Aye, but if you're a hero – and one who has cut his pigtail, mind – you must ride the rocket while it's ascending, for the stick'll come down at last. I pray God it never does for young Harry; with luck it won't, for he has a way with him, and the kind of fame that'll last a lifetime, even if he don't add to it, which he likely will. He don't know it, but by God I'm proud of him. He won his spurs clean, and he don't have that rum shadow that clung to me over my duelling – can't think why I was such a fire-eater in the Peninsula, but I was, and the hellish fact is that when you've been out a couple o' times you find a taste for it. Harry's a cooler hand altogether – why, the only time he stood up the young madman gave his man a free shot, and then deloped! I was never reckoned a funk, but damned if I'd ever have the pluck for that! Aye, I'm proud – as I shall tell him when … well, if he visits me. When you see him, you might … no, better not. Guv'nor in the blue-devil factory's best at a distance, eh?
I'll take some more of the red tape, if you please … thank'ee. And you may pour out that bottle of belch, too … To come to the point, when I came home in '09 I was a hero – and nobody. I'd been on the edge of the sporting set as a younker, before I went to Spain – sparred with Cribb, as I told you, took my wet at Stephen's and Limmer's, was reckoned a useful pradster at the Corner (no seat at the Monday dinners, though), lost a careful amount at Crocky's hell in Oxford Street, but was nowhere near Brooks' or Waitier's where the real gamesters played, and far outside the swim of the prime swells, the Four-in-Handers and heads of the Fancy.
As for the ton, the world of Society, I was nowhere. Too young, too unconnected, too unknown. The nearest I'd ever come to the top flight was to mount York's mistress unbeknownst, La Clarke aforesaid, and God knows I wasn't the only one to do that.
This won't do, thinks I, and pondered how I might make a “character” in Town, win my way into the clubs and salons, be a figure on the turf and in the Fancy, and, in fine, become a regular out-and-outer, a buck o' the first head, at home in Almack's and the Daffy Club* both, winning the lofty approval of the Town tabbies in the Park and pattering the flash in the Holy Land – and a mean, dicky ambition, you may say, but you ain't a young horse soldier with his glory all behind him whose father made his pile shipping blackbirds.
I knew it could be done, for while the West End was a damned exclusive place, it was easier to break in then, in those easy times, than it is now. Brummell had done it from nowhere – well, Eton – by being pleasant, and a top-notch cricketer, and looking just so through his quizzing-glass (usually at Prinny's neckercher), but he was a one-and-only, was George. You had to be noticed, and then admitted, and while some did it by high play, or writing poems, or toad-eating at Holland House, or inventing a new neckercher, or rattling the right dowagers, or even clambering round a room on the furniture without touching the floor, none o' these would ha' been my style – except the dowagers, and I didn't know any. But I had a stroke of luck – the damnedest thing you ever imagined, and before I'd been home a month I was in prime twig, top o' the mark, and “on the Town”.
It was this way. Kangaroo Cooke, whom I mentioned just now, was a leading dandy, a Big Gun. We'd met, just, when I was a lad, and now I ran into him in Craig's Court, when I was settling up my Army bills. He proved to be a chum of Ponsonby, my old squadron commander, so nothing would do but he must dine me at White's, and there, keeping my trap shut, my eyes open, and earwigging away, I heard a piece of gossip – dammit, I couldn't help but hear, for they were full of it, the prime scandal of the hour. As thus:
One of the leading bright sparks of the day was young Harry Somerset, Marquis of Worcester and son and heir to the Duke of Beaufort no less, a well-regarded flower of our nobility who was as sober and decent as his son was wild and wanton. The boy was nutty on skirt, though not yet come of age (they're the worst, you know), with a new charmer each week, until of late he'd fallen under the spell of one Harriet Wilson, a nymph of the pavey whose conduct would ha' made Messalina look like a nun. Not the usual muslin, you understand, but a notorious siren who'd been mount to half the rakes in Town – a fact to which young Harry was evidently blind, as often happens with young fools and older women.
