The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
was greatly interested, and seemed to enjoy watching the loser being battered as much as I did myself.
At supper that night the talk was naturally of the fight, and old Jack Gully, who had refereed, held the floor. He wasn’t normally an over-talkative man, despite the fact that he had been an M.P., but on his two loves—the prize ring and horseflesh—he was always worth listening to. Though it was more than thirty years since he had held the belt himself—and since retiring he had become most prosperous and was well received everywhere—he had known and seen all the greatest pugs, and was full of stories of such giants as Cribb and Belcher and the Game Chicken.12
Of course, the company would have listened all night—I don’t suppose there was a man in England, Peel, Russell, or any of them, who could have commanded such universal attention as this quiet old boxing champion. He must have been close to sixty then, and white-haired, but you could see he was still fit as a flea, and when he talked of the ring he seemed to light up and come alive.
Bismarck, I noticed, didn’t pay him much attention, but when Jack paused after a story, our German suddenly says:
“You make very much of this boxing, I see. Now, it is an interesting enough spectacle, two of the lower orders thrashing each other with their fists, but does it not become boring after a while? Once, or even twice, perhaps, one might go to watch, but surely men of education and breeding must despise it.”
There was a growl round the table, and Speed says:
“You don’t understand it because you’re a foreigner. It is our game in England. Why, in Germany, according to what you’ve said, fellows fight duels without any intent to kill each other, but just to get scars on their heads. Well, we wouldn’t think much of that, let me tell you.”
“The schlager endows a man with honourable scars,” says Bismarck. “What honour is there in beating an opponent with your fists? Besides, our duelling is for gentlemen.”
“Well, as to that, mynheer,” says Gully, smiling, “gentlemen in this country ain’t ashamed to use their fists. I know I wish I’d a guinea for every coroneted head I’ve touched with a straight left hand.”
“Mine for one, any time you please, Jack,” cries Conyngham.
“But in the use of the schlager there is soldierly skill,” Bismarck insisted, and rapped his fist on the table. Oho, thinks I, what’s this? Has our Prussian friend perhaps got a little more liquor on board than usual? He was a mighty drinker, as I’ve said, but it occurred to me that he might not be holding it so well tonight.
“If you think there’s no skill in prize-fighting, my friend, you’re well out of court,” says one of the others, a heavy-faced Guardee named Spottswood. “Didn’t you see Ward, this afternoon, take the starch out of a chap three stone heavier than himself?”
“Oh, your fellow Ward was swift and strong,” says Bismarck. “But speed and strength are common enough. I saw no sign of skill in that butchery.”
And he emptied his glass as though that settled the matter.
“Well, sir,” says old Jack, smiling, “there was skill a-plenty, and you can take my word for it. You wouldn’t see it, ’cos you don’t know what to look for, just as I wouldn’t know what to look for in your schlag-what-you-call-ems.”
“No,” says Bismarck, “likely you would not.” And the tone of his voice made Gully look sharp at him, although he said nothing. Then Tom Perceval, sensing that there might be trouble if the subject wasn’t changed, started to say something about hunting, but I had seen my chance to set this arrogant Prussian down, and I interrupted him.
“Perhaps you think boxing is easy,” says I to Bismarck. “D’ye fancy you could hold your own in a mill?”
He stares at me across the table. “With one of those brawlers?” says he at length. “A gentleman does not come to physical contact with those people, surely?”
“We don’t have serfs in England,” says I. “There isn’t a man round this table wouldn’t be glad to put ’em up with Nick Ward—aye, and honoured, too. But in your case—suppose there was a sporting German baron whose touch wouldn’t sully you? Would you be ready to try it with him?”
“Hold on, Flash—” says Perceval, but I carried on.
“Or a gentleman from among ourselves, for example? Would you be ready to go a round or two with one of us?”
Those cold eyes of his were damned uncomfortable on me, but I held his gaze, for I knew I’d got him. He considered a moment, and then said:
“Is this a challenge?”
“Good God, no,” says I. “Only you think that our good old game is just a brawl, and I’d like to show you different. If I were asked, I’d be ready enough to try my hand at this schlager business of yours. Well, what d’ye say?”
“I see you are smarting for revenge after our race the other day,” says he, smiling. “Very well, Captain, I shall try a round with you.”
I believe he had weighed me up for a coward who wouldn’t be much good, in which he was right, and that he also thought—like many another ignoramus—that boxing was pure brute force and nothing more, in which he was wrong. Also, he had seen that a good part of it was body wrestling, of which no doubt he had some experience. And he knew he was pretty well as big and strong as I. But I had a surprise in store for him.
“Not with me,” says I. “I’m no Nick Ward. Anyway, my idea is instruction, not revenge, and the best instructor in the whole wide world is sitting within ten feet of you.” And I nodded at Gully.
All I intended was to make a fool of Bismarck, which I knew Gully could do with one hand behind his back, and so cut his comb for him. I hadn’t any hope that Gully would hurt him, for unfortunately old Jack, like most champions, was a gentle, kindly sort of fool. Indeed, at my proposal, he burst out laughing.
“Lord, Flashy,” says he. “D’ye know how much I used to be paid to come up to scratch? And you want to see it free, you dog!”
But Bismarck wasn’t laughing. “That is a foolish proposal,” says he. “Mr Gully is too old.”
Gully’s laugh was wiped off his face at once. “Now, wait a moment, mynheer,” says he, but I was ahead of him again.
“Oh, is that it?” says I. “You wouldn’t be chary about milling with a professional, would you?”
Everyone was talking at once, of course, but Bismarck’s voice cut through them.
“I have no interest in whether he is a professional or not—
“Or the fact that he was once in jail?” says I.
“—but only in the fact that he is very much older than I. As to his being in prison, what has that to do with anything?”
“You know best about that,” says I, sneering.
“Now, dammit, hold on here,” says Perceval. “What the devil is all this? Flashy—”
“Ah, I’m sick of his airs,” says I, “and his sneers at Jack there. All right, he’s your guest, Tom, but he goes a bit far. Let him put up or shut up. I only suggested he should try a round with a real boxer, to show him that his jibes were wide of the mark, and he turns up his nose as though Gully weren’t good enough for him. It’s the wrong side of enough, I say.”
“Not good enough?” roars Jack. “What’s this …?”
“No one said anything of the sort,” cries Tom. “Flashy, I don’t know what you’re driving at, but—”
“Captain Flashman’s intention is apparently to annoy me,” says Bismarck. “He has not succeeded. My only objection to boxing with Mr Gully was on the score of his age.”
“That’ll do about my