Stewart for his part was delighted to take up the challenge of introducing me to the best parts of London. Making sure we both had fun took his mind of his own troubles and right then I think he wanted to forget a lot of his recent past and so my induction began immediately and with relish.
~~~~~~
Chapter 3
For a young vigorous man with newly awakened sexual appetites, London back then was in some ways just one huge house of entertainment. Some chap called Colquhoun had estimated in 1797 that there were 50,000 prostitutes in London, which was approximately 10% of the total female population. If you went to places like The Strand and Covent Garden you would find that figure hard to believe, and put it much higher. It was impossible to walk more than a few paces down the street without being accosted.
For those with coin in their pocket they could have every vice and depravity satisfied. Alternatively, like me, they could learn of a whole lot more vices that they did not previously know existed. Courtesans ran from the exquisite specialist at fifty guineas a night in a top class brothel to the hundreds of streetwalkers who would take you up an alley for a pint of wine and a shilling, and doubtless throw in the pox for free. Indeed often they would not bother with the alley, it was not uncommon in the rougher parts of town to see a tart with her skirts up leaning against a wall while the punter bulled away at her, often with other whores standing nearby yelling encouragement or criticising his stamina.
For a better night and six guineas you could visit a quality bagnio house, have a good dinner, a bath and a keen young woman. The women there were literally cleaner, especially if they joined you in the bath which many did and the madams assured clients that they were free from disease. There were houses that specialised in black girls, Indian girls, or men if that was your taste. There was even a barge moored on the Thames which ran a restaurant on the first floor and a brothel on the second. The dinners were poor and the wine rough, but later the rocking of the boat with a girl astride you was very pleasant.
I never went, but there was even a house of correction where the poor women prisoners were given the choice of starving to death or whoring themselves to the warders. Their keepers would act like pimps and male visitors could have a female prisoner, willing or unwilling, for the whole night if they tipped the warder a shilling.
Alongside all of this went the elite of polite society, known as the ‘ton’ ruled by the likes of the Duchess of Devonshire and her set, who talked in an affected babyish accent which others in their crowd sought to ape. They ruled the social scene through the institutions like Almack’s Assembly Rooms which was like a high society casino and dance hall. Entry was decided by a committee of society harridans that met every Monday night and decided who was ‘in’ while snubbing those that they thought were nouveau riche.
They gave those that were approved an annual voucher for ten guineas allowing access to the club and to demonstrate what appalling judges of character they were they gave one to me after an introduction from Stewart. The origins of the Flashman fortune while possibly tainted with slave trading and piracy, were sufficiently old to pass muster.
Stewart had first taken me to a bagnio that specialised in Turkish delicacies called Mustafa’s or ‘must have her’ as he pronounced it. The authenticity of the establishment was dubious, I was in Turkey a while back and did not see any of the ‘authentic meat pies’ on offer that Mustafa assured us were staple fare in Constantinople, but he did also do a good venison and lamb kebab. The huge guard at the door who called himself Achmed was no more Turkish than I was, with a rather obvious false drooping moustache. However once inside the facilities were excellent, with a huge marble lined Turkish bath and some very enthusiastic girls. In most establishments you chose your girl and then went to a room for privacy but here it was a more social arrangement. While there was a male masseuse available if you wanted a proper Turkish bath first, most people chose a girl to help them with the bathing process and things progressed naturally from there in one of the large plunge pools, on or against the marble slabs or leather couches.
While Mustafa insisted his girls were clean, Stewart was sure that liberal dosing of soapy water before, after and often during a bout would keep him free of the pox and as we both stayed clear of disease, who is to argue that he was wrong? My own personal favourite was a girl called Jasmine, with raven hair, almond eyes and glorious olive complexion. She had a slim waist and the most perfect breasts that you could cup in each hand. Given the sociable setting you could not help noticing the activities of other couples nearby, which was also arousing. On my first visit after some very intimate soaping Jasmine and I had just settled sitting on a marble massage slab, slippery with soap and with her astride me while I nuzzled those perfect breasts. Distracted by a squeal, I looked across at Stewart some yards away who had hauled himself to his feet with his girl still wrapped around him with her ankles crossed in the small of his back. He caught my eye and shouted “ten guineas I can beat you round the main pool.”
Well I am a gambling man and the way I saw it I had a good six yard head start and a lighter jockey so reaching down to cup Jasmine’s soapy rear I was up in a moment charging for the edge of the pool while Jasmine clamped on and yelled encouragement. With Stewart roaring behind me we ran on the towels at the edge of the pool for grip and cleared the first hurdle of a pair coupling at the edge of the water. Down the far side of the pool we were still in the lead although I could hear my new friend was gaining ground, other patrons and girls were now yelling encouragement. Around the final corner we went with a portly gentleman and his girl holding a towel across the path as a finishing line. Then as Stewart came alongside he nudged me hard to fall into the water.
