It wouldn’t have seemed so horrible, perhaps, if Madagascar had been some primitive nigger tribal state where everyone ran about naked chanting mumbo-jumbo and living in huts. Well, I remember my old chum King Gezo of Dahomey, sitting slobbering like a beast before his death-house (built of skulls, if you please) tucking into his luncheon while his fighting women chopped prisoners into bloody gobbets within a yard of him. But he was an animal, and looked like one; Ranavalona wasn’t—quite.
She had not bad taste in clothes, for example, and knew enough to hang pictures on the walls, and have her banquets laid with knives and forks just so, and place-cards (Solomon was right: I saw ’cm—“Serjeant-General Flatchman, Esq., yours truly” was what mine said on one occasion, in copperplate handwriting). I mean, she had carpets, and silk sheets, and a piano, and her nobles wore trousers and frock coats, and addressed their women-folk as “Mam’selle”—my G-d, haven’t I seen a couple of her Comtesses, sitting at a palace dinner, chattering like civilised women, with silver and crystal and linen before them, ignoring the cutlery and gobbling food with their fingers, and then one turning to t’other and twittering: “Permittez-moi, cherie,” and proceeding to delouse her neighbour’s hair. That was Madagascar—savagery and civilisation combined into a horrid comic-opera, a world turned upside down.
And at the head of the table she would sit, in a fine yellow satin gown from Paris, a feather boa stuck through her crown, pearls on her black bosom and in her long earrings, chewing on a chicken leg, holding up her goblet to be refilled, and getting drunker and drunker—for when it came to lowering the booze she could have seen a sergeants’ mess under the table. It didn’t show in her face; the plump black features never changed expression, only the eyes glittered in their piercing uncanny stare. She wouldn’t smile; her talk would be an occasional growl to the terrified sycophants sitting beside her, and when she rose at last, wiping her sullen mouth, everyone would spring up and bow and scrape while two of her generals, perspiring, would escort her down the room and out on to the great balcony, lending her an arm if she staggered, and over the great crowd waiting in the courtyard below would fall a terrible silence—the silence of death.
I’ve seen her, leaning on that verandah, with her creatures about her, gazing down on the scene below; the ring of Hova guardsmen, the circle of torches flaming over the archways, the huddled groups of unfortunates, male and female, from mere striplings to old decrepit folk, cowering and waiting. They might be recaptured slaves, or fugitives hunted out of the forests and mountains, or criminals, or non-Hova tribesmen, or suspected Christians, or anyone who, under her tyranny, had merited punishment. She would look down for a long time, and then nod at one group and grunt: “Burning,” and then at another, “Crucifixion,” and at a third, “Boiling.” And so on, through the ghastly list—starvation, or flaying alive, or dismembering, or whatever horror occurred to her monstrous taste. Then she would go inside—and next day the sentences would be carried out at Ambohipotsy in front of a cheering mob. Sometimes she attended herself, watching unmoved, and then going home to the palace to spend hours praying to her personal idols under the paintings in her reception room.
While most of her cruelties were practised on common folk and slaves, her court was far from immune. I remember at one of her levées, at which I was in humble attendance with the military, she suddenly accused a young nobleman of being a secret Christian. I’ve no idea whether he was or not, but there and then he was submitted to ordeal—they have any number of ingenious forms of this, including swimming rivers infested by crocodiles, but in his case they boiled up a cauldron of water, right in front of her seat, and she sat staring fixedly at his face as he tried to snatch coins out of the bubbling pot, plucking and screaming while the rest of us watched, trying not to be sick. He failed, of course—I can still see that pathetic figure writhing on the floor, clutching his scalded arm, before they carried him out and sawed him in half.
