Her right eye was covered with a patch of embroidered purple silk with a ribbon across brow and temple, matching her dress. Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t fancy ’em one-legged or hunch-backed or with six toes, and after the first shock you realised that the patch was of no more account than an earring or beauty spot; nothing could distract from the magnetic beauty of that full-lipped arrogant face with its superb colouring – indeed, the incongruous note was her harsh nasal voice carrying sharply as she gave her order: “Mahk turrel soup, feelay Brev’urt medium rayr, Old Injun pudding. Spa warrer. Yep.” Well, she probably needed plenty of nourishment to keep that Amazonian figure up to the mark. Italian-American, probably; the ripe splendour of the Mediterranean with the brash hardness of the Yankee. Ripe was the word, too; she’d be about forty, which made that slim waist all the more remarkable – Lord God, what must she look like stripped? And in that happy contemplation I forgot her eye-patch altogether, which just shows you. My last glimpse of her as we left the dinning-room, she was smoking a long cigarette and trickling the smoke from her shapely nostrils as she sat boldly erect scanning the room with her cool dark eye. Ah, well, thinks I regretfully, ships that pass, and don’t even speak each other, never mind boarding.
From that exotic vision to the surly bearded presence of Ulysses S. Grant was a most damnable translation, I can tell you. I had endured Custer’s rantings on the way down – release from Washington and return to his command were what I was expected to achieve – and while it seemed to me that my uncalled-for Limey interference could only make matters worse, well, I didn’t mind that. I was quite enjoying the prospect of playing bluff, honest Harry at the White House, creating what mischief I could. When Ingalls, the Quartermaster-General, heard what we’d come for, he said bluntly that Grant would have me kicked into the street, and I said I’d take my chance of that, and would he kindly send in my card? He clucked like an old hen, but presently I was ushered into the big airy room, and Grant was shaking hands with fair cordiality for him. He thanked me again for Camp Robinson, inquired after Elspeth, snarled at the thought that he was going to have to open the Philadelphia exhibition, and asked what he could do for me. Knowing my man, I went straight in.
“Custer, Mr President.”
“What’s that?” His cordiality vanished, and his burly shoulders stiffened. “Has he been at you?”
“He asked me to see you, since he can’t. As a friend of his—”
“Have you come here to intercede for him? Is that it?”
“I don’t know, sir,” says I. “Is intercession necessary?”
He took a breath, and his jaw came out like a cannon. “Now see here, Flashman – the affairs of Colonel Custer with this office are no concern of yours, and I am astonished, sir, and most displeased, that you should presume to intrude in them. Poking your goddam nose – I will hear no representations from you, sir! As an officer of a … another country, you should know very well that you have no standing in this. Confound it! None whatsoever. I am gravely angered, sir!”
I let him boil. “May I remind you with the greatest respect, Mr President,” says I gently, “that I hold the rank of major, retired, United States Army, and also the Congressional Medal of Honour? If those do not entitle me to address the Commander-in-Chief on behalf of a brother-officer – then, sir, I can only offer my profound apologies for having disturbed you, and bid you a very good day.”
I stood up as I said it, perfectly composed, bowed slightly, and turned towards the door. If the little bugger had let me go I was prepared to turn on the threshold and roar in a voice they could hear in Maryland: “I deeply regret, sir, that I have found here only the President of the United States; I had hoped to find Ulysses S. Grant!” But I knew Sam; before I’d gone two steps he barked:
“Come back here!” So I did, while he stood hunched, glowering at me. “Very good – major,” says he at last. “Let’s have it.”
“Thank’ee, General.” I knew my line now, I thought. “It’s like this, sir: Custer believes, justly or not, that he has been denied a fair hearing. He also believes he’s being held in Washington to prevent his taking part in the campaign.”
I paused, and he looked at me flint-faced. “Well, sir?”
“If that’s true, General, I’d say he’s entitled to know why, and that he’s sufficiently senior to hear it from you in person. That’s all, Mr President.”
The brevity of it startled him, as I’d known it would. He stuck forward his bullet head, frowning. “That’s all you have to say? No other … plea on his behalf?”
