Читать книгу Royal Flash - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 11

I was badly shaken, I can tell you, and not my own man again till I was well away from her house and pondering, in my philosophic way, on means of getting my own back on the vicious, bad-tempered slut. It will seem to you to be the usual, sordid conclusion to so many Flashman amours, but I have dwelt on it at some length for good reason. It wasn’t only that she was, in her way, as magnificent a creature as I’ve ever had the good fortune to mount, and comes back to my mind whenever I see a hair-brush. That alone would not be sufficient. No, my excuse is that this was my first encounter with one of the most remarkable women in my life – or in the life of anyone in the nineteenth century, for that matter. Who could have guessed then that Marie Elizabeth Rosanna James would turn a crowned head, rule a great kingdom, and leave a name to compare with Dubarry or Nell Gwynn? Well, she was Flashy’s girl for a week, at least, which is something to boast of. But I was glad to be shot of her at the time, and not just because of the way she treated me: I discovered soon after that she hadn’t been altogether truthful about herself. She hadn’t mentioned, for example, that her soldier husband was in the process of divorcing her, which would have been enough to scare me away to less controversial beds if I’d known it sooner. Apart from the unpleasant social aspects of being cited, I couldn’t have afforded it.

But she was important in my life in another way – she had been the means of my meeting the splendid Otto. You could say that it was through her that the mischief was born between him and me, and our enmity shaped his future, and the world’s.

Nothing might have come of it, though, had I not run into him again, by pure chance, a month or so later. It was at Tom Perceval’s place in Leicestershire, where I joined a party to see Nick Ward⁷ fight some local pug, and to do a little hunting in Tom’s coverts. Young Conyngham,⁸ who was a fool of a gambler, was there, and old Jack Gully, who had once been Champion of England and was now a rich ironmaster and retired from the House of Commons as well; there were about a dozen others whom I’ve forgotten, and Speedicut, too – when I’d told him how I’d spent the night of his arrest, he just roared with laughter and cried ‘Flashy’s luck! Well, only the brave deserve the fair!’ And he insisted on telling everyone how it had happened, himself lying in a dirty cell full of drunkards while I was bumping a beauty.

Most of the company were at Tom’s place when I arrived, and when he met me in the hall he told me:

‘They’re all old acquaintances but one, a foreigner that I can’t get rid of, damn him. Friend of my uncle’s, and wants to see something of our rustic ways while he’s here. Trouble is, he’s full of bounce, and some of the fellows are rather sick of it already.’

It meant nothing until I went into the gunroom with him, where the boys were cheering up the cold night with punch and a roaring fire, and who should be there, very formal in long coat and trousers among all the buffs and boots, but Otto. He stiffened at the sight of me, and I brought up short.

The fellows gave a hurrah when I came in, and thrust punch and cheroots at me, while Tom did his duty by the stranger.

‘Baron,’ says he – the brute has a title, thinks I – ‘permit me to present Captain Flashman. Flash, this is Baron Otto von … er, dammit … von Schornhausen, ain’t it? Can’t get my confounded tongue round it.’

‘Schönhausen,’ says Otto, bowing stiffly with his eyes on mine. ‘But that is, in fact, the name of my estate, if you will pardon my correction. My family name is Bismarck.’⁹

It’s an old man’s fancy, no doubt, but it seemed to me that he said it in a way that told you you would hear it again. It meant nothing to me, of course, at the time, but I was sure that it was going to. And again I felt that prickle of fear up my back; the cold grey eyes, the splendid build and features, the superb arrogance of the man, all combined to awe me. If you’re morally as soft as butter, as I am, with a good streak of the toad-eater in you, there’s no doing anything with people like Bismarck. You can have all the fame that I had then, and the good looks and the inches and the swagger – and I had those, too – but you know you’re dirt to him. If you have to tangle with him, as the Americans say, you know you’ll have to get drunk first; I was sober, so I toadied.

‘Honoured to make your acquaintance, Baron,’ says I, giving him my hand. ‘Trust you’re enjoying your visit.’

‘We are already acquainted, as I’m sure you remember,’ says he, shaking hands. He had a grip like a vice; I guessed he was stronger than I was, and I was damned strong, in body at least. ‘You recollect an evening in London? Mrs James was present.’

‘By God!’ says I, all astounded. ‘So I do! Well, well! And here you are, eh? Damme, I never expected … well, Baron, I’m glad to see you. Aye, hum. I trust Mrs James is well?’

‘Surely I should ask you?’ says he, with a thin smile. ‘I have not seen the … lady, since that evening.’

‘No? Well, well. I haven’t seen a great deal of her lately myself.’ I was prepared to be pleasant, and let bygones be bygones, if he was. He stood, smiling with his mouth, considering me.

