The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  However, I consoled myself that I was having the best of both worlds—my luxurious enslavement was both enjoyable and temporary. Now and then I fretted a little over what the outcome of the comedy would be, but there was nothing to be done about it. Either Bismarck would keep his bargain or he wouldn’t—and I forced myself to put the latter possibility out of my mind. This is the real coward’s way, of course—I wanted to believe he would play fair, and so I did, even though common sense should have warned me that he wouldn’t. And as so often happens, I almost fell a prey to my own comfortable, lily-livered hopes.

  We had been about ten days at Strelhow, I suppose, when one evening we were in the billiard room, and the talk turned to horses. Someone—Rudi, I think—mentioned the fine stable kept by a gentleman over beyond the Jotun Gipfel; I expressed interest, and it was suggested that next day we should ride over and call on him. It was all very easy and casual, like any of the other expeditions and picnics we had enjoyed, and I gave it no thought at all.

  So next morning de Gautet and one of the Strackenzian aides and I set off. The quickest way was through the Jotun Gipfel on horseback, and Irma came with us by carriage as far as the road allowed. Thereafter we turned off towards the crags, she fluttering her handkerchief lovingly after her departing lord, and presently we were climbing into the hills by one of the bridle-paths that are the only tracks through that wild and picturesque little region.

  It was a splendid day for such a jaunt, clear and sunny, and the scenery was pleasant—any of our Victorian artists would have sketched it in a moment, with its nice little crags and trees and occasional waterfalls, and would have thrown in a couple of romantic shepherds with whiskers and fat calves for good measure. But we saw no one as we moved up towards the summit, and I was enjoying the ride and musing on last night’s sporting with Irma, when the Strackenzian aide’s horse went lame.

  I’ve often wondered how they arranged that, for the horse was certainly lame, and I doubt if the aide—his name was Steubel, just a boy—had anything to do with it. I cursed a bit, and de Gautet suggested we turn and go back. The boy wouldn’t hear of it; he would walk his horse slowly down to Strelhow, he said, and we should go on. De Gautet looked doubtful—he was a clever actor, that one—but I was fool enough to agree. I can’t think, now, how I was so green, but there it was. I never thought of foul play—I, who normally throw myself behind cover if someone breaks wind unexpectedly, was completely off guard. I had my pistols, to be sure, and even my knife, for I’d got into the wise habit of going armed whenever I left the lodge; but de Gautet’s manner must have disarmed me completely.

  We went on together, and about twenty minutes after parting from Steubel we had reached the summit, a pleasant little tree-fringed plateau, split by a deep gorge through which a river rushed, throwing up clouds of mist against the rocky sides. The whole table-top was hemmed in by trees, but there was a clear patch of turf near the edge of the gorge, and here we dismounted to have a look down into the bottom, a hundred feet below. I don’t care for heights, but the scene was so pleasant and peaceful that I never felt a moment’s unease, until de Gautet spoke.

  “The Jotunschlucht,” says he, meaning the gorge, and something in his voice sounded the alarm in my brain. It may have been the flatness of his tone, or the fact that he was closer behind me than I felt he should have been, but with the instinct of pure panic I threw myself sideways on the turf, turning as I fell to try to face him.

  If his pistol hadn’t misfired he would have got me; I heard the click even as I moved, and realised that he had been aiming point-blank at my back. As I tried to scramble up he dropped it with an oath, drew its mate from beneath his tunic, and levelled it at me. I screamed, “No! No!” as he thumbed back the lock, and he hesitated a split second, to see if I should leap again, and to make sure of his aim.

  In a novel, of course, or a play, murders are not committed so; the villain leers and gloats, and the victim pleads. In my practical experience, however, killing gentlemen like de Gautet are far too practised for such nonsense; they shoot suddenly and cleanly, and the job’s done. I knew I had perhaps a heart-beat between me and damnation, and in sheer terror I snatched the seaman’s knife from the top of my boot and hurled it at him with all my force, sprawling down again as I did so.

