Читать книгу Flash for Freedom! - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 10

I believe it was that sight of that old fool Gladstone, standing in the pouring rain holding his special constable’s truncheon as though it were a bunch of lilies, and looking even more like an unemployed undertaker’s mute than usual, that made me think seriously about going into politics. God knows I’m no Tory, and I never set eyes on a Whig yet without feeling the need of a bath, but I remember thinking as I looked at Gladstone that day: ‘Well, if that’s one of the bright particular stars of English public life, Flashy my boy, you ought to be at Westminster yourself.’

You wouldn’t blame me; you must have thought the same, often. After all, they’re a contemptible lot, and you’ll agree that I had my full share of the qualities of character necessary in political life. I could lie and dissemble with the best, give short change with a hearty clap on the shoulder, slip out from under long before the blow fell, talk, toady, and turn tail as fast as a Yankee fakir selling patent pills. Mark you, I’ve never been given to interfering in other folks’ affairs if I could help it, so I suppose that would have disqualified me. But for a little while I did think hard about bribing my way to a seat – and the result of it was that I came within an ace of being publicly disgraced, shanghaied, sold as a slave, and God knows what besides. I’ve never seriously considered politics since.

It was when I came home from Germany in the spring of ’48, after my skirmish with Otto Bismarck and Lola Montez. I was in d----d bad shape, with a shaven skull, a couple of wounds, and the guts scared half out of me, and all I wanted was to go to ground in London until I was my own man once more. One thing I was sure of: nothing was going to drag me out of England again – which was ironic, when you consider that I’ve spent more than half of the last fifty years at the ends of the earth, in uniform as often as not, and doing most of my walking backwards.

Anyway, I came home across the Channel one jump ahead of half the monarchs and statesmen in Europe. The popular rebellion I’d seen in Munich was only one of a dozen that broke out that spring, and all the fellows who’d lost their thrones and chancellorships seemed to have decided, like me, that old England was the safest place. So it proved, but the joke was that for a few weeks after I came home it looked touch and go whether England didn’t have a revolution of her own, which would have sold the fleeing monarchs properly, and serve ’em right.

Mind you, I thought it was all gammon myself; I’d just seen a real rebellion, with mobs chanting and smashing and looting, and I couldn’t imagine it happening in St James’s. But that crabbed old Scotch miser, Morrison, my abominable father-in-law, thought different, and poured out his fears to me on my first evening at home.

‘It’s thae bluidy Chartists,’ cries he, with his head in his hands. ‘The d----d mob is loose aboot the toon, or soon will be. It’s no’ enough, their Ten Hoors Bill, they want tae slake their vengeance on honest fowk as well. Burn them a’, the wicked rascals! And whit does the Government do, will ye tell me? Naethin’! Wi’ rebellion in oor midst, an’ the French chappin’ at oor doors!’

‘The French have too much on hand with their own rebels to mind about us,’ said I. ‘As to the Chartists, I recall you expressing the same fears, years ago, in Paisley, and nothing came of it. If you remember –’

‘Naethin’ came o’t, d’ye say?’ cries he, with his chops quivering. ‘I ken whit came o’t! You, that should hae been at your post, were loupin’ intae the bushes wi’ my Elspeth. Oh, Goad,’ says he, groaning, ‘as if we hadnae tribulation enough. Wee Elspeth, in her … her condeetion.’

That was another thing, of course. My beautiful Elspeth, after eight years of wedded bliss, had now conceived at last, and to hear her father, mother, and sisters you would have thought it was Judgement Day. Myself, I believe she’d done it just to be topsides with the Queen, who had recently produced yet another of her innumerable litter. But what concerned me most was the identity of the father; I knew my darling feather-head, you see, for the trollop she was – you would never have thought it, to look at her beguiling innocence, but it had long been an unspoken bargain between us that we let each other’s private lives alone, and I could guess she had been in the woodshed with half a dozen during my absence. Mind you, I might have pupped her myself before I went to Germany, but who could tell? And if she gave birth to something with red hair and a pug nose there was liable to be talk, and God knows what might come of that.

You see, we were an odd family. Old Morrison was as rich as an Amsterdam Jew, and when my guv’nor went smash over railway stock, Morrison had paid the bills for Elspeth’s sake. He had been paying ever since, keeping me and my guv’nor on a pittance while he used our house, and got what credit he could out of being related to the Flashman family. Not that that was much, in my opinion, but since we were half way into Society, and Morrison had daughters to marry off, he was prepared to tolerate us. He had to tolerate me, anyway, since I was married to his daughter. But it was, a d----d tricky business, all round, for he could kick me out if he chose, and would do like a shot the moment Elspeth decided she’d had enough of me. As it was, we dealt well enough with each other, but with a child on the way things might, I suspected, be different. I’d no wish to be out in the street trying to scrape by on a captain’s half pay.

So what with Elspeth pregnant and old Morrison expecting the Communist rabble at the door at any moment, it was a fairly cheerless homecoming. Elspeth seemed pleased enough to see me, all right, but when I tried to bundle her into bed she would have none of it, in case the child was harmed. So instead of bouncing her about that evening I had to listen fondly to her drivelling about what name we should give our Little Hero – for she was sure it must be a boy.

‘He shall be Harry Albert Victor,’ says she, holding my hand and gazing at me with those imbecile blue eyes which never lost their power, somehow, to make my heart squeeze up inside me, God knows why. ‘After you, my dearest love, and our dear, dear Queen and her dearest love. Would you approve, my darling?’

‘Capital choice,’ says I. ‘Couldn’t be better.’ Not unless, I thought to myself, you called him Tom, or Dick, or William, or whatever the fellow’s name was who was in the hay with you. (After all, we’d been married a long while and made the springs creak time without number, and devil a sign of our seed multiplying. It seemed odd, now. Still, there it was.)

‘You make me so happy, Harry,’ says she, and do you know, I believed it. She was like that, you see; as immoral as I was, but without my intelligence. No conscience whatever, and a blissful habit of forgetting her own transgressions – or probably she never thought she had any to forget.

She leaned up and kissed me, and the smell and feel of her blonde plumpness set me off, and I made a grab at her tits, but she pushed me away again.

‘We must be patient, my own,’ says she, composing herself. ‘We must think only of dear Harry Albert Victor.’

(That, by the way, is what he is called. The bastard’s a bishop, too. I can’t believe he’s mine.)

