No wonder I’d been sick. I could have kissed the little blighter, but he was fairly twitching with alarm.
“Andriama telling soon. Awful torturings now, worse from Spanish Inquizzing, burnings and cutting away private participles—” He shuddered, his hands over his face. “He crying about plot, me, you, Rakohaja, Laborde—”
“For G-d’s sake, talk French!”
“—everything be knowing to Vavalana and Queen. Maybe little time yet, then clink for us, torturings too, then Tyburn jig, I’ll wager! Only hope, making plot now—tonight! Guards not here, marching Ankay left-right! Must telling Rakohaja, Laborde, Queen suspicioning, Andriama blowing gaff soon…”
He babbled on while I tried desperately to think. He was right, of course: Malagasies are brave and tough as teak, but Andriama would never stand the horrors that Ranavalona’s beauties were probably inflicting on him while we stood talking. He’d break, and soon, and we’d be dead men—by George, though, she fancied me, didn’t she just, piping her eye when I survived the tanguin, the tender-hearted little bundle? Aye, and no doubt she’d weep into her pillow after I’d been flayed alive for treason, too. If we could reach Laborde or Rakohaja, could they bring off the coup at once? Where were Andriama’s thirty villains? Did Rakota know what had been happening? Rakota—dear G-d, Elspeth! What would become of her? I pounded my fist in a fury of despair, while Fankanonikaka twittered in Malagassy and pidgin English, and suddenly I saw that there was only one way, and a slender hope at that, but it was that or unspeakable death. The Flashman gambit—when in doubt, run.
“Look, Fankanonikaka,” says I, “leave this to me. I’ll find Laborde and Rakohaja. But if I’m to move quickly, I must have a horse. Can you give me an order on the royal stables? They won’t let me take a beast without authority. Come on, man! I can’t run all over b----y Antan’ on foot! Wait, though—I may need more than one. Write me an order for a dozen horses, so that I can give ’em to Laborde, or Rakohaja—they’ll have to assemble those men of Andriama’s somehow.”
He goggled at me in consternation. “But what reason? If order say taking all horse, someone suspicioning, crying fire and Bow Street—”
“Say they’re for the Guards’ officers I sent marching to Ankay! Say the Queen’s sorry for ’em, and they can ride back! Any d----d excuse will do! Hurry, man—Andriama’s probably crying uncle this instant!”
That decided him; he grabbed a quill and scribbled as I hovered at his shoulder, shuddering with impatience. The minutes were flying, and with every one my chances were growing dimmer. I pocketed the order; there was one more item I must have.
“Have you a pistol? A sword, then—I must have a weapon—in case.” I hoped to heaven there’d be no in case about it, but I couldn’t go unarmed. He scurried about and found one in a nearby drawing-room—only a ceremonial rapier with a curved ivory hilt and no guard, but it would have to do. As I took it an appalling thought struck me—why not cut upstairs and kill the black b---h where she sat…or sick Fankanonikaka on to do it? He fairly squealed with alarm and indignation.
“No, no, no bloodings! Gentle deposings only—great Queen, poor lady—oh, so barmy! If only she peace and quiet, ourselves not needing d--n plottings, not above half! Now all to smash, kicking up rows, arrests and cruellings!” He wrung his hands. “You hurrying Laborde fastly, I waiting sentry, oh my stars, someone maybe nabbing, or Queen suspicioning—”
“Not a bit of it,” says I, “Tell you what, though—you’re a sharp hand at slipping things into chap’s drinks, ain’t you? Well, try and find a way of sending poor old Andriama some refreshment—put him out of his misery before he blabs, what? And don’t fret, Fankanonikaka! We all old boys, jolly times together. Floreat Highgate and to h--l with the Bluecoat School, hey?”
Then I was off, leaving him twittering, forcing myself to walk slowly as I descended the great staircase, past the incurious palace guardsmen, across the court and out into the street beyond. It was the small hours, but there was plenty of traffic about, for in the royal district of Antan’ society folk kept late hours, and there was sure to be much dining-out and discussing of last night’s orgy at the palace. They delight in scandal, you know, just like their civilised brethren and sisters. The streets were well-lit, but no one paid me any heed as I made my way past the strolling pedestrians and the sedans jogging under the trees. I had got a long cloak from Fankanonikaka, to wear over my boots and breeches and to cover my sword—for slaves didn’t ought to have such things—and apart from my white face and whiskers I was just like any other passer-by.
