The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Now, I was beginning to get some of my senses back, what with the warmth and the rest of sitting down. I was out of the frying-pan into the fire, no question, but I couldn’t for the life of me see why he had killed Hansen and taken me prisoner—unless it was for information. And when he had got all that he wanted, what was he going to do with me? I could guess.

  “Yes, what will they think of next?” He sauntered in front of the fireplace, slim and elegant in his tight-fitting black tunic and breeches, and turned to flash his teeth at me. “Suppose you tell me?”

  “I don’t know,” says I. “It was … as you’ve guessed. We were to try to release him and let down the bridge.”

  “And if that failed?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Mm. Do they know our garrison?”

  “They think … only a few.”

  “Well guessed—or well spied out. Not that it’ll help them. If they try to storm the place their dear Prince will be feeding the fishes in the Jotunsee before they’re over the causeway—do they know that, I wonder?”

  I nodded. “They know all about it.”

  He grinned happily. “Well, then, we needn’t fret about them, need we? It gives us time to consider. How many men have they over yonder, by the way? And be very, very careful how you answer.”

  “I heard them say fifty.”

  “Wise Flashman. I knew, you see.” Suddenly he clapped me on the shoulder. “Would you like to meet your royal twin? I’ve been longing to bring the pair of you face to face, you know—and you can see, at the same time, the excellent arrangements we have for his … shall we say, security?—in the event of burglars. Come along.” He flung open the door. “Oh, and Flashman,” he added, carelessly smiling. “You will bear in mind that I’m not de Gautet, won’t you? You’ll do nothing foolish, I mean? You see, it would be a great waste, because I think … I think we may be able to try out a little scheme of mine together, you and I. We’ll see.” He bowed and waved me through. “After you, your highness.”

  We went down to the great hall, and there Rudi turned into a side-passage, and down a steep flight of stone steps which spiralled into the depths of the castle. There were oil lamps at intervals, glistening on the nitre which crusted the bare stone, and in places the steps were slippery with moss. We came out into a flagged cloister, with mighty, squat columns supporting the low ceiling; the place was in shadow, but ahead of us light shone from an archway, and passing through we were in a broad stone chamber where two men sat over cards at a rough table. They looked up at our approach, one with his hand on a pistol; they were burly, tall fellows in what looked like cavalry overalls, and their sabres hung at their elbows, but I wasn’t concerned with them. Beyond them was a great iron grille, stretching from floor to ceiling, and before it stood Kraftstein, his huge hands on his hips, like an ogre in the flickering lamplight.

  “Here he is, Kraftstein,” says Rudi lightly. “Our old drinking-companion from Schönhausen. Aren’t you pleased, now, that I didn’t let you shoot him in the water? Kraftstein’s got no manners, you know,” he added over his shoulder to me. “And how is our royal guest this evening?”

  Kraftstein said nothing, but having glowered at me he turned and drew a bolt in the grille. Rudi waved me through the gate as it groaned back on its hinges, and with the hair prickling on my neck, but spurred by curiosity, I passed through.

  The grille, I saw, cut off the end of the vault, and we were in an enclosure perhaps forty feet deep and half as wide. At the end, opposite me, a man lay on a low couch set against the wall; there was a table with a lamp beside him, and at the sound of the creaking hinge he sat up, shading his eyes and peering towards us.

  For some reason I felt a nervousness that had nothing to do with the danger of my situation; I felt I was about to see something uncanny—and this although I knew what it was going to be.

  “Guten abend, highness,” says Rudi, as we went forward. “Here’s a visitor for you.”

  The man took his hand from his face, and I couldn’t help letting out an exclamation. For there I sat, looking at me—my own face, puzzled, wary, and then in an instant, blank with amazement, the mouth open and eyes staring. He shrank back, and then suddenly he was on his feet.

  “What is this?” his voice was strained and hoarse. “Who is this man?”

  As he moved, there was a heavy, clanking noise, and with a thrill of horror I saw that there was a heavy chain on his left ankle, fettering him to a great stone weight beside the bed.

