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:
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 33
