Flashman Papers Omnibus

by Fraser George MacDonald

  But then, ’twasn’t really a war, nor Arogee a proper battle. Like Little Big Horn, it was more of a nasty skirmish, and like Big Horn it had an importance far beyond its size.

  On the face of it, there wasn’t much for the Gazette. No dead on our side, although I believe a couple of our thirty wounded died later, and only seven hundred Abs killed – I say only, you understand because when you’ve seen Pickett’s charge and the Sutlej awash with thousands of corpses, Arogee’s a fleabite (provided you ain’t one of the seven hundred, that is). For our fellows, it had been a day’s shooting, but for the Abs it was Waterloo. They’d been shot flat, massacred if you like, by Messrs Snider and Enfield, gallant savages decimated by modern weapons … but for once the liberals can’t sniff piously over that, for even at close quarters, steel against steel, Ab swords and spears had been no match for Sikh bayonets. For the Abs, it was shameful disaster, and for Theodore it was finis.48

  For our side, it was something unheard of, a victory without loss at the end of a campaign that had been supposed to end in catastrophe. But Speedy told me there was no joy in our camp, only pity and admiration for a foe who hadn’t been good enough, and a perverse irritation that it hadn’t been worth all the toil and effort. T. Atkins and J. Sepoy had expected a real battle, an Inkerman or Balaclava, a Mudki or Ferozeshah, against a foe they could touch their hats to. Arogee had been a sell; the Abs had been no opposition at all – oh, they’d tried, and been a mighty disappointment.

  That, I can assure you, is what my countrymen felt. Victory had been so easy that they felt cheated. D’you wonder that I shake my head over ’em?49

  It was well after dark before Theodore could rustle up the will to bestir himself. He sat for a good two hours like a man stunned, not seeming to hear the cries of the wounded below Fala, or that sudden ghastly scream which told us that the jackals and hyenas were at work. At last he summoned Samuel and dictated a letter to Rassam asking him to make his peace with Napier. I can give it exact, for Samuel gave me a copy later, as evidence that he’d done his bit to bring about an armistice. It was a real Theodore effusion:

  My dear friend, how have you passed the day? Thank God, I am well. I, being a king, could not allow people to come and fight me without attacking them first. I have done so and my troops have been beaten. I thought your people were women but I find they are men. They fought very bravely. Seeing that I am not able to withstand them, I must ask you to reconcile me to them.

  He gave it to a couple of the Germans to take to Magdala, and then we went down to Islamgee, through a torch-lit purgatory of dead who’d been brought up from the battlefield, and wounded being cared for by their comrades. It was raining again, and the guttering flares shone on rows of shrouded corpses, and on lean-tos and tents where the Ab surgeons were at work. Under one long canopy were laid the scarlet-clad bodies of some of the five hundred chiefs who had led the charge and been peppered by the King’s Own and Baluch, who’d supposed that one of ’em must be Theodore.

  He stood silent a while, looking at them, and then moved slowly along the line, stopping now and then to touch a hand, or lay his own on a forehead, before turning away. Someone called his attention to another body in a tent nearby, and when they drew back the shroud who should it be but Miriam, looking pale and beautiful and very small. It took me aback; I’d forgotten her in the tumult of the last few days, and seeing her lifeless gave me a shock that I find hard to describe. I mean, I bar vicious bitches who are prepared to burn me to death by inches, but she’d been a lovely peach and I’d have dearly liked to explain the Kama Sutra to her by demonstration. So I can’t say I was grief-stricken, or even moved, much, just sorry as one is to see a beautiful ornament broken, and irritated by the waste.

  Some of her mates were around her, keening what I guess was a death-song, and I asked the ugly little trot I’d christened Gorilla Jane how it had happened. Miriam hadn’t been in the battle, but watching with the others from the Fala saddle, and a screaming fire-devil had exploded by her: a rocket. The others had escaped injury, so I guess bonny little Miriam was the only female casualty of Arogee. Well, at least I gave her a moment’s thought, which was more than Theodore did; he spared her not so much as a glance as he strode on to his tent. Gratitude of princes, what?

