The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
drivers were together, talking by the horses in the first one. They hadn’t seen me; if I could hobble to the rear coach and crawl in, the peelers would pass me by.
Hopping quietly is difficult, but I got to the coach unseen by the drivers, opened the door and climbed in. I squatted down out of sight, heaving to get my breath back and listening for sounds of pursuit. But for several moments all was still; they must be off the scent, thinks I, and then I heard a new sound. Men’s and women’s voices were coming from the doorway of one of the houses; there was laughter and cries of goodnight, some chattering on the pavement and the sound of footsteps. I held my breath, my heart pounding, and then the carriage door opened, light came in, and I found myself staring into the surprised face of one of the loveliest girls I have ever seen in my life.
No—the loveliest. When I look back and review the beautiful women I have known, blonde and dark, slim and buxom, white and brown, hundreds of the creatures—still, I doubt if there was one to touch her. She was standing with one foot on the step, her hands holding back the skirts of her red satin gown, bending forward to display a splendid white bosom on which sparkled a row of brilliants matching the string in her jet-black hair. Dark blue eyes, very large, stared down at me, and her mouth, which was not wide but very full and red, opened in a little gasp.
“God save me!” exclaims she. “A man! What the devil are you doing, sir?”
It wasn’t the kind of greeting you commonly heard from ladies in the young Queen’s day, I may tell you. Any other would have screamed and swooned. Thinking quickly, I decided that for once truth would answer best.
“I’m hiding,” says I.
“I can see that,” says she smartly. She had a most lovely Irish lilt to her voice. “Who from, and why in my carriage, if you please?”
Before I could answer, a man loomed up at her elbow, and at sight of me he let out a foreign oath and started forward as though to protect her.
“Please, please, I mean no harm,” I said urgently. “I’m being pursued … the police … no, I’m not a criminal, I assure you. I was in a club that was raided.”
The man just stared at me, but the woman showed her teeth in a delightful smile and then threw her head back, chuckling. I smiled as ingratiatingly as I could, but for all the effect my charm had on her companion I might as well have been Quasimodo.
“Step out at once,” snaps he, in a cold clipped voice. “At once, do you hear?”
I conceived an instant dislike for him. It was not only his manner and his words, but the look of him. He was big, as big as I was, slim-hipped and broad-shouldered, but he was also damned handsome. He had bright grey eyes and one of those clean-cut faces beneath fair hair that make you think of moral Norse gods, too splendid altogether to be in the company of the beauty beside him.
I started to say something, but he barked at me again, and then the woman came to my aid.
“Oh, let him be, Otto,” says she. “Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?”
I would have thanked her gratefully, but at that moment there were heavy feet on the pavement, and a grave voice inquiring if the gentleman had seen anyone running through the square. The peelers were on the scent again, and this time I was cornered.
But before I could move or speak the lady had seated herself in the coach and hissed:
“Get up off the floor, you booby!”
I obeyed, in spite of my leg, and dropped gasping into the seat beside her. And then her companion, damn his eyes, was saying:
“Here is your man, constable. Arrest him, if you please.”
A police sergeant poked his head in at the door, surveyed us, and said to the fair man, doubtfully:
“This gentleman, sir?”
“Of course. Who else?”
“Well …” The bobby was puzzled, seeing me sitting there large as life. “Are you sure, sir?”
The fair man rapped out another foreign oath, and said of course he was sure. He called the sergeant a fool.
“Oh, stop it, Otto,” says the lady suddenly. “Really, sergeant, it’s too bad of him; he’s making game of you. This gentleman is with us.”
“Rosanna!” The fair man looked outraged. “What are you thinking of? Sergeant, I—”
“Don’t play the fool, Otto,” says I, taking my cue, and delighted to have my hand squeezed by the lady. “Come on, man, get in and let’s be off home. I’m tired.”
He gave me a look of utter fury, and then a fine altercation broke out between him and the sergeant, which the lady Rosanna seemed to find vastly amusing. The coachee and another constable joined in, and then suddenly the sergeant, who had been frowning oddly in my direction while the argument raged, stuck his head into the coach again, and says:
“Wait a minnit. I know you, don’t I? You’re Cap’n Flashman, bigod!”
I admitted it, and he swore and slapped his fist.
“The ’ero of Julloolabad!” cries he.
I smiled modestly at Miss Rosanna, who was looking at me wide-eyed.
“The defender of Piper’s Fort!” cries the sergeant.
“Well, well,” says I, “it’s all right, sergeant.”
“The ’Ector of Afghanistan!” cries the sergeant, who evidently studied the press. “Damme! Well, ’ere’s a go!”
He was beaming all over his face, which didn’t suit my denouncer at all. Angrily he demanded that I be arrested.
“He is a fugitive,” he declared. “He invaded our coach without permission.”
“I don’t give a dam’ if ’e invaded Buckin’am Palace without permission,” says the sergeant, turning back to me. “Corporal Webster, sir, Third Guards, under Major Macdonald at ’Ougoumont, sir.”
“Honoured to know you, sergeant,” says I, shaking his hand.
“Honour’s mine, sir, ’deed it is. Now then, you, sir, let’s ’ave no more of this. You’re not English, are you?”
“I am a Prussian officer,” says the man called Otto, “and I demand—”
“Cap’n Flashman is a British officer, so you don’t demand nothink,” says the sergeant. “Now, then! Let’s ’ave no trouble.” He touched his hat to us and gave me a broad wink. “Wish you good-night, sir, an’ you, ma’am.”
I thought the German would have an apoplexy, he looked so wild, and his temper was not helped by the lovely Rosanna’s helpless laughter. He stood glaring at her for a moment, biting his lip, and then she controlled herself sufficiently to say:
“Oh, come along, Otto, get into the coach. Oh, dear, oh, dear,” and she began laughing again.
“I am happy you are amused,” says he. “You make a fool of me: it is of a piece with your conduct of this evening.” He looked thoroughly vicious. “Very good, madam, perhaps you will regret it.”
“Don’t be so pompous, Otto,” says she. “It’s just a joke; come and—”
“I prefer choicer company,” says he. “That of ladies, for example.” And clapping on his hat he stepped back from the carriage door.
“Oh, the devil fly away with you then!” cried she, suddenly angry. “Whip up, driver!”
And then I had to open my mouth. Leaning across her, I called to him:
“How dare you talk so to a lady, damn you!” says I. “You’re a foul-mouthed foreign dog!”
I believe if I had kept silent he would have forgotten me, for his temper was concentrated