The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection
Page 31
“Please, please, I mean no harm,” I said urgently. “I’m being pursued … the police … no, I’m not a criminal, I assure you. I was in a club that was raided.”
The man just stared at me, but the woman showed her teeth in a delightful smile and then threw her head back, chuckling. I smiled as ingratiatingly as I could, but for all the effect my charm had on her companion I might as well have been Quasimodo.
“Step out at once,” snaps he, in a cold clipped voice. “At once, do you hear?”
I conceived an instant dislike for him. It was not only his manner and his words, but the look of him. He was big, as big as I was, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, but he was also damned handsome. He had bright grey eyes and one of those clean-cut faces beneath fair hair that make you think of moral Norse gods, too splendid altogether to be in the company of the beauty beside him.
I started to say something, but he barked at me again, and then the woman came to my aid.
“Oh, let him be, Otto,” says she. “Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?”
I would have thanked her gratefully, but at that moment there were heavy feet on the pavement, and a grave voice inquiring if the gentleman had seen anyone running through the square. The peelers were on the scent again, and this time I was cornered.
But before I could move or speak the lady had seated herself in the coach and hissed:
“Get up off the floor, you booby!”
I obeyed, in spite of my leg, and dropped gasping into the seat beside her. And then her companion, damn his eyes, was saying:
“Here is your man, constable. Arrest him, if you please.”
A police sergeant poked his head in at the door, surveyed us, and said to the fair man, doubtfully:
“This gentleman, sir?”
“Of course. Who else?”
“Well …” The bobby was puzzled, seeing me sitting there large as life. “Are you sure, sir?”
The fair man rapped out another foreign oath, and said of course he was sure. He called the sergeant a fool.
“Oh, stop it, Otto,” says the lady suddenly. “Really, sergeant, it’s too bad of him; he’s making game of you. This gentleman is with us.”
“Rosanna!” The fair man looked outraged. “What are you thinking of? Sergeant, I—”
“Don’t play the fool, Otto,” says I, taking my cue, and delighted to have my hand squeezed by the lady. “Come on, man, get in and let’s be off home. I’m tired.”
He gave me a look of utter fury, and then a fine altercation broke out between him and the sergeant, which the lady Rosanna seemed to find vastly amusing. The coachee and another constable joined in, and then suddenly the sergeant, who had been frowning oddly in my direction while the argument raged, stuck his head into the coach again, and says:
“Wait a minnit. I know you, don’t I? You’re Cap’n Flashman, bigod!”
I admitted it, and he swore and slapped his fist.
“The ’ero of Julloolabad!” cries he.
I smiled modestly at Miss Rosanna, who was looking at me wide-eyed.
“The defender of Piper’s Fort!” cries the sergeant.
“Well, well,” says I, “it’s all right, sergeant.”
“The ’Ector of Afghanistan!” cries the sergeant, who evidently studied the press. “Damme! Well, ’ere’s a go!”
He was beaming all over his face, which didn’t suit my denouncer at all. Angrily he demanded that I be arrested.
“He is a fugitive,” he declared. “He invaded our coach without permission.”
“I don’t give a dam’ if ’e invaded Buckin’am Palace without permission,” says the sergeant, turning back to me. “Corporal Webster, sir, Third Guards, under Major Macdonald at ’Ougoumont, sir.”
“Honoured to know you, sergeant,” says I, shaking his hand.
“Honour’s mine, sir, ’deed it is. Now then, you, sir, let’s ’ave no more of this. You’re not English, are you?”
“I am a Prussian officer,” says the man called Otto, “and I demand—”
“Cap’n Flashman is a British officer, so you don’t demand nothink,” says the sergeant. “Now, then! Let’s ’ave no trouble.” He touched his hat to us and gave me a broad wink. “Wish you good-night, sir, an’ you, ma’am.”
