lashman and the Golden Sword

by Robert Brightwell

  “Dammit, O’Hara, are you drunk already?” The look of annoyance was clear on Chisholm’s features as he added, “It’s barely ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. Do I have to put you in the cells again to sober up? Now leave this gentleman alone, you don’t know him. I doubt that you can even see him clearly.”

  “Ah but I can, Yer Honour, and I know him fine well, so I do.” The Irishman grabbed my hand and shook it. I studied his features but they did not seem familiar – mind you the eyes were bloodshot and the ruddy cheeks riddled with the veins of a heavy drinker. On top of that, the fumes from his breath were enough to make your eyes water.

  I stared at him trying to place the face. “I am not sure…” I started.

  But he cut me off with an exaggerated wink and continued, “Sergeant O’Hara, oh wait now,” he said gazing sadly at the faded cloth on his sleeve, which showed where a sergeant’s stripes had once been. “Corporal O’Hara at your service. But I was a sergeant when yer knew me before,” he added. He turned to Chisholm, “This hofficer,” he announced, “was with my company of the Connaught Rangers at the battle of Busaco.”

  Christ, now I remembered him all right. This villain had seen me trying to shirk my way out of the charge and with his mates, had picked me up and half carried me right into the thickest part of the action. We had only just survived after some desperate fighting. I had shaken his hand at the end of the day, but now I wondered if he was going to denounce me and ruin my reputation, at least in this backwater posting. The concern must have shown on my face, for he winked again before he continued.

  “’E led my company right into the very heart of a French column, sor. We sent ’em running, like the hounds of hell were biting their arses,” he said to Chisholm before turning to me. “D’ ye think I have forgotten how ye killed that great big grenadier bastard that nearly did for me? Now sor,” he beamed at me and filled my face with more of his noxious fumes. “Would you deprive an old comrade of a small drink to wet his whistle?”

  “Is that true?” asked Chisholm, astonished.

  “Oh, I think O’Hara exaggerates a little,” I protested. If I claimed too much credit the conniving weasel could still blackmail me. I glanced across at the crowd he had been standing with to see if there were more familiar faces there who could back him up.

  “Exaggerate?” protested the Irishman. “That giant fecker was as tall as a house and did you not nearly take his head off. The Captain ’ere must have cut him a score of times,” continued O’Hara, “and he saved my life for sure and certain.”

  “Extraordinary,” said Chisholm, before adding with feeling, “By God I wish I had been there.” He looked like he was eager to hear more of our war stories, but I cut him off as I wanted to get O’Hara on his own to find out what the Irishman was about.

  “If you will excuse me,” I said to Chisholm, “I will take the corporal for a drink.” As the man in question beamed his delight, I added, “One that will sober him up.”

  “Did ye think I would tell him how we really got you down that hill?” asked O’Hara a few minutes later as we sat alone.

  “The thought crossed my mind,” I admitted.

  “Well ye shook me hand and shared a drink with me afterwards and you did not make trouble for us when you could have, so I would not be doing that.” He paused and grinned, “Anyway, Flaherty’s dog liked you, so you cannot be all bad. Good judge of character that one.”

  “Flaherty’s dog?” I repeated.

  “Yes, that big Irish wolfhound ye had back then. He had belonged to Corporal Flaherty, who sold it to some English gent. I am guessing that you bought it from him.”

  “The English gent was Lord Byron and he gave me the dog.”

  “The poet fella? I hope Flaherty got a good price, then. What happened to the dog?”

  I hadn’t thought of Boney in years, but the memories brought a smile to my lips; he had been a good companion. “He saved my life more than once,” I told O’Hara. “He was killed at Albuera trying to protect a young ensign.” We were in what passed for a coffee house in Cape Coast Castle, which is to say we were sitting on some fallen logs on the beach near an Arab who sold the strongest coffee known to man. When the African Company of Merchants had run the colony, they had tried to diversify the trade beyond slavery and had tried tea, coffee and spices as new sources of income. Tea and coffee had not proved sufficiently profitable, but as a result the colony was self-sufficient in both. Peppercorns had been their most successful cash crop and pepper was now the main export from the region. Given its abundance, the nearby coffee seller offered a drink he called ‘gunpowder,’ which was strong coffee with a generous dose of ground black pepper mixed in, something he assured us was a great restorative.

