Flashman's Lady

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Good luck to you, my lads, thinks I, for I’m tired. At the same moment, Elspeth cries:

  “Oh. Harry, Harry, darling Harry!” and clung to me. “Do you think,” she whispered faintly, “that we might sit down now?” With that she went into a dead swoon, and we sank to the wet sand in each other’s arms, between the boats and the landing party. I was too tuckered and dizzy to do anything except sit there, holding her, while the battle raged at the top of the beach, and I thought, by Jove, we’re clear at last, and soon I’ll be able to sleep…

  “You, sir!” cries a voice. “Yes, you—what are you about, sir? Great Scott!—is that a woman you have there?”

  A party of British sailors, carrying empty stretchers, were racing across our front to the fort, and with them this red-faced chap with a gold strip on his coat, who’d checked to pop his eyes at us. He was waving a sword and pistol. I yelled to him above the din of firing that we were escaped prisoners of the Malagasies, but he only went redder than ever.

  “What’s that you say? You’re not with the landing party? Then get off the beach, sir—get off this minute! You’ve no business here! This is a naval operation! What’s that, bos’un?—I’m coming, bl--t you! On, you men!”

  He scampered off, brandishing his weapons, but I didn’t care. I knew I was too done to carry Elspeth down to the boats a hundred yards off, but we were out of effective musket shot of the fort, so I was content to sit and wait until someone should have time to attend to us. They were all busy enough at the moment, in all conscience; the ground before the palisade was littered with dead and crawling wounded, and through the breaches they’d broken I could see them spiking the guns while the scaling parties were still trying to get up the thirty-foot wall behind. They had ladders, crowded with tars and matelots, their steel flashing in the smoke at the top of the wall, where the defenders were slashing and firing away.

  Above the crashing musketry there was a sudden cheer; the big black-and-white Malagassy flag on the fort wall was toppling down on its broken staff, but a Malagassy on the battlements caught it as it fell; the fighting boiled around him, but at that moment a returning stretcher party charged across my line of vision, bearing stricken men back to the boats, so I didn’t see what happened to him.

  Still no one paid any mind to Elspeth and me; we were slightly out of the main traffic up and down the beach, and although one party of Frog sailors stopped to stare curiously at us, they were soon chivvied away by a bawling officer. I tried to raise her, but she was still slumped unconscious against my breast, and I was labouring away when I saw that the landing party were beginning to fall back from the fort. The walking wounded came hobbling first, supported by their mates, and then the main parties all jumbled up together, British and French, with the petty officers swearing and bawling orders as the men tried to find their right divisions. They were squabbling and jostling in great disorder, the British tars cursing the Frogs, and the Frogs grimacing and gesticulating back.

  I called out for assistance, but it was like talking in a madhouse—and then over all the trampling and babble the distant guns from the ships began to boom again, and shot whistled overhead to crash into the fort, for our rearguard was clear now, skirmishing away in goodish order, exchanging musket fire with the battlements which they’d failed to overcome. All they seemed to have captured was the Malagassy flag; in among the retiring skirmishers, with the enemy shot peppering them, a disorderly mob of French and English seamen were absolutely at blows with each other for possession of the confounded thing, with cries of “Ah, voleurs!” and “Belay, you sod!”, the Frogs kicking and the Britons lashing out with their fists, while two of their officers tried to part them.

  Finally the English officer, a great lanky fellow with his trouser leg half torn off and a bloody bandage round his knee, succeeded in wrenching the banner away, but the Frog officer, who was about four feet tall, grabbed an end of it, and they came stumbling down in my direction, yelling at each other in their respective lingoes, with their crews joining in.

  “You shall not have it!” cries the Frog. “Render it to me, monsieur, this instant!”

  “Sheer off, you greasy half-pint!” roars John Bull. “You take your paw away directly, or you’ll get what for!”

  “Sacred English thief! It fell to my men, I tell you! It is a prize of France!”

  “Will you leave off, you frog-eating ape? D---e, if you and your cowardly jackanapes had fought as hard as you squeal we’d have had that fort by now! Let go, d’ye hear?”

  “Ah, you resist me, do you?” cries the Frog, who came about up to the Englishman’s elbow. “It is sufficient, this! Release it, this flag, or I shall pistol you!”