‘Do you know,’ says he at length, ‘I feel sure I have seen you before, but I cannot think where. That is unusual, for I have an excellent memory. No, not in England. Have you ever been in Germany, perhaps?’

I said I hadn’t.

‘Oh, well, it is of no interest,’ says he coolly, meaning that I was of no interest, and turned away from me.

I hadn’t liked him before, but from that moment I hated Bismarck, and decided that if ever the chance came to do him a dirty turn, I wouldn’t let it slip past me.

Tom had said he was full of bounce, and at supper that night we got a good dose of it. It was very free and easy company, as you can imagine, with no women present, and we ate and drank and shouted across the table to our heart’s content, getting pretty drunk and nobody minding his manners much. Bismarck ate like a horse and drank tremendously, although it didn’t seem to show on him; he didn’t say much during the meal, but when the port went round he began to enter the conversation, and before long he was dominating it.

I’ll say this for him, he wasn’t an easy man to ignore. You would have thought that a foreigner would have kept mum and watched and listened, but not he. His style was to ask a question, get an answer, and then deliver judgement – for instance, he says to Tom, what was the hunting like, and Tom remarking that it was pretty fair, Bismarck said he looked forward to trying it, although he doubted if chasing a fox could hold a candle to the boar-hunting he had done in Germany. Since he was a guest, no one pulled his leg, although there were a few odd looks and laughs, but he sailed on, lecturing us about how splendid German hunting was, and how damned good at it he was, and what a treat we were missing, not having wild pigs in England.

When he had done, and there was one of those silences, Speed broke it by remarking that I had done some boar-hunting in Afghanistan; the fellows seemed to be looking to me to take the talk away from Bismarck, but before I had the chance he demanded:

‘In Afghanistan? In what capacity were you there, Captain Flashman?’

Everyone roared with laughter at this, and Tom tried to save his guest embarrassment by explaining that I had been soldiering there, and had pretty well won the war single-handed. He needn’t have minded, for Bismarck never turned a hair, but began to discourse on the Prussian Army, of all things, and his own lieutenant’s commission, and how he regretted that there were so few chances of active service these days.

‘Well,’ says I, ‘you can have any that come my way, and welcome.’ (This is the kind of remark that folk love to hear from a hero, of course.) The fellows roared, but Bismarck frowned.

‘You would avoid dangerous service?’ says he.

‘I should just think I would,’ say I, winking at Speed. If only they had known how true that was. ‘Damned unpleasant, dangerous service. Bullets, swords, chaps killing each other – no peace and quiet at all.’

When the laughter had died down, Tom explained that I was joking; that I was, in fact, an exceptionally brave man who would miss no chance of battle and glory. Bismarck listened, his cold eye never leaving me, and then, would you believe it, began to lecture us on a soldier’s duty, and the nobility of serving one’s country. He obviously believed it, too, he rolled it out so solemnly, and it was all some of the younger men could do to keep their faces straight. Poor old Tom was in an anguish in case we offended his guest, and at the same time obviously nearly out of patience with Bismarck.

‘I wish to God my uncle had found some other poor devil to bear-lead him,’ says he later to Speedicut and me. ‘Was there ever a bigger bore and ass? How am I to deal with the fellow, eh?’

We couldn’t help him; in fact I resolved to keep as far out of Bismarck’s way as possible. He unsettled me; he was so damned superior. Tom was wrong in one thing: Bismarck wasn’t an ass, whatever else he might be. In some ways he was like that outstanding idiot Cardigan, under whom I had served in the 11th Hussars, but only on the surface. He had the same splendid certainty in everything he said and did; he looked on the world as created for him alone; he was right, and that was that. But where Cardigan’s arrogant eye had the shallow stare of the born fool, Bismarck’s didn’t. You could see the brain at work behind it, and those who listened only to his rather monotonous sermonisings and noticed only his lack of humour – of our kind of humour, anyway – and put him down as a pompous dullard were well wide of the mark.

I wanted nothing to do with him, anyway, but in that short visit at Tom’s place Bismarck still contrived to touch me on the raw twice – and in the only two things that I am any good at, too. Coward and rascal that I’ve always been, I have had two talents, for foreign tongues and for horses. I can master almost any language in short time, and ride anything with a mane and tail. Looking back, I can almost believe that Bismarck smelled these two gifts and set out to hip me over them.

I don’t remember how the conversation at one breakfast came to touch on foreign speech – usually it was women and drink and horses and pugs, with an occasional high flight on something like the scandalous rate of income tax at 7d in the pound.¹⁰ But it did, and my gift was mentioned. Bismarck, lounging back in his chair, gave a sneering little laugh and said that it was a useful talent in head-waiters.¹¹

I was furious, and tried to think of some cutting retort, but couldn’t. Later it occurred to me that I might have fixed him with a look and said it was also a useful gift in German pimps, but it was too late then. And you could never be quite sure with his remarks whether he was jibing or simply stating what he thought was a fact, so I just had to ignore him.