  If I’ve had more than my share of bad luck in my life, I’ve had some good to make up for it. I had some now; the knife only hit him butt first, on the leg, but it caused him to take a quick step back, his heel caught on a stone or tuft, he overbalanced, the pistol cracked, the ball went somewhere above my head, and then I was on top of him, smashing blindly with my fists, knees, and anything else, trying to beat him into the ground.

  He was tall and active, but nothing like my weight, and Flashy in the grip of mortal fear, with nowhere to run to and no choice but to fight, is probably a dreadful opponent. I was roaring at the top of my voice and clawing at him for dear life; he managed to shove me off once, but he made the error of lunging for the fallen knife, and I was able to get one solid, full-blown boot against the side of his head. He groaned and fell back, his eyes rolling up in his head, and collapsed limply on the turf.

  For a moment I thought I’d killed him, but I didn’t wait about to see. The training of years asserted itself, and I turned and bolted headlong down the path, with no thought but to put as much distance as I could between me and the scene of possible danger. Before I’d gone far I had to stop to be sick—no doubt from the shock of my narrow escape—and during the pause I had time to consider what I was doing. Where could I run to? Not back to Strelhow, for certain; the Bismarck gang had shown their hand now, and my life wouldn’t be worth a china orange if I went anywhere they could come at me. And why had they tried to kill me now? What purpose was there in having me dead before the real Carl Gustaf was ready to take my place? Maybe he was ready—although if he’d been rotten with pox they had tidied him up mighty quick. Or had Bismarck’s whole tale been pure moonshine? Maybe Carl Gustaf was dead, maybe—oh, maybe a thousand things. I had no way of knowing.

  As I think I’ve said before, while fear usually takes control of my limbs, particularly my running equipment, it seldom prevents me from thinking clearly. Even as I stood there spewing I knew what had to be done. It was essential that I make tracks out of Strackenz at once. But reason told me that to do that in safety I must have a clear notion of what my enemies were up to, and the only man who could tell me that was de Gautet, if he was still alive. The longer I hesitated, the longer he had to revive; my pistols were in my saddle holsters at the summit, so back up the track I went at full speed, pausing only near the top to have a stealthy skulk and see how the land lay.

  The horses had gone, scared no doubt by the pistol shot, but de Gautet was still where I had left him. Was he shamming? It would have been like the foxy bastard, so I lay low and watched him. He didn’t stir, so I tossed a stone at him. It hit him, but he didn’t move. Reassured, I broke cover, snatched up the knife, and crouched panting beside him. He was dead to the world, but breathing, with a fine red lump on his skull; in a moment I had his belt off and trussed his elbows with it; then I pulled off his boots, secured his ankles with my own belt, and felt comfortably safer. Several excellent ideas were already forming in my mind about how to deal with Master de Gautet when he came to, and I waited with a pleasant sense of anticipation. He had a hole in one sock, I noticed; there would be holes in more than that before I’d finished with the murderous swine.

  Presently he groaned and opened his eyes, and I had the pleasure of watching his expression show bewilderment, rage, and fear all in turn.

  “Well, de Gautet,” says I. “What have you got to say, you back-shooting rat, you?”

  He stayed mum, glaring at me, so I tickled him up with the knife and he gasped and cursed.

  “That’s it,” says I, “get some practice. And see here: I’m not going to waste time with you. I’m going to ask questions, and you’ll answer ’em, smartly, d’you see?
Because if you don’t—well, I’ll show you the advantages of an English public school education, that’s all. Now, first, why did you try to kill me? What are you and our good friend Otto Bismarck up to?”

  He struggled, but saw it was no go and lay still.

  “You will learn nothing from me,” says he.

  “Your error,” says I. “See here.”

  By good luck I had a piece of string with me, which I looped over two of his toes, placing a nice sharp pebble in between them. I put a stick through the loop and twisted it a little. It always used to liven the Rugby fags up, although of course one couldn’t go too far with them, and de Gautet’s response was gratifying. He squealed and writhed, but I held his legs down easily.

  “You see, my boy,” says I, “You’d better open your potato trap or it’ll be the worse for you.”

  “You villain!” cries he, sweating with fear. “Is this how you treat a gentleman?”

