"Chubbaraol” They stopped yelling. “Uliba-Wark, tell them who I am!”
It was common sense: whatever Yando might have done to an anonymous stranger within Uliba’s gates, he’d not dare misuse an envoy from the British army now invading his country. And if the revelation jeopardised my ridiculous mission to the Galla queen, so much the better.
“Tell him!” I repeated, in Arabic, and from the look he turned on Uliba I knew he didn’t understand a word. “He won’t dare
She looked at me without a word and then let fly a volley at Yando—and God alone knows what she said, but it drove him into a violent fury: he absolutely grabbed her by the shoulders, bawling into her face. They raged at each other until he thrust her away and turned to my captors, an outflung hand pointing at me, his pug face contorted with bestial anger, and before I knew it I was being thrust aloft again, the pistol wallah jabbing me with my own barrel, and the spearman offering assistance.
I went, but not quietly, you may be sure, damning their eyes for villains and swearing vows of revenge, in English, Arabic, and Hindi, to no avail whatever. They forced me up into the room which Uliba had described as “the dungeon", and here came Yando and another of his thugs bringing up the rear. He snapped an order, grinning malevolently, and I was flung down and bound wrist and ankle by two of the brutes while the third began to drag something from the shadows in a corner of the room.
Light was beginning to filter through the high windows, glinting on the hook dangling by a stout rope from its pulley, and terror gripped me as Yando, shouting with laughter, took hold of it, and I saw that what the third man was dragging forward was a frame shaped like an iron maiden, but made of metal strips, not unlike the irons in which they used to enclose hanged felons. It was hinged at one side, and as Yando threw it open my captors hoisted me up and thrust me into it. Yando snapped it closed, bolting it with a large pin attached to an immensely long fine steel chain which he held coiled in his hand. They lifted me parallel to the floor, hanging me on the hook by a loop on the back of the frame, so that I swung face down.
That was when I began to scream in earnest, struggling helpless in that ghastly cage, staring through its slender bars at the floor boards three feet below. Then Yando tugged on the coiled chain, withdrawing the pin so that the frame fell suddenly open, and I came crashing to the floor and lay half stunned.
D’ye know, in that moment I was a miserable Rugby fag again, being tossed in a blanket by the evil swine Bully Dawson, whose delight it was to heave us aloft and then pull the blanket aside so that we came down smash. I’d squealed for mercy then, but my pleas were nothing to the howls I put up now as they lifted me, thrusting me back into the dangling contraption, snapping it shut about me. Yando replaced the pin which held it closed, and they set me swinging again.
I still couldn’t see what they intended, except that it must be something hellish, but now Yando was leering at me through the bars, jabbering in Amharic as I wailed to be let alone, please, oh please, I’d done nothing, and I was a British officer, oh Jesus help me—and then they flung back a great trapdoor in the floor directly under me, and I shrieked myself hoarse as I writhed vainly in that hideous steel coffin, staring at the unbelievable horror revealed beneath the floor of the chamber, which overhung the cliff-top on which the tower was perched.
A blast of icy air smote me as the trap crashed open. Mist was wreathing below, partly concealing the gaping void and the cliff-face which I knew dropped sheer for thousands of feet—and Yando was flourishing the steel chain, displaying its great length and taunting me in Amharic as he showed in mime how he could draw the pin free at a distance, dropping me to hideous death. In my panic even my voice failed me; I could only mouth silently at that dreadful face, so close that I could catch the foulness of his breath—and to this day I can still see the pores in his disgusting black snout.
He shouted an order, and two of his minions were at the wheel controlling the hook. There was a sudden clank, and as I fell abruptly a few inches with a sickening jolt, I found my voice again, screaming my head off as I was lowered with the steady clanking of that vile machine to the level of the trap, and then through it into the biting wind and swirling mist, knowing that the fine chain which could jerk free the pin was paying out above, its end in the hand of that fiend gloating down at me. The lowering stopped with ajar and a last distant clank, and I was hanging in my imprisoning cage, ten feet beneath the floor, staring down into eternity.
