Flashman on the March fp-12 Read online

  The road that Theodore had made to transport his artillery wound in a great loop from the Bechelo river through the Arogee plateau, and on to Magdala itself. But that wouldn’t do for Napier; it was too perilously close to the broken country bordering the Warki river, where the Abs would have all the advantage of ambush and sur prise; the mere sight on the model of the beetling rocky sides of the Warki valley gave me the horrors; let ’em draw you in there and you’d never come out.

  The only safe way was to take a long slant to the right and come to Arogee by the spurs running up through Afichu plateau; it might mean some stiff climbing for our troops, but they’d be in fairly open ground all the way, which would suit our infantry and gunners if Theodore were daft enough to offer pitched battle.

  The key to the whole puzzle was plainly Fala. If Theodore put guns there he’d be able to bombard our advance over Arogee, but our gunners could give him shot for shot, and once Fala was taken the way to the Islamgee plain and Magdala would be open. And then… it would be a question of “so far so good” and put up a prayer.

  You may remember pictures of Theodore’s great amba; the illus trated papers were full of them in ’68. It’s what they call a vol canic plug, a sheer cylinder of rock over three hundred feet high, with only one precipitous way up guarded by gates and ramparts. If Theodore was ready to fight to a finish and his gunners stood to it, Napier might never take that ghastly height. And his army, cut off and out of supply, would die at the end of nowhere.

  Well, that wasn’t my indaba. My task was to see that the Gallas did their stuff, and I’m bound to say they seemed eager enough. Fifty thou’ and undisputed sovereignty over the Galla confederacy might be the prize to Masteeat, but unless I misread the looks of her commanders they asked nothing better than a chance to adorn their spear-points with Theodore’s courting tackle.

  “Where’s Dedjaz Napier, d’you know?” I asked.

  “Three days ago he was over the Takazy, at Santara, a week’s march from Magdala,” says Fasil. “By now he will be close to Bethor, perhaps at the Jedda ravine. God providing, they should be across the Bechelo in… three days? Perhaps four.”

  “Oh, three, surely!” cries young Ahmed. “If he knows we are with him, he must come like the wind!”

  “Even the wind must rest, prince,” says Cavalry. “They have come far and fast.”

  “And they lay three days at Santara so that the main force might close up with the advance guard,” says Infantry.

  “But they are none but fighting men now!” protests Ahmed. “They have left their slaves behind, and will march at speed with only their guns to carry!” To a Galla, all camp-followers were slaves, apparently. He appealed to me. “They will make all haste?”

  “If they’re well provisioned,” says I.

  “Your men will come to the Bechelo with full bellies,” says Fasil. “The Dalanta folk will see to it, out of hatred of Theodore.”

  “And love of my mother!” insists Ahmed.

  “Indeed, highness,” says Fasil tactfully, and Cavalry and Infantry made loyal noises.

  “Hear, hear,” says I, and asked Fasil precisely how he would set about bottling Theodore. He traced an arc with his pointer south of Magdala.

  “Two thousand scouts are already in place, and presently we will have a screen of cavalry from Guna to Lake Haik. Wherever he goes, it will not be southward.”

  It looked a hell of a long arc, more than a hundred miles. “Your cavalry’ll be spread mighty thin, then.”

  “Not so thin,” says he. “There will be twenty thousand riders.”

  If I stared, d’you wonder? That was three times the force that Theodore could muster, ten times as many as Napier would use to storm Magdala. No wonder Cavalry had said he could have cut Theodore to ribbons, and Infantry had boasted of taking the amba with his foot-soldiers. He spoke up now, nodding confidently to me.

  “The cavalry will be a reserve, of course; they will not be needed. I shall have three regiments of spearmen deployed between them and the amba, should Theodore attempt to break out.”

  “Then you will have the chance to match tactics with Theodore!” cries Cavalry, winking at me. “A battle of the giants… but have no fear, foot-soldier, we shall be there.”

  “So you will,” grins Infantry. “Behind us, out of harm’s way.”

