Mr. American

  'You don't know the Hungarian for bosom?' he was saying. 'Well, you ought to, of all people ... here, I'll show you - ah, there you are, Yankee, arriving inopportunely as usual.' He watched the stout waitress go off giggling, and called after her: 'And we don't want any damned gypsy fiddling, either, d'you hear? Balok soup and goulash, and another bottle of this red rubbish.' His bright and bloodshot glance looked over Mr Franklin. 'Gunfighter's eyes,' he remarked, and poured wine into his guest's glass.

  It had occurred to Mr Franklin, as he made his way through the packed streets, that he had been inconsiderate in suggesting such an out-of-the-way restaurant - after all, the old man was in his nineties, and it must be a great ordeal to have to make his way, even being driven, through all the bustle of London on the brink of hostilities. But a glance across the table reassured him - one foot in the grave he might have, and shockingly ravaged he might look, but Sir Harry appeared to be in no need of consideration. His flushed satyr face was grinning contentedly, his glossy white whiskers and mane shone in the lamplight, which glinted on the mass of bronze and silver and gold miniatures on his breast, and on the orders which hung on ribbons over his massive shoulders. He caught Mr Franklin's glance, and grinned even more broadly.

  'Sporting my tin, as you see,' he drawled hoarsely. 'In the public interest. At a time like this it gives the mob confidence to be reminded of who I am, and that I'm too damned old to mismanage any more campaigns for 'em. Quite an impressive display, ain't they? That's the VC that shabby little chap at the beginning -and that's your own Congressional medal down there, among the foreign stuff Ten bucks a year I still get for that - Sam Grant must be turning in his grave.' He raised his glass. 'Here's to Sam - when in doubt, have a drink. And that's the Bath, of course - but that's the one I'm proudest of.' He touched a gilded archangel surrounded by sunbeams which depended on a violet-coloured ribbon to his snowy shirt front. 'That's the San Serafino Order of Purity and Truth, Third Class - and I got that for rogering the wife of the president-elect under her husband's bed at the height of the revolution. However, we're not here to talk politics. How've you been?'

  Mr Franklin replied non-committally, and asked the General what he thought of the war situation. The old man shrugged.

  'Contemptible - but of course it always is. We should stay out, and to hell with Belgium. After all, it's stretching things to say we're committed to 'em, and we'd be doing 'em a favour - and the Frogs, too.'

  'By not protecting them, you mean? I don't quite see that.'

  'You wouldn't - because like most idiots you think of war as being between states - coloured blobs on the map. You think if we can keep Belgium green, or whatever colour it is, instead of Prussian blue, then hurrah for everyone. But war ain't between coloured blobs - it's between people. You know what people are, I suppose? - chaps in trousers, and women in skirts, and kids in small clothes.' The General took a pull at his wine and grimaced. 'I wish to God that someone would tell the Hungarians that their wine would be greatly improved if they didn't eat the grapes first. Anyway, imagine yourself a Belgian - in Liege, say. Along come the Prussians, and invade you. What about it? - a few cars commandeered, a shop or two looted, half a dozen girls knocked up, a provost marshal installed, and the storm's passed. Fierce fighting with the Frogs, who squeal like hell because Britain refuses to help, the Germans reach Paris, peace concluded, and that's that. And there you are, getting on with your garden in Liege. But - ' the General wagged a bony finger. 'Suppose Britain helps - sends forces to aid little Belgium - and the Frogs - against the Teuton horde? What then? Belgian resistance is stiffened, the Frogs manage to stop the invaders, a hell of a war is waged all over Belgium and north-east France, and after God knows how much slaughter and destruction the Germans are beat - or not, as the case may be. How's Liege doing? I'll tell you - it's a bloody shambles. You're lying mangled in your cabbage patch, your wife's had her legs blown off, your daughters have been raped, and your house is a mass of rubble. You're a lot better off for British intervention, ain't you?' He sat back, grinning sardonically.

  'By that reckoning,' said Mr Franklin, 'no one would ever stand up to a brute or a bully.'