The second set-down came on a day’s hunting, when we had had poor sport and were riding home. Conyngham, drawing rein on top of a slight rise from which you could see miles of rolling countryside in every direction, points to a church which was just visible in the distance through the late afternoon haze, and cries out:

‘Who’s for a steeplechase?’

‘Oh, too much of a fag,’ says Tom. ‘Anyway, it’s getting dark and the beasts may go wrong. I vote for home.’

‘Steeplechase?’ says Bismarck. ‘What is that?’

It was explained to him that the object was to race straight across country for the steeple, and he nodded and said it was an excellent sport.

‘Good for you!’ cries Conyngham. ‘Come on, you fellows! You, Flashy, are you game?’

‘Too far,’ says I, for like Tom I didn’t fancy taking hedges on wettish country with the light starting to fail.

‘Nonsense!’ cries Bismarck. ‘What, gentlemen, are the English backward in their own game? Then you and I, Marquis, shall we have it out together?’

‘With you! Tally-ho!’ yells Conyngham, and of course the other asses took off after them. I couldn’t hang back, so cursing Bismarck I clapped in my heels and gave chase.

Conyngham led the field over the first meadows, with Bismarck close behind, but a couple of hedges checked them, and the rest of us caught up. I hung back a little, for steeplechasing in the style of your old-fashioned bucks, when you just go hell-for-leather at everything, is as quick a road to a broken neck as I know. If you have an eye for ground, and watch how the leaders jump and land, you can reap the benefit of their discoveries without the risk of going first. So I rode a nice easy chase for the first mile or so, and then we came into light woodland, with trees well spaced out, and I touched my hunter and moved up.

There is a moment every jockey knows, when he feels his mount surge forward, and he lies with his head down being brushed by the mane, and sees the gap narrowing ahead of him, and knows he has the legs of the field. I felt it then as I thundered past the ruck, hearing the thud of the hooves and seeing the clods thrown up from the wet turf, feeling the wind in my face as the trees flew past; even now I see the scarlet coats in the fading light, and smell the rain-sodden country, and hear the yelps of the fellows as they cheered each other on and laughed and cursed. God, it was good to be young and English then!

We thundered through the woodland like a charge of dragoons and were out on a long, rising incline. Conyngham held the lead to the crest, but as we came over and down it was the turn of the heavier men; Bismarck went past him, and then I, too; we pounded down to the hedgerow, Bismarck went over like a bird – he could ride, I may say – and I launched my hunter at the same gap and came through on his heels. I stayed with him, over hedges, lanes, ditches, and fences, until I saw the steeple perhaps half a mile away, and now, thinks I, is the time to get my nose in front.

I had the speed in hand; his head came round as I drew level, and he hammered in his heels and plied his crop, but I knew I had the distance of him. He was leading by half a length as we took a rail fence; then we were on pasture with only one hedge between us and the common that ran up to the churchyard. I inched up level and then led by a head, scanning the distant hedge for a good jump. It was a nasty one, high hawthorn with trees at intervals throwing their shade over the hedgerow; there was one place that looked likely, where the hawthorn thinned and only a couple of rails covered the gap. I clapped in my heels and made for it; first over was a certain winner. As we closed in, with me half a length in front, I realised that even at the rails the jump was a good five feet; I didn’t half fancy it, for as Hughes pointed out, Flashman was good only at those games which didn’t entail any physical risk. But there was nothing for it; I had Bismarck headed and must keep my lead, so I steadied the hunter for the jump, and then out of nowhere came Bismarck’s grey at my elbow, challenging for the jump.

‘Give way!’ I roared. ‘My jump, damn your eyes!’

By God, he paid not the slightest heed, but came boring in, neck and neck with me for the fence. We were almost knee to knee as we rushed down on it.

‘Get out, blast you!’ I yelled again, but he was just staring ahead, teeth clenched and whip going, and I knew in an instant that it was a case of pull up or have the most unholy smash as two horses tried to take a jump where there was only space for one.

As it was, I came within an ace of a hellish tumble; I reined back and at the same time tried to swerve from the gap; the hunter checked and swung away and we scraped along the face of the hedge with no more damage than a few scratches, while Master Bismarck cleared the rails with ease.

By the time I had trotted back, cursing most foully, the rest of the chase was thundering up; Bismarck was waiting at the lychgate looking cool and smug when we arrived.

‘Don’t you know to give way to the leader?’ says I, boiling angry. ‘We might have broken our necks, thanks to you!’

‘Come, come, Captain Flashman,’ says he, ‘it would have been thanks to you if we had, for you would have been foolishly challenging the stronger rider.’

‘What?’ says I. ‘And who the devil says you are the stronger rider?’

