Sample Chapter:

Flashman and the War Between the States

Chapter One

I never truly cottoned to Jeff Davis. Lord knows I should have done, for in his stand-offish, nose-peering way he was trying to be helpful, taking time out from his misbegotten cause to set me to rights. Leastways, he never sent me up country with a gun in my back, stuffed full of lies and moonshine as a sacrificial goat for his beloved Confederacy. Unlike his opposite number in Washington; aye and that scotch scoundrel Pinkerton egging him on as revenge for my oppressing his downtrodden mill hands back in Scotland. Pinkerton the workers’ champion my arse, his spy agency broke strikes for cash, framed strikers and had them hanged before breakfast. That’s by-the-by, what matters is that he and Lincoln hoodwinked me into risking life, liberty and military reputation just to help save his precious Union. Then again, I always liked Honest (hah!) Abe, which was perverse considering the trouble he caused me what with one thing and another, but then Abe Lincoln was a hard man to dislike.

I met both presidents, you see, during that monumental disaster for the Anglo-Saxon race, the war between the Northern and Southern American States. It was the most idiotic, tragic and avoidable war in history, not excluding Cromwell against the paddies or even the present farce brewing across the channel, and just my infernal luck to find myself cast right into the thick of it, conscripted by both sides (well, what army  wouldn’t conscript the famous Flashy?).

Time enough to get to my encounters with the rival presidents, always assuming good liquor and newsboys praising plucky little Belgium don’t send me on to my reward first, so I shall set up shop like the historians do and give you chapter and verse in chronological order.

I’ve mentioned elsewhere my views on slavery and how it wasn’t worth spilling the blood of one man, black or white, so I won’t dwell on it here. Suffice to state that I have no strong views on the peculiar institution, as the Southern gentlemen call slavery, as long as it doesn’t harm me. I have been a slave myself, on one or two occasions, so I can speak from both sides of the block, as it were, when I say that mankind has always treated the weak like slaves, and always will, shackles or no. Southern plantation owners treated their slaves - most of the time - as well as or better than Northern factory owners, who would chain their labourers to thunderous limb-breaking machinery till their ears bled, then spit them out into the street the instant they could no longer turn a profit. Well, the slaveholders had to keep their slaves hale and hearty to do a good days work, of course, and you never saw an unemployed or homeless slave now did you? Slavery will always exist while there are weak and strong, call it slavery or Adam Smith free market or what you will, and devil take the hindmost.

I’ll have plenty to say on the causes of America’s crazy war on itself later, but this memoir is mainly concerned with the most important aspect of this war, namely Flashy’s part in it, and how I came out with laurels from both sides. The war itself will jog along merrily behind.

For me, the War Between the States began in a restaurant-come-brothel in Singapore, where I was taking my soldiers’ reward for valiant service in bringing the Chinese to heel at the Summer Palace in late 1860. Unfortunately, the Chinks weren’t the only folk who knew how to fix a drink, and the madam who ran the joint and who I’d been dallying with - she owned it with her husband, a clergyman would you believe - puggled my drink and had my unconscious carcass robbed and then unceremoniously escorted off the premises, leaving me to wake up God knows how long later in the hold of an ageing brigantine, feeling like a Scotsman on January 2^nd.

This was the third (and hopefully last) time I have been Shanghaied, and if I say it was least unpleasant of the three, still it brought me slap bang into the American lunacy, so I bar it as much as the others.  At the very least I missed the England team setting off to Australia to teach the convicts cricket. Aye, and if only the Yankees and Butternuts had bothered to learn how to hit a solid ball with cricket willow instead of playing rounders, why, they might have grown civilised enough to settle their differences peaceably.

It was due to the Gold Rush, you understand. Since 1849, California had been full to bursting with miners, pockets a’ brim with gold dust and nary a wench to bless themselves with. They naturally attracted the trash that follows loose money about; petty thieves, con-merchants, burglars, cutthroats, murderers and all the dross of the levy. They attracted smarter trash too. Yankee sharps, as is their second and first nature, sought to fill the miners’ need for relaxation after a hard day at the diggins’, and their own pockets while they were about it, by transporting Chinese girls to the San Francisco knocking shops. And weren’t too particular about how they got them. After buying or stealing girls some as young as ten from inland China - the coastal tarts were too wise and poxed up to qualify - the slavers needed crew, and who better than a stalwart likely lad temporarily rendered unconscious, like poor Flashy?