Not quite what we’re accustomed to at Balmoral, you’ll agree, but at least Ranavalona didn’t go in for tartan carpets. Her wants were simple: just give her an ample supply of victims to mutilate and gloat over and she was happy—not that you’d have guessed it to look at her, and indeed I’ve heard some say that she was just plain mad and didn’t know what she was doing. That’s an old excuse which ordinary folk take refuge in because they don’t care to believe there are people who enjoy inflicting pain. “He’s mad,” they’ll say—but they only say it because they see a little of themselves in the tyrant, too, and want to shudder away from it quickly, like well-bred little Christians. Mad? Aye, Ranavalona was mad as a hatter, in many ways—but not where cruelty was concerned. She knew quite what she was doing, and studied to do it better, and was deeply gratified by it, and that’s the professional opinion of kindly old Dr Flashy, who’s a time-served bully himself.
So you see what a jolly, carefree life it was for her court, of whom I suppose I was one in my capacity of mount of the moment. It was a privileged position, as I soon realised; you recall I told you how I took pains to curry favour with the top military nobles—well. I soon discovered that the compliment was returned, slave though I was officially. They toadied me something pitiful, those black sweating faces and trembling paws in gaudy uniforms—they assumed, you see, that I only had to whisper the word in her ear and they’d be off to the pits and the cross. They needn’t have fretted; I never knew one of ’em from t’other, hardly, and anyway I was too alarmed for my own safety to do anything with her d----d black ear but chew it, loving-like.
You may wonder how I stuck it out; or how I could bring myself to make love to that female beast. Well. I’ll tell you; if it’s a choice between romping and being boiled or roasted, you can bring yourself to it, believe me. She wasn’t bad-looking beneath the neck, after all, and she seemed to like me, which always helps—you may find it difficult to believe (I do myself) but there were even moments, on warm, silent afternoons, when we would be drowsing on the bed, or by her bath, and I would steal a glance along the pillow at that placid black face, comely enough with the eyes closed, and feel even a touch of affection for her. You can’t hate a woman you sleep with. I suppose. Mind you, once that black eyelid lifted, and that eye was on you, it was another story.
One thing, though, I feel inclined to say in her defence, having said so much ill of her, and rightly. At least some of her excesses, especially in the persecution of Christians (I wasn’t one, by the way, during my Madagascar sojourn, as I took pains to point out to anyone who’d listen). were inspired by her idol-keepers. I’ve said there was no religion in her country, which is true—their superstition was not on an organised basis—but there were these fellows who read omens and looked after the stones and sticks and lumps of mud which passed for household gods. (Ranavalona had two, a boar tusk and a bottle, which she used to mutter to.)
Well, the idol-keepers had helped her to the throne when she was a young woman, after her husband the king died, and his nephew, the rightful heir, had been all set to ascend the throne. The idol-keepers, in their role as augurs, had said the omens favoured Ranavalona instead, and since she at the same time was busily organising a coup d’état, slaughtering the unlucky nephew and all her other immediate relatives, you couldn’t say the idol-keepers were wrong: they’d picked the winner. They obtained such influence with her that they even persuaded her to kill off the lovers who had helped her coup, and she relied on them for guidance ever after.
I was always very civil to them myself, with a cheery “Good morning” and a dollar or two, mangy brutes though they were, shuffling through the palace with their bits of rag and string and ribbon—which were probably idols of terrific potency, if I’d only known. They helped Ranavalona determine her policy by throwing beans on a kind of chess-board, and working out the combinations,40 which usually resulted in massacre for someone, just like a Cabinet decision; she would admit them at all times of day—I’ve seen her sitting on her throne, with her girls helping her try o
n French slippers, while the lads crouched alongside, mumbling over their beans, and she would nod balefully at their pronouncements, take a squint at her bottle or tusk for reassurance, and pronounce sentence. They once walked in when she and I were having a bath together—deuced embarrassing it was, performing while they cast the bones, but Ranavalona didn’t seem to mind a bit.