  You’d ha’ thought, would you not, that it was now all over at last? His army had been thrashed out of sight, he’d confessed with bitter tears that there was no resisting such weapons, and he’d asked Rassam to make peace for him. He changed his mind in the course of the night, which he spent getting raging drunk, and vowing that he’d be damned before he’d sue to Napier, but by dawn he was seeing reason again (for the time being) and I was treated to the sight of Prideaux, in full fig, limping down from Magdala to get his marching orders from the Emperor: he, and one of the German prisoners, a preacher named Flad, were to go with one of Theodore’s sons-in-law, a nervous weed named Alamee, to open negotiations with Napier.

  His majesty was in his sunniest mood by now, inquiring after Prideaux’s health, pressing drink on him, and complimenting him on his appearance – at which I couldn’t help smiling approval, for our jaunty subaltern was putting on dog in no uncertain manner. His old red coat was sponged and pressed, his whiskers shone with pomade, his cap was on three hairs, his cane under his arm, and his monocle in his eye. Rule Britannia, thinks I, and stamped my heel in reply to the barra salaama he threw me as he and his companions rode down to Napier’s head-quarters beyond Arogee. Theodore watched their progress through his glass from the summit of Selassie, and was much gratified when one of his scouts panted up to report that the party had been received with cheering and hats in the air.

  If he thought that this natural rejoicing at seeing two of the prisoners free at last was a happy omen, he was brought back to earth when they returned in the afternoon with Napier’s reply. By then his mood had changed for the worse, thanks to his chiefs, who came to the Selassie summit en masse to point out that he still had nine-tenths of his army in good fettle, and if they fell on Napier by night, when artillery and rockets would be useless, they could make him sorry he’d ever crossed the Bechelo. Whether Theodore believed this or not, he was looking damned surly by the time Prideaux and Flad and Alamee returned to inform him that Napier’s terms amounted to unconditional surrender, with the prisoners freed and Theodore willing to “submit to the Queen of England”, with a promise that he’d be given honourable treatment.

  Reasonable enough, considering the trouble and expense we’d been at, and the barbarous way he’d behaved, wouldn’t you say? But you ain’t the descendant of Solomon and Sheba, with notions of imperial grandeur, unable even to contemplate submitting your sacred person to the representative of a mere woman who’d added injury to insult by ignoring your letter and then invading your country. Just to show you how far he was from understanding us, his first question was: did honourable treatment mean we’d assist him against his enemies, and would we look after his family – wives, concubines, numerous offspring, etc?

  Flad, who interpreted, put this to Prideaux, who said, being an honest English lad from a good home, that we’d do the decent thing, goodness me. Flad was explaining this in diplomatic terms when Alamee, who’d been hopping nervously as Theodore’s scowl grew blacker, seized his majesty’s arm and drew him out of earshot, chattering twenty to the dozen.

  “Talkin’ sense into him, I hope,” says Prideaux to me. “Is the feller changin’ his mind? His army don’t look like surrenderin’, I must say!” Nor did they, ranged in their silent thousands on the lower slopes of Selassie beneath us, and on Fala across the way. “Never saw so many glowerin’ faces! Well, he’d better swallow the terms, ’cos they’re the best he’ll get – what, after the way he’s carried on, keepin’ us chained for two years, torturin’ poor old Cameron, butcherin’ his own folk right and left! The man’s a blasted Attila! And if he expects Napier to just say, ‘So long, old fellow!’ and pack his traps, he’s sadly mistaken!”

&nb
sp; “He’s mad, remember,” I told him – and what happened next bore me out, for Theodore began to rage and stamp as Alamee pleaded with him. “Please, Father, there is no hope!” he was crying. “The choice is surrender or death! The English dedjaz swears that if a hair of the Europeans’ heads is touched, he will tarry here five years if need be to punish the murderers – his words, Father, not mine!”

  “Be silent, imbecile!” bawls Theodore, and there and then sat himself down on a rock and dictated a reply to Napier at the top of his voice, while we and his chiefs and minions listened in disbelief. For you never heard such stuff, starting off with a Theodoric rant about the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and then a great harangue – not addressed to Napier, but to the people of Abyssinia, and how they’d fled before the enemy, and turned their backs on him, and hated him, after the way he’d fed their multitudes, the maidens protected and unprotected, the women made widows at Arogee, and aged parents without children … amazing babble, while he glared up at the heavens and his admiring court exclaimed in awe.

