Flashman on the March

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Whether my pathetic attempt to swim, or some freak of the current, or just a plain miracle took me clear, I can’t tell, for all I remember is an engulfing white mist, and after a while gravel under my knees and body, and crawling on to wet rock and lying exhausted in pouring rain—in fact it was the spray thrown up by millions of tons of water pouring over that colossal natural weir into the enor mous lagoon at its foot. I managed to roll over on my back and stare up through a glittering rainbow haze at that gigantic white curtain of water falling with the roar of a thousand thunderstorms; I was lying on a flat stone bank apparently at one side of the river and about two furlongs from the fall itself; as I say, how I came there, God alone knows.

  If I’d been a half-decent Christian I dare say I’d have sent up a prayer of thanksgiving for my deliverance. Or I might have mar velled at the devil’s own luck that preserves rotters where good men get their cocoa. But neither of these things occurred to me, and my last thought before slipping into unconsciousness as I gazed up at that towering cataract, was: “I wonder if anyone’s ever done that before?”

  I know now that I must have come over the middle of the falls, where the force of the river drives the torrent well out from the cliff, so that I’d been thrown clear of the rocky base and landed in deep water; if I’d taken the plunge from the eastern lip, where the current is slacker and the water pours directly down the cliff-face, I’d have been mangled on the rocks or drowned in the eddy for certain. Even so, I’d fallen from the height of Nelson’s Column, and you need nine lives to survive that.

  No one believes it, [37] of course, including the small boy and his sister who found me dead to the wide on the rocky shore, and their fisher-folk parents who nursed me through a bout of fever—malaria, by the feel of it—that left me weak as a baby. As for the junior officer commanding the file of Galla soldiers who arrived when word of my presence had spread beyond the little village, he laughed to scorn the notion that anyone could live through the Silver Smoke, even if he was a Hindu heretic and therefore doubtless a sorcerer in league with Shaitan.

  “For you are Khasim Tamwar, are you not?” says this handsome young savage, smiling courteously as he squatted down beside my pallet in that peasant’s hut. “Horse-trader out of India, seeking audience with our most illustrious queen, Masteeat the Looking Glass?”

  And how the devil should he know that? Had I babbled in my fever—or could word have preceded us from the monastery at Azez? He smiled at my astonishment, the cocky subaltern to the life, for all that his classic features were as black as my boot and his braided hair was smeared with butter dripping on to his bare shoulders.

  “It is our business to know who comes and goes along the Abai, and when a foreigner speaking Arabic comes from the north, who should it be but the expected traveller from… Hyderabad, or some such name?”

  “Expected, you say? But how -?”

  “No doubt her majesty will tell you,” says he coolly. “And you would be wise not to insult her with talk of leaping over waterfalls. She is a kind and loving ruler, but she has a short way with liars… Are you fit to travel?”

  I was, more or less, so after I’d thanked the peasants and dashed them a few of the dollars which, with my Joslyn, had been bestowed in my sash and so survived the fall, we set off through the jungly forest which encloses the Abai beneath the Tisisat. From an emi nence about a mile south I was able to get a full view of that extraordinary wonder of the natural world, all six hundred yards of it from the broken cataracts at its western end to the splendid horseshoe on the east. Aye, the devil certainly looks after his own, thinks I, while my Galla escorts sneered and nudged each other and mut tered “Walker!” in Amharic.

  They were a formidable crew, the very sort of men I’d have expected from my acquaintance with the female of the species, Uliba-Wark: big, likely youngsters, not one under six feet, active as cats, muscled like wrestlers, and African only in colour. Speedy had said that of all the countless Galla tribes, the Wollos were the pick, and I could believe him and thank God they were Theodore’s sworn enemies, for if they’d opposed us I doubt if one of Napier’s army would ever have got back to the coast. They’re warriors from their cradles, expert fighters, splendid horsemen, and would rather cut throats than eat dinner. Fortunately for their neighbours, the fifty or sixty families of the nation are never done feuding among themselves, for if ever they united they could sweep north Africa from the Red Sea to the Sahara. They must be the most independent folk on earth; those of their tribes who are republican acknowledge no law and pay taxes to no one, and even the Wollos, who recog nised Masteeat as their queen, served in her army as volunteers without obligation.