‘I won, did I not?’ says he.

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that he had ridden foul, but the way the other chaps were hallooing, and telling him what a damned fine race he had ridden, I thought better of it. He had gone up in their estimation; he was a damned good-plucked ’un, they shouted, and they clapped him on the back. So I contented myself with suggesting that he learn the rules of horsemanship before he rode in England again, at which the others laughed and cried:

‘That’s right, Flash, damn his eyes for him!’ and made a joke out of bluff Flashy’s bad temper. They hadn’t been close enough to see exactly what had happened, and none of them would have imagined for a minute that neck-or-nothing Flashman would give way in the breach; but Bismarck knew, and it showed in his eyes and the cold smile he gave me.

But I had my own back on him before the week was out, and if my initial rudeness in London was the first spark in the mischief between us, what was now to come really started the fire.

It was on the last day, after we had been to see the fight between Nick Ward the Champion, and the local pug. It was a good afternoon’s sport, with the pug getting his nose broken and half his teeth knocked out; Bismarck was greatly interested, and seemed to enjoy watching the loser being battered as much as I did myself.

At supper that night the talk was naturally of the fight, and old Jack Gully, who had refereed, held the floor. He wasn’t normally an over-talkative man, despite the fact that he had been an M.P., but on his two loves – the prize ring and horseflesh – he was always worth listening to. Though it was more than thirty years since he had held the belt himself – and since retiring he had become most prosperous and was well received everywhere – he had known and seen all the greatest pugs, and was full of stories of such giants as Cribb and Belcher and the Game Chicken.¹²

Of course, the company would have listened all night – I don’t suppose there was a man in England, Peel, Russell, or any of them, who could have commanded such universal attention as this quiet old boxing champion. He must have been close to sixty then, and white-haired, but you could see he was still fit as a flea, and when he talked of the ring he seemed to light up and come alive.

Bismarck, I noticed, didn’t pay him much attention, but when Jack paused after a story, our German suddenly says:

‘You make very much of this boxing, I see. Now, it is an interesting enough spectacle, two of the lower orders thrashing each other with their fists, but does it not become boring after a while? Once, or even twice, perhaps, one might go to watch, but surely men of education and breeding must despise it.’

There was a growl round the table, and Speed says:

‘You don’t understand it because you’re a foreigner. It is our game in England. Why, in Germany, according to what you’ve said, fellows fight duels without any intent to kill each other, but just to get scars on their heads. Well, we wouldn’t think much of that, let me tell you.’

‘The schlager endows a man with honourable scars,’ says Bismarck. ‘What honour is there in beating an opponent with your fists? Besides, our duelling is for gentlemen.’

‘Well, as to that, mynheer,’ says Gully, smiling, ‘gentlemen in this country ain’t ashamed to use their fists. I know I wish I’d a guinea for every coroneted head I’ve touched with a straight left hand.’

‘Mine for one, any time you please, Jack,’ cries Conyngham.

‘But in the use of the schlager there is soldierly skill,’ Bismarck insisted, and rapped his fist on the table. Oho, thinks I, what’s this? Has our Prussian friend perhaps got a little more liquor on board than usual? He was a mighty drinker, as I’ve said, but it occurred to me that he might not be holding it so well tonight.

‘If you think there’s no skill in prize-fighting, my friend, you’re well out of court,’ says one of the others, a heavy-faced Guardee named Spottswood. ‘Didn’t you see Ward, this afternoon, take the starch out of a chap three stone heavier than himself?’

‘Oh, your fellow Ward was swift and strong,’ says Bismarck. ‘But speed and strength are common enough. I saw no sign of skill in that butchery.’

And he emptied his glass as though that settled the matter.

‘Well, sir,’ says old Jack, smiling, ‘there was skill a-plenty, and you can take my word for it. You wouldn’t see it, ’cos you don’t know what to look for, just as I wouldn’t know what to look for in your schlag-what-you-call-’ems.’

‘No,’ says Bismarck, ‘likely you would not.’ And the tone of his voice made Gully look sharp at him, although he said nothing. Then Tom Perceval, sensing that there might be trouble if the subject wasn’t changed, started to say something about hunting, but I had seen my chance to set this arrogant Prussian down, and I interrupted him.

‘Perhaps you think boxing is easy,’ says I to Bismarck. ‘D’ye fancy you could hold your own in a mill?’

He stares at me across the table. ‘With one of those brawlers?’ says he at length. ‘A gentleman does not come to physical contact with those people, surely?’

‘We don’t have serfs in England,’ says I. ‘There isn’t a man round this table wouldn’t be glad to put ’em up with Nick Ward – aye, and honoured, too. But in your case – suppose there was a sporting German baron whose touch wouldn’t sully you? Would you be ready to try it with him?’

‘Hold on, Flash—’ says Perceval, but I carried on.