  “Give over, rot you!” They were almost on top of us by now, the sturdy Saxon holding the flag above his head and the tiny Frog clinging to it and hacking at his shins. “I’ll cast anchor in you, you prancing swab, if—Good G-d, that’s a woman!” His jaw dropped as he caught sight of me at his feet, with Elspeth in my arms. He stared, speechless, oblivious of the Frenchman, who was now drumming at his chest with tiny fists, eyes tight shut.

  “If you’ve a moment,” says I, “I’d be obliged if you’d assist my wife to your boats. We’re British, and we’ve escaped from captivity in the interior.”

  I had to repeat it before he took it in, with a variety of oaths, while the Frog, who had stopped drumming, glared suspiciously.

  “What does he say, then?” cries he. “Does he conspire, the rascal? Ah, but I shall have the flag—death of the devil, what is this? A woman, beneath our feet, then?”

  I explained to him, in French, and he goggled and removed his hat.

  “A lady? An English lady? Incredible! But a lady so beautiful, by example, and in a condition of swoon! Ah, but the poor little! Médecin-major Narcejac! Médecin-major Narcejac! Come quickly—and do you, sir, be calm!” He was fairly dancing in agitation. “Attend, you others, and guard madame!”

  They were all crowding round, gaping, and while a Frog sawbones knelt beside Elspeth, whose eyelids were fluttering, a couple of tars helped me up, and the English officer demanding to know who I was, I told him, and he said, not Flashman of Afghanistan, surely, and I said, the very same, and he said, well, he was d----d, and he was Kennedy, second of the frigate Conway, and proud to meet me. During this the little Frog officer was hopping excitedly, informing me that he was Lieutenant Boudancourt, of the Zélée, that madame would receive every comfort, and sal volatile, that the entire French marine was at her service, name of a name, and he, Boudancourt who spoke, would personally supervise her tranquil removal without delay—

  “Avast there. Crapaud!” roars Kennedy. “What’s he saying? Jenkins, Russell! The lady’s British, an’ she’ll come in a British boat, by G-d! Can you walk, marm?”

  Elspeth, supported by the Frog doctor, was still so faint, either from fatigue or all this male attention, that she could only gesture limply, and Boudancourt squawked his indignation at Kennedy.

  “Do not raise the voice above the half, if you please! Ah, but see, you have returned madame to a decline!”

  “Shut your trap!” cries Kennedy, and then, to a seaman who was tugging at his sleeve. “What the h--l is it now?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Mister Heseltine’s compliments, an’ the blacks is makin’ a sally, looks like, sir.”

  He was pointing up the beach : sure enough, black figures in white loin-cloths were emerging through the broken palisade, braving the shot from the ships and our rearguard’s musketry. Some of them were firing towards us; there was the alarming swish of bullets overhead.

  “H--l and d--nation!” cries Kennedy. “Frogs, women, an’ niggers! It’s too bad! Mister Cliff, I’ll be obliged if you’ll get those men off the beach! Cover ’em, sharpshooters! Russell, run to the boat—tell Mister Partridge to load the two-pounder with grape and let ’em have it if they come within range! Fall back, there! Get off the beach!”

  Boudancourt was yelling similar
instructions to his own people; among them, the médecin-major and a matelot were helping Elspeth down to the nearest boat.

  “Well, go with her, you fool!” cries Kennedy to me. “You know what these b----y Frogs are like, don’t you?” He was limping along on his injured leg, the Malagassy flag trailing from his hand, little Boudancourt snapping at his heels.

  “Ah, but a moment, monsieur! You forget, I think, that you still carry that which is the rightful property of Madame la République! Be pleased to yield me that flag!”

  “I’ll be d--ned if I do!”

  “Villain, do you defy me still? You shall not leave this shore alive!”

  “Shove off, you little squirt!”

