Flashman's Lady

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I’d taken advantage of the custom of the country to wear all red, with a black sash, pretty raffish, I admit. Elspeth fairly glowed at me.

  “But I have so much to tell you, for the Prince and Princess have been so good, and I have the prettiest rooms, and the garden is so beautiful, and there is some very select company in the evenings—all black, of course, and a leetle outré—but most agreeable and considerate. I am most happy and interested—but when shall we go home to England, Harry? I hope it is not too long—for I sometimes feel anxiety for dear Papa, and while it is very pleasant here, it is not quite the same. But I know you will not detain us here longer than must be, for you are the kindest of husbands—but I am sure your work here will be of the greatest service to you, for it is sure to be a valuable experience. I only wish”—her lip suddenly trembled, despite her efforts to smile—“that we could be together again…in the same house…oh, Harry, darling, I miss you so!”

  And the little clothhead began piping her eye, leaning on my shoulder—as though she had anything worth weeping about! It was a d----d letdown, for I’d been looking forward to pouring out my woes and complaints to her, bemoaning my lot, describing the horrors of my plight—the respectable bits, anyway—and generally making her flesh creep with my anxieties. But there seemed no point now in alarming her—she’d just have done something idiotic, and with the others almost in earshot, the less I said the better. So I just patted her shoulder to cheer her up.

  “Now then, old girl,” says I, “don’t be a fool. What’ll their highnesses think of your bleating and bawling? Wipe your nose—you’re a lot better off than some, you know.”

  “I know, I am very foolish,” says she, sniffing, and presently, when the Prince and Princess withdrew, she was all smiles again, curtseying like billy-ho, and kissing me a tender farewell. I remarked to Laborde as we returned to the palace that my wife seemed happily ignorant of my predicament, and he turned his steady eyes on me.

  “It is as well, is it not? She could be a great danger to you—to both of you. The less she knows, the better.”

  “But in G-d’s name, man! She’ll have to find out sooner or later! What then? What when she realises that she and I are slaves in this frightful country—that there’s no hope—no escape?” I grabbed his arm—we had left our sedans at the entrance to my quarters at the rear of the palace, Fankanonikaka having parted from us at the main gate. “For the love of heaven, Laborde—there must be a way out of this! I can’t go on drilling niggers and piling into that black slut for the rest of my life—”

  “Your life will last no time at all if you don’t control yourself!” snaps he, pulling loose. He glanced round, anxiously, then took a deep breath. “Look you—I will do whatever I can. In the meantime, you must be discreet. I do not know what can be achieved. But the Prince was pleased with you today. That may mean something. We shall see. Now I must go—and remember, be careful. Do your work, say nothing. Who knows?” He hesitated, and tapped me quickly on the arm. “We may drink café au lait on the Champs Elysees yet. À bientôt.”

  And he was off, leaving me staring, mystified—but with something stirring inside me that I hadn’t felt in months : hope.

  It didn’t stir for long, of course; it never does. You hear news, or a rumour, or an enigmatic remark like Laborde’s, and your imagination takes wing with wild optimism—and then nothing happens, and your spirits plunge, only to revive for a spell, and then down again, and up and down, while time slips away almost unnoticed. I’m glad I ain’t one of these cool hands who can take a balanced view, for any logical appraisal of my situation in Madagascar would have driven me to suicide. As it was, my alternate hopes and glooms were probably my salvation, as the months went by.

  For it was months—six of them, although looking back it’s hard to believe it was more than a few weeks. Memory may hold on to horrid incidents, but it’s a great obliterator of dull, protracted misery, especially if you help it with heavy drinking. There’s a fine potent aniseed liquor on Madagascar, and I sopped it up like a country parson, so between sleep and stupor I don’t suppose I was in my wits more than half the time.

