Flashman In The Great Game

'The Order o' the Victoria Cross,' says he, and then he added, 'Flashman …', but there he stopped and shook his head. 'Aye,' says he, and grinned at me — and God knows he didn't often grin, that one, and went on shaking his head and my hand, and the clapping and laughter rang in my ears.

I couldn't speak; I was red in the face, I knew, and almost in tears, as they clustered round me, Mansfield and Macdonald and the rest of them, and Billy slapping me on the back (and then scribbling quickly in his book and sticking it in his pocket) and I was trembling and wanted ever so much to sit down — but what I was thinking was, by God, you don't deserve it, you know, you shifty old bastard of a Flashy — not if it's courage they're after … but if they hand out medals for luck, and survival through sheer funk, and suffering ignobly borne … well, grab 'em with both hands, my boy — and then, in the august presence of the Governor-General and the Commander-in-Chief, someone started to sing, 'For he's a jolly good fellow', and there were happy faces all round me, singing, until Canning led me out on to the verandah, and in the garden there seemed to be crowds of soldiers, and civilians — bearded Sikhs and ugly little Goorkhas, Devil's Own and Highlanders, artillery-men and sappers, chaps in white coats and sun-helmets, ladies in garden-party dresses, and as Canning waved to them someone shouted 'Hip-hip- hip!' and the crashing 'Hurrah!' sounded three times and a tiger — and I looked out at them through a mist of tears, and beyond them to the Gwalior guns and the Cawnpore barricade and the burning lines of Meerut and the battery reek of Balaclava and the bloody snow of Gandamack, and I thought, by God, how little you know, or you wouldn't be cheering me. You'd be howling for my blood, you honest, sturdy asses — and then again, maybe you wouldn't, for if you knew the truth about me, you wouldn't believe it.

'What a gratifying experience to relate to your children, colonel,' says Canning, and on the other side Lady Canning smiled at me and says: 'And to Lady Flashman.' .

I mumbled yes, indeed, so it would be; then I noticed that she was looking at me a trifle arch, and cudgelled my wits to think why — she couldn't be wanting to get off with me, not with Canning there — and then her last words sank in, my legs went weak, and I believe I absolutely said, 'Hey?'

They both laughed politely at my bewilderment, Canning looking fond reproval at her. 'That must be under the rose, my dear, you know', says he. 'But of course we should have informed you, colonel, privately.' He beamed at me. 'In addition to the highest decoration for valour, which has been justly bestowed on many gallant officers in the late campaigns, Her Majesty wished to distinguish your service by some additional mark of favour. She has therefore been graciously pleased to create you a Knight of the Bath.'

I suppose I was already numb with shock, for I didn't taint, or cry 'Whoops!' or even stand gaping at the man in disbelief. In fact, I blew my nose, and what I was thinking as I mopped away my emotion was: by God, she's got no taste, that woman. I mean, who but little Vicky would have thought to pile a knighthood on top of the V.C., all at one go? It didn't seem scarcely decent — but, by God, wasn't it bloody famous! For over everything the words were revolving in my mind in a golden haze —'Sir Harry Flashman, V.C.' It wasn't believable … Sir Harry … Sir Harry and Lady Flashman … Flashman, V.C… my stars, it had come to this, and when least expected — oh, that astonishing little woman … I remembered how she'd blushed and looked bashful when she'd hung the Queen's Medal on me years before, and I'd thought, aye, cavalry whiskers catch 'em every time … and still did, apparently. Who'd have thought it?

'Well … God save the Queen,' says I, reverently.

There was no taking it in properly at the time, of course, or indeed in the hours that followed; they remain just a walking dream, with 'Sir Harry Flashman, V.C.' blazing in front of my eyes, through all the grinning faces and back-slapping and cheering and adulation — all for the V.C., of course, for t'other thing was to remain a secret, Canning said, until I got home. There was a great dinner that evening, at the Fort, with booze galore and speeches and cheering, and chaps rolling under the table, and they poured me on to the Calcutta train that night in a shocking condition. I didn't wake up till noon the following day, with a fearful head; it took me another night to get right again, but on the next morning I had recovered, and ate a hearty breakfast, and felt in capital shape. Sir Harry Flashman, V.C. — I could still hardly credit it. They'd be all over me at home, and Elspeth would go into the wildest ecstasies at being 'My lady', and be insufferable to her friends and tradesmen, and adoringly grateful to me — she might even stay faithful permanently, you never knew … I fairly basked in my thoughts, grinning happily out at the disgusting Indian countryside in the sunrise, reflecting that with luck I'd never see or hear or smell it again, after this, and then to beguile the time I fished in my valise for something to read, and came on the book Cardigan had sent to Elspeth — what could have possessed Jim the Bear, who detested me, to send me a present?