  I could hear their squabbling above the din as I reached the gunwale of the French boat, with men floundering about her knee-deep in water. Elspeth was being helped to the stern-sheets through a jabbering, groaning, shouting crowd of Frenchmen—some were standing in the bows, firing up the beach, others were preparing to shove off, there were wounded crying or lying silent against the thwarts, a midshipman was yelling shrill orders to the men at the sweeps. There was a deafening explosion as the British cutter nearby fired her bow-gun; the Malagassies were streaming out of the fort in numbers now, skirmishing down the beach, taking pot-shots—they’d be forming up for a charge in a moment—and Kennedy and Boudancourt, the last men off the beach, were splashing through the shallows, tugging at the flag and yelling abuse at each other.

  “Let go, G-d rot your boots!”

  “English bully, you shall not escape!”

  I think of them sometimes, when I hear idiot politicians blathering about “entente cordiale”—Kennedy shaking his fist, Boudancourt blue in the face, with that dirty, useless piece of calico stretched taut between them. And I’m proud to think that in that critical moment, with confusion all around and disaster imminent, my diplomatic skill asserted itself to save the day—for I believe they’d have been there yet if I hadn’t snatched a knife from the belt of a matelot beside me and slashed at the flag, cursing hysterically. It didn’t do more than tear it slightly, but that was enough—the thing parted with a rending sound, Kennedy swore, Boudancourt shrieked, and we scrambled aboard as the bow-chasers roared for the last time and the boats ground over the shingle and wallowed in the surf.

  “Assassin!” cries Boudancourt, brandishing his half.

  “Pimp!” roars Kennedy, from the neighbouring boat.

  That was how we came away from Madagascar. More than a score of French and British dead it cost, that mismanaged, lunatic operation,45 but since it saved my life and Elspeth’s by sheer chance, you’ll forgive me if I don’t complain. All that I could think, as I huddled beside her in the stern, my head swimming with fatigue and my body one great throbbing ache, was—by Jove, we’re clear. Mad black queens, Solomon, Brooke, Hovas, head-hunters, Chink hatchetmen, poison darts, boiling pits, skull ships, tanguin poison—they’re all gone, and we’re pulling across blue water, my girl and I, to a ship that’ll take us home…

  “Pardon, monsieur.” Boudancourt, beside me, was frowning at the piece of sodden flag in his hands. “Can you say,” says he, pointing at the black script on it, “what these words signify?”

  I couldn’t read ’em, of course, but I’d learned enough of Malagassy heraldry to know what they were.

  “That says ‘Ranavalona’,” I told him. “She’s the queen of that b----y island, and you can thank your stars you’ll never get closer to her than this. I could tell you—” I was going on, but I felt Elspeth stir against me and thought, no, least said soonest mended. I glanced at her; she was awake, all right, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes appeared to be demurely downcast, which I couldn’t fathom until I noticed that her dress was so torn that her bare legs were uncovered, and every libidinous Frog face in that boat was leering in her direction. And didn’t she know it, though? By George, thinks I, that’s how this whole confounded business started, because this simpering slut allowed herself to be ogled by lewd fellows—

  “D’ye mind?” says I to Boudancourt, and taking the torn banner from his hand I disposed it decently across her knees, scowling at the disgruntled Frogs. She looked at me, all innocent wonder, and then smiled and snuggled up to my shoulder.

  “Why. Harry,” sighs she. “You take such good care of me.”

  [Final extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, July—, 1845]

  …to be sure it is very tiresome to be parted again so soon from my dear, dear H., especially after the Cruel Separation which we have endured, and just at a time when we supposed we could enjoy the repose and comfort of each other’s company in Blissful Peace at last, and in the safety of Old England. But H.E. the Governor at Mauritius was quite determined that H. must go to India, for it seems that there is growing turmoil there among the Seekh people, and that homeward bound regiments have had to be sent back again, and every Officer of proved experience is required in case of war.46 So of course my darling, being on the Active List, must be despatched to Bombay, not without Vigorous Protest on his part, and he even went so far as to threaten to send in his Papers, and quit the Service altogether, but this they would not permit at all.