‘Or a gentleman from among ourselves, for example? Would you be ready to go a round or two with one of us?’

Those cold eyes of his were damned uncomfortable on me, but I held his gaze, for I knew I’d got him. He considered a moment, and then said:

‘Is this a challenge?’

‘Good God, no,’ says I. ‘Only you think that our good old game is just a brawl, and I’d like to show you different. If I were asked, I’d be ready enough to try my hand at this schlager business of yours. Well, what d’ye say?’

‘I see you are smarting for revenge after our race the other day,’ says he, smiling. ‘Very well, Captain, I shall try a round with you.’

I believe he had weighed me up for a coward who wouldn’t be much good, in which he was right, and that he also thought – like many another ignoramus – that boxing was pure brute force and nothing more, in which he was wrong. Also, he had seen that a good part of it was body wrestling, of which no doubt he had some experience. And he knew he was pretty well as big and strong as I. But I had a surprise in store for him.

‘Not with me,’ says I. ‘I’m no Nick Ward. Anyway, my idea is instruction, not revenge, and the best instructor in the whole wide world is sitting within ten feet of you.’ And I nodded at Gully.

All I intended was to make a fool of Bismarck, which I knew Gully could do with one hand behind his back, and so cut his comb for him. I hadn’t any hope that Gully would hurt him, for unfortunately old Jack, like most champions, was a gentle, kindly sort of fool. Indeed, at my proposal, he burst out laughing.

‘Lord, Flashy,’ says he. ‘D’ye know how much I used to be paid to come up to scratch? And you want to see it free, you dog!’

But Bismarck wasn’t laughing. ‘That is a foolish proposal,’ says he. ‘Mr Gully is too old.’

Gully’s laugh was wiped off his face at once. ‘Now, wait a moment, mynheer,’ says he, but I was ahead of him again.

‘Oh, is that it?’ says I. ‘You wouldn’t be chary about milling with a professional, would you?’

Everyone was talking at once, of course, but Bismarck’s voice cut through them.

‘I have no interest in whether he is a professional or not—’

‘Or the fact that he was once in jail?’ says I.

‘—but only in the fact that he is very much older than I. As to his being in prison, what has that to do with anything?’

‘You know best about that,’ says I, sneering.

‘Now, dammit, hold on here,’ says Perceval. ‘What the devil is all this? Flashy—’

‘Ah, I’m sick of his airs,’ says I, ‘and his sneers at Jack there. All right, he’s your guest, Tom, but he goes a bit far. Let him put up or shut up. I only suggested he should try a round with a real boxer, to show him that his jibes were wide of the mark, and he turns up his nose as though Gully weren’t good enough for him. It’s the wrong side of enough, I say.’

‘Not good enough?’ roars Jack. ‘What’s this …?’

‘No one said anything of the sort,’ cries Tom. ‘Flashy, I don’t know what you’re driving at, but—’

‘Captain Flashman’s intention is apparently to annoy me,’ says Bismarck. ‘He has not succeeded. My only objection to boxing with Mr Gully was on the score of his age.’

‘That’ll do about my age, thank’ee!’ says Jack, going red. ‘I’m not so old I can’t deal with anyone who don’t know his place!’

They calmed him down, and there was a lot of hubbub and noise and nonsense, and the upshot was that most of them, being slightly fuddled anyway, got the notion that I had suggested, friendly-like, to Bismarck, that he try a round with Gully, and that somehow he had insulted old Jack and looked down on him. It was Spottswood who calmed things over, and said there was no cause for shouting or hard feelings.

‘The point is, does the Baron want to try his hand in a friendly spar? That’s all. If so, Jack’ll oblige, won’t you, Jack?’

‘No, no,’ says Jack, who was cooled again. ‘Why, I haven’t stood in a ring for thirty years, man. Besides,’ he added, with a smile, ‘I didn’t understand that our guest was eager to try me.’

That brought him a lofty look from Bismarck, but Spottswood says:

‘Tell ye what, Jack; if you’ll spar a round or two with him, I’ll sell you Running Ribbons.’

He knew Jack’s weak spot, you see; Running Ribbons was own brother to Running Reins, and a prime goer.¹³ Jack hummed and hawed a bit, saying no, no, his fighting days were long done, but the fellows, seeing him waver, and delighted at the thought of watching the famous Gully in action (and no doubt of lowering Bismarck a peg or two) urged him on, cheering him and slapping him on the shoulder.

‘Well, well,’ says Jack at last, for his flash of ill-temper had quite gone now, and he was his placid self, ‘if you must have it, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. To convince the Baron here, that there’s maybe more in the Noble Art than meets his eye, I’ll engage to stand up in front of him, with my hands down, and let him try to plant me a few facers. What d’ye say to that, sir?’ he asks Bismarck.

