Somewhere deep in the palace a bell rang, and at once the chatter and music died, and the whole crowd below turned to stare up at the balcony. There was the wailing of what sounded like a native trumpet, and a figure stepped out on to the balcony almost directly beneath me—a stalwart black in a gold metal headdress and leopard-skin loin-cloth, with massive muscular arms stretched out before him, carrying a slender silver spear in ceremonial fashion.* The assembled cream of Malagassy society gave him a good hand, and as he stepped aside four young girls in flowered saris appeared, carrying a kind of three-sided tent of coloured silk, but with no roof to it.
Then, to the accompaniment of clashing cymbals and a low, sonorous chanting that made my hair stand on end, there came out a couple of old coves in black robes fringed with silver, swinging little packets on the ends of strings, but not making much of it; they stood to one side, and to a sudden thunderous yell from the crowd of “Manjaka! Manjaka!” four more wenches trooped out, carrying a purple canopy on four slender ivory poles. Beneath it walked a stately figure enveloped in a scarlet silk cloak, but I couldn’t see the face at all, for it was hidden by a tall sugar-loaf hat of golden straw, bound under the chin by a scarf. So this is Her Nibs, thinks I, and despite the warmth, I found myself shivering.
She paced slowly to the front of the balcony and the sycophantic mob beneath went wild, clapping and calling and stretching out their hands. Then she stepped back, the girls with the silk tent contraption carried it round her, shielding her from all curious eyes except the two that were goggling down, unsuspected, from above; I waited, breathless, and two more girls went in beside her, and slipped the cloak from her shoulders. And there she was, stark naked except for her ridiculous hat.
Well, even from above and through a muslin screen there was no doubt that she was female, and no need for stays to make the best of it, either; she stood like an ebony statue as the two wenches began to bathe her from bowls of water. Some vulgar lout grunted lasciviously, and realising who it was I shrank back a trifle in sudden anxiety that I’d been overheard. They splashed her thoroughly, while I watched enviously, and then clapped the robe round her shoulders again. The screen was removed, and she took what looked like an inlaid ebony horn from one of her attendants and stepped forward to sprinkle the crowd. They fairly crowed with delight, and then she withdrew to a great shout of applause, and I scrambled down from my window thinking, by George, we’ve never seen little Vicky doing that from the balcony at Buck House—but then, she ain’t quite equipped the way this one is.
What I’d seen, you may care to know, was the public part of the annual ceremony of the Queen’s Bath. The private proceedings are less formal—although, mind you, I can speak with authority only for 1844, or as it is doubtless known in Malagassy court circles, Flashy’s year.
The procedure is simple. Her Majesty retires to her reception room in the Silver Palace, which is the most astonishing chamber, containing as it does a gilded couch of state, gold and silver ornaments in profusion, an enormous and luxurious bed, a piano with “Selections from Scarlatti” on the music stand, and off to one side, a sunken bath lined with mother-of-pearl; there are also pictures of Napoleon’s victories round the walls, between silk curtains. There she concludes the ceremony by receiving homage from various officials, who grovel out backward, and then, with several of her maids still in attendance, turns her attention to the last item on the agenda, the foreign castaway who has been brought in for her inspection, and who is standing with his bowels dissolving between two stalwart Hova guardsmen. One of her maids motions the poor fool forward, the guardsmen retire—and I tried not to tremble, took a deep breath, looked at her, and wished I hadn’t come.
She was still wearing the sugar-loaf hat, and the scarf framed features that were neither pretty nor plain. She might have been anywhere between forty and fifty, rather round-faced, with a small straight nose, a fine brow, and a short, broad-lipped mouth; her skin was jet black and plump37—and then you met the eyes, and in a sudden chill rush of fear realised that all you had heard was true, and the horrors you’d seen needed no further explanation. They were small and bright and evil as a snake’s, unblinking, with a depth of cruelty and malice that was terrifying; I felt physical revulsion as I looked at them—and then, thank G-d. I had the wit to take a pace forward, right foot first, and hold out the two Mexican dollars in my clammy palm.
