The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  * * *

  a Preserved fried beef, a form of pemmican.

  Chapter 12

  While I can lie and dissemble with the best as a rule, I’m not much hand at conspiracy; you’re too dependent on knavery other than your own. Mind you, they seemed a steady enough gang, and the one blessing was that there was little time left for anything to go wrong; if I’d had to wait days, or weeks, I don’t doubt my nerve would have cracked, or I’d have given myself away. When I went on parade next dawn, having had not a wink of sleep, I was twitching like a landed fish; I’d even started guiltily when my orderly brought my shaving-water – what was behind it, eh? wasn’t it suspicious that his behaviour was exactly the same as it had been for months? Did he know something? By the time I got to my office, and issued my orders of the day to my small staff of instructors, I was seeing spies everywhere, and behaving like a nervous actor in “Macbeth”.

  The shocking problem, as I stared at the impassive black faces of my staff and tried to keep my hands still, was to devise a sufficient excuse for sending the Guards off to Ankay. G-d, how had I got into this? I couldn’t just order ’em off – that would excite comment for certain. They didn’t need the exercise, they’d been behaving well on parade – I couldn’t see any way, but I had them mustered in case, trusting the Lord would provide. And He did. The men were steady and well-turned out, as usual, but their junior officers had been at the Queen’s party all night, and came on parade half-soused. Seeing my chance, I set ’em to drill their columns, and in five minutes that muster looked like the Battle of Borodino, with Hovas walking into each other, whole companies going astray, and little drunk officers staggering about shrieking and weeping. In happy inspiration I had the band paraded to accompany the drill, and since most of them were still cross-eyed and blowing into the wrong end of their instruments, the shambles was only increased.

  At this I flew into a frightful passion, placed the drunker officers under arrest, harangued the parade at the top of my voice, and told them they could d--n well march in full kit until they were sober and respectable again. Ankay was the place, I said; they could camp out on the plain without tents or blankets, and if one of ’em dared to get fever I’d flog him stupid. It must have sounded convincing, and presently off they went, led by the band playing three different marches at once; I watched them fade into the dusty haze and thought, well, that’s my part well done – and if the whole plot goes agley, I can still plead that my actions have been perfectly normal.

  But that’s small comfort to a conscience like mine. I was a prey to increasing terror all day, fretting about what Laborde and the others might be doing – there was another day and night for word of the plot to leak out, and I started at every voice and footfall. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice; no doubt they attributed my jumps, like their own, to the excesses of the previous night. There was no word from the palace, no hint of anything untoward; evening came, and I prepared to turn in early with a bottle of aniseed to quiet my dark hours.

  I lay there, listening to the distant sounds of the palace, sucking at my flask, and telling myself for the thousandth time there was no reason why all shouldn’t be well – why, given luck, in two days Elspeth and I would be riding down in style to Tamitave, with Rakota’s blessing; then the first English ship, and home and safety, far from this h--lish place. It mightn’t be so bad, of course, with Ranavalona out of the way – might be financial advantage to be had – rich country, new market – trading ventures, expert advice to City merchants in return for ten per cent of the profits – not to be sneezed at. Wonder what they’d do with Good Queen Randy – exile to the southern province, likely, with a platoon of Hova bucks to keep her warm … serve her right …

  The knock on my door sounded thunderously, and I came bolt upright, sweating. I heard my orderly’s voice, and here he was, as I scrabbled for my boots, and behind him, the ominous figures of Hova guardsmen, bandoliers and all, their bare chests gleaming black in the lamplight. There was an under-officer, summoning me to the royal apartments; the words pierced my drowsy brain like drops of acid – oh, Ch---t, I was done for. I had to hold on to the edge of my cot as I pulled on my breeches; what could she want, at this hour, and why should she send a guard of soldiers, unless the worst had happened? The gaff was blown, it must be – steady, though, it might be nothing after all – I must keep a straight face, whatever it was. Panic shook me – should I try a bolt? No, that would be fatal, and my legs wouldn’t answer; it was all they could do to walk steady as the officer led the way round to the front of the palace, past the broad steps – was it imagination that there seemed to be more sentries than usual? – and across the court to the Silver Palace, gleaming dimly under the rising moon, its million bells tinkling softly in the night air.

