Flashman and the Cobra

by Robert Brightwell

  “I will need to speak to the prisoner,” I said to the sergeant.

  “Of course,” he replied, getting up and detaching a bunch of keys from his belt. In a few seconds the cell door creaked open and there was Berkeley, staring at me all red-faced and belligerent.

  “Well, you have taken your damned time. If you came when I called you in the gardens this would all have been explained and I would not have been arrested at all.” The sergeant moved away to give us some privacy and I stepped into the cell. “You are bloody unreliable, Flashman, always have been, whole family the same. Now what are you sitting down for? We have to leave.”

  My loathing for the man rose another notch. “Sit down, sir. You cannot leave yet. We need to pay them a release fee. They want a hundred guineas in gold.”

  “Bloody thieves and bandits, never mind your revolution,” roared Berkeley so loud that the guard and no doubt half the prison could hear him. Then in a lower voice to me he barked, “Well, pay them, boy, and let’s get out of here.”

  First the slur on my family and then treating me like some incompetent waiter. If I was not in love, or at least in lust, with Louisa, I would have told him to go to the devil. But instead I had to take a deep breath and admit that I did not have a hundred guineas to release him. “I will need a note from you to your bank for the gold that I can give to the embassy. They will give me the funds and then we can get you released.”

  “Huh,” said Berkeley, reaching for a pen on the table; there was paper and ink there too, presumably for this very purpose. Dipping the pen in the ink, he started scratching away on the paper. As he did so he added, “What would you have done if you had married my daughter and she got arrested, eh? Left her to rot in jail because you did not have a hundred guineas?”

  “I am sure I would have found a way to manage the situation,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Well, you didn’t manage it with me, did you? That is why her marriage to you is out of the question. It is a matter of breeding, Flashman, and you do not have enough of it.” He handed me the finished note. “Now take that to the embassy and try to be back within the hour. I want to get out of here.”

  I walked out of the cell seething with rage. The guard shut the cell door behind me and checked the rag was still wedged in the little window to muffle the shouting. It did not stop me hearing Berkeley say to himself, “No bloody breeding at all.”

  The sergeant and I walked back to his desk. He asked, “You get ze money now?” He seemed very familiar with the routine. “Best to be back before dark as nobody likes to be in ze cells at night. The walls, they... ’ow you say... talk.”

  “What do you mean the walls talk?” I thought he had mistranslated the English.

  “Those are the cells that ze condemned prisoners were kept in, before they were taken for ze ...” Here he made a swishing movement with a flat hand on the back of his neck. “Nobody likes to be ’ere at night. Too many ghosts.”

  An evil thought crossed my mind and I was just mulling it over when Berkeley helped make the decision by shouting, “Are you still there, Flashman? You have not got time to talk; get a move on.”

  I reached into my pocked and took out all the money I had with me, about ten guineas, and put it on the table. In a slightly quieter voice, so that Berkeley would not hear, I said, “We are only willing to pay ten guineas, take it or leave it.”

  “Ten guineas? Zat is not possible,” said the sergeant, looking astonished. “Maybe eighty guineas, but no lower.”

  “Fine,” I said, sweeping the coins back up and putting them in my pocket. “It looks like he will be staying overnight then, doesn’t it.”

  I am one of the few people to walk away from the Conciergerie prison with a happy smile on my face. I decided that there was no point in taking abuse from Berkeley any more. He would never allow me to marry Louisa, which left elopement, and I was not sure she would go for that. Living on my current income would involve a significant fall in living standards from what she was used to. Still, I could make twenty guineas straight away by cashing in Berkeley’s note and buying him out again for eighty guineas in the morning. To Louisa, I would blame French bureaucracy for the fact her father could not be released until tomorrow. As for Berkeley himself, I might tell him that my lack of breeding caused me to spend rest of the afternoon in an alehouse. It would be interesting to see how purple his face could get. Thinking about it, my best chance of marrying Louisa was probably to kill the old bastard by giving him apoplexy.

  Chapter 3

  Berkeley’s daughters greeted the news of their father’s continued detention with mixed feelings.

