Flashman And The Tiger

"You haven’t got that much money," he drawled. "Not—" he blew smoke across the desk at me "—if you were Moss Abrahams in person. Oh, don’t think it wouldn’t give me great pleasure to beggar you—it would. But I’ll enjoy your plump little grand-daughter even more—oh, so much more! She’d be very much my meat in any circumstances—but the fact that she’s yours—" he poked his cigar at me, grinning "—oh, that makes her a prize indeed!"

This was beyond all understanding. I gaped at the man, dumfounded.

"What the devil d’you mean? That she’s my grandchild—what has that to do with it, in God’s name? What have I ever done to you? I don’t even know you, hardly—and you saved my skin in Zululand, didn’t you?"

"Aye," says he. "If I’d only known, though—who you were! Remember, I told you at Rorke’s Drift? But I didn’t know—by God, if I had, you’d never have come over the Buffalo alive!" And for once the eyes were steady, glaring hate at me. I couldn’t fathom it.

"What the blazes are you talking about? Good God above, man, what the devil have you got against me? I’ve never injured you—or if you think I have, I swear I don’t know about it! What is it, damn you?" He said not a word. "And whatever it is, what’s my Selina to do with anything? Why should you want to harm her, you bastard? An innocent—dear God, have you no decency? And I? What have I done -? "

"You don’t know, do you?" says he, softly. "You truly don’t. But then—how should you? How would you remember—out of all the vile things you’ve done—why should you remember … me?"

This was beyond comprehension; I wondered was the fellow a lunatic. But mad or not, there was that in his baleful stare that terrified me—for Selly as much as for myself.

"Shall I remind you?" says he, and his voice grated like gravel. "You think we met for the first time in Zululand, do you?" He shook his head. "Oh, no, Flashman. Cast your mind back … forty-five years. A long time, eh? D’you remember an African slave-ship, called the Balliol College, trading into the Dahomey coast? A ship commanded by a human devil called John Charity Spring, M.A.? A ship on which you, Flashman, served as super-cargo? D’you remember?"

Did I not? I’d never forget it.

"But … but what has that to do with—you? Why, you can only have been a child in those days—"

"Aye—a child!" he roared, suddenly, crashing his fist on the desk. "A child of fourteen—that’s what I was!" His face was crimson, working with fury, but he mastered himself and went on, in a rasping whisper:

"You remember an expedition upriver—to the village of King Gezo, who sold niggers to Spring? You remember that death-house, built of skulls, and the human sacrifices, and those savage Amazon women who were Gezo’s bodyguard? D’you remember? Oh, yes, I see that you do. And d’you remember the bargain that monster Spring struck with that monster Gezo—half a dozen Amazon women to be sold into slavery in exchange for a case of Adams revolvers which you—" his finger stabbed out at me "—demonstrated for that black fiend?"

As clear as day I could see it—the hideous Gezo leaping up and down on his stool, slobbering in excitement, with those great black fighting-women ranged by his throne; I could feel the Adams kicking in my fist as I blew holes in the skull wall for his edification.

"Six women in exchange for a case of revolvers and—what else?" Moran’s face was terrible to see. "What turned the scale in that infamous bargain—d’you recall? Again, I see you do." His voice was barely audible. "Gezo demanded that Spring’s cabin-boy be left with him—as a slave. And Spring, and you, and the rest of that hell-ship’s crew—you agreed, and left the child behind." He straightened up from the desk. "I was that boy."

It was beyond belief. It couldn’t be true, not for a minute … but even as the denial sprang to my lips, my wits were telling me that no one—no one on earth, could have known the details of that shameful transaction of Spring’s, unless he’d been there. And yet…

"But that’s moonshine!" I cried. "Why, I remember that boy—a snivelling little Cockney guttersnipe with a cross-eye … nothing like you! And, damnation, you were educated at Eton—I looked you up in Who’s Who!"

"Quite true," says he. "And like many a public school boy before me—and many since—I ran away … don’t tell me you never drove some panic-stricken little fag to do the same at Rugby. Oh, yes, I ran—and thought it would be a fine thing to go for a ship’s boy, and seek my fortune. I was a good enough actor, even then, to fake a Whitechapel whine—the genteel Captain Spring would never have shipped a little gentleman as cabin-boy, now would he?" The sneer writhed at the corner of his mouth. "But he was ready enough to drug him with native beer and sell him as a slave to that unspeakable savage, in exchange for a gaggle of half-naked black sluts ! Oh, aye, you were all willing enough for that!"