with our wagon blown to pieces he and I lit out on two of the draught screws, leaving the wounded in a dry cave, Moran intent on fetching help for them, Flashy merely fleeing in his wake—and as dark fell we blundered slap into an impi, for the hills were full of the brutes by now. Then it was head down and heels in, nip and tuck for our lives through the Zulu-infested night with the fiends howling at our heels, and suddenly Moran was yelling and making for a burning building dead ahead, with all hell breaking loose around it, Zulus by the hundred and shots blazing, and there was nothing for it but to follow as he went careering through scrub and bushes, putting his beast to a stone wall, and then a barricade where black bodies and red coats were hacking and slashing in the fire-glare, bayonet against assegai, and my screw took the wall but baulked at the barricade, which I cleared in a frantic dive, launching myself from a pile of Zulu corpses, landing head first on the smoking veranda of what had been the post hospital, going clean through the charred floor, and being hauled half-conscious from the smouldering wreckage by a huge cove with a red beard who left off pistolling to ask me where the dooce I’d come from. I inquired, at the top of my voice, where the hell I was, and between shots he told me.
That, briefly, is how I came to join the garrison at Rorke’s Drift—and all the world knows what happened there. A hundred Warwickshire Welshmen and a handful of invalids stopped four thousand Udloko and Tulwana Zulus in bloody shambles at the mealie-bag ramparts, hammer and tongs and no quarter through that ghastly night with the burning hospital turning the wreckage of the little outpost into a fair semblance of Hell, and Flashy seeking in vain for a quiet corner—which I thought I’d found, once, on the thatch of the commissariat store, and damned if they didn’t set fire to that, too. Eleven Victoria Crosses they won, Chard with his beard scorched, Bromhead stone- deaf, and those ragged Taffies half-dead on their feet, but not too done to fight—oh, and talk. As an unworthy holder of that Cross myself, I’ll say they earned them, and as much glory as you like, for there never was a stand like it in all the history of war. For they didn’t only stand against impossible odds, you see—they stood and won, the garrulous little buggers, and not just ’cos they had Martinis against spears and clubs and a few muskets; they beat ’em hand to hand too, steel against steel at the barricades, and John Zulu gave them best. Well, you know what I think of heroism, and I can’t abide leeks, but I wear a daffodil as my buttonhole on Davy’s Day, for Rorke’s Drift. [8]
But that’s not to my purpose with Tiger Jack. He was in the thick of it, though I didn’t even glimpse him from the time we jumped the barricades, until next morning, when the impis had drawn off, leaving us to lick our wounds among the smoking ruins. It was only then that we learned each other’s name, when Chelmsford, who’d been traipsing out yonder with his column, rode in. When everyone had done cheering, he spotted me, and made me known to Chard and Bromhead, and that was when Moran, who was sitting by on a biscuit box cleaning his Remington, came suddenly to his feet, and for once the sliding blue eyes stared straight at me in astonishment. Presently he came over.
'Flashman? Not Sir Harry … Kabul, and the Light Brigade?'
I’m used to it; not the least irony of my undetected poltroonery is the awe my fearsome reputation inspires. They always stare, as Moran did, if not so intently. For a moment he even paled, and then the thin mouth was half- smiling again, and his eyes shifted away.
'Well, think o' that,' says he, and chewed his lip. 'I’d never have recognised you. By Jove—' and he gave a queer little laugh '—if I’d only known.'
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, with that quick, feline stride and the Remington on his hip, out of my life for the next fifteen years. When he walked back in, it was in a place as different from Rorke’s Drift as anything on this earth could be. Instead of a smoking, blood-stained ruin, there was the plush and gilt of the circle bar at the St James’s Theatre, instead of the Sapper jacket and .44 revolver there was an opera cloak and silver- mounted cane, and instead of dead Zulus for company there was Oscar Wilde. (I make no comparisons.)
It was pure chance I was at that theatre at all—or even in London, for it was still winter, when Elspeth and I prefer to snug up cosily at our Leicestershire place, where the drink and vittles are of the best, and we can snarl at each other comfortably. But she had insisted we go up to Town for the Macmillan christening'—being Scotch herself, and fancying that she occupied a place in Society, she was forever burdening other unfortunate Caledonians with her presence—and I didn’t mind too much; I’d heard rumours from friends in the know that there was to be a monstrous increase in death duties at the next Budget, and being in my seventy-second year by then, with a fat sum in the bank, it seemed sensible to squander as much among the fleshpots as we indecently could.