  “May I have the honour to present an old acquaintance, highness?” says Rudi. “I’m sure you remember him, from your mirror?”

  It was a weird experience, looking at that face, and hearing that voice when he spoke again—perhaps a trifle deeper than my own, I fancied, and now that I looked at him, he was a shade slimmer than I, and less tall by a fraction. But it was an amazing resemblance, none the less.

  “What does it mean?” he demanded. “In God’s name, who are you?”

  “Until recently, he was Prince Carl Gustaf of Denmark,” says Rudi, obviously enjoying himself. “But you’d regard him as a most presumptive heir to the title, I’m sure. In fact, he’s an Englishman, your highness, who has been kind enough to deputise for you during your holiday here.”

  He took it well, I’ll say that for him. After all, I’d known for weeks that my spitten image was walking about somewhere, but it was all new to him. He stared at me for a long moment, and I stared back, tongue-tied, and then he said slowly:

  “You’re trying to drive me mad. Why, I don’t know. It is some filthy plot. In God’s name, tell me, if you have any spark of pity or decency, what it means. If it is money you want, or ransom, I have told you—say so! If it is my life—well, damn you! take it!” He tried to stride forward, but the chain wrenched at his ankle and almost upset him. “Damn you!” he roared again, shaking his fist at us. “You vile, cowardly villains! Let me loose, I say, and I’ll send that creature with my face straight to hell—and you, too, you grinning mountebank!” He was a fearsome sight, wrestling at his chain, and cursing like a Smithfield porter.

  Rudi clicked his tongue. “Royal rage,” says he. “Gently, your highness, gently. Don’t promise what you couldn’t perform.”

  For a moment I thought Carl Gustaf would burst himself with rage; his face was purple. And then his temper subsided, he strove to compose himself, and he jerked back his lips in that gesture that I had spent so many weary hours trying to copy.

  “I forget myself, I think,” he said, breathing hard. “To what end? Who you are, fellow, I don’t know—or what this means. I’ll not entertain you by inquiring any further. When you choose to tell me—if you choose to tell me—well! But understand,” and he dropped his voice in a way which I knew so well, because I do it myself, “that you had better kill me and have done, because if you do not, by God’s help I’ll take such a revenge on you all …”

  He left it there, nodding at us, and I had to admit that whatever our resemblance in looks, he was as different from me in spirit as day from night. You wouldn’t have got me talking as big as that, chained up in a dungeon—well, I’ve been in that very situation, and I blubbered for mercy till I was hoarse. I know what’s fitting. But he didn’t, and much good his defiance was doing him.

  “Oh, never fear, highness,” says Rudi. “We’ll certainly kill you when the time is ripe. Remember the royal progress we have prepared for you.”

  And he pointed off to the side of the great cell; I looked, and my heart gave a lurch at what I saw.

  To that side the flags sloped down in a depression, perhaps a dozen feet across and about four feet deep. The sloping stones looked smooth and slippery, and at the bottom of the shallow funnel which they formed there was a gaping hole, circular and more than a yard wide. Carl Gustaf’s face went pale as he, too, looked, and his mouth twitched, but he said nothing. My skin crawled at the thought of what lay beyond the mouth of that shaft.

  “Merry lads, the ol
d lords of Jotunberg,” says Rudi. “When they tired of you, down you went, suitably weighted—as our royal guest is here—and hey, splash! It’s not a trip I’d care to take myself—but your highness may not mind so much when I tell you that one of your friends is waiting for you in the Jotunsee. Hansen, his name was.”

  “Hansen? Erik Hansen?” The prince’s hand shook. “What have you done to him, you devil?”

  “He went swimming at the wrong time of year,” says Rudi cheerily. “So rash—but there. Young blood. Now, your highness, with your gracious permission, we’ll withdraw.” He made a mocking bow, and waved me ahead of him towards the grille.

  As we reached it, Carl Gustaf suddenly shouted:

  “You—you with my face! Haven’t you a tongue in your head? Why don’t you speak, damn you?”

  I blundered out; that hellish place was too much for me; I could imagine all too clearly slithering down into that shaft—ugh! And these murdering monsters would do it to me as soon as to him, if it suited them.