  “He’s slipped his cable,” mutters Prideaux. “God help us!”

  But now Theodore seemed to remember to whom he was writing, for he complained that Napier had prevailed by military discipline, the implication being that it wasn’t fair “and my followers who loved me were frightened by one bullet, and fled in spite of my commands. When you defeated them, I was not with the fugitives. Believing myself to be a great lord, I gave you battle, but by reason of the worthlessness of my artillery, all my pains were as nought …”

  You may think I’m exaggerating, that no one could blather such nonsense, but it’s there in the Blue Books, and I heard it up yonder on Selassie, how his ungrateful people had taunted him by saying he’d turned Muslim, which wasn’t true, and he had intended with God’s help to conquer the whole world, and die if he couldn’t fulfil his purpose, and he’d hoped after subduing Abyssinia to lead his army against Jerusalem and expel the Turks. And if it had been dark at Arogee he’d have licked us properly. Not since the day of his birth had anyone dared lay a hand on him, and finally, a warrior who had dandled strong men like infants would never submit to be dandled by others.

  So there. When he’d done dictating, he had the scribe read it over to him, which gave Prideaux the chance to tell me that Napier sent his compliments and congratulations, the Gallas had the southern approaches sealed, and he’d despatched another agent to Masteeat to see that my good work was continued.

  “Sir Robert was quite bowled over at first to hear that you had fallen into Theodore’s hands, and Captain Speedy – what a remarkable chap he is! – wondered if you hadn’t allowed yourself to be taken on purpose.” Prideaux was regarding me with that look of wary respect that my heroic reputation invariably excites in the young. “Sir Robert said why ever should you do any such thing, and Captain Speedy said it might be all for the best, because if it came to a point, you would know what to do. Sir Robert asked what did he mean, but Captain Speedy made no reply.” Prideaux coughed and fixed me with an earnest eye. “I tell you this, Sir Harry, because after a moment’s reflection Sir Robert told me to give you his order that whatever befell, you were to remain with the Emperor Theodore and use your best judgment.” He coughed again. “I’m not sure what he meant, sir, precisely, but I’m sure you do.”

  I knew all right, as the Gates of Fate clanged to behind me. Whatever befell, I was to use my best judgment to ensure that the Emperor of Abyssinia didn’t leave Magdala alive.

  * * *

  a Big salute.

  Chapter 17

  Sound political biznai, of course. Theodore could not be allowed to go free and unpunished, the country wouldn’t stand for it. On t’other hand, he’d be a most embarrassing prisoner to call to account. Much better for all concerned if he simply left the scene, and who better to shove him off the tail of the cart than good old Flashy, favourite ruffian of the Foreign Office, Palmerston-recommended, practically by Appointment Assassin Extraordinary to Her Majesty, demises discreetly arranged, moderate terms … if I were a sensitive man (and not a little flattered to be regarded as the most fatal nemesis since Jack Ketch) I might easily be offended. ’Twasn’t the first time; I’d been sicked on to murder poor old John Brown in ’59, as you know, but shirked, so the Yankees had to do it themselves, to the disgust of the world, and serve ’em right.

  In the meantime, having finished listening to his own letter and nodded approval, Theodore had to endure another bout of impassioned whispering from Alamee, who was terrified that the letter would bring down Napier’s wrath on everyone’s head. Prideaux explained to me that our people, Speedy especially, had left Alamee in no doubt of what would happen if the war went on, and scared him to death by having Penn show him our guns and rockets; Speedy had also hinted that if Alamee and the other chiefs didn’t restrain Theodore, it would be the worse for them. But whatever warnings Alamee was pouring into the royal ear seemed to be having no effect; he was told to hold his tongue, Prideaux and Flad were sped on their way with the letter, and when Prideaux asked for a drink of water before setting off he was told peremptorily that there wasn’t time.

