I dragged him to his feet, and took my belt from round his ankles. He could hardly stand with the pain of his toes, and I had to support him.
“Now, de Gautet,” says I. “I’m going to let you go—but where, eh? That’s the point, ain’t it?”
“What do you mean?” His eyes were staring with fear. “You promised!”
“So did Bismarck—so did you. You’re a dirty creature, de Gautet; I think you need a wash.” I propelled him to the edge of the precipice, and held him for a second. “I’ll let you go, all right, you murderous cur—down there.”
He let out a shriek you could have heard in Munich, and tried to wrench free, but I held him fast and let him look, just to let him know he was really going to die. Then I said: “Gehen sie weg, de Gautet,” and gave him a push.
For an instant he tottered on the brink, trying to keep his balance, and screaming hoarsely; then he fell out and down, and I watched him turn slowly over in the air, crash onto the jutting rocks half-way down the cliff, and spin outwards, like a rag doll with his legs waving, before he vanished into the spray at the precipice foot.
It was an interesting sight. I’d killed before, of course, although never in what you might call cold blood, but I’ve never felt anything but satisfaction over the end of de Gautet. He deserved to die, if anyone ever did. He was a heartless, cruel rascal, and I’d have been lucky to come off as easily if things had been the other way round. I’m not justifying myself, either for torturing him or killing him, for I don’t need to. Both had to be done—but I’m honest enough to admit I enjoyed doing them. He was a good horseman, though.
However, his death, though first-rate in its way, solved nothing so far as my immediate comfort and safety were concerned. I was still in the very devil of a pickle, I realised, as I gazed round the empty clearing and tried to decide what to do next. It was certain that de Gautet had arranged some means of getting word quickly to Rudi and Co. to say that Flashy was a goner and all was well. How long would it be before they realised something had gone wrong? An hour or two? A day? I must assume it would be sooner rather than later—and then the hunt would be up with a vengeance, with me as the poor little fox. I had to get out of Strackenz at once—but where to?
These thoughts put me into a blue funk, of course, and I paced up and down that summit muttering “Where? where? Oh, Jesus, how can I get out of this?” Then I steadied up, telling myself that when you’ve been hounded by Afghans and come safe home, you need hardly take the vapours over a pack of Germans. Which is just rubbish, of course, as I assured myself a second later; one’s as beastly dangerous as the other. Still, this was a comparatively civilised country, I spoke the language tolerably, and I’d had enough experience of skulking, surely, to get me out of it. I hadn’t a horse, and only a knife for protection—de Gautet’s empty pistols were useless—but the first thing was to get down from the Jotun Gipfel, and plot my course as I went.
Before starting out, I burned the incriminating papers they had sewn in my tunic. Then I took to the woods at right angles from the path we had been following, scrambling down over mossy rocks and through thick brushwood; it wasn’t easy going, but I was too busy with my thoughts to notice much. One point stuck clear in my mind, and it was the advice given by the late lamented Sergeant Hudson when he and I were on the run from the Afridis on the Jallalabad road: “When the bastards are after you, go in the direction where they’ll never think o’ looking for you—even if it’s right back in their faces.”
Well, I wasn’t going to Strelhow, that was flat. But if I was Bismarck or Rudi, where would I expect Flashy to run? North, for certain, towards the coast, less than a hundred miles away. So that was out of court. Of the other directions, which was the least likely for a fugitive? All were hazardous, since they would take me long journeys through Germany, but south seemed the most dangerous of all. By God, the last place they would expect me to make for was Munich, at the far end of the country, where all the bother had begun.
My legs trembled at the thought, but the more I considered it the better it seemed. They’d never believe I’d risk it, so they wouldn’t look thereaway. It was horribly chancy, but I was certain that if Hudson had been with me that was the way he’d have pointed. Let me get a horse—no matter how—and I could be over the Strackenz border by nightfall and galloping south. I’d have to beg, hire, borrow, or steal, changes on the way—well, it wouldn’t be the first time. I might even use the railway, if it seemed safe to do so. At any rate I was free, for the moment, and if they could catch old Flashy with the wind up him—well, they were smarter fellows than I thought they were.
