“Me, in Parliament?” I loosed a huge guffaw. “What the devil would I do there? D'ye think that would keep the Chartists at bay?”
At this he let loose a great tirade about the parlous state of the country, and the impending dissolution of constitutional government, and how it was everyone's duty to rally to the flag. Oddly enough, it reminded me of the kind of claptrap I'd heard from Bismarck—strong government, and lashing the workers—but I couldn't see how Flashy, M.P., was going to bring that about.
“If yesterday's nonsense has convinced you that we need a change at Westminster,” says I, “—and I'd not disagree with you there—why don't you stand yourself?”
He glowered at me over his gruel-bowl. “I'm no' the Hero of Kabul,” says he. “Forbye, I've business enough to attend to. But you—ye've nothing to hinder ye. Ye're never tired o' tellin' us whit a favourite ye are wi' the public. Here's your chance to make somethin' o't.”
“You're out of your senses,” says I. “Who would elect me?”
“Anybody,” snaps he. “A pug ape frae the zoological gardens could win a seat in this country, if it was managed right.” Buttering me up, I could see.
“But I'm not a politician,” says I. “I know nothing about it, and care even less.”
“Then ye're the very man, and ye'll find plenty o' kindred spirits at Westminster,” says he, and when I hooted at him he flew into a tremendous passion that drove the females weeping from the room. I left him raging.
But when I came to think about it, do you know, it didn't seem quite so foolish after all. He was a sharp man, old Morrison, and he could see it would do no harm to have a Member in the family, what with his business interests and so on. Not that I'd be much use to him that I could see—I didn't know, then, that he had been maturing some notion of buying as many as a dozen seats. I'd no idea, you see, of just how wealthy the old rascal was, and how he was scheming to use that wealth for political ends. You won't find much in the history books about John Morrison, Lord Paisley, but you can take my word for it that it was men like him who pulled the strings in the old Queen's time, while the political puppets danced. They still do, and always will.
And from my side of the field, it didn't look a half bad idea. Flashy, M.P. Sir Harry Flashman, M.P., perhaps. Lord Flash of Lightning, Paymaster of the Forces, with a seat in the Cabinet, d-n your eyes. God knows I could do that job as well as Thomas Babbling Macaulay. Even in my day dreaming I stopped short of Flashy, Prime Minister, but for the rest, the more I thought of it the better I liked it. Light work, plenty of spare time for as much depraved diversion as I could manage in safety, and the chance to ram my opinions down the public's throat whenever I felt inclined. I need never go out of London if I didn't want to—I would resign from the army, of course, and rest on my considerable if ill-gotten laurels—and old Morrison would be happy to foot the bills, no doubt, in return for slight services rendered.
The main thing was, it would be a quiet life. As you know, in spite of the published catalogue of my career—Victoria Cross, general rank, eleven campaigns, and all that mummery—I've always been an arrant coward and a peaceable soul. Bullying underlings and whipping trollops always excepted, I'm a gentle fellow—which means I'll never do harm to anyone if there's a chance he may harm me in return. The trouble is, no one would believe it to look at me; I've always been big and hearty and looked the kind of chap who'd go three rounds with the town tough if he so much as stepped on my shadow, and from what Tom Hughes has written of me you might imagine I was always ready for devilment. Aye, but as I've grown older I've learned that devilment usually has to be paid for. God knows I've done my share of paying, and even in '48, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I'd seen enough sorrow, from the Khyber to German dungeons by way of the Borneo jungles and the torture-pits of Madagascar, to convince me that I must never go looking for trouble again.[2] Who'd have thought that old Morrison's plans to seat me at Westminster could have led to. . . well, ne'er mind. All in good time.
As to getting a suitable seat, that would be easy enough, with Morrison's gelt greasing the way. Which prompted the thought that I ought to have a word with him about issues of political importance.
“Two thousand a year at least,” says I.
“Five hundred and no' a penny more,” says he.
“Dammit, I've appearances to keep up,” says I. “Elspeth's notions ain't cheap.”
“I'll attend to that,” says he. “As I always have done.” The cunning old bastard wouldn't even let me have the administration of my own wife's household; he knew better.
“A thousand, then. Good God, my clothes'll cost that.”
“Elspeth can see tae your wardrobe,” says he, smirking. “Five hundred, my buckie; it's mair than your worth.”
“I'll not do it, then,” says I. “And that's flat.”