“Not my biznay, sir. There may be political reasons I don’t know about. And I’m no longer your military adviser.”
“You never were!” he barked. “Not that that ever stopped you from advancing your opinions.” He stumped to the windows and peered out, growling; apparently he didn’t care for the view. “Oh, come on!” he snapped suddenly. “You don’t fool me! What have you got to say for this damned jackanapes? I may tell you,” he faced round abruptly, “that I’ve already had appeals from Sherman and Phil Sheridan, urging his professional competence, distinguished service, and all the rest of it. They also conceded, what they couldn’t dam’ well deny,” he added with satisfaction, “that he’s a meddlesome mountebank who’s too big for his britches, and gave me sentimental slop about the shame of not allowing him to ride forth at the head of his regiment. Well, sir, they failed to convince me.” He eyed me almost triumphantly. “I am not inclined, either on professional or personal grounds, to entrust Colonel George A. Custer with an important command. Well – major?”
I couldn’t credit he hadn’t been swayed, at least a little, by Sherman and Sheridan, otherwise he wouldn’t be wasting time talking to me. My guess was they’d pushed him to the edge, and another touch would do it, if properly applied.
“Well, Mr President,” says I, “I’ve no doubt you’re right.”
“Damned right I’m right.” He frowned. “What’s that mean? Don’t you agree with Sherman and Sheridan?”
“Well, sir,” says I doubtfully, “I gather you don’t agree with them yourself …”
“What I agree or don’t agree with is not to the point,” says he testily. “You’re here to badger me on this fellow’s behalf, aren’t you? Well, get on with it! I’m listening.”
“Mr President, I submitted only that if he’s to lose his command he should be told so, and not kept kicking his heels in your anteroom—”
“I’m not seeing him, so now! And that’s flat!”
“Well, beyond that, sir, it’s not for me to press my views.”
“That’s a day I’ll live to see!” scoffs he. “I know you – you’re like all the rest. You think I’m being unjust, don’t you? That I’m putting personal and political considerations – of which, by the way, you know nothing – above the good of the service? You want to tell me George Custer’s the finest thing since Murat—”
“Hardly that, sir,” says I, and quietly gave him both barrels. “I wouldn’t give him charge of an escort, myself.”
I’m possibly the only man who’s ever seen Ulysses S. Grant with his eyes wide open. His mouth, too.
“Then hell you say! What are you talking about – escort? What’s the matter with you?” He stared at me, suspiciously. “I thought you were a friend of his?”
“Indeed, sir. I hope that wouldn’t prejudice me, though.”
“Prejudice?” He looked nonplussed. “Now see here, let’s get this straight. I’m not denying that Custer’s a competent cavalry commander—”
“Jeb Stuart gave him the right about at Yellow Tavern,” I mused. “But then, Stuart was exceptional, we know—”
“The hell with Stuart! What’s that to the matter? I don’t understand you, Flashman. I am not disputing Custer’s professional merits, within limits. I’m aware of them – no man better … Escort, indeed! What did you mean by that, sir?”
“Well, perhaps that was coming in a bit raw,” I admitted. “I’
ve always thought, though, that George was a trifle excitable … headstrong, you know … inclined to play to the gallery …”
“He’s given proof enough of that!” says Grant warmly. “Which is one reason I intend to send out a man who won’t use the campaign as an excuse for gallivanting theatrically to impress the public for his own ambitious reasons.”
“Ah, well, that’s not my province, you see. I can only talk as a soldier, Mr President, and if I have … well, any reservations about old George – I daresay that having come up with the Light Brigade and Jeb Stuart I tend to—”
“You and Jeb Stuart! ‘Jine the cavalree!’” He snorted and gave me another of his suspicious squints. “See here – have you got it in for Custer?”
“Certainly not, sir!” I was bluff indignation at once, and tried a contemptuous snort of my own. “And I’m absolutely not one of those cheap fogies who can’t forget he came foot of the class at West Point—”
“I should hope not! We know what that’s worth.” He shook his head and glowered a bit. “I came twenty-first out of thirty-nine myself. Yeah. First in horsemanship, though.”