As I say, I awoke below deck with a foul head and temper to match. Someone helped me up, fed me some water - it was all I could stomach - and with a smirk introduced himself as Charlie Badger, First Mate, and welcomed me aboard the good ship Venus, which I suspect was not its real name. (1) Neither was mine, as I responded to his questioning by giving my name as Tom Arnold, a name of blessed memory. After my usual confusion, fear and nausea, I recollected my last thoughts before unconsciousness had claimed me, cursed the human race and my own susceptibilities and clambered unsteadily above to get my bearings.

The Captain was part-Dago American greaser, tall, wearing a French naval coat I doubt he was qualified for, and sporting a scar on his left cheek that suggested he did more than ferry day-trippers around the lighthouse. He didn’t deign to talk to me, but Charlie the bucko Mate with his stomach hanging over his belt like foam over a jug of ale, soon brought me up to speed. We were sailing to San Francisco where (he told me with a wink) I would be well paid for my work and set on my way. I’d heard that one before; like enough I’d be cast ashore penniless or kept on board for the return journey. Well we’d see about that, but in the meantime it was all hands to the pumps, and time to think of the future when we hit dry land.

The ship had started out from Shanghai, which seemed appropriate, with a cargo of girls for the Frisco brothels and crimps. She sailed to Singapore to pick up provisions and crew members for the Pacific journey. I wasn’t the only one carted unwillingly aboard, by the way; at least half a dozen European denizens of the Singapore brothels found themselves en-route to the New World, and not a thing to be done about it. The wailing, pleading, threats and bribes of these bravos, and well as the contemptuous retorts and in one case a hefty kick up the backside from Charlie the Mate reminded me of my own previous unexpected ocean voyages where I quickly learned to go along with the current. If it wasn’t for my own woes and throbbing head, I might have enjoyed their predicament, especially one woebegone young fellow who claimed he was due to be wed in a few days and had only stopped off at the brothel by way of a last hurrah for old time’s sake.

‘What’s this?’ laughs Charlie to the crestfallen youngster, winking at nearby crew members. ‘What will your new in-laws say? Well now, I’d reckon’ that depends on their imaginations, haw haw.’ The other sailors laughed at this, and I may have harrumphed a little myself. After all, he wasn’t the first fiancé to come adrift on his stag night, nor the last. Serves the silly young bastard right.

For myself, once I realised the journey was a straight one to a relatively civilised country, I took stock and decided things weren’t too bad. I’d been through San Francisco before, ten years ago, and the place was already booming. By now Frisco should be halfway to being a proper city. All I’d have to do was seek out the British Legation or Consul, if there was one, and present myself as Flashy, VC, and I’d be on my way home to England and beauty with a shilling from the poor box for tips. Penniless, I’d need it too. Meanwhile, if they hadn’t yet got around to installing a British representative, the American government owed me a favour for services rendered two years back, when the Yankee secret service hired me to ride shotgun on the sainted (or cursed, depending on which side of Mason and Dixon’s line you came from) John Brown. He’s the one whose body lies a’ mouldering in the grave, by the way, not our Queen Victoria’s Scottish sidekick. The mission was a failure, but that wasn’t my fault, much. The US government thanked me (unofficially) for my services and told Our Man in Washington, Lord Lyons, all about it. So I was none too worried about arriving penniless in Frisco. The Lord, Legation or Yankee government would provide. My only concern, prophetic as it turned out, was to disembark from the Venus gracefully, and not be booked for a return trip.

Flashy is an old hand at being a deck hand, so to speak. I adopted my standard shanghaied sailors’ approach; stern and silent, volunteering no sailing knowledge whatsoever, that way avoiding the more dangerous duties monkeying aloft in the rigging, leaving me confined to swabbing, holystoning and general dogsbodying. And to set your mind at rest, I kept well away from the wenches, children not holding any carnal interest for me. Besides, the Captain kept them out of sight, deck exercise apart, for the whole journey. The deck exercising, I noted without surprise, differed not one whit from the dancing the traditional slavers, if I may call them that, forced on black slaves transported from Africa. Well, slaves are much the same whatever the colour, and what were these yellow girls to be, if not slaves?