  There were a dozen in my escort, all well mounted and dressed accordingly with trowsers not unlike Pathan pyjamys under their robes, but barefoot and without head-dresses. They were armed with sickle-swords and those disgusting ballock-festooned lances, but no muskets or pistols. Their subaltern, whose name was Wedaju, explained that while Abs generally were familiar with firearms brought in centuries ago by the Portuguese, the Gallas, being crusty traditionalists who enjoyed slaughter at close quarters, were only now beginning to adopt them. Our conversation arose from the envious interest he showed in my Joslyn, asking if he might examine it; the fact that he didn’t simply take it suggested that he regarded me as a guest rather than a prisoner, which set me wondering again how he’d known who I was. But I didn’t ask: I’d find out eventually, and it was enough for the moment that I was being civilly treated.

  My first concern was plainly Queen Masteeat, and how to present Napier’s proposal. One complication at least had been removed: whether Uliba-Wark was still in flight from Theodore’s cavalry or had been collared by them, she was no longer in a position to embarrass my mission by trying to usurp her sister’s throne, thank God. Fine woman in her way, good jancada and capital primitive ride, but she could have been an almighty nuisance, and I was well shot of her. I’d make my pitch to Masteeat in my own way, deploying the Flashy charm and the promise of fifty thou’ in Maria Theresas, and see how her majesty played the bowling. And if and when the Wollo Gallas marched forth to besiege Magdala, I’d con trive to keep my safe strategic distance from the action.

  Our way lay through forest which thinned out after a few miles into pleasant wooded plain, with low hills on our flank, each with a sentry on its summit. Presently we came on pickets camped out in the groves, passing us through most professional, watchword and all, every man on his feet and jumping to their guard commanders’ orders. So we came into their camp proper, a great spread of tents and huts not unlike a Red Indian village, but clean and orderly, and although there were women and children by the hundred, there was no confusion or stink. Everywhere there were Galla warriors, mounted and infantry, plainly at ease but not loafing or lolling; this was a disciplined host, thousands strong and in no way encumbered by their families. No one would ever take this crew by surprise, and I knew just by their look that they’d be able to break camp and be off at an hour’s notice. My opinion of Queen Masteeat and her followers was rising swiftly; the most formidable African queen since Cleopatra, Speedy had said, and if her travelling cantonment were anything to judge by, he was right. [38]

  Our arrival caused a stir, scores of white-robed armed men closing in on us and a couple of seniors in red-fringed shamas calling out to Wedaju in a language I didn’t understand. He’d spoken Arabic to me, none too fluently, but what I was hearing now was the Gallas’ own tongue, which isn’t Amharic or anything like it. Fortunately the Galla aristocracy speak Arabic well; one of the seniors, having cross-examined Wedaju, called out to me:

  “Where are your horses, trader?”

  I said I was here to buy not to sell, and he cocked his grizzled head and grinned, with his hand on his hilt.

  “And you carry purchase money with you through Habesh in time of war? Truly, you are bold travellers who come from Hindustan!”

  Those who understood shouted with laughter, watch
ing to see what I made of this jest with just a hint of threat behind it. Wedaju was about to intervene, but I got in first.

  “I carry money enough. I carry this also—” And I conjured the Joslyn out of my sash, spun it on my finger, did the border shift, presented it to the senior butt first, and as he reached for it wide-eyed I spun it again to cover him. The watching crowd gave a huge yell of surprise, and then fairly roared. My senior clapped his hands with delight, and in a moment I was surrounded by grinning black faces—if there’s one thing the Wollo Gallas like, it’s ready wit and impudence, and that silly little incident won me an admiring public before I’d been in their camp five minutes. Style, you see… and I tipped my metaphorical hat in memory of dear old Lou Maxwell who’d taught me how to spin a gun in Las Vegas all those years ago. [39]

  In the centre of the camp, within a stockade, was a group of permanent buildings: typical Ab dwellings of various sizes, dominated by a great two-storey structure with a conical thatched roof and upper and lower verandahs, which I guessed was the royal resi dence. Wedaju conducted me to one of the lesser buildings where a dignified old file in red-bordered shama and turban, sporting a fine white beard and bearing a red-shafted spear of office, ran a cold eye over me; they conversed in Galla, and at last the chamberlain, as I took him to be, made a stately departure, and Wedaju held out his hand and demanded my Joslyn.

