Flashman And The Tiger fp-11

by George MacDonald Fraser

  "It needs attention," was the royal diagnosis. "Can you walk, sir?"

  There must be an actor buried in me, for as Willem bent to help me, and I met Franz-Josef’s heavy stare, I fairly gaped wide-eyed and made as though to scramble up.

  "My God!" I croaked. "Your majesty! I … I…" Babble, babble, babble, while Willem looked suitably startled and clicked his heels, and Franz-Josef made another of his lightning deductions.

  "You know me?"

  Didn’t I just, though, begging his pardon, introducing myself with profuse apologies for coming adrift in his coverts, doffing my tile while Willem did likewise, bowing like a clockwork doll while Franz-Josef registered amazement by blinking thoughtfully.

  "The officer of Mexico!" says he. "You are he who attempted to save my unhappy brother. I invested you with the Order of Maria Theresa, at Corfu, was it not?"

  After that, it was old home week with a vengeance, with Franz-Josef nodding gravely, Willem protesting that we were a hellish nuisance, All-Highest, and wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding if we’d only known, Flashy clinging gamely to his tree, and presently even more gamely to the stalwart back of the loader, who was summoned to tote me downhill. I lay there, breathing in his aroma of rifle-oil and cow-dung, wondering what the harvest might be, and Willem walked ahead with Franz-Josef, making deferential noises of gratitude and apology, and to my astonishment making his majesty laugh—say that for the Starnbergs, they could charm birds from the trees when they wanted to, and by the time we reached the lodge the Emperor of Austria was positively jocose, issuing orders to flying minions, and not going off to change his ghastly breeks until he had seen me installed on a couch in a gun-room, with servitors rallying round with hot water and cold compresses, and Willem chivvying them aside while he attended to my bandages himself.

  "We’re there," he murmured softly. "He knows my family, by name, anyway." I could have said that if he’d known any more of the Starnbergs than that, we’d have been on our way to gaol this minute, but held my peace. "Play up when the doctor comes, mind."

  Which I did, with Willem and Franz-Josef, now respectable in a suit, standing by. The sawbones was a plump little cove with gooseberry eyes and trailing whiskers who prodded my injury and pronounced it ugly, but seemed to think I ought to be able to hobble. Capital, thinks I, there’ll be no reason to offer us houseroom, and we can scuttle back to Ischl and let the Holnup have a free run, but Willem had the answer to that, rot him.

  "Your thigh wound, remember," says he, very sober. "A serious injury from my friend’s Afghan days," he assured the doctor, "which reacts to any distemper in the limb. Why, Harry, you were laid up for a week in Scotland, I recall, when you’d done no more than stub your toe!"

  Observe the guile of it: he knew that if anything appealed to Franz-Josef it was an honourable scar; he was soldier-daft and had himself risked life and limb with extraordinary stupidity during his various campaigns—all of which he’d lost, by the way. So now you find Flashy lying trowserless while the doctor goggled at the impressive scar on my thigh, and the knee wound I’d taken at Harper’s Ferry, and even the hole in my buttock where the slave catchers shot me while crossing the frozen Ohio, with Willem murmuring to an impressed Franz-Josef that this wasn’t the half of it, you ought to see the rest of the bugger’s carcase, not an inch of it whole, I assure your majesty, hell of a life the boy’s led, honestly. Or words to that effect.

  The Emperor shook his head in respectful wonder, and the linseed lancer, taking his cue, muttered about secondary reaction and delayed muscular lesions; it might well be, he opined, that even a minor contusion might render a limb temporarily incapable. At which Willem played his master-stroke.

  "Well, old feller, I can see we’ll just have to carry you down to Ischl! Is the thigh very painful? Ne’er mind, I’ll whistle up a chair or something, and a few handy chaps … if your majesty," says he, with another bow and heel-click, "will be gracious enough to allow my friend to rest here while I make arrangements … no more than an hour … profound apologies … great imposition … there, there, old chap, just bite on something …"

  It would have had Scrooge piping his eye. Franz-Josef glowered at the doctor and said it would be unwise to move me, surely, and the poultice-walloper agreed that it would be nothing short of bloody reckless. Richtig, announced Franz-Josef, then the gentle-man stays here, at least until he can walk without difficulty, so fall in the loyal attendants.

