The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  “Never you mind, sauce-box!” giggles she, tossing her head, so I kept mum till she turned to look at me, and then I frowned and asked, quite hard:

  “Who, Susie?”

  She blinked, and slowly all the playfulness went out of that plump, pretty face. “’Ere,” says she, uncertain. “Why you lookin’ at me like that? You’re not … not cross, are you? I thought you was just funnin’ me …”

  I said nothing, but gave an angry little shrug, looking quickly away, and she gasped in bewilderment and caught my arm.

  “’Ere! Beauchamp! You mean … you mind? But I … I … lovey, I never knew …’Ere, wot’s the matter—?”

  “No matter at all,” says I, very cool, and set my jaw tight. “You’re right – it’s no concern of mine.” But I bit my lip and looked stuffed and all Prince Albert, and when I made to get up she took fright in earnest, throwing her arms round my neck and crying that she’d never dreamed I would care, and then starting to blubber bucketsful, sobbing that she’d never thought to see me again, or she’d never have … but it was nothing, honest, ow, Gawd, please, Beauchamp – just one or two occasional, like this rich ole Creole planter who paid a hundred dollars to take a bath with her, but she’d have flung the ole goat’s money in his face if she’d known that I … and if I’d heard gossip about her and Count Vaudrian, it was bleedin’ lies, ’cos it wasn’t him, it was only his fourteen-year-old nephew that the Count had engaged her to give lessons to …

  If I’d played her along I daresay I could have got enough bizarre material for a book, but I didn’t want to push my little charade of jealousy too far. I’d tickled the old trollop’s vanity, fed her infatuation for me, scared her horrid, and discovered what a stout leash I’d got her on – and had the capital fun of watching her grovel and squirm. It was time to be magnanimous and soulful, so I gave her bouncers a forgiving squeeze at last, and she near swooned with relief.

  “It was jus’ business, Beauchamp – not like with you – oh, never like with you! If I’d known you was comin’ back, an’ that you cared!” That was the great thing, apparently; she was full of it. “’Cos, you really care, don’t you? Oh, say you do, darlin’ – an’ please, you’re not angry with me no more?”

  That was my cue to change from stern sorrow to fond devotion, as though I couldn’t help myself. “Oh, Susie, my sweet,” says I, giving her bum a fervent clutch, “as if I could ever be angry with you!” This, and a glass of gin, fully restored her, and she basked in the sunshine of her lover’s favour and said I was the dearest, kindest big ram, honest I was.

  Her talk of business, though, had reminded me of something that had slipped my mind during all our frenzied exertions; as we climbed into her four-poster presently, I asked why the place was closed up and under dust-sheets.

  “Course – I never told you! You ’aven’t given me much chance, ’ave you, you great bully?” She snuggled up contentedly. “Well – I’m leavin’ Orleans next week, for good, an’ what d’you think of that? Fact is, trade’s gone down that bad, what with my partikler market bein’ overcrowded, and half the menfolk off to the gold diggin’s to try their luck – why, we’re lucky to get any young customers nowadays. So I thinks, Susie my gel, you’d better try California yourself, an’ do a little diggin’ of your own, an’ if you can’t make a bigger fortune than any prospector, you’re not the woman—”

  “Hold on, though – what’ll you do in California?”

  “Why, what I’ve always done – manage an establishment for the recreation of affluent gentlemen! Don’t you see – there must be a million hearty young chaps out there already, workin’ like blacks, the lucky ones with pockets full of gold dust, an’ never a sporty female to bless themselves with, ’cept for common drabs. Well, where there’s muck, there’s money – an’ you can bet that in a year or two Sacramento an’ San Francisco are goin’ to make Orleans look like the parish pump. It may be rough livin’ just now, but before long they’re goin’ to want all the luxuries of London an’ Paris out there – an’ they’ll be able to pay for ’em, too! Wines, fashions, theatres, the best restaurants, the smartest salons, the richest shops – an’ the crackiest whores. Mark my words, whoever gets there first, with the quality merchandise, can make a million, easy.”

  It sounded reasonable, I said, but a bit wild to establish a place like hers, and she chuckled confidently.

