Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 1: Flashman, Royal Flash, Flashman’s Lady. George Fraser MacDonald
Forrest, will you act for me?”
Forrest said yes, like a shot, and Bryant looked piqued. He expected I would have named him, but I had another part for him to play.
“And who acts for you?” I asked Bernier, very cool. He named Tracy, one of the Indian men, and I gave Tracy a bow and then went over to the card table as though nothing had happened.
“Mr Forrest will have the details to attend to,” I said to the others. “Shall we cut for the bank?”
They stared at me. “By gad, Flash, you’re a cool one!” cries Bryant.
I shrugged, and took up the cards, and we started playing again, the others all very excited – too excited to notice that my thoughts were not on my cards. Luckily, vingt-et-un calls for little concentration.
After a moment Forrest, who had been conferring with Tracy, came over to tell me that, with Lord Cardigan’s permission, which he was sure must be forthcoming, we should meet behind the riding school at six in the morning. It was assumed I would choose pistols – as the injured party I had the choice.6 I nodded, very offhand, and told Bryant to hurry with the deal. We played a few more hands, and then I said I was for bed, lit my cheroot and strolled out with an airy goodnight to the others, as though the thought of pistols at dawn troubled me no more than what I should have for breakfast. Whatever happened, I had grown in popular esteem for this night at least.
I stopped under the trees on the way to my quarters, and after a moment, as I had expected, Bryant came hurrying after me, full of excitement and concern. He began to babble about what a devil of a fellow I was, and what a fighting Turk Bernier was, but I cut him off short.
“Tommy,” says I. “You’re not a rich man.”
“Eh?” says he. “What the—”
“Tommy,” says I. “Would you like ten thousand pounds?”
“In God’s name,” says he. “What for?”
“For seeing that Bernier stands up at our meeting tomorrow with an unloaded pistol,” says I, straight out. I knew my man.
He goggled at me, and then began to babble again. “Christ, Flash, are you crazy? Unloaded … why …”
“Yes or no,” says I. “Ten thousand pounds.”
“But it’s murder!” he squealed. “We’d swing for it!” No thought of honour you see, or any of that rot.
“Nobody’s going to swing,” I told him. “And keep your voice down, d’ye hear? Now, then, Tommy, you’re a sharp man with the sleight of hand at parties – I’ve seen you. You can do it in your sleep. For ten thousand?”
“My God, Flash,” says he, “I don’t dare.” And he began babbling again, but in a whisper this time.
I let him ramble for a moment, for I knew he would come round. He was a greedy little bastard, and the thought of ten thousand was like Aladdin’s cave to him. I explained how safe and simple it would be; I had thought it out when first I left the mess.
“Go and borrow Reynolds’ duelling pistols, first off. Take ’em to Forrest and Tracy and offer to act as loader – you’re always into everything, and they’ll be glad to accept, and never think twice.”
“Won’t they, by God?” cried he. “They know I’m hellish thick with you, Flashy.”
“You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I reminded him. “Now who will imagine for a moment that you would stoop to such a treacherous act, eh? No, no, Tommy, it’s cut and dried. And in the morning, with the surgeon and seconds standing by, you’ll load up – carefully. Don’t tell me you can’t palm a pistol ball.”
“Oh, aye,” says he, “like enough. But—”
“Ten thousands pounds,” I said, and he licked his lips.
“Jesus,” he said at length. “Ten thousand. Phew! On your word of honour, Flash?”
“Word of honour,” I said, and lit another cheroot.
“I’ll do it!” says he. “My God! You’re a devil, Flash! You won’t kill him, though? I’ll have no part in murder.”
“Captain Bernier will be as safe from me as I’ll be from him,” I told him, “Now, cut along and see Reynolds.”
He cut on the word. He was an active little rat, that I’ll say for him. Once committed he went in heart and soul.
I went to my quarters, got rid of Basset who was waiting up for me, and lay down on my cot. My throat was dry and my hands were sweating as I thought of what I had done. For all the bluff front I had shown to Bryant, I was in a deathly funk. Suppose something went wrong and Bryant muffed it? It had seemed so easy in that moment of panicky thought outside the mess – fear stimulates thought, perhaps, but it may not be clear thought, because one sees the way out that one wants to see, and makes headlong for it. I thought of Bryant fumbling, or being too closely overseen, and Bernier standing up in front of me with a loaded pistol in a hand like a rock, and the muzzle pointing dead at my breast, and felt the ball tearing into me, and myself falling down screaming, and dying on the ground.
I almost shouted out at the horror of it, and lay there blubbering in the dark room; I would have got up and run, but my legs would not let me. So I began to pray, which I had not done, I should say, since I was about eight years old. But I kept thinking of Arnold and hell – which is no doubt significant – and in the end there was nothing for it but brandy, but it might as well have been water.
I did no sleeping that night, but listened to the clock chiming away the quarters, until dawn came, and I heard Basset approaching. I had just sense enough left to see that it wouldn’t do for him to find me red-eyed and shivering, so I made believe to sleep, snoring like an organ, and I heard him say:
“If that don’t beat! Listen to ’im, sound as a babby. Isn’t he the game-cock, though?”
And another voice, another servant’s, I suppose, replied:
“Thay’s all alike, bloody fools. ’E won’t be snorin’ tomorrow mornin’, after Bernier’s done with ’im. ’E’ll be sleepin’ too sound for that.”
Right, my lad, whoever you are, I thought, if I come through this it’ll be strange if I can’t bring you to the rings at the riding school, and we’ll see your backbone when the farrier-sergeant takes the cat to you. We’ll hear how loud you can snore yourself. And with that surge of anger I suddenly felt confidence replacing fear – Bryant would see it through, all right – and when they came for me I was at least composed, if not cheerful.
When I am frightened, I go red in the face, not pale, as most men do, so that in me fear can pass for anger, which has been convenient more than once. Bryant tells me that I went out to the riding school that morning wattled like a turkey cock; he said the fellows made sure I was in a fury to kill Bernier. Not that they thought I had a chance, and they were quiet for once as we walked across the parade just as the trumpeter was sounding reveille.
They had told Cardigan of the affair, of course, and some had thought he might intervene to prevent it. But when he had heard of the blow, he had simply said:
“Where do they meet?”
and gone back to sleep again, with instructions to be called at five. He did not approve of duelling – although he duelled himself in famous circumstances – but he saw that in this case the credit of the regiment would only be hurt if the affair were patched up.
Bernier and Tracy were already there, with the surgeon, and the mist was hanging a little under the trees. Our feet thumped on the turf, which was still wet with dew, as we strode across to them, Forrest at my side, and Bryant with the pistol case beneath his arm following on with the others. About fifty yards away, under the trees by the fence, was a little knot of officers, and I saw Cardigan’s bald head above his great caped coat. He was smoking a