She didn’t even glance at them, and after a moment one of her girls scuttled forward and took them. I stepped back, right foot first, and waited. The eyes never wavered in their repellent stare, and so help me, I couldn’t meet them any longer. I dropped my gaze, trying feverishly to remember what Laborde had told me—oh, h--l, was she waiting for me to lick her infernal feet? I glanced down; they were hidden under her scarlet cloak; no use grubbing for ’em there. I stood, my heart thumping in the silence, noticing that the silk of her cloak was wet—of course, they hadn’t dried her, and she hadn’t a stitch on underneath—my stars, but it clung to her limbs in a most fetching way. My view from on high had been obscured, of course, and I hadn’t realised how strikingly endowed was the royal personage. I followed the sleek scarlet line of her leg and rounded hip, noted the gentle curve of waist and stomach, the full-blown poonts outlined in silk—my goodness, though, she was wet—catch her death…
One of the female attendants gave a sudden giggle, instantly smothered—and to my stricken horror I realised that my indecently torn and ragged trousers were failing to conceal my instinctive admiration of her majesty’s matronly charms—oh, J---s, you’d have thought quaking fear and my perilous situation would have banished randy reaction, but love conquers all, you see, and there wasn’t a d----d thing I could do about it. I shut my eyes and tried to think of crushed ice and vinegar, but it didn’t do the slightest good—I daren’t turn my back on royalty—had she noticed? H--l’s bells, she wasn’t blind—this was lèse-majesté of the most flagrant order—unless she took it as a compliment, which it was, ma’am, I assure you, and no disrespect intended, far from it…
I stole another look at her, my face crimson. Those awful eyes were still on mine; then, slowly, inexorably, her glance went down. Her expression didn’t change in the least, but she stirred on her couch—which did nothing to quell my ardour—and without looking away, muttered a guttural instruction to her maids. They fluttered out obediently, while I waited quaking. Suddenly she stood up, shrugged off the silk cloak, and stood there naked and glistening; I gulped and wondered if it would be tactful to make some slight advance—grabbing one of ’em, for instance…it would take both hands…better not, though; let royalty take precedence.
So I stood-stock still for a full minute, while those wicked, clammy eyes surveyed me; then she came forward and brought her face close to mine, sniffing warily like an animal and gently rubbing her nose to and fro across my cheeks and lips. Starter’s gun, thinks I; one wrench and my breeches were a rag on the floor. I hooked into her buttocks and kissed her full on the mouth—and she jerked away, spitting and pawing at her tongue, her eyes blazing, and swung a hand at my face. I was too startled to avoid the blow; it cracked on my ear—I had a vision of those boiling pits—and then the fury was dying from her eyes, to be replaced by a puzzled look. (I had no notion, you see, that kissing was unknown on Madagascar; they rub noses, like the South Sea folk). She put her face to mine again, touching my lips cautiously with her own; her mouth tasted of aniseed. She licked me tentatively, so I nuzzled her a moment, and then kissed her in earnest, and this time she entered into the spirit of the thing like a good ’un.
Then she reached down and led me across the room to the bath, undid her scarf and hat and tossed them aside, revealing long straight hair tied tight to her head, and heavy silver earrings that hung to her shoulders. She slipped into the bath, which was deep enough to swim in, and motioned me to follow, which I did, nearly bursting by this time. But she swam and played about in the water in a most provoking way, teasing and rubbing noses and kissing—
but never a smile or a word or the least softening of those basilisk eyes—and then suddenly she clapped her long legs round me and we were away, rolling and plunging like d---ation, one moment on the surface, the next three feet under. She must have had lungs like bellows, for she could stay under an agonising time, working away like a lecherous porpoise, and then surfacing for a gasp of air and down again for more ecstatic heaving on the bottom. Well, it was novel, and highly stimulating; the only time I’ve completed the carnal act while somersaulting with my nose full of water was in Ranavalona’s bath. Afterwards I clung to the edge, gasping, while she swam lazily up and down, turning those ugly, glinting eyes on me from time to time, with her face like stone.
