Another thoughtful nod. “Apart from yourself, was any other person present?”
“No, sir. No one.”
“Very good.” He looked decidedly pleased. “Very good. Dr Blanc will confirm your account when he examines the body tomorrow.”
“Johnson’ll convene the board of inquiry. They’ll make it offi cial,” says Speedy. “Suicide, that is.”
There followed a brief silence during which I kept a straight face. Suddenly it had become plain that they were under the incredible delusion that I had shot Theodore, but they didn’t care to say so in as many words, which was vastly diverting. Of course it was what they’d wanted, and had hinted to me through Prideaux, and Speedy, having seen the pistol in my hand and Theodore stark and stiff, had concluded that I’d done the dirty deed to save H.M.G. the painful embarrassment of having to try and possibly hang the black bugger. ("But no one must ever know, Sir Robert… controversy… press gang, scoundrel Stanley… questions in the House… uproar … regicide, scandalum magnatum… honour of the Army…")
Which explained why, within an hour of the last shot in the war being fired, when the Commander-in-Chief should have been con solidating his victory, with a hundred important military matters awaiting his decision, he was here post-haste to ensure a conspiracy of silence, leave me in no doubt that I’d not suffer for my good deed, and join Speedy in regarding me with that rather awed respect which says more clearly than words, gad, you’re a ruthless son-of-a-bitch, thank God.
I might have protested my innocence, but I didn’t get the chance.
Napier was addressing me in his gentlest voice, with that old familiar Bughunter smile.
“Harry,” he began. So I was “Harry” now, without any formal honorific; well, well. “Harry, you and I have known each other ever so long. Yes, ever since you lobbed that blessed diamond at old Hardinge… ‘Here, catch!’” He gave a stuffed chuckle. “You should have seen their faces, Speedy! However… that’s by the way.” He became serious. “Since then, I have known no officer who has done more distinguished service, or earned greater fame, than you… no, no, it is true.” He checked my modest grunts with a raised hand. “Well, what I wish you to know is that whatever services you may have done in the past, none has been more… gratefully valued, than those performed in Abyssinia. I refer not only to your mission to the Queen of Galla, so expertly accomplished, but to that… that other service which you have done today.”
He paused, choosing his words, and when he resumed he didn’t look at me directly. “I know it cannot have been easy for you. Perhaps to some of our old comrades, those stern men with their iron sense of duty, men like Havelock and Hope Grant and Hodson (God rest them), it might have seemed nothing out of the way… but not, I think, to you. Not to one in whom, I believe, duty has always been tempered with humanity, yes, and chivalry. Not,” he concluded, looking me in the eye, “to good-hearted Harry Flashman.” He stood up and shook my hand again. “Thank you, old fellow. That said, we’ll say no more.”
If I sat blinking dumbly it was not in manly embarrassment but in amazement at his remarkable misreading of my nature. All my life people had been taking me at face value, supposing that such a big, bluff daredevilish-looking fellow must be heroic, but here was a new and wondrous misconception. Just because I’d tickled his funnybone years ago by my offhand impudence to Hardinge, and been hail-fellow Flash Harry with the gift of popularity (as Thomas Hughes observed), I must therefore be “good-hearted"… and even humane and chivalrous, God help us, the kind of decent Christian whose conscience would be wrung to ribbons because he’d felt obliged to do away with an inconvenient nigger for the sake of the side.
That was why Napier had been gassing away like a benign vicar, judging me by himself, quite unaware that I’ve never had the least qualm about kicking the bucket of evil bastards like Theodore—but only when it’s suited me. You may note, by the way, that for once my eye-witness report conforms exactly with accepted his toric fact. All the world (Napier and Speedy excepted) believes that King Theodore took his own life, and all the world is right.
I messed in Napier’s tent that night, with Speedy and Merewether and a couple of staff-wallopers, and Henty and Austin of the Times the only correspondents. Henty was eager to know what I’d been up to, but Napier proved to have a nice easy gift of diplomatic deflection, and a frosty look or two from Austin showed Henty what the Thunderer thought of vulgar curiosity.
“We must beware of the others, though,” says Speedy later, when he and I were alone with Napier. “Stanley’s a damned ferret, and his editor hates us like poison. [55] The less they know of Sir Harry’s activities, the better.”
