Flashman and the Seawolf
Robert Brightwell
This book is dedicated to my father in law
Geoffrey Timberlake who has shown great
courage and dignity in fighting illness while
it was being written.
Copyright © Robert Brightwell 2011
Smashwords Edition
Robert Brightwell asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
This ebook may not be reproduced or copied
except for the use of the original purchaser.
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Introduction
After George MacDonald Fraser did a superb job of editing the immensely readable memoirs of General Sir Harry Flashman after they were found in a Midlands sale room; I have always kept a look out for further items relating to the Flashman family. I did once bid for a sabre that was said to have been owned by the General but the price soon went out of my range as there are now so many enthusiastic readers of his published works.
So you can imagine my surprise when back in 2010 I spotted offered for sale on EBay a bundle of unpublished manuscripts relating to the life of a Major Thomas Flashman and his exploits in the early 1800’s. Fortunately for me there was very little interest in the writing of this hitherto unrenowned soldier and I was able to buy them with my opening bid.
Given the unusual name I had hoped that the two Flashmans were related and it seems that indeed they were. Thomas appears to have been the uncle of Sir Harry. There are even references to Thomas having lent money to Sir Harry’s father (and complaining that it was never repaid) and so Thomas may have even funded Sir Harry’s infamous education at Rugby school which features in the book Tom Brown’s School Days.
Beyond the name there are similarities in temperament too. While outwardly a brave and celebrated solider, in his personal memoirs Sir Harry admitted to being an amoral scoundrel and coward but with a gift for languages, horsemanship and for getting himself embroiled in just about every major conflict of the Victorian age.
In comparison Thomas also has the uncanny knack of finding himself reluctantly involved with many amazing characters from his era. From forgotten but remarkable men like Thomas Cochrane to historical icons like Wellington, Napoleon and the noble North American Indian chief Tecumseh. He has, if not fought, then at least felt his guts churn in terror alongside them all.
Thomas like Sir Harry was also good with languages but seems to have had appalling luck with horses - resulting in the unexpected routing of an entire Spanish regiment in one incident, but that may be for another book. As for being immoral, Georgian England had a rather murky moral compass compared to the outwardly straight laced Victorians of Sir Harry’s era. The Georgians strayed from wild licentiousness to stifling honour codes depending on the occasion and Thomas took every advantage of the former while invariably finding a way around the latter.
My role as editor has been restricted to checking the historical accuracy of the information and adding notes from subsequent research. Where it can be checked, a wide range of authorities confirm the detail Thomas provides, while his own personal perspective on the incidents and personalities in his career offer insightful context.
I trust that you will find the work informative and enjoyable. Thomas has broken his memoirs down into packets - much as his nephew did later on. Indeed you must wonder whether his nephew Sir Harry ever saw Thomas’ memoirs and whether they sparked him to write his own refreshingly honest account. Certainly if you have not read them already, the memoirs of General Sir Harry Flashman VC, reluctant hero of Afghanistan and countless other places are strongly recommended.
Robert Brightwell
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Chapter 1
I am near 70 now and have seen and met many incredible people and seen some astonishing sights in my time. From ambushes and treachery, the feel of cold steel against your throat in the dark to pitched battles on land and sea, I’ve witnessed heroism, incompetence and slaughter, often while desperately trying to find somewhere to hide. I have been white with fear disguised amongst Napoleon’s Imperial Guard, terrified more times than I can remember fighting with Wellington’s redcoats and more than a bit alarmed with the tomahawk wielding warriors of Tecumseh. But when it comes to all those that have led me into danger, one stands clear above them all. Partly because he had two prolonged attempts at getting me killed. But also because as well as being the bravest lunatic ever to wave a blade, he was also the most cunning in battle, if a naive fool when the trumpets had stopped.
At my time of life if you think of a brave comrade then usually you are also thinking of a man that the grim reaper eventually caught up with. There are only so many times that you can charge shot and shell before your luck runs out, which is why I was rarely to be seen when charging shot and shell was required. But Cochrane is still with us, indeed I had supper with him tonight and our jawing over old times has spurred me to put pen to paper. His name struck fear into French and Spanish alike and Napoleon himself called Cochrane the ‘Loup der Mer’ which translates as sea wolf. He has written his own memoirs of course – full of bitterness over those that wronged him and doubtless others will write about him too. But they don’t get across what it was like to fight alongside him, how he inspired you to believe that even the most suicidal action was no more dangerous than lighting a cheroot.
But I can’t start my tale with Cochrane. No, that properly starts a few months earlier, in the summer of 1800. I was 18 and had just finished at Rugby School, with the headmaster Henry Ingles giving my old man a less than glowing report of my prospects. As the third son I wasn’t the ‘heir’ or even the ‘spare’ to my father’s fortune and for that first summer he left me to amuse myself on the family estate, which was probably a mistake.
“Why do you want to know how our brother George is doing in the dragoons?” asked Sarah Berkeley coyly before sharing a conspiratorial glance with her older sister Louisa sitting on the other side of the drawing room. “Are you thinking of joining the army too?”
