THE FLASHMAN PAPERS
(in chronological order)
FLASHMAN
(Britain, India, and Afghanistan, 183942)
ROYAL FLASH
(England 1842-43, Germany 1847-48)
FLASHMAN'S LADY
England, Borneo, and Madagascar, 1842-45)
FLASHMAN AND THE MOUNTAIN OF LIGHT
(India Punjab 184546)
FLASH FOR FREEDOM!
(England, West Africa, U.S.A. 1848-49)
FLASHMAN AND THE REDSKINS
(U.S.A. 1849-50 and 1875-76)
FLASHMAN AT THE CHARGE
(England, Crimea, and Central Asia, 1854-55)
FLASHMAN IN THE GREAT GAME
(Scotland, India. 1856-58)
FLASHMAN AND THE ANGEL OF THE LORD
(India, South Africa. U.S.A., 1858-59)
FLASHMAN AND THE DRAGON
(China, 1860)
Also by George MacDonald Fraser
Mr American
The Pyrates
The Candlemass Road
Black Ajax
SHORT STORIES HISTORY
The General Danced at Dawn The Steel Bonnets:
McAuslan in the Rough The Story of the AngloScottish The Sheikh and the Dustbin Border Reivers
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Quartered Sale out Here
The Hollywood History of the World
flashman AND
THE tiger
and other extracts from
The Flashman Papers
EDITED AND ARRANGED
by
George MacDonald Fraser
^
Ha.rpcrCo\msPuhlishers
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the
author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental
HarperCoOmsPiiblishers
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
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Published by HarpeTC.ol 1999
579864
Copyright  George MacDonald Fraser 1999
George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
ISBN 000 225951 6
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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For Kath, a memento of Ischi
and the salt-mine
PLASHMAN, Harry Paget, brigadier-general, V.C.. K.C.B., K.C.I.E.: Chevalier,
Legion of Honour; Order of Maria Theresa, Austria: Order of the Elephant,
Denmark (temporary): U.S. Medal of Honor; San Serafino Order of Purity and
Truth. 4th class; b. May 5. 1822, s. of H. Buckley Flashman, Esq.. Ashby, and
Hon. Alicia Paget; m. Elspeth Rennie Morrison, d. of Lord Paisley, one s., one
d. Educ. Rugby School, llth Hussars, 17th Lancers. Served Afghanistan 18412
(medals, thanks of Parliament); chief of staff to H.M. James Brooke, Rajah of Sarawak, Batang Luper expedn, 1844; milit. adviser with unique rank of sergeantgeneral
to H.M. Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, 1844-5; Sutlej campaign,
1845-6 (Ferozeshah, Sobraon, envoy extraordinary to Maharani Jeendan, Court
of Lahore); polit. adviser to Herr (later Chancellor Prince) von Bismarck, SchleswigHolstein,
1847-8: Crimea, staff (Alma, Sevastopol, Balaclava), prisoner of
war, 1854; artillery adviser to Atalik Ghazi, Syr Daria campaign, 1855; India,
Sepoy Mutiny, 1857--8, dip, envoy to H.R.H. the Maharani of Jhansi, trooper
3rd Native Cavalry, Meerut, subseq. att. Rowbotham's Mosstroopers, Cawnpore,
(Lucknow, Gwalior, etc., V.C.): adjutant to Captain John Brown, Harper's Ferry,
1859; China campaign 1860, polit. mission to Nanking, Taiping Rebellion, polit.
and other services, Imperial Court, Pekin; U.S. Army (major. Union forces, 1862,
colonel (staff) Army of the Confederacy, 1863); a.d.c. to H.I.M. Maximilian,
Emperor of Mexico, 1867; interpreter and observer Sioux campaign, U.S., 18756
(Camp Robinson conference, Little Big Horn, etc.); Zulu War, 1879 (Isandhlwana,
Rorke's Drift); Egypt 1882 (Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir); personal bodyguard to
H.I.M. Franz-Josef, Emperor of Austria, 1883; Sudan 1884-5 (Khartoum); Pekin
Legations, 1900. Travelled widely in military and civilian capacities, among them
supercargo, merchant marine (West Africa), agriculturist (Mississippi valley),
wagon captain and hotelier (Sania Fe Trail); buffalo hunter and scout (Oregon
Trail); courier (Underground Railroad); majordomo (India), prospector (Australia);
trader and missionary (Solomon Islands, Fly River, etc.), lottery supervisor
(Manila), diamond broker and horse coper (Punjab), dep. marshal (U.S.),
occasional actor and impersonator. Hon. mbr of numerous societies and ciubs,
including Sons of the Volsungs (Strackenz), Mimbreno Apache Copper Mines
band (New Mexico), Khokand Horde (Central Asia), Kit Carson's Boys (Colorado),
Brown's Lambs (Maryland), M.C.C., White's and United Service (London,
both resigned), Blackjack (Batavia). Chmn, Flashman and Bottomley, Ltd; dir.
British Opium Trading Co.; governor, Rugby School; hon. pres. Mission for
Reclamation of Reduced Females. Publications: Dawns and Departures of a Soldier's
Life; Twixt Cossack and Cannon; The Case Against Army Reform. Recreations:
oriental studies, angling, cricket (performed first recorded "hat trick",
wickets of Felix, Pilch, Mynn, for 14 runs, Rugby Past and Present v. Kent,
Lord's 1842; five for 12, Mynn's Casuals v. All-England XI, 1843). Add:
Gandamack Lodge, Ashby, Leics.
Contents
EXPLANATORY NOTE	9
The Road to Charing Cross	11
The Subtleties of Baccarat	211
Flashman and the Tiger	271
Explanatory Note
When Sir Harry Flashman, V.C., the celebrated Victorian soldier,
scoundrel, amorist, and self-confessed poltroon, began to write his
memoirs early in the present century, he set to work with a discipline
remarkable in one whose life and conduct were, to put it
charitably, haphazard and irregular. Disdaining chronology, he
adopted a random method, selecting episodes in his adventurous
life and shaping them into complete, self-contained narratives, in
the fashion of a novelist rather than an autobiographer. This was
of immense help to me when the Flashman Papers, which were
still unpublished at Sir Harry's death in 1915, turned up as a
collection of packets in a tea-chest at a Midlands sale-room in
1966, and were entrusted to me, as editor, by Flashman's executor,
j the late Mr Paget Morrison of South Africa.
In accordance with his strict instructions, I dealt with the packets
one at a time and found that, thanks to Sir Harry's methodical
approach, only a minimum of editing - correcting his occasional
spelling mistakes and providing footnotes - was necessary to render
the work fit for publication. Each packet contained a book
almost ready-made, and soon the public, who until then had been
aware of Flashman only as the cowardly bully of Thomas Hughes's Tom Brown's Schooldays, were in possession of his illuminating
and often scandalous accounts of the First Afghan War, the SchleswigHolstein
Question, the African-American slave trade, and the
Crimean War.
It was with the fifth packet that the pattern changed. Along with
his account of the Indian Mutiny, Sir Harry had enclosed a separate
brief narrative on an entirely different subject which he plainly
felt did not call for extended treatment. Since it was too short for
separate publication, and its inclusion with the Mutiny memoir
would have made for an unwieldy book, I put it by, hoping the
later packets would yield similar fragments which, with the first,
might make a full volume.
Since then, two other such pieces have come to light, and the
result is this collection of minor episodes in the career of an eminent
if disreputable Victorian. One deals with a hitherto-unknown European
crisis which, but for Flashman's reluctant intervention, might
well have advanced the outbreak of the First World War by three
decades, with incalculable consequences. Since it is by far the
longest fragment, presents a picture of a great monarch, involves
if only at a distance many leading statesmen of the time, and finds
Flashman in alliance with the shade of an old adversary, I have
given it priority. The second piece clears up at last one of the most
puzzling mysteries of the Victorian era, the notorious Baccarat
Scandal in which the Prince of Wales was an unhappy actor. The
third extract touches briefly on two of the most spectacular military
actions of the century, and sees Flashman pitted against one of the
great villains of the day, and observing, with his usual jaundiced
eye, two of its most famous heroes. As this extract was the first
to come to light, more than twenty years ago, and its known
existence has caused some speculation among students of the
Papers, I have given its title to the full volume.
G.M.F.
10
THE ROAD TO
CHARING CROSS
(1878 and 18834)
You don't know Blowitz, probably never heard
of him even, which is your good luck, although I dare say if you'd
met him you'd have thought him harmless enough. I did, to my
cost. Not that I bear him a grudge, much, for he was a jolly little
teetotum, bursting with good intentions, and you may say it wasn't
his fault that they paved my road to Hell - which lay at the bottom
of a salt-mine, and it's only by the grace of God that I ain't there
yet, entombed in everlasting rock. Damnable places, and not at all
what you might imagine. Not a grain of salt to be seen, for one
thing.
Mind you, when I say 'twasn't Blowitz's fault, I'm giving the
little blighter the benefit of the doubt, a thing I seldom do. But I
1 liked him, you see, in spite of his being a journalist. Tricky villains,
especially if they work for The Times. He was their correspondent
in Paris thirty years ago, and doubtless a government agent - show
 me the Times man who wasn't, from Delane to the printer's devils
il - but whether he absolutely knew what he was about, or was
merely trying to do old Flashy a couple of good turns, I ain't sure.
It was certainly his blasted pictures that led me astray: photographs
of two lovely women, laid before my unsuspecting middle-aged
eyes, one in '78, t'other in '83, and between 'em they landed me
in the strangest pickle pf my misspent life. Not the worst, perhaps,
; but bad enough, and deuced odd. I don't think I understand the
' ) infernal business yet, not altogether.
It had its compensations along the way, though, among them
the highest decoration France can bestow, the gratitude of two
Crowned Heads (one of 'em an out-and-out stunner, much good
may it do me), the chance to serve Otto Bismarck a bad turn, and
| the favours of that delightful little spanker, Mamselle Caprice, to
13
say nothing of the enchanting iceberg Princess Kralta. No ... I
can't think too much ill of little Blowitz at the end of the day.
He was reckoned the smartest newsman of the time, better than
Billy Russell even, for while Billy was the complete hand at dramatic
description, thin red streaks and all, and the more disastrous
the better, Blowitz was a human ferret with his plump little claw
on every pulse from Lisbon to the Kremlin; he knew everyone,
and everyone knew him - and trusted him. That was the great
thing: kings and chancellors confided in him, empresses and grand
duchesses whispered him their secrets, prime ministers and
ambassadors sought his advice, and while he was up to every
smoky dodge in his hunt for news, he never broke a pledge or
betrayed a confidence - or so everyone said, Blowitz loudest of
all. I guess his appearance helped, for he was nothing like the job
at all, being a five-foot butterball with a beaming baby face behind
a mighty moustache, innocent blue eyes, bald head, and frightful
whiskers a foot long, chattering nineteen to the dozen (in several
languages), gushing gallantly at the womenfolk, nosing up to the
elbows of the men like a deferential gun dog, chuckling at every
joke, first with all the gossip (so long as it didn't matter), a prime
favourite at every Paris party and reception - and never missing
a word or a look or a gesture, all of it grist to his astounding
memory; let him hear a speech or read a paper and he could repeat
it, pat, every word, like Macaulay.
Aye, and when the great crises came, and all Europe was agog
for news of the latest treaty or rumour of war or collapsing ministry,
it was to the Times' Paris telegrams they looked, for Blowitz was
a past master at what the Yankee scribblers call "the scoop". At
the famous Congress of Berlin (of which more anon), when the
doors were locked for secret session, Bismarck looked under the
table, and when D'lsraeli asked him what was up, Bismarck said
he wanted to be sure Blowitz wasn't there. A great compliment,
you may say - and if you don't. Blowitz did, frequently.
It was through Billy Russell, who you may know was also a Times man and an old chum from India and the Crimea, that I met
this tubby prodigy at the time of the Franco-Prussian farce in '70,
and we'd taken to each other straight off. At least, Blowitz had
taken to me, as folk often do. God help 'em, and I didn't mind
14
him; he was a comic little card, and amused me with his Froggy
bounce (though he was a Bohemian in fact), and tall tales about
how he'd scuppered the Commune uprising in Marseilles in '71
by leaping from rooftop to rooftop to telegraph some vital news
or other to Paris while the Communards raged helpless below, and
saved some fascinating Balkan queen and her beautiful daughter
from shame and ruin at the hands of a vengeful monarch, and been
kidnapped when he was six and fallen in love with a flashing-eyed
gypsy infant with a locket round her neck - sounded deuced like The Bohemian Girl to me, but he swore it was gospel, and part of
his "Destiny", which was a great bee in his bonnet.
"You ask, what if I had slipped from those Marseilles roofs,
and been dashed to pieces on the cruel cobbles, or torn asunder
by those ensanguined terrorists?" cries he, swigging champagne
and waving a pudgy finger. "What, you say, if that vengeful monarch's
agents had entrapped me - moi, Blowitz? What if the gypsy
kidnappers had taken another road, and so eluded pursuit? Ah, you
ask yourself these things, cher 'Arree "
"I don't do anything o' the sort, you know."
"But you do, of a certainty!" cries he. "I see it in your eye,
the burning question! You consider, you speculate, you! What,
you wonder, would have become of Blowitz? Or of France? Or the Times, by example?" He inflated, looking solemn. "Or Europe?"
"Search me, old Blowhard," says I rescuing the bottle. "All I
ask is whether you got to grips with that fascinating Balkan hint
and her beauteous daughter, and if so, did you tackle 'em in tandem
or one after t'other?" But he was too flown with his fat-headed
philosophy to listen.
"I did not slip, me -1 could not! I foiled the vengeful monarch's ruffians - it was inevitable! My gypsy abductors took the road
determined by Fate!" He was quite rosy with triumph. "Le destin, my old one - destiny is immutable. We are like the planets, our
courses preordained. Some of us," he admitted, "are comets, vanishing
and reappearing, like the geniuses of the past. Thus Moses
is reflected in Confucius, Caesar in Napoleon, Attila in Peter the
Great, Jeanne d'Arc in ... in ..."
"Florence Nightingale. Or does it have to be a Frog? Well, then,
Madame du Barry - "
"Jeanne d'Arc is yet to reappear, perhaps. But you are not
serious, my boy. You doubt my reason. Oh, yes, you do! But I
tell you, everything moves by a fixed law, and those of us who
would master our destinies - " he tapped a fat finger on my knee
"-we learn to divine the intentions of the Supreme Will which
directs us."
"Ye don't say. One jump ahead of the Almighty. Who are you
reincarnating, by the way - Baron Munchausen?"
He sat back chortling, twirling his moustache. "Oh, 'Arree,
'Arree, you are incorrigible^. Well, I shall submit no more to your
scepticism meprisant, your derision Anglaise. You laugh, when I
tell you that in our moment of first meeting, I knew that our fates
were bound together. 'Regard this man,' I thought. 'He is part of / your destiny.' It is so, we are bound, I, Blowitz, in whom Tacitus
lives again, and you ... ah, but of whom shall I say you are a
reflection? Murat, perhaps? Your own Prince Rupert? Some great beau sabreur, surely?" He twinkled at me. "Or would it please
you if I named the Chevalier de Seignalt?"
"Who's he when he's at home?"
"In Italy they called him Casanova. Aha, that marches! You see
yourself in the part! Well, well, laugh as you please, we are destined,
you and I. You'll see, mon ami. Oh, you'll see!"
He had me weighed up, no error, and knew that on my infrequent
visits to Paris, which is a greasy sort of sink not much better than
Port Moresby, the chief reason I sought him out was because he
was my passport to society salons and the company of the female
gamebirds with whom the city abounds - and I don't mean your
poxed-up opera tarts and can-can girls but the quality traffic of the
smart hotels and embassy parties, whose languid ennui conceals
more carnal knowledge than you'd find in Babylon. My advice to
young chaps is to never mind the Moulin Rouge and Pigalle, but
make for some diplomatic melee on the Rue de Lisbonne, catch
the eye of a well-fleshed countess, and ere the night's out you'll
have learned something you won't want to tell your grandchildren.
In spite of looking like a plum duff on legs, Blowitz had an
extraordinary gift of attracting the best of 'em like flies to a jampot.
No doubt they thought him a harmless buffoon, and he made them
laugh, and flattered them something monstrous - and, to be sure,
16
he had the stalwart Flashy in tow, which was no disadvantage,
though I say it myself. I suppose you could say he pimped for me,
in a way - but don't imagine for a moment that I despised him,
or failed to detect the hard core inside the jolly little ftaneur. I
always respect a man who's good at his work, and I bore in mind
the story (which I heard from more than one good source) that
Blowitz had made his start in France by paying court to his
employer's wife, and the pair of them had heaved the unfortunate
cuckold into Marseilles harbour from a pleasure-boat, left him to
drown, and trotted off to the altar. Yes, I could credit that. Another
story, undoubtedly true, was that when the Times, in his early days
on the paper, were thinking of sacking him, he invited the manager
to dinner - and there at the table was every Great Power ambassador
in Paris. That convinced the Times, as well it might.
So there you have M. Henri Stefan Oppert-Blowitz,' and if I've
told you a deal about him and his crackpot notions of our "shared
destiny", it's because they were at the root of the whole crazy
business, and dam' near cost me my life, as well as preventing a
great European war - which will happen eventually, mark my
words, if this squirt of a Kaiser ain't put firmly in his place. If I
were Asquith I'd have the little swine took off sudden; plenty of
chaps would do it for ten thou' and a snug billet in the Colonies
afterwards. But that's common sense, not politics, you see.
That by the way. It was at the back end of '77 that the unlikely
pair of Blowitz and Sam Grant, late President of the United States,
put me on the road to disaster, and (as is so often the case) in the
most innocent-seeming way.
Like all retired Yankee bigwigs, Sam was visiting the mother
country as the first stage of a grand tour, which meant, he being
who he was, that instead of being allowed to goggle at Westminster
and Windermere in peace, he must endure adulation on every
hand, receiving presentations and the freedom of cities, having fat
aldermen and provosts pump his fin, which he hated of all things,
listening to endless boring addresses, and having to speechify in turn (which was purgatory to a man who spoke mostly in grunts),
with crowds huzzaing wherever he went, the nobility lionising him
in their lordly way, and being beset by admiring females from
Liverpool laundresses to the Great White Mother herself.
17
Hard sledding for the sour little bargee, and by the time I met
him, at a banquet at Windsor to which I'd been bidden as his old
comrade of the war between the states, I could see he'd had his
bellyful. Our last encounter had been two years earlier, when he'd
sent me to talk to the Sioux and lost me my scalp at Greasy Grass,*
and his temper hadn't improved in the meantime.
"It won't do, Flashman!" barks he, chewing his beard and
looking as though he'd just heard that Lee had taken New York.
"I've had as much ceremony and attention as I can stand. D'you
know they're treating me as royalty^ It's true, I tell you! Lord
Beaconsfield has ordained it - well, I'm much obliged to him, I'm
sure, but I can't take it! If I have to lay another cornerstone or
listen to another artisans' address or have my hand tortured by
some worthy burgess bent on wrestling me to the ground ..." He
left off snarling to look round furtive-like in case any of the Quality were in earshot. "At least your gracious Queen doesn't shake
hands as though she purposed to break my arm," he added grudgingly.
"Not like the rest of 'em."
"Price of fame, Mr President."
"Price of your aunt's harmonium!" snaps he. "And it'll be
worse in Europe, I'll be bound! Dammit, they embrace you, don't
they?" He glared at me, as though daring me to try. "Here, though
- d'you speak French? I know you speak Siouxan, and I seem to
recollect Lady Flashman extolling your linguistic accomplishments.
Well, sir - do you or don't you?"
I admitted that I did, and he growled his satisfaction.
"Then you can do me a signal favour ... if you will. They tell
me I must meet Marshal Macmahon in Paris, and he hasn't a word
of English - and my French you could write on the back of a
postal stamp! Well, then," says he, thrusting his beard at me, "will
you stand up with me at the Invalids or the Tooleries or wherever
the blazes it is, and play interpreter?" He hesitated, eyeing me
hard while I digested this remarkable proposal, and cleared his
throat before adding: "I'd value it, Flashman . . . having a friendly
face at my elbow 'stead of some damned diplomatic in kneebritches."
*
See Flashman and the Redskins
18
Ulysses S. Grant never called for help in his life, but just then
I seemed to catch a glimpse, within the masterful commander and
veteran statesman, of the thin-skinned Scotch yokel from the Ohio
tanyard uneasily adrift in an old so-superior world which he'd have
liked to despise but couldn't help feeling in awe of. No doubt
Windsor and Buck House had been ordeal enough, and now the
prospect of standing tongue-tied before the French President and
a parcel of courtly supercilious Frogs had unmanned him to the
point where he was prepared to regard me as a friendly face. Of
course I agreed straight off, in my best toady-manly style; I'd
never have dared say no to Grant at any time, and I wouldn't
have missed watching him and Macmahon in a state of mutual
bewilderment for all the tea in China.
So there I was, a few weeks later, in a gilded salon of the Elysee,
when Grant, wearing his most amiable expression, which would
have frightened Geronimo, was presented to the great Marshal, a
grizzled old hero with a leery look and eyebrows which matched
his moustache for luxuriance - a sort of Grant with garlic, he was.
They glowered at each other, and bowed, and glowered some more
before shaking hands, with Sam plainly ready to leap away at the
first hint of an embrace, after which silence fell, and I was just
wondering if I should tell Macmahon that Grant was stricken
speechless by the warmth of his welcome when Madame Macmahon,
God bless her, inquired in English if we'd had a good crossing.
She was still a charmer at sixty, and Sam was so captivated in
relief that he absolutely talked to her, which left old Macmahon
standing like a blank file. Blowitz, who as usual was to the fore
among the attendant dignitaries and crawlers, came promptly to
the rescue, introducing me to the Marshal as an old companion-inarms,
sort of, both of us having served in Crimea. This seemed to
cheer the old fellow up: ah, I was that Flashman of Balaclava, was
I? And I'd done time in the Legion Etrangere also, had I? Why,
he was an old Algeria hand himself; we both had sand in our
boots, n'est-ce pas, ho-ho! Well, this was formidable, to meet, in
an English soldier of all people, a vieille moustache who had woken
to the cry of "Aujus!" and marched to the sausage music.2 Blowitz
said that wasn't the half of it; Ie Colonel Flashman had been a
distinguished ally of France in China; Montauban would never
19
have got to Pekin without me. Macmahon was astonished; he'd
had no notion. Well, there weren't many of us left; decidedly we
must become better acquainted.
The usual humbug, though gratifying, but pregnant of great
effects, as the lady novelists put it. For early in the following May,
long after Grant had gone home (having snarled his way round
Europe and charmed the Italians by remarking that Venice would
be a fine city if it were drained), and I was pursuing my placid
way in London, I was dumfounded by a letter from the French
Ambassador informing me that the President of the Republic, in
recognition of my occasional services to France, wished to confer
on me the Legion of Honour.
Well, bless the dear little snail-eaters, thinks I, for while I've
collected a fair bit of undeserved tinware in my time, you can't
have too much of it, you know. I didn't suspect it, but this was
Blowitz at work, taking advantage of my meeting with old Macmahon
to serve ends of his own. The little snake had discovered a
use for me, and decided to put me in his debt - didn't know Flash
too well, did he? At all events, he'd dropped in Macmahon's ear
the suggestion that I was ripe for a Frog decoration, and Macmahon
was all for it, apparently, so back to Paris I went in my best togs,
had the order (fourth or fifth class, I forget which) hung round my
unworthy neck, received the Marshal's whiskery embrace, and was
borne off to Voisin's by Blowitz to celebrate - and be reminded
that I owed my latest glorification to him, and our shared "destiny".
"What joy compares itself to advancing the fortunes of an old
friend to whom one is linked by fate?" beams he, tucking his
napkin under his several chins and diving into his soup. "For in
serving him, do I not serve myself?"
"That's my modest old Blow," says I. "What d'ye want?"
"Ah, sceptique} Did I speak of obligation, then? It is true, I
hope to interest you in a small affair of mine - oh, but an affair
after your own heart, I think, and to our mutual advantage. But
first, let us do honour to the table - champagne, my boy!"
So I waited while he gorged his way through half a dozen
overblown courses - why the French must dart decent grub with
glutinous sauces beats me - and when the waiters had cleared and
20
we were at the brandy and cigars he sighed with repletion, patted
his guts, and fished a mounted picture from his pocket.
"It is a most amusing intrigue, this," says he, and presented it
with a flourish. "VoilaV
I'm rather a connoisseur of photography, and there was a quality
about the present specimen which took my attention at once. It
may have been the opulence of the setting, or the delicacy of the
hand-colouring, or the careful composition which had placed two
gigantic blackamoors with loincloths and scimitars among the potted
palms, or the playful inclusion of the parakeet and tiny monkey
on either side of the oriental couch on which lounged a lovely
odalisque clad only in gold turban and ankle-fetters, her slender
body arched to promote jutting young bumpers which plainly
needed no support, her lips parted in a sneer which promised
unimaginable depravities. A caption read "La Petite Caprice";
well, it was a change from Frou-Frou ... I tore my eyes away
from the potted palms, a mite puzzled. As I've said, Blowitz had
put me in the way of Society gallops, but never a professional.
"Tres appetissante, now?" says he.
I tossed it back to him. "Which convent is she advertising?"
He clucked indignantly. "She is not what you suppose! This is
a theatrical picture, made when she was employed at the Folies,from
necessity, let me tell you, to finance her studies - serious
studies! Such pictures are de rigueur for a Folies comedienne."
"Well, I could see she hated posing for it "
"Would it surprise you," says he severely, "to learn that she is
a trained criminologist, speaks fluently four languages, rides, fences
and shoots, and is a valued member of the departement secret of
the Ministry of the Interior, at present in our Berlin Embassy . . .
where I was influential in placing her? Ah, you stare! Do I interest
you, my friend?"
"She might, if she was on hand. But since she ain't, and posing
for lewd pictures belies her stainless purity "
"Did I say that? No, no, my boy. She is no demi-mondaine, la
belle Caprice, but she is ... a woman of the world, let us say.
That is why she is in Berlin."
"And what's she to do with this small affair after my own heart
to our mutual advantage?"
21
He sat back, lacing his tubby fingers across his pot. "As I recall,
you were at one time intimate with the German Chancellor, Prince
Bismarck, but that you hold him in no affection "
I choked on my brandy. "Thank'ee for the dinner and the Legion
of Honour, old Blow," says I, preparing to rise. "I don't know
where you're leading, but if it's to do with him, I can tell you
that I wouldn't go near the square-headed bastard with the whole
Household Brigade - "
"But, my friend, be calm, I beg! Resume the seat, if you please!
It is not necessary that you ... go near his highness! No such
thing ... he figures only, how shall I say - at a distance?"
"That's too bloody close!" I assured him, but he protested that
I must hear him out; our destinies were linked, he insisted, and he
would not dream of a proposal distasteful to me, death of his life
- quite the reverse, indeed. So I sat down, and put myself right
with a brandy; mention of Bismarck always unmans me, but the
fact was I was curious, not least about the delectable Mamselle
Caprice.
"Eh bien," says Blowitz, and leaned forward, plainly bursting
to unfold his mystery. "You are aware that in a few weeks' time
a great conference is to take place at Berlin, of all the Powers,
to amend this ridiculous Treaty of San Stefano made by Russia
and Turkey?" I must have looked blank, for he blew out his
cheeks. "At least you know they have recently been at war in the
Balkans?"
"Absolutely," says I. "There was talk of us having a second
Crimea with the moujiks, but I gather that's blown over. As for
. . . San Stefano, did you say? Greek to me, old son."
He shook his head in despair. "You have heard of the Big
Bulgaria, surely?"
"Not even of the little 'un."
He seemed ready to weep. "Or the Sanjak of Novi Bazar?"
"Watch your tongue, if you please. We're in a public place."
"Incroyable}" He threw up his hands. "And it is an educated
Englishman, this, widely travelled and of a military reputation!
Europe may hang on the brink of catastrophe, and you . . ." He
smote his fat forehead. "My dear 'Arree, will you tell me, then,
what events of news you have remarked of late?"
22
"Well, let's see . . . our income tax went up tuppence . . . baccy
and dog licences, too ... some woman or other has sailed round
the world in a yacht. . ." He was going pink, so just to give
him his money's worth I added: "Elspeth's bought one of these
phonographs that are all the rage ... oh, aye, and Gilbert and
Sullivan have a new piece, and dam' good, too; the jolliest tunes.
'I am an Englishman, be-hold me!' ... as you were just saying - "3
"Enough!" He breathed heavily. "I see I must undertake your
political education sur-le-champ. Gilbert and Sullivan, mon dieuV
And since he did, and I'll lay odds that you, dear reader, know
no more about Big Bulgaria and t'other thing than I did, I'll set
it out as briefly as can be. It's a hellish bore, like all diplomaticking,
but you'd best hear about it - and then you can hold your own
with the wiseacres at the club or tea-table.
First off, the Balkans . . . you have to understand that they're
full of people who'd much rather massacre each other than not,
and their Turkish rulers (who had no dam' business to be in Europe,
if you ask me) were incapable of controlling things, what with the
disgusting inhabitants forever revolting, and Russia and Austria trying
to horn in for their own base ends. By and large we were sympathetic
to the Turks, not because we liked the brutes but because we
feared Russian expansion towards the Mediterranean (hence the
Crimean War, where your correspondent won undying fame and was
rendered permanently flatulent by Russian champagne).*
At the same time we were forever nagging the Turks to be less
monstrous to their Balkan subjects, with little success, Turks being
what they are, and when, around '75, the Bulgars revolted and
the Turks slaughtered 150,000 of them to show who was master,
Gladstone got in a fearful bait and made his famous remark about
the Turks clearing out, bag and baggage. He had to sing a different
tune when the Russians invaded Ottoman territory and handed the
Turks a handsome licking; we couldn't have Ivan lording it in the
Balkans, and for a time it looked as though we'd have to tackle
the Great Bear again - we sent warships to the Dardanelles and
Indian regiments to Malta, but the crisis passed when Russia and
Turkey made peace, with the San Stefano Treaty.
* See Flashman at the Charge
23
The trouble was that this treaty created what was called "Big
Bulgaria", which would clearly be a Russian province and steppingstone
to the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal. The Austrians,
with their own ambitions in the Balkans, were also leery of Russia,
so to keep the peace Bismarck, the "honest broker" (ha!) called
the Congress of Berlin to amend San Stefano to everyone's satisfaction,
if possible.4
"Everyone will be there! Tout Ie monde Blowitz was fairly
gleaming with excitement. "Prince Bismarck will preside, with
your Lord Salisbury and Lord Beaconsfield - as we must learn to
call M. D'lsraeli - Haymerle and Andrassy from Austria, Desprez
and Waddington from France, Gorchakov and Shuvalov from
Russia - oh, and so many more, from Turkey and Italy and Germany
... it will be the greatest conference of the Powers since
the Congress of Vienna, with the fate of Europe - the world, even
- at stake!"
I could see it was just his meat; but what, I wondered, did it
have to do with me. He became confidential, blowing garlic at me.
"A new treaty will emerge. The negotiations will be of the most
secret. No word of what passes behind those closed doors will be
permitted to escape - until the new treaty is published, no doubt
by Prince Bismarck himself." His voice sank to a whisper. "It
will be the greatest news story of the century, my friend - and the
correspondent who obtains it beforehand will be hailed as the first
journalist of the world!" The round rosy face was set like stone,
and the blue eyes were innocent no longer. "The Times will have
that story . . . First! Alone! Exclusive!" His finger rapped the table
on each word, and I thought, aye, you could have heaved your
wife's former husband into the drink, no error. Then he sat back,
beaming again. "More brandy, my boy!"
"Got an embassy earwig, have you? How much are you paying
him?"
He winked, like a conspiring cherub. "Better than any 'earwig',
dear 'Arree, I shall have the entree to the mind of one of the
principal parties . . . and he will not even know it!" He glanced
about furtively, in case Bismarck was hiding behind an ice-bucket.
"The Russian Ambassador to London, Count Peter Shuvalov,
will be second only to Prince Gorchakov in his country's del24
egation. He is an amiable and experienced diplomat - and the most
dedicated lecher in the entire corps diplomatique.^ Oh, but a satyr,
I assure you, who consumes women as you do cigars. And with
a mistress who knows how to engage his senses, he is ... oh, qui
ne s 'en fait pas ... how do you say in English-? "
"Easygoing?"
"Precisement} Easy-going ... to the point of indiscretion. I
could give numerous instances - names which would startle
you-"
"Gad, you get about! Ever thought of writing your recollections?
You'd make a mint!"
He waved it aside. "Now, this Congress will dance, like any
other, and it is inevitable that M. Shuvalov will encounter, at a
party, the opera, perhaps on his evening promenade on the
Friederichstrasse, the enchanting Mamselle Caprice of the French
Embassy. What then? I will tell you. He will be captivated, he
will pursue, he will overtake . . . and his enjoyment of her charms
will be equalled only by the solace he will find in describing the
labours of the day to such a sympathetic listener. I know him,
believe me." He sipped a satisfied Chartreuse. "And I know her.
No doubt she will be the adoring ingenue, and M. Shuvalov will
leak like an old samovar."
I had to admire him. "Crafty little half-pint, ain't you, though?
Here, give us another squint at that picture ... by Jove, lucky old
Shovel-off! But hold on, Blow - she may romp each day's doings
out of him, but she can't get you the treaty word for word - and
that's what you want, surely?"
"Mais certainement} Am I an amateur, then? No ... I absorb
her reports by the day, and only when all is concluded, and the
treaty is being drafted, do I approach a certain minister who holds
me in some esteem. I make it plain that I am aufait with the entire
negotiation. He is aghast. 'You know it all?' he cries. 'A matter
of course,' I reply with modesty, 'and now I await only the text
of the treaty itself.' He is amazed ... but convinced. This Blowitz,
he tells himself, is a wizard. And from that, cher 'Arree," says
he, smiling smugly, "it is but a short step to the point where he
gives me the treaty himself. Oh, it is a technique, I assure you,
which never fails."
25
It's tme enough; there's no surer way of getting a secret than
by letting on you know it already. But I still couldn't see why he
was telling me.
"Because one thing only is lacking. It is out of the question
that Caprice should communicate with me directly, for I shall be
jealously observed at all times, not only by competitors, but by
diplomatic eyes - possibly even by the police. It is the price of
being Blowitz." He shrugged, then dropped his voice. "So it is
vital that I have what you call a go-between, n'est-ce pasT'
So that was it, and before I could open my mouth, let alone
demur, his paw was on my sleeve and he was pattering like a
Yankee snake-oil drummer.
'"Arree, it can only be you! I knew it from the first - have I
not said our fates are linked? To whom, then, should I turn for
help in the greatest coup of my career? And it will be without
inconvenience - indeed, to your satisfaction rather - "
"So that's why you wangled me the Order of the Frog!"
"Wangle? What is this wangle? Oh, my best of friends, that
was a bagatelle! But this what I beg of you ... ah, it imports to
me beyond anything in the world! And I would trust no other my
destiny . . . our destiny, would forbid it. You will not fail
Blowitz?"
When folk yearn and sweat at me simultaneous, I take stock.
"Well, now, I don't know, Blow . .."
"Shall I give you reasons? One, I shall be forever in your debt.
Two, my coup will enrage Prince Bismarck . . . that pleases, eh?
And three ..." he smirked like a lascivious Buddha "... you will
make the acquaintance ... the intimate acquaintance, of the
delicious Mamselle Caprice."
At that, it wasn't half bad. It was safe, and I could picture
Bismarck's apoplexy if his precious treaty was published before
he could make his own pompous proclamation. I took another slant
at the photograph lying between us ... splendid potted palms
they were, and while her pose of wanton invitation might be only
theatrical, as Blowitz had said, I couldn't believe she wasn't
enjoying her work.
"Well .. . what would I have to do?"
D'you know, the little villain had already reserved me a Berlin
26
hotel room for the duration of the conference? Confidence in destiny,
no doubt. "It is in the name of Jansen . . . Dutch or Belgian,
as you prefer, but not, I think, English." He had it all pat: I
would rendezvous with Caprice at her apartment near the French
Embassy, and there, in the small hours of each morning, when she
had sent Shuvalov on his exhausted way, she would give me her
reports, writ small on rice paper.
"Each day you and I will lunch - separately and without recognition,
of course - at the Kaiserhof, where I shall be staying. You
will have concealed Mamselle's report in the lining of your hat,
which you will hang on the rack at the dining-room door. When
we go our respective ways, I shall take your hat, and you mine."
This kind of intrigue was just nuts to him, plainly. "They will be
identical in appearance, and I have already ascertained that our
sizes are much the same. We repeat the performance each day . . . eh, voila} It is done, in secrecy the most perfect. Well, my boy,
does it march?"
The only snag I could see was being first wicket down with the
lady after she'd endured the attentions of blasted Shovel-off, and
would be intent on writing her reports. Happy thought: being a
mere diplomat, his performance might well leave her gnawing her
pretty knuckles for some real boudoir athletics - in which case the
reports could wait until after breakfast.
Well, if I'd had any sense, or an inkling of what lay years ahead,
or been less flown with Voisin's arrack, I'd have given the business
the go-by - but you know me: the promise of that photograph,
and the thought of dear Otto smashing the chandelier in his wrath,
were too much for my ardent boyish nature. And it never hurts to
do the press a good turn.
* * *
So it was with a light heart and my hat on three hairs that I found
myself strolling under the famous lime trees to the Brandenburg
Thor a few weeks later, taking a long slant at the Thier Garten in
the June sunshine, and marvelling at the Valkyrian proportions of
German women - which awoke memories of my youthful grapplings
with that blubbery baroness in Munich .. . Pech-something,
her name was, a great whale of a woman with an appetite to match.
27
That had been thirty years ago, and I hadn't visited Germany
since, with good reason. When you've been entrapped, kidnapped,
forced to impersonate royalty, shanghaied into marriage, half-hung
by Danish bandits, crossed swords in dungeons with fiends like
Rudi von Stamberg, drowned near as dammit, and been bilked of
a fortune . . . well, Bognor for a holiday don't look so bad.* Thank
God, it was far behind me now; Rudi was dead, and lovely Lola,
and even Bismarck had probably given up murder in favour of
war .. . not that he'd done much in that line for a few years.
Mellowing with age, like enough. Still, I'd steer well clear of their
Congress: Otto aside, I'd no wish to have D'lsraeli inveigling me
into a game of vingt-et-un.f Nor had I any great desire to "do"
Berlin; it may have the finest palaces in Germany, and the broadest
streets, which is capital if you enjoy miles of ornamented stucco
and don't mind tumbling into drains which are mostly uncovered,
but it also has the disadvantage of being full of Germans, most of
'em military. They say there's a garrison of 20,000 (in a town no
bigger than Glasgow) and it seemed to me the whole kit-boodle
of 'em were on Unter den Linden - sentries presenting arms at
every door and the pavements infested by swaggering Junkers with
plumed helmets and clanking medals, still full of Prussian bounce
because they'd licked the Frogs eight years before, as though that
mattered.
The Congress was to begin on the 13th, and it was on the
evening of the 12th that I left my modest hotel on the Tauben
Strasse and walked the short distance to the discreet, pleasant little
court off the Jager Strasse where Mamselle had her apartment both
of us quietly tucked away (trust Blowitz) but convenient for
Unter den Linden, and the Wilhelmstrasse where the Congress was
to sit. Blowitz had fixed the time, and primed her; his note awaiting
me at my hotel had hinted delicately that she knew I wasn't a
puritan, exactly, and would expect to be paid in kind for my
services, so I was in excellent fettle as I knocked at her door. My
one doubt was that, being used to coupling for her country (or, in
this case presumably, for The Times), she might be a dutiful icicle
* See Royal Flash t See Flash for Freedom!
28
with one eye on the clock and her mind elsewhere, in which case
I'd just have to jolly the sparkle into her eyes.
I needn't have fretted; it was there from the first in the mouthwatering
vision who opened the door determined to practise her
art on Flashy. Like all good actresses, she'd decided exactly how
to play her part, and dressed according in a deshabille of frothy
black lace clinging to a petite hourglass shape which recalled the
Maharani Jeendan of intoxicating memory. Without her turban,
her hair showed light auburn, cut in a fetching schoolgirl fringe
above a lovely impudent face whose smile of invitation would
have melted Torquemada. For an instant it faded on "Herr . . .
Jansen?" only to return as I made my gallant bow.
"Oh, pardon'." she exclaimed. "I was expecting someone . . .
much older!"
"Mamselle," says I, saluting her dainty fingertips, "you and I
will get along famously! May I return the compliment by saying
that your photograph don't do you justice?"
"Ah, that photograph!" She made a pretty moue and rolled her
eyes. "How I blushed to see it outside the theatre . . . but now, it
has its uses, now?" She didn't wink, but her voice did, and her
smile, as she closed the door and looked me up and down, was
pure sauce. "Stefan tells me it brought you to Berlin . . . om/?"
"Stefan has a reputation for accuracy, oui," says I, and now
that the courtesies had been observed, and she was French anyway,
I slipped my hands under her delectable stem, hoisted her up, and
kissed her soundly. She gave a muffled squeak for form's sake
before thrusting her tongue between my lips, but just as I was
casting about for a convenient settee she disengaged, giggling, and
said I must put her down, and we should have an aperitif, and
then I must explain something to her.
"No explanation necessary," growls I, but she wriggled clear,
rolling her rump, and checking my pursuit with a shaken finger and
if you'd seen that bouncy little bundle, pouting mischievous
reproof and absolutely crying, "Non-non-la-la!" like the maid in
a French farce, you'd have been torn between bulling her on the
spot and brushing away a sentimental tear. I did neither; I enjoy
a good performance as well as the next licentious rascal, and never
mind playing wait-a-bit with a coquette who knows her business.
29
So I sat on the couch while she filled two glasses, pledged me
with a flashing smile, and then sauntered artlessly into the sunlight
from the window to give me the benefit of her transparent negligee. There followed as eccentric a conversation as I can recall - and
I've been tete-a-tete with Mangas Colorado Apache, remember,
and the lunatic leader of the Taiping rebellion.
Mamselle (solicitous): You are comfortable? Eh bien, you must
rest quietly a moment, and be courtois . .. what you call proper,
correct . . . until you have explained what I wish to know.
Flashy (slavering with restraint): Good as gold. Fire away.
M (handing him an illustrated journal): So tell me, then, what
is so tres amusant about that!
F: Good God, it's Punch} One of last month's.
M (ever so serious): If I am to be perfect in English, I must
understand your humour, n'est-ce pas'] So, instruct me, if you
please.
F: What, this cartoon here? Ah, let's see . . . two English grooms
in Paris, and one is saying there ain't no letter "W" in French,
and t'other says: "Then 'ow d'yer spell 'wee'?" Just so ... well,
the joke is that the second chap doesn't know how to spell 'oui',
you see . . .
M: And one is to laugh at that?
F: Well, I can't say I did myself, but -
M: Pouf} And this other, then? (Sits by F, taps page with dainty scarlet nail, regards him wide-eyed)
F (aware that only a wisp of gauze lies between him and the
delightful meat): Eh? Oh, ah, yes! Well, here's a stout party complaining
that the fish she bought yesterday was "off", and the
fishmonger retorting that it's her own fault for not buying it earlier
in the week...
M (bee-stung lips breathing perfume): What then?
F: Gad, that's sweet! . . . Ah, well, I guess that the joke is that he's blaming her, don't you know, when in fact he's been selling
the stuff after it's started to stink.
M (bewildered, nestling chin on F's shoulder): So ie poissonier is a thief. That amuses, does it?
F: See here, I don't write the damned jokes . . . (Attempts to
fondle her starboard tit)
30
M (parrying deftly): Good as gold, mechant} Now, this page
here, the lady in harlequin costume ... ah, tres chic, 'her hat and
veil trop fripon, and her figure exquisite, mais voluptueuse} (sits
bolt upright, inspired to imitation)
F: God love us!
M (swaying out of reach) . . . but her expression is severe, and
she carries a baton - to chastise? She is perhaps a flagellatrice? Formidable^. But this also is humorous?
F: Certainly not. This picture is intended to be ogled by lewd
men. Speaking as one myself. . .
M: No, no, be still, you promised! What is ogled?
F: What people did at your Folies photograph, as well you
know! Enjoyed posing for it, didn't you? - dammit, you're enjoying this}
M (wickedly): Mais certainement} (nestles again, nibbling
F's ear) Et vous aussil No-no-no-wait! One last question ... ah,
but only one . . . these words, above this article . . . what do they
mean?
F (reading): "Hankey Pankey" ... (as she bursts out laughing)
I knew it, bigod! You understand Punch's beastly jokes as well
as I do, don't you? Well, just for that, young woman, I shan't tell
you what Hankey-Pankey means . . . I'll show you! (Demonstrates, avec elan et espieglerie and lustful roarings, to delighted squeals
and sobs from Mamselle. Ecstatic collapse of both parties)6
Afterwards, as I lay blissfully tuckered, with that splendid young
body astride of me, moist and golden in the fading sunlight, her
eyes closed in a satisfied smirk, I found myself wondering idly
if the French secret service ran an Ecole de Galop to train
their female agents in the gentle art of houghmagandie, as Elspeth
calls it - and if so, were there any vacancies for visiting professors?
Anyway, Mamselle Caprice must have been the Messalina
Prizewoman of her year; no demi-mondaine perhaps, according
to Blowitz, but as expert an amateur as I'd ever struck, with
the priceless gift of fairly revelling in her sex, and using it with
joyous abandon . . . and considerable calculation, as I was about
to learn.
She stretched across to the nearby table for a gilt-tipped cigarette,
lighting it from a tiny spirit lamp, and I couldn't resist another
31
clutch at those firm pointed poonts overhead. She squirmed her
bottom in polite response, trickling smoke down her shapely nostrils
as she studied me, head on one side; then she leaned down,
murmuring in my ear.
"If you were Count Shuvalov . . . would you be ready to confide
in me now?" She gave a little chuckle, and nibbled.
"I'll be damned! Been using me for net practice, have you?" I
couldn't help laughing. "Experimenting on me, you little trollop
- of all the sauce!"
"Why not?" says the shameless baggage, sitting up again and
drawing on her scented weed. "If I am to learn his secrets, it is
well I should know what . . . beguiles men of his age. After all,
you and he are no longer boys, but mature, possibly of similar
tastes . . ."
"A couple of ageing libertines, you mean? Well, thank'ee, my
dear, I'm obliged to you - as I'm sure Count Shovel-off will be,
and if you pay him the kind of loving attention you've just shown
me, I dare say he'll be sufficiently captivated to gas his fat head
off-"
"Oh, he is captivate' already," says she airily. "He has admired
the notorious photograph . . . and we have met, and he has begged
an assignation for tomorrow night."7
"Has he, now? That's brisk work." Highly professional, too . . .
by Blowitz? ... by the French secret department? Certainly by
the brazen little bitch sitting cool as a trout athwart my hawse,
sporting her boobies and blowing smoke-rings while she mused
cheerfully on how best to squeeze the juice out of her Russian
prey.
"You see," says she, "to captivate, to seduce, is nothing ... he
is only a man." She gave the little shrug that is the Frenchwoman's
way of spitting on the pavement. "But afterwards ... to make him
tell what I wish to know ... ah, that is another thing. Which is
why I ask you, who are experienced in secret affairs, Blowitz says.
You know well these Russians, you have made the intrigues, you
have made love to many, many women, and I am sure they have
- how do you say? - practised their nets on you." She smiled
sleepy seductive-like, and leaned down again to nicker the tip of
her tongue against my lips. "So, tell me ... which of them most
32
appealed, to win your confidence? The fool? The task-mistress?
The slave? L'ingenue'7 Or perhaps la petite farceuse who teases
you with foolish jokes, and then ..." She wriggled, stroking her
bouncers across my chest. "To which would you tell your
secrets?"
"My, you've studied your subject, haven't you?" I eased her
gently upright. "Well, the answer, my artful little seductress, is
... to none of 'em - unless I wanted to. But I ain't Shovel-off,
remember. From what I hear he's the kind of vain ass who can't
resist showing off to every pretty woman he meets, so it don't
matter a rap whether you play the innocent or Delilah or Gretchen
the Governess. Get him half-tipsy, pleasure him blind, and listen
to him blather . . . but don't try to come round him with jokes
from Punch, 'cos they'd be lost on him. Tease him with a few
funny bits from Tolstoy, if you like, or the latest wheezes from
Ivan the Terrible's Guffawgraph - "
"Oh, idiot She slapped me smartly on the midriff, giggling.
"You are not serious, you! I ask advice, and you make game of
me!"
"Advice, my eye - mocking a poor old man, more like."
"Old? Ha!" exclaims she, rolling her eyes - she could pay a
neat compliment, the minx.
"As if there was anything I could teach you about bewitching
a man!" I can pay a compliment, too. She gave a complacent toss
of the head, arms akimbo.
"Oh, one can always learn, from a wise teacher ... I think,"
says she, assuming the depraved sneer she had worn in her photograph,
"that since I do not like M. Shuvalov, I should prefer to
be Gretchen the Governess, tres implacable, sans remordsl" She
made growling noises, flourishing an imaginary whip. "Ah, well,
we shall see! And now," she hopped nimbly down, "I make
supper!"
Which she did, very tasty: an omelette that was like a souffle
for lightness, with toast and a cold Moselle, fruits soaked in kirsch,
and coffee Arabi style - black as night, sweet as love, hot as hell.
Listening to her cheery prattle and bubbling laughter across the
table, I found myself warming to Mamselle Caprice, and not only
'cos she was a little stunner and rode like a starving succubus and
33
cooked rather well. I liked her style: no humbug, just Jezebel with
a sassy twinkle and a fifth-form fringe, lightly touched by the crazy
gods - as many politicals are; Georgie Broadfoot was daft as a
brush. In her case it might have been a mask, a brass front over
inner hurt; she was in a dirty business, and no doubt her male
colleagues, being proper little Christian crooks, would make it
plain that they regarded her as no better than a whore - I did
myself, but I wasn't fool enough to damp her amorous ardour by
showing it. But no, 'twasn't a mask; as we talked, I recognised
her as one of these fortunate critters who (like yours truly) are
simply without shame, and wouldn't know Conscience if they
tripped over it in broad day. She was fairly gloating at the prospect
of wringing Shuvalov dry for the sheer fun of it - and the handsome
fee Blowitz had promised her.
"A hundred golden pounds!" cries she gleefully. "You see, it
is not a secret department matter, but personal to Stefan and his
paper. And since he has friends in high places . . . behold, I am
in Berlin!"
"And that's all that matters to me, my little Punch-fancier," says I, nuzzling her neck as we repaired to the couch. "As an
Asian princess once said to me: 'Lick up the honey, stranger, and
ask no questions'."
"An Asian princess!" She clapped her hands. "Ah, but I must
hear of this! Was she beautiful? Did you carry her off? Were you
her slave?" and so on, so I told her all about Ko Dali's dreadful
daughter, and how she'd rescued me from a Russian dungeon, and
filled me with hasheesh unawares, and dam' near had me blown
to bits, and was surpassingly beautiful (at which Caprice pouted
"Pouf!") but bald as an egg (which sent her into peals of delight).
Whether she believed me, God knows, but she demanded particulars
of a most intimate nature, inviting comparison between the
Silk One and herself, and that inevitably led to another glorious
thrashing-match which restored her amour-propre and left me in
what I once heard a French naval officer describe as a condition
of swoon.
Only when I was taking my leave did we return to the subject
of Shuvalov. His assignation with her was for eight the following
evening, after the first day of the Congress, and she expected to
34
have him off the premises by midnight, whereafter I would roll
up to see that all was well, she would write her report, and we
would enjoy a late supper and whatever else came to mind before
I left with her despatch in my hat for transfer to Blowitz later in
the day.
She hadn't counted on Shovel-off's appetite for jollity, though.
The clocks were chiming twelve when I sauntered up the Jager
Strasse in the warm dark of the next night, and turned into her
court only to see that her curtain was still closed - the signal we'd
agreed if the Russian buffoon was still infesting her quarters. I
took a turn up and down, thankful that it wasn't winter; Berlin in
June evidently went home with the milk, and there were open
carriages carrying merry-makers up the Mauer Strasse to the Linden,
sounds of gaiety and music came from the Prinz Carl Palace
across the way, and beyond it I could see lights burning in the
great ministries on the Wilhelmstrasse: understrappers of the Congress
still hard at it while their betters waltzed and junketed - aye,
and rogered away the diplomatic night, if Shuvalov was anything
to go by. It was close on two, and I was in a fine fume, when a
cloaked and tile-hatted figure emerged at last from Caprice's court,
taking the width of the pavement, damn him, and a moment later
I was being admitted to her apartment by a furious hareem houri
clad only in a gold turban with a slave-fetter on one ankle, fairly
spitting blood while she filled an antique bath-tub with hot wate'r;
the air was thick with steam and Gallic oaths which I hadn't heard
outside a Legion barrack-room.
Count Shuvalov, she informed me, was a sacred perverted beast,
a savage and a mackerel and a swine of tastes indescribable. He
professed to have been so enraptured by her photograph that he
had brought the turban and shackles for her to wear, describing
himself as Haroun al-Raschid and demanding from her an Arabian
Nights performance which I doubt even Dick Burton had ever
heard of. He had also insisted that they smear each other all over
with quince jam, to which he was partial, and while much of it
had been removed in the ensuing frolic, I noticed that she still had
a tendency to attract fluff and other light debris as she raged to
and from the kitchen with hot kettles for her bath.
"And for a hundred pounds I endure this!" cries she, kicking
35
her fettered foot and fetching herself a crack on the shin with the
chain. "Ah, merde, it will not come off - and I shall never be
clean again! Oh, but it is not only this disgusting confiture, this
. . . this ordure collant, but his loathsome touch, his foul body and
vile breath, his hideous tongue upon me ... ugh! Muscovite ape!
Oh, do not look at me - I cannot bear to be seen!" In fact she
looked adorable, if you can imagine an Alma Tadema beauty striking
passionate poses while picking feathers off her bottom.
I soothed her by undoing the ankle-chain, lifting her into the
bath, and lovingly soaping her from head to foot while murmuring
endearments. I'm a dab hand at this, having trained under Queen
Ranavalona, so to speak, and after a while her plaintive cursing
gave way to little sighs and whimpers, her eyes closed and her
mouth trembled, and when I suggested I could do with a sluicing
myself she responded with an enthusiasm that would have done
credit to those poor little Kashmiri sluts who bathed me so devotedly
at Lahore, the night the ceiling fell in.* Aye, I've wallowed
in some odd spots in my time, but nowhere more happily than
Berlin, with that delightful mermaid performing as though Shoveloff
had never existed, and the floor ankle-deep in suds. Heaven
knows what the charwoman had to say in the morning.
It cheered Caprice up no end, and by the time we'd dried off
and drowsed a little and made an early breakfast of coffee and rolls,
she was her vivacious self again, even making fun of Shovel-off's
amorous peculiarities. Her first report for Blowitz was a brief one,
the Galloping Cossack having been too intent on his muttons for
much conversation, but having taken his measure she was sure she
could make him sing in due course. "A shallow fool, mais pompeux,
and his brain is in his - " was her charming verdict. "Also
he is jealous of his leader, the Prince Gorchakov." She lowered
an eyelid. "Let me touch that key, and he will boast everything
he knows!"
And I guess he did. Having sampled her myself, and marked
her Al at Flashy's, I'd still wondered if she could keep Shuvalov
in thrall for the whole Congress - it lasted a month, you know but
damme if she didn't. Not that he saddled her up every night,
* See Flashman and the Mountain of Light 36
you understand, but more often than not, and whether she was
ringing the changes. Pride o' the Hareem one night, Gretchen the
Governess the next, or was tempting him with different flavours
of jam, I didn't inquire. She kept him happy, I had my ration of
her, and for the rest, Blowitz's arrangements went like clockwork:
there he was every day, browsing at the Kaiserhof while I lunched
at t'other side of the room, never a glance between us, and each
picking up the other's tile when we left.
We had one scare, when an idiot diner by mistake went off with
my hat containing Caprice's report. My first thought was, oh lor',
we're rumbled, and I was ready to make for the long grass till I
saw that Blowitz was on the q.v., but instead of leaping up with
screams of "Ah, voleur! Render Ie chapeau as you'd expect
from a Bohemian Frog, he quietly despatched a waiter in pursuit,
the apologetic diner replaced my roof on its peg - and no attention
had been drawn to Blowitz or to me. My opinion of little fat Stefan
went up another rung; he was a cool hand - and even, it seemed
to me, sometimes a reckless one.
It was about halfway through the Congress, when the other
correspondents were all in a frenzy at the absolute lack of news
from the secret sessions, that he broke cover with an item that was
plainly from the horse's mouth. Gorchakov had made some speech
in camera, and there was the gist of it in The Times two days later.
Diplomatic Berlin was in uproar at once; who could have leaked
the news? It was after this that Bismarck, who took the breach as
a personal affront, looked under the table to see if Blowitz was
roosting there. His fury was even greater soon after, when The
Times had the news that D'Israeli had threatened to leave Berlin
over some wrangle that had arisen, and then decided to stay after
all.
Of course the blabberer in both cases had been Shuvalov, as I
learned from Caprice, who had passed the glad tidings on to Blowitz
via my tile. I was fearful that Shovel-off might twig he was
being milked, but she "Pouf!"-ed it away; he was too dull and
besotted to know what he was saying after she'd put him over the
jumps, and depend upon it, says she, Stefan knew what he was
about.
She was right, too. The little fox had been angling, like every
37
other scribbler, for an interview with Bismarck - and after the
column about Dizzy appeared, hanged if he didn't get one! Otto,
you see, was so piqued and mystified that his precious Congress
was being blown upon, that he invited Blowitz to dinner, no doubt
hoping to learn what his source had been. Fat chance. Blowitz
came away with a five-hour interview, leaving the Iron Chancellor
none the wiser and fit to be tied. The Times triumphed yet again,
and the rest of the press gang could only gnash their teeth.
What between helping to spoil Bismarck's digestion and whiling
away the golden afternoons with Caprice (for we'd abandoned our
nocturnal meetings, and I was collecting her reports in the momings)
I was in pretty bobbish form, and took to promenading about
the town in search of amusement. I didn't find it on one day at
least, when chance took me down the Wilhelmstrasse past the
Congress hall, and who should I meet face to face but dear Otto
himself; he was with a group of his bag-carriers and other reptiles,
coming down the steps to his carriage, and for one blood-freezing
instant our eyes met - as they had not done since that day at
Tarlenheim thirty years before when he'd launched me unsuspecting
into his ghastly Strackenz murder plot. I'd never have
recognised him if I hadn't seen his mug in the papers, for the nasty
young Norse God had turned into a jowly sausage-faced old buffer
whose head seemed to grow straight out of his collar without
benefit of neck. Just for a second he stared, and I thought bigod
he remembers me, but there ain't a thing he can do, so why don't
I exclaim: "Well, Otto, old sport, there you are, then! Drowned
any Danish princelings lately?" It's the kind of momentary madness
that sometimes takes me, but thank God I tipped my tile
instead, he did likewise, frowning, and a moment later he was
clambering aboard and I was legging it in search of a gallon or
two of brandy. Quite a turn he'd given me - but then, he always
did. Bad medicine, Bismarck; bad man.
I kept clear of the official cantonment thereafter, and by the last
week of the Congress was beginning to be infernally bored, even
with Caprice; when I found myself knocking at her door in the
expectation of having it opened by Elspeth, smiling blonde and
beautiful, I realised it was time for the train home. Oddly enough,
if I'd cut out then it wouldn't have mattered, for Blowitz no longer
38
needed her reports, although he continued to change hats with me
at the Kaiserhof.
The fact was his stock had risen so high with his three "scoops"
that he was being fed information by the bushel, the embassy
fawns being anxious to stand well with him; he even put it about,
very confidential-like, that Bismarck had promised to give him the
treaty before it was published, which wasn't true, but made
them toad-eat him harder than ever. I knew nothing of this, of
course, and on the penultimate day of the Congress, a Friday, as
I was strolling home enjoying the morning after a strenuous late
breakfast with Caprice, I was taken flat aback by Blowitz's moon
face goggling at me from the window of a drosky drawn up near
my hotel.
"In! In!" hisses he, whipping down the blind, so I climbed
aboard, demanding what the devil was up, and before I was seated
he was hammering on the roof and bawling to the coachee to make
for the station with all speed.
"We leave on the 12.30 for Cologne!" cries he. "Fear not, your
bill is paid and your baggage awaits at the train!"
"The dooce it does! But the Congress don't end till tomorrow
- "
"Let it end when it will! It is imperative that I leave Berlin at
once - that I am seen to leave, mortified and en colereV He was
red with excitement - and beaming. "Regardez-moi - do I look
sufficiently enraged, then?"
"You sound sufficiently barmy. But what about the treaty - I
thought ('wasn't to be finished until this evening?"
He pulled back the lapel of his coat, chuckling, whipped out a
bulky document, waved it at me, and thrust it away again. "A
treaty of sixty-four articles - approved, printed,^;! What d'you
say to that, my boy? Nothing remains but the preamble and a few
extra clauses to be adopted at today's session." He rubbed his
hands, squirming with delight. "It is done, dear friend, it is done?
Blowitz triumphs! He is exalted! Ah, and you, my brave one, my
accomplice extraordinary, I could embrace you-"
"Keep your dam' distance! Look here, if you've got the thing,
what are you in such an infernal hurry for?"
He smote his forehead. "Ah, forgive me - in my joy I go too
39
fast. Let me explain." He was licking his lips at his own cleverness.
"You remember I told you in Paris how I would persuade some
diplomat of eminence to give me an advance copy of the treaty? Eh bien, this morning I received it. I rejoice, knowing that no
other journalist will see the treaty until after the signing ceremony
tomorrow. But in the meantime a crisis has raised itself. Since my
interview with Prince Bismarck the German press has been in
jealous agitation, and to pacify them he has let it be known that
he will give them the treaty this evening When I learn this, I am
thunders truck!" He assumed a look of horror. "Of what use to me
to have the treaty in my pocket if it is to appear in the Berlin
journals tomorrow? Where then is my exclusive account, my priority
over my rivals?"
"Down the drain, I'd say. So why are you exalted?" .
"Because I see at once how to frustrate them. I go to Prince
Hohenlohe, the German Minister, and demand that as a reward for
my services to the Congress - and because I am Blowitz - Prince
Bismarck should give the treaty only to me, so that I may publish
it in The Times tomorrow. Hohenlohe consults Bismarck, who
refuses (as I knew he would). He says I must wait until it is signed.
But," he raised a pudgy finger, "I know Bismarck. He is one for
strict justice. Having said I must wait until tomorrow, he will now
make the German papers wait also. So, in effect, I have gained a
postponement . . . you see?"
I don't know if Macchiavelli was a fat little cove with long
whiskers, but he should have been.
"When Prince Hohenlohe tells me my request is refused, I play
my part. I am affronted. My disgust knows no bounds. I tell him
I am leaving Berlin at once in protest. If Blowitz is to be treated
with such contempt, they may keep their Congress and their treaty.
Hohenlohe is dismayed, but I am adamant. I take my leave in what
you call the dudgeon - and word flies from mouth to mouth that
Blowitz is beaten, that he sulks like a spoiled child, my rivals rejoice
at my failure - and breathe sighs of relief . . . and all the time the
treaty is here -" he tapped his breast, chortling "- and tomorrow
it will appear in The Times and in no other paper in the world!"
He paused to draw breath and gloat; you never saw smugness
like it, so I pointed to the one fly I saw in his ointment.
40
"But you haven't got the preamble or the clauses they're adopting
today."
He gave a lofty wave. "Soft tranquil, my 'Arree. From Hohenlohe
I go tout suite to M. de St Vallier, the French Ambassador who
I know has a copy of the preamble. In confidence I show him
the treaty. He is staggered, he goes pale, but when I ask for the
preamble and clauses, he throws up the hands, crying why not,
since already I have so much? He cannot give me his copy of the
preamble, but he reads it aloud, page upon page, and now it is
here - " he tapped his brow " - and will be dictated to my secretary
after we board the train."
I ain't given to expressions of admiration, as you know, but
looking at that grinning cherub with his baby peepers and daft
whiskers I confess I put a finger to my hat brim. "Though I still
don't see why you're in such an almighty sweat to leave. Can't
you telegraph your story to London?"
"From Berlin? Oh, my boy, you want to laugh! Where my every
action is watched, my movements followed - why, let a telegraph
clerk catch a glimpse of my message and I should be in a police
cell!" He grew earnest. "But it is not the authorities I fear - it is
envious rivals. My little charade of pique will deceive the many,
but not all. Some, knowing Blowitz, will suspect me still. They
may board the train. They would rob me if they could. That," says
he, clapping a hand on my knee, "is why I bring you with me: I
am small, you are large. Who knows what they may attempt
between here and Paris? But what have I to fear," cries he, with
a great idiot laugh, "when the bravest soldier of the British Army,
the partner of my fate, is by my side?"
A great deal, I could have told him, if Bismarck's bullies were
after him; he'd find himself relying on the communication cord.
But no, that wasn't likely; even Otto wouldn't dare. Blowitz's
brother journalists were another matter, as I saw when we reached
the station, and they were on the platform to see him off with
covert grins and ironic tile-doffing; I hadn't realised what respect
and jealousy my stout friend attracted. He bustled down the train
looking like an angry frog in his great fur coat and felt hat, ignoring
their greetings, and I played up by taking his arm and wearing my
most threatening scowl.
41
The secretary and Blowitz's colleague. Wallace, were already
aboard, and when we pulled out punctually on 12.30, Blowitz told
the secretary to get out his book, folded his hands across his
paunch, closed his eyes, and recited steadily for half an hour. It
was fearful stuff, all in German, with an occasional phrase in
French or English by way of explanation, and he didn't even pause;
once, when the train clanked to an unexpected halt and we were
almost jolted from our seats, he forged right ahead with his dictation,
and when it was done he sat drooping like a limp doll, and
then went straight off to sleep. For concentration and power of
mind, I don't recall his equal.
Sure enough, there were fellows from the other papers on the train. Wallace spotted two Germans and an Italian in the next
carriage, but once one of 'em had tried to look in on us, and I'd
sent him about his business, they let us alone. They followed us
when we alighted for refreshment at Cologne, but we baffled 'em
by each taking a different way back to the train, so that they had
to separate, one dogging Blowitz, another behind me, the third
after the secretary - and no one at all to watch Wallace, who was
lurking in the W.C. with treaty, preamble and all inside his shirt,
until the time came for him to board another train to Brussels,
where he would telegraph the whole thing to London. Wallace had
wondered if the Belgians would accept such an important document;
Blowitz told him that if there was any difficulty he was to
send for the superintendent, tell him The Times was thinking of
setting up (and paying handsomely for) a daily line to London,
and that this despatch was by way of a test. Of course, if Brussels
didn't want the business . . .'nuff said.
So next morning, Saturday July 13, 1878, before the leading
statesmen of Europe had even penned their signatures to the treaty,
Otto Bismarck was goggling apoplectically at a telegram from
London informing him that the whole sixty-four articles, preamble,
etc., were in that day's Times - with an English translation. Talk
about a "scoop"! Blowitz was drunk with glory, conceit, and
gratitude when I managed to tear myself from his blubbering
embrace in Paris, and I wasn't displeased myself. T'isn't every
day you play a part in one of the great journalistic coups, and
whenever I see some curmudgeon at the club cursing at the labour
42
of cutting open his Times and then complaining that there's no
news in the dam' thing, I think, aye, you should see what goes to
the making of those paragraphs that you take for granted, my boy.
My one regret as I tooled back to London was that I hadn't been
able to bid a riotous farewell to Caprice; she'd been worth the trip,
ne'er mind spoking Otto's wheel, and I found myself smiling
fondly as I thought of Punch and the gauzy lace clinging to that
houri shape in the sunlight . . . Ah well, there would doubtless be
more where that came from.
In case you don't know, the great Berlin Treaty panned out to
general satisfaction - for the time being anyway. "Big Bulgaria"
was cut in two; Roumania, you'll be charmed to learn, became
independent; Austria won the right to occupy Bosnia and
Herzogovina (which only an idiot would want to do, in my opinion,
but then I ain't the Emperor Franz-Josef); Russia got Bessarabia,
wherever that may be; the Turks remained a power in the Balkans,
more or less, and by some strange sleight of hand we managed to
collar Cyprus (no fool, D'lsraeli, for all he dressed like a Pearly
King). There had been a move at one stage (this is gospel, though
you mayn't credit it) to invite my old comrade William Tecumseh
Sherman, the Yankee general, to become Prince of Bulgaria, but
nothing came of it. Pity; he was the kind of savage who'd have
suited the Bulgars like nuts in May.
At all events, what they call "a balance" was achieved, and
everyone agreed that Bismarck had played a captain's innings,
hoch! hoch! und he's ein jolly good fellow. So he ought to have
been content - but I can tell you something that wasn't suspected
at the time, and has been known to only a handful since: the
Congress left darling Otto an obsessed man. It's God's truth: the
brute was bedevilled by the galling fact that little Blowitz had
stolen a march on him, and he could not figure out how it had been
done. Astonishing, eh? Here was the greatest statesman of the age,
who'd just settled the peace of Europe for a generation and more,
and still that trifle haunted him over the years. Perhaps 'twas the
affront to his dignity, or his passion for detail, but he couldn't rest
until he knew how Blowitz had got hold of that treaty. How do /
know, you may ask? Well, I'm about to tell you - and I'm not
sure that Bismarck's mania (for that's what it amounted to) wasn't
43
the strangest part of the adventure that befell me five years later,
and which had its origins in my meetings with Grant and Macmahon,
Caprice's picture, and the Congress of Berlin.8
44
The trouble with a reputation like mine is that
you're bound to live up to it. It's damnably unfair. Take General
Binks or Colonel Snooks, true-blue military muttonheads, brave
as bedamned, athirst for glory, doing their dutiful asinine bit in
half a dozen campaigns, but never truly catching the public eye,
and at last selling out and retiring from obscurity to Cheltenham
with a couple of wounds and barely enough to pay the club subscription,
foot the memsahib's whist bill, send Adolphus to a crammer
'cos the Wellington fees are beyond them, and afford a drunken
loafer to neglect the garden of Ramilles or Quatre Bras or whatever
they choose to call their infernal villas. That's Snooks and Binks;
profitable labour to the grave, and no one notices.
And then take Flashy, born poltroon and wastrel, pitchforked
against his will into the self-same expeditions and battles, scared
out of his wits but surviving by shirking, turning tail, pretence,
betrayal, and hiding behind better men - and emerging at the end
o' the day, by blind luck and astonishing footwork, with a V.C.,
knighthood, a string of foreign decorations as long as Riley's crime
sheet, a bloody fortune in the bank, and a name and fame for
derring-do that's the talk of the Empire. Well now. Flash old son,
says you, that's compensation surely, for all the horrors wnmanfully
endured - and don't forget that along the road you've had enough
assorted trollop to fill Chelsea Barracks, with an annexe at Aldershot.
And Elspeth, the most undeserved benefit of all.
Furthermore, you've walked with the great ones of the earth,
enjoy the admiring acquaintance of your gracious Queen and half
a dozen other royalties and presidents, to say nothing of ministers
and other prominent rabble, and are blessed (this is the best of it)
with grandlings and great-grandlings too numerous to count . . .
45
so what the devil have you to complain of? Heavens, man, Binks
and Snooks would give their right arms (supposing they haven't
already left 'em in the Punjab or Zululand or China, from which you escaped with a pretty whole skin) for one-fiftieth of your glory
and loot. And you've never been found out ... a few leery looks
here and there, but no lasting blemishes, much. So chubbarao* Flashy, and count yourself lucky.
Well, I do; damned lucky. But there's been a price to pay, and
I don't mean in terror and agony and suffering. Not at all. My
cavil is that having bought it cruel hard, I wasn't left to enjoy it
in peace, like Binks and Snooks. They could run up to Town to
get their hair cut and drop in at the club at a moment of national
crisis, and no one paid them any heed, much less expected 'em to
race round to Horse Guards applying to be let loose against the
Ashantis or the Dervishes or whatever other blood-drinking heathen
were cayoodling round the imperial outposts. Retired, gone
to grass, out of reckoning absolutely, that was Colonel Snooks and
General Binks.
Ah, but Flashy was a different bag of biltong altogether. Let
some daft fakir start a rising in a godforsaken corner you never
heard of, or the British lion's tail be tweaked anywhere between
Shanghai and Sudan, and some journalistic busybody would be
sure to recall that 'twas in that very neck of the woods that the
gallant Flashy, Hector of Afghanistan, defender of Piper's Fort,
leader of the Light Brigade, won his spurs or saved the day or
committed some equally spectacular folly (with his guts dissolving
and praying for the chance to flee or surrender, if only they knew it).
"The hour demands the man, and who better to uphold Britannia's
honour in her present need than the valiant veteran of Lucknow
and Balaclava ..." and so forth. They were never rash enough to
suggest I should have command, but seemed to have in mind some
auxiliary post of Slaughterer-General, as befitting my desperate
reputation.
Not that the ha'penny press matters - but the United Service
and Pall Mall do, with their raised eyebrows and faintly critical
astonishment. "Ah, Flashman, lamentable business in Egypt, what?
* Be quiet! (Hind.)
46
Goin' with Wolseley, I dare say . . . No? You surprise me." Dash
it, you can see them thinking, man of his reputation, prime of life,
don't he know his duty, good God? If I'd had the belly of Binks
or Snooks's gout (both of 'em younger than I) I'd not be thought
of, but when you've a lancer figure and barely a touch of grey in
your whiskers and the renown of Bayard, you're expected to be
clamouring for service. And when your sovereign lady regards you
pop-eyed over the tea-cups with a bland "I expect, dear Sir Harry,
that you will be accompanying Sir Garnet to Egypt," you can
hardly remind her that you're past sixty and disinclined, especially
when the idiot you married in an evil hour is assuring Her Majesty
that you're champing at the bit. (Wanted me away, I suspect, so
that she could cuckold me in comfort.) All round it's a case of
"No show without Flashy", and before you can say God-help-us
you're in the desert listening to "Cock o' the North" and trying
to look as though you're itching to come to grips with twice your
weight in angry niggers.