I didn’t see that it mattered, but Napier agreed with him. “You should not become an object of their attention. Indeed, I think it best that your part in the whole campaign should remain secret. If it were known that you had been our emissary to Queen Masteeat’s court, it would be sure to excite the correspondents’ interest, and if they were to discover that you were alone with Theodore when he died, it might lead to… unwelcome specu lation.” Speedy was nodding like a mechanical duck. “Fortunately, when Prideaux brought the news that you were in Theodore’s hands, I was able to send another agent to Queen Masteeat to carry on the work you had so expertly begun. You will not mind,” says he, giving me the Bughunter smile, “if I mention him in my despatches, rather than yourself? [56] For secu rity, you understand. Have no fear, your credit will be whispered in the right ears—and what’s a single leaf more or less in a chaplet like yours?”
There was nothing to say to this, and I didn’t much care anyway, so I allowed myself to succumb to the Napier charm.
“It means you’ll be spared the labour of a written report!” cries he genially. “You can do it verbatim, here and now! Give him a b. and s., Speedy, and one of your cheroots. Now then, Harry, fire away!”
So I told ’em the story pretty much as I’ve told it to you, omitting only those tender passages with Uliba and Masteeat and that bint at Uliba’s amba whose name escapes me… no, Malee, that was it… and the attempt on my virtue by Theodore’s queen-concubine. Nor did I tell them of my plunge down the Silver Smoke. Why? ’Cos they wouldn’t have believed it. But the horrors of Yando’s aerial cage, and the atrocities of Gondar, and my ordeal at the hands of the kidnappers whom Uliba had ordered to abduct me so that she could do me atrociously to death, and how I’d been rescued by Theodore’s fighting women, and Uliba given her passage out—these I narrated in my best laconic Flashy style, and had Speedy’s hair standing on end—an alarming sight.
“Impossible! I cannot credit it!” He was horror-stricken. “You say Uliba tried to kill you? Had Galla renegades carry you off so that she could… could murder you? No, no, Sir Harry… that cannot be—”
“I’m sorry, Speedy, but it’s true.” I was deliberately solemn now. “I would not believe it either, had I not seen it. I know you had the highest regard for her—not least for her loyalty. So did I. But I know what she did, and—”
“But why?” bawls he. “Why should she wish you harm?” He was in a great wax, glowering through his beard like an ape in a thicket, suspicion mingling with his shocked disbelief. “It wasn’t in her, I tell you! Oh, I know she was a vixen, and cruel as the grave to her enemies, and would have seized her sister’s throne—but that was honest ambition! She was true to her salt, and to her friends—”
“A moment, Speedy,” says Napier. “You may have touched it—her designs on the Galla throne. Did she,” turning to me, “try to enlist your help in her coup? Because if she did, and was refused, might she not, in resentment—”
He was interrupted by Speedy’s furious gobble of protest; plainly Uliba had kindled more than mere professional admiration in his gargantuan bosom, and he simply could not bring himself to believe her capable of murderous betrayal… and yet here was the redoubtable Flashman swearing to it, so it must be true. But WHY? Fortunately she was no longer alive to tell how I’d tried
to kick her into a watery grave (not that anyone would have believed her; after all, Masteeat hadn’t); still, it would be best if some perfectly splendid explanation for her sudden hatred of me could be found; an explanation that would convince Speedy beyond all doubt. Napier’s wouldn’t wash with him, but I had one that would lay him out cold… so I waited until his indignant wattling had subsided, and weighed briskly in.
“Fraid that won’t answer, Sir Robert. Oh, she’d have welcomed our help in usurping her sister’s crown, but she never asked me point-blank. Dare say she might have done, but as I told you, Theodore’s riders pursued us, we were separated, and when I reached Masteeat’s court, Uliba had made her bid and failed and been arrested—”
“With respect, Sir Harry,” roars Speedy, showing no respect whatever, “we know that! But it don’t answer the question why she should want you dead! Bah, it’s madness! I will not believe it!” And then he gave me the cue I’d been waiting for. “What offence could you possibly have given her, to provoke such… such malice?”
I sat frowning, tight-lipped, for a long artistic moment, took a sip at my glass, sighed, and said: “The greatest offence in the world.”