  And as I’ve remarked, when needs must, you just carry on with the work in hand, so I drilled and bullied my troops, and attended the Queen when called upon, and warily enlarged my circle of acquaintances among the senior military, and cultivated Mr Fankanonikaka, and found out everything I could that might serve when the time came—if it ever did…but it must, it must! For while with every passing week my servitude in Madagascar began to seem more natural and inevitable, there would be moments of sudden violent reaction, as when I’d just seen Elspeth, or been appalled by some new atrocity of the Queen’s, or the musky wood and dust smell grew unbearable in my nostrils, and then there was nothing for it but to walk out alone on the parade ground before Antan’ and stare at the distant mountains, and tell myself fiercely that Lord’s was still over there somewhere with Felix bowling his slow lobs while the crowd clapped and the rooks cawed in the trees; there would be green fields, and English rain, parsons preaching, yokels ploughing, children playing, cads swearing, virgins praying, squires drinking, whores rogering, peelers patrolling—that was home, and there must be a road to it.

  So I kept my eye skinned and learned…that Tamitave, while it had taken days to cover on the slave-march, was a bare hundred and forty miles away; that foreign ships put in about twice a month—for Fankanonikaka, whose office I visited a good deal, used to receive notice of them…the Samson of Toulon, the Culebra of Havana, the Alexander Hamilton of New York, the Mary Peters of Madras—I saw the names, and my heart would stop. They might only anchor in the roads, to exchange cargo—but if I could time my bolt from Antan’ precisely, and reach Tamitave when a foreign vessel was in…I’d swum ashore, I could swim aboard—then let ’em try to get me on their cursed land again! How to reach Tamitave, though, ahead of pursuit? The army had some horses, poor screws, but they’d do—one to ride, three to lead for changes…oh, G-d, Elspeth! I must get her away, too—mustn’t I?…unless I escaped and came back for her in force—by Jove. Brooke would jump at the chance of crusading against Ranavalona—if Brooke was still alive—no, I couldn’t face another of his campaigns…D--n Elspeth! And so my thoughts raced, only to return to the dusty heat and grind of Antan’, and the misery of existence.

  There were some slight blessings, though. I became interested in my army work, and enjoyed putting the troops through their manœuvres, teaching them complicated wheels in line, slow marches, and so forth; I became quite friendly with senior men like Rakohaja, who began more and more to treat me as an equal, and even entertained me at their homes, the patronising monkeys. Fankanonikaka noted this and was pleased.

  “Doing much fine, what? Dining nibs, much grub, happy boozing like h--l, tip-top society, how-de-do so pleased to meet you, hey? I seeing you Count Rakohaja, Baron Andriama, Chancellor Vavalana, other best swells. Watching Vavalana careful, however, sly dog, peeping or tittle-tattling for Queen. So looking sharp, that’s the ticket for soup, rotten rascal Vavalana, him hating old boy Fankanonikaka, hating you too, much jealousing you mounting Queen, happying her much boom-boom, not above half, maybe getting boy child I don’t know. Vavalana not liking that, mischief you if possible. Watch out him. I telling you. Meantime you pleasing Queen all while, hearty lovings, she admiring, ain’t she just, though, ha-ha?”

  And the dirty little rascal would tap his pug nose and chortle. I wasn’t so sure myself, for as time went by Ranavalona’s demands on me slowly diminished, and while it was a relief in one way—for at first, when I had been summoned to the palace almost every day on her majesty’s service, it was so exhausting I daren’t wave my hand for fear I floated away—it was worrying, too. Was she tiring of me? It was a dreadful thought, but I was reassured by the fact that she still seemed to like my company, and even began to talk to me.

  Not that it was elevating chat—how were the troops? was the ration of jaka* sufficient? why did I
never wear a hat? were my quarters comfortable? why did I never kill soldiers by way of punishment? had I ever seen the English queen? You must imagine her, either sitting on her throne in a European gown, with one of her girls fanning her, or reclining on her bed in her sari, propped up on one elbow, slowly grunting out her questions, fingering her long earring and never taking those black unblinking eyes from mine. Unnerving work it was, for I was in constant dread that I’d say something to offend; it didn’t help that I never discovered how informed or educated she was, for she volunteered no information or opinions, only questions, and no answers seemed either to please or displease her. She would just brood silently, and then ask something else, in the same flat, muttered French.

  It was impossible to guess what she thought, or even how her mind worked. Well, to give you an example, I was alone with her one day, standing by obediently while she sat on the bed gazing at Manjakatsiroa (her bottle gourd) and mumbling to herself, when she looked up at me slowly and growled:

  “Does this dress please you?”

