The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I bumped into the sergeant of the guard, accidental-a-purpose. A waxed-moustached old turnip-head who’s so damned military he probably rides his wife by numbers – almost ruptured himself comin’ to attention when I happened by. I played the condescendin’ Junker, commended his turn-out, complimented him on being chosen for such important duty …” he waved his holder airily “… you know the style. The old fool was so flattered he confessed the job was mostly ceremonial, mindin’ the front door, salutin’ the Emperor and so on.

  “‘But you mount night sentries, surely?’ says I. ‘One only, Herr Oberst,’ says he. ‘Ah, patrolling, to be sure,’ says I. ‘By no means, Herr Oberst, a fixed post at the sundial corner only.’ ‘Why there? Can’t tell the time at night!’ says I. Gad, I was genial! Harry – he didn’t know why! Said it was regulations, since God was a boy.”

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

  Too good to be true, indeed – yet, why not? It fitted … if the secret stairway really existed, and I had respect enough for Bismarck’s spy bandobasta to be confident that it did.

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

  “If it is the secret door, and they come that way –”

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

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

  “It’s this way. My room’s next door here, but we’re some way from the Emperor’s quarters. Our corridor leads to the main part of the house, which is like so many of these royal places, one room opening on to another and then another, and so on. But then there’s another passage to the Emperor’s rooms – an ante-room where his orderly sleeps, and then the royal bedchamber 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?”

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

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

  “That means,” says I frowning, “that you’ll tackle ’em alone – one against perhaps three, perhaps more.”

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

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

  “Enough,” says he jauntily. “Cheer up – perhaps they’ll come through the house after all!”

  “And afterwards – how d’you explain that you went for a night stroll with a gun in your pocket?”

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

  “I still don’t like it,” I lied. “We’d be better with two in the garden –”

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

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

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

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

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

  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 Ischl 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 guardhouse 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 will be their best time. We’ll be on the watch from ten, though; they’d hardly come before that.”

  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.b “’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 Starnberg. He was on a hair-trigger, and enjoying every moment of it.

  “Got your piece?” says he. “Good. I’ve had a look-see, and the place is like a tomb. What price Ischl for high jinks, eh? I’d rather have Stockholm on a Sunday! Now, I’ll take you along to your post, which is in the last of the day-rooms from which the passage runs to the Emperor’s billet and the aides’ quarters. There’s a nice 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 firin’ 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 c
omical, “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 Franz-Josef’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, 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 fair 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 garner some credit if only by limping about looking stern and impressing the excitable kraut-eaters with my British phlegm. A little discreet lying when I saw Hutton 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.