The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
the St James clubs. He remarked that I looked much healthier this morning—the solicitous inquiries after my headache would have put a Royal Commission on the plague to shame—and encouraged, I suppose, by my geniality, began to tell me about what a hell of a bad harvest they’d had that year. German potatoes were in a damnable condition, it seemed.29 However, I put up with him, and presently, after much hand-kissing and bowing, and clanking of guardsmen about the driveway, I took my royal leave of them, and we bowled off by coach for the Strackenz border.
It was a fine, bright day, with snow and frost all over the place, but warm enough for all that. My coach was a splendid machine upholstered in grey silk, excellently sprung, and with the Danish Royal arms on the panels. (I remembered that the coach Wellington had once taken me in looked like a public cab, and rattled like a wheelbarrow.) There were cuirassiers bumping along in escort—smart enough—and a great train of other coaches bringing up the rear. I lounged and had a cheroot, while Detchard assured me how well things had gone, and would continue to go—he needn’t have bothered, for I was in an exalted state of confidence—and then presently we rolled through our first village, and the cheering began.
All along the road, even at isolated houses, there were smiling faces and fluttering handkerchiefs; squires and peasants, farm-girls and ploughmen, infants waving the red and white Danish colours and the curious thistle-like emblem which is the badge of Holstein,30 labourers in their smocks staring, mounted officials saluting—the whole countryside seemed to have converged on the Strackenz road to see my royal highness pass by. I beamed and waved as we rushed past, and they hallooed and waved back all the harder. It was a glorious dream, and I was enjoying it to the full, and then Detchard reminded me drily that these were only Holsteiners, and I might save some of my royal energy for the Strackenzians.
It was at the border, of course, that the real circus began. There was a great crowd waiting, the toffs to the fore and the mob craning and hurrahing at a more respectful distance. I stepped out of the coach, at Detchard’s instruction, and the cheers broke out louder than ever—the crashing three-fold bark that is the German notion of hip-hip-hip-hooray. An elderly cove with snow-white hair, thin and hobbling stiffly, came forward bowing and hand-kissing, to bid me welcome in a creaking voice.
“Marshal von Saldern, Constable of Strackenz,” whispered Detchard, and I grasped the old buffer’s hand while he gushed over me and insisted that this was the greatest day in Strackenz’s history, and welcome, thrice welcome, highness.
In turn I assured him that no visitor to Strackenz had ever arrived more joyfully than I, and that if their welcome was any foretaste of what was to come then I was a hell of a fortunate fellow, or words to that effect. They roared and clapped at this, and then there were presentations, and I inspected a guard of honour of the Strackenz Grenadiers, and off we went again, with von Saldern in my coach, to point out to me objects of interest, like fields and trees and things—the old fellow was as jumpy as a cricket, I realised, and babbled like anything, which I accepted with royal amiability. And then he had to leave off so that I could devote myself to waving to the people who were now lining the road all the way, and in the distance there was the sound of a great throng and a tremendous bustle; far away guns began to boom in salute, and we were rolling through the suburbs of the city of Strackenz itself.
The crowds were everywhere now, massed on the pavements, waving from the windows, crouching precariously on railings, and all yelling to beat the band. There were flags and bunting and the thumping of martial music, and then a great archway loomed ahead, and the coach rolled slowly to a halt.
The hubbub died away a little, and I saw a small procession of worthies in robes and flat caps approaching the coach. Ahead was a stalwart lad carrying a cushion with something on it.
“The keys to the city,” quavered von Saldern. “For your highness’s gracious acceptance.”
Without a thought, I opened the door and jumped down, which I gather was unexpected, but was a happy act, as it turned out. The crowds roared at the sight of me, the band began booming away, and the little burgomaster took the keys—huge heavy things on an enormous collar—and begged me to accept them as an earnest of the loyalty and love of the city.
“Your city, highness,” he squeaked. “And your home!”
I knew enough to say that I was deeply sensible of the great honour done me, and to give him the keys back again. And being somewhat exalted, I felt it appropriate to slip my sword-belt over my head, present the weapon to him, and say that it would be ever-ready in the defence of Strackenzian honour and independence, or some such stuff.
I didn’t know it, but that brief speech had an enormous political implication, the Danish-Strackenzians being in a great sweat about the German threat to their liberty, and the German-Strackenzians bursting to get away from Danish sovereignty. Anyway, the yell of applause that greeted it was startling, the little burgomaster went red with emotion, and taking the sword he pressed it back on me, tears in his eyes, and calling me the champion of Strackenzian freedom. I don’t know which side he was on, but it didn’t seem to matter; I believe if I’d shouted “Chairs to mend!” they’d have cheered just as loud.
I was then invited to enter the city, and it seemed a good notion to me to ride in on horseback rather than go in the coach. There was delight and confusion at this; orders were shouted, officers scampered to and fro, and then a cavalryman led forward a lovely black gelding, speed written in every line of him, and I mounted amid scenes of enthusiasm. I must have looked pretty fine, if I say it myself; they had dressed me that morning all in pale blue, with the blue sash of the Order of the Elephant over my shoulder (I’ve worn it in the last few years, by the way, at London functions, to the surprise and scandal of the Danish Embassy, who wondered where the deuce I’d got it. I referred them to former Chancellor Bismarck). The uniform set off my excellent stature famously, and since my disgusting bald head was covered by a plumed helmet, à la Tin-bellies, I’ve no doubt I looked sufficiently dashing.31
The band played, the cheering re-echoed, and I rode through the gateway into the city of Strackenz. Flowers were showered from the balconies, girls blew kisses, the troops lining the street struggled to hold back the press, and I waved and inclined my princely head, left and right, and smiled on my loyal subjects-to-be.
“Well, he can ride,” someone called out, and a wit in the crowd shouted back “Aye, Duchess Irma will find out all about that,” at which there was some commotion. I was aware that for all the adulation and hurrahing, there were those in the crowd who stood silent, and even some who looked positively hostile. These would be the Germans, no doubt, who didn’t want to see the state bound any closer to Denmark. However, they were a small minority, in the city at all events, and for the most part it was flowers and laughter all the way, with Prince Charming flashing his smile to the prettiest girls and feeling no end of a fellow.
Probably because I was enjoying myself so much, it was no time at all to the town hall. I should say that Strackenz isn’t much of a city, being no greater than one of our market towns, although it has a cathedral and a ducal palace of some pretension. For that matter the whole duchy isn’t more than a dozen miles across by about thirty in length, having been whittled down over the centuries from a fair-sized province. But it was a perfect hotbed of nationalist emotions, German and Danish, and fiercely proud of its traditions, including its ducal house. The Danish faction were overjoyed at the impending marriage, hence their tumultuous welcome of me.
At the town hall there were more dignitaries, and bowing and scraping, and I was presented with an ornamental casket bearing the city’s arms, and invited to sign an order for a jail clearance—it being the custom here, as elsewhere, to celebrate joyous occasions by letting all the hooligans and harlots out of the local clink. How this is supposed to add to the general jollity I’ve never understood—furthermore, although I’ve been in half the lock-ups between Libby Prison32 and Botany Bay myself, no one has ever held a clearance that benefited me. I’m against ’em, on principle, but I saw nothing for it here but to sign, until the moment I actually took the pen in my hand and realised, with a fearful qualm, that one thing my instructors hadn’t taught me was how to forge Carl Gustaf’s signature. I didn’t even