She cooed and maundered a little longer, and then said she must rest, so I left her sipping her white-wine whey and spent the rest of the evening listening to old Morrison groaning and snarling. It was the same old tune, more or less, that I’d grown used to on the rare occasions when we had shared each other’s company over the past eight years – the villainy of the workers, the weakness of government, the rising cost of everything, my own folly and extravagance (although heaven knows he never gave me enough to be extravagant with), the vanity of his wife and daughters, and all the rest of it. It was pathetic, and monstrous, too, when you considered how much the old skinflint had raked together by sweating his mill-workers and cheating his associates. But I observed that the richer he got, the more he whined and raged, and if there was one thing I’ll say for him, he got richer quicker than the only sober man in a poker game.

The truth was that, coward and skinflint though he was, he had a shrewd business head, no error. From being a prosperous Scotch mill owner when I married his daughter he had blossomed since coming south, and had his finger in a score of pies – all d----d dirty ones, no doubt. He had become known in the City, and in Tory circles too, for if he was a provincial nobody he had the golden passport, and it was getting fatter all the time. He was already angling for his title, although he didn’t get it until some little time later, when Russell sold it to him – a Whig minister ennobling a Tory miser, which just goes to show. But with all these glittering prizes in front of him, the little swine was getting greedier by the hour, and the thought of it all dissolving in revolution had him nearly puking with fear.

‘It’s time tae tak’ a stand,’ says he, goggling at me. ‘We have to defend our rights and our property’ – and I almost burst out laughing as I remembered the time in Paisley when his mill-workers got out of hand, and he cringed behind his door, bawling for me to lead my troops against them. But this time he was really frightened; I gathered from his vapourings that there had been recent riots in Glasgow, and even in Trafalgar Square, and that in a few days there was to be a great rally of Chartists – ‘spawn of Beelzebub’ he called them – on Kennington Common, and that it was feared they would invade London itself.

To my astonishment, when I went out next day to take my bearings, I discovered there was something in it. At Horse Guards there were rumours that regiments were being brought secretly to town, the homes of Ministers were to be guarded, and supplies of cutlasses and firearms were being got ready. Special constables were being recruited to oppose the mob, and the Royal Family were leaving town. It all sounded d----d serious, but my Uncle Bindley, who was on the staff, told me that the Duke was confident nothing would come of it.

‘So you’ll win no more medals this time,’ says he, sniffing. ‘I take it, now that you have consented to honour us with your presence again, that you are looking to your family’ (he meant the Pagets, my mother’s tribe) ‘to find you employment again.’

‘I’m in no hurry, thank’ee,’ says I. ‘I’m sure you’d agree that in a time of civil peril a gentleman’s place is in his home, defending his dear ones.’

‘If you mean the Morrisons,’ says he, ‘I cannot agree with you. Their rightful place is with the mob, from which they came.’

‘Careful, uncle,’ says I. ‘You never know – you might be in need of a Scotch pension yourself some day.’ And with that I left him, and sauntered home.

The place was in a ferment. Old Morrison, carried away by terror for his strong-boxes, had actually plucked up courage to go to Marlborough Street and ’test as a special constable, and when I came home he was standing in the drawing-room looking at his truncheon as though it was a snake. Mrs Morrison, my Medusa-in-law, was lying on the sofa, with a maid dabbing her temples with eau-de-cologne, Elspeth’s two sisters were weeping in a corner, and Elspeth herself was sitting, cool as you please, with a shawl round her shoulders, eating chocolates and looking beautiful. As always, she was the one member of the family who was quite unruffled.

Old Morrison looked at me and groaned, and looked at the truncheon again.

‘It’s a terrible thing to tak’ human life,’ says he.

‘Don’t take it, then,’ says I. ‘Strike only to wound. Get your back against a brick wall and smash ’em across the knees and elbows.’

The females set up a great howl at this, and old Morrison looked ready to faint.

‘D’ye think … it’ll come tae … tae bloodshed?’

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ says I, very cool.

‘Ye’ll come with me,’ he yammered. ‘You’re a soldier – a man of action – aye, ye’ve the Queen’s Medal an’ a’. Ye’ve seen service – aye – against the country’s enemies! Ye’re the very man tae stand up to this … this trash. Ye’ll come wi’ me – or maybe tak’ my place!’

Solemnly I informed him that the Duke had given it out that on no account were the military to be involved in any disturbance that might take place when the Chartists assembled. I was too well known; I should be recognised.

‘I’m afraid it is for you civilians to do your duty,’ says I. ‘But I shall be here, at home, so you need have no fear. And if the worst befalls, you may be sure that my comrades and I shall take stern vengeance.’

I left that drawing-room sounding like the Wailing Wall, but it was nothing to the scenes which ensued on the morning of the great Chartist meeting at Kennington. Old Morrison set off, amidst the lamentations of the womenfolk, truncheon in hand, to join the other specials, but was back in ten minutes having sprained his ankle, he said, and had to be helped to bed. I was sorry, because I’d been hoping he might get his head stove in, but it wouldn’t have happened anyway. The Chartists did assemble, and the specials were mustered in force to guard the bridges – it was then that I saw Gladstone with the other specials, with his nose dripping, preparing to sell his life dearly for the sake of constitutional liberty and his own investments. But it poured down, everyone was soaked, the foreign agitators who were on hand got nowhere, and all the inflamed mob did was to send a monstrous petition across to the House of Commons. It had five million signatures, they said; I know it had four of mine, one in the name of Obadiah Snooks, and three others in the shape of X’s beside which I wrote, ‘John Morrison, Arthur Wellesley, Henry John Temple Palmerston, their marks’.

But the whole thing was a frost, and when one of the Frog agitators in Trafalgar Square got up and d----d the whole lot of the Chartists for English cowards, a butcher’s boy tore off his coat, squared up to the Frenchy, and gave the snail-chewing scoundrel the finest thrashing you could wish for. Then, of course, the whole crowd carried the butcher’s boy shoulder high, and finished up singing ‘God Save the Queen’ with tremendous gusto. A thoroughly English revolution, I daresay.¹

You may wonder what all this had to do with my thinking about entering politics. Well, as I’ve said, it had lowered my opinion of asses like Gladstone still further, and caused me to speculate that if I were an M.P. I couldn’t be any worse than that sorry pack of fellows, but this was just an idle thought. However, if my chief feeling about the demonstration was disappointment that so little mischief had been done, it had a great effect on my father-in-law, crouched at home with the bed-clothes over his head, waiting to be guillotined.