“I never knew that,” says I, all interest.
“Yes, sir.” He looked me up and down with a sour grin. “You dandy boys with lancer figures think you’re the only ones can ride, don’t you?” He hesitated, but being Sam, not for long. “Care for a drink?”
He poured them out, and we imbibed, and after he’d got the taste of it and ruminated, he came back to the matter in hand, shaking his head. “No, I’d be the last man to belittle Custer as a soldier. Escort! I like that! But as to seeing him – no, Flashman, I can’t do it. ’Twould only make bad worse. I know what you mean about excitable, you see. Impassioned appeals to me as an old brother-in-arms – I won’t have that.” He gulped his drink and sighed. “I don’t know. We’ll say no more about it, then.”
Taking this for dismissal, I was ready to be off, well satisfied with having thoroughly muddied the waters, and he saw me to the door, affably enough. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he coughed uncertaintly, glancing at me sidelong. Suddenly he came out with it, peering under his brows.
“Tell me … something I’ve often wondered, but never cared to ask. Would you be … that is, were you … the Flashman in Tom Brown’s Schooldays?”
I’m used to it by now, and vary my reply according to the inquirer. “Oh, yes, don’t you know,” says I. “That’s me.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “Yes, I see … well.” He didn’t know which way to look. “Uh-huh. But … was it true? What he says, I mean … about you?”
I considered this. “Oh, yes, I’d say so. Every word of it.” I chuckled reminiscently. “Great days they were.”
He scratched his beard and muttered, “I’ll be damned!” and then shook my hand, rather uncomfortably, and stumped off, with an anxious glance or two over his shoulder.62 I strolled out, and Custer leaped from ambush, demanding news.
“He thinks you’re a damned good cavalryman,” says I, “but he won’t see you.”
“But my reinstatement? I may leave Washington?”
“No go there, either, I’m afraid. He don’t hold it against you that you came last at the Point, by the way.”
“What?” He was fairly hopping. “You … you could not move him at all? He concedes me nothing? In heaven’s name, what did you say? Didn’t you urge my—”
“Now, calm yourself. I’ve done you a better day’s work than you know, if I’m any judge. Sherman and Sheridan have been at him, too. So just rest easy, and it’ll come right, you’ll see.”
“How can I rest easy? If you have failed me … oh, you must have bungled it!” cries this grateful specimen. “Ah, this is too much! The corrupt, mean-spirited villain! I am to be kept like a lackey at his door, am I? Well, if he thinks that, he doesn’t know his man! I defy him!”
And he stormed off in a passion, vowing to catch the next train west, and Grant could make of it what he liked. I ambled back to the hotel, whistling, and found a note at the porter’s cabin; Grant wanting me to autograph his copy of Tom Brown, no doubt. But it wasn’t. A very clerkly hand:
“The Directors of the Upper Missouri Development Corporation present their compliments to Sir Harry Flashman, etc., and request the privilege of a conference in Room 26/28 of this hotel at 3 o’clock, to discuss a Proposal which they are confident will be of mutual advantage.”
I’d had ’em before, at home, fly-by-night company sharps hoping to enlist a well-known public man (if you’ll forgive me) in some swindle or other, and prepared to grease the palm according. I’d not have thought I was prominent enough over here, though, and was about to crumple it up when I noted that these merchants were at least flush enough to engage a suite of rooms. No harm in investigating, so at the appointed hour I rapped the timber of Number 26, and was admitted by a sober nondescript who conducted me to the inner door and said the company president was expecting me.
I went in, and the company president rose from behind a desk covered with papers and held out a hand in welcome. The company president was wearing crimson velvet today, and as before, the eye-patch and ribbon were to match.
“Good of you to be so prompt, Sir Harry.” Her handshake was firm and brisk, like her voice. “Yep. Pray be seated. A cigarette?” She had one smoking in a copper tray, and while I lighted another she sat down with a graceful rustle and appraised me with that single dark eye. “Forgive me. I’d expected you to be older. Yep. The letters after your name, and all.”