  “At least we don’t have to pretend that we are at the opera tonight,” said Sarah.

  “Yes, we do, at least for Mrs Fairfax’s benefit,” Louisa reminded her. “She is only allowing us out on our own because she thinks some other ladies are meeting us there.” She turned to me. “Is Father’s cell comfortable? He is not sharing it with criminals, is he?”

  “Oh no, he has a room to himself and the prison was very quiet when I visited him. He has a bed, table and chair and a small window; he should be perfectly comfortable,” I reassured them. It was early evening and still quite light, but soon it would be getting dark and I hoped those cell walls would be very talkative tonight.

  The young Austrian diplomat, Alexander Hafenbredl, had organised a carriage to take us to the embassy. Two other couples staying in our hotel were also going and I chatted happily with them as we gathered in one of the hotel drawing rooms. The girls came down a couple of minutes before we were due to depart with carriage cloaks drawn tight around their necks that hid their new Paris dresses. Both of them seem quite flushed and red with excitement and I wondered if they had already been drinking champagne. The embassy was just a short carriage ride away and was a very grand and impressive building.

  I can still remember now walking into that grand embassy reception room. The walls were bright with fresh colour – decorators had just finished restoring it to its former glory as it too had been abandoned during the revolutionary war. Great chandeliers blazed with light and then my gaze dropped to the crowd underneath the candles and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Dresses were in what later became known as the Empire style, hanging straight down from below the bust, with often contrasting fabrics coming up from under the breasts and over the shoulders. However, at least in that Paris season, the ball gown fashion was for the upper fabric to be very diaphanous, in many cases almost completely transparent. The most daring of ladies had even gone to the trouble of adding rouge to their nipples so that there was no doubt what could be seen beneath the flimsy folds. My head whipped round to look at the sisters just as a footman took away the carriage cloaks from their shoulders, revealing what was underneath. They both looked stunning. While the tops of their dresses were not completely transparent, in the light you make out the curve of their breasts quite clearly.

  Louisa smiled at me. “You like?” she asked simply.

  Words failed me at that instant, but I nodded eagerly and noticed that Alexander Hafenbredl was staring with equally lascivious intent at Sarah. Louisa stepped towards me, still smiling, and with a delicate finger she pushed my gaping jaw up to close my mouth. Then she took my arm and steered me onto the dance floor. It was a magical night. As well as the revealing tops, fashion also dictated that corsets were out. So when dancing, instead of having your arm around the usual whalebone armour plate of a corset, you could feel the warm back of your partner through the fabric. All round, it was a far more intimate affair.

  There was also a marked difference in the behaviour of the guests during the evening. The foreign nationals, more used to formal balls and dances, were more conservatively dressed and reserved in their manner, although several of the ladies were wearing variations of the new French fashions. In contrast, the French officials and their wives and mistresses had lived through the revolution with the subsequent ‘terror’ and seemed more determined
to live life to the full. They were louder and many of the women dressed brazenly.

  It was between dances that we literally bumped into Wickham and a very pretty lady whom he introduced as his wife. She spoke with a slight accent as it turned out she was Swiss and she seemed very friendly.

  “Is Lord Berkeley here as well?” said Wickham, looking around. “Or is he still recovering from his period of captivity?”

  “Unfortunately he is still in captivity,” I said quickly, giving Wickham what I hoped was a meaningful look. “French bureaucracy means that he cannot be released until tomorrow.”

  Louisa shot me a look; she did not miss a thing even after four glasses of champagne.

  Wickham responded smoothly, “Yes, those officials can be very dogmatic when it comes to paperwork, but I am sure he will be released tomorrow.”

  Before I was faced with any searching questions from my dance partner there was a disturbance at the end of the room. Like a wave, the word spread down the room: “Bonaparte is here.” It was like an electric charge through the gathering as people strained to get a look at the first consul, who was evidently working his way around the room. The dance music continued for a while but nobody wanted to miss the opportunity of being introduced to the man who had conquered Northern Italy and then Egypt before finally restoring law and order to the Republic of France itself. With no one dancing, the band eventually resorted to some patriotic French tunes. The small group containing Bonaparte worked its way down the room towards us.

