Flashman And The Tiger

"Oh, yes, you impressed the guv’nor no end!" cries he. " `It’s an English school for you, my son,' he told me. `Hellish places, by all accounts, rations a Siberian moujik wouldn’t touch, and less civilised behaviour than you’d meet in the Congo, but I’m told there’s no education like it—a lifetime’s trainin' in knavery packed into six years. No wonder they rule half the world. Why, if I’d been to Eton or Harrow I’d have had Flashman on toast!' That’s what the guv’nor said!"

This was incredible. "The … the guv’nor?"

"As ever was! You and he were sparrin'-partners … oh, ever so long ago, before my time, ages! He wouldn’t tell about it, but he thought you no end of a fellow. ’If ever you run into Flashman … well, try not to, but if you do, keep him covered, for he’s forgotten more dodges than you’ll ever know,' he told me once. ’His great trick is shammin' fear—don’t you believe it, my boy, for that’s when he’s about to turn tiger.' I remember he fingered the scar on his brow as he said it. I say, did you give him that?" His eyes were alight with admiration, damned if they weren’t. "You’ll have to tell me about that, you know!"

My heart had stopped beating some time before. I could only stare at him appalled as the truth dawned.

"My God! You mean … you’re—"

"Rupert Willem von Starnberg!" cries he, sticking out his hand. "But you must call me Bill!"

•   •   •

It’s a backhanded tribute to the memory of the late unlamented Rudi von Starnberg that my first impulse on meeting his offspring was to look for the communication cord and bawl for help. Time was I’d ha' done both, but when you’ve reached your sixties you’ve either learned to bottle your panic, sit tight, and think like blazes … or you haven’t reached your sixties, mallum?[understand?] I didn’t know what the devil was afoot, or why—but I’d heard his name and his threat and seen his Derringer. No wonder he’d seemed familiar: taller, longer in the jaw, straight auburn hair instead of curls, and clean-shaven, but still unmistakable. Rudi’s son … my God, another of him!

That settled one thing. Whatever the ghastly plot, it didn’t signify beside the urgent need to get off this infernal train in one piece, jildi[quickly (Hind.)] and if this brute was anything like dear papa, I’d have my work cut out. You may think his threat was ridiculous, on a civilised railroad carrying respectable passengers through the heart of peaceful Europe. I did not. I knew the family.

But I must have time to think and find out, so I let him clasp my nerveless hand, assuring me warmly that he’d wanted ever so much to meet me. That was a facer, if you like; Rudi had been as deadly an enemy as I’d ever run from, and dam' near did for me in the Jotunberg dungeons, and here was this ruffian talking as though we’d been boon companions … and yet, hadn’t that been Rudi all over, carefree villainy with a twinkling eye, clapping your shoulder and stabbing your back together?

Playing for time, I muttered something idiotic about not knowing Rudi had married, and he laughed heartily.

"He had to, you see, when I happened along in ’60. You knew mother—Helga Kossuth, lady-in-waitin' to the Duchess of Strackenz in your time. I’ve heard her speak of you, but nothin' to a purpose. Kept her counsel, like the guv’nor."

They would; imposture and assassination ain’t matters to beguile your infant’s bed-time. I remembered Helga, a lovely red-haired creature whom Rudi had been sparking back in ’48—evidently with more constancy than I’d have given him credit for. And now the result of their union was watching me with an eye like an epee as I cautiously flexed my toes, feeling the life return to my legs, weighed the distance between us, and asked what time it was.

"Just past noon; Munich in half an hour—but don’t form any rash plans for gettin' out there." He eyed me mockingly. "I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy ten years in a Bavarian prison. Bad as Rugby, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh, yes," he continued, enjoying him-self, "I have it on excellent authority—Prince Bismarck’s in fact that a warrant still exists for the arrest of one Flashman, a British subject, on a most serious criminal charge, the rape of one Baroness Pechmann at a house in the Karolinen Platz, Munich, thirty-five years ago. Astonishin' how youthful peccadilloes come home to roost—"

"It’s a lie! A damned infamous lie!" It was startled out of me in a bellow of shock and rage. "It was a trap! A vile plot by that swine Bismarck and Lola Montez and that fat lying whore—"

"So you told the examinin' magistrate … one Herr Karjuss." Ile drew a paper from his breast. "Strangely enough, he didn’t believe you. Of course, there were several witnesses, includin' the victim herself, and—"

"Your foresworn rat of a father!"

"You took the words from my mouth. Yes, their signed statements are in the files, and would have been used at your trial if you hadn’t absconded. Still, the case can easily be reopened."