Royal Flash. George Fraser MacDonald
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was the turn of the heavier men; Bismarck went past him, and then I, too; we pounded down to the hedgerow, Bismarck went over like a bird – he could ride, I may say – and I launched my hunter at the same gap and came through on his heels. I stayed with him, over hedges, lanes, ditches, and fences, until I saw the steeple perhaps half a mile away, and now, thinks I, is the time to get my nose in front.
I had the speed in hand; his head came round as I drew level, and he hammered in his heels and plied his crop, but I knew I had the distance of him. He was leading by half a length as we took a rail fence; then we were on pasture with only one hedge between us and the common that ran up to the churchyard. I inched up level and then led by a head, scanning the distant hedge for a good jump. It was a nasty one, high hawthorn with trees at intervals throwing their shade over the hedgerow; there was one place that looked likely, where the hawthorn thinned and only a couple of rails covered the gap. I clapped in my heels and made for it; first over was a certain winner. As we closed in, with me half a length in front, I realised that even at the rails the jump was a good five feet; I didn’t half fancy it, for as Hughes pointed out, Flashman was good only at those games which didn’t entail any physical risk. But there was nothing for it; I had Bismarck headed and must keep my lead, so I steadied the hunter for the jump, and then out of nowhere came Bismarck’s grey at my elbow, challenging for the jump.
‘Give way!’ I roared. ‘My jump, damn your eyes!’
By God, he paid not the slightest heed, but came boring in, neck and neck with me for the fence. We were almost knee to knee as we rushed down on it.
‘Get out, blast you!’ I yelled again, but he was just staring ahead, teeth clenched and whip going, and I knew in an instant that it was a case of pull up or have the most unholy smash as two horses tried to take a jump where there was only space for one.
As it was, I came within an ace of a hellish tumble; I reined back and at the same time tried to swerve from the gap; the hunter checked and swung away and we scraped along the face of the hedge with no more damage than a few scratches, while Master Bismarck cleared the rails with ease.
By the time I had trotted back, cursing most foully, the rest of the chase was thundering up; Bismarck was waiting at the lychgate looking cool and smug when we arrived.
‘Don’t you know to give way to the leader?’ says I, boiling angry. ‘We might have broken our necks, thanks to you!’
‘Come, come, Captain Flashman,’ says he, ‘it would have been thanks to you if we had, for you would have been foolishly challenging the stronger rider.’
‘What?’ says I. ‘And who the devil says you are the stronger rider?’
‘I won, did I not?’ says he.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that he had ridden foul, but the way the other chaps were hallooing, and telling him what a damned fine race he had ridden, I thought better of it. He had gone up in their estimation; he was a damned good-plucked ’un, they shouted, and they clapped him on the back. So I contented myself with suggesting that he learn the rules of horsemanship before he rode in England again, at which the others laughed and cried:
‘That’s right, Flash, damn his eyes for him!’ and made a joke out of bluff Flashy’s bad temper. They hadn’t been close enough to see exactly what had happened, and none of them would have imagined for a minute that neck-or-nothing Flashman would give way in the breach; but Bismarck knew, and it showed in his eyes and the cold smile he gave me.
But I had my own back on him before the week was out, and if my initial rudeness in London was the first spark in the mischief between us, what was now to come really started the fire.
It was on the last day, after we had been to see the fight between Nick Ward the Champion, and the local pug. It was a good afternoon’s sport, with the pug getting his nose broken and half his teeth knocked out; Bismarck was greatly interested, and seemed to enjoy watching the loser being battered as much as I did myself.
At supper that night the talk was naturally of the fight, and old Jack Gully, who had refereed, held the floor. He wasn’t normally an over-talkative man, despite the fact that he had been an M.P., but on his two loves – the prize ring and horseflesh – he was always worth listening to. Though it was more than thirty years since he had held the belt himself – and since retiring he had become most prosperous and was well received everywhere – he had known and seen all the greatest pugs, and was full of stories of such giants as Cribb and Belcher and the Game Chicken.12
Of course, the company would have listened all night – I don’t suppose there was a man in England, Peel, Russell, or any of them, who could have commanded such universal attention as this quiet old boxing champion. He must have been close to sixty then, and white-haired, but you could see he was still fit as a flea, and when he talked of the ring he seemed to light up and come alive.
Bismarck, I noticed, didn’t pay him much attention, but when Jack paused after a story, our German suddenly says:
‘You make very much of this boxing, I see. Now, it is an interesting enough spectacle, two of the lower orders thrashing each other with their fists, but does it not become boring after a while? Once, or even twice, perhaps, one might go to watch, but surely men of education and breeding must despise it.’
There was a growl round the table, and Speed says:
‘You don’t understand it because you’re a foreigner. It is our game in England. Why, in Germany, according to what you’ve said, fellows fight duels without any intent to kill each other, but just to get scars on their heads. Well, we wouldn’t think much of that, let me tell you.’
‘The schlager endows a man with honourable scars,’ says Bismarck. ‘What honour is there in beating an opponent with your fists? Besides, our duelling is for gentlemen.’
‘Well, as to that, mynheer,’ says Gully, smiling, ‘gentlemen in this country ain’t ashamed to use their fists. I know I wish I’d a guinea for every coroneted head I’ve touched with a straight left hand.’
‘Mine for one, any time you please, Jack,’ cries Conyngham.
‘But in the use of the schlager there is soldierly skill,’ Bismarck insisted, and rapped his fist on the table. Oho, thinks I, what’s this? Has our Prussian friend perhaps got a little more liquor on board than usual? He was a mighty drinker, as I’ve said, but it occurred to me that he might not be holding it so well tonight.
‘If you think there’s no skill in prize-fighting, my friend, you’re well out of court,’ says one of the others, a heavy-faced Guardee named Spottswood. ‘Didn’t you see Ward, this afternoon, take the starch out of a chap three stone heavier than himself?’
‘Oh, your fellow Ward was swift and strong,’ says Bismarck. ‘But speed and strength are common enough. I saw no sign of skill in that butchery.’
And he emptied his glass as though that settled the matter.
‘Well, sir,’ says old Jack, smiling, ‘there was skill a-plenty, and you can take my word for it. You wouldn’t see it, ’cos you don’t know what to look for, just as I wouldn’t know what to look for in your schlag-what-you-call-’ems.’
‘No,’ says Bismarck, ‘likely you would not.’ And the tone of his voice made Gully look sharp at him, although he said nothing. Then Tom Perceval, sensing that there might be trouble if the subject wasn’t changed, started to say something about hunting, but I had seen my chance to set this arrogant Prussian down, and I interrupted him.
‘Perhaps you think boxing is easy,’ says I to Bismarck. ‘D’ye fancy you could hold your own in a mill?’
He stares at me across the table. ‘With one of those brawlers?’ says he at length. ‘A gentleman does not come to physical contact with those people, surely?’
‘We don’t have serfs in England,’ says I. ‘There isn’t a man round this table wouldn’t be glad to put ’em up with Nick Ward – aye, and honoured, too. But in