  Up the stairs, along the broad corridor, with my legs like jelly and the Hova boots pounding stolidly behind me – I wasn’t happy about those boots, I remembered; I’d toyed with the idea of trying ’em in sandals, but hadn’t been sure how they’d stand up to long marching – ye G-ds, what a thing to think about, with my life in the balance, and now the great doors were opening, the officer was waving me in, and here, in a blaze of light, was the reception room, and I was striding in and bowing automatically, while the picture was emblazoned in my mind.

  She was there, black and still, on her throne. It must be midnight, surely, but d---e if she wasn’t wearing a taffeta afternoon dress, all blue flounces, and a hat with an ostrich plume. I came up from my bow, feeling the chill stare, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. A couple of her girl attendants alongside, then the lean, robed figure of Vavalana the Chancellor, his head cocked, looking at me out of his crafty eyes; Fankanonikaka – I struggled for composure, but his bland black face told me nothing. And then my heart leaped sickeningly, and I almost cried out.

  To one side, between two guardsmen, stood Baron Andriama. His shirt was torn, his face contorted, and his hands were bound; he seemed barely able to stand. There was a filthy mess on the floor near him – and the word shot into my mind: tanguin. She knew, then – it was all up.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see her watching me, her hand at her earring. Then she muttered something, and Vavalana shuffled forward, his staff tapping. His grizzled head and skinny black face looked curiously bird-like; he blinked at me like a cheeky old robin.

  “Speak before the Queen,” says he, and his voice was a gentle croak. “Why did you send the Guards to Ankay?”

  I tried to look slightly puzzled, and to keep my voice steady. “May the Queen live a thousand years. I sent the Guards on a punishment march – because they were drunk and slovenly. So was the band.” I frowned at him, and spoke louder. “They were not fit to be seen – I have five of their officers in arrest. Fifty miles in full kit is what they need, to teach ’em to behave like soldiers – and when they come back I’ll send them out again, if they haven’t learned their lesson!”

  It sounded well, I think – the right touch of puzzled indignation and martial severity, although how I managed it G-d alone knows. Vavalana was studying me, and behind him that black face and beady eyes beneath the ostrich plume were as fixed as a stone idol’s. I must not falter, or betray fear—

  “They were not sent away on the orders of that man?” says Vavalana, and his scrawny hand pointed at Andriama, sagging between his guards.

  “Baron Andriama?” says I, bewildered. “He has no authority over the troops. Why – does he say he ordered me? He has never shown any interest in their training – he’s not a soldier, even. I don’t understand, Chancellor—”

  “But you knew” – cries Vavalana, his finger stabbing at me – “you knew he plotted against the life of the Great Lake Supplying Water! Why else should you remove her shield, her trusted soldiers?”

  I let my jaw drop in amazement, then I laughed right in his face – and for the first time saw Ranavalona startled. She jumped like a jerked puppet, for I don’t suppose anyone had ever laughed alou
d in her presence before.

  “A plot, you say? Is this a joke, Chancellor? If so, it’s in poor taste.” I stopped laughing and scowled, seeing the doubt in his eyes – now’s your chance, my boy, I thought, rage and indignation, carry it off for all you’re worth, bluff loyal old Harry. “Who would dare plot against her majesty, or say that I knew of it?” I almost shouted the words, red in the face, and Vavalana absolutely fell back a step. Then:

  “Enough!” Ranavalona took her hand from her earring. “Come here.”

  I stepped forward, forcing myself to look into those hypnotic eyes, my mouth dry with fear. Had the bluff worked? Did she believe me? The glazed, frozen pupils surveyed me for a full minute, then she reached out and took my hand. My spirits leaped as she held it – and then she grunted one word:

  “Tanguin.”

  My heart lurched, and I almost fell. For it meant she didn’t believe me, or at least wasn’t sure, which was just as bad; she was holding my hand, sentencing me to trial by ordeal, that horrible, lunatic test of Madagascar, which gave barely a chance of survival. I heard my own teeth chattering, and then I was grovelling and pleading, protesting my loyalty, swearing she was the darlingest, loveliest queen who ever was – only the blind certainty that confession meant sure and unspeakable death stopped me from whimpering out the whole plot; for at least the tanguin gave me a slender chance, and I suppose I knew it. The sullen face didn’t change. She let go my hand and gestured to the guards.

