The response to that was nil, and an icy finger of fear traced down my back. For the past two days, with my belly still in a sling, it had seemed natural enough to be in the cabin – but now that the doctor had been, and seemed satisfied, why weren’t they letting me out – of why, at least, wasn’t Solomon coming to see me? Why weren’t they letting me see Elspeth? Why weren’t they letting me take exercise? It didn’t make sense, to keep me cooped here, if he was going to let us go, and – if he was going to let us go. It suddenly rushed in on me that that was pure assumption, probably brought on by my blissful reunion with Elspeth, which had been paradise after the weeks of peril and terror. Suppose I was wrong?
I don’t know anyone who despairs faster than I do – mind you, I’ve had cause – and the hours that followed found me in the depths. I didn’t know what to think or believe, my fears mounted steadily, and by next morning I was my normal self, in a state of abject funk. I was even drawing sinister significance from the fact that this cabin I was in was obviously in the forward part of the vessel, with the engines between me and the civilized quarters where Elspeth – and Solomon – would be. G-d, was he ravishing her, now that he knew he could never seduce her? Was he bargaining with her for my life, threatening to feed me to the sharks unless she buckled to with him? That was it, for certain – it’s what I’d have done in his place – and I tore my hair at the thought that like as not she’d defy him; she was forever reading trashy novels in which proud heroines drew themselves upright and pointed to the door, crying: “Do your worst, sinister man; my husband would die rather than be the price of my dishonour!” Would he, by jingo? – surrender, you stupid b---h, if that’s all he wants, I found myself muttering; what’s another more or less? Charming husband, ain’t I? Well, why not? Honour’s all very well, but life matters. Besides, I’d do the same to save Elspeth, if any lustful woman threatened me. They never do, though.
With such happy thoughts, in a torture of uncertainty, I passed the days that followed – how many I’m not sure, but I guess about a week. In all that time, no one came near me except the steward, with a Malay thug to back him up – I was alone, hour after hour, night after night, in that tiny box, alternating between shivering panic and black despair – not knowing. That was the worst of it; I didn’t even know what to be afraid of, and by the end of the week I was ready for anything, if it would only end my misery. It’s a dangerous state to be in, as I know, now that I’m old and experienced; I didn’t realize, then, that things can always get worse.
Then I saw the American ship, by chance, as I paced past my porthole. She was maybe half a mile off, a sleek black Southern Run clipper with Old Glory at her jackstaff; the morning sun was shining like silver on her topsails as they flapped from the reefs and were sheeted home. Now I’m no shellback, but I’d seen that setting a score of times, when a vessel was standing out from port – G-d, were we near some harbour of civilization, where the big ships ran? I hallooed for all I was worth, but of course they were too far off to hear, and then I was rummaging feverishly for matches to start a fire – anything to attract attention and bring that Yankee to my rescue. But of course I couldn’t find any; I nearly broke my neck trying to squint out of the port in search of land, but there was nothing but blue rollers, and the Yankee dwindling towards the eastern horizon.
All day I sat fretting, wondering, and then in mid-afternoon I saw little native craft from my port, and a low green mainland beyond them. Gradually a beach came into view, and a few huts, and then wooden houses with steep roofs – no flags, and nothing but niggers in loin-cloths – no, there was a uniform, an unmistakable navy coat, black with gold braid, and a cocked hat, among a group on a little jetty. But there was the rumble of the Sulu Queen’s cable – we were anchoring a good quarter of a mile out. Never mind, that was close enough for me; I was in a fever of excitement as I tried to figure where it might be – we’d been westering, Southern Indian Ocean, and here was a small port, still important enough for a Yankee clipper to touch. It couldn’t be the Cape, with that coastline. Port Natal – surely we weren’t that far west? I tried to conjure up the map of that huge sea east of Africa – of course, Mauritius! The navy coat, the niggers, the Arabi-looking small craft – they all fitted. And Mauritius was British soil.
