“Right royal, Otto,” says he to Bismarck. “He had you feeling like a bad-mannered little schoolboy there, I’ll swear. Bravo, your highness, you’ll do.”
This was rather more familiarity with me than Rudi had allowed himself since my duel with de Gautet. It didn’t matter to me, of course, but Bersonin was shocked, and muttered that Rudi was forgetting himself. It occurred to me then that I was not the only one who was beginning to believe in my own royalty. Anyway, I played up by remarking to Bersonin casually that the Freiherr was still at an age when impudence took precedence before dignity, and was this hock that we were to drink again to night?
Bismarck observed all this impassively, but I felt sure he was secretly impressed by the naturalness of my princely behaviour, and even more by his own momentary reaction to it.
I should say in passing that Bismarck’s appearance that night was a rare one. For days at a time I never saw him, but from casual conversation among the others I gathered that he was frequently in Berlin—he was a member of their Parliament, apparently, when he wasn’t kidnapping useful Englishmen and plotting lèse majesté. I also learned that he had a wife in the capital, which surprised me; somehow I had come to think of him as brooding malevolently in his lonely castle, wishing he was Emperor of Germany. I remembered that Lola had thought he was a cold fish where women were concerned, but it seemed that this was only a pose; before his marriage, apparently, he had been saddling up with all the wenches on his estate and breeding bastards like a buck rabbit. They called him the Schönhausen Ogre in those days, but of late he had been devoting himself to politics and his new wife, Bersonin said, and taking a serious interest in his farm property. A likely tale, thinks I; his only interest in politics was to get personal power, no matter how, and to gorge himself with food, drink, and women along the way. Nasty brute.
However, as I say, we didn’t see much of him, or of anyone else for that matter. They kept me pretty well confined to one wing of the house, and although there must have been servants I never saw one except the old butler. There wasn’t a woman in the place, which was a dead bore, and when I suggested to Rudi that he might whistle up a wench or two to pass the evenings he just shook his head and said it was out of the question.
“Your highness must contain yourself in patience,” says he. “May I respectfully remind you that your wedding is not far off?”
“Thanks very much,” says I. “And may I respectfully remind you that I’m feeling randified now, and in no mood to hold myself in until my wedding to some young German cow who probably looks like a boatswain’s mate.”
“Your highness need have no fears on that score,” says he, and he showed me a portrait of Duchess Irma of Strackenz which I must say cheered me up considerably. She looked very young, and she had one of those cold, narrow disdainful faces that you find on girls who have always had their own way, but she was a beauty, no question. Her hair was long and blonde, and her features very fine and regular; she made me think of a story I remembered from my childhood about a snow princess who had a heart of ice. Well, I could warm this one up, always assuming our enterprise got that far.
“In the meantime,” says I, “what say to some nice, hearty country girl? She could teach me some more German, you know, and I could teach her anatomy.”
But he wouldn’t hear of it.
So the weeks ran by, and I suppose that gradually the nightmare impossibility of my position must have begun to seem less incredible than it looks now, half a century after; whatever happens to you, however far-fetched, you get used to eventually, I’ve found, and when the time came to leave Schönhausen I was ready for it. I was in a fair funk, of course, but so heartily thankful to be getting out of that draughty mausoleum that even the ordeal ahead seemed endurable.
It must have been a week or so after the meeting with Bismarck that I’ve just described that I was summoned late one evening to his library. They were all there, Rudi, Bismarck, and the Three Wise Men, and I knew at once that something was up. Bismarck was still in his greatcoat, with the last snowflakes melting on its shoulders, and a little pool of water forming round each boot as he stood before the fire. He looked me over bleakly, hands behind his back, and then says:
“The scars are still too livid. Any fool can see they are recent.”
This seemed an excellent reason to me for calling off the whole thing, but Kraftstein said in his ponderous way that he could attend to them; he had a salve which could disguise their pinkness and make them look like old wounds. This seemed to satisfy Bismarck, for he grunted and turned to Rudi.
“Otherwise he is ready? He can play the part? Your head depends on this, remember.”