Boys will be boys, to be sure, but what was bringing Beaufort's grey hairs round his ankles was that the idiot pup was babbling of marriage to this harpy, and at this rate breach of promise would be the least of it. There could be no buying her off, not with a whack at the Beaufort fortune in prospect, and no talking sense into the besotted Harry. Beaufort wanted to buy him colours and ship him off to Spain as aide to Hooky himself, but Harry wasn't to be budged; he was at Harriet's dainty feet, wouldn't hear a word against her, and Beaufort, no doubt seeing himself having to cough up almighty damages or become father-in-law to the Whore of Babylon, was at a nonplus. Either way 'twould be a hideous scandal. What the devil, the gossips asked each other, was he to do?
Well, I could ha' told 'em in no time flat, but 'twas no concern of mine, and it was only later, in idle meditation, that it struck me that whoever could detach the love-smitten younger Somerset from Circe's embrace must surely earn the undying gratitude of Papa, one of the highest and most powerful peers in the land, a kingpin in Society, a Biggest of Big Guns, and the answer to a toad-eater's prayer. A duke's a duke, dammit, only one rung below a Prince of the Blood. It would have to be managed without expense, opprobrium, or the least breath of inconvenience to His Grace, but the dodge I had in mind was right as a gun, and promised a fine gig as well.
So I dug out my recently discarded regimentals and sauntered forth in full fig to call on La Belle Harriet at her crib in Mount Street (aptly named). My tale, earnestly delivered with becoming emotion, was that a comrade, Toby Wilson, had expired in my arms in the Peninsula, whispering: “M'sister … dearest Harriet …”, and here I was in the hope that she was the sister referred to. In which case, my heartfelt condolences, and with them those little keepsakes which I had culled, with a manly tear, from his pockets – a snuff-box, rings, seals, baccy-pouch, and a pipe with a Saracen's head on the bowl, raked out from the rubbish in my attic.
Whether she swallowed it I've never been sure, and I doubt if she could tell you herself, for all her attention was taken with the dashing dragoon in his tight pants, bowing his stalwart six feet and fairly bursting with boyish admiration. That at least was genuine enough on my part, for she was an opulent beauty with a bold eye and a loose lip, not more than twice my age, and there was more cloth in her turban than in the rest of her deshabille.
In any event, dear old Toby was never mentioned again, and within an hour my youthful innocence had succumbed to the wiles of this practised enchantress. I ain't claiming it as a conquest, by the way, for I doubt if anything with whiskers could have escaped her when she had an hour to spare, and I'd no call to employ the family gift for seduction beyond an artless blush, a gasp of adoration, and letting her have her head. Afterwards, to be sure, I regarded her with calf-like worship and pleaded for a return, which she was pleased to promise for the following afternoon. In my juvenile passion I anticipated this by boarding her again on the spot, and left her in a state of sweet collapse, vowing to call again on the morrow at five precisely.
Next morning I scouted about and learned by inquiry that Harry Worcester's haunt of the day was the old O.P. tavern in Drury Lane, a theatrical ken kept by Hudson the song-smith, where the younger ton were used to look in for coffee and musical diversion of an early evening. That suited admirably, and I went home and wrote a note: “Oh blind, oh trusting! H.W. betrays you! If you doubt it, repair to her directly and behold Shameful Truth unveiled! A Friend”, superscribed and sealed it plain, and instructed my man, a seasoned artful dodger, to deliver it incog to the O.P. at five on the nail.
You can guess the rest – young Somerset, with blood in his eye, bursting in past a swooning abigail to discover his inamorata and your humble obedient rounding the last bend, so to speak. He let out a howl they must have heard in Lambeth.
“By God, it's true!” bawls he, nearly in tears, and damned her in violent terms, of which “Traitress!” was the least. What she said I don't recall, and he turned on me, crimson with fury and hurt pride. I had my britches on in a trice, in case he offered assault, but he knew how to bear himself, I'll say that. Good-looking lad, he was, and straight as a poker.
“I shall call you out!” stammers he. “Whoever the hell you are!”