  “I’m goin’ ready-made, don’t you fret. I’ve got a place marked down in Sacramento, through an agent, an’ I’m movin’ the whole kit caboodle up the river to Westport next Monday – furnishin’s, crockery, my cellar an’ silver … an’ the livestock, which is the main thing. I’ve got twenty o’ the primest yellow gels under this roof right now, all experienced an’ broke in – so don’t you start walkin’ in your sleep, will you, you scoundrel? ’Ere, lets ’ave a look at you—”

  “But hold on – how are you going to get there?” says I, cuddling obediently.

  “Why, up to Westport an’ across by carriage to – where is it? – Santa Fe, an’ then to San Diego. It only takes a few weeks, an’ there’s thousands goin’ every day, in carts an’ wagons an’ on horseback – even on foot. You can go round by sea, but it’s no quicker or cheaper in the end, an’ I don’t want my delicate young ladies gettin’ seasick, do I?”

  “Isn’t it dangerous? I mean, Indians and ruffians and so on?”

  “Not if you’ve got guards, an’ proper guides. That’s all arranged, don’t you see, an’ I ’aven’t stinted, neither. I’m a business woman, in case you ’adn’t noticed, an’ I know it pays to pay for the best. That’s why I’ll ’ave the finest slap-up bagnio on the west coast goin’ full steam before the year’s out – an’ I’ll still have a tidy parcel over in the bank. If you got money, you can’t ’elp makin’ more, provided you use common sense.”

  From what I knew of her she had plenty of that – except where active young men were concerned – and she was a deuced competent manager. But if she had her future planned, I hadn’t; I remarked that it didn’t leave much time to arrange my safe passage – and Spring’s, for what that was worth – out of New Orleans.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” says she, comfortably. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it, an’ when we see what kind of a hue an’ cry there is in the town tomorrow, we can decide what’s best. You’re safe ’ere meantime – an’ snug an’ warm an’ cosy,” she added, “so let’s ’ave another chorus o’ John Peel, shall we?”

  You can guess that I was sufficiently pale and wan next morning to satisfy Spring that he could continue to rest easy chez Willinck. One look at me, and at Susie languid and yawning, and he gave me a sour grin and muttered: “Christ, non equidem invideo, miror magisk,” which if you ask me was just plain jealousy, and if I’d known enough Latin myself I’d have retorted, “Ver non semper viretl, eh? Too bad,” which would have had the virtue of being witty, although he’d probably not have appreciated it.

  Pleasantries would have been out of season, anyway, for the news was bad. Susie had had inquiries made in town, and reported that Omohundro’s death was causing a fine stir, there was a great manhunt afoot, and our descriptions were posted at every corner. There was no quick way out of New Orleans, that was certain, and when I reminded Susie that something would have to be done in the next few days, she just patted my hand and said she would manage, never fear. Spring said nothing, but watched us with those pale eyes.

  You may think that it’s just nuts, being confined to a brothel for four solid days – which we were – but when you can’t get at the tarts, and a mad murderer is biting his nails and muttering dirty remarks from Ovid, and the law may thunder at the door any minute, it can be damned eerie. There we were in that great echoing mansion, not able to stir outside for fear someone would see us from the road, or to leave our rooms, hardly, for although the sluts’ quarters were in a side-wing, they were about the place most of the time, and Susie said it would be risky to let them see us – or me to see them, she probably th
ought. Not that I’d have had the inclination to do more than wave at them; when you have to pile in to Mrs Willinck every night, other women take on a pale, spectral appearance, and you start to think that there’s something to be said for monasteries after all.

  Not that I minded that part of it at all; she was an uncommon inventive amorist, and when you’ve been chief stud and bath attendant to Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, with the threat of boiling alive or impalement hanging over you if you fail to satisfy the customer, then keeping pace even with Susie is gammon and peas. She seemed to thrive on it – but it was an odd thing – even when we were in the throes, I’d a notion that her mind was on more than passing joys, if you follow me; she was thinking at the same time, which wasn’t like her. I’d catch her watching me, too, with what I can only call an anxious expression – if I’d guessed what it was, I’d have been anxious myself.