If there’s one thing I can tolerate it’s a voluptuous beauty who expected me to be older. I was still recovering from my surprise, and blessing my luck. At point-blank she was even more overpowering than I’d have imagined; the elegant severity of the dress which covered her from ankle to chin emphasized her figure in a most distracting way. It was abundantly plain that her shape was her own, and certainly no corset – they were thrusting across the desk of their own free will, and the temptation to seize one and cry “How’s that?” was strong. No encouragement, though, from that commandingly handsome dark face with the crimson strip cutting obliquely across brow and cheek; the fleshy mouth and chin were all business, and the smile coldly formal. The high colour of her skin, I noticed, was artfully applied, but she wore no perfume or jewellery, and her hands were strong and capable. In a word, she looked like a belly-dancer who’s gone in for banking.
I said I believed I’d seen her lunching at the Brevoort, in New York, and she nodded curtly and disposed of it in her harsh nasal voice.
“Yep, correct. You were engaged, so I didn’t intrude. I meant to speak with you later, but they said you’d left for Washington. I had business here, so I figured to kill two birds with one stone. Oh-kay,” she drawled, and folded her hands on the table. “Business. I understand you have the acquaintance of Chancellor Prince von Bismarck.”
That was a facer. For one thing, “acquaintance” wasn’t how I’d have described that German ruffian who’d dragged me into his diabolical Strackenz plot and tried to murder meb, and how did she—
“You allude to him in your book—” She tapped a volume on the table “—in a way that suggests you’ve met him. Dawns and Departures. Most interesting. I take it you do know him?”
“Fairly well,” says I, on my guard. “At one time we were … ah, close associates. Haven’t seen him for some years, though.” Twenty-eight, to be exact. I’d kept count, thankfully.
“That’s very good. Yep. The Upper Missouri Development Corporation, of which I am president and principal shareholder – pardon me, is something amusing you?” Her single eye was like a flint. “Perhaps you think it’s unusual for a woman to be head of a large corporation?”
In fact I’d been musing cheerfully on the words “upper” and “development”, but I couldn’t tell her that. “No, I was remembering how I introduced Prince Bismarck to boxing – I do beg your pardon. As to your position, I know several ladies who preside over quite large enterprises,
including the Queens of England and Madagascar, the Empress of China, and the late Ranee of an Indian kingdom. You remind me of her very much; she was extraordinarily beautiful.”
She didn’t bat an eyelid. “Our company,” she went straight on, “owns extensive lands on the Missouri river – it mayn’t be familiar to you? Oh-kay – the area in question is located around a steamboat landing recently renamed Bismarck, after your friend the Chancellor, although I guess he doesn’t know it.”63 She drew on her cigarette. “We intend to take advantage of that coincidence to attract German settlers and financial interests to the region. Yep. Vast sums will be involved, and a personal endorsement – maybe even a visit – by the German Chancellor would be invaluable to us. Oh-kay?”
“My dear lady! You don’t expect Bismarck to come to America? He’s fairly well occupied, you know.”
“Obviously that’s highly unlikely.” She said it dismissively. “But an endorsement – even an expression of interest and good will on his part – is certainly not. Naturally we’ll canvass the German government. But a personal approach, from one who knows him well, would be far more likely to enlist his personal sympathy, wouldn’t you say? Just his signature, on a letter approving the plan, would be worth many thousands of dollars to us.”
“You’re suggesting,” says I, “that I should ask Otto Bismarck to give his blessing to your scheme?”
“Yep. Correct.”
Well, I’d heard of Yankee enterprise, but this beat the band. Mind you, it wasn’t crazy. A respectable scheme, brought to Bismarck’s attention, might well win a kind word from him, and trust the Americans to know how to turn that sort of thing into hard cash. The beautiful thought was Flashy writing: “My dear Otto, I wonder if you remember the jolly times we had in Schonhausen with Rudi and the rats, when you made me impersonate that poxy prince …” Could I blackmail him, perhaps? Perish the thought. But I could smell profit in her scheme, money and … I was watching her inhale deeply. By Jove, yes, money was the least of it. She stroked her cheek with the hand holding the cigarette and watched me speculatively. Was there a glimmer of more than commercial interest in that fine dark eye? We’d see.
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