The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
numbing my wrists, and I opened my eyes to see the ball scuttling off to leg behind the wicket. Brooke yells “Come on!”, and the lord knows I wanted to, but my legs didn’t answer, and Brooke had to turn back, shaking his head.
This has got to stop, thinks I, for I’ll be maimed for life if I stay here. And panic, mingled with hate and rage, gripped me as Mynn turned again; he strode up to the wicket, arm swinging back, and I came out of my ground in a huge despairing leap, swinging my bat for dear life – there was a sickening crack and in an instant of elation I knew I’d caught it low down on the outside edge, full swipe, the b----y thing must be in Wiltshire by now, five runs for certain, and I was about to tear up the pitch when I saw Brooke was standing his ground, and Felix, who’d been fielding almost in my pocket, was idly tossing the ball up in his left hand, shaking his head and smiling at me.
How he’d caught it only he and Satan know; it must have been like snatching a bullet from the muzzle. But he hadn’t turned a hair, and I could only trudge back to the pavilion, while the mob groaned in sympathy, and I waved my bat to them and tipped my tile – after all I was a bowler, and at least I’d taken a swing at it. And I’d faced three balls from Alfred Mynn.
We closed our hand at 91, Flashy caught Felix, nought, and it was held to be a very fair score, although Kent were sure to pass it easily, and since it was a single-hand match that would be that. In spite of my blank score – how I wished I had gone for that single off the second ball! – I was well received round the pavilion, for it was known who I was by now, and several gentlemen came to shake my hand, while the ladies eyed my stalwart frame and simpered to each other behind their parasols; Elspeth was glowing at the splendid figure I had cut in her eyes, but indignant that I had been out when my wicket hadn’t been knocked down, because wasn’t that the object of the game? I explained that I had been caught out, and she said it was a most unfair advantage, and that little man in the cap must be a great sneak, at which the gentlemen around roared with laughter and ogled her, calling for soda punch for the lady and swearing she must be taken on to the committee to amend the rules.
I contented myself with a glass of beer before we went out to field, for I wanted to be fit to bowl, but d---e if Brown didn’t leave me loafing in the outfield, no doubt to remind me that I was a whoremonger and therefore not fit to take an over. I didn’t mind, but lounged about pretty nonchalant, chatting with the townies near the ropes, and shrugging my shoulders eloquently when Felix or his partner made a good hit, which they did every other ball. They fairly knocked our fellows all over the wicket, and had fifty up well within the hour; I observed to the townies that what we wanted was a bit of ginger, and limbered my arm, and they cheered and began to cry: “Bring on the Flash chap! Huzza for Afghanistan!” and so forth, which was very gratifying.
I’d been getting my share of attention from the ladies in the carriages near my look-out, and indeed had been so intent on winking and swaggering that I’d missed a long hit, at which Brown called pretty sharply to me to mind out; now one or two of the more spirited ladybirds began to echo the townies, who egged them on, so that “Bring on the Flash chap!” began to echo round the ground, in gruff bass and piping soprano. Finally Brown could stand it no longer, and waved me in, and the mob cheered like anything, and Felix smiled his quiet smile and took fresh guard.
On the whole he treated my first over with respect, for he took only eleven off it, which was better than I deserved. For of course I flung my deliveries down with terrific energy, the first one full pitch at his head, and the next three horribly short, in sheer nervous excitement. The crowd loved it, and so did Felix, curse him; he didn’t reach the first one, but he drew the second beautifully for four, cut the third on tip-toe, and swept the last right off his upper lip and into the coaches near the pavilion.
How the crowd laughed and cheered, while Brown bit his lip with vexation, and Brooke frowned his disgust. But they couldn’t take me off after only one turn; I saw Felix say something to his partner, and the other laughed – and as I walked back to my look-out a thought crept into my head, and I scowled horribly and clapped my hands in disgust, at which the spectators yelled louder than ever. “Give ’em the Afghan pepper, Flashy!” cries one, and “Run out the guns!” hollers another; I waved my fist and stuck my hat on the back of my head, and they cheered and laughed again.
