Flash Harry’s Confession
Brok3n Engines
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Flash Harry’s Confession
Brok3n Engines
The first warning was the stink. A foul odor is no uncommon thing in the dark alleys of that part of London, but this was the niff of unwashed human body. From the fug before me a thick forefinger poked me in the chest. It was followed by the words, “Now then, ’arry.” I recognized the voice. Robb, surname unknown, worked for Watt, a moneylender to whom I owed twenty guineas. Not tall, but his shoulders spanned the width of the alley. From behind me a hand grasped my right wrist, preventing my hand from reaching my sword hilt. I perceived that Hobb, Robb’s equally fragrant brother, filled the alley behind me. My head spun. There was a taste in my mouth as if some small furry creature had died there, although if that had happened, I think I would have remembered. I had had a few too many drinks, perhaps.
“Well, Robb? How may I help you?”
“We’re ‘ere for the twenty guineas you owe Watt, ‘arry.”
“I regret to tell you that I did not bring my purse with me.”
I felt Hobb’s hands probe my pockets and waistcoat, confirming the awful truth of my claim.
Robb answered, “We’ll walk you to your rooms to get it.”
“Sadly, I am temporarily embarrassed. You will not find so much gold there.”
“In that case, it will be our sad duty to break your legs.”
Hobb concurred with a growl.
Whatever other character defects they might have, I knew that Robb and Hobb were men of their word. If they promised to break my legs, plural, break my legs they would.
“But Robb, breaking my legs won’t profit Watt. If you give me time, I can get the money. I can’t do it with a broken leg.”
“Two broken legs!”
“Just so,” I said. “Surely it profits Watt more to receive a tardy twenty guineas from me than to cripple me?”
Watt’s high-pitched voice spoke out of the shadows. “In my business, it is sometimes profitable to make an example. You are not the only soldier who owes me, Harry. But you are well-known. Seeing you a cripple will concentrate other minds wonderfully.”
“You wouldn’t!”
Robb’s fist drove into my belly to insist that he would, indeed, do it.
Gasping, I said, “I can get the money, Watt. Just give me a little time!”
Watt answered, “Tomorrow morning you will hand over twenty-five guineas to Robb.”
“Twenty-five!”
“Twenty that you now owe me, and five to compensate me for the delay. Or you will pay with your legs.”
Allow me to introduce myself! I am that fellow Harry whose colloquy with Robb and Hobb and Watt you just read. You may call me “Flash Harry.” It is not my real name, for reasons you will know presently. I was a soldier, a Hussar. I served His Majesty George II, King of England. I was a tall gentleman with blonde hair, robust but not corpulent in frame, with clear blue eyes in which the light of simple honesty shines.
In those days I made my living with those honest eyes. They who believe the eyes are the windows of the soul were my prey. I am a liar and a cheat. I am clever, or at least cunning. I kept myself in funds by gambling.
I am not evil, or at least I am not malicious. I am entirely selfish, but if I am comfortable, have no desire to harm any other. I have not a soldier’s courage. In truth, I am a poltroon and know well how to appear brave while avoiding blades and bullets.
Once in my life I was brave and good. The bravest thing I have ever done was to flee from a fight.
That confession follows.
How to raise twenty-five guineas? I owned nothing to sell or pawn for so much. My first recourse was to my father, but he refused me without a hearing. He had no illusions about his son, being himself just such a person as I am.
Thence I repaired to regimental quarters. I had, as I thought, good friends among the officers. The first to whom I applied was Lord Coxcomb. (That name too is false.)
“Coxcomb! Lend me twenty-five guineas!”
“Harry, old man. I’m sorry to tell you that I’m a bit short today.” This was a lie. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. He pulled his watch from his pocket, snapped it open, and added, “Sorry, old man. I’m a bit pressed,” and fled, leaving only a cloud of scent and cowardice. That watch alone—gold, it was—would bring fifty pounds in a pawn shop. But his message was clear. There would be no coin for Harry.
I applied to my other friends in the regiment. They decamped even faster than Coxcomb. I had, plainly, no true friends in the regiment.
When evening came, I knew that there was but one thing for it: cards. I couldn’t risk gambling. I would need to deal from a cold deck. I am clever with my hands. I know how to choose the cards dealt to other players. Cheating at cards was a desperate strategy. If caught, I could be certain of expulsion from the regiment. More, a challenge was likely. I risked death in a duel. But I was indeed desperate. I resolved to obey the Eleventh Commandment and not be caught.
That night I betook myself and my deck to a room where officers were wont to gamble, Captain This and Major That, loud-voiced hard-drinking men with noses as red as their uniform jackets. I began by losing, giving my note for the gold. At these tables a loser would always be welcome. I begged the table to allow me my revenge. They assented. I lost again. My popularity increased by leaps and bounds. One last hand. This time I gave good cards to the wealthiest of the other players, Lord Fatpurse, his body as rotund as his purse. The bets were high, and soon only the two of us remained to play, surrounded by soldiers shouting with enthusiasm and smelling of the very best whiskey. When we lay down our cards, I had won thirty pounds, Lord Fatpurse, for whom this was a mere fleabite, shouted alcoholically, “Excellent game, Harry!”
