Riiiiiiiight ...
now! Peace in our time!
Part Five
Go West, Young Flashman!
A singular feature of the Flashman Papers, the memoirs of the notorious bully of Tom Brown's Schooldays, which were discovered in a Leicestershire saleroom in 1966, is that their author wrote them in self-contained instalments, describing his background and setting the scene anew each time. This has been of great assistance to me in editing the Papers entrusted to me by Mr Paget Morrison of Durban, Flashman's closest legitimate relative; it has meant that as I opened each new packet of manuscript I could expect the contents to be a complete and self-explanatory book, needing only a brief preface and foot-notes. Six volumes have followed this pattern.
It was obvious from the early Papers that Flashman, in the intervals of his distinguished and scandalous service in the British Army, visited America more than once; this seventh volume is his Western odyssey. I believe it is unique. Others may have taken part in both the '48 gold rush and the Battle of Yerba Buena, but they have not left records of these events, nor did they have Flashman's close, if reluctant, acquaintance with several of the most famous California revolutionaries, as well as with leading American soldiers, frontiersman, and states-men of the time, of whom he has left vivid and, it may be, revealing portraits.
As with his previous memoirs, I believe his truthfulness is not in question. As students of those volumes will be aware, his personal character was deplorable, his conduct abandoned, and his talent for mischief apparently inexhaustible; indeed, his one redeeming feature was his unblushing veracity as a memorialist. Though his opinions are appalling to many modern readers, as well as this author, his insights into the time are priceless. As I hope the foot-notes and appendices will show, I have been at pains to check his statements wherever possible, and I am indebted to librarians, custodians, and many members of the great and kindly American public.
For me, the whole business began in 1848, with John Charity Spring, and the beautiful black wench Cassy, and that ugly, gangling schemer Lincoln, and poor fat Susie. I'd been traipsing around that barbaric continent for nigh-on four years, through the United States, 'Pache and Comanche country, Texas, and all points in between. Married twice (making for an even three total, at the time, quite the hat trick), nearly scalped, burned, exploded, and killed a few dozen more ways besides. Finally it looked like my time among the damned redskins and prairie wagons and buckskins and bear's grease and painted faces and buffalo grass and sweat-baths and plug-a-plew and war-whoops and Mountain Men was at an end, and I was lying doggo in a Yerba Buena watering hole, considering how to raise enough blunt to buy passage back to England.
The pub was a dim, shoddy affair, the kind of place that had sprung up on the margins of all the California towns, somewhere for failed prospectors to drown their sorrows. Somewhere a body could go to get some peace, I had thought. I was wrong of course, making the same mistake as I had on the other side of this blasted continent, what seemed like ages ago. As I turned from the bar to head back out, I walked smack into a small man in buckskin. An unremarkable enough chap; any other man of similar appearance and our encounter would have ended with a "damn your eyes" and that would be that. But I recognized that open face, those quiet grey eyes. The man was Kit Carson.
The little frontiersman stepped back, and looked me over with that distant gaze. "Harry Flashman," says he, with a little smile, "Didn't think I'd see you again." I couldn't help but smile myself. I was partial to the guide, and he had it in his head that I was a decent enough chap. "Kit Carson," says I, happy at a familiar face in this grim setting, "what brings you to Yerba Buena?"
Kit looked thoughtful at that, more thoughtful than such a pleasantry warranted. After a moment, speaking like he'd just made a decision, he said "Why don't you come along back with me and I'll tell you." Normally such a cryptic invitation would have me turn tail and run like hell, especialy from the likes of Kit Carson. I liked the man fair enough, but I didn't have a mind to get tangled in any scheme of his. For one thing, he had greatness, in his way, and I don't cotton to that; for another, he knew me for a rogue, if in his mind a brave one, and any business he thought me fit for wasn't business I'd want to be a part of. But I was alone, stranded, and absolutely strapped for rhino, so, damn fool that I was, I followed.
Carson led me to the back of the tavern, where a fat little chap sat on a stool, guarding a crude door. Carson nodded at the fat man, who sniffed and nodded back. I don't know what I expected to find in this little cubbyhole - more buckskin brigadiers of Carson's mold, if anything - but it certainly wasn't this. A collection of swells duded up and sipping whiskey, obviously the genteel sort trying to blend in among the rabble, and failing. One stood when we entered, a big bearded cove with a commanding presence.
"Kit," says he to Carson, looking right put off, "who is this man?"
"This here's Harry Flashman," he drawls. "Good man on the trail. Been down among the 'Pash, and in the British Army. Good shot."
The big 'un gives me a closer look. "The British Army, eh? You might be just the man we're looking for, Mr. Flashman." He stepped forward and offered his hand. My blood had turned to ice, both from his words and from his eyes - mad eyes, mad like an Apache, the same kind of eyes I'd see later in John Brown. "My name is John Frémont."
...