  I could only crouch there while they made their beastly preparations, aware of nothing except the black, muscular hands holding the little tanguin stone and scraping it with a knife, so that the grey powdery flakes fell on to the platter on which lay the three dried scraps of chicken-skin. There it was, my poisoned death; one of the guards jerked me roughly to my feet, gripping my arms behind me; the other advanced, lifting the plate up to my face. He seized my jaw – and then paused as the Queen spoke, but it wasn’t a reprieve: she was signing to one of her maids, and everything must wait, me with my eyes popping at that venomous offal I was going to have to swallow, while the girl scurried away and came back with a purse, from which the Queen solemnly counted twenty-four dollars into Vavalana’s hand. At that final callousness, that obscene adherence to the letter of their heathen ritual, my nerve broke.

  “No!” I screamed. “Let me go! I’ll tell – I swear I’ll tell!” By the grace of God I shouted in English, which no one except Fankanonikaka understood. “Mercy! They made me do it! I’ll tell—”

  My jaw was wrenched cruelly open; bestial fingers were holding it, and I choked as my mouth filled with the filthy odour of the tanguin. I struggled, gagging, but the scraps of chicken were thrust cruelly to the back of my mouth; then muscular hands clamped my jaws shut and pinched my nostrils, I struggled and heaved, trying not to swallow, my throat was on fire with that vile dust, I was choking horribly, my lungs bursting, but it was no use. I gulped agonizingly – and then I was staggering free, sobbing and trying to retch, glaring round in panic, knowing I was dying – yet even then aware of the curiosity in the watching eyes of Vavalana and the guards, and the blank indifference of the creature motionless on the throne.

  I screamed, again and again, clutching at my burning throat, while the room spun giddily round me – and then the guards had seized me once more, little Fankanonikaka was jabbering at me while they forced a bowl to my lips. “Buvez! Buvez! Drinking – quickly!” and a torrent of rice-water was being poured into me, filling my mouth and nostrils, soaking my whole head; my very lungs seemed to be filling with the stuff. I swallowed and swallowed until I felt I must burst, feeling the relief as that corrosive pain was washed from my mouth – and then an agonizing convulsion gripped my stomach, and then another, and another. I was on hands and knees, crawling blindly – oh, G-d, if this was death it was worse than anything I’d imagined. I opened my mouth to scream, and in that moment I spewed as never before, again and again, and collapsed in a shuddering heap, wailing feebly and all but dead to the world, while the spectators gathered round to take stock.

  This is the interesting part of the tanguin ordeal, you see: will the victim vomit properly? It’s true – that’s the test. They force that deadly poison into you, douse you with rice-water to help digestion, and await events – but it ain’t enough just to be sick, you know, you must bring up the three pieces of chicken skin as well, and if you do, it’s handshakes all round and a tanner from the poor box. If you don’t, then you’ve failed the test, your guilt is established – and her majesty has endless fun disposing of you.

  Delightful, ain’t it? And just about as logical as the proceedings of our police courts, if rather more upsetting to the accused. At least you don’t have to wait in suspense while they sift the evidence, for you’re too racked and exhausted to care; I lay, coughing and whining with my eyes blurred with tears of pain, until someone seized my hair and jerked me upright, and there was Vavalana, solemnly surveying three sodden little objects on his palm, and Fankanonikaka beaming relief at his elbow, nodding at me, and I was still too dazed to take it in as the guards thrust me forward on to my knees, snuffling and blubbering before the throne.42

  Then followed the most astonishing thing of all. Ranavalona held out her hand, and Vavalana carefully placed eight dollars in her palm. She passed them to her maid, and he then gave her another eight, which she held out to me. I was too used up to recollect that this was the token that I’d survived the ordeal successfully, but then she made it abundantly clear. When I took the money she closed her hand round mine and leaned forward from her throne until our faces were almost touching, and to my utter disbelief I saw that there were tears in those dreadful snake eyes. Very gently she rubbed her nose against mine, and touched my face with her lips. Then she was upright again, turning her glare on the unfortunate Andriama, and hissing something in Malagassy – she may have been reminding him to wear wool next his skin, but I doubt it, for he shrieked with terror and flung himself grovelling in front of her, nuzzling at her feet while the guards fell on him and dragged him writhing towards the doors. My hair stood up shuddering on my scalp as his screams died away; a less comprehensive spew, and that would have been me wailing.