  'Course they would-when it was worth while. You don't remember the war of 1870 - when these same Germans marched on Paris. Smallish war-but suppose we'd been helping the Frogs then? It wouldn't have been over half as quick, and God knows how many folk would have died who are still happily going about their business in Alsace and Lorraine. Same thing today-we should simply tell the Kaiser that if his fleet puts its nose out of the Baltic we'll send it to the bottom - that satisfies the Frogs, up to a point, since it guarantees their northern coast, it satisfies the Kaiser who'll swallow his pride for the sake of keeping us out of the war, and it saves his pretty little ships as well. And five years from now, Liege will be doing rather well - whether it's got a German provost-marshal still or not. And that won't matter a damn, to people whose main concern is eating, drinking, fornicating, making money, and seeing their children grow up safe and healthy.'

  'It's a point of view,' said Mr Franklin, 'I suppose. Sounds strange coming from a man with all that - 'and he indicated the glittering medals on Sir Harry's chest.

  'How the hell d'you suppose I've survived to wear all these?' croaked the ancient warrior. 'Not by rushing to the aid of the poor little Belgiques when I can't do 'em a blessed bit of good, you may be sure. Not by prolonging the agony.' He beamed as the waitress brought their soup, and gave her a wink. 'Ain't she a little darling, though? Ah me, that's the only thing I regret about growing old - the poor thing'll never know what she missed. I considered,' he went on, 'writing a letter to The Times about it - not about her, about the war - but they'd not have printed it, and if they had, people would have said my brain had softened.'

  'Is there any hope it may not happen?' wondered Mr Franklin, and the General shook his head, inhaling the stewy soup noisily.

  'No - Grey and Asquith haven't the stature. No politician could talk the country out of it now - Palmerston might have, but ironically enough he probably wouldn't want to. Not that he was a warmonger, you know - but he'd see it's what the country wants, and let 'em have it. Maybe Grey and Asquith see that too. I only wish,' the General added, 'that when it happens, I could take all the asses who'll be waving flags and cheering and crowding the recruiting office - take 'em all by one collective arm, and say: "Now then, Jack, you know what you're cheering for? You're cheering at the prospect of having a soft-nosed bullet fired into your pelvis, shattering the bone and spreading it in splinters all through your intestines, and dying in agony two days later - or, if you're really unlucky, surviving for a lifetime of pain, unable to walk, a burden to everyone, and a dam' nuisance to the country that will pay you a pension you can't live off. That, Jack," I'd tell 'em, "is what you're cheering for. "I'd probably be locked up.' The General finished his soup and sat back, sighing. 'Not bad stuff, that - kept me going on my second honeymoon, which was to a German Crown Princess. Lovely gel, with the appetite of a demented rabbit. Didn't care for soup, as I remember. No, one of my aides used to prepare it for me with his own hands. Splendid amateur cook, and the best man with a sabre I ever knew - frightful scoundrel. Threw him over a cliff in the end.'

  He drowned this wistful reminiscence with a hearty gulp of wine, shuddered with distaste, and went on: 'I'd also like to remind our jingo-drunk public that they haven't the least notion what a war with modern weapons will be like and the only fellows who can even guess are your American survivors from places like Antietam and Shiloh - that's the only real war there's been in a hundred years.' The General pointed an accusing spoon at Mr Franklin. 'Know how many men went down at Gettysburg? Fifty thousand - and if I hadn't moved damned lively I'd have been one of 'em. Well, how many Gettysburgs d'you think it will take to settle a scrap between the kind of forces under arms in Europe today? I don't know - perhaps a month of it would make everyone cry quits, but knowing the sort of clowns who'll be in command - who are alw
ays in command - I take leave to doubt it.' He rumbled volcanically for a moment, and then remarked cheerfully: 'Aye, well, this is one bloody mess they won't get me into. God, I've been lucky!'

  Having thus reminded himself of the United States, he began questioning Mr Franklin about his past, over the goulash, and received guarded replies, which seemed to give him quiet amusement. At length he said: 'You don't fool me, my son. I don't know anything about you, but if you've lived all your life on the windy side of the law, I'm a Dutchman. No offence, and if you don't want to talk about it, I quite understand. Pity, though; I'd hoped to spend an evening listening for once. So let's talk about women instead. How's your captivating wife?'