If there was any other influence in her life, apart from the mumbo-jumbo men and her own mad passions, it was her only son. Prince Rakota—the chap to whom Laborde had managed to steer Elspeth. He was the heir to the throne, although he wasn’t the old king’s son, but the offspring of one of her lovers—whom she’d later had pulled apart, naturally. However, under Malagassy law, any children a widow may have, legitimate or not, are considered sons of her dead husband, so Rakota was next in line, and my impression was that Madagascar couldn’t wait to cry “Long live the King!” You see, despite my misgivings when I’d first heard about him, he was the complete opposite of his atrocious mother—a kindly, cheerful, good-natured youth who did what he could to restrain his bloodthirsty parent. It was common knowledge that if he happened along as they were about to butcher someone on her instructions, and he told them to let the chap go, they would—and mama never said a word about it. He’d have had to spend all his time sprinting round the country shouting “Lay off!” to make much impression on the slaughter rate, but he did what he could, and the populace blessed and loved him, as you’d expect. Why Ranavalona didn’t do away with him, I couldn’t fathom; some fatal weakness in her character, I suppose.
However, mention of Rakota advances my tale, for about three weeks after I’d taken up my duties. I met him, and was reunited, if only briefly, with the wife of my bosom. I’d seen Laborde once or twice beforehand, when he’d figured it was safe to approach me, and pestered him to take me to Elspeth, but he’d impressed on me that it was highly dangerous, and would have to wait on a favourable opportunity. It was like this, you see: Laborde had told Rakota that Elspeth was my wife, and pleaded with him to look after her, and keep her tucked away out of sight, for if the Queen ever discovered that her new buck and favoured slave had a wife within reach—well, it would have been good-night, Mrs Flashman, and probably young Harry as well. Jealous old b---h. Rakota, being a kindly lad, had agreed, so there was Elspeth snug and well cared for, not treated as a slave at all, but rather as a guest. While I, mark you, was having to pleasure that insatiable female baboon for my very life’s sake. They hadn’t told Elspeth that, thank G-d, but jollied her along with the tale that I had taken up an important military post, which was true enough.
A strange state of affairs, you’ll allow—but nothing out of the way for Madagascar, and no more incredible than some of the things that I’ve known and heard of in my time. I was so bemused with what had happened over the past few months anyway, that I just accepted the bizarre situation; only two things worried and puzzled me. How had the Queen, who found out everything through her system of spies, which was directed by Mr Fankanonikaka, failed to get word of the golden-haired slave in her son’s palace? And why—this was the real conundrum—were Laborde and Prince Rakota in such a sweat to help Elspeth and me? What was I to them, after all? I’m a suspicious brute, you see, and don’t put much stock in altruistic virtue; there was something up here. I was right, too.
Laborde presented me to the Prince on an afternoon when Ranavalona was safely out of the way, watching a bull-fight, which was her prime hobby. It was a byword that the fighting bulls were the only living things she had any feelings for; the only times she was known to weep was when one of them died, or was badly gored in the ring. So it was deemed safe for me to take an hour off from parade, and with Fankanonikaka, Laborde, and a leading general named Count Rakohaja, I was borne out to the Prince’s garden palace in the suburbs of Antan’.
Rakota received me in his throne room, where I was graciously permitted to prostrate myself before him and his Princess. They were tiny folk—he wasn’t more than five feet tall, and dressed like a Spanish matador, in gold tunic and breeches, buckled shoes, and a Mexican sombrero. He was about sixteen, lively and smiling all over his round olive face; he had the beginnings of a moustache.41 His wife was much the same, a dumpy little bundle in yellow silk; if anything, her moustache was further along than his. They spoke good French, and when I’d clambered upright Rakota said he had brilliant reports of the way I was training the troops, especially the royal guardsmen.
“Sergeant-General Flashman has worked wonders with the men, and the best officers,” agreed Count Rakohaja; he was a big, lean Hova aristocrat with a scar on his cheek, dressed in a coat and trousers which would have been perfect St James’s, if they hadn’t been made of bright green velvet. “Your highness will be enchanted to learn that he has already won the loyalty of all under his command, and has shown himself a most dependable and trustworthy officer.”