I hurried on down the hillside, and found myself after half an hour or so on more level land, where the trees thinned out. There was a wisp of smoke coming from behind a copse, and I stole forward cautiously to have a look-see. There was a little farm-building with great trees behind it, but no one about except a few cows in the field to one side and an old dog drowsing in the yard. It didn’t look like the kind of place where the new ducal consort of Strackenz would be known, which suited me—the fewer folk who got a glimpse of me, the less chance Bismarck’s bullies had of getting on my track.
I was wondering whether to go forward boldly, or scout round for a horse to pinch, when the farm door opened and an old man in gaiters and a sugar-loaf hat came out. He was a peasant, with a face like a walnut, and when he saw me he brought up short and stood glowering at me, the way country folk do at everyone who hasn’t got dung on his boots. I gave him a civil good day, and told him my horse had thrown me while I was riding in the Jotun Gipfel; could he oblige me with a remount, for which I would pay generously? And I showed him a handful of crowns.
He mumbled a bit, watching me with the wary, hostile eyes of the old, and then said that his daughter was in the house. She turned out to be a big, strapping creature, plain enough in the face, but just about my weight, so I gave her my best bow and repeated my request with a charming smile. The long and short of it was that they sat me down in the kitchen with some excellent beer and bread and cheese while the old man went off round the house, and presently came back to say that Franz had gone to find Willi, who would be able to borrow Wolf’s horse, no doubt, and if the gentleman would be pleased to rest and eat, it would be along in a little while.
I was happy enough with this, for neither of them seemed to have any notion of who I was—or rather, who I was supposed to be—and it gave me the chance to get something under my belt. They were both a little in awe, though, at having such a fine gentleman in their humble home, and seemed too tongue-tied to say much. If the dotard hadn’t been there I dare say I could have had the buxom piece dancing the mattress quadrille within the hour, but as it was I had to confine my refreshment to the victuals and beer.
After an hour had passed, though, I began to get restless. I’d no wish to linger here, with Rudi possibly combing the Jotun Gipfel for me already, and when a second hour passed, and then a third, I became feverish. The old clod kept assuring me, in answer to my impatient demands, that Wolf or Franz or Willi would soon be along, with the horse. An excellent horse, he added. And there seemed to be nothing to do but wait, chewing my nails, while the old man sat silent, and the woman went very soft-footed about her work.
It was four hours before they came, and they didn’t have a horse. What they did have, though, was weapons. There were four of them, hefty lads in peasant clothes, but with a purposeful look about them that suggested they didn’t give all their time to ploughing. Two had muskets, another had a pistol in his belt, and the leader, who was a blond giant at least a head taller than I, had a broadsword, no less, hanging at his side. I was on my feet, quaking, at the sight of them, but the big fellow held up a hand and made me a jerky bow.
“Highness,” says he, and the others bobbed their heads behind him. My bald head was evidently better known than I’d realised. Uneasily, I tried to put on a bold front.
“Well, my lads,” says I cheerfully, “have you a h
orse for me?”
“No highness,” says the big one. “But if you will please to come with us, my master will attend to all your needs.”
I didn’t like the sound of this, somehow.
“Who is your master, then?”
“If you please, highness, I am to ask you only to come with us. Please, highness.”
He was civil enough, but I didn’t like it.
“I want a horse, my good fellow, not to see your master. You know who I am, it seems. Well, bring me a horse directly.”
“Please, highness,” he repeated stolidly. “You will come with us. My master commands.”
At this I became very princely and peremptory, but it didn’t do a straw’s worth of good. He just stood there insisting, and my bowels went more chilly every moment. I hectored and stormed and threatened, but in the end there was nothing for it. I went with them, leaving the farm couple round-eyed behind us.