The stables were only five minutes’ walk, and I lounged about in a fever of nonchalance while the under-officer laboriously spelled out Fankanonikaka’s note and looked surly. He didn’t have much French, but I supplemented the written order as best I could, and since he recognised me as the sergeant-general he did what he was told.
“Two horses for me,” says I, “and the other dozen for the Guards’ officers out at Ankay. Send ’em out now, with a groom, and tell him to follow the Guards’ track, but not to hurry. I don’t want the cattle worn out, d’you see?”
“No grooms,” says he, sulky-like.
“Then get one,” says I, “or I’ll mention you to the Queen, may she live a thousand years. Been out to Ambohipotsy lately, have you? You’ll find yourself observing it from the top of the cliff, unless you look sharp—and put a water-bottle, filled, with each horse, and plenty of jaka in the saddle-bags.”
I left him as pale as only a scared nigger can be, and rode at a gentle pace in the direction of Prince Rakota’s palace, leading the second horse. I daren’t hurry, for a mounted man was rare enough in Antan’ at any time, and a hastening rider in the middle of the night would have had them hollering peeler. This is the worst of all, when every second’s precious but you have to dawdle—I think of strolling terrified through the pandy lines at Lucknow with Campbell’s message, or that nerve-racking wait on the steamboat wharf at Memphis with a disguised slave-girl on my elbow and the catchers at our very heels; you must idle along carelessly with your innards screaming—had Andriama talked yet? Did the Queen know it all by now? Was Fankanonikaka, perhaps, already shrieking under the knives? Were the city gates still open? They never closed ’em, as a rule; if I found them shut, that would be a sure sign that the caper was blown—heaven help us then.
Rakota’s place in the suburbs stood well apart from the other houses, behind a stockade approached through a belt of small trees and bushes. I left the horses there, out of sight, breathed a silent prayer that Malagassy hacks knew enough not to stray or neigh, and set forward boldly for the front gate. There was a porter dozing under the lantern, but he let me in ready enough—they don’t care much, these folk—and presently I was kicking the jigger-dubber* awake on the front steps, boldly announcing myself from the Silver Palace with a message for his royal highness.
This presently produced a butler, who knew my face, but when I demanded instant audience, he cocked his frosty head disdainfully.
“Their highnesses are not returned…ah…sergeant-general. They are dining with Count Potrafanton. You can wait—on the porch.”
That was a blow; I hadn’t a moment to spare. I hesitated, and then saw there was nothing for it but the high hand.
“It’s no matter, porter,” says I, briskly. “My message is that the foreign woman who is here is to be sent to the Silver Palace immediately. The Queen wishes to see her.”
If my nerves hadn’t been snapping, I dare say I’d have been quite entertained at the expressions which followed each other across his wrinkled black face. I was only tenth-caste foreign rubbish, a mere slave, he was thinking; on the other hand, I was sergeant-general, with impressive if undefined power, and much more to the point, I was the Queen’s current favourite and riding-master, as all the world knew. And I brought a command ostensibly from the throne itself. All this went through the woolly head—how much he’d been told by his master about the need to keep Elspeth’s
presence secret. I couldn’t guess, but eventually he saw which way wisdom—and Ambohipotsy—lay.
“I shall inform her,” says he, stiffly, “and arrange an escort.”
“That won’t be necessary,” says I, harshly. “I have a sedan waiting beyond the gates.”
Butlers are the b----y limit; he was ready to argue, so eventually I just blazed at him, and threatened if he didn’t have her down and on parade in a brace of shakes, I’d march straight back to the palace and tell the Queen her son’s butler had said “Snooks!” and slammed the door on me. He quivered at that, more in anger than sorrow, and then marched off, all black dignity, to fetch her. You could see he was wondering what things were coming to nowadays.