You’d hardly credit it, but in a way he’d had much the same thought as myself, although I don’t claim to know by what amazing distortions of logic he arrived at it. But the upshot of his panic-stricken meditations on that day and the following night, when he was still expecting the mob to reassemble and run him out of town on a rail, was the amazing notion that I ought to go into Parliament.

‘It’s your duty,’ cries he, sitting there in his night-cap with his ankle all bandaged up, while the family chittered round him, offering gruel. He waved his spoon at me. ‘Ye should hiv a seat i’ the Hoose.’

I’m well aware that when a man has been terrified out of his wits, the most lunatic notions occur to him as sane and reasonable, but I couldn’t follow this.

‘Me, in Parliament?’ I loosed a huge guffaw. ‘What the devil would I do there? D’ye think that would keep the Chartists at bay?’

At this he let loose a great tirade about the parlous state of the country, and the impending dissolution of constitutional government, and how it was everyone’s duty to rally to the flag. Oddly enough, it reminded me of the kind of claptrap I’d heard from Bismarck – strong government, and lashing the workers – but I couldn’t see how Flashy, M.P., was going to bring that about.

‘If yesterday’s nonsense has convinced you that we need a change at Westminster,’ says I, ‘– and I’d not disagree with you there – why don’t you stand yourself?’

He glowered at me over his gruel-bowl. ‘I’m no’ the Hero of Kabul,’ says he. ‘Forbye, I’ve business enough to attend to. But you – ye’ve nothing to hinder ye. Ye’re never tired o’ tellin’ us whit a favourite ye are wi’ the public. Here’s your chance to make somethin’ o’t.’

‘You’re out of your senses,’ says I. ‘Who would elect me?’

‘Anybody,’ snaps he. ‘A pug ape frae the zoological gardens could win a seat in this country, if it was managed right.’ Buttering me up, I could see.

‘But I’m not a politician,’ says I. ‘I know nothing about it, and care even less.’

‘Then ye’re the very man, and ye’ll find plenty o’ kindred spirits at Westminster,’ says he, and when I hooted at him he flew into a tremendous passion that drove the females weeping from the room. I left him raging.

But when I came to think about it, do you know, it didn’t seem quite so foolish after all. He was a sharp man, old Morrison, and he could see it would do no harm to have a Member in the family, what with his business interests and so on. Not that I’d be much use to him that I could see – I didn’t know, then, that he had been maturing some notion of buying as many as a dozen seats. I’d no idea, you see, of just how wealthy the old rascal was, and how he was scheming to use that wealth for political ends. You won’t find much in the history books about John Morrison, Lord Paisley, but you can take my word for it that it was men like him who pulled the strings in the old Queen’s time, while the political puppets danced. They still do, and always will.

And from my side of the field, it didn’t look a half bad idea. Flashy, M.P. Sir Harry Flashman, M.P., perhaps. Lord Flash of Lightning, Paymaster of the Forces, with a seat in the Cabinet, d--n your eyes. God knows I could do that job as well as Thomas Babbling Macaulay. Even in my day-dreaming I stopped short of Flashy, Prime Minister, but for the rest, the more I thought of it the better I liked it. Light work, plenty of spare time for as much depraved diversion as I could manage in safety, and the chance to ram my opinions down the public’s throat whenever I felt inclined. I need never go out of London if I didn’t want to – I would resign from the army, of course, and rest on my considerable if ill-gotten laurels – and old Morrison would be happy to foot the bills, no doubt, in return for slight services rendered.

The main thing was, it would be a quiet life. As you know, in spite of the published catalogue of my career – Victoria Cross, general rank, eleven campaigns, and all that mummery – I’ve always been an arrant coward and a peaceable soul. Bullying underlings and whipping trollops always excepted, I’m a gentle fellow – which means I’ll never do harm to anyone if there’s a chance he may harm me in return. The trouble is, no one would believe it to look at me; I’ve always been big and hearty and looked the kind of chap who’d go three rounds with the town rough if he so much as stepped on my shadow, and from what Tom Hughes has written of me you might imagine I was always ready for devilment. Aye, but as I’ve grown older I’ve learned that devilment usually has to be paid for. God knows I’ve done my share of paying, and even in ’48, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I’d seen enough sorrow, from the Khyber to German dungeons by way of the Borneo jungles and the torture-pits of Madagascar, to convince me that I must never go looking for trouble again.² Who’d have thought that old Morrison’s plans to seat me at Westminster could have led to … well, ne’er mind. All in good time.

As to getting a suitable seat, that would be easy enough, with Morrison’s gelt greasing the way. Which prompted the thought that I ought to have a word with him about issues of political importance.

‘Two thousand a year at least,’ says I.

‘Five hundred and no’ a penny more,’ says he.

‘Dammit, I’ve appearances to keep up,’ says I. ‘Elspeth’s notions ain’t cheap.’

‘I’ll attend to that,’ says he. ‘As I always have done.’ The cunning old bastard wouldn’t even let me have the administration of my own wife’s household; he knew better.

‘A thousand, then. Good God, my clothes’ll cost that.’

‘Elspeth can see tae your wardrobe,’ says he, smirking. ‘Five hundred, my buckie; it’s mair than your worth.’

‘I’ll not do it, then,’ says I. ‘And that’s flat.’

‘Aye, weel,’ says he, ‘that’s a peety. I’ll just have to get one that will. Ye’ll find it a wee bit lean on your army half-pay, I’m thinkin’.’

‘Damn you,’ says I. ‘Seven-fifty.’

And eventually I got it, but only because Elspeth told her father I should have it. She, of course, was delighted at the thought of my having a political career. ‘We shall have soirées, attended by Lord John and the Marquis of Lansdowne,’³ she exclaimed. ‘People with titles, and their ladies, and –’

‘They’re Whigs,’ says I. ‘I’ve an idea your papa will expect me to be a Tory.’

‘It doesn’t signify in the least,’ says she. ‘The Tories are a better class of people altogether, I believe. Why, the Duke is a Tory, is he not?’

‘So the rumour runs,’ says I. ‘But political secrets of that kind must be kept quiet, you know.’

‘Oh, it is all quite wonderful,’ says she, paying me no heed at all. ‘You will be famous again, Harry – you are so clever, you are sure to be a success, and I – I will need at least four page boys with buttons, and footmen in proper uniform.’ She clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling, and pirouetted. ‘Why, Harry! We shall need a new house! I must have clothes – oh, but Papa will see to it, he is so kind!’