  Young Rudi’s laughter rang after me as I stumbled through the vault; he strode up beside me, clapping his hand round my shoulders and asking eagerly what I had thought of meeting my double face to face—had it made me wonder who I was? Had I noticed the amazement of Carl Gustaf, and what did I suppose he was making of it all?

  “I’ll swear I hadn’t realised how alike you were till I saw you together,” says he, as we reached his room again. “It’s supernatural. Do you know … it makes me wonder if Otto Bismarck didn’t miss the true possibility of his scheme. By God!” he stopped dead, rubbing his chin. Then:

  “You remember a few moments ago I spoke of a plan that you and I might try together? I’ll be frank; it occurred to me the moment I saw you swimming in the lake, and realised that I had both the court cards in my hand, with no one but the worthy Kraftstein to interfere—and he doesn’t count. The two court cards,” he repeated, grinning, “and one of them a knave. Have a drink, play-actor. And listen.”

  You’ll have noticed that since my arrival in Jotunberg I had said very little—and, of course, the situation was really beyond comment. Events in the past forty-eight hours had brought me to the point where intelligent thought, let alone speech, was well-nigh impossible. The only conscious desire I felt was to get out of this nightmare as fast as possible, by any means. And yet, the hectoring way in which this cocksure young upstart shoved me into a chair and commanded me to listen, stirred a resentment beneath my miserable fear. I was heartily sick of having people tell me to listen, and ordering me about, and manipulating me like a damned puppet. Much good it had done me to take it all meekly—it had been one horror after another, and only by the luck of the devil was I still in one piece. And here, unless I mistook the look in Starnberg’s eye, was going to be another brilliant proposal to put me through the mill. Open defiance wasn’t to be thought of, naturally, but in that moment I felt that if I did manage to muster my craven spirits to do something on my own behalf, it probably couldn’t be any worse than whatever he had in mind for me.

  “Look here,” says he, “how many of these damned Danes know that you are really an impostor?”

  I could think of Grundvig and Sapten for certain; their peasant followers I wasn’t sure of, but Rudi brushed them aside as unimportant.

  “Two who matter,” says he. “And on my side—Bismarck, Bersonin and Kraftstein—we can forget Detchard and that squirt of a doctor. Now—suppose our captive Prince goes down that excellent pipe tonight, and we let down the bridge to encourage your friends to attack? It would be possible to arrange a warm reception for them—warm enough to ensure that Grundvig and Sapten never got off that causeway alive, anyhow. Kraftstein could easily meet with a fatal accident during the fight—somehow I’m sure he would—and by the time the Sons of the Volsungs had fought their way in and cut up the survivors, you and I could be on our way to the shore, by boat. Then, back to Strackenz and the acclaim of everyone who has been wondering where their beloved prince has been. Oh, we could invent some tale—and who would there be to give you away? Detchard and the doctor daren’t. Your Danish friends couldn’t, being dead. And by this time Bismarck and Bersonin are far too busy, I’ll be bound, to worry about Strackenz.”

  Seeing my bewildered look, he explained.

  “You haven’t heard the news, of course. Berlin is alive with alarms, it seems. The revolution’s coming, my boy; the student rabble and the rest will have the King of Prussia off his throne in a week or two. So dear Otto has other fish to fry for the moment. Oh, it’s not only in Germany, either; I hear that France is up in arms, and Louis-Phillipe’s deposed, they say. It’s spreading like wildfire.”39 He laughed joyously. “Don’t you see, man? It’s a heaven-sent chance. We could count on weeks—nay, months—before anyone gave a thought to this cosy little duchy—or to the identity of the duchess’s consort.”

  “And what use would that be to us?”

  “God, you’re brainless! To hold the reins of power—real power—in a European state, even a little one like Strackenz? If we couldn’t squeeze some profit out of that—enough to set us up for life—before we took leave of ’em, then we aren’t the men I think we are. D’you know what the revenues of a duchy amount to?”