Which was doing it rather too brown, but the Prince beamed on me.
“Most gratifying,” says he. “Winning the confidence of the troops is the first essential in a leader. As commander-in-chief—under the sublime authority of Her Majesty, the Great Cow Who Nourishes All The World With Her Milk, of course—I congratulate you, sergeant-general, and assure you that your zeal and loyalty will be amply rewarded.”
It seemed a trifle odd. I wasn’t a commander, but a glorified drill instructor, and everyone knew it. However, I responded politely that I didn’t doubt the troops would follow me from h--l to Huddersfield and back, which seemed to please his highness, for he ordered up chocolate and we stood about sipping it from silver bowls, two-handed. (The Malagassies have no idea of quantity; there must have been a gallon of the sickly muck in each bowl, and the gurgling of the royal consumption was something to hear.)
It seemed to me the Prince and Princess were slightly nervous; he kept darting glances at Rakohaja and Fankanonikaka, and his little chubby consort, whenever she caught my eye, smiled timidly and bobbed like a charwoman seeking employment. The Prince asked me a few more questions, in an offhand way—about the quality of the lower-rank commanders, the equipment of palace pickets, the standard of marksmanship, and so on, which I answered satisfactorily, noting that he seemed specially interested in the household troops. Then he took one last gulp and belch at his chocolate, wiped his moustache on his sleeve, and says to me, with a little smile and wave:
“You are permitted to withdraw to the other end of the room,” and began to talk in Malagassy to the others.
Mystified. I bowed and retreated, a door at the far end opened, and there was Elspeth, smiling radiantly, and dressed in the worst possible taste in a garden-party confection of purple taffeta—purple on a blonde, G-d help us—tripping towards me with her arms out. In a moment Madagascar was forgotten, with its Queen and horrors and dressed-up mountebanks; I had her in my arms, kissing her, and she was murmuring endearments in my ear. Then propriety returned, and I glanced round at the others. They were ignoring us—all except Fankanonikaka, who was having a sly peep—so I enfolded her again, inhaling her perfume while she prattled her delight at seeing me.
“…for it has been so long, and while their highnesses have been kindness itself. I have been yearning for you night and day, my love. Do you like my new dress?—her highness chose it for me herself, and we think it most becoming, and it is so heavenly to have proper clothes again, after those dreadful sarongas—but we will not talk of that, and the hateful separation, and the odious behaviour of that…that man Don Solomon—but now we are rid of him, and safely here, and it is such fun—if it were not that your duties keep you from me. Oh, Harry, must they? But I must be a good wife, as I always promised, and not put myself forward where your duty is concerned, and indeed I know the separation is as cruel for you as for me—and, oh, I do miss you…”
Here she embraced me again, and drew me down on to a settle—the others were deep in their own conversation, although the dumpy little Princess fluttered her fingers at us shyly, and Elspeth must rise to
curtsey—even black royalty was just nuts to her, obviously—before resuming her headlong discourse. I never got a word in edgeways, as usual, but I doubt if I’d have been coherent anyway. For to my amazement, Elspeth seemed to have not a care in the world—well, I’ve always known she had a slate loose, and was incapable of seeing farther than her pretty nose—which reminded me to kiss it, tenderly—but this was beyond belief. We were prisoners in this heathen h--l-hole, and to hear her you might have imagined it was a holiday at Brighton. Slowly it dawned on me that she had no true notion of the ghastliness of our plight, or even of what Madagascar was like at all, and as she babbled I began to understand why.
“…of course. I should like to see more of the country, for the people seemed not disagreeable, but the Prince informs me that the position of foreigners here is delicate, and it is not advisable for me to be seen abroad. For you, of course, it is different, since you are employed by her majesty—oh, tell me, Harry, what she looks like, and what she says! How does she dress? Shall I be presented? Is she young and well-favoured? I should be so jealous—for she cannot fail to be attracted by the handsomest man in England! Oh, Harry, I much admire your uniform—it is quite the style!”
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