Louisa joined in. “Now why would you want to do that? I can’t think why you would want to leave the area after all the fun you have been having this summer.” Louisa said this with a look of wide eyed innocence. “There is no reason, perhaps living near a windmill, that is causing you to look to your career is there dear Thomas?”
“Not at all and I trust that you have not been listening to idle gossip” I blustered. The girls laughed happily, not believing me for a moment and enjoying my discomfort. I was surprised that they had heard of my troubles with the miller’s daughter for he lived a village away but the Berkeley sisters were notorious hubs for local gossip. They were the prettiest girls amongst the local quality for miles around and so were invited to all the balls and dances, which was why they always seemed to know what was going on. Sarah was just sixteen, the prettier of the two and an artless flirt. Louisa, the same age as me at 18, was more of a wicked tease. We had grown up on neighbouring estates and seen a lot of each other. I enjoyed their company although now they liked nothing better than trying to embarrass me.
“So the miller is not after your blood for getting his Sally pregnant then” asked Sarah.
“Certainly not” I lied. “But a chap cannot work diligently around his father’s estate for ever. I need to find a suitable career, somewhere else. As George joined the dragoons a few months ago I thought I would tool over and enquire what he has said of the life.”
They both laughed at this and Louisa said “what he says of the life depends very much on who he is writing to. Papa visited the garrison last month and collected some letters from him. Sarah why don’t you read Thomas the letter he sent to us.”
Sarah found the letter in the bureau and recounted “He asks about our health and tells us that life in the dragoons is very dull, marching, riding, drills. The only entertainment he mentions is playing whist with his brother officers and hearing a singing recital by a Miss Marchbanks. Is that the kind of life you were hoping for Thomas?”
Well it did sound a bit of a frost but I was not sure that George would be completely honest in all aspects of army life with his sisters. Maybe I would have to take the days ride to the garrison and see for myself.
As if reading my mind Louisa said “I bet you would love to read the account of army life that he sent Edward Carstairs.” I would indeed, I knew both George and Teddy Carstairs from school. They had been in the year above me and had both been wild then. George would be far more honest with Teddy, although I could not see Teddy sharing his mail with George’s sisters.
Louisa reached into her blouse and pulled out a second letter, with three large blobs of wax on it. “This is his letter to Edward, which fell open before we could send it on.”
“But it has three seals on it, how could it fall open?”
“It fell onto a hot iron that melted the wax through the paper” said Sarah smugly. “Do you want to know what is in it or do you want to discuss its provenance?” They were both looking excited now and I was sure that more embarrassment was about to come my way but I also really wanted to know what was in that letter.
“Perhaps I could read it myself?”
“Oh no, where would the fun be in that,” smirked Louisa. She opened the letter and read aloud. “Teddy you must speak to your father about a commission, army life is everything we had hoped. There is no chance of being sent overseas for the foreseeable future and so we are left to enjoy life in the garrison. There are hunts at least twice a week, horse racing, gaming and gambling of every description and parties in the mess every weekend. The prettiest local girls attend and fling themselves at all the eligible batchelors. I partied last weekend with a Tallulah Marchbanks and ended up having her in my rooms, taking her horse artillery style until she sang like a steam whistle. There is a cornetcy coming vacant next month, make sure your father knows. Yours George.”
I was stunned, partly from hearing the sisters talk of such things and partly because army life sounded just the thing for me. My first clear thought was to wonder if I could get that cornetcy before Teddy Carstairs heard about it. The sisters stealing his mail could work in my favour. My musing was interrupted by Sarah asking “what is horse artillery style?”
Well at that point in time I had no idea, never having heard of it before. I could guess it was a way of performing the capital act but quite how this involved horse artillery was beyond me. Of course I was not going to admit my ignorance to the sisters and so I simply replied with as much dignity as I could muster that “a gentleman would never discuss such things with a lady.”
“Really”, said Louisa. “So you didn’t go horse artillery style with Sally Miller or with Ruby at the Fox and Duck or the Parson’s new dairymaid or with that girl you were seen with in Jarrod’s hayloft?”
My God they were well informed and I thought I had been quite discrete. The only thing that they did not know was that it had been the dairymaid in the hayloft.
“Again, a gentleman never discusses such things”
“I don’t think he knows what horse artillery style is” said Sarah. “Shall we show him?”
Louisa smiled wickedly and moved her hand up to her blouse again. My imagination was working overtime. What was she going to do or pull out of there now? If I had taken the rest of that summer to guess I would not have predicted that a respectable young lady would have kept the three cards in there that she now threw onto the table in front of me. They were pornographic drawings.
“These were enclosed with George’s letter to Teddy” she said.
The top one with the caption ‘Horse Artillery Style’ showed exactly what was involved. This is not the place to go into such details I will just say that all that hauling of guns must give a man a strong back. The second one called ‘The Wheelbarrow’ required finding a lady with arms as strong as a canal digger’s and as for the ‘Viennese Oyster’ position, well it just don’t bear thinking about.
I must have gone red with embarrassment and the girls were laughing loudly, almost muffling the sound of carriage wheels pulling up outside. I looked around at the door worried that Lady Berkeley may come in to see what the jollyment was all about and pushed the cards back to Louisa.
As the laughter subsided Sarah went to the window. “Why the miller has come calling, oh and he has just seen your horse Thomas.”