  “But close enough to hear cries for help…”

  Not the way generals in civilised armies talk to each other as a rule, especially before their chief, but among experts outer forms of discipline don’t matter too much; the Gallas didn’t need to stand on ceremony. There was no bitterness in the young men’s rivalry; they were laughing at each other, Ahmed was grinning, and Fasil had the kind of authority that doesn’t depend on military etiquette. Listening to them, I knew that they’d do their part; it remained for Napier to attend to his, and he’d need all the prime intelligence I could give him. I questioned Fasil and his lieutenants on every par ticular: where exactly the infantry would be placed, their precise numbers (eight thousand all told), how long they’d be able to stay in the field, how they’d communicate, what were the lines of retreat from Magdala—all the small change, in fact, and as I noted it I was musing on how best to present it with a view to gaining the most credit.

  There was no question of taking my news to Napier in person: he expected me to command the Galla encirclement of Magdala, bless him, and with Theodore’s ruffians infesting the northern approaches I’d not have ventured forth for a pension anyway. So I wrote a brief and suitably modest report to say that I’d arrived at Masteeat’s court, that she was an eager ally, the Wollos were fallen in and numbered off and could be counted on to stop Theodore’s southern bolthole, that he was camped on Islamgee with about seven thousand troops, but until his guns were placed we couldn’t tell whether he’d defend Magdala, offer battle, or cut and run. To be continued in our next, the weather remains fine, and please reply by the bearer of this despatch—and make him a present of a revolver.

  I asked Fasil for Wedaju as my messenger because he could be trusted to reply intelligently to the sort of questions Napier would ask, and he was the kind of young hero who’d get there, through Hell and high water. He was summoned, and in the presence of Fasil and Co. I added the verbal messages that couldn’t be written in case they fell into Theodore’s hands: the number and rough disposition of the Galla force, the escape routes which Fasil thought Theodore would most likely take, and most importantly, the lie of the land—this I did by having Wedaju study the sand-table, and satisfy me that he could make a sketch of it from memory for Napier’s benefit. I demonstrated what I thought the best route from the Bechelo to Arogee, to which Fasil and his lads gave their approval. Some commanders don’t care for suggestions from below, but I knew Bob Napier would weigh mine and follow them unless he saw good reason not to.

  Finally, and principally for young Ahmed’s benefit, I told Wedaju to assure Napier that the Queen of Wollo Galla had pledged her alliance in the most cordial terms, and shown me every courtesy and consideration, and we could congratulate ourselves on having the support of such an illustrious and enlightened ruler and her fine soldiery. Diplomatic butter, no more, but Ahmed took it large, clasping my hand and vowing that I must repeat it to Mama instanter, so that she could respond with similar compliments and greetings to the British dedjaz. And it was right, says he, that we should take the opportunity to inform her majesty that all was in train for the bottling of Theodore, so let us seek her approval as a loyal council should.

  I could see that Fasil felt that the less opportunity royalty got to interfere, the better, “but you don’t argue with a prince of the blood, even if he is your galloper, so off the five of us trooped to her majesty’s private apartments, with Wedaju in tow. There we were informed by her doddering chamberlain that her majesty was unable to grant us audience at present, as she had been resting and was now being attired by her ladies for the evening’s entertainment (from which I deduced that the tej had
finally caught up with her and she was being revived and rendered fit for public view). What entertainment, demands Ahmed, and was told, with an obsequious smirk at me, that there was to be a grand reception and feast in honour of the British baldaraba. (* Agent, representative.) Capital, says Ahmed, now get out of my way, and such is the politeness of princes that a moment later we were making our bows in the presence, while her handmaidens, caught unawares, tried gamely to disguise her majesty’s condition. As I’d suspected, she’d plainly had to be roused from the arms of Bacchus, and was visibly glazed of eye and unsteady on the seat before her dressing-table, with a wench either side to lend unobtrusive support, and her handmaiden-in-chief trying to impart a little dignity by slipping a silver wand into the royal grasp. But she played up well; her head was regally erect, and she greeted us with careful courtesy.