So to Town we went, and in between brandy-soaked evenings with old comrades and hopeful prowlings after a new generation of loose women, I allowed myself to be talked into escorting my grand-daughter to the theatre to see Mrs Campbell drivelling abominably in Mrs Tanqueray. I’d much have preferred going to watch Nala Damajanti and her Amazing Snakes at the Palace, or the corsetted fat bottoms and tits in George Edwardes' show, but being a besotted grandparent I’d have let my little Selina coax me into watching three hours of steady rain and been happy. She was a little darling, and the apple of my bleary old eye—how my son, as unpromising a prig as ever saddened a father’s heart by becoming a parson, could have sired such an angel, I’ve never been able to fathom. I call her little, but in fact she was one of your tall, stately beauties, with raven black hair (like mine, once), eyes flashing dark as a gypsy’s, and a face that could change from classical perfection to sparkling mischief in an instant. She was just nineteen then, a lovely, lively innocent, and I watched her like a jealous hawk where the Society boys were concerned—I know what I was like when I was their age, and I wasn’t having the dirty young rips lechering round my little Selly. Besides, she was officially affianced to young Randall Stanger, a titled muttonhead in the Guards, and their forthcoming nuptials would be quite an event of the Season.
She was chattering happily as we came out after the third act, and caught the eye of the bold Oscar, who was holding forth languidly to a group of his fritillaries near the bar entrance, looking as usual like an overfed trout in a toupe. He and I had known each other more or less since the days when I was being pursued by Lily Langtry; as I went past now, trying not to notice him, with Selly on my arm, he nudged one of his myrmidons and said sotto voce:
'Strange, how desire doth so outrun performance,' and then, pretending just to notice me: 'Why, General Flashman! In London out of season? That can only mean that all the hares and foxes have left the country, or the French are invading it.' His group of harumphrodites all tittered at this, and the fat posturer waved his gold-tipped cigarette, well pleased with his insolence. I looked at him.
'Quoting Shakespeare, Oscar?' says I. 'Pity you don’t crib him more often. Get better notices, what? My dear,' says I to Selly, 'this is Mr Wilde, who writes comic material for the halls. My grand-daughter, Miss Selina Flashman.'
'You grandchild? Incredible!' drawls he. 'But delightful—beautiful! Why, if dear Bosie were here, instead of indulging him-self so selfishly in Italy, he would write verses to you, ma’mselle—verses like purple blooms in a caliph’s garden. I would write them myself, but my new play, you know …' He pressed her hand, with his fruity smile. 'And I see, dear Miss Flashman, that you are discriminating as well as beautiful—you have had the excellent taste to choose as your grandfather one of the few civilised generals in the British Army.' He waited for her look of surprise. 'He never won a battle, you know. May I present Mr Beasley[10] … Mr Bruce … Mr Gaston … Colonel Moran …'
He turned her with a flutter of his plump hand to his toadies, and gave me his drooping insolent stare. 'Do you know, my dear Sir Harry, I believe I have a splendid idea. I might—' he poked his gilded cigarette at me '—I might confer on you an immortality quite beyond your desserts. I might put you in a play—assuming the Lord Chamberlain had no objection. Think what a stir that would create at the Horse Guards.' He gave a mincing little titter.
'You do, Father Oscar,' says I, 'and I’ll certainly confer immortality on you.'
'How so?' cries he, affecting astonishment.
'I’ll kick you straight in the tinklers—assuming you’ve got any,' says I. 'Think what a stir that’ll create in the Cafe Royal.' I turned to Selly, who was out of earshot, listening to what one of Oscar’s creatures was saying. 'Come, my dear. Our carriage will be—' And that was the moment when I found myself looking at Moran.
He was on the fringe of Oscar’s group—and so out of place among that posy of simpering pimps that I wonder I hadn’t noticed him earlier. But now recognition was instant, and mutual. His hair had gone, save a grey fringe about the ears, the splendid moustache was snow-white, and the lined brown face had turned boozer’s red, but there was no mistaking that hawk nose and the bright, shifting eyes. Dress him how and where you liked, he was still Tiger Jack.
He was looking at me with that odd quirky little smile at the corner of his thin mouth, and then the blue eyes turned from me to Selina, who was laughing happily at what someone was saying, fluttering her fan before her