“Jesus no!” I charged up to the window and took a peak around the edge of the drapes. “You witches, that is the bloody coal dray.” They were off into peals of laughter again.
“So you have got Sally in the family way,” cried Louisa. “Everyone’s been talking about it. You had better speak to your father before the miller does.”
I rode home thinking about what to do next. The girls were right I did need to speak to father. Sally was claiming she was pregnant and her father was starting to kick up a fuss over it. Of course they knew that marriage was out of the question. What they really wanted was to be paid off from the Flashman fortune to give her a new start. Looking back the Flashman family had for generations been running an unofficial benevolent scheme for such fallen women in the locality. It would seem quite generous if you overlooked the fact that they had also been responsible for the women ‘falling’ in the first place.
With several people in the village bearing a striking family resemblance I was pretty sure that my old man had used the Flashman benevolent fund on several occasions himself and so would not be as offended as people are now under the prudish influence of Vicky and Albert. Why back then the Prince of Wales had probably married bigamously and would mount just about anything apart from his wife, most politicians saw a mistress as being essential source of gossip and the Devonshires were living openly in a ménage a trios. In fact the only politician who seemed to live a life beyond reproach was Spencer Percival, and when he finally got to be Prime Minister he was assassinated by a lunatic, which shows what demonstrating restraint gets you.
No, the problem with the Sally incident was not that I had been bulling my way round the village but that I had not yet decided what I wanted to do with my life. School had proved that I was not academic smart. I also clearly was not Church material. Back then all the talk was of the Navy as they were beating the French and Spanish everywhere they found ‘em. But at 18 I was already much older than many midshipmen, who normally started at around 12. There were also exams such as in navigation to pass before you could progress. I had hated mathematics at school with all the angles and calculations and did not want to be the oldest midshipmen the Navy ever had.
Apart from some fashionable cavalry regiments, the army at that time was considered second rate. It had been beaten by the colonists in North America and had not covered itself with glory in various other expeditions such as in the Low Countries. But on the plus side you could buy your rank, so you did not have to languish as an ensign or cornet all your days and for the most part they spent their time in barracks.
I pictured myself tooling around town in my sharp red uniform coat and officer’s trappings with a pretty girl on each arm and parties in the officer’s mess each night. If I thought of actual fighting at all, it was shouting orders and seeing neatly ordered files of troops marching off to obey my command. Yes my ignorance was appalling, and if I knew then what I know now I would have jumped straight on a horse, ridden to Canterbury and begged the Archbishop to let me become a parson!
My father generally kept to himself, my mother, who had been a Spanish Contessa, had died some years ago and so it was not often that we had a father and son talk. I remember clearly walking into my Father’s study that evening and meeting that piercing glare from under his bushy eyebrows. He was around sixty then, his grey hair quite shaggy but still pretty lean and energetic. He had eaten alone as usual and the supper dishes were pushed to one end of the table. He had been reading some papers but put them down with a resigned sigh as I approached.
“Hello Papa, I was wondering if I might have a word” I said sounding more brightly than I felt.
“Yes I thought you would be dropping by, I had the miller calling for me this afternoon in a fine old state. Apparently you have ‘defiled’ his pure daughter. Although from what I hear from the gamekeeper she has also been defiled by half the county. The child could be yours I suppose?”
“Ah yes well… err… it could be yes.” We were getting to the point rather quicker than I had expected. I had rehearsed a bit of a speech about how the girl had led me astray, only a saint could have resisted and so on, but realised at once that this was not going to wash. If he had spoken to the gamekeeper about Sally’s reputation, he was bound to have found out what I had been up to all over the estate during the summer months, if he had not known already.
“Well I have agreed to give her a dowry and the miller is lining up some local lad to marry her but it would be best for you to be out of the way for a bit.”
“Yes father” I said looking suitably crestfallen. “I have been thinking about that I was wondering if a career in the ...”
“I have written to Castlereagh,” my father interrupted brusquely. “He owes me a favour and will be able to find a place for you. It won’t be glamorous or well paid, you will need an allowance on top of the salary but it will get you on the ladder. You need to start thinking of a career.”
“Oh but I have father,” I said all eager now we seemed to be talking along the same lines. “In fact I was thinking of joining the Army.”
My father sat back in his chair and fixed me with a firm stare. I sensed that he was looking at me for the first time in ages, sizing up my build; I was tall but still had some filling out to do. He looked into my eyes as though trying to assess my character. I held his gaze as long as I could but then looked away. Growing up I had been closer to several of the servants than my father who I normally saw rarely but I sensed that instead of just dealing with me as an irritation, this discussion was going to be different.
“Sit down Thomas.” My father reached for a cigar in a box on his desk and then after a moment’s hesitation, he did something he had not done before, he offered me one too. I had experimented with cigars at school and smoked a few times at Inns during my recent summer of debauchery and so reached forward and took one. After we had both gone through the ritual of snipping the end of the cigars and lighting them from the candles on the table we sat back and stared at each other through a smoky fog. I was determined to appear like a man before my father and so was trying hard not to cough and hoping that he could not see my eyes watering through the smoke.
“Thomas you cannot imagine the horror of a battlefield. I was at Marburg and swore that I would never see one again.”