  Ahmed wanted me to repeat the flowery part of my message to Napier, but I wasn’t having that, and insisted Wedaju should do it to make sure he had it pat. The lad was shocking nervous before his sovereign, but got it out slow and halting after a few false starts. Masteeat listened with solemn attention, stifling an occasional yawn, and once her silver wand slipped from her drowsy hand and was retrieved by Infantry a split second ahead of Cavalry. I only hoped Wedaju would get done while she could still see and sit upright, but when he’d finished she astonished me by extending an imperious hand to him and saying, slowly but clearly:

  “And tell the English dedjaz also that the Queen of Galla calls the blessing of God on him and his brave soldiers, and bids them have a care, so that they come safely to their journey’s end and into the presence of their loving friend, Masteeat, who has them in her heart.” Along with their fifty thousand jemmy o’ goblins, thinks cynical Flashy, but when she added, smiling all fondly maternal on Wedaju, “And you, gallant warrior, fare well through all dangers, and know that you take with you the prayers of a grateful and loving queen,” I wasn’t a bit surprised to see him drop to his knees and press her hand to his forehead and lips, while Infantry and Cavalry fell over each other to join him, Ahmed almost shed a tear of filial devotion, and even grizzled old Fasil looked moist and noble.

  If she’d been a beauty in the mould of Yehonala or Lakshmibai, or even as handsome as Uliba-Wark, their adoration (for that’s what it was, no error) would have been in order, but she was a hearty piece of middle-aged Eve’s flesh of no remarkable allure—that she appealed to me was by the way; I’m a connoisseur of feminine beauty but no discrimination worth a dam, and anyway I’m perversely partial to royal rattle. And yet, she had that quality which I can’t describe but which attracts where mere perfection of form and feature are no more exciting than a marble statue.

  I guess it’s charm, and she spread it over her soldiers like Circe’s spell. I suppose she charmed me—and I don’t mean only randy-like, but happy captivation. Aye, that must have been it, for I find myself smiling still whenever I think back on her, while Uliba has faded into the shadows.

  I came away from that audience a relieved and thankful man, glad to have a moment at last for rest and reflection. Things could hardly have come out better, however hellish they had been since I’d left Napier’s camp weeks ago. My worst fears had been realised along the way: the skirmish with Yando’s gang, that appalling dangle in the steel cage, the palpitating escape from the Soudani bandits at Gondar, the clash with Theodore’s riders, my plunge over Abyssinia’s Niagara, the shock of Uliba’s reappearance and most uncalled-for assault… but here I was again, none the worse bar a bruise or two, duty done in securing the Galla alliance and despatching the glad news to Napier, and no great anxieties ahead that I could see.

  True, I’d have to arrange matters so that I could appear to be commanding the Galla operations while keeping clear of the action, but that ain’t difficult when you’ve had years of practice. I’m a prime hand at playing Lionheart without doing a blessed thing (what dear old Tom Hughes called “shouts and great action"), and I could occupy myself splendidly at Galla H.Q., keeping the threads of administration together, don’t you know, taking an overall view until I deemed it safe to join the last rally.

  Meanwhile I could think of worse billets than the court of good Queen Masteeat. Safe, well stocked and furnished, friendly… of course it went without saying that I’d have to do my extra-diplomatic duty by her majesty, but that would be no hardship—and if you wonder how I was so sure of her, I can only say that I had felt her mouth under mine and read the message in her lazy smile. Besides, in Ab society, which as I’ve told you is probably the most immoral on earth (Cheltenham ain’t in it), rogering the hostess is almost obligatory, part of the etiquette, like leaving cards, and not at all out of the way in a country where it’s considered a mortal insult to praise a woman’s chastity, since it implies that she’s not attractive enough to be galloped. Say no more.

  But while I knew ’twould be only a matter of time before Masteeat and I had our wicked way with each other, I could never have foreseen the circumstances; indeed, had I been forewarned, I’d not have believed it. I’m neither inexperienced nor a prude; I have known, and been party to, abandoned behaviour, and have even joined in the occasional orgy, but I can take oath that I have never known the like of the reception and feast that the old chamber lain had described as “an entertainment".