  Fankanonikaka was at my elbow, and taking my cue from him I bowed unsteadily, backing out of the presence. As the doors closed on us, Ranavalona was still seated, the ostrich plume nodding as she muttered to her bottle idol; her maids were starting to mop the floor in a disconsolate way.

  “Much touching, Queen loving you greatly, so pleased you puking pretty, much happy tanguin not dying!” Fankanonikaka was absolutely snivelling with sentiment as he hurried. “She never loving so deep, except royal bulls, which aren’t human being. But now hurrying, much danger still, for you, for me, for all, when Andriama telling plots.” He thrust me along the passages, and so to his little office, where he shot the bolt and stood gasping.

  “What about Andriama? What happened?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Who knowing, someone betraying, awful humbug Vavalana maybe spy keyholing, hearing somethings. Queen suspicioning Andriama, giving tanguin, he puking no good, not like you. I not there in time, no helping, like for you, with salt, little-little cascara in rice-water, making mighty sickings, jolly happy, all right and tight, I say.”

  No wonder I’d been sick. I could have kissed the little blighter, but he was fairly twitching with alarm.

  “Andriama telling soon. Awful torturings now, worse from Spanish Inquizzing, burnings and cutting away private participles—” He shuddered, his hands over his face. “He crying about plot, me, you, Rakohaja, Laborde—”

  “For G-d’s sake, talk French!”

  “—everything be knowing to Vavalana and Queen. Maybe little time yet, then clink for us, torturings too, then Tyburn jig, I’ll wager! Only hope, making plot now – tonight Guards not here, marching Ankay left-right! Must telling Rakohaja, Laborde, Queen suspicioning, Andriama blowing gaff soon …”

  He babbled on while I tried de
sperately to think. He was right, of course: Malagassies are brave and tough as teak, but Andriama would never stand the horrors that Ranavalona’s beauties were probably inflicting on him while we stood talking. He’d break, and soon, and we’d be dead men – by George, though, she fancied me, didn’t she just, piping her eye when I survived the tanguin, the tender-hearted little bundle? Aye, and no doubt she’d weep into her pillow after I’d been flayed alive for treason, too. If we could reach Laborde or Rakohaja, could they bring off the coup at once? Where were Andriama’s thirty villains? Did Rakota know what had been happening? Rakota – dear G-d, Elspeth! What would become of her? I pounded my fist in a fury of despair, while Fankanonikaka twittered in Malagassy and pidgin English, and suddenly I saw that there was only one way, and a slender hope at that, but it was that or unspeakable death. The Flashman gambit – when in doubt, run.

  “Look, Fankanonikaka,” says I, “leave this to me. I’ll find Laborde and Rakohaja. But if I’m to move quickly, I must have a horse. Can you give me an order on the royal stables? They won’t let me take a beast without authority. Come on, man! I can’t run all over b----y Antan’ on foot! Wait, though – I may need more than one. Write me an order for a dozen horses, so that I can give ’em to Laborde, or Rakohaja – they’ll have to assemble those men of Andriama’s somehow.”

  He goggled at me in consternation. “But what reason? If order say taking all horse, someone suspicioning, crying fire and Bow Street—”

  “Say they’re for the Guards’ officers I sent marching to Ankay! Say the Queen’s sorry for ’em, and they can ride back! Any d----d excuse will do! Hurry, man – Andriama’s probably crying uncle this instant!”

  That decided him; he grabbed a quill and scribbled as I hovered at his shoulder, shuddering with impatience. The minutes were flying, and with every one my chances were growing dimmer. I pocketed the order; there was one more item I must have.