The Venus made good time, as far as I could tell. Six weeks passed uneventfully enough and the weather got fresher, which made up for the food. I don’t believe we saw another ship until the day we sighted the Bay of California, where the San Franciscan harbour, such as it was, awaited our delivery. The coast grew before us, and after carefully negotiating Mile Rock, for we arrived as dusk was gathering, we came into full view of the harbour. Ships of all shapes and sizes lay at rest dotted around the bay, lanterns aglow, while skiffs darted nimbly to and fro between them, ferrying pilots, passengers and shore-leave sailors to town and back. San Francisco had grown considerably in the last ten years, I noted. From the deck I could just make out several wide and brightly lit thoroughfares. These would be interspersed, if memory served me right, with dark, mazy alleys leading up from the waterfront to anonymous back-doubles doubtless choc-a-bloc with brothels, saloons and boarding houses. Just the place, I noted with approval, for a reluctant sailor to jump ship. All I needed was a yard start and Neptune could go whistle.

Before coming to anchor, Charlie called the crew to the stern and had us crowd round while he blasted out our instructions.

‘Right. Listen up,’ he roared, and I can see him in my mind’s eye yet; lardy but carrying easy authority underneath what passed at sea for bonhomie. ‘Ye will be on the Barbary Coast this night, wi’ your pockets full of well-earned cash’ (cheers from the boys), ‘and ye won’t find a better or quicker place to spend the lot (more cheers as Charlie unshipped a leering wink at our older and wiser ex-fiancé in case he or anyone else didn’t get the gist). ‘But, boys,’ he lowered his voice to a boom; ‘afore ye get paid ye have one more service to perform. That’s to keep our cargo safe ‘till our Captain hands it over to his agent. Ye’ll notice every officer is carrying his side arms so ye will stand at the ready until the Captain says “Aye”.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘- Then it’s payday, me lads, and ho for the Barbary Coast.’

The crew cheered and hollered like shellbacks the world over when arriving at port and payday after a long voyage. My gang of Shanghai-ees, I noticed, didn’t join in the general air of merriment. The news that the officers were packing pistols brought home to them just what they had got themselves into, but your loyal correspondent wasn’t worried. Not much anyway. You see, as mentioned, I had been through San Francisco before, and knew the wiseacres hadn’t nicknamed it the Barbary Coast because of its climate. Gold-financed mayhem abounded along the whole waterfront, up the hills to Little China and beyond. Debauchery, drunken and opium-fuelled violence and petty thievery were only the start of it; the whole town bulged with two-bit brothels where you pays your money, drinks your drink laced with Spanish Fly and wakes up in the back alley without your wallet.

And that wasn’t the worst of it. Whenever a ship was spotted approaching San Francisco’s Golden Gate, Whitehall boatmen - a kind of aquatic hansom cab service - would ferry gangs of runners around the bay armed with guns, knives, blackjacks, even soap to ruin the sailors’ soup to persuade them to desert, and storm aboard the ships to steal cargo, crew and anything not nailed down. These runners worked for the local boarding houses, and would entice sailors by promising harlot heaven to get them to desert willingly, or cudgel them if they showed resistance. The boarding house masters, or crimps, kept the sailors stupefied with drink or drugs until they sold them to unscrupulous sea captains for $25 or thereabouts per body. Of course, the captains desperately needed crews as their own had likely been kidnapped when they first dropped anchor. Sailors who avoided kidnapping often deserted anyway, to try their luck at the gold diggings, so between kidnap and desertion the poor captains had the devil of a job finding an outgoing crew and would pay the crimps for whatever dregs they had, including sometimes their own former shipmates.

Well it had been like that ten years ago and I doubted the Mormons had taken over since - though some of them tried - and I mentally raised my cap to the Captain and mate for preparing for trouble with the runners. Not that I expected it.