I waited, chewing my knuckles, pacing the porch, and groaning at the recollection of how long it took the bl----d woman to dress. Ten to one she was peering at herself in the glass, patting her curls and making moues, while Andriama was probably blabbing, and plot, alarm, and arrest were breaking out with a vengeance; Ranavalona’s tentacles might be reaching out through the city this moment, in search of me—I stamped and cursed aloud in a fever of impatience, and then strode through the open door at the sound of a female voice. Sure enough, there she was, in cloak and bonnet, prattling her way down the stairs, and the butler carrying what looked like a hat-box, of all things. She gave a little shriek at the sight of me, but before I could frown her into silence another sound had me wheeling round, hackles rising, my hand starting towards my sword-hilt.
Through the open door I could see down the long drive to the main gate. It was dim down yonder, under the flickering lantern, but some kind of commotion was going on. There was a clatter of metal, a voice raised in command, a steady tread advancing—and into my horrified view, their steel and leather glittering in the beams cast by the front door lamps, came a file of Hova guardsmen.
* Door-keeper.
I may not be good for much, but if I have a minor talent it’s for finding the back door when coppers, creditors, and outraged husbands are coming in the front. I had the advantage of having my pants up and my boots on this time, and even hampered by the need to drag Elspeth along, I was going like a rat to a drainpipe before the butler even had his mouth open. Elspeth gave one shriek of astonishment as I bundled her along a passage beneath the stairs.
“Harry! Where are you going—we have left my band-box—!”
“D--n your band-box!” I snapped. “Keep quiet and run!”
I whirled round a corner; there was a corridor obviously leading to the back, and I pounded along it, my protesting helpmeet clutching her bonnet and squeaking in alarm. A startled black face popped out of a side-door; I hit it in panic and Elspeth screamed. The corridor turned at right angles; I swore and plunged into an empty room—a glimpse of a long table and dining chairs in the silent dark, and beyond, French windows, I hurtled towards them, hauling her along, and wrenched them open. We were in the garden, dim in the moon-shadows; I cocked an ear and heard—nothing.
“Harry!” She was squealing in my ear. “What are you about? Leave go my arm—I won’t be hustled, do you hear?”
“You’ll either be hustled or dead!” I hissed. “Silence! We are in deadly danger—do you understand? They are coming to arrest us—to kill us! For your life’s sake, do as I tell you—and shut up!”
There was a path, running between high hedges; we sped along it, she demanding in breathless whispers to know what was happening: at the end I got my bearings; we were to the side of the building, in shrubbery, with the front drive round to our left, and from the hidden front door I could hear a harsh voice raised—in Malagassy, unfortunately, but I caught enough words to chill my blood. “Sergeant-general…arrest…search.” I groaned softly, and Elspeth began babbling again.
“Oh, my dress is torn! Harry, it is too bad! What are you—why are we—ow!” I had clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Be quiet, you silly mort!” I whispered. “We’re escaping! There are soldiers hunting us! The Queen is trying to kill me!”
She made muffled noises, and then got her mouth free. “How dare you call me that horrid word! What does it mean? Let me go this instant! You are hurting my wrist, Harry! What is this absurd nonsense about the Quee—” The shrill torrent was cut off as I imprisoned her mouth again.
“For G-d’s sake, woman—they’ll hear us!” I pulled her in close to the wall. “Keep your voice down, will you?” I took my hand away, unwisely.
“But why?” At least she had the wit to whisper. “Why are we—oh, I think you are gammoning me! Well, it is a very poor joke, Harry Flashman, and I—”
“Please, Elspeth!” I implored, shaking my fist in her face. “It’s true, I swear! If they hear us—we’re dead!”
My grimacing frenzy may have half-convinced her; at least her pretty mouth opened and closed again with a faint “Oh!” And then, as I crouched, straining my ears for any sound of the searchers, came the tiniest whisper: “But Harry, my bandbox…”
I glared her into silence, and then ventured a peep round the angle of the wall. There was a Hova trooper on the porch, leaning on his spear; I could hear faint sounds of talk from the hall—that d----d butler giving the game away, no doubt. Suddenly from behind us, in the dark towards the back of the house, came the crash of a shutter and a harsh voice shouting. Elspeth squeaked, I jumped, and the Hova on the porch must have heard the shout too, for he called to the hall—and here, to my horror, came an under-officer, bounding down the porch steps sword in hand, and running along the front of the house towards our corner.