“Over this bit o' soiled muslin?” says I. “Talk sense, lad. You'd find yourself fighting half London.”
“Damn you!” cries he, and whipped his glove across my face, very dramatic. “My friends will wait upon you!”
“You'll wait a dam' sight longer,” says I. “My lord, I was out half a dozen times in the Peninsula. I don't have to prove myself cub-shooting.”
He went pale as chalk. “Dastard! Coward! I'll cane you in the street!”
“Try it, and I'll put you across my knee,” I told him. “Now go home, you silly fellow. She ain't worth it. Be thankful you found out in time.”
He wasn't a fool. You could see him struggling with his self-esteem as he looked from one to other of us. Then he fumbled out his purse and flung it on the bed before her.
“Take that, you … you …” He was choking mortified. “Oh, I am well served for a fool!” To my utter astonishment, he turned to me again. “Your pardon, sir. I struck you a coward's blow, and I am sorry for it.” And then he burst into tears and stalked out, which marred the gestures, rather. Still, not bad for seventeen.
Save for one startled squeal, dear Harriet hadn't uttered a sound, but now, when I suggested we resume our romp, she spoke at some length, in terms which would have shamed a fishwife, and tried to rake me with her nails. I grabbed my duds and fled, pursued by abuse and flying crockery, leaving her to mourn her lost love, or her failure to nap his guv'nor's rent, more likely.
I toddled round to White's without delay, and sent my card in to Kangaroo Cooke. When he came down I drew him aside.
“I'd be obliged, colonel, if you would present my compliments to His Grace of Beaufort, and give him my assurance that he need feel no further anxiety over Lord Worcester's relations with a certain female person. A complete and final breach has taken place.”
Kangaroo looked like a cod with a moustache at the best of times, but now he fairly gaped, and demanded what the dooce I meant.
“Not another word, sir,” says I. “Pray deliver my message, and you may add that the matter has been managed with every discretion. Nothing will be heard from either party, and I believe that if His Grace renews his offer of colours to his lordship, it has every chance of acceptance.”
“Buckley,” says he, “what the devil have you been up to?”
“Let us say,” I told him, “that I have had a word with the young man, and that he now sees where his duty lies. No, sir, I cannot in honour say more. I am delighted to have been of service to His Grace. Good evening, colonel.”
I left him goggling, and as I'd expected young Harry Somerset removed himself from Town and the curiosity of the ton without delay, departing for the Army in Spain where, I'm happy to say, he distinguished himself as Wellington's galloper. I was less gratified, though, when Kangaroo buttonholed me on Piccadilly to tell me that His Grace of Beaufort sent his compliments, hoped to make my acquaintance at some convenient time, but regretted that this could not be for the present, owing to His Grace's many engagements. “Discretion, what?” says Kangaroo. “Never fret, he's damned obliged, I can tell you.”
Well he might be, but I thought it dam' shabby; I'd looked for a word of thanks from the Duke himself, at least, but I didn't know how things were done, then, and was suitably dumfounded when there arrived a note from the leading Society female of the day, the queen of the cream of the ton, the Countess of Jersey, enclosing (I couldn't credit my senses, and it fluttered from my trembling fingers to the floor) a voucher for Almack's.
You can't conceive what that meant, so I'll tell you. Almack's was the holy of holies of the polite world, the innermost circle of the Upper Ten Thousand, the pinnacle of Society, where only the favoured few could hope for admission. Why, ambassadors, generals, chaps with titles and pedigrees a yard long fairly clamoured and intrigued and toadied to be let in, and grovelled for a nod from the female dragons who ruled beneath its famous chandeliers. This was the club where Wellington himself was turned away for being improperly dressed, hang it all, not above one in fifty of the exclusive Guardees could cross the threshold – and mere Captain Flashman, late of the 23rd Lights, had a voucher. It was beyond belief.