“His highness is ready to resume his duties,” says Rudi.
Bismarck snorted. “His highness! He is an actor, hired to play a part. Better he should remember that, and the consequences of missing a cue—he’ll be less liable to bungle it. Oh, yes Bersonin, I know all about your theories; I prefer realities. And the reality of this, Mr Flashman, is that tomorrow you leave for Strackenz. You know what is to do, the reward of success—and the price of failure.” His cold eyes played over me. “Are you dismayed?”
“Oh, no,” says I. “when it’s all over I intend to go back to England and take the place of Prince Albert, don’t you know.”
Rudi laughed, but I saw Kraftstein shake his head—no doubt he was thinking that I didn’t look enough like Prince Albert to get away with it.
“Sit down,” says Bismarck. “Give him a brandy, de Gautet.” He came to stand at the table head, looking down at me. “Listen to me carefully. When you leave here tomorrow you will be accompanied by Freiherr von Starnberg and de Gautet. They will take you by coach to the rendezvous we have appointed—you need to know nothing more than that it is a country mansion owned by a nobleman who is to play host to Prince Carl Gustaf for one night during his journey to Strackenz. The journey to the house will take two days, but we are allowing three, for safety.
“On the appointed day Carl Gustaf and his retinue will arrive at the mansion in the afternoon. It stands in wooded country, but is easily accessible; you will be waiting for evening, and when it comes von Starnberg and de Gautet will take you into the grounds under cover of darkness. You will be admitted by a man who is one of the only three in the world, outside this room, who is in our plot. His name is Detchard, a Danish minister entirely faithful to me. He will conduct you secretly to the Prince’s apartment; in the meantime von Starnberg will be effecting the … removal of the real Prince. Have I made myself clear so far?”
By God he had, and as I listened all my old fears came galloping back with a vengeance. The thing was obvious lunacy, and this outrageous creature, standing so straight and immaculate in his greatcoat, was a dangerous maniac.
“But … but, look here,” I began, “suppose something goes wrong—I mean, suppose somebody comes …”
He banged his fist on the table and glared at me. “Nothing will go wrong! No one will come! Righteous Lord God! Do you suppose I know nothing? Do you imagine I have not planned every detail? De Gautet! Tell him—what is the name of the serving-maid whose duty it will be to change the Prince’s bed linen while he is at the house?”
“Heidi Gelber,” says de Gautet.
“Starnberg—how do you reach the Prince’s dressing-room from the door where Detchard will admit you?”
“Twelve paces along a passage, up the stairway to the right, left at the first landing, then ten paces along to a passage on the right. The Prince’s dressing-room is the first door on the left.”
“From door to door—fifty seconds,” says Bismarck. “If you wish, I can tell you the precise nature of the furnishings in the Prince’s chamber, and their positions in the room. For example, there is a statuette of a kneeling cupid on the overmantel. Now—are you convinced that my organisation is sound, and my information complete?”
“How do you know that some drunk footman won’t come blundering along in the middle of everyth
ing?” I cried.
I thought he would hit me, but he restrained himself.
“It will not happen,” he said. “Everything will fall out exactly as I have said.”
There was no point in arguing, of course; I sat in despair while he went on.
“Once inside that room, you will be Prince Carl Gustaf. That is the fact of paramount importance. From that moment Flashman no longer exists—you understand? With you will be Detchard and the Prince’s physician, Orsted, who is also privy to our plans. If at any moment you are in doubt, they will guide you. And when you set out next morning on your royal progress across the border into Strackenz, you will find that among the dignitaries who will greet you will be both de Gautet and Starnberg—it has been arranged that they will join your train as gentlemen of honour. So you will not lack for friends,” he added grimly. “Now drink your brandy.”
I gulped it down; I needed it. At the back of my mind I suppose there had still been some futile hope that I would be able to slip out of this at the last moment, but Bismarck had squashed it flat. I was going to have to go through with it, with Rudi and de Gautet hovering alongside ready, at the first false move, to put a bullet into me, I didn’t doubt. Why the hell, I asked myself for the thousandth time, had I ever come to this bloody country?
