The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Well, they were likely big wenches, certainly, and they bounced along very jolly, but when I watch a wobbling buttock I prefer it to be unobscured by a dangling skull. And I’m no hand with women who look as though they’d rather kill and eat me than grapple in the grass. But Spring was all for ’em; his voice was husky as he watched.

  “D’you know what they call themselves? Mazangu—the fair ones. You see how every company leader wears a spotless turban—they call ’em Amodozo. Doesn’t that name bring back an echo from your school-days—think, man! Who was the leader of the Amazons in Africa—Medusa! Amodozo, Medusa. Mazangu, Amazons.” His face was alive with a delight I’d never seen before. “These are the cream of the Dahomeyan army—the picked bodyguard of the king. Every voyage I’ve made, I vowed I’d bring back half a dozen of them, but I’ve never been able to make this black Satan part with even one. He’ll part this time, though.” He rounded on me. “You’ve a gift of languages, have you not? On this voyage we’ll learn it—we’ll find out everything there is to know about ’em, study them, their history, their customs. The real Amazons! By the holy, I’ll make those smug half-educated Balliol sons-of-b - - - - s sit up, won’t I though? They’ll find out what real scholarship is!”

  I suppose I’ve been in some queer places, with some d - - - - d odd fellows, but nothing queerer than watching those big black fighting sluts march by while a classically-educated slaver skipper babbled to me about anthropological research. I thought it had been lust that excited him, at the sight of all those black boobies quivering, and it was lust, at that—but it was scholarly, not carnal. Well, if he thought I was going to huddle up with those female baboons, studying present infinitives, he was dead wrong.

  “They’ve got both tits,” I said. “Thought Amazons only had one.”

  He snarled his contempt. “Even Walter Raleigh knew better than that. But he was wrong about what mattered—so was Lopez Vaz, so was Herodotus. Not South America, not Scythia—here! Africa! I shall make a name—a great name, with my work on these women. Despise John Charity Spring, will they?” He was shouting again, not that anyone could hear much, above that drumming. “I’ll show them, by G - d, I will! We’ll keep one, perhaps two. The others will fetch a handy price in Havana—what? Think of the money they’ll pay for black fighting women in New Orleans! I could get two—no, three thousand dollars a head for creatures like those!”

  I never interrupt an enthusiast, especially one with a temper like a wild dog’s. Presently he fell silent, but he never took his eyes off those women, who were halted now in a great circle round the square. Two other companies of them had filed in and taken station close to the death house, and now in their wake came a gross black figure, under a striped umbrella, at the sight of whom they raised their spears in salute and stamped, while the mob round the square roared a welcome.21

  King Gezo of Dahomey was bitter ugly, even by nigger standards. He must have weighed twenty stone, with a massive belly hanging over his kilt of animal tails, and huge shoulders inside his scarlet cape. He had a kind of wicker hat on his head, and under it was a face that would have shamed a gorilla—huge flat nose, pocked cheeks, little yellow eyes and big yellow teeth. He waddled to his stool, plumped down, and opened the palaver in a croaking voice that carried harshly all over the square.

  At first we were ignored, although he could be seen squinting our way every now and then. He palavered with elders of the town, and then with several folk who were summoned forward from the crowd; one of them evidently displeased him, because he suddenly screamed an order, and two of the Amazons beside his throne stepped forward, drawing their cleavers, and without ceremony laid into the victim right and left, and literally slashed him to pieces. The crowd hollo’ed like mad, Gezo surged about on his stool, and those two harpies hacked away at the dismembered corpse, spattering the skull platform with blood. When they were done, slaves came forward to clear up—they had to sweep what was left of the body off the stage.

  No doubt this was for our benefit, for we were now beckoned forward. Gezo was even more horrifying at close range, with those yellow eyeballs rolling at you, but he was civil enough to Spring, laughing hoarsely and chattering at him through one of his officials, who spoke fair Coast English.