My object gained, I made my farewell.
Then I made my fatal mistake.
There joined the company a young factor—I never learned his name. He was but a clerk in some commercial venture. High though the company in the room was, we condescended to indulge this little clerk, who lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile. I risked little in playing with such a one. He dare not object to anything I might do.
I slapped my deck down before him and demanded “Cut!” forcing the card—I needed to win the deal, you see.
No fool, my little clerk! He watched with sharp black eyes as keen as any hawk’s. Or perhaps he was a fool, because he was not wise enough to hold his tongue, but spoke, “What, you force a card, you cheat Sir?”
It was as if Robb had planted his fist in my belly again. Anger and fear flooded my brain. I stammered an angry denial of some sort.
“Well, you forced a card and cheated!” he repeated.
I blustered “Beg my pardon, sirrah, or I put a bullet through your skull!”
“Well, you cheated!”
This set the cat among the pigeons. All around sprang to their feet in fury. They demanded that we end it. The clerk being no swordsman, a brace of loaded pistols were put in our hands. One among the company who had acted for me before jostled the little clerk’s hand. His bullet holed the wall an inch over my head. That was far too close for comfort. Yet I lived; his life was forfeit.
I leveled my pistol at him.
“Now, little man, tell me again. Did I cheat?”
“Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and this moment, know as well. Fire and go to Hell!”
By God! He spoke true. There was but one safe escape: put the bullet through his skull. I raised the pistol and touched the muzzle to his forehead.
Those black eyes looked steady into mine. Fear he must feel, but he gave no sign. I, though, trembled from head to foot.
My hand wavered. I raised it again to his forehead. I made no decision to spare him, but my finger would not obey my brain. “I will be merciful,” I thought. “Before all this company, I will generously forgive the slander.”
Another thought intruded. “If I pretend to forgive him, I but murder him by proxy. The others in this company will not forgive. He will die at their hands.”
My hand wavered once again, I fairly shouted, “I did cheat!” I threw down my pistol and fled through the door.
In that confession and flight I was brave and good. It would be the ruin of me, I knew. The soldiers there present knew my name and my regiment. I would be expelled from the regiment in disgrace. For disgracing them the regiment would drum me out and beat me. I would be lucky to escape with my life.
The next day I paid Watt from Lord Fatpurse’s losses. I waited for word of my disgrace.
The most astonishing thing happened: nothing. No one accused me, no one confronted me. And so it continued. A dozen soldiers know me a confessed card sharp. To this day, none has spoken.
I never cheated again. I knew not to what grace I owed my reprieve, but I was certain I would be watched closely, and that I would not survive being caught again. I played once again, but then, receiving a good hand, a thrill shot through me at the risk I was taking. I could not cheat, but more—I could not win. If ever I gambled and won at cards, I would be for it. Who would believe I won fairly?
Why play, if I could not cheat and could not win? I laid those good cards down. I never gambled again.
That moment of courage corrupted me. Before then my virtue had been perfect. I had been perfectly selfish. I acted for myself, with no consideration for any other. But that moment of courage stayed with me, as when a child has tasted sugar candy, or a priest the pleasures of the flesh. They cannot forget it. They are always tempted, and ever and anon will fall again.
I could not forget that moment of courage. It tempted me. In the ensuing years, I fell again and yet again. I am still a coward, still selfish, still at heart a liar and a cheat. But I have at times leapt to the aid of my comrades in arms, even at risk to myself.
A few years after that night, a member of the company was in difficulties. His daughter was sick to death and the surgeon required £20 of him. We took up a subscription among the regiment and collected the moneys. Even Coxcomb gave. Even I gave!
At that I realized another thing. If now, in desperate need of a few dozen guineas, I begged my comrades to help, they would. They would scrape together the money to save me, believing me a friend.
I had fooled them all.
Acknowledgments
“Flash Harry’s Confession” is a retelling of the story of the narrative poem “Clive” by Robert Browning, which you can read here. (And you should! It’s a good one.) Readers may also recognize that the narrator, Flash Harry, is loosely based on Harry Flashman, from The Flashman Papers by George MacDonald Fraser. The action of “Clive” takes place in 1746 and Fraser’s Flashman lived in the 19th century, so Flash Harry cannot be Harry Flashman himself. We might suppose that he is one of Harry Flashman’s disreputable ancestors.
The cover image is a phase portrait of this function,
A phase portrait is a visualization of a complex function introduced by Elias Wegert in Visual Complex Functions: An Introduction with Phase Portraits. Readers may like to know that c, h, and g represent Clive, Harry, and the gun.
Love the twist at the end. Harry sure learned his lesson.