  “He is an amazing man,” murmured Wickham as we waited. “You feel that he can look right through you when you meet him, and he is very knowledgeable. He does not leave things to his officials; he likes to check everything himself and take personal control of every aspect of the Republic.”

  I looked down the room at Bonaparte for the first time. Later in life I was to get to know him quite well and I never ceased to be in awe of him. He gave off a sense of destiny, as though he could look into the future and see the difference he was making. His hair was cut short but it was already starting to thin on top and he was wearing a red coat with some military decorations pinned to it. But it was not his appearance that you noticed first about him, it was his energy. Three aides were with him and he was giving them instructions between meeting the groups around the room. On one occasion he stopped to read a short document one of them showed him. At the same time he was carrying on a jovial conversation with the ambassador, who was guiding him down the line of guests. His eyes were darting around the room and he nodded at a few acquaintances waiting to see him on the other side of the chamber. He seemed to miss nothing.

  In a few moments he was up to us.

  “This is William Wickham of the British Consulate,” said the Austrian ambassador in French. The ambassador evidently knew Wickham and chose to brush over his real job title in the interest of diplomatic niceties. Napoleon shook his hand and smiled at the description. I had a feeling that he also knew exactly who William Wickham was.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Wickham,” said Napoleon, speaking in French. “I believe I have heard of some of your exploits.”

  “It is an honour to meet you too, sir,” replied Wickham.

  “Is this one of your colleagues?” the consul asked, turning to me.

  “This is Mr Flashman, sir,” said Wickham, replying in the same language as I put out my hand to shake that of Bonaparte. “He was in the Mediterranean last year and was fortunate to be one of the few survivors of the sinking of the Real Carlos.” Napoleon’s brow furrowed slightly as he tried to recollect the incident. The Real Carlos and her sister ship had been two massive Spanish ships of the line. They had been part of a joint French and Spanish fleet, but in a night action they had caught fire, become entangled and had blown up.

  Bonaparte’s his brow cleared as the memory came to him. “Such a terrible loss for our Spanish allies,” he said as he looked at me closely. “I recollect that there were only a handful of survivors?”

  “Seventeen, sir,” I replied, having hesitated a moment to remember the French for that number.

  “Then you are indeed fortunate,” the first consul said. “A lucky man will always beat a clever one, and so I am glad we are all at peace,” he continued. He stared at me a moment longer; he seemed to be trying to memorise my face, and in that second I knew with certainty that we would meet again. I am sure he sensed it too, for he gave me the slightest nod and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips before he broke the gaze and swung his head round to look at Louisa. The smile broadened and he bent down to kiss her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle,” he murmured before sweeping on to the next group in the room.

  The rest of the evening passed in a whirl. We drank more champagne and danced until our feet ached and our heads span. For any red-blooded man it was a very distracting affair. Tits on display everywhere you looked, and the dance partner’s warm, yielding flesh of in your arms. In dances where partners changed the French ladies were particularly daring, taking delight at shocking the visitors by grabbing or caressing them during dance encounters and then moving on, giggling, when some starchy Austrian official jerked away like a scalded stoat. With that and Louisa pressing her perfect breasts at me throughout the evening, I was becoming as horny as hell. Tight dancing breeches were not ideal clothes that night and I spent half the evening doing what an army officer once called the blue balls scuttle, trying to hide my obvious interest.

  Eventually it was time to get back into the carriage and return to the hotel. Poor Alexander: after hours of enthusiastically courting Sarah, he was asked by his ambassador to stay on at the embassy. Sarah was furious at being denied her beau for the rest of the evening. Another couple shared the carriage with the three of us, and when we got back to the hotel another party was already underway. There was a large crowd in one of the drawing rooms and things seemed pretty lively. I was in no mood to go to bed and wanted to get to grips with Louisa in more intimate surroundings. She could not be caught in my room and I knew that a lady’s maid slept in a dressing room between the bedrooms of the two sisters, and so I tried to steer her towards a quiet corner of the drawing room. The drunken crowd would not notice anything we were doing, but Louisa saw where I was guiding her and slipped away.

