02-Royal Flash by George MacDonald Fraser

Author:George MacDonald Fraser [Fraser, George MacDonald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History - English (Flashman Papers)
ISBN: 9780007532513
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter 8

Cowards, as Shakespeare has wisely observed, die many times before their deaths, but not many of them can have expired in spirit more often than I. And I’ve seldom had better reason than when Sapten threw that order to his followers; there was an air of grim purpose about the man that told you he would do exactly what he promised, and that offhand instruction was more terrible than any mere threat could have been. I stumbled into the hut and collapsed on a bench, and the three followed me and closed the door.

“Now,” says Sapten, folding his arms, “who are you?”

There was no question of brazening it out, any more than there was hope of making a run for it. My only chance lay in talking my way out of the noose—not that the three grim faces offered any encouragement. But anyway, here goes, thought I, reminding myself that there’s no lie ever invented that’s as convincing as half-truth.

“Gentlemen,” I began, “believe me, I can explain this whole fearful business. You’re quite right; I am not Prince Carl Gustaf. But I most solemnly assure you that these past few days I have had no choice but to pretend that I was that man. No choice—and I believe when you have heard me out you will agree that the true victim of this abominable hoax is my unhappy self.”

“Like enough,” says Sapten, “since you’ll certainly hang for it.”

“No, no!” I protested. “You must hear me out. I can prove what I say. I was forced to it—dreadfully forced, but you must believe me innocent.”

“Where is the Prince?” burst out Hansen. “Tell us that, you liar!”

I ignored this, for a good reason. “My name is Arnold—Captain Thomas Arnold. I’m a British Army officer”—and my idiot tongue nearly added “of no fixed abode”—“and I have been kidnapped and tricked into this by enemies of Strackenz.”

That threw them into a talking; both Grundvig and Hansen started volleying questions at me, but Sapten cut them off.

“British Army, eh?” says he. “How many regiments of foot guards have you?—quick, now.”

“Why, three.”

“Humph,” says he. “Go on.”

“Well,” says I. “It’s an incredible tale … you won’t believe it …”

“Probably not,” says Sapten, whom I was liking less and less. “Get to the point.”

So I told it them, from the beginning, sticking as close as I could to the truth. My brain was working desperately as I talked, for the tale wouldn’t do entirely as it stood. I left Lola Montez out of it, and invented a wife and child for myself who had accompanied me to Germany—I was going to need them. I described my abduction in Munich, without reference to Baroness Pechman, and related the Schönhausen episode exactly as it had happened.

“Otto Bismarck, eh?” says Sapten. “I’ve heard of him. And young Starnberg—aye, we know of that one.”

“This is unbelievable,” exclaims Grundvig. “The man is plainly lying in everything he says. Why, who could …”

“Easy, doctor,” says Sapten. “Unbelievable—yes.” He pointed at me. “He’s unbelievable, too—but he’s sitting here in front of us.

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