  “No,” says I, enjoying myself. “It’s how I treat a dirty, cowardly, murdering ruffian.” And I twisted the stick, hard. He screamed, but I kept on twisting, and his yells were such that I had to stuff my glove in his mouth to quiet him. I’d no real fear of interruption, for he had been at such pains to get me alone that I doubted if any of his precious friends were in the district, but it seemed best to keep him as mum as possible.

  “Nod your head when you’ve had enough, de Gautet,” says I cheerfully. “When I’ve broken all your toes I’ll show you how the Afghan ladies treat their husbands’ prisoners.”

  And I went back to work on him. I confess that I thoroughly enjoyed it, as only a true coward can, for only your coward and bully really understand how terrible pain can be. De Gautet wasn’t much braver than I am; a few more twists and he was jerking his head up and down like Punch, and for some reason this put me into a great fury. I gave him a few more twists for luck, until the string broke. Then I pulled the gag out.

  He was groaning and calling me filthy names, so I taught him manners with the point of the knife in his leg.

  “Now, you bastard, why did you try to kill me?”

  “It was the Baron’s order. Ah, dear God!”

  “Never mind God. What for? What about my ten thousand pounds, damn you?”

  “It … it was never intended that you would be paid.”

  “You mean I was to be murdered from the start, is that it?”

  He rolled over, moaning and licking his lips, looking at me with terror in his eyes.

  “If I tell you … all … oh, my feet! If I tell you … do you swear, on your honour as a gentleman, to let me go?”

  “Why should I? You’ll tell me anyway. Oh, all right then, on my honour as a gentleman. Now, then.”

  But he insisted that I swear on my mother’s memory, too—what he thought all that swearing was worth I can’t imagine, but he wasn’t feeling himself, I dare say, and foreigners tend to take an Englishman’s word when he gives it. That’s all they know.

  So I swore his oaths, and it all came tumbling out. The Prince Carl Gustaf hadn’t had pox at all; he was clean as an old bone. But Bismarck had plotted with Detchard to spirit him away and put me in his place—as they had indeed done. The pox story had simply been an excuse for my benefit, and if it seems ludicrously thin now I can only assert that it seemed damned convincing coming from Bismarck in his lonely stronghold with Kraftstein waiting to fillet me if I didn’t believe it. Anyway, their little plan was that after a few days, when Strackenz was convinced it had got a genuine consort for its Duchess, I was to be murdered, in the Jotun Gipfel, and de Gautet was to vanish over the German border. There would be a hue and cry, and my body would be found and carried back to Strackenz amid general consternation.

  And then, wonder of wonders, papers would be found in my clothing to suggest that I wasn’t Prince Carl at all, but a daring English impostor called Flashman, an agent of Lord Palmerston, if you please, and up to God-knows-what mischief against the security and well-being of the Duchy of Strackenz. There would be chaos and confusion, and a diplomatic upheaval of unprecedented proportions.

  I couldn’t take it in at first. “You bloody liar! D’ye expect me to believe this cock-and-bull? For that matter, who in the world would credit it?”

  “Everyone.” His face was working with pain. “You are not the Prince—you would be identified for what you really are—even if it took time, witnesses who knew you could be brought. Who would doubt it?—it is true.”

  My brain was reeling. “But, in God’s name, what for? What could Bismarck gain from all this?”

  “The discredit of England—your Lord Palmerston. Utter bewilderment and rage, in Strackenz. Dane and German are on a knife-edge here—there would be bloodshed and disorder. That is what the Baron wants—ah, Herr Gott, my feet are on fire!”

  “Damn your feet! Why the hell does he want bloodshed and disorder?”

  “As a—pretext. You know that Strackenz and Schleswig and Holstein are bitterly divided between Dane and German. Disorder in one would spread to the others—the old rivalry between Berlin and Copenhagen would be fanned into flame—for the sake of German interest, Berlin would march into Strackenz, then into the other two. Who could stop her? It is only the—excuse—that is lacking.

  “And how would my murder be explained, in God’s name?”

  “It would not need—explaining. That you were an English agent—that would be enough.”

  Well, that seemed the silliest bit of all, to me, and I said so—who was going to buy me as an agent?