Knowing me, you might wonder why I was so sanguine, leaning over the rail with my cheroot, idly marking time while the ship drew nearer to land, finally dropping anchor a little way off a small levee. Well I jump at shadows, and being a windy so-and-so has kept me in one piece, more or less, for over ninety years, and I can tell you I saw no shadows here. We were an armed ship’s crew for goodness sake; surely no crimp’s runners would dare attack us? I’ll own my mind was chiefly focussed on how I would wipe away a tear and bid the dear old vessel goodbye without attracting Charlie’s suspicion - no great problem for a professional ship’s absconder like myself - so I ruled attack by runners as altogether out of court. No, I dismissed Charlie’s scaremongering as just his way of keeping the crew on their toes until the Captain handed over the girls to the agent and collected his commission. This seemed imminent as two dandy skiffs pulled alongside. They were fairly large for Whitehall boatmen, but I figured they’d need to be to transport our girls without relays. One thing I felt certain of, we were safe.

Which shows just how wrong you can be. I realised that things were amiss when I saw a boathook flung artlessly from one of the skiffs across our bows. Another immediately followed, and another, and before you could say blister me barnacles they were swarming over the deck, pistols in hand, some with knife clenched sideways in teeth, the finest bunch of pirates you could wish for. In seconds they had fanned out along the main deck, threatening our crew with their pistols but not firing - well, they could only sell live sailors, after all, or so I thought in my ignorance - while sober files, ugly as ogres, began clubbing the nearest deckhands and hurling them overboard to be collected by the runners in the skiffs below for handy transportation to whichever boarding house had hired them.

‘Stand fast!’ hollers Charlie, wasting his breath as our crew decided as one that below decks was the safest place to be. Our officers hadn’t even fired a shot in self-defence as they scampered to illusory safety as a child may hide under the bedclothes. The ship echoed with the yells and screams of the crew and girls - oh yes, the runners had discovered our cargo, and mighty pleased they sounded about it too. Shameful thinks I, while casting around for a likely spot to disembark. For as yet more runners vaulted over the sides, hopelessly outnumbering the crew, it was clear that everyone, girls and all, would be prisoners and at their mercy of which they had none. This being the case, t’was time to depart.

Even when I am panicking I keep my powers of reason. To dive off the near side where the runners were hurling our crew was to invite a cosh on the head and a trip to the boarding house for resale. The only answer was to dive over the lee side and make for the coast a hundred yards or so further up. Surely the lads in the skiffs would be too busy coshing and lifting to notice one head bobbing shorewards in the dusk. And I was a strong swimmer, having swum the Mississippi in my time.

Not letting thought stay action, or whatever it was the bard said, I launched myself over the rail, just noticing the third skiff from the corner of my eye as I hit the freezing water.

My mind works quickly in a crisis. As the water enveloped me - and the cold cut through me like a knife - I was already breast-stroking underneath the skiff. Let me once get to the other side and I’d switch to the crawl. God it was cold!   

I broke surface gasping. One second, that’s all I needed to restore myself, and I’d break all records for swimming as sheer blind panic sped me along. But it was no go. I couldn’t last another thirty seconds in that icy sea; with a sickening feeling in my stomach, I knew that my only hope of survival lay in getting aboard the third skiff.  Time enough to worry about anything else when I was warm and dry.

‘Up ye come m’laddie’, spoke my unlikely saviour as a couple of the runners hauled me over the side, floundering like a gaffed fish as I plunged into the bottom. I was their first customer but I wasn’t alone for long as erstwhile crew members jumped or were hurtled overboard. Some showed fight and received an efficient whack on the back of the head from a blackjack, the use of which the runners seemed mighty skilled. The sensible fellows, me included, lay lip-chattering, shivering and wheezing, prone in the heart of the skiff as it filled up with bodies, awaiting developments. These bodies included several of our girls, dry I noticed, having been dropped down carefully into the willing arms of the runners below. They were too frightened to do more than whimper, which made up for me. Sure enough, the skiff’s Captain, a huge Mexican scoundrel sporting a bright red shirt, rippling muscles and no coat on a wintery night, made a signal and unseen hands above released the grappling irons. We were off, runners, ship’s crew and tarts together, to whatever fate awaited us.

Frozen and winded though I was, I still had my wits about me, and saw that my chance to skip for the California hills would occur as we hit the waterfront. By now night had fallen, and amongst the chaos and confusion of disembarkation, there was sure to be an opportunity to run. Once into the back alleys, I would be safe from pursuit. All I’d then have to do was lie low someplace providence would provide for the night, then tool round to the British Legation or failing that, the local police station, and I would be halfway home. Ah, Flashy old lad, the optimism of youth. When I think of the times I thought I was safe home bar the shouting, only to find myself deeper in the mire than ever. And this time it wasn’t even my fault.

