“Run!” I bawled, and she was past him, her bonnet awry, her skirts kilted up. I turned with her, plunging for the gate—and out from the shadows of the watchman’s hut leaped another of the swine, plumb in our path, whipping up his spear into the on-guard. I stopped dead—but by the grace of God Elspeth didn’t, and as he swung to cover her I lunged at his naked chest. He parried, jumping aside, and Elspeth was through the gate, squeaking, but now he was thrusting at me, stumbling in his eagerness. His point went past my shoulder, I cut at him but he turned the blade quick as light, and there we were, face to face across the gateway, his eyes glaring and rolling as he poised, looking for an opening.
“Make for the trees!” I yelled, and saw Elspeth scamper away, holding her bonnet on. There was shouting from the house, footsteps running—and the Hova struck, his spear darting at my face. By sheer instinct I deflected it, straightening my arm in an automatic lunge—God bless you, dear old riding-master of the 11th Hussars!—and he screamed like the d----d as my point took him in the chest, his own rush driving it into his body. His fall wrenched the hilt from my hand, and then I was high-tailing after Elspeth, turning her into the trees, where the horses still stood patiently, cropping at the grass.
I heaved her bodily on to one of them, her skirts riding up any old how, vaulted aboard the other, and with a hand to steady her, forced the beasts out on to the road beyond. There was a tumult of hidden voices by the gate, but I knew we were clear if she didn’t fall—she was always a decent horsewoman, and was clinging to the mane with her good hand. We ploughed off knee to knee, in a swaying canter that took us to the end of one road and down the next, and then I eased up. No sounds behind, and if we heard any we could gallop at need. I clasped her to me, swearing with relief, and asked how her hand was.
“Oh, it is painful!” cries she. “But Harry, what does it mean? Those dreadful people—I thought I should swoon! And my dress torn, and my finger broke, and every bone in my body shaken! Oh!” She shuddered violently. “Those fearful black soldiers! Did you…did you kill them?”
“I hope so,” says I, looking back fearfully. “Here—take my cloak—muffle your head as well. If they see what you are, we’re sunk!”
“But who? Why are we running? What has happened? I insist you tell me directly! Where are we going—”
“There’s an English ship on the coast! We’re going to reach her, but we’ve got to get out of this h-lish city first—if the gates are closed I don’t—”
“But why?” cries she, like a d--n parrot, sucking her finger and trying to order her skirts, which wasn’t easy, since she was astride. “Oh, this is so uncomfortable! Why are we being pursued—why should they—oh!” Her eyes widened. “What have you done, Harry? Why are they chasing you? Have you done some wrong? Oh, Harry, have you offended the Queen?”
“Not half as much as she’s offended me!” I snarled. “She’s a…a…monster, and if she lays hands on us we’re done for. Come on, confound it!”
“But I cannot believe it! Why, of all the absurd things! When I have been so kindly treated—I am sure, whatever it is, if the Prince were to speak to her—”
I didn’t quite tear my hair, but it was a near-run thing. I gripped her by the shoulders instead, and speaking as gently as I could with my teeth chattering, impressed on her that we must get out of the city quickly; that we must proceed slowly, by back streets, to the gates, but there we might have to ride for it; I would explain later—
“Very good.” says she. “You need not raise your voice. If you say so, Harry—but it is all extremely odd.”
I’ll say that for her, once she understood the urgency of the situation—and even that pea-brain must have apprehended by now that something unusual was taking place—she played up like a good ’un. She didn’t take fright, or weep, or even plague me with further questions; I’ve known cleverer women, and plenty like Lakshmibai and the Silk One who were better at rough riding and desperate work, but none gamer than Elspeth when the stakes were on the blanket. She was a soldier’s wife, all right; pity she hadn’t married a soldier.
But if she was cool enough, I was in a ferment as we picked our way by back-roads to the city wall, and followed it round towards the great gates. By this time there were hardly any folk about, and although the sight of two riders brought some curious looks, no one molested us. But I was sure the alarm must have gone out by now—I wasn’t to know that Malagassy bandobast* being what it was, the last thing they’d have thought to do was close the gates. They never had, so why bother now? I could have shouted with relief when we came in view of the gatetowers, and saw the way open, with only the usual lounging sentinels and a group of loafers round a bonfire. We just held steadily forward, letting ’em see it was the sergeant-general; they stared at the horses, but that was all, and with my heart thumping we ambled through under the towers, and then trotted forward among the scattered huts on the Antan’ plain.
