So I ate the d----d thing, speculating feverishly on the thought of Elspeth helpless in the hands of a nigger prince who had probably been covering every woman within reach since he was eight. Virtuous, eh? Just like his dear mama? If he was such a b----y paragon, why had he bought her – to iron his linen? Laborde must be off his head – why, when I was sixteen, I know what I’d have done if I’d seen Elspeth in a shop window with a sale ticket on her. It was too horrible to contemplate, so I went to sleep instead. After all, whatever was happening to Elspeth, I’d had a trying day myself.
[Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, October—, 1844]
Madagaskar is the most Singular and Interesting Isle, and I count myself most fortunate to have been so kindly received here – which is due entirely to the Sagacity and Energy of my darling H., who somehow contrived most cleverly to slip ashore from Don S.’s ship and make arrangements for our Enlargement and reception. Oh, happy, happy deliverance!! I know not how he accomplished it, for I have not seen my Brave Hero since we landed, but my Love and Admiration for him know no bounds, as I shall make plain to him when once again I know the Rapture of being enfolded in his arms!
I am at present residing in the Palace of Prince Rakoota, in the capital city (whose outlandish name I cannot attempt to reproduce, but it sounds like a dinner bell being rung!), having been brought here yesterday after a journey of many Starts and Adventures. I was brought ashore from Don S.’s ship by some Black Gentlemen – so I must call them, for they are people of consequence, and indeed, everybody’s black here. Don S. protested most violently, and became quite distracted, so that the black soldiers had to restrain him – but I was not much moved, for his Importunities of late had been most marked, and his conduct quite wild, and I was Heartily Sick of him. He has behaved odiously, for despite his protestations of Devotion to me, he has put me to the greatest inconvenience, very selfishly – and dear H. also, who received a horrid Graze on his person.
I shall say no more of Don S., except that I am sorry so Refined and Agreeable a gentleman should have proved so wanting in behaviour, and been a deep Disappointment to me. But while glad to be shot of him, I was a trifle Uneasy with our Black hosts, the chief of whom I did not like at all, he was so Gross and Offhand, and stared at me in a horrid, familiar fashion, and even forgot himself so far as to handle my hair, growling to his friends in their Language (although he speaks tolerable French, for I heard him), so I addressed him in that Tongue, and said: “Your behaviour to a Gentlewoman is not becoming, sir, especially in one who wears the tartan of the 42nd, but I’m sure I suspect you have no right to it, for my Uncle Dougal was in the 93rd, and I never heard from him that any persons of your Colour were mustered in the Highland Brigade, not in Glasgow in any event. But if I am wrong I’m sure I apologize. I am very hungry, and where is my Husband?”
This being received in discourteous silence, they put me in a sedan or palankeen, and brought me into the Country, although I objected strenuously and spoke quite sharply, but to no avail. I was in such distress of mind at having no word of dearest H., or knowing where I was being taken, and the people we passed came to Stare at me, which was disagreeable, although they seemed to be in some awe, and I decided that it was, that they had never seen a Lady of fair Hair and Complexion before, they are that Primitive. But I bore this Insolence with Dignity and Reserve, and boxed one of them over the lugs, after which they kept a more respectful distance. To help compose my fears I gave myself into Tranquil Contemplation of the marvels I saw en route, the Scenery being beyond description, the flowers of Brilliant Colours, and the Animal life of boundless variety and interest – especially a darling little beastie called the Eye-Eye, which is half-monkey, half-rat with the drollest wistful eyes – which I suppose is why they call it Eye-Eye, and they won’t kill it. Its antics are diverting.
However, I shall write later at leisure on the Attractions of this singular countryside, when the Descriptive Muse is upon me. Also about the great city of Madagaskar, and my Introduction to his RH Prince Rakoota, by a French resident, M. La Board, who is on terms of Intimacy with the Prince. From him I learnt that dear H. has been engaged on Military Business of Importance by no less a Personage than HM The Queen of Madagaskar – and I jalouse that my darling very cleverly offered them his Services in exchange for our reception here. They, naturally, would be Eager to avail themselves of so Distinguished an Officer, which doubtless explains the Haste with which he left from the Coast, without even seeing me – which caused me some pique, although I am sure he knows best. I don’t quite understand it, but M. La Board impressed on me the delicate nature of the work, and since he and the Prince are insistent that nothing must prejudice it, I resign myself with Good Humour and composure to wait and see, as a good wife should, and only hope my Hero will soon be spared from his Duties to visit me.