  I couldn’t guess what Napier would make of the lunatic message, but one thing was sure: he daren’t take action that might risk the prisoners. There was no knowing what Theodore was liable to do. At the moment of despatching the letter he was ready for a fight, and so were his followers, but within an hour he seemed to be thinking better of it. He called a council of his chiefs, insisting that I and his German artisans attend, and even placed me on a stool beside his seat of state. Then, with his chiefs ranged in a semicircle before him – a dozen black villains with their spears and swords across their knees, looking daggers at me and the squareheads – he began to shout abuse at them, much in the style of his letter to Napier: they had betrayed him when his back was turned, they were sheep when he wasn’t on hand to inspire them, they were a heathen generation whom he had nourished and sheltered in a heathen land, but now he was here to lead and inspire, and out of the evil that he had done, good would surely come. So let them speak: what was to be done?

  They were in no doubt. I can see them now, the dark faces with their teeth bared, the clenched fists thumping their knees as one after another voted to kill the prisoners and fight to the death; Ras Engedda, the chief minister, even hinted that Theodore had been too soft altogether; the prisoners should be herded into a hut and burned alive if Napier attacked. This was received with acclamation by all but two, Alamee and another, and I feared the worst until I noticed that Theodore was looking sourer with each successive vote for the war party, and all of a sudden he exploded.

  “Are you blind that you cannot see the English want only their prisoners? Let them go and we shall have peace, but if they are hurt not one of us will be left alive! You urge me to war and reproach me for weakness, so kill me if you will, but do not revile me!” He was fairly foaming, driving his spear into the carpet again, and they piled out in haste, all but Ras Engedda and Alamee and another whom he sent post-haste to bring the prisoners down from Magdala. Then he calmed down, and gave me the sanest, happiest smile.

  “Be of good cheer, my best of friends!” says he, and to the Germans: “And you also, good friends and servants who have worked so well for me. Soon you will be with your rescuers.”

  Which cheered them up no end, and they went out blessing him and tugging their forelocks – and they were no sooner through the fly than he snatched a pistol from his belt, shoved it between his teeth, and squeezed the trigger – and it misfired. But he was a trier, the same Theodore; before I’d time to think “That’s your sort, old man!” he’d thumbed back the second hammer, and if Engedda hadn’t made a flying dive, the interfering ass, and knocked the piece from his hand, the pavilion canopy would have needed laundering, for this barrel went off splendidly and blew a hole in the tent-pole. After which Theodore groaned, sighed, threw his shama over his face, lay down, and went to sleep.

  I, out of s
heer curiosity, picked up the pistol and took the cap from the barrel that had misfired. It looked sound, so I tapped it smartly with the pistol butt, and it cracked with a puff of smoke. Why it had missed fire, heaven knows; perhaps there’s a fate that looks after mad monarchs.

  Dr Blanc told me later that when they received the summons to go down to Theodore, they were sure they were going to die. The Abs guarding them were full of woe and weeping, bidding them farewell, and when they came down the track from the Kobet Bar Gate of Magdala and across the Islamgee plain towards the Fala saddle, sure enough there was a firing party waiting for them, and your correspondent having the conniptions as I watched the ragged little party plodding towards us. For when a messenger had come to tell Theodore they were on their way, he had suddenly roused himself, bidden me sharply to accompany him, and strode out on to the Islamgee plain, calling for a file of musketeers.

  He stopped on the edge of the precipice, a bare couple of furlongs from the spot where he’d massacred the prisoners (whose corpses, you’ll be charmed to know, were still lying in heaps on the rocks below, in our full view) and ordered the musketeers to fall in against the cliff which rose sheer behind us. The road on which we stood was no more than a narrow ledge between the cliff and the drop. Theodore beckoned me to his side, and when the prisoners hove in view round a bend in the road he sent his lad Gabr to tell Rassam to approach alone. At this Engedda, who had stalked after us with a face of thunder, demanded to know what was to do.

  “Will you let them go?” bawls he. “Will you fawn on this creature – and you, a king, and he a white cur?” Talk about bearding the lion, but Theodore only waved him away and went to meet Rassam, shaking hands, inquiring warmly after his health, sitting him down on a rock and asking if he wanted to go down to Napier now, or wait till next day, since it would soon be dusk. Rassam said, whatever suited his majesty, and Theodore began to cry, and burst out: “Go now, then, and the peace of God go with you! You and I have always been friends, and I beg you to bear in mind that if ever you cease to befriend me, I shall kill myself!”