I surfaced laughing and crying “foul” and “stewards enquiry surely” with Jasmine still in place. Stewart and his jockey jumped in afterwards and the old boy with a towel shouted it was a void race – and he should know as it turned out he was a high court judge. Stewart introduced to me to a couple of other junior government types who happened to be sharing the pool with other girls at the same time. One was a senior official at the Foreign Office and the other worked at the Treasury. I realised that Stewart’s friendship would make getting known in the right social circles easier – and a lot more pleasurable – than falling off a log.
Over the next few weeks I spent a fair bit of time with Stewart and some of his crowd and it was certainly an eye opening experience. I started taking fencing lessons with him, not because I expected to fight but because that was a fashionable way to take exercise just then. There was also a surplus of fencing masters in London, many having fled from the French revolution. Our teacher was a Monsieur Giscard and we would spend many an afternoon with foils and rapiers learning the formal positions and ripostes that are allowed in a sporting fencing match. With the padding and blunting of points we battled away many an hour without suffering a scratch. There was also cock fighting, bear baiting and horse racing. I recall we saw some chap called Belcher become boxing champion, mercifully after just 17 rounds as his last bout had taken 51. We watched cricket and saw a chap called Robinson experimenting with cricket pads to protect his legs, but they kept falling off and impeding his runs.
In short I had fallen in with a fast crowd at a time when being an effete dandy was all the rage. This was the age of Beau Brummel who had heightened the concept of fashion for men, which was closely followed by the Prince Regent, or ‘Prinny’ as he was known, and all the smart set about town. Tailors quickly caught on to the opportunity of fleecing the rich for the most fashionable cuts and colours and these clothes became extortionately expensive. I was never in with Prinny’s crowd but I did overhear someone once ask Beau Brummel how much he thought it should cost to keep a single man in clothes. He replied that “with tolerable economy I think it might be done with £800 a year.” This was at a time when the average wage for a craftsman was just a pound a week.
It was a crazy time, I recall seeing one man positively w
eep because he could not get a cravat in the right shade of plum. I remember having a silk black and yellow checked waistcoat that I was inordinately pleased with and wore as often as I could. I thought it made me look quite the card at the time. Strangely enough I saw it again a few years ago when the housekeeper showed it to me as she was sorting clothes for charity. I was happy to see it go as it would never fit me now and I thought it would help some local yokel stand stylishly out from the crowd. A few weeks later I was out riding and damn me if I did not see it adorning a scarecrow in one of the fields. Yokels around here have no sense of style!
Yes London in the late summer and autumn of 1800 was probably the most carefree time of my life. For a young man without care and commitments and with gold in his pocket it was a playground of delights. Yet the fashionable crowd I fell in with were hard drinking, hard playing and so obsessed with being seen wearing the right things and in the right places that they almost made having pleasure hard work. Even at my young age it seemed frivolous, false and meaningless and I struggled to understand how anyone could really get that upset over the right shade of plum. Oh I enjoyed all the parties, the flirting and days watching horse racing and other sports but in a world where men were fighting courageously on land and sea and where we were surrounded by the poor’s very real struggle for survival; obsessions with such trivia as clothes seemed ridiculous.
Looking back from a long and eventful life I realise now that they were just trying to give their lives purpose. The playboy set were not involved in government, were horrified by the thought of discipline in the forces and, led by Prinny the wastrel in chief, they just wanted to show that their life had some meaning. Prinny’s personal example certainly did not encourage the fashionable set to lead more meaningful lives. He was 38 then and already weighed 18 stone due to his greed and gluttony. The Duke of Wellington described him as "the worst man I ever fell in with my whole life, the most selfish, the most false, the most ill-natured, the most entirely without one redeeming quality.”
Prinny had also run up debts of over £600,000 by the time he was 33, which meant that the fast set struggled to keep up with the fashion. A few had great personal wealth but others gradually got deeper into debt and faced disgrace and ignominy. Some ended up in debtor’s prison, others shot themselves, one or two even ended up in the new United States. Even Beau Brummel ended up fleeing to France to avoid bankruptcy and died a pauper. As I did not have an income I was certainly living beyond my means and was getting through what little money I had faster than a duchess in a hat shop. I did not hear more from Castlereagh and the bank draft my father gave me was quickly used up. I had borrowed another twenty guineas from my brother who was appalled at the speed I had got through the first fifty and did not approve of my friendship with Stewart. What my brother did not know was that I had also borrowed another hundred in my own name from my father’s bank.
Things came to a head when I came home one evening and was handed a letter from my father who had evidently been given a very one sided account of my activities from James. I was furious, peached on by my own brother. Mind you he always had been a pompous tell tale so I should not have been surprised. My father had sent more money but now James was to pay me an allowance like some bloody schoolboy. Well I was not going to put up with that and my brother and I had a blazing row before I stormed out again. I was livid and what made me most angry was that I knew until Castlereagh came up with a job that I would probably have very little choice but to go along with this allowance plan. I skulked home next morning still feeling bitter and found my brother busy thrashing one of the maids, who had broken some favourite ornament. The girl was wailing piteously as he kept lashing her with a cane and I used the diversion to slip past unseen.