The German, who had been sitting very disdainful, looked interested despite himself.

‘You mean you will let me strike you, without defending yourself?’

Jack grins at him. ‘I mean I’ll let you try,’ says he.

‘But I must strike you – unless you run away.’

‘I reckon you’re not too clever in our lingo yet,’ says Jack, smiling, but looking keen. ‘What with “too old” and “running away”, you know. But don’t worry, mynheer – I’ll stand my ground.’

There was a great commotion while the table was thrust against one wall, and the carpet rolled up, and everyone piled furniture to the sides of the room to leave space for the exhibition. Perceval was the only one who wasn’t delighted at the prospect; ‘’Tain’t fair,’ says he, ‘not to a guest; I don’t like it. Ye’ll not hurt him, Jack, d’ye hear?’

‘Not a hair of his head,’ says old Jack.

‘But his vanity may be a bit bruised when he discovers it ain’t so easy to hit a good milling cove as he imagines,’ says Speed, laughing.

‘That’s what I don’t like either,’ says Perceval. ‘It looks as though we’re making a fool of him.’

‘Not us,’ says I. ‘He’ll be doing it himself.’

‘And serve the German windbag right,’ says Spottswood. ‘Who’s he to tell us our faults, damn him?’

‘I still don’t like it,’ says Perceval. ‘Curse you, Flash, this is your doing.’ And he mooched away, looking glum.

At the other end of the room Conyngham and one of the other chaps were helping Bismarck off with his coat. You could see he was wondering how the devil he had got into this, but he put a good face on it, pretending to be amused and interested when they fastened the gloves on him and Jack, and explained what was expected of him. Spottswood led the two of them to the centre of the floor, where a line had been chalked on the boards, and holding one on either hand, called for silence.

‘This ain’t a regular mill,’ says he (‘Shame!’ cries someone). ‘No, no,’ says Spottswood, ‘This is a friendly exhibition in the interests of good sportsmanship and friendship between nations. (“Hurrah!” “Rule Britannia!” from the fellows). Our old and honoured friend, Jack Gully, champion of champions—’ at this there was a great hurrah, which set old Jack grinning and bobbing – ‘has generously engaged to let Herr Otto von Bismarck stand up to him and try, if he can, to hit him fair on the head and body. Mr Gully engages further not to hit back, but may, if he wishes, use his hands for guarding and blocking. I shall referee’ – cries of ‘Shame!’ ‘Watch out for him, Baron, he’s a wrong ’un!’ – ‘and at my word the contestants will begin and leave off. Agreed? Now, Baron, you may hit him anywhere above the waist. Are you ready?’

He stepped back, leaving the two facing each other. It was a strange picture: the big candelabra lit the room as clear as day, shining on the flushed faces of the spectators sitting or squatting on the furniture piled round the panelled walls; on the sporting prints and trophies hung above them; on the wide, empty polished floor; on the jumble of silver and bottles and piled plates on the table with its wine-stained cloths; on the two men toe to toe at the chalk line. There was never a stranger pair of millers in the history of the game.

Bismarck, in his shirt and trousers and pumps, with the big padded mauleys on his fists, may have been awkward and uncertain, but he looked well. Tall, perfectly built and elegant as a rapier, with his fair cropped head glistening under the light, he reminded me again of a nasty Norse god. His lips were tight, his eyes narrow, and he was studying his man carefully before making a move.

Gully, on the other hand – oh, Gully! In my time I’ve seen Mace and Big Jack Heenan and little Sayers, and I watched Sullivan beat Ryan¹⁴ and took $10 off Oscar Wilde over that fight, too, but I doubt if any of them could have lived with Gully at his best. Not that I ever saw that best, but I saw him face up to Bismarck, nearly sixty years old, and that is enough for me. Like most poltroons, I have a sneaking inward regard for truly fearless, strong men, fools though they may be, and I can have an academic admiration for real skill, so long as I don’t suffer by it. Gully was fearless and strong and incredibly skilful.

He stood on the balls of his feet, head sunk between his massive shoulders, hands down, his leathery brown face smiling ever so slightly, his eyes fixed on Bismarck beneath beetling brows. He looked restful, confident, indestructible.

‘Time!’ cries Spottswood, and Bismarck swung his right fist. Jack swayed a little and it went past his face. Bismarck stumbled, someone laughed, and then he struck again, right and left. The right went past Jack’s head, the left he stopped with his palm. Bismarck stepped back, looking at him, and then came boring in, driving at Jack’s midriff, but he just turned his body sideways, lazily almost, and the German went blundering by, thumping the air.

Everyone cheered and roared with laughter, and Bismarck wheeled round, white-faced, biting his lip. Jack, who didn’t seem to have moved more than a foot, regarded him with interest, and motioned him to come on again. Slowly, Bismarck recovered himself, raised his hands and then shot out his left hand as he must have seen the pugs do that afternoon. Jack rolled his head out of the way and then leaned forward a little to let Bismarck’s other hand sail past his head.