I thought the German would have an apoplexy, he looked so wild, and his temper was not helped by the lovely Rosanna’s helpless laughter. He stood glaring at her for a moment, biting his lip, and then she controlled herself sufficiently to say:
“Oh, come along, Otto, get into the coach. Oh, dear, oh, dear,” and she began laughing again.
“I am happy you are amused,” says he. “You make a fool of me: it is of a piece with your conduct of this evening.” He looked thoroughly vicious. “Very good, madam, perhaps you will regret it.”
“Don’t be so pompous, Otto,” says she. “It’s just a joke; come and—”
“I prefer choicer company,” says he. “That of ladies, for example.” And clapping on his hat he stepped back from the carriage door.
“Oh, the devil fly away with you then!” cried she, suddenly angry. “Whip up, driver!”
And then I had to open my mouth. Leaning across her, I called to him:
“How dare you talk so to a lady, damn you!” says I. “You’re a foul-mouthed foreign dog!”
I believe if I had kept silent he would have forgotten me, for his temper was concentrated on her. But now he turned those cold eyes on me, and they seemed to bore like drills. For a moment I was frightened of the man; he had murder on his face.
“I shall remember you,” says he. And then, oddly, I saw a look of curiosity come into his eyes, and he stepped a pace closer. Then it was gone, but he was memorising me, and hating me at the same time.
“I shall remember you,” he said a second time, and the coach jerked forward and left him standing by the gutter.
In spite of the momentary fear he had awakened in me, I didn’t give a button for his threats—the danger was past, I had recovered my breath, and I could devote my attention to the important question of the beauty alongside me. I had time to examine the splendour of her profile—the broad brow and raven-black hair, the small ever so slightly curved nose, the pouting red cupid’s bow, the firm little chin, and the white round breasts pushing themselves impudently up from the red satin gown.
The scent of her perfume, the sidelong look of her dark blue eyes, and the wanton husky Irish voice, were all invitations. As anyone will tell you, put Harry Flashman next to a woman like that and one of two things is inevitable—there will either be screams and slaps, or the lady will surrender. Sometimes both. In this case, just from the look of her, I knew there would be no screaming and slapping, and I was right. When I kissed her it was only a moment before her mouth opened under mine, and I promptly suggested that since my leg was still painful, a woman’s touch on it would soothe the cramp out of my muscles. She complied, very teasingly, and with her free hand was remarkably skilful at fending off my advances until the coach reached her house, which was somewhere in Chelsea.
By this time I was in such a state of excitement that I could barely keep my hands still while she dismissed her maid and conducted me to her salon, talking gaily about anything and acting the cool minx. I soon put a stop to that by popping her breasts out the minute the door was closed, and bearing her down on to the settee. Her reaction was startling; in a moment she was grappling with me, digging her nails into me and twining her limbs round mine. The fury of her love-making was almost frightening—I’ve known eager women, plenty of them, but Miss Rosanna was like a wild animal.
The second time, later in the night, was even more feverish than the first. We were in bed by then, and I had no clothing to protect me from her biting and raking nails; I protested, but it was like talking to a mad woman. She even began to leather me with something hard and heavy—a hair-brush, I believe—and by the time she had stopped writhing and moaning I felt as though I had been coupling with a roll of
barbed wire.6 I was bruised, scratched, bitten, and stabbed from neck to backside.
In between, she was a different creature, gay, talkative, witty, and of a gentleness to match her voice and looks. I learned that she was Marie Elizabeth Rosanna James, no less, the wife of a fellow-officer who was conveniently out of town on garrison duty. Like myself, she was recently returned from India, where he had been stationed; she found life in London deadly dull; such friends as she knew were stiff and boring; there was hardly any of the bright life she craved; she wished she was back in India, or anywhere she might have some fun. That was why my appearance in her carriage had been so welcome; she had spent a preposterously dull evening with her husband’s relatives, escorted by the German Otto, whom she found stuffy to a degree.