  It was he who led me all unsuspecting to the dining chamber of the royal residence in which the other guests, about a dozen, were already assembled. The long low dining table was surrounded by cushioned stools set in pairs, one for each couple, and at the head was a spread of cushions for the Queen, who had not yet arrived, and her guest of honour. Fasil, Cavalry, and Infantry were on hand, each with a beauty in tow, the two lads being accompanied by a pair of Masteeat’s handmaidens, and Fasil by a quite breathtaking creature of about his own age who may well have been his wife; she had those delicately perfect features you see on some Scandinavian women—and was jet black. The other three couples I don’t remember, except that the women were typically Ab, which is to say peaches. There were no servants at all; we helped our selves to the tej from flagons on the sideboard, and stood about gossiping for all the world like a Belgravia bunfight. Fasil and his juniors talked shop, as soldiers always do, and showed a surprising knowledge of such diverse matters as the Sepoy Mutiny and the war in America, but presently they were set aside by Fasil’s black Venus and the handmaidens, and blowed if I wasn’t cross-examined about London fashions, hairstyles, and the like. Some of their inquiries would ha’ made me blush if I hadn’t been revelling in the attentions of three such ravishing inquisitors, bright-eyed, flirta tious, breathing perfume with each gentle laugh.

  It struck me that Masteeat must be uncommon tolerant to allow herself to be so outshone, and then I remembered reading some where that our old Queen Bess had surrounded herself with the prettiest of pippins, no doubt knowing that there was only one woman who’d be looked at. That was certainly the case when the Queen of Galla made her entrance, stately and smiling sleepily, and somehow contriving to put all the bowing beauties in the shade.

  And, dammit, she wasn’t even sober yet, to judge from her swaying gait, careless gestures, and ringing laugh. They’d put her in very fair trim, though, with a gold circlet as a sort of coronet, and gold thread cunningly worked into her braids; she had gold chain earrings depending to her broad bare shoulders, and a gold collar clasped about her throat. Her dress was white and of some clinging gauzy stuff cleverly cut to disguise a waist and hips which were undoubtedly overblown and to display a bosom whose development matched her shoulders admirably. She carried a gold wand this time, and the effect of her carriage and manner was overpower ing, no other word for it.

  When the company had finished its obeisance, she held her arm for me to take, and led the way to the head of the table, where she took her seat among the cushions, indicating that I should join her. She reclined on one elbow, but I decided to sit, as being less awkward and more in keeping with the company, who had their little st
ools. More tej was poured, Masteeat led the company in pledging me, Queen Victoria, Napier, and the British Army, in that order, each toast requiring a full goblet, no heel-taps. We ain’t going to eat a great deal, thinks I; they’ll be too tight to pick up the grub. But I was dead wrong.

  You know what dining out I’d done thus far; rough browsing mostly and not too formal even at Uliba’s citadel and the monastery. But I’d never been to a Lord Mayor’s Banquet, if you know what I mean, and that was what I was treated to, Habesh style. It’s quite alarming.

  You sit there, drinking toasts, wondering when the soup’s going to arrive, when suddenly the most appalling din breaks out just beyond the door, a full-throated bellowing, peal after peal of some huge body in mortal pain thrashing about to the accompaniment of yelling voices, shrieks of command and cries of desperation, fur niture crashing, the bellowing rising to a crescendo—and the guests applauding and your hostess imbibing another pint of tej, smacking her lips in anticipation.

  And then servants scurry in, and there is planked down in front of you a plate containing a twelve-pound beefsteak, raw, red, and bleeding, and as I live and breathe, it has steam rising from it, which perhaps ain’t surprising since thirty seconds before it was part of the living animal which is bawling in agony outside. I’d had raw beef before, in transparently thin slices, cold, and not too bad, but as I gazed at this smoking horror I thought, no, the devil with etiquette, protocol, and diplomatic niceties, I ain’t touching it, whatever offence I give. Down the table they were buffing in like mad cannibals, even those elegant beauties, with gore trickling down their lovely chins and being wiped with dainty fingers. I daren’t look at Masteeat for fear of what I’d see; the mere sound of her champing made me come all over faint.