  As I sipped my coffee and felt my eyes water, I remembered those Connaught Rangers on the Busaco ridge. They had been wild, fearless soldiers, renowned for their fighting and drinking. Coming from the west of Ireland, many of them had only spoken Gaelic when I had known them. “How the hell did you end up on this godforsaken shore?” I asked.

  “Court-martialled for gettin’ drunk and hitting an officer,” O’Hara admitted before adding defiantly, “a useless prick of an English officer.” He gave a heavy sigh as he considered his fate and then went on. “It was a choice of the Royal African Corps or the lash. I had been flogged before and did not fancy that again. So Seamus and I decided to come here instead. Do ye remember Seamus? He was with us at Busaco.”

  I nodded, I had a vague recollection of a wiry soldier who had tried to take on the giant grenadier on his own.

  “Well you know the French could not kill Seamus. He fought through Portugal, Spain and France, but this place got him in his first summer. He died mewing like a cat in a puddle of his own shit. I got drunk then and I have done my best not to be sober since. We have our own still and I don’t think the fever likes our poitín,” he said, referring to his lethal homebrew.

  “I am not surprised,” I said grinning ruefully as I remembered the time I had tried it. “That stuff would burn the scales off a snake. God knows what it did to my insides. But did they not have a surgeon here to help with the fever?”

  “Aye they did, but he was one of the first to catch it and die. If he could not save himself, what use was he to the rest of us? No, you are better off with a drop o’ spirits. It either cures you or ye do not care. Mind you, the stuff we make now is not as smooth as the old days – we have to use local roots and plants.” He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “But it is still better than this heathen muck.”

  “Drink it down, it will do you good. What were you doing outside the church? Had you been in to see the fragrant Mrs Bracegirdle?”

  “Me in a Protestant church?” he repeated sounding genuinely appalled. “Father Maguire would have my guts for knee braces if I confessed to such a thing. No, I had been waiting to ask a favour of Major Chisholm until I saw you.

  “Were you with him when he was ambushed?” I asked. “What do you make of these Ashanti warriors? They seem to go through the local tribes like a hot knife through butter, but the governor is convinced that they will not stand against us.” I was keen to get an expert opinion. For despite McCarthy’s high rank, as far as I could tell, he had little experience of fighting, while in front of me was an expert in the field.

  “I was there,” he grinned, “and if they had been the French I would not be ’ere now. They were on both sides of us and outnumbered us three or four to one. But they rushed their shots and kept their distance. I have not seen one of them with a bayonet yet.” He took another swig of his spiced coffee and added, “The old boy is probably right. If you show ’em a tough defence they’ll not charge home. He knows his business. He has had me and the lads with Light Company experience training the others on how to fight in loose formation. There is no room for tight ranks and volleys in that stinkin’ jungle.”

  I was considerably reassured. If I had been asked to guess which of my former comrades had been p
osted to a penal regiment like the Royal African Corps, I might well have chosen the Connaughts, for they were viewed as near wild men by the rest of the army. But the one thing that they did know about, apart from drinking, was fighting. They had been in the thick of numerous battles under a variety of commanders. Even half drunk, I valued O’Hara’s judgement. He could quickly assess an enemy as well as the capability of a commanding officer. Fighting in the jungle, McCarthy’s plan to train his soldiers to fight in looser formations seemed very sensible. “What did you want with Major Chisholm?” I asked, conscious that I had taken the corporal away from his duties.

  “Ah, I was trying to persuade him to take me on as his orderly,” the soldier admitted. “I’m gettin’ too old for all this running about in the heat.”

