Black Ajax (7 page)

There was the devil to pay, York had to resign command of the Army, Mary was called to the Bar of the House and had 'em in fits with her sauce and sharp answers, and to crown all she threatened to publish York's love-letters. I saw some of 'em, and they were
hot-house
stuff, I can tell you. Cost the old calf's head ten thou' and a pension of four hundred a year to buy 'em back.

D'ye wonder that Mary Clarke was all the chat from St James's to St Giles? Mere wars and Commons votes weren't in it with her – or with Moll Douglas, the bird of paradise whom Mornington, Hooky's brother, had in tow when he went out as Minister to Spain. That set the tongues wagging at Almack's, for what made it worse was that Mornington's
lawful blanket
wouldn't divorce him or clear out of Apsley House. She'd been another bareback rider until Mornington married her; French piece, Gabrielle Hyacinthe de Something. Shocking taste in women he had. Whores, the lot o' them.

What's this to do with Molineaux? Why, to impress upon you what a light-minded crew of sensation-seekers Society was, ripe for any
novelty – female, criminal or sporting for choice – and because it pleases me to hold forth at length while sampling this excellent drop o' short. So don't dam' well interrupt. We'll come to the Dusky Miller presently.

Speaking of sport, there was a mighty stink at Newmarket about that time, when two touts called Bishop and Dan Dawson were bribed to see that certain horses didn't start, so they blew arsenic into the water troughs, poisoned I don't know how many runners. They were grabbed, Bishop peached to save his neck, but it was the
Paddington frisk
for Danny, and half the turf set went down to Cambridge to see him drop, more than one noble lord, I'm told, heaving a sigh of relief when he died with his mouth shut.

Not that politics was altogether neglected in the clubs and drawing-rooms. Why, the day I landed there was a disagreement in Cabinet. Foreign secretary, Canning, an intriguing toad, if you ask me, with an eye on Downing Street, blamed the war minister, Castlereagh, for the Walcheren fiasco, and Castlereagh demanded pistols for two on Putney Heath. The pair of cakes missed each other altogether with their first shots, tried again, Castlereagh put a slug in Canning's leg, and Canning shot a button off his lordship's coat. I heard the news from Kangaroo Cooke, York's old aide.

“Bet you're glad they weren't alongside at Talavera,” says he. “Still, they scored one hit, which is more than Tierney and Pitt could manage – and say this for 'em, it's a dam' stylish way to bring down a government.”

Wasn't he right, though? Can't see Melbourne or Peel having the game to shoot each other, worse luck.

So, sir, there you have me, back in Town … and I can see the
leery
look in your eye as you hear me refer so familiarly to Society, with idle mention of nobility and royalty, and ask yourself, do I speak of what I know, or am I a rasher o' wind retailing second-hand goods? Yes, you do, damn your impudence, I know. You've cast about, I don't doubt, and are aware that the Flashmans are a
smoky
lot, not halfway up the tree nowadays. My son has the fame of his Afghan laurels, as I had mine in the Peninsula, but they don't last, and once the shine has gone, you're an unregarded relic of a disreputable age.

We ain't Quality, never were. Know what my father was? A slave-trader, making enough from black ivory to be a nabob, bought himself a house in South Audley Street and a place in the shires, sent me to Rugby, stumped up for my colours – but he was still trade, and if I was to cut my way into the charmed circle I must do it with my sabre. God knows I tried, at Rolica and Vimeiro, and scouting along the Douro, hunting glory, and in that charge at Talavera. I was “Mad Buck” when I came home, hero of the hour – aye, and
for
the hour – pointed out at Horse Guards, worth a hail-fellow from Clarence and a shake of the hand from Prinny, who swore he couldn't ha' done better himself, by George, sir, he couldn't … and wondered if I dare turn my eyes on the beauteous 'Lishy Paget – now she
was
Quality, and above my touch, but I had the style and the shoulders, and I reckoned the Flashman
blunt
wouldn't hurt.

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.