It is, I repeat, damnably unfair, and by the autumn of '83 I'd
had enough of it. In the five years since Otto's Congress I'd been
well in the public eye, chiefly because of my supposed heroics in
South Africa in '79 - a place I'd have shunned like the plague but
for Elspeth's insatiable fondness for money, as if old Morrison's
million wasn't enough without bothering her empty head over her
cousin's supposed mine (but I'll record that disgusting episode
another day). Then in '82 there had been the Egyptian garboil I
mentioned a moment ago; Joe Wolseley had asked for me pointblank,
and with the press applauding and the Queen approving and
Elspeth bursting into tears as I rogered her farewell, what the
blazes could I do but fall in?
In the event it wasn't the worst campaign I've seen, not by a
mile; at least it was short. We only went in with great reluctance
(when did Gladstone ever show anything else?) to help the Khedive
quell his rebellious army, who were slaughtering Christians and
vowing to drive all foreigners from the country - bad news for
our Suez Canal investors (44 per cent, what?) and our lifeline to
India. Joe brought 'em to heel smartly enough at TelelKebir,
where the kilties massacred everything in sight, and my only bad
scare was when I found myself perforce charging with the Tin
47
Bellies at Kassassin, but by gallantly turning aside to help Baker
Russell when his horse was shot, and so arriving when the golliwog
infantry were already taking to their heels, I missed the worst of
it, cursing my bad luck and Baker for holding me up. A good glare
and loud roar, sabre in hand, work wonders; Joe said I'd been an
inspiration to the Household riders, and wanted me to stay on at
Cairo, but I muttered that he didn't need me now that peace was
breaking out, and his staff wallopers grinned at each other and
said wasn't that old Flashy, just?9
I was mighty glad to be home by Christmas of '82, I can tell
you, for while Egypt was quiet enough by then, I could guess it
was liable to be hot enough presently, and not just with the sun.
After we'd brought the Khedive's troops back to their allegiance,
the idea was that we'd withdraw, but that was all my eye (we're
there yet, have you noticed?), for down south, in the Sudan, the
war drums were already beating, with the maniac Mahdi stirring
up the Fuzzy-Wuzzies in a great jihad to conquer the world, with
Egypt first on the list. Hell of a place the Sudan, all rock and sand
and thorn and the most monstrous savages in creation; Charley
Gordon, my China acquaintance, had governed it in the 70s, and
spent most of his time poring over the Scriptures and chasing
slavers before retiring to Palestine to watch rocks and contemplate
the Infinite. Mad as a cut snake, he was, but the Sudan had gone
to pot entirely after he left, and was now going to need attention
- from guess who? From the Khedive's army, led by soldiers of
the Queen, that was who, whether Gladstone liked it or not, and
I was shot if I was going to be one of 'em.
So I came home, along of Joe and Bimbashi Stewart and others,
having served my turn - but would you believe it, in '83 when
that immortal ass Hicks was given command of the Khedive's
army, half of whom had been our enemies a few months earlier,
and told to deal with the Sudan, there were those at Horse Guards
with the brazen cheek to suggest that I should go out again, to
serve on his staff? Since he was my junior, I was able to scotch
that flat, but when word came in September that he'd gone off
Mahdi-hunting at last, blowed if one of the gutter rags didn't come
out with a leaderette regretting "that the task has fallen to an officer
of comparative inexperience, while such distinguished soldiers as
48
Lord Wolseley, Major-General Gordon, and Sir Harry Flashman,
men thoroughly familiar with the country and the enemy, remain
at home or unemployed."
It was the mention of Gordon's name, more than my own, that
brought the sweat out on my brow, for while no one in his senses
would suggest that / should replace Hicks, there was a strong shave
in the clubs that Cracked Charley would be recalled and given the
job, and I knew that if he was. Flashy would be the first he'd want
to enlist.10 China had given him the misguided notion that I was
the devil's own fire-eater, and just the chap to have on hand when
Fuzzy charged the square. Well, soldiering under Joe Wolseley
had been bad enough, but at least he was sane. Gordon? I'd as
soon go to war with the town drunk. The man wasn't safe - sticking
forks in people and scattering tracts from railway carriages and
accosting perfect strangers to see if they'd met Jesus lately, I ask
you! No, a holiday abroad was indicated, before the Mad Sapper
came recruiting.
And I'd just reached that conclusion when Blowitz's letter, bearing
that fateful second photograph, landed on the breakfast table.
It couldn't have come more pat. This is what he wrote, with more
underlinings and points of admiration than Elspeth at her worst not
Times style at all:
Dearest Friend!
I write to you by Royal Command - what do you think
of that!! It is true - a PRINCESS, no less! And such a
Princess, plus belle et elegant, whose most Ardent Desire
is to meet the gallant and renowned Sir H.F. - for reasons
which I shall explain when we meet.
Come to Paris no later than October the fourth, my dear
Harry. I promise you will be enchanted and oblige your
best of friends and loyal comrade in destiny
Stefan 0-B.
P.S. Recalling your interest in photography! I enclose
a portrait of Her Royal Highness. A bient6t}
Well, wasn't this the ticket? Elspeth was in Scotland enduring
her sisters, and here was the ideal billet where I could lurk incog.
49
while Gordon beat the bushes - and enjoy some good carnal amusement,
to judge from the photograph. Not that Her Highness was
an outstanding beauty, but her picture grew on me as I studied it.
It showed a tall, imposing female standing proud in a splendid
gown of state, a coronet on her piled blonde hair, one gloved hand
resting on the arm of a throne, the other holding a plumed fan, the
sash of a jewelled order over her bare shoulders, and enough bijouterie disposed about her stately person to start a bazaar. She
was in profile, surveying the distance with a chilling contempt
which sat perfectly on a rather horsy face with a curved highbridged
nose. Minor Mittel European royalty to the life, with the
same stench-in-the-nostrils look as my darling little Irma ofStrackenz,
but nowhere near as pretty. Striking, though, and there were
promising signs: she'd be about forty and properly saddle-broken,
with the full mouth and drooping lower lip which betoken a hearty
appetite, and a remarkable wasp waist between a fine full rump
and upper works which would have made Miss Marie Lloyd look
positively elfin. I could imagine stripping her down and watching
her arrogance diminish with each departing garment. And she had
an Ardent Desire to meet the gallant Sir H.F. I reached for
Bradshaw.
Reading the letter again later, it struck me that there was something
familiar about it; an echo of the past which I couldn't place
- until a couple of days later, the afternoon of October the third
to be precise, when I was ensconced in my smoker on the Continental
Mail Express, and suddenly I knew what I'd been reminded of:
that doom-laden summons that had taken me to Lola Montez in
Munich, oh, so long ago. There was the same slightly eccentric
wording (though Blowitz's English was a cut above that of Lola's
Chancellor - what had his name been? Aye, Lauengram) and the
purport was uncannily similar: an invitation from an exotic titled
woman of mystery, for reasons unstated, with a strong hint of
fleshly pleasures in prospect . . . and what besides? In Lola's case
there had been a nightmare of terror, intrigue, imposture, and
deadly danger from which I'd barely escaped with my life - oh,
but that had been a Bismarck plot in the bad old days; this was
jolly little Blowitz, and a doubtless spoiled and jaded piece of
aristocracy in search of novelty and excitement .. . but how had
50
she heard of me (Blowitz cracking me up, to be sure) and why
was I worth fetching across the Channel? Odd, that - and for no
reason I remembered Rudi Stamberg's voice across the years:
"She brought me all the way from Hungary", and found myself
shivering. And why no later than October the fourth?
Aye, odd . . . but not fishy, surely? It's the curse of a white liver
that it has you starting at shadows, imagining perils where none
exist. On t'other hand, it's been a useful storm signal over the years, and it was still at work ever so little when we pulled into
the Gare du Nord.
At the sight of Blowitz on the platform, my cares dissolved. He
was a trifle plumper in the cheek, a shade greyer in the whisker,
but still the same joyful little bonhomme, rolling forward waving
his cane with glad cries, fairly leaping up to embrace me and dam'
near butting me under the chin, chattering nineteen to the dozen
as he led me out to a fiacre, and not letting me get a word in until
we were seated at the self-same table in Voisin's, when he had to
leave off to attend to the maitre. I couldn't help grinning at him
across the table, he looked so confounded cheery.
"Well, it's famous to see you again, old Blow," says I, when
he'd ordered and filled our glasses. "Here's to you, and to this
mysterious lady. Now - who is she . . . and what does she want?"
He drank and wiped his whiskers, business-like. "The Princess
Kralta. But of blood the most ancient in Europe, descended from
Stefan Bathory, Arnulf of Carinthia, Barbarossa . . . name whom
you will, she is de la royaute la plus royale - and landless, as the
best monarchs are. But rich, to judge from the state she keeps oh,
and received everywhere, on terms with the highest. She is
befriended of die German Emperor, for example, and-" he shot
me a quizzy look "- of our old acquaintance Prince Bismarck.
No-no-no," he added hastily, "her intimacy with him is of a ...
how shall I say? ... of an unconventional kind."
"I've met some of his unconventional intimates, and I didn't
take to 'em a bit. If she's one of his "
"She is not one of anyone's! I mention Bismarck only because
when I first met the Princess she brought me a friendly message
from him. C'est vrai, absolument Can you guess what it was?
That he bears me no ill will for my activities at the Congress of
51
while Gordon beat the bushes - and enjoy some good carnal amusement,
to judge from the photograph. Not that Her Highness was
an outstanding beauty, but her picture grew on me as I studied it. It showed a tall, imposing female standing proud in a splendid
gown of state, a coronet on her piled blonde hair, one gloved hand
resting on the arm of a throne, the other holding a plumed fan, the
sash of a jewelled order over her bare shoulders, and enough bijouterie disposed about her stately person to start a bazaar. She
was in profile, surveying the distance with a chilling contempt
which sat perfectly on a rather horsy face with a curved highbridged
nose. Minor Mittel European royalty to the life, with the
same stench-in-the-nostrils look as my darling little Irma ofStrackenz,
but nowhere near as pretty. Striking, though, and there were
promising signs: she'd be about forty and properly saddle-broken,
with the full mouth and drooping lower lip which betoken a hearty
appetite, and a remarkable wasp waist between a fine full rump
and upper works which would have made Miss Marie Lloyd look positively elfin. I could imagine stripping her down and watching
her arrogance diminish with each departing garment. And she had
an Ardent Desire to meet the gallant Sir H.F. I reached for
Bradshaw.
Reading the letter again later, it struck me that there was something
familiar about it; an echo of the past which I couldn't place
- until a couple of days later, the afternoon of October the third
to be precise, when I was ensconced in my smoker on the Continental
Mail Express, and suddenly I knew what I'd been reminded of:
that doom-laden summons that had taken me to Lola Montez in
Munich, oh, so long ago. There was the same slightly eccentric
wording (though Blowitz's English was a cut above that of Lola's
Chancellor - what had his name been? Aye, Lauengram) and the
purport was uncannily similar: an invitation from an exotic titled
woman of mystery, for reasons unstated, with a strong hint of
fleshly pleasures in prospect . . . and what besides? In Lola's case
there had been a nightmare of terror, intrigue, imposture, and
deadly danger from which I'd barely escaped with my life - oh,
but that had been a Bismarck plot in the bad old days; this was
jolly little Blowitz, and a doubtless spoiled and jaded piece of
aristocracy in search of novelty and excitement . . . but how had
50
she heard of me (Blowitz cracking me up, to he sure) and why
was I worth fetching across the Channel? Odd, that - and for no
reason I remembered Rudi Stamberg's voice across the years:
She brought me all the way from Hungary", and found myself
shivering. And why no later than October the fourth?
Aye, odd ... but not fishy, surely? It's the curse of a white liver
that it has you starting at shadows, imagining perils where none
exist. On t'other hand, it's been a useful storm signal over the years, and it was still at work ever so little when we pulled into
the Gare du Nord.
At the sight of Blowitz on the platform, my cares dissolved. He
was a trifle plumper in the cheek, a shade greyer in the whisker,
but still the same joyful little bonhomme, rolling forward waving
his cane with glad cries, fairly leaping up to embrace me and dam'
near butting me under the chin, chattering nineteen to the dozen
as he led me out to a fiacre, and not letting me get a word in until
we were seated at the self-same table in Voisin's. when he had to
leave off to attend to the maitre. I couldn't help grinning at him
across the table, he looked so confounded cheery.
"Well, it's famous to see you again, old Blow," says I, when
he'd ordered and filled our glasses. "Here's to you, and to this
mysterious lady. Now - who is she . . . and what does she want?"
He drank and wiped his whiskers, business-like. "The Princess
Kralta. But of blood the most ancient in Europe, descended from
Stefan Bathory, Arnulf of Carinthia, Barbarossa . . . name whom
you will, she is de la royaute la plus royale - and landless, as the
best monarchs are. But rich, to judge from the state she keeps oh,
and received everywhere, on terms with the highest. She is
befriended of the German Emperor, for example, and-" he shot me a quizzy look "- of our old acquaintance Prince Bismarck.
No-no-no," he added hastily, "her intimacy with him is of a ...
how shall 1 say? ... of an unconventional kind."
"I've met some of his unconventional intimates, and I didn't
take to 'em a bit. If she's one of his "
"She is not one of anyone's! I mention Bismarck only because
when I first met the Princess she brought me a friendly message
from him. C'est vrai, absolument Can you guess what it was?
That he bears me no ill will for my activities at the Congress of
51
Berlin!" He shook his head, chuckling. "Can you believe it, eh?"
"No - and neither will you if you've any sense. That bastard
never forgave or forgot in his life. Very well, ne'er mind him what
more about this Princess? Is she married?" It's always best
to know beforehand.
"There is a husband." He shrugged. "But he does not figure."
"Uh-huh ... so, what does she want with me?"
He gave a little snort of laughter. "What do women ever want
with you? Ah, but there is something else also." He leaned forward
to whisper, looking droll. "She wishes to know a secret ... a
secret that she believes only you can tell her."
He sat back as the food arrived, with a cautioning gesture in
case I made some indiscreet outcry, I suppose. Since I knew the
little blighter's delight in mysterious hints I just waded into the
grub.
"You do not ask what it is?" he grumbled. "Ah, but of course
- Ie flegrne Britannique Never mind, you will raise a brow when
you hear, I promise!"
And I did, for I never heard an unlikelier tale in my life - all
of it true, for I saw it confirmed in the little blighter's memoirs a
few years ago, and why should he lie to posterity? But even at the
time I believed it because, being a crook myself, I can spot a
straight tongue, and Blowitz had one.
He'd met the Princess Kralta at a diplomatic dinner, and plainly
fallen head over heels - as he often did, in his harmless romantic
way - and she had equally plainly given him every encouragement.
"You have seen her likeness, but believe me, it tells you nothing!
How to describe her . . . her magnetisme, the light of charm in
those great blue eyes, the little toss of her silky blonde hair as she
smiles, revealing the brilliancy of her small teeth - you found her
portrait forbidding, nora? My friend, when you see those queenly
features melt into the tenderest of expressions, the animation of
her darting glances, the melodious quality of her voice ... ah, mais ravissante -- "
"Whoa, steady lad, mind the cutlery. Liked her, did you?"
"My friend, I was enchanted!" He sighed like a ruptured poodle.
"I confess it, I who have encountered the charms of the loveliest
women in Europe, that the Princess Kralta wove a spell about me.
52
And it is not only her person that allures, her exquisite elegance,
her divinity of shape and movement-''
"Aye, she's well titled out, I noticed."
"-but the beauty of her nature, her frank friendliness and ease
of deportment, the candour of her confidences ..."
He babbled through the next two courses, but don't suppose that
I despised his raptures - there are women like that, and as often
as not they're not the ones of perfect feature. Angle BurdettCoutts
was no radiant looker, but she'd have caused a riot in the College
of Cardinals simply by walking by, whereas the Empress of Austria,
of whom more presently, was perfection of face and figure
and quite as exciting as a plate of mashed turnip. I'd seen enough
of la Kralta in her picture to believe that she might well have the
magic, February face or no.
She'd gone out of her way to captivate Blowitz over a period
of months, doing him little kindnesses, making friends with his
wife, and trusting him with her most intimate confidences - which
is the surest way a woman has of getting a man under her dainty
thumb. Once or twice she spoke of the Berlin Congress, and Hismarck's
curiosity as to how Blowitz had got his "scoop" - it had
irritated Otto that he couldn't fathom that, and he'd told her he
was determined to find out some day.
"Indeed, my friend," says Blowitz to me as he plunged into his
dessert, "she confessed to me that she had promised the Prince
she would use all her womanly wiles to wring the secret from me.
I admired her honesty in admitting as much, but assured her that
I never, under any persuasion, betray my sources. She laughed,
and told me playfully that she would continue to try to beguile the
truth from me."
"And did she succeed?"
"No - but I was content that she should try. One does nothing
to discourage the attention of a lady of such fascination. I am not
vain of my attractions," sighs he, glancing ruefully at the balding
little tub with ghastly whiskers reflected in the long glass on
Voisin's wall, "and I know when I am being . . . how would you ^y? . . . worked upon. I enjoy it, and my affection and regard for
the lady are not diminished. Rather they increase as she continues
to confide in me with a candour which suggests that her friendship
53
and interest in me are true, and not merely assumed. Listen, and
judge for yourself."
And he launched into a piece of scandal which I'd have said no
woman in her right mind would have confided to a journalist not
if she valued her reputation, as presumably this Kralta female
did. Yet she'd confessed it, says Blowitz, to convince him how
deeply she trusted him.
This was her story: she'd been staying at some fashionable spa
where the German Emperor, an amiable dotard with whom, as
Blowitz had said, she was on friendly terms, had sent for her in
great agitation. Would she do him a favour - a service to the state
and to the peace of the world? At your service. Majesty, says loyal
Kralta. The Emperor had then confessed that he was damnably
worried about Bismarck: the Chancellor was in a distracted state,
nervous, irritable, complaining about everyone, suspicious that the
Great Powers were plotting mischief against Germany, moody,
obstinate, and off his oats entirely. Even now he was alone on his
estate, sunk in the brooding dumps, and unless something was
done he'd go to pieces altogether; international complications,
possibly even war, v/ould follow.
What Otto needed to set him to rights, said the Emperor, was
an amusement, something to divert him from vexatious affairs of
state - and Princess Kralta was just the girl to provide it. She must
visit Bismarck's estate in perfect secrecy, taking only her maid
and enough clothing for a week's stay; anonymous agents would
drive her to the station, put her in a reserved compartment, meet
her, arrange delivery of her luggage, and take care of all expenses.
Her husband would have been got out of the way before her
departure: the Emperor would send him to Berlin on a mission
which would keep him there until after Kralta had returned to the
spa. No word of her visit must be spoken; the Emperor's part must
never be mentioned.
Blowitz paused. "She agreed, without hesitation."
"Hold on there!" says I. "Are you telling me that the German
Emperor, the All-Highest Kaiser of the Fatherland, pimped for
Otto Bismarck? Get away with you!"
"I am telling you," says Blowitz primly, "precisely what the
Princess told me. No more, no less, c'est tout."
54
"Well, dammit, what she's saying is that she was sent - where,
Schonhausen? - to grind Otto into a good humour!"
"I do not know 'grind'. And she did not mention Schonhausen.
May I continue?"
"Oh, pray do! I'm all attention!"
"She goes to Bismarck. He asks 'Did the Emperor send you?'
She says he did not, and that she has come to see how such a
great man will receive 'a giddy little person who ventures into the
lion's solitude' - those were her very words to me. The Chancellor
laughs, hopes it will not be a short visit, and then," says Blowitz,
poker-faced, "assists her to unpack her 'frills and furbelows' her
own words again - expressing gay amusement as he does so."
He shrugged and sat back, helping himself to brandy.
"Well, come on, man! What else did she tell you?"
"Only that at the end of her visit the Chancellor saw her to her
landau saying: 'I have been delighted to forget the affairs of the
world for a time.' The Princess returns to her watering-place, her
husband is summoned back from Berlin, and the Emperor thanks
her joyfully for saving the peace of Europe." Blowitz swilled and
sniffed his brandy. "And that, my boy, is all the lady's tale."
"Well, I'll be damned! That's one you wouldn't send to The
Times [ D'you believe her?"
"Without doubt. What woman would invent such a story? Also,
I know when I am being deceived."
I didn't disbelieve it myself - although the Emperor's part took
a little swallowing. And yet ... if he truly believed that a week's
rogering with a royal flashtail would put Otto in trim and keep the
ship of state on a smooth course, why not? Bismarck would be all
for it - he'd been the town bull around Schonhausen in his young
days, and would be just as randy in his sixties. Well, it was an
interesting piece of gossip, and confirmed that the haughty Princess
Kralta was partial to mutton - come to think of it, Blowitz had a
gift for encountering females who were patriotic riders, hadn't he
just? And of introducing 'em to me, bless him. Well, well. I
returned to the point - which had suddenly become clear to me.
"Well, Blow, I'm grateful to you for rehearsing the lady's
character for me," says I. "Very instructive, possibly useful.
Of course," I went on carelessly, "the secret which she believes
55
she can learn only from me is the one that Bismarck's dying to
know - how you got the Berlin Treaty in advance. That's it, ain't
it?"
For once he was taken flat aback. His blue eyes popped, his jaw
dropped, and then he burst out laughing.
"Oh, but you should have been a journalist!" cries he. "And I
hoped to amaze you with my denouement! How did you guess?"
"Come, now, what other secret do I have that she could want
to know? But if you're willing to let her have it, why not tell her
yourself?" I nearly added that he could have charged her a delightful
price for it (as I fully intended to, given the chance), but I .
knew that wasn't his style. Odd fish, Blowitz; ready and willing
to put me in the way of fleshly delights, as he'd shown in the past,
but strict Chapel himself. He regarded me seriously.
"I shall tell you," says he slowly. "The Princess's confession
to me of her visit to Prince Bismarck moved me deeply. En fait, she was saying to me: 'Here is my trust, ma confiance, my honour
as a woman; I place it in your hands, Blowitz.' Oh, my dear 'Arree, quel geste} What trust, what proof of devoted affection!" So help
me, he was starting to pipe his eye. "From such a woman, so
worldly, so intelligent, so sensible, it could not fail to awaken in
me emotions of gratitude and obligation. It gave her the right to
demand from me an equal proof of my friendship, my trust in her.
You, my friend, will see that, I know."
Well, I didn't, in fact, but I ain't a besotted Bohemian. He
sighed, long and solemn, like an old horse farting.
"When she renews her request that I divulge my secret, I feel
I can no longer refuse. It means much to her, since it will enable
her to gratify Prince Bismarck, and it can bring no harm to me. I
resolve, then, to tell her."
He took another gulp of brandy, leaned towards me, and became
dramatic, as though he were telling a ghost story in whispers.
"We are in her salon, seated upon a sofa that stands against a
great mirror covering the wall behind us. The salon is dim, the
curtains drawn, the only light comes from a candelabrum on the
table before us. As I prepare to speak, I see one of the candles
flicker. I am astonished. All doors and windows are closed, so
whence comes this draught? I move myself on the sofa - and a
56
zephyr from the direction of the mirror fans my cheek. What can
it mean, I ask myself. And then - I know!"
You never saw such desperate bad acting - hands raised, eyes
and mouth agog, worse than Irving hearing the bells. Then he
glared like a mad marmoset, one finger outthrust.
"I realise I am the victim of treachery, which I hate above all
else in the world! I closely scrutinise the mirror! What do I see
but that a gap has opened in the glass! So! One stands behind the
mirror, a witness to take down what I say! I rise, pointing to the
flickering flame, then to the cloven mirror, just as the Princess puts
out a hand to remove the candlestick. I address her in a voice
which I vainly strive to render calm. 'Too late, madame!' I cry.
T have understood!' She touches an electric button, a door opens,
a butler enters, and without a word the Princess indicates to me
the way to the door. I bow. I withdraw. I leave the house."
He dried up there abruptly, looking expectant, so I said that
after such a thrilling tale I was surprised that five masked chaps
with stilettoes hadn't leaped on him in the hall. He said stiffly that
they hadn't, and the mortification he felt at her duplicity had been
keener than any stab wounds. I said that I gathered he was still
on terms with the lady, though, and he blew out his cheeks in
resignation.
"Que voulez-vous7 Am I one to bear a grudge against a beautiful
woman? True, our relationship cooled for a time - until a few
weeks ago, in effect, when she begged me to visit her, and pleaded
that the importance she had attached to learning my secret had
made it imperative that she have a witness. Her contrition was
expressed with such charm and sincerity that I forgave her at once,
and she then confessed that she had a favour to ask of me. I had
once told her, had I not, that among my friends I numbered the
celebrated Sir Harry Flashman? I replied that you were my best
of friends, and she sighed - oh, such a sigh! - and cried out 'Ah,
that hero! What I would give to meet him!' I assured her that it
could be arranged - and then," he twinkled mischievously, "it
occurred to me that here was an opportunity to repay you, cher
Arree, for your great service to me in Berlin. 'It happens,' I told
her, 'that Sir Harry also possesses the secret of the Congress treaty.
No doubt he could be persuaded to divulge it to one so charming
57
as yourself.' My friend, she was overjoyed, and urged me to effect
an introduction without delay." He beamed at me, stroking his
whiskers. "You see my thought - while I do not doubt your ability
to captivate a lady who already holds you in the warmest regard,
it will do no harm if you are also in a position to answer a question
to which she attaches such importance. It will amuse you to be
. . . persuaded, new?"
I studied the innocent-cunning face, wondering. "Subtle little
devil, ain't you. Blow? Why are you so obliging? You know how
I'll make her pay for the secret - are you using me as a penance
for her sins, by any chance?"
"My dear friend! Ah, but that is unkind! When I have no thought
but to amuse you! Oh, perhaps I am also taking my little revenge
on la Grande Princesse by making her a suppliant to one less
foolishly sympathetic than Blowitz. But who knows," he tittered,
"it may end by amusing her also!"
"If you mean that she'll find me a welcome change from Otto
Bismarck, I'm flattered," says I, and asked when I'd meet the lady.
He became mysterious again, saying it would be for tomorrow
night, but wouldn't tell me where. "Be patient, my friend. I wish
your rendezvous to be a surprise, what you call a treat - my petit
cadeau to you. Believe me, it will be a most novel meeting-place
- oh, but romantic! You will be delighted, I promise, and I will
have made you a trifling repayment towards the debt I owe you
for Berlin."
So I humoured him, and agreed to be at my hotel, the Chatham,
the following evening, with my valise all packed. His mention of
Berlin had reminded me of Caprice, but he had not seen her in
two years. "After the Congress I heard of her in Rome and Vienna,
but nothing since, and I do not inquire, since I suppose her work
is of a secret nature still. Ah, but she had the true gift of intrigue,
la petite Caprice
Decidedly she must marry an ambassador of
promise; then her talents will have full play, eh?"
58
Looking back, I guess Blowitz's "treat" was a
sight to see. The first of anything usually is, and the inauguration
which took place in Paris that Sunday night was historic, in a
Froggy sort of way. If I wasn't unduly impressed, Blowitz himself
was partly to blame; one evening of his company was always about
my limit, and his enthusiasm for his "petit cadeau" was such that
I was quite put off beforehand, and a day spent loafing in the hotel
hadn't raised my spirits. The small unease that had been in my
mind on the Channel crossing had returned, as it always does when
I ain't quite sure what I'm being pushed into, or why, and when
Blowitz collected me from the Chatham as dusk was falling, I was
carrying a decided hump - all the greater 'cos common sense told
me I'd no reason for it.
Blowitz was in a fine excitement, greeting me exuberantly, telling
the cabby to make all haste to the Place de Strasbourg, and
parrying my inquiries with a waggishness which set my teeth on
edge: all would be revealed presently; yes, we had a small journey
to our rendezvous with Princess Kralta, but everything was
arranged, and I would be transported in more ways than one - this
with a hysterical giggle as he bounced up and down on his seat,
urging the driver to hurry. I fought down an urge to kick the little
chatterbox out of the cab, and consoled myself with the thought
that presently I'd be having my wicked way with that fine piece
of blue-blooded batter; the vision of her imperious figurehead and
strapping form had been in my mind all day, competing with my
vague unease, and now that the reality was in prospect, I was
becoming a mite impatient.
Shortly before seven we pulled up at the canopied entrance of
the Gare de 1'Est, Blowitz clamouring for porters and hurrying me
59
into the concourse -- so our "small journey" was to be by rail
which meant, I supposed, that Madame's mansion lay in one of
the fashionable districts outside the city.
The station seemed uncommon busy for a Sunday night. There
was a great crowd milling under the electric lamps, but Blowitz
bustled through like a tug before a liner, nourishing a token and
announcing himself with his usual pomposity to a bluecoated
minion who conducted us through a barrier to a less-crowded
platform where knots of passengers and uniformed railway officials
were waiting beside a train. All eyes were turned to it, and I have
to say it looked uncommon smart and polished, gleaming blue and
gold under the lights, but otherwise ordinary enough, the steam
hissing up from beneath the engine with that pungent railway smell,
the porters busy at the five long coaches, on one of which the
curtains were drawn back to reveal the glowing pink interior of a
dining salon - and yet there was an unwonted hush about the
working porters, an excitement among the throng watching from
the barrier, and an air of expectancy in the little groups on the
platform. Blowitz stopped, clutching at my arm and staring at the
train like a child in a toy shop.
"Ah, gaze upon it!" cries he. "Is it not the train of trains - the
ultimate, I'apogee. Ie dernier cri of travel! Oh, my boy, who was
the genius who said 'Let the country build the railway, and the
railway will build the country'? And not only a country - now a
continent, a world!" He flourished a hand. "Behold that which
will be called the monarch of the rails, as it prepares for its first
journey!" He turned to beam up at me, his eyes glistening moistly.
"Yes, this is my surprise, my treat, my petit cadeau to you, dearest
of friends - to be one of the select band who will be the pioneers
on this historic voyage! You and I, 'Arree, and a mere handful of
others - we alone will share this experience, the envy of generations
of travellers yet to come, the first to ride upon the magic carpet
of the steel highway - I'Express OrientV
The name meant nothing then, since this was only the inception
of what I suppose is now the most famous train on earth - and to
be honest, it still don't mean that much. I'm a steamship man,
myself: they don't rattle or jolt, I don't mind the occasional heave,
and the feeling of being snug and safe appeals to my poltroon
60
nature - once aboard, the world can't get at you, and if danger
threatens you can usually take to the boats or swim for it. Trains
I regard as a necessary nuisance, but with Blowitz bouncing and
pawing my sleeve I was bound to be civil.
"Well, much obliged, Blow," says I. "Handsome of you. It
looks a capital train, as trains go - but how far is it going,
eh?" It didn't look district line, exactly, but my question was
ignored.
"Capital! As trains go!" squawks he, flinging up his hands. "Milles tomades} This you say of the supreme train de luxe A
veritable palace upon wheels, the reassertion of privilege in travel!
Why, thanks to my good friend Nagelmacker, Ie haute monde may
be carried to the ends of the continent in the luxury of the finest
hotel, sleeping and waking in apartments of elegance and comfort,
dining on the superb cuisine of a Burgundian chef, enjoying perfect
service, splendid wines, everything of the best! And all this," he
concluded triumphantly, "for two thousand miles, from Paris to
Constantinople, in a mere ninety hours, less than-"
"What's that? You ain't getting me to Constantinople!"
He crowed with laughter, taking my arm to urge me forward.
"No, no, that is for me, not for you, cher 'Arree! I travel on, about
my business, which will be to seek interviews with ministers and
crowned heads en route, with a grand finale in Constantinople,
where I hope to obtain audience of the Sultan himself. Oh, yes,- Blowitz works, while you -" he glanced roguishly from me to the
train "-journey only as far as Vienna, in the company of royalty
more agreeable by far. Aha, that marches, eh? A day and a night
in her charming company, and then - the city of the waltz, the
Tokay, of music and romance, where you may dally together by
the banks of the enchanted Danube "
I managed to stem his Cook's advertising at last. "You mean
she's on the train?"
He raised a finger, glancing round and dropping his voice.
Officially, no - the sleeping coach reserved for ladies will be
unoccupied until Vienna. However," he nodded towards one of me darkened coaches, "for such a distinguished passenger as Her
Highness, accommodation has been found. And now, my immovwie
Englishman," cries he grinning all over his fat cheeks, "you
61
will tell me at last that you are glad you came to Paris, and that
Blowitz's little gift pleases you!"
Whatever I replied must have satisfied him, for he bore me off
to meet the other passengers, all of whom seemed to know him,
but in fact I wasn't at all sure that I liked his "petit cadeau". I'd
come to France to skulk and fornicate in peace, not to travel; on
the other hand, I'd never visited Vienna, which in those days was
reckoned first among all the capitals of Europe for immoral high
jinks, and a day and a night of luxurious seclusion with Her Highness
should make for an amusing journey. The last railroad rattle
I'd enjoyed had been the voluptuous Mrs Popplewell on the Baltimore
line in '59, and rare fun it had been - until she pitched me- off the train, and I had to hightail it for dear life with the Kuklos
in hot pursuit. Still, the Three Fates were unlikely to be operating
in Austria - oh, the blazes with it, what was I fretting for?* So I
exchanged courtesies with the others, of whom I remember only
the celebrated Nagelmacker, boss of the line, who looked like a
Sicilian bandit but was all courtesy, and a Something-or-other
Effendi, a fat beard from the Turkish Embassy; there were various
scribblers and a swarm of railway directors. Frog and Belgique
mostly, making about two score all told.
And then there was a sudden bustle, and we were being herded
aboard, with minions directing us to our compartments - I remember
Blowitz and I were in Number 151, which seemed odd on
such a small train - and whistles were blowing and guards shouting,
and from our window we could see the mob at the barrier hurrahing
and throwing up their hats, and officials on the platform were
waving, and the carriage doors were closed, crash! crash! crash!,
a last whistle shrilled - and then a strange silence fell over the
Gare de 1'Est, and I guess little Blowitz's enthusiasm must have
had its effect, for I remember feeling a strange excitement as the
train quivered ever so little, the steam rushed hissing past our
window, there was a faint clank of buffers, a gentle rumble of
* See Flashman and the Angel of the Lord, which recounts, inter alia, his
adventures with the Kuklos, the forerunner of the infamous Ku Klux Klan, and
its leaders, who styled themselves Atropos, Clotho, and Lachesis - the Three
Fates of mythology.
62
wheels beneath our feet, and we were gliding away smoothly and
pver so slowly, the waving figures on the platform passing from
sieht in succession, and then we were out of the station and I was
thinking, you've been in some odd vanguards, Flashy, from the
Forty-Niners to the Light Brigade, and here's another for you, and
Blowitz snapped shut his hunter and shook my hand, gulping with
emotion - gad, he was a sentimental little barrel.
"Sept heures et un, precisement," says he reverently. "L'Express Orient parti
He was in a state of non-alcoholic intoxication if ever I saw
one, exclaiming in delight over every convenience and decoration
in our cabin, and inviting me to marvel at the fine upholstered
furniture, the glossy panelling, the neatly-concealed little basin in
a corner by the door, the array of lights and buttons, the hidden
cupboards and drawers, the velvet curtains, and the rest. Every
second word of his babble was "magnifique}" or "superbe}" or
"merveilleux and once even "top-hole, I declare!", and I
couldn't deny that it was. As it turned out, my first journey on
the Orient Express was to be my last, but I remember it as the
best-appointed train I ever struck, and delighted Blowitz by saying
so."
"You will find no more splendid accommodation in Vienna!"
cries he. "Which reminds me, you should stay at the Golden Lamb
on the Praterstrasse, rather than the Archduke Charles; give my'
name to Herr Hauptmann and you will receive every attention.
And his table is all that ,;;uld be desired - ah, mais ecoutez Even
as I speak. Ie diner esi servH Allans, meltonsnous!"
That was another score for the Orient Express: we were hardly
out of Paris before we had the nosebags on, and I have to concede
that there was nothing wrong with the grub on offer in the opulent
dining salon with its little pink shades and snowy cloths and silver
and crystal and swift service. Blowitz almost burst into tears of
gluttony at the sight of it, and stuffed himself to ecstasy, going
into raptures at each arriving course, and reproaching me for my spparent lack of appetite; in fact I was sharp-set, but ate and drank
in moderation, for my mind was on the ladies' sleeping-coach
where I supposed la Kralta would be dining in anonymous seclusion;
you don't want to be bloated when the charge is sounded.

P
63

The food and wine had its effect, though; my blues had vanished,
and I was beginning to enjoy the luxurious comfort. Presently,
when Blowitz had engulfed his last marron glace and staggered
afoot, gasping blessings on the chef, we made our way to the little
observation platform for a smoke before going our separate ways.
He had given me the number of Madame's voiture in the ladies'
car, and said with knowing chuckles that he imagined he would
have No. 151 to himself for the night.
"You will hardly wish to join the excursion at Strasbourg, which
we reach at five o'clock in the morning," sniggers he. "Oh, yes,
I shall take it - no rest for Ie pauvre Blowitz - and I confess I am
still too excited to sleep anyway! Oh, my friend, what a journey!
I can hardly believe it! Strasbourg, Vienna, Budapest, Bucharest
... we glide through them all, the jewels of Europe, and at last
the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn! I cannot prevail on you to make
the whole journey? No, well, it may be best that you alight with
Her Highness at Vienna - only Nagelmacker's trusted few know
of her presence, but it could hardly be secret after other ladies join
us, and we wish no gossip, eh?" He tapped his booze-enriched
nose. "My boy, I wish you joy of your adventure ... ah, but one
thing! In divulging our little secret, you will make no mention of
La Caprice by name; that must remain confidential always. Now,
to my arms!" He embraced me as closely as his pot-belly permitted.
"We shall meet again before Vienna. A bient6t
He toddled off rejoicing to the salon, and I finished my cigar,
watching the dark woods and fields flow past at thirty miles an
hour. Then I made my leisurely way back through the salon, where
Blowitz and the boys were plainly intent on making a night of it;
from the laughter and jollity I guessed they'd be singing ere long.
In our sleeping coach the attendants were making up the berths,
one above t'other as on shipboard; whether Blowitz or Nagelmacker
had warned them to look the other way, I don't know, but
none of 'em gave me so much as a glance as I passed through the
communicating door to the ladies' coach, closed it behind me, and
found myself in the long empty corridor which ran past the doors
of the untenanted compartments to the front baggage car.
It was quieter here, with only the rumble of wheels and the faint
creak of coachwork. The number on the nearest door suggested
64
that Madame's cabin was at the far end, and I paused beneath the
dim night-light over the attendant's empty stool to consider my
tactics. It was a novel situation, you see, even for as practised a
ram as yours truly: how d'you set about a proud beauty who's
nrobably ready to ride in return for information, but whom you've
never met? Question of etiquette, really, and I couldn't recall a
similar case. I might approach her a la cavalier, all courtly grace
and Flash gallantry, giving her the chance to pretend (?) willing
surrender, thus respecting the conventions and prolonging the fun;
or I could stride in with "Evening, ma'am, fine weather, what?
Strip away!" which had answered splendidly with little Duchess
Irma . . . not that she was a total stranger; we'd met at our wedding.
But recalling the haughty mien and fine proportions of Princess
Kralta, I suspected that jollying her into action might be a bore,
while on t'other hand she was too big to wrestle into submission
in the confines of a sleeping berth . . . Quite a dilemma, and I was
getting monstrous randy just thinking about it, so I decided to play
the bowling as it came, strode down the swaying corridor, and
knuckled the walnut.
"Wer ist es7" says a female voice, and not knowing the German
for Roger the Lodger I said it was Flashman, ein Englander und
ein Edelman, and a pal of Blowitz's. At this there was a bustle
within, murmured question and brisk reply, a sudden almighty
clattering of crockery, a blistering rebuke in Mittel European, and
finally out popped a pert little giggler of a lady's maid bearing a
tray of dinner dishes. As she emerged, a slim be-ringed hand
reached from behind the door, deftly removing a bottle from the
tray, the door closed, the maid shot me a smirk and scurried into
the next cabin, and I was just interpreting these as excellent omens
when the rebuking voice started to call "Herein'." but changed
it to "Enter!", I tooled in, and there she stood. Her Extremely
Royal Highness the Princess Kralta as ever was, clad in regal
dignity and a magnificent coat of sables which covered her to the
floor.
I might have thought it an odd rig at that time of night if I'd
had eyes for anything except the long pale equine face framed by
unbound blonde hair flowing to her shoulders, the cold blue eyes
looking disdainfully down her noble nose, the full haughty mouth,
65
the white hand clasping the coat beneath her rather pointed chin
while she extended the other imperiously, slim fingers drooping
to be kissed - it was as though some highly superior Norse goddess
was condescending to notice an unusually dirty worm of a mortal.
I nuzzled dutifully, deciding that while she couldn't compare for
beauty to Montez or Elspeth or Yehonala or a dozen others, Blowitz
had been right: she had "magnetisme" by the bucket, enough to
inspire worship in him and his like - why, for a moment I felt
awed myself. . . and that was enough to put me on guard, thinking
'ware this one, lad, she's too good to be true, and likely false as
a two-bob diamond for all her grand air and queenly poise; watch
her like a hawk . .. but rejoice in the droop of the plump nether
lip and the wanton way she lets you make a meal of her fingers
- sure signs that with proper management she'll romp like a
demented stoat. (I can always spot 'em; it's a gift.)
"Enchanted, highness," says I, retaining her hand, and for a
moment we weighed each other before she withdrew it to indicate
the lower berth, which was made up as a bed. "You come unannounced,
sir. I was about to retire. I had not expected you tonight."
She spoke perfect English with that soft Danube accent that is so
attractive in men and women both.
"Your highness is gracious to expect me at all," says Galahad
Flashy. "If I am inopportune, my excuse is that having seen your
picture I could not wait to view the reality."
She arched an eyebrow. "Indeed? But as we left Paris more
than two hours ago, I take it you have restrained your eagerness
long enough to dine?" Smiling ever so cool, the smart bitch. Very
good, my lass, brace yourself.
"Sparingly, your highness," says I, "and with mounting
impatience. Had I known how far your beauty outshines the image
of the photographer, I'd have gone without dessert, possibly even
without the poulet aux trujfes. From the evidence of your dinner
tray I gather you enjoyed them both, so you may judge the depth
of my sincerity." I moved a step closer, sighed deeply, and
regarded her solemnly. "But what am I saying? The truth is that
for one glance from those glorious eyes, one gleam of the golden
cascade of your hair, I'd have made do with a cheese sandwich
and a pint of stout."
66
It took her flat aback, small wonder, and for an instant she
stiffened and I received the freezing Queen Bess stare, and then to my astonishment her lips trembled into a smile, and then a
chuckle, and suddenly she was laughing outright, bless her - I'd
been right, she was human beneath the ice, and I warmed to her
in that moment, and not only out of lust, although I wondered if
a swift Flashman cross-buttock (tit in one hand, arse in t'other)
mightn't be in order, but decided to observe the niceties a little
longer. Make 'em laugh and you're halfway to bed anyway. She
was regarding me now with an odd look, quarter amused, three
parts wary.
"Thepoulet was passable; the crepe chantilly . . ." She shrugged.
"And I begin to see that M. Blowitz spoke no more than the truth
when he said that Sir Harry Flashman was a quite unusual man. Tres
amusant, tres beau, he told me ... and tres galant." Now the cool
smile on the fine horse face was haughty-coquettish as she looked
me up and down. "Quite overpoweringly galant."
"It's these tiny compartments; chaps my size tend to loom,
rather," says I, happy to continue bantering now that I was sure
of her, and curious to see how she'd play the game - after all, she
was the one who wanted something. "Perhaps if your highness
would deign to be seated ..." I indicated the only chair, and she
gave me a sidelong look and disposed herself gracefully, an elbow
on the chair arm, a finger along her cheek, but still keeping the
fur carefully about her.
| "Yes . . . certainly unusual," says she. "That is very well. I am
unconventional myself. I think that we shall understand each
other." She smiled again, which strangely enough didn't improve
her looks, for while her teeth were like pearls, they protruded
slightly - breeding, no doubt. "In spite of your tendency to talk
charming nonsense. Golden cascades and sandwiches of cheese!
Is that how you approach all your ladies?"
"Only if I'm sure it'll be appreciated. But don't misunderstand "ie, highness - it may be nonsense, but I meant every word of it."
I took a step forward and hunkered down in front of her, eyeing
her with ardour. "You're what we call an absolute stunner, you
know. Aye ... the most desirable woman I've seen since"
"- since we left the Gare de 1'Est?" says she coolly. "Even
67
that is not true. My maid is prettier by far than I ... as I am sure
you noticed."
"Pretty's ten a penny, I said desirable. Anyway, she's only a
maid, not a princess . . . and she don't want anything from me."
She sat farther back in her chair, considering me as she toyed
with her hair. "And I do," says she. "In fact. Sir Harry, each of
us wants something from the other, do we not?" She glanced at
the bottle she'd taken from the tray, standing above the basin.
"Shall we begin our . . . negotiation with a glass of wine?"
I rose to fill a couple of glasses, and when we'd sipped she set
hers on the little stand by the window, crossed her legs beneath
the coat, tossed back her golden mane, and looked me in the eye,
no longer smiling, but not unfriendly either. I hunkered down again
- believe it or not, it puts you at an advantage; women don't care
to have a great hairy man crouched at their feet, prepared to spring.
"Stefan Blowitz tells me that you hold a secret which I wish to
know," says she, "and that you are willing to-"
"Pardon, highness ... a secret Prince Bismarck wants to know."
"Very true." She inclined her head. "By the way, I expect
'highness' from inferiors. To friends, I am Kralta."
"Honoured, I'm sure - I'm Harry. So first, tell me - why should
busy Otto, with the cares of the world on his back, want to know
an old secret that ain't worth a button?"
"I do not know," says she simply. "He did not tell me. And
he is not a man of whom one asks reasons."
"Not even if one is on intimate terms with him?" She didn't
even blink, let alone blush. "Come now, Kralta, we both know
Bismarck and his fine clockwork mind. He don't ask damfool
questions - and this one couldn't be sillier - without an excellent
reason. Can't you even guess what it might be?"
She took a sip of wine. "You have said it yourself . . . Harry.
His fine clockwork mind. He must know all. If he has another
reason I do not know it."
And wouldn't tell if she did. Well, it made no odds now, as I
contemplated the perfect buttermilk skin and silken tresses. It was
time to get to the meat of the matter.
"Well, it don't signify. But I beg your pardon - I interrupted.
You were saying, about Blowitz . . . ?"
68
"He said that if I asked you how the Berlin Treaty was obtained
you could tell me."
"Absolutely. Happy to oblige. "
It surprised her. "Now?"
"Well, presently. Let's say ... in Vienna."
"On your word of honour?"
"Cross my heart. Never fear, I'm an authority on honour."
She hesitated. "And in the meantime?" I just grinned at her,
wicked-Flashy-like, and she sat back in her chair, giving me a long
look with a pout to her lower lip that set my mouth watering. "I
see. There is a price."
"Fair exchange, I'd call it," says I, enjoying myself, and to
avoid meeting my eye she turned her head aside, displaying the
imperious brood-mare profile. Her voice was calm and quiet.
"You think it fair ... to exact a price? To take advantage of a
helpless woman? Perhaps you are one of those men - I suppose I
must call them that - who enjoy forcing a woman to humiliate
herself-"
"Aye, I'm a cruel swine, ain't I just? And you're about as
helpless as the Prussian Army."
"But I am expected to ask your terms, to plead, perhaps - "
"D'you need to ask them?"
She was still for a moment, and then she sighed, rose from her
chair, still clasping the fur collar beneath her chin, and looked
down at me with that cool superior smile.
I "Not for a moment," says she, and turning her back she
shrugged the coat to the floor and stood there bare as a babe. I
overbalanced and sat staring at the long shapely legs, the plump
buttocks, the wasp waist, and the alabaster perfection of the smooth
strong back, all revealed so unexpected. She stirred her rump, and
as I reached out, clutching joyfully, she glanced complacently over
her shoulder.
"A fair exchange, n'est-ce pasT'
* * *
And I have to own that it was. That sudden shedding of her clobber
just when she'd been pretending that she'd have to be coaxed or
ravished, is the kind of lecherous trick that wins my heart every
69
time, and when we came to grips she behaved like the demented
stoat aforesaid. Not as skilful as many, perhaps (though you must
make allowances for the limited space in a sleeping berth), but a
good bruising rough-rider, full of running, and as heartily selfish
as royal fillies invariably are, intent on nothing but their own
pleasure, which suits me admirably: there's nothing like voracity
in the fair sex, especially when she's as strong as a bullock, which
Kralta was. Not unlike that gigantic Chinese brigandess who halfkilled
me on the road to Nanking, but civilised, you understand,
and willing to chat afterwards, in a frank, easy way which you'd
not have expected from her lofty style and figurehead.
I guess I just like contrary women, and Kralta was one. Crooked
as a Jesuit's conscience, as I was to discover, but with a spirit and'
quality that made you feel it was almost a privilege to mount her
- but then, I've remarked before that royal breeding tells, and no
doubt I'm as impressionable as the next horny peasant. She was
a born adventuress, too - aye, the very archetype of all those subtle
sirens whom romantic writers love to imagine aboard the Orient
Express. I'd barely disentangled myself from those muscular satin
limbs, and she'd stopped gasping in what I think was Hungarian
and recovered her breath, when she murmured:
"So . . . must the secret wait until Vienna?" Her long fingers
stroked my stomach, careless-like. "Better there should be nothing
between us, nem Then we can enjoy our journey." She flirted her
lips across my chest. "Why not tell me now?"
"So that you can call the guard and have me slung out as soon
as you've heard it? I've known women who wouldn't think twice."
"You think I am such a one . . . after . . . ?" Her stroking hand
slid downwards. "Do you not trust me, when I have trusted you
. . . Harry?"
"Steady, girl! A little decorum, if you please . . . I'll tell you,
princess -"
"Kralta..."
"Aye, well, Kralta ... I trust folk as far as I can throw 'em,
which in your case," I fondled a voluptuous handful, "ain't far,
thank God. No, Vienna'11 be soon enough. I ain't a modest man,
but I'm not fool enough to think that you'd continue to play pretty
just for the sake of my manly charms . . . d'you know?"
70
"How little you know of women," says she. "Or rather, how
little you know of me."
"I know you're Bismarck's mistress." I couldn't resist touching
this condescending madam on a raw spot - but of course it wasn't.
"Fat little Stefan has been gossiping, has he?" She sounded
amused. "What did he tell you?"
"Oh, how the German Emperor persuaded you to gallop stout
Otto into a cheerful frame of mind - which I'm bound to say
you're well equipped to do." I gave her bottom a hearty squeeze.
"I'll bet he couples like a cannibal, does he?" Coarse stuff, you
see, to put her in her place, but all it provoked was a dry chuckle.
"Poor Blowitz! Either he is a bad reporter, or he was trying to
protect my reputation." She eased herself up on an elbow and
smiled at me bold-eyed. "In fact. His Majesty made no such
suggestion; he merely poured out his fears to me, like the garrulous
old woman that he is. It was I who suggested, delicately, since the
Emperor is easily shocked, that I myself should . . . refresh Prince
Bismarck."
Delicacy being her forte, the brazen bitch. "God's truth - d'you
mean you wanted Bismarck9 Talk about a glutton for punishment!
What on earth possessed you?"
She gave a little dismissive shrug. "Amusement? Whim? What
shall I call it? I am forty years old, immensely rich in my own
right, titled and privileged, married to a dull nonentity . . . and
bored beyond belief. It follows that I seek diversion, excitement,
pleasure, and above all, novelty. When a new sensation offers, I
pursue it ... as you have discovered." She teased her lips across
mine. "That is what possessed me."
"I'll be damned! You didn't tell that to the Emperor, I'll be
bound! What did he say?"
"Oh, men are such hypocrites! He pretended not to understand
  . but he did everything in his power to smooth my way to
Schonhausen - secret arrangements, agents to conduct me, my
husband sent off on a fool's errand." She gave a well-bred sneer.
"A professional procurer could have done no more! And so ...
Bismarck was, as you say, 'galloped' into a good humour, the
Emperor was pleased and grateful, and I," says she, sitting up and
stretching wantonly, poonts at the high port, "enjoyed the supreme
71
gratification of having the most powerful man in the world panting
for me in his shirttail."
See why I said it was a privilege to mount her? There ain't
many women as shameless as I am - and by gum she was proud
of it. Of course I was bound to ask how the most powerful man
in the world had performed, and she shrugged, laughing.
"Oh, very active ... for his age. And very Prussian, which is
to say gross and greedy. An ageing bull, without refinement or
subtlety." She was one to talk. "As the French philosopher said,
it was an interesting experience, but not one to be repeated. Now
I," her eyes narrowed and the ripe lower lip drooped as she reclined
beside me again, her hands questing across my body, "am devoted
to repetition, and so, I believe, are you ... ah, but indeed you are!
And since I did not decoy you from London only to find out silly
secrets ..." she slid a strapping thigh across my hips, gasped
sharply in Hungarian, and began to plunge up and down "... oh,
let us repeat ourselves, again, and again, and again . .. I"
So we did, as the Orient Express thundered on towards distant
Strasbourg, myself rapturously content to lend support, so to speak,
while royalty revelled in the joys of good hard work. God knows
how Bismarck had stood it at his time of life, and I remember
thinking that if one had wanted to assassinate him, Kralta could
have given him a happier despatch than the old bastard deserved.12
72
Clanks and whistles and a shocking cramp in
my old thigh wound awoke me as we pulled in past the Porte de
Saveme to Strasbourg station, and when I tried to move, I couldn't,
because Kralta was sleeping on top of me - hence my aching limb,
trapped beneath buxom royalty. That's the drawback to railroad
rattling: when you've walloped yourselves to a standstill there's
no room to doze off contentedly rump to rump, and you must sleep
catch-as-catch-can. Fortunately she soon came awake, and I heard
the rustle of her furs as she slipped out into the corridor, leaving
me to knead my leg into action, sigh happily at the recollection
of a rewarding night's activity, raise the blind for a peep at the
station, and groan at the discovery from the platform clock that it
was only ten to five.
The place was bustling even at that ungodly hour, with some
sort of reception for our passengers, and I remembered BlowitZ
had talked of a dawn excursion. There he was, sure enough, well
to the fore with Nagelmacker and a gang of tile-tipping dignitaries;
he was trying to be the life and soul as usual, but looking desperate
seedy after all his sluicing and guzzling, which was a cheering
sight. If I'd known then that the Strasbourg river is called the 111,
I'd have called to him to have a look at it, as suiting his condition.
That reminded me that I was in urgent need of the usual offices,
and I was about to lower the blind when my eye was caught by a
chap sauntering along the platform valise in hand, a tall youthful
figure, somewhat of a swell with his long sheepskin-collared coat
thrown back from his shoulders, stylishly tilted hat shading his
face, ebony cane, a bloom in his lapel, and a black cigarette in a
long amber holder. Bit of a Continental fritillary, but there was
something in the cut of his jib that seemed distantly familiar as
73
he strolled leisurely by. Couldn't be anyone I knew, and I put it
down as a fleeting likeness to any one of a hundred subalterns in
the past, lowered the blind, drew on shirt and trousers, and hobbled
out to seek relief.
When I returned, the little maid had set out a tray of coffee, hot
milk, and petit pain, and was plumping the pillows and smoothing
the sheets of the berth. Kralta was in the chair, her robe about her,
perfectly groomed and bidding me an impersonal good day as
though she'd never thrashed about in ecstatic frenzy in her life.
"Early as it is, I thought a petit dejeuner would not be amiss,"
says she. "Manon has made up a berth for you in the next cabin,
so that you may sleep until a more tolerable hour, as I shall." The
maid poured coffee for me and milk for her mistress, and waited
on us while we ate and drank in silence - Kralta poised and
dignified as befitting royalty en deshabille. Flashy half-conscious
as usual when rousted out at 5 a.m. I was glad of the coffee, and
finished the pot; worn as I was with lack of sleep and Kralta's
attentions, I knew it would take more than a pint of Turkish to
keep me awake.
When we'd finished, Manon removed the tray, and I was preparing
to take my weary leave when Kralta stopped me with a hand
on my sleeve. She said nothing, but put her hands up to my cheeks,
appraising me in that shall-I-buy-the-brute-or-not style - and then
she was kissing me with startling passion, mouth wide, lips working
hungrily, tongue halfway to breakfast. Tuckered or not, I was game
if she was, and I was delving under the fur for her fleshpots when
she pulled gently away, pecked me on the cheek, murmured "Later
... we have Vienna," and before I knew it I was in the corridor
and her lock was clicking home.
I was too tired to mind. The lower berth in the next cabin was
turned down and looked so inviting that I dragged off my duds
any old how and crawled in gratefully, reflecting that the Orient
Express was an Al train, and Kralta, the teasing horse-faced baggage
with her splendid assets, was just the freight for it ... and
Vienna lay ahead. Even as my head touched the pillow the train
gave a clank and shudder, and then we were gliding away again,
and I was preparing for sleep by saying my prayers like a good
boy, their purport being the pious hope that I hadn't forgotten any
74
of the positions Fetnab had taught me on the Grand Trunks and
which I'd rehearsed with Mrs What's-her-name in the ruined
temple by Meerut, and would certainly demonstrate to KraLta as
soon as we found a bed with a decentish bit of romping room in
it...
I expected to sleep soundly, but didn't, for I was troubled by a
most vivid dream, one of those odd ones in which you're sure
you're awake because the surroundings of the dream are those in
which you went to sleep. There I was in my berth on the Orient
Express, stark beneath the coverlet, with sunlit autumn countryside
going past the window, and near at hand two people were taLking,
Kralta and an Englishman, and I knew he was a public school man
because although they spoke in German he used occasional slang,
and there was no mistaking his nil admirari drawl. I couldn't see
them, and it was the strangest conversation, in which they ch affed
each other with a vulgar freedom which wasn't like Kralta at all,
somehow. She said of course she'd made love to me, twice , and
the man laughed and said she was a slut, and she said lightly, no
such thing, she was a female rake, and he was just jealous. He
said if he were jealous of all her lovers he'd have blown his birains
out long ago, and they both seemed amused.
Then their voices were much closer, and Kralta said: "I wonder
how he'll take it?", and the man said: "He'll have no choice."
Then she said: "He may be dangerous," and the man said the
queerest thing: that any man whose name could make Bismarck
grit his teeth was liable to be dangerous. The dream ended there,
and I must have slept on, for when I woke, sure enough I was still
in the berth, but somehow I knew that time had gone by ... but
why was there no feeling in my legs, and who was the chap in
the armchair, smoking a black gasper in an amber holder-, and
rising and smiling as I strove to sit up but couldn't? Of course!
He was the young boulevardier I'd seen on Strasbourg station ...
but what the hell was he doing here, and what was the matter with my legs?
"Back to life!" cries he. "There now, don't stir. Be aisy, as the
Irishman said, an' if yez can't be aisy, be as aisy as ye can. Here,
take a pull at this." The sharp taste of spa water cleared my parched
throat, if not my wits. "Better, eh? Now, now, gently does it! Who
75
am I, and where's the delightful Kralta, and what's to do, and
how's your pater, and so forth?" He chuckled. "All in good time,
old fellow. I fancy you'll need somethin' stronger than spa when
I tell you. Ne'er mind, all's well, and when you're up to par we'll
have a bite of luncheon with her highness - I say, though, you've
made a hit there! Bit of a wild beast, ain't she? Too strong for my
taste, but one has to do the polite with royalty, what?" says this
madman cheerfully. "Care for a smoke?"
I tried again to heave up, nailing my arms feebly, without success
- and now my dream came back to me, half-understood, and I
knew from the numbness of my limbs that this was no ordinary
waking . . . Kralta, the bitch, must have doctored my coffee, and
it had been no dream but reality, and this was the bastard she'd
been talking to ... about me. And Bismarck . . .
"Lie still, damn you!" cries the young spark, grinning with a
restraining hand on my shoulder. "You must, you know! For one
thing, your legs won't answer yet awhile, and even if they did,
you're ballock-naked and it's dam' parky out and we're doin' forty
miles an hour. And if you tried to leave the train," he added
soothingly, "I'd be bound to do somethin' desperate. See?"
I hadn't seen his hand move, but now it held a small under-andover
pistol, levelled at me. Then it was gone, and he was lighting
a cigarette.
"So just be patient, there's a good chap, and you'll know all
about it presently. Sure you won't smoke? There's no cause for
alarm, 'pon honour. You're among friends . . . well, companions,
anyway . . . and I'm goin' to be your tee-jay and see you right,
what?"
D'you know, in all my fright and bewilderment, it was that
piece of schoolboy slang that struck home, so in keeping with his
style and speech, and yet so at odds with his looks. He couldn't
be public school, surely . . . not with those classic features that
belong east of Vienna and would be as out of place in England as
a Chinaman's. No, not with that perfect straight nose, chiselled
lips, and slightly slanted blue eyes - if this chap wasn't a Mittel
European, I'd never seen one.
"Tee-jay?" I croaked, and he laughed.
"Aye . . . guide, philosopher, and friend - showin' the new bugs
76
the ropes. What did you call 'em at Rugby? I'm a Wykehamist,
you know - and that was your doin', believe it or not! 'Deed it
was!"
He blew a cloud, grinning at my stupefaction, and the feeling
that I'd seen him before hit me harder than ever - the half-jeering
smile, the whole devil-may-care carriage of him. But where?
When?
"Oh, yes, you impressed the guv'nor no end!" cries he. " 'It's
an English school for you, my son,' he told me. 'Hellish places,
by all accounts, rations a Siberian moujik wouldn't touch, and less
civilised behaviour than you'd meet in the Congo, but I'm told
there's no education like it - a lifetime's trainin' in knavery packed
into six years. No wonder they rule half the world. Why, if I'd
been to Eton or Harrow I'd have had Flashman on toast!' That's
what the guv'nor said!"
This was incredible. "The ... the guv'nor?"
"As ever was! You and he were sparrin'-partners . . . oh, ever
so long ago, before my time, ages! He wouldn't tell about it, but
he thought you no end of a fellow. 'If ever you run into Flashman
.. . well, try not to, but if you do, keep him covered, for he's
forgotten more dodges than you'll ever know,' he told me once.
'His great trick is shammin' fear - don't you believe it, my boy,
for that's when he's about to turn tiger.' I remember he fingered
the scar on his brow as he said it. I say, did you give him that?"
His eyes were alight with admiration, damned if they weren't.
"You'll have to tell me about that, you know!"
| My heart had stopped beating some time before. I could only
stare at him appalled as the truth dawned.
"My God! You mean . . . you're -"
"Rupert Willem von Stamberg!" cries he, sticking out his hand.
"But you must call me Bill!"
* * *
^t's a backhanded tribute to the memory of the late unlamented
Rudi von Stamberg that my first impulse on meeting his offspring
was to look for the communication cord and bawl for help. Time
was I'd ha' done both, but when you've reached your sixties you've
either learned to bottle your panic, sit tight, and think like blazes
77
... or you haven't reached your sixties, mallum]* I didn't know
what the devil was afoot, or why - but I'd heard his name and his threat and seen his Derringer. No wonder he'd seemed familiar:
taller, longer in the jaw, straight auburn hair instead of curls,
and clean-shaven, but still unmistakable. Rudi's son . . . my God,
another of him!
That settled one thing. Whatever the ghastly plot, it didn' t signify
beside the urgent need to get off this infernal train in one piece, jildi^ and if this brute was anything like dear papa, I'd have my
work cut out. You may think his threat was ridiculous, on a civilised
railroad carrying respectable passengers through the heart of peaceful
Europe. I did not. I knew the family.
But I must have time to think and find out, so I let him clasp"
my nerveless hand, assuring me warmly that he'd wanted ever so
much to meet me. That was a facer, if you like; Rudi had been as
deadly an enemy as I'd ever run from, and dam' near did for me
in the Jotunberg dungeons, and here was this ruffian talking as
though we'd been boon companions . . . and yet, hadn't that been
Rudi all over, carefree villainy with a twinkling eye, clapping your
shoulder and stabbing your back together?
Playing for time, I muttered something idiotic about not knowing
Rudi had married, and he laughed heartily.
"He had to, you see, when I happened along in '60. You knew
mother - Helga Kossuth, lady-in-waitin' to the Duchess of Strackenz
in your time. I've heard her speak of you, but nothin' to a
purpose. Kept her counsel, like the guv'nor."
They would; imposture and assassination ain't matters to beguile
your infant's bed-time. I remembered Helga, a lovely red-haired
creature whom Rudi had been sparking back in '48 - evidently
with more constancy than I'd have given him credit for. And now
the result of their union was watching me with an eye like an epee
as I cautiously flexed my toes, feeling the life return to my legs,
weighed the distance between us, and asked what time it was.
"Just past noon; Munich in half an hour - but don't form any
rash plans for gettin' out there." He eyed me mockingly. "I'm
* understand?
t quickly (Hind.)
78
sure you wouldn't enjoy ten years in a Bavarian prison. Bad as
Rugby, I shouldn't wonder. Oh, yes," he continued, enjoying himself
"I have it on excellent authority - Prince Bismarck's in fact
- that a warrant still exists for the arrest of one Flashman, a British
subject, on a most serious criminal charge, the rape of one Baroness
Pechmann at a house in the Karolinen Platz, Munich, thirty-five years ago. Astonishin' how youthful peccadilloes come home to
roost - "
"It's a lie! A damned infamous lie!" It was startled out of me
in a bellow of shock and rage. "It was a trap! A vile plot by that
swine Bismarck and Lola Montez and that fat lying whore "
"So you told the examinin' magistrate . .. one Herr Karjuss."
He drew a paper from his breast. "Strangely enough, he didn't
believe you. Of course, there were several witnesses, includin' the
victim herself, and - "
"Your foresworn rat of a father!"
"You took the words from my mouth. Yes, their signed statements
are in the files, and would have been used at your trial if
you hadn't absconded. Still, the case can easily be reopened."
Absconded, my God! Trepanned into that Strackenz nightmare
... I felt as though I'd been kicked in the stomach, for it was all
true, though I hadn't given it a thought in half a lifetime - true,
at least, that I'd been falsely accused by those fiends, blackmailed
with the threat of years in a stinking gaol. And the evidence would- still be there, the only falsehood being that I'd raped that simpering
sow - why, we'd barely buckled to, and she'd been fairly squealing
for it "The
Baroness, you'll be happy to know, is in excellent health
and eager to testify. Did I say ten years? Strait-laced lot, the
Bavarians; it could easily be life."
"You wouldn't dare! What, d'you think I'm nobody, to be
railroaded by some tinpot foreign court on a trumped-up charge?
By God, you'll find out different! I count for something, and if
you think the British Government will stand by while your lousy,
corrupt-"
"They stood by while ..." he consulted his paper "... yes,
while Colonel Valentine Baker went away for twelve months. He ^s a stalwart hero of Empire, too, it seems, and all he'd done
79
was kiss a girl and tickle her ankle in a railway carriage. I must
say," he chuckled, "the longer I serve Bismarck the more I admire
him. It's all here, you know." He tapped the paper. "How you'd
bluster, I mean, and how to shut you up. I'd never heard of this
Baker chap . . . dear me, flies unbuttoned on the Portsmouth line,
what next? I say! We might even work up a second charge against
you - indecent assault on the Orient Express, with Kralta sobbin'
in the witness-box! That'd make the cheese more bindin' in court.
what?" He shook his head, mock regretful. "I'm afraid. Harry my
boy, you're cooked."
I'd known that, for all my noise, the moment he'd recalled the
name Pechmann. They'd got me, neck and heel, this jeering ruffian
and his icy bitch of an accomplice .. . and Bismarck. Who else '
would have thought to conjure up that ancient false charge to force
my hand now . . . but for what, in God's name? I must have looked
like a landed fish, for he gave me a cheery wink and slapped the
edge of my berth.
"But don't fret - it ain't goin' to happen! It's the last thing we
want - heavens, you'd be no good to us in clink! I only mentioned
the Pechmann business to let you see where you stand if ... But
see here," says he, brisk and friendly, "why not hear what we
want of you? It ain't in the least smoky, I swear. In fact, it's a
dam' good deed." He came to his feet. "Now then, you're feelin'
better, I can see, in body if not in spirit. Legs right as rain, eh?
Oh, yes, I noticed!" He gave me that cocky Stamberg grin that
shivered my spine. "So, I'll take a turn in the corridor while you
put on your togs and have a sluice. No shave just yet, I'm afraid;
I took the razor from your valise, just in case. Then we'll have
some grub and come to biznai." He gave a cheery nod and was
gone.
I can't tell you my thoughts as I rose, none too steadily, and
dressed, because I don't remember. I'd been hit where I lived, and
hard, and there was nothing for it but to clear my mind of fruitless
speculation, and take stock of what I knew, thus:
Stamberg and Kralta were Bismarck agents, and had trapped
me, drugged me, threatened me with firearms and the certainty of
years in gaol if I didn't ... do what? "Nothing smoky ... a dam'
good deed"? I doubted that, rather ... but on t'other hand, they
80
hadn't shown hostile, exactly. Kralta had let me roger her as part
of the trap, but I knew, from a lifetime's study of well-rattled
women, that she'd taken a shine to me, too. And while Stamberg
was probably as wicked and dangerous a son-of-a-bitch as his
father, he'd seemed a friendly disposed sort of blackmailing
assassin . . . why, latterly he'd been almost coaxing me. I was at
a loss; all I knew was that if they were about to force me into some
diabolic plot, or preparing to sell me a fresh cargo of gammon, they
were going a rum way about it. I could only wait, and listen, and
look for the chance to cut.
So I made myself decent, took another pull at the spa, touched
my toes, transferred my clasp-knife from my pocket to my boot
(you should have frisked my clothes, Bill), decided I'd felt worse,
and was in fair parade order when he returned, preceded by Manon
with a loaded tray which she set down on a little folding camp
table before making brisk work of converting the berth into a sofa.
"What, not hungry?" says he, when I declined sandwiches and
drumsticks. "No, I guess lay-me-down-dead ain't the best foundation
for luncheon - but you'll take a brandy? Capital! Ah, and
here is her highness! A glass of champagne, my sweet, and the
armchair. 'It is well done, and fitting for a princess', as my Stratford
namesake has it. She is a real princess, you know, Harry - and
I'm a count, and you're a belted what-d'ye-call-it, so we're rather
a select company, what?"
It might have been Rudi himself, chattering gaily and keeping
between me and the door as he bowed in Kralta, very elegant in |a fur-trimmed travelling dress and matching Cossack cap. She gave
me her cool stare, and then to my surprise held out her hand
with a little smile, asking courteously if I'd slept well, damn her
impudence. But I took her hand as a little gentleman ought, with
a silent bow, as though she hadn't fed me puggle and we'd never
played two-backed beastie in our lives. A still tongue and sharp
eyes and ears were my line until I knew what was afoot - after
which I'd be even stiller and sharper.
"All glasses charged?" cries Stamberg. "Capital! To our happy
association, then!" He lighted one of his cigarettes and settled on
the sofa corner by the door; I was seated by the window.
"Now then . . . biznai," says he. "First off. Chancellor Prince
81
Bismarck presents his compliments, apologises for any inconvenience
caused, and invites your assistance in preservin' the peace
of Europe. And that's no lie," he added. "It's in the balance, and
if things go wrong we'll have the bloodiest mess since Bonaparte."
He'd stopped smiling, and Kralta was watching me intently.
"Why your assistance?" he went on. "Freak of chance, nothing
more. You've been told that for five years Bismarck wondered
how Blowitz got hold of the Berlin Treaty; that's true, tho' it didn't
keep him awake. Then a few months ago, idly enough, he suggested
to Kralta that she might worm it out of little Stefan. She failed,
but here's the point." He levelled his cigarette at me. "In talkin'
to her about Berlin, Blowitz chanced to mention your name in
passin' - you know how he gasses about the people he knows and
in reportin' her failure she, in turn, mentioned it to Bismarck.
Now," says he, looking leery, "I don't know what you and Hismarck
and the guv'nor were up to in Strackenz years ago, but
when Bismarck heard the name Flashman, he sat up straight -
didn't he, Kralta?"
She nodded. "He said: 'That man again! I was right - I did see
him in Berlin during the Congress!' Then he laughed, and said I
should trouble no more about Blowitz; he would find out the secret
of the treaty for himself, through other agents."
"And didn't he just!" cries Stamberg. "All about some courtesan
who wormed information out of one o' the Russians, and you
passed it to Blowitz in your hat, and a French diplomat was so
impressed by Blowitz's omniscience that he handed over the treaty.
Who was the courtesan. Harry?" says he, with a sly glance at
Kralta. "Another of your light o' loves?"
I'd kept a straight face through this revelation; now I shook my
head. Since Bismarck was so dam' clever, let him find out Caprice's
identity for himself, if he wanted to.
"Well, Bismarck was amused: said he admired Blowitz's ingenuity.
But that was that; havin' discovered the ploy, Bismarck was
content - and none of it matters now; the only important thing
about Blowitz and the whole Berlin business was that it brought
your name back to Bismarck's notice, see? So, just by that chance,
you were still in his mind a few weeks ago, when he first had
word of the threatenin' crisis I mentioned just now. It struck him
82
that you would be useful - nay, essential - to him in meetin' that
crisis 'Flashman is the man,' were his very words. 'We roust have
him ' Ths question was, how to enlist you. He thought you might
be reluctant." He glanced at Kralta. "Wasn't that how he put it?"
"Rather more strongly." For once there was a glimmer of
humour in the cool blue eyes. "He said you would have to be
compelled. So I was instructed to entice you to Paris." She paused,
and Stamberg burst out laughing.
"Tell him what Bismarck said! Oh, well, if you won't, I will!
He said you were a lecherous animal governed altogether by lust."
He winked at Kralta. "Which made him irresistible to you, didn't
it, my dear?"
She ignored this. I'd resolved to keep mum, but suddenly the
chance to play parfit gentil Flashy seemed sound policy.
"Knowing your parentage, I'm not surprised by your guttersnipe
manners," says I. "Get to the point, and keep your impertinences
to yourself."