 Nobody was taking a blind bit of notice of me, quiet, humble and dripping  as I was, and my hopes rose as I realised that the runners seemed to think the heavy work done, and all that was left was to shepherd us sailors to their boarding house and repair to the nearest groggery to toast a job well done. Grabbing the yellow girls was an unexpected bonus for them, I imagine, and would fetch a rare price in the local amusement palaces. Well, I determined, this being the case, they wouldn’t need me. Disembarkation, that’s when I’ll make my move.

And I succeeded, after a fashion. The skiff made short work of the journey back to shore and presently we scraped alongside a low, wide jetty. A few runners skipped ashore and secured the skiff, while other runners manhandled the girls onto the pier, warning us crewmen - those of us who remained conscious - to keep still and await our turn. Well this wasn’t good enough for me. As we neared the shore I prepared for an instant bound. Oh joy - one of the runners was standing just in front of me on the jetty, waving his pistol at the girls to frighten them into obedience. Naturally they spoke no English, and being frightened noisily witless were a bigger handful than any tarry-jack sailors. All attention was on them as I made ready my leap for freedom.

Inhaling deeply I bounded out off the skiff and on to the jetty like Dick Dauntless, rabbit-punching the runner’s neck with my left hand and snatching his piece with my right. By great good luck he packed a Colt Navy Revolver, one I was familiar with. Not standing on ceremony, I about-turned and raced full steam ahead along the jetty for dry land. Or rather, I intended to. For I had hardly made three paces when the red-shirted skipper leapt in front of me roaring like a bull in a butchers and smashed a straight jab to the kidneys, taking all the bounce and wind out of me and leaving me sinking to the ground, pistol in hand.

I just about had the sense to topple away from Red Shirt to avoid the inevitable booted broadside, and as I sprawled athwart I imagined as in a dream I could hear piercing whistles from the ether, and the jetty seemed to shudder as under a stampede. For a wonder I found myself left alone, again, curiously disinterested as I sought to regain my breath. As reason returned to its throne I saw why.

It was a police raid. The whistlers were the Frisco peelers announcing their arrival. By the time I got my breath back the jetty was a battle royal, for although the cops were out in force the other two skiffs must have landed alongside and the runners were in no mood to parley. Amid the hysterical screaming of our girls both sides grappled with knives, brass knuckles and blackjacks, for the waterfront police, like our Northwest frontier guards, knew that against a death-or-damnation foe you soldiered well or not at all. Fists, boots, and bludgeons were clashing all around me like Saturday night in a Glasgow pub. No place for peaceable Flashy, you’ll agree, and as I stumbled, breathing heavily, to my feet, I reflected that I hadn’t heard any gunfire yet.

Too soon. A shot rang out from the runners, then an answering shot from the police. Time to go, thinks I, rising, and immediately tripped over Red Shirt, who was grappling with one of the officers while busily bludgeoning him down, and measured my length on the jetty. Enraged, Red Shirt dropped the flatfoot and aimed his bludgeon at my head. I screamed and jerked out of the way as the bludgeon splintered the wooden jetty where my head had been. Rolling over, I was now laying face up, my right hand - clutching the pistol for dear life - under my body. Arching my back, I struggled to whip my pistol around and give the red shirted gaucho what he had been asking for all bloody day, but someone beat me to it. A shot rang out above me. Red Shirt jerked like a puppet, swayed backwards for a moment, righted himself and toppled forward towards me like a poleaxed redwood. Once again I screamed, and tried desperately to scramble upright, but this time his flailing arm caught mine, trigger finger and all, and squeezed off a shot - I swear - straight up in the air.

Clambering frantically from under the bleeding Red Shirt I heard a scream almost in my ear. Someone cried ‘Jack’s been shot! Jack, evidently one of the police raiding party, had had the bad luck to be standing downwind of a runner’s bullet, and caught it in the vitals, by the sound of him, just as I accidentally fired my gun. The police surged forwards. Not to be outdone, the runners surged back into them, poor Flashy carried hither and thither in the mêlée between the two, until a cry went up from the runners that Red Shirt (2) had taken a bullet. The mob parted, slightly, and there was Flashy clutching his winded stomach in one hand and a smoking pistol in t’other. Both groups looked at me and no prizes for guessing what they thought. Backing up quickly to the side of the jetty for space, I waved my pistol at police and runners alike.   