It occurred to me that Papa might decide he had bitten off more than he could chew, listening to her, although personally I thought her ideas were excellent. She was in tremendous spirits, and I took the opportunity to make another assault on her; she was so excited that I had her half out of her dress before she realised what I was about, and then the wicked little b---h teased me along until I was thoroughly randified, only to stop me in the very act of boarding her, because of her concern for dear little Harry Albert Victor, blast his impudence.

‘To think,’ says she, ‘that he will have a great statesman for a father!’ She had me in the Cabinet already, you see. ‘Oh, Harry, how proud we shall be!’

Which was small consolation to me just then, having to button myself up and restrain my carnal appetites. To be sure I eased them considerably in the next week or two, for I looked out some of the Haymarket tarts of my acquaintance, and although they were a poor substitute for Elspeth they helped me to settle in again to London life and regular whoring. So I was soon enjoying myself, speculating pleasantly about the future, taking my ease with the boys about the town, forgetting the recent horrors of Jotunberg and Rudi Starnberg’s gang of assassins, and waiting for old Morrison to start the wheels of my political career turning.

He was helped, of course, by my own celebrity and the fact that my father – who was now happily settled down with his delirium tremens at a place in the country – had been an M.P. in his time, and a damned fine hand at the hustings; he had got in on a popular majority after horse-whipping his opponent on the eve of the poll and offering to fight bare-knuckle with any man the Whigs could put up, from Brougham down. He had a good deal more bottom than I, but they did for him at Reform, and if I didn’t have his ardour I was certain I had a greater talent for survival, political and otherwise.

Anyway, it was some weeks before Morrison announced that I was to meet some ‘men in the know’ as he called them, and that we were to go down to Wiltshire for a few days, to the house of a local bigwig, where some politicos would be among the guests. It sounded damned dull, and no doubt would have been, had it not been for my own lechery and vanity and the shockingest turn of ill luck. Apart from anything else, I missed the Derby.

We left Elspeth at home, working contentedly at her Berlins,⁴ and took the train for Bristol, Morrison and I. He was the damnedest travelling companion you ever saw, for apart from being a thundering bore he carped at everything, from the literature at the station book-stalls, which he pronounced trash, to the new practice of having to pay a bob ‘attendance money’ to railway servants.⁵ I was glad to get to Devizes, I can tell you, whence we drove to Seend, a pretty little place where our host lived in a fairish establishment called Cleeve House.

He was the kind of friend you’d expect Morrison to have – a middle-aged moneybags of a banker called Locke, with reach-me-down whiskers and a face like a three-day corpse. He was warm enough, evidently, but as soon as I saw the females sitting about in chairs on the gravel with their bonnets on, reading improving books, I could see this was the kind of house-party that wasn’t Flashy’s style at all. I was used to hunting weeks where you dined any old how, with lots of brandy and singing, and chaps p-----g in the corner and keeping all hours, and no females except the local bareback riders, as old Jack Mitton used to call them. But by ’48 they were going out, you see and it was as much as you dare do, at some of the houses, to produce the cards before midnight after the ladies had retired. I remember Speed telling me, round about this time, of one place he’d been to where they got him up at eight for morning prayers, and gave him a book of sermons to read after luncheon.

Cleeve House wasn’t quite as raw as that, but it would have been damned dreary going if one of the girls present hadn’t been quite out of the ordinary run. I fixed on her from the start – a willowy blonde piece with a swinging hip and a knowing eye. Strange, I met her at Cleeve, and didn’t see her again till I came on her cooking breakfast for a picket of Campbell’s Highlanders outside Balaclava six years later, the very morning of Cardigan’s charge. Fanny Locke her name was;⁶ she was the young sister of our host, a damned handsome eighteen with the shape of a well-developed matron. Like so many young girls whose body outgrows their years, she didn’t know what to do with it – well, I could give her guidance there. As soon as I saw her swaying down the staircase at Cleeve, ho-ho, thinks I, hark forrard. You may be sure I was soon in attendance, and when I found she was a friendly little thing, and a keen horsewoman, I laid my plans accordingly, and engaged to go riding with her next day, when she would show me the local country – it was the long grass I had in mind, of course.

In the meantime, the first evening at Cleeve was quite as much fun as a Methodist service. Of course, all Tory gatherings are the same, and Locke had assembled as choice a collection of know-all prigs as you could look for. Bentinck I didn’t mind, because he had some game in him and knew more about the turf than anyone I ever met, but he had in tow the cocky little sheeny D’Israeli, whom I never could stomach. He was pathetic, really, trying to behave like the Young Idea when he was well into greasy middle age, with his lovelock and fancy vest, like a Punjabi whoremaster. They were saying then that he had spent longer ‘arriving’ at Westminster than a one-legged Irish peer with the gout; well, he ‘arrived’ in the end, as we know, and if I’d been able to read the future I might have toadied him a good deal more, I daresay.⁷

Locke, our host, introduced us as we were going in to dinner, and I made political small talk, as old Morrison had told me I should.

‘Bad work for your lot in the Lords, hey?’ says I, and he lowered his lids at me in that smart-affected way he had. ‘You know,’ says I, ‘the Jewish Bill getting thrown out. Bellows to mend in Whitechapel, what? Bad luck all round,’ I went on, ‘what with Shylock running second at Epsom, too. I had twenty quid on him myself.’⁸

I heard Locke mutter ‘Good God’, but friend Codlingsby just put back his head and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Indeed,’ says he. ‘How remarkable. And you aspire to politics, Mr Flashman?’

‘That’s my ticket,’ says I.

‘Truly remarkable,’ says he. ‘Do you know, I shall watch your career with bated breath.’ And then Locke mumbled him away, and I pounced on Miss Fanny and took her in to dinner.

Of course, it was all politics at table, but I was too engaged with Fanny to pay much heed. When the ladies had gone and we’d all moved up, I heard more, but it didn’t stick. I remember they were berating Russell’s idleness, and the government’s extravagance, on which D’Israeli made one of those sallies which you could see had been well polished beforehand.

‘Lord John must not be underestimated,’ says he. ‘He understands the first principle, that the great strength of the British Constitution lies in the money it costs us. Make government cheap and you make it contemptible.’

Everyone laughed except old Morrison, who glared over his glass. ‘That’ll look well in one o’ your nov-elles, sir, I don’t doubt. But let me tell you, running a country is like running a mill, and waste’ll ruin the baith o’ them.’

D’Israeli, being smart, affected to misunderstand. ‘I know nothing of running mills,’ says he. ‘Pugilism is not among my interests,’ which of course turned the laugh against old Morrison.