He crowed with delight, clapping his hands. "Why, Kralta, I do
believe you've got a champion! Bless me if you haven't won his
manly heart - or some other part of his anatomy which I shan't
mention, since delicacy seems to be the order of the day." He
grinned from one to other of us. "Lord, what a pair of randy
hypocrites you are! The older generation ..." He shook his head.
"As I was saying," says Kralta calmly to me, "I was the lure
to attract you. As you know, I used the unsuspecting Blowitz to
bring us together. He was most obliging, hinting slyly that if I still
wished to know how the Berlin Treaty was obtained, you could
be persuaded to tell me. Naturally, I did not tell him that we already
knew that little secret, but pretended delight, and urged him to
lose no time in bringing you to Paris. You may resent the deception
we ... I have practised, but I cannot regret it." The horse face
was proudly serene, but with the little smile at the corn er of her
mouth. "For several reasons. When you have heard what Prince
Bismarck proposes, you will understand one of them." She made
a languid gesture to Stamberg to continue.
"Well, thank'ee, ma'am," says he sardonically, and filled my
glass. "But before we come to that, we have a few questions, and
twill save time if you answer without troublin' why we ask 'em.
83
You'll learn, never fear. How friendly are you with the Emperor
of Austria?"
"Franz-Josef? Hardly friendly . . . I've met him-"
"Yes, on his yacht off Corfu in 1868, on your return from
Mexico, where you had led the unsuccessful attempt to rescue his
brother Maximilian from a Juarista firm' squad. A gallant failure
which earned you the imperial gratitude, as well as the Order of
Maria Theresa, presented to you .. ." he cocked a quizzy eyebrow
"... by the Empress Elisabeth, and ain't she a peach, though? I'd
call that friendly."
They'd done their lessons, up to a point. The "gallant failure"
had been the biggest botch since the Kabul Retreat, thanks to the
idiot Maximilian, who was damned if he'd be rescued, so there,
and I'd come off by the skin of my chattering teeth and the good
offices of that gorgeous little fire-eater. Princess Aggie SalmSalm,
and Jesus Montero's gang of unwashed bandits who were on hand
only because Jesus thought I knew where Montezuma's treasure
was cached, more fool he. Another fragrant leaf from my diary,
that was, and my only regret for Emperor Max was that he'd been
a fairish cricketer for a novice, and might have made a half-decent
batter, if he'd lived.13 But it was true enough that Franz-Josef had
been uncommon civil, for an emperor, and the beautiful Sissi
(Empress Elisabeth to you) had given me the glad eye as she'd
handed over the white cross. Can't think what became of it; in a
drawer somewhere, I expect.
Kralta asked: "Did the Emperor Franz-Josef shake hands with
you?"
A deuced odd question, and I had to think. "I believe he did
. . . yes, he did, coming and going."
"Then he's certainly friendly," says Stamberg. "He only takes
the paw of close relatives and tremendous swells, usually. That
was the only time you met him . . . would he be pleased to see
you again, d'you think? You know, hospitably inclined, stop over
for a weekend, that kind of thing?"
"How the devil should I know? What on earth has this to do -?"
"Bismarck is sure he would be. Not that he's asked - but your
name has been mentioned to the Emperor lately, and he spoke of
you most warmly. Gratifyin', what - from such a cold fish?"
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"And the Empress?" This was Kralta. "Was she well disposed
towards you?"
"She was very . . . gracious. Charming. See here, this is "
"Did you admire her?"
"Of course he did!" laughs Willem. "Who doesn't? Half
Europe's in love with the beautiful Sissi!"
"You met her again, later," says Kralta. "In England."
"I hunted with her, once or twice, yes."
"Hunted, eh?" Willem's tongue was in his cheek. "Was that
the only .. . exercise you took with her?"
"Yes, damn your eyes! And if that's where you've been leading
with your infernal questions "
"It had to be asked," says Kralta sharply. She stared down her
nose. "Then there are no grounds at all for the Emperor to feel
... jealousy towards you? Where his wife is concerned?"
"Or to put it tactfully," says Willem, "if you happened along,
Franz-Josef wouldn't bar the door on you just because little Sissi
was on the premises?" He gave the snorting little chuckle which
I was beginning to detest. "Ve-ry good! D'ye know what, Kralta?
Bismarck was right. 'Flashman is the man' ... I say, Munich
already! How time flies in jolly company!" He stood up and consulted
his watch. "We stop only five minutes . . . but you won't
do anythin' rash, Harry, will you? A German gaol wouldn't suit,
you know."
He needn't have fretted. One thought alone was in my mind as
we waited, looking out on the orderly bustle of Munich station:
the Austrian frontier lay a bare sixty miles off, we'd cross it in
two hours, and if (a large if, granted) I could give 'em the slip I'd
be beyond the reach of Bavarian law in a country at loggerheads
with Germany and as likely to oblige Bismarck by returning a
fugitive as I was to take holy orders.
As to what he could want of me, I was no wiser. What could
it matter what the Emperor and Empress of Austria thought of a mere British soldier? She had an eye for men, and it was common tolk that Franz-Josef had warned her off various gallants with
whom her relations had probably been innocent enough, but I
hadn't been among 'em. I dare say I could have added her scalp to my belt, but I'd never tried, for good reason: everyone knew
85
that Franz-Josef, whose ambition seemed to be to bag every
chamois and woman in Austria, had given her cupid's measles
and while the poultice-wallopers had doubtless put her in order
again, you can't be too careful. And while she looked like Pallas
Athene, I suspected she was half-cracked - flung herself about in
gymnasiums and went on starvation diets and wrote poetry and
asked for a lunatic asylum as a birthday present, so I'd been told.
She and Franz-Josef hadn't dealt too well since he'd poxed her
and she'd taken to wandering Europe while he pleaded with her
to forgive and forget. Royal marriages are the very devil.
I tell you this because it's pertinent to the catechism which
Willem resumed as soon as we'd pulled out of Munich. He began
by asking what I knew of the Austrian Empire. I retorted that they
seemed to be good at losing wars and territory, having been licked
lately by France, Prussia, and Italy, for heaven's sake, and that the
whole concern was pretty ramshackle. Beyond that I knew nothing
and cared less.
He nodded. "Aye, ramshackle enough. Fifty million folk of a
dozen different nations bound together in a discontented mass
under a stiff-necked autocrat who don't know how to manage 'em.
He's a dull dog, Franz-Josef, whose blunders have cost him the
popularity he enjoyed as the handsome boy-emperor of thirty-five
years ago. But his empire's the heart and guts of Europe, and if
it were to suffer any great convulsion . . . well, it better not. Know
anythin' about Hungary?"
I understood it was the biggest state in the empire bar Austria
itself, and that the natives were an ornery lot, but fine horsemen.
He grinned.
"Proper little professor of international politics, you are! Well,
I'm quarter Hungarian myself, through Mama; rest o' me's Prussian.
And you're right, they're an ornery lot, and don't care above
half for Austrian rule. They've declared independence in the past,
risin' in revolt, and Franz-Josef made the mistake of gettin' the
Tsar to put 'em down with Russian troops - they'll never forgive
him that. He's been at his wit's end to keep 'em quiet, makin'
concessions, havin' himself and Sissi crowned King and Queen of
Hungary, but there are still plenty of Magyar nationalists who'd
like to cut with Austria altogether. People like Lajos Kossuth,
86
regular firebrand who led the uprisin', now in his eighties and
exiled in Italy but still hatin' the Hapsburgs like poison and
dreamin' of Free Hungary. Believe it or not, he and his nationalist
pals have the sympathy of Empress Sissi and the Emperor's son
and heir. Crown Prince Rudolf, who favour constitutional reform.14 And there are others, extremists who'd like to take a shorter way."
He paused to light a cigarette, blowing out the match and watching
its smoke. "Terrorists like the Holnup, which is Hungarian for
'tomorrow', 'nuff said. They skulk in secret, plottin' bloody revolution,
but most Hungarians regard 'em as a squalid gang of fanatics
not to be taken seriously." He threw aside the spent match. "So did
we ... until about a month ago, when Bismarck got word, through
his private intelligence service, that the Holnup were about to take
the warpath in earnest. Here, let me give you another brandy."
He poured out a stiff tot, and a cloud must have passed over
the sun just then, for the brightness faded from the pretty autumn
colours speeding past the window, and to my nervous imagination
it seemed that the shadow penetrated into the compartment, robbing
the trickling brandy of its sparkle, and that even the rumble of the
wheels had taken on a menacing, insistent note.
"The Holnup intend to assassinate Franz-Josef," says Willem,
filling a second glass for himself. "If they succeed, there'll be civil
war. Oh, pottin' royalty's nothing new, and usually there's no great
harm done - various lunatics have tried for Franz-Josef before,
there have been two attempts on the German Emperor, and the
Tsar was blown up a couple of years ago . . . but this would be
different.15 What, Hungarians killin' the Austrian monarch, at a
time when Hungary's boilin' with unrest, when it's known that
Sissi supports its independence, and surrounds herself with worshippin'
Magyars, and corresponds with Kossuth, and there's even
been rumour of a conspiracy to bestow the crown of Hungary on
Prince Rudolf, who hates Papa and is as pro-Hungarian as his
beautiful idiot of a mother?" He gave a mirthless bark of laughter.
'Think what use the nationalists could make of those two half-wits,
willin' or not! Casus belli, if you like! Civil war in AustriaHungary
- and how long before France and Germany and Russia, aye, and
Perhaps even England, were drawn in? And that is what will happen
if Franz-Josef stops a Hungarian bullet."
87
Kralta spoke. "It must not happen. At all costs it must be prevented."

She was intent on me, but Willem, as he handed me my glass
and sat back, seemed almost amused. There was a look of mischief
on the handsome face, like a practical joker about to spring his
surprise.
"Fortunately," says he, "thanks to Bismarck's earwig in the
Holnup, we know precisely when and how and where they intend
to strike. Franz-Josef is to be murdered in his huntin'-lodge at
Ischi, a charmin' but secluded resort in the Saltzkammergut, over
the hills but not very far away from where we sit at this moment.
They'll do it this week, by night, a small group of well-armed and
expert assassins. They have it planned all to a nicety . . . and all
in vain, poor souls." His smile widened as he clinked his glass
against mine. "Because you and I, old son, are goin' to stop 'em."
88
Somewhere or other that downy bird Kipling
observes that the lesson of the island race is to put away all emotion
and entrap the alien at the proper time.'61 learned it in my cradle,
long before he wrote it, and have practised it all my life with some
success, and only this difference, that for "entrap" I prefer to
substitute "escape". The putting-away-emotion business ain't
always easy, but I like to think I managed it pretty well in the
face of Stamberg's disgusting proposal, concealing my shocked
bewilderment before that grinning young devil and his steely-eyed
accomplice as they watched to see how I would respond to their
bombshell.
There was no point in protest or roaring refusal. As you know,
I'd been press-ganged aboard the good ship Disaster before, by
legions of experts from Palmerston to Lincoln, with the likes of
Colin Campbell and Alick Gardner and U. S. Grant and Broadfoot
and J. B. Hickok and Raglan and God knew who else along the
way, all urging hapless Flashy into the soup by blackmail and
brute force, and nothing to be done about it. Ah, but this time
there was, you see, with the Austrian border drawing nearer by
the minute, so I must bide my time and delude the aliens as
seemed best, listening to their lunatic notions as though I might
be persuadable, and waiting my chance to cut and run. My strong
card was that despite Willem's menaces, they'd made it plain that
they wanted me as a willing ally; I must play on that, but not too
hard. The question was, which role to adopt (ain't it always?),
balancing righteous outrage at the way I'd been treated against
the chivalrous impulses which they'd expect from an officer and
gentleman. So now I let out a soft "Ha!" and gave Willem my
most sardonic stare.
89
"Are we, indeed? Just the two of us, eh? Well, setting aside your
optimism and impudence, perhaps you'll tell me how, precisely?"
"You mean you're game?" cries he eagerly. "You're with us?"
"Suppose you tell me why I should be."
"How can you not?" Kralta couldn't believe her ears, like a
queen with a farting courtier. "With the peace of Europe in the balance, and the lives of thousands, perhaps millions, at stake?"
"Ah, but are they? Forgive me if after being hoodwinked, lied
to, held against my will, and threatened with prison and pistols, I
can't help wondering if this great tale of a plot is true."
"Of course it's true!" cries Willem. "Heavens, man, why should
we invent it?" I gave this the shrug it deserved, and he cursed
softly. "Look here, if you're in a bait 'cos you've been hobbled
and made a muffin of - " he sounded like a third-form fag " - well,
I don't wonder, but can't you see we had no choice? Bismarck
was sure we'd have to force your hand, and that this was the only
way. Havin' seen you, I ain't so sure he's right." He ran a hand
through his hair, and leaned forward, looking keen. "You ask me
how you and I can stop the Holnup, and I'll tell you the ins and
outs presently, but in principle, now - ain't it a stunt after your
own heart? As I told you, nothin' smoky, but a dam' good deed,
and a rare adventure! Why, the old guv'nor would have jumped
at it - and you'd ha' been the first he'd have wished to have
alongside!"
"And if you cannot forgive the deceits we have practised," put
in Kralta, "think of the cause we serve. You have done brave
deeds for your Queen and country, but nothing nobler than this."
She hadn't the style or figurehead to look pleading, but she absolutely
laid a hand on mine, and her glance had more promise than
appeal in it. "For my part, if I can make any amends ..." She
ventured a toothy smile, pressing my fin. "Please . . . say you will
not fail us. All depends on you."
All of which confirmed my conclusion that they were under the
misapprehension which has sustained me for a lifetime - they truly
believed my heroic reputation, and thought I was the kind of
derring-do idiot who'd answer the call of duty and danger like a
good 'un, itching to fight the good fight. Bismarck knew better,
which was why I'd been threatened with violence and the law,
90
but now blesseii if they weren't appealing to my better nature.
Remarkable ... but you have to play the ball as it comes off the
wicket, so ...
"All very fine," says I. "But before I hear the ins and outs, let
me tell you that so far you've made no sense. You say these
Hungarian rascals are going to put paid to Franz-Josef, and you
know where and when. Very well - round 'em up and string 'em
up, why don't you-"
"Because it ain't that simple!" insists Willem. "'Bismarck's
spy in the Holnup knows their plan, but not the names of the
assassins, or where they are this minute. All we're sure of is that
they'll have assembled somewhere near Ischi three days from
now, and will strike before the Emperor returns to Vienna on
Sunday next. That means the attempt will be made this Friday or
Saturday "
"Then let hir-n go back to Vienna tomorrow, for God's sake!
Or if he's fool enough to stay, surround his place with troops! Or
hasn't brilliant Otto Bismarck thought of that^"
"You do not understand." Kralta had me by the hand again.
"None of these things is possible. No ordinary precautions will
serve. You see, the Emperor does not know he is in danger - he
must not know.''
She meant it, too. I could only gape and ask: "Why not?"
"Because the Lord alone knows what he'd do if he did!"
exclaims Willem. "It's this way - no one knows of this plot except
Bismarck, his m.an in the Holnup, and a handful of his agents, like
ourselves. But suppose Franz-Josef, or the imbeciles who compose
his cabinet, got wind of it - he's the kind of purblind ass who
would take it as a sure sign that all Hungary's out for his blood,
and he d act according, orderin' arrests, repressions, perhaps even
executions, or some such folly! He could provoke the very
upheaval Bismarck's tryin' to prevent. Hungary's a powder-keg,
and an outraged Franz-Josef is the very man to set it off." He
drew breath. "That's why he mustn't know."
"There is another reason," says Kralta. "The Empress and
Crown Prince make no secret of their Hungarian sympathies. She
is adored in Budapest, and there are those who would welcome
Rudolf as king of an independent Hungary. If the Emperor learned
91
of the Holnup plot, he might easily be led to false conclusions."
"He wouldn't be in the mood for a game of Happy Families
at any rate!" snaps Willem. "So there you have it. Now . . . FranzJosef
is only at Ischi by chance: normally he comes for a summer's
shootin', with a full retinue, but this week there are only the lodge
servants, a couple of aides, and a file of sentries under a sergeant,
more for ceremony than anything, and quite useless against
assassins who know their business. There's no earthly way to make
him leave early without informin' him of the plot - so Bismarck
has devised a way to guard him secretly, so that he don't know
he's being' guarded." He laughed at my look of derision. "Impossible,
you think? Oh, come, come, you know Bismarck; why, it's
nuts to him!"
"I'm waiting to hear what it is to me," I reminded him.
"Patience, I'm comin' to that. We leave the train this evening
at Linz, where we spend the night, and catch the local train to
Ischi in the morning, arrivin' at about noon. We spend the next
thirty-six hours establishin' ourselves as tourists who've come to
enjoy the attractions of the spa, browse in its boutiques, partake
of the delicious confections for which its cafes are famous, and
walk in the delightful countryside," says he airily. Never mind
Bismarck, it was nuts to him, the jaunty ruffian.
"On Thursday morning, you and I will take a stroll in the
grounds of the royal lodge, which lies a little way outside the
town, refreshin' our spirits in the beautiful hilly woodland and
admirin' the picturesque river meanderin' down to the town below.
But now -"he spread his hands in comic dismay "- misfortune
overtakes us. You slip, and sprain your ankle. I hasten to find help,
and spy a gentleman out with his gun and loader - and damme,
if it ain't the Emperor of Austria! And if you think that's one
whale of a coincidence," says he, cocking an eyebrow, "it ain't.
Franz-Josef would rather shoot chamois than eat his dinner, and
is in those woods at crack of dawn every day bar Sunday. If by
some mischance he's not, I'll go to the lodge, but one way or
t'other he's goin' to learn that there's a foreign gentleman in
distress in his bailiwick, and when he discovers that 'tis none other
than Sir H. Flashman, old acquaintance and saviour (well, nearly)
of Brother Max in Mexico, he'll be all concern and will
92
ndoubtedly offer him and his companion (a German count, no
loss) the hospitality of the royal residence for a day or two. And
there my dear Harry," chuckles he, "we shall be, honoured guests rhez. Franz-Josef, and if the Holnup can come at him while we're
on the premises . . . well, they'll be smarter lads than I think they
are, what?"
Taking this as a rhetorical question, and being numb and speechless
anyway, I let it pass without remark. Willem rubbed his hands.
"Now for the fun. Franz-Josef is all for the simple life. He
sleeps on a soldier's bedstead in a plain little room overlookin'
the garden, with a single orderly on a pallet outside the door and
his aides snug in their rooms down the corridor, everyone snorin'
their heads off as they've done this thirty years past, and why not?
What's to fear? A single sentry under the window, probably half
asleep, all quiet in the garden and surrounding woods. God's in
his heaven, and all's well, until..." he dropped his voice to a
hollow whisper "... out of those woods the Holnup come skulkin'
in the half-light before dawn . . . perhaps a single bravo, more
likely two, but certainly not more than three. Say three, two to
look out and cover, one to do the dirty deed ... all creepin'
unawares into our ambush." There was a glitter in his eye that
took me straight back to the Jotunberg dungeons. "We'll take 'em
either in the house or outside, as chance dictates. And we kill 'em.
Stone dead. Every one. Follow?"
I let that pass, too, taking the advice of his Irishman and being
as aisy as I could, while he lighted himself a nonchalant cigarette.
"It'll be a noisy business, of course, and there'll be a fine
how-de-do when the sleepers awake to find three dead assassins
and the two gallant visitors whose vigilance has saved the day.
But once they've grasped what's happened, you can bet your last
tizzy they'll want to keep it quiet." He grinned, pleased as Punch,
tapping my knee. "There'll be no inconvenient inquiry which
might result in the unhappy discovery that this was a Hungarian plot. Why? Because whatever folly Franz-Josef might have committed
if he'd learned of the Holnup attempt beforehand, he'll not
raise Cain when it's all past and no harm done. There'll be nothin'
to show that the corpses are Hungarians - they may even be foreign
hirelings - and whatever he may suspect, the less the public hear
93
of it, the better. No monarch likes it to be known that he's been
a target, not if it can be kept dark, and his aides won't care to
have their incompetence noised abroad. So 'twill all be discreetly
damped down, everyone sworn to secrecy, eternal gratitude to the
two gallant saviours, perhaps even a pound out of the royal poorbox
- why, if failin' to save poor old Max earned you the Maria
Theresa, we ought to get a couple of Iron Crowns at least!"
"And Europe will remain at peace," says Kralta quietly.
"Aye, and we'll all live happy ever after." Willem blew a
smoke-ring. "So there you have it - all of it. Now you understand
what all this to-do, which you've found so puzzlin' and inconvenient,
has been about ... and why Bismarck chose you, 'cos
you're the only man he could put into Franz-Josef's house and no
questions asked. And you're . . . qualified for the work." He
paused, contemplating his cigarette. "Well, there it is. What d'you
say . . . Harry?"
The honest answer to that would have been to tell him he was
stark raving mad, and if he hadn't been Rudi Stamberg's son, with
a gun in his armpit and the means to railroad me on to the Bavarian
rock-pile for life, I might well have given it. Since my present
need was to temporise, and give ttw impression that I might be
talked into their ghastly scheme, I played it as they would expect
from the redoubtable Flashy, indignation forgotten, narrow-eyed
and considering, asking shrewd questions: How could they be sure
Franz-Josef would offer us bed and board? What other agents
would Bismarck have at Ischi? What if our ambush went wrong?
What if it couldn't be hushed up? What if, by some unforeseen
twist of fate, Willem and I should find ourselves facing charges
of murder?
Entirely academic questions from my point of view, but they
elicited prompt answers - none of them, incidentally, concerned with the morality of butchering the would-be assassins. Willem,
being a chip off the Stamberg block, wouldn't think twice, but I was
interested that Kralta too apparently took bloodshed for granted and
both, you'll notice, assumed that it was all in the night's work
for me. Flattering, if you like.
Willem dealt confidently with my doubts. "It's Bismarck's
scheme, and he don't make mistakes. Franz-Josef is bound to take
94
c in but if he didn't we'd just picket his lodge and deal with the
Holnup in the grounds. There'll be half a dozen stout lads in Ischi
t rov orders, but they won't know what's afoot and I shan't call
them unless I must. If word of the fracas gets out - well, that's
Bismarck's biznai, and he'll see to it that we're kept clear of
embarrassment. Murder? What, when we've saved the Emperor of
Austria? Don't be soft. Well, satisfied?"
I wasn't, but I chewed my lip, looking grim, while they watched
me with mounting hope and encouraged me with occasional
reminders of what a fine crusading enterprise it was, and no other
way to ensure the peace of Europe and the welfare of its deserving
peasantry. Kralta was particularly moving on the score of the
juvenile population, I remember, while Willem appealed to what
he supposed was my sense of adventure, poor fool; plainly he
regarded a hand-to-hand death-struggle in the dark as no end of a
lark. I responded with few words, and at last said I would sleep
on it when we reached Linz. They seemed to take that as a sign
that I was halfway to agreement, for Willem nodded thoughtfully
and refilled my glass, while Kralta astonished me by kissing me
quickly on the cheek and leaving the compartment. Willem laughed
softly.
"Sentimental little thing, ain't she? Gad, what a week you'll
| have in Vienna when it's all over! But I," says he, fixing me with
a merry eye, "ain't sentimental at all, and in case - just in case, mind
you - you're as foxy as my old guv'nor made out, and have
some misguided notion that you'll be able to slip away once we're
on Austrian soil . . . well, don't try it, that's all. Those stout lads
I spoke of will be on hand, and they can have you back in Bavaria
before you can say knife." He patted his pocket. "If I haven't shot
you first."
I reminded him coldly that I'd be no use to him dead, and he
grinned. "You'd be even less use to yourself. But we won't dwell
on that, eh? You're a practical man, and I've a notion that you'll
I fall in with us. Just so long as you understand that you're going
to stand up with me against the Holnup, one way or t'other, what?"
So I hadn't fooled him above half, and must just wait and hope. One thing only I was sure of: he wasn't getting me within a mile
f Franz-Josef and the blasted Holnup - supposing they existed,
95
and the tale I'd been spun wasn't some huge Machiavellian hoax
conceived by Bismarck for diabolic purposes that I couldn't even
guess at.
That was possible . . . but d'you know, I was inclined to believe
they'd told me the truth. Not all of it, perhaps, but true so far as
it went. It was wild, but no wilder than some intrigues I'd known
- the Strackenz marriage for one, John Brown's raid for another.
That Hungarian fanatics should be after Franz-Josef's blood was
all too credible; what boggled the mind was the scheme Bismarck
had designed to stop them . . . until you studied it and saw that
nothing else would have answered. The threat of explosion in
Europe had arisen suddenly, like a genie from a bottle, worse
than '48 or Crimea or San Stefano, and faced with the apparently
impossible task of ensuring the Emperor's safety while keeping
him in the dark, that ice-cold brain had seen that unlikely old
Flashy was the vital cog, having the entree to Franz-Josef and
being eminently blackmailable. And he'd gone calmly and swiftly
to work to bring me where I now was, by the most outlandish
means, using Kralta and Willem (and Blowitz?) and above all his
knowledge of me. His planning had been meticulous ... so far.
As for what lay ahead, it remained to be seen whether the web
which his perverted genius had spun over Ischi would be proof
against my frantic efforts to break loose, and the hell with FranzJosef
and the peace of Europe both. Well, he'd spun a similar web
over Strackenz, and I'd diddled the bastard then, hadn't I?
All very well; my immediate concern was to bolt, and with this
son-of-a-bitch Stamberg half-expecting it, I'd have my work cut
out. It must be soon; once he'd got me to Ischi, with his gang
dogging us, I'd be sunk. Linz, where we were to stop the night,
might be my best chance; I'd no doubt he was as restlessly quick
on the trigger as his murderous father, but if I yelled for help in
the street, or in a hotel, he'd not dare cut loose with his piece . ..
would he? Yes, he would though, and take his chance, and make
his excuses to Bismarck later. The local train to Ischi would be
no easier to break from than the Orient Express . . . dear God, had
I the nerve to spring at him now, land one solid blow, and leg it
for the compartment where Blowitz and the boys would be whiling
away the time and I'd be safe even from this bloody young villain
96
and as the desperate thought flashed across my mind I realised that he was drawing lazily on his cigarette, watching me with that
insolent Stamberg smile on his handsome face, and my courage
(what there was of it) melted like slush in a gutter.
Since I was supposed to be meditating on whether to join their
frightful scheme or not, they let me be for the rest of the journey,
Kralta next door and Willem reading and smoking placidly while
I brooded in my corner. Once I made a half-hearted suggestion
about bidding farewell to Blowitz, who expected me to get out at
Vienna and might wonder where I'd got to; Willem gave me a
slantendicular smile and said Kralta would send him a note.
Dusk was falling when we pulled into Linz, but no more rapidly
than my spirits when we left the station, Willem close at my elbow
and Kralta alongside, and I saw the closed coach by the kerb, with
a couple of burly fellows in billycocks and long coats waiting to
usher us aboard. One sat by the driver while the other rode inside
with us; he was a beef-faced rascal with piggy little pale eyes
which never left me, and great mottled hands resting on his knees
- strange, I can see them yet, powerful paws with bitten nails,
while the rest of that brief coach-ride has faded from memory,
possibly because of the shock I received when we reached our
destination, and I saw that it wasn't the expected hotel or inn, but
a detached house on what I suppose were the outskirts of Linz,
surrounded by a high ivy-covered wall and approached through an
arched gateway which was closed behind us by the chap on the
box.
That put the final touch to my despair. It wasn't only that there
would plainly be no escape from here, or the sight of another brace
of bullies waiting by the open front door under a flickering lantern,
or the air of gloom that hung over the house itself, conjuring
thoughts of bats and barred windows and Varney the Vampire
doing the honours as butler; what chilled my skin was the Hismarckian
efficiency of it all, the evidence of careful preparation,
the smoothness with which I'd been conveyed from train to prison
(for that's what it was). That was the moment when I began to
doubt if there was a way out, and the nightmare sketched out by
Willem changed from the frighteningly possible to the unspeakably
Probable.
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There are chaps, I know, who when doom seems certain grit
their teeth and find renewed courage in their extremity. I ain't like
that at all, but my native cowardice does take on a sort of reckless
frenzy, rather like those fellows who caught the Black Death and
thought, oh, well, to hell with everything, we might as well carouse
and fornicate to the end, 'cos at least it's more fun than repentance
or prayer. It was in this spirit that I was able to roger that houri
in Borneo during the Batang Lupar battle, whimpering fearfully
the while, and do justice to Mrs Popplewell while in flight from
the outraged townsfolk of Harper's Ferry. It don't cast out fear,
but it does take your mind off it.
In my present plight, things were made easier by Willem and
Kralta, who kept up the pretence that I was a willing guest, chatting
amiably as we went indoors, calling for comforts and refreshments,
and when we came to a late supper in the sparsely furnished
dining-room, setting themselves to put me at ease - a Herculean
task, you'll allow, but they didn't shirk. Willem pattered away
cheerily, and Kralta, shrewdly guessing that nothing was more
likely to put me in trim than a fine display of gleaming shoulders
and rampant boobies across the board, had changed into evening
rig of red velveteen stuff with jewels sparkling on her bosom and
in her hair. Why not, thinks I, it'll see you through a restless night
at any rate. So I joined in their talk, stiff enough at first, but
unbending to the extent of reminiscing about a campaign or two,
and from their occasional exchange of glances I could see that
they were thinking, aha, the brute's coming round after all. Nothing
was said about the Ischi business until we were about to part for
the night, by which time I'd drunk enough to swamp my worst
fears and prime me for another bout with Kralta. She'd left us to
our cigars, with a cool smile for me as I drew back her chair, and
when we were alone Willem says:
"Our proposal . . . d'you still need to sleep on it?"
"Do I have a choice?" I wondered.
"Hardly. But I'd like to think you were with me willingly - for
the good cause, oh, and the fun of it!" He chuckled - gad, he was
like Rudi, ruthless as cold iron but treating it as a game. "Come
on, Harry - what d'you say?"
"If I say 'aye' - would you trust me?"
"On you" word of honour - yes." Lying bastard, but it gave mg chaice to play bluff Flashy to the hilt. I sat up straight and
looked bin in the eye.
"Very veil," says I deliberately. "I'll give it ... in return for your word of honour that all you've told me is gospel true."
He was an his feet like a shot, hand held out, smiling eagerly.
"Done!" u"ies he. "On my honour! Oh, this is famous! I knew you'd corre round! Here, we must certainly drink to this!" So we
did. neithe- of us believing the other for an instant, but content
with the pietence. At that, I ain't sure that he didn't half-believe
me, for I cm sound damned true-blue when I want to. We drank,
and he clapped me on the shoulder, bubbling with spirits, and
delivered ne to my beefy watchdog, crying "Good night, old
fellow! Sweet dreams!" as I was shepherded up the stairs.
The lout saw me silently into a room, which was as I'd expected
- bars on tie window, lock clicking behind me, and Kralta sitting
up in the g-eat four-post bed, clad in a gauzy night-rail and a look
of expectaion.
"Tell me he persuaded you!" cries she.
"Not foi a moment, my dear," says I, shedding my coat. "You
see, I knew his father, and I'd not trust either of 'em round the corner ." The fine long face hardened in dismay, and she drew
back against the pillows as I sat down on the side of the bed. "No,
he has not persuaded me ..." I leaned towards her with my wistful
Flashy smie, reaching out to touch her hair "... but you have.
You see, I m a simple sort of chap, Kralta, always have been. I
don't alwa/s know a wrong 'un when I meet one, but I do know
when someone's straight." I kissed her gently on the forehead,
and felt her quiver distractingly. "You're straight as a die. And
while I am t much on politics, or the smoky things these statesmen
get up to, or even understand above half all the stuff that Willem
told me ... well, that don't matter, truly." I fondled a tit with
deep sincerity, and felt it harden like a blown-up football. "If you
think it's a worthy cause . . . well, that's good enough for me."
Ever seen a horse weep? Nor I, but having watched the tears ^11 in thoe fine blue eyes and trickle down her muzzle, and heard
her whinny and bare her buck teeth in a smile of glad relief, I
don't need to. Her arms went round my neck.
99
"Oh ... but all my deceits and lies "
"Honourable lies, my darling, to a noble end. Why, I've told a
few stretchers of that sort myself, in my time, when duty demanded
it." I slipped the flimsy stuff aside to get a proper grip of the meat
and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. She clung moistly, making
small noises of contrition turning to passion, and I went to the
glad work of entrapping the alien at the proper time.
100
Ischl's a pretty little place, almost an island
enclosed on three sides by the rivers Traun and Ischi, and lying
at the heart of some of the finest scenery in Europe, forest country
and lakes and the mountains of the Saltzkammergut. Bad Ischi
they call it nowadays, and I believe it's become a favourite resort
of the squarehead quality, but even in '83 the Emperor's patronage
had made it fashionable, and there was more of Society about than
you'd have expected, come to take the waters, inhabit the fine villas
along the Traun, drive in the woods and on the river boulevards,
promenade in the gardens of the New Casino, and throng the more
elegant shops and cafes, of which there were a surprising number.
The townsfolk were stout and prosperous, and the inevitable peasantry
in their awful little black pants and suspenders seemed to
know their place, and gave the scene an air of picturesque gaiety.
Which didn't reflect my mood, exactly. Willem, I think;
reckoned I was reluctant still, but would be bound to go through
with his ghastly scheme; Kralta, on t'other hand, having a romantic
and patriotic heart beneath her glacial exterior, and being partial
to pork, was convinced I'd seen the light. She'd taken to me, no
error, and wanted to trust me, you see. That was fine, but left me
no nearer to finding a means of escape. The journey from Linz
had afforded no chance at all, with Willem close on hand, and his
four thugs in the next compartment, and at Ischi, where we were
installed at the Golden Ship, in a side-street off the Marktplatz,
they never let me out of their sight. That very first day, when we'd
settled in and got our bearings in the town, strolling by the Traun,
admiring the casino gardens, taking coffee in an opulent patisserie, and generally idling like well-bred little tourists, Willem stuck like a burr, and my beefy scoundrel lurked in the background.
101
How they'd act if I suddenly darted to the nearest copper, yelling
that I was being kidnapped, I couldn't guess and didn't dare find
out. Set aside that Willem might well have put a slug in my spine
and faded out of sight, you're at the deuce of a disadvantage being
a foreigner, even if you speak the lingo. The authorities ain't
inclined to believe you, not in the face of explanations from an
imposing lady of quality and her Junker escort, backed by four
worthy cabbage-eaters in hard hats. "Poor cousin Harry, he's English
you know, and has fits. Don't be alarmed, constable, we have
a strait-jacket at the hotel." That would be their line, or something
like it - and where would Cock Flashy be then, poor thing? At
the bottom of the Traun the same evening, likely, with a bag of
coal at his feet and Kralta dropping a sentimental tear.
So I played up as seldom before, smiling politely, talking wittily
at ease, breathing in the breezes of the distant mountains with
every sign of content, coaxing Kralta to buy a monstrous hat in
one of the boutiques, drinking in a beer-garden with Willem and
shaking my head ruefully as he cheated me at bezique (father's
son, no question), laughing heartily at the drolleries of Frosch the
gaoler in Fledermaus at the little theatre in the evening, remarking
at dinner that Austria's contribution to civilisation must surely be
the art of cooking cabbage decently,17 rogering Kralta to stupefaction
when we'd retired, and lying awake later with her sleeping
boobies across my chest, cudgelling my wits for a way out.
I made the experiment of rising early next morning and dressing
quietly while she was still asleep, slipping out on to the landing
- and there was Beefy square-bottomed on a chair, glowering. I
bade him a civil good-day and sauntered down into the street, and
he simply followed a few paces behind as I strolled to the river
and back for breakfast. Willem was already down; he raised an
eyebrow, glancing at Beefy, and then asked me if I'd had a pleasant
stroll. No alarms, no warning, so they must be sure enough of
their grip on me to delegate the task of watchdog to a single ruffian,
armed and ruthless no doubt, but still just one man. Interesting . ..
and sufficient to raise my hopes a little.
And then, on that second day in Ischi, the whole affair changed,
unbelievably, and escape became unthinkable.
It was Wednesday, the day which Willem had appointed for a
102
scout in the direction of Franz-Josef's lodge. It stood on rising ground on the other side of the town, above and beyond the little
river Ischi, secluded enough among woodland to give royalty privacy,
but an easy walk from the Ischi bridges which span the river
by way of a little island lying in midstream.
Willem and I walked through the town and across the bridge to
the island, which was laid out as a park, with pleasant gardens
among the trees and bushes. We found a quiet spot from which
we could look across the river towards the high bank above which
the lodge could be seen among the trees. Willem scanned it through
field-glasses and then we crossed the farther bridge for a closer
look, strolling up the curving road, circling the lodge itself, and
back to the road again. Here Willem led the way north, farther up
the slope, to a point slightly above the lodge, and took a long slant
through the glasses. There were a few folk about, tourists driving
and strolling for a look at the royal residence.
"But there won't be a soul this side of the river after dark,"
says Willem. "Gad, ain't it made for murder, though! Come across
from Ischi by day, lie up in the woods - " he nodded to where the
trees grew thicker above us " - then swoop down at night, break
in, do old F-J's business, and flee any way you like . . . across into
the town to your hidey-hole, or back into the woods, or down the
Ischi and then the Traun by boat!" He passed me the glasses,
chuckling. "But since we shan't give 'em the chance to flee, that
don't signify."
He lounged back on the turf, chewing a blade of grass and
shading his eyes against the autumn sun while I surveyed the lodge,
a white three-storeyed building with a high-pitched roof to one
side in which there were dormer windows. Odd little minarets
decorated the gable ends, and at what seemed to be the front of
the house there was a large square porch with ivy-covered pillars
and a flat roof surrounded by a little balustrade. The whole place
had an informal, almost untidy look; not very grand for an emperor,
I thought.
'T told you he liked to play the simple soul," says Willem.
"All ceremony and etiquette at the Hofburg or Schonbrunn, but
hail-fellow with the peasants when he's out of town - provided
he does the hailing and they knuckle their foreheads like good
103
little serfs. He acts the genial squire, but he's a pompous prig at
heart, and God help anyone who comes the familiar with him. Or
so I'm told; you've met him, I haven't."
I'd thought him stiff and stupid on short acquaintance, but what
exercised me just then was that his lodge, while modest enough,
was a sight too large to be guarded by a file of soldiers.
"But not by two clever lads inside the place, who stick close
by his nibs night and day, and know the geography," says Willem.
"And who know also exactly where the Holnup will try to break
in."
I almost dropped the glasses. "How the devil can you know
that?"
He gave me his smart-alee smile. "I've never set foot in that
bijou residence, but I know every foot of it like my own home.
Builders' plans, old boy - you don't think Bismarck overlooks
items like that! I could find my way round it in the dark, and
probably will."
"But you can't guess which way they'll come -"
"There's a secret stair leading down from the Emperor's bedroom
to an outside door - no doubt so that he could sneak out for
a night's whoring in town without Sissi knowing . . . although why
he should, with that little beauty waiting to be bounced about,
beats me," he added, with fine irrelevance. "Anyway, even the
servants don't know about the secret stair-"
"But you and Bismarck do, absolutely!"
"Absolutely . . . and it's St Paul's to the parish pump that the
Holnup know, too. Heavens, they're not amateurs! They'd be mad
not to take advantage of it, wouldn't you say?"
"And if they don't? Or if it's locked, as it's bound to be?"
He smote his forehead. "Damn! They'll never have thought of
that! So they won't bring pick-locks or bolt-shears or anything
useful, will they? Ah, well," says the sarcastic brute, "we can tell
Bismarck he's fretting about nothing. Oh, come along." He got to
his feet, laughing at me. "The thing is, where to take 'em? At the
door, or inside, or where? Well, we'll have to think about that.
One thing at a time ..."
We walked down the hill and back across the bridges to Ischi
town, and had just reached the spot where the Landstrasse runs
104
to the Kreutzplatz when we were aware of some commotion
head; people on the Landstrasse were drawing aside to the pavements
with a great raising of hats and bobbing of curtsies as
gjnart open carriage came bowling up the street, its occupant
responding to the salutes of the whiffers by making stiff inclinations
and tipping his tile. A couple of Hussars trotted ahead, and
as they came level with us Willem drew me quickly back into a
doorway.
"The Grand Panjandrum himself," says he, "and the less he
sees of us just now, the better. Don't want to spoil tomorrow's
surprise, do we? Let's grin into our hats 'till he's past." We doffed,
covering ourselves, and as the carriage crossed the Kreutzplatz to
polite cheering, Willem laughed. "Tell you what. Harry - he looks
more than half like you!"
I don't care to be told that I resemble royalty; it wakes too
many unpleasant memories, and in the case of Franz-Josef it was
downright foolish, for while he cut a fairish figure, tall, dark and
well-moustached and whiskered, he had no more style than a
clothes-horse - and I ain't got a Hapsburg lip or the stare of a
backward haddock. He didn't have my shoulders or easy carriage,
either, and as he'd raised his hat I'd noted that his hair was receding
- and dyed, by the look of it. That aside, he hadn't changed much
in the fifteen years since I'd seen him. He'd be in his early fifties
now, eight years my junior.
"It's a solemn thought," says Willem, as we resumed our walk
down the Landstrasse, "that as he drives serenely by, the Holnup
lads will be watching." He nodded at the fashionable shoppers
thronging the pavements. "Aye, they'll be here, biding their time
for tomorrow night, or the next. Too smart to try a shot or a bomb
in open day, though - risky, and not near so impressive as cutting
his throat in his own bedroom." He slipped his arm through mine.
"Little do they know, eh?"
I hardly heard him. Somehow the sight of Franz-Josef had driven
it home to me that in a few hours I'd be embarked on the lunatic
business of faking a game leg in his coverts, being taken in as his
guest, and prowling his blasted house in the middle of the night
in the company of this bloodthirsty young ruffian, waiting for
assassins to break in. It was like some beastly dream, there in this
105
bustling, sunny resort, with respectable, decent folk strolling by
the women exclaiming at the shop windows, their men pausing
indulgently, young people chattering gaily at the cafe tables
dammit, a pair of polizei twirling their moustaches at the next
corner . . . and Willem must have had some sixth sense, for his
arm tightened on mine and he shot me a quick glance as we walked
past them. The urge to wrench free and run screaming for help
lasted only an instant; I daren't, and I knew I daren't . . . but, oh
Lord, somehow, in the next few hours, I must summon up the
courage to try ... what? The sweat was breaking out on me as we
reached the Golden Ship, and Willem called cheerfully for coffee
and cake.
And it was all wasted fear, for the die was cast already by hands
other than Bismarck's, and rolling in my direction.
We dined early that evening, and for all his artless banter I
sensed that Willem was wound tight, as was Kralta. She it was
who proposed that we should visit the casino, less from an urge
for play, I guessed, than for some distraction from the strain of
waiting. Willem said it was a capital notion, and I forced a cheery
agreement, so then we waited while Kralta donned her evening
finery, and presently we strolled through the lantern-lit gardens to
the New Casino, with Beefy acting as rearguard and taking post
at the entrance as we passed into the salon.
That feeling of unreality that had gripped me in the streets came
back with a vengeance under the glittering chandeliers. It was a
scene from operetta, like the Prince's reception we'd seen at the
theatre the previous night, a swirl of elegant figures clustered round
the tables or waltzing in the ballroom beyond, all laughter and
gaiety and heady music, gallants in immaculate evening rig or
dress uniform, the ladies splendid in coloured silks, bright eyes
and white shoulders and jewels a-gleam in the candleshine, glasses
raised to red lips and white-gloved fingertips resting on stalwart
arms, the rattle of the wheel and the voices of the croupiers mingling
with the cries of delight or disappointment, the soft strains of
"La Belle Helene" and "Blue Danube" from the orchestra, Ruritania
come to life on a warm Austrian evening that would go on
flirting and laughing and dancing forever . . . and a bare mile away,
the lonely lodge among the dark silent trees with its precious royal
106
tenant all unguarded against the creeping menace that would come
hv ni^ht, and only one desperate adventurer and one shivering
noltroon to save the peace of Europe, unless at the eleventh hour
that poltroon could streak to safety in the tall timber.
D'you wonder that while I retain a vivid image of the scene in
that casino, I haven't the faintest recollection of the play? Not that
I'm much in the punting line; running a hell in Santa Fe convinced
me that it's money burned unless you hold the bank, but if I'd
been as big a gambling fool as George Bentinck I'd not have
noticed whether it was faro or roulette or vingt-et-un we wagered
on' I was too much occupied keeping down my fears, mechanically
holding Kralta's stakes and muttering inane advice, working up
my courage with brandy while Willem smoked and watched me
across the table.
I know Kralta won, smiling coolly as her chips were pushed
across, and suggesting we escape from the noise and crowd into
the garden. Willem nodded, and she went off to find her stole and
to tittivate while I collected her winnings from the caissier and
sauntered out of the salon to the entrance, my heart going like a
trip-hammer, for I knew it was now or never.
Beefy was on the q.v. at the head of the steps, so I told him
offhand that her highness would come presently, and I would wait
for her at the little fountain yonder. He scowled doubtfully, and
as I went leisurely down the steps to the gravel walk I saw him
from the tail of my eye, hesitating whether to wait or come after
me. Sure enough, he stuck to his orders, and followed me; I heard
his beetle-crunchers on the gravel as I paused to light a cheroot
and loafed on idly towards the fountain, glittering prettily under
the lanterns a few yards ahead. There were clusters of light everywhere
in the gardens, but deep stretches of dark among the trees
- let me side-step swiftly into one of these and be off to a flying
start, and if I couldn't give that lumbering oaf ten yards in the
hundred, even at my time of life, I'd deserve to be caught. And
then I'd be in full flight with the length and breadth of Europe
before me, Kralta's winnings and my own cash to speed my pass- ^e, by train or coach or on foot or on hands and knees if need
be - if I've learned one thing in life it's to bolt at the first chance Md let the future take care of itself... so now I strolled unhurriedly
107
to the fountain, and past it towards the shadows, heard Beefy's
exclamation of "Warten She, mein Herr - and as his call ended
abmptly in a choking gasp, a tall figure loomed up before me, my
arms were gripped either side, and I was fairly heaved off the path
and half-carried, half-dragged into the bushes.
I've been collared more often than Bill the Burglar, and these
were serious, practised chaps, whoever they were; I had no time
to cry out, even if I'd wanted to, which I didn't, for by the sound
of it they'd dealt honestly with Beefy, and I wanted no such
treatment. They bore me swiftly round a couple of hedges to a
little box arbour dim-lit by a lantern overhead, depositing me on
a stone bench, and the ghastly thought that they might be the
Holnup had barely crossed my mind when the tall figure was before
me again, stooping to thrust his face close to mine and astound
me with a brisk greeting - in English!
"Evening, colonel. Remember me?"
A hawk face with a long jaw and sharp grey eyes, white hair
and trim moustache; I couldn't even begin to place him.
"Button, Foreign Office. At Balmoral, thirty years ago. We
played tig with Count Ignatieff on the mountain, you recall?"
It came back in an instant - that Russian brute blasting away
at me in the bracken, my headlong flight downhill into the path
of his murderous moujik, the bearded face glaring as he levelled
his shotgun, and Button appearing from nowhere to put a bullet
in him in the nick of time.* He'd been a damned brisk saviour
then, and looked no less capable now for all he must have been
my age at least. He spoke low, rapping out his words.
"Don't ask, but listen, we've little time. We know all about von
Stamberg and the Princess Kralta and how they've brought you
to Ischl. And why . . . yes, we know about the Holnup and their
plot to murder the Emperor . . . Bismarck ain't the only one with
long ears. We know, and our French colleagues - " he jerked his
head at a stocky chap who moved out of the shadows to stand
beside him; a bulldog face and moustache with the same keen eyes
as Hutton's "- but no one else. Not even Bismarck knows that
we know, and so it must remain. Secret . . . 'most secret from on
* See Flashman in the Great Game
108
high' savvy?" That meant the Prime Minister, in politicals' lingo
Gladstone. "And higher still," adds Button sharply. My God,
that could only mean the Queen . . .
"Now, understand this, sir. We know Bismarck's plan, down to
the last detail, for safeguarding the Emperor. Stamberg must have
out it to you? Very good, tell me what he said, precisely, and
quick as you like."
When you've been trained as a political by Sekundar Bumes you talk to the point and ask no questions. In one short minute I'd
been given staggering information demanding a thousand "whys",
but that didn't matter. What did, was the joyous discovery that I
was among friends and safe from Bismarck's ghastly intrigues. So
I gave 'em what they wanted, as terse as I knew how, from my
boarding the Orient Express, omitting only those tender passages
with Kralta which might have offended their sensibilities, and any
mention of the Pechmann blackmail: my story was that Willem
had backed up his proposal with a pistol. They listened in silence
broken only once by a groan from the bushes, at which Button
snarled over his shoulder: "Hit him again, can't you? And go
through the bugger's pockets - every last penny, mind!"
When I'd finished he asked: "Did you believe it?"
"How the blazes could I tell? It sounded wild, but - "
"Oh, it's wild!" he agreed. "It's also gospel true, though I don't
blame you for doubting it ... why the dooce couldn't Bismarck
approach you open and aboveboard instead of humbugging you
aboard that train? Best way to make you disbelieve 'em, I'd say."
He shot me a leery look. "Told Stamberg to go to the devil, did
you?"
"By God I did, and let me tell you "
"But you're still with 'em, so either you've changed your mind
or are pretending you've changed it." He was no fool, this one.
"Well, sir, it makes no odds, for from this moment you're with
em in earnest. And that's an order from Downing Street."
Only paralysed disbelief at these frightful words prevented me
from depositing my dinner at his feet. He couldn't mean them,
surely? But he did; as I gaped in stricken horror he went on
urgently:
'It's this way. Bismarck's right. If these Hungarian villains
109
succeed. God help the peace. And he's right, too, that the Emperor
can't be warned-"
"It would be fatal!" The Frog spoke for the first time. "There
can be no confidence in his judgment. He might well provoke a
storm. Bismarck's plan is the only hope."
"It not only preserves the Emperor but deals those Magyar
fanatics a fatal blow," says Button. "Suppose something arose to
make this attempt impossible, they'd just wait for another day but
wipe out their best assassins now, swift and sudden, and they'll
not come again!" I could see his eyes fairly gleaming in the
shadows. "So it rests with you and von Stamberg - but now you
know you have the blessing of our own chief . . . and the French
authorities, too, of course," he added quickly, no doubt to keep
Jean Crapaud happy.
"M. Grevy approves the plan, and your participation," says
Froggy, and smiled grimly. "And your old copain of the Legion
bids you 'Bonne chance, camaradeF "
He could only mean Macmahon (who'd never been near me in
the bloody Legion, but that's gossip for you), and as I sat rooted
and mute at all this appalling news, which had whisked me in a
twinkling from the heights of hope to the depths of despair, it
struck me that there had been some marvellous secret confabulating
in high places lately, hadn't there just? But then, 'tisn't every day
that British and French intelligence learn of an idiotic plan by
Bismarck to save the Austrian Emperor and prevent bloody war,
is it? Gad's me life and blue sacred, they must have thought,
Gladstone and Grevy (the Frog-in-chief) must hear about this, and
elder wiseacres like Macmahon, and probably D'lsraeli . . . and
the Queen, God help us, since it's a royal crisis . . . and because
they've no notion what to do they convince themselves that Otto's
plan is the only course - all the more so because the renowned
Flashy, secret diplomatic ruffian extraordinary, former agent of
Palmerston and Elgin, veteran of desperate exploits in Central Asia
and China and the back o' beyond generally, who's killed more
men than the pox and is just the lad for the present crisis, has been
recruited to the good cause - never mind how, he's on hand, loaded
and ready to fire, your majesty, so don't trouble your royal head
about it, all will be well . . . "Indeed, it is most alarming, and
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shocking that subjects should Raise their Hands against their
Fmperor, whose Royal Person should be sacred to them, and the
Fmpress is the prettiest and most charming creature, and while I could wish that your hand, dear Lord Beaconsfield, was at the
Helm of the Ship of State in this crisis, I dare say that Mr Gladstone
is right, and the matter may be safely entrusted to Colonel Flashman,
such an agreeable man, although my dear Albert thought
him a trifle brusque ..." "Indeed, marm, a somewhat rough diamond,
but capable, they say . . ." That would be the gist of it. I
could have wept.
For as I sat on the cold bench in the shadows, with waltz music
drifting from the casino and my mind numb from the pounding Button and this Frod had given it, one thing at least was plain: I
was dished. The irony was that in the very moment when I'd
eluded Willem and his bullies, running had become impossible.
How could I tell Button to go to hell with his foul instructions and
have him bearing back to Whitehall (and Windsor and Horse
Guards and Pall Mall) the shameful news that the Hector of
Afghanistan, hero of Balaclava and Cawnpore, had said thank'ee
but he'd rather not save Franz-Josef and the peace of Europe, if
you don't mind. My credit, my fame would be blown away; I'd
be disgraced, ruined, outcast; the Queen would be quite shocked. No, the doom had come upon me, yet again, and I could only
cudgel my brains for some respectable alternative to the horror
ahead, trying to look stem as I met their eyes, and talking brisk
and manly like the gallant old professional they thought I was.
"See here, Button," says I, "you know me. I don't croak. But
this thing ain't only wild, it's plain foolish. You've got men --
well, then, bushwhack these rascals in the grounds, before they
get near the lodge - "
"We're seven all told! We couldn't hope to cover the grounds
- and if we had more it's odds the Holnup would spot us and cry
off to another time."
"But, dammit, man, two men in the house is too few! Suppose
they come in force - God knows I'm game, but I ain't young, and
Stamberg's only a boy "
"Never fret about Stamberg! From what I hear he's Al," says Button , and laid a hand on my shoulder, damn his impudence.
Ill
"And I'd back you against odds, however old you are! Now, time's
short-"
"But you must picket the grounds somehow! If something goes
wrong, seven of you could at least-"
"We'll be on hand, colonel, but only at a distance or they'll
spot us sure as sin! From this moment we'll have one cover dogging
you, every foot o' the way, but more than that we can't do! Now.
you'd best rejoin Stamberg and Kralta before they miss you."
"And how the hell do I do that, when you've sandbagged my
bloody watchdog? What do I tell 'em, hey? You've blown on me,
you gormless ass!"
"Don't you believe it, sir!" He was grinning as he spoke over
his shoulder. "How is he?"
"Sleeping sound," chuckles a voice from the dark, and Button
turned back to me. "Four more unlucky citizens will be assaulted
and robbed this fine night, so your cove won't seem out o' place.
Damnable, these garotters! Bad as London ... So your best plan,
colonel, is to discover our unconscious friend and raise the alarm,
see? How's that for establishing your bona fidesT' He called it
"bonnyfydes" - and why the devil I should remember that, of all
things, you may well wonder.
"Time to go!" snaps Button, straightening up. "Find another
victim, eh, Delzons? Off with you, then!" His hand clapped my
shoulder again. "All clear, colonel? Not a word about this to
Stamberg, mind! You'll see me again . . . afterwards. Good hunting,
sir!"
And so help me, he and his lousy Frog accomplice were gone
like phantoms into the dark, without another word, leaving me in
a rather disturbed state. I'd have cried out after them if I'd been
capable of speech; as it was, I had wit enough to see the wisdom
of his advice anent Beefy, and after a few seconds' frantic search
in the bushes I found the brute, dead to the world, and was waking
the echoes with shouts of: "Helfen! Polizei! Ein Mann ist tot!
Helfen, schnell, helfen!" Thereafter it seemed politic to run towards
the casino, repeating my alarm and guiding interested parties to
the scene of the crime.
It worked perfectly, of course. Willem was among the first on
hand, fairly blazing with unspoken suspicion, which I allayed by
112
xnlainin0 that I'd been waiting by the fountain for Kralta when
niinds of battery in the bushes had attracted my attention, and on
nvestigating I'd found Beefy supine with two sturdy footpads
raking inventory of his pockets. They had fled, I had pursued but
lost them in the dark, and returned to minister to Beefy and raise
the alarm. And where the blazes were the police, then?
It didn't convince him above half, I'm sure, not at first; I could guess he was wondering why I hadn't taken the chance to vanish. . .
and coming slowly to the conclusion that I hadn't wanted to. What
sealed the thing was the discovery, a few minutes later, of another
unfortunate wandering dazed on the gravel walks and gasping out a
tale of armed footpads who'd knocked him down and pinched his
watch and purse; half an hour afterwards a third was found unconscious
by one of the casino gates, similarly beaten and robbed.
By that time the peelers had arrived in force, shepherding the
frightened mob back into the casino, where Beefy and the other
victims were being attended to. Plainly a gang of footpads had
marked down the casino patrons as well-lined targets, and were
making a lightning sweep of the grounds. I made a statement to a
most efficient young police inspector, watched closely by a still
puzzled Willem with Kralta at his elbow; they were talking sotto voce, and if I'd felt like laughing I dare say I'd have been amused
at the slow change of expression on Willem's face, for it was clear
that she was insisting that here was proof of my sincerity, since
not only had I not made for the high hills, I'd absolutely come to
Beefy's aid and been first to holler for the law. At last he nodded,
but I guessed he was still leery of me - Rudi would have been.
Nothing was said, though, about my "bonnyfydes" as we
returned to the Golden Ship, Kralta on my arm murmuring thanks
that I hadn't been molested, and Willem snapping impatiently at
Beefy who brought up the rear with his head in a sling. I gathered
from their half-heard conversation that Beefy was lamenting the
loss of a lock of hair belonging to some hint called Leni which
he'd carried in the back of his watch, and getting scant sympathy;
Prussians, you know, care not two dams about their inferiors.
Neither do I, but I know it's good business to pretend that I do,
and looked in on Beefy before retiring to lay a consoling hand on
his thick skull; he just gaped like a ruptured bullock.
113
Being in the throes of fearful depression, I galloped Kralta in a
fine frenzy that night, and afterwards fell into a brief nightmare in
which Button dragged me through the bracken-filled corridors of
a great gloomy lodge which turned first into Whampoa's house in
Singapore, and then into the Jotunberg dungeons, where Ignatieff
was lurking unseen with a shotgun, and Rudi was pursuing me
with a blood-stained sabre, and somewhere Charity Spring was
roaring: "Stolen your girl's hair, has he? Nothing's safe from the
son-of-a-bitch! Aha, but we'll have him presently, rari nantes in
gurgite vasto* and be damned to him!" for now I was drowning
in the Jotunsee with Narreeman the nautch-dancer strangling me,
and then her sneering mask of a face turned into Kralta's, and I
woke to find her clinging to me, fast asleep, and my body lathered
in sweat.
That was the end of sleep for me. I lay shuddering at the thought
of what was to do next day, and even another tupping of the
half-drowsing Kralta didn't settle me. To be forced into Bismarck's
madness by my own people was the crowning unfairness, and I
found myself hating Button and all his works with a white-hot
ferocity. All very well for him, running Gladstone's errands and
skulking in safety while poor inoffensive poltroons like me had
to contend with murderous maniacs in defence of some useless
Hapsburg idiot who knew no better than to give his women social
diseases. What galled me more than anything was the knowledge
that Button and his gang absolutely enjoyed their nefarious work
- they found two more of his victims plundered insensible in alleys
next morning, would you believe it? Pity the traps hadn't caught
him red-handed; ten years of skilly and fetters would have done
him a power of good.
Swimming dispersedly in the vasty deep. - Virgil
114
One of the lessons that I'd impress on young
chaps is this: if you want to pull a bluff, do it with your might,
no half-measures. However unlikely the ploy, if your neck is brazen
enough, it's odds on you'll get away with it. Take the time I was
caught in flagrante in a Calcutta hotel by an outraged husband,
and sold him on the idea that I was a doctor sounding her chest,
or the occasion when they found me climbing through Jefferson
Davis's skylight and I pretended I was a workman come to fix his
lightning-rod. A moment's guilty hesitation, and I'd have been
done for; indignant astonishment at being interfered with saw me
through. But I've never done better than Willem von Stamberg in
Franz-Josef's woods above Ischi; that was a bravura performance,
and would have been a pleasure to witness if I hadn't been writhing
in pain after he'd dam' near broken my leg. His father would have
been proud of him.
We'd risen well before dawn and made a hurried breakfast schnapps,
mostly, for me, in a futile attempt to steady my nerves
- and Kralta was on hand to bid the warriors farewell. Her cheek
was like ice when she kissed me, but her lips were hungry enough,
and there was moisture in the cold blue eyes and strain showing
on the long proud face. She was anxious for me, you see, the
besotted little aristo - it's remarkable how even the most worldly
of women can be rendered maudlin by Adam's arsenal. Willem
was impatient to be off, and it was more to annoy him than to
comfort her that I folded her in a lingering embrace, squeezing
her bottom as I assured her that we'd be back in fine trim in a day
or two, and then Vienna, ha-ha!
The sun was not yet up, and autumn mist was wreathing over
the waters of the Ischi as we crossed the bridges, deserted at that
115
hour, and mounted the slope towards the woods, skirting well to
the right of the royal lodge, which lay silent among its surrounding trees; a cock was crowing somewhere, the dew was thick on the
short grass, and there was that tang in the nostrils that comes only at daybreak. We were attired as tourist walkers, in tweeds, boots
and gaiters, Willem carrying a rucksack and I a flask and sandwichcase,
and it was only when we had reached the higher woods and
paused to look back at the lodge, and beyond and beneath it the
distant roofs of Ischi town, gilded now by the first rays of the
rising sun, that it struck me I was without one necessary item of
equipment. When, I asked, was I to be armed for the fray?
"Not yet awhile," smiles Willem. "Remember that presently
you're going to be a limping invalid, who's sure to be examined
by a doctor, and we don't want him blundering through your
clobber and finding the likes of these, do we?" He opened the
rucksack to display two revolvers, a Webley and a LeVaux. "I
like an English piece myself, but the LeVaux's neat enough for
your pocket and fires a .45 slug, guaranteed to give any marauder
the deuce of a bellyache. Take your choice."
Without thinking, I indicated the LeVaux . . . and so saved my
life, and Franz-Josef's, and heaven knows how many million other
lives as well. If I'd chosen the Webley, Europe would probably
have gone to war in '83. Think I'm stretching? Wait and see.
"We'll have twenty rounds apiece," says Willem, stowing away
the guns. "If we need more . . . then we shall also need the Austrian
army." His impatience had gone now that we were under way,
and he was in that insufferably jocular mood that his father had
affected whenever dirty work was imminent. "Now, 'twill be curtain
up in a little while, so let's rehearse our cues, shall we?"
We found a dry fallen tree trunk in the margin of the woods,
and he repeated in detail the mad procedure which he'd described
on the train, and again at the Golden Ship. It still sounded devilish
chancy - suppose Franz-Josef hadn't got up this morning, or didn't
invite us to stay, what then? I asked. He shook his head as at a
mistrustful child, and was just assuring me patiently that it would
all fall out precisely as the genius Otto had forecast, when from
somewhere in the woods above us there came the distant sound
of a gunshot.
116
"There, you see!" cries he, springing afoot. "Our royal host is
doin' the local chamois a piece of no good!"
"How d'ye know it's him? It might be anyone!"
"It might be the Aston Villa brake-club picnic, but I doubt it!
In the Emperor's personal woods?" He swung up his rucksack
and plunged into the trees. "Come on!"
We pushed rapidly uphill into the woods, down into a little
hollow, and up again over a steep stony place, and now there came
two shots in quick succession, much closer and off to our left.
"Wait here!" says Willem, and was off into the undergrowth
at a run. I breathed myself against a tree, debating whether to
rush blindly downhill away from this fatal nonsense, remembered Button and the Queen, and stood there sweating and gnashing my
teeth - and here he was again, face alight with unholy joy, slithering
towards me over the fallen leaves and needles.
"Eureka! He's there, large as life, havin' a smoke while his
loader measures the horns of some dead beast which I suppose
he's shot! Couldn't be better!" He caught me by the shoulder.
"Now's the hour, Harry my boy! This is where you rick your
ankle, and I holler for help! Ready?"
"You're raving mad!" says I, through chattering teeth. "You
and Bismarck both - oh, Christ!"
For the swine had fetched me a sudden shattering kick above the
ankle, and I went down in agony, fairly writhing on the leaves as I
clutched my injured limb and damned him to Hell and beyond. It
was as though I'd been shot - and he stepped over me, measured his
distance, and kicked me savagely again, in almost the same place.
"If you've hurt yourself, the medico's got to have somethin' to
look at, you know!" grins he. "Not so loud, you ass, or they'll
think you're dyin'! Groan, and try to look gallantly longsufferin'!"
I
was too dizzy with pain to do anything but curse and weep,
and now he was away again, yelling "Helfen, mein Herr!" while
1 tried to pull myself up by a tree, wrenching at my gaiter-buttons ^d sock to reveal an ankle that was grazed bloody and already ^rning blue. God, had he broken it? I nursed the injury with both bands, feeling it beginning to puff and swell, and now footsteps ^re approaching, Willem's voiced raised in concern.
117
". . . caught his leg between two stones, I think. I don't believe
it's broken, but too badly wrenched to walk, I fear. On the first
day of our expedition, too!"
"You say your friend is an Englishman?" It was a deep voice
curiously flat and deliberate.
"Why, yes, an Army acquaintance. Neither of us has been to
the Saltzkammergut before, you see, and we planned ... ah, here
he is! How is it, Harry? I say, it looks bad!" He turned to his
companion. "By the way, I am Count Willem von Stamberg . ..
Herr . . . ?" He finished on a question, the cunning young bastard,
letting on that he didn't know whom he was addressing, and I
gritted my teeth and tried to act up, noting as I did so that it was- a good job there were no Highland regiments in the Austrian
service, for the Emperor Franz-Josef would have looked abominable
in a kilt, with those knobbly knock-knees looking like knuckleends
between his woollen stockings and his little black lederhosen. He wore a shooting jacket and a ridiculous hat with a feather, but
there was nothing clownish about the austere frowning face with
its heavy whiskers as he stooped to survey my damage. Nothing
sympathetic, either, just bovine serious.
"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 FranzJosef
nodding gravely, Willem protesting that we were a hellish
118
usance, All-Highest, and wouldn't have dreamed of intmding if
e'd only known. Flashy clinging gamely to his tree, and presently
/en more gamely to the stalwart back of the loader, who was
inunoned to tote me downhill. I lay there, breathing in his aroma
' rifle-oil and cow-dung, wondering what the harvest might be,
id Willem walked ahead with Franz-Josef, making deferential
)ises of gratitude and apology, and to my astonishment making
s majesty laugh - say that for the Stambergs, they could charm
rds from the trees when they wanted to, and by the time we
ached the lodge the Emperor of Austria was positively jocose,
suing orders to flying minions, and not going off to change his
lastly breeks until he had seen me installed on a couch in a
m-room, with servitors rallying round with hot water and cold
impresses, and Willem chivvying them aside while he attended
I my bandages himself.
"We're there," he murmured softly. "He knows my family, by
nne, anyway." I could have said that if he'd known any more
(the Stambergs than that, we'd have been on our way to gaol
ts minute, but held my peace. "Play up when the doctor comes,
ind."
Which I did, with Willem and Franz-Josef, now respectable in
suit, standing by. The sawbones was a plump little cove with
pseberry eyes and trailing whiskers who prodded my injury and
pnounced it ugly, but seemed to think I ought to be able to hobble.'
(pital, thinks I, there'll be no reason to offer us houseroom, and
} can scuttle back to Ischi and let the Holnup have a free run,
h Willem had the answer to that, rot him.
"Your thigh wound, remember," says he, very sober. "A serious
mry from my friend's Afghan days," he assured the doctor,
''hich reacts to any distemper in the limb. Why, Harry, you were
Id up for a week in Scotland, I recall, when you'd done no more
tin stub your toe!"
Observe the guile of it: he knew that if anything appealed to
Iinz-Josef it was an honourable scar; he was soldier-daft and had
biself risked life and limb with extraordinary stupidity during
h various campaigns - all of which he'd lost, by the way. So
nv you find Flashy lying trowserless while the doctor goggled
ahe impressive scar on my thigh, and the knee wound I'd taken
119
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 masterstroke.
"Well, old feller, I can see we'll just have to carry you down
to Ischi! 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 gentleman
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 Stamberg 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
120
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 FranzJosef
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 1? and tapped another gasper on his thumbnail, looking keen.
121
"Dye 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, Stamberg. You just wish it
was over and done with."
It didn't deflate him a bit. "Nerves yourself!" scoffs he. "if
younean 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 Brooke and Custer, and it's the last thing
you need when your own fears are gullet-high. "That reminds
me."hewent 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 outo' sight for the moment."
Beaig 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 die 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 FranzJosef'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 Ischi was a confounded bore,
and the it was common gossip that the Emperor was only here
because he'd hoped to achieve a reconciliation with Sissi, who
was ic one of her fits of avoiding Vienna, but had half-agreed to
come 10 Ischi, 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
122
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 errandbovs
by his secretary, and why the old boy had to spend all day
ooring over papers when he was meant to be on holiday, beat them
altogether. Kept him out of die 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
Stamberg 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 nattered 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 th and fro. "That was enough for me. I chatted a moment
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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* 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 anteroom
where his orderly sleeps, and then the royal bedchamber overlookin'
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?"
* organisation (Hind.)
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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, Stamberg, 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
v^ been denied the prospect of battle and murder; suits my character. you see. In the event that he had to tackle the Holnup alone, e ^ast thing I'd dream of doing would be to hasten to his aid;
125
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. FranzJosef
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
126
liniates. 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.
The only topics that seemed to bring him to life were horses
and game-shooting. He knew his business about the former, and
was, I'm told, an expert rider; as for the latter, about which he
prosed interminably, I can say only that my abiding memory of
Ischi lodge is of rank upon rank of chamois horns covering the
walls from floor to ceiling, wherever you went, all shot by the
royal sportsman. There must have been thousands of them.18
After dinner the real merriment began when we played a game
of tarok, a sort of whist, and I can testify that to his linguistic
shortcomings the Austrian Emperor added an inability to count,
and pondered each card at length before playing it. I guess the fun
was too much for him, for after a couple of rubbers he went back
to work at his desk, and we were free to return to our rooms . . .
and wait.
I can't recall many nights longer than that one. Even though I'd
been excused active service, so to speak (assuming the enemy
didn't come through the house) I was like a cat on hot bricks, and
Willem was no better. We played every two-handed game we knew
in my room, and he was too edgy to cheat, even. About eight
o'clock an orderly brought us tea, when what I needed was brandy,
about a pint and a half, and we learned that the Emperor was used
to retire to bed about nine, and the establishment closed down
accordingly. Sure enough, we heard the tramp of the sergeant and
sentry beneath the window, marching round the house, and distant
words of command as the sentry was posted.
"Damned old martinet!" mutters Willem, as we heard the heavy
tread of the sergeant's return, fading as he went round to the
guard-house at the front. "Imagine barkin' orders as if it were a
parade. I suppose it's for Franz-Josef's benefit as he says his
prayers. The sentry's relieved every three hours, by the way, and
you may be sure the Holnup know that, so between three and six
w11! be their best time. We'll be on the watch from ten, though;
^ey'd hardly come before that."
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We were standing at the window as he spoke, looking out into
the darkened garden, palely lit by the moon in its last quarter, the
bushes casting shadows on the turf, and the dark mass of the trees
against the night sky with the wind barely ruffling their leaves
Beneath us there was the sound of a lower window being shuttered
a door banged and we could hear the smack of the bolts thrust
home; from somewhere within the house a distant clock sounded
the half-hour, and then the only noise was the faint occasional
creak of the house itself as it settled for another peaceful night.
I was aware of a faint tapping, and was well pleased to note
that it was Willem' s fingers playing on the sill. But the handsome
face was serene enough now, and when he caught my glance at
his restless hand he laughed softly. "Waitin' for the kick-off, eh?"'
says he. "Or going out to open the battin'. You played at all?"
"If your dossier on me was complete you'd know I took five
for twelve against All-England," says I, and he whistled, but when
I added that I'd once downed Felix, Pilch and Mynn in three balls,
the ignorant brute had never heard of 'em.* "'Fore my time," says
he. "Grace, now - there's a bat for you." So we talked cricket,
while waiting for the attempted murder of the Austrian Emperor.
Well, I've known odder conversations on the brink of desperate
action.
When the distant chime of ten sounded he slipped away and
returned in his night-stalking attire: dark shirt and trowsers with
a heavy woollen jersey, light hunting boots, and flask and pistol all
stowed away; there was a wicked-looking hunting knife sheathed at
his belt.
"You never know what you need until you need it," says he.
"Don't fret, I'll be rid of it before any investigation begins." He
patted the hilt, and it struck me yet again, watching his quick deft
movements, the easy way he held himself, the bright questing eyes,
and the confident half-smile on the chiselled face, that there were
plenty of fellows I'd rather meet in a dark lane than Willem von
Stamberg. He was on a hair-trigger, and enjoying every moment ^
of it. I
"Got your piece?" says he. "Good. I've had a look-see, and
* See Flashman's Lady
128
the place is like a tomb. What price Ischi for high jinks, eh? I'd
ather have Stockholm on a Sunday! Now, I'll take you along to
'our post, which is in the last of the day-rooms from which the
nassage runs to the Emperor's billet and the aides' quarters. There's
mce shadowy corner where you can watch the passage entry,
and on t'other side of the room there's a flight of stairs leading
down to a little hall, where I'll get out by a window." He paused,
thinking. "If they come tonight, as I feel they will, you'd best use your judgment when the shootin' starts. A few quick shots will
mean it's all over; if there's still firm' after twenty seconds . . .
well, 'twill mean there are more of 'em than I bargain for. If they
don't come, back to bed with you when the house begins to stir.
I'll be out takin' the morning air," he added, with a wink. "All
clear, then? All serene-o?"
It wasn't, of course, but I gave him my resolute chin-up look,
and got his approving nod. "Best take your stick, in case anyone
comes on you unexpected in the small hours, tho' I doubt if there'll
be a soul about before dawn. Unless," says he, looking comical,
"the Holnup diddle us by coming through the house, in which
case . . . well, good huntin', you lucky bastard!"
He moved quickly to the door, peeped out, and slipped into the
corridor, motioning me to follow. There was a light burning at the
far end, but not a sound in the building save the occasional creak
of its timbers. Willem flitted ahead like a ghost, and what we'd
have said if someone had popped a head out and found us roaming
the darkened house. God knows. We crossed what he'd called the
day-rooms one after another; they had lamps burning low, and
here and there the waning moon struck a shaft of light through a
window, and the embers of a fire glowed in the shadows.