Yet the most startling event was still to come. When she had got out of the bath and I had followed obediently, she crossed to the bed and disposed herself on it, contemplating me sullenly while I stood hesitant, wondering what to do next. I mean, usually one gives ’em a slap on the rump by way of congratulation, whistles up refreshments, and has a cosy chat, but I could guess this wasn’t her style. She just lay there stark, all black and shiny, staring at me while I tried to shiver nonchalantly, and then she grunted something in Malagassy and pointed to the piano. I explained, humbly, that I didn’t play; she stared some more, and three seconds later I was on the piano stool, my wet posterior clinging uncomfortably to the seat, picking out “Drink, Puppy. Drink”, with one finger. My audience didn’t begin to throw things, so I ventured on the other half of my repertoire. “God Save the Queen”, but a warning growl sent me skittering back to “Drink, Puppy, Drink” once more. I played it for about ten minutes, conscious of that implacable stare on the back of my neck, and then by way of variety began to sing the verse. I heard the bed creak, and desisted; another growl, and I was giving tongue lustily again, and the Silver Palace of Antananarivo re-echoed to:
Here’s to the fox
With his den among the rocks,
And here’s to the trail that we follo-o-ow!
And here’s to the hound
With his nose upon the ground,
An’ merrily we’ll whoop and holl-o-o-o!
And then the chorus, with vim—it’s a rousing little ditty, as you probably know, and I bellowed it until I was hoarse. Just as I was thinking my voice would crack, blowed if she didn’t glide up at my elbow, glowering without expression from my face to the keys; what the d---l, thinks I, in for a penny, in for a pound, so while pounding away with one hand I pulled her on to the stool with the other, squeezing lustfully and bawling “He’ll grow into a hound, so we’ll pass the bottle round”, and after a moment’s impassive staring she began to accompany me in a most disconcerting way. This time, though, we repaired to the bed for the serious business—and I received a mighty shock, for as I was waiting for her to assume the supine position she suddenly picked me up bodily (I’m six feet and upwards of thirteen stone), flung me down, and began galloping me with brutal abandon, grunting and snarling and even drumming on me with her fists. It was like being assailed by a horny gorilla, but I gather she enjoyed it—not that she smiled, or gave maidenly sighs, but at the end she stroked her nose against mine and growled a Malagassy word in my ear several times…“Zanahary…zanahary*…” which I later discovered was complimentary.
So that was my first encounter with Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, the most horrible woman I’ve ever met, bar none. Unfortunately, it was by no means the last, for although she never ceased to regard me with that Gorgon stare, she took an unquenchable fancy to me. Possibly it was my piano-playing,38 for normally she went through lovers like a rat through cheese, and I was in constant dread in the weeks that followed that she’d tire of me—as she had of Laborde and several hundred others. He had merely been discarded, but as often as not her used-up beaux were subjected to the dreadful ordeal of the tanguin test, and then sent to the pits, or dismembered, or sewn up in buffalo hides with only their heads out and hung up to rot.
No, pleasuring Queenie wasn’t a trade you could settle to, and to make it worse she was a brutally demanding lover. I don’t mean that she enjoyed inflicting pain on her men, like dear Lola with her hairbrush, or the elfin Mrs Mandeville of Mississippi, who wore spurred riding boots to bed, or Aunt Sara the Mad Bircher of the Steppes—my, I’ve known some little turtle doves in my time, haven’t I just? No, Ranavalona was simply an animal, coarse and insatiable, and you ached for days afterwards, I suffered a cracked rib, a broken finger, and G-d knows how many strains and dislocations in my six months as stallionen-titre, which gives you some idea.
But enough of romance; suffice to say that my initiation was successful, and I was taken on the strength of her establishment as a foreign slave who might be useful not only as a paramour but also, in view of my army experience, as a staff officer and military adviser. There was no question about this in the minds of the court officials who assigned me to my duties—no thought that I might demur, or wish to be sent home, or count myself anything but fortunate to be so honoured by them. I had come to Madagascar, and here I would stay until I died, that was flat. It was their national philosophy: Madagascar was the world, and perfect, and there could be no greater treachery than to think otherwise.