  “Nothing to do with the easy access to the officers’ wine stores, then?” I enquired with a wry grin. “I cannot imagine why Chisholm is reluctant to appoint you.”

  “Have you got an orderly yet, sir? An officer of your importance needs a man watching after him, so he does.” There was a cheeky glint in his half-focused eyes, but the Irish charm was not working with me.

  “Why on earth would I agree to having you as an orderly?” I laughed.

  “Because ye will probably leave without payin’ yer mess bill, so you’ll not care how much I drink,” he stated perceptively. As I began to object he held up a finger to stop me, “And I can tell you where that lassie you admire so much will be just before dusk this evenin’.”

  Chapter 6

  Corporal O’Hara was without doubt, the worst orderly I have ever had, with the possible exception of a Private McFarlane back in India. But there were compensations and as you will see from later in my tale, I would not be here now without him. The first of these was the intelligence that Mrs Bracegirdle had a penchant for an evening stroll. Nothing unusual in that, but her perambulations regularly took her along a hillside path that overlooked a stretch of beach that the men used to take a dip in the sea at the end of the day. She had been seen more than once peering over the rocks to get a view of the naked men splashing in and out of the surf. That information, together with the news offered by the governor on her background, provided an opportunity that was too good to miss.

  So it was that two evenings later, I was secreted along that very path opposite the beach. I had been there every evening since O’Hara had told me, but until now my prey had not appeared.

  “Wait there, Bessie,” I heard her call to her local maid and then she came up alone along the path. She checked to see if anyone was coming up the track from the opposite direction, but she did not see me as I was hiding in the bushes behind her. I watched as she crouched down and moved slowly to the edge of the path, so that she could peer through the branches of a shrub. The sound of distant shouting and laughter carried in the air as the men ran through the waves, washing off the sweat of another sultry day. My beauty watched with rapt attention and while I could not see her left hand, her right began to squeeze her breast. A low groan of desire escaped her lips, which seemed to be my cue to step forward.

  “Why, Mrs Bracegirdle, what a surprise to see you here.” She emitted a startled scream and the poor woman half fell into the leaves she had been hiding behind.

  “Mistress, are you all right?” The young maid came at a run, just in time to find me helping her red-faced employer from the foliage.

  “I’m fine, Bessie, this gentleman just surprised me, that is all.” She turned to me and tried to recover her dignity. “What are you about, sir, creeping up on me like that?”

  Instead of replying I reached forward and pulled down a palm frond to reveal clearly to both of us the view she had been previously enjoying. Around half a dozen naked men were lying on the sand no more than thirty yards away. Two were looking around having heard the scream and I gave them a cheery wave. Beyond those, another half dozen were still running in and out of the waves. “I can see now why you did not hear me coming up the path,” I said coolly.

  The maid sniggered with amusement – she must have known what her mistress was doing all along. “Bessie, go and wait for me back up the path,” Mrs Bracegirdle snapped, before turning those beautiful blue eyes onto me. “How dare you sir, I am a respectable married woman,” she blazed. “I… I just heard shouting and wanted to check that someone was not drowning.” I watched as she glanced to the bend in the path over my shoulder and tried to gauge what I might have seen. Well she was not going to get away that easily.

  “Do you know, I think we have met before in England. Your face looks familiar.”

  “I doubt that, sir, now if you will excuse me.” She turned to go as I continued.

  “Yes, it was some place in Oxfordshire, where was it now? Your name was not Bracegirdle then either.” She stopped then, frozen as I went on. “Ah yes, it was Temple, you were Miss Temple back then, a vicar’s daughter if I recall.”

  She turned to face me then, a look of fear on her face as she searched my features to see if I knew her secret. “Yes, I heard the story of you and the two men,” I confirmed and watched as the colour drained from her face. I gestured through the leaves, “I saw you watching those men too, so don’t play the coy mistress with me. I just thought we could help each other to scratch an itch, so to speak.”

  “So it is blackmail,” she whispered. “I sleep with you or you tell everyone what you know.”