At last he paused, flicking a finger to his left, and I saw a flight
of stairs leading down into the blackness. He pointed to his right,
and there was the dark opening of the passage leading to FranzJosef's
room. A lamp gleamed dimly on a table at the passage
entry, and now Willem pointed to a shadowy corner to the left of
the passage and a few feet from it, where I could see a big leather
chair. At his nod I moved quietly towards it; then he blew out the
passage light, leaving the room in darkness.
I didn't hear him move, but suddenly I sensed him beside me,
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his hand gripping mine, and his voice close to my ear; "Good
luck, old 'un!", and then a whispered chuckle. "Ain't this the life
though?" Infernal idiot. A second later his shadow was at the head
of the stairs, and soon after I heard below the faint noise of a sash
being raised and closed again, and good riddance.
And then . . . well, d'you know, there was nothing to do but sit
about, a prey to what they call conflicting emotions. I'd run a fab- range of them in the past few days, some damned disturbing, a
few delightful with Kralta, but mostly bewildering, and now, seated
in that great leather contraption, I tried to take stock of what was,
you'll allow, an unusual situation. Here was I, in the summer
residence of the Emperor of Austria, loaded for bear, waiting for
bloody murder to break out in his policies, but the odd thing was
that now that the grip had come, I wasn't more than half nervous,
let alone scared. I was as well out of harm's way as any man in
the place, Willem could bear the brunt - and the aftermath, with
everyone behaving like headless chickens, should provide some
entertainment. He'd be the hero of the hour (if he lived), but I'd
gamer some credit if only by limping about looking stem and
impressing the excitable kraut-eaters with my British phlegm. A
little discreet lying when I saw Button again would ensure that
favourable reports reached London and Paris (and Windsor, eh?),
and after an amiable parting from Franz-Josef it would be hey for
Vienna! with a grateful and adoring Kralta.
She was a happy thought as I sat cosily ensconced in the dark,
still warm from the dead fireplace. Odd female, handsome enough
in her horsy way, with the body of a Dahomey Amazon and appetite
to match, but would she have boiled my kettle in the ordinary way
of things? Perhaps 'twas the strange circumstances in which we'd
met, or the contrast between her icy, damn-you style and the passion
with which she performed, that had me drying my chin at my
randy recollections: that fur robe slipping to the floor, like the
unveiling of a lovely marble statue, the long limbs entwining with
mine, the silky hair across my face . . . aye, Vienna beckoned,
right enough, and on those blissful imaginings I settled comfortably
to my vigil in the hours ahead . . .
... to awake with a start, shivering against the cold that had
stolen over the darkened room while I slept - for how long? The
130
oft single chime of a clock might mean one o'clock or a quarter,
hut I had no feeling of cramp, so I couldn't have been far under
but what had wakened me? The clock, or the cold, or some
other disturbance - and suddenly my hair bristled on my neck as
I became aware of a faint scraping sound from the hall below,
followed by a rustle and a soft thump . . . Jesus! there was someone
moving there, and the scrape had been the raising of the window
by which Willem had departed - could he be returning? No, why
the hell should he? But who, then . . . and I froze in terror, the
sweat breaking out on me like ice, for it could mean only one
thing, that the stupid swine's calculations had been all wrong, and
the Holnup had never heard of his confounded secret stair, but
were slipping into the house burglar-style, intent on their murderous
errand, and even now cloaked and sinister figures were at the
foot of the stairs, listening, then gliding stealthily forward ... a
stair creaked sharply, and I started half out of my chair, fumbling
for the LeVaux, straining eyes and ears against the dark . . . another
creak, and a hissing whisper, someone stumbled and cursed, and
then to my amazement a voice began croaking softly in drunken
song about lieber klein Matilde, only to be hushed by a snarled
oath and "We ist die Kerze? Streichholz, Dummkopj^." followed
by a giggling hiccup; a match rasped in the gloom, a faint glow
appeared below, and I almost collapsed with relief as slowly up
the stairs lurched Tweedledum, holding a candle unsteadily aloft,
with Tweedledee clinging to him for support.
They were in dress uniform, and by the look of them had crawled
through every pub in Ischi; I've seldom seen tighter subalterns,
but Tweedledum at least was plainly alive to the danger of waking
the Emperor, for he staggered with elaborate caution, whispering
to his mate to be quiet, and must have seen me in my corner if
Tweedledee hadn't blown the candle out with an enormous belch.
This set him giggling again. Tweedledum dropped the matches,
they blundered whimpering in the dark, and would most certainly
have come to grief if Tweedledum hadn't insisted that they proceed
on hands and knees. They crawled through the furniture more or less quietly, and presently I heard their door close softly, and peace
returned to the royal lodge.
But not to me. Perhaps it was the cold, or the unholy scare
131
they'd given me, but as I sat shivering in the dark, envying those
dmnken pups their beds, I was conscious of a growing unease
which was quite at odds with the lustful moonings about Kralta
on which I'd dropped off. I couldn't figure it; nothing about my
situation had changed, and yet where I'd been fairly tranquil before
I was now thoroughly rattled. Very well, I'm a windy beggar
whose hopes and fears go up and down like a jack-in-the-box, but
this wasn't so much fear as a presentiment that something was
wrong, damned wrong, and I couldn't put my finger on it. 'Twasn't
a logical foreboding, but pure animal instinct - and thank God for
it, 'cos it made me stir restlessly, and my fidgeting changed the
course of history.
At the recent alarm I had clutched at the LeVaux in my pocket,
and at some point must have drawn it, for now I found I was
nervously fiddling its patent safety catch, on and off, and turning
the cylinder. That reminded me, with a nasty start, that Willem
hadn't given me the promised extra rounds. He'd said it was loaded
in five chambers, and in sudden anxiety I probed with my pinky
in the dark, trying to feel the tips of the slugs in the cylinders, but
couldn't, so I broke the piece open, not knowing that it was one
of the new-fangled models with an extractor plate that whips all
the shells out together, and squealed with dismay as bullets flew
broadcast, clattering on the floor and rolling God alone knew where
- and there I was, with an unloaded firearm, my ammunition
hopelessly lost in the dark, and nothing for it but to grovel blindly
in search of the bloody things, cursing fate and the imbecility of
French gunsmiths and their ridiculous patent gadgets, as if anyone
needed them.
Frantic scrabbling round the chair brought one bullet to hand,
leaving four to find, and since I'd no intention of having only a
single shot between me and damnation, I must have light, whatever
the consequences. I had no matches - but, stay! Tweedledum had
dropped his somewhere, I'd heard them spilling all over the shop,
so now I went panting on all fours in quest of them, lost my
bearings altogether, fell into the fireplace, struggled out coated in
dead ash, fetched my head a shattering crash on a chair-leg, and
only found the scattered matches when I knelt on them. In a trice
I had one lighted and was kindling the lamp, and a moment later
132
T had scooped up three of the fallen rounds near the chair and was
casting about for the fourth.
It was lying close to the fender - at least the case was, but I
drew in an astonished breath when I saw that the bullet itself had
become detached and lay a few inches away. In fifty years of
handling firearms I'd never known the like: what, a slug clamped
tight in the brass case (which contained the explosive charge)
coining asunder? With a trembling hand I turned the little case to
the light: it was empty, and there wasn't a trace of powder where
it had fallen.
An icy hand gripped my stomach as I held each of the other
whole rounds in turn close to the lamp. Every one bore marks on
the edge of the case, as though it had been pried back to remove
the slug; indeed, I was able to pull one bullet free and saw to my
horror that the case itself was empty.
Willem had removed the charges from all five cartridges, replacing
the slugs in them so that they looked like live rounds, and if
one hadn't come loose in falling to the floor, I'd never have known
that I had, in effect, an empty revolver.
133
The discovery that you've been sold a pup
is always disconcerting, but your reaction depends on age and
experience. In infancy you burst into tears and smash something;
in adolescence you may be bewildered (as I was when Lady
Geraldine lured me into the long grass on false pretence and
then set about me with carnal intent, hurrah!); in riper manhood
common sense usually tells you to bolt, which was my instinct on
the Pearl River when I learned that my lorcha was carrying not
opium, as I'd supposed, but guns for the Taiping rebels. But at
sixty-one your brain works faster than your legs, so you reflect,
and as often as not reach the right answer by intuition as well as
reason.
Kneeling in that cold shadowy chamber, goggling at those five
useless rounds gleaming in the dim lamplight, I knew in a split
second that Willem himself was the assassin, not the guardian, and
now that I'd served my turn by helping him to within striking
distance of the Emperor, he'd rendered me powerless to intervene
in his murderous scheme. But it was a staggering thought - dammit,
why should he, a German Junker, a trusted agent of Bismarck,
want to kill Franz-Josef, doing the dirty work of Hungarian fanatics
like Kossuth and the Holnup? . . . Kossuth, by God! That was the
bell that rang to confirm my conclusion, as I remembered him
telling me on the train that his own mother's name was Kossuth,
and that he was part-Hungarian by blood. Aye, and pure Hungarian,
devil a doubt, in heart and soul and allegiance, flown with the wild
dream of independence for his mother country, and itching to fire
the shot or wield the steel that would set her free - and plunge
Europe into civil war.
All this surmised in an instant, and whether 'twas all another
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great devilment of Bismarck's, or whether Bismarck was guiltless
and Willem had duped him as he'd duped me, didn't matter. One
thing was sure: I was implicated up to the neck, and as I knelt
there sweating my imagination was picturing Willem out yonder,
full of spite and sin, disposing of the hapless sentry, humouring
the lock of the secret door, stealing up the secret stair knife in
hand to the room where his royal victim was asleep ... or dead
already? I glanced in terror towards the passage entry - quick or
dead, Franz-Josef was within forty feet of me ... oh, Christ, how
long had Willem been gone? I didn't know. Was it too late to stop
him? Perhaps not ... but that was no work for me, bigod, not if
I'd had ten loaded pistols and the Royal Marines at my back; not
for Franz-Josef and a dozen like him would I have gone up against
Willem von Stamberg, and as for Europe . . . but even as I took
the first instinctive stride of panic-stricken flight, I came to a
shuddering halt as the awful truth struck me.
I couldn't run! It would be certain death, for if Willem had
killed, or was about to kill, the Emperor, I'd be seen as his partner
in crime, and while he would have his own escape nicely planned,
I'd not have the ghost of a chance of avoiding capture, with the
whole country on the look-out. And I'd never persuade them I was
an innocent tool, or acting under orders from Downing Street why,
it was odds on I'd be shot on sight or cut down on the spot
before I could utter a word in my defence.
I didn't faint at the thought, but only the knowledge that I must
act at once enabled me to fight down my mounting panic. Should
1 raise the alarm? God, no, I daren't, for if Franz-Josef was already
a goner, I'd be cooked. The only hope was that Willem hadn't done for him yet, and that I could still . . . and that was when my
legs almost gave way, and I found myself fairly sobbing with fear,
for I knew I must go out into the ghastly dark, and find the murderous
bastard and kill or disable him . . . why, even if FranzJosef
was already tuning up with the choir invisible I might wriggle
clear if I could show that I'd flown to the rescue . . . too late, alas
oh Jesus, they'd never believe me!
"I'm innocent, gentlemen, I swear it!" I was bleating it softly
in the darkness, and time was racing by, and I'd nothing but an
empty pistol. . . but suppose Willem was still picking the lock, or
135
waiting for moon-set, or for his Holnup confederates to arrive, or
pausing to relieve himself or have a smoke, or for any other reason
you like, and I could just steel myself to sally forth and find him
whispering raucously to identify myself. . . well, he might wonder
what the blazes I was about, but he'd not shoot before asking
questions . . . and I still had the seaman's knife I'd slipped into
my boot on the Orient Express, and he'd be off guard (just as his
father had been when I'd parted his hair with the cherry brandy
bottle) - he might even turn his back on me ... well, it was that
or the hangman's rope, unless they still went in for beheading in
Austria.
On that happy thought I put up my empty piece, transferred the
knife from my boot to my pocket, and crept as fast as might be down
the stairs with my heart against my back teeth. There was
the window, pale in the gloom; I slipped over the sill to the ground
. . . and realised I'd no notion where the sundial corner was. I
forced myself to envisage the house from above . . . there was the
Emperor's room, here was I, on t'other side, and there the guardroom
by the front porch, so I must make my way cautiously by
the back.
There was still faint moonlight, casting shadows from the trees
and bushes, and the loom of the house just visible to guide me as
I crept along, my fingers brushing the ivy. In my imagination the
undergrowth was full of mad Hungarians waiting to leap out and
knife me, and once I rose like a startled grouse as an owl hooted
only a few yards away. Round one corner, peering cautiously,
along the wall towards another - and there was something glittering
in the dark off to one side, and I saw that it was the moonlight
on a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on what might
well be the surface of a sundial. And in that moment, from just
beyond the corner I was approaching, came a sound that sent
shivers down my spine - a faint clicking noise of metal, and the
rustle of someone moving. I tried to whisper, and failed, gulped,
and tried again.
"Willem! Are you there? It's me. Harry!"
Dead silence save for the pounding of my heart, and then the
faintest of sounds, a foot scraping the ground, and after what
seemed an age, Willem's whisper:
136
"Was ist dasi Harry, is that you?"
He was still outside! Relief flooded through me - to be followed
hv a drench of fear at the thought of what I must do. I drew the
laiife from my pocket, holding it against my thigh, and edged my
way round the corner. The ivy was thick on the wall just there,
but there was light enough to see a dark opening a couple of yards
ahead - the recess of the secret doorway, and just within it the
nale outline of a face. I took another step, and the face hissed at
me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" In his agitation he lapsed
into German. "Stimmt etwas nichf! What's up, man?"
Where the inspiration came from, God knows. "The Emperor
ain't in bed!" I whispered hoarsely. "He ... he got up! His aides
made a din, and woke him!"
"Arschloch Whether he meant me or Franz-Josef I can't say,
but it was enough to assure me I was right: he was bent on murder,
for if he'd been the innocent guardian, why the deuce should he
care whether the Emperor was abed or not? The clicking I'd heard
must have been his working on the lock . . . Gad, if he decided to
give up for the night, I might not have to risk attacking him ... I
could pour out my tale to the Emperor in the morning, denouncing
Willem, clearing myself ... a whirlwind of wild hopes, you see,
| as I crouched peering at the dim face a yard away, near soiling
myself in agitation, and then those hopes were dashed as he spoke
again, soft and steady.
"Back inside with you! He's bound to go back to bed presently
~ and they may still come! Go on, man, be off, quickly!"
And leave you to unpick the lock and do your business, thinks
I. There was only one thing for it. I gripped the hilt hard, stepping
closer, and as he opened his mouth to speak again I struck upwards,
going for his throat, he ducked like lightning, the blade drove past, missing by an inch, his hand clamped on my wrist, and as he
twisted and I strove to wrench free, clawing fingers came out of
the darkness on my right, fumbling for my throat, a fist smashed
against my left temple, and I was hurled backwards and flung to
the turf, pinned helpless by a massive body while another seized ^V legs, and a great stinking paw closed on my mouth - they must have been there, unseen in the gloom, his Holnup accomplices
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springing into action with the speed and silence of expert bravos
I struggled like bedamned, expecting to feel the agonising bite of
steel, but it didn't come; the hands on my mouth and throat tightened,
and I felt rather than saw a bearded face snarling into mine
in what may have been Hungarian; above us in the dark voices
were whispering urgently - Willem seemed to be giving orders
and for an instant the hand lifted from my mouth, but before I
could find the breath to bellow a cloth was thrust between my
teeth and I was heaved over on to my face and my wrists pinioned
behind me.
Meanwhile the debate overhead was deteriorating into agitated
bickering, and since some of it was in German and my mind was
most wonderfully concentrated, I gathered that Willem didn't know
why I'd attacked him, and didn't care, but if the Emperor was up
and about they'd best ignore the secret stair and invade the house
in force; no, no, says another, the Englander's lying, they always
do, and storming the house was too haphazard and the aroused
guardroom would be too many for them, to which a third voice
said the hell with such timidity, their lives would be well lost if
they could only settle Franz-Josef - there's always one like that,
you know, full of patriotic lunacy, and good luck to him.
The heavyweight atop of me weighed in with the sensible
suggestion that since subduing me had caused enough row to wake
the dead, they should give over and come back tomorrow, but
before this could be put to the vote he was proved right by a
challenge from the darkness, a bawled order, the pounding of boots,
and a stentorian command to stand in the name of the Emperor.
Willem exclaimed: "Mist, his Webley cracked, there was a yell
of pain, and then bedlam ensued, with shots and oaths and screams,
the dark was split by flashes of fire, I heard a clash of steel, my
incubus arose bawling in several languages and blazing away, and
I hastened to improve my position by scrambling up, inadvertently
butting him in the crotch. He fell away, howling, and I managed
to gain my feet and would have been going like a stag for the
safety of the shrubbery if he hadn't staggered into me, bewailing
his damaged courting tackle, and I fell full length, only to rise
again on stepping-stones of my terrified self, but not alas to higher
things, for something caught me an excruciating clout on the back
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r ^g skull, and the din of shots and shouting faded as I fell again,
this time into merciful unconsciousness.
* * *
I suppose I've been laid out, and come to with a head throbbing
like an engine-room, more often than most fellows, and can testify
that while one descent into oblivion is much like another, there
are two kinds of awakening. After a dizzy moment in which you
recall your last conscious memory and wonder where the devil
you are, realisation dawns - and it may be blissful, as at Jallalabad
or in the cave in the Bighorn Mountains, when I knew that the
hell and horror were behind me, and it was bed-time and all well
- or you may come round hanging by the heels from a cottonwood
with the Apache Ladies Sewing Circle preparing to tickle your
fancy, or strapped over a cannon muzzle with the gunners blowing
on their fuses.
Having known the last two I can tell you that waking to find
yourself bound hand and foot on a camp-bed underground, while
alarming, ain't too bad by comparison, and when your smiling
captor inquires after your health and offers refreshment . . . well,
hope springs eternal, you know. For Willem von Stamberg was
bending over me, all solicitude and sounding absolutely lighthearted.

"The guv'nor was right, 'Never forget that fellows like Flashman
always come at you when least expected, usually from
behind.' Should ha' paid more attention to the old chap, shouldn't
I?" He put a hand behind my head, and I yelped hoarsely. "Splittin'
to beat the band, eh? No wonder, Zoltan fetched you a dooce of
a clip; you've been limp as a dead fish for hours. Care for some
schnapps?"
"Where the hell am I? What . . . what's happened?" My voice
came out in a quavering croak as he removed the flask from my
hps, and as I struggled into a sitting position with his help, my
questions trailed off in amazement as I took in my surroundings.
We were alone, in an enormous cavern of what looked like
limestone, grey stone at any rate, but with an odd sheen to its
towering walls. We were at one end, close by the black mouth of
a tunnel from which ran wooden rails bearing a couple of ancient
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wheeled bogie trucks; the rails ran for about thirty yards into the
cave to what looked like a cleft in the floor, and there must have
been a bridge once, for I could see that the rails continued on the
other side of the cleft before being lost in the gloom. The place
was like some cathedral made by nature, huge and empty and
utterly silent, and staring up I saw that high overhead there was a
fissure in the roof fringed by a tangle of growth from the world
outside, and this was the only source of light, glistening dimly on
those gigantic smooth curving walls. The floor of the cavern was
smooth too, and innocent of loose rocks or rubble, as though some
giant housekeeper had swept the great chamber clean.
But the wonder of the place, that made me catch my breath even
in my groggy condition, was the little lake that covered almost half
the cavern floor on the far side away from the rails. Very
well, 'twas only water, a natural bath in the stone, but never was
water so still or clear or silent. The surface was like glass, extending
perhaps thirty yards in length by twenty across to the far wall,
and in its crystal depths, undisturbed by current or eddy, you
could make out every detail of the stone bottom ten feet down, as
though no water had been there at all. No fish could have swum
in it, or weeds grown; it was immaculate, like some enchanted
mere of fairy tale, an ice-witch's mirror in the heart of a magic
mountain.
Only by the tunnel mouth where I lay were there signs of human
occupation: a rough stone fireplace and utensils, palliasses and
camp-beds, plain chairs and table, a couple of packing-cases, and
a litter of stores and gear. But like ourselves, these worldly things
seemed out of place and dwarfed in the awful majesty of the
cavern. The cold was fit to freeze you to the bone.
"You're in an old salt-mine in the Saltzkammergut, in the mountains
above Ischi,"19 says Willem. "Jolly little tomb, ain't it? Harkaway!"
He had raised his voice, and the echo came back in an
eerie whisper, "harkaway . .. away . . . away . . .", fading ever so
softly in the unseen reaches of the cavern. He stood cocking an
appreciative ear, very trim in riding boots, breeches, and shooting
jacket, and none the worse, it seemed, for the free-for-all shooting
match which was the last thing I remembered.
"We're near the surface here," says he, "but God knows how
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far the tunnels go below. The place hasn't been worked for years.
n've know, when I was a nipper I pictured salt-mines as hellish places where slaves with red-rimmed eyes waded knee-deep in the
stuff. But it's rather grand and spooky, don't you think? Splendid
bolt-hole, too, for clandestine plotters like the Holnup. My lads
were camped here for a week, but I've had to send 'em off now,
thanks to you." He perched on a packing-case, cradling his knee,
and gave me his quizzy look. "When did you twig I was the fox
at the hen-roost, then?"
"Cut me loose first!" croaks I, but he only grinned and repeated
the question, so I told him about finding the tampered cartridges,
and he swore and slapped his thigh, laughing.
"I'll be damned! That's what comes o' being' too clever by half
- oh, and being' in awe of your fearsome reputation! Ironic, ain't
it? I gave you a harmless pistol by way of insurance, but if I'd
given you a loaded one, Franz-Josef would have been with his
fathers by now. Or if you'd come on the scene a minute later,
even ... oh, aye, we had the lock picked and I was about to go
aloft when you arrived with your little snickersnee, curse you, and
then that damned sergeant and his sentries, and we had to shoot
our way clear, and lost two good men - one of 'em your pal
Gunther, you'll be desolated to learn. Ah, well, c'est la guerre!"
You'd have thought he was describing a rag in the dormitory,
chuckling with hardly a sign of irritation. Oh, he was Rudi's boy
all right, cool as a trout and regarding me with amusement.
"So there it is!" cries he. "Franz-Josef lives on, two of my
boys don't, there ain't a hope of a return match with half a regiment
round the place by now, I imagine - supposin' F-J hasn't decamped
for Vienna already. The conspiracy is kaput, I've had to disperse
the best band of night-runners I ever hope to see, and four weeks
of dam' good plannin' have gone down the bogs." He jumped
down from his seat, and stood before me, hands on hips. "Yes,
sir, the guv'nor was right. You truly are an inconvenient son-of-abitch.
Still... no hard feelin's, what? Not on my side, leastways."
Call me a sceptic if you will, but I doubted it. I'd come within
a whisker of cutting his throat, ruined his plot all unwitting, and
cost him two men dead - and he didn't mind a bit? No, this could
only be cat-and-mouse in the best Stamberg tradition, and his claws
141
would show presently; in the meantime, with my innards turnins cartwheels, I pretended to take him at face value.
"Glad to hear it," says I. "Then you won't mind cutting these
infernal ropes."
"Certainly ... by and by," says he. "When my arrangements
for departure are complete. Austria's a trifle warm just now, you
see, what with two dead desperadoes under the Emperor's window
a sentry with a slit weasand, and those two mysterious visitors
Flashman and Stamberg, vanished none knows whither. It wouldn't
surprise me," says the sardonic pup, "if they started lookin' for
us, which is why I intend to be over the Italian border by daybreak
tomorrow. I've no inclination to grace an Austrian gallows - or
rot in a Brandenburg fortress, which is what'11 happen if Bismarck
ever learns the truth of our little soiree yestre'en. He'd have my
ballocks for breakfast."
That settled one thing. "So last night was off your own bat!
Bismarck had nothing to do with it?"
He stared. "With our gallant attempt to snuff FranzJosef's
wick, you mean? Good lord, no! My word, you do have a low
opinion of our worthy Chancellor!" He grinned at my bewilderment.
"I see I'll have to explain. Two months ago the Holnup
learned that F-J was comin' to Ischi without his usual retinue, and
would be a sittin' bird for assassination. Plans were laid for a night
attack on the lodge, but Bismarck got wind of it from a spy in the
Holnup council, and devised his great plan for guardin' the
Emperor, just as Kralta and I told you. What he didn't know, when
he entrusted it to me, his loyal agent," he went on, looking waggish,
"was that I happen to be a great-nephew of Lajos Kossuth himself,
and have been a member of the Holnup since boyhood. And that
in choosin' me to guard the great booby he was playin' into our
hands, makin' our task even easier by handin' me on a plate the
golden opportunity that every Hungarian patriot has been prayin'
for this ten years past. You may be sure," he added, "that we've
identified the spy in our council, and have left him strictly alone
... for the time being."
He paused, and just for a moment the bantering manner dropped
from him like a cloak. The boyish face was set and his eyes were
far away as he said softly: "And we were so close. Another moment
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_ another few seconds - and the blow would have been struck that
would have freed Hungary from the Hapsburgs forever. Holnup
holnuputanV* He gave a deep sigh, and slowly unclenched
his hands - and then he was himself again, shaking his head at
me in mock reproach. "You really have been an uncommon nuisance,
you know."
For some reason, despite my fears, this infuriated me. "Because
I stopped you from committing murder? Why, you dam' fool, I
saved your lousy life, more like! Bismarck would have had more
than your ballocks - he'd have had your neck!"
He regarded me pityingly. "Oh, ye of little faith! D'you think
I'm a half-wit? It was all arranged - once F-J had kicked the
bucket we'd have fetched you out o' the house, quiet-like, tapped
you gently on your great fat head, laid you out beside the royal
corpse with a bloody knife in your hand, and left you to explain
matters when you woke up." He regarded my expression of stupefied
horror with cheerful satisfaction. "Of course they'd have
hanged you - if they hadn't finished you off on the spot. But don't
you see, I could then have pleaded injured innocence to Bismarck,
pointing out that it wasn't / who brought you into the business,
and that you must have gone berserk, or been a Holnup hireling
all unsuspected, or killed F-J for love of the beauteous Sissi . . .
or anythin' at all. He'd ha' swallowed it. Besides, that would have
been the least of his troubles, with the dogs of war slippin' all over
the parish, and everyone blamin' perfidious Albion as usual,
and Gladstone havin' apoplexy." He shrugged. "Aye, me, the
best-laid schemes . . ."
What was the phrase young Hawkins used in his book? "Surely,
while you're above ground, Hell wants its master!" Spoken of the
fictitious image of Rudi von Stamberg, but by God it fitted his
abominable son even better, sitting there while he lighted another
of his blasted cigarettes.20 Was he mad, perhaps . . . and why had
he brought me to this ghastly solitude? It made no sense, for if
he'd wanted me dead they could have done for me in the fight at
the lodge. Was it possible that his geniality was genuine, and that
he didn't mean me harm after all? No, for why was I bound hand
"Tomorrow ... the day after tomorrow!"
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and foot? The evil bastard had brought me here to gloat .. . and
he must have read my thoughts, for:
"So what now, you wonder?" says he. "Well, Harry, that's a
hard one . . . damned hard. You see, the fact is that I like you and
none the less because you've baulked me altogether. Indeed
all the more. And it's just a lost trick in the game, anyway - m
settle Franz-Josef, one way or t'other, and before long, too. You
may count on that. And then . . .'twill all come right, and Hungary will be free soil. But that's by the way."
He seated himself on his packing-case again, blowing smokerings
and watching them hang motionless in that windless cavern
while my skin crawled.
"The hard thing, though, is that while you're a man after my
own heart, just as you were after the guv'nor's, and I'd like to
clap hands and part friends . . ." and damned if he didn't sound
as though he meant it "... you know too much, you see. At the
moment, what happened last night is all a great mystery - officially.
What do they know, Franz-Josef's people? That someone was
tryin' to do him in - the unlocked door and dead sentry tell 'em
that. And that it was a Holnup job - the other dead 'un we had to
leave with Gunther was a Magyar, and a notorious firebrand. And
that you and 1 were in the business, some way or other. What
then? Whatever they suspect, they can't prove a blessed thing
against you and me, unless we're fool enough to let ourselves be
collared in the next day or two, while the trail's hot and they're
still full of zeal. After that, they'll be quite thankful to forget about
us, and they can keep the whole unfortunate business quiet. See?"
I saw, all right, and was struck by the sinister significance of
the words "you know too much". He continued:
"Which is why I shall lie low in Italy for a spell, before presentin'
myself to Bismarck, who'll have no earthly reason to suspect
me. am contraire, he'll welcome me with open arms! On the
face of it, his great scheme will have worked to admiration, don't
you see?" He sat forward, eyes shining. "The Holnup struck,
failed, and left two of their number stark and stiff! Bravo, Stamberg
and Flashy, cries Otto, couldn't have done better myself! That's
what he's bound to think . . . and I shan't disillusion him. If he
wonders why we didn't stay to take the credit, I'll say it seemed
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hest to fade modestly away. Oh, he'll swallow it. But. . ." he
chook his head solemnly, "... suppose you were to tell the true
story of what happened last night, eh? I'd be embarrassed. Harry.
Embarrassed to death, like as not-"
"But I wouldn't say a word!" It came out in a bellow that made
the echo ring. "Never, I swear it! My God, no! I wouldn't dream of
it' Why the hell should I want to? You can't believe that I'd ever - "
"So you say, in the Saltzkammergut," he interrupted. "But safe
in London or Paris? Who knows? Very well, you might keep mum
- but I'm certain sure you won't if the Austrian polizei nab you
before you can get out o' the country. And you haven't a hope of
doin' that."
"Why not? If you're making for Italy, we can - "
"I can, but you can't. I've a horse up topsides, and I know the
country. But I can't risk a passenger. Sorry, old 'un," says he, all
manly regret, the hypocritical hound, "but I must take the high
road . . . while you take the low." He gestured beyond me, towards
the recesses of the cavern.
"You can't mean it! My God, Stamberg . . . Willem - I swear
I'll not let on! On my honour! Christ, man, think - who'd believe
me if I were fool enough to blab? Bismarck? You know dam' well
he wouldn't - never trusted me an inch, the swine! And I'd never
peach to the Austrians - you said yourself they can't prove anything!
And I could explain, somehow, why I disappeared from the
lodge last night - oh. God, I don't know exactly, but I could spin
'em some yam about how the Holnup abducted me, or anything - " | "I don't doubt that you could!" he agreed. "But would you,
when the truth might save your skin? I doubt it. I know dam'
well I wouldn't." He paused, reflecting. "Anyway, there's another
reason why I can't let you . . . live to tell the tale - even if I could
be sure you wouldn't tell it."
"Jesus, man - why?"
He sat a moment, frowning and smiling together, and then flicked
away his cigarette and stood up, took a few slow paces, and turned
to face me - and, d'ye know, he looked almost wistful.
"Debt of honour, I guess you'd call it," says he. "I feel I owe
it to the guv'nor." And as I gagged in appalled disbelief, he went
on:
145
"I've never known, as I told you, what you and he were up to
in Strackenz all those years ago. Some stunt of Otto Bismarck's,
wasn't it? But I do know that you had the deuce of a turn-up at
the last, sabre to sabre, in some castle or other - and 'twas the
guv'nor's lastin' regret that it didn't go a I'outrance. I don't know
what came between you, but I wouldn't mind havin' a quid for
every time I heard the old chap say: 'I only wish I'd settled
Flashman! He was a strong swordsman, and up to every foul trick,
but I was better. Aye, if only I could ha' finished it!' That's what
he said."
He turned away to reach in among some gear piled on a case
by the tunnel mouth, and when he faced me again he had a dress
sabre unsheathed in either hand, the slim blades glittering wickedly
in the pale light from the cavern roof.
"So I feel bound to finish it for him," says he.
"But ... but..." I struggled for speech. "You must be crazy!
For God's sake, man, there's no need! I've told you I shan't breathe
a bloody word! I'll be silent as the grave -"
"That's the ticket!" cries he. "Couldn't ha' put it better myself!
And speakin' of graves, you couldn't ask a grander mausoleum
than this!" He nourished a point at our ghastly surroundings.
"Pretty gothic, what? Oh, shut up, do! Don't tell me you'd not
squeal your head off when the traps got you, 'cos it's a lie and
we both know it, and it don't matter anyway - I'm doin' this out
o' filial piety." He inserted the blade between my ankles and cut
the cord. "There now, you can frisk like a lamb and limber up for
the fray. Harry be nimble, eh? You'll need to be, I promise."
"Damn you for a fool!" I struggled off the bed. "You can't
mean it! Why, it's madness! I've told you I shan't talk, haven't
I? You can trust me, I tell you!" I took an unsteady step and
tumbled, rolling on the floor. "Loose my hands, rot you - and
listen, you ass! Your guv'nor would never have stood for this we
were chums, dammit, comrades, Rudi and I - you said it
yourself, he told you I was a man after his own heart - "
"He did. He also advised me to shoot you on sight, so count
yourself lucky. Come on, upsadaisy!" He whacked me on the rump
with the flat of the blade and I scrambled up cursing. "Now then
. . . I'm goin' to untie your wrists, give you a moment to ease the
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cramps away, and when you're ready you're goin' to pick up that
sabre . . ." he tossed one of them on to the bed ". . . and we'll take
up where you and the guv'nor left off, savvy?"
"Savvy be damned, I'll not do it! Heavens, man, where's the
sense to it? You can't bear me any grudge," I whined, "I didn't
try to spoil your beastly plot - "
"Apart from almost severin' my jugular. But I don't hold that
against you. All in the way o' business." He tapped his point on
my breast. "So is this."
"I'll not fight, I tell you!" I shouted, almost in tears. "You can't
make me!"
"True enough," says he. "And I can't run a helpless man
through, can I?" His smile became wicked. "Might persuade you,
though ... if you'll just step this way . . ." He prodded me backwards,
along by the rails, and perforce I retreated, pleading and
blaspheming by turn, while he requested me to "Pass along the
bus, please," before seizing my shoulder, spinning me round, and
gripping my bound wrists. "Steady the Buffs! Don't want you
fallin' and hurtin' yourself . .. yet."
I dam' near swooned. We were on the very lip of the cleft
where the rails ended, and I was staring down aghast into a narrow
chasm whose smooth walls were visible for only a few yards
before they vanished into black nothingness. I swayed giddily on
the brink, my crotch shrinking as I tried to rear back from that
awful void, but Willem held me in an iron grip, chuckling at my
shoulder.
"A soldier's sepulchre, what? That's where your mortal coil is
goin', when you've shuffled it off. Can't tell how deep it is, but
it looks as though it narrows a bit, some distance down, like those
jolly French oubliettes, so you'll probably stick fast. You won't
mind, being' dead. On t'other hand, if you won't fight I'll just have
to drop you in alive, and the stickin' process might last some time,
wouldn't you think?"
That was when I broke. The horror of that gaping shaft, the
thought of falling into blackness, the tearing agony of rasping to
a flayed, bloody stop between the confining walls, jammed and
helpless, to die by inches, rotting in the bowels of the earth ... I
raved, begging him to let me be, promising never to tell, struggling
147
like a maniac until he pulled me away, and I sank to my knees
weeping buckets and babbling for mercy, promising him a fortune
if he'd only spare me. He listened in some wonder, and then
laughed as though a light had dawned.
"I'll bejiggered!" cries he. "It's the Flashman gambit. . . grovel
and whine - then strike when your man's off guard! Didn't I tell
you the guv'nor warned me to beware when you started showin'
the white feather? Well, you're doin' it a shade too brown. Harry
- and t'won't answer, you know. I'm fly to you. 'Sides, I probably
have more cash in the bank than you do."
"Help!" I hollered. "Help, murder! Let me be, you lousy bully,
you cruel bastard, you! I ain't shamming, you infernal idiot, I
swear I'm not! Oh, please, Stamberg .. . Willem, Bill, let me go
and I'll never tell! Help!"
"Oh, cheese it, you daft dummy!" He grabbed my neck and
pushed me prone, and the cords at my wrists fell away as he cut
them through. He stepped swiftly back, as though expecting me
to go for him, and watched me warily - he absolutely wasn't sure
whether I was bluffing or not. That's what a reputation does for
you. Then he wheeled about, strode away to the camp-bed, picked
up the other sabre, and sent it slithering and clinking over the stone
in my direction.
" 'Play-actor', the guv'nor called you, didn't he?" says he.
"Well, I don't know - and what's more, I don't much care, but
I'm gettin' cold, and if you don't take up that tool double quick
I'll pitch you down that hole without benefit of clergy, d'ye hear?
So get up and come on!"
"You can't mean to butcher me!" I wailed. "My God, man,
haven't you any bowels?"
"Ne'er mind about my bowels!" sneers he, casting aside his
jacket. "You'll be admirin' your own presently. On guard!"
There's a moment, and I've faced it more often than I care to
remember, when you're rat-in-the-comer, all your wriggling and
lying and imploring have failed, there's nowhere to run, and your
only hope is to do your damnedest and trust to luck and every
dirty dodge you know. For a split second I wondered if his last
threat had meant that he'd tackle me bare-handed, and if perhaps
I was stronger than he ... but no, in my lusty youth perhaps, but
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not now against that lithe young athlete, all steel and whipcord. I must just take my chance with the blade.
I picked it up, and somehow the feel of the wire-bound grip
steadied me, not much, but enough to face him as he waited, poised
on his toes, sleek as a panther, the fine tawny head thrown back and the arrogant smile on his lips - and I felt the tiniest spark of
hope.
Whether my blubbering had truly made him wonder or not, I
couldn't tell, but one thing was sure - he hadn't fooled me. Oh,
he needed me dead for his skin's sake, right enough, but he wasn't
thinking of that now, nor of sacrificing me to Rudi's shade, which
was so much eyewash. No, what was gripping Master Stamberg
was the sheer wanton delight in killing, of adding my distinguished
head to his trophy room, of proving his mastery and seeing the
fear in the eyes of the beaten opponent at his mercy - I know all
about it, you see, for I've enjoyed it myself, but while it's a luxury
that a wary coward can afford, it's a weakness in a brave man who's
sure of his own superiority, for he forgets what your cold-blooded
assassin (and your coward) never forget - that killing is a business,
not a pleasure, and you must keep your sense of fun well in check.
Another thing: he was an academic swordsman if ever I saw
one, beautifully balanced as he glided forward and saluted, smirk|ing,
falling into the sabre guard with an ease that would have done
de Gautet's heart good to see. Well, I'd taken the brilliant de Gautet
unawares (once), and I doubted if Stamberg was any smarter. So
I gripped my hilt tight, like the rawest dragoon recruit, took a
hesitant shuffle forward, and played my first card.
"It ain't fair!" I whined. "I've been trussed like a fowl - and
I'm an old man, damn you! By gad, if I were your age, you'd
think twice, you prancing pimp! Ain't you your father's son,
though, taking every mean advantage . . . wait, rot your boots, I
ain't ready-"
God, he was quick! One whip of his wrist and his blade was ^_ icing at my neck, and if I hadn't practised my favourite retire, ^Bwhich is to fall backwards, howling, my head would have been
on the carpet. I scrambled up, shaken, one hope gone, for I'd
intended to move close, mumping piteously, and give him the point "nexpected. Now he came in like a dancer, unsmiling and bursting
149
with blood-lust, cutting left and right, the blades clashing and
grating, and I had to break ground to avoid being driven back to
that awful chasm, side-stepping and tripping over those confounded
rails, tumbling down the smooth slope almost to the water's edge
He bore up, swearing. "D'you do all your fightin' flat on "our
back, then? Come on, man, get up and look alive!"
"I can't! I've jarred my elbow! A-hh, I think it's broken "
"No, it's not, you lyin' skunk! You ain't hurt, so pick up your
sword and stay on your feet!" And the callous swine pricked me
on the leg, drawing blood. I damned his eyes and came afoot
moving cautiously back to the level, and as he cut high and low
I gave back again, towards the tunnel mouth. If I could lure him
in among the clutter of beds and cases he'd be hampered, and
might even stumble . .. but he knew a trick worth two of that and
drove me clear of the obstacles - and hope leaped within me, for
if I retreated into the tunnel at my back we'd both be fighting in
the dark, and I could drop flat and slash at his ankles ...
"You damned old fox!" shouts he, and with one lightning flurry
of his blade he was past me while I cowered and scurried, warding
his cuts any old how, and then he was after me again, snarling
with laughter as he harried me back into the cavern proper. His
sabre seemed to be everywhere, at head and shoulder and flank,
and once he feinted low and gave me the point, but I turned it
with the forte and in desperation loosed a wild scything sweep
which he parried well enough, but paused, eyeing me with some
respect.
"Why, you ain't so old, you faker!" cries he. "Though how
you troubled the guv'nor, blowed if I know! He must ha' been
ill!"
"He was full o' wind and piss, like you!" I panted. "Ran like
a whippet - aye, he didn't tell you it ended with him turning tail,
did he? No, he wouldn't, not Slimy Starnberg!" I reviled Rudi
with every insult I could muster, wheezing hoarsely as he drove
me ever back, for I knew 'twas my only hope; my lungs and legs
were labouring, and his young strength must prevail unless I could
rile him into recklessness. But he was as cool as his father, damn
him, chuckling triumphantly as I staggered away, swiping and
swearing.
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"Bellows to mend, what?" says he. "Best save your breath . . .
oh stop sprintin', can't you? Come on, you old duffer, stand for
once and let's see what you're made of!"
So I did, not from choice but 'cos I was too used up to run,
employing me rotten swordsman's last resort, the Khyber-knife guard of the Maltese Cross, up-down-across with all your might.
No opponent can touch you, but he don't need to, since you'll die
of apoplexy from exertion, as I'd discovered back in '60, when
old Ghengiz the Mongol and I repelled Sam Collinson' s bannermen
at the Summer Palace - leastways, old Ghengiz did while I lit out
for pastures new.* But there was no Ghengiz now to bear the
brunt, and I knew I couldn't last but a few moments more, and
then my aching arm and shoulder must fail, and this grinning,
handsome sadist would beat down my feeble guard and drive his
old steel through my shrinking carcase .. . and it would end here,
in this clammy cavern, with the two tiny mannikins hacking away
across its floor and the echoes of clashing swords resounding from
the great stone arch overhead. I'd be cut down to death in this
forgotten desolation, I who had survived Balaclava and Cawnpore
and Greasy Grass, Fort Raim dungeon and Gettysburg and the
guns of Gwalior, slaughtered by this mountebank who wasn't more
than half a swordsman anyway, for all his academic antics, or he'd
have settled an old crock like me ages ago, and the hellish injustice
and meanness of it all was like gall to my craven soul as I felt my
strength ebbing and gave voice yet again to what I dare say will
be my dying words one day:
"It ain't fair! I don't deserve this - no, no, wait, for God's sake,
not yet. . . a-hhh, I'm done for ... the doctor was right..." And
I dropped my sabre, clutching at my heart, face contorted in agony,
and sank to my knees.
"What the devil!" cries Willem, as I clasped both hands to my
bosom, groaning in unutterable pain, gaping wide to emit a croaking
wheeze - and he stopped dead, sabre raised for the coup de
.grace.
I "You're shammin', you old sod!" cries he ... but he came that
vital step closer, and I hurled myself forward, my right fist aimed
See Flashman and the Dragon
151
at his groin - and I missed. God damn it to Hell, for my blow
caught him on the thigh and sent him staggering but not disabled
and as I grabbed my sabre and let go an almighty cut that should
have taken his leg off, the brute parried it and came in hand and
foot, eyes blazing.
I turned and ran, shrieking in anticipation of his point in my back, eyes closed in panic, felt myself stumbling down an incline
and plunged flat on my face in freezing water. I was floundering
in the shallows of the little lake, and as he came bounding to the
margin, sabre raised for a downward cut, I scrambled away until
I was knee-deep and out of reach. I daren't go farther, for the cold
of that hell-created tarn was fit to freeze Grendel, numbing my
feet and calves in seconds, and I knew that immersion would mean
death in minutes. He stopped on the brink, measuring the distance,
but too wary to come after me, for the water must hinder his feet.
He swore, snaking his point at me, and made as downright foolish
a statement as ever I heard.
"Come out of that, blast you! You can't run forever!"
"You callous swine!" I yammered. "Go away, you dirty rotter,
let me alone, can't you? Oh, Lor', my legs are freezing, you
hound!"
"Well, come out, then! I ain't stoppin' you!"
"Damned if I will! You'd cut me down foul, while I was climbing
out!"
"Don't be an ass! As if I needed to. Oh, well, freeze or drown,
as you please!"
He backed up to the level, and I took a step towards the brink,
where my sabre lay.
"Come on, pick it up!" says he. "Ton my soul, you're as good
as a play, you are!"
"You won't take me unawares?" cries I, crouching furtive-like,
extending a wary hand towards my sabre. "You'll give me a
moment . . . Bill? Please? My feet are frozen solid . .. won't
answer..."
"God forbid that the renowned Flashman should die with cold
feet!" He laughed impatiently. "Never fear, I'll wait." And as I
put a foot on the dry stone, gasping elaborately, he half-turned away in contempt - and I thought, now or never, put my hand on
152
rhe forte of the blade, grasped it, and launched it spear-fashion
with all my remaining strength at his unguarded flank.
For an instant I thought I'd got him, for the sabre flew true as
an arrow, but his speed saved him. He'd no time to dodge, but his
sword-hand moved like lightning, the blades rang together, and
the flying sabre was swept high into the air to fall clattering almost
at the mouth of the tunnel. By which time I was on him, fists and
cold feet flying, grappling him, and down we went together in a
tangle of limbs. Flashy roaring and Willem spitting curses. I took
a wild punch at his head and missed, yelping as my knuckles struck
the stone, and as I rolled away blind with pain he was on his feet,
cutting down at me. His sword struck sparks within an inch of my
head, I scrambled on to all fours and came erect - and there he
was, extending himself in a lunge that there was no avoiding, and
I died in that split second as his point sank home in my unprotected
body.
What is it like to be run through? I'll tell you. For an instant,
nothing. Then a hideous, tearing agony for another instant - and
then nothing again, as you see the blade withdrawn and the blood
welling on your shirt, for the pain is lost in shock and disbelief as
your eyes meet your assailant's. It's a long moment, that, in which
you realise that you ain't dead, and that he's about to launch
another thrust to finish you - and it's remarkable how swiftly you
can move then, with a hole clean through you from front to back,- about midway between your navel and your hip, and spouting gore
like a pump. (It don't hurt half as much as a shot through the hand,
by the way; that's the real gyp.)
Well, I moved, as Stamberg whirled up his sabre for a cut, and
the pain returned with such a sickening spasm that I was near
paralysed, and what should have been a backward spring became
an agonised stagger, clutching my belly and squealing (appropriately)
like a stuck pig. His cut came so close that the point ripped
my sleeve, and then the back of my thighs struck something solid,
and I went arse over tip into one of the bogie trucks standing on
the rails - and the force of my arrival must have jolted its ancient
wheels loose from the dust of ages, for the dam' thing began to
move.
For a moment all the sense was jarred out of me, and then
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Willem shouted - with laughter! - and through waves of pain I
remembered that the rails ran slightly downwards from the tunnel
mouth, and that the bogie must be rolling, slowly at first but with
increasing momentum, towards that ghastly oubliette where the
rails ended.
If I've sinned in my time, wouldn't you say I've paid for it?
There I was, on the broad of my back, legs in the air, leaking
blood by the pint with my guts on fire, confined by the sides of
the truck, helpless as a beetle on a card as I trundled towards
certain death. Bellowing with pain and panic, I grabbed for the
top of one side, missed my hold, regained it with a frantic clutch,
and heaved myself up bodily with an agonising wrench to my
wound. I had a glimpse of Willem shouting in glee -1 won't swear
he didn't flourish his sabre in a farewell salute, the gloating kite
- and as I tried to heave myself clear the confounded truck lurched,
throwing me off balance, it was gathering speed, bumping and
swaying over the last few yards of track, and as the front wheels
went over the edge with a grating crash I tumbled over the side,
my shoulder hit the stone with a numbing jar - and my legs were
kicking in empty air! I flailed my arms for a hold on the stone,
and by the grace of God my left hand fell on the nearside rail, and
I was hanging on for dear life, my chest on the stone, my bleeding
belly below the brink of the chasm, and the rest of me dangling
into the void.
Far below the falling truck was crashing against the rock walls,
but I'll swear it made less noise than I did. Feeling my grip slide
on the worn wood, I fairly made the welkin ring, striving and
failing to haul myself up, getting my numbed right forearm on to
the surface, but powerless to gain another inch, my whole right
side throbbing with pain . . . and Willem was striding towards me,
sabre in hand, grinning with unholy delight as he came to a halt
above me. And then he hunkered down, and (it's gospel true) spoke
the words which were a catchphrase of my generation, employed
facetiously when some terrible crisis was safely past:
"Will you have nuts or a cigar, sir?"
I doubt if the noise I made in reply was a coherent request for
assistance, for my sweating grasp was slipping on the rail, I was
near fainting with my wound, and already falling in tortured
154
maeination into the stygian bowels of the Saltzkammergut. But
he eot the point, I'm sure, for he stared into my eyes, and then
that devilish, mocking smile spread over his young face . . . and
what he did then you may believe or not, as you will, but if you
doubt me ... well, you didn't know Willem von Stamberg, or
Rudi, for that matter.
He rested on one knee, laid down his sabre, and his right hand
closed on my left wrist like a vice, even as my fingers slipped
from the rail. With his left hand he brought his cigarette case from
his breast pocket, selected one of his funereal smokes, pushed it
between my yammering lips, struck a match, and said amiably:
"No cigar, alas . . . but a last cigarette for the condemned man,
what?"
You may say it was the limit of diabolic cruelty, and I'll not
dispute it. Or you may say he was stark crazy, and I'll not dispute
that, either. At the moment I had no thoughts on the matter, for I
was barely conscious, with no will except that which kept my right
forearm on the stone, knowing that when it slipped I'd be hanging
there by his grip on my other wrist alone . . . until he let go. I know
he said something about cigars being bad for the wind anyway, and
then: "Gad, but you do give a fellow a run for his money," and
on those words he gripped my collar, and with one almighty heave
deposited me limp, gasping, and bleeding something pitiful, on the
floor of the cave.
For several minutes I couldn't stir, except to tremble violently,'
and when I had breath to spare from groaning and wheezing and
lamenting my punctured gut, which was now more numb than
painful, I know I babbled a blessing or two on his head, which I
still maintain was natural. It didn't suit him a bit, though; he stood
looking vexed and then flung away the gasper and demanded:
"Why the devil can't you die clean?" to which I confess I had no
ready answer. If I had a thought it was that having saved me, he
was now bound to spare me, and I guess the same thing was
occurring to him and putting him out of temper. But I can't say
what was passing in his mind - indeed, to this day I can't fathom
him at all. I can only tell you what was said and done that morning
in that godforsaken salt-mine above Ischl.
'It ain't a reprieve, you know!" cries he.
155
"What d'ye mean?" says I.
"I mean that it's still the Union Jack for you, Flashman!" retorts
he - the only time, I think, he'd ever used my surname formal-like
and with a sneer he added words he could only have heard from
Rudi. "The game ain't finished yet, play-actor!" Then he snapped
something I didn't catch about how if he had let me fall down the
cleft I'd likely have found a way out at the bottom. "So you'll go
the way I choose, d'ye see? When you're done pukin' and snivellin'
you'll get up and take that sabre and stand your ground for a
change, my Rugby hero, 'cos if you don't, I'll . . . Wer ist dasT'
My wail of protest was drowned by his shouted challenge, and
I saw he was staring towards the tunnel mouth, suddenly on his
guard, crouched like a great cat - and my heart leaped as I saw
why.
Someone was standing just within the tunnel mouth, motionless
and silent, a dark figure clad in close-fitting shirt and britches and
peaked cap, but too much in shadow for the features to be made
out. Seconds passed without reply, and Willem started forward a
couple of paces and stopped, shouting again: "Who are you? What
d'ye want?"
Still there came no reply, but as the echoes resounded from the
cavern walls and died away in whispers, the figure stepped swiftly
forward, stooped to retrieve my fallen sabre, and straightened again
in a stance that left no doubt of his intentions, for he stood like
an epee fighter at rest between bouts, left hand on hip, point inclined
downwards above the advanced right foot. Willem swore in astonishment
and shot a glance at me, lying bemused and bleeding, but
I was as baffled as he - and my hopes were shooting skywards,
for this mysterious apparition was Salvation, surely, issuing an
unspoken challenge to my oppressor, and I was mustering breath
to bawl for help when:
"Speak up, damn you!" cries Willem. "Who are you?" The
newcomer said not a word, but tilted up his point in invitation.
"Well enough, then!" cries Willem, and laughed. "Whoever
you are, we'll have two for the price o' one, what?" And he went
in at a run, cutting left and right at the head, but the newcomer
side-stepped nimbly, parrying and riposting like an Angelo, so help
me, tossing aside the peaked cap to clear his vision - and as the
156
1'dit from above fell full on his features I absolutely cried out in
amazement. Either this was all a dream, or the horrors I'd endured
had turned my brain, for I was staring at a stark impossibility, a
hallucination. The face of the swordsman, fresh and youthful under
its mop of auburn curls, was one that I'd last seen smiling wantonly
uo at me from a lace pillow five years ago: the face of my little
charmer of Berlin: Caprice.
It was mad, ridiculous, couldn't be true, and I was seeing things
- until Willem's startled oath told me I wasn't. The graceful lines
of the figure in its male costume, the dainty shift of the small feet,
as much as the pretty little face so unexpectedly revealed, fairly
shouted her sex, and he checked in mid-cut and sprang back
exclaiming as she came gliding in at speed, boot stamping and
point darting at his throat. It was sheer disbelief, not gallantry, that
took him aback, for there's no more chivalry in a Stamberg than
there is in me; he recovered in an instant and went on the defensive,
for that first lightning exchange when she'd turned his cuts with
ease and came after him like a fury, told him that suddenly he was
fighting for his life, woman or no.
I couldn't believe it, but I didn't care; it was my life in the
balance too, and even my wound was forgotten as I watched the
shuffling figures and flickering blades, clash-clash and pause, clashscrape-clash
and pause again, but the pauses were of a split
second's duration, for she was fighting full tilt with a speed and
energy I'd not have believed was in that slight body, and with a
skill to take your breath away. I'm no great judge, and am only
as good a cut-and-thruster as the troop-sergeant could make me,
but I know an expert when I see one; there's an assurance of
bearing and movement that's beyond technique, and Caprice had
it. When Willem attacked suddenly, hewing to beat her guard down
by main force, she stood her ground, feet still and warding his
cuts with quick turns of her wrist; when he feinted and bore in at
her flank she pivoted like a ballet-dancer, facing me with her back
to the lake, and I saw that the girlish face was untroubled; I
remembered fencing against Lakshmibai at Jhansi, the lovely fierce
mask contorted and teeth gritted as she fought like a striking cobra,
"ut Caprice was almost serene; even when she attacked it was
wltnout a change of expression, lips closed, chin up, eyes unwaver-
157
ing on Willem's, as though all her emotions were concentrated in
point and edge.
Once I thought he had her, when her foot slipped, her blade
faltered, and he leaped in, smashing at her hilt to force the sabre
from her hand, the bully-swordsman's trick that I favour myself
but he hadn't the wit or experience to combine it with a left fist
to the face and a stamp on the toes, and she escaped by yielding
to the blow, dropping to one knee, and rolling away like a gymnast
cutting swiftly as she regained her feet. At that moment a sudden
spasm of excruciating pain in my side reminded me of more
immediate troubles; my head was swimming with that dizzying
weakness that is the prelude to unconsciousness, and in panic I
clutched at the oozing gash in my side - dear God, I was lying in
a pool of gore, if I fainted now I'd bleed to death. I pressed with
all my might, trying to stem the flow, dragging myself up on an
elbow with some idiot notion that if I could bend my trunk it would
close the wound, and sparing a stricken glance at the combatants.
Joy was followed instantly by dismay. Willem's left sleeve was
bloody where she'd caught him in rolling away, but she was falling
back now, and he was after her relentlessly, cutting high and low
as she retreated; her speed was deserting her, her strength, so much
less than his to begin with, was failing under those hammering
strokes. He had a six-inch advantage in height, and as much in
reach, and he was making it tell. He was laughing again, harsh
and triumphant, and as she circled, all on the defensive now, he
spoke for the first time, the words coming out in a breathless snarl:
"Drop it, you bitch! Give over . . . you're done . . . damn you!"
My heart sank, for her mouth was open now, panting with sheer
weariness, and she fairly ran back several steps to avoid his parsuit,
halting flat-footed to parry a cut at her head before breaking away
again towards the lake. Another wave of giddiness shook me, I
could feel myself going, but as he wheeled and drove in and she
was forced to halt, guarding and parrying desperately, I summoned
the last of my strength to yell:
"Look out, Stamberg - behind you!"
He never even flinched, let alone looked round, the iron-nerved
swine, and as she took a faltering side-step that brought them
side-on to me, her blade swept dangerously wide in a hurried
158
rrv exposing her head, and he gave an exultant yell as he cut
hackhanded at her neck, a finishing stroke that must decapitate her
_ and she ducked, the blade whistled an inch above her curls, and
he was dropping full stretch on her left hand like an Italian,
driving her point up at his unprotected front. He recovered like
lightning, his sabre sweeping across to save his body, but only at
the expense of his sword-arm; her point transfixed it just below
the elbow, he shrieked and his sword fell, he tottered back a step
and Caprice came erect like an acrobat, poised on her toes,
her point flickered up to his breast, for a moment they were still
as statues, and then her knee bent and her arm straightened with
academic precision as she deliberately ran him through the heart.
I saw the point come out six inches through his back, vanishing
as she withdrew in graceful recovery. Willem took a step, his
mouth opening soundlessly, and then he fell sideways down the
incline to the lake, rolling into the shallows with barely a ripple,
sliding slowly out from the shore, his body so buoyed by the salt
water that his limbs floated on the surface while the crimson cloud
of blood wreathed down like smoke into the transparent depths
beneath him. Half-conscious as I was, I could see his face ever so
clear, and I remember 'twasn't glaring or hanging slack or grinning
as corpses often do, but tranquil as a babe's, eyes closed, like some
sleeping prince in Norse legend.
The cold stone beneath me seemed to be heaving, and my vision
was dimming and clearing and dimming in a most alarming way,
but I recall that Caprice tossed her sabre into the lake as she turned
and ran towards me, calling something in French that I couldn't
make out, and her running shape blurred to a shadow with the
light failing behind it, and as the shadow stooped above me the
light went out altogether and in the darkness an arm was round
my shoulders and fingers were brushing my brow and my face
was buried between her bosoms, and my last conscious thought
was not of going to find the Great Perhaps, but rather what infernally
bad luck to be pegging out at such a moment.
159
I don't remember asking the question, but it
must have been the first thing I uttered as I came to, for Button
echoed it, and when I'd blinked my eyes clear I saw that he was
sitting by me, trying to look soothing, which ain't easy with a
figurehead like his.
" 'Where did she comefromT " says he. "Still in that salt-mine,
are we? Let it wait, colonel. Best lie quiet a spell."
"Quiet be damned." I took in the pleasant little room with
the carved wooden eaves beyond the window, the pale sunlight
nickering through the curtains, and the cuckoo clock ticking on
the whitewashed wall. "Where the devil am I?"
"In bed, for the last four days. In Ischl. Easy, now. You've
stitches front and rear, and you left more blood in that cave than
you've got in your veins this minute. The less you talk, the better."
"I can listen, curse you." But I sounded feeble, at that, and
when I stirred my side pained sharply. "Caprice . . . how did she
come there? Come on, man, tell me."
"Well, if you must," says he doubtfully. "Remember, in the
casino garden? I said we'd put a cover on you? Well, that was
Mamselle. She was behind you every foot o' the way. Didn't care
for it, myself. I'd ha' used a man, but our French friend Delzons
swore she was the best. Said you and she had worked together
before." He paused. "In Berlin, was it?"
"Unofficial. She was . . . French secret department." It
was weary work, talking. "I ... didn't know her . . . capabilities,
then."
"Capable's the word. Stamberg ain't the first she's taken off,
Delzons says. Good biznai, that. Saved the hangman a job - and
Bismarck a red face. What, his star man a Holnup agent! He'll be
160
happy to keep that under the rose. And small comfort to him that
that same star man had his gas turned off by a dainty little piece
from the beauty chorus. Sabres, bigad!" He began to chuckle, but
checked himself. "Here, are you up to this, colonel? I can leave
,t, you know."
"I ain't complaining," says I, but I closed my eyes and lay
auiet. My question had been answered, and I was content to be
left alone with my thoughts as Button closed the door softly after
him.
So la petite Caprice, formerly of the Folies, had been my cover.
Damned odd - until you reflected, and saw that it wasn't odd at
all. Why, even five years ago, according to Blowitz, she'd been
Al in the French secret service, a trained and expert Amazon. I'd
known that, in Berlin . . . but of course I'd never given it a thought
during those golden hours in that snug boudoir on the Jager Strasse,
when I'd been in thrall to the lovely little laughing face beneath
the schoolgirl fringe, the eyes sparkling with mischief ... "I must
understand your humour, n 'est-ce pasf So, Ie poissonier is a thief
- that amuses, does it?" The perfect body in the lace negligee
silhouetted in the afternoon sun . . . languidly astride my hips,
trickling smoke down her nostrils ... the saucy shrug: "To captivate,
to seduce, is nothing - he is only a man" . . . moist red lips
and skilfully caressing fingers in a perfumed bed . . .
. .. and the clash of steel echoing in a great stone cavern, the
stamp and shuffle of the deadly dance, the reckless gamble of her
disarming thrust . . . and the pretty face set and unsmiling as she
killed with cold deliberation.
Aye, a far cry between the two, and middling tough to reconcile
them. I've known hard women show soft, and soft women turn
harpy, but blowed if I remember another who was at such extremes,
a giggling feather-brained romp and a practised professional slayer.
Thank God for both of 'em, but as I drifted into sleep it was a
comforting thought that she wouldn't be the one fetching my slippers
in the long winter evenings.
Remember I said there were two kinds of awakening? My
drowsy revival with Button had been one of the good ones, but
next morning's was even better, for while I was still weak as a
Hebrew's toddy I was chipper in mind with all perils past, and
161
eager for news. Button brought a brisk sawbones who peered and
prodded at my stitches, dosed me with jaiup, refused my demand
for brandy to take away the taste, but agreed that I might have a
rump steak instead of the beef tea which they'd been spooning
into me in my unconscious state. I told Button to make it two
with a pint of beer, and when I'd attended to them and was propped
up among my pillows, pale and interesting, he elaborated on what
he'd already told me.
"She was on your tail, at a safe distance, from the moment you
and Stamberg set off for the lodge, and talked yourselves in - neat
scheme of Bismarck's, that. Then when night came, Delzons and
I and our four lads joined her in the woods - a skeleton crew, you
may say, but ain't we always, damn the Treasury? We picketed
the place as best we could, and near midnight Delzons and his
Frogs, who were on the side away from the town, heard fellows
skulking down from the hill, and guessed they were Holnups come
to call. He and his two men sat tight, while Mamselle trailed 'em
close to the house - "
"Good God, he let her go alone?"
"She's a stalker - Delzons' fellows call her Le Chaton, French
for kitten, I'm told. Some kitten. Anyway, there were three Holnups,
gone to ground under a bush, whispering away, and she slid
close enough to gather that they were an advance guard, so to
speak, and there were others up the hill. Then comes a whistle
from near the house, and who should it be but friend Stamberg, summoning the three Holnups, if you please. Here's a go, thinks
Mamselle, and follows 'em in, to eavesdrop. She must," says Button in wonder, "be a bloody Mohawk, that girl. From what
she heard, Stamberg was plainly a wrong 'un, but before she could
slip back to Delzons to report, you came in view and went for
him. The row brought the Emperor's sentries, and all at once there
was a battle royal, with more Holnups arriving - we heard it all,
but in the dark there was nothing to be done. Mamselle kept her
head, though, and when Stamberg's gang brushed off, carrying
you along, she stuck to her task, which was to cover you, whatever
happened." He paused to ask: "How had you discovered that
Stamberg was a bent penny?"
"Tampered cartridges. Ne'er mind that now. What then?"
162
"She dogged 'em into the hills a few miles, first ^steiger's* hut at the foot o' the mountain, where they rested3 ^s11- Then
they put y011 on a stretcher and went up the mountai)110 the mourn of the salt-mine. She judged it best not to follow '"I in' but ^V up in the rocks nearby, and about dawn the whole;rew' as near as she could judge, came out with their dunnage ai111 Ottered but
no sign of you and Stamberg, which she coultf[ ^SWe neither can I. What was he about?"
"Settling a score. With me. In his own peculiar 'li^'
He frowned. "I don't follow."
"You don't have to. It don't matter." It was none i111118 business
to know about Rudi long ago, or Willem's rum behil'10111"' l^ilhng
me one moment, saving me the next. "Nothing to-0 wlm ^ls affair, Button. A personal grudge, you could call it," on-
He gave me a hard look, but continued. "Well, ^ waited a
while. Then she went in. Nick o' time, by the sounil it ... but
you know more than I do about that. She settled Starc^S' phigged
the leak in you as best she could, and then ran ir'or-leather
down the hill, seven or eight miles, to the rendezvo118 we " hxeu on beforehand. Delzons and I and a couple of our 1^ went back
with her to the mine. I thought you were a goner, ^ Mamselle
put a few stitches in you from the first-aid kit, and?lter aarK we brought you down here to our bolt-hole. She's nur^ "Y011 these
past few days, too. Regular little Nightingale." He s^ hls head in admiration. "She's a trump and a half, colonel. Bl^" u l ever saw a female like her. Smiling sweet and pretty af1 P6110"
and she bowled out Stamberg! How the dooce did ^edo lt?"
"Nerve," says I. "And by being a better fencerIha11 he was- Where is she?"
"At the moment, Ischi police station. With Delzoo'' ^^"S the
Austrians trace the Holnup fugitives. Doubt if they' catc^ ^Y- No general alarm, you see. Oh, there was a fine hue  ""^ aner you and Stamberg at first. But Delzons and I had our ^hers a^Y to London and Paris soon after, the whole tale, Stands and a^- That set the wires sparking to Berlin and Vienna." pls ^ean ^ace twisted in a sour grin. "Never knew our Foreign Offi^couia --ft
* Steiger, the foreman in a salt-mine
163
so spry, but once they'd telegraphed our Vienna embassy, and the
Frogs', and our ambassadors had requested an urgent audience
with the Emperor in person . . . well, silence fell. No more hue
and cry for you. London directed me to call on the governor of
Upper Austria, no less, and assure him of our entire discretion
God knows what Franz-Josef thought of our presumption - and
Bismarck's - in saving his life behind his back. But not a word's
being said publicly. The Austrian peelers have been advised to
treat us and Delzons' people as tourists. So presently we can all
go home. Job well done."
He clapped his hands on his knees with finality and stood up,
taking a turn to the window. "No question of you making a report.
Not officially on service. But I'd be glad of your views on a couple
o' things . . ." He cleared his throat. "This Princess Kralta - what
about her?"
What with this and that, she'd gone clean out of my mind. "She's
Bismarck's mistress, or was. Why, what's happened to her?"
"Nothing. What you've just said explains why. The Ischi police
questioned her after the lodge fracas, of course. Known companion
of the missing Stamberg. No arrest, though." He gave an amused
snort. "From what I've seen of the lady, I'd as soon try to collar
the Queen. Very hoch und wohl-geboren. Anyway, whatever she
told 'em, it brought a couple o' bigwigs post-haste from Berlin
yesterday, and I was summoned by the governor and presented to
the lady as though she were the Tsar of Russia's aunt. Care to
guess what she wanted? News of you." Even poker-faced Button
couldn't keep the curiosity out of his eyes. "I told her you were
indisposed - and she started up, white as paper. 'Not injured?'
cries she. I told her you were on the mend. 'Thank God!' says
she, and sat down again. Desired me to convey her wishes for
your recovery, and trusts you'll call upon her in Vienna, when
convenient." He gave the ceiling a jaundiced glance. "Grand Hotel,
9 Kamthner King."
Drawing his own conclusions, no doubt. Well, honi soit to you, Button . I felt better already, for there's no finer tonic than the
news that a splendid piece of rattle is turning white as paper and
thanking God that you're on the mend. "We have Vienna", by
gum - she'd truly meant it, the little darling.
164
"Button," says I, "how long before I'm on my feet?"
"Few days, the doctor says. Once the stitches are out. We can
fake it then," says he, "that the lady was not a Holnup accomplice
of Starnberg's?"
'Well, Berlin don't seem to think so! Nor the Austrians." I
considered. "No ... I'd say she's a genuine Bismarck agent, and
Stamberg hoodwinked her as he did the rest of us, the clever little
bastard. If she'd been a Holnup she'd have been out of Ischi long
before the traps caught up with her, wouldn't she?"
The truth was I didn't care a rap, and didn't want to know - not
when I thought of that voluptuous torso and long white limbs and
the golden mane spilling over her shoulders, all waiting in Vienna.
What the devil, you don't bed 'em for their politics, do you?
He didn't argue, but asked a few more questions about her which
I answered with a discretion that didn't fool him for a moment. I
suspect the great long rat was jealous - and not only where Kralta
was concerned, for he reverted to Caprice again, with a warmth
which I thought quite unbecoming in a Treasury hatchet-man, the
lecherous old goat.
"Never seen her like," he repeated, and sighed. "Dear delight
to look upon, cold steel within. Mind you, she has her soft side.
You should ha' seen her chivvying us up to the mine to bring you
| down. Fairly shrilling at us to make haste, swore you were dying
by inches and we'd be too late. And when she stitched you up she
was blubbing. Muttering in French. Quite a taking she was in."
He sounded almost piqued.
"Well, you know what women are, ministering angels and all
that," says I, pretty smug.
"Aye," says he, pretty dry, and added apropos of nothing that I
could see: "She told Delzons she killed Stamberg in self-defence."
I remarked that when a chap was trying to cut your head off, it
was a legitimate excuse.
"To be sure. We fished him out o' that pool, you know. Three
wounds. One clean through the pump, a cut on his left wrist, and
| the third through his right arm. Odd, that."
"What's odd about it?"
You don't truss a man's sword-arm after you've killed him. 1 d say he was already disarmed when she did him in."
165
I gave him my best country-bumpkin gape. "Now I don't follow He's dead and good riddance, ain't he? Well, then, self-defence']]
do, I'd say. Does it matter?"
"Not a jot," says he, and rose to depart. "But seeing how she
mooned over you later, it struck me she might have been paying him out. On your account." He turned towards the door. "You
must ha' known her pretty well in Berlin. About as well as you
know that Princess Kralta."
"Button," says I, "you're a nosey old gossip."
"Gossip - never. Nosey? That's my trade, colonel."
Well, I'm used to the mixture of huff and perplexity and envious
admiration that my success with the fair sex arouses in my fellow
man. Seen it in all sorts, from the saintly Albert looking peeved
when her fluttering majesty pinned the Afghan medal on my coat,
to Bully Dawson, my Rugby fag-master, in a furious bait after I'd
thoughtlessly boasted of my juvenile triumph with Lady Geraldine
aforesaid. ("What, a high-steppin' filly like her, dotin' on you,
damned little squirt that you are!") Most gratifying - and doubly
so in Hutton's case. So dear little Caprice had wept over me, had
she? Capital news, for if the old fondness still lingered, why
shouldn't we resume our idyll of the Jager Strasse, once I was up
and doing? Stay, though . . . what about Kralta, panting in Vienna?
A ticklish choice, and I was torn. On one hand, there was an
exciting variety about Caprice's boudoir behaviour, the merry concubine
performing for the fun of it; on t'other, my horsey charmer
was wildly passionate and spoony about me - and there was more
of her. Much to be said on both sides . . .
In the meantime, Caprice was on hand, and when Button gave
me the office next day that she purposed to visit me in the evening,
I struggled into my shirt and trowsers, cursing my stitches, shaved
with care, gave my face furniture a touch of pomade, practised
expressions of suffering nobly borne before the mirror while lustfully
recalling the soap bubbles of Berlin . . . and paused to wonder,
I confess, how it would be, meeting her again.
You see, I don't care to be under obligation to a woman for
anything - except money, of course - and this one had saved my
life at mighty risk to herself. Furthermore, the harmless jolly little
banger of five years ago had emerged as a skilled and ruthless
166
killing lady. On both counts she had the whip hand, so to speak,
if she chose to use it - and show me the woman that won't. Well,
Caprice didn't; being a clever actress and manager of men, she
took what might have been an awkward reunion in her sprightly
stride, bowling in without so much as a knock, full of sass and
nonsense . . . and 'twas as though five years ago was only yesterday.

"I have not forgiven you!" cries she, dropping her cape and
reticule on the table. "Not a word of farewell, not so much as a billet d'adieu when you abandon me in Berlin! Oh, c'est parfait,
ca! Well, M. Jansen-Flashman, what have you to say?" She tossed
her head, twinkling severely, and I could have eaten her alive on
the spot. "I am waiting, m'sieur!"
"My dear, I've been waiting five years," says I, playing up,
"just for the adorable sight of you - and here you are, lovelier
than ever!" She made that honking noise of derision that is so
vulgarly French, but I wasn't flattering. The pretty girl had become
a beauty, the pert gamin face had refined and strengthened, the
classroom fringe had given way to the latest upswept style crowned
with curls, darker than I remembered - but the cupid's bow lips
were as impudent and the blue eyes as mischievous as ever. She
was still la petite Caprice, if not so little: an inch or two taller
and fuller in her tight-bodiced crimson satin that clung like a skin
from bare shoulders to wasp waist and then descended to her feet,
in the fashionable rippling pleats of the time - it hadn't occurred
to me that female politicals might dress like evening fashion-plates
even when they were in the field, so to speak, and I sat lewdly
agog.
"I know that look!" says she. "And I am still waiting."
