Flashman And The Tiger

"It not only preserves the Emperor but deals those Magyar fanatics a fatal blow," says Hutton. "Suppose something arose to make this attempt impossible, they’d just wait for another day—but wipe out their best assassins now, swift and sudden, and they’ll not come again!" I could see his eyes fairly gleaming in the shadows. "So it rests with you and von Starnberg—but now you know you have the blessing of our own chief … and the French authorities, too, of course," he added quickly, no doubt to keep Jean Crapaud happy.

"M. Grevy approves the plan, and your participation," says Froggy, and smiled grimly. "And your old copain of the Legion bids you `Bonne chance, camarade!' "

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?"