Flashman's Lady

by George MacDonald Fraser

  The difficulty was—who? When they turned us out next morning, we were taken in charge by a couple of black overseers, who spoke nothing but jabber; they thrust us along a narrow alley, and out into a crowded square in which there was a long platform, railed off to one side, with guards stationed at its corners, to keep the mob back. It looked like a public meeting; there were a couple of black officials on the platform, and two more seated at a small table before it. We were pushed up a flight of steps to the platform, and made to stand in line; I was still blinking from the sunlight, wondering what this might portend, as I looked out over the crowd—blacks in lambas and robes for the most part, a few knots of officers in comic-opera uniforms, plenty of sedans with wealthy Malagassies sitting under striped umbrellas. I scanned the faces of the officers eagerly; those would be the French-speakers, and I was just about to raise a halloo to attract their attention when a face near the front of the crowd caught my eye like a magnet, and my heart leaped with excitement.

  He was a tall man, wide-shouldered but lean, wearing a bright embroidered shirt under a blue broadcloth coat, and with a silk scarf tied like a cravat: he and his neighbour, a portly sambo resplendent in sarong and cocked hat, were taking snuff in the local fashion, the lean chap accepting a pinch from the other’s box on the palm of his hand and engulfing it with a quick flick of his tongue (it tastes beastly, I can tell you). He grimaced and raised his eyes: they met mine, and stared—they were bright blue eyes, in a face burned brown under a mane of greying hair. But there was no doubt of it—he was a white man.

  “You!” I roared. “You, sir! Monsieur! Parlez-vous français? anglais? Hindi? Latin? b----y Greek, even? Listen to me—I must talk to you!”

  One of the guards was striding forward to thrust me back, but the lean man was pushing his way through the mob, to my unutterable relief, and at a word from him to the officials he was allowed to approach the platform. He looked up at me, frowning, as I knelt down to be close to him.

  “Français?” says he.

  “I’m English—a prisoner, from a boat that came in at Tamitave! In G-d’s name, how can I get out of this? No one listens to me—they’ve been dragging me all over the bl----d country for week! I must—”

  “Gently, gently,” says he, and at the sound of the English words I could have wept. Then : “Smile, monsieur. Smile—what is the word—broadly? Laugh, if you can—but converse quietly. It is for your own good. Now, who are you?”

  I didn’t understand, but I forced a ghastly grin, and told him who I was, what had happened, and my total ignorance of why I’d been brought here. He listened intently, those vivid eyes playing over my face, motioning me to speak softly whenever my voice rose—which, as you can imagine, it tended to do. All the time he was plainly avoiding glancing at my guards or the officials, but he was listening for them. When I had finished he fingered his cravat, nodding, as though I’d been telling him the latest from “Punch”, and smiling pleasantly.

  “Eh bien,” says he. “Now attend, and not interrupt. If my English she is not perfect, I use French, but better not. No? Whatever I say, betray no amaze’, do you see? Smile, if you please. Good. I am Jean Laborde, once of the Emperor’s cavalry. I have been here thirteen years, I am a citizen. You do not know Madagascar?”

  I shook my head, and he put back his head and laughed softly, plainly for the onlookers’ benefit.

  “They detest all Europe, and English especially. Since you land without permission, they treat you as naufragé—how you call?—shipwreck? Castaway? By their law—please to smile, monsieur, very much—all such persons must be made slaves. This is a slave-market. They make you a slave—forever.”

  The smiling brown face with its blue eyes swam in front of me; I had to hold on to the edge of the platform. Laborde was speaking again, quickly, and the smile had vanished.

  “Say nothing. Wait. Wait. Do not despair. I will make inquiry. I see you again. Only wait, don’t despair. Now, my friend—forgive me.”

  On the heels of the last word he suddenly shouted something in what I took to be Malagassy, gesturing angrily. Heads came round, my guard stooped and wrenched at my shoulder, and Laborde struck me full in the face with his open hand.