Or so it seemed. In my catalogue of terrors, heights come second only to physical torture, and I have nightmares still in which I’m toppling after de Gautet into the boiling depths of the Jotunschlucht, or being hurled down to the death-pits of Ambohipotsey, or dangling ballock-naked beneath that balcony in Lahore. But nothing can compare to the crotch-tightening horror of seeing, through the blowing mist, the limitless depth beneath me, down that cliff-face now clearly visible dwindling away to the jagged pinnacles of rock rising from its base, and beyond them the valley floor to which that bastard Yando could send me hurtling with one twitch of his hand, down and down and down, falling, falling, falling for an eternity through half a mile of freezing nothing with the shrill wind drowning my dying scream until life ended in shattering bloody impact far below.
I wonder I didn’t go mad, waiting for the moment when I’d be launched into emptiness. What devilish cruelty had devised this lingering horror, and what subterranean “dungeon” offered less hope of escape or could provide a more awful tomb? I daren’t even struggle, for fear of jolting loose the pin, sobbing feebly as I swung slowly to and fro, a helpless human pendulum… oh merciful God, was it possible the ghastly moment of release would never come, and I’d be left to hang until I starved or perished of freezing cold or did go mad at the last?
D’you know what saved me from gibbering lunacy? The anguish of cold and the bite of steel bars into my flesh may have helped, but I believe it was pure funk that made me lose consciousness, sinking into an oblivion in which pain and fear and misery and hopelessness merged into a kind of trance in which they ceased to have meaning. Or perhaps, as confounded Dick Burton suggested when I described my ordeal to him, I simply fell asleep. That, he opined, would have been the thing to do. Damned idiot had no imagination whatever.
Trance, coma, sleep, or delirium, it lasted for hours, for when I came to, in agony from the constriction of my bonds and the bite of the bars into my almost paralysed limbs, the wind had dropped and the cold somewhat abated; if it hadn’t I’d ha’ been dead. There was sunlight bathing the cliff, I remember, and then I must have swooned again, for when I regained consciousness for the second time the sun had gone, and it was early evening, although I’d no notion of this at the time.
Now, I’ve described as best I can what it’s like to be hung over the edge of the world, spider-fashion at the end of a thread (except that he can climb up and you can’t), but when all’s said and done, even the most hellish ordeal ends, in death or survival. Mine fin ished with a distant clank which meant nothing to me; I heard it, but didn’t understand it, or what was happening as I was drawn slowly upward through the trap and into the “dungeon” again.
Other things I remember: the crash of the trap closing; the steel frame being opened and strong hands lowering me on to a soft bed; my limbs being chafed and rubbed with warm oil; the sting of tej in my mouth and throat; voices in Amharic… and then, through a lamplit haze, Uliba-Wark looking down at me, the handsome face tense with concern, the fine eyes troubled—and that, I can tell you, was a happy sight to waken to. She was kneeling by the mattress on which I lay, still in that beastly “dungeon", but with the trap safely closed. Above her stood a tall, fine-looking fellow of about my age, dressed in princely fashion with not only a red-fringed shama and knight’s gauntlets, but a silver coronet in his braided hair, with little horns, and metal tails trailing to his shoulders.
I must have been still fairly lost, for all I remember after that is being covered with a blanket, and sof
t heavy lips kissing my brow, and then drifting into sleep undisturbed by visions of bottomless chasms. It’s a great advantage of cowardice that escape from peril elates you beyond terrified reaction; that comes later, when you think back, and is best treated by liberal applications of booze.
I didn’t stir for above twelve hours, and woke to find myself in the same spot, aching damnably in every joint, with weals on my torso from the pressure of those damned steel strips, but in my right mind, full of beans, ready for grub and for Uliba-Wark.
She came as I was contemplating a loving squeeze at either of the barely clad damsels who were massaging my tired limbs, or the third who was removing the remnants of my breakfast; fortunately, perhaps, contemplation was as far as I got, for she came briskly in, sent the wenches scampering with a sharp word, looked at me care fully, took my face in her hands and kissed me in excellent style, but withdrew when I became familiar, and seated herself at the foot of my mattress. My breakfast lass had left a flask of tej, and Uliba filled two cups. “Listen,” says she, so I did, and was treated to a tale fit for the wildest of penny dreadfuls—but true, as the wildest tales often are, in my experience.