I was trembling as I took stock. What the d---l was Solomon thinking of, putting into Mauritius? Wood and water – he’d probably had no chance of either since bolting from the Skrang. And with me cooped tight, and Elspeth probably likewise, what had he to fear? But it was my chance – there’d never be another like it. I could swim the distance easily … and the lock scraped in my door at that moment.
There are split seconds when you can’t afford to plan. I watched the steward setting down my tray, and without making a conscious decision I turned slowly towards the door where the Malay thug was hovering, beckoned him, and pointed, frowning, to the corner of the cabin. He advanced a pace, squinting up where I was pointing – and the next instant his courting tackle was half-way up inside his torso, impelled by my right boot, he was flying across the cabin, screaming, and Flashy was out and racing – where? There was a ladder, but I ducked past it instinctively, and tore along a short passage, the Chinese steward squealing in my rear. Round the corner – and there was a piece of open deck, Malays coiling rope, and iron doors flung wide to the sunshine and sea. As I ploughed through the startled Malays, scattering them, I had a glimpse of small craft between me and the shore, a distant jetty and palms, and then I was through those doors like a hot rivet, in an enormous dive, hitting the water with an almighty splash, gliding to the surface, and then striking out, head down, for dear life towards the distant land.
I reckon it took about ten seconds from my cabin to the water, and as many minutes before I was alongside the piles of the wharf. I was half-conscious with the exertion of my swim, and had to cling to the slimy wood while curious niggers in small boats drew up to gape at me, chattering like magpies. I looked back at the Sulu Queen, and there she was, riding peacefully, with a few native craft round her. I looked landward – there was the beach, and a fair-sized native town behind it, and a big building with a verandah and a flag-pole – it was a deuced odd-looking flag, striped and blazoned – some shipping line, perhaps. I hauled myself wearily along the piles, found a ladder, dragged myself up it, and lay panting and sodden on the wooden jetty, conscious of a small crowd forming round me. They were all niggers, in loin-cloths or white robes – some pretty Arab-looking, by their noses and head-gear. But there was the navy coat, pushing towards me, and the crowd falling back. I tried to pull myself up, but couldn’t, and then the navy trousers stopped beside me, and their owner was bending down towards me. I tried to control my panting.
“I’m … a British … army officer,” I wheezed. “Escaped from … that ship … pirate …” I raised my head, and the words died on my lips.
The fellow bending towards me was in full navy rig, right enough, even to the hat and epaulette – the green sash looked strange, though. But that wasn’t the half of it. The face beneath the cocked hat was jet black.
I stared at him, and he stared back. Then he said something, in a language I couldn’t understand, so I shook my head and repeated that I was an army officer. Where was the commandant? He shrugged, showed his yellow teeth in a grin, and said something, and the crowd giggled.
“D--n your eyes!” cries I, struggling up. “What the h--l’s going on here? Where’s the harbour-master? I’m a British army officer, Captain Flashman, and—” I was stabbing him on the chest with my finger, and now, to my utter amazement, he struck my hand angrily aside and snapped something in his heathen lingo, right in my face! I fell back, appalled at the brute’s effrontery – and then there was a commotion behind, and I looked to see a small boat ploughing up at the seaward end of the jetty, and Solomon, of all people, springing from her bows and striding towards us along the planking, a massive figure in his tunic and sarong, with a face like thunder. Right, my hearty,
thinks I, this is where you receive your ration allowance, once these people realize you’re a b----y pirate, and I flung out a hand to denounce him to my epauletted nigger. But before I could get a word out Solomon had seized me by the shoulder and spun me round.
“You infernal fool!” cries he. “What have you done?”
You can be sure I told him, a trifle incoherently, at the top of my voice, drawing the nigger’s attention to the fact that here was the notorious pirate and brigand, Suleiman Usman, delivered into his hands, and would he mind arresting him and his ship and restoring me and my wife to liberty.
“And you can swing till the crows peck you, you kidnapping tyke!” I informed Solomon. “You’re done for.”
“In G-d’s name, where d’you think you are?” His voice was shrill.
“Mauritius, ain’t it?”
“Mauritius?” He suddenly pulled me aside. “You booby, this is Tamitave – Madagascar!”