To my consternation they led me straight back towards the Jotun Gipfel, but although I protested they held their course, the big fellow turning every now and then to mutter apologies, while his pals kept their muskets handy and their eyes carefully on me. I was beside myself with fright and anger; who the devil were they, I demanded, and where was I being taken? But not a word of sense was to be had from them, and the only consolation I could take was a vague feeling that whoever they were, they weren’t Rudi’s creatures, and didn’t seem to mean me any harm—as yet.
How far we tramped I don’t know, but it must have taken fully two hours. I wouldn’t have believed the Jotun Gipfel was so extensive, or so dense, but we seemed to be moving into deeper forest all the time, along the foot of the crags. The sun was westering, so far as I could judge, when I saw people ahead, and then we were in a little clearing with perhaps a dozen fellows waiting for us; stalwart peasants like my four guards, and all of them armed.
There was a little cabin half-hidden among the bushes at the foot of a small cliff that ran up into the overhanging forest, and before the cabin stood two men. One was a tall, slender, serious-looking chap dressed like a quality lawyer, and grotesquely out of place here; the other was burly and short, in a corduroy suit and leggings, the picture of a country squire or retired military man. He had grizzled, close-cropped hair, a bulldog face, and a black patch over one eye. He was smoking a pipe.
They stood staring at me, and then the tall one turned and said urgently to his companion: “He is wrong. I am sure he is wrong.”
The other knocked out his pipe on his hand. “Perhaps,” says he. “Perhaps not.” He took a step towards me. “May I ask you, sir, what is your name?”
There was only one answer to that. I took a deep breath, looked down my nose, and said:
“I think you know it very well. I am Prince Carl Gustaf. And I think I may be entitled to ask, gentlemen, who you may be, and what is the explanation of this outrage?”
For a man with his heart in his mouth, I think I played it well. At any rate, the tall one said excitedly:
“You see! It could not be otherwise. Highness, may I …”
“Save your apologies, doctor,” says the short one. “They may be in order, or they may not.” To me he went on: “Sir, we find ourselves in a quandary. I hear you say who you are; well, my name is Sapten, and this is Dr Per Grundvig, of Strackenz. Now, may I ask what brings you to Jotun Gipfel, with your coat muddied and your breeches torn?”
“You ask a good deal, sir!” says I hotly. “Must I remind you who I am, and that your questions are an impertinence? I shall …”
“Aye, it sounds like the real thing,” says Sapten, smiling a grim little smile. “Well, we’ll see.” He turned his head. “Hansen! Step this way, if you please!”
And out of the hut, before my horrified gaze, stepped the young man who had greeted me at the wedding reception—Erik Hansen, Carl Gustaf’s boyhood friend. I felt my senses start to swim with sick terror; he had sensed something wrong then—he couldn’t fail to unmask me now. I watched him through a haze as he walked steadily up to me and gazed intently at my face.
“Prince Carl?” he said at last. “Carl? Is it you? Is it really you?”
I forced myself to try to smile. “Erik!” God, what a croak it was. “Why, Erik, what brings you here?”
He stepped back, his face white, his hands trembling. He looked from Sapten to the doctor, shaking his head. “Gentlemen, I don’t know … it’s he … and yet … I don’t know …”
“Try him in Danish,” says Sapten, his single grey eye fixed on me.
I knew then I was done for. Bersonin’s efforts had been insufficient to give me more than the crudest grasp of one of the hardest tongues in Europe. It must have shown in my face as Erik turned back to me, for the damned old villain Sapten added:
“Ask him something difficult.”
Erik thought a moment, and then, with an almost pleading look in his eyes, spoke in the soft, slipshod mutter that had baffled my ear at Schönhausen. I caught the words “Hvor boede” and hardly anything else. Christ, he wanted to know where somebody lived, God knows who. Desperately I said:
“Jeg forstar ikke” to show that I didn’t understand, and it sounded so hellish flat I could have burst into tears. Slowly an ugly look came over his fair young face.
“Ny,” he said slowly. “De forstar my ikke.” He turned to them, and said in a voice that shook: “He may be the devil himself. It is the Prince’s face and body. But it is not Carl Gustaf—my life on it!”
There wasn’t a sound in the clearing, except for my own croaking breaths. Then Sapten put his pipe in his pocket.
