He could only mean Macmahon (who’d never been near me in the bloody Legion, but that’s gossip for you), and as I sat rooted and mute at all this appalling news, which had whisked me in a twinkling from the heights of hope to the depths of despair, it struck me that there had been some marvellous secret confabulating in high places lately, hadn’t there just? But then, ’tisn’t every day that British and French intelligence learn of an idiotic plan by Bismarck to save the Austrian Emperor and prevent bloody war, is it? Gad’s me life and blue sacred, they must have thought, Gladstone and Grevy (the Frog-in-chief) must hear about this, and elder wiseacres like Macmahon, and probably D’Israeli … and the Queen, God help us, since it’s a royal crisis … and because they’ve no notion what to do they convince themselves that Otto’s plan is the only course—all the more so because the renowned Flashy, secret diplomatic ruffian extraordinary, former agent of Palmerston and Elgin, veteran of desperate exploits in Central Asia and China and the back o' beyond generally, who’s killed more men than the pox and is just the lad for the present crisis, has been recruited to the good cause—never mind how, he’s on hand, loaded and ready to fire, your majesty, so don’t trouble your royal head about it, all will be well … 'Indeed, it is most alarming, and too shocking that subjects should Raise their Hands against their Emperor, whose Royal Person should be sacred to them, and the Empress is the prettiest and most charming creature, and while I could wish that your hand, dear Lord Beaconsfield, was at the Helm of the Ship of State in this crisis, I dare say that Mr Gladstone is right, and the matter may be safely entrusted to Colonel Flash-man, such an agreeable man, although my dear Albert thought him a trifle brusque …' 'Indeed, mann, a somewhat rough diamond, but capable, they say …' That would be the gist of it. I could have wept.
For as I sat on the cold bench in the shadows, with waltz music drifting from the casino and my mind numb from the pounding Hutton and this Frod had given it, one thing at least was plain: I was dished. The irony was that in the very moment when I’d eluded Willem and his bullies, running had become impossible. How could I tell Hutton to go to hell with his foul instructions—and have him bearing back to Whitehall (and Windsor and Horse Guards and Pall Mall) the shameful news that the Hector of Afghanistan, hero of Balaclava and Cawnpore, had said thank’ee but he’d rather not save Franz-Josef and the peace of Europe, if you don’t mind. My credit, my fame would be blown away; I’d be disgraced, ruined, outcast; the Queen would be quite shocked. No, the doom had come upon me, yet again, and I could only cudgel my brains for some respectable alternative to the horror ahead, trying to look stern as I met their eyes, and talking brisk and manly like the gallant old professional they thought I was.
'See here, Hutton,' says I, 'you know me. I don’t croak. But this thing ain’t only wild, it’s plain foolish. You’ve got men—well, then, bushwhack these rascals in the grounds, before they get near the lodge—'
'We’re seven all told! We couldn’t hope to cover the grounds—and if we had more it’s odds the Holnup would spot us and cry off to another time.'
'But, dammit, man, two men in the house is too few! Suppose they come in force—God knows I’m game, but I ain’t young, and Starnberg’s only a boy—'
'Never fret about Starnberg! From what I hear he’s Al,' says Hutton, and laid a hand on my shoulder, damn his impudence.
'And I’d back you against odds, however old you are! Now, time’s short—'
'But you must picket the grounds somehow! If something goes wrong, seven of you could at least—'
'We’ll be on hand, colonel, but only at a distance or they’ll spot us sure as sin! From this moment we’ll have one cover dogging you, every foot o' the way, but more than that we can’t do! Now, you’d best rejoin Starnberg and Kralta before they miss you.'
'And how the hell do I do that, when you’ve sandbagged my bloody watchdog? What do I tell ’em, hey? You’ve blown on me, you gormless ass!'
'Don’t you believe it, sir!' He was grinning as he spoke over his shoulder. 'How is he?'
'Sleeping sound,' chuckles a voice from the dark, and Hutton turned back to me. 'Four more unlucky citizens will be assaulted and robbed this fine night, so your cove won’t seem out o' place. Damnable, these garotters! Bad as London … So your best plan, colonel, is to discover our unconscious friend and raise the alarm, see? How’s that for establishing your bona fides?' He called it 'bonnyfydes'—and why the devil I should remember that, of all things, you may well wonder.
'Time to go!' snaps Hutton, straightening up. 'Find another victim, eh, Delzons? Off with you, then!' His hand clapped my shoulder again. 'All clear, colonel? Not a word about this to Starnberg, mind! You’ll see me again … afterwards. Good hunting, sir!'