I opened it at random, idly turning the pages … and then my eye lit on a paragraph, and it was as though a bucket of icy water had been dashed over me as I read the words:

'But that blackguard Flashman, who never speaks to one without a kick or an oath —'

'The cowardly brute,' broke in East, 'how I hate him! And he knows it, too; he knows that you and I think him a coward.'

I stared at the page dumbfounded. Flashman? East? What the blind blue blazes was this? I turned the book over to look at the title: 'Tom Brown's School Days', it said, 'by an Old Boy'. Who the hell was Tom Brown? I whipped quickly through the pages — rubbish about some yokels at a village fair, as Elspeth had said … Farmer Ives, Benjy … what the deuce? Tom trying his skill at drop-kicks … 'Rugby and Football' … hollo, here we were again, though, and the hairs rose on my neck as I read:

'Gone to ground, eh?' roared Flashman. 'Push them out then, boys; look under the beds … Who-o-o-p!' he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small boy … 'Young howling brute. Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you!'

By God, it was me! I mean, it wasn't only my style, to a 't', I even remembered doing it — years ago, at Rugby, when we flushed the fags out and tossed them in blankets for a lark … Yes, here it was —'Once, twice, thrice, and away' … 'What a cursed bully you are. Flashy!' I sped through the passage, in which the horrible ogre Flashman, swearing foully, suggested they be tossed two at a time, so that they'd struggle and fall out and get hurt — it's true enough, that's the way to get the mealy little bastards pitched out on to the floor.

But who on earth could have written this? Who had dared — I tore the pages over, scanning each one for the dread name, and by God wasn't it there, though, in plenty? My eyes goggled as I read:

'Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey …' '… the tyranny of Flashman …' '… Flashman was on the look-out, and sent an empty pickle jar whizzing after them, which narrowly missed Tom's head. ‘He wouldn't mind killing one, if he wasn't caught,’ said East …' '… ‘Was Flashman here then?’ — ‘Yes, and a dirty little snivelling sneaking fellow he was, too … used to toady the bullies by offering to fag for them, and peaching against the rest of us …’'

I was red and roaring with rage by this time, barely able to see the pages. By God, here was infamy! Page after foul page, traducing me in the most odious terms * for there wasn't a doubt I was the villain referred to; the whole thing stank of Rugby in my time, and there was the Doctor, and East, and Brooke, and Crab Jones * and me, absolutely by name, for all the world to read about and detest! There was even a description of me as big and strong for my age — and I 'played well at all games where pluck wasn't much wanted' if you please, and had 'a bluff, offhand manner, which passed for heartiness, and considerable powers of being pleasant'. Well, that settled it — and my reputation, too, for not a page went by but I was twisting arms, or thrashing weaklings, or swearing, or funking, or getting pissy drunk, or roasting small boys over fires — oh, aye, that brought back Master Brown to memory sharp enough. He was the mealy, freckled little villain who tried to steal my sweepstake ticket, damn him — a pious, crawling little toad-eater who prayed like clockwork and was forever sucking up to Arnold and Brooke —'yes, sir, please, sir, I'm a bloody Christian, sir,' along with his pal East … and now East was dead, in the boat by Cawnpore.

Someone was alive, though — alive and libelling me most damnably. Not that it wasn't true, every vile word of it — oh, it was all too true, that was the trouble, but the devil with that, it was a foul, malicious blot on my good name … dear Christ, here was more!

'… Flashman's brutality had disgusted most even of his intimate friends …' No, by God, there was one downright, shameful lie — the kind of friends I had at Rugby you couldn't have disgusted, not Speedicut and Rattle and that lot … What next? 'Coward as he was, Flashman couldn't swallow such an insult …' and then followed a description of a fight, in which I ('in poor condition from his monstrous habit of stuffing') was soundly thrashed by a couple of fags and skulked off whining: 'You shall pay for this …'

I believe I foamed at the mouth at this point, and yet again at the description of my drunken expulsion from Rugby, but what was even worse was the scene in which the unctuous little swabs, Brown and East, were