established, I was pretty well satisfied. The only snag was Bryant, but I dealt with that easily.

When he had finished toadying me on the day of the duel, he got round to asking about his ten thousand – he knew I had great funds, or at least that my father did, but I knew perfectly well I could never have pried ten thousand out of my guv’nor. I told Bryant so, and he gaped as though I had kicked him in the stomach.

“But you promised me ten thousand,” he began to bleat.

“Silly promise, ain’t it? – when you think hard about it,” says I. “Ten thousand quid, I mean – who’d pay out that much?”

“You lying swine!” shouts he, almost crying with rage. “You swore you’d pay me!”

“More fool you for believing me,” I said.

“Right, by God!” he snarled. “We’ll see about this! You won’t cheat me, Flashman, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” says I. “Tell everyone all about it? Confess that you sent a man into a duel with an unloaded gun? It’ll make an interesting story. You’d be confessing to a capital offence – had you thought of that? Not that anyone’d believe you – but they’d certainly kick you out of the service for conduct unbecoming, wouldn’t they?”

He saw then how it lay, and there was nothing he could do about it. He actually stamped and tore his hair, and then he tried pleading with me, but I laughed at him, and he finished up swearing to be even yet.

“You’ll live to regret this!” he cried. “By God, I’ll get you yet!”

“More chance of that then you have of getting ten thousand anyway,” I told him, and he slunk off.

He didn’t worry me; what I’d said was gospel true. He daren’t breathe a word, for his own safety’s sake. Of course if he had thought at all he would have sniffed something fishy about a ten thousand bribe in the first place. But he was greedy, and I’ve lived long enough to discover that there isn’t any folly a man won’t contemplate if there’s money or a woman at stake.

However, if I could congratulate myself on how the matter had turned out, and can look back now and say it was one of the most important and helpful incidents of my life, there was trouble in store for me very quickly as a result of it. It came a few weeks afterwards, and it ended in my having to leave the regiment for a while.

It had happened not long before that the regiment had been honoured (as they say) by being chosen to escort to London the Queen’s husband-to-be, Albert, when he arrived in this country. He had become Colonel of the Regiment, and among other things we had been given a new-designed uniform and had our name changed to the Eleventh Hussars. That by the way; what mattered was that he took a close interest in us, and the tale of the duel made such a stir that he took special notice of it, and being a prying German busybody, found out the cause of it.

That almost cooked my goose for good. His lovely new regiment, he found, contained officers who consorted with French whores and even fought duels over them. He played the devil about this, and the upshot was that Cardigan had to summon me and tell me that for my own good I would have to go away for a while.

“It has been demanded,” said he, “that you weave the wegiment – I take it the official intention is that that should be permanent, but I intend to interpwet it as tempowawy. I have no desire to lose the services of a pwomising officer – not for His Woyal Highness or anyone, let me tell you. You might go on weave, of course, but I think it best you should be detached. I shall have you posted, Fwashman, to another unit, until the fuss has died down.”

I didn’t much like the idea, and when he announced that the regiment he had chosen to post me to was stationed in Scotland, I almost rebelled. But I realised it would only be for a few months, and I was relieved to find Cardigan still on my side – if it had been Reynolds who had fought the duel it would have been a very different kettle of fish, but I was one of his favourites. And one must say it of old Lord Haw Haw, if you were his favourite he would stand by you, right, reason or none. Old fool.