  Willem’s protests were pretty to hear, but Franz-Josef wouldn’t even listen. Unthinkable that I should be moved in my present state. It would be a privilege to entertain so gallant an officer, to whom his majesty was already indebted for services to the royal family. Count Starnberg must remain also. If my injury permitted, we would give the Emperor the pleasure of our company at dinner. In the meantime, affairs required his attendance elsewhere.

  By this time I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever walk again, and it was with some relief that I discovered, after I’d been borne upstairs between two servants and left in a comfortable chamber overlooking the garden, that I could move without the least difficulty, and was none the worse except for an uncomfortable bruise. Willem suggested that I should recover sufficiently to hobble by dinner-time. "We’re goin' to be afoot tonight," says he, "and it wouldn’t do for you to be encountered walkin' if you were meant to be bed-bound, you poor old cripple, you." He was in bouncy fettle, inviting me to admire the way everything had gone exactly according to plan, pacing up and down with his cigarette-holder at a jaunty angle. "A heavy limp, I think, with the aid of a stick. Too late for F-J to turn us out of doors now, what?"

  I asked how on earth he’d known so much about my wounds, and received his superior grin. "You can’t get it into your head, can you? Bismarck has a genius for detail—why, I know as much about your battle scars as you do!" He reached suddenly to tousle my hair, curse him. "Got yourself scalped by Indians in the wild and woolly west, even! Oh, yes," says the insolent pup, "I’ve seen a dossier on you that I’ll bet contains things you’ve forgotten—perhaps never knew. You’ve been about, though—my stars, I hope I’ll see half as much by the end of the day." He shook his handsome head, and the admiring look of our first meeting was back again.

  "The guv’nor was right—you’re the complete hand and no mistake. On that train, there you were, wonderin' what the dooce you’d fallen into, ensnared by a sinister adventuress, menaced by a bravo with a pistol—but did you cry havoc, or bluster, or vow to have the law on us? Well, once—and then mum as an oyster, figurin' chances, listenin' and bidin' your time. I didn’t trust you an inch, then; Kralta did, though, and she’s no fool, even if she is spoony about you. But it took that business of Gunther gettin' scragged at the casino to convince me—then I knew you must be with us!" He grinned, tongue in cheek. "And it ain’t for Franz-Josef or the good o' the peace, is it? It’s just for devilment!" He slapped his knee, merry as a maggot. "I like you, Harry, shot if I don’t! And we’ll have some fun together, just you wait and see!"

  He sprang up and tossed his cigarette into the fireplace. "Now then, I’m goin' to take a scout about, get the lie of the land and find out who does what and goes where and when and why. Rub an acquaintance with the aides, if I can, and take a professional interest in this sergeant and his file of sentinels." This with a knowing wink. "You lie and rest your mangled pin, and when I come back we can discuss ways and means, eh?" He chewed his lip and tapped another gasper on his thumbnail, looking keen.

  "D’ye know, I’ve a notion tonight is goin' to be the night! Can’t tell why—just an instinct. You ever feel that sort of thing?"

  "When I was young and green—yes," growls I, to take the bounce out of him. "Sign of nerves, Starnberg. You just wish it was over and done with."

  It didn’t deflate him a bit. "Nerves yourself !" scoffs he. "If you mean I’m lookin' forward to it, you’re right." I believed him, for I’d seen the same bright-eyed excitement at the prospect of slaughter in idiots like Bro
oke and Custer, and it’s the last thing you need when your own fears are gullet-high. "That reminds me," he went on, "time you were properly dressed." He drew the LeVaux from his pocket, spun it deftly, and presented the butt. "Five chambers loaded. I’ll give you the other rounds later. Shove it out o' sight for the moment."

