Flashman And The Tiger

In the meantime I looked sour, vowing to be in at the death, and he laughed and said, well, so be it, my presence in the garden with my game leg might seem odd, but with the Emperor preserved no one would think twice about it, likely. Then he took a big breath and sat back, delighted with himself and his planning, and fell to admiring Bismarck’s uncanny genius, and how it was all falling out precisely as he had forecast. But mostly he was nursing his blood lust, I knew, anticipating the pleasure of shooting assassins—in the back, no doubt. He was what Hickok called "a killing gentleman", was our Willem. Just like dear old dad.

Dinner at five with Franz-Josef would have been a dam' dreary business, no doubt, if I hadn’t been so full of inward rejoicing at my reprieve, and consequently at peace with all mankind. I made my appearance limping on a stick, and his majesty combined his congratulations with a dour warning against over-exertion. He was one of these unfortunates who have been created stuffy by God, and whose efforts to unbend create discomfort and unease in all concerned, chiefly himself. It reminded me of a pompous master condescending to the fags; even when he had the words he couldn’t get the tune at all.

For example, when he informed me over the soup that he had only poor command of English, he managed to convey that the fault lay not only with his boyhood tutors, but with me for speaking the dam' language in the first place; even his compliment to my German sounded like a reproach. I responded with a wheeze I’d once heard (from Bismarck, as it happens) that a gift for languages was useful only to head-waiters, and Willem played up by saying he’d been told that it was a sign of low intelligence. Franz-Josef rolled a bread-pill gloomily and said that wasn’t what his tutors had told him, and he had no experience of head-waiters. After this flying start we ate in silence until Franz-Josef began to question me solemnly about Indian Army camp discipline and sanitary arrangements, with particular reference to care of the feet in hot climates. I did my best, and like a fool ventured Wellington’s joke when the Queen asked him what was the aroma from the ranks of the Guards, and Nosey replied: "Esprit de corps, ma’am." That was met with a vacant stare, so I guessed he didn’t speak French too well either.

The only topics that seemed to bring him to life were horses and game-shooting. He knew his business about the former, and was, I’m told, an expert rider; as for the latter, about which he prosed interminably, I can say only that my abiding memory of Ischl lodge is of rank upon rank of chamois horns covering the walls from floor to ceiling, wherever you went, all shot by the royal sportsman. There must have been thousands of them.[18]

After dinner the real merriment began when we played a game of tarok, a sort of whist, and I can testify that to his linguistic shortcomings the Austrian Emperor added an inability to count, and pondered each card at length before playing it. I guess the fun was too much for him, for after a couple of rubbers he went back to work at his desk, and we were free to return to our rooms … and wait.

I can’t recall many nights longer than that one. Even though I’d been excused active service, so to speak (assuming the enemy didn’t come through the house) I was like a cat on hot bricks, and Willem was no better. We played every two-handed game we knew in my room, and he was too edgy to cheat, even. About eight o’clock an orderly brought us tea, when what I needed was brandy, about a pint and a half, and we learned that the Emperor was used to retire to bed about nine, and the establishment closed down accordingly. Sure enough, we heard the tramp of the sergeant and sentry beneath the window, marching round the house, and distant words of command as the sentry was posted.

"Damned old martinet!" mutters Willem, as we heard the heavy tread of the sergeant’s return, fading as he went round to the guard-house at the front. "Imagine barkin' orders as if it were a parade. I suppose it’s for Franz-Josef’s benefit as he says his prayers. The sentry’s relieved every three hours, by the way, and you may be sure the Holnup know that, so between three and six will be their best time. We’ll be on the watch from ten, though; they’d hardly come before that."