You may judge from this the kind of rare wit to be found at political gatherings; I was out of all patience after an hour of it, and by the time we joined the ladies Miss Fanny, to my disgust, had gone to bed.

Next day, however, she and I were off on our expedition soon after breakfast, with sandwiches and a bottle in my saddlebag, for we intended to ride as far as Roundway Down, a place which she was sure must interest me, since there had been a battle fought there long ago. On the way she showed me the house where she had once lived, and then we cantered on across the excellent riding country that lies north of Salisbury Plain. It was the jolliest day, with a blue sky, fleecy clouds, and a gentle breeze, and Fanny was in excellent trim. She looked mighty fetching in a plum-coloured habit with a tricorne hat and feather, and little black boots, and I never saw a female better in the saddle. She could keep up with me at a gallop, her fair hair flying and her pretty little lips parted as she scudded along, so to impress her I had to show her some of the riding tricks I’d picked up in Afghanistan, like running alongside my beast full tilt, with a hand on the mane, and swinging over the rump to land and run on t’other side. D----d showy stuff, and she clapped her hands and cried bravo, while the bumpkins we passed along the way hallooed and waved their hats.

All this put me in capital form, of course, and by the time we got to Roundway I was nicely primed to lure Miss Fanny into a thicket and get down to business. She was such a jolly little thing, with such easy chatter and a saucy glint in her blue eye, that I anticipated no difficulty. We dismounted near the hill, and we led our beasts while she told me about the battle, in which it seemed the Cavaliers had thoroughly chased the Roundheads.

‘The people hereabouts call it Runaway Down,’ says she, laughing, ‘because the Roundheads fled so fast.’

It was the best thing I’d ever heard about Cromwell’s fellows; gave me a fellow-feeling for ’em, and I made some light remark to this effect.

‘Oh, you may say so,’ says she. ‘You who have never run away.’ She gave me an odd little look. ‘Sometimes I wish I were a man, with the strength to be brave, like you.’

Flashy knows a cue when he hears it. ‘I’m not always brave, Fanny,’ says I, pretty solemn, and stepping close. ‘Sometimes – I’m the veriest coward.’ By G-d, I never spoke a truer word.

‘I can’t believe –’ says she, and got no further, for I kissed her hard on the lips; for a moment she bore it, and then to my delight she began teasing me with her tongue, but before I could press home my advantage she suddenly slipped away, laughing.

‘No, no,’ cries she, very merry, ‘this is Runaway Down, remember,’ and like a fool I didn’t pursue on the instant. If I had done, I don’t doubt she’d have yielded, but I was content to play her game for the moment, and so we walked on, chatting and laughing.

You may think this trivial; the point is that if I’d mounted Miss Fanny that day I daresay I’d have lost interest in her – at all events I’d have been less concerned to please her later, and would have avoided a great deal of sorrow, and being chased and bullyragged half way round the world.

As it was, it was the most d---ably bothersome day I remember. Half a dozen times I got to grips with her – over the luncheon sandwiches, during our walk down from the hill, even in the saddle on the way home – and each time she kissed like a novice French whore and then broke off, teasing. And either because we met people on the way, or because she was as nimble as a flyweight, I never had a chance to go to work properly. Of course, I’d known chits like this before, and experience told me it would come all right on the night, as the theatricals say, but by the time we were cantering up to Cleeve again I was as horny as the town bull, and not liking it overmuch.

And there was a nasty shock waiting, in the shape of two chaps who came out of the front door, both in Hussar rig, the first one hallo-ing and waving to Fanny and helping her down from her mare. She made him known to me, with a mischievous twinkle, as her fiancé, one Duberly, which would have been bad news at any other time, but all my attention was taken by his companion, who stood back eyeing me with a cool smile, very knowing: my heart checked for a second at the sight of him. It was Bryant.

If you know my memoirs, you know him. He and I had been subalterns in Cardigan’s regiment, nine years before; on the occasion when I fought a memorable duel, he had agreed, for a consideration, to ensure that my opponent’s pistol was loaded only with blank, so that I had survived the meeting with credit. I had cheated him out of his payment, to be sure, and there had been nothing he could do except make empty threats of vengeance. After that our ways had parted, and I’d forgotten him; and now here he was, like corpse at a christening. Of course, he still couldn’t harm me, but it was a nasty turn to see him, just the same.

‘Hollo, Flash,’ says he, sauntering up. ‘Still campaigning, I see.’ And he made his bow to Miss Fanny, while Duberly presented him.

‘Most honoured to know you, sir,’ says this Duberly, shaking my hand as I dismounted. He was a fattish, whiskered creature, with muff written all over him. ‘Heard so much – distinguished officer – delighted to see you here, eh, Fan?’ And she, cool piece that she was, having sensed in an instant that Bryant and I were at odds, chattered gaily about what a jolly picnic we had made, while Duberly humphed and grinned and was all over her. Presently he led her indoors, leaving Bryant and me by the horses.

‘Spoiled the chase for you has he, Flash?’ says he, with his spiteful little grin. ‘D---lish nuisance, these fiancés; sometimes as inconvenient as husbands, I daresay.’

‘I can’t imagine you’d know about that,’ says I, looking him up and down. ‘When did Cardigan kick you out, then?’ For he wasn’t wearing Cherrypicker rig. He flushed at that, and I could see I’d touched him on the raw.

‘I transferred to the Eighth Irish,’ says he. ‘We don’t all leave regiments as you do, with our tails between our legs.’

‘My, my, it still rankles, Tommy, don’t it?’ says I, grinning at him. ‘Feeling the pinch, were we? I always thought the Eleventh was too expensive for you; well, if you can’t come up to snuff in the Eighth you can always take up pimping again, you know.’

That made his mouth work, all right; in the old days in Canterbury, when he was toadying me, I’d thrown a few guineas his way in return for his services as whoremonger and general creature. He fell back a step.

‘D--n you, Flashman,’ says he, ‘I’ll bring you down yet!’

‘Not to your own level, if you please,’ says I, and left him swearing under his breath.

Now, if I’d been as wise then as I am now, I’d have remembered that even as slimy a snake as Bryant still has fangs, but he was such a contemptible squirt, and I’d handled him so easily in the past, that I put him out of my mind. I was more concerned with the inconvenience of this fat fool Duberly, whose presence would make it all the more difficult for me to cock a leg athwart Miss Fanny – I was sure she was game for it, after that day’s sparring, but of course Duberly quite cut me out now that he was here, squiring her at tea, and fetching her fan, clucking round her in the drawing-room, and taking her arm in to dinner. Locke and the rest of her family were all for him, I could see, so I couldn’t put him down as I’d have done anywhere else. It was d----d vexing, but where’s the fun if it’s all too easy, I told myself, and set to scheme how I might bring the lady to the sticking point, as we Shakespeare scholars say.