Well, that startled me, I admit. It explained the nigger in uniform, I supposed, but I couldn’t see it made much difference. I was saying so, when the nigger stepped up and addressed Solomon, pretty sharp, and to my amazement the Don shrugged, apologetically, as though it had been a white official, and replied in French! But it was his abject tone as much as the language that bewildered me.
“Your pardon, excellency – a most unfortunate mistake. This man is one of my crew – a little drunk, you understand. With your permission I shall take him—”
“Balderdash!” I roared. “You’ll take me nowhere, you lying dago!” I swung to the nigger. “You speak French, do you? Well, so do I, and I’m no more one of his crew than you are. He’s a d----d pirate, who has abducted me and my wife—”
“Be quiet, you clown!” cries Solomon in English, thrusting me aside. “You’ll destroy us! Leave him to me,” and he began to patter to the black again, in French, but the other silenced him with a flap of his hand.
“Silence,” says he, as if he were the b----y Duke. “The commandant approaches.”
Sure enough, there was a file of soldiers coming from the landward end of the jetty, strapping blacks in white loin-cloths and bandoliers, with muskets at the shoulder. And behind them, carried by coolies in an open sedan, came an unbelievable figure. It is solemn truth – he was black as your boot, and he wore a turban on his head, a flowered red and yellow shirt, and a 42nd Highlanders kilt. He had sandals on his feet, a sabre at his hip, white gloves, and a rolled brolly in his hand. I’ve gone mad, thinks I; it’s been the strain, or the sun. That thing can’t be real.
Solomon was hissing urgently in my ear. “Don’t say a word! Your one chance is to pretend to be one of my crew—”
“Are you mad?” says I. “After what you’ve done, you—”
“Please!” And unless my ears deceived me he was pleading. “You don’t understand – I intend you no harm – you shall both go free – Mauritius, if I can do it safely – I swear—”
“You swear! D’you imagine I’d trust you for an instant?”
And then the black’s voice, speaking harsh French, cut across his reply.
“You.” He was pointing at me. “You say you were a prisoner on that ship. And you are English. Is it so?”
I looked at the commandant, leaning forward from his sedan in that ludicrous Hallowe’en rig, his great ebony head cocked on one side, bloodshot eyes regarding me. As I nodded in reply to the officer’s question, the commandant took a peeled mango from one of his minions and began to cram it into his mouth, juice spurting over his gloved hand and over his ridiculous kilt. He tossed the stone away, wiped his hand on his shirt, and said in careful French, in a croaking rasp:
“And your wife, you say, is also a prisoner of this man?”
“Pardon, excellency.” Solomon pushed forward. “This is a great misunderstanding, as I have tried to explain. This man is of my ship’s company, and is covered by my safe-conduct and trading licence from her majesty. I beg you to allow—”
“He denies it,” croaked the commandant. He cleared his throat and spat comprehensively, hitting one of the soldiers on the leg. “He swam ashore. And he is English.” He shrugged. “Shipwrecked.”
“Oh, Ch---t,” muttered Solomon, licking his lips.
The commandant wagged a finger the size of a black cucumber, peering at Solomon. “He is plainly not covered by your licence or safe-conduct. Nor is his wife. That licence, Monsieur Suleiman, does not exempt you from Malagassy law, as you should know. It is only by special favour that you yourself escape the fanompoana – what you call … corvée?” He gestured at me. “In his case, there is no question.”
“What the dooce is he talking about?” says I to Solomon. “Where’s the British consul? I’ve had enough—”
“There’s no such thing, you fool!” Solomon was positively wringing his hands; suddenly he was a fat, frightened man. “Excellency, I implore you to make an exception – this man is not a castaway – I can swear he intended no harm in her majesty’s dominions—”
“He will do none,” says the commandant and jabbered curtly at the officer. “He is lost” – a phrase whose significance escaped me just then. The coolies lifted the sedan, and away it swayed, the officer barked an order, and a file of his soldiers trotted past us, their leader bawling to one of the boatmen, summoning his craft to the jetty.
