This has got to stop, thinks I, for I’ll be maimed for life if I stay here. And panic, mingled with hate and rage, gripped me as Mynn turned again; he strode up to the wicket, arm swinging back, and I came out of my ground in a huge despairing leap, swinging my bat for dear life – there was a sickening crack and in an instant of elation I knew I’d caught it low down on the outside edge, full swipe, the b----y thing must be in Wiltshire by now, five runs for certain, and I was about to tear up the pitch when I saw Brooke was standing his ground, and Felix, who’d been fielding almost in my pocket, was idly tossing the ball up in his left hand, shaking his head and smiling at me.
How he’d caught it only he and Satan know; it must have been like snatching a bullet from the muzzle. But he hadn’t turned a hair, and I could only trudge back to the pavilion, while the mob groaned in sympathy, and I waved my bat to them and tipped my tile – after all I was a bowler, and at least I’d taken a swing at it. And I’d faced three balls from Alfred Mynn.
We closed our hand at 91, Flashy caught Felix, nought, and it was held to be a very fair score, although Kent were sure to pass it easily, and since it was a single-hand match that would be that. In spite of my blank score – how I wished I had gone for that single off the second ball! – I was well received round the pavilion, for it was known who I was by now, and several gentlemen came to shake my hand, while the ladies eyed my stalwart frame and simpered to each other behind their parasols; Elspeth was glowing at the splendid figure I had cut in her eyes, but indignant that I had been out when my wicket hadn’t been knocked down, because wasn’t that the object of the game? I explained that I had been caught out, and she said it was a most unfair advantage, and that little man in the cap must be a great sneak, at which the gentlemen around roared with laughter and ogled her, calling for soda punch for the lady and swearing she must be taken on to the committee to amend the rules.
I contented myself with a glass of beer before we went out to field, for I wanted to be fit to bowl, but d---e if Brown didn’t leave me loafing in the outfield, no doubt to remind me that I was a whoremonger and therefore not fit to take an over. I didn’t mind, but lounged about pretty nonchalant, chatting with the townies near the ropes, and shrugging my shoulders eloquently when Felix or his partner made a good hit, which they did every other ball. They fairly knocked our fellows all over the wicket, and had fifty up well within the hour; I observed to the townies that what we wanted was a bit of ginger, and limbered my arm, and they cheered and began to cry: “Bring on the Flash chap! Huzza for Afghanistan!” and so forth, which was very gratifying.
I’d been getting my share of attention from the ladies in the carriages near my look-out, and indeed had been so intent on winking and swaggering that I’d missed a long hit, at which Brown called pretty sharply to me to mind out; now one or two of the more spirited ladybirds began to echo the townies, who egged them on, so that “Bring on the Flash chap!” began to echo round the ground, in gruff bass and piping soprano. Finally Brown could stand it no longer, and waved me in, and the mob cheered like anything, and Felix smiled his quiet smile and took fresh guard.
On the whole he treated my first over with respect, for he took only eleven off it, which was better than I deserved. For of course I flung my deliveries down with terrific energy, the first one full pitch at his head, and the next three horribly short, in sheer nervous excitement. The crowd loved it, and so did Felix, curse him; he didn’t reach the first one, but he drew the second beautifully for four, cut the third on tip-toe, and swept the last right off his upper lip and into the coaches near the pavilion.
How the crowd laughed and cheered, while Brown bit his lip with vexation, and Brooke frowned his disgust. But they couldn’t take me off after only one turn; I saw Felix say something to his partner, and the other laughed – and as I walked back to my look-out a thought crept into my head, and I scowled horribly and clapped my hands in disgust, at which the spectators yelled louder than ever. “Give ’em the Afghan pepper, Flashy!” cries one, and “Run out the guns!” hollers another; I waved my fist and stuck my hat on the back of my head, and they cheered and laughed again.
They gave a huge shout when Brown called me up for my second turn, and settled themselves to enjoy more fun and fury. You’ll get it, my boys, thinks I, as I thundered up to the wicket, with the mob counting each step, and my first ball smote about half-way down the pitch, flew high over the batsman’s head, and they ran three byes. That brought Felix to face me again, and I walked back, closing my ears to the shouting and to Brown’s muttered rebuke. I turned, and just from the lift of Felix’s shoulders I could see he was getting set to knock me into the trees; I fixed my eye on the spot dead in line with his off stump – he was a left-hander, which left the wicket wide as a barn door to my round delivery – and ran up determined to bowl the finest, fastest ball of my life.