Ahead of us the sky was lightening in the summer dawn, and my spirits with it—we were clear, free, and away!—and beyond those distant purple hills there was a British warship, and English voices, and Christian vittles, and safety behind British guns. Four days at most—if the horses I’d sent to Ankay were waiting ahead of us. In that snail-pace country, where any pursuit was sure to be on foot, no one could hope to overtake us, no alarm could outstrip us—I was ready to whoop in my saddle until I thought of that menacing presence still so close, that awful city crouching just behind us, and I shook Elspeth’s bridle and sent us forward at a hand-gallop.
But our luck was still with us. We sighted the change horses just before dawn, raising the dust with the groom jogging along on the leader, and I never saw a jollier sight. They weren’t the pick of the light cavalry, but they had fodder and jaka in their saddle-bags, and I knew they’d see us there, if we spelled ’em properly. Thirty miles is as far as any beast can carry me, but that would be as much as Elspeth could manage at a stretch in any event.
I dismissed the bewildered groom, and on we went at a good round trot. A small horse-herd ain’t difficult to manage, if you’ve learned your trade in Afghanistan. My chief anxiety now was Elspeth. She’d ridden steady—and commendably silent—until now, but as we forged ahead into the empty downland, I could see the reaction at work; she was swaying in the saddle, eyes half-closed, fair hair tumbling over her face, and although I was in a sweat to push on I felt bound to swing off into a little wood to rest and eat. I lifted her out of the saddle beside a stream, and blow me if she didn’t go straight off to sleep in my arms. For three hours she never stirred, while I kept a weather eye on the plain, but saw no sign of pursuit.
She was all demands and chatter again, though, when she awoke, and while we chewed our jaka, and I bathed her finger—which wasn’t broke, but badly bruised—I tried to explain what had happened. D’you know, of all the astonishing things that had occurred since we’d left England, I still feel that that conversation was the most incredible of all. I mean, explaining anything to Elspeth is always middling tough—but there was something unreal, as I look back, about sitting opposite her, in a Madagascar wood, while she stared round-eyed in her torn, soiled evening dress with her finger in a splint, listening to me describing why we were fleeing for our lives from an unspeakable black despot whom I’d been plotting to depose. Not that I blame her for being sceptical, mind you; it was the form her scepticism took which had me clutching my head.
At first she just didn’t believe a word of it; it was quite contrary, she said, to what she had seen of Madagascar, and to prove the point she produced, from the recesses of her underclothing, a small and battered notebook from which she proceeded to read me her “impressions” of the country—so help me, it was all about b----y butterflies and wild flowers and Malagassy curtain materials and what she’d had for dinner. It was at this point that it dawned on me that the conclusion I’d formed on my visits to her at Rakota’s palace had been absolutely sound—she’d spent six months in the place withou
t having any notion of what it was really like. Well. I knew she was mutton-headed, but this beat all, and so I told her.
“I cannot see that,” says she. “The Prince and Princess were all politeness and consideration, and you assured me that all was well, so why should I think otherwise?”
I was still explaining, and being harangued, when we took the road again, and for the best part of the day, which took us to the eastern edge of the downs, near Angavo, where we camped in another wood. By that time I had finally got it into her head what a h--l of a place Madagascar was, and what a hideous fate we were escaping; you’d have thought that would have reduced her to terrified silence, but then, you don’t know my Elspeth.
She was shocked—not a bit scared, apparently, just plain indignant. It was deplorable, and ought not to be allowed, was how she saw it; why had we (by which I took it she meant Her Britannic Majesty) taken no steps to prevent such misgovernment, and what was the Church thinking about? It was quite disgusting—I just sat munching jaka, but I couldn’t help, listening to her, being reminded of that old harridan Lady Sale, tapping her mittened fingers while the jezzail bullets whistled round her on the Kabul retreat, and demanding acidly why something was not done about it. Aye, it’s comical in its way—and yet, when you’ve seen the mem-sahibs pursing their lips and raising indignant brows in the face of dangers and horrors that set their men-folk shaking, you begin to understand why there’s all the pink on the map. It’s vicarage morality, nursery discipline, and a thorough sense of propriety and sanitation that have done it—and when they’ve gone, and the mem-sahibs with them, why, the map won’t be pink any longer.