I am v. comfortable in the Prince’s delightful Palace, and receive every Consideration and Kindness. The Prince is just a laddie, but speaks good French with a pretty hesitation, and is all amiability. He is v. black, well-grown and handsome, smiling readily, and I flatter myself he is more than a little fetched by me, but he is so young and boyish that an expression of Admiration which might be thought a little forward in a person more mature, may be excused in him as a natural youthful gallantry. He is a little shy, and has a wistful regard. I could wish that I had my proper wardrobe, for I am in some hope that, when dearest H. returns, he may take me to visit the Queen, who seems from all I have heard to be a Remarkable Person and held in great Esteem. However, if I am so Honoured, I shall make do with what I have, and rely on my natural breeding and appearance to uphold my Country’s credit among these People, for as our Beloved Bard has it, the rank is but the Guinea Stamp, and I’m sure that an English Lady may move Unashamed in any Society, especially if she has the Grace and Looks to carry it off.
[End of extract – “natural breeding”, indeed! And where did you come by that, miss? Paisley, like the rest of us!! – G. de R.]
* * *
a This spear was known as the “Hater of Lies”.
b Supernatural, divine; (colloq.) wonderful.
Chapter 10
It’s been my experience that however strange or desperate the plight you may find yourself in, if there’s nothing else for it, you just get on with the business in hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. By various quirks of fate I’ve landed up as an Indian butler, a Crown Prince, a cottonfield slave-driver, a gambling-hell proprietor, and G-d knows what besides – all occupations from which I’d have run a mile if I’d been able. But I couldn’t, so I made the best of ’em, and before I knew it I was fretting about silver polish or court precedent or how we were to get the crop in by November or whether the blackjack dealer was holding out, and almost forgetting that the real world to which I rightly belonged was still out there somewheres. Self-defence, I suppose – but it keeps you sane when by rights you ought to be sinking into madness and despair.
So when they gave me the army of Madagascar to drill and train, I simply shut my mind to the horrors of my situation and went at it like Frederick the Great with a wasp in his pants. I believe it saw me through one of the blackest periods of my life – a time so confused, when I look back, that I have difficulty in placing the events of those first few weeks in their proper order, or even making much sense of them. I knew so little then about the place, and that little was so strange and horrid that it left the mind numb. Only gradually did I come to have a clear picture of that savage, mock-civilized country, with its amazing people and customs, and understand my own peculiar station in it, and begin trying to scheme a way out. At first it was just a frightening turmoil, in which I could only do what I had to do, but I’ll describe it as best I can, so that you may learn about it as I did, and have the background to the astonishing events that followed.
I had the army, then, to reform and instruct, and if you think that an uncommon responsible job for the newest arrived foreign slave
, remember that it was European-modelled, but that they hadn’t seen a white instructor in years. There was another good reason, too, for my appointment, but I didn’t find out about that until much later. Anyway, there it was, and I’m bound to say the work was as near to being a pleasure as anything could be in that place. For they were absolutely first-class, and as soon as I saw this, when I had the regiments reviewed on the great plain outside the city, I thought to myself, right, my boy, perfection is our ticket. They’re good, but there’s nothing easier than spending ten hours a day hounding their commanders to make ’em better. And that’s what I did.
Fankanonikaka had told me I had a free hand; he came down with me to that first review, when the five regiments stationed at Antan’, and the palace guard, marched past under my critical eye.
“Like changing guard, left right, boom-boom, mighty fine!” cries he. “Being best soldiers in world, not half, eh? Right turning, shouldering arms, altogether, ha-ha!” He beamed at the comic opera generals and colonels who were standing with us, puffed up with pride as they watched their battalions. “You liking greatly, Sergeant-General Flashman?”