  “Scélérat!” he cried. “Canaille!” He swung angrily on his heel and pushed his way back into the grinning crowd, while the guard kicked me upright and thrust me back into line. I tried to call to Laborde, but I was choked with horror and my own tears, and then one of the officials mounted a rostrum, shouting an announcement, the chatter of the crowd died away, the first of our coffle was pushed forward, and the bidding began.

  No one who has not stood on the block can truly understand the horror of slavery. To be thrust up in public, before a crowd of leering niggers, waiting your turn while your fellow-unfortunates are knocked down, one by one to the highest bidder, and you stand like a beast in a pen, all dignity, manhood, even humanity gone. Aye, it’s h--l. It’s even worse when nobody buys you.

  I couldn’t credit it—not eyen an opening bid! Imagine it—“here’s Flashy, gentlemen, young and in prime fettle, no previous owners, guaranteed of sound wind, no heelbug, highly recommended by superiors and ladies of quality, well set-up when he’s shaved, talks like a book, and a b----r to ride! Who’ll say a hundred? Fifty? Twenty? Come, come, gentlemen, the hair on his head’s worth more than that! Do I hear ten? Five, then? Three? For a capital bargain with years of wear in him? Do I hear one? Not for a fellow who dismissed Felix, Pilch, and Mynn in three deliveries? Oh, well. Ikey, put him back on the shelf, and tell the knackers to come and collect him.”

  It was downright humiliating, especially with the bidding for my black companions as brisk as a morning breeze. Mind you, the thought of being bought by one of those disgusting Malagasies was revolting—still. I couldn’t but feel disgruntled when they shoved me back in the warehouse alone, the Selling Plater nobody wanted. It was night before I found out the reason—for night brought Laborde, past bribed officials and guards, with soap, a gourd of water, a razor, and enough bad news to last a lifetime.

  “It is simple,” says he, when he had slipped a coin to the sentry and we were locked in alone. He spoke French now, which he’d been afraid to do in public for fear of eavesdroppers. “I had no time to tell you. The other slaves were being sold for debt, or crime. You, as a castaway, are in effect crown property; your display on the block was a mere formality, for no one would dare to bid. You belong to the Queen—as I did, when I was shipwrecked years ago.”

  “But…but you ain’t a slave! Can’t you get away?”

  “No one gets away,” says he, flatly, and it was now I learned a good deal of what I’ve told you already—of the monstrous tyranny of Queen Ranavalona, her hatred of foreigners which had caused Madagascar to be quite cut off from the world, of the diabolical practice of “losing”—which is their word for enslaving—all strangers.

  “For five years I served that terrible woman,” Laborde concluded. “I am an engineer—you will have seen my lightning rods on the houses. I am also skilled in the making of armaments, and I cast cannon for her. My reward was freedom”—he laughed shortly—“but not freedom to leave. I shall never escape—nor will you, unless—” He broke off, and then hurried on. “But refresh yourself, my friend. Wash and shave, at least, while you tell me more of your own misfortune. We have little time.” He glanced towards the door. “The guards are safe for the moment, but safety lasts a short while in Madagascar.”

  So I told him my tale in full, while I washed and shaved by the flickering light of his lantern, and sponged the filth from the shreds in which I was clothed. While I talked I got a good look at him—he was younger than I’d thought, about forty, and almost as big as I, a handsome, decent-looking cove, fast and active, but plainly as nervous as a cat; he was forever starting at sounds outside, and when he talked it was in an urgent whisper.

  “I shall inquire about your wife,” says he when I’d done. “They will have brought her ashore almost c
ertainly—they lose no chance of enslaving foreigners. This man Solomon I know of—he trades in guns and European goods, in exchange for Malagassy spices, balsam, and gums. He is tolerated, but he will have been powerless to protect your lady. I shall find out where she is, and then—we shall see. It may take time, you understand; it is dangerous. They are so suspicious, these people—I run great risk by coming to see you, even.”

  “Then why d’you do it?” says I, for I’m inclined to be leery of gifts brought at peril to the giver; I was nothing to him, after all. He muttered something about befriending a fellow-European, and the comradeship of men-at-arms, but I wasn’t fooled. Kindness might be one of his motives, but there were others, too, that he wasn’t telling about, or I was much mistaken. However, that could wait.

