She was French herself, it turned out, so I could be more direct than with an English girl. I told her straight out that I had taken a fancy to her, and invited her to consider me as a friend – a close friend. I hinted that I had money – she was only a whore, after all, for all her fashionable airs.
At first she made a show of being shocked, and la-la’d a good deal, but when I made to leave she changed her tune. My money aside, I think she found me to her fancy; she toyed with a fan and looked at me over it with big, almond-shaped eyes, playing the sly minx.
“You have poor opeenion of French girls, then?” says she.
“Not I,” says I, charming again. “I’ve the highest opinion of you, for example. What’s your name?”
“Josette.” She said it very pretty.
“Well, Josette, let’s drink to our future acquaintance – at my expense” – and I dropped my purse on the table, at which her eyes widened. It was not a small purse.
You may think me crude. I was. But I saved time and trouble, and perhaps money, too – the money that fools waste in paying court with presents before the fun begins. She had wine in the house, and we drank to each other and talked a good five minutes before I began to tease her into undressing. She played it very prettily, with much pouting and provocative looks, but when she had stripped she was all fire and wickedness, and I was so impatient I had her without getting out of my chair.
Whether I found her unusually delectable because she was Bernier’s mistress or because of her French tricks, I can’t say, but I took to visiting her often, and in spite of my respect for Bernier, I was careless. It was within a week, certainly, that we were engaged heavily one evening when there were footsteps on the stair, the door flew open, and there was the man himself. He stood glaring for a moment, while Josette squeaked and dived beneath the covers, and I scrambled to get under the bed in my shirt-tail – the sight of him filled me with panic. But he said nothing; a moment passed, the door slammed, and I came out scrabbling for my breeches. At that moment I wanted only to put as much distance between myself and him as I could, and I dressed in some haste.
Josette began to laugh, and I asked her what the devil amused her.
“It is so fonnee,” she giggled. “You … you half beneath de bed, and Charles glaring so fierce at your derrière.” And she shrieked with laughter.
I told her to hold her tongue, and she stopped laughing and tried to coax me back to bed again, saying that Bernier had undoubtedly gone, and sitting up and shaking her tits at me. I hesitated, between lust and fright, until she hopped out and bolted the door, and then I decided I might as well have my sport while I could, and pulled off my clothes again. But I confess it was not the most joyous pleasuring I have taken part in, although Josette was at her most spirited; I suspect she was thrilled by the situation.
I was in two minds whether to go back to the mess afterwards, for I was sure Bernier must call me out. But, to my surprise, when I pulled my courage together and went in to dinner, he paid me not the slightest notice. I couldn’t make it out, and when next day and the next he was still silent, I took heart again, and even paid Josette another visit. She had not seen him, so it seemed to me that he intended to do nothing at all. I decided that he was a poor-spirited thing after all, and had resigned his mistress to me – not, I was sure, out of fear of me, but because he could not bear to have a trollop who cheated him. Of course the truth was that he couldn’t call me out without exposing the cause, and making himself look ridiculous; and knowing more of regimental custom than I did, he hesitated to provoke an affair of honour over a mistress. But he was holding himself in with difficulty.
Not knowing this, I took to throwing my chest out again, and let Bryant into the secret. The toady was delighted, and soon all the plungers knew. It was then only a matter of time before the explosion came, as I should have known it would.
It was after dinner one night, and we were playing cards, while Bernier and one or two of the Indian men were talking near by. The game was vingt-et-un, and it happened that at that game I had a small joke concerning the Queen of Diamonds, which I maintained was my lucky card. Forrest had the bank, and when he set down my five-card hand with an ace and the Queen of Diamonds, Bryant, the spiteful ass, sang out:
“Hullo! He’s got your queen, Flashy! That’s the biter bit, bigod!”
“How d’ye mean?” said Forrest, taking up the cards and stakes.
“With Flashy it’s t’other way, you know,” says Bryant. “He makes off with other chaps’ queens.”
“Aha,” says Forrest, grinning. “But the Queen of Diamonds is a good Englishwoman, ain’t she, Flash? Mounting French fillies is your style, I hear.”