As I’d guessed, Malee (whose eccentric behaviour we’ll discuss presently) had been the traitress within the gates, somehow getting word out to Yando, who’d been on the lurk nearby, and unbarring the gate for him and his gang in the small hours. They’d overrun the garrison of bints and dodderers without difficulty, and Yando, whose style I couldn’t but admire, had offered Uliba a stark choice: give Yando his jollies or it would be the long drop for Flashy.
“That godless bitch Malee, that deceitful snake, had told him you were dear to me!” She spat out the words as though they were red-hot. “Oh, let her come within reach of my hand, and I’ll make the lying harlot pray for death! As for Yando…” I waited agog for sensational details, for since I was here safe and sound I must suppose that she’d submitted to his beastly passion for my sake, the plucky little woman. But she was vague, hinting that she’d managed to temporise while some of her folk, who’d fled after Yando’s invasion, had run for help to an amba a few miles away.
Its owner was yet another of her admirers (of whom I must say there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply), a civilised and genteel one for a change, named Daoud. He had lost no time in bringing a troop of riders to the rescue, capturing Yando and slaughtering most of his followers. Malee had wisely made herself scarce, and Flashy had been wound up and revived.
Whether Daoud and Co. had arrived in time to save Uliba from a fate which most ladies of my acquaintance regard as infinitely preferable to death, I still ain’t sure, but from her subsequent behav iour I rather think they didn’t, and he had his wicked will of her. But you’ll judge for yourselves.
Another mystery which I still can’t fathom is Malee. Her rage at Uliba’s desertion of Sarafa I can understand, and her later pretended repentance and reconciliation with her mistress while preparing to betray her. But deciding along the way to pass the night romping with the lodger don’t quite fit, somehow. I’m as immodest as the next man, but it seemed odd, and still does. Not to Uliba.
“I told you, anything I have, she must have also. She believed you were my lover; that was enough.” She shrugged. “Besides, she needs men as a drunkard needs tej. But she is no matter. Yando is.” She stood up, pacing across the chamber while I took happy stock of the proud Ethiopian profile with its heavy braids, and the elegant shape in the ridiculously scanty tunic. She turned to regard me gravely.
“He knows who you are. I was a fool not to realise that he has been watching this amba for a week past, hoping to surprise me. He saw me leave three nights ago to visit Napier effendi’s camp, where you and I met. He saw me leave again with you, and knew you must be a British soldier—what else could you be?” She gritted her teeth in self-reproach. “And I am reputed shrewd! I, the woman of excellent head, forgot that there are no spies like the spies of Habesh!”
“What of it? It don’t matter two straws to Yando that I’m British! He chased us here to get you, not me, and however sharp he and his spies are, he can have no notion why I’m here, or what for… why, Malee told him I was your lover! Well, there you are! Why should he suspect that I’m an envoy, going south to—”
“What he may suspect matters nothing!” cries she. “What matters is that he knew three days ago you were British, so did his men, and two of them escaped us! So how long, think you, will it be before the news reaches Theodore, who has an eye at every window and an ear at every door?” She came to kneel by the mattress, face and voice urgent.
“What says Theodore, then? He says, ‘Here is a British army advancing against me. Here is a British officer riding by night with Uliba-Wark, half-sister of Queen Masteeat of Wollo Galla. What can this mean? Can it be that the English general is sending an envoy to enlist the aid of my enemies against me?’” She broke off impatiently. “That much a child could guess, and Theodore is no child!”
My first thought was, well, there’s an end to my mission, thank God. My second was that Napier wouldn’t think so. He’d never stand my crying off; Galla was too vital for that, whatever the risk. And giving up didn’t even cross Uliba’s mind.
“So now our journey will be doubly dangerous,” says she. “Theodore will have his watchers out for us from Gondar to the Ashangi lake. God willing, they will be seeking an Englishman, not an Indian horse-pedlar.”
“They’ll be looking for you, too—”
“Which is why I must teach you enough Amharic to act as our purchaser and bid good day to passers-by.” She looked me over. “Are you strong enough to start tomorrow, before dawn?”