  “What’ll they do with me?” I asked, and he looked me up and down, and then glanced away, uneasily.

  “If the Queen is pleased with you, she may give you a favoured position—as she did with me.” He hesitated. “It is for this reason I help you to make yourself presentable—you are very large and…personable. Since you are a soldier, and the army is her great passion, it is possible that you will be employed in its instruction—drilling, manœuvring, that kind of thing. You have seen her soldiers, so you are aware that they have been trained by European methods—there was a British bandmaster here, many years ago, under the old treaty, but nowadays such windfalls are rare. Yes…” he gave me that odd, wary glance again, “your future could be assured—but I beg of you, as you value your life, be careful. She is mad, you see—if you give the least offence, in any way, or if she suspects you—even the fact that I, a fellow-foreigner, have spoken to you, could be sufficient, which is why I struck you publicly today…”

  He was looking thoroughly scared, although I felt instinctively he wasn’t a man who scared easy. “If you displease her—then it will be the perpetual corvée—the forced labour. Perhaps even the pits, which you saw yesterday.” He shook his head. “Oh, my friend, you do not even begin to understand. That happens daily here. Rome under Nero—it was nothing!”

  “But in G-d’s name! Can nothing be done? Why don’t they…make away with her? Haven’t you tried to escape, even?”

  “You will see,” says he. “And please, do not ask such questions—do not even think them. Not yet.” He seemed to be on the point of saying more, but decided not to. “I will speak of you to Prince Rakota—he is her son, and as great an angel as his mother is a devil. He will help you if he can—he is young, but he is kind. If only he…but there! Now, what can I tell you? The Queen speaks a little French, a few of her courtiers and advisers also, so when you encounter me hereafter, as you will, remember that. If you have anything secret to say, speak English, but not too much, or they will suspect you. What else? When you approach the Queen, advance and retire right foot first; address her in French as ‘God’—‘ma Dieu’. you understand? Or as ‘great glory’, or ‘great lake supplying all water’. You must give her a gift, or rather, two gifts—they must always be presented in pairs. See, I have brought you these.” And he handed me two silver coins—Mexican dollars, of all things. “If, in her presence, you happen to notice a carved boar’s tusk, with a piece of red ribbon attached to it—it may be on a table, or somewhere—fall down prostrate before it.”

  I was gaping at him, and he stamped, Frog-like, with impatience. “You must do these things—they will please her! That tusk is Rafantanka, her personal fetish, as holy as she is herself. But above all—whatever she commands, do it at once, without an instant’s hesitation. Betray no surprise at anything. Do not mention the numbers six or eight, or you are finished. Never, on your life, say of a thing that it is ‘as big as the palace’. What else?” He struck his forehead. “Oh, so many things! But believe me, in this lunatic asylum, they matter! They may mean the difference between life and—horrible death.”

  “My G-d!” says I, sitting down weakly, and he patted me on the shoulder.

  “There, my friend. I tell you these things to prepare you, so that you may have a better chance to…to survive. Now I must go. Try to remember what I’ve said. Meanwhile, I shall find out what I can about your wife—but for G-d’s sake, do not mention her existence to another living soul! That would be fatal to you both. And…do not give up hope.” He looked at me, and for a second the apprehension had died out of his face; he was a tough, steady-looking lad when he wanted to be.36 “If I have frightened you—well, it is because there is much to fear, and I would have you on guard so far as may be.” He slapped my arm. “Bien. Dieu vous garde.”

  Then he was at the door, calling softly for the guard, but even as it opened he was back again, cat-footed, whispering.

  “One other thing—when you approach the Queen, remember to lick her feet, as a slave should. It will tell in your favour. But not if they are dusted with pink powder. That is poison.” He paused. “On second thoughts, if they are so dusted, lick them thoroughly. It will certainly be the quickest way to die. A bientôt!”

  If I had my head in my hands, do you wonder? It couldn’t be true—where I was, what I’d heard, what lay ahead. But it was, and I knew it, which was why I plumped down on my knees, blubbering, and prayed like a drunk Methodist, just on the offchance that there is a God after all, for if He couldn’t help me, no one else could. I felt much worse for it; probably Arnold was right, and insincere prayers are just so much blasphemy. So I had a good curse instead, but that didn’t serve, either. Whichever way I tried to ease my mind, I still wasn’t looking forward to meeting royalty.