I just grunted, had them halted, and plunged straight in among the ranks, looking for the first fault I could find. There was a black face badly shaven, so I stamped and swore and raved as though they’d just lost a battle, while the staff stared and shook, and little Fankanonikaka was ready to burst into tears.
“Soldiers?” I bellowed. “Look at that slovenly brute, tripping over his bl----d beard! Has he shaved today? Has he ever shaved? Stand still, you mangy b----rds, or I’ll flog every second man! Slouch in front of me, will you, with your chins like a monkey’s backside? I’ll show you, my pretties! Oh, yes, we’ll take note of this! Mr Fankanonikaka, I thought you spoke to me of an army – you weren’t referring to this mouldy rabble, I suppose?”
Of course, it put them into fits. There were generals gaping and protesting and falling over their sabres, while I strode about hazing right and left – dull buttons, unpolished leather, whatever I could find. But I wouldn’t let ’em touch the offending soldier – ah, no. I degraded his section commander on the spot, ordered his colonel into arrest, and scarified the staff; that’s the way to get ’em hopping. And when I’d done roaring, I had the whole outfit, officers and all, marched and wheeled and turned across that square for three solid hours, and then, when they were fit to drop, I made ’em stand for forty minutes stock-still, at the present, while I ranged among them, sniffing and growling, with Fankanonikaka and the staff trotting miserably at my heels. I was careful to snarl a word of praise here and there, and then I singled out the unshaven chap, slapped him, told him not to do it again, pinched his ear à la Napoleon, and said I had high hopes of him. (Talk about discipline; come to old Flash and I’ll learn you things they don’t teach at Sandhurst.)
After that it was plain sailing. They realized they were in the grip of a mad martinet, and went crazy perfecting their drill and turn-out, with their officers working ’em till they dropped, while Flashy strolled about glaring, or sat in his office yelling for lists and returns of everything under the sun. With my ready ear for languages, I picked up a little Malagassy, but for the most part transmitted my orders in French, which the better-educated officers understood. I built a fearsome reputation through stickling over trivialities, and set the seal on it by publicly flogging a colonel (because one of his men was late for roll-call) at the first of the great fortnightly reviews which the Queen and court attended. This shocked the officers, entertained the troops, and delighted her majesty, if the glitter in her eye was anything to go by. She sat like a brooding black idol most of the time, in her red sari and ceremonial gold crown under the striped brolly of state, but as soon as the lashing started I noticed her hand clenching at every stroke, and when the poor d---l began to squeal, she grunted with satisfaction. It’s a great gift, knowing the way to a woman’s heart.
I was careful, though, in my disciplinary methods. I soon got a notion of who the important and influential senior officers were, and toadied ’em sickening in my bluff, soldierly way, while oppressing their subordinates most d--nably, and keeping the troops in a state of terrified admiration. Given time I dare say I’d have ruined the morale of that army for good and all.
Since most of the leading aristocrats held high military rank, and took their duties seriously in a pathetically incompetent way (just like our own, really), I gradually became acquainted – not to say friendly – with the governing class, and began to see how the land lay in court, camp, city, and countryside. It was simple enough, for society was governed by a rigid caste system even stricter than that of India, although there was no religious element at all. There were eleven castes, starting at the bottom with the black Malagassy slaves; above them, in tenth place, were the white slaves, of whom there weren’t many apart from me, and I was special, as I’ll explain – but ain’t that interesting, that a black society held white superior to black, in the slave line? We were, of course, but it didn’t make much odds, since all of us were far below the ninth caste, which consisted of the general public, who had to work for a living, and included everyone from professional people and merchants right down to the free labourers and peasantry.
Then there were six castes of nobles, from the eighth to the third, and what the differences were I never found out, except that they mattered immensely. The Malagassy upper crust are fearful snobs, and put on immense airs with each other – a third-rank count or baron (these are the titles they give themselves) will be far more civil to a slave than to a sixth-rank nobleman, and the caste rules governing them are harsher even than for the lower orders. For example, a male noble can’t marry a woman of superior caste; he can marry beneath himself, but he mustn’t marry a slave – if he does, he’s sold into slavery himself and the woman is executed. Simple, says you, they just won’t marry slaves, then – but the silly b-----s do, quite often, because they’re crazy, like their infernal country.