I knew he had done some Army service when a young man and had fought at Marburg in ’60 but this was the first time I had heard him talk about it.
“We fought on a riverbank early on a hot summer’s day. There was a thick river mist. I was in charge of an outpost platoon that was supposed to warn of the enemy approach, but in the fog we lost our bearings. We heard marching and crept forward unsure if we would find the French or our own British and Hanoverian troops. The French came out of the mist in their white coats like ghosts.”
He paused to take a sip of port and then continued, his eyes looking at one of the candlesticks as though lost in his memory.
“They were only fifty yards off and saw us in our dark red tunics easily. I heard some shouted commands and within a few seconds they had stopped and fired a volley in our direction. We were hugely outnumbered with half a dozen of their muskets aimed at each one of us. The crash of their fire was deafening. I felt a tug at my coat where a ball passed through and I am sure I felt the air move as a ball passed close to my cheek. For a second I was frozen and then I looked to my right, the man next to me had been hit in the chest and head. The back of his head had exploded out and he was already dead before he started to fall. Further down the line nearly everyone seemed to be hit, several already falling, a couple still standing and staring with shock at the growing crimson stains on their shirts. I looked round and the man to my left was on his knees holding in his guts and rocking backwards and forward and starting to whimper. I must have stood there several seconds before I looked again at the French. The smoke from their volley had hidden them but now they started to appear, marching out of the smoke with their bayonets iron grey in the mist.”
Now he looked at me and spoke more briskly to ensure that I got the point of this story.
“I turned and ran. No thoughts of military glory, just survival. I ran. I did not know in which direction only that each step was taking me away from those bayonets. Only five of our section survived that encounter.” He paused to take a puff on the cigar. “As it turned out we had done our job well from the Army’s point of view. The French started to move in the direction we had run thinking we were running back to our lines. The volley gave away the French position and the British infantry attacked their flank, again coming out of the mist and finding the French facing the wrong direction.
The mist melted rapidly as the sun came up and revealed a sight I will never forget. The regiment that had attacked us was now mostly dead and dying in the field where they had found us. They had been attacked by our infantry and our cavalry had ridden ‘em down when they broke. I wandered the field of dead and dying until I found the bodies of the men I had been with. One was still alive and I held his hand while he died. He made me promise that I would do more with my life than rot in some foreign field and I kept that promise.”
I stared with shock; I had never heard my father talk so openly and honestly about his past. For a moment he seemed embarrassed himself and then he pressed on.
“Now I don’t doubt that when you think of the army you think of all the attractions of the officer’s mess and the effect the uniform will have on the ladies.” Well he had me there. That was exactly what I was thinking about.
“But we don’t have an army on the continent now father, I will have plenty of time to learn soldiering.”
“You don’t survive by learning soldiering, at least not unless you are a general.” He was talking with passion now and banged his hand on the table to make his point. “It is luck boy! When the balls start flying it is sheer bloody luck if you survive unscathed. Look at Marburg, we killed six times the number we lost, why? Because some silly fool got himself lost and blundered into their lines. You are only here because some very long odds came off that all those Frenchie balls went wide. I know it and I don’t want to see a son of mine gamble like that.”
He took another sip of port and puffed again on his cigar before continuing calmly. “This world is corrupt you must know that. Soldiers and even generals are pawns in the games that politicians play to gather influence and destroy their enemies. They move the pieces and grow fat from patronage and sleep comfortable in their beds while they send others to die in the blood and the shit. Look at James he knows how things work.”
My father had helped my brother James find a position with the Navy Board overseeing ship repairs.
“Why he tells me that private dockyards are ten times more efficient than those run by the Navy board where every dockyard manager and clerk grows fat on the wages of nonexistent workers.”
As it turns out both my father and brother were wrong there, the situation was even worse. In 1803 a parliamentary commission found that three hundred men could build seven ships a year in private dockyards but in naval yards with three thousand men officially paid on the books they could barely manage to repair seven ships per year.
“No I’ll not buy you a commission in the Army, you will go to work for Castlereagh. He is at the centre of things at the moment so there is plenty of opportunity to make an impression. Give it until you are 21 and then we will talk again. Remember while I am alive I can pay you an allowance but when I am gone James will inherit the estate and he will have his own children to support then. You need to secure an income and you won’t manage that on half pay in a regiment.”
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Chapter 2
So that was it, the die was cast. Whether Sally really was with child I never discovered. I saw her again two years later and she gave me a very surly look. She had a child on her hip then but it was hard to judge the age. Anyway it could not have been mine for it was an ugly little squirt.
I left for London the day after talking to my father. I did not sleep well that night as my father had given me a lot to think about. Up until then I had taken it for granted that I was part of a wealthy family. I had not thought too much about the future and had tried to ignore the fact that in time the bulk of the wealth would go to my brother. My father would leave me some funds so I would not be penniless but the estate, London house and most of the investments that supported the house and estate, would go to James. It was the way it had always been with families, the eldest son inherits and I did not begrudge my brother his wealth. But now I had to start my own way in the world and it seemed the sooner the better.