I laid low until I heard him call for a cab and leave with his wife Emily. I slipped back downstairs to order a late breakfast but found the maid still sniffling in the hall. At the sight of me a cunning crafty look came into her reddened eyes. “Master Thomas I knows ‘ow you can get your own back on Master James if you want.”
Well that was a damned cheek if ever I heard it and I told her not to interfere in the affairs of her betters and sent her away to get me some breakfast. But my curiosity was piqued and I was still brooding when she brought in the tray. The cunning minx must have known I would be hooked which is why she brought the tray herself rather than send one of the other maids.
“All right, how could I get my own back on James?”
“Beg pardin sir but Master James and Miss Emily are strugglin’ to have children sir. They have gone off to try Dr Graham’s electric bed.” Well I had heard of Graham, who hadn’t, he is the only man I have known make any money out of that completely useless invention, electricity. While scientists keep publishing papers on it, not a single practical use has been found. But Graham, half medical man and half quack had used it to create his Temple of Health, with its centre piece the Celestial Bed.
The bed was designed to help couples conceive and had a gentle electric current pass through it that was supposed to improve fertility. It also had crystals and bells on it that would make music as the bed moved. In the past scantily clad girls were employed to cavort about to help the more feeble men get in the mood for conception. In fact there were rumours that Emma Hamilton, Nelson’s mistress, had started her career acting as the goddess Vestina at Dr Graham’s. The bed had been used by the cream of society including Prinny, Dukes and Duchesses and various politicians and was seen as quite respectable. Dr Graham had made a fortune but unfortunately had spent even more and eventually sold up. The bed was now owned by another quack, claiming to be a ‘sexologist.’
Well it was interesting news but I did not see how it would help me get my own back on my brother and said so.
“But I knows the ‘tendant and ‘e will let us in for a shillin’.”
“Good God girl, I don’t want to watch my own brother mounting his wife, get out!”
“No sir you don’t unnerstand, we don’t watch, we turn the ‘andle that makes the ‘tricity. The ‘tendant says that if you turn it fast you can make them hop and jump sir.”
I considered this as I munched on some toast. I had heard that electric shocks could be quite painful. It was a shame Emily would have to suffer as well but she had chosen to marry the stuffed shirt and so now she had to suffer the consequences. I could get in there, give them the shock and slip away, they would never know it was me. I was also curious to know what electricity looked like when it was being made.
“All right tell me where it is and get me a cab” I said having made my mind up.
“I ‘as to go too sir or they won’t let you in.”
“What, I am not travelling around London with a maid, tell me where it is and I will get in all right.”
“I am not telling you, so you ‘ave to take me too. I want to turn the ‘andle as well.” She stood there with her jaw stubbornly set and I was beginning to understand why my brother had thrashed her.
“All right get your coat and call for a cab.”
We arrived at a discrete looking establishment off Pall Mall a short while later and after the maid had spoken briefly to someone inside we were taken down to a room in the basement. In the centre of the room was a machine with metal cogs, wheels and levers. There were some metal cables leading from the apparatus to the room above and I could hear people moving about on the floorboards above me. A couple were whispering and then a voice asked if they were ready and my brother’s voice replied that they were. The attendant who had shown us down took hold of a big handle that was attached to a wide wheel on the machine that he started to turn slowly. There was a mechanical whirring noise that gradually built up and the attendant said that it was important that we kept the wheel at this steady speed. The maid, I had discovered that her name was Sarah on the journey over, promised we would and I took hold and started turning at the same rate. The attendant stood there watching us for a few minutes but finally he was satisfied and left
us to go back upstairs.
My arm was starting to ache already but as soon as he was gone I started to quicken the pace of the wheel. It must have been attached to some gears and the sound increased to a continual hum. Within a few moments I heard Emily say that the bed was tingling and it was hurting. Then my brother, the gallant fool, suggested that she go on top so she was in less contact with the bed. Knowing my brother was now getting the full charge I turned the wheel even harder and soon heard him gasp but Emily was making entirely different noises and evidently greatly enjoying the new experience
“Oh yes James don’t’ stop.”
“I can’t stop the bloody electricity is convulsing my muscles.”
“Oh God yes that is good.”
I was starting to feel that I was getting more detail of my brother’s love life than I wanted and as my arm was now truly aching I stepped back to give Sarah a go. They may call females the weaker sex but the years that maid had spent scrubbing at steps had not been wasted. She had clearly built up strong arm muscles and doubtless powered on by memories of her recent thrashing she went at the wheel like a demon, far faster than me. Her arm was powering that wheel like one of the new fangled steam engines while above us the couple were shouting even louder.
“Oh James this is fantastic, oh, oh God, oooh God, oh don’t stop.”
Flashman and the Seawolf Page 3
