Right. You want Flashman? Then mind the truth of it. Cad, coward, liar — yes, and proud of the trade. I bow to the bugle, then watch where it played. A glittering uniform, a stomach for flight, and luck, that black hound, at my heel every night. Luck is the law, and I live by its whim. I was never the hero — the hero was him. Call me a bastard; I’ll answer, “Quite true.” Better a live coward than a corpse in review. India, Kabul, the Crimea’s cold mud — same stench, same swagger, same occasional blood. I lied my way handsome, I skulked and I shone, while other men vanished and left me the bone. I keep my skin while the brave men die. Luck is the law, and I live by its whim. I was never the hero — the hero was him. Call me a bastard; I’ll answer, “Quite true.” Better a live coward than a corpse in review. “There are such things as fate and chance and luck,” and I was born with my nose in the muck. The world loves a scoundrel when the medals are due. I live by my wits — and I die by my sins too. Luck is the law, and I live by its spin. I was never the hero — I merely got in. Call me what you like, I’ll still tip my hat: a live coward’s a gentleman; there’s an end on’t in that. Flashman, old chap. Still here.