It was nearly noon when I left on horseback with a pack pony for my luggage and Jasper the groom as body guard. The Old Man had given me ten guineas for the journey, far more than I needed, and a note for another fifty drawn on his bank to tide me over while I got established. While the roads were safer than they had been, a wealthy young man travelling alone with a lot of luggage was asking for trouble. So I was glad to have Jasper alongside, his presence would help deter any thieves. We each held horse pistols in our saddle bags but any sensible man would only use these if they were desperate. It was virtually impossible to hit someone from a moving horse and so these blunderbuss type pistols scattered the shot over a wide area. The result was that you were likely to only wound and enrage an attacker while the recoil could easily break your wrist, leaving you defenceless.
At a leisurely 30 miles a day pace it would take around two and half days to reach London and Jasper was good company. He had been a soldier too although seemed strangely reluctant to talk about it – perhaps my father did not want him to give me ideas. Instead he talked about his days as a drover driving animals to London, joking about the noise the geese made when they herded them over trays of hot tar to coat their feet before walking them in sand to protect their legs for the journey. Protecting the animal’s feet was essential for the drover for if they would not make the distance he would not be paid. He told me how once his father had made him give up his socks and one boot to make some shoes to protect the feet of a prime sow. We passed some pigs on the journey and they all wore their little woollen socks with leather soles and we checked the drover’s boy had his boots on.
Now you may be wondering why I am wasting your time with these bucolic memories. Well I didn’t realise it then but country life in England was about to undergo the biggest changes it had seen since the Black Death plague in medieval times. When I took that journey most country people we passed were self sufficient through the use of common land. Each village would have some fields that everyone from the squire to the poorest peasant could use to graze sheep, cows or raise pigs. Other fields were for crops, with many laid out on a strip system dating back to before the Norman Conquest.
This was about to change as landowners were realising the value of this common land and getting Acts of Parliament passed so that they could enclose them, throwing off the common folk and leaving them to starve or move on. An Act of Parliament was passed the following year which made the process much more straightforward and ultimately saw over a fifth of the land of England enclosed.
Many of the peasantry I saw on that journey were soon to be forced from their land and most wound up in cities or the growing industrial towns in the north. There jobs were being created through new technologies such as steam in cotton mills or foundries or mining for coal.
There are many nowadays that say these workers have a bad lot and compare their lives to some rural idyll that they enjoyed before. But let me tell you that there was plenty of bare arsed poverty in those villages when we passed through them. In a factory your income is not dependent on the weather or your pig dying unexpectedly. There was no poor-house then, if you could not feed yourself you had to beg and in many villages we had to push our way through scabrous children and some adults in rags begging for coins.
On horseback we were not tied to the coaching inns which did their best to fleece travellers of any money they had. Instead we stopped at inns that Jasper knew from his droving days. They turned out to be very comfortable and with hearty meals made from animals that had got ‘lost’ from the flocks. Over the two nights we dined with some farmers, a lawyer heading north and a parson. All were red cheeked cheery fellows until the conversation turned to tax – which it invariably did. To pay for the war with France and Spain the Government had just introduced a tax on income. The government was already taxing all manner of things from tea, tobacco, sugar and even windows and this catch all tax was seen as the last straw. Of course we all conveniently ignored the fact that the brandy we drank after the meal while we joined in the cries against Government corruption and greed was probably smuggled tax free from France.
On the afternoon of the third day we approached London. Even after travelling roads well covered with animal dung, we could almost smell London before we saw it. London was growing fast but it was a city of big contrasts between rich and poor. The new buildings springing up on the outskirts were not keeping pace with the growth in the population. Poor people were crammed into every available space with tenements and slums down every alley. At the same time areas were being cleared for the wealthy in the centre of town and new spacious villas and terraces were being constructed. This compacted the poorer areas even more. The streets were filthy from the human waste thrown into the road and people were everywhere. Several times Jasper had to use a cudgel to keep prying hands from the pack horse and sometimes we had to spur the horses through some crowds to avoid being waylaid.
My brother had bought one of the new townhouses in a smart terrace in one of the better parts of town. Before I rang the bell I stood with my back to the door and surveyed what I could see of the city. Another identical terrace was being built on the opposite side of the street but over the scaffolding you could see churches, warehouses and a sea of buildings of every description down to the distant river. This city was where I had to make a name for myself. It was where things happened, a growing empire was controlled and lives won or lost. It was my new home. With mounting excitement I turned back and pulled on the bell chain.
“Brother Thomas, how good to see you.” My sister in law welcomed me to their new home. I liked Emily, she was far too good for that pompous brother of mine but they seemed happy together. She showed me around and pointed out the new furniture and decorations in the latest regency style. They were pleased to have me as a guest until I found work and could support myself. That evening they took me out in a cab to see the sights in the town. As we passed the old St Stephen’s Chapel in the Palace of Westminster that now served as the House of Commons, my brother James brought me up to date with what was happening in parliament.
