The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
duchy already, and I intend to pay it in full.”
He drew himself upright and straightened his night-cap. “God bless you, highness,” says he, all moist and trembling. “You are in the true mould of the Oldenbourgs.”
Well, from what I’ve seen of European royalty, he may well have been right. I gave him my manliest smile, pressed his hand, and watched him totter away to guard the destiny of the duchy, God help it. He was going to have his work cut out.
As soon as he was round the corner I heaved out my valise, adjusted it over my shoulder by a strap, and pulled my riding-cloak over that side. The swag had a tendency to clank as I walked, so I paced slowly down the broad staircase and across the hall; the little major-domo was waiting, hopping in anxiety. There was a horse at the door, he pointed out, and its saddle-bags were packed. I thanked him and walked out into the morning.
There were guardsmen there, of course, and a couple of officers all agog at the rumours that must have been flying about. I instructed them to post their men at the palace railings, and to let no one pass without my orders—with any luck they might blow Sapten’s grizzled head off when he arrived. Then I mounted, very carefully, which is damned difficult to do when you have a stone or two of loot swinging under your cloak, took the reins in my free hand, and addressed the officers again:
“I ride to Jotunberg!”
I cantered off down the great carriage-sweep, and they opened the gates at my approach. I stopped at the sentry and quietly inquired which was the western road to Lauenburg, and he told me—that would reach Sapten’s ears, for certain, and should set him on the wrong track. Five minutes later I was clattering out of Strackenz City, making south-east towards Brandenburg.
I’ve noticed that in novels, when the hero has to move any distance at all, he leaps on to a mettlesome steed which carries him at breakneck speed over incredible distances—without ever casting a shoe, or going lame, or simply running out of wind and strength. On my flight from Strackenz, admittedly, my beast bore up remarkably well, despite the fact that I rode him hard until we were over the border and into Prussia. After that I went easier, for I’d no wish to have him founder under me before I’d put some distance between myself and possible pursuit. But thirty miles, with my weight to carry, is asking a lot of any animal, and by afternoon I was looking for a place to lie up until he was fit for the road again.
We found one, in an old barn miles from anywhere, and I rubbed him down and got him some fodder, before using up some of my store of cold food for myself. I took a tack to the south next day, for it seemed to me on reflection that the wider I could pass from Berlin, the better. I know my luck—I was going to have to go closer to Schönhausen than was comfortable, and it would have been just like it if I’d run into dear Otto on the way. (As it happened, I needn’t have worried; there was plenty to occupy him in Berlin just then.) But I had planned out my line of march: acting on the assumption that the safest route was through the heart of Germany to Munich, where I could choose whether to go on to Switzerland, Italy, or even France, I had decided to make first of all for Magdeburg, where I could take to the railway. After that it should be plain sailing to Munich, but in the meantime I would ride by easy stages, keeping to the country and out of sight so far as possible—my baggage wouldn’t stand examination, if I ran across any of the great tribe of officials who are always swarming in Germany, looking for other folk’s business to meddle in.
In fact, I was being more cautious than was necessary. There was no telegraph in those days to overtake the fugitive,41 and even if there had been, and the Strackenzians had been silly enough to use it, no one in Germany would have had much time for me. While I was sneaking from one Prussian hedge to another with my bag of loot, Europe was beginning to erupt in the greatest convulsion she had known since Napoleon died. The great revolts, of which I had heard a murmur from Rudi, were about to burst on an astonished world: they had begun in Italy, where the excitable spaghettis were in a ferment; soon Metternich would be scuttling from Vienna; the French had proclaimed yet another republic; Berlin would see the barricades up within a month, and Lola’s old leaping-partner, Ludwig, would shortly be bound for the knacker’s yard. I knew nothing of all these things, of course, and I take some pride in the fact that while thrones were toppling and governments melting away overnight, I was heading for home with a set of crown jewels. There’s a moral there, I think, if I could only work out what it was.
Possibly it doesn’t apply only to me, either. You will recall that while the continent was falling apart, old England went her way without revolutions or disturbances beyond a few workers’ agitations. We like to think we are above that sort of thing, of course; the Englishman, however miserably off he is, supposes that he’s a free man, poor fool, and pities the unhappy foreigners raging against their rulers. And his rulers, of course, trade on that feeling, and keep him underfoot while assuring him that Britons never shall be slaves. Mark you, our populace may be wiser than it knows, for so far as I can see revolutions never benefited the ordinary folk one bit; they have to work just as hard and starve just as thin as ever. All the good they may get from rebellion is perhaps a bit of loot and rape at the time—and our English peasantry doesn’t seem to go in for that sort of thing at home, possibly because they’re mostly married men with responsibilities.
Anyway, the point I’m making is that I’ve no doubt the revolts of ’48 did England a bit of good—by keeping out of them and making money. And that, as you’ve gathered, was the intention of H. Flashman, Esq., also.
However, things never go as you intend, even in European revolutions. My third night on the road I came down with a raging fever—fiery throat, belly pumping, and my head throbbing like a steam engine. I suppose it was sure to happen, after being immersed in icy water twice in one night, taking a wound, and being three parts drowned—to say nothing of the nervous damage I had suffered into the bargain. I had just enough strength to stumble out of the copse where I’d been lying up, and by sheer good luck came on a hut not far away. I pounded on the door, and the old folk let me in, and all I remember is their scared faces and myself staggering to a truckle bed, kicking my precious valise underneath, and then collapsing. I was there for the best part of a week, so near as I know, and if they were brave enough to peep into my bag while I was unconscious—which I doubt—they were too frightened to do anything about it.
They were simple, decent peasants, and as I discovered when I was well enough to sit up, went in some awe of me. Of course they could guess from my cut that I wasn’t any common hobbledehoy; they hovered round me, and I suppose the old woman did a fair job of nursing me, and all told I counted myself lucky to have come upon them. They fed me as well as they could, which was damned badly, but the old chap managed to look after my horse, so that eventually I was able to take the road again in some sort of order, though still a trifle shaky.
I gave them a nicely-calculated payment for their trouble—too little or too much might have had them gossiping—and set out southward again. I was within ride of Magdeburg, but having lost so much time by my sickness I was in a nervous sweat in case a hue and cry should have run ahead of me. However, no one paid me any heed on the road, and I came to Magdeburg safely, abandoned my horse (if I knew anything it would soon find an owner, but I didn’t dare try to sell it), and took a train southward.
There was a shock for me at the station, though. Magdeburg had been one of the earliest cities in Germany to have the railway, but even so the sum of thalers they took for my fare left me barely enough to keep myself in food during the journey. I cursed myself for not trying to realise something on my horse, but it was too late now, so I was carried south with a fortune in jewels in my valise and hardly the price of a shave in my pocket.
Needless to say, this shortage of blunt worried me a good deal. I could get to Munich, but how the devil was I to travel on from there? Every moment I was in Germany increased the chances of my coming adrift somehow. I wasn’t worried about being in Bavaria, for I was persuaded that Rudi’s threats of criminal charges in Munich had been all trumped-up stuff to frighten me, and there was no danger on that score. And I was a long way from Strackenz, in