The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
anyway, got the notion that I had suggested, friendly-like, to Bismarck, that he try a round with Gully, and that somehow he had insulted old Jack and looked down on him. It was Spottswood who calmed things over, and said there was no cause for shouting or hard feelings.
“The point is, does the Baron want to try his hand in a friendly spar? That’s all. If so, Jack’ll oblige, won’t you, Jack?”
“No, no,” says Jack, who was cooled again. “Why, I haven’t stood in a ring for thirty years, man. Besides,” he added, with a smile, “I didn’t understand that our guest was eager to try me.”
That brought him a lofty look from Bismarck, but Spottswood says:
“Tell ye what, Jack; if you’ll spar a round or two with him, I’ll sell you Running Ribbons.”
He knew Jack’s weak spot, you see; Running Ribbons was own brother to Running Reins, and a prime goer.13 Jack hummed and hawed a bit, saying no, no, his fighting days were long done, but the fellows, seeing him waver, and delighted at the thought of watching the famous Gully in action (and no doubt of lowering Bismarck a peg or two) urged him on, cheering him and slapping him on the shoulder.
“Well, well,” says Jack at last, for his flash of ill-temper had quite gone now, and he was his placid self, “if you must have it, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. To convince the Baron here, that there’s maybe more in the Noble Art than meets his eye, I’ll engage to stand up in front of him, with my hands down, and let him try to plant me a few facers. What d’ye say to that, sir?” he asks Bismarck.
The German, who had been sitting very disdainful, looked interested despite himself.
“You mean you will let me strike you, without defending yourself?”
Jack grins at him. “I mean I’ll let you try,” says he.
“But I must strike you—unless you run away.”
“I reckon you’re not too clever in our lingo yet,” says Jack, smiling, but looking keen. “What with ‘too old’ and ‘running away’, you know. But don’t worry, mynheer—I’ll stand my ground.”
There was a great commotion while the table was thrust against one wall, and the carpet rolled up, and everyone piled furniture to the sides of the room to leave space for the exhibition. Perceval was the only one who wasn’t delighted at the prospect; “’Tain’t fair,” says he, “not to a guest; I don’t like it. Ye’ll not hurt him, Jack, d’ye hear?”
“Not a hair of his head,” says old Jack.
“But his vanity may be a bit bruised when he discovers it ain’t so easy to hit a good milling cove as he imagines,” says Speed, laughing.
“That’s what I don’t like either,” says Perceval. “It looks as though we’re making a fool of him.”
“Not us,” says I. “He’ll be doing it himself.”
“And serve the German windbag right,” says Spottswood. “Who’s he to tell us our faults, damn him?”
“I still don’t like it,” says Perceval. “Curse you, Flash, this is your doing.” And he mooched away, looking glum.
At the other end of the room Conyngham and one of the other chaps were helping Bismarck off with his coat. You could see he was wondering how the devil he had got into this, but he put a good face on it, pretending to be amused and interested when they fastened the gloves on him and Jack, and explained what was expected of him. Spottswood led the two of them to the centre of the floor, where a line had been chalked on the boards, and holding one on either hand, called for silence.
“This ain’t a regular mill,” says he (“Shame!” cries someone). “No, no,” says Spottswood, “This is a friendly exhibition in the interests of good sportsmanship and friendship between nations. (‘Hurrah!’ ‘Rule Britannia!’ from the fellows). Our old and honoured friend, Jack Gully, champion of champions—” at this there was a great hurrah, which set old Jack grinning and bobbing—“has generously engaged to let Herr Otto von Bismarck stand up to him and try, if he can, to hit him fair on the head and body. Mr Gully engages further not to hit back, but may, if he wishes, use his hands for guarding and blocking. I shall referee”—cries of “Shame!” “Watch out for him, Baron, he’s a wrong ’un!”—“and at my word the contestants will begin and leave off. Agreed? Now, Baron, you may hit him anywhere above the waist. Are you ready?”.
He stepped back, leaving the two facing each other. It was a strange picture: the big candelabra lit the room as clear as day, shining on the flushed faces of the spectators sitting or squatting on the furniture piled round the panelled walls; on the sporting prints and trophies hung above them; on the wide, empty polished floor; on the jumble of silver and bottles and piled plates on the table with its wine-stained cloths; on the two men toe to toe at the chalk line. There was never a stranger pair of millers in the history of the game.
Bismarck, in his shirt and trousers and pumps, with the big padded mauleys on his fists, may have been awkward and uncertain, but he looked well. Tall, perfectly built and elegant as a rapier, with his fair cropped head glistening under the light, he reminded me again of a nasty Norse god. His lips were tight, his eyes narrow, and he was studying his man carefully before making a move.
Gully, on the other hand—oh, Gully! In my time I’ve seen Mace and Big Jack Heenan and little Sayers, and I watched Sullivan beat Ryan14 and took $10 off Oscar Wilde over that fight, too, but I doubt if any of them could have lived with Gully at his best. Not that I ever saw that best, but I saw him face up to Bismarck, nearly sixty years old, and that is enough for me. Like most poltroons, I have a sneaking inward regard for truly fearless, strong men, fools though they may be, and I can have an academic admiration for real skill, so long as I don’t suffer by it. Gully was fearless and strong and incredibly skilful.
He stood on the balls of his feet, head sunk between his massive shoulders, hands down, his leathery brown face smiling ever so slightly, his eyes fixed on Bismarck beneath beetling brows. He looked restful, confident, indestructible.
“Time!” cries Spottswood, and Bismarck swung his right fist. Jack swayed a little and it went past his face. Bismarck stumbled, someone laughed, and then he struck again, right and left. The right went past Jack’s head, the left he stopped with his palm. Bismarck stepped back, looking at him, and then came boring in, driving at Jack’s midriff, but he just turned his body sideways, lazily almost, and the German went blundering by, thumping the air.
Everyone cheered and roared with laughter, and Bismarck wheeled round, white-faced, biting his lip. Jack, who didn’t seem to have moved more than a foot, regarded him with interest, and motioned him to come on again. Slowly, Bismarck recovered himself, raised his hands and then shot out his left hand as he must have seen the pugs do that afternoon. Jack rolled his head out of the way and then leaned forward a little to let Bismarck’s other hand sail past his head.
“Well done, mynheer,” he cried. “That was good. Left and right, that’s the way. Try again.”
Bismarck tried, and tried again, and for three minutes Jack swayed and ducked and now and then blocked a punch with his open hand. Bismarck flailed away, and never looked like hitting him, and everyone cheered and roared with laughter. Finally Spottswood called, “Time”, and the German stood there, chest heaving and face crimson with his efforts, while Jack was as unruffled as when he started.
“Don’t mind ’em, mynheer,” says he. “There’s none of ’em would ha’ done better, and most not so well. You’re fast, and could be faster, and you move well for a novice.”
“Are you convinced now, Baron?” says Spottswood.
Bismarck, having got his breath back, shook his head.
“That there is skill, I admit,” says he, at which everyone raised an ironical cheer. “But I should be obliged,” he goes on to Jack, “if you would try me again, and this time try to hit