And so I did. Very well, I told you I was a good bowler, and that was the best ball I ever delivered, which is to say it was unplayable. I had dropped the first one short on purpose, just to confirm what everyone supposed from the first over – that I was a wild chucker, with no more head than flat beer. But the second had every fibre directed at that spot, with just a trifle less strength than I could muster, to keep it steady, and from the moment it left my hand Felix was gone. Granted I was lucky, for the spot must have been bald; it was a shooter, skidding in past his toes when he expected it round his ears, and before he could smother it his stump was cart-wheeling away.
The yell that went up split the heaven, and he walked past me shaking his head and shooting me a quizzy look while the fellows slapped my back, and even Brooke condescended to cry “Well bowled!” I took it very offhand, but inside I was thinking: “Felix! Felix, by G-d!” – I’d not have swapped that wicket for a peerage. Then I was brought back to earth, for the crowd were cheering the new man in, and I picked up the ball and turned to face the tall, angular figure with the long-reaching arms and the short-handled bat.
I’d seen Fuller Pilch play at Norwich when I was a young shaver, when he beat Marsden of Yorkshire for the single-wicket championship of England; so far as I ever had a boyhood hero, it was Pilch, the best professional of his day – some say of any day, although it’s my belief this new boy Rhodes may be as good. Well, Flash, thinks I, you’ve nothing to lose, so here goes at him.
Now, what I’d done to Felix was head bowling, but what came next was luck, and nothing else. I can’t account for it yet, but it happened, and this is how it was. I did my d----dest to repeat my great effort, but even faster this time, and in consequence I was just short of a length; whether Pilch was surprised by the speed, or the fact that the ball kicked higher than it had any right to do, I don’t know, but he was an instant slow in reaching forward, which was his great shot. He didn’t ground his bat in time, the ball came high off the blade, and I fairly hurled myself down the pitch, all arms and legs, grabbing at a catch I could have held in my mouth. I nearly muffed it, too, but it stuck between finger and thumb, and the next I knew they were pounding me on the back, and the townies were in full voice, while Pilch turned away slapping his bat in vexation. “B----y gravel!” cries he. “Hasn’t Dark got any brooms, then?” He may have been right, for all I know.
By now, as you may imagine, I was past caring. Felix – and Pilch. There was nothing more left in the world just then, or so I thought; what could excel those twin glorious strokes? My grandchildren will never believe this, thinks I, supposing I have any – by George, I’ll buy every copy of the sporting press for the next month, and paper old Morrison’s bedroom with ’em. And yet the best was still to come.
Mynn was striding to the crease; I can see him now, and it brings back to me a line that Macaulay wrote in that very year: “And now the cry is ‘Aster’! and lo, the ranks divide, as the great Lord of Luna comes on with stately stride.” That was Alfred the Great to a “t”, stately and magnificent, with his broad crimson sash and the bat like a kid’s paddle in his hand; he g
ave me a great grin as he walked by, took guard, glanced leisurely round the field, tipped his straw hat back on his head, and nodded to the umpire, old Aislabie, who was shaking with excitement as he called “Play!”
Well, I had no hope at all of improving on what I’d done, you may be sure, but I was determined to bowl my best, and it was only as I turned that it crossed my mind – old Aislabie’s a Rugby man, and it was out of pride in the old school that he arranged this fixture; honest as God, to be sure, but like all enthusiasts he’ll see what he wants to see, won’t he? – and Mynn’s so tarnation big you can’t help hitting him somewhere if you put your mind to it, and bowl your fastest. It was all taking shape even as I ran up to the wicket: I’d got Felix by skill, Pilch by luck, and I’d get Mynn by knavery or perish in the attempt. I fairly flung myself up to the crease, and let go a perfect snorter, dead on a length but a good foot wide of the leg stump. It bucked, Mynn stepped quickly across to let it go by, it flicked his calf, and by that time I was bounding across Aislabie’s line of sight, three feet off the ground, turning as I sprang and yelling at the top of my voice: “How was he there, sir?”