"But, darling, I couldn't say goodbye - it was Blowitz's fault,
you see; he had me on the train to Cologne before I knew it,
and-"
"Ah, so Blowitz is to blame! Fat little Stefan overpowered you
and carried you off, eh? Some excuse, that!" She advanced with
that mincing sway that had never failed to have me clutching for "ie goods. "Well, it does not serve, milord! I am displeased, and
come only to punish you for your neglect, your discourtoisie." he struck a pose. "Behold, I wear my most becoming gown 167
Worth, s 'il vans plait} - I dress my hair a la mode, I devote care
to my complexion, a little powder here, a little rouge there I
choose my most costly perfume (mmm-h!), I put round my neck
the velvet ribbon tralala which so aroused the disgusting Shuvalov
- you remember? - I make my person attrayante altogether
how do you say . . . ? ravissante, tres seduisante - "
"Alluring, bigod, scrumptious - "
"And then . . ." she bent forward to flaunt 'em and stepped
away ". . . then, I place myself at a distance, out of reach." She
perched on the table edge, crossing her legs with a flurry of lace
petticoat and silk ankles. "And because you are invalide you must
sit helpless like Ie pauvre M. Tana . . . non, M. Tanton ... ah,. peste! Comment s'appellet-iH
"Tantalus, you mad little goose!"
"Precisement . . . Tantaloose. Oui, you are condemned to sit
like him, unable to reach out and devour that which you most
desire . . . tres succulent, noni" And the minx stretched voluptuously,
pursed her lips, and blew me a kiss. "Oh, helas, mechant ... if only you were not wounded, eh?"
"Now, that ain't fair! Teasing an old man - and a sick one, too!
Here, tell you what - let's kiss and make up, and if you'll forgive
me for leaving you flat in Berlin . . . why, I'll forgive you for
saving my life, what?"
It had to be said, sooner or later, and when better than straight
away, in the midst of chaff? The laughter died in her eyes, but only
for an instant, and she was smiling again, shaking her immaculately
curled head.
"We will not talk of that," says she, and before I could open
my mouth to protest: "We will not talk of it at all. Between good
friends, there is no need."
"No need? My dear girl, there's every need-"
"No, cheri." She raised a hand, and while she smiled still, her
voice was firm and calm. "If you please . . . non-non, un moment, let me ... oh, how to say it? Those two in the caverne, they were
not you and I. They were two others . . . two agents secrets, who
did what they must do ... their devoir, their duty. You see?"
What I saw was that this was a Caprice I hadn't known before.
Charming and merry as ever, even more beautiful - it made me
168
slaver just to look at her - but with a quiet strength you'd never
suspect until she softened her voice and spoke plain and direct,
gentle as Gibraltar.
"Let us not speak of it then. It is past, you see, and so are they
but we are here!" In an instant she was sparkling again, slipping
down from the table, fluttering her hands and laughing. "And it
has been so long a time since Berlin, and I was so desolee to be
left without a word - oh, and enraged, you would not believe!
You remember the things I said of Shuvalov, that night of the
bath?" She began to giggle. "Well, I said not quite as bad of you
- but almost. Is there a word in English for angry and sad together?
But that is past also!" She knelt quickly by my chair (in a Worth
dress, too). "And here we are, I say! Have you missed me, cherH"
As I've said before, damned if I understand women. But if she
wanted to forget the horror of that ghastly mine, thank God and
hurrah! No doubt she had her reasons, and since gratitude ain't
my long suit anyway, and her bright eyes and laughing lips and
pouting tits were pleading in unison, I didn't protest.
"Missed you, darling? Damnably - and a sight more than you
missed a creaky old codger like me, I'll lay "
"It is not true! Why, when you abandoned me in Berlin, I was inconsolable, desolee - all day! And what is this codgeur, and
creaky? Oh, but your English, it is ridiculous!"
"As to the other matter that we ain't to talk about .. . well, I'll
just say a ridiculous English thank' ee-"
"And no more!" she commanded. "Or I shall not . . . what did
you call it? Kiss and make up?" She gave a languorous wink and
put on her husky voice. "Are you . . . strong enough?"
"Try me," says I, reaching for her, but she rose quickly and
made a great business of having me put my hands palm down on my chair arms, whereupon she laid her own hands over mine,
leaning down firmly to keep 'em pinned, while I feasted my eyes
on those superb poonts quivering fragrantly under my very nose,
and wondered if my stitches would stand the strain of the capital
act performed in situ. Then the wanton baggage brought that soft
smiling mouth slowly against mine, teasing gently with her tongue, fut swiftly withdrawing when I broke free, panting, and tried to ^ize her bodily, reckless of the darting pain in my flank.
169
Worth, s'il vous plait - I dress my hair a la mode, I devote care
to my complexion, a little powder here, a little rouge there I
choose my most costly perfume (mmm-h!), I put round my neck
the velvet ribbon tralala which so aroused the disgusting Shuvalov
- you remember? - I make my person attrayante altogether
how do you say . . . ? ravissante, tres seduisante "
"Alluring, bigod. scrumptious-"
"And then . . ." she bent forward to flaunt 'em and stepped
away ". . . then, I place myself at a distance, out of reach." She
perched on the table edge, crossing her legs with a flurry of lace
petticoat and silk ankles. "And because you are invalide you must
sit helpless like Ie pauvre M. Tana . . . non, M. Tanton . . . ah, peste! Comment s'appeUet-iH
"Tantalus, you mad little goose!"
"Precisement . . . Tantaloose. Oui, you are condemned to sit
like him, unable to reach out and devour that which you most
desire . . . tres succulent, non?" And the minx stretched voluptuously,
pursed her lips, and blew me a kiss. "Oh, helas, mechant 1^| ... if only you were not wounded, eh?"
"Now, that ain't fair! Teasing an old man - and a sick one, too!
Here, tell you what - let's kiss and make up, and if you'll forgive
me for leaving you flat in Berlin . . . why, I'll forgive you for
saving my life, what?"
It had to be said, sooner or later, and when better than straight
away, in the midst of chaff ? The laughter died in her eyes, but only
for an instant, and she was smiling again, shaking her immaculately
curled head.
"We will not talk of that," says she, and before I could open
my mouth to protest; "We will not talk of it at all. Between good
friends, there is no need."
"No need? My dear girl. there's every need-"
"No, cheri." She raised a hand, and while she smiled still, her
voice was firm and calm. "If you please . . . non-non, iin moment, let me ... oh, how to say it? Those two in the caverne, they were
not you and I. They were two others . . . two agents secrets, who
did what they must do ... their devoir, their duty. You see?"
What I saw was that this was a Caprice I hadn't known before.
Charming and merry as ever. even more beautiful - it made me
168
slaver just to look at her - but with a quiet strength you'd never
suspect until she softened her voice and spoke plain and direct,
gentle as Gibraltar.
"Let us not speak of it then. It is past, you see, and so are they
but we are here!" In an instant she was sparkling again, slipping
down from the table, fluttering her hands and laughing. "And it
has been so long a time since Berlin, and I was so desolee to be
left without a word - oh, and enraged, you would not believe!
You remember the things I said of Shuvalov, that night of the
bath?" She began to giggle. "Well, I said not quite as bad of you
- but almost. Is there a word in English for angry and sad together?
But that is past also!" She knelt quickly by my chair (in a Worth
dress, too). "And here we are, I say! Have you missed me, cherH"
As I've said before, damned if I understand women. But if she
wanted to forget the horror of that ghastly mine, thank God and
hurrah! No doubt she had her reasons, and since gratitude ain't
my long suit anyway, and her bright eyes and laughing lips and
pouting tits were pleading in unison, I didn't protest.
"Missed you, darling? Damnably - and a sight more than you
missed a creaky old codger like me, I'll lay-"
"It is not true! Why, when you abandoned me in Berlin, I was inconsolable, desolee - all day! And what is this codgeur, and
creaky? Oh, but your English, it is ridiculous!"
"As to the other matter that we ain't to talk about . . . well, I'll'
just say a ridiculous English thank'ee "
"And no more!" she commanded. "Or I shall not . . . what did
you call it? Kiss and make up?" She gave a languorous wink and
put on her husky voice. "Are you . . . strong enough?"
"Try me," says I, reaching for her, but she rose quickly and
made a great business of having me put my hands palm down on
my chair arms, whereupon she laid her own hands over mine,
leaning down firmly to keep 'em pinned, while I feasted my eyes
on those superb poonts quivering fragrantly under my very nose,
and wondered if my stitches would stand the strain of the capital act performed in situ. Then the wanton baggage brought that soft
smiling mouth slowly against mine, teasing gently with her tongue,
but swiftly withdrawing when I broke free, panting, and tried to ^ize her bodily, reckless of the darting pain in my flank.
169
"Non-non cries she. "Be still, foolish! You will injure your
wound! No, desist, idiot!" She slapped my hand away from her
satin bottom. "It is not possible -"
"Don't tell me what's not possible! Heavens, d'you think I've
never been pinked before? T'ain't but a hole in the gut, I can
hardly see the dam' thing - "
"Do not tell me what cannot be seen! I have seen it!" For a
moment she sounded truly angry, eyes flashing as though on the
edge of tears - and then as quickly it had gone, and she was
playing the reproachful nursemaid with affected groans and rolling
eyes and scathing Gallic rebukes which I accepted like a randy
but frustrated lamb, promising to keep my hands to myself, honest
injun.
"You behave? Word of honour?" says she, not trusting me an
inch.
"I'll prove it," says I. "Give us another kiss, and you'll see."
"Va-t-en, menteur!" scoffs she, so I sat on my hands and she
consented warily. I knew it was all I was fit for, and made the
most of those sweet lips for the few seconds she permitted before
she broke away, gratifyingly pink and breathless.
"Bon" says she, and drew some papers from her reticule. "Then
I may safely sit by you while you read to me from the present I
have brought for you. I coaxed them from an English tourist in
the town, pretending an interest in your culture Anglaise. His wife,
I think, was not amused." She sat on my chair arm, allowing me
to put a hand round her waist, and laid the papers in my lap. "What
do you say . . . 'for old times' sake', non?"
"Oh, my God!" says I. They were copies of Punch. "You cruel
little monster! Reminding me of the last time, when you know I'm
in no state to explain 'hankey-pankey' to you!"
"Attention!" She rapped my wrist. "I know all about that, but
I do not know what is amusing about M. Gladstone dancing in the
dress of a sailor, or your policemen being given whistles to blow
- ah, yes, or why your sacre M. Paunch has such malice against
us in France, with his bad jokes about Madagascar and La Chine and M. de Lesseps, and oh! such fun about Frenchmen playing
your blooded cricket - "
"Bloody, dearest, not blooded. And t'ain't ladylike to"
170
"Ah, yes, and here - further insult!" She stabbed an indignant
fingernail at the page. "France is drawn as an ugly old paysanne with fat ankles and abominable clothes - but who is this divine
being, so beautiful and elegant of shape in her fine drapery? What
does she represent, ha? The Manchester Ship Canal! Quelle
absurdity."
"Oh, come, France is mostly a peach in our cartoons. And we've
always made fun of you, ever since Crecy and Joan of Arc and
whatnot - but you do the same to us, don't you?"
"Sans blague! An example, then?"
"Well, look at Phileas Fogg, a prize muff if ever there was one!
That man Verne is never done sniping at us ... aye, those two
British officers in that twaddling book about a comet hitting the
earth, what a pair of muttonheaded by-joves they are! Pompous,
ill-tempered caricatures, all whiskers and haw-haw and crying
'Balderdash!'"
"And that is not true?" says she, all innocence.
"Course it's not! Stuff and nonsense! Nothing like us!" At
which she began to giggle and nicked my whiskers in a marked
manner. I could only growl and point out that at least I wasn't in
the habit of crying "Balderdash!" or "Haw-haw!"21
So we passed a pleasant hour, soon discarding Punch and talking
about anything and everything except the past few days. I told her
about Egypt and Zululand, and she talked of the places she had'
visited in the course of her work - Rome and Athens and Constantinople
and Cairo - but never a word of the work itself. Fashions,
food, customs, society doings, men (whom she seemed to find
comic, mostly), shops, hotels, and journeys: we compared notes
about them all, and even found acquaintances in common, like
Liprandi, to whom I'd surrendered, rather informally, at Balaclava,
and whom she'd waltzed with at St Petersburg, and the big Sudanese
with tribal cuts on his face who kept the Cigale cafe in Alex
- and Blowitz, naturally, was an amusing topic.
I wasn't sorry, though, when supper-time came. Tete-a-tete is
all very jolly, but when you know dam' well your voluptuous vis-a-vis is a cul-de-sac, and she sits on your chair-arm with her
udders in your ear and a bare shoulder begging to be nibbled and
her perfume conjuring erotic notions, and you daren't stir a lecher171
ous finger for fear of bursting the needlework in your navel and
suffering the indignity of having her remove your blood-sodden
britches and upbraid you for a foresworn satyr, none of which will
do a thing for your future amorous relations . . . well, it's trying
I can tell you. Le pauvre M. Tantaloose didn't know what frustration
was. Ne'er mind, thinks I, we'll make up for this in Paris
presently. Kralta'll keep.
It was quite like old times to sit across the table from her in
candlelight, tucking into the cold ham and fruit and Bemkastler
she chattering gaily and I sitting easy and admiring the highlights
on the dark curls, and the perfect ivory carves of chin and neck
and shoulder. I could have imagined we were back in the Jager
Strasse, except for a brief moment when she peeled a plum and
presented it to me, laughing, on a fork . . . and I thought of those
dainty fingers with their polished nails coiled round a sabre hilt,
and of the hidden strength of the slender white arm - but when I
looked, the smiling lips and merry eyes were those of the Caprice
I knew so well, exclaiming "Oh-la, gauche!" when I dropped the
fork, and a moment later rising and gleaming at me over the rim
of her glass as she proposed a toast to our reunion.
"I've a better toast than that," says I, halting round the table
and nuzzling her neck. "To our next meeting, when this dam'
scratch of mine has healed." She clinked glasses, but said nothing.
I asked when she was going back to Paris.
"Tomorrow, helas! We go one at a time, ever so discret, Delzons
last of all. Either he or M. Button will remain until you are well
enough to travel, and then this house will be closed, and the operation
will be over." She turned away and put her glass on the
mantel, her back to me. "You will return to London?"
"Oh, no hurry. Time for a week or two in Paris, then we'll
see." I stepped close to kiss her on the nape of the neck, and she
glanced round.
"Why Paris?" says she lightly.
"Why d'you think?" says I, and slipped my hands round to
clasp her breasts. She shivered, and then very gently she removed
my hands and turned to face me, smiling still, but a touch wary.
"That might ... be difficult," says she. "I do not mink that
Charles-Alain would approve. And I am sure his family would not."
172
"Charles what'
"Charies-Alain de la Tour d'Auvergne," says she, and the smile
had an impish twinkle to it. "My husband. I have been Madame
de la Tour d'Auvergne for six months now."
I must have looked like a fish on a slab. "Husband! You married?
My stars above! Well, blow my boots, and you never let
on-"
"Blow your boots, you never noticed!" laughs she, holding up
her left hand, and there was the gold band, sure enough.
"Eh? What? Well, I never do ... I mean, I didn't see ... well,
I'll be damned! Of all things! Here, though, I must kiss the bride!"
I Which I did, and would have made a meal of it, but she slipped
away, squeaking at me to mind my wound, and taking refuge
behind the table. I bore up, grinning at her across the board.
"Why, you sly little puss! Le chaton, right enough! Well, well
... still, it makes no odds." She looked startled. "Oh, I'll still
come to Paris, never you fret - he don't have to know, this de la
Thingamabob!"
It was her turn to stare, and then, would you believe it, she went
into whoops, and had to sit down in the armchair, helpless with
IJ laughter. I asked what was the joke, and when she'd drawn breath
'^^M and dabbed her eyes, she shook her head at me in despair.
^^ "Oh, but you are the most dreadful, adorable man! No, he would
not have to know . . . but / would know." She sighed, smiling but'
__lemn. "And I have made my vows."
H"Strewth! You mean . . . it's no go-just 'cos you're marriedT'
"No go," says she gently. "Ah, cheri, I am sorry, but . . . you
do understand?"
I "Shot if I do!" And I didn't, for 'twasn't as though she was
some little bourgeois hausfrau - dammit, she was French, and had
sported her bum and boobies in the Folies for the entertainment
of lewd fellows and rogered with the likes of Shuvalov pour la
patne, and myself and God knew how many others for the fun of |t ^| it ... and her behaviour this evening hadn't been marriedrespectable,
exactly, dressed to the seductive nines and kissing
indecorously.
I remarked on this, and she sighed. "Oh, if you had been well, ^uld not have come, knowing you would wish to make love

V
173

. . . but knowing you were blesse, and unable to . . .' She gestured
helplessly. "Oh, you know ... I thought we might talk and be
jolly, as we used to be, but without... oh, 'hankey-pankey'." She
shrugged in pretty apology, and suddenly her face lit up. "Because
those were such happy days in Berlin! Oh, not only making love
but being comfortable and laughing and talking - and I wished to
see you once again, and remember those times, and see if you had
changed - and, oh, I am so glad to find that you have not!" She
rose and put a hand to my face and pecked me on the cheek. "But
I have, you see. I am Madame de la Tour d'Auvergne now, ever
so respectable.'' She pulled a face. "No more la gaie Caprice. I
change myself, I change my life . . . and, helas, I must change my
old friends. So it is better you do not come to Paris ... Do you
mind very much? You are not angry?"
A number of women have had the poor taste and bad judgment
to give me the right about. In my callow youth I resented it damnably,
and either thrashed 'em (as with Judy, my guv'nor's piece),
or went for 'em with a sabre (Narreeman, my flower of the Khyber), or ran like hell (Lola of the blazing temper and flying crockery).
In later years you learn to assume indifference while studying how
to pay them out, supposing you care enough. With Caprice, I'd
have been piqued, no more . . . if I'd believed her laughable excuse,
which I did not for a moment. She, a faithful wife? Come up,
love! No, the fact was that Flashy five years on (seen at his worst,
mind, flat on his back and beat, and now a hapless invalid) no
longer aroused her amorous interest. Well, I could take the jolt to
my amour-propre the more easily because while she'd been a
prime ride and good company, she'd never had the magic that gets
beneath your hide, like Yehonala or Lakshmi or Sonsee-array . . .
or Elspeth. She was too young for that. . . but old enough to know
better than to play the saucy minx, teasing me into a frustrated
heat and then showing me the door.
Oh, some of the old affection lingered, no doubt, hence the
fatuous tale of marital fidelity, to let me down lightly. I could have
swallowed it if she'd come right out with it first thing, but she
hadn't been able to resist her wanton instinct to set me panting even
now there was a glint of mockery in the ever-so-contrite
smile that told me she was enjoying feeling sorry for the randy
174
old fool, well pleased with her beauty's power . . . and doubtless
convincing herself that she felt a touch of sentimental remorse, the
little hypocrite. Even the best of them like to make you squirm. I
had a sudden memory of the salt-mine and that cold steel being
driven ruthlessly home . . . and call it sour grapes if you like, but
I found myself warming to the thought of Princess Kralta.
"Angry, little one? Not a bit of it!" cries I, beaming like anything,
and pecked her back. "I'm sorry, o' course - but jolly glad
for you! He's a lucky chap, your Charlie - what is he, a dashing
hussar, eh?"
"Oh, no ... but he is a soldier . .. that is, he is a professor of I'histoire militaire, at St Cyr."
"I say! He must be a bright spark! Blackboard-wallahs are pretty
senior as a rule."
She confessed that he was older than she (nearly twice her age,
in fact) and from an old service family - the usual decayed Frog
nobility by the sound of the name,22 but she wasn't forthcoming
at all, and I guessed that the mere thought of the raffish Flashy
being presented to dear Charles' parents, as an old acquaintance
even, filled her with dismay. I found myself wondering how much
they knew about her . . . and whether the arrival on Papa
d'Auvergne's breakfast table of that splendid photograph of his
| daughter-in-law, bare-titted among the potted palms and nigger
stallions, mightn't enliven his petit dejeuner. A passing thought,
and cheered me up no end.
"But what do Charles' people think about your working for the
secret department? Hardly the thing for a staid married lady, what?"
"They did not approve, of course. But that is past now. We
agreed, Charles and I, that I must resign before our marriage "
"But here you are!"
"Only because this was une crise, an emergency, and Delzons
was in despair to recruit agents for the occasion. The departement, like your own in England, must make do with little . . . and I could
not refuse Delzons. I owe him too much."
"And Charles didn't mind? Well, he's a sportsman! Of course,
" was an important affair, international crisis, and all that."
She hesitated. "He did not know. I am at this moment visiting
a school friend in Switzerland."
175
Better and better. Not the kind of thing to confide to a lover
who's just been handed his travel warrant, mind.
"Well, God bless Charles, anyway! I'd like to meet him one o'
these days." She didn't clap her hands, so I took them gently in
mine and gave her my best wistful sigh, like a ruptured uncle
"And bless you, too, my dear. And since you don't want to talk
about t'other thing, in that beastly cave "
"Non, non --"
"Well, then, I shan't, so there. I'll only say that I'm monstrous
glad that you visited your school chum in Switzerland, what? And
that you came to see me this evening. Quite like old times, eh ...
well, almost." I winked and slid my hands round her rump, kneading
away to show there were no hard feelings - and blowed if the
sentimental little tart didn't start piping her eye.
"Oh, you are the best man alive! So kind, so genereux She
clung to me, bedewing my shirt, and raised her face to mine. "And
. . . and never shall I forget Berlin!" She threw her arms round
my neck and kissed me - none of your pecks this time, but the
full lascivious munch, wet and wonderful, and if you don't breathe
through your nose you die of suffocation. I had to press my stitches
hard until she came loose at last, lips quivering, dabbing at her
eyes.
"My goodness, what would Charles say?" I wondered, playfullike.
"I can't believe professors of I'histoire militaire approve o'
that sort of thing."
She looked uncertain, and decided to be airy. "Oh, chacun a
son gout, you know."
"Well, you mustn't shock him. Can't think when I was last
kissed thataway. Not since the Orient Express, anyway."
"Que'est-ce que c'estT' A moment's perplexity, and then the
penny dropped, and she went pink and took a step back. "Oh! La
princesse ... I ... I did not..."
"Ah, you've met her, then?"
"I have seen her, with Delzons. When we were at the police commissariat." She was confused, but recovered, smiling brightly.
"But of course, she and that other brought you from Germany.
She is ... very beautiful."
"Fine figure of a woman," says I, looking her up and down.
176
"More to the point, she has no conscience where her husband's
concerned." I grinned and repeated her own words. "D'you mind
very much? You're not angry?"
Just for a moment her eyes flashed, and then she laughed - and
riposted neatly by repeating mine.
"Angry? Not a bit of it; I am jolly glad for you. She is
perhaps ..." she made a little fluttering gesture "... how do you
say ... more your style?"
"More my age, you mean."
"No such thing!" cries she merrily. "Now, you will take care
of your wound, and not make too much exertion "
"Oh, beef tea and bedsocks, that's my ticket! Don't you overexert
yourself either, or you'll scandalise Charles."
We smiled amiably on each other, and when I'd helped her put
on her cape she held out her hand, not her lips.
"Adieu, then," says she.
I bowed to kiss her hand. "Au'voir, Caprice . . . oh, pardon - Madame. Bonne chance."
She went, and as I listened to her heels clicking on the stairs I
was wondering where the devil I'd put that photograph. Saving
Flashy's life is all very well, but don't ever play fast and loose
with his affections. He's a sensitive soul.
177
The older you getltie longer you take to heal.
The hole in my gut was as neat andlmdy as a wound can hope
to be, and thirty years earlier would lire been right in a fortnight,
but now it turned angry, no doubt fM the strain imposed by my
frustrating half-dalliance with Madae de la Tour d'Auvergne,
damn her wanton ways. The stitches lad come adrift, and had to
be replaced by my little medico, I devaped a fever which returned
me to bed for more than a week, an after that I was no better
than walking wounded, for I was weatis a rat and common sense
demanded that I should go canny, asslspeth would say.
She was much in my mind at that me, but then she always is
when I've passed through the fumaccand am looking for consolation.
The thought of that loving siffi, the child-like innocence
of the forget-me-not eyes, the soft swet voice, and the matronly
charms bursting out of her corset, rnai; me downright homesick,
and with Caprice turning me off, the supid little trollop, I'd have
been tempted to set my sights on Lonta if it hadn't been for the
prospect of rattling Kralta all over Vis'na. I couldn't forego that,
in all conscience; our railway idyll hai given me an appetite, and
after it was satisfied would be time enaigh to cry off with the new
love and on with the old.
So I bore my captivity into Noveroer, glad to be alive, and
passing the time pondering on the iroteries of those few short
days of strange adventure - barely a reek, from the time when
I'd been sitting in Berkeley Square glcidng over Kralta's picture,
to the awful moment when I'd peggaout in that hellish mine,
with Caprice clucking over me like an ious hen and Stamberg's
corpse floating in the limpid brine. Rwiewing it all ... I knew what had happened, but not why; in al'the confusion of lies and
178
deceits and voltes-face, there were mysteries, as I say, which I
didn't understand, and still don't.
On the face of it, Bismarck had concocted a lunatic but logical
scheme to save the Austrian Emperor from assassination, and it
had succeeded in a way he could never have foreseen, with his
trusted henchman proving traitor but being foiled by old Flashy's
blundering. Well, lucky old Otto - and lucky Franz-Josef and lucky
Europe. (And when we'd gone, no one would ever believe it.) Knowing my opinion of Bismarck, you may wonder that I don't
suspect him of some gigantic Machiavellian double-deal whereby
he'd invented the tale of a Holnup plot (to hoax simpletons like
me and Kralta) so that Stamberg could murder Franz-Josef with
Bismarck's blessing, and start another war - he'd done it before,
God knows, twice at least, and wouldn't have scrupled to do it
again if it had suited his book. But it didn't, you see; he'd built
Germany into a European Power, by blood and skulduggery, and
had nothing to gain by another explosion. He could rest on his
laurels and let nature take its usual disastrous course - as it is
doing, if only imbeciles like Asquith would notice. Well, I'm past
caring.
At a lesser remove, I couldn't figure Stamberg's behaviour in
the mine. Why, having done his level damnedest to kill me, had
he saved me from going down that awful chasm into the bowels
of the earth? 'Cos he'd wanted to put me away with his own steel?
To prolong my agony? Or from some mad, quixotic impulse which'
he mightn't have understood himself? Search me. Folk like the
Stambergs, father and son, don't play by ordinary rules. I only
hope there ain't a grandson loose about the place.
I still wondered, too, why Caprice had cut him down in cold
blood, and why she wouldn't talk of it, even. Vanity would have
tempted me to take Hutton's judgment that she was dead spoony
on me and had done him in for that reason, if she had not since
handed me my marching orders. (And on the pretext of fidelity to
some muffin of a military historian! I still couldn't get over that.
Aye, well, the silly hint would rue her lost opportunities when
next Professor Charles-Alam clambered aboard her - in the dark,
probably, and wearing a nightcap with a tassel, the daring dog.)
My own view, for what it was worth, was that she'd murdered
179
Stamberg because it struck her (being female) as the fitting and
tidy thing to do - and gave her the last word, so there. Delzons, her
chief, who knew her better than anyone, had a different explanation
which he gave me the day before we left Ischi, and you must make
of it what you will.
Button had gone back to London by then, after assuring me that
Government was satisfied; no official approval, of course, but no
censure either; my assistance had been noted, and would be
recorded in the secret papers. Aye, I'm still waiting for my peerage.
Delzons had stayed on to close the Ischi house as soon as I was
fit to take the open air. Paris was no keener on maintaining boltholes
out of secret funds than London, and the pair of us transferred
to the Golden Ship, myself to complete my convalescence and
Delzons to enjoy a holiday - or so he said, but I suspect he was
keeping an eye on me to see that I didn't get into mischief. I was
glad enough of his company, for he was the best kind of Frog,
shrewd and tough as teak, but jolly and with no foolish airs.
It would be late November, when I was healed and feeling barely
a twinge, that we walked across the Ischi bridges and up the hill
to the royal lodge. The trees were bare, there was a little snow
lying, and the river was grey and sullen with icy patches under
the banks. The lodge itself was silent under a leaden sky, with
only a servant in sight, sweeping leaves and snow from the big
porch; it would be months before Franz-Josef returned to add to
the collection of heads in that dark panelled chamber where his
aides had crawled about, giggling in drink, and I'd had conniptions
as I stared at the doctored cartridges.
We circled the place, and Delzons pointed out the spot where
he'd lain doggo and Caprice had slipped away to shadow the
Holnups. I studied the open ground, dotted with trees and bushes,
between where we stood and the lodge, and remarked that a nightstalk
would have been ticklish even for my old Apache chums,
Quick Killer and Yawner.
"But not for la petite," smiles Delzons. "She has no equal. Is
it not remarkable, one so delicately feminine, so pretty and vivace,
so much a child almost, but of a skill and courage and . . . and
firm purpose beyond any agent I have seen?" He nodded thoughtfully.
"We have a word, colonel, that I think has no equivalent in
180
English, which I apply to nothing and no one b^t her Formidable.
'She's all o' that." Plainly he was as smitte^ with her as Hum
had been, but with Delzons it was fond, almost paternal. -When
did she learn to stalk and ... so on?" ,..1,1,'
"In the Breton woods as a child, with her tfiree elder brothers,
He chuckled. "She was une l^ronne - a tc^boy no? From u. oarcon manque. Six years younger than they-, but their match 11
^11 sport, running, climbing, shooting ... oh, a^d danng!And th. were no poules mouillees, no milksops, those three lads. Yet who she was only twelve she was their master ^ith foil and pistol
Some brothers would have been jealous, but Valery and Claua
and Jacques were her adoring slaves - ah, th^Y were close, thos
four!" ,  , , ,
"You knew 'em well, then," says I, as we- strolled back.
"Their father was my copain in Crimea, before I joined th
intelligence. I was to them as an uncle when they were small an! grew to love them, Caprice above all ... well, a lonely bachelor
j i-- i  havp snmethine: to love, non' k
engrossed in his work must nave someinmg, ,
j * Aon went nn "Bi^t then 1 was posted paused, musing a moment, then wem on. d r
i. j ,- 1 ,i inet touch with the family until the
abroad for several years, and lost roucn wiiu , 
. , , ,i-t the father and three sons had al
temble news reached me that ine idiner did*-*
fallen in the war of '70 - he was by then chefde brigade and th
three boys had but lately passed through St Cyr. I was desolate.
above all for Caprice, so cruelly deprived at a stroke of all those- she loved. I wrote to her, of my grief and condolence, assunn;
her of my support in any way possible. Thus it was, two yea, later, when I came home to command the European section of the depanement secret, that she came to see me - asking for employment.
Mon dieu He heaved in emotion, and at once became
apologetic. "Oh, forgive me ... perhaps I weary you? No? Thel
let us sit a moment." , . , .
We settled on a bench by the path overlooking the nver, ani
Delzons lit his pipe, gazing down at the distant snow-patched root.
"You conceive my amazement, not only to discover that m;- little gamine had become a lovely young woman, but that she should seek an occupation so unsuitable, mais inconcevable, for
one so chaste et modeste. 'Why, dear child?' I asked I cannot b a soldier like my father and brothers. I shall "ght for France n
181
my own way.' That was her reply. As gently as might be, I suggested
that there were other ways to serve, that the world of the departement secret was a hard and dangerous one, and . . . highly
unpleasant in ways which she, a convent-reared girl of eighteen
could not conceive. Do you know what she said, colonel? 'Uncle
Delzons, I have studied the world from the tableaux vivants of the
Folies Gaites, and moved among its clientele, who are also hard,
dangerous, and unpleasant.' Before I could even express my scandal,
for I had known nothing of this, she added - oh, so quiet and
demure with that laughter in her innocent eyes - 'Also I am fluent
in languages, and fence and shoot even better these days.'"
Delzons took the pipe from his mouth, looked at it, and stuck
it back. "What could I say? I was shocked, yes - but I saw, too,
that beneath the fresh, lovely surface there was a metal that I
had never suspected. It is rare, such metal, and essential to the departement secret. And if I had refused her, I knew there were
other sections of the departement which would not." He laughed
ruefully. "The truth was, she was a gift to any chefd'intelligence. And so she proved, in small things at first, as translator, courier,
embassy bricoleur - what you call jack-of-all-trades - and later
as secret agent in the field . . . and you know what that means.
Yes . .. she was the best."
I said he must have been sorry to lose her, and he grimaced.
"She told you? Yes, sorry . . . but I rejoiced also. For six years I
had lost sleep, whenever she went into danger. Oh, seldom enough
- our work, as you are aware, brings a moment's peril in a year
of routine - but when that peril comes . . . No, I am glad she has
gone. When I think of the risks she ran - of her facing a man like
Stamberg to the death, my heart ceases to beat. If we had lost her
. . . my friend, I should have died. It is true, my heart would have
ceased forever then."
The usual exaggerated Froggy vapouring, but Delzons wasn't
the usual Frog, and I guessed he believed it. I took the opportunity
to canvass his opinion.
"Well, you needn't ha' fretted. He was a capital hand with a
sabre, but not in her parish." I paused deliberately. "Can't think
I've ever seen a neater . . . execution."
His head came round sharply. "Ah! You confirm M. 'Utton's
182
noinion - which I happen to share. The evidence of Stamberg's
wounds was conclusive. As you say ... an execution." His eyes
were steady on mine. "But in my report, self-defence. As it must
always be when an agent kills ... in the line of duty."
That reminded me of something Button had said. "He told
me Stamberg wasn't the first she'd sent down. Were the others
self-defence, too?"
He frowned and muttered a nasty word. "I have a great respect
for our colleague 'Utton, but he talks too much." He sucked at
his dead pipe, and continued rapid-fire. "Yes. She has killed before.
Twice. In Egypt, in Turkey. One was a minor diplomat who had
found out she was a French agent. The other an informer whose
silence was essential. She was not under my control on either
occasion. My responsibility is for Europe. She was on detachment
to another section. I did not seek details." Abruptly he got to his
feet, his mouth set like a trap. "Nor have she and I ever mentioned
the incidents. Shall we walk on, colonel?"
And this was the girl who had giggled with me over Punch. I
fell into step beside him as we walked down to the bridges, his
stick fairly cracking at each stride, but there was a grim grin under
his heavy moustache.
"Oh, M. 'Utton!" cries he. "So talkative, so shrewd! No doubt
he offered you his theory that she slew Stamberg in cold blood
because of a tendre for you? Bon sang de merde!" He gave a
barking laugh. "Enraged because he had wounded, perhaps slain,
her lover! Perhaps you believe that yourself, because you were
lovers in Berlin - oh, I know all about her 'holiday task' for
Blowitz! What, you do not believe 'Utton's theory? I congratulate
you!" He calmed after a few steps. "Your affaire in Berlin was
an amour passant, then. Not of the heart."
Gad, they're a tactful, tasteful lot, the French. "Not on my side,"
I told him.
"Nor on hers, whatever the so-shrewd 'Utton may think. Shall
I tell you why she killed Stamberg as she did?"
He had stopped on the bridge, turned to face me. "I told you
her father and brothers fell in the war of '70 against the Germans,
and what she said of fighting in her own way. I did not tell you
how they died. Papa and Jacques were killed in the battle at
183
Gravelotte. Claude died of his wounds, neglected ... in a German
hospital. Valery was in the intelligence. He was captured at
St Privat on a mission d'espwnnage. He was shot by a firing
squad of Fransecky's Pomeranians, the day after the signing of
the armistice, February the first, 1871!" Suddenly the eyes in the
bulldog face were bright with angry tears. "They knew the armistice
had been signed, but they shot him just the same. Just the
same! German chivalry."
It had started to snow, and he was hunched up against the chill
wind, staring down at the river.
"So they were gone, all four, it seemed in a moment ... as the
poet says of a snowflake on the water. Did I mention that the
diplomat in Turkey and the informer in Egypt were both Germans?
No? Well, Caprice does not like Germans. As the Count von
Stamberg discovered. But I am keeping you standing in the cold,
colonel! Give me your arm, my friend! Shall we seek a cafe and
a cup of chocolate - with a large cognac to flavour it, eh?"
* * *
Some clever ass has said that "if" is the biggest word in the
language, but I say it's the most useless. There have been so many
coincidences in my life, good and bad, that I've learned the folly
of exclaiming "If only . . . I" They happen, and that's that, and if
the one that brought my Austrian odyssey to a close was uncommon
disastrous - and infuriating, because I'd foreseen its possibility well,
I can be philosophic now because, as I've observed before,
I'm still here at ninety, more or less, and you can't ask fairer than
that.
But that don't mean I'll ever forgive the drunk porter who
mislaid my trunk at Charing Cross, because if he hadn't. . . there,
you see, "if" almost got the better of me, and no wonder when I
think what came of that boozy idiot's carelessness. Shocking state
the railways are in.
However, we'll come to Charing Cross all in good time. I'd
have been there weeks earlier if (there it is again, dammit) Kralta
hadn't been so amorously intoxicated, and the circumstances of
our reunion in Vienna so different from what I'd expected. When
I took the train from Ischi early in December I was looking forward
184
a couple of cosy and intimate weeks in which I rogered her
hi ie in the face, sparked her to the opera or whatever evening
niuseinents Vienna offered, wined and dined of the best, saw the
ichts, took her riding (for she looked too much like a horse to be anything but an equestrian), viewed the Blue Danube from the warm comfort of her bedroom, and back to the muttons again. A
modest enough ambition, and would have had me home again by
Christmas. Well, I was taken aback, if not disappointed, by what
availed me at the Grand Hotel, and followed in the ensuing weeks.
I'd telegraphed from Ischi to advise her that I'd be rolling in,
and when I arrived at the Grand, which was the newest and bestarpointed
of the leading hotels, she was awaiting me in a suit of
roams that Louis XIV might have thought too large and opulent
for his taste. Vienna's like that, you see; in most great cities the
new districts are where the Quality hang out, but in Vienna the
oil sections are the exclusive ones, infested by the most numerous
ncbility in Europe, living in palaces and splendid mansions built
centuries ago by ancestors who plainly felt that even a lavatory
wisn't a lavatory unless it could accommodate a hunt ball, with
gilded cherubs on the ceiling and walls that looked like wedding Cckes. Even new hotels like the Grand were to match, and the
wiole quarter reeked of money, privilege, and luxury in doubtful
taite. It was reckoned to be the richest Upper Ten outside London, aid the two hundred families of princes, counts, and assorted titled'
tnsh spent ten million quid among 'em per annum, which ain't
b;d for gaslight and groceries. They spent more, ate more, drank more , danced more, and fornicated more than any other capital on
e;rth (and that's Fetridge23 talking, not me), and cared not a rap for
aiything except their musical fame, of which they're wonderfully
jealous - not without cause, I'd say, when you think of the waltz.
I'd arranged to arrive in town late, at an hour when Kralta would
b: cleared for bed and action, but when I reached the hotel close
01 midnight I saw that I'd been too long in the provinces; the hall was thronged with revellers, the dining salon was full, and an
ochestra was going full swing. Even so, I was unprepared for the
sart I received when I was ushered into her drawing-room: where
Id looked to find her alone, there were thirty folk if there was
oie, all ablaze in the pink of fashion, and me in my travelling dirt.
185
And she, whom I'd imagined flinging aside her fur robe and flying
to my arms, was magnificent in tiara, long gloves, and ivory silk
the image of her photograph, standing amidst her society gaggle'
waiting calmly for me to approach, as though she'd been royalty Which of course she was - European royalty, leastways.
But I couldn't complain of her welcoming smile, with a hand
stretched out for me to kiss. "At last, we meet in Vienna!" says
she softly, and then I was being presented to Prince This and
Baroness That, and Colonel von Stuff and Madame Puff - and
this I'll say for them, there wasn't a sneer or a sniff at my tweeds
such as you'd get from Frogs or Dagoes or our own reptilia; Vienna
wasn't only polite, it was downright friendly and hospitable, putting
a glass in my hand, coaxing me to the buffet, inquiring after
my journey, asking how long I'd been in town, exclaiming that I
must call or dine or see such-and-such, the men frank and genial,
the women gay and easy - some damned handsome pieces there
were, too - and Kralta, smiling coolly with her hand on my sleeve,
guided me effortlessly through the crowd and out into a secluded
alcove - and then she was in my arms, her mouth open under
mine, fairly writhing against me, and I was making up for weeks
of abstinence and wondering when we could get to work in earnest
when suddenly she left off and buried her head on my shoulder.
"Thank God you are safe!" says she, in a choking voice. "When
I heard what that . . . that vile traitor had done to you, I thought I
should run mad! Oh, thank God, thank God!"
Thank a nimble little Parisienne cut-throat, thinks I, but all I
did was murmur comfort, kissing her again and swearing that I'd
been baying the moon at the thought of her, and when could we
get shot of her guests? She laughed at that, holding my hands and
regarding me fondly, and I found myself marvelling that a woman
whose looks didn't compare to half of those on view in her drawing-room
could rouse such desire in me - mind you, there wasn't
a shape among 'em to match the splendid body in its ivory sheath,
or a carriage to set beside that striking figurehead with its long
gold tresses coiled beneath the diamond crown.
I had to bottle my ardour for more than an hour, for while the
fashionable crowd soon dispersed, four who seemed to be her
prime intimates stayed to sup with us. They were an oddish group,
186
T thought: some Prince or other, a distinguished greybeard with an
order on his coat, and three females, all extremely personable. One
of 'em, a countess, was dark and soulful and soft-spoken, and nossessed of the most enormous juggs I've ever seen; how she
managed her soup, heaven knows, for I'll swear she couldn't see
her plate. T'others were a prattling blonde who flirted out of habit,
even with the waiters, and a slender, red-haired piece who drank
like a Mississippi pilot, with no visible effect. The Prince was
plainly a big gun, and most courteous to me, and Kralta was at
her most stately, so it was a decorous enough meal bar the blonde's
chatter and coquettish glances, which no one deigned to notice.
Good form, the Viennese.
We parted at last, thank the Lord, with bows and nods and polite
murmurs, Kralta led the way to her bedchamber, and I was all
over her at once, with growls of endearment and a great wrenching
of buttons. It was a true meeting of minds, for I doubt if a woman
ever stripped faster from full court regalia, and we revelled in each
other like peasants in a hayrick, from bed to floor and back again,
I believe, but I ain't sure. And when we were gloriously done, and
I lay gasping while she wept softly and kissed the healed scar on
my flank, murmuring endearments, I thought, well, this is why
you came to Europe, Flash, and Ischi was worth it. She said not
a word then or thereafter about Stamberg or the plot, and I was
content to let it lie.
I staggered out presently to visit the little private lavatory in an
ante-chamber off the drawing-room, and was taken flat aback when
who should come out of the thunder-house but the Prince, clad in
a silk robe with his beard in a net. What the deuce he was doing
on the premises, I couldn't imagine, but I admired his aplomb, for
I'd ventured out in a state of nature, and he didn't so much as
raise an eyebrow, but waved me in with a courtly hand, bade me "Gute nacht", and disappeared through a door on the far side of
the drawing-room. I performed my ablutions in some bewilderment,
and my good angel prompted me to wrap a towel round myself before venturing out, for when I did, damned if the door
he'd used didn't open, and a massive bosom emerged, followed
by the soulful countess in a night-rail fashioned apparently from a scrap of mosquito-net. She gave a start at the sight of me,
187
murmured "Entschuldigung!", collared a decant from the side
board, and with a sleepy smile and "His spate r",,n[shed whence
she had come.
Kralta was repairing the damage before her miir when I rolled
in, much perturbed,
"That Prince and the women - they're out th>, large as lifgi
Who is he, for God's sake?"
"My husband," says she. "You were present^o him."
Well, all I'd caught in the confusing moment oh-ival had been
"von und zum umble rumble", as so often happs. I considered
hard.
"Ah! I see. Your husband, eh? And the wome"
"His mistresses," says she, carefully rouginher lip. "It is
convenient that we share the apartment. It is qui large enough
you see." She began to brush her hair, while I-uggled for an
appropriate rejoinder, and could think of only on
"Mistresses, eh? Well, well." She continued brush calmly,
so I added another trenchant observation. "He ha'iree of them."
"Yes. The fair one, Fraulein Boelcke, I had nonet before this
evening. She talks too freely, don't you think?"
But my conversational bolt was shot. For onc< was at a loss
-- as who would not be, on discovering that whiUe was bulling
a chap's wife all over the shop and probably malg a hell of an
uproar, the chap himself was virtually next door b,hing his teeth
or pomading his eyebrows - and even now miglbe conducting
an orgy just across the way with three trollops vie the wife of
his bosom was smiling tenderly on her bemused lc;r, kissing him
fondly, leading him back to bed, and settling ir his arms for
conversation and drowsy fondling which must Ie inevitably to
another outbreak of feverish passion? And it did, en noisier and
more protracted than before, for this time she occued the driving
seat, if you know what I mean, and rode hersellito a sobbing
frenzy they could have heard in Berlin.
I'm an easy-going fellow, as you know, but itruck me as I
lay there, urging her on with ecstatic roars and the;casional slap
on the rump, and afterwards cradling her to slee])n my breast,
that this was a pretty informal household, and we take getting
used to. I'm all for cuckolding husbands, and dongive a dam if
188
they know it, unless they're the hellfire horse-whipping sort who'll
resent it; indeed, there's nothing like a good gloat in the grinding
reeth of some poor muff to whom you've awarded antlers. But
when the muff is not only complaisant but approving, and meets you with every politeness at luncheon next day, and his wife is
on cordial terms (as cordial, that is, as Kralta could ever be) with
the fair trio he's been using as though he were the Sultan of Swat
well, it's novel, and I wasn't sure that I cared for it above half.
It took me a few weeks to settle my thoughts on the subject,
and reflection was made no easier by the distractions Vienna
afforded. I've never wallowed in such sumptuous indulgence in
my life; even being a crowned head in Strackenz didn't compare
to it. The place was dedicated to sheer pleasure in those days, and
I guess I became intoxicated in a way that had nothing to do with
drink, although there was enough and to spare of that. Perhaps I
was still fagged from my ordeal; at all events I was content to be
bome along on that gay, dazzling tide, idling and stuffing and
boozing and viewing the capital's wonders by day, consorting with
Kralta's vast social circle (which included the Prince and his skirts
as often as not) of an evening, and letting her have her haughty
head by night.
She was a demanding mistress, and if she'd hadn't been such a
prime mount, and besotted with me to boot, I might have brought
her to heel - or tried to. That she was an imperious piece I knew,but
now I saw it wasn't just her nature, which was the root of her
pride, but the life she led which fostered that almighty growth.
Vienna seemed to be at her feet; she was deferred to on all sides,
and placed on a social level not far short of imperial, toad-eaten
by the flower of society, and ruling it with a tilted chin and cold
eye. The style in which she lived argued fabulous wealth, and she
spent it like a whaler in port, on the slightest whim; small wonder
she liked to call the tune in bed.
Speaking of imperial, I had a taste of that when she took me,
with the Prince and his hareem in tow, to a gala ball at Schonbrunn,
where the Emperor and Empress condescended to mingle with
Vienna's finest. That was a damned odd turn, eerie almost, for a moment came when, with Kralta standing by like a magnificent "ng-mistress, I found myself face to face with Franz-Josef and the
189
superb Sissi. He drew himself up to his imposing height, whiskers
at the high port, and stared me straight in the eye for a lono
moment; he said not a word, but held out his hand, and 'twasn't
the usual touch-and-away of royalty, but a good strong clasp followed
by a hearty shake before he passed on, Sissi following with
a smiling turn of her lovely head. That's his vote of thanks for
services rendered, thinks I, and the most he can do or I can esxpect
- but I was wrong. There was something more, though whether
'twas his idea or Sissi's I can't say. When the dancing begam, and
I was restoring myself with a glass of Tokay after whirling Kr'alta's
substantial poundage round the floor, a lordly swell with a ribboned
order presented himself and informed me that Her Imperial Majesty
would be graciously pleased to accept if I were to beg the honour
of leading her out for the next dance.
It was unprecedented, I'm told, to a foreign stranger, and a
commoner at that. You may be sure I complied, with a beating
heart, I confess. And so I waltzed beneath the chandeliers olf Old
Vienna, under the eyes of the highest and noblest of the Austrian
Empire, with Strauss himself flogging the orchestra, and my partner
was that magical raven-haired beauty who had all Europe at her
feet, and I didn't tread on 'em once. Afterwards I led her baick to
Franz-Josef, and received his courteous nod and her brilliant simile.
Well, I've rattled the Empress of China and Her Majesity of
Madagascar, to say nothing of an Apache Princess and (to the best
of my belief) an Indian Rani, and that's my business, to be written
about but not spoken of. But I can tell my great-grandchildrea face
to face that I've danced with the Queen of Hearts. And she, of
course, has danced with me.
We spent Christmas at a castle of Kralta's - or her husbaind's,
I never found out which - high in the snowy Tyrolean mountains,
and toasted in the New Year in a luxurious hunting lodge in a
little valley whose inhabitants spoke a strange sort of Geirman
laced with Scotch expressions - the legacy, I'm told, of medieval
mercenaries who never went home, doubtless for fear of arrest.
Both places were full of titled guests invited (or coromamded,
rather) by Kralta, and we drove in sleighs and skated and tobogganed
and revelled by evening and pleasured by night, and it was
Vienna in the Arctic, with the Prince always on hand, bland and
190
Je as ever with his popsies around him (on'5 of em a new ^, an Italian, who'd replaced the garrulous blo^,"0 doubt on t^ita's orders) and it was all such enormous funtf311 was "^"y
^^misunderstand me - it wasn't a surfeit of ^ba^^y and ^igh life, although there does come a time when you find
(^ .cjf longing for a pint and a pie and a decs^ mg s sleep'
'9 - - - - - s English voices
yo11-! was only partly that I was beginning to mis'* Englls" v01' ^"'gnglish rain and all those things that make th^ old country ^ ^nt thank God, from the Continent. No I^3' ^S11"1"^ to ^e what had irked me from the first - being ju^ another payet
f^eir g3"1' "^"g it taken for g""1^ that 1^ be a comPllant
^ ''her of Kralta's curious menage, as though 1 were the latest ^le'.it, if you know what I mean. I've always ^e" a free lance' ^cr speak, going my own way on my own term"- and the notlon e,o i Viennese society was raising its weary eyeb)"^8 and sayln:
t^a' yes, this Englishman is new to her entourage; how long wln -'At^ one wonders?", and that Kralta probably thought of me ps ' ,r husband did of his trollops ... no, it didn'c sult' ^^e final straw came on a night in the hunting lodge whe" r
^ne so infernally bored that I'd gone to the vil11^ for a prose ^^(he peasants at the tavern, and came home in che sma11 hours"
v^g of the guests were still about in the principal rooms; ^"^S
^"^(lirting and casting (I thought) odd looks ill Any dlrectlon- T^d ( up, and was making for the chamber I g^ed with^ Kralta
^e11 a soft voice called and I turned to see the Pri^'maltresse- ^,re, she of the heroic bosom, standing in an ^en ^"^^ in ^'[a night-rail that was never designed for sleep*111^ ft ^rhe Prince is with her highness tonight " s^ she' with an
look. Is he, by God! thinks I, and for a moi^"1 was selzed ^cv an impulse to stride in and drag him off her by the nape of ^^^ckolded neck - or her off him, more like, th^ arrogant bltcht^ ^ess Grosbrusts was watching to see what I made of lt' so T
^oud her over thoughtful-like, and she smiled ^nd I grlnned at
I1'0" and she shrugged, and I laughed, and she laughed in turn f^'.ti set 'em shaking, and as she turned into h^ room) castmg ^kward glance, I sauntered after, thinking what a capital change ? By last night in Austria.
191
superb Sissi. He drew himself up to his imposing height, whiskers
at the high port, and stared me straight in the eye for a long
moment; he said not a word, but held out his hand, and 'twasn't
the usual touch-and-away of royalty, but a good strong clasp followed
by a hearty shake before he passed on, Sissi following with
a smiling turn of her lovely head. That's his vote of thanks for
services rendered, thinks I, and the most he can do or I can expect
- but I was wrong. There was something more, though whether
'twas his idea or Sissi's I can't say. When the dancing began, and
I was restoring myself with a glass of Tokay after whirling Kralta's
substantial poundage round the floor, a lordly swell with a ribboned
order presented himself and informed me that Her Imperial Majesty
would be graciously pleased to accept if I were to beg the honour
of leading her out for the next dance.
It was unprecedented, I'm told, to a foreign stranger, and a
commoner at that. You may be sure I complied, with a beating
heart, I confess. And so I waltzed beneath the chandeliers of Old
Vienna, under the eyes of the highest and noblest of the Austrian
Empire, with Strauss himself flogging the orchestra, and my partner
was that magical raven-haired beauty who had all Europe at her
feet, and I didn't tread on 'em once. Afterwards I led her back to
Franz-Josef, and received his courteous nod and her brilliant smile.
Well, I've rattled the Empress of China and Her Majesty of
Madagascar, to say nothing of an Apache Princess and (to the best
of my belief) an Indian Rani, and that's my business, to be written
about but not spoken of. But I can tell my great-grandchildren face
to face that I've danced with the Queen of Hearts. And she, of
course, has danced with me.
We spent Christmas at a castle of Kralta's - or her husband's,
I never found out which - high in the snowy Tyrolean mountains,
and toasted in the New Year in a luxurious hunting lodge in a
little valley whose inhabitants spoke a strange sort of German
laced with Scotch expressions - the legacy, I'm told, of medieval
mercenaries who never went home, doubtless for fear of arrest.
Both places were full of titled guests invited (or commanded,
rather) by Kralta, and we drove in sleighs and skated and tobogganed
and revelled by evening and pleasured by night, and it was
Vienna in the Arctic, with the Prince always on hand, bland and
190
ffable as ever with his popsies around him (one of 'em a new
hrd an Italian, who'd replaced the garrulous blonde, no doubt on
KrAl'ta's orders) and it was all such enormous fun that I was heartily
sick of it. Don't misunderstand me - it wasn't a surfeit of debauchery and
the hi^h life, although there does come a time when you find yourself longing for a pint and a pie and a decent night's sleep.
And it was only partly that I was beginning to miss English voices
and English rain and all those things that make the old country so
different, thank God, from the Continent. No, I was beginning to
realise what had irked me from the first - being just another player
in their game, having it taken for granted that I'd be a compliant
member of Kralta's curious menage, as though I were the latest
recruit, if you know what I mean. I've always been a free lance,
so to speak, going my own way on my own terms, and the notion
that Viennese society was raising its weary eyebrows and saying:
"Ah, yes, this Englishman is new to her entourage; how long will
he last, one wonders?", and that Kralta probably thought of me
as her husband did of his trollops ... no, it didn't suit.
The final straw came on a night in the hunting lodge when I'd
become so infernally bored that I'd gone to the village for a prose
with the peasants at the tavern, and came home in the small hours.
Some of the guests were still about in the principal rooms, drinking
and flirting and casting (I thought) odd looks in my direction. I
went up, and was making for the chamber I shared with Kralta
when a soft voice called and I turned to see the Prince's maitresseen-titre, she of the heroic bosom, standing in an open doorway in
a silk night-rail that was never designed for sleeping.
"The Prince is with her highness tonight," says she, with an
arch look. Is he, by God! thinks I, and for a moment was seized ^th an impulse to stride in and drag him off her by the nape of
his cuckolded neck - or her off him, more like, the arrogant bitch.
Countess Grosbrusts was watching to see what I made of it, so I
looked her over thoughtful-like, and she smiled, and I grinned at
her, and she shrugged, and I laughed, and she laughed in turn ^mch set 'em shaking, and as she turned into her room, casting ^backward glance, I sauntered after, thinking what a capital change
ror my last night in Austria.
191
It was the custom at the lodg for the whole troop to gather for a
late breakfast in the main salonso I waited until all had assembled,
despatched a lackey to Kralta, quarters with orders to pack my
traps and send 'em to the statiol strolled down with Lady Bountiful
on my arm, and announced tcthe company that I was desolated
to have to leave them that ay, as urgent affairs in London
demanded my attention (whiclwas prophetic, if you like).
Kralta, seated in state by thrfire with her toads clustered round
stirring her chocolate for her, /ent pale; she was looking deuced
fetching, I have to say, in a wite fur robe which prompted happy
memories of the Orient Expns. I made my apologies, and her
eyes were diamond-hard as sfe glanced from me to my buxom
companion and then to the Price (who was looking a shade worn,
I thought), but she would nc have been Kralta if she hadn't
responded with icy composun regretting my departure without
expression on that proud horserace. I kissed her hand, made my
bow to the Prince, advised hinto stick at it, saluted the company,
and departed, with a last smileit the splendid white figure seated
in state, her golden hair spillirf over her shoulders, inclining her
head with the regal condescensm she'd used at our first meeting.
By and large I like to leave 'ei happy, but I doubt if she was.
* * *
Three days later I was at Chang Cross Station on one of those
damp, dismal evenings when th fog rolls inside the buildings and
the heart of the returning traveler is gladdened by the sight and
smell of it all, London with :s grime and bustle and raucous
inhabitants, and there ain't a ''a, mem Herr," to be heard, or a
sullen Frog face, and not a pite of sauerkraut in sight. I could
even listen with fair good hurour to the harassed excuses of the
Cockney porter carrying my vdse as he protested that he didn't
knaow nuffink abaht the trunk, ;uv', 'cos 'Erbert 'ad gom ter the
guard's van for it, and where ie 'ell 'e'd got ter, Gawd ownly
knew. Sid and Fred were apealed to, search parties were
despatched, and 'Erbert was dicovered in the left-luggage office,
reclining on a lower shelf in a site of merry inebriation. My porter
gave tongue blasphemously.
"I knoo the barstid was 'arfieas over when 'e come on! Din'
92
t sav1 Din' I? Well, 'e can pick up 'is money if the super sees
'im an' chance it! Serve the bleeder right, an' all! I'm sorry, guv'!
I ook.1'11 whistle a cab for yer, and Sid an' Fred'11 'ave yer trunk
iiin dahn in no toime!"
It was music to my ears, and I dawdled patiently, drinking in
the sishts and sounds of home, and even chuckling at the sight of
the semi-comatose 'Erbert leaving off his rendition of "Fifteen
men onna dead man's chest, yow-ow-ow an' a bottlarum" to assure
my porter, whose name was Ginger, that 'e was a blurry good
mate an' a jolly ole pal, before subsiding among the piled baggage.
"Stoopid sod!" cried Ginger. "Gawd knaows w'ere 'e's put it!
Doan't worry, guv', we'll foind it! 'Ere, Sid, wot trains is goin'
aht jus' naow? Can't 'ave the gen'man's trunk being' sent orf by
mistAe, can we?"
"Eight o'clock's leavin' shortly f'm Platform Free!" said Sid.
"Jeesus wept, that's the bleedin' boat train! Naow, 'e wouldn't,
would 'e? 'Ere, Fred, be a toff an' nip dahn to Free, jus' ter mike
shore, an' we'll ferret abaht rahnd the cab-stands an' that - jus'
you wait, guv'! We'll 'ave it in art' a tick!"
I continued to loiter as Fred set off for Platform Three, and just
then a neat little bottom tripped past, making for the tea-room, and
I sauntered idly after it, curious to see if the front view lived up
to the trim ankles and waist. No more than that, but it changed
my life, for as I strolled along my eye caught sight of "3" above^ a ticket gate, and I changed course to see how Fred was doing in
his quest for my trunk. The train was within a few minutes of
leaving, heavy bags were going into the guard's van, and Fred was
emerging, shaking his head - and at that moment I caught sight
of a familiar face down the platform, and strolled along to make
sure. He was carrying a bag, and making for a group of fellows
standing by a carriage door. I have up by him, grinning.
"Hollo, Joe!" says I. "Taken up portering, have you?"
He wheeled round, and absolutely almost dropped the bag in
astonishment. "Good God - Flashman!" cries he. "Why - they've
found you, then!"
'Found me} They can't even find my blasted trunk! Here, what's
the matter? I ain't a ghost, you know!"
fct he was staring at me as though he couldn't believe his
193
eyes - or eye, rather, for he'd only one ogle, and it was wide in
astonishment, which you didn't often see in the imperturbable
Garnet Wolseley.
"Stewart! He's here!" cries he, to the men by the carriage, and
as they turned to look my heart gave a lurch, and my stick fell
clattering to the platform. The man addressed, tall, dark, and grinning
all over his face, was striding forward to grip my hand young
Johnny Stewart, a Cherrypicker long after my time, but an
old comrade from Egypt.
"Wherever did you spring from?" cries he. "Heavens, I've been
turning the town upside down for you - at your clubs, your house,
everywhere..."
But I wasn't listening. I'd recognised the others at once - Cambridge,
commander-in-chief of the Army, with his grey moustache
and high balding head; Granville, the Foreign Secretary; and jumping
down from the carriage and hastening towards me with his
quick, neat step, hand outstretched and eyes bright with joy, the
last man on earth I wanted to see, the man I'd left England to
avoid at all costs: Chinese Charley Gordon.
"Flashman, old friend!" He was pumping my fin like a man
possessed. "At the eleventh hour! Did you know - oh, but you
must have, surely? Where have you been? Stewart and I had given
up all hope!"
Somehow I found my voice. "I've been abroad. In Austria."
"Austria?" laughs he. "That ain't abroad! I'll tell you where's
abroad - Africa! That's abroad!" He was grinning in disbelief.
"You mean you didn't know I was going back to Sudan?"
I shook my head, my innards like lead. "I'm this minute off the
train from Calais - "
"The very place we're bound for! Stewart and I are off to
Suakim this very night! He's my chief o' staff. . . and just guess - "
he poked me in the chest "- who I've been moving heaven and
earth to have as my intelligence bimbashi} Isn't that so. Garnet?
But you were nowhere to be found - and now you drop from the
skies! . . . and you never even knew I was going out!"
'"Twasn't confirmed until today, after all," says Joe.
"If Flashman had been in Town, he'd ha' caught the scent a
week ago!" cries Gordon. "Eyes and ears like a dervish scout, he
194
, F^Q^y d'ye think he's here? He knew by instinct the game was
foot didn't you, old fellow? My word, and I thought only we
Hielandmen had the second sight!" He stepped closer, and his
ves held that barmy mystic glitter that told me God was going to
he hauled into the conversation. "Providence guided you . . . aye,
ouided you to this very platform! Don't let anyone try to tell me
there's nothing in the power of prayer!"
If there had been I'd have been back in Austria that minute, or
in Wales or Paisley even - anywhere away from this dangerous
maniac gripping my sleeve and not letting me get a word in edgewise.
I shot a wild glance at the others: Cambridge pop-eyed,
Granville smiling but puzzled, Stewart alert and wondering, and
only Joe having the grace to frown and chew his lip. I was speechless
at the effrontery of the thing, but Gordon, of course, couldn't
see an inch beyond what he thought was a priceless stroke of luck,
the selfish hound. It was famous, the happiest of omens . . . and
at last I found my tongue.
"But I've just arrived - I'm going home!" I protested, and any
normal man would have been checked for a moment at least, but
not Gordon, drunk with enthusiasm.
"You were - and you shall, one o' these days! But you don't
think I'm letting you slip now? Not when Fate has delivered you
into my hands?" He was all jocularity - and earnest an instant later,
gripping my coat. "Flashman, this is big, believe me. Bigger than
China, even - perhaps bigger than anything since the Mutiny. I don't
know yet - but I do know it calls for the best we've got. It's going
to be the hardest thing I've ever tackled. . . and I need you, old comrade."
He was a head shorter than I, and having to stare up at me
with those pale hypnotic eyes that made you feel like a rabbit before
a snake. "See here, I know it's sudden, and here I am springing it
on you like a jack-in-the-box - but the Mahdi's sudden too, and
Osman Digna, and every minute counts! Let me tell you on the
tram - too much to explain now - and I don't even know how I'll
set about it, only that we've got to set the Sudan to rights before
that madman destroys it. It may mean a fight, it may mean a rearguard action, can't tell yet - and neither can they." He jerked
his head at the others. "But they're putting the power in my hands, "ashman, and I can choose whoever I wish."
195
^
He stepped back, and he was grinning again. "And I have no
hesitation in asking leave of His Grace the Commanderin-Chief-"
a duck of the head towards Cambridge "- and the
Cabinet -"a nod to Granville "- and our chief man-at-arms ~ "
a nourish at Joe, who was trying to interrupt "-to enlist Sir Harrv
Flashman, and to the dickens with regulations and usual channels' Well, Harry, what d'ye say?"
Before I could speak, Joe got his word in. "Short notice -" he
was beginning, and got no further.
"When did he ever need notice? Some notice he had at Pekin
didn't he? Remember, Gamet? Or at Balaclava, or Cawnpore, or
Kabul!" He wasn't soft-spoken at the best of times, and in his
excitement he was almost shouting, and passengers were turning
to stare at us. "He don't need more than a word and a clear road!
Do you?"
This was desperate, but the suddenness of it all still had me at
a loss for words - that was the effect that Gordon had, you know,
when he was in full cry. He was all over you, beating you down
by his vanity-fed fervour, blind to everything but his own point
of view. Five minutes ago I'd been carelessly eyeing a jaunty
backside while Fred or Ginger looked for my luggage - and now
I was being dragooned into God knew what horror by this arrogant
zealot - and they called the Mahdi a fanatic!
"Hold on, Charley!" I blurted out. "I ... I'm looking for my
traps, dammit! And . . . and I haven't seen my wife yet, or ...
or-"
"Your traps can be sent on!" cries he. "Why, you're all packed!
And Wolseley'll make your excuses at home, won't you, Gamet?
We shan't be away forever, you know. Besides," cries he merrily,
"if I know bonny Elspeth she'll never let you hear the last of it
if you don't fall in now! Why, if she were here she'd be bustling
you aboard!"
That was the God's truth, by the way. Duty was Elspeth's watchword,
especially when it was my duty - hadn't she shot me off to
India more than once, weeping, I grant you (though what she'd
been up to with those grinning Frogs after Madagascar, once I'd
been despatched to the cannon's mouth, I didn't care to imagine).
But just the thought of her now, not a couple of miles away, and
196
, radiant smile and glad cry with which she'd run to me, lovelier
, ^ than those stale loves I'd been wasting my time on for
weeks past, and her adoring blue eyes ... no, the hell with Gordon,
the selfish lunatic, having the impudence to buttonhole me in this
outrageous fashion! And I was bracing myself to put my foot down
when Cambridge spoke.
"Irregular, I suppose," says he, shaking his fat head - but not
in denial. "But, even so ... well, nothing to hinder ... if you're
sure, Gordon?"
"Of course I'm sure!" He always was, and not about to have
his judgment questioned by a mere grandson of George the Third.
He was absolutely frowning at them - the Army commander, the
Foreign Secretary, and the greatest soldier of the age (who was
carrying his bag for him. God love me!)24 And they were helpless,
glancing resignedly at each other and apologetically at me because
he was Gordon, you see. What he was doing wouldn't
have washed with them for a moment, if he had been any other
man. But then, no other man would have done it.
Granville was raising his fine brows in a why-not fashion. "It
rests with Colonel Flashman, of course." There was a silence, and
then Joe Wolseley gave me a shrug and a nod. "I'd be only too
glad ... to explain to Lady Flashman, if you . . ." He left it there.
They were all looking at me ... and I knew it was all up. It
was appalling, and beyond belief, and no fate was too dreadful for
Gordon, damn his arrogant confidence as he stood there smiling
triumphantly . . . but I knew, as I'd known so often, what the
answer must be. The Great Christian Hero had tapped my shoulder
- and I'd never live it down if I refused. I could have wept at the
cruelty of the malign fate that had guided me to Platform Three
at that hour - ten minutes later, and the blasted train would have
been away, carrying Gordon to Hell or Honolulu for all I cared.
But when the cards are dealt, you must play 'em - and with
style, for your reputation's sake. Flashy has his own way of bowing
to the inevitable - and I knew dam' well it would run round Horse
Guards and the clubs like wildfire in the morning . . .
'I say - you know Chinese Gordon's gone to the Sudan? Fact
- and taken Flashman with him! Met him quite by chance at the
station, told Wolseley and Cambridge he must have him along,
^ 197
wouldn't dream of facing the Mahdi without him. They gave him his way, of course, but wondered what Flashman, who's retired
would think of being press-ganged at a moment's notice. D'you
know what Flash Harry said, cool as you please? 'Well, the least
you can do, Gordon, is pay for my blasted ticket!'"
[This extract from the Papers ends at 8 p.m. on January 18,
1884, with the departure of Major-General Charles George
("Chinese") Gordon for the Sudan, accompanied by a reluctant
Flashman. A year later Gordon died in the siege of Khartoum.
198
APPENDIX
The Emperor FranzJosef(1830-1916)
and Empress Elisabeth (18371898)
"The last European monarch of the old school", was how the
Emperor Franz-Josef I described himself to Theodore Roosevelt,
with good reason, for he enjoyed a longer full sovereignty than
any other European ruler, from the 1848 revolution when, as a
dashing prince of eighteen, he succeeded to the throne abdicated
by his uncle, until the middle of the First World War, by which
time he had become the venerable, bald, bewhiskered grandpatemal
figure which gazes benevolently out from his best-known portrait,
a fine old Austrian gentleman, revered but remote from his subjects
and the terrible conflict which he had helped to make. It was a
tragic climax to a reign which had been neither successful nor
happy; his empire had dwindled in size and power to the brink of
extinction, and his persona] life had been darkened by misfortunes
- his adored Empress had been assassinated, his son had committed
suicide, his brother had died before a firing squad, and the murder
of his nephew and heir had plunged Europe into war.
If he does not emerge as an attractive figure from his biographies,
or from Flashman's brief sketch on short acquaintance, it is still
hard not to feel sympathy for Franz-Josef. His own faults may
have contributed to his ill luck in love and war and statecraft, but
it would have taken a ruler of unusual intelligence and political
skill to bridge successfully the long imperial sunset from the end
of Europe's ancien regime to the age of jazz and democracy and
mechanised warfare, and these he simply did not have. He had
tried to rule as an absolute monarch presiding over a centralised
bureaucracy and suppressing nationalist ambitions (especially
those of Hungary) among the ill-assorted races of his unwieldy
empire; changing times had forced him into reluctant concessions,
199
but his reactionary nature and passion for the detail of administration,
over which he laboured conscientiously, had blinded him
to those greater issues which he had neither the vision nor the
temperament to understand.
Such virtues as he had were physical rather than intellectual
which befitted the romantic prince of his early days. Tall, handsome,
recklessly brave if unsuccessful as a soldier, a splendid
horseman and ardent sportsman, he seems to have been amiable
and kindly at his best, although one biographer writes of his "haughty and offensive arrogance", and quotes examples. His
personal tastes were spartan, his manner dignified and formal, and
he was punctilious in matters of protocol, a characteristic which
was no help in his marriage.
Franz-Josef's chief recreation was in rural pursuits, shooting
above all, and he was never happier than roving the woods above
Ischi with his gun, leading the simple life. His other love was the
theatre, and its ladies, and the close companion of his old age was
an actress, Frau Schratt, to whom he was so closely attached that
he became known as "Herr Schratt".
His marriage to Elisabeth of Bavaria, the glamorous "Sissi" or
"Sisi", began as a fairy tale and ended in unhappiness and tragedy.
We have Flashman's authoritative word for it that she was a rare
beauty, although some of her portraits suggest that she was strikingly
pretty rather than classically perfect. Franz-Josef fell in love
with her at first sight, but he was not a faithful husband, and while
his teenage bride never paid him back in kind, she was too lively
and spirited to be a docile little Empress. Quite apart from FranzJosef's
infidelities (which did in fact lead to her infection) there
were causes enough of disagreement. Sissi detested the ultra-formal
etiquette of a hostile court, was disliked by her mother-in-law,
developed strong Hungarian sympathies, and had a decidedly
eccentric streak in her nature, all of which combined to bring about
the imperial couple's estrangement. The adoration in which she
was held, especially in Hungary, probably did not help.
She took to wandering about Europe, cruising the Mediterranean
and hunting in England and Ireland, a royal gypsy admired not
only for her looks and charm but for her generous interest in
charitable causes, and for that wayward independence which had
200
shocked Vienna. She was a fearless horsewoman, an expert
vrniiast who worked out regularly in a portable gym, a health-andhpaiiiy
fanatic who wrote poetry, suffered periodic bouts of ill- health and depression, and all too often gave signs of that instability
,hich led Flashman to doubt her sanity.
Elisabeth bore Franz-Josef three daughters and a son, Rudolf, ,do is remembered only as the chief actor in the tragedy of Mayer,.
p where he took his own life and that of his mistress in 1889.
Mine years later Elisabeth was stabbed to death by an anti-royalist
fanatic at Geneva. She was sixty years old. (See Henri de Weindel,
77,g Real Francis-Joseph, 1909; Francis Gribble, Life of the
Emp^or Francis Joseph, 1914; Gordon Brook-Shepherd, Royal
Sunset, 1987; A. de Burgh, Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, 1899;
Andrew Sinclair, Death by Fame, 1998.)
201
NOTES
1 Henri Stefan Oppert Blowitz (1825-1903) was Paris correspondent of The
Times from 1875 to 1902. A Bohemian Jew, born of a good family in what
is now Czechoslovakia, he worked as a teacher in France before becoming
a ioum.alist almost by accident, and showed that he possessed to a remarkable
degree that combination of talents that makes a first-class reporter:
immense energy and curiosity, a nose for news, and that mysterious gift
of inspiring confidence which makes people talk. He had contacts at the
highest level all over Europe, a prodigious memory, a brass neck, and great
ingenuity (some said lack of scruple) which together raised him to a unique
position in his profession.
Bashman has drawn him faithfully, and plainly had some affection and
considerable respect for the tiny, rotund, charming, bombastic, and rather
comic eccentric, whose love of good living, susceptibility to female beauty,
delight in extravagant dress, and generous good nature endeared him to
many; naturally, he inspired considerable jealousy in his rivals, and was
not without detractors to question both his methods and ability. That Blowitz
the brilliant and hard-headed reporter and interviewer was at the same time
an incurable romantic with a taste for melodrama and love of the sensational,
is obvious from his Memoirs, a highly entertaining work made up of material, published in his lifetime and episodes dictated in his last year; he kept no
diaries, and is said to have taken a note only rarely.