“Aye, weel,” says he, “that's a peety. I'll just have to get one that will. Ye'll find it a wee bit lean on your army half-pay, I'm thinkin'.”
“Damn you,” says I. “Seven-fifty.”
And eventually I got it, but only because Elspeth told her father I should have it. She, of course, was delighted at the thought of my having a political career. “We shall have soirees, attended by Lord John and the Marquis of Lansdowne,”[3] she exclaimed. “People with titles, and their ladies, and—”
“They're Whigs,” says I. “I've an idea your papa will expect me to be a Tory.”
“It doesn't signify in the least,” says she. “The Tories are a better class of people altogether, I believe. Why, the Duke is a Tory, is he not?”
“So the rumour runs,” says I. “But political secrets of that kind must be kept quiet, you know.”
“Oh, it is all quite wonderful,” says she, paying me no heed at all. “You will be famous again, Harry—you are so clever, you are sure to be a success, and I—I will need at least four page boys with buttons, and footmen in proper uniform.” She clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling, and pirouetted. “Why, Harry! We shall need a new house! I must have clothes—oh, but papa will see to it, he is so kind!”
It occurred to me that papa might decide he had bitten off more than he could chew, listening to her, although personally I thought her ideas were excellent. She was in tremendous spirits, and I took the opportunity to make another assault on her; she was so excited that I had her half out of her dress before she realised what I was about, and then the wicked little b—h teased me along until I was thoroughly randified, only to stop me in the very act of boarding her, because of her concern for dear little Harry Albert Victor, blast his impudence.
“To think,” says she, “that he will have a great statesman for a father!” She had me in the Cabinet already, you see. “Oh, Harry, how proud we shall be!”
Which was small consolation to me just then, having to button myself up and restrain my carnal appetites. To be sure I eased them considerably in the next week or two, for I looked out some of the Haymarket tarts of my acquaintance, and although they were a poor substitute for Elspeth they helped me to settle in again to London life and regular whoring. So I was soon enjoying myself, speculating pleasantly about the future, taking my ease with the boys about the town, forgetting the recent horrors of Jotunberg and Rudi Starnberg's gang of assassins, and waiting for old Morrison to start the wheels of my political career turning.
He was helped, of course, by my own celebrity and the fact that my father—who was now happily settled down with his delirium tremens at a place in the country—had been an M.P. in his time, and a damned fine hand at the hustings; he had got in on a popular majority after horse-whipping his opponent on the eve of the poll and offering to fight bare-knuckle with any man the Whigs could put up, from Brougham down. He had a good deal more bottom than I, but they did for him at Reform, and if I didn't have his ardour I was certain I had a greater talent for survival, political and otherwise.
Anyway, it was some weeks before Morrison announced that I was to meet some “men in the know” as
he called them, and that we were to go down to Wiltshire for a few days, to the house of a local big-wig, where some politicos would be among the guests. It sounded damned dull, and no doubt would have been, had it not been for my own lechery and vanity and the shockingest turn of ill luck. Apart from anything else, I missed the Derby.
We left Elspeth at home, working contentedly at her Berlins,[4] and took the train for Bristol, Morrison and I. He was the damndest travelling companion you ever saw, for apart from being a thundering bore he carped at everything, from the literature at the station book stalls, which he pronounced trash, to the new practice of having to pay a bob “attendance money” to railway servants.[5] I was glad to get to Devizes, I can tell you, whence we drove to Seend, a pretty little place where our host lived in a fairish establishment called Cleeve House.
He was the kind of friend you'd expect Morrison to have—a middle-aged moneybags of a banker called Locke, with reach-me-down whiskers and a face like a three-day corpse. He was warm enough, evidently, but as soon as I saw the females sitting about in chairs on the gravel with their bonnets on, reading improving books, I could see this was the kind of house-party that wasn't Flashy's style at all. I was used to hunting weeks where you dined any old how, with lots of brandy and singing, and chaps p g in the corner and keeping all hours, and no females except the local bareback riders, as old Jack Mitton used to call them. But by '48 they were going out, you see, and it was as much as you dare do, at some of the houses, to produce the cards before midnight after the ladies had retired. I remember Speed telling me, round about this time, of one place he'd been to where they got him up at eight for morning prayers, and gave him a book of sermons to read after luncheon.