‘Stand back for your lives’ I roared red-faced with fear, for I needed elbow room like I needed my next breath. Luckily they obeyed, and in less time than it takes to think, I was off and away, halfway down the jetty before anyone knew what was what.

Whistles blew and the peelers tore after me, along with several runners and God knows who from the jetty, intent on avenging their Officer Jack and Red Shirt. Gasping for breath I hurtled off the jetty and on to comforting terra firma for the first time in nearly two months. A shot zinged past my head to remind me I was still in mortal danger. Both groups of pursuers seemed to think I had shot their boy, blast em, and I didn’t intend to stick around to explain their error. Run now talk later, as the Pathans almost say.

I cannot impress it enough on young chaps that when you are being chased, run, run, run and don’t let anyone or anything get in your way. Time to reckon up the future when you are clear of pursuit. With this in mind I bounded into the first handy alleyway and tore hell-for-leather, knocking aside trivial obstructions like townsfolk unable to jump clear fast enough. Left and right but always uphill I hammered through the alleys and side streets, heedless of the noise behind me or the complaints from upturned citizens. In short order I came across a well lit thoroughfare. Heaving, I peered back down the alley from which I’d just emerged. No sign of the hunters, though I could still hear whistles in the distance. A moment to get my breath back and I could seek to hide up somewhere until I could get my bearings. Conscious of my sodden clothes and bedraggled appearance, I edged carefully along the side of the thoroughfare, avoiding the more sober citizens’ gaze and seeking a darker path that might lead me further from the sea front.

‘There he is! This way boys!’

I don’t know whose side the caller was on; cop or runner, and I didn’t linger to find out. I was off again like a Leicestershire fox along the thoroughfare, seeking a handy alley and confound it; there were none to be had. Still, Flashy powered by fear and panic can outrun any pursuers, and I held my own easily until I came to a sharp turning. And, praise the Lord, the street was ill lit with a seedy saloon on the corner and three handy alleyways to put the pack off the scent. I was bolting for the far left one when a sharp, agonising pain jagged through my ribs. Stomach cramp or something, doubtless brought about by an icy ducking, fist in the stomach and recent vigorous exercise to say nothing of mental torment, after a six week cruise. Sailors aren’t natural runners, you know. We’re not built for it.

I couldn’t run. But I could hide. I must have five seconds start on my pursuers, just enough time to duck into the saloon before they turned the corner and trust to luck. I had just time to note the name above the door; The Cobweb Palace.  

It lived up to its name. Striding quickly into the interior, I was startled to find a mass of cobwebs smothering ceiling lamps and mirrors and all fixtures and fittings and even the fancy bottles above the bar. Despite my distracted state I had to do a double-take, and that’s when I became aware that the clientele seemed to be screeching hysterically. It was something of a relief to discover that behind the cobwebs the far wall was piled up to the high ceiling with cages containing monkeys, parrots and smaller animals and birds, making a racket to startle Satan. Just what I needed to top a trying day, you’ll agree. I thought I had stumbled through the looking glass. (I later discovered that the owner, one Abe Warner, bought the beasts from passing sailors and along with the spider webs which he happened to like, they were a great town attraction where low-life and swells mixed freely).

Not a haunt I’d frequent under normal circumstances, but a likely dive like this could harbour me splendidly from the storms outside. Cavernous, crowded and noisy, even in my dishevelled condition I drew little attention. I was just about done in and couldn’t run another step. My stomach was beginning to worry me, hurting more than it should from a single punch. Let me mingle with the cobwebs and crowds for a few minutes to get my breath and composure back and I could take my leave when the coast, literally, was clear.

‘Who in hell are ye and what’d ye think ye’re doing here dripping all over the carpet?’

Dressed in some kind of livery, I guessed my challenger was employed by the establishment, probably to keep vagabonds like me out. He wasn’t friendly, and I could see I would have trouble persuading him my intentions were pure, so I decided on immediate action.

‘What’s that on your shoulder?’ I said in my friendliest voice. As he looked instinctively, I turned and strode through the throng. Thank heavens it was jam packed, I could lose him in seconds, maybe hide in the lavatory or somewhere until it was safe to go outside.