“The wedding will take place on the day after your arrival in the city of Strackenz,” Bismarck went on, for all the world as though he had been telling me the time of day. “You have already received some instruction in the details of the ceremony, of course. And then—all plain sailing, as your people say.”
He sat down, and poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter. He sipped at it, while I sat mute, staring at my glass. “Well, Mr Flashman; what have you to say?”
“What the hell does it matter what I say?” I burst out. “I’ve no choice, damn you!”
To my amazement, he actually chuckled. He stretched his legs and twirled the stem of his glass between his fingers.
“None at all,” says he, grinning. “Flashman, you should be glad. You will be making history—aye, great history. Do you realise, I wonder, the magnitude of what we are doing? We are nailing a little hinge to a door, a great door which will open to reveal the destiny of a greater Germany! And you—a half-pay officer of no account, a pawn even in your own country’s affairs—you are going to make it possible! Can you imagine what it means?” The man was positively beaming now, with a kind of fierce joy in his eyes. “For we are going to win! We six here, we are staking ourselves, our lives, everything—and we are going to succeed! I look at you, and I know we cannot fail. God has sent you to Germany, and I send you now to Strackenz.” There was a nice little comparison there, all right. “And in Strackenz you will play such a game as has never been played before in the history of the world. And you will not fail—I know it! What a destiny! To be one of the architects of the new Fatherland!” He lifted his glass. “I salute you, and drink to our enterprise!”
Believe it or not, he actually raised my spirits a little with that. Of course, it was all humbug, designed to put some backbone into me—that was all he knew—but the man was so supremely confident it was infectious: if he really believed we could bring it off—well, perhaps we could. The others cheered and we all drank, and Bismarck sighed and refilled his glass. I’d never seen him anything like this before; for the moment he was almost jovial, showing an entirely new side of his nature—all carefully calculated for my benefit, I imagine.
“How will we look back on this?” he mused. “When we are old, and in our country places, and the bold lads of a new day are elbowing for power in the chancelleries? I wonder.” He shook his head. “I think I will wear leather breeches and allow myself to be laughed at in Stettin wool market, and sell two thalers cheaper to anyone who calls me ‘baron’.27 And you, Flashman—you will sit in your club in St James, and grow fat on port and your memories. But we will have lived, by God! We will have fought! We will have won! Is it not something to have moved great affairs, and shaped the course of time?”
No doubt I should have shared his enthusiasm, like Kraftstein, who was hanging on every word, and looking like a ruptured bullock. But all I could think to myself was, God, I wish John Gully had really set to work on you. What I said aloud was:
“Herr Bismarck, I am much moved. And now, with your permission, I intend to get as drunk as possible. Afterwards, tomorrow, I shall be at your service, since I can’t do anything else. But if I’m to shape the destiny of Europe, I’ll need a good skinful of liquor inside me to set me off. So will you kindly oblige me with the bottle, and a cigar, and as many dirty drinking songs as you and your friends can remember? And if this seems to you a coarse and pagan spirit in which to approach our glorious adventure for the Fatherland, well—you’ve made your preparations; let me now make mine.”
Chapter 7
As a result of the night’s excesses, which Bismarck didn’t discourage, I had a raging headache and a heaving stomach on the morning of my departure from Schönhausen. So I remember very little of it, which is no loss. For that matter my recollections of the journey north to Strackenz are hazy, too; I’ve travelled too far in my time to be anything but bored by it, and there was nothing to see that I recall except flat snowy fields, the occasional village, and bleak woodlands of bare black trees.
Rudi was full of spirits as usual, and de Gautet was his smooth, civil self, but I knew he wouldn’t forget or forgive that schlager-thrust in the guts. I hadn’t forgotten the two cuts I owed him, either, so we were even there. He never referred to our encounter, but now and then in the coach I would catch his dark eyes on me, and then they would slide away, looking anywhere but at me. He was one who wouldn’t be sorry of the excuse to draw a bead on my back if I tried to run for it.