  “You are to go into the Queen’s presence,” says he. “Have no fear, I shall keep it for you, and doubtless it will be returned when her majesty has spoken with you.” He paused, weighing the piece in his hand. “That feint you used out yonder—would you show it to me? Some day I shall have such a weapon as this, and it would be good to know…”

  I showed him, and he practised, chortling, and was expert in no time. “Thank you, friend!” cries he, and I decided that one of my calculated good deeds wouldn’t hurt.

  “If all speeds well with the Queen, you shall have such a pistol,” I told him, and he was still exclaiming his gratitude when the cham berlain returned with two turbaned guardsmen and led the way out, Flashy being ushered in his wake. The guardsmen thrashed aside the crowd who’d been craning their necks at the doorway to see the funny foreigner, and with Wedaju at my elbow we crossed to the big two-storey building, passed in between more turbaned sen tries, and waited in a large dim hall while the chamberlain went ahead through a great bead curtain which was presently held aside by two of the loveliest handmaidens you could ever hope to see, true Galla girls with cool damn-you-me-lad expressions and figures to match. The chamberlain’s voice called out from within, Wedaju prodded me forward, and I strode into the presence of Masteeat the Looking Glass, Queen of Wollo Galla, and with luck guardian angel of Her Britannic Majesty’s army in Abyssinia.

  You never know what to expect on encountering royalty. I’ve seen ’em stark naked except for wings of peacock feathers (Empress of China), giggling drunk in the embrace of a wrestler (Maharani of the Punjab), voluptuously wrapped in wet silk (Queen of Madagascar), wafting to and fro on a swing (Rani of Jhansi), and tramping along looking like an out-of-work charwoman (our own gracious monarch). But I’ve never seen the like of the court of the Queen of Galla.

  Her majesty was at luncheon, which she ate surrounded by lions, four huge maned brutes grouped about the great couch where she lounged on cushions, an arm over the neck of one of the beasts while with her free hand she helped herself to dainties from trays presented by two more fair attendants. Another lion was nuzzling her shoulder from behind, and the remaining two crouched at her feet, one with its head against her knee—for all the world like four great tabbies toadying for scraps, which she fed them from time to time, dainty fingers popping tidbits into jaws I’d not have approached for a pension.

  And if that were not enough to bring me to a dead stop, there was something else: seated on a low stool a little way from the couch, regarding me with venomous dislike, was Uliba-Wark.

  A split second, and then she was off the stool like a striking snake, whipping the knife from her boot as she launched herself at me, screaming vengeance, and it would have been Flashy R.I.P., Abyssinia 1868, if Wedaju hadn’t thrust me aside, caught her wrist as the knife descended, thrown her on her back, and pinned her, all in one lightning movement. She was hollering blue murder as he disarmed her, the old chamberlain was collapsing in an apparent fit, my escorting guardsmen were hastening to put themselves between the commotion and the throne, the apartment seemed to be full of squealing handmaidens… and Queen Masteeat gently slapped the muzzle of a lion which had arisen, growling, at the dis turbance. Beyond that she didn’t blink an eyelid, waiting until Uliba’s shrieks had subsided, and applying herself to a chicken leg in the meantime.

  “Fair, fat, and forty” was how Speedy had described her. She must have been a stunner as a girl, but sloth and gluttony had plumped out the comely face, and if “fat” was a trifle unkind she still looked as though it might take two strong men to raise her commanding form from its cushioned bed. It was clad in a splendid robe of shimmering blue silk, with one fleshy polished shoulder and arm bare, and if there was plenty of her it all appeared to be complete and in working order. Elspeth would have called her sonsy, signifying bonny and buxom. As a commoner she’d have been a fine figure of a woman; being royalty, she was stately, regal, imposing, statuesque, or any other courtly grovel you please, and a perfectly acceptable piece of mattress-fodder—supposing she had the energy.