  It was a white silk sarong, in fact, and became her not too badly, but of course I went into raptures about it. She listened sullenly, fidgeted a moment, and then got up, stripped the thing off, and says:

  “It is yours.”

  Well, it wasn’t my style at all, but of course I grovelled gratefully and said I couldn’t do it justice, but I’d treasure it forever, make it my household idol, in fact, splendid idea…she paid not the slightest attention but sauntered over, bare as the back of my hand, to her great mirror and stared at herself. Then she turned to me, slapped her belly thoughtfully two or three times, put her hands on her hips, stared bleakly at me, and says :

  “Do you like fat women?”

  If the hairs on my neck crawled, d’you wonder? For if you can think of a tactful answer, I couldn’t. I stood tongue-tied, the sweat starting out on me as visions of boiling pits and crucifixion flitted across my mind, and I couldn’t restrain a moan of despair—which I immediately had the mother-wit to turn into a lustful growl as I advanced on her, grappling amorously and praying that actions would speak louder than words. Since she didn’t press the point, I gather my answer was the right one.

  Another anxiety, of course, during those long weeks, was that she would get word of Elspeth, or that my dear little wife herself would get restive and commit some folly which would attract attention. She didn’t, though, and on the occasional visits I was allowed to make to the Prince’s palace, she seemed as cheerful as ever—I still don’t understand this, although I’ll admit that Elspeth has an unusually serene and stupid disposition which can make the best of anything. She bemoaned the fact that we were kept apart, of course, and never ceased to ask me when we would be going home, but since we were never left alone together there was no opportunity to tell her the fearful truth, and it would have served no good purpose anyway. So I jollied her along, and she seemed content enough.

  It was on the last visit I paid her that I saw the first signs of distress, and guessed it had at last penetrated into that beautiful fat head that Madagascar wasn’t quite the holiday she imagined. She was pale, and looked as though she’d been crying, but for once we had no opportunity of a private tête-à-tête, for the occasion was a tea-party given by the Princess, and I was held in military small talk by the Prince and Rakohaja throughout. Only when I was leaving did I have a brief word with Elspeth, and she didn’t say much, except to grip my hand tight, and repeat her eternal question about going home. I couldn’t guess what had upset her, but I could see the tears weren’t far away, so I startled her out of her glooms in the only way I know how.

  “What’s this, old girl?” says I, looking thunderous. “Have you been flirting with that young Prince, then?”

  She looked blank, but her dismals vanished at once. “Why, Harry, what can you mean? What a question to ask—”

  “Is it, though?” says I grimly. “I don’t know—I can see he has more than an eye to you, the presumptuous young pup—yes, and you ain’t discouraging him exactly, are you? I’m not well pleased, my lady—just because I can’t be here all the time is no reason for you to go setting your cap at other fellows—oh, yes, I saw you fluttering at him when he spoke to you—and a married man, too. Anyway.” I whispered, “you’re far too pretty for him.”

  She was pink by this time—not with guilty confusion, mark you, but with pleasure at the thought that she’d stirred the passion in yet another male breast. If there was one thing that could divert the little trollop’s attention, it was male admiration; she’d have stood preening herself in the track of a steam road roller if someone had so much as winked at her. I saw by her blushing protests how delighted she was, and that her unhappiness—whatever it was—had been quite forgotten. But now I was being called to the Prince, with Rakohaja at his elbow.

  “No doubt we shall see you tonight, sergeant-general, at her majesty’s ball,” says his highness, and it seemed to me his voice was unduly shrill, and his smile a trifle glassy. “It is to be a very splendid occasion.”

  I knew about the Queen’s dances and parties, of course, although I’d never been to one. Being officially a slave, you see, however much authority I had in the army, I occupied a curious social position. But Rakohaja put my doubt at rest.

  “Sergeant-General Flashman will be present, highness.” He turned his big scarred face to stare at me. “I shall bring him in my own party.”

  “Excellent,” twitters the Prince, looking everywhere but at me. “Excellent. That will be…ah…most agreeable.” I bowed myself away, wondering what this portended. I didn’t have long to wait to find out.