Cleeve House wasn't quite as raw as that, but it would have been damned dreary going if one of the girls present hadn't been quite out of the ordinary run. I fixed on her from the start—a willowy blonde piece with a swinging hip and a knowing eye. Strange, I met her at Cleeve, and didn't see her again till I came on her cooking breakfast for a picket of Campbell's Highianders outside Balaclava six years later, the very morning of Cardigan's charge. Fanny Locke her name was;[6] she was the young sister of our host, a damned handsome eighteen with the shape of a well-developed matron. Like so many young girls whose body outgrows their years, she didn't know what to do with it—well, I could give her guidance there. As soon as I saw her swaying down the staircase at Cleeve, ho-ho, thinks I, hark forrard. You may be sure I was soon in attendance, and when I found she was a friendly little thing, and a keen horsewoman, I laid my plans accordingly, and engaged to go riding with her next day, when she would show me the local Country—it was the long grass I had in mind, of course.
In the meantime, the first evening at Cleeve was quite as much fun as a Methodist service. Of course, all Tory gatherings are the same, and Locke had assembled as choice a collection of know-all prigs as you could look for. Bentinck I didn't mind, because he had some game in him and knew more about the turf than anyone I ever met, but he had in tow the cocky little sheeny D'Israeli, whom I never could stomach. He was pathetic, really, trying to behave like the Young Idea when he was well into greasy middle age, with his lovelock and fancy vest, like a Punjabi whoremaster. They were saying then that he had spent longer “arriving” at Westminster than a one-legged Irish peer with the gout; well, he “arrived” in the end, as we know, and if I'd been able to read the future I might have toadied him a good deal more, I dare say.[7]
Locke, our host, introduced us as we were going in to dinner, and I made political small talk, as old Morrison had told me I should.
“Bad work for your lot in the Lords, hey?” says I, and he lowered his lids at me in that smart-affected way he had. “You know,” says I, “the Jewish Bill getting thrown out. Bellows to mend in Whitechapel, what? Bad luck all round,” I went on, “what with Shylock rumning second at Epsom, too. I had twenty quid on him myself,”[8]
I heard Locke mutter “Good God”, but friend Codlingsby just put back his head and looked at me thoughtfully. “Indeed,” says he. “How remarkable. And you aspire to politics, Mr Flashman?”
“That's my ticket,” says I.
“Truly remarkable,” says he. “Do you know, I shall watch your career with bated breath.” And then Locke mumbled him away, and I pounced on Miss Fanny and took her in to dinner.
Of course, it was all politics at table, but I was too engaged with Fanny to pay much heed. When the ladies had gone and we'd all moved up, I heard more, but it didn't stick. I remember they were berating Russell's idleness, and the government's extravagance, on which D'Israeli made one of those sallies which you could see had been well polished beforehand.
“Lord John must not be underestimated,” says he. “He understands the first principle, that the great strength of the British Constitution lies in the money it costs us. Make government cheap and you make it contemptible.”
Everyone laughed except old Morrison, who glared over his glass. “That'll look well in one o' your nov-elles, sir, I don't doubt. But let me tell you, running a country is like running a mill, and waste'll ruin the baith o' them.”
D'Israeli, being smart, affected to misunderstand. “I know nothing of running mills,” says he. “Pugilism is not among my interests,” which of course turned the laugh against old Morrison.
You may judge from this the kind of rare wit to be found at political gatherings; I was out of all patience after an hour of it, and by the time we joined the ladies Miss Fanny, to my disgust, had gone to bed.
Next day, however, she and I were off on our expedition soon after breakfast, with sandwiches and a bottle in my saddlebag, for we intended to ride as far as Roundway Down, a place which she was sure must interest me, since there had been a battle fought there long ago. On the way she showed me the house where she had once lived, and then we cantered on across the excellent riding country that lies north of Salisbury Plain. It was the jolliest day, with a blue sky, fleecy clouds, and a gentle breeze, and Fanny was in excellent trim. She looked mighty fetching in a plumcoloured habit with a tricorne hat and feather, and little black boots, and I never saw a female better in the saddle. She could keep up with me at a gallop, her fair hair flying and her pretty little lips parted as she scudded along, so to impress her I had to show her some of the riding tricks I'd picked up in Afghanistan, like running alongside my beast full tilt, with a hand on the mane, and swinging over the rump to land and run on t'other side. D-d showy stuff, and she clapped her hands and cried bravo, while the bumpkins we passed along the way hallooed and waved their hats.
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.
Flash For Freedom! Page 2