  They palavered for a while about the slaves who had been sent down to our ship, and then Gezo in high good humour ordered stools to be set for all our party, and we squatted down at the edge of the dais, while servants brought dishes of food—I expected it would turn my stomach, but it was not bad: stew, and fruit, and native bread, and a beer that was powerful and not unlike a German lager. Gezo gorged and talked, spluttering out food as he squealed and barked at Spring, and occasionally drinking beer from a gaudy china mug on which was inscribed, of all things, “A Present for a Good Boy from Scarborough”. I remember thinking how odd it was that this shoddy article should obviously be a prized possession, while the local cups from which we drank were really fine pieces, of metal beautifully carved.

  All told it was as pleasant a meal as one could have in the presence of a terrifying ogre, with the blood still sticky before his feet, and the foul stench of the death house all around. Another distraction was the Amazons, who ringed the dais; one of the white-turbanned leaders stood close by me and I took close stock of her. She had the flat face, broad nose, and thick lips usual on this part of the Coast, but with that splendid shape, and a fine black satin thigh thrust out and almost touching me as I sat, I thought, by gum, one could do worse. They had men only once a year, Spring had said, and I decided that being the man would be interesting work, if you survived it. I gave her a wink, and the sullen face never altered, but a moment later she raised the fly whisk that dangled from her wrist and brushed away an insect buzzing round my head. I could see she fancied me; black or white, savage or duchess, they’re all alike.

  Meanwhile the meal finished, and presently Gezo beckoned Spring to draw his stool closer; they grunted away at each other through the interpreter, and I heard Spring suggest the purchase of six of the Amazon women. This threw Gezo into a great passion, but Spring let it rage, and then whispered to the interpreter again. There was much conferring, and Gezo barked and screamed, but less loud each time, I thought, and at last Spring turned to me.

  “Show him your pistol,” says he, and I handed it over. Gezo pawed over it excitedly, rasping questions at Spring, and finally it was given back to me, and Spring says:

  “Fire it for him—all five shots as fast as you can. Into the side of the death house will do.”

  I stood up, all eyes on me, Gezo chattering and bouncing up and down on his stool. I drew a bead on one of the skull bricks and fired; it kicked like blazes, but I thumbed back the hammer smartly and loosed off the next four shots in quick time. Five gaping holes were smashed in the wall, with splinters flying all over the place, the mob roared, Gezo beat his fists on his knees with excitement, and even the Amazons put up their knuckles to their mouths; my own pipsey-popsey with the white turban stared at me round-eyed.

  Then Spring called up one of our seamen, who carried a case, and when he opened it there were the five other Colt pistols; Gezo slobbered and squealed at the sight of them, but Spring wouldn’t hand them over—he had more guts than I’d have had with that blood-stained maniac mowing and yelling at me. They whispered away again, and then Gezo rolled his eyes shifty-like at the Amazons, summoned my girl, and mumbled orders to her. She didn’t bat an eyelid, but snapped a command to six of her wenches. They grounded their spears like guardsmen, put by their cleavers, and then stood forward. Gezo yammered at them, one of them said something back, Gezo yelled at them, and from the ranks of all the other Amazons there was something like a gasp and a murmur, which rose to a growl; they didn’t like what was happening, and Gezo had to stand up and bawl at them until they were quiet.

  I didn’t like the look of this; you could feel the anger and hatred welling up all round us. But Spring just snapped shut the case, handed it to Gezo, and then tur
ned to us.

  “Mr Kinnie,” says he, “the palaver is finished. Form up round these six women; we’re getting out of here.” Then he tipped his hat to Gezo, who was sitting back on his stool, looking d - - - - d peevish, and clutching his case. Our fellows had turned to face the crowd, who were milling closer beyond the ranks of the Amazons; it was beginning to look ugly, but Spring just marched ahead, bulldog fashion, the Amazons stepped back smartly to let him go, and with our six black beauties in our midst we followed after. Two of the girls hesitated, looking round over their shoulders, but my Amazon lady, standing beside Gezo’s throne, shouted to them, and they dropped their heads meekly and marched on with us.

  By jove, it was a long minute’s walk to the gate of the stockade, through the double file of those black Amazon furies, their faces sullen with anger and grief at the sale of their fellows, while the great crowd of townsfolk roared in protest behind them. But the discipline of those women warriors was like iron; the king had said, and that was that—mind you, if Gezo had run for president at that moment, he wouldn’t have had my money on him, but even so, no one in that whole town was bold enough to gainsay him.