  The Queen’s galas were famous affairs. They took place every two or three months, on the anniversaries of her birth, accession, marriage—or the jubilee of her first massacre, I shouldn’t wonder—and were attended by the flower of Malagassy society, all in their fanciest costumes, crowding into the great courtyard before the palace, where they danced, ate, drank, and revelled all through the night. Proper orgies, from all I’d heard, so I was ready prompt enough, in full fig. when Rakohaja came for me early in the evening.

  There was a great crowd of the commonalty waiting at the palace gates as we passed through, peeping to get a look at their betters, who were already whooping it up to some tune. The whole vast courtyard was ablaze with Chinese lanterns slung on chains, potted palms and even whole trees and flower-beds had been brought in for decoration, the arches of the palace front were twined with rammage and cords of tinsel, a fountain had been specially constructed in the centre of the yard, the water playing over glass jars in which were imprisoned clusters of the famous Malagassy fire-flies—brilliant little emerald green jewels which winked and fluttered through the spray with dazzling effect.

  Among the trees and arbours which lined the square long tables were set, piled with delicacies, especially the local beef rice which is consumed in honour of the Queen—don’t ask me why, because it’s mere coarse belly fodder. The military band were on hand, pounding away at “Auprès de ma blonde”, and getting most of the notes wrong; I noticed they were all half-tipsy, their black faces grinning sweatily and their uniform collars undone, while their bandmaster, resplendent in tartan dressing-gown and bowler hat, was weaving about cackling and losing his silver-rimmed spectacles. He grovelled on the ground hunting for them and waving his baton crazily, but the band played on undaunted, falling off their seats, and the row was deafening.

  Mind you, if they were drunk, you could see where they’d got the idea. There must have been several hundred of the upper crust present already, each one with about a gallon of raw spirit aboard to judge by their antics; I counted four fellows in the fountain when we arrived, and any number staggering about; the greater number were standing unsteadily in groups of anything from six to sixty, making polite conversation at the tops of their voices, yelling and back-slapping, seizing glasses from the loaded trays which the servants passed among them, bawling toasts, spilling liquor all over
each other, apologising elaborately, tumbling down, and acting quite civilised on the whole.

  There was the usual fantastic display of fashion—men in Arab, Turkish, Spanish, and European costume, or mixtures of all of them, women in every conceivable colour of sarong, sari, elaborate gown, and party frock. There was abundance of uniform, too, velvet, brocade, superfine, and broadcloth, with crusts of silver and gold braid, but I noticed there was more of a Spanish note than usual—black swallow-tails, cummerbunds, funnel pants, and sashes among the men, mantillas, high heels, flounced skirts, lace fans, and flowers among the women. The reason, I discovered, was that it was Rakota’s coming of age, and since he favoured dago fashion the revellers were decked out in his honour. The heat from that shouting, swaying, celebrating throng came at you like a wave, with the band crowning the bedlam of noise with its incessant pounding.

  “The dinner has not yet begun,” says Rakohaja to me. “Shall we anticipate the others?” He led the way under the trees, where the waiters stood, most of ’em pretty flushed, and waved me and his aides to chairs. There was fine china and glass on the tables, but Rakohaja simply uncorked a bottle, pulled up his sleeve, scooped up a huge handful of beef rice, and proceeded to stuff it into his face, taking occasional pulls of liquor to help it down. Not wishing to be thought ignorant, I used my fingers on a whole chicken, and the aides, of course, ploughed in like cannibals.

  Half-way through our collation the more sober of the palace attendants cleared the guests from the main square, and there was terrific plunging, tripping, swearing, and profuse apologising as they staggered to seat themselves at the surrounding buffets. Whole tables were overturned, chaps fell into the undergrowth, women shrieked tipsily and had to be helped, crockery crashed and glass shattered, all to the accompaniment of cries of: “Ah, mam’selle, pardon my absurd clumsiness.” “Permit me, sir, to assist you to your feet.” “Holà, garçon, place a chair beneath madame—beneath her posterior, you clumsy rascal!” “Delightful, is it not. Mam’selle Bomfomtabellilaba; such select company, exquisite taste and decoration,” “Forgive me, madame, I am about to vomit a while,” and so forth. Eventually, to a chorus of cries, smashing, retching, and polite whispers, they were all down, at various levels, and the cabaret began.