The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
would have seen me on the boat back to Saxe-Coburg or wherever it was. But perhaps he didn’t mind playing second fiddle—he wasn’t English.
However, I consoled myself that I was having the best of both worlds—my luxurious enslavement was both enjoyable and temporary. Now and then I fretted a little over what the outcome of the comedy would be, but there was nothing to be done about it. Either Bismarck would keep his bargain or he wouldn’t—and I forced myself to put the latter possibility out of my mind. This is the real coward’s way, of course—I wanted to believe he would play fair, and so I did, even though common sense should have warned me that he wouldn’t. And as so often happens, I almost fell a prey to my own comfortable, lily-livered hopes.
We had been about ten days at Strelhow, I suppose, when one evening we were in the billiard room, and the talk turned to horses. Someone—Rudi, I think—mentioned the fine stable kept by a gentleman over beyond the Jotun Gipfel; I expressed interest, and it was suggested that next day we should ride over and call on him. It was all very easy and casual, like any of the other expeditions and picnics we had enjoyed, and I gave it no thought at all.
So next morning de Gautet and one of the Strackenzian aides and I set off. The quickest way was through the Jotun Gipfel on horseback, and Irma came with us by carriage as far as the road allowed. Thereafter we turned off towards the crags, she fluttering her handkerchief lovingly after her departing lord, and presently we were climbing into the hills by one of the bridle-paths that are the only tracks through that wild and picturesque little region.
It was a splendid day for such a jaunt, clear and sunny, and the scenery was pleasant—any of our Victorian artists would have sketched it in a moment, with its nice little crags and trees and occasional waterfalls, and would have thrown in a couple of romantic shepherds with whiskers and fat calves for good measure. But we saw no one as we moved up towards the summit, and I was enjoying the ride and musing on last night’s sporting with Irma, when the Strackenzian aide’s horse went lame.
I’ve often wondered how they arranged that, for the horse was certainly lame, and I doubt if the aide—his name was Steubel, just a boy—had anything to do with it. I cursed a bit, and de Gautet suggested we turn and go back. The boy wouldn’t hear of it; he would walk his horse slowly down to Strelhow, he said, and we should go on. De Gautet looked doubtful—he was a clever actor, that one—but I was fool enough to agree. I can’t think, now, how I was so green, but there it was. I never thought of foul play—I, who normally throw myself behind cover if someone breaks wind unexpectedly, was completely off guard. I had my pistols, to be sure, and even my knife, for I’d got into the wise habit of going armed whenever I left the lodge; but de Gautet’s manner must have disarmed me completely.
We went on together, and about twenty minutes after parting from Steubel we had reached the summit, a pleasant little tree-fringed plateau, split by a deep gorge through which a river rushed, throwing up clouds of mist against the rocky sides. The whole table-top was hemmed in by trees, but there was a clear patch of turf near the edge of the gorge, and here we dismounted to have a look down into the bottom, a hundred feet below. I don’t care for heights, but the scene was so pleasant and peaceful that I never felt a moment’s unease, until de Gautet spoke.
“The Jotunschlucht,” says he, meaning the gorge, and something in his voice sounded the alarm in my brain. It may have been the flatness of his tone, or the fact that he was closer behind me than I felt he should have been, but with the instinct of pure panic I threw myself sideways on the turf, turning as I fell to try to face him.
If his pistol hadn’t misfired he would have got me; I heard the click even as I moved, and realised that he had been aiming point-blank at my back. As I tried to scramble up he dropped it with an oath, drew its mate from beneath his tunic, and levelled it at me. I screamed, “No! No!” as he thumbed back the lock, and he hesitated a split second, to see if I should leap again, and to make sure of his aim.
In a novel, of course, or a play, murders are not committed so; the villain leers and gloats, and the victim pleads. In my practical experience, however, killing gentlemen like de Gautet are far too practised for such nonsense; they shoot suddenly and cleanly, and the job’s done. I knew I had perhaps a heart-beat between me and damnation, and in sheer terror I snatched the seaman’s knife from the top of my boot and hurled it at him with all my force, sprawling down again as I did so.
If I’ve had more than my share of bad luck in my life, I’ve had some good to make up for it. I had some now; the knife only hit him butt first, on the leg, but it caused him to take a quick step back, his heel caught on a stone or tuft, he overbalanced, the pistol cracked, the ball went somewhere above my head, and then I was on top of him, smashing blindly with my fists, knees, and anything else, trying to beat him into the ground.
He was tall and active, but nothing like my weight, and Flashy in the grip of mortal fear, with nowhere to run to and no choice but to fight, is probably a dreadful opponent. I was roaring at the top of my voice and clawing at him for dear life; he managed to shove me off once, but he made the error of lunging for the fallen knife, and I was able to get one solid, full-blown boot against the side of his head. He groaned and fell back, his eyes rolling up in his head, and collapsed limply on the turf.
For a moment I thought I’d killed him, but I didn’t wait about to see. The training of years asserted itself, and I turned and bolted headlong down the path, with no thought but to put as much distance as I could between me and the scene of possible danger. Before I’d gone far I had to stop to be sick—no doubt from the shock of my narrow escape—and during the pause I had time to consider what I was doing. Where could I run to? Not back to Strelhow, for certain; the Bismarck gang had shown their hand now, and my life wouldn’t be worth a china orange if I went anywhere they could come at me. And why had they tried to kill me now? What purpose was there in having me dead before the real Carl Gustaf was ready to take my place? Maybe he was ready—although if he’d been rotten with pox they had tidied him up mighty quick. Or had Bismarck’s whole tale been pure moonshine? Maybe Carl Gustaf was dead, maybe—oh, maybe a thousand things. I had no way of knowing.
As I think I’ve said before, while fear usually takes control of my limbs, particularly my running equipment, it seldom prevents me from thinking clearly. Even as I stood there spewing I knew what had to be done. It was essential that I make tracks out of Strackenz at once. But reason told me that to do that in safety I must have a clear notion of what my enemies were up to, and the only man who could tell me that was de Gautet, if he was still alive. The longer I hesitated, the longer he had to revive; my pistols were in my saddle holsters at the summit, so back up the track I went at full speed, pausing only near the top to have a stealthy skulk and see how the land lay.
The horses had gone, scared no doubt by the pistol shot, but de Gautet was still where I had left him. Was he shamming? It would have been like the foxy bastard, so I lay low and watched him. He didn’t stir, so I tossed a stone at him. It hit him, but he didn’t move. Reassured, I broke cover, snatched up the knife, and crouched panting beside him. He was dead to the world, but breathing, with a fine red lump on his skull; in a moment I had his belt off and trussed his elbows with it; then I pulled off his boots, secured his ankles with my own belt, and felt comfortably safer. Several excellent ideas were already forming in my mind about how to deal with Master de Gautet when he came to, and I waited with a pleasant sense of anticipation. He had a hole in one sock, I noticed; there would be holes in more than that before I’d finished with the murderous swine.
Presently he groaned and opened his eyes, and I had the pleasure of watching his expression show bewilderment, rage, and fear all in turn.
“Well, de Gautet,” says I. “What have you got to say, you back-shooting rat, you?”
He stayed mum, glaring at me, so I tickled him up with the knife and he gasped and cursed.
“That’s it,” says I, “get some practice. And see here: I’m not going to waste time with you. I’m going to ask questions, and you’ll answer ’em, smartly, d’you see? Because if you don’t—well, I’ll show you the advantages of an English public school education, that’s all. Now, first, why did you try to kill me? What are you and our good friend Otto Bismarck