There was a good deal of laughter, and glances in Bernier’s direction. I should have kept them quiet, but I was fool enough to join in.
“Nothing wrong in a French filly,” I said, “so long as the jockey’s an English one. A French trainer is well enough, of course, but they don’t last in a serious race.”
It was feeble enough stuff, no doubt, even allowing for the port we had drunk, but it snapped the straw. The next I knew my chair had been dragged away, and Bernier was standing over me as I sprawled on the floor, his face livid and his mouth working.
“What the devil—” began Forrest, as I scrambled up, and the others jumped up also. I was half on my feet when Bernier struck me, and I lost my balance and went down again.
“For God’s sake, Bernier!” shouts Forrest, “are you mad?” and they had to hold him back, or he would have savaged me on the ground, I think. Seeing him held, I came up with an oath, and made to go for him, but Bryant grabbed me, crying “No, no, Flash! Hold off, Flashy!” and they clustered round me as well.
Truth is, I was nearly sick with fear, for the murder was out now. The best shot in the regiment had hit me, but with provocation – fearful or not, I have always been quick and clear enough in my thinking in a crisis – and there couldn’t be any way out except a meeting. Unless I took the blow, which meant an end to my career in the army and in society. But to fight him was a quick road to the grave.
It was a horrible dilemma, and in that moment, as they held us apart, I saw I must have time to think, to plan, to find a way out. I shook them off, and without a word stalked out of the mess, like a man who must remove himself before he does someone a mischief.
It took me five minutes of hard thinking, and then I was striding back into the mess again. My heart was hammering, and no doubt I looked pretty furious, and if I shook they thought it was anger.
The chatter died away as I came in; I can feel that silence now, sixty years after, and see the elegant blue figures, and the silver gleaming on the table, and Bernier, alone and very pale, by the fireplace. I went straight up to him. I had my speech ready.
“Captain Bernier,” I said, “you have struck me with your hand. That was rash, for I could take you to pieces with mine if I chose.” This was blunt, English Flashman, of course. “But I prefer to fight like a gentleman, even if you do not.” I swung round on my heel. “Lieutenant Forrest, will you act for me?”
Forrest said yes, like a shot, and Bryant looked piqued. He expected I would have named him, but I had another part for him to play.
“And who acts for you?” I asked Bernier, very cool. He named Tracy, one of the Indian men, and I gave Tracy a bow and then went over to the card table as though nothing had happened.
“Mr Forrest will have the details to attend to,” I said to the others. “Shall we cut for the bank?”
They stared at me. “By gad, Flash, you’re a cool one!” cries Bryant.
I shrugged, and took up the cards, and we started playing again, the others all very excited – too excited to notice that my thoughts were not on my cards. Luckily, vingt-et-un calls for little concentration.
After a moment Forrest, who had been conferring with Tracy, came over to tell me that, with Lord Cardigan’s permission, which he was sure must be forthcoming, we should meet
behind the riding school at six in the morning. It was assumed I would choose pistols – as the injured party I had the choice.6 I nodded, very offhand, and told Bryant to hurry with the deal. We played a few more hands, and then I said I was for bed, lit my cheroot and strolled out with an airy goodnight to the others, as though the thought of pistols at dawn troubled me no more than what I should have for breakfast. Whatever happened, I had grown in popular esteem for this night at least.
I stopped under the trees on the way to my quarters, and after a moment, as I had expected, Bryant came hurrying after me, full of excitement and concern. He began to babble about what a devil of a fellow I was, and what a fighting Turk Bernier was, but I cut him off short.
“Tommy,” says I. “You’re not a rich man.”
“Eh?” says he. “What the—”
“Tommy,” says I. “Would you like ten thousand pounds?”
“In God’s name,” says he. “What for?”
“For seeing that Bernier stands up at our meeting tomorrow with an unloaded pistol,” says I, straight out. I knew my man.
He goggled at me, and then began to babble again. “Christ, Flash, are you crazy? Unloaded … why …”
“Yes or no,” says I. “Ten thousand pounds.”