“So,” says he. “Right, my lad, into that hut with you, and if you make a wrong move, you’re with your Maker. Jacob,” he shouted. “Sling a noose over the branch yonder.”
Chapter 8
Cowards, as Shakespeare has wisely observed, die many times before their deaths, but not many of them can have expired in spirit more often than I. And I’ve seldom had better reason than when Sapten threw that order to his followers; there was an air of grim purpose about the man that told you he would do exactly what he promised, and that offhand instruction was more terrible than any mere threat could have been. I stumbled into the hut and collapsed on a bench, and the three followed me and closed the door.
“Now,” says Sapten, folding his arms, “who are you?”
There was no question of brazening it out, any more than there was hope of making a run for it. My only chance lay in talking my way out of the noose—not that the three grim faces offered any encouragement. But anyway, here goes, thought I, reminding myself that there’s no lie ever invented that’s as convincing as half-truth.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “believe me, I can explain this whole fearful business. You’re quite right; I am not Prince Carl Gustaf. But I most solemnly assure you that these past few days I have had no choice but to pretend that I was that man. No choice—and I believe when you have heard me out you will agree that the true victim of this abominable hoax is my unhappy self.”
“Like enough,” says Sapten, “since you’ll certainly hang for it.”
“No, no!” I protested. “You must hear me out. I can prove what I say. I was forced to it—dreadfully forced, but you must believe me innocent.”
“Where is the Prince?” burst out Hansen. “Tell us that, you liar!”
I ignored this, for a good reason. “My name is Arnold—Captain Thomas Arnold. I’m a British Army officer”—and my idiot tongue nearly added “of no fixed abode”—“and I have been kidnapped and tricked into this by enemies of Strackenz.”
That threw them into a talking; both Grundvig and Hansen started volleying questions at me, but Sapten cut them off.
“British Army, eh?” says he. “How many regiments of foot guards have you?—quick, now.”
“Why, three.”
“Humph,” says he. “Go on.”
“Well,” says I. “It’s an incredible tale … you won’t believe it …”
“P
robably not,” says Sapten, whom I was liking less and less. “Get to the point.”
So I told it them, from the beginning, sticking as close as I could to the truth. My brain was working desperately as I talked, for the tale wouldn’t do entirely as it stood. I left Lola Montez out of it, and invented a wife and child for myself who had accompanied me to Germany—I was going to need them. I described my abduction in Munich, without reference to Baroness Pechman, and related the Schönhausen episode exactly as it had happened.
“Otto Bismarck, eh?” says Sapten. “I’ve heard of him. And young Starnberg—aye, we know of that one.”
“This is unbelievable,” exclaims Grundvig. “The man is plainly lying in everything he says. Why, who could …”
“Easy, doctor,” says Sapten. “Unbelievable—yes.” He pointed at me. “He’s unbelievable, too—but he’s sitting here in front of us.” He nodded to me. “Continue.”
Thank God there was at least one cool head among them. I went on, relating how I came to Strackenz, how I had gone through the farce in the Cathedral, how de Gautet had tried to murder me, and how I had killed him in fair fight at the top of the Jotun Gipfel that morning. Sapten’s icy eye never left my face, but Grundvig kept giving exclamations of incredulity and horror, and finally Hansen could contain himself no longer.
“Why did you do it? My God, you villain, why? Have you no shame, no honour? How could you live, and commit such a monstrous crime?”
I looked him full in the face, like a man struggling with tremendous emotion. (I was, and it was funk, but I tried to look as though I was bursting with wrought-up indignation and distress.)
“Why, sir?” says I. “You ask ‘why’. Do you suppose I would have consented to this infamy—have played this awful masquerade—unless they had compelled me with a weapon that no man, however honourable, could resist?” I gave a mighty gulp. “They held my wife and child, sir. Do you realise what that means?” I shouted the question at him, and decided that this was the time to break down. “My God, my God!” I exclaimed. “My precious jewels! My little golden-headed Amelia! Shall I ever see thee again?”
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 49