“Just the sight of a man who looked as though he had some—oh, some spunk in him—was enough for me,” says she. “I wouldn’t have turned you over to the police, my dear, not if you had been a murderer. And it was a chance to take down that conceited Prussian muff—would you believe that a man who looks so splendid could have ice and vinegar in his veins?”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Otto? Oh, one of these Germans making the Grand Tour in reverse. Sometimes I think there’s a bit of the devil in him, but he keeps it well hid; he behaves so properly because like all foreigners he likes to impress the English. Tonight, just to try and breathe some life into that collection of prigs, I offered to show them a Spanish dance—you would have thought I’d said something indecent. They didn’t even say, ‘Oh, my dear!’ Just turned their heads to one side, the way these English women do, as though they were going to be sick.” She tossed her head enchantingly, kneeling on the bed like a naked nymph. “But I saw the glitter in Otto’s eyes, just for an instant. I’ll be bound he’s not so prim among the German wenches at Schonhausen, or wherever it is.”
I thought there was too much of Otto, and said so.
“Oh, yes, are you jealous, then?” says she sticking out her lip at me. “You’ve made a bad enemy there, my dear. Or is the famous Captain Flashman careless of enemies?”
“They don’t concern me, German, French, or nigger,” says I. “I don’t think much of your Otto at all.”
“Well, you should,” says she, teasing. “For he’s going to be a great man some day—he told me so. ‘I have a destiny’, he said. ‘What’s that?’ I asked him. ‘To rule’, says he. So I told him I had ambitions, too—to live as I please, love as I please, and never grow old. He didn’t think much of that, I fancy; he told me I was frivolous, and would be disappointed. Only the strong, he said, could afford ambitions. So I told him I had a much better motto than that.”
“What was that?” says I, reaching out for her, but she caught my hands and held them apart, looking wicked.
“‘Courage—and shuffle the cards’,” says she.
“Damned sight better motto than his,” says I, pulling her down on top of me. “And I’m a greater man than he is, anyway.”
“Prove it—again,” said Miss Rosanna, biting at my chin. And, at the cost of more scratches and bruises, I did.
That was the beginning of our affair, and a wild, feverish one it was, but it couldn’t last long. For one thing, she was so demanding a mistress that she came near to wearing me out, and if she was a novelty, she was one I didn’t altogether enjoy. She was too imperious, and I prefer softer women who understand that it is my pleasure that counts. Not with Miss Rosanna, though; she used men. It was like being eaten alive, and God help you if you weren’t ready to command. Everything had to be at her whim, and I got sick of it.
It was about a week after our first meeting that I finally lost my temper. We had had a tempestuous night, but when I wanted to go to sleep she had to chatter on—and even a husky Irish voice can get sickening when you’ve heard too much of it. And seeing me inattentive, she suddenly shouts, “On guard!” which was her war-cry before a tumble, and jumped on me again.
“In heaven’s name!” says I. “Get off. I’m tired.”
“Nobody gets tired of me,” she flashed back, and started teasing me into action, but I was pegged out, and told her to let me alone. For a moment she persisted, and then she was sulky, and then in an instant she was in a raging fury, and before I knew it I had given her the back of my hand and she was coming at me like a wildcat, screaming and clawing.
Now, I’ve dealt with raging women before, but I’d never met anything like her. She was dangerous—a beautiful, naked savage, flinging everything that came within reach, calling me the foulest names, and—I admit it freely—terrorising me to the point where I grabbed my clothes and ran for it. “Bastard and coward!” was the least of it, I remember, and a chamber pot smashing on the door-jamb as I blundered through. I roared threats at her from the corridor, at which she darted out, white with fury, flourishing a bottle, and I didn’t stay for more. One way and another, I’ve probably had more practice in dressing running than most men, but this time I didn’t bother until I’d got out of shot at the foot of the stairs.
Chapter 2
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.
“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.”
“Schonhausen,” 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.”