H How/ far the Memoirs are to be trusted is a nice point. Flashman was
familiar with them, but is no guide to their reliability; part of his story is
identical in outline with one chapter of the Memoirs, but since Blowitz is
the source in both cases, this means nothing. The enthusiastic Bohemian
was never one to spoil a good tale for want of dramatic colouring, and
Frank Giles, a later Times Paris correspondent, whose biography of Blowitz is admirably fair and meticulously researched, describes the Memoirs as a
remarkable collection of fact and fiction, and echoes the feeling of a former Times proprietor that, at times, "the facts have collapsed under the sheer
weight of a powerful imagination". Much of what Blowitz wrote can never
be checked, and there is no knowing how great a part his vivid imagination
played in what he told Flashman, who seems to have believed him, for
what that is worth. I do not hesitate to cite Blowitz in these footnotes, for
whatever his failings he was at his best the most superior kind of journalist
- a real reporter.
203
Blowitz's obsession with destiny, etc., his tales of adventures with Ma
seilles communards, mysterious European royalty, and his kidnapping hv
gypsies, are to be found in the Memoirs; the story that he and his lover
threw the lady's husband overboard in Marseilles harbour is told by Prince
von Bulow, later German Chancellor, who is not regarded as an invariably
reliable source. (See Blowitz's My Memoirs (1903); Frank Giles, A Prince
of Journalists (1962); Prince von Bulow, Memoirs, 1849-1897 (1932)
which contains a fine picture of Blowitz in his working clothes.) [p. 171
2. When and where Flashman served in the French Foreign Legion has not
yet emerged from his Papers. Several references (like the present one)
suggest North Africa, but it is not impossible that he was with the Lesion
in Mexico c. 1867, when he was aide-de-camp to the ill-fated Emperor
Maximilian. "Aujus!" was the cry of the coffee orderlies at reveille, and
"the sausage music" is presumably a reference to the Legion's march
Tiens, voila du boudin. (See also Note 13.)
The authority for Grant's meeting with Macmahon, and their total failure
to communicate, is Grant himself. At least they bowed, and shook hands'
Grant's aversion to hand-shaking was notorious, as was his taciturnity. (See
From the Tan Yard to the White House, by William M. Thayer (1886).)
[p. 19]
3. In 1878 Sir Stafford Northcote's Budget, described as "unambitious".
increased the duty on dogs and tobacco and raised income tax by 2d;
Mrs Brassey published "The Voyage of the Sunbeam", an account of her
round-the-world cruise by yacht; the phonograph ("an instrument which
prints sound for subsequent reproduction by electricity") was a popular
novelty; and Gilbert and Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore had its first night on
May 25 at the Opera Comique. The great hit of the show was "He is an
Englishman", which became "almost a second national anthem", [p. 23]
4. As usual with his summaries of international affairs, Flashman's account
of events in the Balkans, the Russo-Turkish war, and the Treaty of San
Stefano, is sketchy and racy, but accurate in its broad essentials. The treaty,
reflecting Russia's Panslavic ambition to bring the Balkans under Russian
control, was hard on the defeated Turks, and was opposed by Austria and
Britain. A conference of the European Powers had been in prospect for
some time, but was jeopardised by Russia's objection to a British demand
that the San Stefano settlement should be submitted to discussion by the
Powers. Largely through the "honest broker" efforts of Bismarck, the
German Chancellor, an understanding was reached between Britain and
Russia, and the Congress of Berlin was held in June and July of 1878 to
revise the treaty and achieve a balance in South-eastern Europe, [p. 24]
5. Blowitz's opinion of Shuvalov is echoed in von Bulow: "Count Shuvalov
was a clever, skilful, amiable and distinguished man, but like so many
Russians, he worshipped more than was fitting at the shrine of Aphrodite
Pandemos." (Bulow, My Memoirs.) (See also Note 7.) [p- 25]
6. The cartoons of the two English grooms and the crafty fishmonger, and the
article headed "Hankey Pankey", are to be found in Punch of May 11,
1878; the voluptuous figure entitled "Harlequin Spring Fashions - really a
204
very little addition to the too-scanty and bespangled costumes Mr Punch
has noticed so often lately", appeared in the previous week. [p. 31]
According to von Bulow: "On one of his evening walks in the Priederichstrasse
. . which the Berlin police supervised so discreetly, to prevent any
unpleasant incident, he (Shuvalov) had made the acquaintance of a too-facile
ladv from whose arms it was difficult to entice him." (See My Memoirs.)
ip. 32] s Flashman's version of the Congress of Berlin tallies fairly well with Blowitz's.
which does not differ in its essentials from other accounts. From
whom Blowitz obtained the advance copy of the treaty is unknown. Waddineton,
the French Foreign Minister, has been suggested; he was English
by blood, though born in Paris, and like Flashman was educated at Rugby,
but there is no evidence that he was the source of the leak. What is certain
is that Blowitz had an excellent source at the heart of the Congress, and
scooped his rivals in day-to-day reporting as well as in obtaining the treaty,
much to their annoyance, especially the Germans. He did interview Hismarck
(whose under-the-table complaint is authentic), and seems to have
bluffed him into withholding the Treaty from the German press by himself
demanding an exclusive copy. He left the Congress early, pretending to
sulk, dictated from memory a substantial portion to his secretary, had the
text telegraphed from Brussels by his secretary, and the following day had
the satsifaction of an exclusive story in The Times. It was one of the greatest
scoops in newspaper history, although Flashman is wrong in saying that
all the clauses appeared; in fact, seven did not.
There is one important difference between Flashman's version of the
Congress, and that given by Blowitz in his Memoirs. Blowitz says that his
information source and go-between was "a young foreigner" who had
approached Blowitz for help, and whom he infiltrated into the entourage
of an unidentified statesman at the Congress; once installed, he passed
information to Blowitz by means of the hat exchange. This seems a highly
unlikely story, and it is reasonable to assume that Blowitz, in writing his Memoirs, invented it to protect the identities of Flashman, Caprice, and
Shuvalov. It is worth noting that von Bulow's story of Shuvalov's infatu- ^ ation with a courtesan (quoted in Note 7) is consistent with Flashman's
version, [p. 44]
9. Sir Garnet (later Viscount) Wolseley confirmed his reputation as Britain's
first soldier by his suppression in 1882 of the Egyptian army's revolt against
the Khedive. The rebellion was led by Arabi Pasha, an ardent nationalist
and anti-European, and after the massacre of more than a hundred foreigners
at Alexandria, the port's defences were bombarded by the Royal Navy and
Egypt was invaded by Wolseley's force which eventually numbered 40,000.
He gained control of the Suez Canal, and when his advance guard was
attacked by Arabi at Kassassin on August 28, the Egyptian infantry were
routed by a moonlight charge of the British cavalry, in which the Life
Guards and the Blues of the Household Brigade ("Tin Bellies", to Flashman)
were prominent. Sir Baker Russell's horse was shot under him, but
"e mounted another, presumably with Flashman's assistance- Arabi's army
205
of about 40,000 was strongly entrenched at Tel-el-Kebir, but after a remark
able night march of six miles in silence, Wolseley's force made a surprise
dawn attack, headed by the Highland Brigade, who overwhelmed the Eevn
tian position. About 2000 of the defenders were killed for the loss of 58
British dead and 400 wounded and missing. Cairo was occupied after a
forced march, Arabi was captured and exiled to Ceylon, and the rebellion
had been crushed in 25 days. (See Charles Lowe, "Kassassin and Tel-elKebir",
in Battles of the Nineteenth Century, edited by Major Arthur Griffiths,
1896.) [p. 48]
10. One can only take Flashman's word for it that there was a "strong shave"
(rumour) in the clubs about Gordon as early as the beginning of October
The situation in the Sudan did not begin to look critical until after the
wipe-out of Hicks' command by the Mahdi at Kashgil early in November
and Gordon's name does not appear to have been mentioned in official
circles until some weeks later, when Gordon himself was still contemplating
service in the Congo. No doubt Flashman's instinct for self-preservation
made him unusually prescient, [p. 49]
11. The first official journey of the famous Orient Express began at the Gare
de 1'Est, Paris, on the evening of Sunday, October 4, 1883. The great train
was the brainchild of Georges Nagelmackers of Liege, founder of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits, and realised his dream of a
through express of unsurpassed luxury which should run to the ends of
Europe. That first train consisted of the locomotive, two baggage cars, two
sleeping-cars, and a dining salon which was to become justly famous; about forty passengers (all male as far as Vienna, where two ladies came aboard),
made the inaugural trip from Paris to Constantinople, among them ministers
of the French and Belgian governments, several journalists including Blowitz,
a Turkish diplomat, Mishak Effendi (identified by Flashman), and Nagelmackers
himself. It is interesting, in view of the alias supplied by Blowitz
for Flashman in Berlin five years earlier, that on the Orient Express Blowitz
shared Voiture 151 with a Dutchman named Janszen. Blowitz got a book
out of the trip, which was a memorable one even by his standards, for in
Constantinople he obtained the first interview ever granted by the ruler of
the Ottoman Empire, Sultan Abdul-Hamid II; in Bucharest he also interviewed
the King of Roumania. And being Blowitz, he thoroughly enjoyed
the luxury and conviviality of the journey, especially the dining salon. One
cannot blame him: as all who have travelled on it agree, there is no train
like the Orient Express. (See Michael Barsley, Orient Express: The Story
of the World's Most Fabulous Train, 1966; Blowitz, Memoirs. For the stops
and times of Flashman's journey, see Express Trains, English and Foreign, by E. Foxwell and T. C. Farrer, 1889.) [p- 63!
12. Whoever "Princess Kralta" may have been, she was obviously a lady of
considerable attraction and character. It is possible that Blowitz concealed
her real name, since it is a device he employs elsewhere in his Memoirs', the only hint he gives of her origin is to describe her mother as "an Oriental
flower", but from Flashman's description it would seem that her father at
least was European, and Northern European at that. Be that as it may,
206
"Kralta" appears to have occupied an influential position in Continental
dinlomatic and royal society; the account of her activities which Blowitz
eave to Flashman tallies closely with the Memoirs - her acquaintance with Bismarck his employment of her to discover how Blowitz had got the Berlin Treaty, the melodramatic incident of the candle in the draught which
alerted Blowitz to her treachery, and the sensational tale of how, at the
German Emperor's request, she soothed the distracted Bismarck with "some
kind of diversion" - all these are in the chapter entitled, with Blowitzian nanache, "The Revenge of Venus". He does not state bluntly how she
"diverted" Bismarck, but the inference could hardly be clearer.
For Flashman's experiences with "Kralta" we have only his own testimony.
As to her appearance and personality, he is more detailed than
Blowitz, but there are no contradictions between them: both agree that she
was imperious and charming, and while Plashman is more specific about
what are called vital statistics, he can have had no quarrel with the little
Bohemian's romantic raptures. Blowitz was beglamoured on first sight of
the Princess at a dinner party, to such an extent that he could not remember
who else was present - a most unusual lapse of his remarkable memory.
He enthuses about her beauty, radiance, "exquisite elegance", "silky hair"
(chesnut at their first meeting, but subsequently "golden"), "melodious
voice," "blue eyes which lighted up one of the most fascinating faces I
have ever seen", and so on; he even notes the "brilliancy" of her teeth.
There is something approaching awe in his description of her crossing a
room with "the vague rustle of her silken robes ... like a rapid vision",
and one gets the impression sometimes that he was rather afraid of her.
[P. 72]
13. This is the first substantial reference in the Papers to Flashman's sojourn
in Mexico in the latter half of the 1860s; hitherto we have known only that he
spent time in a Mexican prison, and was an aide-de-camp to the unfortunate
Emperor Maximilian, younger brother of Emperor Franz-Josef of Austria.
Maximilian, an amiable and well-intentioned prince, interested in botany, ^^ was a pawn in the ambitious schemes of Napoleon I'll of Prance, who took
H advantage of civil war in Mexico to send in a French army, ostensibly to
collect war debts from the victorious 'Liberals' of Benito Juarez, but in
fact to establish a puppet empire under Maximilian, who was persuaded to
accept the Mexican crown in 1863. He set up a government and was
planning social and educational reforms, including freedom for the Indians,
but Juarez's forces remained hostile to the imperial regime, and when
Napoleon withdrew his forces, partly due to pressure from the Americans,
who were sympathetic to Juarez's republicans, Maximilian was left to his
fate. He made a brave fight of it, but was captured by the Juaristas in May
1867, and executed by firing squad in the following month.
What part Plashman played in these events will no doubt be revealed
when his Mexican papers come to light. We know that he was in the U.S.
with President Lincoln a few days before the latter's death in April 1865,
so his Mexican adventures were presumably confined to the next two years
at most. The reference to Princess Salm-Salm, the wife of Prince Felix
207
Salm-Salm, a German officer who served in the U.S. Civil War (possiblv
with Flashman) and was later chief a.d.e. to Maximilian in Mexico, suggests that Flashman was involved in the efforts which both the Prince and Princpi;
made to save the Emperor's life; she was a handsome and fearless lariv
who has left a spirited account of her adventures in Mexico, and of her
later life in European royal circles and in the Franco-Prussian war, in which
her husband was killed. Her Ten Years of My Life (1868) and the Prince's My Diary in Mexico (1874) which she published after his death, give
invaluable details of Maximilian's last days.
That the Emperor Maximilian was a cricketer seems to be confirmed by a photograph in a Brussels museum in which he is seen posing at the end
of a match with members of the British Legation in Mexico City, c. 1865
The editor is indebted to Colonel J. M. C Watson for a copy of this picture
[p. 84]
14. Flashman seldom elaborates on international affairs, and it is probable that
he has summarised, with commendable accuracy, the information given
him by Willem von Stamberg touching on the state of the Austrian Empire
and its ruler, the Hungarian question, and the relations of Emperor FranzJosef,
the Empress Elisabeth ("Sissi"), and their son, the Crown Prince
Rudolf. (See Appendix.) [p. 87]
15. In 1853 Franz-Josef of Austria had escaped with a bad neck wound when
he was stabbed by a Hungarian apprentice whose knife was impeded by
the Emperor's stiff military collar. Uniform also saved the life of the elderly
German Emperor in 1878, when the helmet which he insisted on wearing
in accordance with regulations took the blast of a double-barrelled shotgun;
he had survived another shooting attempt only three weeks earlier. Tsar
Alexander II of Russia was less fortunate; he was killed by a second bomb
in St Petersburg in 1881, only minutes after an earlier device had wrecked
his carriage. (See Bulow, and works cited in the Appendix.) p. 87]
16. The quotation is from "In Ambush", in Stalky and Co. [p. 89]
17. Which it still retains. Ischi in Flashman's time had a population of fewer
than 3000, and seems to have changed little since then; its lack of size makes
it a pleasant little gem among European resorts, tranquil and unhurried in
its grand surroundings, and its shops and coffee-houses, with their remarkable
range of confections, remain as attractive as ever. It is appropriate that
such a Ruritanian setting should have been home to Franz Lehar (after
Flashman's day); his villa remains on the banks of the Traun, the Golden
Ship was serving excellent cabbage a few years ago, and Frosch and his
colleagues were still amusing audiences at the little theatre, [p. 102]
18. Anyone visiting the "Kaiservilla", the royal lodge at Bad Ischi, will probably
share Flashman's abiding memory. The lodge today is much as he
describes it, and the horns of the Emperor's quarries still adorn its walls
in profusion. There is in fact a secret stairway from the Emperor's rooms,
remarkably modest chambers simply furnished with, among other items.
the plain iron bedstead which he used. It is such an ordinary bedroom that
it is hard to realise that this is where the First World War began.
Flashman's brief acquaintance with Franz-Josef illustrates many of the
208
Fmoeror's characteristics: his passion for the military, his poor grasp of
languages other than his own, his rather stuffy formality, his devotion to
ndmini strati we detail, and the simplicity of his tastes - boiled beef and beer
was a favourite meal. He enjoyed his rubbers of tarok, and in his later year's especially it was a regular evening pastime. (See Appendix.)
[p. 127]
l q There is an old salt-mine in the mountains of the Saltzkammergut above
Ischi which corresponds so closely to Flashman's description that it must
surely be the same one. The strange pool is still there, and the bogies run
on rails from the mine entrance into the great cavern, [p. 140]
20 The quoted line is spoken by Rudolf Rassendyll to Count Rupert of Hentzau
in The Prisoner of Zenda. Flashman claimed that he had told the story of
his Strackenz adventure to Anthony Hope Hawkins (later Sir Anthony
Hope) and that the novelist used it as the basis for his famous romance,
modelling the Count of Hentzau on Rudi von Stamberg. [p. 143]
21. Caprice must have charmed at least three copies of Punch from her English
tourist, including the most recent issue (October 13) in which France is
depicted as a homely old woman. The cartoon of Gladstone dancing the
hornpipe is from a September number (he was on a cruise with Lord
Tennyson) and the alluring figure labelled "Manchester Ship Canal" is
earlier still. Punch's anti-Gallic prejudice runs through all three numbers.
The blimpish British officers cited by Flashman are characters in Hector
Servadac, one of Jules Verne's later science-fiction novels (1877). Police
whistles came into use in 1883. [p. 171]
22. There were many distinguished de la Tour d'Auvergnes, principally
Theophile Malo Corret of that name, a French soldier renowned for his
courage and chivalry, who died in 1800, having consistently refused promotion
beyond the rank of captain. He was known as the First Grenadier
of France, [p. 175]
23. W. Pembroke Fetridge was the author of The American Traveller's Guide:
Harper's Handbook for Travellers in Europe, which first appeared in 1862;
Flashman probably had the 1871 edition, [p. 185] ^4. The unique position which Chinese Gordon held in the eyes of officialdom J and the public was demonstrated by the fact that when he left Charing
Cross Station for the Sudan, the Foreign Secretary bought his ticket, the
Duke of Cambridge held the carriage door for him, and Lord (formerly Sir
Garnet) Wolseley carried his bag. (See Charles Chenevix Trench, Charley
Gordon, 1978.) [p. 197]
209
THE SUBTLETIES
OF BACCARAT
(1890 and 1891)
"See here, Flashman," says the Prince of
Wales, looking hunted and chewing his cigar as though it were
plug tobacco, "you must get me out o' this. God knows what
Mother would say!"
I couldn't think there was much she hadn't said already. When
you're a queen of unblemished virtue, devoted to Duty and the
high moral tone, and your son and Heir to the Throne is a notorious
wastrel who counts all time lost when he ain't stuffing, swilling,
sponging off rich toad-eaters, and rogering everything in skirts,
you're apt to be censorious - why, she'd once told Elspeth that
she was determined to outlive the brute 'cos he wasn't fit to be
king, so there. But in the present instance, so far as I'd gathered
from his incoherent growls, I was shot if I could see what he was
in a stew about; for once he appeared to be blameless. Yet here
he was mangling his weed and twitching like a frightened Falstaff.
We were alone, and he was too fretful to be on his dignity, so
I guided him to a chair, soothed him with a stiff b. and s., lit him
a fresh smoke, waited courtier-like while he coughed his innards
out, and invited him to restate his troubles, as calmly as might be,
to sympathetic old Flashy.
"I've just told you!" snaps he, wheezing and wiping his piggy
eyes. "It is the most shocking business. They say Bill Cumming
has cheated at baccarat!"
That's what I'd thought he said the first time, and wondered if
I d misheard. But he seemed sober and rational, if agitated.
"You mean last night, sir - in the billiard-room?"
Yes, confound it - and the night before! You were there, hang
it all!"
Well, I had been, as an occasional spectator looking in from
213
time to time to make sure my feather-brained wife wasn't slapping
down her jewellery and crying "Banco!", but I wasn't having this
I should explain that baccarat is the most imbecile of card games
(Elspeth plays it, after all) in which half-wits sit round a large
table and the banker deals two cards to the crowd on his right
two to those on his left, and two to himself, the object being to
get as near a total of nine with your two cards as may be; if your
side gets two deuces, you'll ask for a third card, won't you, hoping
for a four or a five, and the banker has the same privilege. If he
gets closer to nine, he wins; if he doesn't, you win. Endless fun,
my dear, assuming you can count up to nine, and if it don't rival
chess, exactly, at least its simplicity leaves little room for sharp
practice. Which was why I couldn't credit what his fat highness
was telling me.
"Cheated - at baccarat^ No, sir, it can't be done," I told him.
"Well, not unless you're the banker, and even then, with a fourpack
deck, more than two hundred cards, why, you'd have to be
the very devil of a mechanic." I considered. "Can't think I've
ever seen it tried . . . no, not out West, even. Mind you, they don't
go in for baccarat, much . .. vingt-et-un, mostly, and poker - "
"Damn poker!" croaks he. "He cheated, I tell you - and / was |
the blasted banker!"
Come to think of it, so he had been, on both nights, and for a
happy moment I wondered if he'd been slipping 'em off the bottom
himself, and was trying to shift the blame, in true royal style but
that wouldn't do; he hadn't the spunk for it.
"Let me get this right, sir ... you tell me GordonCumming cheated'] For God's sake, who says so?"
"Coventry and Owen Williams. There can be no doubt about it
- I saw nothing wrong, but they are quite positive."
Since one of them was a deaf peer, and t'other a Welsh majorgeneral,
I didn't put much stock in this. "They say they saw him
sharping?" ^^
"No, no, not they - these dreadful Wilson people, the young f ones - our host's children, dammit, four or five of them, young
Wilson and that impossible fellow Green - and two of the ladies,
even . . . they all saw him cheat, I tell you!" He thumped his
knee, almost eating his cigar. "Why did I ever allow myself to be
214 |
pvailed upon to come to this infernal house? It will be a lesson r me Flashman, I don't mind telling you - did you ever hear
anything so monstrous?"
"If it's true, sir ... How do they say he cheated?"
"Why, by adding to his stake - putting on counters after the
coups were declared in his side's favour - and taking 'em off when
he'd lost. They saw him do it time and again, apparently, on both
nhhts, when I," groans he, "was holding the bank!"
'The more I heard, the dafter it became. I'm no gambling man
myself, much, and have never had the skill or nerve for sharping
anyway, but in my time I've seen 'em all: stud games in Abilene
livery stables with guns and gold-pokes down on the blanket, nap
schools from Ballarat to the Bay, penny-ante blackjack in political
country houses (with D'Israeli dealing and that oily little worm
Bryant planting aces in my unsuspecting pockets, damn him), and
watched the sharks at work with cold decks, shaved edges, marked
backs, and everything up their sleeves bar a trained midget - and
you may take my word for it, the last place on God's earth you'd
want to sit on the Queen of Spades or try to juggle the stakes
is Grandmama's drawing-room after dinner; you won't last five
minutes. As Gordon-Cumming, I was asked to believe, had discovered.

"And no one said anything at the time?"
"Why .. . why, no." He blinked in bearded bewilderment. "No,'
they did not ... the ladies, I suppose ... the ghastly scene that
must have followed ..." He made vague gestures with his cigar.
"But they felt they could not keep silent altogether, and told Williams
and Coventry - and they," he fairly snarled, "have told me Before dinner tonight. Why they felt obliged to drag me into the
wretched business I cannot think. It's too bad!"
Sheer vapouring, of course. As Prince of Wales, first gentleman
of Europe (God help us), he was the bright particular star and pack
leader of the genteel rabble assembled at Tranby Croft, Yorks, for
the Doncaster races, and knew perfectly well that any serious
breach of polite behaviour by a fellow guest, such as cardsharping,
was bound to land on his mat. I reminded him of this tactfully, snd added that I didn't believe it for a minute. Some foolish mistake
or misunderstanding, I said, depend upon it.
215
"No such thing!" He heaved his guts out of the chair and began
to pace about. "The young Wilsons and Green - aye, and that
chap what's-his-name - Levett - who is in Cumming's own regiment,
for heaven's sake - all avow it. They saw him cheat! Coventry
and Williams are in no doubt whatsoever. It's too frightful
for words!" He gloomed at me, all hang-dog German jowls. "Can
you imagine the scandal if it should come out - if it were to reach
the Queen's ears that such a thing had happened in . . . in ray presence?" He took a step towards me. "My dear Harry - you
know about these things - what is to be done?"
One thing was plain - it wasn't Cumming's supposed sleight of
hand (which I still couldn't credit) that was putting him in a ferment,
but that it had happened in a game presided over by His
Royal Grossness, and whatever would Mama say when she heard
that he'd been spreading the boards like Faro Jack. Tame stuff,
from where I stood, compared to his whoremongering and general depravity, but if it had shaken him to the point where I was his
dear Harry, he must be desperate. I'd steered him out of more than
one scrape in the past, and here he was again, looking at me like
an owl in labour. So, first things first.
"What does Gordon-Cumming say?"
"He denies it outright, of course - Williams and Coventry saw
him before dinner, and - "
"You haven't spoken to him yourself, then?"
He shuddered. "No - and I dread it! You think I should not?
Oh, if I could avoid it ... how am I to face him - an old friend,
an intimate of years, a fellow officer - a baronet, dammit, a ... a
man of honour..."
Aye, that's a word we'll hear more of before this is done, thinks
I. "Tell me, sir - these eagle-eyed youngsters . . . how much do
they claim Cumming bilked 'em of?"
He goggled at me. "What on earth has that to do with it? If a
fellow cheats, what does the amount matter?"
"Something, I'd say. Now, I didn't play either night, but my
Elspeth said something about five and ten bob stakes, so it can't
have been much of a high game?"
"Heavens, no! A friendly game, to amuse the ladies - why, I
set the bank limit at a hundred pounds, both nights "
216
"So Cununing can't have won more than a hundred or two, can r, Well, I don't know what he's worth - some say eighty thou'
a - but he has a place in Scotland, house in Town, half-colonelcy
n the Guards, moves in the top flight, and I've never heard he
was short o' the ready, have you?" He shook his head, glowering.
Well, sir - would he risk his good name, his commission, his
olace in Society - good Lord, everything he counts worth while!
_ for a few wretched quid that wouldn't keep him in cheroots for
a year? Why, sir, it don't bear looking at, even!"
And it didn't. I'm ready to believe evil of anyone, usually with
good cause, and especially of Sir William Gordon-Cumming, Bart,
whose reputation I'd have been happy to blacken any day (I'll tell
you why presently), but this accusation made no sense at all. Quite
apart from the mechanical difficulties of the thing, the paltry sums
involved, and the ghastly risk he'd have been running, all of which
I'd pointed out, there was my knowledge of the man's character,
which was that of a top-lofty prig with immense notions of his
own dignity, who'd have regarded cheating as shocking bad form,
and never mind dishonesty. No, it wouldn't do.
But there was no persuading Bertie the Bounder of that. He was < in such a funk about the possible scandal that sweet reason was
^lost on him, and those two duffers Coventry and Williams had
convinced him that the evidence was overwhelming. How, they
demanded, when I'd prevailed on the Prince to have 'em in so that
I might hear their tale first-hand, could five intelligent young people'
be mistaken, not on one occasion only, but on several.
"Hold hard a moment," says I. "Let's take it in order. Two
nights ago, Monday, you played baccarat in the smoking-room ^ after dinner. I was only in and out while you played, but as I recall
you had three card tables pushed together with a cloth over them,
to play at. Your highness had the bank-"
"Williams was croupier!" cries Bertie, eager to share the guilt.
: "Only on the second night, sir!" says Williams. "There was
_ " CToupier on the Monday." Bertie scowled, but couldn't deny
".
At all events, there were two tableaux of players, one to your
"ght, sir, and one to your left? Where was GordonCumming
sitting?"
217
They consulted about this, and decided he'd been in the left-hand
group, or tableaux. Mrs Arthur Wilson, our host's wife, had been
first to the Prince's left, then an empty chair (though they couldn't
swear it had never been occupied), then Berkeley Levett, then
round the corner young Jack Wilson, the son of the house, and
Gordon-Cumming next to him, with one of the Somersets beyond
Each staked individually, and took turns at handling the cards dealt
to their side.
"How did they place their stakes, precisely?" I asked.
"With counters supplied by his highness," says Coventry, looking
at him as though he were an opium runner. "I think I see the
case yonder."
Sure enough, there was a polished wooden box on the table,
and Bertie opened it reluctantly to display the leather counters, all
stamped with his feathers crest - brown 10 chips, bright red fivers,
blue oncers, and so on. Tools of the devil, I could hear the Queen
calling them; they travelled with him everywhere.
"I take it everyone staked before his highness dealt?" says I.
"Pushing their counter - or counters - forward on the table? Then
the cards would be dealt, your highness would declare the bank's
score, and then you'd pay out or rake in accordingly - is that so,
sir?" Bertie gave a furtive grunt; he was hating this as much as I
was enjoying it, I dare say. "Well, then what happened?" They
all stood mum, waiting on each other. "Come along, gentlemen,"
says I, getting brisk. "Who saw whom cheating, and when, and
how?"
It was like pulling teeth; they hemmed and hawed, or at least
Coventry did, while Williams contradicted him and Bertie ground
his teeth and flung his cigar in the fire. At last they got it straight,
more or less. On the very first deal, young Jack Wilson had seen
Cumming stake 5, and then, looking again when their side won
and the Prince was preparing to pay out, had seen to his astonishment
that Cumming's stake had magically increased from one red
counter to three - 15 where there had been only 5 before. He
couldn't be mistaken, because Cumming placed his stake on a
piece of white paper which he used for making notes of the play.
Young Wilson had thought it damned odd, and later, on the fifth
or sixth deal (he couldn't swear which), when their side had won
218
he'd seen dimming drop three red chips, furtive-like, on "ie paper where there had originally been only one. He'd cold
20, cool as dammit, and young Wilson had whispered to 'tt seated beside him, the good news that his colonel was .<ing a flanker. Levett had sworn Wilson must be wrong, but
, watched himself, and blowed if he hadn't seen Cumming do
thpame thing again, twice. Once he'd added two 5 chips, and
hecond time he'd added one, on both occasions after his tableau ha been declared the winner.
escribed like that, in detail, it sounded impressive, I had to
adit, and the Prince regarded me with piggy triumph. "There,
vosee, Flashman - two men, one in his own regiment, too! And go sure of what they saw!"
You saw nothing out o' the way yourself, sir?"
Certainly not. I was occupied with the cards and the bank."
rue enough, he would be - but there was something damned
strige which they'd evidently overlooked.
If Cumming was cheating," I asked them, "why on earth did
heise the brightest chips - the red fivers?" I indicated the open go "Look at 'em, they stand out a mile! And to make 'em even
nue conspicuous, he laid them on a white paper! Hang it all, sir,
ifi'd wanted to be caught he couldn't have been more obvious!"
hey couldn't explain it, and Bertie said testily that what I'd
sai might very well be true, but it didn't alter the fact that he'd
bei seen padding his stakes, whatever blasted colour they were,
| an what was to be done, eh?
I said I'd heard the stories of young Wilson and Levett, but
wit about the other three? Williams said that after the first night's
pi; young Wilson had told his mother what he and Levett had
se; Wilson's sister and her husband, a chap called Lycett Green,
ha fliso been informed, and they'd resolved to keep an eye on
Ciiming the next night, Tuesday. Young Wilson had arranged
fo]a long table to be set up in the billiard room, covered with
bae and with a chalk line round the margin beyond which the
stcSs would be placed - that way, they thought, Cumming
W(ildn't be able to cheat. I couldn't believe my ears.
Were they mad?" says I. "They were sure the man was a
soldier, yet they were prepared to play with him again - and spy
219
on him? And they never thought to tell old Wilson, the father of
the family, or anyone senior?"
Coventry looked stuffed at this, and Bertie muttered about the
shocking state of Society nowadays, ignorant upstarts who knew
no better, and he was a fool to have come within a hundred miles
of the confounded place, etc., etc. Williams said that Mrs Wilson
had wanted at all costs to avoid a scandal, and if they hadn't played
it would have looked odd, and people might have talked . . . and
so on, and so forth.
"Very well, what happened on the Tuesday night?" I asked.
"Was he seen juggling his chips again?"
"Twice, at least," says Williams. "He was seen to push a 10
counter over the line after his highness had declared baccarat to
the bank." Meaning the bank had lost. "On another occasion he
used his pencil to flick a 5 counter, increasing his 2 stake to 7,
which," he added gloomily, "was what I, as croupier, paid him."
"But you saw nothing irregular yourself?"
"No . . . tho' I recall that at one hand - I can't tell which -
Cumming called out to his highness, 'There is another tenner due
here, sir,' and from what I have learned this evening I believe it
may have been on an occasion when he ... when he played . ..
ah, wrongly." He was one of your decent asses, Williams, and
didn't like to say it plain.
"I remember distinctly telling him to put his stakes where I
could see 'em," says Bertie. "But I suspected nothing."
"Who was sitting by him - the second night?"
Coventry gave a start. "Why, my wife - Lady Coventry. But I
believe she gave her place up to Lady Flashman for one or two
coups, did she not, Williams?"
"Why, so she did," says Williams, turning to me. "I remember
now - Cumming was advising your wife about her stakes, Flashman."
He gave a ruptured grin. "They were being rather jolly
about it, you know; she was . . . well, I gathered she did not know
much about the game, and he was helping her."
"I don't suppose she saw anything fishy," says Bertie bitterly.
I knew what he meant: if Cumming had worn a black mask and
made 'em turn out their pockets at pistol-point, she'd have thought
it was all in the game.
220
"Well. there you are, Flashman," says Bertie. He flung down
a chair, a picture of disgruntled anxiety. "You know as much
do It's past belief. That Gordon-Cumming, of all men ..."
He save a despairing shrug. "But there can be no doubt of it ...
an there?" He was positively yearning at Coventry and Williams.
"They are certain of what they saw?"
Sure as a gun, they told him, so I intruded the kind of question
that occurs only to minds like mine.
"And you're satisfied they ain't lying?" says I, and was met by
exclamations of dismay, paws in the air, whatever next?
"Of course they're not!" barks Bertie. "Heavens above, man,
would they invent such a dreadful thing?"
"It's about as likely as Bill Cumming cheating for a few sovs,"
I reminded him. "But there it is, one or t'other - unless Levett
and young Wilson were drunk and seeing double."
"Really, Flashman!" cries Williams. "And the other witnesses,
on the second night? You'll hardly suggest that Mrs Wilson or
Mrs Lycett Green were - "
"No, general - but I will suggest that people often see what
they expect to see. And I'm dam' sure both those ladies and Lycett
Green sat down last night convinced, from what they'd been told,
that Cumming was a wrong 'un. Very well," I went on, as they
whinnied their protests and Bertie told me I was talking bosh,
"have it as you please, I still say Cumming hasn't been nailed to .
the wall hard enough to satisfy me ... but he's got a heap of
explaining to do, I grant you." I set my sights on Bertie. "And
since your highness has done me the honour to ask my advice, I
respectfully suggest that you examine these five all-seeing accusers
yourself - and Gordon-Cumming - before things go any further."
Since this was plain common sense, it earned me a couple of
bovine looks and a royal glare and growl, so I begged leave to
withdraw and loafed off, leaving the three wise men to blink at
each other and resume their chorus of "What is to be done?" five
words which are as sound a motto for disaster as I know. I've
heard 'em at Kabul before the Retreat, at Cawnpore, on the heights
above the North Valley at Balaclava, and I won't swear someone
wasn't croaking them as we laboured up the Greasy Grass slope
behind G. A. Custer, God rest his fat-headed soul. No one ever
221
knows the answer, you see, so everyone looks blank until the man
in command (in this case Good Prince Edward) makes up his mind
in panic, and invariably does the wrong thing.
I took a turn in the empty billiard room, imbibing a meditative
brandy and tickling the pills while I considered this unexpected
but most welcome bit of mischief, which promised to enliven what
had been a damned dull visit so far. I've never been any hand, as
you know, at dancing attendance on royalty - unless it's young and female, but especially not Beastly Bert - nor do I enjoy the
unsought hospitality of Society parvenus in the wilds of Yorkshire
(a sort of English Texas peopled by coarse braggarts and one or
two decentish slow bowlers) with nothing to do but watch horses
run in the pouring rain. Racing's well enough when you're young
and riding yourself, but now that I was in my seventieth year and
disinclined to back anything more mettlesome than an armchair,*
I found it quite as interesting as a sermon in Gaelic.
So this baccarat nonsense, with its splendid possibilities of scandal,
disgrace, and general devilment, looked made to order for diversion,
provided it was properly mismanaged - which, with Bertie in
a fine funk, Coventry and Williams advising, and myself ready to
butter the stairs as chance offered, it probably would be. You may
think this a tame enough occupation for one who has assisted at as
many major catastrophes as I have, and a poor setting after the
camps and courts of the mighty, but I was getting on, you know,
and as the Good Book says, there's a time for racketing about
crying Ha-ha! among the trumpets, and a time for sitting back with
your feet dipped in butter watching others fall in the mire.
And I may tell you, not all adventures are to be found 'midst
shot and shell, thank God. What happened at Tranby Croft that
September week of '90 was as desperate a drama, in its quiet way,
as any I've struck, and a mystery which has baffled the wise for
twenty years . . . but will no longer, for I was in the thick of it,
and can tell you precisely what happened and why, and since I'll
be snug in my long home ere this account meets the public eye
(supposing it ever does) you may rely on its truth, incredible as it
may appear.
* a docile horse
222
Tn the first place, I'd never have gone near Tranby Croft but for
, ^ she was a bosom chum of young Daisy Brooke, who was
,r i^gj. age and one of the leading Society fillies of the day, but
. .^ ^e same eccentric mould - well, you know what Elspeth's
rke and Daisy, who was known as Babbling Brooke, was a sort
f mad socialist - even today, when she's Countess of Warwick,
n less she still raves in a ladylike way about the workers, enough
said At the time of Tranby she was a stunning looker, rich as
Croesus, randy as a rabbit, and Prince Bertie's mount of the
moment - indeed, I ain't sure she wasn't the love of his life, for
he'd thrown over Lily Langtry in her favour and remained
uncommon faithful to her until Keppel started wobbling her rump
at him. I'll say this for him, he had fine taste in bareback riders,
as I should know; I'd shared Langtry with him, behind his back,
and done my duty by pretty Daisy - as who hadn't? Not La Keppel,
though; she was after my time, worse luck, not heaving in view
until I'd reached what Macaulay calls the years of chicken broth
and flannel, when you realise how dam' ridiculous you'd look
chasing dollymops young enough to be your daughter, and seek
solace in booze, baccy, and books. Regrettable, of course, but less
tiring and expensive.
Anyway, young Daisy Brooke had been first of the invited guests
|to Tranby, and had persuaded Bertie that the party would be incomplete
without her pal Elspeth, Lady Flashman. I had my own
jaundiced view of that, born of fifty years' marriage to my dear
one who, I had reason to believe, had not been averse to male
attentions in those years when I'd been abroad funking the Queen's
enemies. Not that I could be certain, mind you, never have been,
and she may have been as chaste as St Cecilia, but I strongly
suspected that the little trollop had been galloped by half the Army
List - including H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, and William GordonCumming,
Bart. True, 'twas only gossip that she and Bertie had
been at grips in a potting-shed at Windsor in '59, when I was off
I in Maryland helping to start the Yankees' civil war, but I'd seen
him ogling her on and off ever since.
As to the louse Cumming, he was too tall and fair and Greek
god-like by half, and had made a dead run at Elspeth back in the x ies - and him twenty years her junior, the lecherous young rip.
223
No doubt he'd been successful, but I'd no proof; she'd basked i
his admiration, right enough, but since she did that with every ma
she met it meant neither nowt nor somewhat. The thing that set
Cumming apart from her other flirtations (?) was that after twentv
years' acquaintance she had suddenly dropped him like a hot rivet
even cut him dead in the Row. I never knew why, and didn't
inquire; the less I knew of her transgressions (and she of mine)
the better - I reckon that's why we've always been such a loving
couple. I'd run across Cumming professionally in Zululand, where
he was staff-walloping Chelmsford while I was fleeing headlong
from Isan'lwana, and we'd met here and there at home, and been
half-civil - as I always am to suspected old flames of Elspeth.
Wouldn't have anyone to talk to otherwise, and you can't have
'em thinking you're a jealous husband.
By the time of Tranby, to be sure, Elspeth was of an age where
it should have been unlikely that either Bertie or Cumming would
try to drag her behind the sofa, but I still didn't care to think of
her within the fat-fingered reach of one or the trim moustache of
t'other. She'd worn uncommon well; middle sixties and still shaped
like a Turkish belly-dancer, with the same guileless idiot smile
and wondrous blue eyes that had set me slavering when she was
sixteen - she'd performed like a demented houri then, and who
was to say she'd lost the taste in half a century? Why, I remember
reading of some French king's mistress. Pompadour or some such,
who was still grinding away when she was eighty. Well, there you
are.
So I wasn't best pleased when the Tranby invitation arrived;
however, I figured that with Daisy on hand to keep Bertie busy,
and Cumming reportedly pushing about some American female, I
could stop at home with an easy mind. Then at the last minute,
blessed if one of Daisy's aged relatives didn't croak, and since it
would not have done for dear Lady Flashman to attend their foul
house-party unaccompanied, I was dragooned cursing into service.
I doubt if our Prince gave three cheers, either; for all the good
toadying turns I'd done him, he was still leery of me, and didn t
care to look me in the eye. Guilty conscience, no doubt. Until
now, that is, when he found himself taken unawares by the makings
of a prime scandal, and the prospect of being ritually disem-
224
hnwelled by our gracious sovereign when she heard of it, and serve ^e fat blighter right.
I reflected on these matters as I shoved the ivories round the
cushions, and reviewed events since we'd assembled at Tranby
two days earlier, which was Monday. It was your middling country
house, owned by a shipping moneybags named Wilson - not
Society as you'd notice, but his place was convenient to Doncaster,
where they were running the Leger on the Wednesday, and if his
family and friends were second-run as these things are judged in
the impolite world, well. Prince Bertie was a fellow vulgarian, and
right at home. There were enough of his regular crawlers, Cumming
and the Somersets, to keep him happy, the Wilson gang toadied
him to admiration, and as in most bourgeois establishments the
rations, liquor, and appointments were first-rate; none of your freezing
baronial banquet halls where the soup arrives stone cold after
being toted half a mile by gouty servitors and the bedsprings
haven't been seen to since Richard the Third's day. It was cosy
and quite jolly, the young folk were lively without being a nuisance,
Bertie was at ease and affable, and if it was all a dead bore it was
comfortable at least.
Elspeth was in her element, flaunting her mature charms on the
first evening in a Paris rig-out which drew glittering smiles of envy
from the female brigade and an approving grunt and leer from
Bertie. She'd had the deuce of a struggle getting into the thing, ^ with me heaving at her stays, but once all was fast and sheeted
home she looked nothing like the grandmother she was, with her
hair artfully tinted and that milky complexion carefully enhanced,
but above all with that happy, complacent radiance which she
hasn't lost yet - and she's close on ninety now. Aye, she's always
had the priceless gift of pleasing, has Elspeth, and making people
laugh - for she's a damned funny woman when she wants to be,
a top-hole mimic, and all the more engaging because she plainly
hasn't got two brains to rub together. "Never see her but it sets "^ in humour," Palmerston used to say. That was her talent, to
make folk happy.
^he charmed Bertie, seated by her at dinner, won admiring
glances from the other men with her artless prattle, and to my sstonishment even exchanged pleasant banter with Gordon225
Cumming. Hollo, thinks I, has the old fire rekindled? Watching
her at work, I rather liked the look of her myself, and that night
waking in the small hours to find that plump excellence cuddled
up against me, I was amazed to find myself inspired to climb
aboard, puffing and creaking, while she giggled drowsily, saying
I was a disgrace and would do myself a mischief.
"At our age!" she murmured afterwards. "Whatever would the
children say? Oh, Harry lad, d'you mind the Madagascar forest
. . . Harry? Harry? My dear, are you all right? Shall I fetch you a
glass of water ... a little brandy, perhaps?" I was thinking, glory,
glory, what a hell of a way to die, being in no condition to move,
let alone answer, but I remember noting that she hadn't minded a
bit, and saying to myself, aye, you'll still bear watching.
Ah, but fond recollection has carried me ahead of events. It was
on that night, after dinner, that the Prince had proposed baccarat,
and Cumming had supposedly cheated for the first time. I'd no
inkling of this, of course, nor yet on the Tuesday evening, when
he'd been seen doctoring his stakes yet again, the bounder - they
said. Now, on the Wednesday night, the murder was out (among
a few people, anyway), and I was in the pool room trying to fathom
it - and, I confess, wondering what I might do to jolly the mischief
along. Well, you know my style, and between ourselves ...
wouldn't you?
First, though, to the fathoming. So far as I could judge, there
was a choice of three explanations - each one so far-fetched as to
be nigh impossible.
Odds on with the punters in the know was that Cumming had
cheated. It didn't wash with me, much though I'd have liked to
believe it. He was a prime tick and arrant snob, a very model of
military and social excellence, cool, handsome, lordly, rich, and
moustached, wore his handkerchief in his sleeve, looked down his
nose at the world, probably was too fastidious to shave in his bath,
might well be a former paramour of my beloved, and on all these
counts was ripe for any dirty turn I could serve him. But that
wasn't the point; however detestable I might think him, the plain
fact was that swindling simply wasn't his style. I told myself that
even the unlikeliest folk do the damnedest things . . . was it possible
that Cumming was the kind of reckless ass who'd play foul in a
226
fl'ne game, not for gain, but for the sheer mad fun of the thin
^f he could get away with it? There are such fellows; I've
'em. Rudi Stamberg, for one - ah, but he was a villain, in
l we with knavery. Gumming wasn't, and for all the boneheaded
hravery he'd supposedly shown at Ulundi and in the Sudan, I
couldn't see him bucking this tiger. He had too much to lose . . .
and while I hate to say it, he was a gentleman.
in
Then the witnesses were either mistaken or lying. But error must
be discounted: two or even three people might improbably be mistaken - butfivef On two different nights? So all that remained
was a conspiracy to disgrace Gordon-Cumming, by five assorted
perjurers. Ridiculous, you say . . . well, I don't. I've sworn truth
out of England myself all too often, and seen the saintliest specimens
lie themselves black and blue for the unlikeliest reasons. I've
also known from the age of three that "honour" and "solemn
oath" and "word of a gentleman" are mere piss in the wind of
greed, ambition, and fear.
Still, you had only to look at the five witnesses to see that
conspiracy was too far-fetched altogether. None of 'em even knew
Cumming all that well, or had reason to dislike him, let alone plot
his ruin. And one of them could be ruled out, flat. Here they are:
Arthur Stanley ("Jack") Wilson, son of the house, a bright
young spark who lived off Papa and hoped to be taken for a
man-about-town; fairly brainless and possibly capable of being
wild, I'd have thought, but hardly vicious;
His sister, Mrs Lycett Green, middling pretty, inoffensive, ordinary
enough and decidedly not Lucrezia Borgia in the making;
Her husband, Lycett Green, a stiffish, old young man, well
pleased with himself and his position as master of foxhounds in
some northern swamp. In my experience there are dolts, pompous
dolts, and M.F.H.s, but they ain't the plotting kind;
Berkeley Levett, a sound muttonhead in Cumming's regiment,
Md presumably as well disposed to his chief as subalterns ever are, given that Guards officers are usually incapable of any feeling
outside their bellies and loins.
rour unlikely conspirators, you'll allow - unless you conceived u possible that Cumming, a noted rake, had ravished Mrs Lycett
Green before tea on the Monday and provoked the other three into
227
concocting a diabolic plot to avenge her honour - but the fifth
witness killed the plot notion stone dead. She was Mrs Arthur
Wilson, our host's wife, as respectable a matron as ever rebuked
a cook, nervously gratified beyond measure at the honour of having royalty to stay, and the last person, as Bertie himself had remarked
to wish to have scandal breaking over her roof. If she said she'd
seen Cumming jockeying his chips, she meant it.
So there was no explanation, and if I wanted to get to the bottom
of the mystery - which I confess was beginning to intrigue me for
its own sake - I needed more eye-witness information. It would
also be as well to discover if the scandal had leaked at all. On
both counts my best source would be the wife of my bosom, who
may be tripe-brained but has the eyes, ears and instincts of an
Afridi scout, especially for things that don't concern her.
I made a leisurely patrol, quartering ground and sniffing the
wind: the Lycett Greens were nowhere to be seen, but Mrs Wilson
was fretting at her fan and listening absent-minded to Lady Coventry
in the drawing-room, and when I looked in at the smoke
hole young Wilson and Levett were in deep confabulation, instantly
dropped when I appeared, but not before I heard Levett exclaim:
"I can't touch it, Jack, I tell you! He's my chief, dash it!" Signs
and portents, thinks I, and passed on to the music-room, where
one of the females was butchering Yum-Yum to the feigned admiration
of the company, and my quarry was ensconced in a corner,
fleecing some unfortunate foreigner at backgammon, shaking the
dice and her upper works, the abandoned old tart, in a way which
plainly put him off his game altogether.
"Another double six, count!" trills she, all rosy triumph. "I
declare I never threw so many! Oh, and now a double four! What
luck! Why, I am off entirely - oh, dear, and you have a man on
the bar still! Oh, what a shame! Harry, come and see - I have a backgammon! Aren't I lucky? No, no, count, I won't have it - put
your purse in your pocket! We play for love, not money," says
she, looking roguish. "No, no, I shan't take it, really, I assure you!
Will you not play another game?"
"After two gammons and a backgammon in five games?" cries
the ancient squarehead. "Ah, dear Lady Flashman, against chance
and skill I can struggle, but when they are allied with beauty and
228
h rm I am overpowered altogether. Am I not right, Sir Harry?
But I insist on paying my just debts," says he, planting his sovs her palm, which gave the old goat the chance to kiss her hand
nd take a last fond leer at her top hamper, while she purred and
protested.
"Och, isn't he the wee duck?" sighs she, jingling her loot as
he hobbled away. "Aye, weel, mony a mickle mak's a muckle, as
Papa used to say." She slipped it into her bag and broke into
civilised speech. "But, you know. Harry, it was quite embarrassing,
for I threw six and one, and double one, and double six ever so
often! I'm sure he believes I use loaded dice!" Loaded tits, more
like. "I was so glad to see you, for he breathes ever so hard, I
can't think why, and I could see he hated losing, and it was such
a bore." She lowered her voice as she took my arm. "Indeed, it's
all rather a bore, don't you think? Will we be able to go home
tomorrow? Would the Prince be offended? I feel I have had as
much of Tranby company as I can bear - and I'm sure it can be
no fun for you, dearest." The piano gang had begun to perform
the last rites on "Three Little Maids", with immense jollity, and
as we went out she pulled a face and whispered: "I mean, the
Wilsons do their best and are ever so kind and . . . and eager to
please - but they are not really quite the thing, are they?"
She's God's own original snob, my little Paisley princess - as
though her mill-owning father had been a whit better than the'
Wilsons. But the little skinflint had collared a peerage in his declining
years, you see, and she seemed to think that his coronet and
cash, with my V.C. and military rank, to say nothing of her own
occasional intimacy with the Queen, raised us above the common
herd. Which I guess they did, in an odd way - or if not above,
apart at least. We ain't top-drawer, but there's no denying we're
different.
I told her if she'd had enough of it we could be away on the
morning train. "Now that the Leger's run, I doubt if H.R.H. will "nger. But I thought you'd been enjoying yourself, old girl, what
with cheering on the winners, and sporting your glad rags - and most becoming you look, I may tell you - and being the life and ''001, and charming Dirty Bertie ..."
Mention of her appearance had inevitably brought her to a halt
229
at a mirror in the corridor, and now she gave me a reproachful blue eye in the reflection.
"I trust I know what is due to royal rank," says she primly "And I may tell you that mere polite affability is not charming in the odious way you mean it." She patted her gilded tresses
complacently and touched a gloved finger to her plump pink cheek
sighing. "Anyway, I doubt my charming days are gone lang
syne - "
"You don't think anything of the sort . . . and neither does Billy
Cumming, by all accounts. Oh, I've heard all about that - flirting
over the baccarat cards, the two of you!"
Now was there, or was there not, an instant flicker in those
glorious eyes before she widened them at me in mock indignation?
"Flirrr-ting! I? Upon my word!" She tossed her head.
"The very idea - at my time of life! Flirting, quo' he! Goodness
me-"
"I had a touch of your time of life t'other night - remember?"
We were alone in the corridor, and I stepped close behind her and
gave 'em a loving squeeze. She exclaimed "Oh!" and hit me with
her fan.
"That was not flirting," says she. "I was a helpless victim - a
poor defenceless old buddy, and you should think shame of yourself."
She gave her hair a last touch, and turned to peck me on
the cheek. "And who says I tried to fetch Billy Cumming, I should
like to know? No - stop it, you bad old man, and tell me!"
"Owen Williams - an officer an' a gent, so there! Very jolly
over the cards together you were, he tells me."
"He's an auld haver," says she elegantly. "Just because a gentleman
helps a lady to make her bets - well, you know I cannae
count-"
"Except at backgammon, apparently."
"Backgammon or no, I'm a duffer at cards, as well you know,
and I dare say I said something exceptionally foolish, and made
him laugh. As for flirting. Harry Flashman, who are you to talk?
Do I not remember Mrs Leo Lade - and Kitty Stevens?" Names
from fifty years ago, God help me, still green in her eccentric
memory - and I didn't even know who Kitty Stevens was} "Uhhuh,
that's your eye on a plate, my lad," says she, slipping her
230
through mine as we passed on. "What else did that blether
Williams tell you?"
Now that was odd; lightly asked - too lightly. "Oh, just that,"
^ "I guess he was trying to take a rise out of me, knowing I can't stand Cumming - but not knowing that you can't stand
him either." I gave her hand a squeeze, reassuring like. "Why,
you crossed him off our list years ago."
"Did I? I don't recollect." And that was odder still, for if there's
an elephantine memory in London W.I. it resides in the otherwise
wayward mind of Elspeth, Lady Flashman (as she had just proved
by reference to Mrs Leo Lade and that other hint, whoever she
may have been). Suddenly, I knew that something was up. For all
her banter, she'd been on the q.v. from the moment Cumming's
name was mentioned: the quick wary glint in the mirror, her artless
inquiry about what Williams had said, and the indifferent "Did I?
I don't recollect" told me she was keeping something from me.
Was it possible that Cumming had been trying his lecherous hand
again? At her age? Damned unlikely . . . yet then again. Queen
Ranavalona had been a grandmother, and that hadn't stopped me. By God, if he had, I'd see to it that he came out of his present
pickle with his name and fame in the gutter. But that could wait;
I'd another fish to fry at the moment, and as we neared the drawingroom
door I paused, assuming a frown.
"Hold on, though - yes, Williams did say another thing . . . Yes
... At baccarat, last night, did you notice anything . . . well, out
o' the way about Cumming's play?"
She looked bewildered - but then, on any subject that hasn't to
do with money or erotic activity, she usually is.
"Why, Harry, whatever do you mean?"
"Was there anything remarkable about ... his placing of the
stakes?"
"My stakes, d'you mean? I told you he was helping me "
"No, his stakes! How did he put 'em on the table?"
She looked at me as though I were simple-minded. "Why, with
his hand, of course. He just put them . . . down . . ."
"Yes, dearest," says I, keeping a firm grip on myself, "but
that's not quite what I mean"
- those wee coloured counters with the feathers on them, he
231
just put them in front of him - and mine too, because, you see
he was advising me how to bet, since I did not understand the
rules, or how much it would be safe to wager. And I must say "
says she, opening the floodgates, "it is quite the silliest game, for
there's no cleverness in it, and indeed I told him so. 'For how can
we tell what to wager,' I said, 'when we have no notion of what
the Prince's cards may amount to? Why, he may have a count of
nine, and then where shall we be?' He laughed and said we must
take the risk, for it was a gamble. 'I know that,' I said, 'but it
would be more fun if we knew one of the Prince's cards, and he
knew one of ours, for then we could judge how much to put on.'
He said we must be like Montrose, and repeated that verse we
used to recite at school, you know the one, about fearing our fate
too much who will not put it to the touch to win or lose it all, and
I said 'That is all very well, Sir William, but remember what
happened to him,' and he laughed more than ever..."
I love her dearly, far beyond any creature I've ever known, and
I can prove it, for never once in almost seventy years of married
life have I taken her by the throat. Mind you, it's been a near
thing, once or twice.
" - and the court cards, would you believe it, count for nothing!
'Why, then,' I asked him, 'do they have them in the pack at all?'
and he said he supposed it was to make weight, whatever that may
mean, and I said it was a great annoyance to have to pay out to
the bank when we had been dealt two kings, and got another when
we asked for a third card, and the Prince's cards were the sorriest
rags, but they made eight, and that was the better hand, but it
seems hard that three kings should be worth nothing at all..."
I took her gently by the arm and steered her away from the
drawing-room door to an alcove at the end of the corridor, for I
could see there was only one way, and that was to come out with
the thing plump and plain. "Did you see Gumming at any time
add counters to his stake after the Prince had declared the result
of the hand?"
She took her lower lip gently in her teeth - a tiny gesture of
puzzlement which has been turning my heart over since 1839.
"You mean after the Prince had said who had won?"
"Precisely."
232
she frowned. "But, then ... it would be too late to add to his
stake, surely?"
"That's the whole point. Did he, at any time, after the result
had been called, place any counters beyond the line?"
"Which line?"
"The line," I replied through gritted teeth, "round the edge of
the cloth on the table." It was like talking to a backward Bushman.
-The line beyond which the stakes are placed."
"Oh, is that what the line was for? I thought it was just for the
look of the thing." She reflected for a moment, and shook her
head. "No ... I cannot think that I saw him putting out more
counters, after . . ." As realisation dawned, the forget-me-not eyes
opened wide, and her lips parted. "Why, Harry, that would have
been cheating!"
"Begad, you're right! So it would . . . but you never saw him
do any such thing - with his hands, or a pencil - "
"Gracious, no! Why, I should have checked him at once, and
told him it would not do - that he had made a mistake, and
must. . ." And at that she stopped short, staring at me, and slowly
her alarm changed into the oddest old-fashioned look, and then
she smiled - that old teasing cherry-lipped Elspeth pout that used
to have me thrusting the door to and wrenching at my breeches.
To my astonishment I saw that her eyes were suddenly moist as
she shook her head and came close to me, putting a gloved hand
up to my whiskers.
"Oh, Harry, myjo, ye sweet old thing!" murmurs she. "Is that
why you're tasking me with all these daft questions - because
that clavering auld clype Owen Williams has told you that Billy
Cumming put his hand on mine once or twice at the baccarat?"
She laughed softly, loving-sad, and stroked my withered cheek.
To be sure he did - but only to guide me in placing my wagers,
silly! And you're still jealous for your old wife, wild lad that you
are - well, I'm glad, so there! Come here!" And she kissed me
in a way which any decent matron should have forgotten long ago.
As though I've ever wanted to fetch any man but you," says she
fondly, straightening my collar. "Supposing I still could. Now, if
you'll give me your arm to the drawing-room, I dare say Mrs
Wilson will be serving tea."
233
The deuce of it is, when Elspeth turns a conversation topsyturvv
all wide-eyed innocence, you can never be sure whether it's wit'
lessness or guile. She's always been ivory from her delightful neck upwards, but that don't mean she can't wheedle a duck from a
pond when so minded. Knowing her vanity ("Supposing I stil]
could", my eye!) I didn't doubt that she believed my inquiries had
been prompted by pure jealousy, to her immense gratification
lovingly expressed . . . still, there was something to do with Cumming
that she wasn't telling. Well, perhaps it was something I'd
be better for not knowing; one thing seemed clear, for what it was
worth: whoever had seen him cheating, she had not.
I left her prattling over the cups to Lady Coventry and on the
spur of the moment decided not to visit the Prince to see how his
fine frenzy was coming along, but to call on the principal in the
case, as promising more information - and entertainment. Faced
with ruin and dishonour, Cumming should be an interesting spectacle
by now, and a little manly condolence from old comrade
Flashy might well lead him to do something amusing. The more
mischief the better sport, as the great man said.
He was taking it well, I'll say that, standing before his mantel,
every inch the Guardee, rock steady and looking down his aristocratic
nose. I guessed he was a volcano ready to erupt, though,
and when he'd dismissed his valet I took him flat aback by holding
out my hand, avoiding his grip - and seeking his pulse. I do love
to startle 'em.
"What the deuce?" cries he, pulling free.
"A touch fast, not much. You'll do." In fact, I hadn't found his
pulse. "Seen the Prince, have you?"
"So you've heard! Yes, I have seen his highness." He eyed
me with profound dislike. "I suppose you too believe this filthy
slander?"
"Why should you think that?" says I, taking a chair.
"Those other idiots do - Williams and Coventry! And the
Prince! And when did you ever believe good of anyone?"
"Not often, perhaps. But then, they don't often deserve it. In
your case, as it happens, I'm probably the only man in this house
who is not convinced that you played foul."
His sneer vanished in astonishment, and he took a pace forward,
234
, tp gtop in sudden doubt. "You're not? Why?" Leery of me, you see; many people are.
'Because it makes no sense." I told him my reasons, which
lyiow. and with every word his expression lightened until he ^,as looking almost hopeful, in a frantic way.
"Have you said this to the Prince? What did he say, in heaven's
name?"
I shook my head. "Didn't persuade him - or Coventry and
Williams. Can't blame 'em altogether, you know; the evidence is pretty strong, on the face of it. Five witnesses "
"Witnesses?" cries he. "Damned imbeciles! Two idiot women,
a parcel of boys who know nothing - what's their word worth?"
Almost in an instant the cool Guardee was gone, and he was
standing before me, fists clenched and eyes wild, voice shaking
with fury. Strange how a man can show a calm front and a stiff
lip when all the world's agin him, but drop a sympathetic word
and all the rage and indignation will come bubbling out, because
he thinks he's found a friend to confide in.
"How can they believe it?" he stormed. "My God, Flashman,
how can they? Men who've known me twenty years and more trusted
friends! As though I would . . . stoop to this . . . this damned
infamy! And for what?" There were tears in his eyes, and if he'd
stamped and torn his hair I'd not have been surprised. "For a few
paltry pounds? By heaven, I'll throw it back in their faces "
"Not if you've any sense, you won't," says I, and he stared.
"Might be taken for an admission of guilt. You won it fair and
square, did you? Then you keep it." Sound advice, by the
way.
"That's the whole point, though," I added, sitting forward and
giving him my eye. "Now, Cumming, don't start tearing the curtains,
but tell me, straight out ... did you cheat?"
He was breathing hard, but at that he stiffened, and answered
straight. "I did not! On my word of honour."
He was telling the truth, no question. Not because he said so,
but because of what I'd seen and heard from the moment I'd
entered the room. I don't claim to be an infallible judge of my
lellow man (and woman); I can be deceived, and put no faith in
oaths and promises, however solemn. But I've been about, and if
235
I knew anything at all, Gordon-Cumming's demeanour, in and out
of anger, rang true.
"Very good. Now, these witnesses - are they lying?"
That set him away again. "How the blazes should I know? The
whole thing is abominable! What's it to me whether they're lying
or not? Pack of idiots and prying women! Who cares what they
say! Let me tell you, Flashman, their foul charges don't matter a
straw to me - they're worthless! But that men like Williams and
. . . and the Prince, whom I counted a friend - that they should
turn against me . . . that they can bring themselves to believe this
vile thing - my God, and that you, of all people, should be alone
in having . . . having faith in me ..."
I dare say he didn't mean it to sound like an insult, but it did,
and I found myself liking him even less than usual. He had gulped
himself silent with outrage, so I resumed.
"You haven't answered. Are they lying?"
"I neither know nor care!" He paced about and stopped, glaring
at the wall. "Oh, I suppose not! The damned fools must think they
saw something wrong, but who knows with ignorant young asses
like those? What do they know of card play, even, or how such
games are conducted? Tyros and schoolboys - that dummy Levett!
That he should think for a moment - "
"Stop vapouring, and keep your head," I told him. "Dammit,
man, I'm trying to help you!" I wasn't, but there. "If you want
to come out of this, you'd best stop ranting, and think. Now, then
- they weren't lying, you believe. So they were mistaken. How?
That's the thing - what was there in your play - the way you
staked - that made 'em think you were diddling them?" I offered
him a cheroot, and struck a match. "Now, settle down, and think
that over."
He puffed at the weed in silence, made to speak, thought better
of it, and then shrugged helplessly.
"How can I tell what they think they saw? Minds like theirs
. . . stupid women and scatterbrains like young Wilson-"
"That won't answer. See here - from what I've learned, they claim
that on two or three occasions you had a 5 stake in front of you, and
then hey, presto! it was 15 - after the hand had been declared. Now,
how could that be? Think, man - unless they were seeing things, you
236
st have added another two red chips to the one already there. Did ^ Could you? No, don't start bellowing - think! If you weren't
heating - how came those extra chips to be there?"
He stood nursing his brow, and turned to me a face that was
hae^ard with frustration. "I don't know, Flashman. It can't have
been so ... I swear I never added to my stake after the ..." And
suddenly he stopped, and his eyes and mouth opened wide, and
he gave a choking gasp. "Oh, my God! Of course! The coup de
trois} That's it, Flashman! The coup de trois And he let out a
great wailing noise which I took to be relief. "The coup de trois
"What the hell's the coup de troisT'
"My system!" His eyes were blazing. "Why didn't I think of
it at once! I was tripling up - don't you see? Look here!" He
lugged a handful of coins from his pocket, spilling 'em all over
the shop, and planked one on the table. "There - that's my 5
stake. I win - and am paid a river from the bank ..." He clapped
down a second coin. "I let 'em lie, and add another river..."
Down went a third coin "... and that's my stake for the next hand
- 15! It's how I always play! Stake a river, win another, add a
third! The coup de trois He was laughing in sheer triumph.
"Why, it's as old as the hills! Every punter knows it - but not
those green monkeys, Wilson and Levett! They see a river staked,
look away, look back again after the coup's been declared and the
bank has paid out - and see three fivers - my original stake, my
winning, and the third which I've added for the next coup, perfectly
properly}" He let out a huge gasp of relief and subsided into a
chair. "And because they're ignorant novices, brought up on old
maid and halma, they think it's foul play!"
"The only thing is," says I, "that they're sure you added the
extra chips after the coup was declared, but before the bank paid
out - and that you accepted payment of 15."
"Then they're wrong, that's all! It's a question of ... of timing,
can't you see?"
They say that on one coup you jockeyed your stake and
demanded an extra tenner from the bank - "
"Stuff and nonsense!"
- and that once you flicked a chip over the line with a
pencil"
237
"That is a lie!" He was on his feet again, white with anser
"Dammit, man, can't you see sense? Don't you see what ha
happened? Some young fool sees my coup de trois, thinks it's a
fraud, tells the other young fools, and because they're as dense as
he is - aye, and as eager to believe the worst - they see all manner
of things that ain't there! Flicking chips with pencils - bah!" In
his excitement he took me by the arm. "Don't you see, Flashman"?"
In fact, I did, and was feeling much let down. For what he said
made some sort of sense . . . perhaps. Half-baked lads like Levett
and Wilson, knowing nothing of such systems as the coup de
trois employed by seasoned gamesters like Cumming, might well
misinterpret his actions. It was, as he said, a question of timing,
and in an ill-regulated drawing-room game, with no croupier on
the first night, and the bank paying out any old how, it was possible
that they might have thought Cumming was still to be paid when
in fact he'd already got his winnings and was letting 'em lie, with
an additional river, for the next coup. Now, if the thing were
explained to them, they'd surely be bound to give him the benefit
of the doubt - for Bertie would leap at the explanation as a lifeline,
and for decency's sake they'd have to admit that they might have
been mistaken.
If there had been a cat handy I'd have kicked it. What had
promised to be a splendid scandal looked like fizzling out like the
dampest of squibs, and this damned baronet would walk away
without a blot on his escutcheon ... or so it seemed to me just
then. From the first, you see, I'd feared that there might be a simple
explanation, and here was a plausible one, rot it. It was all most
damnably deflating - and worse because I'd guided him to his
bloody loophole of escape.
"Don't you see?" cries he again, impatiently. "Heavens, it's as
plain as daylight now! You must see that! It's obvious to anyone
above a half-wit - even a muttonhead like Williams can't fail to
see it! Am I right?"
I put on my judicial face and said that he probably was. "Well,
thank God for that!" cries he sarcastically, and if anything had been needed to convince me he was telling the truth, it was his
sneering tone. Not a hint of doubt that his explanation mightn't
wash, no palpitating hope of its acceptance - only cold fury that
238
the soul of honour, had been disgracefully traduced, and that
,.' peers had believed it. Two minutes since he'd been in an agony f despair, but now Sir William Gordon-Cumming, Bart, was back
me saddle, bursting with injured self-righteousness and the arroant
certainty of his kind. And, you'll note, not a whisper of latitude to your correspondent.
c "The Prince must be told at once! He's a man of sense - unlike
those clowns Coventry and Williams. I don't doubt they persuaded him against his will, but when I put it to him he'll see the right
of it." He was at his dressing-table, nourishing his silver-backed
brushes, improving his parting, with a dab or two at the ends of
his pathetic Guardee moustache, and shooting his cuffs, while I
marvelled at the human capacity for self-delusion. He was full of
exultant confidence now, and it never crossed his shallow mind
that others might be less ready to take his view of the matter. I've
said his explanation was plausible, but it wasn't near as cast-iron
as he thought. Much would depend on how it was presented . . .
and how ready they were to believe it.
"It may be a lesson to them against jumping to conclusions!
And on such flimsy evidence - the babbling of those whippersnappers!
And my character, my good name, my record of honourable
service, were to count for nothing against their damned gossip, the
confounded little spies!" He was striding for the door, in full
raging fettle, when he suddenly wheeled about. "No, by heavens,
I'll not do it!" He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. "Why
should I?"
"Why shouldn't you do what?" was all I could say, for his
anger had dropped from him like a shed cloak, and he was smiling
grimly as he came slowly back to me.
"Why should I humble myself with explanations? I'm the
injured party, am I not? I'm the one who has suffered this . . . this intolerable affront! I have been insulted in the grossest fashion on
the word of a pack of mannerless brats, and two elderly fools who,
I have no doubt, persuaded His Royal Highness against his better
judgment and honourable instincts." Drunk with vindictive justification
he might be, he wasn't ass enough to impugn Saintly Bertie. He gave a barking laugh. "Lord, Flashman, in our fathers' day I'd
have been justified in blowing their imbecile heads off on Calais
239
sands! Am I to crawl to them and say 'Please, sir, I can pro your informants - ha, informers, I should say! - have been utteri
in the wrong, and will you kindly tell 'em so, and condescend t
forgive me for having conducted myself like a man of honour^'
Is that what I'm supposed to do?"
Talk about women scorned; their fury ain't in it with a Scotch
baronet's wounded self-esteem. Had I ever, I wondered, encountered
such an immortally conceited ass with a truer touch for
self-destruction? George Custer came to mind. Aye, put him and
Gordon-Cumming on the edge of a precipice and I'd not care to
bet which would tumble first into the void, bellowing his grievance
"What," says I, keeping my countenance with proper gravity
"do you propose to do?"
"Not a damned thing! You - " stabbing me on the chest " - since
you've thrust your spoon into the dixie, can do it for me! You can
be my messenger, Flashman, and have the satisfaction of showing
them what asses they've made of themselves! You've got the gift
o' the gab, don't we know it?" says he, with a curl of his voice
if not of his lip. "You can explain about the coup de trois and the
rest of it - because I'm damned if I will! It's not for me to make
a plea to them - let 'em come to me! I'll accept their apology -
Coventry and Williams, I mean, and those three guttersnipes! Not
the ladies, of course - and certainly not His Royal Highness, who
has been most disgracefully imposed on, I'm sure of that. Yes,"
says he, head up and shoulders square, with exultation in his eye,
"that's the way to do it! So off you go, old fellow, and don't spare
'em!" Seeing me stand thoughtful, he frowned impatiently. "Well
- will you?"
Would I not? I've told you my score against GordonCumming
- a natural detestation of his supercilious vanity, his unconcealed
dislike of me, above all the suspicion that he'd ploughed with my
heifer, and now, if you please, the arrogant bastard was appointing me his message-boy. Throw into the scale his overweening certainty
that he'd cleared himself, and must be grovelled to in consequence,
and you'll understand (if you know me at all) that I would
not have missed the chance to sink the swine, not for my soul's
salvation.
For it was in my hands, no error. His coup de trois excuse had
240
the whole affair on a knife-edge. If it were shrewdly urged,
' Aj-ge wise men, and the witnesses, might be disposed, for the
he of avoiding a horrid scandal, to swallow it. Well, by the time I'd done with it, they'd spew it all over the floor.
So I consented to act as his go-between, and left him grinding
his teeth at the prospect of accusers confounded and honour
restored. No time, we agreed, must be lost, so I made for the
prince's apartments, and whom should I meet on the way but the
three leading witnesses, plainly just come from a royal audience:
Master Wilson bright with excitement, Lycett Green tightlipped,
and young Levett plainly wishing himself in the Outer Hebrides.
No change on that front, thinks I, and the air of gloom in H.R.H.'s
sitting-room, most of it cigar smoke, confirmed my conclusion.
"That fellow is impossible!" Bertie was croaking, and I gathered
he meant Lycett Green. "Not a shadow of doubt, according to
him. Oh, it's intolerable! What can we do but believe them?"
"As your highness says." Coventry sounded like a vicar at the
graveside. "That being so, we are bound to take . . ." he frowned
as he dredged his vocabulary ". . . ah, measures ... in regard to
Sir William."
"Lycett Green won't keep quiet if we don't," says Williams.
"Self-righteous ass!" snaps Bertie. "No, that's not fair . . . he's
a decent man, no doubt - I only wish he weren't so infernally
adamant." He scowled at me. "Well?" I said I'd seen GordonCumming.

"And much good that will have done! I've seen him myself and
it was heart-breaking! I tell you, the man almost had tears in
his eyes! One of my closest friends, I'd ha' trusted him with my
life - but how can I credit his denial in the face of ... of..." He
flourished a paw in the direction of the door. "They're so sure Hven Levett, poor devil - heavens, we could hardly drag it out of
him!" He sat down, groaning, drew on his cigar as though it were
poisoned, and regarded me dyspeptically. "What did Cumming
have to say to you?"
Denied it, absolutely. I suppose he gave your highness his
explanation?"