“But it’s murder!” he squealed. “We’d swing for it!” No thought of honour you see, or any of that rot.
“Nobody’s going to swing,” I told him. “And keep your voice down, d’ye hear? Now, then, Tommy, you’re a sharp man with the sleight of hand at parties – I’ve seen you. You can do it in your sleep. For ten thousand?”
“My God, Flash,” says he, “I don’t dare.” And he began babbling again, but in a whisper this time.
I let him ramble for a moment, for I knew he would come round. He was a greedy little bastard, and the thought of ten thousand was like Aladdin’s cave to him. I explained how safe and simple it would be; I had thought it out when first I left the mess.
“Go and borrow Reynolds’ duelling pistols, first off. Take ’em to Forrest and Tracy and offer to act as loader – you’re always into everything, and they’ll be glad to accept, and never think twice.”
“Won’t they, by God?” cried he. “They know I’m hellish thick with you, Flashy.”
“You’re an officer and a gentleman,” I reminded him. “Now who will imagine for a moment that you would stoop to such a treacherous act, eh? No, no, Tommy, it’s cut and dried. And in the morning, with the surgeon and seconds standing by, you’ll load up – carefully. Don’t tell me you can’t palm a pistol ball.”
“Oh, aye,” says he, “like enough. But—”
“Ten thousands pounds,” I said, and he licked his lips.
“Jesus,” he said at length. “Ten thousand. Phew! On your word of honour, Flash?”
“Word of honour,” I said, and lit another cheroot.
“I’ll do it!” says he. “My God! You’re a devil, Flash! You won’t kill him, though? I’ll have no part in murder.”
“Captain Bernier will be as safe from me as I’ll be from him,” I told him, “Now, cut along and see Reynolds.”
He cut on the word. He was an active little rat, that I’ll say for him. Once committed he went in heart and soul.
I went to my quarters, got rid of Basset who was waiting up for me, and lay down on my cot. My throat was dry and my hands were sweating as I thought of what I had done. For all the bluff front I had shown to Bryant, I was in a deathly funk. Suppose something went wrong and Bryant muffed it? It had seemed so easy in that moment of panicky thought outside the mess – fear stimulates thought, perhaps, but it may not be clear thought, because one sees the way out that one wants to see, and makes headlong for it. I thought of Bryant fumbling, or being too closely overseen, and Bernier standing up in front of me with a loaded pistol in a hand like a rock, and the muzzle pointing dead at my breast, and felt the ball tearing into me, and myself falling down screaming, and dying on the ground.
I almost shouted out at the horror of it, and lay there blubbering in the dark room; I would have got up and run, but my legs would not let me. So I began to pray, which I had not done, I should say, since I was about eight years old. But I kept thinking of Arnold and hell – which is no doubt significant – and in the end there was nothing for it but brandy, but it might as well have been water.
I did no sleeping that night, but listened to the clock chiming away the quarters, until dawn came, and I heard Basset approaching. I had just sense enough left to see that it wouldn’t do for him to find me red-eyed and shivering, so I made believe to sleep, snoring like an organ, and I heard him say:
“If that don’t beat! Listen to ’im, sound as a babby. Isn’t he the game-cock, though?”
And another voice, another servant’s, I suppose, replied:
“Thay’s all alike, bloody fools. ’E won’t be snorin’ tomorrow mornin’, after Bernier’s done with ’im. ’E’ll be sleepin’ too sound for that.”
Right, my lad, whoever you are, I thought, if I come through this it’ll be strange if I can’t bring you to the rings at the riding school, and we’ll see your backbone when the farrier-sergeant takes the cat to you. We’ll hear how loud you can snore yourself. And with that surge of anger I suddenly felt confidence replacing fear – Bryant would see it through, all right – and when they came for me I was at least composed, if not cheerful.
When I am frightened, I go red in the face, not pale, as most men do, so that in me fear can pass for anger, which has been convenient more than once. Bryant tells me that I went out to the riding school that morning wattled like a turkey cock; he said the fellows made sure I was in a fury to kill Bernier. Not that they thought I had a chance, and they were quiet for once as we walked across the parade just as the trumpeter was sounding reveille.