  It was the fourth evening when I found out. We were in her salon before supper, and I’d reminded her yet again that New Orleans was still as unsafe for me as ever, and her own departure up-river a scant couple of days away. What, says I, am I to do when you’re gone? She was brushing her hair before her mirror, and she stopped and looked at my reflection in the glass.

  “Why don’t you come with me to California?” says she, rather breathless, and started brushing her hair again. “You could get a ship from San Francisco … if you wanted.”

  It took my breath away. I’d been racking my brains about getting out of the States, but it had never crossed my mind to think beyond New Orleans or the eastern ports – all my fleeing, you’ll understand, had been done in the direction of the Northern states; west had never occurred to me. Well, God knows how many thousand miles it was … but, by George, it wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. You may not agree – but you haven’t been on the run from slave-catchers and abolitionists and Navy traps and outraged husbands and Congressman Lincoln, damn his eyes, with a gallows waiting if they catch you. I was in that state of funk where any loophole looks fine – and when I came to weigh it, travelling incog in Susie’s caravan looked a sight safer than anything else. The trip up-river would be the risky part; once west of the Mississippi I’d be clear … I’d be in San Francisco in three months, perhaps …

  “Would you take me?” was the first thing that came to my tongue, before I’d given more than a couple of seconds’ thought to the thing, and her brush clattered on the table and she was staring at me with a light in her eyes that made my blood run cold.

  “Would I take you?” says she. “’Course I’d take you! I … I didn’t know if … if you’d want to come, though. But it’s the safest way, Beauchamp – I know it is!” She had turned from her mirror, and she seemed to be gasping for breath, and laughing at the same time. “You … you wouldn’t mind … I mean, bein’ with me for – for a bit longer?” Her bosom was heaving fit to overbalance her, and her mouth was trembling. “I mean … you ain’t tired of me, or … I mean – you care about me enough to … well, to keep me company to California?” God help me, that was the phrase she used. “You do care about me – don’t you? You said you did – an’ I think you do …”

  Mechanically I said that of course I cared about her; a fearful suspicion was forming in my mind, and sure enough, her next words confirmed it.

  “I dunno if you … like me as much as I – oh, you can’t, I know you can’t!” She was crying now, and trying to smile at the same time, dabbing at her eyes. “I can’t help it – I know I’m just a fool, but I love you – an’ I’d do anythin’ to make you love me, too! An’ I’d do anythin’ to keep you with me … an’ I thought – well, I thought that if we went together, an’ all that – when we got to California, you might not want to catch a ship at San Francisco, d’you see?” She looked at me with a truly terrifying yearning; I’d seen nothing like it since the doctors were putting the strait-jacket on my guvnor and whisking the brandy beyond his reach. “An’ we could … stay together always. Could you … would you marry me, Beauchamp?”

  * * *

  i Men do more from habit than from reason.

  j The passions are in arms. – Virgil.

  k Indeed, I don’t envy – I am rather inclined to wonder. – Virgil.

  l The spring does not always flourish.

  Chapter 3

  If half the art of survival is running, the other half is keeping a straight face. I can’t count the number of times my fate has depended on my response to some unexpected and abominable proposal – like the night Yakub Beg suggested I join a suicidal attempt to scupper some Russian ammunition ships, or Sapten’s jolly notion about swimming naked into a Gothic castle full of Bismarck’s thugs, or Brooke’s command to me to lead a charge against a head-hunters’ stockade. Jesu, the times that we have seen. (Queer, though, the one that lives in memory is from my days as a snivelling fag at Rugby when Bully Dawson was tossing the new bugs in blankets, and grabbed me, gloating, and I just hopped on to the blanket, cool as you please for all my bowels were heaving in panic, and the brute was so put out that he turfed me off in fury, as I’d guessed he would, and I was spared the anguish of being tossed while the other fags were put through it, howling.)