And so help me, he and his lousy Frog accomplice were gone like phantoms into the dark, without another word, leaving me in a rather disturbed state. I’d have cried out after them if I’d been capable of speech; as it was, I had wit enough to see the wisdom of his advice anent Beefy, and after a few seconds' frantic search in the bushes I found the brute, dead to the world, and was waking the echoes with shouts of: 'Helfen! Polizei! Ein Mann ist tot! Helfen, schnell, helfen!' Thereafter it seemed politic to run towards the casino, repeating my alarm and guiding interested parties to the scene of the crime.
It worked perfectly, of course. Willem was among the first on hand, fairly blazing with unspoken suspicion, which I allayed by explaining that I’d been waiting by the fountain for Kralta when sounds of battery in the bushes had attracted my attention, and on investigating I’d found Beefy supine with two sturdy footpads taking inventory of his pockets. They had fled, I had pursued but lost them in the dark, and returned to minister to Beefy and raise the alarm. And where the blazes were the police, then?
It didn’t convince him above half, I’m sure, not at first; I could guess he was wondering why I hadn’t taken the chance to vanish … and coming slowly to the conclusion that I hadn’t wanted to. What sealed the thing was the discovery, a few minutes later, of another unfortunate wandering dazed on the gravel walks and gasping out a tale of armed footpads who’d knocked him down and pinched his watch and purse; half an hour afterwards a third was found unconscious by one of the casino gates, similarly beaten and robbed.
By that time the peelers had arrived in force, shepherding the frightened mob back into the casino, where Beefy and the other victims were being attended to. Plainly a gang of footpads had marked down the casino patrons as well-lined targets, and were making a lightning sweep of the grounds. I made a statement to a most efficient young police inspector, watched closely by a still puzzled Willem with Kralta at his elbow; they were talking sotto voce, and if I’d felt like laughing I dare say I’d have been amused at the slow change of expression on Willem’s face, for it was clear that she was insisting that here was proof of my sincerity, since not only had I not made for the high hills, I’d absolutely come to Beefy’s aid and been first to holler for the law. At last he nodded, but I guessed he was still leery of me—Rudi would have been.
Nothing was said, though, about my 'bonnyfydes' as we returned to the Golden Ship, Kralta on my arm murmuring thanks that I hadn’t been molested, and Willem snapping impatiently at Beefy who brought up the rear with his head in a sling. I gathered from their half-heard conversation that Beefy was lamenting the loss of a lock of hair belonging to some bint called Leni which he’d carried in the back of his watch, and getting scant sympathy; Prussians, you know, care not two dams about their inferiors. Neither do I, but I know it’s good business to pretend that I do, and looked in on Beefy before retiring to lay a consoling hand on his thick skull; he just gaped like a ruptured bullock.
One of the lessons that I’d impress on young chaps is this: if you want to pull a bluff, do it with your might, no half-measures. However unlikely the ploy, if your neck is brazen enough, it’s odds on you’ll get away with it. Take the time I was caught in flagrante in a Calcutta hotel by an outraged husband, and sold him on the idea that I was a doctor sounding her chest, or the occasion when they found me climbing through Jefferson Davis’s skylight and I pretended I was a workman come to fix his lightning-rod. A moment’s guilty hesitation, and I’d have been done for; indignant astonishment at being interfered with saw me through. But I’ve never done better than Willem von Starnberg in Franz-Josef’s woods above Ischl; that was a bravura performance, and would have been a pleasure to witness if I hadn’t been writhing in pain after he’d dam' near broken my leg. His father would have been proud of him.
We’d risen well before dawn and made a hurried breakfast—schnapps, mostly, for me, in a futile attempt to steady my nerves—and Kralta was on hand to bid the warriors farewell. Her cheek was like ice when she kissed me, but her lips were hungry enough, and there was moisture in the cold blue eyes and strain showing on the long proud face. She was anxious for me, you see, the besotted little aristo—it’s remarkable how even the most worldly of women can be rendered maudlin by Adam’s arsenal. Willem was impatient to be off, and it was more to annoy him than to comfort her that I folded her in a lingering embrace, squeezing her bottom as I assured her that we’d be back in fine trim in a day or two, and then Vienna, ha-ha!
The sun was not yet up, and autumn mist was wreathing over the waters of the Ischl as we crossed the