The one thing Elspeth couldn’t accept, though, was that the outrageous condition of Madagascar was Ranavalona’s fault. Queens, in her conception of affairs, did not behave in that way at all; the mother of Prince Rakota (“a most genteel and obliging young man”) would never have countenanced such things. No, it could only be that she was badly advised, and kept in ignorance, no doubt, by her ministers. She had been civil enough to me, surely?—this was asked in an artless way which I knew of old. I said, well, she was pretty plain and ill-natured from the little I’d seen of her, but of course I’d hardly exchanged a word with her (which, you’ll note, was true; I said nothing of bathing and piano-playing). Elspeth sighed contentedly at this, and then after a moment said softly:
“Have you missed me, Harry?”
Looking at her, sitting in the dusk with the green leaves behind her, in her dusty gown, with the tangled gold hair framing that lovely face, so serene in its stupidity, I suddenly realised there was only one sensible way to answer her. What with the shock and haste and fear of our flight it absolutely hadn’t occurred to me until that moment. And afterwards, lying in the grass, while she stroked my cheek, it seemed the most natural thing—as if this wasn’t Madagascar at all, with dreadful danger behind and unknown hardship before—in that blissful moment I dreamed of the very first time, under the trees by the Clyde, on just such a golden evening, and when I spoke of it she began to cry at last, and clung to me.
“You will bring us there again—home,” says she. “You are so brave and strong and good, and keep me safe. Do you know,” she wiped her eyes, looking solemn, “I never saw you fight before? Oh, I knew, to be sure, from the newspapers, and what everyone said—that you were a hero, I mean—but I did not know how it was. Women cannot, you know. Now I have seen you, sword in hand—you are rather terrible, you know, Harry—and so quick!” She gave a little shiver. “Not many women are lucky enough to see how brave their husbands are—and I have the bravest, best man in the whole world.” She kissed me on the forehead, her cheek against mine.
I thought of her finger, under that crushing boot, of the way she’d stood up in the bushes and walked straight out, of the bruising ride from Antan’, of all she’d endured since Singapore—and I didn’t feel ashamed, exactly, because you know it ain’t my line. But I felt my eyes sting, and I lifted her chin with my hand.
“Old girl,” says I, “you’re a trump.”
“Oh, no!” says she, wide-eyed. “I am very silly, and weak, and…and not a trump at all! Feckless, Papa says. But I love to be your ‘old girl’”—she snuggled her head down on my chest—“and to think that you like me a little, too…better than you like the horrid Queen of Madagascar, or Mrs Leo Lade, or those Chinese ladies we saw in Singapore, or Kitty Stevens, or—my dearest, whatever is the matter?”
“Who the h--l,” roars I, “is Kitty Stevens?”
“Oh, do you not remember? That slim, dark girl with the poor complexion and soulful eyes she thinks so becoming—although how she supposes that mere staring will make her attractive I cannot think—you danced with her twice at the Cavalry Ball, and assisted her to negus at the buffet…”
We were off again before dawn, crossing the Angavo Pass which leads to the upland Ankay Plain, going warily because I knew the Hova Guard regiment which I’d sent out couldn’t be far away. I kept casting north, and we must have outflanked them, for we saw not a soul until the Mangaro ford, where the villagers turned out in force to stare at us as we crossed the river with our little herd. It was level going then until the jungle closed in and the mountains began, but we were making slower time than I’d hoped for; it began to look like a five-day trek instead of four, but I wasn’t much concerned All that mattered was that we should keep ahead of pursuit; the frigate would still be there. I was sure of this because it was bound to wait for an answer to the protest which, according to Laborde, had only reached the Queen a couple of days ago. Her answer, even if she’d sent it at once, would take more than a week to reach Tamitave, so if we kept up our pace we’d be there with time in hand.
