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 halfway 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 dare say.”
“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 dea
ling 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.
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