  “I am going to bed,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek while slipping a hand under my jacket and squeezing my arse.

  “You cannot go to bed now, the night is still young,” I cried.

  In reply Louisa just winked at me as she ran quickly up the stairs. There may be some readers of this account that recognise that wink as a meaningful signal, but after a bottle and a half of champagne, I didn’t. Given her need to protect her reputation and the lady’s maid acting as chaperone in her room, this spelled the end of my evening with Louisa. I threw myself down on a nearby settee feeling thoroughly let down.

  As Louisa’s shapely rear disappeared around the top of the stairs her sister came over to me. To my surprise she leaned over and kissed me on the forehead, leaving her own virtually uncovered, perfect bouncers right in my face.

  “Have you been left on your own too?” she whispered in my ear. “Why don’t you come into the party with me?”

  Well, you would have to be dead not to understand that ‘signal’ and completely stonehearted to decline it. Of course, had I been sober I might have remembered that of the two sisters I had always found Sarah to be spoilt, calculating and manipulative. But being drunk and horny and feeling abandoned, I did not give it a thought.

  We went into the drawing room and joined a loud and raucous gathering. I was already tight but was soon swilling brandy with the rest. Two of the French women present had allowed their breasts to escape their diaphanous coverings and one was dribbling brandy down her left tit which was being eagerly licked off by a randy old Austrian count. Emboldened by this, I slipped a hand over Sarah’s shoulder and had a fondle that would normally have resulted in my getting a slapped face. This time Sarah j
ust nestled her head against my shoulder and rubbed her hand along my thigh. She certainly knew how to console someone her sister had rejected.

  More solace arrived in the form of small glasses of green liquid; it was called absinthe. This green liquor is currently all the range in Paris. They make it in France now and its hallucinogenic properties have been blamed for all sorts of events, including a man murdering his entire family. But back then few people had heard of it, largely as it was hugely expensive, being made only in Switzerland. People drank it to show off that they could afford it as much as anything. It tastes foul but we were drinking it in small glasses like the Prussians drink schnapps. Soon a whole series of toasts were drunk with small shots of absinthe, first to the Austrian ambassador, then to Bonaparte, then to the ladies. I recall the brandy-and-now-absinthe-dribbling-lady’s-left-tit had a toast to itself at one point, and then my recollections start to get a bit hazy.

  Now I can hold my drink. Sure I can get leery in my cups, but never to the point that I do things that are suicidal to my interests. To explain what happened next I could tell you that while intoxicated I confused the two sisters and thought I was still with Louisa, but I didn’t. I might have mixed their names once or twice, but I knew who she was. The truth was that with the absinthe and booze on board, I just didn’t care. Sarah was ready, willing and eager and so was I. By now she had started caressing me though my breeches, which was putting a rare old pressure on the stitching.

  “Let’s go to my room,” I whispered hoarsely.

  “No, no, not there,” she hissed. “We must go to my room.”

  “What about your maid?”

  “Don’t worry, she has been taken care of. By now she is as drunk as a pig merchant on market day.”

  We staggered upstairs, and I mean staggered. Whether it was the champagne, brandy or the absinthe, most likely a combination of all three, once we were moving we both found the co-ordination of limbs a bit of a challenge. We were pawing at each other as we went, and by the time we staggered past the drunken maid’s bed to reach Sarah’s room we were in a fine old state of anticipation. It was just as well that the maid was comatose as, locked in a fumbling embrace, I staggered into her bed on the way past. By the time we got inside Sarah’s room we were tearing at each other’s clothes and raring to go. Never mind making the earth move; for me the whole room was already moving and sometimes Sarah seemed a bit blurry too, but we both had an urgent need to satisfy. My body was a bit like an orchestra with the different sections slightly out of time, but the conductor wasn’t waiting around and charged in with baton raised. It was a rare old romp, and afterwards we collapsed naked on the bed and within a few minutes I was asleep.