Whatever the cause, he made their lives miserable, and there were several resignations in my first six months’ service. Even for us plungers it was bad enough, for he was a devil for discipline, and not all the plungers were competent officers. I saw how the wind set, and studied harder than ever I had at Rugby, mastering my drill, which wasn’t difficult, and perfecting myself in the rules of camp life. I had got an excellent servant, named Basset, a square-headed oaf who knew everything a soldier ought to know and nothing more, and with a genius for boot-polish. I thrashed him early in our acquaintance, and he seemed to think the better of me for it, and treated me as a dog does its master.
Fortunately, I cut a good figure on parade and at exercise, which was where it counted with Cardigan. Probably only the regimental sergeant major and one or two of the troop-sergeants were my equals on horseback, and his lordship congratulated me once or twice on my riding.
‘Haw-haw!’ he would say. ‘Fwashman sits well, I tell you. He will make an aide yet.’
I agreed with him. Flashman was sitting very well.
In the mess things went well enough. They were a fast crowd, and the money ran pretty free, for apart from parties and the high state which Cardigan demanded we should keep, there was some heavy gaming. All this expense discouraged the Indian men, which delighted Cardigan, who was forever sneering at them that if they could not keep up with gentlemen they had better return to farming or set themselves up in trade – ‘selling shoes and pots and pans’, he would say, and laugh heartily, as though this were the funniest thing imaginable.
Strangely enough, or perhaps not strangely, his Indian prejudice did not extend to the men. They were a tough lot, and excellent soldiers so far as I could see; he was a tyrant to them, and never a week passed without a court-martial for neglect of duty or desertion or drunkenness. The last offence was common but not seriously regarded, but for the other two he punished hard. There were frequent floggings at the rings in the side of the riding school, when we all had to attend. Some of the older officers – the Indian ones – grumbled a good deal and pretended to be shocked, but I guessed they would not have missed it. Myself, I liked a good flogging, and used to have bets with Bryant, my particular crony, on whether the man would cry out before the tenth stroke, or when he would faint. It was better sport than most, anyway.
Bryant was a queer little creature who attached himself to me early in my career and clung like a leech. He was your open toady, with little money of his own, but a gift of pleasing and being on hand. He was smart enough, and contrived to cut a decent figure, although never splendid, and he had all the gossip, and knew everybody, and was something of a wit. He shone at parties and mess nights which we gave for the local society in Canterbury, where he was very forward. He was first with all the news, and could recount it in a fashion that amused Cardigan – not that this was too difficult. I found him useful, and tolerated him accordingly, and used him as a court jester when it suited – he was adept in this role, too. As Forrest said, if you kicked Bryant’s arse, he always bounced most obligingly.
He had a considerable gift of spite against the Indian officers, which also endeared him to Cardigan – oh, we were a happy little mess, I can tell you – and earned him their hatred. Most of them despised me, too, along with the other plungers, but we despised them for different reasons, so we were square there.
But to only one officer did I take an active dislike, which was prophetic, and I guessed that he returned it from the first. His name was Bernier, a tall, hard hawk of a man with a big nose and black whiskers and dark eyes set very close. He was the best blade and shot in the regiment, and until I came on the scene the best rider as well. He didn’t love me for that, I suppose, but our real hatred dated from the night when he made some reference to nabob families of no breeding, and seemed to me to look in my direction.
I was fairly wine-flown, or I’d have kept my mouth shut, for he looked like what the Americans call a ‘killing gentleman’ – indeed, he was very like an American whom I knew later, the celebrated James Hickok, who was also a deadly shot. But being part tipsy, I said I would rather be a nabob Briton, and take my chance on breeding, than be half-caste foreign. Bryant crowed, as he always did at my jokes, and said: ‘Bravo, Flash! Old England forever!’ and there was general laughter, for my usual heartiness and general bluffness had earned me the name of being something of a John Bull. Bernier only half-caught what I said, for I had kept my voice low so that only those nearest heard, but someone must have told him later, for he never gave me anything but an icy stare from then on, and never spoke to me. He was sensitive about his foreign name – actually, he was a French Jew, if you went back far enough, which accounts for it.
But it was a few months after this incident that I really ran foul of Bernier, and began to make my reputation – the reputation which I still enjoy today. I pass over a good deal of what happened in that first year – Cardigan’s quarrel with the Morning Post,5 for example, which had the regiment, and the public generally, in a fine uproar, but in which I had no part – and come to the famous Bernier–Flashman duel, which you will still hear talked about. I think of it only with pride and delight, even now. Only two men ever knew the truth of it, and I was one.
It was a year almost to the day after I left Rugby that I was taking the air in Canterbury, in the Park, and on my way to some mama’s house or other to make a call. I was in full fig, and feeling generally pleased with myself, when I spied an officer walking under the trees with a lady, arm in arm. It was Bernier, and I looked to see what heifer he was ploughing with. In fact, she was no heifer, but a wicked-looking little black-haired piece with a turned-up nose and a saucy smile. I studied her, and the great thought formed in my head.
I had had two or three mistresses in Canterbury, off and on, but nothing in particular. Most of the younger officers maintained a paramour in the town or in London, but I had never set up any establishment like that. I guessed that this was Bernier’s mare of the moment, and the more I looked at her the more she intrigued me. She looked the kind of plump little puss who would be very knowing in bed, and the fact that she was Bernier’s – who fancied himself irresistible to women – would make the tumbling all the sweeter.
I wasted no time, but found out her direction by inquiry, chose my time when Bernier was on duty, and called on the lady. She had a pleasant little retreat, very tastefully furnished, but in no great style: Bernier’s purse was less fat than mine, which was an advantage. I pursued it.
She was French herself, it turned out, so I could be more direct than with an English girl. I told her straight out that I had taken a fancy to her, and invited her to consider me as a friend – a close friend. I hinted that I had money – she was only a whore, after all, for all her fashionable airs.
At first she made a show of being shocked, and la-la’d a good deal, but when I made to leave she changed her tune. My money aside, I think she found me to her fancy; she toyed with a fan and looked at me over it with big, almond-shaped eyes, playing the sly minx.
‘You have poor opeenion of French girls, then?’ says she.
‘Not I,’ says I, charming again. ‘I’ve the highest opinion of you, for example. What’s your name?’
‘Josette.’ She said it very pretty.
‘Well, Josette, let’s drink to our future acquaintance – at my expense’ – and I dropped my purse on the table, at which her eyes widened. It was not a small purse.
You may think me crude. I was. But I saved time and trouble, and perhaps money, too – the money that fools waste in paying court with presents before the fun begins. She had wine in the house, and we drank to each other and talked a good five minutes before I began to tease her into undressing. She played it very prettily, with much pouting and provocative looks, but when she had stripped she was all fire and wickedness, and I was so impatient I had her without getting out of my chair.
Whether I found her unusually delectable because she was Bernier’s mistress or because of her French tricks,