I was much distracted from these fine thoughts by old Morrison, who berated me privately for what he called ‘godless gallivanting after yon hussy’; it seemed I should have spent the day hanging on the lips of Bentinck and D’Israeli and Locke, who had been deep in affairs. I soothed him with a promise that I’d attend them after dinner, which I did, and steep work it was. Ireland was very much exciting them, I recall, and the sentencing and transportation of some rebel called Mitchel; old Morrison was positive he should have been hanged, and got into a great passion because when they shipped him off to the Indies they didn’t send him in chains with a bread-and-water diet.⁹

‘If the d---d rascal had sailed on any vessel o’ mine, it would hae been sawdust he got tae eat, and d----d little o’ that,’ says dear kind Papa, and the rest of them cried ‘hear, hear,’ and agreed that it was this kind of soft treatment that encouraged sedition; they expected the Paddies to rise at any time, and there was talk of Dublin being besieged. All humbug, of course; you can’t mount a rebellion on rotten potatoes.

After that there was fierce debate over whether the working class wanted reform, and one Hume was damned for a scoundrel, and D’Israeli discoursed on the folly of some measure to exclude M.P.s who couldn’t pay their debts – no doubt he had a personal interest there – and I sat and listened, bored to death, until Bentinck suggested we join the ladies. Not that there was much sport there either, for Mrs Locke was reading aloud from the great new novel, Jane Eyre, and from the expression on the faces of Fanny and the other young misses, I guessed they’d have been happier with Vamey the Vampire or Sweeney Todd.¹⁰ In another corner the older folk were looking at picture books – German churches, probably – another pack of females were sewing and mumbling to each other, and in an adjoining salon some hysterical bitch was singing ‘Who will o’er the downs with me?’ with a governess thrashing away at the pianoforte. A couple of wild old rakes were playing backgammon, and Duberly was explaining to whoever would listen that he would have been glad to serve in India, but his health wouldn’t allow, don’t ye know. I asked myself how long I could bear it.

I believe it was Bentinck who suggested cards – Locke looked like the kind who wouldn’t have permitted such devices of the devil under his roof, but Bentinck was the lion, you see, and couldn’t be gainsaid; besides, there was still a little leeway in those days which you’d never have got in the 'sixties or 'seventies. I wasn’t in at the beginning of the game, having been ambushed by an old dragon in a lace cap who told me how her niece Priscilla had written to her with an envelope, instead of waxing her letter, and what did I think of that? I despaired of getting away, until who should appear but Fanny herself, sparkling and full of nonsense, to insist that I should come and show her how to make her wagers.

‘I am quite at sea,’ says she, ‘and Henry’ – this was Duberly – ‘vows that counting makes his head ache.¹¹ You will assist me, Captain Flashman, won’t you, and Aunt Selina will not mind, will you, auntie dear?’

I should have told her to go straight to h--l, and clung to Aunt Selina like a shipwrecked lascar – but you can’t read the future. Ain’t it odd to think, if I’d declined her invitation, I might have been in the Lords today – and a certain American might never have become President? Mind you, even now, if a fresh piece like Fanny Locke stooped in front of me, with those saucy eyes and silken hair, and pushed those pouting lips and white shoulders at me – ah, dry your whiskers, old Flash – you could keep your coronet for me, and I’d take her hand and hobble off to my ruin, whatever it was.

Aunt Selina sniffed, and told her she must not wager more than a pair of gloves – ‘and not your Houbigants, mind, you foolish little girl. Indeed, I don’t know what the world is coming to, or Henry Duberly thinking of, to permit you wagering at cards. No doubt he will be one of these husbands who will allow you to waltz, and drink porter in company. It would not have done in my day. What are the stakes?’

‘Oh, ever so little, aunt,’ says Fanny, tugging at my sleeve. ‘Farthings and sweets – and Lord George has the bank, and is ever such fun!’

‘Is he, indeed?’ says Aunt Selina, gathering up her reticule. ‘Then I shall come myself, to see you are not excessively silly.’

There was quite a crowd round the table in the salon, where Bentinck was presiding over vingt-et-un, amid great merriment. He was playing the chef to perfection, calling the stakes and whipping round the pasteboards like a riverboat dude. Even Locke and Morrison were present, watching and being not too sour about it; Mrs Abigail Locke was among the players, with Bryant advising, toady-like, at her elbow; D’Israeli was making a great show of playing indulgently, like a great man who don’t mind stooping to trivialities if it will amuse lesser minds, and half a dozen others, old and young, were putting up their counters and laughing with delight at Bentinck’s sallies.

As Fanny and Aunt Selina took their seats, an old fellow with white whiskers leans across to me. ‘I must warn you,’ says he, ‘that Lord George has us playing very deep – plunging recklessly, you know.’ He held up some counters. ‘The green ones are – a farthing; the blue – a ha’penny; and the yellow – you must take care – are a penny! It is desperate work, you see!’

‘I’m coming for you, Sir Michael!’ cries Bentinck, slapping the pack. ‘Now, ladies are you ready? Then, one for all, and all for the lucky winner!’ And he flicked the cards round to the players.

It was silly harmless stuff, you see, all good nature and playfulness – and as desperate a card game as I ever sat in on in my life. Not that you’d have guessed it at first, with Bentinck making everyone merry, and one of the players – a sulky-looking youth of about fourteen, of the kind whose arse I delighted to kick in happier days – protesting that he was cleaned out, and Bentinck solemnly offering to take his note of hand for two-pence. Fanny was all excitement, holding her card up close for me to see and asking how much she should go, which gave me the opportunity to huddle in and stroke her bare shoulders as I whispered in her ear. Next to her, old Aunt Selina was buying cards like a St James’s shark, very precise and slow; she took four and paused at 17; Bentinck was watching her, his handsome face very intent, his thumb poised on the next card; she took it, and it was a trey, which meant that she had a five-card hand, at which there was great applause, and Bentinck laughed and cried ‘Well done, ma’am,’ as he paid her counters over.

‘I never buy beyond 16, you know,’ Aunt Selina confided to Fanny, ‘unless it is for a five-card hand. I find it a very good rule.’