  So I am left lamenting, like Lord Ullin’s daughter, or was it her father, I don’t perfectly remember which, while the Husband of my Bosom returns to his Duty, and indeed I hope he takes care with the Seekhs, who appear to be most disagreeable. My only Consolation is the knowledge that my dearest would rather far have accompanied me home himself, and it was this Dear Concern and Affection for me that caused him to resist so fiercely when they said he must go to India (and indeed he grew quite violent on the subject, and called H.E. the Governor many unpleasant things which I shan’t set down, they were so shocking). But I could never have him forsake the Path of Honour, which he loves so well, for my sake, and there really was no reason why he should, for I am extremely comfortable and well taken care of aboard the good ship Zelée, whose commander, Captain Feiseck, has been so obliging as to offer me passage to Toulon, rather than await an Indiaman. He is most Agreeable and Attentive, with the most polished manners and full of consideration to me, as are all his officers, especially Lieutenants Homard and St Just and Delincourt and Ambrée and dear little Boudancourt and even the Midshipmen…

  [End of extract—Humbug, vanity and affectation to the last! And a very proper wifely concern, indeed! ! !—G. de R.]

  (On this note of impatience from its original editor, the manuscript of the sixth packet of the Flashman Papers comes to an end.)

  * Organisation.

  Appendixes

  Notes

  Appendix A: Cricket in the 1840s

  Flashman had a highly personal approach to cricket, as to most things, but there can be no doubt that through his usual cynicism there shines a genuine love of the game. This is not surprising, since it is perhaps the subtlest and most refined outdoor sport ever devised, riddled with craft and gamesmanship, and affording endless scope to a character such as his. Also, he played it well, according to his own account and that of Thomas Hughes, who may be relied on, since he was not prone to exaggerate anything to Flashman’s credit. Indeed, if he had not been so fully occupied by military and other pursuits, Flashman might well have won a place in cricket history as a truly great fast bowler—the dismissal of such a trio as Felix, Pilch, and Mynn (the early Victorian equivalents of Hobbs, Bradman, and Keith Miller) argues a talent far above the ordinary.

  How reliable a guide he is to the cricket of his day may be judged from reference to the works listed at the end of this appendix. His recollection of Lord’s in its first golden age is precise, as are his brief portraits of the giants of his day—the huge and formidable Mynn, the elegant Felix, and the great allrounder Pilch (although most contemporaries show Pilch as being a good deal more genial than Flashman found him). His technical references to the game are sound, although he has a tendency to mix the jargon of his playing days with that of sixty years later, when he was writing—thu
s he talks not of batsmen, but of “batters”, which is correct 1840s usage, as are shiver, trimmer, twister, and shooter (all descriptive of bowling); at the same time he refers indiscriminately to both “hand” and “innings”, which mean the same thing, although the former is long obsolete, and he commits one curious lapse of memory by referring to “the ropes” at Lord’s in 1842; in fact, boundaries were not introduced until later, and in Flashman’s time all scores had to be run for.

  Undoubtedly the most interesting of his cricket recollections is his description of his single-wicket match with Solomon; this form of the game was popular in his day, but later suffered a decline, although attempts have been made to revive it recently. The rules are to be found in Charles Box’s The English Game of Cricket (1877), but these varied according to preference; there might be any number of players, from one to six, on either side, but if there were fewer than five it was customary to prohibit scoring or dismissals behind the line of the wicket. Betting on such games was widespread, and helped to bring them into disrepute. However, it should be remembered that the kind of wagering indulged in by Flashman, Solomon, and Daedalus Tighe was common in their time; heavy, eccentric, and occasionally crooked it undoubtedly was, but it was part and parcel of a rough and colourful sporting era in which even a clergyman might make a handsome income in cricket side-bets, when games could be played by candlelight, and enthusiasts still recalled such occasions as the Greenwich Pensioners’ match in which spectators thronged to see a team of one-legged men play a side who were one-armed (The one-legged team won, by 103 runs; five wooden legs were broken during the game.) Indeed, we may echo Flashman: cricket is not what it was. (See Box; W. W. Read’s Annals of Cricket, 1896; Eric Parker’s The History of Cricket, Lonsdale Library (with Sir Spencer Ponsonby-Fane’s description of Lord’s in “Lord’s and the M.C.C.”); W. Denison’s Sketches of the Players, 1888; Nicholas (“Felix”) Wanostrocht’s Felix on the Bat, 1845; and the Rev. J. Pycroft’s Oxford Memories, 1886.)