I say this in all modesty; as you may know, I have three other prime talents, for horses, languages, and fornication, but they're all God-given, and no credit that I can claim. But I worked to make myself a cricketer, damned hard I worked, which is probably why, when I look back nowadays on the rewards and trophies of an eventful life - the medals, the knighthood, the accumulated cash, the military glory, the drowsy, satisfied women - all in all, there's not much I'm prouder of than those five wickets for 12 runs against the flower of England's batters, or that one glorious over at Lord's in '42 when - but I'll come to that in a moment, for it's where my present story really begins.
I suppose, if Fuller Pilch had got his bat down just a split second sooner, it would all have turned out different. The Skrang pirates wouldn't have been burned out of their hellish nest, the black queen of Madagascar would have had one lover fewer (not that she'd have missed a mere one, I dare say, the insatiable great bitch), the French and British wouldn't have bombarded Tamitave, and I'd have been spared kidnapping, slavery, blowpipes, and the risk of death and torture in unimaginable places - aye, old Fuller's got a lot to answer for, God rest him. However, that's anticipating - I was telling you how I became a fast bowler at Rugby, which is a necessary preliminary.
It was in the 'thirties, you see, that round-arm bowling came into its own, and fellows like Mynn got their hands up shoulder-high. It changed the game like nothing since, for we saw what fast bowling could be - and it was fast - you talk about Spofforth and Brown, but none of them kicked up the dust like those early trimmers. Why, I've seen Mynn bowl to five slips and three long-stops, and his deliveries going over 'em all, first bounce right down to Lord's gate. That's my ticket, thinks I, and I took up the new slinging style, at first because it was capital fun to buzz the ball round the ears of rabbits and funks who couldn't hit back, but I soon found this didn't answer against serious batters, who pulled and drove me all over the place. So I mended my ways until I could whip my fastest ball onto a crown piece, four times out of five, and as I grew tall I became faster still, and was in a fair way to being Cock of Big Side - until that memorable afternoon when the puritan prig Arnold took exception to my being carried home sodden drunk, and turfed me out of the school. Two weeks before the Marylebone match, if you please - well, they lost it without me, which shows that while piety and sobriety may ensure you eternal life, they ain't enough to beat the MCC.
However, that was an end to my cricket for a few summers, for I was packed off to the Army and Afghanis-tan, where I shuddered my way through the Kabul retreat, winning undeserved but undying fame in the siege of Jallalabad. All of which I've related elsewhere;*(* See Flashman.) sufficient to say that I bilked, funked, ran for dear life and screamed for mercy as occasion demanded, all through that ghastly campaign, and came out with four medals, the thanks of parliament, an audience of our Queen, and a handshake from the Duke of Wellington. It's astonishing what you can make out of a bad business if you play your hand right and look noble at the proper time.
Anyway, I came home a popular hero in the late summer of '42, to a rapturous reception from the public and my beautiful idiot wife Elspeth. Being lionized and feted, and making up for lost time by whoring and carousing to excess, I didn't have much time in the first few months for lighter diversions, but it chanced that I was promenading down Regent Street one afternoon, twirling my cane with my hat on three hairs and seeking what I might devour, when I found myself outside "The Green Man". I paused, idly - and that moment's hesitation launched me on what was perhaps the strangest adventure of my life.
It's long gone now, but in those days "The Green Man" was a famous haunt of cricketers, and it was the sight of bats and stumps and other paraphernalia of the game in the window that suddenly brought back memories, and awoke a strange hunger - not to play, you understand, but just to smell the atmosphere again, and hear the talk of batters and bowlers, and the jargon and gossip. So I turned in, ordered a plate of tripe and a quart of home-brewed, exchanged a word or two with the jolly pipe-smokers in the tap, and was soon so carried away by the homely fare, the cheery talk and laughter, and the clean hearty air of the place, that I found myself wishing I'd gone on to the Haymarket and got myself a dish of hot spiced trollop instead. Still, there was time before supper, and I was just calling the waiter to settle up when I noticed a fellow staring at me across the room. He met my eye, shoved his chair back, and came over.
"I say," says he, "aren't you Flashman?" He said it almost warily, as though he didn't wish quite to believe it. I was used to this sort of thing by now, and having fellows fawn and admire the hero of Jallalabad, but this chap didn't look like a toad-eater. He was as tall as I was, brown-faced and square-chinned, with a keen look about him, as though he couldn't wait to have a cold tub and a ten-mile walk. A Christian, I shouldn't wonder, and no smoking the day before a match.
So I said, fairly cool, that I was Flashman, and what was it to him.
"You haven't changed," says he, grinning. "You won't remember me, though, do you?"
"Any good reason why I should try?" says I. "Here, waiter!"
"No, thank'ee," says this fellow. "I've had my pint for the day. Never take more during the season." And he sat himself down, cool as be-damned, at my table.
"Well, I'm relieved to hear it," says I, rising. "You'll forgive me, but—"
"Hold on," says he, laughing. "I'm Brown. Tom Brown - of Rugby. Don't say you've forgotten!"
Well, in fact, I had. Nowadays his name is emblazoned on my memory, and has been ever since Hughes published his infernal book in the 'fifties, but that was still in the future, and for the life of me I couldn't place him. Didn't want to, either; he had that manly, open-air reek about him that I can't stomach, what with his tweed jacket (I'll bet he'd rubbed down his horse with it) and sporting cap; not my style at all.
"You roasted me over the common-room fire once," says he, amiably, and then I knew him fast enough, and measured the distance to the door. That's the trouble with these snivelling little sneaks one knocks about at school; they grow up into hulking louts who box, and are always in prime trim. Fortunately this one appeared to be Christian as well as muscular, having swallowed Arnold's lunatic doctrine of love-thine-enemy, for as I hastily muttered that I hoped it hadn't done him any lasting injury, he laughed heartily and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Why, that's ancient history," cries he. "Boys will be boys, what? Besides, d'ye know - I feel almost that I owe you an apology. Yes," and he scratched his head and looked sheepish. "Tell the truth," went on this amazing oaf, "when we were youngsters I didn't care for you above half, Flashman. Well, you treated us fags pretty raw, you know-of course, I guess it was just thoughtlessness, but, well, we thought you no end of a cad, and - and … a coward, too." He stirred uncomfortably, and I wondered was he going to fart. "Well, you caught us out there, didn't you?" says he, meeting my eye again. "I mean, all this business in Afghanistan … the way you defended the old flag … that sort of thing. By George," and he absolutely had tears in his eyes, "it was the most splendid thing … and to think that you … well, I never heard of anything so heroic in my life, and I just wanted to apologize, old fellow, for thinking ill of you - 'cos I'll own that I did, once - and ask to shake your hand, if you'll let me."
He sat there, with his great paw stuck out, looking misty and noble, virtue just oozing out of him, while I marvelled. The strange thing is, his precious pal Scud East, whom I'd hammered just as generously at school, said almost the same thing to me years later, when we met as prisoners in Russia - confessed how he'd loathed me, but how my heroic conduct had wiped away all old scores, and so forth. I wonder still if they believed that it did, or if they were being hypocrites for form's sake, or if they truly felt guilty for once having harboured evil thoughts of me? Damned if I know; the Victorian conscience is beyond me, thank God. I know that if anyone who'd done me a bad turn later turned out to be the Archangel Gabriel, I'd still hate the bastard; but then, I'm a scoundrel, you see, with no proper feelings. However, I was so relieved to find that this stalwart lout was prepared to let bygones be bygones that I turned on all my Flashy charms, pumped his fin heartily, and insisted that he break his rule for once, and have a glass with me.