‘Well done, mynheer,’ he cried. ‘That was good. Left and right, that’s the way. Try again.’

Bismarck tried, and tried again, and for three minutes Jack swayed and ducked and now and then blocked a punch with his open hand. Bismarck flailed away, and never looked like hitting him, and everyone cheered and roared with laughter. Finally Spottswood called, ‘Time’, and the German stood there, chest heaving and face crimson with his efforts, while Jack was as unruffled as when he started.

‘Don’t mind ’em, mynheer,’ says he. ‘There’s none of ’em would ha’ done better, and most not so well. You’re fast, and could be faster, and you move well for a novice.’

‘Are you convinced now, Baron?’ says Spottswood.

Bismarck, having got his breath back, shook his head.

‘That there is skill, I admit,’ says he, at which everyone raised an ironical cheer. ‘But I should be obliged,’ he goes on to Jack, ‘if you would try me again, and this time try to hit me in return.’

At this the idiots cheered, and said he was damned game and a sportsman, and Perceval said he wouldn’t have it, and demanded that the bout should stop at once. But old Jack, smiling his crooked smile, says:

‘No, no, Tom. This fellow’s more of a boxing man than any of you know. I’d not care to mill with anyone who didn’t hit back. I’ll spar, gentle-like, and when he goes home he can say he’s been in a fight.’

So they went to it again, and Jack moved about now, smooth as a dancer for all his years, and tapped his glove on Bismarck’s head and chin and body, while the other smashed away at him and hit nothing. I encouraged him by haw-hawing every time he missed, for I wanted him to realise what an ass he looked, and he bore in all the harder, flailing at Jack’s head and shoulders while the old champion turned, feinted and slipped away, leaving him floundering.

‘That’s enough!’ shouts someone. ‘Time out, you fellows, and let’s drink to it!’ and there were several voices which cried aye, aye, at which Jack dropped his hands and looked to Spottswood. But Bismarck rushed in, and Jack, in fending him off with a left, tapped him a little harder than he meant to, and bloodied his nose.

That stopped the German in his tracks, and Jack, all crestfallen, was stepping in to apologise, when to everyone’s amazement Bismarck ran at him, seized him round the waist, swung him off his feet, and hurled him to the floor. He landed with a tremendous crash, his head striking the boards, and in a moment everyone was on his feet, shouting and cheering. Some cried ‘Foul!’ while others applauded the German – they were the drunker ones – and then there was a sudden hush as Jack shook his head and slowly got to his feet.

He looked shaken, and furious, too, but he had himself in hand.

‘All right, mynheer,’ says he. ‘I didn’t know we was holding and throwing.’ I don’t suppose anything like it had happened to him in his life before, and his pride was wounded far worse than his body. ‘My own fault, for not looking out,’ says he. ‘Well, well, let it go. You can say you’ve downed John Gully,’ and he looked round the room, slowly, as though trying to read what everyone was thinking.

‘Best stop now, I think,’ says he at last.

‘You do not wish to continue?’ cries Bismarck. He looked fairly blown, but the arrogant note in his voice was there, as ever.

Gully stared at him a moment. ‘Best not,’ says he.

The room was uncomfortably quiet, until Bismarck laughed his short laugh and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Oh, very well,’ says, he, ‘since you do not wish it.’

Two red spots came into Jack’s pale cheeks. ‘I think it’s best to stop now,’ says he, in a hard voice. ‘If you’re wise, mynheer, you’ll make the most of that.’

‘As you please,’ says Bismarck, and to my delight he added: ‘It is you who are ending the bout, you know.’

Jack’s face was a study. Spottswood had a hand on his shoulder, and Perceval was at his side, while the rest were crowding round, chattering excitedly, and Bismarck was looking about him with all his old bounce and side. It was too much for Jack.

‘Right,’ says he, shaking Spottswood off. ‘Put your hands up.’

‘No, no,’ cries Perceval, ‘this has gone far enough.’

‘I quit to nobody,’ says Jack, grim as a hangman. ‘“End the bout”, is it? I’ll end it for him, sure enough.’

‘For God’s sake, man,’ says Perceval. ‘Remember who you are, and who he is. He’s a guest, a stranger—’

‘A stranger who threw me foul,’ says old Jack.

‘He don’t know the rules.’

‘It was a mistake.’

‘It was a fair throw.’

‘No t’wasn’t.’

Old Jack stood breathing heavily. ‘Now, look’ee,’ says he. ‘I give it him he threw me not knowing it was an unfair advantage, when I was off guard on account of having tapped his claret. I give it him he was angry and didn’t think, ’cos I’d been making a pudding of him. I’ll shake hands wi’ him on all of that – but I won’t have him strutting off and saying I asked to end the fight. Nobody says that to me – no, not Tom Cribb himself, by God.’