Now, a bowler who’s also a Gentleman of Rugby don’t appeal unless he believes it; that gooseberry-eyed old fool Aislabie hadn’t seen a d----d thing with me capering between him and the scene of the crime, but he concluded there must be something in it, as I knew he would, and by the time he had fixed his watery gaze, Mynn, who had stepped across, was plumb before the stumps. And Aislabie would have been more than human if he had resisted the temptation to give the word that everyone in that ground except Alfie wanted to hear. “Out!” cries he. “Yes, out, absolutely! Out! Out!”
It was bedlam after that; the spectators went wild, and my team-mates simply seized me and rolled me on the ground; the cheering was deafening, and even Brown pumped me by the hand and slapped me on the shoulder, yelling “Bowled, oh, well bowled, Flashy!” (You see the moral: cover every strumpet in London if you’ve a mind to, it don’t signify so long as you can take wickets.) Mynn went walking by, shaking his head and cocking an eyebrow in Aislabie’s direction – he knew it was a crab decision, but he beamed all over his big red face like the sporting ass he was, and then did something which has passed into the language: he took off his boater, presented it to me with a bow, and says:
“That trick’s worth a new hat any day, youngster.”
(I’m d----d if I know which trick he meant,4 and I don’t much care; I just know the leg-before-wicket rule is a perfectly splendid one, if they’ll only let it alone.)
After that, of course, there was only one thing left to do. I told Brown that I’d sprained my arm with my exertions – brought back the rheumatism contracted from exposure in Afghanistan, very likely … horrid shame … just when I was finding a length … too bad … worst of luck … field all right, though … (I wasn’t going to run the risk of having the other Kent men paste me all over the ground, not for anything). So I went back to the deep field, to a tumultuous ovation from the gallery, which I acknowledged modestly with a tip of Mynn’s hat, and basked in my glory for the rest of the match, which we lost by four wickets. (If only that splendid chap Flashman had been able to go on bowling, eh? Kent would have been knocked all to smash in no time. They do say he has a jezzail bullet in his right arm still – no it ain’t, it was a spear thrust – I tell you I read it in the papers, etc., etc.)
It was beer all round in the pavilion afterwards, with all manner of congratulations – Felix shook my hand again, ducking his head in that shy way of his, and Mynn asked was I to be home next year, for if the Army didn’t find a use for me, he could, in the casual side which he would get together for the Grand Cricket Week at Canterbury. This was flattery on the grand scale, but I’m not sure that the sincerest tribute I got wasn’t Fuller Pilch’s knitted brows and steady glare as he sat on a bench with his tankard, looking me up and down for a full two minutes and never saying a word.
Even the doddering Duke came up to compliment me and say that my style reminded him absolutely of his own – “Did I not remark it to you, my dear?” says he to his languid tart, who was fidgeting with her parasol and stifling a yawn while showing me her handsome profile and weighing me out of the corner of her eye. “Did I not observe that Mr Flashman’s shooter was just like the one I bow out Beauclerk with at Maidstone in ’06? – directed to had off stump, sir, caught him goin’ back, you understand pitched just short, broke and shot, middle stump, bowled all over his wicket – ha! ha! what?”
I had to steady the old fool before he tumbled over demonstrating his action, and his houri, assisting, took the opportunity to rub a plump arm against me. “No doubt we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Canterbury next summer, Mr Flashman,” she murmurs, and the old pantaloon cries aye, aye, capital notion, as she helped him away; I made a note to look her up then, since she’d probably have Killed him in the course of the winter.
It wasn’t till I was towelling myself in the bathhouse, and getting outside a brandy punch, that I realized I hadn’t seen Elspeth since the match ended, which was odd, since she’d hardly miss a chance to bask in my reflected glory. I dressed and looked about; no sign of her among the thinning crowd, or outside the pavilion, or at the ladies’ tea tables, or at our carriage; coachee hadn’t seen her either. There was a fairish throng outside the pub, but she’d hardly be there, and then someone plucked my sleeve, and I turned to find a large, beery-faced individual with black button eyes at my elbow.
“Mr Flashman, sir, best respex,” says he, and tapped his low-crown hat with his cudgel. “You’ll forgive the liberty, I’m sure – Tighe’s the monicker, Daedalus Tighe, ev’yone knows me, agent an’ accountant to the gentry—” and he pushed a card in my direction between sweaty fingers. “Takin’ the hoppor-toonity, my dear sir an’ sportsman, of presentin’ my compliments an’ best vishes, an’—”
“Thank’ee,” says I, “but I’ve no bets to place.”