That brought him bolt upright. "What explanation?"
I hesitated, with an artistic frown, and shook my head. "I don't
241 ?
know quite what to make of it myself ... I confess that I..." a,
that I stopped, waiting for him to demand what the devil I we
talking about, which he did, with considerable vigour.
"Well, sir..." I began, half-apologetic, and then I gave him
the coup de trois story, plain and matter-of-fact, but with dark doubt
hovering over every word, and was gratified to see Coventry's face
growing long as a coffin, Williams frowning in disbelief, and the
light of hope fading from Bertie's bloodshot ogles.
"D'you believe it?" cries he, and I maintained the manly silence
that damned Gordon-Cumming as no words could, "But is it possible?"
he insisted.
"Possible, sir?" I made a lip and shrugged. "Aye, I dare say
it's . . . possible . . ."
"But even if it were true," broke in Williams, "and you plainly
don't think it is, it still does not explain all the ... the irregularities.
The pencil, that sort of thing." He met Bertie's despairing eye. "I
regret to say it, sir, but it sounds to me like the feeble excuse of
a desperate man. And I'm sure," he added, "that that is how Green
and the others will regard it."
Coventry heaved a draughty sigh. "Indeed, it only confirms my
belief that Sir William ... ah, that the witnesses ... the
charges ..."
"That he's a cheat and a liar!" cries Bertie. He growled down
his temper, gnashed on his cigar, and faced us. "Very well, then.
God knows we've done our best to sift the thing - and that's our
conclusion. He's played foul and been caught out. Now," says he,
and for the first time that night he sounded royal, "how is it to be
hushed up?"
They stood mum, so I put in my oar again. '"Fraid it can't
be, sir ... unless you and Williams are prepared to risk a court
martial."
If I'd said "are prepared to steal the Crown Jewels and make a
run for Paraguay" I couldn't have provoked a finer display of
consternation, but before Bertie could explode, I explained.
"You and he both hold the Queen's commission, sir. I'm retired,
of course. But as serving officers, aware of dishonourable conduct
by a brother officer, you're obliged to bring it to the attention of
your superiors. Since your highness is a field marshal, I'm not sure
242
hn your superiors are, exactly . . . Her Majesty, of course. Or I j i-p say the colonel of Gumming's regiment would do ..."
T was drowned out by a prolonged fit of princely coughing,
rhe result of outraged smoke going down the wrong way, which
oave him time to digest my warning, and emerge mopping "rid wheezing to announce hoarsely that he didn't give a tinker's
dam for courts martial, or words to that effect, and not a whisper
was to be breathed to military superiors or anyone else, was that
clear?
"It must not come out!" he croaks. "At all costs it must be
confined to ... to ourselves. The scandal. . ." He couldn't bring
himself even to contemplate it. "A way must be found!" He sat
down again, thumping his knees. "It must!"
Which left us back at the starting-gate, three of us racking our
brains and Flashy looking perplexed but inwardly serene, for all I
was waiting for was a lead. At last Coventry gave it.
"If some accommodation could be found," says he, "which
would signify ... ah, disapprobation of Sir William's conduct,
while satisfying the ... ah, resentment of his accusers, and of
course ensuring that no word of this deplorable affair ever - "
"Oh, talk sense, Coventry!" barks Bertie. "They want his head
on a charger! Green made that plain enough - and how you're to
contrive that in secrecy I cannot imagine!"
"How d'you punish him without exposing him?" wonders Williams,
and I saw it was time for the Flashman Compromise which had
been taking shape in my mind over the past minute or two. I
made a judicial noise to attract their attention.
"I wonder if Lord Coventry hasn't pointed the way, sir," says
I. "Suppose . .. yes, how would it do? ... if Cumming were to
sign a paper .. . you know, an undertaking sort of thing . . . pledging
himself never to touch a card again. Eh?" They stood mute
as ducks in thunder. "Stiff penalty for a man in his position, what? i'd be surprised if that didn't satisfy Green and his pals. And
in return," I tapped the table impressively, "they would pledge
themselves to silence - as would we, absolutely. That would settle
things - without a breath of scandal."
There was a hole in it a mile wide, but I knew Bertie wouldn't ^ot it: my last five words were all that mattered to him. He was
243
pointing like a setter, Coventry was in his customary fog but
Williams burst out:
"Cumming would never do such a thing! Why, it would be
tantamount to a confession of guilt."
"Not a bit of it, OwenI" says I. "He ain't admitting a thing and
if he were, 'twould only be to us, and his accusers, who think
he's guilty anyway. No one else would ever know." I turned to
Bertie, his cigar now in tatters. "I'm sure he'll agree, sir - what
other choice has he? Public disgrace . . . and worse than that," I
went on, fixing Coventry and Williams with my sternest look.
"would be the shameful burden of knowing that greater names
than his had been tarnished by the publication of his dishonour."
That did the trick: Bertie started as though I'd put a bayonet
into his leg, and from Williams' expression I knew that if I'd said:
'Tell Cumming that if he don't do as he's told, and preserve our
precious Prince from scandal, God help him.' I could not have
been plainer. Coventry, naturally, was appalled.
"But. . . such a document, supposing Sir William should consent
to sign it, in return for a pledge of silence .. . would it not bear a
... an odour of ... of conspiracy?"
"Certainly not," says I. "It would be a simple promise never
to play cards again, signed by him, duly witnessed by His Royal
Highness - and by the accusers. Nothing smoky about it. They
would give their word of honour to His Highness never to speak
or write of the matter hereafter. And that would be that, tight as
a drum."
Bertie hadn't said a word for several minutes, and when he did
it was clear what was preoccupying him. "Could we be sure those
people would keep silence?"
"Once they'd given their word to the Prince of Wales?" says
I, and that seemed to satisfy him, for he sat in silence a moment,
and then asked the other two what they thought of the scheme.
They puffed doubtfully, of course, Williams because he feared that
Cumming would refuse to sign, and Coventry out of general anxiety.
Would Lycett Green and Co agree, he wondered, and Bertie
let out a muffled snarl.
"They'll agree!" says he grimly, which settled that, and they
passed on to the wording of the document, which was simple
244
ph and then to considering how it might best be put to the e -itv party. Bertie wondered if I should take part with Coventry ^d Williams, but modesty forbade.
"I'm no diplomat, sir," says I. "Too blunt by half. His lordship
d Owen will do it ten times better without me. Besides," I added,
hlunt honest old Flashy, "the fact is he don't like me. Dunno why,
hut there it is. No point in putting his back up, so the less I'm
mentioned, the better."
D'you know, Williams absolutely shook his head in sympathy,
and Bertie went so far as to give my arm a clap before I withdrew.
He was even more demonstrative an hour later, when I was summoned
to his presence just as I was on the point of turning in, and
found him sitting on the edge of his bed in his dressing-gown,
glass in hand, cigar at the high port, plainly dog-weary but content
at having laboured well in the vineyard.
"Well, he's signed!" cries he jovially. He picked up a paper
and held it out: just a few lines, with a forest of names at the foot,
led by "W. Gordon-Cumming" and the Prince's scrawl. "Not
without the deuce of a struggle, Owen Williams tells me. Swore
it was tantamount to a confession, but gave in when they told him
it was that or ruin. Help yourself, Flashman," indicating decanter
J and humidor, "and sit ye down. Gad, I don't care if I never have ^Bsuch an evening again - after dinner, too, shan't sleep a wink." ^He swigged comfortably. "D'you know, I did not half believe he'd
put his signature to it - but you knew, downy old bird that you
are!" He was positively twinkling.
"Well, sir, he really didn't have much choice, did he? All things
considered, he's come off dam' lightly."
"That's what Lycett Green thinks, tho' he'd the grace not to
say so. Oh, aye, they've all put their names to it, as you see. He
peered at the paper, shaking his head. "I must say, it's a damning
thing for an innocent man to sign . . . and yet..." He screwed up
his little eyes at me. "D'you think there's the least possibility he's
telling the truth?"
"Look at it this way, sir - would you have signed it, knowing
yourself innocent? Or would you have damned 'em for liars and
offered to put 'em through every court in the land? Or taken a
horsewhip to 'em?"
245
And think what Mama would have made of that, I might have
added. He looked solemn, wagging his head, and then demanded
almost peevishly:
"What the devil possessed him to do it - to cheat, I mean? Was
he off his head, d'you think? You know, temporarily deranged'1 One hears of such things."
"Dunno, sir. And I doubt if he does, either."
He shook his head and rumbled a few philosophies while we
sipped and smoked. He was enjoying his relief, and when we
parted he was at his most affable, pumping my fin and calling me
Harry again. "I'm obliged to you ... not for the first time. This "
he tapped Gumming's paper "- was a brainwave, and the sooner
it's safely bestowed, the better. Not the sort of item we'd care to
see in the morning press, what? Well, good-night to you, old
fellow, thank'ee again . . . aye, and thank the Lord we'll hear no
more of it!"
And if you believe that, sweet prince, you will indeed believe
anything, thinks I. For if there was one stone cold certainty, it was
that we would hear more, abundantly more and running over,
of the Great Baccarat Scandal of Tranby Croft. Bertie, blind to
everything but the need to keep it from the Queen's ears, and asses
like Coventry and Williams, might suppose that the vows of silence
sworn by all and sundry would prove binding - honour and all
that, you know. I knew better. At least a dozen folk, two of 'em
women, were in the secret, and the notion that they'd all hold their
tongues was plain foolish. It was bound to get out - as I'd determined
it should from the moment I'd stood in GordonCumming's
presence, weighed him up, and realised what a prime subject he
was for shoving down the drain. All it needed after that, as you know, was an inspiration, and careful management; now, nature
could take its course.
Which it did, and if it took longer to leak out than I'd expected,
the resultant row was worth the delay. It's still not established who
blew the gaff, but my firm belief is that it was Bertie himself,
unlikely as that may seem. But the fact is that the Yankee papers
named as their source none other than Elspeth's chum. Daisy
Brooke aforementioned (it was they who christened her Babbling
Brooke), and since she was warming the princely mattress in those
246
it's odds on that he whispered the scandal to her, more fool
Daisy swore 'twasn't so, and threatened to sue, but never did.
Whoever blabbed, it was all over the clubs and messes before
rhristmas that Cumming had cheated, chaps were cutting him dead and he was demanding retractions and apologies and not netting them. So there he was, reputation blasted, and nothing for
ft you'd have thought, but to order a pint of port and a pistol for
breakfast or join the Foreign Legion.
He did neither. To the shocked murmurs and secret glee of
Society, the delight of the public, and I've no doubt the terror of
the Prince of Wales, he brought an action for slander against his
five accusers from Tranby.
The trial came off in June of '91, and it's one of the regrets of
my life that I was not present, if only to see stout Bertie in the
witness-box, squirming under the inquisition of saucy jurors who
didn't know their place, unlike the judge and counsel who grovelled
to him something servile, and did everything but tote him in and
out of court in a palankeen. The proceedings lasted a week, and
by all accounts it was one of the finest legal circuses ever seen,
with the judge as ringmaster and nothing lacking but an orchestra
and chorus girls. Knowing our revered Lord Chief Justice of the
day, the ancient Coleridge, I wasn't surprised, for he was a jolly
old buck with a tremendous fund of good stories; once made a
speech lasting twenty-three days, they tell me, and was responsible '
for the three-mile limit, in case you're interested.
You may be sure I was sorely tempted once or twice to view
the spectacle, but decided reluctantly to keep clear - when you've
had a hand in engineering a disaster it's best to stand well out from under to avoid falling debris. I knew Bertie and Co wouldn't
advertise my part in the affair, which was deplorable enough without
the notorious Flashy being dragged in, and sure enough they
didn't. One or two who knew I'd been at Tranby quizzed me, but
took a stem and silent line - you know, shockin' biznai, old
comrade, beyond belief, state o' the Army, damnable altogether
that sort of thing.
Aside from the verdict, which I'll tell you presently in case you
n t know, the great sensation was the storm that burst over the "sad of our unfortunate Heir Apparent. God forbid I should ever
247
feel sorry for the fat bounder, but even I was astonished at the
way the press and pulpits laid into him; you'd have thought he'd
been kidnapping nuns and selling 'em to the Port Said brothels.
And all because he'd been playing baccarat! "Woe to the Monarchy!"
wailed one rag, another spoke of a "chorus of condemnation",
and the rest expressed shock and disgust, denounced his
taste for the "lowest type of gambling", and recoiled from the
spectacle of "the future King of England officiating at a gamblers'
orgy". Even the Times went wild with terms like "regret", "concern",
and "distress", a Scotch journal decided that "the Prince
is evidently not what he ought to be", but the leader I liked best
was the one that said the British Empire was humiliated and the
rest of civilisation was pointing the finger at us.
As to the trial itself, you can go to the official record if you've
a mind to, but I natter myself you won't learn much that I haven't
told you. The lawyers went back and forth over every blessed
moment of those three nights, every shift of those damned counters,
every syllable of who said what to whom, and what expressions
they wore, and what they thought and why, over and over, and I
dare say at the end of it the jury were as fogged as the public. The
biggest guns of the day fought the case: Clarke, the SolicitorGeneral,
no less, who appeared for Cumming, was reckoned the
shrewdest mouthpiece of the day, while the defendants were represented
by two of the best hatchet-men in the business, Charles
Russell and young Asquith - you know the latter as the buffoon
who infests Number 10 Downing Street at the moment, and my
recollection of him is as a shining morning face to which I once
presented a prize at the City of London School, but for all that he
was accounted a sharp hand in court, while Russell was a human
hawk, and looked it.
Reading the press reports, I concluded that the evidence given
didn't differ much from what I myself remembered of events, and
in nothing essential. Owen Williams had drawn up a precis of
what had happened at Tranby, in which various holes were picked:
there seemed to be uncertainty over the order of the interviews on
the Wednesday evening, and some vagueness as to who had suggested
presenting the damning document to Cumming - which
wasn't surprising, since it had been yours truly, and they were
248
me out of it. Elspeth likewise: I'd been worried that she
keepi^
5g called as a witness, since on the first night she'd sat as rru^ wker, and on the second had for a time taken Lady Cov- an on place next to Gumming, but either they'd forgotten about enry y more likely they'd remembered, and had realised that
i t thing the trial needed was her drivelling brightly in the 1 e ,-box. Like several others of the party, she wasn't even
"m " of which mattered to the case. Cumming, in evidence, d his flat'denial of the charges, claiming that he'd lost his
i, ~) ,id signed the paper only because he'd been persuaded that .u -p '/as no other way to avoid a public scandal. He got in a sly
thrust11 ^ertle by suggesting that H.R.H. had been chiefly con-
-n^^to cover his own ample rear - which, as I knew, was gospel
cemet.
true. TT,gfive accusers stuck by their stories pretty well, although
riarke who was obviously a complete hand at confusing the issue
with ri^^ qyestions, claimed to find all kinds of discrepancies in
their tSl1111011^ ne a^0 hinted, ever so delicately, that a couple of
them -ught have been tight, had great fun about Lycett Green's
being master of foxhounds, and took a nice injured line of surprise
that in^w ^ Cumming's pledged word, stainless character, and
so fort1' "^y weren't prepared to admit they'd been mistaken. His
final s^^h was ^our times as long as that of Russell, who simply ^,ent ^ight at Cumming's throat: why hadn't he demanded to
be bro^hl ^ace to ^ace with his accusers, as any honest man would
have (pic? He also reminded the jury that the five accusers weren't
alone n thinking Cumming guilty; the Prince, Williams, and Coventry
hought so too.
]n gl that I read, I could put my finger on only one flat lie: the
defend"15' denial that there had been any arrangement to keep
watch011 Cumming's play the second night. Well, I ask you!
You'ri fold a man has been cheating, and don't keep an eye on
him ni^ time? Pull the other one. Walker; you watch him like a
lynx. according to Owen Williams, they'd told him they'd agreed
to wafh, but now, in the witness-box, they were claiming they'd
done i ^Gh thing. Their reason was plain enough: they didn't
want P ^e thought of as spying on a fellow guest, and there was
249
some fine wriggling under cross-examination - one of'em, I think it was Lycett Green, absolutely said: "Knowing the man had
cheated, I looked, but not with a view to watching", which is as
fine a piece of' humbug as I could ha' thought up myself. Not that
it made a ha'pporth of difference: they'd seen what they'd seen
and held by it..
By the momiiing of the seventh day, with the cases of both sides
completed, the; thing was on a knife-edge: half the Town was
positive Gordorn-Cumming was the biggest cheat since Jacob, while
t'other half heMd that Clarke had shown up the five accusers for
unreliable idiot&s (if not vindictive parvenus) whose evidence wasn't
worth stale besans. Perambulating from the Park to the Temple
during the day/, I heard Cumming damned and defended in the
clubs, but the farther east I walked, the more I encountered a truly
British phenomenon: among the commonalty, the anti-Cummings
wanted to see hhim done down for precisely the same reason that
the pro-Cummiiings hoped he'd win: because he was a toff. The
lord-haters were'e full of righteous indignation about the pampered
rich rioting and 1 gaming while honest folk went hungry, so to Hell
with Cumming , and the Prince of Wales and the lot of 'em; on the
other side were pounds the forelock-tuggers who thought it "a bleedin'
disgrice that a pproper gent wot 'ad fought for Queen an' country"
should be defanoied by the likes o' them nobodies. No wonder the
foreigners can't t understand us.
No doubt beccause I hoped to see him sunk to perdition, I could
imagine several 1 excellent reasons why the jury should find in his
favour and awaiird him thumping damages. Foremost in my mind
still, you see, wvas the conviction that he couldn't have cheated;
spite and prejudice aside, it wasn't in the man's nature. But it was
up to the jury nnow, and no doubt all hung on the direction they
would receive fifrom the venerable Coleridge. The early editions
were carrying hilis summing-up at length, and I studied it eagerly
in the corner of; a Fleet Street pub, with a pie and pint to keep me
company.
The day's prooceedings had begun with a protest from that ass Owen WilliamsS, demanding to make a statement against the
Solicitor-Genera&l, Clarke, who, says Williams, had accused him of an "abominaable crime - of sacrificing an innocent man
250
rnleridge couldn't remember what exact words had been used,
, . ^y Williams that counsel could say what they dam' well liked
. Court, and would Williams kindly keep quiet and give him,
Coleridge, some judging-room, or words to that effect. After which
Williams presumably retired, gnashing, and Coleridge addressed
ac twelve good men and true.
It must have been a sight to see, for he apparently played the
wise, simple old codger, peering over his glasses while he told the
jury what brilliant chaps Clarke and Russell and Asquith were: he
didn't say they were too clever by half, exactly, but he thought it
no bad thing that "the humble jog-trot" of his summing-up should
intervene between their fireworks and the verdict.
Having put the wigged brigade in their place, he told the jury
something that was news to me: that cheating at cards was an
offence for which you could be nailed in court. He then went on
to remind them that Clarke had said Cumming wasn't interested
in soaking his accusers; they would bear that in mind if the question
of damages arose. (A hundred to eight he'll tell 'em to find for
Cumming, thinks I.) And another thing: whether they disapproved
of gambling or not was beside the point, which was simply this:
did Cumming cheat or not?
He rambled on, fairly reasonably it seemed to me, about the
actual play, and the witnesses' testimony, and caused some mirth
by describing Cumming's system of betting as sounding like "coup
d'etat". Well, he knew it couldn't be coup d'etat, but it was some
French expression or other ... oh, coup de trois, was it? Ah, well
... On he went, honest old Coleridge, as gentle and benign as
could be, drawing the jury's attention to various points, reminding
them that it didn't matter a hoot what he thought, it was up to
them, and all he could do was raise questions for them, which they
must answer. Only once did he rouse himself, to have a brief bicker
with Clarke for seeming to turn up his nose at the social standing
of some of the accusers. It wasn't Lycett Green's fault that his
father was an engineer, was it? And if young Jack Wilson was a
shiftless layabout, what was wrong with that? And if the Wilsons
toad-ate the Prince, why, who did not?
Clarke said he hadn't called Lycett Green's father an engineer,
and Coleridge said, well, if he hadn't, his junior had. No he hadn't,
251
either, says Clarke, but Coleridge ignored him and said he didn't
see why a chap should be laughed at because his father was an
engineer, and if a chap liked hobnobbing with the Prince, where was the harm, eh? It wouldn't prejudice him against GordonCumming,
anyway, and that was the point.
Furthermore, this stuff about Gordon-Cumming losing his head
didn't impress the bench. Gumming had had lots of time to think
before he signed the paper, and knew what he was doing. He
hadn't asked to be confronted by his accusers, either; pretty rum
that seemed to Coleridge. And he hadn't returned his winnings put
'em in the bank, 238 quids' worth. Well, well. . .
Having read this far, I felt the odds were shifting in the direction
of the defendants, but you still couldn't tell. Then the silly old
buffer got on to a new tack: the Prince of Wales. Well, Coleridge
couldn't see the throne toppling simply because the Prince had
played baccarat. The Prince had a busy public life, opening things
and making speeches and listening to speeches, and a hell of a
bore it must be, in Coleridge's view, so if he wanted to enjoy
himself of an evening, why not? Some people might say why not
read the Bible instead of playing baccarat, but it was a free country,
wasn't it?
Sound stuff, in its way, interspersed with quotations from Shakespeare
(including a bit of Henry V at Agincourt on the subject of
honour), and other authors with whom he didn't doubt the jury
were familiar, and a few Latin tags to remind them that this was
serious work - and then, at the end of his summing-up, when they
must have been sitting in a restful fog, he left off playing the
genial philosophising old buffer and delivered the thrust that settled
the case once and for all.
Would an innocent man, he wondered, sign a document stating
he had cheated, simply to prevent its being known that the Prince
of Wales had played baccarat? Would a man allow himself to be
called a card-sharp rather than have it known that the Prince had
done something of which many people might disapprove? No,
Coleridge couldn't swallow that.
The jury retired . . . and that, blast it, was as far as the report
went, so I set off for home, and it was in the gentle even-fall that
I came on a newsboy hollering "Verdict!" on the corner of Bruton
252
t and there it was in the stop press: the jury had taken only
h-rteen minutes to find for the defendants.
So that was Cumming ruined. The twelve good men had declared
luni a cheat and a liar.
T confess it took me aback - splendid news though it was. How
the devil had a jury of Englishmen, brought up to give a man the
benefit of the doubt, come to that conclusion? Still, they'd been
in court, and I had not - and they'd reached their decision double
ouick, hadn't they just, in hardly more time than it would take to
call for votes round the table. No doubts, apparently, and certainly
no arguments.
Strangely, where opinion had been evenly divided before, it
swung violently to Cumming after the verdict. One learned journal
opined that you wouldn't have hung a dog on the evidence that
he'd cheated, and I heard it said on every side that the thing should
never have come to trial at all: it should have been settled at
Tranby, and would have been but for ill-advised zeal on the part
of the Prince's friends to save him from scandal.
The irony was that in spite of all the reverential treatment and
may-it-please-your-royal-highnessing he'd received in court, the
trial did Bertie more damage than any other incident in his wellspotted
career. The press, as I've said, damned him from Belgrade
to breakfast, and when he issued a statement (with the blessing,
they say, of the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury)
protesting that he had a horror of gambling, and did his utmost to
discourage it, he was seen for the windy little hypocrite he was,
and hooted in the streets.
Cumming was finished socially and professionally, of course,
and had the sense to resign, marry his American girl, and retire to
Scotland; if I knew him at all, any shame he felt would be nothing
to his rage against the society that had branded him, and the prince
who'd betrayed him, and I dare say he's brooding in his Highland
fastness this minute, armoured in righteous wrath, despising the
world that cast him out. Small wonder, for I can tell you now, at
the end of my little tale .. . Gordon-Cumming was railroaded. He
didn't cheat at baccarat.
1 learned this within twenty-four hours of the verdict, but there
was ""thing to be done, even if I'd wanted to. No one would have
253
credited the truth for a moment; I didn't myself, at first, for  beggared belief. But there can be no doubt about it, for it fits exact! v
with the evidence of both sides, and the source is unimpeachable ~
I've lived with her seventy years, after all, and know that while
she may suppress a little veri and suggest a touch of faisi on
occasion, Elspeth ain't a liar.
We were at breakfast, which for me in my indulgent age was
Russian style (sausage, brandy, and coffee) and for her the fodder
of her native heath: porridge, ham, eggs, black pudding, some
piscine abomination called Arbroath smokies, oatcakes, rolls, and
marmalade (God knows how she's kept her figure), while we read
the morning journals. Usually she reads and prattles together, but
that morning she was silent, absorbing the Cumming debacle.
When she'd laid her eye-glasses aside she sat for a while, stirring
her tea in a thoughtful, contented manner.
"Rum business, that," says I. "D'ye know, old girl, it's beyond
me. Granted he's a poisonous tick ... I still can't believe he
cheated."
"Neither he did," says she.
"What's that? Oh, I see ... you don't think it likely, either.
Well, I don't suppose we'll ever know for certain, but "
"Oh, but I do know," says she, laying down her spoon. "He
did not cheat at all. Well, I think not, on the first night, and I know
he did not, on the second." She sipped her tea, while I choked on
my brandy.
"What d'you mean - you know7 You don't know a thing about
it! Why, when I asked you, that night at Tranby . . . remember,
whether he'd been jockeying his stakes, you didn't know what I
meant, even!"
"I knew perfectly well what you meant, but it would not have
been prudent to say anything just then. It would not have suited,"
says she calmly, "at all."
"You mean . . . you're saying you knew then he hadn't
cheated?" In my agitation I overset my cup, coffee all over the
shop. "But . . . how could you possibly . .. what the blazes are
you talking about?"
"There is no need to fly at me, or take that crabbit tone," says
she, rising swiftly. "Quick, put a plate under the cloth before it
254
s the table! Drat, such a mess! Here, let me 'tend to it, and st u ring for Jane ... oh, the best walnut!"
"Damn Jane and the walnut! Will you tell me what you mean!"
, u^j (he cloth back, clucking and mopping the table with a
nkin "Elspeth! What's this rot about Cumming not cheating? How do you know, dammit?"
It's a mercy your cup had gone cold ... oh, how vexing! It'll
have to be French polished." She peered at the wood. "Oh, dear,
why did I not wait till you were settled - guid kens I should know
by now what you're like in the morning." She discarded the napkin
with dainty distaste and resumed her seat. "Sir William GordonCumming
did not cheat. That is what I mean." She sighed, in a
Patient Griselda sort of way. "The fact is, you see ... I did."
Lord knows what I looked like in that moment, a cod on a slab
likely. She lifted a swift warning finger.
"Now, please, my love, do not raise your voice, or rage at me.
It's done, and there is no undoing it, and the servants would hear.
If you are angry, I'm sorry, but if you'll just bide quiet and hear
me out, you may not be too angry, I hope." She smiled at me as
though I were an infant drooling in my crib, and took a sip of tea.
"Now, then. It was I who added counters to his stakes, just
once or twice, and not nearly as often as they said - why, I was
quite shocked when I read in the papers last week, the kind of
evidence they were giving, even Mrs Wilson - dear me, if there
had been that much hankey-pankey with the counters the whole
world must have seen, the Prince and everyone! The way folk
deceive themselves! But I suppose," she shrugged, "that the General
Solicitor or whatever they call him was right, and they saw
what they wanted to see ... only they didn't, if you know what I
mean, for it wasn't Billy Cumming cheating, it was me ... or
should it be I? Anyway, I only did it now and then . . . well, three
or four times, perhaps, I'm not sure, but often enough to make
them think he was cheating, I'm glad to say," she added complacently.
"And you should not be angry, I think, because he
deserved it, and I was right."
s hard, when your life has contained as many hellish surprises as mine, to put 'em in order of disturbance - Gul Shah appearing in
Arghan dungeon, Cleonie whipping off her eye-patch, meeting
255
Bismarck in his nightmare castle, waking to find myself trussed
over a gun muzzle at Gwalior, and any number of equally beastiv
shocks, but I've never been more thoroughly winded than by those
incredible words across the breakfast dishes on Wednesday, June
10th, 1891 ... from Elspeth of all people! For a moment I wondered
if she was making a ghastly joke, or if that pea-brain had
given way at last ... but no, I knew her artless prattle too well
and that she meant every damned word and there was no point in
bellowing disbelief. I forced myself to be calm and sit mum while
I downed my brandy and poured another stiff 'un before
demanding, no doubt in an incredulous croak:
"You're telling me that he didn't cheat ... but you did - and
that you were laying a plant on him?" Seeing her bewildered, I
translated: "Making him look guilty, dammit! For the love of God,
woman - why?"
Her eyes widened. "Why, to punish him! To pay him out for
his bad conduct! His ... his black wickedness!" All of a sudden she
was breathing fiery indignation, Boadicea in a lace dressing-gown.
"And so I did, and now he is disgraced, and a pariah and a hissing,
and serve him right! He should be torn by wild horses, so he
should! He is a base, horrid man, and I hope he suffers as he
deserves!" She began to butter toast ferociously, while I sat
stricken, wondering what the devil he'd done, horrid suspicions
leaping to mind, but before X could voice them she gave one
of her wordless Caledonian exclamations of impatience, left off
buttering, tossed her head, and regained her composure.
"Oh, feegh! Harry, I beg your pardon, getting het-up in that
unseemly way ... oh, but wh^n I think of him ..." She took a
deep breath, and spooned manfialade on to her plate. "But it's by
with now, thank goodness, and- he's paid for a villain, dell mend
him, and I'm the happy woman that's done it, for I never thought
to have the chance, and long I fcided, waiting the day." As always
when deeply moved she was getting Scotcher by the minute, but
now she paused for a mouthfi-il of toast. "And then, at Tranby,
when I heard that Wilson loon ^vhispering to his friend, and under- | stood what was what, I soon sa-"w in a blink how I might settle his
hash for him, once for all. Al-*d I did that!" says she, taking a
grim nibble. "Oh, if only I cc^uld make marmalade like Granny
^256
Thomson's . .. there's no right flavour to this bought stuff. Would you oblige me with the honey, dearest?"
I shoved it across in a daze. The enormity, the impossibility of
what she said she'd done, her fury against Cumming for heaven
knew what unimaginable reason - I still couldn't take it in, but I
loiew that if you're to get sense out of Elspeth you must let her
babble to a finish in her own weird way, giving what assistance you may. I clutched at the nearest straw.
"What did Wilson whisper? To whom? When?"
"Why, on the first night, when the Prince said 'Who's for baccarat
everyone?' and they went to play in the smoking-room, and
Count Lutzow and I and Miss Naylor and Lady Brougham went
to watch." She frowned at the honey. "Is it very fattening, do you
suppose? Oh, well ... So the Prince said 'Shall you and I make
a jolly bank together. Lady Flashman?' but I said I did not know
the rules and must watch till I got the hang of it, and then I should
be honoured to help him, and he said, quite jocose, 'Ah, well, one
of these days, then', and Count Lutzow found me a chair next to
that young fellow with the poker up his back, like all the Guardees,
what's his name-? "
"Berkeley Levett, you mean? Elspeth, for mercy's sake-"
"Like enough ... he might have been Berkeley Square for all
the sense I could get from him ... so then they played, and after
a wee while, the Wilson boy - the one they call Jack, though his^ name is Arthur, I think, or is it Stanley? - anyway, I heard him
whisper to Levett, 'I say, this is a bit hot!' which I thought odd,
when it wasn't at all, I was quite chilly away from the fire, and
without my shawl. . . but a moment later I saw he meant something
quite otherwise, for he whispered again, that the man next to him
was cheating - and I saw he meant Billy Cumming . . . Harry,
dear, would you ring for hot water? The pot has gone quite cold
- I'm sure they don't make delft as they used to, or perhaps the
cosy is getting thin - they stuff them with anything at all these
days, we always had a good thick woollen one at home that Grizel bitted, but they do tend to smell rather, after a while ..."
Husbands tend to lose their reason rather, after a while, too, so est you should suffer likewise I'll relieve her account with a precis:
sne h^ heard Levett say Wilson must be mistaken, and Wilson
257
had told him to look for himself. Lady Flashman, scenting mischief
breast-high, had also fixed her bonny blue gimlets on the suspect
seen him drop red counters on his paper after coups had been
called, and heard Levett mutter, 'By jove, it is too hot!' - but
unlike the two young men she had concluded that Cummins was
playing fair. Simple she may be, but she has her country's instinct
for anything to do with money and sharp practice, and her unerring
eye had spotted what they had missed . . .
"For I was positive. Harry, that he did not drop his counters
until after the Prince had paid the wagers, and what he was doing
was laying his wager for the next coup. Well," says she earnestly,
"that was not cheating, was it? But they thought it was, you see.
They did not understand that he was playing that French system
of his, the coup de thingamabob which was mentioned in court
last week - I did not understand it myself till I read about it in
the papers and realised he was telling the truth when he said he
did not cheat. But at the time, of course, I did not know about the
French coup thing . . . and while I did not think he was cheating,
how could I be sure, when they thought he was, and I supposed
they knew more about the game than I did? In any event," she
concluded cheerfully, "it did not signify whether he had cheated
or not, so long as they thought he did. Do you see, my love?"
Heaven forfend that I should ever fail to grasp something that
was clear to her, but as I gazed into those forget-me-not eyes fixed
so eagerly on mine I had to confess myself somewhat buffaloed,
and begged her to continue, which she did at length, and gradually
light began to dawn. Later that night, after the game, Count Lutzow
(the cabbage-eating poont-fancier whom she fleeced at backgammon
two nights later) had come to her like Rumour painted
full of tongues, with news that a scandalous crisis was at hand:
Sir William Gordon-Cumming had been seen cheating, and watch
was to be kept on him the following night. How Lutzow had heard
this. God alone knows, for according to what was said in court young Wilson had confided his suspicions to no one on the Monday
night except Levett and, later, his mother: but there you are, Lutzow
had got wind of it somehow. Sly bastards, these squareheads. Of
course, he swore dear Lady Flashman to silence . ..
I could hold in no longer. "But dammit all, girl, why didn't you
258
something then? You believed he hadn't cheated, and that
Wilson and Levett were mistaken . . . and yet you let 'em lay a
p for him on the following night - for that's what it was "
"I should think I did!" cries she. "It was then I saw my chance
i^g revenged on him. Whether he'd cheated or no' the first night,
I could make sure he was seen to cheat on the Tuesday, when
every eye would be on him. It was ever so easy," she went on
serenely. "I begged Lady Coventry to give me her place beside
him and - forgive me, dearest, and do not be too shocked - I put
my knee against his, and smiled 'couthie and slee', to fetch him,
for he always had a fancy to me, you know, and men are so vain and silly, even an old dame like me can gowk them . . . well, it
was no work at all to have him put his hand on mine to guide me
in making my bets, and I saw to it that he kept it there, and made
a flirt of it, our hands together whenever we wagered .. . and that
is how counters came to be on his paper when they should not
have been - "
This was too much. "Of all the nonsense! Don't tell me you
can palm a gaming-chip - as if you were Klondike Kate! Why, it
would take a top sharp, a first-rate mechanic "
"Harry," says she quietly, and held out her hand, the empty
palm towards me. "Take my hand, love . . . yours on the back of
mine, so ... and now we lay them down .. . and then we take
them away ..."
So help me God, there was the little round lid of the mustard
pot on the cloth which had been bare. I gaped, struggling for
speech.
"My God . . . where on earth did you learn that?"
"Oh, ever so long ago - from that friend of yours in the llth
Hussars, what was his name? Brand? O'Brien? It's the simplest
sleight of hand, really - "
"Bryant! That damned toad!"
"Please, Harry, do not thunder! He was the cleverest conjurer,
you remember - "
"He was a low, conniving blackguard! D'you know he once wd a plant on me, made me out a cheat and swindler in front of Kentinck and D'Israeli and half the bloody country ..." A dreadful ^spicion struck me: had the loathsome Bryant been another of
259
her fancy-men? "When the blue blazes did you know him?"
"Oh, how can I remember? 'Twas years and years since, about
the Crimea time, I think, when we were acquainted with Lord
Cardigan, and O'Brien or Brand was one of his officers, and
showed me ever so many diverting tricks - surely you mind how
I used to amuse Havvy and wee Selina with them? No, well, you
must have been from home ... At all events," says she reasonably "if O'Bryant once embarrassed you with his jiggerypokery
would that be the time Papa sent you away to Africa? My, he was
a dour man when he wanted to be ... well, you can see it was
not hard for me to do the like by Billy Cumming, was it?"
There is a tide in the affairs of men when you simply have to
chuck it - as, for example, when you learn that the wife of your
unsuspecting bosom is a practised thimblerigger who has used her
flash arts to ruin an innocent man. For it must all be true: she
could never have invented anything so wild - and it fitted the facts
and solved the mystery. And while no normal being would even
have thought of such a thing, or had the audacity to attempt it,
Elspeth has always been that alarming mixture of an idiot and a
bearcat for nerve. Being a poltroon myself, I blurted out the first
thing that came into my head.
"But, dear God - suppose you'd been caught?"
"Fiddlesticks! Have I not just shown you? And who," she
looked droll, "would ever suspect dear old Lady Flashman? Once,
perhaps, I was a wee bit gallus, when he was playing with his
pencil, and I took his hand as though to write something between
us ... and pushed a counter over the line. And the silly gommerils
all swore in court that he had done it! Why, I was as safe as
Coutts'!"
D'you know, looking at that angelic smile, and contemplating
what she'd done, I was almost scared of her, for the first time in
fifty years. My Elspeth, whose kindly, feckless good nature I'd
taken for granted, had confessed with shameless satisfaction to a
crime that would have shocked Delilah. If she'd burned Cumming
at the stake she couldn't have done worse by him . . . and suddenly
I found myself thinking of Sonsee-Array and Narreeman and the
Dragon Empress and the Amazons and Ranavalona (I've known
some fragile little blossoms in my time) and their genius for finding
260
man's tenderest spot and twisting till he squeals . . . and realising
that my gentle helpmeet was their sister under her cream and roses
i.in Well, ex Elspetho semper aliquid novi, thinks I, who'd have believed it, and thank God she's on my side. But what, in the
name of all that was wonderful, could Cumming have done to
drive her to such a monstrous revenge?
"I don't care to say!" was her astonishing reply when I
demanded to be told (not for the first time, you'll note). Her smile
had vanished. "It was too . . . too outre for words!"
Her vocabulary being what it is, that might mean anything from
farting to high treason. I felt an icy clutch at my innards, of rage
against Cumming for whatever atrocious offence he might have
given her, and of fear that I might be expected to do something
dangerous about it, like offering to shoot the swine. But I couldn't
leave it there. Having told her appalling tale with happy abandon,
she was now plainly uneasy at my question, frowning and looking
askance. "Please do not ask me," says she.
I knew roaring and pounding the table wouldn't serve, so I
waited, pushed back my chair, and patted my knee. "Here, old
lady," says I, and after a moment she came round and seated
herself on my creaking thigh. "Now then, you're bound to tell me,
you know, and I shan't be a bit angry either, honest Injun. You
can kick twenty Cummings into the gutter, and I'll lose no sleep,
'cos I know my girl wouldn't do such a ... such a thing without'
good cause. But I must know why you paid him out - and why
you didn't tell me all about it that night at Tranby." I gave her a
squeeze and a kiss and my quizziest Flashy smile. "We've never
had any secrets from each other, have we?" I'll fry in Hell, no
doubt about it.
"I couldn't tell you then," says she, nestling against my shoulder.
"I feared you would be angry, and might. . . might tell people
. no, no, you would not do that, but you might have done
something, I don't know what, to ... to interfere, and spoil it, and
prevent him meeting his just deserts, the dirty beast!" Only Elspeth
can talk like that with a straight face; comes of Paisley and reading "ovels. Her mouth was drooping, and there were absolute tears in
ner eyes. "You see, I knew what I had done was dreadful and . . . ^d dishonourable - and you are the very soul of honour!" She
261
said it. God help me. "The chevalier sans peur et sans reproche that's what the Queen called you, I heard her-"
"Bless me, did she?"
"- and if I had told you at Tranby, why, you would have been
in such a fix, on the horns of Tantalus, whether to speak out, which
I knew you wouldn't ever do, for my sake, or else be an ... ^ accomplice in my dishonourable deed! And that would not have
done!" She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. "So I had to be
silent, and deceive you, and I'm so sorry for that, dearest, I truly
am - but not for what I did to Billy Cumming, and if you blame
me, I can't help it! Oh, Harry, I have so wanted to confess it all
to you, so many, many times, but I was bound to wait until the
trial was over, you see, for then it would be too late!" She had
her arms round my neck, eyes piteous in entreaty. "Oh, Harry, my
jo, can you forgive me? If you don't, I think I'll die ... for I only
did it for love of you and .. . and your honour!"
You understand now why I said that Elspeth must be allowed
to babble to a conclusion if you're to reach sense at last. Well, we
were getting on.
"Dear lass," says I, trying not to wince with my leg cracking
under the strain, "whatever does my honour have to do with it?
And for heaven's sake, what did Gordon Gumming do - to make
you hate him so, and serve him such a ghastly turn?"
At last it came, in a whisper, her head bowed.
"He ... he called you a coward."
I dam' near let her fall on the floor. "What was that?"
"A coward!" Her head came up, and suddenly she was fairly
blazing with rage. "He said it to my face! He did! Oh, I bum with
shame to think of it, the vile falsehood! The evil, wicked storyteller!
He said you had run away from the Seekhs or the Zulus or
someone at that place in Africa, Isal-something-or-other - "
"Isan'lwana? God love us, who didn't?" But she was too angry
to hear me, raging on in full spate about how the brazen rascal had dared to say that I had fled headlong, and escaped in a cart
while my comrades perished, and had skulked in the hospital at
Rorke's Drift (all true, except the bit about the hospital - a fat
chance anyone had to skulk with the roof on fire and those fearsome
black buggers coming through the wall), and she had been so
262
^'vtrausht by his slanders that she had removed from his presence, oh weeping, and if she had been a man she would have slain
him on the spot.
"To hear him lying in his jealous teeth, the toad, defaming you, the bravest, gallantest, best soldier in all the world, as everyone
knows, that have won the V.C. and done ever so many heroic
deeds, the Hector of Afghanistan and the Bayard of Balaclava it
said in the papers, and I cut them out every one, and keep them,
and didn't I see you fight like a lion against those disagreeable
folk in Madagascar, and you brought me away safe and sound,
and had followed to the ends of the earth all for my sake, and
rescued me, that didn't deserve it, and you the dearest, kindest valiant knight, so you are ..." At which point she buried her face
in my neck and howled for a spell, while I moved her fine poundage
on to a convenient chair and massaged my numbed limb, marvelling
at the mysterious workings of the female mind. She continued
to cling to me, uttering muffled anathemas against Cumming, and
at last came to the surface, moist and pink.
"I would not have told you if you had not pressed me," gulps
she, "for it soils my lips to have to repeat his sinful lies. He tried
to dishonour you, and I was resolved to dishonour him by hook
or crook, if it took a lifetime, and if what I did was dishonourable,
too, and underhand and sly, I don't care a docken} He's a cur, and
that's what he is, and now every dog on the midden kens what he
is!"
It ain't easy for a sonsy matron with blonde curls to look like
the wrath of God, but she was managing uncommon well. She
sniffed, defiant and soulful together.
"Now you know the kind of woman you married. And if you
spurn me it will break my heart - but I would do it again, a
thousand times!" I'll swear she gritted her teeth. "No one - no
one! - speaks ill of my hero, and that's the size of it!"
And that, dear reader, is why William Gordon-Cumming was
cast into outer darkness: because he'd blown on Flashy's honour.
Ironic, wouldn't you say? It had been his bad luck that where an
ordinary wife would have treated his insults with icy disdain, or 3t most urged her husband to call on the cad with a horsewhip, wi Acentric lady had nursed her vengeance for years before ruin263
ing him with a tratagem so dangerous (never mind its warned
lunacy) that my lood still runs cold to think of it, twenty year
on. Social ruin aide. the crazy bitch could have gone to gaol for
criminal conspir^y - not that that would enter her empty head
or deter her if i had. The only qualm she'd felt was that if i
learned the truthof the disgraceful way she'd engineered Cumming's
downfall.I might recoil from her in virtuous disgust ~
which only go&so show that after fifty years she knew no more
of my true char-a^r than I, apparently, did of hers.
And she'd dcr it all for a mere word: coward (a true word if
she'd only kno}Vnt). Aye . . . and for the love of Harry. Well, I ain't
the most sentimeial chap, as you know, but as I thought about that
and considered K while she dried her tears . . . dammit, I was touched.
Not m.a/ husbands are given such proof of loyalty, and fidelity, and dev^oon carried to the point of insanity - not that I'm
saying she's ma<i'nind, but. . . well, you're bound to agree there's
something loos^ p yonder. Still, barmy or not, the little darling
deserved every c-o'fort I could give her, and I was about to embrace
her with cries of iassurance . . . when a thought crossed my mind.
She was watc-hig me with pink-nosed anxiety. "Oh, Harry, can
you forgive me"?)h, why do you look so stem? Do you despise
me?"
"Eh? Oh, lotrdoo! What, despise you? Good God, girl, I'm
proud of you!" ^id I hugged her, slightly preoccupied.
"Are you sur-eOh. my darling, when I see you frown . . . and
I know that wh^ did was ignoble and . . . and unladylike, and
not at all the tlxh. and how could you be proud of me - oh, I
fear that you di^in me! Please, dear one, tell me it's not so!"
She put her handeither side of my face, imploring at pointblank,
which ain't helpaf when you're trying to think. I forced myself
to sound sincere- id hearty.
"Of course I )n't. disdain you, you little goose! What, for
snookering Gorcic-Cumming so cleverly? I should say not! It was
the smartest stut^iiince Torres Vedras, and-"
"Torres who?"
" - and nothii-itgnoble about it, so don't fret your bonny head.
He's well servecd, Damned right; nothing's too bad for the ma" who tells truth ^.l-it Flashy. But that was by the way . . .
264
'Oh Harry!" She was all over me, arms round my neck, fairly
eaking with joy. "Then you are not angry, and I'm truly for4 9 oh, you are the best, the kindest of husbands ..." She
rssed me for all she was worth. "And all is truly well?"
"Absolutely! Couldn't be better. So you mustn't cry any more
make your pretty nose red if you do. Now, what about that tea
you were going to ring for?"
She kissed me again and fled from the room, calling for Jane,
but in fact to make repairs to her appearance - as I'd known she
would when I mentioned her nose. I wanted a moment to reflect.
Cumming was down the drain: excellent. Elspeth was none the
worse for her idiotic behaviour; indeed, she'd done me proud in
her misguided way, championing my "honour", as she conceived
it: excellent again. She's solved the Tranby mystery, too, albeit
her explanation was as staggering as it was undoubtedly true. On
only one little point had she been reticent, and it was exercising
me rather.
The whole world knew I was one of the few who'd escaped the
Isan'lwana massacre in '79, but that was no disgrace since there
were no living witnesses to my terrified flight, and if Cumming
chose to make the worst out of it, much good it would do him,
with my heroic reputation. But that was by the way, since I'd [gathered that he'd confided his opinion to Elspeth alone: the point
was, when precisely had he done so, and in what circumstances?
I didn't doubt he'd called me a coward, you understand, but it
ain't the kind of thing a fellow says by way of social chat over
the tea-cups, is it? "Ah, Lady Flashman, delightful weather, is it
not? And did you enjoy The Gondoliers'! Such jolly tunes! No, I
fear the dear Bishop's health is not what it was ... by the by, did
I never tell you, your husband's a bloody poltroon who ran screaming
from Isan'lwana? Oh, you hadn't heard . . . ?" No, hardly.
In my experience, which is considerable, observations like
"coward" are usually made fortissimo at the climax of a first-rate
tum-up between a lady and gentleman most intimately acquainted
a lover's quarrel, perhaps? You'll recall that Cumming was Brnong those I'd suspected of dancing the honeymoon hornpipe wltn "^y dear one in days gone by; it had been no more than my "onnal suspicion of her, and had gone clean out of my head
265
during the Tranby scandal, but now it was back with a vengeancp
Yes . . .'twould be about ten years since she'd dropped Cummins'
acquaintance abruptly, and my lurid imagination could conjure un
the scene in some silken nest of sin around South Audley Street
circa 1880, Cumming all moustachioed and masterful in his lone combinations and my adulterous angel bursting proudly out of her
corset as they slanged each other across the crumpled sheets of
shame. God knows I've been there often enough myself, when
passion has staled to moody discontent, sullen exchanges wax into
recrimination, the errant wife makes odious comparisons to the
lover's disadvantage - and that's the moment when Lothario, cut
to the quick, speaks his mind of the cuckolded husband. "Your
precious Harry's not so much of a man, I can tell you . . ." followed
by a shriek of indignation and the crash of a hurled utensil
aye, that's how it would have been, devil a doubt; try as I might,
I couldn't picture it any different: Cumming must have been the
little trollop's lover, to call me a coward to her face. If this wasn't
proof, nothing was.
I sat brooding darkly, remembering the straw sticking to the
back of her dress after she'd been in the woods with that randy
redskin Spotted Tail; Cardigan with his pants round his ankles and
her in bare buff when I blundered boozily out of the cupboard
where I'd been asleep; the shiny black boots that had betrayed her
assignation with that smirking swine Watkins or Watney or whatever
the hell his name was; her preening herself in her sarong
before that oily pirate Usman who'd diddled me at cricket. . . and
heaven knew how many others of whom I'd feared the worst. Time
and again I'd been torn by jealous unproven suspicion, and resolved
to have it out with her . . . and shirked at the last 'cos I'd rather
not know. Well, not this time, bigod; I felt my anger rising as I
remembered her protestations that she'd only done the dirty on
Cumming to avenge my "honour" - ha! Like as not her true reason
for wreaking vengeance on him was because he'd kicked her out
of bed . . . But if that were so, she'd never have said a word to
me about laying a plant on him, would she? Oh, lord, were my
foul imaginings getting the better of me yet again; was I judging
her by my own murky lights? So many times I'd faced this same
hideous question: Elspeth, true or false? It was high time I had an
266
nswer, and I was going red in the face and growling as she came
mooing back into the room, plump and radiant, no sign at all of
her recent distress.
"Jane is bringing fresh tea, and some of those little German
biscuits, and oh, you're not angry with me, dearest, and all is "
She stopped short in dismay. "Why, Harry, whatever is the matter?
Why are you scowling so? Oh, my love, what is it?"
I had risen in my jealous wrath. Now I sat down again, marshalling
my words, while she viewed me in pretty alarm.
"Elspeth!" says I ... and stopped short in turn. "Ah . . . what's
that? Bringing tea, is she? Well, now ... ah, what about a pot of
coffee for the old man, eh? Scowling? No, no, just this leg o' mine
giving me a twinge ... the old wound, you know . . . Here, you
come and sit on t'other one, and give us a kiss!"
As the black chap said in Shakespeare's play, 'tis better as it
is.
267
APPENDIX
It hardly seemed worth while to give footnotes to Flashman's
account of the Tranby Croft affair, since almost all of them would
have led the reader to the same authority, W. Teignmouth Shore's The Baccarat Case: Gordon-dimming v. Wilson and Others, 1932,
in the Notable British Trials Series. It contains a full transcript of
the trial, with notes and comments, and is the best and fullest work
on the subject. Other books which touch on the case and related
matters include Margaret Blunden, The Countess of Warwick, 1967; Piers Compton, Victorian Vortex, 1977; Philippe Julian, Edward and the Edwardians', and an anonymous work. The Private
Life of the King, 1901.
Teignmouth Shore published his book "to win justice for the
I memory of a man much wronged", and nailed his colours to the
mast with his opening quotation from Truth, which asserted after
the trial that a dog would not have been hanged on the evidence
that convicted Gordon-Cumming. It was an opinion shared by
many, and if Flashman is to be believed, they were right.
His view of the verdict aside, Mr Shore makes several points
of interest. He describes the outcry against the Prince of Wales as
outrageous, and one has to agree that whatever the faults of the
future King Edward VII, he hardly deserved the storm which burst
over his hapless head from a press which knew a ripe scandal
when it saw one, and was only too glad of a royal scapegoat. Mr
Shore wondered if any newspaper "of high standing" in 1932
would have been so censorious. Perhaps not; he did not live to see "ie 1990s. At the same time, the Prince showed lamentable judgment
when the cheating allegation was first brought to his notice,
and Mr Shore is plainly right when he suggests that the sensible
269
thing would have been to insist on accused and accusers thrashing the matter out on the spot. There was indeed a remarkable lack of
common sense in the way the affair was handled, and in the pathetic
belief that it could be kept quiet. Obviously (as Flashman confirms)
panic struck not only the Prince and his advisers, but GordonCumming
also, or he would never have signed the damning
document.
Mr Shore is scathing on the conduct of the trial, "the Court
being turned by consent of the judge into a theatre, and a shoddy
theatre at that".
Whether Flashman's sensational disclosure finally settles the
controversy is for his readers to decide; it fits the known facts,
and if it seems unlikely, that is perfectly in keeping with the rest
of The Baccarat Case.
An entertaining experiment, which I have made myself, is to
insert a cover over the introduction to Mr Shore's book, and over
the last page which carries the verdict, and invite someone who
knows nothing of the case to read the trial and pronounce Sir
William Gordon-Cumming guilty or not. The reactions are interesting.

270
FLASHMAN AND
THE TIGER
(1879 and 1894)
You think twice about committing murder
when you're over seventy. Mind you, it's not something I've ever
undertaken lightly, for all that I must have sent several score of
the Queen's enemies to their last accounts in my time, to say
nothing of various bad men and oddsbodies who've had the misfortune
to cross me when my trigger-finger was jumpy. More than a
hundred, easy, I should think - which ain't a bad tally for a
true-blue coward who'd sooner shirk a fight than eat his dinner,
and has run from more battle-fields than he can count. I've been
lucky, I suppose - and devilish quick.
But those were killings in the way of business, as a soldier, or
in my many misadventures in the world's wild places, where it
was me or t'other fellow. Murder's different, you see; it takes
more courage than I've ever had, to think it out, and weigh the
consequences, and keep your hand steady as you thumb back the
hammer and draw a bead on the unsuspecting back. You need to
be in a perfect fever of fear and rage, as I was when I threw de
Gautet over the cliff in Germany in '48, or when I sicked on that
poor lunatic steward to shoot John Charity Spring, M.A., on the
slave-ship off the Cuba coast. That's always been more my style,
to get some idiot to do the dirty work for me. But there comes a
time when there's no scapegoat handy, and you have to do the
business yourself - and that's when you sweat at the thought of
the black cap and the noose at the end of the eight-o'clock walk.
It makes my teeth chatter on the glass just to write about it - aye,
and suppose you bungle it, and your victim turns on you, full of
spite and indignation? That can easily happen, you know, when
you re an old man with a shaky wrist and a cloudy eye, too stiff
in the joints even to cut and run. What business have you got at
273
your time of life to be trying to slaughter a man fifteen years
younger than you are, in the middle of civilised London, especially
when he's a high-tailed gun-slick with a beltful of scalps who can
shoot your ears off with his eyes shut? For that's what Tiger Jack
Moran was, and no mistake.
So you understand why I say it takes a deal of thought before
you determine to go after a man like that with fatal intent, knowing
that your speed and cunning have been undermined by a lifetime
of booze and evil living and your white hair's coming out in
handfuls. Dammit, I wouldn't have tackled him in my prime, when
I had size and strength and viciousness to set in the balance against
my yellow belly. But there I was, a hoary old grandfather, full
of years and dignity and undeserved military honours, with my
knighthood and V.C., as respectable an old buffer as ever shuffled
down St James's with a flower in my buttonhole, pausing only to
belch claret or exchange grave salutes with Cabinet Ministers and
clubmen ("Why, there's old General Flashman," they'd say, "dear
old Sir Harry - wonderful how he keeps going. They say it's the
brandy that does it; grand old chap he is." That was all they knew.)
But there I was, I say, at a time when I ought to have had nothing
to do but drink my way gently towards an honoured grave, spend
my wife's fortune, gorge at the best places, leer at the young
women, and generally enjoy a dissolute old age - and suddenly,
I had to kill Tiger Jack. Nothing else for it.
What brought the beads out on my withered brow more than
anything else was my recollection of our first meeting, so many
years before, when I'd seen for myself what an ice-cold killing
villain he was - aye, and it was in a place where sheer cool nerve
and skill with a gun were the narrow margin between escape and
horrible death. You'll remember the name: Isan'lwana. I can see
it still, the great jagged rock of the "Little House" rearing up
above the stony, sun-baked African plain, the scattered lines of
our red-coated infantry, joking and cat-calling among themselves
as they waited for the ammunition that never came; the red-capped
Natal Kaffirs scurrying back to take their positions on the rocky
slope; a black-tunicked rider of Frontier Horse leaping the gun
limbers bellowing a fatuous order to laager the wagons, which
went unheeded and was too late by hours; Pulleine fumbling with
274
his field-glasses and shouting hoarsely: "Is that a rider from Lord
rhelmsford?"; a colour-sergeant frantically hammering at the lid
f an ammunition box; the puffs of smoke from our advanced line
firing steadily at the Zulu skirmishers; the rattle of musketry over
the ridge to the left; the distant figures of Dumford's men on the
right flank falling back, firing as they came; a voice croaking:
"Oh, dear God Almighty!" - and it was mine, as I looked nor'east
over the ranks of the 24th, and saw the skyline begin to move,
like a brown blanket stirred by something beneath it, and then all
along the crest there was the rippling, twinkling flash of thousands
of spear-points, and a limitless line of white and coloured shields
with nodding plumes behind them, rank after rank, and down the
forward slope came the black spilling tide of Ketshwayo's impis,
twenty thousand savages rolling towards our pitiful position with
its far-stretched line of defenders. Death sweeping towards us at
that fearful thunderous jog-trot that made the earth tremble beneath
our very feet, while the spears crashed on the ox-hide shields, and
the dust rolled up in a bank before them as they chanted out their
terrible bass chorus: "Uvtulele, kagali 'muntuV - which, you'll
be enchanted to know, means roughly: "He is silent, he doesn't
start the attack."
Which was a bloody lie, from where I was standing petrified,
and the horrible thing was, I wasn't even in the Army, but was
there by pure chance (how, exactly, I'll tell you another time).
Much consolation that was, you can imagine, as that frightful black
horde came surging across the plain towards our makeshift camp
beneath Isan'lwana rock, the great mass in the centre coming on
in perfect formation while the flank regiments raced out in the
"horns" which would encircle our position. And there was poor
old Flashy, caught behind the companies of the 24th as they poured
their volley-firing into the "chest" of the Zulu army, cheering and
shouting for the ammunition-carriers, and Dumford's bald forehead
glinting in the sun above his splendid whiskers as he pulled his
men back to the donga and blazed away at the left "horn" sweeping
in towards them.
For one brief moment, as I cast a frantic eye behind me to pick
out the quickest line of retreat to the Rorke's Drift track, I absolutely
thought it might be touch and go. You see, while we were
275
most damnably trapped, without proper defences, in spite of th
warnings old Paul Kruger had given to Chelmsford about laager-in o
and trenching every night in Zulu country,' and while we were
only a few hundred white soldiers and loyal niggers against the
whole Zulu army - well, a few dozen Martini-Henrys, in the hands
of men who know how to use 'em, can stop a whole lot of blacks
with clubs and spears. I'd been with Campbell's Highlanders at
Balaclava, when they broke the Ruski cavalry with two volleys
and I still bore the scars of Little Big Horn, where Reno's troopers
held off half the Sioux nation (the other half were killing Custer
and me just down the valley, but that's another story).* Anyway,
as I watched the 24th companies on the Isan'lwana slope, pouring
their fire into the brown, and the artillery banging away for dear
life, cutting great lanes in the impis, I thought, bigod, we'll hold
'em yet. And we would have done, but the ammunition boxes
hadn't been broken out, and just as the great mass of Zulus, a
bare furlong from our forward troops, seemed to be wavering and
hanging back - why, the 24th were down to their last packets, and
the yelling and cheering turned to desperate cries of:
"Ammunition, there! Bring the boxes, for God's sake!"
Our fire slackened, the 24th took a step back, the Natal Kaffirs
came pouring away from the left under the lee of the hill, flinging
their arms aside as they ran, the order "Fix bayonets!" rang out
from the ranks immediately to my front, and the Zulus regiments
rallied and came bounding in in a great mad charge, the rain of
throwing spears whistling ahead of them like hail, and the stabbing
assegais coming out from behind the white shields as they tore
into our disordered front line, the roar of '"Suthu'Suthu giving
way to their hideous hissing "'S-jee'S-jee as the spears struck
home.
Time for the lunch interval, thinks I; let's be off. Once they
were at close quarters, there wasn't a hope, and by the look of it,
through that hell of smoke and gunfire and fleeing men, with Kaffirs
rushing past, and the gunners and wagon-men frantically trying to
inspan and flee, the surviving remnants of the 24th weren't going
to hold that huge press of Zulus more than a matter of minutes.
* See Flashman and the Redskins
276
Thus far in the battle, being only a well-meaning civilian, I'd made tremendous show of trying to get the wagons to laager in a circle,
that we could make a stand if our forward troops gave way -
t was the sensible thing to do, and it also kept me at a safe distance
from the fighting. So I was well placed beside an inspanned cart
when the dam burst, and the Nokenke regiment of Ketshwayo's
army (that's who the historians tell me it was, anyway; I only know they were appalling bastards with leopard-skin headdresses,
screaming fit to chill your blood) came tearing up the hill.
I was into that wagon in a twinkling, bawling to the driver to
go like blazes, and blasting away over the tailboard with an Adams
six-shooter in each fist. I wish I'd a pound for every time I've
looked out at a charging barbarian horde with my guts dissolving
and prayers babbling out of me, but that one took the biscuit. They
came racing in, huge black-limbed monsters with their six-foot
(hields up, eyes and teeth glaring over the top like spectres, the
lumes tossing and those disgusting two-foot steel blades glittering
and smoking with blood. I saw three men of the 24th, back to
back, swinging their clubbed rifles, go down before the charge,
and the Zulus barely broke stride as they ripped the corpses up
with their assegais (to let the dead spirits out, don't you know)
and rushed on. I blazed away, weeping and swearing, thinking oh
God, this is the end, and I'm sorry I've led such a misspent life,
and don't send me to Hell, whatever Dr Arnold says - and my
hammer clicked down on an empty chamber just as the first Zulu
vaulted over the side of the wagon, howling like a dervish.
I screamed and closed with him, seizing his right wrist as the
spear-point swung at my breast, my hand slipping on that oily
skin; I drove a knee at his groin, butting him for all I was worth
and trying to bite his throat - all I got was a mouthful of monkeyskin
collar, and God, how he stank! A shot crashed right beside any ear, and the Zulu fell away, his face a mask of blood.21 never even saw who had shot him, nor did I pause to inquire, for as I
reeled away to the side of the wagon, here came a gun-team
thundering past, with an artilleryman crouched on one of the
leaders, lashing at the beasts and at the Zulus who raced alongside ^ng to spear him from the saddle. Behind the team the gun was "ouncing over the ground, with some poor devil clinging to the

/
277

muzzle, his feet trailing in the dust, until a Zulu, leaping behind
dashed his brains out with a knobkerrie.
You don't think twice at such moments; you truly don't. I had
one glimpse that still stays in my memory - of that rock-strewn
slope, covered with charging Zulus spearing the last knots of
defenders; of men screaming and falling; of a sergeant of the 24th
rolling on the ground locked with a black warrior, while the others
paused to watch; of a bullock lumbering past, bellowing, with an
assegai in its flank; of bloody corpses, red-coated or black-skinned
sprawled among the dusty ruin of broken carts, ration boxes, and
fallen equipment; of hate-filled black faces and polished black
bodies - all that in a split second, and then I went over the side
of that cart in a flying dive on to the gun that was racketing past,
clutching frantically at the hot metal, almost slipping down between
barrel and wheel, but somehow managing to stay aboard as it tore
onwards, bouncing left and right, towards the little saddle of ground
that runs from Isan'lwana hill.
How I survived the next minute I don't know. I clung to the gun,
keeping low, hearing a spear glance clanging from the metal; a club
caught me a blow on the shoulder, but I stuck like a leech, and the
gun must have picked up speed, because the closest Zulus were suddenly
lost in the dust-cloud, and for a moment we were clear of the
immediate pursuit, the driver still holding his seat on the leader and
yelling and quirting away as the team topped the crest and went
careering down the far slope towards the Rorke's Drift track.
The slope was thick with fugitives, white and black, a few
mounted but most on foot, going pell-mell down to the broken
ground and distant scrub with only one thought in mind - to get
away from the merciless black vengeance behind us. They seemed
to be making for a deep ravine about half a mile to the left, where
it seemed to me they were sure to be caught by the left "horn"
of the Zulu army as it came circling in; I struggled up astride the
gun and bawled above the din to the driver to bear right for the
Rorke's Drift road. He cast a terrified glance over his shoulder,
pointing frantically and shaking his head; I looked, and my heart
died. Already, round the far side of the Isan'lwana hill, the vanguard
of the Zulu right "horn" was streaming down like a black
lance-head to cut the track; I could make out the green monkey
278
caos and plumes of the Tulwana regiment. Five minutes at most,
and the ring of steel would have closed round Isan'lwana, and God
help anything white that was still inside.
There was nothing for it but the ravine, and we rushed down
the slope at breakneck speed, the driver lashing the exhausted
horses, and Flashy going up and down astride that damned barrel
like a pea on a drum. I stole a glance back, and beyond the scattered
oroups of running fugitives I could see the first ranks of the Zulu
"chest" coming over the hill; this won't do, my lad, thinks I, we'll
have to move a deal faster if we want to see Piccadilly again. The
gun lurched under me, sickeningly, there was a yell of alarm from
the driver ahead, and by God the right rear-wheeler had broken a
trace and was veering madly off to the right, head up and snorting;
she stumbled and went down as the second trace parted, and I shot
off the gun as it slewed round, hit the ground with a fearful jar,
and went rolling arse over elbow, tearing the skin off shoulder and
knee on the rock-hard earth before I fetched up winded within a
yard of the fallen horse.
I had a hand on its mane as it thrashed up again, hooves flying,
and you may be sure I wasn't the only one. Half a dozen fugitives
had the same notion, and one, a sergeant gunner, was half-aboard
the beast. "Mine, damn you!" roars he. "She can't take two!"
| "Right you are, my son," says I, and knocked him flying. I got
a limb across that heaving bare back - and that's all I ever need.3
Thank God I've never seen the mount I couldn't master; I wound
my hands into the mane, dug in my heels, and went head down
for the ravine, just as the gun I had lately left went careering into
it - team, driver and all. It was a deep, narrow cleft - Christ! was
it narrow enough to jump? I tensed myself for the leap, gave her
my heel at the last moment, and we went soaring over; there was
a horrible instant when we seemed to hang on the far lip, but we
scrambled to safety by our eyebrows. I heard a scream behind me,
and turned to see a big grey failing to make the same jump; she
jfell back into the ravine, with her rider crushed beneath her.
I The ravine, and the bank I had just left, looked like Dante's
Inferno; they were fleeing down it among the rock and thorn,
towards the Buffalo River five miles away, and those black devils
Were on the far lip - " 'S-jee'S-jeel" and the assegais flashing
279
up and down like pistons. I looked to my right front, where the
Tulwana were streaking across the track; there was still a eao between them and the ravine, and I went for it hell-for-leather, the
horse slithering on the loose rocks and me clinging like grim death
She was only an artillery screw, but there must have been a hunter
ancestor in her somewhere, for she outraced that Zulu pincer with
a hundred yards to spare, and I was able to hold her in as we shot
into the safety of the scrub, with the screams and gunshots fading
into the distance behind us.
That was how I made my strategic retreat, then, from the massacre
of Isan'lwana - the greatest debacle of British arms since
the Kabul retreat nearly forty years earlier.4 Oh, aye, I'd been in
that, too, freezing and bleeding on that nightmare march which
never reached the Khyber. But I'd been a thoughtless boy then; at
Isan'lwana I was an older, much wiser soldier, and I knew I was
a long way from safety yet. I couldn't tell how many others had
won clear (about fifty, in fact, against a thousand who fell under
the assegais), but I could guess that the next stop along the line
for Ketshwayo's merry men would be Rorke's Drift, eight miles
away on the Buffalo. They'd gobble up the picquet there, and be
over the Natal border by sundown; it behoved Flashy to bear away
north, and try to cross the river well beyond the reach of the impis.
The trouble was, even I didn't know how fast Zulus can travel
with the blood smell in their nostrils.5
It was about the middle of the afternoon when I came out of
the scrub and boulders, into a little kraal perhaps ten miles from
Isan'lwana. I reckoned I was clear of pursuit, but my beast was
tuckered out, and I could have jumped for joy at the sight of an
army wagon among the huts, and a burly red-cheeked sergeant
puffing his cutty while he watched the native women tending a
cooking-pot close by. It was a stray ammunition cart belonging to
a flying column sent out north the previous day; they'd had a brush
with some Zulu scouts last evening, and there were two or three
wounded on blankets laid across the ammunition boxes. The cart
was taking them down to Rorke's Drift, the sergeant said.
"Not today you ain't," says I, and told him briefly what had
happened to most of Chelmsford's force. He goggled and dropped
his pipe.
280
"Gripes!" says he. "Why, the rest of our column was makin'
for Isan'lwana this momin'! 'Ere, Tiger Jack's got to 'ear about
this! Major! Major, sir - come quick!"
And that was when I got my first sight of Tiger Jack Moran.
He came out of one of the huts in answer to the sergeant's cry,
and as soon as I clapped eyes on him, thinks I, this is a killing
gentleman. He was perhaps forty, as big as I was, but leaner, and
he walked with a smooth, pigeon-toed stride, like a great slim cat.
His face was lean, too, and nut-brown, with a huge hooked nose,
a bristling black moustache, and two brilliant blue eyes that were
never still; they slid over you and away and back again. It was a
strong face, but mean; even the rat-trap mouth had an odd lift at
one side which, with the ever-shifting eyes, made it look as though
he knew some secret joke about you. For the rest, he wore a faded
Sapper jacket and a wideawake hat, with a black sash round his
hips; when he turned I saw he had one of the new long-barrelled
Remington .44 revolvers reversed through the sash over his right
rump - a gunfighter's gun, with the foresight filed away, if you
please. Well, well, thinks I, here's one to keep an eye on.
"Chelmsford's wiped out, you say?" The blue eyes looked
everywhere but into mine; I wouldn't have trusted this fellow with
I the mess funds in a hurry. "The whole command?"
"Half of it, anyway," says I, guzzling away at a plate of salt
and mealies the sergeant had given me. "Chelmsford himself's
off in the blue with Number 3 Column, and if he's wise he'll stay
there. Ketshwayo's army must be cayoodling round Rorke's Drift
by now, thousands of the brutes. There's no hope that way - if it
comes to that, I doubt if there'll be anything white and living
between Blood River and the Tugela by sunrise tomorrow."
"You don't say," says he. "And you got away, eh? You're not
Army, though?"
"Not at the moment. I'm retired, but I imagine you've heard of
"?." I didn't like his manner above half, with his slippery eyes
and half-smile. "My name's-"
"Silence!" He threw up a hand, and his head jerked round,
listening. The sergeant and I held our breath, listening with him.
^uldn't hear a thing, beyond the noises of the kraal; the fire
crackling, the soft shuffling of one of the nigger women, a baby
281
crying in one of the huts. Just hot silence, in that baking sun and then Moran says sharply to me:
"You came on that horse - how long did it take you?"
"Two hours, perhaps - look here - "
"Inspan that wagon!" he barked at the sergeant. "Look alive
now! Get that damned black driver - sharp's the word! We'll have
'em on top of us before we know it!" And before I could protest
he had swung away and was running between the huts, jumping
on to a great boulder, and looking back the way I had come
shading his eyes.
You don't waste time arguing with a man who knows his
business. I felt the hot prickle of fear down my spine as I helped* the sergeant get the beasts inspanned - they were horses, thank
God; bullocks would have been useless if we were going to have
to cut out as fast as Moran seemed to think we must. He jumped
down from the rock and came striding back towards us, his head
turning left and right to scan the ridges either side of the village,
his hand twitching nervously at his right hip.
"Get those three wounded lying down! And get aboard yourselves
- driver, start that rig moving!" He glanced at me, that sly
grin turning the corner of his mouth. "I'd climb in, mister, if I
were you. Unless my shikari's instinct is playing me false, your
black friends are closer than you think, and I don't - "
Then it happened, and if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I'd
not have believed it - and I knew Hickok in his prime, remember,
before his eyesight went, and John Wesley Hardin, too.
The sergeant, in the act of climbing over the tailboard, let out
a hell of a shriek; I glimpsed his face, red and staring, and his arm
flung out to point, and then his eyes stared horribly, and he slumped
down into the dust, with a throwing assegai between his shoulders,
his limbs thrashing wildly. I turned, and there, not twenty yards
away beyond Moran, standing on the boulder he'd just left and
poised in the act of throwing, was a Zulu warrior. I could still tell
you every detail of him (that's what shock does to you) - the great
black body behind the red and white shield, the calf-skin girdle,
the white cow-tail garters, the ringed head with its nodding blue
plume, even the little horn snuff-box swinging from his neck. It
was a nightmare figure - and now there were two more, either
282
side of him, leaping between the huts, screaming "'S-jee}" with
their assegais raised to hurl at us.
Moran had spun on his heel at the sergeant's scream, and I
swear I never saw his right hand move. But the Remington was
in his fist, and the boom-boom-boom of its triple explosion was
almost like one echoing shot. The Zulu on the rock jerked upright,
snatching at his face, and toppled backwards; the foremost of the
two running towards us pitched headlong, with half his head blown
away in a sudden bloody spray, and the third man stumbled crazily,
dropping his shield and rolling over and over to finish a bare two
yards from us, sprawled on his back. There was a hole where his
right eye had been. And Moran's pistol was back in his sash.
"Twins, by the look of 'em," says he. "Did you know the Zulus
think they make the best scouts?6 Well, don't stand gawping, old
fellow - there'll be plenty of live ones on the scene presently.
Mind the step!" And he was over the back of the moving wagon,
with me tumbling breathlessly after him, shocked out of my wits
by the speed and terror of it all. I'd say from the moment the
sergeant fell to our jumping into the wagon had been a good five
seconds - and in that time three men had died, thank God, and
the man beside me was chuckling and pushing fresh shells into
his revolver.