They had told Cardigan of the affair, of course, and some had thought he might intervene to prevent it. But when he had heard of the blow, he had simply said:
“Where do they meet?”
and gone back to sleep again, with instructions to be called at five. He did not approve of duelling – although he duelled himself in famous circumstances – but he saw that in this case the credit of the regiment would only be hurt if the affair were patched up.
Bernier and Tracy were already there, with the surgeon, and the mist was hanging a little under the trees. Our feet thumped on the turf, which was still wet with dew, as we strode across to them, Forrest at my side, and Bryant with the pistol case beneath his arm following on with the others. About fifty yards away, under the trees by the fence, was a little knot of officers, and I saw Cardigan’s bald head above his great caped coat. He was smoking a cigar.
Bryant and the surgeon called Bernier and me together, and Bryant asked us if we would not resolve our quarrel. Neither of us said a word; Bernier was pale, and looked fixedly over my shoulder, and in that moment I came as near to turning and running as ever I did in my life. I felt that my bowels would squirt at any moment, and my hands were shuddering beneath my cloak.
“Very good, then,” says Bryant, and went with the surgeon to a little table they had set up. He took out the pistols, and from the corner of my eye I saw him spark the flints, pour in the charges, and rummage in the shot-case. I daren’t watch him closely, and anyway Forrest came just then and led me back to my place. When I turned round again the surgeon was stopping to pick up a fallen powder flask, and Bryant was ramming home a wad in one of the barkers.
They conferred a moment, and then Bryant paced over to Bernier and presented a pistol to him; then he came to me with the other. There was no one behind me, and as my hand closed on the butt, Bryant winked quickly. My heart came up into my mouth, and I can never hope to describe the relief that flooded through my body, tingling every limb. I was going to live.
“Gentlemen, you are both determined to continue with this meeting?” Bryant looked at each of us in turn. Bernier said: “Yes,” hard and clear. I nodded.
Bryant stepped back to b
e well out of the line of fire; the seconds and the surgeon took post beside him, leaving Bernier and me looking at each other about twenty paces apart. He stood sideways to me, the pistol at his side, staring straight at my face, as though choosing his spot – he could clip the pips from a card at this distance.
“The pistols fire on one pressure,” called Bryant. “When I drop my handkerchief you may level your pistols and fire. I shall drop it in a few seconds from now.” And he held up the white kerchief in one hand.
I heard the click of Bernier cocking his pistol. His eyes were steady on mine. Sold again, Bernier, I thought; you’re all in a stew about nothing. The handkerchief fell.
Bernier’s right arm came up like a railway signal, and before I had even cocked my pistol I was looking into his barrel – a split second and it shot smoke at me and the crack of the charge was followed by something rasping across my cheek and grazing it – it was the wad. I fell back a step. Bernier was glaring at me, aghast that I was still on my feet, I suppose, and someone shouted: “Missed, by Jesus!” and another cried angrily for silence.
It was my turn, and for a moment the lust was on me to shoot the swine down where he stood. But Bryant might have lost his head, and it was no part of my design, anyway. I had it in my power now to make a name that would run through the army in a week – good old Flashy, who stole another man’s girl and took a blow from him, but was too decent to take advantage of him, even in a duel.
They stood like statues, every eye on Bernier, waiting for me to shoot him down. I cocked my pistol, watching him.
“Come on, damn you!” he shouted suddenly, his face white with rage and fear.
I looked at him for a moment, then brought my pistol up no higher than hip level, but with the barrel pointing well away to the side. I held it negligently almost, just for a moment, so that everyone might see I was firing deliberately wide. I squeezed the trigger.
What happened to that shot is now regimental history; I had meant it for the ground, but it chanced that the surgeon had set his bag and bottle of spirits down on the turf in that direction, maybe thirty yards off, and by sheer good luck the shot whipped the neck off the bottle clean as a whistle.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 4