William Pitt had been Prime Minister of Britain since I was an infant and so complete had been his control of parliament it was hard for me to imagine anyone else in the role. But it seemed that we were heading towards a constitutional crisis as Pitt and the King were directly opposed over the issue of Ireland. A French invasion of Ireland four years earlier only failed due to bad weather and there had been a major uprising by the Irish themselves just two years ago. If the French were to get a foothold in Ireland it would give them a new invasion launching point and there would be many disaffected Irish that would join them. It would be a disaster for the rest of Britain. Pitt and Castlereagh, the Secretary for Ireland, were determined to bring Ireland fully into the union of England, Scotland and Wales to make it less likely they would break away or support an invader. But this involved giving Catholics the same rights as Protestants to sit in Parliament. There was however huge opposition to this from the establishment, led by the King himself. Pitt had just got the Act of Union passed in parliament which added Ireland fully to the Union of England, Scotland and Wales, with a new Union Jack flag created as a result. There were rumours though that the King would block the proposals to give the same rights to Catholics. This would leave Castlereagh humiliated as he had given assurances to Catholics that it would be part of the bill. Relations between the King and the Prime Minister were at an all time low.
“Castlereagh will see you,” James said “but you need to be careful. Both Pitt and Castlereagh seem to think that they can talk the King round but I have heard that the King is completely entrenched. Even if he can find you a position if Pitt resigns so will Castlereagh and your post may go with it. If you get into an office, try and quickly make some friends amongst the Whigs too as they could soon be in power.” This did not fill me with confidence that I was about to start a long and prosperous government career. In fact it looked like after seventeen years of stable government I had chosen exactly the wrong moment to try to look for work.
If I was depressed at my prospects before then I certainly was not encouraged by my meeting with the man himself. In the end I finally introduced myself to Castlereagh not at the Irish office but at his home at Cleveland Square. I was there exactly on time but had to wait half an hour as he was running late from the House of Commons. His wife Emily was very apologetic and organised tea while I waited and when Castlereagh finally appeared he also apologised but seemed now in a rush for another appointment. We met in his study and he read my Father’s letter and said that he would try to find me a position. He was tall and I dare say handsome with a soft Irish brogue to his voice.
“What skills do you have Mr Flashman, you speak French and Latin I suppose?”
From school sir yes and Spanish as my mother was Spanish and she taught us.”
“Interesting, that is more unusual, although not a lot of use in Ireland but leave it with me Mr Flashman. As you will know it is a difficult time at the moment but I do mind your father well. He has helped me in the past and I would like to return the favour. So let me look out for the right opportunity and I will be in touch.”
As I was about to take my leave the door opened and a much younger man strolled in.
“Dammit Robert that blasted bitch has done it again.”
At that moment he noticed me in the room and came to a sudden stop. Castlereagh with a weary smile introduced us.
“Thomas Flashman, I would like to introduce the impetuous young fool that is my brother Charles Stewart.” We shook hands as Castlereagh added “Thomas has only recently arrived in London and is from a fine respectable family and so I don’t want you leading him into any of your haunts of depravity”
“As if I would dear brother” says Charles in the same soft Irish accent while giving me a wink. “New in London you say, well you’ll be looking for places that sell hot buns and fine French pastries I’ll be bound and I know all the best ones as anyone will tell you. Now don’t worry brother I can think of a spotlessly clean place I can take our Mr Flashman to that will wash off that country dirt and leave him fine fettle for whatever you have planned for him.”
Castlereagh gave a resigned smile “Mr Flashman you had better leave us while you still can as I must detain my brother for a word in private.”
I left the room but instead of leaving the house I waited in the hall. After a few minutes Stewart came out and grinned broadly when he saw me. He was around 22 then, tall, broad with sandy curly hair and normally he had a devil may care attitude. But as I discovered later he was a troubled man and occasionally when drunk and with company he trusted he revealed his tortured inner self. But then I knew nothing of this, I just saw someone who could save me from stumbling blindly around by myself and introduce to me the best places to have fun in London. Both my father and my brother had stressed the needs of making the right connections and the brother, well half brother as it turned out, of my new patron seemed a good place to start.
Stewart for his part was delighted to take up the challenge of introducing me to the best parts of London. Making sure we both had fun took his mind of his own troubles and right then I think he wanted to forget a lot of his recent past and so my induction began immediately and with relish.
~~~~~~
Chapter 3
For a young vigorous man with newly awakened sexual appetites, London back then was in some ways just one huge house of entertainment. Some chap called Colquhoun had estimated in 1797 that there were 50,000 prostitutes in London, which was approximately 10% of the total female population. If you went to places like The Strand and Covent Garden you would find that figure hard to believe, and put it much higher. It was impossible to walk more than a few paces down the street without being accosted.
For those with coin in their pocket they could have every vice and depravity satisfied. Alternatively, like me, they could learn of a whole lot more vices that they did not previously know existed. Courtesans ran from the exquisite specialist at fifty guineas a night in a top class brothel to the hundreds of streetwalkers who would take you up an alley for a pint of wine and a shilling, and doubtless throw in the pox for free. Indeed often they would not bother with the alley, it was not uncommon in the rougher parts of town to see a tart with her skirts up leaning against a wall while the punter bulled away at her, often with other whores standing nearby yelling encouragement or criticising his stamina.