  Mr Franklin explained that she was abroad, visiting friends, and the General nodded sympathetically. 'Mm-mh. I heard there'd been a petite scandale - my wife, who has ears like a Gilzai scout, picked something up on her last raid on Belgravia. "Mr and Mrs F, of

  W Crescent, have not been seen together since their meeting at the Savoy Ball with the exquisite ... ah, but we must not be indiscreet, my dears, although it is whispered that Mr F has been showing an unwonted interest in objets d'art lately".' The General sniffed. 'That sort of thing. Pity. The decline of duelling has ruined more private lives than I care to think of- in my young day nobody'd have dared to tittle-tattle the way they do now. Horse-whipping journalists has gone out too. Which reminds me of darling Lola - Montez, you know. Thrashed editors just to keep in training ...'

  He prattled entertainingly through the meal, and then said: 'What say we have a look at the Palace - see how the many-headed are celebrating the opening of the temple of Janus? Charming meal, my dear,' he said as the waitress presented the bill, 'and I only regret that infirmity prevents me from inviting you out to express my gratitude in the old-fashioned way. Have a couple of quid instead and give us a hug.' He rose stiffly to his feet, slipped a hand round her hips, and gave her a playful squeeze. 'By jove, there's good stuff there. Come on, Franklin.'

  Sir Harry's open landau was waiting with its driver at the kerb. The old soldier, having adjusted his top hat and cloak, surveyed the congested thoroughfare and remarked that it looked like Taiping Rebellion.

  'I'm afraid we'll never get near the Palace,' said Mr Franklin, whereupon the General gave him a pitying glance and told him to get into the car. He then sent the driver for a mounted policeman whom he had spotted nearby.

  'Now then, sergeant,' he said, 'I'm Brigadier-General Sir Harry Flashman - ah, you know me? Well, now, that's quite all right, Sergeant - Rooney, d'you say? I'm delighted to meet you. The thing is, I have to get to the Palace - War Office stuff, you understand - must be there within the hour. Do you think you could clear a way? Perhaps some of your admirable chaps would precede my car ... bless my soul, when I was four years old you hadn't even been invented! Astonishing, isn't it? Thank you, Rooney - what's your address? Get it down, Franklin. I shan't forget you, sergeant ...'

  'I shan't, either,' he remarked as he climbed in beside Mr Franklin. 'Bottle of the best for Sergeant Rooney, and a scarf for his missus ... always pays. Ah, here we go.'

  It took the better part of an hour for the car, moving slowly with Sergeant Rooney and a couple of constables ahead parting the crowds, to complete its journey. But their exhortations, the good humour of the people, and the sight of the General's chestful of decorations as well as his imposing appearance, had the desired effect, and eventually the car inched its way to the edge of the packed throng which filled the great space at the head of the Mall, pressing against the Palace railings. Here even Sergeant Rooney's efforts failed.

  'I'm sorry, sir!' He was leaning down from his horse, shouting above the deafening roar of the crowd. 'I can't get you any farther without more men! I'll 'ave to push through meself to the gates an' get a file of soldiers!'

  'My dear fellow, what a splendid suggestion!' Sir Harry waved him on. 'We shall sit tight here!' He watched the sergeant pushing his mount gently into the crowd, and nodded approvingly to Mr Franklin. 'Smart chap, that. I'll make it two bottles.'

  'But you don't want to go into the Palace, surely?' said Mr Franklin.

  'It's imperative,' said the veteran coolly. 'There's certainly nowhere else around here where I can answer a call of nature in comfort. In the meantime, I suggest we struggle up and sit on the top of this seat - we'll see better from there.'

  Mr Franklin helped him, to the accompaniment of oaths and groans in several languages, until they had their feet on the back seat and were perched on the hood.

  'Now, there's a sight for you,' said Sir Harry.