I kept telling myself this on the third day, when our rate slowed to a walk with the long, twisting climb up the red rutted track that led into the great mountains. Here we were walled in by forest on either hand, with only that tortuous path for a guide. I knew it because I’d been flogged over it in the slave-coffle, and I had to gulp down my fears as we approached each bend—suppose we met someone, in this place where we couldn’t take to our heels, where to stray ten yards from the path would be certain death by wandering starvation? Suppose the path petered out, or had been overgrown? Suppose swift Hova runners overtook us?
I was in a fever of anxiety—not made any easier by the childish pleasure Elspeth seemed to be taking in our journey. She was forever clapping her hands and exclaiming at the saucer-eyed white monkeys who peered at us, or the lace-plumed birds that fluttered among the creepers; even the hideous water-snakes which cruised the streams, with their heads poking out, excited her—she barred the spiders, though, great marbled monsters as big as my hand, scuttling on webs the size of blankets. And once she fled in terror from a sight which had our horses neighing and bucking in the narrow way—a troop of great apes, bounding across the path in leaps of incredible length, both feet together.43 We watched them crash into the undergrowth, and not for the first time I cursed the luck that I hadn’t even a clasp-knife with me for defence, for G-d knew what else might be lurking in that dark, cavernous forest. Elspeth wished she had her sketch-book.
There’s forty miles of that forest, but thanks to good Queen Ranavalona we didn’t have to cross it all, as you would today. The jungle track runs clear across towards Andevoranto, whence you travel up the coast to Tamitave, but in 1845 there was a short-cut—the Queen’s buffalo road, cut straight through the hilly jungle to the coastal plain. This was the track, hacked out by thousands of slaves, which I’d seen on the way up; we reached it on the fourth day, a great avenue through the green, with the mountain mist hanging over it in wraiths. It was eerie and foreboding, but at least it was fiat, and with half our beasts already abandoned in exhaustion, I was glad of the easier going.
It’s strange, as I look back on that remarkable journey, that it wasn’t nearly as punishing as it might have been. Elspeth still swears that she quite enjoyed it; I dare say if I hadn’t been so apprehen
sive—about our beasts foundering, or losing our way if the mist settled down, or being overtaken by pursuers (although I knew there was scant chance of that), or how we were going to make our final dash to the frigate—I might have marvelled that we came through it so easily. But we did; our luck held through hill and jungle, we hardly saw a native the whole way, and on the fourth afternoon we were trotting down through the strange little conical hillocks that line the sandy coastal plain, with nothing ahead of us but a few scattered villages and easy level going until we should come to Tamitave.
Of course, I should have been on my guard. I should have known it had gone too smooth. I should have remembered the horror that lay no great way behind, and the mad hatred and bloodlust of that evil woman. I should have thought of the soldier’s first rule, to put yourself in the enemy’s shoes and ask what you would do. If I’d been that terrible b---h, and my ingrate lover had tried to ruin me, cut up my guardsmen, and lit out for the coast—what would I have done, given unlimited power and a maniac’s vengeance to slake? Send out my fleetest couriers, over plain and jungle and mountain, to carry the alarm, rouse the garrisons, cut off escape—that’s what I’d have done. How far can good runners travel in a day—forty miles over rough going? Say four days, perhaps five, from Antan’ to the coast. We were approaching Tamitave on the evening of the fourth day.
Aye, I should have been on my guard—but when you’re within the last lap of safety, when all has gone far better than you’d dared hope, when you’ve seen the Tamitave track and know that the coast is only a few scant miles away over the low hills, when you have the gamest, loveliest girl in the world riding knee to knee with you, that eager idiot smile on her face and her tits bouncing famously, when the dark terrors have receded behind you—above all, when you’ve hardly slept in four nights and are fit to topple from the saddle with sheer weariness…then hope can fuddle your wits a little, and you let the last of your rations slip from your hand, and the dusk begins to swim round you, and your head is on the turf and you slip down the long slide into unconsciousness—until someone miles away is shaking you, and yelping urgently in your ear, and you come awake in bleary alarm, staring wildly about you in the dawn.
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