The second caste consisted of the monarch’s family, poor souls, and at the top came the first caste, an exclusive group of one – the Queen, who was divine, although quite what that meant wasn’t clear, since they don’t have gods in Madagascar. What was certain, though, was that she was the most absolute of absolute tyrants, governing solely by her own whim and caprice, which, since she was stark mad and abominably cruel, made for interesting times all round.
That much you have probably gathered already, from my description of her and of the horrors I’d seen, but you have to imagine what it was like to be living at the mercy of that creature, day in day out, without hope of release. Fear spread from her like a mist, and if her court was a proper little viper’s nest of intrigue and spying and plotting, it wasn’t because her noble and advisers were scheming for power, but for sheer survival. They went in terror of those evil snake eyes and that flat grunting voice so rarely heard – and then usually to order arrest, torture, and horrible death. Those are easy words to write, and you probably think they’re an exaggeration; they’re not. That beastly slaughter I’d witnessed under the cliff at Ambohipotsy was just a piece of the regular ritual of purge and persecution and butchery which was everyday at Antan’ in my time; her appetite for blood and suffering was insatiable, and all the worse because it was unpredictable.
It wouldn’t have seemed so horrible, perhaps, if Madagascar had been some primitive nigger tribal state where everyone ran about naked chanting mumbo-jumbo and living in huts. Well, I remember my old chum King Gezo of Dahomey, sitting slobbering like a beast before his death-house (built of skulls, if you please) tucking into his luncheon while his fighting women chopped prisoners into bloody gobbets within a yard of him. But he was an animal, and looked like one; Ranavalona wasn’t – quite.
She had not bad taste in clothes, for example, and knew enough to hang pictures on the walls, and have her banquets laid with knives and forks just so, and place-cards (Solomon was right: I saw ’em – “Serjeant-General Flatchman, E
sq., yours truly” was what mine said on one occasion, in copperplate handwriting). I mean, she had carpets, and silk sheets, and a piano, and her nobles wore trousers and frock coats, and addressed their women-folk as “Mam’selle” – my G-d, haven’t I seen a couple of her Comtesses, sitting at a palace dinner, chattering like civilized women, with silver and crystal and linen before them, ignoring the cutlery and gobbling food with their fingers, and then one turning to t’other and twittering: “Permittez-moi, chérie,” and proceeding to delouse her neighbour’s hair. That was Madagascar – savagery and civilization combined into a horrid comic-opera, a world turned upside down.
And at the head of the table she would sit, in a fine yellow satin gown from Paris, a feather boa stuck through her crown, pearls on her black bosom and in her long earrings, chewing on a chicken leg, holding up her goblet to be refilled, and getting drunker and drunker – for when it came to lowering the booze she could have seen a sergeants’ mess under the table. It didn’t show in her face; the plump black features never changed expression, only the eyes glittered in their piercing uncanny stare. She wouldn’t smile; her talk would be an occasional growl to the terrified sycophants sitting beside her, and when she rose at last, wiping her sullen mouth, everyone would spring up and bow and scrape while two of her generals, perspiring, would escort her down the room and out on to the great balcony, lending her an arm if she staggered, and over the great crowd waiting in the courtyard below would fall a terrible silence – the silence of death.
I’ve seen her, leaning on that verandah, with her creatures about her, gazing down on the scene below; the ring of Hova guardsmen, the circle of torches flaming over the archways, the huddled groups of unfortunates, male and female, from mere striplings to old decrepit folk, cowering and waiting. They might be recaptured slaves, or fugitives hunted out of the forests and mountains, or criminals, or non-Hova tribesmen, or suspected Christians, or anyone who, under her tyranny, had merited punishment. She would look down for a long time, and then nod at one group and grunt: “Burning,” and then at another, “Crucifixion,” and at a third, “Boiling.” And so on, through the ghastly list – starvation, or flaying alive, or dismembering, or whatever horror occurred to her monstrous taste. Then she would go inside – and next day the sentences would be carried out at Ambohipotsy in front of a cheering mob. Sometimes she attended herself, watching unmoved, and then going home to the palace to spend hours praying to her personal idols under the paintings in her reception room.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 87