  Being armed was some comfort, but not much. Like his blasted instinct, it was just a reminder of how close the doom was coming, perhaps only a few short hours away. In the meantime, left to myself, I could only wait, fretting and resting my bogus injury on the sofa, while soft-footed orderlies came and clicked their heels and asked leave to arrange the room and see to the linen and mend the fire and stow away my effects, which must have been sent for to the Golden Ship (trust Willem), and bring me coffee, which I shared with two sprightly youths who were Franz-Josef’s aides, come to pay their respects to the wounded guest. I forget their names, but thought of them as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, one fair, one dark, but identical in gaiety, indiscretion, and breezy but deferential attention to me—Tweedledee knew of me by name and fame, and was athirst for reminiscences, but since Tweedledum’s interest was merely polite, and I’m an old hand at not being pumped, it was child’s play to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  Thus I learned in short order that Ischl was a confounded bore, and that it was common gossip that the Emperor was only here because he’d hoped to achieve a reconciliation with Sissi, who was in one of her fits of avoiding Vienna, but had half-agreed to come to Ischl, only she hadn’t, more’s the pity, for squiring her on horseback would have been a welcome diversion. Never mind, they’d be back in Vienna on Sunday, thank God, and free of the tyranny of the Chief Equerry, who was a muff and a sneak, and of the ordeal of dining with the Emperor, and being used as errand-boys by his secretary, and why the old boy had to spend all day poring over papers when he was meant to be on holiday, beat them altogether. Kept him out of the way, of course, even at luncheon, which was a mercy, since his usual fare was boiled beef and beer at his desk; at least they were spared that. Here, though, my chum Starnberg was a splendid fellow, wasn’t he; just the chap to liven up a slow week. And so on, and so on; it would be a dull world if there were no subalterns in it. Quieter, mind you.

  They went at last, with noisy jests and good wishes, and I was left to brood until an orderly brought luncheon on a tray—not boiled beef, as I recall, but I was too blue and shaky to make much of whatever it was. I’d barely finished when Willem returned, making a great show of closing the door silently, tiptoeing to sit on my sofa, and speaking in a whisper.

  "It’s too good to be true! Harry, my boy, I can’t believe our luck! Why, it’ll be child’s play!" He rubbed his hands, chuckling. "I’ve found the outer door to the Emperor’s secret stairway, I’m almost certain! How’s that for intelligence work?" He lighted one of his eternal black cigarettes and puffed in triumph.

  "I bumped into the sergeant of the guard, accidental-a-purpose. A waxed-moustached old turnip-head who’s so damned military he probably rides his wife by numbers—almost ruptured himself comin' to attention when I happened by. I played the condescendin' Junker, commended his turn-out, complimented him on being chosen for such important duty …" he waved his holder airily.

  … you know the style. The old fool was so flattered he confessed the job was mostly ceremonial, mindin' the front door, salutin' the Emperor and so on. "`But you mount night sentries, surely?' says I. `One only, Herr Oberst,' says he. `Ah, patrolling, to be sure,' says I. `By no means, Herr Oberst, a fixed post at the sundial corner only.' `Why there? Can’t tell the time at night!' says I. Gad, I was genial! Harry—he didn’t know why! Said it was regulations, since God was a boy."

  He was so full of himself he couldn’t be still, jumping up and pacing to and fro. "That was enough for me. I chatted a moment more, as is my wont, and strolled round by the sundial corner, as he called it. Sentry-box, sure enough—and a few yards farther on an embrasure in the ivy with an old locked door! The window of the Emperor’s bedchamber is about twenty feet beyond on the storey above. Well," cries he, "what d’ye think of that for scoutin'?"

  Too good to be true, indeed—yet, why not? It fitted … if the secret stairway really existed, and I had respect enough for Bismarck’s spy bandobast[organisation (Hind.)] to be confident that it did.

  "So now," cries Willem, "we know just where to watch!"

  "If it is the secret door, and they come that way—"

  "It is, and they will!" says he impatiently. "I’m sure of it. But we’ll run no risks." He pulled a chair beside the sofa, and sat close. "I’ve thought it all out, and I’m afraid," says he with a mock-rueful grin, "that you mayn’t like it, ’cos you’ll miss most o' the sport. Sorry, old chap."

  From that moment, you may be sure, I was all ears.

  "It’s this way. My room’s next door here, but we’re some way from the Emperor’s quarters. Our corridor leads to the main part of the house, which is like so many of these royal places, one room opening on to another and then another, and so on. But then there’s another passage to the Emperor’s rooms—an ante-room where his orderly sleeps, and then the royal bedchamber over-lookin' the sundial garden. There’s a room off the passage for the aides—ah, you’ve met ’em, couple of society buffoons. So that’s the lie o' the land."

  He paused to light another whiff. "You see the point—there are only two ways to come at Franz-Josef; either by the secret stair or along the passage leadin' past the aides' room to his quarters. Plug those, and he’s secure. Now," says he, leaning close, "I’ll lay odds the Holnup will come through the garden in the dead watch, around four, lay out the sentry quietly, jemmy the door, then upstairs and good-night Franz-Josef, all hail Crown Prince Rudolf ! But, just in case they enter the house some other way, one of us will lurk by the passage, while t’other is in the garden, coverin' the secret doorway. You follow?"