  “Not at all,” I replied genially. “I have not said a word to anyone here of what happened in Oxfordshire and nor shall I, whatever you decide. You have a choice. You can continue to lie with that dry old stick of a husband and creep around in the bushes clutching yourself while you watch the soldiers; at least before you are caught and humiliated by someone with fewer scruples than I. On the other hand, you can arrange an assignation with me, which I am sure we will both find very satisfying and you can rely on my continued discretion.” I gave her my warmest smile. “Now good day to you. I will leave you to let me know what you choose.”

  With that I turned away and strolled off down the path. I could not resist a self-satisfied smile as I went, for the encounter could not have gone better. I would rather she come willingly to any meeting than under duress; she would participate more enthusiastically then. The frustration that had been in her as she had watched the soldiers was almost palpable – she was on the boil to get her muttons and I was only too happy to oblige. A day, I thought, two at the most and she would come running. Of course, if she did somehow manage to hold out, there was always the blackmail option to fall back on.

  As it turned out, it took her three days to make her approach, but I knew she was interested before then. She had engineered a meeting with Chisholm to find out all about me. O’Hara had overheard some of it and the good major had waxed lyrical about my wartime exploits in Spain, inviting the Irishman to describe the action at Busaco.

  “I piled on Yer Honour’s glories,” the corporal confided later with a conspiratorial wink. “I told them of your charge at Talavera and that you had fought in Canada and at Waterloo too. I don’t know what hold ye have over that girl, but she was impressed.”

  “It’s just my natural charm,” I insisted. But the next evening as I strolled through the castle to the officers’ mess, I found the maid Bessie waiting for me. She grinned and pushed a note into my hand. Without waiting for a reply, she rushed off into the shadows and away, out of the castle. I stood under a nearby lantern and read:

  Dear Mr Flashman,

  Given your interest in our work, I wondered if you would care to join me tomorrow on a trip down the coast to visit one of the settlements of freed slaves that we administer. A fisherman has agreed to take us in his boat. I will be bringing Bessie and for propriety you may wish to bring a companion too.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eliza Bracegirdle

  I must have grinned in the darkness as I anticipated the pleasures to come. What I did not expect, though, as O’Hara and I strolled to the beach the next morning was to see
the Reverend Bracegirdle standing on the sand with his wife. I cursed under my breath: had the damn woman tricked me after all? I wondered. The old boy was fussing over the supplies in the fishing boat, but turned when he saw us approach.

  “Ah, Mr Flashman,” his voice quavered. “How pleased I am to see you and grateful to you for escorting my wife.”

  “You are not coming with us then, Reverend?” I asked with relief.

  “Goodness me no, my duties take me elsewhere today, but I know my wife will be in safe hands with you.”

  “You can rest assured on that score,” I told him fervently and by Christ I meant it, for Eliza was looking most becoming. The crisp new blouse flapped invitingly on the sea breeze and the wide straw bonnet framed her features to perfection. I was positively champing at the bit and could not wait to get away.

  In no time at all I had helped push the boat off the beach and was soon manning the tiller while the fishermen hauled on the ropes to raise the sail. The craft was the size of a small cutter. O’Hara and Bessie sat in the bows while Eliza and I were in the stern. The fishermen stayed in the middle of the boat amid a pile of nets and a cargo of supplies for the settlement we were visiting. Soon we were through the breakers and I gestured at one of the fishermen to haul on a rope to tighten the angle of the sail as I turned the boat east.

  “You look comfortable sailing a boat.” It was the first thing Eliza had said to me, but I had seen her watching me carefully as I had helped launch the craft.

  “I should be, I was a captain in the Brazilian Navy three months ago.”

  “A naval officer!” she exclaimed. “But I was told that you were in the army.”

  “I was, but more recently I helped my friend Thomas Cochrane in South America.”

  “Is he the man the papers call the renegade admiral?”

  “That would be him,” I admitted. Then in a blatant attempt to earn favour I added, “He is currently helping the new Brazilian emperor in his efforts to abolish slavery in that country.”