Royal Flash. George Fraser MacDonald
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 age, thank’ee!’ says Jack, going red. ‘I’m not so old I can’t deal with anyone who don’t know his place!’
They calmed him down, and there was a lot of hubbub and noise and nonsense, and the upshot was that most of them, being slightly fuddled 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