The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald
for Carl Gustaf had to take place. Surely much could happen in that time. Clever and wary as they were, Bismarck’s gang couldn’t watch me all the time—in four weeks there must be a moment when such a practised absconder as myself could cut and run for it. A horse, that was all I needed, and a look at the sun or the stars, and I was confident that my terror could outstrip Bismarck’s vengeance. God knew how far away the frontier was, but I was willing to wager my neck that I could reach it faster than any rider living. My neck, of course, was exactly what I would be wagering.
With these jolly musings I passed the night, imagining a score of madcap means of escape—and as many nightmares in which Bismarck caught me in the act. It was all a waste of time, of course; within me I knew that anyone who could plot as subtly as he had done wasn’t going to give me the ghost of a hope of escaping. And I had a shrewd suspicion that if a chance did arise, I’d be too funky to take it. These fellows would stop at nothing.
They proved it, too, on my first morning at Schönhausen.
The great oaf Kraftstein summoned me at dawn, and I was pulling on my boots when Rudi strode in, very fresh and whistling cheerfully, rot him.
“And did your highness sleep well?” says he. “I trust your highness is sufficiently rested after your journey.”
I told him sourly that I wasn’t in a mood for his comedy.
“Oh, no comedy at all,” says he. “High drama, and unless you want it to develop into tragedy you’ll act as you’ve never acted before. From this moment you are His Highness Prince Carl Gustaf, blood royal and Lord’s anointed. Do you follow me? You speak German, and nothing else—your Danish we’ll take care of presently—and you will comport yourself as a member of the Danish ruling house.”
“Talk sense,” I growled. “I don’t know how.”
“No, but we’re going to teach you—your highness,” says he, and for once his eyes had no laughter in them. “So. The first thing is to make you look the part. All right, Kraftstein.”
And then and there, despite my protests, Kraftstein sat me in a chair and set to work, first cropping my hair and whiskers, and then soaping and shaving my skull. It was a long and unpleasant process, and when it was done and I looked in the glass I could have burst into tears. The ghastly creature with his great, gleaming dome of a skull was a horrid parody of me—my face, surmounted by a naked convict head.
“Damn you!” I burst out. “Damn you! You’ve ruined me!”
I expected them to mock me, of course, but neither twitched so much as a muscle.
“Your highness will be under the necessity of shaving your head daily,” murmured Rudi. “Kraftstein will instruct you. Now, may I suggest that your highness wears uniform today?”
They had that, too; rather a trim rig, I had to admit, in bottle green, which fitted me perfectly and would have given me a fine dashing air if it hadn’t been for that bald monstrosity above the collar.
“Admirable,” says Rudi, standing back from me. “May I compliment your highness on your appearance?”
“Drop that, blast you!” I snarled at him. “If I have to play your damned game, you’ll spare me your infernal nonsense until it starts, at least. I’m your prisoner, ain’t I? Isn’t that enough for you?”
He waited a moment, and then says, in exactly the same tone:
“May I compliment your highness on your appearance?
I stood glaring at him, on the point of swinging my fist into his impassive face, but he just stared me down, and I found myself saying:
“All right. If you must—all right.”
“Very good, your highness,” says he gravely. “May I respectfully suggest that we go down to breakfast. I find that Schönhausen gives one a rare appetite—the country air, of course. Will you lead on, Kraftstein?”
I wasn’t hungry, but Rudi attacked his food in good spirits, and chattered away throughout the meal. He treated me with a nice blend of familiarity and respect, and you would never have guessed if you had seen us that it was all a sham. He was a splendid actor, and although it would have made me feel a complete fool if I hadn’t been too miserable to mind, I began to realise even then that there was method in what he was doing. Kraftstein just put his head down and gorged, but on the one occasion he addressed me, he too called me “highness”.
Bismarck came in just as we were finishing, and he for one wasn’t playing charades. He stopped dead on the threshold, though, at sight of me, and then came into the room slowly, studying my face, walking round me, and examining me carefully for a minute or more. Finally he says:
“The likeness is astounding. In effect, he is Carl Gustaf.”
“So your friends have been trying to convince me,” I muttered.
“Excellent. It is not quite perfect, though. Two small details remain.”
“What’s that?” says Rudi.
“The scars. One either side, the left immediately above the ear, the one on the right an inch lower and running slightly downward—so.” And he drew his finger across my shaven skin; the touch sent mice scampering down my spine.
“By heaven, you’re right,” says Rudi. “I’d forgotten. How do we give him those?”
My innards turned to water as Bismarck surveyed me with his icy smile.
“Surgery? It is possible. I’ve no doubt Kraftstein here could employ his razor most artistically …”
“You’re not cutting my bloody head, you bastard!” I shouted, and tried to struggle out of my chair, but Kraftstein seized me with his enormous hands and thrust me back. I yelled and struggled, and he clamped his paw across my jaws and squeezed until the pain made me subside, terrified.
“But there is a better way,” says Bismarck. “They can be administered in the proper form—with the schlager. De Gautet can do it without difficulty.” He added, with a nasty look at me: “And it will satisfy a small debt that I owe to our friend here.”
“Aye,” says Rudi doubtfully, “but can he do it exactly—they must be in precisely the right places, mustn’t they? No use giving him a wound where Carl Gustaf doesn’t have one.”
“I have every confidence in de Gautet,” says Bismarck. “With a sabre he can split a fly on the wing.”
I was listening to them appalled; these two monsters calmly discussing the best means of giving me a slashed head. If there is one thing I can’t endure, it is pain, and the thought of cold steel slicing into my skull nearly made me swoon. As soon as Kraftstein took his hand away I was yammering at them; Bismarck listened scornfully for a few seconds, and then says:
“Silence him, Kraftstein.”
The giant seized the nape of my neck, and a fearful pain shot down my back and across my shoulders. He must have fixed on some nerve, and I screamed and writhed in his grasp.
“He can go on doing that until you die,” says Bismarck. “Now get up, and stop behaving like an old woman. It won’t kill you to have a couple of cuts from a schlager. Every German youth is proud to take them; a little drink from the ‘soup-plate of honour’ will do you good.”
“For God’s sake!” I burst out. “Look, I’ve agreed to do what you want, but this is abominable! I won’t—”
“You will,” says Bismarck. “Prince Carl Gustaf has two duelling scars, received while he was a student at Heidelberg. There is no question of your impersonating him without them. I am sure,” he went on, smiling unpleasantly, “that de Gautet will administer them as painlessly as possible. And if they cause you some trifling smart, you may console yourself that they have been paid for in advance, by your amiable friend Mr Gully. You recall the occasion?”
I recalled