‘You come back here right now, y’heah?’

Just my luck to come across a jack-in-office Cratchit, determined to do his duty by his employers and to hell with the inconvenience he causes to honest folk. Unsure what to do, I played for time striding deeper into the crowd and up a few steps, hoping he would lose interest, not that I had much expectation of that.

Evidently the back of the Cobweb Palace was where the swells and high-rollers took their evening’s entertainments, for the crowd thinned and I found myself facing a group of tables laden with wines and sweetmeats and populated by a well-dressed clientele a cut above the coastal packrats down in the crowded area. I was feeling dizzy and worn out, and all in a blur crashed my way through, falling at the table of a flamboyantly attired mature gentleman with authority written all over him. His young entourage stiffened in their seats and looked about ready to feed me to the monkeys but he stilled them with an easy wave of the hand, and, waving a chicken leg in the other, addressed me sharp.

‘What are you about, Sir? Kindly take yourself off and leave decent folk to their business. Off with you at once Sir.’

Even in my distraught state, I recognised him as a well-to-do Southerner, educated and better spoken than most, plantation owner likely as not. Not that it mattered, but something in his cool, calm manner gave me hope. And the Southerners often had a soft spot for the English having deluded themselves they were akin to British aristocracy. If I could convince him I was as respectable as he was, I felt I should be safe. Staggering to my feet and taking a deep breath to compose myself, I donned my best parade ground voice.

‘Pardon me, Sir. Sorry to impose on you and your, err, associates in this unruly manner.’ For the first time, I noticed the worthy’s fellow imbibers, and a tougher bunch of likely lads you could not wish for. No packet rats neither, like the rabble chasing me, but the real deal, killing gentleman. They reminded my of some sturdy fellows I once knew in Strackenz.

“Colonel Flashman, Sir, at your service. British Army, late of India and China. I am afraid, Sir, that I find myself waylaid by footpads, and must appeal to your good self and your associates to help me.’

It sounded impressive, though I say so myself. Wasted on the lads around the table, alas. They hooted at me as my liveried doorman caught up and grabbed me by the scruff, but my Southerner sat bolt upright. Eyes widening, he motioned dismissively to the scruff-grabber, who released my collar with alacrity.

‘Colonel Flashman did you say?  British Army?’ He peered intently up at me through steely eyes. ‘The VC hero?’

I could scarcely believe my ears. I’d received little Vicky’s new Victoria Cross for my heroics in India in ’58. How this gentleman could know about it was beyond me, but time enough for that later. Smartly I replied.

‘That’s me.’

‘Sir Harry Flashman VC?’

I nodded modestly. By Jove this was an unexpected goose. The table was silent now, and my liveried friend had stepped back a pace, flummoxed at the turn of events. He wasn’t the only one.

‘What was your first regiment?’

‘Why, the Eleventh Hussars.’

‘Their nickname?’

‘Ah... the cherrypickers.’

‘And who was your commanding officer?

‘My Lord Cardigan.’ And a first rate louse he was too, but let it pass. Beaming like I was the prodigal son home at last, my Southern beauty rose and clasped my hand in both of his and wrung it like the church bells. For the first time in two months I began to feel safe. This Southerner, whoever he was, was clearly a man of substance and influence, and for a wonder he seemed to regard me as the second coming. Still befuddled, I failed to remember that when powerful men are pleased to see you, its time to make your excuses and leave. But I was tired, dishevelled and not at my best, or you wouldn’t have seen me for dust.

My new friend’s eyes widened and a great beaming smile creased his features.

‘You are Sir Harry Flashman indeed. Why Sir, delighted to make your acquaintance, I surely am. And you say you’re waylaid by footpads? ’

Now he was getting to the point. I made to reply in the affirmative, but before I could open my mouth, a sudden loud commotion behind me drew everyone’s attention.

‘Thar he is!’

My erstwhile pursuers had caught up with me. In an instant I found energy anew and bounded sideways around the Southerner’s table. Too late. Last I remember was a dull thud to the back of my head and an explosion of stars in my mind’s eye. How pretty they look, I remember thinking, as consciousness dissolved.

Published as an eBook in February 2012 and in hardback March 2012