Everyone began to yammer at once, Perceval trying to push them away and calm Jack down, but most of us well content to see the mischief increase – it wasn’t every day one could see Gully box in earnest, which he seemed ready to do. Tom appealed to Bismarck, but the German, smiling his superior smile, just says:

‘I am prepared to continue.’

After that, try as Tom might, he was over-ruled, and presently they were facing up to each other again. I was delighted, of course; this was more than I had hoped for, although I feared that Gully’s good nature would make him let Bismarck off lightly. His pride was hurt, but he was a fair-minded fool, and I guessed he would just rap the German once or twice, smartly, to show him who was master and let it go at that. Perceval was hoping so, at all events. ‘Go easy, Jack, for God’s sake,’ he cried, and then they set to.

I don’t know what Bismarck hoped for. He wasn’t a fool, and Gully had demonstrated already that the German was a child in his hands. I can only suppose that he thought he had a chance of throwing Gully again, and was too damned conceited to escape gratefully. At any rate, he went in swinging both arms, and Jack rapped him over the heart and then cracked him a neat left on the head when he was off balance, which knocked him down.

‘Time!’ cries Spottswood, but Bismarck didn’t understand, and bounding up he rushed at Gully, and with a lucky swing, caught him on the ear. Jack staggered, righted himself, and as if by instinct smacked two blows into Bismarck’s belly. He went down, gasping and wheezing, and Perceval ran forward, saying that this was the end, he would have no more of it.

But the German, when he had straightened up, got his breath back and wiped the trickle of blood from his nose, was determined to go on. Gully said no, and Bismarck sneered at him, and the upshot was that they squared away again, and Gully knocked him off his feet.

But still he got up, and now Gully was sickened, and refused to go on, and when he held out his hand Bismarck struck at him, at which Gully hammered him one in the face, which sent him headlong, and on the instant Gully was cursing himself for a bad-tempered fool, and calling for Spottswood to take off his gloves, and Tom was raising Bismarck off the floor, and a splendidly gory face he presented, too. And there was a tremendous hubbub, with drunk chaps crying ‘Shame!’ and ‘Stop the fight!’ and ‘Hit him again!’ and Perceval almost crying with mortification, and Gully stamping off in a corner, swearing he hadn’t meant to hurt the fellow, but what could he do? and Bismarck white-faced, being helped into one of the chairs, where they sponged his face and gave him brandy. There were apologies, and protestations, and Gully and Bismarck finally shook hands, and Jack said he was ashamed of himself, as an Englishman, and would Bismarck forgive him? Bismarck, with his mouth puffed and split where Jack’s last blow had caught him, and his fine aristocratic nose crusted with his own blood – I’d have given twenty guineas to see it properly smashed – said it was nothing, and he was obliged to Mr Gully for the instruction. He then added that he was capable of continuing, and that the fight had not been stopped at his request, at which old Jack took a big breath but said nothing, and the others cheered and Conyngham cried:

‘Good for the Prussian! A dam’ game bird he is! Hurrah!’

This was the signal for the drinking to start again, in earnest, while two of the company, flown with pugilistic ardour, put on the mauleys and began to spar away drunkenly, and losing their tempers, finished up savaging each other on the floor. Perceval stayed by Bismarck, muttering apologies while the German waved them away and sipped brandy through his battered mouth. Gully simply went over to the sideboard and poured drink into himself until he was completely foxed; no one had ever seen him so shaken and unhappy before, or known him drink more than the most modest amount. But I knew why he was doing it; he was ashamed. It is a terrible thing to have ideals and a conscience, to say nothing of professional pride. He told me later he would have been better to suffer being thrown; beating Bismarck had been the most shameful thing he ever did, he said.

I’d have been delighted to do it, personally, if I’d had his skill; I’d have left that German upstart without a tooth in his head. As it was, when the boozing was at its height, and the uproar was deafening, I chanced by where Bismarck was still sitting, sipping delicately at his glass. He turned and caught my eye, frowned, and said:

‘Still I cannot place you, Captain. It is most intriguing; but it will come back, no doubt. However, I trust you were not disappointed with your evening’s entertainment.’

‘It might have been better,’ says I, grinning at him.

‘Even so, you contrived very well. I have you to thank for these,’ and he touched his lips and reddened nose. ‘One day I shall hold you to your promise, and show you the schlager play. I look forward to that; we shall see how much credit you obtain from my country’s sport.’

‘More than you’ve got from mine, I hope,’ says I, laughing.

‘Let us hope so,’ says he. ‘But I doubt it.’

‘Go to the devil,’ says I.

He turned away, chuckling to himself. ‘After you, I think.’