The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
going to need it.”
With that mysterious instruction I had to be content—and I had to be obedient, too, for devil a word of French would he say or listen to from then on. However, with a bottle of hock inside me, the unknown future looked a little less bleak, and when we boarded the evening train I was at least momentarily resigned to my situation. Time enough to start fretting again when we reached Berlin.
The journey took us three days, although nowadays you would do it in a matter of hours. But those were the early years of railways, and the line between Munich and Berlin was not complete. I know we did part of the trip by coach, but I can’t recall where; one night we spent in Leipzig, certainly, but I was paying no great heed to my surroundings. As the miles went by my apprehension was growing again—what the devil did “they” want me for? I tried several times to pump Rudi, but without success.
“You’ll find out in good time,” was all he would say, with a knowing grin. “I’ll tell you this much—I’d do the job in a moment if I had the chance. I envy you, indeed. But you’re the only man for it—and don’t fret: it’s well within your powers.”
That should have cheered me up, but it didn’t. After all, my powers, so far as he and the world knew them, were all concerned with war, slaughter, and heroism, and I wanted none of that if I could help it. But I had sense enough not to let him get a glimpse of my lily liver; no doubt, if my worst fears were realised, he’d see all he wanted of it, in time.
We spent much of our time in the train playing piquet and écarté, and recognised each other as fairish sharps, but neither of us was able to take much interest in the game. I was too inwardly nervous, and he was too busy keeping an eye on me—he was one of these extraordinary folk who can be on the hair trigger of action for days and nights on end, and not once in that journey was there a decent chance to take him unawares. Not that I’d have dared to try if there had been; I had got a healthy respect for young Rudi by now, and didn’t doubt that he would shoot me without the slightest hesitation, and take his chance on the consequences.
So we came to Berlin, on a night of bitter snow and wind, and there was another coach at the station to whirl us away through the busy lamp-lit streets. Even with our fur-collared coats, and rugs and hot bricks, it was damnably chilly in that coach after the warmth of the train, and I wasn’t cheered by the fact that our journey was obviously not going to be a short one—that much was clear from the fact that we had a couple of hampers of food with us and a basket of bottles as well.
It lasted another three days, what with snow-choked roads and the coach shedding a wheel, and damned uncomfortable it was. I guessed we were travelling west, at about twenty miles a day, but beyond that there was nothing to be learned from the dreary German landscape. The snow stuck to the windows, and the coach was like an ice-house; I cursed and grumbled a good deal, but Starnberg sat patiently in his corner, huddled in his great-coat, whistling softly through his teeth—his observations were either insolently cheerful or caustic, and I couldn’t decide which I disliked more.
It was towards evening on the third day that I awoke from a doze to find Rudi with the window down, peering out into the dusk. The snow had stopped for the moment, but there was a keen wind whistling into the coach, and I was about to tell him brusquely to shut the window before we froze, when he pulled his head in and said:
“Journey’s end, thank God. Now for some decent food at last and a proper bed.”
I leaned forward to look out, and I’ve seen cheerier prospects. We were rolling slowly up a long avenue of trees towards a huge, bleak house, half mansion, half castle; in the fading light, with the wintry sky behind it, it looked in silhouette like the setting for some gothic novel, all towers and spires and rugged stonework. There were lights in some of the windows, and a great lantern shone yellow above the pointed archway of its main door, but they served only to exaggerate the ancient gloom of the place. Childe Flashy to the Dark Tower came, thinks I, and tried not to imagine what lay within.
It proved to be a match for the exterior. We were shown into an immense, stone-flagged hall, hung round with faded tapestries and a few old trophies of arms and the chase; there were archways without doors leading out of it, and in keeping with a general air of medieval ghastliness, there were even torches burning in brackets on the walls. The place felt like a tomb, and the ancient butler who received us would have made an excellent gravedigger.
But what daunted me most of all was the presence in the hall of a strapping trio of fellows, all of military cut, who welcomed Rudi and weighed me up with cold, professional eyes. One was a massive, close-cropped, typical Prussian, whose fleshy face was wealed with a great sabre cut from brow to chin; the second was a tall, supple, sinister gentleman with sleek black hair and a vulpine smile; the third was stocky and stout, balding and ugly. All were in undress uniforms, and as tough-looking a set of customers as you could wish for; my spirits sank even farther as I realised that with this crew on hand my chances of escape had dwindled out of sight.
Rudi performed introductions. “My friends Kraftstein”—the big Prussian clicked his heels—“de Gautet”—a bow from the sinister Scaramouche—“and Bersonin”—the bald ugly one barely nodded. “Like you and me, they are military men, as you see. You’ll find they are devoted to your welfare and er … safekeeping,” says Master Rudi pleasantly, “and any one of them is almost as tough as I am, nicht wahr?”
“Ich glaube es,” says the sleek de Gautet, showing his teeth. Another confident bastard, and decidedly unpleasant.
While he and Kraftstein stayed talking with Rudi, I was conveyed to a room on the second floor by Bersonin, and while he kept a bleak eye on me I was graciously permitted to change, wash, and eat a meal which the ancient butler brought. It was tolerable food, with an excellent Rhenish, and I invited the taciturn Bersonin to join me in a glass, but he shook his head. I tried my German on him, but getting nothing but grunts for my pains I turned my back on him and devoted myself to my meal. If he wanted to play the jailer, he could be treated like one.
Presently back comes Master Rudi, very debonair in a clean shirt, freshly-pressed breeches and polished boots, with the Brothers Grimm, Kraftstein and de Gautet, at his heels.
“All fed and watered?” says he. “Capital. I can see you two have been getting along famously. I trust our good Bersonin hasn’t overwhelmed you with his inconsequential chatter. No?” He grinned impudently at Bersonin, who shrugged and scowled. “My, what a madcap he is,” went on Rudi, who had evidently dined too, and was back at the top of his most amiable form. “Well, come along with me, and we’ll see what other entertainment this charming establishment can offer.”
“All the entertainment I want is to find out what the devil I’m doing here,” says I.
“Oh, you haven’t long to wait now,” says he, and he conducted me down the corridor, up another stairway, and into a long gallery. Just as we set foot in it, there sounded from somewhere ahead of us the unmistakable crack of a pistol-shot; I jumped, but Rudi only grinned over his shoulder.
“Rats,” says he. “The place is thick with ’em. We’ve tried poison and dogs, but our host believes in more direct methods. There he goes again,” he added, as another shot sounded. “They must be out in force tonight.”
He paused in front of a stout, metal-studded door. “Here we are,” cries he, throwing it wide, and waving me in. “Your patience is rewarded.”
It was a fine, spacious room, far better appointed than anything I had seen so far, with carpet on the flags, a bright fire in the huge grate, solid-looking leather furniture, several shelves of books round the panelled walls, and a long, narrow polished table running down the centre under a brilliant candelabra. At the far end of the table sat a man, his feet cocked up on the board, reloading a long pistol, and at the sight of him I stopped as though I had walked into a wall. It was Otto von Bismarck.
In a lifetime that has included far too many unpleasant