There was only one thing for it. I seized Elspeth and thrust her down on her face in the deep shadow at the foot of the wall, sprawling on top of her and hissing frantically to her to keep quiet and lie still. We were only in the nick of time—he rounded the angle of the house and came to a dead stop almost on top of us, his boots spurning the gravel within a yard of Elspeth’s head. For a terrible instant I thought he’d seen us—the great black figure towered above us, silhouetted against the night sky, the sword glittering in his hand, but he didn’t move, and I realised he was staring towards the back of the house, listening. I could feel Elspeth palpitating beneath me, her turned face a faint white blur just beneath my own—oh, Ch—t, I prayed, don’t let him look down! Suddenly he bawled something in Malagassy, and took a half-step forward—my blood froze as his boot descended within inches of Elspeth’s face—but right on top of her hand!
She started violently beneath me—and then he must have shifted his weight, for as in a nightmare I heard a tiny crack, and her whole body shuddered. Paralysed, I waited for her scream—he must glance down now!—but a voice was shouting from the back of the house, his was bellowing right above us in reply, he plunged forward, his leg brushing my curls, and then he was gone, striding away down the path behind us into the dark, and Elspeth’s breath came out in a little, shivering moan. I was afoot in an instant, hauling her upright, half-carrying her into the denser shrubbery on the lawn, knowing we hadn’t an instant to lose, bundling her along and hoping to heaven she wouldn’t faint. If we could get quickly through the shrubbery unobserved, moving parallel with the drive, and so come to the gate—would they have left a sentry there?
Fortunately the shrubbery screened our blundering progress entirely; we plunged through the undergrowth and fetched up gasping beneath a great clump of ferns not ten yards from the gate. Far back to our left the Hova was still on the house porch beneath the lamp; through the bushes ahead I could make out the faint gleam of the gate-lantern, but no sound, except from far behind us, where there were distant voices at the back of the house—were they coming nearer…? I peered cautiously through the fringe of bushes towards the gate—oh, G-d, there was a d----d great Hova, not five yards away, his spear held across his body, looking back towards the house. The light gleamed dully on his massive bare arms and chest, on his gorilla features and gleaming spearhead—my innards quailed at the sight; I couldn’t hope to pass that, not with Elspeth in t
ow—and at that moment my loved one decided to give voice again.
“Harry!” She was hissing in my ear. “That man—that man stood on my hand! I’m sure my finger is broke!” I recall noting that it must have been indignation rather than complaint, for she added a word which frankly I didn’t think she knew.
“Ssht!” I had my lips against her ear. “I know! We’ll…we’ll mend it presently. There’s a guard on the gate—must get past him!” The voices at the back of the house were growing louder—it was now or never. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk! It is my poor finger—”
“Sssht, for Ch---t’s sake! Look, old girl—we must distract his attention, d’you see? The chap on the gate, d---it!” I wouldn’t have thought I could yammer and whisper simultaneously—but then I wouldn’t have thought I’d be stuck in the bushes in Madagascar plotting escape with a blonde imbecile whose mind, I’ll swear, was divided evenly between her wounded finger and her lost band-box. “Yes, he’s out there! Now, listen—you must count to five—five, you know—and then stand up and walk out on to the drive! Can you, dearest?—just walk out, there’s a good girl! Nod, curse you!”
I saw her lips framing “Why?” but then she nodded—and suddenly kissed me on the cheek. Then I was sliding away to the right, fumbling for my hilt beneath the cloak…three…four…five. There was a rustle as she stood up; she seemed to sway for a moment, and then she had stepped through the bushes and turned to face the gate.
The Hova leaped about four feet, stood with eyes bulging, and let out a yell as he started towards her. Two paces brought him level with me; I clutched the hilt in a frenzy of fear (if it had been any other woman I believe I’d have bolted straight for the gate, but one’s wife, you know…) and launched myself through the ferns at his flank, drawing as I sprang. There wasn’t time to use the point; I continued the draw in a desperate sweep, and as he whirled to meet me the blade took him clean across the face with a sickening jar. I had an instant’s glimpse of blood spurting from the gashed mouth and cheek, and then he tripped and fell, screaming.
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