  We were moving d - - - - d smartly by the time we reached the stockade, a tight knot of men with our needle guns at the ready, and the women being jostled along in the middle. Spring was first at the gate, where he stopped and hurried us through, I stood close by him; his jaw was tight and he was as near scared as I ever saw him.

  “Hurry, b - - - t you!” he shouted. “D - - n that Gezo, to haggle so long, and d - - n those women—I didn’t think they’d raise such a bother about the business. Straight ahead, Mr Kinnie, and keep those six sluts close, d’you hear?” Then to me: “Come on!”

  “Wait!” say I—it was instinctive, believe me; I’d no wish to linger, not with that growling mob behind me. But I’d noticed the little ferrety cabin boy was missing. “Where the h - - l is he?”

  “Back there!” snaps Spring. “He’s senseless with nigger beer—Gezo wanted him—wanted a white slave! Come on, d - - n you, will you stand there all day?”

  I’m not shocked easy, but that took me flat aback—for about the tenth part of an instant. If Spring wanted to trade his cabin boy to a nigger king, it was all one to me; I was into the fringe of the jungle a yard ahead of him, and then we were running, with the others in front of us, the Amazons being driven along, one of ’em wailing already. Behind us the hubbub of the town was cut off by the dense foliage; we hustled down the path, but you don’t run far in that climate, and soon we had to slow down to a trot.

  “Well enough, I think,” says Spring. He stopped for a moment to listen, but there was nothing except the jungle noises and the sobbing of our own breathing. “I didn’t like that,” says he, addressing no one in particular. “By G - d, I didn’t! If I’d known they were so d - - - - d jealous of their fighting wenches … Phew! It’s the last time I deal with Gezo, though. Quid violentius aure tyranni?b For a moment I’d a notion he would change his mind—and keep the pistols, which would have been short shrift for us.” He laughed, and the mad pale eyes blinked. “On, there, Mr Kinnie! Mr Comber, keep a sharp eye on the prisoners! Back to that boat in double time, my lads, before his majesty thinks better of his bargain!”

  We pushed on down the narrow trail, and we must have been half-way to the river when Spring stopped again, listening. I strained my ears; nothing. Just the chickering of the forest beasts and birds. Spring called to the fellows to be quiet, and we all listened. Spring turned his head from side to side, and then I heard Kirk say: “Wot the h - - l we standing here for? If there’s anything to hear, then the sooner we’re in that boat the better.”

  “There’s nuthin’ behind us,” says another, uneasily.

  “Silence!” snaps Spring. He was peering through the foliage at the side of the path. I found my heart racing, and not just with exertion—if we were pursued, they couldn’t have outflanked us, through that swamp and jungle, surely. We would have heard them—and then I remembered Kirk saying: “They can move in dead silence when they wants to.”

  “For G - d’s sake!” I whispered to Spring. “Let’s get on!”

  He ignored me. “Mr Kinnie,” he called softly. “D’you hear anything to port?”

  “No, cap’n,” sings back Kinnie, “there’s noth—”

  The end of that word was a horrid scream; in terror I stared down the path, and saw Kinnie stagger, clawing at the shaft in his throat before tumbling headlong into the mangrove. Someone yelled, a musket banged, and then Spring was thrusting forward, bawling:

  “Run for it! Keep on the path for your lives. Run like h - - l!”

  His order was wasted on me—I was running before he had started thinking, even; someone screamed in front of me, and a black shadow leaped on to the path—it was an Amazon, swinging a machete; one of the seamen caught it on his musket, and dashed the butt into her face. She went down, shrieking, and as I leaped over her my foot landed on her bare flesh; I stumbled, but went careering on. The vision of those two naked black fiends slashing a man to death was before my eyes, and the crash of shots and yelling behind me urged me on. I fairly flew along that trail.

