Royal Flash. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ First Afghan War, emerged with a hero’s laurels, been decorated by the Queen, and lionised all over London. The fact that I had gone through the campaign in a state of abject terror – lying, deceiving, bluffing, and running for dear life whenever possible – was known to no one but myself. If one or two suspected, they kept quiet. It wouldn’t have been fashionable to throw dirt at the valiant Harry Flashman just then.

      (If you have read the first packet of my memoirs, you will know all this. I mention it here in case the packets should get separated, so that you will know at once that this is the true story of a dishonest poltroon who takes a perverse pride in having attained to an honoured and admired old age, in spite of his many vices and entire lack of virtue – or possibly because of them.)

      So there I was, in ’42, big, bluff, handsome Harry, beloved of London society, admired at the Horse Guards (although I was only a captain), possessed of a beautiful wife, apparently affluent, seen in the best company, gushed at by the mamas, respected by the men as the perfect beau sabreur. The world was my oyster, and if it wasn’t my sword that had opened it, no one was any the wiser.

      They were golden days, those. The ideal time to be a hero is when the battle is over and the other fellows are dead, God rest ’em, and you take the credit.

      Even the fact that Elspeth was cheating me made no real difference. You would never have thought, to see her angelic face, golden hair, and expression of idiotic innocence, that she was the biggest trollop that ever wore out a mattress. But I was certain, before I’d been home a month, that she was having it off with at least two others; at first I was furious and plotting revenge, but she had the money, you see, through that damned old Scotch moneybags of a father of hers, and if I had played the outraged husband I’d have been in Queer Street, without even a roof over my head. So I kept quiet, and paid her out by whoring to my heart’s content. It was a strange situation; we both knew what was what (at least, I think she did, but she was such a fool you could never tell), but we pretended to be a happily married couple. We still bounced about in bed together from time to time, and enjoyed it.

      But the real life was to be had outside; respectable society apart, I was in with the fast set, idling, gaming, drinking, and raking about the town. It was the end of the great days of the bucks and blades; we had a queen on the throne, and her cold white hand and her poker-backed husband’s were already setting their grip on the nation’s life, smothering the old wild ways in their come-to-Jesus hypocrisy. We were entering into what is now called the Victorian Age, when respectability was the thing; breeches were out and trousers came in; bosoms were being covered and eyes modestly lowered; politics was becoming sober, trade and industry were becoming fashionable, the odour of sanctity was replacing the happy reek of brandy, the age of the Corinthian, the plunger, and the dandy was giving way to that of the prig, the preacher, and the bore.

      At least I was in at the death of that wicked era, and did my bit to make it die hard. You could still gamble in the hells about Hanover Square, carouse with the toughs in the Cyder Cellars or Leicester Fields, take your pick of the wenches in Piccadilly, set on the police at Whitehall and pinch their belts and hats, break windows and sing bawdy songs all the way home. Fortunes were still lost at cards and hazard, duels were fought (although I stayed well clear of that; my only duel, from which I emerged by fraud with tremendous credit, had taken place some years before, and I had no intention of risking another). Life could still be openly wild, if you cared for it. It has never been the same since; they tell me that young King Edward does what he can nowadays to lower the moral tone of the nation, but I doubt if he has the style for it. The man looks like a butcher.

      One night my chum Speedicut, who had been with me at Rugby, and had come sucking round me since my rise to fame (he was well off) suggested we should go to a new haunt in St James – I think it was the Minor Club, in fact.¹ We could try our luck at the tables first, and then at the wenches upstairs, he said, and afterwards go to the Cremorne and watch the fireworks, topping the night off with devilled ham and a bowl of punch, and perhaps some more girls. It sounded all right, so after collecting some cash from Elspeth, who was going to Store Street to listen to one Mr Wilson sing Scottish songs (my God), I set off with Speed for St James.²

      It was a frost from the start. On the way to the club Speed was taken with the notion of boarding one of the new buses; he wanted to argue with the cad about the fare and provoke him into swearing: the bus cads were quite famous for their filthy language, and Speed reckoned it would be fun to have him get in a bate and horrify the passengers.³ But the cad was too clever for Speed; he just turned us off without so much as a damn-your-eyes, and the passengers tittered to see us made asses of, which did nothing for our dignity or good temper.

      And the club turned out to be a regular hell – the prices even for arrack and cheroots were ruinous, and the faro table was as crooked as a line of Russian infantry and a damned sight harder to beat. It’s always the same; the more genteel the company, the fouler the play. In my time I’ve played nap in the Australian diggings with gold-dust stakes, held a blackjack bank on a South Sea trader, and been in a poker game in a Dodge City livery stable with the pistols down on the blanket – and I’ve met less sharping in all of ’em put together than you’d find in one evening in a London club.

      We dropped a few guineas, and then Speed says:

      ‘This ain’t much fun. I know a better game.’

      I believed him, so we picked up two of the Cyprians in the gaming-room and took them upstairs to play loo for each other’s clothes. I had my eye on the smaller of the two, a pert little red-haired piece with dimples; thinks I, if I can’t get this one stripped for action in a dozen hands then I’ve lost my talent for palming and dealing from the bottom. But whether I’d taken too much drink – for we had punished a fair amount of arrack, dear as it was – or the tarts were cheating too, the upshot was that I was down to my shirt-tail before my little minx had removed more than her shoes and gloves.

      She was trilling with laughter, and I was getting impatient, when a most unholy din broke out on the floor below. There was a pounding of feet, and shouting, whistles blowing and dogs barking, and then a voice yelled:

      ‘Cut and run! It’s the traps!’

      ‘Christ!’ says Speed, grabbing for his breeches. ‘It’s a raid! Let’s get out of this, Flash!’

      The whores squeaked with panic, and I swore and struggled into my clothes. It’s no joke trying to dress when the peelers are after you, but I had sense enough to know that there wasn’t a hope of escaping unless we were fully clad – you can’t run through St James on a fine evening with your trousers in your hand.

      ‘Come on!’ Speed was shouting. ‘They’ll be on us in a moment!’

      ‘What shall we do?’ wails the red-haired slut.

      ‘Do what you dam’ well please,’ says I, slipping on my shoes. ‘Good night, ladies.’ And Speed and I slipped out into the corridor.

      The place was in uproar. It sounded like a battle royal down on the gaming-floor, with furniture smashing and the Cyprians screaming, and someone bawling: ‘In the Queen’s name!’ On our landing there were frightened whores peeping out of the doorways, and men in every stage of undress hopping about looking for somewhere to run to. One fat old rascal, stark naked, was beating on a door bawling:

      ‘Hide me, Lucy!’

      He beat in vain, and the last I saw of him he was trying to burrow under a sofa.

      People nowadays don’t realise that in the forties the law was devilish hot on gaming-hells. The police were forever trying to raid them, and the hell-owners used to keep guard-dogs and scouts to watch out for them. Most hells СКАЧАТЬ