Flash for Freedom!. George Fraser MacDonald
Читать онлайн книгу.
was speaking, and I forced myself to look round at him, with Bryant, D’Israeli, old Morrison, Locke and the others crowding at his back.
‘Gentlemen,’ my voice was hoarse. ‘I … I can’t imagine. I swear to God …’
‘I thought I hadn’t seen the ace of diamonds,’ says someone.
‘I saw his hand go to his pocket, at the last deal.’ This was Bryant.
‘Oh, my Goad, the shame o’t … Ye wicked, deceitful …’
‘The fellow’s a damned sharp!’
‘A cheat! In this house …’
‘Remarkable,’ says D’Israeli, with an odd note in his voice. ‘For a few pence? You know, George, it’s d----d unlikely.’
‘The amount never matters,’ says Bentinck, with a voice like steel. ‘It’s winning. Now, sir, what have you to say?’
I was gathering my wits before this monstrous thing, trying to understand it. God knew I hadn’t cheated – when I cheat, it’s for something that matters, not sweets and ha’pence. And suddenly it hit me like a lightning flash – Bryant coming round to touch Aunt Selina’s hand, standing shoulder to shoulder with me. So this was how he was taking his revenge!
Put me in that situation today, and I’d reason my way out of it, talking calmly. But I was twenty-six then, and panicked – d--n it, if I had been cheating I’d have been ready for them, with my story cut and dried, but for once I was innocent, and couldn’t think what to say. I dashed the cards down and faced them.
‘It’s a b----y lie!’ I shouted. ‘I didn’t cheat, I swear it! My God, why should I? Lord George, can you believe it? Mr D’Israeli, I appeal to you! Would I cheat for a few coppers?’
‘How came the cards in your pocket, then?’ demands Bentinck.
‘That little viper!’ I shouted, pointing at Bryant. ‘The jealous little b-----d placed them there, to disgrace me!’
That set up a tremendous uproar, and Bryant, blast his eyes, played it like a master. He took a step back, gritted his teeth, bowed to the company, and says:
‘Lord George, I leave it to you to determine the worth of a foul slander from a proven cheat.’
And then he turned, and strode from the room. I could only stand raging, and then as I saw how he had foxed me – my God, ruined me, and before the best in the land, I lost control altogether. I sprang for the door, bawling after him, someone caught my sleeve, but I threw him off, and then I had the door open and was plunging through in pursuit.
There was a hubbub behind me, and a sudden squeal of alarm ahead, for there were ladies at the head of the stairs, their white faces turned towards me. Bryant made off at the sight of me, and in blind passion I hurled myself after him. I had only one thought: to catch the undersized little squirt and pound him to death – sense, decency and the rest were forgotten. I got my hand on his collar at the top of the stairs, while the females screamed and shrank back; I wrenched him round, his face grey with fear, and shook him like a rat.
‘You foul vermin!’ I roared. ‘Try to dishonour me, would you, you scum of … of the Eighth Hussars!’ And as I swung him left-handed before me, I drew back my right fist and with all my strength, smashed it into his face.
Nowadays, when I’m day-dreaming over the better moments of my misspent life – galloping Lola Montez and Elspeth and Queen Ranavalona and little Renee the creole and the fat dancing-wench I bought in India whose name escapes me, and having old Colin Campbell pinning the V.C. to my unworthy breast, and receiving my knighthood from Queen Victoria (and she in tears, maudlin little woman), and breaking into the Ranee’s treasure-cellar and seeing all that splendid loot laid out for the taking – when I think back on these fine things, the recollection of hitting Tommy Bryant invariably comes back to me. God knows it was a nightmare at the time, but in retrospect I can’t think of inflicting a hurt that I enjoyed more. My fist caught him full on the mouth and nose so hard that his collar was jerked clean out of my hand, and he went hurtling head foremost down the staircase like an arrow, bouncing once before crashing to rest in the hall, his limbs all a-sprawl.
There were shrieks of hysterical females in my ears, and hands seizing my coat, and men scampering down to lift him up, but all I remember is seeing Fanny’s face turned towards me in terror, and Bentinck’s voice drifting up the staircase:
‘My God, I believe he’s killed him!’
As it turned out, Bentinck was wrong, thank God; the little louse didn’t die, but it was a near-run thing. Apart from a broken nose, his skull was fractured in the fall, and for a couple of days he hung on the edge, with a Bristol horse-leech working like fury to save him from going over. Once he regained consciousness, and had the impertinence to say, ‘Tell Flashman I forgive him with all my heart,’ which cheered me up, because it indicated he was going to live, and wanted to appear a forgiving Christian; if he’d thought he was dying he’d have d----d me to hell and beyond.
But after that he lost consciousness again, and I went through the tortures of the pit. They had confined me to my room – Locke was a justice of the peace – and kept me there with the muff Duberly sitting outside the door like a blasted water-bailiff. I was in a fearful sweat, for if Bryant kicked the bucket it would be a hanging matter, no error, and at the thought of it I could only lie on my bed and quake. I’d seen men swing, and thought it excellent fun, but the thought of the rope rasping on my neck, and the blind being pulled over my brows, and the fearful plunge and sickening snap and blackness – my God, it had me vomiting in the corner. Well, I’ve had the noose under my chin since then, and waited blubbering for them to launch me off, and even the real thing seems no worse, looking back, than those few days of waiting in that bedroom, with the yellow primroses on the wallpaper, and the blue and red carpet on the floor with little green tigers woven into it, and the print of Harlaxton Manor, near Grantham, Lincolnshire, the seat of one John Longden, Esq., which hung above the bed – I can still recite the whole caption.
With the thought of the gallows driving everything else from my mind, it was small consolation to learn from Duberly – who seemed to be in a mortal funk himself over the whole business – that there was by no means complete agreement that I had been caught cheating. D’Israeli – he was clever, I’ll say that for him – had sensibly pointed out that a detected cheat wouldn’t have hauled the evidence out of his pocket publicly as soon as he was challenged. He maintained I would have protested, and refused to be searched – he was quite right, of course, but most of the other pious hypocrites disagreed with him, and the general feeling was that I was a fraud and a dangerous maniac who would be well served if I finished up in the prison lime-pit. Whatever happened, it was a hideous scandal; the house had emptied as if by magic next day, Mrs Locke was in a decline, and her husband was apparently only waiting to see how Bryant fared before turning me over to the police.
I don’t know, even now, what was determined, or who determined it, in those few days, except that old Morrison was obviously up to the neck in it. Whatever happened to Bryant, my political career was obviously over before it had begun; at best I was probably disgraced as a cheat, and liable to sentence for assault – that was if Bryant lived. In any event, I was a liability to Morrison henceforth, and whether he decided to try to get rid of me permanently, or planned simply to get me out of harm’s way for a time, is something on which I’ve never made up my mind. In fact, I don’t suppose he cared above half whether I lived or died, so long as his own interests weren’t harmed.
He came to see me on the fifth day, and told me that Bryant was out of danger, and I was so relieved that I was almost happy as I listened to him denouncing me for a wastrel, a fornicator, a cheat, a liar, a brute, and all the rest of it – I couldn’t fault a word of it, anyway. When he was done, he plumped down, breathing like a bellows, and says:
‘My certie, but ye’re easier oot o’ this than ye deserve. It’s no’ your fault the mark o’ Cain isnae on yer broo this day – a beast, that’s whit ye are,