  I followed, and relief was surging through me like the wave of the sea as he went on.

  "You at the passage … et moi in the garden. No, shut up, Harry—it must be so because once the smoke has cleared and the Holnup are laid stiff and stark, I can say I couldn’t sleep and was just takin' a stroll and ran into ’em, see? That wouldn’t answer for you, with your game leg. Whereas if you’re watchin' the passage inside, and someone happens along, you can always say you were lookin' for the thunder-closet."

  "That means," says I frowning, "that you’ll tackle ’em alone—one against perhaps three, perhaps more."

  "No more than three, if so many," says he, baring his teeth. "Never fear, Harry, they’re dead men." His hands moved like lightning, and there was the Webley in one fist and the Derringer in t’other. "With all respect, old fellow, I doubt if you’re as quick with a piece as I, or as good a shot."

  "Don’t know about that," says I, looking glum while repressing an urge to sing Hallelujah. "How many night ambushes have you laid?"

  "Enough," says he jauntily. "Cheer up—perhaps they’ll come through the house after all!"

  "And afterwards—how d’you explain that you went for a night stroll with a gun in your pocket?"

  "I didn’t. Discoverin' miscreants tryin' to break in with evil intent, I gamely tackled ’em, disarmed one, and … Bob’s your uncle, as they say."

  "I still don’t like it," I lied. "We’d be better with two in the garden—"

  "No," says he flatly. "One must be in the house … you. When you hear a shot, make for your room, and then emerge hobblin' and roarin' for enlightenment—"

  "When I hear a shot, I’ll be out o' doors before you know it. You may be good, Starnberg, but I’ve forgotten more about night fighting than you’ll ever know. And that, my son, is that." It’s always been second nature with me to act sullen-reluctant when I’ve been denied the prospect of battle and murder; suits my character, you see. In the event that he had to tackle the Holnup alone, the last thing I’d dream of doing would be to hasten to his aid; back to bed and snug down deaf as a post, that would be the ticket for
Flashy, and he could have the glory to himself—which, I realised, was what he’d intended all along; I’d been necessary for gaining admittance, and all the rest had been so much gas. Well, good luck, Willem, and I hope you kill a lot of Hungarians.

  In the meantime I looked sour, vowing to be in at the death, and he laughed and said, well, so be it, my presence in the garden with my game leg might seem odd, but with the Emperor preserved no one would think twice about it, likely. Then he took a big breath and sat back, delighted with himself and his planning, and fell to admiring Bismarck’s uncanny genius, and how it was all falling out precisely as he had forecast. But mostly he was nursing his blood lust, I knew, anticipating the pleasure of shooting assassins—in the back, no doubt. He was what Hickok called "a killing gentleman", was our Willem. Just like dear old dad.

  Dinner at five with Franz-Josef would have been a dam' dreary business, no doubt, if I hadn’t been so full of inward rejoicing at my reprieve, and consequently at peace with all mankind. I made my appearance limping on a stick, and his majesty combined his congratulations with a dour warning against over-exertion. He was one of these unfortunates who have been created stuffy by God, and whose efforts to unbend create discomfort and unease in all concerned, chiefly himself. It reminded me of a pompous master condescending to the fags; even when he had the words he couldn’t get the tune at all.

  For example, when he informed me over the soup that he had only poor command of English, he managed to convey that the fault lay not only with his boyhood tutors, but with me for speaking the dam' language in the first place; even his compliment to my German sounded like a reproach. I responded with a wheeze I’d once heard (from Bismarck, as it happens) that a gift for languages was useful only to head-waiters, and Willem played up by saying he’d been told that it was a sign of low intelligence. Franz-Josef rolled a bread-pill gloomily and said that wasn’t what his tutors had told him, and he had no experience of head-waiters. After this flying start we ate in silence until Franz-Josef began to question me solemnly about Indian Army camp discipline and sanitary arrangements, with particular reference to care of the feet in hot climates. I did my best, and like a fool ventured Wellington’s joke when the Queen asked him what was the aroma from the ranks of the Guards, and Nosey replied: "Esprit de corps, ma’am." That was met with a vacant stare, so I guessed he didn’t speak French too well either.