For a better night and six guineas you could visit a quality bagnio house, have a good dinner, a bath and a keen young woman. The women there were literally cleaner, especially if they joined you in the bath which many did and the madams assured clients that they were free from disease. There were houses that specialised in black girls, Indian girls, or men if that was your taste. There was even a barge moored on the Thames which ran a restaurant on the first floor and a brothel on the second. The dinners were poor and the wine rough, but later the rocking of the boat with a girl astride you was very pleasant.
I never went, but there was even a house of correction where the poor women prisoners were given the choice of starving to death or whoring themselves to the warders. Their keepers would act like pimps and male visitors could have a female prisoner, willing or unwilling, for the whole night if they tipped the warder a shilling.
Alongside all of this went the elite of polite society, known as the ‘ton’ ruled by the likes of the Duchess of Devonshire and her set, who talked in an affected babyish accent which others in their crowd sought to ape. They ruled the social scene through the institutions like Almack’s Assembly Rooms which was like a high society casino and dance hall. Entry was decided by a committee of society harridans that met every Monday night and decided who was ‘in’ while snubbing those that they thought were nouveau riche.
They gave those that were approved an annual voucher for ten guineas allowing access to the club and to demonstrate what appalling judges of character they were they gave one to me after an introduction from Stewart. The origins of the Flashman fortune while possibly tainted with slave trading and piracy, were sufficiently old to pass muster.
Stewart had first taken me to a bagnio that specialised in Turkish delicacies called Mustafa’s or ‘must have her’ as he pronounced it. The authenticity of the establishment was dubious, I was in Turkey a while back and did not see any of the ‘authentic meat pies’ on offer that Mustafa assured us were staple fare in Constantinople, but he did also do a good venison and lamb kebab. The huge guard at the door who called himself Achmed was no more Turkish than I was, with a rather obvious false drooping moustache. However once inside the facilities were excellent, with a huge marble lined Turkish bath and some very enthusiastic girls. In most establishments you chose your girl and then went to a room for privacy but here it was a more social arrangement. While there was a male masseuse available if you wanted a proper Turkish bath first, most people chose a girl to help them with the bathing process and things progressed naturally from there in one of the large plunge pools, on or against the marble slabs or leather couches.
While Mustafa insisted his girls were clean, Stewart was sure that liberal dosing of soapy water before, after and often during a bout would keep him free of the pox and as we both stayed clear of disease, who is to argue that he was wrong? My own personal favourite was a girl called Jasmine, with raven hair, almond eyes and glorious olive complexion. She had a slim waist and the most perfect breasts that you could cup in each hand. Given the sociable setting you could not help noticing the activities of other couples nearby, which was also arousing. On my first visit after some very intimate soaping Jasmine and I had just settled sitting on a marble massage slab, slippery with soap and with her astride me while I nuzzled those perfect breasts. Distracted by a squeal, I looked across at Stewart some yards away who had hauled himself to his feet with his girl still wrapped around him with her ankles crossed in the small of his back. He caught my eye and shouted “ten guineas I can beat you round the main pool.”
Well I am a gambling man and the way I saw it I had a good six yard head start and a lighter jockey so reaching down to cup Jasmine’s soapy rear I was up in a moment charging for the edge of the pool while Jasmine clamped on and yelled encouragement. With Stewart roaring behind me we ran on the towels at the edge of the pool for grip and cleared the first hurdle of a pair coupling at the edge of the water. Down the far side of the pool we were still in the lead although I could hear my new friend was gaining ground, other patrons and girls were now yelling encouragement. Around the final corner we went with a portly gentleman and his girl holding a towel across the path as a finishing line. Then as Stewart came alongside he nudged me hard to fall into the water.
I surfaced laughing and crying “foul” and “stewards enquiry surely” with Jasmine still in place. Stewart and his jockey jumped in afterwards and the old boy with a towel shouted it was a void race – and he should know as it turned out he was a high court judge. Stewart introduced to me to a couple of other junior government types who happened to be sharing the pool with other girls at the same time. One was a senior official at the Foreign Office and the other worked at the Treasury. I realised that Stewart’s friendship would make getting known in the right social circles easier – and a lot more pleasurable – than falling off a log.
Over the next few weeks I spent a fair bit of time with Stewart and some of his crowd and it was certainly an eye opening experience. I started taking fencing lessons with him, not because I expected to fight but because that was a fashionable way to take exercise just then. There was also a surplus of fencing masters in London, many having fled from the French revolution. Our teacher was a Monsieur Giscard and we would spend many an afternoon with foils and rapiers learning the formal positions and ripostes that are allowed in a sporting fencing match. With the padding and blunting of points we battled away many an hour without suffering a scratch. There was also cock fighting, bear baiting and horse racing. I recall we saw some chap called Belcher become boxing champion, mercifully after just 17 rounds as his last bout had taken 51. We watched cricket and saw a chap called Robinson experimenting with cricket pads to protect his legs, but they kept falling off and impeding his runs.
In short I had fallen in with a fast crowd at a time when being an effete dandy was all the rage. This was the age of Beau Brummel who had heightened the concept of fashion for men, which was closely followed by the Prince Regent, or ‘Prinny’ as he was known, and all the smart set about town. Tailors quickly caught on to the opportunity of fleecing the rich for the most fashionable cuts and colours and these clothes became extortionately expensive. I was never in with Prinny’s crowd but I did overhear someone once ask Beau Brummel how much he thought it should cost to keep a single man in clothes. He replied that “with tolerable economy I think it might be done with £800 a year.” This was at a time when the average wage for a craftsman was just a pound a week.