  As far as they could see, they were surrounded by a vast expanse of faces, white in the glare of the tall lamps, surging and moving in a huge human lake from the tall railings to the Mall and the trees and gardens beyond. From it there rose a continuous rumbling roar, filling the warm night above them with its volume; every face was turned towards the Palace itself, far back beyond the railings, and the floodlit balcony above the central arch. There was a growing rhythm to the noise, vague at first, then gradually shaping itself into a chant, while the crowd swayed and stamped in unison: 'King! . . . the King! We ... want ... the King! We ... want ... the King!' The chant grew to a thunder, rolling over the packed throng of heads, beating and echoing against the walls of the Palace, and then suddenly swelling into a great shout as the balcony window blazed with added light, and the two tiny figures appeared, like distant marionettes, coming forward to the stone balustrade draped with the royal arms, waving to the huge sea of humanity in front of them - the small dark figure, barely recognisable, and the taller white one at his side. The crowd was too tight-packed to wave or throw up hats, but the roar continued to swell up, blending itself into a mighty chorus of the National Anthem.

  Mr Franklin sat spellbound. All around him they were singing, singing with an intoxicated fervour that was frightening in its power and volume, the human music beating in deafening waves around him until he had to put his hands to his ears. Beside him the General was leaning forward, hands on knees, bareheaded, and Mr Franklin had a glimpse of that eagle silhouette, brooding over the singing multitude like some great spirit of arms; he was not singing, just staring about him with a fierce intensity, and Mr Franklin realised that the old man was imprinting sight and sound in his memory - just as he must have imprinted so many amazing scenes from his astonishing past - Britain's past. The General nudged him, and pointed, smiling grimly, and Mr Franklin looked down; close beside the car there was a young man in a boater and blazer, staring fixedly ahead at the balcony, singing blindly in that surge of patriotic elation, his arm clasping a girl in a flowered hat, only her eyes were closed, and her cheeks were wet with tears, but she was singing, too.

  Oh ... Lord ... our. .. God ... arise!

  Sca . . . tter . . . our . . . en . . . emies

  And ... make. .. them ... fall!

  It thundered on, the majestic, insistent roar, culminating in another ear-splitting shout at the finish, the crowd chanting out the tremendous triple cheer of the old battle-cry that the Roman legions had heard as the hordes of half-naked, indigo-stained savages had hurled themselves against the shield wall. 'Hip ... hip ... hip ... hooray! Hip ... hip. .. hip ... hooray!' No doubt somewhere in the enormous mob some sturdy traditionalists were chanting 'hurrah!', but there was no doubt that the hoorays had it. And as the cheering died away, and the noise subsided to a mere deafening baying, Mr Franklin saw that about twenty yards ahead of the car's bonnet a double file of red-coated Guardsmen in their great bearskin hats, white-slinged rifles held high, were gradually pushing the people aside, with infinite care, and a lane was opening up before them, with Sergeant Rooney pacing his horse along it, waving the crowd to stay back.

  Mr Franklin helped the bemedalled veteran back to his seat, having to pause as the crowd gave another good-natured cheer for the white-whiskered old codger, whoever he was, and Sir Harry waved his hat and sank back panting against the cushions. With the aid of those pressed a
gainst the car, the hood was brought forward, and with the din comparatively cut off, Sir Harry sighed deeply and remarked:

  'And they'll be singing just as loud beneath the lime trees and along the Wilhelmstrasse. The Marseillaise will be taking some stick, too, I fancy, on the Seine bridges. Wouldn't mind hearing that -- fine sound ... wasted on the Frogs; of course. About the only ones who won't be singing are the best singers of the lot - the Russians. Most of them won't realise there's a war on until someone sticks a bayonet in them, and anyway, I don't suppose they know the words. Everybody singing. everybody off to war. Not you, though - Uncle Sam'll stay out, I daresay, as long as he can. Quite right, too!' He glanced out of the mica window at the press of bodies round the car. 'Poor devils. Aye, poor old me - they'll live longer than I will, most of 'em. But I can't complain. I've had a good innings - this'll be the last outbreak of war I'll see, and for once I shan't be going. Went to South Africa, you know - just as a tourist, during the Boer business. Interesting. But not this time - unless Kitchener asks me along as a guest.' He snorted with laughter at the thought. 'He'll be the man they'll send for, you'll see. Middling general - we could do worse. Now where the hell have those soldiers got to? Trust the Guards to lose their way!'