Following Bismarck’s lead, both of them had dropped the pretence of calling me “highness”—Bersonin’s “theory”, as Bismarck had called it, being well enough in my training period, I suppose, but now considered unnecessary. But they lost no chance of lecturing me on such subjects as the geography of Strackenz, the ceremonial forms of its court, and the details of the wedding ceremony. I suppose I took it all in, for there was nothing else to do, but it has all gone now.
We were three days on the road, and the last afternoon of the journey took us deep into forest-country, all ghostly and silent under the snow. It was very beautiful and solemn, with never a soul to be seen along the rough track winding among the trees, until about four in the afternoon we stopped in a little clearing where a small hut stood, with thin smoke wreathing up from its chimney into the steely sky.
There were two or three brisk-looking fellows in peasant clothes to rub down the horses and usher us into the cottage—not that I took them for peasants, for I heard two of them in talk with Rudi. They were gentlemen, by German standards, but tough, active customers for all that—the kind who’ll cut your throat and send back the wine at dinner afterwards.
We had a meal, Rudi and I, while de Gautet paced up and down and peered out at the darkening sky and consulted his watch and fidgeted generally until Rudi told him to leave off, and made him sit down and have a glass of wine with us. I was getting fairly twitchy myself as the hours passed, and Rudi gave me a stiff brandy to steady me.
“Three hours from now,” says he, “and you’ll be tucked up in a silk night-gown with C.G. embroidered on it. God! I wish I was in your shoes. How many commoners have the chance to be royalty!”
“I’ll show you one who’s ready to resign his crown any time,” says I. The shivers were beginning to run up my spine.
“Nonsense. Give you two days, and you’ll be behaving as though you’d been born to the purple. Issuing royal decrees against virginity, probably. What time is it, de Gautet?”
“We should be moving.” I heard the strain in his voice.
“Heigh-ho,” says Rudi, stretching; he was as cool as though he was off for an evening stroll. “Come along, then.”
There was a slight alt
ercation just before setting out when de Gautet, officiously helping me into my cloak, discovered my pistols in the pockets. I’d had them concealed in a pair of boots in my baggage at Schönhausen, and was determined that they were going with me. Rudi shook his head.
“Royalty don’t carry side-arms, except for ceremony.”
“I do,” says I. “Either they go with me, or I don’t go at all.”
“What good d’you suppose they’ll be, man?”
“None, I hope. But if the worst happens they’ll perhaps buy me a little elbow-room.”
De Gautet was in a sweat to be off, so in the end Rudi cursed and grinned and let me keep them. He knew I wouldn’t be fool enough to make a bolt for it now.
With de Gautet leading, Rudi and I behind, and two of the others in the rear, we struck out through the trees, plodding ankle-deep through the snow. It was still as death all round, and hellish dark, but de Gautet led on unerringly for perhaps quarter of an hour, when we came to a high stone wall running across our front. There was a wicket, and then we were skirting past a thicket of high bushes which, by their regular spacing, must be in the garden of some great estate. Even in the darkness I could make out the level sweep of lawn under the snow, and then ahead of us were the blazing lights of a huge mansion, surrounded by terraces, and hedged about by avenues of clipped bushes.
De Gautet strode noiselessly up one of these, with us hard on his heels. There were stone steps rising to a wing of the house that seemed to be in darkness, and then we were clustered round a small doorway under a great stone lintel, and Rudi was softly whistling (of all things) “Marlbroug s’en va-t’en guerre”. For a few seconds we waited, breathing hoarsely like schoolboys who have robbed an orchard, and then the door opened.
“Detchard?”
De Gautet went in, and we followed. There was a man in a frock-coat in the dimly-lit passage; he closed the door quickly behind us—the other two were still outside somewhere—and motioned us to silence. He was a tall, distinguished old file with a beaky nose and heavy lower lip; he had grey hair and a beard like a muffler round his jaw-line. He glanced keenly at me, muttered “Donner!”, and turned to Rudi.
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