“No – wait!” Solomon’s face was contorted with anguish. “You idiot!” he shrieked at me, and then he started first this way and that, calling to the commandant, and then running down the jetty after the file of soldiers. The black officer laughed, indicated me, and snapped an order to two of his men. It wasn’t till they grabbed my arms and began to run me off the jetty that I came to my senses; I roared and struggled, bawling for Solomon, shouting threats of what would happen to them for laying their filthy hands on an Englishman. I lashed out, and a musket-butt sprawled me half-conscious on the planking. Then they dragged me up, and one of them, his great black face blasting foul breath all over me, snapped shackles on my wrists; they seized the chain and hauled me headlong up the street, with the blacks eyeing me curiously and children running alongside, squealing and laughing.
That was how I became a captive in Madagascar.
As you know – or rather, you don’t, but if you’re intelligent you’ll have guessed – I’m a truthful man, at least where these memoirs are concerned. I’ve got nothing to lie for any longer, who lied so consistently – and successfully – all my life. But every now and then, in writing, I feel I have to remind you, and myself, that what I tell you is unvarnished fact. There are things that strain belief, you see, and Madagascar was one of them. So I will only say that if, at any point, you doubt what follows, or think old Flash is telling stretchers, just go to your local libraries, and consult the memoirs of my dear old friend Ida Pfeiffer, of the elastic-sided boots, or Messrs Ellis and Oliver, or the letters of my fellow-captives, Laborde of Bombay and Jake Heppick the American shipmaster, or Hastie the missionary.33 Then you’ll realize that the utterly unbelievable things I tell you of that h--lish island, straight out of “Gulliver”, are simple, sober truth. You couldn’t make ’em up.
Now I won’t bore you by describing the shock and horror I experienced, either at the beginning, when I realized I had escaped from Solomon’s frying-pan into something infinitely worse, or later, as further abominations unfolded. I’ll just recount what I saw and experienced, as plain as I can.
My first thoughts, when they threw me chained and battered, into a stuffy go-down at Tamitave, were that this must be some bad dream from which I should soon awake. Then my mind turned to Elspeth; from what had passed on the jetty it had seemed that they’d been going to drag her ashore, too – for what fate I could only guess. You see, I was at a complete nonplus, quite out of my depth; once I’d had my usual little rave and blubber to myself, I tried to remember what Solomon had told me about Madagascar on the voyage out, which hadn’t been much, and what I recalled was far from comforting. Wild and savage bey
ond description, he’d said … weird customs and superstitions … half the population in slavery … a she-monster of a queen who aped European fashions and held ritual executions by the thousand … a poisonous hatred of all foreigners – well, my present experience confirmed that, all right. But could it truly be as awful as Solomon had painted it? I hadn’t believed him above half, but when I thought of that frightful nigger commandant in his bumbee tartan kilt and brolly … well.
Fortunately for my immediate peace of mind I didn’t know one of the worst things about Madagascar, which was that once you were inside it, you were beyond hope of rescue. Even the most primitive native countries, in my young days, were at least approachable, but not this one; its capital, Antananarivo (Antan’, to you), might as well have been on the moon. There was no appeal to outside, or even communication; no question of Pam or the Frogs or Yanks sending a gunboat, or making diplomatic representations, even. You see, no one knew about Madagascar, hardly. Barring a few pirates like Kidd and Avery in the old days, and a handful of British and French missionaries – who’d soon been cleared out or massacred – no one had visited it much except heeled-and-ready traders like Solomon, and they walked d----d warily, and did their business from their own decks offshore. We’d had a treaty with an earlier Malagassy king, sending him arms on condition that he stopped slave-trading, but when Queen Ranavalona came to the throne (by murdering all her relatives) in 1828, she’d broken off all traffic with the outside world, forbidden Christianity and tortured all converts to death, revived slavery on a great scale, and set about exterminating all tribes except her own. She was quite mad, of course, and behaved like Messalina and Attila the Hun, either of whom would have taken one look at her and Written to The Times, protesting.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 83