“My dear sir!” says he, beaming. “The werry last idea!” And he invited his cronies, a seedy-flash bunch, to bear him witness. “My makin’ so bold, dear sir, was to inwite you to share my good fortun’, seein’ as ’ow you’ve con-tribooted so ’and some to same – namely, an’ first, by partakin’ o’ some o’ this ’ere French jam-pain – poodle’s p--s to some, but as drunk in the bes’ hestablishments by the werriest swells such as – your good self, sir. Wincent,” says he, “pour a glass for the gallant—”
“Another time,” says I, giving him my shoulder, but the brute had the effrontery to catch my arm.
“’Old on, sir!” cries he. “’Arf a mo’, that’s on’y the sociable pree-liminary. I’m vishful to present to your noble self the—”
“Go to the d---l!” snaps I. He stank of brandy.
“—sum of fifty jemmy o’ goblins, as an earnest o’ my profound gratitood an’ respeck. Wincent!”
And d----d if the weasel at his elbow wasn’t thrusting a glass of champagne at me with one hand and a fistful of bills in the other. I stopped short, staring.
“What the deuce …?”
“A triflin’ token of my hes-teem,” says Tighe. He swayed a little, leering at me, and for all the reek of booze, the flash cut of his coat, the watch-chain over his flowery silk vest, and the gaudy bloom in his lapel – the marks of the vulgar sport, in fact – the little eyes in his fat cheeks were as hard as coals. “You vun it for me, my dear sir – an’ plenty to spare, d---e. Didn’t ’e, though?” His confederates, crowding round, chortled and raised their glasses. “By the sweat – yore pardon, sir – by the peerspyration o’ yore brow – an’ that good right arm, vot sent back Felix, Pilch, ’an Alfred Mynn in three deliveries, sir. Look ’ere,” and he snapped a finger to Vincent, who dropped the glass to whip open a leather satchel at his waist – it was stuffed with notes and coin.
“You, sir, earned that. You did, though. Ven you put avay Fuller Pilch – an’, veren’t that a ’andsome catch, now? – I sez to Fat Bob Napper, vo
t reckons e’s king o’ the odds an’ evens – ‘Napper,’ sez I, ‘that’s a ’ead bowler, that is. Vot d’ye give me ’e don’t put out Mynn, first ball?’ ‘Gammon,’ sez ’e. ‘Three in a row – never! Thahsand to one, an’ you can pay me now.’ Generous odds, sir, you’ll allow.” And the rascal winked and tapped his nose. “So – hon goes my quid – an’ ’ere’s Napper’s thahsand, cash dahn, give ’im that – an’ fifty on it’s yore’s, my gallant sir, vith the grateful compliments of Daedalus Tighe, Hesk-wire, agent an’ accountant to the gentry, ’oo ’ereby salutes” – and he raised his glass and belched unsteadily – “yore ’onner’s pardon, b----r them pickles – ’oo salutes the most wicious right harm in the noble game o’ cricket today! Hip-hip-hip – hooray!’
I couldn’t help being amused at the brute, and his pack of rascals – drunken bookies and touts on the spree, and too far gone to appreciate their own impudence.
“My thanks for the thought, Mr Tighe,” says I, for it don’t harm to be civil to a bookie, and I was feeling easy, “you may drink my health with it.” And I pushed firmly past him, at which he staggered and sat down heavily in a froth of cheap champagne, while his pals hooted and weaved in to help him. Not that I couldn’t have used the fifty quid, but you can’t be seen associating with cads of that kidney, much less accepting their gelt. I strode on, with cries of “Good luck, sir!” and “Here’s to the Flash cove!” following me. I was still grinning as I resumed my search for Elspeth, but as I turned into the archery range for a look there, the smile was wiped off my lips – for there were only two people in the long alley between the hedges: the tall figure of a man, and Elspeth in his arms.
I came to a dead halt, silent – for three reasons. First, I was astonished. Secondly, he was a big, vigorous brute, by what I could see of him – which was a massive pair of shoulders in a handsomely-cut broadcloth (no expense spared there), and thirdly, it passed quickly through my mind that Elspeth, apart from being my wife, was also my source of supply. Food for thought, you see, but before I had even an instant to taste it, they both turned their heads and I saw that Elspeth was in the act of stringing a shaft to a ladies’ bow – giggling and making a most appealing hash of it – while her escort, standing close in behind her, was guiding her hands, which of course necessitated putting his arms about her, with her head against his shoulder.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 62