Napier’s brows rose by the merest trifle, but Speedy goggled, bewildered. “What the… whatever d’ye mean, Sir Harry?”
I hesitated, drew a deep reluctant breath, and spoke quiet and weary, looking anywhere but at him. “If you must have it, Speedy… yes, your protege Uliba-Wark was a first-class jancada, a brave and resolute comrade, as fine a scout and guide as I ever struck… and a vain, proud, passionate, unbridled, promiscuous young savage!” What I could see of his face through the furze was showing utter consternation; he was mouthing “Promiscuous?” dumbly, so I made an impatient noise and spoke quickly.
“Oh, what the devil, she made advances, I rejected ’em, and I dare say you’ve heard of the fury of a woman scorned! Aye, think of Uliba, a barbarian, a cruel vixen as you’ve said yourself… scorned!” Now I looked him in the eye. “Does that answer you?”
Between ourselves, I ain’t sure it would have answered me, but I’m a cynical rotter. To decent folk, the sight of bluff, straight, manly old Flashy (good-hearted, remember), badgered into saying things that shouldn’t be said, dammit, traducing a woman’s good name, and a dead woman at that… well, it’s a discomforting sight. The man’s so moved, and reluctant, you’re bound to respect his emotions. You wouldn’t dream of doubting him.
Speedy was making strange noises, and Napier answered for him. “I am sure it does.”
“My… my dear Sir Harry!” Speedy sounded as though he’d been kicked in the essentials. “I… I… oh, I am at a loss! I… I know not what to say!” He didn’t, either, muttering confused. “Uliba… so trusted… oh, wild, to be sure… but depraved? A traitress? And to attempt your life… wounded vanity…"He made vague gestures. “I can only beg your pardon for… oh, I did not doubt your report for a moment, I assure you!” Bloody liar. “But it seemed so impossible… I could not take it in…”
Here he ran out of words, and drew himself up, beard at the high port, shaking his great head while he clasped my hand, and I meditated on the astonishing ease with which strong men of Victorian vintage could be buffaloed into incoherent embarrassment by the mere mention of feminine frailty. Something to do with public school training, I fancy.
“My dear chap!” I clapped his arm in comradely style; it was like patting an elephant’s leg. “I’m sorry, believe me. Truly sorry.” Sigh. “I can guess what you feel… disappointment, mostly, eh? When someone lets you down… Well, best just to have a drink and forget it, what?”
The board of inquiry sat next day and decided that Theodore had shot himself. A reasonable conclusion, given that Blanc testified that there were powder burns in the oral cavity and the back of the head was missing, but since the report didn’t mention these details, and the verdict was what Napier and Speedy wanted, I dare say that they continued to believe that mine was the hand that fired the fatal shot.
They buried Theodore next day, in the ramshackle thatched amba church, at the request of his sad, pretty little queen, Tooroo-Wark. I loafed along out of interest, not respect. There were only a few on hand: the Queen, the boy Alamayo, a guard of the Duke’s Irish (but no saluting volley), and fat little Damash nursing a wound and terrified he’d be hanged for resisting our attack. I reassured him, and he gave a great sniff.
“And now you leave us without a king! We were born in bondage, and must die as slaves. Why do you not stay to govern?”
I told him we didn’t want to, and ’twas up to him and his like to govern themselves.
“You mean we must cut each other’s throats,” grumbles he. “This is Africa.” I told him to mind his manners and not interrupt the ancient dodderer of a priest who was gabbling the service. The corpse had been nicely wrapped, by Samuel, I believe; they shovelled it into the shallow grave, and that was the end of the heir to Solomon and Sheba and Prester John.
They like to say he was mad, as though that paid for all, but I saw him sane as well as mad, and a vile, cruel bastard he was, as foul as Caligula or Attila, and got only a tiny part of what he deserved. I remember Gondar, and the slaughter of Islamgee, and if anyone ever deserved a Hell, he did.