  “Feel the lining of your tunic—on the right side.” For all his pain, he couldn’t keep a grin of triumph off his face. “It is there—feel.”

  By God, it was. I ripped out the lining with my knife, and there was a paper, covered in tiny cryptograms—God knows what they meant, but knowing Bismarck I’ll wager it was good, sound, incriminating stuff. I sat gazing at it, trying to understand what de Gautet had been telling me.

  “It has all been exactly planned,” says he. “It could not fail. Confusion and riot must follow on your death—and Germany would seize the opportunity to march.”

  I was trying vainly to make sense of the whole, incredible scheme—and to find a flaw in it.

  “Aha, hold on,” says I. “This is all very fine—but just because Bismarck has fine ideas about marching into Strackenz don’t mean a thing. There’s a government in Berlin, I believe—suppose they don’t share his martial ardour—what then?”

  “But it is planned, I tell you,” cries he. “He has friends – men of power—in high places. It is concerted—and when the chance comes in Strackenz, they will act as he says. He can force the thing—he has the vision—das genie.”

  Aye, perhaps he had the genius. Now, of course, I know that he could have done it—I doubt if there was any diplomatic coup that that brilliant, warped intelligence couldn’t have brought off; for all that he was the most dreadful bastard who ever sat in a chancellery, he was the greatest statesman of our time. Yes, he could have done it—he did, didn’t he, in the end, and where is Strackenz now? Like Schleswig and Holstein, it is buried in the German empire that Otto Bismarck built.

  It was just my bad luck that I had been cast—through the sheer chance of an uncanny resemblance—to be the first foundation-stone of his great dream. This was to be his initial step to power, the opening move in his great game to unify Germany and make it first of the world’s states. Squatting there, on the damp turf of the Jotun Gipfel, I saw that the crazy scheme in which he had involved me had a flawless logic of its own—all he needed was something to strike a spark in Strackenz, and I was the tinder. Thereafter, with him gently guiding from the wings, the tragic farce could run its course.

  De Gautet groaned, and brought me back to earth. He was lying there, this foul brute who would have put a bullet in my back—aye, and had already planted his sabre cuts in my skull. In a rage I kicked him—this was the pass that he and his damned friends had brought me to, I shouted, stranded in the mid
dle of their blasted country, incriminated, helpless, certain to be either murdered by Bismarck’s crew or hanged by the authorities. He roared and pleaded with me to stop.

  “Aye, you can howl now,” says I. “You were ready enough an hour ago to show me no mercy, curse you!” A thought struck me. “I don’t suppose you showed any to that poor Danish sod, either. Where’s Carl Gustaf, then? Lying somewhere with his throat cut and a letter in his pocket saying: “A present from Flashy and Lord Palmerston’?”

  “No, no—he is alive—I swear it! He is being kept—safe.”

  “What for? What use is he to bloody Bismarck?”

  “He was not to be—nothing was to befall him—until—until …”

  “Until I’d had my weasand slit? That’s it, isn’t it? You dirty dogs, you! Where is he then, if he’s still alive?”

  At first he wouldn’t say, but when I flourished the knife at him he changed his mind.

  “In Jotunberg—the old castle of the Duke. Yonder, over the crags—in the Jotunsee. I swear it is true. He is under guard there—he knows nothing. The Baron leaves nothing to chance—if aught had gone wrong, he might have been needed—alive.”

  “You callous hound! And otherwise—he would have got a bullet, too, eh?”

  I had to give him some more toe-leather before he would answer, but when he did it was in some detail. To ensure that no mischance should lead to his being rescued, Carl Gustaf was in a dungeon in the castle, with a handy shaft in its floor that came out somewhere under the Jotunsee. His body would never be found once they popped him down there—which they would certainly do once they heard that my corpse had been delivered back to Strackenz, and the uproar over my identity was going nicely. Well, it looked bad for Carl Gustaf in any event—not that it was any concern of mine, but it helped to fan my righteous indignation, which was powerful enough on my own behalf, I can tell you.

  “De Gautet,” says I. “You’re a foul creature—you don’t deserve to live another minute—”

  “You swore!” He babbled, struggling in his bonds. “You gave me your solemn promise!”