  At all events – and young folk with their way to make in the world should mark this – you must never suppose that a poker face is sufficient. That shows you’re thinking, and sometimes the appearance of thought ain’t called for. It would have been fatal now, with Susie; I had to show willing quick, but not too much – if I cried aloud for joy and swept her into my arms, she’d smell a large whiskered rat. It all went through my mind in an instant, more or less as follows: 1, I’m married already; 2, she don’t know that; 3, if I don’t accept there’s a distinct risk she’ll show me the door, although she might not; 4, if she does, I’ll get hung; 5, on balance, best to cast myself gratefully at her feet for the moment, and think about it afterwards.

  All in a split second, as I say – just time for me to stare uncomprehending for two heart-beats, and then let a great light of joy dawn in my eyes for an instant, gradually fading to a kind of ruptured awe as I took a hesitant step forward, dropped on one knee beside her, took her hand gently, and said in husky disbelief:

  “Susie … do you really mean that?”

  Whatever she’d expected, it hadn’t been that – she was watching me like a hawk, between hope and mistrust. She knew me, you see, and what a damned scoundrel I was – at the same time, she was bursting to believe that I cared for her, and I knew just how to trade on that. Before she could reply, I smiled, and shook my head sadly, and said very manly:

  “Dear Susie, you’re wrong, you know. I ain’t worth it.”

  She thought different, of course, and said so, and a pretty little debate ensued, in which I was slightly hampered by the fact that she had clamped my face between her udders and was ecstatically contradicting me at the top of her voice; I acted up with nice calculation, as though masking gallons of ardour beneath honest doubt – I didn’t know, I said, because no woman had ever – well, honoured me with true love before, and rake that I’d been, I’d grown to care for her too much to let her do something she might repent … you may imagine this punctuated by loving babble from her until the point where I thought, now for the coup de grâce, and with a muffled, despairing groan of “Ah, my darling!” as though I couldn’t contain myself any longer, gave her the business for all I was worth on top of her dressing-stool. God knows how it stood the strain, for we must have scaled twenty-two stone between us, easy.

  Even when it was done, I still did a deal of head-shaking, an unworthy soul torn between self-knowledge and the dawning hope that the love of a good woman might be just what he needed. I didn’t do it too strong; I didn’t need to; she was over the main hurdle and ready to convince herself against all reason. That’s what love does to you, I suppose, although I don’t speak from personal experience.

  “I know I’m foolish,” says she, all earnest and sentimental, “an’ that you’re the kind of rascal t
hat could break my ’eart … but I’ll take my chance o’ that. I reckon you like me, an’ I ’ope you’ll like me more. Love grows,” says the demented biddy, “an’ while I’m forty-two—” she was pushing fifty, I may say “an’ a bit older than you, that don’t ’ave to signify. An’ I reckon – please don’t mind me sayin’ this, dearest – that even at worst, you might settle for me bein’ well-off, which I am, an’ able to give you a comfortable life, as well as all the love that’s in me. It’s no use sayin’ practical things don’t matter, ’cos they do – an’ I wouldn’t expect you to have me if I was penniless. But you know me, an’ that when I say I can make a million, it’s a fact. You can be a rich man, with me, an’ ’ave everythin’ you could wish for, an’ if you was to say ‘aye’ on those terms, I’d understand. But I reckon—” she couldn’t keep the tears back, as she held my chin and stroked my whiskers and I looked like Galahad on his vigil “– I reckon you care for me enough, anyway – an’ we can be happy together.”

  I knew better than to be fervent. I just nodded, and ran a pin from her dressing-table into my leg surreptitiously to start a tear. “Thank you, Susie,” says I quietly and kissed her gently. “Now don’t cry. I don’t know about love, but I know …” I took a fairish sigh “… I know that I can’t say no.”

  That was the God’s truth, too, as I explained to Spring half an hour later, for while he wasn’t the man you’d seek out to discuss your affairs of the heart, it was our necks that were concerned here, and he had to be kept au fait. He gaped at me like a landed shark.

  “But you’re married!” cries he.

  “Tut-tut,” says I, “not so loud. She doesn’t know that.”

  He glared horribly. “It’s bigamy! Lord God Almighty, have you no respect for the sacraments?”

  “To be sure – which is why I don’t intend our union to last any farther than California, when I’ll—”