He was right about the live ones arriving, too - as our wagon
wheeled out of the village on to a great empty stretch of plain
beyond it, we could see black figures gliding in among the huts
on the far side, and by the time we were a furlong out on the plain
itself, with the driver lashing like fury and the wagon rolling
dangerously from side to side, they were breaking cover in pursuit.
There must have been more than twenty of them, and I don't recall
a more fearful sight than that silent half-moon of racing black
figures, each with his mottled red and white shield and fistful of
glittering spears, their white hide kilts and garters flying as they
ran.
"Udloko, unless I'm mistook," says Moran. "Good regiment,
that. Let's add to their battle honours, what?"
He had got a Martini from one of the wounded men who were
^ing pale and silent behind us in the jolting wagon, and now he
Juggled the butt into his shoulder, keeping the barrel clear of the
283
rattling tailboard, and let off four shots as fast as he could eiect
and reload. He hit three more Zulus - this at a range of two hundred
yards, from a wagon that was bucking like a ship at sea, and at
moving targets. I tell you, I was stricken between terror and sheer
admiration.7
"Damnation!" says he, after his missed shot. "Bet he felt the
wind of it, though." He saw me staring, and grinned. "Don't be
alarmed, old boy; just pass up the cartridge packets and I'll have
our gallant foes discouraged in half a jiffy, just see if I don't!"
But when I applied to the wounded for more cartridges, damned
if there was a round among them.
"Well, we're sitting on half a ton of the things," says Moran,
cool as you please, and tapped the ammunition boxes. "Let's
forage, shall we?" So we broke open a case - and it was carbine
ammunition, quite unsuitable for Martinis. I swallowed my innards
for about the twentieth time that day; all the boxes carried the
same stamp. And there, still loping across the sun-scorched plain
behind us, not apparently having lost any distance, were the twenty
Zulus, looking as fit as fleas and a dam' sight more unpleasant.
"Now, that's vexing," says Moran, laying down his rifle and
unlimbering his Remington again. He spun the chamber. "Six
shots - hm'm. Well, let's hope none of the horses breaks a leg,
what?"
"For God's sake, man!" My voice came out in a dreadful
squeak. "They can't keep up this pace forever!"
"Who - the horses, or Ketshwayo's sporting and athletic club?"
He gripped the tailboard and weighed the distance between us and
our pursuers. "I think, on the whole, I'd put my money on the
blacks. More staying power, don't you know? By George, can't
they run, though!"
"But, my God, we're done for! They're gaining on us, I tell
you-"
"Quite," says he. "Better think of something, eh? Unless we
want our hides stretched over some damned Udloko war-drum, that
is. Let's see, now." He stood up in the swaying wagon, clutching a
support, and peered ahead under the canvas cover, resting a hand
on the shoulder of the terrified nigger driver who was rolling his
eyes and letting his team rip for all it was worth. "If I remember
284
rieht, this blasted plain ends in a deep gully about a mile ahead -
there's a crazy kind of bridge over it ... we came across it on the
^vay up- I1 t00^-tne ^g011' all right - but very slowly. 'Fraid by
the time we get across our friends will be calling on us - an' six
shots won't go far among that crowd, even if I make every one
tell - which I would, of course. Wait, though!" And he dropped
down on one knee, pushing one of the wounded men aside and
ferreting among the ammunition boxes.
I was hardly listening to him; my eyes were fixed on that line
of steadily-running black figures, coming on inexorably in our
wake. They were losing distance, though, it seemed to me - yes,
there must be nearly a quarter of a mile between us now - but our
beasts were tiring, too; they couldn't keep up this speed much
longer, dragging a heavy wagon behind them. When we reached
the bridge, would there be time for the wagon to make its careful
way across, before they caught up? ... I scrabbled at Moran's
arm, yammering hopefully, and he grinned as he straightened up
from his search among the boxes, holding up a large packet of
waxed brown paper in one hand.
"There we are, sonny boy," says he, chuckling. "Thought I
remembered it. Blasting powder - and a darling little primer! Now,
-watch your Uncle Jack!"
I I don't want to live through another five minutes like those last
agonising moments while we sped across the plain, slower and
slower with every yard, straining our eyes back at those distant
black figures behind. Even when we reached the gully, a great
rocky cleft that stretched as far as one could see on either side,
like a volcanic crack, with a rickety plank bridge spanning its
thirty feet, there was the time-consuming labour of getting the
wounded out and across. The nigger driver and I managed it
between us, and sinful hard it was, for two of 'em had to be carried
the whole way. Moran, meanwhile, coaxed the team on to the
swaying bridge, until the wagon was fairly in the middle of it;
i then we outspanned the horses and led them across, glancing back
fearfully. There they came, those black fiends of the pit, a bare
hundred yards away, sprinting full lick now that they saw we were
halted and apparently stuck. They set up a great yell of "Suthu}"
as they tore in towards the bridge, and Moran, who had been
^* . 285
working in the wagon, jumped down and ran across to the little
cluster of boulders where we had laid the wounded.
He dropped down beside me, looking back at the wagon; it was
perhaps thirty yards off, with the waxed brown packet of gunpowder
sitting on top of the ammunition boxes, and the tiny white
primer fixed to the side of the packet. With a rifle, I might have
hit it myself; all he had was a handgun.
"Well, here's luck," says he. "One shot'll have to do it."
He was right, I realised, and my mouth was parched with fear. If
he missed the primer, his shot would hit the powder packet, but that
wouldn' t explode it. It would just knock it over, and the primer would
go God knew where. And the first Zulu was racing on to the bridge,
shield aloft in triumph, with his hideous legion shrieking at his heels.
"Gather round, dear boys," murmurs Moran, cocking his pistol.
"Get yourselves nice and comfy round the bonfire . . . Christ!"
His head jerked up, the colour draining from his face. It may
have been a puff of wind, or perhaps the Zulus swarming past the
wagon on that shaky bridge had disturbed it - but the front flap
of the canvas cover suddenly swung across, momentarily hiding
the tiny white target. It flapped again - for a split second the primer
was visible - the first half-dozen Zulus were past the wagon and
within three strides of the solid ground, assegais gleaming and
knobkemes brandished - howling black faces - another flap of
the canvas - the crash of Moran's revolver - and with a roar
of thunder the wagon, the bridge, and everything on it dissolved
in a great blast of orange flame. I was hurled flat, my ears deafened
and singing; a piece of timber clattered against the rock beside
me. I came dizzily to my feet, to stare at the empty ravine, with
a great black cloud billowing in the air above it, a few shreds of
rope and timber dangling from the far lip, and on this side, lying
in the dust, a single assegai.
Moran reversed his revolver in his hand and pushed it into the
back of his sash. Then he tilted his hat back and flicked his forefinger
at its brim.
"Bayete, Udloko," says he softly. "I do like a snap shot, though.
Give the gentleman a coconut."
* * *
286
rfaat was in '79, my first acquaintance with Tiger Jack, and it was
to last only a few more feverish hours which I'll describe at length
some other day, for they don't matter to the Tiger's tale, which is
strange enough without Rorke's Drift to interrupt it. That was a
nightmare in its own right, if you like - worse than Little Hand
or Greasy Grass, for at least at those I'd been able to run. Why,
at the Drift there wasn't even room to hide, and it'll make a ghastly
chapter of its own in my African odyssey, if I can set it down
before drink and senility carry me off.
Enough for the moment to say that Moran and I were driven absolutely into that beastly carnage. You see, with our wagon
blown to pieces he and I lit out on two of the draught screws,
leaving the wounded in a dry cave, Moran intent on fetching help
for them. Flashy merely fleeing in his wake - and as dark fell we
blundered slap into an impi, for the hills were full of the brutes
by now. Then it was head down and heels in, nip and tuck for our
lives through the Zulu-infested night with the fiends howling at
our heels, and suddenly Moran was yelling and making for a
burning building dead ahead, with all hell breaking loose around
it, Zulus by the hundred and shots blazing, and there was nothing
|; for it but to follow as he went careering through scrub and bushes,
putting his beast to a stone wall, and then a barricade where black
bodies and red coats were hacking and slashing in the fire-glare,
bayonet against assegai, and my screw took the wall but baulked
at the barricade, which I cleared in a frantic dive, launching myself ^ from a pile of Zulu corpses, landing head first on the smoking
veranda of what had been the post hospital, going clean through
the charred floor, and being hauled half-conscious from the smouldering
wreckage by a huge cove with a red beard who left off
pistolling to ask me where the dooce I'd come from. I inquired,
at the top of my voice, where the hell I was, and between shots
he told me.
That, briefly, is how I came to join the garrison at Rorke's
Drift - and all the world knows what happened there. A hundred
Warwickshire Welshmen and a handful of invalids stopped four
thousand Udloko and Tulwana Zulus in bloody shambles at the
mealie-bag ramparts, hammer and tongs and no quarter through
that ghastly night with the burning hospital turning the wreckage
' 287of the little outpost into a fair semblance of Hell, and Flashv
seeking in vain for a quiet corner - which I thought I'd found
once, on the thatch of the commissariat store, and damned if they didn't set fire to that, too. Eleven Victoria Crosses they won, Chard
with his beard scorched, Bromhead stone-deaf, and those ragged
Taffies half-dead on their feet, but not too done to fight - oh, and
talk. As an unworthy holder of that Cross myself, I'll say they
earned them, and as much glory as you like, for there never was
a stand like it in all the history of war. For they didn't only
stand against impossible odds, you see - they stood and won, the
garrulous little buggers, and not just 'cos they had Martinis against
spears and clubs and a few muskets; they beat 'em hand to hand
too, steel against steel at the barricades, and John Zulu gave them
best. Well, you know what I think of heroism, and I can't abide
leeks, but I wear a daffodil as my buttonhole on Davy's Day, for
Rorke's Drift.8
But that's not to my purpose with Tiger Jack. He was in the
thick of it, though I didn't even glimpse him from the time we
jumped the barricades, until next morning, when the impis had
drawn off, leaving us to lick our wounds among the smoking
ruins. It was only then that we learned each other's name, when Chelmsford, who'd been traipsing out yonder with his column,
rode in. When everyone had done cheering, he spotted me, and
made me known to Chard and Bromhead, and that was when
Moran, who was sitting by on a biscuit box cleaning his Remington,
came suddenly to his feet, and for once the sliding blue eyes stared
straight at me in astonishment. Presently he came over.
"Flashman? Not Sir Harry . . . Kabul, and the Light Brigade?"
I'm used to it; not the least irony of my undetected poltroonery
is the awe my fearsome reputation inspires. They always stare, as
Moran did, if not so intently. For a moment he even paled, and
then the thin mouth was half-smiling again, and his eyes shifted
away.
"Well, think o' that," says he, and chewed his lip. "I'd never
have recognised you. By Jove -" and he gave a queer little laugh
"- if I'd only known."
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, with that quick,
feline stride and the Remington on his hip, out of my life for the
288
next fifteen years. When he walked back in, it was in a place as
different from Rorke's Drift as anything on this earth could be.
Instead of a smoking, blood-stained ruin, there was the plush and
gilt of the circle bar at the St James's Theatre, instead of the Sapper jacket and .44 revolver there was an opera cloak and silver-mounted
cane, and instead of dead Zulus for company there was Oscar
Wilde. (I make no comparisons.)
It was pure chance I was at that theatre at all - or even in
London, for it was still winter, when Elspeth and I prefer to snug
up cosily at our Leicestershire place, where the drink and vittles
are of the best, and we can snarl at each other comfortably. But
she had insisted we go up to Town for the Macmillan christening9 - being Scotch herself, and fancying that she occupied a place in
Society, she was forever burdening other unfortunate Caledonians
with her presence - and I didn't mind too much; I'd heard rumours
from friends in the know that there was to be a monstrous increase
in death duties at the next Budget, and being in my seventy-second
year by then, with a fat sum in the bank, it seemed sensible to
squander as much among the fleshpots as we indecently could.
So to Town we went, and in between brandy-soaked evenings
with old comrades and hopeful prowlings after a new generation
of loose women, I allowed myself to be talked into escorting
my grand-daughter to the theatre to see Mrs Campbell drivelling
abominably in Mrs Tanqueray. I'd much have preferred going to
watch Nala Damajanti and her Amazing Snakes at the Palace, or
the corsetted fat bottoms and tits in George Edwardes' show, but
being a besotted grandparent I'd have let my little Selina coax me
into watching three hours of steady rain and been happy. She was
a little darling, and the apple of my bleary old eye - how my son, as
unpromising a prig as ever saddened a father's heart by becoming a
parson, could have sired such an angel, I've never been able to
fathom. I call her little, but in fact she was one of your tall, stately
beauties, with raven black hair (like mine, once), eyes flashing
dark as a gypsy's, and a face that could change from classical
perfection to sparkling mischief in an instant. She was just nineteen
then, a lovely, lively innocent, and I watched her like a jealous
hawk where the Society boys were concerned - I know what I ^s like when I was their age, and I wasn't having the dirty young
289
rips lechering round my little Selly. Besides, she was officially affianced to young Randall Stanger, a titled muttonhead in the
Guards, and their forthcoming nuptials would be quite an event of
the Season.
She was chattering happily as we came put after the third act
and caught the eye of the bold Oscar, who was holding forth
languidly to a group of his fritillaries near the bar entrance, looking
as usual like an overfed trout in a toupe. He and I had known each
other more or less since the days when I was being pursued by
Lily Langtry; as I went past now, trying not to notice him, with
Selly on my arm, he nudged one of his myrmidons and said sotto
voce'.
"Strange, how desire doth so outrun performance," and then,'
pretending just to notice me: "Why, General Flashman! In London
out of season? That can only mean that all the hares and foxes
have left the country, or the French are invading it." His group of
harumphrodites all tittered at this, and the fat posturer waved his
gold-tipped cigarette, well pleased with his insolence. I looked at
him.
"Quoting Shakespeare, Oscar?" says I. "Pity you don't crib
him more often. Get better notices, what? My dear," says I to
Selly, "this is Mr Wilde, who writes comic material for the halls.
My grand-daughter, Miss Selina Flashman."
"You grandchild? Incredible!" drawls he. "But delightful beautiful!
Why, if dear Bosie were here, instead of indulging himself
so selfishly in Italy, he would write verses to you, ma'mselle
- verses like purple blooms in a caliph's garden. I would write
them myself, but my new play, you know ..." He pressed her
hand, with his fruity smile. "And I see, dear Miss Flashman, that
you are discriminating as well as beautiful - you have had the
excellent taste to choose as your grandfather one of the few civilised
generals in the British Army." He waited for her look of
surprise. "He never won a battle, you know. May I present Mr
Beasley10 ... Mr Bruce ... Mr Gaston ... Colonel Moran ..."
He turned her with a flutter of his plump hand to his toadies,
and gave me his drooping insolent stare. "Do you know, my dear
Sir Harry, I believe I have a splendid idea. I might - " he poked
his gilded cigarette at me " -1 might confer on you an immortality
290
auite beyond your desserts. I might put you in a play - assuming
the Lord Chamberlain had no objection. Think what a stir that
would create at the Horse Guards." He gave a mincing little titter.
"You do. Father Oscar,"" says I, "and I'll certainly confer
immortality on you."
"How so?" cries he, affecting astonishment.
"I'll kick you straight in the tinklers - assuming you've got
any," says I. "Think what a stir that'll create in the Cafe Royal."
I turned to Selly, who was out of earshot, listening to what one
of Oscar's creatures was saying. "Come, my dear. Our carriage
will be -" And that was the moment when I found myself looking
at Moran.
He was on the fringe of Oscar's group - and so out of place
among that posy of simpering pimps that I wonder I hadn't noticed
him earlier. But now recognition was instant, and mutual. His hair
had gone, save a grey fringe about the ears, the splendid moustache
was snow-white, and the lined brown face had turned boozer's
red, but there was no mistaking that hawk nose and the bright,
shifting eyes. Dress him how and where you liked, he was still
Tiger Jack.
He was looking at me with that odd quirky little smile at the
I corner of his thin mouth, and then the blue eyes turned from me
to Selina, who was laughing happily at what someone was saying,
fluttering her fan before her white shoulders, teasing the speaker
innocently. Moran looked at her for a moment, and when his eyes
came back to mine he was grinning - and it wasn't a nice grin.
Now all this happened in an instant, while I was recognising
him, and realising that he had recognised me. There was a second's
pause, and then as I was about to move forward and greet him he
stepped quickly back, murmuring an excuse to Selly and the others,
and slipped into the bar. I didn't know what to make of it, but it
seemed damned odd behaviour; however, it didn't matter, and
Selly was taking my arm and murmuring farewells, so I exchanged
I another disgusted glare with Wilde and led her away. She had
noticed, though - sharp little creature that she was.
'Why did that gentleman - Colonel Moran - hurry off so suddenly?"
says she, when we were in the carriage. "I'm sure he blew you."
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"He did," says I. "At least, we met once - in a war."
"But then, so many of these people seem to behave . . . most
curiously," says Selly. "Mr Oscar Wilde, for instance - is he not
a very strange person, gramps?"
"That's one way of putting it," says I. "And don't call rng 'gramps', young woman; I'm grandpapa."
Now, why the blazes should Moran have avoided me? Lots of
fellows do, of course, but he had no earthly reason that I could
think of. We'd met only once, as you know, and been comrades-inarms
after a fashion - indeed, he'd saved my life. It seemed odd,
and I puzzled over it for a while, but then gave it up, and was
snoozing in my corner of the carriage and had to be roused by a
giggling Selina when we reached home in Berkeley Square.
Moran wasn't alone in giving me the cold shoulder at that time,
though. Only a couple of days after the theatre I was cut stone
dead by someone a deal more important - the Prince of Wales,
no less, shied violently away from me in the United Service cardroom,
and hightailed it as fast as his ponderous guts would let
him, giving me a shifty squint over his shoulder as he went. That,
I confess, I found pretty raw. It's embarrassing enough to be cut
by the most vulgar man in Europe, but when he is also a Prince
who is deeply in your debt you begin to wonder what royalty's
coming to. For if ever anyone had cause to be grateful to me, it
was Beastly Bertie; not only had I done my bit to guide his youthful
footsteps along the path of vice and loose living (not that he'd
needed much coaching), I'd even resigned Lily Langtry in his
favour, turned a deaf ear to rumours that he and my darling Elspeth
had behaved indecorously in a potting-shed, and only three years
earlier had plucked him, only slightly soiled, out of the Tranby
card scandal. If that wasn't enough, he was still using a cosy little
property of mine on Hay Hill to conduct his furtive fornications
with the worst sort of women, duchesses and actresses and the
like. Well, thinks I, as I watched him rolling off, if that's your
gratitude you can take your trollops elsewhere; I'd a good mind
to charge him rent, or corkage. I didn't, of course; a bounder he
might be, but it don't pay to offend the heir to the Throne.
Such rubs apart, I passed the next few weeks agreeably enough.
There was plenty of interest about town, what with a Society
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murder - a young sprig of the nobility called Adair getting himself
shot mysteriously in the West End - and a crisis in the government,
when that dodderer Gladstone finally resigned. I ran into him in
the lavatory of the Reform Club - not a place I belong to, you
understand, but I'd been to a champagne and lobster supper in
St James's, and just looked in to unload. Gladstone was standing
brooding over a basin in a nonconformist way, offensively sober
as usual, when I staggered along, middling tight.
"Hollo, old "un," says I. "Marching orders at last, hey? Ne'er
mind, it happens to all of us. It's this damned Irish business, I
suppose -" for as you know, he was always fussing over Ireland;
no one knew what to do about it, and while the Paddies seemed
to be in favour of leaving the place and going to America, Gladstone
was trying to make 'em keep it; something like that.
"Where you went wrong," I told him, "was in not giving the
place back to the Pope long ago, and apologising for the condition
it's in. Fact."
He stood glaring at me with a face like a door-knocker.
"Good-night, General Flashman," he snapped, and I just sank
I my head on the basin and cried: "Oh, God, what a loss Palmerston
^^^was!" while he stumped off, and took to his bed in Brighton.12
^| However, that's by the way: I must return to the matter of
Colonel Tiger Jack Moran, who had gone clean out of my mind
after that fleeting glimpse of him at the theatre, until a dirty night
at the end of March, when I was sitting up late reading, Elspeth
having taken herself off to bed with the new serial story. The house
was still, the fire almost out, and I was drowsing over the paper,
which was full of interesting items about the Matabele war, and
the Sanitation Conference in Paris, and news of an action by the
Frogs against my old chums the Touaregs at Timbuctoo, in which
large numbers of sheep had been captured,13 when Shadwell, the
butler, came in all agog to say that my grand-daughter was here,
^and must see me.
'At this hour?" says I, and then she came fluttering into the
room in a rush of pink ball-gown, her lovely little face staring
with woe, and fairly flung herself on my chest, crying:
Oh, grandpapa, grandpapa, what shall I do? Oh, gramps, please
help me-please!"
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"In God's name, Selina!" says I, staggered. I waved the goggling
Shadwell out of the room, and sat her down, all trembling
in a chair. "My dear child, whatever's the matter?"
For a moment she couldn't tell me, but could only sit shuddering
and sobbing and biting her lip, so I pushed a tot of brandy into
her, and when she had coughed and swallowed she lifted her
tear-streaked face and caught my hand.
"Oh, gramps, I don't know what to do! It is the most dreadful
thing - I think I shall die!" She took a great sobbing breath. "It
is Randall - and .. . and Colonel Moran! Oh, what are we to do?"
"Moran?" I was dumfounded. "That fellow we saw at the
theatre? Why, what the dooce has he to do with you, child?"
It took some more sips of brandy, punctuated by wails and tears,
to get the story out of her, and it was a beauty, if you like.
Apparently Moran was well known in gaming circles in Town,
and made a practice of inveigling young idiots to play with him
- that solved the mystery of why he'd been in Oscar Wilde's
company; there was never any lack of rich and witless young
gulls round Oscar. And among the spring lambs he'd fleeced was
Selina's intended, Randall Stanger; by what she said, Moran had
got into him for a cool few thou'.
"In God's name, girl, if it's only money-" I was crying out
in relief, but it was worse than that; fatally worse. The half-wit
Randall, afraid to tell his lordly Papa, had set out to recoup his
losses, using regimental money, heaven help us, and had lost that,
too. Which was black ruin, and disgrace, when the thing was
detected, as it would be.
However, I'm an old hand at scandals, as you may guess. How
much? I asked her briskly, and she bleated out, picking her fan to
pieces: twelve thousand. I swallowed hard and said, well, Randall
shall have it from my bank tomorrow - he can pay off Moran,
and put whatever is necessary back into his mess funds double
quick, and no one'll be the wiser. (What the blazes, I'm not a
charitable man, but the young fool was going to be my grandsonin-law.)
Would
you believe it, she just wailed the louder, shaking her
head and sobbing that it wouldn't save him - nothing would.
"Colonel Moran knows - he knows where Randall has got the
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money from, and promises to expose him . . . unless . . ." She
buried her face in the cushions, bawling fit to break her stays.
"Unless what, confound it? What does he want, except his
money?"
"Unless . . . unless . . ." says she, gazing at me with those great
tear-filled eyes. "Unless ... I ... oh, gramps, I must die first! He
will expose Randall unless I... submit. . . oh. God! I'm his price!
Don't you see? Oh, what am I to do?"
Well, this was Act Two of "The Villain Still Pursued Her" with
a vengeance, wasn't it just? Not that I disbelieved it for an instant
- show me melodrama, and I'll show you truth, every time. And
I didn't waste effort clutching my brow, exclaiming "The villain
- he shall rue this day!" I could even see Moran's point of view
- I'd played Wicked Jasper myself, in my time, twirling my whiskers
at Beauty and chivvying 'em into bed as the price of my
silence or good will. But this was my own grand-daughter, and
my gorge rose at the thought of her at the mercy of that wicked
old roue. She must be saved, at any cost.
"When do you have to answer him?" I asked.
"Next week," she sobbed. "He will wait only a few days - and then . . . then I must be ... ruined!"
"Does Randall know?" I asked, and she shook her head, snivelling
into her handkerchief. "Well, don't let him know, understand?
No one must know - above all, not your grandmother. Let me see
- first thing is an order on my bank for the twelve thousand, so
that this idiot you're going to marry can square his accounts-"
"But Colonel Moran-" she wailed, beating her little fist.
"I'll see to him, never fear. Now, Selly, all is going to be well,
d'you see? Absolutely well - and you don't have to worry your
pretty head over it, you understand me?" I took her hand and put
my arm round her shoulders and rubbed my old whiskers against
her brow, as I'd done since she was a baby, and she wept on my
shoulder. "Now - you dry your eyes, and let's see your best smile
- no, your best one, I said - there, that's my princess." I wiped
a tear from her cheek, and she flung her arms round my ancient
neck.
"Oh, gramps - you are the dearest grandpapa! I know you will
make it right!" She sniffed in my ear. "Perhaps . . . after all, if
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you offered him more money ... he is such a greedy, odious
person. But you will find a way, won't you?"
That, of course, remained to be seen, and when I'd packed her
off to bed, and sent word round to her fond parents' house that
she'd be staying the night with us, I sought enlightenment in
brandy. I find it helps. Moran, thinks I to myself; evil, lecherous
skunk. I thought of that shifty eye and wicked mouth - aye, he
fitted the part he'd written for himself. Trying to ruin virginity,
was he - and my little Selly's at that, damn him. Well, now, if I
was in his shoes (as I had been, of course) what would make me
forego my dirty designs? Threats of violence? - well, they'd have
worked on me, but they wouldn't on Moran, that was certain. He
was all cold steel and courage, that one; I'd seen him. Money,
then? Aye, I could have been bought off - I had been, in the past.
So - Flashy's bank account was in for another rough shaking.
Well, if needs must, so be it - I couldn't see any other way.
Not that I was resigned to tamely paying up, you understand;
if I could find a way of foiling the swine I'd do it, but I plied my
wits through a bottle and a half by next afternoon, without striking
paydirt. However, until I saw Moran himself, there was nothing
to be done, so I sought out his direction by discreet inquiry, and
early evening found me round at his rooms, off Bond Street, sending
in my card. I was ushered up, and there was the man himself,
very much at his ease, in a most luxuriously fitted den, all leather
and good panels and big game trophies on the walls. Chinese
carpet, too, rot him; his price wasn't going to be a cheap one.
"Well, well," says he, setting his back to the mantel, very
lean and cool. "I half-expected you'd be round, if not quite so
soon."
"All right, Moran," says I, giving him my damn-you stare, and
keeping my tile on. "What's the game?"
"Game, my dear chap? The only game I'm interested in is big
game, what? Reminds me - have you seen that rubbish in The
Times sporting columns - review of some book on shikar'?" He
sauntered forward to his desk, and picked up a paper. "Here we
are - 'No beast, perhaps, is more dangerous than the buffalo.'
What tosh, don't you agree? Why, what buffalo that ever walked
could compare with a wounded leopard, eh? Or a tiger, if it comes
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to that. But maybe you've another opinion?" He gave a short
laugh, and the blue eyes slipped quickly over me. "What d'ye
think of my collection, by the way? Only the best of it here, of
course - rather fine, though. That ibex head, for example, and the
snow leopard beside the window "
"My only interest in your collection," I growled, "is that it
isn't going to contain my granddaughter."
"No?" says he, lightly. "Thought she'd look rather well,
mounted - wouldn't you think? Don't do anything foolish," he
added sharply, as I started to plough forward, snarling at his filthy
insolence. "You're past the age when you can lift your stick to
anyone - not that you could ever have lifted it to me."
My rage was almost choking me as I glared at him, standing so
easy behind his desk, mocking me.
"Listen, you foul kite," says I. "You'll drop this vile . . . affront
you've put on my girl, or by God it'll be the worse for you! I'll
make this town too hot for you, so help me, I will! You think I'm
helpless, do you? You'll find out other-"
"Drop it, you old fool," snaps he. "D'you think you can bluster
at me? Think back to Isan'lwana and ask yourself if I'm the man
to be brow-beaten. Yes - that makes you think twice!" f He was right there; I stood seething helplessly.
"Damn you! All right, then," for I knew it had to come to this,
"what's your price?"
He laughed aloud. "Money? Are you seriously trying to buy
me off? You've a poorer opinion of Miss Selina's charms than
I'd have thought possible in a rake of your experience."
"Blast your lousy tongue - how much?"
He took a cigar from his pocket, lit it coolly while I boiled with
anger, and blew out the match.
"You haven't got that much money," he drawled. "Not-" he
blew smoke across the desk at me " - if you were Moss Abrahams
in person. Oh, don't think it wouldn't give me great pleasure to
beggar you - it would. But I'll enjoy your plump little granddaughter
even more - oh, so much more! She'd be very much my meat in any circumstances - but the fact that she's yours -" he
poked his cigar at me, grinning "- oh, that makes her a prize
indeed!"
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This was beyond all understanding. I gaped at the man, dumfounded.

"What the devil d'you mean? That she's my grandchild - what
has that to do with it, in God's name? What have I ever done to
you? I don't even know you, hardly - and you saved my skin in
Zululand, didn't you?"
"Aye," says he. "If I'd only known, though - who you were!
Remember, I told you at Rorke's Drift? But I didn't know - by
God, if I had, you'd never have come over the Buffalo alive!"
And for once the eyes were steady, glaring hate at me. I couldn't
fathom it.
"What the blazes are you talking about? Good God above, man,
what the devil have you got against me? I've never injured you or
if you think I have, I swear I don't know about it! What is it,
damn you?" He said not a word. "And whatever it is, what's my
Selina to do with anything? Why should you want to harm her,
you bastard? An innocent - dear God, have you no decency? And
I? What have I done - ? "
"You don't know, do you?" says he, softly. "You truly don't.
But then - how should you? How would you remember - out of
all the vile things you've done - why should you remember . .. meT
This was beyond comprehension; I wondered was the fellow a
lunatic. But mad or not, there was that in his baleful stare that
terrified me - for Selly as much as for myself.
"Shall I remind you?" says he, and his voice grated like gravel.
"You think we met for the first time in Zululand, do you?" He
shook his head. "Oh, no, Flashman. Cast your mind back .. -
forty-five years. A long time, eh? D'you remember an African
slave-ship, called the Balliol College, trading into the Dahomey
coast? A ship commanded by a human devil called John Charity
Spring, M.A.? A ship on which you, Flashman, served as supercargo?
D'you remember?"
Did I not? I'd never forget it.
"But ... but what has that to do with - you? Why, you can
only have been a child in those days - "
"Aye - a child!" he roared, suddenly, crashing his fist on the
desk. "A child of fourteen - that's what I was!" His face was
298
crimson, working with fury, but he mastered himself and went on,
in a rasping whisper:
"You remember an expedition upriver - to the village of King
Gezo, who sold niggers to Spring? You remember that death-house,
built of skulls, and the human sacrifices, and those savage Amazon
women who were Gezo's bodyguard? D'you remember? Oh,
yes, I see that you do. And d'you remember the bargain that
monster Spring struck with that monster Gezo - half a dozen
Amazon women to be sold into slavery in exchange for a case
of Adams revolvers which you -" his finger stabbed out at me
"- demonstrated for that black fiend?"
As clear as day I could see it - the hideous Gezo leaping up
and down on his stool, slobbering in excitement, with those great
black fighting-women ranged by his throne; I could feel the Adams
kicking in my fist as I blew holes in the skull wall for his edification.
"Six women in exchange for a case of revolvers and - what
else?" Moran's face was terrible to see. "What turned the scale
in that infamous bargain - d'you recall? Again, I see you do."
His voice was barely audible. "Gezo demanded that Spring's
cabin-boy be left with him - as a slave. And Spring, and you, and
the rest of that hell-ship's crew - you agreed, and left the child
behind." He straightened up from the desk. "I was that boy."
It was beyond belief. It couldn't be true, not for a minute . . .
but even as the denial sprang to my lips, my wits were telling me
that no one - no one on earth, could have known the details of
that shameful transaction of Spring's, unless he'd been there. And
yet. . .
"But that's moonshine!" I cried. "Why, I remember that boy
~ a snivelling little Cockney guttersnipe with a cross-eye . . . nothing
like you! And, damnation, you were educated at Eton - I
looked you up in Who's Who!"
"Quite true," says he. "And like many a public school boy
before me - and many since - I ran away . .. don't tell me you
never drove some panic-stricken little fag to do the same at Rugby.
Oh, yes, I ran - and thought it would be a fine thing to go for a
ship's boy, and seek my fortune. I was a good enough actor, even
then, to fake a Whitechapel whine - the genteel Captain Spring
would never have shipped a little gentleman as cabin-boy, now
299
would he?" The sneer whthed at the corner of his mouth. "But
he was ready enough to drug him with native beer and sell him
as a slave to that unspeakable savage, in exchange for a gaggle of
half-naked black sluts! Oh, aye, you were all willing enough for
that!"
"It's a lie!" cries I. "It was all Spring's idea - I knew nothing of it! Why, I even pleaded with him, I remember - but it was too
late, don't you see-? "
"Pleaded?" he scoffed. "When did you ever plead for anything
except your own miserable self? What did you care, if a white
child was left to the mercy of that .. . that gross black brute?"
His eyes were darting about the room as he spoke, and his hand
was shaking on the desk-top. "Two years I endured there - two
years in that rotting jungle hell, praying for death, kicked and
scourged and tortured by those animals . . . aye, you can stare in
horror, you that left me to it! Two years - before I had the courage
to run again, and by God's grace was picked up by Portugee
slavers, who carried me to the coast. Portugee scum, mark you
- they saved me from the fate I'd been doomed to by fellow
Englishmen."
"But I'd no hand in that! I tell you, it was no fault of mine!
By God, it must have been frightful, Moran - I don't wonder
you're . . . well, upset. . . perfectly appalling, on my word ... but
it was all Charity Spring's doing, don't you see? I'm clean innocent
- you can't bear me a grudge for what that scoundrel did! Why,
he'd kidnapped me, in the first place "
"Spring's long gone to his account," says he, and laughed
harshly. "So have several others. Oh, yes, I marked you all down
for settlement." For a fleeting second he met my eye. "You remember
Sullivan, the Yankee bucko mate? I got him in Galveston in
'69.'4 And the surgeon - what was his name? An Irishman. He
went in Bombay. I took 'em as I found 'em, you see - and while
I was making my own career, in the Indian Army, I often thought
about you. But I never had the chance - till now."
There was a moment's silence, while I stood like a snared rabbit,
too stunned and scared to speak, and he went on.
"But you're too old to be worth killing, Flashman. Oh, it would
be easy enough - you've seen me, and you possibly know I'm
300
rated the best big-game shot in India, if not the world. If General
Flashman were found with his head blown off on his Leicestershire
estate - who'd ever suspect the eminent and respectable Colonel
John Sebastian Moran?" He sneered and shook his head. "Poor
sport. But little Miss Selina - there's a worthwhile quarry, if you
like. I saw how to strike at you, the night I saw her at the theatre.
And you, you foul old tyke, can do nothing about it. For if she
shrinks from me at the last - well, young Stanger's name will be
blasted, and her hopes with it - and yours. A splendid scandal
there'll be." He leaned against the mantel again, his thumbs in his
weskit, and gloated at me. "Either way, you'll pay - for what you
did to me. Personally, I think the young lady will save her lover's
honour at the expense of her own - I hope so, anyway. But I don't
much mind."
This was appalling - for the fellow was mad, I was sure, eaten
up with his hatred and lust for vengeance. And he had marked
down Selly, to strike at me ... and he was right, she'd sacrifice
herself to shame to save Stanger - and if she didn't, his life and
hers would both be ruined. I could have wept, at the thought of
her frail, tender innocence at the mercy of this crazy, murderous
ogre - I absolutely did weep, begging him to accept any price,
offering to ransom her as high as twenty thousand, or thirty (I
[called a halt there, I remember), promising to use my influence to
obtain him patronage, or a title, literally pleading at the swine's
feet and drawing his attention to my white hairs and old age - and
he simply laughed at me.
So I raged at him, threatening, vowing I'd be his ruin somehow
- I'd kill him, I said, even if I swung for it, and he just jeered in
my face.
"Oh, how I wish you'd try! How I would admire to see that!
Go home and get your pistol and your black mask, and collect a
gang of bullies - why don't you? Or cross the Channel with me,
and we'll shoot it out on the sands! I can just see that! You pathetic
I old corpse!"
In the end he kicked me out, and I slunk off home in a rage of
such fear and frustration and misery as I've seldom felt before. I
was helpless - he couldn't be bought, he couldn't be moved, he
couldn't be bullied or bluffed. He was even invulnerable against
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the last resort of violence - oh, he might be near sixty, but his
hand was still rock-steady and his eye clear, and even if there had
been such a thing as a hired gun in the Home Counties, what
chance would he have stood against the lightning skill I'd seen
proved on Ketshwayo's Zulus? No - Moran held all the aces. And
Selina, my precious little darling, was doomed. I went home and
drank myself blind.
You may think, for a man who puts a fairly low price on maiden
virtue, that I was getting into a rare sweat at the thought of her
being deflowered by Moran. But your own flesh and blood is
something different; she wasn't like the women of my youth most
of whom had been a pretty loose set, anyway. She was sweet
and gentle and from a different stable altogether - the thought of
Moran subjecting her brought me out in a sweat of horror. Damn
Stanger, for his idiocy, and damn Gezo, for not cutting Moran's
whelp throat when he had the chance. Careless old swine. But
there was no use cursing; I had to think, and if necessary (shocking
thought) to act. And after an unconscionable amount of drink and
heart-searching, I realised that I was going to have to kill Moran.
Maybe it was senile decay that brought me to this awful conclusion;
I don't know. I've been desperately driven in my time,
and done some wild things, coward and all that I am; I can only
say that it seemed worth the risk for Selina's sake. Risk? Certainty,
where Moran was concerned - and yet, need it be so certain?
Granted he was the deadliest hand with a gun I'd ever seen - he was
bound to turn his back sometime. And London wasn't Zululand, or
Abilene of the old days; no one expects to be shot in the back on
Half Moon Street. A man in disguise, on a dark April night, if he
shadowed his victim carefully, and bided his time, might get off
the necessary shots and then slide into cover - our bobbies ain't
used to that sort of thing, thank God. It was desperate, but it was
possible - I'd had more experience of skulking and shooting from
cover than I cared to think of, and - but, dear God, I was an old
man, and getting feeble, and half-fuddled with drink, and scared
blue into the bargain. I sat there, maudlin, drivelling to myself and
looking at Selly's picture.
Then I put the bottle away, and went upstairs and rooted through
my old clothes, and found myself opening a certain drawer. There
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they were: the old German revolver with which I'd shot my way out
of Fort Raim dungeon; the Navy Colt that I'd blazed away with, eyes
shut, at Gettysburg; the Khyber knife I'd got from Ilderim Khan in
the Mutiny; the scarred old double-action Bulldog, and the neat little
Galand pocket pistol - it had four rounds in it, too, confound it.15 Well, if I ever summoned up the nerve to draw a bead on Moran, I'd
sure as hell not have the chance to use more than four rounds. He'd
be blasting back after just one - happy thought, though: maybe he
didn't travel heeled. Not many London clubmen do - by Jove, if
he was unarmed, that would be famous! And then a quick hobble
round the corner, into the dark - why not?
It was at this point, as I said at the beginning of my story, that
I decided murder is a chancy thing for a septuagenarian coward.
I teetered on the brink, fearfully, and then I thought, what the
devil, even if Palmer gets his Old Age Pension bill through, I
still won't qualify, because it specifically excludes drunkards from
benefit.'6 Selly's worth it, says I, snuffling to myself. And so the
die was cast.
Once I'm committed, I don't do things by halves. I would have
to settle the business at night, in the best disguise I could find, so
I sorted out some of the motley garments I'd brought back from my
travels and set about turning myself into an elderly down-at-heel of
the kind that slinks round the West End streets, picking up cigar
butts and sleeping in areas. It wasn't difficult - in my time I've
impersonated everything from a bronco Apache to a prince consort,
and with my grey hairs I was halfway there.
So that was easy; the next thing was to decide where I was
going to dry-gulch Moran. I had a week at most at my disposal,
so for three or four nights I set off stealthily after dark, dressed
in an ancient pea-jacket and patched unmentionables, with a muffler
and billycock hat and cracked boots, Galand in one pocket
and flask in t'other, skulking round Conduit Street to see what his
movements were. I was in a putrid state of funk, of course, but
even so I felt downright ridiculous - hanging about waiting to
murder someone, at my time of life.
For two nights I never saw hide nor hair of him, and then on
the Tuesday he broke cover, shortly after six, and I trailed him to
a cab on Bond Street and lost him - for I couldn't take a cab in
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pursuit; dressed as I was, any self-respecting cabby would have
taken his whip to me, and if I'd tried to run after him I'd have
been lying on the pavement wheezing my guts up inside ten yards.
So that was another wasted night, but on the Wednesday he decided
to walk, jauntering out of his rooms in full evening fig and strolling
all the way to St James's, where he spent four hours at the Bagatelle
- dealing 'em off the bottom, no doubt. Then he took a cab home,
and I was dished again.
This was desperate, I decided. There hadn't been a chance, so
far, to do him more mischief than curse, and nights spent hanging
around street-comers had sapped my resolution abominably, as
well as giving me the cold. I was having the deuce of a job getting
in and out undetected at home, too, and to make matters worse I
had a distraught Selly on my hands on Thursday morning, wanting
to know what was to be done. She'd had a note from the swine;
it simply said: "Well? M."
The poor creature was nearly distracted with fear, and it was all
I could do to stop her having hysterics, which my wife would
certainly have heard. But one thing the sight of her distress did
for me: I resolved that if Tiger Jack Moran was still alive on Friday
morning, it wouldn't be for want of effort on my part. If the worst
came to the worst I'd stalk him home that Thursday night and kill
him on his own front-door step and take my chance. (That's what
being a doting grandparent can do to you.)
I was late on my beat that night, though, on account of being
dragooned into standing up with the Connaughts at the Army's
football challenge match at Aldershot in the afternoon17 - two sets
of hooligans hacking each other in the mud - and it was near eight
before I got on post in my rags, huddled in a doorway nipping at
my pint flask of spirits with a quaking heart. But just on nine
Moran came out, in opera hat and lined cloak, swinging his long
cane jauntily. He strolled by within a yard of me; for a moment
the gaslight fell on that fierce hawk profile and sprouting moustache,
and I felt my innards turn to jelly, and then he was past.
One odd thing I noticed; under one arm he carried a flat case. But
I was too taken up with considering the loose, fit stride of the man,
and the graceful way he carried himself - he looked as dangerous
as they come - to worry about trifles.
304
I thought he might be for the clubs again, but to my surprise he
turned up Oxford Street, sauntering calmly along, and then made
north. I couldn't figure why he hadn't taken a cab; as it was, I had
to move sharper than I cared to keep him in view, and when we
got off Oxford Street, and people were scarcer, I had to hang back
for fear of being spotted, hurrying to catch up whenever he rounded
a corner. This was new territory to me, but I remember we had
crossed Wigmore Street, and then I stopped with my heart racing,
as he paused beside the entrance to a darkened arch and looked
back; he glanced up and down the street - there was hardly a soul
about - and then he turned under the arch and disappeared.
Meanwhile I was having minor fits. I couldn't begin to guess
what he was up to, but I knew it was now or never. I couldn't
hope for a better chance than this, in a network of streets which
were as near to being deserted as central London ever is, with my
quarry moving down a dark alley. I hurried forward as fast as I
could, reached the archway with my lungs bursting, peered cautiously
round the corner, and was in time to see him entering a
doorway under a single guttering gas-flare at the other end. I waited
a few seconds, and then stole forward, the butt of the Galand
greasy with sweat in my hand.
I reached the doorway on tiptoe and paused. It was open. I
strained my ears, and heard his feet creaking on stairs - up, up,
up, turn, and up again. I didn't hesitate - I couldn't; if I waited,
there was no certainty he'd come out again this way, and if I was
to follow him I must do it while his own footsteps would drown
out the sound of mine. I took one last pull at my flask for luck,
and went through the door; the light filtering in showed me the
foot of the stairs, and then I was sneaking up, into the stuffy
darkness, gun out, keeping close to the rickety banisters.
It's a strange thing, but however funky you may be - and I'll
take on all corners in that line - once you're moving there's a kind
of controlled panic that guides your feet; I went up those stairs
like an elderly ghost, holding my breath until I nearly burst, and
crouched on the first landing. I heard his feet across the top landing,
and then recede as though he'd gone into a room - then silence.
That was the worst part. Up there, on the top floor, was not only
as dangerous a man as I'd ever met, but a top-hole shikari, a
305
night-bird, a trained and skilful hunter who could catch the sound
of grass growing. I felt the bile come up in my throat with fear but
I was armed, wasn't I, and he probably wasn't, and I'd been
a pretty useful night-skulker in my time, too. I'd make no more
noise going up than down - and I thought of Selina, and went on
up, slow step after slow step, until my head was on a level with
the top landing. I peeped over the top step - and that was as far
as Flashy was going, no error.
Directly ahead of me was what seemed to be a closet, with the
door ajar, and to its left was an open door. Through this I could
see clear across a room to the window on the far side, and there,
with the street-light beating in on his crouching figure, was Tiger
Jack. He was down on one knee, peering through the glass, and
keeping himself to the side, under cover. He had put off his hat,
and his bald dome shone like a beacon.
It was only now, with a queer shock of surprise, that I found
myself wondering what the devil he was about - creeping into an
empty house in the middle of the night and staring out of windows.
By God, it was fishy, and then as I watched I saw him fumble
with the case he'd been carrying, pick up his cane, and unscrew
its top. There was a scraping sound, and then a soft snap; he
reached out and eased up the sash of the window, and gently
pushed something out through the gap - and my bowels did a
cartwheel as I saw that what his cane had become was the barrel
of a rifle!
Petrified, I could only watch - and then I saw that he was
surveying a window on the other side of the street; a lighted
window, with a man's silhouette clear on the blind. Moran gazed
at it steadily - he was watching for movement, of course, and then
he brought his made-up rifle up to his shoulder, with his right arm
stretched out to the side as he flexed the fingers of his trigger-hand.
Suddenly I realised that this was the moment - the moment that
would never occur again. I didn't know what the hell he was up
to, or who his mysterious victim might be - any devilment was
nuts to Moran, and it didn't matter a darn. What did, was that he
was within twenty feet of me, with his back turned, and every
nerve concentrated on his deadly task. Your bird, old Flash, thinks
I, and I brought up the Galand, cocked it with the trigger back to
306
make no sound, rested my gun-wrist on the top step, and drew a
dead bead on the back of that great bald head.
It isn't often that I've had cause to bless my trembling nerves
- or my unsteady boozer's hand. But by God they saved my neck
then. For even as Moran brought his right hand to the stock of his
rifle, and settled into his aim, my faltering trigger-finger got a fit
of the shakes; my aim wavered, and I paused, sweating - and in
that moment I learned that, old as I was, I was a better shikari
than Moran would ever be. For in that second's pause I realised
something that he hadn't noticed; I can't explain it - call it sixth
sense, or a coward's instinct shaped and refined over a lifetime but
in that second I realised that we were not alone. There was
someone else in the room with him - to the left, in the space
hidden from me, watching him, and waiting.
I lay still as death, my hair rising on my scalp - and then as
Moran hung on his aim there was a plop like a cork exploding
from a champagne bottle and a distant crash of glass. I nearly had
a seizure as a hidden voice bawled: "Now!" and as Moran swung
from the window there was a scramble of feet and two dark shapes
hurled themselves on him, fists swinging like billy-ho, and the
three of them went down in a swearing, yelling tangle. There was
a cry from the street, and a piercing whistle from the room where
Moran was locked in combat with those two fine chaps, and then
more whistles shrilled from below, there was the crash of a door
being hurled back, feet racing on the stairs - and General Sir
Harry Flashman, V.C., K.B., K.C.I.E., was into that closet like an
electrified stoat, hauling the door to behind him and silently gulping
another precious mouthful from his flask to prevent apoplexy.
It sounded like the Household Brigade coming up the stairs,
pounding past my hiding-place into the room where the others
were still wrestling and cursing away; that's it. Tiger, thinks I,
kick the bastards' shins and good luck to you. Then the sounds
faded, and I heard a murmur of voices, too indistinct to be made
out. I didn't mind, crouched in my cupboard with my heart
clattering against my ribs, but then curiosity got the better of me
as usual, and I pushed my door open a crack to listen. A highpitched,
nasal voice was talking, and sounding well pleased with
itself:
307
"... who else did you suppose it was, inspector? Well, well permit
me to introduce Colonel John Sebastian Moran, formerly
of the Indian Army, and the deadliest game shot in either hemisphere.
Tiger Jack, as I believe he was once known - but now
himself bagged at last."
Then Moran broke in, and he was cursing like a steamboat pilot
with his toes in the mangle, until an official voice told him to hold
his tongue, and after some more confused cussing and conversation
which I didn't catch, the high-pitched chap was heard again:
"I believe a comparison of the bullet fired tonight, with that
which was found in the body of Ronald Adair, who was murdered
last month, will prove instructive, inspector. It will be for you to
decide, but it seems to me that a charge of murder must certainly
lie . . ."
I went giddy at the words, and the rest of them were lost in the
gurgling of my flask as I clapped it to my lips. Murder! I could
have danced and sung in my closet! They'd got the old swine - I
didn't understand it, of course, or why he should have murdered
the chap Adair whose death had been all through the papers, but
what did it matter? Tiger Jack was for the Newgate polka, by the
sound of it - and Selly was saved, for even if he tried to blacken
young Stanger now, out of spite, who'd mind the yelping of a
convicted felon? And I was out from under, too - I broke into a
cold sweat at the thought of how close I'd been to squeezing my
trigger; it could have been me that they were hauling downstairs
now with the darbies on, full steam for the condemned cell.18
I almost cried from relief in that stuffy closet as I heard them
clattering down and out to the Black Maria; the street door
slammed, I listened, but there wasn't a sound. Very cautiously I
peeped out; all was still as sleep, so I tiptoed carefully down to
the first landing, and leaned on the banisters to still my racing
heart and get my breath back. Selly was safe, Moran was scuppered,
and The
creak of a door overhead gave me such a start I nearly
pitched headlong into the stairwell - dear God, there was someone
still up there!
"But of course, my dear fellow, you shall hear all about it come
along." It was the high-pitched voice again, and at the sound
308
of it I was scuttling frantically down the last flight, into the lane,
and wheezing at high speed towards the arch when I came to a shuddering stop - plumb ahead, in the archway, was the unmistakeable
silhouette of a police constable, feet planted, guarding my
only escape. If I'd had the wind left I'd have squealed aloud then
I saw his back was to me, unsuspecting. But behind me, in
the empty house, voices were descending the stairs; in two seconds
they'd be in view, and I was trapped, helpless, in the alleyway
between them and the Law!
I suppose, if I'd had time for reflection, I could have told myself
that I was doing no wrong, had committed no offence, and could
have faced anyone with a clean conscience. Aye, but there was
the pistol in my pocket, and the likelihood that those interfering
bobbies would have wanted to know who I was, and what business
I had there - God, what a to-do there would be if it was discovered
that the celebrated Sir Harry Flashman was creeping about disguised
as a scarecrow, with a shooting iron in his pocket, at the
scene of an attempted murder! How could I hope to explain avoid
scandal... oh, anyway, when you go about feeling as permanently
guilty as I do, you don't waste time over niceties. At all
costs I must avoid detection; there was only one thing for it - I
was dressed like a soup-kitchen derelict, and in a twinkling I had
poured the rest of my flask down my coat-front, sprawled down
against a convenient grating, and was lying there wheezing like
an intoxicated grampus, trying to look like a stupefied down-andout
who has crept in to class for the night, when the footsteps
turned out of the house and came towards me.
If they've any sense they'll just pass by, thinks I - well, don't
you, when you see some ragged bummaree sleeping it off in the
gutter? But no, curse their nosiness, they didn't. The footsteps
stopped beside me, and I chanced a quick look at 'em through
half-closed lids - a tall, slim cove in a long coat, bare-headed and
^balding, and a big, hulking chap with a bulldog moustache and
|, hard hat. They looked like a poet and a bailiff.
"What's this?" says the bailiff, stooping over me.
"A tramp," says the poet. "One of the flotsam, escaping his
misery in a few hours of drunken slumber."
'Think he's all right?" says the bailiff, rot him, and blow me
309
if he wasn't fumbling for my pulse. "Going at full gallop," says
he, and blast his infernal impudence, he put a hand on my brow.
"My goodness, but he's feverish. D'you think we should get help
for him?"
"You'll get no thanks beyond a flood of curses if you do," says
the poet carelessly. "Really, doctor, even without close examination
my nose can tell me more than your fingers. The fellow is
hopelessly under the influence of drink - and rather inferior drink,
at that, I fancy," says he, stooping and sniffing at the fumes which
were rising from my sodden breast. "Yes, American bourbon,
unless I am mistaken. The odour is quite distinctive - you may
have remarked that to the trained senses, each spirit has its own
peculiar characteristics; I believe I have in the past drawn your
attention to the marked difference between the rich, sugary aroma
of rum, and the more delicate sweet smell of gin," says this amazing
lunatic. "But what now?"
The bailiff, having taken his confounded liberties with my wrist
and brow, was pausing in the act of trying to lift one of my eyelids,
and his next words filled me with panic.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "I believe I know this chap - but
no, it can't be, surely! Only he's uncommonly like that old general
. . . oh, what's-his-name? You know, made such a hash of the
Khartoum business, with Gordon . . . yes, and years ago he won
a great name in Russia, and the Mutiny - V.C. and knighthood it's
on the tip of my tongue "
"My dear fellow," says the high-pitched poet, "I can't imagine
who your general may be - it can hardly be Lord Roberts, I fancy
- but it seems likely that he would choose to sleep in his home
or his club, rather than in an alley. Besides," he went on wearily,
stooping a little closer - and damned unnerving it was, to feel
those two faces peering at me through the gloom, while I tried to
sham insensible - "besides, this is a nautical, not a military man;
he is not English, but either American or German - probably
the latter, since he has certainly studied at a second-rate German
university, but undoubtedly he has been in America quite lately.
He is known to the police, is currently working as a ship's steward,
or in some equally menial capacity at sea - for I observe that he
has declined even from his modest beginnings - and will, unless
310
I am greatly mistaken, be in Hamburg by the beginning of next
week - provided he wakes up in time. More than that," says the
know-all ignoramus, "I cannot tell you from a superficial examination.
Except, of course, for the obvious fact that he found his way
here via Piccadilly Circus."
"Well," says the other doubtfully, "I'm sure you're right, but
he looks extremely like old what's-his-name. But how on earth
can you tell so much about him from so brief a scrutiny?"
"You have not forgotten my methods since we last met, surely?"
says the conceited ass, who I began to suspect was some kind of
maniac. "Very well, apply them. Observe," he went on
impatiently, "that the man wears a pea-jacket, with brass buttons,
which is seldom seen except on sea-faring men. Add that to the
patent fact that he is a German, or German-American - "
"I don't see," began the bailiff, only to be swept aside.
"The duelling scars, doctor! Observe them, quite plain, close to
the ears on either side." He'd sharp eyes, all right, to spot those;
a gift to me from Otto Bismarck, years ago. "They are the unfailing
trade-mark of the German student, and since they have been inexpertly
inflicted - you will note that they are too high - it is not
too much to assume that he received them not at Heidelberg or
Gottingen, but at some less distinguished academy. This suggests
a middle-class beginning from which, obviously, he has descended
to at least the fringes of crime."
"How can you tell that?"
"The fine silver flask in his hand was not honestly acquired by
such a seedy drunkard as this, surely. It is safe to deduce that its
acquisition was only one of many petty pilferings, some of which
must inevitably have attracted the attention of the police."
"Of course! Well, I should have noticed that. But how can you
say he is a ship's steward, or that he has been in America, or that
he's going to Hamburg "
"His appearance, although dissipated, is not entirely unredeemed.
Some care has been taken with the moustache and whiskers, no
doubt to compensate for the ravages which drink and evil living
have stamped on his countenance." I could have struck the arrogant,
prying bastard, but I grimly kept on playing possum. "Again,
the hands are well kept, and the nails, so he is not a simple focsle
311
hand. What, then, but a steward? The boots, although cracked, are
of exceptionally good manufacture - doubtless a gratuity from
some first-class passenger. As to his American sojourn, we have
established that he drinks bourbon whisky, a taste for which is
seldom developed outside the United States. Furthermore, since I
noticed from the shipping lists this morning that the liner Brunnhilde has arrived in London from New York, and will leave on
Saturday for Hamburg, I think we may reasonably conclude, bearing
in mind the other points we have established, that here we
have one of her crew, mis-spending his shore leave."
"Amazing!" cries the bailiff. "And, of course, quite simple
when you explain it. My dear fellow, your uncanny powers have
not deserted you in your absence!"
"I trust they are still equal, at least, to drawing such obvious
inferences as these. And now, doctor, I think we have spent long
enough over this poor, besotted hulk, who, I fear, would have
furnished more interesting material for the meeting of the Inebriation
Society than for us. I think you will admit that this pathetic
shell has little in common with your distinguished Indian general."
"Unhesitatingly!" cries the other oaf, standing up, and as they
sauntered off, leaving me quaking with relief and indignation drunken
ship's dogsbody from a second-rate German university,
indeed! - I heard him ask:
"But how did you know he got here by way of Piccadilly?"
"He reeked of bourbon whisky, which is not easy to obtain
outside the American Bar, and his condition suggested that he had
filled his flask at least once since coming ashore ..."
I waited until the coast was clear, and then creaked to my
feet and hurried homeward, stiff and sore and stinking of brandy
(bourbon, my eye! - as though I'd pollute my liver with that rotgut)
and if my "besotted shell" was in poor shape, my heart was
rejoicing. It had all come right, for little Selly and me, and as I
limped my way towards Berkeley Square I was in capital fettle. I
was even whistling to myself as I loitered past the end of Hay
Hill, and then my roving eye chanced to fall on a certain lighted
window, and I bore up short, thinking hollo, what's this?
For it was my window, in the chambers of my salad days, which
as I've told you I had placed at the convenience of the Prince of
312
Wales for the entertainment of his secret gallops. I remembered
seeing in the morning's paper that he had been due at Charing
Cross that evening from France; by George, thinks I, the randy
little pig can't wait for his English muttons, for all that he must
have been panting after half the skirt dancers of Paris this month
past. No sooner home than he's in the saddle again. I was shaking
my head sadly over such scandalous conduct, when along comes
a cab round the corner from Grafton Street, pulling up at the very
door to my Hay Hill place - it was pretty late by now, and all
quiet, very discreet. Aha, thinks I, here's his little macaroon; let's
see who it is this time, so that we can tattle at the club in the
morning.
So I shuffled close, just as a heavily-veiled lady got out, without
paying the cab, which rattled off at once. That proved it, and as
she crossed the pavement and passed into the entry I was abreast,
glancing in. She pulled off her veil, and shook her hair, just as I
passed, and for a split second I saw her face before she hurried
on. And I staggered, as though from a blow, clutching the railings
and sinking to the pavement. For there was no mistaking; it was
my own grand-daughter, little Selina.
I've been hit hard in my time, but that nearly carried me off.
My own grand-daughter - going up to that pot-bellied satyr! I
sprawled there against the railings, dumfounded. Selina, the wideeyed,
tender innocent - mistress to the revolting Bertie! No, no,
it couldn't be ... why, only that morning she'd been pleading with
me to save her from the embraces of Moran; she'd seemed almost
out of her wits - by George, though, well she might be, if she was
the Prince ofWales's secret pet! She couldn't afford to compromise
herself with half-pay adventurers like Tiger Jack, not if she was
to keep in favour with her royal lover. And she couldn't be mixed
up in scandals over her fiance's pilfering regimental funds, neither.
She had had to get Moran silenced (with my money, she hoped)
if she was to stay topsides with Bertie. No wonder she'd wailed
on my bosom, the designing, wicked little hussy. And I'd been in a lather about her honour - her honour! My own granddaughter.
That, of course, was the point. She was my grand-daughter, and
what's bred in the bone ... oh, but she'd hocussed me properly,
playing shrinking Purity, and I'd been ready to shell out half my
313
fortune - and I'd come within an ace of committing murder for
her. That was the far outside of enough -1 stared up at that lighted
window, bursting with outrage - and then for all my fury I found
I was grinning, and then laughing, as I clung to the railings. Say
what you like; consider that sweet, innocent, butter-melting beauty
and the mind behind it - oh, she was Flashy's little grandchild,
all right, every inch of her.
"Wot's all the row, then?" says a voice, and there was a burly,
bearded copper shining his bull's-eye on me. "Yore tight," says
he.
"No, guv'nor, not a bit," I wheezed. "Just resting."
"Don't gimme none o' your sauce," says he. "This 'ere's a
respectable neighbour'ood - the likes o' you can do yer boozin'
some place else, you follow? Nah then, 'op it."
"Yuss, guv'nor," says I. "Just goin', honnist."
"Orta know better, a man yore age. Look at yerself - proper
disgrace, you are. Don't you old rummies never learn?"
"No," says I. "We never do." And I set off, under his disapproving
eye, across Berkeley Square.
314
NOTES
Paul Kruger (1825-1904), later President of the South African Republic,
claimed that if Lord Chelmsford had taken his advice on Zulu fighting,
Isandhlwana need not have been lost. "Oom Paul" spoke from experience;
he had himself been caught by the speed of a Zulu attack, and survived
only after hand-to-hand fighting inside his laager (square of wagons). (See
J. Martineau's Life of Sir Bartle Frere, 1893.) In fairness to Chelmsford,
the failure to laager was Colonel Dumford's; Rider Haggard, who knew
Dumford well, advances an interesting theory on his tactics in The Tale of
Isandhlwana, but agrees with Kruger that laagering would have saved the
day. [p. 276]
In connection with Flashman's defence of the wagon with his revolvers, it
is interesting to note that one of the Zulu warriors, a son of Chief Sirayo,
later described how he had seen one of the British force, "a very tall man",
keeping up a spirited revolver fire from an empty wagon. "We all said
what a very brave man he was ... he kept his ground for a very long
time." This admittedly does not sound like Flashman, and Mackinnon and
Shadbolt, in The South African Campaign of 1879-80, are probably correct
when they identify the hero as Captain Younghusband of the 24th Regiment.
[P. 277]
This was not the only incident of its kind at Isandhlwana. The editor is
indebted to Colonel John Awdry of Fovant for drawing his attention to the
experience of General (formerly Lieutenant) Smith-Dorrien, one of the
survivors of the battle. During the rout Smith-Dorrien came on a man who
had been kicked by his horse and could not mount; Smith-Dorrien helped
him into the saddle and gave him a knife, and the rider, having promised
to catch a horse for Smith-Dorrien, promptly fled from the battlefield. If
Flashman's account of his own evasion were not so precise, one would be
tempted to identify him with Smith-Dorrien's fugitive. (See The Man Who
Disobeyed, by A. J. Smithers.) [p. 279]
The battle of Isandhlwana (the place of the Little House or Little Hand)
was fought on January 22, 1879, when 1600 British and native troops of
Lord Chelmsford's force invading Zululand were overwhelmed by 20,000
warriors of the impis of King Cetewayo (Ketshwayo). What Flashman was
doing there is a mystery. Earlier in the present volume he refers to a visit
paid to South Africa in connection with a mine (whether gold or diamond
he does not say) belonging to a relative of Lady Flashman's, and there is
315
evidence elsewhere that later he took part in an expedition through
unexplored territory in the interior, but how he came to be involved in
Chelmsford's operations is still unexplained. Usually in his memoirs he is
careful to give full military and political background to his activities, but
in this case he treats Isandhlwana, and the equally famous defence of
Rorke's Drift, as mere incidents in his story, and clarification must wait on
further study of the Flashman Papers, or possibly of Dawns and Departures
of a Soldier's Life, should the missing volumes of that work come to light.
There, it may be, will be found some account of the preliminaries to the
Zulu War - the border friction between the Transvaal Dutch and Cetewayo's
people, Britain's annexation of the Transvaal and failure to settle the border
question, the decision to send in Chelmsford's three columns, the establishment
of the base at Isandhlwana, and Chelmsford's departure thence with
part of his force in the hope of gaining a quick victory over the Zulu army,
while Major Pulleine was left to defend the Isandhlwana camp, only to be
wiped out by a Zulu attack which was entirely unexpected.
Why Flashman treats this notable imperial disaster, and its sequel at
Rorke's Drift, so cursorily is plain enough. His chief concern in this extract
(which came to light more than twenty years ago as a separate fragment
in that packet of his Papers dealing with the Indian Mutiny) is to tell the
story of his dealings with the notorious Colonel John Sebastian ("Tiger
Jack") Moran, and he does not hesitate to pass by great events with little
more than a glance. Thus his description of the Isandhlwana fighting is
sketchy and highly personal. Reading it, one might suppose that hardly any
time elapsed between the first appearance of the Zulus and their final assault
on the camp, but in fact there was much intervening activity. Following
Lord Chelmsford's departure at dawn, various detachments had been sent
out from Pulleine's camp under the Isandhlwana hill as advance pickets
and to deal with small groups of Zulus who had appeared; the largest of
these detachments, Colonel Dumford's, encountered a powerful impi and
was forced to beat a fighting retreat towards the camp, where Pulleine was
already under attack. How Flashman came to be within earshot of Pulleine
and have a view of Dumford, whose retreat had begun some miles away,
one can only guess; no doubt he moved at his customary high speed, and
it is likely that in his recollection of his panic-stricken confusion he has
unwittingly "telescoped" events and time. His description of the battle's
climax accords with other accounts, but he does not mention that the Zulu
advance was held up and badly mauled at various points before the final
overrunning of the British position. The encircling "chest and homs" tactic
was entirely successful, and those of Pulleine's force who escaped the main
action were hunted down the ravine to Fugitives' Drift on the Buffalo
River. (See Rider Haggard's account written for Andrew Lang; Colenso
and Dumford, History of the Zulu War, 1881; Sir Reginald Coupland, Zulu
Battle-Piece, 1948; Donald L. Morris, The Washing of the Spears, 1965;
C. T. Binns' The Last Zulu King; Mackinnon and Shadbolt; and the personal
narrative ofC. L. Norris-Newman, the only journalist to travel with Chelmsford's
force, In Zululand with the British, 1880. An interesting memoir of
316
Zululand during the war is the journal of Cornelius Vjin, a trader who was
in Zulu hands for much of the time, Cetshwavo's Dutchman, 1880.)
[p. 280]
Flashman was right that the Zulus would attack Rorke's Drift, but wrong
in supposing that they would invade Natal. Isandhlwana had been the most
disastrous battle defeat suffered by British troops against native forces in
the nineteenth century - although it was to be matched by the wipe-out of
a brigade by Afghan tribesmen at Maiwand a year later - but it had been
a costly victory for the Zulus, who were finally beaten at Ulundi in July,
1879. [p. 280]
For interesting information on Zulu superstitions, see Frazer's Golden
Bough. In fact, Moran was somewhat out of date; the practice of sending
twins first in battle appears to have died out earlier in the century, in King
Chaka's time. [p. 283]
The pursuing Zulus were certainly soldiers of the Udloko regiment, part of
the Undi corps who formed the right wing of the impis at Isandhlwana.
Their red and white shields were distinctive. The Martini-Henry was a
single-shot weapon, but a good rifleman could fire six rounds in half a
minute, [p. 284]
The siege of the little Buffalo River station at Rorke's Drift began only a
few hours after Isandhlwana, and lasted through the night until the following
morning. The garrison was about 130 strong, and was commanded by
Lieutenant John Chard of the Royal Engineers and Lieutenant Gonvillc
Bromhead of the 24th (Warwickshire) Regiment, largely recruited in Wales,
and later renamed the South Wales Borderers. The attacking Zulu force,
consisting of the Udloko, Tulwana, and 'Ndluyengwe regiments, was at
least 4000 strong. Both sides fought with the utmost bravery from late
afternoon until the climax of the battle at midnight, the Zulus trying to
break into the perimeter hastily improvised of mealie-bags and biscuit
boxes, and being met by the volleys of the defenders' Martini-Henrys.
Savage close-quarter fighting took place at the barricades, and in the hospital,
which caught fire at about six o'clock, when the wounded had to be
evacuated; by midnight the perimeter had shrunk to sixty-five yards in front
of the storehouse. Following as it did on the disaster of Isandhlwana, the
defence of Rorke's Drift became, deservedly, a Victorian legend. Seventeen
of the defenders died, and at least 400 Zulus. Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded.
Flashman's account makes it clear that he and Moran must have reached
the Drift about or eight or nine o'clock, while the hospital was still burning,
and entered the perimeter after jumping the stone wall and the mealie-bag
barricade which had been built to defend the hospital at the western end
of the post. The "huge cove" with the red beard was presumably Chaplain
George Smith, but Flashman is probably mistaken in describing him as
"pistolling", since the Chaplain was foremost in the vital work of carrying
ammunition. (See Michael Glover, Rorke's Drift, 1975, an excellent account
of the siege and its background, and other works cited in these Notes.)
[p. 288]
317
9. The Times of Monday, February 12, 1894, carried under the name Macmillan
a notice of the birth of a boy the previous Saturday; he was subsequently
christened Maurice Harold, [p. 289]
10. Either Flashman's memory or his hearing has played him false. Oscar Wilde
attended a performance of Pinero's The Second Mrs Tanqueray at the
St James's in February, 1894, in the company of Aubrey Beardsley, whom
he wished to present to Mrs Patrick Campbell. (See The Letters of Oscar
Wilde.) His new play, which he mentioned to Selina, would be either An
Ideal Husband, which was in manuscript at that time, or The Importance
of Being Earnest; both were produced in the following year. [p. 290]
11. "Father Oscar". Flashman was needling deliberately; he obviously knew
that Wilde was sensitive about being no longer in the first flush of youth,
and hated being called "Papa" or "Father". (See Lord Alfred Douglas's Oscar Wilde and Myself, 1914.) [p. 291]
12. W. E. Gladstone resigned as Prime Minister, and retired from politics, on
March 3, 1894. [p. 293]
13. The appearance of this item in the press establishes the date as March 29,
1894. Elspeth's serial may have been Under the Red Robe, by Stanley J.
Weyman, which appeared in instalments in the Illustrated London News early in this year. [p. 293]
14. Elsewhere in his memoirs (see Flash for Freedom!) Flashman has suggested
that Sullivan was killed by Charity Spring aboard the Balliol College slaveship
in 1848, during a fight with an American warship; presumably the
mate was only badly wounded, and recovered to fall a victim to Moran
twenty years later, [p. 300]
15. Flashman made reluctant use of an astonishing variety of weaponry during
his adventurous life, but although he makes frequent references to Adams
revolvers there is no evidence that he had any particularly favourite sidearm.
Those listed here appear to have been kept for sentimental rather
than for practical reasons. The most interesting item is "the scarred old
double-action Bulldog", since it was just such a weapon that he used at
Little Big Horn; he had borrowed it from Custer himself, and may even
have accidentally shot the General with it in the heat of battle. But that
gun he flung away in panic, and the mystery remains - how (and why) did
he acquire another like it? Only two of Flashman's side-arms appear to
have survived: his Khyber knife, bequeathed to Mr Paget Morrison, the
custodian of his papers, and a Tranter revolver from Cartwright of Norwich,
engraved with the owner's name, now in the possession of Mr Garry James
of Los Angeles, California, [p. 303]
16. Colonel Palmer's old age pension proposals of 1894 did in fact exclude
anyone convicted of a crime in the previous fifteen years, or of drunkenness
in the previous ten. [p. 303]
17. In the Army Cup Final played on April 5, 1894, the Black Watch beat the
Royal .Artillery, 7-2. The Duchess of Connaught, apparently supported by
General Flashman, presented the cup. [p. 304]
18. Apart from a few minor discrepancies, Flashman's account of Colonel
Moran's movements and arrest on that Thursday night corroborates the
318
celebrated narrative of Dr Watson, who has described the Colonel's capture
in "The Adventure of the Empty House" (see The Return of Sherlock
Holmes, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle). It will be remembered that Moran
was apprehended by Holmes and Watson in the act of trying to murder the
former (who had rigged up a dummy to draw his file); Moran's motive
was revenge (and no doubt fear that Holmes would identify him as the
murderer of the Hon. Ronald Adair, whom Moran had killed some days
previously).
Flashman, of course, had no inkling of all this at the time, as his story
shows. He was not to know that Moran, after retiring from the Indian
Army, had turned his uncanny marksmanship to account by becoming a
professional assassin in the employ of Holmes's arch-enemy. Professor
Moriarty, or that the Colonel eked out his contract fees by cardsharping,
as in the case of Stanger and Adair. After his arrest by Holmes and Watson,
Moran was charged with the Adair murder, but presumably escaped the
gallows, since Dr Watson was still referring to him as "living" in 1902
("The Adventure of the Illustrious Client"), and even suggested that he
was alive in 1914 ("His Last Bow"). (See The Annotated Sherlock Holmes, volume 2, by William S. Baring-Gould. This distinguished work confirms
the date of Moran's arrest given by Flashman - April 5, 1894.)
The main discrepancy between the Watson and Flashman versions is
interesting rather than important: Watson says that Moran fired from the
ground floor of the empty house, while Flashman places him in an upper
storey. The error is probably Watson's. There has been much controversy
among Baker Street addicts about angles of fire, the laws of optics, parabolas,
etc. (see Baring-Gould), but to a rifleman it is obvious that Moran
would have preferred a direct horizontal shot to an upward one, and this
seems to have been the opinion of the artists who illustrated Watson's
account: the celebrated Sidney Paget, in the Strand Magazine of October,
1903, shows Moran looking straight across from his window, and the
drawing of the American illustrator Joseph Camana in 1947 has both marksman
and target on the same level.
Both Watson and Flashman are mistaken about Moran's age. Watson
says he was born in 1840; Flashman, by stating that Moran was fifteen
years his junior, implies that the date was 1837. But since Moran himself
states that he was fourteen in 1848, we must accept that he was born in
1834, which is in keeping with Watson's description of him as "elderly"
and a "fierce old man" in 1894. [p. 308]