The fat greaser blubbered pathetically in the corner. Pio Pico was terrifically ugly; fat lips, fat runny clown nose, jaw like a Barbary ape. His cholo guards, more criminals than soldiers, used to squeezing poor immigrants to buy their grog, had cut and run the second they saw a pack of crazy white men ride up to the governor’s quarters, waving guns and shouting “hurrah!”, with poor Flashy front and center, right next to that awful maniac Frémont. The half-Frog bastard was in the throes of another fit of patriotic blatherskite, bellowing at the fat little toady cowering behind a chair as one of his buffoons waved a bedsheet with a bear crudely painted on it. Carson hung back, fingering his rifle and casting his eyes back and forth, back and forth. I almost felt sorry for the little bastard, he had obviously been shanghaied into this mess by Frémont as I had. But Carson had a choice, he was simply besotted with that bearded menace. I on the other hand feared for my life if I didn’t go along with their blasted conspiracy.
Frémont was finally running out of steam, having worked himself into a fine lather. Pico was almost gibbering pleas, promises, surrender. It was easy to see how he had toadied his way into the highest spot in California. As Frémont pulled the man to his feet and shook his hand to accept the surrender, the be-damned rabble again let loose a “hurrah!” Frémont was already going over a map he spread across the ex-Governor’s desk as the man was led out, still spitting and slobbering.
“The reigns of state are ours, men!” the big man cried, taking a moment to strike a bluff and manly pose. “I have been in secret correspondence with the highest levels of the United States government” - which I knew damn well meant an as of yet unanswered letter to his father in law, a politico named Thomas Hart Benton who was all for America gobbling up the west - “and it will be a matter of days before American soldiers are dispatched to aid our cause!” As the men ripped off their loudest “hurrah!” yet, I looked back to Carson again. Like me, the guide was quiet, still nervously casting about, as if looking for a way out.
…
“You fool bastard!” I yelled, “No one is coming, damn your eyes!” Frémont stood in the ramparts of the fort, devil-be-damned as enemy fire flew past. The leader of the revolution was still clutching the letter from his father-in-law, as he had been for days, the paper worried into a smeared clump. Benton was out, denied his seat over some damn fool slavery issue. There were no American soldiers coming. The letter had reached Benton far too late, even if he had been able to do something.
“Though I die,” cried Frémont, and it was then that I knew it was time to bid the mad moody frog farewell while I still had my skin, “the Revolution lives on!” I peered over the fort wall to the city. The city was in flames, Frémont’s rabble “army” of untrained miners, unemployed foreigners, and ruffians rampaging through the chaos. I’d see it again, later, and larger, in India. It wasn’t a coordinated rebellion, it was a mad slaughter, and with Mexican troops entering the city it had turned into a rout. This blubbering idiot was no more in charge than I was. If I could just make the jump over the walls into that hay pile, I could grab the reins of one of the mad horses running about riderless, hang low off the side Apache-style, before the fort was totally surrounded.
Frémont clapped his hands on both my shoulders. “You and I to the end, Flashman! Holding the flag high though we know we are doomed!” This was more than enough for me. “Let go of me, you fool bastard!” I cried, wriggling under the clown’s paw. “I’ve been on both sides of massacres, and there’s no more honor being among the dead than among the living! I say, let me go!” I pulled myself free and ran to the wall, glancing over the side and preparing myself for the leap, when a quiet sound nearly loosened my bowels. Frémont had levelled his pistol at me. “There will be no deserters in this army, Flashman,” he cries, his hair whipping in the wind, his mad eyes red from smoke. This was how he
wanted to go, I knew then. He couldn’t win, so down with the ship it was, and death to the traitors. I pondered whether I could drop off the side before he fired. As it was, I was perched in the most precarious spot - standing at full height on top of the walls, lead tearing past me.
Frémont was still raving. “We shall all hang together! The news of our honourable deaths will inspire the nation! California, America, the
world will forever remember the name of John Charles Frém-” the maniac’s cries were cut short as the world exploded around us, and I felt myself flung into the void. Then, nothing.
…
I was looking up into the face of Kit Carson. It was as if I was living Bent’s Fort all over again. The little man, still in his buckskins, spoke quickly and evenly. “Canon got the fort. John’s dead. Have to go before the Mexicans get here.” There were about 20 other men, unshaven irregulars of Frémont’s “army”, scattered around him. As Carson helped me to my feet, I nearly fell again, tangled in a filthy rag.
“Flashy’s done it!” cried one of the filthy thugs, “He’s saved the flag!” I looked down and saw that I was tangled in Frémont’s idiotic bear flag. “I saw him on the walls, damning the Mexicans’ eyes!” “Hurrah for Flashman, hero of California!” “As long as we still have Flashman, there’s still a chance!” I was gobsmacked as the bumpkins actually pulled me to their shoulders. “Hurrah!” My escape had been blocked again, these damn fools! “Hurrah for Flashman!”