It was a crazy time, I recall seeing one man positively weep because he could not get a cravat in the right shade of plum. I remember having a silk black and yellow checked waistcoat that I was inordinately pleased with and wore as often as I could. I thought it made me look quite the card at the time. Strangely enough I saw it again a few years ago when the housekeeper showed it to me as she was sorting clothes for charity. I was happy to see it go as it would never fit me now and I thought it would help some local yokel stand stylishly out from the crowd. A few weeks later I was out riding and damn me if I did not see it adorning a scarecrow in one of the fields. Yokels around here have no sense of style!
Yes London in the late summer and autumn of 1800 was probably the most carefree time of my life. For a young man without care and commitments and with gold in his pocket it was a playground of delights. Yet the fashionable crowd I fell in with were hard drinking, hard playing and so obsessed with being seen wearing the right things and in the right places that they almost made having pleasure hard work. Even at my young age it seemed frivolous, false and meaningless and I struggled to understand how anyone could really get that upset over the right shade of plum. Oh I enjoyed all the parties, the flirting and days watching horse racing and other sports but in a world where men were fighting courageously on land and sea and where we were surrounded by the poor’s very real struggle for survival; obsessions with such trivia as clothes seemed ridiculous.
Looking back from a long and eventful life I realise now that they were just trying to give their lives purpose. The playboy set were not involved in government, were horrified by the thought of discipline in the forces and, led by Prinny the wastrel in chief, they just wanted to show that their life had some meaning. Prinny’s personal example certainly did not encourage the fashionable set to lead more meaningful lives. He was 38 then and already weighed 18 stone due to his greed and gluttony. The Duke of Wellington described him as "the worst man I ever fell in with my whole life, the most selfish, the most false, the most ill-natured, the most entirely without one redeeming quality.”
Prinny had also run up debts of over £600,000 by the time he was 33, which meant that the fast set struggled to keep up with the fashion. A few had great personal wealth but others gradually got deeper into debt and faced disgrace and ignominy. Some ended up in debtor’s prison, others shot themselves, one or two even ended up in the new United States. Even Beau Brummel ended up fleeing to France to avoid bankruptcy and died a pauper. As I did not have an income I was certainly living beyond my means and was getting through what little money I had faster than a duchess in a hat shop. I did not hear more from Castlereagh and the bank draft my father gave me was quickly used up. I had borrowed another twenty guineas from my brother who was appalled at the speed I had got through the first fifty and did not approve of my friendship with Stewart. What my brother did not know was that I had also borrowed another hundred in my own name from my father’s bank.
Things came to a head when I came home one evening and was handed a letter from my father who had evidently been given a very one sided account of my activities from James. I was furious, peached on by my own brother. Mind you he always had been a pompous tell tale so I should not have been surprised. My father had sent more money but now James was to pay me an allowance like some bloody schoolboy. Well I was not going to put up with that and my brother and I had a blazing row before I stormed out again. I was livid and what made me most angry was that I knew until Castlereagh came up with a job that I would probably have very little choice but to go along with this allowance plan. I skulked home next morning still feeling bitter and found my brother busy thrashing one of the maids, who had broken some favourite ornament. The girl was wailing piteously as he kept lashing her with a cane and I used the diversion to slip past unseen.
I laid low until I heard him call for a cab and leave with his wife Emily. I slipped back downstairs to order a late breakfast but found the maid still sniffling in the hall. At the sight of me a cunning crafty look came into her reddened eyes. “Master Thomas I knows ‘ow you can get your own back on Master James if you want.”
Well that was a damned cheek if ever I heard it and I told her not to interfere in the affairs of her betters and sent her away to get me some breakfast. But my curiosity was piqued and I was still brooding when she brought in the tray. The cunning minx must have known I would be hooked which is why she brought the tray herself rather than send one of the other maids.
“All right, how could I get my own back on James?”
“Beg pardin sir but Master James and Miss Emily are strugglin’ to have children sir. They have gone off to try Dr Graham’s electric bed.” Well I had heard of Graham, who hadn’t, he is the only man I have known make any money out of that completely useless invention, electricity. While scientists keep publishing papers on it, not a single practical use has been found. But Graham, half medical man and half quack had used it to create his Temple of Health, with its centre piece the Celestial Bed.
The bed was designed to help couples conceive and had a gentle electric current pass through it that was supposed to improve fertility. It also had crystals and bells on it that would make music as the bed moved. In the past scantily clad girls were employed to cavort about to help the more feeble men get in the mood for conception. In fact there were rumours that Emma Hamilton, Nelson’s mistress, had started her career acting as the goddess Vestina at Dr Graham’s. The bed had been used by the cream of society including Prinny, Dukes and Duchesses and various politicians and was seen as quite respectable. Dr Graham had made a fortune but unfortunately had spent even more and eventually sold up. The bed was now owned by another quack, claiming to be a ‘sexologist.’
Well it was interesting news but I did not see how it would help me get my own back on my brother and said so.