  And by gum, I wasn’t alone. They say sailors are poor runners, but that landing party from the Balliol College could move when they wanted to; we stampeded along that twisting path, elbowing each other aside in our panic to get away from the horror in the jungle on either side. They were screaming their war cries now, those terrible black sows; once a spear flashed past in front of my face, and I believe a couple of arrows buzzed above our heads, and then I tripped and fell headlong, with the others trampling over me.

  I thought I was done for, but when I scrambled to my feet I saw we were on the edge of the clearing by the river. The fleetest of our party was tearing aside the branches where our canoe was hidden, the man who had been left on guard was on one knee, aiming his musket; it banged, and I turned to see an Amazon fall shrieking not ten yards from me, her cleaver bouncing along to land at my feet. Instinctively I grabbed it, and then a flying body knocked me sideways. Some of our fellows were firing from the water’s edge; as I scrambled up I saw an Amazon on her knees, clutching her side with one hand as she tried vainly to hurl her spear with the other. Close by me was Spring, bawling like a madman; he had his pepper-pot revolver in one hand, firing back towards the path, and by G - d, with the other he was trying to drag along one of the Amazons he’d bought. The man’s dedication to scholarly research was incredible.

  They were leaping through the edge of the jungle now, howling black devils, and if you believe that even the worst of young women has charms, you are in error. As I fled for the boat, I saw the man who had been on guard spin round with an arrow in his shoulder; before he could regain his feet three of them were on him, and while two held him down, throat and ankle, the third carefully pulled up his shirt, and with the utmost delicacy disembowelled him with her machete. Then I was at the boat, a needle gun was in my hands, and I was firing at another who was leaping across the clearing; she went cartwheeling into the river, and then Spring was beside me, dashing down his empty gun and drawing his cutlass.

  “Shove off!” he bawled, and I made a leap for the thwart, missed, and came down in the shallows. Spring jumped over me, and I felt someone drag me upright; it was Comber. For a moment we were shoulder to shoulder, and then an Amazon was on us. Her spear was back to thrust into my breast, and in that split second I saw it was my white-turbanned wench of the fly whisk, her teeth bared in a ghastly grin. And you may think me fanciful, but I’ll swear she recognised me, for she hesitated an instant, swung her point away from me, and drove it to the haft into Comber’s side. And as I threw myself headlong over the gunwale the ridiculous thought flashed through my mind: bonny black cavalry whiskers, they can’t resist ’em.

  “D - - nation!” Spring was roaring. “I lost that confounded slut!” And as the boat shot away from the bank he seized a needle gun, almost crying with rage, and blaze
d away. I pulled myself up by the thwart, and the first thing I saw was a bloody hand gripping the edge of the boat. It was Comber, clinging on for dear life as we wallowed out into the stream, with the dark red blood staining the water around him. For a second I wondered whether I should try to haul him in or bash his fingers loose, for he was encumbering our way, but then Spring had leaned over and with one titanic heave had dragged him over the thwart.

  We were ten yards from the bank, and it was lined with shrieking black women, hurling their spears, bending their bows, leaping up and down in a frenzy of rage. Why none of them took to the water after us I don’t know, unless it was fear of crocodiles; we cowered down to escape their missiles, and then a voice was screaming from the bank:

  “Help, cap’n! Cap’n, don’t leave me—for Jesus’ sake, cap’n! Save me!”

  It was Kirk; he was in the shallows, being dragged back by half a dozen of those black witches. They hauled him on to the bank, screaming and laughing, while we drifted out into mid-stream. Some bold idiot had seized a sweep, and Comber, bleeding like a butchered calf, was crying:

  “Help him, sir! We must turn back! We must save him!”

  Spring thrust him away, threw himself on to the sweep with the sailor, and in spite of the arrows that whistled over the boat, the two of them managed to drive us still farther away towards the opposite mangrove shore. We were beyond the spears now, and presently the arrows began to fall short, although one of the last to reach the boat struck clean through the hand of the seaman at the oar, pinning him to the timber. Spring wrenched it clear and the fellow writhed away, clutching his wound. And then Holy Joe Comber was at it again:

  “Turn back, sir! We can’t leave Kirk behind!”

  “Can’t we, by G - d?” growls Spring. “You just watch me, mister. If the b - - - - - d can’t run, that’s his look-out!”