So the game went round, and I found myself thinking that it doesn’t take high stakes to show up who the real gamesters are. You could sense the rapport there was between Bentinck and Aunt Selina – two folk with not a jot in common, mark you. He was one of the sportsmen of the day, used to playing for thousands, a grandee of the turf and the tables who could watch a fortune slip away in five seconds at Epsom and never bat an eyelid, and here he was, watching like a hawk as some dowager hesitated over a farthing stake, or frowning as the sullen Master Jerry lost his two-penny I.O.U. and promptly demanded further credit. Wasn’t it Greville who said that the money Lord George Bentinck won was just so many paper counters to him – it was the game that mattered? And Aunt Selina was another of the same; she duelled with him like a good ’un, and won as often as not, and he liked her for it.

And then the bank passed round to Fanny, and I had to deal the cards for her. Bryant, who had raised a great laugh by coming round to touch Aunt Selina’s mittened hand for luck, said we should have a fair deal at last, since I had been notoriously the worst vingt-et-un player in the whole Light Cavalry – there was more polite mirth at this, and I gave him a hard look as he went back to Mrs Locke, and wondered to myself just what he had meant by that. Then Fanny, all twittering as she handled the stakes, claimed my attention, and I dealt the cards.

If you know vingt-et-un – or poor man’s baccarat, or blackjack, or pontoon, whichever you like to call it – you know that the object is not to go above 21 with the cards dealt to you. It’s a gambler’s game, in which you must decide whether to stay pat at 16 or 17, or risk another card which may break you or, if it’s a small one, may give you a winning score of 20 or 21. I’ve played it from Sydney to Sacramento, and learned to stick at 17, like Aunt Selina. The odds are with the bank, since when the scores are level the banker takes the stakes.

Fanny and I had a good bank. I dealt her 19 the first round, which sank everyone except D’Israeli, who had two court cards for 20. The next time I gave Fanny an ace and a knave for vingt-et-un, which swamped the whole board, and she clapped her hands and squealed with delight. Then we ran two five-card hands in succession, and the punters groaned aloud and protested at our luck, and Bentinck jestingly asked Aunt Selina if she would stand good for him, and she cried ‘With you, Lord George!’ and made great play of changing his silver for her coppers.

I was interested in the game by this time – it’s a fact, Greville was right, it don’t matter a d--n how small the stakes are – and Fanny was full of excitement and admiration for my luck. She shot me an adoring look over her shoulder, and I glanced down at her quivering bosoms and thought to myself, you’ll be in rare trim for another kind of game later. Get ’em excited – a fight is best, with the claret flowing, but any kind of sport will do, if there’s a hint of savagery in it – and they’ll couple like monkeys. And then, as I pulled my eyes away and dealt the first cards of another hand, looking to see that all the stakes were placed, I saw that on Mrs Locke’s card there was a pile of yellow counters – about two bob’s worth. That meant they had an ace, for certain. And they had, but it did ’em no good; they drew a seven with it, bought a five, and then went broke with a king. But next time round they staked an even bigger pile of yellows, lost again, and came back with a still larger wager for the following hand.

I paused in the act of dealing the second cards. ‘You’re playing double or quits, ma’am,’ says I to Mrs Locke. ‘Road to ruin.’

But before she could speak, Bryant cut in: ‘Stakes too high for you, are they? Why, if you can’t afford …’

‘Not a bit,’ says I. ‘If my principal’s content,’ and I looked down at Fanny, who was sitting with a splendid pile of counters before her.

‘Oh, do go on, please!’ cries she. ‘It is the greatest fun!’ So I put round the second cards; if Bryant thought he was going to rattle me over a few shillings’ worth of stake he was a bigger fool than I thought. But I knew he wasn’t a fool, and that he was a d---d sharp hand at card tricks, so I kept my eye on Mrs Locke’s place.

They lost again, and next time Mrs Locke would only put up a single yellow, on which they won. There was a good deal of heavy jesting at this, and I saw Bryant whispering busily in her ear. When I dealt the first card he pounced on it, they consulted together, and then they put their whole pile – yellows, blues, everything, on top of the card, and Bryant gave me a nasty grin and stood back waiting.

I couldn’t follow this; it couldn’t be better than an ace, and it was just a kindergarten game, anyway. Did he think he could score off me by breaking Miss Fanny’s bank? I noticed Bentinck was smiling, in a half-puzzled way, and D’Israeli was fingering his card thoughtfully and shifting his lidded glance from Bryant to me. They were wondering, too, and suddenly I felt that cold touch at the nape of my neck that is the warning signal of danger.

It was ridiculous, of course; a ha’penny game in a country house, but I could sense Bryant was as worked up as if there’d been a thousand guineas riding on his partner’s card. It wasn’t healthy, and I wanted to be out of that game then and there, but I’d have looked a fool, and Aunt Selina was tapping for a second card and looking at me severely.

I put them round, and perhaps because I had that tiny unease I fumbled Master Jerry’s second card, so that it fell face up. I should have taken it back, by rights, but it was an ace, and the little scoundrel, who should have been in his bed long before, insisted on keeping it. Bryant snapped up Mrs Locke’s second card and showed it to her with a grin; D’Israeli displayed vingt-et-un by laying his second card, a queen, face up across the first one. The rest bought a third or stood pat.

I faced our cards – a knave and a three, which was bad. I faced a third, an ace, which gave us 14; nothing for it but to go on, and I turned up a four. We were at 18, and at least three players were sitting pat on three cards, which meant probably they had 18 or 19 or better. I whispered to Fanny, did she want to try for a five-card trick, which would beat everyone except Codlingsby’s vingt-et-un.

‘Oh, yes, please!’ cries she. ‘We are in luck, I feel sure of it!’

I put my thumb on the top card, and stopped. Something was d---d far wrong, somewhere, and I knew it. Bentinck knew it, too, and Aunt Selina, who was staring over her spectacles at the pack in my hand. Others in the room sensed something; Locke and Morrison had broken off their conversation to watch. Bryant was smirking across at me.

I flicked over the top card. It was a deuce, giving us 20 and victory, Bentinck cried ‘Ha!’, Aunt Selina muttered something under her breath, and Fanny gave an ecstatic squeal and began to rake in the stakes. I gathered in the cards while everyone chattered and laughed – Mrs Locke had an ace and a nine, I noticed, and I commiserated her on her bad luck. Bryant pipes up at once:

‘Very bad luck indeed, I should say.’

But I ignored him, and told Fanny we must now pass the bank to D’Israeli, since he had scored vingt-et-un.

‘Oh, must we?’ cries she, pouting. ‘And we were doing so well! What a shame it is!’