Plainly Beaufort, God bless him, had hit on the finest (and least noticeable) way of rewarding me for my services, and had said a kind word to Lady Jersey, and she (as I learned later) had had me pointed out in the Park, and been pleased with the view. She was a remarkable creature, “Queen Sarah”, undisputed leader of the Diamond Squad though she was still in her twenties, devilish handsome and mistress of forty thousand pounds a year, but renowned as the most affected, talkative, and downright uncivil woman in England. Her word was law at Almack's, and while I dare say my looks and bearing had something to do with my being sent that heavenly, precious voucher, I don't doubt she'd also done it to spite some other hopeful.
I made my debut with Kangaroo doing the honours, leading me across that glittering floor to the charmed half-circle where Sarah sat, plumed and ridiculously regal, with her court of grand dames, many of 'em unexpectedly young and pretty, and bursting with blue blood. It was like being presented to the Empress of Russia. She stirred her fan and looked me up and down, icy cool.
“I am told that they call you Mad Buck, Mr Flashman,” drawls she. “I wonder why?”
“I am told that they call your ladyship Sweet Sally, marm,” says I. “But I don't wonder at all.” And before she could wither me for this effrontery, I gave her my gallant grin. “There, marm – now you know why they call me Mad Buck.”
It could have cost me my voucher then and there, and for a moment she was at a loss how to take it – and then, d'ye know, she absolutely blushed with pleasure and laughed like a schoolgirl. Fact was, for all her airs she had no notion of proper behaviour, and was so used to being toadied that a saucy compliment from a devil-may-care soldier took her unawares. I believe she decided that I was a “character”, and might be indulged, so while others were given their formal name or title, I was “Buck” to her thereafter, and she, the toploftiest tabby of them all, was well pleased to be “Lady Sal”, but to me alone. I offered her no other familiarity, I may say; she wasn't that sort.
So that was how I arrived “on the Town”, and came to mingle with the upper crust, was welcomed from Almack's and Boodle's to Bob's Chophouse and Fishmonger's Hall,* received the nods from White's window and had my own stool and tankard in Cribb's Crib, and while never aspiring to be a Tulip, much less a Swell (for I dressed plain and expensive, a la Brummell, to impress Sweet Sally and the drawing-room mamas), was known as a regular out-and-outer, a Corinthian of the sporting sort, a flower of the Fancy who would fib with peer or pug … and best of all, I danced with 'Lishy Paget under the chandeliers, all those old country dances that she loved, Gathering Peasecods and Scotch reels, which were all the crack then, before the waltz came in …'Lishy of the flashing eyes and chestnut hair, dancing in a dream through those few golden years until she was taken from me, so young and lovely still, and full of life … and what did Society or Almack's or any of it matter then … ?
Damn your eyes, if I choose to grow maudlin in my cups it's not your place to sigh like a flatulent sow. Your own fault for pressing booze on me … come along, man, fill up. No doubt you feel you've been the soul of patience, listening to my social triumphs – and if you still think I've been telling rappers you may go to Almack's and look at their books, blast your impudence. It's in King Street, but I believe they call it Wilkins' or some such name nowadays; gone to the dogs, I dare say, like everything else.
Now, since I've educate
d you in the ways of that world of my long-lost youth, as a needful eye-opener, I'll tell you what you wish to know of Black Tom Molineaux, and how he brought the prize ring a fame and lustre it had never known before, and mayn't again. Aye, he did that … he and one other. Tom Cribb of Bristol.
You'll have heard that after Broughton, who was the first true Champion nigh on a century ago, the Ring fell into disrepute. All kinds of sharps and ruffians came in, crosses were fought, and decent folk stayed clear of it. Two men rescued it, Dick Humphries and Dan Mendoza, splendid fibbers and straight – tho' there were those that said it was wonderful how Mendoza would come to life after the Jews had cried up the odds on his opponent. But they were my boyhood heroes, those two, Danny especially, for he was the first fighter to get up on his toes and move. Gentleman Jackson did for him, by ruffianing that had nothing genteel about it, and in their wake came three of the best that ever stepped up to the scratch: Hen Pearce, the Game Chicken; John Gully, who became an M.P. after Reform and is a name on the turf nowadays; Jem Belcher, who was the living spit of Boney and might ha' reigned forever if he hadn't lost an eye playing rackets.