  At least they didn’t keep me in suspense. At the crack of dawn they had me out, a file of soldiers under an officer to whom I tried to suggest that if I was going to be presented, so to speak, I’d be the better for a change of clothes. My shirt was reduced to a wisp, and my trousers no better than a ragged loin-cloth with one leg. But he just sneered at my sign-language, slashed me painfully with his cane, and marched me off up-hill through the streets to the great palace of Antan’, which I now saw properly for the first time.

  I wouldn’t have thought anything could have distracted my attention at such a time, but that palace did. How can I describe the effect of it, except by saying that it’s the biggest wooden building in the world? From its towering steepled roof to the ground is a hundred and twenty feet, and in between is a vast spread of arches and balconies and galleries—for all the world like a Venetian palazzo made of the most intricately-carved and coloured wood, its massive pillars consisting of single trunks more than one hundred feet long. The largest of them. I’m told, took five thousand men to lift, and they brought it from fifty miles away; all told, fifteen thousand died in building the place—but I guess that’s small beer to a Malagassy contractor working for royalty.

  Even more amazing though, is the smaller palace beside it. It is covered entirely in tiny silver bells, so that when the sun is on it, you can’t even look, for the blinding glare. As the breeze changes, so does the volume of that perpetual tingling of a million silver tongues; it’s indescribably beautiful to see and hear, like something in a fairy-tale—and yet it housed the cruellest Gorgon on earth, for that’s where Ranavalona had her private apartments.

  I’d little time to marvel, though, before we were inside the great hall of the main palace itself, with its soaring arched roof like a cathedral nave. It was thronged with courtiers bedecked in such a fantastic variety of clothing that it looked like a fancy-dress ball, with nothing but black guests. There were crinolines and saris, sarongs and state gowns, muslins and taffetas of every period and colour—I recall one spindly female in white silk with a powdered wig on her head à la Marie Antoinette, talking to another who seemed to be entirely hung in coloured glass beads. The contrast and confusion was bewildering: mantillas and loin-cloths, bare feet and high-heeled shoes, long gloves and barbaric feather headdresses—it would have been exotic but for the unfortunate fact that Malagassy women are d----d ugly, for the most part, tending to be squat and squashed, like
black Russian peasants, if you can imagine. Mind you, I saw a lissom backside in a sari here and there, and a few pairs of plumptious bouncers hanging out of low corsages, and thought to myself, there’s a few here who’d repay care and attention—and they’d probably be glad of it, too, for a more sawn-off and runty collection than their menfolk I never did see. It’s curious that the male nobility are far poorer specimens than the common men; Dago blood somewhere, I suspect. They were got up as fantastically as the women, though, in the usual hotch-potch of uniforms, with knee breeches, buckled shoes, and even a stovepipe hat thrown in.

  There was a nigger orchestra pumping away abominably somewhere, and the whole throng were chattering like magpies, as Malagasies always do, bowing and scraping and leering and flirting in the most grotesque caricature of polite society—I couldn’t help thinking of apes that I’d seen at the circus in childhood, decked out in human clothes. A white man in rags cut no ice at all, and no one spared me more than a glance as I was marched up a side staircase, along a short passage, and into a small ante-room. Here, to my astonishment, I was left alone; they shut the door on me, and that was that.

  Steady, Flash, thinks I, what’s this? It looked an innocent room enough, overcrowded with artistically-carved native furniture, large pots containing reeds, some fine ornaments in ivory and ebony, and on the walls several prints depicting niggers in uniform which I wouldn’t have given house-room to, myself. I stood listening, and through a large muslin-screened inner window heard the murmur and music of the great hall; by standing on a table I could just peep over the sill and through the muslin observe the assembly below. My window was in a corner, and from beneath it a broad gallery ran clean across the top end of the hall, high above the crowd. There were a dozen Hova guardsmen in sarongs and helmets ranged along the balcony rail.