Aunt Selina exclaimed at her greed, there was more laughter, and D’Israeli took out his eye-glass and bowed to Fanny.

‘I would not dream,’ says he, ‘of claiming the cards from such a fair banker,’ a pun which was greeted with polite applause.

‘Oh, I daresay her partner is quite happy to pass the cards,’ cries Bryant. ‘The killing’s made, eh, Flashy?’

Now, I daresay we must have won thirty shillings on that bank, most of it from Mrs Locke, and you could take what he’d said as a joke, but the jarring note in his voice, and the grin on his flushed face told me it wasn’t. I stared at him, and Bentinck’s head whipped round, and suddenly there was a silence, broken only by Miss Fanny’s tinkling laughter as she exclaimed to Aunt Selina about her own good luck.

‘I think it is your bank, Dizzy,’ says Bentinck quietly, at last, his eyes on Bryant. ‘Unless the ladies feel we have played enough.’

The ladies protested against this, and then Bryant cut in again:

‘I’ve played quite enough, thank’ee, and I daresay my partner has, too.’ Mrs Locke looked startled, and Bryant went on:

‘I never thought to see – ah, but let it go!’

And he turned from the table, like a man trying to control himself.

There was a second’s silence, and then they were babbling, ‘What did he say?’ ‘What did he mean?’ and Bentinck was flushed with anger and demanding to know what Bryant was implying. At this Bryant pointed to me, and says:

‘It is really too bad! In a pleasant game, for the ladies, this fellow … I beg your pardon, Lord George, but it is too much! Ask him,’ cries he, ‘to turn out his pockets – his coat pockets!’

It hit me like a dash of icy water. In the shocked hush, I found my hand going to my left-hand coat pocket, while everyone gaped at me, Bentinck took a pace towards me saying, ‘No, stop. Not before the ladies …’ and then my hand came out, and there were three playing cards in it. I was too horrified and bewildered to speak, there was a shriek from one of the females, and a general gasp, and someone muttered: ‘Cheat … oh!’ I could only stare from the cards to Bentinck’s horrified face, to Bryant’s, flushed and exultant, and to Dizzy’s, white with disbelief. Miss Fanny jumped up with a shriek, starting away from me, and then someone was shepherding the females from the room in a terrible silence, leaving me with the stern, disgusted faces and the exclamations of incredulity and amazement. They crowded forward while I stood there, gazing at the cards in my hand – I can see them yet: the king of clubs, the deuce of hearts, and the ace of diamonds.

Bentinck was speaking, and I forced myself to look round at him, with Bryant, D’Israeli, old Morrison, Locke and the others crowding at his back.

‘Gentlemen,’ my voice was hoarse. ‘I … I can’t imagine. I swear to God …’

‘I thought I hadn’t seen the ace of diamonds,’ says someone.

‘I saw his hand go to his pocket, at the last deal.’ This was Bryant.

‘Oh, my Goad, the shame o’t … Ye wicked, deceitful …’

‘The fellow’s a damned sharp!’

‘A cheat! In this house …’

‘Remarkable,’ says D’Israeli, with an odd note in his voice. ‘For a few pence? You know, George, it’s d----d unlikely.’

‘The amount never matters,’ says Bentinck, with a voice like steel. ‘It’s winning. Now, sir, what have you to say?’

I was gathering my wits before this monstrous thing, trying to understand it. God knew I hadn’t cheated – when I cheat, it’s for something that matters, not sweets and ha’pence. And suddenly it hit me like a lightning flash – Bryant coming round to touch Aunt Selina’s hand, standing shoulder to shoulder with me. So this was how he was taking his revenge!

Put me in that situation today, and I’d reason my way out of it, talking calmly. But I was twenty-six then, and panicked – d--n it, if I had been cheating I’d have been ready for them, with my story cut and dried, but for once I was innocent, and couldn’t think what to say. I dashed the cards down and faced them.

‘It’s a b----y lie!’ I shouted. ‘I didn’t cheat, I swear it! My God, why should I? Lord George, can you believe it? Mr D’Israeli, I appeal to you! Would I cheat for a few coppers?’

‘How came the cards in your pocket, then?’ demands Bentinck.

‘That little viper!’ I shouted, pointing at Bryant. ‘The jealous little b-----d placed them there, to disgrace me!’

That set up a tremendous uproar, and Bryant, blast his eyes, played it like a master. He took a step back, gritted his teeth, bowed to the company, and says:

‘Lord George, I leave it to you to determine the worth of a foul slander from a proven cheat.’

And then he turned, and strode from the room. I could only stand raging, and then as I saw how he had foxed me – my God, ruined me, and before the best in the land, I lost control altogether. I sprang for the door, bawling after him, someone caught my sleeve, but I threw him off, and then I had the door open and was plunging through in pursuit.

There was a hubbub behind me, and a sudden squeal of alarm ahead, for there were ladies at the head of the stairs, their white faces turned towards me. Bryant made off at the sight of me, and in blind passion I hurled myself after him. I had only one thought: to catch the undersized little squirt and pound him to death – sense, decency and the rest were forgotten. I got my hand on his collar at the top of the stairs, while the females screamed and shrank back; I wrenched him round, his face grey with fear, and shook him like a rat.

‘You foul vermin!’ I roared. ‘Try to dishonour me, would you, you scum of … of the Eighth Hussars!’ And as I swung him left-handed before me, I drew back my right fist and with all my strength, smashed it into his face.

Nowadays, when I’m day-dreaming over the better moments of my misspent life – galloping Lola Montez and Elspeth and Queen Ranavalona and little Renee the creole and the fat dancing-wench I bought in India whose name escapes me, and having old Colin Campbell pinning the V.C. to my unworthy breast, and receiving my knighthood from Queen Victoria (and she in tears, maudlin little woman), and breaking into the Ranee’s treasure-cellar and seeing all that splendid loot laid out for the taking – when I think back on these fine things, the recollection of hitting Tommy Bryant invariably comes back to me. God knows it was a nightmare at the time, but in retrospect I can’t think of inflicting a hurt that I enjoyed more. My fist caught him full on the mouth and nose so hard that his collar was jerked clean out of my hand, and he went hurtling head foremost down the staircase like an arrow, bouncing once before crashing to rest in the hall, his limbs all a-sprawl.

There were shrieks of hysterical females in my ears, and hands seizing my coat, and men scampering down to lift him up, but all I remember is seeing Fanny’s face turned towards me in terror, and Bentinck’s voice drifting up the staircase:

‘My God, I believe he’s killed him!’