They gave a huge shout when Brown called me up for my second turn, and settled themselves to enjoy more fun and fury. You’ll get it, my boys, thinks I, as I thundered up to the wicket, with the mob counting each step, and my first ball smote about half-way down the pitch, flew high over the batsman’s head, and they ran three byes. That brought Felix to face me again, and I walked back, closing my ears to the shouting and to Brown’s muttered rebuke. I turned, and just from the lift of Felix’s shoulders I could see he was getting set to knock me into the trees; I fixed my eye on the spot dead in line with his off stump – he was a left-hander, which left the wicket wide as a barn door to my round delivery – and ran up determined to bowl the finest, fastest ball of my life.
And so I did. Very well, I told you I was a good bowler, and that was the best ball I ever delivered, which is to say it was unplayable. I had dropped the first one short on purpose, just to confirm what everyone supposed from the first over – that I was a wild chucker, with no more head than flat beer. But the second had every fibre directed at that spot, with just a trifle less strength than I could muster, to keep it steady, and from the moment it left my hand Felix was gone. Granted I was lucky, for the spot must have been bald; it was a shooter, skidding in past his toes when he expected it round his ears, and before he could smother it his stump was cart-wheeling away.
The yell that went up split the heaven, and he walked past me shaking his head and shooting me a quizzy look while the fellows slapped my back, and even Brooke condescended to cry “Well bowled!” I took it very offhand, but inside I was thinking: “Felix! Felix, by G-d!” – I’d not have swapped that wicket for a peerage. Then I was brought back to earth, for the crowd were cheering the new man in, and I picked up the ball and turned to face the tall, angular figure with the long-reaching arms and the short-handled bat.
I’d seen Fuller Pilch play at Norwich when I was a young shaver, when he beat Marsden of Yorkshire for the single-wicket championship of England; so far as I ever had a boyhood hero, it was Pilch, the best professional of his day – some say of any day, although it’s my belief this new boy Rhodes may be as good. Well, Flash, thinks I, you’ve nothing to lose, so here goes at him.
Now, what I’d done to Felix was head bowling, but what came next was luck, and nothing else. I can’t account for it yet, but it happened, and this is how it was. I did my d----dest to repeat my great effort, but even faster this time, and in consequence I was just short of a length; whether Pilch was surprised by the speed, or the fact that the ball kicked higher than it had any right to do, I don’t know, but he was an instant slow in reaching forward, which was his great shot. He didn’t ground his bat in time, the ball came high off the blade, and I fairly hurled myself down the pitch, all arms and legs, grabbing at a catch I could have held in my mouth. I nearly muffed it, too, but it stuck between finger and thumb, and the next I knew they were pounding me on the back, and the townies were in full voice, while Pilch turned away slapping his bat in vexation. “B----y gravel!” cries he. “Hasn’t Dark got any brooms, then?” He may have been right, for all I know.
By now, as you may imagine, I was past caring. Felix – and Pilch. There was nothing more left in the world just then, or so I thought; what could excel those twin glorious strokes? My grandchildren will never believe this, thinks I, supposing I have any – by George, I’ll buy every copy of the sporting press for the next month, and paper old Morrison’s bedroom with ’em. And yet the best was still to come.
Mynn was striding to the crease; I can see him now, and it brings back to me a line that Macaulay wrote in that very year: “And now the cry is ‘Aster’! and lo, the ranks divide, as the great Lord of Luna comes on with stately stride.” That was Alfred the Great to a “t”, stately and magnificent, with his broad crimson sash and the bat like a kid’s paddle in his hand; he gave me a great grin as he walked by, took guard, glanced leisurely round the field, tipped his straw hat back on his head, and nodded to the umpire, old Aislabie, who was shaking with excitement as he called “Play!”
Well,