  For a more lethargic lady I’d seldom seen. The full, good-natured face, as light as creamy coffee between the long oiled braids, was placid, and the large, slightly protruding eyes were almost sleepy as she considered me, toying with the mane of her blasted man-eater. Seeing her so at ease among her cushions, pondering which dish to tackle next, it struck me that if she was as shrewd and ruth less as I’d been told, she knew how to conceal it. Even her voice, when she addressed Uliba, was gentle and bored.

  “Is this the man? The horse-trader of India? Tell me in a word, but do not name him.”

  Uliba said it was, at the top of her voice, with unprintable ad ditions, as she writhed in Wedaju’s grasp. “And I shall kill the bastard! The filthy villain would have cast me to death, I who had guided and guarded him! He shall die! As I am a woman, I swear it!”

  “And as I am a queen, I shall have you whipped till you weep if you raise your voice in my presence again,” says Masteeat mildly. “It would not be the first time… remember?”

  “I remember!” snaps Uliba, and glared at me. “As I shall remember you also, dog! And I shall have my way in the end, dear sister! When the time comes this jackal shall be paid a traitor’s wages!”

  “That shall be as God wills.” Masteeat indicated the stool. “Sit, child, and be still. You who aspire to a throne should try to behave like a queen. What he did or did not do is for another day. We have greater matters before us now.”

  Like what goody to guzzle next, apparently, for she was busy at the dishes even as she chided Uliba, sounding like a patient teacher with a naughty pupil, and I guessed this was a scene they’d played many times in Uliba’s childhood, and that it drove her wild. She wrenched free of Wedaju, stood blazing silently for a moment, and then stalked back to her stool. Masteeat selected what looked like a large underdone steak, took a hearty bite, chewed reflectively, and directed her handmaiden to take a tray to me, indicating that I should help myself.

  I didn’t know, then, that this was a considerable honour in Ab court circles. I made a quick survey of the raw beef and roasts, surrounded by cakes and desserts, chose some skewered meat, and bowed civilly in majesty’s direction, but she was busy engulfing the last of her steak. Having belched delicately, she wiped her lips with the hem of that beautiful dress, began to spoon a pudding into herself, and signed to the handmaiden, who clapped sharply to call the room to attention. The old chamberlain, having clam bered to his feet, bowed and tottered out, followed by the guards and Wedaju, who I was glad to see was taking Uliba’s knife with him.r />
  And then, before my wondering eyes, Masteeat laid aside her empty bowl, and clicked her tongue. At this three of the lions rose with a reluctant lethargy to match their mistress’s, and padded out, followed by the bowing handmaidens, leaving the fourth lion, evi dently a royal favourite, blinking at the Queen’s feet and purring like a motor engine.

  So there we were, Flashy and the sister-queens, and I’ll not waste time rehearsing my bewildered thoughts. All that seemed certain was that if Uliba had attempted a coup, it had misfired, but her elder didn’t seem much put out, and was giving courteous atten tion at last to her visitor.

  “You have earned a welcome by your patience,” says she, “but first I must know your true name.”

  “Sir Harry Flashman, ma’am,” says I, shoulders back, chin up. “Colonel, British Army, with messages from Sir Robert Napier, general officer commanding Her Britannic Majesty’s forces in Abyssinia.”

  She nodded acknowledgment and glanced at Uliba. “So you were telling the truth. You did well to whisper it in my ear alone.”

  “Pah!” snaps Uliba. “At last you believe me! The Queen is gracious!”

  “Be thankful for that,” says Masteeat. “And for the Queen’s mercy.”

  “I ask no mercy from you!” Uliba was on her feet again. “I never have, and I never will!”

  “You have never had to,” says Masteeat, stroking her lion’s mane. “The baby of the family must always be indulged and excused and forgiven, whatever her fault. Because she is the baby, and knows well how to trade on it.”