“I’m strong enough for more than that,” says I, and caught her arm before she could stand up, drawing her down beside me. She didn’t resist as I clasped her to me, revelling in the suppleness of her body, and when I clamped my mouth on her lips they remained closed only for a long teasing moment, suddenly opening avidly, her tongue thrusting against mine, her hands clasping fiercely behind my head. Trumpeter, sound! thinks I, digging my claws into her buttocks and doing my level best to eat her, at which she sud denly writhed free with surprising strength and scrambled up, gasping, her mouth quivering and her eyes wide and wild. I was lunging up in pursuit, but she stayed me with a hand.
“Wait!” says she. “First, there is something to be done—some thing you should see!”
She went to the ladder-stair and shouted down. A female voice replied, and after a moment a man’s. She barked out a command, and presently there were disputatious voices raised below, sounds of ascension, and here came the princely chap who I realised must be the timely rescuer Daoud, followed by a couple of strapping lads who, to my amazement, were bringing with them a damned disgruntled Yando.
He let out a tirade of screaming abuse at the sight of Uliba, one of his escorts hit him a smashing blow across the mouth, and the pair of them gripped him while another two sturdy minions appeared, and, at Daoud’s instructions, brought out that hellish cage in which I’d been given the fresh air treatment, and which had been tactfully hidden away in the shadows since I’d vacated it.
Yando squealed like a steam whistle at the sight of it, bloodshot eyes bugging and ape face contorted in panic, and I’ve seldom seen a sight more gratifying. As you know, I’m a cruel bastard, and if there’s one thing I enjoy it’s seeing another cruel bastard get his cocoa. In this case it was so dam’ poetic, too; my heart went out to Uliba as she stood there sneering, arms akimbo, and my one regret was that I couldn’t understand the taunts with which she was encouraging Yando as they encased him.
They had the devil of a job, for he was as strong as a bull, and for a reason which I didn’t understand until later, they hadn’t bound his hands. It took all four of them, and they had to beat him half-senseless before they had him caged and the pin in place. Then they hung the cage on the hook and threw back the trap and we all stood round appreciating his screams for mercy—I knew that’s what th
ey were because they sounded so like my own. On Uliba’s instructions he had been placed in the cage face up, so we were treated to his interesting expressions as he was lowered slowly into the void, the men on the windlass stopping the process when he was only a bare yard below the floor level, not nearly as far down as I had been, but convenient for the spectators.
The long chain to the securing pin was coiled on the floor, and Uliba picked it up, holding it out for Yando to see and smiling down at him. She gave it a gentle tug, moving the pin just a little, and addressed what sounded like a question to him, which had Daoud’s followers in whoops. Daoud himself gave the ghost of a smile, and I had a feeling that he regarded the adored object’s conduct as not at all the thing (as Elspeth would say). He said something to her, and she shrugged and replied offhand, at which Daoud, after a long look at me, bowed to her and retired, followed by his gang mighty glum; they’d been looking forward to watching Yando take flight.
Uliba was in no hurry to put him out of his misery. She stood on the brink of the trap mocking him in a voice husky with excitement while he woke the echoes with his pleas and curses, writhing so that the cage jerked and swung like a cork on a string. A diverting sight, but I was more intent on studying her face, lips parted, laughing in delight as she toyed with the chain, drawing the long pin ever so slowly and then, with a last taunt, suddenly whipping it free.
The cage flew open, spilling him out—and now I saw that leaving his hands free had been the exquisite refinement of cruelty, for he was able to grab the edge of the cage even as he fell, and there he was, clinging for dear life as he swung over the giddy mist-streaked abyss, shrieking his ugly head off.
Talk about the female o’ the species if you like—Uliba cried in glee, clapping her hands, fairly revelling in the brute’s anguish, and now she sweetened his last moments with a gesture which I doubt even Ranavalona or the Empress Tsu-hsi or my little Apache charmer Sonsee-array would have thought of—and they knew how to tickle their male victims, I can tell you. She leaned over, jeering down into that glaring agonised face, and with slow deliberation undid the laces of her leather tunic and let it fall, leaving her naked but for a loincloth. She puckered her lips at him in a mockery of kissing, and told me to replace the trapdoor.
Flashman on the March Page 11