Meanwhile, the campaign was done, the captives free, Magdala in immense confusion with thousands of Ab fugitives to be looked after, herded down into the plain, and protected from the sur rounding Gallas, who not unreasonably were athirst for a share of the loot of the amba. They were disappointed, for the Micks and Sappers and little Holmes of the British Museum got in first, and the Gallas were dispersed by rifle fire, which I thought a mite hard, since their blockade had been so vital to our success. As to the loot, I heard there was a fair amount of precious stuff picked up, but most of it was bought up by the prize-master and sent down to Arogee on the elephants. [57]
For once—and for the only time in my experience of sixty years’ soldiering in heaven knows how many campaigns—there was no butcher’s bill. We hadn’t lost a man in storming Magdala, just seventeen wounded, and with only two dead at Arogee and one care less chap who shot himself accidentally on the march up, [58] I doubt if we had more than half a dozen fatalities in the whole campaign, mortally sick included. If there were nothing else to testify to Napier’s genius, that casualty return alone would do, for I never heard of its like in war. [59]
I spent only one night on the Magdala amba, for the place was as foul as a midden, and became a positive bedlam when the looters discovered a great cache of tej in the royal cellar. Private Shaughnessy and his chums came calling, eager to pay their respects and inquire after my health, Sorr Harry man, dear—it’s hell to be popular with the riff-raff. So after seeing Theodore planted, I took a mule down to Napier’s head-quarters at Arogee, and found myself a billet with Charlie Fraser, who commanded the staff and was colonel in my old regiment, the 11th Cherrypickers. Not that it was much quieter there, for there were upwards of thirty thousand Abs about the place, warriors as well as civilians who’d fled from Magdala. Among them were the two queens, Tooroo-Wark and Tamagno, and their retinues, and nearly three hundred of Theodore’s political prisoners, princes and chiefs, who’d been in the amba’s jails. Some of ’em had been in captivity for fifteen or twenty years, and one for more than thirty.
I’d been lucky. The great tyrant had held me for less than a week, and now it was all over, the captains and the queens would shortly be departing, [60] and I could rest content at last with only a mild ache in my calf, and take my ease after dangers and hardships nobly borne, resigned to endure the discomfort of a ride to the coast, fol lowed by a tranquil voyage home at H.M.G.’s expense. You’ve come through again, old lad, thinks I; no public credit, perhaps, but Napier’s right, you ain’t short in that line. Half a million in silver through your hands, and not a penny of it to bless yourself with, but what o’ that? Elspeth and I had enough between us… and the mere thought of her name brought the glorious realisation
that in a few short weeks I’d be reunited with all that glorious milk-white goodness that had been lying fallow (I hoped, but with her you never could tell) while I’d been wasting myself on Mexican trollops and suety frauleins and black barbarians. I could close my eyes and see her, taste her red lips, inhale the perfume of her blonde curls… oh, the blazes with gallivanting about the world, I was for home for good this time, and the sooner Napier broke camp and marched north, the better.
At that, he stayed not upon the order of his going. With Theodore dead, Abyssinia was without a ruler, and while Napier was adamant that the succession was no business of ours, he felt bound to settle the possession of Magdala itself, and ensure the safety of its inhabitants—that, he insisted, was a matter of national honour. But Magdala was the first horn of his dilemma: it lay in Galla territory, but Theodore had captured and held it for ten years as a bulwark against Muslim encroachment on Christian Abyssinia, and Napier didn’t want to change that. So it was decided to offer the amba to Gobayzy of Lasta, the closest available Christian monarch. From all I’d heard, he was a sorry muffin, but it was no concern of mine, although I’d have given the place to Masteeat, for old gallops’ sake. She had the same notion, as did Warkite, her elder sister and rival for the supreme monarchy of all the Galla tribes; with Uliba now singing in the choir invisible they were the only claimants to the throne, and sure enough, within two days of the fall of Magdala, up they rolled to Arogee to state their cases.
Warkite was first to arrive, a plain, querulous creature but not quite the witch-like crone I’d been led to expect. Her handicap was that while Masteeat had a son who’d make a king some day, Warkite’s boy had been murdered by Theodore, and though she had a grandson, he was reputed illegitimate. She’d been consorting with Menelek, King of Shoa, the despised “fat boy” who had once laid siege to Magdala but lost his nerve and turned tail when it was at his mercy. Now, she made a poor impression on Napier, lamenting her misfortunes, railing against Masteeat, and looking less regal by the minute.