  “You’re mad,” I said. “Raving mad. D’you think I’d put my neck into that again?”

  “Why not? Who’s to stop you?”

  “We wouldn’t last a week—why, half the bloody peasants in Strackenz probably know that there are two Carl Gustafs loose about the place! They’ll talk, won’t they?”

  “Bah, where’s your spirit, play-actor?” he jeered. “Who would listen to them? And it’s only for a few weeks—you’ve done it once already, man! And think of the fun it would be!”

  They are rare, but they do exist, and you can only call them adventurers. Rudi was one; it was the excitement, the mischief, that he lived for, more than the reward; the game, not the prize. Mad as hatters, mark you, and dangerous as sharks—they are not to be judged by the standards of yellow-bellies like me. Flashy don’t want anything to do with ’em, but he knows how their minds work. Because of this, I was wondering furiously how to deal with him.

  “You can go back to your pretty duchess, too,” says he.

  “Don’t want her,” says I. “I’ve had her, anyway.”

  “But there’s a fortune in it, man!”

  “I’d rather be alive and poor, thank’ee.”

  He stood considering. “You don’t trust me, is that it?”

  “Well,” says I, “now that you mention it …”

  “But that’s the point!” He clapped his hands. “We are the ideal partners—neither of us trusts the other an inch, but we need each other. It’s the only guarantee in any business. You’re as big a rascal as I am; we would sell each other tomorrow, but there isn’t the need.”

  Our financiers know all this, of course, but I’ve often thought that our diplomatists and politicians could have gone to school to Professor Starnberg. I can see him still, arms akimbo, flashing eyes, curly head, brilliant smile, and ready to set fire to an orphan asylum to light his cheroot. I’m a dirty scoundrel, but it has come to me naturally; Rudi made a profession out of it.

  “Come on, man, what d’you say?”

  I caught the note of impatience in his voice; careful, now, I thought, or he’ll turn vicious. His scheme was unthinkable, but I daren’t tell him so. What was the way out, then? I must pretend to go along with him for the moment; would a chance of escape offer? It was growing on me that the only safe way out—or the least risky—was to find some way of doing what Sapten had wanted. How could I get the drawbridge down; would I survive the assault that would follow? Aye, but for the moment, pretend.

  “Could we make certain of Sapten and Grundvig?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Be sure of that,” says he. “There are two little cannon below stairs—ornamental things, but they’ll work. Load ’em with chain, and we’ll sweep that causeway from end to end when the rescue
rs come charging home.”

  “There are fifty of them, remember; have you enough here to man the guns and hold the place until we can get away?”

  “Two of us, the three you saw in the cellar, and another three in the tower,” says he. “Then there are two on the causeway, but they’ll go in the first rush. They needn’t concern us.” Oh, he was a born leader, all right. But now I knew how many men he had, and where they were. The vital fact was that there was no one, apparently, guarding the drawbridge mechanism on the inside.

  “So,” he cried, “you’re with me?”

  “Well,” says I, doubtfully, “if we can be sure of holding those damned Volsungs on the bridge long enough …”

  “We’ll concentrate all our force by the guns at the drawbridge arch,” says he. “Why, we can have all ready in half an hour. Then, down with the bridge, and let the flies come streaming towards our parlour.” His eyes were shining with excitement, and he put out his hand. “And then, my friend, we embark on our profitable partnership.”

  Suddenly it struck me that it was now or never; he would move fast, and somehow I had to forestall him while his small forces were still scattered about the castle and all unsuspecting. I fought down my rising fear of what was to do, steeling myself for a desperate effort. My hand was sweating in his grasp.

  “Let’s drink to it!” cries he exultantly, and turned to the table, where the bottles stood.

  Oh, Jesus, good luck to me, I thought. I moved up to his side, and as he splashed brandy into the glasses I made a swift examination of the other bottles standing by. A sturdy flask caught my eye, and I made a careless show of examining it, turning it by the neck to see the label. He was so confident in his youth and strength and arrogance that he never thought of being caught off-guard—why should he worry, in a castle held by his men, with only the feeble-spirited Flashman to be watched?