I got an inkling of this the same afternoon, when I had been dismissed the royal presence, considerably worn and shaken, and was conducted to an interview with the Queen’s private secretary. He proved to be a jolly little black butterball in a blue cutaway coat with brass buttons, and plaid trousers, who beamed at me from the depths of an enormous collar and floored me by crying:
“Mr Flashman, what pleasure to see you! I being Mr Fankanonikaka, very personal and special secretary to her majesty, Queen Ranavalona, the Great Cloud Shading the World, ain’t I just, though? Not above half, I don’t think.” He rubbed his little black paws, chortling at my dumbstruck look, and went on: “How I speak English much perfect, so as to astonish you. I being educated in London, at Highgate School, Highgate, confounded in year of Christ 1565, seven years reigning Good Queen Bess, I say. Please sitting there exactly, and attending then to me. I being an old boy.” And he bowed me to a chair.
I was learning to accept anything in this extraordinary country—and why not? In my time I’ve seen an Oxford don commanding a slave-ship, a professor of Greek skinning mules on the Sacramento stage run, and a Welshman in a top hat leading a Zulu impi—even a Threadneedle Street nigger acting as secretary39 to the Queen of Madagascar ain’t too odd alongside that lot. But hearing English—even his amazing brand of the language—took me so aback that I almost committed the indiscretion of asking how the blazes I was to escape from this madhouse—and that could have been fatal in a country where one wrong word usually means death by torture. Fortunately I remembered Laborde’s warning in time, and asked cautiously how he knew my name.
“Ha-ha, we are knowing all manner, no humbuggery or gammon, please,” cries he, his fat face shining like boot polish. “You coming ashore from ship of Suleiman Usman, we speaking of him maybe, finding much.” He cocked his head, button eyes considering me. “You telling me now of personal life yourself, where coming from, what trade, so to speak, my old covey.”
So I did—at least, that I was English, an army officer, and how I’d fallen into Usman’s hands. Again, remembering Laborde, I didn’t mention Elspeth, although I was consumed with anxiety about her. He nodded pleasantly, and then said:
“You coming Madagascar, you knowing someone here, right enough?”
I assured him he was wrong, and he stuck out a fat finger and says: “M’sieur Laborde.”
“Who’s he?” says I, playing innocent, and he grinned and cries:
“M’sieur Laborde talking you in slave place, hitting you punch in face, but then coming you cheep-cheep quiet, with dollars for give Queen, razor for shaving, how peculiaring, ain’t it?” He giggled and waved a hand. “But not mattering, since you being old boy. Laborde old boy and European chum, my stars, much shake hand hollo old fellow. I understanding, being
old boy also, Highgate like. And not mattering, since Queen, may she live thousand year, liking you so much. Good gracious times much! Jig-a-jig-jig and jolly muttons!” cries this jackanapes, making obscene gestures. “Much pleasure, hurrah. Maybe you slave five, six year, pleasing Queen”—his eyes rounded eagerly—“perhaps giving boy child with rogerings, what? Anyway, five year, you not being lost, no more, being free, marrying any fine lady, being great person like me, or someone else. All from Queen liking.” He beamed happily; he had my future nicely in hand, it seemed.
“But you slave now—lost!” he added sternly. “Must working hard, not only jig-a-jig. Soldier working, much needed, keeping army best in world, spit and polish, d---e, no mistake. You liking that, staying Madagascar, making fine colonel, maybe sergeant-major, shouting soldiers, left-right-left, pick ’em up, farting about like Horse Guards, quick march, just fine style. I being Highgate, long time, seeing guns Hyde Park, when little boy, at school.” The smile faded from his face, and he looked crestfallen. “Little black boy, seeing soldiers, big guns, horses, tantara and galloping.” He sniffed and knuckled his eye. “In London. Still raining, not half? Much tuck-shop, footballing, jolly times.” He sighed. “I speaking Queen, making you great soldier, knowing latest dodges, keeping army smart like Hector and Lysander, bang-up tip-top, hey? Yes, I speaking Queen.”
You may say that was how I joined the Malagassy army, and if Mr Fankanonikaka was a dooced odd recruiting agent he was also an uncommon efficient one. Before night fell I was on the ration strength, with the unique rank of sergeant-general, which I suspect was Fankanonikaka’s own invention, and not inappropriate as it turned out. They quartered me in two rooms at the back of the main palace, with an orderly who spoke a little French (and spied on me night and day), and there I sat down and wept, with my head spinning, trying to figure out what to do next.